Cold Sacrifice

by Leigh Russell

  ‘I’ve never told anyone this before, but when I was a kid I wanted to be Superman.’

  ‘You wanted to be Superman?’ she repeated, laughing, ‘so you could fly around in a cape with your underpants over your trousers?’

  ‘No. I’m being serious. He was my hero because he was always fighting injustice, and that’s what I wanted to do. What I still want to do. I know one person can’t really make a difference, but there are so many wrongs in the world, I just feel I have to do what I can.’

  He didn’t go on to say he had dedicated his life to the pursuit of justice, for fear she would sulk. She would have liked him to dedicate his life to her alone.

  Instead, he launched into a description of his new detective inspector. Tall, thin and grey-haired, Rob Wellbeck looked older than his forty years.

  ‘He acts it too. I mean, he’s a decent enough bloke, but he’s so serious, all the time. If he’s got a sense of humour, he hides it up his arse crack when he comes into work. I know you think I’m obsessed with my job but he’s far worse than me, honestly.’

  Bev chuckled, but there was an edge to her voice. ‘Worse than you? You’re pulling my leg! Please tell me he’s not married.’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘His poor wife!’

  Uneasily, Ian joined in her laughter.

  3

  THE FRONT DOOR SLAMMED behind him and Mark ran into the living room. His long dark fringe flopped over eyes that flicked rapidly round the room. His father was lying stretched out on the sofa.

  ‘Where’s mum?’

  His father merely grunted without raising his head.

  The young man dropped his jacket on the floor and flung himself down on an armchair. Long and loose-limbed, he took after his father. The chair was well padded, with a matching footstool, but he fidgeted uncomfortably.

  ‘What are you watching?’

  Henry stared at the television without answering.

  ‘What did you have for supper?’

  Mark glared at his father sprawled along the length of the sofa, eyes fixed on the screen. He paid no attention to his son’s petulant expression, if he even noticed it.

  ‘Dad, where’s mum?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Mark scowled at the screen. Holding onto the remote control, his father was watching a gardening programme he had recorded earlier in the week. It was too much hassle to try and persuade him to change channel. Mark was stuck watching some dreary old bloke drivelling on about compost. It was so unfair. He was eighteen. It wasn’t as though his parents didn’t have enough money to help him to buy a place of his own. His father might not earn very much, but his mother was a seriously wealthy woman. Yet however much Mark had nagged her to cough up for a deposit, she had flatly refused.

  ‘Why would you want to go and live all by yourself? You’re only just out of school. You might want to go to university next year –’

  ‘I’m not going to university. I’ll get a job – when I have my own bills to pay. There’s no point in my hanging around, living here with you forever.’

  ‘Well, you’re too young to live on your own, and in any case, the house is big enough for us all.’

  ‘Far too big. What do you need such a massive house for? You could sell it and have enough to get yourselves a really nice modern place.’ And have enough money left over to buy him a flat of his own.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ he asked.

  His father didn’t stir. He looked half asleep. Mark swore under his breath. He knew perfectly well what had happened. He couldn’t help overhearing their constant arguments. It was just one of the reasons he was so desperate to get a place of his own. They were at it all the time, his father yelling, his mother crying. Afterwards he would see his mother creeping around the house, her head turned to one side in a pointless attempt to hide her inflamed red eyes. Over the years he had become hardened to the sounds of their fighting, and the frustration of being powerless to intervene. Although his father was the aggressor, his mother wasn’t blameless. In its own way her passivity was provocative. There were times when he wanted to slap some sense into her himself. He had given up trying to understand why she put up with it.

  When he was thirteen he had challenged her about it.

  ‘Why don’t you stand up to him?’ he had demanded.

  At first she had pretended not to understand what he meant. It was impossible to believe she was stupid enough to think he didn’t know what was happening right under his nose.

  ‘You don’t have to put on a show with me. I know dad shouts at you all the time.’

  ‘What are you talking about? That’s a wicked thing to say. Your father is a kind and considerate man, and you should treat him with more respect.’

  ‘For God’s sake, mum, the whole bloody street can hear him.’

  If he hadn’t felt so sad about it he would have been tempted to laugh at her for defending his father’s tantrums. It was ridiculous.

  ‘He doesn’t mean to upset anyone,’ she had insisted. ‘You don’t understand. He can’t help himself. Now, I don’t want to talk about it again.’

  In spite of her rebuff, he had tried again a couple of weeks later, in the aftermath of another fight. He not only came up against the same blank refusal to acknowledge the truth, but this time she had been angry with him which was grossly unfair. He had only wanted to help her. She had threatened to send him to his room if he brought the subject up again, and something inside him had just given up. He wondered if she actually liked being abused. After that he had resolved to ignore it when his father raised his voice against her – and sometimes his hand. If his mother was prepared to put up with it, then it served her right. There was nothing Mark could do about it however desperate he was to help her. He had tried.

  He hadn’t raised the subject again until he was seventeen, when he had asked her directly why she didn’t leave his father.

  ‘Leave him?’ she had repeated, as though he had been speaking to her in a foreign language. ‘He’s my husband.’

  ‘He’ll kill you if you let him carry on treating you the way he does.’

  ‘Don’t speak to me like that.’

  ‘But you can’t be happy with him. Why don’t you get a divorce? You’ve certainly got grounds –’

  She had been genuinely shocked.

  ‘Just because I don’t go to church regularly doesn’t mean I don’t know right from wrong.’

  When he was small, he used to accompany her to church every week. Confession had been important to her, but he hadn’t minded when his father had arbitrarily put a stop to the weekly outing.

  ‘No son of mine is going to be indoctrinated with all that claptrap.’

  And that was that. She hadn’t protested, even though he had heard her crying a lot. That was when he had begun to despise her, although he felt sorry for her at the same time. As a child he had found it very confusing. Now he was eighteen, and an adult, he still couldn’t understand why she stayed with his father.

  It was growing late and his mother still hadn’t come home. His father was glued to another anodyne television programme.

  ‘Where did mum go?’

  No answer.

  ‘When’s she coming home?’

  ‘How the hell should I know?’

  Mark was starving. He couldn’t go all night without anything to eat.

  ‘I’m going out to get something before the takeaway closes,’ he announced, leaping to his feet. ‘Do you want anything?’

  Half an hour later he was back home, scoffing sausage and chips in front of the television with his father.

  ‘I said no vinegar,’ Henry grumbled.

  Mark took no notice. Instead he asked again where his mother was.

  ‘Do you think she’s all right?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you think something’s happened to her?’

  ‘Stop yapping, will you? I’m trying to listen.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Sh
e’ll come home when she’s ready. Now shut up about your bloody mother, will you, I’m trying to listen to the news.’

  4

  WHEN BEN’S MOTHER SENT him out for chips, it placed him in a quandary. He could make up an excuse to get out of it, only then she might drop the idea altogether. If she decided to go out herself, she was unlikely to bring anything back for him, and he was starving. But it was risky, going out alone in the dark. He might be mugged before he even reached the chippy, if he was spotted by a gang from one of the other blocks of flats. Then he would have to tell his mother he’d lost the money and Eddy would thrash him.

  ‘Do you think we’re made of money, you little shit?’ Eddy would shout as he thumped him.

  Eddy’s readiness with his fists was just one of many reasons why Ben hated him. His mother had been off her trolley when she had agreed to let him move in. As soon as Ben was sixteen, he was out of there. He was going to make a life for himself, and he would never see either of them again. Meanwhile, his mother was standing in front of him holding out a fiver. He took it.

  More often than not he was lucky and didn’t see the other kids. When they were hanging around the estate, he could still get away if he kept his ears and eyes open. He had given up trying to fight back. He was wiry and light, and his fists were quick, but there was no weight behind his punches. Besides, there were three of them, sometimes four, and they were older than him. Once they set on him there was nothing to do but protect himself as best he could, and run like hell at the first opportunity. This evening, he made it to the chip shop without any bother and was soon on his way home, clutching a hot newspaper parcel. He swore and yanked up his hood as a fine rain began to fall. He considered making a dash for it but preferred to take his time. That way he could stuff himself with more than his fair share on the way. Steam from the chips mixed with a sharp smell of vinegar as he fumbled inside the newspaper.

  With his hood up, rustling the paper and munching, he didn’t hear them coming. The first he knew of their arrival was when one of them snatched at his chips. Desperately he grabbed for the package which landed on the ground with a soft thud. A few chips spilled out over the glistening pavement. Dismay at losing his dinner was overshadowed by fear of what Eddy would do. He could feel his muscles tensing at the prospect. But the immediate problem was right in his face. A gang that had mugged him before was blocking his way, taunting him and elbowing one another in their eagerness to terrorise him. The ringleader demanded he hand over his money.

  Avoiding looking directly at them, he tried to keep his voice steady as he explained that he didn’t have any cash on him, only chips. He pointed to the newspaper packet at his feet.

  ‘That’s all I got. My mum only gave me a fiver. I haven’t got any more.’

  He hated himself for sounding as though he was going to cry.

  ‘My mummy gave it to me,’ one of them sneered and the other three laughed.

  A boy stooped down and picked up the packet. In the dim light from the street lamp his mates gathered round, shoving and grasping. Ben seized his chance and fled. He turned off the road along a path between a car showroom and forecourt. With any luck his tormentors would be content to stuff themselves, and wouldn’t bother pursuing him.

  Heart thumping, he dashed across the road and into the park where he crouched down behind a low hedge, listening. There was no sound of footsteps or voices in pursuit. They had lost interest in him. Warily he straightened up, eyes straining to see through the thick darkness of the night. It was almost pitch black in the park, only the faint glow from the moon falling on trees and grass. He shivered, alone in the cold, wondering whether he should make his way home and own up to Eddy that he’d been mugged. He wished he had let the gang rough him up a bit. That way, Eddy might have left him alone. The other kids liked to kick out a bit, but with Eddy the beating was systematic while his mother just looked away, stony faced, probably relieved she wasn’t on the receiving end of Eddy’s fists. He was sorry he had taken her money in the first place. He had only managed to scoff a couple of the chips before they had been knocked out of his hand, and he had lost his appetite now anyway. He would have been better off staying at home, waiting for the hunger to pass.

  Right now he was in no hurry to leave the safety of his hiding place. No one would notice if he didn’t go home until the morning, by which time his mother would have forgotten all about her rotten chips. Meanwhile, the gang hadn’t followed him round the block. He decided to make himself comfortable and stay there for a while. Sitting down on the soft earth he leaned back against the trunk of a tree which afforded him some shelter from the rain, pulled his knees up to his chin, and waited. When he was sure he had been there long enough for the other kids to have moved on, he scrambled to his feet. Standing upright, he stretched and yawned. He ought to go home but he was starving again. There had been several portions of chips wrapped in the newspaper he’d dropped. There was a slim chance the gang hadn’t found them all. Instead of going the long way round the block back home, he retraced his footsteps warily to see if they had left any of the packets lying on the ground. Cold soggy chips would be better than nothing.

  Trotting back to the road, he listened out and glanced around every few steps to make sure he was alone. There was no sign of the other kids, and no newspaper parcel lying on the pavement. At last his vigilance was rewarded when he caught sight of something lying in the kerb. He scrambled over to it, but his groping fingers didn’t close on squishy greasy paper. Instead he felt something cold and hard. He dropped it in surprise. As he stood up, his foot kicked the object that had clattered onto the pavement in front of him. He stooped to pick it up, weighing it in his hand, and a grin spread slowly across his face. With a quick glance around, he squatted down once more. Paying no attention to the rain that was now falling heavily, he admired the knife. It had a chunky black handle, and the blade was bent as though it had been bashed out of shape. He wiped the dirty blade on his jeans before slipping it inside his T-shirt where he could feel it jolting against his body as he strode away. If the gang came after him now, he was ready. He almost hoped they would come round the corner and try to mug him. They wouldn’t know what had hit them.

  5

  IAN SWITCHED THE TELEVISION on, while Bev clattered about in the kitchen clearing up. Comfortably full after a good dinner, he felt a surge of optimism about the future.

  ‘Have you had a good day?’ he asked her, muting the television when she came into the lounge.

  She launched into a litany of irritations she had endured that day in her job at a recruitment agency. Ian half-listened, nodding and mumbling at appropriate intervals.

  ‘He knows I’m only supposed to work till five, but he kept me there until nearly half past.’

  ‘What a cheek.’

  ‘It’s not as if it was urgent. It could easily have waited until tomorrow, but he had it in his head that he wanted the letters to go out today, and he didn’t even ask if that was all right. I had better things to do with my time. Do you think I should refuse to work after five if it happens again? Or shall I ask if I’m getting paid overtime? Ian? Ian?’

  Ian must have dozed off because he woke to the sound of his wife bleating his name.

  ‘I’m not sure –’ he equivocated. ‘What do you think?’

  Bev resumed her tirade, unaware that he had lost the thread of her rant. Reprieved, he sat forward and paid careful attention as she carried on.

  ‘The thing is, if I ask about overtime and he refuses, I’m no worse off, am I? And either way, it makes the point, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it does.’

  ‘But if I carry on doing the extra hours without raising it as an issue, he’s just going to carry on taking advantage, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, he probably will.’

  ‘So you think I should ask him?’

  ‘It does no harm to ask, as long as you’re diplomatic.’

  ‘Diplomatic?’

  ‘I know he�
��s not the best of bosses, but it’s best not to put his back up. You still have to work for him.’

  ‘Do you think I’m tactless, then?’

  Ian sighed. He should have known her good mood wouldn’t last. Stifling another sigh, he tried to persuade her that she had misinterpreted his comment.

  ‘So this is my fault, is it?’

  ‘What are you talking about? It’s nobody’s fault. No one’s done anything wrong. We’re just talking about your boss, that’s all. Come here.’

  He held out his arms to her and she came and sank down on the sofa beside him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘It’s just that you never seem to care about what I do. I know it’s only recruitment, and you’re out solving your important murders, but we get people into jobs. That matters too.’

  He leaned down and kissed her gently on the lips. She put her arms round him as she kissed him back, stroking his neck. Their kiss grew more passionate.

  His work phone couldn’t have rung at a more frustrating time. Reluctantly he extricated himself from her embrace.

  ‘Sorry, love, I’ve got to get it.’

  ‘Of course you have.’ He tried to ignore the animosity in her tone, but she wouldn’t let it drop. ‘Don’t mind me. Just answer your bloody phone. You know you can’t wait to get back to work.’

  She jumped up and ran out of the room. He was half out of his seat ready to follow her when the phone started ringing again. Whoever was calling wasn’t going to give up until he answered. It must be important.

  ‘Just give me a minute,’ he shouted after her. ‘I won’t be long.’

  They both knew that was a lie.