by H Elliston
“Oi!” Brian yelled, then honked his horn. “Do that again and I’ll have you arrested!”
She booted the wheel arch. Her stiletto heel snapped inward.
Brian brought his handsome face closer, the window squashing his nose. “Read my lips... it’s over. Now go home and cool off.”
Claire’s leaden heart twisted. She wanted to ram those torturous words down his throat, and then down Christa’s.
His jaw clenched repeatedly. “I’ve tried to be nice, but nice isn’t working. I’ve had it with you. You’re out of your mind.”
“Go on then.” She stumbled on her broken stiletto heel. “Go fuck the bitch and find out what she’s really like!”
He flipped his middle finger. “Go swivel on this.”
Claire punched the driver’s side window and hurled such an arsonry of profanities at him that it dried her words to a crisp.
The pissed-off look came back on Brian’s face full force. He put the car into gear and nosed forward, waiting for a stream of traffic to clear his way.
She ran to her car parked tight behind his and climbed in. Breathing through flared nostrils, she slumped over the steering wheel. Whatever connection was left between them... well, she’d severed it now.
Brian would have to pay for breaking her heart. Yes. Phone her brother, then sit back and watch Brian’s life crumble into hell.
No.
Oh, crap. Her fingers squeezed the wheel, unsure she could give the command. What the fuck is wrong with me? Why did Brian affect her so badly? Maybe she should just ram his car and then he wouldn’t be able to drive anywhere.
Claire took a deep breath to focus, then raised her head.
Brian inched his car forward ready to pull out, and something beyond the exhaust fumes caught Claire’s eye.
Just then, he pulled away from the kerb revealing a large object positioned beneath his car. Claire blinked hard, did a double take. As he crossed the central line to the left lane, the object jerked into motion on the ice.
“What the fuck?” Claire leaned forward, stared harder.
A person strapped on their back to a plastic sledge shot along the frozen road behind Brian’s car, pulled along by rope. She glimpsed short dark hair and red trainers before it picked up speed. Definitely an adult. A man?
“Jesus!” In a wave of panic, Claire beeped the horn numerous times.
Brian neither slowed nor stopped.
With wildly shaking hands, she turned the key in the ignition and screeched up the road in his tracks. Oh, hell.
The sledge, on about three metres of rope, slid fluidly from side to side over the frozen tarmac. Claire put her foot down and caught up, leaving a gap between them for the slipping and sliding sledge.
A car travelled down the opposite lane, beeping frantically as it passed.
As Brian rounded a curve in the road, the sledge flew out to the right and flipped over.
Claire winced seeing the body get torn up by the road, painting a waving trail of blood and matter in the snow.
It flipped upright again.
An arm flopped out to the side, banging and bouncing along the ice. Claire gagged as rising bile burned her throat, but she managed to keep control of her steering in a white-knuckle grip. “Who the hell is that?”
Swerving left and right, honking on the horn like a madwoman, Claire decided to overtake Brian and force him to stop. She pushed down harder on the accelerator and steered right to cross the central line. On another bend, Brian slowed down. The sledge swung out and crossed her path. Claire’s car bumped over something. Oh, crap! Had her front wheel caught the edge of the sledge, or a foot? She eased off the gas until the sledge came into view. It slid back in position behind Brian’s car on the straight.
Claire honked again. “Idiot! Why won’t he stop?” Deciding to go for it again, she sped up and crossed the central road markers again. Coming up alongside his car, she waved frantically through the passenger window to indicate ‘slow down’. Then a car came travelling toward her. “Oh, hell.” She stomped on the brake. Her back end slid out. Every muscle tightened as she snaked into the left lane behind the sledge, squeezing the wheel in a jolt of fright. She slid to a stop sideways, striking the kerb.
Brian sped ahead. The distance between their cars widened.
Breathing heavy, Claire shoved the gear stick into first and accelerated to catch up.
But then, abruptly, Brian’s brake lights spread their red glow along the ice.
Thank goodness. He’s seen it.
His car started sliding to a stop, but the bloodied, torn-up body zoomed ahead full speed. It sailed under Brian’s car and the back tyre juddered over it.
CHAPTER 20
NICOLA
Nicola paced circles in Christa’s kitchen, crushing a piece of paper in her hand; a paper she had unsuccessfully tried to slip to Christa off camera, and away from Sarah, all afternoon, telling her what they were up against.
Sarah breathed out and rubbed her belly. “I’m stuffed!”
“The film was great,” Christa said, washing up the popcorn bowl and glasses in the sink. She faced Nicola. “Did you manage to get all your bills paid?”
“Not quite,” Nicola said, biting her bottom lip. “I kinda got distracted.”
“Easily done.”
“I’m gonna listen to some music in my room, mum,” Sarah said, racing out of the kitchen with a drink of juice.
“Not too loud, sweetheart,” Christa shouted back.
Now that Sarah had shot up to her room, and music was blasting through the door, it seemed the perfect time to make another attempt at slipping Christa the note. Nicola swallowed, took a stride forward. “Christa, I need to show you something. Let’s go outside a minute and... um... it’s the roof tiles you see...”
“Not another one?” Christa sighed. “Look, I didn’t want to say anything in front of Sarah, but can you believe that text Claire sent me?”
“She’s playing dirty. Ignore it.”
“I sent Brian a text to let him know what she wrote. Still waiting for a reply. I think he’s in a meeting this afternoon.” She dried her hands on a towel and squinted up at the ceiling. “What right-minded person would send a message like that? She doesn’t love him. She’s obsessed by him.”
“So, Christa... outside?”
The doorbell rang.
“I wonder who that is. Sorry, Nicola. Tell me in a minute.” Christa dumped the towel and dashed into the hall while Nicola sighed in annoyance. A moment later, Christa called for Nicola to join her in the living room, in a stiff, urgent voice.
Nicola had barely swallowed the shock of seeing Christa sitting on the sofa in front of two police officers - one well-built with smooth black skin, the other a little shorter, pale and chubby in the face - when they broke shocking news. Is this for real?
“Dead?” Christa repeated, cupping her floored jaw. “So you’re not here about...”
Tension ripened in Nicola and she wished she’d never entered the room.
The officers handed Christa a photograph.
Nicola stiffened in front of the TV, chewing her fingernails. Afraid to speak, afraid to even move. Heavy thoughts darkened her already frayed mind as the officer’s words sent a thick fog sweeping through it. It was like the hangover from hell. She craved a deep swirl of nicotine in her lungs, and a stiff, throat-burning drink with a shut-eye chaser.
“We’re sorry for your loss,” the chubbier officer said.
“You’re sure it’s my husband?” Christa asked. “I mean, this is definitely the tattoo on his leg, but... he got it to cover up a burn. A pan of boiling water tipped on him when he was a kid.” She waved the photo. “But you’re sure it’s him you found and not—”
“Yes. We’re sure,” he confirmed. “He’s been killed. Like we said, he was strapped to a sledge and pulled along the street.”
Nicola’s mouth gaped.
“Why a sledge?” Christa buried her face in her hands then
glanced up. “It makes no sense.”
“And the condition of the body indicates he was killed last night.”
“No way! Last night?” Christa gaped, staring at the officers in disbelief.
“Do you have any idea of his whereabouts last night?”
Christa glanced at Nicola. “He was here.”
Both officers turned to face her. “What time was this?”
Nicola gulped and shook. Several seconds passed in an awkward hush. Oh, fuck. How would she get around this? “Oh, about er... eight or nine,” she replied, forcing the words out of her throat as the officers’ eyes remained fixed on her, as though probing around in her thoughts. “I’m not exactly sure. He wanted to speak to Sarah, to umm... Christa. He was here for barely five minutes, then left.” She glanced away, and fiddled with her hair. Please stop staring at me.
“I see. And what did he want to speak to Christa about?”
Nicola held herself stiffly to control her shakes, struggling to stop her bottom lip quivering as she spoke. “He didn’t say, j-just said he’d catch up with her another time. I-it didn’t seem urgent.”
“Did he drive?”
Nicola nodded. “In his car.” Stupid answer. “O-oh, and he wanted to collect his motorbike.” Oh, shit. That’s even worse. The bike was still in the shed.
“And how did he appear to you?”
Nicola held her hands behind her back, tugging her fingers through nerves. “Fine. Just his usual self.”
“Did he say where he was going?” the tall black officer asked.
Nicola shook her head, and forced herself to engage his probing brown eyes. “He didn’t say much at all.”
After several more questions which left Nicola in a hot sweat, the officers frowned, broke their gazes and one scribbled in a notepad.
While Nicola held herself stock still, wincing, Christa cleared her throat and looked at the Officers. “So... so you’re s-saying it was Brian’s car he was strapped to? My daughter’s Uncle?”
“Yes.” He nodded, while Christa glanced toward the door. Thankfully Sarah was still upstairs, listening to music and mustn’t have spotted the police turning up. “He’s been helping us with our enquiries at the station.”
“Where is he now?” Christa asked.
“Still being questioned and his car examined for evidence.” There was a ring of uncertainty in the officer’s voice.
Christa must have picked up on it too. She glanced up from the photo. “Y-you don’t think Brian has anything to–“
“We’re still making enquiries at this stage. His girlfriend’s waiting to drive him home from the station.”
Her wet eyes widened. “C-Claire’s with him?”
“Yes. She spotted the sledge attached to his car and tried to signal him to stop.”
Tears spotted Christa’s jeans while she stared blankly ahead at the lovely Victorian fireplace they had repainted together only yesterday. Life had basically dropped off a cliff since then. Nicola wanted to sit on the sofa next to Christa and hug her. Hell! She needed more than a few hugs herself. Did the police think that Brian had something to do with this? No. Not possible. But why, of all the cars in the world, would John be strapped to Brian’s? And why would anyone do something so horrific with his body at all?
Nicola normally melted at men in uniform. Today, she barely dared raise her eyes above the dark fabric of their knees. She struggled to place one foot in front of the other across the carpet without tripping up. She grabbed the tissue box off the book shelf. She handed one to Christa, then took one herself and dabbed her eyes while Christa explained to the police the last time she’d seen John, and that they were in the midst of a divorce and only talked by phone recently.
The officers didn’t need Christa to identify his body in person. “Too damaged to be formally identified,” the tall officer said.
Nicola reckoned he was trying to put it in a delicate way – a tough task.
But John would have looked anything but delicate. Being dragged along the road had probably ripped the skin right off his face. According to the police, Brian had already told them that he suspected it was John on the sledge from his signature red trainers.
“Dental records have been confirmed,” the tall Officer said - and the unique tattoo on the marbled skin of his burned calf also left no doubt.
Nicola walked to the rear of Christa’s sofa, no longer able to absorb the officers’ words. She needed space. Air. Found it hard to focus. It was all a jumble, noise in her thumping head. With tears spilling, she rubbed Christa’s shoulder from behind, while Christa fanned her face with a magazine. Thankfully, Sarah was being spared this horror - still upstairs blasting Bieber tunes at the back of the house. “I’m so sorry. This is... awful.” Nicola wobbled away to the window and stared out to get her head straight. She tugged the neck of her sweater up higher to her chin while a ribbon of worry wound around her throat. Her breath caught. Would the police notice her swollen jaw or makeup covered bruises peeking out of her neckline from last night’s attack? Or would they sniff the bleach that still lingered and start asking about it?
But then, perhaps their presence was a sign; the moment to tell them what happened. The police were right here, right now, and could protect her from those thugs storming back in once she blurted the truth.
Nicola wiped her eyes, spun on her heels and stepped forward, summoning a dose of courage. “I... er...“
“There was a message on the body,” the officer said. “The words ‘my duty,’ were inked into his back.”
Christa straightened on the sofa. “Inked?”
“Yes, with a knife or razor of some sort. Barely hours old. Not a professional job. Do you have any idea what that could mean?”
Christa’s breath juddered. “My duty?” she squeaked out.
“Yes.”
Christa lowered her gaze and blew her nose. “N-no. I-I don’t know what it means. Poor John.”
Nicola’s knees weakened and she stopped dead, grabbed the back of a chair to steady herself. A shot of curiosity poured through her. Something about the way Christa had said that didn’t ring true. Why? Is she hiding something?
Nicola drew a breath of composure. Get on with it. “I... er... I need to say something about–” Nervous as hell, her eyes swept the corners of the room where the ornate scrolls and swirl patterns of Victorian-style wallpaper met the moulded cornice they had lovingly restored a few months ago.
The cameras!
Oh, crap. She felt a stab of panic.
Those photos and the knife!
Double crap.
That’s why the words refused to pass her lips.
If she let everything unravel, here and now, what would happen?
An all-consuming panic constricted her breathing. Conscious that the cameras would capture the reaction in the room if she spoke out, heat rushed to her cheeks and she withdrew. The men would surely storm straight round and kill everyone.
Yes. These men were police officers. But that didn’t mean they weren’t normal people with a family who loved them; people who had no idea they’d just entered the glass house of hell.
“Have you thought of something?” The officer raised a brow in question.
Oh, crap. Can’t risk it. It was not paranoia. Those men were watching. She just knew. “N-no. I.. So you don’t think it was an accident?” Stupid, stupid question! There were words tattooed into his back for God’s sake!
“This is a murder enquiry,” the officer stated. “We’ll know more once the forensic pathologist does a full exam.”
Nicola didn’t know exactly where it was hidden, but a camera was here in the living room. Somewhere. Her skin crawled like ants were all over her. She lowered her gaze.
Those men had to have known that doing such a stunt would mean that the police would pay a visit to Christa, his wife. Nicola gulped. Of course those monsters were watching her right now. Probably drinking up the whole damn scene.
Concern for ever
yone’s safety fuzzed her brain. Could the police protect them if she didn’t know who these men were? Yes. But what about her loved ones? Who was protecting them at this moment? No one. And what about tomorrow and the day after that? What would happen when they left the house and Sarah went to school?
She tried to picture details about her attackers. Did one have a tattoo on his knuckles? Another a limp? No, that was an injury from the fight, he was probably walking fine by now. If she could just give the cops something to go on to speed up the search, then they could arrest the men before they hurt any of her family. No unique details came to mind, and besides, they’d all worn masks. Hell, even one of the police officers fit the vague descriptions in her memory, chubby, broad-shouldered, bit rough looking – for all she knew it could have been him. She’d never pick those men out in a line-up.
It was no good.
Hopeless mess!
Details were grainy and jumbled at best within the dark void of her reeling brain. Their accents were nondescript in her memory, and although she’d seen one man’s face, it was a blur, and she’d never be able to describe them as anything other than frightening men in masks.
Last night, Nicola had searched every inch of the house for a clue as to who they were or where they came from before slumber overtook her. She came up empty. If only they hadn’t located the tablet computer in the coat cupboard, that might’ve offered a lead. And if she hadn’t been too scared witless to leave the house for fear of the men thinking she was doing a runner, she could have gone to see if that abandoned car was still on the street, and written down the number plate. Too late now. The car would be long gone seeing as the guy knew she recognised him from the crash.
“I hope Brian’s okay,” Christa muttered into her hands.
Cursing her attackers’ thoroughness, Nicola pondered what to do while the police continued talking to Christa.
One monstrous question plunged into her brain. Why would those men do anything to cause the police to come to the real scene of John’s murder? They had made it perfectly clear that they didn’t want any cops sniffing around. Perhaps it wasn’t even those men. Who was it? Joyriders found the body and decided to... No. Of course it was them. Who else would have done such weird shit to a corpse? And selecting Brian was not random.