The House of Susan Lulham (Kindle Single)

by Phil Rickman

  ‘…When supper was ended he took the cup of wine. Again he praised you, gave it to them and said: Drink this, all of you; this is my blood of the new covenant,

  Blood. The blood from the mirror was flowing under her sleeve. Too much blood for a splinter. Dear God, if it ran into her hands as she fumbled the chalice … if it dripped into the chalice itself…

  From the corner of the room came a swish. A sibilance, soft as a dress falling to the floor in a honeymoon suite.

  Whatever it was, Merrily shut it out.

  ‘…which is shed for you and for many for the forgiveness of sins. Do this, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me.’

  Then high laughter ripped at the air, and the altar was pushed into Merrily’s knees. A candle flew up out of its holder; hot wax stung her hands.

  ‘Oh fuck!’ Lou Dixon was backing away, clawing at her wine-red hair, rearing up before a flush of colour on the walls and the ceiling. ‘Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!’

  Lou’s hand flying to her mouth wafting the remaining flame into oblivion. But the room was not dark.

  ‘The old-fashioned cut-throat…’ Low yet bubbly, a voice coming out of laughter. ‘…gets a man terribly excited, if a little frightened…’

  Anita Wells was gasping, Mr Unsworth standing very still, hands by his sides.

  ‘….especially wielded by a woman.’

  The chalice slid through Merrily’s fingers and she saw the sixth person in the room, the laughing person, black-eyed and liver-lipped, holding out her razor, its open blade wild with light.

  21. Video

  ‘Zoe, you’ve said you wanted to tell me what happened when your husband died.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I need to go over some things, so you know where you stand. You realise you’ve been charged with his murder.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And you’ve denied that charge.’

  ‘I… yeah.’

  A froth of medical dressing emerging from one sleeve of her pale sweatshirt, nothing around her face. Her face shone.

  ‘And you’ve been told that it would be irregular for us to ask you any more questions at this stage. The next time you face questions should be in court - if you wish to give evidence in support of your plea.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘And you’ve told us you don’t want your solicitor. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  DC David Vaynor, known as Darth, said, ‘Zoe, at approximately three o’clock this morning, you started screaming in your cell. Do you want to tell me about that?’

  ‘Must’ve been dreaming. Must’ve had a dream.’

  ‘According to the officers here, you were screaming for quite some time. What was the dream about?’

  ‘Don’t remember.’

  ‘Of course she remembers,’ Merrily said.

  Frannie Bliss nodded. They had the interview-room video on the TV in his office in Gaol Street. His call had been waiting for her on the machine when she’d got home around seven am, and she’d driven straight back to Hereford. She wasn’t tired. She wouldn’t sleep now. Bliss had told her that when he’d arrived, around five am, Darth and Zoe were already closeted. Darth wore the full suit and tie and a focused expression, as if he’d been waiting up all night in case he should be called in. A policewoman Merrily didn’t recognise was sitting next to him.

  Darth looked almost inappropriately young, but he was relaxed, fully in control. A local boy. He nodded.

  ‘When you’d calmed down, Zoe, you said you wanted to speak to me and it was suggested to you that you should think about this again in the morning. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why didn’t you want to wait?’

  ‘Cos I… cos I had to say what I had to say or I wouldn’t get no sleep.’

  ‘And what is that? What do you want to tell me?’

  ‘Wanna plead guilty.’

  No hesitation.

  ‘You want to change your plea? You realise you’ll have to do this in court?’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘Do you want to explain further? It’s up to you.’

  Zoe said, ‘It was my razor. I seen the picture of her with the razor, and you—’

  ‘Whose picture?’

  ‘You know.’ Zoe threw up her hands. ‘Susan Lulham. You could see the make on the razor and I sent for one on the Internet.’

  ‘Why did you do that, Zoe?’

  ‘Cos I thought she wanted me to.’

  ‘Who are we talking about?’

  ‘Her, Susan Lulham.’

  ‘Did you know Susan Lulham?’

  ‘No.’

  Silence, then Zoe said,

  ‘But I thought she knew me.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Silence. Darth hesitating, exchanging a glance with the policewoman, who was making notes, then turning back to Zoe.

  ‘Do you want to tell me how you came to kill your husband?’

  ‘I didn’t want to kill him. I was using it on me.’

  ‘The razor.’

  ‘Yeah. I knew he’d been unfaithful, and I wanted to… like give him a shock?’

  ‘Where was this?’

  ‘In the living room where Suze did it.’

  ‘So you brought the razor down to the living room.’

  ‘Yeah. I waited till I heard his car coming up the drive, then I started cutting myself. I hated it. The blood coming out, all over the carpet. It was so… disgusting I just… I started screaming. And then he come in and seen me, and he’s like shouting at me, You stupid bitch, kind of thing. And he’s throwing himself at me, and I like… I think I struck out at him.’

  ‘With the razor?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Were you angry?’

  ‘I was angry about the mess.’

  ‘So you—’

  ‘And then I blacked out. I don’t remember nothing after that.’

  Bliss stopped the recording.

  ‘Well, now. I’m just trying to think how many times I’ve heard that from a suspect. Is it fifty, is it sixty? “Oh, I must’ve blacked out. Don’t remember a thing after that.”’

  ‘And how have many times’ve you been able to disprove it, Frannie?’

  Bliss said nothing.

  ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘I think if she sticks to her story she’ll save us all a lorra time.

  * * *

  When she got home, she made some tea and sat in the scullery office, feeling numb, waiting for the call.

  It came just after ten.

  ‘And how is Mrs Mahonie?’

  ‘Better, thank you, Mr Unsworth. More… rational. How are you?’

  ‘A little shaken.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘I… chaired an impromptu meeting this morning at the suggestion of one of my neighbours, Craig Buckley. Runs some sort of computer software business. A millionaire who looks as if he should still be at school, but quite sensible. His view is that, whatever happens to her, Mrs Mahonie will be selling the house.’

  ‘Yes, I think so, too.’

  ‘Young Mr Buckley thinks we should buy it.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘As many as would like to contribute. Mr Buckley doesn’t like the idea of the house being bought cheaply by another property developer. He thinks we - the estate - might all purchase it and, ah, demolish it. Turn it into amenity space which would add value to our own homes.’

  ‘It’s what councils sometimes do,’ Merrily said, ‘when something awful happens at a particular house.’

  ‘So I believe.’

  ‘You think it’s a good idea?’

  ‘I suppose it will draw a line under some unspoken things. Ensuring that they’ll remain… unspoken. If it happens, perhaps we might invite you to… do whatever you think might help. On the site.’

  ‘And are you planning to… say nothing?’

  ‘I’m an old man, Mrs Watkins. What does it mat
ter what I say?’

  In her mind, she replayed his movements, his slow paces down the room to the TV set, its black screen exposed. The swish she’d heard had been the dust sheet slithering to the carpet as the blood dripped from her wrist.

  ‘You saw,’ she said, ‘didn’t you?’

  She hadn’t moved. She’d stood there and very steadily said the Lord’s Prayer. Didn’t know how she’d managed that.

  ‘Yes,’ Mr Unsworth said. ‘I believe I did.’

  At approximately five minutes past three they’d put on all the lights and she’d gone across the living room to the outsize TV.

  The DVD case, Hair of the Bitch, had been amongst the pile of stuff she’d transferred from the bookcase to the sofa, and now it was in the hands of Lou Dixon.

  ‘Bitch!’ Lou had snarled. ‘You evil, lying bitch.’

  Pointing a pink-varnished finger at Merrily, eyes hollow with hate. Throwing down the DVD case on her way out.

  But Anita Wells, sitting stiffly on the dust-sheeted sofa, insisted that this was down to Jonathan. Something timed to go off at three am, the time Susan Lulham died. It was stupid, it was irrational, but that was the state he’d been in, Anita said.

  Nattie nodding, looking upset. Mr Unsworth standing in front of the TV, swaying slightly, saying nothing.

  ‘Should I have said something?’ he asked now.

  ‘Perhaps not. I don’t know.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. I saw what I presume you saw. Before you came in. When I went around the room, checking things.’

  All too aware that they weren’t even saying it to one another. These things happened all the time and never even passed into local folklore because they weren’t discussed at the time.

  ‘I’ve been thinking ever since,’ Mr Unsworth said, ‘that it was just me, an old man, who—I’m sorry, you were about to—?’

  ‘No, no.’ She shook out a cigarette. ‘You first.’

  ‘Who noticed that the television set was unplugged. Who thought that the television was unplugged.’

  The bramble outside had begun tapping the window.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It was.’

  THE END

  CREDITS

  Cover by BJ Craven.

  Thanks to the Rev. Kevin Wilkinson, Ed Wilson, my agent, also Alex Larder, Jo Harrington and Tom Young for lightning cyber-rescue. And, of course, Carol for the same hyper-critical editing she applies to a long novel.

  Thanks also to Peter Florence and Mark Ellingham who invited me to contribute a short story to the Oxfam anthology Oxcrimes. Which appeared complete because short stories are expected to leave the reader asking questions.

  Then people started putting some to me, and I wanted to know the answers too, and Mark Ellingham said, ‘Why don’t you expand it?’

  So Susan Lulham was my first short story and now she’s my first novella, and still she leaves unanswered questions.