Pain of Death

by Adam Creed

  Tommy has done all right by her.

  Emily stands at the garden gate to meet them. She sees Giselle three times a year, when Sabine Given goes visiting her mother in Rouen. Sabine doesn’t know Tommy brings Giselle here, nor can she ever. The trouble is, Giselle is now of an age when she will begin to tell tales. It has to stop. Giselle’s development prohibits her seeing her mother ever again, from today. Of this, Emily knows nothing.

  Tommy holds Giselle to the sun, like a trophy, and he brings her quickly down, presses a thick kiss into her pudgy cheek. She smells of ice-cream. He holds her out to Emily, says, ‘Has Natalie called yet?’

  Emily nods.

  Giselle says, ‘Nattalilly.’

  Tommy says, ‘You didn’t tell her I was going to be here?’

  Emily shakes her head, ruefully. She looks guilty. Or is she ashamed? Either way, to comfort herself she pulls Giselle close to and squeezes her, says, ‘Auntie Emily loves you.’

  ‘Calm it,’ says Tommy.

  ‘So much,’ whispers Emily, turning, carrying Giselle to the house. It’s enough to make her cry. What actually makes her cry is the truth of the matter: knowing that Tommy has every right – knowing that if it wasn’t for Tommy, and Nat, she wouldn’t even have these stolen days. Regardless, it doesn’t make it enough. People can change their minds. ‘Let’s make a cake,’ she says to Giselle.

  From the kitchen, Emily watches Tommy drag on a cigarette. Her stomach won’t be still. It is not too late to tell Natalie not to come. Why would Tommy not want Nat to know he is here? That’s something to fear in itself. Time was, Tommy and Nat were kind of friends. From what Nat had said, that bond is well and truly on the fray.

  *

  Tommy stands at the bottom of the paddock and flicks his cigarette over the edge. He looks out to the sea. It is calm, but you can hear the waves crash. There is a precipitous sheep track down to a sea-locked cove directly below. They call it Deadman’s Cove. He has done the descent once, but it scared him half to death. There are two sections of scree where you have to go on your backside and clutch onto tufts of grass where you can.

  Here, you’re a long way from everywhere. Nowhere is half a mile down the road. The other way, the village of St Agnes is a mile off. He turns ninety degrees and picks out the stamen brickwork of the tin mines. You could hide someone away for ever down those.

  He is far away, here, but perversely it seems there might be nowhere to run. Sabine would say a cul-de-sac, but the place has served its purpose and purposes change. His ears prick.

  From the direction of St Agnes, a car rumbles. He legs it across the paddock to the house and down into the snicket where Emily keeps her wheelie bin and recycling containers. His Merc is in the garage. There is nothing to say he is here. He should get Giselle, just in case, but it’s too late.

  He waits. The tyres grind gravel. The engine stops. The handbrake grates. Then silence. He waits for the slam of a car door or the flip of a boot. But there is nothing. The engine ticks a while, then only the gulls and the sea.

  *

  Staffe hangs up his mobile and picks at his lunch. He has rack of lamb but the flesh of the meat is overdone and the dauphinoise potatoes are gloopy. He looks across at Eve who is eating a piece of sea bream daintily. It reminds him of someone playing the game Operation! Trying not to make a false move.

  They are in the garden of a pub by the higher reaches of the Thames, which appeals to him very much. It makes him feel connected. All his life, he has never been far from this old father: in Surrey and when he was at Merton College up in Oxford and now his office in the City. From his flat in South Ken he can run it in five.

  He checks that his phone is turned on. Alicia Flint had said that there was no sign of Tommy Given’s Merc. Merseyside Police are watching the obvious roads onto the Wirral peninsula, both from the city and also along the trunk roads up from Chester and the M56; the major junctions, too. He thinks he might have upset her, by asking was she sure that she had taken the particulars correctly. He had repeated all the germane information to her and she had sighed.

  Digital tones sing a tune he can’t name and he reaches for his phone, but Eve holds out her hand and with the other drops her fork. She reaches into her bag, panicking. ‘My God,’ she says.

  He realises Eve must have different ringtones for different people and says, ‘It’s her, isn’t it? It’s Natalie.’

  Eve looks at her handset, as if it might detonate.

  ‘Answer it!’ he says. ‘Is it Natalie?’

  ‘It’s a text.’ She presses a couple of buttons with the perfect nail of her thumb and she nods.

  ‘We have to call her. She’s got her phone switched on.’ He reaches for the phone but Eve leans away and says, ‘Let me read it, at least.’ Her eyebrows pinch together and her lips move ever so slightly as she reads the text.

  ‘Here.’ Eve hands him the phone and picks at her fish with her fork. She does it harshly and takes a big mouthful, has to reach into her mouth with her fingers, for a bone.

  Staffe reads:

  u must tell them wht u need 2. Ill be fine. Don’t worry. This is wht I have 2 do. U know. U know me! Am in cnwl 4 now but fone going off. This is my peace, e. I luv u.x.

  He says, ‘What does she have to do?’

  Eve shrugs. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘She’s in Cornwall. Where?’

  ‘She’s never told me.’

  ‘But she knows you know she went there? She’s with Emily Bagshot.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Staffe works his way out of Messages, clicks through the menu that offers him the opportunity to call Natalie Stafford. He presses, waits and hears that the device is turned off once more.

  ‘She won’t answer.’

  ‘And you won’t tell me where she is.’

  ‘Believe me. If I knew, I would. She never says she’ll be fine. She always says the worst. I’m afraid for her, Will. What shall we do?’

  ‘How will she find peace?’

  ‘Peace for Emily, maybe?’

  ‘Or peace for herself. From what you say, she’s never got over what happened.’

  Eve stares towards the river. ‘I dread to think what she might do. Sometimes … sometimes, she’s so full of hate. Full of something not her. Perhaps she’s getting rid of that.’

  Staffe trawls the reasons Nurse Natalie might go to Cornwall, to see Emily Bagshot, the girl she knew from Yorkshire and the girl she helped to abduct, that her child be placed in the custody of the hitherto childless Tommy Given. Or is it so many red herrings? What he knows for sure is that once you are within the compass of Tommy Given, you dance to his beat. You stay put, should he say so.

  He calls Josie and gives her Eve and Natalie’s mobile numbers and the time of the call, and Eve’s network, tells her to get a trace on Natalie’s mobile then liaise with the nearest CID. He feels helpless, thinks north for Yorkshire and north-west for Merseyside, thinks south-west. Suddenly, his world is larger, even more unnavigable. The Thames flows by, the same as it ever did, and he puts his knife and fork together, with no choice but to go with the flow.

  Thirty-Five

  Natalie puts her phone in her pocket and leans towards the windscreen and looks up at Emily’s house, sees that the light above the porch is on even though it is daylight. It is the sign that Tommy Given is still here and for a moment, this makes her afraid. She reminds herself that there is no other way. The world has to be put back the way it was, but even so, her hands tremble. She must be strong, for Emily; for that atonement.

  She checks that the back seat is left down a little, to allow air to pass into the boot, where baby Samuel Degg is wedged in tight, in his Moses basket, just the tiniest dose of Fenergen in his last feed. He sleeps soundly, silently.

  Everything she could prepare is done. In the pocket of her loose-fitting jacket are a scalpel and a syringe. In each of her trouser pockets she has a small canister of Mace. She takes a mobile phone from the glove com
partment, bought at the services in Bodmin and honed for emergency services, just requiring a single, light press of the green. She leaves the keys in the ignition.

  She steps out, smells the ozone. The sea air gusts her hair.

  The front door is slightly ajar, as Emily said it would be. They have taken all reasonable precautions, have secured an element of surprise, but that is all. She knocks and goes into the hallway with one movement and Emily appears from the kitchen with Giselle in her arms. They each have flour on their arms and Giselle’s hands are gooey with cake mix.

  Natalie says, in a stage whisper, ‘Aah, this is how it should be. Where is he?’

  Emily hugs her one-time friend, her one-time captor. Natalie is a few inches the shorter, has an angelic face, but Emily is, as ever, afraid of her. It’s the way it has always been, since what happened to Natalie. Nat only recently told her all about it. It’s what softened Emily’s heart almost enough to completely forgive. Emily whispers into Natalie’s ear, ‘He’s out in the garden. Over by the cliff. Can’t we just go?’

  Natalie looks beyond Emily, her eyes opening wide, as if she is seeing a ghost.

  Tommy Given is in the doorway, holding up the keys to Natalie’s car. He says, ‘You should be more careful. It’s a criminal world, you know. Even here.’

  Giselle reaches out from her mother, holding her hands towards Tommy, saying, ‘Papa. Papa.’

  Natalie feels peculiar as she goes across to Tommy. She makes it appear that she is happy to see him; goes up on tippy toes and kisses him on the cheek. And she is, actually, pleased to see him. This feels right. It feels as if it is the end of a chapter – a whole story, perhaps.

  She takes Giselle from Emily, the way only a nurse can, and she hands the toddler to her supposed dad, rubbing her nose into the infant’s neck en passant and making the beautiful little girl giggle hysterically. ‘Pleasant surprise, Tommy.’

  ‘Have you got Samuel?’

  ‘I’ve got the kettle on,’ says Emily. ‘Giselle and I were making cakes. They’ve just gone in the oven.’

  Tommy says, ‘You didn’t tell me you were coming to see Emily.’

  ‘I tried you. You’re a hard man to get hold of.’

  ‘I don’t have any missed calls.’

  Natalie raises her eyebrows and flicks her head backwards, as if drawing a line all the way back up the A30. ‘It’s turned into a damn mess. And that’s for sure.’

  He goes into the kitchen and sits on a bar stool at the breakfast bar, appears to relax. ‘I’ve handled worse. It just requires a little direct action. I asked you about the boy?’

  ‘Samuel?’ says Natalie. ‘He’s with Lesley.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Who else could I trust? But he’s fine. He’s ready to go, just as soon as you say.’ She smiles at him, as if she might be about to tell him they have found a little something but that the prognosis is not all bad. ‘Nobody knows about him, still? He is a secret – right?’

  Tommy looks at Emily as if he might be determining her fate. ‘I’m getting a bit concerned about Crawford.’ He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a copy of the News. On the front cover is a remarkable likeness of Giselle. It is a pen and ink rendition and the child has a hand upon her shoulder. The wrist to the hand has a fat Rolex wrapped around it. As Tommy holds up the image, his Rolex slumps, heavy. ‘Who’s that look like?’

  ‘It could be any three-year-old little girl,’ says Nat.

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  Above the photograph, the headline is: ‘Do You Know This Child?’ And in smaller print, above the article: ‘Who breathed the life into this girl?’

  Tommy says, ‘There’s been nobody snooping, has there?’

  Emily shakes her head, like a scolded child. ‘I swear, Tommy. Not a dicky bird. I keep myself to myself down here. They don’t even know …’

  ‘Know what? There’s nothing to know. You’re not a mother. You …’ He transforms his voice to a hiss, turns Giselle away and puts a hand over her ear, ‘You didn’t want this life. Remember?’

  And this is all it takes, to turn Emily to tears. Her shoulders shudder and she reaches for the work surface. She says, ‘I …’

  Natalie goes to her, tut-tutting at Tommy. She wraps her arms around Emily and her suspicions as to why Tommy came here are confirmed. ‘Let’s not upset Giselle, hey, hun.’

  Emily says to Tommy, ‘Thanks for bringing her to see me. Really, I mean it.’

  Natalie rubs Emily’s back.

  Distantly, a faint cry emerges. The cry is painfully young, and muted. Natalie freezes, stops rubbing Emily’s back.

  ‘What’s that?’ Tommy raises a finger to his lips. ‘What the hell is that?’ He walks quickly out of the kitchen and the two women, holding each other, listen to him leave the house, going towards the car.

  Emily whispers, ‘Oh, my God. Why did he come? Really, why did he come? Do you know something?’

  ‘You have to do what I say, Emily. Exactly what I say.’

  ‘He said no harm would come to me, ever. He promised me.’

  ‘Everything’s closing in, Em. We have to do what we said.’ Natalie takes out a tiny canister, the size of a mouth spray. ‘Get it into his eyes. Don’t hesitate. I’ll say, “For the love of God”.’ She takes Emily by the shoulders and shakes her. ‘“For the love of God”,’ and then you do it. You don’t hesitate, right?’

  Emily nods, wiping her eyes. She takes the Mace from Natalie and looks around. ‘Where’s Giselle? Where’s he taken her?’ Emily’s face is drawn and bloodless. She looks as if she might faint.

  ‘He’s gone to the car. The boy is in the car.’

  ‘He’s taken Giselle.’

  ‘He’ll be back. You have to concentrate. If you hear “For the love of God”, you do it. You hear!’

  Emily’s eyes glaze over, lose all focus. She drops the Mace and her knees go. She slumps to the floor and Tommy comes in, carrying the boy, Samuel, swaddled in a crocheted blanket. Natalie had made it with her own hands.

  ‘What the hell were you thinking?’ shouts Tommy, coming into the kitchen, holding the baby boy, and leading Giselle: his family, a kind of flesh and blood.

  Natalie says, ‘I had to bring him. Aren’t you pleased?’

  ‘Why would you lie? He was in the boot, for the love of God.’

  Emily looks up, startled. She mouths the words, ‘For the love of God’, and tries to stand but she falls back to her knees, slipping on some cake mix. She looks up from the floor, holding up the canister of Mace, her finger on its top.

  ‘No!’ shouts Natalie.

  Tommy is holding the boy. He pulls him close to his chest and lets go of Giselle’s hand. He stares at Emily, who is holding the Mace, looking at Tommy, then Giselle. She reaches out for her daughter and pulls her away from Tommy.

  Giselle screams, ‘Papa!’

  With the baby Samuel in his arms, he advances slowly towards Emily, saying, ‘What is that? What the hell have you got?’

  Emily shakes her head, tries to talk but cannot. She staggers to her feet, her hand held out before her, pointing the Mace at Tommy’s face. With her other hand, she keeps a tight hold of Giselle.

  As calm as sun rising, Natalie advances towards them, saying quite serenely, ‘Emily? What on earth are you thinking?’ As she gets to within a yard of them, Tommy gives her a sidelong glance.

  Emily says, ‘I’ll do it.’ Her finger is on the button of the spray. ‘All I care about is my baby. Just her.’

  ‘Papa!’ cries Giselle.

  Tommy holds Samuel, his large hand splayed on the baby boy’s chest, his other hand reaching into his pocket.

  In this moment, Natalie feels calm, as if the breath in her lungs is ice. What she does next reels away from her, as if she is someone else; as if it is also not just Tommy she is doing it to.

  Fast as a card sharp, and with a peacemaking smile broadening across her mouth, Natalie flicks her right hand from its pocket and sprays a fine jet at h
is face. Samuel squeals and Tommy puts a hand to the boy’s eyes. Natalie takes another step and sprays a longer blast straight into Tommy’s eyes. Tommy screws up his face and steps back, holding Samuel’s face to his chest and pulling a knife from his pocket.

  Emily clutches her daughter to her bosom, edges away as Natalie moves closer to Tommy, reaching into her pocket.

  Tommy blinks manically and forces his eyes to stay open. He gets Emily firmly in his sights. ‘Say goodbye.’

  ‘Watch the child,’ shouts Natalie, moving out of his eyeline and stooping behind him. She holds the scalpel as firm as she can, swipes at the back of his knee. She can hear the material of his trousers being scored, then the ping of his tendon being cut clean through.

  His knee gives way and Tommy slips towards the floor, like a drunk.

  Natalie monitors his movements, calculates her next move. She could go for the other leg, the way she planned.

  ‘Papa,’ says Giselle, softly, confused.

  Tommy is on one knee and blood streams down his leg, beginning to pool on the floor. His face is flexed in agony and his eyes are blood red. He draws back his knife, trying to turn to face Natalie, but she keeps moving, arcing away from him, reaching into her pocket again.

  Natalie takes a firm hold of the syringe, pulls the plunger and sizes up Tommy’s neck. As he twists round, flailing with his blade, still holding Samuel, she stabs the needle into his neck. He swivels. She goes with it, pressing the plunger in. She looks away from the syringe and watches as he topples back. She looks into his eyes, can savour this moment. She has stopped the big, strong bully of a man in his tracks. Little old her has brought the ogre down and she takes a half-step closer, like a matador in the eye of a kill, watching him writhe. His eyes grow heavy. The evil smile evaporates from his face and he slumps back to the ground, lies on his back, still holding Samuel, his flesh and blood, to his chest, until his grip releases and his arms flop by his side.