by Marian Phair
Amie sat staring into the fire, lost in thought. Tim returned a few moments later with a few clothes over his arm.
“The missus said you’ve to put on these clothes, otherwise folk will know by your garb your from some institution. She will get rid of the things you’re wearing now. I’m sorry we can’t do anything about your footwear,” he said, handing her a pair of slacks and an Arran sweater, adding, “you can change in here, call out when you’re decent, we will be in the next room.”
Amie smiled at him and taking the clothes from his outstretched hand, she muttered a ‘thank you’. She could not get the slacks to fasten over her swollen stomach. The large Arran sweater covered the gap in them but, when she bent to pick up her discarded clothes, she felt the slacks sliding down over her hips. She left the room holding the slacks up with one hand, the Magdalene uniform tucked under her arm. Hearing voices behind the door off to her right, she knocked tentatively on its paneled wood. It was opened by a woman slightly taller than herself, with a matronly figure, a mop of grey curly hair, and ruddy cheeks.
“Come in pet,” she smiled at Amie, a twinkle in her deep blue eyes, “Tim’s told me all about you, I’m Maggie, Tim’s wife.”
“Pleased to meet you Mrs O’Reilly,” Amie said, extending her free hand, “thank you for everything you have done for me, I shall for ever be in your debt.”
“You can call me Maggie,” she told her. “Well, I can see the slacks are no good to you as they are. They were my daughters; my own clothes would bury you, surely.” Maggie thought for a moment, “there’s a wee trick I often used when I was with child and my clothes got too tight, maybe we could try that.” Maggie turned to Tim saying, “away and get me the ole biscuit tin from the press, the one I keep all the ‘bits and pieces’ in.” Then turning back to Amie said, “We will have you fixed up in no time at all.”
Tim went over to the cupboard in the corner of the room, returning with the tin. Taking it from him, Maggie withdrew a length of thin elastic and tied its ends together tightly.
“Now here’s the way of it,” she explained to Amie as she slipped the elastic through the buttonhole of the slacks, forming a double loop. She then pulled one end through the other until it tightened against the fabric of the buttonhole, looping the other end around the button itself.
“Well pet, do you think that will hold them?” Said Maggie straightening up, pleased with the result.
“What a clever idea,” Amie told her, “and so simple, it is comfortable too,” giving her a quick hug of thanks, causing Maggie’s cheeks to redden even more.
Tim came over and placed several notes into Amie’s hand.
“That will get you to Fermanagh and leave some over for a drink and a bite to eat, should you need it.”
Amie immediately thought of the bread and cheese in the pillowcase and along with the baby’s silver hairbrush and comb, it formed her worldly processions. Tim handed her a carrier bag with her items inside.
“It will look better carrying this, than that ole pillowcase,” he said with a broad grin on his face, “the bus you need only comes past here twice a week, since we are a bit out of the way, so to speak. The angels were surely looking after you, when you chose this time to do a bunk.” He pulled a thick sweater over his head as he spoke, “I’ll walk down the road with you and keep you company until it arrives, you won’t have long to wait, ‘tis due in fifteen minutes.”
Tim stood waiting patiently as the two women said their goodbyes. Maggie turned and hugged Amie. “Try and keep in touch, don’t forget we will always be here if you need us.” There were tears in her eyes as she spoke.
“As if I ever could forget you, either of you, and all you have done for me,”
Amie told her, hugging her back.
They walked down the road in silence. Amie, her arm tucked in Tim’s felt comforted by his closeness. They reached the bus stop and sat down together on a bench to wait.
Tim’s voice broke the silence, “it’s none of my business really, but, it might be a good idea to buy yourself a cheap wedding ring, when you get the chance. It would draw less attention to yourself if you had a ring on your finger. If needs be, you could pass yourself off as a widow.”
“Maybe I will do that, I will certainly give it some thought,” Amie replied.
Just then the bus came around the corner. Tim hugged her to him as tightly as he dared. She could feel the rough stubble on his cheek where he had not shaved that morning.
“Say hello to Fermanagh for me,” he said, “God speed, and the best of good luck lass, let us know when the weans born.” He kissed her cheeks before releasing her.
Unable to speak to him, tears running silently down her cheeks, Amie nodded her head and mounted the bus, clinging to the handrail as she went.
She paid for her ticket and found a window seat, then, sat with her face pressed to the glass, she mouthed a ‘thank you’. She blew Tim a kiss, as the bus pulled away from the curbstone, taking her on the next stage of her journey.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
The burglar stood quite still in the dark, holding his breath, his ears picking up the sound of something heavy being dragged through the undergrowth up ahead of him. His instinct was to slip away as silently as he had come; instead, he drew back into the shadow of a nearby tree.
Hoping, that his breath did not give him away on the cool night air, he pulled the neck of the sweater he was wearing, over his mouth and nose, breathing shallowly as the sound came slowly towards him.
He had been casing Rojo Tejado for several days now, hiding out in the undergrowth that lay just behind the rear garden, waiting for his chance to burgle the place. He expected to get rich pickings, judging by the people living there.
Nick Fowlds flattened his body against the tree, feeling its sharp bark cut into his back, through the thin material of the sweater. From his hiding place in the trees dark shadow, he watched as a man with his back toward him, came out of the undergrowth just ahead of him, dragging what appeared to be a large sack into the bushes that grew up to the fence surrounding the garden.
The man emerged several minutes later without the bundle, carrying something folded up under his arm. He passed within a few feet of the tree, passing so close; the watcher could smell the man’s aftershave mingled with the stale sweat of his body. He could see the man’s features clearly in the pale moonlight, and had seen him several times before, arriving and leaving Rojo Tejado, in his red Jaguar. He had no trouble recognizing the man known locally as Dr Sam.
He stayed in his hiding place for several minutes, his ears straining, listening to the sounds of the night. When he felt it safe to do so, he left the shadow of the tree, stretched to relieve his tensed muscles, and then moved forward, towards the bushes, to find out just what Dr Samuel Morrison had hidden so carefully.
His eye’s caught sight of something under a bush. He moved in closer, peering under its leaves and as he drew nearer to the object, his mouth went dry with shock. He was staring into the horribly distorted face of a dead woman. Trying hard not to panic, he slowly backed away, retracing his steps as carefully as he could, struggling to stay calm.
What the hell was he to do? He could not report what he had found to the police for how could he explain his presence there. He could hardly tell them he was intending to burgle the place, nor could he tell what he had seen without incriminating himself.
‘Holy shit!’ he exclaimed out loud, as another thought occurred to him, had he left any evidence in the area over the past few days, when he had been casing the place, that might lead them to his door. The police already had his DNA, having been arrested twice before, once for burglary, and then for aggravated assault. He had served his time but, on his release, found no one, who was prepared to give him a chance to go straight. He had moved away from the area, seeking employment elsewhere. Again he met with failure, his lack of funds forcing him to continue in a life of crime.
No way could he get involved in this mess,
this was heavy shit.
He needed a drink badly, to calm his shaken nerves, and to help him think clearly. Maybe he should get an alibi, just in case something could lead the police to him, a cigarette butt, a sweet wrapper, anything with his DNA on it.
He had not been too mindful of things like that during his long vigil. His only concern had been to remain hidden from view, whilst he plotted the coming and goings of the inhabitants. Oh God what a mess, his mind in a whirl, he could feel his body trembling and sweat stood out on his forehead. He stood still for a few moments longer, taking deep gulps of air, fighting to gain control over his shaking limbs. Yes, an alibi, and a drink, that’s what I need, he told himself, and with this in mind, he beat a hasty retreat into Salou and headed for the Sailors Rest.
Once inside, he ordered a double whiskey, and a pint of ale, and took them over to a table beside the door, sitting with his back to the wall, so he could study the people in the room unnoticed, while he consumed his drinks. A middle-aged couple sat at the bar on two high stools. He could tell at a glance they were tourists. The man seemed to be having difficulty making the bartender understand, what he wanted to drink. Picking up his empty glass he made his way over to them.
“Excuse me, I could not help overhearing, please allow me to help you, I’m Nick Fowlds,” he said offering his hand to the man, who took it in his own, giving a firm handshake.
“I’m Ken Jones, and this is my wife Nancy.” Nick smiled at the woman, nodding his head politely.
“What part of England are you from?” asked Nick, “I’m from Essex myself, but I have been living over here for several years now, so I guess I am really an ‘ex-pat’.
“We are from Kent,” replied Ken, “as you have gathered we don’t speak Spanish, and the bartender does not speak any English, hence the lack of communication.”
“What did you wish to order?” Nick asked Ken.
“Well I would like a Jack Daniels, if they have it, without ice,” and turning to Nancy he asked. “What would you like love?”
“I’d like a Bloody Mary,” Nancy said, “If the bartender knows how to make it, if not, I will have a Vodka and orange. I believe the Americans call it a screwdriver, or something like that, I know it’s a tool of some sort.” Both men laughed, as Nancy blushed.
Turning to the barman Nick gave him their order in Spanish, ordering another whiskey chaser for himself.
“Would you mind if I joined you Ken?” asked Nick.
“My pleasure,” Ken replied, “we will be glad of your company, anyway we need you, unless you can teach me in the next ten minutes to order drinks in fluent Spanish. I am only kidding,” he added, “pull up a stool my good man.”
Nick took up the stool next to Nancy and they all chatted amiably over their drinks. Nick ordered another round, inviting the barman to join them in a glass and insisting on paying. He was low on funds and he needed to get some food in as the cupboard was almost bare.
His rent was long overdue, so he would have to be careful with his money. He had been hiding from his landlady for the past three weeks but, this situation took priority over everything else. He had to try and cover his backside, in case anything did backfire on him.
They remained in each other’s company, chatting and exchanging jokes until closing time. They parted company outside, all three feeling the effects, of the nights drinking.
Back in his lodgings, Nick went in search of something to eat. All he found was a piece of cheese that had started to turn mouldy, and a stale bread roll. He carefully scraped the mould off the cheese and stuffed it into the dry bread roll, filled a glass with water, and washed his meagre meal down with it.
Ignoring the pangs of hunger, he lay on top of his bed smoking a cigarette, and thinking back over the events of the evening. Maybe he could make some easy money out of this situation. He wondered how much doctor Sam would pay him to keep his secret. He lay gazing up at the ceiling through a smoky haze, formulating a plan.
He wondered if he should approach Dr Samuel Morrison before the body was found, or wait until after it was discovered and the police had informed the media. Maybe it would be best to strike while the iron was hot. Whatever he decided, he would approach Dr Sam, and name the price of his silence. Stubbing out his cigarette he settled back into his pillow to get some much needed sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Graham Banks had had just about as much as he could take. Nothing had gone right for him in the past two years, in a few weeks’ time he was returning to England, to pick up the pieces of his miserable life, and try and start afresh.
“Here boy” he called out to the dog as it tore on ahead of him, totally ignoring him. Putting his fingers into his mouth he let out a piercing whistle, followed by a further demand to come to heel. The little Jack Russell continued to ignore his master and ran on into the bushes.
“That bloody dog will be the death of me yet,” he spoke out loud, wishing for the third time that day he had let his ex-wife keep the dog after their divorce. He had only kept it to spite her; he was certainly regretting it now. The walking, the cleaning up after it, and the constant barking at night disturbing his sleep and the damn dog barked at every bloody shadow.
He regretted a lot of things these days he thought, as he went in the direction the dog had taken, regretted leaving England in the first place, regretted getting involved with a fiery-tempered Spanish woman, taking her as his mistress. She had eventually told his wife of their affair, when he tried to end it, causing the break-up of his marriage, and the loss of the business he had struggled to build over the past four years.
The little dog emerged from the bushes, shaking his head from side to side, a woman’s black high-heeled mule clenched tightly between his little sharp teeth.
“What the hell have you got now?” He muttered taking hold of the dog he slipped the lead onto its collar.
“Drop it,” he ordered, then louder and sharper, as the dog ignored him. “DROP IT!” For once the dog obeyed him and released its plaything, dropping it into the grass at his master’s feet.
“What rubbish are you picking up now eh?” He stooped to pick up the mule. It looked almost new, made of real leather, the name ‘Roland Cartier’ printed in gold letters on the inside. He whistled through his teeth. This was an expensive item, not something you would normally throw away before getting some wear out of it.
“I wonder if it belongs to one of those rich bitches, who spend most of their time partying at Rojo Tejado,” he said to no one in particular.
It was possible, since this wasteland backed up to the rear of its premises.
The way the dog was straining at the lead, pulling hard, trying to get back into the bushes, leading him to think there could be something else there, perhaps the other mule. Maybe someone had sneaked off for a bit of nookie in the long grass and lost their footwear. Smiling at the thought, he ordered the dog, “Go seek.” Not needing a second bidding, the little Jack Russell was off into the nearest bush dragging his master behind him.
Graham Banks foot caught on something soft, and he went down, unable to save himself. He fell heavily, the breath knocked out of him, his eyes screwed up in pain. He hoped he had not broken any bones, as he fought to get his breath back. His eyes opened wide with horror when he saw the cause of his fall. He was staring into the face of a dead woman.
She lay on her back, her limbs bruised and twisted, her features horribly distorted, the flesh bruised and bloodstained, her hair matted with dirt and leaves. Her clothes had been torn from her body, her panties forced into her mouth. She had been violated and strangled, the purple marks of her assailants fingers, plainly visible about her throat. Her breasts had been slashed, the nipples missing.
Tearing his eyes away from the mutilated and ravaged body, he got to his knees and unable to stop himself, he vomited. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he reached into the back pocket of his jeans, and removed his cell phone. With trembling fingers he called the emergency ser
vices. The Jack Russell sat quietly, a few feet away; head cocked to one side, watching his every move.
Graham Banks sat waiting a few feet away from the body, the little Jack Russell lying beside him in the sparse grass. He kept his eyes averted, and tried to think of other things while waiting for the arrival of the police.
They had instructed him to remain where he was, and not move around in the crime scene, nor touch or remove anything, as if he would want to, he thought. He was still trembling from his shocking encounter with the deceased.
Reaching into the pocket of his jeans, he took out his tobacco pouch and lighter. Concentrating on the roll up, he kept his face averted from the body lying a few feet away. He carefully sprinkled the moist tobacco onto the paper, and then ran his tongue over the gummed edge, but his trembling fingers could not hold the paper steady and tobacco spilled out onto the leg of his jeans. After several failed attempts to form a roll up he gave up, stuffing the makings back into his pocket and sat gazing off into space.
In what seemed like an age, but was in fact less than ten minutes since he made the call, he heard the wail of sirens, as the emergency services rushed to the scene. Moments later, they emerged through the bushes, and the little Jack Russell leapt to its feet barking at the intruders.
While some officers marked out the crime scene, another took him off to one side for questioning. He was only too happy to tell him how he had discovered the body, apologising for throwing up at the scene.
Eventually, the same officer escorted both him and his dog away from the crime scene. He spoke firstly to another officer, and then turned to Graham Banks saying, in perfect English, “you are to go with this officer to the police station, he will take down your statement, and then he will take you to your home.”
