‘You managed?’
‘I thought I wasn’t doing so badly. Till I went into prison. Then it all came back.’
‘Like I said,’ said Foley. ‘Prison changes a man. Or focuses them. Makes them more of what they are.’
‘Don’t say that.’
He held his hands up, shrugged. ‘It’s true, but . . . whatever.’
Silence fell between them. Foley eventually broke it.
‘We were who we were.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means it was the only life we had, the only life we knew. The only thing we could do to get out of that shithole we came from.’
‘There were other ways,’ said Tom.
‘The army? Doesn’t suit everyone. University? Seriously, no matter how clever we were there was no chance of going there. Not when we’d been to the schools we’d been to. So what else could we do?’
Tom didn’t answer.
‘I wanted to make something of my life,’ said Foley. ‘And so did you. So I did it the only way I knew how. Whatever opportunities were there, I took them. Just like you did. So don’t give me all that guilt and angst and shit. We did what we had to do.’
‘But did we have to enjoy it so much?’
Foley stopped himself before he could reply. Thought. Gave a small smile. ‘What kind of man would you be if you didn’t take joy from your work? Take pride in it?’
Tom just stared at him. Felt suddenly tired. Like everything had caught up with him. Not just the last few weeks and months, but everything. His whole life.
‘You still feel the same?’
‘About what? Pride in my work?’
‘About what you had to do to get where you were.’
Foley thought about it. ‘I’ve got a degree, you know. Did it inside. I knew I wasn’t thick. Knew it all along.’
‘No one ever said you were.’
‘It’s a working class thing, though, isn’t it? No matter how much money you make, how successful you get, you can never shake it. So I did a degree. Prove them wrong.’
‘What’s it in?’
‘English Lit. Hardest thing I ever did.’
Tom smiled despite himself.
‘You see,’ said Foley, ‘this is something else I’ve spent a long time thinking about. All the money, everything like that, it made things easier. Money always does. But I thought doing what I did would make me somebody else. Someone better. Get me respect.’
‘D’you think it did?’
‘Got me feared.’ Foley shrugged. ‘Suppose that’s the next best thing.’
‘What about now?’
Foley looked directly at him once more. And Tom saw just how much his terrifying old friend had changed.
‘I’m just tired,’ he said. ‘Really, really tired.’
‘What are you going to do about it, then?’
Another shrug. ‘Change. Because I’m sick of all that.’
‘So what happens next, then?’
Foley smiled. Tom didn’t know if it was a good smile or not.
65
‘Bastard . . . bitch . . .’
Quint staggered round in front of the house, not knowing which direction to take, where Lila and Anju had gone. He was clearly torn between hunting them down and going back inside. Searching for what he had come for, then getting as far away as possible. He had to rule out the last option. And he couldn’t see to ransack the house. So he searched for the girls as best he could, hoping he could find them, force them to search the house for him. And then dispose of them when they found the money. He didn’t normally relish killing, seeing it only as a necessary part of his job. But in this case he would make an exception.
He didn’t notice Lila as she crept back down the hill towards the house, keeping to the shadows all the time, ensuring that her path was clear, that she didn’t step on anything that could give her position away.
He had found Pearl’s car, was looking round for them there. Lila watched, initially scared for the other two but knowing they would have moved away by now. She saw him try to open the door, fail. Yell for them to come out, make it easy. He sounded in pain. She carried on.
The front door was locked. Lila had expected that, knew that Quint would have tried to stop them getting back in where, as Pearl had said, they could call for the police. Quietly, she crept round the side of the house to the back garden.
Tom and she had been working on it during the spring and summer, cutting back the overgrown bushes and trees, carving out a pleasant place where they could both sit, enjoy the sun, drink, eat. She also knew that there were plenty of places where she could either trip and fall or give herself away by standing on branches or foliage. She made her way carefully forwards.
The back door was, she knew, locked, but the drainpipe beside it was old, heavy. Iron from a previous century. It clung to the outside wall of the house impervious, like nothing could bring it down. Lila hoped that was the case as she clasped it with her arms, put her legs around it and pulled herself up it.
It was heavy going. There was a time when she would have done this easily. She had always been fit, able to lift at least her body weight, but recently she had let that go. A more comfortable, settled lifestyle will do that, she thought, telling herself to get back in the gym.
It was difficult, but not impossible. She pulled herself up all the way to the first floor bathroom window. It was open. She never properly closed it. And she could fit her small frame through. Although she was settled with Tom and had found the nearest thing to contentment in her life, there was a part of her that was still wary. Ready to run as soon as things got bad. She had planned an escape route from the house just in case she needed it. It wasn’t Tom she was afraid of, just parts of her past catching up with her. And if that happened she would be off. It was one of the first things she had done on moving in here. Sometimes, when she and Tom were having a particularly good time, she felt ridiculous for actually planning that. But now she was glad. Better to be safe than sorry.
She placed her foot on the narrow window ledge, balancing her weight between that and the pipe. Reached out for the open window, transferred all her weight to that. Pulled it as wide as it would go, and head first, slipped through.
She hung half in, half out of the window, as she cleared knick knacks and shampoo bottles from the windowsill, carefully placing them at the side, before hauling herself through.
She stood upright, listened for a few seconds. Nothing. She was alone in the house. She went quietly down the stairs, trying to avoid the creaking boards.
In the kitchen, the keys for Tom’s Land Rover were where he always left them, in a repurposed antique bowl that didn’t match the rest of the crockery but held keys for the house, the pub, their bike locks. She picked them up, careful not to jangle the others there, went to the back door. Turned the key, opened it. Stepped outside.
Listened. Nothing nearby. Quint was somewhere else.
She walked slowly round to the side of the house where the Land Rover was parked. Put the key in the lock as quietly as possible, opened it. She slipped behind the wheel. Tried to pull the door closed as well as she could. It only half caught, but that would have to do.
Now for the part where she had to make some noise. It was unavoidable. She started the engine.
It caught.
She put the headlights on full beam and saw Quint come running down the track towards her, gun pointing ahead of him.
She ducked down as a crack appeared in the glass of the windscreen. It was on the passenger side. Thank god he can’t aim properly, she thought, as she put the car into gear and slammed down on the accelerator.
Quint didn’t have time to move as it came roaring towards him. The front bars caught him on his left hip, sent him spinning away. His gun loosened from his hand, landed on the bonnet, bounced away into the dark.
She slammed the brakes on, got out. Looked down at him.
‘Fuck . . . wh
at’ve you done to me . . . fuck . . .’
His leg was twisted backwards, like the bottom part of his body faced one way and the top another. His face was seared with weeping burns.
Pearl and Anju ran from their hiding place to join her.
The three of them looked down at the broken man. No one wanted to speak first.
Anju did eventually. ‘What shall we do with him?’
‘Call the police,’ said Pearl.
‘Yeah but what do we do with him in the meantime?’ asked Anju.
Lila looked over at the concrete slipway that led into the water, back to Quint.
‘I’ve got an idea . . .’
66
‘What happens next? Good question.’ Foley’s smile was still in place.
‘You still think I’ve taken your money?’
Foley studied him before answering. ‘No. I don’t. Not if everything you’ve just said is true about who you were, or thought you were, back then. But to be honest, I don’t care. If you took it, for whatever reason, keep it. I’ve got plenty of money stashed in other places. It would be nice to have, but I don’t need it.’
No one had moved. Blake had come round, was cradling Baz’s broken body with her own. Her face was now bloodied and ruined. She sobbed silently to herself. Tom and Foley still faced each other, ignoring the storm. Their world only as big as the two of them. Tom didn’t think he was in any danger. But he still wouldn’t let his guard down. He imagined Foley was doing the same thing.
‘So what are you going to do now?’ asked Tom. ‘Go back to Blackmoor? Serve the rest of your sentence?’
Foley laughed. ‘Are you?’
‘I wasn’t—’
‘Whatever.’ Foley looked round, took in the landscape as if seeing it for the first time. He put his head back, closed his eyes. Opened his mouth. Let the rain in. He licked his lips, his expression approaching ecstasy. His head dropped forwards. He opened his eyes. ‘I don’t think so.’
Tom waited. Knew there was more to come.
‘Dean Foley’s dead. He died the minute he set foot on this blasted heath.’ Smiled at his own words. ‘He might have stepped on to this moor but there’ll be a new man walking away.’
‘And what about me?’
‘What about you? Are you going to walk away a new man?’
‘I meant are you still digging more graves?’
Foley thought before answering. ‘I reckon there’s more ways than one to suffer for your actions. You’ve got enough going on with your guilt and everything. You’ve suffered as well. Maybe not as much as me or not in the same ways, but you’ve not been left unaffected.’ Another smile. Less pleasant this time. ‘And I’ve taken away the one thing you wanted. Closure on your niece’s death. Answers. You’ll never get that now. You’ll only be able to guess. Crossfire’ll have to do. And that might even make things worse for you to bear. So I suppose that makes us even. Or even enough.’
‘So I’m safe from you? In this new identity?’
‘You’re safe. Until I decide you’re not.’
Before Tom could reply, or respond in any way, Foley turned, walked towards the Duster and got behind the wheel. He put the engine into gear, turned it round.
Tom just watched him drive away.
For how long, he didn’t know. Eventually he became aware of the sky beginning to lighten, the clouds parting. The rain easing. He looked around. Blake still cradled Baz, talking to him, stroking his face. He walked up the hill, got the bike out from under the overhang. Mounted it, ready to set off.
‘What about me?’ Blake had looked up, been watching him. ‘What’s going to happen to me?’
‘Get on the back of the bike. I’ll drop you off at the police station where you can turn yourself in.’
‘I was going to get the money and run away. Start a new life.’
‘I’m sure you were.’
‘Just like Foley’s done. Just like you did.’ She reached her hands up to her face. ‘Now look at me. At what he’s done to me. I’m ruined.’ She looked down at Baz once more. ‘Maybe I should have stayed with him. Maybe we belonged together . . .’
Part of Tom thought he should have been more sympathetic to her words, her situation but the main part of him knew that she had tried to have him banged up in prison permanently. She had tried to hurt him.
‘Ambition can be a fucker, can’t it? Especially if you go after the wrong things.’
She didn’t reply.
‘You coming, then?’
She gestured to Baz. ‘What about him?’
‘Someone’ll come back for the body. He won’t be left behind.’
She shook her head. ‘He was always getting left behind.’ She gave a sound that may have been a laugh or a sob or maybe both. ‘I spent years hating him. For what he’d done to me. How he’d hurt me. For the way he was. He didn’t start out like that. I don’t suppose any of us do, really.’ She looked up at Tom. ‘Six and two threes, isn’t it? It’s not just the things you do. It’s the things that are done to you . . .’
‘Suppose it is,’ said Tom. ‘You coming, then?’
Blake shook her head. ‘I’ll stay here with him. Make sure he’s looked after.’
‘Your call,’ said Tom.
He was too tired to argue. He turned on the engine.
67
The sun was fully up by the time Tom reached home.
He was cold, soaked through to the bone, but he just wanted to get there as quickly as possible. That was the first thing. Sort everything else out after that. Just get home.
The wind and easing rain made him feel colder the further he went.
He pulled off the main road, turned down the bank. As he got closer to his house he realised something was wrong. There was a burned out shell of a car in front of it. Pearl’s car was parked halfway up the hill. And his Land Rover was parked haphazardly. It had a shattered windscreen.
His heart started beating faster. He pulled up, adrenaline pumping round his body once more. Instinct kicking in. And then he saw them. Lila, Pearl and another girl standing on the concrete causeway, looking down at something in front of them. He turned off the engine.
They had already seen him, heard the bike. Pearl and Lila were running towards him, the other girl some way behind. He guessed who she was.
‘Hey,’ he said.
Lila was the first to reach him. She hugged him so hard he felt he would burst into tears there and then.
No words offered, no words needed.
Then Pearl reached him. The hugging started again.
They were fine. They were all fine. There was nothing to worry about. They were all right. They were all right.
Smiles and tears from two of the women. He looked at the third. She smiled at him too. He returned it. A perfect homecoming.
He made to head inside.
‘No,’ said Lila. ‘Not yet. Here.’ She took his arm, escorted him to the causeway.
There was the body of a man lying half in, half out of the water. Tied up with the tow rope from Tom’s Land Rover.
‘We’re just waiting for the tide to come in,’ said Lila. ‘Or the police to arrive. See which happens first.’ She looked at him, rage in her eyes. ‘I know what I want to happen.’
Tom’s exhaustion was coming back.
‘No,’ he said.
He walked down to the causeway, grabbed the ropes round the man’s body. Hauled him out of the water, onto the dry concrete.
No,’ he said again.
Lila stared at him. ‘What are you doing? He killed your friend, Quint.’
Tom stopped, stared at her. ‘What?’
‘Sorry. I should have said it differently. But he did. And took his place. He was going to kill us, but we got away from him.’ She looked down at the prone man. ‘Why did you do that? The bastard should suffer.’
Tom looked down at the pitiful wreck of the man before him. There was no fight left in him. Either of them.
&nbs
p; He thought of Foley. Of the man who used to be Foley. Of the man who used to be Mick Eccleston.
‘Because that’s not who we are. Not now, not anymore. We’re better than that. We have to be.’
‘But . . .’
‘No. No buts. We have to be. We can’t change today into tomorrow like that. You . . .’
He slumped down next to the man on the causeway, no longer able to stand up.
And began to sob his heart out.
Part Five
RENEWED
Mick just stood there, staring at the carnage. Ambulances were arriving now, their flashing lights adding to the chaos all around. He walked back to where he’d left the dufflebag. Stood beside it once more. Looked down at it.
He felt so, so tired.
Of everything.
68
Paul Shelley stood outside an unremarkable terraced house in Honiton, Devon, hoping that what he was about to do would save his career.
TV cameras, newspaper photographers, bloggers and online journalists swarmed about in front of him, like some unhealthy miasma given human form. He should have hated it but was embracing it instead. He needed this stunt to work, to deflect attention away from him and what had happened at the prison under his watch. As much publicity as he could get. With himself at the centre of it. The wise leader, the unassuming man behind this achievement. Play it that way, forget the rest, and see where his career would go next. He imagined his face on the TV screen. All fifty-six HD inches of him. Yes. This was going to work.
It had been a different story a couple of weeks ago.
DEAN FOLEY ESCAPES FROM BLACKMOOR – Just Walks Out
One of the many headlines. He had been called before his superiors, asked to give an account of himself and his behaviour. He thought the best way out was to lie, which he did. Blamed the individual officers involved in the case, particularly Chris Cartmel who had accompanied Foley on the outside. He tried to brush off questions, deflecting the blame every time. It was the staff, it was government underfunding, lack of training, sloppy wing procedure, it was anyone and everyone’s fault but his.
The Sinner Page 30