‘CALLUM! CALLUM, I’M—’
BOOOOOM …
Silence.
She stepped back into the garage. Sobbed. Stood there bent almost double beneath the weight of it. ‘I … I didn’t want this. I didn’t.’
Clack.
Emma broke the shotgun open again and the two spent cartridges spun into the air, twirling as they fell, leaving thin trails of smoke behind. Pinging as they bounced off the concrete.
This was it.
He was going to die here.
She dipped into the cartridge bag for another couple of shells. Slid them home.
Clack.
She bit her bottom lip. Sniffed.
At least it would be quick.
But she didn’t shoot him. She took a deep shuddering breath and marched through the door that led into the house instead.
Callum forced a hand under himself. Pushed …
Nope.
The throbbing in his head got louder, sharper.
Maybe it was all for the best?
What else did he have going for him?
Crappy childhood. Failed relationship. Ruined career.
The only mark he’d leave on life would be right here on the garage floor. Eight pints of blood. And twenty minutes with a mop and a bucket of bleach would soon get rid of that.
A muffled boom sounded from somewhere deep within the house. Followed by another one.
So get up. Get your useless, lazy, good-for-nothing backside off the ground and do something. What if Shannon was still alive? What if he was lying out there, bleeding to death, because Callum was too busy wallowing in self-pity to get off his arse and help him?
‘Grrrrah …’ He pushed himself over onto his front, then back and up till he was on his knees.
The garage whirled and roared all around him, like being drunk on the waltzers, making his stomach churn.
Be sick later, get up now.
Emma reappeared through the door, her face flushed and shiny, tears glistening on her cheeks. Arms wrapped around the shotgun, like a teddy bear. ‘Why does nothing ever turn out the way I want? Tell me that. WHY HAS IT ALWAYS GOT TO BE EVERYONE ELSE?’ She rubbed at her eyes again. Then curled her shoulders forward and sobbed.
Get up, get up, get up, get up.
Do it now, while she’s distracted.
But his legs just didn’t want to.
She’s going to shoot you. She’s going to stick that shotgun in your face and pull the trigger. They’ll have to scrape your brains off the floor with a shovel.
ON YOUR FEET!
Emma shook her head as the sobbing subsided. She blew out a shuddering breath. Wiped her eyes. Sniffed. Turned back to the gun cupboard and dipped into the shell bag again. ‘I’m sorry.’
Callum grabbed the chest freezer and pulled himself up to his feet.
Clack.
He held a hand out as she turned back towards him. ‘Emma, you don’t have to do this.’
‘Why?’ She stepped closer, raised the gun. ‘Why did you have to come tonight? Why couldn’t you wait till tomorrow?’
‘Emma, the man you shot: Bob. There might still be time to save him.’
‘It would all have been gone by then.’
‘Emma, please, this can still end up OK, I promise.’
Closer.
The twin barrels of the shotgun were huge and dark.
She wiped her eyes again. ‘It would all have been gone.’
Goodbye cruel world.
Callum nodded. ‘I understand. I’m sorry, Emma, it …’ His eyes went wide, staring over her shoulder. ‘Bob!’ Smiling as he stumbled forwards a couple of inches.
She turned.
And Callum lunged.
Shoved the shotgun to one side and hammered his fibreglass cast into her face hard.
She went over backwards, left arm pinwheeling as she fell, gun still held in her other hand.
It went off as her head cracked into the floor, a deafening roar that ripped a huge hole in the Range Rover’s driver’s door, shattering the window, tearing out through the roof.
He half jumped, half fell on top of her, pinning her gun arm to the ground. Smashing his cast into her face again. And one more time for luck.
Reared back as the shotgun clattered free of her limp fingers.
Grabbed the dented tin of bloody peaches and raised it high above his head, ready to crash it down …
A little bubble of scarlet popped from her squint nose. She coughed and more spattered out of her mouth, leaving her teeth stained dark pink.
Callum let the peaches fall back to the garage floor.
She shook beneath him, eyes screwed shut, tears dribbling down the side of her face. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry …’
Wiped a hand across his mouth. ‘Emma Travis-Wilkes, you’re under arrest.’
‘I’m so sorry …’
He dragged out his handcuffs. ‘“There’s no point crying, little girl,” said the Bonemonger with his scissor-sharp smile. “No one will hear you, and nobody cares.”’
Callum lurched out of the garage and onto the driveway. The drizzle was like a soft kiss, cooling and fresh against his face.
Shannon’s car was lopsided – the wing peppered with holes, the tyre flat, door hanging open with more holes punched through it.
‘Bob?’
Gravel crunched beneath his feet as he staggered over to the door.
Shannon lay on his back across the front seats, one leg in the passenger footwell, the other dangling out of the car.
‘BOB!’
A large dark stain covered the front of his yellow T-shirt, spreading across the word ‘NORWICH’.
Sodding hell.
Callum clambered around to the driver’s side, hauled open the door and felt for a pulse. Swore. Dragged out his phone and called 999. ‘OFFICER DOWN, I REPEAT, OFFICER DOWN!’
70
‘And we’re all done.’ The doctor dropped his needle into the kidney dish. ‘Excellent stitches, even if I say so myself.’ A small round Teletubby of a man with a comb-over and Stalin moustache.
Callum just grunted.
‘Now I’m going to write you a prescription for painkillers, but keep off the booze with them, OK? And just in case: get someone to stay with you tonight. Don’t want you dying in your sleep, right? Right.’ He taped a patch of gauze to the back of Callum’s head. ‘While you’re here, we might as well change the dressing on your ear. Nurse, let’s have some disinfectant …’
There was more, but it was just noise.
The treatment cubicle curtains opened and there was Franklin. She’d ditched the black suit and tie for a red lumberjack shirt, blue jeans, and trainers. Flashed her warrant card. ‘Will he live?’
Dr Teletubby stepped back to admire his handiwork. ‘Well, he’s damn lucky she didn’t fracture his skull, but other than that? Probably.’
Callum slid down from the table and picked up his jacket. The sleeves and back were stained brown and black. Some of it his blood, some of it Shannon’s. ‘What about Bob?’
Franklin grimaced. Shook her head. ‘They did everything they could.’
Great.
Dr Teletubby pointed through to the reception area. ‘Go park yourself for ten minutes while I sort out your pills and get you discharged.’
Callum followed Franklin back to the rows of plastic seating and the buzzing vending machines.
She pointed. ‘You want a cup of tea or something?’
‘Any word on Watt?’
‘I’ll get you a tea.’
Soon as she was gone, Callum folded forward till his chest rested against his knees. Wrapped his arms around his head. Pressing them into the gauze taped to the back. Squeezing. Making the stitches scream a sharp bitter song.
Shannon was his fault.
He should never have accepted that lift out to R.M. Travis’s house. Should have made his own way there. Should’ve
insisted.
Bloody hell.
Why did everything have to turn to shite? Why did it always have to—
‘Callum? Are you OK?’ Franklin settled in the chair beside his, the warmth of her body seeping through his dirty shirt.
‘No.’
‘Do you want me to get the doctor back?’
He blew out a breath. ‘No. Thanks. But no.’ Another sigh and he sat back up. ‘Sorry.’
‘Here: drink your tea.’
The plastic cup was scalding hot. And the contents tasted every bit as bitter and foul as he was inside.
Franklin put her hand between his shoulder blades and gave them a little rub. ‘You didn’t shoot him, Emma Travis-Wilkes did. She killed her dad, she killed Shannon, and she would’ve killed you too. It wasn’t your fault.’
A nod. More horrible tea.
She gave a little laugh. Shook her head. ‘This has been a great first week at work.’
He turned in his seat and smiled. ‘Welcome to the Misfit Mob.’
‘Oh, Callum, you’re a poor sod, aren’t you?’
‘I’m a bloody disaster area.’
‘No you’re not. You’re a good man, and Elaine was an idiot for throwing that away. Didn’t know a good thing when she had it.’
Franklin’s hand was warm against his back. Her thigh warm against his. Her smile warm and soft. Her lips …
He leaned in, breathing in the scent of her: lemons and jasmine and rosemary. Closed his eyes.
‘Argh! Jesus!’ Franklin’s chair scraped back and she was on her feet. Backing away, staring down at him with her face curdled, as if he’d just coughed up a hairball into her lap.
Heat flooded Callum’s face, prickled across the back of his neck, set his ears on fire. ‘I’m sorry, I—’
‘What is wrong with you? This is—’
‘I thought there was a thing and—’
‘I’ve got a fiancé!’
‘I’m sorry! I didn’t … Arrgh.’ He curled up in his seat again. ‘God’s sake.’
‘Just because I’m a black woman, doesn’t mean I’m going to jump into bed with every pasty-faced horny bastard who knocks! You’re just like all the rest of them!’
Idiot. Bloody stupid halfwit idiot.
He gritted his teeth and clenched his eyes shut.
Everything. Every single thing he touched.
Franklin’s phone burst into song. Then silenced. ‘What?’
There’d been a thing, hadn’t there? Between them?
Her voice was hard and brittle. ‘Oh, he’s here all right.’
Idiot Callum. Such a bloody idiot.
‘Yes … OK. Right … No, I’ll tell him … OK, bye.’
He took a deep breath. Stood. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable or preyed-on or anything like that. I thought …’
She just glared back at him, arms folded, knuckles pale where she was gripping her phone.
‘I don’t know what I thought. Maybe it was Emma Travis-Wilkes trying to cave my skull in? Maybe that rattled something loose? Whatever. I wasn’t thinking right and I’m sorry. I’m one hundred percent genuinely sorry.’
‘I thought you were different, Callum.’
‘Yeah, well apparently I’m a moron like every other man on the planet.’ He struggled into his filthy jacket. Couldn’t look her in the eye. ‘It’s OK. I’ll get a taxi. Thanks for coming. You don’t have to stay.’
A nurse squeaked up, clipboard in one hand, small white paper bag in the other. ‘Callum MacGregor? I’ve got some painkillers for you.’ She held out the clipboard. ‘Just sign there where the X is …’ A frown. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘No. I just made a complete and utter dick of myself.’ He scrawled his name in the appropriate box, accepted the paper bag. ‘Thanks.’ Then turned and limped out through the doors.
Franklin followed him.
He kept going, out from beneath the canopy and into the rain. Stopped. Turned, both arms held out. ‘I’m sorry, OK? My life’s turned to shit and I’m sorry. That wasn’t about you, it was about me being fucking useless.’ Cold and damp seeped through his filthy jacket. He dropped his arms. ‘Just go. Please. I’ve embarrassed myself enough for one night. I don’t need an audience.’
She held up her phone. ‘That was DS McAdams. The Duty Doctor’s given Emma Travis-Wilkes a clean bill of health. They’re putting her in Interview Four now.’
He turned and walked out into the night. ‘Good for them.’
‘McAdams says you can watch from the viewing suite, if you like?’
Interview Room Four looked bigger on the screen. Not so cramped.
‘Are you sure you want to do this, Emma? These are very serious charges.’ Mother’s mop of bright ginger hair sat in the bottom right-hand corner of the TV, next to McAdams’ hunched back in the bottom left.
Emma Travis-Wilkes shifted in her SOC paper oversuit – sperm-white rather than Smurf-blue – and glanced at the man sitting beside her: dark-blue three-piece suit, grey hair pulled back in a ponytail, little round glasses, pointy sideburns. Mr Slick gave her a tiny nod.
Callum sniffed. ‘Here come the lies.’
He shifted his cheap plastic chair closer to the monitor. A line of little microphones, perched on the end of bendy metal sticks, poked out at him, each one dark and dead. Waiting for someone to flip the switch.
Franklin stood with her arms folded, leaning back against the door. About as far away as she could possibly get.
Yeah, well, couldn’t exactly blame her.
Emma Travis-Wilkes took a deep breath. The left side of her face had swollen and darkened. The bruises taking hold from where Callum introduced her to his fibreglass cast. A sticking plaster made a pale stripe across the bridge of her nose. ‘Having discussed the situation with my solicitor, I would like to make the following confession.’
Mr Slick patted her on the arm, voice almost too low to make out. ‘It’s OK: in your own time.’
‘I killed them.’
There was a pause, then Mother leaned forward. ‘Who did you kill, Emma? For the tape.’
She stared back. ‘All of them.’
Franklin gave a little whistle. ‘I genuinely didn’t think it’d be that easy. Expensive lawyer like that? Thought he’d make her “no comment” for at least an hour or so. It’s a bit of a let-down, to be honest.’
Callum didn’t move. ‘She’s lying.’
‘All of who, Emma?’
‘I killed the police officer in his car – I shot him once in the stomach and once in the chest. Then I went through into the library and shot my father. Once in the …’ She cleared her throat. ‘Once in the chest and once in the head.’ Emma stared at the ceiling. Gave a sharp, shuddering breath. ‘Then I went into the garage and tried to kill the other police officer, but he was too quick and overpowered me. I’m glad he did. I … wasn’t myself. I needed to be stopped.’
‘Hmph.’ Franklin didn’t sound impressed. ‘That’s the most half-arsed attempt to plead insanity I’ve ever seen.’
‘I see, I see …’ Mother patted McAdams on the shoulder. ‘Let’s try the photos, Andy.’
He dipped into a folder and came out with a handful of A4 printouts. Laid them across the table. ‘I am now showing Ms Travis-Wilkes exhibits nineteen to twenty-seven.’
Difficult to see what they were of, from up here – the interview room’s CCTV system wasn’t high-res enough to show more than a row of grey and pink blurs.
‘Do you recognise any of these, Emma?’
She licked her lips, then looked away. ‘I killed them too.’
‘Who were they?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘How many are they?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘You don’t remember how many people you killed, cut up, and kept bits of in your father’s freezer?’
‘No. I don’t remember. It w
as a long time ago.’
Mother picked up one of the pics. ‘That’s a human hand, right there, Emma. A human hand, severed at the wrist and put into a freezer bag. There’s even a date on the label: April fourth, 2015. That’s not so long ago, is it?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Here’s a bottom jaw, complete with lip, tongue, teeth, and part of the throat. November 2006. Who was he?’
Travis-Wilkes swallowed. ‘I don’t … Please.’
‘Here’s a severed head. We found it last week, behind some bushes in Holburn Forest. Do you recognise her?’
Travis-Wilkes stared.
Strange How Much Can Change In Just One Week
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Dad, it’s everywhere!’ Emma jabs a finger at the kitchen worktops.
Tomato sauce. Everywhere.
He’s splattered it all over the toaster and the wall, making bloodstains down the units, scarlet puddles on the floor.
‘I told you I’d make you something.’
Dad doesn’t even answer, just sits there at the breakfast bar, eating his cheese and ketchup sandwich. Chewing as he squints at that morning’s paper.
‘Could you not have waited five minutes? Look at this mess.’
He picks a pen from his pocket and circles something on the front page.
‘Are you even listening to me?’
He circles something else, head on one side as if he’s a cat considering whether or not to pounce.
‘I said, look at this mess!’ She marches over and snatches the paper off him.
‘BODY FOUND IN CASTLEVIEW FLAT’ sits above a photo of an ugly, soulless block of flats. There’s another picture set into it – three people standing outside the building. A pretty black woman, a grey skeleton in a grey suit, and a man with a bruised face. He’s the one Dad’s drawn a circle around. Another around the name ‘DC CALLUM MACGREGOR (31)’.
Her father looks up at her. Then over at the blood-smeared kitchen units. Frowns. Stands. And stalks from the room.
Emma hurls the paper down. ‘I’LL JUST STAY HERE AND CLEAR UP AFTER YOU, SHALL I?’ God’s sake, he just gets worse. ‘DON’T YOU WALK AWAY FROM ME!’
She storms after him, through into the double garage with its fallout-shelter’s worth of antique tinned goods, jars, and all those sodding freezers.
Dad’s got one of them open, leaning in to rummage through the contents. Picking things from the deep-frozen depths and dumping them on the concrete floor. Tupperware boxes, freezer bags, carrier bags, lumpy tinfoil parcels thick with frost. They clatter and skitter away.
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