by Liz Mistry
Feeling foolish, she shook her head and lowered the blinds before walking over to the alarm control panel by the back door. Hmph, as usual, someone, probably Graeme, had turned off the outdoor motion sensor. Typical bloody skinflint! He’d spend a fortune on a status symbol like Hawthorn Lodge yet, saving a few pennies was more important than her feeling secure in her own home. It wasn’t the first time he’d done this, and it really annoyed her. He always said, he ‘paid the bills.’ As if she didn’t work. As if her job wasn’t worthwhile. Granted, her salary was nowhere near as large as his, but at least she wasn’t idle. Sometimes, she thought that the only reason he allowed her to work was so he could moan about how little she earned.
She flicked the sensor on and was reassured when the external lights remained off. She shuddered. Surely, nobody was out there. She chided herself. Of course not. Why the hell would there be someone in their back garden on a Sunday evening in February? Anyone that was out there would have had to access their property via the alley behind the lower semis. The ones that Graeme had taken so much care to obscure. Then, they’d have to be determined enough to squeeze their way through dense bushes, work their way up the steep slope and climb the barricades he’d erected as extra protection from the unwashed masses beneath. Stupid. No-one in their right minds would do that. Despite Graeme’s elevated sense of his own value, they weren’t important enough … not rich enough.
With a sigh, she picked up the larger shards of glass from the sink and wrapped them in newspaper before placing them in the bin and washing away the tiny splinters that remained. Thank God she hadn’t decided to use one of the crystal glasses. Graeme would have gone spare if she had. With any luck, he’d never notice this one was gone. She couldn’t be bothered with yet another lecture about her clumsiness. Taking another glass from the cupboard and picking up her chocolate, she wandered through to the living room, dimming the lights as she went.
Snuggled in the oversized sofa, she activated the Bluetooth and selected her easy listening playlist before reaching over and picking up the remote control for the curtains. Still unsettled from her earlier fright, she peered out the window. The external lights remained off, yet she couldn’t shake off the feeling of being watched. Pressing the remote, she was happier, more secure, when the curtains closed with a near-silent swish. No bogeyman could get her now! She grinned, poured herself some wine and unwrapped her chocolate. Might as well end the evening in the same spirit of indulgence as the rest of the day … after all, her peace would be spoiled as soon as Graeme got back.
Chapter 8
22:15 Hawthorn Drive, Eccleshill
The Eccleshill streets are almost empty. The cold night-time drizzle has sent people indoors, and there is that Sunday night feel to the evening. Only a few groups of lads loitering outside the chip shop and a few couples, arms linked, walking back from the Craven Heifer pub, break the silence. Nobody pays me any attention as I edge along the street, head down and hood up. Earlier, I’d parked two streets away from the Weston’s cul-de-sac, on the main road in front of the chippie. Sandwiched between a Land Rover and a Mercedes, my van isn’t noteworthy. Heart still thudding from nearly being caught in the garden, I slide into the seat and flick the ignition on. The rush of adrenaline that had flooded my veins is wearing off now, and shivers are taking over.
Reaching over, I switch the heating on and breathe in a long sigh of relief. She’d been staring right at me through the darkness. I could see her clearly by the light from behind her, and when she’d been distracted by the dropped glass, my only option had been to sneak away like a thief through the night. It was very annoying, though, that the recycling bin had been in the way. Thank goodness the fox had been startled and run onto the lawn. It had been a close thing. A very close thing, but it was important to be sure Christine was back home where she should be.
In this game, timing is everything, and after her earlier indiscretions, it pays to be careful. She’d get her comeuppance, no doubt about that. Shame, though, that there’d be no witnesses to her retribution. Couldn’t risk it again. She’d turned on the motion sensor, so there’d be no more prowling until it was turned off again … maybe the chance would come to do that tomorrow or the next day at the latest. In the meantime, a low profile is probably in order. Besides which, I have better things to do tonight. More important things. Things that will teach that silly woman a thing or two. Maybe then she’ll appreciate what she has, and what she is risking.
Chapter 9
11:15 Hawthorn Drive, Eccleshill
She must have dozed off. The first thing that told her that her husband was home, was the sound of something slamming onto the top of the glass coffee table, sending her glass shuddering across it. Toppling over, it shattered as it hit the table top, sending a gush of wine onto the carpet. Heart thumping, Christine struggled to pull herself out from the depths of the plush sofa that was attempting to swallow her whole. Her eyes blinked at the sudden harshness of the living room lights that, presumably, Graeme had switched to full power when he had come in. Mesmerised, she watched the spilled wine as it pooled by the edge of the table before dripping slowly off the edge. Thank God she hadn’t chosen the red.
Conscious that the belt of her robe had worked its way undone, Christine pulled the flaps together over her naked thighs and, with frantic fingers, nipped the collar together to cover her breasts. Flashing anxious glances from her husband to the still dripping wine, she struggled to sit up. It was then she noticed the brown envelope that had nudged the stem of the wine glass. Frowning, she glanced at her husband. His eyes flashed, and a scowl pulled his brows together, darkening his expression. He wasn’t a big man, yet when he was angry, he had a tendency to puff out his chest like a bullfrog. His engorged body encroached on her space, dwarfing her. Right now, he seemed to fill the room. His blond hair stood out in angry spikes, his face was a ball of florid anger.
Christine still clutched her dressing gown, soothed by its softness and the fabric conditioner scent released by her touch. Her voice was tremulous when she spoke. ‘What is it, Graeme? Is something wrong?’
Graeme Weston spun away from his wife and marched over to the drinks cabinet. With staccato movements that set her nerves even more on edge, he poured himself a large brandy before flinging himself into the chair opposite her. Poised now, on the very edge of the sofa, she forced herself to stop kneading her robe and instead placed her hands in her lap, one on each thigh. She waited as Graeme sipped his drink, his dark eyes never leaving her face. The colour rose over Christine’s cheeks in a hot flush. She refused to ask again what was wrong. He wouldn’t speak until he was ready.
Casting a sideways glance at the envelope, she wondered what was inside. Probably some manifesto or article he’d written about the dangers of jihadists in Bradford or Muslim immigrants and the Caliphate. She hoped he wasn’t going to ask her to proofread it for him. The poison that dripped so easily from his tongue made her feel sick. Yet, she stayed with him; she had little choice. It wasn’t as if she was strong enough to argue against him. Deep down, she despised herself for failing to challenge him. So, in order to cope, she compartmentalised. Sometimes, she wondered what the liberal people she worked with would think of her husband’s toxic views. If only things were different. If only she was different.
She heard him release a deep breath. When he leaned back in the armchair and crossed his legs, she knew he was nearly ready to get whatever had put him in such a bad mood off his chest. ‘Go on then, Christine, darling. Take a look.’ He inclined his head to the envelope, his eyes never leaving her face. His voice was steady, although his tone betrayed his underlying tension. She’d seen him like this before, and it never ended well for her.
Heart beating faster, her palms started to sweat. She wiped them down her robe and hesitated. Whatever was inside the envelope was something she wasn’t going to like. With a trembling hand, she picked it up. Maintaining eye contact with her husband, she opened it and slid the contents partw
ay out. Flicking a glance down, she saw that they were photographs.
‘Well, love. Have a proper look.’ he said, his cloying voice at odds with his expression. To an outsider, Graeme would look very calm. Christine, though, knew the tell-tale signs. The narrowing of his eyes, the cynical half-smile, the way he tapped his fingers on his knee… she knew he was barely holding on to his temper. Her breath caught in her throat, and a sinking dread made her mouth dry. She turned the envelope over so the front of the top photo was visible and gasped. Whatever she’d expected, it wasn’t this. How could this have happened? Where had Graeme got these foul images, and who had taken them?
Tears blurring her vision, she risked a peep up at him, and then, seeing his tight lips, she directed her gaze once more, at the photo. There, in front of her, was an image of herself, mouth half-open, head thrown back, throat exposed, eyes closed in mid-orgasm, as she straddled a man who was not her husband. Fighting against the panic that pounded in her chest when she saw her husband stand up, she, too, jumped to her feet. As her eyes darted upwards to meet his gaze, he backhanded her across the cheek, sending her head ricocheting backwards with the force.
‘Stupid bitch! You couldn’t even be discreet, could you?’
Monday
Chapter 10
02:30 The Kill Site
It is getting to be a habit, this sneaking away in the middle of the night; however, I am getting good at it. Nobody noticed, and I have to say, it feels good to be doing something proactive. Something productive and meaningful, for a change. This time had been easier than the others. He’d been walking back from the pub – oh, what a good Muslim he is; fornicating, committing adultery and drinking alcohol. The sooner he meets his Allah, the better.
I laugh, remembering his startled face as he walked past the van, and I jumped out. He was too drunk to react, and I was very quick. I’ve always been agile, and a drunk Paki is no match for me. This one was special to me, almost personal, in a warped sort of way. I knew he’d take the shortcut from the Old Boar in Thornbury, down the back alley behind his house and in his back door. I hid in the shadows of the wheelie bins and waited until he passed before injecting him from behind. Dragging him into the van, I tied him up in less than two minutes. One for The Guinness Book of Records, I would think. Don’t suppose they monitor that sort of thing, though.
I’m getting fed up waiting for him to come around. Tara’s a bit unsociable as well tonight. She’s had her treat and is now rubbing her neck against the tree. Horses are fickle beasts – well, some of them, anyway. The other two horses have never been over-friendly. Only Tara sees fit to keep me company through the night. I had wondered if I was taking a risk driving right through the gate onto the field. Considering the entrance is so far from the main road and the track is rarely used, I think it’s safe enough. As long as I am gone by daybreak, I’ll be fine.
Anyway, I don’t leave any trace behind. I bag up my ink cartridges, gloves and suit and dump them in different bins all over Bradford. Some I even fling in the canal, although I don’t really like doing that – polluting our lovely waterways and killing off wildlife. Who knows what toxins are in those inks? After all, they are quite old. They’d come with the machine when I bought it from the old antique shop months ago, and they didn’t have a sell-by date on them. Nowadays, according to the man in the shop, tattooists have all sorts of hoops to go through: sell-by dates on the inks, numbing wipes, sterile wipes, aftercare rules. Not that any of that stuff applies to me. My ‘clients’ don’t need any aftercare, and I don’t much care about the rest anyway.
He’ll be waking up any minute, so I cast a last look at Tara and head inside to put my ‘uniform’ on. I’m looking forward to hearing Razaul Ul Haq’s cries, and I’ve already chosen my dump site. This was going to be so much better than the others. I might not even wear my ear defenders for this one. Get the full benefit of his pain.
Chapter 11
08:15 City Academy, Manchester Road
Christine pulled into her usual parking spot in the school car park and leaned her head on the head rest for a second before giving herself a mental shake and sitting up. Flicking the sun shield down, she opened the mirror and checked her face. Her fingers moved over her cheek, and with lips tightening, she studied the slight bruising her foundation failed to conceal.
Despite the events of the previous night, she’d risen early and had chivvied Jacob to get ready for school. He’d been poorly over the weekend. His condition had flared up, and he’d been in a lot of pain, but it had eased now, and Christine was reluctant to let him stay at home. He was in Year Nine, and she knew he needed to be in school. He’d quizzed her about their argument the previous night, and she’d deflected, saying it was about the broken wine glass.
Satisfied she’d done the best she could to hide the bruise, she pushed open the door and slid from the car, at the same time as Mr Dhanjal, the physics teacher, got out of his.
Smiling, she sent a half-wave in his direction and was surprised when he frowned at her and hurried ahead. Looked like she wasn’t the only one with family troubles. Turning to pick up her handbag from the passenger seat, she locked the car and headed towards the ultra-modern school building.
As she walked, she became aware of a couple of the sixth-form pupils staring at her and whispering. Recognising Seema Patel, who was one of the students she mentored, she smiled and was surprised when Seema scowled at her and turned her back. Christine faltered, debating whether to stop and challenge the girl or wait until class. Then, seeing it was nearly registration time, and she still had to drop her bag in the staff room, she kept on going. Entering the reception area, she smiled at the receptionist as she signed in and was surprised when her greeting was ignored. What was going on? It was as if she was in a play, and everyone else knew the plot, bar her.
As she moved along the corridor, she was aware of whispers and snide glances and her heart started to quicken. Surely her indiscretion couldn’t have reached the attention of the pupils and staff she worked with. Surely Graeme wouldn’t have broadcast it. She gave herself a shake. What was she thinking? Of course, Graeme wouldn’t broadcast that. Perhaps someone else had. Knowing her cheeks were flushed, Christine pushed open the staff room door and walked in to a babble of chatter. As soon as the teachers registered her presence, their chatter trailed off, and instead of their normal cheery greetings, some of them turned away, heads down, avoiding her glance. Others stared straight at her, their faces tight and scornful.
The smile faded from her lips as she realised even her closest friends in the school had made no effort to greet her. Swallowing, she took a step forward, ignoring the pools of sweat gathering in her armpits and said, ‘Is someone going to tell me what’s going on?’
A few of the teachers mumbled under their breath and moved to the side. Mr Dhanjal, on the contrary, stepped forward, waving a copy of the Bradford Chronicle in the air. His eyes flashed, and his voice shook as he almost spat at her. ‘What’s going on? What the hell do you think is going on? Did you expect us not to react to this?’ He thrust the newspaper at her, forcing Christine to take a step back. ‘How can you expect us to work with you now?’
Christine paled. Surely the Bradford Chronicle hadn’t somehow got hold of those photos. Please, God, not that. Moving like a robot, she stretched out her hand and took the paper from him, almost not daring to look. Glancing round the room, she saw everyone was looking at her, waiting for her reaction. Closing her eyes, she took a deep, steadying breath, and then, opening them again, she flapped the paper so she could see the lead article. Lowering her eyes to the front-page headlines, she gasped. For a long moment, she remained motionless, blinking in disbelief at what she saw.
Her frown deepened as she absorbed the extent of her husband’s treachery. This was the real punishment for her indiscretion. He knew she worked in the biggest and most diverse inner-city school in Bradford, and he’d left her to walk into the lion’s den this morning unprepared and unawar
e of this headline. How could she continue to work here after this? Nausea rose in her throat, and she let the paper drop to the floor as she stumbled to the staff toilets, the newspaper headlines branded on her eyeballs. ‘Graeme Weston, local business man, to represent Albion First in the upcoming by-election in newly formed Bradford City constituency.’
Chapter 12
10:30 Heaton Woods
The early morning drizzle had, as promised by the forecasters, given way to snow at around nine o’clock and grown in intensity in the intervening hour and a half. Dr Fergus McGuire, muffled by a long scarf and wearing a huge overcoat, shivered as he glanced around.
The cordoned-off area was like a quagmire, having been trampled over by numerous booted feet. Trees, still stripped of their leaves, looked forlorn against the unaccustomed activity, whilst the few evergreens, with their branches bending under the snow, seemed to be bowing in supplication. His feet were cold in his wellies, and he wished he’d taken the extra few seconds to don the second pair of thick socks Corrine had proffered when he had gotten the call. You’d think, after thirty years of marriage, he’d heed his wife’s advice. Corrine was seldom wrong. Perhaps her many years as a paediatric consultant had made her infallible, or perhaps everything she’d struggled against to achieve excellence in her chosen career had necessitated efficiency. Whatever it was, whether in the hospital or at home, his petite wife was a force to be reckoned with.