by Mark Tilbury
He toasted the words with a noisy slurp of wine and squinted at his mother. She would have liked his work. Encouraged him. Inspired him. Helped him.
Your mother might have been born again as a man.
King sobered at the thought. Dark, unbidden and cruel.
A rent boy, perhaps?
King slammed down his glass on the coffee table hard enough to break the stem.
Nathan was about the right age. Seventeen, eighteen, give or take a pimple.
King stood up and stomped into the kitchen. He refused to sit and listen to any more of this nonsense. He stepped out into the garden. The sudden change of temperature stilled the spiteful voice in his head. He stood for as long as his body could endure before going back inside.
Shaking in much the same way Nathan had when King had hacked off his left nipple with a razor blade, he sat at the kitchen table and wrapped his arms around his chest to get warm. The central heating kept the house at a steady twenty-two degrees, but tonight it felt set at minus-two.
One hour and two brandies later, he had the rough outline of a plan regarding the untimely demise of Charles and Gavin Westwood. Crude, and far from finished, the plan was beautiful in its simplicity. He would arrange a meeting between them. Convince Charles to let the hypnotherapist erase his memories of New Year’s Eve. A private session at Westwood’s home. Once there, he would shoot them both, and then arrange the crime scene to make it appear as if Charles had murdered Westwood and then turned the gun on himself.
It would need fine tuning, and some incriminating evidence to tie Westwood and Charles together, but he had several secret love letters from Westwood locked in a bureau in the study. He’d just stuff one in Charles’s pocket after the shooting. None of them referred to King by name. They’d always used pet names when corresponding. The police would simply assume that Charles was Bunnykins, and close the case and mark it as misadventure.
King held onto the bannister for support as he staggered upstairs to bed. It wasn’t much of a plan, but at least it would give his intellect something to work with in the coming days. Something to console himself with as he looked at Charles Honeywell’s maudlin face at the breakfast table on these freezing winter mornings.
37
After spending the night at the hospital and New Year’s Day at Tony’s mother’s, Mel’s patience was wearing thin. Not that she particularly disliked Vicky Hollis, but it was sickly the way she talked to Tony as if he was still wearing short trousers. To make matters worse, her tiny two-bedroom flat was barely sufficient to house the four of them in the long term.
It was still far too early to properly assess the damage to the house, but Mel didn’t care what state it was in; she would never set foot inside Thirty-six St Kilda’s Close again, even if someone waved a magic wand and turned the place into her dream home. It would be forever tainted and representative of the diabolical attempt to murder her family.
With Chloe in bed, the three adults sat around the kitchen table discussing the fire.
Vicky ran a hand through her tangled grey hair. ‘Why would anyone do such a wicked thing?’
Tony sighed. ‘It’s a wicked world.’
Mel stared at the knots in the pine table. Tony had agreed not to say anything about Chloe. It was hard enough trying to deal with the fire, without fanning the flames with talk of the supernatural.
‘On New Year’s Eve,’ Vicky added, as if that made a difference. ‘The state of the world these days makes me want to weep.’
‘It was probably kids,’ Tony said.
‘Oh, well, that’s all right, then. They’ll just give them a pat on the back and send them off to Disneyland.’
Tony nodded. ‘Some of them don’t know they’re born these days.’
Mel stood up. ‘I’m going outside for a cigarette.’
‘Perhaps now might be a good time to consider giving up,’ Vicky said. ‘Make it your New Year’s Resolution.’
Mel’s patience snapped. ‘I’ve got more important things to do right now.’
‘I know this is hard for you, Mel, but vanishing behind a cloud of smoke won’t help. Not to mention the cost.’
Mel’s need for a cigarette increased tenfold. ‘I couldn’t care less.’
‘You have Chloe to consider. It’s not fair on her… or Tony.’
‘Poor Tony.’
‘He hates smoking.’
‘Have you asked your precious son what it is I hate about him?’
Vicky looked about to say something, snapped her mouth shut, and looked at her Tony.
‘It’s nothing, Mum. We’re all on edge at the moment, that’s all.’
Mel laughed. ‘That’s the bloody understatement of the year.’
Vicky looked at her son and said, ‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’
‘It’s just been a bad time for everyone.’
‘Did you two really split up because Mel started smoking again?’
Mel rolled her eyes. ‘Is that what he told you?’
‘He said you had a big row about it.’
Mel felt the truth threaten to burst out of her. ‘And you believe him?’
‘I don’t know what to believe. I just want you to be happy for that little girl’s sake.’
‘At least we agree on something,’ Mel said, walking out of the flat and putting the front door on the latch.
She stood shivering in the communal front garden whilst she smoked her cigarette right down to the filter. Why couldn’t Tony be a man for once, assume responsibility and tell his overbearing mother the real reason why they’d split up? When she returned to the flat, mother and son were still sitting at the table, the silence between them palpable. Mel knew they’d been talking about her; the words were written all over their faces.
‘Is it cold out?’ Vicky asked.
‘You could say that.’
‘I’m not judging you, Mel. Your marriage is your own affair. God knows me and Tony’s father had our fair share of ups and down, God rest his soul. You have to compromise. You can get those nicotine patches for smoking nowadays. It’s not that difficult. Tony said he’ll support you every step of the way.’
Mel looked at her husband with what she hoped was enough venom to poison him. ‘Is that right?’
Tony looked away.
‘If you want to know the real reason we split up, I’m sure Tony will find it in his heart to tell you. I’ll tell you this much, though: it has nothing to do with smoking.’
Vicky’s eyes swivelled to her son like gun barrels. ‘Is that right?’
‘Now’s not the time, Mother. It’s complicated.’
Mel laughed. ‘It’s not. It’s really quite simple.’
‘I’m not going to discuss it now,’ Tony said. ‘We’ve got enough to worry about with the fire and everything.’
Chloe saved Tony from further embarrassment. She appeared in the kitchen doorway, eyes wide, Ruby Rag Doll clutched to her chest. ‘Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home.’
Mel took a few steps towards her. ‘Chloe?’
‘He’s coming.’
‘Who?’
‘The Tall Man.’
‘What the hell’s she talking about?’ Vicky asked.
Tony put a finger to his lips. ‘She’s sleepwalking.’
Mel crouched down in front of Chloe, heart pounding. ‘Who’s the Tall Man, Pumpkin?’
‘Shakespeare.’
‘William Shakespeare?’
Chloe nodded.
‘But he died a long time ago.’
‘No one dies.’
‘No?’
‘We all go round and round. Like the wheels on the bus.’
Mel was about to reach out, pull Chloe close, when she spoke again. ‘I’ve landed on the Death Square.’
‘Wake her up!’ Vicky demanded.
Mel ignored her. ‘What’s the “Death Square,” Pumpkin?’
Chloe smirked. A nasty sarcastic sound that had no right coming from a child. ‘I thi
nk you’ll find it’s all in the name.’
‘Is this how—?’
‘All in the game, even. Marlowe refused to pardon me.’
‘Who the bloody hell’s Marlowe?’ Tony whispered.
Mel leaned close enough to almost touch noses. ‘Did Marlowe kill you?’
‘Guilty as guillotines.’
Mel remembered the picture Chloe had drawn at Kerrie-Anne’s. Remembered it in all its gory vivid detail. In that one moment, she understood everything.
‘What’s your name?’
Chloe sighed. ‘You know what my name is.’
‘Amy?’
Chloe nodded. She dropped Ruby Rag Doll and put her hands behind her back. ‘Please, don’t hurt me.’
‘No one’s going to hurt you. Mummy’s right here with you.’
Chloe didn’t seem to hear her. She knelt on the cold linoleum floor, head up, as if her chin was resting on something solid. Her breathing came in short ragged gasps. She closed her eyes, squeezing them into slits.
‘Wake her up,’ Tony said. ‘Wake her up, Mel.’
Mel stared, unblinking, stomach clenched, as a large, red mark appeared on Chloe’s neck.
Mel tried to act, but she couldn’t move. It was as if she was part of some never-ending nightmare.
‘Help me, help me, help me…’ Chloe yelled, gargling the words.
‘Stop it!’ Tony shouted. ‘Stop it, now!’ He ran to his daughter and scooped her up in his arms.
Vicky stood beside Mel, one hand clutching her throat. ‘What in God’s name is wrong with her?’
‘It’s nothing, Mum,’ Tony said. ‘She’s just having a nightmare.’
‘I saw her neck! What’s happened to her?’
Tony walked to the bedroom, hugging Chloe, rocking her from side to side.
Vicky turned to Mel. ‘What’s going on?’
Mel didn’t answer her. How did you explain to a grandmother that her granddaughter had been executed by guillotine in a past life? It would have been simpler to explain the complete history of evolution in one simple sentence.
38
King did not react well to the news that the fire had destroyed the house but not the intended targets. He was even less inclined towards grace when the bearer of that news was the man he wanted dead by the end of the month.
‘What do you mean, they survived?’
‘What I say,’ Honeywell chirped, seemingly unable to contain the joy in his voice. ‘Mel phoned. Said Tony and Chloe got out before the fire really took hold. The fire brigade rescued her from the bedroom.’
‘Is this your idea of a joke?’
‘I’m just—’
‘Have you sensed my good mood and decided to destroy it with the worst possible news imaginable?’
‘It’s the truth.’ Honeywell’s voice adopted a more sombre tone. ‘Mel told me she’s not returning to work in the foreseeable future. Perhaps a period of reflection might be in order, Peter. Act in haste, and all that.’
King tossed a half-eaten slice of toast onto his plate and poured himself a cup of tea. ‘We should have broken in and doused the whole of the downstairs with petrol.’
‘I’m surprised Tony was there. I thought they’d split up.’
‘Stop using proletarian language. “Split up” is a meaningless term which makes no sense. Unless referring to log cutting, perhaps.’
‘I—’
‘Where are they now?’
‘At Tony’s mother’s.’
King resisted an urge to poke his lover in the eye. ‘And I’m supposed to know where that is, am I?’
‘I don’t know myself. I’m not a close family member, Peter. Just a friend.’
King didn’t care for the pout on Honeywell’s lips. ‘Then, in your elevated capacity as a friend of the family, you’d better find out where they are.’
‘I can hardly ask where the mother lives, can I? It’ll seem out of place.’
‘Not if you feign concern and insist on visiting.’
‘It might sound intrusive. Perhaps we should just wait a while and let the dust settle. We don’t want to—’
‘And what do you suggest we do whilst this “dust” settles? Have a few cosy nights in by the fire toasting marshmallows?’
‘It wouldn’t hurt.’
‘Let’s rewind, Charles. Remind ourselves who it was that started fretting about the child.’
After a pause, and another unsavoury pout, he said, ‘Me. But we don’t want to go rushing in and make any more mistakes, do we?’
‘The only mistake I made was listening to you.’
‘I thought we could start a new game of One False Move.’
Derailed by the sudden change of subject, not to mention the sheer stupidity of the suggestion, King said, ‘How in Dickens’ name are we supposed to concentrate whilst Mary Poppins and her spooky brat are still on the loose with tales to tell?’
‘I don’t think they will—’
‘Phone that bitch and find out where she is.’
‘But what will I say?’
‘Tell her you’ve got something for the brat. A personal message from Father Christmas if it helps. Just make sure you get the address.’
‘Someone ought to go to the theatre and check on the girls. It’s been a few days since—’
‘When did you suddenly become their welfare officer?’
‘I’m just saying.’
‘Fussing, more like. Those ill-bred types are hardy enough when they have to be. Something in the genes. If you trace the bloodlines back far enough, I’m sure you’ll find them to be direct descendants of mountain goats.’
‘We can’t just leave them to starve.’
‘We can. Now, do as I asked.’
Honeywell mumbled something under his breath as he left the kitchen. King consoled himself with thoughts of Gavin Westwood and Charles Honeywell both lying dead in the hypnotist’s lounge. A lovers’ spat escalating into violence and murder. The experience would lend his new play a realistic edge. Give him the added advantage of knowing his main characters’ motivations and traits. The headmaster and the hypnotist, driven by lust, greed and an insatiable urge to control. His mind bubbled with the ramifications of such a plot.
‘It is a fine line that draws itself between reality and fantasy,’ King whispered, driven to a sudden bout of creativity. ‘Entwined like an invisible thread, stitching together a montage of fevered jealousy and rage.’
He retrieved a notepad from a kitchen drawer, sat at the breakfast bar, and scrawled the words onto the paper while they were still freshly baked. He studied them. They seemed somewhat muddled. Bereft of the creative structure and genius of Shakespeare. The great man’s words always seemed to flow like a gentle stream over smooth pebbles.
Death knocks louder than opportunity.
What on earth did that mean? He had no idea, but wrote it down. Inspiration often came in riddles. One had to be patient with one’s muse; that fickle friend prone to bouts of sulking and contemplative silence. He’d learned that lesson the hard way after beating his head against the bedroom wall once after a nasty case of writer’s block. He’d spent a week in bed suffering migraines and severe bouts of depression in equal measure.
Honeywell returned to the kitchen and plonked his mobile on the breakfast bar.
‘Well?’
‘Went straight to voicemail.’
‘Did you leave a message?’
‘I thought it best not to. I didn’t want to seem too pushy.’
‘You do realise that this needs to be treated with urgency?’
‘I know. But—’
‘Why do you give me the impression of someone under the influence of apathy?’
‘I can’t make her answer the damned phone.’
‘No need to take that tone.’
‘Everything I do is wrong.’
‘Grow up, Charles. For someone who is the headmaster of a school, you seem to have adopted the whiny persona of your charges.’
<
br /> ‘I’m just fed up of being pushed around. You treat me as if I’m some menial servant. We’re supposed to be lovers.’
‘Angst doth ring its bell the loudest.’
Honeywell blinked and looked at King as if he’d just offered him a ride on a space rocket. ‘Is that Shakespeare?’
‘No; it’s mine.’
‘You wrote it?’
King scribbled it down on the pad. ‘Yes.’
‘It’s… good.’
‘You say that with trepidation.’
‘No. It’s genuinely good.’
‘Perhaps you think me incapable of great art?’
Honeywell didn’t need to answer. His eyes drew shades and claimed no one was home.
‘I can be whomever I want to be, Charles. I am not damned by limitations.’
‘I know. You’re very…’
‘Talented?’
‘Yes.’
‘Knowledge is the ink that shall furnish my pen. I shall write of impassioned nights beneath a gluttony of stars.’
Honeywell cocked his head to one side, seemingly less certain of this fresh outburst from King’s muse.
King forgave him his ignorance. ‘I’m going to write a new play.’
‘Have you got time for such a lengthy project?’
‘I shall make time.’
‘You’d have an awful lot more time if you forgot about Chloe Hollis.’
‘Do you enjoy chasing your own tail like a demented dog?’
‘I just want you to see reason, Peter.’
King looked at Honeywell’s half-closed eye sitting in its nest of bruises. The damn thing appeared to be winking at him. ‘I see something before me, and it bears no relation to reason.’
‘I don’t think —’
‘“Giddy Fortune’s furious fickle wheel, that goddess blind, that stands upon the rolling restless stone”,’ King said, opting for the safety and wisdom of Shakespeare. He emptied his plate of half-eaten toast into the waste bin, rinsed his hands under the tap, dried them, and took a four-inch paring knife from the drawer. He slipped it into the pocket of his dressing gown and returned to the breakfast bar.
‘So, let’s recap. You think we should just leave our future resting in the hands of a child?’