by Sue Nicholls
‘Yeah, although he could put it into manual, if he had a moment to think,’ Humphreys replied. Then in a tense voice, he muttered, ‘Thanet Way coming up!’
73 MICK
Many pairs of heavy boots thundered behind Mick along the promenade, but panic gave his legs extra strength. With herculean energy, he let go of his bag and plunged ahead, faster than he would have thought possible. He pumped across the wide area of grass towards his car with his keys gripped, ready in his hand and as he drew closer, he pressed the button making his lights flash and bathing the narrow pavement and the façade of the ice cream shack in a brief yellow glow. Diving into the driver’s seat and with the accelerator already floored he fumbled the key into the ignition, not daring to look behind. The engine howled into life and the car lurched away. Gripping the steering wheel, he fought to gain control as it skidded, wheels spinning, from the cover of the building into the lamp lit exposure of the road.
As he fumbled to put on the headlights, he took a glance into the rear-view mirror. Fuck! A large car, almost certainly unmarked police, was gaining on him fast. His foot was already on the floor; he could not go any faster. But he knew these roads from visits to the area with his job and bringing the occasional date to the beach hut. He would lose these bastards using surprise.
A junction approached, and at the last minute, he swung the steering wheel to the right and skidded off the main drag onto a narrower, pock marked side road.
The car bounced on the uneven surface, its tyres losing traction, and he swerved to avoid the curbs.
Visions of his children, at different stages of their lives, flashed through his mind. The pair playing at the park, Livvie receiving her Doctorate, Lucas in the steaming kitchen at Churchills; what would they think when they knew the truth. Would they forgive him? How could they? He could not bear the shame of looking into their accusing eyes. No. He must get away - one way or another.
The road wove and buckled, and the car seemed to follow it with its own intuition. In fear, he wondered where he was. He had lost track, become distracted thinking about the kids. He looked in the mirror. The cop was a good driver. Mick could see the police car’s bonnet, stuck behind as though he were towing it. In fury now, and losing control, he began to howl at the night. ‘Jesus Christ help me! Luc, Livvie, I’m sorry. I never meant it to be like this. I love you.’ A main road bounced into view. And terror clenched at Mick’s heart, but he kept his foot to the floor and hurled the car towards the flow of traffic. One thing he knew: He was not going to prison.
74 POULTON
About a quarter of a mile ahead of the two vehicles, the headlights of traffic snaked along Old Thanet Way in both directions, crossing the end of the road along which they were hurtling. Poulton pictured the drivers: commuters; men and women driving home after their tiring days.
‘He has to stop here.’ There was relief in Humphreys’ voice, and Poulton relaxed his grip a little on the handle. But to his disbelief, the Mercedes did not stop, in fact, it seemed to accelerate. He watched in horror as the clumsy vehicle burst across the Give Way markings and onto the crowded carriageway.
Humphreys stood on the brakes and the police car skidded to a stop, and the two policemen watched, frozen, as Mick ploughed into the path of a Range Rover. The face of its driver contorted as he fought in vain to avoid a collision. The cumbersome vehicle swerved sideways and collided with the driver’s door of the Merc, and with a series of crunches, a stream of cars ploughed into it. The Merc somersaulted across the white line and landed in the path of a coach full of passengers that was travelling in the opposite direction. Its sleepy occupants were unprepared for the impact. Faces connected with metal seat backs and children flew into the air. From both directions came a horrible cacophony of bangs and crashes. A white van hit the tail of the coach and behind it an oil tanker screeched to a stop, its bumper a paper-width away from the rear of the van. In the ensuing silence, headlights queued into the distance, and the light on the police car blinked a ghastly blue.
Poulton and Humphreys grabbed high visibility jackets from the back seat and ran into the road and halted amid the devastation, taking in the scene.
On the far carriageway, the coach driver’s bloody face rested on his steering wheel. In the back, white-faced passengers screamed in pain or stared in horror at the destruction below.
On the near side, behind the battered Range Rover, a small blue hatch-back lay upside down. Its roof flattened to such an extent it was impossible to imagine survivors inside. Behind the hatchback, a string of vehicles at various angles had concertinaed into each other. One pair of cars formed an upside-down V that pointed at the sky.
As Poulton stood in the road, he scanned the wreckage, forming a rescue strategy for when reinforcements arrived. Beside him, Humphreys was calling in the incident, requesting emergency vehicles and assistance from all available officers in the area and beyond. Soon sirens wailed in the distance and blue lights blinked their way between the queuing vehicles to reach the mangled mess.
The process of rescue and recovery began: The road was blocked off and traffic redirected. Photographs were taken and chalk marks drawn to show the positions of cars and people. Officers took statements, and firemen cut through metal. A helicopter airlifted the female driver of the little hatchback who, by some miracle, had survived. Meanwhile, ambulances collected the dead and more of the injured.
At dawn, Poulton booked into a local Travelodge. In the morgue lay five bodies. One of them was Mick’s.
75 THE MEN
They first met in a pub. Paul had suggested it. He was such a prick in those days. Loud and angry, and Christ, he was bitter. Maurice almost didn’t go. It was bad enough that his wife had deserted him, left him to fend for himself in his dreary house with his demanding, energetic kids, and no clue how to care for either. And his mother nagging at him every time he got something wrong. ‘Maurice, you’ve fallen asleep when the children need you; Maurice this house is like a pigsty; Maurice, when are you going to think of your poor parents? Maurice, do this, do that.’ The last thing he needed was two whining ex-husbands. But in the end, he went. Twitch had the kids that night, and there was nothing on the telly, plus, the pub Paul had mooted was close to Maurice’s last appointment: a young family with too many children for their house, who had hired him to design an extension.
It turned out OK, the evening. Turned into quite a session and they all ended up in a curry house somewhere in town.
That was the beginning.
Maurice had everything to gain from their friendship. Mick taught him basic cookery, and Paul helped him with DIY. He became more confident with the children, even quite enjoyed them.
But oh, how their wives thrived. Fee driving her fancy car, wearing designer clothes, cool with Paul, polite to Maurice and Mick, Staring down her nose at them all. And Millie, excited and happy about her new venture - her bloody restaurant. No surprise there. It was Sod’s law that she was so successful. While Mick struggled to construct a relationship with his kids and build his career, Millie landed on her two small feet. As for Twitch, his Twitch, wafting about in fancy outfits, caring for the house in Crispin Road, decorating it, cooking wholesome food for the children, drinking Chablis. Maurice doubted she would scrape dog shit off Josh’s shoe if there was a chance he was going to visit Maurice.
In time, though, the three men adjusted to their new roles. Mick was the most successful. He ended up as some senior bod in a hotel chain. Paul? Well, he kept his job despite behaving badly for a while. He did not move up the ladder, but neither did he fall off it. Maurice also kept afloat. That was about the best you could say: he stayed afloat.
Thank God his parents moved to the coast. Before they left, his mum had jabbed her finger at his chest. ‘Don’t let things go, Maurice. You’ve got a responsibility to those children.’ Yeah, yeah.
But for each man, there came a tipping point - something that drove him beyond his equilibrium.
For Mick, that moment came
when he thought he had killed his son.
The three of them, Mick, with Sam and little Josh, were having an ‘adventure’ in the local woods. Mick stopped to tie his shoelace, and the boys charged ahead and began climbing the exposed roots of a huge fallen tree. Josh fell between the roots and gashed his leg, just missing his Femoral Artery. It was then that Mick grew very, very angry.
REVENGE
MICK OCTOBER 1994
Mick stood in the deep shadow of an alleyway that ran between a fireplace shop and a bank. Opposite was Millie’s restaurant, Feast. As he watched, Mick turned a key over and over, round and round, rubbing his palm sore with its new-cut edge.
He had stolen the key a few mornings ago - crept into the restaurant while Millie and Liz cooked and gossiped in the kitchen. It had been a simple job to lift a bunch from Liz’s handbag and get spares cut at a place near the supermarket. When he slipped them back, the two women had hardly stopped for breath.
On the cold pavement, his feet began to ache, and he stared across the road into the restaurant’s cosy interior. His ex-wife was chattering with staff while they all cleared and re-laid tables. Mick wiggled his toes in his boots and put his hands in and out of his pockets while he waited. Gradually, the serving staff collected their belongings and emerged onto the chilly High Street. They called their goodbyes with steamy breath and hunched their shoulders, heading in different directions, one towards the watchful church, another downhill, heading for the glare of the supermarket, Watco. A couple, young and coatless, trotted across the tarmac towards Mick, and he shrank, deeper into his hiding place. The pair dropped into a small sports car at the curb and slammed their doors simultaneously.
Millie was alone now in the dim glow, counting her takings and glancing every so often at her watch. Mick, who had worked in hospitality for most of his adult life, imagined that her feet would throb, and her breast would be elated after a successful evening.
The key in Mick’s hand was slick with sweat and for the umpteenth time he dropped it deep into the pocket of his jacket and wiped his palm on the thigh of his black jeans. He flexed his painful back. A movement opposite alerted him. A well-dressed man was peering through the door at Millie. Without waiting for an invitation, the person pushed it open and entered. Mick recognised the excited, nervous smile on Millie’s face at the sight of this stranger.
With a graceful movement, the man swung onto a bar stool, and Millie fluttered around behind the bar. She seemed nervous and excited when she picked up her bag and disappeared, perhaps to the ladies.
Watching the scene, such fury overwhelmed Mick that he had to restrain himself from leaping out and punching Millie’s date on what would probably be a straight and delicate nose. Shards of dislike flashed from the alley at the well-clad back, and as though sensing it, the man rose and strolled around the restaurant, even going into the kitchen. When Millie returned, she switched out lights, leaving a low light behind the bar and the pair came towards the door in semi-darkness. Outside, she rattled the door to check its security, and the guy turned up his collar, looking down at her so that Mick had no sense of his appearance. They headed down the hill, their voices echoing from surrounding buildings, and left Mick and his fury alone in the darkness.
When the only sound was his heart beating in his ears, Mick took a casual step from the passageway and strolled across the street, his fingers exploring his pocket for the key and a small torch. Once inside, he slipped between tables, breathing in the scents of garlic and spices that lingered there. In the kitchen, he flashed the torch once to get his bearings, and in the momentary light, made out the sink, dishwasher, and work tops on his left. Against a wall to his right stood a cooking range, and this he approached. He allowed himself a moment of approval at its pristine state before twisting all its knobs to full, then he stood, listening to the hiss of natural gas seeping across the kitchen. When the fumes became unbearable, he buried his nose and mouth in the crook of his elbow and turned all the knobs off bar one. Back outside he took a deep breath of fresh, cold air and wondered how long it would be before the trickling gas blasted Millie’s dreams to extinction.
MAURICE 1995
Maurice’s breaking point came after a silly, beery conversation that he, Mick and Paul had on the subject of revenge. That he might murder Twitch had crossed his mind before then, but putting it into words took the idea from fantasy to possibility. The urge became stronger with each humiliation he endured: at the hands of his parents, his children and sometimes his two friends. Then he saw the trolley Paul had built…
~~~
With uncharacteristic care, Maurice planned his revenge with cold hatred and meticulous detail.
That morning, he hid the trolley under a rug in the rear of his estate car and threw in a cloth bag containing short bungees with hooked ends, and a pair of gloves. Now he was parked in a side street, waiting for Twitch to emerge from her house and mount the bike that she had already propped against the gatepost. His plan was to hit her with the car, put her in the boot and dispose of the body in a nearby lake. He had already made preparation at the lakeside. A small boat with an outboard motor bobbed beneath overhanging branches. In its bottom lay a sack full of boulders, tied up at the neck with blue nylon rope, its end snaking across the boards.
At movement in the porch, Maurice sat up in his seat and reached for the ignition key. His ex-wife swung onto her bike and set off confidently, and Maurice pulled out onto Crispin Road, trying to keep his distance. But following her was harder than he had expected. To keep sufficient distance from her slow-moving bike, he had to behave like a curb crawler. Intermittent traffic negated any opportunity to ‘accidentally’ smash into her. After dodging from suburban corner to suburban corner, the road opened out into countryside and Maurice’s suspicion grew, that Twitch was heading towards the very place he planned to dispose of her body. A long, steep hill rose ahead of them and when he reached its base, Maurice pulled on the handbrake and settled down to wait for Twitch to reach the summit. He grinned to himself, watching her efforts, enjoying her discomfort. The bike laboured from side to side with Twitch standing on its pedals for maximum downward impact.
A man peddled into sight on the brow of the hill and dismounted, and supporting his machine by its handlebars, waved at Twitch. Maurice ducked below the dashboard and watched over the front shelf with one eye as Twitch drew up beside the man and climbed from the saddle.
The pair embraced, then standing side by side with their backs to Maurice, appeared to be discussing their onward route.
Birds sang in the hedgerows and the late spring day would have lifted a man’s heart were he not planning terrible murder. Before long, the pair remounted and dropped out of sight, and Maurice crawled after them. On the brow, he was in time to catch sight of them disappearing into woodland beside the lakeside beauty spot. He followed their route and crunched onto a path of stone chippings that led deep into the cover of the trees.
A strip of tape blocked his way, and he climbed out to pull it to one side, replacing it behind him and crawling further into the woodland until he was out of sight of the road.
Leaving the car, he crept on, keeping his ears open and placing his feet with care on the uneven ground. Soon, he heard their voices and dived into the bushes. They were not far away. He forced his body to stay still and waited.
How long he crouched there, he did not know. But his knees were killing him. Despite the fine weather, it was cool in the undergrowth, and he shivered, part in fear, part from the cold.
The man murmured something, and Twitch’s laugh chimed through the thicket. Maurice clenched his jaws and gave a constricted swallow. Then their chatter stopped and Maurice, half anticipating what he would see, inched forwards, praying they would not hear him rustling. Between the twigs and leaves of a thicket of hazels, he saw them. In an opening, at the water’s edge, his tart of a wife lay on her back on a plaid blanket. The remains of a picnic were scattered about her, and a wineglass lay on its s
ide, dribbling a spreading stain onto the grey earth. Her naked breasts rose from her open blouse, their nipples erect, and her skirt was hiked up round her waist. Cast off garments and shoes lay in a crumpled pile on the dirt. The man, muscular, attractive, his open shirt hanging from his sides, placed his body between her open thighs and arched his back to enter her. Maurice gasped as the man began, slowly at first, to thrust in and out. Their copulation grew more urgent and the male’s feet, still in socks, jerked about, scuffing the dust. Muscles like ropes flexed in his thighs, pumping his taut buttocks up and down. Maurice could not tear his eyes away and soon, to his shame, an erection pressed against his fly. He swallowed and forced himself to think about his next move and his excitement subsided.
His hand landed on a rock protruding from the earth. It fitted his palm, and he wriggled it free and tested it for size. When Twitch’s scream split the air, he looked up to catch her face contorting into a climax. The man grunted and collapsed on top of her, his legs straight out, hers still wrapped around his hips.
Soon, they disentangled and lay on their backs panting up at the branches. The man sat up and pulled down Twitch’s skirt and reached for his trousers. His appearance was somehow familiar, but Maurice did not give this much thought. He was in a state of anxiety, and adrenalin pumped in his blood. Decent once more, the guy pulled Twitch to him for a final kiss before they gathered up their picnic and headed back, pushing their cycles past Maurice in his hiding place, talking in low voices, their wheels tick ticking. The man asked Twitch when he might see her again, and her reply was non-committal - something about other appointments. This was good, Maurice thought. It meant that the fellow would not be calling her anytime soon.
Once the pair were a safe distance ahead, Maurice slipped from his place and followed, hefting the rock in his grip. They neared the road and ducked under the tape and after a last long kiss, the stranger scooted his bike and swung onto the saddle. Then he was gone, leaving Twitch checking her chain.