by P. R. Black
Glenn ran for his life. He pleaded, he burbled, snot and tears slicked his face, and he spoke of love, even as they bore down on him. He flung up an arm; Solomon grinned.
‘That’s not going to help you, son! Hey, welcome to the family!’
He raised the axe over his head with both hands.
Glenn screamed.
Solomon grunted, staggered, and fell.
His axe tumbled in the dust, raising a cloud.
The hatchet Freya had swung at his leg protruded just above his right knee.
All the blood had drained from Solomon’s face. Saliva trailed from his mouth. His hand closed around the hatchet, and then he screamed.
Glenn got to his feet. ‘What the fuck is going on?’ he said. ‘I thought you were with him!’
‘Of course I wasn’t! I had to think fast. It was a gamble. I’m so sorry.’ Freya picked up the axe. Her legs weren’t working properly; she might have been walking on spokes. ‘It was this or we would have had to fight him. I’m sorry. I’m sorry!’ She took his face in her free hand, instinctively; he collapsed against her a moment.
‘That was…’ Solomon wheezed, getting onto his haunch, right leg trailing, ‘well played.’ He grunted, and winced. Blood wormed its way out from between the fingers of the hand clamped to the wound in thick skeins.
‘Dad. Get your hand off the hatchet handle. Leave it where it is. The police will be here soon. Glenn?’ She reached into her jacket, and tossed him her phone. Then she wrapped both hands around Solomon’s axe handle, dragging the head back a little. Even that slight movement cut a thin furrow in the dust and concrete. It made a clean, dangerous rasp.
‘You’re not calling the police. Come on.’ Solomon spat. Then he retched. Blood had saturated his jeans and his shoes, gathering in the dust in dark red globules like spilled wax. ‘I knew it was ending today one way or the other – but come on. Not the cops.’
‘Take your hand off the hatchet.’ She raised the axe above her head, shoulders heaving, breathing heavily. So, so heavy. But she knew that solid mass would transmute into brute force when it fell, singing.
‘I can’t go back, love,’ Solomon cried out as he yanked out the hatchet, and scuttled forward.
‘I said, don’t!’
Freya screamed this last word, at the top of her voice. Then she brought the axe down, hard.
61
They kept Freya waiting a long time out in the corridor. In truth it had only been a matter of weeks since she’d first arrived at this place, but it felt like ancient history. Back then, she’d only been armed with fresh knowledge; a name to go with the blank spot in her own records. Now she was armed with the truth.
To know the truth about her father left her with no guilt or shame. She was hardly the first person to have been successfully gaslit by Gareth Solomon, and probably wouldn’t be the last. But the world knew, now, what he had done alongside Mick Harvie. And thanks to a leak on the police force, the world also knew that the Woodcutter’s daughter had wielded the axe herself.
That was the only part she wouldn’t, or couldn’t face. The joy of releasing that pent-up tension, the sharp, inexorable arc, the shock of impact as the blow landed. And then Glenn’s face, the utter shock, and then the revulsion, in the immediate aftermath, the phone dangling loosely from his hand.
She had not hesitated.
Was it in her? That was the question Freya might spend the rest of her life trying to answer. Was there something lurking in the genes, something affecting the mind, that she would have to live in fear of? Or even worse, was it something recessive in her, but perhaps dominant in a child she would have? Perhaps a child of hers would be pale, with dark, dark eyes. How would it feel to look into those eyes again, knowing who they belonged to? How had her mother felt?
Freya was meant to see a psychologist shortly, but she had her own armour, shield and sword by now. Her name was not Solomon; it was Bain. If need be, she could change the name again, and be something new. If Gareth Solomon’s murderous instinct was precisely that – something innate, rather than inveterate – she was positive she did not have it. What she did have was her mother’s compassion and fortitude. The former was the reason why she had disobeyed every instinct, and agreed to come here today.
Another non-named governor said: ‘We’re ready for you, Freya. You know the drill, I think.’
He was waiting for her inside another secure room, with more gorillas on the shoulders. This time, Solomon had two men stationed either side of him.
‘Well. Here we are.’ Freya’s father sighed, and sat back.
‘Yep.’ Freya nodded. Despite the glass, despite the guards, she felt more insecure than she ever had in his presence. ‘Right back where we started.’
‘Thanks for coming. I know it can’t be easy.’
‘You look thinner.’
‘Very nice of you to say so. I think. Weight loss is one thing to thank stress for. I never liked all the attention, really.’
Freya frowned. ‘You absolutely sure about that?’
‘Yeah. It’s complex. I liked being the Woodcutter. But I didn’t like everyone knowing I was the Woodcutter.’
‘I think I know what you mean.’ She pointed. ‘I have to ask… how is it?’
Solomon raised a club-like lump of bandages, wire supports and other material coalesced around his hand in a comical hammer-like shape. ‘It’s a good look, I have to say. Great fun getting it through a sleeve, let me tell you. And as for wiping your bum, well… But to be honest, the leg’s worse. Some amount of physiotherapy and operations for that. You’re a dab hand with an axe. Dab hand… Is not a good phrase to use.’
‘It’s good they managed to get the hand reattached.’
‘I still can’t feel it. It might be the drugs. Did you really have to chop my hand off?’
‘Yes.’ She dropped her gaze to her hands, which had begun to wrestle one another, unconsciously. ‘It should have been your neck. I had to do it. I couldn’t have you hurting Glenn. Or anyone else.’
‘Oh, your boyfriend?’ He still had that edge in his voice. Freya wondered if it had ever been for comic effect, after all. ‘He’d better be worth it, lass.’
‘So far, so good.’
Solomon scratched his chin. ‘He was going to take the heat for you. I remember that. He wanted you to get away.’
Freya found the topic genuinely uncomfortable, and dismissed it. ‘He’s fine. Needs a bit of work. But so does everybody. Anyway – sorry about the hand.’
‘I’d say no offence, but it’d be a bit of a lie, because I’m a little bit offended that my little girl cut off my hand.’
‘We were never going to have a conventional father-daughter relationship, were we?’
‘I’m proud of you.’ He grew serious. When he fixed Freya with that glare, she had once felt intimidated. Now, with the flesh in retreat from around his face, chin, jaw and neck, there was something haunting about it. Tragic, rather than scary. ‘I mean it. You’ve got the right stuff. You did the right thing. But there’s one thing I need you to know.’
‘I’m crying again. Sorry. I didn’t mean to. I said I wouldn’t.’
‘What I want you to know is… I wouldn’t ever have hurt you. I’m not sure if you know that. I was speaking in anger, I’d never have… I mean, look how I reacted when I thought you were on my team!’
‘I’m never going to know if you’re telling the truth. And you’re never going to get the chance to prove it. I suggest we leave it there.’
‘True enough. Unless I escape.’
The guards on either side of Solomon both shuffled their feet.
Solomon grinned. ‘I’m sure I won’t, though. Anyway. For what it’s worth, I am sorry. I lied through my teeth to you, all the way through. I wouldn’t blame you for ignoring me. But if you believe only one thing that comes out of my mouth, believe that. A man like me doesn’t get much in the way of blessings. But I got one in you. That’s a fact.’
�
�Thank you,’ she said.
‘On top of that, you’ll be happy to hear – I came clean about the other bodies.’
‘Florence Ceulemans? She was the one people thought might have been killed by the Wood… by you.’
‘Dutch girl. Yes.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Beautiful girl. I’m so sorry. Yes. Her, and four other girls. If Harvie took some on his own account, before we met, or while I was in jail, he might have taken that to his grave. I’ve told them everything. Tell the world, now, if you like. Tell them what I did.’
‘But why?’ she blurted out. ‘Why did you do it? Was it just a compulsion? Did Mick Harvie manipulate you? Or did you manipulate him? How did it start? When did you know you needed to do it?’
Solomon bowed his head. ‘I’m getting into it with a professional. One day I might get into it with you. Springing the lock on my mind. I can tell you it’s as bad as you could imagine, and worse… And it’s also an internal world you never want to know. Someday we can talk about it. Not today.’
There was silence for a second or two. Solomon broke it: ‘Now. Tell me your news. What’s happening?’
‘I’m going to retrain. I think I’ll study, take my A levels at college, then go for law school.’
‘The law! Ha. Let me guess – the Levison effect?’
‘Hmm, maybe not. The anti-Levison effect. I’ll be a goody two shoes. That’s me. Good enough to chop my dad’s hand off when I thought he was doing something wrong.’
‘Look forward to it. Hey, maybe I’ll go to your graduation?’
‘Maybe. Anyway. I was going to come here to say goodbye. But it isn’t goodbye. Because I will come back. It won’t be often. But I will come in and see you and speak to you. I felt a little sting, when I imagined cutting off all contact.’
‘Pardon the pun.’
She grew angry. ‘Just listen. Park the stupid jokes for a minute or two. I imagined ignoring you completely. But that little pain I felt… Didn’t come from you. Or me, really. It came from Mum. She would have told me that just cutting you dead was the worst thing to do. It doesn’t feel right, the same way as not making contact with you in the first place felt wrong. She would have wanted me to meet you, to check in on you. If you want to talk, I’ll listen. That makes me feel better. It won’t be father and daughter. We’ll never have chips on the beach.’ Here she broke down, and her guard placed his hand on her shoulder. ‘We won’t have Christmases together,’ she said, at last, wiping away the tears. ‘But I can come here, every now and again. I don’t owe you a thing. But I’ll do it. Because it’s right.’
Solomon seemed in shock. Did his eyes glisten, or was it just the play of harsh lighting on his oily black corneas? He sat forward, and nodded. ‘That’ll be just fine by me.’
He touched his forefinger to the glass. Freya instinctively pressed her own forefinger on the same spot. Then she fled.
*
Glenn waited at a café nearby. He ordered her an Americano, and pulled out a stool for her.
‘That’s that,’ Freya said. ‘Back to square one, I guess.’
‘Was he angry with you? You know, for…’ He actually mimicked a chopping motion. She burst out laughing, a positive release of tension at long last.
‘Hard to say what he thought. The guy’s an enigma. One day I’ll get to the bottom of it all. Why he did what he did… what drives him… What he feels. If he feels anything at all. I’ll keep going back. I’ll talk to him. It won’t be normal. It’s just necessary.’
‘You sure about that? God. Might be worth cutting the guy out, end of story.’
‘Not a chance. He’s my dad. He’s my only family. It’s not a case for shame. It’s nothing I did. I accept it. I accept him. Everything he did. Everything he says. Everything he believes. I’ve still got a tie. I don’t feel blessed. But he’s all I’ve got. I’ll never let him go.’
Glenn raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m not sure I’d feel the same.’
‘You don’t want access, then? You don’t fancy writing a bestseller?’
Glenn shook his head. ‘Not if you don’t want to, no. I’ll go with what you want. Whatever you want, that’s the right thing.’
He took her hand. She gripped it, hard.
‘Glenn… genetically, I am half-maniac. And I know you’re still a little bit sore about the whole chop-him-up fake-out…’
He sighed. ‘We’ve been through that. Sore point, but, you know, I’m dealing with it…’
‘But you were brave. You could have run at any point, that day. Any point at all.’
He looked towards their hands, linked on the table. ‘I’d never have left you. Never.’
‘Right answer. OK. Let’s go for the train. And I’ve got an idea for tonight. Something exciting.’
He got that hopeful, puppy-dog look. ‘Get into our jammies, open a bottle of wine and some crisps, and watch a really horrible documentary?’
‘Perfect.’ And she kissed him.
Acknowledgements
To steal from a poet, “only your undertaker knows for sure”. In my case, “only your editor knows for sure”, so a great big tip of the hat to Holly for her extraordinary work. This novel was a very different and difficult-to-manage creature at one stage, but she soon had it well trained. I’m very grateful for her guidance and patience.
Another tip of the hat to Helena, the peregrine falcon of copy editors. She misses nothing, truly extraordinary stuff. In the off chance there is an error in here, it’s something I’ve put back in.
And a wee dram raised to Hannah – she’s moved on to a new challenge in publishing, but she took a chance on me a couple of years ago at the start of this adventure. I’d been trying for years, knocking on the doors, nothing happening… Starting to wonder if it was ever going to happen… And she gave me a chance. I will never forget it. Slainthe!
And thanks, as ever, to Claire, Helena, Rory and Elaine, for everything.
About the Author
P.R. BLACK lives in Yorkshire, although he was born and brought up in Glasgow. When he’s not driving his wife and two children to distraction with all the typing, he enjoys hillwalking, fresh air and the natural world, and can often be found asking the way to the nearest pub in the Lake District.
His short stories have been published in several books including the Daily Telegraph’s Ghost Stories and the Northern Crime One anthology. He took the runner-up spot in the 2014 Bloody Scotland crime-writing competition with “Ghostie Men”. His work has been performed on stage in London by Liars’ League.
@PatBlack9
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