‘So you should, sunshine. I’ve been watching you.’ Billy’s uncle’s hand reached out and ruffled his hair. ‘You remind me of me… You little tyke.’
The touch of fingers on Billy’s scalp sent waves of energy pulsing through his body. Suddenly, they were in his dojo, standing, facing each other. Uncle Peter in his huntsman’s overcoat, a sawn-off shotgun dangling on some string hanging from his right shoulder, just visible beneath the material.
‘I’m ready, Uncle.’
‘I think you might be, Billy boy. You’ve done everything I asked of you. Now let me in.’
Without speaking again, their minds melded, and then separated almost immediately. Euphoria had threatened to burst Billy’s brain as he felt his guru’s presence inside him, the wise elder’s approbation for all he had planned.
Just one small glitch.
‘Sorry, Uncle. I couldn’t stop myself.’
‘Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that copper, my son. He’s a fuckwit.’
Billy was relieved. His uncle was so different from his father.
Allowing that thought was a mistake. It brought Mr Mu to life. The vinyl ball that was his head exploded in a mush of gore, as his father’s body materialised in the corner of the dojo.
‘Just ignore him, Billy. He’s nuffin. A dead man.’
But the dead man was stepping towards them both, the top half of his head missing, eyes still shining despite having been blown away.
‘I’m dreaming. You’re not real. Leave us!’
Normally, the command would work, banishing his father for the duration. But tonight, something was wrong.
‘That damn pig, he got to you, didn’t he, Billy boy?’
Billy felt his uncle behind him, while his father lurched towards him, arms outstretched like a zombie. Fear swelled inside him, an unfamiliar and disturbing sensation in his dreams these days. Somehow, it seemed right.
His destiny.
‘Here you go, Billy boy. Face your fears, my lad. Let’s see if you really are ready. To deliberately take another man’s life.’
‘I want to… I really want to…’
He had an irresistible urge to kill his old man with his bare hands.
‘Nah, Billy. What have I told you about that? He’s dangerous. Always use overwhelming force whenever possible. Don’t be a fuckin hero. Try this.’ The shotgun was cold and hard beneath Billy’s fingers, the touch of the trigger reassuring him as his father went to grab his neck.
‘Killing’s easy.’ A whispered rasp filled his ears. ‘Just trust your Uncle Peter.’
Fingers, as strong and cold as the steel barrel of the gun suddenly wrapped around Billy’s throat, crushing the life from him. His father’s eyes bored into him, and then that voice, the supercilious tones he had always loathed to hear.
‘You’re pathetic. Just like him, your idiot uncle. Haha!’
As Billy’s dream started to fade to grey, he panicked, thinking this wasn’t right, that he controlled events, but he was convinced he would die tonight if he didn’t pull the trigger.
Only one problem – his hands were paralysed by sheer terror. The sight, sounds and smell of his father, so familiar, ripped away his confidence, throwing him back in time, reverting him to the scared little child he had been. He psychically shrank in the man’s presence, felt himself deflate like a balloon having the air squeezed from it. He couldn’t breathe.
‘Just do it.’ His uncle’s voice sent a final surge of electricity sparking through his central nervous system. Jolting him back from the brink, swelling him back to his full size. He could do this. ‘Come on. It’s witching hour, Billy boy. Lots to do tonight. Wakey-wakey.’
The deafening explosion of the shotgun transformed his father’s body into a crimson blur, and launched Billy back into his bedroom, his hand reaching out to the alarm clock at the exact moment the digits clicked over from 2:59am.
***
Sunday: Ignition
The stench of excrement punched Suzie in the back of her throat as she opened Nana’s bedroom door. Her sense of smell was only half as efficient as it had been before Peter carved off her nose, but it was still plenty sensitive enough to make her retch – and that was before she saw the state of her mother’s bed and the wall behind it.
‘Ugh…’
She held her hand over her nose and mouth in a vain attempt to smother the worst of it, and managed to get a window open before she vomited. She hauled deep lungfuls of fresh dawn air into her chest, the scent of freshly mown hay a welcome relief from the stink of ordure, smeared on the headboard and paintwork in the room she had just unwittingly entered.
Her mother was still out cold, her wheezing breath testament to the life still pumping through her veins. Suzie wondered whether her mother passing away might be a blessing for them all. The dreadful thought shocked her.
‘I’m such a terrible daughter… And a crappy mother.’
She stared out of the open window, guilt at her callous reaction sliding into her heart like a surgeon’s blade. Perhaps it would be better if she just threw herself head first to the concrete paving slabs below, though there was no guaranteeing she’d die from the fall. And she just couldn’t bring herself to end her own life – God knows, she’d thought about it often enough. Instead, she had been slowly drinking and drugging herself in a painful and tantalising dance with death, often wondering if she would wake up in the morning after imbibing such huge quantities of drugs and alcohol.
This morning she had woken early, and without a hangover for a change. Last night, after her run in with her son and his insults about her failings as a mother, something had snapped inside her brain, and she had spurned the lure of a freshly mixed Martini. Even the dulling comfort of codeine linctus had failed to tempt her, and she had fallen into bed, sobbing into her pillow with the sober realisation of how low she had sunk. A withdrawal headache had pounded at her skull, and she found herself praying to Mary, Mother of God and her divine son, Jesus, in her desperation – something she had rarely done since her teenage years.
Today, she was determined to have a fresh start, and had planned to get her mother up and drag her out of this claustrophobic room, take her downstairs, and set her up in the garden with a bed chair. Then she had opened the door to be confronted by this – the equivalent of a Belfast political prisoner’s dirty protest in the front bedroom of her parent’s Berkshire home.
Her mother’s fingers were stained brown, tangled with her hair on her filthy pillow, drool mixing with excrement at the corner of her mouth. The headboard had claw marks, smeared filth, as if she had unsuccessfully tried to climb the walls in a bid to escape the foulness surrounding her.
Perhaps it was a test. God wanted to know if her prayers and pledges were genuine. Or was her vow of abstinence an empty promise, just like all the times before?
Suzie turned away from the window, went to her mother’s side and took her hand in hers, while forcing herself to breathe in the terrible odour. After several panted breaths the smell of sewage seemed to diminish, and the room became bearable again.
‘Mum?’ Suzie gave the old woman a gentle shake, tugging at her shoulder to wake her. ‘Let’s get you in the shower, eh?’
Her mother came half awake, her pupils wildly dilated, and Suzie began to suspect the old dear may have taken too many of the pills the doctor had prescribed. Pills that had no doubt constipated her, paralysing her gut, until the pressure inside forced it to vent while she slept in her bed. Perhaps the enormous bowl of lasagne Billy had brought her had finally unplugged her insides.
‘You poor, dear woman. Come on, Mum.’
Sympathy for her mother had been in short supply, but today Suzie genuinely felt for her, and decided right then she would nurse her back to health if it was possible, and look after her if it wasn’t. As she staggered towards the en suite bathroom, dragging the dead weight of her mum, Suzie had something of an epiphany.
Her son no longer needed her, w
as beyond mothering, was maturing into a strong, confident young man. It made perfect sense to transfer her caring to her own mother, now that Billy was becoming increasingly independent. It would give her something to live for, something greater than herself.
She swung open the bathroom door, and once more the concentrated faecal odour, this time intensified in the enclosed space, almost felled her.
‘Oh, Mother!’
Suzie propped Nana in her favourite chair by the open window and forced herself to enter, clicking on the light and extractor fan as she did so. Then she saw it and felt reality tilt as her universe came untethered. The taste of codeine linctus blossomed on her tongue, and her brain almost collapsed under the pressure of her craving. She stood rooted to the spot, her own image reflected through the words…
The accusation, scrawled in shaky stinking script. A message for Suzie, finger painted on the mirror, daubed with the contents of her mother’s bowels.
‘You killed my grandchild. You are EVIL!’
***
‘Morning! How’s yer head? Sleeping Beauty!’ Jack slopped tea in the saucer as he placed the cup on the coffee table in front of Doc, taking in his dishevelled appearance and red-rimmed eyes. ‘You were snoring, so me and the prof left you there to sleep it off, and retired to the guest rooms.’
Doc reached for the cup, and groaned as he leaned forward from his armchair. ‘Oh, my head. I never drink whisky. And that’s tea. You know I only drink coffee in the mornings.’
‘Yeah, well, I can’t get that monster espresso machine of yours to work.’
‘Didn’t you ask Judy?’
‘Nah. She went for a run just as I surfaced. Dickie jumped in a cab at the crack of sparrow fart. Said he had to get into London before the rush hour. And a low-loader came and took his Bentley away first thing, too.’
‘What time is it?’ Doc pushed himself from the chair, then dropped back into it. ‘Damn. Blood pressure and angina tablets really don’t mix well with alcohol.’
‘Dickie’s to blame. Appearing with that second bottle of thirty-five-year-old Dalmore whisky. It was lovely, but most of it’s gone, and I’ve got a hangover too, thanks to him. I should stick to beer.’ Jack peered at Doc’s face, noting the deathly pale with a hint of grey in his cheeks. ‘Are you alright, mate? You should take a few minutes.’
Doc eased himself into a standing position, swayed, took some deep breaths and said, ‘I think I’ll just go and lie down. Help yourself to whatever you want in the kitchen. I’m really not up to making breakfast. Or even coffee.’
‘Go on then, bugger off and leave your guest, hungry and thirsty.’ Jack grinned and punched Doc’s arm playfully. ‘You want me to help you up the stairs, old man?’
Doc huffed in reply and grimaced as he took halting steps towards the stairs. ‘The instructions are on the side of the machine. You can bring me a latte, if you can manage to follow them. See you in a bit.’
Jack had plenty to do, and his head felt tight, not painful, which was about as hungover as he ever got. And he couldn’t be bothered reading the instructions on the coffee machine. Judy would be back soon enough.
Time to get on with some work.
He unplugged his mobile phone from the charging unit, and dialled the number from memory. A female Inspector he had met on a recent weekend training course – a colleague he’d had a brief but enthusiastic liaison with.
‘Charlie, it’s Jack.’ No time for pleasantries. He had a lot to do before cruising downriver later today. ‘I have a favour to ask. I hope I’m not disturbing your Sunday morning.’ He didn’t let the dirty snigger loose, the one he could hear in his head as he added, ‘Again.’
The line almost sizzled with contempt as she answered. ‘Jack… You said you’d call me. It’s only been four months…’
Oh shit.
‘Really? That long? I’ve been a bit busy. Promoted too. DCI Carver they call me now.’
‘I can think of a few other names for you, Jack. So, what do you want? I’m actually working, but I gather this isn’t a social call, since you seem too busy for one of those.’
Ouch.
‘Sorry. I meant to call…’ He had, too, but as the days turned into weeks, he became increasingly reluctant to do so. Stupid, really. He’d never been good at developing personal relationships, blamed his job. ‘I’m down your way today and need some info on a young man. A local teenager. I think he’s been making a bit of trouble for some friends of mine.’
A sigh, then, ‘Does he have a history with us then?’
‘I dunno. He may have.’ Jack described what had happened to Dickie’s chauffeur and car the night before. ‘I’ll be meeting the driver later, to see if he wants to press charges, but wondered if you could do some digging for me on the boy in the meantime.’
That sizzling was back, then he heard her muttering to a colleague in the background, cursing ‘some cocky bastard’ she’d met at Sulhamstead House, the Thames Valley Police Training Centre, on a recent course. It was a shame, because he really did like her.
‘Alright then, Jack-the-lad. What’s his name, this tearaway you’re so interested in?’
‘Billy Leech. Probably William, officially. Lives on Bucklebury Common. That’s in your patch, if I remember rightly.’
‘Okay. It’ll cost you… A phone call. And a dinner.’
‘Haha! Sure. That’s a bargain.’
‘If we have anything, I’ll get back to you in the week.’
‘Sorry, Charlie. I’m on vacation and won’t be around after tonight. Any chance I could buy you lunch? Today? I’m in the area. You can fill me in then.’
Sizzle.
Jack held his breath, knowing he was pushing his luck with Charlotte Kealey, a very classy brunette with a laser sharp brain. Theirs had been a meeting of minds. And bodies. They had spent a sleepless, sweaty, and highly energetic night together.
‘You are such a cheeky bastard…’ Jack let out his breath as she added, ‘Midday. The Bladebone Inn. A superb gastropub in Chapel Row, very close to your toerag’s address. Don’t be late or I’ll be gone.’
Click.
Well, that went rather better than he’d expected. A smug smile grew on his lips just as he heard Doc bellowing at him as he thundered down the stairs.
‘Jack! You’ve got to see this! I can’t believe it!’
***
Doc’s head was spinning as he made his way up the stairs, and he hoped Jack would be willing to do battle with the espresso machine for him. It had been a while since he’d been drunk enough to generate a hangover, and mixing wine with whisky had been asking for trouble. By the time he reached the bedroom, his heart was dancing a tango on his diaphragm, and not a particularly rhythmic one at that.
Instead of lying down, he decided to shower, hoping a blast of hot water would refresh him. It did, so he took a glass of water from the bathroom to his bedside table and pulled out a bottle of paracetamol. As he swallowed down two tablets he noticed the envelope on his pillow.
That’s odd.
His name was on it, along with a hospital logo. Judy had made the bed before jogging off, so must have placed it there for him. Strange. Why had she left it for him like this?
Was it bad news?
Was she sick?
Why not stay and talk it through rather than go running? Or was it news so terrible that she couldn’t bear to tell him to his face?
Perhaps she was angry with him, for not coming to bed last night, but that wasn’t like her. Doc had spent several nights asleep in his armchair after yapping with Jack over a bellyful of booze.
No. Only one thing for it.
He ripped open the envelope and pulled out the single sheet inside – then he thought his heart would stop as he took in what he was seeing.
Doc remained frozen for maybe half a minute, his emotions sending hormones raging through his bloodstream, his heart now pumping for all it was worth. He was giddy and light-headed, but still forced himself to jog do
wn the stairs two at a time, yelling at Jack as he descended.
The two men met in the hallway, and Doc couldn’t stop himself from blurting out the wonderful news.
‘Judy left this for me.’ He waved the printout in Jack’s face, then stabbed the ultrasound image with his finger. ‘Look! She’s pregnant, mate! Almost two months already. It’s bloody fantastic! I’m going to be a father… Can you imagine? After all this time.’
***
Suzie had cleaned the entire bathroom before stripping the bed and scrubbing the headboard and walls. The room smelt of bleach now, a refreshing change from the stink that had greeted her first thing this morning.
The mirror was pristine again too. Suzie had avoided looking at her reflection while cleaning it, but as she stepped in the en suite, ready to run a bath for her mother, she caught a glimpse of herself before looking away.
Why not look? Don’t be such a coward.
If she really wanted to change, to remake herself, to drag herself back to some sort of normality, she had to confront the worst of it.
Her grotesque face.
A brief prayer, a plea for strength, bolstered her courage as she stood in front of the mirror, eyes closed.
‘Three, two, one. Open.’
The involuntary gasp from her lips echoed off the tiles, as she forced herself to properly inspect the state of her face for the first time in years. One half was still perfect, though a little older and more wrinkled, a reminder of the beauty she had carried so carelessly. A precious gift that she had not fully valued, until her brother-in-law had peeled the other half from her skull. Her false eye was a brilliant prosthetic, comfortable and mobile, the colour and shape perfectly matching the other.
Except the pupil never changed in size.
And there was the disconcerting lag, the sluggish movement that never quite caught up with her good eye as it tracked from left to right, or up and down. Over time, the muscles within her orbital socket had strengthened but the surgeon had warned her that her lazy eye would probably always be a visible flaw, something that she would just have to accept.
Gaslighting (DP, DIC03) Page 10
