Extinction

by Carol Anne Davis

  The following day – long after he’d left for work, having again failed to make her climax – she phoned Adam at his home.

  ‘Hi, it’s Beth. I’ve got some queries about my relationship and I just wondered if you had time for a little informal counselling at lunchtime? Around one if you’re free?’

  It was common for therapists to share their home and work problems, was regarded as a way of splitting the load.

  ‘No problem. My place or the pub?’ Adam asked.

  ‘Oh, the pub!’

  She’d spent half of her life in pubs since bereavement as most trips with other widows, and dates, seemed to end up there. It was ironic as she’d been a really light drinker prior to her husband’s death.

  He named a pub which didn’t play music, added, ‘See you at one in their beer garden.’

  ‘It’s a deal,’ Beth said. ‘And lunch is on me.’

  As lunchtime neared, she changed into one of her more flattering tops and her favourite cut-off jeans. Though she had no intention of ever cheating on Matthew (why would she risk losing someone who was so loyal?), she was aware that Adam was an attractive man and that she wanted to look her best in his presence. It was nice to feel feminine and desired – or, in his case, masculine and desired. Neither of them ever had to act on it.

  He was disappointingly late and she had begun to consider calling his mobile when he arrived at 1.20 p.m.

  ‘Sorry – my brother phoned and talked for ages.’

  ‘What does he do?’

  Adam looked vague and said, ‘Nothing worthwhile!’ Then it was as if a light had switched on in his head as he smiled broadly at her and said, ‘Tell me about all of the boyfriend’s faults.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not him – it’s me. He’s really loving and nurturing but I just can’t reciprocate. I mean, I really care for him but I can’t verbalize it. It’s as if my throat actually closes up.’

  ‘I’ve had lots of widows tell me that,’ Adam murmured, nodding.

  Why had none of them said it to her? Did they perhaps feel guilty about dating, fear wrongly that she’d judge them harshly? Or was it difficult to talk about a new relationship to a bereavement counsellor?

  Beth felt relieved that she wasn’t the only one going through this.

  ‘The bereavement course which I took mentioned that starting over could be hard, but it didn’t go into detail. It’s weird, because I don’t feel guilty about having sex with Matthew and I’ve even let him put some of his clothes in Brian’s wardrobe but I can’t say something simple like “I really care for you”.’

  ‘Don’t force it,’ her colleague said. ‘When the time is right, the words will come. Don’t let him move in either until you’re really sure.’

  The waiter, who looked about twelve, came over and took their orders.

  ‘I always have the steak when I’m out,’ Adam explained, ‘as I eat so much pizza in the house. In fact, my lodger has the pizza place on speed dial!’

  She had a sudden vision of a bloated, waddling man. ‘He must be enormous.’

  ‘No, he’s rake thin. He’s a personal trainer who can’t drive so he walks to some of his clients’ houses with this mini-gym strapped to his back. He burns hundreds of calories.’

  ‘That’s right – I remember you said that he was always rushing around, dusting your property.’

  ‘Yeah, the folly of youth – he looks for ways to use up energy whereas most of us conserve it whenever we can!’

  ‘Matthew’s a bit like that, walks for miles carrying a heavy toolbox. It means that he can eat anything and not gain weight,’ Beth said.

  ‘So, d’you reckon he’s The One?’ Adam teased.

  ‘Well, he makes me feel like The One,’ Beth replied and briefly remembered the Stereophonics song, ‘Dakota’, about that very subject. There, the relationship had ultimately gone wrong . . .

  ‘And is that enough?’

  ‘I think so, I mean, we’re good together and he apparently loves me. What’s not to like?’

  ‘Do you love him back but can’t say so, or aren’t you there yet?’

  ‘I’m not there yet,’ Beth admitted. ‘But it’s not crucial for me. If it happens in time, that’s an added bonus. I mean, I do have feelings for him and I’d hate to lose him but I don’t think that I can label it as love.’

  ‘Can’t hurry it, as the great therapist Phil Collins said.’

  They both laughed and Beth added, ‘So, what would this be costing me if I was your private patient?’

  ‘A damn sight more than a steak!’

  ‘Your clients are mainly rich?’ She loved to know how other people lived.

  ‘Or desperate. I’m sure that some of them dip into their savings in order to pay for help when the alternative is an NHS waiting list.’

  ‘And you see quite a few children?’

  Adam nodded. ‘Lots. Sometimes their parents want to go private so that the kid doesn’t have mental health notes in his NHS file. Or they get a partial cure from the doctor in the form of tranquillizers but feel guilty about drugging the child so opt for an additional extra in the form of the talking cure. I’ve got a sixteen-year-old at the moment who has ADHD and only partially responded to his medication but he’s really blossomed since he started coming to me and his parents are well impressed.’

  ‘So you’ll soon do yourself out of a job?’

  ‘Doubt it. It’s obvious that his mum needs a break from him and I’m a reliable, if pricey, babysitter.’

  ‘That reminds me, there’s a widow I met recently who’s having problems with her son. I told her to pop into the drop-in session and speak to you.’

  ‘She just wants to talk there? I mean, she doesn’t want to become a private patient of mine?’

  ‘Not sure,’ Beth said. ‘Obviously it’s not my place to make a referral.’

  ‘Not even if I put you on commission?’

  Beth laughed. ‘I can’t be bribed!’

  ‘You probably could,’ Adam said softly. ‘Everyone has their price.’ He must have cottoned on to her look of surprise as he added, ‘Only joking, my concerned-looking friend.’

  ‘I’ve never been very motivated by money,’ Beth admitted. ‘I’ve always put freedom and relationships first, especially since Brian died.’

  ‘Same here,’ Adam murmured. ‘I cut back my hours after losing Helen, took note of the old saying that, on your deathbed, you never wish that you’d spent more time at the office.’

  ‘I always forget that you’ve been widowed too – you seem so together,’ Beth said, briefly touching his arm.

  ‘Trust me – I’ve had my own dark nights of the soul,’ Adam replied. He smiled as the waiter set down his steak and Beth’s tuna. ‘But it’s given me a whole new insight into the human condition that I didn’t have before.’

  ‘Oh, same here.’ Beth speared a piece of potato salad. ‘I have instant friendships now with widows and widowers of all ages.’

  ‘And is Matthew a widower?’

  ‘No, divorced for seven years.’

  ‘Not on the rebound, which is a good sign. There again, why hasn’t he recommitted before now?’

  Beth shrugged. ‘He won’t really discuss his past girlfriends. He just says that he wouldn’t talk about me if we ever split up so why would he talk about them?’

  ‘Either he’s very discreet or he has very little insight,’ Adam said thoughtfully.

  ‘Maybe he came on too strong and scared them off?’

  ‘Depends – how many have there been?’

  ‘Four, apparently.’

  ‘And none of them were ready for commitment?’

  ‘I got the impression that a couple of them were shortlived, not a good match.’ She cut into her tuna steak. ‘He’s very full on, would scare someone who wanted something casual – but I personally like the fact that he’s so intense.’

  ‘A keeper?’ Adam queried.

  ‘Definitely. He’s so caring and makes me feel so safe. And he t
ries so hard to please, has even done my shopping.’

  ‘So, just keep taking it a day at a time. This man is in love with you so he won’t do anything to jeopardize the relationship.’

  ‘You don’t think that he’ll tire of waiting to hear these three little words?’

  ‘Not if the sex is good,’ Adam said, grinning.

  It was pretty good for her, Beth thought, and presumably excellent for Matthew. He always cried out loudly when he came and had said that just thinking about how she looked when she was naked would get him through a difficult day.

  ‘Eight out of ten,’ she said, smiling back.

  ‘And frequent?’

  ‘Every time that I see him.’

  ‘He’ll stay hooked, then, as long as you’re warm and affectionate.’

  ‘Oh, I am. I’ve told him that he’s cute, that he’s got a great body.’

  She’d also gone down on him and told him that he tasted nice but there were limits to what she’d admit to her fellow counsellor.

  ‘You’ve nothing to worry about, Beth. Sounds like you’re ticking most of the boxes.’

  ‘Thanks for that.’ She felt much better now that she’d confided the situation to someone else. The woman who ended up with Adam, she thought, would be really lucky. He was a skilled counsellor and a caring individual who would give her his full and undivided attention from the start.

  NINETEEN

  It had been good to flirt with Beth the other day – but what he was doing now gave him even more of a kick, made him virtually euphoric. Everything was going to plan, he thought, as he returned to the car park in Birmingham and hid his latest purchase under the piece of carpet in the back of his boot. The carefully Sellotaped brown paper bag contained the nastiest and most explicit child porn mag that he could find, was devoted to boys age five and under, all touching – or being touched by – naked and literally faceless men.

  Perversion didn’t come cheap and he’d had to put tenner after tenner onto the counter in the sex shop until the guy took him into the back office and coughed up the goods. It was the male equivalent of those Lolita magazines that some men enjoyed. For his own part, girls only appealed to him when they started to grow breasts and hips – and he’d never be turned on by a young boy of any age. But then the magazine wasn’t for him . . .

  Adam carefully relocked the boot and made his way to an area where he knew there were several charity shops. The second yielded what he required – a cheap portable typewriter, a well-preserved model from the Seventies. He bought a pad of paper and an envelope at the post office, got the assistant to put on the stamp. He kept his hands in his pockets as much as possible, keen not to draw attention to the fact that he was wearing gloves.

  Now he was ready to act. He took his purchases into the nearest gents toilet and typed a short note in the garish blue colour of the typewriter ribbon: I know this man in a professional capacity and he’s been interfering with preschool children. I daren’t give my own name for fear of reprisals but am deeply concerned. He added Nicholas’s name and address, deliberately misspelling the surname as ‘Neeve’.

  If all went well, his baby brother was going to be in a lot of trouble, would lose his impeccable reputation. Still gloved, he sealed up the letter and posted it to Weston police station. They’d get it tomorrow so he was going to be busy tonight.

  He drove home, dumping the typewriter in a skip en route, rested until 2 a.m, then drove to Nicholas and Jill’s house, bringing their front door key with him. Months before, he’d taken the one that they kept at his mother’s and had a copy cut; none of them knew. He’d thought that it would prove useful if he had to pay off a gambling debt at short notice as Nicholas always had ready cash in the house as well as jewellery which could be sold or pawned.

  As he’d suspected, the household was in darkness when he arrived. He parked two streets away and padded to their bungalow, let himself in and tiptoed to the nursery. Tim was sleeping peacefully and didn’t stir when he slid the kiddie porn under the side of his mattress. He put it within easy distance of the chair which sat beside the child’s bed. It would be easy for the police to envisage Nicholas sitting on the seat, reaching for the magazine and touching himself as he looked at the pictures and at his own little son.

  His work done for now, he silently left the building, hurried to his car and drove home. At best, his brother would soon be arrested as a potential paedophile, at worst he’d plant a seed of doubt in Jill’s mind and their marriage would never be the same again.

  ‘We’ve had an interesting development.’ Detective Superintendent Bill Winston showed the letter to the police psychologist. ‘We’ve always thought that this man was one of the good guys.’

  ‘Has he ever worked with children?’

  ‘Yes, he’s a Sunday school teacher. And he has one of his own.’

  The psychologist nodded gravely. ‘As you know, these guys gravitate to places where children congregate – and they are often religious. You have to treat it seriously rather than as a hoax.’

  ‘I’m sending two officers round this afternoon to talk to him,’ Bill murmured, ‘though if he’s guilty it puts a whole new complexion on the spiel that he gave us about his brother, Adam. So far, the man hasn’t put a foot wrong with our undercover cop or with any of his female patients. In fact, as far as we can ascertain, he’s a respected landlord, a dedicated volunteer, and a bloody good psychologist.’

  ‘There’s no way that this Nicholas could have killed Helen Neave? I mean, we never thought . . .’

  Bill Winston pushed back another rush of doubt. ‘I think he had an alibi.’

  God, wouldn’t it be ironic if Nicholas Neave had killed his sister-in-law and blamed his older brother? The husband was usually in the frame so when Nicholas had told them of Adam’s childhood cruelty and ongoing controlling nature, they’d simply assumed the worst. Jill Neave had confirmed that Helen had been unhappy and thinking of ending her marriage, but she could just have been parroting what her husband said.

  He’d need to liaise with child protection and get an emergency search warrant, but, as soon as the paperwork was in place, he’d get the house searched from attic to cellar. They’d be looking for incriminating diaries, photos, anything. His years in the police force, Detective Superintendent Winston thought, served as a constant reminder that people could lead shadowy second lives, weren’t always what they seemed.

  TWENTY

  Just how often were they going to land him with this little brat? Didn’t they know that he had books to read, computer games to play, philosophies to decipher? He wanted to read Descartes, not look after a four-year-old who alternately moped and screamed.

  What was the little bastard doing now? Brandon looked up from his Cartesian tome to find that Ethan had stolen his family-sized bar of milk chocolate and eaten most of it, the brown sweetness coating his hands, face and the bedspread on which he sat. He, Brandon, wasn’t supposed to eat chocolate (Adam had advocated a low sugar diet) so how the hell was he supposed to explain this to his folks? They’d take away his computer and PlayStation again and he’d go mad with boredom and have to pretend to be neutered in order to get them back. Unless he washed the bedspread, rinsed away the caramel-scented evidence . . .

  Brandon took the cotton counterpane from his bed, put it in the washing machine and selected Eco Wash, assuming that it would be the fastest cycle. It would dry quickly on the clothes line as it was so hot outside. His parents were always urging him to go to the garden or the park or sports field, probably hoping that he’d get skin cancer and die.

  ‘Go outside,’ he said now, opening the door into the back yard.

  ‘You go too,’ Ethan said mutinously.

  ‘No, I have to use the computer.’

  He was winning a game of online chess.

  Ethan took a step back into the kitchen and Brandon put a hand on his back and began to propel him forwards. To his disgust, the kid threw up all over himself, a strange mix of wha
t looked like chopped carrots and gravy. Now he’d have to wash a T-shirt and jeans as well. God, how did you stop the washing machine? He stripped off the boy’s clothes and canvas shoes, switched the machine off at the mains, reset the switch to zero, opened the door and started again.

  ‘Brr,’ Ethan said, jumping up and down and rubbing his arms.

  ‘Stop complaining – it’s tropical. Anyway, you’re about to go into a warm bath.’

  The kid took off at speed as he ran the water – he was even skinnier than Brandon himself – but he found him in the lounge, hiding by the side of the settee.

  ‘Come on – it’ll just take a minute.’

  The four-year-old made a dash for it but Brandon was quicker, grabbed him, carried him to the bath and put him in. The child tried to clamber out and Brandon put his hands on his shoulders, pressed down. And suddenly he realized that he wanted to press harder, that he wanted rid of this encumbrance for good.

  Quickly, he stripped off his own clothes and jumped into the bath, holding his little cousin down with his superior body weight. He could feel him wriggling and kicking but they weren’t evenly matched. Die, he thought dispassionately. Go away. Get out of my life for good.

  Soon the struggling stopped and the house felt newly peaceful. Hearing a ‘We’re home,’ Brandon quickly left the watery grave, towel dried his body and shrugged into his own clothes.

  ‘Hi Mum and Dad. How was your day out?’

  Adam had taught him to say that.

  ‘Good,’ his mother said, setting down the sleeveless jacket that she’d been carrying. ‘The restaurant was doing two courses for the price of one and we walked on to Marine Lake afterwards.’

  ‘It’s thirsty work, though, all that walking,’ his father added. ‘We needed additional tea by mid afternoon.’

  I should care? He belatedly remembered the therapist’s words, nodded and adopted an interested expression.

  ‘So, where’s the little soldier?’ his mother asked.