‘You fucking animal,’ he was shouting, ‘you fucking waste of a human being. You disgusting, repulsive excuse of a man.’ I could smell whisky on his breath and could feel the weakness in his punches.
‘Stop it, Angus,’ I shouted. ‘There’s no point in this.’
‘There’s every fucking point,’ he screamed. ‘You cowardly fuck. You useless cunt.’
I let him go on hitting me while the insults poured over me. I thought of V and how she would stop me with a kiss at the end of a Crave. I tried to feel her hand on my arm as it twitched to lay waste to the loser who’d just tried to kiss her. But V wasn’t there and Angus had done more than that; he’d kissed her and his hands had covered her body. And I’d heard his words before: they’d been screamed in my face by other people, other people who were with us now, looking through the window, laughing at my passivity.
How many times can you be told you are useless? A. Useless. Fucking. Cunt. Excuse. Of. A. Person? How many times can you be punched and stay quiet? How many times can you sneak back to your mattress and hide under your threadbare duvet? How many times can you go on believing life is a rehearsal and not the real thing?
I threw open my arms, which made Angus’s hands spin away from him, knocking him off balance so he stumbled backwards. He had blood on his hands and down his shirt that I knew was mine. I hate men like Angus. But then again I hate men in general. Angus might as well have been George or even Logan or any of the other fuckers who’ve waded through my life. Angus had broken the rules of the Crave; he had gone on where others had been made to stop.
I walked towards him, clenching my hand and drawing back my arm so it was level with my chin. He flinched as I threw my fist through the air and into his face. It connected with a force which sent him spinning backwards, his legs flying from under him. I felt the crack of his bone, the tear of his muscles, the dislodging of his teeth. I saw the final terror in his eyes as he fell through the air. But it wasn’t enough. I followed his fall with my body, my fist pumping into his face, pushing him ever further back into himself, rubbing out the fact that he had ever been here at all.
I don’t know how long I went on hitting him for, but I became aware of noise and someone pulling on my arm and I looked up to see V. I stopped immediately because it was all right now she was home. I sat back, my legs inexplicably skidding on the wet floor. V folded her body over Angus, a strange moaning sound coming from her.
I needed to calm my breathing, so I did my meditation exercises, breathing into my toes and working up through my body. Angus twitched once, his hand grasping for nothing. And then I couldn’t bear the thought of what V was doing, how Angus’s blood was drenching her, contaminating her. I stood and pulled at her shoulder, so she looked up at me, her eyes huge and miserable. I held out my hand, but she hesitated.
‘Come on, V,’ I said, ‘it’s going to be OK.’
She looked back down at Angus, who now had blood bubbling at his mouth. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she whimpered, ‘I don’t … I don’t know what to do.’
I leant down and took her hand, pulling her upwards and over Angus’s body, so we could back further into the house. I pulled her into me, feeling her tiny body succumb to my arms, so that I was the only thing holding her up. It was all going to be all right; she was home.
I was holding her very tightly but I wanted her to look up just once, to look down the hallway and see what I had created for her. I wanted to take her by the hand and walk her up the stairs and into her new bedroom. But it wasn’t the right time and it was enough that she was there at all. That we had finally arrived where we were meant to be.
I became aware of people and noise and for some bizarre reason Kaitlyn was standing on my doorstep, her hand over her mouth. The blue flashing lights arrived in minutes and I stood as the police and paramedics came into my hall. I held out my hands to them, with V still slumped against my chest, almost as though she had fallen asleep on me.
We didn’t need to continue any more with this tortuous cruelty we had been inflicting on each other. We could enter a new realm, one in which we could show each other how much we loved one another.
And as I stood there holding my beloved in my arms, I realised that when it comes to grand gestures there is nothing grander than killing for love.
III
My barrister, Xander Jackson, returned this document ten days ago. It might sound stupid but I’ve missed it, even felt worried about it. I’ve missed the act of writing it, almost like it is in control of the end of the story. And I’m desperate to know what happens next, where we go from here.
‘This is dynamite,’ Xander said when he handed it back to me. ‘In both a good and bad way. There’s loads we can use here, but also I think you should destroy it.’
‘No way,’ I said.
‘I thought you might say that,’ he said. ‘But if you don’t destroy it you have to absolutely promise me you’ll never show it to anyone. Our case is fucked if you do.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it makes you sound a bit unhinged.’
‘What are you talking about?’
He laughed. ‘Sorry, unhinged is probably too strong a word. I didn’t mean that. It’s just, well, some people might not entirely understand what you feel about Verity. They might misinterpret some of the things you did, like waiting outside her office and walking past her house. You know.’
‘Not really.’
Xander composed his face and leant forward, his hands clasped in front of him. ‘In all seriousness though, Mike, we’re going to plead not guilty.’
‘But I did it,’ I said. ‘I’m not denying I threw the punches. I mean, there were witnesses apart from anything else.’
‘Yes,’ Xander said. ‘But you’ve been charged with murder and I’m pretty sure we can get it reduced to manslaughter. If we plead not guilty, then the charge of manslaughter is still on the sheet and the judge can direct the jury to convict you of that rather than murder. It makes a massive difference to sentencing.’
Xander is an idiot like all the others, but an idiot my lawyer assures me we need. He is a dick-slapping show-off who might not go to the clubs George frequents, or beat up women like the men my mother chose, but he’s still an arse. I’m sure he’s married with a couple of kids, but still looks at pretty girls on the street, still allows himself the odd fumble at Christmas parties. His cheeks are ruddy and I expect he gets excited by bonfires and how to cook lamb and chopping wood, a type of person I didn’t even know existed until I went to university, but they do, I promise. He thinks he got into being a lawyer to help people and do good, and doesn’t like to admit that sometimes it gives him a hard-on defending impossible cases. And also he likes the money. But right now he is the best chance I have of getting out of here and starting my real life with V.
Initially I didn’t want to implicate V at all. But Xander had some powerful arguments. ‘Do you really think she’ll be outside the prison gates waiting for you if you’re in here for ten or more years and she gets off scot-free?’ he asked after we’d sweated out the argument in a strip-lit cell for hours and hours. I could feel the sweat pooling under my prison-issue clothes and the ants in my bloodstream were running riot.
‘A girl like that? Especially after all the media coverage? She could write a book, be the toast of the town. There’ll be loads of men queuing up to take her on dates. Besides, I think it’s damned unfair for you to take all the blame on your own. I hadn’t thought of it before I read your document, but you were clearly coerced and you have to ask yourself why she did that.’
‘It was part of the Crave,’ I said. ‘I thought I explained that. And she didn’t coerce me. I enjoyed it.’
Xander waved this away. ‘Do you know she was the sole beneficiary in Angus Metcalf’s will? That girl is a multi-millionaire now.’
I shook my head. ‘V would never do any of the things you’re suggesting for money.’
He smiled. ‘Just an added bonus t
hen, shall we say.’
I didn’t like his tone, but there was no point in losing my temper. ‘I don’t want to shift the blame on to her.’
‘Look, there’s no doubting you threw the fatal punch. But there are so many unanswered questions, so many ways we can get the jury to question her and then start to see you in a different light. I mean, for a start, why hadn’t she told Angus you were in contact? Why didn’t she report the assault straight after it happened? Why didn’t she tell Angus as soon as he got home? Why the fuck did she ring you to warn you he was coming round that night?’
‘It wasn’t assault,’ I said, thinking back to the glorious kiss V and I had shared which still rested like velvet in my soul.
‘Exactly. So, you have to ask yourself why she’s saying that now, all of a sudden. Doesn’t it make you doubt her intentions all along?’ Xander leant forward as he spoke, his Adam’s apple bobbing and his cheeks flushed.
‘I don’t expect you to understand. It’s part of our game. I don’t want people to doubt her.’
He looked straight at me. ‘Mike, they either have to doubt you or her. We can’t go after Angus because he’s dead and juries tend to feel sorry for the victim. If they believe you did it out of jealousy it plays very badly. Murder carries a mandatory life sentence and even if we got manslaughter you’d be looking at ten to fifteen years. We can say you didn’t mean to kill him until we’re blue in the face, but they won’t believe you. You beat him up pretty badly, apart from anything else, which doesn’t look good. But if you were so distressed you lost control then maybe we can turn them towards a more lenient version of manslaughter. What if your mind was turned by Verity? If her hold over you was so strong that you thought you were doing what she wanted? Then, then we’ve got a chance.’
My mind felt fuzzy. ‘But I’ll still have to go to prison.’
‘I think that’s going to be unavoidable. But what I’m suggesting is the difference between ten and five years, maybe less. You won’t even be forty when you get out.’
‘What will happen to Verity?’ I was thinking about how I would visit the prison gym in the evening and press weights.
Xander sucked in some air, as if he really was human. ‘That’s what we need to discuss, Mike. And I need you to listen carefully and think about what’s best for both of you. It’s not going to be pretty for her either way. We’ll have to tear her apart in court a bit and all your secrets will come out. But I think we need to go further. Maybe …’ He tried to look uncomfortable, but it didn’t sit well on his smooth features. ‘Maybe she’ll have to pay for what she’s done. Literally, I mean.’
I decided on heavier weights. ‘I don’t want her upset.’
Xander sighed. ‘Come on, Mike, this is serious. This is your life we’re talking about.’ He stood and leant over the desk. ‘Bottom line, you’re going down for this and I don’t think it’s fair for you to take this all on your own. Verity might not have thrown the punch, she might not even have actually asked you to do it, but she’s as guilty as you are in some ways. Come on, she was clearly in love with you and wanted out of her marriage.’
‘I don’t understand what you’re saying.’
‘Mike,’ Xander said, his voice lowered like I would imagine him speaking to his children when they were naughty and he was being reasonable. ‘I’m duty-bound to go to the police with what you’ve told me.’
‘But I haven’t told you anything.’
He tapped my document. ‘It’s all in here. You know they’ve had Verity in for questioning a few times already?’ I shook my head. ‘They’re obviously suspicious about her involvement. If I tell them what you’ve told me I think there’s a chance she could be charged with accessory to murder.’
‘No. Absolutely not.’
‘You’ll be tried together,’ Xander said. ‘You might even get similar sentences. And think about it. When you get out you’ll have this shared experience. She won’t have been out in the world getting on with her life while you’ve been rotting away in here. You can start a new life together, put all this behind you.’
I looked at Xander and his blue eyes, which reminded me sometimes of Kaitlyn’s. He smiled slowly as his words sank in. There was something intoxicating about them. Something which demanded surrender. Which felt like stepping on to warm sand or into a proper hug. It was a part of the Crave neither of us had anticipated, but maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. There was an undeniable beauty in the idea of V safely packed away in a cell just like mine, waiting to be taken out like a precious jewel in a few years’ time. It almost sounded romantic, like something we might tell our grandchildren.
Xander told me to expect certain aspects of our story to be leaked. He was sorry, he said, but there was nothing he could do about it. Office juniors like to gossip, he said, sighing as he stopped his hands from rubbing together. But I didn’t expect these ridiculous, bald headlines which leave out so much. I have started cutting them out and sticking them in here so that I never again forget what the world is like out there.
MAN KILLS RIVAL IN TRAGIC SEX GAME
DESIRE, DEATH & DESTRUCTION
THE LOOK OF GUILT
THE COLD-EYED WIFE
WAS ANGUS METCALF MURDERED BY JEALOUSY OR DESIGN?
THE CARE HOME BOY WHO NEVER FITTED IN
THE CARE HOME KILLER
IS VERITY REALLY TELLING THE TRUTH?
THE TRUTH BEHIND VERITY’S EYES
VERY CLEVER VERITY
THE BRILLIANT EXECUTIVE SUCKED INTO A DANGEROUS GAME
CONSTANT CRAVING
THE KILLER CRAVE
THE BOY WHO CRAVED LOVE
I also cut this article out on Saturday. It’s an opinion piece, written by someone called Helen Bell, whose name I will remember, published in the best-selling national newspaper in Britain.
IS VERITY METCALF A MODERN-DAY LADY MACBETH?
What an odd name for a woman at the heart of a seedy and deadly love triangle: Verity, supposedly the teller of truth. Except I’ve always thought it asking for trouble to give your children any of those Faith, Hope and Charity names. What a task to set a child, almost as if you’re goading them to rebel before they’re even out of the pram.
Verity Metcalf, 29, was, however, not someone you would look at and consider a rebel. On the surface she has in fact lived an exemplary life. She excelled at her £12,000-a-year private girls’ school, Haverfield in Sussex, near to the £3-million house where she was brought up. She did very well in her exams, 10 A* GCSEs and 3 As at A level. From there she went to Bristol University where she received a first in Applied Sciences. She then moved to London and secured a six-figure salary at the world-renowned Calthorpe Centre, taking part in pioneering work in Artificial Intelligence.
To top it all, she had recently married the so-called most eligible man in London, Angus Metcalf, a high-flying advertising executive at the top of his game. They lived in a house estimated to be worth over £8 million on one of London’s smartest streets, with pop stars and Russian oligarchs as their neighbours. They attended charity balls and dined with the rich and famous. They had works of art on their walls which wouldn’t have looked out of place in the finest galleries, and holidayed in some of the most exclusive resorts in the world. Their honeymoon to South Africa, taken only in September this year, reportedly cost over £20,000.
So what went wrong? How has Verity Metcalf found herself at the centre of a tawdry ménage à trois, as her brilliant husband lies dead and her ex-boyfriend, Michael Hayes, 30, languishes in prison awaiting trial for the murder?
The truth, as it always is, is much more complicated than the perfect face Verity presents to the world.
An undeniably beautiful woman, Verity has shown almost no emotion since the death of Angus Metcalf. She has been photographed countless times: near her house, at the police station, running in the park, at her parents’ country mansion, and yet her expression is always the same. The steely eyes, the pursed lips, the upturned chin. There is o
ften jewellery at her ears and neck, sometimes she even appears to be wearing a bit of make-up. Certainly her eyes are never puffy or bloodshot, as one would expect from a devastated new widow. She walks almost with her head held high, her gait strutting, as if daring us all to cross her.
I look at Verity and I don’t see a shocked woman in mourning, but instead a calculating temptress. She telephoned Mr Hayes to warn him that her husband was on his way over on the night of the killing. And she was apparently found embracing Mr Hayes by police called to the house by a neighbour, as her husband lay dead at their feet.
By all accounts, Verity liked sex and she liked to experiment. An ex-boyfriend has been quoted as saying that she sometimes ‘scared him with her passion’. We will never know if this was the hold she exerted over Michael Hayes, but many testify to how enchanted he always seemed by her.
Hayes is an interesting character. Brought up by a violent, alcoholic mother until the age of ten and then placed into the care system, with all its failings, he was an unruly and difficult child. Excluded from three schools, he only found stability from the age of twelve when he was placed in the permanent foster care of Elaine and Barry Marks. His behaviour certainly appeared to settle with them and his obvious intelligence blossomed enough for him to do well in his exams and secure a place at Bristol University to read Economics.
Verity and Hayes met during their second year and looking at photographs of them from that time it is hard to put the beautiful, confident girl with the shy, awkward boy. Friends say he was infatuated by her from the start and would follow her around like a puppy.
After graduating, Hayes went into banking, where he excelled. Not as rich as Metcalf, he still earned a substantial sum of money, with bonuses which regularly topped a million.
Our Kind of Cruelty Page 17