‘Did anyone see you on your walk?’
Mackenzie gave a laugh. ‘The milkman?’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Nah. Afraid not.’
‘You know what this means, don’t you?’ Martin said gently.
‘I’ve got no alibi.’
Martin nodded her head. ‘And you’ve also got a motive.’
22
I had cooked for hours. As usual it was left to me while you cavorted like a show pony in the arena of Tristan. We gathered all together and I brought the leg of lamb to the table, steam wafting from it, potatoes crowning its glory. There we were. Such a happy family. Violet between Tristan and you; then Fraser and, once you were all sitting, finally I took a seat at the end of the table.
Tristan sharpened the carving knife, slicing the pink meat thinly, placing it delicately on plates. What did you think of Fraser? Did you like him? I thought he orbited Tristan like a planet, occasionally bumping into us asteroids – the others who moved around him. When we came together like this, there could be sparks, could be explosions. I knew, and I think you did as well, that it was better alone, in the dark of the void. Where everything was silent and still.
We angled ourselves towards Tristan, our spindly antenna fingers pointed in his direction, trembling, poised, in the air. The mood was shaped by him, by which side of the moon he chose to appear on.
‘Lord, we thank you for this food. May it strengthen and refresh our bodies. We ask you to nourish our souls with your heavenly grace, in the name of Jesus Christ our Lord.’ Tristan would always say grace, would give a brief nod at the rejoinder of Amen, and we would raise our forks as one to start eating.
That meal in particular I remember. Do you, Antonia? It comes to mind because of what happened during and what happened after . . . oh, you’ll remember. Let’s see, shall we?
‘How many people are expected tonight, Fraser?’ Tristan had asked. ‘A lot I would think, given we had to change venues to the leisure centre?’
‘Aye. Word spreads on nights like this.’
‘Could you pass the peas, please?’ Violet asked. She looked lovely that late afternoon. Her skin peachy and soft, like a fawn. Nevertheless, she was ignored.
I remember the relief when Tristan gave a satisfied sigh, glancing down at his fork. He beamed at us all. I felt the collective slowing of heartbeats pulsing softly around the table. Slowly, slowly, careful now, I thought.
Tristan smacked his lips. ‘Sera, you’ve outdone yourself again. The perfect bite. Just the right amount of lamb, a little bit of potato, some gravy. Perfect.’
I looked at him, across the carcass of the lamb leg. A trickle of blood pooled under its rump, mixing slyly with the potato juices, turning red to brown.
‘We won’t be filming it, though. Not tonight,’ Fraser had said, lifting a small glass of red wine. ‘Better to keep off the radar.’
‘Really? I suppose so . . .’ Tristan sounded uncertain.
I couldn’t help myself. To this day, I don’t know why. A devil in me, perhaps. ‘She’s too young.’
Tristan’s look was like an arrow.
‘Right. Whatever. It’s a private affair, this one,’ Fraser said, his eyes shifting to his plate, a bead of sweat appearing on his brow.
‘If the press got wind of it, it would be a disaster,’ Tristan said, his eyes still on me. You said nothing, if you remember? Not even when Violet asked you again to pass her the vegetables.
‘Will her parents be there?’ Fraser said, to cut through the silence. His voice already bore the stain of fear.
Tristan removed a piece of gristle from his mouth and placed it carefully on the side of his plate. Something about the movement angered me. Such an uncommon emotion for me to feel, I almost didn’t know what to do with it. And so I spoke again. ‘Her mother is a church member. Her father passed.’
‘Maybe that’s why she’s close to Violet? She needs a proper family.’ You said something at last, smiling at Tristan as you chewed. You were deliberately provocative. You knew what Mercy was to the church.
‘Her mum’s never around,’ Violet chipped in. ‘Works at the arcade on the change counter. Penny Lane, we call her,’ she giggled.
I breathed softly as the sound of stainless steel on china tapped relentlessly into the room.
Tristan shifted his eyes to Violet. ‘Come here,’ he said.
Oh Violet. She looked so confused.
‘Lean in, bring your face to mine.’
She put her fork on her plate and moved forward, pushing her nose in towards her father’s. He brought his head down to within a whisker of hers. There was silence. I closed my eyes. Like you, I was at once a coward, my hands immobile on the table either side of my plate.
Opening my eyes, I saw Tristan breathe in deeply. Then he grimaced, leaning back in his chair. He waved his hand in front of his face, a look of absolute disgust on his features.
‘Violet, your breath smells like shit.’
The words spun across the table with the smash of a juggernaut into a pram. Violet crumpled, pulling her lips taut. Her eyes glistened with tears. I moved my hand at last, pushing it across the tablecloth towards my daughter.
‘Don’t,’ Tristan ordered. ‘Little teases must be taught not to use potty mouths on others.’
I could see Fraser smirking at the end of the table, his lips wet with gravy.
‘It was hardly potty-mouthed . . .’ you interjected, before a look from Tristan silenced you. As usual. But you did try to defend her. I’ll give you that.
‘Enough, now,’ he said. ‘Violet, run upstairs and get changed.’
Violet scraped her chair back and fled from the room, tears spilling down her cheeks as soon as she had her back to us.
‘Clear the table, Sera,’ Tristan said to me, and I stood to do his bidding. His face was flushed with pleasure. ‘Now it’s time to deal with another little tease.’
We stood, blank-faced, watching her. We were dressed in white, all of us. The pock-marked moon was huge and impassive, doming visibly beyond the leisure centre windows. Light was low, candles spitting wax and flame on to the parquet floor. Mercy stood in the middle of us, her hair loose on her shoulders, blonde, straight and true. Her fingers spread against her thighs, pointing star-shaped towards the shadows moving towards her on the floor. We came softly, moved with determination, our eyes fixed on a spot deep within her. She didn’t understand it then, what it was that we saw.
Violet was with us, dressed in white alongside me, with red eyes, sobs still lurking in her chest. She walked stiffly at first, separate from those who walked with Tristan, but I caught her eye and at my look, she melded in. At that moment, she did not see Mercy, she was blind to her. She saw only the pentagram, the limes and the flowers placed at each of its points, chalk and mud scored into the floor. And her father at the head of it. His eyes closed.
The whispers came like dry leaves, skittering through the room, its high ceilings alive with the candlelight and shadows morphing into beasts.
‘Release the spirit. Release the spirit . . .’
We edged in closer. You and Fraser, you edged in too with the circle. You held his hand. Even our father was there. He’d come back to the church after . . . well, you know what happened. He was trying desperately to appease Tristan. And me. It didn’t work.
I watched as Mercy dug her fingers into her legs as our shapes loomed over and around. I ended up so close to her, I could smell Mercy’s body odour mixed with the perfume she always wore. Something far beneath clicked in my brain then, I must admit. Did it you? That Mercy would have dabbed perfume on to her wrists and neck before leaving the house. That she had groomed herself for tonight. That there was a world outside of this moment that still existed, cold and fresh with the smell of early bonfires and beyond the exit doors. That there had been a ‘before’.
The thought occurred to me that I could stop this. That I could take her hand and pull her out; away from the encroaching white figures.
Trista
n seemed to have stretched and lengthened to a magnificent height, leering down, his hands reaching for Mercy.
‘Release the spirit. Release the spirit . . .’
It could have been an olfactory freedom. I smelt Mercy’s fear. I was different from the others, at least. I was different from you. I saw the girl’s toes curling hard into the floor, the dampness of her white gown, the faint path of urine trickling down her legs.
I didn’t stop it. I continued to watch.
Tristan moved behind Mercy. He reached up and placed his hand, strong on her forehead. With one sharp movement, he pulled her flat, backwards to him. Her eyes slowly closed.
Tristan knelt next to Mercy. He held his hands above her. ‘Behold the cross of the Lord, flee bands of enemies.’ He reached down and picked up the silver cross which hung around his neck. ‘The lion of the tribe of Judah. The offspring of David hath conquered.’
‘Release the spirit. Release the spirit . . .’ The insistent murmurs were hot in the air.
Tristan reached up to the heavens as Mercy began to shudder on the floor. Her eyes rolled back, the whites showing; viscous orbs. Tristan picked up her head and murmured into it, urgent now. Mercy’s legs kicked and flailed. Tristan pressed down on her, pushing her into the ground. Mercy bucked and reared.
‘Release the spirit. Release the spirit . . .’
Our whispers were unrelenting. I saw you, crouching low on your haunches like a dog, still moving inwards. We were indiscernible from each other, a wall of white and flame. Flecks of spit flew from our mouths on to Mercy’s rocking body. We were pushed and squeezed together; it was hard to breathe. There we were: trapped in the heat of the candles and Mercy’s writhing and my dark-faced husband staring into the black as a challenge.
Mercy heaved up, her mouth slashed down, a curl on her lips. She inhaled deeply through her mouth and swallowed, bringing her chin to her chest. She looked at us, hard and glassy. She licked her lips.
Then I caught a glimpse of Violet’s face. Don’t, I thought. Please, don’t, Violet.
‘Where is my crown?’ Mercy whispered, hoarse. She whipped her head back to look at Tristan. Leaning forward, she clambered on to her knees and brought herself to standing. Her hair was mussed now, wild. ‘Where is my crown?’ she repeated.
‘Deliverance in Jesus’s name,’ Tristan said softly, also standing. ‘Cunning serpent. May you be snatched away and driven from the house of God. The Most High God commands you to be gone.’
He pushed her on her shoulder. She snapped back, her hands clawing at the air. ‘Kneel,’ she rasped. ‘Kneel before me.’
Tristan removed the cross from his neck and held it up to Mercy’s face. She licked her lips again, spittle droplets collecting on her chin.
‘Deliverance in Jesus’s name.’
‘Release the spirit. Release the spirit . . .’
Mercy jerked forward as if to leap at Tristan. He pushed the cross into her face, striking her cheek. She cried out. Violet let out an involuntary moan, undetected by everyone apart from me. Please, I thought again. Please keep back, keep safe, Violet.
‘Release the spirit. Release the spirit . . .’
‘Deliverance in Jesus’s name!’ Tristan roared, his cross in the air. ‘You will kneel to HIM!’
Mercy screamed as, at once, the candlelight was extinguished and the room was plunged into darkness. There was a rumbling, a scrabbling, feet clambered over me, fingers dug into my arms. I lost sight of Violet.
And then the lights came on.
Mercy lay still in the middle of the pentagram, breathing calmly, her eyes closed. She looked as if she were sleeping peacefully, the only sign of what had transpired a red welt on her cheekbone. I got to my feet with the rest of them. We were silent, looking as one to Tristan. He slowly raised his arms. ‘Hallelujah,’ he said. ‘Praise be to God.’
There was a heat throughout that room. A boil of wildness. We felt it in our cheeks, the top of our heads, our loins.
Only Violet was pale.
Tristan gently touched Mercy on the shoulder and her eyes opened. He brought her to her feet and we cheered them. Even me! Even I cheered, Antonia – as you did. Arm in arm, they moved to leave the circle. I watched them exit the room as if they were bride and groom.
As I followed them, I met Violet’s eyes. Such hatred she had. I had never before seen such hatred on another’s face.
23
Jonah Simpson sat at the small drop-leaf desk in his sitting room. The room was no bigger than his kitchen but he liked to eat in there properly, albeit at a makeshift table. His breakfast was meagre: a boiled egg, a sprinkled puddle of salt. He sipped from a glass of hot water and lemon. Before he ate, he said grace and then cut the egg systematically into tiny squares. He would press a square into the salt before placing it carefully in his mouth; his eyes closed, chewing deliberately.
He was a tall man, bone thin; a frame that could have taken much more than the substance of him. His long face was elongated further by a grey beard. He had a protruding white mole on one cheekbone, which often prompted uneasy stares. He ignored them.
When he had finished his egg, Jonah stood and took the plate and his glass into the kitchen where he washed them up immediately, turning them upside down on the draining board to dry. He paused for a moment at the sink. It was a fine morning. The sun dripped through the net curtains at the window over the sink, dappling the counter top. He turned to look at the crucifix on the wall and breathed in deeply; the words of a prayer spinning in and among him, turning the wheels within him, calming him.
He returned to the sitting room and sat in his one armchair in the tiny bay window, which looked directly on to the street. He prevented nosy parkers from peering in by hanging yet more nets. It gave the room a dusky feel, as if it were perpetual afternoon. Next to the electric fireplace, in the corner where a television might have stood, a lectern faced a mirror the height of Jonah himself, bolted on to the wall. He opened the newspaper and sat in quiet reverie for a few moments. The house was silent, dust motes drifting quietly down through the shaft of sun at the window, which persisted despite the nets. Finding it hard to read in the light, eventually Jonah stood to close the curtains. It was then, as Jonah settled himself again, that he saw the article.
White heat flashed through his veins. He swallowed roughly and grasped the arms of the armchair to steady himself. He snatched up the paper to stare at it; his eyes were deceiving him, surely? But no. There was no mistaking it.
Tristan Snow was dead, the article said so. Somebody . . . a journalist, Egan someone . . . they had set it all out. He had been found two days ago, dead in Durham. Jonah’s already pale face blanched to an unhealthy white; his throat felt dry.
He needed to think what was best to do. Suddenly, with a silent explosion, the world had changed. He needed to figure it out. He needed to calm himself down.
He walked over to the lectern and slowly unbuttoned his shirt. His eyes met his reflection in the mirror as his stretched skin was revealed over jutting ribs. He removed the belt, biting his lip as metal studs were released from where they stabbed into his waist. Dried blood had congealed there, but Jonah failed to notice it. He felt only the difference in sensation from the constant pain he experienced from the rivets on the belt, now being eased. Release was yet another interesting thing, he thought, as his stare burned into the mirror.
He brought to mind the verse that had kept him company for all of these years. He had been out in the cold, in the wilderness, while Tristan frolicked with his daughters, in his rightful place. In due time, their foot will slip. For the day of their calamity is near. And the impending things are hastening upon them.
Jonah returned to his seat, the belt hanging from his hand. He sank down as if he were undone, his mouth open, eyes glazed. He could taste it in his mouth, the whisky he was desperate to drink. But he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t be undone – yet again – by that family.
He forced a prayer from his mind. Prayer
s were useless now. Only one idea could possibly replace, for him, the loss of Tristan Snow.
And it wasn’t God.
It was revenge.
24
Antonia curled her toes on the sheepskin rug. The sound of breathy pan-pipes weaved around her and she closed her eyes in anticipation of the relaxation that was to come. Eventually, the white-jacketed, bland-faced therapist directed her to a corridor where the scent of frangipani danced across her nostrils. She was led to a softly lit room where she undressed and lay on a raised bed, a towel brought up to her chin.
She wiggled her fingers on her stomach, enjoying her nakedness, enjoying the sensation of the brushed cotton on her skin, the cool of the air-conditioning, the flicker of an expensive candle in an alcove. The therapist returned but said nothing. This place was costly enough that those who worked here knew not to chat; knew not to disturb the clients’ peace, for which they paid handsomely, with chatter about holidays or nights out.
Antonia closed her eyes again, breathing gently, allowing her brain to soften to mush. She deflected any thoughts of Tristan or Sera; anything related to the murder. Soon enough, she would have to go back to that hell-hole of a Travelodge and see them all again. Their faces pinched and pale and suspicious. Here, she could forget all of it. Forget the truths that scorched her brain when she was upright. And sober. Here, she existed only in a state of pan-piped, fragranced relaxation. It was heaven.
The therapist swept her face gently with cotton pads and began to paint a mask on to Antonia’s face. It felt cool, tingling over her skin, renewing it. The therapist wrapped a towel around Antonia’s hair before massaging an oil of some kind into her naked shoulders, skimming the tops of her breasts with her fingers, delicately trained in the art of what was appropriate. Her hands applied pressure to Antonia’s forehead as she sank into an exhausted doze. Somewhere in her subconscious, she heard the door of the therapy room open and close. She slept.
The Taken: DI Erica Martin Book 2 (Erica Martin Thriller) Page 11