Guilty Consciences - [A CWA Anthology]

by Edited by Martin Edwards

  She surveyed the range of cheap clothing scattered over the floor. It would be a shame about the wedding dress, but it was unlikely she’d need it again.

  ‘Unless you want any of that stuff, I think we might as well leave quietly via the back door,’ she said.

  ‘My thoughts exactly, lambkin,’ he said. ‘It’s the only way to leave in my experience.’

  <>

  ~ * ~

  THE TRAIN

  Dan Waddell

  Dan Waddell was born in West Yorkshire and later moved to London, where he worked as a journalist. He published non-fiction books before focusing on crime with The Blood Detective and Blood Atonement.

  ~ * ~

  I

  check my watch and see I’m running late. Oh, the irony in that. This day, this hour, this minute, this second that I have I been looking forward to like none ever before, which has absorbed every waking thought, set my heart beating so hard I feared it would hammer through my chest, the time of your return, the day you’re coming back, and here I am behind schedule. It was a phone call from the office. One lousy day without me and they struggle to cope. All my working life I’ve given them. For what? For nothing. They couldn’t give a crap. They know the year I’ve had and there’s been no sympathy whatsoever. If I don’t get a rise this year they can shove it.

  Yet nothing, absolutely nothing, can alter my mood on this day of all days, not even the office. I put on my coat and scarf. The sky outside was the colour of dull aluminium when I checked earlier, after all that morning rain, and the wind whipped around the street corners in great icy blasts. But as I step out the front door and make my way down the path the sun is breaking through. It seems right, the fact it’s brightening up. I can’t have you coming home on such a dreary, rainy day.

  I walk, half skip even, down to the end of the street, towards the station, and I’m reminded I’m late once more by the kids leaving primary school. It must be quarter past. The train arrives in five minutes. I have a quick look to see if I can see the girls. Your mother is collecting them today. She’s such a saint. She takes them whenever she can. I know she’s been worried, and is baffled, you just need to look at her to see that, but she says nothing and Ella and Georgie love spending time with her.

  They won’t believe you’re coming home. And you won’t believe how much they have changed. Ella is you; she has your face. Everyone comments on it. ‘She looks like her mum, doesn’t she?’ they say, though some button-up straight afterwards. Then they give me that misty-eyed, pitying look I hate. I always knew you’d come back, you see. I’m not sure some of them did. As for Georgie, everyone says there’s more of me in her. She’s got my temper, I’ll say that. Very wilful but that will stand her in good stead in later life.

  I didn’t see the girls and I couldn’t stand around to see. The train will be leaving Copthorpe now, unless my watch is wrong. Just a few more minutes . . .

  There’s been so many changes since you went away. I built the extension you always wanted, a nice conservatory that will be lovely in the summer. George Henry and his lads did the work. He’s a good bloke, George. His son Gary works with him now. Good little worker though, even though he’s not all there. He kept asking me where you had gone. I don’t know how many times I must have told him but he must keep forgetting. Still lives at home at thirty-one. Poor George. Though saying that he still needs to come back and finish off the patio like he promised.

  Can you believe it’s been a year, give or take a day or two? To contrast that dark January day, with you holding my hand in Joe’s Cafe and telling me you needed to leave, with this sunny winter’s afternoon. I still remember that day vividly. How could I forget? I walked away from the cafe after you said you were leaving and I was in a daze. The world kept spinning, and the sun went down, but it didn’t feel like things would ever be the same.

  And I was right, they weren’t. Not for a long time. People would stop and make small talk, offer a kind hello, or I’d meet Jack for a pint, or there would be a good programme to watch on the TV and for a few fleeting seconds I would forget, but then reality would return and so did the knowledge I wasn’t over you and wouldn’t be for a while. By burying myself in work and caring for the girls, it got so that days would pass with no empty feelings. Then I’d remember you were gone and I was plunged back into the darkness, like a reset button someone kept pressing. Some friends - Dave and Clare, you remember them? - even tried to set me up with a friend of theirs! I couldn’t think of anything worse. How could anyone compare to you? I know, maybe the things you said about me weren’t fair, but it doesn’t mean you didn’t have a point. I needed to change.

  When we went for a pint the other week, Jack asked me whether, if I could live my life over, given what I’d been through, would I have changed anything? Would I have married you knowing what was going to happen? I said yes, without any hesitation. If I knew then what I know now I would still be here. I was in love. Proper love. Some people never get to experience that. All the hurt, the heartbreak; it was worth it, silly as it sounds. Even in those grim days when I thought you’d never return, I never regretted meeting you. Anyway, you’re coming home now, so what does all that matter?

  As you can see, there’s so many things to say. So many thoughts careering through my mind. I know one thing though: this time around you will want to stay. I promise you that, because I’ve had so many nights to find the way to say the right things this time, and react the way you want, and not fall into those old habits, where you feel I didn’t listen, or I was too quick to get cross, or had no time for the children.

  I can see the station ahead, a few more steps and I’ll be there. Pretty soon I’ll hold you in my arms. It’s been so long since I held you. It’s going to be so different. I want to talk about what you said. You know, the part of you that you said I never understood. I want to understand. I want to protect you, take good care of you, and not hurt you. It’s going to be like we’ve started again. We’re going to look so much in love to people passing by that they’ll think we’ve just met. I might even see if your mum will take the girls and we can get away for a few days, just the two of us. But that can wait a bit, perhaps.

  The bell just rang and the level crossing has started to lower. I’m on the platform and there’s a few other people milling about, waiting to get on the train. Can’t see anyone we know, though.

  I tried to write to you. Attempted to get down some of the thoughts churning in my mind. Get across to you how sorry I was and how things would be different, how I wanted to draw a line under the past and forget the old mistakes. You know words aren’t my strong point but you’d be surprised; I wrote those sort of things many, many times, but the letters just stayed inside my drawer. I kept missing the morning collection, or I’d forget to post them. When we get back, later on, when we’ve gone to get the kids and you’ve had a chance to speak with your mother, perhaps I can show you them? It might be better in a way than talking, because you know how I can stick my foot in my mouth sometimes and say the wrong thing.

  There you are! In the distance I can see the train working its way round the bend by the rapeseed fields. The passengers waiting to get on move closer to the platform edge. My hands are slicked with sweat and my mouth is desert dry. It’s hard for me to comprehend that you’re really coming back. I look to one side and see the cars queuing either side of the crossing gate. The train has been held by a signal. I don’t think I can take any more delay. The sun has disappeared once more and it’s got colder. Good job I layered up.

  But now the train is off again, just as I feel the first mist of drizzle on my face. It pulls in slowly, the faces in the window a blur as they pass by. I’m at the nearest platform’s end, so I can see everyone get off. It comes to a halt and immediately the people waiting open the door and try and jump on before you’ve even got off. No manners, some people. Doors shut with a slam. I see the guard disembark. Soon he has his whistle in his mouth. A short blast. All the doors a
re closed now. I can’t see anyone. No one got off. Maybe there was one lady but it wasn’t you. Was it? I feel sure I’d recognize your face.

  ~ * ~

  The train has gone and the platform is deserted. That’s just weird. Did you miss the three o’clock? That must be it. You missed it. You could have phoned! I might as well wait here. What’s one hour when you’ve been waiting a whole year? Punctuality was never your strong point, either. That used to cause a few disagreements. Us always being late and you know how much I hate being late. It’s just rude. I’ll change in some ways but there’re a few other principles I must adhere to. This time I’ll let it go, though. Getting the train and coming back here can’t have been that easy when you’ve been gone a while, and you’re returning to a small place where everyone knows each other’s business, which means that they would know you were prepared to walk out on your husband and your two kids on the spurious basis that your life wasn’t working out the way you wanted it to. You see, they don’t know you wanted to take the girls. They think you abandoned them and they’re a conservative bunch round here and they think that’s just unnatural, a mum leaving her little ones behind while she goes and gads about. There were times when I was going to tell people the truth. Hundreds of times! Sometimes the urge to speak the truth was overwhelming, but I always thought of the girls and what was best for them.

  I step under the platform awning for a bit of shelter. A few gentlemen appear on the platform. That’s a bit strange as I don’t think there’s another train going west for at least half an hour and this is no place to wait in this weather. They’re wearing suits. Probably been here on some business at the industrial park on the edge of the village and on their way back to the town.

  They’re coming this way. Probably going to ask me when the next train is. There’s never anyone in the ticket office, I tell you. They’re going to be a bit ticked off when I say they’ve just missed one. Come to think of it, they looked pretty hacked off anyway. Faces all serious and concerned, looking over their shoulder. There’s a few more people behind them too. Policemen, of all people. Oh no. Don’t tell me some daft bugger has gone and thrown themselves under a train.

  The older one, in a Macintosh, has got a thin, mirthless smile on his face. The other, a younger man, looks a bit nervous. Those officers are running now. This looks serious.

  Yes, that’s my name, I say, when the one in the mac asks. He says something. I don’t hear. The wind carries it a bit.

  Say that again, I ask. He wants me to come with them. Nice and quiet, he says. No need to do anything sudden or stupid. Apparently they’ve found a woman’s body.

  Just then, the rain gets heavier.

  <>

  ~ * ~

  MASKS FOR EVERY OCCASION

  Yvonne Walus

  Yvonne Walus was born and raised in Poland; later her family moved to South Africa. She now lives in New Zealand and is a Doctor of Mathematics who works as a business analyst. In addition to articles, short stories and poetry, she has published novels in various genres, sometimes under a pseudonym.

  ~ * ~

  11 June, 2010

  T

  he journalist from the far-flung idyll of England was the first victim.

  ‘A burglary gone wrong,’ Captain de Vos dismissed the murder. ‘It’s a shame it had to happen to a tourist, though. Speak to the hotel security and wrap it up.’ He changed his mask of a dutiful policeman to that of a soccer fan. ‘Wouldn’t want to miss the kick-off.’

  His error was understandable given the crime statistics in South Africa.

  It never occurred to de Vos to engage my services as a crime profiler, even though we work together by day and sleep together most nights. The sleeping together would have put us in jail a mere two decades ago, for de Vos is as white as an elephant tusk and I’m the black of the triangle in our flag. The apartheid-day taboo still thrills me, though.

  That historic June afternoon, the country shut early. De Vos and I watched the broadcast of the FIFA World Cup opening match together. With all five of my brothers soccer players, and one of them a reserve in this competition, my heart and soul may as well have been the Jabulani ball.

  Hypnotized by the beehive hum of the vuvuzelas emitting from the TV set and the calming rhythm of the game, I slipped into bliss-out. Even my headache subsided.

  THWACK!

  The first goal shook the entire stadium, eighty thousand throats exploding in primordial cries of triumph. My pride swelled like the Limpopo in the rainy season. De Vos jumped off the sofa and punched the air, freedom-fighter style,

  ‘Yes!’ He jerked me towards him and twirled us across the floor. ‘We may be ranked eighty-third, but we play mean soccer.’

  A complex reaction from a man ready to desert his land for the much greener grass of the British Isles. I searched his face for the mask of a patriot or a traitor, but saw only a boy supporting his team.

  When we settled down, I snuggled into his embrace. ‘You know the journalist killed earlier today?’

  ‘The Englishman?’ De Vos didn’t move his eyes away from the screen. ‘It hasn’t hit the news yet. They don’t want it to spoil the moment. Why?’

  ‘He was here to comment on the World Cup.’ I pulled the laptop towards us. ‘I’ll show you the last article he wrote for his newspaper. No, that’s not the one.’ I clicked away from the guy’s satire on rape and found the right article, a tongue-in-cheek expose titled, ‘Soccer Increasingly Boring Because Losing No Longer a Capital Offence’.

  ‘Ironic,’ said de Vos.

  Sacrilegious, I thought.

  My personal blog that night didn’t mention the murder, though I did mention the journalist and scathe his lack of respect for soccer. By morning, my entry had acquired an anonymous comment. ‘The journalist deserved to die. Look for the offender’s signature: it’s more idiosyncratic than the modus operandi.’

  ~ * ~

  17 June, 2010

  The rapist’s face wore polite boredom like a tribal mask. I swallowed the urge to ram my BlackBerry down his throat. Across the desk from me sat the sleazeball who’d forced at least three tourists at knifepoint as they were leaving Soccer City after late-night games. My profiling had identified him. All I had to do now was prove his guilt.

  ‘Are you free for dinner tonight?’ His words drilled into my head, sick-stations sweet. ‘We could watch the soccer. You’re a fascinating woman, Dr . . .’ He squinted at my nametag. ‘Dr Elizabeth Mphela. I’ve never known a crime profiler before. What was your PhD topic?’

  I knew better than to answer, so I was surprised to hear my voice. ‘Multiple identity disorder.’

  ‘Oh, yeah? Which of your identities wants to suck me off first?’

  The phone felt slippery in my grip. Control, I heard deep inside me.

  I concentrated on my notes, pressing every BlackBerry key with the tip of my nail slowly, poisoned by the potion of the rapist’s presence.

  The suspect’s aggressive stance and insistent denials indicate a reluctance to see himself as a sexual offender, making medical or psychiatric treatment unfeasible.

  My phone pinged. I glanced at the subject line: New Murder Last Night, Drop Everything.

  Adrenaline buzzed on my tongue. ‘That will be all for today, Mr Spencer. Thank you for your time. One of the detectives will escort you out.’

  His grin showed too many teeth, too white and too sharp in his hairless skull shaped like a slug. ‘You know you don’t have enough evidence to hold me. How about that soccer date?’

  God bless Africa with men like him walking free.

  ‘We’ll meet again, Mr Spencer, though not for soccer.’

  Wrong as I was, it would be weeks before I realized, but for now, I busied myself with the new case.

  ‘Hey,’ I said when I arrived at the victim’s hotel. ‘Is this the ref who fell for the dive in yesterday’s match?’

  The medical examiner must have been the only person in the country not assaul
ted with the World Cup fever.

  ‘Huh?’ he replied. ‘This is a soccer ref, Elizabeth, not a scuba diver.’

  ‘Yebo, how right you are. If only more soccer players realized it.’

  I checked the paperwork. The victim’s name I knew straight away. It was etched for ever into the memory of all South Africans who’d seen us lose yesterday - on Soweto Day of all days -thanks to this referee’s incompetence. Fewer of my countrymen knew that the murdered man was also implicated in a sex scandal.

  Serves you right, I thought as I stared at his face, hardened into a death mask.

  When I got home that night, I blogged the sentiment. As the officials had put a clamp on all negative news during the Cup and the world knew nothing about the referee’s demise, I phrased it as a hypothetical question: ‘Who’s more at fault: a soccer player who dives or a ref who falls for it ?’