by J. L. Merrow
“His full name’s Mike Novak. Mikolaj,” I blurted, then felt like a bastard. More of a bastard. “I spoke to Mum. Sorry. Didn’t know you were still, you know. Digging. He lived in Stoneyhill Road. Number forty-four.”
Phil’s face closed off, and he looked away. “Right. So you don’t need me anymore, then. Right.”
Now I felt like a total bastard. “I didn’t . . . Look, it just happened. Talking to Mum. I was there, and Dad was snoring away, and I just . . . wanted to know, you know? So I asked her. Think she was relieved I’d finally got round to it, actually.”
He nodded. “S’pose it’s none of my business anyhow.”
That fucking stung. “S’pose not,” I agreed, not looking at him either.
I felt the draught as he walked away, and then heard the front door shut quietly behind him.
I got about as much sleep that night as you’d expect and staggered out of bed the next morning feeling worse than I had when I’d got in it.
I’d fucked up. Christ, I’d fucked up.
Hadn’t meant to, but then who the hell ever does? I should’ve known what having sex like that would do to Phil. Especially after I’d told him straight I didn’t trust him not to hurt me.
I hadn’t even given him a fucking choice, had I?
And the stupid part, the really, pathetically, stupid part, was that I knew he was more vulnerable than he liked to let on. I knew it.
I knew him.
I couldn’t believe I’d managed to lose sight of that fact. I’d been so bloody worked up about the stuff I’d been told about him, I’d completely forgotten I’d spent the last seven or eight months in close contact with the bloke. Seeing how he’d react in any given situation—and Christ, there had been a few.
Finding out about stuff he’d done in the past was like . . . like finding out my dad wasn’t who I thought he was. I wasn’t a different person now than I had been before I’d known. And neither was Phil. Maybe the hot weather over the last few weeks had fried my brain.
Maybe I hadn’t had much of one to start with. God, Phil Morrison was the single best thing that’d happened to me, and I’d done my best to shove him away. If he never came back . . . I didn’t want to think about him not coming back. But it’d be no more than I deserved.
I had a couple of jobs booked in for the morning, neither of them too complicated, thank God. I managed to slog my way through, although the customer service was definitely lacking. If I got any repeat business from these two, I’d be very surprised.
I thought about calling Phil at lunchtime, maybe ask him to meet me. But it’d probably be better to give him a bit of time to cool off. Not that he’d been angry with me, but, well. I wouldn’t have blamed him if he had been. So I had a lonely cheese sandwich in the van and pretended to read the paper, then went through the motions of work again in the afternoon.
I couldn’t muster the energy to cook anything for dinner—just had a sandwich made up of odds and sods from the fridge. And half a pack of choccy biccies.
Then I stared at the telly for a bit, because it was either that or get drunk, and let’s face it, I was running pretty low on brain cells already. The last thing I needed was to pickle the few remaining ones in alcohol.
And, yeah, I could have called someone. But then I’d have had to actually talk to them. So no go there.
When my phone rang, I broke all land-speed records dashing into the kitchen where I’d left it on charge. But it wasn’t Phil calling.
“Tom?” Marianne sounded even more little-girly on the phone.
I mustered up a vaguely cheerful tone to answer her. “Hullo, love. What can I do you for?”
“Is Phil with you? I been trying to call him, but he ain’t answering.”
My heart sank, proving I’d been wrong about having hit rock bottom already. “No. Sorry. Not sure where he is.”
“Can I ask you something, then?”
“Course you can, love.” A thought hit. “Long as it’s not investigating any more nasty niffs in the cellar, all right?” I laughed so she’d know I was joking.
Although I really wasn’t.
“No, see, it’s nothing like that. I just need a bit of advice.” She took a deep breath. “It’s about Kev, see? He texted me. He wants me to go meet him.”
“What, at the Dyke?” I looked at my watch. It was past eleven already, which seemed suspiciously late for a meeting. Still, maybe he didn’t know the pub was closed at the mo.
“No. He said to go over to this hotel he’s staying at and meet him in the bar. It’s in St. Albans. He said he’ll give me the taxi fare when I get there. He said we got to talk about stuff. ’Cept, I don’t want to go, see? I don’t want to talk to him, ’cos he don’t listen.”
“Men, eh?”
“And if I’m honest, see, there’s always the chance ’e might talk me into going back ’ome with him. It’s been horrible, since—you know.” I knew, all right. “I ain’t slept a wink, and I been getting these dreams . . .”
Which was a bit contradictory, but I knew what she meant. “So don’t go,” I said firmly. “Just ’cos he’s asked you, doesn’t mean you have to do what he says. Why don’t you make yourself a cup of cocoa, bung a bit of rum in it, and turn in for the night? If he wants to talk to you so bad, he can come round and see you. In the daylight, at the pub, with Harry around to keep an eye on him.” I wondered why she hadn’t asked Harry for advice, but it seemed a bit rude to ask.
“Okay,” Marianne said, sounding relieved. “Doctor gave me these pills. Maybe I’ll take one of them.”
“You do that, love.” I tried to sound as encouraging as possible.
“Thanks, Tom. You’re a good friend.”
I felt a bit better after we’d hung up. It was a good half an hour later before a thought struck. Shit. What if Kev went round causing trouble for Marianne once he realised she wasn’t going to turn up like he’d told her to? I reckoned Harry could probably handle him, but what if the reason Marianne hadn’t asked her advice was that she wasn’t there?
Why the bloody hell hadn’t I checked up on that?
Damn it. Should I ring Marianne back and find out where Kev was staying, then go round there myself and give him a talking-to? They were supposed to be meeting in the bar, a public space; chances were Kev wouldn’t risk punching my teeth in for sticking my nose into his family’s business in front of witnesses. Trouble was, he wasn’t likely to pay a blind bit of attention to what I said either.
I hated to admit it, but physically, I was outclassed here. Kev was about twice my size—even on the very slim chance he kept it to a fair fight, I wasn’t going to be the one walking away from any little altercations we might have. It was like Carey had said—if you can’t beat ’em on strength, you have to choose other tactics . . .
Shit. Carey.
What if they hadn’t been on the same side after all? Or what if they had, and had just, I dunno, rubbed each other up the wrong way? Or if Kev had decided it was Carey’s fault Marianne had turned queer? Whatever the motivation, it was easy to imagine one punch from Kev being the thing that took Grant Carey out of the equation for good.
And the whole body-in-the-cellar thing—that actually made sense if it was Kev. He’d been a burglar, so he’d know how to get through the odd locked door. And if Harry got done for the murder, well, that’d serve the purpose of getting Marianne away from her . . .
Shit. I froze for a moment, then grabbed my phone and called Phil.
It rang and rang.
“Answer, you bastard,” I muttered. Then it occurred to me that if he picked up, it probably wouldn’t be a great start if the first words he heard from me were you bastard, so I shut my gob.
It didn’t make a difference anyway. He still didn’t answer.
Damn it. I couldn’t leave Marianne and Harry—if she was even there—to deal with a possible murderer on their own. Maybe Harry could take him in a fight, maybe she couldn’t, but the trouble was, she wouldn’t be exp
ecting any danger. Harry just thought Kev was a waste of space, not the sort who could kill a bloke and then try to frame her for it.
I dialled up Harry’s number, but it went straight to voice mail. For fuck’s sake, was this national no-phones night? Should I call Marianne back? With my luck, she’d be deep in artificially induced sleep by now. Even if she wasn’t, I could imagine how it’d go: ’Ullo, love, I think your brother’s a murderer. No, no evidence, just a gut feeling based on something your evil ex told me once . . . Hello? Hello?
Sod it. I sent Phil a quick text—Gon to Dyke, danger from Kev—and added plz cm at the end. Then I grabbed my keys and headed for the Fiesta.
Turned out the drive from Fleetville up to Brock’s Hollow was easily long enough to have second thoughts. And third and fourth thoughts, come to that. After all, what the hell was I basing all this panic on? A bloke who wanted to talk to his sister, that was all.
Then I had a fifth thought: if Kev wanted to go after Harry in any sort of homicidal fashion, wouldn’t he want Marianne out of the way?
I bombed down the country lanes, narrowly missed taking out a fox on the prowl, and took the final corner.
Shit. There was smoke coming from the windows of the Dyke.
And Kev Drinkwater was standing there in the beer garden. Watching the place burn.
I screeched to a halt in the car park, one of the furry dice hanging from my mirror nearly taking an eye out on the rebound. Just as I was about to jump out of the car, Phil’s Golf rounded the corner and skidded to a stop next to the Fiesta.
He’d come. He’d got my message and he’d come. And that meant . . . I didn’t have time right now to think what that meant.
But I was bloody glad he had.
What with all the stuff going on in my head, Phil got to Kev first. “What the fuck have you done?” he yelled, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and spinning him around in some weird, angry dance.
Looked like Phil had noticed the smoke too, then.
“Burnin’s too good for this place. She’ll ’ave to come ’ome now,” Kev said mulishly.
Jesus Christ. Didn’t he get it? “Marianne? Where is she?” I snapped out.
“She’s safe. I sent ’er to St. Albans.”
“She didn’t go!” I stepped up to him and shook him by the shoulder, yelling up into his thuggish, stupid face. His breath was sour and reeked of alcohol. “Jesus, is she still in there? Did you even fucking check? And Harry? What about her? Christ.” I let go of him, fumbled out my phone, and jabbed 999.
I gave the bloke on the other end the address, but he kept fucking talking, so I thrust the phone at Kev, who was still standing there, slack-jawed. “You talk to him. Do something useful for once in your life. I’m going in.”
Phil grabbed my arm. “Are you out of your mind?”
“Look, I can’t see any flames yet. That’s good, right? Means it’s not taken hold.” But smoke could kill too, couldn’t it? Shit, when a pub went up, did barrels and stuff explode? I mean, it did when the pub in EastEnders burnt down, but that was just telly, wasn’t it? God, I wished I knew where the bloody hell Harry was. Had this bastard killed her already? “Marianne’s in there—she’s in there because I bloody well told her not to go out. I’m not just going to leave her in there.”
“I’ll get her,” Phil said. “You stay here.”
“Fuck that.”
“Then we’re going in together.”
There wasn’t time to argue and anyway, if Harry was in there too, maybe passed out from the smoke—maybe worse, but God, I didn’t want to think about that—I’d need Phil to help me get them both out.
The door to the public bar wouldn’t open, but Kev had to have got in somehow to torch the place. I ran round to the kitchen door and sure enough, it was unlocked. When I pushed it open, smoke billowed out and the heat hit me like a cricket ball to the head. I flung up my arm in front of my eyes and wished I’d thought to do the whole wet-rag-over-the-face thing. Too late now. Needed to find out who was in here and get them out, pronto.
I blinked rapidly, and my vision cleared. I almost wished it hadn’t.
The old wooden staircase leading up to the bedrooms from the private area behind the bar was crackling away furiously—in fact, it seemed to be the centre of the fire. Kev, you bastard. The ceiling was cracked and mottled black.
There was a loud pop, and I jumped a mile. “Jesus!”
“Light bulb.” Phil’s voice was almost drowned out at the end by a crash as debris started to fall, and I jumped again.
Bloody hell, this place was turning into a death trap. Even if we managed to get to the stairs without cremating ourselves, what were the chances they’d hold our weight?
“Any ideas?” Phil yelled.
Think, Paretski. Then I remembered. What had Harry said was the only other way to get to Marianne’s room? The not-so-secret passageway in the fireplace, right over the other side in the lounge bar. It was so perfect I almost laughed. In an old building like this, what could be more fireproof than the bloody chimney?
I grabbed Phil’s arm. “This way,” I managed to gasp out before a coughing fit hit me.
I backed out of the bar, keeping hold of Phil to make sure he followed, heaved in lungfuls of air and legged it around the building. If Kev was still around, I didn’t notice him. Didn’t care.
“What’s the plan?” Phil panted.
“Secret passageway.”
He stared at me. “What?” I’d forgotten he didn’t know this place as well as I did.
“Seriously. In the fireplace. There’s a staircase. Goes up to the bedrooms. Fuck. Door’s locked.” I rattled the handle of the door to the lounge bar furiously, as if I’d be able to shake it loose somehow.
“Not a problem.” Phil picked up one of the heavy stone urns that stood by the door and heaved it through the window, flowers and all.
I stared for a moment at the massive hole in what had, until thirty seconds ago, been a nice, Olde-Worlde, diamond-paned window. “Yeah, that’ll do it.”
Phil used his elbow to knock out the last of the glass, then squeezed himself through the window and into the lounge bar. I was hard on his heels. The fire hadn’t got through the internal doors to reach this half of the building, thank God, and there was way less smoke, although that’d probably change pretty quick now we’d taken out a window and created a cross-draught. “Fireplace?” Phil yelled.
I nodded. The door to the passageway was locked, but a swift bit of vandalism with the fire irons soon sorted that. I opened the door and looked into darkness. Well, it was better than flames, but I had a nasty feeling they might be along any minute now.
Phil’s hand was on my arm. “Look, about last night . . .”
I spun around. “Forget it. Shouldn’t have happened.”
Christ, the pain in his eyes. I realised what it must have sounded like.
“I mean, not like that,” I said quickly. “I shouldn’t have made you . . . I’m sorry. I love you, all right?” I turned again, blinking a bit, and my heart thumping, blundered up the stairs. I couldn’t see a bloody thing—but there was only one way to go. Phil was close behind me, a guilty comfort.
The door at the top was only held by a flimsy little bolt, thank God. We found that out after Phil squeezed past me to shoulder it open a bit more explosively than I reckon either of us was expecting. The passageway opened straight into Marianne’s bedroom, and I groped around the wall until I found a light switch.
The room was plainer than you’d think, but with a few girly frills. There was a surreal feeling of normality in the room—no sign of fire, and it wasn’t even all that warm. For a moment, I felt daft for breaking in like that. Like I might have made a mistake, and there wasn’t a fire after all.
Then my breath caught in my throat, and I realised there was a soft-focus look to everything. Smoke was already seeping into the room—under the door, maybe, or even through the floorboards for all I knew.
Bloo
dy hell, Marianne hadn’t even woken up.
Her curls spilling over the pillow, she lay in bed under a duvet with a unicorn on it, looking like a prepubescent Sleeping Beauty waiting for her ten-year-old prince. I started in her direction. Phil barged past me to open the far door, and hot air and smoke billowed in from what must be Harry’s bedroom.
“Christ!” Hand over his mouth, he disappeared.
I froze, paralysed with the fear I was going to lose him here.
Before I’d even made things right with him.
I went weak with relief when Phil slammed back through the door and shut it behind him, an acrid waft of smoke coming with him and rolling across the ceiling.
“No sign of Harry in there,” he rasped. Then he shot ice water straight in my veins with his next sentence. “Going to need to go look for her. You get Marianne out.”
“You can’t go out there!” I yelped.
“What about Harry?”
Oh God. “Wait here a mo, I want to try something.”
He gave me a frankly doubtful look.
Shit. Harry wasn’t exactly hidden. Maybe the spidey-senses wouldn’t work. But maybe they would. I stood there, and listened.
Fucking.
Hell.
The vertigo was so sudden, I nearly fell over. Everything was painfully sharp and bright. It was like I was standing at the edge of a black hole, with Phil a burning white furnace in front of me and Marianne a brave little toaster off to one side.
“What?” Phil said above the roaring of the fire—unless it was just the blood rushing in my ears. He grabbed my arm. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” I gasped out, struggling to close the door on the vast emptiness I was looking into in my head. “I mean, literally, nothing. She’s not there. Trust me.”
He still didn’t look convinced. “You’re sure?”
“Positive. Come on, we’re wasting time.” I ran to Marianne, still, unbelievably, asleep in the midst of chaos. For a heart-stopping moment I thought she wasn’t breathing. Then an eyelid flickered.
