The Sweetest Poison

by Jane Renshaw

  This was real? This was Suzanne, grown-up Suzanne, playing some terrible game she didn’t understand? Some demented game?

  ‘And hey, I was a pretty good Rob.’ Moir smirked. ‘Did you notice I said “Hey” a lot? Like he used to? No? Pearls before swine.’ He smoothed the paper in his hands and placed it back on her lap. ‘Sign it.’ He retrieved the pen from where she’d thrown it, under the washstand which stood where her chest of drawers used to be.

  Shakily she signed her name.

  ‘Good girl.’ He handed the paper to Suzanne.

  Suzanne just looked at her.

  Suzanne. She’d been alive, all this time. Buying those boots and that top. Getting her hair cut like that so she looked more like a pixie than ever.

  She made a sad face. ‘And now you kill yourself.’

  67

  Helen tried to stand. She did manage to get to her feet, the chair tied to her like a snail’s shell, but when she tried to move she fell sideways to the floor, banging knee and shoulder on the hard boards. She had wet herself.

  Suzanne clipped over to the window. The red patent leather boots gleamed in the light falling on them. ‘I don’t think it’s high enough.’

  ‘Maybe not onto packed earth – but we can take her round the back – the front, whatever – why do you call it the front when it’s at the back?’

  Suzanne shrugged. ‘The kitchen door’s always been the back door.’

  ‘Whatever. There’s concrete at the “front”, isn’t there, between the house and the lawn?’ Moir took hold of the chair and Helen’s arm and set her upright again. ‘Okay. I’ll get the stuff into the van.’

  He left the room. Helen heard his steps on the stairs.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’

  Slowly, Suzanne spun on a heel. ‘I don’t see them.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The audience you’re playing to.’

  ‘What?’

  Suzanne sat down on the bed and crossed her legs. ‘He took a whilie to die. But not long enough. He managed the stalkers’ path. He managed to make it to his car. Leaning on me, he managed it. We got about half way to the cottage hospital. We left the knife in him. That’s what you’re supposed to do, isn’t it? So there wasn’t blood pouring out of him or anything. But there must have been internal bleeding. He stopped breathing just after the Tarland crossroads. So I stopped the car and did all the first aid stuff I’d been taught on the childcare course. But I couldn’t get him to breathe.’

  Helen’s own breath was shuddering in her throat.

  ‘We drove up Greenhill. I – Maybe you’ll think this is twisted, but I held him in my arms. While the sun came up. And all through the day. I washed him. I combed his hair. We listened to the car radio. I talked to him. Got a bit soppy, telling him all kinds of mushy stuff. Stuff I’d never have said when he was alive. Daft cow, eh? Then at night I drove him down to Kirkton. Used the wheelbarrow from the shed in the manse garden to move him from the car to Willie Duff’s grave. And you won’t believe it, but I said a prayer.’

  ‘You left your ring with him.’

  ‘I left my ring with him. I took the bike from the shed, dumped the car, cycled to Aboyne. Got the bus into Aberdeen.’

  ‘And you phoned Ina.’

  Suzanne’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Damian worked it out. She took you to Glasgow?’

  ‘First to A&E to get stitched up, under a false name of course – our story was that my injuries were the result of “drunken horseplay”. Mum playing the shocked parent – convincingly, as you can imagine. They’d no reason not to believe her. They’d no reason to involve the police.’

  ‘Was it – how did the knife get in him?’

  ‘Well I didn’t put it there, did I?’

  ‘So why didn’t you go to the police?’

  ‘How could I? By the time I was in any fit state to do anything, you’d told your little story. Heard it on the car radio – how poor little Helen Clack had been attacked and Rob Beattie was being sought ‘in connection’ with that and my disappearance. If I’d popped out of the woodwork with his body in tow, how would that have looked? You’d have “remembered” me stabbing him, wouldn’t you? And who’d believe my version of events over poor little Helen’s?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have done that. How could you think I’d do that? Suzanne!’ Why on earth would she think Helen would do that? ‘I’d have told the truth – that I didn’t remember.’

  Suzanne just looked at her.

  ‘Why didn’t you hide his body and then come back? You could have said he attacked you, and you’d been lying unconscious somewhere… And you didn’t know where he was…’

  ‘Like I’d let Rob take the blame, when he was the one murdered?’

  ‘Murdered?’

  Suzanne just stared at her.

  Eventually, she tried, ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Living the high life in Glasgow. We ran a florist’s. I was Mum’s “niece”. Suited us both fine. See, I couldn’t get a job because I don’t have a National Insurance number. I couldn’t ever work in childcare, not with all the checks they do. Mum got a loan to buy the shop, and then when the divorce settlement came through she paid it off. When she died she left everything to her “niece”. I sold up. Met Moir.’

  ‘Rob Mark Two.’

  ‘You know that thing on Midsummer’s Eve, when people used to leave a candle burning so dead souls could find their way home? I did that every year. Every fucking year since he died – like something out of a Gothic novel… Wuthering Heights or something… Hoping Rob would come back. Back through the veil.’

  ‘Oh God, Suzanne –’

  ‘But he’s never coming back. I know that. I know Moir isn’t Rob. I know he isn’t.’

  ‘No.’ Helen took a breath. ‘He’s ten times worse. Do you really think he cares about you? Why are you doing this? Okay so I lied about remembering Rob attacking me –’

  ‘You took our lives. And now I want mine back.’

  ‘How did I? Just because I told a lie about what happened? I really thought Rob had attacked me. I thought he’d killed you. What else was I supposed to do?’

  Suzanne reached out for something on the bedside table. The knife.

  She picked it up, and stood, and came across the room to the chair. She put the point of it to Helen’s throat.

  ‘You always were a great liar.’

  Every time she breathed out, the point of the knife pricked her skin. ‘Suzanne!’

  ‘But I think I’d like you to tell the truth now.’

  ‘But I really don’t remember!’

  The knife was suddenly in front of her eyes, the point pressed between her eyebrows. Sharp pain. Blood trickling down her nose.

  And she did remember.

  Another knife.

  Coming to consciousness to find the flat cold hardness of metal against her cheek. Rob on top of her. His hand pushing up her top, grabbing at her breasts –

  She must have passed out again. Next thing: Rob still on top of her, but the knife gone. Rob using both hands on the fastening of her jeans. Grabbing at him, pushing at him – putting up her arms to ward off the blows. Putting her hands over her face, lying still – and Rob, back at the zip of her jeans – yanking the jeans down her thighs.

  Scrabbling her hand on the ground, searching for something – a rock, a branch – and feeling the cold metal of the knife under her fingers.

  Slashing up with it, at his face – Rob cursing her, and then Suzanne descending, a dervish, but with her fury directed not at Rob but at Helen, kicking her in the mouth, in the breasts, as Rob grabbed at her again – and Helen slashing at them both, stabbing at them, and Rob overbalancing, falling towards her, and it was easy to push the knife up into his chest.

  ‘I killed him.’

  68

  ‘Well done.’ Suzanne pressed harder with the knife. Blood dripped off Helen’s nose and onto her cheek.

  ‘I didn’t mean to! He was attacki
ng me! It was his knife!’

  ‘So that makes it all right.’

  Another trickle of blood ran down the side of her nose and into the corner of her mouth. She could taste her own blood.

  ‘You attacked me! Not just Rob – you!’

  And so that was why Suzanne had had to disappear: because she’d been afraid that forensics would show she had attacked Helen; and that Helen remembered it, and would do everything she could to put the blame for Rob’s death on Suzanne.

  Helen shook her head. ‘How could you?’

  ‘You were going for him with a fucking knife!’

  ‘I was trying to get him off me! He was trying to rape me!’

  ‘Oh, like you weren’t up for it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I read all your letters to him, remember? And copied out all his to you.’

  ‘But I thought I was writing to Hector!’

  ‘At first you did. But by then you knew it was Rob. By then it was just a game, wasn’t it? Tables well and truly turned. You fucking bitch Helen!’

  ‘No!’

  ‘And he knew that you knew. I thought you were the mug, when all the time the joke was on me. It never even occurred to me, until that night, until I found the two of you... But I should’ve twigged, shouldn’t I? You and Rob always were obsessed with each other. Even when we were kids.’

  ‘What are you talking about? Yes, Rob was “obsessed” with hurting me – torturing me –’

  ‘And didn’t you just love it.’

  ‘Of course I didn’t! God!’

  ‘Sick. The whole thing was sick.’

  ‘On his side, yes! But – you’re twisting everything! I never liked Rob! For God’s sake, he’s the last person – I hated him. I really hated him so much. I tried not to, for your sake, but I hated him.’

  ‘Love and hate. Two sides of the same coin. That’s what they say, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s rubbish.’

  Suzanne removed the knife from her forehead and stepped back one, two paces. ‘It must have been the ultimate rush, sticking a knife in him.’

  Helen shook her head.

  Suzanne walked to the window.

  ‘I didn’t mean to –’

  She whipped round, her pixie face contorted. ‘Don’t try and tell me you thought he was really going to hurt you. You knew he wasn’t. You knew I wasn’t. Don’t try and tell me it was self defence.’

  ‘Of course it was!’

  ‘You wanted him dead.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘You wanted me dead!’

  ‘How could you think that? Suzanne...’

  She put a hand to the collar of her shirt and pulled it down. ‘You were going for my throat, but I managed to twist away.’

  Along her collarbone was a long white scar.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So I’m lying now, am I?’

  ‘If I did that – it must have been by accident – I was fighting both of you –’

  ‘Oh yes, poor little Helen. Poor little innocent Helen.’

  ‘I would never have hurt you, not deliberately.’

  ‘Because you loved me so much?’

  ‘I did love you.’

  Suzanne said nothing.

  Helen gulped: ‘If you’d loved me you’d never have written those letters in the first place. You knew how I felt about Hector.’

  ‘That was just a stupid fantasy.’

  ‘It was real to me. And you knew that.’

  Suzanne’s face changed. ‘Anyone else would’ve seen through those letters straight off.’

  ‘I’m not anyone else.’

  Suzanne blinked.

  ‘And neither are you.’ Her lips were wobbling so much she could hardly get them to make the proper shapes of the words: ‘You can’t want this. You can’t want – what he’s done. You can’t have wanted him to kill Damian.’

  Nothing. Then: ‘Damian.’

  ‘For no reason. Slung in the boot like a sack of potatoes.’

  Suzanne shook her head, sharply.

  ‘You always said he was going to be something special. Well, he was. He was just the sweetest, brightest, most incredible boy. And now he’s dead. Moir killed him for no reason. How could he have been any threat? He could hardly walk. Did you know he’s – he was disabled?’

  A slight nod.

  ‘Moir found that very amusing.’ She took a breath. ‘It’s Moir, isn’t it? All this. It’s not you. You don’t want this. If you did, you wouldn’t have waited for him to come along –’

  Silence.

  Then: ‘It wasn’t Moir I was waiting for.’ And when Helen didn’t say anything: ‘I’d it all planned out years ago. Found out where you were living in London; what you were doing. This guy I knew got me a gun – a Smith & Wesson from the war, like you might have found it at the back of a cabinet in the museum and thought Hmm... Suicide... And bullets for it of course. I was all set. Had a room booked in a hotel – near your flat but not too near. A train ticket. Told Mum I was going to Blackpool with a pal.’

  Helen couldn’t swallow. Couldn’t speak.

  ‘But Mum must have suspected something was up. After breakfast the day of my little trip, while I was in the loo she looked in my bag. Found the gun, and the script of your “confession”. And it was surreal – she didn’t go mental, she was all calm and collected, asking me if I was going to kill you. I turned on the waterworks, making out I’d never really have gone through with it... And she patted my back and said everything would be all right but if I ever did do anything like that she’d go straight to the police and tell them everything. I don’t think she’d ever really believed my version of what happened that night. What chance did I have of convincing the police, if my own mother didn’t believe me? So I had to content myself with messing with you. Banging on the door of your flat at night. Stuff like that.’

  ‘You had to wait until she was dead.’

  ‘She had diabetes. Poorly controlled. It was only a matter of time. In the event, rather longer than I’d expected. The marvels of modern medicine, eh?’ But her mouth had twisted in the way it used to when she was trying to make out she didn’t care about something.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘About Auntie Ina.’

  Footsteps came lightly up the stairs, and then Moir was back in the room, rubbing his hands. ‘Having a nice chat? “I want you dead more than you want me dead.” Ah, family squabbles.’

  ‘You don’t know anything about us,’ said Helen.

  He cocked his head.

  ‘Suzanne doesn’t want me dead. She’s not a psychopath.’

  ‘It’s matter of expediency, actually, rather than psychosis. Any confession you might be persuaded to produce you’d retract, wouldn’t you, as soon as you were in a position to do so? And there would be Su’s little dream of returning from the dead – well, dead.’

  ‘You’ve killed Damian?’ said Suzanne.

  Her stomach clenched.

  Damian.

  Hector, standing at the door of the kirk in his funeral suit, perfectly composed as he thanked people for coming; as he read a slick little summation of his brother’s life; as he entertained the mourners after the service.

  What do they put in your milk?

  Hector, standing in an empty garden; a thrush singing.

  Moir reached out and took the knife from Suzanne. ‘We’ll dump him back at the Mains on our way. Crazy bitch here whacked him before she topped herself.’ He touched the red line on his cheek.

  ‘Are you sure he’s dead?’ said Suzanne.

  ‘He’s giving a potentially Oscar-winning performance if he’s not.’

  ‘But have you checked for a pulse?’

  Maybe he wasn’t dead! Even though his eyes had been open like that – maybe he was just in shock or something. She stared at Suzanne’s back, willing her to turn round so she could silently beg: If he’s still alive, please save him.

  Maybe Damian was light enough for
Suzanne to be able to move him. Or she wouldn’t have to – she could drive off with him! She could just drive away.

  Moir shrugged, and tossed Suzanne something that jangled. Car keys. ‘Check him.’

  She left the room without looking at Helen again. Moir sat on the bed, head slightly on one side. ‘How are you feeling now?’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘You don’t look great.’

  ‘Neither do you.’

  He smirked. ‘No? You used to think differently. You especially used to like my hair.’ Coquettishly, he put a finger up to the hair at his temple and twisted it round.

  She looked down at her hands, clasped together to stop them shaking.

  Slow footsteps on the stair. The door opened.

  Moir said, ‘So?’

  Suzanne’s face in the doorway was stiff. ‘There’s no pulse.’

  He smiled at Helen. ‘Don’t be sad. You’ll see him again soon... Or will you?’ He stood, and walked towards her, waving the knife like it was some sort of treat. ‘Reckon you’ll see him in heaven?’

  ‘We should wait. Till it’s dark.’

  ‘Uh-uh. They’ll be starting a search soon. We have to do it now.’

  And she didn’t care about Damian, she didn’t care about Hector, she only cared about herself, about the knife and what he was going to do with it.

  ‘Please don’t,’ she said. ‘Please. Suzanne... Please.’

  ‘Pleease,’ said Moir.

  Suzanne had turned away.

  ‘Don’t let him!’

  ‘That little room with the boxes in it,’ said Moir. ‘Go and open the window.’

  Suzanne left the room.

  And Helen shut her eyes.

  So this was how her life ended.

  What would there be, on the other side? Would there be anything?

  He didn’t touch her with the knife. He moved behind the chair, and she felt the twine around her body tighten and then go slack. But now he had an arm round her, strong and hard. He supported her to her feet.