I Want Him Dead

by Anthony Masters

  “Of course I can. It’s very good of you to even agree.”

  “I don’t hate you, Rachel. Not now.” She got up.

  “You’ll ring me when you get back?”

  “Yes.” She went with her to the door, helping her on with her coat like a mother with a child. “It would be too painful to think of being friends,” she said.

  “Of course.”

  “But I’ll be thinking of you and understanding about the need to delve into our past.”

  “Put that way it sounds dreadful.”

  “I didn’t mean it to.”

  “I’m not suggesting some kind of sisterly tryst —”

  Anne touched her wrist. “I understand.”

  “I hope you have a distracting holiday,” said Rachel. “Somewhere that’ll make you forget just a little.”

  “So do I.”

  * * *

  Freda had been considerably shaken by Ryland’s assault, but had nevertheless returned to Coyd’s bedside after she had been given a check-up. The police had told her a man had been seen and challenged and she had confirmed his description. On further questioning Freda had outlined the content of the frantic telephone call from Cornwall, and the discovery of her assailant searching Coyd’s locker.

  The snow was falling so fast now that the nurse had rather grudgingly suggested she should stay in hospital accommodation for the night, and Freda had agreed when she discovered there was a television in the room. She knew she could never sleep without its flickering presence.

  She took Coyd’s damp wrist and spoke to him slowly. “Who is this man who frightened you? Why did you take this overdose? Why does your brother’s address have to be secret?”

  She repeated the questions several times but Coyd gave no response, lying on his back, hooked up to his respirator, his eyes wide open, staring inscrutably at the ceiling.

  Carla bundled Timothy into another Babygro and wrapped a shawl tightly over the top.

  “It’s snowing hard. We’ve got to get a move on.” Joe was walking from room to room, so impatient and apprehensive that he couldn’t keep still. That was why she had asked all those questions. Now, for the first time, they were sharing a crisis together and he wondered if she was going to cope.

  “I’ll be ready in half an hour.”

  “Make it ten minutes.” He went to the window and twitched the curtain aside, viewing the mounting snow on the narrow road with disquiet.

  “How far?” asked McMarn.

  “Almost there.” Ryland was driving fast but skilfully, the windscreen wipers of the Rover straining against the snow, the tyres holding the powdery surface of the road.

  “You’ve never even fired a gun before, Leslie. Don’t you think we should just drive on to the ferry and forget all about Barrington?” McMarn was still wondering if he could dissuade him.

  “You don’t have to get involved. I should stay in the car and listen to some music.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You always were in the back seat.” Leslie laughed bitterly.

  For once, Anne didn’t need a drink. For the first time in many months she felt powerful, certainly powerful enough to manipulate the man who claimed to be Patrick Herrón.

  Her new potency gave her a surge of heady and vicarious joy. She would at last exorcise the images of Paul and Rachel, still locked together, squirming on the double bunk on Spindrift, despoiling her precious memories.

  Anne had already formulated a plan that was as vague as it was dangerous. She would insist that she and Herrón go away together, perhaps to Normandy. Giverny, maybe. They would have sex in some tall shuttered French hotel and take stock. Beyond that she hadn’t worked out what she would do. There was always the possibility that he might kill her.

  Momentarily Anne experienced a burst of conscience-stricken love for her son, but it was soon swept away by the relentless driving force of her desire. All Anne could think about was his body and the power that she had over him and the ultimate sanction he held over her. It was as if she was possessed.

  The surface was treacherous but Joe derived a grim satisfaction from keeping the Volvo in the middle of the road, exuding such confidence that Carla began to doze off in the back, the safety of their small dark world guaranteed by his expertise.

  “How far?” she asked sleepily.

  “Couple of miles.”

  “And you’re sure the hotel’s going to be safe?”

  “As long as we’re out of that cottage they won’t find us on a night like this.”

  “You don’t think we should go on a bit further?”

  “Relax,” said Joe. “It’s going to be all right. We’re a jump ahead and we’ll stay that way.” He wasn’t simply humouring her or even himself; Joe was sure that he had outwitted the Candy Man.

  “First car we’ve seen on this road.” Leslie Ryland slowed down, his fingers tapping the wheel in the way that always irritated McMarn. “Volvo, isn’t it?”

  “Didn’t Barrington have a Volvo?”

  “Whoever’s driving that one knows what he’s doing.”

  “Our Joe’s a driver, isn’t he?”

  “It’s all too much of a coincidence,” said Leslie uneasily.

  “I don’t call it a coincidence at all,” snapped McMarn. “Who else would want to drive in these filthy conditions? Only the desperate. But for Christ’s sake, think what you’re doing. Is it really worth the risk?” He seemed to have recovered his nerve if not his sense of purpose.

  “There’s a car behind us,” said Carla.

  Joe nodded, looking at his watch. It was just after ten and the snowfall had lessened, the marsh stark white on either side of the road, bushes and sheep shelters hummocks in the landscape.

  “You don’t think it could be them?” said Carla apprehensively.

  “No.” He was still confident. Checking the mirror he couldn’t identify the driver.

  “They’re keeping pace with us.”

  “That’s not surprising,” Joe replied impatiently. “He’d be a fool to pass in these conditions. I’m on the crown of the road as it is.”

  “You always say ‘he’. Why shouldn’t it be a woman? Too big a car for a woman to drive, I suppose.” She was unnaturally querulous.

  “I’m sorry. He or she, then,” he replied soothingly.

  “You’re not sorry at all, Joe,” she bickered, as if she wanted to swap one anxiety for another. “You naturally think a driver should be a man, don’t you?”

  “How’s Tim?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “Asleep. He smells so lovely, Joe.” For some reason, she sounded appeased.

  * * *

  “I’m going to overtake,” said Leslie.

  “You must be joking.”

  “The road’s broadening out.”

  “You want to end up in a ditch? Don’t blame me if we spend the night in this God-forsaken bloody marsh.”

  “Stop whingeing.”

  Leslie gently pressed the accelerator, giving the Rover a surge of controlled power.

  “They’re going to overtake,” shrilled Carla.

  “So what? Plenty of fucking idiots around, aren’t there?”

  The Rover passed them with a low purr, its wheels spinning up slush and snow, spattering the Volvo and only just getting by, the wing mirrors almost touching.

  Joe swore and then braked gently as the Rover drew in front and began to slow down.

  Chapter 9

  “Why did they do that?” Carla was very tense now, leaning forward in the back seat, trying to see ahead.

  “Some people just need to be bloody-minded. It’s their mentality.” Joe was determined to remain calm.

  “It’s yours, too,” she replied irritably.

  He laughed bleakly as the road narrowed again.

  “What the fuck is he playing at?” As the Rover slowed down again apprehension broke through his anger and Carla gave a little gasp of fear that made Joe realize how much he had once loved her.

>   He touched the brakes, harder this time, and the Volvo skidded slightly and then regained its grip on the snow.

  “There’s someone at the back window,” she said, but Joe had already seen the blurred outline. It couldn’t be McMarn. Mustn’t be. Not after all he had been through.

  Both vehicles were crawling now and the snow flurried harder, distorting the vehicle in front.

  “I love you, Joe,” said Carla quietly.

  “It’s Barrington,” whispered McMarn. “For Christ’s sake —”

  “Shut up.”

  “You’ve never used a gun.”

  Leslie trod on the brakes more fiercely this time, slewing the Rover to a halt and switching off the ignition. For a moment he and McMarn sat in silence while the Volvo drew up behind them.

  As they listened to its engine ticking over, the snow settled on the windscreen until the dull whiteness closed in on them, sealing the interior like the lid of a coffin.

  McMarn realized with unusual clarity how much he had contributed to this disaster. He had spent too long hanging on. He would have been safer addicted to cocaine rather than the meat rack.

  “What are you waiting for, Leslie?” he asked nervously.

  “For Barrington to shit himself.”

  “What the fuck are they doing?” muttered Joe.

  “Maybe they’re lost,” Carla said hopefully.

  Timothy stirred slightly and gave a little whimper. No one emerged from the Rover, and it sat there, a black brooding shape, caressed by the steadily falling snow.

  “What in God’s name are they playing at?” whispered Carla.

  “Maybe someone’s sick. I’ll go and see.” He tried unsuccessfully to reassure her.

  “No.”

  “We can’t sit here all night.”

  “Don’t get out, Joe.”

  “Don’t be bloody silly.” He had his hand on the door but she grabbed at his shoulder from behind, her nails digging painfully into his flesh.

  “Please.”

  “I won’t have to,” Joe replied.

  The driver’s door of the Rover was cautiously opening as the snow flurried in a sudden breeze. A fox barked somewhere on the marsh and Timothy whimpered again in his sleep.

  Anne lay in bed, absorbed by her plan, hugging it to her like a hot-water bottle, imagining them both in Giverny, walking through the gardens of the hotel with the flaking grey shutters, watching the winter sky turn crimson as the sun went down.

  They would stroll by the Epte and end up in the wilderness garden of the old Hôtel Baudy, wandering into the studio where the American impressionists had painted. She had been there several times with Paul, but now she was going with Patrick Herrón. Whoever he was.

  Peter’s face swam accusingly into her mind once more. You’ll have to wait for me, Anne told him. Just for a little while. But supposing she never came back?

  Leslie Ryland’s bald head was unmistakable as he walked slowly over to the Rover, the flakes gathering on the shoulders of his overcoat. Joe stared at him, riveted for a moment, unable to move. As reality slipped from his grasp, he felt unempowered, accepting, almost relieved, just as he had done when the Candy Man had first hunted him down. The fox barked again.

  Ryland had his hand in his pocket and Joe ducked as he pulled it out. Then the windscreen shattered.

  “Get down,” he yelled at Carla.

  She didn’t reply and Timothy began to wail. Slowly, with a sickening certainty, Joe turned back to the dark interior, but he couldn’t see anything, didn’t want to see anything.

  “Get down,” he repeated, this time more hesitantly, as if he was pleading, but Carla didn’t reply, and when he eventually focused he could see she was slumped over in the back seat.

  He grabbed her arm, half pulling her upright, only to see her eyes open, her mouth tightly closed and her forehead and cheek like a bright red sponge.

  Joe remained gazing down at her with incredulity, his throat so constricted that he began to choke. He saw Weston crawling across the lavatory floor towards him. He saw Lucas bounce off the bonnet of the jeep.

  Again the fox barked. Again and again and again.

  Ryland saw the door of the Volvo opening and ran forward, but he slipped and fell heavily in the snow, giving Joe the chance he needed. Then he was on him with all the instincts of an animal taking its prey in the night, grabbing a wrist with one hand and a throat with the other.

  Somehow he hung on as Ryland kicked and thrashed below him, but this time Joe had the advantage as he slowly wrenched the gun out of his hand, hearing a finger break, kicking at his testicles. Joe knew he was going to kill Ryland. He felt completely distanced, without feeling of any kind.

  He stood up and fired twice, hitting Leslie Ryland in the stomach, and then shot continuously at his head until he could see nothing but blood and brains. Even then, Joe went on firing until he ran out of ammunition, standing over him, watching Ryland’s body jerking like a headless chicken.

  Slowly, Joe approached the Rover and opened the rear door, knowing that McMarn might have a gun too but not really caring now about what might happen.

  The Candy Man was crouched in the back seat, his hands twisting in his lap, his face working and his lips moving without a sound emerging.

  Then he whispered, “He never used a gun before. I told him not to do it.”

  “Your bairn’s crying,” said McMarn, once he was out in the snow, and Joe kicked him hard in the balls. He went down writhing but hardly uttered a sound, and Joe kicked him again and again until the rhythm was such that he was hardly thinking about what he was doing. McMarn gasped and wheezed and fell silent while Timothy’s cries took on a new note of desperation and finally broke through into Joe’s consciousness.

  He stumbled over to the Volvo, switching on the interior light, seeing Carla’s body covering Timothy who was making a retching sound. Pushing her gently aside, Joe picked up his son and lifted him out of the car, placing him over his shoulder and patting him gently. Gradually his choking subsided.

  Joe laid Timothy down on the driver’s seat and opened the back door, senselessly taking Carla’s pulse as her wide open eyes gazed up at him. He kissed a tiny part of her forehead and then kissed her again, the blood on his lips salty and sticky.

  The enormity of what had happened only hit him as he got out of the car and picked up Timothy again, the hard, dry sobs welling up from his stomach. Clasping the baby to him, Joe backed away from the Volvo and stood staring about him in the still night. The snow had stopped falling and the silence was deep, impenetrable.

  Then, just as he was about to return to McMarn, Joe saw distant headlights.

  Hugging Timothy to him, Joe stared blankly at the white wilderness around him until he saw the dim shape of a finger-post indicating a public footpath. Plunging up to his knees in snow, he ran towards it.

  As the headlights swept nearer, Joe found reserves of strength that he never knew existed, and he stumbled on, not caring about the direction he was taking, only wanting to get away, to survive and to ensure his baby survived too.

  On one side of the footpath was a drainage ditch, on the other a low flat field, and above him a crescent moon shone with brittle pallor, a myriad of stars now unsullied by snow cloud, diamonds against a razor sharp sky.

  As he plunged through drifts, Joe began to think more clearly, realizing he had to get back to the cottage, use a phone and contact Anne Lucas. She had to help him. He couldn’t lose Timothy as well as Carla. Joe continued to sob, but when his son started to cry too he controlled himself, rocking the baby until he eventually quietened.

  Drawing his overcoat over Timothy he turned back to the road, now about a hundred metres away, and saw the stationary headlights shining on the mess he had left behind.

  Joe struggled on, past snow-covered sedge and a dyke that rose above him, protecting a canal that cut across the marshland. He could smell cold earth and frost, and alternate waves of crushing despair and strange wild exhila
ration filled him. He began to mutter into the baby’s ear, “We’ll make it, Tim. We’ll make it. I promise you we’ll make it.”

  “My name’s Clancy. I’ve rung the emergency services on my mobile,” said the middle-aged businessman. “They’ll be here soon.”

  McMarn muttered something unintelligible, groaning and shifting slightly in the snow.

  Clancy glanced round at the snow-filled ditches and the vast open fields warily, as if he feared some dark host would rise up out of the marsh.

  “It’s carnage, bloody carnage,” he had told the police switchboard. “Blood everywhere. A woman in the back of a Volvo and a young guy on the road. Both shot dead.”

  “He was a good boy,” McMarn muttered. “Like all my good boys.”

  Joe finally recognized his surroundings with relief, identifying a path that he and Carla had walked about a couple of hundred metres from the cottage, and for a minute his spirits soared until he realized that despite the warmth and comfort the place offered it would be too dangerous to go back. He would have to steal a car, ring Anne Lucas and make a rendezvous. But what if she refused to help him? Joe knew he couldn’t afford to think about that now.

  She woke to the low buzz of the telephone by her bed. Anne had slept deeply again, and as she picked up the receiver she imagined for a moment that Paul was lying beside her. “Surely not one of your writers at this God-forsaken hour,” she mumbled and then gave a little groan as she remembered what had happened, how much had happened.

  “It’s Patrick Herrón.”

  “Do you realize what time it is?”

  “Yes.” He was breathing raggedly.

  “You sound as if you’re in trouble.”

  “I need your help.”

  Indistinctly she could hear crying. “Is that a baby?”

  “My son. He’s tired and cold.”

  “Up at this hour?”

  “Just hear me out. My name isn’t Herrón. It’s Barrington. Joe Barrington. I don’t have a wife who’s a probation officer but I do have a six-month-old baby.”