Tightrope

by Marnie Riches

  Digging deep within to mine the most hurtful thing she could say to him, Bev came up with the perfect retort. ‘No need to keep repeating yourself, dear.’ Patted him on the head. ‘I already got that you’re evicting me. That’s okay. I need to get away from this dump anyway. Because when the press get a whiff of the incontrovertible evidence I’ve just handed over to the cops about your “brother-from-another-mother”, they’ll be crawling all over here to see if you’ve got the same murderous, perverted, swindling DNA as that twat, Jerry Fitzgerald.’ Not allowing the agony of wrenching her shoulder free of his iron grip to surface in her eyes, Bev finally made a break for the freedom of the hallway. ‘An abusive father? Seduced by your own mother’s best mate? Yeah, Soph filled me in on anything I didn’t already know! You’re no choirboy, Tiny Tim.’

  His face had crumpled. Sophie was gasping like a carp, plucked from a pond by a feral cat.

  But Bev was enjoying herself. ‘So, it wouldn’t surprise me if this forest fire spreads, Timbo. Don’t expect all your friends and colleagues and your boss to keep the love for you when they read in The Times that your elective “brother” is going to prison for being an accessory to murder, grand theft and trolling a wrongly-maligned origami addict called Beverley Saunders.’

  Tim’s mouth hung open.

  Sophie balled her bony fist and punched her in her good arm. ‘Don’t speak to my husband like that, after he’s been so kind to you. You’re a horrible person. I know why Rob dumped you now. With friends like you, who needs enemies?’

  ‘I don’t believe a word that comes out of her foul, lying mouth, Soph,’ Tim said. ‘Nobody in their right mind would try to pin such heinous crimes on an upstanding member of the shadow cabinet like Jerry. She’s certifiable!’

  Outside, there was the rumble of a diesel engine, coming to a standstill. Through the leaded lights of the front door, Bev saw the neon chequerboard of a police van. Footsteps up the stone stairs. The click and hiss of a police radio springing to life on the officer’s shoulder. There were two men, both uniforms, by the looks. Had they come to arrest her for dangerous driving or was there news about Jerry?

  ‘Am I? Well, we’re about to find out.’

  CHAPTER 39

  Bev

  The two burly uniforms – one Asian, one white stood in Sophie’s hallway, making the generous space seem suddenly cramped ; the ceiling too low for comfort. Behind them, though the sun streamed in through the stained glass of the door, Bev felt the chill of the long shadows that they cast.

  ‘Go on. Out with it.’ Please don’t arrest me. The handcuffs glinted at their waists, threatening like miniature gallows. Please don’t say I’m going to end my days sewing mailbags in Styal women’s prison.

  ‘We’re just here to inform you that our colleagues are right this minute placing Mr Fitzwilliam under arrest,’ the Asian officer said, his walkie-talkie going into overdrive on his shoulder. ‘We’ll need you to come down the station tomorrow to make a statement. Detectives Curtis and Owen are leading the investigation. They asked us to let you know as a courtesy, like.’

  Bev waited for the words to soak in. She slouched against the newel post of the grand oak staircase, exhaled heavily and smiled. Pressed her hands to her lips. ‘Brilliant.’ Shot a glance towards Sophie and Tim. Both were grey-faced, seemingly with shock. Wide-eyed and staring at one another. This was a told-you-so moment Bev would savour for a long while. ‘Jesus, what a relief! That’s great news. Thanks for keeping me in the loop, guys. I was glad to be of help.’

  The second uniform pointed to her arm in its cast. ‘And you’ll be happy to hear there’ll be no charges brought against you for the accident. Our specialists have examined the CCTV footage and the HGV driver was at fault. In fact, he’s admitted it. You’re in the clear, love. Let your insurance know.’

  Tears welled up in Bev’s eyes. For so long, she’d been running like a blind rat through the dark maze of life, hitting only dead end after dead end. This news felt like a turning point where she could finally change tack, heading for the sunshine. ‘That’s smashing. Thank you. Thank you.’

  When the cops had gone, Bev opted to say nothing to Sophie and Tim, ignoring their awkward, ‘Good news about the crash’ comments and their shit-eating, ‘Seems the police believe you about Jerry’ remarks. She hastened down to her flat and slammed the door. Dialled Angie straight away.

  ‘Have you heard?’ she said as soon as Angie answered, breathless and audibly trembling.

  ‘I know! I know! They called.’

  ‘We won!’ Bev grinned.

  ‘I know it sounds awful, but . . . Let’s celebrate!’ Poppy and Benjy were chattering away in the background, oblivious to what was about to befall their father. But Angie sounded relieved now. ‘Am I a terrible person?’

  ‘Not at all, Angie. But don’t be so quick to toast the downfall of your husband. They’ll have to try him first. You’ll be investigated too. It’s not going to be a picnic by a long stretch.’

  ‘But the hard work’s behind us, Bev. I owe you. Come on! Get your glad rags on. I’ll leave the children with my aunt. Let’s do lunch. On me.’

  Feeling that she really needed to get out of Sophie and Tim’s house at that moment, Bev agreed. ‘Where?’

  ‘Meet in the middle? How about Crewe Hall?’

  ‘It’s a bit of a schlep, isn’t it? My arm’s buggered. I can’t drive.’

  ‘I’m sending you a cab. No arguments.’

  Just over an hour later, Bev’s taxi pulled up outside the Jacobean towering splendour of Crewe Hall. Busy on a Saturday, with the weekend trade in anniversaries, weddings and spa-users, its spires rose above her, pointing to the blue, blue sky. The only thing that marred the scene was a giant, dense cloud that moved over the sun as soon as Bev’s cabbie drove off. It seemed to threaten so much more than just heavy rain. The elegant specimen pines that studded the immaculate green velvet of the lawns felt like an encroaching, dark forest, full of terrible secrets.

  Pack it in! Bev counselled herself. Jerry’s under lock and key. You’re going to get paid, move flat, get your daughter back. Be positive, for God’s sake. You’re not even stumping for lunch. Order steak! Don’t get pissed.

  Hoisting her handbag onto her good shoulder, she wended her way through the dark panelled, almost ecclesiastical foyer that was a temple to four star provincial luxury. Made her way to the restaurant at the back, which was modern and less exciting than anticipated. It smelled good, though.

  ‘Bev!’ Angie was already sitting at a table. She rose to meet her. Kissed her on both cheeks. ‘My saviour!’

  Feeling progressively less awkward about socialising with her client, the more she worked her way through a large glass of cabernet shiraz and her rump steak, Bev leaned back in her chair, smiling. Slapping her stomach. ‘Thanks for this. I’ve been through the mill. We both have.’ The man who had appeared at the door to the restaurant remained in both the periphery of her vision and her subconscious mind.

  Angie, who had eaten only half of the dressing-free salad on her plate set down her cutlery. ‘Actually, I’ve got another surprise.’

  ‘I don’t like surprises.’ Bev wiped her peppercorn sauce from the sides of her mouth with a napkin.

  ‘Let’s pamper ourselves rotten! I’ve booked spa treatments. You can borrow one of my bikinis. Will that be OK, with your injuries?’

  Stifling a groan, Bev arranged her reluctant lips into a smile. ‘Lovely. I’ll be fine.’ She hated spas with a passion. Would Angie understand that she didn’t like to be mauled by strangers who weren’t physiotherapists, some other medical practitioners or sexual partners? Can it! She’s being nice. Go with the flow. ‘I’m not sure your bikini will fit, Angie. I’m a twelve and you’re what? A size zero?’

  ‘A twelve? You’re never that fat, Bev! You’ll be fine!’

  ‘Thanks.’ That fat? I could lose a few pounds, but since when was a twelve, ‘that fat’?

  In the changing rooms, Bev s
tared at Angie’s jutting hips and shoulders, from which hung an expensive looking bikini. Wincing, she pulled the borrowed swimwear over her own badly bruised, dimpled flesh, ignoring the sniggers and stares of the other women.

  ‘Great! It fits like cheese wire,’ Bev said, looking down in horror at the straps that were so tight, they simply disappeared into the folds of her accommodating flesh. ‘I think a tiny triangle of fabric up your bum-crack is going to be the new, “thing”. Don’t you? Don’t worry. I’ll wash it after.’

  Angie pointed to her chest. ‘Your nipples . . .’

  The miniscule cups of the strangulating top wouldn’t quite sit in the right place over Bev’s substantial breasts. If she pulled right, her left was exposed. If she pulled left, her right was exposed.

  ‘Just put a dressing gown on, darling. Nobody will notice.’ Angie handed her a fluffy robe.

  ‘Thanks.’ This is a mistake, Bev thought.

  A few minutes later, she followed a middle-aged woman in a lavender uniform into a darkened room, where she made Bev lie on a vinyl massage table and proceeded to cover Bev’s face in something that smelled and felt like mortar. Then she scrubbed Bev’s lower legs and feet hard.

  ‘Jesus, what are you doing? Sanding me down? I’m not a bloody coffee table. Take it easy! And don’t touch my upper body. I’ve been in a car crash.’

  Amid a good deal of sympathetic cooing and an explanation about circulation and pressure points and other such spa cod science, Bev heard a scream. She leapt off the table, snatching up the coarse-bristled scrubbing brush the woman had been using on her legs. Ran into the hallway. Where had the scream come from?

  ‘Angie?’

  ‘Help!’

  The cry came from two doors down. The door was shut. Bev tried the handle but it was locked. With her bare foot, she kicked the door open. It crashed against the wall. The scene that greeted her was not one she’d anticipated.

  ‘Hello, Cat. Or should I say, Bev? Interesting makeover. Is mouldy a good look for you?’

  ‘You! I thought you’d been arrested.’

  Jerry Fitzwilliam had Angie in an awkward headlock up against her own massage table. The beautician who had been tending Angie was out cold on the floor, blood seeping from a blow to her head. Next to her lay shards of glass, a pool of shining yellow liquid and the jagged neck of a broken glass bottle – massage oil, by the looks.

  ‘Well, you thought wrong. It’s a lot easier to give the police the slip than you think when they come for you on your home turf. I’m no fool, you know. Angie serves me divorce papers right after some big-titted tart has been trying to get in my pants? Did you really think I wouldn’t make the connection between you two?’

  ‘Run, Bev! Run!’ Angie shouted.

  But Jerry slapped a meaty hand over her mouth and her cries were stifled.

  ‘Let her go,’ Bev said. ‘You’re making things worse for yourself, Jerry. Hand yourself over to the police. Face a trial like a grown-up.’

  ‘I didn’t kill that girl.’

  Bev knew Tatjana had not died at the hand of the man before her, but she could still see untamed violence in his eyes. Jerry Fitzwilliam stood to lose everything, and now he was hell-bent on revenge. Of that, she was certain. ‘Well, if you’re innocent, you’ve got nothing to worry about. Think about it, Jerry. If you hurt Angie, you’ll never see Poppy and Benjy again. But if you give yourself up and tell the police what you know . . .’

  Fitzwilliam threw Angie to the ground, pushing the massage table so hard into Bev that she stumbled backwards, crashing onto a pyramid display of face creams. Like some villain from a superhero movie, suffused with serum that gave him enormous physical strength, the shadow Science Minister leaped over the table, pinning Bev to the floor, the pain almost rendering her unconscious. The fury inside him twisted his coarse features into a mask of hatred.

  ‘The pig wears the pig mask. Oh, what bitter irony,’ Bev said, bracing herself for whatever came next.

  Fitzwilliam drew back his fist and brought it down fast towards her face.

  Raising her cast defensively, his knuckles met only solid plaster. He yelped. Backed off, clutching his hand – just enough to allow Bev to scramble to her feet. She spied her scrubbing brush, which she’d dropped when she’d plummeted into the face-cream display. Flinging herself to the side, she closed her fingers around it. Rammed it as hard as she could, bristles first, into Fitzwilliam’s face.

  ‘Ow! You bitch!’

  He lost his footing in a bid to get away from the further blows she rained down on him with the unforgiving brush. ‘Bitch isn’t a word that loves women, Jerry, dear. Don’t call me that.’ Bev felt like she had the upper hand. ‘Call the police!’ she yelled to anyone who might be listening. It felt like triumph was just around the corner.

  But Fitzwilliam regained his balance, then grabbed Angie by the hair. Suddenly, he was holding a large splinter of broken glass to her carotid artery.

  ‘I’m going to kill her if you don’t get out of my way right now,’ he said in a deadly calm voice.

  Nonplussed, Bev held her good hand aloft in surrender, allowing him to drag Angie past her and into the hall. She followed him down the narrow corridor. The place was deserted. ‘What the fuck are you gonna do, you big muppet? There’s nowhere to go! Leave her be.’

  ‘Jerry!’ Angie whimpered. ‘You’re hurting me! Think of the children. Let me go. You’re not yourself. You need help.’ Her legs marched uselessly beneath her as he heaved her onwards.

  With a bewildered look on his scratched and bleeding face, Fitzwilliam entered the dappled light and instant humidity of the pool area. The handful of staff and spa-users there screamed as they registered the fact that a man had entered their leisure space, dragging a woman by her hair, holding broken glass to her neck. His own hand dripped with livid red blood onto the poolside tiles.

  Feeling her bladder might give way at any moment, betraying her panic, Bev looked around. How could she neutralise this terrible threat? She studied the women’s faces for signs of bravery or outrage. Might they come to her aid? No. There was nothing but fear there. As ever, she was on her own and would have to bluff it.

  ‘See? You’re cornered, now,’ she said, shaking her head at him. ‘What are you planning on doing? Killing your defenceless wife? Is that going to improve your situation?’

  Fitzwilliam grinned nastily. From some Orwellian nightmare, he was a pig more equal than others. He certainly seemed to think so. ‘No, but it might make me feel better.’ He pulled Angie’s head up. Dug the tip of the glass into her skin so that a bead of blood appeared on her neck like a ruby stud.

  As if awaiting a reaction from his captive audience, he lowered the glass just enough to give Bev the opportunity she needed.

  Grabbing a towel from an adjacent lounger, she followed her body’s impulse unquestioningly. She ran it through the pool water and swung the heavy, water-laden fabric into the air like a slingshot. David, facing down Goliath, she flicked Fitzwilliam squarely in the face with it. It was just the distraction she needed. He released Angie. Bev barrelled into him, pushing him into the pool. Kicked out to get away from him. But she was clumsy in her wet terry-towelling robe, her injured arm and bruised ribs making every movement pure torture.

  He pulled her down, down, down. She was lead-heavy. Bubbles escaping from her mouth as her lungs felt like they were being crushed in a vice. Felt his hands around her throat.

  Instinctively, she jabbed her fist in slow motion but with force into his crotch. Saw through the chlorine-blue blur that he’d opened his mouth and inhaled water. He released her. Was thrashing around now. Jerking. Sinking. Drowning.

  Hooking her arm around him from behind, Bev used her powerful legs to propel them both upwards. Gasping, they both surfaced to find two security guards standing over them.

  ‘He’s all yours,’ Bev said, shedding her robe and clambering out to check on Angie.

  As Fitzwilliam was hauled out by the two man-mo
untains, every woman in the pool area applauded Bev. Caught by at least twenty phone cameras, Bev would forever be the have-a-go hero, rocking the properly nutritioned look in a cheese-wire bikini, with Lycra stuck up her arse and one exposed nipple.

  CHAPTER 40

  Bev

  Large bubbles of dread effervesced in her stomach, curdling with the rubbery scrambled eggs Doc had forced her to eat for breakfast. A night on his sofa hadn’t been the best prep she could have had for this. But she’d needed to escape the emotional toxicity that continually leaked down through the floorboards into her basement flat from her erstwhile best friend and Timbo the Himbo.

  It had been intolerable since Jerry’s arrest, as if she were to blame for the siege at Crewe Hall. Matters had been made worse by not having found a flat, and Sophie having magnanimously though grudgingly insisted she stay until she sign on the dotted line for somewhere new. Bev felt equally cursed and blessed.

  Now, though, as she stood in the mid-century county court, that was all cheap office carpet and utilitarian wood panelling, her happiness really swung in the balance. The most important thing in the world was at stake – her child.

  ‘Step forwards, please,’ the judge said, studying the faces of the four people, gathered in his courtroom.

  Only feet away, Rob kept nervously fidgeting with his cufflinks and his earlobe, though Bev only had eyes for the suspended ceiling panels.

  Funny the things you notice when your back’s to the wall, Bev thought. One of those panels has been shoved out of place by some workman, maybe, and hasn’t been put back. I wonder if there’s a hidden camera up there, watching the petty shenanigans of Trafford’s most dysfunctional families? Maybe we’ll appear on some reality TV thing. Britain’s Most Fucked-Up.

  It was showtime. Eve, Bev’s solicitor, explained how Dr Mo, the Duplicitous Dickhead had not declared a conflict of interest in the friendship that had grown over the years between him and Rob.