Cuckoo in the Chocolate

by Chris Longden

  “Really?”

  “Of course,” he smiled. “We were deliberately hamming that bit of things up. I said to… our mutual friend from Medlock Council… that I hoped that you might be able to think of a way of getting you - or the kids - out of the place if we delayed things enough. And you rose to the challenge beautifully. Clever girl.”

  I chose to ignore his reference to me as being a ‘girl’. About to hit forty is hardly indicative of being a mere slip of a lass. Normally I would have ticked him off for coming across like a patronising git. But after today - well, it was nice to be praised, after all.

  “But overall,” he continued, “it seems to me that Vinnie’s biggest error was that he didn’t really have a strategy. He made no demands of anyone, did he? He didn’t ask anything of Dawn. He didn’t refer to a specific incident or issue. Just this vague ‘no one’s taking my kids away from me’ stuff. It was only when you got the children into the side room that he started ranting on about that one again. I'm guessing,” he stopped for a few seconds to scoop up some black bean sauce, “that he must have been bottling up his anger. And that shortly after learning about the launch day – he decided to turn up armed. And that if Dawn was there – which in all likelihood she would be - he would have a go at scaring her. More than he even usually did.”

  I screwed my face up.

  “Hmm. That’s probably true. But for me, the crazy thing is… that I’ve been getting so het up about persuading Dawn to sort out an injunction against him. And now I can’t help but think that, well… That it wouldn’t have made a blind bit of difference. He would still have done what he did, if that was the way that his mental health – his mind - was going. And yeah - the Ashworth thing. I don’t think that Dawn even knew about that.”

  “Who knows? But anyway. All I had to do was to pick up on the signs that he was displaying. To look for gaps in his thinking; to try and exploit them. The old military head here,” he tapped his bruised forehead, “always tends to dictate the way I view situations…”

  I looked towards the ceiling and gave an exasperated sigh.

  “Yes, Field Marshal Montgomery. Spiffing stuff, old chap. Do carry on.”

  He tried to poke me in the ribs and I threatened to do it back to his own injured set, so instead he continued with;

  “Right, so you would have seen through your spyhole that in the last part of the siege, we were making pretty good progress.”

  “Apart from Shaun getting shot, because of that imbecilic journalist.”

  He swallowed another mouthful of food, “Apart from that. But we managed to get past that point. Vinnie surrendering. And for me, the next step was this – to get those guns off him quick-smart. Because you can never be sure… until you’re back in control of the arms.”

  “So, you were going to ask him to hand them to you?”

  “Precisely. But then the kid comes flying into the room and comes running towards us.” He paused and added more prawn crackers to his food mountain.

  “And, Rachael - that’s where Vinnie really came unstuck. He can’t have been one of the best thinkers in the army. You know… when he and I were tinkering with his bike that time on Brindleford? He told me quite a bit about the combat he had experienced. Bosnia in 1996 with The Anvil. Funnily enough, I was there too at that point. And Northern Ireland. And later action; Iraq and Afghanistan. I mean – I had already realised that he must only have been about eighteen when he was involved in The Anvil.”

  “Yes, I heard you saying that to him. ‘Boy soldier’ – didn’t you say? Is that the term that the army use for kids as cannon fodder then?”

  He grinned. Getting used to my sarcastic snipes at the military by now.

  “Yup. We use it to refer to the lads aged eighteen and under. So, it’s no wonder he ended up a bit of a basket case – having been there, done that. But the fact is this; a half-decent soldier would have been wary of anyone running towards them during a combat situation.”

  I hadn’t a clue what this Anvil stuff was all about. No doubt some Horror of War that men liked to sit and ruminate about. But now wasn’t the time to get into it.

  “What?” I asked. “A child running towards you? Of course, you might lose your focus. Especially if… it’s your own child.”

  Michael shook his head.

  “Doesn’t matter. If you’re carrying a weapon - you should never, ever forget that fact. And doubly so in the middle of combat. But Vinnie didn’t remember. And he didn’t have the wit to anticipate that Mason might be coming back – to end the siege himself. No-one ever suspects a child. That’s why your Al-Qaeda and your Islamic State are more than happy to recruit children as suicide bombers.”

  “So, you think that Mason actually ran back into the hall to end things?”

  Michael frowned and cleared the remnants from his plate.

  “Yes. And he’s clearly a clever child. He must have realised that he was more capable of distracting his father – perhaps even of halting the siege – than the adults were. It’s just sad… No. It’s utterly tragic, that he hadn’t seen that only seconds earlier we had managed to persuade Vinnie to back down, already.”

  I noticed that Michael had used the term ‘we’. I thought that it was exceedingly generous of him.

  “Well, please just spell out what actually happened for me. Because I couldn’t see properly from where I was.”

  “Ah, yes. Busily occupied between the legs of your ex-lover.”

  I pulled a face at him and asked;

  “So, Mason ran at Vinnie, giving you the opportunity to try and wrestle the gun off him? And… you ended up shooting Vinnie?”

  He breathed out heavily. He had finished most of his plate now and tinkered with the remnants.

  “Yes. And no.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Another sigh.

  “Vinnie had two guns, like I said. I saw straight away that Mason wasn’t trying to hug Vinnie in the normal fashion. The boy’s hand went straight to the back of Vinnie’s waistband.”

  “He was trying to get the gun?”

  “Yes. Which is why I wanted to get hold of both guns as soon as possible. Hence me jumping at Vinnie.”

  “And so… Vinnie got shot… in the whole struggle for a gun. He got shot, by you.”

  “By both of us,” he said softly.

  “Both...?” I pushed my plate away.

  “I tried… I aimed at his legs though. To take him down quickly. Not that firing at anyone, anywhere, on the body is ‘safe’. No such thing. But yes – I went for the legs. In the forces, I was a bit of a crack shot. An area of expertise, I suppose.”

  “Oh.”

  “But you’ve never seemed to like talking about that kind of thing, Rachael.”

  “What kind of thing?”

  “Conflict situations. War.”

  “Oh, yeah. Yeah, I hate war and all of that. And I hate anything to do with military… but never mind. Carry on.”

  “So, I haven’t really spoken about it before, with you. The details of my previous career, as it were. But it can't have been all that bad, as it did get us out of a bad situation today. But anyway - back to your question. Yes, we both shot him. Mason didn’t know any better. Other than go for the ‘Blam, Blam!’ approach. He aimed straight at Vinnie’s chest – exactly at the same time that I fired. He shot him dead. Straight off, Rachael. Straight off.”

  “Oh, my God. He didn’t. Really?”

  He nodded.

  We were both quiet for a minute. Then Michael added;

  “I checked Vinnie’s body straight away. I was going to try and do some resus... But I’ve seen that kind of injury before. Too many times. You just sort of know… it’s fatal. There was no point. Absolutely no point. Yes, I had hit him… exactly as I had intended to. Just above the knee. Enough to have floored him. But Mason was just… blindly wanting to end the siege. By waving one of his dad’s guns about.”

  “Mmm,” I added, shaking my head. My skull fel
t sore, achy - full of jumbled thoughts. I took another glug of wine and the confusion began to ease; settling into more of a pattern. “No. I’m not sure that I agree with you on that. I think that Mason’s motives might have been a bit more calculated.”

  Michael stared at me.

  “How so?”

  “Well. Mason didn’t go to Vinnie’s body. Didn’t check it out. He went straight back over to Dawn. And think about it… the kid has been witness to violence in his own home from a very young age. And I know for a fact that every other film or TV series he tends to get exposed to are completely inappropriate; eighteen certification stuff. And West also gets to watch the same kind of thing. Brenda – the warden - at Lancaster House had to ban both from watching various sicko films whilst they stayed there. So, Mason had a diet of violence and aggression whether at home - or in his leisure time.”

  Michael was quiet. Considering this. I continued;

  “But also – I would put my money on it that he didn’t have a good relationship with Vinnie. The army service meant that he was away from home for most of the time. Plus, Ashworth, too. The guy was rarely near Brindleford for several years. Dawn told me that he played virtually no role in their lives. Father in name only. Or when it suited him”.

  “Hmmm — ”

  “Also – and most importantly of all. Mason isn’t Vinnie’s son. The other two children – West and Poppy-Rose - are. But Dawn and Vinnie met when she already had a two-year-old – Mason… and...”

  I paused. Michael looked at me. “Go on.”

  “During quite a few of her conversations with us at the centre, Dawn said that a lot of their rows were about Mason. Vinnie’s jealousy; about Mason’s real father – whoever he was. Apparently, Vinnie often complained that he was trying to do his best by Mason, but that the kid caused problems.”

  Michael swayed his head and then slapped his forehead. Grimaced as the pain from the bruise kicked in.

  “Of course. How stupid of me. The kid is blonde! Freckles. Blue eyes. The other two are clearly mixed race. Like Vinnie. How on earth did I miss that?” I laughed at him.

  “Well, there aren’t exactly hard and fast rules for the appearance of kids with mixed parentage,” I smiled. “So, don’t beat yourself up too much about that”

  Michael’s brow was crumpled, deep in thought.

  “So, if Vinnie wasn’t Mason’s natural father. And if Vinnie viewed the child as … a cuckoo in the nest… and if Mason had indeed experienced all of this violence from Vinnie over the years. Well… it would be quite understandable that a young lad might…”

  “… Might want to do more to liberate his mother. Might want to do more than just ending a siege.”

  “You know, you’re quite a clever gi…”

  I narrowed my eyes at him before he could finish the sentence. He got my drift.

  He stood up, wincing with the pain of his injury. We began to gather up plates and containers and to transport them back to the kitchen. He mused;

  “Well, all of this will no doubt be unravelled by the police. And they’ll have to interview Shaun Elliot and that dreadful Erin woman, of course.”

  As we dumped the cartons into the bin and began to wash the plates, I told Michael about the fire engine incident. He shook his head and then grimaced again.

  “Ouch. Shouldn’t laugh. But your children, eh? You couldn’t make it up.”

  “I know. But that also bothers me. What Lydia said about the way that Mason behaved in the fire engine. I can only think that he must have orchestrated it – as a bit of a 'distraction'.”

  He was about to reply but then his mobile rang and he glimpsed the number, mouthing 'Downing Street' at me. A call important enough to jilt me for a little while. He moved to the next room to speak more privately and the occasional word drifted down the corridor. But in comparison to our previous, rather easy-going chat over the meal, the tone of his voice had changed completely. He now sounded more than a little bit animated – more stressed - and was on the phone for twenty minutes more - giving me time to wash up, dry up, put everything away and peruse a copy of the Radio Times from several months ago. Finally, he returned to the room.

  “The PM and Alex the Twat etcetera etcetera. They’ve been tossing ideas about - in relation to damage limitation after today’s events. I need to talk to you about all of that side of things.”

  I was tempted to provide an off-hand comment regarding the row that we had had several weeks ago – would Alex the Twat perhaps want Lydia to take the blame for an armed siege and deaths via mortal gunshot wounds? Would cheesy religious accessories play a part in it all? But I managed to rein it in.

  Michael took out his packet of cigarettes and flicked his head towards the back door. I followed him. He lit one and took a long drag on it.

  “Right. It’s this. Do we go public with me – a cabinet minister – being named as having shot Vinnie dead? Or do we go with what actually happened; the truth of it. That Mason shot Vinnie. Whether he meant to do it deliberately, or not.”

  “Why would you not tell the truth?”

  Michael shrugged and blew out a line of smoke;

  “Just my thinking. Spare the child. Spare the family the knowledge…”

  “Oh, come on Michael. You won’t spare him anything. You said that he was a smart kid! Right, so… say that he didn’t mean to kill Vinnie, or didn’t realise that it was his gun that actually caused his death; so even if you could convince him of that – what’s to stop him at the age of sixteen – or someone else - getting hold of the autopsy report, the inquest files and finding out for himself?”

  “True.”

  “And anyway. It’s looking far more likely that he did it on purpose, isn’t it? So… he’ll know that you’re lying. And one day it’ll all come out in the wash - when he tells one of his mates about it or something. Not good for anyone. Not in the long run.”

  He didn’t say anything. I remarked;

  “But then you’re a politician. You’re probably thinking more about the short run, aren’t you? Election results. Polls and jockeying for position.”

  Michael shook his head and stared determinedly out of the window. It was pitch black outside, but clear and cold. We could see tiny pricks of light – constellations – in the night sky.

  “I’m sorry, Michael. I didn’t mean that to sound… critical of you…” I tried again. “I actually think that it’s very admirable, that you feel that Mason should be protected. But it would be pointless. You wouldn’t be doing anyone any favours. And I also think that you’d be taking a big and very silly risk in terms of your own career.”

  He rubbed one of his eyes with the heel of his palm. Looking exhausted.

  “Well. You’re right. Of course. But that’s also something else that I need to talk to you about. All of this... my involvement in the shooting today. It might dredge up stuff from the past.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes. Things that only the PM and his closest know about. Things that we’ve managed to keep out of the public eye so far. Some of the more perceptive… the more tenacious hacks might put two and two together and come up with the right number.”

  “The right number… being?”

  “Being… Oh hell. Meaning that I suppose it’s also about time that I got honest with you.”

  The grandfather clock chimed the hour. Followed seconds later by a cuckoo clock in the hallway. I made a mental note to myself to try and find out how much the damned things cost. Lydia had been asking for a ‘proper old-fashioned cuckoo clock – just like in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang,’ for over three years now. Perhaps the Aldi in the centre of Huddersfield had a cheaper version and I could…

  “Hello?” Michael waved his hand at me. “Did you hear what I just said? About me, not having been completely straight with you - with regards to… the truth.”

  I shrugged and shivered slightly. Smothered in my dad’s XL spruce-shaded fleece. Why did Dad always insist on wearing various shades of gree
n? Was it so that he could camouflage himself down at the allotment when Mum came looking for him? Or perhaps he was, in fact, a reincarnation of one of Robin Hood’s Merry Men. I had noticed previously that he seemed to possess an irrational hatred for Kevin Costner. Only the other week he had informed Lydia that under no circumstances could she ever watch ‘that crap American actor’ and his version of the legend under Terry Stanley’s roof, and that Errol Flynn’s ‘Robin’ would only ever be allowed to…

  “Rachael? Are you alright?”

  “Sorry,” I rubbed the tip of my nose. “I have this habit of… uuhhm… moving on to think about other things. When – when people are about to confess... that they’ve been lying to me.”

  “No. That’s not it at all. I haven’t been lying to you. Please don’t think that.”

  I stared at him. Well spill the sodding beans then.

  “Look. When I’ve mentioned to you in the past. Before. About me serving in the military. I wasn’t just any old soldier. If that doesn't sound too… high and mighty. I was in the SAS. Quite senior. Covert ops. So, you can imagine why this isn’t something that I tend to divulge in everyday conversation.”

  “’Everyday’ meaning me?”

  “No. Not at all. Come on. Just imagine what — ”

  He put his hand on my forearm.

  “Right,” I said.

  Things that I had wondered about Michael over the last few weeks – conversational gaps that he hadn’t attempted to fill. Even the scarring on his back. Perhaps these aspects contributed towards all of this; this small bit of the jigsaw puzzle that seemed to have been missing.

  His eyes were serious. Weighing up my response.

  So, this man, the nice, affable, un-child-friendly Michael wasn’t all that he had led me to believe. No. He was an international man of sodding-bloody-mystery.

  And I could laugh and joke and make sarky remarks about it until the cows came home. But the fact of the matter was this; that here was yet another man in my life who made a habit out of deceit, secrets and of screwing people over. And I had had enough – more than enough - of the fannying around in darkened car parks and of the lying. Of putting my own life on hold to accommodate the whims and the wants of the male species.