by Emmy Ellis
His wife. His kids. They were going to go through hell, and all because of something Ollie had done—because of what she’d done, getting Rover to the parlour. Ollie’s behaviour that night had so many ripples to it, even now, each concentric edge touching innocent people who didn’t deserve to be affected. Amanda and her relatives, Rover and his family, McFadden, The Brothers, Jenny, and—
Her ringtone jangled, and she jolted, her heartrate going like the clappers. ‘G’ came up on screen, the initial she’d been told to put the twins down as. She answered, dreading what was coming next.
“We’ve got eyes on Ollie. He’s outside your old house eating a fucking sandwich,” George said. “Calm as you like, as if it’s the done thing. He’ll be getting a picnic blanket out next, one of them tartan efforts. Clearly, my warning didn’t get through that thick skull of his. He’s got some balls, because he realised who we were. Maybe his time in the nick means he hasn’t got the full gist of what we do.”
Her belly rolled over. What was Ollie playing at, defying The Brothers? She’d told him they ran the estate. Did he have unfinished business with her? Questions he hadn’t asked at The Flag? Whatever they were, she didn’t want to answer them. “Why would he be there when it’s so obviously empty?”
“Fuck knows. Maybe he thinks you’ll come back, mow the sodding grass or something.”
She massaged a temple, the phone pressed so hard to her ear it hurt. “So what happens now? Are you going to have him picked up?”
“No. You’re going to go to the house, get him to go inside. It’s on someone else’s patch. Daylight. We can’t risk our man apprehending him, shoving him in the back of the van, creating a ruckus. If it’s done inside the property, no one needs to know about it.”
“Right.” Was it a repeat of what had happened with Rover, the twins hiding, maybe in her kitchen, while she lured him into the living room?
“We want you to talk to him. We’ll be listening. I want him to admit everything. It’ll save us time torturing it out of him at the warehouse. Debbie’s on the way down from her flat. Be ready out the back of the parlour in ten minutes.”
Jenny’s stomach didn’t feel too good. She didn’t want to see Ollie again, to listen to his rancid words, see his face, but if it drew a line underneath everything, she could do this one thing. “Okay.”
“Do you want to come with us when we take him?”
“No. Why would I?”
“Some do. They like to watch them get their just deserts. Might go some way to healing you, love.”
“I…I don’t know.”
“He’ll be tied to a chair like you were. I’ll slash the fucker up like he did to Amanda. He’ll get what she did, see how it feels.”
Did she want to watch that? She certainly hated Ollie enough to stand there while he got sliced to death. Would it bring back the awful memories from the bedsit even sharper than her recall? It had dulled somewhat over the years, the jagged edges softening, as if she viewed it all through a hazy-at-the-edges lens. Could she stand to see it stark again, with such vivid clarity? But maybe it would end this once and for all. If she knew he was definitely gone, dead, out of her face, she could shut it all away and try to live a normal life.
“I’ll do it,” she said.
“Fair warning, Nigel hasn’t been sorted yet. We’ve slapped him about, got the truth out of him, but I wanted to see Ollie’s face when he realises we’ve nabbed his pal.”
“Oh. I don’t know if I can watch Rover being hurt.”
“Are you soft in the head, love? He lied to you for years. Sat there and groped you for Ollie. That’s not normal. You’ve got to face it, he put on a show, manipulated you into thinking he was a friend. All he wanted was information, to see if you’d blab about the murder and the rave stabbing. He said as much. All right, he reckons he fell for you, but I reckon that’s bollocks. He just said that to appeal to the kinder side of my nature, but he got the gist I don’t really have a kind side when it comes to those who upset my residents.”
Why did it hurt so much that Rover had done this? He was a bloody good actor—she’d believed he cared for her. It just went to show she could still be duped by a man, still have the wool pulled over her eyes. Was the same happening with George? His argument was persuasive.
Maybe she needed to hear it from Rover herself, judge him by the amount of truth in his eyes.
“I’ll come.” She let out a shaky breath.
“If you change your mind nearer the time, just say, but it’s beneficial to get answers, believe me. We’ll be there in six minutes. Been nagging to you on the phone while Greg drives. Tarra.”
He’d sounded so cheerful, so normal. How did he do what he did and not go mad? All right, he was mad, by his own admission an’ all, but he didn’t gad about obviously mentally scarred. Much like her. No one would know what she’d been through, how she felt. People were resilient. They ploughed on. Carved out a new, beautiful life.
She’d just have to become one of them.
* * * *
George and Greg dropped Princess off in the next street over to her childhood home. She had to stand there and wait until they messaged her to say they’d gone inside via the back—they had a set of keys from when the removal men had been in. On the way, Greg had read a message from Will, who was in a fake work van watching Ollie, to say their target was still there, now eating a chocolate bar between sips from a can of Coke. He had something in his jeans pockets that created bulges so warned them to be on the alert for any weapons.
Princess hid behind a thick tree trunk, worried in case Ollie left his spot and came this way before The Brothers were in place. Spotted her. Thought her standing there was suss. Asked her why she was hanging around.
But I’ll just have to get him to go back to the house if that’s the case. He will if he’s desperate to talk to me for whatever reason.
What if he had weapons? Would he hurt her? She wasn’t sure, didn’t know him anymore, and the not knowing had her stomach tied in knots.
Her phoned blipped, and she glanced at the preview of the message on her screen from G: Off you go.
Fuck. It was happening. Oh God. She could still change her mind about going to this warehouse they’d mentioned, watching them do…that, couldn’t she? Yes. But George had a valid point; she might need to see it, she just didn’t know it yet. She’d play it by ear. See how she felt once she saw Ollie again.
Princess stuffed her phone in her bag and set off around the corner, head bent like they’d suggested, so it looked as though she was in a world of her own, off with the fairies. George had said she had to act startled upon seeing Ollie—Oh, you scared me then!—so he’d think he had the upper hand, that she’d obey him. Princess didn’t reckon he’d buy that, not with the way she’d spoken to him at The Flag, bold and brash—and he’d picked up on the fact she’d changed, had mentioned it. No, her reverting to the old Jenny wouldn’t wash.
Almost halfway along, she clocked each house in her peripheral, counting them down as she passed—Mrs Berkley with the yappy poodle; Mr and Mrs Stone and their rowdy son; that young chap with the hippy hair who was strung out most of the time; the single woman with three teenage kids and an ex who bothered her more than he should; and Princess’ direct neighbour, Old Mr Bean as they called him. He resembled a grey-haired Rowan Atkinson the way he gurned his face into different shapes.
Her door. Her front room window with no curtains, no hint of furniture through the glass, no nod to the lives lived inside it. The place she’d grown up in that had a million and one memories stitched into the walls with the thread of love; her birthday parties, her Christmases, her parents’ anniversaries, the special cakes for those occasions, all the candles with their wavering flames, the smiles, the laughter, the hugs.
The burning of evidence in the back garden.
Stop it.
“All right, Jenny?”
She didn’t need to act startled, she genuinely was, and gasped at th
e sound of his voice. She’d only heard it, hadn’t looked his way, and if she pretended, she could be back there, a twenty-something, and Ollie had come calling. But it wasn’t then. It wasn’t a time before Amanda Cutting, before Ollie had corrupted her dreams with his fantasies brought to life.
She forced herself to turn her head and stare at him.
Hand to her chest, her cheeks heating from the upcoming subterfuge, she said, “Oh my God, you frightened me!” Her heartbeat raged beneath her palm, her pulse heavy inside her head, and she felt sick at the sight of him.
He had the same clothes on as he had in The Flag. That bloody Stones T-shirt, so like the other one, except it was black instead of white drenched in claret. Those jeans, and his trainers, so pristine, so new, didn’t match the untidy outfit. He must have bought them after his release. They were a brand name, expensive.
He laughed, but it wasn’t the jokey kind of a person who meant her no harm. It had a hard edge, as if he was glad he’d unnerved her, knocked her off her new confident perch and back down to the ground where he thought she really belonged, the Jenny she’d once been, a Nervous Nelly who’d do anything just so he smiled at her.
That smile appeared now, but it was weird with the missing tooth, a ruined version of the grin she used to crave, and it said something to her: what she’d once thought was so perfect—his smile—was marred just like their relationship; the gap between them was showing in more ways than one.
“What do you want?” she asked, opting for her Princess persona so he didn’t think he’d got one up on her, sod what George had suggested. She walked up her garden path on annoyingly shaky legs and took her keys out of her handbag, his footsteps loud behind her, clonking, as if his trainers were too big and flapped.
He breathed on the back of her neck when she slid the key in the lock.
She shivered and gritted her teeth.
“Thought we should clear the air,” he said. “Not be nasty to each other. Life’s too short.”
She choked out a laugh of her own. “That’s rich, seeing as you found it funny that you scared me. That’s being nasty. And as for life being short, tell that to the nineteen-year-old Amanda. She’d barely come out of her childhood.”
“Aww, there’s no need for that, is there.”
“No need? Jesus Christ.”
“I want you back, Jen. To start again.” It sounded as if he’d blurted it, hadn’t meant to reveal his reason for being there just yet.
She paused with the door open a couple of inches. Was he insane? After everything they’d been through, he thought she’d be interested in a relationship with him? Was he that deluded he thought the past didn’t matter? How could they ever be together now? If she took him back, it would mean she condoned what he’d done, that she accepted him for everything he was, and she bloody well didn’t.
“I thought you didn’t like the way I look now.” She went inside and turned to face him, hopefully to give the idea she wouldn’t let him in. That’s what this new version of her would do. “You made reference to it, so it’s obvious I’m no longer your cup of tea. What are you really after? What are you really here for?” She clutched the edge of the door, the bunch of keys in her other hand down by her side, one of them poking between two fingers in case she had to defend herself and punch him.
“I shouldn’t have said what I did.” He kicked at an imaginary stone on the path, his head down. It showcased a bald spot on his crown, the sun shining directly on it, the skin bright pink, his sparse roots going grey. “I didn’t mean it. All I’ve thought about in the nick was coming back out to you.”
“What, even though I didn’t write or visit? Why would you waste time thinking of me when it was clear I didn’t want to know? It’s been years, Ollie. I’ve led a sometimes horrible life—men pawing me, men thinking they can take and not pay, take when I said no, forcing themselves on me as a ‘road test’ that happened on the regular because in reality, they just liked getting their jollies for free. You’ve had it hard being locked up, I get that, but I haven’t had it easy either. What you did ruined my life. Ruined so many lives. Do you ever think about Amanda’s family? And that other family? What your choices did to them? That’s what I thought about. That’s what I couldn’t get out of my mind.”
He raised his head, cheeks red, bottom lip out. Angry or chagrined? “Sorry. I’ve been selfish, just thinking about me. Can we talk about it over a cuppa?”
“How do you expect to do that? As you can probably tell, the place is empty. I’ve finally moved away, something I should have done a long time ago.” She glanced over the road at the work van. Just made out a bloke in the driver’s seat, watching them. Will. Relief had her feeling better. If Ollie had a weapon, he might not do much damage if Will was there to cart him off her.
“I’ve got a couple of cans of Coke.” Ollie fished in his baggy jeans pockets and brought them out, holding them up as if they were the best prize ever.
Weapons they were not, unless he decided to stave her head in with them.
She sighed. “One chat, Ollie. This is going to be our last conversation, got it?” She pointed at him for good measure.
He nodded. “I appreciate that. You know, you giving me a chance, at least hearing me out.”
“Do you intend to rake up the past then? Talk about it?”
“We can do.”
Thank God. This is going to be easier than I thought.
Princess stepped back and let him into the echoey hallway—the acoustics would help the twins listen in. Her ex was respectful, keeping away from her, and it reminded her of the old Ollie, the man who’d been attentive to her needs, in tune with her emotions. How could someone so lovely have done that? She cringed at recalling saying that in court. How she’d lied. Given those present the idea he was so nice the charges against him were ridiculous. Did he have a switch inside his head, like the prosecution had said, that had flipped on the night he’d killed Amanda? Had it clicked over when he’d stabbed that rave man and he hadn’t been able to turn it off? Or, the defence’s angle, that the drugs had done something to him, turning a kind person into an evil bastard?
No, she didn’t believe the latter. The drugs had nothing to do with it except to enhance his need to murder, to gee him up, get him thinking he was invincible, that he had the right to take a life. If he hadn’t spoken to her about murder, she’d have agreed with the defence bloke, but Ollie had intended to stab that man, had made a conscious decision, and he’d also intended to kill Amanda. It wasn’t manslaughter, like the defence had professed, but outright murder. Premeditated. Why else would he have had that flick knife on him?
She walked into the bare living room, lighter square shapes on the walls where photos and pictures had been, their surroundings a slightly darker shade. The curtain poles appeared skeletal without the flesh of curtains, but the glass of the window shone. The Brothers’ people had definitely done an Imodium in here. No dirt on the floor, and it appeared the carpet had been professionally cleaned. The air had the aroma of chemicals laced with perfume, not home, and for that she was grateful. Smelling memories wouldn’t be good for her at the moment.
She folded her arms, still holding the key. “Talk then.”
He sat on the windowsill. Placed a Coke beside him then opened the other. Sipped. “I don’t know where to start.”
“I’ll ask questions then. And I want the truth, not what you think I want to hear. If you’re expecting me to come back to you, I don’t want to start off with lies.”
His face lit up, his tooth gap displayed again. “All right.”
“Why did you really stab the rave man? I don’t think it had anything to do with him eyeing me up.”
“It did, but it was also because I wanted to. I had the knife on me for a reason—to see what it was like to shiv someone. He gave me a reason to do it. Perfect location. Loads of people all squashed together. No one would be able to tell who’d done it—and it worked out that way. With the fight goin
g on, that fella got trampled while he bled.”
Nauseated by his simple viewpoint, how it was so nonchalantly expressed, she sighed internally. “At what point did you decide to kill Amanda?”
“When her fella called her a slapper.” He sipped more Coke. Let out a soft burp.
She winced. “What happened in your head when he said that?”
“I thought of her.”
“Her?”
“My mother.”
“What about her?”
“How she was shagging Schwarzenegger behind Dad’s back.”
“Who?” Surely he didn’t mean the actor.
He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter, that’s what Dad called him, and it stuck. She was cheating, accused Dad of doing it while he was working away, when he hadn’t done a thing. About two weeks after she kicked Dad out, Schwarzenegger moved in. The fancy underwear started. She walked about in it, where I could see. Kissed him in front of me. I heard them…doing it. Didn’t know what the noises meant until I was older, though. And that row she had with my dad. She said I wasn’t his.”
Despite everything, the soft side of Princess felt sorry for the boy he’d been. She stuffed the tender emotions down beneath a sheet of steel.
“Dad caught her by getting some woman called Betty to take a Polaroid picture of Mum and Schwarzenegger kissing.”
A Polaroid? Oh my God.
Had that last row been the one to warp his mind? Had he taken a Polaroid of Jenny to recreate part of the past? His father had proof of wrongdoing, so Ollie had wanted it, too? Had he thought that was what you did, how you behaved?
“What was going on inside your head when Amanda’s boyfriend called her a slapper?” she asked.
