I Want Him Dead

by Anthony Masters

  He spent some time trying to get it open. The lid seemed unyielding, yet there was no sign of a keyhole or some intricate catch. Leslie kept glancing at the door, fiddling until the box snapped open. He gave a little grunt of satisfaction. Inside were a number of rings, a jade green necklace and a couple of bracelets. There were also a large number of photographs of a craggy faced woman, sometimes with one boy, sometimes with another. Underneath them were some birthday cards, all with the message, “To Eamonn, from your Mam”. But in each case the word “love” had been added by another hand. Between these cards was a neatly folded piece of paper which Leslie Ryland smoothed out slowly and carefully.

  The address read: 17 Ardwich Road, Old Romney, Nr Dungeness. 01492 866374.

  He breathed a long sigh of heartfelt relief, pocketed the note, closed the box and replaced it under the hot-water bottle. Then he snapped shut the locker and stood up.

  “Thanks a lot, Frankenstein,” he said to Eamonn, hurrying towards the door, but it opened before he had a chance of even touching the handle.

  Mountainous and quivering slightly, Freda stood on the threshold.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  Chapter 8

  “Just came to see how Mr Coyd was,” Leslie said politely, smiling up into her pudding of a face.

  “You’re not a relative.”

  “He said he was Mr Coyd’s brother, Joe.” The nurse came up, heavily disapproving.

  “Wouldn’t have got in otherwise, would I?” Leslie pointed out reasonably. “I was worried about him.”

  “He’s not his brother,” snapped Freda. “He’s a complete stranger.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. Not after all we’ve been through together.”

  “Shall I phone Security?” asked the nurse in mounting agitation.

  “Well, I don’t know,” began Freda indecisively, giving Leslie the opportunity he needed.

  “I wouldn’t bother. I’ll get going. It was only out of concern that I came. Surely you must appreciate that.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Freda. “Just wait a minute.” She was still blocking the doors, the nurse just behind her.

  “I’ve got to be going.” For the first time Leslie Ryland became agitated. If they did call Security, the situation was going to get difficult.

  “This young man is a criminal and I have that from an informed source,” Freda said ponderously. At last she had made a decision.

  “For Christ’s sake —” Leslie was rapidly losing his cool.

  The nurse disappeared abruptly and he knew that his negotiating time had run out.

  “Did you come for an address?” Freda asked forbiddingly.

  “I came to see how he was. I’m sorry I had to lie my way in but I didn’t see too many alternatives.”

  She was watching him carefully, instinctively knowing he must have been successful. “It wasn’t yours to take.” Freda drew herself up and moved slowly towards him, fearless in the cause of duty.

  “I haven’t got anything,” he yelled at her. “I haven’t got the damn thing.”

  As he spoke the bell began to shrill in the corridor outside.

  “We’re in trouble,” said Joe, when he got back to the cottage, cursing his decision not to risk taking the car. The bus had been half an hour late and on the long journey he had been racked by increasing tension as he imagined McMarn having already beaten him to it. The miracle of Anne Lucas had been abruptly wiped from his mind as Joe thought of the hopeless vulnerability of Timothy.

  Now he and Carla were standing in the sparsely furnished sitting-room, the television murmuring in the corner, the baby asleep next door, the low marsh wind whispering outside.

  “What are we going to do?” Carla was more submissive than ever, dependent, hoping he could solve the situation, and rather than being overjoyed at finding his family still safe, Joe felt a mounting irritation.

  “A couple of villains are on their way down here. I owe them money and they could have got this address. So we’ve got to get the fuck out of it, keep moving until we fly out on New Year’s Day.” He paused, trying to get the bad news over as fast as possible. “They had a go at Eamonn. Apparently he’s taken an overdose and now he’s in a coma.” Joe’s voice broke and as Carla stared at him in mounting alarm he knew all too well what she was thinking. As she had suspected they were on the run. Again.

  “Dear God,” she said. “They’re not that gang you took the money from?”

  “No,” he yelled at her, and then tried to be more comforting. “It’s going to be all right.”

  “What about that ruck you got into the other night?”

  As usual, Joe ended up bullying her. “For Christ’s sake stop asking questions.” He was so anxious about Eamonn that he could barely cope with her.

  “You say these people are coming here?” She was twisting the ring on her finger in a way he had not seen her do in months. “Will they hurt you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you want me to do?” She was trying to be practical now.

  “Pack.”

  “Where are we going?” Her questions poured out, an endless litany.

  “There’s a little hotel on the other side of the marsh, near Appledore.” Joe tried to keep his temper. “I went to a phone box and booked us a room. Just for the night. Then we’ll have to go somewhere else.”

  “Are we going to have this sort of trouble in Australia?” Carla asked miserably.

  “No chance.” Joe gritted his teeth.

  “You sure?”

  “Absolutely. It’s going to be a new life. They won’t get to us there.”

  “What about Eamonn?”

  Joe paused and shrugged bleakly, not knowing what the hell he was going to do.

  “You mean we’re going to leave him? In a coma?”

  “What else can I do? Freda will look after him.”

  “Freda? She couldn’t take care of anyone.”

  “Once we’re out there I can send for him.” Joe sounded as vague and as ill-organized as he felt, but at least he knew what Eamonn would have wanted.

  “But will he recover?”

  “I don’t know,” he said impatiently. “I just don’t know. What’s it to you, anyway? You never gave a damn about him.”

  “What about money, Joe?” she asked, ignoring his accusation.

  “We got plenty. Go and pack!” He suddenly lost control. “And be quick.”

  She went out, giving a gulping sob, as usual unable to cope with his anger. As he followed Carla into their bedroom he wondered how the hell they were going to live together if they ever did make Australia.

  Freda stood huge before Leslie, like an admonishing headmistress, but when he punched her in the stomach she collapsed like a deflated barrage balloon.

  He strode briskly back towards Reception, but about fifty metres down the corridor he met a couple of Security officers.

  “There’s a bit of a punch-up going on back there,” Leslie confided, indicating the direction he had come from. “Wouldn’t expect it in a hospital, would you?”

  They burst into a purposeful jog and he hurried on, arriving at Reception where a drunk with a cut head was being rowdily supported by friends and heading for casualty. Another Security officer stood by the door and a woman behind the enquiry desk looked flushed and excited, as if sensing drama.

  “Just a moment, sir,” said the Security officer casually.

  “Yes?”

  “Can I have a word?”

  Leslie Ryland slowed down, looking puzzled.

  “Have you been visiting a patient?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I ask who?”

  “Barbara Strong — in the Riverside Ward.”

  Thank God he had noticed the sign in the corridor, but was his explanation going to work, he wondered.

  “Your name?”

  “Harry Charles.”

  “Do you have some identification?”

  As Leslie’
s hand went to his jacket pocket, he lurched forward and headbutted him, kicking out at the same time, making painful contact with the Security officer’s kneecap and then running for the door as he went down.

  Then Leslie was through the entrance, pounding up the street, the adrenalin pumping, his breath coming in little gasps. Turning the corner, he hailed a taxi.

  “Can you take me to Esher in Surrey? They’ve cancelled my train.”

  “That’ll cost you.”

  “I’ll pay.”

  “You sure you got the money? I don’t want to —”

  Leslie Ryland dragged the notes out of his wallet. “This enough?” he yelled.

  As Carla packed, Joe moved restlessly from room to room, trying to sort out his priorities. Short term he knew they would have to run and keep on running. Inside he bled for Eamonn, but his survival instincts were strong and narrowed down to his ultimate goal — the departure lounge at Heathrow.

  But the greatest irony of all was that Anne Lucas’s game, if it was a game had been terminated within a few hours of its initiation; there was no way he could negotiate with her now. The miracle had been abruptly withdrawn.

  “Get moving,” he shouted at Carla. “For Christ’s sake!”

  He kept gazing out of the front room window at the darkness of the marsh outside, manufacturing figures that moved inexorably towards him, phantoms of his mounting anxiety. Then suddenly, as the minutes ticked quickly past, all he seemed to see was the demonic figure of his mother, beckoning him on to the thin ice.

  Leslie Ryland arrived at Esher half an hour later, and as he paid off the taxi he saw McMarn behind the uncurtained window, gazing out, uneasy and curiously vulnerable. Leslie pressed the bell and the Candy Man began the task of unlocking his complex security system.

  “Bit of bother,” Leslie told him, when the door was finally opened and McMarn stood on the threshold, blinking into the frosty dark. “I got Barrington’s address at the hospital, but that fat old bitch turned up and called Security. We need to get down to the Marsh before he does another runner. I’m going to kill that bastard.”

  “What with?” demanded McMarn.

  “You’ve got the other Magnum in your drawer. Remember?”

  The Candy Man began to prevaricate, unsure of how to proceed, wanting thinking time, suddenly afraid of Ryland’s overwhelming sense of purpose, his tunnel vision.

  “Let’s do what you’re always banging on about, Leslie. Get the hell out of it and go to Algiers.”

  “Let him go? After all the shit I’ve been through?” Leslie was horrified.

  “The last thing we should be doing is pissing about with Barrington.”

  So the old bastard has seen sense at last, thought Leslie, but he knew he wasn’t going to let Barrington get away with it.

  “You’re living in a fantasy world, Michael.” Leslie used the name rarely and then only to make McMarn realize he had run out of options. “Barrington knows too much about us. He’s got to go. You have to realize that.”

  “So what do you propose?” muttered McMarn, and Leslie realized that at last he had the authority to make decisions for both of them. While he had been out, the Candy Man had finally cracked.

  “We do Barrington tonight, catch an early morning ferry and drive on through Europe.”

  “Two for the road, eh?” McMarn was hardly listening and Leslie wondered if he was capable of handling any of this. He seemed to have aged very rapidly.

  Anne Lucas was day-dreaming. Joe Barrington lay on top of her and she locked her legs tightly around his waist as he slowly fucked her. The idea of having sex with him had obsessed her ever since she had come home.

  “Mum!” Peter’s voice bellowed up the stairs, interrupting her imagined climax. “Phone.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Rachel.”

  She froze. What in God’s name did she want? Should she answer at all? Then Anne hurriedly dressed, went downstairs and unwillingly picked up the receiver, watching Peter watching her.

  “I know you don’t want to speak to me.”

  “What is there to say?”

  “I’ve got to talk to somebody.”

  “What about?”

  “Just talk. I can’t sit here on my own — not for another night. Please —?”

  Anne said nothing and there was a long silence.

  “Can I see you?”

  “All right. Come over now.”

  As she put down the phone, Anne was all too conscious of Peter’s rising alarm.

  “Is that going to be OK, Mum?”

  “She’s lonely.”

  “Aren’t you?” He sounded anxious.

  “Yes — but — anyway, I’ve asked her now.”

  “You won’t get drunk —”

  “Why should I? Don’t be such a little prig.”

  “You might fight.”

  “Would you like that?”

  “I tell you what I’d really like to do,” Peter said slowly.

  “What would you like to do?” she asked him curiously.

  “I’d like to beat up her Ben.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s had my share. My share of Dad.” He gulped, but there were no tears in his eyes now.

  The M20 was virtually empty as the Rover sped down the fast lane, the black ice gleaming on the road surface.

  McMarn knew his hand had been forced, but was almost grateful to Leslie for intervening. He had been fooling himself far too long, indecisively digging his own grave, and McMarn knew he had to accept Leslie’s execution of Barrington just as he had to accept his own exile. Nevertheless, negative thoughts continued to surface.

  “Suppose this Freda’s already warned him off.”

  “Without the phone number or the address?” Leslie Ryland murmured wearily, wondering if he had had enough cocaine to last him the journey.

  McMarn was hunched up in the back in his heavy coat, still frozen despite the blasting of the Rover’s heater. “Slow down, for God’s sake.”

  “I haven’t seen you so rattled in a long time,” observed Leslie maliciously.

  “I should have retired. Edinburgh would have been nice. Algiers, though — we could end up living in some tip. I know you can doss anywhere, Leslie, but I can’t do that.”

  “I’m looking after you like a nanny. And once we get out there I’m sure you’ll find your own little meat rack. Somewhere near the tourist hotels. Know what I mean?”

  “An Edinburgh town house,” said McMarn wistfully. “I deserved that, at least.”

  Small flakes of snow softly fell across the windscreen and the Candy Man watched them thicken. He shivered and lit a cigarette.

  * * *

  Anne was startled to see how Rachel had aged over the last few days. Her skin was stretched tight and there were white puffy bags under her eyes.

  Fortunately, Peter had been tactful enough to go to his room.

  “Perhaps this is a mistake,” Rachel said, taking off her coat and helplessly giving it to Anne as if she were her jailor.

  “Does it matter?”

  “Are we going to shout at each other?”

  “We haven’t got the energy,” said Anne as they both moved self-consciously into the living-room. “Would you like a drink?”

  “No thanks.”

  “A cup of tea?”

  “I don’t really want anything.”

  “Neither do I.” For once Anne meant it. “Do sit down.”

  They sat in opposite armchairs, avoiding each other’s eyes.

  Then Rachel said, “Thank you for seeing me.”

  “I know what it must have been like.” It was strange, since Rachel had phoned Anne found much of her own animosity had dispersed. She wondered what she should say, how selective she should be, and then struggled to express herself as truthfully as possible. “I was so angry before Paul died. I got to this position of intolerable hatred for both of you, mainly Paul, and it was very difficult to know how to handle Peter. I just used to
stay in bed to blot it all out and when I woke I used to get up and drink to blot it all out again.” Anne felt relieved as she delivered her edited résumé, although it was hardly as powerful a catharsis as confessing to the man who said he was Patrick Herrón. “I don’t know what I feel any longer.”

  “Thank you for being so honest with me,” Rachel began. “I’m grateful.”

  “Do you mean that?”

  “No.” She smiled. “I’m sorry. I’m starting on a false note. I suppose I just feel so bad. You had all that time with him and I had so little.” She paused and then hurried on. “When we were in France Paul took great care to avoid the places you’d both been to. He was more decisive abroad, but directly he was back in the office he seemed to slow up — not want to take decisions. I knew — always knew — that that was because he still loved you.”

  “He wrote to me, asking for a divorce.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you think he wouldn’t have gone through with it?” Anne asked curiously.

  Rachel shrugged. “He kept putting it off.”

  “And you kept pressurizing him —”

  “To make a decision.”

  They had wary eye-contact now.

  “I’m sorry,” began Rachel.

  “Don’t be,” she replied firmly.

  “Anyway, when he died there was the shock factor. Perhaps — a bit like you — I was numb. I had Ben and he’s been stoic as he always is, but that was the last thing I wanted. Nothing more awful than someone being stoic around you when you’re grieving. He can’t help it, poor love, but he can be an awful shit. Then the numbness wore off and I began to think all the time about Paul’s relationship with you and I got full of the most unbearable jealousy.” She paused. “I wanted to ask you a favour.”

  “What is it?”

  “Could I flick through some old photographs, or would you think I was being vampiristic, wanting to suck out your special memories?”

  “No,” said Anne flatly. “If you’d like to take a look — you’ll be —”

  “Welcome?” She gave a nervous little shrug. “Just tell me to go.”

  “I think you should, but we could make a date for you to come. It can’t be for a few days because I’ve decided to go to France with a friend. I’ve — I haven’t even told Peter yet. My mother will look after him — can you wait?”