by Thorne Moore
‘Oh yes?’ Christian’s grip became an obnoxious caress, his finger stroking my jaw. ‘The builder, eh? Got you hot, has he? Petey too soft for you? But then you do have a taste for violence don’t you, Katie? Bet you’ve done more than throw crockery in your time. Killer Queen. That’s what they call you. People do just drop round you like flies. How d’you do it, Kate?’
My joints locked rigid, the blood pounding in my ears. Did they really call me Killer Queen?
‘Go on, tell me. Everyone knows you did for Leo Mardell. What’s your technique? Drug his tea? Poison him with words? Or just give him the evil eye. Ma thinks you’re a witch. Maybe that’s it. You just mutter a little curse. Is that what you did with your baby, or did you have to resort to gin and a hot bath? Got rid of it either way, didn’t you?’
It was no longer his hand around my throat that stopped me breathing. I couldn’t have said a word. My brain was numb with shock.
‘No wonder you fall for killers like Al Taverner,’ whispered Christian, lapping up my obvious distress. ‘But I don’t think he’s much of a threat to me. He only whacks girls.’
What was he saying, now? I could no longer hear, or think.
Christian giggled. ‘Didn’t you know about the woman he beat to a pulp? Would be handy with a crowbar, wouldn’t he? Oh, and I don’t think he’ll be too fussed about his little sis, just as long as I don’t mess up her earning potential. More of a pimp than a brother. You do know what she gets up to when she goes out each day?’
His mistake. He’d thought he could carry on shovelling his malice on me until I drowned, but he’d miscalculated. He’d talked too long, giving me time to still my pulse and my brain. I was going to take back control if it killed me.
‘Chris.’ I was amazed to hear myself almost casual in my dismissal. ‘Do you have any idea how pathetic you are? I don’t know if this sort of behaviour impresses your buddies like Tyro… He’s phoned a couple of times, by the way, looking for you? Did he ever catch up with you?’
I’d done it, wrong-footed him. I felt the gust of a child’s helpless terror as his malice crumbled. He just managed an unconvincing laugh. Then his grip tightened. Seriously tightened, his thumb biting into my throat so I began to gag. ‘One of these days, when you’re not expecting it, I’ll be waiting for you, Killer Queen.’ His hand dropped and he sidled past me, out of my room.
I nonchalantly shut the door on him, flicked my hair back, straightened my clothing, then my knees buckled. I was in a state of near liquefaction, ready to vomit. Why in God’s name had I come here? Christian had become a demon, more monstrous than any shadow.
Killer Queen. Just one of Christian’s spiteful lies. But I’d let the canker in.
My baby. I’d felt him die, that was all. A stream of life within me suddenly ceased to exist. I hadn’t killed him. Only Christian could think it – except that it hadn’t only been Christian. When I felt my baby die, I’d wrapped myself in iron self-control as I’d told my husband. ‘Peter, the baby’s dead.’ And I could read, amidst his panic and distress, his instant thought, even though he pushed it away the moment it seethed into his mind: she’s killed it, she’s willed it dead.
I’d never forgiven him for that. But what if he’d been right and I did kill? Death had stalked me so long, maybe it had burrowed into my entrails, until I’d become its instrument, releasing it on others in murderous barbs. If it poured into me, it had to go somewhere. I thought back to the sickening moment of Leo’s death, how it came just as I’d been silently cursing him for involving me in his troubles. I hadn’t wished my baby dead, but what if death was all I had to give a child?
I lost my lunch. Afterwards, swilling my face with icy water, sanity began to reassert itself. Ridiculous. My thoughts had never killed anyone. I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror, forcing myself to repeat it. Christian was the lethal poisoner, not me. Spit it out now, before it burns through you. You’re not a killer, Kate. Al’s not a killer, Michael’s not a killer. Stamp it all out.
I was in control again. I could see Christian for what he was. It didn’t mean I could face the thought of him in the house, but what was I to do? Raise hell? Report his drugs to the police? Or pretend to forget the whole thing and keep smiling for Sylvia’s sake? I couldn’t do it, not any more. The bruises on my neck showed he was moving beyond poisonous words. The fear that had pounded round me while I’d been with him was his, and it was very real. He’d got himself entangled in something horrendous and I could still feel his panic, clawing at my innards, his frantic sense of falling. If he grew truly desperate, God knows what he’d do.
I sat on the edge of my mattress, trying to recall the cooing infant Sylvia had placed in my arms; the bright-eyed little boy in his first prep school uniform, the lad on the beach, eagerly showing off his cricketing skills. How had it all got so warped and twisted? Sylvia’s son, of all people.
All right. I would gather all my reserves and play it cool for the next day or two if I could possibly manage it. But if Christian stayed, I would have to find an excuse to go.
Chapter 8
I had to face Christian at dinner, but his attention was all on his mother and Michael.
‘Got a spot of business.’ He interrupted Sylvia’s enthusiastic plans for her vineyard. ‘New line. Smart phones.’
‘How exciting, darling. You have such good ideas. I’m sure it will be—’
‘Thought you might be interested in investing.’
‘Well…,’ Sylvia floundered. I could tell she’d had this conversation many times before. ‘Well of course—’
‘We’ll certainly consider it,’ said Michael. ‘Let us have a look at your business plan, market research, so forth, and if it’s viable, I am sure we’ll be happy to invest.’
‘Right. I don’t have the paperwork with me. I’ll send it to you. But this sort of deal, you don’t waste time, you get in there before the competition. Practically on its feet already, customers lined up. I’ve got a shipment in the pipeline. Just a bit of a cash flow problem at the moment.’ His blue eyes flickered over me for a moment. ‘Still waiting for a payment. You know how it is. I figured you could lend me a bit to tide me over for the next couple of weeks, just as payment down.’
‘Well, of course, darling, I’ll help if I can. How much do you need?’
‘Peanuts. Five grand would clinch it.’
‘Five thousand! But Chris, darling, I haven’t – I don’t think I—’
‘We’re undergoing extensive renovations at the moment,’ said Michael. ‘It’s a costly business. You mother doesn’t have five thousand to spare.’
‘Make it two, then. Christ, it’s just a loan. You’ll have it back in a couple of days when the deal goes through.’
‘I know, darling,’ said Sylvia. ‘I’m sure I can lend you a few hundred, but—’
‘And see the whole deal go down the drain? Thanks!’
‘You could ask Dad,’ suggested Tamsin.
‘I’m asking my mother,’ said Christian, with that tone of cold pleasantness.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Sylvia. Michael squeezed her shoulder, pushed his chair back and went to the dresser. I wanted to scream ‘Don’t!’ but I held my tongue and watched as he opened a drawer, produced a cheque book. The room was silent while he wrote, tore the cheque loose and handed it to the hungry Christian.
Chris’s eyes gleamed with victory, then narrowed. ‘One K. I said—’
‘Have the other thousand when you show us the business plans.’
‘Oh thank you, sweetheart.’ Sylvia threw her arms round Michael.
Christian pocketed the cheque and dismissed my disgust with a smirk. ‘Okay. I’ll just have to make do. So sis. You back to Bristol tomorrow?’
‘Yeah.’ Tamsin looked hopeful. ‘Can you give me a lift to the station?’
‘I’ll take you the whole way. I’ve got to get back to London.’
‘So soon?’ asked, Sylvia.
‘Great!’ said
Tamsin.
‘Early start,’ said Christian. ‘Can’t hang around.’
‘If you prefer to go later, Tammy, I can take you to the station,’ said Michael. ‘You already have your train ticket.’
I hoped Tamsin would remember how much she valued her weekend lie-ins. A train would be a lot safer than Christian at the wheel of that outrageous red Lotus Elan, currently sprawled across the yard.
But Tamsin didn’t hesitate. ‘No, thanks. I’ll go with Chris. Cool! If that’s okay with you.’
‘Of course it is, darling,’ said Sylvia. Her two children were behaving like proper siblings. What more could she want?
Sickened by the whole scene, I went back to work. Christian was going. Whatever it had cost, at least it was taking him far away from Llys y Garn. Preferably forever. The world could only be cleaner without his parasitical nastiness.
*
The early morning start Christian demanded was ten o’clock. We watched the red Lotus choke into life, screech out of the yard and swerve off down the track, Tamsin waving from the open window, Christian extending his hand in a casual gesture that might have been a farewell salute or a single finger.
‘Such a pity they had to go so soon,’ said Sylvia.
Michael kissed her cheek. I fancied his eyes avoided mine, and for a moment I wondered. Shades of guilt? Christian’s snide insinuations kept encroaching.
Total garbage. I hadn’t killed my baby and Michael hadn’t killed his wife.
‘He’ll be back soon, won’t he?’ Sylvia was ever hopeful. ‘With this business scheme. I’d love to help him if I can.’
‘Mm,’ was all I could manage. I bolted for the office, determined not to think about Christian and his slimy games. Work. I messed for a while with the layout of the website that had already brought us three bookings for the lodge. Then there was a letter to the planning department about the restoration of the hall. Soon, with luck, I’d be able to give Al the go ahead. We were just waiting for—
Blood.
For one flashing second, it blotted out everything else.
Blood and guts. The image was so strong, I could almost smell it. I could see it, spattering, pooling on tarmac. A thud of distress hit me hard in the chest.
I bolted outside. No one was there. Michael was in his workshop, Sylvia probably at her pottery.
God, God, had I really wished him dead? Tammy was with him! What had I done? All my rational denials dissolved. What if I really could kill with thoughts? Had I channelled that horror, lurking in the Great Hall, and unleashed it on Sylvia’s children?
No. Tamsin wasn’t dead. I would feel it if she were. But she was deeply distressed, I knew that much, and there was blood.
They’d been gone twenty minutes maybe. No more. I tried her phone. No response. In panic, I started running down the drive, without stopping to think how pointless it was. They must be miles from our lane by now. I’d need the car if I intended to follow them.
On cue, I heard the chug of a diesel engine. Al was coming down the track in his Land Rover. He stopped. ‘Hi. You’re out of breath. You want a lift to the village?’
‘Yes. No. Wait.’ I ran round, wrenched open the passenger door and climbed in. ‘Will you drive me?’
‘Sure. I was going to Pembroke Dock. Right route?’
‘No. Wrong route.’
‘Where then?’
‘I don’t know.’ Stupid answer. I took a deep breath. ‘Tamsin’s in trouble. Don’t ask me to explain. I think she might be hurt.’ I couldn’t get the image of blood out of my head.
‘Okay.’ Al pushed into gear. ‘Where is she?’
‘I don’t know! Christian was taking her back to college. They can’t have got far. ’
‘Didn’t she say where she was?’
‘Say?’
‘Did she phone or something?’
‘No. No she didn’t phone.’ I stared at the dashboard. ‘Just trust me.’
There was only a fractional hesitation. ‘Yes, okay.’ Al’s hand closed reassuringly over mine, as we rolled down to the lodge. ‘Which way?’
‘Right.’
We bumped along the rutted road. ‘Not the village,’ I said. ‘Straight on.’ Al followed my directions. He must have assumed I had some sort of divination. It wasn’t true. I was using my knowledge of Christian. He wanted the motorway, so he’d make for the main road. Tamsin wouldn’t persuade him onto the narrow lanes that offered short-cuts through the wooded hills and valleys. Come down from fifth gear? No way. But he’d go with it if she suggested the turning at Prenford because it seemed to offer a straight, two-lane route.
‘Left here,’ I said, and Al obediently turned.
We found Tamsin a mile along the road. Her head was up and she was walking. Not limping, but her face was streaked with tears, two panda eyes where her mascara had smudged. When she saw us, as Al eased to a halt, tight against the hedgerow, her resolution crumbled and she sat down on the verge with a sob.
I leapt out and put my arms round her. ‘Tammy, are you hurt?’
‘He… it was… I…’ Her burst of tears left her incoherent.
Al hurried round to join us. ‘What’s happened, Taz? Has there been an accident?’
She nodded, her verbal response incomprehensible.
‘Is your brother hurt?’
‘No!’ That was clear enough. Her initial distress gave way to spitting outrage. ‘I don’t know where he is, lousy shit! He hit a fox!’
‘A fox,’ I repeated.
‘It was horrible…’ She dissolved again.
A fox. The blood and guts of a fox. I hadn’t killed Christian or Tamsin. Relief exploded in me. I managed to meet Al’s eye. ‘I think we’d better just get her home. Was the car damaged, Tam?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’ Raw anger now. ‘He did it deliberately! It saw us, it was running out of the way but he swerved deliberately to hit it. It crunched…’ She clenched at the memory. ‘And he laughed. I shouted to stop and go back and he just laughed. Then I screamed at him and I was hammering on the window, so he stopped, and I said go back, and he was like, no way, so I said I’d run back and see if it was still alive, but when I got out, he drove off. He just drove off! He’s got my bag and my phone and my money and everything! I walked back and it was—it was horrible.’
‘Come on, Tam,’ I said. ‘We’ll take you home.’
By the time we were nearing Rhyd y Groes, Tamsin had cleaned her face with the tissue I proffered, and was even attempting a laugh at her embarrassing situation.
‘God, I’m so stupid. Sorry you had to come out. I feel such an idiot. How did you find me? Did Chris phone?’
‘No.’
Al took his eyes off the road to look at me.
‘We were going to Pembroke,’ I said. ‘Just pure luck we found you. We can go tomorrow instead, can’t we?’
‘Sure,’ said Al, without batting an eyelid. ‘Let’s just get you home.’
Sylvia was in the yard, hands and forearms wet and white with clay.
‘Al, I didn’t think you’d be so quick. Did you get the – and Kate? Do you know, I didn’t even realise you’d— Tammy?’ Panic set in at the sight of her daughter. ‘What’s happened? Oh God, there’s been an accident. He’s dead, isn’t he? I knew it! I knew something terrible was going to happen. Oh God!’
When our denials finally got through, she calmed down enough to burst into tears, which set Tamsin off again. ‘I’ll fetch Michael,’ I said, and left them outbidding each other in histrionics.
Chapter 9
‘Are you going to tell me what happened back there?’
I’d given Michael a brief account of Tamsin’s drama, and he’d hurried back to the house from his workshop, leaving me with Al and the questions he had so politely not asked until now.
‘I wish I could. I don’t know what happened.’
‘You felt something. Is that it?’
‘I don’t know. I pick up…’ What? Not death,
this time. Unless it was the death of the fox, and God help me if I’d started to tune into the death throes of animals. ‘I think it’s when someone experiences something that jolts their brain somehow. I get their shock. Sometimes, I see things. This time it was blood.’
‘You connected with Tamsin seeing it.’
‘I think so.’ Al’s restrained curiosity had a strangely liberating effect on me. He wasn’t pushing, so I didn’t resist. I just talked. ‘There was an old man.’ The image that had haunted my adolescent years. ‘He saw his cat burning.’
‘Nasty.’
Al took my arm and guided me on, into the labyrinth of the trees. The heavy green silence of the woods had the feel of a confessional.
‘I think it was probably already dead,’ I added, more for my benefit than his. For years I’d imagined a cat burning alive, with its owner. ‘He lived in our street. Mr Jackson. His house caught fire, and he died. He shouldn’t have died but he went back in to find his cat. He must have found her burning. He saw it, so I saw it.’
‘And you have to live with this.’ Al’s arm slipped round me. ‘Every horror in the world knocking at your door.’
‘Not every one, thank God. I feel things when I’m there, physically, in the place where something happened in the past, but presents things, at a distance – I only feel those when I have some sort of emotional link. Otherwise I really would be insane.’
‘Sure. Anyone would. You were close to the old man, were you?’
‘I was – connected. He was just an old man, who lived alone and talked to his cat, and didn’t like children very much, probably because they didn’t like him. I was walking past his house that morning – to my lift to school – and some older kids were there. One of them ran up to his door and wrote something on it. Then he rapped on the window and they started shouting at him. I was terrified because he’d think I was with them and he’d tell my mum. That was what I was worrying about, when I came home from school. And that’s when his house was burning down and I saw the burning cat.’
