The Liar's Promise

by Mark Tilbury

  ‘Take stock of the situation.’

  Honeywell nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Lay the cards on the table and see what comes up trumps.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Then kill him.’

  Honeywell’s eyes widened. ‘Kill him?’

  King puffed on the cigar, and then rested it in an ornate glass ashtray. ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘I don’t like this, Peter. I’ve got a bad feeling about where this might be leading.’

  ‘You’d have a bad feeling if a genie appeared and granted you three wishes.’

  ‘It’s just… it all seems to be getting out of hand.’

  King was undisturbed by his lover’s fretting. ‘We’ll kill the girl first.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Tomorrow night. And take that pained expression off your face; you look like a man with a nasty bout of constipation.’

  ‘What if the mother tells someone they went to see a hypnotist? If we kill Gavin Westwood and the child, there’ll be a link. The police will be on to it quicker than you can say boo to a goose.’

  ‘What a ridiculous turn of phrase.’

  ‘We’ll end up in prison, Peter. Please see reason.’

  ‘Will you stop fretting. Gavin said he would program the mother to have no memory of the event. He might be a devious perverted creep on a good day, but he’s an expert in his chosen field. The mother won’t tell anyone about visiting The Wellbeing Clinic because she won’t even remember being there.’

  ‘How on earth are we going to kill the child?’

  King ignored him, slurped the last of his brandy, and held out his glass for a refill.

  Honeywell took it, a sour look in his eyes. ‘We should at least wait a while. Let the dust settle. That Olivia woman kept giving me funny looks.’

  ‘That’s because Olivia’s a man. She doesn’t know how to look. Neither would you with your penis duct-taped to your thigh. I should imagine it’s an eye-watering experience if it should get aroused.’

  Honeywell handed him a fresh drink. ‘Ouch.’

  King raised his glass. ‘“To be, or not to be: that is the question: whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them. To die: to sleep.’”

  Honeywell stood in the middle of the room, lips pressed into a thin line. ‘Is it really necessary to kill the child?’

  ‘Circumstance dictates necessity.’

  ‘I don’t see how killing her is going to help. From where I’m standing, it’s only going to add to our problems.’

  King decided to quote Westwood. The man was about as articulate as fog, but King rather liked the phrase he’d used earlier to argue the existence of former lives. ‘Dead lips don’t lie.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘For a supposedly educated man, you show a distinct lack of understanding.’

  ‘I—’

  King waved a hand at him. Sometimes it was like trying to converse with a goldfish. ‘Enough. I don’t want your doubts and worries polluting my mind and clouding my judgement whilst I try to think.’

  Honeywell turned away. ‘Please don’t get too drunk.’

  ‘I need something to steady the ship tonight, or I fear sleep will be as elusive as your sense of adventure.’

  31

  King sat up in bed, moonlight spilling into the room courtesy of the open curtains. He had no recollection of coming to bed, only a thumping headache and a parched throat to remind him he’d drunk far too much brandy and smoked too many cigars. To his immediate alarm, his lover was absent. Again. Last time had been forgivable, considering Charles had been busy dismembering the rent boy. But tonight?

  Perhaps you revealed some of your innermost thoughts.

  This possibility brought King’s dormant brain cells onto active duty. Considering one of his darkest wishes for the New Year was to erase his lover from both the earth and from his memory, he wondered if his tongue had slipped up and, well, let something slip.

  As his brain scanned empty memory banks for clues to the evening’s conversation, he cursed all that was heavenly for dealing him such a poor hand in life. Why couldn’t he find a kindred spirit to share his life with? If pressed, he would have to admit that Charles was eager to please. Compliant. Good between the sheets. But about as exciting as a gatepost.

  What about the girl? His mind whispered.

  King was in no mood or state to consider her at this hour. The digital clock on the bedside table informed him it was seven minutes past three. So much for booze acting as a sleep aid. His attention was suddenly drawn to the sash window. Or, more importantly, to whatever had just moved in front of the damned thing. A shape, ill-defined and ghostly in appearance, danced rhythmically to one side of the frame.

  King’s heart banged against his ribs. He rubbed his eyes and peeked again. Still there. But this time it had a face.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he croaked.

  The figure didn’t respond. Its ghostly form fluttered, as if caught in a breeze. King watched in horror as it materialised into Purple-five, her long blonde hair flowing around her face as if floating in water.

  He gripped the duvet and pulled it up to his neck. ‘Get away from me.’

  Purple-five smiled and swayed.

  ‘You’re dead,’ King squawked. ‘Dead. Get away from me, you hear?’

  Purple-five continued her grinning ritualistic dance. Her remaining eye seemed to milk his mind of coherent thought.

  He opted for a lie dressed up in bravado. ‘You don’t scare me.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  King wasn’t sure which terrified him the most: the apparition, or the deep male voice that seemed to be coming from it.

  ‘Peter? What’s wrong?’

  For the second time in as many days, Charles Honeywell had interrupted a personal moment. He turned on the light. ‘Peter? It’s me. Whatever’s the matter?’

  King could now see that the object of his terror was just a net curtain fluttering in the breeze. ‘Where in devil’s name have you been?’

  ‘To the toilet. My bladder’s playing up again.’

  ‘Who opened that bloody window?’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘Whatever for? It’s the middle of winter.’

  ‘You said you wanted some air.’

  ‘Why didn’t you close it? I thought it was a…’

  ‘What?’

  King clamped his mouth. Some things were better left unsaid.

  After showering, and drinking two mugs of black coffee, King sat at the dining table scowling at his partner and cursing insomnia. ‘Can’t you do anything without being told to do so?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The window.’

  ‘You were adamant, Peter. You said to leave it open.’

  ‘I was drunk.’

  On that score, Honeywell seemed in complete agreement. ‘Quite.’

  ‘If I’d been demanding the keys to the car to take it for a drive in the swimming pool, would you have allowed me?’

  Honeywell dodged the question. ‘What were you so afraid of?’

  ‘Nothing. It was just a nightmare.’

  Honeywell blew steam from the rim of his mug. ‘It’s been… a very distressing week, all things considered.’

  ‘That’s one way of looking at it.’

  ‘At least we know the afterlife actually exists.’

  King clapped his hands together, startling his lover. ‘Praise Jesus! Now all we need is the other game pieces to present themselves in dozens of children and our life’s work will be complete. We’ll have a posse of obsessed parents beating a path to our door before you can say “reincarnation”.’

  ‘I thought Westwood programmed the child to forget everything?’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Why don’t we just sit tight and see what happens. I can keep an eye on Mel when I go back to school.’<
br />
  ‘I’m not leaving this up to providence.’

  ‘But we can’t kill a child.’

  King winced at the mewling tone of his lover’s voice. ‘We have no alternative.’

  ‘She’s a kid, Peter. Think about it. Even if she still remembers being Purple-five, no one in their right mind will believe her. The police pay scant attention to all that supernatural stuff.’

  ‘I don’t care what they do. I don’t want them sniffing around my door. In case it’s slipped your mind, we have nineteen heads residing in freezers. How do you propose we explain those to the police?’

  ‘I’m—’

  ‘Not to mention what’s concealed in the bowels of Feelham Theatre. You’ll be humming a different tune if they cart you off to prison for the rest of your life. No nice fat pension to enjoy. Just a bleak prison cell, at the mercy of murderers and rapists. Is that what you want, Charles?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘To wake up every morning not knowing if you’ll make it through another day?’

  ‘“They whose guilt within their bosoms lie, imagine every eye beholds their blame.’”

  ‘Don’t resort to quoting Shakespeare to lend authority to your weak argument,’ King said. ‘And, for your information, I do not hold one ounce of guilt within my heart. I have lived a life true to my spirit. Am I to be compared to a common criminal by the very man who purports to love me?’

  ‘I do love you.’

  ‘Then why do you delight in opposing me?’

  ‘I’m not. I’m—’

  ‘Why do you sit at the very table where we break our bread and share our experiences, and accuse me of paranoia? Even a man of your limited abilities can see the child threatens the very foundations upon which we stand.’

  ‘It was me who alerted you to her in the first place, remember? I’m just trying to make you see the dangers inherent in murdering her.’

  ‘Spoken so eloquently by the man who’s perfectly happy to chop a rent boy into bite-size chunks.’

  ‘That’s different.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘No one will be bothered about a male prostitute. Other than his pimp, perhaps. But a child? She’s got family. People who love her. Care about her.’

  ‘And your point is?’

  ‘I just want you to consider the implications.’

  King flapped a hand. ‘We’ll burn the house down tomorrow night. Pour an accelerant through the letter box and set fire to it.’

  ‘I’m not having anything to do with this. I couldn’t kill a child.’

  ‘Why not? In light of what we know about reincarnation, just think of it as recycling.’

  ‘I’m begging you, Peter. Please reconsider.’

  ‘Stop allowing emotion to cloud your judgement. If you didn’t know the mother, you wouldn’t even be questioning this.’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with knowing Mel. It’s a four-year-old child, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘And you’re behaving like one. We set fire to the house tomorrow night. And that is my final word on the subject.’ King stood up and strode from the room before Charles Honeywell tempted him to do something regrettable.

  32

  They buried Mel’s father during the afternoon of New Year’s Eve. She’d been in a good mood for the past couple of days, almost as if someone had waved a magic wand over her and lifted the terrible smog of the past weeks. She’d also benefited from Chloe sleeping through the night for the first time in ages.

  There were just a handful of mourners at the funeral. A few friends, Uncle Tom, an old aunt who seemed to thrive on sorrow, and Mel and Tony. Chloe was staying with Kerrie-Anne for the day.

  By the time the guests left the house in St Kilda’s Close after eating much of Mel’s leftover food from Christmas, Mel was just about ready to burst. She’d refrained from having a cigarette throughout the three-hour gathering because she didn’t want to meet with disapproval from the aunt who seemed to fuss and cluck at everything like an old hen in a farmyard.

  Tony took a sip from his bottle of Budweiser. ‘You held up well today, all things considered.’

  Mel retrieved a packet of cigarettes from a kitchen cupboard and lit up. ‘I’m knackered.’

  ‘You did great.’

  ‘I did what I had to.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘If you’re fishing to see whether I’ve forgiven you, Tony, don’t bother. I’ll never forgive you.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Have you any idea how much you’ve hurt me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How would you feel if I’d done it to you? Screwed a teacher at school to help get over Megan’s death? How?’

  ‘I’d be devastated.’

  ‘Would you call me a whore?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Did you make her come, Tony?’

  The question made him recoil. ‘I don’t—’

  ‘Did you go down on her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that.’

  ‘What was it like?’

  ‘Nothing. A meaningless screw.’

  ‘What does she look like?’

  ‘Nothing special.’

  ‘Was she married?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, you were quite prepared to destroy another marriage as well as your own?’

  ‘I didn’t want to destroy anything. I told you, I wasn’t thinking straight.’

  Mel finished her cigarette and lit another. ‘You know what makes me laugh in all this?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The way you judge other people. They say hypocrites are the most opinionated bastards on the planet.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’ve got a simple equation for your mathematician’s head. You can teach it to all those kids at your posh school. Stand them in good stead for when they grow up. You want to hear it?’

  Tony didn’t.

  ‘One careless fuck can ruin many innocent lives. How does that sound?’

  Tony shrugged.

  ‘One for the curriculum?’

  He stared at the floor like a naughty schoolboy.

  Mel stared out the kitchen window. She hated him with every ounce of her being for what he’d done, for inflicting such damage with one careless act, but he was still Chloe’s father. Whatever happened during the rest of their lives, wherever fate took them, they would always be joined together by the precious gift of a child.

  ‘I’ve got to pick Chloe up at six.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll get off.’

  ‘You can wait here. She’s still your daughter. You can spend the evening with us if you want.’

  ‘Do you mean it?’

  ‘I don’t know what I mean anymore, Tony. But I believe you love Chloe, and she adores you. I see no reason to let our troubles spoil that.’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’

  ‘I’d appreciate it if you could tidy up while I’m gone.’

  Tony looked as if he’d just won the lottery. ‘Anything.’

  Mel drove to Kerrie-Anne’s on autopilot. She could never let Tony back into her life. Never trust him again. Perhaps in time the pain might diminish, but the act of betrayal would always hang over their relationship like an axe waiting to fall. He’d only need to be home half an hour late from work, or get called away to a meeting, and Stephanie Wallace might as well walk naked into the room and wrap her arms around his neck.

  But she had to consider Chloe. Tony was her father. A good father. And it wasn’t fair to let his sordid affair spoil that. Tony could go home after Chloe went to bed. It would give them time to work something out regarding access. At least, until the courts could make a proper ruling.

  She rang the doorbell and stood shivering on the doorstep. She’d forgotten to put on a coat, and her black cardigan was too thin to have any benefit.

  Kerrie-Anne opened the door. ‘Come on in.’

  Mel stepped inside the warm
hallway. ‘How’s she been?’

  ‘Good as gold.’

  Mel felt some of the knots in her stomach slacken. ‘No more pictures?’

  ‘No. Harriet let her dress up in her nurse’s outfit. Last thing I heard, Chloe diagnosed her with a temperature and asked me if Harriet could have some Calpol.’

  Chloe burst into the hallway. ‘Mummy!’

  Just the simple normality of her child’s demeanour almost brought tears to Mel’s eyes. ‘Hiya, Pumpkin.’

  Chloe wrapped her arms around Mel’s middle. ‘Are we going home now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve been playing doctors.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Harriet had a temperature, but I made her better.’

  ‘Aren’t you a clever girl?’

  Chloe nodded. ‘I wish someone could make me better.’

  ‘What do you mean, sweetheart?’

  ‘My head’s poorly.’

  ‘Headache?’

  ‘It hurts where they cut my head off.’

  Mel’s heart stalled. She stepped back as if the words had physically assaulted her. ‘What… do… you… mean?’

  Chloe blinked. ‘What’s wrong, Mummy?’

  ‘What did you just say?’

  ‘I made Harriet better.’

  ‘Before that?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Mel glanced at Kerrie-Anne. The childminder shook her head.

  Mel told Chloe to put her coat on.

  ‘Are you all right, Mummy?’

  ‘Mummy’s just tired. I’ve got a surprise for you.’

  Chloe fought with the sleeves of her purple coat, twisting around in circles as she searched for the armholes. ‘Another Christmas present?’

  ‘Better than that.’

  Chloe rammed her arm home. ‘Nothing’s better than Christmas presents.’

  ‘This is.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Daddy’s at home.’

  Chloe’s eyes sparkled. ‘Yay! For good?’

  ‘Just for tonight.’

  ‘Is Grandma Vicky still sick?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I wish Daddy could come home forever.’

  ‘Me, too,’ Mel said, the words more truthful than she would have cared to admit. ‘Me, too.’

  33