Guilty Parties

by Martin Edwards

  ‘Are you going to tell me now?’ he said lightly as we sailed out of the harbour into the firth. ‘Sounded important.’

  I glanced at him. He was smiling but it was a smile that didn’t reach the eyes – cold eyes. ‘Hang on a moment,’ I said. ‘Wait till we get settled.’

  It was a beautiful evening with just the best sort of light wind. As we tacked along towards the two great bridges I took a deep breath.

  ‘I know what you are, David, and I know what you’ve been doing. You may think you’re going to get away with it but you’re not. I’m going to come after you.’

  It was almost as if he’d been expecting it. I thought he’d bluster, but he didn’t. He didn’t even try to deny it. He stood up in the boat so that he towered over me, and then he laughed. ‘And what do you think you can do, you pathetic fool? The police won’t touch it and if you try anything you’ll be a laughing-stock.’

  The David I knew had vanished and in his place was this evil, cruel man. He was going on, ‘Anyway, I reckon it’s my wages for putting up with six months of utter tedium with you.’

  I lashed out, lashed out in humiliation and fury, with murder in my heart. It wasn’t a hard enough blow to do him much damage but at that moment the boat must have pitched a little and then he was in the water.

  He scorned life-jackets, mocking those who wore them as landlubbers and wimps, and the water closed over his head. He went under, and he didn’t reappear. Alerted by my screams, other boats were around us in minutes but he had gone.

  The rest is a blur. I know the search went on for hours – the coastguard, a helicopter, then divers, but they never found him.

  I gave carefully doctored evidence at the fatal accident enquiry, bravely biting back my tears. He must have hit his head as he fell, they decided, and it was declared an unfortunate accident and a warning about the dangers of not wearing a life-jacket.

  It was an accident, I suppose, in that it must have been a movement of the boat that pitched him into the water; he was a big man and the blow I struck wouldn’t have been hard enough to knock him in otherwise. But make no mistake, I had wanted to kill him when I did it. Even afterwards I didn’t regret it, though in some twisted way I still loved him. There was guilt, though, that it was my own gullible folly that had caused his death.

  And there was certainly grief. The glow of our halcyon days together never quite left me and I feel it even now. But I was free at last, directing my life, no longer just an actor under someone else’s control. The revenge tragedy was my own script.

  The train was slowing down as it reached the suburbs of Edinburgh. Rain was streaming down the windows, the light was fading and with the gathering darkness came dark thoughts.

  What if the director’s cut had been not mine, but his? What if David had seen what was coming and prepared himself for it, taunting me precisely so that I would lash out, giving him an excuse to go overboard, to vanish in the most final possible way? He was a powerful swimmer and we weren’t that far from the shore.

  I had never managed to track down the money either. Languishing useless in some off-shore bank, I had concluded with frustration, but perhaps it had been a nice little nest-egg to fund his lifestyle until he could find another stupid woman to prey on.

  Perhaps I’d been only an actor under his direction right up to the end – and beyond. He was still doing it, wasn’t he? Haunted by the memory of that original, perfect relationship I’d never found anyone since who measured up. Heartbroken heroine – his new script?

  As I gathered up my bags and found a taxi to take me back to my flat in Drummond Place with the beautiful, silent rooms and my comfortable, arid existence, I tried to argue myself out of depression. Perhaps the man in Oxford Street had been a ghost after all, or even just a polite stranger prepared to humour a madwoman.

  And yet, and yet …

  LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON

  Ricki Thomas

  Ricki Thomas has had five books published and her sixth, Rings of Death, is due out this spring. She also has numerous articles, short stories and biographies in magazines and anthologies worldwide. She has lived in many countries throughout the world, and is now enjoying a peaceful life in Yorkshire. Ricki is happily single and has four children.

  Until yesterday, I hadn’t known I had a son, just like I hadn’t known I had a father before the age of twelve, when he’d finally found me, having searched for years after my mother had left him. He’d taken me under his wing and I’d felt like I belonged there, but one day I was whisked to a foster home, where they told me that he’d died. I was in my early twenties when I discovered he’d actually been sent to prison for killing my mother; as far as I was concerned it wasn’t murder, she’d deserved her comeuppance for having separated the two of us for all those years.

  However, having my own boy here with me makes up for any loss or trauma I’ve ever suffered. Now I can show him the things my father taught me in the brief few days I spent with him before the police – sticking their noses in where they weren’t wanted – destroyed my childhood forever.

  Gazing at my gorgeous son, I called Nathan over and told him we were going to make a guy to take out to the fireworks display and he giggled, admitting that it would be the first time he’d have made one, despite reaching the grand old age of eight. When my father had showed me how to put one together, he’d involved me in every step, but I thought Nathan was a little young for that, so I’d pre-prepared the body, using my old clothes to cover the limbs and torso, and a Hessian sack as a foundation for the face.

  One thing that Dad had insisted was important was having six bottle tops, and he’d forced me to drink one of the beers whilst he’d had the other five. He’d repeated that it was important to steel yourself, to numb any sense of conscience and let the creativity flow. I hadn’t understood at the time; it had been tortuous downing the amber liquid – the taste so bitter it had made my mouth twist, the volume so vast it’d made my belly bloat – but now I can appreciate the necessity of not being sober. However, I still thought Nathan needed to be older for alcohol, which is why I’d done the hardest bits without him.

  I needed the beer, though.

  ‘You see what I’ve done, son?’ I pointed to the body on the floor of my garage, puffy with the stuffing I’d added under the clothing, the beige sacked head a blank canvas. ‘First of all we need to get it into the wheelbarrow, so you take the feet – be careful not to dislodge the shoes – and I’ll take the head end because it’s heavier.’

  With a few grunts and groans, we hoisted the guy from the floor and into place; the arms and lower legs flopped over the sides, and the head fell back. It looked ridiculous, so droopy and lifeless, but we’d soon sort that. I took a cardboard box, dismantled it, and folded it in half to make a stiff base to support the upper half of the body. When I’d neatened the limbs Nathan smiled, and we stepped back to admire our handiwork.

  ‘Now we create the face. One day, when you’re older, I’ll let you drink one of the beers, in fact, I’ll let you help me do the body, but this year –’ I passed some bottle tops to him, folding them into his sweet, chubby hand with fatherly love – ‘you just make the face. When I’ve opened the last bottle, you’ll have six lids; two for the eyes, one for the nose, and three to make a smiley mouth.’

  I forced the lid from the bottle and he caught it as it fell, instantly racing to the dummy to finish it off, but I grasped his shoulder to hold him back. ‘Son, you have to be patient. If you want to make the best guy you can, it’s important to take your time and attend to detail. First of all, the beer must be finished before we start; my dad said that was essential.’ I raised the bottle to my lips and sank the drink that I’d once sworn never to taste again.

  Refreshed, I placed the bottle neatly on the shelf to join the other empties, and the light-headedness, the warmth that cascaded through my body, was comforting. ‘Is it a he, or a she?’

  Nathan drummed his fingers on his lips and it reminded me of h
is mother. We’d been so in love, Debs and me, but she’d left me all the same, saying she couldn’t stand my jealousy any more, and the bitch hadn’t considered it important to tell me she was pregnant with my child. When I’d tried to change her mind over the following weeks, she’d moved, with her parents, away from our village, and actually had the audacity to report me to the police for harassment; her spite was pathetic.

  Furious, I’d taken every photo of her that I owned and pinned them to a noticeboard as a reminder never to forget. Love letters and poems she’d sent me, little notes she’d left around my bedsit for me to find; they all went into a scrapbook, which had pride of place on the table beneath the pictures. I’d known that one day I’d find her and make her come back to me, it was just a matter of time.

  For years I’d keenly searched on the internet for a mention of her name – or her family – and studied the electoral rolls, first nearby, and eventually spreading across the country. It had been a wilderness; it seemed as if they’d disappeared from the face of the planet. But a Facebook account, created by her careless sister, finally rewarded my patience.

  Now, I’d already lost Debs once and had no intention of her escaping again, so I’d had to play the game perfectly to avoid her doing anything rash. I’d booked a night in a cheap hotel in the town she’d moved to, and it had been easy to find her sister from her latest status update. I’d gone to the bar she’d mentioned she was meeting her friends in, knowing that, after nearly nine years, Carol would be unlikely to recognise me; I was older, scruffier, and a fair bit chunkier, a result of the heavy drinking sessions that soaked up the tedium, loneliness, and burning anger.

  Not wanting to give the game away, I’d driven a discreet distance from the taxi that took her home. I’d parked on the roadside and watched her go inside, and pulled a can from a six-pack, preparing for a long night; after all, I didn’t know if Debs still lived with her parents; she could have left home by now. Eventually the alcohol had lulled me to sleep and dawn was breaking when I’d next opened my eyes, momentarily confused by my whereabouts. I’d stepped outside, stretching my aching back after the uncomfortable night cramped in the passenger seat, and clambered back into the camouflage of the car to continue the vigil.

  It hadn’t taken long in the end; I’d recognised Debs instantly as she came through the door, keys in hand. She’d barely changed over the years – the brunette hair was still long and wavy, her face as pretty as ever – and I’d felt my heart leap disturbingly in my chest. But then the last thing I’d have ever expected happened; a cute boy in school uniform – the image of me at the same age – came trotting through the doorway, and she’d beamed at him with adoration, before taking his hand and leading him onto the street.

  At that stage I hadn’t known for certain that Nathan was mine, but my suspicions ran deep, and I’d felt a surge of rage towards the callous, thieving bitch; how dare she bear my child and keep him for herself. The temptation to grab them there and then – confront her and take back my own flesh and blood – was incredible, but common sense took over; I didn’t want to frighten the boy. Instead, I turned on the engine and shadowed them on the short walk to the primary school; now I knew where to collect him from after I’d dealt with his mother.

  ‘Dad, have you finished the beer yet?’

  Startled, I was back in the present, and I apologised. ‘I was in a dream world!’ He chuckled at the daft grin I gave for his benefit, and I laughed back as I sank to my knees beside him, ready for the next part of his lesson. ‘Have you decided whether to make a boy or a girl?’

  ‘A girl, because I want to do lots of hair.’

  ‘Okay. So, you have six bottle tops in your hand and you need to make the face. How do you think we should attach them?’

  ‘Glue, Daddy?’

  ‘That’s always an option, but I have a different way, one that will make sure the tops don’t get knocked off when you take the guy out on the streets.’ His inquisitive expression made me want to hug him close, but cuddles would have to wait. I took a nail and a hammer from the side. ‘Put one of the lids here –’ I indicated a short length of wood – ‘and I’ll get a hole started, then you can bang it into place on the head.’

  I prepared all six lids, ensuring the holes were loose enough for the nails to move freely, and passed one to him, along with the hammer, before supporting the dummy from behind. He held it where he felt the nose should be and drove the nail in with a hefty swipe. ‘Very good, you’ve got it right in the centre. Do you think you can do the eyes now?’

  Again, his placement was perfect, and the two bottle tops that doubled as eyes brought the face to life. All he needed to do now was add a three-lid smile and attach a few tied clumps of brown wool to the head to make the hair, and we’d be ready to go. Fifteen minutes later our guy was finished, and it reminded me so much of the only chance I’d had to do the same with my own dad, although, naturally, I thought Nathan’s effort was better than mine had been.

  ‘What are you calling her? Do you have a name in mind?’

  ‘She’s called Carol, like Aunty Carol.’

  Money had been tight lately, what with not having a job, so I checked the change in my trousers before we left to ensure there was enough to buy Nathan a hot dog and a drink while we were out and, with my son in front of me, his hands underneath mine on the rubber handles, we wheeled our guy into the street, closing the garage door behind us. Strolling through the small village, we soon reached the playing field where the firework display was being held. We’d attracted several compliments for our creativity, my boy and me, mainly about how realistic and well proportioned it was. Nathan was glowing with pride, and so was I.

  The evening passed quickly, yet beautifully – the rockets and sparklers banging and crashing, showering the sky with glittering droplets of colour – and I was sure my son was as happy as he’d ever been; a boy needs to be with his father, Debs should have known that. I took his hand protectively in mine, knowing it was time for us to leave for our new lives; we had a long journey ahead. Trying to lead him away, he objected, struggling. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘We can’t leave Carol here.’

  ‘Of course we can, we’ll make another one next year.’ I smiled brightly and his confidence in me was reassured. He took a final glance at our guy and we trotted home, carried our suitcases to the car and, once I started driving, Nathan was soon asleep in the seat, wrapped in a warm blanket against the wintry chill.

  As I drove onto the M1 – and freedom – I thought back to Debs, to our bitter argument when I’d dragged her into my car the previous day after she’d dropped Nathan at school. She’d had fear in her eyes – written across her face – and her body had shaken uncontrollably. She’d begged me to let her go, but I was angry – I still am – that she’d concealed my son from me as if I were nobody.

  ‘You were dangerous,’ she’d cried, ‘you kept threatening to kill me, and I knew that one day you would.’ Her prediction was spot on; alive, she’d always be able to leave me, but dead …

  Years of bitterness from her abandonment, and the final shock that she’d hidden my son’s existence from me, made the job easy. I’d stabbed her, and although I’d felt the life ebb from her body, I did it again, and again, and again – forcing the sharp knife repeatedly through her belly, her chest, wherever it fell. She deserved every blow for what she’d done to me and my boy.

  I’d bundled her body into the boot of the car and collected Nathan from school later that day; he’d been unsure at first, but when I’d told him I was his dad he’d come to the hotel with me easily. I’d prepared the body in the darkness of the car park – crudely sewing clothes together to avoid showing the skin underneath – after Nathan had fallen asleep, and the next morning we’d driven back to my village.

  I don’t have any regrets; a woman should never come between a man and his son, like my mother did to my father and me. It was befitting that Debs should come to the same fate for the same crime, altho
ugh Nathan doesn’t yet realise that it was his mother’s face that he’d driven nails into so industriously, just as I had done to my own mother all those years ago. Maybe I’ll tell him one day, maybe I won’t, but so far he’s not asked about Debs. He’s quite content with me.

  I glance in the mirror at his adorable face – a younger me – and I know the police won’t destroy his childhood like they did to mine; my father was stupid enough to get caught, but I’m not. I switch on the radio.

  ‘A body has been found …’

  GIVING SOMETHING BACK

  L.C. Tyler

  L.C. Tyler was born in Essex and worked overseas for the British Council before becoming Chief Executive of the Royal College of Paediatrics and Child Health and later a full-time writer. His comic crime series featuring author and agent duo Ethelred Tressider and Elsie Thirkettle has been twice nominated for Edgar Allan Poe awards in the US and won the Goldsboro Last Laugh Award with Herring in the Library. His new historical crime series (beginning with A Cruel Necessity) features 17th-century lawyer, John Grey. He is Vice Chair of the CWA.

  Michael swallowed hard and tried to look as though having a gun pointed at his chest was no big deal. Which, hopefully, it wouldn’t be. These things happened all the time, didn’t they? Every day of the week. At his age, it was surprising it had never happened to him before.

  The estate was full of guns – Glocks, Baikals, Webleys, Uzis. Yes, really, Uzis. Go and ask the Albanian kids if you don’t believe it. Everybody had them. Only the other day, the police had found one in a baby’s cot, and had listened unblinking to the father’s theory about how the baby had smuggled it into the house.

  So the Webley (by the look of it) that was being aimed at him now was pretty much routine. Standard kit. The only thing that was odd in any of this was that the trembling hand holding the gun belonged to his best friend. That was different at least.

  ‘Calum … are you crazy or something?’