Stone Cold Red Hot

by Cath Staincliffe

  “I’ve been to see Mrs Shuttle, she told me all about it. So, he tried to silence Jennifer, to stop her saying all those vile things. Perhaps he pushed her, punched her. He was a big man.”

  “No,” she began to moan, a guttural sound from deep inside.

  I thought uneasily of her frail health. Was I hounding her to total collapse? But I was so near; her silence and her reactions told me that my story was close enough to the events of that fateful summer. I wanted her to own the truth.

  “He killed her,” I said baldly, “and then he buried her in the garden. He put a new shed over the grave.”

  “No, no,” she kept repeating, rocking forward slightly in her chair.

  “The ground was hard as iron, it’d been baking for months. All that effort; the digging, building, it made him ill. That and the guilt. It broke his heart, shredded his nerves. I’m right.”

  “No,” she said violently, twisting my way but avoiding my eyes.

  “Why are you protecting him?” I leant forward. “He’s dead too. Nothing can hurt him now. He’s dead. Jennifer is dead and he is dead and he killed her.”

  She looked then. Her face naked with emotion, her eyes wounded and the scales fell from my own. I was astonished. A shudder of realisation ran up my spine.

  “You did it.”

  There was no denial.

  “He was protecting you, not the other way round.”

  She turned to the window. “It...” she faltered.

  I stayed completely still. The hairs on my arms and the back of my neck prickled. I waited. It was quieter outside, playtime over. Just the to and fro of traffic and a dog barking in the distance.

  “Accident,” she whispered.

  Another silence. I didn’t speak, didn’t break the spell. She might clam up. I was so close. But if the silence stretched too far the moment may be lost. I counted to five.

  “An accident,” I prompted.

  “The things she said. Hurtful, sinful lies. He was a good man. The filth...I was ironing. I didn’t mean to...it was in my hand. I told her to stop it. Stop it. Stop it. She wouldn’t. I hit her with it. On the head, in the face. I only meant her to be quiet.” She raised her palms and pressed her fingertips to her mouth, closed her eyes. I felt some compassion for her then. The burden of her secret held for years, the loss of her daughter and then her husband. How strong she must have been to carry on, to never weaken. Never allowing herself to grieve for Jennifer, twisting her memory into that of a feckless girl who had jettisoned her family. Had she loved her? Had she ever defended her bright, young daughter to her husband? Or had Jennifer always been the cuckoo child, a reminder of hidden sin, of bad blood? Her independent spirit seen as waywardness, her presence a cross to bear not a precious gift? Had either of them ever given her a hug in those awkward teenage years, ever pulled her close with affection? Oh, Jennifer.

  She straightened up, returned her hands to her lap. her eyes were dry. “She did it to spite us, you know. Going with a coloured boy. It made me feel sick.”

  She pursed her lips and I was reminded of the look on Caroline Cunningham’s face when she discussed Lisa MacNeice’s lesbianism.

  “My daughter in bed with a nigger, carrying his child. Dirty. Loathsome. She had to spoil everything. After all Frank had done, taking us in, giving her his name. We moved here so people wouldn’t talk. She grew up and she was a snake in the grass. He had to put up with her bad manners and her cheap ideas. She had no respect. She was a slut. And then to tell such terrible lies about him, foul-mouthed lies.”

  “It was an accident,” I said. “Why didn’t you get an ambulance?”

  “We couldn’t tell anyone,” she shook her head. “All the fuss. With Frank at the Church and his firm. It would have ruined him.”

  It did anyway.

  “And there was Roger. He doesn’t have to know?” She pleaded.

  What was she asking me to do? Keep her secret? Say nothing?

  “He wanted to find his sister.”

  “But not this.”

  “No, not this.”

  “You won’t tell him?” Her voice was soft.

  I couldn’t speak.

  “And the police?”

  She wouldn’t stand trial. She’d be dead before any case could be heard. She was no danger to anyone now. But I’d come for the truth and I couldn’t give her the assurances she demanded.

  “I’m sorry,” I told her.

  Her face fell, fatigue pinching at it. “Please, could you get me a glass of water?” She cleared her throat.

  I went along to the kitchen, fished in the cupboards for a glass and ran the water. Outside I could see the shed, Jennifer’s tomb. How could her mother have borne the memories of her death and what followed? Keeping the body hidden from Roger while they sorted out buying the shed, digging the pit, bringing her from the house, wrapped in a sheet or a rug. Burying her. Laying the floor of the shed on top. Did they pray for her? Or was she beyond redemption? Did the sin of murder mean they could no longer offer prayers? Would their God forgive or punish? How long before they’d cleared her room? Removing her posters, the troll in the window, her make-up, her diaries, her precious mementos.

  Then each time a friend rang up or a neighbour inquired the gorge of fear that must have reared up. Lisa MacNeice trying to report her missing, Mrs Clerkenwell asking about her, Roger wanting to find her. Roger who was so disappointed that he never got to wave his big sister off at the train station. No chance to say goodbye. Like the Ibrahims; sudden death, no chance to say goodbye. Tiredness rolled over me, my leg was aching again. I should go. I carried the water into the hall.

  Mrs Pickering stood at the end, framed in the light from the glass in the door. She was holding a gun, one with a long barrel. It was pointing straight at me. Her finger was on the trigger...

  Chapter twenty two

  I had an inappropriate urge to giggle. Fear does that. The glass in my hand was shaking, water spilling over the side. Where the hell had she got a gun from? Did she know how to use it? I knew next to nothing about guns but whatever sort it was, she’d be bound to hit me at this range. She would barely need to aim the thing.

  “You won’t tell Roger.”

  “What you going to do, kill me too?” I said hoarsely. “If you shoot me it’ll all come out anyway.”

  “Why should it?” She was hard now, the shutters clamped down on the memories I’d dug up. “You entered my house under false pretences. When you refused to leave I defended myself. I have a right to defend my property.”

  “There are notes,” I said, “in my files. The police would have to investigate.”

  “But you thought Frank did it.” She wasn’t stupid.

  I reckoned there was about twenty feet between us. The gun was pointing at my middle. My mind was racing round hunting for a way out. The pain in my leg was smouldering again, diminishing my ability to think straight, act clever.

  Unexpectedly her face creased, the colour drained swiftly away and beads of sweat broke out on her forehead and upper lip as the onslaught of pain racked her. It was the first glimpse I had seen of the savagery of her disease. The barrel of the gun wavered and she fought to level it at me again.

  “Another killing won’t help. It’s too late.”

  “Why can’t you leave it be?” she gasped.

  “Jennifer. I think she deserves it. The truth should be known.”

  “What good will it do? The truth will only hurt Roger. It will destroy him.”

  “I hope not.” But there were no guarantees.

  The pain tore at her again. She froze, her face a mask of agony.

  “Can I get you anything, tablets?” Before you kill me. She blinked a refusal.

  I weighed up the possibilities of escaping from the line of fire. If I ran back into the kitchen I might be able to get out the back door, if it was open. What if it was locked, would the key be there? Or there was the back room ahead a little to my left. Then what? Break a window, clamber
out. In either case she could follow and shoot me. I didn’t want her to fire the gun. I didn’t dare make any sudden moves. I’d no idea how fast her reactions would be. And I didn’t want to die. Oh, god I didn’t want to die. What about Maddie? I couldn’t leave Maddie. My knee was trembling uncontrollably, and my hands still shaking, drops of water continued to spill over the edge of the glass and drip from my hand. I’d have to talk her round.

  She swayed, her arms jerking as she struggled to keep the gun steady.

  “This is ridiculous,” I said. “Give me the gun.”

  She shot me.

  The noise was stupendous and the hall clouded with smoke and the smell of fireworks. I was on the floor. Smoke. I saw Carl running into the Ibrahims’ house, Mrs Ahmed clutching her baby tight, me thinking it was dead. Jennifer was dead, her baby was dead. The little boy was dead. My left arm, my shoulder were screaming in agony. Lumps of plaster littered the ground around me and dust mingled with the smoke. The sound of the shot still roared in my ears.

  The force of the discharge had thrown her to the floor. She’d dropped the gun. I shuffled along the hall on my good side. The piercing pains shot through my arm and made me whimper. I stretched for the gun with my undamaged hand and pulled it beside me. I looked back to the kitchen. Her aim had gone wide, holes had ripped into the top of the door frame, the wall and ceiling. Big holes. Were there any holes like that in me? I felt giddy with apprehension.

  She lay there, her breathing harsh and torn. She wore sheepskin slippers. I sat for a few moments propped against the wall and tried to gather some strength. I thought about home, about Maddie, hold on I told myself, get up, get out. I struggled to my feet, the pain surged in my leg making me dizzy. The gun weighed a ton, I took it into the kitchen put it on the table.

  I made my way slowly down the passageway and stooped over her. The smoke scratched at my throat and made me cough. My heart was still thumping wildly in my chest, the adrenalin making all my senses taut. She’d shot me. The woman had shot me. She could have killed me for fuck’s sake.

  I tried to get her into a sitting position; she was shivering and her eyes were empty and fixed on something only she could see.

  “Mrs Pickering?”

  There was no response. I could still hear her breath see her chest moving. Saliva trickled from one corner of her mouth, her face looked lopsided, she held one arm rigid against her body. A stroke? I struggled to lay her down again in the recovery position. Crying out as the pain ripped along my arm.

  The dogs next door were going apeshit, presumably all their hunting race-memories awakened by the gunshot. There was hammering on the front door as well.

  I went and opened it. Mrs Clerkenwell. “Hello, I heard an awful...Blimey.” She spotted Mrs Pickering.

  “It’s alright. An accident. But Mrs Pickering is very upset. She’s in shock I think. I’m going to call an ambulance. Ring Roger. Could you come and sit with her while I sort things out?

  “Yes, of course. What on earth happened?”

  “An accident, with a gun.”

  “A gun! Oh, dear. Right. I’ll just lock up at mine.”

  I shut the door and turned to Mrs Pickering. She looked awful, pale and her face slack.

  I dialled 999. Gave all the details and even had the presence of mind to ask where they would take her. Then I rang Roger.

  Roger was confused and anxious when I spoke to him. Not surprising really as I was giving a highly edited version of exactly what had happened. I told him that I’d called for a second interview with his mother, that she’d become upset, that her gun had gone off and she was badly shocked. I wasn’t sure whether she had suffered a stroke.

  “A stroke! Oh, no. And her gun! What the old shotgun? Oh, God. Oh, I am sorry. I thought it was in the cellar. She’ll kill someone with that one day. Farm mentality. Shoot first, ask questions later. She probably thought you were an intruder or something.”

  “Mmmm. Look, I don’t want to leave it here, I’ll take it with me. Mrs Clerkenwell’s coming over to wait for the ambulance with me.”

  “Oh, God,” he said. “And are you alright?”

  “Fine,” I lied and was immediately rewarded with a swirl of anxiety.

  “You didn’t say you wanted to see my mother again, I could have warned her.”

  “Yes. I know. But with her being so unhappy about my enquiries I didn’t think she’d agree to see me if she had any choice. I decided to just call on spec, give it a second go.”

  “And she got the old gun out. Oh, what a mess. And you think it might be a stroke? Is she going to be alright?”

  “I don’t know. It could just be shock, but her mouth’s all pulled down at one side. There’s an ambulance on the way, they’ll know or the hospital. You’re probably best going straight there. To M.R.I. We’ve our meeting fixed for Monday but I’ll talk to you before then. Let me know how she is.”

  “Yes, I will. Erm...there’s no good news, then? Mother didn’t say anything...”

  Oh, heck. “No, there isn’t. I’m sorry.”

  It wasn’t the time or the place to reveal to Roger the tragedy of Jennifer’s disappearance and part of me wondered whether in the intervening days Mrs Pickering might tell him herself, if she was able to speak.

  “And this business with the gun,” he stumbled over the words, “you won’t...will you report it...the police?”

  “No, I’m not going to report it.” Not that.

  “I am sorry,” he repeated. “What was she doing? Of all the stupid things.”

  “Let me know how she is, won’t you.”

  “Yes. I’ll see you on Monday.”

  I put the gun in a bin liner from the kitchen. I sat down and looked at my arm. There were holes in my jacket and fleece top and blood soaking through in patches. Not obvious from a distance as I was wearing my black jacket so the blood didn’t show much. I could feel it warm and sticky and it was running down my hand in little rivulets. I wiped it clean with a tea-towel which I chucked in the bin. The pain from my burn actually felt worse than the throbbing in my arm, except when I moved it, then I had to breathe through it - like they teach you for childbirth. I couldn’t face Casualty again. I’d try and clear it up myself and see the GP if that failed. I’d had a tetanus jab not all that long ago so hopefully I’d be protected from lock-jaw. If it was a real mess I’d get myself along to the hospital. But there was no way I was going in then with Mrs Pickering and a lot of tricky questions to answer.

  Mrs Clerkenwell knocked at the door again and I let her in. The hall reeked of gunsmoke. She coughed and covered her mouth.

  “Gun powder,” I explained.

  “Where on earth did she get a gun?”

  “It was an old shotgun, came from when they had the farm.”

  “Oh, heavens,” her eyes widened with concern and she lowered her voice, “she wasn’t, you know, trying to...if the pain got too much.”

  I laughed. I could still laugh. “No, nothing like that. But she needs to get to hospital. I don’t know whether it’s just shock or whether she’s had a stroke of some sort.”

  “Well, what on earth was she doing?” She stooped down beside Mrs Pickering who lay with her eyes closed, her breathing regular.

  Trying to kill me. “She thought I was an intruder, just a stupid mix-up.”

  “Did she fire it at you?” She said appalled. “Yes, your arm. Oh, good heavens.”

  “I’m fine. Nothing broken. Just a few cuts. Most of it ended up in the ceiling.” I wanted to get out of there away from her questions. I felt fragile as though I might dissolve if I had to stand about much longer. I limped over to lean on the wall.

  “And your leg!”

  “That didn’t happen here. It’s a long story.”

  The ringing of the doorbell signified the arrival of the ambulance. I gave them a quick resume of events. Glances were exchanged when the gun was mentioned but I told them it was an accident. I had to give my name and address in case anyone needed t
o follow it up and I told them that Roger, her next of kin was on his way to the hospital. Once the facts were established they wasted no time in strapping her onto a stretcher and taking her away.

  I rang a taxi immediately after.

  “Are you sure you’re going to be alright?” Mrs Clerkenwell asked.

  “Yes. I just need to get home.”

  “You might be better getting someone to look at that arm.”

  “I will,” I said. “If it’s not a cream and plaster job I’ll get it seen to.”

  “It’s a good job you had that coat on. I mean look at the state of the place.”

  I looked. The dust had settled but the splintered wood and pock-marked plaster showed where most of the shot had ended up. And if she hadn’t been so weak, if her aim had been surer, if the gun hadn’t kicked her back at that particular angle, it could have been my face, my eyes.

  A car horn sounded.

  “That’ll be my cab. I expect Roger will have a key.”

  “Yes. I’ll make sure it’s locked.” She opened the door. “All this - it’s got something to do with looking for Jennifer hasn’t it?”

  I gave her a look.

  “I know,” she raised her hands in surrender, “you can’t say. Go on then, and be careful with that arm.”

  Chapter twenty three

  I kept my arm bent on the journey so the blood wouldn’t drip onto the seats. The dustbin lorry was making its way down my road so I got dropped at the end. I limped home, the rifle in my good hand, wrapped in its black plastic, like some gunfighter from a B-movie. All I needed was High Noon playing in the background or the whistling from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. I’d never been able to work out the words to that one, always sounded like ‘who ate my lego’.

  I didn’t feel much like a hero. I was wasted, battered and burnt. There were no townsfolk ready to pat my back and tip their hats. It seemed such a long walk home. And what was there to celebrate? A job done well? I argued to myself that I had done my best, that I had done what I could, that it wasn’t my fault that things had turned out so badly. I knew intellectually that my persistence and my wits had led me to uncover the truth about Jennifer. But she was dead, all I could bring her brother was her corpse and a story to shatter his world. As for the Ibrahims, whatever happened to their tormentors they had lost a child. Their son had been murdered. And a young policeman had died with him.