by Joe McNally
‘That’s not good enough. I want a full statement from you about last night.’
He was being remarkably polite. ‘Fine, I’ll call in at the station.’
‘When?’
‘As soon as I can.’
‘Malloy!’
‘Sergeant, look, tell me you’ll pick up a bookmaker called Stoke for questioning and I’ll come to the station right now.’
‘For questioning on what?’
‘For at least three of the murders that you and I have been fighting about since we met. Those were his two guys you picked up last night. They were out to add me to their list.’
‘They’re claiming you abducted them.’
‘Oh, come on, Cranley! Even you can’t believe that?’
‘I’m not saying I do.’
‘Look, arrest Stoke. I can get people to testify if they know he’s safely locked up.’
‘Come and see me, Malloy, then we’ll talk about it.’
’I can’t! Not now. I told you that.’
‘Then it looks like I’m going to have to let your two friends here go.’
I heard a click. ‘Cranley! Cranley! You bastard!’
Charmain was up when I got back, spooning coffee as the kettle whistled. The light covering of make-up didn’t completely hide the dark rings round her eyes but she looked reasonably bright. It was hard to tell if she’d had her first fix of the day.
‘Coffee?’ she asked.
‘Please. Black, no sugar.’ I sat on the bunk.
‘Just as well. There’s no milk.’
She brought it to me then sat on the bunk opposite and clasped her mug in both hands. ‘Where’ve you been?’
‘I took the cars into the village.’
She looked puzzled.
‘In case Howard’s got a search party out.’
She sipped. Neither of us spoke for a minute. She seemed almost friendly and was acting as if last night hadn’t happened.
‘Do you think Howard will know I’m with you?’ She asked.
‘I hope so.’
‘Why?’ She looked nervous.
‘Because I need him to come looking for us.’ My stomach heaved as I said it, making me realise how scared I was and how tense the waiting was going to be.
‘Jesus.’ she said, quietly, and I knew she was scared too. ‘Then what?’
‘I don’t know. I’m still thinking.’
She sipped her coffee. I blew on mine. We were silent again for a minute then she spoke, looking over the rim of her cup at the floor, unblinking. ‘How long will it take him to find us?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘It might be days,’ she said.
‘Maybe.’
‘Or even a week.’
We looked at each other.
‘I don’t think I could stand that,’ she said. ‘Just sitting here knowing it could be any minute or it could be days and days.’
I nodded. I didn’t think I could stand it either.
‘What do you think he’ll do when he gets here?’
‘Charmain, I don’t know yet. I’m trying to plan something.’ I felt irritable though she didn’t seem to notice. I went to the window. The hedge by the towpath blocked the view of the road and made me start worrying that Stoke might already be on his way and I wouldn’t even see his car pull up.
I went outside. The air was warmer now, the low mist lifting. I could see the road, grey and empty.
Charmain was right. Neither of us would stand days of waiting, especially if her heroin supply ran out. Rather than hide the fact that we were here I should have been advertising it. The sooner Stoke knew, the quicker he’d come.
I’d get my car back and leave it at the top of the towpath. It could only be a matter of time before one of Stoke’s buddies passed by. I told Charmain but her relief seemed marginal, about the same as a condemned man shows when you tell him his sentence has been bought forward.
Along with my car, I brought back from the village some groceries, a pink tracksuit and yellow training shoes. The last two items were for Charmain but by the time I got back to the boat I’d decided not to give them to her.
‘Why?’ she asked as I stashed them in a small locker.
‘Because when Howard does come ...’ I shut the clasp lock and straightened to face her ‘I need him to think you’re being held prisoner.’
‘By you?’
‘Yes. And there’s a hell of a lot better chance of him believing it if you’re locked in dressed just in your nightgown with no shoes.’
‘Why do you want him to think that?’
‘To protect you. So you’ll have to do your bit to convince him from the moment he comes through that door.’
She was looking nervy again. ‘What will you be doing?’ She asked.
‘I won’t be here.’
She stared at me. I went to the sink and filled the kettle again and lit the stove. ‘Did you notice the old barge moored just behind us?’ I asked. She nodded.
‘When he comes down the towpath I’ll be in there. When he gets through this door I’ll slip out and ring the police from the lock-keeper’s cottage.’
‘What if the lock-keeper isn’t in?’
‘We’ll just have to hope he is, otherwise I’ll have to drive into the village.’
‘Then what?’
‘You convince him I kidnapped you. Tell him I’ve gone to buy some booze and that I’ll be back any time. I’ll speak to Cranley, he’ll make sure the police come quickly and quietly.’ That was said with more hope than confidence.
I rinsed the coffee mugs. ‘When the police get here I’ll come back on board and make Howard incriminate himself loudly enough for the police to come in and get him.’
‘That’s silly.’
I shrugged. ‘It’s the best I can come up with.’
‘Howard won’t come alone, you know.’ she said.
‘We’ll have to wait and see. As long as they all come on board then I can still make the call.’
She stood, arms crossed, clutching her elbows tightly. ‘What if he doesn’t believe me?’
The kettle bubbled. I poured and stirred. ‘You’ll have to make him believe you.’ I carried the drinks over and we sat down. She looked across at me. ‘What if he shoots you as you walk through the door?’
I sipped the coffee and shook my head. ‘He won’t, Howard will want to see me squirm, make me suffer.’ I looked at her. ‘Don’t you think so?’
Despite the warmth from the fire and the hot coffee, she shivered and looked away. We both knew I was right.
I locked Charmain in, ducked through a gap in the hedgerow and set off across the field up toward the ruined farm I’d watched Greene and Skinner from. The binoculars swung from my shoulder.
Reaching the rock I’d used before, I settled down knowing I could wait days for one of Stoke’s men to come along.
Earlier that afternoon I’d gone to the lock-keeper’s cottage and asked to use the phone. In the general small talk I found that the couple who lived there had no plans to be away over the weekend. At least there’d be a phone available when the ‘emergency’ came.
It was a fine warm windless evening. A tractor, orange light flashing lazily on its roof, chugged up the hill and turned away into a cornfield on the far side. The only other vehicles I’d seen after half an hour were six cars and a laundry van.
I’d been there forty minutes when I heard noises from the direction of the canal. I focused on the boat. It was rolling heavily and unevenly in the water. Faint but distinctive sounds of breaking glass or crockery reached me.
What the hell was she doing down there? No one got could have got on board without me seeing them; she had to be making all that noise on her own.
My first inclination was to run down the hill but what would I be running into? The noise got worse. A metallic banging echoed as though she was hitting the draining board with a cooking pot. Was she trying to get out? Had a fire started?
A curtai
n moved. I concentrated on the window and saw her grip the curtain and tear it down. I set off half-limping, half-running toward the boat.
Charmain sat cross-legged on her bunk. A corner of the torn curtain lay over her shoulder tucked under her chin which was sunk deep on her chest. Her hair had fallen forward hiding her face. Her hands, white-knuckled, were clamped to her sides as if she felt her ribcage had to be held together. She was rocking to and fro making a tuneless sound somewhere between a moan and a hum, as though she were trying to drown out something she didn’t want to hear.
The damage around her couldn’t have been worse if the boat had overturned. Every internal door lay open; lockers, cupboards, fridge, cooker, toilet. Some of the smaller ones hung only from one hinge. All looked empty; their contents were on the floor: books, magazines, towels, bedding, clothing, pictures, mirrors, twisted coat hangers, light-bulbs, crockery, glasses, cutlery. Many things were broken, bent, torn, twisted, smashed, spilled.
In the kitchen area a mess of food lay over and among the wreckage. A slab of butter spread wide by her foot, blobs of corned beef with jelly still clinging, raspberry yogurt bleeding from a cracked carton, a burst loaf, bruised apples, torn teabags, a trail of coffee grains, puddles of milk and orange juice, hundreds of loose matches, many with spent black heads, and, scattered over everything like corn-coloured snowdrops, thousands of cereal flakes.
The only object I could see which wasn’t on the floor was a plant pot which lay on its side on the small table next to me; the contents, a short but vicious looking cactus, had been dragged out. Some of the spikes at the tip were blood-stained. I righted the pot. What was left of the soil inside bore Charmain’s scrabbling, desperate, heroin-seeking finger marks.
I went over to where she sat rocking. Rolling to and fro with her, in the dip made by the nightgown between her open knees, was the empty heroin phial. I squatted in front of her, trying to look up into her face. ‘Charmain, what happened? I thought you had enough to get you through?’
She didn’t answer, just kept rocking. Delicately, I reached for the phial which had dropped into a fold between her thighs. Empty. I looked closely at the cap. It was cracked. By her side were the tattered remains of her little pink bag, the lining had been torn out. Gently, I parted her hair. A piece of the lining, sucked dry of the leaked drug, hung limply from her mouth.
Whether it was shock or the beginning of withdrawal I don’t know but I couldn’t rouse her. She was locked away, eyes still open, in her own little world. I thought of cleaning the place up then decided Stoke would be more easily convinced by our story if I left the mess.
I sat by the window to keep watch as best I could while Charmain rocked and swayed on her bunk. About early evening she began moaning and whining.
I gripped her knees. ‘Tough it out. We’ll soon be away from here.’
She shook her head. ‘Can’t.
‘You can.’
‘No! Get me some stuff!’
‘Charmain ...’ I tried to make her look at me but she wouldn’t. I touched her chin, trying to bring it up. ‘Charmain ...’ Slowly she straightened and looked at me with red, pained, pleading eyes. ‘Please ...’ she moaned.
‘There isn’t any, Charmain. There’s nowhere I can get it. We’re in the middle of the countryside, it’ll soon be dark.’
She just kept staring like a frightened child. ‘Just a little ...’ The whine again. This was no good. I couldn’t face many more hours of this, never mind days. Somehow I had to let Stoke know we were here. An idea came to me. I checked my watch.
‘Charmain, try and take in what I’m saying to you.’ I cupped her face in my hands. ‘Try and take it in, concentrate.’
I stood up slowly and gently gripped her shoulders. ‘I’m going out for a while and for your own good I’m going to lock you in. Try to stay calm and don’t call out because I can’t come to you.’
She didn’t look up, didn’t make a sound. I squeezed her shoulders and turned toward the door, picking my way through the debris. Locking the door I stepped onto the towpath, made for the car and headed for home. Leaving Charmain alone for a couple of hours was a gamble, l but it was one I had to take.
Back at the cottage, the place was cold but I couldn’t bring myself to build a fire, too cheery. I sat silently under the light of a small lamp knowing I was making the final admission to myself, knowing I was extinguishing the last dregs of hope for our relationship.
At 9.55 Jackie called and we spoke lovingly and I left her with the news of exactly where I was and who I was with. And I knew that, if she did her job as well as she had with Harle and Kruger, Stoke would soon be coming.
38
When I got back to the boat there had been no change in the pitch of Charmain’s whining. I went in and tried to get through to her that Howard could be on his way and it was essential she stuck to the story we’d agreed. I was wasting my time. She took nothing in.
I doubted that Stoke would come that night. If he did I’d have real problems between Charmain and trying to rouse the lock-keeper so I could use his phone. But I couldn’t take any chances so I prepared for a night on the old barge. The only consolation was that I wouldn’t be in the same room as Charmain and her moaning.
By 1 a.m. the only life I’d seen was a fox trotting along the towpath. He’d stopped by the side of Charmain’s boat, lifted a front paw and cocked his ears at the pathetic whingeing from inside. She’d kept it up almost non-stop for two hours. The fox trotted on out of earshot. He was lucky.
I spent an uneventful night disturbed only by the cold and Charmain’s moans.
When dawn came and Stoke hadn’t showed, the tension eased a notch and I was sorely tempted to try to get some sleep. But I couldn’t take the chance.
I wanted a cup of coffee to warm me and keep me awake but I was apprehensive about going back inside the boat. There had been no noise from Charmain for over an hour. I guessed she’d fallen asleep so I didn’t want to wake her and find myself subject to another desperate pleading session.
And, Stoke could still arrive at any minute. As soon as I walked through that door he could come coasting down the hill in his big silent Rolls. I thought about it. I thought about the hot coffee. To hell with it, I was going to make some.
Hoping not to wake Charmain I crept in quietly but she wasn’t asleep. She sat on the floor by the bunk, her knees drawn up to her chest.
As soon as she saw me she scrambled up and stumbled toward me, grabbing at my lapels, staring up into my face. Her hair was matted with stale sweat and her skin was deathly pale, making the rings around her bloodshot eyes look even darker. Her breath smelled.
‘Did you get any?’ she whined, her eyes wide and wild looking.
I tried to ease her grip. ‘No, Charmain.’
‘Yes! You must have!’
‘I haven’t been anywhere! I’ve been in the boat behind you all night freezing to bloody death.’ I held her shoulders and turned her toward the bunk again. ‘Come on, I’ll make you a coffee.’
She tore herself away and pushed me so hard with both hands I overbalanced and fell against the table, the leg wound, again, getting the worst of it.
She stamped once and clenched her fists and leant forward till her face was inches from mine. A vein swelled in the centre of her forehead and a dozen sprung out on her neck and, screaming every word at me she said, ‘I don’t want a fucking coffee! I want a fix!’
It might have been through some desire to calm her down but I think it was mostly anger that made me stand up and slap her face. Reeling, she staggered back against the wall, tears welling in her mad pathetic eyes. Slowly, she let herself slide downward till she was sitting, knees up, on the floor. She stayed there weeping quietly.
I made the coffee, brought a mugful for her and set it down by her side. ‘Black only, I’m afraid. You spilled all the milk.’
Looking up at me she shifted into pleading mode again. ‘Let me go ... please!’
I leaned
back against the table. ‘Where to? Where would you go, Charmain, in that state?’
‘Roscoe’s.’
‘Why?’
‘There’ll be some stuff there, I’m sure there will. Alan might have left some, or Phil. Roscoe’s probably got some.’
‘And do you think he’ll give it to you?’
‘I’ll make him.’
‘Sure you will. How are you going to get there?’
‘Just gimme the keys, I’ll drive.’
I hunkered in front of her. ‘Charmain, you can hardly walk, never mind drive.’
With both hands she rubbed her forehead, then her eyes. ‘I can,’ she wept, ‘I can.’
‘Charmain, listen ... listen to me. You’ve got to be here when Howard comes. You’ve got to go through with what we agreed.’ She wouldn’t look at me. ‘He’ll come before midnight tonight. I’m sure he will. Then we’ll get you away from here, get you sorted out.’
She just shook her head slowly and the quiet weeping gave way to heavy sobbing. I was fighting a losing battle and couldn’t spend any more time trying to console her. For all I knew Stoke was standing outside.
I turned and headed back to the old barge, locking Charmain safely in behind me.
Toward noon a combination of boredom, silence and a night without sleep had me dozing on my feet. I decided to risk another confrontation with Charmain for the sake of a coffee and something to read. Anyway, she’d been quiet for a while, maybe she was sleeping.
Unlocking the door I tiptoed in, wary of waking her. I heard the metallic clunk at exactly the same time as I felt the blow and I remember marvelling stupidly how synchronised it was as I slumped to the floor and sank into unconsciousness.
I opened my eyes and didn’t know where I was. My head hurt. I stared at the ceiling, a long narrow ceiling. Was I in a hallway in some big house? Rolling onto my stomach I slowly pushed myself up till I was kneeling. I looked around. I was still on the boat.
It was silent, deserted. No Charmain, no Stoke, no bad men. Beside me, upside down on the floor, was the steel cooking pot I’d been hit with. It wasn’t even dented. Tenderly, I fingered my skull and found a painful bump over my right ear.
