by Maggie James
The one recording Adam’s confession to the murders of the two prostitutes. After all, Adam Campbell is a man convinced of Mark’s – no, Joshua Barker’s – unswerving loyalty to him. A killer so intent on bagging himself his trophy he never sniffs out his sidekick’s betrayal. Duplicity that starts when Mark’s fingers initiate the sound clip facility on his mobile, concealed in his pocket.
Shit. His call to Tony Jackson goes straight through to voicemail. Mark leaves a message.
‘Call me. It’s urgent.’
Damn. So much for his hopes of ratting Adam out immediately. Tony Jackson is the only one Mark intends to speak to, at least at first, given his distrust of the police. The obsessive side of him chafes at the delay, but what the hell. They’re due to meet tomorrow for their monthly meeting anyway.
Next on the agenda is Natalie. OK, so he’s already written to her, but she’s made it very clear she wants nothing more to do with him. His concern is she’ll tear his letter up unread. He composes a text.
‘Nat. Read my letter. Stuff you need to know. Sorry about everything. Hope you now understand.’ Whether she ever will is another matter, and if he’s to go back to prison perhaps it’s a moot point, but Mark loathes the thought of her believing him an Adam Campbell clone. Moreover, as he’s already informed her, she needs to know certain things. I’ve got something else to tell you. It’s important. About how we met. Mission accomplished, via the letter.
Mark retreats to his sofa. He lies down, pillowing his head on his hands, mulling over the afternoon’s events. Weird, sure; terrifying too, but definitely a success. With any luck, today is Adam Campbell’s last day of freedom. His sorry arse will soon be back in custody, with a life sentence without parole for murder heading his way. Mark will take care of the details when he eventually speaks with Tony Jackson. Christ, the man has one hell of a shock about to land on his plate. More than one, actually. First, Mark’s parole violations. Second, the information about the killing of the two prostitutes by Adam Campbell. If that doesn’t shatter the man’s sang-froid, nothing will.
It’s not late, but Mark’s exhausted, his emotions drained bone dry. Time for some reading before bed, a chance to unwind. He’s just grabbed the latest Stephen King novel when a knock hammers on his door, loud and insistent.
Mark has no friends, never gets visitors, unless he includes Natalie. Who the hell - ? For a moment, hope flares in Mark that it’s her, before he rejects the idea; whoever’s the other side of his door, they knock far more aggressively than Natalie does.
The cops. Come to arrest him. Can’t be anyone else, despite the lack of ‘Police! Open up!’ he’s so familiar with from TV dramas. Rachel’s informed them at last of his transgressions. Here ends his freedom.
It’s a Victorian building, with old-style features, no spy holes, so Mark’s unable to check the identity of his caller before he pulls open the door.
When he does, Shaun Morgan is standing in front of him.
Rachel’s brother enjoys an extra inch in height over Mark, as well as a good ten kilos or thereabouts of solid muscle, born out of frequent gym training. Before Mark’s had a chance to assimilate his shock, Shaun’s crashed through the door, slamming it behind him with his foot. His hands grasp Mark’s throat, squeezing, as he uses his bulk to push Mark across the floor and pin him against the wall.
Mark’s arms grab at Shaun’s, but the grip on his neck is too tight; every millilitre of breath is being throttled out of him, and his fingers clutch uselessly at the air. The man’s eyes bulge with his effort, as well as the rage erupting through him. Useless for Mark to try kicking out at Shaun’s shins; he’s wearing nothing but socks on his feet. The pressure in his chest is beyond bearable, and then Shaun drops his hold on him. Mark sags to the floor, sucking oxygen inside him as though he’s a crack addict getting a fix, his lungs burning. He crouches over Shaun’s boots, heaving, gasping, trying to get a grip on his breathing. Is Shaun intending to kill him? Fuck, he can’t die, not like this, not when he’s about to nail Adam Campbell for murder.
Before he manages to get his breath under control, however, Shaun’s booted foot lifts and connects with Mark’s crotch, slamming hard into his balls, and all thoughts drain from Mark’s mind. He’s reduced to the agony between his legs, sparking red-hot and shrinking him to ectoplasm, less than human, focused solely on the pain. His gasps alternate with half-formed, indistinguishable words, his brain desperate to find a way to stop Shaun administering the beating – or the killing – he’s come here to deliver.
He doesn’t stand much of a chance. Apart from the fights at Vinney Green, Mark’s never been a brawler; as an adult, he’s simply unused to playing macho with his fists. Besides, Shaun packs way more muscle than Mark and he seems very familiar with how to use it.
The other man’s voice filters through Mark’s haze of pain.
‘You fucking bastard.’ Shaun ejects the words from his mouth as though they’re maggots. ‘You fucking shitty bastard. Not enough for you to kill a two-year-old child and blow my family to pieces, was it?’ His feet edge closer towards Mark’s head. Mark, still fighting for breath on the floor, can’t wrench his eyes from the black menace of the toecaps. ‘You had to fuck around with Rachel.’
Mark manages a few strangled syllables. ‘I never…didn’t mean…’ His attempts at placating the man end when Shaun’s boot connects, hard, with his thigh. He’s driven backwards by the kick, his head cracking against the wall. His hands move away from his burning genitals to clutch his leg instead.
‘You deliberately sought her out.’ Through his haze of pain, Mark’s aware how calm Shaun’s voice is. Cold, controlled, along with a measure of restraint Mark finds chilling. No crazed act of revenge, this. Rather, it’s a steady, cool-headed resolve to even the score sheet with Mark. A desire that’ll only end one way. To balance things up, Shaun needs to kill Mark, and he possesses the wherewithal to accomplish his mission.
A hand grabbing his shirt and hauling him off his knees cuts off all thought, as Shaun’s fist slams into his nose. A crunching noise sounds as the bone breaks, with pain instantly exploding across his face and through the back of his skull. He’s been punched back against the wall again, his head cracking hard against it. Mark’s incapable of anything bar crumpling at Shaun’s feet.
‘You deliberately broke the terms of your parole.’ Shaun grabs hold of an armchair and drags it closer to sit in front of Mark, who’s huddled on the floor, clutching his nose. Fire flares throughout his face, a red wetness trickling through his fingers. It’s a huge effort simply to drag each breath in through his mouth. He tastes the copper tang of his blood as he weighs up whether he can avoid dying this evening. Shaun will be immune to protestations of innocence; in fact, they’ll only inflame his anger. Mark stands little chance of out-fighting the guy. Only one possibility comes to mind. Scream loud and long enough to attract help from one of the other tenants. They’re all male and the bloke who lives upstairs is built like the Hoover Dam. In addition, the walls in the building, whilst thick, aren’t particularly efficient at keeping out sound. Thank God it’s his nose and not his jaw that’s broken.
‘She says you went to the vigil. Had to return to the scene of the crime, didn’t you? You sad fucker.’ Again, no emotion from Shaun, simply calm detachment. More blood runs down the back of Mark’s throat as he strains his ears for any sound from the flat above. He’s rewarded with silence as the pain in his head increases; a solid throbbing from his nose coupled with a jagged hurt from where his skull slammed into the wall. His groin still feels as though it’s tangoed with a sledgehammer; to make matters worse, Mark’s chest is impossibly tight, but his breathing is limited to the air he can gulp past the blood in his mouth. Panic rises in him as he struggles for oxygen, all the while eyeing up Shaun’s fists and feet, anticipating the next blow.
‘How…’ The constriction in his chest renders Mark incapable of completing his sentence, but Shaun gets what he means.
�
�How did I find where you live, you little shit? That what you’re trying to say?’ Shaun reaches out a hand, producing instant recoil from Mark. This time his chin is grabbed, forcing his head up so their eyes meet. The movement sends pain shooting through his skull. Shaun’s green irises blank Mark at the same time as they stab through him. He senses the rage coiled up in the man, a sleeping serpent about to awake, giving Mark the answer to one of his questions. He understands now how Abby Morgan’s death has affected her older brother, the man who always appears so strong, so calm. Fourteen years of picking up the pieces for his sister lie behind Shaun’s gaze. Throw an alcoholic father and a dysfunctional mother into the mix and the result is an explosive combination when thrust on the shoulders of a teenage boy. He’s a bottler of his emotions, this man. Not for him his mother’s tirades, his father’s alcoholic oblivion or the knife’s kiss like Rachel. Shaun’s shouldered the trauma for his family for too long, forced when too young to be tough beyond his years, and the cork’s about to burst free from his bottle.
Mark’s realisation that he may soon die gathers force, although he’s not convinced his life is worth fighting for anyway. Then the overwhelming urge to ensure Adam Campbell returns to prison floods through him, and his survival instinct resurfaces. He drags a huge lungful of air past the constriction in his chest, screaming out as much of the word help as he can manage before Shaun’s fist connects with his face. Agony sears through his chin. His mouth drops open, bloodied saliva pouring out, and Mark knows he won’t be doing any more shouting. His jaw is either broken or dislocated and the only sounds leaving his body are tortured ones.
‘Your girlfriend told me,’ Shaun continues. ‘Ex-girlfriend, I should say. Seems like she’s seen the light about what a fucking twisted pervert you are.’
Mark’s consciousness has been reduced to a throbbing J-shape of pain; a line connecting his nose and jaw with his groin before curving round to his thigh. Shaun will take his time; Mark’s in no doubt about that, and only two questions remain. Will he kill me, and how much pain will I suffer? The answers appear to be yes and one hell of a lot.
He doesn’t blame Natalie. She’s precious little reason to trust the male sex, after all. Mark’s simply the end of a long line of his gender to hurt her. Must be hell to believe your boyfriend’s a convicted killer who’s lunched with his victim’s sister. A lunch followed by a kiss, no less. The strings of Natalie’s jealous streak will have been twisted, a falsetto note played on its chords, driving her to contact Shaun. How she got in touch with him, Mark has no idea, but it scarcely matters now.
He slumps further down the wall, prompting his aching groin to protest.
‘See, prison’s too good for a piece of crap like you,’ Shaun says. ‘Three meals a day. A bed to sleep in. No worries about work, mortgages or any of that shit. Plus you get to avoid all the things I don’t. Like watching your mother turn sourer, year after year; realising neither you nor your sister matter a fuck to her because she’s locked in the past. Dead the moment she discovered what you and your twisted accomplice did to her daughter.’
Shaun rises to his feet, his movements slow and controlled. He balls his right hand into a fist, slamming it hard into his left.
‘Like being able to do fuck all as your father slides into full-blown alcoholism.’ Shaun pounds his fist against his cupped palm again.
‘Like having a sister who can’t wear anything except long sleeves because she’s sliced her arms like they’re joints of meat.’
Smack goes his fist for the third time.
Mark understands now he’s going to die, battered, bloody and beaten to death, and he wonders how long it’ll be before anyone – Tony Jackson? Steve Taylor? – misses him.
‘The other bastard,’ says Shaun. ‘Adam Campbell. Can’t do anything about him, but you – you’re different. You – I can sort. When Rachel told me what you’d done, I was all for reporting you immediately for parole violation. Get your arse slammed back into prison. She wouldn’t let me, though. Thought she was crazy, but I ended up promising her a few days’ grace. Time to get her head together before we contacted the police. Glad I did now.’
Shaun raises one foot off the floor, inching it in the direction of Mark’s groin.
‘See, after your ex called, I did some thinking. Seemed like a gift from heaven, her on the phone, saying she’d give me your address. Better than the police. Jail for violating your parole? Sure, you’d spend some time inside, but not life. Not what you deserve. A few years with good behaviour, then you’d be back to preying on more vulnerable women.’
Shaun swings his foot back, then drives it forward, aiming for Mark’s balls, catching his injured thigh instead as Mark twists his body away. Tidal waves of agony surge through him. A tortured groan rips from his wounded jaw as he collapses sideways across the floor, clutching the coffee table as he does so. His mobile slides off onto the carpet beside him.
‘I’ll be the one in jail, not you.’ Shaun grabs Mark’s collar, hauling him upright again. ‘You, you fucker – you’ll be in the mortuary.’ Shaun’s gaze locks onto Mark’s own. No emotion flickers in the other man’s eyes. ‘Got Rachel to agree to psychiatric help at long last. I can go to prison easier if I know she’s getting the care she needs.’
He moves forward, crushing Mark’s mobile underfoot as he does so, the casing smashing under the pressure. Shaun lifts his foot, kicking away the broken phone, its recording of Adam Campbell’s confession to murder now destroyed.
Then he positions Mark against the wall and raises his fist, hammering it into ribs that crack under the force. He follows the blow with more to the stomach, chest, head. Mark’s last memory before he loses consciousness is the blankness in Shaun Morgan’s eyes.
28
PROJECTED GUILT
Rachel’s been out all day and doesn’t open the mailbox at her block of flats until early evening. Mark’s letter greets her. At first, she’s thrown by it. A letter? Who writes those these days? It’s been hand delivered, too. Her name and address are on the envelope, penned in a tight, neat script. The writing’s unfamiliar. Rachel opens it with curiosity, keen to discover the sender. She flips the pages over, catching her breath when she sees the signature.
Mark Slater. The bastard. The fucking bastard. Why has he written to her, for God’s sake? Hasn’t he heaped enough humiliation on her?
The last few days have been beyond hard for Rachel. The doctor’s disapproval still stalks her. She frequently bangs her wounded arm against things. Her sense of having failed Shaun yet again piles extra guilt on her. Not to mention her shame over the kiss.
Yep, Rachel’s been more than a little screwed-up in her head these past few days.
Now here she is, with a letter from Mark Slater, a.k.a. Joshua Barker, in her hands.
Impossible not to open it. Once she starts reading, she’s hooked by the contents.
Dear Rachel,
First, I need to apologise for the distress I’ve caused. I’ve hurt you, and that was never my intention. I was drawn to you right from the start. For selfish reasons, I’m afraid. My emotions about Abby’s death were eating me up inside, and I hoped you’d provide some answers.
From the first, I sensed a bond between us, what with neither of us having our fathers in our lives. As well as being rejected by our mothers. I never told you this, but mine cut off all contact with me when I was sent to juvenile detention. She’s always been cold and unforgiving, not unlike your own mother.
As well as an apology, I owe you thanks. I needed answers from you and I got them. You’ll never know how much guilt I’ve suffered over the years, wishing I could have prevented your sister’s death. Now the burden’s been lifted. By you, Rachel, when you told me how your mother blames you for Abby’s death. She’s wrong to do so. You were only a child at the time. Undeserving of the guilt heaped on you. The thing is - my situation’s not so different. Once I heard how badly your mother has behaved towards you, it helped me realise I’ve tre
ated myself far too harshly. Like you, I was only a kid at the time.
I have two more things to say to you, Rachel. Firstly, I’ve been back in touch with Adam Campbell. We’ve met twice recently, and on both occasions, he’s convinced me he’s still the monster he always was. He’s killed two women since his release. Admitted their murders, boasting he’ll do it again. He’s evil, a psychopath, but I should soon have evidence that’ll lock him away for good, so he never harms anyone ever again. With any luck, I’ll also get evidence proving I didn’t kill your sister. I wasn’t lying to you, Rachel, when I told you Abby’s death was all down to Adam Campbell. He killed her, not me. Once I get what I’m after, I’ll go to the police, admit breaking my parole and accept whatever prison sentence comes my way. I’m at peace with going back inside if it means Adam Campbell gets life behind bars.
The second thing I need to tell you should explain why your mother’s been so unfair in her treatment of you. Every minute of the day your sister died is imprinted on my brain, Rachel. I saw something before Adam abducted her that I’ve never mentioned to anyone. At the time, it didn’t seem significant. As we walked towards your house that day, I spotted a silver Mondeo parked down a side street. One I’d seen before, because it belonged to Adam’s father. Adam was striding on ahead, so he never noticed it. His father was standing by the driver’s door, with a woman on the passenger side. From what Adam had previously told me, his dad was always having affairs. Jon Campbell’s attention was on the woman; he never saw Adam or me. The two of them were kissing in the car before he drove off. I didn’t think any more about it. Until the trial, when I saw your mother in court, and recognised her as the woman with Adam’s father that day.
Adam told me he had cousins who lived near your house in Moretonhampstead. That’s how he first discovered Abby, and presumably how his father first met your mother. Nobody ever found out about their affair; it never came out at the trial. Only three people knew, and none of us said anything. Your mother lied about her whereabouts at the time of Abby’s death, as did Adam’s father. Their relationship was too recent for anyone to suspect; when your mother claimed she’d been visiting a neighbour with dementia, nobody had reason to believe otherwise.