‘No? He says you were with him when I was conceived.’
Marni turned and went back to the kitchen. She didn’t want Alex to think that Paul was his father. She didn’t want to discuss with him the fact that she had sex with both brothers within the time frame in which he’d been conceived. She didn’t want to have to tell him that Paul had raped her. And she didn’t want to tell him that there was no way of knowing which brother was his father, because they were identical twins with identical DNA.
It was a conversation she wasn’t ready for. It was a conversation she’d never be ready for.
Alex followed her into the kitchen, his eyes demanding an answer.
‘Where’s Paul staying?’ she said. ‘I need to talk to him.’
Marni stood on the step of the hostel smoking a cigarette as if she belonged there. It was her second cigarette in ten minutes, but she’d smoke as many as it took until someone came out. She’d almost finished it when the door opened from the inside and two men emerged. Perfect. She dropped the butt and caught the door as they let it swing shut behind them.
‘Ta,’ she said, as she pushed inside.
They ignored her and walked away. People came and went in a matter of days at these sorts of hostels. No one kept track. No one cared.
Once inside, with the door shut behind her, Marni looked around. She was in the narrow hall of a run-down Victorian terraced house. A cork board hung on the wall with scruffy notices pinned to it – no smoking in the rooms, a cleaning roster for the kitchen, a clutch of other instructions that were no doubt routinely ignored. The hall, and the staircase leading up from it, were dark. All the interior doors were shut, and the ones she could see had plastic numbers tacked up on them. Every room rented out – no communal space apart from the kitchen and bathrooms. The air smelled of damp and cheap cooking fat.
This looked like the sort of place Paul would stay. He’d be short of cash. And it was the sort of place where nobody asked questions.
The kitchen, as Marni expected, was on the ground floor at the back. It was empty. Marni looked around. A stack of dishes, thick with congealed grease, stood by a sink half full of dirty water. A stained and crumpled tea towel lay on the table. Dirty mugs. A plate with a toast crust left on it. In the corner, the bin was overflowing. Whoever’s turn it was to empty it hadn’t read the roster.
Marni went back to the hall, her boots squeaking on the grimy linoleum. She stopped outside the first door she came to and listened. There was no sound coming from inside. She tried the handle. The door was locked. She moved on to the second door. This would have been the house’s front room in better days. This time when she listened she could hear a baby crying – the soft mewling of a newborn, rather than an all-out howl. A moment later, a woman’s sing-song voice comforted the child in a language Marni didn’t understand.
She went up the stairs, feeling for the handle of the knife in her pocket to keep the dark flutterings of foreboding at bay. Somewhere from higher up in the house she could hear the blaring of a radio, but on the first floor all seemed quiet. There were four doors, all numbered, and she tried them in turn. The first two were locked, suggesting that their residents were out – maybe working, maybe sitting on a park bench somewhere drinking.
The third room seemed quiet, but when she pushed down the door handle, the door opened. She squinted through the crack.
The room was large, with a bay window looking out over the street. Marni could only see a narrow strip – and didn’t dare open the door further – but what she could see triggered a surge of adrenalin to cascade through her body.
Fight or flight? She’d come here to fight.
A scruffy armchair, with pilled red upholstery and worn armrests, faced the window. A man was sitting in it and, though Marni could only see a quarter or so of his profile from behind, she knew immediately who it was. The shape of his head was as familiar to her as the shape of Thierry’s.
Paul Mullins was wearing an expensive-looking pair of headphones – stolen? – and as Marni slipped silently into the room, she could hear the tinny beat of heavy rock music leaking out of them. She closed the door softly behind her. No need for witnesses to see what was about to happen. As she drew the knife from her pocket and stared down at the blade, an uncanny sense of déjà vu threatened to overwhelm her. How many more times would she have to confront this man to protect her family?
‘Paul.’
She spoke loudly enough for him to hear her over the music he was listening to.
He jolted out of his chair, ripping the headphones off and dropping them to the floor. As soon as he realised it was her, his expression changed from one of shock to a dark scowl. Every single muscle in Marni’s body clenched tight. She squared her feet on the floor, sinking her weight as low as possible. Her right hand tightened its grip on the knife as she held it protectively in front of her.
‘Pute!’ Paul took a step forward, using the advantage of his height to menace her.
Marni stood her ground.
‘Stay away from my son, Paul.’
‘Your son? You mean our son.’
‘He’s not.’
‘You can’t know that.’
‘If you go anywhere near him again, I’ll use this on you.’ She brandished the knife.
‘You don’t scare me, Marni. I survived your last sorry attempt. This time it will go worse for you.’
‘And you think you can win Alex over by hurting me?’
‘You’ve done the damage yourself already. Alex has agreed to come back to France with me.’
‘You’re lying.’
Paul shrugged, then laughed. ‘Ne soyez pas trop sûr.’
Don’t be too sure.
‘Oh, I’m sure, Paul. If he’d agreed to leave with you, you wouldn’t still be here.’
She’d caught him out and Paul lunged forward, thrashing an arm sideways to knock her knife arm out of his path. Marni danced back as he came at her.
‘Don’t be an idiot. You know I’ll use this.’
‘Fuck you!’ he said.
Marni had the upper hand. She held the knife out in front of her, remembering the feeling of power it had given her once before. She took a couple of deep breaths to steady herself, all the while never letting her gaze stray from Paul’s face.
He was also breathing heavily, now standing in a half-crouch, watching her, watching the knife. She couldn’t read fear in his eyes, but he must also be remembering what had happened. She wondered if he still carried the scar of what she’d done to him. It had been a deep cut into his abdomen. It must have left its mark on him.
Damn it! Don’t get distracted.
They circled slowly, each waiting for the other to make a move. Marni’s hand was shaking and she felt light-headed. Her blood sugar was low. She couldn’t project the outcome of this little dance in her mind – but she needed to. If she couldn’t control her breathing, if she started to hyperventilate . . .
No.
She centred herself, counting slow breaths as she watched Paul watching her. They moved round another quarter-turn of the circle.
Too late she realised the position she’d put herself in. Paul was between her and the door. She would have to go through him to get out. He was taller. He was stronger. Even though she had the knife she knew her odds weren’t good.
She should never have come here.
‘I’ll kill you, Paul, to get out of this room.’
‘It doesn’t have to be this way, Marni,’ he said.
‘It does,’ she said, fear making her voice tremble.
‘Say you and Alex will come away with me.’
‘You’d know it was a lie.’
Paul’s features darkened and Marni saw his left eyelid start to twitch. She’d seen this happen before and fear cloaked her with its cold breath.
She passed the
knife to her left hand so she could flex the fingers of her right hand. It might have been Paul’s chance but he seemed wrapped up in his own thoughts. She didn’t want to wonder what they were. With the knife back in her right hand, she felt safer. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone.
‘I take it you’re calling Alex,’ he said. ‘Tell him to come here or . . .’
Marni didn’t answer. Without looking down, she pressed the sequence of keys she knew best, dialling the number of the one man she knew would come to her aid.
55
Saturday, 2 September 2017
Liv
Liv had gone to the annual Brighton Speed Trials for as long as she could remember. Fast cars and bikes racing for a straight, hair-raising quarter-mile stretch down the front. Coke when she was a kid, beer now, sunshine, the roar of engines and the stink of petrol. Hot guys revving their hot rods and leather-clad bikers giving her the eye. What wasn’t to like about that?
She’d spent the day cruising Madeira Drive with a couple of girlfriends, feeling like they were on the set of Grease and wishing the summer would go on for ever. But the sky was a hot and heavy blanket. Sweat stuck her T-shirt to her back, and the incessant droning of engines was precipitating a dull ache behind her eyes.
When Alex called at just gone five, upset and angry, she wasn’t sorry to leave. She made her way home to drop off some stuff, then headed out to meet him at the Hope and Ruin.
She was in a hurry. Alex had sounded distraught on the phone. This guy turning up, claiming to be his father, was really messing with his head – the idea that he’d never know who his real father was was cutting him up.
As she crossed Clifton Place, her phone buzzed in her bag. She pulled it out and checked the screen. It was Alex again. Impatient.
‘Be with you in five, okay? I’ve just reached Clifton Terrace and I’m cutting through the memorial garden.’
He was still sounding fucked up, and she quickened her step as she went through the small wrought-iron gate into the gardens. The air was clammy and she felt sweat running down between her breasts, even though she was only wearing a light vest. Her jeans clung to her legs uncomfortably. In the distance, thunder rumbled and the sky seemed to swell with the promise of rain.
Then, halfway across the empty memorial garden, it finally happened. A large, warm raindrop landed on her arm. A second later another slapped her on the opposite shoulder. She looked at the ground. Dark circles appeared on the path around her, then as if finally given permission, the clouds let loose the weight of water that had been building for days. Within seconds, the dusty tarmac became black and shiny, and water ran from Liv’s hair down her forehead and dripped from the end of her nose. Walking as fast as she could, she followed the sweeping path down to the lower level of the garden. It would take her past the creepy Victorian sepulchres – she and Alex had played ghosts here when they were kids – but it would bring her out opposite Church Street, from which it was just a five-minute walk to the pub.
If only she’d thought to bring an umbrella.
A man walking towards her was closing his. That seemed weird, as the rain was getting heavier still, bouncing up from the path now to splash her legs. She veered to the left of him as they came nearly level – he would walk straight into her if she didn’t get out of the way. Bloody men, always assuming they had the right of way. She scowled at him, taking in his dark raincoat and an old-fashioned trilby-style hat. He probably worked for one of the firms of accountants . . .
The blow came from nowhere and she staggered sideways with the impact, grunting with pain.
What the fuck?
Before she’d got her balance back, an arm snaked around her neck. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the closed umbrella, with which he’d hit her, rolling to one side on the wet grass.
She tried to scream but the man tightened his arm about her throat, and only a guttural moan escaped her. She attempted to break free but he was taller and stronger than her. He dragged her along the path. As she kicked her feet, trying to gain purchase, a terrifying thought sprang into her mind. Could this be the guy, the Poison Ink killer? The police thought it was Alex, which was bollocks. It was someone else. This man?
They were at the end of the row of Victorian sepulchres now, where they abutted the garden’s high brick wall. Between the last tomb and the wall, there was a narrow doorway with a battered steel door – she’d always wondered where it led. Now, she heard the click of it being opened and a rush of cold, rancid air washed over her. He was pulling her inside and down some steps. The door clanged shut behind them, plunging them into total darkness, but he still seemed to know where he was going.
She turned her head to the side and the pressure on her vocal cords eased.
‘Who are you?’ Stinking air choked her lungs, making her want to vomit.
The man didn’t answer.
The steps had given way to a flat surface beneath their feet, but it still sloped downwards. The air became more fetid still – and the stench told her where they were. He was taking her down into the sewers. Cold sweat erupted from every pore with the realisation. There would be no one down here to help her. No one would hear her screams. Her only chance would be what she could do by herself. She had to get away from him.
When he stopped without warning, Liv almost fell. She gripped his arm to steady herself and then wondered why she’d done that. If she fell, he would fall, and that might be her chance to escape. But as if he guessed what she was thinking, he hit her again, this time with his fist. Sparks cascaded past her eyes and for a moment she thought she was going to be sick. She struggled for breath as the world spun around her.
He pulled her further down into the darkness.
‘Someone’s . . . waiting . . . for me,’ she said. Speaking was a struggle.
‘Death’s waiting for you.’ It was only a whisper but the words seemed to echo in the dark.
With a snap, the beam of light from a small torch lit up the sewer. They were in an oval-shaped channel constructed of red bricks. To one side of them, a torrent of raw sewage rushed by – brown water churning with faecal matter and disintegrating paper. The sight of it made Liv want to throw up even more. Ahead, the way divided, two forks stretching away further than the feeble beam of light could reach. Still disorientated by the struggle, Liv had no sense of direction and no idea where either of the tunnels might lead. The man seemed to be weighing up which one to take, so she used the time to regain her strength. Then they were off again, the torchlight bobbing ahead of them and the man grunting in her ear with the exertion of pulling her along. She fought every step of the way, finally allowing herself to become a dead weight against the arm that supported her, making it even more difficult for him to move.
‘You little bitch,’ he hissed.
It lit a touch paper inside her. She wasn’t going to let this man snuff out her life in a stinking sewer, damn it! She raised both arms to grab the arm that was around her neck. Using all her strength, she was able to pull it away enough to tuck her chin in behind it. This meant she could bite it, which she did, as hard as possible, for as long as she could. The man yelped with pain and loosened his grip. Liv broke away, turning to run back the way they’d come, skidding over the slippery floor as she felt her way along the wall in the darkness. The bricks were slimy under her fingers, but she had no choice other than to touch them.
Behind her, his torch beam swept in an arc as he searched for her. His footsteps crunched on the uneven stone surface, coming at her from behind.
Could she outrun him? She had no choice.
She could hear him panting behind her, getting closer.
The torch went out. She stumbled on, blind to where she was going.
She heard his intake of breath as his steps sped up. Then nothing.
A split second later he crashed into her, throwing his arms
around her knees, rugby-tackling her to the floor. She landed with a thud that winded her and her head smacked against the wet stone.
When she came round, she was lying on her back. She blinked and opened her eyes. The light from a dozen candles illuminated a barrel-vaulted stone ceiling. The air she breathed in was cold and damp, though not so rancid. She could see a dark silhouette in the candlelight. The man was bent over a stone bench, doing something. It wasn’t a bench – it was a tomb. She was also lying on a similar tomb. It was a crypt. They were in a crypt somewhere.
She felt cold stone underneath her shoulder blades. Where was her vest? Her bra was also missing. She felt for her jeans with one hand . . . at least they were still on.
A soft electrical buzzing cut through the silence and the man turned towards her.
Please, God, no . . .
She started to sob.
In the dim and flickering light, she could see that he was smiling.
And she knew she’d have one chance – only one chance – to lash out and get away.
56
Saturday, 2 September 2017
Alex
It was barely six o’clock but the Hope and Ruin was heaving with people who’d been watching the Speed Trials all day. Most of them were already half drunk and the noise levels made conversation impossible unless you were prepared to yell. Alex had secured a corner table with two stools, but as time passed and he reached the end of his beer, he was having a hard time defending the empty seat.
Where the hell was Liv?
He tried her phone again for the seventh or eighth time and, again, she didn’t answer. He’d sent three texts, which had also been ignored. Twenty minutes had passed since she’d spoken to him from Clifton Terrace – she should have been here long ago.
The weather had broken. People were coming in with hair plastered to their heads and their clothing soaked through. Virtually no one had had the foresight to go out with a coat or an umbrella. People had forgotten such things existed. Was the rain affecting the mobile network? That didn’t make sense – and if it was just an issue with her phone, Liv would have arrived by now.
Her Last Breath: The new crime thriller from the international bestseller (Sullivan and Mullins) Page 28
