Slipknot

by Priscilla Masters

  So, Simon Pendlebury intrigued her which, in turn, enlivened her so she enjoyed his company.

  Maybe one day he would share his secret with her. One day. But how many people have some dark secret buried deep inside their lives and never share it with anyone?

  They were summoned to their table and their food arrived.

  The two prison warders marched him along the galley and stopped in front of Cell 101. To Callum it seemed deliberate – the association with Room 101. Orwell’s Room 101 where people confront their worst fears: spiders, confinement, the dark, heights.

  He had a worse fear: that DreadNought would be inside the cell, that he would be locked up for ten hours a night in the same small room as the person he feared most in the world.

  Reason told him that DreadNought was in hospital – put there by his trusty, sharpened blade.

  But there were other DreadNoughts in the world. Other thugs and psychopaths, sadists and monsters. And where better to find them than in Room 101 of the Young Offenders’ Institute?

  Pembroke unlocked the door. In a panic Callum backed against Stevie Matthews but it was Walton Pembroke who shoved him away. ‘Watch it.’

  Callum was standing in front of a six feet tall, tattooed, shaven-headed bruiser who glared at him.

  He tried to escape. ‘No way,’ he said. ‘No way. Don’t—’

  Pembroke shoved him inside. ‘Meet Tyrone Smith,’ he said. ‘Stoke Heath’s answer to Mary Poppins. And this ‘ere’s Callum Hughes,’ he said to Smith. ‘on remand. Attempted murder so be careful, won’t ya? You and ‘im are going to share this luxurious pad for a little while so look after ‘im as though he was your brother. Understand?’

  Callum tried to escape but Stevie Matthews blocked his way. ‘Nervous little bastard, aren’t you,’ she said lightly. ‘Now get in.’

  ‘I can’t go in there,’ Callum appealed. ‘No way,’ he said.

  ‘Well you shouldn’t have knocked your mate up then, should you?’

  ‘He wasn’t my mate.’

  ‘Well – whatever.’ Walton Pembroke was losing interest. These first-timers were a nuisance. Namby pamby, wanting their mothers, en suite bathrooms, spoilt brats – most of them. That or so tough you could sharpen a knife on their balls. Streetwise from the age of two. In some ways he’d rather have them like that. At least they took their time on the chin. Not whingeing. He put the suitcase on the floor and moved out of the way.

  Time to lock the door.

  He flipped open the spyhole. ‘Have fun.’

  ‘Go on, have a dessert.’

  Martha shook her head. ‘I couldn’t possibly. I’ve no room.’

  ‘Well – if you don’t mind, I will. I simply can’t resist sticky toffee pudding.’

  Martha almost expected him to say it reminded him of boarding school. But of course he couldn’t say that, could he? Because he had never been to boarding school, had he? In fact if she recalled correctly what Martin had told her, Simon Pendlebury had gone to school in Bentilee – one of the more deprived areas of Stoke-on-Trent.

  She looked across the table at him.

  ‘What are you smiling at, Martha?’

  She decided to risk it. ‘You,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’ Even now there was an edge to his voice which made it rasp.

  ‘Because,’ she said, ‘you are an enigma.’

  Callum backed up against the wall and faced his cell mate. Tall, meaty, some foreign blood in him. He was swarthy with big, black eyes which glittered when he eyed him up.

  ‘I’m Tyrone,’ he said. ‘The screws should have warned you about me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because. That’s why. It’s not a good idea to mess with me. I lose my rag, see? I don’t like people watchin’ me. Nor touchin’ me. Understand? And I don’t respond too kindly to interference. Understand?’

  Callum nodded. Tyrone lifted his head and smiled and Callum felt a moment of pure terror.

  Panicked, he looked around the room. It was small. Too small for them to avoid each other. He retrieved his suitcase and looked up. One of the screws was still watching him through the spyhole, laughing, as though this was a live comedy show. He wanted to beg. He wanted to shout and scream for his mother – even his father, if he’d had any idea who he was. But he didn’t. He clamped his mouth shut and closed his eyes.

  He heard the spyhole being slid shut, the rattle of keys in locks, the sounds echoing round in his head.

  You’re losing it, Call, he whispered to himself. Losing it. Losing it.

  Tyrone had a podgy, sweating face, large, meaty hands.

  ‘D’ya really kill someone?’

  Callum shook his head.

  ‘Botherin’ you, was he?’

  Callum nodded.

  ‘Do yah wish you ’ad of killed him?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ he said and felt curiously cold. ‘What are you in for?’

  ‘Mind your own…’ The meaty fists clenched. Callum closed his eyes, braced himself for the blow – which never came. He would soon learn that Tyrone was unpredictable.

  ‘Burglary,’ he said. ‘Bastard was in his house all the time. Pretendin’ he was out. I knocked ‘im about a couple of times.’

  ‘Was he badly hurt?’

  Tyrone nodded deliberately and slowly. ‘Oh yeah,’ he said. ‘He was.’

  He glanced across at Callum’s bag. ‘Got any weapons with you?’

  Callum shook his head. ‘I got some fags though.’

  Tyrone jumped to his feet and put his hands around Callum’s throat. ‘What ya tryin’ to do? Kill me slowly?’ He put his chin into Callum’s face. ‘You wouldn’t mess with me, would you?’

  ‘No.’

  Simon had wolfed down his dessert and they were drinking coffee served with petit fours when he returned to the subject of Sam.

  ‘I don’t think he’s missed me or home life at all,’ Martha said. ‘And I don’t know whether I’m pleased he’s finding his independence or a bit hurt that he doesn’t appear to be missing me. He texted me to say it was ‘ace’ and that’s about it. As long as he has his beloved football. His only regret is that Michael Owen isn’t around any more. And his only fear is that Gerrard will move on. It’s taken over his world, Simon. To be honest, in a way, I feel a bit of a failure.’

  He smiled at her. ‘But you wouldn’t want him mother-bound, would you, Martha?’

  ‘No, but…’

  ‘And Sukey?’

  ‘She’s happy too. I only hope Agnetha doesn’t leave before her Abba craze burns itself out.’

  ‘And so back to you?’ he asked finally.

  ‘Oh – I’m OK, Simon.’

  He scrutinised her. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Just OK. But still missing that spark, I think.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she admitted. ‘Maybe.’ Then she smiled. ‘Although sometimes I find it in the most unexpected places.’

  ‘That sounds intriguing.’ He waited for her to enlarge but she didn’t. She had no intention of leaking her secret alter persona, Martha Rees, Private Sleuth. That was her secret and hers alone. Instead she asked about his daughters.

  ‘Armenia’s gone to university,’ he said, ‘to study accountancy.’

  She smiled. ‘I hope she’s as successful as her father at it.’ She raised her glass and met his eyes. Simon returned with one of his inscrutable smiles and she knew he too would give nothing away. So they both had their secrets.

  She took a full mouthful of the coffee, leaving it in her mouth and relishing the bitterness before swallowing it. ‘I love this place,’ she said, looking around.

  They both took time out to scan the panelled walls hung with oil portraits of long dead nobility, waxed oak tables, flickering candles. It was luxurious.

  Callum welcomed the darkness. He couldn’t bear Tyrone to read and despise his fear. He felt tears welling up and sniffed. Immediately Tyrone’s hand reached down from the top bunk and fastened round his throat. ‘Snivellin’ for your mummy, are you?’
>
  ‘No.’

  ‘You are.’ The hand tightened. ‘Shut up or I’ll give you somethin’ to whinge about. Understand? I thump people what bawl.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Right then. Now give a bloke some peace.’

  Shelley was staring out of the window, into the dark night, not caring if anyone was looking in. She had a glass of cheap white wine in her hand and a cigarette in the other although she had given up smoking when she had been expecting Callum. Neither the wine nor the cigarette was consoling her. From the second of Callum’s birth she had always been there for him. Apart from school they had never been parted. And now when he needed her most she could do nothing.

  ‘Martha,’ Simon Pendlebury’s eyes were locked into hers. ‘Have you considered marrying again?’

  She shook her head. ‘And you?’

  ‘Not yet. It’s early days. But I shall.’

  She gave him one of her warm smiles. ‘Anyone in mind?’

  ‘Not just yet but…’ He looked past her out into the restaurant. ‘I don’t want to stay on my own. That place is too big. Did Evie ever tell you we were thinking of moving?’

  This was news to her. ‘No.’

  ‘We’d spotted an ancient black and white house a few miles out of Shrewsbury. It’s a sixteenth-century manor house. I approached the owners and made them an offer.’ Simon Pendlebury gave a mischievous, boyish smile. It made him look very young – almost vulnerable. But not quite.

  ‘An offer he couldn’t refuse and he accepted. When Evie was diagnosed I got in touch with him. He said I could still have the place any time over the next year. I have to admit, Martha. I’m tempted.’

  ‘I bet.’

  ‘What about you?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m far too comfortable in the White House. I shan’t move.’

  A young, female violinst was playing very softly in the corner, bent over – almost hunched over her fiddle. She was playing a haunting, Dvorzak gypsy air. Martha listened to it with her usual mix of pleasure and passion. Music should not stir such powerful emotion. And yet it does.

  Shelley was still staring out of the window listening to a record. It was from one of the Lloyd-Webber musicals. ‘Evita’. ‘Where do we go from here?’

  It was a question she did not want to answer.

  It was completely black in the cell. Callum too was listening to sounds. Doors slamming. Echoing. Cheeky shouts from some of the inmates. A scream. He dared not think what was behind that scream. Muttered curses. The sharp sounds of the screws marching up the walkways, shoving back the spyholes. Another door being opened. A shaft of light as his spyhole was slid back. And slammed closed again.

  He needed human contact.

  Perhaps he should scream too?

  He walked her to her car and kissed her cheek.

  ‘Good night,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave you alone for a few days then I’ll be in touch again.’

  Still smiling Martha swung out onto the Ellesmere road and accelerated back in towards the town. She fiddled with the car radio and found BBC Radio Shropshire. It was strange but she always had this compulsion to find out what was happening in what she fondly regarded as her town before she went to bed. But she had missed the headlines. Instead she heard Krissi Carpenter’s voice. ‘That was a hit from 1964. Adam Faith singing ‘A Message for Martha’, written by Burt Bacharach. And if any Marthas are out there listening this track is being played specially for you.’

  Martha was thoughtful as she joined the bypass and swung south towards the woods and the White House.

  She had been the focus of some strange and unsettling attention a few months ago – a wreath of flowers left on her doorstep, a dead mouse with a ligature tight around its neck, trees whispering this very song – A Message for Martha. The old ‘45’ had been dumped in her porch.

  At first the events had frightened her. She had installed security lights and asked Agnetha to be careful that she always activated the burglar alarm and kept the safety chain fastened when she was in the house alone. She had suspected that the perpetrator must be connected with a case which the family had felt had resulted in an unsatisfactory verdict but although she racked her brains she had come up with nothing. Lately there had been no ghostly contacts and she had begun to believe that the person who taunted her had played out his or her vengeance.

  She hoped so.

  The hit still seemed personal.

  The house was shrouded in darkness as she locked her car door. Agnetha and Sukey must be asleep.

  And for that she was glad.

  Shelley was on her fourth glass of wine and her fifth cigarette.

  And Callum?

  Was not asleep.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Thursday 8th September, 6.58 a.m.

  Martha woke early to an uneasy feeling. It took her seconds to locate the cause.

  The phone was ringing.

  She picked it up, glanced at the radio alarm. It was early, a little before seven. Already she knew it would hardly be good news and she was right. The voice was formal. ‘Martha Gunn? It’s Alex Randall here. Bad news, I’m afraid. We’ve got a death in custody.’

  Inwardly she groaned. This was the beginning of the worst. Enquiries, allegations of police brutality, foul play.

  ‘Give me the details, Alex. Where did it happen? At the prison?’

  ‘No. Stoke Heath. A young lad. Thirteen. His name was Callum Hughes. He was a Shrewsbury lad. Up in front of the magistrates yesterday morning on a charge of attempted murder. You may have heard of the case. It made the headlines. He stabbed a classmate outside school. He was put on remand yesterday morning and transferred to Stoke Heath.’ Alex gave a deep sigh. ‘It looks like he hanged himself in his cell, Martha.’

  ‘Oh no.’ Every time she imagined herself inured to her job something like this happened.

  ‘I saw him myself the day before yesterday when he was brought in. Frightened rabbit of a boy. With his mother. Martha – he was only thirteen. First time offender.’

  So it had touched DI Randall too.

  ‘I’ll call in to Stoke Heath in an hour or two. Do you want to move the body?’

  ‘Yes. Mark’s done a swift examination and he’s happy for us to take it down to the morgue – if that’s all right with you. I’m just on my way to break the news to his mother. I feel as the Senior Investigating Officer I at least owe her that.’

  ‘I don’t envy you.’

  ‘Part of the job, Martha.’

  ‘OK then, Alex. I’ll talk to you later.’ So much for a lie-in and a cup of freshly brewed coffee.

  Shelley hadn’t slept either but lain with an advancing headache, suspended somewhere between waking and sleeping, soberness and a hangover, day and night. She too was woken early in the morning, not by a telephone ringing but by hammering on the door. And like the hammering two days ago she knew it portended bad news. She was beginning to learn: no one except the police knocked on doors so hard or so early in the morning. She allowed herself the luxury of lying still for what she feared would be her last moment of peace. Something was very wrong. Ideas flashed through her mind as she tied her dressing gown around her waist and descended the stairs. Maybe DreadNought had died in the night. Perhaps, oh Heavens above, they had decided to let her son go. And that was him, banging at the door.

  By the time she reached the bottom step she was not sleepy any more but a hopeful, yet fearful automaton, watching herself go through the movements of shooting back the bolt, turning round the key, pulling open the door which always stuck. The faces which met hers were grim.

  ‘Mrs Hughes?’

  It was the tall policeman with the craggy face and nice eyes. But his eyes looked at her differently now. They met hers with pity and an apology. Behind him hovered an awkward WPC. Shelley Hughes brushed the hair out of her eyes. ‘Callum?’ she said, clutching the doorframe because the dizziness threatened to send her reeling.

  ‘May we come in?’

  Sh
e knew it was a bad sign. It was all a bad sign. She nodded and backed along the narrow hallway.

  They followed her into the lounge and waited for her to sit down.

  Another bad sign.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s been an accident.’

  She looked from one to the other, her head turning without any conscious movement, gliding over her neck. ‘What sort of accident?’ Her voice was harsh and gravelly. Hostile.

  ‘It’s your son.’ The eyes met hers fearlessly and with honesty now. She stared back at him, waiting. Waiting. Not hoping any more.

  ‘Mrs Hughes, I’m sorry. It appears that he’s committed suicide.’

  She stared, uncomprehending.

  ‘He hanged himself in his cell some time during the night.’

  She could feel herself sinking into oblivion, straight down into the black spiral of her worst nightmare.

  ‘You’re telling me he’s dead?’

  Alex Randall nodded.

  ‘Weren’t you watching him?’

  ‘Not enough – obviously.’

  ‘You let him do this – when you knew he was terrified of being inside?’

  The policeman nodded again. ‘There will be an enquiry.’

  And these words made her anger erupt. ‘An enquiry? A fucking enquiry? Oh well, that’s OK then. An enquiry’ll solve everything, won’t it? Fine. Just great. My son hangs himself in your care and you tell me there’ll be an enquiry?’ She dropped her head on her arms and submitted to great, wracking sobs.

  Inspector Randall stood up then. ‘Do you want us to take you to see him?’

  Martha padded downstairs to make the coffee, taking it back to the bedroom with her to cool. It was seven o’clock. She took a quick shower first then drank the cooling coffee. Agnetha would have to walk Bobby this morning. She wanted to get to Stoke Heath in good time. The wheels must crank into motion. Mark Sullivan would be in touch later, after the boy’s mother had identified him. He would want to proceed with the post-mortem as soon as possible. Her day was filling up.