by Guy N Smith
‘I was thinking about cementing it up,’ she replied. ‘I would have done, except that I didn’t have any cement.’
‘Cement’s no good.’ He shook his head. ‘Those rough places want replastering and the cracks filling in with Tetrion.’
‘Oh!’ She was dismayed because plastering was a skilled job. It meant finding somebody to do it and hanging about waiting for them to come; meantime, the decorating came to a standstill.
‘I’ll do it for you,’ he said.
‘Oh! Well, that’s awfully sweet of you, Nick. When can you fit it in?’ Three weeks, perhaps a month, she guessed.
‘I’ll do it for you now. I’ve got some plaster and Tetrion in the van. Shouldn’t take long – a couple of hours, maybe. Then you’ll have to let it dry for a couple of weeks before you paint over it.’
She glanced at her watch. ‘But it’s a quarter past ten.’
‘No matter. Hang on, I’ll go and get what I need out of the van. And I wouldn’t mind another cuppa before I start.’
‘Fine. And whilst you’re plastering, I’ll start putting the paper on the other wall. First things first – let’s see if that kettle’s boiling on the stove.’
They worked steadily, Holly struggling with the wallpaper, Nick seeming to skim the wall effortlessly, stopping every so often to mix up some more plaster. Both of them kept the conversation away from Tommy Eaton; it would be in the papers for weeks to come, doubtless.
‘Blimey!’ Nick was kneeling by the bucket, stirring his latest mix with a stick. ‘Phew!’
‘What is it?’ Holly was unable to look round as she struggled with head-height wallpaper and smoothed out a ripple.
‘That bloody smell again!’
‘It must be in the water you’re mixing with. See, I told you. Even this resealing job isn’t going to get rid of it.’
‘It’s gone again now.’ He shook his head in bewilderment. ‘Funny how it comes and goes. But, in any case, you’ll have to pump the well to waste for several days to get rid of it altogether. Never mind, it won’t affect the plaster.’
Holly felt goose pimples on her stretched arms. She saw once again Jim Fitzpatrick with that ulcer on his bottom lip, its pus trickling down his chin, another sore on his tongue. Don’t think about it, she told herself. It can’t be anything to do with the water. He’s a heavy smoker – more likely it’s mouth cancer.’
‘That’s about it.’ Nick Paton dropped the trowel back into his empty bucket and stood admiring his handiwork. Superb, he reckoned. A plasterer could not have done any better.
‘It’s marvellous.’ Holly was almost finished, too. ‘Oh, Nick, I can’t thank you enough. You’ve no idea how grateful I am.’
Her pouted lips were homing in on his oily cheek, an intended peck of gratitude. Nothing more. But suddenly it was so very different. The casual, shy young plumber’s head moved sideways and upwards, his lips were elevated, and drew hers like a magnet. Warm and soft, touching, brushing; then crushing together. Her arms went up and around his neck and held him close. His encircled her waist, and she could feel her breasts pressing against his chest.
‘Oh, Nick!’ He was still holding her. Their eyes met. For a few seconds everything else was forgotten – the borehole, the deaths, even the decorating. Two people had kissed, and everything had changed. It was unbelievable – Holly’s brain was spinning, and she heard herself say, ‘Kiss me again, Nick. Please.’
Still holding on to each other, they made their way back into the kitchen, this time heading for the sagging old Chesterfield settee that would cost a fortune to renovate and would probably stay as it was until it fell to pieces. Sinking down on to it, Holly lying underneath this previously shy young man, opening her mouth for him to thrust his tongue inside in a simulation of what her body was screaming out for.
She closed her eyes as she felt his rough fingers struggling with the waistband of her denim shorts, lifted herself up so that he could pull them down, kicked them free and still kept her eyes closed, waiting for the ultimate result of what was meant to be just a friendly kiss. I don’t want to see, I might change my mind. She knew she wouldn’t; it was too late now anyway. He was inexperienced, a workaholic who was perhaps discovering a new delight, and she had to help him find her, pushing hard at him and gasping her pleasure aloud. The old settee creaked its protest, its springs squeaking as they struggled to keep time with the lovers.
For Holly it was over too quickly. Nick was reaching for his discarded garments almost guiltily, afraid to look at her, perhaps fearful of a rejection even though it was too late. She lay there, naked from her ruffled T-shirt downwards, thighs wide and willing him to look. But he did not. He was Nick the plumber again, checking his tool bag, picking up his bucket and trowel, shuffling towards the back door.
‘I’ll be on my way, then.’ Which was exactly what he had said when he had finished work the last time.
‘Why don’t you stop the night, Nick?’ She was almost pleading.
He hesitated, and for one second she thought, hoped, that he was going to agree. Then he shook his head slowly, still not looking at her. ‘No. Thanks all the same. I’ve got to be up and out early tomorrow. The jobs are piling up whilst Bennion keeps calling on me. Thanks all the same, though.’
‘Goodnight, Nick.’ Holly was unable to disguise her disappointment.
‘Goodnight.’ She wished he would call her by her name, but he was too shy, embarrassed now. It could well have been his first time.
‘Nick?’
‘Yes?’ He was in the doorway. He stopped but did not look back.
‘If you change your mind on the way home, come back. I’d be very happy if you did.’
She saw the back of his head nod, and then he was gone out into the night. A couple of minutes later she heard the Escort’s engine turn over two or three times, then fire. Then he was gone. But he might return – she clung wildly to that forlorn hope. Oh, God, it had been wonderful! Maybe a minute of ecstasy that had left her in limbo, and she was likely to remain there for some time! It was crazy, though; she had not even fancied him before that kiss, which was only meant to be a friendly peck, anyway. It was as though something had come over her, robbed her of every vestige of self-control.
A feeling of guilt threatened but she pushed it away. What was done was done, and she would happily do it again. She lay there with her eyes closed, reliving those sensual seconds, trying to will an orgasm, but it hovered beyond her reach. Oh, Nick, please Come back, she thought. I’m lying here waiting for you.
Time was suspended. She wanted this night to go on forever. She wondered how long Mike was likely to be away. His meeting was tomorrow; there would be a lengthy lunch, then another discussion with his agent. Bob would probably take him out to dinner, perhaps a show afterwards. No, Mike would not return tomorrow. A short time ago she had been desperate for her husband to come back; now she wanted him to stay away. Which was pointless, because Nick didn’t have to return to Garth Cottage – the job was finished. Unless … she thought about phoning the plumber, inventing some reason, some difficulty with the new water supply. ‘Nick, I don’t understand how the various stopcocks work, you did explain but I’ve forgotten. Come and show me again. Tonight.’
Somewhere amid her erotic dreams she heard footsteps outside. Her imagination, doubtless, hearing him again, a fantasy in which he would return and make her orgasm this time. She pulled her T-shirt right up above her breasts and lay there listening. I’m ready, Nick, she thought. I’ve never been anything else. Come on in and make me finish.
The door was starting to open, scraping back across the uneven quarried floor. A breath of warm night air engulfed her sweating near naked body, bringing with it the odour of putrefaction. Which was why she sat up suddenly, pulled her T-shirt down and looked for her shorts. She turned her head in anticipation of seeing the plumber shyly hanging back on the threshold, waiting for her to summon him. Then screamed as she recognized her nocturnal visitor.
It was Jim
Fitzpatrick!
There was no mistaking Frank Bennion’s workman. It could not be anybody else, even though his swarthy features had changed and were a mass of those swollen, weeping sores. The original one on his lower lip would surely burst at any second, she thought. It had come to a bulbous head and was straining with the pressure of the stinking matter that dribbled from it. His eyes were puffed up and virtually closed, and he could surely see almost nothing. Mucus bubbled out of his nostrils, congealing. He was pitiful and horrible. Only then did she notice his clothing, and recoiled at the sight of those oily overalls now saturated with blood, fresh and dripping on to the floor, his hands slippery with the scarlet fluid as he clasped them to his disfigured face and moaned in anguish.
‘Help me. Help me!’
She managed to rise to her feet, backed away, glanced at the wall phone and wondered if she might have time. Certainly Fitzpatrick, in spite of his terrible appearance, seemed weak and almost on the verge of collapse. Gone was the lusting leer, in its place a mask of diseased mental and physical agony.
She made it as far as the telephone, hesitated to grab the receiver and asked in a shaking voice, ‘What … what’s happened?’
‘I … I’ve murdered them!’
‘Who?’ For God’s sake, who?’
He was sobbing, his words barely audible, festered lips moving, eyes shedding uncontrollable tears which caught in the thick yellow poisoned liquid. ‘The missus … the kids … I’ve killed them!’ It was meant to be a scream, but it came out as a strangled grunt, then died away. He just stood there, pathetic and awful, bowed. Asking her for help.
‘What do you want me to do?’ What can I do? She thought.
‘Kill me!’
‘Oh, my God! The breadknife was still on the table and she found herself staring at it. That was stupid, she told herself. She wouldn’t kill him, she wouldn’t know how, anyway. In any case, he looked close to death. Maybe any second he would sink down to the floor and just pass away. And, Christ, he stank abominably; he had the very same smell that had plagued her these past few days. As if he had crawled right up out of that evil well outside!
‘I’ll call an ambulance.’ She took the receiver off the hook, her fingers groping for the dial. They were shaking too much, she would never manage it.
‘No!’ He lurched forward, hit the table, sprawled across it, then somehow levered himself back up on to his feet. And to Holly’s horror she saw that Jim Fitzpatrick had the serrated knife clasped in his bloodied hand!
Miraculously she did not panic. She knew that the telephone was her only chance, she had to summon help. A trembling finger found the right digit, dialled 9 … 9 … Oh, please … 9. She heard it ringing out almost instantaneously. Oh, hurry!
Not wanting to look, she closed her eyes. I’ve done what I can, she thought. I can’t do any more. She could hear him breathing, a kind of snorting sound. Any second he would be upon her, that blade plunging deep into her. Twisting, gouging.
‘Which service do you require?’ A voice so far away, too far to help her. Holly tried to speak, but all that came out was an incoherent whisper.
There was a moment of silence, and she could not even hear Fitzpatrick wheezing in his diseased lungs. Perhaps he was already dead. No, if he was, she would have heard him fall to the floor.
‘Which service do you require?’ The voice was more insistent, even angry, in case it was a hoax.
Then there was a noise like water gushing, like the waste pipe pumping the well to try to clear it. No, that wasn’t quite right … Still she did not dare to look. Now it was a hissing spray; a trickling.
The voice came on the other end of the line again, sharper, demanding.
‘Ambulance.’ Holly managed to get the word out and heard the call being transferred. Ambulance. For him or me? She wondered. It might be too late. She might be dying, or even dead before it came.
Something metallic clattered to the floor. That was when she opened her eyes and stared aghast. She didn’t scream – she was done with screaming now – just looked, and tried to take the scene in. It took several seconds for it to register.
Fitzpatrick was standing away from the table, a grotesque caricature soaked in blood and pus. His eyes were closed, retracted into their swollen, ulcerated sockets; his disfigured lips pressed tightly together, forcing the poison out of those dreadful sores; his long arms extended in an almost pleading gesture, palms uppermost, sleeves pulled up to reveal a wide gash on each wrist from which blood spurted, jetted up and sprayed the ceiling, mottling it crimson. Twin claret fountains, gathering force, arced so that they splashed the walls. There was blood everywhere, and still more blood.
In some inexplicable way it was a relief for Holly, and when the crackling voice spoke in her ear again she was able to answer: name, address, directions to Garth Cottage. It all took time, and when she was finished Jim Fitzpatrick had buckled to the floor and rolled over on to his back, arms splayed, the force of the blood from his slashed wrists beginning to slow.
9
Holly was surprised how calm she was, though shaken. She was able to answer the questions put to her by the police. It was the CID detective who had called to question her about Tommy Eaton – Detective Sergeant Lewis, tall and sharp-featured. He showed consideration towards her and closed the door on the kitchen so that the forensic experts could go about their work.
‘I’ve arranged to have the kitchen cleaned up for you when we’re through, which should be in about a couple of hours or so,’ he smiled kindly. ‘A straightforward case of suicide, I think. But it’s his condition which worries me. He’s got some awful sores on his body.’
‘Like Tommy Eaton’s?’ Holly watched carefully for a reaction.
‘Yes.’ Lewis was tight-lipped, noncommittal. ‘We’re awaiting the results of tests on those. I understand your husband is still away. Surely you’re not going to remain here alone until he returns?’
She experienced a sinking feeling, a sensation of dread. Was this policeman trying to warn her of something – something which he was not allowed to talk about? ‘I’ll probably go to my mother’s,’ she lied. That was the last place she wanted to go.
‘Have you telephoned your husband?’
‘No. I’ve only got his agent’s office number, and they won’t be there at this hour.’
‘But, surely, in an emergency …’
‘There’s no emergency, is there?’ She averted her eyes from his penetrating gaze. ‘A man has slashed his wrists in our kitchen, but it doesn’t involve us. Does it?’
‘No, not directly.’ He seemed surprised. ‘Obviously, we have to question, as we did over the Eaton boy, but after that it’s no concern of yours. We would just like a word with your husband, though, when he returns. Routine. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go and assist the others in the kitchen. If you want to leave, please carry on.’
‘Thank you, sergeant. But I think I’ll have a bath first.’ She felt a need to cleanse her body, to wash this night’s filth off herself.
It seemed strange to be turning on the bath taps again after several weeks of washing in water carried up from the village in containers. There was certainly a good pressure – the water was jetting out with force. She tipped some foam into it and went through to the bedroom to take her clothes off. Downstairs she could hear the distant, incessant mutter of police voices. Their presence gave her comfort but she knew that once they left, the terror would roll back. She would sit listening for footsteps outside in the dark night, anticipating a tap on the door. Eaton and Fitzpatrick were both dead; who else could possibly call round in that physical state? She did not want to think about it.
She lowered herself into the frothy bath foam, lay back and relaxed. For the moment she was safe, but she had to find a refuge for this night which was already well advanced. One could not very well go calling on neighbours at three in the morning. And then her thoughts suddenly switched to Nick Paton and the pleasure which had preceded the h
orror. She felt herself tremble at the thought of him and what had happened. Nick would understand; she would phone him, fetch him out of bed and talk to him. Oh, yes, she would do just that the moment she had dried herself.
There was no hurry. Another five minutes relaxing in this beautiful bath would make no difference to her plans. She sat up, reached for the hot tap and turned it on. A little too hot, she decided. It needed cooling down a degree or two. The cold tap spurted with force, and in that instant she was leaping out, slopping foaming water all over the bare, unvarnished floorboards, just managing to check a scream. For the tap water was a filthy brown which reminded her of that slurry which the rig had pumped out like liquid excrement, with bits floating and swirling amid the foam.
She stood looking at it, heaving even as she smelled it, the same stench of putrefaction which had lingered in the atmosphere outside and permeated the house. The smell of rotting evil, the odour of … death and weeping, festering sores that consumed body and mind!
Holly rushed from the bathroom, slammed the door behind her and wished that the bolt had been on the outside. Ugh! Standing there dripping in the bedroom, she examined her naked body in front of the tall wardrobe mirror. Thank God, she did not have any of those cancerous growths on her flesh! Yet.
She dried herself with trembling hands and hurried to dress, her blouse and jeans trying to resist her damp skin. Christ, I have to get away from here! Now. She would go downstairs and phone Nick, she decided. Damn it, she couldn’t, the telephone was in the kitchen and the police were still working in there.
To hell with phoning – just go, she told herself. When you’ve seduced somebody a matter of hours ago, you didn’t stand on ceremony, ‘I’ve come round for you to screw me again, Nick.’ At least that would take her mind off everything else.
She was surprised to see a light still burning in one of the lower windows of Nick’s renovated cottage as she drew into the drive and parked behind his van. She suddenly felt uneasy, guilty; it was something of an imposition to arrive unannounced at three-fifteen a.m.
