The Waiting Game

by Sheila Bugler

  So much noise she didn’t hear the door open. Didn’t notice he was there until he grabbed her, pulled her off the seat and dragged her out of the room. Her left foot caught a piece of glass that cut through the soft sole. A trail of blood followed her from the cloakroom, through the hall and into the kitchen where her daughter lay on the ground, face bruised and swollen, with her arms and legs tied behind her.

  * * *

  ‘Don’t hurt her!’

  The way he was holding her mother, manhandling her like she was freight instead of a frail old lady. Ellen thought she knew fear, but this was something new. Her poor mother. The look of terror etched into every line of her dear face. It was unbearable.

  Ignoring the pain, Ellen manoeuvred herself into a sitting position. For a moment, the agony blacked out everything else. When she could focus again, she saw he’d pushed her mother onto one of the kitchen chairs and was wrapping the same thick rope around her that he’d used on Ellen.

  There was blood on the ground. A trail of red that filtered through the rainbow colours over her eyes. The blood was from her mother’s foot. Ellen remembered the sound of glass shattering. She’d thought someone was coming to rescue them. That hope was gone.

  Ellen swallowed a few times and licked her lips.

  ‘Please,’ she said. ‘I understand you’re angry with me, but it’s nothing to do with my mother. Please, Harry.’

  He swung around, angry she knew his name. As soon as he’d started talking about Monica, she’d remembered. The young boyfriend. Deluded fool.

  ‘Where’s Pat?’ The question was for her mother, but Harry got there first.

  ‘I’ve already dealt with him.’

  A different agony this time. Worse. Ellen shook her head. She wouldn’t believe it. Couldn’t let herself. Not for a second. Pat. Her boy. She told herself Harry wasn’t capable of something like that, even though she had no idea what he was capable of. She told herself Pat was like her, a survivor. He would find a way to be fine. She would find a way to make him fine.

  ‘If you’ve hurt that boy,’ her mother said, ‘I promise I will kill you.’

  Harry laughed, but it sounded false to Ellen and she realised how scared he was. That gave her hope.

  ‘Harry,’ she said. ‘Talk to me. Please?’

  Finished with her mother, he turned back to Ellen.

  ‘I’m done talking.’

  ‘If you go through with this,’ Ellen said, ‘it will be the end of everything for you. Do you think that’s what Monica would want?’

  It was the wrong thing to say. The moment the words were out she wished she could swallow them back. His face creased into anger, all the softness gone. Cheeks flushed red as he strode over, crouched down in front of her and shoved his face up close to hers.

  ‘Don’t you dare, don’t you dare pretend to know what she wants. You don’t know the first thing about her. If you did, you’d never have hurt her the way you did. You should have left her alone, but you couldn’t do that. And because of you, you stupid, interfering bitch, she’s gone.’

  She thought he was going to hit her again and tensed. It never came. Instead, he stood and moved away. Almost like he couldn’t bear to be near her. Monica had certainly done some job on him. Ellen swore that if she got out of here alive, she would find Monica Telford and make her pay for what she’d caused to happen here today.

  Harry sat at the table, took a packet of tobacco from his shirt pocket and some cigarette papers. Pulled out three papers and put them together to make a single, longer paper. He sprinkled tobacco into this, then took a small, black, greasy lump of hash from the same pocket.

  When he produced the cigarette lighter, Ellen shouted at him not to do it.

  ‘You think I’m going to do it in here?’ he asked. ‘I’m not stupid.’

  He lit the lighter and she had to bite down on her lip to stop herself screaming. The smell of burning hash mixed with the petrol, the air thick with smells that should never be in her house.

  Fear, loathing and rage surged inside her.

  ‘Where is she?’ Ellen asked.

  He’d finished with the joint and put it in his mouth, ready to light. If he lit it in here, if one single bit of burning ash landed on the petrol-drenched ground, it would all be over.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘She doesn’t want anyone to know,’ he said. ‘She’s scared, don’t you get that? Scared of the pigs, scared of everything. Scared of her old man more than anything else.’

  ‘She killed him,’ Ellen said. ‘You know that, don’t you? She killed him and then she fucked off and left you. If you mean so much to her, Harry, why would she do that? Why wouldn’t she take you with her?’

  He shook his head. ‘She didn’t kill him.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Because she’s not like that,’ he shouted. ‘She’s kind and gentle and she’d never do something like that.’

  ‘She did it.’

  ‘Shut up!’ He had his hands over his ears, his face scrunched up in agony. As if Ellen’s words were physically hurting him. ‘She didn’t kill anyone! It was me. I killed him, you stupid cow.’

  He was lying. She wanted to get him to admit it, but he pushed the chair back and she jerked back, afraid. He stood up, joint hanging out the side of his mouth, lighter still in his hand. He was playing with the lighter. Flicking the lid open and closed. Every now and then, the spark of a flame caused Ellen and her mother to jump.

  He walked to the door, turned and looked at Ellen one last time.

  ‘Just remember,’ he said. ‘This is for her.’

  He left the door open and disappeared.

  Nothing happened at first. Ellen waited, not daring to breathe.

  ‘Pat,’ her mother said. ‘He’s upstairs, Ellen.’

  Ellen pushed herself onto her knees. Every movement was agony but no pain could stop her getting to her son. She shuffled forward. The knife rack was by the sink. Three more big, sharp knives apart from the one Harry had taken.

  She didn’t know how she’d manage to get them down from the worktop, but she’d find a way. She was nearly there when Harry roared. She thought he’d come back, seen what she was trying to do and turned her head, ready to defend herself.

  He wasn’t there. Instead, she heard him fall, body crashing to the ground.

  And the sudden, shocking whoosh of petrol igniting.

  Eighty-Two

  Raj was opening the car door when he heard it. The sound louder on a quiet Sunday afternoon than it would otherwise be. He almost ignored it. Probably would have ignored it another time. It was just today, when so much else had happened, he knew he had to check it out.

  The crash of glass breaking. Could be something. Chances were he’d find some local in their back garden breaking up an old piece of furniture, getting it ready for the journey to the dump.

  He ran back to Ellen’s. If there was no sign of a break-in, he’d do a quick recce of the neighbouring houses and leave it at that. Put his reaction down to an over-active imagination and get back to what was important: an afternoon with Aidan.

  The front of her house was fine and he was starting to relax as he made his way around the side. Everything fine here, too. Back across the front and down the other side. A gate at the end led into her back garden. He walked towards that, thinking he’d climb over, take a quick look before heading off.

  He hadn’t gone far when he felt something crunching under his feet. Chunks of thick glass, the sort you see in front-door panes and on bathroom windows. Looking up, he saw the small window had been broken. Didn’t take a genius to work out this had been done from the inside. Not a break-in, then. Someone trying to get out.

  Phone in hand, Raj called the station. Told the duty sergeant to get two cars over here right away. While he sorted that, he ran to the front of the house. He’d nearly reached it when the screaming started.

  * * *

  Can’t
control my hand. Get the lighter going, but my fingers won’t let it go. It’s the boy. Why’d he have to look at me like that? Like I was some sort of monster. Like my old man.

  I’ve been trying not to think about it but now it’s there, inside my head, and no matter how hard I try, it’s like there’s nothing else there except the three of us. Me, my old man and the boy with the big, scared eyes.

  I try to focus the way she told me to. Think of why I’m doing this. But she’s not here and it’s so difficult – so bloody, fucking difficult – without her. The copper should have kept her mouth shut. Saying those things about Mon, trying to mess with me. I know she’s lying, but I can’t help thinking about it. There’s a riot going on inside my head, building up until I swear it’s like it’s going to explode. Burst off my neck and blow into a thousand pieces that splatter onto the walls and stairs and floor.

  I’m spinning around, still holding the lighter, roaring over the noise, trying to block it all out.

  And then I slip on the petrol. Feet go from under me and I’m falling. The lighter flies out of my hand, and somehow the flame doesn’t go out. And as it falls, all the noises in my head start to fade.

  I roll onto my side, trying to miss it. But it seems to know what I’m doing and follows me. For a single moment, everything stops. Then a guitar starts playing. Chords I know. Someone singing about a heart of gold and lost pride. Dave Grohl. Starts off slow and gentle. A sad song of death and loss. The flame drops down and catches the back of my shirt, wet from the petrol.

  And suddenly, I’m on fire.

  * * *

  Flames lick up the curtains in the sitting room. Thick trails of smoke sneak out under the front door. Inside the house, someone is screaming. A raw, inhuman sound like nothing Raj had ever heard before.

  He threw himself at the front door, but it was solid wood. Impossible to break through. Emergency services on their way, but the fire was moving too fast. By the time anyone got here, it would be too late.

  He’d seen two wheelie bins at the side of the house. Ran and got the black one. Started dragging it to the front sitting-room window then changed his mind. Pulled it around the back of the house, put it in front of him and ran at the wooden gate, driving the bin right through it.

  Around the back. Big French windows. Ellen was inside on her knees. He aimed the bin at the windows, pulled back to give himself enough of a run, and charged. An explosion of glass as the bin connected, smashed through the double-glazing.

  Fire moving fast. Air thick with smoke, in his eyes, down his throat, choking him. He grabbed Ellen.

  ‘My mother!’ She was screaming, pulling at someone else. An older woman. Raj got the woman first, dragged her outside. Turned around for Ellen. Didn’t want to go back in there, but he had no choice. Couldn’t see her. Smoke even worse now. The noise of the fire all around him, deafening.

  ‘Ellen!’

  He ran deeper into the inferno. Fire blinding him. Coughing, choking, hand over his mouth and nose but unable to block it out. Tripped over something and nearly fell. Ellen. Inches from the flames. He grabbed her ankles and dragged her back.

  She was screaming at him, shouting Pat’s name, fighting him like she didn’t want him to save her. Nearly there. Fire still moving but he was faster. Just. She was heavy, but he was strong.

  Her foot lashed out, kicking him in the shin.

  ‘Pat!’

  Jesus, no.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘He’s upstairs.’

  Ellen was still fighting him. He slapped her across the face, stunned her enough to get her outside.

  Sirens. Close but not close enough.

  Ellen’s hands and feet were tied. She was screaming at him and hitting him, saying Pat’s name over and over. She couldn’t move. He was still holding her. If he let her go, she would fall.

  He held her by the shoulders and shook her, hard.

  ‘Ellen!’

  She stopped screaming.

  ‘They won’t be here in time,’ she whispered.

  He nodded. ‘Stay here.’

  Gently, he put her down on the ground beside her mother, turned and ran back inside.

  * * *

  Pain like I’ve never known it. I’m running, desperate to get away from it, but there’s nowhere to go. The pain is me. I am the pain. Dave Grohl still singing, loud and angry now, screaming his rage as I’m screaming my pain.

  Dave asking, did you ever think of me? And it’s like he’s screaming the words at her. And I’m doing the same. Scream it one final, drawn-out time. And then silence.

  * * *

  Smoke disoriented him. Two seconds inside the house and he couldn’t find the door. Ellen said Pat was upstairs. He had his sweater off. Tied around his head, trying to save his lungs from the worst of it.

  He banged into something. Tried to move sideways, get past it, but it was too big. The island in the centre of Ellen’s kitchen. He swung around, searching for the way he’d come in. Nothing. Smoke too black and thick for him to see anything.

  Fear and panic consumed him. He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t save Pat or himself. He was going to die. And if he did, Aidan would never know how he really felt.

  That single regret was all he needed. He wrapped the sweater tighter across his nose and mouth, felt his way along the side of the island and shuffled forward, hands out in front of him.

  The screaming was worse here. The sound of an animal in agony. Inhuman and unbearable.

  Every cell in his body resisted what he was doing. It took every reserve of strength he had to force himself to keep going, deeper into the fire and the smoke and the darkness, getting nearer and nearer to the screaming. The heat was intense, unbearable, boiling his blood, drying all the moisture from his eyes and mouth, burning the back of his throat.

  His foot caught on something and he fell. Hit the floor. Tried to get up, but it was no good. He couldn’t see or hear or breathe. There was nothing he could do.

  Four Months Later

  Monica sat up, panting, snippets of the dream lingering in her head.

  Beside her, Leonard muttered in his sleep and rolled onto his back. He threw his arm out so that it lay across her legs: hot, heavy, uncomfortable. She lifted the arm and let it drop by his side.

  In sleep, he looked older. Saggy skin around his jaw, which hung open. He was snoring. The sound disgusted her. She thought of Harry, couldn’t help comparing Leonard and him. The comparison did Leonard no favours and made her sad. Harry had adored her, would have done anything for her. Did do anything.

  She hadn’t even spelled it out. He’d just got it. Knew what she wanted and ran with it. Breaking into Kelly’s house, stealing the photo of the husband, taking that classic shot of Kelly sprawled in her bed… Monica read in the papers that he’d even admitted killing her old man. Truth be told, she was a bit annoyed at him over that. She’d set it up so carefully, determined Jim would pay for what he’d done to her. It would have worked too, if it wasn’t for love-sick Harry. Stupid boy taking the blame for something he didn’t do. Anything for love. That’s what he’d said, but she hadn’t expected him to go that far. The chain fell off Jim’s neck the night he called to her house. He’d said some horrible things and she’d lost her temper, threw her wine over him. He’d ripped his top off and managed to break the chain. She’d seen it fall but didn’t tell him, knowing it would come in useful some day.

  Four deaths. Her mother. The German. Her father. Chloe. Monica rolled her shoulders, flexed the muscles in her upper arms. Such upper body strength. Poor, stupid Chloe. The only one who didn’t actually deserve to die. It had worked, though. The moment the poor cow was dead, everyone started taking Monica a bit more seriously.

  The chance meeting that morning at the police station was a gift. Monica had read Chloe’s story in the newspaper and knew straightaway that was how she’d get to Kelly. What she could never have hoped for was finding Chloe in the reception, waiting to speak to someone too. Monica recogni
sed her immediately. Becoming her friend couldn’t have been easier. Chloe was desperate for a female friend and kind, friendly Anne was just perfect.

  She’d used the wire on purpose. She’d watched enough crappy police dramas to know that they loved banging on about a killer’s MO. Only someone with a total lack of imagination would do it the same way over and over again. Where was the fun in that?

  * * *

  They’d been in the rental house for a week now. It still didn’t feel like home and Ellen suspected it never would. Until last week, they’d been living with Ellen’s parents. Her mother had wanted that situation to continue, but Ellen badly needed her own space. This big old house on King William Walk certainly provided that. The rent was exorbitant but, as her mother never tired of telling her, Vinny had left Ellen very comfortably off. And the children seemed happy here, which was all that really mattered. If happy was a word you could use.

  The nights were the worst. During the day, he generally seemed okay. To someone who didn’t know the boy, there was no obvious sign of recent trauma. The nightmares gave lie to that. He was still sharing Ellen’s bed, refusing to sleep on his own. Not that she minded. It was all she could do not to insist that Eilish slept in the bed too, all the better for keeping her safe during the long nights.

  Ellen’s counsellor, Briony, had recommended someone who specialised in child trauma. On the basis of the sessions they’d had so far, Ellen was cautiously optimistic they would help. Only time would tell, though.

  She wasn’t sure how she was coping, either. Certainly not as well as her mother, who seemed to be able to carry on as if nothing had ever happened. Time and again, Ellen had tried talking to her about it. Each time, her mother stalled her, refusing to discuss it. ‘What’s done is done,’ was all Ellen ever got from her.

  ‘What’s done is done’ seemed to be Ger Cox’s view of things too. As far as she was concerned, the case was closed. Harry Shields had confessed before he died, neatly solving Adam Telford’s murder for Canterbury police. In Brighton, the investigation into Annie Telford’s death was ongoing, but Ellen didn’t see that being solved any time soon. Single woman, known alcoholic, living alone with no family to care about her, she wouldn’t be high up the priority list for a busy force like Brighton.