Hope Dies Last

by Deborah Finn

  Gallagher settled himself down with the napkin on his lap. Steak and chips and a bottle of merlot; a view of the city too. What could be better? He grunted with satisfaction as he chewed a piece of bloody meat. He took a long slug of wine and felt his shoulders drop. He drained the glass and refilled it. He’d made it, hadn’t he? He’d arrived.

  But there was always more. He wanted to win. Lester Gallagher, MP. He wanted to hear people saying that. He wanted to hear it on the news. Bryony Haslett, MP? That sounded shit. Still, the bitch had scored points on him. She’d made him look bad. Steve had made him watch the footage.

  “Maybe some beta blockers, Lester,” he’d suggested. “Look at yourself. You’re sweating, all red in the face. The doc can sort that out.”

  He was sceptical. But maybe the doc could sort out this itching inside his skull. He sat back in his chair, taking a break from his meal. He took a few deep breaths and looked at the lights of the city laid out below. “I’m a winner,” he said. “What are you? A fucking winner.”

  He laughed and leaned forward, precisely slicing the remaining slab of flesh into two equal pieces. A mouthful of salty frites and a slug of wine, that’s what he liked. He swallowed half a glass and topped it up.

  He wiped his mouth and threw the napkin onto the empty plate. There was a knock at the door. Gallagher looked at his watch. That would be Marilyn. What perfect timing. This was going to be better than any cheeseboard.

  He threw open the door, licking the residue of steak juice at the corner of his mouth.

  “Marilyn, my dear. Come on in.”

  He stepped back to let her enter and realised he was just a little groggy as his heel caught on the edge of the rug. But fucking hell! She’d transformed herself. He stared as she walked slowly to the window and looked down at the city. She was wearing a midnight blue dress. It was plain with a soft sheen to it. Maybe that was satin, he wasn’t sure. But what he did know was that it was backless, and her skin was pale and smooth and all on show. She was too bony. He could see that. He’d rather not be so clear about the way the blades of her shoulders articulated. But there was still a flare at the base of her spine, the dress cut low enough for him to imagine the dimples of her buttocks.

  She’d done something with her hair. Maybe she’d just washed it, he didn’t know. It was hanging down her back in soft shiny waves, inviting him to touch it. He walked towards her, but stopped when she turned round. Her eyes were like black pebbles set into her pale face.

  “Don’t come near me,” she said. Her voice was low and tight, but he could hear the determination in it. “You don’t touch me, ever again.”

  “I wasn’t going to touch you,” he lied.

  “No, you weren’t,” she agreed. “Because I wouldn’t have let you. I’ll never let you do that again.”

  He shrugged, his eyes never leaving her face. She was pulling herself up taller. How was she doing that? It was like she was looking down on him.

  “Do you understand me, Lester? I wouldn’t want there to be any misunderstanding?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I get it. You’re a prissy little bitch. Too good for the likes of me, eh?” he laughed, but there was no mirth in it. He picked up his glass and knocked it back.

  “You’re offering me money, but you’re not buying me. Do you get it?”

  He looked right into her face and felt the room darkening around him. It was like he was falling downwards with her pale face sneering at him. He shook his head, clearing his vision.

  “There’s not much that money can’t buy, Marilyn.” He laughed again. He raised the bottle towards her. “A glass? You always used to like red.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not drinking with you.”

  “Well, fuck me,” he muttered, filling his own glass to the rim, before turning to smile at her. “So, terms and conditions then... no fucking, that’s what you’re saying?”

  She stared at him. It was like the lines of her face were all tightening, all sharpening into a shrewish point.

  “I think you lost your sense of humour somewhere along the way, Marilyn.”

  “Maybe when you raped me,” she said, her voice scraping across the words.

  “Oh, back to that again,” he groaned. “Really, Marilyn, loosen up. Have a glass of wine.”

  “I’d rather die of thirst than have a drink with you.”

  Gallagher tilted his head as though pondering her point. “You’re probably a bit out of touch with business practice these days, Marilyn, but that’s not the way to get your bonus, you know.”

  “Bonus,” she laughed. “You’d probably think it was a bonus if I got to suck your cock, right?”

  He laughed. “Some girls have been known to like it.”

  “Oh yeah? You show me one. You show me one who did it because she wanted to, not because you made her, or you paid her, or you got her so wasted she didn’t know what she was doing.”

  He forced his face into a grimace of a smile. He could feel his grip tightening on the glass, and he put it down before he crushed it in his hand. He turned to face her square on. “You think you’re so fucking special, don’t you?” He took a step towards her and saw the way her eyes flicked sideways, checking out her escape route. He laughed then. That churning, hot feeling in his gut was like a vibrating wire. He could feel the pleasure, like electricity through his body. She was scared of him. The bitch was scared of him. “What makes you think you’re so fucking special?”

  She shook her head, her face contorted. She stared at him, into him, as though she was looking down into a dark chasm, then she looked at the door. “I’m going now,” she said.

  “Hang on, we haven’t finished yet.” He lifted a hand to bar her way.

  “I’m finished here,” she said. Her voice was shaking. “I’ll never work for you again. I don’t want your money.”

  “Are you sure about that?” He stepped closer. “You don’t want to move out of that shithole you live in, get yourself some pretty dresses.” He reached out and stroked the fabric of her dress, let his hand come to rest on her waist.

  “I told you not to touch me.” Her voice was strangled. She didn’t move away. She looked like she was going to wet herself.

  Gallagher laughed. “And I knew you didn’t mean it,” he said, his hand sliding around to stroke her buttock. “Why’d you come up here in this dress if you didn’t want me to touch you?”

  Marilyn closed her eyes and stepped back from him, banging into the table. She put down a hand to steady herself, gripping onto the table cloth. “You’re disgusting,” she said. “If I could wipe you off the face of the earth, I’d still feel dirty.”

  He stepped closer, pressing her against the table. “You stuck up little bitch. I remember when you couldn’t do enough to keep me happy. Yes Lester, no Lester, three bags full Lester. Jesus, you were ripe for it. I could smell it on you. I can smell it on you now.”

  He laughed in her face, and then felt her spit landing on his eyelids, his lips, his nose. The bitch spat in his face! He pulled back from her in momentary surprise and she slid around the back of the table. He swiped at his face with the back of his hand. She was facing him across the table.

  “You’ll be sorry for that.”

  “No, you’ll be sorry, Lester.” She gave a little breath of tight laughter. “I’m not going to work for you. But do you know what I am going to do? I’m going to destroy you.”

  He shook his head, dismissing it. “Little Marilyn! You’re going to destroy me? How the fuck are you going to do that, then?”

  She leaned across the table and stared at him. He felt the itch starting up inside his skull. It was like her eyes were drilling into his skull.

  “You’re scum, Lester” she said slowly. “And I know all about you, all your dirty little schemes.”

  “I don’t know what you think you know, Marilyn, but you’re a bit out of your league here. Who’s going to listen to you? A washed up old junkie. Who’s going to take your word against mine?�
�� He laughed heartily.

  “You don’t get it, do you, Lester? Times have changed.”

  “Not that much.”

  “I’m going back to the police.”

  “What?”

  “I told you, I reported it to them, the rape.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, you’ve got some kind of obsession. This is ancient history, Marilyn. Who’s going to listen to you and your little fantasies?”

  “They’ll listen to me. It’s all over the news. You must listen to the news, don’t you? Jimmy Savile, Rolf bloody Harris, MeToo for fuck’s sake.” She laughed, and he could see the light dancing in her eyes. “I don’t want your money. I don’t want your stinking job. I want to destroy you. I want to ruin everything for you, the way you ruined it all for me.”

  “Don’t be stupid. You don’t want to do that. You want to use your brain for once.” He moved around the table towards her, and she moved away. She laughed. She was laughing at him.

  “You’ve got a chance here, Marilyn. A chance to get your life back on track. Why would you throw that away? For what? I’ve no fucking idea what you’re on about.”

  She shook her head. “You can’t really have forgotten.” She narrowed her eyes. “Jesus, if you’ve forgotten that’s even worse. You broke my ribs. You must remember!” She opened her mouth and pulled her lip to the side to show him a gap in her otherwise neat, white teeth. “You knocked this tooth out. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”

  He remembered. An image flashed into his brain, the way she was squirming, his fist connecting with her jaw, and then she was still. “You liked it a bit rough, that’s all.”

  Her mouth dropped open. Like a drooling idiot! She shook her head. “They took photos, Lester. All the bruises. My ribs. They took swabs. It was fucking awful.”

  “So don’t go back there. Why would you want to put yourself through that? I’m offering you a fresh start.”

  She screwed up her face. “Fresh start? How could it be a fresh start with you? Reminding me of it, every single day. My fresh start will be when I see you go down.”

  “That’s not fucking happening!” He shoved the table to the side and lunged towards her, grabbing a handful of that shiny, red hair. He laughed then. “You stupid fucking bitch.” He pulled her face close to his. She angled her face away, but her eyes were locked on his.

  “I won’t be frightened by you anymore,” she said, but he could see it was a lie. She was shaking.

  “No?” he said, twisting her hair in his hands so that she winced, her eyes closing against the sudden pain.

  She opened her eyes and locked onto his again. “No,” she said. “I won’t. It’s all over, Lester. It’s all over for you.”

  “No!” He pulled her head down and banged it against the side of the table. She screamed and he did it again. This time she fell over, but he kept his grip on her hair, so that her head was tugged like a puppet on a string. She scrambled to her feet again, falling off her heels. She grabbed his hand with both of hers, trying to unpeel his fingers.

  “Let go of me! Let go of me!” she screamed.

  “Shut up!” He laughed, and yanked her hair again, and then pain shot through him, from his groin right up through his abdomen. He let go of her hair and bent over, sucking in a breath. She’d kneed him. The little bitch had kneed him. He saw her standing up, saw her lips moving, but he couldn’t hear what she said. Everything was slow, and the pain was suddenly gone. She was standing over him now. Her lips were curled in a sneer. He saw everything very clearly. One of the straps on her sandals had broken. He saw the breaking blood vessels under the skin on her forehead, the line of the table edge where her head had met wood. Her saw the long strands of red hair, tangled around his fingers. And he saw the plate, where he’d pushed it back on the table, and he saw the steak knife. And then the knife was in his hand, and then the knife was in her. It went in so easily, the sharp point penetrating the fabric, then cutting through her skin and flesh. He saw the surprise in her eyes, her mouth an O. He tugged the knife upwards and felt it grate against bone. A rib.

  She put her hand on the table to steady herself, then sank to her knees. He let go of the knife. She looked down at it, sticking out of her, like some peculiar accessory. He heard her moaning. The sound was coming back. She pressed a hand to her abdomen. Blood was seeping out, the dark blue fabric looked black around the wound.

  He crouched down in front of her and she looked up at him. Her face was very white now. She looked weak, feeble. He could taste the satisfaction in his mouth, like a good wine. “You asked for that,” he said.

  She shook her head faintly. “Help me,” she whispered.

  He smiled. “Bit late for that, Marilyn. I offered you help, and you threw it back in my face.”

  Her head was rolling. She couldn’t keep herself upright, and she lowered herself to the carpet. He kneeled over her, watching her chest move as she took tiny, rasping breaths. “You stupid bitch,” he said.

  Her eyes were fixed on his. She coughed and swallowed. She was trying to speak.

  “The child,” she said.

  “What child?”

  “Your child,” she said, and coughed again. He could hardly hear her. He leaned closer.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I got pregnant,” she said, and then paused, trying to breathe. “When you raped me.”

  Her eyes closed. Was that it? No, her chest was still moving. She opened her eyes again, and found his. “People know,” she said.

  He shook his head. “What?” he said.

  She licked her dry lips. “I wrote it down,” she said.

  “What? Where?”

  She tried to smile, but it turned into a gurgling cough. “My testimony,” she said, her tongue clumsy with the long word. “The child.” She looked at him again. “The child is the evidence.”

  “What fucking child?”

  She closed her eyes. Her grabbed her shoulders and banged then on the floor. “What fucking child?”

  She didn’t move. Her head had fallen to the side. There was blood on her lips. He looked at her chest. It wasn’t moving anymore. He pulled her head up so he could see her face. Her eyes were open, but they were blank. He dropped her head and stood up.

  “You fucking bitch,” he shouted. He kicked her ribs, hard. “What fucking child?”

  Eighteen

  Lester Gallagher sat on the end of his hotel bed. It was an emperor-size bed and Farren couldn’t take his eyes off it. The thing was, if he took his eyes off the bed then he’d have to look at the problem that Gallagher had summoned them to deal with, which was the dead woman lying on the floor near the minibar.

  Farren prowled around the bed, staring at it from all angles. “I mean, how big is it? It must be, like seven foot across! I’m telling you, I could use a bed like that, know what I mean?”

  “Shut it, Farren. The boss has got us here for a reason, and it’s not your bedroom Olympics.” Jango was nervously shaking the keys in his pocket.

  “Just sayin’ like, it’s big.” Farren’s eyes slid away from the bed and briefly assessed the body. “That’s her, isn’t it? That one we followed.” He recognised that red hair. His fingers curled, remembering how he’d touched her hair on the bus, when she’d been alive.

  “What do you want us to do, boss?” asked Jango.

  “What do you think, you moron? You think I got you up here for a drink and a little chat?” Gallagher’s face was pale and covered in a greasy sheen. He stared at Jango. “I want that out of here.”

  “Okay.” Jango’s voice was a long, low growl. He looked over at the dead woman. “You got any ideas like, cos I’ve never got rid of a body before.”

  Farren moved over to the dead woman. He wanted to turn her over, wanted to see her face, but he didn’t want to touch her. He edged the toe of his trainer under her and rolled her over. “Oh my God. Her eyes are open,” he said. “That’s fuckin’ gross.” After a moment’s hesitation, he lean
ed in to have a closer look. Then he spotted the dark stain on her belly and looked at his trainer. “Oh fuck,” he muttered, rubbing his trainer off on the carpet. “Is that how you offed her, boss? You knifed her, like?” He stared at his shoe. He was never going to get that mark out.

  Farren looked up in time to see Gallagher’s head moving slowly, with machine like precision, until he had Farren in his sights. Jesus, the boss had mad eyes; a face like a hawk and mad eyes. He’d finally lost it. The knife was sitting there on the table. Farren’s eyes flicked from Gallagher to the knife. The air felt thick. He could smell the blood. He looked down at the woman again.

  “She looks like she’s dancing,” he said, pointing at the way her arm and leg had splayed when he rolled her over. He could hear the shrill note in his own voice. This whole thing was sick.

  Gallagher ignored him and looked back at Jango. “I want it gone, and gone for good. There’s no way this is coming back to me.”

  “No, boss.”

  Gallagher rose quickly and jabbed a finger at Jango. “You sure you fucking understand me? You do this right...” The threat was unspoken.

  Farren and Jango exchanged a look.

  Farren shrugged. “How about we chuck her out the window?” he suggested. “Make it look like she jumped?”

  Jango rolled his eyes. “Yeah. They’ll never spot she’s been knifed.”

  “Oh, get you, CSI.”

  Gallagher stepped towards them and they both fell back. “You fucking clowns. Get that out of this fucking hotel and clean up the mess.” He was pointing at the body without even looking. Jango nodded.

  A mobile rang. An old fashioned telephone sound.

  “Is that yours?” Farren asked Jango. His face was screwed up in disdain for the ringtone.

  “It’s not mine.”

  “Fuck, it’s hers,” said Farren.

  “What do we do?”

  “Leave it,” said Gallagher.

  “No boss, let’s answer it,” said Farren. “Say she’s gone to the bog or something. That’ll make it seem like she’s still alive, won’t it?”