Gaslighting (DP, DIC03)

by Will Patching

  ‘Okay. I’m on my way with DI Carver. We’ll be with you shortly.’

  Then he was gone, with no further explanation as to how he knew her boy was not here.

  Suzie stomped down the stairs, her anger at her son at an all-time high – and after the events of the last few days, that was no mean feat. She went to the kitchen, muttering to herself, ‘I’ll kill him. No, I won’t… I’ll let the police deal with him.’

  She was now ready to do it. Having made that difficult decision, she put the kettle on, sat in the same seat she had occupied the night before, and waited for Doctor Powers to arrive.

  The kettle boiled and she heard it click as it switched itself off, but did not move to make a drink. The backdoor was also clicking as the lock turned.

  Billy!

  He opened the door clutching a large bottle and an old paint can, his face concentrating on his heavy burden before switching to a startled look at the sight of her. The rage swelled in her chest and she prepared to hurl furious words at him, threatening him with the wrath of God, but her tongue had no time to fulfil the urging from her brain to verbally lash him. It was stilled by the sight of the man stumbling into the kitchen as Billy shoved him through the door.

  Smith?

  With a piece of packaging tape over his mouth. And why was her son wearing latex gloves?

  Billy placed his bottle on the table, put the paint can next to it and gave her the wickedest grin she had ever laid eyes on.

  ‘Hello, Mummy dearest. Aren’t you going to wish me happy birthday, then?’

  ***

  ‘That’s right Smiffy, just dump that pan on the table. And why don’t you get yourself a glass of water and sit down? I might ask my mum to make you some supper if you’re good.’

  His tutor needed no further encouragement. He tore off the tape, wincing as the adhesive ripped tender dry skin from his lips, and was at the sink before Billy had finished speaking, a mug of water raised to his mouth. He guzzled it down and poured another, his hands shaking violently as he carried it to the table.

  ‘I’m starving. Please–’

  ‘All in good time, Smiffy. Don’t drink too fast or you’ll puke it all up again.’ Billy moved behind the man, now sipping at his mug, and patted his shoulders in encouragement. Then fished the bottle of chloroform from his pocket. ‘I think my mother has lost the power of speech. Better give her a minute or two and then she’ll feed you.’

  ‘Billy? What’s going on? Why is that pervert here – and why does he smell so bad? Has he been sleeping rough because he’s on the run?’ While his mother spoke, the words tumbling out in a rapid stream now that the dam had burst, Billy ignored her questions, grabbed a tea towel, tipped some liquid on it and clasped it over Smiffy’s mouth and nose. ‘Billy!’ Her voice shrill, her mouth still flapping after the word left her lips. She went to stand, but remained half upright, hands on the table, unsure what to do. Completely baffled by his actions.

  It took a few seconds of struggling, but Smiffy was weak and soon relaxed. Unconscious.

  ‘There we go, Mother. Now you and I can chat without being interrupted.’ Billy shoved her into her seat, the chair legs clattering on the tiles as she skidded back, took the roll of tape and waved it at her. ‘Is Nana asleep?’

  ‘Yes…’ It looked to Billy like her brain was trying to compute what he was doing, what he was planning to do. Perhaps she thought he would use the tape on his grandmother. She certainly looked totally confused, but not yet panicking as she said, ‘What’s going on?’

  Instead of bothering to reply, Billy pounced on her, used the chloroform soaked rag to subdue her, taking care not to overdo it, then bound her to the chair and table leg with the tape.

  With both his victims out cold, he replaced the batteries in the phones and took his time crafting and then sending another series of texts:

  Smith: I’m so sorry, sweet Billy. I’ve been stupid. I wanted to punish Maddox and kill Powers as a gift to you, my love, before we flew away together. But the police already know two people are dead because of me. We’ll never get away now.

  Billy: Maybe you should surrender. Do your time. You know I’ll wait.

  Smith: I can’t go to prison. I don’t want to live another day without you.

  Billy: Don’t say that. Let’s talk about it. Face to face. We’ll find a way.

  Smith: I can’t eat or drink, I’m so worried about you. I’m crying now – for us both. I so much wanted to release you from your wicked mother’s clutches – but cannot. She’s a crazy drunken junkie. She’s hurt you so badly. And now our plans are ruined. Because of me.

  Billy: I need to see you.

  He waited a minute or so before sending another message:

  Billy: Please, Roland. I must see you tonight.

  Smith: Meet me at our secret place. Come now, my love. This will be our sad final farewell. And forgive me for what I’m about to do.

  Billy: Don’t do anything stupid! I’m already on my way.

  Smith: Always remember this - I love you.

  It wasn’t exactly Romeo and Juliet, but would do the job. Once the fuse was lit, Billy would jog off to the location of their supposed tryst in Bucklebury woods. He would tell the police that his devastated and deranged lover, Smiffy, having tempted him away from his home to spare his life, blew himself – and his ‘wicked mother’ – to hell.

  Billy unplugged the battery from Smith’s phone and put the pieces on the table, then pocketed his own device, confident it was sufficient proof of his innocence.

  His mother gasped as she woke. Then squealed at her predicament, ineffectually struggling with her bindings.

  ‘Billy! Why are you doing this? You let me go! Right now!’ Her screeching grated his nerves, and he pulled a strip of tape from the roll ready to close her grotesque gob for the last time. But she turned her head away as he approached, sputtering at him. ‘I’ve just spoken to Doctor Powers and the poli–’

  ‘WHAT?’ He paused, the tape still in his fingers, suddenly wondering if his plan was about to go horribly wrong. ‘You spoke to Powers? When?’

  Could Billy have missed him again? She definitely sounded convincing.

  Jesus, that fucker’s got more lives than a cat.

  Then, Uncle Peter’s voice, purring to him: Don’t you worry, Billy boy. We’ll get him another day.

  ‘Just before you arrived. The police are coming for you, Billy.’

  ‘The police? Coming here? Now?’ He could see the cogs, whirring in her mind, working out what to say, and he went to clamp her mouth closed. ‘Fuck off! You think I’m stupid.’

  ‘Doctor Powers is on his way here. With that detective.’

  ‘Bullshit!’

  Then a moment of doubt. Was she telling the truth? If she was, he should get a move on. Using Smiffy’s phone would have alerted them anyway, though he’d assumed he had plenty of time before they arrived. If Powers really had spoken to her earlier, he could be here any minute, probably accompanied by that detective. He could handle them, but the delay could screw up his plan, especially as the Thames Valley Police would soon be on their way.

  ‘Bollocks!’ He slapped the tape across her mouth, the terror in her eyes sending waves of pleasure through his groin. ‘I hate you… This is all your doing. Your fault.’

  She tried to speak, but only unintelligible grunts and groans escaped the tape. Now that he had her undivided attention, Billy started to explain why she was the one to blame.

  ‘You promised me we’d move back to London. When we first came here. We’ll find our own place, you said. Everything would be back to normal, you said. When you were well enough, you said… But YOU LIED… You never got any better, did you? You didn’t really want to – you absolutely adore playing the victim. So, you kept me here. Even though you knew I loved my old school. Moving to this scumhole – I lost every single one of my friends. You wouldn’t even take me to see them – because you didn’t want your friends to see you. Ashamed of what ha
ppened to you – because you were so stupid you married a madman, the one who fucking raped you! BUT WHAT ABOUT ME?’ She flinched away from the blast of his breath on her cheek, his mouth roaring at her. ‘YOU KNEW I was being bullied at that shitty school. Every fucking day for the first two years we lived here, I suffered while you wallowed in self-pity. You selfish cunt…’

  Calm yourself, lad.

  It was not easy, so much pent up emotion had finally been released. Billy was that angry he could not speak, so busied himself, moving the bombs to the underside of the table. After unwinding the fuse from around the glass flagon, he placed the end in Smiffy’s lap, draped over the palm of his left hand.

  Looking good, Billy boy… But think, my son.

  After standing, staring at his scenario for several beats, Billy took the chloroform bottle, spilt all but a few dregs on Smiffy’s right palm and sleeve, rolled his victim’s fingertips on the glass, then shoved it in the man’s shirt pocket. There was not much chance Smiffy would wake in the coming critical minutes, given his dire state, but he was breathing, would be alive when the blast happened – and that was important. There would be little left of their bodies, but forensic pathologists were cunning bastards, highly trained in getting the dead to tell tales. If they found traces of chloroform in his blood, the bottle would explain it – he’d probably inhaled some while knocking the witch unconscious.

  Stepping back, Billy surveyed the scene, and, content that the forensic evidence was consistent with the story he would tell, went to his mother again, leaned in close, keeping his voice controlled this time.

  ‘Only Gramps ever did anything for me. Since he topped himself, the pair of you miserable bitches have been making my life un-bloody-bearable. I even tried to get you to put Nana into a home. That’s why I pushed her down the stairs. I thought that’d finally convince you to park her in Lakeview. Then move us back to London – away from this dump. But no, you kept her here. If she dies tonight, that’ll be down to you too.’

  For some reason, she was no longer looking at his face as he bent over her, had gone completely still, her eyes bulging as she focused on something in his hand.

  The flick-knife, the blade gleaming.

  He wondered, how did that get there?

  It had been in his pocket and he had no idea that he had pulled it out and flicked it open.

  I really want to stick it in the bitch.

  No. You stick to the plan, Billy boy. Time to get moving, my son.

  ‘Look at me! I’m up here…’

  He folded the knife, popped it away. Stabbing her would ruin his chances of blaming Smiffy, especially if he got her blood on himself. Better to stick a verbal knife in her than an actual one.

  ‘The state of you… Uncle Peter should’ve killed you when he had the chance. But he knew you would do this to yourself – knew you were a vain, weak, self-absorbed bag of pus… You should thank me for ending your suffering. You’ll be better off dead. You’ve only yourself to blame for being in this position – and for Nana being upstairs instead of in Lakeview. Maybe she’ll survive – her room’s at the front of the house. But you… No chance. Bye bye, Mummy dearest.’

  Billy took the lighter from his pocket, touched it to Smiffy’s fingertips to make sure his marks were on it, then flicked it alight ready to ignite the fuse, just as the doorbell rang.

  ***

  Jack’s car hurtled down Pease Hill towards the Leech residence before swerving into the driveway. Doc’s calves and shins were blistered and peeling, his trousers charred from the fire. He tried to ignore the pain, but it was difficult. The raw wounds needed treatment, but would have to wait, though every movement set off flares of agony in his brain. As he hobbled to the front door, he heard Jack’s phone buzzing.

  ‘It’s Charlie. I’ll take this, you check Mrs Leech is alright.’ Jack had his phone tucked between his shoulder and his ear already, a cigarette to his lips and his lighter sparking. ‘That’s odd. There’s a door open down the side of the house and light coming from inside. I’ll take a look while I talk to her, and have a quick smoke.’

  Jack began talking to Charlie as he disappeared down the garden path in a trail of smoke. Doc rang the bell.

  He was about to ring it again, but then saw Mrs Leech was on her way as her shadow moved behind the narrow pane of crazed glass in the top half of the front door. Then it opened.

  Only it wasn’t Mrs Leech holding it wide for him to enter. It was her son.

  Billy looked around to check if Doc was alone, his face panicking.

  ‘Doctor Powers. Quick – come in. Maybe you can talk some sense into him!’ Billy waved an arm, beckoning Doc to follow him down the hall to the kitchen. ‘It’s Smiffy. He’s threatening to kill her. Come on!’

  Billy’s urgent tone was excited, not panicked by a stressful life-or-death situation. A classic psychopathic trait, subconsciously registered by Doc. As he approached the room, a man came into view, sitting at the end of the table with his back to the hall. Totally still.

  Smith? Is he dead?

  The hairs on the back of Doc’s neck sprang upright, his scalp crawling. This was surely not just about a threat to Mrs Leech. The strange mixture of containers, tucked under the table, with a cord from the flagon trailing across the tiles, the end obscured by the chair and the man’s leg, all told a different story.

  A bomb? With Smith’s supposed lover still in the house?

  Billy moved further inside and out of sight so Doc entered the kitchen. Took in the situation instantly.

  Mrs Leech at the far end of the table, gagged, bound to her seat, eyes wide, her head shaking. She screamed indecipherable words as she tried to warn him.

  It’s a trap.

  Too late.

  He turned to see Billy’s foot, the edge of his Nike trainer, flying at his face, smashing into his nose, sending him reeling, head bouncing off the wall. A second blow to his chest, a cannonball fist, cracked his sternum and the ribs protecting his heart. The world turned grey as Doc gasped with shock and pain, sliding down the wall to the floor, unable to control his body.

  The boy’s gloating face hovered above his, though Doc could only make out the shadow, his vision refusing to clear. Head faint. Heart quivering spasmodically instead of pumping.

  Arrhythmia? Soon to be followed by cardiac arrest?

  Doc coughed deeply, ignoring the searing pain in his shattered chest, concentrating on trying to kickstart his failing heart, desperately hoping it would regain its rhythm.

  It did not.

  Billy’s voice. Cold. Determined.

  ‘I’m so glad you could join us, Doctor. You don’t look too well. And that’s a nasty cough you’ve got there.’

  Then a guffaw.

  Doc placed a hand to his chest, could feel his heart still struggling to work. His vision was narrowing, and he was dizzy and weak, lying on the floor, trying to raise himself on to an elbow, but failing. He had a close-up view of the three containers under the table, could see the home-made fuse leading from the bottle neck to Smith’s lap.

  ‘Billy… Stop! The police–’ The words coughed out of him

  ‘Fuck the police.’ Billy showed Doc the lighter in his gloved hand, the flint sparking as he thumbed the roller while leaning over Smith’s unconscious form. ‘And fuck you, Powers. You killed my uncle. And now I’m going to kill you.’

  The lighter flared and Billy lit the fuse.

  ***

  ‘We’re already here, Charlie.’

  Jack took a tentative step down the cellar stairs, illuminated by a dim dust-coated bulb that threw shadows around the room. The place stank of urine and Jack had a sense of deja vu as the smell hit him. Thoughts of an investigation from the year before, involving a serial killer who kidnapped, raped and tortured his victims for days before killing them. He had rescued the man’s final victim from a cellar just like this. One that smelt exactly like this.

  The thought was forming in his mind as he descended a few more st
eps, bringing the whole room into view. Charlie was speaking to him, but he didn’t register what she was saying – his entire focus was on the tape remnants, still hanging from the steel boiler pipe, more of the same lying on the floor, discarded there. Whoever had been held here had been released. And Jack was certain he knew who the victim was – and who had kidnapped him.

  ‘Jack! Are you listening to me? They’re on their way. You and Doc must stand down!’

  ‘What? Why?’ He was already jogging back up the steps and flicked his half-smoked cigarette to the lawn as he reached the doorway. ‘Listen to me, Charlie. Smith’s been held here. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘That’s what I just said! We know he’s been there – his phone came on – and the Leech boy’s mobile was used at the same time, at the same location. Less than ten minutes ago! They were both at that house, together, and the boy’s phone is still there. There’s an armed unit on the way, and so am I–’

  Jack was no longer listening to Charlie. Unless his ears were playing tricks on him, he could hear Billy’s laughter coming from the rear of the house, so darted the few paces to the corner and on to the open back door.

  The scenario was clear to him the split-second he stepped in the room.

  Billy, engrossed, unaware of Jack’s presence, dropping a lighter into Smith’s lap, the tutor unconscious, oblivious to the fizzing fuse burning across his palm. Mrs Leech, unable to move or speak, her chair rattling furiously on the tiles as she struggled to free herself. Doc, gasping for air like a beached cod, sprawled on the floor, one hand on his chest, nose bleeding, face white.

  Jack’s brain whirled, goading him, flashing a vision of Sally disappearing in a fireball as she was thrown off the boat, Felix being burnt alive. Agonised wailing suddenly loud in Jack’s ears. Fury and hatred filled him, but he had no weapon, no taser or gun, just the phone in his hand. Resourceful to the end, he flipped it upside down, clutching it in a sweating palm, thinking he would drive the thing into the base of Billy’s skull. He would disable the kung fu kid before the evil shit spotted him.