The Good Samaritan

by John Marrs

  When the newspapers reported that a body had been found tangled up in fishermen’s nets off the East Sussex coast, where Ryan was thought to have stepped off the cliff, I crossed my fingers and prayed it would be him. It was only when he was positively identified through his DNA that I could truly relax.

  The date and location of his funeral weren’t advertised, and it had taken many calls claiming to be a family member wanting to know where I could send flowers before I discovered the funeral director organising his service and the location.

  Ryan’s body wasn’t driven in a hearse. No family members followed behind in black limousines and there was to be no church service or burial for him. Instead, he’d been taken in the back of an unmarked coroner’s van directly to the crematorium in neighbouring Kettering. The only flowers greeting his arrival were my lilies, hand-delivered and left by the door with an anonymous card attached reading I won.

  Outside the crematorium, photographers from news agencies and a local TV station I’d tipped off took pictures and filmed his coffin being removed from the vehicle and whisked inside. I hadn’t only taken Ryan’s life away from him, I’d taken his funeral, too.

  I decided against joining Ryan’s mourners and risk being unmasked, so I remained in my car instead. Although I’ll admit to feeling a little frustrated at not being there as the final curtain circled his coffin after all my effort. I wondered what they’d do with his ashes and if they’d be scattered somewhere near Charlotte’s. I’d never engineered the deaths of a husband and wife before. I’d find it hard to top that with my next candidates.

  As everyone made their way inside, I recalled the last time I’d been to a crematorium was to say goodbye to Nate. There had been even fewer of us there than at Ryan’s funeral – myself and six of his vagrant friends, who I’d bribed with enough alcohol to last them a week. I wasn’t even sure if they knew who Nate was.

  I missed talking to my friend. Even when we weren’t in touch, just knowing he was about somewhere had made me feel there was someone on my side. I still couldn’t understand how the coroner and policewoman had got when and where he died so wrong. Why did they dismiss my claims so readily? I was sure I was with him at least six months after they reckoned he was dead. Regardless, I was happy not to have shared his last breath.

  My house was still empty when I returned home. Immaculate, but empty. Despite the number of open windows, plug-in air-fresheners and reed diffusers I’d placed in each room, the oily smell of fresh paint still hung thickly. The Polish decorators I’d employed had done a wonderful job of papering the walls and repainting the ceilings. Everything from the banisters to the skirting boards and door frames were now coated in a pure, glistening, Arctic white. It was like being inside an igloo.

  I’d Pinterested, then replicated examples of rooms I’d seen in online interior design magazines. I used bright accent colours of yellows and greens for my new cushions, curtains and rugs. I had family photographs reprinted and framed to hang on the walls and arranged on the sideboard and windowsills. And I’d brought brand-new bedding and soft furnishings for the girls’ and Henry’s rooms. I’d done the same with Tony’s room, although once we were a family again, it wouldn’t be long before he returned to our bed.

  The lighter evenings of spring held the darkness at bay, so I pulled open the reglazed bifold doors and sat on a patio chair to enjoy a cigarette. I’d need to give up the habit before Tony and I were reunited, as he loathed the smell of smoke. Around me, the bushes and lawns had been neatly trimmed, the girls’ tatty old trampoline dismantled and disposed of at the rubbish tip, the fence repaired, new turf laid and the flowerbeds dug over and replanted. Everything around me was a kaleidoscope of colours and freshness. A new start for everything and everyone.

  I couldn’t help but smile when I thought about the future. Now there was no Ryan or Janine to interfere in our lives, there was nothing to prevent us from rekindling what we once had, apart from Tony’s stubbornness. He hadn’t taken me up on my offer to visit the house after the plaque unveiling and talk our problems through. In fact, he’d kept to his word that he didn’t want anything to do with me at all.

  It was quite disheartening to begin with, but I realised it was my own stupid fault. I had pushed him too far too soon. Maybe a part of him really was grieving Janine’s death. I used to pride myself on my patience and there I was, trying to hurry him while he was processing it. And I’m trained to know that people say silly things they don’t mean when they’re in pain.

  My mobile phone rang. I panicked and stubbed out my cigarette like a guilty schoolgirl, flicking the butt behind a watering can. The number was withheld and I hoped it was Effie or Tony calling. They’d recently changed their numbers, so I’d been forced to drive to their house after the legal papers petitioning me for a divorce arrived. However, to my surprise, they’d moved from their rented home. And when I’d visited Alice’s school to pick her up one teatime, her teacher told me she’d relocated to a private school in another county, but refused to tell me where. There was no trace of Effie on social media, and Tony had even taken a sabbatical from his own company.

  My only means of communication with my husband was by email. I’d tried several times in the last week, informing him that Henry was poorly with a bad chest infection and that he really should visit. When he failed to reply, I wrote again and threw in a few medical terms and threats of a hospital stay for good measure. I also attached a picture of Henry asleep in his bed to lay the guilt on thicker.

  ‘Hello, is that Mrs Morris?’ It was a woman’s voice.

  ‘Yes. Who’s this?’

  ‘It’s Belinda from Kingsthorpe Residential Care Home.’

  I clutched the phone tighter to my ear. ‘Is it Henry? Is he okay?’

  ‘Yes, he’s fine. He has a visitor here but I need your permission before I allow them in.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘His father, Tony Morris.’

  ‘Yes!’ I replied quickly. ‘Yes! And ask him to wait with Henry. I’ll be there soon!’

  I hung up, flustered and flushed with excitement. I knew Tony couldn’t remain angry with me forever, and once he thought our son was ill, of course he’d want to see him.

  I was unsure of what to do first. I ran up the stairs two at a time and took a swig of mouthwash to rid myself of my smoky breath. I grabbed a casual outfit – skinny jeans, Converse trainers and a T-shirt that was just tight enough to show off my slim waist. I hurriedly reapplied my make-up and sprayed my neck and wrists with the Issey Miyake perfume that Tony loved.

  Can’t wait to see you and Henry together, I typed. On my way now. xx. Then I grabbed my car keys and rehearsed what I was going to say to him when he learned I hadn’t been entirely honest about Henry’s poor health. He’d probably be irked at first, but once he saw his son and how devoted I was to him, his animosity towards me would come to an end and he’d forgive my little white lies.

  I pulled up in the driveway of Henry’s care home, feeling sick to my stomach with nerves. I didn’t recognise the girl on reception wearing a ‘Trainee’ badge.

  ‘My son, Henry Morris, can you tell me where he is, please?’ I asked.

  ‘His dad took him out in his chair for a walk in the grounds,’ she replied. ‘Are you okay?’

  I hadn’t realised my lips were pursed and my fists balled. I could barely get the word ‘yes’ out because I desperately wanted to cry happy tears.

  It had been more than two and a half years since I’d last seen father and son together, and at times I’d worried if I might ever witness it again. Dusk was approaching, and I didn’t want to miss another minute, so I hurried outside and scanned the surroundings, anxious to catch my first glimpse of them together.

  The building had been a stately home before the owner fell on hard times and was forced to sell. The extensive grounds were always neatly kept, with flowerbeds, sensory gardens and a play area, all surrounded by lush woodland. Finally, in the distance, I saw Tony kneel
ing by the side of Henry’s wheelchair. Their heads were turned as they looked down a slope and towards the lake below, watching a family of snow-white swans gliding past. I clasped my hand to my mouth and my eyes moistened.

  But as I grew closer, something was wrong with the perfect picture before me. I couldn’t put my finger on it until I saw Tony’s arm. He had a sleeve of tattoos starting at his left shoulder and going all the way down to his wrist, just above the watch strap. The man next to Henry did not.

  My stomach flipped one hundred and eighty degrees as I ran hell for leather towards them.

  ‘Get away from my son!’ I screamed, and looked around for help but to no avail. ‘Leave him alone!’ The man turned his head to look at me and I stopped in my tracks.

  My son was with a dead man. He was with Ryan.

  CHAPTER THREE

  JOHNNY

  By the look on her face as she approached me, Laura thought she’d seen a ghost. I’d counted on it – I wanted to mess with that mad bitch’s head from the moment she first clapped eyes on me.

  ‘Get away from my son!’ she cried when she realised I wasn’t her husband. ‘Leave him alone!’ Her head turned quickly, desperately searching for someone to help her. But the area I’d chosen to take Henry to was secluded. The three of us were very much alone.

  Her face collapsed when she got a better look at me. I’d cut my hair short like my brother’s, and shaved off my beard so I had his uneven stubble. I wore his favourite vintage Nirvana T-shirt and had swapped my glasses for contact lenses.

  Her bewildered expression told me she wasn’t sure if her eyes were deceiving her. I lifted one hand from Henry’s wheelchair and made an action like I was going to let it slide down the slope and into the lake below.

  ‘I don’t want to hurt your son,’ I said forcefully, ‘so I suggest you back up.’

  ‘You’re not Ryan.’ It was part question and part statement. She hesitated, unsure of her next move. She kept pushing her foot forward, then pulling it back as if doing the hokey-cokey. Her mouth opened and closed, but no more words came from it.

  ‘Feel free to move closer,’ I continued, goading her. ‘But Henry is strapped into this heavy chair, and when I let go and he ends up in that lake, you’re going to have a hell of a job dragging him out by yourself.’

  ‘You’re his brother,’ she said, the penny having finally dropped. ‘I saw you at the fune—’ She stopped herself.

  ‘I’m Johnny,’ I replied. ‘Thank you for your card and flowers. You couldn’t even leave him alone after you’d killed him, could you?’

  ‘I didn’t kill him. I didn’t kill anyone. You have me confused with someone else.’

  ‘Is that how you want to play it, Laura?’ I asked. ‘Because I have all night.’

  Ryan had told me so much in detail about Laura that it felt like I knew her, especially after reading the lengthy email he’d sent me shortly before he died. In it, he’d described what her ex-husband had told him about her and the false accusations Laura and Effie had made against him. Everything that had gone wrong in his life stemmed from something Laura had started. And while Ryan had paid the ultimate price, she’d got away scot-free. But that was about to change.

  Henry was becoming restless and squirmed in his chair, perhaps sensing the animosity surrounding him. I hated scaring the boy, but from what I’d learned about Laura he was her Achilles heel and I needed him as leverage for her to take me seriously. I patted his arm gently to calm him, but it had no effect.

  ‘Don’t you touch him!’ Laura barked, then swiftly changed her tone so it became less aggressive. ‘Please, you’re scaring him.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I hurt your kid? You didn’t give a shit about hurting my family or taking Ryan’s son away from him. Charlotte was expecting a boy – did you know that?’

  She shook her head, then held her hand up as if she were trying to nip in the bud whatever I was going to say next.

  ‘I don’t know what Ryan told you,’ she began, ‘but he was a very confused man who needed help. Both Janine and I tried, but he was too far gone. Did you know he tried to break into my house and kill me?’

  ‘We all know what he did, because you spread it across social media. He broke in because you pushed him to it. For God’s sake, you poured blood on his wife’s wedding dress and put a dead pig next to it! What did you expect him to do? Laugh about it? You knew exactly how he would react. You provoked him and he played right into your hands.’

  She shook her head. ‘No, whatever he said about me isn’t true. Look at me. I’m a mum of three young children and I volunteer for a charity that has people’s welfare at its heart. How am I a threat to anyone? If you just give me my son back, maybe I can help you to understand your brother.’

  I let out an exaggerated laugh. ‘Come on, Laura, you can do better than this.’

  ‘The police must have told you they have proof he killed Janine.’

  ‘Yes, and I don’t believe it.’

  ‘They found his hammer at the scene.’

  ‘The hammer that was in his flat when you came to look around it. Coincidence, right?’

  ‘Are you accusing me of killing Janine now?’

  ‘Did you? Wasn’t Janine in a relationship with your husband?’

  She tried to mask a flicker of surprise at my knowledge, before play-acting an eye-roll.

  ‘I know you’re only trying to protect Ryan’s name,’ she said, ‘and if I was in your shoes, I wouldn’t want to believe the facts either. You grew up with him, you loved him, you don’t want to think about the bad things he did. But can’t you see? You’re making the same terrible decisions he made. Please, I beg of you, for Henry’s sake and for your own, don’t let Ryan’s mistakes ruin your life too.’

  If I hadn’t known better, I might have thought there was a grain of truth in Laura’s words. She made a convincing case and a compelling victim. But I knew my brother.

  ‘Tell me about your son, Laura. Tell me how Henry came to be like this.’ My change of tack threw her and she paused for a moment.

  ‘The umbilical cord became caught around his neck during labour and it starved him of oxygen,’ she explained.

  ‘Only that didn’t happen, did it? That’s just a lie you’ve told yourself because it’s easier than admitting the truth. I know exactly what happened to Henry.’

  ‘It was a complicated labour,’ she replied firmly.

  ‘Your husband told Ryan that you lie to yourself about your past and re-edit things you’ve done to paint yourself in a more sympathetic light.’

  She tried to mask her surprise. ‘I don’t know why Tony would’ve said such a thing but—’

  ‘And I know that Henry’s complicated birth is just another one of those lies, isn’t it? He was born perfectly healthy.’

  ‘Tony said that?’

  ‘No, Effie did.’

  Her eyes narrowed slightly, unable to hide her betrayal.

  ‘When Ryan died and his name was in every newspaper, Effie felt so guilty about the part she played that she came to find me after the funeral,’ I continued.

  ‘You can’t believe what she says. Effie is a complicated girl.’

  ‘She seemed perfectly okay to me. She told me how you and she made sure her recording of the conversation with my brother was taken completely out of context.’

  ‘But I bet you believed every word of it when you first heard it, didn’t you? I’ll wager you turned your back on him like everyone else did and that’s why he killed himself. That’s why you’re here tormenting my son and me, because you feel guilty.’

  Her words cut deep, but I couldn’t show her that.

  ‘Effie told me how Henry was a perfectly normal little boy for the first four and a half years of his life. Then you did this to him.’

  ‘No!’ she bellowed, her eyes piercing. ‘That’s not true! Ryan and Effie have filled your head with lies. I would never hurt my baby.’

  I pulled out a photograph that Effie had
given me from the back pocket of my jeans and held it up. The wheelchair tugged in my other hand.

  ‘Isn’t this him blowing the candles out at his third birthday party? He looks fine to me.’

  She stared at the picture of a perfectly normal-looking little Henry surrounded by his friends and his sisters. She closed her eyes and bit her bottom lip.

  ‘Henry was at his friend Megan’s house when the girl fell ill,’ I continued. ‘So her dad dropped him off early while Megan’s mum looked after her. But you and Tony were too busy arguing to hear Henry let himself in, and because he got scared by your shouting, he hid himself in his room.’

  ‘That didn’t happen.’ Her voice sounded small, like that of a child.

  ‘What were you rowing over? That Tony had read the social services report about you and realised he’d married a sociopath? Or was it that Nate – or David, to use his proper name – killed his own mother for you?’

  ‘Shut up! Just shut up!’ Laura roared suddenly, and held her hands over her ears. Henry began to shriek with the high-pitched wail of an animal in distress. But I couldn’t stop now, so I raised my voice above them both.

  ‘When Tony stormed out, you blamed your new house for your marriage falling apart and not your own actions. Then you poured anything flammable the decorators had left and set fire to it. While you were outside trying to find your husband, your terrified little boy was trapped in his bedroom. Do you ever think about that, Laura? How scared he must have been when the thick black smoke started billowing under his door? Do you think he remembers it? Do you think every night he dreams about choking on those fumes?’

  Laura continued to cover her ears, but I knew from the way her face was twisting that she heard me.

  ‘The neighbours called 999 and firefighters rescued Henry,’ I continued, ‘but by the time paramedics resuscitated him, he’d been starved of oxygen for too long and suffered massive brain damage. Your once happy, healthy kid suddenly had the mental age of a one-year-old and it’s all your fault.’