A Killer Came Knocking

by S. B. Caves

  ‘You’re not very fond of phones, are you? I’ve been calling your house, been calling this place’ – she pointed at the warehouse – ‘but it seems you’ve unplugged the lines. You’ve left me no choice but to make a pest of myself, so thanks for that.’

  He nodded, ignoring the bait. ‘How’ve you been?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’ve been really well actually.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad.’ He looked back at the warehouse and said, ‘I’d love to chat but I’ve got a lot of work on.’

  ‘Have you? Working a bit late, aren’t you? And that’s funny because I thought you’d requested a couple of days’ annual leave. Strange.’

  ‘Yeah I did,’ he said, placing a fist into the small of his back with a wince. His thigh felt cold again and he wanted very badly to lie down. ‘I needed a bit of time to myself but I couldn’t sit at home doing nothing, so I thought I’d get on with some stuff here. You know, keep my mind occupied.’

  ‘Mmm.’ She made a show of smiling. ‘Is it working?’ When he shrugged, she said, ‘Back playing you up again?’

  ‘Yeah. Sciatica.’

  ‘Well you should be careful how you’re lifting those boxes,’ she said, her tone thick with condescension. ‘Or maybe you’ve knocked it?’

  ‘Yeah, well.’ He cracked his neck to the side. ‘How’s everything with you?’

  ‘You already asked me that and I already told you I’m peachy. In fact, I’m here to take you up on your offer.’

  ‘What offer?’

  ‘The offer of dinner at your place that you’re going to make me.’

  ‘May…’

  ‘Time is already getting on, but I think nine is a good time to eat. Anything after that and you run the risk of feeling bloated for the whole night. So, I’ll see you at seven.’

  ‘May, I don’t know what…’

  ‘Can I just stop you there for a second,’ she said, holding up her palm. ‘I’m going to come to yours at nine and I expect a cooked meal, because I was thinking back and I couldn’t remember the last time you cooked for me. It’s always takeaways or dinner at some dingy little place. Well, tonight you’re going to cook. I don’t mind what it is, as long as you make the effort. And then we’re going to talk about our wedding.’

  Her words registered dimly inside of him, but they didn’t mean anything. That tiny piece of emotional real estate reserved for dealing with May and her feelings was now completely occupied. ‘I told you I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

  She looked at him as though he had just suggested flying to the moon in her Polo.

  ‘I know what you did. I saw you that night on the estate. You and the woman took him.’ She pointed through her windscreen and said, ‘And he’s in there, isn’t he?’

  May saw something change in Jack’s face, and quickly pressed the button to close her window. He reached for the handle but the door was locked.

  ‘May, open the door.’

  ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head.

  ‘May, open it. Now.’ She started the engine. He walked in front of her car and smiled, hoping it would look reassuring. The effort of the pantomime taxed him, pulling the last shroud away from his fatigue. He suddenly felt a lot older than forty-five. ‘What do you think I’m going to do? You think I’m going to hurt you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think I really know who you are any more.’

  ‘Have I ever given you reason to think I would hurt you?’

  ‘Not until the other night when I saw you hit the man with the hammer.’

  ‘May, I can’t do dinner at mine.’

  ‘Why not? Your little girlfriend there?’

  ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head at her as though it was the most ridiculous suggestion in the world. ‘And she isn’t my girlfriend. My place is a dump. After our argument I got drunk, smashed the place up.’

  ‘I don’t care about the mess.’

  ‘Well, maybe I do. If I’m going to cook you a nice meal I’d like to do it properly. You have a better kitchen than mine too, more pots and pans.’

  She was suddenly struggling to fight back tears. The driver’s side window came down an inch and she said, ‘I tried to cook you a special dinner the other day. And then a single sob shivered out of her and she was crying. ‘For god’s sake, all I wanted to do was cook you a nice—’ She broke off, her features scrunching together as she struggled to keep from brimming over.

  ‘I know, and I screwed it up like I always do. But damn it, May, I’m a man and I make mistakes. Let me cook at yours, and then we can talk about whether we think marriage is the best thing to do.’

  ‘You’re trying to trick me, aren’t you? The only reason you’re saying all this is because I know what you did.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’ He felt something bite into a nerve just above his buttocks and pinned his shoulders back. He pressed his palms on her bonnet. ‘Last time at your house I reacted badly because I don’t think marriage is a good thing. You know I was married once and—’

  ‘She died. You didn’t tell me that.’

  A cold fist clenched around his heart. He didn’t know why, but hearing her say it like that, with such casual detachment, hit him hard. Was that why he had kept the details of Kate’s death from her, so that she wouldn’t trivialise it?

  ‘May, I’ll come to your house at nine.’ It took every bit of strength he had to smile, when what he really wanted to do was rip the bonnet off her car. ‘You always were the voice of reason. Thank you.’

  She nodded, grateful for his recognition of her effort. ‘Do you promise you’ll come, Jack?’

  ‘I’ve never lied to you before, and I’m not about to start now. I’ll be there at nine, traffic permitting.’

  Her mouth twitched and finally broke into a smile.

  He stepped away from her car, smiling, almost laughing at the lunacy of it all.

  When she began to drive away, he blew her a kiss and waved her off into the sunset.

  He went back inside, grabbed his address book, made the gruelling journey up the stairs and plugged in the warehouse phone. He gave himself a moment to catch his breath. His thoughts were crashing together and he couldn’t quite lock onto any one thing to think it through. He dialled Emily’s number and listened to the ringtone.

  When she answered, he said, ‘I know you didn’t want me to contact you but I had no other choice, I’m sorry. But I need a favour.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said quietly. ‘I was going to call you anyway. What’s wrong?’

  ‘Are you all right? You sound funny. What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing’s the matter.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like nothing. You sick?’

  ‘I’m fine!’ she snapped.

  He listened to her raspy breathing, worried. ‘I need you to come and watch Morley for a few hours.’

  ‘Jack,’ she barked down the phone. ‘Stop using his name.’

  ‘What, you think our phones are tapped? Don’t be ridiculous.’ Her exhalation crackled through the receiver. ‘Can you do it, Emily?’

  After a pause, she said, ‘Jesus Christ, yeah, sure. Why not? I haven’t got anything else on.’

  * * *

  When she arrived at the warehouse, Jack had his jacket on and a key in his hand.

  ‘This is for the oiling room,’ he said. ‘It’s locked and he’s all tied up. I don’t think there’ll be any reason to open the door, but if you do need to, don’t get too close to him. Got it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, pocketing the key. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I have a couple of things to take care of. I want to swing by the Dagenham warehouse and check up on a few bits.’ He eyed her closely. ‘He won’t be able to get out, so you don’t have to worry about that. Are you going to be all right here?’

  She nodded and shrugged out of her jacket. ‘I’m a big girl.’

  ‘OK. I’m going to lock this door after me. If anyone rings the buzzer, which they shouldn’t d
o, do not let them in.’

  ‘I wasn’t planning to,’ she said.

  ‘Good. I’ll be back first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Morning?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve got to sort a lot of stuff out. That’s not going to be a problem, is it?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ she said, and glanced toward the oiling room. ‘Jack, when you get back I think we need to talk about a few things.’

  ‘Fine,’ he said irritably. He had a vague urge to inform her that he hadn’t slept much in a very long time, but as he couldn’t remember exactly how long it had been, he just shook the thought from his head. He opened the door to leave and then turned back to her. ‘Emily? If you do have to talk to him, just remember that everything that comes out of his mouth is designed to trick you. He’s as slippery as the devil. He’ll try and talk circles around you, try to confuse you. He’ll…’ Jack got tied up in his own train of thought and flapped his hands in frustration.

  ‘Got it,’ she said with a firm nod of the head.

  She was closing the door behind him when he said, ‘Just out of interest, what did you want to talk to me about? Do I need to worry?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. We’ll figure it out when you’re back.’

  When Jack left, she removed her phone and sent a text message.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Bernard stared at the message, his hand tightening around the phone. The mercury in his internal thermometer started to rise until he could feel the pulse in his neck and the kick of his heartbeat. He looked away from the screen, took a deep breath, and the anger cooled into a gelatinous sickly feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  When that goblin of humiliation reared its head, as it had done so frequently in his life, Bernard thought about his teeth and his acne-scarred cheeks. Then all at once, cruel memories would rush through his mind, so fast and ferocious that he would have to cringe. He remembered getting his first job at McDonald’s and how one of the girls that worked there – Cynthia, a big-boned black bitch – called him a goofy idiot after he had forgotten to pack fries into one of her customer’s bags. He hadn’t had the nerve to retaliate, but the words flashed in his mind like an angry beacon, and she had sensed it too.

  ‘You want to call me something, Pocky?’

  Yes, I do, he thought, but he settled for a meek ‘Shut up.’

  She had made some remark about him being better off working at Pizza Hut, because at least then his face would fit in with the food.

  He remembered his first year working at the police station. He had been in charge of booking in two rather ragged prostitutes and escorting them to their accommodation for the night. The prostitutes were housed in neighbouring cells and had entertained themselves by shouting under the door to one another. They taunted him from down the hall, calling him a fat, dickless pig and asked him if his mum had been a horse. One of the prostitutes said, ‘You look like you could eat an apple through a letterbox, you fat shit,’ and his colleague working at the desk had chuckled, ever so slightly. She had tried to hide the laughter by saying, ‘Don’t listen to them, Bernard, they’re drunk.’

  But he had listened to them, the same way he had listened to all the others over the years. And then he had fantasised about what he would do to them, the pain he could cause if he really wanted to. He was six-foot-two and sixteen stone, not so heavy when you really thought about it, but the weight tended to collect on his chest and hips, giving him an awkward, almost feminine appearance.

  The dating apps had been, for the most part, a disaster. Except for Emily. When she had agreed to a second date, and then offered to cook for him, he thought that was it. She had been different from the others, had seen past his flaws. They were getting on like a house on fire; she had even let him kiss her on the cheek, and then… nothing. She wouldn’t answer text messages or calls. She did not even have the courtesy to accept his friend request on Facebook.

  After weeks and then months of trying, his infatuation morphed and reshaped itself into resentment.

  He re-read the message.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. But I would rather kill myself than “be fucked” by you. You’re pathetic. So do what you want and lose my number.’

  His hand began to shake. Did she really think he was bluffing? Did she really think she could manipulate him like this, treat him like some fucking loser that would do her bidding at the snap of her fingers? Oh no, not at all. Pathetic? I’ll show you how pathetic and petty I can be. Fucking bitch. He could lose his job, but he had been meaning to quit the station and do something else for far too long now. Maybe this was the kick up the arse he needed.

  * * *

  The station was relatively empty that night. Two teenagers were in for speeding on a stolen moped. A subsequent search had revealed an 8mm handgun and a knife as long as his arm. Those two fucking idiots were looking at a stretch in an adult prison, and were whiling away the time until their solicitor arrived by ringing the buzzer and asking for tea. Bernard was beyond surprised at how casual some of the criminals were.

  Bernard had answered the buzzer of a man in cell five who was in on a drunk and disorderly charge. The man had quite casually informed Bernard that if he didn’t get to see his solicitor in the next five minutes, he was going to kill every officer in the building. Bernard had closed the cell wicket and gone back to the desk to think. Thinking was always difficult with the constant shrill of the buzzers, but being in the job as long as he had, his mind had developed the ability to override the noise.

  He had pondered on his dilemma all night and had almost talked himself out of it. Now, however, he had a point to prove – to himself, to Emily, and all the rest of them before her. He was not some cowardly tub of lard. He was not. He was—

  Pathetic, pizza face, eat an apple through a letterbox…

  Bitch. I’ll show you, you fucking bitch.

  He turned to his sergeant, who was sitting on a swivel chair and scrolling through his phone. Sergeant Richmond had transferred to the station a couple of years ago, and had shown little interest in the job beyond delegating tasks and drinking endless cups of the awful black station coffee.

  ‘Sarge? Have you got a minute?’

  Sergeant Richmond said ‘Hmm?’ but didn’t look up from his screen. He was probably on a porn site if Bernard were to believe the rumours from his female co-workers.

  ‘Sorry, sarge. I was just wondering if I could have a minute.’

  Sergeant Richmond’s brow crinkled. He locked his phone screen and set it on the desk. ‘What is it?’

  Bernard hesitated, nibbled his lower lip. He was losing his nerve and suddenly felt like a schoolchild standing before the head teacher. He opened his mouth to try and talk his way out of it, to say that he was just curious, when he heard Emily’s voice in his head.

  I would rather kill myself…

  ‘Well,’ Bernard began, ‘you know this thing going on in the news about the man that was kidnapped? I think I might know something.’

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  May opened the door and offered him a businesslike smile. She wore a respectable silk shirt and a black skirt.

  Jack held up a shopping bag and said, ‘You’ll never guess what!’

  ‘What?’ she asked. Her eyes were as wide as saucers, ready to succumb to any one of her myriad emotions.

  ‘I remembered the wine this time!’ He stepped inside, slipped out of his shoes and then bent down to kiss her cheek. She smelled like a perfume shop counter. He knew that she had probably spritzed herself dozens of times, decided the fragrance was too weak, picked up a different perfume and repeated the process. He’d watched the infuriating ritual many times in the past whenever he sat waiting for her to get ready.

  ‘Well, that truly is a first,’ she said, following him into the kitchen. ‘So Master Chef, what’s on the menu tonight?’

  ‘OK, well, I’m assuming you have rice?’

  ‘Of course. Top shelf, the one by your hea
d there.’

  ‘Ah, great.’ He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. ‘I’m going to make chilli con carne. I haven’t made it in a very long time, but it should be easy enough. And don’t worry, I won’t actually put any chillies in it.’

  She couldn’t handle any spice at all. They could never eat anything too exotic in case, god forbid, something tingled her delicate palate.

  ‘Well, that sounds lovely,’ she said. ‘Can I be your sous chef?’

  ‘My what?’

  She giggled. ‘Can I help you with anything?’

  ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘This is my dinner and I’ve got it all under control. Oh, wait, hang on. How do you turn on your cooker?’

  She walked over, twisted the gas knob and pushed it in to ignite the hob. Then she stood by his side and rested her head on his shoulder. ‘I’m glad you’re here, Jack.’

  He stroked her cheek and said, ‘I’m glad to be here. I’m glad we’re working this out like a pair of real adults. Look at us, huh?’

  She tittered and sat down on a stool by the breakfast nook while Jack went about draining the blood from the mince. Now that he was engaged in the act of cooking, he remembered how much he had enjoyed it, once upon a time. His favourite thing had been to throw a few different bits of meat on the barbecue and experiment with his own marinades. It wasn’t rocket science, but he enjoyed watching the meat darken, standing among the smells, squinting through the smoke with a beer in his hand.

  ‘So,’ he said above the hiss as he added the mince to the pan. ‘Here’s what I want to know. Do you really think getting married will be a good idea? Because, if I’m honest, I’m more than a bit superstitious. I come from the school of if it ain’t broke, don’t—’

  ‘Jack?’ She said his name so delicately that for a split second she sounded like a little girl. He looked over at her, expecting tears or some other dramatic display, but she was quite calm. ‘Before we talk about weddings, maybe we should talk about the other thing.’