by Mark Hill
Elliot stared into the gloom, through the mess of leaves and twigs heaped across the windscreen, a swirl of shapes and colours dancing in his eyes. Stunned, unsure of where he was, or even for a few short moments, who he was. Perry moaned. When Elliot turned his head, an electric jolt of pain crackled down his neck. He pressed his weight against the door, fumbling for the release, and tipped onto the damp, muddy earth. He stood, hands propped on his knees. A wall of trees hemmed them in on the slope, it was a miracle the car hadn’t smashed into any of the ancient trunks. Elliot, not wearing his seat belt, would have gone through the windscreen. Would be dead, for sure.
‘We … got … back.’ A voice behind him.
Tremors of shock vibrated up his spine when Elliot stood. ‘What?’
‘We got to go back.’ Perry slumped against the car.
‘Why?’ Elliot wanted to laugh at the insanity of the suggestion.
‘Because …’ Perry clutched his chest, grimacing. ‘They saw your face and you used my name.’
He had taken a knock to the head. That was the only explanation.
‘The police will be there.’ Elliot felt his anger swell. He’d taken part in an armed robbery, and there was nobody to blame but himself. Rhonda was never going to forgive him – he could barely believe it himself. He thought of the old man wrenching on the carpet, flapping like a fish on dry land, his wife kneeling beside him, pleading in his ear. It’ll be okay, it’s all going to be okay. Just thinking of her husband despite the terror she must have felt, as Perry slid the contents of the safe, money and valuables, into the rucksack.
‘They saw your face, you said my name.’ Perry’s voice dripped with contempt. ‘They can identify us.’
‘The house will be crawling with police.’ Elliot couldn’t believe what he was hearing. If he was going to go back, it would be to return the money and fall on the mercy of the cops. Not to, not to—
‘We’re in the shit if we don’t.’ Perry pressed the heel of his hand against his bleeding forehead.
‘You were going to kill her!’
‘Didn’t, though, did I?’ Perry took the gun from his pocket. ‘But it ain’t too late. We’ve no choice now.’
‘I’m not going back.’ Elliot reeled forward on the uneven ground, twigs snapping beneath his feet. ‘And you ain’t either!’
‘This is all because of you.’ Perry lifted the gun to Elliot’s head. ‘Perhaps I should shoot you.’
‘You were going to kill her,’ repeated Elliot. Blood gushed in his head, like rapids through a rock fissure, a deafening roar in his ears. When he turned his neck, his nerves shrieked.
‘Get in the car.’
‘Let’s just get home.’ Elliot clapped his hands down his sides. Rhonda would tell him the right thing to do. He didn’t know any more, he couldn’t be trusted. ‘I just want to go home!’
‘Get in the car, or I’ll do you here,’ snapped Perry.
Elliot laughed bitterly. ‘Then you’ll just have to do it.’
Hesitation rippled down Perry’s face, then he squeezed the trigger.
And Elliot flinched.
They stood there for a moment, both of them wondering why nothing had happened, and then Perry fumbled with the safety catch on the weapon. And Elliot realised that he had to do something, or in a few, short seconds he’d be dead. Perry was going to shoot him and his body would rot here in the middle of the woods.
So he ran forward, his pumping legs creating a chain reaction of screaming muscle, and went in low. Head down, charging like a rhino, piling into Perry’s chest. Pain exploded inside his head, whipping like naked electric cables down his body as Perry smashed the butt of the gun on his shoulder.
And they went down, rolling along the ground, leaves and clumps of mud spinning off them as they scrabbled at each other’s arms and legs, trying to get a grip, trying to get the upper hand. Elliot felt the gun fly from Perry’s fingers, and a fist swipe across his cheek. But Elliot was bigger and heavier than Perry. Rolling onto him, he spread his weight and pinned him to the floor. Struggling, Perry’s mouth twisted in a rictus of impotent rage.
Elliot lifted his fist—
Saw the old woman crawling along the floor towards her husband, her face contorted by anguish.
And drove it down into Perry’s face. Lifted it high again—
And saw Dylan popping a mint onto his tongue, felt Rhonda’s head against his chest, her hair tangled in his thick fingers.
Smashed the fist down into Perry’s face – blood exploded from his nose, but Elliot didn’t care – raised his fist high—
He knew he would lose her, because he had let everybody down, because he hadn’t changed, not really. He was just the same man, the same pathetic Elliot, and always would be.
The fist came down.
He would never change. He would lose her, and he would lose Dylan, and he would be alone, because his old man was right, he was nothing, he was shit, he was scum. Tallis was right, he deserved nothing from this life. He had watched Sally Raynor die, had burned her corpse in an unmarked grave, and she was lost long ago, and he deserved nothing, not happiness, not peace and not love.
She’ll know the kind of man you are.
A bully, a thief, a lowlife.
Screaming with fury, he smashed his fist down into Perry’s face again and again. But Perry was gone and instead it was Gordon beneath him, who laughed and laughed in his face.
They were better off without him. Because no matter how hard he tried he could never change, when all he wanted was a quiet life with the woman he loved and her boy – his boy, his family.
And Elliot drove his fist into Gordon again and again and again, his nostrils filled with the stench of soil and petrol and burning flesh, until he could barely see who it was, the face was so covered with blood and mud and mucus and phlegm.
He lifted his fist one final time high above his head—
Bully, bully, bully.
And it trembled there, because he saw Gordon was gone. Instead Perry’s head slumped to the side, eyes slits in his bloody, swollen cheeks. With a growing sense of horror, Elliot realised that Perry wasn’t moving. He lowered his fist. Slumped against the man’s chest, and sobbed.
I’ve killed him, he thought.
Elliot rolled off Perry’s body onto the cold ground. Birdsong trilled as he stared up at the trees swaying high above, leaves spinning down towards him. After a moment he stood, cleared the mulch and mud off him as best he could. There was no going back from this, no leading a normal life, no playing happy families.
I’ve killed him.
A vehicle blipped past on the road, only yards away.
Elliot staggered to the car and popped the boot. He grabbed Perry’s ankles and dragged him to the rear of the vehicle, twigs and berries and leaves gathering in the dead man’s armpits. Pain lashing down his neck, Elliot wrapped his arms around Perry’s chest and tipped him into the boot. Slammed it shut.
The faint sound of a siren on the wind made him freeze. Then he picked up the gun, muddy and slippery, and stuffed it into the rucksack, which he pulled from behind the front seat of the car. Hefted it over his shoulder, ignoring the shooting pains, and set off through the woods.
The voice of the Two O’Clock Boy – the only man in the world who knew that Elliot could never change – going round and round in his head.
She’ll know the kind of man you are.
41
If Drake knew what she was doing, he’d go ballistic. Doorstepping the old woman was one thing; secretly pressing his beloved daughter for information was taking Flick’s betrayal to a whole new level. But there was something Drake wasn’t telling her, something that involved him and Myra and that home, and it was important enough to make him steal evidence. While she was still clinging to the investigation by her fingertips, she was determined to discover what it was.
And besides, she was only fulfilling a promise she’d made to the girl. At Laura’s funeral Flick had told April
that she would be a shoulder to cry on any time she wanted – she remembered Ray Drake had been grateful for the offer. Now she was making good on her word. When Flick had returned her call, still shaken from her meeting with Harry, April had sounded upset – she didn’t know who to talk to, she said – and they arranged to meet immediately.
When she arrived at the Pret in Camden Town, grateful to peel away from the army of tourists marching towards the Lock, April was already there, looking very pretty and very miserable in an expensive cashmere coat, and clutching in her lap the kind of bag Flick could only dream of affording. All this designer stuff, she presumed, a perk of being with that City boy of hers.
Flick leaned in for an awkward hug, feeling the treachery lift off her like vapour, and asked April if she wanted coffee. The girl shook her head. Flick bought them both sparkling water.
‘I hear you’ve moved out,’ she said, cracking the cap on her bottle.
The girl mumbled. ‘Yes, to Jordan’s.’
‘You know I’m a detective sergeant now?’
‘How’s it going?’
‘Let’s just say it’s a learning curve.’ Flick smiled. ‘Your dad is worried about you.’
‘I’m sure he is.’
‘You don’t sound like you believe it.’
‘He probably is in his own way but …’ April shrugged. ‘Well, everyone thinks they know him, but they don’t.’
‘I’m not going to go running back to him; this is strictly between you and me.’
‘He’s so controlling, suffocating. Secretive, you know?’
Flick took a casual sip of water. ‘In what way?’
‘He came to Jordan’s apartment and he keeps calling and calling. It’s like he won’t let me have my own life.’
Controlling, suffocating. That didn’t sound like the Ray Drake she knew, but then the memory of him in the Property Room popped into her head. Taking that photo, stealing evidence.
‘Has he hit you or … hurt you in any way?’
‘Hit me?’ April looked shocked. ‘Of course he hasn’t!’
‘I’m sorry.’ Flick held up her hands. ‘I was just trying to—’
‘He’s just not an easy man to know, he keeps everything … in.’
‘A lot of men do.’
‘Sometimes I think he’s going to, I don’t know … explode. He went off the rails when he was younger; I bet you didn’t know that.’
‘Oh?’
‘Gran took him out of school.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know, something happened, raging teenage hormones. I asked Gran about it and she said he was challenging, whatever that means. Getting Gran to talk about anything is challenging.’
‘Your father sounds like a chip off the old block.’
‘You can say that again. I think he’s turning into Gran. She scares the shit out of me sometimes.’ April laughed, but there was no humour in it. ‘That’s not right, is it, being scared of your own gran?’
‘It’s probably not as unusual as you think.’
‘She’s the coldest person you ever met. He’s turning into her and maybe one day I’ll turn into him, and on it goes …’ Tears bulged in the girl’s eyes, and Flick went to the counter to get a napkin. The girl wept quietly for a minute, turning her engagement ring on her finger. ‘Jordan hates him – and now he hates me.’
‘Is that why you wanted to see me, April?’
The girl dabbed at her eyes. ‘He asked me to move in, but now he says he’s never loved me, never wanted to be with me. He told me to get out.’
Flick squeezed April’s hand, which tightened around the soggy balled napkin. ‘Why don’t you go home? Your dad just wants you back.’
April shook her head. ‘I can’t!’
‘Why not?’
She took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘Because I’ve been awful to him.’
‘He doesn’t care about that. He just wants you to be happy. Your mum’s death knocked you both for six, and you’re finding it difficult to talk. You’re both hurting, both grieving, and you need each other. Whatever you do, don’t …’ She felt her chest tighten. ‘Don’t fall out with your dad.’
‘I don’t understand it. When Mum was still … Jordan loved me. He was there for me. I love him.’
‘Is he at home now?’ asked Flick.
‘He’s at work. He’ll be home later … maybe. He usually goes out after work, to pubs and clubs – who knows where else? – and gets in at all hours.’ She met Flick’s eyes, reproachfully. ‘Or not at all.’
‘You’re welcome to stay with me.’
‘I’ve a friend I can go to.’
‘Give your friend a call; tell them you’re coming over.’
‘I don’t have any clothes with me.’
‘That can wait till tomorrow. Let Jordan calm down, let him consider his actions. Call me if you want me to go and pick up anything. And if you want me to speak to your father …’
‘I’ll call him later.’ April pushed the unopened water bottle away. ‘I promise.’
Taking the cue, Flick said: ‘I’d better go.’
Outside on the street, Flick stuck out her arm and a cab immediately pulled up beside them. She crouched at the window, while the driver was leaned away straightening the side mirror.
‘Docklands, please, the lady will give you the address.’
Flick and April shared a long hug. The girl clung to her tightly, reluctant to let go, and Flick was grateful for the physical contact. Then April climbed into the back of the cab. When it drove off, Flick answered a call from Eddie Upson’s mobile.
‘Eddie.’ She heard the chatter of the Incident Room. ‘What news?’
‘I’ve been told to tell you to get back here,’ he said. She sensed the anxiety in his voice and dread detonated in her gut. ‘You’re off the case.’
42
The road rushed towards him with a dizzy clarity. A time was coming soon when this life would be over and he could sleep, the boy sensed that very clearly. Good riddance to it, he was sick of it.
Glancing in the mirror at the girl speaking into her phone, he considered that it was at times like this when he felt most alive. All he’d ever wanted was to punish those people who had allowed the sickness to fester inside him, who had let him become – it wasn’t too strong a word – a monster. When he was finally released from his life’s work, when he had meted out justice to the guilty, he would step gratefully into oblivion.
His foot squeezed the accelerator of the stolen cab. He felt a quickening in his pulse. He would be at peace, reunited with his own family at last. Then, perhaps, he would know happiness. If not, if no one waited for him on the other side, as he suspected, he would at least know the comfort of the void.
When the girl finished her call, he took off his baseball cap, his appearance meant nothing to her so there was little point in wearing it, and ran a hand over his scalp.
He caught her eye in the mirror. ‘You look sad.’
She smiled faintly, absorbed in her own thoughts. ‘Family worries.’
‘Oh, I know all about those,’ he said, not without sympathy. Her phone lay on the seat beside her, he saw.
In years gone by, he had told himself that once his work was done, the rest of his days could be lived happily enough. But he realised long ago that there would be no happiness in this world for him. His adult life had consisted of three drives: to eat, to sleep and to kill, and he derived little pleasure from any of them.
The boy ate healthily because he had to keep physically and mentally able. His life was busy and demanding – with every new persona he was obliged to alter his body shape, which required a strict fitness and diet regime. His sleep was fitful because that was where his dreams and nightmares merged. Every night his sins soaked more heavily into his soul, like water into a sponge.
His mind only made room for the information that would allow him to complete his life’s work. Years of study gave him a multitude of professional quali
fications, the mastery of a skill or command of a new identity. Money, possessions, held no appeal. The exception was the small collection of mementoes he’d taken from his victims, every new trophy a reminder that he was a step closer to his own release. They sat on the top of the fridge in his rented house.
There was the tobacco tin he had taken only this morning from the flat of Deborah Willetts before he torched her. Beside it was the horseshoe he’d picked up when working as an animal feed salesman visiting the Australian stud farm where David Horner lived. Propped behind that was a torn coaster from the pub where he’d befriended Jason Burgess. Then there was a bicycle pump he’d borrowed from Ricky Hancock when he’d been his sponsor in Alcoholics Anonymous. And the china figurine he’d slipped in his pocket before he gutted Kenny Overton’s wife.
As Gavin, he’d stolen an air freshener shaped like a pine tree from Elliot Juniper’s van. As well as all that money, which he passed on to third parties in pursuit of Juniper’s ultimate humiliation. Juniper, of course, was unfinished business. The boy wanted him to suffer, wanted to take everything from him, so that in the end he would understand how contemptible he was, and had always been.
There were other objects, so many objects.
But from the policeman, when the time came, he’d take nothing. There was only one thing he required from him.
With his life’s work almost complete, the boy would probably never go back to that house, never again touch those trophies, but he didn’t care. That place was never a home, it was just one of a succession of temporary addresses where he slept and prepared and planned. He moved from place to place as required, had lived in so many cities as so many people, and soon his long journey would be over.
A car edged out of a junction and he politely gestured for the driver to pull out, go ahead.
All those lives he’d lived. All the people he had been. If you put all of his identities in a room together, if such a metaphysical act were possible, you wouldn’t believe they were all the same person. They would bicker and take an immediate dislike to each other. He had no real sense of self, not any more, which is why perhaps it was so easy for him to become someone else.