by Jay Gill
“I would,” said Cotton. “I have an early start tomorrow, but if you’d like to, you’re welcome to finish the evening with a nightcap at my place.”
“That’s a lovely idea, Emma. Next time, maybe?”
Cotton suddenly wanted the ground to open up and swallow her whole. “No, no, that’s fine. I understand. That’s not a good idea.” She could feel her face glowing like a furnace. What was I thinking? Idiot.
“It’s a beautiful idea. You have no idea how much I want to. I’m in agony – believe me, there’s nothing I want more. I just want to take things slowly. I have a good feeling about us. Let’s take it slow. We’ve got all the time in the world.” Alex took Emma’s hand again and kissed it. “Thank you.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“Is that you, Timmy?”
“Yes, it is, Mum.”
“I can always tell, you know.”
“I know you can. It’s time you get some sleep, Mum.”
“You’ll turn the light out, won’t you? I can hear it crackling if you don’t.”
Spicer kissed his mother’s forehead. Despite the room being hot, she felt like ice. He pulled the blanket and duvet up over her shoulders. “I’ll turn it out, Mum.”
Before leaving the room, he checked around the bed one last time that she was tucked in and comfortable. He switched off the light and closed the door behind him. “Night, Mum,” he said softly. “Love you.”
“Night, sweetheart,” said the old woman. “Love you too.”
Spicer went down the stairs to the kitchen. He looked in the fridge and took out half a cold pizza and a can of fizzy orange. He bit off a chunk from the pizza. The rest he flopped on a plate and nuked in the microwave until the cheese bubbled.
“Timothy Spicer?” said Donny.
Spicer spun around to find two men stood in his mother’s kitchen. He could see immediately they weren’t police. One was dressed like some sort of cowboy but without the Stetson. His right boot had some nasty-looking stains. The other man was skinny and funny looking; his eyes bulged out and he was stick thin, like a praying mantis.
“How’d you get in here?” barked Spicer.
“Don’t be alarmed,” said Donny. “My associate and I would like to ask you a couple of questions.”
The cowboy let the skinny fella talk. The cowboy’s slick, dyed-black hair glistened under the kitchen’s strip lamp. While occasionally keeping an eye on proceedings, he picked at his teeth with his fingernail and at the same time looked through cabinets and drawers.
Spicer had a bad feeling about his unwelcome guests. Deciding his best option was to get out of the house, he looked around for a weapon to defend himself with. He picked up the silver pedal bin and threw it at the two men, then made a bolt for the back door.
Barton stopped looking through the cereal cupboard. Having anticipated the move, he grabbed an empty saucepan from off the worktop and hurled it at the back of Spicer’s head. Spicer lurched sideways and smacked his forehead on the corner of a wall-mounted glass cabinet. The glass door of the cabinet shook and the pudding bowls and side plates inside rattled. Spicer fell backwards and was out cold.
“Christ! What did we talk about in the car? What did I say?” said Donny.
Barton began sorting through the cereals.
“So that’s it? You’re just going to ignore me? If we have a plan, we both need to stick to it. You agreed I’m in charge. That means I come up with the plan and you follow it. Simple. That’s how plans work. That’s how me being in charge works. Did I or did I not say we’ll present ourselves, act friendly and appeal to his sense of right and wrong before possibly, I repeat possibly, progressing to any less civil activities? Are you even listening?”
Barton didn’t answer. Having chosen his preferred breakfast cereal, he put the rest back in the cupboard. He then walked across the kitchen and lifted Spicer onto the yellow-and-white-checked Formica table. The sides of the drop-leaf table were down, making it narrow. He rolled Spicer onto his front; his head flopped over one end of the table and his legs sprawled over the other end while his arms hung down the sides. With Sellotape from the kitchen drawer, he taped each limb to a table leg, wrapping the tape round and round to make Spicer was secure. He then picked up the saucepan he’d thrown and filled it with cold water.
“Oh, Jesus! What are you going to do?” asked Donny.
Barton held up the saucepan and slowly poured water over Spicer’s head.
Regaining consciousness, Spicer spluttered and struggled as the cold water soaked him.
Donny stepped back as the water splashed over the floor. He didn’t say anything; he simply nodded in appreciation. The cowboy might be infuriating, but he certainly had a way of getting things done.
With Spicer conscious and cursing, Barton went back to his breakfast cereal. He read the ingredients on the side of a packet of honey nut puffs before filling a bowl, adding milk from the fridge and choosing a spoon from the drawer.
“What, you’re hungry? Now?” asked Donny.
“Uh-huh. Low blood sugar,” said Barton.
“What about him?” Donny pointed at Spicer.
“What about him?” Barton took a mouthful of cereal and ate it noisily. Slurping and chewing loudly. Topped off with a loud, satisfied sniff.
“What do you mean, ‘What about him?’” said Donny.
“I dunno. Get on and ask him your questions. You’re in charge, remember?” Barton scraped a chair to the corner of the kitchen, sat down and continued to get stuck into his bowl of sugary cereal.
Donny turned and looked down at Spicer, who was writhing furiously. He crouched down, so that their eyes were level, and smiled sympathetically, then turned and scowled at Barton. “Would you mind keeping it down? You’re eating really noisily. The slurping is off-putting. I’m trying to think.”
Barton raised his eyebrows and muttered under his breath. He put the spoon down on the worktop, held the bowl to his lips and slurped deliberately loudly as he drained it.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Donny turned back to the matter at hand. “Mr Spicer,” he started. “Timothy. I’d like to assure you, we’re not the police.”
“Are you for real? Of course you’re not the police,” said Spicer.
Barton chuckled.
Donny turned and gave him a look that asked, Whose side are you on? He turned back to Spicer and continued in a calm, almost apologetic manner. “Before I get into the why of why we’re here, can I ask why you’re here? Why, after breaking Edward Fischer out of prison, with the help of Faye Moon, you didn’t vanish. Disappear. Poof! Fade away?” He smiled. “Yes, we know all about your exploits.”
Spicer raised his head. “Edward who? Edward Flintoff? Edward Bishop? May Spoon? Who did you say? My ears are still ringing from the saucepan to the head.”
“Fischer, Edward Fischer. Let’s not do this the hard way. We know you helped Fischer escape. We know you planned on leaving the country after you left them. I just wondered why you didn’t leave the country.”
“My mum,” said Spicer. His eyes turned towards the upstairs. “She’s terminally ill. She doesn’t have long. I can’t just leave her.”
“Okay, I’m sorry about your mother, but this is good. So you care for your mother. We’re getting somewhere.” Donny looked proudly over his shoulder at Barton.
Barton shook his head in disbelief.
“My next question,” continued Donny, “and please think before you answer: where did you take Fischer? Where is he? We’d very much like to speak with him.”
“You have the wrong guy,” insisted Spicer. “I don’t know any Fischer. You’re barking up the wrong tree, mate.”
Speaking in a soothing tone, Donny pressed on. “You’re not the wrong guy. I’m certainly not your mate. Think about it. Do we look like amateurs to you?”
“No. You look like a couple of rejects from some second-rate circus freak show.”
Donny raised his voice. “Jeez! Why are you making this dif
ficult? I’m trying to be a gentleman. I’m being civil. I’m asking you politely. Yet you’re rude and uncooperative. I don’t get it.”
The chair behind Donny scraped as Barton got to his feet. He slammed his cereal bowl on to the worktop and grabbed the packet of honey nut puffs. He lifted the inner clear packet containing the cereal from the box and set it aside. He then flattened the box with his fist on the worktop.
Marching up to the table, he pushed Donny aside. Standing so Spicer could see, Barton rolled the empty cereal box into a tube. He then grabbed a large clump of Spicer’s hair and wrenched his head back as far as he could. He put the rolled-up cereal packet to Spicer’s mouth, which was clenched tight.
“Pinch his nose,” growled Barton. “Donny! Snap out of it. Pinch his nose.”
Donny jolted. He pinched Spicer’s nose with his thumb and forefinger.
Spicer held on as long as he could, but as soon as he gave up and his mouth sprang open to gasp for breath, Barton jammed the end of the packet into Spicer’s mouth and down his throat.
“Oh, Christ,” said Donny, yanking his hand away. His face screwed up in discomfort at the sight of what looked like Spicer being skewered alive.
Spicer choked and gagged and groaned. His body bucked and shook. The table rocked like a wooden horse as Barton put his weight behind the rolled-up cereal box, forcing the rolled cereal packet deep into Spicer’s mouth and throat. Barton bent over and whispered into Spicer’s ear. “Are you gonna answer his questions?”
Barton took some of his weight off the cereal packet, and Spicer sobbed and nodded furiously. Barton removed the rolled-up cereal box and put it on Spicer’s back. “I’ll leave this here in case you change your mind.” He returned to his chair, where he poured more cereal into his bowl and continued noisily eating his sugary snack.
Donny stared at the blood and spit dripping from Spicer’s mouth. “I was hoping the cowboy wouldn’t need to get all… you know… brutal,” he said, shaking his head. “If you just answer the questions, we’ll be on our way. Shall we try again?” said Donny.
With tears from the pain streaming down his face, Spicer nodded. “Fischer’s got the money. It’s in a black canvas bag with a few clothes an’ shit. They gave me a few grand, that’s all. My money’s gone. I spent it on nursing care for my mother. She’s dying.”
Barton stopped mid-slurp and listened in on the conversation.
“What the hell are you talking about?” said Donny. “We’re here about Fischer. Where’s Edward Fischer?”
“I took him to a guest house.”
“Where?”
“Southampton,” croaked Spicer. “My throat’s swelling up. I need some water.”
“In a minute. What was the name of the guest house?”
Spicer whispered the name.
“What? What did you say? Speak up.”
Spicer whispered again. Quieter.
Donny knelt beneath Spicer’s lolling head. Spicer’s voice was now barely audible. “Whaddaya say?” Donny put his ear close to Spicer’s mouth… too close.
“Fuck! Ah, shit! This fucker’s… he’s biting my ear!” screamed Donny. “Fucking fucker!”
Dropping his cereal bowl, Barton jumped to his feet. He grabbed a cook’s knife from the knife block that sat on a window ledge over the sink. In seconds, he was over Spicer with the knife raised. He brought it down at the base of Spicer’s skull. The blade entered one side and came out through the other, where it carved a groove in the edge of the table. The penetrating knife caused a reflex that made Spicer’s jaw clamp down and bite off a large part of Donny’s right ear.
Blood spilled from Spicer’s throat. His body convulsed and urine spilled over the edges of the table. He made gurgling and spluttering sounds while his body trembled and eventually shut down.
Donny fell back onto the floor. He held his hand where his ear had been. Blood streamed down his neck and wrist. “My ear. It’s gone. That fucker… Where’s my ear?”
Barton threw Donny a tea towel. “Use it. You’re making a mess. I think your ear’s in his mouth.”
“Get it. Get my ear.”
“No way. I might lose a finger.”
Donny looked at Barton pleadingly. “He’s not moving. He’s dead.”
“You want your ear? Then what? Hospital?”
“Yes, I want the hospital. I want my ear sewn back on.”
“We can’t go to a hospital. We just killed a man.”
“You killed a man.”
“Only because you were getting your ear bitten off.” Barton cracked up at the thought. “You should have seen your face. ‘He’s biting my ear! Help me! Help me!’ You crack me up.” Barton leaned against the kitchen door to steady himself as he doubled over with laughter. “Why’d you get so close? Hoping he might tongue your ear? If you need a woman, I’ll get you a woman.”
Still laughing, Barton tiptoed over to Spicer. He pulled the knife out. Spicer’s mouth sprang open, and the piece of ear dropped out like a Snickers bar from a vending machine.
Donny picked up the piece of ear.
“You might want to wash it,” snorted Barton. He went to the freezer and grabbed a tub of ice cream. “Here you go. Keep it cold.” He dropped the knife in the sink and washed it. Using another tea towel, he dried it and, careful not to leave prints, placed it back in the block.
Donny picked up the piece of ear and carefully wrapped it in some kitchen towel, then placed it inside the half-eaten tub of ice cream. “Let’s get out of here. You’re taking me to the hospital whether you like it or not. I don’t care what we tell them happened, but they’re going to sew this back on.”
“Whatever.”
“What about the old woman?” said Donny.
“You want her to tongue your other ear? You’re a sick man.”
“No. I mean, do we just leave her?
“Yeah. You want to kill her, be my guest. I’m out of here.”
Donny trotted to keep up as they left through the back door and stepped into the darkness of the back garden. “Why would you say something like that?” asked Donny as they crossed the lawn. “About the sick old lady tonguing my ear. You know I like regular babes, right? You know, pin-ups, like most guys.”
Barton shrugged. He opened the back gate at the end of the garden and let Donny go first. He wasn’t done teasing. “What you’re into is none of my business.”
Donny could hear Barton laughing. “I’m not into anything. Regular, hot, beautiful women – that’s it. Okay? I have a reputation. You know how gossip spreads. I don’t want you spreading rumours.”
“We just killed a guy,” said Barton. “You have your ear bitten off, and you’re worried I might think you’re into kinky fetish sex stuff with terminally ill old ladies. You’re weird. All right, let’s get to an A&E. If we don’t, I know you’re gonna be whining for the rest of this job. More importantly, I don’t want to be looking at your messed-up ear. It’s ugly.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Moonlight sparkled on the water. Wave after wave crashed on the shore, sweeping shells, sand and pebbles back beneath the retreating tide. On the beach a fire crackled and popped as driftwood heaved and splintered amidst the flames.
Moon sat hunched beside the fire. With her arms wrapped around her knees, she stared at her toes as she wriggled them beneath the cold sand. She turned and looked at Fischer as she flicked her cigarette ash into the flames.
Fischer lay on his back, cigarette in hand, blowing smoke and staring up at the night sky. “I can’t remember the last time I just stopped and looked up at the stars,” he said.
Moon gazed up. “They’re beautiful. So bright. You don’t see them so bright in the city.”
“When I was little,” said Fischer, “my mum told me the stars were angels. ‘The sky is full of billions of angels. Don’t ever be scared of death or of being alone. When you die, you join them. During the day all those souls are playing and having a good time. You only see them at night, becau
se at night they’re resting and looking down on us and keeping us safe.’”
“Aw! That’s so sweet. Your mum sounds amazing,” said Moon.
“Yeah. She told me that right before she took an overdose and opened her wrists. Shortly after, I was taken into care. I was ten years old.”
“I’m sorry, babe.”
“I guess she was trying to tell me something. I didn’t know it at the time. I just felt lost, confused and guilty and angry.”
“She was definitely telling you something. Just because she couldn’t cope with the world doesn’t mean she wasn’t looking out for you. You were her little man.”
“I guess she’s up there now. I wonder which one she is.”
Moon looked up at the stars. She pointed at the brightest one. “That one,” said Moon.
Fischer twisted his head to look. “Yeah. That’s a good one.”
“You can introduce me, when we both join her. I’d like to meet your mum.”
“You bet. She’ll have a lot of explaining to do when I see her,” said Fischer.
“You will too, baby.”
Fischer grinned. “You’re right. Still, I can blame her for my life getting screwed up.”
Moon dragged her bag close and unzipped it. “You cold? How about a drink?”
“Uh-huh.”
Moon took out a bottle of vodka, unscrewed the cap, took a sip and passed Fischer the bottle. “Can I ask you something?”
“Depends what it is.” Fischer zipped up his jacket then flipped up the collar against the cold.
“Hardy’s wife? We never got a chance to talk about what really happened.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Why was she killed? I never did understand.”
Fischer sat up and took a long swig from the bottle. He flicked his cigarette butt into the flames and watched it burn. “It’s complicated. I don’t suppose it matters anymore whether you know or not.”
“I know you don’t start things. Though I do know that when necessary you finish them.”