by G. Brailey
“By telling Zack to own up,” said Susan, as though it was obvious.
“Susan, listen to me,” said Sam, “I don’t know what happened between you two, but I do know it wasn’t rape.”
“Oh do you?”
“Yes, I do, so if you’ve come here to try to persuade us otherwise, you’re wasting your time.”
Susan smiled. It was a perky smile, as though she had all sorts of secrets hidden away that would blow Sam’s view of Zack right out of the water. “Well, a sure man is a dead man so they say.” Susan had heard that expression somewhere and it seemed very appropriate in the circumstances.
“Sam’s right you know,” said Clarissa, gently, “you shouldn’t be here, after all, we might be called as witnesses.”
“But you weren’t there.”
“Character witnesses…”
Susan let out a hoot of nasty laughter. “What character? He hasn’t got any.”
“This is revenge, pure and simple,” said Sam, on his feet now, right in front of her.
“No it is not.”
“Yes it is, and it won’t be long before the police work that out for themselves so I wouldn’t get too excited by your day in court if I were you.”
“We’ve got evidence,” said Susan, rather childishly.
“Entirely fabricated I imagine.”
“And what about this?” said Susan, pointing to her face “is this entirely fabricated?” This caused a hiatus and Susan knew it would. It was Clarissa who came back first.
“Look Susan, Zack is an absolute pig with women, I did tell you, but why waste your time on all this, you’d be much better off letting the whole thing drop.”
“Better for who?” said Susan.
“Better for whom…” said Sam.
“Better for both of you,” said Clarissa.
“I don’t want anything to be better for him, do I? I want it to be worse.”
“Okay right, that’s enough,” said Sam “this conversation is over with we’re all going round in circles here.”
“Clarissa offered me coffee a little while ago.”
“Well that offer has just been rescinded,” said Sam, over at the door now and holding it open, “time to leave.”
“How does it feel, Clarissa, having a rapist for your very best friend?”
“Right that’s it, come on, out.”
Sam grabbed Susan by the arm and yanked her up. He frogmarched her swiftly out of the living room and along the hall, but Susan pulled herself free at the front door and swiped at a pile of books on a shelf, causing them to scatter. It was a petulant gesture but she seemed to get satisfaction from it. Sam grabbed her again, pushed her out of the flat and slammed the door behind her.
“That bloody woman!” he said as he stormed back into the living room to confront Clarissa, “and don’t you start on all this ‘yes but…’ business, because she isn’t worth it, she’s round the twist.”
“But what about her face, Sam?”
“What about it?”
“A little bit worrying, don’t you think?”
Sam was waiting for this. Secretly Sam agreed that it didn’t look good, but he was still absolutely sure that Zack was not responsible for any of Susan’s injuries.
Zack had only mentioned his mother briefly on the night of his confession in Cambridge, but a few weeks later Zack told Sam that he had witnessed his mother getting beaten up on several occasions, once so badly that she ended up losing the sight in one eye. Zack said he hated his mother’s emotional weakness which made her accepting of the repetitive abuse, but that no one had the right to exploit her physical weakness, or anyone else’s for that matter. They were cowards, bastard cowards, and along with Richard he wished he could have drowned the whole fucking lot.
“Zack did not give her a black eye.”
“So what does that mean, she did it herself?”
“Obviously…”
“So how do you go about giving yourself a black eye?”
“Easy, you walk into a door.”
“And you really think she’s mad enough to do that?”
“Yes, I do.”
The conversation stopped for a short time.
“It’s just a game with Zack,” said Clarissa, quietly, “then when someone like Susan comes along and cries foul, he doesn’t like it. Everything has to be on his terms.”
Clarissa was right of course she was, but Sam would never admit it. “Hey, no one’s perfect,” he said instead.
“Some a lot less perfect than others.”
“Listen, he’s generous, he’s kind and he’s loyal…”
“And he saved your life at Cambridge.”
“And he saved my life at Cambridge on more than one occasion.”
“And he expects you to be grateful for how long exactly?”
“He doesn’t expect it, Clarissa, I just am grateful okay,” said Sam turning on her, “and I always will be grateful, so stop using this crap with Susan as a stick to beat us with.”
Clarissa was about to come back but she thought better of it. Sam didn’t lose his temper very often, but when he did it was better to batten down the hatches and wait for calmer seas.
“Anyway, I’m going out, I need some air.”
“Okay,” said Clarissa, “you do that.”
Sam barged off and a few moments later Clarissa heard the front door slam.
Intermittently over the years Sam had accused Clarissa of trying to find reasons for him to dump Zack. He knew she felt threatened by him, but to Sam that was just madness. Zack was his best friend and Clarissa was his wife. They orbited in entirely different galaxies. He loved both of them deeply and he found it really difficult when Clarissa spoke ill of Zack. Zack had never said a word against Clarissa, nor would he, so it riled Sam that Clarissa always seemed to want to do Zack down.
But Clarissa never thought of it as ‘trying to do Zack down’. She would have liked a little space between them, that’s all. She wasn’t trying to expel Zack from their kingdom, on the contrary, she loved him almost as much as Sam, but a leave of absence now and then would have been appreciated. Clarissa knew however that Sam thought it more sinister than that. Sam was so defensive when it came to Zack that he seemed to think even a vaguely negative comment about the great Zack Fortune was an attempt by Clarissa to wield the axe.
So although she didn’t know it yet, Susan’s ruse had worked. She had managed to drive a stake between Sam and Clarissa and there were divisions now, divisions which would pre-empt a fall.
In their small attic room, back at the guest house, Zack and Veronica lay together naked in each other’s arms. Despite its shortcomings, the room was a port in the storm, (literally), and they were grateful for it.
Russell’s outburst had been so weird and although Zack had anticipated weirdness before setting off to find Veronica, he hadn’t bargained on anything quite so public or quite so humiliating. Zack had managed to convince Veronica that the whole thing was a case of mistaken identity, obviously Russell had got him mixed up with someone else. But if Russell’s attack on him had something to do with the deaths - and Zack knew instinctively that it had, Zack wondered if he should seek Russell out and ask him what was behind it.
They had made love as soon as they got back into their room, this time Zack taking the lead. It was more basic than last night but just as powerful. They knocked over a bedside table and a lamp in the process and Zack found himself wondering if Mrs Fairweather, alerted by the noise had crept up to eavesdrop on the other side of their door, simultaneously appalled and excited by an activity she had long since abandoned. Sex continued for hours. It was a reaction to something thought Zack, its intensity and their inability to stop. Maybe it was a reaction to all this death.
Finally Veronica’s eyes closed. Zack held her in his arms for a full five minutes before gently extricating himself and climbing up off the bed. He pulled on his still soggy clothes and tiptoed from the room. The house was silent and dark so Zac
k was careful of his footsteps on the stairs. He crept from the building and set off towards the church.
But Veronica was not asleep, not really, her eyes opened the moment Zack had closed the door.
CHAPTER 13
Outside a storm had bedded itself in. Trees bent double with the force of the wind and rain was whipping and bouncing and flinging itself at the streets in temper. Zack was soaked by the time he got to the chapel. His collar was up, but still rain found its way down the neck of his shirt. Already his trousers were stuck to his legs, his expensive shoes unused to this kind of treatment had given up and leaked water into his socks which were squelching. A display board stood lopsided in the chapel grounds, a couple of notices pinned up under the glass. Zack had to rub away the rain to get any view at all, but he could just make out the name Russell Garrity and a phone number. After one ring he heard Russell’s voice.
“Russell Garrity.”
“It’s me,” said Zack.
“Ah yes,” said Russell, with resignation, “I thought it might be.”
“You know don’t you?” was the only thing Zack could think of saying, “you know what all this is about.”
Russell’s breathing sounded tired, he noted, as though it was being drawn reluctantly through his lungs under sufferance.
“Did you hear me? Did you hear what I just said?”
“Yes I heard you.”
“Well?”
“And you don’t? You don’t know what all this is about?”
“No, of course I don’t.”
“So you’re asking me?”
“Yes, I’m asking you.”
“Then be prepared for the answers,” said Russell, quietly, “because you won’t like them.”
Zack made no reply for a moment, scared to pick up the gauntlet that had been thrown down. “Can we meet?” he said finally, “can we talk about this?”
“Are you sure that’s what you want?”
“Absolutely…” said Zack, but the word came out like a hesitation. “I’m positive…” he said, and this time he did sound sure.
Then, as though a die had been cast, Russell said: “The bridge over Grey Pike Fell, do you know it?”
“No, but I’ll find it.”
“We need to be over water.”
“Why, what for?”
“It’s safer,” he said.
“Safer?”
“Yes,” said Russell, “safer for me.”
Zack battled against the storm to a small minicab office on the other side of the square. Russell had given him directions although Zack doubted the place would still be open on a night like this. But there was a reluctant light shining from inside the old caravan in the corner of a pub car park, and a handmade sign which read Moonlighting Mini Cabs stuck up with blue tack in its window. Even so, when Zack pushed against the door he was still surprised to find that it opened.
A chubby middle aged Asian man sat behind a high counter, a mute television flickering on the wall up over his head. He was humming ‘My Girl Lollipop’ as Zack walked in.
“Yes?” he said, pleasantly, his Derbyshire accent apparent after only one word.
“Grey Pike Fell?”
“Now?” said the man, as though he was in the company of a fool.
“Yes, now.”
“No drivers I’m afraid,” he said with a shrug.
“You can take me can’t you?”
The man looked a little embarrassed at the request. “But I am Raashid Khan, the proprietor, and the controller,” he said, with the pride of a newly qualified brain surgeon.
“But with no drivers to control,” said Zack, “is that it?”
“No, you don’t understand,” said Raashid, speaking clearly and with emphasis, “there-are-drivers-but-they-are-not-here.”
“Yes, I get that, so where are they?”
Raashid beamed and threw his arms out wide as if to say ‘your guess is as good as mine’.
“So you take me,” said Zack.
“Unfortunately, my good friend, that is not how we operate at Moonlighting Mini Cabs,” said Raashid with a little chuckle, amused that this man appeared to have so little understanding of private hire protocol.
“Well, guess what, Raashid? Tonight it is.”
As the old Ford saloon sped through town, Zack hunched up on the back seat, Raashid singing along gaily this time to Amy Winehouse and Rehab on the car radio, Zack was beginning to have second thoughts. Here he was, driving across Derbyshire in a storm to meet some loopy old guy and what for exactly… to hear another load of nonsense about past lives, the afterlife and the undead, concepts that until a few days ago, Zack had given no credence to at all. And then he got to thinking that maybe that was the trouble, maybe he’d allowed the germs of belief in and now they were feeding off each other, breeding and proliferating. Maybe if he shut up shop and rejected the whole sorry mess once and for all, whatever it was would just slink away back into the ether, job done.
Raashid had difficulty understanding just where Zack wanted to be dropped off. He said the fell was 3 miles long and two bridges crossed it, but when Zack mentioned a river, he seemed to have a better idea.
“I can’t get you that close,” said Raashid, “it’s still a walk, but I’ll get you as close as I can.”
“Thanks,” said Zack, “I appreciate it.”
Raashid had been a mini cab driver for years before setting up his own business and had driven all over Derbyshire, often picking up hill walkers who had had enough, or bird watchers needing to get to a particular spot quickly where a rare bird had shown up, but he could not remember at any time delivering a fare in such bad weather to such a remote place in the middle of the night, this had to be a first.
He had wanted to ask Zack straight out, right from the moment he pushed those twenty pound notes into his hand, but he didn’t seem the sort who would welcome questions somehow, so Raashid respected his privacy. But when he caught his eye in the rear view mirror and his curiosity getting the better of him, he decided to give it a go.
“You’re not thinking of walking down to Skellfield Dyke are you?” asked Raashid, cheerily.
“No, no I’m not,” said Zack.
“Quite right too, don’t you know,” said Raashid, now sounding like a character from PG Wodehouse, “in these adverse weather conditions, it would be tempting providence!” Raashid chuckled, and allowed Zack a few moments to reply, but Zack didn’t reply, so Raashid continued. “Have you ever seen anything like this,” he said, with a grin, “the month of June as well… but it’s our own fault of course, incurring the wrath of Allah with our test tube beef burgers, British Gas emissions, agricultural fertiliser and Branson’s supersonic space ships, and unfortunately for all concerned in these matters, our destiny is in the hands of fools… despots and fools!”
Raashid shook his head from side to side making clucking noises with his tongue.
“Talking of which… talking of which,” said Raashid, bashing the steering wheel with his hands, eyes popping, “the Rams! Blimey oh riley!” he exclaimed, “don’t start me off!”
But Raashid needed no encouragement to tell Zack all about his favourite football club, the difficulties they were experiencing with the ground, the manager, the players, the people who sold the programmes, and the price they charged for a cup of tea.
“Greed has done for football,” said Raashid, sadly, “like a many jewelled dagger through the heart, but what can we do in this mixed economy of ours, survival of the fittest is the preoccupation of our capitalist classes and no mistake.”
Raashid had got into his stride now and within the fifteen minutes it took them to reach Grey Pike Fell he covered quite a lot of ground: his membership of The Caravan Club, the returns policy at Argos, his continuing disappointment with the James Bond franchise, George’s kebab shop which had undergone major refurbishment recently, and not before time according to Raashid, but Zack was not really listening. He was gazing out of the window at the dark,
dank landscape beyond, nervous now as the journey was about to come to an end.
Raashid finally pulled into a lay-by and dimmed his lights. He turned to Zack with a grin as rain clog danced on the roof of the car. “Here we are!” said Raashid with a flourish, “Grey Pike Fell. The pathway is through that gate, it goes right down to the river, turn left along the bank then about a quarter of a mile or so you’ll see some steps to the bridge, but be careful, the river has already broken its banks so the path will be treacherous in places… in fact, my advice to anyone in your situation would be this: do not under any circumstance throw caution to the wind!”
Raashid offered his hand which Zack shook. He liked this guy who had agreed to waive his much trumpeted position as proprietor and controller for half an hour or so and to deliver him into the wilds of Derbyshire with no questions asked.
“You want me to wait?” asked Raashid, sticking his head out of the window, just as he was about to drive away.
“No, you get back,” said Zack, “thanks, mate, I appreciate it.”
The Ford did a noisy three point turn, and as Raashid screeched off back onto the road, he sounded his horn a couple of times and then he was gone. With the sounds of Raashid’s engine fading, Zack turned to the open gate, flinging itself back and forth in the wind and began his descent towards the river.
All pretence of his clothes offering protection from the weather had now gone, if anything they were a hindrance. The weight of wet denim rubbed against his groin and the backs of his shoes were wearing the skin from his heels. Why on earth this venue? This was complete madness. The river had risen to such an extent that the wide paths on either side of it were flooded, so Zack had to walk right up against the foot of the hills, sometimes struggling up the sodden grass and mud to avoid the swell of the rapids, making progress slow.
Eventually, in the distance up ahead he saw a narrow wooden foot bridge straddled across the surging maelstrom beneath, and swaying precariously like a hammock. Even from here he could see that its hand rail was broken in a couple of places, and it was littered with broken branches from overhanging trees that tossed and pitched in the storm. In the middle of the bridge looking towards him he saw Russell, the whiteness of his face a guiding moon in the darkness.