I did so, feeling her body’s warmth, her shifting limbs, her breath on my face. “Tell me, Jack, how do you accept the fact that everything’s over?”
“What do you mean?”
“Being close to someone. I’ve tried. But I just can’t do it anymore. I’ve been working so hard at my painting, and I get so wound up, I can’t seem to relax, I can’t get close to people any more. If they get close to me I push them away – I can’t help myself. And I get so scared, scared that there’s something bad about me, something that people don’t like.”
“That’s called paranoia.”
There was another long silence, and the darkness surrounded us like a dark pool. I held her close, enjoying the warmth of her body pressed against me.
“Do you wanna know my most recent wrong decision?” she asked.
“If you want to tell me.” My voice was barely above a whisper in the hushed blackness.
She leaned closer, speaking into my throat. “To bring you here, to my house. It was the wrong choice. A mistake. A big one.”
“Why?”
“Because of the temptation.” She broke away for a moment, looking at the floor, drank some wine, then met my eyes. “Because the moment I saw you, I knew I wanted you. I like your looks. You’re tall, your face isn’t exactly handsome, but it’s better than that. It’s interesting. I like that small sexy scar on your chin. I like the way your lips move when you smile, the expressions in your eyes, as if you feel a lot of things you don’t talk about.”
My throat went dry, my breathing faster.
“See, Jack, when I first saw you something just clicked in my head. I was reminded of all the things I’ve had to give up in my life, all the things I’ve had to compromise about. Sorry, I don’t mean to embarrass you. There’s no earthly reason why you should feel the same way. But I know that with most guys, I know it’s not so much falling in love with someone as a person just being there, at the right time.”
“For me it has to mean something or it’s pointless.”
“Yeah I agree. Pointless. Like my life. Do you know, Jack, I was into self-harm when I was a teenager? Slashing my arms, my legs, feeling as if I deserved to be in pain, that I deserved to be punished...”
“What for?”
“For being me!” She began to cry, moving back into my arms. “For being lonely little Shelly, the one that nobody loves, the one at school who, when they tell you to go into pairs, it was always me left on my own. I wanted to be popular, I wanted the others to like me. And now? Now I drink too much, I’m on antidepressants, my head’s a mess most of the time. I’ve done things that...”
I waited for her to finish, but her words had dried up.
“But Shelly, that’s all in the past. Lots of people have horrible childhoods, they just get over it.”
She lay in my arms in silence for a while, her tears stopped now, but her lower lip still trembled, her voice still shaky. “But you’ve helped me, Jack. You’ve given me hope. All my life I’ve had the knowledge that my mother did something unspeakable, something horrendous, and that whatever was wrong with her drove her to do those killings, and that I could have inherited those same terrible destructive tendencies. If it’s true, that my mum wasn’t responsible for the murders, it means that burden’s been lifted from my shoulders. It means I can try to forget it and move on. Maybe find out who actually was responsible and get revenge on them for ruining my life. You know something, Jack? You make me feel wonderful. As if when I’m with you I can do anything, I can be anyone.”
Shelly knew how she was affecting me. I felt light headed with the effect of the alcohol and a thrill of sheer exhilaration, poised on the brink of this exciting adventure. She wriggled against my knee, pushing herself closer against me, giving me that slow unexpected smile that I was getting to know well.
“I dunno if you feel the same way, but, Jack...”
“Shelly, I think you’re–”
“What?” She whispered, touching my lips with her fingers. “What am I?”
“You’re wonderful.”
“Me? No Jack. I’m not wonderful. You wouldn’t want to get involved with me, loopy old Shelly with all her hang-ups.” A finger strayed against her cheek, across the birthmark. “I’m not that attractive, I know I’m nothing special.”
“You are.”
“You reckon?” Her eyes glowed with excitement in the darkness. “Then come with me, Jack. I want to show you something.”
She stood up abruptly and took my hand, leading me out of the room and along the corridor and through another door. She switched on the light.
My feet sank into the thick pile dark red carpet as the space sprang alive when a dozen spotlights lit up the white walls that were covered with paintings. They were largely abstracts. Big blocks of colour, reds and blues mostly, juxtaposed with delicate triangles or circles and shapes of differing hues, much like the ones in St Mary’s Art Centre. There were also a number of nudes. Men and women in carefully posed positions, staring thoughtfully back at the artist. On the far wall there were paintings of couples engaged in all kinds of sexual acts, with nothing at all left to the imagination, from fairly straightforward poses to outright debauchery, mostly featuring the women in dominant positions. Shelly’s hand felt warm in mine.
“What do you think?” she asked me.
“They’re incredible. Exciting.”
“And erotic?”
“Extremely erotic.”
“And what would you like to do now?”
“Now?”
“Yeah, Jack, right now.” She put her hand up to my face and pulled my head down to kiss her.
After that my nightmare really began.
* * * *
Much later I was lying next to her in the huge double bed, listening to her rhythmic breathing. As I looked across at Shelly, noticing the flickering of her eyelids, the tick of a muscle in her forehead, the gentle almost-snore, I knew that I wanted to be as far away from here as possible.
Everything about the situation was wrong.
We’d started to make love on the carpet in the gallery room, and in the frantic urgency at first I’d hardly registered the marks on her body. But now I could recall in panoramic detail the red wheal on her thighs, a barely healed cut on her breast and the purple-and-black bruises on her stomach. All around us had been a confusing mass of images and sensations: the paintings on the walls, the harsh, strident spotlighting, the heat and the smells of fabrics and perfume, the jumbled piles of discarded clothing, the soft-but-gentle friction of carpet against skin when we were both naked.
She led me by the hand into the bedroom, holding the bottle of wine and a glass in her other hand. When we were in the bed she pulled me close. Then, slowly and deliberately, she raked her dagger-sharp nails across my back. I felt an agonising pain as they ripped into the flesh. She kissed me and bit hard into my lip, eyes feral and hungry, alive with a strange light of bestiality. I pulled away, tasting the coppery scent of blood, aware of the the stinging urgent stabbing pains in my back.
“What’s wrong?” Her words were an inebriated slur, her hands once more around my neck, pulling me close. Again, I pulled away.
My mind was beginning to clear, the alcoholic haze less disorienting, and I felt a surge of sheer panic. My lip was throbbing in agony. The blood filling my mouth made me want to gag.
“Sorry Jack,” she said. “I hurt you, didn’t I? But you can hurt me back if you want. Why don’t you do it? Why don’t you hurt me Jack? Have you ever had that kind of fun? I can teach you all about it, I can give you untold secret pleasures. You can hurt me as much as you like.”
Her words were drunken, slurred, her hands all over me once more, but I was already pulling away. She struggled with me for a few moments, taking my hands in her own and placing them around her neck. “Come on Jack!” she whispered in excitement, through the froth of spittle on her lips. “Fight me as much as you want, then squeeze my neck! Try it! Squeeze my neck while we
make love. Please Jack, just squeeze me there. Just do it, please Jack. Just do it!”
Chapter 4
THE LOST ALBUM
When I wrenched my hands away from her neck she did nothing, just stared at me, eyes now unfocussed and dazed. She shook her head as if she’d forgotten I was there, then reached for her wine glass again. Eventually, her breathing slowed. Her eyes closed as she dropped the glass and slipped down onto the pillow and fell into a doze, the dark red wine stain spreading across the sheets, mingling with the blood from my wounds.
Quickly, I swung my legs out of the bed and tiptoed out into the corridor, back to the gallery room where my clothes were strewn on the floor. While I dressed under the garish spotlights, I realised that my back was bleeding badly from where she’d deliberately ripped and torn the flesh. Touching the wound on my inner lip with an exploratory tongue made me wince with pain. Finding a tissue in my pocket, I jammed it into my mouth to soak up the weeping redness, wondering if the lip was torn enough to need stitches. Slipping on my shoes as I crept down the stairs, the house seemed impossibly silent, apart from the gentle conspiratorial tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the sitting room.
Once I was outside, pulling the front door closed behind me, the cold night air slapped me in the face, washing away the very worst of my nightmare, but leaving behind a hard wretched kernel of terror. I breathed deeply, savouring normality, walking fast towards the main road, where I knew that within a few minutes’ walk there’d be a bus stop or an underground station: people, movement, mindless chatter.
And then, as if uncomfortable thoughts were like un-put-backable genies out of the bottle, I thought of something else. According to one newspaper report I’d read, after Maggi O’Kane had allegedly conducted her massacre there’d been talk of what kind of mental illness had preceded her actions. Of sadomasochistic practices she and her partner, Alistair Norbury and others had apparently been involved with, tales of parties where torture and bondage were practised; a groupie girl had followed them backstage at a gig in Sheffield and then been badly beaten. She had subsequently made an official complaint to the police which was withdrawn when LoneWolf paid her compensation.
Supposing Giles was right, and that the photos were fakes, and Maggi O’Kane had been a deranged pervert who had taken pleasure in causing pain to others, and the shootings were the culmination of some sadomasochistic practices, taken too far? And that she had been guilty of performing the massacre? And supposing her daughter had inherited those same sadistic tendencies?
It was much later that I remembered I’d left my name and address and phone numbers written on Shelly’s writing pad on the table in her living room, along with my wristwatch.
I wasn’t to know that within a few days Shelly would be dead.
* * * *
I got back to Brookham mid morning on Saturday, 22nd November. The stress and injuries of the last days were catching up with me, so I went straight to bed and slept through until evening, waking un-refreshed, my head splitting with pain from the accident on the underground and my struggles with Shelly. I was still so weary I found it hard to think clearly.
Number one worry was Shelly. She was seriously disturbed, and I’d left her without a word of explanation, in fact what kind of explanation could I give? All I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, was that I never wanted to have anything to do with her again. To avoid having to talk to her, I’d switched off my mobile and unplugged my landline. Sure enough on the mobile when I switched it on there’d been six messages and four texts, all from her, and I dreaded another. In the stream of messages she gave no hint as to what had actually happened, just said that she desperately wanted to talk to me, to ‘sort things out’ between us. In the end, I took the coward’s way out and texted her: been asleep all day, feel like hell now. Will phone u soon.
Every time I thought back to the slash marks on her wrist and the cuts and bruises on her body, and her imprecations for me to choke her, I felt a shiver of distaste. Sadomasochism is an area I’ve had to study in depth because of my work, but the notion of sex linked to pain has always been a mystery to me. Despite that, Shelly was clearly in an extremely fragile mental state. If I’d been a better person, perhaps I’d have wanted to help her despite our ruined relationship, but all my instincts told me to cut loose. I felt embarrassed, ashamed and somehow tainted by her actions, and I was determined to keep what had happened between us to myself. I didn’t want to talk to anyone about it, or even to think about it anymore. I just wanted to shut Shelly and our fiasco of a love affair, right out of my mind.
Regarding Crash and Burn, Shelly’s reminiscences, if indeed they were genuine, were helpful. It provided some kind of explanation for how the camera and diary had landed up in the cellar. The ‘Man’ who had rescued her, and had given her the two items, could have been any of the Border Crossing members, or indeed someone else entirely.
On Sunday, as I looked out of my kitchen window onto the Glossop Valley in all its glory, with the trees on the hillside and the old stone cottages nestling down below, I realised that tomorrow was Monday, the day that Giles Mander had told me I had to let him know what I’d decided to do about the book. I wanted to tell him I wasn’t prepared to compromise, but I certainly didn’t want to damage his career, or wreck my own chances of being a writer: grand gestures about truth and integrity were fine if nobody was to suffer. I decided to put off making the decision until the last possible moment. He’d told me Monday, but a day or two was hardly going to matter. I could easily finish the book as he wanted, and deliver it on time, but, in the next couple of days, I was determined to investigate the Maggi O’Kane angle to the best of my ability, and keep all the options open: if I could find some extra proof of Maggi’s innocence, maybe Giles would change his mind? My landline was still unplugged and my mobile switched off because of Shelly.
So after a day when I’d been tinkering with the other chapters, tightening up here and there, making some checks and corrections, I plugged in my landline at around eight o’clock. It rang almost immediately. I picked it up, wary that it might be Shelly and hoping it might be my friend, Stuart Billingham, phoning to confirm our Sunday night arrangement to meet in the pub later on. Stuart’s a local journalist who shares my affection for tinkering with classic cars, drinking cold beer, and having long late-night discussions.
“Is that Dr Lockwood?”
“Yes.”
A woman’s voice. But, thank heavens, not Shelly’s. This female was softly spoken and hesitant. It had been a long while since someone had used my professional title, a sudden nostalgic reminder of the time when my academic achievements actually counted for something.
“My name’s Melanie Deeprose. I hope you don’t mind me phoning you? I should have emailed I suppose, but I always think that talking to people is so much better, don’t you? I found your number from the British Psychological Society – I’m a student member, you see.”
“You’re a psychologist?”
“Not practising yet. I only got my degree last year, and now I’m doing my doctorate. I’ve read some of your research papers, and I’ve been very impressed.”
“Thanks.”
“And I was wondering if you might be prepared to help me with my thesis.”
“I’ll do anything I can, but if you’re looking for quotes, I’m afraid I’m not currently on the ACPO approved register of BIAs, so whatever I say won’t carry much weight.”
“I know that.”
“What’s the subject of your thesis?”
“Rehabilitation of the offender. I’m conducting a number of examinations of various offenders in three test-bed camps: those who reoffended since being released from custody, those who haven’t and those who are still being held; I was at the conclusion-drawing stage but I’ve decided I have to repeat a major part of it. I’ve hit some snags.”
“I’m not going to be of much use to you, Melanie. Rehabilitation of offenders isn’t my area of expertise I’m afraid.�
��
“I know. I know all about you, Dr Lockwood.”
There was a long pause and I wondered what was coming next.
“The thing is, my research has led me in an unexpected direction. As you know, prior to rehabilitation and the decision an offender takes to change his ways for the better, has to come remorse – what I’ve called in my thesis, the Guilt Factor. It’s interconnected with precisely how an offender feels in other ways, of how deeply he might or might not feel himself to be at fault and a number of other causal factors, for instance his empathy, if any, with the victim. I’ve decided to rewrite the main sections of my paper, giving the emphasis to this Guilt Factor aspect. I believe it’s a valuable area of study, and it hasn’t been explored by anyone else.”
“So where do I fit in?”
“I’ve examined the most horrendous crimes in England over the past ten years, and there’s one person who stands out particularly, and after writing to the Prison Service and the Home Office, I recently managed to get permission to talk to him.”
“Who is it?”
“Edward Van Meer.”
I felt a shutter fall in my mind, blood rushing to my face. I closed my eyes.
“I know you’ll think I’m naïve, but Dr Lockwood I honestly believe that he might feel a certain degree of remorse for killing those women and torturing you as he did.”
I breathed deeply, counted to five, tried to control my temper and failed.
“You know about his other killings?”
“He’s told me everything. The boy he choked to death – he said that was during love play, a sex thing that went wrong. As for the woman he hit from behind, he says he didn’t mean to kill her.”
“The police think there are a number of others he hasn’t confessed to.”
“There well might be. However I’m satisfied that he actually is feeling the first stirrings of remorse for everything he’s done. He says he’s changed. He says he’s absolutely horrified at what he did, that he thinks of the man who did those things as another person entirely.”
Rock'n'Roll Suicide (Jack Lockwood Mystery Series Book 1) Page 6
