All the Rage

by Spencer Coleman

  The icing on the cake was Kara’s happiness, and the overwhelming joy everyone felt toward the forthcoming birth. Michael had to smile. Marcus was now a different man, extolling the virtues of fatherhood even before experiencing it first-hand. That was Marcus! His enthusiasm, as always, was getting the better of him. Kara wouldn’t have it any other way. They were made for each other, Michael was delighted to admit.

  On his return to the apartment, Michael was overtaken by physical exhaustion. Even a short walk became an endurance test. The London marathon was certainly out of the question at this stage. His humour ad

  not deserted him, thankfully. In time, his speed of recovery would hasten, and then nothing could stop him conquering the world again. For now, a cup of tea would suffice.

  The telephone rang. It was Terry. The world tipped over again.

  ‘Thought you should know,’ his friend said, without the need for social niceties. ‘Delores Porter has passed away. Died yesterday, after a bout of pneumonia. Quite suddenly, but not unexpectedly, owing to her old age and frailty. ’

  Michael was not entirely shocked, more saddened by the news. It put a damper of his renewed optimism. Then an ugly thought crossed his mind, but before he could speak, Terry beat him to it.

  ‘This throws up quite a scenario, don’t you think? The funeral takes place in five days. Can you see where this is leading? ’

  Christ. When it rains, it pours. He knew exactly where this was going.

  ‘The police will be expecting Maggie to suddenly turn up,’ he replied, his voice wavering under the weight of the conversation. Out of nowhere, a ferocious headache blasted into his skull.

  ‘Maggie’s husband is taking charge of the funeral arrangements,’ Terry said. ‘He maintains that no contact has been made with his errant wife. That’s hard to believe, especially as they have two children. Also, he seems remarkably unaffected by her apparent disappearance. The police aren’t buying into his story either. ’

  ‘Assuming she’s still alive, of course. ’

  ‘Of course. ’ Terry paused. ‘But where is the anguish that you would normally expect from a husband in these circumstances? ’

  ‘Do you think he’s protecting her? ’

  ‘Got to be. It’s inconceivable that a close knit family would be driven apart without secretly communicating in some way. According to the police, this is the official line they are following. It stands to reason, therefore, that the likelihood of her death seems remote. In all probability, he is shielding her. But this new development changes everything,

  Michael. If she is lying low then she’s making a damn good job of it.

  There’s been the odd sighting by the public, but often by misguided do-gooders. This has led the police down a blind alley on several occasions but no concrete evidence can point to her whereabouts. So it’s all conjecture at this stage as to whether she will surface at long last. ’

  Michael knew better. She’s alive, without a doubt. Fuck.

  He moved to the drinks cabinet, forgoing the tea for a large measure of brandy. He closed his eyes and let the whole picture sink in. When he reopened them, the contents of his glass had miraculously vanished.

  ‘Are you still listening, Michael? ’

  This time, Michael turned his back on the bottle and discarded the glass in the kitchen sink. Alcohol would simply cloud his judgement, and he wasn’t going in that direction again. This time, he needed his wits to be razor sharp, because the war of attrition was about to start. Only this time, the enemy was hidden. Keeping undercover. Approaching the fight, unseen. Playing clever.

  Terry spoke again. ‘The burial will take place in Ireland. Plain- clothed police officers will travel over and stake out the funeral service, with the help of the local Gardai. This is their chance, in the belief that she’ll not be able to keep away. ’ He fell silent, waiting for a reaction.

  There was none. ‘Michael, are you still there? ’

  The brain can only take so much. In Michael’s case, it began to shut down. Swiftly. He had control, but only just. Moments earlier, he felt able and strong-willed, but courage began to desert him.

  This was hell revisited, but in his heart he knew this moment would come one day.

  ‘Yes, Terry, I’m still here,’ he said finally. Beyond this response, he couldn’t fathom his next words. Instead, he gripped the phone and stared into space, imagining the venom contained in this killer called Maggie.

  This vision was unnerving beyond belief. His body trembled, the warm sticky sweat seeping into his shirt. Faith was lost in an instant, and that, out of everything, was the hardest thing for Michael to come to terms with.

  He remembered his promise to Kara, when this was all over, there would be a safe and loving world in which to live.

  An empty promise, he now feared.

  Prologue

  A Call To Witness

  Winter, Mayfair, London, 2006

  A million deadly shards of glass lay sprinkled like jewelled confetti outside the vandalised grand facade of the gallery. Snow fell gently.

  The glazier trod carefully, crunching glass under foot, as he expertly removed the last of the razor sharp broken fragments still lodged precariously in the window frame. It was hazardous and noisy work, hampered by the slippery pavement as the snow turned to sleet then to rain. A thin drizzle descended through the artificial light from the Georgian street lamps. With the remainder of the splinters cleared away, the man and his colleague worked methodically and silently on the boarding-up process. Between them, they heaved several enormous sheets of heavy MDF into position, covering up the gaping hole which had, hours before, been part of the most impressive shop-front on the street. It was now a repaired wreck, a sorrowful sight amongst some of London’s finest shops.

  The loud retort of the nail gun fractured the air, repeatedly. Those that lived in the apartments opposite peeped through curtains to express their displeasure at the continued disturbance to their sleep. One or two late night revellers gathered on the pavement, watching the activity as the alarm continued to shrill. The flickering strobe lighting danced off the walls of the wet buildings.

  Within the gallery framework of interconnecting rooms, a man, standing alone, looked on at the surrounding chaos, his eyes as dark as the night that engulfed him. For a fleeting moment, he was happy to remain anonymous, alone with his puzzled thoughts. In the choking dust and debris, he saw a parallel scene of his own making: a fading picture of ruin.

  He managed to clear his head of such a mundane judgment and dragged his weary limbs to the pavement, a mobile stuck to his ear as he tried to contact his colleagues. The workmen, meanwhile, had thankfully downed tools and one of them busied himself with documentation. The other lit a cigarette, his beer belly protruding flabbily over his trouser belt. The alarm automatically ceased at last, and in the relative calm, the man with the phone took the opportunity to punch in fresh numbers on his keypad. He waited, agitated. Outwardly, he remained calm but his voice wavered and betrayed this facade.

  ‘It’s Michael. I’m here now,’ he explained. ‘No, no. The paintings are fine. No damage, but it’s a miracle, I can tell you. ’ He waited, listening to the response; then added, ‘I need you to come in early in the morning to help with the cleaning-up operation. ’ Pacing back and forth, he listened again; then said, ‘thanks. ’

  With that, he clicked off, pondering the next move. In the light, his silver hair glistened. Rain settled on his jacketed shoulders. Punching the keypad once more, he spoke quickly. ‘Toby, it’s me. I hope you get this message. Just an update from our earlier conversation…everything is under control. I’ve just spoken to Ronald. He’s coming in early tomorrow to help. The alarm company is on the way now. I’ll stay until the premises are secure and the police have done their report. No need for you to come out. Luckily, there is no damage
to the artwork. It appears that someone threw a brick at the window, probably some drunken yob ejected from the nightclub down the road. It’s happened before. ’ He yawned, aware that a police car was parking up opposite, and continued:’ The glaziers are here, and should be finished shortly. I’ll speak to the insurers first thing tomorrow. ’He fell silent again; checked his watch and then said, ‘Should be wrapped up by midnight. Hope the concert was good. Perhaps I’ll grab a cup of tea but, in the circumstances, a double whisky would be preferable. Anyway, get here when you can in the morning. I’ll open as normal. OK. Bye for now. ’

  Michael clicked off, and suddenly felt the chill of the November night clatter his bones. Retreating once more into the gallery to find warmth, he offered tea to the workers and moved to the kitchen, switching on the interior lights as he went. This incident with the broken window spooked him more than the previous occasions, however seldom they occurred. The shock never diminished. You just have to deal with it, he reminded himself. Usually, it was an empty bottle of beer that did the damage, never a brick. This was a deliberate act of destruction, he sensed, not just an impulsive booze-induced prank. Many years ago, someone even pissed through the letterbox. This was more sinister. It implied a personal statement of attack. In his increased anxiety, Michael dropped a mug of tea onto the floor, smashing it. Scolding water splashed his trousers, instantly saturating his legs. He cursed. Fuck. He tried again, refilling another cup with trembling hands. For Christ sake, get a proper grip.

  Out on the street, he encountered the workmen and offered the hot beverage. One of them (the one with the gut), handed him a piece of blackened rock.

  ‘That’s what did the damage, Boss. Found it at the back of the window. ’

  Michael took the offending missile. ‘What is it? ’ he asked.

  A policeman approached, reached out and inspected the evidence.

  ‘Flint. Unusual… especially in this neighbourhood,’ the officer pondered. ‘This is the kind of thing more suited to a country barn, hardly a Mayfair mansion. ’

  Michael’s heart pounded; his mind racing. What did he just say?

  The officer, peering at a notepad, said mundanely: ‘Our station had a call-out from a Michael Strange, a key holder…is that you sir?’

  Ashen-faced, Michael stared at him. Preoccupied suddenly by a ghost from the past, he nodded his reply and felt the jagged edges of the piece of flint as he took hold of it again. His world almost somersaulted in that second. Christ: a barn. That’s what the officer implied. His brain shifted gear, shuddering at the memory – and acrid smell – of flames and burning flesh. He was still haunted by his lucky escape from the fire at Laburnum farm. This incident brought it back so vividly, with the reference to the chunk of flint. Was there a connection between the two? Surely, surely not…he closed his eyes for a moment and thought first of Lauren, and then Maggie; the two psychotic sisters who, not so long ago, had almost destroyed him.

  Lauren was dead. Was this the work of her mad sister hell-bent on revenge? It didn’t bear thinking about, but the possibility was strong: compelling, in fact. He opened his eyes, felt dizzy and in the same instant nervously scanned the road in either direction. Maggie was a very dangerous fugitive with murder in her heart. She had tried to kill him once before. She would try again given the chance.

  ‘Sir. . ? ’ The policeman repeated. ‘Are you the key holder? ’

  Michael caught his breath and thought of the double whisky again. No amount of firewater would calm his unease on this night.

  It had to be her. She was out there somewhere, watching his every move from the shadows.

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