The Cruelty of Morning

by Hilary Bonner

  A passing joy to give and to receive.

  How can I say I love you

  when I know it must go away?

  I cannot say I love you

  And yet I do today.

  She had handed him the poem, scribbled on a page torn from an exercise book, and he had showered her with kisses. Her face had been wet with tears. He could still taste the saltiness of her skin.

  He loved her so much – and now she was dead. At first his brain did not function at all. He could not think in the present – only relive the glorious past with the woman he worshipped.

  Then he had an idea. The only person he could think of who might be able to help him was Mark Piddle. Johnny jogged back to his bicycle carrying his shoes and socks, damp now from lying on the wet sand, pulled them on, and cycled swiftly up the hill to the run-down Victorian house in Cliff Road in which Mark and Irene shared a flat. By the time he arrived it was just after midnight. He was sobbing uncontrollably as he propped his bike against the iron railings outside, and when it fell over as he climbed the steps to the front door, he did not bother to put it upright again. He flung open the door which was never locked – and took the stairs to Mark’s first-floor flat three at a time. Johnny had been there a couple of times to play chess with the reporter. This visit would be a bit different.

  There was no bell so Johnny hammered loudly on the battered door.

  Inside Mark was still on the phone. He had already filed copy to four national dailies that night – the Daily Mirror, the Daily Mail, the Express and The Telegraph – and had nearly finished dictating his story to the copy-takers of a fifth title, Fleet Street’s newest tabloid, The Sun. He would have loved to keep his interview with Jenny Stone until next day, when he would have been able to file it early enough for it to get the show he thought it deserved, and he could then have gone for an exclusive deal with one of the major papers, but he knew the nationals’ own staffers would have caught up by then. So he was completing a ring-around aimed at catching as many of tomorrow’s last editions as possible. It would work to his advantage locally, though, because only the first editions reached Devon and so, with a bit of luck, the interview would still be fresh around the Durraton area for Thursday’s Gazette. The snapper, too, was back in the office, desperately trying to wire a picture quickly enough to catch the last editions of the nationals.

  It seemed that Irene, although waiting up for Mark, had fallen asleep on the sofa. The hammering grew louder and louder. Wondering who the hell it could be at that time of night, Mark covered the mouthpiece of the telephone receiver with his hand and yelled at her to answer the door.

  Irene, now wearing skin-tight jeans and one of Mark’s shirts, took some time to stir, but obediently heaved herself awake and went to the front door. Johnny was leaning against the doorpost. His eyes were wet and rimmed with crimson, his face red and swollen from the tears, and the front of his tee shirt still damp with them. His jeans were covered with sand and wet patches from squatting on the beach. His whole body seemed to be shaking, and his breath jerked in short sharp gasps, making it difficult for him to talk.

  His voice, when it came, was high-pitched and hysterical. ‘I killed her, Irene, I killed her. I murdered her—’

  Mark heard the shouted words just as he completed reading over his piece to The Sun. He hung the phone up quickly and dashed to the door.

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ he said.

  Irene, gentle as ever, took Johnny by the hand and led him to the sofa. He was weeping hysterically again.

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ said Mark again. ‘Get him a drink or something. Brandy. Have we got any brandy?’

  Irene shook her head. ‘Only some beer in the fridge.’

  ‘Tea then,’ instructed Mark. ‘Hot sweet tea. Go on, Irene. Move yourself.’

  He could just catch Johnny’s incoherent mumblings through the boy’s tears.

  ‘I killed her. I did it. It was me.’

  Mark was stunned into silence. He became aware that the boy was wet with sweat, yet shivering with cold.

  ‘Irene, get my thick fisherman’s sweater,’ he called.

  ‘And hurry up, will you? Where’s that tea?’

  Irene brought the sweater promptly and made Johnny peel off his damp tee shirt. She had also taken a clean towel out of the airing cupboard and she rubbed Johnny dry with it before pushing his limp arms into the jumper.

  ‘You get the tea, the kettle’s boiling,’ she told Mark, who was so surprised at being ordered around by Irene that he did so at once.

  Although the night was warm, Irene switched on both bars of the electric fire and Johnny’s shivering grew less violent. He took the mug of hot sweet tea when Mark offered it to him and obediently began to sip it. He had stopped sobbing too. The liquid was warming him, making him feel better in spite of everything. He struggled desperately to gain control of himself.

  Mark perched on the arm of the only armchair, watching him, amazed and fascinated.

  ‘OK then, Johnny me lad, what’s this all about?’

  ‘Marjorie. She’s dead.’

  Johnny looked as if he were about to cry again.

  ‘Get a hold of yourself,’ snapped Mark. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Marjorie Benson. They found her today—’

  ‘—I know that, for Chrissake,’ Mark interrupted.

  Of course he did. It was his job. He had been told the identity of the body by a contact at about the same time that Johnny’s father had learned who she was.

  ‘So what are you telling me, Johnny?’

  ‘It’s my fault. I murdered her.’

  ‘You?’ Christ, thought Mark. Was this going to be the big one?

  ‘Yes. If I had done what I should have done she would still be alive. I left her to die.’

  ‘Now hang on a minute. Are you really saying you killed her?’

  ‘As near as makes no difference.’ Johnny buried his head in his hands.

  Mark stood up. ‘What the hell does that mean? Are you telling me that you strangled that poor bloody girl?’

  ‘Oh no, oh no, no.’

  Johnny wailed in anguish. His eyes were wide with horror.

  Mark shook him by the shoulders.

  ‘Listen to me, Johnny. Did you strangle Marjorie Benson?’ Mark was pleased by how calm his voice sounded.

  Johnny gazed at him in amazement. ‘Me? How could I? I loved her.’

  ‘Loved her? She was nearly twice your age. Was she your bird then?’

  ‘I suppose so. As much as she was anybody’s.’

  Mark asked how long Johnny had been seeing her and a host of other questions about the relationship. He was surprised that nobody knew about it. Johnny explained about Marjorie’s demands for secrecy. How they had met every Saturday night and sometimes one or two other nights a week in the sand dunes behind the burrows, right over by the estuary, where hardly anybody went during the day, let alone at night.

  ‘On Saturday nights?’

  Mark was starting to think now. His reporter’s brain turning the information over quickly in his head. ‘So you saw her last night?’

  ‘Yes, we met in the dunes and made love. The moon was out…’

  ‘After you’d screwed her, then what?’

  Johnny winced. Screwed her … that wasn’t what it had been like.

  ‘I just left her there. She always insisted. I had to go first and then she would walk back to the golf club on her own. She had a room there. She never wanted to be seen with me, you see.’

  ‘Terrific,’ said Mark.

  Johnny looked at him pleadingly. ‘I came to see you because I thought you would know what they’re saying. Did she die on the dunes?’

  ‘Probably. Yes. The last time anyone saw her alive was when she left the golf club yesterday evening at about nine o’clock. Except you, apparently.’

  ‘So it is my fault. If I hadn’t left her there she would still be alive.’

  Mark raised his eyes skyward.
>
  ‘Johnny, have you been to the police?’

  ‘The police? Of course not. I can’t tell them anything.’

  ‘You can tell them what you’ve just told me.’

  Johnny looked as if he was going to cry again. ‘She was all right when I left her.’

  ‘Was she, Johnny?’

  ‘What do you mean? Of course she was. Dear God, Mark. You don’t think I did it, do you?’

  ‘No, no, of course I don’t.’

  Mark spoke swiftly. The prospect of Johnny losing control again did not appeal to him. ‘I’m just thinking of the way it will look to the cops. You were probably the last person to see her alive – apart from her killer. What time did you get home last night?’

  ‘I don’t know. About one o’clock, I suppose. It was eleven-thirty when I left Marjorie, I think. But I didn’t go straight home. It was such a beautiful clear starry night. I had my bike and I stopped up the top of Uckleigh Hill for a smoke.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Mark said. ‘So you sat there for over an hour? How do you think that is going to sound? Anyone see you?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Naturally not! What were you doing?’

  ‘Writing in my notebook. You know, a poem. I’ve told you before.’

  ‘How could you write in the dark?’

  ‘The moon was so bright. I like writing things by moonlight.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ said Mark, for the umpteenth time.

  ‘Is it important?’ asked Johnny.

  ‘It’s all important, Johnny boy. The doctors reckon Marjorie died between elevenish and one a.m. If you’d had the sense to go straight home to your mum, things might be looking a bit better for you.’

  Johnny put his head in his hands again. ‘I wouldn’t have hurt her, never. You believe me, don’t you Mark?’

  ‘Yes, I believe you. But you must go to the police, though, Johnny. If you leave them to find out from somebody else, it will look even worse.’

  ‘But they couldn’t find out from anyone else. Nobody else knows. Only you. You wouldn’t tell, would you?’

  ‘Whether I would or not will probably make no difference. I just don’t believe that in a village like Pelham Bay, you and Marjorie Benson kept your great affair a total secret. Anyway, you’ve told me and I’m a journo. What if I go and write a story about the last love in Marjorie Benson’s life?’

  ‘Oh please, Mark. I can’t take any more.’

  ‘All right. You came to me as a mate, so I’ll respect that. And I won’t go to the police, either. But you should. You really should. You can’t keep this thing hidden. It’s not scrumping apples.’

  ‘Look Mark, the police aren’t going to believe a word I say, are they? Not after last year. I’m down in their books as some kind of violent sex maniac, aren’t I?’

  ‘Rubbish. Anyway you’ve got no choice but to chance it.’

  Johnny lost control again. He jumped to his feet. ‘Thank you very much, friend,’ he shouted. ‘I’m not going near the bloody police. And if you do, I’ll never forgive you, never.’

  ‘Hey, Johnny, wait,’ Mark called, as Johnny wrenched open the front door onto the landing.

  But by the time Mark had followed him outside, Johnny was already on his bike, careering down the hill. And he’d forgotten to switch his lights on.

  ‘Bloody fool,’ muttered Mark.

  He went slowly back up the stairs to his flat, deep in thought. Irene was full of questions he couldn’t answer.

  ‘Oh shut up and come to bed for Chrissake,’ he snapped. ‘I’m bloody knackered.’

  For once sex did not feature in his mind at all.

  Irene fell asleep but, in spite of his tiredness, Mark lay awake for hours beside her. He certainly wouldn’t go to the police, but what a good tale it was. A toyboy lover who had been with the dead woman on the night she was murdered. That was a story that would write itself – an absolute cracker.

  ‘You came to me as a mate so I’ll respect that,’ he had told Johnny.

  Frightfully noble, but it wasn’t going to get him a job on a national, was it? Still, he liked Johnny Cooke. And if he did blow the gaff on him the whole affair could get very messy and he would be in the middle of it. He thought he would probably let matters take their course. He would keep his promise.

  It was just about the last decent thing Mark Piddle ever did.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Mark woke feeling pretty ropy after eventually falling into a fitful sleep. He had dreamed an almost wet dream about Jenny Stone. He had an erection but there was nothing unusual about that. More unusual was the fact that he did not want to roll over on top of Irene and hump himself selfishly to orgasm. Seeing Jenny last night had stirred up all those feelings from two years ago that he had previously not allowed himself to remember. He resolved to telephone her as soon as he got to his office – he just hoped he hadn’t misread the signs, because he wanted her. God, how he wanted her. He got out of bed and walked with some difficulty to the bathroom. He wanted to pee, but he couldn’t. It was no good. He was burning up inside. He sat on the lavatory and made himself come. All he had to do was close his eyes and imagine he was inside Jenny Stone and it wasn’t difficult at all. But it brought little relief.

  This was ridiculous.

  He left the house at seven-thirty, before Irene was up, and raced the Cooper into Durraton to the office. When he got there he made himself a cup of tea and scanned through all the papers, reading up on the various versions of the murder until he thought it was a respectable enough hour to phone the Stones’ house. He just hoped Jenny would answer, and he got lucky. She did. The sound of her voice made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. He was afraid his voice sounded high-pitched and strange. His cock was straining fit to burst against his trousers.

  After waking screaming from her nightmare, Jenny had been afraid to sleep again. When the phone rang she was sitting, wearing her pink candlewick dressing gown over her pyjamas, in the bay window of the front room. She had probably never moved as fast in her life at that hour of the morning as she did then. She jerked out of her seat as if it were fitted with starting blocks, and sprinted into the hall where the only phone in the house sat in isolated splendour on its own wrought-iron table. She picked up the receiver before the end of the third ring. Her mother had not even emerged from the kitchen.

  It was Mark Piddle. Unbelievable. She felt as if she had willed him to call. She glanced at her watch. It was just gone eight o’clock. And he would have been working late into the night. She smiled to herself. Oh yes, he was hers all right, and this time on her terms. He had called to see if she was OK, Mark said. Not really, she had replied, but she would be.

  The reporter thanked her for the interview and told her he hoped she would get over the shock soon. He was very formal. Then he asked if he could see her, maybe buy her a drink. She could feel his tension down the phone line. Her stomach seemed to tighten in a knot. She heard herself say yes.

  ‘What time?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you mean, what time? What about fixing a day first?’ she replied.

  ‘It’s got to be today.’

  ‘Why?’ She knew she was teasing him.

  ‘Because I can’t wait any longer,’ he said.

  She giggled. ‘Half past six in the pub by the cricket ground,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘Let’s make it lunchtime. Then I’ll take you for a drive. Please.’

  He didn’t often say please.

  ‘Haven’t you got to work this afternoon?’

  ‘Please,’ he said again.

  They met at one o’clock. She was wearing shorts, a skimpy lacy top, and no bra. He wanted to reach out right away and touch her nipples. He could see them clearly through the flimsy material: they were big and dark. She asked for a Cinzano and lemonade. Ghastly drink. He bought it for her and ordered a pint of bitter for himself. God, he didn’t want to waste time in a pub. When could he get her out of here
?

  She asked him to tell her everything he knew about the murder. He supposed that was natural enough under the circumstances. He gave her the basic facts, then, swearing her to secrecy, he told her about Johnny Cooke’s midnight visit. He was trying to impress her. He explained how Johnny had kept saying that it was his fault, how at first he had thought the boy was actually confessing to murder.

  ‘And he wasn’t?’ asked Jenny.

  ‘He just felt guilty, you know,’ said Mark.

  She asked him if he was quite sure Johnny was innocent.

  ‘Soft as shit, that lad,’ Mark had replied, and had explained vaguely about Johnny’s past. About the court case.

  ‘One drunken night he got out of his pram with some bird he picked up. Now he reckons he’s labelled a sex offender. He may be right.’

  Eventually she allowed him to lead her from the pub. They hadn’t been there half an hour. It seemed like an eternity to Mark. He drove like hell. He knew where he was going. He took the river road away from the coast and swung the Cooper into the old quarry a few miles up the valley. There were bushes there you could drive straight into and be totally private even in daylight.

  Before the engine had died away he had her in his arms. He remembered the frenzy of the dustbin yard at the school dance. She had made it quite clear then exactly what she wanted. His tongue was down her throat and she was responding just like before. He had one hand on her breasts, squeezing those seductive nipples, and the other on her lower thigh. He thrust it up the leg of her shorts and pushed his fingers inside her knickers. At last he could feel her. He could feel all the delicious crevices of her. She was wet again. Could she really be a virgin still? He had one finger inside her. God, she was hot. Then he felt her start to struggle. She was trying to push his hand away. He thrust his tongue further down her throat. He couldn’t stop, he just couldn’t. She was strong and firm and quite cool. Not frightened at all. She put both hands under his chin and pushed his face backwards off her. Then she slapped him as hard as she could right across one cheek. He collapsed back into the driver’s seat, stunned.

  ‘I thought you wanted it,’ he gasped.