Slipknot

by Priscilla Masters

  She stared hard into Martin’s face, almost asking for his understanding. But all she noticed was that even then he had been starting to look tired and worn out. The picture had been taken just after he had started his first course of chemotherapy and it had knocked the stuffing out of him. She had spent weeks watching him struggle to stay awake while he sat in the leather armchair. He’d liked this one best because it had a soft seat and as he had shed weight most chairs had seemed too hard.

  They had done their best to remain optimistic that he would watch their two, beautiful children, grow up but it had been hard. They had each had their own brand of realism: he a lawyer, she a doctor.

  But it had not been like that.

  Instead she had watched the twins grow up alone and for a long time had thought that life had been too cruel. But now she knew it was time to move on. She did not need to preserve this shrine any more. Martin would live on through his children. And she would buy magazines and look for ideas how best to decorate the room. She would visit Simon Boyd’s, the material shop near the Welsh Bridge, scan the Period House Shop for cornices and paints. She started to plan and hum. And the planning and the humming gave her vibrant energy. She would transform this room from being a shrine to a garden room, bright and clean, welcoming in each season, spring and summer, autumn and winter. She would buy garden furniture and solar lights and throw the french windows wide open. She and Sukey and Agnetha would spend the winter poring over books on interior design, wallpaper books, check fabric samples, look at a new sofa or two. She would buy a really good stereo system and indulge her love of music. From popular classics to Sixties oldies and yes – Abba too.

  And then when it was all finally done she would have a party.

  She bustled around happily in the kitchen for the next hour, preparing tea – Welsh lamb chops with fresh French beans and new potatoes, garnished with mint and salty Welsh butter. Sukey seemed excited by the project and not saddened at all by the fact that the only masculine room in the entire house – apart from Sam’s which was a Liverpool shrine – was about to be changed. And she said nothing about it being ‘her Dad’s room’ or anything similar. She even went up to her room and searched on the Internet for some design ideas.

  Agnetha arrived home a little after nine, giggling and sporting an aquamarine ring on the third finger of her left hand. ‘He says he is missing me, Mrs Gunn. He asked me to marry him.’ She shrugged her thin shoulders. ‘Why should I say no?’

  Sukey stared at her long and hard, realising the implication of Agnetha’s new found status. Then she jumped to her feet and hugged her.

  ‘And the nice thing is now, Mummy, I don’t need an au pair any more. I’m old enough to take care of myself.’

  Her household was being slowly eroded, Martha thought. First Sam then Agnetha. And one day it would be Sukey, off to college.

  She was reflective as she went to bed.

  The Goughs arrived at her office late on the Monday morning, bursting in behind Jericho without allowing him to announce them.

  Christina Gough was a large woman with hair striped, part white, part mousy, part chocolate brown. It looked an amateur job with uneven chunks of colour. She was dressed in designer-torn jeans and orange top and accompanied by a large man of about forty who was panting with the effort. He too was dressed in jeans and a black, sleeveless T-shirt showing meaty biceps. His face was red and he was sweating. Martha recognised them both as the troublemakers from the inquest.

  They looked less grief-stricken than furiously angry.

  She sat them both down, Jericho supplied them with coffee and she explained her role.

  ‘We’re his parents.’ The man, wagging his finger at her, spoke for the woman. ‘And we want justice.’

  ‘As I understand it, Mr Gough, the boy who assaulted your son committed suicide. Surely?’

  She couldn’t finish the sentence.

  If she had hoped to meliorate their anger by reminding them of the facts it failed miserably.

  Gough continued wagging his finger at her. ‘We want justice,’ he said again.

  ‘In what way, Mr Gough?’

  By bringing the dead back to life so you can put him down again? Not possible.

  She allowed them to speak on.

  ‘My son was a decent lad,’ Gough’s father said. ‘He was struck down by a psychopath. It’s a bloody good job that the little bleeder topped his self else I’d have done it for him. His life wouldn’t have been worth a farthing if he’d have got out. As they do.’ He sounded as though he was accusing her. ‘I want you to say that at the inquest.’

  She recalled the bus incident when Gough had almost pushed young Callum under its wheels. It could so easily have been the other way round, she reflected, and felt herself shaking her refusal. ‘There is no evidence to point to Callum Hughes as being a psychopath,’ she said. ‘He had no history of previous attacks on people. Only your son.’ She had hoped they would draw their own conclusions from so pointed a remark but they drew the wrong one.

  ‘I bet if we ask around we’ll find someone else he went for. Buggers like that make a habit of it.’

  His wife touched his arm. ‘What about Katie? You heard he flashed at her? He was a perv.’ Her voice rose. ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah. Besides if he weren’t a psychopath,’ Gough said, ‘why did he take a knife to our lad? Eh?’ He wagged the finger at her again. ‘Answer me that.’

  ‘There’s been mention of bad blood between the two boys,’ Martha said cautiously. Mrs Gough spoke again. ‘If there were bad blood,’ she said, ‘it were because the Hughes boy were a psycho and my lad knew it.’ She sat back in her chair, folded her fat arms and looked pleased with herself.

  ‘Are you saying that your son was frightened of Callum Hughes?’

  Gough stood up. ‘My lad weren’t frightened of nothing,’ he said.

  ‘So he never voiced any concerns about the boy?’

  Both Goughs shook their heads.

  ‘The function of an inquest is simply to ascertain who has died, how, when and where. I’m not prepared to cast aspersions on Callum Hughes at your son’s inquest. His mother has suffered enough but I can tell you that your son’s death will be classed as homicide.’

  Oddly enough the words seemed to upset both parents. Gough put his arm round his wife’s meaty shoulders.

  ‘Your son will have the dignity of an inquest as did the Hughes boy. This is a tragic incident. I’m sorry for your loss.’

  Gough tried another tack. ‘The hospital was negligent,’ he said. ‘They should have been able to keep him alive.’

  Blame is a common feature of grief. Relatives of people who have died in hospital frequently complain that something should have been done. That their wife/husband/mother/son should not have died. Therefore it must be the hospital’s fault. Martha could not even allow the thought to creep in that sometimes it is financial benefit which is the moralist.

  ‘I bet he got that MRSA.’

  ‘No,’ Martha said. ‘At no point did he develop MRSA. He was simply too ill to fight off any infection.’

  Gough snorted, stood up and spoke to his wife. ‘It’s a cover-up,’ he said. ‘A conspiracy. She’s no bloody good at all.’ He turned to Martha then. ‘What good can you do?’

  Very little, Martha thought. I am not the Resurrection woman but a mouthpiece of the law and the dead.

  Gough turned back to Martha, his face red with fury and frustration. ‘You’re no fucking good at all,’ he said. ‘Thanks. Thanks for exactly nothing. Come on, Chrissie. Bloody typical.’ He was still muttering as he let the door swing behind them.

  Martha felt depressed when they’d left. She sat down at her desk, not even deriving her usual pleasure from the sight of the town, rising like a crown out of the river, the spire of St Chad’s its topmost point. It was a bright, September day. The sky was blue with a few fleecy clouds. Outside it was just starting to get chilly and when the wind blew one or two l
eaves drifted down lazily from the trees hinting at impending autumn. Nothing too threatening yet. It was her favourite time of year.

  She stood up and crossed to the window for a minute or two until she was disturbed by a soft knock on the door. She smiled. Jericho with his eternal cups of coffee.

  But she was wrong. Alex Randall stuck his head in. ‘Is this a bad time? I was just passing and thought I’d pop in and see what was going on.’

  ‘I’m glad to see you,’ she said. ‘‘I’ve just had an uncomfortable time with the Gough parents who are angry at everyone – the Health Service, Callum Hughes. They’re spitting blood. And they wanted me to explain how it was that their nice, innocent boy was knifed by this psycho and why won’t I say that at the inquest.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Alex lowered his long frame into the armchair. ‘Well – I’ve just come from speaking to Tyrone Smith.’

  ‘Not sure who I’d prefer to deal with. Not much of a choice really, is it? The Gough family or Smith. What did he have to say?’

  ‘He admits kicking Callum on the shin but,’ He grinned, ‘and I quote ‘I never touched ‘is bleedin’ face.’ He couldn’t say whether when Callum arrived he had or complained for any facial trauma.’

  ‘I suppose we’d already guessed that.’ She chewed on her lip. ‘You know, Alex.’

  They were interrupted. This time it really was Jericho with two cups of coffee. Martha waited until he had closed the door behind him before continuing.

  ‘I can’t believe that Smith slept through Callum hanging himself. I just can’t.’

  ‘We-ell’ Randall put his mug down on the table. ‘I think we may have a sort of explanation for that.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Smith had been quite troublesome at night. He couldn’t sleep, suffered from nightmares, would repeatedly bang on his door, keeping everyone else awake. He was given sleeping tablets.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  Alex shook his head. ‘Unfortunately not. They’d been prescribed for him by the prison doctor – a short course.’

  ‘Which he’d have had trouble stopping,’ Martha said wearily. ‘But you’re right. It does explain something which was making no sense.’

  ‘Yes. Well it explains Callum’s shin injury but not the bruises on his face and chest. If he’s telling the truth. We need to get this right, Martha, and we’re not there yet.’

  ‘So where do you go from here?’

  ‘I suppose I should talk to the two prison officers again.’

  ‘Good. Once we can explain the injuries to Shelley Hughes’s satisfaction we can complete the inquest. Both inquests. It’ll be better for everyone if Callum is buried soon. Roger Gough too. But I have the feeling that Gough’s parents are going to be very belligerent. I think they’ll keep hunting for someone or something to blame. Someone to sue. I think his inquest will be a long, drawn out affair which will, in turn, keep the story cooking in the Press.’

  ‘When is Roger Gough’s inquest?’

  ‘Next week. I’ll have to return a verdict of homicide.’

  Martha was rubbing her forehead.

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Yes. My au pair’s got engaged. She’ll be leaving soon, I expect. Which’ll leave me alone with Sukey.’

  ‘You’re not thinking of having another au pair?’

  ‘Sukey doesn’t want it. She feels grown up. But this job doesn’t always have regular hours and as you know our house is tucked away on its own. I mean she’s a sensible girl but I would prefer it if someone was there with her.’

  Alex nodded but made no comment. He didn’t say that it was a shame about Martin and he didn’t ask her about a relationship.

  Instead he said, ‘And how’s Sam getting on?’

  Again she felt her brow furrow. ‘I’m not sure. I think he’s OK but boys don’t always say, do they? The old roast beef for tea. I’m hungry.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Wilfred Owen,’ she said, ‘writing from the trenches. Hiding his real situation from his mother. That’s boys for you, Alex. Girls are different.’ The statement jogged her memory. ‘By the way, did you read the paper yesterday?’

  ‘Bits.’

  ‘Specifically Katie Ashbourne’s statement.’

  ‘No, what did she say?’

  ‘More or less what a psycho Callum was and what a nice guy Roger Gough was. Toeing the usual line.’

  ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘Given the circumstances it’s understandable. She was DreadNought’s girlfriend.’

  They chatted for a bit longer before Alex stretched his legs out as though the sitting still was giving him cramp. ‘Well – I’d better move on. I just thought you’d want to know how our enquiries were progressing.’

  ‘Thanks. What’s next?’

  ‘Back to the prison officers. As you said, until we’ve got a satisfactory explanation for the other bruises Shelley Hughes is not going to rest. And that means you won’t be able to close the inquest.’

  He left.

  But when he’d gone Martha started pondering.

  She was aware that her sympathies had remained with Callum Hughes. And because of that she felt a compulsion to present him as a victim who had spilled over into violence rather than as the instigator of events.

  As for Gough she saw him now as another victim – of his attitudes and prejudices.

  Her mind flicked back to the CCTV footage of Callum’s last encounter with the two prison warders and the terror she had sensed in the boy even through the poor quality, grainy images. Superimposed on that was the testimony of Adam Farthing who had known both boys. He had painted a graphic enough portrait of Callum, bookish and thoughtful, and Gough, lashing out with his fists while enjoying both fear and accolade from his schoolmates.

  Even the nickname Callum had dreamed up for Gough, the fear of nothing, the DreadNought warship and the picture that the name had conjured up, all had added to the myth of Roger Gough and made him bigger, tougher, more invincible than he was.

  Two teenage boys were dead and nothing would change. The school would continue teaching, boys and girls would still be bullied. There would still be weak and strong, the one taking cruel advantage of the other. There would always be stupid and intelligent. And so on.

  It still happened at the school where murdered and victim had attended?

  She sat back and struggled with her conscience. Sometimes her role as coroner was not quite enough. These were the times when she did a little probing for herself – as Martha Rees. Was this a case for Martha Rees to observe? Was this a time when Martha Rees should hang around outside a school and see what was going on?

  It was always a temptation with her.

  But a coroner’s work is a strict job, which walks along narrow alleyways dictated by the government. They enquire – no more than that – into who has died, when they died and how they met their death. It is not a complicated remit though to the surviving family it is an important one. But sometimes – only sometimes – it is not enough. It does not really explain a death. Sequences of events lead up to untimely deaths. Not nature but something within the victim’s life or even in the perpetrator’s. The two lives collide. And mayhem results. It was her job to unravel the truth. And sometimes being a coroner, sitting behind a desk, does not colour in the picture enough to hold a satisfactory inquest.

  Martha sat still for only a minute before making up her mind. She wanted not the black and white picture but the full Technicolor effect. And that would not come from sitting here. She stood up.

  The door opened.

  Jericho with a huge bunch of long stemmed, red roses.

  She stared at him. Completely confused.

  ‘These just arrived,’ he said. ‘By van.’

  There is something about red roses. They mean love and romance. Or gratitude. But they always mean something. They never mean nothing. She took the flowers from him, only aware of a dry, sour taste in her mouth. She had done nothing to deserve these roses. She d
id not know who would send her red roses when it wasn’t her birthday. She knew that these beautiful blooms did not mean love or gratitude. They were not emblems of a birthday or anniversary. They were reminders.

  ‘There’s a card with them. Open it.’

  Jericho had a soft voice with a Shropshire burr which was spurring her on. She took the white envelope in her fingers.

  Martha Gunn. That was all. Martha Gunn. Her name. The flowers were meant for her.

  She opened the envelope, pulled out the white card.

  These are for you, it read in the florist’s hand. This is your message, Martha.

  She stared at it and knew an old friend was back.

  Last year she had been sent messages, records, small, tiny clues, hints that someone was trying to communicate with her. But like a Martian landing or a deaf and dumb person signing to her, Martha could not understand it.

  She picked up the telephone.

  This had gone far enough.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Alex listened to her confused ramblings for a full ten minutes without interrupting. He heard about the scratched record which had been left at her door, the strange, intrusive whispering, the bunches of flowers – even the dead animals abandoned on the doorstep which she had initially blamed on Bobby – until Mark Sullivan had pointed out the ligature tied tightly round the mouse’s neck. She tried to leave out all the ‘weird feelings’ before realising that this was a part of it too. She was not an imaginative woman.

  Alex sat, concentrating hard, his entire body still, his fingers interwoven, his thin face set in a deep frown. ‘I don’t like the sound of this at all.’

  ‘You take it seriously then?’