by David Bowker
“Oh, yes. I came very close. I once spent a whole day following you around in the car, just hoping for a chance to run you over.” I could think of absolutely nothing to say. Seeing me sweating, Danny pursued his advantage. “See this?” He held out his hand to indicate his wedding ring.
“What about it?” I said.
“I notice you’re not wearing one.”
“Caro and I don’t bother much with social conventions.”
“Maybe she thinks wearing your ring would be a lie too far,” said Danny, grinning unpleasantly.
“What are you talking about?”
“Caro isn’t married to you. How could she be? She’s still married to me. I got a quickie divorce from my first wife in the spring of ’96. Then I married your wife. Or should I say, my wife.”
“That’s shit and you know it.”
“Ask her,” said Danny.
“She took out a court order against you,” I said. “The marriage was over.”
“It was never formally annulled,” said Danny. “Technically, she’s a bigamist. As well as a murderer, a fraudster, and a first rate bitch.”
I swallowed noisily. Danny gazed down at the gun in his hands. “But what am I telling you for? You know what she’s like as well as I do. It doesn’t stop us from wanting her.” He flicked off the safety catches and aimed at my head. “But Mark, we can’t both have her. One of us has gotta go.”
“Don’t shoot,” I said.
“I have no choice,” said Danny.
Then he pushed the muzzle of the weapon into his own mouth and squeezed the trigger. There was a short, ludicrously loud BLAM. The back of Danny’s head burst open, bucketing oily red blood all over the wall behind him. Death was not instantaneous. Danny lived long enough to blink twice and murmur one last word. It was muffled by the gun in his mouth, but I’m pretty sure he said, “Ow.”
I didn’t like seeing him there, sucking on a gun barrel, so I took the Kimber from him. Then Caro rushed in, to see Danny’s blood everywhere and me holding the gun with its gory red barrel. Naturally, Caro automatically assumed I’d shot him myself. “God,” she said. There was real awe in her voice. “You don’t fuck around, do you?”
“Get away from me,” I said.
“What?”
“You heard. Fuck off, bloodsucker.”
She backed away in fear. “I understand,” she said. “You’re all psyched up. That’s all it is. I’ll talk to you later. Okay?”
* * *
I COULDN’T stay angry with Caro for long. I had barely digested what Danny had told me before I started making excuses for her. Maybe she did tell Danny to kill me. So what? She didn’t mean it. She was seventeen, little more than a child.
She must have said something rash in the heat of the moment that Danny had taken seriously. He was obviously sick in the head, even then. He had to be. What kind of forty-year-old man would be insane enough to embark on a sexual relationship with a seventeen-year-old girl?
What kind of forty-year-old man would be insane enough not to?
I found her lying on a bed in one of the empty rooms. You could really tell that paying guests used to sleep here. The bed was covered in a pink candlewick counterpane. On the wall hung a bad watercolor that some idiot had painted in his sleep. Probably while he was having a nightmare. The room had its own washbasin that gurgled when you turned on the tap.
We lay in each other’s arms, dozing without really sleeping. I noticed that she was shaking and wondered whether she was scared of me or the fact that there were two corpses in the house. I was vaguely aware of the light arriving and birds singing. I closed my eyes and drifted for a while, then heard someone shouting my name. “Mark! Mark?”
The room faced onto the square. I went to the window and peered out through the curtains. To my absolute horror, my mum and dad were standing down in the square, beside their well-polished Citroën. They were staring straight up at me. I ducked back into the room, but it was too late. I knew they’d seen me. Mainly because my mother had waved.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I said.
“Is it the police?” said Caro, sitting up in bed.
“No, worse,” I said. “It’s my fucking parents.”
During this exchange, my dad continued to whistle and shout.
“You’ll have to talk to them,” said Caro.
“How? There’s a dead body in the back room!”
“Use the window,” advised Caro.
I opened the window and leaned out.
“Hi,” I said.
My dad smiled up at me. “Are you still in bed, you idle bugger? It’s half past eleven in the bloody morning!”
“We had a late night.”
“Pardon?”
I repeated myself, this time shouting so he could hear me.
“Are you going to let us in or not?”
“I can’t.”
“Don’t be so soft,” said my dad. “Open the bloody door.”
“It’s not a good time.”
“We wanted to surprise you,” said Dad.
“You have done.”
My mother’s face darkened. “Is that all you’ve got to say? We’ve driven a hundred and odd miles to see you.”
“Caro’s really ill,” I explained. “She’s got chicken pox. We’ve been told not to come into contact with anyone.”
“We’ve both had chicken pox,” said my mum.
“But you can still get it again,” I countered.
My mother looked skeptical. “Stop making excuses and let us in.”
“I’ll tell you what,” I improvised. “There’s a pub round the corner. I’ll meet you there in about ten minutes. We could have lunch.”
“All right. But you’re bloody paying,” shouted Dad.
They held an emergency conference. I saw my dad trying to be reasonable, my mum waving her arms about and shaking her head. I felt like crying as I watched them walk away. Mum and Dad. Dad and Mum. They had only ever wanted the best for me, and here I was, two corpses in the house and Christ knows how many more on the way.
* * *
“I SUPPOSE Tom told you where to find us?” I said.
Dad nodded.
“You look terrible,” said my mum.
“What’s going on?” asked my father. “Hasn’t Caro been feeding you properly?”
“Dad, we’re a modern couple. The woman isn’t expected to do all the cooking these days.”
“Oh, I see,” he said. “And just what exactly is she expected to do? Sit on her backside all day, I suppose?”
We were sitting at a table in the pub’s dining room, each holding a crap menu. My mother still hadn’t recovered from being turned away from the house. “You could at least have offered us a cup of tea,” she said.
“We can have tea here,” I said brightly. “Should I order a pot now?”
“I think you know what your mother means,” said my dad, warning me with his eyes.
“I don’t know whether you’ve heard of it,” I said, “but there’s this wonderful new invention called a tel-e-phone. That’s what people do nowadays. They phone to arrange a visit.”
“We shouldn’t have to arrange anything,” said Mum. “We’re family. When I was little, my mum’s sister and brothers were always dropping in unannounced.”
“It was a bit of a bloody nuisance, though,” said Dad, laughing.
“No!” said mum. “People liked to see each other. We saw each other because we all got on. We didn’t try to get rid of each other by making up cock-and-bull stories about chicken pox.”
I suddenly felt a massive gush of love for her. I got out of my chair, walked over to her seat, and kissed her. “Mum, I’m sorry.”
Tears came to her eyes, and I knew I was forgiven.
A waitress arrived to take our order. We asked her to come back in five minutes.
“It’s just that things between the two of us haven’t been working out,” I said. “That’s why I made up the chicken pox lie.
The atmosphere in that house is poisonous. We’re at each other’s throats twenty-four hours a day.”
“I know,” said Mum.
“How do you know? What do you mean?”
My dad smiled indulgently. “You know your mother’s dreams. She’s been dreaming about you a lot lately.”
“What kind of dreams?” I said.
Mum took a tissue from her bag and blew her nose. “Oh, terrible, mixed-up things. I just knew something wasn’t right.”
Dad nodded. “That’s why we came to see you, son. She couldn’t stop worrying about you.”
“Caroline was never right for you,” said my mum. “You should never have married her.”
“We’re stuck with each other now,” I said. “She’s pregnant.”
They were both so stunned they could barely speak. I was aware of their reservations about Caro, but until that moment I had no idea how much they actively disliked her. “Didn’t you know it’s customary for parents to be happy when they find there’s a grandchild on the way?”
“Well, she’d make a terrible mother,” said my father. “She’s only interested in herself.”
“You think she’s a bad person?”
“Not exactly. We just want to see you settled, and we don’t think you could ever be settled with a girl like that. It’s like when I was younger and bluffed my way backstage after that Wings concert.”
“Oh, no,” I said. “Not the dreaded Paul McCartney ancedote.”
“Hang on,” said my dad. “I’ve never told you the full story. Yes, I met Paul McCartney. Yes, I talked to him in his dressing room, and yes, it’s my only claim to bloody fame. What I didn’t tell you was that while we were chatting, McCartney’s eyes kept darting round the room, looking for someone more important to talk to.”
“What’s this got to do with Caro?”
“Well, if you ask me, that’s what she’s like,” said Dad. “Always on the lookout for a better offer. She’ll never be happy with someone ordinary.”
My mother was nodding in agreement.
“Who are you calling ordinary?” I said. “I’m not ordinary.”
“Ordinary isn’t the right word,” said my mother. “Normal. You’re normal.”
“That’s even worse.”
My dad cleared his throat. “I drove by Caro’s old flat the other day,” he said. “All the windows were boarded up. The porch had caved in. I never realized what a bloody slum the place was. Looks like it’s been hit by a bomb.”
“That’s landlords for you,” I said.
“Oh, and someone was asking after you,” said Mum. “Nice chap. Came round to the house. Tall with long hair and a beard. What was his name? Victor something. Said he wished to be remembered to you and did I have your address?”
“You didn’t give it to him?”
“I thought I’d better check with you first,” she said.
“Don’t tell him where I am,” I said.
My parents exchanged worried glances. “He’s just someone I met in a pub,” I added quickly. “He’s a Jehovah’s Witness. You know how persistent they can be.”
“What was he doing in a pub?” said Dad. “I thought Jehovah’s Witnesses didn’t drink.”
“Who said he was drinking?” I said.
My dad gave me a look to show he wasn’t fooled.
“What about this baby?” said my mother. “Was it planned?”
“Not exactly.”
She tutted. My dad sighed.
“Things have been bad,” I conceded. “But listen, I want you both to know something. Nothing that’s happened or may happen is your fault. I couldn’t have wished for better parents. You’re not to blame for the way I’ve turned out.”
“Son,” said my dad. “What are you talking about? We love you. We couldn’t be happier with the way you turned out.”
* * *
AFTER LUNCH we took a stroll by the seafront. It was a dry, windy day. The clouds rolled like gunsmoke. The waves were tall, their white crests rising far out to sea. “You know, it’s a shame,” commented my father. “This wouldn’t be such a bad place to live if you and Caro were getting on better.”
I walked my parents back to their car, waiting until they had driven away before entering the house, quickly slamming the front door behind me in case the smell of death leaked out.
The lino in the hall was damp, and there was a reassuring smell of disinfectant. Caro, wearing a headscarf and rubber gloves, came down the stairs to greet me, a wan smile on her face. I could see that I had redeemed myself and was back in her good books. Once again, I was her indispensable personal assassin.
“I’ve been cleaning up the bedroom. The blood has come off the walls, but we’ll have to dump the bedding. Luckily, nothing seeped through to the mattress. But I’m never sleeping in that bed again. Or that room.”
I nodded darkly.
“What’s the matter?” she said.
“Before he died, Danny told me something. He says you asked him to kill me.”
“That’s crap,” said Caro.
“Are you sure? I did almost get run over outside my house.”
“Well? You always were a clumsy fucker.”
“And another thing,” I said. “What’s this about us not being legally married?”
Now Caro looked affronted. “What about it?”
“Is it true?”
“Well, if you’re going to be really pedantic…”
“So it is true?”
“Legally, maybe,” she said. “But not spiritually.”
“Of course it’s true! If you and Danny never got a divorce, it’s true.”
“I decided we were divorced,” she said. “I didn’t want to see him or hear him or be near him or be touched by him ever again. That’s about as divorced as you can get. As far as I’m concerned, it was official.”
“It’s up to a judge to make that decision. Not you.”
“Why? Why should some dirty ex–public school prick who’s into child pornography have the authority to say whether I’m married or not?”
I sighed. “If no one but you has the right to say whether you’re divorced, no one has the right to say you’re married. So why did we get married? You should have married us yourself.”
“You’re right,” said Caro. “I should.”
“And Wallace. You even screwed Wallace? For fuck’s sake!”
Caro didn’t seem to think this warranted a response.
I followed her upstairs, to be shocked anew by the sight of Danny lying dead on the bed. Caro’s optimism about the walls was slightly misplaced. Although she had indeed sponged most of the gore away, the once-white walls were now tinted pink. The whole room seemed to be screaming murder.
“I’ll tell you about me and Danny, shall I?” she said. “When I married him, I thought he was a romantic figure. Then I found out he never washed properly. He always had dirty fingernails. He ate with his mouth open. What’s worse, he taught art but he didn’t have the remotest spark of talent. His paintings were like smears of shit. He was always scratching himself and farting. I might as well have married a chimpanzee.”
We tried to put trash bags over the chimpanzee, only to discover he was as stiff as a board. “How long does rigor mortis last?” Caro asked me.
“A few hours, I think. It might not make any difference. We can’t move the bodies before midnight, anyway.”
“And just exactly where are we going to move them?”
“The same grave as before. We might as well.”
“What if someone’s noticed it’s been tampered with? What if Danny didn’t bother to fill it in?”
“Then we’re fucked.”
* * *
WHEN IT was dark I took a flashlight and went next door to see if Danny had left anything incriminating behind. The back door was unlocked, so I went inside, my footsteps echoing through the empty rooms. In one of the bedrooms, I found a greasy sleeping bag. Underneath the pillow was an ancient, crumpled Pol
aroid. It was a picture of Caro at seventeen, sitting in a field. She was smiling at the camera, a piece of straw dangling from the corner of her mouth. On the back, in smudged ink, someone had written “free and in love.”
That was all. It was just an empty, unfurnished house, sad and neglected. Unlike the house next door, which we’d brightened up considerably by splattering blood over the walls.
When I stood in the kitchen, I could hear a radio booming through the wall. Ricky Cragg was listening to the World Service. The old man seemed so cheerfully self-contained, so willfully indifferent to the world around him. I wondered if he ever got lonely. Then I bolted the back door and returned to the house next door.
Caro was in the kitchen, playing a Durango album at antisocial volume. I went up to the bathroom, took the gun out of my trouser belt, and sat on the toilet seat, trying to analyze our situation. This is what I came up with. Most of the trouble we were in had been caused by Caro. Some of it was God’s fault. None of it was my fault. I was blameless. In fact, I admired myself tremendously.
So what was I worrying about?
Feeling better, I left the bathroom and began to descend the stairs. Then I stopped. I saw there was a man standing in the hall below, looking solemnly up at me. A cold wind blew through me as I recognized the Jazzman. Bad Jesus had found us. And there was no doubt in my mind that Bromley and Flett had led him to our door.
The Jazzman was holding a shotgun. I glanced back toward the bathroom, where I’d left my gun, resting on the linen basket. I couldn’t decide whether to go back for it or not. The Jazzman helped me make up my mind. In a rapid flowing motion, he pumped the shotgun and aimed it at my head.
“Down,” he ordered, as if I were a very bad dog.
Caro and Jesus were seated at the kitchen table. Caro had tears in her eyes and a red handprint on her left cheek. Jesus was holding her hand, more out of sadistic ownership than affection. There was broken glass on the floor where the Jazzman had smashed the window in the door to get in. Cancer Boy, chewing gum noisily, was smiling as he counted our money.
Bad Jesus wasn’t smiling. He looked stern and cold, as if he were about to rebuke the Pharisees or cast the moneylenders out of the temple. “You’re the dirty rat who killed my brother,” he said.
“No,” I said. “I liked your brother. I wouldn’t have done anything to hurt him. I know exactly who planted the bomb.”
