A tall, bored girl emerged and made no comment as Herrón signed in. Is he used to this, she wondered. Is he a man who mugs people? Would he kill her in some squalid hotel bedroom? Again, the feeling of justice, of the rightness of what might happen, filled Anne with calm acceptance.
The room, high up in the eaves, was a pleasant surprise with its view of the sea, cream and light-green bedlinen and water-lily wallpaper.
“Lie down,” he said, and Anne did as she was told, taking off her shoes and sliding under the duvet while she wondered what he was going to do to her.
“Would you like me to go?”
She didn’t reply.
“I’ve got a book.” He pulled out a Ruth Rendell. “I’ll sit by the window. Sleep as long as you like. Then we’ll talk. And one other thing. Remember you’re safe.”
Anne nodded and closed her eyes, a comforting warmth stealing over her as she suddenly relaxed as she had not relaxed for months, snuggling down like a child. Perhaps he would kill her in her sleep.
“Goodnight,” said Joe. “Sweet dreams.”
He felt heady with delight.
Chapter 5
Joe Barrington was genuinely moved as he sat by Anne Lucas’s bedside and watched her as she slept like a tired but contented child.
His intention had been to give her an edited version of the McMarn story, laying the foundations for some kind of professional relationship until he sprang the real truth. Now, after what she had told him, Joe realized he was experiencing the only miracle that had occurred in his life, and he still wasn’t sure how to handle it. Should he tell her that he was her husband’s assassin when she woke up, or should he be more indirect, hinting that he only knew the killer? Either way she would have to pay.
Here she was, sleeping so peacefully, but she would wake to betrayal — as he had on that terrible night of the fire. In the stillness the thought crept insidiously into his unguarded mind. If Mam had loved him so much why had she tried to burn him, too?
Joe couldn’t think what to do. He felt completely stunned by Anne Lucas’s confession and the irony of her confiding in him of all people. One of life’s coincidences? An act of the God he had forgotten? Or was there some danger of a conspiracy? But with whom? It didn’t seem possible. Nevertheless, the neatness of it all had rocked him. Could she really be his benefactor? The tickets and work permit for Australia were safely in his wallet and the job in the garage in Perth was secured. Add to this Anne Lucas’s amazing confession and his luck might be in.
But slowly Joe began to appreciate certain in-built dangers, for if Anne Lucas could so drunkenly confess to him, she could just as easily do the same to the police or anyone else who leant on her.
All his life Joe had wanted to get out of the poverty trap. When he took McMarn’s stolen money, he had never really benefited. He had always been apprehensive. Now, with Anne Lucas as his potential benefactor, his liberation was a distinct possibility. Maybe he could put her money into a business — perhaps a club, or even a hotel, an investment for both of them, he imagined in a burst of idealism.
Still watching her sleep, Joe fell to thinking about his brother and about the life he had been forced to lead, the injuries and the introverted fantasies. He had sacrificed everything for him; without Eamonn he would have been McMarn’s lackey until his luck ran out. Now he had a chance to carve out some kind of future.
Ruth drifted into his thoughts and Joe again wondered where she was. He was determined that he would contact her somehow and fill the left-luggage locker with the money he had promised. His potential Robin Hood act made him smile; from one innocent to another. But when he looked down at Anne Lucas he was not sure he could apply that epithet to her. She had had her husband murdered for his money; it was only fair that others should benefit.
Tiring of his dubious moral conjecturing, Joe read for a while and then dozed contentedly. Hazy sunlight lit the room as lunchtime merged into early afternoon, but when he woke again anxiety returned. Days had passed since he and Carla had packed as little as they needed and driven down to the Romney Marsh with Timothy. Eamonn had been insistent that they didn’t contact each other again after their meeting on the beach, but suppose McMarn had got at him? He had to phone soon, had to make sure he was still safe. Slowly, anxiety dissolved his euphoria.
Freda sat by Eamonn Coyd’s bedside, watching the monitor screen measuring his heartbeats, knowing that he might already be hopelessly brain damaged. The police had come to interview her and she had given them as exact a description as she could of the young man who had arrived downstairs in the shop and who had sent Coyd running up to his fatal cocktail. She had also told them about the young man’s relentless search of the room, regardless of its occupant lying overdosed on the bed. They had gone away, not sure whether a crime had been committed, but claiming they would try to identify Coyd’s visitor. She had little faith that they would.
Freda was determined not to let him slip away. She had lived on memories long enough, and when Coyd arrived so unexpectedly in her life she had hardly noticed his ravaged face and had blocked her mind to some of his bizarre personal habits. A man was in the flat again, a provider. That was all she had asked for. A plate of Spam fritters. A smile. Warmth. Then she could reimmerse herself in her escapist world of television and its comforts. But the comforts no longer appealed without company, however shadowy.
Despite the medical predictions, Freda had the naive and instinctive belief that if she sat by Coyd’s bedside long enough, he would wake up. Spam fritters and an egg? Or baked beans? Maybe a couple of sausages?
“You ought to get some rest, dear,” said a nurse, wondering at the strange couple, not daring to think about their relationship and whether it was sexual or not.
“I’d rather stay.”
“He’s very poorly.”
“Will he ever wake up?”
“We hope so, dear, but it’ll be a long haul.”
“Can he hear me?”
“He might. You never know. Not with these cases.”
She hurried away, making a mental note to get hold of a social worker.
“What’s for tea, Coyd?” asked Freda.
Anne dreamt that she and her father were exploring some pools near the Old Harry rocks. He stirred at the dark fronds of seaweed with a stick and the inhabitants slithered out of reach, pushing deeper into crannies, burying themselves in sand. Then they came across two crabs, unconcerned by their presence, locked together by their pincers and claws, the one consuming the other with a relentless ferocity.
She stared up at her father but he looked away, up towards the wild grasses on the cliff-top that were so suddenly disturbed by a darting wind.
On the beach her mother and sisters sheltered round a pale fire, its grey smoke giving out little warmth. Her father began to walk away from her and, as in so many dreams, Anne shouted soundlessly at him. As he reached the sandy beach, Paul jogged out of a cave, his tracksuit bright blue under a pale sky. They merged and became one while a gull swooped low, mockingly calling until she could understand its cry. “Come on, Anne. We can do it. We can do it together.”
Joe had dozed again, taking shelter in sleep, determined to ring Eamonn directly he had completed his business with Anne Lucas. Then he woke with a start, aware that she was watching him.
“How long have I slept?” she whispered.
“Two — three hours. It’s just after three. How do you feel?” He watched the returning memory flood her face with despair. “Are you hungry?” he asked abruptly.
She shook her head, remembering how dangerous she had thought he might be. Surely he would have acted by now? She wrenched her mind away from the dream and the sheer, drunken folly she had committed.
“It’s all right,” Joe said, as reassuringly as he could.
“What did I say?” She wanted to know, just in case the situation was not as bad as she feared.
“You said you had your husband killed.” Joe gazed back at her calmly.
“I’m not going to take advantage of what you told me. You had to tell someone and fortunately you told a stranger.”
“We’re not strangers now.” Anne got stiffly off the edge of the bed. “I’d like to walk a bit,” she said.
Joe decided to postpone the beginning of his strategy. He would have to play it by ear for a while.
When they left the hotel, Anne insisted on paying the bill and the tall girl received her cash disdainfully, hardly looking up from the fuzzy TV attached to the wall behind the desk.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Joe began, as they walked down the hill towards St Leonards.
“I couldn’t let you.”
“You looked as if you were having your first proper sleep in weeks.”
“Don’t let’s talk,” she said. “I need to think this out.”
“That’s fine,” he replied. If only she knew how much he wanted to do the same.
Joe Barrington and Anne Lucas wandered the streets of St Leonards, plunging into a decaying world of genteel poverty alongside new-age tattiness, seasoned with the rag-bag squalor of squatters. The Regency terraces were crumbling, Palladian pillars had gouges in their stonework and windows were often boarded. A pensioner gazed out from behind grubby lace towards the grey line of the sea, mentally living in better days, frightened of the present, blocking her mind to the future. Anne, trying to find a release from her own thoughts, imagined the old lady existing on scraps, buying one potato at a time from the scantily stocked little newsagent that appeared at the end of the long, cheerless street.
Secondhand furniture shops, their cheap and hideous wares stacked up on the pavement, secondhand car lots, herb and mineral emporiums for a new-age clientele, chapels that had either been closed or were derelict, others that had been turned into workshops, a few that were still devoted to religion, largely of the evangelical kind.
The streets also appeared to be home for the mad. A woman in a dark and ragged overcoat pushed a pram in front of her, talking of lost fortunes and the “bastard” who had inherited — a litany which Anne found herself in sympathy with, so close to home were the sentiments. An old gentleman, clearly once a martinet and now desperately poor, walked past them in shirtsleeves and braces, calling on the Lord to redeem a wicked world. A young man, hardly out of his teens, gleefully stacked bricks in a derelict front garden, grinning wolfishly and talking fervently about deceit and the voices that were directing his life. An elderly transvestite snarled at him, making accusations of a sexual kind, and a man on a bike, clad in tee-shirt and shorts, cycled down the mean streets barefoot, a toe bleeding, his lips bared in a ferocious smile.
With some relief they glimpsed the sea, hurrying down a plaster-scarred back street, the sound of heavy rock throbbing from an open window, the smell of marijuana, the glimpse of a pale and dreadlocked girl.
Then they were facing the jaded promenade, the winter sea swirling over the pebbles whilst discontented gulls screamed for fish. Anne and Joe slowed down, standing under a gilded Victorian canopy, once fronting elegant shops but now giving rusty splendour to a secondhand car showroom, more secondhand furniture and bicycles.
“It’s as if time has stopped,” observed Anne. “No jobs, no money, no life. It’s like some awful portent of the future.” But she knew she was only still postponing the present.
Joe did the same. “I was born here,” he said, knowing he had to begin somewhere and wanting to get her trust before he sprang his ultimatum. Suddenly he understood the pleasure Eamonn took in his fantasy life. Now he was going to experiment with it himself, just as he had done with Ruth. It had an addictive quality.
“I’m sorry.” She was embarrassed, but glad to be so, knowing they had both put the present on hold.
“No — you’re right. It’s an awful place. Are you getting cold?” he asked in concern, as she shivered slightly.
“I’m fine.”
“Let’s cross the road and walk by the sea. It’s not so depressing.”
“Do you have anyone left here, or don’t you want to—”
“I’d like to tell you,” Joe invented, as if with some difficulty. “I’m staying in my mother’s flat, but I’m just a drain on her. Of course I’ll get the benefit at the end of the week, but still — Anyway I can’t stay with her much longer — she’s right down on the breadline. Lucky the rent’s controlled and that’s her only bit of luck.”
Now they were passing a very different kind of building — a block of flats shaped like a ship, all jutting balconies and 1930s design. Like everything else it was in a bad state of repair, with the paint flaking off the sills, the plaster off the walls, the balcony railings thick with rust which also ran in steaks from the windowframes. The place looked more like an abandoned oil tanker than the luxury liner the architect had intended.
“She’s up there — in one of those,” Joe improvised.
“Is she old?”
“Early seventies. I was the only child.”
“That’s what I’ve got — an only child.”
“It’s never been easy but I love her — really love her — always tried to keep an eye on the old girl.” He paused, feeling safe in his invented scenario. It was definitely an improvement on the real world and it gave Joe time to prepare himself. “I grew up in this dead-end hole, went to school here. Dad died when I was ten — he had the big C. Mum and I got on all right until I was fourteen and she married my stepfather. Then I did the predictable things — got in with the wrong crowd. It nearly killed the old lady. First off it was minor offences and then juvenile bureau, but once I turned eighteen it was TDA and a bit of mugging on the side and eventually I went into Youth Custody and got a real education in crime. I had this thing about driving — still have — so I stole more cars and went to prison — real prison this time, but that was soft and I could handle it.” It was strange. Joe was really enjoying his story. “None of that drilling and you got more respect. Main problem was being banged up in a cell for hours every day.” Joe warmed to his invention, mixing fact with fiction, finding it coming off his tongue with increasing facility. “Then I got lucky and met Devra. She was a probation officer. Mine. We married and I got myself a kid — Alan. He’s two. But I still couldn’t keep straight. Mark you — I did try one bum job after another. I’ve been a mechanic, back lot car salesman — never stayed in anything for long. Always wanted to take and drive away a decent car. Kind of compulsion, really. Anyway — I went back inside and Devra and Alan left me. Still see them though. I love them so much. Know I let them down. Perhaps I’ve still got a chance —”
“What’s that?”
“I was thinking of emigrating to Canada. Take them with me.”
“Will she go?”
“She might. Talked about a fresh start — if we could get away somewhere.”
“Would it work out there?”
“She seems to think so.”
“What about you?”
“There’s nothing here.” He shrugged. “But I don’t see —”
“Can you pay your fare?” Anne intervened. A bizarre idea had floated into her mind that gave her a sudden sense of possible release.
“No,” said Joe woodenly.
“Have you got a job to go to? I think you can only go on a holiday visa unless you have.”
“There’s a bloke I know who used to run a garage in Brighton. He was inside with me, as a matter of fact. Fraud. Now he’s gone to Toronto and he’ll find me a job.”
“What about your record?”
“Devra could talk it through — it’s my last chance to go straight. I recognize that.” Joe was beginning to wonder if he was going over the top. What had sounded original now seemed like well worn clichés and he gave Anne Lucas a covert glance, but she still seemed absorbed in what he was saying.
“You’re well educated,” she said tentatively, trying not to be patronizing.
“Self-educated. Always read a lot. Like music, too — classical.”
They sa
t down on a bench and looked out at the waves, the setting sun lighting their foaming white crests.
Joe yawned and stretched, and she saw the mermaid tattoo on his arm. Her senses reeled and a great clamour beat in her mind. Nevertheless, it was some time before she made the connection.
Chapter 6
“I never did want to be like the other losers down here. Didn’t have anything in common with them. But I suppose I got like them in the end. You can’t beat —”
“I like your tattoo,” Anne cut in, sounding foolish, a dim memory stirring.
He flinched slightly, as if she was mocking him. “I had it done when I was eighteen,” Joe said softly.
Anne couldn’t believe that this was happening, but suddenly she could distinctly hear Peter’s voice saying, “Someone’s father. Someone’s son.” It must be a coincidence, she thought. It has to be. The connection was made and the shock waves spiralled.
They were silent, watching the tide slowly withdraw, leaving pebble-dashed sand.
“So you’re off to a new start,” she said brightly, her thoughts in turmoil.
He laughed derisively. “I haven’t got a bean.”
She thought he looked shaken but it could have been her imagination.
“Will you do something criminal to get the money?”
He shook his head.
“Then why don’t you try again with Devra? Make your new start here.”
“It wouldn’t work.” He was adamant.
“Why not?” Anne tried to propel the conversation along but at the same time noticed he didn’t raise his arm again. Did he know she knew? What did she know, come to that? After so many days of sterility, she wasn’t used to life making so many demands on her. What she was thinking was absurd, crazy, incredibly stupid, yet she felt deeply afraid.
“She’ll control me. Make me feel I’m earning peanuts — which I would be, even if I could get a straight job.”
I Want Him Dead Page 17
