Six Dead Men

by Rae Stoltenkamp

  And today she felt more relaxed than usual because the day before, unable to bear her concerns about Inspector Deed’s well being any longer, Madie finally got together the courage to call the number on the card he had given her two months ago. The message on his forwarding service left her with such a sense of relief that she had been discovered by Cara in floods of tears. He’s alive. He’s alive. He’s alive! No amount of questions or solace by Cara had quelled the deluge. After this bout of respite Madie felt like it might be possible to start living just a little. I didn’t kill him. I didn’t kill him. When she set out to the café she let these words ring through her mind — a mantra of solace in an otherwise crappy existence.

  In the café, the day’s greetings and small talk having warmed the edges of her heart further; Madie unfurled the paper, reached for her coffee and was confronted by a vaguely familiar handsome face. Darrell Burgess was an ebullient but dedicated apprentice at a local estate agents. read the caption. A well-known estate agent’s logo flashed in a corner of Madie’s memory as she read the caption beneath the picture. Her fingers trailed disbelievingly over the enlarged photograph. It should have reflected solemnity but the tabloid headline succeeded only in making it garish. Madie felt all the blood drain from her face. The laughing face of the young man in the photograph looked back at her with accusation and resentment. A sharp pain pierced at her chest and all the lights in the café went out.

  Madie recovered her senses to a flurry of activity. Joanna was fanning her with the very newspaper that had caused her distress. Jack kept asking if he should call an ambulance. Various builders who were in the café for breakfast were clustered round voicing suggestions for a course of action as well as concern.

  Madie was overwhelmed by fears reborn in an instant and a huge desire to leave the café as swiftly as possible. Was the death of the young estate agent the beginning of another list of dead men instigated by her actions? Why was she even questioning the possibility? Was there nothing she could do to stop more deaths? She had been so careful, so very careful. She knew what curs’d plague she carried. But it had not been enough. Now every man in the café who had come into contact with her would die. Oh God. Oh God!

  Faces and bodies loomed over Madie. By force of will alone she leapt up from her faint and shouted hysterically, “Don’t touch me! Nobody touch me!” Hands that had been coming to her assistance were instantly repelled. Joanna tried to intervene, but Madie’s frantic eyes made her retreat. Madie grabbed her bag from the table and hurled herself from the haven of the little café onto the busy street.

  Should she run again? Where could she go this time? She found herself wishing she had stayed in London and braved the consequences of Detective Inspector Deed’s investigation. Men in hazmet suits would probably have arrived on her doorstep and taken her away like they had taken that cute little alien away in ET. Right now she should be undergoing extensive tests to ascertain her rogue killing gene. In this insane day dream she saw the armies of the world bidding to use her as an assassination tool. Her hysteria bubbled over into manic laughter and from the corner of her eye she saw how pedestrians stared or frowned and gave her a wide berth.

  She had waited in bleak hope every day since her arrival in Manchester, waited for that momentous knock on the door. And today for the briefest of moments she had begun to believe it might even happen. This morning, for the first time since leaving Brendan’s she had let herself remember and savour what it had felt like to have Robert Deed’s arms around her. She had let a kernel of herself believe in fairy tales again. But now she knew that faint hope was no hope at all.

  Chapter 10

  “Mum!”

  Terence Ire pulled his key from the latch. He pushed against the door and felt the slight pressure from the post on the mat. He bent down and began gathering the envelopes together. “Bloody junk mail. Mum I thought I told you not to fill in any more of those internet surveys. They only want your address so they can try to sell you stuff.”

  One knee resting on the mat, Ire glanced up and saw his mother lying at the bottom of the stairs. Her neck was at an awkward angle. One of her slippers had slid across the tiled floor and lay forlorn and alone near the phone alcove. The slipper less foot pointed up at the stairs and the sight of the taut calf muscle reminded him of his first sexual encounter with a pole dancer. Ire looked at the shapely leg revealed where his mother’s skirt had ridden up high. His breath quickened and he felt a tremor in his penis. He closed his eyes and let the feeling of pleasure flood through him momentarily.

  Eventually he stood and rang for the ambulance. He knew there was no point, but they could sort out time of death.

  After the call Ire sorted through the mail and then stacked it neatly on the console table. He walked past his mother’s body and through to the kitchen where he began to make himself a cup of Lavazza. He ground the beans then placed a careful measure in the percolator. The stylish lines of the Alessi machine jarred against the grubby tiles of his mother’s kitchen surfaces. Ire placed the left over grounds in the compost crock on the windowsill overlooking the garden. At least the garden was immaculate. He had hired a suitable gardener when the work got too much for his mother. The result was much more to his liking. As he looked at the clean lines of the autumn garden with pleasure he wiped down the kitchen surfaces with an antibacterial wipe, ensuring no grounds had accidentally made their way into any nooks or crannies. Finally, he stood over the cooker and drew in the smoky scent of the coffee as it rose with the building heat and steam. Thank god she remembered to keep the coffee airtight and in the fridge. When it was ready he poured a large cup and went out into the garden to enjoy his drink and the end of the day.

  *****

  Shit, what a mess. Why did I bother with hiring that cleaner? Seems all she ever did was drink cups of tea and watch day time soaps with mum. I can do without this. I've got that bloody woman to find and now I've this mess to deal with. After I've sorted the paperwork I'll get in a cleaning crew. I’ll have to get the place spruced up a bit if I'm going to sell it. They'll probably hike their prices with Christmas not far off. Probably won't even want to do the job with it being so close.

  Ire sorted through his dead mother's papers methodically. The furniture in the living room was pushed back against the walls. Paperwork littered the floor. An ordered paper city was being constructed before him. With a labelling machine he categorised each section of a new box file and then began laboriously re-filing the papers according to his own system. He used his Canon mini scanner and copier so that he could have copies for the subsidiary folders he had created. These copies would go directly into the new box file with its colour coded labels. Any unwanted paperwork he deposited in a large black bag.

  Ire stood and surveyed his new mini world. He smiled at the patterns of order he had created. Feeling like a giant he walked the floral carpeted streets between his paper tower blocks, placing his feet precisely to avoid toppling the precarious structures. He wound his way towards the kitchen.

  A quick coffee and then I’ll finish the re-filing. Finally it will be done properly. I wonder what she had stashed upstairs? A load more junk no doubt. God! I suppose I’ll have to stay in the spare room tonight so’s I can get it all done. The longer I leave it the less I’ll want to sort it all.

  *****

  Upstairs Ire found the biscuit box in a top most corner of her built in wardrobe. Everything else except for that biscuit tin on that top shelf was covered in a layer of dust. The edges were a gold filigree scroll type affair. So bloody tacky. Typical pound shop stuff. It didn’t matter how much he had tried to drag his mother out of her working class roots by giving her money and buying her decent things, she always went back to her old money saving ways.

  He was on the verge of chucking the evidence of his mother’s clutch at her social class without opening the tin, but its pristine condition, given the dishevelled state of the rest of the cupboard made him hesitate. He tossed it on the naked matt
ress of her bed and began sorting through the rest, cramming it unceremoniously into colour coded bin bags; black — rubbish, green — EBay, white — further investigation. He wrinkled his nose at the faint smell of moth balls the clothes and cupboard emitted and sneezed a few times as dust eddied round him. I hate the stink of moth balls. Shit! She should have used bloody potpourri instead. She was so damn fond of it.

  He picked up a glass bowl filled with potpourri from the dressing table and tossed it into a new black bag. With a sweep of his arm the littered dressing table was cleared in one fell swoop. Bottles, cans, tins all clinked together as they tumbled into the darkness. A waft of potpourri drifted out of the bag. Ire double knotted the bag and stood it against the wall in a neat row alongside the other four bags.

  After a shower, skin still damp, with a towel round his waist and a mug of Lavazza oro in hand, Ire began to prize the lid from the biscuit tin. The pointe shoes were the first surprise. What the ... shit! Was she a dancer? They were clearly very old - a faded dirty pink, the toes re-stitched several times, the satin tie ribbons frazzled and unravelling. With a shoe in each hand he looked at them. Some cherished quality seemed to leak from the ballet shoes and Ire placed them to one side on the kitchen table with a certain degree of care.

  The corsage came next. It dropped petals when he handled it. The rosebuds were papery and brown and gave off the faintest of potpourri scents. Ire felt a cold draft on his back and got up to close the kitchen window, but it was already shut. He shrugged his shoulders. Must be from that old cat flap. And resumed his delve into the mysteries of his mother’s old biscuit box.

  Beneath the corsage was a crumpled and faded photograph of a much younger Grace Ire. She was dressed in a conventional tutu and the photo held her poised in a ridiculous ballet pose. She actually looks like someone you could fancy. Ire turned his attention to the three letters on blue paper, addressed in a precise italic script. The handwriting on the envelopes was almost an exact copy of Ire’s own. Weird, I never wrote to her. What could these be?

  There was nothing else in the tin.

  The envelopes had been carefully slit with a knife on the side rather than at the top. Ire squeezed the envelope so that it ballooned slightly. He held it aloft and let the lozenge of folded paper fall onto the table’s surface. It slipped out like a whisper and lay there with an air of expectancy. Ire’s fingers unfurled and smoothed out the leaves. Some words were smudged in spots across the page. Luckily the letter was written in ballpoint and most of it was decipherable.

  He flipped the pages till he reached the end and there he read:

  Always your loving Art

  Ire’s impatience grew as he read and reread each letter. They were all from the same person.

  Darling Gracie

  My heart always skips a beat when I see your handwriting on the envelope. Ridiculous that I should feel such happiness every time I get word from you, but I'm always expecting you to write and tell me you've found someone else. I wouldn't blame you. I've deserted you for a career. Hardly a day goes by without a thought of you. I read and reread the last letter you sent me and I can hardly believe it when you write that you still love me as much as ever. I’m such a doubting Thomas. I want to feel you in my arms to know the words are true.

  One of the men in my study group is a Lord and doesn’t he just love to remind you of the fact. I know it’s hard for you to come down here but I’m saving up and I’ll send you a train ticket as soon as I can. My books and equipment have cost an awful lot, so it might take a bit longer than we thought. I was wondering...

  Well, well mother. You’ve been keeping secrets now haven’t you? What a pile of slush.

  Ire was nonplussed by the fact his boring mother had led any other life than the one he knew. Now it transpired she was some sort of slut. No real surprise there. All women are sluts. He had yet to meet one who wasn’t.

  The second letter was full of more of the same, but the date was months after the other one. So Mr Dr wasn’t so good at writing regularly then. Probably picked up a London tart and didn’t have anymore need for you mum. How the bloody hell did you land a doctor anyway? Couldn’t exactly have kept up a conversation with him could you. But then I suppose you didn’t need to do any talking for what he had in mind.

  It's hard work, this doctor lark, but thoughts of you get me through the more difficult bits. There’s so much to commit to memory. Sometimes I worry I won’t be good at this. So many of the others here come from homes where their fathers or grandfathers are from a medical background. Sometimes I think I’m mad, thinking I can do this with nothing but an accountant for a father and a policeman for a grandfather. The guys are quite nice. None of them made a fuss when they found out about my father’s profession. But a part of me still feels it will be held against me.

  We have anatomy on Fridays and that means looking at dead bodies in the morgue (Sorry Gracie, but you did say not to leave out any details.) To take my mind off the more gruesome bits I think of you. I’m just rereading this bit and that must sound awful. What I’m trying to say is that thinking of you makes it bearable. I smell the scent of your hair from the last time we were together. And how you wrapped your arms around me and whispered you loved me. I didn’t think it was possible for someone like you to love me.

  I'm enclosing the train ticket and I'll see you at the station on Friday evening. 7pm sharp! When you get here we'll...

  Well, fuck me, he actually sent the ticket. London tarts obviously not as good as our Northern girls. Wonder if she went to meet him?

  The final letter answered that question.

  I waited at the station on Friday but you never came. I've been waiting for a phone call or a letter to tell me why you didn't come. It’s been nearly a week and still no word from you. I'm sure there's a good reason. I know you wouldn’t just leave me standing in the rain. I wish you'd write and tell me. I feel as though I've done something to upset you. Please don’t worry if you couldn’t make it after all. But let me know you are alright. I’m worried. Just write to me Gracie. Let me know what's going on...

  Full of sentimental clap trap . Ire tossed the pages across the table and they fluttered hither and thither. He didn’t like the way they fell in a disorderly heap and landed helter-skelter on the kitchen floor and surfaces. Standing, he retrieved them and began sorting and putting them back in date order. As he was replacing them in the envelopes he paid more attention to the name and return address on the back of the final envelope:

  Mr Arthur Deed

  Medical Halls of residence

  King’s College London

  That was the name on his birth certificate. Finally here was some inkling of who his real father was. Maybe it was time to look the old boy up. Always good for sons and fathers to come together . Alfie Ire had reminded Ire of that on a daily basis when his belt came together with any exposed bit he left on show as a boy.

  Chapter 11

  Madie was suffering from self imposed agoraphobia. She felt she carried the plague. I'm some sort of leper. I carry this disease around with me. Why don't I show any symptoms? Why are some people affected and not others? What is it? Why have I got it? Why is it me? Why is it me? I feel so... unclean.

  Madie scrubbed at her skin in the shower. The sting of the astringent soap made her eyes water. I need to be clean.

  As she left the bathroom for the third time that day Madie was confronted by an exasperated Cara. "Madie, you've used up all the hot water again. For God's sake, surely one shower a day should be enough."

  "I... I felt sweaty."

  "Sweaty, are you crazy? This place is like a freezer. Are you eating properly? You're looking like a concentration camp victim."

  Cara was trying to urge Madie to see a doctor, but her words were falling on deaf ears. Madie’s eyes were sunken and her already slim frame was taking on anorexic proportions. She now waited till either late at night or very early morning before she ventured out to the 24 hour store to get supplies.
She had swapped to the late late shift and she avoided speaking to anyone except Cara and Moira at the shelter.

  And wherever she went, wrapped in a yellow Wilkinson's carrier bag, she carried her diary which was now pregnant with a bundle of newspaper cuttings. She had taken to scouring the paper for any unexplained deaths.

  Have I committed another murder? Does it matter that none of it was planned? I'm still responsible. It's still down to me. After I realised in London I should have done something. I should be locked away somewhere so that people can be safe.

  On her way back from her predawn shopping expedition Madie noticed that the doors of St Luke's were open. The 6am service had just ended and the eastern European and elderly parishioners were making their way home. Madie scuttled into a corner of the imposing stonework to avoid making any physical contact with the worshipers. A gentle whiff of incense assailed her befuddled senses. She peered through the arched doorways and spied a dim, vaulted interior and the soft flicker of candlelight beckoned to her. Madie hesitated against the cold stone of the building and then sidled into the church. Her carrier bag rustled too loudly and she lifted it and clutched it to her chest to still the intrusive sound.

  It was years since she’d been in this type of church. The last time was with her mum. After mum died she stopped going to church for a while until Allie and Luis persuaded her to join them at the Tabernacle. Even then her attendance was sporadic, more for the functions than a real sense of a belief in anything.

  Feeling like an intruder she scurried from pillar to pillar, seeking the shadows. Madie scuttled around the edges of the inside of the church and was suddenly confronted by a row of aged oak confessionals.