by Simon Booker
–This is all your fault.
He switches on his torch. Not for long – he can’t afford to waste the batteries – just long enough to put cornflakes in the bowl and pour milk on top. The milk is warm and doesn’t taste nice but it’s better than the water she left last week.
Happy birthday, Karl.
Upstairs, the shouting stops. The front door slams.
Silence descends. No TV, no music, no voices. Just footsteps above his head. He visualises her shuffling around the kitchen, getting something to eat. She eats a lot these days. Takeaways, mainly. She’s getting fat.
Later comes the faint sound of fireworks from the garden next door. Rockets. Bangers. Catherine wheels.
Laughter.
Ooohs and aaahs
Karl eats his cornflakes while listening to the whizzes and bangs, imagining the colours exploding against the night sky. Then he pulls the blanket around his shoulders and runs his hands over the lid of the biscuit tin, feeling the raised outline of Guy Fawkes’s face – his hat, his beard, the bonfire, the flames.
Closing his eyes, shivering, Karl conjures up the memory of Daddy’s voice on that last morning, before he ran into the road.
–Happy birthday, son. Your special day. And remember, remember, you need to go up like a rocket even if you come down like a stick.
Thirteen
The weather breaks as Morgan and Lissa arrive at the tower block on the outskirts of Canterbury. Inside, rain lashes the windows of the sixteenth-floor flat, home to Nancy Sixsmith, mother of Karl’s twins, both currently at school. Perched on a red leather sofa, sitting next to Lissa, Morgan watches Nancy light one cigarette from the stub of another. With the windows closed, the flat smells like an ashtray, the air is hard to breathe.
‘If you had to sum Karl up?’ says Morgan.
‘Sociopath,’ says the woman without hesitation. ‘Narcissist. Con man.’ She drags on her cigarette and scratches a patch of eczema on her arm. Her flesh is raw and red, reminding Morgan of the port wine stain on Kiki’s face. ‘Which paper did you say you’re from?’
‘I’m not,’ says Morgan. ‘I’m just looking into the case against Anjelica Fry.’
‘Open and shut, if you ask me.’
‘So people say,’ says Morgan. ‘I’m not so sure.’
Nancy turns her bleary-eyed gaze to Morgan’s wan-looking daughter. It’s 11 a.m. and the woman reeks of alcohol.
‘I used to read about you,’ she tells Lissa, waggling a pudgy finger at a stack of celebrity magazines, all primary colours and salacious shout lines. ‘You shagged your mum’s old flame. Made a sex tape. Tried to cash in. Nice.’
Lissa looks stricken but says nothing. Morgan intervenes.
‘Mind if we stick to Karl?’
The woman doesn’t seem to mind at all. She’s glad of the attention. Hers is a familiar tale, reminiscent of Anjelica’s version of her early days with Karl. A chance meeting with a handsome, honey-tongued charmer then a brief honeymoon period followed by the emergence of controlling, obsessive behaviour.
‘I’ve read up on psychos since,’ says Nancy. Another nod towards the magazines. ‘Wish I’d known before I met him.’ She flicks ash in the direction of the ashtray, missing by several inches. ‘I used to have a life. Job, house, money in the bank. Now I’m stuck with two ADHD kids and I can’t work ’cause of my nerves. I can’t do the school run, so my neighbour does it – when she’s not off her face on White Lightning – and I have to get my shopping delivered by Asda. I’m a prisoner in my own home.’ She breaks off to give a hacking cough then continues. ‘But the worst part? I let him do this to me. I let it happen.’
The self-pity is unedifying until Morgan remembers the Mail’s reference to a nervous breakdown. Torn between sympathy and irritation she watches Nancy suck on her cigarette.
‘I used to be a teacher. But the idea of a class full of rowdy kids makes me break out in hives. I tried to go back to work, a year ago. Lasted two days.’
Morgan hasn’t mentioned the fact that Karl is alive, nor that Lissa also fell for the man’s charms, allowing herself to be seduced and manipulated.
‘Did he tell you he loved you?’ says Lissa in a quiet voice. Morgan has no trouble filling in the rest of the sentence. Like he told me.
The woman nods.
‘That’s how he got you.’ The cigarette is burning low. Time to prise the next one from the packet. ‘He reeled you in then cut you dead, leaving you not knowing if you were madly in love or just mad.’ She fiddles with a hangnail. ‘If you want to know about Karl Savage, watch Batman. The one with the Joker? Heath Ledger in all that make-up?’
‘That’s so how he is,’ says Lissa, leaning forward in her chair. ‘Just like the Joker.’
‘Same OTT behaviour,’ says Nancy, too self-absorbed to ask how Lissa knows what Karl is like. ‘Same charisma, same manic energy, same grandiose, sensation-seeking behaviour.’ One last drag on the cigarette. ‘You know when the Joker sets fire to that massive pile of cash?’ Lissa nods. ‘That was Karl,’ says Nancy. ‘It was never about money, always about the game.’ She picks up her mobile, scrolling through the contents. ‘He once phoned at two in the morning, told me to look out the window. Said he had a surprise. So I looked and he was in the driveway, standing next to a car.’
She holds up the mobile. Morgan sees a night-time photo of Karl leaning against a red Porsche.
‘I said, “Where the hell did you get that?” He said, “I bought it for you.” But he’d done no such thing; he’d stolen it.’ A sigh. ‘I was in love so I told him to get rid of it and never do anything so stupid again.’
She breaks off to light the fresh cigarette.
‘He went ballistic. How dare I disrespect him, after all he’d done for me? He refused to get rid of the car, so I said, “Right, it’s over. I can’t be with a bloody thief.” She’s scrolling through her mobile. ‘That’s when he sent this.’
She presses play and holds up the phone. Karl appears in a video filmed at night. He’s standing on a piece of wasteland, the red Porsche behind him.
‘You don’t want this, Nancy? This car? This man? Fine.’
He steps aside. Flames are visible inside the Porsche. A burning rag is stuffed into the petrol tank. Now the camera jerks wildly, keeping pace with Savage as he breaks into a run. Morgan can hear him panting. After a hundred yards, he stops, the blazing Porsche still visible in the background. Morgan can hear the excitement in his voice.
‘Burn, baby, burn!’
The fireball is not like a Hollywood explosion; it’s quieter, a cracking noise rather than a bang. The flames are vivid orange, flickering against the night sky. Then comes the sound of whooping, Karl’s voice bursting with excitement.
‘See this, Nancy? All for you.’
The clip continues for several seconds then cuts out.
‘Who took the video?’ says Morgan.
‘Spike,’ says Nancy.
Karl’s drug-dealing crony.
‘Where can I find him?’
A shrug. ‘No idea.’
‘Do you know his full name?’
The woman shakes her head. ‘He was always just “Spike”.’
Lissa’s voice is barely a whisper.
‘What happened after Karl set fire to the car?’
‘I said I never wanted to see him again,’ says Nancy. ‘But then I had to tell him I was pregnant. He was like a kid at Christmas. Swore he’d get a job, see a doctor, calm down. And for a while, he was lovely – the old Karl. Sweet, funny.’ Her lips twitch into a smile. ‘Top marks in the sack.’
Morgan resists the urge to glance at her daughter.
‘How long did the good times last?’
‘Couple of months, maybe three. He started making plans. “You and me, Nancy, and six kids – at least.” He was going to start a classic car business. All he needed was seed money for two cars and a posh suit. Hugo Boss.’
‘How much did you give him?’
Nancy
studies the back of her hand.
‘Nearly a hundred grand. Every penny Gran left me.’
‘Cash?’
A nod.
‘Said he was negotiating with a car dealer up north. Went off to do the business and that was the last I saw of him.’
She eyes her visitors and takes a slurp of tea. ‘I blame his mum, Pearl. She hated kids, especially boys. Got knocked up by accident. She was a serious Catholic, so abortion was out of the question. On Karl’s fourth birthday, he ran in front of a van. His dad – Marlon – pushed him to safety but got run over and died two days later.’ The woman pauses for effect. ‘Pearl never forgave Karl, never spoke to him again. You think I’m exaggerating, but I’m not.’
Lissa’s eyes widen.
‘Never?’
‘Not one word. She used to lock him in the cellar after school on a Friday with a bucket – and his precious bonfire night biscuit tin – and not let him out till Monday.’
As the woman says bonfire night biscuit tin she uses her forefingers to mime quotation marks in the air. Morgan frowns.
‘What was special about the tin?’
‘God knows. It was sealed with duct tape. He wouldn’t let it out of his sight. It had a picture of Guy Fawkes on it. The way he looked after it, took it everywhere, you’d think it was the Holy Grail.’ She takes a sip of tea as another memory surfaces. ‘Once, Pearl forgot to leave water. He had to drink his own urine. No wonder he hated women.’
Lissa frowns.
‘He hated women?’
Nancy shoots her a pitying look.
‘Yes, he loved screwing us then screwing us up. But sex was never about love, not for Karl. It was all about power. And revenge. Reclaiming the power she took from him. And he never wanted to be powerless again.’
Lissa falls silent, chewing on a fingernail. Morgan can almost hear her daughter’s brain working overtime as she looks at a photo of Nancy’s twins, Jack and Karl Junior.
‘They’ll be home for lunch soon,’ says Nancy. ‘Half day.’
Lissa’s eyes are still on the photo. She clears her throat.
‘I assume you wanted to get pregnant?’
‘Christ, no,’ says Nancy. ‘Faulty condoms. Karl was thrilled. “One in a billion”, he said.’
The phrase chills Morgan’s blood.
‘He used those words? ‘One in a billion’?’
‘Yes. Why?’
Because he used the same phrase when Anjelica told him she was pregnant.
*
Twenty minutes later, Morgan and her daughter are getting into the Mini outside the tower block. Lissa’s recent behaviour is starting to make sense. The moodiness. The insomnia. The tears. Up all night with ‘food poisoning’.
Or could there be another explanation?
Morgan feigns nonchalance.
‘Early lunch?’
Lissa shrinks into the passenger seat, arms folded, hugging herself for comfort.
‘Not hungry.’
They see a woman in a red parka hurrying through the rain, followed by Karl Junior and Jack. Even at a distance there’s no mistaking the identity of the twins. The boys’ resemblance to their father is uncanny.
As Morgan drives away, Lissa makes a bid to avoid the elephant in the room, mimicking Nancy’s way of miming quotation marks with her fingers.
‘So . . . what was in the “bonfire night biscuit tin”?’
But Morgan’s mind is elsewhere. Matters closer to home.
‘Are you OK?’ she says.
Lissa looks away.
‘Yep.’ Then another conversational swerve. ‘Are we going to see the fire scene investigator?’
‘I said, are you OK?’
‘And I said I’m fine.’
A hissy fit is not far away. Perhaps more tears. Morgan cuts through the evasiveness. Time for plain talking.
‘When is your period due, Lissa?’
Her daughter can’t meet her eye. She shrugs, affecting a nonchalance that Morgan knows is part of the act. A combination of bravado and denial.
‘Two or three days,’ says Lissa. ‘Maybe four.’
Morgan’s craving for a cigarette shoots to new levels.
‘Tell me how you met him.’
‘Who?’
Morgan’s turn to roll her eyes.
‘Pablo or Karl, or whatever we’re supposed to call him.’
‘What difference does it make?’
‘I want to know if he targeted you deliberately or if it was pure coincidence he hooked up with a girl whose mother was about to help the woman he framed.’
Lissa runs her fingers through her hair.
‘If anyone “targeted” anyone it was me.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I saw his van on the beach one night. He was skinny-dipping and seriously fit. I’d had a drink or two. I asked if I could join him.’
‘He said yes? To a gorgeous young blonde? What a shocker.’
‘Actually, he said no,’ says Lissa, suddenly po-faced and prim. ‘He said he didn’t want people thinking he was some kind of paedo. So I told him, ‘I’m twenty. I don’t need anyone’s permission to go swimming’. But he stuck to his guns. Wouldn’t even give me a drink. So I thought sod him and came home.’
‘When did you see him again?’
‘A week later. Different part of the beach. He was parking up for the night. I took him a bottle of vodka.’
‘And one thing led to another?’
‘Not that night. He wasn’t up for it. Said he was old enough to be my father.’
‘But you were? Up for it?’
Lissa looks away.
‘You know me. Never miss a chance to mess things up, especially with a fit bloke.’
Morgan knows her smile is unconvincing but it’s the best she can manage.
‘Go on.’
‘We started hanging out and yes, one thing led to another. Then one night I mentioned your book and how you were going to see someone at the prison. He gave me a weird look and asked who. So I told him it was Anjelica Fry.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Not much. But it was definitely coincidence, not conspiracy.’
‘What makes you so sure?’
Lissa’s tone grows testy.
‘I remember the look on his face. Total surprise. It was obvious the whole Anjelica thing had come out of the blue.’
‘OK,’ says Morgan. ‘I’ll go with the coincidence theory. Then what happened?’
Lissa fumbles in her pocket for a tissue before continuing.
‘The next time I saw him he wanted me to give you that pouch to take inside. I said no way. He kept pushing and pushing. But I said it wasn’t going to happen, not now, not ever. And he was like, “OK, that’s it – we’re done”. Next thing I know, he’s vanished off the face of the earth and I’m like, ohmygod, my life is over. But then the bastard sneaks up on us, on the cliffs, and does this.’ She points to her cropped hair, her eyes glazing with tears. ‘He fucked with my head, Mum. He burned my hair off. He made me involve you in all this crap. He turned my life to shit. So please can we stop talking about him now?’
A single tear courses down her cheek. Morgan reaches out and gives her hand a comforting squeeze.
‘It’s going to be OK,’ she says, trying to sound more confident than she feels. Blowing her nose, Lissa turns to look out of the window, not buying the blithe attempt at reassurance. Her voice is filled with despair.
‘No, it’s not. Nothing’s ever going to be OK again.’
She falls silent for a moment. Morgan follows suit, concentrating on the road ahead while groping for the words to reassure her daughter. But suddenly, Lissa is gasping for air, trying to unbuckle her seatbelt. To anyone watching, it might seem as if she is having a fit. Morgan knows better. Steering the car into a side street, she keeps her voice steady.
‘It’s OK, Lissa. It’s just a panic attack.’
She guides the car to a halt and opens both windows. Lissa is making
a rasping sound, her breathing worsening.
‘I’m here. Mum’s here. Nothing bad will happen.’
She unbuckles her daughter’s seatbelt, loosening the straps. She knows Lissa can’t hear her but she keeps talking, her voice low, steady, soothing.
‘You’ll be fine. Everything is going to be OK.’
The first time Morgan saw her daughter’s eyes roll into the back of her head, the way they are now, she dialled 999. The operator made her describe Lissa’s symptoms, diagnosed a panic attack then dispatched an ambulance, just in case. Now, Morgan knows better. No need for paramedics, just TLC and patience. That her daughter is in a state of shock comes as no surprise. Kiki’s death. Karl’s machinations. And now the possibility she might be pregnant. By a sociopath.
‘I’m here, sweetheart. Mum’s here.’
After almost ten minutes, Lissa’s breathing is still laboured but starting to ease. Morgan strokes her daughter’s hair. Soft, gentle, reassuring.
‘Shall I take you home?’
Lissa shakes her head and steps out of the car, her breathing slowly beginning to return to normal. Morgan joins her on the pavement and waits, biding her time until her daughter can finally speak.
‘I’m OK,’ says Lissa. Her voice is shaky. ‘Let’s see this through.’
‘You sure?’
A nod.
Getting back behind the wheel of the Mini, an image springs to Morgan’s mind. Karl Savage, aka Pablo, hunched over a pile of condoms, pricking holes with a pin.
One in a billion.
Fourteen
Watching Lissa turn heads in the bustling streets around Canterbury Cathedral, Morgan recalls the day she found out about her own pregnancy. Estranged from her father, her mother long dead, the shock had come during her first term at university. It was to be her last. The baby’s father, a budding screenwriter, had come to address the Film Society. Twelve years Morgan’s senior, Cameron was confident, good-looking and witty.
A ‘quick drink’ led to a Chinese takeaway.
Dinner led to breakfast.
Weeks later, realising her period was late, Morgan recalled the screenwriter’s favourite Woody Allen line.
