The Good Samaritan

by John Marrs

  ‘So it’s number 7 you want to take a shufti around, right?’ I didn’t know what a ‘shufti’ was but I nodded anyway. ‘Cool, well, let me lead the way.’

  Not so long ago, the flats before me had been council offices. A dreadful gas explosion had razed them to the ground and taken a dozen staff with it. Eventually, the building was rebuilt as apartments. Andy glossed over its history and blathered on about the flat’s potential and how many viewings he’d had since it’d been put on the market a few days earlier. We took the lift up three floors, but I wasn’t really listening to him. I just had a burning desire to spend a few moments in the place that Ryan called home.

  My opponent wasn’t the only one who could do his research. I’d got the ball rolling with a written request to read the public coroner’s report, which listed Charlotte’s address. Curious to see where she’d called me from, I’d discovered on a property app that the flat was for sale. I made an appointment to view it, and after a brief meeting and handover with Effie before school, I was on my way. I’d already established with the estate agent that the vendor would not be in.

  ‘As you can see, it’s been recently redecorated,’ Andy explained. ‘The living and dining area is spacious and the kitchen has been refitted. It’s a perfect place for a single Pringle if this is the kind of gaff you’re looking for.’

  It was hard to see any of that. All I saw was a cage with windows looking out onto a world Charlotte hadn’t wanted to be a part of anymore. No wonder she’d felt depressed and that it would only get worse once she had the baby.

  I wandered around from room to room, mentally redecorating the place. Currently, it had come straight from the pages of an Ikea catalogue. Everything – from the cheap fireplace framing an electric coal-effect fire to the furniture – said first-time buyer, no idea.

  ‘Can I take a look at the bedrooms?’ I asked.

  ‘Sure,’ the estate agent replied, and began to lead the way.

  ‘It’s quite a pokey flat. I’m sure I can find them on my own.’

  He shrugged, and remained in the kitchen while I opened the door to a tiny little box room, with just enough space for a mattress and a bedside cabinet. The duvet was pulled back and the pillows had head-shaped impressions in them – I guessed Ryan was now using it as his room. The next bedroom was a nursery. It smelled stale, like the door hadn’t been opened for some time. A mobile with drawings of zoo animals hung from the ceiling over a wooden cot. Everything in the room was either white or yellow: hedging their bets over the sex, I assumed. Knowing how weak its mother was and how devious its father could be made me even more confident I’d given the child a lucky escape.

  The master bedroom was dimly lit, so I opened the curtains and began to poke around. Against one wall was the flat’s only piece of non-flatpack furniture, an antique dressing table with three rectangular mirrors. I wondered how many times Charlotte had looked at herself through their differing perspectives and failed to see what her husband had seen in her.

  There were photos of her and Ryan inside mismatched frames on the dressing table, together with a few bottles of perfume. Taped to one mirror was the printout of a baby scan. Beneath it was a jewellery box containing rings and bracelets, all costume, of course.

  I opened the wardrobe door and skimmed, hanger by hanger, her high-street-label clothes, her maternity wear outnumbering her pre-pregnancy clothing. Hidden at the back was a wedding dress – the simple, inexpensive lace gown I’d seen her wearing in the photo in Ryan’s grandfather’s room. It was covered in a clear plastic garment bag to prevent it from decaying like its owner.

  ‘Perfect,’ I muttered, pulling out a pair of yellow rubber gloves from my jacket pocket and slipping them over my hands. Then I reached into my bag to remove what was making it so heavy.

  ‘Everything all right in there?’ Andy’s voice came from behind the door. I quietly closed the wardrobe so he couldn’t see what I’d done, put the gloves back in my pocket and made my way back into the living room, nudging the dial of a thermostat on the wall up to full.

  ‘I think it’s a little too pedestrian for my needs,’ I said, and a look crossed his face that said I’d just wasted his time.

  I was following him towards the front door when something on the top of a bureau caught my eye. Without him noticing, I grabbed it and slipped it inside my bag, smiling to myself.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  RYAN

  It was impossible not to notice the heat or the smell as soon as I opened the door to the flat.

  I’d spent Friday evening at Johnny’s house with a Thai takeout and a pay-per-view boxing match. And after a few beers, I’d slept over. It felt good to get away from the flat for a night. Much of the following day was spent with my dad at the house, making lists and prioritising the work that needed to be done, room by room. For the first time in a long while, I’d begun to allow a little optimism into my life and not allowed Laura Morris to dominate my thoughts.

  But on my return home, it was boiling hot and reeked of something foul. I checked the fridge to see what had gone out of date so quickly, but the smell wasn’t coming from there. I figured someone viewing the flat must have caught their arm against the thermostat and accidentally turned it up, as I’d done it myself many a time. But that didn’t explain the odour.

  It smelled the strongest in Charlotte’s and my bedroom. I looked under the bed, the dressing table and behind the curtain for the corpse of a dead mouse or rat. Charlotte had warned me that rats can climb up through the toilet bowl, even in a third-floor flat, though I hadn’t believed her until now. But as I edged closer to the wardrobe, I realised something inside it was causing the stench. I put my hand over my mouth as I opened the door.

  ‘Jesus!’ I yelled, and stumbled backwards. Charlotte’s wedding dress had been moved to the front, stripped from its polythene cover and the stomach area covered in blood.

  At the foot of the dress was the small, pinky-white foetus of a dead piglet, also with blood on it. I kept approaching it, then stepping away, unsure of what to do and trying to process what the hell had happened during the thirty-six hours I’d been absent. Then, suddenly it hit me: Laura had been there. It was the only explanation. She’d been inside my bedroom, and not only was she mocking my dead wife but she was mocking my dead child, too. Furious, I held my breath and grabbed the stinking piglet using a tea towel, picked up my car keys, dropped the body into a recycling bin outside and made for my car.

  Andy, the estate agent, was sitting in his office at his desk and facing the door when I stormed in, disturbing his quiet Saturday afternoon.

  ‘All right, mate,’ he began, ‘how—’

  But I wasn’t interested in polite conversation.

  ‘Who have you shown around the flat in the last two days?’

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  I raised my voice. ‘Who, Andy?’

  His two female colleagues turned to stare at me. He nervously scrolled through his phone, checking his diary.

  ‘A young couple with a baby, two gay lads and then some bird. Is everything all right?’

  I really didn’t want the woman to be Laura. Life would be so much easier if it wasn’t her.

  ‘What was her name?’ I asked.

  ‘Charlotte Smith. Same surname as you.’

  Andy opened his mouth and began to say something else, but I was already out of the front door before I could hear a word.

  My car’s alloy wheels scraped against the kerb as I pulled up sharply outside Laura’s house fifteen minutes later.

  I threw open the car door, and a vehicle I hadn’t spotted behind me jammed on its brakes and stopped just short of knocking me down. I didn’t even turn to apologise as they blasted their horn at me. Instead, I ran across the road and up Laura’s driveway. The window blinds were partially closed as always, but it didn’t mean she wasn’t in. I banged with both fists on the door and peered through the glass, but everything appeared dark inside despite it being dayl
ight.

  ‘Open this fucking door!’ I yelled, then crouched to repeat my demand through the letterbox. ‘I know what you did, you sick bitch!’ There was no response. In all my life, I had never been angrier than I was in that moment.

  My eyes scanned the front of the house to find a way through to the back, and I pulled on a gate but it was locked and too steep to climb. Suddenly, I had an idea. Laura’s house backed on to playing fields. I’d played many a Sunday-league game there in the past. I ran along the street and into a cul-de-sac until I found an alleyway that took me to the grassy fields and then the rear of Laura’s property.

  The renovation work made it stand out from the others and easy to spot. It was larger from behind. A modern, double extension turned it into an L-shape and there were dormer windows where the roof sloped, suggesting they’d renovated the attic to create a third floor.

  Behind low bushes and a waist-high wooden fence, I could see a trampoline with a torn, patchy net hanging from the side, on a knee-high lawn. Everything in her garden was overgrown and unkempt. It looked like it belonged to a different house. A gap in the hedgerow allowed me to clamber over the fence and into her garden.

  I made my way towards the kitchen window first. No lights were on inside so I got up close to the tinted glass and peered in. The work surfaces and sink were clean and clutter-free. The cupboards were dark grey, and the walls close to black. I put my hand above my eyes to minimise the reflection and squinted, before realising the walls hadn’t been painted like that; they looked like they’d been damaged by smoke. I stared into another window inside what looked like a pantry, and it was exactly the same. What had happened in there?

  Puzzled, I headed for a set of bifold doors and looked inside. The dining room ceiling was also smoke-damaged, and in the living room, the television and furniture still appeared to have bubble wrap and price labels affixed to them . . .

  ‘Shit!’ I shouted.

  My heart almost beat out of my chest when I saw Laura. She was perched on the edge of a sofa, watching me as she held a mobile phone at eye level. Then she gave me a wide smile before her face began to contort. It was scrunched up, and she placed her finger on the tip of her nose and pushed it upwards. I tried to make sense of what she was doing, but the woman was clearly insane.

  She remained on the sofa and I could just about make out a noise coming from her. I edged closer to the glass until I was millimetres away from it. Finally, I realised what she was doing.

  She was making the face and sound of a pig grunting.

  Insane or sane, I no longer cared. All that mattered was finding an object heavy enough in her garden to smash my way through the doors. I was going to kill her.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  LAURA

  I’d expected Ryan to appear at my house once he discovered who the last person was to view his flat.

  Judging by his fiery expression and the way he was trying to break my windows, he hadn’t appreciated the porcine present I’d left him inside his wardrobe.

  First thing in the morning, Effie had removed the pig foetus from her science lab’s freezer and passed it to me in my car outside the school. She didn’t question why I wanted it or ask what was on the memory stick I pressed into the palm of her hand. I gave her strict instructions as to exactly what she must do with it.

  Later, and alone in Ryan’s bedroom, I’d swiftly removed the now semi-defrosted piglet and beaker of ‘blood’ I’d whipped up from water, sugar, red food-colouring and cocoa powder. I poured the contents onto Charlotte’s wedding dress and the piglet, then quickly shut the door.

  Of the many approaches I could have taken to antagonise Ryan, I knew this would cut straight to the core. I had to make him understand that whatever he was plotting next, from here on in, I would always be one step ahead of him. I didn’t care how far I needed to go, how dirty I had to play or who I used to get there, he would never beat me.

  I’d watched from behind the blinds as my scruffy nemesis, dressed in his running shoes, jeans and a Nirvana T-shirt, darted up the drive, searching for a way to gain entrance to my house. I predicted he’d try the rear next, and as I positioned myself in the living room, I poured myself a glass of Chianti, took out my phone and made myself comfortable on the sofa. I checked my text messages and was pleased Effie had confirmed a time and place to meet me tomorrow. Once again, I suggested she keep it from her father.

  A few minutes later, when Ryan came into view across the playing fields, I switched the phone to video camera mode and turned the mic off. The bifold doors were locked tight and the slight tint would make it harder for him to see inside without getting up close.

  When eventually he spotted me, I must have scared him because he jolted backwards, almost falling to the ground.

  While anger had brought him to my home, it was pure rage that I needed. One more little push was all it would take. And while I know grunting like a pig was a little childish, it had the desired effect. The phone’s mic was turned back on when he began making more threats.

  ‘You fucking bitch!’ he yelled. ‘Open this door now!’

  ‘Please, leave me alone!’ I shouted back. I was sure to make my voice tremble and my camerawork shaky.

  ‘Let me in!’

  ‘Oh God, please just go away! I’m begging you!’ I replied, and blew him a silent kiss. ‘Whatever you think I’ve done, it wasn’t me.’

  ‘You’re a liar!’

  Again he banged his fists on the doors with all his strength, making the double layers of glass shudder in their frames. Then he turned to scan the garden as if trying to find something to break the glass with. Eventually he found the brick I used to wedge the garden gate open, drew it back over his shoulder and hurled it. The glass cracked. I backed away nervously as he repeated the action.

  The doorbell sounded and I hurried out of the living room towards it.

  ‘Thank God!’ I sobbed and yanked it open. ‘Please help me!’

  Suddenly, the window in the other room shattered and I heard Ryan’s footsteps pounding across the wooden floors. But as he turned the corner to find me, he was tackled to the ground by two burly police officers.

  I’d dialled 999 the moment the cat jumped from the windowsill, alerting me that someone was approaching the drive. Bieber thought it was Tony but I knew it would be Ryan.

  Ryan yelled more expletives as he was restrained. His arms were twisted behind his back and handcuffs clamped around his wrists.

  ‘Thank you, thank you,’ I repeated over and over again to the officers. ‘I thought he was going to kill me.’

  ‘You should be arresting her!’ Ryan spat, squirming and clearly in pain. ‘She killed my wife and now she’s trying to ruin me!’ But the police weren’t listening. One read him his rights, while the other called for back-up on a radio.

  ‘Sir, I need you to calm down,’ the officer continued, his knee on the base of Ryan’s spine, pinning him to the floor.

  I shed my crocodile tears as Ryan was pulled to his feet and bundled out of my house, into a police car and driven away.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  RYAN

  I was handed a transparent plastic bag containing my car keys, mobile phone, belt, some coins and my shoelaces, and asked to sign for them by the duty desk sergeant.

  Johnny remained by my side until the paperwork was complete. I’d called him twice in the last two days – once to tell him I’d been arrested and needed a solicitor, and a second time to inform him I was being released on police bail. I begged him not to worry our mum and dad by telling them what I’d done. Judging by his heavy brow and refusal to make eye contact with me, he was furious. He wasn’t alone. My enforced timeout made me as angry at myself as he was at me.

  We left the grounds of the police station and I skulked several paces behind him as we made our way towards the pay-and-display car park across the road. It wasn’t until we entered the car that I spoke.

  ‘I’m ready. Let me have it, both barrels. T
ell me what an idiot I am.’

  Johnny said nothing. He removed his glasses and wiped them with the sleeve of his hoodie.

  ‘Tell me I’ve fucked up,’ I said. ‘Tell me I’ve put my job at risk. Tell me I could get a criminal record. But just so long as you know, I’m aware of this already.’

  ‘You smell,’ he replied.

  ‘So would you if you’d been wearing the same clothes for two days.’

  ‘You told them what she did to you though, didn’t you? Charlotte, the baby, stabbing you, the dead pig?’

  He flew off the handle when I didn’t reply.

  ‘What? Ryan! You have to be kidding me. That was your chance to explain everything, you fucking dick! Otherwise you just look like some nutter who was terrorising her and broke into her house!’

  ‘If I’d have dropped her in it, I’d have dropped myself in it too, about what I did to Effie and stalking her family. And I’m in enough trouble already.’

  ‘Why didn’t you give them tape recordings of her telling you how to kill yourself?’

  ‘They’re still with Janine, Laura’s boss.’

  ‘Well, why hasn’t she done anything with them yet?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I was wondering the same thing myself, as I’d given them to her weeks earlier. Unless she had, of course, and that had sent Laura over the edge and into my flat. I had this awful feeling that she was really gunning for me now. ‘I need you to do me a favour,’ I asked.

  ‘Another one?’

  ‘I need you to pick up my car.’

  ‘Why can’t you do it yourself?’

  ‘Because it’s parked outside Laura’s house and my police bail conditions won’t allow me anywhere near her.’

  ‘Why, of course – where else would it be other than outside the home of the woman who killed your wife and baby and who tried to murder you.’

  ‘Please don’t start, Johnny.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, I won’t. I’m far from starting. I’m done, actually. I’m finished. I’ll drive you back to the flat. I’ll bring your car back, but then I don’t want to see your stupid little face for a while.’