by Bateman
‘I know,’ she said, and snapped me.
She wound it on. I said, ‘It really is titchy. Can I see?’
She hesitated, then handed me the camera. I examined it carefully. Then rolled down the window and threw it out.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘Just following the instructions. Says disposable on the side. I have a predisposal to disposing of disposable cameras. If you get my drift.’
She had her hand on the door. ‘That cost me five ninety-nine.’
‘Leave it. I have full picture approval. It’s in the small print of our contract. Plus, I’m incredibly vain.’ She opened the door. ‘I’m serious. Leave it.’
‘It’s my camera. I’ve other pictures on it. If you’re that worried about it, I promise I won’t use yours.’
‘Well, then I can relax.’
She started to climb out. I put a hand on her arm and pulled her back in.
‘Great,’ she said flatly. ‘What’re you going to do, kill me?’
‘Ouch.’ She sat where she was. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘I really appreciate what you’re doing for me. The car’n all. But I’d just prefer not to have my picture taken right now. I don’t want you rushing into print before you have the full story.’
‘I won’t. I promise.’
I raised my eyebrows. She smiled. ‘I know. But I really won’t.’
She smiled, and always being the sucker, never the suckee, I sighed and relented. ‘Okay.’
She got out of the car and bent to retrieve the camera. As she did I caught sight of Jimmy the Chicken and Oil Paintings coming chatting and smiling down the steps. Elaine looked up as I hissed her name, then followed my eyes. She’d never seen either of them before, of course, but she could tell instantly. My bug eyes and white face gave it away.
She stood, clutching the camera, then walked towards the taxi rank.
I hissed again, but if she heard, she ignored me. What the hell is she . . .?
Elaine joined the back of the taxi queue, directly behind Jimmy the Chicken and Oil Paintings. They smiled round at her. She smiled back, then examined her camera. Her brow furrowed. She looked through one side, then the other, then held it up to her ear. Jimmy the Chicken and Oil Paintings were watching her, smirking. They said something to her, she laughed, she looked at the camera again, she held it up to them, Jimmy took it off her, looked through the lens, then ran his fingers along the top of it and pointed at something. He handed it to Oil Paintings, who looked where Jimmy had pointed, then looked through the lens at Elaine, who smiled as he took her picture; he then ran the film on and handed it back to Elaine, again pointing at something. She smiled expansively, said something else, both of my enemies then laughed; Jimmy put his arm round Oil Paintings, they both raised their thumbs and put on say-cheese smiles. Elaine took their picture. They all laughed together. Three taxis in succession pulled up. The first two were quickly filled; Oil Paintings opened the door of the third and tried to usher Elaine in; she shook her head and raised her hands. Jimmy the Chicken tried to insist, but she stood her ground, waved them into their taxi, then stood patiently waiting for the next one while they drove off, waving back at her.
The instant they turned up past Maysfield she ran back to the car and dived into the driver’s seat.
‘At least they weren’t vain,’ she grinned as she gunned the engine, then took off in pursuit of the black taxi. I shook my head and tutted. ‘Listen, mate,’ she said, ‘I have a photo of them and I know where they’re going. What do you have apart from Most Wanted tattooed on your forehead?’
‘I have . . . you,’ I said wearily. ‘A lunatic.’
‘It takes two to tango.’
‘So where are we going?’
‘Malone Road.’
‘Shit.’ I had a dread feeling about the Malone Road.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Just follow.’
‘If we’re going to be partners, you better tell me what you mean by shit.’
I sighed. ‘We’re not partners. I don’t have to tell you anything.’
She indicated, then pulled in sharply. There was a blast of horns from behind. Elaine ignored it, content merely to glare across at me. ‘Do you want to get out of the car now?’
‘Be serious.’
‘I am bloody serious. I’m putting my neck on the line for you, the least you can do is show a little appreciation.’
‘I appreciate what you’re doing.’
‘More than that.’
‘I really appreciate what you’re doing.’
‘We’re losing them.’
‘Then drive.’
‘Then promise.’
‘Then promise what?’
‘To tell me what you’re doing, what you’re thinking.’
‘What’s the point? Don’t you have a home to go to? Won’t Daddy be worried about you?’
‘He’ll be worried about his car.’
I sighed. Fair point. We were both keeping an eye on the black taxi, now at traffic lights halfway up the Ormeau Road, waiting to turn right into Donegall Pass. We knew they were going to Malone Road, and I’d a fair idea which house. But it would be helpful to be sure. The lights changed, the taxi moved forward.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Just follow them.’
‘Tell me.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘If you absolutely bloody insist, the woman who runs the Horse Whisperer lives on the Malone Road. Somehow they’ve managed to track her down.’
‘Okay.’
She indicated, but suddenly inspired, I put a hand on the wheel. ‘One thing.’
‘What?’
‘Will you let me drive?’
‘What’s wrong with my driving?’
‘Nothing, I . . . just like to feel in control.’
‘We’re going to lose them.’
‘Not if I’m driving.’
She blew air out of her cheeks. ‘Bloody men.’
‘Think of the story. Concentrate on that. Front page. By Elaine Taylor.’
‘Patricia Taylor.’
‘Exactly. Let me drive.’
She slapped the wheel in exasperation. ‘Okay. Okay! You bloody drive. Just don’t try anything funny.’
I gave her a pained ‘Like what?’ as she opened her door and scooted around the back.
I locked my own door, then slipped into the driver’s seat, pulling the door she’d left open for me shut. She pulled at the passenger door, once, twice, then knocked on the window. Her face appeared at it, followed by a misty little circle as she said urgently, ‘It’s locked.’
I reached across and she stood back to let me open it, but instead I rolled down the window a fraction. ‘Sucker,’ I said.
I closed the window again, locked my own door, then indicated and pulled out. There was something that sounded suspiciously like a kick against the passenger door panel as I moved off, but I didn’t stop.
Fifty yards up the road I checked the mirror to make sure she was far enough back, then pulled in. I grabbed hold of the shopping bags full of her precious shoes. I moved across to the passenger door, opened it, then set them carefully down on the pavement. I glanced back. She was running.
The door was closed and I was back out in the traffic again before she got anywhere near. When I checked the mirror again she was standing in the midst of her bags, angrily giving me the finger.
I had stolen her car, but I preferred to think of it as saving her life.
22
I spent an hour and a half watching the house from the safety of Patricia Elaine Taylor’s father’s car, during which a pleasant early evening had begun to slip into autumnal night. There was a crispness to the air and a half-moon in the sky. There was the possibility of frost. There was a high pressure area building up over the Azores, and Mallen Head was expecting a force nine gale. You can listen to too much weather on the radio. I searched the dial for news but kept managing to miss it; I heard the weather. Again and again. And again.
&
nbsp; For the first hour I saw no movement, then halfway through the second the merest glimpse of Oil Paintings as he pulled the curtains in the front lounge. A dull light appeared around the edges of the window. I took a deep breath, nearly choked on one of the barley sugars I had liberated from a bag in the glove compartment, then got out of the car and followed the perimeter wall around to the back of the house. It was low enough to peer over. Satisfied that nobody was watching, I pulled myself up and over and hurried across the grounds. I skirted the tennis court and swimming pool, then headed for the stables. The door was slightly open and I could see that the interior was lit by a single low-wattage bulb. There was movement within, but it was horse movement. I slipped inside and walked slowly past the half-dozen stalls, making clicking sounds to the horses within, checking to see if by any chance any of them was Dan the Man. Of course, none of them were. Or all of them were. They were brown horses in a bad light. I hadn’t a clue. I moved out of the stables, and towards the house.
I entered from the rear, shinning up a pipe and making a dive for a half-open window.
In truth it wasn’t the most dangerous leap. There was a sloping and overgrown grass bank behind me to break my fall, if required. But I held on to the ledge and dragged myself in. I lowered myself down on to a carpet and knelt there for several minutes.
As my eyes grew accustomed to the dark, and with the faint assistance of the handily placed moon, I realised that I was standing in what must once have been Mandy’s room. There were framed photographs of her on the wall, stretching from when she was not much more than a toddler to her later teenage years. There were four factors common to them all. A riding helmet. A horse. A rosette. And her proud mother. There was make-up on a dressing table and a poster of Frankie Dettori pinned to the door of a wardrobe. There were clothes in the wardrobe, and underwear in the dresser. I was thinking about the nature of sexual fantasy and the bizarre paths along which it can lead you when I was suddenly stopped in my tracks by a low, agonised groan from below. The sort that sends a chill through your bones.
I went to the door and peered out. The hall was in darkness. I padded along it. I came to the room where Hilda had shown me the Horse Whisperer set-up. I tried the door. It was unlocked. I opened it and slipped in, then closed it behind me. I chanced turning on the light. I blinked against the brightness for a moment, then switched it off again. The room was empty. No computers, no faxes, no gossip, no Horse Whisperer.
At the end of the hall I looked over the banister. The stairs and downstairs hall were partially lit by light emanating from the half-open door of the lounge. I could see shadows dancing on the walls. Although not, of course, dancing. Or if they were, it was some kind of surreal torture tango. Another hideous groan. I shuddered. I’d had no idea of what I might find in Hilda’s mansion. All I knew was that she had used me. Quite possibly she had betrayed me. At the back of my mind there’d been a hint of a suspicion that she might somehow have been in league with Jimmy the Chicken, Oil Paintings and the mysteriously absent Dry Cleaner, that there had been some dispute between her and Geordie over money and she was using me in some bizarre fashion to try and flush it out, but the screams of terror and pain and despair that were coming from that room knocked any such suspicions of collaboration well into touch.
They were killing her.
I sat on the bottom step.
‘Tell us, you fucking old hoor.’
A hiss. Like . . . steam?
A scream.
‘Where’s the fucking money, you cunt?’
‘Tell us!’
A hiss. Like . . . an iron?
A terrible juddery involuntary scream.
Then laughter. A horribly sadistic snigger. ‘Look at the fuckin’ shape of that!’
‘Girlie, we’re doing a fucking map of the world on yer tits.’
Hiss. Scream.
‘Tell us!’
‘Nooooooooooo!’
Hiss. Scream.
Silence.
‘Get some water.’
I flattened myself against the stairs, but kept my head raised just enough to see the door open further and Oil Paintings emerge. Beyond him Jimmy the Chicken stood with an iron in his hand. He raised his other hand, then slapped it downwards. I heard flesh meet flesh. ‘Come on, you stupid bitch, wake up.’ Then he tutted, stepped back and set the iron on a sideboard. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. He moved out of my line of sight and I saw Hilda for the first time.
I will never forget that vision of torment.
What had she been? A beautiful woman in upper middle age. Proud. Determined. Angry. Vengeful. What was it my mother used to say? Full of vim. And that was back in the days when the only vim I knew was the brand name of the scouring powder she used to clean the toilets.
But now.
Naked. Her arms bound behind her. Her legs deliberately spread for the maximum humiliation, then tied to the legs of the chair. But she could cope with that. She was strong. But no one could cope with . . .
Her flesh was melting. Great welts of dripping, corrupted skin hung bloody from her chest. Around those horrific wounds her ribs were clearly visible, pressing outwards as if trying to escape. The arms were blotched and burned. Her legs. They’d been at her for some time. I’d been listening to the weather forecast in the car while they’d been pressing her. Her head was slumped down, her grey hair tangled and dank with sweat. There was a damp patch on the carpet beneath her, urine on her legs.
There were footsteps to my left, and Oil Paintings came back along the hall carrying a pint glass full of water. He re-entered the lounge and pushed the door closed behind him.
There was a splash and a groan and a gloating ‘Now where were we?’
I cursed silently.
What’s the plan, Dan?
Call the police. I would give myself up for this. Everyone would. But it would be too late. They’d be gone and Hilda would be dead long before they arrived.
What to do, what to fucking do!
I looked desperately about me. Horses . . . horses? Hilda was into horses, and half of those into horses are also into the hunting, the shooting and the fishing. It was part of the lifestyle. They went hand in hand. Guns. For hunting. Somewhere in the house. But where? It was massive. There’d be a gun room, somewhere . . . but locked. Keys . . . keys?
There was another yell and a barely audible ‘Please . . .’
Frig. There wasn’t time.
A weapon. Anything.
The kitchen. A knife. A carving knife.
Take a run at them, stab, stab, stab, hope for the best.
I moved cautiously off the stairs, then quickly along the hall and down the corridor leading to the kitchen. The door was three quarters closed but Oil Paintings had left the light on. I hurried through and crossed directly to the drawers underneath the sink. I carefully pulled the first open.
Behind me, a voice said: ‘Looking for something?’
My heart stopped. Then started. I turned slowly.
Sitting at the breakfast counter, a forkful of pasta in one hand, a gun in the other, a microwave meal before him, was Dry Cleaner.
I sighed. He smiled. ‘Not in enjoying the fun?’ I asked.
‘Nah. Puts me off my dinner.’ He put the pasta in his mouth, then set down the fork. ‘Jimmy said he saw you on the train,’ he said between chews.
‘I didn’t see you.’
‘Oh no. He sent me on ahead. To do a recce and buy the iron.’
‘You bought the iron?’
‘Oh yeah. Much better value up here. It’s the exchange rate.’
‘I mean . . . why not just use hers . . .?’
‘Women like this, more money than sense, they send their clothes out to be done. Keeps me in business! Besides. I needed a new one for the shop. Killing two birds with one stone, so to speak. You can put the knife back any time you want.’
I put the knife I’d slipped into my sleeve back into the drawer.
‘What now?’ I said.<
br />
‘I should think that’s fucking obvious.’
I nodded. I was going to get ironed.
I was tied to a chair. A cheap wooden effort of the type you stand on to change light bulbs, while Hilda was secured to a much superior aluminium number that had once sat around her dining table. She looked at me with a kind of vague recognition. Her eyes were flecked with blood and there was saliva dribbling out of her mouth. I said, ‘I’m sorry . . .’ across to her, but there was no reaction.
‘You will be,’ said Oil Paintings.
Dry Cleaner stayed with his pasta. Oil Paintings marched me in. Jimmy the Chicken laughed his head off when he saw me, then decked me. My eye was already swollen and closed by the time they both came to stand in front of me, but that didn’t bother me. What did was the iron with the slivers of crisped flesh hanging from it which Jimmy was brandishing.
‘So,’ Jimmy said, ‘about this money?’
‘I don’t know anything about–– Don’t, don’t, don’t . . .’ The iron was an inch from my trouser leg. It is a well-documented fact that I can stand anything but bad reviews and pain. ‘Just don’t. Please. Ask me anything. Better still, let me volunteer everything I know.’
Jimmy laughed. ‘You know,’ he said, then nodded at Hilda, ‘she’s a better man than you are.’
‘I know.’
‘She didn’t give us shit for two hours. She’s fucking dying and you’d give it all up as soon as the room temperature goes up a degree.’
I shrugged helplessly. ‘What can I say?’
‘Everything,’ Oil Paintings said, stepping forward, ‘that includes the word money.’
‘I don’t know anything about––’
Oil Paintings grabbed my hand. I bunched it into a fist. He squeezed the little finger tight and I opened up. Jimmy brought the iron down on my palm with a delighted laugh and I jerked back in agony . . . Jesusjesusjesusjesusfuckfuckfuck . . .
‘Now where the fuck is it!’ Oil Paintings screamed.
‘There is none!’ I bellowed.
‘Of course there is! Where is it!’
‘I swear to God!’
Jimmy stood back up and glared down at me. He spat on to the base of the iron and it hissed. Hilda gave a low groan. ‘What do you mean?’