Dead Head

by C. J. Skuse

  ‘I could tell you some stories but you have a flight to catch.’

  Freddie takes a deep breath, checks his Breitling Chronomat watch – ten grand’s worth – lets the breath go. ‘I’m going to miss it.’

  ‘Not if you run. You can get a cab right outside—’

  ‘No,’ he says, staring me down. ‘I am going to miss it.’ He fumbles for his phone and clicks into his voice recorder app.

  ‘No, Freds,’ I say, holding down his hand. He looks at my hand like a tarantula’s crawled into view.

  ‘Can I at least make notes?’

  ‘If you must.’ He fumbles in his knapsack for a pen and a battered leather-bound journal, opening it out to a brand-new double page, smoothing it down and breaking the spine. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Everything,’ he says, eyes flicking towards the box again. ‘Absolutely everything.’

  Part 1: Europe

  Wednesday, 22 January 2020 – Sluggers Bar, Fifth Avenue, New York City

  ‘I had to get to Madeira. Bobby Fairly had it all worked out from there.’

  ‘Bobby Fairly, Bobby Fairly,’ Freddie mutters, furiously scribbling in writing I recognise from my Gazette days as shorthand. I never did shorthand. They wouldn’t pay to send me on the course. He riffles through a list of bullet point reminders. ‘There’s no Bobby Fairly mentioned in your confession.’

  ‘Well, there wouldn’t be. He wasn’t integral to my former story. He’d been a friend of my dad’s from his boxing days.’

  ‘A vigilante like Keston Hoyle?’

  ‘No, Bobby was a money man. Funded my dad’s gym, sponsored him and Keston when they boxed for the county. Sent care packages to Dad in jail, all sorts. Probably cos Dad had something on him. Bobby was one dodgy fucker from what I’ve learned. Anyway, I found his number in the shoebox of trinkets I’d saved from my parents’ house before I sold it.’

  ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘I met him once, when I was six. Before Priory Gardens. We’d gone on holiday to Madeira and stayed at his hotel – me, Mum, Dad and Seren. I have flashes of memory from that week – me and Seren playing on pool noodles pretending they were horses. Eating cake with green bits in. Going down a hill in a big basket. A dead lizard in the bath. I didn’t kill it.’

  ‘Right, OK,’ says Freddie, turning back to his half-empty page.

  ‘So Bobby lived on Madeira and I called him to arrange it a few days before the end of the year.’

  ‘Just get here and I’ll sort everything,’ he’d told me. He didn’t even ask what I’d done – I said it was a Code Red and he understood. He was Northern. Sounded like Shaun Ryder’s asthmatic grandad.

  ‘And I’d like an American passport.’

  Cue the sharp intake of breath, the clicking of tongue, the cogs whirring. ‘Right, well that’ll be one fifty.’

  ‘One hundred and fifty pounds? That’s reasonable.’

  Cue the throaty laugh. ‘That’s grand, love. A hundred and fifty grand.’

  ‘GRAND?’

  ‘Well, yeah.’

  ‘One hundred and fifty GRAND? That’s nearly all my money!’

  ‘That’s what sanctuary costs nowadays. That includes a new passport, your place to stay while you recuperate from your surgery and yer—’

  ‘Surgery?’ I shrieked. ‘You mean I have to go full Mickey Rourke?’

  ‘If necessary. And we’re fast-tracking it, so that’s what it’s gonna cost.’

  ‘Fuck me pink and slice me sideways!’

  ‘Do a BACS transfer – get it done today, then it’ll come out before New Year. In’t meantime, get disconnected. Close all your digital doors.’

  ‘Yeah I have. Just my phone to go.’

  ‘Get rid. Cut up your credit cards ’n’all. We’ll set up the odd account to plant some disinformation. I can get that going today. Make it look like you’ve gone to Argentina or Uzbekistan.’

  ‘Why would I go to Uzbekistan?’

  ‘Don’t matter, does it? We’re planting false seeds. The police’ll be rattling every cage fo’ yer, including mine eventually.’

  ‘OK so I googled some flights from Exeter Airport and there’s one to Madeira leaving—’

  ‘—no, no, not a flight and not direct,’ he interrupted. ‘A cruise. That’s what you want. Anything leaving from Southampton via Madeira for two weeks or more. And book it for two people. You and your husband,’

  ‘Book a cruise for two people for two weeks? That’ll cost a fortune!’

  ‘You said money weren’t a problem. I mean, faking your death would be cheaper if you wanted to go down that road—’

  ‘—no, I don’t want to die. Not yet anyway.’

  ‘Right, so book it.’

  ‘Won’t they be suspicious of a lone woman getting off a cruise midway?’

  ‘Not if you book a partial cruise, no. Tell them you want to sail to Madeira, then hop off and say you and your husband intend to rejoin the ship at, say, Barcelona or somewhere. No, Italy. Rome, Civitavecchia. By the time you’re due to rejoin the voyage, you’ll be well gone and the dibble won’t have a clue. How up the shoot are yer?’

  ‘Do you mean my pregnancy? I’m thirty-three weeks. Ish.’

  ‘What’s that in English?’

  ‘Nearly eight months.’

  ‘Pad it out for now so you look dead fat. And we’ll need to get documents sorted for it when t’time comes. Any friends or family?’

  ‘No, I don’t have any.’

  ‘You must do.’

  ‘Well, there’s Seren and Marnie but—’

  ‘Don’t go near their social media and don’t google yourself. Once they know you’re gone that’s something they’ll monitor. The dibble have got software that’ll intercept key words and search patterns. They’ll tap into any search they think you’ll make.’

  For a crusty, he was quite internet savvy. I was impressed. He’d clearly talked someone through this before. ‘What will happen exactly when I get to you?’

  ‘I’ll sort it, don’t worry. I’ll make some calls today. You get yourself to my gaff. You can play purser on my yacht while you lie low, get your sea legs and then we’ll get you gone. All right, cock?’

  ‘Gone where?’

  ‘South America, most likely. I’ve got a few contacts who owe me favours. I’ll see what I can sort out. You changed your image yet?’

  ‘I bought a wig and some lenses for my passport. Keston got me an Australian one. If I go somewhere remote, I might not need surgery though?’

  ‘Oh, you will. If you’re as hot property as you say, and you want to re-integrate, you’re gonna need a new face. It don’t hurt for long. You have to wear bandages for a few weeks. You’ll look hangin’ for a bit but once they come off, you’ll look and feel mint. Like, brand new and that. You’ll still feel like yer a hundred and fucking eighty but you’ll look dead good, swear down.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘But before that, the more immediate stuff is a case of adapting. You’ve got to change every habit for a new one, swear down. Become someone else quick as you can, like.’

  ‘How? How do I change every habit?’

  ‘Do the opposite of everything. Change your shopping habits, the food you eat, the food you don’t eat. ‘Ast any hobbies and that?’

  ‘Gordon Ramsay programmes. Sylvanian Families. Sadistic torture.’

  ‘Anything that can mark you out as Rhiannon Lewis you’ve got to jettison, dead quick. What sort of scran do you like?’

  ‘Maoams. Pancakes. Pop Tarts. Anything in Nutella. Coffee.’

  ‘Not anymore. Get into all that wellness bollocks – edamame beans, protein powder, kombucha, all that sorta crap. I know it sounds painful, believe me I couldn’t get me underpants on of a morning if I haven’t had a Full English but needs must. Quit alcohol ’n’all, get into that green shit they’re all drinking. You educated?’

  ‘Eight GCSEs, three A Levels, degree in—’

  ‘—not anymore. Act de
ad thick. Wouldn’t know shit if you swallowed it.’

  ‘Fucking Hell’s bells.’

  ‘And stop swearing. And stay away from anyone British and from CCTV. Try and change your accent ’n’all.’

  ‘I’ve been practising Australian. I watched the end of Neighbours today.’

  ‘Good. Watch Home and Away ’n’all. And that film wit’ her whose face don’t move. Keep working on it. Once your story breaks, all ears’ll be pinned back for a British voice, especially a bird on her own.’

  It all seemed like a lot of extra work. ‘Fu-dging he-ck.’ Polite swear words tasted like arse in my mouth.

  ‘The price for freedom is everything you once were, Rhiannon. Text me when you’ve booked your cruise and lemme know what date you get here. Ditch your phone. And don’t call me again.’

  ‘Are you sure you can get me gone?’

  ‘Consider it sorted. Just get to my gaff. And do the transfer, there’s a good girl.’

  ‘OK. Thanks,’ I mewed, still uncertain about the patronising prick but unfortunately that prick was the one prick from which my future hanged. Bobby had enough dodgy contacts to keep me and the baby hidden forever.

  ‘But you didn’t take the baby with you?’ says Freddie, mid-scribble, smoke emanating from the nib of his Visconti ballpoint.

  ‘No. She arrived early on 27 December, the day Bobby received my money. The day before I was to set sail on the Flor de la Mer. I had to leave her behind.’

  He nods. ‘This was before you killed Sandra Huggins?’

  ‘Yes. Just before.’

  Freddie clears his throat and flicks through his notes. ‘You got your solicitor to sign her over to Claudia Gulper, is that right?’

  ‘Yeah. I was so hell-bent on turning old Huggins into a one-woman Red Wedding, the baby was a mere obstacle. Once she was gone, I could let rip.’

  ‘Do you regret leaving her behind?’

  A gnawing began in my chest. A biting, vicious little pain I try to push down. ‘You’re a serial killer who has just hacked a woman to pieces and stuck her head on a large singing Santa, on the same day you’ve given birth and abandoned your baby at the hospital. You’re all alone having fled the UK with leaking nipples, an aching vajoodle and police hot on your arse who will throw the key away if they catch you. How do you think I was feeling?’

  Monday, 31 December 2018 – at sea – one day to Madeira

  Hen parties on cruise ships

  Stag parties on cruise ships

  Old people on cruise ships who take their sweet time to get around cos they know they’ve only got the buffet and the grave to get to now

  Other people on cruise ships, including the captain whose boring updates keep cutting into my naps

  My sister, Seren

  As it turned out, I’m not a great traveller.

  The baby blues kicked in the moment the ship left Southampton. And those fuckers kick hard, lemme tell you. I became a smelly, sobbing zombie who stayed in her cabin for the most part, eating junk, bleeding from my loosy goosey and watching re-reruns of Friends – the older episodes before Phoebe’s wig, Chandler’s weight fluctuations and Rachel’s constant nipples.

  I was all at sea, emotionally, physically, literally. From the time I boarded the ship on 28 December to my port of sanctuary, I had four days. Four days to wait it out. Four days to stay as invisible as possible. Four days to bide my time and pray the British police force was as slow and inept as I’d always hoped they would be.

  My cabin became my own sort of womb – all-encompassing. Safe. Cool and calming, absorbed from most noise, save tannoy announcements, the low hum of the distant engines and the occasional smattering of Mediterranean rain on my sloping window. I was on Deck 9, Room 510 at the front or the ‘forward’ and my stateroom overlooked the helipad, underneath the radar.

  Just the way I liked it.

  But it was purgatory with a travel kettle and tiny soaps. I told the room steward – Gabriel with the ridiculous biceps and chemical-toilet-blue eyes – that I had sea-sickness which explained why I wasn’t joining in with the New Year’s fireworks up on deck. The only thing that could tempt me outside was a visit to the on-board pharmacy for more king-sized panty-liners to mop up my endless womb leakings. I had nobody to talk to, save Richard E. Grunt and The Man in the Moon, but they never talked back. It’s not like Alexa – you can’t ask a question and get an instant answer. After a while, I stopped trying.

  My third day at sea, sick of the Friends theme tune and feeling like a lump of clay, I managed to wash and ventured a walk around the Flor de la Mer at the ass crack of dawn. I couldn’t get my bearings at all – it was a confusing puzzle of corridors, lifts, spangly staircases, auditoriums, fountains, casinos, designer shops, clubs, pubs, pools, pizza shacks, sushi restaurants and cafés, linked together by a chaotic swirl of blue carpet.

  My body was not mine anymore. It had stretch marks in new places, sags in others, unexpected leaks everywhere. I couldn’t look in a mirror without wanting to smash it. I had aches and pains and constant mind fog. My anger – the scaffolding that kept me upright – had disappeared.

  There was no more yearning to hack down every Tom Dick and Harriet who pushed past me in the line for bagels. No desire to do anything other than sob and sleep. Had the old me slid out along with Ivy’s afterbirth? I didn’t have a clue. I located the Business Centre in the bowels of the ship and bought myself some Internet access – $17.00 for the day, I shit you not. I needed to google my post-partum symptoms to check they were all normal. And for the most part, they were. I ticked every box:

  ‘After pains as your uterus contracts back’ – tick. I was popping paracetamol like Maltesers.

  Night sweats – tick

  Absence of libido – tick. Normally I can get turned on watching the Yorkshire Vet ram his arm up a heffer but since Ivy, Gobi gusset.

  Perineal discomfort – tick. ‘Try wearing loose clothes to give it an airing and lukewarm herbal sitz baths to soothe the area,’ the website suggested. I had to sit my vadge in a bowl of herbs? FML

  Burning piss – tick

  Sore porn-star tits – Tick. They ached like hot boulders.

  Constant tiredness – tick

  Piles like The Borrowers are stabbing your arsehole with tiny knives – tick

  Incontinence when you sneeze – tick. I always dreamed of being in TLC when I was a kid, little did I know that it meant the Tena Lady Club

  Persistent sadness – tick tick tick tick BOOM.

  All the other advice was to do with the rapid changes to ‘the new mum’s life’ – the sudden sense of responsibility. Breastfeeding. Adjusting to the baby’s unpredictable sleep pattern. Dealing with the demands of visitors who all want to see the baby. Of course I had none of this but there wasn’t a section on Dealing with Giving Birth But There Being No Baby.

  And that was the worst symptom of all: I missed her. And I couldn’t understand why. I was a serial killer, for fuck’s sake. Days before I had chopped a woman to pieces and stuck her head on a singing Santa. Serial killers don’t have feelings. Rose West needed shovels, not cuddles. It takes a lot for me to cry. Even when Britain’s Got Talent wheels out the hydrocephalic magician who’s lost his mum to cancer and they play ‘Snow Patrol’ when Simon hits the Golden Buzzer – I’m dry as a bone. Craig is the one who always buries his head in What Car? so I can’t see his quivering lip.

  But Ivy, apparently, was the difference.

  I googled Seren while I was in the Business Centre. I knew I shouldn’t have but I wanted to see her face. To see some shred of home. In an ordinary world – in that damn parallel universe where I imagine the correct version of me lives – Seren would be on the end of the phone giving me advice and parcelling up second-hand onesies.

  But we weren’t in that universe – we were in this one. And I’d given Ivy up so I could keep on killing. And my sister was the one who’d called the cops.

  Seren had no online presence to speak of but her
nine-year-old daughter Mabli’s got a vlog where she talks about her pets and does the odd children’s book review and sometimes she’ll appear in the background, folding washing or dancing along to a song. I must have watched twenty videos. Most of them were Mabli talking about various pets dying on her. Hamsters, guinea pigs, fish. She was fed up with creatures she loved dying. I felt that.

  I googled Wherryman and Armfield too, the solicitors where Heather Wherryman worked – the only person who could tell me what I needed to know, that Ivy was OK. I still had her business card in my purse. My fingers itched to dial her number.

  But deep down somewhere, a little thought owl was unravelling from its deep winter’s sleep and flapping its wings.

  Don’t! it squawked. Don’t do it! Too soon! Too soon!

  And, of course, the pesky owl was right.

  Aside from a few barflies propping up the counters and the distant trill of jazz coming from the Chill-Out lounge, there didn’t seem to be anyone else about as I wandered, through the meandering corridors, up and down deck, as lonely as a twat.

  Until I stood at the railings on the top deck, looking out onto the blackest sea, allowing the cold to seep through my clothes, my bones, and a woman in a grubby blue dressing gown appeared, carrying a crying baby.

  The sound of that shrill screaming tore right through me. And I couldn’t find any anger to divert it either. The sound took me straight back to Ivy. And quicker still to Priory Gardens where my mind got stuck. It took me to smashing glass. Shouting. To our childminder’s screams as she scurried upstairs. To the Fireman Sam theme trilling along behind Antony Blackstone as he launched himself at my friends. To that look in his sweaty eyes as he brought his hammer down. To waking up and seeing him hanging up there, swinging back and forth from the wooden eave. To the blood I woke up tasting.

  It all started there.

  ‘She’s still alive! This one, she’s got a pulse. It’s faint but it’s there…’

  ‘It’s all right, Sweetpea. You’re all right now, nothing can hurt you.’

  ‘Can’t seem to settle him,’ said the woman in the dressing gown.