Tightrope

by Marnie Riches

  Descending the stone stairs to her basement flat, she hurried inside and retrieved the second hand malfunctioning toaster. Leaving a trail of crumbs in her wake from the rarely emptied crumb tray, like Little Red Riding Hood with Hansel and Gretel pretensions, she climbed Sophie’s grand mahogany staircase to The Big Bad Wolf, ready to play her role in one fairy tale that would forever give her nightmares, assuming she survived.

  Careful to tread only on the sides of the stairs where the hundred-and-fifty-year-old wood was at its strongest, she crept towards the master bedroom. Suddenly realised that the taps had stopped flowing now. She froze outside the door. Was he still in the bedroom, laying his clothes out for the day, perhaps? Had he heard her approaching? Was he lying in ambush in the wardrobe, ready to spring out and finish what he’d begun in the Lakes?

  A mental image of Hope flashed before her and Bev realised the lunacy of what she was risking. Her daughter needed her alive. Why was this so important for her to solve alone? Stop doubting yourself, you silly cow. This is personal. This is your chance to stand up for yourself and to get justice for a murdered girl. This is you, taking on Holy Jo’s monster of a husband – the man who date-raped you as a first-year student.

  The outrage propelled Bev into the bedroom. No sign of Tim, but there was a reassuring sound of splashing just behind the door. Good. He was vulnerable, and now he was all hers to deal with how she saw fit.

  She plugged the toaster into the socket just outside the en suite. Flipped the switch. Pushed the door open, holding the live appliance above her head.

  Tim was submerged in a full bath. Eyes closed ; bubbles drifting upwards from his mouth, his penis floating and bobbing above the bulk of his body like a parachute on the back of a braking racing car. His eyes opened, dazzling blue beneath the water. His brow furrowing as he made sense of the bizarre scene unfolding above the water’s surface.

  ‘Who’s the Big Bad Wolf now?’ she shouted, loud enough for him to hear.

  He sat up swiftly, water draining from his muscled shoulders in a gleaming torrent, sending a tidal wave of bath water scudding around the tub. He gripped the sides of the bath, his knuckles white with the effort and the cords of sinew in his giant ham-like forearms standing proud. ‘You.’ He laughed, his lip curled upwards in derision. ‘You think I’m frightened of you?’

  Though the sheer size of his body and the testosterone that leeched from his pores seemed to suck all the oxygen out of the room, as it had done all those years ago in his college room, Bev steeled herself to take a step closer. She dangled the toaster precariously over the bath. ‘Think you’re fucking clever, don’t you? Hounding me so I’d leave your, “Brother-from-another-mother” alone. Was that it? Or did you have some other cockamamie motive in mind? Well, see your shitty old toaster that Sophie palmed off on me? It’s temperamental as fuck. Sparks all the time. And guess what, Timbo? It’s plugged in!’

  ‘You’re bluffing,’ he said.

  ‘Am I? I want some answers, you animal. Start talking or I’ll fry you alive.’

  CHAPTER 45

  The Wolf

  At last, his prey has walked right into his den, and now, he imagines he can already taste her flesh on his tongue. She is holding the old toaster aloft, as if that will have him quaking. Does she not realise that she is nothing more than a vulnerable rabbit within striking distance of The Wolf’s salivating jaws?

  ‘I’m glad it’s come to this,’ he says, watching with delight as she squirms. ‘If you don’t already know why I hate you and want to ruin you, I guess it’s about time you found out.’ He can see that her arms are starting to shake with holding the appliance in the air. ‘But first, put the toaster down, Bev. You’re too flabby and unfit to hold that up much longer. You’ll do yourself an injury.’

  ‘Shut your face, you knuckle-grazing tit,’ she says, edging further over the bath. There is hatred in her eyes. ‘I know what you did to Tatjana Lebedev. You butcher!’

  He leans back in the bath, the hot water splashing around him. Wonders if she would electrocute herself to death if he threw water into one of the toaster’s slots. But maybe the current would travel back down to him, like throwing a flaming torch on a trail of fuel. Putting his arms above his head, he takes satisfaction in his burgeoning erection, knowing she is checking him out.

  His father would be proud of him now. He is no longer the weakling boy who took those thrashings from his Alpha ; who allowed himself to be ridiculed by his peers at school ; who endured sexual molestation and the theft of his innocence at the hands of his mother’s friend. He is now the Alpha ; the pack leader. He is the sexual predator.

  ‘Are you remembering our night together at college, Bev?’

  ‘What? The one where I said, “No!” and you fucked me anyway? Are you remembering that, Timbo? Is that the only way you can get it up? When you’re screwing helpless young women who don’t want you.’

  He takes hold of his penis and starts to massage it, watching the disgust curdle her expression. ‘Want to climb on? Sophie’s not here.’

  ‘You’re deranged. I wouldn’t sleep with you if you were the last man on earth. You make me sick.’

  Her words have an unexpected effect on him, then. Instead of arousing him, he finds he is reminded of the time at the sex party in London where he had spotted her by chance, tongue-deep inside a fat woman’s vagina, being taken from behind by a skinny weed of a man who’d had greying chest hair. They’d all been wearing masks – the party organiser’s rule of engagement in order to preserve anonymity – though he hadn’t been The Wolf that night. He had identified the large mole on her bottom immediately, however, and had recognised her distinctive northern accent among the received English or local twang of the Londoners. But she hadn’t known him. He recalls it now. The rejection still stings, even as he lies now in the bath, years later.

  ‘No thanks, mate. You’re not my type.’

  In a room full of sexual opportunity and permissive decadence, where everyone had been fair game, she’d eschewed a perfect specimen like him publicly, preferring instead to couple with the physical dregs of the barrel. The memory floods him with a toxic melange of anger, embarrassment, sorrow. He lets go of his penis.

  ‘What gives you the right to judge a man like me? What gives you the right to keep secrets from me?’ And now he comes to the crux of it, he can feel resentment and rage trumping the embarrassment and sorrow.

  ‘Secrets?’ she asks, frowning. ‘What the hell are you on about?’

  At that moment, he understands that she doesn’t realise he knows. ‘You’re a lying bitch. All these years, you’ve pretended.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re deranged and you’re a killer. Admit it.’ Despite her show of bravado, she’s swallowing hard. He can see it. There’s panic in her eyes. He can smell it along with her stale armpits and the grease in her hair and her unwashed cunt. Nothing like his precious Sophie. Sophie who is so perfect and untouchable, that he’d happily keep her in a cabinet under lock and key. Bev reeks like the whores that Stan brings for Jerry when they have a boy’s get-together in London. She smells of sex and desperation like Tatjana Lebedev.

  ‘Does Rob know? Does Rob know I’m Hope’s real father and that he’s been bringing up another man’s child all these years?’ His erection may have waned but his bloodlust has been piqued as he dredges up the real source of his pain. ‘How could you keep that from everyone, Bev?’

  She sticks out her chin like a defiant teen, the toaster really wobbling above her now. She’s flagging – a threat ripe for neutralisation.

  ‘What I do with my body and my baby and my life is nothing to do with you, Timbo. Hope was the product of date rape by a meathead who had no interest in me beyond something to shag after a night down the student bar. Do you want me to tell her that? Do you want me to tell Sophie that?’

  ‘You wouldn’t.’ He rises from the bath like the Greek god, Poseidon, water pouring from him, spilling onto
the floor.

  She instinctively takes several steps away from him. The toaster is now suspended above the dry floor. ‘Why are you like this, Tim? Why did you kill that teenage prostitute and cut up her body and dump it in a butcher’s bin? I’ve read the newspaper articles. I’ve seen the snuff film. Why? And why in God’s name do you think you can get away with it?’

  ‘You stole my child.’

  ‘And aren’t I glad I did?’ She’s smiling wryly. She’s off her guard. ‘You make Rob seem like a prince. The only reason Sophie’s still with you is that she doesn’t have the first clue what kind of man you are. You’re a frigging monster.’

  Gambling that she’ll drop the toaster where she stands, he jabs at her gut with a right hook that is hard enough to fell a grown man. Sure enough, the toaster drops to the side. White sparks fly from the lever.

  Clambering out of the bath, his hands are around her neck before she can catch her breath. He’s pinning her down beneath him, his erection returning as they slip and slide together on the damp floor. His shame and those hurtful memories have all been washed away. He is The Wolf, and the kill is within reach.

  She thrashes beneath him, her eyes popping. This is the perfect death for the perfect bitch. He has no interest in raising the daughter he has fathered – and he is absolutely certain the girl is his. He’s known from the start that the dates matched ; that he was a likely candidate when the college bike fell pregnant. Years later, the girl had visited her bitch of a mother in the basement, accompanied by a social worker. He had taken one look at the child’s build and her bone structure and had realised she had to be his, though he’d itched to prove it. It had been child’s play to break in and steal her drinking glass, once she’d gone. The internet is awash with companies offering DNA analysis from a saliva sample. The results that came back from the test were irrefutable. Now, he only wants revenge on the mother who rejected him and lied. When she is dead, he will fuck her hard in celebration. Then, he will take her spoiled body out to the shed and set to it with the chainsaw. He must remain undiscovered as the murderer of the Russian whore. Bev is the most dangerous loose end and she’s easily tied up. The tree surgeon is coming on Monday. Nobody will notice if he throws pieces of her meat into the wood chipper.

  ‘Doc! Help!’

  These are the only words she says before she stops moving.

  CHAPTER 46

  Bev

  Just play dead. It’s the only way to stop him, Bev managed to think through the oxygen-deprived fug of horror and disbelief.

  How had she been so stupid as to believe that she could confront a psychopath, without backup, getting him to confess to all manner of violent crimes? And why had she thought he would never realise Hope was his? Hope was built just like Tim – far too tall to be Rob’s daughter, though Rob had been too arrogant to consider another man may have fathered his child. He’d always just congratulated himself for having passed on some dormant long-limbed gene from his great-grandfather. Hope had Bev’s eyes, mouth and colouring, which had kept suspicions at bay, but her daughter’s nose and the shape of her face had been all Tim’s. If anyone had known of Bev’s ill-fated liaison with Tim and had thought to ask the right question, it wouldn’t have taken a DNA test or a genius to put two and two together to make four. Idiot.

  Bev was dimly aware of the gravel crunching outside. A car’s engine rumbling. A key in the front door and the sound of three sets of feet – one big, two small – clattering on the wood floor of the hall.

  Lying as still as she possibly could, sprawled across the threshold between the bedroom and the en suite, she held her breath and stared into the distance. Knew Tim had not yet registered the fact that his family had walked back in the door. He was too engrossed in yanking her trousers and knickers down, and shouting triumphantly, the prick.

  Where was the toaster in relation to where she lay with her arms, splayed above her head? The appliance was still plugged in just within reach, on the bedroom side of the study wall. If nothing else, she could surprise him and cosh him over that boulder of a head with it.

  Finally, just as he was about to force himself inside what he believed was her corpse, it seemed to dawn on him that Sophie and the kids were home. He scrambled to his feet, slipping on the wet tiled floor.

  Bev seized her chance. Snatching the toaster, she caught him on the temple hard enough that he was momentarily dazed. Horrified disbelief in his eyes.

  ‘You’re dead!’

  ‘Nope. Think again, dickhead.’ She hit him again.

  With wet hands, he clawed at the toaster until he got a purchase on it. They were caught in a tug of war, each trying to gain dominion over the appliance. Wearing trainers with a good grip, Bev knew that she now had a physical advantage over him, despite her trousers and knickers still hanging round her ankles. And she sensed panic in her opponent.

  ‘Timmy, darling! We’re home! I’m coming up.’

  She tried to hook her leg inside his to destabilise him. But just as Tim prised the appliance from her hands, he lost his footing, slid and fell over the side of the bath with an almighty splash, taking the toaster with him. There was a loud bang. Bev fell backwards, landing by the toilet.

  ‘Timmy! Are you OK!’ Sophie at the top of the stairs, now.

  Hastily yanking her trousers back up, Bev peered over the side of the bath, aghast. Tim’s body twitched and shook as the electricity cracked and fizzed around him. Rushing to the socket, wiping her hands on her top, she yanked the plug out.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Sophie asked, perplexed, advancing into the room.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s been an accident.’ Bev’s voice was hoarse. Her throat ached from the attempt made on her own life. She approached Sophie, holding her hand out.

  ‘An accident? What kind of accident?’ Sophie pushed her away, running into the en suite. She dropped to her knees by the side of the bath. Her high-pitched scream rent the air when she saw her husband, face down in the water, still clutching a toaster with blackened, blistered hands. ‘Oh my good God.’

  ‘It’s not how it looks,’ Bev said, wishing at that moment that she were anywhere but in a bathroom with the naked dead body of her best friend’s spouse. ‘I can explain.’

  CHAPTER 47

  Bev

  ‘You have the right to remain silent. You do not have to say anything but . . .’

  Bev stopped hearing the female detective who was cautioning her. The words of warning became a confused jumble of legalese as she stared at the heavy metal cuffs on her hands. Of all the dreadful things that had happened to her of late, this was perhaps the worst.

  ‘It was an accident, you know,’ she said, searching for a glimmer of sympathy in the cop’s flinty face. Then she recognised that it was Owen. ‘He throttled me. We started scuffling. Next minute, he’s in the bath.’

  In the en suite, a team of forensic pathologists wearing white jumpsuits were busy about the crime scene, photographing the alarming tableau of the large man in a small bath, still clinging to a toaster. She’d been arrested for murder by a detective who was irritated by her at best. Bev knew she was never getting Hope back. Even if she could somehow clear her name, this was all Rob needed to put a permanent kibosh on any claim she might have had to custody.

  ‘He’s a killer. Was, I mean. Tim. I can prove it.’ Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to push away the memory of Sophie, screaming at her that she was evil ; keening over her husband’s lifeless body, magnified beneath the electrified water. ‘If you look in my cardigan pocket, you can see I’m wired.’

  ‘You never learn your lesson do you, Beverley?’ Owen said, a glimmer of satisfaction lightening an otherwise disapproving scowl. ‘You’re just an amateur, love. Not the police. You should never have tried to tackle him alone.’

  ‘I’m not an amateur! I was trying to get him to confess.’

  ‘With a live electric toaster? In a bathroom?’ the policewoman asked. ‘OK, let’s take this down to the station, sh
all we?’

  ‘I need to call my solicitor,’ Bev said, trying to expel the strange tightness in her stomach and gullet.

  Her attention shifted back to the forensic team, grunting with the effort of lifting Tim’s body from the bath. The water was pouring everywhere as they manoeuvred his dead weight into a black body bag. Bile rose in her throat at the sight of his face, already showing a strange blue tinge around the lips and along his jawline. Almost overcome with pity and guilt, it was as though the contents of her stomach were rising on a bubble of her anxiety.

  ‘Oh. Oh, I’m sorry.’ She vomited on the cop’s shiny court shoes.

  As she was escorted down the stairs, the sound of Sophie’s wailing, and the children’s apoplectic screaming in the living room, left her feeling crumpled and defeated.

  ‘Get out of my house,’ Sophie yelled as Bev trudged past the doorway. She flung a Homes & Garden magazine with such force and accuracy that it hit Bev squarely in the chest. ‘I’m going to throw your stuff out and change the locks, you heinous bitch. I hate you.’ She was shrieking now, hammering her fists on her knees. The bawling children, red-faced and woeful beyond redemption, froze and fell silent, staring at their Mummy with startled eyes as though she had transformed into a crazed beast that might eat them whole.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Bev whispered. ‘If it’s any consolation, Tim—’

  ‘Out!’ Sophie was on her feet now, prowling with intent to where Bev stood in the hall.

  Bev couldn’t remember ever seeing her friend looking so human. Her hair was dishevelled. Her eyeliner had melted into panda-like rings on her lower eyelids. Her normally flawless complexion had taken on a satanic florid fury, and the vein in her forehead, normally so delicate beneath her translucent skin, lending her an apparent vulnerability, throbbed blue like a warning signal.

  ‘You killed him. You witch. You fucking . . . fucking . . . bastard.’