by J. S. Spicer
Golden autumn had settled in by the time the trial got underway. Max arrived home with the onset of evening after giving evidence in court. His father was peeling potatoes in the kitchen.
“What’s this?”
Gus smiled at his son. “Thought we could have a home cooked meal for once. Pass me that saucepan.”
Max reached for the pan; he was seized with nostalgia as he did so. The dull red flowers around the rim so familiar. These were his mother’s things. The kitchen had been her domain, she’d ruled it with smiling precision. The cupboards clean and orderly, nothing out of place, and every surface shone. Now it was just a grubby shadow of its former glory. Neither Max nor his father had culinary inclinations. The microwave and toaster were coated with what amounted to their cooking efforts. The stove usually just stood gathered dust.
Until tonight. The oven light glowed and a stack of freshly washed and chopped runner beans sat on the counter.
Max watched his father as he filled the saucepan from the cold tap, placing it carefully on the hob and igniting the gas flame beneath it.
“How did it go in court?” asked Gus, scooping chunks of potato into the water.
Max shrugged. “As expected.”
Gus glanced at his son, noted the new lines etched into his face, the slump in his shoulders; though that may have something to do with the sling he was still obliged to wear following the gunshot wound. This case had taken its toll; they all did, but this one had been played out under the raw exposure of the public eye, scrutinized by Max’s superiors at every turn. There’d been some uncomfortable conversations regarding Max’s decision to enter the old sweet shop; he’d narrowly avoided disciplinary action from what Gus could prise out of him.
“Why don’t you go and freshen up. I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”
Max smiled his gratitude, a rare flash of cheeriness lighting up the room, then he slouched out of the kitchen. As he listened to his son’s footsteps climbing the stairs he laid the table, setting three places. It wasn’t just the case and the trial that had been tough on Max. His track record with women was beginning to look pretty catastrophic. He’d ruined things with Lorraine first, and now things were on the rocks with Jennifer.
Gus knew better than to interfere with his son’s love life. There were some barriers not meant to be crossed, at least not in this family. His musing was interrupted by the doorbell.
When Max came back to the kitchen, showered, barefoot, and suddenly struck ravenous by the warm aroma of roast chicken, it was to find his father wasn’t alone.
Sitting at the small kitchen table, sipping a cold beer and making small talk with his dad, was Carrie Winters.
Over the last couple of months he’d seen Carrie at work most days, but this was the first time she’d returned to the house since Vine’s arrest. They’d fallen back into their old routine and neither thought anything of it.
“Here he is,” said Gus. “Thought I’d invite Carrie round for a bite to eat with us. Haven’t seen her in a while.” Gus clapped his hands together in a business-like way. “Right, let’s get stuck in, shall we?”
Ushering Max to his seat, Gus quickly transferred the laden plates from the worktop to the table. Setting a brimming gravy boat in the centre he took his own seat.
Max allowed his father to pour gravy and hand out serviettes. The three of them were crammed tight in the confined space, but it felt easy and comfortable. Max would never have thought to invite Carrie for dinner, and was surprised his hermit of a father had done so, but he was very glad he had.
For a few minutes they enjoyed the meal peppered with just occasional compliments from Carrie about Gus’s cooking. Max managed to add his own appreciative grumbling without sounding too surprised. He’d assumed his father kept out of the kitchen because he was useless. The food passing his lips now proved otherwise. Again Max thought of his mother. When she’d died it had left a hole, a chasm, in his life. He was only now just appreciating though, that for his father the loss was much greater. Gus had crumpled under the weight of his grief, retreating to the only place he had the strength to get to, a place deep within himself, shutting out the world and all its bluntness and pain.
“How’d it go today?” Carrie asked.
“In court?”
“Yes, Max, in court. What else?”
He chewed thoughtfully on a piece of chicken before replying. “Fine. The case is going smoothly, for want of a better word.”
“What does that mean? Smoothly?”
“Well, for one thing Felix Vine has happily confessed to all the murders. Of course, the evidence would have convicted him anyway; the knife, the photo album, forensic evidence matches him to the victims and the scenes. But ‘fessing up just means the prosecution can’t throw any spanners in the works.”
Gus noted that Max had opened up willingly to Carrie about the trial, whereas when Gus had enquired half an hour before he’d been shrugged off with no details.
Carrie propped one elbow on the table whilst still prodding at her dinner with the other hand. “What about Justin Burke?”
“No, he denies killing Justin. That’s still ruled an accident.”
“Do you believe that?” The sour expression crossing Carrie’s face indicated she did not.
“What makes you think it was murder?” Gus put in. He’d been happy to let them chat amongst themselves, but his interest was piqued by Carrie’s doubts.
“Well,” she pushed a piece of potato around her plate as she considered her response, not wanting to sound foolish in front of the professor. “He centred everything around the house, my folks’ house. Just seems a bit of a coincidence to me that Blackbridge’s first serial killer was here twenty five years ago when a young boy died.”
Gus looked at his son, and Max saw the intrigue forming. “It’s fishy, I grant you,” Max told her. “But Jasmine’s story regarding her brother’s death matches Vine’s.”
“You don’t think it merits further investigation then?” Something approaching disappointment crept into Gus’s voice.
“Jasmine Burke’s been through enough already. Since she, her family, and the coroner of the time, are all satisfied it was accidental, I’m not going to start making waves for no good reason.”
Max looked from Carrie to his father, his gaze hard enough and lingering enough to let them know they should drop any notions about investigating Justin Burke.
Carrie’s chin dropped sheepishly, making Max feel bad for speaking so harshly.
“Besides,” Max’s voice and features softened. “I believe him. Felix Vine’s never getting out of prison after what he’s done. Why would he lie about one murder when he’s so readily confessed to all the others?”
Nobody spoke for a moment, just the scrape of cutlery echoed round the kitchen. Then, “What I don’t get,” said Carrie. “Is why Bryan Doyle arranged to meet Vine in secret? He must have known how dangerous that would be.”
An image of Carrie flared in Max’s mind, bound and bleeding in the dark woods. She knew first-hand how dangerous and frightening Felix Vine was.
“Doyle was the one who brought the gun,” Max said. “I suppose he thought he could achieve what the whole police force had failed to do. Doyle didn’t seem the sort to lack confidence.”
“Even so, to risk himself…”
“Bryan Doyle must have known his turn would come eventually,” Max told her. “His letting agent told him former tenants were being killed. Once Vine’s name was in the news he would have been in no doubt he was a target. I guess he thought he’d strike first. It just didn’t work out for him.”
Carrie slowly nodded her tragic agreement, pushing away her plate.
Gus looked at their gloomy faces. “Well now,” he pushed back his chair and began clearing the table. “That’s enough of that. How about we change the conversation to something more cheerful over dessert.”
“There’s dessert?”
“Yes Max, chocolate brownies and ice cream. Why don’t
you grab us some bowls.”
After a tasty but very filling dinner, Max walked Carrie to her car, crunching their way across a carpet of fallen leaves. Carrie was bundled into her coat, but Max had come out of the house in just his t-shirt. He shoved his free hand into his jeans pocket and hunched against the cold air.
“Thanks for dinner,” she said, unlocking her car.
“Thank my dad, he did everything.”
“I already have.”
Carried opened the door and slung her handbag over to the passenger seat. Then she stretched up to give Max a peck on the cheek.
“Buy her flowers,” she told him.
“Who?”
She shrugged and offered a lopsided smile. “Whichever one you want to win back.”
Max stared at her in surprise then, despite himself, broke into a smile too. “I think we’re way past flowers.”
“You never know.”
Max was still smiling to himself as he returned to the house.
EPILOGUE
The same guard always brought the post. Officer Hatch. A man with thin arms and legs but fat-bodied, the rolls around his middle upset the line of his shirt and jacket, giving him a crumpled appearance. He was always tugging at the jacket, trying to get it to sit right on his mismatched frame. Hatch enjoyed taunting Felix. Most of the guards did; a couple were OK. Hatch took special delight in it, and relished bringing the post just to give him a chance to toss insults. Felix didn’t get much post, and never any letters. But every couple of months he’d receive a small parcel. It had begun a few weeks into his sentence. There was never a card, or return address, or anything save the box and its contents.
Hatch liked to speculate on who sent Vine his regular package. His favourite theory was some serial killer groupie; notoriety always brought out the crazies.
Felix never indulged Hatch’s guesses. He knew who sent him the parcels. He knew he’d never share that information with anyone, least of all an insect like Hatch. The contents were checked before they got to Felix, but even so, he would sit patiently on the edge of his bed, box on his lap, and wait for the guard to leave.
This usually took a few minutes. After making the delivery officer Hatch would fill the grate in the door with his pock-marked face and tell Felix what a scumbag he was. Felix never rose to the insults. He didn’t even mind them. After growing up with a father like his, a petty bully like Hatch barely registered on his antenna. So he would sit, calm and still, and as patient as the mountains. Sometimes he would even smile, though this seemed to infuriate Hatch and could prolong his stay. But sometimes Felix just couldn’t help it. The man was a joke. All that aggressive posturing, the insults and taunts and threats; it was pathetic. He was only brave once the steel reinforced door was secured between them. And Felix could see beyond the hatred quivering on Hatch’s face, he saw deeper.
He saw the fear.
It lurked behind the man’s eyes. Felix even theorised Hatch’s overtly aggressive behaviour was to compensate for the terror he felt every time he had to enter Felix’s cell. Hatch’s words, like everyone else’s, just bounced off him. But he savoured the fear that stank up the corridor each time a guard approached.
Finally Hatch would blow himself out, smack his baton against the door with a vibrating clang, and stomp away.
Felix had a ritual now.
Once he was alone he would close his eyes. Then he would try to picture what was inside the package. The contents varied, making it impossible to predict, but he liked to try and guess. The anticipation was a large part of the pleasure.
When he finally folded back the opening on the box he would hear the crinkle of tissue paper as his action disturbed the contents. Senses attuned, he would pause, letting the sweet aroma drift upward.
Even though the confectionary within was all individually wrapped, Felix would feel the tiny grains of sugar tickling his throat, feel a syrupy veneer coat his tongue, poking his taste buds deliciously and making his mouth water.
When he finally reached inside he would delight in each treat; strong liquorice, sweet sherbet dip, yielding jellies and chews, bold parma violets and delicate pink marshmallows. After carefully examining each they would be returned lovingly to the box. That block of cardboard would be their home. Felix would make them last for weeks, months even. He would allow himself just a small amount each day.
With each heart-warming taste Felix would drift into peace and happiness, and offer up silent thanks, that Jasmine Burke had not forgotten him.
- End -
