by Peter Hey
The answer, of course, was to knock on the door. Walk across the road, rat-a-tat-tat, and ‘Good morning. Do you mind if I come in?’ That’s what he was there for after all. Wasn’t it? So what was stopping him? Was he scared? If so, what was there to be frightened of? What could she do, exactly? What could she do or say to him that he didn’t totally, thoroughly deserve?
No, it was more debilitating than simple fear. He was consumed by shame. It was the emotion that had started to dominate his every thought. He had done things that were… so, so wrong. And this last act… He had thought himself on the verge of renewal if not redemption, but in a moment of madness it had all gone wrong. Its shadow had been taunting him while he lay sleepless in bed at night, and it made him pull his knees into his chest and scream out for forgiveness. And if not forgiveness then grant him forgetfulness, but how could he achieve that while oxygen still filled his lungs and blood still flowed to his brain?
He knew then it was time to leave, to get in his car and drive away. He would never see Jane Madden again, and it would be—
But there she was, on her doorstep, wearing a baggy orange jumper over scruffy jeans, with her dark-blonde, browny hair tied back in a ponytail. It was round-the-house, not-seeing-anyone casual, yet she still managed to look attractive, tall and strong. She was taking some flattened cardboard out to a recycling bin on her drive, the mundane normality of life.
And then she was talking to a man on a ladder a couple of doors down. He was making repairs to the bay at the front of his house. And it probably was his house. He didn’t look like a tradesman, and there was no tell-tale white van parked close by. As she spoke to him, she was stroking her jumper as if to straighten the creases. The man was young, around her age. And from this distance, he could well be handsome. Her body language suggested she was flirting.
The observer, a large man with an empty coldness to his right eye, had leant back in his chair to pull his face away from the window. Was this jealousy he now felt? He knew it was, but it was the jealousy of a father whose teenage daughter has brought home her first boyfriend, that sense of protectiveness tempered with the inevitability of loss. It was an emotion that had been denied him until that moment.
The conversation was brief and Jane went inside, shutting the door behind her.
Big Steve Jones lifted himself up with an old man’s sigh, and a couple of young mothers at the back of the café interrupted their chatter to signal each other with their eyebrows. At full height he was still an imposing giant of a man, though age was starting to diminish the implicit threat in his appearance. A patch of pale brown scalp was clearly visible through his lank, greying hair, and there was a sluggish tiredness to his movements.
He nodded farewell to the owner standing at the till and left. He knew in his heart that he had seen his daughter for the last time. He would soon be on a boat and could never return. He was running away, just as he had run away when she was a child. She owed him nothing. If he had wanted her to listen to his remorse, his excuses, his apologies, he was a self-indulgent fool. If he cared for her at all, if he had ever cared, the best thing he could do was to keep away from her and out of her life. Nothing had changed.
Flawed design
Jane decided she needed a day devoid of thinking, a day of catching up on routine chores which could be done on autopilot while listening to the radio or with the TV on in the background. In particular, she wanted to attack the pile of crumpled clothing that had been building up since the thermostat on her grandmother’s old iron had got stuck on its centre-of-the-sun setting, ruining Jane’s favourite shirt in the process. The artificial fibres had refused to surrender their colours through a hundred washes, but had shrivelled and melted in an instant, releasing pungent chemical odours that had required windows to be flung open all around the house. The iron had been binned, and Jane was now the proud owner of a high-pressure, anti-scale, ‘pro-elite’, steam generator that claimed to do the job pretty much on its own. She had not been totally convinced by the online marketing blurb, but had ordered this particular model because it came in a striking shade of candy-apple red.
Jane was not patient with new technology but forced herself to look at the instructions. They weren’t easy to follow, so she decided to work it out as she went along. She switched her TV to a classic movie channel and was rewarded with a black-and-white English comedy whodunit from the early 1960s. She’d seen it before but that was perfect. Half her brain could focus on the film; the other half could worry about smoothing and steaming out wrinkles.
After two murders and three blouses, Jane turned off the iron. It worked okay, but was nothing special. Maybe she wasn’t using it properly. She might need to study the manual again, after all. Unfortunately, that required concentration and her mind insisted on churning over the events at Gloucester Docks the previous day.
Jane had driven Cyn home and had been relieved when she seemed to recover from Alan’s outburst quite quickly. Her initial hurt was replaced by sadness that the son of an old friend, the little boy she had met so long ago, had been battered by his upbringing and subsequent life such that it left him so delusional and unstable. The two women discussed what might be done and agreed it was important that he recognise the irrationality of his behaviour. His only family was his aunt in North Wales, though they were effectively estranged. Jane said she would contact Barbara Curston, nonetheless, and ask if she could intervene in some way.
Jane made the phone call as soon as she got back to Nottingham. Barbara agreed to speak to her nephew, to implore him to seek help, though she questioned her influence. Jane wasn’t sure what else they could do. Alan had not shown signs of violence, other than to a bunch of flowers; no threats were issued and falling in love with an old photograph was hardly a crime.
The new iron had come in a large cardboard box whose cover repeated the boasts of its prowess, and featured an attractive female model grinning like she had won the lottery and would never have to do her own housework again. Jane decided the box was taking up too much space and she couldn’t bear the woman’s smug face for very much longer. She took a bread knife to the cardboard seams and flattened and folded it to a manageable size. Opening the front door, she walked out to her recycling bin. Over her shoulder, she heard a voice suddenly shout, ‘Oh, bugger!’
Two doors down, a man was up a stepladder, craning under the canopy of the unusual bay window the houses on this side of the street all shared. He lifted his head back and up, and began looking at his hands. One was holding a sealant gun; both were coated in something that looked like tar.
‘You okay?’ asked Jane.
The man twisted towards her. His frown became a smile. His face instantly reminded her of Dave, perhaps more chiselled and less rugged. Physically, he wasn’t quite as tall, but he looked muscular in a slim kind of way – the kind of way that could make a love-starved girl go dizzy. Jane involuntarily began smoothing the old jumper she wore while slouching around the house, simultaneously trying to remember if she had actually brushed her hair that morning.
‘I do apologise for my language,’ he said, in an accent that sounded educated without being plummy. ‘I’ve just moved in and there seems to be a bit of leak.’
‘I’m afraid they’re a bad design,’ said Jane. ‘We’ve all had problems. They look interesting but water gathers underneath. It depends on the wind direction, I think.’
He was staring at his hands again. ‘Not something the estate agent mentioned.’
‘It’s evil stuff that’, said Jane, pointing to the black stickiness on his fingers. ‘That’s what my husband, ex-husband, always used to say. I tried using some in the bathroom recently. It got everywhere.’
‘Yeh, I thought outside I wouldn’t need it to be too neat. The colour would match the paintwork. I think the trick is to squeeze it out and then not fiddle around with it.’
‘And definitely don’t lick your fingers.’
He looked at Jane quizzically.
‘To smooth i
t down,’ she explained quickly. ‘It doesn’t taste great and you get bacteria in it. Leads to mould. That’s what I read online anyway.’
He smiled again. ‘My girlfriend used to do all this stuff, believe it or not. Her dad’s a builder. She was, is, a very practical woman.’
‘Was? Is?’
‘Yeh, yeh. We split up. We’d reached a stage… My company wanted me to relocate. She could work anywhere, but I knew she wasn’t going to come with me. It was for the best.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Jane failed to get much conviction in her voice.
He shrugged philosophically. ‘That’s life, I guess. No-one’s fault. Just one of those things.’ He paused and nervously ran his tongue along his top lip. ‘Look, I was hoping to bump into you sometime.’
‘Uh-huh,’ replied Jane, striving to sound casually indifferent.
‘Yeh. I saw you the other day with a tennis bag. I just wondered if you could recommend a local club. I play a bit myself.’
It was Jane’s turn to lift her shoulders. ‘I could take you… I mean, would you like a game?’
‘That would be brilliant. You know how it is when you move somewhere new.’
‘Are you around this weekend? Do you want me to see when I can book a court?’
‘Absolutely,’ he answered, his enthusiasm undisguised.
‘Okay.’ Jane grinned in confirmation. ‘When I get chance, I’ll have a look. I’ll knock on your door if you’re not still in the front.’
He grimaced. ‘I think I’m going to be out here for quite a while...’
Back inside, Jane sat down at her computer. An email had arrived from Tommy, but she resisted opening it and logged into the tennis club’s website instead. She had been playing as Sarah’s guest but had now joined as a member in her own right. The cost made her cringe, but she justified it in terms of both her physical and mental health. She had never been good at taking exercise for its own sake, and tennis was something she would do for fun rather than prescribed obligation. The online booking system said there was a court free on Sunday afternoon. She checked the weather forecast and it seemed fine, cold but dry. She reserved the slot and got up to go outside. She immediately sat back down again. She had spent a few minutes talking to a moderately good-looking, single man and was behaving like a love-struck schoolgirl. He had just moved into the area and was trying to find his way around the community and establish himself with his neighbours. He was being friendly, not looking for romance. She had instigated the conversation. His split with his girlfriend would still be raw, and she was, in all probability, much prettier and nicer than Jane could ever be. Jane needed to relax and play it cool. Those were the rules of the game, whether he was interested or not.
Jane went into the kitchen to make herself a coffee. If she drank it slowly, maybe had another, then that would be a respectable enough delay. It said, I’m efficient and act promptly on my promises, but I’m not a desperate woman on her own who drops everything when a man so much as acknowledges my existence.
No sooner had the kettle boiled when the doorbell rang. Jane looked down at her baggy orange jumper and wondered if she should have changed. He – she really must find out his name – had broken first. Or maybe he hadn’t. Maybe it was the postman with something that wouldn’t fit through the letterbox. Jane walked down the hall moulding her best I-was-in-the-middle-of-something-but-how-can-I-help-you? expression. She opened the door and her insouciant smile froze.
It was Alan Shaw.
He appeared flushed and clammy on what was not a hot day. He had either been running or working himself up in some other way.
‘Alan, I didn’t know you had my address,’ said Jane, vaguely recalling a conversation about the uniqueness of her street’s window architecture. ‘How are you feeling today?’
‘Not great,’ he answered, his voice cold but his face continuing to redden.
Jane glanced sideways towards her new neighbour’s house. The stepladder was still there but no-one was on it.
‘So, what can I do for you? Do you want to talk?’ she said cautiously.
‘Talk? Alan’s nostrils widened as he took a deep breath. ‘Oh, I’ve got things I want to say. Like how you made me look a fool. How you humiliated me. How you—'
‘Alan!’
‘You knew what it would do to me. That woman pretending to be Cyn. You knew I wouldn’t be able to cope.’
‘Alan, calm down. I didn’t know. And it was Cyn. Look, there’s no way I’m inviting you in when you’re in this… this mood.’
‘You spoke to my aunt. You told her I was mad.’
‘I didn’t say you were mad. I said you were struggling. That you needed to be convinced to get some help.’
He began jabbing his finger in front of Jane’s face. ‘You’ll see how mad I am. See who needs help.’
‘Alan, I’m going to close the door now. Go home.’
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out something small and black. He pointed it at Jane. It was the automatic pistol from the display cabinet on his bookcase.
‘You told me that had been deactivated,’ said Jane, narrowing her eyes.
‘I lied. Now get inside.’
Jane stared at the beads of sweat on his forehead, trying to judge if his dishonesty was current or historic. He began impatiently waving at her with the gun, and she backed into the hallway as she assessed her options. Should she continue reasoning or hit out?
He followed her in and kicked the door shut behind him.
‘Scared of me now, aren’t you?’ he sneered.
Jane kept her focus on his face and her voice steady. ‘Alan, even if that thing does still work, you won’t have any ammunition. And if you do, it will be 60 years old. It degrades, damp gets in.’ Her words were authoritative, sure, belying the uncertainty in her mind. ‘So put the gun down before this gets silly. Please.’
There was a slight twitch in Alan’s left eye that Jane read as doubt. Her pulse began to steady and then he stretched out his arm to aim the pistol straight towards her head. At the last moment, he swung it a few degrees to the side and pulled the trigger.
There was a loud crack and a simultaneous thud into the wall behind her. Jane wasn’t sure if she’d heard the whistle of air by her ear or just felt it. They were in a narrow, confined space and it continued to ring with sound. Jane wondered if the cartridges had always been kept warm and dry. Then she realised a more important question was how many would such a compact pistol hold. It would be at least five or six. The calibre was small, but still potentially lethal at this sort of range.
‘Okay, point taken,’ she said, as calmly as she could. ‘But seriously, Alan, put it down. You need help. We can sort this out.’
‘I told you!’ he snapped. ‘I’m not the one who needs help. You’re going to be punished. For what you did to me. For what all you women did to me. My grandmother, my mother, that so-called wife of mine. All I ever wanted was—’
There was a loud banging on the front door. A booming voice shouted, Jane! Jane! Let me in!’
Alan turned his head in surprise and Jane cried out, ‘Keep away – he’s got a gun! Call the police!’
The door crashed open, swinging on one hinge and slamming into the wall. A large man staggered in after it, falling to his knees. As he lifted himself up, the pistol cracked again. The man kept rising and coming forward.
Crack! Crack! A slight stagger, but the man reached Alan and fell upon him, knocking him to the floor. They wrestled for a few seconds, while Jane watched open-mouthed, not sure how to intervene. There were two more muffled shots in quick succession. Both men lay silent and unmoving, until the one on top rolled sideways and onto his back.
He was huge but his breathing was faltering and weak. The gun was now in his hand, a bloodied bear-like paw. Jane knew him instantly, even though his face was wrong. She dropped alongside him and stroked the long greying hair off his forehead. She felt the scars around a right eye that was unconvincing at close
quarters. The pirate’s patch of her childhood had been banished in favour of a plastic surgeon’s skill.
‘Daddy,’ she said softly, ‘are you okay?’ As she spoke, she saw her answer in the sticky dampness spreading on his chest.
She reached into her jeans and drew out her phone. She frantically tapped at its screen, but he raised a hand and wrapped it around hers. He shook his head.
‘Daddy, you’ll bleed out. I have to phone for an ambulance.’
He shook his head again, and his face creased in pain as he struggled to speak. ‘You’re beautiful,’ he said.
‘Please let me phone.’ Jane could feel tears running down her cheeks
‘Like your mother. In Australia, isn’t she?’
‘No, she’s back. She lives in Sandbanks. It’s—'
‘I know Sandbanks.’ He tried to laugh but it made him cough, and his mouth became lined with blood.
Jane leant closer. ‘Don’t talk if it hurts too much.’
He smiled. ‘I wanted to apologise for… for everything. But I thought it best to leave you be. Then I passed that lunatic in the street.’
‘At least let me try to stop the bleeding.’ Jane began urgently unbuttoning her father’s jacket.
‘You got your looks from your mother…’ His words were becoming barely audible, more breath than sound. ‘But did I make you strong, Jane?’
She paused. ‘Yes, Daddy, you made me strong.’
As the lie left her lips, his chest stopped rising and his left eye became as glassily lifeless as his right.
Jane felt his neck for a pulse and then rocked back on her heels. Her father’s body looked like a whale washed onto a beach, when the seagulls had already begun tearing at the corpse. Behind her, she heard a faint groaning. Alan Shaw was wounded but still alive. She reached across and took the pistol from her father’s grip. Was it still loaded? Was it still capable of taking a life? She tried to count back the shots, but it had all happened too fast. She pulled out the magazine; it was empty and she tossed it aside. She pulled back the slide to clear the barrel and a single round fell to the floor. She threw the gun down the hall and out of the broken front door.