by David Mark
Campion snaps his head up as if tugged by a rope. ‘What? What footage?’
‘Don’t act like you don’t know. The day she died she burned a DVD showing you and her at the river. And she wasn’t enjoying it, Campion. Didn’t look consensual to me.’
‘No,’ protests Campion, colour rising in his cheeks. ‘No, every time was special. Rough, but special.’
‘Oh yeah, the “she liked it rough” defence? Bollocks. She had Jude at home – why would she want you?’
He bristles at that. ‘Why does anybody fall for anybody? They were wrong for each other, just like Candy’s wrong for me. We found something in each other. Sure, she told Jude that it had started so she could get planning permission for this place but afterwards it was never about that. I sorted that out for her because I cared for her. We had something together that she and Jude could never have. She had the most exceptional mind. Understood the truth of things. We may have had different political views but none of that mattered …’
‘And you think she’d have wanted you to treat Jude like this after she died?’
Campion creases his face into something like a smile, even as sweat breaks out on his forehead. ‘Like what? She left him the house. The land. I made a fair offer to take some of it off his hands and he threw it back in my face. Smacked me in the mouth, like I was a dog that needed scalding. He didn’t understand the way things were …’ He stops, quietly, as something occurs to him.
‘Go on,’ prompts Betsy, desperate for whatever pain he’s going to give her.
‘Jude must have filmed this footage you’re talking about,’ he whispers, half to himself. ‘But why make a copy? Who was she giving it to? And if he made it, he must have known the truth about us – that we were still seeing each other …’ He screws his eyes shut. ‘Maybe that’s where the punch came from.’
Betsy finds herself unable to reply. There are too many feelings and emotions log-jamming in her larynx. ‘Why are you here?’ she mumbles, closing her hand around the handle of the kettle, feeling the sting of hot metal on her palm. ‘What do you want?’
‘To warn you,’ he says, distractedly. ‘Get yourself gone. Rufus isn’t listening to Brendon or to me. He’s coming for Jude and he’s coming for you.’
‘Tell somebody, then!’ shouts Betsy. ‘Tell your police mates there’s a nutter coming for Jude. Tell them he’s innocent. We saw Mick at the hospital. Somebody had hurt him.’
‘Yeah. It has to have been Jude.’
‘No, I saw that happen at the riverbank. He fired rocks at him but it didn’t do all that damage. Mick was in real pain at A & E. Somebody had done him over …’
‘Rufus is convinced it was Jude. Word is getting round.’
Betsy is shaking her head, still holding the kettle. ‘Why the gun? Why point a gun at me if you’re trying to do a good thing?’
Campion looks at the gun as if seeing it for the first time. ‘I needed you to listen,’ he mumbles. He scowls again, his thoughts elsewhere. He shifts his position, grimacing in pain. ‘I don’t know why she made a copy. Or did he make it? But on that day? She wasn’t meeting me, I know that.’
‘Jude says they argued,’ snaps Betsy, dismissively.
He shrugs. ‘She left without saying goodbye. He didn’t see her again until she was dead on the riverbank. And I’ve heard nothing about a disk. There was talk of some footage of what happened with the poor lass during the shoot but as for anything else …’
Betsy’s head is spinning. ‘He didn’t kill her. Didn’t kill Mick. Is he OK …? Please, is he OK?’
‘So far. Can’t find the bastard.’
‘He’s innocent, I swear,’ mumbles Betsy, wondering what she truly believes, deep down. She, who has doubted him from the very first moment.
‘Didn’t kill your ex, either, did he not?’ says Campion, giving her a nasty glare. ‘Jesus, how naïve are you? Why do you think Maeve wanted me? She was scared of him. He’s worse than I’ll ever be. He’s got the devil inside him, you must have seen that. The lasses he brought back after Maeve died? Fights in the gutter with anybody who’d take him on. Drank himself into a stupor and still had enough fight in him to embed his chainsaw in the big tree at the front of the manor house! Sits there like fucking Excalibur, taunting me, and Candy giggling like a schoolgirl every time she walks past, making me look a fool.’
Betsy has heard enough. She needs to find Jude. To warn him. Question him. Her brain is hurting too much to disentangle her feelings from her thoughts. She glances at the kettle in her hand. It’s iron. Heavy. Full of boiling water. One swing and she could put the lying bastard down. Take the gun. Take Anya. Run …
Run where? With Rufus out there, looking for vengeance. She looks again at Campion. His wife has always been on Jude’s side. She’d offered to help, hadn’t she, back in the bar. And nothing could happen up at her big house. Two miles, across the valley – she could do that on foot. She just needs to get away from this horrible man, with his twisted versions of the truth and the shotgun in his hands.
She grips the kettle. Glances at Anya. Hopes to God she gets the message to duck …
Campion jerks in his seat. Stutters. Coughs, as if a little explosion has gone off inside him. Blood sprays from his lips. He slithers down in the chair and his coat opens to reveal the blood: a great patch of it staining his shirt, sticking to his skin, where an ugly puckered wound peeks out from beneath a sodden cloth.
Betsy starts forward, unable to fight her instinct to help. ‘What? What happened …?’
‘It’s nothing …’ he mumbles. ‘Told him not to come for Jude. For you. Stuck me. I just need a lie down …’
Betsy lets go of the kettle. He’s been sitting here dying. Been bleeding beneath his coat while baring his soul. She looks at Anya, who has her hands over her eyes.
‘No, not again, not again, not again …’
Betsy runs to her, kneels down, takes her by the wrists and tries to get her to meet her gaze. She knows what the child is seeing. Knows she is looking again at her father’s dead body.
‘Anya, it’s going to be OK. The man’s had an accident but we’re going to make sure he’s OK. Then we’ll find Jude and make everything better, yes?’
‘He said Jude killed Daddy. He didn’t. I know he didn’t. Why did he say that? Why?’
Betsy tries to stay calm. Controls her breathing, but her heart feels like it is trying to punch its way out of her chest.
‘Anya, listen to me …’
There is a clatter as the gun lands on the stone steps. Campion slithers to the floor like a ragdoll.
‘Anya, get the phone, it’s in amongst the papers, call an ambulance right now, I’ll try and stop the bleeding.’
She races to Campion’s side. Rips a strip from her dress and presses it to the ugly wound. ‘You’re going to be OK,’ she says, and doesn’t know if it’s true, or whether she wants it to be.
‘He’s the devil … the both of them … so many bodies … so much blood …’
His eyes flutter. A reedy groan whistles from his wet, bloodied lips.
‘It’s not working,’ yells Anya. ‘There’s no dial tone. No sound at all.’
Betsy turns just in time to see the figure appear in the doorway.
Sees Rufus, grinning as if this is the best fun he’s ever had. He’s got a riding crop in his hand. His red hand. Red, as if he has been stirring paint.
Betsy scrambles for the gun. Turns, swinging it toward his chest. He crosses the ground so fast she barely sees it. Yanks the gun from her and swings it like a club.
There is impact and pain and then the world is a funny colour and it seems as if gravity has stopped working, and she is on her side, looking up, tasting blood: watching helplessly as he punches Anya in the jaw; a red mark on her white face as she crumples like a stringless puppet.
Then he is squatting over Betsy. Smiling at her: a biologist looking down at a pinned rat.
His face is the last thing she sees before
the darkness swallows her up.
THIRTY-FOUR
Pain.
A strange stinging sensation; too hot and too cold all at once, like numb toes coming back to life in a scalding bath.
Her shoulders ache. Jaw, too. There’s a swollen, tender area on her left cheek. She wants to pat it. To check for swelling or blood. Tries to move her hands and finds herself unable to move.
Out of nowhere, a vicious yank of her arms. The feeling of being jerked like a bad dog.
A face, against hers.
‘We are going to have such fun.’
She manages to keep her eyes shut. Fear is swelling, unfurling like the petals of a flower, but she has the sense to stay still. To keep her eyes closed. She knows she will learn more by feigning continued unconsciousness.
Footsteps now: boots on the wooden floorboards. The clatter of metal on wood. Metal on the flagstone of the fireplace. Grunting, now. God how she wants to open her eyes. Countless hideous images flash through her mind. She sees Anya suffering. Jude. Campion, if the old bastard’s even still breathing. Every cell in her body is telling her to open her eyes.
A burst of static: the hiss and fizz of a broken TV. ‘… you arse in here, I can’t budge it.’
Panting, now. Curses. Metal clattering again and the roar of pain.
She allows herself to open one eye the merest fraction. Through the lattice of her tangled eyelashes, she sees Rufus, shaking bruised, bleeding knuckles, a crowbar in his hand. He’s trying to dig up the floor …
The creak of the door. More footsteps.
‘It’s the angle, I think. And the nails are bent over on themselves. Somebody’s had this floorboard up before.’
‘You’re paranoid. Get it up.’
More heaving. The splintering of wood. The sound of timbers torn in two.
She knows what they’re looking for. They want the laptop and its contents. The camera too. They’re going to be disappointed. Jude’s already removed the clear plastic sack from the hole where she left it. He’s wiped the contents and given it to her as part of whatever little game he’s playing. They’re going to lose their minds, she knows it. Rufus will want answers. He’ll hurt her in order to get them. Hurt Anya. She wonders how long she’ll hold out before she starts making things up.
‘Nice one, Billy lad. Pull it up now.’
She opens her eyes. A tall man with a bulbous gut is dragging the sack out of the ground. It’s exactly where she left it. She doesn’t understand. How can it be on the table and in the ground at once? Unless he’s replaced the one in the ground with a fake? Or, and the thought chills her to the bone, the computer she’s been using has never belonged to Maeve.
‘Spread the word, eh?’
Sitting in the rocking chair by the fire, legs spread, Rufus lifts a black walkie-talkie. ‘You there?’
In reply, comes an electronic beep. He gives a nod, clearly pleased with the response.
‘Package recovered,’ he says. ‘Exhibit deposited. Gundog’s nabbed two birds. Winged but definitely able to fly. Finish them off?’
A pause. Then two long beeps. Rufus spits into the fire, unhappy with whatever coded message he has received.
‘We did talk about occupational perks, yeah? Maybe just inspect the plumage, check what we’ve got …’
Two more beeps, long and loud.
Rufus stands. His colleague, Billy, has plugged in the laptop. He extends a white lead and connects the little camera. From a pocket, he removes a small, tablet-sized device. He connects this to the laptop. In a moment, the screen of the new device is filling with images, a blur of colours and pictures, flicking by too swiftly to disentangle.
‘I would be more convincing,’ says Rufus: a kid begging to be allowed to have chocolate before dinner. ‘Won’t even leave a trace, I promise.’
Two more bleeps, louder and more insistent.
‘Eye for an eye, yeah …?’
He’s nearly begging: the desperation in his voice truly grotesque.
Two beeps. No.
Betsy allows herself to open both eyes, looking out through the crossed swords of her lashes. ‘Liz! Elizabeth, I can’t move my arms. Liz!’
Anya’s voice, tearful and afraid. Betsy doesn’t move. Her half-closed eyes are fixed on the computer screen, watching as Billy scrolls through the catalogue of images and stops on a video clip. Presses ‘play’.
The footage is jerky, as if whoever is holding the camera is being pushed and pulled by unseen hands. She sees blue skies; a distant, hazy sun. Heather, soft and purple and inviting as a feather bed. Now a face, looming into shot. Campion Lorton-Cave. He’s furious; his face pillar-box red; hair plastered to his face beneath a damp flat cap, He’s dressed in his best tweeds. He’s roaring, bellowing obscenities at the holder of the camera. The angle swings down, showing the shotgun he holds like a club. Betsy can barely make out the words – just snatches of obscenity-laden venom.
‘… back in the fucking gutter … you think that’ll make a difference, I swear to God I will blow your fucking head off your neck if you spoil this for me …’
The camera swings right. The man she knows as Brendon has the protester she knows as Moon by the throat. He’s pushing his face into the heather. Behind him, two other men dressed in rural tweeds have somebody else on the floor. The nearest, a thick-set man, is lashing their captive with a stick, too thick to bend.
And then the camera is down in the heather, staring up like a sightless eye. And she sees Maeve, arriving as if the earth has spat her out. And she’s dragging Brendon off Moon. Kicking. Spitting. Turning to Campion and demanding he intervene. From the heather, a figure rises up. Her face mask has been pulled down and her Hunt Saboteur T-shirt has been ripped down to her waist. She’s maybe thirteen.
Betsy has to stop herself from crying out. She watches as Campion raises his gun. Points it at Moon, trying to find his way to his feet.
Fires.
Fires wide.
The girl falls.
And Maeve is snatching up the camera.
Then the film cuts out.
Billy turns to Rufus. Shrugs. ‘Not too late. Could make a fortune from this.’
‘The money’s good as it is.’
‘So we’re going?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How’ve they got away with it this long? Even the coppers around here could put together a case without the video footage. Shotgun, wounded girl, witness testimony …’
‘All easy to hush up with money or muscle. A video – that does the rounds before you can blink an eye. Once it’s outside the valley, it’s outside their control.’
Billy stands up. Tucks the laptop into his coat and the tablet into a pocket. Drops everything else into the bag and throws it on the fire. It starts to melt at once: black toxic fumes belching out from the ancient fireplace.
‘Liz, please!’
Betsy raises her head, feigning sudden consciousness. Anya is hog-tied on the floor, legs and arms behind her. Betsy realizes she must be similarly bound.
‘Anya … it’s OK, just look at me, everything will be OK …’
A sudden pain. Rufus pulls her upright by the rope and a handful of her hair. Wraps his hand around her throat. Forces her to look at him, her eyes swivelling in their sockets. She sees him grin, and is horrified to see a true happiness in his eyes, as if this were the best fun he could imagine.
‘Been a big day for you, hasn’t it? It’s sweet that Campion used his last breaths to try and warn you about me. Didn’t listen, by the looks of things. To be honest, he never was very sharp. All this has kind of sailed over his head a little. Thought he was in charge, didn’t he? Thought it was all about leaning on a few people and getting a bit of comeback on Mr Punch. But he never understood. He was only ever a piece to be moved around the board.’
Betsy can’t find the words. She just wants him to let go of her arms. To let her slither back to the floor. To let her rest.
‘Jude …’ she manages, her thro
at squeezed almost shut.
‘Still waiting for him, are you? Jesus but you’re slow on the uptake. Your Jude’s in custody, love. Coppers picking him up right about now, I’d say. Tip-off. Some decent member of the community warning he was about to do a runner. They’ll have him for my poor brother. They’ll find Campion dead in his living room when they get here. They’ll find his girlfriend buried in the woods, beneath the tree where he killed his first wife. He’ll be lucky they don’t bring back hanging. Throw in your ex-husband and this poor lass here …’
On the floor, Anya starts to thrash around, her bruised face a mask of tears and spit.
Betsy tries to speak. ‘Why …?’ she asks, and the word is barely a whisper.
‘Why?’ repeats Rufus, and permits himself a proper laugh, right in her ear. ‘Your man – St Fucking Jude. How many insults am I supposed to stand? He put my brother down, love. And he doesn’t deserve to have somebody like you in his bed. Nor like his last tart. Why him, eh? What’s so good about him? I’ll show you, I swear – show you he was never all you thought he was. And he’s going to cry like a fucking baby when he sees what I’ve done to his lass.’
She struggles in his arms, trying to throw her head back and into his face. She hears him laugh, disappointedly, then he slams his fist into her stomach, and throws her down on the floor. She slips in Campion’s blood. Opens her eyes and sees the dead man staring back at her.
‘Fire’s taking,’ says Billy, who hasn’t spoken during the exchange. ‘You’ll be wanting to make a move.’
‘Thanks Billy,’ says Rufus, with genuine gratitude. ‘He’s a pal, is Billy. Met him inside, I did. Knows his stuff. Not much of a one for the rough stuff though he doesn’t mind enjoying the benefits afterwards, if you understand me.’
Rufus picks up the shotgun from the floor. Snaps it open and checks the cartridges. Takes a knife from his pocket and casually slices off Campion’s nose. Throws it in the fire. Gives a shrug, by way of explanation. ‘Symbolic, innit? Stuck-up, snouts in the trough. Coppers will lap it up …’
