Hope Dies Last

by Deborah Finn

  He heard her footsteps on the carpeted stairs, and he sat down again, rolled his shoulders in an effort to relax. She came in and plumped down on the armchair again.

  “Yeah, I just wanted to talk to you about the summer holidays and when...” Her voice drifted off. She was looking at the TV. “Turn up the sound,” she said. Her voice was strained.

  Martin looked at the TV. It was local news. He found the remote and turned up the sound. “What is...” he began. She shushed him with a hand gesture.

  “The body was discovered early this morning on the main line towards Manchester Airport,” the newscaster was saying. “The driver of the train reported that visibility was not good at the entrance to the tunnel but it’s confirmed that he brought the train to a halt before contact with the body. At first, it was thought that the woman had lain on the tracks in a suicide bid, but police have confirmed that she was already dead. The case is being treated as murder and Manchester police are appealing for witnesses. The woman is described as being 5’ 8” tall, of slight build, with long red hair. She was wearing a long blue evening gown.”

  At this point an artist’s impression filled the screen. Martin didn’t hear anything else the newscaster said. It was Marilyn. Unmistakably that was Marilyn. Marilyn was dead? Murdered? That’s why she hadn’t turned up. Jesus Christ! She was dead. She’d been killed.

  “That’s her, isn’t it?”

  He heard Beth’s voice, as if from a great distance. He turned towards her and stared. She was pointing at the TV. He nodded. His eyes flicked back to the screen.

  “Oh my God,” he heard Beth say. “She’s dead. Oh my God.”

  “Murdered,” Martin said.

  “Why?” Beth shook her head, her brows pushed together. “Some kind of drugs thing?”

  Martin shook his head. “I don’t know,” he managed to say. “Maybe.” He was trying to remember what she’d said. Something about... what was it? What had she said? Had she actually said she was in danger? She talked about something happening to her – ‘if something happens to me’, something like that. Was it Gallagher?

  The thought sent his heart hammering and he jerked suddenly onto his feet, What if it was Gallagher? Could it be? What if she’d been telling the truth? What if Gallagher had raped her and Ben was his child? What if she’d threatened to expose him?

  He clamped his hands to his head. Why had he let her go? Why had he not stopped her? What an idiot he’d been.

  “Martin,” he heard Beth’s voice and swung round to look at her. She looked very small and pale, crouched on the chair. “Do we have to go to the police?” she whispered.

  “Of course we do.”

  “But Martin,” she reached up a small hand towards him. “What do we say?” Her face crumpled in anxiety. “We can’t explain how we know her.”

  “No,” he agreed, trying to think. “Well, I could just...” he began. He stopped himself suddenly, remembering that Beth didn’t know. He’d not told her that he knew who Marilyn was; that he’d known her before. God, how stupid was he? Why had he not told her straight away?

  He sat down heavily. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. He was going to have to tell her now. And once more, she’d see how he’d lied to her. Once more, he’d fucked it up.

  “Beth,” he muttered. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

  Twenty

  “I don’t fucking like this. I mean, she’s dead, right. What if someone sees us going into her flat? We’ll be right in the frame.”

  Jango shifted in the driver’s seat. He looked uncomfortable. “No one even knows who she is yet. They’re not going to be watching the place.”

  “Yeah, and how long is it going to take for someone to call and say who she is? You saw that picture on the news. They could be round here any minute. They could come round while we’re in there.”

  Jango chewed on his lip as he made a left turn. “I don’t like it either, mate. We’ll be in and out, alright?”

  “What are we looking for, anyway?”

  Jango shrugged. “Anything to do with the boss.”

  “He said something about a kid. What was that all about?”

  “Search me. I didn’t get what he was on about.”

  Farren leaned forward in his seat and looked at Jango. “The kid isn’t in the flat?”

  Jango shook his head. “No. It was some kind of ancient history thing.”

  “So why does that matter?”

  “Fuck knows. You ask him.”

  Farren laughed. “Yeah, right.”

  Jango slowed as they turned onto Watson Street. “This is it?”

  “Yeah. Don’t park outside.”

  Jango flicked a quick look over at Farren. “No. You’re right. Round the corner.” He took a side turning and pulled up. For a moment, neither man moved.

  “Fuck,” Farren said at last, reaching to open the door. “Let’s get it over and done with.”

  They walked round the corner and straight up to number 42. Farren took out a set of keys and started to work on the lock. Jango glanced along the pavement. No one around.

  “Piece of shit lock,” Farren muttered. “Oh, hang on. There you go,” he said as the key turned, and the door opened onto a dark hallway. He swiftly pocketed the keys and stepped inside. The hallway had a patterned tile. Some tiles were broken and cracked, but the floor had been cleaned recently. There was a smell of old carpets and polish. A massive, dark wooden balustrade ran up the staircase. There was a ledge fixed to the wall and someone had neatly stacked the mail for each flat.

  Farren glanced back at Jango. “It’s first floor at the front,” he said. He moved soundlessly up the carpeted staircase, taking two stairs at a time. He turned at the half flight and looked at the door ahead. There was a brass number 3 fixed to the door. Only as he reached the door did he realise it was not quite closed. He turned to Jango, signalling for silence with a finger to his lips. He pointed to the door jamb and the crack of light.

  The two men stared at the door for a moment, then Jango shrugged a question. Farren was shaking his head when there was a noise of feet on bare floorboards and the door was suddenly pulled wide open. Farren stepped back, squaring his shoulders and turning his head slightly as the light from the open doorway hit his eyes.

  There was a strangled shriek, and Farren lowered his eyes to the height of the bent old woman he’d seen on the front doorstep. She looked like she was having a heart attack. Her mouth was hanging open, showing all her dentures.

  Farren offered the smile he reserved for dogs and old ladies. “Sorry, love. Didn’t mean to give you a fright. I was just about to knock on the door.”

  The old woman’s eyes jumped between Farren and Jango.

  “Is Marilyn in?” he added.

  The old woman stared at him. “No. Where is she?” she asked.

  Farren shook his head. “She’s not home, then? She said she’d be home by now.”

  The old woman shook her head. “She didn’t come home.”

  Farren shrugged. It was an effort to maintain the smile. “Night on the town I guess.” He said this like he was wisecracking, but the woman’s face closed up in a scowl.

  “We’ll just come in and wait for her,” Farren added, gesturing over her head and into the room.

  The woman’s head turned just a little. “Oh,” she said at last. “You want... I don’t know...” Her voice drifted off, her eyes moving rapidly as if she was asking herself a question.

  “It’s alright,” Farren offered with bland reassurance. “She’ll be home in a minute. We’ll just wait for her. I’ll tell her you were here. What’s your name?”

  The old woman looked down at her hands. She was clutching a batch of photographs. She was trying to straighten them up and making a bad job of it.

  “You alright there?” Farren asked.

  The woman clutched the photographs to her chest as if he’d tried to snatch them. “I’ll show them to her another tim
e,” she said. She glanced briefly into the room behind her, and then moved awkwardly past the two men and onto the landing.

  Farren watched her head towards the stairs to the upper floor before entering the flat. Jango came in behind him and closed the door. Farren wheeled around to face him. His voice was low and quiet. “Fucking hell. That’s all we need.”

  Jango’s eyes skittered around the room. He nodded. “Alright. Two minutes and we’re out of here.”

  “Too fucking right,” Farren spat out. “Next time he can do it himself.”

  He looked around the flat and his face wrinkled in confusion. “There’s nothing here.”

  Jango nodded, moving over towards the bed. He lifted the mattress and looked underneath. Nothing. Kneeled down and looked under the bed. Nothing there either.

  Farren walked into the kitchenette and opened cupboards and drawers. Most of them were half empty. A few old pans and mismatched china, a few tins in the cupboard, a bag of pasta. He hoisted himself onto the worktop and looked along the top of the cupboards. Nothing.

  Jango was feeling down the sides of the sofa, then tipped it up to look underneath. “I did the wardrobe,” he said, as Farren approached it.

  Farren stopped and looked around him. There was nowhere else to look.

  “Bathroom?” Jango suggested.

  “What’s going to be in there?” Farren asked, but he found the doorway and poked his head inside. An old shower cubicle with a stained base, a toilet with a high black cistern and a basin. Toothpaste, shampoo, deodorant. There was cracked lino on the floor. A heavy feeling settled on Farren’s chest. It reminded him of shit places he’d gone with his mum when he was little. A holiday, she’d say. An adventure. But there was no money to do anything and his mum was sad and trying to act happy and it was always shit.

  He left the bathroom and walked towards the door. “I’ve had enough of this.”

  Jango was close behind him. “There’s nothing here anyway. Nothing about the boss.”

  Farren shook his head. “How could anyone live like that?”

  They hurried down the stairs. Farren opened the front door and bounded into the light and down the steps. There was a dry burning feeling in his chest, like anger. “Not even a telly. What would you do all the time?”

  They reached the car and Jango pressed the remote. The car beeped as the doors opened.

  “I have no idea,” Jango said. “And you know what? I don’t fucking care. Let’s get out of here.”

  Beth stared at Martin. She sat down slowly, as though afraid her legs might give way.

  “You knew her?”

  Martin nodded. “I only found out when I met her in the park. I didn’t know before then. It’s not like I’ve known all this time, Beth. I swear to you.”

  Beth closed her eyes and shook her head. “So, this woman - this woman who gave us her baby – you knew her? You knew her before she had Ben?”

  “Yes, I told you. She used to work at Gallagher’s.”

  Beth’s eyes filled with tears and her nostrils flared as she tried to hold it back. She pursed her lips and breathed out shakily. “Is he your child?”

  “What?” Martin said. “No!” He’d known she would say that, but he still found himself putting on an act of being surprised and indignant. He knew it didn’t ring true.

  “Oh, don’t play the innocent with me!” Her sudden anger made her voice go high and shrill.

  “I’m not,” Martin shouted. “I am innocent”. He took a deep breath and reined himself in. “I didn’t sleep with her,” he said more quietly.

  “Not even once?” she asked. Her tone was malicious, and she had every right, but the humiliation stung every time she did this.

  “No,” he managed to say. His throat was tight with a mixture of anger and fear. “I never touched her. I barely knew her, Beth. She was his PA. I spoke to her a few times. I met her at the office. Nothing ever happened!”

  Beth smiled a tight and bitter smile. “Then why did she come here? Why did she choose you? Why did she give him away at all?” She laughed as if in triumph. “Martin, it makes no sense. It only makes sense if you’re his father. She was giving him back to his own father.”

  Martin looked up at the ceiling for a moment. Now there was a whole lot more to get into. “She said that Lester Gallagher was the father.”

  Beth laughed. “Oh come on, Martin. If Lester Gallagher was his father, why would she have given him away?”

  Martin shook his head. “It wasn’t like that. Well, as she tells it anyway. I mean, how much of this do we believe?”

  “How much of what?”

  He didn’t want to tell her, but she had the right to know. She should know everything that he knew. But still he didn’t want to say the words. “She was probably making it all up. You saw what she was like.”

  “Martin, just say it.”

  “Yeah, yeah, OK.” He nodded to himself. “OK. She said that she was raped.”

  Beth stared at him for long moments before she found her voice. “By Lester Gallagher? She was raped by Lester Gallagher and got pregnant... with Ben?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “No,” Beth said, shaking her head. “That can’t be true.”

  “No, that’s what I thought,” Martin said. He felt instantly better that Beth dismissed it too. He was eager to agree with her. “She could have just invented the whole thing. I mean, he’s on the news all the time. That probably gave her the idea, right?”

  Beth looked like she was hardly hearing what he said. “I won’t believe it.” She looked over at Martin. “I just won’t.”

  “We don’t have to,” he said heavily. “Not now.”

  Beth glanced at the TV and nodded. “He called you, didn’t he? Gallagher called you?”

  “Yeah, he did, but that’s not so strange, is it?”

  “It’s pretty strange, Martin.”

  “Yeah, I know it seems strange. When I’d just heard this stuff from Marilyn, and then Gallagher called, I thought that was weird.” He shrugged. “But then I thought, he’s in the middle of an election. He’s probably getting in touch with anyone he ever knew, drumming up support. Don’t you think?”

  “It’s a weird coincidence.”

  Martin frowned. “I know. But then that’s probably why she picked on him, isn’t it, because he’s in the news, he’s someone she used to know back then. It kind of makes sense.” He was pleading with her, hoping she would agree.

  Beth stared out of the window for a while. Slowly she turned to look at him. “Why didn’t you come home and tell me?”

  “I’m sorry.” He looked at the floor.

  “Sorry!” she sneered. “If it’s true, if you’re not his father, then why couldn’t you tell me? Why couldn’t you come home and say that you knew her? Instead you lied to me. I remember it. You came back and said everything had gone OK.”

  Martin sighed at his own stupidity. “I was worried.”

  “Worried? What? That I’d put two and two together?”

  “Yeah,” he said in a dull voice. “And make five. I had nothing to do with her, Beth. Ben isn’t mine.” He looked at her, hoping that his face betrayed the truth of his words.

  Beth sighed and crossed her arms tightly. Everything about her was crossed over and sealed up.

  “I knew you wouldn’t believe me. That’s why I didn’t say. I should have done. I realise that now.”

  “There’s lots of things you should have done differently.”

  Martin let his eyelids drop shut. It felt like a great, heavy weight was pressing down on him, and it was almost more than he could bear. “I’m sorry. I’ll say it as many times as you want.”

  “It doesn’t help,” she snapped.

  A silence settled in the room between them, broken by the ticking of the clock. The muted TV returned to the news and an image of Gallagher appeared on screen. They both stared at it. He was red in the face and shouting, his fist in the air.

  “He�
�s a nasty piece of work alright,” Martin said.

  “I remember,” Beth said. “The stuff you used to say about him.” She paused for a moment. “You don’t think he really did it? You don’t think he raped her?”

  Martin shrugged, still facing the TV. “I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  Beth’s eyes went back to the TV.

  “But that doesn’t mean he’s Ben’s father,” Martin said.

  “No?”

  “No, of course it doesn’t. I mean, you saw her. She’s clearly lost it somewhere along the way. In her head, she could have put the story together in a totally different way, you know, rewriting history, putting things together that don’t belong together.”

  “But that is what she said? She said that Gallagher raped her and she got pregnant with Ben?”

  Martin nodded. “Yes, that’s what she said.”

  “What if she said it to him?”

  “To Gallagher?”

  “Yes. She’s going round telling you this crazy story, what if she went to him with the same story? You said yourself, he’s in the middle of an election campaign. Wouldn’t he see that as a threat?”

  Martin frowned. “No, I don’t think so. She said he’d offered her a job.”

  “What?” Beth said, her tone amazed. “So she had been speaking to Gallagher? You never even mentioned that!”

  “Right,” Martin nodded. “Sorry, you know, it’s just it’s complicated.” He looked away. He didn’t want to tell her what Marilyn had said at the end. But he couldn’t go on keeping secrets from her.

  “What is it? What are you thinking?”

  “It’s probably nothing,” he said. “She was just a bit weird the last time. She was saying, if anything happened to her, she wanted me to know.”

  “To know what?”

  “To know about Gallagher.”

  Beth’s mouth fell open a little. “And now she’s dead?”

  “Yes, but...” Martin groaned. He rubbed at his forehead as if he could massage it all into some kind of sense. “That doesn’t mean it was Gallagher. It doesn’t mean that anything she said is true. Remember, she was... well, she was kind of nuts, wasn’t she?”