I Want Him Dead

by Anthony Masters

  “We all need forgiveness,” she had once told Joe. “For we know not what we do.” He had always considered this convenient redemption, a few Hail Marys and back to sinning, but she hadn’t really been sinning, had she? Mam was certified.

  Joe walked up the dim and lofty nave, the smell of incense returning with familiar reassurance from his scanty childhood attendances at Mass. A couple of vagrants were sitting at the back, urine-scented and staring ahead. Did Ruth ever come here, he wondered.

  He glanced up at the glittering mosaics in the half light, the great ruby cross, the gentle, slightly echoing buzz of the coming and going of the prayerful and those who simply needed sanctuary.

  Joe walked on until he reached a chapel where a man was saying his rosary and an old woman moved forward on her knees, hands pressed together in supplication, whilst the candles spluttered around them.

  He put in some money and lit one, watching the flame gutter and taper and then soar upwards.

  Eamonn had at least escaped from the Candy Man. But could he escape Mam too?

  Joe knelt down and prayed for his brother’s soul.

  “It’s a con,” Ed told Ruth as they crouched over the fire.

  “He’s a nutter.”

  “Probably.”

  “Who does he think you are? Some kind of bleeding saint?” He was uneasy.

  “Probably,” she repeated.

  “He could have screwed you.”

  “Probably.”

  “Don’t keep saying that.”

  “But we don’t know, do we? He could just be grateful.”

  “Aren’t you going to look?”

  “Where?”

  “In the fucking locker.”

  “I’m not sure.” She was staring down into the embers.

  “Why not, for Christ’s sake?”

  “Wouldn’t want to find out, would I?”

  “Whether he’s a piss artist or not? Bound to be.” Despite a lifetime of fantasy, for once Ed wasn’t hopeful. “Let’s go and check it out. That can’t do any harm, can it?”

  “Oh yes,” Ruth said. “It could do me a lot of harm. Either way.”

  Anne opened the door and Joe slipped inside. They looked at each other warily.

  “How’s Timothy?”

  “Fine. Lying on the mat and — oh, Christ — I didn’t think you were coming back.” She betrayed the emotion that she had promised herself she wouldn’t.

  “We’d better get going. This kind of luck doesn’t last.” What was she really thinking, Joe wondered. Why did she want to go through with all this? Come to that, why did he? But he knew they were going all the same, for it was as if they didn’t have any choice, as if their destinies were at least temporarily locked together.

  “I’ve rented a house,” she said abruptly. “The agency were pleased to find a customer at this time of year.”

  “So you did think I was coming back. Where is this place?” He was exhausted again now, needing peace.

  “Just outside Giverny. Near the River Epte. Do you want something to eat?”

  “Let’s just go.” He wanted to travel, lose himself. France seemed to be as good a place as any.

  “I can be ready in half an hour.”

  A shudder ran through him as he remembered how Carla had said much the same.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.”

  They looked at each other uncertainly and Anne was just about to say something when Peter came out into the hall, gazing at them both in considerable hostility.

  “What time’s Granny picking me up?”

  “Just after one.” Anne went over and kissed him. “I’ll be back in a couple of days,” she said. “I promise.”

  As Peter’s face crumpled she held him closely to her and Barrington tactfully withdrew into the other room.

  “Don’t let me down,” Peter wept.

  “I won’t,” she said. “I promise.”

  Chapter 10

  As McMarn drifted in and out of consciousness, he watched Tommy walking across the darkness of the adventure playground, the stark structures, picked out by bright moonlight, resembling the turrets of a medieval castle.

  They had walked down to the lake together, the water lapping at the gravel, the rising wind scudding across the surface and the willows bending on their slender trunks. McMarn shivered. He had just received bad news, which was why he had come to see Tommy.

  The images faded as the pain returned and he cried out. A nurse seemed to glide towards him in her rubber-soled shoes.

  He mumbled something to her, but she misunderstood.

  “You’ve been talking about your son —”

  “Mm?”

  “Your son, Tommy.” She was young and warm and comforting, but McMarn could barely focus on her for the pain.

  “It hurts.”

  “Do you want some relief?”

  “Please.”

  She came back with the injection, watching him until the morphine had at least partially driven away the pain.

  “What happened?” he muttered.

  “It was a road accident. You’ve got broken legs and injuries to your chest and pelvis.”

  “Am I going to die?”

  “No.”

  McMarn closed his eyes against the memories. “Where’s Tom?” he pleaded, drifting back into semi-consciousness again.

  “I expect he’ll be here to visit you in the morning, but you must rest. You’re still very poorly.”

  For a moment the nurse rested her hand on McMarn’s arm. “It’s no good trying to get round me, Tom,” he mumbled.

  He was by the lake with Tommy again, but now they were walking towards the woods. The wind cleaving the trees was suddenly cold.

  “What’s that?” gasped the Candy Man as something darted across their path.

  “Fox,” said Tommy. “We startled him.”

  They arrived in a snow-covered clearing just as Barrington came striding towards him, murder in his eyes.

  McMarn tried to shield himself from the blows, but they kept coming.

  “You did me wrong, Tom. You talked to Sears, didn’t you, son? Why did you do that?”

  “I can’t give you any more morphine now,” the nurse said. “You’ll have to wait another hour. If you have too much you’ll get tolerant and the pain will be worse. We’ll give you a morphine pump as soon as possible and then you’ll —”

  He’d left Tommy in the bushes and hurried away. There hadn’t been any alternative, no matter how much he regretted what he had done.

  “I’m no good to you,” said Barrington. “I haven’t killed anyone before.”

  But the Candy Man had, thought McMarn.

  “The Candy Man can,” chanted Tommy. “The Candy Man can.”

  The banks of the River Epte were snow-covered, but Anne Lucas and Joe Barrington strode out towards the village on the hill with Timothy in a sling on Joe’s back.

  The Channel crossing had been without incident, and so had the journey by car. Last night, exhausted and apprehensive, Anne and Joe had gone to bed in the hotel room at Giverny and, once again, the experience had been comforting.

  She knew they were both sheltering, unwilling to look into the future, wanting the hours to last for ever.

  The river flowed swiftly beside them, broken branches and shards of ice tumbling in the lashing current.

  “You’ve got to know what I did. We can’t keep putting it off.” Joe finally decided to test her out, to see if their agreement might be broken.

  “Why not?” Anne took his hand, knowing that he didn’t want to tell her and that she didn’t want to hear what he had to say. “I think you should still go to Toronto. If that’s where you were going.” She sounded reluctant.

  “You know damn well I can’t go. What about Tim?” He was irritated by her apparent stupidity, but hadn’t the slightest idea of what he would do if he didn’t use Eamonn’s tickets.

  “I’ll look after him,” Anne said quietly. />
  Joe gazed at her doubtfully and she wondered if he was thinking she might take her revenge. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. A baby for a husband.

  “You can have him back when you’re set up out there.”

  “You know damn well McMarn survived.”

  “He’ll think you’ve taken Timothy with you.”

  “How could you possibly explain the baby away? To your son? To your mother? Your friends?” Joe was still exasperated with her naivety, and equally anxious about her possible betrayal. But above all, he didn’t want to go to Australia. Could he still survive in England? Now the respite was over, his thoughts were in turmoil.

  But Anne remained calm. “I shall tell them what I told Peter, that you’re an old journalist friend and your wife was killed in a French car crash and I’m looking after the baby while you’re on an assignment.”

  “It’s not going to work.”

  “Do you think I’d harm him?”

  “Of course not.”

  They were climbing the hill now, stumbling through the snow, heading towards the church.

  “I don’t want to go,” said Joe, and to Anne he sounded exactly like Peter.

  Stanton sat at McMarn’s bedside, waiting for him to surface again.

  After a long while, the Candy Man blinked up at him.

  “Sears catch up with you at last?”

  “Why don’t you go to hell?”

  “Who’s Carla Barrington?”

  “Why ask me?”

  “Who killed Leslie Ryland?”

  “I’ve got nothing to tell you.”

  “Who was driving that Volvo? The car’s registered in Carla Barrington’s name but she was dead on the back seat.”

  McMarn was silent.

  “You’ll have to co-operate with me eventually. Why not do it now?”

  McMarn closed his eyes. “Get me the nurse,” he said. “I need medication.”

  Stanton stood up. “We’ve got all the time in the world. I can come back. I can keep coming back.”

  “I’ve got amnesia,” said McMarn, making a last effort. “Now fuck off.”

  Freda was sitting at Eamonn Coyd’s bedside. “What’s for supper then?” she asked him cheerfully.

  “I’m Helen Marcus, the hospital social worker,” said the woman who had been standing behind her uneasily for some time. “Can I talk to you for a moment? Outside?”

  She led Freda to the same waiting-room in which the doctor had first brought the news of Eamonn’s condition.

  “You’re a good friend,” Helen Marcus began.

  “He’s all I’ve got.” Freda sat down heavily on one of the uncomfortable steel chairs.

  “You know he may not recover.”

  “I keep talking.”

  “Do you know where his brother is?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “There was an incident here.”

  “I’ve spoken to the police about that already,” said Freda defensively.

  “Yes, I know. It’s just that the police still can’t reach Mr Coyd’s brother. He’s his only living relation as far as we can make out and he has to take a decision.”

  “What about?”

  “I — I don’t think the doctors have been able to tell you as you’re not a relative.”

  “I’m his friend.” Freda was indignant. “His only friend. What should they have told me?”

  Helen Marcus looked uneasy.

  “Why can’t you tell me?”

  “I know how devoted you are.”

  “What is this?” Freda rapped.

  Helen Marcus paused. “We need his brother’s permission to turn the respirator off,” she said quietly.

  “I don’t understand.” Freda looked up at her in total bewilderment.

  “Mr Coyd’s brain-dead,” said Helen Marcus. “I’m so very sorry.”

  “Rubbish. I’ve just been talking to him and he’s been listening to every word I say. Now I’m going back.” Freda rose majestically to her feet, determined not to continue with this unproductive conversation.

  “Don’t you think you should take a break? Just for a little while,” she asked placatingly.

  “I’ll never leave him,” said Freda fiercely.

  “Of course not. It’s just that — if you could only remember his brother’s address.” Helen Marcus was almost pleading now, but Freda was not in the least receptive.

  “I wouldn’t give it to you if I had it.”

  “You must —”

  “If I did, you’d get that thing switched off.”

  “He’s dead, I’m afraid. Brain-dead.”

  “Nonsense. He’s getting better every day.” Freda’s cheeks and chins shook violently. “I’ll get him better. You see, he’s got to look after me.”

  She pushed open the door and hurried down the corridor while Helen Marcus reluctantly went to the telephone and called Security.

  Standing beside the church on the hill, Joe Barrington and Anne Lucas gazed down towards a small lake that was covered in ice. She wondered if by some terrible coincidence Paul and Rachel had once stood here too.

  “I used to go skating with my mam when I was a kid. She used to say, ‘Thin ice. That’s what really gets me going.’”

  “What did she mean by that?” There was something in his voice that made Anne uneasy.

  “She liked living dangerously and by God she certainly did that. Mam made me live dangerously too. And the ice always held her, however thin it was. She had the luck of the devil.”

  “She was just being irresponsible,” said Anne censoriously.

  “I can trust you. I think I can trust you. But I’ve got to find out.”

  “Find out what?” Anne was beginning to be really afraid now, but she still didn’t know why.

  “I’ve always been a bit of a survivor.”

  “Yes.”

  “Like you.”

  “Maybe.”

  “But I don’t know that I want to go abroad. Not on my own. They’ve all gone now. Mam, Eamonn, Carla.”

  “You’ve got Tim — I’m only holding him in trust.”

  “Yes.” He was watching the lake, staring down at the ice. “Some things are meant, aren’t they?”

  “We have choices. We take decisions.”

  “Some things might be decided for us.”

  “Who by?”

  “I don’t really know. Fate, maybe.”

  “What the hell are you on about?” The fear pounded at her, leaving Anne breathless. What did he mean to do? The silence lengthened between them and the ice glistened below, winking up at them in the feeble sunlight. “Joe —”

  “That’s the first time you’ve used my name.”

  “If you remember, there was some confusion.” She tried to make a joke but it fell horribly flat.

  He kissed her on the lips. “I want to see if that ice down there is thick or thin.”

  She was horrified. “Don’t be so absurd.”

  “Thin — and I deserve all I get. Thick, and God’s on my side. Things will work out. I might even stay in the UK. Chance my luck.”

  “This is a lousy joke.” Anne was trembling now, clutching at Joe Barrington. The sheltering was over and so was the game.

  He pushed her away gently, unstrapping Timothy and handing him over.

  Then Joe began to run down the snow-covered hillside towards the ice. Cautiously, watching her every step, Anne followed.

  Joe Barrington paused and then began to clamber down.

  “It’s breaking up,” yelled Anne.

  “Not if I hurry myself,” muttered Joe, and he plunged on, the grinding sound beginning, the cracks appearing, his breath misty in the stillness.

  “Get off the ice!” she shouted.

  “I’ll make a spurt of it,” he insisted, running faster, slipping and slithering on the slowly collapsing surface.

  He was at the bank as a great shard of ice gave way, almost tipping him up as he scrabbled at the bank, his shoes filli
ng with the numbingly cold water.

  “That’s what it’s all about,” Joe muttered, as he hauled himself up to safety. Shaking with cold, he gazed across at Anne. “I’m going back,” he said.

  “Don’t be a fool. They’ll be out looking for you.”

  Joe gazed down at the water pumping up over the broken ice. “I don’t want to leave Timothy.”

  “He’ll be safe with me.”

  “I’ll stay.” Joe paused. “If you’ll share the risk?”

  Suddenly Anne Lucas knew that was exactly what she was going to do.

  Six months later

  McMarn ambled down the leafy road in Wimbledon slowly, aided by a stick. His joints were still painful, but he had been determined to make the visit ever since he had been discharged from the hospital. At the moment, he was living in a nursing home in Barnet, but he was sure it wouldn’t be long before Sears discovered where he was.

  It was mid-June and the common was lit by wan sunlight after a shower of rain. The Candy Man approached the house and checked the number to make sure he was correct. He paused, reflected and then climbed the steps to ring the bell.

  Peter opened the door.

  “Do you have a Timothy Barrington here?” McMarn asked gently.

  “Who wants him?”

  “I’m Timothy’s godfather.”

  “You’d better come with me, then.” The boy reminded him slightly of Tommy.

  “I’m afraid I’m rather slow.”

  “It doesn’t matter. They’re having a picnic.”

  Peter Lucas and Michael McMarn walked silently down the street together, through the dappled sunlight until they arrived on the edge of the common.

  “There they are,” said Peter.

  McMarn watched Anne and Joe sitting on a rug, playing with the baby. They didn’t look up.

  “You carry on,” he said. “I’ll join you all presently.”

  Peter gazed curiously at him and then began to run towards his mother. A group of teenage boys lounging about on their bikes looked arrogantly towards the Candy Man. There’s a meat rack everywhere, he thought, but his desire had disappeared and a lifetime’s obsession was over. That was why he had wanted to hurt Barrington’s baby. That was why he had the scalpel in his pocket that he had stolen from the hospital.