All the Rage

by Spencer Coleman

  ‘Are you going to be all right? ’ Marcus asked, glancing her way.

  ‘Yes,’ she lied. ‘It’s going to be a blast. ’

  ***

  At the airport check-in, Michael was suddenly aware of someone standing close to his left, and staring at him. He was unnerved, expecting a security check. Glimpsing from the corner of his eye, he was somewhat startled to find Joseph O’Connor just two feet away from him.

  ‘I’m glad I found you before your flight, Mr Strange. ’

  They shook hands warmly, in stark contrast to their icy farewell at the restaurant.

  ‘This is a surprise, Dr O’Connor. ’

  ‘Please, it’s Joe. Call me Joe. ’

  ‘Michael, then. What can I do for you, Joe? ’

  ‘I slept rather badly last night, thinking of what you had to say to me. I spent the entire early hours of the morning reacquainting myself with the Laura Porter case. ’

  ‘Oh? ’

  ‘Reading her case notes, I discovered many things about her that I had forgotten. I am disturbed by the way in which she was manipulated at the time of the crime. It made me feel uneasy. ’

  ‘Manipulated? ’

  ‘Yes, by the police, her family and the press. Laura was deeply traumatised when I first met her. She was suicidal, in fact. It took six years of constant therapy and hypnosis to restore her to a young woman who could at last begin the adjustment to the normal world. She had many complex and dark personalities, all of which vied separately to take control of her identity. It was a huge task to re-establish a level of sanity to her existence. ’

  ‘What are you trying to tell me, Joe? ’

  ‘That you are a kind and sincere man, and I underestimated your intentions. This is highly irregular, but I would like you to have this. ’

  The doctor handed over a thick brown folder. ‘I believe you will find everything you are looking for is in there. ’

  Stunned, Michael took the folder eagerly, holding it tightly to his chest.

  ‘I am an old man, Michael. The past is the past. We can only look to the future. Holding back these files is like holding back the future. ’

  ‘Thank you, Joe. I am indebted to you. ’

  Joe chuckled. ‘It is I who am indebted to you. However, just remember, Michael, if I have to be accountable for that file, I will crumble easily under interrogation. I will say you stole it from me and I fought defiantly to the bitter end to keep it from your grasp! ’

  Giving Joe O’Connor a parting hug, Michael moved on to the departure lounge and finally boarded his aircraft at just after midday. He was flying home. On his lap, he tapped the precious folder nervously before opening it. Slowly, with great apprehension, he began to read the story of the life of a young girl named Laura Porter. It proved to be a turbulent journey. Like the thunderous weather outside the aircraft, he had no choice but to endure it. There was no going back on this one.

  ***

  Marcus and Kara arrived at the entrance to Laburnum Farm one hour ahead of schedule. The temperate climate had changed dramatically, with a strong weather front of cold gusting wind sweeping in from the south. The sky turned slate grey. It matched Kara’s mood.

  ‘Wait,’ she suddenly announced. Marcus braked on the gravel drive, out of sight from the house.

  She took out her mobile and dialled Michael once more. No response. ‘He must be on a flight. Sod it. ’ Her mood darkened still further.

  ‘What now? ’ Marcus demanded tetchily.

  Kara took a deep breath. ‘Onward, my fine soldier. ’

  With the farm coming into view, it was as bad as Kara had imagined: dismal, windswept, inhospitable. To the right of the house, a great structure in black loomed like a menacing dragon, crouched and ever watchful. It gave her the creeps. All around, the overgrown foliage and skeletal trees seemed to suffocate all light and air from the immediate vicinity. Everything clung together, like spider webbing, under a thick blanket of drizzle and swirling mist.

  ‘Christ,’ Kara said, catching her breath.

  As if by some unexplainable trickery, an encircling mass of crows exploded from an adjoining field and descended upon them as they alighted from their vehicle. The noise was tumultuous, filling their ears with a high-pitched screeching sound. The sky was liquid black.

  Marcus ducked and dived and lost sight of Kara. Then, mercifully, the shrill abated. Within seconds, the hundreds of birds had departed, as if by order of a hidden command. Marcus whistled in mock relief and caught sight of Kara, cowering down beside the car in search of protection from the frenzy above. It was like a scene from a Hitchcock movie. Now, mercifully, it was over. Shit, thought Marcus.

  In vain, he tried to lighten a bad situation. ‘Times change,’ he grinned, unconvincingly. ‘When I was last here, we threw a crazy non- stop alcohol fuelled party which lasted for three days. ’

  Kara lifted her head and stared at him, incredulously. ’Who with…

  The fucking Munsters? ’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Michael was enraged. During the flight, he hastily read and re-read numerous official files, transcripts, hypnosis analysis, profile charts, drug reports, professional diagnosis and Home Office recommendations. It was a heavy load to digest. It turned his stomach queasy, although he couldn’t decide which was responsible for the discomfort he felt: the gruelling paperwork or the dramatic air pockets the aircraft encountered on its return to Gatwick. On board, all the passengers suffered from the turbulence. Not Michael, however. He had other more pressing matters to contend with right now, and somehow fought off the nausea which threatened to creep up on him.

  Reading still further, what greatly surprised him was Laura’s/Lauren’s capacity, under the supervision of Dr Joseph O’Connor, to confront her heinous deeds, and somehow embrace a form of recovery. This kind doctor very slowly reintroduced the building blocks. Ultimately, this gave her the opportunity and the will to survive. During their time together, he and his team educated her, restored her self-esteem and introduced a return to a kind of normality; one which she could depend upon, in spite of the enormous conflict which still infiltrated her troubled mind.

  Without his unstinting support, moral guidance and professional integrity, Laura would not have survived her time in prison. It was testament to him that she pulled through, intact but scarred. This was the truth of the matter. Her father was a savage brute, who had terrorised the entire family. Without a shadow of doubt, Laura was the victim. Her childhood had been removed from her, systematically and remorselessly, until she could no longer tolerate further punishment from his hands. She had snapped, and in an instant, become the aggressor, killing the man who was her father in name alone. It not only changed her life forever, but also that of those dearest to her as well: her mother and sister.

  What also further surprised him was Laura’s love of art, which she developed whilst in the hospital jail. She completed an Open University degree course, obtaining top honours. She read avidly, becoming an expert on the life and works of the Dutch masters, notably Vermeer. She learnt their skill in glazing techniques and became an accomplished artist. Michael thought suddenly of the grotesque portraits which now adorned her bedroom walls, so different from what she was truly capable of.

  His deliberations were interrupted by the “Please fasten your safety belt” sign illuminated above his head. He closed the bulky file on his lap and fastened the fold-back tray securely to the seat in front. Closing his eyes, Michael thought of Maggie. He felt that she was a far more dangerous proposition than Lauren. He recalled the episode of the discarded bottle at the care home. What if Delores had truly sent him a signal? Could he really believe that Maggie was responsible for her tiny brother’s death? Was this possible? Why would she do such a thing? Was it an accident or an act of malice? Was Maggie capable of uncontrolled rage? If
so, did she have a secret history of violence?

  More important, was this a violence that had gone on, unabated and unchecked? Michael had felt it first-hand, both at the farm and on the telephone. Was this a rage too frightening to be challenged? She was not to be messed with, and her frequent warnings to him could no longer be ignored. Michael winced as his gut tightened.

  He was deeply perturbed. Searching back through his conversation with both Paddy and Joe, something nagged at him. What had he missed? The unthinkable…maybe? Looking out through the tiny window, green and brown patchwork fields came into focus as the aircraft descended over the Surrey countryside, breaking through the last of the groundcover cloud. If only his mind could clear as easily.

  What if?

  He reopened the folder, and sifted through the ream of paperwork. Running his finger down each page, he found a recurring theme within several of the files: a confession of simplicity. As Paddy had explained, it was as clear a case as was possible – a suspect, a motive, a confession.

  And there lay the problem.

  Michael had seen reference to the missing link on several occasions during his study, but the significance of what it implied had evaded him and everyone else at the time of the crime. Going back to 1978 Laura was, undoubtedly, a tragic figure and her confession was as clear as you could wish for, especially if you were from the prosecution team. Guilty, as charged. No one looked further, not even the defence, who reluctantly recognised the futility of the situation and went for a plea bargain of manslaughter, on the grounds of diminished responsibility. Speaking imploringly on behalf of their client, they got what they wished for: Job done.

  The problem was in her testimony. On every reference point, Laura, although heavily traumatised, always insisted, and repeated, that she had killed her father with two heavy blows to the head, using a poker from the fireplace. Michael found this point unerringly consistent. He checked and rechecked to make sure this was correct. The hypnosis reports also confirmed this version of events, which meant that she never, ever wavered in her confession.

  But what if?

  To all intent and purposes, Laura had killed her father. She had struck him, and violently. But was the intention to kill him, or simply to render him incapable of further harm to her? In a moment of panic and fear, she had struck out in self-defence. Laura was a tiny fragile girl. He was a giant of a man. What happened then in those mad, insane moments when she instinctively knew her life was in mortal danger?

  Michael knew the answer. She panicked, and got lucky.

  It was as basic as that. The killing was not planned. How could it be? It wasn’t possible for him to be overpowered in such a manner and to be bludgeoned to death by a weakling of a girl who was in fear of her life.

  Bludgeoned to death? These words stuck in his throat. Paddy had told him earlier: “He (the father) was unrecognisable. He was bludgeoned beyond all recognition. ”

  Jesus Christ. What had he stumbled on?

  The aircraft suddenly lurched, dipped and bounced on the runway, screeching to a halt to the collective sigh from the passengers. It was a bad landing, provoking a ripple of ironic applause. Michael ignored the commotion, closed the file, and felt the impending cold sweat of realisation engulf him. He could hardly comprehend what he now knew to be the unpalatable truth.

  Little Laura was guilty, for sure; guilty of striking her assailant, twice.

  Frank Porter wasn’t dead. He was dying.

  But who was the last person to witness this carnage? Who was the person whom Laura called when she needed help? Who was it in fact who had the opportunity to finish off Frank as he lay dying, and defenceless, on the floor?

  ‘Are you all right, sir? ’ the stewardess asked, shaking his shoulder. ‘Do you need assistance? ’

  Michael glanced up, disconnecting from his trance-like state. He cleared his throat. ‘God help us all,’ he murmured finally.

  The girl in the uniform appeared startled. ‘Pardon me, sir? ’

  Slowly, Michael composed himself, gathered his things, and made his way to the far exit of the aircraft. He stumbled slightly, preoccupied by the realisation that a serious miscarriage of justice had occurred all those years ago. A terrible dread surfaced in his head.

  Laura. Laura. He couldn’t erase the image of this young girl – a vulnerable child – serving a prison sentence for a crime she did not actually commit. If his theory proved to be true, she would also serve a life sentence of another kind. The doctor was right. Laura was truly cursed, trapped in a complex web of conflicting “worlds” from which there was no escape.

  This knowledge brought great sorrow. It was a sad conclusion knowing that if Maggie chose to serve her own selfish interests, her younger sibling would go to her grave never able to resolve her own inner turmoil. Incensed, he vowed to restore this imbalance of justice. Maggie’s whole life was a lie, he had now discovered. She had betrayed her one and only sister. Blood was not thicker than water.

  ***

  Outside, on the tarmac, it was cold and blustery and wet. Michael buttoned his raincoat, switched on his mobile phone and followed the queue to the arrivals desk, then through passport control. His BMW was in the underground car park. He tried to contact Kara but the signal was poor on his flip top, and the battery useless. He plugged it into the recharger socket, but still no signal appeared. He drove steadily, deep in thought. Beyond Gatwick, he headed for Reigate, through Dorking, around Guildford and onto to the A3. He had a decision to make: either turn left, toward the farm or right, up to London and home. He dialled the gallery, and got through to a familiar voice at last.

  ‘Ronald, everything OK? ’

  ‘Just bearable. ’

  ‘Have you seen or spoken to Kara?

  ‘Briefly. ’

  ‘I’m worried about her. I can’t get her on the phone. Do you know if she made her appointment with Lauren O’Neill? ’

  ‘When was that? ’

  His impatience grew thin. ‘Today,’ he snapped.

  ‘I’ll check the diary. ’ After what seemed an eternity, Ronald replied, ‘The entry is there, and she isn’t in the gallery. I suppose that makes the answer “yes” then. ’

  ‘When did you last see her? ’

  ‘Yesterday lunchtime; she was with Marcus. ’

  ‘Marcus? Did they appear to be OK together? I’ve been concerned about the two of them. ’

  ‘Difficult to tell,’ Ronald said. ‘I’ve been rather concerned about a lot of things myself recently. Certainly, those two have issues to sort out, Kara in particular. Then there’s the lack of business which is worrying. You, of course, have your own problems. Then there is the matter of trust. I feel neglected. To be honest, Michael, I need to review my position in the company. ’

  ‘It will have to wait. ’ Michael was tetchy and hardly in the mood for this kind of conversation. Ronald’s problems were way down the line of priorities at this moment. ‘Listen. Did you get the information I asked for on Patrick Porter? ’

  Ronald sighed wearily. ‘Of a sort,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Not much to report. But I do have a photograph. ’

  ‘Really? Can you send it to my mobile?

  ‘Will do. ’

  Michael clicked off, found a lay-by and pondered his next move. It was all too damn quiet. Instinctively, he dialled Maggie’s number in Ireland. No answer. Then he tried Lauren’s house line. No answer. This didn’t add up, especially as Kara was supposed to be at the house. Then a text message came through. It was sure to be Ronald.

  But it wasn’t. It was a message that was both short and shocking:

  THE CUNT WILL DIE

  Michael gasped, and felt the tiny hairs lift on the back of his neck. He checked the dial number and found it blocked. But the crude inference was crystal clear. Kara was in a perilous position. Her life
was being threatened. The message had to come from Lauren’s mobile. Fear leapt into his every pumping vein.

  He checked his watch. He calculated that he could make the farm in under twenty-five minutes. He redialled Ronald.

  ‘Churchill Fine…’

  ‘Ronald. It’s Michael. Listen very carefully. I’m going to the farm; I’ll be there shortly. If you do not hear from me within the next two hours, I want you to call the police. It will be an emergency situation. Is that understood? ’

  ‘Yes, but what’s going on? ’

  ‘No time to explain, Ronald. Just do it. Two hours. Then get the police to Laburnum Farm. ’

  Clicking off, his heart was pounding, his mind racing way beyond him. He could hardly grip the steering wheel. From somewhere, courage returned. Without a second thought, he selected “drive” on the automatic gearshift, floored the accelerator and weaved recklessly in front of the traffic coming up from behind. A blast of car horns fractured the air. Michael didn’t glance in his rear view mirror. He didn’t need to. He could taste the dust in his throat from the cloud thrown up by his tyres.

  ***

  Kara wasn’t happy that she had lost communication with Michael. It was bloody inconsiderate of him, she decided. It made her anxious. Still, she consoled herself that Marcus was with her. It made a difference. After the episode with the Hitchcock crows, it was a case of getting on with the job and getting away. Fast.

  Lauren met them at the main entrance, and Kara was surprised by the way they were greeted with both charm and graciousness. Not what she had expected at all. Somehow, in her head Kara had built up a compelling picture of the character Glenn Close portrayed in Fatal Attraction. As in the movie though, appearances can be deceptive. For now, she would reserve judgment. Oh, sod it; Lauren was still a complete bitch. Case closed.