by John Larkin
Did you go to her funeral?
Yeah. I went to her squat that Saturday, like I was just dropping in to see her, and her housemates brought me inside, sat me down and told me what happened. It’d made the news, that’s how they knew, and then one of them phoned her mother. The bitch.
Didn’t they know that she’d gone to see you, the night before her birthday?
No. They all thought I still lived in the rail yards. According to them she just disappeared, which she did a lot, apparently. They took some comfort from the fact that she’d made it to twenty and they’d helped her celebrate it. There was no way I was going to tell them the truth.
The next week I took a day off school so I could go to the funeral. Her mum lived down south and I had to go on the same dodge line that Cinderella had saved my worthless butt on.
Her mother insisted on having the funeral at her church. The one where Cinderella had gone to her first youth group had run into that scumbag minister, Justin Pembroke.
He was there, the creep. I didn’t need his nametag to tell me who he was. He was still wearing his ridiculous ponytail and a look of utter smugness. I found it hard not to run up to him and give his ponytail a yank. He was standing at the entrance to the church, offering his condolences to all the mourners, greeting everyone with a double handshake and a soulful she’s-with-the-angels-now look. When he tried to shake my hand I pulled it away and told him to piss off. No way in hell was I letting that slimy bastard touch me. When I did it the creep just turned to his assistant and said something like, ‘their grief is still raw’. What a dick!
And to make matters worse he was presiding over the thing. He knew what he did to Cinderella but was happy to stand up there on the pulpit preaching about taking the wrong path in life, about bad choices, about tolerance, about understanding. Then he changed direction and used Cinderella’s funeral as an opportunity to preach. About how we all had to accept God into our lives or else we’d be doomed to spend eternity wandering through purgatory or worse. He honestly believed that the gates of heaven were closed to Cinderella but he’d just stroll in because, although he might be a rapist sack of shit, he’d accepted God into his life and Cinderella hadn’t.
When he finished with his made-up madness, the mourners were given the chance to say a few words. Her mum chose not to. Probably too pissed to step up to the pulpit, so it was left to Cinderella’s friends to see her off. One by one her housemates and street friends talked about her compassion, her humour, her sense of justice, of right and wrong, and while this was going on Reverend Pembroke just sat there with this big, stupid grin plastered across his face as if he was her closest friend in the world and they were just repeating stuff that he already knew. God, I hated him at that moment.
Eventually when the tributes stopped he sort of wafted back up to the pulpit. But as he started naming the hymn we had to sing, I knew I had to say something. I couldn’t let her go without telling everyone what she meant to me. I had to say goodbye to my friend, my fairy godmother. So even though the organ music had just kicked in, I got up and walked to the pulpit.
Reverend Pembroke smiled at me as I approached and then whispered that there wasn’t enough time and we had to move on. I just hissed at him to get the hell out of my way and I suppose the fire in my eyes told him he’d better not mess with me. He scurried back to his seat like the sewer rat that he was.
The organ kind of just petered out and I stood at the microphone and stared down at everyone. I hadn’t realised how popular she was. There must have been a hundred mourners in the church. Maybe more.
I started by telling them that Cinderella had saved my life.
Reverend Pembroke sat there nodding like he knew it all along.
Then I launched into the full tale of how she’d rescued me on the train that day. I could see from the looks on her friends’ faces that they knew that this is exactly the sort of thing that she would do. When I get to the bit about the compass point a couple of them burst out laughing. But not Reverend Pembroke. He got up from his seat and came over to shut me down. Apparently raping vulnerable teenagers is perfectly okay, but if you mention a penis in church then watch out.
Did he let you finish?
He didn’t have much choice. I wrapped my hand around the microphone and told him that if he came near me I would insert it up his arse. He said that there was no call for that, so I told him to piss off again. Cinderella’s friends were with me. They were shouting at him to let me finish. So he gave them one of his leers and went and sat back down.
Afterwards we all milled around outside, not sure what to do. Cinderella’s housemates came over and hugged me and we all kind of cried on each other’s shoulders. But as we were consoling each other I could hear that slimebag minister doing the rounds with his empty words. I overheard him tell someone that Cinderella had suffered because she chose drugs over God. That was it.
What did you do?
He was almost next to me by then. He turned to me and reached out to shake my hand – obviously he hadn’t realised it was me. As he did I drove my knee into his balls as hard as I could. They’d have been pancakes when I was done. He collapsed onto the ground doubled up. And his wife was just standing there with her mouth hanging open, staring at me. Well everyone was. So I pointed at her and said that he’d raped Cinderella, and that she knew about it because she was there when it happened.
What did she do?
She gave me this weird look and then she turned towards where he was lying curled up on the ground and yelled, ‘You said I was the only one. YOU SAID IT WAS JUST ME!’
Did you feel better after that?
No. Not really. But he felt worse.
What do you think she meant when she said that?
I don’t really know. I thought about it later, on the train home. Either in her twisted little world she felt that he was being unfaithful, or else he was raping her too. And this guy thinks he’s going to heaven.
Anyway, there was a church elder there and he asked me if what I said was true. I swore that it was, and that it was the reason Cinderella had become a street kid. He really didn’t seem that surprised. He told us that they’d investigate the matter. It was a relief. Not that anything could be proved, but still, they might at least stop him working with children.
After I’d said goodbye to Cinderella’s housemates and started walking down towards the train station I heard someone calling after me. It was Cinderella’s mum. Her breath could have put me over the limit but I suppose it’s not every day you go to your only child’s funeral. She told me, slurred at me, that she hadn’t been a very good mother. She didn’t need to tell me that, obviously. I thought she was going to tell me off for messing up the funeral or swearing in church. Instead she asked me if I’d like to take care of Cinderella. I didn’t know what she meant but I said yes. I gave her Miss Taylor’s address when she asked where I lived. Three weeks later a courier delivered a parcel to Miss Taylor, which I collected from her after school. As soon as I got home I opened it. It was the urn containing Cinderella’s ashes. She’d looked after me, so now it was my turn to take care of her.
Six months later, on my fifteenth birthday, the old bag neighbour must have sussed that she had a squatter living next door, so she called the police and the next day I was back on the trains, which sort of brings us full circle.
NOT QUITE.
What do you mean, not quite? This is where we started. We’ve done the city loop.
It feels as though you’re glossing over some of the details and skipping others. And there’s a very big loose end still hanging out there.
Creepo?
Yes.
I knew you were going to say that.
Did you see him again? Did he find you?
Yeah, he did.
What happened?
Well, the morning a
fter the police came to my squat – the day after my birthday – I packed up my stuff and took it around to Miss Taylor’s place. I was keeping Cinderella’s urn in a shoebox until I had a proper place of my own. Miss Taylor had gone to school by then but she’d given me a key so that I could come and go whenever I wanted to drop stuff off, pick it up or whatever. After school it was bucketing down and I couldn’t face going back to the rail yards again so I checked in to the Shangrila Pines for a couple of nights, just to get myself organised. I figured I could start looking for another squat, maybe even move into Cinderella’s old place. Her friends said I could.
I had dinner with Alistair McAlister at the mega-mall and then I trudged back to the hotel because I was feeling shit. I’d lost my home and even though I had Miss Taylor and Alistair, I still felt alone without Cinderella keeping watch over me. I’d been sort of numb since her funeral. I tried to keep it together, and Miss Taylor certainly helped, but there were times I felt as though I couldn’t go on. I missed a lot of school because some mornings I just couldn’t get up and others I just didn’t want to. I’d spend the day staring at the wall. Barely had enough energy to get up and go to the toilet.
Depression.
You know about it then?
Yeah. I know something about the black dog.
I didn’t realise it at the time because I didn’t feel sad so much as empty. That everything was pointless.
That’s the dog.
Miss Taylor arranged for me to see a counsellor at school, and that helped as long as I remembered what I could and couldn’t talk about. Slowly I started to get my shit together. Only slept in on the weekends. Also my boss at the bookshop, Paul, started giving me more work. Insisted on paying me too, cash in hand. But no sooner had I come out of the fog than the police turned up and I lost the squat.
[pause]
I’m out of that now. I’m better.
Okay. So can we get back to Tony? You had dinner with Alistair and then went back to the hotel.
It was around ten o’clock. I was lying in bed watching a movie when room service knocked on the door. I wasn’t thinking straight. It was only when I unlatched the door and turned the handle that I remembered that I hadn’t ordered any room service. By then it was too late. He’d shouldered his way into the room and slapped me across the face. I stumbled and wound up curled up on the ground. He kicked me in the stomach. Luckily my arms absorbed most of it, otherwise he could have killed me there and then.
After I’d recovered a bit he told me to get up. That he was taking me home.
You didn’t believe him.
I’m not an idiot. I had to get myself together. I had to think. And my arm hurt like hell where he’d kicked it. I figured he must have broken it again.
While he was pacing about the room I sort of eased myself up to lean against the bed and tried like mad to think.
I told him that he’d better listen to me because his life depended on it. He bent down and shoved his face in mine but I told him anyway.
Told him what?
That I’d written a letter and given it to a lawyer. The letter had all the details about how my parents had died, how he’d buried them out in the forest, and how they could still find specks of evidence on the car or in the garage. I really liked that bit. I also told him that I’d written that he’d been abusing me and if the police ever found out about it he’d be sent to jail as a paedo and he would be beaten up in the shower and worse every day.
What was the lawyer going to do with the letter?
There wasn’t a letter. It had been Cinderella’s idea ages ago when I told her how frightened I was that Creepo would find me. Pure genius. I told him that I phoned the lawyer each week and if he didn’t get a call from me, he had to assume the worst and send copies of my letter to the police, the media and various underworld figures.
Various underworld figures?
I don’t know. It sounded good at the time.
What did he do?
He kind of walked around for a while and then he came over and bent down and got right in my face again. Spat at me that I owed him money. I told him that it had gone on my lawyer’s fees and the rest went to charity. Then he grabbed me by the front of my pyjamas and pulled me right up close so that I could smell his cheap bourbon breath. He said that I was a liar. That I was a deluded attention-seeker. If he ever saw me again, if I ever came to their house, he would kill me on the spot, which is bullshit because my lawyer had the letter. Or so he thought. Then he threw me back against the bed, got up and walked out.
That’s it?
And we all lived happily ever after.
But that’s not strictly true, is it?
What do you mean?
Tony and Serena didn’t live happily ever after, did they? I did a little research. Well, I have a friend who is an investigative journalist and she did a bit of research. I didn’t ask her to but she knew that I was writing this book . . .
So?
‘Couple Slain in Shocking Killing’. That was the headline.
What are you talking about?
I’ve got a copy of the article here.
[Pause]
It was them, wasn’t it?
So they’re dead. I sleep better at nights.
When we first met you were adamant that I couldn’t use any real names because you were scared, not just for you but for me as well. What was all that about if you knew that he was dead?
Okay, I knew, but he had some dodgy friends and business partners. I don’t want any of them showing up at my front door.
Do you know what happened?
I suppose his past finally caught up with him. Or maybe one of his deals went bad. Crossed the wrong person.
I think he did.
What are you saying?
I think you know. We dug deeper. The coroner found an open verdict, which means that although the police are no longer investigating it, the file is still open. Apparently the evidence points to it being a murder–suicide, or an execution made to appear like a murder–suicide.
Wait a minute. Are you saying that I had something to do with it? I told you. I threw the gun away. In the river.
Did you?
I can’t believe this. You’re accusing me of what? . . . I thought we were friends . . .
We are. But I want to get to the truth. Who got their money? Their assets?
It seems to me like you and your little journalist girlfriend already know.
So you had something to gain from their deaths?
Hang on a sec. Are you an author or a detective?
Just trying to clear up this loose end. I mean, no one would mind too much if you did kill him. Slaying the dragon and all that.
I didn’t do it, okay?
But you did benefit from their deaths?
Look. Serena was the beneficiary of Creepo’s will and I was the beneficiary of hers. She hadn’t changed it from when I was little. From when I first went to live with them. They didn’t really have anyone else anyway. But I didn’t know I was in her will. How could I? She never told me. Hardly ever spoke to me.
What did you do with all that money?
Remember Marco Rossini? Tony and Serena put him in charge of their estate. Their executor. I loved that when I heard it. Serena was having an affair with Marco, and Tony put him in charge of his affairs. Idiot. But it worked out for me. Marco calculated how much of the money belonged to my parents for their house and everything. All Creepo’s is in a separate account and as soon as I turn eighteen, which is pretty soon, I can claim it all and then it’s going to charity. His bad money can do some good. I’m going to keep just enough of his to take me and Cinderella and Miss Taylor on a trip. At the start of uni holidays we’re going on the Trans-Siberian Railway.
So you got
into uni?
Yeah. It wasn’t hard once I got off the streets. I can’t touch the money until I’m eighteen, but Marco sublet a flat for me in the same block as Miss Taylor’s. He doles out enough for me to live off plus a bit of spending money.
So you really benefited from their deaths.
Okay, I did. But I still didn’t kill them. I’m not like him.
Did you get into medicine?
No. I was a few marks short but I’m doing science and then I’ll transfer to medicine later or else do it post-grad.
Everything worked out for you then?
Yeah. I suppose it did. In the end.
And you don’t know anything more about how Tony and Serena died?
No, I don’t.
Didn’t the police find you and ask you some questions?
Of course they did, but I had an alibi. Proof that I couldn’t have been there when they were killed.
Miss Taylor?
Exactly.
Wasn’t she taking a risk? You being homeless and her being your ex-teacher. I mean, didn’t you go out of your way to avoid being seen together?
The police were only interested in where I was and what time I was there. They didn’t care why.
What about social services? Didn’t they get involved? After all you would have still been listed as missing. Surely the police . . .
By the time social services showed up at school, Miss Taylor had applied to be my legal guardian.
Oh . . . was she able to get . . .
There was a lot of red tape but we got there in the end.
So she’s . . .
Yep. She’s my mum. Legally, anyway. I lived with her until I finished high school. After the holidays, when I started uni, I got a flat upstairs in the same block so that she could have some space. She’s getting married next year. Now do you understand why I didn’t want to use our real names? I don’t want one of Creepo’s scumbag associates showing up at Miss Taylor’s door.
