I Want Him Dead

by Anthony Masters

“Yes.”

  “Do you think Dad got on with him?”

  “I don’t know. But he wanted you, Peter. You know that.” That was as far as they had got.

  Now Anne could hear Rachel crying — at least, she thought it was Rachel, but it could have been somebody else. Anne gripped Peter’s shoulders and her mother, who had arrived to support her but was becoming increasingly irritating, took her arm. “Steady, dear.”

  But she was steady. Quite steady. Then, slowly, as she looked down at his name on the brass plate and the good burnished teak of the coffin, Anne wanted her anger back. Was this a catharsis? An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth? There was no fury left, just the great blankness that seemed to stretch over her entire life just as it had at her father’s funeral, except it had been a cremation. She remembered the dispute between her mother and Monica. Where to scatter the ashes? Daddy hadn’t made a request. He had been in no position to.

  “Scatter them over the Ml if you like,” Monica had finally written, backing down. Anne’s mother had been greatly affronted at her levity and scattered them over the South Downs instead.

  Suddenly, Anne felt a rush — of pity but not sorrow — for Rachel. All her plans destroyed, a slate that had been wiped clean.

  “I’m sorry it had to be like this,” said Anne’s mother, as they walked back across the already freezing ground of the graveyard, their shoes making a dry clacking sound. There was a sharp wind coming off the sea and most of the mourners were shivering. Anne wondered why her mother had chosen this moment to try and reach her after a lifetime of non-communication. It seemed cruelly ironic.

  “Don’t,” said Peter protectively.

  “Sorry, dear,” said her mother, quietly and tactfully, averting her tearful eyes.

  Anne spotted George on the edge of the crowd, standing alone in an overcoat with an astrakhan collar under a group of ancient elms. She went up to him, knowing that something had to be said.

  “I’m very grateful to you.”

  “I didn’t do anything.” He was looking at a point just over her right shoulder, his social skills erased.

  “You were with him.”

  “I wasn’t any use.”

  “Did he say anything?” She gave him a tentative smile.

  He shook his head, obviously wanting to get away from her.

  As Anne walked on it began to drizzle.

  That night she dreamed vividly and disturbingly. Over the next few days the dream repeated itself, becoming increasingly detailed, and Anne recognized the location immediately: Santa Caterina, a monastery in the foothills of the Pyrenees in Spain. They had often camped near Torroella, the old town in the valley, enjoying the still hot autumn days when the tourist-trap tours had vanished and the Mediterranean rolled on to the wide empty beaches of Estartit, shuttered now and free from litter, the tranquillity of the cool nights broken only by the sound of the cicadas.

  The opening sequences of the dream were always the same. She and Paul and Peter were climbing the mountain, sweltering in the morning heat, the sun climbing higher in the sky, on their way to mass. It was Santa Caterina’s name day, and in front of them some young men were carrying the cross — heavy, wooden and slippery with their sweat.

  Behind them came the priest and the choir, chanting the Agnus Dei. Then came the villagers — some two or three hundred, all in formal clothes, carrying water and provisions, heading for the dim coolness of the miniature basilica below the monastery.

  Sometimes the dream allowed Anne to arrive, even glimpse the murals, but most of the time she stayed on the mountain with Peter and Paul, climbing up the narrow path through the shale, pausing sometimes at one of the stations of the cross.

  They had joined these processions in the early part of their marriage, and although neither Paul nor Anne were Catholics and were at best the most half-hearted of believers, they persisted each year, later with Peter stepping up pluckily between them, the taste of the warm bottled water like nectar as they slaked their thirst.

  After a few days the dream began to extend itself. They climbed the steep mountain path as usual, but as they rested on the old stone wall that surrounded the monastery, the doors of the basilica opened and a figure beckoned to Anne — the figure of a man who was standing in dark shadow.

  She slowly walked away from Paul and Peter, crossing the hot white stones and baking sandy soil towards him.

  Incongruously, a jeep with bull bars was waiting just inside the door, with the man behind the wheel now, the engine idling. She got in and saw his huge phallus which gradually extended until it wound its way round her waist.

  Then they were off, roaring towards Paul who was standing in the burning white sun, shading his eyes with his hands. As they hit him he literally exploded, parts of him flying everywhere. The vehicle ground to a halt, covered in torn flesh, while the stranger behind the wheel placed his hot, red, foul-smelling but sensual lips on her own.

  Chapter 2

  Joe had driven Carla and Timothy to the safe house Eamonn had found for them on the morning after the contract killing of Paul Lucas. Now he was standing in the back garden of a small furnished cottage on the Romney Marsh in Kent. The morning was bright with winter sun and the frost had melted from the apple trees. Through their bare branches he could see the verdant green of the grass, the drainage ditches that led down to the sea and the dykes that criss-crossed the marsh. Sheep grazed under their shadow and a small bird made a soothing cheeping sound.

  He was feeling calmer. The smoothness of Eamonn’s plans had given him a rising confidence, almost a certainty that he was being protected now, effectively screened from McMarn, and that, at last, he was going to gain his freedom. Of course there was always the nagging fear of the unfinished business he had on hand — meeting face to face with Anne Lucas.

  Joe had hardly seen Paul Lucas’s face as the jeep had hit him, and although the impact had seemed tremendous the killing had been highly sanitised compared with Weston’s.

  “All right?” Carla came out of the house, wearing an old sweater and jeans, looking at her worst, hair tumbling greasily around her shoulders and a sore at the corner of her mouth.

  “I’m OK.”

  “How long are we going to be here?”

  “Not long.”

  “Days? Weeks?” She was rather more demanding than usual.

  “Days.” Joe frowned. She didn’t normally ask questions. What the hell was the matter with her? “We’re on to a good thing,” he said irritably. “A fresh start.”

  “It feels like we’re on the run.”

  “We’re not.”

  “You coming clean?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m afraid.”

  “Don’t be.” He slipped an arm around her waist but Ruth swam into his mind’s eye again.

  “You’re not hot for it any longer.”

  “What?” He stared down at her, genuinely alarmed. Did she know something?

  “We haven’t had it for weeks.”

  “I’ve been exhausted.”

  “With the business you won’t tell me about?”

  “That kind of thing. You know the rules. We don’t talk about that.”

  “We don’t talk about your business. That’s right. That was the agreement. But is it business?” She sounded uncertain.

  “What else?”

  “Is there someone, Joe?”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “I know these things. Women do.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “It’s a look.”

  “I look like I’m screwing?”

  “If you aren’t, then you’d like to.”

  “Well, you’re wrong.” He tried to control his slight fluster. “You want it now?”

  “I’m not begging.”

  “For Christ’s sake, can’t you leave it out? We’re in trouble enough.”

  “I thought you said it was OK. We were making a fresh start,” Carla persisted doggedly.

  “So
we are.”

  “Then why are you so tense?”

  Joe suddenly lost his temper. “For fuck’s sake, get off my back.”

  “Whose back are you on then?” She turned away and went inside.

  “Why don’t you cry, Mum?” Anne had come in that morning to Peter’s sobbing and found him lying on his bed, still dressed in his jeans. The room was musty and he stank of sweat.

  “Why didn’t you put on your pyjamas?” She had a blinding headache and an underlying irritability that she was struggling to keep in check.

  “What’s the point?”

  She sat down on the edge of the rumpled bed and took his hand. “We’ve got to keep going.”

  “Why?”

  “Daddy would have wanted it.”

  “Pissing crap.”

  “There’s no need to swear.”

  “But why don’t you cry?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know.” Anne paused. “I hurt inside.”

  “Even though he fucked off?”

  “Don’t swear!”

  “Even though he left?”

  “I still love him. Whatever your father did.”

  “Rachel feels bad.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you care?”

  “Not a lot.”

  “You hate her!”

  “I despise her.”

  “That’s the same.”

  “Not quite.”

  “I don’t know what to do without him.” He began to cry again.

  “Neither do I,” said Anne. If only she could reach Peter. She did love him, she knew she did, but the emptiness stretched desert-like inside her, grey, swamping, infinite, blotting out anyone who stepped into its aura.

  * * *

  Eamonn Coyd met his brother on the fishing beach at Hastings and they wandered towards the tall net-drying sheds and the trawlers that had been dragged high up on the pebbles by a winch. Gulls picked at fish heads and there was a strong smell of tar and diesel oil.

  “Settled in?”

  Joe nodded impatiently, Carla’s accusations still fermenting in his mind. “How long have we got to stay in that cottage? We’re going stir crazy.”

  “Not long. I’ve got the tickets and the work permit, but the earliest flight I could get was for after Christmas. New Year’s Day.” Eamonn handed him the packet and Joe took it gratefully as evidence of his brother’s continued efficiency and control. “Have you spoken to anyone local?”

  “Carla ordered a couple of pints of milk.”

  “And you said you were on holiday?”

  “Sitting round a cosy yule log in Mon Repos. That’s the rumour we’re spreading.”

  Eamonn spoke softly. “It’s time to phone Anne Lucas.”

  “She could put the finish to everything,” he warned, but Joe already knew he was going to take the risk.

  “She’s got everything to lose.”

  “By the way, Mrs Lucas, I hope you don’t mind me phoning you but I did a contract on your old man and problem is I’m still a bit short of the readies and want to ensure my future in upside-down land before I get my arse torn off by a pederast. Will that be enough to convince her?”

  “All you tell her is you just got out of nick, you like the stuff she writes and you want to give her a story,” said Eamonn patiently.

  “What story?”

  “Give yourself a false name and —” Eamonn paused, knowing that this was going to be the make-or-break moment which would either push his brother too far, or might just bring about the rough justice he had had in mind. “Tell her about McMarn. Tell her everything you know.”

  Joe gazed at him unbelievingly. “Now I know you’re out of your mind.”

  “It’s to your advantage.”

  “He’d take her to the cleaners.” What else was Eamonn going to add to an already dangerous scenario?

  “That’s her problem.” He knew what Joe was thinking, but he was determined to go for the main chance.

  “You mean I should ring Anne Lucas, pose as an ex-con, tell her I want to nail the Candy Man and then make an appointment. Once we get talking she finds herself in the shit rather than McMarn. Then it’s happy ending time. I get an income for life and she goes on paying. It’s so full of holes you can’t see the bucket.”

  “There are risks,” replied Eamonn. “Big risks. But you could be killing a lot of birds.”

  “Just like that.”

  “There’s always the other option.” Eamonn sighed. “Just make do with the thirty grand.”

  “What kind of person is this Anne Lucas?” asked Joe hesitantly.

  “Barrington’s done a runner,” Ryland told McMarn, who was watching a television choir singing “O Come All Ye Faithful” and trying to cope with his new environment. Heavy leather chairs, a walnut dining-table with an over-ornate sideboard to match were claustrophobic enough, but the pictures seemed to specialise in Highland glens with stags, either at bay or sauntering through misty mountains, and, to heighten the aesthetic insult, off-white china ducks took flight across flock wallpaper.

  McMarn’s first reaction was one of stunned disbelief. Barrington was meant to be far too afraid to take that kind of initiative. Then his numbed lack of acceptance turned to rage.

  “You fucking idiot!” He got up and poured himself a malt, his hands shaking so much that he spilt some of it on the floor.

  “He didn’t have anywhere to go.” Leslie was full of sullen protest. “He was shit-scared about his kid.” He paused. “Unless pizza-face got him out of it.”

  “Why don’t you go squeeze Coyd’s balls?” suggested McMarn, trying to keep control but knowing he was surrounded by such human frailty that he stood no chance against Sears. Why had he ever imagined he could bluff out? Panic filled McMarn. Leslie was right — he should do a runner, too, but his anger was as great as his fear. Barrington mustn’t be allowed to get away with this.

  Leslie was looking at his watch doubtfully. “It’s after seven. Christmas Eve, remember?”

  “Get on your Santa Claus outfit. Piss off down to Coyd’s place.”

  “What am I meant to do?”

  “What do you fucking think? Get Barrington’s new address.”

  “Suppose Coyd doesn’t have it?”

  “He will. They’re close. He fixed it all up.”

  “Look, Michael, you know we’re on a hiding to nowhere. Why don’t we just —”

  “Leslie.” McMarn spoke slowly and carefully. “Do what I tell you. Or are you going soft on Barrington?”

  “You know I hate the bastard.”

  “Feed off that, Leslie. Feed off it.”

  When Ryland had gone the Candy Man walked purposefully over to the flight of ducks on the opposite wall and slowly and carefully took them down and placed them on the table. He took a long hard look at the dirty white china and a mental picture of an exquisite porcelain dove that Fergus Quinton kept on top of a little bureau in their Florentine apartment came into his mind.

  Slowly, one by one, McMarn picked up each china duck and hurled it systematically at the picture of the stag at bay that hung over Mrs Govern’s ornamentally tiled, red-brick fireplace.

  “Bingo,” he cried, as shards of china and glass went flying.

  Freda opened the door of her room, the better to hear Coyd’s medley of carols.

  As he played, Eamonn knew that he only had a day or so at the outside before the Candy Man discovered that Joe had gone missing, but he knew he had done all he could. His brother now had access to the Spanish account and the rest would be up to him and Anne Lucas. There were dozens of loose ends but, at the very least, he had given Joe some kind of chance.

  Eamonn came out of “Silent Night” with a slow flourish and wistfully began to play “O Little Town of Bethlehem”. Upstairs, Freda sighed in contentment.

  Anne’s mother had come to stay for Christmas and was talking about the lives of her two older daughters as she haphazardly de
corated the tree. Anne, wrapping up Peter’s presents, was exhausted. The dream still had her in its grip, and she continually fought against sleep. In consequence she felt fractious, depressed and empty, as if she was walking along the bottom of a high-sided abyss.

  The telephone rang, a welcome interruption from her mother’s monologue which involved all three of them “taking some time off after Christmas at Lake Geneva”. It sounded to Anne like the holiday from hell.

  She took the call in the dining-room, leaning up against the wall, pouring herself a Scotch. She had only had a couple all day, entirely due to the watchful presence of her mother, whose attitude to her drinking problem was one of “healthy, common sense”. In other words she continually lectured her about hospitalization, counselling and Alcoholics Anonymous, but Anne knew that if she didn’t keep drinking she would collapse again.

  “Anne Lucas?” The voice had a very slight Irish brogue. “You won’t know me. My name’s Patrick Herron. I realize this is a bad time to ring but I’ve just got out of the Scrubs.”

  “Where did you get my telephone number from?” She felt mildly irritated.

  “You are the lady who writes those pieces for The Guardian?” His voice was hesitant. “Switchboard gave me the number. They were having some sort of party —”

  “So —”

  “I wondered if we could meet. After Christmas, I mean. I’ve got a story for you.”

  “What is it?” She was crisp, professional, wanting to get rid of him.

  “It’s about a pederast ring. I can’t say any more now.”

  Herrón’s voice had a hesitant, low-key quality to it that carried authority. A fake was usually much more forceful.

  “Do you want money?” she asked warily.

  “No.” He still sounded convincing.

  “If I were to meet you, it would have to be in public.” She always protected herself that way at first. It was only sensible. She had met Coyd at the Festival Hall and it was only when Anne had checked on him that she had agreed to go to Freda’s shop.

  “I understand that.”

  “What were you in for?” She was very much the assured journalist now, the irritation swept away, suddenly grateful that something was happening.

  “Robbery.”

  “Violence?”