by Emmy Ellis
Ollie was gone for a long time.
“Here alone?” a bloke asked, his words slurred.
“My boyfriend went to have a kip on the beach somewhere, but he should be here soon.” It was all she could think of to say, seeing as they hadn’t had a moment to formulate an excuse, what with the plan changing because of that bloody earring.
“Shame. I quite fancy you.”
She laughed, even though his words had her feeling sick—Ollie had used similar—and if she had her way, no one would ever fancy her again. She’d had enough of men to last her a lifetime.
More minutes passed, and she’d spoken to a few people, telling each one of them she was Jenny Lenton from London, here because her and her boyfriend, Oliver Ford, had left the rave when a fight broke out but had been in the mood to keep partying. She wanted this lot to remember their names, the fact Ollie was asleep on the beach, and she skewed time, telling them it was an hour earlier than what it actually was. None of them had watches on, nor did they have phones. One had told her they liked to leave life at the beach steps and just enjoy themselves without constraints.
It suited the plan perfectly, and there was a clock tower on Main Street, so if they were asked by the police how they knew the time, one of the drunken sops would assume they’d glanced over there.
Jenny was manipulating them for her own gain, but what choice did she have? She was too scared of Ollie to grass him up to the police now she’d seen what he was capable of. Gone was her trust in him, her love, such as it was, replaced by a strong need to distance herself from the murder, develop her alibi and, once the heat died down, she’d finish with him as if their relationship had come to a natural conclusion—however long that took.
She got sick of waiting for him—had someone discovered Amanda and he’d been caught going back to the bedsit? Had he been arrested?
Saying her goodbyes to her friends of the moment, she trudged over the beach and up a set of steps closest to Ollie’s place. He was walking towards her on the promenade, and they stopped beneath a lamppost.
“Did you find it?” she asked.
“No. You probably lost it elsewhere. At the caves. Or maybe it’s in the bags with your clothes, snagged on your top. Or at the rave. It doesn’t matter anyway. Other stuff of ours is in there, and with the blood on it, the police will think it just got splashed.” A tic set up home beside his eye.
Had he even been in the bedsit? She’d bet he hadn’t—he couldn’t risk getting blood on him. Where had he been then? And why would he want to leave her earring there on purpose? “Won’t they think it’s weird the other one isn’t there?”
“Maybe. Best get rid of it.” He reached over and took the earring out. Threw it over the sea wall. “Did you tell those people down there our names?”
“Yes, and that you fell asleep on the beach somewhere, which is why you weren’t with me.”
“Right. Good.” He sighed. “I moved the car. Put it down a side road.”
That explained his long absence.
“It’s Mum’s, and I don’t want her having a fit if the police take it away. As far as they’ll be concerned, I borrowed someone’s to go to the rave, and they collected it after we got back.”
His mum’s?
“They’ll ask who it is,” she said.
“And we won’t be able to remember.”
“So how did we get to Landerlay from London then?”
“Hitch-hiked.”
“Really? God, they’re not going to believe us.”
“They will. We got in a white car with a bloke. That’ll have to do.” He sighed again, like he was naffed off at having to fix a mess she’d created, when it was all his fault. “We should go back then. To the bedsit.”
It was the last thing Jenny wanted to do, but it was best to get it over and done with. Walk into the bedsit and scream. Run out into Main Street, still screaming. Race across the road, onto the beach, and grab the nearest hand of a partygoer, telling them a woman had been killed at Ollie’s place. Help! Help! We need help…
She had no choice but to lie, to stick to their story, and never deviate.
Tomorrow, when they were free to go back to London, she’d do what she’d told herself she’d do.
For extra insurance.
Chapter Fifteen
Ollie had hated being run off Jenny’s street like that, basically told to scram like some naughty kid. He’d got up off the pavement, defiant, ready to park himself against the lamppost again and ignore the order, but the other twin had stared like some loon and motioned a knife going across his throat. Ollie had made the decision he quite fancied staying alive and scooted off, cursing all the while.
That original big fucker had emasculated him, reduced him to feeling an inch high—and not just because the beast had towered over him either. Mum had had a way of doing that, too, getting him to cower, shrink. The confrontation had sucked a load of memories up from the pit of his mind, taunting him. Words and intimidation were just as bad as slaps, sometimes worse. Words remained forever, inside your head, but the sting of a hand across your cheek or arse faded. If she’d hit him as well, he’d have turned out even more twisted than he was. He’d have killed her first instead of Cutting, but he’d needed a practice, to learn from any mistakes he made, because Mum’s murder needed to be perfect.
Shame she’d snuffed it before he’d got the chance to do it, once again taking something away from him, the selfish cow—fuck, she’d even stolen his fantasy. She’d died of heart issues or something. Good. He hoped it was painful. Hoped she clutched at her chest, fingers clawed, tears streaming down her face, and all the sins she’d committed haunted her in her dying moments. Had she seen his face come the end? Had she whispered, “I’m so sorry, son…”? No, she wouldn’t have done that. He’d become a burden once Dad had walked out, a pest she didn’t need. Before that, if he remembered rightly, although he asked himself from time to time whether his imagination filled in any blanks, just so things fitted with his preferred narrative.
If only Dad had taken him as well as that bulging suitcase. If only…
Along with Jenny being a focus in prison, so had his fantasies of coming out a free man and following his mother, taking the exciting risk of being put straight back behind bars again. His favourite scenario had been tailing her down a dark alley, quickening his steps so she did the same, sniffing her anxiety on the air, her fear-laden sweat, swearing her heartbeat was loud enough for him to hear. She’d look back over her shoulder to see if he posed a threat and, catching sight of a menacing silhouette, she’d whimper, hurrying faster. He’d catch her at the end, beneath a streetlamp, the glow giving him a decent view of the blood, although it wouldn’t look red in that light but a dirty brown, maybe black. He’d feel the heat of it, though, so hot on his skin as he sliced her up like he’d done to Cutting.
He yawned, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. He’d had a fitful night, and to top it off, this morning, Nigel wasn’t answering his phone. All right, he was at work, but he usually picked up straight away. Ollie needed to talk to him, get some perspective, get his mind in order, his jumbled thoughts in a nice straight line, soldiers awaiting his command. Nigel had always been good to talk to, a soothing balm on Ollie’s soul. He’d know what to do about Jenny, offering perfect advice on how to get her to come around to Ollie’s way of thinking.
It stung to realise Nigel probably knew her better than Ollie did.
I want her back so I know her more than him.
That probably wouldn’t happen now because of his stupidity, his childish need to hurt her feelings. He’d said some cruel things to her about the way she looked, unnecessary things, ones he didn’t really mean. Like she’d said in a way to wound him in return, he wasn’t an oil painting these days either. Had she called him a gargoyle? He couldn’t remember. Or maybe he didn’t want to remember.
If her wrinkles and whatever bothered him, he could close his eyes when they had sex and pretend
she was the younger version of herself. Better to have a scraggy Jenny on his arm than no one at all. If he could just turn things around, get her on his side, they could grow old together. Maybe she’d even admit to liking murder and they’d go on a spree. He didn’t believe she hadn’t meant what she’d said about Gail. Of course she’d wanted to kill her boss. She’d just backtracked so she didn’t look bad. But he’d teach her it was okay to have those urges. Natural. Normal.
She’d understand in the end. He’d switch on the charm and bend her to his will.
Anger had led him to writing that note on the back of the postcard. Anger he’d fed for the last few years in the nick regarding her opening up a bit too much to Nigel—jealous it had been his former cellmate and not him, the green-eyed monster eating him up inside with its pointy teeth. Ollie should have been nice to her, like he was to everyone he wanted in his corner. Maybe then she’d have thought the LSD was to blame for him killing Cutting, not his mumblings about murder, his need to slice up his mother. He wanted to convince Jenny of that, yet at the same time, his need to have a partner in crime was strong.
He had a decision to make. Either he got Jenny to murder with him or he got her in his good books and murdered alone. He had to kill Mum again. It wouldn’t really be her, of course it wouldn’t, but he was still in touch with Gone with the Wind, and he’d get Ollie some acid. That’d help him believe whoever he chose next was her.
The old bag had left him her house, her money, not the donkeys. He’d been surprised about that to be honest, the news coming via Vaughn, who’d told him his solicitor, Mr Antrobus, had booked a visit to discuss the ins and outs and whether he wanted to go to her funeral. He didn’t. In the end, he’d decided it was better for the hag to have no family present while she was rolled into the fire, seeing as he was the only relation left.
With her cash, which she’d put in a bank account in his name prior to her death—clever bitch, she wouldn’t have wanted the government getting their hands on it—he’d paid for someone to keep an eye on the place while he was still inside, had the bills switched over to him with the help of Antrobus. No missing a council tax payment for Ollie.
Things had worked out well for him.
He stood in the living room, his skin prickling with the feet of a million imaginary ants at the sight of the décor. He hated it. Was smothered by its familiarity. The memories. The emotions it inspired. She had a penchant for pink, so everything was that dusky colour, except the curtains were a deep burgundy, probably to break it all up. He’d get that changed as soon as, to blue, like the bedsit had been. He should have asked Antrobus to get that sorted before he was set free. The pink reminded him of being a confused kid, then a surly teen, then the man he’d become, who’d done everything he could to wind his mother up, to blame her for the loss of a father in his life.
He’d heard the row, the last one, and she’d told Dad to go. “Go on, get out, you useless prick!” Mum had maintained Dad been the one to end it, but Ollie knew the truth, she just hadn’t accepted that, conveniently forgetting he’d been a witness to the last argument they’d ever had.
“You need to pack it in, Lucy,” Dad said. “I’m the talk of the town.”
Little Ollie sat on the stairs in the dark, his face pressed between two banister rails, his cheeks wet and cold. His tummy hurt, little pains shooting, as if the monster under his bed had crawled inside him and squeezed it with big fat fingers. He didn’t like Mummy and Daddy shouting, and they’d been doing it a lot. Dad said parents did that sometimes, they needed to sort things out, then it would be okay again.
It wasn’t okay.
They were in the living room opposite his hiding spot, the door open, revealing a slice of the sofa, the window, and the edge of the TV cabinet. Mum stood by the window with her arms folded, her back to it, Dad in front of her, pointing a long finger, the tip poking into her bony chest, once, twice, three times.
She snorted, a smirk twisting her red-painted lips. “What, pack in going out? Having a life? You’re never here, Bernie. Always working.” She narrowed her eyes, same as when Ollie did something wrong. “Or are you? All those trips away, the conferences, the hotels. Are you really there, or do you have some woman stashed away? Living a double life, are you? Wouldn’t surprise me.”
Dad poked her again. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve seen my expense sheets, the hotels on them.” He lowered his hand, fingers twitching.
“It could be a copy for my benefit. You could be filling them out so I swallow your lies. I’m not stupid.”
“Seems you’re accusing me of something you’re doing. To deflect. To shift the spotlight to me. I’m not stupid, Lucy.”
She appeared shocked. “What? Are you accusing me of playing away?”
Dad scowled. “People talk.”
“Like who?”
“People who’ve seen you and him. Some bloke with blond hair. Looks like that Schwarzenegger fella.”
Mum laughed, her head tipping back. She stopped abruptly, creepily, and stared at Dad, her eyes holding a gleam. Dad had called it ‘calculating’ earlier, whatever that meant.
“Schwarzenegger? You’re on something, you are,” she said, her voice cold, using the same tone as she’d started speaking to Ollie with lately.
“Betty told me.” Dad clenched his fists.
Ollie’s tummy hurt even more. Was Dad going to hit her? He’d never done that before, but he looked like a boxer, the one on telly with the big shoulders and the gleaming gold belt at the top of his shiny red shorts.
Mum appeared afraid for a brief moment, like James Dunham did at school the other day when he’d nicked someone’s ruler. He’d got well told off for that, sent to the headmaster.
“Her behind the bar at The Rose?” She still stared at Dad, as if daring him to say yes.
“Yes. She saw you kissing him, down by the loos, his hands all over you.”
“Whatever.” Mum turned her back on him and faced the window. Looked out into the dark street. Smiled strangely.
The orange light from a lamppost in front of their garden hedge sent her skin like a satsuma. They reminded Ollie of Christmas, happier times. If things went wrong with Mum and Dad, he’d never enjoy Christmas again, never get that excited feeling, and he was sad about that.
He wanted them to fix whatever was wrong. The new version of his mum wasn’t nice. She shouted at him, called him names, and said if she hadn’t got pregnant with him, she wouldn’t have had to stick herself to Dad. And, “I’ve tried, tried to like this life, but I hate it. Hate you! And if you tell my husband I said that, I’ll call you a liar, then you’ll be in trouble.”
Dad moved to stand next to her. “If you stop now, we’ll say no more about it. Call it the seven-year itch and be done with it.”
She laughed. “You want me to stop something I’m not even doing?”
Dad ran a hand through his hair. “Playing games won’t work. Lying won’t work. I’ve got a Polaroid, Lucy. I’ve got a picture that shows you with him.”
She snapped her head round to face him. “A Polaroid? What, you got Betty to take a fucking picture?”
“I had to know. It was driving me mad.”
“D’you know what’s driving me mad? You. This isn’t panning out. We’ve never gelled. Just been kidding ourselves. You need to leave.”
“Not without Ollie. I’m not letting him stay here with you, Mrs Not Maternal.”
Her laugh this time was so shrill Ollie scrunched his face up.
“He isn’t yours, you stupid prat, so he’s going nowhere. Go on, get out, you useless prick! You can’t even get that right, Mr Shooting Blanks.”
Dad stood still for so long, Ollie thought he’d turned into the fountain statue of a naked man in town outside Woolies, where the water dribbled down from his mouth over a tiny willy. Then Dad stormed out, up the stairs past Ollie, not ruffling his hair like he usually did. Mum remained at the window, and she smiled really wide, hugged herself, and swa
yed side to side, like Ollie did when he was happy.
How could she be happy?
She came out of the living room and stopped, spotting Ollie, clearly surprised he was there, that he’d defied her by not going to his room like she’d asked before the row. Face inches from his, she whispered, “You’re stuck with just me now.” And she waltzed off to the kitchen, shutting the door. Her voice filtered through—she must be on the phone that hung on the wall beside the larder—and Ollie strained to listen.
“I’ve done it… Hmm… I think he’s packing. Give it a fortnight, and you can move in. Hmm. Betty took a photo, the old cow. No, don’t say anything. She did us a favour. I was tired of lying and trying to get him to leave by acting a cow. It wasn’t working.”
The clatter of an upstairs door smacking into the wall had Ollie jumping. He turned to look up the stairs, and Dad appeared at the top, a big bulging suitcase by his side. Ollie could fit in there, he’d done it while playing before, so if Dad could just squeeze him in, Mum would never know. She’d think Ollie had gone to his bedroom when she couldn’t find him. She might not even know he’d gone until the morning when he didn’t get up for school.
Dad came down and paused beside Ollie. “Did you hear all that?”
Ollie nodded.
“I’ll get proof you’re mine, then come back for you, all right?”
Ollie nodded again.
The proof mustn’t have been what Dad was after, though, because he never came back.
Ollie cuffed snot from his nose, annoyed the past still got to him. He’d never found out who his real father was and didn’t much care anymore. Dad had been Dad, no one else, and he’d stay that way, wherever he was. Maybe tests had shown Mum had been unfaithful and so she’d stopped Dad seeing Ollie.
What a bitch, especially when Dad was all he’d known.
The hairs on Ollie’s neck stood up. All morning he’d felt like someone was watching him but had dismissed it as paranoia because of those twins putting the wind up him. Being out of prison had buggered with his perceptions. In the nick, there weren’t many directions someone could look at you from without you seeing them. Out here in the real world, folks could be anywhere.
