by Neil Cross
He popped three of the little pills and drank a can of Red Bull, then gagged and spent some time coughing and retching.
He shambled to the bathroom and stood under a cold shower. He yelled. He couldn’t stand it. It was painful. Then it wasn’t painful any more, and he was awake and alert.
He washed himself, one handed. He washed his great barrel chest and his immoderate belly and his mastiff head. Then he padded, hairy and dripping, to the kitchen. He snipped away the swollen, wet bandage on his left hand. The stump looked like a hot dog with mayonnaise and ketchup.
He dabbed the stump with antiseptic – the smell of a childhood spent on another planet – then strapped two fingers together using tape. It hurt like a bastard. He started to cry. Then he took a big, brave sniff and stopped.
The amphetamines were kicking in. Paul’s head was darting and dashing with multiple thoughts, impressions, ideas.
He had an idea. It was a good idea. The more he thought about it, the better it got.
He took four more of the humble little pills, wondering why he didn’t take them more often – what was the point of not taking them, when they gave you so many good ideas?
He cleaned his teeth and drank some chocolate milk to chase off the nausea. Then he got dressed – navy blue suit, black polo shirt, suede shoes with rubber soles. His hand was awkward, as if he was wearing a boxing glove. But it hardly hurt at all; it only hurt when he remembered it.
He got his car keys and his threadbare wallet and trudged out of the door.
His head was a great ship’s engine, gears and pistons and fire. And for once the sun was out. It was a sunny day, it was Friday, and Paul Sugar needed money very, very badly.
44
Kenny checked on Jonathan as he would a sick relative. He found him sitting silently, head bowed and eyes wide in his gaunt face, shining white in the murk.
Kenny said, ‘Almost over’, and closed and locked the door.
He sat in the living room and turned on the TV. But he was restless; there was an itch in his hands and the back of his neck. He went to the computer and printed off a map of Bath Valley Woods.
When he couldn’t stand it any longer, he drove the Combi to the A63 and along some B roads, then parked it in a deserted picnic area. He walked, trudging through long grass and wild garlic, hands buried in the pockets of his kagoul, taking them out now and again to refer to the map.
He was accompanied by the desolate barking of crows. He stopped in a copse of hazel and oak, looking down across the patchwork of the countryside. He was looking at the south-eastern edge of the Bath Valley Woods, at the skeletal remains of a farmhouse.
Far below was the police search team. A large white tent, which Kenny supposed had been erected over the ancient cesspit in which her remains lay. People ducked their heads as they came and went through the entry flap.
There were Land Rovers with flashing blue lights, men and women in white paper jumpsuits; two of them with video cameras, one with an SLR. Yellow digging equipment idled at the edge of the operation, men in work-boots, hi-vis tabards and hard-hats smoking roll-ups, not talking much.
Kenny patted his pockets and lit a cigarette, his first for years and years.
He thought it would nauseate him, but it didn’t; he felt the smoke draw through his lungs and into his veins and rise to his brain. It clarified his vision.
He sat with his back to a tree, smoking, watching them far below.
He stayed through a storm of rain that soaked him to the bone; he stayed while the gaggle of journalists, behind traffic barriers, grew bored and shit-kicking. He was still there when the portable arc lights were erected and turned on.
The journalists drifted off one by one. The rain went away and came back again. The sun came up and the mist rose pale grey from the green earth.
The arc lights went off, and the police began to disassemble the tents and put them into the back of trucks.
He watched the weary and dejected police officers have one more coffee and maybe a cigarette, then pack up and go home.
Wherever Callie Barton was, she wasn’t here. She wasn’t in the cesspit where Jonathan had said she’d be.
Kenny stood up, smoking another cigarette. He was shivering.
He walked back to the Combi, the grass soaking him to the knees. He could hear his breathing. A plane went by overhead.
He wondered what he would do now.
45
Kenny stood in the semi-darkness of the last bedroom, arms folded, watching.
Jonathan said nothing. His hair was greasy, his clothes were filthy and he reeked of piss and shit. Kenny hadn’t really noticed the smell until now.
He was very tired. The long night in the rain had enervated him. He wondered what he must look like, steaming damp and defeated.
He said, ‘You didn’t do it.’
Jonathan was looking at him, vigilant but calm. ‘No.’
‘Then why say you did?’
‘Because you’d have killed me if I didn’t.’
Kenny couldn’t reply to that. He swayed like a tree, thinking. Then he said, ‘What happened? What really happened?’
Jonathan pointed to his throat. He said, ‘My throat hurts. I’m thirsty.’
‘I’ll get you some water.’
‘No. Look at me. Look at me.’
But Kenny had already seen him. He’d seen him when he walked through the door. He’d seen the emaciated creature he’d made.
Kenny went to the window and pulled down the thick curtain he’d pinned there. Thin sunlight, the colour of barley, stabbed through the many chinks in the wood. He recalled what it had been like to be trapped in Jonathan’s attic – to go through Callie Barton’s belongings, her private, forsaken things. Her footprints in her shoes.
He’d looked for her in boxes and found nothing. He’d seen her face on the internet. He’d seen her being penetrated. And yet he knew nothing about her, not a single thing – except that she had once, a long time ago, been a little girl who was nice to him.
The streaks of sunlight fell on Jonathan and made him a burned effigy, with his black, bruised limbs and his crusted blood and his dry lips and his bright white eyes. And yet he’d clung to life. He was still alive.
Kenny said, ‘I’m sorry.’
46
Pat opened the caravan door and knew that something was wrong. Paul Sugar’s eyes had a strained gleam and there was a fat bandage round his left hand. It was leaking something the colour of nicotine.
She said, ‘Paul!’
Paul grinned. Then the grin fell away and he stepped into the caravan with his customary delicacy, ducking his massive head. The cats made room for him.
Pat said, ‘Brew?’
‘Lovely.’
She filled the kettle from the tap. ‘So what happened to the hand?’
‘Someone cut off my finger.’
Pat knew from the dead sound of his voice that she was in trouble.
She glanced at the door. There was no way she could get there before he did – even if she could, there was no way she’d get to her car before he caught her.
She weighed the kettle in her hand. If she swung it with enough force . . .
But if she wasn’t fast enough or strong enough, that would be the end of it. So she put the kettle on to boil and got some cups from the cupboard, saying, ‘Who did it?’
‘Debt collector.’
‘You owed him a finger?’
‘It was a down-payment on a pound of flesh.’
She laughed. Paul stood there, twitching on the edge of her vision.
He said, ‘Pat, I need to borrow some money.’
‘I’ve done what I can with the money, love.’
‘Not all the money. Some of the money. Not very much. But I need it today.’
‘How much?’
‘A couple of grand. Two and a half, if you could make that. Just a loan. Three grand. Five grand would be perfect.’
‘What am I, made of it?
’
He was having trouble controlling his hands. ‘I really, really need it.’
‘I’m sorry, old son.’
‘I need it.’
‘Go to the bank.’
‘I went to the bank.’
‘Paul
‘Your friend. The man with the cottage. He can give me some money.’
‘He hasn’t got any money.’
‘Come on! He must have a car to sell. A flat-screen TV. He must have something. He can get his hands on two grand. All I want, all I need is a couple of grand.’
‘He’s got nothing. Just the house.’
‘He’s got his freedom.’
‘He’s dying.’
‘We’re all dying. I need the money.’
‘Paul, I’d love to help. Honestly.’
‘I don’t even want to know who he is. Just pick up the phone. I’ll wait in the garden. I’ll sit in the car. Give him a call. Two grand! You can raise two grand between you, surely? What’s two grand?’
‘About a finger’s worth?’
Paul picked up the telephone and shoved it into Pat’s face. ‘Give him a fucking call.’
Pat looked him in the eye. ‘No.’
Paul slapped her.
Her face jolted sideways. When it came back, it was wearing a different expression, one that wasn’t so big. Paul slapped her again.
Pat glared at him and slapped him back, hard. ‘Back off, Paul. And calm down.’ But her voice quivered when she said, ‘I didn’t think you had this in you. Bashing up old ladies these days, is it?’
Paul began to sob. Through the tears, he said, ‘Are you going to tell me who this man is and where he lives?’
‘No. I can’t do that.’
‘Please, Pat.’
‘No.’
‘I’m begging you. Look at me. I’m absolutely begging you.’
‘I can’t do it. Beg all you want, I can’t do it.’
Paul took out his knife and thumbed open the blade. ‘Tell me!’
Pat stood very calm and very still. ‘I can’t. Now put the knife away, sit down and have a cup of tea.’
Paul was still weeping when he stabbed Pat with a punching motion. The blade went in between the second and third ribs on her left side.
She staggered, grasping at the Melamine worktop.
Paul stabbed her again and she collapsed.
He straddled her, pinioned her arms with his knees. He took a breath and moaned in self-pity. Bubbles of snot rose and popped in his nostrils. ‘Tell me!’
Pat looked him in the eye.
He said, ‘Tell me! Tell me! Tell me!’
But she wouldn’t.
He stabbed her again.
Still, she said nothing.
So he stabbed her again. Once he started stabbing, he found it difficult to stop.
Paul sat on the floor next to Pat’s body and lit a cigarette. His hand was wet and red and sticky. He felt cried-out and drained. Blood soaked the filter-tip.
But he couldn’t sit still. He knew no one was coming, and he knew no one had seen what had happened here. But his car was parked outside, with its number plate displaying itself to all the world.
What he had to do was search the caravan. It wouldn’t take long; if there was one thing Paul knew, it was how to search a place. He knew there’d be something to identify the man who owned the cottage – even if it was just a number programmed into Pat’s mobile.
In less than a minute, he found a copy of Kenny’s will in Pat’s handbag. It couldn’t have been easier.
He was disgusted at Pat, revolted by the meaninglessness of the death she’d allowed herself to die. He felt let down, betrayed and angry.
He pocketed the will, then opened one of Pat’s litre bottles of gin.
He took a swig before glugging gin round the caravan; plenty of it – especially in the kitchen. Then he turned on all three gas burners. They were attached to a liquid butane cylinder housed beneath the caravan.
On top of the gas burners, Paul spread a copy of the Bristol Evening Post.
The papers began to burn; red-black ashes flitting like fairies round and round under the low ceiling.
By the time he got to his car, the caravan was burning fiercely. Paul didn’t know why, but he thought of a Viking boat.
He watched it burn in the rear-view mirror as he drove away, a mushroom of smoke growing thin as it merged with the sky. Soon the flames would reach the butane gas bottle and the field would shine for a moment, bright as the surface of the sun.
47
Kenny sat in the armchair and didn’t move. He looked at the wall. He didn’t see anything projected on it; it was just a wall. It glowed bright as the sun hit it. Then it faded a little.
He went to the kitchen and took a little vegetable knife from the drawer. He’d picked up four of them for a couple of quid each one day in Weston. It had a red plastic handle.
He walked down the hall, to the last bedroom.
Seeing Kenny with the knife, Jonathan flinched and cowered.
Kenny lay a palm on Jonathan’s head. He left it there, as if in benediction.
Then he squatted and cut Jonathan’s hands free.
It was hard going. The flesh round the cable ties had swollen; Kenny had to work the tip of the knife in and under. When Jonathan’s hands were free, Kenny cut the cable ties that bound his feet to the chair.
Then Kenny dropped the knife and went to sit with his back to the wall, his hands dangling between his knees.
It would have been nice if Jonathan had just stood and dusted himself down, collecting his dignity, then walked away, closing the door behind him.
But Jonathan was too weak and parched and hurt. The circulation returning to his hands and feet made him writhe and cry out.
Kenny made himself sit there, listening and watching. He made himself memorize what he saw on Jonathan’s face – he never wanted to forget, not in the time he had left.
At length, Jonathan dragged himself across the room and sat opposite Kenny. They faced each other across the bare floorboards.
Some time passed.
Jonathan opened his mouth, about to say something. But Kenny shook his head. It didn’t matter.
Jonathan nodded.
Kenny felt close to him. In that moment, he loved him.
He watched Jonathan struggle to his feet and sway, reaching out to the cool wall. He watched him shuffle towards the door.
He took the door handle and turned it. There was no sense of occasion; it was just a door handle being turned, and beyond it was just a hallway.
Jonathan blinked in the brighter light.
Then there was an urgent hammering at the door.
48
Kenny stopped Jonathan leaving. He took his elbow, whispering, ‘Stay there.’
He left Jonathan in the last bedroom and padded to the front door on feet that felt very light.
He opened the door to a very large, balding man whose left hand was mummified in a dirty bandage and who had a fine spray of what looked like blood across his massive brow.
‘Kenny Drummond?’
‘Yes.’
‘May I come in?’
Kenny looked up at him and felt very small. ‘I’m afraid it’s not really convenient.’
‘My name is Paul Sugar. I’m a friend of Pat Maxwell’s.’
‘Oh. Right. You’re the one who’s getting the house.’
‘That’s right. So may I come in?’
‘I’m sorry to be rude, but not really.’
‘Well, I’m afraid I need to come in. I really do.’
Paul loomed over him. There was an inevitability about him.
Kenny said, ‘All right’, and stood aside.
Paul came into the cottage, ducking his head. He trailed something in with him. Kenny didn’t know what it was.
Paul was glancing round. It was the natural response of a curious new owner entering a house for the first time – but Kenny knew that Paul wasn’t just g
lancing; he was assessing, recording, checking out entries and exits.
The house was quiet. Kenny could sense Jonathan, soft as a cat in the last bedroom.
So he led Paul through to the studio. They stood under the pollenfilmed glass ceiling; it softened the light and gave the room a kind of nostalgia.
Paul looked around, appreciating what he saw. Kenny had his hands in his pockets, to keep from wringing them. He said, ‘What did Pat tell you?’
‘Less than you might think. She’s a good friend to you, bless her. She’s got a good heart.’
‘I know.’
‘So, the thing is, Kenny – I need money.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I need two thousand pounds today. Five would be better. The rest of it, I can wait for. For a little bit.’
‘I haven’t got two thousand pounds. I haven’t got any money. Do I look like I’ve got money?’
‘Sell a painting.’
‘Ha!’
Kenny looked at the paintings stacked against the walls, on the easels. Paul’s presence had damaged them like light damaged a negative.
Paul said, ‘I’m embarrassed. I wish I could say never mind, and go home. But you see this?’ He raised his damaged hand. ‘Next time, they’ll do worse.’
‘Who?’
‘People. So I’m sorry. But I’m not going anywhere until you’ve given me some money.’
Kenny ran his tongue over his teeth.
Paul said, ‘We both know, you and me – when a man’s in above his head, that’s when he’s going to surprise himself, that’s when he’s going to see what he’s capable of. And I’m desperate, Kenny. I’m in way, way above my head.’
Kenny felt child-sized and fragile in this man’s presence. ‘I haven’t got the money. My bank account’s overdrawn. There’s the VW, I could sell that if you wanted. But you’d need to clean it up, and you won’t get more than a couple of hundred for it. It’s a classic, but nobody’s buying anything. There’s a downturn.’
‘Isn’t there just.’
‘Did Pat send you here? Did she tell you I had money?’
‘No. I told you. She’s a good friend to you.’
