by Simon Booker
‘Is it true?’ says Karl. ‘Did Lissa have an abortion?’
He stops and turns, producing the Zippo from his pocket.
Clink-rasp.
He holds the flame close to Morgan’s face, scrutinising her reaction to his words.
‘When she told me, I went ape-shit,’ he says. ‘She tried to backtrack, said she was lying, trying to get me off her back. So now I’m confused.’ He steps closer. The heat of the flame. The smell of lighter fuel. ‘I need to know: did she or didn’t she get rid of my baby?’
Morgan’s heart is hammering, the pain in her head is getting worse. A kaleidoscope of images runs through her mind: the attack. . . Lissa’s burning hair . . . Kiki’s body at the foot of the cliffs . . .
She looks him in the eye. These next seconds are critical.
‘No,’ she says, meeting his gaze. ‘She lied because she’s scared. She wants you out of her life. But she’s keeping the baby.’
His eyes search her face. A pause. When he speaks again he sounds wounded and weary.
‘I don’t believe you.’
Try harder. Make him believe.
‘It’s the truth.’
He shakes his head, puffing out his cheeks and sighing heavily.
‘You’re all the same.’
‘You mean women?’
He takes the cigarette from behind his ear, lights it, then pockets the Zippo. He walks on. She falls into step. Listening intently. Trying to think of a way to reach him.
‘I had a lot of time on my own when I was a kid,’ he says. ‘Did a lot of thinking. Came to the conclusion that women are not to be trusted.’
Morgan’s mind flashes to Nancy, the mother of his twins, chain-smoking in her high-rise flat.
His mum, Pearl, hated kids, especially boys. She used to lock him in the cellar after school on a Friday, leave cornflakes, water and a bucket, and not let him out until Monday. One time, she forgot the water so he had to drink his own urine. No wonder he hates us.
‘Have you heard of Pablo Escobar?’ says Karl.
Morgan frowns, puzzled by the non sequitur.
‘Yes.’
‘A hero for a lot of people. He started out wanting to make money, but things grew. Then they grew some more. At a certain point, it stopped being about the money and became about the game.’
This is a game?
‘I don’t think creating a narco-state made Escobar a hero, Karl. And I’m pretty sure he didn’t live in a camper van.’
He stares. For a moment she thinks he’s angry, but he throws back his head and laughs.
‘I see where Lissa gets it from,’ he says. ‘And I know what you’re thinking.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Textbook sociopath. Delusions of grandeur. Risk-taker. Obsessed with games.’ The cigarette glows as he takes a drag. ‘I read the books, I know the score.’ He exhales slowly.
‘You got Lissa pregnant. Deliberately.’
‘True.’
‘How many children have you fathered?’
‘A few.’
‘What happens to the babies?’
‘They have a great life. The best. That’s the point.’
‘All of them? Or just the boys?’
He grins.
‘There are only boys – so far.’
‘What if one turns out to be a girl?’
He meets her gaze, grin fading. His answer chills Morgan’s blood.
‘I’ll jump off that bridge when I come to it.’
Stopping by a headstone, he proffers the cigarette and takes two mobiles from the pocket of his boiler suit.
‘Hold these.’
If Morgan feels a flicker of hope it’s dashed by his next words.
‘Your battery’s flat. Don’t get ideas.’
She takes the phones and the cigarette. He rolls up his sleeves, exposing the soft white flesh on his forearm. She glimpses his tattoo.
Rather die on my feet than live on my knees.
He turns away, unzipping his fly, directing a stream of piss at the grave. Morgan sneaks a look at her phone. He’s right: no juice in the battery. For a second she considers using the tip of the cigarette as a weapon. She could stab him in the neck . . . Make a run for it . . .
But he’s bigger. Stronger. Faster.
‘You need to understand: I don’t do fear,’ he says, as if reading her mind. He arcs a stream of urine towards the gravestone. ‘That’s the thing about dead people: we don’t scare easy.’
He zips up. Turns to face her. The grin is back. Taking his mobile, he thumbs it to life and plays the phone’s light over the grave. A cloud of steam rises from the piss trickling down the headstone. Morgan’s eyes widen. The stone is chiselled with the dates of the deceased.
14 June 1971 – 5 November 1997.
The name makes her catch her breath.
Pearl Savage.
Out of the corner of her eye she can see Karl studying her reaction.
‘May she rot in peace.’
He takes back Morgan’s phone and the cigarette, sucks down a final lungful of smoke and grinds the stub under the heel of his overshoe. She watches as he picks it up. Places it in his pocket.
‘Actions have consequences,’ he says, staring at the headstone. ‘People need to understand that.’
‘Are you talking about your mother or my daughter?’
‘Both.’
Morgan shivers, whether from cold or fear it’s hard to tell.
‘Was she ill?’ she says, gesturing towards the gravestone.
‘Only in the head. She always said she’d never make old bones.’ A smile plays on his lips. ‘Like mother, like son.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning we’re a long time dead. So we’d better go up like a rocket even if we come down like a stick.’
She watches as he circles the grave.
‘How did she die?’
‘Fell down the steps. Hit her head on concrete. On my birthday.’
‘Anjelica says she hated you.’
‘Like I give a shit.’
Morgan can’t keep the scorn from her voice.
‘Is that why you’re doing all this? To get back at Mummy?’
His jaw tightens. Morgan ploughs on.
‘Are you going to let Anjelica rot too? The mother of your baby?’
No response.
‘What about Marlon? He’s your son—’
He cuts her dead, a flash of anger. ‘Shut the fuck up.’
She looks around the cemetery, hoping someone will come – a mourner, a dog walker – but there is no sign of life.
‘Where’s Spike?’
He frowns.
‘What’s he got to do with anything?’
‘That’s what I want to know,’ says Morgan. ‘Are you in this together?’
‘Fuck Spike. This isn’t about him.’
‘So what is it about? Why are we here?’
He steps forward, bringing his face close to hers. She can smell his beery breath.
‘I need the truth,’ he says. ‘About Lissa.’
The blood thumps in her ears. She stares into his eyes. Not blinking. Refusing to show fear. Third time lucky.
‘She’s keeping the baby.’
But the man has made up his mind.
‘Lying bitch.’
Grabbing her arm, he yanks her away from Pearl’s grave, heading towards the van.
‘All the fucking same – all of you!’
He’s dragging her behind him. She stumbles and falls to her knees.
‘Get up.’
He pulls her to her feet. Moves behind her. Grabs her shoulders. Propelling her forward. And then she sees it. An open grave, dug in readiness for a burial. A tarpaulin covers the earth. A spade juts from the mound of upturned soil.
This isn’t just about Lissa.
He’s brought her here to silence her.
To stop her proving he’s alive.
He’ll cover her with earth.
The bu
rial will take place.
The coffin will hide her body for ever.
Survival instinct kicks in. She brings her elbow forward then jerks it back, into his face, loosening his grip for a second, long enough to break free from his grasp. Swivelling on her heel, she raises her leg and lashes out with all her strength, landing a powerful kick to his groin. He staggers, winded. She springs forward, grabbing the spade, raising it above her head then bringing it down on his body. He lets out a cry. She tosses the spade away.
And suddenly she’s racing along the path. Away from the van. Towards the distant sound of traffic. She can hear him behind her, heavy boots thudding on the ground. Adrenaline coursing through her veins, she strains every sinew, leaving the path and weaving among the gravestones then bursting through the churchyard gate onto the deserted country lane. She doesn’t look back. She can hear him chasing behind her, running, running, running . . .
The rain stings her face. Her leg muscles are protesting. The sound of the traffic grows louder. Ahead, an orange glow. Lights from the motorway. The road slopes down, towards the slip road.
He’s gaining on her. The rain is falling harder now, slicking the tarmac beneath her feet. Just a few yards separate her from her pursuer. The slip road is empty – no vehicles, no sign of life – but further down the slope it’s a different story, with three lanes of Friday night traffic. Cars, lorries and vans speed by, headlights ablaze.
Darting to her left, Morgan leaves the slip road and leaps onto the verge that slopes down to the hard shoulder. She steals a look behind her. He’s closing the gap. Eyes bulging, face contorted with effort and fury.
The rain is falling harder, the grass slope slippery and treacherous. She slips, losing her balance, then straightening up as her feet thud onto the tarmac. She faces the speeding traffic, waving her hands.
‘Stop! Help!’
A lorry approaches, followed by a car. After that, a let-up in the flow of traffic. She risks another glance over her shoulder. He’s closing in. The lorry speeds past. Then the car. The gap opens up.
She jerks to her left, sprinting across the three lanes. Horns blare. But she’s made it onto the central reservation. Her body slams into the barrier. Panting, she turns to look behind her. He’s on the far side of the motorway, the traffic separating him from his quarry. Now he’s yelling but she can’t hear above the blaring horns. Catching her breath, she watches as he turns in the direction of the oncoming cars, making the same calculation she made.
Dare he risk it?
A van zips past, spraying her with rainwater. Another gap in the traffic flow. Karl hesitates. As he starts to make his way across the motorway, placing a tentative foot in the slow lane, he’s clipped by a car. Jerking crazily, he spins around and falls to the ground, clutching his leg. Horns blare but no one slows, no one stops. Morgan waves her arms at the oncoming traffic. A cacophony of horns. Up ahead, a convoy of lorries is approaching. Four? Five? She stands motionless, watching as the HGVs thunder past, one by one, clearing her line of sight to reveal another gap in the traffic flow. She looks across the lanes, scanning the hard shoulder.
Karl has disappeared.
Her eyes scan the verge, the grass slope leading down from the slip road. No sign of him. Not on the motorway. Not on the verge. He has vanished.
And now another sound above the blaring horns. A siren. In the distance, a flashing blue light. Shielding her eyes from glaring headlamps, she watches the police car drawing nearer, moving into the slow lane, then pulling to a halt on the hard shoulder. The driver jumps out, gesturing to Morgan with outstretched hands. He wants her to stay where she is. A second police officer runs to the rear of the car. He takes something from the boot – a megaphone. He calls across the lanes of traffic.
‘Do not move. Do not try to cross the motorway. Stay where you are.’
Morgan gives a thumbs-up. Her heart is still hammering. Turning her face to the torrential rain, she gives silent thanks.
The police will stop the traffic. Bring her to safety. Take her home. Maybe they’ll charge her with breaking traffic laws, but she doesn’t care.
As long as they listen.
As long as Lissa is OK.
As long as they find Karl Savage.
Twenty-Four
KARL
He hears her footsteps overhead, moving around the kitchen, dragging her feet, shuffling in her slippers. He knows she’s not been well. It’s been going on for months. On weekdays, when he’s allowed to roam the rest of the house, she stays in bed all day, curtains closed. The house is silent.
He wonders if her illness is anything to do with being pregnant this time last year.
He wonders if she’s depressed.
Above all, he wonders what happened to the baby.
He overheard the dinner ladies talking about the head teacher.
Leave of absence . . . post-natal depression . . . post-partum psychosis . . .
Maybe the same is true of his mum. If he hadn’t stumbled upon the pregnancy test in the bathroom, he’d never have known she was having a baby.
And because she’d grown so fat, neither would anyone else.
*
The Whistler is a regular fixture these days. Weekends only. Seemed an OK bloke, at first. Cooked a nice beef stew, brought it down to the cellar. Watched Karl eat every morsel.
–Nice?
–Not bad. Thanks.
A grin.
–You know it was dog food, right?
–Seriously?
–Yeah. And stop snivelling. Boys don’t cry. Your dad sounds like a right poof. We’ve got to toughen you up, kiddo. You need to learn to take a joke.
Karl shudders, trying to banish the memory of the dog food.
He’s doing his best to forget the game too. The one The Whistler makes him play when he comes down into the cellar at night, while she’s sleeping.
–Our special game.
Another shudder.
Karl closes his eyes, trying to block the image from his mind.
But he can’t.
He opens his eyes. Switching on his torch, he stares at the old biscuit tin, letting the light play over the image on the lid: Guy Fawkes burning at the stake.
She took the tin away for a long time.
Yesterday she brought it back.
It’s been empty for as long as he can remember – ever since the people at Dad’s funeral ate all the biscuits.
But now there’s something inside.
Before bringing it back to the cellar, she sealed it with duct tape. Then she did something she hasn’t done since the day Dad died.
She spoke to him.
Just two words.
No peeking.
Twenty-Five
If there was any doubt in Morgan’s mind that Karl is alive, the graveyard encounter has dispelled it for good. Which makes Jatinder Singh either incompetent or dishonest. Morgan will call the forensic odontologist as soon as his office opens, but right now, sitting in Neville Rook’s car, she has other things on her mind. The DI arrived at her house shortly after 9 a.m. accompanied by the SOCO team, who even now are searching for evidence to nail the identity of the intruder once and for all. The rain has died away (a newsreader dubbed it a ‘mini-monsoon’) but the Dungeness skies are blanketed by thick cloud. As they talk, Morgan watches the policeman take notes. Their last conversation was awkward, to say the least. She considered insisting on someone else – a fresh start with another DI – but changed her mind.
Better the Neville you know . . .
‘Did you get the van’s registration number?’
She shakes her head.
‘Other things on my mind.’
‘Pity. Missed a trick.’
Morgan says nothing, glancing across the beach towards the Mini where Lissa is slumped in the passenger seat, feet on the dashboard, scrolling through her phone.
Rolling a cigarette, Morgan becomes aware of a tremor in her hand. The encounter with Karl has left her sh
aken. A sleepless night hasn’t helped, the throbbing in her temples a reminder of the blow to her head.
Savage by name . . .
Not wishing to alarm her daughter more than necessary, she has played down the extent of her ordeal.
‘I haven’t told Lissa everything I’m telling you,’ she says to Rook. ‘Nothing about being knocked out or tied up.’
Or the open grave.
‘Understood,’ says Neville. He consults his notebook. ‘Uniform say there was no sign of the camper van.’
She nods.
‘I took them to the churchyard but he’d disappeared. Taken the spade too. They found tyre tracks, said they’d check the motorway ANPR cameras. I told them he was probably sticking to back roads.’
A nod.
‘How’s your head?’
Painful.
‘A & E said the X-ray was fine.’
He casts a look around the bleak, windswept landscape, the glowering clouds, the vast power station looming in the distance.
‘Tell me you’re not sticking around this godforsaken place, not after last night.’
‘No,’ says Morgan.
‘Where will you go?’
‘Good question.’ She fishes her lighter from her pocket. ‘OK if I smoke?’
‘If you must.’
Lighting the cigarette, she sucks the smoke into her lungs.
‘You believe me? That it was Karl Savage?’
She can see him choose his words with care.
‘It’s not that I don’t believe you, but when it comes to getting the criminal justice system to admit it’s made a mistake . . .’
He tails off, giving a shrug that suggests utter powerlessness and defeat. She fights the urge to punch him. Or yell in his face.
‘Can you offer us protection? Me and my daughter?’
An apologetic shake of head.
‘That’s not how the system works.’
‘Fuck the system.’ She waves a hand around the beach. ‘He’s out there, gunning for me and Lissa.’
‘If you stay in Kent the best we can offer is increased patrols.’
‘That’s your advice? Run?’
‘That’s my advice.’
She can feel her anger growing.
‘Don’t make me go over your head, Neville.’
