by Tania Carver
She kept her face hard, still stared at him. Eventually she spoke. Her voice calm, measured.
‘I’m here to help you, Phil. Everything…’ She leaned in to him, hissed the word. ‘Everything is for your benefit.’ She straightened up once more. Continued. ‘Your life was going nowhere. Meaningless. You’d gone wrong, Phil. Badly wrong. Misguided, shall we say. To put it mildly. You’d lied to yourself. About who you were, who you are. What you’re supposed to be. All of it. Oh I know it’s easy to do, I’m sure you didn’t start off being like that, none of us do, but it’s how you ended up.’ She smiled. ‘So don’t worry. I’m here to put all that right.’
He just stared at her. Was she insane? Or was that him? His mind was spinning, out of control. He couldn’t grasp the thoughts that flew past, couldn’t hold on to them.
‘How?’ he asked eventually, his voice sounding rusted over. ‘How will you put me right?’
‘Rebirth,’ she said, her eyes shining. ‘I’m going to take you back to the womb. Show you where you went wrong. Show you who you really are, Phil.’
‘I know who I am.’ But as he spoke, he knew he didn’t believe the words. That he was lying, even to himself.
She picked up on that. Gave a small laugh. ‘You sure about that, Phil? You don’t sound too sure.’
‘I know who I am…’ Said with even less conviction this time. The words drying up as he exhaled.
Another smile, this one pitying, indulgent. ‘It’s sweet that you think that. But you honestly aren’t convincing me. You’re not even convincing yourself.’ She sat back on the edge of the bed. ‘I’m your mother, Phil.’
‘You’re… you’re not… my…’
She shushed him to silence. ‘I’m your mother, Phil. I’m your wife, I’m your…’ She smiled. ‘We’ll have to wait for that one. Your everything, Phil. I’m everything to you as you are to me. I’m taking you right back to the beginning. And you’re going to walk away from this a new man. Hand in hand with me.’
‘I… I don’t even know who you are…’
‘Yes you do, Phil. Yes you do.’
Those unhinged unblinking eyes staring into his own damaged ones.
‘D’you have nightmares, Phil? Do you?’ She seemed to be genuinely waiting for an answer.
He supplied her with one. ‘I’m having one now…’
She shook her head, dismissing the last sentence, concentrating on his answer. ‘You’re not. This is all real. But I know you have nightmares. About where you come from? About who you are?’
Still those eyes staring at him. He looked back into them, shocked at her words.
Since he made no sound, she kept searching his eyes for answers. She found them. ‘You do, don’t you? About your childhood. About what happened to you. About what it was like before you came to see me. And Don. God rest his soul. All the horror, the fear, the darkness you had in you then. Still gives you nightmares, doesn’t it?’
He had no choice but to answer. ‘Yes.’
‘I know. I know it does.’ She stood up. ‘I’m going to leave you for a little while. Give you some time to think. But I’ll be back soon. And I’ll show you a mother’s love like you’ve never experienced before.’ She stood there staring down at him, like a private school matron to a sick boy. ‘And I’ll make those nightmares go away forever. You’ll see.’
And she was gone.
Phil lay there, staring at the newly closed door. Thinking about her words.
Not knowing whether they brought him comfort or made him more afraid than ever.
Pulling the Cord Tight
She plotted. She planned. She subsumed her feelings about Fiona, kept them locked tightly inside, only letting them out when she was sure she was alone. Unobserved. A hard thing to do in a home. She took long walks. She went to private places, open spaces and screamed at the air till she was exhausted.
And plotted. And planned.
A housing estate was being built near the home. Beige-bricked and boxy, curling in round ribbons of conformity. But not quite there yet, still all scaffolding, breeze blocks and cheap cavity insulation tufting out. It became the new playground for the kids in the home. They kissed, they had tentative sex, they smoked whatever and drank whatever. The mesh fence and fierce dog signs were no barrier.
And that was where she decided it would happen.
Fiona didn’t want to go, initially. For the kids, she had said. Nothing for us there. She had a kind of detached amusement about the place. A smug, superior grin. But she insisted.
Come on, Fiona, we should go there. It’s fun. We’ll make it fun. On and on, wearing her down until eventually Fiona said yes.
Plotting and planning. All leading up to this.
Through the mesh fence, creeping along unconstructed roads. Distant streetlights casting long shadows in the darkness. Fiona laughing all the while, saying, Can you imagine what it would be like to live here? How dull and boring would you have to be to buy one of these houses?
She didn’t answer. Part of her would have loved to live in a house like this. Small, yes, but comforting. Comfortable. And secure. Lock the door, keep the world at bay. But she laughed along with Fiona, agreed with what she said.
In here, she said to Fiona, pointing to a half-built house. It had an upstairs but only wooden roof joists above. The clear, summer night sky moving slowly above.
Fiona looked up. How romantic, she said, her voice a sneer. So why have you brought me here? Are you going to declare your undying love to me again?
Fiona sat down on the bare, dusty boards, looking up, waiting for an answer. Challenging for an answer.
I hate you, she thought. I’ve never hated anyone the way I hate you. Not anyone ever. Not even the killers of my parents. You. Just you.
But she didn’t say any of this. Instead she just smiled, knelt beside Fiona.
I wanted you here…
She fumbled in her pocket. Got closer to Fiona.
I wanted…
Body against body, readying for a lover’s embrace.
I…
And then she was on her. The cord, tight woven silk, bought from the market, round Fiona’s neck. Pulling tight on either end, like she’d seen them do in films.
No words. Just staring at Fiona, all the hatred she felt for her coursing through her hands, her wrists, knuckles and fingers white, pulling as hard as she could.
And then she stopped.
Fiona hadn’t responded. Just sat there, not even put her hands to her throat. Just stayed still as she was choked. And her eyes. Locked on, staring. And calm. Calm. And her face. Still smiling that smug, superior grin.
Go on then, said Fiona. If you’re going to do it, do it.
And then the last thing she expected to hear.
Fiona laughing.
She couldn’t do it after that. She let her hands drop, the cord loosening at Fiona’s throat. She sat back. Looked at Fiona.
Fiona smiled. Is that what you brought me here for?
She said nothing. She couldn’t speak.
Fiona stood up. Said nothing. Went down the stairs, out of the house.
She watched her go. Felt all sorts of things she couldn’t even begin to name. But one overriding emotion she could recognise: love. After all that, she still loved Fiona.
She avoided Fiona after that. As much as she could. She felt ashamed. Not because she had tried to kill her, but because she had failed. And in failing, let Fiona win.
But soon, that familiar feeling re-emerged. That hatred. Just seeing Fiona walking around, talking, unaffected. Enjoying herself. So she started again. Plotting. Planning. Loving her so much she wanted to kill her.
Or at least hurt her. And she thought she had found a way of doing it.
Sean. Fiona was still seeing Sean. The tall, good-looking boy was a constant presence at her side. And he seemed to genuinely make Fiona happy. Or as happy as she was capable of being.
That was it. That was the way to hurt her.
; She tried to seduce Sean. Back to the housing estate, back to the house with no roof. Come and see something, Sean. I’ve got something to show you.
That something was herself.
Sean seemed eager at first. She made the first move on him, touching him, kissing him, and he responded. Green-lit, she moved up a gear. Have me, Sean. I’m better than Fiona, have me…
Yes, said a voice. Have her. See what you think, Sean.
They both stopped, turned to the stairs. There was Fiona, smiling.
She looked at Sean, expecting to see him look mortified, start to apologise to Fiona. Allowing herself to feel a slight sliver of hope. But Sean didn’t respond that way. He smiled too. Then laughed.
He stood up, went to join Fiona.
Did you think it would be that easy? asked Fiona. Did you really think Sean would fall for you? When I can do this to him?
Fiona started on him. He responded.
Just watch, said Fiona. Don’t move. Just watch. Watch what he can do to me that you can’t. That you never could.
So she did. And it was difficult to decide which of the three of them she hated more at that moment.
She needed to do something more. Be cleverer.
She took herself off, alone once more. Tried to connect with the cold, steely part of herself. The way she used to be before Fiona came along. And sapped her of her strength. That part of her that ran the home before Fiona turned up. That turned all that damage outwards and kept herself intact. That would be the part of her to hurt Fiona through Sean.
So she watched them. Didn’t allow herself to become angry at the sight of them together, just used it as information. Material. She studied their movements. Made plans. She would do this properly. No room for error. No room for humiliation. No chance of her failing now.
Love wouldn’t get in the way. Just hatred. Pure, channelled, streamlined hatred.
And this time she would win.
35
Imani followed the satnav. Couldn’t help hearing Anni Hepburn’s words ringing round her head again as she drove.
‘You sure he’s OK, young Matthews?’
‘Yeah,’ she had replied. ‘Why shouldn’t he be?’
Anni gave her a look. ‘You mentioned Beresford. Looking into him, seeing if he checks out. Might that not be a conflict of interest? Might he not want to give his boss a heads-up?’
‘It’s a legitimate line of enquiry.’
‘No doubt, but it’s still his boss.’
‘We had words before coming here. He’s OK, he’s onside.’
Anni didn’t look convinced. ‘Let’s hope so.’
And that had been that. The three women had left Nick Lines to his work, gone their separate ways. Promising to keep in touch, keep each other informed, liaise later. And now she was driving around Colchester, looking for Prentice’s Garage.
So far, all she had done was battle a one-way system that could rival Birmingham’s for fiendishness. Even the satnav appeared to be giving up. She had passed the same section of Roman wall three times before she found the turn-off she needed. She spun off the roundabout an exit before the one she had taken the last two times and headed up towards the New Town area. She didn’t know why they called it that. It seemed to be composed of red-brick terraces, all auditioning for Coronation Street. She followed the satnav further, heading down streets undesigned for vehicles, lined on both sides with cars and vans, negotiating blind junctions and tiny looping crescents. None of the houses looked uniform either. Some had been extended and refitted with varying degrees of pride and expense, some left to rot, some turned to the ubiquitous student accommodation. And then she found what she was looking for.
Prentice’s Garage was easy to miss. Between two rows of houses was an open doorway that went up two storeys. Inside it was the Tardis: long and narrow but with space for ramps and lifts, with three cars currently being worked on. She pulled up on the opposite side of the road, locked her car, went over.
‘Hi,’ she said to a trim, grey-haired, bespectacled man wearing a set of grey overalls. ‘Mr Prentice?’
‘Yes?’
Apart from the grease and the work clothes, she thought, he had the thoughtful bearing of an accountant.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Oliver,’ she said, flourishing her warrant card. ‘Could I have a word, please?’
Immediately he became suspicious. Those shrewd eyes narrowing behind the glasses. ‘What about?’
‘Oh, nothing to worry about. You’re not in any trouble, nothing like that. Just wanted to ask about a car you’ve had in.’
Now he looked more irritated than suspicious. ‘A car?’
‘Yes.’ She looked round. Saw an office up a flight of wooden steps in the rafters of the building. ‘Should we go up there or are you happy here?’
Give him the option, she thought. Put him at his ease with the illusion of choice.
‘Here’s fine,’ he said. ‘Unless I need to look something up.’
‘It was a car earlier this week. Yesterday, perhaps. A Vauxhall Insignia. Belonging to DS David Beresford.’
‘Dave Beresford?’ Prentice asked surprised. ‘He’s one of your lot.’
‘He is indeed. I just need to check whether his car developed a fault and you brought it in this week.’
Another suspicious look. ‘Why don’t you ask him? You work with him, don’t you?’ Then another look appeared on his face. Fear. ‘Can I see your warrant card again, please?’
She showed him it.
‘West Midlands. You’re not from round here.’
‘No, I’m not. I’m working on an investigation in conjunction with Essex Police here in Colchester. It involves the disappearance of one of our senior officers. So could you tell me whether you’ve had DS Beresford’s car in here this week and what, if anything, was wrong with it?’
Prentice seemed to be the kind of person who didn’t act, think, or speak rashly. He mulled over his reply before answering her. ‘Before I say anything else, I just want to say that Dave Beresford is a good customer of mine. He’s brought me in other custom too, word of mouth. I had a little spot of bother a few years ago – nothing serious – and he helped me out with it. So I count him a good friend. If he’s in trouble I think I have the right to know.’
It was Imani’s turn to mull over her reply before speaking. Deciding whether to tell him everything or just as much as he needed to know in order for her to get an answer. Get creative, she thought.
‘His car may have been involved in a kidnapping. That’s not to say that DS Beresford had anything to do with it in any way. I just need to know whether his car was in this garage for any reason this week. Can you tell me that, please?’
He kept his steady gaze on her, didn’t answer. Imani tried to work out what his little spot of bother could have been. Her first thought, given his neat appearance, was accounting trouble of some kind. Financial mismanagement of some sort. But not necessarily. His neat appearance, even in a set of overalls, could have meant anything. Alcohol, gambling problems? Not her place to ask. Just curious. Something big enough to get the police involved though. But something big enough in order to lie to cover up for a detective you owed a favour to? She didn’t know. She sensed she was about to find out.
‘I’ve already had a call about this. One of your lot. Young lad, it sounded like.’
‘That’s right, I’m working with him.’
‘So,’ Prentice said, measuring the words once more, ‘if I were to call DS Beresford would he be happy for me to release this information? Again?’
She was starting to tire of this man. Time for her to remind him of her job description. ‘I don’t know, Mr Prentice. I do know that if needs be I could get a warrant to have your books turned over to us and go through them. Obviously I don’t want to do that. It’s a lot of fuss. And as I said, this is a kidnapping I’m investigating. And I’m sure you realise that in cases such as these time is of the essence.’ All said while smiling and seeming reas
onable. Imani thought that was some achievement.
‘Fine. Right. I see.’ Prentice nodded. He sighed.
Get on with it, she thought. Even Sophie in Sophie’s Choice didn’t take this long to make her mind up.
‘No,’ he said eventually.
‘No what?’
‘No. Dave Beresford’s car hasn’t been in my garage this week. Haven’t had it in since I did his MOT last March. I’ve seen him socially, of course, since then. But not as a customer.’
‘So did he contact you to say his car’s been here when it hasn’t? Was that why you said earlier that was?’
Prentice looked like it was a difficult question to answer.
‘I’d… I’d rather not say. Not without proper representation.’ He looked straight at her, fear once again furrowing his features. ‘Will I need representation?’
‘I doubt it, Mr Prentice. As long as you’ve told me the truth.’
He nodded, more vigorously than the admission needed. ‘I have. He’s a friend, but…’ He shrugged. ‘Debts have to be considered repaid sometimes.’
She nodded, told him she understood and returned to her car.
Not knowing if that feeling inside her was elation or dread.
36
‘Well, this is an unexpected surprise,’ said Malcolm Turvey. ‘But a good one, though,’ he added hastily, should there be any doubt.
Anni Hepburn smiled at the man. It was clear he didn’t get many visitors, especially female ones. His house was in New Town – part of the same warren of streets Imani was currently negotiating – and it wasn’t one of the added on or added to ones in the street. It had the look of a house that was cleaned and painted only when absolutely necessary, did its primary job without any adornment. Not because the owner couldn’t manage the upkeep – although the two dead hanging baskets, one at either side of the front door, said there may be some truth in that – but because he had other, more important things on his mind. It was a house belonging to someone who believed the life of the mind was more important than the physical one. And that, clearly, excused a lot.
