Dead Man's Gift and Other Stories

by Simon Kernick

  I felt sick. This was the man I’d had an affair with. And, sadly, I was certain that Pat wasn’t lying.

  ‘The plan was for Charlie to leave the house early yesterday morning, which he did, so we could then pick the rest of you off. He didn’t want to do it that way, of course. If he’d had his way, he’d have poisoned you all at dinner on the first night, because he’s a coward, but I wasn’t having any of that, and because I’ve spent a lot of time in the army, he knew he had to listen to me. So, anyway, he came out to meet me yesterday and that’s when I introduced him to Danny here.’ He chuckled. ‘You should have seen the look on his face when they came face-to-face after all these years and he realized I’d set him up. So we killed him – nice and slowly – and after that we had all the time in the world to toy with the rest of you. And that’s what we’ve been doing. Toying with you. Paying you back for the sins of your past.’

  ‘How did you kill Crispin?’ I asked. ‘We had the house completely secure.’ It was a pointless question under the circumstances, but I couldn’t help it. I had to know. And the longer I kept the conversation going, the longer I stayed alive.

  Pat looked pleased with himself. ‘I was in the house already. There’s a separate crawl-space in the loft, shut off from the main part. I was in it all day and evening yesterday, just waiting for the right moment to strike, and I’ve got to be honest here, it wasn’t hard.’

  ‘But what I don’t understand is why did you, of all people, want to kill us? I can understand him doing it’ – I motioned towards Corridge – ‘but not you.’

  Pat sighed. ‘Rachel Skinner was my stepsister. I grew up with her, and even though I didn’t see much of her after my dad divorced her mum, I still loved her.’

  I vaguely remembered Rachel telling me that her mum had remarried for a few years after she’d divorced Rachel’s dad, but she’d never gone into any details.

  ‘I was gutted when I found out she’d died,’ continued Pat, a dark cloud of emotion crossing his face, ‘but I thought when Danny was found guilty that at least some semblance of justice had been done. I went off to the army, served in wars, and I suppose I forgot about it. But Rachel’s dad, Brian, didn’t forget. Nor was he ever fully convinced that Danny was guilty, and the more he looked into it, the more he felt that there’d been a major miscarriage of justice. In fact it was he who helped get Danny’s case taken up by the court of appeal. He also became convinced you six had covered the murder up to suit your own ends.’ He paused. ‘So when I was discharged from the army, Brian approached me with a proposition. He wanted me to get close to Charlie and find out what I could about his involvement. At the time I had nothing. No money, no prospects, so I changed my name and moved down here after Charlie bought this place. It didn’t take long to get myself on his radar and he ended up hiring me to run this place while he was away. But I was a lot more than a caretaker. I became his confidant. He trusted me completely. So much so that he even told me about Rachel, and you know what? He was always convinced you were the killer. He said you slept with her a number of times, and he told me how jealous you became when she went back to Danny. And when she slept with Luke that night …’ He whistled through his teeth. ‘Well, that would have been the final straw, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘It’s bullshit. That’s what it is. Just because I slept with her doesn’t mean I killed her.’

  ‘It took me a long time to get all the evidence we needed to act,’ continued Pat, ignoring my protestations as if he hadn’t heard them, ‘and by that time it was obvious Danny was going to be released. So as soon as he got out, I made him an offer. Earn some serious money and get revenge on the people who’d destroyed his life.’

  ‘And I’m glad I did,’ said Corridge, ‘because making you bastards suffer for what you did to me has been worth every penny. And this is the bit I’ve been looking forward to most. Watching the one who started it all die.’ His face contorted into a snarl of pure hatred as all those years of pain were relived. ‘But I’m going to hurt you first.’

  ‘Don’t forget, Danny,’ Pat warned. ‘No obvious injuries on her. She’s the one who’s going to be held responsible for the murders, when someone finally turns up here and discovers all this.’

  ‘That’s right,’ chuckled Corridge. ‘We’re going to make your death look like murder-suicide, so that your family know you’re nothing more than a sick, twisted killer. Or what’s left of your family anyway.’ He leaned forward, grinning. ‘I heard about what happened to your kid. I’m fucking glad the little brat died. I hope it was painful.’

  I felt a wave of anger then. If I had to die, so be it. I’d sinned in the past and now I was being made to pay for it. But to bring my daughter – my poor, beautiful, innocent Lily – into this was a deliberate affront to everything that was good and decent in the world.

  I wasn’t just going to sit here and beg for my life. One way or another, I was going to resist.

  That was when it occurred to me that my lighter was still tucked into the sleeve of my hoodie. Using my fingers, I managed to slip it free. If I could somehow burn the rope binding my wrists … It was a ridiculous plan, of course. I was totally helpless and one way or another they were going to kill me. But there was no way I was going to waste any more breath begging for mercy. I wasn’t going to give these pieces of shit the satisfaction.

  It was then that a very strange thing happened. As Corridge continued to goad me – his words nothing more than a single blurred noise that I was now shutting out – Pat came up behind him, slipped an arm almost leisurely round his neck and dragged him back into a choke-hold.

  Corridge’s eyes widened, then almost immediately closed and he went limp in Pat’s arms.

  ‘That’s enough, Danny,’ said Pat, winking at me as he dragged Corridge’s body over to the chair with the noose hanging above it. ‘The problem with civilians is that they’re just too damn confident in their own abilities. And yet so many of them are idiots. You know you can’t afford to be an idiot in the army, Karen. If you are, you die. But Charlie, and Danny here, they went to their doom never realizing how much they were being played.’ As he spoke he sat Corridge in the chair, lowered the rope and placed the noose carefully around his neck, tightening it so it was a nice snug fit.

  I knew I only had one chance. ‘Why are you doing this?’ I asked, at the same time touching the lighter to the rope binding my wrists and flicking it on.

  Pat reached round behind the desk and untied the other end of the rope, before giving it a hard pull. Corridge’s body straightened in the chair as it was lifted upwards and his eyes began to flicker open. ‘There’s no way anyone will believe that you managed to kill all five of your friends, and particularly that you decapitated them. But they’ll believe that Danny Corridge – former violent criminal, hell-bent on revenge – would have. No one will know how he got on the island or how he managed to do it, but that won’t matter. The police will have their victims and their perpetrator, and that’ll be enough. And if you’re wondering what the camera’s there for, it’s to record your confession, followed by your dying moments.’ He kept pulling on the rope, lifting Corridge to his feet so that only his toes were touching the floor.

  I could smell burning and I knew that any moment Pat would be able to as well, but I could also feel the rope giving.

  Corridge’s eyes opened properly now and, as he belatedly realized what was going on and grabbed at the noose, Pat gave another big tug, putting all his weight into it. Corridge’s feet left the floor and he bucked and kicked wildly, but Pat held on tight, his face reddening with the effort.

  I felt the lighter scalding my skin and the next second the rope burned through and my hands were free. I tried to wriggle out of the ropes binding my body, but they were too tight. I managed to lift my forearm a few inches so that the lighter was close to the bottom of the two ropes and I flicked it on again.

  Corridge was making horrible gasping sounds now as his face went a mottled purple. His thrashing g
ot worse, then began to subside as the life was sucked out of him. The smell of smoke was really obvious now and for the first time Pat glanced my way, a puzzled expression on his face, and I knew he smelled it too, but he was holding the rope that was throttling Corridge and he was in no position to do anything about it.

  I could feel my back burning and knew that I’d probably set fire to the hoodie as well, but I ignored the pain. All that mattered right now was escape. And I was inching ever closer to it.

  Corridge stopped moving. His body went limp and almost immediately a strong smell of shit filled the air, temporarily masking that of the smoke.

  ‘What are you doing over there?’ snarled Pat. ‘If you try anything, I’ll make your death slow as well.’

  The bottom rope split, leaving only one left and, as Pat reached round to retie the other end of his hangman’s noose now that Corridge was dead, I managed to pull off my hoodie, giving me enough wriggle room to slide down the chair and free myself from the last length of rope still binding me.

  I was on my feet in an instant as the adrenalin surged through me. Hope. I finally had hope. The door was still open and I charged through it and along the landing, taking the stairs three at a time.

  He was right behind me as I leaped the last five steps, landing in a squat. The front door was bolted and the key was no longer in it. I had to use the back door or nothing.

  It was then that I remembered something. Turning a sharp left, I ran into the lounge and over to the grand old fireplace, silently thanking God, or whoever it was protecting me today, that what I was looking for was there.

  The door slammed shut behind me and I could hear him in the room.

  Crouching down, I grabbed the ornamental poker and swung round just in time to see him running towards me – a long-bladed, bloodied knife in his gloved hand.

  With a blood-curdling scream, I swung the poker as hard as I could in a tight arc, putting every ounce of strength into it.

  Pat tried to throw up an arm and get out of the way at the same time, but he’d miscalculated and he wasn’t fast enough. The poker caught him right in the throat, knocking him to one side. He stumbled into a foot-rest and fell to the floor, managing to keep hold of the knife while clutching his throat with his free hand.

  I didn’t hesitate. As he rolled round to face me, I lifted the poker above my head and hit him a second time, the blow making a sickening crunch as it struck the bridge of his nose, shattering bone and cartilage. Then I was hitting him again and again, a cloud of rage, euphoria and power swirling through my mind and, in that moment, I was transported back to that dark bloody night all those years ago. I’d used a hammer then but the feeling was exactly the same. Complete and utter release. Blood splattered the floorboards, the furniture, even the walls. But still I didn’t stop until Pat’s head was nothing more than a pulped, bloody mess and he’d finally stopped breathing. Only then did I drop the poker and step back from his body.

  I’d felt the same way when I’d killed Rachel. Sated. At least for the first few seconds. Then reality had set in, followed by regret, because I genuinely hadn’t wanted to kill her. It’s true. I was obsessed with her. I think I’d had a crush on her right from the moment we’d moved into the same house, but then, after she’d seduced me one night, it moved from crush into far deeper, darker territories. We had a brief relationship. It was our secret. I didn’t think anyone knew about it, especially not Crispin or Charlie. I loved Crispin but I was infatuated with Rachel, and when it became obvious that she didn’t feel the same way – that, as far as she was concerned, I was just another notch on her bedpost – it made me angry. Angry and jealous. I hated the way she toyed with people, and that night, when she’d started getting off with Luke in front of me, my rage had become uncontrollable. I confronted her in the toilets and she’d dismissed me like I was nothing, telling me to, in her words, ‘get a fucking life’.

  But I didn’t get a life. I took one. More sober than the rest of them, I’d waited until she and Luke were comatose in his room and then I’d crept in, naked, with the hammer, and killed her. How Luke didn’t wake up I’ll never know, but he didn’t, even though he was splattered with her blood.

  After I’d finished I washed myself, washed the hammer, put it away in the cupboard I’d got it from and went into Marla’s bedroom and lay on the spare mattress on her floor, wondering what I was going to do, until eventually I fell asleep.

  I’m glad I’ve told you everything. The guilt’s haunted me over the years and, as you know, I’ve been paid back many times for the sin I committed that night. I’m sorry Rachel’s dead. I always have been. I’m sorry the others are dead too.

  On the way over in the boat, I’d offered Pat a smoke and he’d taken it, so I searched through his pockets now and struck lucky, finding a half-full pack of Rothmans and a box of matches, as well as a bunch of keys. I found the one that opened the front door and then, as my breathing slowed to normal, I lit a cigarette and used the rest of the matches to set fire to the lounge curtain, before wandering round downstairs, setting more fires.

  Only when the flames began to really take hold did I leave through the front door and, with barely a look behind me, I started the walk through the trees down to the beach and the jetty, finally enjoying breathing in the fresh country air.

  It was time to begin the rest of my life.

  The Debt

  Now I’ve got a cousin called Kevin. Just like in that song by the Undertones. Unlike in the song, though, the Kevin I know isn’t going anywhere near Heaven. In fact, the no-good cheating dog’s far more likely to be disappearing through a trapdoor into the fiery underworld, and deservedly so too. In fact if I could get hold of him now, I’d gladly give a helping hand to send him there. Only problem is, there’s a queue of people wanting to do just that, and I’m sitting opposite one of them now. None other than Jim ‘The Crim’ Sneddon: gangland legend and all-round wicked hombre, renowned for his extreme cruelty to his fellow human beings, although they do say he loves animals.

  The Crim leans forward in his immense leather armchair and points a stubby, sausage-like finger in my direction. I’m sitting on his ‘guest’ sofa – a flashy leather number that’s currently covered in tarpaulin, presumably in case things turn nasty and, as you can imagine, not being either cute or furry, I’m feeling less than comfortable. The Crim’s thin, hooded eyes are a cold onyx, and when he speaks, the words come out in a low nicotine growl that sounds like a cheap, badly damaged car turning over.

  ‘A debt is a debt is a debt,’ he rumbles, speaking in the manner of a Buddhist monk imparting some great metaphysical wisdom.

  ‘I’m aware of that,’ I say, holding his gaze, not showing any fear, because if you let them see your weaknesses, then you might as well throw in the towel, ‘but the debt in question is between you and Kevin.’

  ‘No, no, no, no,’ chuckles The Crim, shaking his huge leonine head. ‘It don’t work like that. Do it, boys?’

  There are two men in charcoal-black suits flanking the sofa on either side, and they both voice their agreement.

  To my left, blocking out much of the room’s ambient light, is one Glenroy Frankham, better known as ‘Ten-Man Gang’, a six-foot-six, twenty-five-stone hulk of a human being, with a head so small it looks like it’s been professionally shrunk, and hands that can, and probably do, crush babies. Such is his strength, he’s reputed to be the only man in British penal history to tear his way out of a straitjacket, although I’m surprised they found one that fitted him in the first place. His belly looks like a storage room for cannonballs.

  To my right stands Johann ‘Fingers The Knife’ Bennett, so-called because of his propensity for slicing off the digits of uncooperative debtors while The Gang holds them in place. The going rate is a finger a day, until the money’s been paid in full. As you can imagine, The Knife’s somewhat ‘hands-on’ approach has an enviable success rate, and only once has a debt not been cleared within twenty-four hours of him being ca
lled in. On that occasion the debtor was so broke they had to start on his toes before he finally came up with the money. The guy was a degenerate gambler and I still see him limping around sometimes, although he plays a lot less poker these days.

  It’s poker that’s been Kevin’s downfall. That and the fact that he chose to play his games against Jim The Crim, a man whose standards of fair play leave, it has to be said, a great deal to be desired. You don’t rise to multimillionaire status in the arms and loan-sharking industries by adhering to the rules of the level playing field, or by being compassionate.

  ‘It ain’t my fault, is it?’ continues The Crim now, ‘that your brother – cousin? – decides to take off into the wild blue yonder without paying me the thirty-four grand he owes.’

  ‘You told me it was thirty-three.’

  ‘That was Monday, Billy. Today’s Wednesday. I’ve got the interest to think about. It’s a lot of money we’re looking at here.’

  ‘And I still don’t know why it’s suddenly mine and my family’s responsibility,’ I say, thinking it’s time to get assertive.

  The Crim bares his teeth in what I think must be a smile – it’s not too easy to tell. ‘It’s the etiquette of the matter,’ he says, clearing his throat, then spitting something thick and nasty into a plate-sized ashtray balanced on one of the chair’s arms. ‘I can’t be seen to be letting off a debt this size. It would do my reputation no good at all. And since there’s about as much chance of your cousin reappearing as there is of The Gang here taking up hang-gliding, someone’s got to pay. And that someone’s his mother.’

  And this, my friends, is why I’m here voluntarily. Because it is my Aunt Lena – my dead mother’s only sister, and the woman who brought me up from the tender age of thirteen – who is the person currently being treated as The Crim’s debtor, and this is a situation that, as an honourable man, I can’t allow to continue. She’s prepared to pay up too, by selling her house, in order to protect her only son from the consequences of his rank stupidity, but I’ve told her to leave it and let me see what can be done to alleviate the situation, although I’m beginning to think that’s not a lot.