by Kerry Kaya
As he turned the steering wheel, his muscular forearms strained against the soft cotton of his shirt and his thoughts turned to Cathy. Just the very thought of her being in danger spurned him on, and pushing his foot down on the gas, he sped through the streets toward the south side of the estate even faster.
* * *
Fear caught in the back of Cathy’s throat. Her husband was dead. She’d actually killed him. Nestled safely inside her womb, her baby kicked out, this time a lot softer than it had previously, and absentmindedly, she placed her blood-stained palm upon her swollen tummy. The gentle kicks were somewhat soothing to her.
Surprisingly, she found that her husband’s actual death didn’t bother her as much as she’d always imagined that it would. In fact, if she was being really honest with herself, the moment she had come face-to-face with his young lover, his little slut, something had changed inside of her, and her feelings had shifted. She couldn’t say that she loathed him, but in the same breath, she couldn’t say with a certainty that she loved him either.
She walked sedately to the sink, twisted open the tap and began to methodically wash away the blood that stained her hands. No, if she was being really honest, what bothered her more, much more, was the consequences of her actions. What would become of her now? What would happen to her child? She couldn’t go to prison; she knew that as well as she knew her own name.
She dragged her wet hand across her cheek, her skin as pale as the white porcelain china cups that somehow sat unscathed on the kitchen sideboard. It was self-defense, wasn’t it? That’s what she would tell the police. She’d killed him before he had the chance to kill her and their unborn child, and he would have done, she was certain of it. Her bruised face and battered, aching body were proof of that.
She looked down and watched with fascination as the dark copper-coloured liquid that had been her husband’s blood swirled down the plug hole. At that moment, the unmistakable iron scent that was as alien to her as it was distinctive, hit her nostrils.
Suddenly, her stomach lurched, making bitter acrid bile rise up in her throat, and hanging onto the stainless-steel sink, she began to wretch. She glanced over her shoulder. Terrance lay still in a pool of blood, his deathly pale bloated face was already beginning to turn grey, and his unblinking, unseeing, lifeless eyes stared up at the ceiling. There and then, Cathy wretched even harder.
Chapter 7
Downing her wine, Angie made her excuses and left the pub. Out on the street, she pulled her thick coat around her slim frame and began the short walk across the estate.
As her high-heeled shoes clip-clopped across the pavement, she told herself she was only doing what she should have done a long time ago, the first time she’d ever had an inkling that her son-in-law had taken his fists to her daughter.
It had taken young Paul Mooney to make her realise that she’d let her only child down, and as much as she hated to admit it, Paul was right. What sort of a mother was she? Screwing up her face, she snarled, as she recalled Paul’s words, just who the fuck did the little bastard think he was talking to? So what if she liked a drink, that was her prerogative, her choice, and she was a big girl, she could do whatever the fuck she liked.
She lit a cigarette and puffed on it absentmindedly. Paul Mooney knew nothing about the sacrifices she had made, nor the hardship that she had suffered as a single mother. She’d scrimped and scraped to put a roof over her child’s head, to make sure she had food in her belly and clothes on her back. No, Paul knew fuck all, all right. She’d even sacrificed her teenage years for her daughter and had gone without many a time to raise her.
Burdened with a small child, no man had wanted to stay with her long term. Oh, they would charm her all right, and sweet talk their way into her bed, but after the deed was done and they had pulled their trousers back on, they couldn’t wait to get away from her. It was as if she was tainted somehow. Some of the men she had encountered over the years would even leave her with promises to call the next day, but they never did, and in the end, she never even expected them to.
Flicking the cigarette butt to the kerb, Angie sighed. She would have given anything and everything to have a man love her as much as Paul so obviously loved her daughter. Not that she was jealous of her girl, mind. Why would she be? It was something she often asked herself, and as the question entered her mind, waves of guilt washed over her. For a brief moment, she squeezed her eyes shut tight. Deep down, she knew she was jealous and that was half the problem. If she was being even more truthful with herself, she knew it had been envy that had made her tear the two youngsters apart. Her own spite had been the only reason she had poisoned Cathy’s mind against him. Why should her girl have a man like Paul, who was so obviously in love with her, when she herself had nothing, no one?
For so long, for so many years, she had blamed her daughter for the way of life she had lived, but she knew Cathy wasn’t the real problem, not really. After all, her girl was good, both inside and out, a real little stunner. God only knew that she should have been proud of her, yet she wasn’t. She couldn’t help but resent her daughter, and even when she had been a small child, her Cathy had been nothing other than a burden to her.
As Paul had not-so-kindly pointed out, she was hardly mother of the year material. She could count on one hand the amount of times she had actually taken her to the park or baked fairy cakes with her. Wasn’t that what normal real mothers did? The truth was, she was a selfish woman and she had never put Cathy’s needs before her own. All she’d ever done was put her own wants and her own happiness first, not that it had ever got her very far, mind.
Before she knew it, she had reached her destination, and as usual, nerves began to get the better of her. For all these years, she’d kept her mouth shut. It had been expected of her. He’d expected it, but no more, and unless he took action, she was going to scream her daughter’s parentage from the rooftops.
Lifting the brass door knocker, she let it drop back down with a loud clatter. It seemed to take an eternity for the door to open and she forced herself not to fidget. After all, there was only so many times she could wipe her clammy palms down the length of her denim skirt.
“Angie.”
She could hear the surprise in his deep voice. It wasn’t every day that she turned up on his doorstep, and as he arched an eyebrow toward her, she almost lost her nerve, but only almost. Young Paul had put the fear of Christ into her, and as she thought back on his threats, she gave an involuntary shiver.
“It’s Cathy.” She looked down at her feet and took a deep breath. “In all these years, I’ve never asked for anything.” She lifted her head and looked him in the eyes. “I’ve never asked anything of you. I’ve never asked you to declare her as yours. I never expected you to do that, and I never pushed you to either.”
His eyebrow inched up higher and his forehead furrowed, revealing deep-set lines. “I can sense a but coming?”
Angie nodded her head. “But … but I think she needs your help now.” As soon as the words had left her mouth, Angie looked away. Even now, she wasn’t thinking of her daughter, not really. All she was doing was trying to save her own skin. After all, wasn’t Cathy’s father as much to blame as she was? He’d let her down, too, hadn’t he?
“Then I think you’d better come in.” Pulling open the door, Samson Ivers moved his large frame to one side and gestured for her to enter his home.
Swallowing deeply, Angie gave a weak smile before stepping across the threshold.
* * *
Screeching to a halt outside a block of maisonettes, Paul yanked his key out of the ignition and flung open the car door. He took a moment to glance up at the building before slamming the door closed and jogging across the small courtyard. The area was in near darkness, and with just one dimly lit streetlight illuminating the way, he pulled open the entrance door and ran up the concrete staircase, taking the steps two at a time until he reached the upper walkway.
Briskly, he made his way alo
ng the landing, and reaching the front door, he took note of the quietness. The eerie silence made his heart lurch. Maybe he’d been wrong after all. Perhaps he’d overreacted and Cathy wasn’t in danger as he’d first feared. Perhaps she and Matlock were already in bed making up? He pushed the sickening thought from his mind, rubbed his hand across his face, and cursed himself. His overreaction was going to make him the laughing stock of the pub, and as he began to walk away, his cheeks flamed pink. After the way he’d attacked her, his sister would never let him live it down, of that he was certain. In a way, he didn’t blame her. The way he’d spoken to her was not only out of character, but also bang out of order.
He reached the concrete staircase, and with his hand on the bannister rail, he glanced back across to Cathy’s front door. He’d already made a fool of himself, why not go the whole hog? His strides were long as he retraced his steps, and without missing a beat, he thumped his fist on the wooden door.
* * *
Angie had never been inside Samson’s home before, and as she stepped inside the lounge, she resisted the urge to look around her. In fact, it took all of her strength to not look up at the framed portrait above the fireplace. Instinctively, she knew who it would be … Harriet, his late wife, and she would prefer not to see a picture of the woman he had chosen over her and their daughter, still taking pride of place in the lounge, thank you very much.
“So …” Taking a seat on an overstuffed armchair, Samson lit a cigarette and stretched out his long legs. “What’s this all about?” Two thick plumes of grey smoke snaked down from each of his nostrils as he studied her.
Gesturing toward the equally overstuffed sofa, Angie waited for him to nod his head before placing her handbag on the polished floorboards and perching her backside on the edge of the obviously expensive piece of furniture. Despite not wanting to, she found her eyes traveling upwards until she found Harriet’s face staring back down at her. The curve of Harriet’s smile looked almost triumphant, just like the cat who’d got the cream. In a way, she supposed that she had. After all, she had won Samson’s heart, hadn’t she?
“Well?”
She tore her eyes away from the portrait, swallowing down the ripple of jealousy she felt. Why should Harriet have lived the high life when she was the one who had birthed his child? She swallowed down a second wave of jealousy, knowing full well she wasn’t the only woman to have born him children. If the rumours were true, then her Samson, as she always privately thought of him, had fathered enough children to make a football team.
“Angie.”
There was more than a hint of impatience in his tone and she resisted the urge to snap at him, to tell him to shut up and let her think.
“It’s Cathy,” she finally answered.
“So you said.” He shrugged his shoulders as though bored, as though her turning up out of the blue and wanting to talk about their daughter was an everyday occurrence.
“Actually no, this isn’t about Cathy at all.” She sat up straighter, and her blue eyes flashed dangerously. “This is about Paul, Paul Mooney.”
“What about him?” Samson narrowed his eyes and there was an edginess to his voice that pleased Angie to no end.
Angie allowed herself to smile. She could see now that she had his full attention. “I want you to get rid of him. He’s causing problems for our daughter and he needs disposing of.”
She watched him stand up, walk across the room, and open a polished walnut sideboard. It wasn’t until he took out two crystal glasses that she realized it was a drinks cabinet. He poured out a generous measure of whiskey into each glass, then passed one across to her. She took a sip, grimacing as the gold-coloured liquid burned the back of her throat.
Samson drained his drink in go, and pouring out a second one, he held out the filled glass in a celebratory manner. “Don’t worry about Mooney,” he grinned. “I’ve got my own plans for that little upstart, and let’s just say that his days on this earth are well and truly fucking numbered.”
Angie took a sharp intake of breath. She hadn’t expected her request to be met so easily. Sipping at her whiskey, she swallowed the liquid down and a slow smile spread across her face. “That, Samson,” she grinned, “is one of the greatest things you have ever said to me.”
* * *
Still hanging onto the sink, Cathy’s head jerked toward the front door. Fear grasped at her heart and icy shards of blind terror ran down the length of her spine. She let out a strangled sob. It had to be the police, it just had to be. Someone must have heard her screaming and called them. Any other day, she would have been grateful, but that was before, before she had stabbed her husband and ended his life.
In a daze, she began to walk forward. The thumping on the front door grew louder, and for a short moment, she closed her eyes tight. No one was going to believe it was self-defense. Just one glance at the blood-soaked woolen coat she was still wearing was enough to tell her that. What had she even done to help save her husband’s life? Nothing, that’s what. She hadn’t even called for an ambulance.
With shaking hands, she reached out for the door handle. All she wanted to do was run away, but even she wasn’t daft enough to know that was an option.
“Cathy, it’s me, Paul. Open up.”
Her shoulders slumped downward and she exhaled loudly. In that moment, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. All she felt was relief wash over her. Tentatively, she moved closer, her fingers curling around the metal door handle.
“Cathy, open the door.”
His voice made her pause. As ridiculous as it seemed, once he’d found out what she’d done, what was to stop Paul from calling the police? After all, he wouldn’t want to incriminate himself, would he? At the same time, it would hardly be good for business if he suddenly became an informer, a grass. Oh, she was so confused and she rubbed her hand across her face, wishing that the action would somehow make everything all right.
“Cathy.”
She positioned herself in front of the door took a deep breath, pulled down the handle, and inched it open a crack, just enough so she could peer through the tiny gap.
“Go away, Paul.”
Paul gave her a bright smile, the kind of smile that would have made her tummy flip over once upon a time.
“I’m just checking that you’re okay.” He jerked his thumb behind him. “I heard about what happened, you know, back in the pub,” he said, trying to peer past her into the flat.
Instinctively, Cathy closed the gap. “Just go away, please,” she begged of him. “Now isn’t a good time.”
“Come on, Cath.” He placed his hand on the wooden door and the action almost made her heart stop beating. All he had to do was gently push and she would go flying backward. She felt as though all of her strength had left her. “I only wanted to check up on you. Is he here, Terrance, I mean?”
The sound of her husband’s name was enough to make her voice shake. “No … no he’s not. Please, Paul, just go away.”
Her words seemed to have the desired effect, and nodding his head, he made to walk away. It was only as her fingers relaxed their grip that the door flew wide open and smashed against the wall with a loud crash, and then much to Cathy’s horror, he was stepping over the threshold.
* * *
With a spring in her step, Angie made her way back to The Jolly Fisherman. If luck was on her side, she would make it in time to have a couple of drinks before last orders were called. Hugging her arms across her chest, she grinned happily to herself. It was about time Samson had come in useful. After all, the bugger had done sod all to help her out over the years. Not a single penny had he given her while her Cathy had been growing up, and all the while, he and the bitch he’d been married to had lived the life of riley. He had a beautiful home, did Samson. The best house on the estate by far, it boasted a paved driveway that in itself was larger than her two-bedroom flat. As for the house, well, the bay windows with the thickly lined swag curtains were just gorgeous.
She thought of her daughter then and the smile slid from her face. In a rare moment of motherly concern, she wondered if she was okay. Her son-in-law had really whacked her one and she knew for a fact that it wasn’t the first time either. She pushed the thought to the back of her mind. Of course her girl would be okay. She was tough, just like she herself was, and let’s face it, with the upbringing she’d had, her Cathy had had no other choice but to be strong.
Looking up and down the street, she waited for a car to pass, then quickly crossed the road. The pub was like a beacon to her. The brightly lit lights that shone through the window, and the faint sound of music called to her, it always had done. As she reached the saloon bar entrance, she paused and looked around her. Paul Mooney’s threat was at the forefront of her mind and noting that he wasn’t in close proximity, she shrugged her shoulders and plastered a wide smile across her face. Like Samson had said, his days were numbered, and she held the knowledge to her, as if it were a great big secret. In fact, it was one of the best secrets she could have ever been told, and keep it to herself, she most certainly would.
Chapter 8
As a wave of nausea forced its way through Cathy’s body, her heart plummeted. The situation had now become real, as though Paul’s very presence inside the maisonette had brought her back to reality. The reality being that her husband was laid out on the kitchen floor in a pool of his own blood, as dead as a dodo.
She watched Paul bring his arms up to his head. His elbows tucked in as he held onto the back of his neck. “What the fuck?” He turned to look at her, his eyes wide and disbelieving. Within moments, he was upon her, his eyes trawling over her face, inspecting the injuries Terrance’s meaty fists had inflicted. “What the fuck has he done to you?”
