by A. L. Bird
‘And this must be my boy,’ Mick says, walking towards Josh.
I take a step further back, pushing Josh further away from Mick as I go.
‘Stay away from him!’ I warn.
‘Or what?’ Mick asks, jutting his chin out, mocking me. ‘You’ll fuck me over? Oh, yeah – you already did that. Ten years in prison for a crime I didn’t do. Thank you very much, my love.’
‘You deserved every second you spent in prison!’ I shout.
Josh seems to be getting smaller and smaller behind me. Smaller and more vulnerable. I try to make myself bigger, my chest out, arms arching backwards to cover him.
‘Oh, Chloe,’ says Mick. ‘You’re talking like it’s just the prison. Do you know, my family fucking disowned me because they thought I was dealing? After what happened to Emma, after she –’
His voice breaks. I remember the first time he told me about his dead little sister. At the time, my heart nearly broke for him. Then he broke my nose, so my heart’s off the table.
‘After she died, we’d all renounced anything to do with that crap. So what they thought I’d done was unforgivable. I’ve had to plead and plead with them to believe me. And now I have a criminal record I’d never got with anything else. I’m out of jail but my life is a mess. And it’s your mess. You need to put it right. You took my honour, and I want it back.’
I stand staring at him. I don’t have an answer. I don’t see how I can put right what wasn’t my wrong.
‘Why couldn’t you just run away, Chloe? Why’d you have to get me put in prison too?’
That I can answer.
‘You’d have followed me. Followed Josh. You, your mates – who, for all your “oh I’ve got nothing to do with drugs”, were all fucking dealing, right in that house – you would have got to me. They’d have silenced me. I know they did it with others; they had the kit. I had to have you all put away.’
Mick shakes his head. ‘You arrogant whore. You think I care enough about you and your brat son to come looking for you? You were ten a penny, pet. I wouldn’t have bothered you.’
‘See,’ I hiss to Josh. ‘This is what your father’s like.’
Mick pauses a second.
Then: ‘No, this is what your father’s like.’
And he lunges for Josh and seizes him, pulling him towards himself.
‘No!’ I shout.
The strength is phenomenal. I can’t resist. I’m flung to the far end of the corridor, nearest the kitchen. Not at the bottom of the stairs, where Mum used to land, but it’s familiar enough territory. I look up. Mick has Josh in a chokehold. Mum rushes to me.
‘Leave her as she is!’ Mick shouts. ‘She doesn’t deserve any comfort; she’s brought this on herself.’
‘It’s all right, Joshy, it’s all right,’ I croon to my lovely lovely son.
‘Don’t listen to her,’ Mick says. ‘It’s not all right. If she doesn’t confess to me, I’m going to kill you, OK, mate?’
I can see him tighten his grip.
‘But you know! You know I did it! You know I put those wraps into your bag and I told the police you were going to a meeting to hand them over and they got you, and those wraps were the last link they needed to your cokehead mates, so they got you all.’
‘My cokehead mates?’
Josh’s face begins turning red in Mick’s clutches.
‘No! Not cokeheads, then. I’m sorry. I did it. I landed you in jail. I perjured myself. I dumped you in it. I ruined ten years of your life, OK? Now give me back my son!’
Mick loosens his grip on Josh slightly. But he doesn’t let go. Instead he looks intently at Josh.
‘Nah,’ he says. ‘I don’t think I will. He’s my son as well, aren’t you, mate? Quite fancy knocking around with you for a bit. That’s what I told your bitch mother, wasn’t it – next time you’d be gone? So let’s make you gone.’
And he starts walking towards the decimated front door.
‘No!’ I pounce towards them. Mick casually flicks me back with a blow from his left hand. I fall to the foot of the stairs. I taste blood in my mouth.
‘Don’t take him!’ I shout. ‘Mick, you’ve no use for him. Come on, take me. Beat me up. Come on, it will make you feel great. Just like old times, hey? Just not Josh. You do not take Josh!’
Mick turns to face me. ‘But I don’t need you now. You’ve done your bit.’ He pulls a smart phone out of his pocket. Keeping one hand round Josh’s neck, he fiddles with the phone.
My voice comes out of it: ‘I did it! You know I put those wraps into your bag and I told the police you were going to a meeting to hand them over and they got you.’
I stare at him.
He laughs.
‘Got you now, haven’t I? All I need do is get this to Tim – you know Tim, I think, and our good friend Louise – and it’s my record clear, you in the dock. I can play it to the police, play it to my family, play it to anyone who still thinks I’d be tangled up in drugs when they killed my kid sister.’ I watch him press record again, in case I’m about to say something else valuable.
I shake my head at him. ‘If that’s all you wanted, why didn’t Tim send someone over with a crowbar and an iPhone? Why the Rhea Stevens stuff? Why’d you have to suck me in like that?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ says Mick.
‘Oh, don’t lie, Mick, you shit! Of course you know. Of course you dreamt it up with Tim and Dan and Louise. Your clever little masterpiece. Why fucking bother? Why not use violence?’
Mick smirks a little. ‘You’ve got your esteemed colleague to thank for that. Some legal bullshit about confessions not being as valuable if they’re under duress. If you’d fessed up properly I wouldn’t have had to resort to this. And we hoped that if we fucked your head up good and proper you’d go straight to the authorities, hand yourself in. Oh, and he’d made peace with himself he wouldn’t actually be doing anything illegal. Not sure how that fucking works, but I’ll leave that with his conscience.’
‘So it was all Tim and Dan’s idea?’
‘Danny Boy! Ah, my favourite barrister stooge!’ Mick laughs. ‘Fucking jumped-up idiot, that Dan. Bless his little cotton socks – he’s done me a good turn, on his quest for justice, although he reckons he’s doing it for her.’
I blush for Dan. At least, though, I know for sure he thinks he’s working for Rhea.
‘But sod sad-case Dan – you think I’m not smart enough to have that idea?’ Mick’s voice is low again. Dangerous. ‘I tell you the parts of it that were mine. The clever parts. I invented Rhea. Knew you’d go for her, the little sob story, so like your own pathetic mess you bored me with back then.’
‘Bastard,’ I spit at him. I think back to poring out my life story in that Pret. To think it would all be used for this!
Mick smirks. ‘And do you know what else was mine? Most of all, the parts where you suffered. The parts where you thought you were going to lose everything. The parts where you thought you’d come home and find your precious life gone. I fucking loved dreaming that up. It kept me going, hearing about it. Louise and Tim, they were legends, with all the detail. We wanted to fuck you right up. Because that’s what you did to me. And, oh look – we have.’
Right. If his ego needs it to have be an amazing plan, fine. Josh is getting paler and paler. I can see his eyes pleading with me. I have to do something.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘You got me on tape. Well done. I can deal with that. I’ll fucking drive you to Tim myself.’
There’s the shaving knife in the glove compartment of my car. Dan’s car.
If I can get Mick into the car. It will be fine. Somehow. Because if I’m in the dock, Josh is in care. Or worse. With Mick.
Mick laughs. ‘I don’t need you to drive me anywhere. I can send this right now. In fact, let’s –’
I fly towards him and knock the phone out of his hand.
I throw it behind me into the
corridor.
‘Come and get your fucking confession, then!’ I shout at him. ‘Let Josh go, and get your fucking confession!’
‘Oh, you’re going to regret that,’ Mick says. He’s advancing towards me, all the while holding Josh by the neck.
‘Mum, take the phone and leave the house,’ I shout behind me. No response. I can’t risk turning round, being off my guard. ‘Mum?’
Mick grins. ‘She’s abandoned you, love. It’s just the three of us now. You be a good girl, bend down and pick up that phone, OK?’
‘Mum, just –’ Josh coughs and splutters. He can’t speak; Mick’s hold on him is too tight.
‘What’s that, kid? You want to say something? Off you go then.’
Mick releases Josh just enough so that he can speak.
‘Just give him the phone, Mum. Please. He’ll let us go then.’
Mick smirks. ‘Sweet kid, hey?’ He gives me a look that Josh can’t see. It’s a look that says ‘even if I get my phone back you two aren’t going anywhere.’ It’s a look that starts with two eyes boring into you. It ends with – well, we won’t know. We won’t be there to find out. His fists will have knocked us unconscious well before the final bell.
But I can at least stall it, can’t I? And I can let my child think I value his opinion. If it’s the last one he’s going to express.
I bend down to pick up the phone.
I move to hand it towards Mick.
As I do so, there’s a slight flash of silver. Mick lets go of Josh, and trips forward. To reveal Mum. Standing behind Mick. Holding a knife that’s covered in blood.
Chapter 41
I leap forward and pull Josh towards me.
Mick is staggering a little, putting one arm around behind his back, resting against the banisters, trying to work out what’s going on. His breath rasps. Perhaps Mum got a lung.
Each time I move, I get a glimpse of Mum, standing behind Mick with a kitchen knife. She must have sneaked into the kitchen when Mick was focused on us, run out the back door and up through the side passage.
‘Finish him off!’ I hiss at Mum.
But she’s staring at Mick’s back, clutching the knife to her. There’s blood all over her jumper. She won’t be able to stab him again.
‘I should have done it years ago,’ she mumbles.
‘Come on, Josh,’ I say. I put the phone in my pocket and we push past Mick.
Or at least, we try to.
There’s a hand on my arm, a fist at my jaw. I fall forward, out of the house. From the ground, I can see Mick leaning against the doorframe, bent double. Mum is beside me, pulling me forward. Josh is ahead, running to the car.
‘Come on, Mum!’ he shouts.
They drag me to the car and Josh pulls the keys from my pockets, unlocks it, and propels me into the driving seat.
Mum gets into the back with Josh.
‘Go!’
I can barely see; my vision is blurred from Mick’s punch.
Then in front of me, I detect Mick again. Lurching, staggering, but there. Is he? I think so. I rub my eyes.
‘Mummy! Mummy! Stop him!’ Josh cries out in terror from the back seat.
So Mick is there, then. Blocking our way. I put my foot down hard on the accelerator. I could swerve round him – there seems to be just about enough space – but will that really stop him? Not just now, for always?
I can’t guarantee it.
So I do what I must do to protect my child. With a thud and a roll, Mick disappears from view.
But I can’t get the car out, the angles are wrong. Mick is still managing to block us, from the ground. I manage to find reverse. Manoeuvre ourselves out of this tight spot.
Mum is screaming. ‘Just drive, drive!’ Presumably she has visions of Mick rising up from the curb, bloodied but still dangerous.
My front wheels ride over a bump.
Steering corrected, I move us forward, screeching off down the street.
My vision is clear again.
I look in the rear-view mirror.
Mick won’t follow us.
In the back seat, Josh is weeping.
‘It’s OK, Joshy, it’s OK,’ I croon to him over my shoulder.
‘It’s not OK!’ he shouts through sobs. ‘How is it OK? It’s not OK!’
‘Shh, Josh,’ my mother joins in. ‘We’re alive, aren’t we? We got away? That’s the main thing!’
‘We murdered my dad! He tried to kill me! We’re all going to prison. It’s not OK!’
I keep driving as Josh tries to process what just happened. I don’t know where I’m driving to. We just need to get away. Josh is right. It’s not OK. God knows who witnessed that. Neighbours must have heard shouting. Or would they have done? It’s early yet. Maybe all we have is a body run over on the street. Maybe it will look like a hit-and-run. Just a body, and we’ll be miles away, in Dan’s car. And we have my confession on a recording.
Dan’s car, and a recording.
I shake my head.
No, I can’t. Can I?
It wasn’t just my confession that was recorded. It was Mick verbally abusing Dan. I replay his words in my head, his mocking tone.
Is that enough of a motive for murder?
Would that recording be enough, if it cropped up on Dan’s phone, and the police also got an anonymous tip-off of a car, Dan’s car, the undercarriage covered with Mick’s blood, abandoned in woodland?
And the razor! What if the razor, with some blood on it from the undercarriage, was found (bloodied) in the glove compartment?
That would be enough for the police to focus their inquiries on Dan initially, wouldn’t it? While we run? To, I don’t know where – a boat somewhere?
‘Mum, what are we going to do?’
‘It’s all going to be fine, sweetie. I’m working it out.’
Can I do that to Dan? He’s not a bastard who punched an unborn foetus. I needed to frame Mick. It was the only safe way out. Dan’s a nice guy who sheltered us, took us in – not a brute who took me in only to knock me up then knock me out, while he carried out whatever business interest he had that was so morally superior to drugs. And Dan wasn’t any part of the conspiracy. Mick confirmed that himself. So do I frame an innocent man? Again? Except Mick was never truly innocent. Remember that.
And I never truly loved Mick. Remember that too. With Dan, I’m beginning to let myself think it might be different.
I flick a look in the rear-view mirror. Josh is still crying. His eyes are red, and so is his neck. An ugly red band from where Mick was clasping him too tight. I grasp my hands tighter on the steering wheel. After all that, I can’t let Mick win even – shit – posthumously. Josh stays with me; we all stay free.
And after all, Dan said I had to put myself first.
‘Josh,’ I say. ‘Can you help? Delete the first recording, then cut the second one down so it’s just the stuff about Dan?’
I pass him Mick’s phone from my pocket.
‘Why?’ he asks.
‘Don’t worry, sweetie, just do it, OK?’
He concentrates on the phone. Occasionally blasts of Mick’s voice come out, low and disturbing, followed by mine, high and shrill. Not at all in control of the situation in any way.
Finally, from Josh: ‘Done it. Now what?’
‘Play it to me?’ I say.
So he does.
‘Fucking jumped-up idiot, that Dan.’
Shit, it’s not very much. But at least it’s a connection.
‘Now send it to Dan,’ I tell Josh. I reach into my jeans pocket to get out my phone. ‘Here, his number is in there.’ I pass my phone back.
‘Why, Mum?’ Josh asks.
‘Just do it, Josh,’ I tell him. This is not how I want to parent. But it will get better. If I can just get this sorted, it will be OK.
‘Chloe, what are you trying to do?’ Mum butts in.
‘I’m trying to protect you
from going to prison for murder, OK?’ I shout at her.
‘It was self-defence,’ she says to me. ‘We just go to the police and we tell them.’
‘They won’t believe us. They never do. Stabbed in the back? How can that be self-defence? Getting in a car then driving over someone?’
‘Diminished responsibility, then. A good lawyer will sort you out.’
‘Diminished responsibility means me in a mental hospital and Josh in care!’
‘It’s all right, Mum,’ Josh pipes up. ‘I’ll message Dan.’
‘Good boy,’ I tell him. ‘At least someone understands,’ I say to Mum.
She shrugs, and looks at what Josh is doing.
OK, so, Dan gets the message with the audio recording. And what? He’s supposed to have torn down the motorway and murdered Mick? Maybe they had a fight. It would be something more – an altercation, strong words, a few punches, then the stabbing and the car reversing. Except the message will be sent after Mick died. Fuck. But they’re always wishy-washy on time of death, aren’t they? And I don’t want Dan to actually go to prison. Just for him to draw interest for a while, so we can get away. A few inconsistencies are OK. It’s all going to be fine. Dan will forgive me, and what does it matter if he doesn’t?
A flashing image of Dan, in bed, looking at me with so much love and trust. Of him playing Star Wars on the car radio to Josh. Of that brunch. Of some place in the future where we could do that all again, except without fear of Mick.
‘Where are we going, Mum?’ Josh asks.
I look around me. A road sign: London 120 miles. Fuck. Why am I heading south? We need to find some woodland, so we can cover the razor in the blood, and ditch Mum’s sweater. I look around me. There’s no sign of any fucking woodland. There’s Donington Services though, in a couple of miles. Maybe that will do.
‘We’re going to Donington Services,’ I tell him.
‘OK,’ he says.
Do they have cameras when you go into service stations? I don’t know. I flip the light shade down so that it has a chance of covering my face. My hair has sprung out of its ponytail, loose and wild. There’s no ignoring the dark roots now. Pure Chloe. I shove it up again, one hand on my hair, another on the wheel.
