by Hannah Howe
“Where are we going?”
“Just drive,” Brydon said, waving his Magnum at me.
“To the Ddu, to the tip, to the place where you disposed of Jolene’s body?”
“Shut up and drive,” Brydon growled. He removed his spectacles and handed them to his brother so that Brandon could brush away the raindrops.
“Who murdered Jolene?” I asked.
“It was an accident,” Brandon said from the backseat.
“You, Brandon?”
In my rear-view mirror, I noted that Brandon looked crestfallen, genuinely upset. “A stunt went wrong, that’s all,” he complained.
“A stunt for one of your sadistic films?”
“What do you know about them?” Brydon asked, his forehead wrinkling with suspicion, his body leaning towards me.
“I know everything about you,” I said. “I know where you made the films, who you recruited, who did the recruiting, who murdered Jolene...I know that you have contacts in the City, businessmen who back you with cash and heroin; you make the videos, ship them on to the businessmen who sell them and place them on the Internet.”
“It was an accident,” Brandon wailed. He looked upset, pouted like a child. Indeed, I sensed that he was about to suck his thumb.
I said, “I’m not clear on who murdered Frankie though; was that you, Brandon?”
“Brydon did it,” Brandon yelled, pointing an accusatory finger at his brother.
“Shut up!” Brydon snapped. He turned sharply to glare at Brandon. “You’re getting me very annoyed.”
“What’s the harm?” Brandon shrugged. He returned the spectacles to Brydon. Then, with a finger up his nose, he gazed through the rain soaked car window. He said, “You’re going to shoot her in a minute anyway.”
“I don’t like people gabbing,” Brydon said.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because...” He hesitated, offered me a look of shame. “Because you might tell the angels.”
“The angels?” I frowned, glancing at Brydon, taking my eyes off the road and rear-view mirror for a second. “You believe in angels?”
“Shut up!” Brydon growled, annoyed with himself, angry that he’d offered up a confession. “One more word and I’ll do it here.”
“Then we’ll all end up in a ditch,” I said, my eyes back on the road.
After sixteen minutes of driving, we arrived at the Ddu, a large landfill site. Responding to Brydon’s instructions, I parked my Mini then stepped out into the rain and darkness. We were alone, with not even the moon for company. Rain washed over our faces, soaked through our clothing, glistened in the car’s headlights.
With his gun in his right hand, Brydon walked towards me. A flash of lightning illuminated the gun, followed by an angry roar of thunder. Then, in the distance, a wailing sound; a siren.
“Hear that?” I said to Brydon.
He strained to distinguish the sound. He even placed his left hand behind his left ear. “I don’t hear nothing,” he complained.
“Must be the police,” I said, fabricating a story to suit my purpose. At a guess, the siren belonged to a fire engine, responding to a lightning strike, somewhere in the forest. “You’ve screwed up, Brydon; you left Mac with a phone; he must have called the police.”
“What are we going to do?” Brandon asked, his voice edged with panic.
“You’ve screwed up,” I said, underlining my point, sending Brandon into a fit of hysterics.
“What are we going to do?” Brandon cried.
“Shut up!” Brydon yelled.
“What are we going to do?”
Part of my statement was true – Mac did have a mobile phone and in all probability, he’d summoned assistance. However, Mac had no firm idea of our location. He could guess, based on the disposal of Jolene’s body, and that seemed my only route to salvation. I gazed into the darkness, bit my lower lip and wondered; would someone arrive in time?
“Shut up!” Brydon yelled at Brandon. He wandered around in a tight circle, annoyed with me, annoyed with his brother, annoyed with the rain as it splashed on his spectacles and blurred his vision. “Everyone shut up!” he whined. “I’m trying to think.”
“What are we going to do?” Brandon continued to cry.
Losing patience, and all reason, Brydon lashed out at Brandon. With the barrel of his Magnum, he struck his brother across the jaw, sent him sprawling on to the ground. After climbing to his feet, Brandon grabbed at, then wrestled with, Brydon. The struggle was intense, lacked all commonsense, driven by the twins’ inner demons.
Then the gun went off; Brandon staggered to the ground while Brydon looked on in horror.
The elder twin dropped to his knees, dropped his gun, shook his brother. “Do something,” he wailed. He glanced up at me with tears in his eyes, tears that mingled with the raindrops. “Do something.”
I squatted beside Brandon, checked his pulse, stared at his bloodstained chest, gazed into his vacant eyes and sighed, “He’s dead, Brydon.”
Brydon took Brandon in his arms, hugged him, kissed him, cried as though his heart was breaking. “Do something.” He offered me the gun, his mobile phone, in the hope that somehow I could conjure up a miracle. “Do something,” he sobbed. With my right hand, I rubbed his back, offered scant comfort. “Do something.”
And so the mantra continued into the night, as Brydon slipped into despair, into a black hole that offered no salvation. The police would charge him with murder; he would spend the rest of his days in an institution, tortured by the memory of this night, by his violent action, by the murder of his twin brother.
Four walls could hold a man, but dark thoughts and bitter memories make for a stronger prison. Whatever sentence the authorities bestowed on Brydon Bishop, he would have to live with those thoughts, live with those memories, live with his actions. Brandon Bishop was dead; with his lifeless body sprawled in the mud, rain diffused his blood, turned his white shirt scarlet. Brandon Bishop was dead; and although he would continue to share our world, so was his brother.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Mac guessed right and eighteen minutes after the shooting, the police arrived to arrest Brydon. He went without complaint, without a glance in my direction. He left the murder scene a broken man, a man without a mind.
During the early hours of the morning and throughout the following day, the police scoured the bunker for further evidence. They would use that evidence to offer Jolene Merchant and Frankie Quinn a measure of justice, though nothing could bring them back to life; with victims, there’s never a neat solution.
With only hearsay and no firm evidence to convict him, my father walked away from the debacle, a free man. He’d served his time, served a prison sentence in his prime, and during that prison sentence, he’d abandoned me, his daughter. And, for all his sins and scoundrel ways, maybe that sentence was enough, maybe our many years apart served as a punishment for Gawain Morgan.
According to Gina, who told Faye, the baby slept through the whole ordeal. Later, mother and baby returned to the attic flat where Faye continued to act as fairy godmother.
Faye would cut her ties with Gina, they would go their separate ways, but not before Faye had secured the support of the Social Services. Life would be hard for Gina and her baby, she knew that well enough; she was under no illusions. However, with the Bishop brothers out of the picture, at least she had a chance.
The day after Brandon’s murder, I received a note from Naz; it stated, “Thanks,” along with a swastika and a smiley face. Naz would muscle in on the Bishops’ territory; over time, he’d develop his criminal empire. So it goes. Organised crime deplores a vacuum; you get rid of one villain and another steps in to take his place. I tore the note into shreds and dropped those shreds into the bin.
On a brighter note, Alan returned safely from Australia and I survived my hen night, though I awoke the following morning with confused memories and a very sore head. Photographic evidence suggested that we�
�d enjoyed a riotous occasion, a night of celebration coupled with a release of emotion. How I managed to wake up with furry handcuffs around my wrists, attached to my bed, is something I categorically refuse to go into. Thankfully, Faye had left a key on my pillow. Feeling saucy, I placed the key and the furry handcuffs in my bedside drawer.
Then the big day itself, shared with an intimate gathering of family and friends. We pledged our vows, exchanged wedding rings, kissed and smiled for the cameras. Then we retreated to the balcony and watched as our guests enjoyed themselves.
With music blaring in the background, ex rugby players talked with psychologists; Alis accompanied Mac in a highland fling; I spied Mac’s handsome lover chatting, over drinks, with Alan’s parents, while, in the far corner, Sweets shared a joke or two with my father. Furthermore, my dad’s paramour talked earnestly with Mrs MacArthur. And to complete the picture, Bernie Samson, Alan’s best man, conversed with Faye as she arranged the wedding presents, placed them in order.
“A moment’s peace and quiet,” I said, gazing at the hotel’s lavish green lawns and colourful gardens. The sun had returned, along with the blue sky; recent events belonged to another world, another time, a world I would revisit after our honeymoon. However, for now, all appeared tranquil and serene, a taste of paradise.
“A lovely day,” Alan said, placing an arm around my shoulders.
“A great day,” I said.
“Honeymoon soon,” he smiled. “How are your ribs?”
“Improving,” I said, stretching my arms above my head, as though to prove my point.
“Faye did a good job,” Alan said, “disguising the bruises.”
Bruises on your wedding day; that could only happen to yours truly. I frowned and said, “I hope they don’t spoil the wedding pictures.”
“Bruises won’t spoil the wedding pictures.” Alan took a step back, reached for my hands, then offered me an admiring gaze. “You look stunning, Mrs Storey.”
“Mrs Storey...,” I mused. “Of course, I’ll keep Smith at work.”
“Out of feminist ideals?”
“Out of practicality; people know me as Sam Smith.” I grinned, “And maybe the rebel in me says that I have to be different.”
“You are that all right,” Alan laughed, a laugh that turned into a hug and a romantic kiss.
We were still hugging when Alis joined us on the balcony. “Sweets,” she said, indicating that we should return to our guests and our star performer.
I wandered into the reception room holding Alan’s hand, carrying the wisdom of experience and the enthusiasm of a teenager.
In the reception room, we found Sweets standing on a dais, a microphone in his right hand. He tapped the microphone, blew into its head, then said, “Testing, testing.” With a smile of satisfaction, he intoned, “Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking...,” which produced jeers of derision from his audience.
“Nevertheless,” Sweets continued, “I couldn’t allow this happy occasion to pass without the odd amusing word.” He coughed softly, to compose himself, then adjusted his trousers. Dressed in a smart grey suit – I sensed Mrs MacArthur’s hand there – Sweets was elegance personified, though his shirt continued to misbehave, its tail flopping over his backside.
After Sweets had tucked his shirt into place, he said, “I like to view my wedding video with the tape running backwards, so that I can watch myself walking out of the church a free man.”
Most of us groaned, though a few polite people did laugh.
“I’m not saying that my marriage got off to a bad start,” Sweets said, “but when the vicar said, ‘you may now kiss the bride’ the missus said, ‘not now, dear, I have a headache’.”
We all laughed at that, including Mrs MacArthur.
“I received a nice note from Sam, thanking me for my wedding present. She said, ‘it was just what I wanted and I’ll use them every time I personally entertain guests. I’m not saying that I’m worried,” Sweets frowned, “but I did give her silk bed sheets.”
We all laughed again, Alan the loudest.
“I’ve got to tell you this...one day, my missus placed an ad in the local newspaper, ‘husband wanted’. Next day she received a hundred replies all saying the same thing...’you can have mine’.”
Sweets was well into his stride now, leaning on the microphone stand like a veteran. He said, “And remember...courtship is like looking at pictures in a seed catalogue; marriage is what comes up in your garden.”
After a few poor, presumably drunk, souls had wiped tears of mirth from their eyes, Sweets continued, “One more, then I must let you go...A little girl attends a wedding for the first time. She asks her mother, ‘why is the bride dressed in white?’ And the mother says, ‘because white is a happy colour and this is the happiest day of her life.’ The little girl thinks, then says, ‘so why is the groom wearing black?” To the sound of laughter and applause, Sweets bowed, departed the stage and said, “I thank you.”
However, some people were foolish enough to shout, “Encore! Encore!” so Sweets climbed back on to the dais.
“Okay, just one more...Forty years after their honeymoon a married couple decided to visit all the places that reminded them of romance. They were driving past a farm when they looked at each other and said, ‘let’s do what we did here forty years ago’. So they got out of their car and made passionate love against the boundary fence. Back in the car, the husband says, ‘You went crazy out there! You never moved like that forty years ago, or any time since.’ The wife sighs, then replies, ‘Really? Well forty years ago that fence wasn’t electrified...’”
Sweets raised a glass of champagne and offered us a toast, “To Samantha and Alan. I’m proud to know you and regard you as my friends. Wishing you many happy years together.”
As our guests drank to us, I glanced at my father. He looked on with pride, with a broad smile, and I realised that after years of hurt and searching, we had truly found each other.
On the balcony, away from the sound of Mac and his bagpipes, Alan asked, “Are you happy?”
I thought for a moment then replied, “No.”
“No?” Alan frowned.
With a smile, I stood on tiptoe, placed my arms around his neck and gave him a passionate kiss. At some point during that kiss, I sighed, “I’m overjoyed.”
SAM’S SONG
by Hannah Howe
Love Hurts. For Derwena de Caro, songstress, female icon, teenage dream, success brought drugs, alcohol and a philandering boyfriend. It also brought wealth, fame and a stalker, or so she claimed. And that’s where I came in, to investigate the identity of the stalker, little realising that the trail would lead to murder and a scandal that would make the newspaper headlines for months on end.
Love Hurts. For me, Samantha Smith, Enquiry Agent, love arrived at the end of a fist. First, I had to contend with an alcoholic mother, who took her frustrations out on me throughout my childhood, then my husband, Dan, who regarded domestic violence as an integral part of marriage. But I survived. I obtained a divorce, kept my sense of humour and retained an air of optimism. I established my business and gained the respect of my peers. However, I was not prepared for Dan when he re-entered my life, or for the affection showered on me by Dr Alan Storey, a compassionate and rather handsome psychologist.
Sam’s Song. This is the story of a week that changed my life forever.
LOVE AND BULLETS
by Hannah Howe
It had been a week since the incident at the abandoned quarry, a week since I’d shot and killed someone, a week since my ex-husband had been murdered. It had been an emotional week. But life goes on. I’d been hired to discover who was sending death threats to Dr Ruth Carey, a controversial psychiatrist. The trail led to two high-powered villains and soon the death threats were aimed at me, threats that increased following two murders.
Meanwhile, after years of domestic violence, I was trying to make sense of my private life. Dr Alan Storey, a prominent psychol
ogist, claimed that he loved me, and I was strongly attracted to him. But the years of domestic abuse had scarred me emotionally and I was reluctant to commit to a relationship.
Love and Bullets is the story of a dramatic week in my life, a week of soul-searching, self-discovery and redemption.
THE BIG CHILL
by Hannah Howe
“Emergency!” “Christ! Who shot her?” “Don’t know.” “What a mess.” “Better call Dr Warburton.”
Bright lights. A sharp, antiseptic smell. Pain. Nausea. Feel so weak. The cat, who’ll feed the cat? “Marlowe.” “She’s babbling.” “She’s lost a lot of blood.” Blackness. “Have we lost her?” I don’t want to die!
A jumble of images, my mother, my father, but his face is so vague. “Daddy!” Nothing. A man scowling, with a needle. “I’m going to put you to sleep. You won’t feel a thing. Just count backwards from ten...” “Ten, nine, eight...”
Aching all over. Can’t move my shoulder or my arm. Very tired. More nightmares; too black to dwell on; make them go away...
Sweating. Drowning. I catch my breath, like breathing for the first time. Eyes blink awake. Gasping. Try to rise, but head hurts too much. I ache all over, but I’m alive!
I was alive. But with a snowstorm gripping the city and with an unknown assassin closing in, I faced the most dangerous moment of my life and the very real prospect of feeling the big chill.
RIPPER
