In Bloom

by C. J. Skuse

  ‘Sounds about right,’ he smiled. ‘Me and her ain’t together no more.’

  ‘She brought me and Seren round a big hamper the week Dad died. And you went to see Dad at the undertaker’s. I was coming out as you went in.’

  ‘I always do that for my mates, to see them off, like. Don’t know why, always have. Always wished I hadn’t with Tommy though. I keep remembering him like that and that wasn’t Tom.’

  Sometimes I can see people’s feelings. In Keston’s face then I could see what he saw in that coffin – the wisps of hair. The shrunken mouth. The yellow skin. That wasn’t Dad, Kes was right. We both remembered him as he was. Muscles. Tatts. Goofy grin. The boundless energy of a young dog.

  ‘There’s a picture of me as a newborn and he’s holding me on one hand and Seren’s hanging from the other with her feet off the ground. “Atlas holding my world,” he’d written on the back of it. He was so strong. But when he got ill, he started disappearing. First came the hair in the drain. Then wearing his wedding ring on this thumb. I saw his watch slide off his wrist.’

  ‘He was a bloody titan,’ said Keston. ‘Came through for me in a big way.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Oh yeah. Did time for us, didn’t he?’

  ‘For you?’

  ‘All of us. All the boys. When he went down, they knew other people were involved but he never said a word. Never gave them one name. He’d have done longer if his cancer hadn’t spread. I’d have got in more trouble than any of them. Lost my pension, banged up. You can guess how they treat coppers in chokey. And a black copper? You’ve got his eyes.’

  ‘He said I could have them.’

  His smile was wide and full. ‘Chip off the old block, aren’t you?’

  A flash of pride shimmered in my chest. It was nice to meet someone who remembered Dad like I did; to hear someone talk about him like he existed. Like he wasn’t some Hiroshima shadow only I had seen, or an imaginary friend conjured by my own rancid mind.

  ‘Tom said you liked watching it. What we did to those men.’

  I said nothing.

  ‘Yeah. He said you had a fascination for it. I know it’s you, Rhiannon. I know that bloke of yours is innocent. How many is it now?’

  I knew better than to argue. So I just chewed my lip. A half shrug. ‘You lost count?’ Kes’s voice had got louder. Scratchier. Smoker’s gravel. He sat forwards, shaking his head. ‘All bastards, yeah?’

  ‘Yes, all bastards.’ It was the first lie I’d told him.

  ‘You reap what you sow, Rhiannon. Always.’

  ‘You didn’t.’

  ‘No, cos I had people like Tommy looking out for me. And I promised him that if things got hairy, I’d look out for you. He was chuffed when you and Craig got together.’ I stared him out. ‘Does he truly deserve all this?’

  ‘He slept around.’

  Kes frowned. ‘Hardly a fair exchange, is it? Five murders for a shag?’

  ‘It wasn’t a shag. He loves her.’

  ‘Still doesn’t compute.’

  ‘I want him to suffer.’

  ‘He’s staring down the barrel of a life sentence, Rhiannon. I’d say you’ve more than won this round. His brains are on the canvas.’

  ‘Why don’t you make a citizen’s arrest then? You must want to.’

  ‘I suppose I could bring them down here and get tests done on that hole in the kitchen. I could get them to dig up those flower beds’n all. Tell them to look closer at your movements on the nights of the murders your boyfriend’s supposed to have done. But you could do the same to me, couldn’t you?’

  ‘Could I?’

  ‘Sure. You could tell them you saw me at the quarry that night Lyle Devaney went over. In the warehouse that day. In the woods.’

  ‘I need a drink.’ I appeared to be checking with him whether it was okay that I got up. He followed me out to the kitchen, keeping his distance. There were two un-smashed glasses in the cupboard. I got one out and filled it. I drank it all down, then refilled. I could not quench my thirst.

  ‘Why should I trust you?’

  ‘Do you remember that night you killed your sister’s boyfriend? And you, me and your dad digging that pit in the woods behind the house? Only you and me know about that.’

  ‘And the Man in the Moon.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Man in the Moon was there too. Peeking through the trees. Watching us.’

  ‘Rhee, listen to me – my DNA’s all over them bones.’

  ‘He was my first one, Pete McMahon.’

  ‘But you did it for the right reasons, didn’t you? Because of Seren. Because of what he was doing to her.’

  ‘She never forgave me for that.’

  Kes stood on the edge of the well. He removed the torch from the top of the microwave and shone it down. I followed the beam. The hole was empty. ‘Looks good, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Where is he?’ I said.

  ‘Still down there, in some form. Alkaline and potassium hydroxide – stripped him down to the skeleton. It’s only the natural process that happens to a body once it starts to decompose. I just sped things up a bit.’

  ‘But I can’t see anything at all.’

  ‘Well he’s got a fresh layer of concrete over him now. I’d keep that Perspex off it ’til it dries out a bit more. Let the air get to it.’

  ‘When did you do all this?’

  Kes pulled the breakfast stool out for me. ‘Soon as you left the other day. You ain’t been back here since. Thought you could use a hand.’

  ‘I don’t need anyone to clear up after me.’

  His eyebrows jumped into his hairline. ‘Well clearly you do. When were you going to start on that?’ I shrugged. ‘Who was he anyway, Hole Man?’

  ‘Patrick Edward Fenton.’

  Kes plucked his phone from his back pocket and did a quick Google. ‘Yeah fair enough, fair enough.’

  ‘Thanks for… that,’ I said, gesturing vaguely at the entire house.

  ‘Want me to sort anything else while I’m here?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘You mentioned Géricault. She’s onto you, is she?’

  ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘I know of her. Jesus, Rhiannon, that’s a bloodhound on your scent there. Not much personality but she’s increased the force’s hit rate by twenty per cent since her promotion. Takes no shit. Works all hours. You don’t care, do you?’

  ‘I like killing,’ I said. ‘I know who I am when I kill. I kept it at bay for a while when I was with Craig but it soon started leaking out of me again. I can’t stop. I can’t find a reason to stop.’

  He looked at my bump. ‘There’s a big reason right in front of you.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s going to be enough.’

  Keston pursed his lips. ‘Géricault will work this out and when she does – not if, when – she’ll throw the book right through you. There’s serial murderers in prisons who’ve spent decades in one room. Could you handle that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘All day every day with one hour outside in a cold concrete exercise yard? Killers so dangerous they’re not allowed near other people? Constant abuse? Shit in your food. Sharing landings with junkies who scream their cells down all night long? Or worse still, they’ll chuck you in Broadmoor.’

  ‘Yeah thanks for mansplaining the prison system in such technicolour.’

  ‘I’m on your side here, Rhiannon.’

  ‘I need it, Kes. I need to kill. I need Sandra Huggins.’

  ‘Who dat?’

  I pulled out my phone and brought up the bookmark with her news story on. I handed him the page featuring her mugshot.

  ‘She’s tagged. You can’t go near her, certainly not in your condition.’

  ‘My condition, my condition,’ I scoffed.

  ‘Rhee, look at the size of her.’

  ‘She’s a danger to my baby,’ I said. ‘To all babies.’

  ‘Yeah, she’s one of many. Jesus, do
you know how many sex offenders walk among us every single day?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There ain’t enough prisons. There ain’t enough landmass to build the prisons for all those fuckers. It’s not like Pokémon – you can’t catch them all.’

  ‘You and Dad did.’

  ‘No, we caught a chosen few who kept beating the system. Ones we knew were off the radar and vulnerable. And a couple of their lawyers, that was it. You have to stop all this. Right now.’

  The kitchen felt tiny and stifling, like I was Alice growing bigger until my arms and legs were going to come shooting through the windows. I could smell the PlugIns that Kes had installed – disgusting synthetic lavender.

  ‘I need to get out of here.’

  I ran, through the back gate and along towards the coastal path and fields beyond. The sea beneath the clifftop was choppy, the swell smashing the rocks. All the air in the world wasn’t enough.

  ‘You can’t keep doing this and thinking you’re immune,’ came his voice behind me. ‘You’re following breadcrumbs into a prison cell and once that cell door closes behind you, it’ll never open again. And what about your kid?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Have you thought about what’s going to happen to her?’

  ‘Of course I have.’

  ‘That’s your future in there. That’s the one good thing you have, believe me. Nothing’s more important. You’ll realise that when she’s born. Maybe being a mum will be enough for you and you can leave all this behind.’

  We both stared out to the horizon, the calm sea beyond the waves.

  ‘I can try and rub out some of your footprints, Rhiannon, but it’ll only keep Géricault at bay for so long. I think we’ve got to get you out of here.’

  ‘Out of where?’

  ‘The country. I know an old lag. Big Fat Duncan. He’s into dodgy passports.’

  ‘An old lag? You mean he went down for it?’

  ‘No, he went down for burglary. He’s one of us though, don’t worry. And he’s a specialist at the passports. You’ll have a whole new identity.’

  ‘So what happens to Rhiannon Lewis?’

  We watched the waves below breaking and exploding against the cliff below. He didn’t answer and I didn’t ask again.

  ‘I have money.’

  ‘Good. You’ll need it.’

  ‘Where will I go?’

  ‘Ideally somewhere with no extradition treaties. Argentina, China, Bahrain, Russia.’ He got out his phone.

  ‘Have you done this before?’

  He punched in a number. ‘Not for a while.’

  ‘So is this lag like Better Call Saul?’

  ‘Not quite. He can get you good documents, but that’s about it. It’s going to take time though and we’ll need to get some new photos done as well. We can do that up there.’ He nodded back towards the Well House. ‘The rest is up to you.’

  Friday, 23rd November – 28 weeks, 5 days

  1.People who don’t put the separator down for you at the supermarket.

  2.Old guy with half-moon glasses who sneezed all over the Pick ’n’ Mix – where you gonna hang your specs when I cut your fucking ears off, old timer?

  3.People who preach, rant or vent via the Twitter thread. It’s like one morning I woke up and everyone’s Martin Luther King.

  Helen from Pudding Club’s texted – Nev’s twins were born at 5.38 a.m. this morning. Then she put a load of bollocks about their weights and heights and how they’re both on the tit already. All pretty yawn. She signed off with a request – £30 for some flowers ‘from us all’. So I’m still on the round robin for freebies even if I can no longer attend their parties?

  Ugh, BLOCK.

  My bump is in spasm – an inverted trampoline. This hasn’t happened before and I don’t know why it’s happening now.

  ‘Talk to me. Why are you doing that? What’s wrong?’

  Nothing. She hasn’t spoken to me since the night of Fuckboy Troy. I can’t find her heartbeat on the Doppler. I’m going to the hospital.

  *

  The baby has hiccups. According to Bitch Midwife, this is normal and I had no need to worry. ‘You’re just being an overprotective mummy,’ she said.

  I’m so uncomfortable. There isn’t a known sitting position that doesn’t hurt me in some way – placing too much pressure on some part of my body. She gave me a diabetes test – I had to drink this thing and she took my blood. All good, she thinks. Bitch Midwife wasn’t in the least bit interested in any other symptoms – the return of the sluggishness, the constipation, the itching on my bump, the insomnia. She just said ‘That’s pregnancy for you!’ and laughed cartoonishly, like Porky Pig.

  ‘But her heart’s beating?’

  ‘Yes, she’s all good, don’t worry. How’s the new book coming along?’

  ‘Great, yeah.’ I forget some of the lies I tell. She thinks I’m a published novelist. Newsflash – that particular avenue of delights was cordoned off some time ago but she thought it was terribly glam and impressive when I said I wrote books so I left her to dream a little dream of me.

  ‘Are you still doing your yoga and swimming classes?’

  ‘Oh yeah, I’m up to twenty lengths a day now.’

  ‘Ooh well done you. That’ll pay dividends. Made lots of mum chums?’

  ‘Yes,’ I shuddered. Mum Chums. Ugh. I could absolutely piss on her until her dying breath.

  Tried calling Keston but his phone’s switched off. Marnie’s still not talking to me either. I WhatsApped her and she doesn’t have an avatar anymore and all I get is one grey tick on my sent messages. That means you’re Blocked, right? It’ll be him that’s done that – Heinrich Timmler.

  I tapped the bump. Still the silent treatment. Even the Sylvanians aren’t doing it for me today. I’m so bored.

  *

  I awoke with a knock on my bedroom door. Jim.

  ‘You’ve got a visitor, Rhiannon. DI Géricault wants to have a word.’

  She sat cross-footed on the edge of Jim’s armchair – brown leather handbag on the floor, black raincoat, silk blouse and a skirt with little pink flowers all over it. Monsoon, maybe Next. Everything ironed. Even her hair, scraped back in a clip. Gold ear studs. Orderly. Pursed. That was Géricault.

  Jim made his excuses and left us to it. She motioned me to sit down opposite, on the sofa. I tried to sit with some grace but that didn’t happen.

  ‘I thought I should let you know there’s been a development in the investigation – Lana Rowntree has died. Apparent suicide.’

  I tried to find my shocked face.

  ‘You don’t seem shocked.’ That didn’t work then.

  ‘I knew she was depressed. She’s tried it before.’

  ‘It appears she’s been dead for at least two weeks. You saw a bit of Lana during the months up to her death, didn’t you? Became good friends?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say “friends”, no. I felt sorry for her. And I felt bad that I hit her in front of everyone in the office. But no, we weren’t friends per se.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw her?’

  ‘Few weeks ago I guess. Why?’

  She stared at me. Picked up her half-empty cup of tea – Jim had brought out the best china for Géricault. Everyone else had to make do with mugs. She sipped then put the down the cup carefully, no clink. ‘We have you on CCTV heading in the direction of Lana’s flat on October seventeenth.’

  ‘And? You think I killed her? You’ve got Craig locked up and now you’re coming after me too? What’s the matter with you people?’

  ‘We want to know if you saw Lana on the day of her death. It may help her family understand why she took her own life.’

  I yawned twice – she didn’t. Twice. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was a psychopath too. Maybe it takes one to catch one.

  ‘Sometimes people break,’ I said. ‘Life gets too hard.’

  ‘What tipped her over the edge, Rhiannon? Seeing your bump?’ />
  ‘Yeah, that’s it, I think you’ve cracked it. I, Rhiannon Lewis, am solely responsible for what goes on in other people’s heads now. Cuff me then, Detective Inspector. I am guilty as charged.’

  She sighed silently. ‘I’m not accusing you, I’m asking for your help.’

  ‘Lana was complaining about the press when I saw her last. This journalist guy was hounding her. Craig’s defence team were too. She was getting it from both sides.’ A rotisserie of male attention – thought Lana would have liked that.

  Will you concentrate on looking shocked and appalled before we both end up sewing mailbags?

  ‘Which newspaper?’ asked the detective.

  ‘Plymouth Star, I think.’

  ‘How did they know she was involved in the Gripper case? That information hasn’t been made public until now.’

  ‘You’d have to ask them.’

  ‘There were traces of Tramadol in Lana’s blood.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘A strong painkiller, not prescribed to her. In fact, we found no other traces of it in her flat at all.’

  ‘How strange.’

  ‘Her former colleagues at the Gazette have said she was a bubbly personality, particularly during the months she was seeing Craig. They said it was the happiest they’d ever seen her.’

  I looked at her, as pointedly as I could. ‘You’re generally a happier person when you’re getting sexed though, aren’t you?’

  Géricault fished around in her handbag and pulled out her iPad. She swiped the screen and handed it to me. I stared at it. I couldn’t make out what it was at first but then it drew me in – a body on a sofa. A blonde. Reddish purple skin. Bloated face. Curled up in the armchair. Dried puke on the armrest. Dead sweet peas on the coffee table.

  ‘As you can see putrefaction has begun—’

  My initial reaction was of course nothing. I should have baulked. I should have dry-heaved or something, shown her how repulsed a normal person would be to such an image. But I couldn’t. I wanted to show her who I was for a second. While it was only us in the room.

  ‘Sweet peas,’ I said, looking up. ‘My favourites.’

  She didn’t answer. And for the first time I saw something in her eyes. She knew what I knew. And for a moment, we were on the same page.