by Mark Tilbury
‘But God wasn’t granting wishes for little girls. He let my father go back to his submarine, whistling as he walked out the front gate. I can’t describe how I used to feel watching him leave. It was as if my whole world was being tipped into a stinking bog.
‘My mother started drinking soon after he left. A large tumbler of gin with a tiny splash of tonic. I took my cue and went to my bedroom. I could hear her in the kitchen, talking on the phone to someone, probably one of her men friends. I was trying to draw my dad a picture of me and him sitting by the river. “Fishing for tiddlers” as he used to say. He loved the peace and quiet of the river. Said it was a “place where you could get your heart beating properly”.
‘I showed Ruby Rag Doll my picture. In my imagination, she told me it was the best drawing in the world. After about an hour, my mother came into my room. Not to offer me something to eat. Or ask me if I wanted to go for a walk, or to help tidy the house like normal mothers do. It was to tell me she had friends coming over . It was time to get down in the basement.
‘The first time she ever put me down there I thought she was joking. I got belted for daring to laugh. She slapped me so hard across the face that my feet left the ground. I never laughed when she was within striking distance again after that. Not even when she was sloshed and trying to be funny.
‘I grabbed Ruby, the blanket off my bed, and walked down into the basement without a word. It was pointless to ask for anything like food. After the first few times she locked me in there, I plucked up the courage to pinch a can opener from the kitchen and hide it.’
‘How old were you when she first locked you in the basement?’ Tony asked.
‘Seven. Nine, the last. Sometimes it would go on for ages. The week she died, I’d been down there for three days.’
‘What did you do for all that time?’
‘I used to make up stories for Ruby. Adventures on a magic train that could take you anywhere you wanted. Even up in the clouds to meet fairy-tale princesses and visit their castles. Sometimes, I’d just sit and cry for hours. Or imagine life without my mother. Just me and my dad. How happy we’d be without her around to spoil things.’
‘I can’t begin to—’
‘Three days doesn’t sound long, does it? But time’s a strange thing when you’re sitting in a cold damp creepy basement with spiders in the rafters and rats scurrying around in the sewer. I didn’t know whether I’d been down there for three hours or three days when the police came.’
‘Who called the cops?’
‘A neighbour. Apparently, a paperboy told him the front door was open and there was a terrible smell in the house.’
‘I’m so sorry, Mel. I had no idea…’
‘It wasn’t my fault. That bitch can blame me all she likes, but it wasn’t my fault. She was drunk. Her eyes were all red and puffy, like she’d been crying, but it was the booze. I told her I was cold. Do you know what she said?’
Tony shook his head.
‘She told me to do some exercise and stop sulking like a spoiled brat. I begged her to let me out. I knew all her “guests” had gone, because the house was quiet. But she seemed determined to make me suffer. She kept tugging at her hair as if trying to make herself think straight. She had a bottle of water for me. I didn’t want water. I wanted food. A bath. My bed. Was that too much to ask?
‘She kept going on about how I was never grateful. How I needed to learn to respect my elders. She kept waving the bottle of water about, as if it was the greatest gift on earth. Her hair was standing out in wild, frizzy clumps. I was sitting on a crate by an old wine rack. My knees were knocking together so loud I was sure she could hear them. I knew what was coming. She was going to whack me over the head with that bottle of water. It doesn’t sound much, a squash bottle filled with water, but it felt like a brick. Trust me. She’d already attacked me with one before.
‘She lifted her foot up to step into the basement. A big, exaggerated movement, like an astronaut walking on the moon…’
After a few moments silence, Tony prompted her. ‘What happened, Mel?’
‘It wasn’t my fault. I’d been playing with Ruby on the steps. Pretending we were on the magic train. I panicked when I heard her unlocking the door. Left Ruby on the steps. She brought her foot down right on top of the doll’s head. Her legs just seemed to give way. She fell forward and bounced all the way down to the bottom.
‘At first, I thought she was just pretending. God knows why. My mother never had a playful bone in her body. But as time passed, I realised she was really hurt. I kept looking at the open doorway, willing myself to move, to get out of there, take Ruby and run. But I couldn’t move. It was as if my backside was stapled to the wooden crate with splinters.
‘Ruby was pinned beneath her arm. There were flies buzzing around her. I didn’t leave the basement. I just sat on that crate, rocking back and forth. That’s how the police found me. Gawping at my mother’s twisted dead body.’
‘Jesus, Mel, why didn’t you tell me about this before?’
‘It’s hardly a chat-up line, is it? I know it sounds stupid, but I think my mother’s spirit somehow got trapped in that doll. I didn’t see the bloody thing again until Dad gave her to me in that old suitcase.’
‘Jesus!’
Mel was quiet for a moment, and then she said, ‘I wonder if that bitch somehow cursed Megan.’
‘You can’t think like that. Megan had a heart defect. It was nothing to do with your mother or the doll.’
‘I wish to Christ I’d never given the bloody thing to Chloe. I should have thrown it away. Burned it. Got rid of it.’
Tony pulled Mel close. ‘It’s over now. Done. The sewer’s probably the best place for it.’
Mel wished she could find comfort in his words, but it was far from over. The Tall Man was still out there. Watching and waiting, controlling every beat of her heart and every thought in her head.
45
After a week spent observing Rose Cottage the way a cat might watch a family of nesting rodents, King finally felt ready to pounce. Well, perhaps pounce was a little optimistic, considering he’d parked the car two miles away and walked to his destination in a pair of shoes clearly inadequate for hiking. Still, all things considered, it had done him good to focus on something other than events at Gavin Westwood’s flat.
The authorities had refused to release the body of his lover for burial until their investigation was complete. He’d been horrified to learn that this could take weeks. It chilled his heart to think of poor Charles lying on a cold slab, pathologists pecking at his carcass like vultures. Did they have no respect?
At least the Hollis family seemed to behave with monotonous regularity. Hubby left for work at seven every morning and returned home around six. Supper at seven. TV. Bed. A banal pointless existence based upon years of conditioning. Mel Hollis hadn’t yet returned to work. No doubt still licking her wounds after almost getting barbequed at St Kilda’s Close. She stayed at home all day with the brat, occasionally walking to a local shop for supplies.
To break into the Hollis’s VW Golf, King had secured a piece of equipment from an internet site which was almost beautiful in its simplicity. A slim jim. A thin strip of metal made from sprung steel, about two centimetres wide and sixty long. It acted on the rods and levers controlling the door mechanism.
Grateful for the darkness of the lane at 6 a.m, King, clad in black parka and black jeans, slid the slim jim down between the window and the doorframe of the driver’s door as per internet video instruction. It was amazing what one could learn to do on the web. There were even videos available teaching you how to wire a crude bomb, which interested him for reasons not yet apparent.
He’d practised the manoeuvre with the slim jim dozens of times on Charles’s Fiesta, which had been returned to him three days ago, so it was with a certain degree of expertise that he approached breaking into the Golf. Once the slim jim was in position, he popped the lock by jerking the bar sharply t
o the right. He pulled the metal out and put it back in the pocket of his parka.
With a quick look along the lane, wary that these ghastly rural places might still use the services of a milkman, King leaned into the car and unlocked the back door. He closed the driver’s door as quietly as he could and then let himself into the back.
Locked inside, he wedged himself facedown between the front and back seats. Now, all he had to do was wait for Hollis to wave goodbye to his family for the last time and make him drive to the country lane where he’d parked his own car.
Time ticked by like a tortuous dripping tap. By the time he heard the creak of the hinges on the garden gate, his whole body was numb. There was also a nasty rick in his neck that would need treating with an icepack when he got home. To make matters worse, his rattling teeth sounded like a pneumatic drill digging up a road to his fractured mind.
Hollis bid farewell to his family at least half a dozen times. Talk about excessive. To shut up his chattering teeth, King made the mistake of biting down on his tongue hard enough to draw blood. Now, he had a stinging pain in his mouth to add to his growing list of woes.
Hollis climbed in behind the wheel, threw a briefcase and his mobile phone onto the passenger seat, and strapped himself in. He drove to the end of the lane, ignorant of the deadly cargo waiting to pounce behind him. As he was about to pull out onto the main road, King struck. Battling numb legs and a stiff neck, he got up and warned the driver to do exactly as he was told, or risk losing his head.
Hollis didn’t seem to heed the warning. He stalled the car, making it lurch forward. ‘What the fuck—?’
King thrust the gun into the man’s neck. ‘Shut up and drive. Do as I ask, or you will never see your family again.’
‘But—’
‘Are you mentally challenged, Mr. Hollis? Do you have an inability to follow simple instructions?’
‘No.’
‘Good. I want you to turn right and then take the next left.’
Hollis restarted the car. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Somewhere nice. Now, drive!’
King directed him to where he’d parked his own car, and ordered him to pull over.
Hollis applied the handbrake, and then released the one on his tongue. ‘Who are you? Why are you doing this?’
‘A little bird tells me you’re a schoolteacher. Is that correct?’
Hollis nodded.
‘Good school?’
‘Yes. I—’
‘Teach all the children right from wrong?’
‘I suppose.’
‘Fill their heads with state-controlled rubbish?’
‘I—’
‘What do you teach?’
‘Maths.’
‘I’ve never seen much point to riddles and puzzles. They used to teach us our times tables at school. By rote. Programmed to trot out answers like robots. I’d take art over algebra any day. The poet is inspired, the playwright enlightened, but you, dear friend, are a state-sponsored liar. I’m offering you one last chance to confess your crimes.’
Hollis didn’t answer.
‘Sulking won’t help you.’
‘I’m not—’
‘Do you believe in God?’
‘No.’
‘You should. I’ve heard He can be a great source of comfort in times of trouble.’
‘If you want money, I’ll give you everything I’ve got,’ Hollis babbled. ‘Take me to a cashpoint machine. I’ve got over three grand in the account.’
‘I don’t want your money, Mr Hollis.’
Hollis emitted a pitiful sob.
‘“He that dies pays all debts.” Do you know who said that?’
‘No.’
‘Stephano. Tempest. Act 3, scene 2.’
The man’s silence spoke volumes for his ignorance. ‘You’re not familiar with the works of William Shakespeare?’
‘Some.’
‘“He lends out money gratis and brings down the rate of usance here with us in Venice.” Ring any bells?’
‘No.’
‘Shylock. The Merchant of Venice.’
‘Just tell me what you want. Please. I—’
‘I don’t want anything. You’re in the way, Mr. Hollis. It’s as simple as that.’
‘In the way of what, for Christ’s sake?’
‘My destiny.’
‘But I don’t—’
‘This isn’t personal. It’s what you might call necessary.’
‘But why?’
King almost lost patience and clubbed him over the head with the gun. It was an absolute travesty that this man was entrusted with the education of children. ‘I’ve already told you. You’re in the way. It’s your wife and child I want, Mr Hollis. Not you.’
At the mention of his precious family, Hollis seemed to abandon all reason. He twisted his head around, mouth working like a rabid dog. ‘You leave them alone. I’m warning—’
‘I don’t think you’re in any position to issue orders, Mr. Hollis. In case it’s escaped your attention, I’m the one with the gun.’
‘You—’
King tired of trying to reason with a fool. He squeezed the trigger and ended the conversation. The bullet hit Tony Hollis in the left-hand side of his neck, rupturing the jugular vein and sending a thick hot spurt of blood across the car. Hollis clutched his wounded neck, made a brief but futile attempt to stem the flow of blood, and then slumped forward, head resting on the steering wheel. King fired again. Back of the head.
‘“What ugly sights of death within mine eyes!”’ King said, as his eyes gained access to the inner workings of Hollis’s mind. ‘That’s Richard the Third, in case you’re wondering.’
He stepped out of the car. Blood had splashed onto his face and chest. God alone knew what infections a man of such dubious character might harbour in his bloodstream. He could have hepatitis.
Or HIV.
This last thought brought a handkerchief from the pocket of his coat. He dabbed furiously at his face. He opened the driver’s door and dropped the gun into Hollis’s lap. The nine millimetre pistol was the second weapon from his father’s collection he’d had to forfeit. At this rate, his mini arsenal would soon be reduced to an air pistol and a rather useless catapult which his father had used to scare cats from the garden.
He leaned across the body, grabbed the briefcase and phone from the passenger seat, and slammed the door. The phone might yield some useful numbers, not least Mel Hollis’s. The briefcase was a token trophy; something to remember Hollis by on those long cold winter nights when memory might be his only source of solace.
He removed his coat and stowed it in the boot of the BMW. He drove home in a strange state of euphoria, once more master of his own destiny. He would burn the coat, along with the rest of his clothes, once he’d had a shot of brandy to steady the ship.
46
When Tony hadn’t arrived home by seven-thirty that evening, Mel’s mind naturally wondered if he was in the arms of Stephanie Wallace. By eight, she was sure he was. Her mind’s eye elected to show her all the gory details of his infidelity.
‘Come on, Pumpkin, it’s gone eight. You’ve got to go to bed.’
‘But I want to see Daddy.’
‘Daddy’s been held up at work. You’ll see him in the morning.’
‘But—’
‘No arguments, Chloe. Not tonight. Mummy’s tired. I’ll send him up to give you a kiss when he gets home.’
‘Don’t want a kiss when I’m asleep.’
‘It’ll be a magic kiss,’ Mel tried. ‘You’ll feel it in your dreams.’
Chloe trudged up the stairs as if her feet had turned to rocks. She climbed into bed and cuddled a new pink bunny Mel had bought her to replace Ruby. Naturally, there wasn’t a soft toy on earth that could replace Ruby. Chloe had spent the best part of two days looking everywhere in the house for her. She didn’t believe Ruby had been ‘accidentally’ put out with the rubbish. After two sleepless nights, Mel had reso
rted to reading stories and stroking her daughter’s hair until she fell asleep.
Tonight, it took two readings of Dumbo, and half an hour’s stroking before she tiptoed out of the room. It was almost half-nine by the time she sat down with a glass of wine and a cigarette. By now, her apprehension about Tony had turned into concern.
She tried his mobile again. It went straight to voicemail. She tried again. Same. She swallowed half her wine in one go and called Vicky Hollis. After a rather frosty stand-off, Mel accepted her assertion that Tony wasn’t at the flat.
Mel had tried Tony’s mobile three more times before getting ready for bed. She’d also checked the front and back doors a dozen times to make sure they were all locked and bolted. The windows were all single paned. It wouldn’t take an intruder much effort to smash one and break in.
Sitting on the settee, wrapped up in her duvet, Mel took a sip of wine and vowed to stay awake all night, alert to every sound, every movement.
Better swap the wine for black coffee, then.
A shadow on the wall appeared to move. Mel’s heart stuttered.
Don’t be silly. It’s nothing. The reflection of the lamp. The bulb just flickered.
Mel’s mind went into overdrive. She imagined Ruby standing on the other side of the kitchen door, an evil grin pasted on her chops, a large kitchen knife gripped in her stumpy hand.
There was a sudden knock on the front door, loud and insistent. Mel screamed, convinced the Tall Man had come to kill them.
Here comes a chopper to chop off your head.
Another loud rap on the door, followed by a man’s voice calling her name through the letter box. ‘Mrs Hollis? It’s the police.’
She knew the man could see her cowering on the sofa. She felt torn between burrowing beneath the duvet and running upstairs.
‘We need to speak to you, Mrs Hollis.’ A woman’s voice now. Soft, compassionate. ‘It’s about your husband. I’m afraid we have some bad news.’
