The door opened suddenly, and Emily’s face fell. ‘Oh. I thought you were someone else.’
‘Clearly,’ Jennifer said, nudging forward. ‘Can I come in?’
Emily chewed the candy pink lipstick from her bottom lip. ‘Am I in trouble?’
‘No, not at all. I just want to ask you about your statement.’
‘OK,’ she said, sliding a phone from her tracksuit bottoms and quickly speeding through a text.
‘Where’s your little boy?’
Emily’s finger froze mid-text. ‘Asleep. Why?’
‘No reason,’ Jennifer said, as she was hit with the stale smell of cigarette smoke, which hung in the air. One glance around the dank room was enough to justify her assumptions about Emily’s chaotic lifestyle. Faded tie-dye material hung from curtain wire on the window, more to block out the gaze of unwanted visitors rather than the light that cast a stream onto the linoleum floor. An old tea towel hung over a shabby porcelain lamp and the fringed throw on the sofa had seen better days. Jennifer navigated her feet among the broken toys and sticky plates of uneaten food. Every inch of space seemed to be covered with something. Her eyes fell on the empty wine bottles on the coffee table next to a one-legged Action Man.
‘I haven’t had a chance to clean up yet,’ Emily said, her arms folded tightly across her chest.
Jennifer shrugged. There was no law against it, but her visit would be followed up by a social services referral. Emily had often cropped up as a victim of domestic abuse, hooking up with unsuitable men in the hope of finding someone who would save her from her miserable existence. Jennifer wondered how long it would be before social services took her child into care.
Jennifer moved a half-eaten jam sandwich from the sofa to the coffee table. ‘Mind if I sit down? I’m dead on my feet today.’
‘As long as you’re quick.’
Jennifer clasped her hands together on her lap. ‘I want to know why you’ve changed your mind about helping us with our enquiries.’
Emily jutted her chin defiantly. ‘I lied.’
‘Why?’
‘You said that if I helped then I could stay out of prison, you didn’t say it had to be the truth,’ Emily said.
Jennifer stared in disbelief. ‘I took it for granted you’d know I meant the truth. I certainly didn’t tell you to lie. That’s perverting the course of justice. It carries a prison sentence all of its own.’
‘I wish I never spoke to you, all I get is grief, and for what?’ Emily said, sweeping the messy room with her arm. ‘Look around you, do I look like I’ve made from this?’
‘Do you know what I think? You’ve gotten yourself involved in The Reborners and you’re in way over your head. Why did you join them? Is life so bad that you have to resort to drugs?’
‘The best gift in life is a second chance …’ Emily mumbled, her voice tailing away. She plopped onto the chair, as if the life had left her legs.
Jennifer’s voice softened as she tried to coax out the truth. ‘Do they really help you forget your past? Become reborn?’
‘Things happened when I was a kid … stuff no amount of soap can scrub clean. If I could forget … maybe I could be like the mothers on the telly. I want that, really I do,’ Emily said, her gaze turned inwards.
‘So why are you so scared? Why have they put the frighteners on you?’
Emily fell back into silence as her defences rose.
‘Tell me who they are,’ Jennifer said. ‘This is your chance to do what’s best.’
Emily stabbed her finger to her chest, but the anger in her voice could not disguise the worry behind her eyes. ‘I’ll do what’s best for me.’
Jennifer didn’t normally put words into her witnesses’ mouths but she had to know. ‘Is the coven a front for drug use?’ Mike Stone controlled the network of drug dealers in Haven, and Jennifer would not have put it past him to intimidate Emily into keeping quiet.
Emily rubbed the back of her neck and choked a dry, bitter laugh. ‘You really have no clue, do you? This thing … it’s bigger than both of us. I want you to leave. It’s not doing me any good talking to the cops. It makes people nervous around here.’
Jennifer frowned. ‘If you’re being intimidated you’ve got to tell us.’
‘And what are you gonna do about it? Put a guard on my door twenty-four-seven?’ Emily caught her glance. ‘No. I thought not. Now piss off and leave me alone. I can manage this by myself.’
‘Well don’t do what you did today and open the door without checking who’s there first.’
‘Don’t worry. Next time you come calling I won’t answer,’ Emily said petulantly.
Jennifer shook her head, her patience wearing thin. She thought of Emily’s son, brought up with the stench of booze and cigarette smoke in the air. Bitter memories of her upbringing unleashed a flare of anger. ‘Why don’t you sort yourself out and maybe there won’t be a next time? Look at this place. It’s not fit to raise a child in.’
‘You think it’s so easy, don’t you? With your well-paid job and fancy house. Have a nice husband at home, do you?’ Emily curled her lip in disgust, ‘People like you just don’t understand the real world.’
Jennifer walked towards the front door. ‘I understand all right, but you can’t use what’s happened to you in the past as an excuse to stop moving forward. Just keep yourself safe. Call us if you need us, and don’t go out alone at night, at least until all this calms down.’
Emily turned the latch to let her out. ‘I’m able to look after myself.’
Jennifer recognised the defiance in Emily’s eyes because she owned it herself once. If she had been placed in a children’s home instead of the care of her aunt then things would have turned out very differently. She pulled out her wallet from her jacket pocket and slid out a twenty-pound note. ‘Here. Use it to buy some food for your son.’
Emily’s mouth turned upwards in a half smile. ‘Is this a bribe? Because if it is I want more …’
The colour drained from Jennifer’s face, as Emily tried to tug the cash from her hand. ‘Christ no! I’m not bent. If I thought you believed that …’
Emily snatched the money. ‘All right, keep your hair on, I’m only saying. You don’t get nothing for nothing in my world.’
Jennifer sighed as she stepped over the broken concrete path to her car. There was no helping some people and for Emily it was too little too late. It was a sentiment echoed by the row of sharp-eyed ravens perched on the roof of Emily’s home.
Chapter Four
Bert
* * *
The tinny clunk of beer barrels stirred Bert from his sleep as they rolled from the lorry to the pub where he’d abandoned his van the night before. He scratched his beaky nose as he found his bearings. He was used to waking up confused and disjointed. Squinting at the large round face of his watch, he tapped the glass to check it was still working. Nine o’clock? He should have been up by now, boiling the kettle on the gas stove in the back of his van. He rubbed his face as memories from the night before replayed in his mind. Running his fingers through the rim of his hat, he plucked out the wad of cash and smiled as he planned what to do with it. It was not just the money that made him smile. The itching had eased and he felt better than he had in weeks. He imagined suit man’s dead weight stretching the hemp rope as it hung taut over the timber beam. He spared himself another smile. Death by proxy was not as powerful as murder, but it had granted him respite from his ills, at least for today.
He headed for breakfast and a shower in ‘The Truck-Stoppers Cafe’ and then went shopping for a cheap suit. After all, nobody would want their prophecy told by an old man smelling of last week’s refuse. Bert traipsed around the shops for a while, but the young assistant’s stony glare made his hackles rise. As his annoyance grew, he sensed a stirring within. Calm down, Bert reminded himself, for an unguarded thought was a dangerous one. He quashed his temper and counted out the crumpled notes to pay for his off-the-peg suit. Today was a good da
y. He was out in public, had stayed in control, and everything was on track. Walking down the busy windswept street, he clamped his hand over his hat as the wind tried to whip it away. He hated being out in the open among so many people. If it were not for his plan, he would live alone, somewhere remote. Somewhere like home.
His morning breakfast of a bacon sandwich had earned Bert a serious thirst, and he welcomed the trip to the country pub to quench it. Squeals from a group of females made him pause at the double doors. She’s here, Bert thought as he drove himself onwards to the busy bar, where he laid his cards face down.
Right on cue, the lanky blonde tottered over to the bar. She waved her folded twenty-pound note like a wand at the staff, who were busy serving a coachload of pensioners.
‘Felicity, love, just get me a coffee, it’s too early for booze,’ a croaky voice shouted over the din.
Felicity guffawed, a loud hoarse laugh. ‘You’re having a proper drink, babe, I don’t care what time it is.’
Bert bristled at the sight of the girl, her Prada sunglasses perched precariously on her head. His eyes trailed over the various designer brands draped over her body. Handbag, jewellery, shoes, clothes, not to mention the overinflated breasts on par with her chin. Felicity guffawed again and Bert ground his tobacco-stained teeth. You know what you have to do, he thought as he forced himself to strike up conversation. Painting on a smile, he pointed to the plastic L-plate gaudily hanging from her low-cut pink angora sweater. ‘Getting married?’ he said, the overpowering smell of Chanel No. 5 wafting up his nose.
Felicity cast her eyes over his cheap black suit, the shoulders peppered with white flakes. Her fresh exuberance dismissed any reservations at speaking to the icky old man. ‘Yeah, we’re going to Brighton for my hen weekend. We’re staying over, so I can drink when we get up there,’ she said, flashing a toothy smile.
‘Ah, well good luck.’ Bert wondered if he could persuade her to take a reading and realised her gums were still flapping.
‘My fiancé offered to pay for us to fly abroad, but I said, like, babe, I don’t want nowhere but Brighton. He’s a celebrity you know. Such a doll, he bought me a BMW to drive up in,’ she squeaked, hunching her shoulders and wrinkling her nose. ‘Are these your cards?’ she asked, leaning across the bar in the hope of being served.
Bert tapped the deck. ‘Yes. I predict the future,’ he found himself saying.
‘Ohhh. My fiancé’s a psychic, but he doesn’t like reading for family. Can you give me a reading?’
‘The going rate is forty pounds.’
Hesitation flickered in Felicity’s eyes.
Bert shrugged his oh-go-on-you’ve-twisted-my-arm look. ‘I can give you a quick reading for twenty, seeing as you’re getting married.’
Another shriek of delight as Felicity clapped her hands together, the note flapping between her fingers.
Bert attuned himself to her high-pitched frequency. It wasn’t too bad once you got used to it. As long as she didn’t try to touch him. He couldn’t bear that. He hated the huggers, and people like Felicity were everything that was wrong with the world. Her equally deplorable friends gathered around as Bert cleared a table in the corner.
‘This is a private reading,’ he said bluntly, as the beast awoke from within. From early childhood, Bert’s anger felt like a separate entity deep within his soul. He tried hard to keep it under control. Most of the time, he won.
Drink in hand, Felicity took a seat and dismissed her friends to the other side of the bar. Rifling in her purse, she paid the fee and dropped her designer bag under the table. It gaped open, revealing all the things you would expect of a woman whose only interests were designer brands and her weekly edition of Heat magazine.
Bert worked the cards as Felicity leaned over, her heaving chest resting on the table. He spoke of how she had been let down in the past. He disclosed that her fiancé was older than her, her one true love. Tears sprang in Felicity’s doe eyes, acknowledging his words as truth. ‘You have so many plans, and you want everything to be right for your special day.’
Felicity gave a watery smile as she played with a length of hair extension. ‘Oh my God that’s amazing. Tell me, how many babies are we gonna have?’
Bert waved his hands theatrically over the cards. ‘You’re not going to have any children.’
Felicity scowled, no doubt mourning the loss of dressing her newborn toy in Armani Baby designer wear. ‘Why not?’ she said.
‘Have you ever heard of karma?’ Bert said, relishing the words spilling out of his lips.
Felicity’s scowl transformed into painful concentration as she searched her mind for answers. ‘Karma? Yeah, you get what you give.’
Bert gave her a knowing look. ‘You’ve got a secret, haven’t you?’ It was all becoming clear as the cards plucked her shameful secrets and laid them bare.
‘I … I don’t know what you’re talking about. What secret?’
Bert pointed at the card. ‘I’m seeing college. So many friends, grateful to be in your company.’
‘I’ve always been popular,’ Felicity said, staring at the image on the card and not seeing any such thing.
Bert continued to glance down, feeling his heartbeat quicken as the scene unfolded before him. ‘Yes. I’m seeing one schoolgirl in particular. Cara. With her cheap clothes and fake jewellery.’
The colour drained from Felicity’s face. It was all the validation Bert needed.
He licked his dry cracked lips as he leaned in towards Felicity to deliver his condemnation. ‘You hated that girl. The phone calls, the bullying, and then the night of the party, when you held her down, so those boys could familiarise themselves with her.’
‘Nothing happened,’ Felicity said, as the truth came back to haunt her. ‘I let go before they did anything.’
Bert narrowed his eyes. ‘She killed herself while your bruises were still fresh on her wrists.’
‘Keep your voice down. I’ve done everything in my power to forget that girl. Why are you bringing it up now?’ she whispered sharply. ‘Just who are you?’
‘My name is Raven. You asked for a reading,’ Bert said as he turned the final card. There was no denying the enjoyment of wiping the smile off the bimbo’s face, but the pub was filling up and discomfort began to creep up his spine as he leaned in to be heard. ‘Now for your future.’
Felicity’s bottom lip jutted outwards in a pout, making her look four years old.
‘You’re not going to make it to your wedding. You’re going to die in the woods,’ Bert said, waiting for the dramatics to unfold.
Sure enough they did. Felicity clasped a hand to her mouth, stemming the sharp intake of breath. ‘Oh my God! You’re telling me … I’m gonna die?’
Felicity’s shrieks drew the attention of her friends, who were pointing in their direction. Bert felt his chest tighten as both dread and excitement coursed through him. He needed to get out before she made a scene. An agonising combination of emotions relayed on his contorted face.
‘Yes. In the woods,’ he said to Felicity, who was opening and closing her mouth like a goldfish about to be dropped into the toilet.
Felicity’s chest heaved dramatically as she took great gulps of air. ‘How dare you … How dare you say such a thing! I don’t even know of any woods. You’re nuts, that’s what you are! Nuts!’
Bert hurriedly slid the cards together and tapped them on the table before returning them to the pouch. The last thing he wanted was to be mobbed by a group of hysterical women. Scurrying out of the building, he peered over his shoulder to see Felicity’s friends click clacking towards her in their high heels as they rushed in response to her evident distress.
A sneer grew on his lips. She was as good as dead. Within forty-eight hours, her nail–varnished big toe would bear the mortician’s tag.
[#]
The black BMW gleamed at the far end of the car park. Stupid girl, Bert thought as he strode past the empty bus that provided good cover from cur
ious eyes. He tutted as he stopped to light a cigarette, gently puffing as the roll-up ignited into life. Anyone could vandalise it there. Anyone at all. He pressed the fob of the keys he had taken from her bag. The car lights flashed in response. He had learned all about cars when he was young, and how to loosen the wheel nuts just enough so they wouldn’t come off straight away. Minutes later he threw the keys on the ground. The mysteries of fate were all well and good, but sometimes fate needed a helping hand. The corners of his mouth turned upwards in a taut smile and he tipped his hat to avoid the accusing glare of the sun.
[#]
That night he decided to leave his cards in his pocket. The urge to use them had dissipated, his inner self was positively purring after recent events. Death was a happy bedfellow and he would sleep easy tonight. He settled into the low-backed chair at the piano bar, his foot nodding in time to the music. His double brandy clawed at the back of his throat as it slid down, warming his senses.
He tapped the bar mat against the smooth mahogany table. The music tinkling in the background was far preferable to the rumble of his engine, and he was in no hurry to return to his cot bed in the back of the van. He could return to mother. He pushed away the thought but the unease lingered. He would return. But not before he finished what he set out to do.
Chapter Five
Jennifer pressed her failing pen against the paper as she took notes. It felt peculiar, taking a statement from her old school mate. She had hoped to spare her blushes by racing through their discussion, but Christian Bowe’s playful mood meant he was not going to allow her off the hook that easily. Jennifer folded a victim pamphlet and shoved it under the leg of the table before returning to her paperwork. Her handwriting was bad enough, but the wonky table had made it look as if a spider had crawled all over the page.
Time To Die Page 3