His face boiling as red as a Christmas ham, he sneered at her, then applauded. “That’s the best performance you’ve ever given.”
“Why don’t you go fuck your whore?”
Castle made no conscious decision to do so, but he lurched over the bed and there was a fist in his possession and he swung it and caught her beautifully in the face. She fell down with a yelp. Not a loud sound, nothing more than the reaction of someone pricking herself with a needle.
From the cheap beige carpet she stared up at him, her left eye already beginning to swell, but her face not in anyway frightened. Even as he stood over her, fist still clenched.
When she spoke she was incredibly calm. “If you touch me again I’ll scream. I know how to scream, Castle. I’m the rare woman who’s actually had lessons in it. I will scream and bring in the crowds. They will take you away and I will be sure to press charges and you will spend a lot longer than your weekend break down here. Do you understand me, Castle? Do you understand what will happen if you touch me again?”
His teeth grinding, seething inside, he nevertheless stepped back from her.
“I’m going to get up now. I’m going to stand, take my bag and go. You are not going to try and stop me, you are not going to try and see me again. It’s over, Castle. This is completely over and broken and shattered.”
He took a low deep breath, but relented – and fell heavily to sit on the edge of the bed.
Trembling only a little, Betty got slowly to her feet and dried her eyes. Acting as if the black eye was nothing at all. Then, without taking her gaze off him, she picked up her bag and her coat and opened the door.
He didn’t stir from the bed as she took a mouthful of cool sea air and stared first at the outside world and then back at him. His eyes peered up at hers, hoping to elicit some sliver of sympathy – a little boy locked upstairs without his supper.
It didn’t soften her towards him however. In fact, it might have hardened her some more.
“Do you know the one thing you can’t buy, Castle,” she said. “Class. Bloody seaside holiday camp.”
And she slammed the door and marched swiftly away, her high-heels clacking on the concrete path.
He didn’t follow her, he couldn’t see the point.
Ten
Lestrade used to have the most peculiar, high-pitched laugh when mocking someone. Even when Castle had liked the bloke, that laugh was really bloody irritating.
Right then, Castle thought he could hear the distant echo of that laugh.
The regret was instant and almost overwhelming. He should have gone to Hollywood. That’s how the night should have ended, with his first step on the ladder to the stars.
As evening fell, his mood soured and the clearer he realised his mistake. It was a pretty good deal Betty had laid out. Marriage to a starlet, a trip over the Atlantic, a chance to make it bigger than he’d ever imagined – and he’d thrown the whole thing out.
But it wasn’t his fault, it was the Montogmerys’. They were to blame, completely and utterly.
If only they hadn’t been sitting next to him at dinner. If only they hadn’t primed their dreadful little boy to utter those words. If only they’d planned their whole ambush for tomorrow. They’d still be out there but he’d have no cause for worry. Later on, they may have tracked him down – if they could make their way six thousand miles on a bathroom salary – but for the moment he’d be as happy as Larry in the pink.
However he did know now. He knew and he couldn’t walk away without finishing it. Not doing so would burn into him, an irritation that he could never quite rid himself of.
He had to see them and that meant turning down Betty’s offer. Maybe he could have placated her for a couple of more days if fate and that little chit of a whore hadn’t conspired against him. But really it was the Montogmerys’ fault and now he was going to properly deal with them. Show them that Larry Castle was not a man to be fucked around with.
He sat on the edge of the bed, still, but furious – his entire body tense, his skin red, his eyes bulging. Lestrade’s Woody Woodpecker laugh echoing around his brain. Right then he wanted to beat something, smash everything to pieces. But if he started on this chalet he’d destroy the whole bloody thing – walls and all – and he didn’t want some “concerned” neighbour calling the busies. No, to do what he had to do required finesse.
Even so, the temptation to head over to the Montogmerys’ chalet was immense. But who knew what time a trip to a bloody cathedral finished? It was best to leave it to tomorrow. Have their punishment something he could savour on the new day.
But he couldn’t just sit impotent on the bed all night, he had to do something.
So finally he moved, without coordination, standing shakily and stumbling forward. He reached into his bag and pulled out his trusty silver hipflask, pouring good scotch down his throat so it both soothed him and reinvigorated him. With a belch, he wiped the back of his hand across his lips and tucked the flask in his jacket pocket. Next to the bedside table was a pair of Betty’s knickers – red lace, a gift from him for Valentine’s Day. A gift for the dirty weekend they’d had in a luxurious flat in Chelsea, the property of a geezer who owed him a number of really big favours. She’d missed them in her packing and they were left cold and abandoned. Sniffing them once, he shoved them in his pocket and headed for the promenade.
Ideally he wanted to find the girl who’d spat at him, give her a lesson in manners, but he knew it was unlikely. Surely she was bright enough to have hidden herself away.
So he perused her sisters of the street. They were old, young, fat, thin, ugly, pretty. All men catered for, no matter the tastes or size of wallet. Despite the darkness of his mood, he found he enjoyed their come-ons – some simpering little cherubs, others with bawdy lines and chat about heaven between their legs. He checked them all out, wondering which one to pick. And then, he saw her.
The girl didn’t resemble Elizabeth Franklin in an obvious way. Her hair was auburn, her nose was rounder – but there was something in her blue eyes that reminded him of Betty. The shape of them perhaps, the softness of the gaze. He peered into those eyes and placed his arm on hers, so they stood close together. Her breathing was heavy, nervous perhaps, that was appealing in itself.
“Hullo,” he said.
“Hullo, yourself.” She blushed and looked down. Coquettishness was always a winner in his book.
“How much for the night, darling?”
“The night? That will be ten.” She said it optimistically, knowing it was far too much, expecting him to laugh and haggle her down – but he surprised her by agreeing. By saying yes to her absurd fee and then grabbing his arm around her waist and leading her back to his temporary home.
Castle held her tight, too tight, knowing he was bruising her. But if she was getting an inflated fee for the full night she wasn’t going to mind the odd bruise.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Shirley.”
He shook his head. “I don’t like Shirley. I’m going to call you Betty.”
“Betty?” she said, “I like Betty.”
“Good, because that’s who you are tonight.”
“Betty, it is. And what should I call you, mister?”
“You don’t worry about that,” he grinned. “You just think of all the things I’m going to do to you. I’m going to do so many things to you, Betty, and you’re going to be so happy and so loud, ain’t you?”
She nodded and simpered. “Yeah.”
“You’re gonna have the best time with me, Betty, I’m going to make you sing. After this, not even Hollywood will seem so good.”
They reached the chalet and he swung the door open and danced her into the room. She giggled as if a schoolgirl on her first sip of champagne.
Laughing with anticipation, he whirled her round and kissed her neck and threw her to the bed.
He wasn’t gentle with her. Hasty and impatient, he pushed her and poked her and wrestl
ed her from her clothes. To be fair, she played her part well. She didn’t moan or create, but simpered and sighed and acted like she enjoyed his harshness. Even his cleaning of her – something he normally took tender care over – was rough and quick. She just smiled, naked and vulnerable before him. A big goofy, childlike, grin
He lay her back. The girl had a good body. A bit flat chested and with a large stain of a birthmark just below her bellybutton, but a good, young, firm body.
“How are you, Betty?” he asked.
“I’m good.” She grinned at him,
“Do you love me, Betty?”
“Of course.”
“Would you do anything for me, Betty?”
“Anything.”
“Would you rather have me than Hollywood?”
“Any day.”
He kissed her full on the lips, crushing them, bruising them, making her squirm with pain.
She gasped. “Please don’t hurt me too much, Mr Big Man!”
Her eyes darted nervously to the side, as if wondering whether she might have broken the mood. In the only piece of delicateness he showed her, he stroked his hand through her auburn hair and let her know it was okay.
Arms wrapped tight around her, he entered her. The girl did her part. She squirmed and wriggled and gasped and groaned as he made her enjoy herself. No doubt it was his mood to blame (and the Montogmerys’) but he was quick that night. There was violence to his thrusting, but his arms squeezed her and ensured she couldn’t possibly resist. They came together – or he came and she made the sounds of coming – and then they both gave a delicious little sigh under the electric light.
His hands were on her throat quickly. Harder and more forceful than he’d ever been before. He silenced her mid-gasp and then watched her stare at him with pleading, stunned, fearful blue eyes.
Incredibly, even with how tight he was holding her, one of her arms broke free. That had never happened before. But she didn’t hit him or try to push him off (which probably would have excited him, actually). Instead she just waved it wildly and helplessly in the air. The girl just flailed while his fingers pushed further into her throat.
Quicker than normal her eyes rolled to the back of her head and she stilled.
Castle rolled off, then pulled her tenderly into him. One hand below her breasts, the other stroking gently through her hair. He cooed at her, told her it was going to be all right.
In that moment, he actually felt good. The evening was getting better.
So, he’d lost Betty? But he’d get her again. Once she was with the good doctor, she’d realise just how dull life was without him.
As for the Montgomerys, who weren’t anywhere near as smart as they thought they were, they were soon going to pay for messing about with his life.
And tonight, well, he’d enjoyed himself. What’s more, he’d paid to hold this girl all night, so even when she came to he was going to keep her with him. It didn’t matter how frightened she was, he was going to grip her in his arms until dawn and maybe even eat breakfast with her. That thought amused him. He enjoyed the idea that a tart who resembled Betty a bit, who would answer to Betty, was going to stare at him over eggs and bacon with such a deliciously scared expression.
Castle stroked his fingers soothingly through her hair, cooing to her, and then realised – with a horrible jolt – that something was wrong. Her eyes were not flickering, she wasn’t coming round.
Panic rising, he put his head to her lips and felt a churn in his stomach – there was no breath.
A scream was suddenly caught jagged in his throat, he let go of her, dropping her limp to the sheets. Shaking now, his hands reached clumsily to her chest, feeling for her heart.
There was nothing.
Almost crying, he pushed his palms against her ribcage, trying to locate some faint beating. He pushed, punched, pounded – but there was nothing. Her heartbeat wasn’t there, her lungs had stopped working, her eyes had rolled back for the final time.
He was trapped in his chalet with a dead girl.
Eleven
Castle dropped his head over the toilet bowl and emptied his stomach. He coughed and spat, reproducing the lovely red wine he’d guzzled down so that it splattered the bowl the colour of blood. What the hell was he going to do? He had to get her out of the chalet and he had to get her out tonight. There was no other option.
Quickly he wrestled her clothes onto her body, hurriedly, haphazardly, so everything was roughly in the right place. Then he dressed himself, again too hastily, so he was recognisable as a man who’d dressed with great urgency.
Trying to appear nonchalant, he ventured out into the balmy night air. Ostensibly he was having a saunter, a calm and happy man enjoying a stroll in the evening air. Except he couldn’t pull it off. He was obviously too nervous and agitated. Realising this, he ducked into darkness whenever possible. Lurking in the black and checking who was about, the amount of people still wandering when they surely had good, paid-for beds to go to. It was late and dark, but there were still too many around for him to be comfortable.
There were young men with their new wives, giddy on young love. Boys with their summer sweethearts, sneaking away while no one looked. Too many people, an array of eyes ready to catch him.
Again he checked his watch. It was ten past ten; if he left it a couple of hours he’d hopefully be fine. Everyone would be in bed then, wouldn’t they? The blackness would be all consuming, so if any late night soul did come near he could just drop her body and skulk away. It wasn’t ideal, there’d be a chance of fingerprints, but he’d have to try his luck.
He didn’t really want to, but he couldn’t think of anywhere else to go, so he went and sat in his chalet. The girl’s corpse a crumpled ragdoll on the floor now, seemingly staring at him even though he’d turned her head the other way. Sat trembling on the edge of the bed, he poured the contents of the hip-flask into his mouth until there wasn’t a drop left. It wasn’t enough, he still itched for booze. But the thought of a pub crowd around him right then – laughing and maybe having a summer holiday sing-song – sickened him.
Staring at her, he wept. Cried tears for the first time in his adult life. He didn’t weep for her. Obviously not – he’d met her tonight, she was a seaside prostitute, she was nothing – he wept for himself. His tears were for all the damage she could do to him. Imagine it ended like this for him, imagine after all he’d achieved he actually amounted to this. A place on the gallows for a stupid bloody accident.
The shame of his family was too easy to conjure. He imagined his friends distancing themselves, pretending they’d never been that close. Then there were those snooty bastards who’d always slammed him as a bad sort, how full of righteousness they were going to be. It was a fact that him falling off his perch was going to make too many people happy. They’d take delight from him walking up the scaffold, the friendly hangman putting the hood over his head before he wet himself with fear.
Echoing all around him was the memory of Lestrade’s laugh, mocking and poking simultaneously.
No, this couldn’t happen to him, he didn’t deserve it. The whole thing was just unfortunate. He was playing around, getting his kicks, enjoying himself. It was a tragedy, certainly, but he shouldn’t be punished for it. Sure, she probably had family and was cared for somewhere, and he was sorry for that – but it was all just a terrible accident and he shouldn’t be made to pay for it.
Drunk, woozy and racked with self-pity, at two past the witching hour he staggered forth. He was so sick of the sight of her and so emboldened by the booze that he didn’t even try a dry run. Just hoisted her up onto his unsteady shoulders and charged out.
The camp was dark, quiet – the holiday-makers asleep, not realising what horrible things were creeping past their bedrooms. He clung to the darkness. There remained a few lost souls wandering about, but if he froze and kept quiet they just went past him. Unaware he was anything at all. The body grew heavier on his shoulders with every damn ste
p. He was dehydrated, even as he needed some bloody booze. There were moments when he stumbled, and those trembled him from his toes, through his spine, to the ends of his hair. He couldn’t bloody drop her, he’d never get her up again if he did.
At last, he reached the poorly lit promenade. Shaking, he squinted down one end and then the other, and saw he was alone. He hoped he saw he was alone.
Somehow, despite the weight of her, he broke into a run. Even though he could barely walk, he ran. Castle hurled himself forward, pelted across the concrete and hurled the body off his shoulder and over the railings. The final vestiges of strength and energy in his being expended.
But then there was only silence.
Once again there was an odd peace when there should have been a definite noise. No deafness caused by explosions this time, though.
He’d expected a splash. A confirmation that the sea had claimed her. Instead there was only the faint distant lapping of the waves.
Vomit rising to his throat, he grabbed at the railing and peered over the side. There she was just lying on the pebbles, face down. Limbs jagged to her torso, no longer any kind of ragdoll, but a blatantly dead woman. The corpse of a prostitute who’d last been seen this evening with a man who fitted his description.
Frantic he stared at the sea. Was the fucking tide coming in or not? If it was going out this was a calamity, he might as well have dumped her corpse on the street. How easily could they check for fingerprints on skin? On clothing? If the tide was going out nothing would wash away.
Castle peered over the railing at her, his eyes bulging, sweat matting his hair to his scalp, trying to take deep breaths to somehow calm himself down.
Death at the Seaside Page 6