A Moment Of Madness

by Hilary Bonner

  Kelly moved further into the priest’s hole, bending over as he did so in order not to bang his head against its uneven ceiling, and ran his eye along the lines of tapes. A video labelled 12 November 2001 was in its correct place on the shelves. There it was. Just like that. It existed. But could it really be what Kelly suspected? He took the tape off the shelf and shifted the rest in the row just a little to cover the gap he had made. He was eager now to watch it, but first he had to close up the priest’s hole behind him, and that took him several anxious minutes. At one point he really did begin to fear that he was just not going to be able to do so, and that on her return Angel would be confronted by almost irrefutable evidence of his night-time escapade. Eventually, however, and probably as much by luck as judgement, he managed to get the mechanism to work.

  Once he had closed the priest’s hole he stood for a moment or two checking that everything was in place and wondering exactly what he should do next. He was so eager to watch the video that he was extremely tempted to go into the living room and look at it straight away on Angel’s TV there. At least he could return the tape then right after he’d seen it. But he had already shut up the priest’s hole and, in any case, it would be far safer to stick to his original plan. He reminded himself that he had no real idea when Angel might return. He reminded himself again of her unpredictability, and decided to take no further risks, but to return to his own territory while he had the chance.

  On the drive back to Torquay Kelly’s mind was buzzing. The adrenalin was flowing like he hadn’t experienced since he’d been in a war zone. The sense of danger was almost that great in a way. Kelly was so afraid of what the tape might reveal. But at the same time he couldn’t wait to know.

  Sixteen

  When he got home, Kelly hastily locked the front door and ran up the stairs to his bedroom. Without even bothering to remove his coat he slotted the tape into his little portable TV’s built-in video machine.

  The first part of his hunch immediately proved itself to be correct. The film featured Scott and Angel having sex together. She had indeed told the truth, it seemed, about their relationship in that respect. Whatever the exact nature of his affair with Bridget Summers, which even Angel admitted had happened, Scott’s continued enthusiasm for shafting his wife could not be in doubt. And Kelly couldn’t help noticing how well-endowed the rock star was. Did Angel find him inadequate by comparison, he wondered. Then he gave himself a mental telling off. The purpose of having stolen the tape was not to compare himself sexually with Scott Silver or anyone else. Neither was it to become aroused. In spite of everything, and in spite of his instinctive distaste at seeing Angel with another man, even her husband, he began to feel unwanted surges of sexual excitement as images he could not help finding highly erotic unfolded on screen.

  Scott and Angel were doing together all the things that he and Angel did. Only better, he thought fleetingly. Then kicked himself again. For a good thirty minutes it went on like that. Thirty minutes of earthy sex. He was beginning to get quite turned on in spite of himself when a tall heavily built man appeared in shot. Kelly’s arousal vanished, and he felt himself break out in a cold sweat. He was so afraid of what might happen next. He peered closely at the screen. The man’s back was to the camera but Kelly knew this must be Terry James. He could see no knife. However, James’s right hand was not visible. For a few seconds James stood absolutely still, facing the bed. Kelly remained unable to see his face but guessed that he had been momentarily at least arrested by the sexual activity going on there. Then, quite abruptly, Scott Silver looked up, as if he had heard a sound, and spotted the intruder. He screamed something Kelly could not hear and, with impressive agility, literally leaped out of bed and threw himself at James, who, although he was so much bigger than Scott, seemed to be at first knocked off balance by the speed and force of the unexpected attack. But James, seasoned street fighter that he was, made a quick recovery, and wrapped his left arm round Scott’s neck, the forearm pressing on the rock star’s larynx. There was still no sign of a knife, but James’s right hand remained concealed. The two entangled men half fell to the floor, and, struggling violently, rolled out of shot. Angel then climbed out of bed and half ran towards her husband and James until she was out of shot too. There were more screams and shouts, then a particularly blood-curdling scream – the moment when Scott was stabbed, Kelly guessed.

  A few seconds later Terry James appeared on screen again. He was covered in blood, walking backwards, eyes wide with horror, jaw slack. He seemed to be in shock. Still no knife was visible. Then Angel reappeared. She too was bloody. Dripping blood. And she was holding a lethal-looking knife. It was a large kitchen knife, which Kelly was sure he had seen before in court during Angel’s trial, and which had presumably already been responsible for the death of her husband.

  Angel walked purposefully towards James, as she did so lifting the knife so that it was level almost with her shoulders, and pointed at James’s body just above his waist. The big man, still looking dazed, continued to walk backwards until Angel lurched suddenly towards him and plunged the knife into his gut. James gave a little grunt, almost more in surprise than pain it seemed to Kelly, then stretched out his hands as if trying to push Angel away. She stepped back then, withdrawing the knife as she did so, which made a kind of sucking noise as it was pulled free of James’s flesh. He went down at once, dropping heavily to the floor like a length of felled lumber. As he fell Angel stepped towards him again and continued to stab him, thrusting the knife into his body repeatedly. James made no further sound. Blood spouted from him like fizzy lemonade from a pierced can. Thick and red. Angel lashed out at him again and again. And when she finally stopped she stood over him, eyes unnaturally bright, lips parted, breathing deeply, looking, in fact, much the same way she did when she had sex.

  Kelly was mesmerised, and shocked to the core. The events of that dreadful night had been filmed, preserved for posterity on a video tape which Angel obviously hadn’t been able to resist keeping. He’d half expected that, hadn’t he? But she’d kept it even though it barely seemed to tally at all with the version of events she’d given to the police and in court.

  He wound the tape back and played it again. Then several times more. His head ached. He wished he hadn’t been so darned sanctimonious and had helped himself to a little of Angel’s stash of dope and coke. He could do with some mind-altering substances. This was turning into an extraordinary and quite terrifying night. Kelly desperately needed something to settle his shattered nerves, to restore some sense of wellbeing, in spite of everything. Maybe he was getting hooked again. It made no difference on this occasion as he had nothing to take. Instead he tried to concentrate on what he was going to do with the tape. He knew what he should do. He should hightail it round to Karen Meadows first thing in the morning. He also knew that he wasn’t going to do that. He wasn’t going to do anything until he had a chance at least to talk to Angel. But he had no idea where she was. London was a big place, and she had always avoided telling him not only where she was staying but also whom she might be with. Neither did he know for certain when she would be home. A couple of days, she’d said. He was well aware already that that could mean almost anything from twenty-four hours to a week or more. He would just have to be patient, which was hard, because he was desperate to get it over with now. Confronting her with what he’d discovered was not going to be a pleasant experience, he was sure of that – for a start it would be pretty clear that he had broken into her home in her absence – but that is what he intended to do.

  He switched off the light, undressed and climbed into bed, burying his head in the pillows, desperately seeking the release of sleep. It was hopeless. His brain was racing. His headache was getting worse. Eventually he hauled himself out of bed and paddled downstairs to the kitchen where he scrabbled in the drawer next to the cooker for the plastic drum of aspirin he knew was there somewhere. His fingers eventually located it, right at the back, of course, jammed beh
ind a roll of bin liners, a box of sticking plaster and a packet of dishcloths. Thankfully he thrust three of the small white tablets into his mouth, filled a mug that had been upside down on the draining board with tap water and washed the aspirin down with one gulp.

  He put the mug down again and turned away. Then he paused, turned back and picked up the mug once more. He was well enough aware that in the cupboard above him were a two-thirds-full bottle of whisky and two bottles of wine. When he had first come off the booze and the drugs all those years ago he hadn’t been able to stand having drink in the house, and hadn’t been able to cope with going into a pub because the temptation was just too great. But he had simply learned to steel himself. Moira drank. Nick drank, albeit very moderately. His friends drank. For years Kelly had been able to keep alcohol in his home in order to offer a drink to others without being worried by it, and certainly without even thinking about drinking it himself when he was alone. Tonight was different, he told himself.

  He reached up, opened the cupboard door, removed the whisky and poured himself a hefty slug into the same mug. Then he paused. It was well over twelve years since he’d touched a drop. He tried to convince himself he could handle it, that he was never going to go under again, so what harm could a drop of whisky do? Anyway, he needed something. He really did. And the whisky was there. To hell with it, thought Kelly. With one hand he replaced the bottle in the cupboard and with the other he raised the mug to his lips and took a tentative sip.

  First he felt the spirit hit the back of his throat, then that still familiar burning sensation, followed almost instantly by the glow of it coursing through his veins. For a true drinker there was nothing, absolutely nothing, like neat whisky. Except perhaps Eastern European vodka, although that didn’t quite have the taste. Both provided instantaneous fixes. Just about the nearest you could get to main-lining out of a bottle. Kelly shut his eyes, savouring the moment. Twelve years without this, he thought. By God, it was good. He took another longer, deeper drink, rolling the whisky around his mouth with his tongue.

  For a moment or two he stood there, just enjoying it. Then he reached up to the cupboard again, removed the bottle of Scotch, and headed back to bed, mug in one hand, bottle in the other.

  The next morning he woke feeling terrible. He might not have forgotten how good whisky tasted, but he had forgotten what a whisky hangover was like. Selective memory, he supposed, the way most people so frequently look back at the past. On the other hand, he didn’t have much recollection of having suffered from hangovers at all in the old days. The amount of booze he had put away with such regularity quite probably meant that he hadn’t suffered from them much, that his body had gone past even reacting in that way.

  Kelly lay very still. His mouth felt like the inside of a stale wash-bag. He might even be growing green mould in there, he thought wryly as he ran his tongue tentatively over furry teeth. His head ached even worse than it had the night before and his gut was periodically contracting with vague spasms of nausea. Perhaps he’d better go to the bathroom. Cautiously he propped himself up on one elbow and attempted to swing his legs out of bed. The room spun.

  It was a while before he was able to move without minor disaster, and even then it took him some time to get his act together – brush teeth, shave, dress, all the routine things which were not normally a problem. But they were today.

  Then he made his way painfully down to the kitchen, brewed tea, took some more aspirin, and waited hopefully for his headache to fade away and his brain to clear.

  It was the best part of an hour before he felt even marginally better. But his head still ached dully and his thought processes were definitely operating on an auxiliary engine. And not a very powerful one, either. The clock on the wall told him that it was 9.30 a.m. already. Kelly should have been in the office at 7.30. He groaned to himself and decided that it would be better to phone in sick than to turn up at his evening paper halfway through the working day.

  Deliberately avoiding a direct call to any of his bosses, he succeeded eventually in managing to speak to Phyllis, the front desk receptionist. That alone was quite an achievement, particularly for a man in Kelly’s condition, as, in keeping with the era of voice mail and computer technology, you had to work really hard to get through to the human being behind the piped music and various assorted bleeps of the Argus telephone system. Phyllis, however, was a good sort who had always given the impression of being quite fond of Kelly. He thought she’d do her best for him.

  When he had finished spinning an entirely predictable yarn about a stomach upset, food poisoning, terrible cramps, and so on, Kelly poured himself more tea and tried to phone Angel. Situation normal. The landline phone to Maythorpe was switched to automatic answering mode, naturally, and there was no reply from her mobile. Did she ever switch the darned thing on, he wondered wearily.

  None the less he called the mobile several times before finally admitting defeat. Then he went back to bed. He was unable to sleep much, but it still seemed to help a bit. Every time he woke up he attempted to phone Angel again, and then, in the late afternoon, he took a run out to Maythorpe just in case she had returned already. The house was deserted.

  On the way back to Torquay he stopped at the Fitzroy Arms on the outskirts of town, a pub which he had never frequented before, and ordered a pint of bitter. Kelly had always been a beer man. Whisky gave you the instant hit, beer the slow soothing satisfaction. And there was, of course, nothing like a pint if you’d had a skinful the night before. He ordered a second pint, then a third, and gave serious thought to a Scotch chaser. Probably only the MG parked outside saved him from starting on the whisky again. He really couldn’t afford to risk losing his licence. At least he still had some sense, he thought wryly, as he finished the third pint and headed for the door.

  When he got home Nick was waiting for him, sitting in his car parked outside Kelly’s house.

  ‘Shit,’ Kelly muttered to himself as he slotted the MG into a space right behind Nick’s Porsche. He just hoped Nick wouldn’t pick up the smell of beer on his breath.

  Kelly and Nick climbed out of their cars and met rather awkwardly in the middle of the pavement.

  ‘What a surprise,’ said Kelly, with a forced brightness he certainly did not feel.

  Nick did smell the beer on his father’s breath, of course, and his heart sank. His childhood memories of what had happened when drink had almost destroyed his father remained so vivid, and what he couldn’t remember his mother had always been more than happy to remind him of.

  Nick felt afraid – for his father, and for the relationship he had with him, which he so valued. He struggled not to show his feelings. Not yet, anyway.

  ‘Just wanted to make sure you were all right, Dad,’ he said. ‘Why haven’t you replied to any of my messages?’

  ‘I’ve been busy, that’s all,’ Kelly replied. ‘I’m absolutely fine. C’mon in.’

  Nick followed him into the house, and didn’t speak again until they were inside. He studied his father for a moment or two. Kelly looked sheepish, as well he might, thought Nick. And that sheepish look was another unwelcome boyhood memory.

  ‘You’ve been drinking, Dad, haven’t you?’ he remarked eventually.

  ‘Oh, only a couple of beers,’ said Kelly, with that same forced brightness. ‘Nothing to worry about. I can handle it OK now.’

  Nick doubted that very much. And he also doubted that his father could handle Angel Silver. He knew that Moira thought Kelly was under the woman’s spell, and so did Nick. He wondered just how far things had gone between the two. He felt sure, somehow, that if any kind of relationship had developed between Kelly and Angel it would be one that could only do his father harm. And that meant Nick would be harmed too.

  Nick was worried, very worried, and nothing his father was likely to say would alter that. But he decided not to go for further confrontation. Not yet, anyway.

  To Kelly’s relief Nick had to leave early the next morning to re
turn to London. Their evening together had passed pleasantly and innocuously enough after Nick’s early remark about Kelly drinking, but Kelly just did not feel comfortable with his son. He was harbouring too many secrets, for a start.

  He decided again to give the office a miss and went through the fruitless process of continuing to call Angel repeatedly. He also once more took a trek out to Maythorpe, and afterwards visited the same pub. On the way home in the early evening he gave in to temptation, predictable by then, and stopped at an off-licence to buy a bottle of Scotch. In the safe seclusion of his kitchen he poured himself half a tumbler of the stuff, topped up with water, which he downed almost in one go. Then, perhaps curiously, perhaps not, he wasn’t sure, after just that one big glass of the stuff he felt an overwhelming urge to see Moira. He was consumed by the need for the comfort of her, for the familiarity, for the common sense. He knew better than to attempt to drive, but fortunately she lived close enough for him not to need to. Kelly grabbed his coat and took off at a trot for Moira’s house in Galleon Road.

  If he hadn’t been drinking, of course, he probably would not have had the gall under the circumstances even to contact her, let alone turn up unannounced. Indeed, it was just luck that she was off duty and at home, because he no longer had any idea what her rota was. Kelly was not yet drunk exactly, but Moira noticed at once that he had been drinking. After all, he hadn’t drunk alcohol in all the time she had known him.