by Mark Tilbury
Danielle seized Dean’s hand and pulled him towards the door.
‘You can go,’ Tommy told his sister. ‘But the tart stays.’
‘I’m not a woman,’ Dean said. ‘For God’s sake, Tommy, I’m not a bloody woman.’
‘Get on your knees, whore, otherwise I’m gonna kill everyone.’
Dean released Danielle’s hand. ‘If I do as you say, do you promise not to hurt anyone?’
‘Are you takin’ the piss? A fuckin’ whore like you asking me to promise? What next? Cross my heart and hope to die?’
Dean sank to his knees, staring at the blade.
Tommy switched his attention to his father and Danielle. ‘Go on, then, fuck off. Scurry away to wherever rats scurry to.’
‘Look, lad, you’re not well,’ Charlie said. ‘You don’t mean any of this. Please see reason and put down the knife. I’ll take you to the doctors and make sure you get the help you need.’
Tommy walked behind Dean, put a hand across his face and yanked his head back. He pressed the knife into his neck. ‘If you’re not outta here by the time I count to ten, I’m gonna slit the bitch’s throat. Do you understand?’
Charlie’s mouth flapped like a grounded fish.
‘One…’
Danielle’s whole body trembled. She took her dad’s hand. ‘But…’
‘Two… three… four… five… six…’
Charlie relented and walked into the hallway with his daughter.
‘Shut the fuckin’ door, Tommy shouted. ‘And don’t even think about coming back.’
After the door had closed, Tommy pressed the blade deeper into Dean’s throat. ‘Just me and you now, Bella.’
Dean tipped his head back further. Relieved some of the pressure on his neck. ‘I don’t know what’s got into you, Tommy, but I can assure you I’m not a woman.’
‘No, Bella, you’re not. You’re a lying, filthy whore. Big difference.’
‘My name’s Dean. Dean Bowen. I don’t have a clue who Bella is. I really don’t.’
Tommy laughed. ‘And you want me to believe that?’
‘It’s the truth. I’m your sister’s boyfriend.’
Tommy dug the blade in further. ‘Ain’t it funny what people say when they’re shitting their pants? Not so long ago you were threatening to bite my dick off and feed it to the fish.’
Dean closed his eyes. Begged God to help him.
Tommy’s father entered the conservatory from the garden. He crept to the lounge door, face looking as if it was being crushed by an invisible force.
‘I’ve waited a long time for this, Bella. Dreamed about watching you die. Bleeding to death on the floor in front of me.’
‘Please, Tommy, you’re making a huge mistake.’
‘Is that right? How’s killing a worthless piece of shit like you a mistake?’
‘Because I’m not who you think I am.’
‘Liar.’
‘I’m not. I swear.’
‘On what? Your dirty knickers?’
‘I swear on my mother’s life. My name’s Dean. For God’s sake, Tommy, don’t do this.’
Charlie slowly pressed down the door handle and eased open the door. Stepped inside the lounge and crept towards his son.
‘I want you to confess what you are, Bella. Confess to being a prick-teasing whore.’
Charlie stopped about ten paces away from Tommy. A sheen of sweat coated his face.
‘All right,’ Dean said. ‘If it makes you happy. I’m a whore.’
‘A prick-teasing whore.’
‘A prick-teasing whore,’ Dean repeated.
Tommy pressed the blade harder against Dean’s neck. Tiny beads of blood blossomed on the steel. ‘How many kids have you taken to The Master, Bella?’
‘I—’
‘Ten? Twenty? A whole fuckin’ classroom of ’em?’
Charlie walked to within a foot of his son and wrapped his arms around his chest. Pulled him back with enough force to cause Tommy’s feet to leave the carpet. They tumbled to the floor, writhing and struggling for control of the knife.
Dean scrambled to his feet. He grabbed a vase of artificial flowers from the hearth and approached the wrestling pair.
Charlie gripped Tommy’s wrist and twisted it. Forced him to drop the knife.
Tommy screamed and attempted to bite his father.
At the first opportunity to get a clear strike, Dean smashed the vase down on Tommy’s head, breaking the glass.
For a few seconds, the room fell into an eerie silence. Tommy lay face down on the floor, blood leaking from his head wound.
Charlie crawled away from Tommy and stood. Pulled out his phone and called an ambulance.
‘I’m sorry,’ Dean said. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.’
Danielle stood in the doorway, hand clamped over her mouth. Tears glistened in her eyes.
Dean looked at her, face ashen, lips trembling. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt him. I thought he was going to—’
Charlie finished on the phone and threw it on the sofa. ‘Don’t go blaming yourself, Dean. It’s not as if you had a choice, is it?’ He walked to Tommy and crouched. ‘Get a clean towel from the kitchen, Danielle. We need to stop the bleeding.’
‘He’s gonna need stitches,’ Dean said. ‘Oh God, someone tell me this isn’t happening.’
Tommy, although unconscious, heard the conversation. Wondered what the hell they were all talking about.
A terrifying thought: maybe he’d finally jumped off the building, and they were all gathered around his broken body. And now he was going to spend the rest of his life paralysed and completely dependent on his parents for everything.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
A week after Dave Hemmings’ murder, Bella and Duggan sat in the lounge at Thorndike House drinking coffee and finalising their plan to take Dr Marks out of the picture. After relieving Number Three of grave-digging duties, Duggan and Bella had taken on the task of getting the ex-driver out of sight and out of mind. Duggan, in a bizarre ritual even he couldn’t explain, had defecated on the corpse before filling in the hole.
Bella, now identifying as a lesbian called Corrine Glover, wore a long dark wig, blue coloured contact lenses, and a fake tan. She was looking forward to her appointment with the therapist. Marks had allotted her a fifteen-minute slot at the end of the day to discuss the mental health issues surrounding her abusive childhood.
Duggan took a sip of his strong black coffee. ‘Are you ready to execute your duty, Corrine?’
She smiled, her pink lipstick imprinted on her cup. ‘Yes, Master.’
‘I’m sorry you’re going to have to go on a pushbike, but my driver is otherwise engaged at the moment.’
She smiled. ‘I know, Master.’
‘When you arrive, make sure you leave the bike at the back of St Mary’s Church. I’ll pick it up later in the Land Rover. Walk across to the Wellbeing Centre. After the session, go outside, then return to the office and tell Marks someone’s stolen it. Ask him to give you a lift home.’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘Good girl. Anyway, the exercise will do you good. You’re looking a bit sallow beneath the war paint.’
‘I could do with a holiday in the sun next year, Master.’
‘And so you shall, Corrine. So you shall. I was considering a fortnight in the Bahamas.’
‘That would be amazing. Thank you.’
Duggan nodded. ‘Are you comfortable with your cover story, Corrine?’
‘Yes, Master. My father abused me as a child. It’s caused me terrible psychological damage, and I keep having suicidal thoughts.’
‘Good. Call me when the mission is complete and I’ll come and pick you up.’
‘Thank you, Master.’
Corrine finished her coffee and checked her face in the mirror. ‘Dark hair doesn’t really suit me. I much prefer blonde.’
Duggan smiled. ‘Needs must, darling, needs must.’
He escorted Co
rrine to the shed and wrestled with an array of junk to extract his mother’s old pushbike. He presented it to her as if it was a prized possession, which, in a way, it was. A family heirloom. The only thing he had left of his mother’s other than her jewellery.
‘Remember to take the back road to Feelham. Keep your hood pulled up, and don’t stop for anything.’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘I have every faith in you, Corrine.’
‘Thank you, Master.’ She fiddled with the front light. ‘How does it switch on?’
‘It doesn’t. It works off a dynamo.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It activates the lights as soon as you start peddling.’
‘No batteries?’
Duggan shook his head. ‘The bicycle was made at a time when manufacturers actually considered the customer’s experience and peace of mind. You could ride to Land’s End on that bike and never have to worry about the lights.’
‘Wow!’
Duggan wiped the saddle with a duster. ‘Right, I’ll see you later.’
Corrine mounted the bike and pedalled slowly along the gravel driveway towards her date with the therapist.
***
Dr Marks had enjoyed a relatively productive day. Three clients, and a phone call from Danielle Scarlett pleading with him to visit and do something for her brother. She’d explained how he’d gone crazy with a knife and threatened her father and her boyfriend. Held the boyfriend captive and threatened to slit his throat.
Although Marks wanted to help the boy, it was his opinion he might be better off in a secure unit until they could get his violent mood swings under control. But he was morally bound to do his best to offer help, even if it was only a token gesture.
He’d also spent several days investigating the affairs of Sir Bernard Clancy. The man clearly possessed all the necessary dodgy attributes to be a high-ranking politician. He’d also once been caught with a rent boy and, if appearances were anything to go by, looked more than capable of inflicting suffering on a child.
But that didn’t prove a thing as far as Tommy Scarlett was concerned. As for the illustrious Mr Geary, there were dozens of men with that name scattered all around Oxfordshire. It wasn’t even worth bothering to try to identify him.
He checked the time on his phone. Almost five-thirty. One final appointment, and he could go home and relax with a bottle of wine. See if he couldn’t come up with something to offer the Scarletts other than hypnotherapy.
The intercom buzzed. ‘Miss Glover to see you, Dr Marks.’
‘Thank you, Jane. Show her in and get off home.’
‘Of course.’
Corrine entered the room, strands of her long dark hair pasted to her face. Her coat dripped a trail of water across the tiled floor.
Marks held out a hand. ‘Hi, I’m Dr Marks. Pleased to meet you.’
Corrine didn’t take the hand. She sniffed several times and searched for somewhere to hang her coat.
‘Put it on the back of the door,’ Marks said. ‘Would you like me to fetch a towel for your hair?’
Corrine shook her head. ‘No. It’s fine. I’m used to getting wet.’
Marks invited her to sit at the desk. He walked around the other side and sat. Brought up a file on his laptop. ‘So, you need some help after suffering childhood trauma?’
She nodded.
‘Would you like to briefly explain what happened to you?’
‘I already have. My dad abused me.’
‘How old were you when this abuse took place?’
Corrine shrugged. ‘I’m not sure exactly when it started, but I was young.’
‘Were you an only child?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was it your biological father?’
Corrine nodded.
‘Please don’t feel obliged at this stage to go into detail, but would you please give me an idea of the nature of the abuse?’
She studied her hands. ‘He used to always read me a bedtime story to help me get to sleep. But, as I got older, he used to get into bed with me to read. Let me snuggle up to him. Which was fine until his hands started going places they shouldn’t.’
Marks nodded. ‘How did he excuse his behaviour?’
Corrine shrugged. ‘By saying it was our little secret. It was what daddies do to show their love.’
‘Did you believe him?’
‘Yeah. I trusted him at first. Thought he was telling the truth.’
‘A common tale, sadly,’ Marks said. ‘So, again, without going into detail, did this abuse escalate?’
‘Not for a long time. But when I was in the last year of primary school, he made me touch him back. Do stuff that made me sick to the stomach. Then it progressed to rape from about thirteen until I ran away from home when I was sixteen.’
Marks typed something onto his laptop. ‘Okay, Corrine, I’m sure I’ll be able to help you. But I must warn you, it’ll be an extremely painful process. Like being broken apart piece by piece in order to rebuild you. Are you prepared for that?’
‘Seeing as I’m going to kill myself if I don’t get help, I don’t think a bit of pain’s gonna do much.’
‘Have you ever attempted suicide?’
‘Twice.’
‘Would you mind telling me how?’
‘First time I swallowed a load of my girlfriend’s sleeping pills. The second time I slit my wrists in the bath, but Kelly found me and called an ambulance.’
‘Is Kelly your girlfriend?’
‘Was. She cheated on me, so that was the end of that.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘I’m not.’
Marks checked the time. ‘Okay, Corrine. As discussed on the phone with my receptionist, my rate is sixty pounds an hour. Is that okay with you?’
‘Yes.’
‘If you’d like to give us a ring later in the week to arrange an appointment, I’d be more than happy to help you.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Any questions you want to ask me?’
Corrine shook her head. She stood and put on her coat. ‘No. I need to get home and have a hot bath. Cycling to Feelham has left icicles on my bones.’
‘You rode here in this weather?’
Corrine nodded. ‘I can’t afford a car, and the buses don’t run out to Lower Spittle after five.’ She walked out of the office and closed the door behind her.
It was clear to Marks the young lady had been severely damaged by her upbringing. Anyone would be. But there was something else about her that was troubling him. It was almost as if she was detached from reality. Robotic in her answers, as if recounting an experience that had happened to somebody else.
Marks added a few lines to his notes on Corrine Glover. It’s possible she may be suffering Dissociative Identity Disorder. Will have to look closely at this. As with all trauma-based illness, it’s highly likely there’s much more going on than meets the eye.
A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me. Corrine.’
Marks stood. Opened the door. ‘Have you forgotten something?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s my bike. Someone’s stolen it.’
‘Where did you leave it?’
‘In the car park out back.’
‘Oh God, I’m so sorry.’
‘Thing is, I’ve got no way of getting home.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll give you a lift.’
‘Are you sure? I don’t want to put you out.’
Marks mentally consulted his evening schedule. Go home, microwave meal, feed the cat, and work on the Tommy Scarlett case. Plenty of room left to give this poor young woman a lift. ‘It’s fine. I haven’t got anything planned.’
Corrine smiled. ‘Thank you so much. It’s really kind of you.’
Marks grabbed his keys from the desk drawer, put on his coat and hat, locked the office, and escorted Corinne to the car park.
Chapter Thirty
Corrine directed Marks out of Feelham and onto a long winding backroad running parallel to the main road to Henley-on-Thames. The wind and rain was rapidly approaching storm status, hurling buckets of water at the windscreen.
They drove past a disused military base which had been sold off to developers years ago. ‘How long have you lived out here?’ Marks asked.
‘Just over a year,’ Corrine lied. ‘Me and Kelly moved in not long after we met. Far too soon when I look back on it.’
‘Do you like the seclusion?’
‘Most of the time. Gets a bit creepy at night, but the house is pretty secure. The landlord’s all right as far as landlords go.’ She gestured to a spot a few hundred yards away. ‘You can drop me off up there.’
Marks slowed down. ‘I can’t see any houses.’
‘You can’t get to the house in a car. There’s a narrow walkway.’
Marks stopped the car and put on the interior light. It was virtually impossible to see much through the windscreen, even with the wipers going full tilt.
‘Do you want me to walk you to the door?’
‘No, ta, I’ll be all right. I’ve got a torch.’ She reached into her pocket and released the safety catch on Karl Duggan’s gun.
‘You should give the police a ring tomorrow and report your stolen bike,’ Marks said. ‘Not that they’ll do much, though.’
Corrine pulled out the gun and aimed it at the therapist’s head. ‘Shut the fuck up.’
Marks recoiled. Snapped his head round and stared at the gun. ‘What the—?’
‘Don’t say a word, or I’ll blow your brains out.’
Marks appeared about to defy her but seemed to change his mind.
‘I suppose you’re wondering what this is about, right? Why Corrine’s pointing a gun at your head when you’ve been good enough to give her a lift home? Well, to satisfy your insatiable need for answers, I’ll tell you. You’ve been poking your nose into things that have absolutely nothing to do with you.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘No, I don’t suppose you do. Let’s just say you should’ve stayed away from Tommy Scarlett.’
‘Are you… Bella?’
Corrine laughed. ‘I’m whoever you want me to be.’
