Dead Heat

by Nick Oldham

  ‘You get in the bloody car,’ Coulton growled.

  Her right heel kicked back and connected with his shin. He howled and threw her aside. She landed on her knees on the pavement.

  All around, the other kids’ parents simply stepped back and let it happen without interference.

  That night Henry was not in the mood to be a watcher.

  He pulled away from Leanne.

  ‘Dad,’ she said, warningly.

  ‘It’s OK.’

  Coulton had got hold of one of Charlotte’s arms and was dragging the unfortunate girl towards the big car.

  Henry stepped up to him.‘ Leave her,’ he said. His anger was transparently evident, even from just those two words.

  Coulton released her and stood upright, turning slowly to face the challenge that was Henry Christie.

  ‘Back off, Henry.’

  ‘Uh-uh.’

  They stood face to face.

  Behind them, Charlotte had rolled into a ball, sobbing uncontrollably.

  ‘I’m here to collect her on Mrs Wickson’s instructions. This is none of your business.’

  ‘When you collect her like that,’ Henry explained, ‘I make it my business.’

  Out of the corner of his eye, Henry saw a patrolling police van crawl in their direction. Coulton spotted it, too.

  ‘She’s a bit pissed and doesn’t know what she’s doing,’ Coulton said. ‘I’ve come to take her home – so get stuffed.’

  The police van drew parallel with them. The driver wound his window down and leaned out. ‘Gorra problem?’

  Henry and Coulton looked at each other. Coulton tore his eyes away first and said, ‘No, not at all.’

  Henry said nothing.

  ‘I’ll just stay in the vicinity,’ the PC said, sensing the tension.

  He U-turned the van in the street and parked opposite.

  Kids and parents who had been glued to the encounter started to drift away.

  Henry bent down to Charlotte. She looked up at him with pleading, watery, drug-filled eyes. ‘Come on, love,’ he said. ‘You need to get home. Come on, get into the car.’

  ‘I don’t want to go with that bastard,’ she whispered.

  ‘Come on, it’ll be OK.’

  ‘Yeah, come on you spoilt twat, get in the car,’ Coulton said to her over Henry’s shoulder. Charlotte howled.

  ‘Shut it, Jake,’ Henry warned him. ‘Come on, come on love.’

  ‘Please, please, you take me home.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Henry said pathetically. ‘Come on.’

  All the fight drained out of her. Henry almost thought he saw it leave her, like a ghost. He helped her up and led her to the back door of the Bentley. Coulton opened the door and Henry guided her in. Instead of going on a seat, she prostrated herself in the space between the front and rear seats.

  ‘She’s a little cunt,’ Coulton hissed into Henry’s ear. ‘Doesn’t deserve fuck all.’

  ‘If you lay a finger on her, Jake, I’ll make it my personal responsibility to pay you a visit.’

  Coulton laughed in his face, then got into the Bentley. He tore away from the kerb, two fingers raised in Henry’s direction, then he was gone. Henry watched the tail lights fade. He looked over at the police van, nodded at the driver – a PC he did not know – then went to Leanne, who was waiting for him twenty metres down the road.

  He gave her a hug. Arm in arm, they walked to the discreetly parked Astra.

  ‘Sorry it’s not a Bentley,’ he apologized.

  ‘She can keep her bloody Bentley. I’d rather have this – and you – any day,’ Leanne said. It was the first time Henry had ever heard her swear.

  ‘Do you have much to do with Charlotte?’ he asked her.

  ‘No – only met her at the stables. She goes to some posh private school out near Poulton somewhere.’

  ‘Oh, I assumed she went to yours,’ Henry said foolishly.

  ‘Naah . . . I quite like her, though, in a funny sort of way,’ Leanne said wistfully as she fitted her seatbelt. ‘But she’s not a happy kid,’ she said, like a grown-up. ‘Money doesn’t make you happy, Daddy.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ll ever find out on my wage.’

  ‘It’s love and family that make you happy. And laughs and fun.’

  ‘Can’t disagree with that.’ Henry’s heart felt like it was being twisted.

  ‘We have a good family, don’t we?’

  ‘Yeah, we do.’ God – he was starting to fill up.

  ‘She doesn’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Her daddy isn’t her real daddy.’

  Henry almost swerved the Astra off the road.

  Eleven

  With his mind buzzing, Henry Christie was still awake at 2 a.m. He tried not to toss and turn so as not to disturb Kate, but lay there with his arms clasped at the back of his head, staring at the ceiling. He was reviewing his day, going round and round the block since Jane had called with the car at 8 a.m.

  That seemed such a long, long time ago.

  Since dropping her off and making her walk to the police station, Henry had not spoken to her.

  Perhaps he should, he thought. But then again, perhaps not. She was far too tempting for him, even though he had promised himself not to get involved. There was still more than a spark between them, despite what she said, and under the right circumstances it could ignite into passion and danger. At least that is what his male ego led him to believe.

  His mind drifted from incident to incident, like a butterfly on flowers, not really fathoming out anything from his sleepy analysis.

  The biggest shock of the day had been Leanne’s news about Charlotte and her parentage. Henry tried to speculate as to what significance that had on the family. Was the man Tara had her tryst with the real father, or just one of a series of lovers? Did it have any connection with the mutilation of horses? Did John Lloyd Wickson know he wasn’t the father?

  Bloody hell, he thought: a can of worms.

  He peeled the duvet off him and rolled out of bed, grabbed his dressing gown and slid his feet into his Marks and Spencer slippers.

  He needed a drink.

  Without disturbing anyone, he hoped, he made his way downstairs and to the fridge in which he kept a chilled bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He poured a short measure and retired to the living room, spreading out on the settee. The ice-cold drink burned satisfyingly down his throat. Nice.

  Fuck! He had a moment of anguished panic when he remembered that a gun and a bag of drugs were still stashed in the Astra parked in his driveway.

  He had another drink to calm himself down.

  When Troy Costain came up with the goods, he would lose the gun and destroy the drugs. If he could keep his nerve for the next day, that was.

  He closed his eyes and thought about the drug dealer he had beaten up.

  That had been a moment of pure rage, but one he did not regret. A kick for the common people, he thought triumphantly, and raised his glass.

  Obviously if the little shit complained to the police about it, Henry would have to have it taken into consideration with the gun and drug possession.

  He chuckled slightly manically.

  The sour mash whiskey was making him feel mellow and sleepy, doing its job. He knew mind, body and spirit needed to rest. His body ached. His mind was warped. His spirit was battered.

  He shuffled into a comfortable sleeping position, head laid back on the arm of the settee.

  He drifted nicely.

  Then the phone rang. It was Tara Wickson.

  ‘Henry?’ Her voice was dithery. ‘Henry? Please come and help me, I don’t know what to do.’

  He struggled into an upright sitting position, not sure if he had been to sleep.

  ‘What’s the matter, Tara?’ he asked blearily.

  She was panting.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I’m standing here . . . in the kitchen . . . I’ve got a shotgun and I’m pointing it at Jake Coul
ton and I’m going to kill him . . . I’m going to kill the bastard . . . and then I’m going to kill that bastard of a husband of mine.’

  Henry was suddenly very awake. ‘Whoa . . . come on, cool it, calm down, Tara,’ he said. ‘Tell me what’s going on . . . Keep calm . . . Keep rational . . .’ As he was talking, he was racing upstairs, throwing his dressing gown off. He needed to get dressed and keep her on the phone, talking . . . because while she was talking, she wasn’t pulling a trigger. He tried hard to recall some of the tips from his hostage negotiator’s course, but his mind was pretty much a blank. He lurched into the bedroom and switched the main light on. Kate groaned, shielded her eyes from the glare and sat up, looking astonishingly annoyed and puzzled at the same time.

  With the cordless phone to his ear, he shuffled himself into his discarded shirt.

  ‘Now keep calm . . .’ he was saying again as he tried single-handedly to get into his jeans. He could not be bothered with underpants. ‘Tell me what’s going on.’

  Charlotte Wickson, wedged down behind the front seats of the Bentley, cried as she was driven away from the disco, feeling as though she had been abandoned by Henry and her mother, who had sent the dislikeable head of security to pick her up.

  Jake Coulton threw the big, heavy car sharply around corners, braked hard, deliberately so as to make the ride as rough as possible for the recalcitrant teenager behind him. He heard her groan and gasp and felt good about it.

  ‘You shoulda sat in the seat.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ she said.

  He sneered and stopped at a set of traffic lights. He glanced over his left shoulder.

  Something inside him moved.

  She was wearing a very skimpy skirt, revealing her long thin legs, and a short, cut-off top that displayed her belly button. She wore little else. White knickers, high heeled shoes and make-up.

  He dropped his left hand back between the seats. It came to rest on her side, in the gap between her top and skirt. Her skin was cold and goose-bumped.

  His fingers slid upwards.

  An electric-like jolt shot through her. She stiffened as she realized what was happening and twisted away from him.

  ‘Get off me, you sick bastard!’ she yelled. She scrambled on to the back seat and huddled deep in a corner, as far away from Coulton as possible under the circumstances.

  He laughed savagely.

  The lights changed and the car surged through. Coulton grated his teeth, his nostrils flared and that something inside him grew even more. It was something he knew he had to respond to.

  He drove out of Blackpool towards Poulton-le-Fylde, wondering how and when it could be. He reached up to the roof of the car and switched on the interior light. He could now turn his head round and leer at his passenger, who, with her legs drawn up defensively, was actually displaying more to him that she wanted to.

  ‘Where’s my mum?’ she demanded. ‘She should’ve picked me up, not you.’

  ‘Who gives a fuck where she is, the slag? I’m here and that’s all that matters.’

  ‘I hate you,’ Charlotte said through fingers that were covering her face.

  ‘And I care?’ he said, keeping one hand on the steering wheel and half an eye on the road. He threw himself back over the seat and grabbed Charlotte’s arm.

  She screamed and kicked out. The huge car swerved and he almost lost control of it as it veered across the road. But he kept going and also kept hold of Charlotte. He pulled her to the gap between the front seats and tried to drag her through it. She writhed and fought against him and broke free, scrambling to a position directly behind him, out of his reach. She tried to open the door. It was child-locked.

  He cackled and put his foot down, now driving along the main road past Poulton. It was a long, straight stretch of road and the car’s speed increased dramatically.

  ‘You know your dad hates you, don’t you?’ he shouted.

  ‘That’s not true, that’s not true!’ she cried.

  ‘Because you’re not his. You’re a little bastard.’

  ‘I’m not. No, I’m not.’ Her head was in her hands and she sobbed pitifully. Her make-up, so carefully applied several hours before, was streaked around her face. She had hoped the drugs she’d bought would have taken her up on a higher plane. They’d had no discernible effect on her whatsoever, she thought.

  ‘Your mum’s a slag and you’re a bastard,’ Coulton almost chanted manically.

  ‘No!’ she screamed.

  He laughed. ‘No one cares about you, not even Mummy. But I do, Charlie, I care about you.’

  She held her hands over her ears. She did not want to hear this.

  ‘I’m all you’ve got.’ The car slowed as they reached the outer limits of Poulton. ‘And I’m going to show you how much I care, how much I love you.’ He reached a set of traffic lights where he turned right into Lodge Lane towards the village of Singleton.

  Charlotte sank further back in the plush leather seats. ‘Where are you going? Where are you taking me?’

  ‘Somewhere nice and quiet where we can chat.’

  ‘Take me home,’ she ordered him. ‘Now.’

  ‘You can’t tell me what to do, Charlie. I’m in charge here.’

  He turned off Lodge Lane into a dark side road.

  ‘I’m going to blow his head off.’

  ‘No! . . . no,’ Henry said more quietly. ‘Not till I get there at least,’ he begged. ‘Just wait, just wait for me, Tara . . . I’m coming to help . . . I’ll be there soon.’

  Kate had very quickly picked up that the situation was desperate and had helped Henry to get dressed, so that he was able to keep on the phone. She pulled his trainers on and fastened them.

  The disturbance had also woken the girls and, slightly frightened and disorientated by what was going on, they stood sheepishly at the door of their parents’ bedroom in their night attire.

  ‘I’ve got to, I’ve got to . . . I’m going to do it . . . Fuck, I’m going to do it,’ Tara said hysterically.

  ‘Just take a breath, count to ten,’ Henry instructed her with an authoritative voice. He could actually hear her inhaling, then starting to count. He put his hand on to the silent button on the phone so Tara would not hear him. ‘When I hang up, will you call Jane Roscoe? Her number’s in the phone book downstairs. Tell her I’m on my way to the Wicksons’, OK?’

  Kate nodded.

  ‘. . . eight . . . nine . . . ten!’

  ‘Well done,’ Henry said, back with Tara. ‘Now then, Tara, will you do something for me?’ He stepped out of the bedroom, hurtled downstairs. ‘Will you?’

  ‘Do what?’

  He dashed into the kitchen and unplugged his mobile phone from the charger and switched it on.

  ‘Tara, I’m going to hang up very, very briefly and I want you to do the same.’ He looked at the display on his mobile as it searched to register. It seemed to be doing it exceptionally slowly. He hated mobiles. ‘Keep hold of your phone, because I’m going to call you back immediately from my mobile phone, OK?’ Then he had a very fundamental thought. ‘You are on your house phone, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell me the number,’ he said. His mobile was still scanning the airwaves, getting nowhere. He had Tara’s home number programmed into the phone, but he didn’t want to lose her just because his phone would not pick up a signal. She recited the number for him. ‘OK, right, got that . . .’ At last his phone locked in. ‘Right, after three, put the phone down and I’ll ring back straight away, got that?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘One . . . two . . . three.’

  He waited for her to hang up before he did, handing the phone directly to Kate who was now downstairs with him. Leanne and Jenny – bedraggled, uncomprehending and beautiful, the pair of them – stood behind her.

  As he dialled Tara’s number he said quickly, ‘As you can gather, she’s got a shotgun and she’s pointing it at somebody’s head.’

  His mobile rang out Tara�
��s number. It sounded out for ever.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, searching for his car key. ‘Come on.’

  At last she picked it up.

  ‘Tara – you OK?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is everybody else?’

  ‘At the moment,’ she replied ominously.

  ‘Good – keep it that way. I’m just leaving the house now and I’ll be with you as soon as I can. It might feel like a long time, but it will only be a short time, so c’mon, let’s keep talking.’

  It was violent, brutal and terrible.

  Coulton was on her as soon as he stopped the car in the dark lane.

  Charlotte struggled and kicked and scratched and bit and screamed, but she was no match for him. He was strong, agile and determined, driven by the inner demon which was unstoppable. She was, as the saying goes, only a slip of a girl; a girl who was drunk and drugged and was not functioning correctly.

  She had no chance and Coulton gave no quarter.

  He laughed as he forced himself into her, hurting her severely.

  She could do nothing. The only good thing was that it did not last long, but afterwards he lay on top of her on the back seat, almost suffocating her, panting and moaning into her ear. She lay, trapped, sobbing.

  When he pushed himself up, he looked down at her in disgust.

  ‘What the fuck’s up with you?’ he sneered. ‘It’s only what your dad does to you, isn’t it? Oh, sorry, but he isn’t your dad, is he?’

  He slid off her, got out of the car and walked round it, tucking himself in, readjusting everything. He bent in and looked at her. She was still crying, with body-rattling blubs. She had not moved, had not tried to cover herself up. ‘By the way, you’re a shit shag.’

  He got back in behind the wheel.

  ‘And by the way, too, if you tell anyone about this, you’re dead,’ he threatened over his shoulder. ‘You’re dead and I’ll dispose of your body so you’ll never be found.’

  He laughed cruelly.

  Charlotte curled up into a ball again and began sucking her thumb.

  ‘The dirty fucking bastard.’

  The tone of Tara’s voice had changed. As she related the sequence of events that night to Henry, she became more agitated, especially as she recounted the rape of her daughter as it had been described to her.