The Guest House

by David Mark

  ‘Not now, Lilly,’ I shout, and there’s a little bit of madness in my voice. If I’m not careful I’m going to start giggling.

  ‘Lilly up high, Mummy. Lilly fly. Lilly jump!’

  I dart through from the kitchen just as Lilly launches herself from a tower of hardbacks and comes down with a clatter in the basket of logs and pine cones by the fire. She smiles for a moment, pleased with herself, then takes an inventory of her injuries. Yes, she decides. That really hurt.

  ‘Mummy!’

  I’m back in the kitchen five minutes later, holding Lilly to my chest, rocking her the way I did when she was tiny. She lets out the occasional sob but she’s okay.

  Bishop doesn’t ask about her. He looks a bit put out, as if I’d cut him off to go and do something unimportant.

  ‘Can I get this out now?’ he asks, cocking his head. ‘It’s important.’

  ‘Bishop,’ I say, and it still feels weird calling him that. But he says he hates his first name. He’s never used my name. I’ve been Babe and Princess and Sweetheart from the off. ‘Look, maybe this isn’t the best time…’

  He frowns. Closes his eyes tight and seems to be counting backwards in his head. I stand still, waiting for more, gazing past him to where one of the fishing boats is fighting a choppy tide, cutting through the silvery water to where the far side of the peninsula rises up out of the fog.

  ‘Look, I want us to be more than we are,’ he says, quickly. ‘I’m not one for seriousness if I can help it but you mean a lot to me and I think I mean something to you too. So I want to be totally honest with you.’

  ‘You’re married?’

  ‘What? No. Not for ages, anyways.’

  ‘You’re a serial killer,’ I say, my voice too loud. ‘An axe murderer. You’re the Silesian nun killer and you’re here to lay low until the heat’s off…’

  He doesn’t laugh. ‘Not as far off as you’d expect,’ he says, quietly, and Lilly lifts her head as if she’s been following the conversation. ‘Seriously, Babe. It’s important you listen to me.’

  ‘Bishop, I don’t know if it is,’ I say, and suddenly all I want is what we had until half an hour ago. Flirty talk, mucky texts, a couple of drinks; some snogging on the sea wall. I don’t want to be his confessor.

  ‘I’m not quite what I said I am,’ he says, quietly. ‘I’m trying to be a better guy than I used to be. They’ve given me a fresh start and I’m trying to make the most of it.’

  I don’t really know what he’s talking about. I suddenly realise how little he’s told me of his past. I’ve given him chapter and verse on my own life. I chatter when I’m nervous. But other than his job and the fact he moved up from Nottingham, he’s kept everything pretty frothy. I’ve told him so much more than he’s ever told me. And here he is, in my house, thinking about baring his soul.

  ‘People can change, can’t they?’ he asks, and he starts rummaging around in his pocket. He pulls out his mobile and starts fiddling with it, nervously. I want to put a hand on his and tell him that whatever it is, will be okay. But that instinct is a lot less powerful than the other: an overwhelming surge of protectiveness for Lilly. ‘Have I said anything to you since we met that makes you think I’m a bad guy?’

  ‘What?’ I ask, screwing up my face. ‘Bishop, where are you going with this?’

  ‘You know what I do, yeah? My skills.’

  ‘Cyber stuff, yeah?’ I look at him and the penny drops. He’s seen something private. He’s helped himself to some of my private correspondence. I can’t think of anything I’ve said that might be offensive, but then, I’m not really concentrating anymore. I’m too busy trying not to lose my temper. I hate any invasion of privacy. When I was nine I broke my brother’s eye socket with a telephone because he tried to unlock my diary with a twisted paper clip. This is way beyond what I’ll tolerate.

  ‘Cyber stuff, yeah,’ he says, and looks down at the floor. ‘I need to just come out and say this…’

  There’s a knock at the door. Three loud bangs, as if the person beyond the wood and glass is well practised in waking the dead.

  I let out a great gasp of mixed feelings. ‘Leave it…’ begins Bishop.

  I yank the door open, feeling all kinds of messed up. It’s Mr Roe, the aspiring photographer from Cabin 3. He’s got a pissed-off expression on his face, though I know from experience that this is his normal look. His hair’s sticking up as if he’s just had a balaclava yanked off his head, and up close I can see how unhealthy his skin seems. I find myself thinking of gone-off meat. His gums, too, are purplish and pulpy, and I get a distinct smell of dry-mouthed foulness as he licks his lip, pushing flecks of white crust into the corners of his lips.

  ‘Sorry to trouble you,’ he says, his accent English but no more identifiable than that. ‘Could be using a map, if you had one. The gadget on my phone’s gone haywire and I’m walking around in circles…’ He stops talking as he looks past me. Bishop’s still sitting on the counter, looking at my guest as if he’s just let out a fart at a funeral. Mr Roe, to his credit, doesn’t look intimidated. Just gives one of those chin jerks of greeting that men do when they’re saying hello. ‘Sorry, love,’ he says, to me. ‘Saw the car – didn’t think…’

  ‘You know what, let’s do this later,’ says Bishop, sliding down off the counter. He snatches up his jacket. Moves to push past me: a stroppy teenager storming out after a row. Lilly turns just as he does so and gets a face full of his shoulder as he barges past.

  ‘Ow!’ she shouts, and it becomes a cry immediately.

  Bishop doesn’t look back. Stomps past, yanking his hood up as the wind and rain howl in from the water.

  ‘Oi, you knocked the little lass,’ says Mr Roe, his face twisting. Now he doesn’t look unattractive – he looks nasty. ‘Here, dickhead – you knocked the little girl.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say, cooing in Lilly’s ear and checking her. ‘An accident, an accident…’

  Bishop turns back. ‘What did you call me?’

  ‘I called you a dickhead, lad. Say you’re sorry.’

  ‘I barely touched her.’

  ‘I’ve heard that before. You want to watch where you’re going.’

  ‘And you want to watch your mouth. I’d snap you over my knee.’

  ‘Would you?’ Mr Roe opens his arms, inviting the attempt. ‘When you’re ready, son.’

  I don’t want Lilly near any of this. I play peacemaker. ‘It’s all good, Mr Roe – she’s fine, no problems… a map, you said – of course, come in, no problem. The kettle’s boiled. Have you had any luck with the photographs? Did you try peanut butter for the pine martens, like I suggested? Works a treat…’

  Bishop turns away and jumps into his car. Reverses away in a screech of rubber that’s far too theatrical for my taste. I catch a last glimpse of him as he goes. I’d expected temper. I’m appalled to see he has glassy eyes, as if this has all been terribly emotional. I feel guilty at once. He’d been trying to open up to me. To talk to me the way I’d hoped he would, and I’d shot him down. I’ll give him an hour, I think. Let him calm down. Send him a text or a dirty joke or something…

  Mr Roe follows me into the kitchen. There’s not much meat on his bones. He’s skinny to the point of cadaverous. He’s got a whiff of cigars about him. A smell of the outdoors, but also that stink you used to get in the ashtray of a hired van.

  ‘He’s a dickhead,’ says Mr Roe, as if stating a fact. He gives Lilly an appraising glance. She meets his gaze, and sniffs, dramatically. She whimpers against my chest.

  ‘A ham actor, this one,’ I say, smiling. ‘She’s okay. A map, you said?’

  He looks at her for a touch longer than feels comfortable. Looks at her hard. Intense. It’s like he’s trying to read something written in tiny letters on her skin.

  ‘You know what? Bugger it for the day. Just point. Pub’s that way, yes?’

  ‘Well, the hotel isn’t open today but the one at Acharacle should be by the time you get there…’ />
  He nods. Sucks his teeth. I see pink in his spit before he swallows it.

  ‘Cheers,’ he says, and turns so fast I half expect him to screw a hole into the floor. ‘Sorry for the unpleasantness. She’s a pretty one. Treasure her.’

  And then he’s gone. And I’m left holding Lilly, and breathing in the lingering smell of damp earth, and tobacco; the air still cracking with the static of two men sizing each other up.

  ‘Fairy Garden?’ asks Lilly, brightly.

  I lock the door, and hold her tight.

  3

  Eight months ago

  Somewhere near Chelmsford, Essex

  A green-and-pink canal boat, tied up at a shabby marina on the Chelmer and Blackwater Canal. Dirty lace curtains cover dirtier windows. Over the rail, black water holds a sickle of moon and gaudy puddles of coloured light.

  Inside, three men. One handsome, one big, one not far off dead.

  On the floor of the galley, the handsome man is making hard work of a simple task. He’s playing with tools, and tanned skin. The screwdriver won’t go in at first. He has to put his whole weight behind it. His palm pains him, like some lacklustre stigmata, as he channels his strength into one almighty shove. He gives a grunt of satisfaction as the point emerges on the far side of the leather. His hand shoots forward and he raps his knuckles, painfully, on the hard tiles of the kitchen floor.

  He stands up, acting nonchalant, hoping that neither of his companions have seen his difficulties. He resists the urge to suck his bruised fingers and focuses instead on checking his handiwork. The hole he has punched in his leather belt is a little off-centre but it will suffice. He begins threading it through the loops in his black jeans and pulls it tight.

  ‘Bleach.’

  The handsome man curses under his breath. The big man has seen.

  ‘Cupboard under the sink.’

  The handsome man gives a polite nod. He replaces his gloves and fetches the bleach and dishcloth. His knees click as he bends down and he wipes the floor where his skin had made contact.

  ‘Just be careful,’ comes the voice. It is a gravelly, guttural sound, like stones rubbing together in a serpent’s belly. ‘Don’t take the gloves off unless you have to.’

  ‘I know,’ says the handsome man. ‘You’ve said. You’ve said quite a few times. To be honest.’

  ‘And yet you’re still taking them off. Is there another way I should say it? I have plenty of other ways to get the message across.’

  ‘Is there any point?’ asks the dying man. He sits at the kitchen table, broken, ill and old. ‘He never listens.’

  ‘He’s young. He thinks he knows it all.’

  ‘They all bloody do.’

  The handsome man stares out of the window, refusing to rise to the bait. They’re older than him. More set in their ways. Less adaptable. He does what they ask because they have sworn a bond of brotherhood, but he wishes that just once in a while they would relax a little. He wants to go and be among other people. Wants to feel fresh air on his skin. He likes it outside. There’s a light rain, falling in soft serpentines into the murky green water of the marina. He likes the way the colours bounce off the other canal boats. Likes the distance between themselves and the next one along. He would like to sit out on the deck and let the rain dampen his face and soak his clothes. He likes all such pure communion. He cherishes the unsullied touch of the wind and rain; adores every naked connection between himself and that which he holds to be untainted. It is the intercession of people that begins the process of defilement. He learned that in prison, and the knowledge was dearly bought.

  The handsome man straightens up and considers his two companions. The big man is sitting in a rocking chair, blanket over his knees. He has a newspaper folded in his lap. He completed the crossword and Sudoku inside ten minutes and it took him another five to digest the news. He is now perusing the holiday cottages listed for rent in the classifieds. He likes them to keep moving. They have been here for the best part of a month and though it is the most comfortable place they have stayed, he will soon tell the others it is time to move on. There is an art to remaining undiscovered and his very existence is proof that he is a master.

  ‘Top-up, please, lad.’

  The man at the table looks as though he has recently been disinterred. His skin puts the handsome man in mind of mouldy bread. He too has shaved his head down to the skull and revealed a patchwork of scars and stains that make him look as though he has been picked up between a colossal finger and thumb; collected for inspection and discarded. He is a haphazard assemblage of bones and sagging tendons beneath loose flesh; a makeshift tent of splinters and poles. When he speaks, his remaining teeth seem to be slipping in his rancid gums, like stones pushed into rotten fruit.

  The handsome man crosses to the fireplace and collects the bottle of discount whisky that stands on the mantelpiece. He pours a healthy measure into the dying man’s glass and catches the putrid odour of a body that is decaying from the inside out. It makes him think of a bin wagon on a hot day and it is all he can do not to retch.

  ‘Cheers, lad. Having one?’

  The handsome man sits down in the chair opposite and takes a crystal tumbler from the tray in the centre of the table.

  ‘Your health,’ he says.

  ‘It’ll take more than a toast, but thank you anyways. Wish I could taste it.’

  ‘Still no taste?’

  ‘Just blood.’

  The handsome man looks to his companion for guidance, but he is staring out through the window of the barge. They have both done their best by their rotting companion. When they retrieved him they hooked him to a saline drip and helped flush his system of toxins. The big man reset his arm, which had been broken and left to fester. They pulled the worst of his teeth and set about him with mouthwash and disinfectants. A powder killed the lice in his hair and the ticks that ate into his skin.

  The handsome man sits and enjoys the quiet. The big man’s rocking chair makes a soft creak each time it moves upon the threadbare carpet that covers the floor. There is a soft, barely audible gurgle each time the dying man breathes. The old pipes give the occasional ting, causing an answering chirrup from the birds that nest in the thatch. There is the sound of a vibration and then the assorted noises of the big man putting down his newspaper, reaching into his pocket and reading the words on the phone screen. Then comes the sharp intake of breath that the handsome man has come to associate with unwanted developments.

  ‘A print,’ says the big man, with a low growl. ‘She’s got a print.’

  ‘The screw?’ asks the dying man, looking up. ‘A prison warder, you mean?’

  ‘No. The screw. In the ceiling joist.’

  The handsome man closes his eyes. How had they managed that? He’d been so careful. He’d wiped it down. His gloves had only been off for a moment…

  ‘They’re waiting for results but I think we know what they’ll find.’

  The big man rubs a gloved hand across his upper lip and stares at nothing as if making calculations. ‘She already has her suspicions. She’ll tell them who to check against.’

  The dying man gives a little nod. ‘It won’t take her long.’

  The trio sit in silence. They are each thinking of the officer who runs the specialist unit at the National Crime Agency. To two of their number, she is just a name; a dangerous and unswerving officer who wants to know who is killing the gangsters that her unit is supposed to be trying to imprison. To the third man, she is something else entirely.

  ‘We need to solve the problem…’

  ‘Not like that. Not the way you mean.’

  ‘What do I mean?’

  ‘We can’t hurt her. She’s done nothing wrong.’

  ‘I didn’t say she had. I didn’t say anything. But she’s a problem.’

  The dying man taps his whisky glass against his teeth. ‘I don’t know why we go to all this bloody bother. Hiding out. Covering our every trace. They’re onto us. You know what we
did.’

  ‘We had to do it. They deserved what was coming to them.’

  ‘But the chainsaw? The hammer? Jesus, I’ll never sleep well again. It was murder – you know that. You murdered those people, clear as I’m sitting here.’

  ‘We did. All of us. We did what had to be done and I don’t feel any guilt for it. Nor should you…’

  The dying man looks into the bottom of his whisky glass. He’s sorry about what has to come next. He’s enjoyed the past few weeks in the company of these vigilantes. They’ve taken out some very bad people. He doesn’t want to have to do what he’s about to do. But it’s the price of what he wants.

  ‘I want you to know, lads. There are no hard feelings.’

  ‘What do you…?’

  ‘Nightingale,’ he says, sadly, into the microphone on his lapel. ‘Go, go, go…’

  The big man doesn’t move. The handsome man thinks it’s a joke. And then there are men and women in blue and yellow boarding the vessel and shouting for them to lie flat, to put their hands up, that they’re under arrest for the murders of six different mid-level crime bosses; and their wrists are bound behind their backs and it’s all rage and tears and I’ll-get-you-for-this.

  And the dying man is standing up. He’s not dying anymore. He’s pulling out his yellow teeth and peeling off the yellowed fingernails and he’s taking the whisky bottle from the table so he can swill out his mouth and spit out the past six weeks of his life into the dirty water.

  Up on deck, the rain on his face, he listens to the commotion coming from below. He would feel guilty, if he had such a capacity anymore. The two men had trusted him with their lives. They’d believed him to be third of their number: somebody willing to take revenge in whatever fashion was required. They’d thought him broken. Weak. They’d embraced him as one of their own and given him friendship and brotherhood. Committed murder and let him watch. And he has betrayed them.

  He doesn’t feel bad. Just wishes, as he so often does, that things were different.

  ‘Perfect recording,’ says a polished female voice, behind him. She stands on the bank: exquisite blonde hair and sumptuous black coat, casting a long, elegant shadow onto the water. ‘You’ve got some nerve. How did you even know we were here?’