by Cathy Ace
They each helped the other rise to their feet. ‘I’ll make it, and you carry the tray through?’ said Edna, almost brightly. It was their usual division of labor.
‘Okey dokey,’ was Stephen’s jovial response, and they headed toward the kitchen.
Edna no longer knew what to think about anything; she was married to a murderer, who had been raised by a murderer, and she was rapidly coming to terms with the fact that sometimes, once it starts, murder is difficult to stop. Indeed, she was beginning to think that sometimes it might even be better to keep it going.
As she followed her tipsy husband she reminded herself she was now as much a Halyard as Joan had ever been, and that she too had a responsibility to the name her children bore. She wondered if she’d ever have to take action to protect that name in the way Joan and Stephen had done; she quickly told herself that was a silly thought – she wasn’t a killer.
But what if Stephen let something slip? He didn’t seem to understand that most people thought of murder as heinous; the way he’d just talked about it had proved that. What if he felt comfortable enough with the topic to discuss it with someone else? What if he had one too many glasses of port one night and said something, to someone? How could she ever be sure he wouldn’t say or do something to ruin their children’s futures?
As she pottered about in the kitchen a thought popped, unbidden, into Edna’s head: what if Stephen thought she might not be doing all she could to uphold the family name? What would he do? He’d killed already, and didn’t everyone say it got easier the more you did it? As Edna watched her husband kick up his heels and sing ‘their’ song, with a childishly happy grin on his face, she wondered how safe she was in her own home, her own car, or even when she was walking the dog.
Edna caught a glimpse of the rat poison tucked at the back of the highest cupboard, she noted the pill bottles pushed out of the reach of little fingers behind the tea caddy, she remembered the little wood axe in the woodshed. She suddenly realized she was surrounded by potentially lethal objects, none of which had ever seemed threatening before. By the time the tea tray was ready, her mood was black, and her soul deeply troubled.
Edna Halyard lay wide awake at the end of her fifth wedding anniversary with her beloved children sleeping peacefully in their own rooms, and her husband snoring gently on the pillow beside her. The outward signs of her life were the unchanged, but now she saw them from a totally new perspective; a perspective brought into sharp focus by the certainty she was married to a murderer. A perspective that made her question her own security. A perspective forcing her to totally re-evaluate her view of murder as being always a bad thing.
Stephen had been right in his assumption that she probably wouldn’t have married him if Joan hadn’t died, so she was already living a life facilitated by a couple of dead bodies. So what if, one day, there had to be one more little murder to allow her to hang onto her new life, her new name, and a secure future for her children? It would only be one more, after all.
As the sleepless hours passed, she felt with increasing certainty that Stephen couldn’t be trusted. She loved him, but he could be very irritating sometimes; more often than not, actually. That ‘man with the soul of a child’ thing could become terribly wearing; he was clearly never going to grow up. And his blasé attitude toward his murderous roots would always be a threat because of that childlike quality.
Edna stared bleakly into the darkness and finally realized that, after five years of bearing the name, she’d have to face up to becoming a fully-fledged Halyard. And probably sooner, rather than later. She wondered what poison Joan had been talking about putting into the vicar’s tea. She turned over and plumped the pillow; she’d do some research in the morning – if she knew anything, it was tea and, after all, it was what had brought her and Stephen together. Wouldn’t it, therefore, be the most appropriate way for her to get rid of him?
AUGUST
Shannah’s Racecar
Is this the end for me? For us? Us? Come off it, Sam, there’s no us. There’s me, lying in a pool of blood, and there’s Shannah, looking like a pile of crumpled clothing bundled in a corner of this ruined hangar. Is she even alive? Has he murdered us both? Surely not. But there’s all this blood; I never knew there was so much in me. Is that why I’m feeling so light-headed? As though everything is slipping away from me?
Why won’t this nutter just take the car and go? It’s what he’s come for, and good riddance to it. If I could find my phone I’d ring the police, but it’s slithered out of my pocket somehow. He’s still shooting at us, for crying out loud. I’ve never even seen a gun before today. Not in real life. This is so frightening, in so many ways. Why me? Why us? It’s all because of that blessed car, that’s why.
I only met Shannah for the first time this morning, and I’ve never seen the wretched car before today either. This whole situation would be almost ridiculous, if it weren’t for the gun, and the fact I’m bleeding like a stuck pig. It’s the sort of thing you hear about on the BBC news, and wonder how it could ever happen in England’s green and pleasant land. They never tell the whole story behind the headlines; nothing about the lives, hopes, or dreams of the victims. It’s just a shocking sound bite about a violent killing, usually with more said about the murderer than those murdered, then they’re onto the next thing. I don’t want my entire life to be summed up in a couple of cryptic sentences, followed by a list of which local roads will be closed for repairs next weekend. My life means more than that, doesn’t it?
But who will tell my story? No one else knows it. Not all of it, anyway. My choice. My fault. And who’ll explain to Pete why this happened on my first real job for him? Who’ll give the name of the bloke with the gun to the police? Maybe Pete will work it out. He should; he’s bright, sharp. Even so, I don’t want to become a name on a printout of statistics, with nobody caring that this happened just because I wanted to help a woman have a little fun. Doesn’t that mean something – that I did this to help someone? Maybe I chose to help the wrong person? Even if I did, who will speak for me, now?
If I can just get myself up off the floor, I can see how Shannah’s doing. If only this idiot would get into the car he seems to want so badly – and actually leave – then maybe we can take his vehicle and get back to my place. He can’t drive two cars at once; maybe I can still save us both from this madness.
I turn my head. Everything hurts. Beyond the hangar, on the horizon, I can see a rose-tiled oast house. I adore oast houses; their conical rooftops have been part of my life since I was a kid. Like our famous white cliffs, they’re what people always talk about when they think of the landscape here in Kent – a landscape that’s drawn me back to where I was born and raised, after so many years.
I can see the sky outside, too; it’s so big here – we’re known for it. So many blues. Every blue. I love the part of the day when the light’s changing. It’s like time’s at a point where it can go either way; as though you can go forward, or back.
All I have to do is stand up. But I can’t. I can’t move at all, now.
I know in my heart this is what ends it for me. As the last of my precious life-blood fills the fissures in the concrete floor, I think back about it all: Shannah’s racecar.
Only moments have passed since Shannah was able to speak. ‘Sam? Help me.’ Her voice was no more than a dry croak.
I stumble toward her as fast as I can. I can still run in spite of the wave of pain in my lower back; I have to help her. This was supposed to be a simple job; that’s why Pete gave it to me – his newest employee. The bloke shooting at us is Pete’s client – my client – Bert Sampson. Shannah’s not our client; I know, it’s confusing. And scary.
All this for a car? It’s just a thing; we’re human beings. That’s a big difference. Granted, my life might be pretty inconsequential, but it’s mine, and I’ve a right to live it as I please. Just because I was born to a mother with a drop or two of royal blood in her veins doe
sn’t mean I can’t control my own destiny, be my true self, does it? That alone has been difficult enough over the years. Now this?
I shout, ‘Take it. Go.’ I don’t know if Bert hears me; I hope he does. I finally collapse beside Shannah and grab her arm. It’s a hot evening and her skin’s wet with sweat, but cold.
I have to get us out of here. But first, I need to rest – just for a minute. I let go of her, and roll onto my back, I need to catch my breath.
We arrived half an hour ago for a good run around the tarmac in the car; it’s the second time we’ve been here today, but I don’t know how Bert knows about the place. Shannah must have mentioned it to him, even though she said she didn’t. Her ‘secret place’ clearly isn’t. I suppose he must have got fed up waiting for me to bring the car to Pete’s office for him. Or maybe he followed us. She said he wouldn’t be trouble, but he’s here now, and he’s all business. I see his face as he drives past me. There’s real hate there. Does he hate me, or her? Or does he just hate anyone who’s got his property? Maybe that. Then there’s the gun. The shots ringing so loud my ears hurt.
‘I don’t want any trouble,’ I shout.
I just want to get home. This was supposed to be a fresh start.
When Shannah was asleep on the bed in my flat that afternoon she’d looked so vulnerable. Appealing. I couldn’t look at her any longer, so I stood at the window, to smoke a cigarette, enjoy the afternoon sun on my face.
Best view in the world, this; I live on a hill overlooking Dover. Everyone thinks they know Dover – white cliffs, coastal paths, and a view of France on a clear day. But they don’t know it like I do. Dover – the ‘key to England’ for a thousand years; that creates an interesting city. They say history makes a place, and a place makes its people who they are. I am most definitely one of Dover’s people. Born and raised here, until I was a teenager anyway. And now I’m back. It’s in my blood, see? It’s part of me, like I’m part of it.
When you grow up in Dover you learn about how incredibly bloody the protection of property can be; every war involving Europe and England – since before those names even existed – has left its mark here. And our local schools make sure you learn each key fact. It’s something you take for granted as a Kentish teen – you know why Dover Castle’s medieval fortifications were needed, how Napoleon was repulsed, and why the secret tunnels and chambers beneath the castle walls were a-buzz with activity during the last war.
‘I’m hungry,’ mumbles Shannah, still groggy. ‘Got any food?’
I check the fridge; inside it there’s a collection of take-away containers with rancid dregs.
‘The fridge is empty,’ I lie. ‘Pizza place down the road’s not bad.’
‘So I see.’
Ten greasy boxes piled on the table tell a tale.
‘I’ll go,’ I say.
‘Good.’
‘What do you fancy?’ I ask, checking I’ve got some cash.
‘No meat. Anything veggie. Extra cheese.’
I buy the Carnivore’s Feast to compensate for the apology of a pizza I get Shannah; we eat our separate meals in silence, and drink a couple of cold beers. I make another trip to the shower, alone this time. I run the water cold. It helps, but not much.
‘Fancy going for another ride?’ she calls.
She knows I’m not going to say no. For once I don’t hear my mother’s favorite saying, ‘Just because you can, it doesn’t mean you should.’ Why not, Mother? Why not?
The first time I ever saw Shannah, that morning, we were on the seafront. Just where the string of plastic-tabled cafés and seasonal ice-cream shops peter out there’s a row of houses that stalwartly face the English Channel, built when Edward VII was on the throne. Somewhat bedraggled these days, they were the sort of place my mother would have called ‘middle class’ a couple of decades ago, while looking down her nose at them.
There’s a road in front of the houses, then a wide grass verge dotted with weathered benches; it leads to the sand, then the sea. I stare at that last narrow strip of England, thinking of all the blood that’s been shed over millennia to protect it, and there she is – Shannah, standing beside the car.
I focus on the car first; not because it’s more important than a person, but because it’s why I’m here. It’s a classic American beast – a 1969 Chevy Camaro Z28. Probably worth thirty thousand, or more. I bet it looks good under the bonnet. V8s do.
Shannah’s quite a picture herself. Her dress matches the car’s paintwork – red with black stripes and trim – and there’s a lot of thigh on display; she’s clearly no shrinking violet. As I draw close, she pushes a pair of cat-eye sunglasses onto her face. Her nail polish and lipstick match the car. Even her hair’s a vivid red.
I tell her why I’m here. She understands.
‘So, Sam, how about we take her for a spin? I know a secret place where I can let her rip.’ She makes it sound exciting; her voice growls, like an idling V8.
‘Sorry, but I’ve got to get it to the client at PI Pete’s office,’ I say. She pouts, peers at me over her sun-specs. I check my watch. ‘How long would you need, do you think?’
Her cheeks dimple. ‘A couple of hours, tops.’
I sigh and shrug. ‘“Just because you can, it doesn’t mean you should.” My mother used to say that. My ex-wife too.’ I lie about my ex-wife saying it, but it allows me to tell Shannah all she needs to know about me.
‘Your ex-wife?’ Dark eyes flash at me over rhinestone-studded frames.
I nod. Am I trying to be the true professional my new boss tells me I should be? ‘PI’s don’t muck about with anyone involved in a case,’ Pete’s warned.
‘I’ll drive,’ I say.
‘No, I’ll drive. My car.’
‘For now.’
‘Then I’ll drive, for now.’
The coast road is clogged with the morning’s tourist traffic. We rumble past a car with screaming kids in the back seats. They’re heading for Dover Castle, of course. I suspect the fact the fortifications there go back to the Iron Age will be lost on the children, who’ll probably end up clambering over the massive cannon balls used during the Napoleonic Wars. Us? We’re heading up the coast to who knows where.
Once the traffic thins out, Shannah presses the accelerator, and the car throbs beneath us. She tells me about Pete’s client – the bloke who wants the car from her. She explains how he’s lumpen, and treats her like he owns her. She’s no one’s to own, she says. I wonder.
I know the man’s name, and something of his reputation; Pete told me. She must have known at least the same about him before she got involved with him. Bert Sampson is an unforgiving local loan shark who preys on those who inhabit Dover, which – although I love it – is admittedly a place which gathers to itself more than its fair share of the displaced and vulnerable. Always has, always will. That’s how it goes with ports; gateways from – and to – Hell, for so many.
Her eyes never leave the road as she regales me with every detail about what she did to get her hands on the car. It represents a victory of some sort to her, it seems. I’m sad for her; a thing like a car shouldn’t mean so much to a person.
She keeps talking; I’m happy enough to listen. Nowadays, she says, she has a respectable life, teaching pole dancing at various gyms. She even does it for some housewives who live out on the nicer estates; they hold private parties in their perfectly primped houses, she takes along her pole, and struts her stuff. They do their best to copy her. She sells them naughty undies to wear when they show off their new moves to their husbands, who commute to London all week.
Ah, the joys of suburbia. One of the reasons I left Dover was because I didn’t want to be gradually suffocated by the atmosphere that exists here – it can be toxic. The name of your street, or who your parents are and their role in the local community, outweigh your potential value to society. So terribly, terribly British.
Mother could never see how it was for
me – that I couldn’t be truly myself if I stayed. Poor Mother. I certainly didn’t want that life. For a place with such expansive skies, the horizons in Dover felt – for me, back when I was a teenager – frighteningly limited.
We arrive at the place where Shannah can put the car through its paces. It’s not much more than an open field, with a few crumbling buildings dotted about. I recognize it as an old aerodrome. So many places like this existed here once – airfields used by fighter planes in the 1940s. The remains of tarmac where Spitfires taxied before roaring off to bob and weave in dogfights over the English Channel to save humanity from the Nazis now mean no more than that Shannah has a place where she can play with ‘her’ car.
The societal-memory of men who sacrificed their youth for their country overwhelms me, as Shannah slams down her stilettoed foot, and we take off. She’s vibrating with life. Maybe those young men who died felt the same way when their engines roared across this place. I thank heavens she’s a good driver, because otherwise the corners would eat us up; the car wasn’t built for them. Finally, we grind to a halt, both breathless from the ride. The smell of hot rubber lingers in the heavy air as we rumble to a standstill outside a long-abandoned hangar.
‘Let’s drive in there for some shade. I’m hot,’ she says. The engine pulses.
‘You certainly are,’ I say.
I’m around six feet, and she’s no pocket Venus. The car’s too small for us. I suggest somewhere more conducive to a good time, so we decamp to my flat. Fast.
Before I headed out that morning I’d opened a window; my flat needs a good airing now and again, especially when the forecast is for higher than usual temperatures. From the vantage point my window offers the cliffs aren’t white – they’re a jagged green mass set against the glittering sea beyond. Like the ripped edge of England.
