by David Bowker
“I’m not cooking it for you!”
“Yes, you fucking are! Who else do you make lasagna for?”
She slammed the soapy pan down on the draining board and started on a wooden spoon. He pointed the gun at his own head. “What are you so mad about?” He squeezed the trigger. Another click. “OK. I bought a gun. Maybe I shouldn’t have done that. I was nervous.”
She turned on him, spitting venom in his face. “Just go! Get out! I don’t want to see you! You wanker!”
“It isn’t loaded, you fucking cunt!” yelled Billy. To hammer home the point, he aimed the gun at her and squeezed the trigger.
There was a thunderous bang and a ragged hole opened in the middle of Nikki’s face. Bright red blood sluiced across the sink and the kitchen window. Nikki toppled over. It was an awkward fall, jerky and unconvincing. If any actor had executed such a fall, the director would have demanded an instant reshoot.
Nikki wasn’t acting. She was dead before she reached the floor. Billy had killed her.
He looked at his wife, then examined the smoking weapon in his hand. The gun was warm to the touch.
His head felt like a Halloween pumpkin, huge and swollen and hollowed by knives.
Billy was blushing in pity, terror, and shame.
“Sweetheart, sweetheart,” said Billy. Trembling as he got down on his knees, hoping to revive his wife by pressing a tea towel against the hole in her face. Knowing she was dead. All the time thinking that her last words to him were, “You wanker!” And his final words to her were, “You fucking cunt.”
* * *
Rawhead didn’t get an answer at the front door, so went round to the back. Billy was in the kitchen, sitting on a stool. He was crying. Without a hint of emotion, Rawhead looked down at Nikki, saw the globs of brain tissue that were spattered on the kitchen window, and realized that any attempt at resuscitation would serve no purpose.
“What happened, Bill?”
Billy held up the Smith & Wesson. In a strange, shaky voice he murmured, “You told me it wasn’t loaded.”
Rawhead sighed and took the gun.
“Why did you tell me that?”
“It was the quickest and easiest way to stop you shooting at me. Have you called anyone?”
“Not yet.”
“Don’t. Stay where you are. I’ll be right back.”
Rawhead left the house and returned a few minutes later with a loaded syringe. Billy hardly registered his return. A moment later, a generous shot of morphine launched Billy into a state of floating bliss. As Billy flopped, giggling, Rawhead picked him up, carried him into the living room, and laid him on the sofa.
When Rawhead returned to the kitchen, the timer on the oven was buzzing. Feeling it was a shame to waste good food, Rawhead took the sizzling dish out of the oven and laid it on the blood-spattered windowsill to cool. He looked in the fridge, saw the champagne, opened a bottle, and poured himself a glass.
Then he sat down at the kitchen table and raised his glass to the dead woman, confident that the world she had entered was infinitely superior to the world she had left behind.
* * *
After midnight, Billy awoke. He recalled that something truly dreadful had taken place but could not remember the details. The sight of Rawhead, who was sitting beside him on the sofa, jogged his memory. As the full horror of his wife’s death swept over him, Billy screamed. Rawhead put his hand over Billy’s mouth.
“All right. Take big breaths.”
Billy sat up too sharply, felt dizzy, and almost fell off the sofa. Rawhead laid a steadying hand on Billy’s chest.
“Jesus Christ almighty. Tell me it isn’t true.”
“It’s true.”
“Is she dead?”
“Yeah. But it was an accident. A complete fluke.”
“It’s still against the fucking law.” Billy started crying. “You said it wasn’t loaded.”
“I had to say something. You were trying to shoot me.”
Billy wiped his nose on the sleeve of his shirt.
“Do you deny that?” asked Rawhead.
Billy shook his head.
“OK, listen to me.” Rawhead looked at Billy, his expression stern. “I know you set fire to the caravan with me in it. And, naturally, I wanted to get back at you for that. But I didn’t want anything like this to happen. I didn’t trick you into shooting Nikki. Do you believe me?”
Billy nodded. “Will you do me a favor?”
“What?”
“Would you phone the police? I don’t think I could.”
“I’m not phoning the police. Nor are you.”
“But they’ll find out. They’ll notice she’s gone.”
“Billy. Look at me. The police do not care about Nikki. The police are ignorant bastards. All they care about is getting easy convictions. Your punishment will be living with what you’ve done. You’re just a writer. You pose no real danger to anyone. What good would locking you up do?”
“Maybe I’ll get off.”
“Wake up, Billy. Not only will they nail you for Nikki; they’ll try to pin the deaths of your neighbors and those cops on you. You had a gun. An unlicensed firearm. That’s all they’ll need to influence a jury. Tell anyone about this, anyone at all, and I guarantee you will never see the light of day again.”
Billy looked into Rawhead’s eyes. “So what can I do?”
“First of all, you call Nikki’s mobile. You do that now; leave a message to ask where she is. Because you’ve just come home and no one’s here. In the morning, you go round to Nikki’s mum to pick up Maddy. You ask Nikki’s mum where Nikki is; she doesn’t know; you call the police.
“The good news is, Nikki has gone AWOL before. This is what she does. She gets depressed and walks out on everyone. The police aren’t going to view her as a priority.”
Billy started crying. “But the body…”
“I’ll take care of that. I’ve cleaned the kitchen. Now I’ll bury her.”
“Where? Where will you put her?”
Rawhead could see how important this was to Billy. “Somewhere peaceful,” he answered. “Somewhere where she can see trees and blue skies and hear the birds singing.”
* * *
Three hours later, Rawhead carried Nikki into his house by the church. Her body was swaddled in bin liners. He turned on the light and, showing no respect for the deceased, threw his burden to the floor. Then he walked through to the kitchen. He plucked his keys off the wall, went down to the cellar, and unlocked the door. Insects flew into his face as the door yawned open, breathing out its customary stench.
Under the sink, he kept a heavy flashlight which he now took into the cellar. Rawhead used the light to wedge open the second door, aiming it down the subterrannean tunnel toward the pit. Then he returned for the body.
Flinging the corpse over his shoulder, he noticed a sweet smell. Parma violets. For some reason, the smell reminded him of childhood. He assumed that the fragrance was something to do with Nikki and blanked it out of his mind. Then he carried her down to the cellar. Where there were no trees, blue skies, or birds singing.
Only flies breeding in the mephitic darkness.
Not bothering to remove the bin bags, Rawhead thrust the body in through the gap in the wall. A second passed and then he heard the whumphh! as Billy’s wife reached her final resting place. He remembered Sirus and wondered if he was dead yet. So he went back for the torch. On his return, he leaned through the gap in the wall and cast his light into the pit.
Sirus was there, twisted onto his side. Not moving or breathing. Over him, partly covering his legs, lay Nikki in her corporation body bag. To their right lay a middle-aged man in a lilac shirt. The man was lying on his back, grinning like a game show host. The top of his skull was as jagged as a medieval parapet. While Rawhead shone the beam over the man’s middle-aged paunch and middle-aged trousers his pulse quickened. Because he knew, knew beyond all doubt, that he had never before seen the corpse in the lilac shirt
.
Fourteen
I did but see her passing by,
Yet I will love her till I die.
—ANONYMOUS
By noon Rawhead was back at Billy’s house. Billy, his face lime green, was playing with his daughter on the living room floor.
“What did the police say?”
“Very little,” said Billy. “Nikki’s dad came to the police station with me. He could see how fucked I was, so he did most of the talking. It was easy. I never knew this, but according to her dad, she tried to kill herself when she was eighteen.”
“That’s good,” said Rawhead.
“Good? What’s fucking good about it?”
“I mean, it’s consistent. With someone who walks out on her husband and daughter. So you think they believed you?”
“Nikki’s mum and dad did. No question. They think I’m a prat, but they’d never have me down as a killer.”
“Mummy,” said Billy’s daughter. Billy stared at her in horror. As far as he knew, it was the first time Maddy had ever uttered this word.
“You found somewhere for her?” he asked Rawhead.
“The perfect spot.”
* * *
They drove to Disley to drop Maddy off at Billy’s sister’s house. It was no chore for Carole—she adored Maddy and had always wanted a daughter of her own. And even Carole, hardly Billy’s greatest fan, could see her brother was suffering. “She’ll be back. I’m sure she will,” she told him, kissing Billy awkwardly on the cheek. “Try not to worry too much.”
Rawhead waited outside the house, pretending to be a cabdriver. Billy was crying again when he got back into the car. That was how he was at the moment: the slightest sign of sympathy from anyone was enough to set him off.
When they arrived at Billy’s house, a Mondeo estate was sitting on the drive. Billy’s stomach churned. He thought it was the police. But it was some young black guy in a leather jacket. He and Rawhead seemed to know each other.
“Billy, this is Brando. He’s a friend of mine. I’m busy tonight; I’ve got things to do. But Brando here is going to stay with you, make sure you’ve got everything you need.”
“No, he’s fucking not,” said Billy.
“You’ll hardly notice I’m here,” said Brando.
“What? You think I won’t notice a six-foot black man sitting in my living room?”
Brando thought this was funny.
“You need someone with you,” said Rawhead.
“No, I don’t,” said Billy. “I need to be on my own. When bad things happen, I don’t want to see anyone; I don’t want to talk. I just want to go to bed and curl up in a ball. That’s what I’m going to do now.
“I’m not suicidal, if that’s what you think. If I was, I’d have croaked years ago.”
Brando met Rawhead’s eyes and shrugged. “The man seems to know his own mind.”
Rawhead sighed. “OK, Billy. You win. But I’m not happy.”
“Who the fuck is?” said Billy.
“Stupid people,” said Brando. “Lots of stupid people are happy.”
* * *
Detective Superintendent Harrop was in her office, eating a meat and potato pie and staring into space. Since smoking had been banned in the building her daily pie consumption had tripled. Hughes walked in. He was smiling, and Harrop knew right away he’d found something.
“What the fuck are you looking so happy about?” she said. “Did your fiancée take it up the shitter last night?”
Immune to Harrop’s rudeness, Hughes held a glossy photograph under her nose. At first glance, it looked like a man falling out of a tree. She looked again, realized the man had no head, and shoved the picture away. “Prick! I’m having my lunch.”
“Don’t you want to know what it’s about?”
“Is it connected with this inquiry?”
“It might be.”
“Might isn’t good enough. Is it or isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Hughes, if you’re lying, I’ll twat you.”
“It’s about Billy Dye.”
“Aw, Jesus.”
“This body was found in Scotland in January. Near a place called the Skene Castle Hotel.”
“So what?”
“Billy Dye stayed at the Skene Castle in January. He got married there.”
“Yeah? At the same time?”
“A week before the body was found.”
For a moment Harrop looked interested. Then her eyes glazed over. “Nah. He gets married, walks into the woods, and kills somebody to celebrate? Doesn’t make sense. Any ID on the headless horseman?”
“David Brett. An unemployed laborer. Known to the police for using high-powered binoculars to gaze into women’s bedrooms.”
“A fucking Peeping Tom.”
“Right.”
“So you think Billy Dye caught this guy watching the bride take off her wedding dress and taught him a lesson by hanging him upside down from a tree and chopping his head off?”
Hughes shrugged, disappointed by her reaction.
“What do the Scottish bastards think?”
“They’re working on the theory that it was one of the Glasgow gangs. A kind of underworld execution.”
“Ah.” She nodded, sarcasm tickling the corners of her mouth. “So they don’t think the bridegroom did it?”
“No.”
“Then why are you wasting my time with this shit?”
Hughes blushed. For some reason, the red glow of shame only colored his lower jowls. “You’ve always taught me to go with my instincts. That’s what I’m doing. At the very least, the man’s a jinx. When he’s in the vicinity, people die. It may just be coincidence. But my instincts say it’s more.”
Harrop cracked open a can of Coke, swallowed half of it, and let out a volcanic belch. “Fair enough.”
Hughes started smiling again. “You believe me?”
“I do not believe you. But because it’s you and you’re challenged in various debilitating ways, I’ll take pity on you. You’ve got two days. Forty-eight hours to prove me wrong.”
* * *
Chef was lying in his morning bath, trying to work out how much money he had. The income from the porn and the drugs alone had probably made him close on £8 million. Then there was the skew, at rates of interest only a desperate moron would pay. Fortunately, there were enough desperate morons in Manchester to bring in another million and a half a year. Selling off stolen goods at knock-down prices brought in at least £500,000, and that was in a bad year.
Chef could have retired there and then had he not been addicted to power. He enjoyed being surrounded by tough gorillas who blushed and stammered when he called them dickless. He liked the show-business glamour of being notorious. When you were a gang boss, especially a polite gang boss who didn’t break wind in female company, you got invited to fancy dinners.
Although Chef appreciated the attention of women, he only fucked prostitutes. Unlike wives, stinks were actually grateful when you only took thirty seconds to come.
On the whole, life was good.
The only downside of being in charge was that sooner or later someone always thought they could send you to the Blue Swoon. That was why whenever Chef took a bath, there was a gun sitting next to the soap dish. Just in case some opportunistic little cunt was angling for instant promotion.
So when the bathroom door opened and Boner walked in, Chef sat up suddenly, sploshing water everywhere as he groped for his weapon.
Boner, a gaunt young Asian, bore the racial slurs of his fellow gangsters with good-natured fortitude. Usually nothing ruffled him. But when he saw that Chef was pointing an automatic at him, he danced an excitable little jig. “Fuck! Fuck! What the fuck are you doing?”
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“Sorry, boss. I was bringing you this.” Boner held out a cordless phone. “There’s a call from you. From a woman.”
“What woman?”
“She wouldn’t say. S
he just said that if I said, ‘Death awaits us all,’ you’d understand.”
Grudgingly Chef accepted the call. “In future, knock.”
“Sorry, boss.”
As soon as Chef held the phone to his ear, the Spirit spoke. Her voice sounded husky and tired. “I’m at his house. No sign of him yet, but he’s been here recently.”
“How do you know?”
“I found a dying man in his cellar.”
“Who was he?”
“I didn’t find out. He was too far gone.”
There was a silence. She started to say something, then thought better of it.
“What’s on your mind?” said Chef.
“It’s probably nothing.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“Just that I asked this guy … I asked him who shot him.”
“And?”
“I got a very strange answer. He named the author of this book I’d been looking at five minutes before.”
Chef was listening intently. “What book?”
“Dracula. It’s by Bram Stoker.”
“I know,” said Chef impatiently. “I can read, too, you know. So he said Bram Stoker put him in the cellar?”
“No. He said he’d been put there by Abraham Stoker. That was Bram Stoker’s real name.”
Chef felt his heart speeding up. “Jesus Christ.”
“What is it?”
Now Chef was sweating so much he needed a second bath. “It’s also the name of a tool who works for Little Malc.”
In a flood of recall, Chef saw the skull ring on Stoker’s finger. He realized now why the ring had made him uneasy. He had seen that same ring on Billy Dye’s finger.
“This Stoker. You wouldn’t happen to know where he is right now?” asked the Spirit.
* * *
Rawhead waited until it was dark. He approached the vicarage from the east, coming over the fields as the night scent rose from the hedgerows and the first stars appeared in the sky. He knew in his heart that a great enemy was waiting and that he might not survive the encounter. Paradoxically, the idea of his own death gave him a certain peace. He had lived without fear and would die without fear. How many could say the same?
He crossed the churchyard, entering his garden via the gap in the hedge. The house looked as empty and desolate as always. It was uncared for, but not because he did not care for it. He yearned for its shadows, its aura of decay. A house that was clean, bright, and smartly furnished would not be a fit place for ghosts.
