I Want Him Dead

by Anthony Masters

  “No, but you’ve only got my word on it. You could speak to my brief if you want to. I can give you his number.”

  “That won’t be necessary. Where do you want to meet me?”

  “I’m at Hastings. Can you meet me in the station buffet?”

  “When?”

  “Whenever it suits you. No doubt you have Christmas arrangements.”

  “How about the day after Boxing Day? About elevenish. What do you look like?”

  “Tall and dark. Moustache and beard. Sallow complexion. I’ll be carrying a copy of The Guardian.”

  When he had rung off, Anne Lucas sat by the telephone for a while. Gerald Batt had liked the piece on Coyd and it was to be printed, names suitably changed, in the new year. Another assignment would be a relief.

  Eamonn Coyd was just playing “The Little Drummer Boy” when the bell rang. He played on.

  “That could be your brother,” shouted Freda eventually.

  He got up reluctantly and opening the door on the security chain, peered cautiously out to see a young man with a bald head and a raincoat.

  “Mr Coyd? James Fallowell, CID.”

  “Can I see your identity?”

  He pulled something out of his pocket and said briskly, “I’ve come about your brother.”

  Eamonn let go the chain and Leslie Ryland grabbed his balls, pushing him back inside, whispering, “It always works, doesn’t it?”

  The pain was agonizing but Eamonn still managed to put a finger to his lips, pointing upstairs.

  Leslie let go.

  “Who is it?” celled Freda.

  “A friend of Joe’s. Dropped in with a Christmas present. He won’t stay long.”

  “Give him a drink.” Freda was unusually social. “I’m going to watch the film.”

  Leslie smiled as she closed the door. This was going to be easy.

  “Where’s your brother?”

  “At his flat.”

  “You fucking well know he’s not.”

  “Who are you?”

  “A business associate. He’s done a runner.”

  “With his family?”

  “Stop playing games. You know exactly where he is.”

  “I don’t.” Eamonn was wondering how far the young man was prepared to go and he went and sat down in front of the piano and stared at the keys. Ryland followed, leaning against the wall beside him, taking out a cigarette lighter and flicking up the flame.

  “Where is he then?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Little holiday?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “But it wasn’t planned —”

  “No.”

  “He’s spontaneous, is he, your brother? Lightning decision-maker?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Nice little country hotel over the festive season?”

  “It’s possible.” He was waiting to be hurt, in the same way he had waited for his mother to hit him.

  “Wouldn’t he have taken you?”

  “He knows I prefer to stay here.”

  “Who’s up there?”

  “A crippled lady.”

  “Friend of yours?”

  “Yes.”

  Leslie brought the flame nearer. “You had one nasty accident.”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it a fire?”

  Eamonn nodded.

  “So there’s not a lot I can do to your pizza-face, is there?”

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “Your brother’s forwarding address. Then I’ll go away.”

  “I don’t know where he is,” said Eamonn. “I’ve told you that.”

  The flame came nearer, singeing the top of his long black hair. “Roast pizza,” said Leslie. “I don’t think that’s to everyone’s taste.”

  “I don’t know where he is.” He tried to sound indignant but instead his voice was miserably flat. Then he gave a squeal of pain as the flame seared his scarred cheek.

  “I think you do.”

  “For God’s sake —”

  Again the flame leapt at him. “It’ll be your eyes next. I’ll fucking blind you.”

  “All right.” Eamonn stood up trembling, the pain still intense. “I’ll go upstairs and get it.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “If you do — you’ll alarm Freda. I’m not going anywhere —just into my bedroom.”

  “Where is your brother?”

  “Bournemouth.”

  “You’d better not lie to me.”

  “I’m not.”

  “But I’m still coming with you.”

  “There’s no way I can get out — this is the only entrance to the flat.” Eamonn had to get to his bedroom. The time had come, his preparations had been completed earlier and he was ready. He knew he couldn’t endure any more pain.

  “Why should I believe you?”

  Panic swept Eamonn as he began to wonder if he was going to be burnt again. “No one comes into my room, but you can sit and talk to Freda. She doesn’t have many visitors.”

  “While you get through the fucking window.”

  “I’m not the right size.”

  “You’d better not be.”

  As they walked up the stairs, Eamonn wondered how long it would take to go under.

  “Hang on.” Leslie was suddenly hesitant.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Maybe the old lady shouldn’t see me. I’ll tell you this, though — if you don’t come down in three minutes I’ll go up and hurt her. Really hurt her.”

  Eamonn had not bargained for that, but then he realized that even Freda might have to be sacrificed for Joe’s fresh start.

  “I’ve got to find the address,” he stuttered. “I think it’s on the back of an envelope but it may be in my filing cabinet. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  “I’ll be counting.”

  Eamonn hurried up the stairs as Leslie Ryland wondered if he had made the right decision.

  “Has your friend gone?” asked Freda, picking out another hazelnut whirl.

  “Not yet. I’m just going to get an address for him.”

  “Don’t be long. It’s a good film for a change.”

  Eamonn went into his bedroom and quietly locked the door. He sat down on the edge of his bed, reached over to the table and picked up his cocktail of crushed Mogadon and soya milk. He drank deeply, gagging slightly at the bitterness but forcing himself to continue; it took longer than he had imagined, so acrid was the taste.

  Then he lay down on his bed, closing his eyes, willing the stuff to filter quickly into his system, but when he glanced nervously at his watch Eamonn saw that his three minutes were up. He knew that soon, very soon the young man would come pounding up the stairs, disturbing Freda and eventually forcing the bedroom door. Would he still be awake, lying on his bed, feeling like a fool, a victim again?

  The drowsiness came and went and came again as Eamonn felt an unfamiliar stiffness in his limbs. He tried to summon up the image of his mother’s face, but there was only a blankness and the disappointment surged. Then his eyes kept closing; he had difficulty in forcing them open again and felt a sense of triumph.

  Dimly, Eamonn heard Freda’s voice. She was talking to someone. The bedroom door began to rattle, at first tentatively and then more forcefully.

  “Mr Coyd. Are you in there?” asked the young man impatiently.

  “What’s going on?” demanded Freda, angrily confused at the invasion of her privacy.

  “Can he get out of his bedroom window?” Leslie came straight to the point.

  “Who are you? Can’t you see I’m watching this —”

  “I don’t care if you’re watching the Second Coming!” Leslie began to bang on the door. “If you don’t open this fucking door I’ll break it down. Do you hear?”

  “I won’t have that language — not in my house,” began Freda, indignation overcoming her rising anxiety.

  The door panels splintered as Ryland put his shoulder
to the flimsy wood.

  “How dare you vandalize my property!” For once, Freda was on her feet, her gargantuan figure hovering behind him. “He’s ill,” she exclaimed.

  “He’s overdosed,” said Leslie plaintively.

  By now, Eamonn could only dimly hear their voices; the figures of the young man and Freda swam in front of his eyes, gradually losing substance.

  She began to wail ineffectively and Leslie told her to shut up. “Go and phone for an ambulance,” he yelled at her.

  She shuffled away, while Leslie gazed down helplessly at Coyd. “You fucking idiot. You’ll get stomach-pumped. What about his address? Where is it?”

  But Eamonn Coyd only mumbled something unintelligible.

  Desperately he began to search the room. There were no filing cabinets — in fact there was hardly anything at all in the cold, bare space and certainly a remarkable absence of personal possessions. It was almost monastic. Leslie swore as he grabbed Eamonn’s wallet from his jacket pocket and riffled through the contents. He had to find Barrington. He could get away with it again. At that moment, Freda returned.

  “What are you doing?” she gasped accusingly.

  I’ll swing for this cow, he thought. “Trying to find out if he’s a diabetic,” Leslie improvised.

  “He’s not.”

  “Then it is an overdose. Have you phoned the ambulance?”

  “They’re coming. Are you a friend of Mr Coyd’s?”

  “Of his brother.”

  “You came to give him a present?”

  “What present?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “I made a mistake and left it behind. Stupid of me.”

  “What are you doing now?” Freda’s suspicion was increasing as Leslie pulled out a suitcase from under the bed. “That’s private, that is. I tell you — he’s not a diabetic. What are you looking for?” She was outraged.

  “Something his brother lent him. Something I’ve got to have back.”

  “Can’t it wait? Can’t you see how ill he is?” She was beside herself now, confused and increasingly belligerent.

  Leslie opened the suitcase.

  “Those clothes are his mother’s,” she said warily. Freda had always blinded herself to the time when Coyd had inadvertently left the bedroom door open and she had briefly glimpsed him in drag, but now the unwanted memory was forced back.

  Eamonn was lying flat on his bed, his eyes closed, his breathing stertorous. His lips were slightly blue and had a curious fluttering movement.

  “Can’t you do anything for him?” Freda asked. “Mouth to mouth resuscitation?” she suggested hopefully. At the moment she was numb, but in the back of her mind she was aware that reality would soon return — the terrible reality of being alone. Coyd mustn’t die. She had to save him.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have my St John’s Ambulance certificate,” said Ryland, as he checked through the suitcase again, but there was nothing under the clothes.

  Freda shook her head over the young man’s lack of responsibility.

  “Do you know his brother’s address in Bournemouth?”

  “Bournemouth?” she said. “He doesn’t live in Bournemouth.”

  “Mr Coyd — he told me his brother and his wife and kid were having a little family holiday in Bournemouth. He went up to get the address and —”

  “Who are you?” asked Freda.

  “I told you — a friend of his brother’s. I don’t know Mr Coyd that well.” Leslie struggled for much needed patience. “I must have that address.”

  He began to search the room again while she watched him, her suspicions growing but not knowing what to do. Then they both heard the sound of the ambulance siren.

  “Do you have the address?” snarled Ryland again.

  “No,” she said. “I certainly don’t.”

  * * *

  Anne Lucas was having the conversation with her mother that she had dreaded. They sat round the Christmas tree, the television set flickering almost silently in the corner and Peter upstairs. He probably wasn’t asleep but at least she couldn’t hear the sound of sobbing. Ever since they had been told about Paul’s death Anne knew she had been handling him even worse than before, but she had to force herself to try and comfort him. The emptiness inside her stretched away into infinity, swallowing up any regard she had for anyone.

  “You’re numb, dear. Completely numb. It’s only to be expected. You were like this when your father died. Of course, you’re drinking too much again, but I can’t seem to stop you. First the breakdown; now this.” Her mother’s voice droned on, wall-to-wall sound that meant nothing.

  “Yes.”

  “But you’ve got to get help.”

  “Yes.”

  Her mother looked up from her sherry. “If only you’d see Jane and Margaret. I’m sure they would —”

  Anne closed her eyes against the unwanted images of her two older sisters, their successful marriages, supportive husbands, model children and deadening complacency.

  “You know I’ve never got on with them.”

  “Oh — you talk such nonsense.”

  “It’s true.”

  “Don’t let’s argue.” She assumed a martyred expression.

  “I’m not,” said Anne placidly.

  “But you need help.”

  “So you say.”

  “And as for Peter —”

  “He’ll get better. Children are resilient.” Anne heard the cruelty in her own voice, but it made no impression on her.

  “Do you think so?” asked her mother doubtfully.

  “Yes. Yes I do.”

  “You need to show him a lot of loving.”

  “I am.”

  “You’re so detached.” She paused. “Maybe your father made you too dependent on him. I always thought —”

  “I don’t want to hear what you thought.”

  Her mother sighed her martyr’s sigh which said, I’ll suffer for you. You can hurt me as much as you like, but I’ll still suffer for you. “You haven’t cried,” she said.

  “That’s what Peter said.”

  “He’s right. You should.” Her mother gazed at her sharply. “Why can’t you?”

  The gloves are off, thought Anne. “I don’t know,” she said, stalling.

  “Is it the drink?”

  “That usually has the opposite effect.”

  “Not if you have so much.” An old hand at attack, her mother changed course. “Did you love him?”

  “You know I did.”

  She was wide-eyed, trying to share, sweating slightly with the effort.

  “I was angry, but I still loved him. I always will.” Anne felt pleased, knowing that she was being convincing and therefore keeping her mother at bay. Parry, parry, thrust, thrust, she thought. Keep it up. Never be taken off guard.

  “You poor dear. You’ve suffered so much. But now’s the time —”

  “To suffer a little more.”

  “Don’t mock me.” The martyrdom was back.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Are you, dear?”

  “It’s just I can’t feel anything. I’m sure it’ll pass.”

  “Don’t neglect Peter.”

  “I’m not.”

  “He’s devastated.”

  Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. The old bitch is winning, thought Anne.

  “You have to reach him more. Talk to him. I really must insist on it.”

  This time her mother had gone too far, and although Anne didn’t feel any anger she decided to simulate it. She rose to her feet. “I’m going into the kitchen.”

  “I hope I haven’t —” She looked concerned, the light of victory dying out of her eyes.

  “I need to be on my own.”

  “Shall I make some coffee?”

  “On my own!” Anne raised her voice.

  “Don’t let Peter hear you shouting.”

  She went into the kitchen, and pulling out a new bottle of Scotch from behind the Aga, she poured
herself a liberal dose.

  “Fuck you, Mother,” she whispered, raising her glass.

  Chapter 3

  Fortunately, the young man had not joined Freda in the ambulance, and as it sped towards the hospital she gazed down at Eamonn, the oxygen mask on his burnt face, creamy white saliva frothing at his lips. She whispered to him once or twice and for the first time in her life tentatively used his first name.

  Once at St Mark’s, Freda sat in a waiting-room, praying that Coyd was not going to die, that she was not going to be left alone again. She had to wait a considerable length of time before anyone came to bring her news of him, and she filled in the seemingly endless hours chewing on an unbroken succession of Mars and Bounty bars that she extracted from a machine. Running out of change, Freda was forced back on her limited inner resources, eventually escaping into deep sleep until she was woken by a doctor, stumbling fearfully after him to a small office that smelt of Jeyes Fluid.

  There, he explained that Eamonn Coyd’s heart had ceased functioning during the stomach-pumping and resuscitation had taken longer than expected. As a result, he was in a coma and brain damage was anticipated.

  Freda gaped at the doctor, the shock waves spreading, her chins wobbling.

  “I gather you shared a flat with Mr Coyd and he was also your employee.”

  She nodded, the tears running down her fat, bewhiskered cheeks.

  “We’re unable to contact his brother. There’s no reply from the number you gave us.”

  “He’s on holiday. I don’t have a forwarding address,” she muttered.

  “And Mr Coyd has no other relatives?”

  “I’m afraid there’s only me,” said Freda, trying to gain some element of control. “He was a very withdrawn man — but you can understand that, his face being the way it is. I was his closest friend.”

  “He was badly burnt as a child, judging from the scar tissue.”

  “That’s correct.” Freda was becoming increasingly agitated. “Is he going to live? You must tell me.”

  “Until he comes out of the coma we can’t really estimate the extent of any possible brain damage.” He paused. “It’s all a question of degree.”

  She was silent, trying to digest the information, fighting back her rising hysteria.

  “We’ll keep him here for a while, just to ensure pneumonia doesn’t set in. Then we may transfer him to a specialist unit in Putney.”

  “I’ll be responsible for him whatever happens,” Freda quavered, but she felt a little stronger. “No one need have any doubt of that.” For the first time in many years she had asserted herself. She had a cause to fight.