by Emmy Ellis
“I couldn’t leave my son. I thought I could but—”
“Oh, but you can leave this son now?”
William moved away—ready to walk back to the glass building?
“Don’t you dare turn your back on me again,” she said.
“Go away, Emily.”
It was strange to hear her name when only Gran usually used it. Men called her ‘bitch’ or that word beginning with C, which was a really bad word, so Gran had told him. She’d asked him where he’d heard it, but he hadn’t said. That would be naughty to do that.
“Go away?” she shouted at William’s back. “Go a-fucking-way? It’s you who needs to go away, you bastard.”
William walked off, head up, neck straight, nothing like the flowers in Beautiful Lady’s garden. She picked up one of the longer planks of wood then swung it at William’s head. The end smacked into William’s temple, the strength of the hit sending him sailing sideways. William staggered—“What the fuck?” he screamed—hands out to maybe stop him damaging himself further if he fell, then she whacked him again, grunting with the effort.
That grunt was the sound she made when he got a beating, and the noise of it hurt his tummy, knots curdling inside him. William was on the ground, blood dripping and forming little balls after it landed beside his head. His shoes weren’t the only thing ruined now. The lovely suit was freckled with dust, too, the end of his tie dangling in it, and his face didn’t look the same anymore, all red like that. Mushy on one side.
William was asleep. She approached him and landed the plank on his face this time, then she walked around so she could pummel the top of William’s head with it. It wasn’t very nice, what she was doing to him, the man’s hair a darker brown as more blood seeped from a gash in his skull. Speckles of blood landed on her dark jeans while she lashed out, but she didn’t seem bothered and wasn’t crying.
Why am I crying and she isn’t?
That was another perplexing thing.
She drew her sleeves over her hands, dug into William’s pocket, took out a wallet, then extracted a wad of money. She tossed the wallet down and left William then, strutting away still carrying the plank, the clean end of the thing tucked under her arm. She stuffed the cash into her pocket. “Come on, you. Don’t say I didn’t try to give you a better life.”
He followed, and she took him past the farthest warehouse where a canal rippled along. She threw the plank into it. Ducks and swans scattered, squawking out their objection at being disturbed.
“We need to get some shopping in,” she said, rubbing blood into her clothes so it disappeared.
Resigned to another traipse through the streets, he tagged behind her, keeping his distance so she didn’t hold his hand and hurt his fingers again. A long walk later, they arrived at a row of shops. She shoved him down an alley between a launderette and a grocer’s, rubbish bags lining one wall. It was smelly down there, and the ground was covered in rectangular stones cemented together.
She stopped walking halfway down and turned to face him, gripping his shoulders. Fingernails digging in.
The signal.
“You didn’t see anything I did, d’you hear me? Anything at all. We didn’t go to those offices. We didn’t meet your dad and go behind those warehouses. None of it happened.”
He shrugged. “Okay.”
“Good. The problem I have now is that I’m stuck with you. Gran wants you, but she can go and fuck herself. There’s no way I’m giving her the satisfaction of taking you. She said I’d do that eventually, send you to her, but I won’t.”
He wanted to live with Gran so badly it hurt more than any smack he’d been given from her. He imagined hitting her with the plank and leaving her to die here in the alley. It was what she deserved, being left on the paved stones amongst the rubbish. Because she was rubbish.
And she smelt just like it.
Chapter Eighteen
Half of him was still happy from the euphoria of Anita’s death. It swam, a free and easy fish, jumping out of the water only to dive back in then repeat the process all over again. But the mess of The Man Point Two’s demise left his other half soured. It seemed his body was in two parts, a strict line down the middle, and each set of feelings resided left and right. This really needed to be fixed immediately so he could be at peace for a few years again. The feelings in his left, the ones produced by Anita, had to pass over the line and fill the bad section.
When darkness came, he’d make things better.
He strode with new purpose to the kitchen, where he remembered he’d slapped at a moth the other night and it had fallen dead onto the draining board. The spider, the moth…
It was a shame no one would get the significance, why he’d chosen those.
But I know.
Scooping the common-or-garden moth up with a Tupperware lid then placing it into the matching box, he studied its broken wings and likened them to his own, if he had any. All of him had been broken at some point, but he could fix it all, couldn’t he? Make himself new. Untainted. Gorgeous inside and out.
He made a quick coffee and tried to think whether any of the other tramps he’d seen while making friends with The Man Point Two had long straggly hair. They had the straggles but not the length. An idea crept into his head then, and even though the hair he had in mind would be fake, it would do the job of tricking him into thinking he was killing The Man again, wouldn’t it?
He’d have to give it a try.
After drinking his coffee he showered, and while the water cascaded over his skin, sloshing the sweat off his body, the fact that he’d just relived a bad memory came tumbling into his head. It had been a long time since he’d thought about that set of incidents.
Don’t think of it again now.
Once dressed, he shoved his arms into his warm coat, stuck a beanie hat on, put a full, capped syringe in his pocket along with the Tupperware tub, then left his place. It was a two-minute walk to the shop he needed—in the same row he’d gone to with her after she’d killed his father. He might even browse for a while. He had time to kill as well as a person. That gave him a bit of a belly chuckle, and a pair of teenage girls gawped at him oddly as they passed, giving him a wide berth by stepping off the pavement and into the gutter while he pissed himself laughing.
There was a toy shop along the way, and he went inside to select a wig similar to The Man’s hair. It wasn’t exactly right in colour, but so long as it had the length he could mess it up so it appeared unkempt.
Now that he’d had the memory, he realised with a jolt that he hadn’t placed The Man and The Man Point Two in the correct place. Where she had thrown the plank into the water hadn’t been where he’d left the bodies. Perhaps that had been why the happiness had only lasted sixteen years instead of the rest of his life. Was he being shown his mistake? It was a good job if he was, too, otherwise he’d have had to wait another year to kill again. He’d bet the police were still at the original canal site with their forensics people and one of those white tents. Their presence would make it impossible to carry out his new task.
Purchase made, the toy shop owner bidding him a good day, he congratulated himself on being resourceful and not having to shell out more money to the zoo man for another moth.
Things were falling into place.
Calm settled over him.
With more time to waste, he decided to go to the street in his dream. He’d read on one of those memes that dreams were the subconscious’ way of telling people things, guiding them through life when in their waking hours they couldn’t see the woods for the trees. And wasn’t that right? What he’d seen while asleep had told him so much—had he dozed off and what he’d thought had been a memory had really been a dream?
Yes, a dream.
He knew where the street was now, the dream sparking another memory of him following Jimmy home one day just so he could try to see Beautiful Lady again. He hadn’t seen her—or the bent-stalk flowers. A season had passed since he’d been
there the first time, and the edging around the grass had just been overturned mud, bare of the pretty petals and the bowed stems. The borders would be bare again now, what with it being so cold, but perhaps over the years Beautiful Lady had planted something else in their place, something evergreen that lasted all year round.
It took a while to get there, and the journey reminded him of how long it had taken when he’d been a kid, although his legs didn’t ache as they had back then. He approached Beautiful Lady’s house from the opposite side of the road then stood jammed beside a tall hedge bordering one of the front gardens so he could stare across and wish he’d lived there all his life instead of the crummy place he’d been brought up in.
He allowed a moment of indulgence. How different life would have been. He wouldn’t have had a spider bed, but perhaps real cuddles instead. Beautiful Lady would have put her arms around him each time he’d been sad, he was sure, and he imagined she’d smell of wonderful expensive perfume, her hair soft to the touch, just washed and styled.
It never happened, would never have happened, so what’s the point in tormenting myself?
It was useless to look back on his past and wish it had been different. It had been what it had been, and nothing could change it now. He had to build on the future and make sure the coming days were as happy as he could make them. Who knew, he might meet a woman who liked him for more than being the ‘gorgeous’ man he had apparently become, for who he really was inside—someone who wanted a solid family unit. A blonde wife, children with dark hair, and bobbing flowers in the garden.
He could have that, couldn’t he?
An old Ford was parked outside Beautiful Lady’s house. It had seen better days, and he wondered who drove it. It wouldn’t be her, surely. She had class, and in his mind he could see her behind the wheel of a sporty little number, sunglasses and a headscarf on in the summer, the roof down so the heat of the day warmed her lovely face. The Ford might not even belong to anyone visiting her. People were rude and parked wherever they liked these days.
The front door opened, and that man, William, stepped out onto the path.
It gave him a jolt, seeing his father again. Had he survived her attack? Maybe that was why she hadn’t been caught by the police and sent to prison for murder—and, God, how he’d wished that would happen. Day after day he’d prayed for a knock at the door and a policeman standing there. One who’d read her rights then take her away. No such knock had ever come, though, just the tap-tap-tap of the stream of men visiting before The Man had entered their lives and stayed there.
William was just as young as he’d been the last time.
It confused him. He frowned, peering across the road. Another man joined William on the path. And Beautiful Lady…ah, there she was, as gorgeous as ever, her blonde hair exactly the same, and if he wasn’t mistaken, she still had the silver locket. Where was the boy, though?
He blinked, shaking his head. Beautiful Lady looked older, yet William didn’t. That didn’t make any sense at all. How could his father not have aged? And why didn’t he have any scars on his face, because she had battered him good and proper, splitting the skin, and that surely had to have left a permanent mark.
Anger burned inside him. He hated being muddled. Things should be clear, not this mess inside his head that resembled knotted ropes that needed unpicking. He took a deep breath then blew it out slowly in an attempt to calm down. Clutched the carrier bag that held the wig and listened to the crackle of the plastic.
William and his friend got inside the Ford. The horn tooted, the vehicle moved away, and Beautiful Lady raised a hand to wave. She watched the car shoot down the road, a frown spoiling her brow—did she think William was going too fast? Her other hand moved up to the locket to clutch it. That hand had slapped her, and he wished he owned it so he could recall the tingle on his palm after impact. So he could stare at it and say, “You did a good job that day, Hand.”
Beautiful Lady sighed and glanced up then down the street. Searching for someone? She appeared afraid, worried. Why would that be? She caught his gaze, and her mouth dropped open. She shook her head, maybe to clear her vision, inched her face forward and squinted at him. A small cry escaped from between her pretty pink lips, then she staggered backwards and slammed the door.
The slam sounded the same as it had in the past.
Once again, she’d shut him out after looking at him.
‘Ugly little fucker.’
Beautiful Lady found him as repulsive as she had done.
All these years he’d held Beautiful Lady in high regard. She’d been the one who could have given him a good life had his father not been killed. Yet William hadn’t been killed—I saw him with my own eyes just now—and myriad thoughts rushed at him, sending him unsteady on his feet. He felt sick, lightheaded, and so…so bloody livid he couldn’t stand it. Fight or flight raged inside him. Should he run away? Or should he go over there and tell Beautiful Lady what she’d done by not taking him into her home after he’d tried so hard to give her that face she had told him to give?
He ran.
If he got out of the street he could get away from the feelings that turned his blood to burning acid. If he made it home, the spider bed could fix everything, even just for a few minutes. Those minutes would give him time to get his act together. His legs burned as much as his acidic blood, and his lungs were tight with the speed of his breathing.
Just get home, just get home…
At the end of the street, he veered into another and caught sight of the Ford returning. He bowed his head—I am the flower stems—and fought the nausea threatening to strangle him with its sickly fingers. The car zipped past at speed—too fast for a residential road—and he tsked at that despite his fear. Had Beautiful Lady rung William and asked him to come back? Would William find him and tell him off like a father would?
Please don’t shout at me. Don’t smack me…
He dipped into someone’s front garden and hid behind another hedge, his heart rate scattering and his knees jolting. The bag holding the wig slapped against his leg, the plastic growing so hot in his fist that his palms sweated. Moisture gathered beneath the hem of his beanie, wetting the wool until it felt so odd and squeaked when he lifted it to let in some air.
William would be here any second, and if he brought the other man with him, they both might tell him off. That was too scary to contemplate further, so he ran again, intent on weaving through as many streets as possible until he came to a place he found familiar.
He reached that place, the sparkly glass building, although it wasn’t sparkly now. It didn’t appear as it had in his childhood, all gleaming and reflective. Today the windows resembled blank eyes that glared at him, silently asking him why he’d come. He didn’t know the answer and spun to look at the red-painted warehouses, except they were no longer there. Time and new construction had erased them, and he stumbled through the newer office buildings, searching for the canal.
There it was, behind a row of squat greenery, a gap in the leafy fencing so people could perhaps take a walk beside the water if they had a mind. He was there now, the sound of the rippling water the same as it had been, and it eased his nerves. He stared at the surface, a splash from the past inside his head, the bloodied plank sinking into the brown depths then floating back up to sail away.
Was the plank rotten now? As rotten as she had been?
A feeling of rightness consumed him. Yes, this was where he needed to bring The Man Point Three tonight. This was where the torment would end and his whole body would be filled with happiness.
He smiled. Everything was going to be all right.
Chapter Nineteen
Burgess sat in the car with Shaw after speaking to his mother again. Whoever that wanker had been, loitering over the road… Was it possible it had been the killer? These coincidences—he didn’t like them. Things were getting even closer to home. Had the bloke remembered coming here as a child, was that it? If so, why the chu
ff was he back now? To see their father? Had the bloke needed to dredge up the courage to visit? Or had he been here before and Burgess’ mother hadn’t noticed?
She’d said she hadn’t seen anyone like him hanging around—and she should know, curtain-twitcher that she was. A titter had sparkled out of her mouth at that. Most days were spent sitting in her chair by the window, her gazing out at the comings and goings, making mental notes on all the neighbours, and sometimes, she’d admitted, imagining where they’d been and where they were going. Stories she invented to keep loneliness and boredom at bay.
It had given Burgess an emotional punch to the gut. She didn’t have much of a life, and he needed to visit her more. The thing was, his mother was usually overbearing, too much, so he’d avoided her. Yet she hadn’t been when they’d questioned her about his father having another son. Maybe Burgess just hadn’t taken the time to get to know the real Mrs Varley, the woman beneath the uptight, snobbish mother.
More guilt. More things to be ashamed of about myself.
She’d understandably been frightened at spotting someone who looked so much like her late husband. Christ, he knew how that felt, having had a scare himself after seeing the picture of Anita and that man. But for his mother to twig that the killer they were seeking had positioned himself directly over the road…well, the old dear had been out of her mind with worry. Still, she was on her way to a hotel now, assured by Burgess that she’d be safe and there wasn’t anything to fret over. He’d arranged for Denton to take her to one out of the area. No way could Burgess allow her to stay at home. Not until the bastard had been caught.
“I’m going to have to tell the DCI now. Tell the team,” he said.
Shaw nodded. “You are if you expect to have a copper sitting out here in a car, watching the place in case he comes back. Got to be a solid reason for that kind of request, and the DCI won’t settle for anything flimsy, you know that.”