by Mark Hill
The door splintered. Smoke and heat rolled towards him, forcing him back. He dropped to his hands and knees and crawled inside. Orange flame climbed every wall. The desk was alight on one side, the sofa on the other. Toby was curled into a ball when Connor reached him. He tugged at the kid’s arm, barely able to open his stinging eyes, or to breathe.
‘No,’ mumbled Toby.
‘Take my hand,’ Connor said. ‘Take it.’
He bunched the kid’s jumper in his fist, tugging him towards the door, blind from the smoke, which burned his lungs and throat. Connor’s limbs became sluggish, heavy. Toby’s body was limp, his feet dragged. The kid made no effort to escape or even move. The door was so close – but Connor collapsed, hardly able to breathe.
And then he felt the boy rise out of his grip, the weight lifted. Squinting up, he glimpsed Elliot stumble to the door with Toby over his shoulder. Connor crawled out after them, tumbling down the steps, rolling onto the pavement just as the upstairs windows exploded from the intense heat. Connor fell across Toby as glass rained down around them. All the children screamed in terror.
‘You’re alive,’ Connor gasped. ‘You can go home.’
The boy lay on the road, staring at the sky.
In the distance they heard sirens. Connor pushed his way through the crowd, the screams and shouts and distant sirens muffled in his head, as if he were underwater. Amelia and Kenny, all the other children, sat on the pavement watching the house burn.
Elliot stared when Connor told him: ‘You’ll never see me again.’
At the dead end of the road he used his last vestiges of strength to scrabble over the wall and into the cool darkness. The burble of excited voices faded as he stumbled across the train track, and up the verge on the other side.
Connor collapsed on the grass to watch the night sky consume the smoke pumping from the windows. A wave of flashing blue light, police cars and fire engines, poured towards the home. Flame threw flickering shadow over the uniformed men moving urgently among the kids.
He had killed a man.
He’d poured petrol over Gordon Tallis and set him alight.
Watched him burn.
The truth was, once he had decided to do it, it had felt right.
But Ray Drake had also died. Connor told himself it wasn’t his fault. Ray had tried to save him, and instead had been killed. He shouldn’t have been there.
Connor’s anger had gone now, but he knew with a sickening certainty it would return. The whirling chaos inside of him would eat him alive him if he allowed it.
He needed to tell them, the judge and his wife, that it wasn’t his fault. Tell them Ray had saved him. And now he was dead. Their son was dead.
When Elliot saw him on the other side of the tracks, barely a shadow against the night, Connor turned and walked into the night.
They wouldn’t meet again for another thirty years.
59
‘The decades since my boy died have seemed like a dream. We waited for Raymond to come home, we waited for days, but he never did. And then Connor found his way here and told us what happened, and it was the most terrible, the most awful, thing to know our son was dead.’ Myra Drake swallowed. ‘And that I was in some way responsible. He died because he cared too much and his parents cared too little.’ She lifted the wisps of fine hair drifting down the back of her neck. ‘Do you mind?’
Drake stepped behind her to undo the tiny clasp, and Myra offered the locket to Flick, who took it. Inside was a small photograph of her dead son, its edges clipped in a rough hexagonal. In the photo he was seven or eight years old, and he straddled a turnstile in the countryside, smiling easily, eyes burning with a fierce intelligence.
‘It’s the only photo I have here,’ said Myra. ‘There are one or two in a safety deposit box, but the others were destroyed. Ray was a good boy, a popular child. I wish I had got to know him better, I wish Leonard and I had taken more time to listen to him before he …’
Myra shook her head, as if she had said enough. Stunned, Flick sat back in her chair. The boy who had been Connor Laird and was now called Ray Drake paced the kitchen, willing his mobile to ring. The bodies of Peter Holloway and Toby Turrell lay undisturbed in the hallway.
‘And when Connor came to you …?’ prompted Flick.
‘Everybody believed him dead, so when he turned up on our doorstep, Leonard and I … well, we took him in. We understood the consequences of what we did. The boy had a fire in him, an anger, and we knew it wouldn’t be easy, but we felt such anguish, such guilt, you see, so it was a kind of penance. There’s no doubt in my mind it is what Raymond would have wanted. If he had lived, he would have helped people, in the same way he was desperate to help that wretched cousin of his.’ The old woman’s hooded eyes followed Drake around the room. ‘We cut family ties, and, of course, he couldn’t go to school, so he was taught here. We lost quite a few tutors along the way, I can tell you, he was a difficult young man, to say the least. Life was a challenge for a number of years. But also … oddly exhilarating.’
And it hadn’t been easy for Myra, thought Drake. But she’d never compromised, never backed down. When he was young, when the anger blasted off Connor Laird like heat off a furnace, she never flinched. She stood her ground. His guilt and rage threatened to engulf them all but she never showed any weakness, any fear.
‘He’ll never be my son, he’ll never be my boy, he understands that. But I’m proud of him, and proud of what he has achieved.’ Myra turned to Flick. ‘He’s come so very far in life. He’s a different person now, I think, to the youth we took in.’
When Drake had tried to call April’s phone it was switched off, the same with Amelia’s phone. When he tried Elliot’s number the call went to voicemail.
Myra reached for the locket, the thin chain slithering across the table, to click shut the image of the son she lost many years ago. She closed her fist around it.
‘I thought it was you,’ Flick told Drake. ‘I thought you killed all those people.’ She took out the cutting with the photo of Connor Laird cringing from the camera and placed it on the table.
‘Yes, that was Connor.’ Myra tapped the image as if it was a different person entirely from the man she raised. But Drake didn’t look, his eyes remained fixed on his phone, a nameless anxiety seeping through him.
‘Look at the photo,’ Flick told him, and when he ignored her, she said it again. ‘Look at it.’
Finally, he picked up the cutting to gaze for a long moment into the flashing eye of Connor Laird. Then he dropped it and tried Elliot’s number again. It went to voicemail, so he called Amelia’s number. He would keep calling for as long as it took.
‘Tell me,’ Flick said to Drake.
Myra sighed. ‘I’ve told you everything you need to—’
‘Shut up, Myra,’ snapped Flick. The old woman blinked. ‘I want to hear it from him.’
So Ray Drake told her about his life as Connor Laird, and about the Longacre home. It all tumbled from him. He told her of Gordon’s murder of Sally, and how Connor and Elliot and Toby Turrell had been forced to bury her, something inside of Turrell becoming corrupted in the process. He recounted Leonard and Myra Drake’s visit, and said that a fire broke out later that night; told her how he stumbled, filthy and feverish, across the city, and found his way, days later, to Myra and Leonard, who took him in; and how the judge used his wealth and influence to ensure Connor Laird took the identity of their dead child, Raymond Drake.
He explained how he had long ago destroyed any evidence – every file and photo – that linked Connor Laird to that place, burying the past, his former identity, as best he could; removing files and destroying documents about the Longacre. He took every copy of the article about Leonard and Myra’s visit from newspaper offices and libraries and destroyed it. Or so he had thought. God only knows where Kenny had found that article about the visit of the Drakes to the Longacre.
Finally, he told her about Turrell’s manipulation of Jordan
, and how he himself had saved Amelia’s life earlier in the evening, and sent her and April to Elliot’s cottage in the middle of nowhere, where they would be safe, or so he hoped.
He told her everything that happened at the Longacre on that last night.
Or almost everything …
What he didn’t say was how he had cuffed Gordon Tallis to the radiator and soaked him in petrol and burned him alive. Myra knew, and she would take that secret to her grave. Laura had known, but she accepted the person he had been because she loved the man he had become. But Laura was gone now, as the real Ray Drake had died decades ago, and Sally Raynor, and so many others.
‘What will you do?’ Myra asked Flick.
‘Peter Holloway is dead.’
‘Killed by Turrell.’
‘And Toby Turrell is dead.’
This is where Drake expected it to end. The lie he had been living since he arrived on her doorstep had been blown wide apart. But he had much to be thankful for in his life. He had been given an education, a career. And he had a family of his own, a loving wife and daughter. April might never understand why her father kept the truth from her, but the most important thing was that she was safe. Turrell was dead.
She was safe. He kept telling himself that, but the sudden nature of Turrell’s death nagged at him.
‘You helped Toby get out alive from that place,’ Flick said.
‘And if I had let him burn,’ Drake said, ‘all those people would be alive.’
‘Give me the gun.’
He placed it on the table.
‘We’ll call the office.’ Flick ran a hand down her face. ‘And you can make a statement.’
‘I killed Turrell,’ said Myra tersely. ‘In self-defence. This has nothing to do with Ray, and everything to do with me. He has already lost his wife, and if you take this further, he will lose his daughter, his livelihood and his reputation. I am asking you to consider very carefully what you do next. If you feel any compassion for him at all do not destroy his life for something that has absolutely nothing to do with him.’
Flick scraped back her chair. ‘I need to think about this.’
‘Of course.’ Myra smiled sourly. ‘You must do what you believe is right.’
Drake lifted himself from the wall, agitated. An image churned in his head: a jaunty red hoodie disappearing at the corner at Ryan Overton’s estate. He heard Amelia’s voice.
My husband will never touch me again.
When he came to the table, his fingers dabbed anxiously at the surface.
‘What?’ asked Flick.
‘It doesn’t make sense,’ he said. ‘Turrell had the opportunity to kill me more than once. He could have killed Amelia and taken April anywhere, knowing how important she is to me, and yet he let her go. At one time or the other, he could have killed us all. Why?’
‘Turrell had a death wish. He was obsessed with you killing him.’
‘He spent many years murdering those people, and he hated me and Elliot more than any of them.’ Drake winced. ‘All that intricate planning, and yet he chooses to die before his task is finished?’
He tried Elliot’s number again, his stomach tightening with every unanswered ring.
‘Where did he get the money for the endless changes of identity and location?’ he said. ‘Or the money to pay Jordan? He’s been saving something special for us both, he – oh, God … He’s got everyone just where he wants them.’
She’s out of your grasp now, Drake had said, and Turrell had smirked.
Drake scooped up the gun.
Flick jumped to her feet. ‘Ray, you have to stay here. We’ll call—’
His face drained of colour. It wasn’t over; he was a fool for ever believing it was.
‘Turrell was content to die in the knowledge that his work would be completed after his death. The intention was always for Elliot and me to die together. We were the other Two O’Clock Boys; we were always together at the home, that’s how he remembered us. And April …’
‘An armed response unit will get there quicker than we can,’ said Flick.
‘No, if police approach the house, April will die.’ His voice was a whisper. ‘Please help me.’
Flick looked at him impassively, and then stormed into the hallway, stepping around the corpses. As Drake followed her, Myra hooked a finger around his wrist.
‘Do you trust her to do the right thing?’
‘Whatever happens, happens,’ said Ray shortly.
‘We have come too far to allow our lives to fall apart. Do whatever you must to safeguard your daughter’s future, and your own reputation.’
‘Myra—’
‘Wake up, boy!’ She slapped him hard across the face. ‘Wake up!’
His bruised cheek stung, but the blow crashed through his body like a shockwave. All these years, the old woman had never raised a hand to him, not once. She hadn’t needed to. She could chill the blood in his veins with a single contemptuous look.
‘There are times when I miss our friend Connor, his vitality and passion. Connor would never let events unravel like this.’ Moisture shone in her eyes, a greasy film that could be no more than another sign of her failing eyesight. He had never seen her cry, and knew he never would. ‘I have lost one child, and I will not lose another. Come home, Raymond.’
When he left, she went to the cutting to look at the image of Connor Laird one last time. And then, igniting the hob, she set fire to the paper, let it blacken and burn to the tips of her fingers.
60
‘Whatever happens next,’ said Owen, voice low against the wind moaning through the warped planks of the barn, ‘is entirely up to you. Because the fact is, son, you’re in big trouble. Perry here is keen to beat the shit out of you, and I can’t say I blame him. He’s very unhappy at being locked in the boot of a car, particularly as he gets very claustrophobic. Ain’t that right, Perry?’
Perry, leaning on a cricket bat, his swollen face almost unrecognisable in the dark, muttered something.
‘It’s lucky he had his mobile with him,’ continued Owen. ‘Or he’d still be in there. It’s not going to be good for you. You understand that, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Elliot, pale with shock. He lurched forward on the muddy ground; wanted to touch Perry, to make sure he was real. The flatulent crack of Perry’s grip tightening on the rubber handle of the bat made him snort. His stomach convulsed, his heart raced. He felt …
Joy.
Elliot experienced such a grateful release of tension that despite the danger of the situation – there was no doubt Perry and Owen would make him pay for what he had done – he couldn’t help burst out laughing.
The truth was, Elliot wanted to plant a smacker on Perry’s lips and hug him. Tell him how happy he was. He propped his hands on his knees and laughed and laughed till his sides ached. Tears of relief dropped from his cheeks, spotting the hard floor.
‘I don’t think you’ve got much to laugh about,’ said Owen angrily. ‘You’re in big trouble.’
And then just as quickly, Elliot fell to his knees and wept. The sobs came so hard that he was barely able to breathe. All the guilt and dread, all that toxic shit locked inside him for so long, poured out.
‘That’s more like it,’ said Owen, not understanding.
Because Elliot felt blessed. Everything was going to work out. The worst hadn’t happened. Perry was alive. He was flesh and blood, standing in front of Elliot. Angry, dangerous, as ugly as sin, but alive and kicking. And Elliot knew that whatever they did to him, Perry and Owen – and it would be very bad indeed – it didn’t matter.
None of it mattered, because now he could look Rhonda in the eye, hug Dylan to him, and ask for their forgiveness. It wasn’t too late. He could put it all behind him, this whole nightmare scenario, and start again.
The worst hadn’t happened. His mind whirled with new beginnings and possibilities. He was friends with Amelia now, and she had money, plenty it of. And that copper Drake –
his mad, bad old mate Connor Laird – owed him big time now.
He picked himself up. Owen’s face was twisted with revulsion, as if Elliot had revealed something about himself, something unsavoury.
‘Just let me do him,’ Perry growled.
‘We’ll get the money first, and then you can set to work on him. I’m looking forward to giving you a hand,’ said Owen, rolling up the sleeves of his jumper with great care. ‘You know what, Elliot, I can see a pattern emerging here.’
‘Yeah?’ Elliot wasn’t bothered by what Owen had to say. He was only thinking about Rhonda and Dylan. He would fall on their mercy. Tell them about what happened at the Longacre – Connor Laird be damned. If he had to do time for the robbery, or the assault, he would do it willingly, wipe the slate clean and start all over again.
‘Bloke called Gavin came to me a few days ago.’ Owen circled him. ‘Bren brought him to me. Said he’d taken your money. Gave half to me, half to Bren, your good mate.’ Owen mimed reeling in a fish. ‘He told us to hook you in, get you on a job. Scratch the surface, he said, and you were a rotter, a scumbag, said you’re a thief and a bully. I’ve never heard the like of it. He really despises you, Elliot. You always struck me as strictly pound shop, a little man, but he was quite insistent. I don’t know what you did to Gavin, son, but he’s got it in for you real bad.’
‘His name’s not Gavin,’ said Elliot, wiping the tears from his eyes. ‘It’s Toby.’
Gavin – Turrell – was wrong about him. He wanted to get on with the rest of his life now, was impatient to be with Rhonda and Dylan, and he just had to get through this night.
‘Where’s the money, Elliot?’
‘In my bedroom.’
When Owen moved towards the door, Elliot stepped in front of him.
‘Please – my guests. Let me go get it. I swear I’m not going to make any trouble, or try to leave. I’ll come right back, you have my word.’