by Lauren White
The Weasel picks up the plastic sheet and listening to Scott's tread above, he places it at the foot of the stairs. Then, he goes to the kitchen and rummages around in the drawers. He can't seem to find what he is looking for. He searches the cupboard under the sink next. Poking his head inside, he emerges, holding a hammer.
Dead-gorgeous has found the sandal. It must have fallen off, when they lifted her out of the car. The Weasel hears him slide the door of the lock-up across and secure it, before climbing through the open trap door. The stairs are wide enough and sufficiently evenly spaced to descend, face forwards. Dead-gorgeous is clearly well-practised at doing this, because he strides down easily, two at a time. He looks through the living room into the bathroom, which is empty of the Weasel.
Gordon, where are you? I've found the sandal.
He steps onto the plastic sheet, craning his neck this way and that, but he doesn't glance behind him so he doesn’t see his partner standing at the back of the stairs, the hammer in his hand held high.
The Weasel creeps silently out from his hiding place and brings it crashing down, onto Scott’s skull, with a dull thud. A fan of blood opens on the wall and he pauses to watch as it begins to trickle down the paint work. Scott drops to the floor and when the Weasel turns his attention back to him, he raises the hammer a second time and smashes it down in the same place as before, exposing Scott’s brains. He inspects the wound, closely, evidently fascinated by the damage he has done. And, then he studies the hammer head too, smiling with interest at the bloody hair and tissue adhering to it. Finally, he sees the splatter pattern of blood on his white overalls and gasps with excitement.
I'm here, Scott, he answers softly, with a smile on his face. Where are you? Bending down he releases Michelle's missing sandal from the dead man's hand. Thanks for fetching this, Scott. It wouldn't have been the same without it. It looks like you're going to watch me after all. I want you to watch, Scott. In fact, I insist upon it. But, first I have to change out of my dirty overalls.
Scott Ramsey's spirit rises up from his body, oozing shock and disbelief like blood. He cannot take the scene in. He fades and forms, fades and forms, as he struggles to understand what has happened to him, and the irrevocableness of it. His murderer doesn't pause over his loss. He tosses the hammer onto the plastic sheet with him and drags this out of the way behind the stairs
You murdered me, Scott accuses. He murdered me, he repeats to us, as soon as he registers our presence.
He murdered us too! And, you helped him, Gerte responds, angrily.
Not all of you, he quibbles.
Her presence swells like a storm.
I am only being accurate, he tries to mollify her. I helped him with two of you.
Three, Kerry corrects. I was brought here, after he killed me.
But, I didn't have a hand in abducting you, he wheedles.
You helped him dispose of my body.
Damn and blast! This is Hell isn't it! I'm going to spend eternity with you lot accusing me.
You don't get it do you? One way or another you robbed us of our lives, Bim shouts at him.
And, that bastard has just robbed me of mine. Which of those two things do you think I'm going to be more upset about?
Get away from us, Gerte commands.
He moves away but he doesn't disappear. Come on, ladies. Be reasonable. I've got nowhere else to go.
We don't care. Leave us alone.
But, you need me. I can help you get him. That is what you want, isn't it? That is why you're here. Well, I know him better than anyone, he tempts.
We draw ourselves into a huddle, several metres from Scott, so he can't eavesdrop on our discussion about this.
I don’t know why we’re even considering this, Gerte snaps.
I'll tell you why, because Michelle is still alive. If there is the slightest chance he could help us to save her, we should accept his offer, Jackie reasons.
Bim looks distressed at this proposal. But, he should go straight to Hell for what he has done.
I’m pretty certain that’s not going to happen so you might as well try and reconcile yourself to it, Gerte counsels, before adding: which doesn’t mean we have to put up with him hanging around us for a second longer.
But, if it helps us to rescue Michelle, perhaps we should.
He helped the Weasel kill me!
He helped to kill you, and look, you're still here.
I’m dead! What is it you don’t understand about that?
As is he! And, you both still exist.
Oh, so there is no offence in murder, is that what the woman who has spent most of her afterlife torturing the man that only jilted her thinks?
Jackie laughs. And, I am now able to see that nothing matters, simply because spirit endures.
Bim glowers at her. You’ve seen the Light too, haven’t you?
She is not suggesting we give up, just that we accept Dead-gorgeous’ help, Kerry points out.
But he is so new in spirit, what can he do?
He is cunning, Jackie says.
And, untrustworthy, Bim counters.
He is also here, whether we want him to be or not, I trump them both.
This is the deciding factor. He stays because we don't know how to banish him and as long as he is around we might as well accept whatever help he can offer us.
Realising our verdict, he asks, enthusiastically: Right, ladies, what’s the plan?
We are going to rescue Michelle and put the Weasel in prison, I inform him.
The Weasel is Gordon?
Who else? I look through the living room, towards the bathroom. Where is he?
Still getting changed, I imagine. He is very particular, our Gordon.
Your Gordon, Bim corrects.
One of us should keep an eye on him, while we’re trying to get Michelle out of here.
Done, Bim obligingly agrees, before disappearing to find him.
Michelle, Michelle, I whisper in her ear. You have to stand up.
She looks about her, bewildered, rather than frightened. It occurs to me she might be wondering whether she is dead.
Michelle, please try and stand up, I tell her again. You must get out of here.
She begins to respond to what she is being told to do. She sits up and puts her soles of her feet down on the bottom of the enamel bath, ready to struggle upwards.
We help her as best we can, prodding and lifting, until we get her standing. Gingerly, she lifts one leg over the edge of the bath and stumbles out. She is walking like a newly born animal as we coax her out of the bathroom, across the living room, and towards the stairs.
Where are your car keys, Scott?
He motions towards his body.
Well, get them.
With our help, Michelle treads air up the stairs because left to her own devices, she wouldn't be able to coordinate her legs sufficiently well to mount a single one.
How is she going to drive a car?
She’s not, Jackie is.
I am?
You're better than any of the rest of us at moving objects around.
Objects, yes, a car might be a different matter.
I managed to turn the steering wheel, in Spain, when the Weasel was driving. If I could do that, you will be able to do a lot more.
Using Scott's keys to open the padlock on the inside of the door, at the front of the lock-up, I push it open.
The cool evening air hits Michelle like a slap in the face and she straightens up a little but she still cannot support herself. For appearances sake, when we open the car, we put her in the driver's seat but she is too groggy to drive. Jackie sits beside her and starts the car up, without difficulty.
The Weasel is coming, Bim announces, joining us. He heard the lock-up door open.
She is holding a plastic shopping bag with something inside it.
What have you got there?
She reaches in and pulls out her blue satin shoes, triumphantly.
They'll
come in handy, I comment, dryly.
They're evidence, they are, she tells me, in a mock London accent, reminding me scarily of Dick Van Dyke in the film, Mary Poppins.
The Weasel strolls towards us, wearing a clean pair of overalls, as though he believes he has all the time in the world to stop us getting away. He can see Michelle lying back in the driver's seat, scarcely able to focus her eyes, so he must be congratulating himself on her recapture already. If he is curious about how she managed to get Scott's keys and use them to escape, he doesn't show it. His calm acceptance, of whatever he is presented, with never ceases to unnerve me.
Unlock the door, Michelle, he purrs. You know you can't run away from me, love. Come on, be sensible. Then, more harshly, he commands her: Simon says unlock the doors.
That will work, dick-head, Jackie answers him.
Bim laughs. Bim says you haven't a prayer.
Michelle writhes in fear at the sound of his voice. She knows she has to get away but can't marshal her mind and limbs to do more than lie there. The Weasel strolls around the back of the car to the passenger side.
He has the hammer in his hand, Kerry warns. He is going to smash the window.
Do you think now would be a good time to get us out of here, I say to Jackie, who like the rest of us has been transfixed by him.
She doesn't pause for a second. She throws the car into gear, makes the accelerator pedal move downwards and we lurch forwards, several metres.
The Weasel jumps clear in confusion. He can't work out why the car appears to be moving on its own without any input from Michelle.
Moments later, we've left him behind us. It really is that easy. We start to cheer. We have gotten away.
Hey, look at Michelle, Bim exclaims.
We do as we're told. She has fallen asleep in the driver's seat. She looks peaceful.
Can't you see? We've done it! We've changed her destiny. We've saved her life. Death has left her. She’s going to live until she’s ninety two!
Our plan is to drive her to the nearest hospital, except an argument breaks out over which one would be least likely to give her a fatal infection were she admitted. After much discussion, we agree to take her to a police station instead but then there is a difference of opinion over this too. A general worry arises that her story won't be taken seriously, that she'll be dismissed as a crack head. I protest at this cynicism but I'm wasting my time. We're neurotic parents, where Michelle is concerned. We're so delighted to have saved her, we can't bear to hand her over to the care of anyone else.
It is dark outside, a fine drizzle of rain distorting the rays of the street lights, making them spin and sparkle through the car windows like fireworks. I never thought we'd pull this off, I really didn't, and so far nothing terrible has happened to us for doing it. I'm glad. We needed this, all of us. After everything we've been through, we needed to win a round. All we have to do now is to wait for Michelle to tell her story, with a little bit of help from us, and the Weasel is going to jail. As soon as we drop her off, I shall get Carrie to send the police straight to the lock-up so they’ll find Scott's body, before Gordon has a chance to dispose of it. They can hold him for that murder, while they investigate the others. When they discover the wig, in Spain, he is all but convicted.
I can see a white van in the rear view mirror, Jackie informs us.
Bim yells in panic: What do we do? What do we do?
It might just be a coincidence, Gerte soothes.
We all turn around to get a better look.
Sorry ladies, check the number plate. It is him, Scott confirms.
Jackie shrugs. So what? There is nothing he can do.
Then, why is he following us?
Do you want me to lose him?
Can you?
What do you think?
Please be careful of the wheels, Scott warns, as she accelerates. I've only just finished restoring her, he adds, defensively, when the temperature around him drops to subzero.
Jackie turns onto the dual carriageway, in the direction of central London. The Mercedes doesn't even break into a sweat, as we weave in and out of the lanes to get further ahead.
What did I tell you? We've lost him.
I nervously look behind us but she is right. There’s no sign of the white van.
Turn off at the next exit, Jackie. It will lead us through Catford. We need to make a decision about what we are going to do with Michelle. The sooner we get her into protective custody the better.
The traffic lights are against us, at the last major intersection, before Catford. Michelle is slowly becoming more alert. Her eyes are open, and although she still can't quite grasp what is happening to her, it can only be a question of time before the drug completely wears off. I use our enforced stop to persuade the others we should drive her straight to my old police station ,where we will be able to deposit her into the safe hands of Nigs and Fester. The rest will be up to them and to her.
As the lights change to green, we've already reached the midway point of the intersection, when I notice something peculiar. To our left, a battered old Mini is approaching us at speed. Two teenage boys are in the front but behind them I think I glimpse a familiar figure.
Somewhere inside me a siren begins to wail. The Mini jumps the lights and everything slips into slow motion as it lurches towards the passenger door of the Mercedes. Jackie takes evasive action to protect Michelle but the car spins, three hundred and sixty degrees, making the impact unavoidable. I take in the shock on the faces of those young lads as they lose their lives but Sergeant Ross, sitting in the back of the Mini, is smiling genially at me.
She is not going to live until she’s ninety two anymore, is she, Bim?
Surrounded by the deafening din of bending metal, I can't concentrate sufficiently to pick up her answer.
It stops as suddenly as it started and the car is enveloped in an unsettling stillness. We stagger out of the mess of metal: all of us - the teenagers, Michelle, Sergeant Ross, and us.
What have you done to my car?
Nobody answers Scott. We are all staring at Michelle’s body lying in the road. Her head and chest are mushy with bloody tissue and there is a thin silver thread running from her physical being to her spiritual one which is hovering next to us, calmly observing the scene.
Let her live, I plead with Sergeant Ross. Otherwise we've done this for nothing. Please let her live.
Not my call, Madding, he answers.
Whose is it then?
Hers, he says, quietly.
The two boys have spotted their bodies inside the wreck of the Mini.
What is my dad going to say?
It was your idea to borrow his car.
They're just zit-faced kids. They can't be more than five years older than Sam. Their poor parents! They should be at home, not mangled to death in that car wreckage. They should be in bed, asleep. So why the hell aren't they?
There is no need to worry about any of that now, boys, Sergeant Ross reassures them. It is time to go.
They are too young to have any reason to think of bolting. They do as they're told and follow him towards the Light. I know it is there but I don't dare look, just in case it draws me in too. Michelle's aunt Milly is beside us. She holds out her hand to her niece who takes it and the silver thread linking her to her body dissolves. She too is going into the Light. It is over, then. All our efforts have come to nothing: fifth gear to reverse in a matter of seconds. I can barely believe it. I notice Scott walking towards the Light without waiting to be asked. I'm about to protest, when I realise Jackie, Gerte, and Kerry are following behind.
What are you doing?
But, they don't even turn to look back at me. How could they just go off, without a word? How could they do that, after everything we've shared?
Sergeant Ross calls to me: What about you, Madding? Have you had enough yet?
Not nearly, enough, I answer back, defiantly.
I feel the brightness of the Light. I'm wa
rmed by it. I could so easily be uplifted. And, in the next moment, it is gone.
They didn't even say goodbye, Bim wails, clutching a blue satin shoe.
You've lost one, I tell her; not wanting to acknowledge how betrayed I'm feeling myself.
I put it on her body. They'll know she is one of us that way.
Why didn't you go into the Light?
I started this by asking you to find my body. I'm not going anywhere until it is settled.
I remember Gerte saying something similar once. She was going to see it through to the finish. Perhaps, she thought she had. She chose to make Michelle's death the finish. I still feel I have something to fight on for though and I'm suffused with warmth towards Bim for keeping me company. I'm nothing without a twin.
Why leave only one shoe on her body?
I'm going to take the other one back to the lock up. She hands me Michelle’s mobile phone. Send a message to the police.
I look at her quizzically. What shall I say?
Tell them you witnessed the crash and that Michelle told you the address of the lock-up where she was held by her abductors before she died.
I start to write the text message.
Have you seen him?
I look towards where she’s indicating.
A muttering crowd has gathered on the pavement. No one is going to get out of there alive, I hear one of them predict. Has someone called an ambulance? In the thick of them, the Weasel is standing. He is grinning from ear to ear.
The newspapers regurgitate the story, over and over again, during the following days. Michelle Seymour was the unluckiest of women, they agree. She was abducted, in broad daylight, from a busy London street, without anybody noticing, and yet, despite being drugged, incredibly, she managed to get away, after overpowering her attacker, and setting light to the lock-up, where she was being held. It should have ended happily but, tragically, as she made her escape in her abductor's car, a couple of joy riders - neither of whom was old enough to hold a licence – jumped a red light and ploughed into the side of the car, killing her. The two teenage boys, one of whom had taken his father's Mini, without permission, also died. In another twist, it is revealed that Ms Seymour wasn't killed, instantly. She spoke to an anonymous bystander, before she died, who texted the police from the crash site to say she had named her abductor as being Scott Ramsey - the same man whose body the police later found, burned beyond recognition, at the lock-up. To cap it all, when the police arrived at the scene of Ms Seymour's crash, she was found to be wearing a blue satin high heel belonging to the last victim of the most wanted criminal in the country, the June Killer, who has abducted and murdered four other young women. Who else could this be but Scott Ramsey? There is no mention of Gordon Richards. The police have no evidence against him. Even if they could prove the two men knew each other, they would be a world away from securing a conviction against him. Besides, he seems to have taken up residence abroad. The Spanish authorities can deal with him, if he starts up again over there.