Catalyst

by Mark Eklid

  ‘Who was that?’

  Wesley rolled over, away from her, to stub out his cigarette in the ashtray and then pulled the duvet higher.

  ‘Business.’

  She sat so that she could light up.

  ‘Another job?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Since Darrell had phoned to suggest Wesley might know about their affair and that he might be the man who had shot him in the foot, Beth had been taking a closer interest in her husband’s movements. She had been thinking a lot, too. The possibility that Wesley cared enough to be aware of what she was up to with Darrell still seemed unlikely to her. His inability to feel anything about anybody other than himself was one of the reasons she had launched the affair in the first place. The possibility of his being driven by jealousy to track down and threaten her lover seemed a remote one. No. He didn’t have that in him.

  But what she had thought a lot about over the last couple of days was just why she was still in this sham of a marriage. As far as she could tell, all he needed her for was to be part of his cover. She was his respectable teacher wife sharing his respectable, ordinary house in a respectable neighbourhood. Hadn’t he encouraged her to go into teaching for just that reason? Stop the neighbours’ tongues from wagging?

  What do they do to be able to afford a nice house like that?

  Well, she’s a teacher and I think he runs his own business.

  What sort of business?

  I don’t know but she seems right enough. I saw her at the parents’ evening.

  Oh! Must be fine then.

  That was what he got from their marriage but what was in it for her? She was stronger now. She was no longer the messed up young woman he first met - the one who was so desperately in need of rescuing that she grabbed at the first rope thrown her way and had so eagerly hauled herself to safety. She had grown. She was no longer dependant – on him or all the stuff she used to poison her body with. She had started to think a lot more about her escape, but she needed to get at his money and, to do that, she needed him out of the way.

  ‘Are you going to take me out tonight? You haven’t taken me out for ages.’

  ‘Can’t,’ came the reply from beneath the duvet.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Busy.’

  ‘You’re always busy.’

  ‘I’m a busy man.’

  She sat quietly as the cigarette burned in her fingers. She didn’t particularly want to spend the evening with him. She just wanted to know where he would rather be.

  ‘You never tell me what you’re doing.’

  Wesley stayed silent and still.

  ‘Why won’t you tell me what you’re doing?’

  ‘Because you don’t need to know.’

  ‘It’s because you don’t trust me. Why are we still together if you won’t trust me? You’ve never trusted me. You shouldn’t live with someone if you can’t trust them.’

  Wesley turned quickly to face her. He was getting irritated now.

  ‘I only trust people who are useful to me, people who serve a purpose. What purpose do you serve, Beth? You were a spoiled college kid who knew nothing and couldn’t face having to do anything to make your way because you felt the world owed you a favour. You’d have been dead by now if I hadn’t taken you in, so don’t give me that shit. You should be grateful. If you don’t like it, you can fuck off. Go back to sharing dirty needles with all your useless drop-out friends – if any of them are still alive.’

  He rolled back over and tugged at the covers.

  Beth was quietened. She was angered but mostly hurt by the assault. The truth hurt.

  ‘I only want to feel like we mean something to each other. That’s all. Just trust me with one thing. Tell me what you’re doing tonight.’

  She heard him release a long, exasperated breath.

  ‘I have something I need to dispose of.’

  A breakthrough! She had got through to him.

  ‘What, a body?’

  He responded with a contemptuous snort.

  ‘Something someone needs to avoid from falling into the wrong hands, then. A gun. Is it a gun?’

  No reply.

  ‘It’s a gun, isn’t it? I bet it was used in a crime. Was it that jewellery shop robbery last month? The one where the couple who ran it were shot? I read that the wife was in a bad way. Are they using you to get rid of the gun?’

  Still no response.

  ‘I bet you’re helping them avoid being caught in other ways as well. Are you hiding some of the stuff they stole at your lock-up?’

  ‘Just drop it, Beth.’

  She smiled to herself. He didn’t like that she was figuring it out.

  ‘Have you ever shot anybody, Wes?’

  The covers were flung off and he jumped out of bed, heading towards the en suite bathroom. There was no chance of any peace. He wished he had not given her even the slightest encouragement to pry into his business.

  ‘No, but there’s a first time for everything,’ he mumbled as he trudged away.

  Beth ignored the dig. She was pleased with what she had learned. That was useful information.

  ***

  Helena and Yuvraj did not speak as they marched, head down, into the cold wind towards where they had left his car. She barely gave him time to press the keypad to open the door before she tugged at the handle on the passenger side and jumped in. It was cold outside, but she was warmed by the flush of fury.

  ‘Maybe we were a bit hasty?’ The words had been bubbling inside Helena and she threw them back in Yuvraj’s face with the force of a slap.

  Yuvraj said nothing as he closed the driver’s door behind him. He knew she was cross.

  ‘We came here to tell Cranford that we are definitely pulling out of his scheme because we don’t want some lunatic stalking us and killing us and you let him walk all over you and then say maybe we were a bit hasty?’

  He felt his ears beginning to burn. As soon as the words had left his mouth, he had realised he had left himself open to Helena’s wrath.

  ‘I was just trying to take some of the heat out of the situation. You two going at each other was helping nothing.’

  ‘I was standing up to him, Yuvraj. He’s a playground bully, you know that full well. We went to see him specifically to tell him that we weren’t going to let him push us around anymore and you tell him maybe we were a bit hasty? Do you realise how weak that made you sound?’

  Yuvraj was blinking his eyes fast and shuffled uncomfortably.

  ‘He thinks he knows who might be responsible. We should let him try to sort it out. We owe him that.’

  ‘And what if this great gut feeling of his is wrong? What if there isn’t somebody out there who will apparently go to any lengths to stop Cranford from having a full-sized statue of himself erected outside the town hall one day? Even if someone is that obsessed – and who could blame them, by the way? – what if Cranford is targeting the wrong guy?’

  She leaned closer to him and glared into his eyes so that she could not be ignored.

  ‘What if there’s still a lunatic out there who will stalk us down and kill us?’

  ‘Helena, let’s just be calm about this. Don’t be…’

  ‘Hysterical? Should I not get hysterical? Please don’t say I shouldn’t be hasty.’

  ‘Unreasonable,’ he replied, choosing the word carefully and hoping it was the right one. ‘Maybe we have found ourselves disturbed by the events of the last couple of days and perhaps we should look at it more reasonably. Cranford might be right. If this person with the gun had proof, wouldn’t he have put it out there in the public domain already? Could it be that he is trying to get inside our heads so that we make a mistake or do something… illogical.’

  ‘He’s fucking succeeding if he’s trying to get into our heads,’ she replied.

  ‘We can’t let him. I say we keep as low a profile as we can for a while, prepare as normal for the planning committee meeting and let Cranford sort it out. There’s still too
much at stake here to throw it away when we really can’t be sure we need to.’

  Yuvraj dared to reach out his hand to touch hers. She did not shrug him off.

  ‘Don’t you agree?’

  She stared blankly ahead, calmer now.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  He withdrew his hand.

  ‘But you’d better be right.’

  16

  The experience in Ecclesall Woods had disturbed Martin. He had been caught in the act, gun in hand, and could only be thankful that the dog walker was not braver and the dog was not fiercer. It was also a blessing that he had the foresight to cover his face again, to disguise his identity, and though he felt confident the dog walker would not have been able to give much of a physical description to the police when he reported the incident – as he surely did – Martin had gone off the idea of burying the gun as a means of getting rid of it.

  He needed another plan.

  Later that night, as he calmed his nerves with a mug of lemon balm tea, he decided if burying the gun beneath the earth was not the solution, sinking it beneath the water might be. All the lakes and reservoirs nearby were just too far to cycle to, especially after a full day at the café, but the River Don cut through the centre of Sheffield and was deep in places.

  He checked the map, retracing a day last summer that he decided to do the Five Weirs Walk, and tried to work out which section of the six-mile route might suit his purpose. His memories of the walk alone were not enough. Looking for the best place to get rid of a weapon had not been on his mind that day.

  Between Attercliffe Road and Effingham Street, he thought he might have found a good spot. He would try again the next night.

  It was uncomfortable, Martin found, cycling with a World War Two German pistol stuffed down the front of your trousers. Another new experience in an increasingly bizarre period of his life. The front sight at the end of the long barrel rubbed against the inside of his thigh with every push of the pedals. He felt it chafing but resisted the temptation to readjust the gun’s position in case any passing motorists thought he was trying to bring himself a totally different sort of relief.

  There was a Tesco close by, where he could leave his bike and be fairly optimistic that it would still be there when he got back. Martin chained the bike and his helmet to the rack in the shelter, tugged down the hem of his dark fleece so it covered him to mid-thigh and put on the green cap he had kept down the back of his elasticated waistband before limping along the half-mile walk to the riverside.

  Apart from the risk of being seen trying to get rid of the gun, or the outside chance that he might be knocked off his bike and have to try to explain why he was riding with an antique small firearm down his pants, the thing that bothered Martin most about what he was about to do was that he hated dumping the gun in such a beautiful waterway. Sure, the Don had endured much, much worse through the city’s industrial age but nature had nursed it back to life. He had made a covenant with nature to protect it however and whenever he could and so this felt like a betrayal. Only after he balanced the potential of causing damage through pollution against the potential of being caught in possession of a weapon that had been used to inflict grievous bodily harm did he finally decide the trade-off had to be made.

  The icy wind stung his cheeks as Martin headed into the face of it on the path alongside the busy road. The evening light was fading fast and headlamps burned brightly as cars and vans hurried home. He walked briskly, head down, and hoped he would be giving none of the drivers who were passing by reason to notice him.

  Soon, he came to the fork in the road he was looking for and took the turn on to the riverside footpath. A hooped frame above the walkway made it appear as if he were about to plunge into an uncovered tunnel, with the chain of electric lights overhead reducing the ominous fear of danger lurking ahead that might otherwise have dissuaded Martin from taking his first steps along it. He took a deep breath and pressed on.

  He could hear the murmur of the river to his left but see only glimpses of it through the thick bushes beside of the path. Peeking over the bushes, from the far bank of the river, were buildings that were once the crumbling remains of industry, many of which had been redeveloped for new purposes. Martin sheltered behind the peak of his cap, glancing up briefly to make sure no one was heading towards him or, worse still, lurking with the intent of doing him harm. It was late enough for the path to be well past its peak busyness but early enough to make it still reasonably safe to walk along.

  At a point where there was a slight kink in the line of the path, Martin stopped. There was a gap of a couple of metres in the bushes so that he could see the river clearly for the first time – and make sure there was no one to see what he had to do. He leaned against the metal railing, attempting to look as if he was casually inspecting the still waters three metres below his feet, while his eyes scanned the buildings opposite for signs of life and activity. He could see none. He stepped back and nervously peeked to either side in case anyone was heading towards him from either direction. No one was.

  Yet he hesitated. Part of him was guiltily willing someone to come into view so that he would have to call the operation off, even though he knew this was something he had to do. His nerve was failing him. He moved forward to grip the railing again, desperate to summon the strength within but still powerless to act, all the time having to choke back the inner urge to walk – run – away from there immediately, all the time increasing the chances of being discovered hovering on the brink of a deed he dare not commit.

  His heart beat faster than ever until he could barely see beyond blurs of shapes around him. Panic was engulfing him. Every fibre of his instinct was telling him to get away, reminding him that his last two attempts to challenge his core values of right or wrong had only landed him in deeper trouble, yet the tiny fading voice in his rational mind – the part that was beseeching him to go through with it – would not let him leave.

  Finally, he snatched the gun out from its hiding place and gripped the handle of it in his gloved hand again. He held it in front of his face, feeling his eyes drawn by its mesmeric pull, aching to be able to release it as if every passing second was burning it deeper into his flesh and making it impossible to ever be free from. Finally, he found the strength at last to cock his arm back and send it spinning through the cold evening air to where it landed, with a hollow splash, in the middle of the river and was swallowed up for good.

  Relieved but still choked by his anxiety, Martin was lumbering away along the path almost before the gun hit the water, stumbling into a trot until he realised, almost as he reached the footbridge, that he was heading in the wrong direction. He turned back towards where he had left his bike, willing his limbs to behave normally but refusing to look back at where the circle of ripples caused by the impact of the gun had now faded and died.

  ***

  In a dark corner of a car park on the opposite bank, seventeen-year-old Chloe Wood was having difficulty controlling someone else’s limbs. Specifically, the wandering hands of her boyfriend, Sam.

  ‘Stop it, will you Sam!’

  Sam was disinclined to obey. He reckoned she must have realised he had a bit of a kiss and a fumble in mind when he winked suggestively and led her by the hand to where prying eyes could not see. The rampant juggernaut of his teenage hormones had shot too quickly through the gears to pull up now.

  ‘Pack – it – in!’ she hissed at him through clenched teeth, trying to make it as clear as she possibly could that a line had been drawn.

  He pulled his head away, resting his hands on her hips.

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Chloe. It’s only a bit of fun.’

  ‘It’s not fun feeling your bloody cold hands on me. They’re like ice blocks.’

  ‘I know how to warm them up,’ he said with a leer, launching another attempt at penetrating the outer defence of her hooded puffa coat.

  She let out a small shriek, wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him forw
ard into a kiss, attempting to distract him. When, eventually, they came up for air, she glanced over his shoulder and noticed a small figure by the railing on the far side of the river. He appeared agitated.

  ‘Look at that bloke over there.’

  Sam was too preoccupied to give attention to anyone other than the person immediately in front of him.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s acting strange. He looks like he’s thinking about throwing himself in the river.’

  Sam ignored the suggestion and grabbed a handful of her backside, pulling her closer in hope that he might get her focus back on the matter at the forefront of his mind. She slapped his hand away.

  ‘Seriously, I think he might.’

  ‘Let him get on with it then.’

  Chloe wriggled free of his grasp just as Sam was sliding his right hand up towards his next intended target.

  ‘Sam! Stop being a twat, will you, and look.’

  He rolled his eyes. It was time to concede defeat, for now. He dutifully turned to where he was being directed, his body language spelling out that he was doing so because he had been told to, rather than because he cared.

  The figure in dark clothing and a dark cap had stepped away from the railing, moving in small, jerky steps one way and then the other, like he was barefoot on hot bricks and could not work out which direction would give him his escape route. He lurched forward again and took hold of the railing as if his survival depended on it, rocking back and forth on his toes, before releasing his grip and lifting his jacket to pull an object from the waistband of his trousers.

  ‘What the hell?’ said Sam, captivated too now.

  ‘What’s he got in his hand? Is that a gun?’ Chloe whispered.

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘Oh, god – he’s not going to shoot himself, is he?’ She recoiled, hiding behind Sam’s shoulder at the prospect of what might happen but only far enough so that she could keep an eye on the figure.

  Finally, the man drew back the object in his hand and threw it. They heard the splash and saw the man hurrying away.

  ‘Come on,’ said Chloe, taking hold of Sam’s arm and dragging him across the car park towards the road.