by S. B. Caves
‘Innocent,’ he snorted. ‘That’s where you and I have a different opinion.’
‘Seems so.’ Emily shielded her eyes against the sun and scanned the street. She started to walk down his driveway, her shadow stretching long behind her.
‘Where will you go?’ he called from the doorstep.
‘I don’t know yet,’ she replied. ‘But I don’t think we’ll be seeing each other again.’
Jack nodded and watched her walk down the street. When she was out of sight, he closed the door.
He was glad to see the back of her.
Chapter Fifty-One
Later that evening, Jack stood among the weeds in the garden drinking a beer. He decided that tomorrow he would drive out to the local garden centre and get everything he needed to transform this jungle into a picturesque paradise. He was going to buy flowers, a bench, pull up the weeds, mow the grass and get the place looking respectable again, like how Kate would have wanted it. He was going to plant some carrots and some tomatoes, and he was going to tend to them every single day, monitoring their progress. He had made himself this promise many times before, but he thought he might finally keep it now. After all, he would need something to focus his efforts on, to stop him from getting bored and surly. Gardening was as good a hobby as any.
He closed his eyes and replayed the last moments of Morley’s miserable life in his mind. A cool gust of wind blew through the garden, stirring the weeds and tickling his skin, carrying the heady scent of soil and flora. He exhaled and felt every knot in his body loosen, the tension melting out of his muscles, the worries dissolving in his mind.
He could almost hear the sucking gasps as the plastic bag suffocated Morley, and delighted at the way his violent bucking had weakened, until his thrashing was nothing more than a series of feeble jerks.
In the end, Morley had literally had the last laugh. Instead of explaining why he had killed Kate, as he had promised to, Morley chose to use his dying breaths to chuckle in Jack’s face. The chuckling escalated into a hacking fit, bloody foam flying from his ruined lips. He barked out a series of guttural coughs, drawing blood from his lungs, and then he spat a wad of phlegm in Jack’s face.
‘I hope you never find him,’ Morley had said, with a bead of bloody saliva dangling from his smiling lips. ‘Fuck your wife and fuck you. I hope you never find who did it.’
Those were his final words before the plastic bag encased his head and stole the last of his breath.
There had never been a confession about an affair. There hadn’t been an explanation of any kind, but he supposed it no longer mattered. The main thing was that Jack knew he had caught the culprit. He had succeeded where the police had failed. He had avenged his wife, his dear sweet, beautiful Kate. She was smiling down on him from heaven, no doubt about it.
‘Now we’re even,’ he said aloud, thinking about the way Morley’s bowels had loosened right after his pathetic mewling dwindled to silence.
He drank the beer down to the dregs. He almost tossed the bottle among the weeds but caught himself at the last instant.
He waded through the tall grass and went back inside. By the time he was in bed, Craig Morley was nothing more than a distant memory.
Chapter Fifty-Two
On the other side of London, Bernard stood at his living-room window, holding a kitchen knife. Through the curtain, he watched the black boys playing football in the road, yelping and laughing like the animals they were. They seemed to be making a game of how high they could kick the ball; so far they had got it up past the telephone lines. Each time the ball came down with an echoing thud that shuddered through Bernard’s rapidly tightening chest. A couple of times, the ball had gone into someone’s front garden, and the boys had scrambled over the wall to reclaim it without a second’s thought to the flowers and plants that might lie there.
Bernard had had enough. He had been watching them for the best part of an hour, his palm callousing from the grip around the knife’s handle. He was sure that, at any moment, one of them would kick the ball into his garden, and when they did he was going to make the only stand he could. He was going to stab their ball with his knife and hurl it back across the road to where their mother sat listening to music on her phone. Of course, the ball would be the consolation prize, but he could always imagine that he was driving the knife into their eyes. In fact, he would look directly at them as he ruined their game, would savour their shocked expressions. He would laugh at them, maybe ask how high they could kick their ball now that it was flat as a fucking pancake. And if their mother piped up, well, perhaps he could give her a few home truths. He would tell her that he worked for the police and he had friends in high places. He could get hold of immigration, put a stop to her benefits, get her kicked out of her council house on an ASBO order. How would she like sleeping in the park with all her kids? That would be ideal, wouldn’t it? Then they could kick the ball as high as they wanted.
He watched the boys separate as a Bentley crept along the tarmac before parking outside Bernard’s house. A large man got out of the car and said something to the boy holding the football. The boy laughed and handed the ball over and the large man began to do kick-ups. He did about six or seven, and then headed the ball away. He went into his pocket and… was he giving those little bastards money? The boys’ mother grew curious and looked over, before giving the large man a stupidly wide grin. She obviously approved of strangers paying her children for doing nothing; they learned from the best. The boys ran off whooping excitedly, their game forgotten.
The large man went around to the back door of the Bentley and opened it to allow an older but sharply dressed man out. The older man’s white hair fell down past his shoulders and reminded Bernard of a wizard.
Who were these two? Property developers? Estate agents?
Bernard watched as the two men scanned the houses searching for something, before the larger man pointed directly at Bernard’s front door. Bernard took a step back from the window, disturbed. Had they seen his silhouette? What were they looking for?
And then, as they started toward his doorstep, Bernard knew exactly who they were and what they wanted.
When the doorbell rang, Bernard dropped the kitchen knife. He slapped a hand over his mouth and stood completely still.
‘Bernard, we know you’re in there,’ a deep, accented voice said from outside the door. ‘If you don’t open this door, my colleague will be very insulted. This will not be good for you.’
Bernard panted softly. His forehead became incredibly hot and moist. He waited a second longer before saying, ‘Hold on a second, please.’
He looked down at the knife. Then he thought better of it. Hesitantly, he opened the door and was greeted by two very grim faces. The large man placed a meaty hand on Bernard’s chest and pushed him back into the house, before they invited themselves in. When the door was closed, the older man with the white hair said, ‘By now you have probably worked out who I am, yes?’
Bernard nodded. The tip of his penis began to throb with the sudden urge to urinate.
‘Good. You are going to tell me everything you know about Emily Matthews and then you are going to take me to her house so we can speak with her boyfriend. And please, for everyone’s sake, don’t lie. My friend here has had a long week and is not in the best of moods.’
Epilogue
Three weeks later
The Seagull Café didn’t see many regulars in the spring. In truth, it no longer saw many regulars at all, but still maintained a steady, if not sleepy, stream of custom. Today, however, marked the fifth day in a row that the woman had come in, choosing to sit at a table near the back, facing the wall.
This time, when Barbara took the woman her tea and toast, she said, ‘There’s a much better view of the sea if you face the other way.’
‘Hmm?’ Emily looked up at Barbara as though the waitress had just roused her from a very deep daydream.
Barbara pointed to the window. ‘I’ve noticed th
at you keep coming in and sitting facing the wall. I was just saying that the sea is much nicer to look at.’ Having spent longer than the usual five seconds it took to bring the woman her food, Barbara noticed just how ill she looked. The skin on her face was waxy and appeared as though it was pulled too tightly over her skull. Far more worrying, however, was the woman’s vacant gaze that seemed to be looking directly through Barbara. Barbara had seen that look many times before. The seafront was no stranger to the junkies that shuffled around like the walking dead. Some mornings it was like running an obstacle course, trying to avoid their outstretched hands as they harassed her for spare change. Barbara couldn’t tell if the woman was a user or not. She seemed far too clean and articulate, without any of the jittery mannerisms that Barbara had come to identify. In fact, the woman was incredibly still, a waxwork that occasionally nibbled at her toast and made a cup of tea last for hours.
‘Oh, sorry,’ Emily said. ‘Should I move?’
‘No. You sit where you like, my love.’ Barbara was about to go back to the counter and continue with her crossword, but said, ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yeah.’ Emily pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘Yes. Fine, thank you.’
‘Not from around here, are you?’
Barbara saw the woman’s face grow wary. ‘No.’
‘You’re a Londoner, aren’t you? I can tell by the accent.’
Emily lifted the cup and took a long sip. ‘Yes.’
‘I can’t blame you for wanting a break from that place.’ Barbara watched the woman shift in her seat, knocking the table with her knees and jingling the teaspoon on the saucer.
‘Yeah, I know,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m thinking of trying to settle down here for a while.’
‘Oh yeah? Bournemouth’s lovely, isn’t it?’ Barbara pointed to the sea view, her hands pink and puffy from years of ferrying hot plates about the place. ‘Nothing like the sea air to clear the head. I’ll warn you, though, it’s a completely different pace to London, as I’m sure you can imagine. Life moves a lot slower down here. We don’t go around stabbing each other if we can help it.’
For the first time in five days, Barbara saw the woman smile. ‘Good. That’s just what I’m after.’
Barbara gave the café a cursory glance, saw that the only other patron was eating his omelette by the window, and invited herself to sit down at the woman’s table.
‘What’s your name, love?’
‘Emily.’
‘Barbara.’ She offered her hand and Emily shook it. ‘Where are you staying?’
Emily pointed vaguely and said, ‘A bed and breakfast a few streets away.’
‘I don’t mean to pry,’ Barbara began, knowing that prying was exactly what she meant to do. ‘You can tell me to piss off if you want, I won’t be offended. It’s just, you don’t seem very well.’
‘I…’ Emily lowered her gaze to her lap. ‘I’ve just come out of a bad break-up.’
‘I see. Were you with him long… or her, if it’s a her.’ Barbara shrugged emphatically in an effort to show that lesbianism wasn’t going to be a problem for her.
‘I was with him a long time, yes.’ She sipped the tea again and then wrapped her hands around the cup to warm them. ‘I’ve left everything behind in London. I just want to make a clean break.’
Barbara nodded. ‘You looking for work?’
Emily considered the question. She was on the brink of bursting the credit card’s limit and then she would really be up the proverbial creek. ‘Yes,’ she replied, although she was still unsure as to whether she was in the right frame of mind to commit.
‘Well, there’s none here,’ Barbara said. ‘I mean not in this café. But you know the Anchor, the pub down off the pier there?’ Emily nodded, even though she had no idea where it was. ‘The landlord, Callum Murray, he’s got a few businesses along the promenade. His son owns the gym, and they have a little restaurant called La Cocina, you know, Portuguese food and that. Anyway, if you go and ask Callum, I’m sure he could slot you in somewhere, depending on what your experience is, I mean.’
‘Thanks for the tip,’ Emily said. ‘It’s really nice of you to do that.’
Barbara patted Emily’s hand and stood up. ‘No guarantees, of course, but it can’t hurt to ask, can it? Drop my name if you like. Don’t know if it will do you much good but I’ve known his family going on thirty years now so, you know, can’t hurt.’
Barbara went back to the counter to greet a young couple that had come giggling in, full of life and optimism.
Emily turned in her chair and looked out toward the front of the café. She watched the sea crash against the sand in the distance, the seagulls wheeling in the air, squawking for scraps.
When she’d finished her tea and toast, Emily left the café, shielding her eyes from the sun. She breathed in a deep lungful of the sea air and began strolling down the seafront.
Since the burial three weeks ago, Emily had only had one dream about Kate. In the dream, Kate was waiting for Emily on a bench in Hyde Park. It was summer, the sun streaming through the dappled branches, the air alive with laughter and conversation.
As Emily neared, Kate looked up from the book she was reading and waved emphatically. She was smiling, the sunlight painting her skin gold.
‘Hurry up, slowcoach!’ Kate cried across a knot of inline skaters. ‘I’ve been waiting ages. What took you so long?’
‘I don’t know,’ Emily called back. ‘I don’t know!’ she began to laugh, her feet gliding down the path, her arms open wide.
Kate met her halfway and they crashed into each other, hugging and spinning, cackling wildly like two naughty schoolgirls, not really sure what was so funny, it was just that intuitive twin telepathy.
‘I love you so much,’ Emily said, appraising her sister, and upon seeing no hideous markings on her neck, pulled her close and hugged her tighter.
‘I love you too. I love you so much.’
Emily had woken to the sound of her own laughter and the memory of Kate’s voice fading in her ears. She had laughed some more, and then she had cried, and then she had decided that maybe, just maybe, she might be OK.
* * *
In the café, the man sitting by the window finished his omelette and approached the counter.
‘How was it, my love?’ Barbara asked with a pleasant smile, vaguely surprised at how large he was.
‘Delicious,’ the man said, removing his wallet before picking out a ten from the fold of notes.
‘Ooh, that’s a nice accent you have there,’ Barbara said as she rang up the cost of his breakfast and handed over his three pounds’ change. ‘I have an ear for accents, you know. Let me guess. German.’
The man received his change and then placed the coins in the coffee cup labelled ‘tips’ atop the counter. ‘Dutch,’ he said, returning her smile.
He wished her good day, and then headed out into the sunshine.
* * *
‘Jackie, we need to be at the venue for four o’clock, OK?’ May said rapidly. ‘If we’re late they’re not going to wait.’
‘I know.’ Jack sighed.
‘So we need to be there on time because otherwise we’ll miss the six o’clock appointment as well, and I really like the look of that venue, so please, please, don’t be late.’
‘I’ll be there, hun.’
‘Please be on time.’
‘I will,’ he said. ‘Calm down.’
‘OK, sorry, sorry. I’ll let you get back on with your lunch. What are you having anyway?’
‘A sandwich,’ he lied. ‘Look, I’d better shoot off.’ He could hear her gearing up for more conversation so he gave her the magic words. ‘Love you.’
She giggled. ‘Love you. Husband-to-be.’
He ended the call. He still didn’t like using these damn mobile phones, but May had surprised him with a new one and he was not in a position to refuse her. It was one of the terms in their revised, unspoken contract. They did not talk about what
had happened on Frazier Avenue, and she had never asked any follow-up questions. Although there were times, if they were relaxing on the sofa watching TV or in the middle of eating dinner, where he could almost hear her thinking about it. He could sense that it took every bit of discipline and self-restraint she had not to bring it up, for fear that it might rock their new-found stability. She had everything she ever wanted: she was living at his place full-time and had put her house on the market. He had relented to her request for an exotic honeymoon. And why not? He needed a decent holiday, and maybe two weeks lying on a sun lounger without any heavy lifting would help his back.
So he would keep her sweet, get another ring put on his finger, listen to her ramblings and carry on as the big, quiet dummy he had always been. Because he never knew when he might need her again.
He pulled up at a traffic light and heard his stomach growl. He had been on his way to the Cheshunt warehouse to shift some stock and remembered a new steakhouse that had opened nearby. The almost pornographic poster of perfectly pink meat in the window had stayed with him. Today was as good a day as any for a T-bone.
It had been three weeks since he dumped Morley into that hole. He was due a treat.
He pulled into the car park and was happy to see that, despite it being lunchtime, the steakhouse was still relatively empty.
A tiny, smiling brunette greeted him eagerly at the door.
‘Hi,’ Jack said jovially. ‘Table for one, please.’
‘Sure thing. Right this way.’ She walked him through the restaurant and gestured to a series of empty tables next to the window. ‘Somewhere here, sir?’
‘I think this’ll do fine, thank you.’ She placed the menu on the table as he sat down and asked if she could get him a drink to start with. ‘I’d love a pint of your local ale, please.’
‘Sure,’ she beamed at him as though genuinely happy for his custom, and then skipped off. She returned a moment later with a pint glass on a tray. He took a long, luxurious sip and smacked his lips. He couldn’t say that it was the nicest beer he had ever tasted, but it had to be in the top five, maybe even the top three.
