by Neil Cross
Kenny dropped the crowbar, waded gasping into the cold brook. He straddled Jonathan, forced his face into the water.
Jonathan struggled, reached out, kicked. But there was no strength in him. Blood flowed from his ear, swirled, went pink in the water.
Looking across to the opposite bank, Kenny saw a kingfisher. He believed he caught its eye – a quizzical tilt of its head – before it flew away in a brisk, iridescent burst.
Kenny lifted Jonathan’s head. ‘Get up.’
On the third attempt, he managed it. Shambling, drenched, oozing with brook mud. Kenny thought how easy it would be to kill him – to cave in his skull with the crowbar and let him lie here, pecked by the birds, while Kenny trudged home to the cottage.
All Kenny wanted was to sleep.
Tomorrow, more rested, he could come back here and bury Jonathan by the brook’s edge. The body wouldn’t be discovered until Kenny was gone, and by then it wouldn’t matter.
But he prodded Jonathan with the crowbar. ‘Back to the house.’
Jonathan began to crawl like an arthritic beast.
Back in the cottage grounds, he made Jonathan stand at the furthest corner of one of the outbuildings. He knew the gravel, metal cuttings and bits of engine on the ground would cut Jonathan’s bare feet, but they would stop him trying to escape, too.
Kenny shoved the crowbar through the loops of his belt, and rummaged among the junk that had been in the outbuilding for at least a decade – boxes, nails, plywood, carburettors and ancient, rusted-up tools.
The corners and the boxes were thick with cobwebs and damp. This was a private, mouldering place.
After several minutes’ ferreting, Kenny found a coil of baling wire and lifted it, grinning in triumph. Dead beetles and roaches hung from it.
Kenny left the outbuilding, carrying the coil of baling wire in one hand. Then he beckoned Jonathan forward. Barefoot, Jonathan came mincing over the oily mud and sparse grass, like somebody stepping over hot coals. Each time he put down his left foot, he winced and took in a breath.
As they walked to the house there were a few moments where, theoretically, they might have been seen from the road – glimpsed through the hazel trees in a sequence of still images, as through a zoetrope. But Kenny needed to take this risk. He was weak and tired.
If Jonathan decided to run, Kenny didn’t have the strength to chase him again. But Jonathan didn’t run. He walked in a broken shuffle with head hung low.
They stepped into the house as if it had drawn them to it, to finish things.
28
In the bathroom, Kenny forced Jonathan at knifepoint to strip naked and stand under the cold shower.
Jonathan cringed when the water hit him. Kenny saw the violent gooseflesh, the pale, hungry body trying to raise its hackles. The water ran dirty, then clean.
Kenny sat on the lavatory. He was caked in brown earth, probing at the oval wound in his side: the crushed mouth of a goblet, the ruby red blood.
He was shivering with adrenaline. It made the pain seem far away.
He looked up to see Jonathan crouched in the enamel bath, naked and cold. They sat there for a while, both of them shuddering, before Jonathan said, ‘This has gone too far.’
‘I know.’
‘Then just let me go. I won’t say anything, not to anybody.’
‘This isn’t about me being arrested.’
‘I need a doctor.’
‘So do I.’
‘Then call an ambulance. I’m hurt. Call a doctor.’
‘Just tell me where she is. Tell me what happened to her, and all this will be over. Just say it. Just say the words.’
‘I don’t know what happened to her.’
‘I know you’re lying.’
‘She left me. She went out one day and never came home. That’s all I know.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘I didn’t hurt her.’
‘You hit her.’
‘Once. I hit her once. It wasn’t right, and I’m not proud of it. But that’s not the same as killing her.’
‘You degraded her.’
‘How?’
‘By filming her. Privately.’
‘People do that.’
‘I don’t.’
‘No – you paint naked women for men to look at.’
‘That’s not the same thing.’
‘It was a husband and wife having sex. She didn’t object. She enjoyed it – being looked at.’
Kenny leaned over. Jonathan flinched. Kenny turned off the water and threw a towel to him. Jonathan draped it over his shoulders.
He huddled in the bath, shuddering. ‘How do you know about the films?’
‘I broke into your house,’ Kenny said. ‘I was in the attic.’
Jonathan said, ‘Jesus Christ.’
Then he said it louder. He slammed his head against the white tiled wall. He said, Oh Jesus Christ, oh Jesus Christ.
Kenny sat on the lavatory and let Jonathan exhaust himself. He watched his blood, red mixed with brown, as it plipped and plopped on the tiled floor.
Outside, the sun shone bright in the evening. It had been such a long day; it seemed to have been going on for ever.
As Jonathan wailed the name of God and his own blood formed Rorschach pools on the floor, Kenny experienced a moment of panic – that this day was never going to end, that he and Jonathan were in hell already. And this was it, this little room. There was no escaping it. They were here for ever.
29
Mary got home to find Stever with Otis and Daisy in the front room eating omelettes and watching the end of Hi-5. Stever leapt up, kissed her on the cheek, bustled to the kitchen.
Mary said hello to the kids and sat Daisy on her lap.
Otis began to demonstrate the dance routine that went with ‘Inside My Heart’, but he wasn’t able to clasp his hands to his heart and wiggle his hips without falling over. He landed flat on his arse, well padded by Buzz Lightyear nappies and jumbo cords. But he kept trying, and Mary and Daisy clapped along. When it was over, Otis shouted in triumph: ‘Onetwothreefour – highfive!’
Mary held out a hand and Otis clapped it for her. Fat little palm, fat little fingers, smudged with ketchup and tiny flecks of broccoli.
Daisy said, ‘Now can we watch Hannah Montana?’
‘Really, sweetheart? I worry it’s too old for you.’
‘No, it’s not! It’s about two girls – they’re the same girl! One has yellow hair – the hair on the other girl is black – but it’s the same girl! And her dad, in disguise he wears a fat moustache and speaks funny. Billyray!’
‘Montana Montana!’ said Otis.
Mary patted Daisy’s arse; a signal that she was about to stand and leave the room.
From the doorway, Mary told them: ‘Five minutes of Montana Montana. Then teeth, bath, book and bed. Otis, what are you reading?’
‘Bear Hunt! Swish swish swish!’
‘Daisy, what page are we up to?’
‘The bit with the witch. I think it’s like page five hundred or something. Or two hundred or something.’
‘Right-o. You’ve got five minutes.’
Stever was in the kitchen, wearing a SpongeBob Squarepants T-shirt, cut-off Levis and flip-flops. He was making Steverburgers for himself and Mary, shaping the patties. Not looking up, he said, ‘So how’d it go?’
Mary wanted to sit down, but there was nowhere to sit in the narrow kitchen. ‘Oh, not so well.’
‘Is he all right?’
She tried to say no, but couldn’t speak. She began to cry.
There was a moment of panic as Stever looked round the messy kitchen for somewhere to put down the uncooked, newly formed patty. Then he turned on the tap with his elbows and washed his hands, dried them on his cut-offs and hurried over to give her a cuddle. ‘What is it?’
She was getting snot all over the shoulder of his T-shirt. She wiped at it, smeared it really. ‘It’s not good. He’s not good.’
‘I’ve said
it before – living out there in the back of beyond, all by himself. It’ll drive you mad. Why doesn’t he get a place in town? All right, the market’s not great, but—’
‘He’s dying.’
‘He’s what?’
She pointed to her temporal bone. Stever stood with his belly making a bulge in the SpongeBob T-shirt and his knees hairy in the cut-off Levis and his feet helpless in the flip-flops.
He said: ‘Christ on a moped. How long?’
‘Not very long.’
‘Has he got someone to look after him?’
‘No.’
‘No nurses, whatever?’
‘He wouldn’t have them.’
‘Jesus.’
Stever looked at the patties, arranged on the chopping board. Vegetable oil still sizzled in the pan. He said, ‘He could move in here. We could move the kids in together. Or move Otis in with us. If we shoved our bed against the wall, we could manage it. Otis wouldn’t mind. And Kenny could have Otis’s room. I mean, it’s not much . . .’
Mary hugged him tight. ‘I love you.’
‘Don’t be silly. Don’t be silly. It’s all right.’
When she’d disengaged, Stever turned to the patties. He lowered two of them into the scorching pan. ‘Did you sleep with him?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Did you sleep with him?’
Mary had a feeling like she was going up too quickly in a lift. ‘Why would you say that?’
‘He’s alone, he’s sick. You feel sorry for him. You want to comfort him. It would be understandable. It’s all right. I just need to know if you did.’
‘Jesus Christ, Stever,’ she said, and stomped upstairs.
When she found him, later on, he was hugging Daisy the way he did when he was stressed or upset – as if she were a battery of infinite charge.
When he put her down, Mary saw him knuckle away a tear of excess love. This ursine man, with his long hair and his tangly beard, his cut-offs, his cartoon T-shirt, his flip-flops.
She felt helpless and sad. She wished, as she’d wished many thousands of times, that she could wiggle her nose like Samantha in Bewitched and make it all better.
But she couldn’t. So she put the kettle on and made Stever some tea, proper tea in a proper teapot. And when it had brewed she poured him a cup and took it through on a tray with three Jaffa Cakes. This was code for ‘I’m sorry’.
He accepted it with muted, embarrassed thanks. He took a sip of tea and said, ‘Mmm, lovely’, which was code for ‘me too’.
Mary said, ‘I promised to help him find a place. You know – one of those places where you go.’
‘We can do that,’ said Stever. ‘That’s something we can do.’
30
Kenny made Jonathan carry a kitchen chair to the last bedroom. They were both fatigued and injured and it wasn’t easy. Jonathan stumbled, trying to manoeuvre the chair sideways through the narrow door.
Then he placed the chair in the middle of the room and sat on it. Kenny used the baling wire to secure his wrists and ankles.
Jonathan said, ‘I’ve got no circulation. It’s too tight.’
‘You should have thought of that.’
‘And my knee hurts. It’s seizing up.’
‘You should have thought of that, too.’
‘I’m thirsty.’
‘So tell me about Callie Barton, then drink all the water you want.’
‘You do know the police are probably looking for me.’
‘No, they’re not.’
‘But what if they are?’
Kenny limped away. He closed and locked the door and stood in the kitchen. There were smears of mud and blood on the tiles; dirty, disordered footprints.
He returned to the bathroom and stripped and ran the water over himself. Then he turned off the shower and sat on the edge of the bath, probing the gash under his ribs.
It wasn’t deep, but it was ugly, a pink and creamy mess, its lips already a rich necrotic purple.
He glugged half a bottle of TCP into it. When he’d stopped howling, he opened the first aid kit and pressed a couple of large plasters across it.
Then he strapped himself up with duct tape, wrapping it round and round and round his belly.
He took his medication from the bathroom cabinet. Before he could remove and swallow the first pill, his jaw went into spasm.
He fell.
His head hammered on the bathroom floor.
A shadow passed over him like a crow.
In its wake, he lay curled on the floor. Night things were alive all around, cockroaches, rats, mice. But he saw nothing, because the ugly strip-light glowed overhead, blinding him.
He thought please, please and at the end of it the sunrise came, lending him another day.
He crawled to his knees then his feet, knowing the next seizure would kill him.
31
Kenny walked out to the crow-call of early morning, limping a bit, the horrors of the long, paralysed night grinning at his shoulder. He drove a few miles to the garden centre at the edge of town.
When he got back to the white cottage in its little spray of morning light, he dumped the plastic bags on the threshold of the last bedroom.
Jonathan was dozing in the semi-darkness, his head lolling on his chest like Kenny’s sometimes did on aeroplanes.
He woke when Kenny knelt to snip away the wire manacles. He replaced them with plastic cable ties, the kind used to bundle up electrical cords or secure hubcaps to wheel rims. Kenny fixed them tight to Jonathan’s wrists and ankles, then joined each to the frame of the chair with a second cable tie.
As he worked, he said, ‘These won’t cut off your circulation – not unless you pull on them. You’re not strong enough to snap the plastic. All that’ll happen, they’ll tighten and start to hurt.’
Then he closed the bedroom door, locked it with the big black key, and phoned Pat.
She said, ‘How are you, cocker?’
‘I’m good.’
‘Did you speak to Mary?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good for you. How’d she take it?’
‘Pretty well, I suppose. She cried a bit.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Is it?’
‘It means she’s not in whatsit, denial. If she’s had a few tears already, it means she knows it’s really happening. You fancy some company?’
‘Not today. I’ve got stuff to tidy up. Things to do. Loose ends and whatnot. I’ll give you a call later on. Tomorrow, maybe?’
‘All right then, china. Look after yourself. Call if you need to.’
‘Will do.’
‘Seriously,’ she said, ‘look after yourself. Thanks for calling. I appreciate it.’
‘Bye, Pat.’
‘Bye, love.’
She hung up.
Pat hung up, and stood in the kitchenette with the phone in her hand as if she’d forgotten something. Then she went to her handbag and dug out her little notebook. She called Mary at work to ask how she was.
Mary said: ‘How long have you known?’
‘Not long.’
‘So why not tell me?’
‘He made me promise, love.’
‘Right. Of course. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. So how are you?’
‘To be honest, it’s knocked me for six, like I’m in shock or something. I don’t know what to do with myself.’
‘It’ll do that.’
‘And what about you? It must have been terrible, being the only one who knew . . .’
‘Tell the truth, I didn’t know what to think. He seemed to be wearing it so lightly.’
‘That’s Kenny. He puts on a face for the world.’
‘So how do you think he is?’ said Pat. ‘I mean, really. In himself. How do you think he’s coping?’
‘Why? Is something wrong?’
‘No. Nothing’s wrong. It’s just – I’ve just got off the phone with him. He sounds tired, much more
tired than the last time we spoke. I just wanted to know what you thought.’
‘You know the weird thing? The weird thing is, we spent some time together. We went for a walk, we held hands – up there by the standing stones. We talked and talked, but I can hardly remember any of it.’
‘That’s not weird at all, chicken. It happens. It’s just the way we’re made.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. Listen, you stay in touch now.’
‘You too. Thanks for calling. Do you need anything?’
‘Oh, the fountain of youth, a young Adam Faith. Kiss those kids of yours. How old are they now?’
‘Five and three.’
‘That’s a good age. You love them. Give them lots of love. You can’t have too much love. That’s the thing.’
‘It is,’ said Mary.
There was a silence, neither of them knowing what to say, before Mary hung up.
Pat shuffled to the banquette in her house slippers. Through the end of one of them protruded a big toe with a horny yellow nail.
She opened a book of Fiendish Sudoku and licked the end of a biro – one of those redundant habits there seemed little point in bothering to cast off.
Pat had been a copper for twenty-five years. You developed a gift for these things. She could try to ignore it, but she knew something was wrong.
32
Becks, Ollie, Dennis and Elaine had all moved into Jonathan’s empty house, sleeping in the spare rooms and on the sofas. They’d become a strange simulacrum of a family. They waited, went quietly mad.
In the mornings, having decided the best thing he could do was keep Jonathan’s business afloat, Ollie went off to work.
Dennis and Elaine hung around the house. Elaine did and redid the housework. Dennis did God knew what, except read the paper on the toilet for what seemed hours at a time.
Becks went to work and stared at her monitor and tried to find cheap flights for customers who didn’t understand that she didn’t set the tariffs and had no power to change them.
On Friday morning she woke up, had a shower and made up her mind. She went downstairs in her dressing gown with her wet hair combed back and told Dennis: ‘I’m going to the newspaper.’
Dennis hated the newspapers; he hated what they’d done to his son four years ago and hated what they’d done, by extension, to him.