Thirteen: Unlucky For Some (Thirteen Crime Stories (Noir, Mystery, Suspense))

by John Moralee

  “No pain, no gain. Start from sixty ...”

  Fight the pain barrier, Danny thought.

  Fight the pain.

  *

  He was lying in the four-poster bed, looking up at the ceiling, seeing his and Brenda’s reflections in the mirrors. She slept, emitting little cute purring sounds. Brenda liked the mirrors, said it was erotic. He thought it was kinky and perverted, but said nothing. He wanted to wake her and tell her about Joel. But he didn’t want to worry her. As long as he won the fight, everything would be okay, he could forgive Joel for risking everything. But -

  He slid out of the bed and took a shower, then dressed and crept downstairs to the kitchen, opened the fridge, looking for a Newcastle Brown. He felt a presence behind him.

  “Joel?”

  “It’s four o’clock. Running time.”

  Danny slammed the fridge closed.

  *

  When he was running with the wind roaring in his ears, he thought of his father watching him circle the track at Gateshead. The memory forced him to run faster, his legs a whirlwind, feet pounding the sand. His father has said that to be a boxer needed stamina and speed in equal measures. Unless he had the stamina of Steve Cram, he was nothing. Unless he had the speed of Linford Christie, he was nothing. So he had run as if his life depended on it. But whatever time Danny had done wasn’t fast enough for his father. Even when he broke his own personal best he received no encouragement. Try harder next time, son.

  He reached the rocks at the end of the beach and turned back. Joel was standing a quarter of a mile away with a stop-watch, shouting. Again, the words were liquid, incomprehensible. There was a roaring in his ears, like holding a conch shell. He powered on, blocking out the pains. He hurtled past his brother and staggered to a stop, legs twitching, thighs burning. Between his ribs someone lit a blow-torch.

  “That was excellent!” Joel grinned. “But try harder next time.”

  *

  Joel sat in the darkness of the hall. Brenda had gone out for the day on a tour to let him concentrate on the training. Joel would be the next person to come through the door. Danny’s head spun with thoughts. He’d called the bank, they had confirmed the loan. He had to talk to Joel; the betrayal of trust was eating away at him. He heard Joel’s Mercedes pull up the drive. The door unlocked. Danny waited for Joel to step through and shut it before he moved. He hadn’t planned anything, he just wanted to talk, be reasonable. But when he saw Joel, saw the boyish grin, he acted. His right hand flipped out in a jab.

  Joel’s nose burst open like a tomato. He was still stunned when Danny gut-punched him, doubled him over.

  Danny pushed him into the kitchen, sat him down while he went to the fridge, threw it open and grabbed a beer bottle, and smashed the top off. Then he noticed his knuckles were bleeding. He grabbed some paper towels and passed the rest to Joel. “How could you steal our money?”

  Joel held the blood in check and regained his composure. “My nose ... broken.”

  “Now you know what it feels like.”

  Joel staunched the bleeding. “Let me explain.”

  Danny gulped the beer, holding back his anger. “Explain? I could lose everything I’ve fought to earn!”

  Joel paled. “I’m sorry, all right?”

  “What if I lose, Joel?”

  Suddenly Joel laughed coldly, shaking his head.

  “You are so arrogant and naive.”

  Danny paused, bile filling his mouth. “What?”

  “You think I bet the money on you?”

  Danny’s fists tightened. “What?”

  Joel continued: “I bet the money on Martinez.”

  “I said I’d be ready,” Danny muttered.

  “You’ll never be ready. Martinez has the hardest punch in the business. You want to live, take a dive. I thought this way that we’d at least get something out of it.”

  There was a pain in Danny’s head, like a steel band across his forehead. He looked at Joel - no, his father - and pushed the table aside. His father looked cold and impassive ... and disapproving.

  “Dad, you never believed in me. Give me a chance to prove something!”

  Joel flashed a confused look. “Dad? I’m not Dad. Boxing’s wasted your brain, man.”

  Danny could hear the roaring.

  His father got up and walked towards the hall. Danny stopped him in the lounge and pushed him against the wall. “Dad, you’re not leaving.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  Danny cried out and punched his father in the face. He put so much force into the blow his father’s head whipped back. His father was stunned but still tried to defend himself, bringing his hands up to block the next blow. Danny cut under the arms and heard the satisfying crack of ribs as he lifted his father off his feet. His father’s defence dropped completely.

  “Stop! Stop!”

  Danny relished the pain on his father’s face, saw the fear in his eyes, eyes turned to water. He hooked his right fist into his father’s jaw and watched his head strike the wall with a satisfying crack. Slowly, his father slid down the wallpaper, legs splayed, leaving a trail of blood where his skull scraped the wallpaper.

  He did not move.

  Danny stepped back, holding his ears, hearing the roar of tidal waves. He’d killed his father, finally, after all those years of mental torture. He went to the fridge, opened another beer, and wept.

  *

  “Daniel, what have you done?”

  He looked up from the TV at Brenda as she dropped her shopping bags to examine the bare stucco wall and torn wallpaper pooled at her feet. He stared at her, she shuddered and took the shopping into the kitchen. He concentrated on the TV until she returned.

  “What’s wrong with you? You look ... different.”

  “Bad day,” he said. He told her about the money. “We argued, Joel left. He won’t be back. I needed to release some anger, so I ripped the wallpaper off, okay?”

  “Okay,” she said, carefully.

  *

  Danny looked up at the ceiling and saw his black eyes. Martinez had fared worse, was in hospital with a broken jaw. Brenda stirred from sleep and put an arm across his chest, sliding it down to the gold belt, resting.

  “Winner,” she said.

  He closed his eyes and heard the roar of the surf again, picturing the water gushing over the beach, sinking into the sand.

  Tomorrow, he’d walk there. Tomorrow he’d throw a pebble for the brother beneath his feet. And another for the father he had drowned six years ago, in a swimming pool.

  Falling in Love

  “You ought to make a will, you know, for your peace of mind.”

  “Frank ...”

  “I know it’s morbid, but we have to think of these things.”

  “Do we have to think about death right now, honey?”

  “No, no. I was just thinking ahead. We have to think ahead. A lot of young couples make wills these days, just to be on the safe side. It’s a dangerous world. Promise me you’ll do it as soon as we’re married ...”

  “Hmmm. That feel’s good.”

  “What about the will?”

  “Yes ... I promise. Hmmm. Now do that again, please ...”

  *

  “Say you love me,” she whispered.

  Her slender, naked silhouette stretched up her hands to cup the moon, and for a moment Angela was a goddess bathed in a silver aura. Frank almost said what she wanted to hear, but instead he pushed the silk sheets aside and stood. He padded across the bedroom and joined her on the balcony. The crest of Caribbean beach was far below, the sea liquid mercury, the waves so slow and silent. There were no other villas on this side of the island, and for all intents and purposes the myriad stars were out for them alone. He could not think of a more romantic honeymoon. When his fingers touched her shoulders, massaging her cool flesh, she sighed and spoke again.

  “Frank, say you love me.”

  Frank slid both hands down Angela’s back, feeling her rapid hear
tbeat as a slight flutter under his touch. The sweat from their love-making was warm on her skin. He traced a wild pattern, moving his hand around to her breasts. Her spine arched in response. He kissed her shoulder, just to savour the taste of her. His body wanted to hold the moment, to return to the bed with her, but his head said no. He could not stand looking at her plain face, with its too big eyes. With all of her money, he thought, she should have bought some plastic surgery. But Angela was squeamish about that sort of thing. Ironically, she had been only too grateful that a man like him could find her attractive ...

  Taking a deep breath, Frank moved his hands off her breasts and to the small of her back - and pushed as hard as he could over the balcony.

  Angela let out a tiny gasp of surprise.

  Then she was falling and screaming. Her hair fanned out like a peacock’s feathers as she kicked and fought the air.

  Frank watched her strike the ground, just a few feet from the rocks. Still, that must’ve killed her.

  The spicy breeze was cold.

  *

  “She’s going to live?” Frank said, trying not to sound angry but relieved. He wished he’d taken acting lessons. He was in the hospital corridor with the Jamaican doctor, listening to the bad news. A hot band pressed against Frank’s forehead. He was burning up. This was not meant to happen. How could she survive a fall like that? The doctor’s face went in and out of focus. “I have to see Angela. She’s my wife.”

  “Not yet,” the doctor said. “They are still operating.”

  He could see two black policemen in their white uniforms talking to the paramedics who’d brought Angela in. Did they suspect him? Frank concentrated on the doctor’s lilting words of comfort. “Doctor, exactly how bad is it?”

  “She has two broken legs and several broken ribs, nothing she won’t recover from given time.”

  Frank felt sick. He should have worked out her trajectory better. “What about her head? I thought you said they’d operated -”

  “That is the problem. She suffered a skull fracture and internal bleeding.” The doctor put his hand on Frank’s shoulder. “I’m sorry to say there could be brain damage.”

  Thank God, Frank thought. Faking tears, he asked: “How serious?”

  “It’s too early to say. These next few hours are crucial.”

  *

  The policemen were easy on him. He played the distraught newly-wed husband to perfection. He told them Angela had been playfully leaning over the rail as part of a sex game when she’d lost her balance. He was sufficiently embarrassed to gain their sympathy. After they let him go, he was as high as a heroin addict. Because Angela was still alive there would be no inquiry! He could not have planned it better. News from the hospital that her brain damage was so bad she would never come out of coma nearly made him laugh out loud. She’d need a machine to keep her alive. Perfect! Now he was ten million pounds richer - and he’d not even had to murder her. He loved ugly rich girls. They could be so accommodating.

  He stayed in Jamaica until Angela was well enough to be shipped back to England. The only problem was her grieving relatives, Lord and Lady Forthrington-Smith. They did not want the machines switched off - and he could not push the issue without causing suspicion. It was a problem. Angela’s personal fortune was tied up in a complicated trust fund until she died. He would have to live on a fixed amount each year, a paltry £100,000. So Frank had a room specially fitted out in Angela’s mansion and hired cheap nursing care for his nearly dead wife. In a few months, if the machines happened to go wrong, or if her drip became blocked, or if there was a power cut, it would not be his fault. He’d be the happy bachelor once again, ten million pounds richer, plus interest.

  He was confident nothing could go wrong.

  It was then he met Angela’s sister, Fiona, for the first time.

  One day there was a phone call and a woman said she was Fiona and she was coming from the Heathrow to see her sister. She didn’t know Angela was in a coma until he told her. She broke down on the phone. “We tried to contact you, when the accident happened, but we couldn’t reach you.”

  “I ... I want to see her.”

  “Sure, of course,” he said.

  What harm could it do?

  *

  An hour later, Frank opened the door and saw Angela standing there. He swallowed his shock. “Fiona?”

  “Yes.” Fiona - Angela - wiped at her red eyes with a tissue.

  “You look just like Angela.”

  “I know,” she said almost inaudibly. “We’re twins.”

  That was something Angela had never mentioned, that her sister was an identical twin.

  “You must be Frank,” Fiona said, letting herself into the hall.

  Frank said nothing. He knew Angela had a sister, one who worked as a volunteer nurse for the Red Cross, but he’d not known she was a twin, an identical twin. It was like looking at Angela’s ghost, a living accusation of his crime. Quickly, he tried to think of what to say, but his thoughts were like treacle. Fiona put down her bags and expected him to do something with them.

  “You’re staying?” he said.

  “I want to ... look after my sister,” Fiona said. “It’s what she would have wanted. We were very, very close.”

  “Uh-huh,” he managed. “I’m sorry we couldn’t get in touch with you.”

  “I was in the middle of the desert, you see.”

  “I’ll take you see her,” he said. There was something wrong with his hearing. His words boomed in his ears. He led Fiona to Angela’s room, where Angela lay on the bed with her eyes closed. A tube was up her nose and an ECG machine watched over her like a mother. The nurse - who was caught reading a Catherine Cookson novel - sat up straight. Frank asked her to kindly leave the room for a minute. The nurse left the room, shifting her gaze to the floor. Frank felt extremely uncomfortable in a room with two Angelas, one living, one almost dead.

  “That nurse didn’t look very good,” Fiona said. “She shouldn’t be reading a book on duty.”

  He was reluctant to fire such cheap staff. “There’s not much for her to do.”

  “Yes, there is. She could keep my sister clean.” Fiona produced a tissue and wiped Angela’s chin of drool. “There. There. That’s better. Angela, everything’s going to be fine now.”

  Frank felt a flash of guilt. “Fiona, there’s no need for you to look after her.”

  “Nonsense! I’ve dealt with many patients just like my sister. I know what to do better than that nurse. First of all, this room is far too draughty.” She put her hand on Fiona’s forehead. “Angela’s too cold. I know my sister. She’ll have to be moved downstairs where it’s warm.”

  “Okay,” Frank said.

  “And fire that nurse. She’s incompetent.”

  “Okay.”

  He hated Fiona already.

  *

  “She needs to sleep in the same room as you,” Fiona said one day over breakfast.

  Frank nearly spewed coffee onto his latest Gucci shirt. “What?”

  “Angela will feel loved.”

  Love. Say you love me.

  Frank, say you love me.

  “I don’t think I could bear that,” he said. “I mean ...” What did he mean? He had to think fast. “I mean ... I’d have to look at her each day and remember the good times we had and know they will never be again. It would be too painful.” God, I’m good. I should write greeting cards.

  Fiona’s eyes settled on him. “It’s what she wants, Frank.”

  She knows. Fiona knows I pushed Angela. She wants me to give up my fortune. Well, it won’t be that easy, babe. The gruesome twosome aren’t going to get rid of this guy. “Okay, I’ll move in with her, if that’s what she wants.”

  Fiona smiled. “You’re such a good man, Frank.”

  *

  He could not sleep knowing Angela was there in the next bed, staring up at the ceiling with juices dripping from her mouth, the life support machines rasping like a dying man. It wa
s disgusting. There was always a terrible smell surrounding her: excrement and urine and a sweaty stench like an Army gymnasium. Sometimes, he would become mesmerised by the fluids being sucked out of her bowels down the transparent tube to her colostomy bag. It was like watching a chocolate milk shake being slurped through a long straw. The bag collected her fluids and needed changing once an hour. He had to change it. How could a man sleep after doing that?

  Fiona insisted that it was what Angela wanted. He did want to please Angela, didn’t he? Fiona, all sweetness and light, was only doing what her sister wanted, she claimed. But he was certain there was a sadistic element to her demands on him. When he subtly resisted her ideas for improving Angela’s welfare at his expense, she would turn on the screws. “You do love Angela?” she would say. “Of course ... “ he would reply. “Well, then ...” So now all of the cheap nurses had been dismissed and he and Fiona did all of the nursing. He wasn’t complaining about firing the nurses because that saved him money, but then he would willingly pay for someone to do the work rather than face the humiliation himself.

  His real problem now was Fiona. She was making his life hell. He was either attending Angela’s needs, or trying to sleep. He was too exhausted to go out and do anything. The ten million he would receive when Angela died seemed to be a scrap held out to a starving dog, only to be pulled away when he went for it. He could not stand it. Angela was not going to die. No, a woman like her would live forever, staring at the ceiling with juices coming out of every orifice.

  Say you love me.