by Joe McNally
‘Left the woods,’ I said. ‘Where you were supposed to be watching out for me.’’
‘I watched out ... you were okay.’ The smile was dropping.
‘You didn’t need me anymore after the light went on.’ She said. ‘You were the big hero then, weren’t you? The big hero.’
Letting go the curtain, her right hand came down to rub her thigh. She drank again then closed her eyes and laid her head back against the panelled wall. She looked almost serene.
Six feet to my left was a step down to the kitchen area where an old fridge and cooker and a sink unit with a dented draining board sat on a floor of cracked and curl-edged vinyl tiles. Limping over I got myself a glass from the shelf above the sink. Charmain opened her eyes again as she heard the whisky being poured.
‘Help yourself to a drink.’ she said, not looking at me. ‘Plenty for everyone.’
I sat down again, more carefully this time, and hauled my bad leg up straight on the cushions. Raising her glass slowly, she said, ‘Cheers! Here’s to the hero.’
I watched her take a big slug. ‘And here’s to the heroin.’ I said.
Lowering her glass she half sneered, half smiled at me, wrinkling her nose. ‘Very witty, Mr Malloy, very witty. You must be the smartest person out of everyone I know.’ She held her glass up in mock salute. ‘Smart and brave and virtuous.’ The glass came down, the smile dropped away and she stared up at the ceiling and said, just loudly enough, ‘Arsehole.’
I let it pass. She was feeling guilty about leaving me back at the cottage. The fact that she also felt obliged to me for ‘rescuing’ her from Stoke made her feel worse.
If you ever want someone to resent you for a long time just do them a big favour.
She wouldn’t leave it alone. Turning on me again she said, ‘What is it with you, Malloy? What do you get out of all this?’
I shrugged. ‘My licence back, I hope.’ That silenced her for a minute. She must have been expecting me to spout some high moral reasons she could ridicule and taunt me with.
I drank, flushing the whisky round my mouth, burning my gums, and waited for the next assault. But her frown told me the drug-clouded whisky-soaked brain was struggling to come up with anything logical.
‘What do you know anyway?’ She said, staring at the wall.
Closing her eyes she rested her head against the panel, her hair rasping on the rough varnish.
‘Charmain, I need your help.’
Her head came up, eyes blazing. ‘Don’t fucking patronise me!’
I shrugged. ‘I didn’t intend to.’
She made a face and mimicked me. ‘I didn’t intend to. I didn’t intend to ... You bastard!’
‘To hell with this,’ I said and swung my leg off the sofa. Her pink heroin bag rested by her side. I reached across and grabbed it. Her face froze, open-mouthed, as I sat back again clutching the bag. She stretched out a hand. ‘Give me that, ‘ she said, in a very thin voice.
‘Shut up.’
She stared at me, knowing she’d pushed me too far, just as she’d done in the car that afternoon.
‘I need it.’ The voice was pleading now.
‘Too bad.’
Unzipping the bag I took out a thumb-size, half-full phial of clear liquid. ‘Where did you get it?’ I asked. The nightdress hem tumbled to her knees as she stood up quickly, still clutching her drink. ‘Give me it.’ The tone was strident. Her free hand reached toward me.
‘Was it part of Greene’s supply or did you bring it with you?’
‘It’s mine!’ Give it to me!’
Rolling it on my palm, I said, ‘It’s not yours. If it was yours you’d have used it in the car back in the woods and saved yourself a long drive. It’s Phil Greene’s, or it was Phil Greene’s. Where was it hidden?’
She lunged at me. Clutching the phial, I pushed her away. Losing her balance she lurched backwards and landed awkwardly on the bunk, splashing her drink on the green cushion. Struggling forward she tried to get up again.
‘Sit still,’ I said. ‘Or I’ll pour this down the sink.’ She glared at me then threw her glass at my head. What was left of the whisky arced out and, as I ducked, I heard it sizzle against the bars of the fire. The glass hit the panel behind my head but didn’t break.
Charmain sat clutching her drawn up knees and staring out of the small window into the darkness.
‘Where’s the rest of the supply, Charmain?’
She ignored me. ‘Tell me.’
She began rocking slowly, to and fro. I got up and went to the sink. Unscrewing the lid, I tilted the phial. ‘Where’s the rest of it?’
She stopped rocking and stared at me wide-eyed, unbelieving.
‘Don’t! There isn’t any more!’
‘I don’t believe you.’ I tipped it till it was horizontal. ‘Where is it?’
The horror-stricken face had me almost convinced she was being truthful. But I had to be sure. I let out a trickle and she screamed and ran toward me.
Falling to her knees as she reached me she hammered on the dirty tiles with her right fist.
‘Please, please, please ... that’s all there is! I need it ... For tomorrow!’ She was sobbing, staring at the floor, she wouldn’t look up at me.
She stopped hammering and pushed her forearms under her forehead and rocked back and forth on her knees like some demented jockey. ‘Please, please, please ...’
Screwing the cap back onto the phial I reached down slowly and helped her up. Standing in front of me with red-rimmed eyes, tear stained face, runny nose and flakes of dirt in her hair she looked utterly dejected and beaten.
Reaching for her limp right hand I slowly brought the open palm up and placed the phial in it. She looked at me like a grateful animal newly relieved of pain, and two big tears spilled out. Opening her arms slowly she slumped forward, head on my chest, and pulled me toward her. I put my right hand round her waist and, with my left, gently stroked the hair at the nape of her neck.
I felt, as much as heard, her deep sigh and her warm tears soaked through my shirt.
It took Charmain a long time to calm down. She’d dry her eyes and try to smile and say she was fine then burst into tears again. But at least the spite was all out of her. She looked apologetic and extremely sorry for herself though the feminine wiles still worked as she decided the troubles were ours rather than hers.
‘What are we going to do?’ she asked, sipping a fresh drink.
I could play that way too.
‘Before we can plan anything I need to know more about Howard and his business ... and his connections.’
She nodded and after some gentle prompting told me how she’d met Howard at Sandown three years ago when she’d backed a winner with him. Okay, he was much older but he had money and big cars and nice houses. She wasn’t embarrassed about admitting she was a gold-digger.
She said Howard kept his business affairs to himself. Very few people visited him at home and when they did he’d never discuss business in front of her. Things had been fine for the first two years. He’d taken her out, bought her things, treated her well. It all started going wrong when Harle came along.
‘What happened?’ I asked.
She shrugged and stared at her feet. ‘We became lovers.’
‘You and Harle!’ I hadn’t meant to sound so incredulous but when I thought of them together ... Harle’s small greasy slyness and her, well, I suppose beauty was too strong a word, but she was very attractive, though when it sunk in that she’d slept with Harle she seemed a lot less so. Maybe I was just jealous. And mad with myself. The girl I’d thought too gorgeous to even approach at school falling for the likes of Harle ... At least she’d taken Stoke for money.
She caught the tone in my voice and looked hurt then defiant. ‘He was good in bed,’ she said, almost accusingly.
‘You don’t have to explain to me.’
‘It sounded like I did.’
‘My bad manners showing again. I’m sorry.’
I stayed silent waiting for her to get it out of her system.
‘Howard was impotent,’ she said quietly, staring at her empty glass. ‘From the day we were married. It terrified him.’
I bet it did. It went a long way toward explaining his crazy jealousy and manic over-protectiveness of her. ‘Did he know you were sleeping with Harle?’
She nodded very slowly. ‘I think he did, but he’d never have challenged me. He was too scared of the truth.’ She spoke quietly with no hint of satisfaction.
‘But not too scared to make sure Harle never saw you again.’ She stared, unblinking, into her empty glass. I filled it up with what was left in the bottle.
‘How did you meet Alan?’ I asked.
‘Howard introduced us at a party. He kept calling Alan his boy, his best boy.’
‘When was this?’
‘New Year’s Day. We’d been to Cheltenham.’
‘What was Alan doing for him? What was the connection?’
‘I don’t know. I assumed he was just a friend, or maybe a hanger-on. I didn’t ask questions.’
‘Didn’t Alan tell you anything?’
‘Sometimes he’d ramble on when he was drunk about how rich he was going to be, how everything was going to work out.’
‘Drunk or high?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Was he injecting?’
Tilting her head back she rested it on the wall and closed her eyes. ‘What does it matter? Alan’s dead ... What’s the point?’
I let it rest for a while. ‘You know Alan rode for a very rich owner?’
She nodded.
‘Nobody seem to have met this guy Perlman. Didn’t Alan talk about him?’
Wearily she shook her head.
‘Did he ever even meet him?’
‘I don’t know.’ She sounded very tired.
I changed tack. ‘Alan was injecting. I only asked you to see if you knew.’
She nodded.
‘How often?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did he offer you any?’
She hesitated. ‘He didn’t offer ... I asked if I could try it ... he didn’t want me to.’
She looked own and fingered her glass.
‘But you talked him into it?’
She sighed deeply. ‘In the end ... I tried my first fix the week he disappeared.’ She looked to be going on a downer again. I kept up the questioning. ‘Was Greene injecting, too?’
‘No.’
‘You seem pretty definite.’
‘He wanted to stay clean. He’d seen Alan’s behaviour when he needed a fix. Phil Greene didn’t want to do anything that would stop him being champion jockey.’
‘You seem to know a lot about his personal ambitions.’
She leaned forward far enough to sip her drink then lay back again. ‘Phil had a crush on me.’
‘And?’
‘He agreed to help me after Alan disappeared.’
‘You mean he agreed to get heroin for you?’
She nodded.
‘Who paid for it?’
She stared at me looking hurt but sounding too tired to raise any real anger. ‘What the hell does that mean, Malloy?’
I shrugged. ‘Heroin costs a lot of money. I just wondered who paid for it.’
‘I paid. All right?’
‘Okay.’
She settled again, closing her eyes. ‘How did you meet Phil?’ I asked.
‘Howard brought him home for drinks after Alan disappeared.’
‘Did Alan know Skinner?’
‘They were connected in some way but Alan didn’t like him.’
‘Phil Greene was connected to Skinner too, wasn’t he?’
‘I think so.’
‘They came to your house together last week.’
She didn’t comment. ‘So, we’ve got Alan and Phil and Skinner and Roscoe and Howard ... all connected in some way, Alan and Phil more than anyone else because they’re both dead, both murdered, by your husband.’
I wasn’t sure how she’d react. Deep down she must have known Stoke was behind Harle’s death and I suspected she knew he’d engineered Greene’s. I watched her. She didn’t even blink.
‘Charmain, did you hear what I said?’
She nodded.
‘Am I right?’
‘Aren’t you always?’ she murmured and turned her head away.
‘When did Howard find out about your heroin habit?’
She stared into the fire. ‘A couple of weeks ago, when Phil brought the stuff. I had no money. I gave him my watch to pay for it and to get some more. He said he’d wait for the money but I told him to take the watch. He shoved it into his pocket. Last week, when he came with Skinner to see Howard he accidentally pulled the watch out of his pocket. It fell on the floor, right at Howard’s feet. Howard bought me that watch as a wedding gift.’
She drank.
‘Phil gave him some stupid story about finding it outside in the driveway and Howard pretended to believe him. Later, he punched the truth out of me.’
I looked at her. ‘As much motive as Howard would have needed to kill him, I’d say. He probably also knew that Greene had been drinking with me and had talked too much.’
Charmain’s chin dropped onto her chest. The realisation of the part she’d played in the deaths of Harle and Greene was beginning to sink in. She looked completely drained but I needed the answer to one more question.
‘Charmain,’ Her head stayed down. ‘Do you know what Skinner’s working on at Roscoe’s yard? Is he making heroin or horse dope or what?’
She shook her head slowly, still not lifting it. I persevered. ‘He’s using the head lad’s cottage, working on something secret. It could be the key to all this to Harle’s and Greene’s deaths ... Charmain ... ?’
She was sobbing again in that same soft way as when I’d taken the heroin from her. I went across and stood above her, my hands on her shoulders. ‘Charmain, please tell me what Skinner is doing at Roscoe’s?’
She leaned forward, throwing her arms around my waist, still weeping. ‘I don’t know ... I don’t know! Oh, Eddie, what are we going to do?’ She forced me to take a step back as she stood up and put her arms around my neck.
I stood holding her for what seemed a very long time then her tear-stained face came up and her big sad eyes looked at me. As she arched her neck her pink swollen lips parted showing the tip of her tongue and she closed her eyes and kissed me, long and wet and warm.
She swept the cushions off the bunks and arranged them on the floor. Pushing at the shoulder straps of the nightgown she wriggled out of it and, bending gracefully, slipped her panties off. She knelt, pulling me down with her and we kissed again as she undressed me. Unresisting, I let her lead, wanting to believe she was doing it because, deep down, she loved me, but knowing it was a reaction to what we’d been through tonight. A crazily overheated libido was one of the after-effects of coming safely through danger. Mine was just as hot as hers.
She was also doing it because she hoped to gain control, just as she’d tried to do with Stoke and Harle and probably Greene. She lay flat now and pulled me alongside her. ‘Oh, Eddie, this is what you wanted, isn’t it?’ This is what you were dying for when you came into my bedroom ... and when I was in the car ... This is what you wanted back in the woods ... isn’t it, Eddie ... isn’t it?’ She was moaning softly.
Maybe it’s what I wanted, I thought, but it’s not what I’m going to have, Charmain, not when you’ve been with scum like Stoke and chancers like Harle and idiots like Greene. I don’t play fourth in a field like that. I’d rather try to remember you the way you were.
Then Jackie’s image came into my mind, Jackie the trai
tor, and my vengeful streak showed through. Why shouldn’t I have sex with Charmain? I could tell Jackie about it and watch her face ... How does it feel to be betrayed, Jackie?
I watched Charmain, writhing, moaning, longer and louder, ‘Now, Eddie ... please ... come on! ‘ And I let her go and slowly and silently got to my feet and stood over her, looking down.
She lay still, staring at me, quizzically at first then her eyes focused on mine and she saw immediately how much, at that moment, I despised her and she seemed to crumple as she turned on her side drawing her knees up, her hands covering her face as the tears came. ‘You bastard,’ she murmured softly through her weeping. ‘You dirty rotten bastard.’
And I stood there for a minute surprised at my own feeling of triumph. I knew then I’d paid her back for ignoring me at school, for not wanting me when we met again, for all she’d ever done to me or could do to me in the future.
I realised it was illogical and unfair and childish and I knew I was a bastard. But I felt good.
37
I was plagued by nightmares and awoke after little more than an hour’s sleep. Charmain still slept. The sun was up but the boat was cold. I made a mug of coffee and took it outside.
On the untrodden grass bordering the towpath the dew was heavy. Both cars, mine parked half on the road, half on the towpath by Charmain, were also wet with dew.
I realised how easily the cars would be spotted if any of Stoke’s cronies were out searching and I decided to take them into the village. They would only be a taxi-ride away if I needed one.
I went to get my jacket. It would be best to move the cars now while the village was quiet. Anyway, I had to phone DS Cranley for an update.
Charmain was sleeping when I left. I locked the door and took the only key.
It was just after 7 a.m. when I parked the second car, probably a bit early to catch Cranley, but I spotted a phone box so it was worth a try. He was at the station.
‘Where are you, Malloy?’ he asked.
‘A little place in the country.’
‘Where?’
‘I can’t tell you just now. I might not be here after today. I’ll let you know where I am as soon as I’m sure it’s going to be reasonably permanent.’