by C. L. Taylor
‘To what do I owe this unexpected early visit . . . er . . .?’
Gareth doesn’t tell him his name, nor does he shake the prof-
fered hand. Instead he nods his head towards the cavernous
hallway behind Mackesy and says, ‘I’d like to come in if I could.’
The older man’s eyes widen and he glances behind him. ‘One
second. I’ll just shut the dogs in the utility room.’
And the door closes in Gareth’s face.
*
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‘So . . .’ William Mackesy says, his elbows on the mahogany desk that separates him from Gareth, an expression of utmost
compassion on his face (faked, Gareth thinks bitterly). ‘What
can I do you for?’
They’re in his office, a large book-lined room, twice the size of Gareth’s bedroom with a massive computer screen on the
desk, various expensive-looking ornaments dotted around and
an enormous pot-plant-cum-tree in the corner of the room.
‘Two things,’ Gareth says. ‘Firstly, I would appreciate it if you didn’t tell my mother upsetting messages from . . .’ he forms quotation marks with his fingers ‘. . . the other side.’
Mackesy shakes his head lightly. ‘I’m not sure I understand.’
‘You told her that someone close to me would cause me . . .’
Gareth falters as an image of Liam Dunford, propped up against the wall outside his office with a smug look on his face, pops into his head. If by ‘close’ Mackesy had meant proximity then
maybe he wasn’t a million miles off target with his little prophecy.
No. Gareth dismisses the thought. Pure coincidence.
‘Anyway,’ he continues. ‘Stop telling her things that might
upset or worry her. She’s not well.’
Mackesy holds out his hands, palms out. ‘I only tell people
what the departed tell me, but I take your point.’
Gareth reaches into his pocket and slides the white card that
was attached to his mother’s flowers across the desk. ‘The other thing I wanted to talk to you about is this.’
Mackesy picks up the card, nods, then looks back at him. ‘I
sent your mother flowers to thank her for her donation. Is there a problem?’
‘That depends on how big the donation was.’
The other man shrugs. ‘I’m not sure I can tell you off the top of my head. Sheila, my wife, deals with that side of things. Our parishioners are so . . . so very generous. We receive a lot of help. We couldn’t keep the church going without it.’
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Can’t tell you off the top of my head my arse. Gareth grits
his teeth. William Mackesy is lying. He knows exactly how much Joan donated, he just doesn’t want to tell him. Gareth’s mum
had no idea what he was talking about when he asked her about
it and he hasn’t got power of attorney over her affairs which
means he can’t legally access her bank account. She still receives a paper statement every month but the last one arrived three
weeks ago so he’ll have to wait another seven days if he wants to take a look at her outgoings.
‘Do a lot of your parishioners suffer from dementia then?’ he asks, his hands curled into fists beneath the desk.
‘I’m sorry.’ Mackesy tilts his head to one side. ‘I’m not sure why you’re implying.’
‘Aren’t you? Well let me spell it out for you then. Somehow
you’ve managed to wheedle money out of my mum. As soon as
I get hold of her bank statement I’m going to the police.’
Gareth waits, expectantly and slightly gleefully, for a reaction, for horror to register on the other man’s face and for his hands to fly up in repentance. Instead his continues to sit stock-still, the only movement in his entire body the slight arch of one eyebrow.
‘Is that so?’
‘Yes, it is. I think they might be interested to know that you’re sending vulnerable older people postcards from their dead relatives in an effort to extort money from them.’
Now Mackesy reacts. He recoils, pulling his hands away from the desk, more of the whites of his eyes visible beneath the glint of his glasses.
‘What postcards?’
‘This one.’ Gareth reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out
the postcard. He slides it across the desk so it sits alongside the florist’s card.
Mackesy snatches it up, his brow creasing as he reads it, then flips it over. ‘Who’s John?’
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Gareth laughs lightly. ‘John? My dad. The one that talks to
you and tells you how cold he is?’
‘Oh . . . well . . .’ Mackesy looks from the postcard to Gareth.
‘Yes, of course but . . . but your dad’s dead.’
‘Yes. He is. Which makes what you’re doing really bloody
twisted.’
‘I didn’t send this.’
‘Are you sure about that? Because it’s a bit of a coincidence
that it arrived on Monday and your flowers thanking Mum for
her donation arrived yesterday.’
‘Quite sure.’ Mackesy tosses the postcard onto the table then
shoves it towards Gareth. ‘Whoever sent that to your mother
it’s got nothing to do with me. Ask Sheila. I’ve been in Brighton for a Mind, Body and Spirit Fayre since last Friday. You’re lucky to catch me. I only got home forty-five minutes ago. Want me
to call her? She keeps my diary. She could show it to you if
you’d like.’
‘Don’t bother,’ Gareth snaps. ‘I’ve heard enough bullshit for
one day.’
Brighton or not, he could still have sent the postcard. Or
Sheila could. With the postmark partly smudged there’s no way
of knowing where it was sent. Gareth flexes his fingers and runs his damp palms up and down the cheap material of his work
trousers. Every cell in his body is screaming at him to stand up, lean over the table, grab Mackesy by the collar and drive his
fist straight into his smug face, but he can’t get out of his chair.
He can’t do anything but stare at the man he despises and will all the shit in the world to come crashing down over his shiny, comb-over head.
‘If that’s everything,’ Mackesy says, standing up. He walks
around the desk and heads for the door. At one point he’s so
close that Gareth could shoot out a hand and grab him. But he
doesn’t. Instead he stands up, pulls back his shoulders and follows 108
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him out into the hall, the sound of whining, barking dogs drifting from somewhere in the depths of the house. As Mackesy opens
the front door, standing back to allow him through, Gareth
pauses and turns to face him.
‘Leave my mum alone. Don’t call her, don’t drop in and if
you take another penny of her money, then I’ll . . .’ He tails off.
‘Just leave her alone. Okay?’
As he steps through the door he hears Mackesy say his name
under his breath and turns sharply. ‘What was that?’
The other man presses a hand to the side of his head and
narrows his eyes, staring off into the distance. ‘Yes . . .’ he says.
‘Okay. Yes.’
For a moment Gareth has no idea what’s going on, then
it’s
all he can do not to roll his eyes. Mackesy’s communing with
the dead. Of course he is.
‘He’s proud of you.’ Mackesy looks him straight in the eye.
‘Your dad. He wanted me to tell you.’
Gareth takes a deep breath and stares at the grey clouds
rolling over head. A cold breeze whips at the thin cotton of his shirt and he shivers. The air smells different, sweet and earthy, he needs to get back to his car before it starts to rain.
‘Did you hear me?’ Mackesy shouts after him as he jogs back
down the driveway. ‘He’s proud of you, your dad. He said it
was important that you knew that.’
‘Fraud!’ Gareth shouts, not slowing his pace as the first spots of rain land on his nose and cheeks. If he ever had any doubt
about William Mackesy’s abilities, he certainly doesn’t now.
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Chapter 18
Alice
YOU’RE NOT LISTENING.
The three words have been going round and round Alice’s
head all morning. It wasn’t a horrible dream; ‘YOU’RE NOT
LISTENING’ was still scratched into the side of the car when
she left the house in the morning and it’ll still be there when she gets home. She rang DC Mitchell last night with Simon
beside her, an arm over her shoulder, pulling her close. But
the call went straight to voicemail so she left a message and
rang 101 instead. She was told they wouldn’t be sending
anyone out to investigate but to take a photo and they’d file
a crime report. When she told them that she’d previously
reported an assault and creepy messages to DC Mitchell they
said they’d pass on the details of the vandalism. Alice did as she was told, blinking as the flash on her phone camera lit
up the side of the car, then looked at Simon, unsure what to
do next.
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‘You don’t want to get in, do you?’ he said, sensing her
hesitation.
Alice shook her head.
‘I’d offer to drive but I’m over the limit.’
‘No, it’s fine.’
‘It’s not though, is it?’ He squeezed her shoulder. ‘Want me
to come with you? I could get a taxi home from yours.’
She couldn’t say yes fast enough.
Neither of them said very much on the journey back to
Kingswood. Alice tried, half-heartedly, to strike up conversation a couple of times but she was so distracted she barely heard a word Simon said in reply. By the time she parked the car outside her flat a strange, stultifying atmosphere had settled between them, all the joy and excitement of earlier in the evening a
distant memory. Simon followed her into the silent flat, Emily long gone, and hovered in the kitchen as she made coffee. Even with her back turned Alice could feel his presence in the room.
He filled so much of the tiny space and she wasn’t used to having a man in the house. Simon obviously felt as uncomfortable as
she did; she could see him out of the corner of her eye as she filled the kettle, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, crossing and uncrossing his arms. He barely had more than two
or three sips of coffee before his phone vibrated with a call. His taxi had arrived.
There was another awkward moment at the door where she
didn’t know whether to hug him goodbye or just wave. Simon
made the decision for her. He stooped down, kissed her lightly on the cheek and said, ‘I’ll be in touch.’ The four words reverberated around her mind as she pulled the door shut and returned to the kitchen. I’ll be in touch. It was the sort of thing James Malone, her area manager, said after a visit. It was a polite
goodbye, not the sort of thing you said at the end of a date.
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Alice’s heart was heavy as she tipped Simon’s coffee into the
sink and washed up his mug. When she went to bed fifteen
minutes later she was certain she’d never see him again.
Over lunch Lynne nibbles at the corner of her sandwich and
taps at her phone as Alice complains that she hasn’t heard from Simon since he left her house the previous night.
Lynne looks up sharply. ‘Seriously? You’ve got to fork out a
couple of hundred quid to sort out your car and you’re stressing about him?’
‘But what if he got home and his ex was waiting for him?’
‘What, with an axe?’
‘It’s not funny.’
‘To be honest, Alice, if he has got a psycho ex you’re better
off out of it.’
‘I’m worried about him.’
‘Worry about yourself for a change.’ Lynne sighs heavily.
‘Jesus. It’s like Peter all over again.’
‘How is it like Peter?’
‘You’re putting a man first instead of yourself.’
‘It’s nothing like what happened with Peter!’ Indignation burns in Alice’s chest. If anyone should be on her side it should be Lynne.
‘Look.’ Lynne sets down her sandwich. ‘What if Simon’s not
as innocent as he appears? It’s all a bit Disney, isn’t it? The knight in shining armour rescuing you from your attacker and
then—’
‘Simon didn’t rescue me. I’m the one that kneed Michael in
the bollocks, remember?’
‘Okay, fine, but Simon chased after you with your purse, then
he appears at work with a bunch of flowers, then he’s magically in the café that you choose for lunch. He’s everywhere you go.’
‘Turning up at work and Costa isn’t everywhere.’
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‘If you say so.’
‘What? Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘Because there’s something dodgy going on. Someone warns
you off him and then scratches your car and instead of doing
what anyone normal would do and run a mile you’re all over
him.’
‘I’m not all over him. I just want to make sure he got home
safely.’
‘You’re sucked in.’
‘By what?’
‘The scam. It’s all a big ruse. He and Michael are working
together to extort money from lonely women.’
‘I’m not lone—’
‘Hear me out! Michael plays the bad guy, Simon’s the knight
in shining armour. You turn to Simon because Michael’s scaring you, then the next thing you know Simon’s asking you for money.
He’s wheedling his way into your life, Alice. He’s seen your flat and where you work, he knows loads about you, and you know
next to nothing about him. Admit it, I’m right.’
‘Lynne this is ridiculous.’ Alice snatches up her sandwich and takes a big bite. ‘Honestly, you’ve come up with some random
shit in your time but this is . . .’ She puffs out her cheeks to illustrate her point.
‘All right then,’ her best friend replies, a note of irritation in her voice. ‘Don’t believe me, but I think there’s something dodgy about him, and this story about his psycho ex fiancée seems a
little bit too neat to me. He’ll be in touch with you. Guarantee it. He’s just making you sweat a bit so he doesn’t look too keen.
But he’ll text you.
I bet you a tenner.’
Alice sets her phone on the table, suddenly uncomfortable
with it in her hand. She stares at it. There’s a part of her that wants it to vibrate with a new text message from Simon. And
a part that really doesn’t.
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‘Lynne,’ she says. ‘Do you think—’
The phone judders on the table, making her jump. She snatches
it up and reads the text message that’s flashed up on the screen.
‘Well?’ Lynne asks.
‘He wants me to go to the cinema with him tomorrow.’
‘What did I tell you?’ Lynne holds out a hand. ‘That’ll be ten pounds please.’
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Chapter 19
Ursula
Ursula works the drill in short bursts. Drrrrrrr. Stop. Drrrrr.
Stop. The motion makes the soft flesh on the backs of her arms wobble and her teeth vibrate. She stops, listens, turns her head towards the stairs, then begins again. When she woke up that
morning, a little after 5 a.m., she got out of bed and drove her van several streets away, then she rang in sick, leaving a message on her boss’s answerphone. She felt bad lying but it was the
first time she’d rung in sick and she wouldn’t have done it unless it was absolutely necessary. Afterwards, she returned to the house and spent the next couple of hours lying in her bed, waiting for Edward’s footsteps to reverberate on the landing outside. Only when she heard the front door bang shut did she let herself
relax. In order to carry out her plan Edward had to go to work not knowing that she was still home.
She pauses her drilling to swipe the back of her hand across
her forehead. It was like someone hit fast forward on her day
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the moment Edward left the house. She dressed quickly, cleaned her teeth in record time (making sure not to touch any of Ed’s belongings), pulled on her trainers, then jumped into
her van. She flew around B&Q, list in one hand, basket in the other, and paid with cash to avoid bank card faff. Then she
jumped back in the van, unlocked the house, double-checked
that Edward wasn’t in and set to work. It’s an expense she hadn’t budgeted for – the drill, chain, screws, latch and padlock – but she’d rather eat the stale crackers in the back of her cupboard than spend another night in a room without a lock. Working