The house is shrouded in fog, and silent inside as I open the front door. Dark, too. A dim light filters through from the crack of the kitchen door. After calling out, ‘I’m home,’ and stamping my feet on the doormat I hang up my coat and run my fingers through my hair. Then, as I stoop to untie my laces, I notice Julia’s bag. It’s the bag she took all her clothes in to Chichester, and the one she came home with on Monday and unpacked that evening. And it’s full again.
She’s leaving.
Chapter sixteen
My heart leaps – something’s wrong – but I calm myself, remembering Julia could be called back to the dig at the shortest notice if the weather looks like it will improve. Of course that’s it. She has to go tonight, because they need to start work first thing to make the most of the light on these short winter days. Placated by that knowledge, I finish taking off my shoes, but I can’t retrieve my previous exuberance. I don’t want her to leave again, not even for a day.
I wonder why the house is so quiet.
I walk towards the kitchen. My socks feel too dry on the hall carpet, and a tingle flutters up my spine.
I wonder what’s for dinner.
I push open the kitchen door, and wait for the glare of fluorescent light to subside. Julia’s at the table, upright in her chair. She comes into focus slowly, ever so slowly. Her posture is rigid. She’s wringing her hands, the tension twists her fingers, her knuckles are white. Her mouth is a crease, long shadows tumble beneath her cheekbones which glisten with moisture. Her eyes are puffy, wet, wild. What the hell’s going on?
‘Julia?’
Her head turns to face me.
I step towards her. ‘Julia, what–’
‘Don’t move!’
‘What?’
‘Don’t come near me!’
‘What? Why?’
‘All I want to know,’ her voice is thick and strangled, ‘is if it’s true.’
Oh shit.
I feel the blood drain from my face, taking its warmth with it. She must see the fear in me. This is desperate. I try to look confused, concerned, not scared and guilty.
‘What? Is what true?’ But it’s no good, my vocal cords let me down. My voice trembles. Weak and unconvincing. My hands perform meaningless gestures. ‘Is what true?’ I say again.
She says nothing but her eyes explore my face, frantic in their sockets as they scan every millimetre of my visage. Such terrible scrutiny. I can’t bear it, I want to turn away as I would from a blast of hot air but I daren’t. The crease of her mouth wobbles at the corners, then sets firm again. And then her head starts to shake, slowly first, then faster and faster and ‘You bastard! You bastard! How could you? How–’
Julia stumbles to her feet. I start towards her again, but she rounds on me and lets fly the loudest, most elemental scream I could imagine. There are words in the scream: Get away from me!
I bluster: ‘I don’t know what’s going on … I haven’t done anything … this is ridiculous … what’s happening here? … I love you–’ and she attacks me then; three flailing punches on my chest, then a shove. She half-runs to the front door, grabs a coat from the hook and stoops for her bag. I grab her arm, she yanks and I tighten my grip, she beats my hand but I don’t let go and I tighten my grip and she wails and hits me harder and I pull my hand away. I’m shouting now, ‘Don’t go you can’t go don’t leave please don’t leave it’s a mistake don’t go don’t go oh don’t you can’t you’ and she’s crying ‘bastard I gave you everything you bastard you bastard’ and the door is open and I leap forward and try to shut it but she’s halfway out and I don’t mean to hurt her but I trap her arm and my hands are on my head and she’s crying so hard and her keys are in her hand and she slices the air with them but misses me but I can’t move now I didn’t mean to hurt her and I shout ‘don’t go you mustn’t go’ but the door the fucking door and I run and heave it open but she’s at her car and I know I can’t make her stay and I feel the lump the horrid lump expand and fill my throat and I can’t stop the sobs and they jolt and wrack and judder me on my knees and what have I done and why now and her car wails down the drive and away and I can’t cry enough I can’t make it stop
The man in the armchair looks familiar. He sits facing me, regarding me as I regard him, one fist on his knee, one on the neck of a bottle. I can’t read the label. Still fixing me with his eyes, he raises the bottle to his lips and sloshes down a mouthful. He wipes his mouth with his forearm and returns the bottle to his lap.
He’s not a handsome man, but not ugly either. Not fat, but not skinny. His face is grim, his eyes are like glass. He sees no future now, his past has no worth and his present is splintered.
The man in the armchair is a man steeped in rage. It builds inside him as he sits; he preserves it, covets it, nurtures it; he is still, as if movement would disperse it, and the whisky in his hand is fuel for it. And the man in the armchair has one question, the question, that question, the only question:
How did she know?
He frowns as he thinks. I look past him and through him, and let him ponder. He slips out of focus as I study the fog-drenched garden, the whirligig washing-line with its jagged limbs, shafts of light spearing through the trees, and the shed where I killed Frankie, barely visible in the gloom.
The man in the armchair has an idea. I bring him back into focus, and yes, he’s bared his teeth, his eyes have a spark; his widening grimace becomes a leer. I leer back and salute him with my bottle, watching him return the salute. We drink to his idea together.
I like his idea.
Chapter seventeen
Check my watch. Shop’s still open. Phone.
‘Ruth?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Anyone call looking for me?’
‘No.’
‘Nobody? You sure?’
‘Yeah. Look, Simon, I’m–’
‘Bye.’
Call Emily. What’s her number? Need my mobile. Need the SIM.
I tear the lid off the kitchen bin and toss it across the room, then upend the bin. Root and sift and clear and pick and there it is. Wipe it on my trousers. Find the mobile. Slam the drawer. Get the card in, battery, back, on.
Work, you bastard.
Come on.
Come on.
We’re there. Contacts, call, ringing. And ringing. Goes to voicemail. Fuck. Remember not to smash phone.
It doesn’t matter anyway how she knows; she knows. Forget about it. We had an idea.
Heart pounding, I let myself into the shed and turn on the lights. There’s still some of Frankie’s anhydrous blood on the floor, and I slip on it as I walk in. My knives and my hammer are where I left them, cosy among the other tools, not expecting active service, but ready. I bring them with me into the house and put them on the kitchen table. My hoodie and hat are upstairs, my rucksack in the cupboard, and they all join the weapons on the table. In a side pocket of the rucksack I find my A-to-Z, still interlocked with my notebook, with all my notes and lists in it, which I stopped using some time ago. I shove them back in the bag. I’ll burn them later. My hands are shaking. Do I need gloves? Can’t hurt. And it’s cold out there. I pack everything, along with the whisky, after one more swig and another to wash it down. Then I put on my jacket and shoes, set the phone to vibrate and shove it in my back pocket. Back door locked, lights left on, curtains drawn. I stop by the mirror in the hall. The man in the mirror sneers at me. He’s ready, I can tell. But am I? Then a memory, then another; one happy, one sad, in the space of an instant, like being whipped. Both Julia. Both so recent. Fight down the lump, bury it, fuck it, fuck her anyway.
The man in the mirror starts spitting, ‘Fuck it. Fuck her. Fuck her anyway. She’s a bitch just a bitch. Fucking bitch. Fucking bitch fucking bitch. Fuck fuck fuck. Cunt, bitch whore fucking cunt–’
Time for me to go.
Fog everywhere; fog dripping through the trees, hugging the hedges, coating the ground, soaking the air. Fog veiling the cathedral, dampi
ng its omniscience, covering its eyes.
The entrance to the park is before me. Behind the gate an opaque, dusted-crystal cloud glows from the lights within it. I crouch by the hedge and equip myself, still unsure whether hammer or knife is best for first strike, wondering how to arrange them in my pocket. Hammer first, I decide. My baseball cap goes on under my hood this time; tight leather gloves smother my hands, for grip in the cold. More whisky. She won’t take me back. Not this time. There isn’t any hope. More whisky.
I stuff my coat into the bag, which I zip up and put on, then I stand. Checking my watch I’m surprised to discover it’s not yet ten o’clock. The weather’s dispiriting, the pubs are still open, no-one’s about. I might have to make a few passes to find somebody.
I pause at the gate. It feels like the point of no return. If I cross this threshold, I’m sure there’s no going back; I will be committed to the deed, and it will be done. Or I could turn around here, give it up, go home and– and what? And mourn the loss of my wife? Look forward to a life of loneliness, with no friends, no family that gives a damn, a dull job, no prospects, no chance of change? Keep working and eating and drinking and shitting and pissing and wanking and sleeping and waking and working over and over until my body puts me out of my misery and packs it all in? Fuck that. Just for once, I’m going to do something they can’t do. Or at least, something they haven’t thought of. I’m going to kill somebody tonight, for no reason whatsoever. Not even for fun.
I watch my right foot lift from the ground, advance and plant itself on the path through the gate. So that’s my decision. One small step for a man.
I take short, slow paces, peering through the fog. The path is an island, beyond is a mystery. Just follow the path. The bench I sat on a few days ago appears on the left. I’m halfway across, there’s no sign of life. I sit, and I wait, poised. Time passes at its own pace. My heart is still thumping, the adrenaline has taken over, driven all thoughts from my mind. I’m alert, feeling no emotion, dialled in to my senses. The footsteps are no surprise. I knew someone would come. I tuck my feet under the bench and tilt them forward, ready to spring. Whoever it is is in a hurry. It sounds like a man. The light to my left begins to shift, a form emerges, tall, slim, purposeful. Alone. If not now, then never.
He’s just past me as I fly to my feet and pull out the hammer. He registers my movement and stops, half-turning to his right. He’s got a prominent nose, small deep eyes, tidy hair, a long neck and wrinkles. His mouth opens. I grab his shoulder with my left hand as I bring down the weapon with all my strength. He starts to recoil, an arm shoots up from his side, but he’s too late. I strike him on the top of the head, so hard that the hammer almost flies from my hands. But there’s not the solid crack I expected. Something gives. Something gives in his skull.
He collapses, thuds to the floor, no hands to break his fall. I retch, and saliva flows under my tongue. I hit him again on the temple, with all the force of my arm. There’s nowhere for his head to go, he takes all the impact and this time the hammer goes through. I feel it go through. Someone’s whining. I’m whining. There are tears in my eyes. Another retch. Laughter. I twist around and vomit. Whisky and stomach acid. More laughter. That’s not me.
That’s not me.
It’s coming from the tunnel end of the park. A man’s laughter, then a woman’s. I freeze. What do I do? Is he dead, this man? How close are they? Is he dead? I can’t just leave him here, it’s too exposed. I could run, but what if someone comes in from the other direction too? There could be someone coming from there now.
Get him off the path.
I pocket the hammer, grab the man’s clothes and pull. My teeth are gritted, the cold air hurts them as I breathe. Pull! Once, twice, three times I haul at his body, up and back, up and back. We’re still too close. If I can see the path, they can see me. Dark shapes in the fog, two, three, four. Come on! I heave again.
Their voices ring clear through the night air, but their shapes are swallowed by the mist. The sound recedes; they don’t see me, and they pass. I still feel too exposed. Keep going to the hedge. He’s easier to shift on the damp grass. In one go then, I grab his shoulders and pump my legs, dragging him backwards. The hedges. One last heave and we’re there. I brace myself, tighten my grip and pull–
Pop
Oh no no no, not that. Not my back. The pop first, and my body contorts and I turn and fall and roll. Then the numbness spreads like ink in water, all the way up and across my back, down my buttocks, and then comes the pain. Pulsing pain, growing with every beat, rising, rising, rising. It can’t get any worse then it does and all I can do is lie on my back and throw back my head and open my mouth in a soundless scream.
Chapter eighteen
How long have I been here? I’m still on my back, on my rucksack, although I’ve managed to shrug it to one side to stop the bottle digging in. I have to do something, I have to go. I turn my head and see my silent companion lying there, his face slashed, his clothes torn, holes in his torso but very little blood. About ten minutes ago in anger and frustration I took out my knife and, still lying on my back, stabbed him again and again until I could hardly lift my arm, in the face, in the shoulder, in the chest and the neck. He must have been dead already. Very little blood.
Fuck it, I should have just run. Why didn’t I run?
Right after that, Emily rang. She left a message.
‘Hi CM. Saw you called. Listen, my father’s back. I’ve been virtually imprisoned and he’s polishing his duelling pistols. I wouldn’t tell him your number but he got your home number from the phone book, so sorry about that. Oh well. It was fun, CM. Different, but fun. Although you need to loosen up a bit; not all women are the same, you know. Lose the checklist. There, I’ve taught you something. Have a nice life.’
The phone book. Idiot. One fucking S. Cheese in the phone book. Why the hell wasn’t I called J. Smith? So Lord Milston phoned my house and spoke not to me but to my wife. And she knew straight away it was true, but needed to see my face to confirm it, because she knows me. She didn’t even need an answer.
I have to move. Now. Taking my weight on my arms and pushing with my legs, in one motion I flip myself onto my front. I manage not to cry out from the pain. Now I’m lying on the cold, hard bulk of my weapons. I can’t get found with these. Someone might take pity on me and try to help, and I can’t have them. I slide them out from beneath me and wipe them on the side of my hoodie, through some impulse drilled into me by American TV, although fingerprints won’t matter a damn because they won’t have me on record. I fling them into the bush. Give the dogs in CID something to chew on for a while.
I plant my hands and push; at the same time I shuffle my knees up towards my waist, trying to keep my torso horizontal. I’m on all fours, and fighting the agony I get myself turned and crawl. It’s slow going, at every stage I want to stop and fling myself to the ground and yell, but I’ve left a dead man behind me and I’ve got to get away.
Blood on the gloves. I stop and prop myself on my elbows, then ease the gloves from my hands. I let them drop and proceed. The dew will soon be frost. The cold goes through my fingers and knees. To distract myself I count the litter as I follow the hedge. I lose count before long but remember a syringe and lots of cans, cigarette and joint butts, and a blanket, all in one go. I almost take the blanket to wrap up my freezing hands, but it smells of piss.
So much pain. Every movement means crippling, searing tear-jerking pain, but I can’t stop. I’m nearly there. The lights are my goal but I follow the hedges at a diagonal to them to stay out of sight as much as possible. And finally, after endless stopping, starting, stopping, cursing and starting, I see the path and the gate. No foot-traffic. Lucky. Can it be the pubs still haven’t kicked out? Last train from London hasn’t come in yet? Go for it. Go for the path. Beat the rush.
I make it undetected and nobody’s raised the alarm. But it’s still so far to my house. Just get to the road without being seen. That’s not far.
If I can get to the road, I can avoid being connected with the park, and I can get a taxi. I ready myself for a big push and go, as fast as I can, tears dripping from my face, like an overgrown baby. Stones dig in and cut my palms. I talk to myself, spur myself on. Come on, come on you lazy bastard come on. I know nothing, feel nothing but the need to keep going and the crippling pain in my back.
I reach St Peter’s Road and throw myself onto my left side on the strip of lawn by the pavement. I can see the lights of the pub and the mini roundabout to the north, and the small basin of grass with the swings, among the limes and horse-chestnut trees, is to the east among the fog. I remember that I never did explore that playground as an option for my plan. Despite my lists, and my planning, it was always going to be the park, and I think I always knew it.
Cars cut ghostly shapes as they pass. Occasional pedestrians glance down at me and hurry on. I’m in no mood to move again. I feel for my bag with my right hand over my shoulder, and get a fingertip hold on the top of the bottle. I need a drink. Just tease the bottle out …
‘You all right mate?’
A couple. Samaritans. Surely I just look like a drunk. It was the man who spoke. He’s short, thickly-built and young. So is she. They could be brother and sister, but they’re holding hands, so they must live together; similar diet and similar lifestyle mean similar build, and they have similar mannerisms and expressions, and similar taste in winter clothes. Little people dressed for winter remind me of children. Ruddy cheeks. I try to find some composure.
‘I’ve hurt my back.’
Her: ‘God, how awful. What happened?’
‘Tripped over. It’s happened before.’
Him: ‘God, is there anything we can do?’
Stop mentioning God, the pair of you? ‘It’s not far to my house. I’ll be all right.’
Him: ‘Well how are you going to get there?’
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