The Shape of Snakes

by Minette Walters

  "I'm sorry."

  He nodded. "It was pretty sad. Bridget kept trying to get treatment for her, but Rosie couldn't hack life without it. She always said she'd die of an overdose, so I guess she wouldn't have minded too much if she knew what was happening to her."

  "What did her father say?"

  "Zilch. I'm not sure he even knows she's dead. The girls stopped talking to him after he shacked up with Mum."

  "Couldn't you have told him?"

  "No way. He kicked me out when he moved in. That's when I started living with Rosie and Bridget." He jammed his hands between his knees, shoulders hunched in sudden anger. "He really hates me ... persuaded Mum I was no good," he said resentfully, "even though I was the one that looked out for her when it mattered."

  "When was that?"

  He turned away so that I couldn't see his expression. "It's not important."

  I was sure it was, but couldn't see the point of pursuing it as he clearly didn't want to tell me. "What did you do to make Geoffrey dislike you so much?"

  "Told Rosie and Bridget he was one of Mum's clients. He was a two-faced bastard ... kept making out what a saint he was to have given up his job to look after his dying wife ... while all the time he was 'round at our place. It was the girls who did everything for their ma. Geoff did sod all except complain when his dinner was late. Vivienne was a nice lady. I used to sit with her most afternoons, and it pissed me off to hear her talking about Geoff as if he'd been good to her."

  "Did she ever find out about your mother?"

  "I don't think so. She died with a smile on her face, so I reckon he fooled her to the end. Me and the girls never told her anyway. It didn't seem kind."

  A small silence fell while I wondered what to say next and immediately unwanted sounds crowded in on us�raucous seagull cries from the skylights above our heads, laughter, a baby's cry from the children's play area�and I found myself blurting out the one question I had been determined to avoid: "What on earth are you doing here, Michael? How can a man who's kind enough not to tell a dying woman that her husband's cheating on her attack an innocent stranger in a post office? It doesn't make sense."

  "I needed the cash," he said simply, "and it seemed like a good idea at the time."

  "And now?"

  He gave a mirthless laugh. "Now I reckon it's the dumbest thing I ever did. I was only planning to frighten her ... hold the pistol to her head ... but she started screaming and shouting ... and I went crazy." He fell silent, contemplating some private darkness. "She reminded me of Alan's mum," he said abruptly, "so I smashed her ugly face in. I really hated that bitch. It was her who used to get everyone worked up."

  "How?"

  "Just stuff," he said before lapsing into another longer silence.

  I changed the subject by asking him what he'd meant in one of his letters when he said Bridget had posted her hair through my letter box as a "sacrifice." "Sacrifice for what?" I asked.

  He was more comfortable talking about Bridget. "All the bad things that were happening to you," he said. "You told her once that you wished you had hair like hers, so she thought if she gave it to you the bad stuff would stop." He smiled at my expression. "Okay, it was a bit wacky but she always did have weird ideas. She put a load of raw onions into her mother's room one time because she read somewhere that onions absorb disease, but the smell was so bad that Vivienne couldn't sleep."

  "I think they're supposed to work on colds," I said abstractedly, while pondering the rest of what he'd said. "What made Bridget think bad things were happening to me?"

  "You looked so scared all the time," he said matter-of-factly. "It stood to reason there was some lousy shit in your life."

  "Did you know what it was?"

  A flicker of emotion crossed his face. "We guessed they were doing to you what they did to Annie."

  "Who?"

  "The Slaters. I saw Alan's dad try to barge you off the pavement one day ... and his mum used to call you a nigger-lover. She said you'd be lynched for the things you were saying if we lived in America."

  "What about your mother? Did she agree with Maureen?"

  He looked away again, as if the subject of his mother was something he found hard to deal with. "I don't know," he said curtly. "We never talked about it."

  "Did you talk about Annie's death?"

  "No." Even more curt.

  "Why not?"

  "What was to talk about? Hell, we were glad to see the back of her. It meant Mum could take in more clients without having abuse bellowed at them through the wall. And that's all she was interested in," he finished bitterly, "making money out of saps."

  "It was a vicious circle," I told him. "Every time you or the Slaters ratcheted up your aggression, Annie got worse. She might have been able to control her language if you'd left her alone, but she hadn't a hope in hell's chance once you started invading her space and making her afraid."

  He shrugged. "Mum always said she should be in a loony bin."

  "Only to give herself something to feel superior about," I murmured. "She didn't like being called a 'whore' ... because that's what she was. The Slaters didn't like being called 'trash' ... because that's what they were."

  He gave a surprised whistle as if the comfortable image he had of me had suddenly been shattered. "That's a bit harsh."

  "Do you think so?" I asked mildly. "I've always thought how generous Annie was. Had I been her, I'd have come up with something far stronger to describe low-grade scum who got their rocks off torturing cats."

  He flinched perceptibly.

  "Was it you and Alan who did it?" I asked. "It's the kind of brutality I can imagine you enjoying... inflicting pain on something smaller and weaker... then pushing the sad little remains on to Annie to see how she'd react. Was it Derek killing the marmalade cat that gave you the idea or was Maureen lying about that to protect Alan?"

  "Jesus!" he said with a spurt of anger. "And you wonder why I hate the bitch? Talk about fucking twisted. Alan used to say her brains were shot because his dad knocked the sense out of her, but I'd say it was the other way 'round. The bitch was born twisted and that's the reason the poor sap went for her." He leaned forward aggressively. "It was Maureen killed the cat, and she did it because it made her feel good. She got Alan to hold it down on the kitchen table while she beat its brains out with a baseball bat, and when Alan started blubbing because he really liked animals, she took the bat to him instead and said, if he ever told on her, she'd nail the next one to the fence and make him watch it while it died."

  It was like a floodgate opening. Once Michael started on his hatred of Maureen he couldn't stop. He talked about her lousy parenting, her drinking, her vilification of him and his mother. "It makes me sick what she's got away with," he finished angrily. "It makes me even sicker that she's on the out and me and Derek are stuck inside."

  "What would she have been charged with?"

  "Assault and battery of her kids ... drunk and disorderly ... you name it."

  "Killing Annie?"

  He didn't answer immediately. "All I know," he said then, "is what I told you in my letter. That I came home from the arcade to hear that the stupid cow had died in the street from some sort of accident."

  I nodded as if I believed him. "Did you know the Slaters went into the house later and robbed it?"

  "Rosie sussed it when the police described old Annie as living in poverty," he admitted. "She reckoned we ought to say something but I didn't want have to explain how any of us knew what was in there."

  "Did Alan not mention it?" I asked curiously. "You were inseparable at the time. I'd have expected him to boast about how clever they'd been."

  "No."

  "Because it was clever, Michael," I said idly. "Way too clever for Derek and Alan alone. It was the odd little extras like turning off the mains water ... and soiling the floors to give the impression of self-neglect and poor hygiene. I've always wondered why that was necessary. Unless the smell of human urine was stronger tha
n cats' urine and needed explaining."

  He shook his head, but whether in denial that he knew what I was talking about or in refusal to answer the question, I couldn't tell. From the way he started to look for an officer to rescue him from me, it was clear the whole subject made him as uncomfortable as talk of his mother.

  I plowed on determinedly. "You said it makes you sick that Derek's in prison," I reminded him. "Does that mean he's in at the moment?"

  "He got two years in February '98. A guy on my wing shared a cell with him in Pentonville before he got shipped down here. He reckons Derek's dying. His liver's packed up with the drinking, and the one brain cell he has left can just about remember his name ... and fuck all else."

  "When's he due for release?"

  He made a quick calculation in his head. "He'll have served half so he'll be out by now ... assuming he's not dead already."

  "What was he convicted of?"

  "Burglary," said Michael dispassionately. "It's what he gets done for every time."

  "Why does that make you sick?"

  He gave an unexpected sigh. "Because he needs an education, not endless bloody punishment. Him and me were on the same landing in the Scrubs when I was on remand for this one. He's completely illiterate ... just about manages a 'd' and 'e' for his signature but can't get to grips with the 'r' or the 'k.' I wrote some letters for him to his kids, but the only one who ever answered was Sally, and then only because she thought he might have some dosh hidden away somewhere. It pissed me off, it really did. The poor sod was only trying to tell them he loved them, but as far as they were concerned he didn't exist."

  I was surprised. "You used to hate him when you were a child."

  Michael shrugged. "It doesn't mean I can't feel sorry for him. I got to realizing how limited a guy's life is if he can't read and write. It's pretty mind-blowing when you think about it. I mean, you can't apply for a job if you can't sign your name to a form ... and people sure as hell look down on you if they think you're an ignorant jerk. I reckon it's what made Derek violent. The only way he could get people to respect him was to slap 'em about and make 'em afraid of him."

  "Is that his excuse?"

  "No. He's not into excuses. Maybe that's why I feel sorry for him. He told me a bit about his childhood ... how he got dumped in institutions because his mum didn't want him, then legged it to live on the streets till he was nicked for shoplifting and sent to Borstal. That's why he's illiterate, never stayed in school long enough to learn basic skills. It makes you realize how important love is to a kid. If his mum had wanted him"�he pulled a rueful face�"maybe he'd have been one of the good guys."

  I guessed he was talking as much about himself as he was about Derek. "Everyone has to deal with rejection at some point in their lives," I said.

  "Worse when you're a child, though," he said bleakly. "There has to be something wrong with you if even your mum doesn't like you." He fell silent, squeezing his fists in an echo of Drury. "Derek reckoned he only married Maureen because she reminded him of his mum," he said suddenly. "He had this black and white photo of her, and it was the spitting image of Maureen ... skinny and slitty-eyed ... called her a sidewinder."

  "As in snake?"

  He nodded.

  "Why?"

  "Because she never looked him in the face ... just stabbed him in the back. It sounded halfway reasonable till I realized he feels like that about all women. 'They're all snakes,' he said, and snakes have shapes. If you can't recognize the poisonous ones you're a dead man."

  "How did Maureen stab him in the back?" "Gee-ed up Alan to take him on. It was like a war zone in there, went on for months. If we had our windows open we could hear the fights all the way past Annie's empty house ... the screaming and yelling ... bodies being slammed against walls. It was like the minute Annie died all hell let loose."

  "Why? What changed?"

  Michael shook his head. "Mum reckoned they reverted to type. They were bullies and bullies need someone to hit on ... so while Annie was alive they hit on her and when she was dead they hit on each other."

  It made sense, I thought. People never pull together so well as when they have a common enemy. "How many times did Maureen end up in the hospital?"

  "Two or three. But it wasn't Derek who put her there, it was Alan. He was well out of control. It was around the time he raped little Rosie. Derek kept him in check for as long as he could but by the time Alan got to fifteen he was two inches taller than his dad and twice as heavy, and there wasn't much Derek could do to stop him."

  "Did they know about Rosie's rape?"

  He shook his head. "Not unless Alan told them. Rosie was paranoid about her mum finding out�thought it'd kill her quicker than the cancer�so we kept quiet."

  I tried to make sense of the chronology. "And this all happened in '79?"

  He nodded.

  "Was it Alan who attacked Maureen while I was still living there?" I thought back. "Sometime during the February of '79?"

  Another nod. "She was drunk one day and started slapping him about when he answered her back. He went for her like a maniac."

  "Who called the ambulance?"

  "Derek. He came in about an hour later and found her on the floor with little Danny trying to clean up the blood. Alan was blubbing in the garden because he thought he'd killed her. Derek had to run to the nearest phone box."

  I eyed him curiously. "Did you know this at the time, or did Derek tell you about it afterward?"

  "Derek told me," he admitted, "but it made sense when I thought about what Alan did to Rosie."

  "Except Maureen said Derek did it," I murmured.

  "Yeah, well, she's a liar. She snapped little Danny's arm across her knee one time, then swore to the doctors he'd fallen off his bike. Us kids knew it wasn't true because she did it in front of us." His lips thinned to threads. "She was a scary woman, and if we hadn't been such fucking cowards�" He broke off to stare at the table. "Derek was right pissed off when I told him about it. That's why he wanted to write letters to his kids. He really cared about them." He lifted his eyes to mine. "I know what you're thinking. Michael's not as bright as I thought. He spends a couple of months talking to a man he despises and ends up getting conned by him. Well, that might be true�I wouldn't go to the wall for it�but the one thing I do know is that Derek's so damn stupid even a moron could run rings around him. Sure, he was a bully and, sure, he used his fists, but he had to be told to do it. He was like a guided missile. Point him in the right direction and give him an instruction and�wham!�he did the business."

  E-mail from Dr. Joseph Elias, psychiatrist

  at the Queen Victoria Hospital, Hong Kong

  M. R.

  From: Sarah Pyang (spyang@victorhos.com)

  Sent: 15 August 1999 14:19

  To: mranelagh@jetscape.com

  Sent as from: Dr. Elias

  Such are the wonders of modern technology! My secretary tells me she received your e-mail yesterday (Saturday) and you wish me to reply by return. Well, I'm happy to do so but I wonder if answers given in haste are wise.

  You pepper me with questions. Who is more to blame: the architect of a crime or the one who carries it out? Should a whole police force be smeared because of one bad apple? Can justice be selective? Can the damage done by a mother to her child be mended? Can rapists be cured? Can children be evil? Is any crime excusable? Should the sins of a father be visited on his family? Should the sins of a mother?

  In a poor attempt at wisdom might I suggest that, if you are honestly seeking justice for your friend, then you arrogate too much authority merely by thinking such things? These are not your decisions to make, my dear. Justice is impartial. Only revenge is prejudiced.

  But isn't prejudice what you've been fighting all these years?

  All best wishes,

  Joseph

  *25*

  It was three o'clock by the time I drove down to the main road with my brain worrying away at what Michael had said like a t
ongue at a sore tooth. Each time I negotiated a hairpin bend the panoramic view of Weymouth Bay and Chesil Beach was spread out below me, but I was too absorbed in thoughts on motherhood to notice it. I wondered sometimes if my rush to judgment of the Sharon Percys and Maureen Slaters of this world was a way of punishing my own mother�and by extension myself. For everything I did as a parent was either in mimicry of her�or in defiance�and I had no idea which was right and which was wrong.

  I had few feelings for Sharon beyond contempt for abandoning her son out of embarrassment the minute she acquired a modicum of respectability after Geoffrey moved in with her. Yet I couldn't understand why Michael had seemed so worried every time her name was mentioned when anger would have been a more normal reaction. He'd been angry enough with Maureen. Did Sharon's shying away from society's censure of her son's violence really make her ipso facto incapable of murder? And did Maureen's willingness to keep Alan's violence under wraps, together with my absolute certainty that she was the instigator of the hate campaigns against Annie and myself, make her ipso facto capable?

  I was tired, and a little depressed, and I hadn't intended to see Danny that afternoon, but when I reached the T-junction at the bottom of Verne Common Road I took an abrupt decision to turn left toward Tout Quarry. He was still at work on Gandhi when I turned into the gulley fifteen minutes later. "How's it going?" I asked.

  He dropped his hands to his sides, resting the chisel and hammer against his thighs. "Okay," he said with a pleased smile. "How about you?"

  "I've been to see Michael Percy. He sends his regards, says if you're bored he'll be happy to entertain you for an hour in the visitors' room."

  Danny grinned. "A bit of a comedian, eh?"

  "He has his moments," I agreed.

  Danny laid his tools on the ground and brushed dust from his arms. "What would we talk about? I was just a snotty-nosed kid to him." He took his cigarettes from his pocket and perched on a rock beside Gandhi. "He gave me a lecture once when he caught me sniffing glue behind the church."