Fear No Evil (Debbie Johnson)

by Debbie Johnson

  I looked up at him, and added: ‘Come with me. We could—’

  ‘We could what?’ he interrupted.

  ‘Watch telly. Have a pizza. Drink a can of Guinness. Something normal, something a million miles away from all this…’

  He took my hand in his, and we started to walk.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘So long as I get to choose the pizza.’

  Chapter 37

  I woke up the next morning with a vague sense of unease. Until the events of the previous day came back to me, and then I felt a very specific sense of unease – I’d pissed off Eugene Casey. Big time.

  Dan had left at about midnight. We’d eaten a lot and drank a bit and watched ‘Terminator 2’ on the telly. No wild, passionate sex, but a lot of comfort and companionship, which we both needed. I’d made him get a cab home instead of doing that weird walking thing, then crashed into bed, worried I wouldn’t be able to rest for all the doubts and fears playing in my mind.

  Two seconds later I was asleep, out cold for a solid eight hours, untouched by dreams or restlessness. Which undoubtedly shows what a shallow person I am. But as soon as my eyes creaked open, I started to gnaw at it again. What had happened to Solitaire by now? And more importantly, what was Eugene going to do to me? All very selfish, obviously – but my survival instinct is pretty strong.

  There was, of course, a slim chance Wigwam wouldn’t drop me in it with the King of Crime, but I wasn’t holding my breath. Probably made more sense to spend all my savings on plastic surgery and buy a new face.

  I dragged myself out from under the duvet, had a shower, and ate leftover pizza straight from the fridge. Life was too short for health food, I was fast realising. I bet Joy Middlemas and Geneva Connelly would give anything for an extra slice of cold pizza.

  The phone rang. I saw Tish’s name flash up, closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

  ‘Solitaire’s dead,’ she said. Talk about getting straight to the point.

  I’d known it was coming, but that didn’t make it any easier to deal with. I sagged with the news, like a popped balloon.

  Part of me had hoped he’d run. Despite everything he’d done, I’d harboured a quiet wish that he’d used his brain, got out fast, and was sitting on a first class plane headed for Rio de Janeiro right now. As much for the sake of my conscience as anything else. But I’d known, deep down, that wouldn’t happen. Perhaps he hadn’t moved fast enough. Perhaps he’d stayed, hoping he could talk his way out of it. Either way, they’d got him. He was dead.

  ‘Topped himself. The body was found by his housekeeper this morning.’

  ‘What?!’ I said, so surprised I jumped to my feet.

  ‘Gun in the mouth. Very messy apparently. And his dogs, except he had the decency to drug them up first. Left an empty bottle of codeine by their chow dish. I picked up on the story, I was keeping an eye on police calls like you said – but I can’t help thinking it’s not a coincidence that you were asking questions about the very same man just yesterday. What happened?’

  ‘Jesus, Tish. I wasn’t expecting this. Was it really a suicide? Not just a… you know, a Casey-style suicide?’

  ‘Not from what I’ve heard. It was the real deal. Left a note and everything – the usual stuff, too depressed to carry on, blah blah. Obviously there’s more to it. And obviously, you’re going to tell your best friend everything she wants to know about it, aren’t you?’

  ‘Obviously I’m fucking well not. Not yet anyway. Christ. I need to think about this, Tish. I saw him yesterday, and he was… well, he was down. I gave him some news. I gave him some choices. I never had him pegged as the type to do this. And equally obviously, none of that can ever appear in a story.’

  ‘Spoilsport. Listen, I’ve got to go. I’m waiting for a call from someone in Indonesia. Don’t ask. But we’ll get together later – and remember this: whatever you told him, whatever you did, it wasn’t you who shoved the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger, so don’t spend all day beating yourself up about it. I know what you’re like.’

  Easy for her to say. Tish wouldn’t beat herself up about it if she was in my shoes. She’d chalk it up to experience and move on. Possibly get drunk and shag an Italian waiter if she felt really bad. But I wasn’t made that way and she knew it. I talked a good talk, but there was a mounting body of evidence now that wherever I walked, death followed. I was like the Grim Bloody Reaper, with boobs.

  I couldn’t figure out why I was so shaken. I’d woken up that morning knowing that Solitaire was probably dead, and that I’d played a part in that. Yet I was still stunned by the choice he’d made…if it had been a choice.

  I called Wigwam, left a message on his voicemail: ‘Was that you, and if so, why did you kill the fucking dogs as well?’

  Two minutes later he called back, his voice quiet and low, like he was trying not to be overheard.

  ‘It wasn’t me. No way I’d fucking kill the dogs. I love dogs. By the time we got there it was done. Don’t know why you’re so bloody surprised – seems like the sensible way out to me. He knew what Eugene was going to do to him, and at least this way he didn’t suffer. Much. Guns aren’t the most efficient way to—’

  ‘Stop! Shut up! I don’t want to know. What about Eugene? Have you told him everything?’

  ‘Yeah. Apart from the bit about you giving the scumbag the chance to run. ’Cause that’s what you really mean, isn’t it, love? I didn’t tell him, no. Didn’t seem to be any point, once we knew he’d offed hisself. Eugene’s pretty cranked up about it. If I let on you’d given him the chance to cheat him like that, he’d have come after box number two instead.’

  Which, lest I forget it, was me. I stayed quiet and concentrated on keeping my pizza down.

  ‘A thank you might be nice,’ he said sarcastically. He was right.

  ‘Thank you, Wigwam,’ I muttered.

  ‘’S okay. I didn’t do it for you. Did it for Eugene. You have too many mates in the filth, love. They’d never have let it rest, and that hunky blonde fella would have stirred it up a bit as well. Now, do you want to see the video?’

  ‘What video?’

  ‘The one of Simon Solitaire’s last few moments. Not the head blowing to bits part, like. I’m assuming you’re too much of a girl for that.’

  Yes. I most definitely was.

  ‘I mean the bit before,’ he said. ‘You know the CCTV cameras? He stood there, outside in his driveway, and did a little talk for us. It was a bit like one of those whatchamacallits, them vagina monologues, in a Shakespeare play. Almost felt sorry for the stupid fucker, until I reminded meself what he’d done to Geneva.’

  ‘And Bobby,’ I added.

  ‘Yeah. Whatever. So he gives us a speech, tears streaming and everything, about how he did love Geneva, honest. But it all got too much for him and he couldn’t cope and he was too scared of the big bad bogeyman and he’d missed her every day since she’d died. You were right about all of it. Shit himself when Dodgy Bobby came back on the scene, you poking your big bizzy stick in the hornet’s nest and all. He thought it was all dead and buried and suddenly it’s not – and you’ve got fucking Bobby translating messages from the grave, or whatever. He got help. Bloke from Brum did Geneva. Accident specialist, shall we call him? Eugene’s on to that.’

  ‘I don’t want to know. None of my business.’

  I wouldn’t shed any tears over the loss of one more hit man, but I’d heard enough death and disaster for one day. I needed a new job. Maybe as a dressmaker or a nail technician or something. Maybe I could just seduce Will Deerborne and marry him and be a lady of leisure for the rest of my life.

  ‘Last thing he says,’ carried on Wigwam, ‘was to say thank you to you. Like that “pass my thanks on to Miss McCartney,” he said. Nice, isn’t it?’

  Yeah. Very polite.

  I needed another shower.

  Chapter 38

  We met at Will’s later that day, thankfully without the intrusion of Francesca, as it was a Sat
urday.

  I popped in to see Justin, who I expected to be tucked up in bed with his bonce in a bandage. No such luck. He was lying on the sofa, scowling as Betty insisted he drink some pretty vile-smelling herbal concoction. I didn’t blame him. I’d rather eat my own vomit than sip that stuff, but it was nigh on impossible to disagree with Betty, so he had the mug in his hands.

  ‘You all right?’ I said.

  ‘Ummm,’ he replied, wincing as he tasted it.

  Okay, pleasantries over with, I thought. Down to business.

  ‘We need to regroup,’ I said. ‘Adjust our brains in the light of recent developments.’

  I’d filled Dan in on Solitaire’s suicide before heading over. He’d been quiet, mulling it over to the extent where I expected him to tell me to go off and do seventeen Hail Marys and donate ten per cent of my savings to the parish poor. Eventually, he said: ‘Well. I can see why he did it,’ and that was that. Lecture over.

  ‘Where’s Tish?’ asked Will, bustling in with an apron on. Black and white stripes, very stylish, probably the chef’s version of a hand-tailored tux, but an apron all the same.

  ‘Why are you wearing that?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ve been… making cookies,’ he answered, blushing slightly. Captain of industry Alpha male doing a Nigella. Who’d have thought it.

  ‘Oh. Well, I hope they’ve got chocolate in them,’ I replied, not really knowing what else to say.

  ‘They do,’ he responded, taking up a place in a large leather recliner chair. Obviously a bit tired after all that mixing and whisking and whatever else you did to produce cookies. Other than go to the corner shop and buy them.

  ‘So, we were wrong about Geneva,’ he said, summing it all up on one blunt sentence. ‘She wasn’t killed by the demon youngsters after all.’

  I might have been imagining it, but I was sure I heard a tinge of relief in his voice. One less death to chalk up to the Deerborne legacy, I supposed. One less hideous occurrence to keep him up at night. Lucky so-and-so. I still had more than enough to keep my guilt-buds going all year.

  ‘No. She was killed the old-fashioned way – by an irate lover who’d had enough of her. She became an inconvenience – no, more than that, she became a threat. So Solitaire had her taken out of the equation, and was probably relieved as buggery that everyone seemed willing to believe a ghost had done it. Or that she’d tripped.’

  ‘Why Bobby as well, though?’ asked Betty, sipping her evil brew like it was a fine glass of Prosecco.

  ‘Because he didn’t want to take any risks. Bobby had this reputation as being some kind of all-seeing psychic, and there was always the remote chance he might have tipped somebody off that Geneva’s death was something to do with Solitaire. Or at the very least, not to do with some psycho ghost.’

  And with the glory of hindsight, he had tipped me off, I now knew – telling me that the demon thingy hadn’t been the one to end Geneva. But I’d been too caught up in unfolding events to give it the attention it deserved. Plus my route to questioning Bobby any further was brought to a pretty effective close when he stopped breathing.

  ‘Where’s Tish?’ Will repeated. He seemed very concerned with her whereabouts. Maybe he had the hots for her after all.

  ‘Too busy to make it. She’s working.’

  ‘Anything to do with this?’ he asked.

  ‘Not a clue. Last time I spoke to her, she’d been waiting to hear from somebody in Indonesia, but she was keeping it all close to her chest. Which in Tish’s world could mean anything from an in-depth look at third world debt to a debate on whether platforms are in or out this season, so let’s get on without her. My question is this: we made assumptions about Geneva, and they were wrong. Are we making the same mistake with Joy? Is there some disgruntled boyfriend or neighbourhood nutter laughing his arse off at all this Demon Thing crap, when in reality, she just fell out of a window, or got pushed out of one?’

  I didn’t think so, but it needed to be asked. I’d missed it with Solitaire, and look what a happy ending that one had.

  ‘No. We’re not wrong,’ said Dan. It was the first time he’d spoken, and he was in his customary position leaning against the fireplace, arms spread out on the mantel. Sometimes the pose was relaxed, sometimes frenetic. Today, you could tell he had no interest in sitting down, or even in staying still. The energy was fizzing out of him in a constant, low-key buzz you could almost hear. I could anyway. But then again, I suspected I paid a lot more attention to the way Dan fizzed than anybody else in the room.

  ‘We’re not wrong,’ he repeated. ‘Not about Joy. We were all there, we all saw what it… they… were capable of. The way it talked about Joy; the way it tried to kill Sophie. I’m sure Geneva would have ended up the same – except Solitaire beat it to it.’

  I wasn’t so sure about Geneva. I liked to think that if anyone could have sent this demon straight back to hell, it would have been her.

  ‘Did Geneva contact you again? After you’d met her that time?’ I asked Will. ‘She was researching the history of the building, according to her cousin. Planned on doing the Casey version of an exorcism, which probably would have involved hand grenades and bulldozers.’

  ‘No. No she didn’t,’ he said, looking at me thoughtfully. ‘Do you think that’s the answer? Do you think we should demolish it? I mean, we’d take a financial hit, and the Institute would be horrified, but if that’s what it takes, I’ll do it. It’s not listed or anything.’

  I couldn’t imagine why. Oh yes, that was it. It was hideous.

  I looked to Dan for guidance. I’d have been happy to light the fuse personally, but he’d know more than I as to whether it would do any good, or if the demon would simply move along the road to the Shire Horse instead. Where nobody would even notice if a chick started crying tears of blood and its head spun round on its neck.

  ‘It shouldn’t come to that. And anyway, I want to go back in and finish the job off properly,’ said Dan.

  ‘What – this time it’s personal?’ I said.

  ‘It’s always personal,’ he replied seriously. Okay. I was clearly being too flippant, as usual.

  ‘When can we do that, then?’ I asked.

  ‘As soon as Justin’s well enough, which should be in—’

  ‘Four or five days,’ said Betty, her insistent voice almost drowning out Justin’s growled: ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘O-kay,’ I said. ‘So, at some point soon we go back in. Do we need to, you know, evacuate it or something? Could we do that Will?’

  ‘It would be tricky, but not impossible,’ he said. ‘I’m sure we could manufacture a gas leak or something equally dangerous, and if I had notice, I’d sort out alternate accommodation for everyone. I could book all those budget hotels on the edge of town.’

  Oh, to have such resources.

  ‘That might be the way to go,’ said Betty. ‘In the past we’ve managed to contain things, but this one seems on a bigger scale. Don’t you think, Dan?’

  ‘Yes. We’ll wait a couple of days – Justin stop whinging, you’re too important to all this to not be on full strength – and then decide when to do it. Will, you can work on the practicalities. Betty, do you have that list of names? The missing children?’

  ‘This might be a stupid question,’ I interrupted, ‘but is it them? Or is it a demon? I don’t really understand what the fuck is going on.’

  ‘I think it’s both,’ said Dan, frowning. ‘I think the horror of what happened to those children has lingered in that building. You heard them singing, the games in the background. The voice coming out of Sophie’s mouth. It’s like they banded together in death. They’ve probably been there, in that building, for decades, without harming anyone, taking solace in each other. Now they’ve been twisted, corrupted. The question is by what.’

  ‘Okay. Well. I suppose that’s your bag. What do you need me to do?’ I asked, moving away from the subject even though I felt far from happy with it. Kids. Poor, terrified kids, torn away from
their families and murdered. But it was too late for hugs and kisses now – whatever they once were had changed, and it was threatening more innocent lives. So it had to stop.

  ‘Rest,’ said Dan. ‘Pray. Go to confession if you feel like.’

  No. I really didn’t feel like. I’d be sat in the wooden box for hours, and I didn’t have that kind of time to spare. I was pretty sure there’d be some follow-up from Wigwam about Solitaire; Eugene may want to see me again, and I had a very strong urge to chat to Jack Moran about Jason Quillian’s future. I knew I needed to talk myself out of that one – Moran wouldn’t listen; there wouldn’t be any evidence, and deep down, I realised that karma would take care of Quillian itself. He wouldn’t live to see thirty anyway, he was too nasty and too stupid.

  ‘But there must be some way to prepare?’ I said. ‘We’re going in to a bad situation – there must be—’

  ‘Weapons? Knives, guns, karate kicks?’ said Dan, smiling at me like I was Alice in Wonderland, confused and bemused by my bizarre new world. I nodded.

  ‘No. Nothing like that. Nothing you’re used to. But there are some rituals, some prayers we can do, to strengthen ourselves. And we can talk to you and Will about what to expect – assuming you still want in on this, Will? Nobody will think any the worse of you if you don’t.’

  ‘Well,’ said Will, standing up and straightening down his pinny. ‘To say I “want” to be there is probably overstating the case. But I need to be there. I’d like to bash its head in with a sledgehammer, but I’ll settle for reciting the Lord’s Prayer and catching any stray students who fly out of the window. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think my cookies will be just about ready.’

  Right on time, the oven went ‘ping’.

  Chapter 39

  The next couple of days were bizarrely quiet. Justin was itching to get back into Hart House, but Betty was standing firm until he could, well, stand equally firm. And as a walk to the bathroom still made him go weak at the knees, she was keeping her Nurse Ratched act up. She had allowed his girlfriend one supervised visit, strictly no conjugal rights. She was called Samantha and she was indeed big, and very, very beautiful.