by Mark Ayre
Though Abbie hadn’t killed Danny, he would not have died here if not for her. Before she left town for good, she would try to offer Glenda some money towards the new carpet, which she hoped the kind landlady would take.
Such concerns were for later. From the drawstring bag over her shoulder, Abbie removed the black book Travis had stolen. Opening it, she flicked through the pages. The first five comprised lists of names, as did the final forty. The pages between these two points were blank. Why did she write down those names? Did it indicate some sort of self-destructive desire? Maybe. Now was not the time to consider how she might compensate Glenda for her ruined carpet, nor for self-examination.
Important was confirmation Travis had torn no pages from the spine. He hadn’t. He might have photographed the contents, but Abbie doubted it. Nor was that something to worry about now.
The desk on which sat the telly, and behind which sat a chair, ran from the built-in wardrobe by the door to the far wall. Beneath the desk, against the wardrobe, was a chest of drawers. Connected to the desk’s surface from beneath, it hung an inch off the floor. If someone came into the room searching for a hidden item, they would before long be drawn to this space. Abbie didn’t expect anyone to return to the room before she did. If anyone came, it would be to clean or to examine the state of the carpet. In neither scenario would this person search under the fixed chest of drawers.
Dropping to her knees, Abbie placed the black book on the floor and slid it beneath the chest of drawers. Far enough that it would not be seen unless someone lay on the floor with a torch.
Rising, Abbie felt uncomfortable not having the book with her. But she was nervous. As she approached day two, she approached the end game. If she was captured by Francis or arrested, she did not want that book on her.
If it had fit, Abbie would have also slid The Strand beneath the chest of drawers. If she was captured or arrested, neither Francis nor the police would have the slightest interest in the Stephen King novel. If anyone took it from the bag, she would have to hope they were careful. While it made her uncomfortable, it was the best she could do.
Leaving the room where Danny had died, Abbie returned to her own and sat at the desk. From her car, she had removed a second black book, this one empty. On her phone, Abbie found Wikipedia, found the page she needed. With a pen, she began to write in the second black book.
By the time she was done, it was 11.10. In half an hour, she would leave and meet Eddie, at which point he would tell her everything she needed to know to save his life.
Whether he liked it or not.
Twenty-Two
One of the first things Abbie had done on 16th January 2021 was cross a street she had never before walked, duck into a darkened tunnel between two office blocks, and arrive in a carpark where fought two brothers.
One of the final things she did on 16th January 2021 was cross that same street, duck into that same tunnel, and appear in that same carpark.
This time only one brother was present. The other being dead. Abbie was eight minutes early. Eddie even earlier than that.
Solemn, miserable, shaking, Eddie met her eye when she appeared but did not immediately speak. Wanting to let him make the first move, Abbie waited.
“I know who has the money,” he said at last.
“So do I,” said Abbie, that need to show off once more rearing its head, causing her problems.
Eddie raised his eyebrows.
“It’s Leona, isn’t it?”
Eddie looked away, then into the tunnel. Perhaps he was thinking about the last significant interaction he had ever had and would ever have with his brother. The argument, the fight. All that bad feeling.
“Yeah, well done,” he said. “But do you know where she’s keeping it?”
“No.”
“I do.”
By twenty past midnight, Abbie and Eddie had reached a quiet and modest residential area on the outskirts of town. Winding through silent, darkened streets, they made their way to a road comprised of a strange hodgepodge of homes; everything from grand five-bedroom places to quaint little bungalows.
Rather than to one of the larger houses, Eddie directed Abbie to a bungalow on a slight rise. Like a river between two banks, the slab path that led from the pavement to the front door wound between gravelled lawns. The place was well kept, but with no grass and no flowers, only a window cleaner was required to keep the front looking pristine.
“Bit modest for a home of one so fearsome as Francis,” said Abbie.
“Francis doesn’t live here. No one does—but Leona owns it.”
With no more information than this, Eddie made his way up the path to the front door. Abbie resisted the urge to glance left, right, and behind; to check if anyone was watching before making her way up the path behind Eddie.
“I’ve heard couples can thrive if they sleep in different beds,” said Abbie as she joined Eddie by the front door. “Especially if one is a snorer, I’d imagine. But in different homes? That seems excessive, even for the excessively rich.”
“Francis doesn’t know about this place.”
Abbie expected to have to pick the lock. Given they were on a rise and several windows across the street had a clear view of what they were doing, the act would make Abbie nervous. There was nothing more suspicious than going onto one knee and fiddling with a lock, except maybe creeping through an open window carrying a knife or a rocket launcher.
But Abbie’s lock picking skills would not be required. From his jacket pocket, Eddie withdrew a key. For Leona’s lock, it proved to be the perfect fit. Eddie opened the door, let Abbie inside, then closed it, encasing them in darkness.
The house was silent. They stood just inside the door and listened for any sign that someone was present and awake. It was completely dark. Given the bungalow’s size, it was likely every door was within sight, hidden only by the total absence of light. Even so, they could not be sure no one was awake. Perhaps the bungalow got cold. Leona might have placed a warmer against the crack between her bedroom door and the floor. She could even now be in bed, reading a good book by lamplight. The warmer would prevent the light’s glow escaping into the hall. Abbie and Eddie would have no idea.
For thirty seconds, they stood still, listening for any sounds in the dark. Once this time had passed, Abbie took a hand and thumped the wall.
Another thirty seconds. Still, no one shifted nor rose from bed to investigate the noise. Abbie thumped the wall again and then kicked it, but in another thirty seconds, nothing happened.
From her pocket, Abbie withdrew her phone. Using the built-in torch, she shone a light on their surroundings and noted the rooms.
Seven total. The first immediately to their right. With the utmost care, Abbie eased open the door. Her hand guarding the torch, she illuminated the room beyond and discovered an empty toilet.
Closing the door, Abbie moved along the wall on the right, with Eddie following tight behind. Upon reaching the second door, Abbie repeated her actions and, this time, revealed a much larger room. A living room diner.
The guarded glow of the torch revealed little, so after a few seconds, Abbie had to raise the torch and shine it around, illuminating sofas, a telly, a drinks cabinet, a dining room table, and sliding glass doors into a conservatory.
Both the living-dining room and conservatory were empty. Retreating into the hall, Abbie moved to room three of seven (eight, if you included the conservatory) and this time found a kitchen, also empty.
Room four proved to be the master bedroom.
One foot in the door, Abbie stopped. From her position, guarded torch in hand, she could see only the foot of the bed and had no way of knowing if it was occupied. Leona might be here, asleep, Abbie’s actions having not yet woken her.
Abbie took another step. When Eddie tried to follow, she lifted a hand and put it to his chest. At a slight nudge, he took the hint and retreated from the room.
Once he was gone, Abbie located the light switch on
the wall, then switched off her torch and pocketed her phone.
There was a chance Leona had heard Abbie’s thumps and deduced someone was trying to entice her from her room. Rather than doing so, she could have moved with the speed and silence of a master thief, removing a gun from her bedside table or from beneath her pillow. In the dark, she would have done what she could to ensure the safety was off and that the gun would produce a satisfying bang should she need to pull the trigger. While Abbie and Eddie searched the toilet, the living room, the kitchen, Leona would have sat calmly in bed, gun pointing towards the door, waiting for her intruder to turn on the light and to meet her maker.
More likely, she was asleep or absent.
Abbie believed in a caution first approach. Raising a hand, she placed a finger on the light switch but did not press it. Holding her finger steady, she leaned away from the light and bent her knees. Praying Eddie would not enter the room, she took a silent breath.
In the dark, Abbie pressed the switch. As the light flashed, Abbie leapt, rolling along the side of the bed, and popped up, her hands outstretched, ready to grab the armed and alarmed Leona before she could readjust her aim and blow off Abbie’s head.
But Abbie didn’t grab anyone, and Leona didn’t fire because Leona wasn’t in bed. The bed was empty.
Stepping into the room, Eddie whispered, “She doesn’t often stay here.”
Abbie looked at him.
And if looks could kill…
While Eddie returned to the living room and turned on the light, Abbie moved back into the hall. With as much caution but more speed, she confirmed the remaining rooms—office, bathroom, guest bedroom—were also empty.
The guest bedroom was the last she checked for signs of life and the first for stolen money. Not here. The wardrobes and chest of drawers were bare, and there was nothing beneath the bed. Besides these items, the room was empty.
Both the toilet and bathroom were quick to search. Neither produced positive results. The kitchen fridge was empty, bearing out that Leona spent little time here, and the freezer contained only a couple of ready meals and some mince. The surfaces were bare, and, save for a couple of glasses, a plate, a bowl, a knife block missing a knife, and a few pieces of cutlery, the rest of the cupboards and drawers were also empty.
In the master bedroom, wall-mounted, a TV would dwarf in size most living room tellys. Within the drawers and wardrobes, Abbie found a few expensive outfits and some even pricier jewellery. The clothes smelt musty. The jewellery was coated in dust. Selling the lot would pay the rent on a three-bedroom home for six months. Money apparently meant nothing to Leona. In this secret bungalow, she would leave her expensive but unwanted possessions to rot.
Atop the single bedside table was a lamp; beneath it, a box of various items of lingerie, ranging from risque to X-rated. Concealed under the skimpy clothing, Abbie found a range of toys not suitable for children. Had Abbie's mother found such a box in the room of any of her children, she would have suffered a heart attack.
These clothes smelt not musty but recently washed. No dust coated the toys. Abbie seemed to have found the few items in the bungalow that got any use.
At the very bottom of the box, Abbie found a sheet of paper upon which Leona had written a list of surnames, all but the last of which were crossed out. Alongside the names was a basic table used to note Leona's bedmates' preferences. Favourite lingerie, favourite toy, favourite position, and unusual fetishes, some of which made Abbie feel quite unwell.
There were no dates to indicate when Leona had added the names to the list, but the most recent addition was Dean.
That Danny Dean was not crossed out indicated Leona did not come here daily. Or at least had not been here today. After all, what could be more worthy of a crossing out than having died? Abbie didn’t know. Didn’t want to think about it. She ran a finger down the table columns.
Most of the men on the list liked red or black lingerie, but Danny's favourite was, bizarrely, yellow. In the fetish column, Leona had written, Bad boy. Abbie didn’t know if this meant Danny liked to act like a bad boy, if he wanted to be spanked and called a bad boy, or if he would only get to it with Leona if the film Bad Boys, starring Will Smith and Martin Lawrence, was playing on the vast telly.
Trying to avoid contemplating such questions, Abbie folded and pocketed the slip of paper. From the bedroom, Abbie moved to the office. In here: a computer, a filing cabinet which contained no files, and a shelf of books so dusty you struggled to read the title on the spine.
The computer was off. The keys were clear of dust, as was the power button on the PC, indicating Leona used this office for more than role-play with the men she brought here. Abbie didn't switch on the PC. It would be password protected.
On the desk, half-concealed beneath the screen—which seemed to be acting as a paperweight— were a few scraps, torn from a notepad. Doodles decorated the notes, plus a few numbers used in some rudimentary mathematical equations. A few words that might have been passwords and a couple of names. Nothing of interest to Abbie.
From the office, Abbie returned to the kitchen. A second door led into the conservatory, which was empty but for a sofa and an armchair. Passing these, Abbie dropped down two steps and reached a garage door, which she flung open, half-expecting to see a safe or maybe just huge stacks of cash. Something of interest after the tedious house search.
The garage was empty. Stone walls. Concrete floor. Metal shutters.
Nothing else.
Closing the door, Abbie returned to the living room.
"I don't think Leona's hidden the money here," she said, entering the room through the sliding conservatory door.
"No," said Eddie, who hadn't been searching the living room but had perched himself upon the sofa with the missing and sharpest blade from the knife block.
At the sight of this, Abbie sighed, then turned from Eddie and walked to the glass drinks cabinet. For form, she searched through the lower cupboards before opening the glass-fronted doors at the top and examining the expensive bottles of booze on display.
"You never expected to find the money here, did you?" she asked of Eddie.
"No."
"But you do expect to find Leona? Wasn't it you who said she doesn't often stay here? What makes you think she'll turn up any time soon?"
"I texted her."
"Ahh, ingenious. What are you, a whiskey man? Or Vodka. Don't say Gin."
Eddie stared at her as though she were mad. "I don't need anything."
Abbie said, "Are you planning to kill Leona tonight?"
A hesitation, then, "Yes."
"Have you killed before?"
Another hesitation. "No."
"You need a drink."
Making the decision for him, Abbie withdrew from the shelf a bottle of incredibly expensive whiskey. From the cupboards she had recently searched, she took a crystal tumbler that she half filled. Taking both the bottle and the tumbler, Abbie moved to the armchair across from the sofa on which sat Eddie.
"I don't think Leona will begrudge you the drink," she said, sliding the glass across the coffee table. "Even if she does, doesn’t matter, does it? Given you plan to kill her."
Eddie looked to the drink, then turned his eyes to Abbie.
"Are you going to try and stop me?"
"You obviously don't think so," said Abbie. "You had a key to get in. You didn't need me. I guess I'm here in case things go wrong. You think if you try and fail to kill Leona, I can step in. Help."
He nodded. Said, "I hope it won't come to that."
It wouldn't. Eddie had probably told Leona to come alone. More likely than alone, she would come flanked by thugs like Ronson and Kline. More likely than that, the thugs would come while Leona stayed home with her feet up, watching crap telly and drinking tomato juice. More likely again: no one would come because Leona knew rejection was a powerful weapon that could cut as deep as any blade. She might also have realised, in the end, Eddie would defeat himself.
"Drink your whiskey," said Abbie.
From Abbie, Eddie looked to the knife rather than the whiskey. A furtive glance, as though he feared Abbie might try take it from him. That wouldn't be necessary. When Abbie made no move of any kind, he picked up his whiskey, then looked to her empty hand.
"You're not drinking?"
"I don't drink on the job."
"You're on a job?"
"I am."
"What job's that?"
"Primarily, I'm trying to save your life. As a bit of a side hustle, I'd like to free a couple of other people from debt. Destroying Francis would be a bonus."
Eddie sniffed the drink. If he feared Abbie had poisoned it, he was too afraid to say. He sipped.
"My life's not in danger," he said.
"Well, then, I'll have an easy job, won't I?"
Eddie drank a little more. Studied Abbie's face and tried to read her eyes. From those, he would discern nothing.
"You asked me if I'd killed before," he said.
This wasn't a question, so Abbie said nothing. Internally, she was mulling over what he was going to ask next. Trying to decide whether to answer. In the end, she decided she would. Though it was a risk.
"Have you?" he asked. "Killed before, I mean."
"Yes."
"More than once?"
"Yes."
"Did they deserve it?"
"They didn't think so."
"But you did?"
"I did. Amongst my victims, you’ll find rapists, killers, arsonists. That kind of thing."
"Did you enjoy it?"
Abbie could see them now. Her victims. They haunted her dreams, ensuring she would never forget their faces. In her youth, Abbie would become upset if, by accident, she crushed a flower. If her father found a spider in the house, Abbie would beg him not to kill but release it.
The first time she had killed a person, she had thrown up violently afterwards before collapsing into the kind of tears that shook your entire body and felt as though they would never stop.
