Deep Water

by Mark Ayre

  "When I was first married, my husband—master is more appropriate—made my role abundantly clear. I would bear and raise his children, keep the house clean and tidy, and appear on his arm at events. I would not sleep in his bed but must rush to it the second that he decided he needed to use my body for whatever purpose, regardless of my own condition or opinion. And, most importantly, I would prepare for him, every morning, a full English breakfast."

  "That sounds awful," said Abbie.

  "Quite. Especially at the beginning, when I didn't know what a full English was. But it gets worse. My husband often held breakfast meetings. There always had to be enough food to sate the appetite of every person at the table. The catch? I was never told when such meetings would take place or how many attendees to expect. I had to be ready for every eventuality."

  “It all sounds awful," said Abbie. "And you were practically a kid. Must have been traumatising."

  Alice turned, the dishes now laden with food. She was smiling as she placed them on the table, but there was a flicker in the eyes. Reliving her time with her first husband had to be taking a toll.

  "Incredibly," she confessed. "For some reason, it's the breakfasts I fixate on. Of course, I remember the bastard shoving my face into the carpet when I missed a spot during cleaning; or twisting my arm so far behind my back I thought it was going to snap when I didn't say the right thing at the right time at a dinner party; or pinning me to his bed, laughing as I cried and begged him to be gentler." Alice paused, then shook her head, shaking free the memories as they threatened to overwhelm her. "Yet, despite those horrible things, it's almost always the breakfasts. He would often throw food in my face if the flavour wasn't to his high standards. Once or twice he burned me on the hob or scalded me with boiling water. When I was pregnant with Adam, he said it made him sick to look at me; the thought of touching my flesh repulsed him. But he was a man with needs; I had to accept that he would bring home mistresses—more than accept. Understandably, I was to cook them breakfast in the morning. Sometimes, he'd introduce me as his live-in-maid, sometimes as his wife. It depended on the woman."

  Alice took the seat next to Abbie and took a breath. Abbie placed a hand on the older woman's arm and gave it an affectionate squeeze.

  "Happy birthday," she said, "by the way."

  Abbie hoped to break the tension but knew it was a risk. For a second, Alice said nothing, then she burst into a fit of laughter.

  "I didn't mean to get mired in the misery," she said. "I only raised it because, despite the horror of that first marriage, I took some wonderful things when I escaped. Adam and Angel; my second husband, who was my first husband's attorney; the money, which is always nice; and full English breakfasts." Alice waved a hand over the food in front of them. "I found when I was cooking breakfast, I could disappear into the task. I loved the smell and that there's quite a lot of skill in something which at first glance seems so simple. I became the master of the full English, as you're about to discover. Please, help yourself."

  The invite was a blessing. Breakfast smelled incredible, and after a small dinner, Abbie was famished. Without hesitation, she served some of everything onto her plate and onto Alice's as the hostess rose to make coffee. While it brewed, Alice began to whistle again. A happy tune that chimed perfectly with the hope in the air and the nerves in Abbie's heart.

  "I take it you've had some luck this morning," said Abbie, cutting into a sausage. "With the items we discussed last night."

  "Oh, yes," said Alice. "I was up early and had Pedro on the phone before the sun was in the sky. We discussed Louis' misunderstanding. I explained there were no guns and braced myself for his fury, but do you know what he said?"

  Abbie had bitten into a sausage so couldn't answer the question. She gestured to her empty fork and finished the mouthful.

  "This is incredible."

  "No, that's not what he said."

  Abbie rolled her eyes. Alice smiled.

  "Thank you, Abbie. Pedro said he knew Louis was a fool and never expected him to get the guns. He's already found another supplier, so we won't be hearing any more from him."

  Chuckling, Alice put two mugs on the surface and began pouring coffee. She chuckled at her good fortune, but Abbie could not find the same level of solace in the news.

  "Then I rang Angel," said Alice. "She was more difficult, but like I said, I'm her mother. No matter what she claims, she still loves and respects me. I told her if she attended the party tonight, all would become clear, but I needed her word that no harm would befall anyone today. Not just Jacob, Kyle, Louis, and you, but anyone."

  "And she agreed?"

  Alice returned to the table and placed the coffees on the surface. "She agreed. That just leaves Ariana, but I happen to know she and Gray are upstairs. When she drags herself out of bed, I'll extract from her the same promise I did from Angel. Abbie," she pointed her fork at her guest. "Everything's coming up roses."

  After forcing a smile for a second, Abbie hid her face in a rasher of bacon, which was as delicious as the sausage.

  Hope, it surrounded them. More than hope, at this point. Alice was convinced everything was going to be okay.

  Abbie had been here time and again. She would often arrive somewhere and highlight the danger someone was in. Then, as day one became day two, the threat would seem to pass or recede. In would creep hope. Potential victims would start to believe they were safe. These periods of hope, Abbie thought a well-known expression perfectly encapsulated what they were.

  The calm before the storm.

  Alice was sixty today. She had delicious food in front of her and hope regarding her children. Alex was with a crook but was happy, something might happen between Tony and Abbie, and Angel and Ariana would soon return to the fold. After the horrors of her daughter's murder, Alice was finally finding the strength to get her house back in order. Abbie loved the smile these beliefs put on the birthday girl’s face. Even if Abbie was dubious that any (besides Alex’s relationship) were well-founded. Did Abbie want to spoil that joy? Would it even help to do so?

  Undecided, Abbie tried focusing on breakfast. She had forgotten how sharp Alice was. After taking a large swig of coffee, the birthday girl lowered her drink and stabbed Abbie's arm with her fork.

  "Ow," said Abbie. "What the hell?"

  "You're holding out on me," said Alice. "That's not what friends do."

  "I don't know what you mean," said Abbie, wiping fat from her arm and sucking it from her finger. "Crazy lady."

  Alice laughed. "Are you not the stranger, the wanderer, the interloper? Isn't one of the benefits of your existence that you needn't worry about upsetting people? You fly in, save lives, and fly out, never to be seen again. You can't be worried about ruining our bond?"

  Abbie considered this. It summed up her position in some senses. At least, it used to, before Bobby. Before Alice. Pushing those thoughts aside, Abbie ate more breakfast and turned to Alice.

  "Did you know that Ollie's upstairs?"

  Alice looked up as though x-ray vision would reveal her grandson.

  "No," she said. "In Aurora's room, I suppose?"

  "That's right."

  "Poor boy. He has a key and often lets himself in at night to lie on her bed and cry. I wish I could help, but he shuts down whenever I try to engage him in conversation."

  Abbie nodded, held her tongue. Mentioning Ollie had been an opening created to allow Abbie to raise some of what she and the teenager had discussed. Suddenly she felt guilty that Ollie had spoken to her when he would not to his grandma.

  "He opened up to you, didn't he?” said Alice, taking the decision from Abbie.

  "Kind of."

  Alice gave a half-glare. Then her eyes travelled from Abbie's face to her tee. Abbie raised her hand instinctively but not quick enough.

  "Was that mark created by the tears of a teenage boy, perchance?"

  Abbie didn't answer. Though she had no reason to feel guilty, she certainly did.

&n
bsp; "Are you a witch?" said Alice.

  "Sometimes, it's easier to open up to a stranger than to those closest to us," said Abbie. "Besides, I've had plenty of practice working the truth from people at short notice. It's vital to my line of work."

  Alice smirked. "I'm jealous, though I know that's childish. But don't worry, I won't get hung up on it. I'm glad he opened up to you."

  "So am I," said Abbie. "He blames himself for what happened to Aurora, but I think I've helped him start to working through that, to understand the blame lies solely with the knife-wielder."

  "Thank you," said Alice. "For helping him."

  "I wasn't bragging," said Abbie. "He told me something. Something... worrying."

  "Right," said Alice. "What's that?"

  "A story about his mother."

  Alice's jaw tightened. She forced herself to speak. "What story?"

  Abbie hesitated. Getting Angel in trouble was something that bothered Abbie not at all. More concerning was breaking the implicit confidence she shared with Ollie after he opened up.

  "Nothing you say to me will be repeated to Ollie or anyone else," said Alice. "Of course, if you don't feel comfortable breaking his trust, I understand."

  Abbie might still have held off had she not believed the story was directly pertinent to the danger Alice and Jacob faced. As such, she revealed the broad strokes of Ollie's story about his dad.

  When Abbie was done, Alice rose with a deep, furious breath. Though she hadn't finished breakfast, the birthday girl strode across the tiles and placed her hands on the back wall.

  "What sort of mother am I?" she asked. "How did I allow this to happen?"

  "You were probably in prison when it did."

  "So?" said Alice. "When you revealed to me what Ariana had done, I hated myself for her actions. Alice, I told myself, this would never have happened if you'd been around to steer the girl during those difficult adolescent years. I loathed myself for abandoning Ariana, but isn't this worse? Because I did steer Angel through puberty. I wasn't arrested until she was in her thirties, so what does that mean? Maybe you won't be surprised. I was a criminal, after all, and I didn't hesitate to get Angel involved in that side of the business. Still, I liked to see myself as an honourable crook, and I thought she was too. I didn't think we were killers."

  Abbie didn't say anything. She wanted to keep eating, but somehow it didn't feel appropriate. She waited.

  "I was wrong," said Alice. "Not just about her but about myself because I am a killer. I may only have ended one life, and it may have been decades ago, but more important is who it was, right? Angel's father."

  Pulling away from the wall, she turned back to Abbie.

  "Do you know why I named her that? Angel."

  Abbie shook her head.

  Sighing, Alice lifted a hand, touched her stomach. Made small circles with her palm. Abbie recognised the action. One subconscious habit had Abbie doing the same in the presence of children, pregnant women, or when she thought of the baby she had lost.

  "I was three months pregnant with Angel," said Alice, now looking at her circling hand. "Adam was six months old and having a difficult night. I couldn't settle him. After an hour of trying, my husband came in and slapped me to the ground. Told me he couldn't stand the racket so was going to the pub. Warned me I'd better shut up the brat before he returned, or he’d do it for me. Permanently."

  Alice moved towards the table, reclaimed her seat. There was so much untouched food. Abbie couldn't stand the thought of it going to waste.

  "Once my husband was gone, I finally settled Adam, then returned to my room and sobbed into a pillow until I fell asleep."

  Alice began to eat, and Abbie thought this probably gave her permission to as well. Which was good. The food was delicious. Abbie wanted to eat as much as possible while it was hot.

  "That night," said Alice, “I dreamed of a beautiful woman with a warning. She said that if I didn't deal with my husband before my second child was born, it would be too late. My husband would kill me; my body would never be found. Adam would grow up to be just like his father, and my second-born, who I was told would be a girl, would take my place as my husband’s house-bound servant and... plaything. Before she hit puberty.”

  Alice served both women seconds and avoided Abbie's eye.

  "I can't have slept for long. In the early hours, I awoke to the sound of my husband stumbling in, and I wasted no time. Before the sun rose that day, he was dead, and I was free.

  Alice finished her coffee, mused over the empty cup.

  "The woman who visited my dream that night was nothing more than a manifestation of my subconscious fears for myself and my children. I know that. Still, I choose to see her as my guardian angel and, more than that, the grown-up version of my daughter. That I was cleared of all charges relating to my husband's death on the day she was born solidified this theory. Angel, then, seemed a natural name to pick."

  Alice tucked into the seconds she had served herself.

  "I've told Angel this story," she said. "Can you believe that? I held her up as a hero for saving our lives from her monster of a father, but what was I really doing? Absolving myself of blame, that's what. I didn't kill him because I hated him; oh no, I killed him because my daughter came from the future, entered my dream, and told me to. How pathetic can one person be?"

  "One person can be very pathetic," said Abbie. "But you're not."

  Alice snorted.

  "No, hear me out," said Abbie. "Your husband raped and abused you day after day, and you took it. When did you snap? When did you have this dream? When he threatened to permanently stop your son crying. You had to save your little boy’s life, but you were a teenager. Killing isn't easy. Your subconscious handed you a coping mechanism. That doesn’t make you pathetic. Far from it."

  "But what did it do to my daughter?" said Alice. "She could never appreciate what a monster her father was. No matter what I told her, Angel could never comprehend that level of pain because Angel’s never suffered as I did. So what did she learn from my story? That her father inconvenienced me, so I killed him and got away with it. Now I'm rich and happy and surrounded by my family. With that story, I didn't just shift the blame of murder from myself but gave my daughter a license to use brutal means to improve her life without the fear of guilt or consequence. With that story, I was creating a monster, and I never realised.”

  Alice closed her eyes and tilted her head to the ceiling. Abbie knew this was no longer an exercise in reminiscence. Alice was making decisions, and Abbie couldn't get in the way.

  "How many other people has she killed because they upset or annoyed her? How many lives has she destroyed behind my back?"

  These were rhetorical questions, so Abbie didn't answer.

  "No more," Alice went on. "It has to stop tonight."

  Abbie didn't say she had already come to the same conclusion and was starting to believe this would only end when Angel was dead. Alice wouldn't appreciate that.

  "Louis is keeping Jacob safe. Angel won't get to him today," said Alice. "Tonight, she'll come here, and here is where it ends. She's my daughter; I'm responsible for her actions."

  Alice turned and lay her hand on Abbie's arm, met the younger woman's eye.

  "My daughter will kill no more innocents. I'll make sure of that."

  She forced a look of grim determination onto her face.

  “Whatever it takes.”

  Twenty-Five

  Abbie cleared away breakfast while Alice went to make a few more calls. The food they hadn't eaten, which was plenty, was boxed or wrapped and stored for later consumption. After rinsing the plates, Abbie placed them in the dishwasher.

  It was only just gone half nine on day two. The party wouldn't start for at least eight hours. What was to happen in the meantime? Abbie was not used to a lull in her short two-day life-saving spell.

  Finishing her coffee, Abbie made herself another. Once that was gone, she'd go out. Where to? What for? As yet, Abb
ie didn't know. But she had to do something.

  As Abbie drank her coffee, she paced the kitchen. Once Alice finished in the office, Abbie heard the birthday girl rush upstairs. Doors were knocked on, and Abbie heard voices. She didn't know what Alice was playing at, but coffee two was almost gone. The great outdoors beckoned.

  Footsteps, coming down. Abbie drained her coffee and rinsed the cup. She was putting it in the dishwasher when Alice stepped into the room.

  "Ariana and Gray are still in bed," said Alice as Abbie closed the dishwasher. "They're refusing to move, but at least I know they're close, not out destroying lives. I spoke with Ollie and Anthony, both of whom will soon be down. They'll have breakfast while we get ready."

  Abbie turned from the dishwasher and came to the table.

  "Get ready for what?"

  "Come on," said Alice. "You must know."

  Abbie's heart began to thud. Was Alice about to announce her argument with Angel had been an act. That since she learned Abbie had attacked Ariana, Alice had planned to execute Abbie, and now was the time. Abbie hoped not. She didn't want to kill Alice.

  "I don't," she said and was surprised when Alice burst out laughing.

  "So nervous," she said. "Come on, it's my birthday. More than that, my first birthday since leaving prison, and my sixtieth. I've spent nine years surrounded by serious, miserable people, and I'm ready for a bit of fun."

  "Fun?"

  "Yes," said Alice. "I thought we'd start with Monopoly."

  Abbie raised an eyebrow.

  "What do you think?" said Alice.

  "I thought you were going to kill me."

  "What a silly notion."

  "Now I know it's Monopoly; I only wish you were."

  Alice laughed again, then approached the table. Reaching the other side, she placed her palms on the smooth surface and met Abbie's eye.

  "When was the last time you had a fun day?"

  "It feels as though you and I are on the verge of a major disagreement," said Abbie. "Not unusual, in my line of work. Such arguments don't usually revolve around whether a board game is better described as fun or torture."