The 13th Destiny_Heaven's Deadliest Sign

by Roger David Francis

  The road she turned into was made up of untidy terraced houses. Most of the small front gardens were either paved with cracked stones or overgrown with weeds. Number 18 was no different. Beth edged around a rusty old car that was jammed between the broken gate and the front door. The net curtains hung like grey cobwebs from the small front window and Beth thought she saw them twitch.

  You’d better be in, Arthur, Beth thought, because I’m running out of star signs. She giggled nervously. How on earth was she going to get twenty pounds off an old aged pensioner without seeming like a parasite? She should have at least thought to bring a box of chocolates with her. She tapped on the door.

  It was opened almost immediately and a somewhat older and diminished Arthur stood framed in the doorway.

  “You took your time,” he whined. He turned and Beth followed him through a cramped hallway into his small kitchen. He pointed to a juicer on the draining board.

  At a loss, Beth waited for enlightenment. He didn’t appear to recognise her, seemed to think she was here for another purpose. The kitchen was small with stone whitewashed walls as if it had been built onto the rest of the house as an afterthought. It was crammed with white goods. There were two microwaves, one on top of the other, an eight sliced toaster, a mini oven and enough blenders and juicers to put a TV chef to shame. Every bit of counter space had been used to squeeze the goods in.

  “You bid on it, it’s yours,” Arthur said with some satisfaction. “I know my rights; if you don’t pay for it I can report you to eBay.”

  “The juicer,” Beth said as enlightenment dawned. “How much?” It seemed Arthur had a lucrative business on the side buying and selling off e-Bay, so much for him being a poor old aged pensioner.

  Arthur picked up a half full wine glass and drank the liquid down in one go. “Don’t you know?” He frowned.

  “Twenty pounds?” Beth ventured.

  A sly grin spread across Arthur’s face. “That’s right, twenty pounds.”

  Beth knew the old man was lying, the juicer looked worth about five pounds but it didn’t matter. “I have a proposition for you,” she said.

  Immediately Arthur looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights. He actually held his hands palm up as if was warding off evil spirits.

  Beth went on. “I’ll give you forty pounds for your juicer but you have to give me twenty pounds back.”

  Arthur blinked. “Hey?”

  “What have you got to lose, Arthur?”

  “How do you know my name?” The old man was instantly suspicious. “You’re from the benefits office, aren’t you?” He seemed to visibly shrivel in front of her eyes. He waved his arms feebly around the kitchen. “None of this belongs to me, I’m just selling it for a friend.” He began jiggling about nervously. “It’s that old cow Edna next door, isn’t it? She’s shopped me. Just because the electric kettle I sold her packed up after a week.” He was whining now, almost wringing his hands. “I told the moaning old bag, sold as seen, but I could tell she wasn’t happy. I tell you what, I’ll give her another one, I can’t say fairer than that, can I?”

  Before Arthur had chance to collapse in a heap in front her, Beth interrupted. “I’m not from the benefits office, Arthur; we used to work together at the coffee shop. I’m just here to do you a favour.” Beth pulled the piece of paper out of her pocket and put it on the table. “Phone this number and tell the nice woman on the end of the phone what your dearest wish is. It’s just a bit of fun and the best bit is, you can have twenty pounds for your juicer and still keep it to sell on again.” She smiled brightly at him.

  Arthur glared at her suspiciously, “What’s the catch?”

  “There is no catch, I swear.”

  “Show me your money then.”

  Beth pulled out her purse and extracted forty pounds. She handed the notes to Arthur who stared at them as if he’d never seen twenty pound bank notes before. “Now give me twenty back,” Beth told him.

  Reluctantly Arthur handed her a note back.

  “Here’s my phone, make the call and I’ll wait in the living room.”

  Arthur’s lips twitched. “What’s your game?” he muttered. “I remember you now, nice little arse you had, always wiggling it in front of me. Right little teaser you were. Put the goods on show to torment me.” He actually looked offended.

  Beth had no recollection of ever wriggling her body parts in front of Arthur but she had no control over what went on in his dirty mind.

  “I always admired you, Arthur,” She lied. “I didn’t want to ruin our friendship by getting involved romantically with you.” For a moment she wondered if she’d gone too far but Arthur’s eyes were twinkling.

  “That’s what I thought,” he nodded with satisfaction, and then Beth made the mistake of adding, “Not everything is about sex, is it?” His eyes narrowed.

  “This is a wind up, isn’t it? I think Geoffrey sent you. He never liked me; the bastard couldn’t wait to find an excuse to get rid of me. So what’s this then? Bored is he? Wants to play an old man up for kicks?”

  “Geoffrey’s got nothing to do with it, I promise. I just thought you could use a bit of luck. Come on, Arthur, we used to be friends, I wouldn’t scam you.” Beth turned on her sweetest smile and watched as Arthur’s face relaxed. She knew what he was thinking, that he’d still got it, could still charm the ladies. Men like Arthur went to their graves believing they were God’s gift to women.

  “So I phone up and make a wish?” He said, obviously still struggling with the concept.

  “Yes, it’s as simple as that. What have you got to lose?”

  “Nothing, I suppose.” Arthur mumbled reluctantly. “Nice phone. I suppose you’ll want it back afterwards?” He looked at Beth hopefully.

  “Yes. I’ll leave you to make the call now.”

  Beth stood in the middle of the scruffy living room trying not to listen to the murmur of Arthur’s voice. She wasn’t proud of herself but this would be the eleventh sign, Aries and that would leave her about three hours to sort out Gemini.

  Arthur came into the living room and handed her the phone.

  “Rude old bitch,” He said, “put the phone down on me. All I asked her for was....”

  “No,” Beth interrupted him, “Don’t tell me, Arthur. Like I said, it’s just a bit of fun. Anyway, it was nice meeting up with you again.” As Beth walked past him he squeezed her bottom with his thumb and forefinger. Anger blazed in Beth and for a moment she was tempted to swing round and smack the dirty old sod’s leering face but she bit her lip and ignored him. She had what she wanted and for once she didn’t much care what the consequences were.

  As she was leaving another woman walked up the path,

  “Come for the juicer?” Beth asked.

  “Yes.” The woman looked surprised.

  “I wouldn’t bother if I were you, it’s broken.”

  The woman turned and left and Beth grinned.

  Chapter 17

  What was wrong with him? Tim thought. He couldn’t seem to do even the simplest job like wash his cup up or make his bed. He felt as if he was walking through a bowl of sticky toffee, the effort to move around his house almost too difficult to manage.

  Trent had phoned and told Tim his daughter’s body was on its way back to him.

  “I thought you’d be in police custody, Trent.” Tim had said.

  There had been a silence on the end of the phone and then Trent’s voice, flattened by grief, said, “I know I deserve to be, but the police....”

  Tim cut in, “The police should be holding you for manslaughter. You killed my daughter; you have to pay for that.”

  “Please Tim, don’t. I have to live with what I did for the rest of my life.”

  “Poor you. So what really happened, Trent? Did you have an argument, lose your temper? Frighten my daughter so she ran out of the house. Get in your car to chase her down, is that what you did?”

  “God, no.” Trent sounded breathless with panic. “It wa
sn’t like that. You have no idea what I had to put up with. The mood swings, the temper, Jackie wasn’t the sweet young thing you thought she was. Sorry Tim, but you’re not blaming me for this. She was drunk, if you want to know the truth. Pregnant and drunk and she told me the baby wasn’t mine. Yes, we had an argument and she ran out of the house but you have to believe me, I never meant to hurt her.”

  Tim thought he’d stopped breathing. Every part of him was struggling to comprehend what Trent was saying. He whooped, the sound rolling out of his throat in a low roar.

  “You murdering lying bastard! My daughter was perfect, too good for you. Did you take out life insurance on her, is that what happened?” Tim was beside himself with anger and grief.

  “I’m sorry, Tim.” Trent’s voice had been no more than a whisper. “I won’t be coming with the coffin; I’m not allowed to leave the country.” He gave a small sob, “She’s all yours now.” And he put the phone down.

  So Jackie was alone with no-one to watch over her. It felt so wrong Tim could barely comprehend it.

  I want my daughter to come home.

  The words kept buzzing in his head. He’d said them thinking Jackie might be prompted to visit him when the baby was born. That’s all he wanted, all he’d meant when he made his wish to Shandra, and now his thoughtless words had caused her death. Accusing Trent was easy but Tim knew in his heart that he was the one to blame for what had happened to his daughter.

  He didn’t deserve to live.

  Was that why he was rifling through the bathroom cabinet grabbing bottles and packets, anything he could lay his hands on, old medication he hadn’t bothered throwing out? Strange because he didn’t remember climbing the stairs, the fog in his brain was getting thicker smothering his thoughts and now he could hear the sound of bells ringing. He dropped the bottles and watched as they scattered across the tiled bathroom floor. It wasn’t bells ringing, he realised someone was pressing his doorbell.

  Not now, he thought. I’m busy, there’s something I need to do. He bent down to pick up the bottles but the bell continued to ring incessantly. Whoever it was wouldn’t go away. He stumbled down the stairs and flung the door open.

  Beth stood there, her mouth trembling, her eyes filling up with tears. She opened her arms and he fell into them, gasping with grief.

  Ten minutes later he sat hunched up, his hands curved around a mug of steaming coffee, Beth sat opposite him.

  “The mortuary,” he heard himself saying. “I have to go, see my girl, make arrangements.”

  “Not today, Tim,” Beth’s voice was gentle, soothing. “Jackie won’t be there yet. You need to rest. Tomorrow I’ll help you with the arrangements.” She wondered now if she’d done the right thing calling in on him but after leaving Arthur’s house she’d realised she couldn’t put it off any longer.

  Tim lifted his face and stared at her. “How could this happen?” He whispered and then horrifyingly he added, “What did you do, Beth?” He watched her face blanch. “How could you let this happen? I thought we were friends.”

  Beth understood. Tim needed someone to share the blame. She said quietly, “We are, Tim. It’s no-one’s fault, a terrible accident. I’ll do anything to help you.” She paused, not wanting to ask, appalled by his grief stricken face, he looked like he’d aged twenty years, but the words needed to be said. “What did you wish for Tim?” And Beth held her breath, dreading the answer.

  “You know. I wanted Jackie to come home. I got my money’s worth, didn’t I?” He cackled suddenly, a dry insane gurgling as if he’d lost control of his vocal cords.

  “It’s coincidence, you didn’t make it happen, you have to believe that.”

  “Do I?” Tim stared at her, his red rimmed eyes swimming with tears. “What about Ruby, is it coincidence she’s getting a million pound compensation for losing the use of her legs? No prizes for guessing what she wished for. Or Abby who wanted her own house so much she let her mother-in-law die and blanked it from her mind because she couldn’t accept what she’d done? And what about your neighbour who’s lost her husband and is about to become homeless, is all that coincidence too, Beth?”

  Beth cringed. Who had Tim been talking to?

  “Geoffrey told me.” Tim said as if he’d read her mind. “It was his way of sympathising, letting me know I wasn’t the only one going through a sticky patch.” He began laughing hysterically, his eyes wild. “He actually said that, Beth, sticky patch, as if I could put a plaster on it and it would all go away.” He gripped her arm and squeezed hard. “But it’s not going to go away, is it, Beth, because you’re still selling your soul to the devil, still handing out wishes like popcorn, crushing people’s lives.”

  Beth felt sick. Tim blamed her and she deserved it. She knew there was nothing she could say that would make him feel better, it was his agony and he had to deal with it in his own way.

  “I’ll do anything you want,” she said.

  “That good, Beth, can you bring my daughter back to life?”

  “You know I can’t, Tim.”

  Beth watched his face crumple.

  “You should go now,” He mumbled.

  “Yes.” She stood up. She needed to leave; it was hurting her seeing him so wretched, he looked so fragile as if a puff of wind would blow him away. She shouldn’t have come, she realised now she was the last person he’d turn to for comfort.

  Just as she reached the door Tim suddenly said, “It’s not over yet, is it?”

  “Almost.” Beth glanced at the clock on the wall above the fireplace. It was five thirty, one and a half hours left to go.

  Tim stood up and staggered towards her. He grabbed her wrist and squeezed it hard. “You’ve got to stop it, Beth,” he hissed. “So much pain and heartache, you have to end it now.”

  Her eyes blurred with tears. “I can’t,” she whispered, “It’s too late.”

  “For who, Beth?”

  Tim watched her walk down the road. He leaned against the door post as if he hadn’t the strength to stand up straight. He hadn’t meant to hurt her; the bad words had tumbled from his lips. He’d lashed out because someone had to be to blame for his daughter’s death and he desperately didn’t want it to be him.

  What had he been doing before Beth called? Oh yes, he remembered now, he’d been about to put together a lethal combination of drugs to end his misery. Lethal, he thought, as he climbed back up the stairs to the bathroom, what a terrible final word that was, but it wasn’t a frightening thought, not now, it was comforting and for the first time since hearing of his daughter’s death, Tim smiled.

  Sitting on the settee with his feet propped up on the table Brian drew in a long breath of satisfaction. He hated getting up at five o’clock in the morning, especially in the winter but there was one major advantage, his working day was done by two o’clock. He’d never imagined when he was working his way through college that he would end up being a postman. He’d seen himself in an office, surrounded by busy important business people, not traipsing the streets battling the rain and the wind, but a job was a job and he needed the money.

  His true love was expensive. Vintage cars. A 1932 Ford Roadster was parked in his garage at the beginning of being restored to its former glory. He’d discovered it in an old barn a few months earlier, covered in straw in an unimaginably bad condition. He’d begged it off the late farmer’s wife for silly money, hardly able to believe his luck. She’d been so distraught at the loss of her husband that she hadn’t questioned him when he’d informed her solemnly that the old car was only fit for scrap. He grinned now, remembering her gratitude when he’d handed her a fraction of its worth.

  Wheeling and dealing, that was what he was good at, not walking the streets humping a great bag of post, most of it junk mail, around. He was better than that.

  The parts for the car weren’t cheap however, he spent all his spare time searching the internet, and now bit by bit it was beginning to come back to life. It was his baby, at least for now, and his
baby deserved the best. Restoring it was a pleasure, and thinking of the profit he would make was mind blowing. There was a lot to love about the old car.

  As much as he cared for it though, Brian was more interested in what he could get for it. He’d already put discreet feelers out and had been overwhelmed with the response. It seemed the right people were prepared to pay any price to get their hands on it.

  He’d paid the farmer’s wife a piddling two hundred pounds for the Roadster and already he’d been offered twenty times that amount in the condition it was in now. But it wasn’t enough. He’d set his sights on another vehicle, a black Cadillac, already restored, sixty thousand pounds. It sounded greedy but Brian believed it was within his reach. He’d asked if he could part exchange the Roadster for it but the old man selling it had scoffed at him, told him to go away and stop wasting his time.

  His name was Jack Crawley and he was well known in the trade for being a hardnosed businessman. So far he’d offered Brian an insulting six thousand for his car in part exchange.

  Brian was twenty three and lived with his mum and dad. They were both out at work so he had the house to himself. He hadn’t enjoyed parting with twenty pounds for a telephone number but if you didn’t gamble you couldn’t hope to win. He spent more than that on lottery tickets a week and he reckoned the odds of coming up trumps were about the same. It’ll be a laugh anyway, he thought.

  Time to make the call.

  “Hello?” the crackly old voice was disappointing. Brian had somehow expected to hear someone whispering, low and menacing. This all seemed a bit ordinary.

  “I’ve paid twenty pounds to speak to you.” And Brian suddenly felt silly. He was a grown man and this was downright ridiculous.

  “My name is Shandra, what is your birth date?” the old woman was asking.