by Mark Tilbury
‘Even if I killed her in cold blood?’
‘You didn’t.’
‘But, you don’t know that, do you? You just hope I didn’t. There’s a difference.’
‘It’s more than that.’
‘Based on what?’
‘Based on what I know about you.’
‘What if you’re wrong?’
‘I wouldn’t be here, if I believed you killed her.’
I wished I shared his optimism.
‘Rachel said you were a good kid.’
‘Kids grow up, Jimmy.’
He ignored that. ‘She said you stayed with her for a few weeks after the murder. You and Oxo seemed to help each other.’
I still felt an invisible bond to that dog, even though my recent experience with him had only been brief. ‘Where did I go after Rachel’s? Aunt Jean’s?’
Jimmy shook his head. ‘Your aunt sided with your dad. She wanted nothing more to do with you. The authorities had to take you in.’
‘Authorities?’
‘The council took you away.’
‘Where to?’
‘A children’s home. Then, to a foster family for about eighteen months. Then, back to the children’s home.’
‘Where is this home?’
‘North Oxford somewhere. Out in the sticks. She came to visit you every Saturday morning the first time you were in there. Second time around, you refused to see her.’
‘Why?’
‘She doesn’t know. The superintendent told her you refused her visiting order.’
‘I thought I liked Rachel?’
‘You did.’
‘I don’t get it.’
‘I don’t know, Michael. Maybe it was just easier if you didn’t see her.’
I didn’t believe that. Not if she was looking after Oxo. I’d have wanted regular contact, regular updates. ‘Maybe the superintendent was lying.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Did she tell you anything else?’
‘Not really. The last time she saw you was May ninth, nineteen sixty-seven.’
I considered asking Jimmy to go back and tell her how grateful I was for what she’d done for me. For looking after Oxo. But, what good would it do?
Jimmy asked, ‘What do you want me to do now?’
‘I need to think. Get my head around this.’
‘Do you want me to leave?’
‘If you don’t mind. I’m knackered.’
‘I’ll come again tomorrow.’
I forced a smile. ‘Thanks, Jimmy. Thanks for everything.’
He touched two fingers to his forehead. ‘No problem.’
I watched him go. Truth be told, I just wanted God to let me die, and take me away from this unending mess.
Chapter Seventeen
Carver came to visit later that day. He looked pleased with himself. Smugness seemed a perfect match for his ugly features. ‘Hello, Michael. Nice to see you’ve got over your little bout of delirium. Doctor tells me your temperature soared right up to one hundred and two degrees. Would have been a shame to lose you right on the cusp of justice being served.’
I looked away. ‘What do you want?’
He sucked in air through clenched teeth. ‘Tch, tch, is that any way to greet the bearer of good news?’
I didn’t give him the satisfaction of responding.
He sat down in the chair next to the bed. ‘We’re moving you out of here, Michael. Monday morning. How does that sound?’
It sounded like the worst thing I’d ever heard. ‘Whatever.’ I tried to sound nonchalant. I didn’t. More like scared and helpless.
‘Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you. See to your every need. Would you like that?’
‘No.’
‘Look at me, Michael.’
I tried not to, but did so all the same.
‘That’s better. I like to look into the eyes of criminals. It helps me to understand them better. What makes them tick. You can tell a lot from a man’s eyes, don’t you think?’
Yes, I can see evil in yours. ‘I don’t know.’
He smiled. ‘You don’t know a lot, do you?’
At least we could agree on something. ‘No.’
‘Convenient lapse of memory. Convenient injuries. If I didn’t know you better, Michael, I’d think you were having us on.’
‘I’m not.’
He laughed. ‘Why don’t you repent? Lay your soul bare to Jesus.’
‘I don’t believe in God.’
‘Really? How do you know you don’t believe? You said you don’t remember anything – remember?’
I didn’t respond. I wanted to reach out and touch him, just to make sure he was real. Not another illusion conjured up by my malfunctioning mind. Or, worse, someone who had somehow come from the tunnel. A hideous character from my past, intrinsically linked to the Fat Man.
‘What’s the matter, Michael? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I’m tired.’
He shook his head and made a strange clucking noise with his tongue. ‘I can see why. Keeping up all these lies. Deceiving all these people. It must be draining.’
‘I’m not—’
‘You can’t kid a kidder, Tate. I’ve been around the block and back more times than I care to remember. I’ve seen it all. Liars, cheats, rapists, murderers, perverts. Guess what they all have in common, you scabby little shit?’
I swallowed hard and shook my head.
‘They all say, without fail, they’re innocent. I can guarantee it. You’ll find that out when you go to prison. All have been fitted up by the cops. Or can’t remember a thing. That’s the piss-heads’ favourite one. The old blackout clause. But, no one forced a glass to their lips, and poured the stuff down their throat, did they?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘You suppose right, sunshine. You take that useless idiot who spawned you. Remember him?’
For once, I actually did. ‘No.’
‘No. Silly me, you can’t remember a thing. Okay, let me enlighten you. He beat your mother to a pulp and threw her down the stairs. Ring any bells?’
‘No.’
‘Claimed he couldn’t remember a thing. Not even coming home with that useless tub of lard from the chip shop. Mind was all a blank. Personally, I never met your pop, but some of my colleagues have. Let me tell you, Michael, he was a shit of the highest order. A wife beater. A pisshead. A useless piece of crap.’
I had no arguments there. ‘It’s a good job I don’t remember him, then, isn’t it?’
‘He hanged himself in prison. Wasn’t even man enough to take his punishment. What sort of gutless wonder was he?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘The same sort of spineless coward I’m looking at right now. A chip off the old block. You’re certainly a daddy’s boy.’
I gripped the edge of the mattress.
‘Only you went one better, didn’t you? Outdid the old man. He’d be proud of you. Proud you stabbed poor Becky to death with a kitchen knife. Proud you had no intention of taking your punishment like a man. Proud you jumped off that block of flats. What do you reckon, Michael?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘He hanged himself with a bed sheet. Quite a fitting way to go to the Big Sleep, don’t you think? Oh, no, silly me, you don’t think, do you? But, let me tell you this, Tate. I won’t let that happen to you. I don’t want you getting any ideas about taking the easy way out. I’ll make sure they watch you like a hawk. I want you to serve every minute of your time. I want you to remember serving every minute of your time. Am I setting your alarm clock, Mikey?’
‘Why did you call me that?’
‘Call you what?’
‘Mikey.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘You did.’
He reached out and grabbed my nose. Squeezed it hard enough to bring tears to my eyes. ‘Don’t try to put words into my mouth, you little shit-popper. I never called you Mikey. Why would I call you Mikey? It sounds like the bigge
st baby name in the whole world.’
‘Okay. Okay,’ I squawked.
‘Next you’ll be accusing me of calling you my little buttercup. Is that what mummy used to call you before she fell down the Wooden Hill to Deadfordshire?’
‘I don’t know. I—’
‘You can’t go running to her now. Pissing your pants because the nasty man doesn’t want to play your silly games.’ He let go of my nose. ‘Is that clear, Mikey?’
I nodded and touched my throbbing hooter.
‘Good. As long as we understand each other. Where was I? Oh, yes, remand. You’ll be taken from here on Monday morning and placed in a cell at the police station. It’s just a formality. We’ll try to sort you out a proper cell at the remand centre in due course, whilst you await trial.’
‘Why can’t I stay here?’
‘Are you having me on?’
‘No.’ Desperate now. Almost on the verge of begging.
‘You can’t stay here. This is a hospital. It’s for sick people, not a hotel for murdering bastards like you. Nurses have better things to do than waste time wiping your backside. Much better things to do.’
I thought about Emily. Never seeing her again. Dear sweet Emily. Her smile. Her compassion.
‘From what I hear, they’ll be glad to see the back of you. Get you out of their bed. I don’t suppose you’ve got any idea how much it costs the taxpayers of this country to keep you in here? Treat you like a king?’
‘No.’
‘You're a selfish, little sponger, Tate. It will cost a bomb to keep you in prison, too, but that will be money well spent. Make you suffer. It’s called getting something back.’
I had four days left in the hospital, then I would be left open to whatever abuse Carver wanted to mete out. I felt as helpless as a fly without wings.
‘Ever heard of Johnny Proctor?’
‘No.’
‘The Butcher of Basildon?’
‘No.’
‘I’m going to make sure you share a cell with him. You’ll like Johnny. I went to visit him last week. Told him he’s on a promise with a pretty, blond boy. I know, stretching the truth a bit, but it’s amazing what a little time inside does to a man. Some of them go in as straight as a ruler, come out as bent as a clock spring. Couple of years inside, and most of them are about ready to screw a skunk.’
I thought he was bluffing. Trying to wind me up.
‘I watched that bulge in his crotch growing stiff just talking about it. He reckons it will be a challenge, you know, what with you being paralysed from the waist down. I take it you can’t feel your arse, Mikey?’
I didn’t answer him. It was only feeding his perverted mind.
‘I’ll take that as a no. Good thing really. Doesn’t have to worry about you squealing like a girl when he shags you. And you don’t have to worry about whether he’s hung like a donkey. A match made in heaven. But, I can tell you, Mikey, he’s a big boy.’ He stretched his arms wide. ‘And he likes to use things. Rolling pins, broom handles, bottles. He’s very imaginative for someone who killed his whole family with a baseball bat.’
‘Leave me alone.’
‘As you wish, Mikey. But we still need to go over a few things first. Iron out a few creases, and then I’ll leave you to it. Leave you to enjoy the weekend. First up, what is your name?’
‘You know what my name is.’
‘Just answer the question, or I’ll poke you in the eye and see what pops out.’
‘Michael.’
‘Michael what?’
‘Tate.’
‘Age?’
‘Twenty-one.’
‘Why did you kill Becky Marie Coombs?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Why did your daddy kill your mummy?’
‘I don’t—’
‘Liar! I told you why. He was a no good, drunken pig, who liked to reshape your mummy’s face with his fists.’
‘I—’
‘Why did you kill that poor boy buried in Bluebell Woods?’
‘I didn’t.’
He thumped my leg with his fist. ‘Don’t play games with me, Tate. You killed the boy. You sexually abused him and then strangled him with a pair of tights.’
‘I—’
‘Do you get off on throttling fifteen-year-old boys with girls’ tights?’
‘No.’
‘Do you like the feel of tights?’
‘No.’
‘Dressing up in women’s clothes?’
‘No.’
‘Are you a transvestite?’
‘I don’t—’
‘Remember? No, of course you don’t. You’ll get on famously in prison, if you put a frock on, Mikey. Maybe some pretty, French knickers. Eye shadow and lipstick. You’ll be the belle of the ball.’
I gave up trying to answer.
Carver was quiet for a moment as if weighing up something important. ‘If I find out you’ve been lying, I’ll make you suffer like no one’s ever suffered before. If you get in that court room, and blather on about how you suddenly remember everything, claim Jesus has gifted you a miracle, I’ll make you wish your mummy was already dead the night your old man got her knocked up. Do you understand, Mikey?’
I did. Only too well.
He stood up and left without another word.
Chapter Eighteen
By lights out, I was contemplating suicide again. Saving up my painkillers and ending it all. The only thing holding me back was the fear of it going wrong, not using enough pills to do the job properly, and ending up in a worse state than I already was. If that was at all possible.
As my mind hopped from one decision to another, like a bird searching for worms, the bolt on the emergency door slid open, screeching in its rusty sheath. The locking bar moved down, and the door swung open to reveal the waiting darkness. The brake released, and the wheelchair moved across the room. It pulled alongside the bed. Again, those invisible hands helped me into the chair.
For one terrible moment, I thought the pusher might be my father, come back from the dead to take me to hell. ‘Who are you?’
No answer.
Goosebumps hatched on my arms as we moved across the room and through the open doorway. The unoiled wheel screeched like a gull. The door closed, and I was swallowed up by the darkness. The wheelchair rolled on and on through the pitch black. Somewhere in the distance, I thought I heard a dog barking. Or was it just my imagination playing tricks?
You’d better not tell, boy.
The words came from somewhere above me. Whispered, yet clear.
You’d better not scream.
‘Who’s there?’ I shouted.
No one can hear you.
‘What do you want with me?’ The words bounced off the tunnel walls. ‘What the fuck do you want with me?’
In the abattoir of dreams.
I felt wetness on my cheeks. A terrible emptiness squeezed my heart. A longing, undefined and intangible, as if my heart held a long-forgotten memory.
I heard sobbing, a child’s. The sound poured from the very fabric of the tunnel. Oozed from the foundations, like a deep well of grief. And then it vanished, replaced by a man’s voice, cracked and dusty with age. The road to salvation is long. Many seek it, few find it, fewer endure it.
What the hell did that mean?
Many look, but do not see. Many touch, but do not feel. Many hear, but do not listen.
The wheelchair rolled on, deeper and deeper into the dark. I was again reminded of death. Oblivion. Nothingness.
Don’t let them win, Mikey. Don’t let the fuckers win. A boy’s adolescent voice. I’ll never cry. Never. Not in front of them. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.
‘Who are you?’ I called again. No answer, just the swish-squeak of the tyres. The wheelchair veered right and headed towards a rectangle of light. As I drew closer, I realised it wasn’t Whitehead Street; it was the building I’d seen on the way back from Whitehead Street. The one with the Fat Man lean
ing against the stone pillar. I remembered the kid being loaded into the ambulance, blond hair matted with blood.
The wheelchair stopped close to the entrance. I heard the click of the brake. Wind whipped against my face, cold and icy as death, kissing my bones. I suddenly realised I was once again a child, dressed in a pair of dirty grey trousers and a matching grey jumper. On my feet, a pair of scuffed black shoes. My teeth rattled in my head. Snot leaked onto my top lip.
I got out of the wheelchair, no longer burdened by my injuries. I stood facing the gate. A crisp packet blew along the street, brought to life by the wind, tumbling over and over, performing roly-polies, as my mother might say before Daddy threw her down the stairs and shut her up forever.
I saw Fat Man in the blue suit walk out of the central building. My heart froze. He waddled towards me, arms pumping, a nasty sneer on his face. As he drew closer, I could see beads of sweat on his forehead. How could that be? It was cold enough to kill. And then, I remembered him. Kalvin Kraft. The Superintendent at Woodside Children’s Home. The man who had welcomed me with a punch in the stomach a few weeks after my mother’s death. The man who had made my life hell for six months before shipping me off into the care of Mr. and Mrs. Davies.
He got to within about fifty feet of me. ‘What are you standing there for, you gormless idiot?’
‘I—’
‘Where’s Mr. Davies?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’
‘I don’t know where he is.’
He stopped a few feet away, breath rasping in his throat. ‘If you continue to stand there, like a dumb mutt who’s lost its tail, I’ll knock the stuffing out of you, sunshine. Is that clear?’
It was. I knew all about having the stuffing knocked out of me. ‘Yes.’
‘Yes, what?’
‘It’s clear.’
I didn’t see his fist coming. It seemed to just materialise out of nowhere and hit me square on my right ear. The blow made me bite my tongue. A stinging pain erupted in my mouth.
‘You call me sir, you useless waste of God’s air. Is that clear?’
Crystal. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’ll ask you one more time. Where’s Mr. Davies?’
Hopefully, his car’s been hit by a truck, I thought. ‘He dropped me off here.’
