The Shape of Snakes

by Minette Walters

  "Why didn't you go to the police?"

  She shook her head scornfully as if the question weren't worth answering, and in fairness, it probably wasn't. Domestic violence was a low priority in 1978. As was harassment of black people.

  "How did he kill the cat?" I asked, reverting to what interested me.

  "Strangled it," she said irritably. "They kept coming into our garden, and he'd already warned her he wasn't going to stand for it. He chucked the body back over the fence with a note tied to its collar so she'd get the message."

  "What did the note say?"

  "I don't know, for sure. Something like he'd nail the next one to the fence. He didn't tell me about it till afterward." She watched me slyly through her lashes while she cooked up another defense. "I like cats. I'd have stopped him if I could. The children were all over them when we first came here ... they kept asking where the marmalade one was."

  "When did it happen?"

  "About two months before she died."

  "September '78?"

  "Probably."

  I recalled John Hewlett's letter to Sheila Arnold. 1 made two recommendations on my first visit in March 1978: 1) that she install a cat flap in the kitchen door to allow the animals free access to and from the garden... "After you'd set the RSPCA inspector on to her then?"

  Maureen tapped the glowing end of her cigarette against her saucer and watched a curl of ash deposit itself against the side. "I can't remember."

  "His first visit was in March. He ordered her to put a cat flap in her door because you and Sharon kept complaining about the smell coming from her house."

  She lifted a shoulder in a careless shrug.

  "Weren't you worried she'd show Derek's note to him the next time he came?"

  "She wouldn't have dared. She was almost as frightened of the RSPCA as she was of Derek."

  "How did she let the cats out before she had the flap installed?"

  "She never did. That's why the house stank."

  "That's not true," I said bluntly. "You just told me how your children were all over the cats when you first came here. How could they have had any contact if there was no way for the animals to get out until the flap was installed?"

  A stubborn note crept into Maureen's voice. "Maybe she didn't bother to close her back door."

  "Well, did she or didn't she? You must have known. Your kitchens were next door to each other."

  "Most of the time it was open." Her eyes caught mine, then slid away to hide their cunning. "That's what made us think she had chickens in there. The smell that came out of it was disgusting."

  "Oh, for Christ's sake!" I said wearily. "The only stink 'round here was your family's body odor. God knows if you ever gave Alan a bath or washed his clothes, but no one wanted to sit next to him at school. Poor kid. He was always the first to be checked for head lice ... and always had them. Always the first to have his locker searched for missing games kit ... and always had it. The PE teacher asked him once what his problem was, and he said he liked things that smelled clean."

  "It wasn't my fault," she said again, her voice rising to an irritating whine. "We didn't have a washing machine."

  "Neither did we. I used the laundrette on the main road."

  "You didn't have kids."

  "Two machines take the same time as one."

  "The bags were too heavy ... I couldn't abandon Danny ... In any case, I never had any money. Derek spent it all on drink."

  I looked at the vodka bottle on the table. "He wasn't the only one." I rode roughshod over her attempt at a retort. "Why didn't you do the washing by hand in the bath? You weren't working. You had all day to devote to your children. The one thing you could have done was keep them clean."

  "I did my best."

  I'd waited so long to get this off my chest that caution gave way to honesty. "Then you should be ashamed of yourself," I said flatly. "I've seen women in Africa do better than that when all they had was a tub of cold water. You did nothing for your children, and the only reason Danny's a nice kid now is because somewhere along the line someone took an interest in him. I suspect it was Alan's wife"�I could see from her expression that I was right�"because it certainly wasn't you. You were in a drunken stupor most of the time ... like your husband."

  She was surprisingly indifferent, as if she'd heard the same accusations many times before. "You do what you can to get by," she said, "and it wasn't always like that. Some days were better than others. In any case, you don't feel the pain so much when you're drunk. You should try having your face smashed into a brick wall once in a while and see how you like it."

  Letter from Ann Butts to Councillor J. M. Davies,

  Richmond�dated 1978

  30 Graham Road

  Richmond

  Surrey

  June 12,1978

  Dear Mr. Davies,

  I got your name and address from a leaflet that was pushed through my door. You said to write if I had a problem. I think something should be done for Morin. She cries because her husband hits her. I have tried to make him stop but he is a nasty man who likes hurting children and animals.

  Yours very worried,

  Ann Butts (Miss)

  Carbon copy of Councillor J. M. Davies's reply

  Pendlebury

  Duke's Avenue

  Richmond

  Surrey

  01-940-0000

  June 20, 1978

  Dear Miss Butts,

  Thank you for your letter of June 12, 1978.1 am deeply disturbed by what you say, however, there is little I can do without more information. You did not give me Morin's surname, nor the name of her husband, nor indeed did you say where she lives. As I'm sure you appreciate, it will be difficult for me to raise the matter with the appropriate authorities without these details.

  If you wish me to pursue the matter, please write again or telephone me on the above number. Alternatively, you may prefer to attend one of my "surgeries" at the above address, which would give you a chance to discuss your concerns in person. They take place between 9 a.m. and midday on the first Saturday of every month and do not require an appointment.

  Yours sincerely,

  (Update: No response received therefore no action taken. Possibility that a strange phone call at 11 p.m. on July 3 with much reference to "white trash" may have been Miss Butts, but caller was very incoherent. Suspect original letter was malicious. J.M.D.)

  *15*

  I stared into my coffee. "How did she stop her cats coming into your garden after Derek killed the marmalade one? It was long after the cat flap had been installed."

  "She propped a board in front of it so they couldn't use it, then let them out one at a time to do their business. It was quite funny watching her. She used to run up and down flapping her arms to stop them coming anywhere near our fence. We reckoned she'd have lost a couple of stone with all the exercise if she hadn't had her face in the trough all the time. You should have heard her ... right noisy she was. Gobble, gobble, gobble. It made us sick just to listen."

  My expression must have given away more than I intended because she dropped her eyes immediately. I thought what a vile little woman she was and how injurious her poison must have been to her family.

  "You asked ... I told you," she muttered. "Don't blame me if you don't like the answers."

  I caught at the edges of my anger and drew it back inside. "How do you know she used a board?"

  "The kids used to climb over the fence at night and push the flap open to make the board fall on the floor."

  "That must have frightened her."

  "It did. She used to wail her head off."

  "Why didn't she fix the board to the door?"

  "Because she didn't want the RSPCA to know she was blocking the flap. She'd keep the inspector waiting at the door while she scurried around trying to find somewhere to hide the stupid thing."

  "Is that why you and Sharon kept pestering the RSPCA? So they'd catch her out?"

  She blew a s
moke ring in my direction, then stabbed it through the heart with the point of her cigarette. "Maybe."

  I gave my coffee cup a violent shove and watched it slop across the table. "You had her in a vise. On the one hand Derek was threatening to kill her cats if they did run free; on the other, the RSPCA was telling her she could face prosecution if they didn't run free."

  She took to smoothing her hair again.

  "What was she supposed to do?"

  "Leave," she said matter-of-factly, "and take her cats with her."

  "Just because she was black?"

  "Why not? We didn't want a coon for a neighbor." She retreated rapidly as she saw my expression. "Look, it wasn't my idea ... I'd have done it differently if I could. But Derek wanted rid of her ... he had this thing about nig�" She corrected herself�"blacks ... really hated them. In any case, she had her chance. The social workers told her she only had to say the word and they'd rehouse us. But she said no, she was happy the way things were."

  "She had no choice. Derek knew where she lived. Her cats were never going to be safe from him."

  "Right, and she got so scared of him in the end, we reckoned she'd leave before Christmas." She paused. "Then the silly cow falls under a flaming truck," she finished lamely, ''and the cops find she's been killing the cats herself."

  I rested my chin in my hands and studied her with grim curiosity. "They were already half-dead when they were pushed through her flap," I told her. "Someone thought it was funny to catch strays and bind their mouths with superglue and parcel tape so they'd either starve to death or have most of the fur ripped out of their heads if Annie tried to save them. I think she killed the weakest ones when the others started attacking them, but it was done out of kindness, not out of cruelty." I favored her with a crooked smile. "So whose bright idea was that? Yours? Or your husband's?"

  She squashed her cigarette into the ashtray, mashing it to shreds with nicotine-stained fingers. "It weren't nothing to do with us," she said flatly, while apparently agreeing with the facts. "We weren't like that."

  "Oh, come on!" I said sarcastically. "You've just told me Derek strangled one cat and threatened to nail another to a fence. And all for what? Because he was thick as pig shit and had to terrorize women to give himself a sense of authority."

  She didn't like the way the conversation was going, and licked her lips nervously. "I don't know anything about that."

  "What? The way he liked to terrorize women?"

  She recovered quickly. "All I know is what he did to me and the kids. But he was more talk than action. Most of the time he never followed through."

  "Maybe not when Annie was alive," I agreed, "but he certainly made up for it after she was dead. He was far more violent when he knew there were no witnesses."

  I recalled my visit to her in hospital. It was a wet afternoon at the end of November, and I'd dripped water all over the vinyl floor beside her bed while I tried not to show my shock at Derek's handiwork. I couldn't believe how small she was, how damaged she was, and how panic-stricken her eyes were. It was a wasted journey in terms of gathering information because she was too suspicious of me to answer questions. I listened to her dreary insistence that, far from Derek using her as a punchbag, she'd been alone in the house and had missed her footing at the top of the stairs, while saying in her next breath that she'd be dead if Alan hadn't been there to call an ambulance for her. It was a ridiculous story because her broken cheekbone and blackened eyes looked too much like Annie's death mask for anyone to believe that either of them had suffered an accident; but all too belatedly I was given a glimpse of the walls of terrified silence that protect violent men.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Derek putting you in hospital two weeks after Annie's death. Didn't you ask yourself why that happened? He'd never hit you so hard before that you went into a coma and had to rely on your children calling an ambulance for you." I jerked my head toward the party wall. "Your protector was dead. Her house was empty. Derek was free to break every bone in your body if he wanted to, then dump you in the road somewhere and claim you were run over by a truck..."

  Maureen rejected my suggestion that Annie had been her "protector." It was rubbish, she protested�Annie hated her. I repeated what she'd said herself, that Annie had wailed every time Derek raised his voice. "You asked me earlier who had ever cared about you," I reminded her. "Well, Annie did. I know it isn't what you want to hear, but it is the truth." I took two letters from my rucksack and pushed them across the table. "The top one's a copy of a note she wrote to your then councillor, J. M. Davies, in June '78. The one underneath is his reply. She obviously didn't know how to spell your name and, because she was incoherent when she tried to raise the matter over the telephone, he put the whole thing down to maliciousness."

  Maureen looked uncomfortable reading Annie's bold handwriting as if, even in reproduction, it had the power to summon her into the room with us. "Perhaps it was malicious," she said, laying the letters aside. "Perhaps she was just trying to cause trouble for me and Derek."

  "Oh, for God's sake!" I sighed impatiently. "If that was her intention, she'd have made a better job of it. She'd have written a barrage of letters, almost certainly unsigned, and she'd have accused Derek of killing animals instead of hurting them. Can't you see her concern was for you? She says, 'something should be done for Maureen,' not, 'something should be done about the white trash next door because they keep stealing from me.' "

  She fumbled nervously at her cigarette packet. "She'd have been lying if she had."

  I shook my head in contradiction. "Alan gave me a tiny wooden statuette which he told me he'd carved himself from an old table leg as an end-of-year present. I believed him because it's very primitive, and looks like something a child might do, but I'm certain he stole it from Annie."

  "You can't prove that."

  "No," I agreed, "but I can certainly prove he never carved it. It's been analyzed by an expert. It's a representation of an Aztec god, called Quetzalcoatl, and was cut from pine, probably around the turn of the century, in a style common to natives of Central America. Annie's father made a collection of Central American artifacts during the '30s and '40s, so the circumstantial evidence suggests that the Quetzalcoatl in my possession once belonged to her. The only question is, did she give it to Alan, or did he steal it?"

  Maureen leaped at the bait. "She gave it to him."

  "How do you know?"

  She thought for a moment. "He ran an errand for her ... it was her way of saying thank you. Matter of fact, I was the one who made him pass it on to you. He kept on about what a nice lady you were, and how you'd kept quiet about the time you caught him thieving from your wallet. 'One kindness deserves another,' I said, 'and Mrs. Ranelagh's more likely to appreciate a wooden statue than you are.' "

  "Why did he tell me he'd carved it?"

  She caught my eye briefly. "I expect he wanted to impress you."

  I laughed. "I'd have been more impressed if he'd told me he earned it running errands for Mad Annie. He used to shout 'daft nigger' after her in the street. She turned on him once with a growl and grabbed at the sleeve of his jacket. He was so terrified he took to his heels and left the jacket in her hand." I paused. "She'd never have asked him to run an errand for her. And, even if she had, she'd have cut off her right hand before she rewarded him with one of her treasures. She disliked him even more than she disliked Derek. The little brute never left her alone ... He was always on the lookout for her..." I fell silent before anger made me strident.

  "That's lies. You're inventing things to suit yourself. All you're saying is that Alan played in the street a lot. It doesn't mean he was on the lookout for Annie."

  "He was an abused and neglected child, Maureen, who was too frightened to take on his father and saw Annie as easy meat. He learned that bullying worked and put it into practice on the most vulnerable person he could find." I gave a humorless laugh. "I wish I'd known how you and Derek were treating him.
I wish I'd had him prosecuted when I had the chance. Most of all, I wish he'd been taken away from you and taught some decent values when it mattered."

  "You were just as responsible as us," she muttered. "You were his teacher. Why didn't you say something to him when he called her a 'daft nigger'?"

  It was a good question. Why hadn't I? And what sort of excuse was it to say I was frightened of a fourteen-year-old? But I was. Alan was a huge child for his age, tall and heavily built, with a low IQ and little understanding of anything except aggression, which both emboldened and scared him. Had there been no Michael Percy to take the flak, then I think Alan's problems would have been more obvious and he might have attracted sympathy instead of dislike and disgust. As it was, most people avoided him and, in the process, turned a blind eye to the way he and his gang terrorized Mad Annie. It seemed an even contest, after all. She was bigger than they were, crazier than they were, older, bulkier and perceptibly more aggressive�particularly when she'd been drinking� and she had no compunction about lashing out when their teasing became intolerable.

  "I've spent twenty years regretting my silence," I told Maureen. "If I'd been a little braver, or a little more experienced"�I gave an uneasy laugh�"maybe I wouldn't feel so guilty now."

  She shrugged. "I wouldn't fret about it. Alan wouldn't have listened to you even if you had taken him to task. The only person he paid any mind to was his father."

  "Until he turned on him with a baseball bat."

  "It was bound to happen one day," she said indifferently. "Kids grow up. It was Derek's fault anyway. He didn't realize Alan wasn't up for a thrashing anymore."

  I looked again at the cluster of empty bottles on her windowsill. "Do you ever feel guilty, Maureen?"

  "Why should I?"

  I gave her a copy of Michael Percy's letter, detailing how her children had stolen trinkets from Annie. She was more amused than fazed by it for, as she said herself, I'd have a job proving it. "No one's going to believe Michael," she pointed out, "and he wouldn't talk to the police anyway, not while he's in prison. It's more than his life's worth to be known as a grass."