by Liza Cody
I dreamed about being hanged.
I dreamed the Devil loved me and took me to the bedroom. When I lay down for him he cut off my foot. He said it smelled rotten.
I dreamed hornets crawled under my skin and laid their eggs in my heart.
No one came to see me—not even Dl Sprague.
The next time someone fetched me it was a WPC called Linda. She took me to another interview room with a grey plastic-topped table. DC Anderson was in charge.
‘You’ve been downgraded,’ Kaylee whispered. ‘Are you feeling better? They told me you were quite sick and couldn’t eat. Can I bring you anything in from outside?’
‘Ice cream,’ I croaked. ‘Ice lollies, banana custard.’
‘Okay, okay,’ she said. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Anderson turned to WPC Linda and said, ‘Go and pick up some ice cream and a spoon. If they haven’t got any in the canteen, go to Tesco’s and I’ll reimburse you later.’
When she’d gone he said, ‘Listen, Lady Bag, you’re in a position to help me and I’m in a position to help you. On the other hand you can screw up royally in which case I can make things tough for you. Do you understand?’
Kaylee said, ‘Are you offering my client a d-deal?’
Anderson pointed at the recorder on the table. It was not running. ‘I’m talking about good will and maybe recommending treatment instead of a custodial sentence. All I want is a sensible chat, during which we agree to call the Devil by the name of Graham Attwood, and that the Lord of Lust and Wrath doesn’t stick his nose in too many times. I don’t want you to make up shit to please me—that’s not what I’m saying—I just want a reasonable account of what you remember and what you don’t. Is that too much to ask?’
Kaylee said, ‘As f-far as I know, my client has not been charged with an offence meriting a custodial sentence.’
‘Assaulting a police officer—namely me. Last time she pushed me out the door, started screaming about ghosts and ran away.’
My cough bubbled over but I said, ‘When I see a ghost what do you want me to call it—a sausage sandwich?’
‘She wasn’t a ghost; you know that.’
‘But I thought she was.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I thought she was Natalie Munrow who everyone said was dead. So she had to be Natalie Munrow’s ghost.’
‘Do you really believe in ghosts?’
‘I believe in Satan and restless spirits,’ I said. ‘I don’t see why visions of Satan or ghosts should be any less valid than visions of the Virgin Mary.’
‘The Virgin Mary notwithstanding,’ Anderson interrupted, looking tired, ‘when you’re talking about the human manifestation of Satan, please would you call him Graham Attwood? It’ll make a huge difference to the tone of your witness statement. It would make you sound less deranged and me less of a prat.’
‘Who’s a prat?’ WPC Linda asked coming through the door with a tray bearing a heaped bowl of vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce and four cups of tea. She was a sight for sore eyes, to say nothing of throats.
Soft, sweet frozen gloop slid from spoon to mouth to gullet like honeyed anaesthetic. I smiled at DC Anderson. He really wasn’t bad for a cop.
He burned his tongue on the hot tea, switched on the recorder and said, ‘You’ve said on a number of occasions that you think Graham Attwood killed Natalie Munrow. Can you tell us why?’
‘Start with the easy ones, why don’t you?’ I said.
‘Ah-ahem,’ said Kaylee, so I had to think about it.
In the end I said, ‘Because he was there and he must’ve had his own key. Because the little stone lion’s gone from outside the house. Because J… Whatsisname and Whatsisname didn’t do it or I’d be dead too. Because they both said she was already dead when they got there and they wouldn’t bother to lie to me.’
‘What about the little stone lion?’
‘It stood on the edge of that phoney horse trough. I remember because Electra thought it was so bogus. But next time we went there it was gone. Joss and Georgie wouldn’t have nicked it cos it was heavy and they chose stuff that’s easy to carry and quick to sell—CDs and DVDs.’
‘Would you explain how you know about the stolen items?’
‘When I went back there after the hospital—those were things that were in a mess.’
‘And why did you go back after the hospital?’
‘I thought it was where I lived. The keys fit the door. I had all my identity in my handbag and everyone including a police lady called me Miss Munrow. I couldn’t recognise my own face in the mirror.’
‘Photographs taken of my client at the t-time are in the file—plus doctors’ reports about the extent of her i-injuries, including a skull fracture.’
‘No one knows quite what to make of that,’ DC Anderson said. ‘The CPS is still considering charges of Breaking and Entering and Theft, for instance.’
‘C-concussion and/or hysterical fugue brought on by the influence of legally prescribed painkillers,’ Kaylee said. ‘Any number of doctors including the one who originally treated her could convince a jury th-that… ’
‘Okay, okay.’
I smiled at Kaylee. She was hitting her stride.
‘But you do know who you are now?’ WPC Linda spoke up for the first time.
‘I am the Dowager Lady Bag of Denmark Street, also known as Mad Old Bat with Dog.’ Reasonableness only gets you so far with the police. After that they start taking advantage. I turned my back on the cops and finished my ice cream.
‘Try not to help again,’ Anderson said to his colleague. He paused, giving me time to lick the bowl. Then he said, ‘So let me get this straight: when you entered 14 Harrison Mews for the first time, after being kicked in the head… ’
‘And ribs—don’t forget the ribs.’
‘And ribs, Ms Munrow was already dead and her property had been burglarised.’
‘I didn’t see a body. I didn’t notice her property. Not then. I just wanted a drink.’
‘Situation normal,’ Linda muttered, and Anderson kicked her under the table.
‘The trouble is,’ he said, ‘it has been suggested that you had blood on you before anyone kicked you. It has been suggested that you were only kicked because you were committing an assault on John Farmer who thought you were already a murderer and was in fear for his life and defending himself.’
I should’ve expected it, I really should. The Devil turns friends into enemies; he renders the just unjust, and the unjust unjuster.
‘Don’t start mumbling rubbish,’ Anderson said.
I tried to collect myself, but all I could think of to say was, ‘Have you seen Joss?’
Kaylee said, ‘D-DC Anderson are you seriously accusing… ?’
‘I have to mention it.’
‘I’m s-sorry,’ she said, ‘b-but I don’t think much of this non-confrontational style you promised me.’
‘An accusation has been made—in the same way that she’s accused Mr Attwood.’
‘But I’ve never hurt anyone.’
‘You pushed me,’ he said reasonably.
‘But it didn’t hurt, did it? Besides, I needed a wee and you were standing between me and the toilet.’
He took a moment to collect himself. He’d begun to sweat. Then he said, ‘What makes you think Mr Attwood had Miss Munrow’s key?’
‘Stands to reason, doesn’t it?’ I started to cough.
‘Would you like more ice cream?’ he asked, sighing.
I nodded, and after WPC Linda left the room I said, ‘He went to Natalie’s house while she was at the theatre. Why would he do that if he couldn’t go in?’
‘My problem is this—suppose the woman you saw Attwood with was not Miss Munrow? Suppose it was Chantelle Cain?’
‘So what?’ I
said. ‘He still took a taxi to Harrison Mews. Chantelle doesn’t live there, does she?’
‘But suppose he only went there to leave a secret note for Miss Munrow about the surprise party they were planning for Chantelle’s birthday, and then he went straight home to Acton. Suppose he didn’t have a key to the house in Harrison Mews and he never went inside.’
My heart double-knocked. The cops had talked to the Devil. He’d told them a story which I really hoped they would check. I said, ‘When’s her birthday?’
‘In about a month, apparently.’
‘Then I’d want to see the note and Chantelle’s passport and birth certificate and send them away for forensic testing to make sure they weren’t faked. He could make a nun lie for him.’
‘But you never actually saw him there.’
‘No, but she had the jasmine-scented bubbly bath oil he loves and his favourite candles, and soap from Fortnum’s. That’s why I thought it was my bathroom. He trained me too, you see. The pillows smelled of almond and citrus so I thought it was my bedroom. I’m not lying—the Devil’s head lay on those pillows.’
‘You said… ’
‘Gram,’ I cried. ‘In his earthly manifestation Gram Attwood luxuriated in that bath and slept in that bed.’
‘Have you checked the product in the b-bathroom?’ Kaylee asked, as WPC Linda came in with more tea and ice cream.
‘No I fucking haven’t,’ he said. ‘And I’m not going to. I can’t see the Crown Prosecutors setting much store by a vagrant’s sense of smell.’
Kaylee agreed. ‘She’s never going to be a prosecution witness anyway, is she?’
‘God, I hope not. But she might still have to defend herself. She might find she’s the only one left in the frame.’
‘So you m-might check if any of the same products that are in his house are in Natalie’s house too. You might want to check for his DNA on the sheets… ’
‘Too late, the brother’s been staying there… ’
I let the chilly gloop anaesthetise my throat again.
I could tell my story but I couldn’t sell it.
Decent Middle-English juries, senior police officers, the CPS, barristers and judges would all reject my story because they rejected me. I live on the outer edge of the known universe, a scrounger who drinks red wine, who doesn’t bathe regularly, who’s had her head kicked in—leaving her grotesque and ugly. But for exactly the same reasons they’d probably accept me as a mad, bad killer.
The spoon was rattling like maracas against the bowl. My spine was strung tight as piano wire.
‘Can we take a break?’ Kaylee asked.
Kaylee said, ‘You’re damaging your liver, you know. You could die a horrible painful death.’
‘Beats a horrible painful life.’
‘What?’
‘If I go to prison for life… ’
The custody sergeant came in with a plastic cup of water and a pill—only one pill. I panicked.
‘Strictly speaking, your medication isn’t due for another hour and a half,’ he said. ‘Take it or leave it but don’t make so much fuss.’
One whole hour and a half, ninety minutes to be endured one by one—how could they torture me like that? Shouldn’t the Red Cross have something to say about it?
‘You’re sick.’ Kaylee hovered in the doorway to my cell. ‘I could ask for you to be transferred… ’
‘No!’ I’d be sectioned for sure and then I’d never get out—never see Electra again, never be free from their medication. That’s not living. Although, why should I care? The Devil is covering his tracks with webs of eight-legged lies. And I am his fly—encased in the sticky ropes that hold me helpless while he sucks at my viscera. The pain and emptiness started in my chest and corkscrewed everywhere.
I thought the Master of Spiders had forgotten one tiny corner of his web where I could be cared for and at peace with Electra. I was wrong. He lured Pierre and Electra in and gave me moments of comfort with them only to rip them away. The Craftsman of Pain gave me the Poisoned Draught. It’s called Foul Hope and it kills slowly.
A couple of hours later, back in the interview room, DC Anderson said, ‘Tell me more about the little stone lion that you noticed was gone from outside 14 Harrison Mews.’
‘It was there, and then it was gone. What’s to tell?’ I was numb now, three-quarters dead. Everyone seemed to prefer me that way. DI Sprague was back again, squatting like a scorpion in the corner. WPC Linda brought ice cream and custard, and then went away. Kaylee sat beside me chewing on a hangnail. I couldn’t be bothered to ask for a chair for my foot. I knew it was throbbing but I couldn’t really feel it.
‘What made you notice it?’
‘I didn’t, Electra did. I told you, she thought it was bogus.’
‘But when you came out of hospital it was gone?’
I nearly corrected him—the fact is that when I came back from hospital I didn’t notice a thing. But I couldn’t tell that to Anderson and Sprague because, when I did finally check up on it, Smister was with me.
‘Where do you think it is now?’
‘How should I know?’ I didn’t want to say, ‘Under the Devil’s kitchen sink’. He’d ask how I knew and that too would mean talking about Smister.
‘But you suspect it might have been the weapon that killed Natalie?’
I shrugged.
‘Good question.’ Dl Sprague stood up and stretched his long arms over his head. ‘How would you know any of this unless you broke into 17 Milton Way, assaulted Chantelle Cain and found a bloodstained stone lion under the kitchen sink?’
I was horrified. I turned to Kaylee with what I hoped was an expression of stupefied ignorance on my face.
Kaylee looked horrified too. ‘Where is this accusation c-coming from, Detective Inspector?’
‘Information received from the Acton Police.’
‘W-why wasn’t I informed?’
‘Only just received. They were waiting for forensics. For your information, Ms Yost, Angela Mary Sutherland’s fingerprints were found in the premises.’
‘I-is this true?’
‘My mother, my brother and me—we lived there all our lives. Now I don’t live anywhere. The Devil lives there and I haven’t a pot to piss in or a window to jump out of.’
‘About “the Devil”,’ Anderson put in.
‘Gram lives there.’
‘How do you know?’
‘He’s in the fricking phonebook,’ I cried. ‘Just cos he’s the Prince of Pain doesn’t mean you can’t look him up.’ I was so grateful to Smister just then: remembering him with the phonebook was almost as good as having him beside me.
‘Stay c-calm. You were doing so well.’
‘But you haven’t lived there for what—four, five, years? Surely Mr Attwood’s redecorated, had building work done, since then?’
Oh the crafty bastard! He wanted me to tell him about Gram turning my brother’s room into a home gym. Then he’d know I was there.
I shook my head. ‘They took away my key. I can’t go in. There’s a force field protecting the house… ’
‘Y-you’re mumbling again,’ Kaylee said. ‘I can’t understand you.’
I pointed at Sprague. ‘He’s got Satan riding on his back, whispering in his ear. He knows I can’t go home but he taunts me. Make him stop.’ With that I folded my arms on the plastic-topped table, lay my head down and closed my eyes. Electra would be pleased, she’s always telling me to keep my head down and my mouth shut. There was a blessed silence for a few moments, and then I heard Sprague go back to his corner and sit.
Kaylee touched my shoulder and said, ‘Do you want anything?’
‘Sleep,’ I said, ‘ice cream, a comfier pillow, a bottle of red wine and Electra.’
‘Ice cream it is,’ DC Anderson said cheerfully.
/> He waited for it to come and allowed me four spoonfuls before saying, ‘You were keeping company with a young woman calling herself Josepha Munrow. It was about the time of the fire at that block of flats at South Side Docks. She appeared on TV with you and said she was your daughter. Who is she?’
I kept my hand steady on the spoon that was stirring the ice cream. I said, ‘What’s she done now?’
‘She’s not your daughter, is she?’
‘Of course not. She just wanted to get on telly. They wanted to interview Electra. She’s a heroine, you know.’
‘She isn’t even a young woman, is she?’
‘She’s a dog,’ I said, pretending to misunderstand. The fearful thing had happened—Jerry-cop had spread his evil in bits and bytes on the Corrupter’s Spider Web.
‘Josepha,’ Anderson said.
‘She’s a thief and a liar but she has a heart the size of a horse. Where is she? She walked off with my umbrella and didn’t come back.’
‘That’s not all he-she walked off with, was it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He was caught using Natalie Munrow’s stolen credit card.’
I said, ‘It wasn’t stolen. It was mine. I was Natalie. The police told me so. They gave me the card. I gave it to Josepha because she’s got small fingers. My fingers got swollen in the cold and then the Lord O’Disorder made machines too small for my hands and too big for my brains. My feet are too big too and I can’t buy shoes. Bad Brad tried to chop one in half, but it didn’t work.’
‘S-slow down, you’re r-rambling again.’
‘That’s the point,’ I wailed. ‘How can I ramble when I’ve only got half a foot? How can I ramble when I’m in here and you won’t let me out?’
Nobody could think of any reply to that so I finished my ice cream. Then I said, ‘She didn’t steal the card or the phone. I gave them to her but if you find my umbrella, I’d like that back, please.’
A loud sigh from the corner told me that Sprague was reaching his limit.
Anderson said quickly, ‘The original question was, who is the person calling him or herself Josepha Munrow?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said because it was the Devil’s own truth. ‘I heard her called Jo, Josey, Jody, Josephine and Josepha. There were four of us—her, Electra, Too-Tall Tina and me. They took TT away in an ambo after the fire. I think she died. Josepha and I split up soon after. That’s what happens when you’re homeless. The only one left is Electra and you’re keeping us apart, thank you so fucking much.’