Kill Me Twice

by Simon Booker

  ‘OK, baby boy, let’s go hunting.’

  Hunting.

  She turns the word over in her mind. The thought of Karl as prey makes her feel empowered.

  Courageous.

  Reckless.

  She walks towards the crime scene, standing at the fringe of the crowd. Twenty or so onlookers, mostly men, a few women, a couple of teenagers. No one pays attention to Morgan. All eyes are on the team behind the tape. She glimpses Ben talking to two police officers, one plainclothes, the other in uniform. Like the SOCOs and the photographer, the fire scene investigator wears white overalls and paper overshoes.

  For a moment, Morgan is seized by a powerful desire to turn and run. She has abducted a baby. The proximity to police officers makes her heart race. She forces herself to remain calm, to think clearly. As far as the police are concerned she’s just another rubbernecker. And if she’s brought her baby to a crime scene, so what?

  Bigger fish to fry.

  She watches Ben say something to the plainclothes officer. He ducks his head and enters the tent that conceals the exhumed corpse of Karl Savage’s mother.

  Morgan tries not to stare at the faces in the crowd, but Ben’s insight into pyromaniacs is at the forefront of her mind.

  Check out the scene of the crime. Some arsonists get a kick out of gawking at their ‘work’.

  She gives a sidelong glance to the faces in the crowd. One, a middle-aged woman in a bobble hat, notices the baby and smiles.

  ‘My two were the same. Fresh air. Best way to send them to sleep.’

  Morgan gives a non-committal smile. She nods towards the tent.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Some sicko dug up a coffin. Set the body on fire.’ She rubs her hands together, keeping the cold at bay. ‘Not much to see, but it beats Emmerdale.’

  Morgan turns away, letting her eyes rove across the other onlookers. Most faces are clearly visible, illuminated by the glow from the lamps, but a couple are obscured by hoodies. There is no sign of Karl Savage.

  Stepping to one side, she cranes her neck, trying to get a line of sight on a figure standing alone at the rear of the crowd – a man in a baseball cap, hands plunged into the pockets of his leather jacket, face in the shadows. As he turns to leave, his face catches the light. She suppresses a gasp.

  Jukes?

  She can’t be sure – it’s a fleeting glimpse. And now he’s walking away, quickening his pace, and the baby is starting to cry and the bloody woman in the bloody bobble hat is saying something.

  ‘What’s her name?’

  The pink blanket. She thinks it’s a girl.

  ‘Lissa,’ says Morgan. The man in the cap is heading into the woods. He’s wearing biker boots. She starts to follow. ‘Excuse me, I need to—’

  ‘Morgan?’

  A familiar voice. Neville Rook.

  Morgan is dimly aware of the woman in the hat giving her a quizzical look. She doesn’t want to explain why the police officer knows her name. Or answer questions about the baby. Above all, she doesn’t want to lose sight of the man in the baseball cap.

  ‘Morgan?’

  The DI is drawing closer. Morgan raises her head, scanning the woods. The man is nowhere to be seen.

  Was it Jukes? Did he see her?

  ‘Thought it was you,’ Rook has reached her side.

  ‘Hi,’ says Morgan, trying to keep her tone light. ‘I was driving past, saw the lights.’

  He nods, peering at the baby.

  ‘Who’s this little munchkin?’

  Morgan’s clears her throat, playing for time. She peers over the DI’s shoulder as Ben emerges from the tent. She feigns ignorance.

  ‘Is that Ben?’

  Rook turns, following her gaze.

  ‘Yes.’

  She can see the fire investigator casting a look in their direction, taking stock of the situation. He walks towards them.

  ‘What’s in the tent?’ says Morgan.

  ‘I told you,’ says the woman in the bobble hat. She sounds peeved that someone could doubt her word. ‘Someone dug up a body and set it on fire.’ She looks to Rook for confirmation. ‘Am I right?’

  The DI gives a non-committal shrug. ‘I can’t say anything at this stage.’ He gestures towards the sleeping baby. ‘So?’

  ‘So what?’ Morgan plays for time, watching Ben duck beneath the crime scene tape.

  ‘Whose baby?’ says Neville.

  ‘Her name’s Lissa,’ sniffs the woman.

  The policeman raises an eyebrow.

  ‘I thought Lissa was your daughter’s name.’

  ‘This is her daughter,’ says Bobble Hat.

  The blood thuds in Morgan’s ears. She smiles.

  ‘You misunderstood. It’s a boy.’

  The woman draws in her neck, affronted.

  ‘Whose is he?’ says Rook.

  Morgan clears her throat, playing for time. Ben reaches the DI’s side.

  ‘My sister’s,’ he says. ‘She’s in hospital. I’m being Uncle Ben for a few days. Morgan’s helping out.’

  ‘Ah, right,’ says Rook. ‘What’s his name?’

  Morgan’s mind is a blank; the one name she can think of is the one she can’t say.

  Charlie.

  The police officer is staring at her.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  Struck dumb, Morgan looks at the baby.

  ‘His name’s Tom,’ says Ben. He smiles at Morgan, but there’s no warmth behind the eyes. ‘Bit cold for him to be out?’

  Morgan nods. ‘Better get him home.’ She turns to go.

  ‘Could have sworn you said Lissa,’ grumbles the woman, but no one is listening. In the distance, Morgan hears a motorcycle revving then roaring away into the night.

  ‘See you later,’ she says, feigning nonchalance. She can feel Rook’s eyes on her as she turns and walks towards the car. She hears the DI addressing Ben under his breath.

  ‘Give us a moment, OK?’

  She carries on walking.

  ‘Morgan?’

  She stops. The DI is walking towards her. Behind him, Ben is rooted to the spot, powerless to intervene.

  ‘Can I have a word?’ says Rook.

  Morgan’s heart threatens to burst from her chest.

  ‘Of course.’

  He clears his throat.

  ‘Bit of news. Me and the fiancée, we’re back on. Fixed a date. Next June.’

  Relief floods every fibre of Morgan’s being.

  ‘Congratulations.’

  He holds her gaze. A sheepish smile.

  ‘Just thought you should know.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  He seems disappointed. Raises an eyebrow.

  ‘No hard feelings?’

  Despite the fact that she’s talking to a police officer while holding a kidnapped baby, Morgan stiffens. What is he implying? That she was holding a torch for him?

  Let it go.

  ‘Of course not. I’m happy for you.’

  ‘DI Rook?’

  Ben’s voice. The policeman turns to leave, gesturing towards the baby.

  ‘Look after Tom,’ he says.

  ‘You bet.’

  Heart pounding, Morgan walks in the direction of the Mini. Casting a look over her shoulder, she sees Neville and Ben duck under the tape and head for the tent. Ben doesn’t look back, locked in conversation with the DI.

  Another wave of relief is mingled with gratitude. Pausing, she strains to catch any trace of the motorcycle engine but there is none.

  Jukes – if it was him – has vanished.

  She reaches the car and straps Charlie into the baby seat. The baby is awake but mercifully quiet. Morgan gets behind the wheel and drives away.

  Less than a mile down the road, her phone beeps. She pulls to a halt and scans the text. It’s from Ben. His anger at being drawn into her web of lies is palpable.

  Forget twenty-four hours. You have twelve.

  Morgan checks her watch.

  9.02 p.m.


  The baby starts to cry.

  It’s going to be a long night.

  Forty

  Morgan cruises past Jukes’s bungalow. She pulls to a halt at the end of the poorly lit street. No sign of the motorcycle. The pebbledash bungalow is in darkness, the road deserted. Parked cars. A wheelie bin on its side. A pair of trainers dangling from an overhead power cable.

  The baby is awake, gurgling happily in the back of the car. He slept through the first half of the journey, but a nappy change precipitated a stop in a service station and was followed by an impressive helping of formula and a lot of strident crying.

  Morgan turns to look at Charlie and is greeted by what might be a smile. The wailing has abated, but for how long? She considers her options. Leave him the car? Or take him on what feels like mission impossible, rifling through Jukes’s rubbish in the hope of finding clues to the whereabouts of Karl Savage? As plans go, it’s what Lissa would call so lame, but Morgan is out of ideas.

  Soon she’ll be out of time.

  The dashboard clock shows 10.30. The Newsnight theme blares from one of the few bungalows showing signs of life. Most are in darkness, curtains drawn against the chill November air. The only movement in the street is an emaciated cat foraging scraps from a fast food container in a front garden.

  The thought of leaving Charlie unattended goes against every instinct in Morgan’s body. Which leaves only the second option. The familiar struggle with straps ensues. Then, the baby secure in his harness, Morgan walks towards Jukes’s house. She can feel Charlie snuggled against her upper body, radiating warmth.

  Reaching the driveway, Morgan navigates the gate hanging from its hinges and heads for the wheelie bin. She raises the lid. The bin is empty. She mutters under her breath.

  ‘Idiot . . .’

  The possibility of the garbage having been recently collected hasn’t occurred to her. She looks at the windows of the house. No lights, no sign of life. A side gate leads to the garden. She clicks the latch. The gate opens. Her heart races. The baby coughs and blinks. Then he closes his eyes.

  Morgan turns to survey the street. Deserted. Hand on the latch, she opens the gate and steps onto a path bordered by weeds. She closes the gate behind her. The darkness is almost total. She makes her way down the path, passing a side door covered with rippled glass. The baby coughs again, twice, but his eyes remain closed.

  Reaching the rear of the house, Morgan is surprised by the neatness of the garden. In contrast to the patch of ground at the front of the bungalow, the garden is orderly and well tended. The allotment is bare – unsurprising for November – but has been in recent use. The hedge is neatly trimmed, the barbecue covered with a green tarpaulin.

  Morgan fishes her phone from her pocket and selects the torch app. She shines the light through a window and makes out the kitchen. About to move on, she freezes, straining to hear.

  A motorcycle in the distance.

  Her heart rate triples. She hurries back along the path, towards the gate. The engine noise grows louder, closer. She hesitates. If she leaves now, and if the motorbike belongs to Jukes, she won’t make it to the car before he turns onto the street.

  Better to let him get inside the house, then make her escape.

  She hears the motorcycle drawing nearer, the rumble of the engine growing louder as it slows outside the bungalow. The sound of it driving onto the paved area at the front of the house. The engine cuts out. Silence descends. He dismounts. Walks to the front door. A jangle of keys. The door opens and closes. Then silence.

  Trevor Jukes is home.

  About to take the final steps towards the gate, Morgan stops in her tracks as a light is switched on inside the house, spilling from the glass door. The gate is on the far side of the door. She can’t move without being seen. She freezes, rooted to the spot.

  The sound of a key turning. The door judders then creaks, opening outwards. She holds her breath as she hears a match being struck. Then comes the sound of Jukes inhaling sharply, accompanied by the unmistakable smell of dope. Morgan closes her eyes. She tries to regulate her breathing, to transmit calming vibes to the baby strapped to her chest.

  If Charlie cries . . .

  Or coughs . . .

  She hears Jukes drawing on the joint, sucking the smoke into his lungs. Then the sound of his ringtone – the theme from The Archers, absurdly jaunty but unmistakable. He fumbles for his mobile. Takes the call.

  ‘Yeah? . . . No, no sign of her. What about you?’

  Morgan can make out the faint voice of the caller – a man – but she can’t hear what he’s saying.

  ‘How should I know?’ says Jukes. ‘This was your idea, not mine.’ Another pull on the joint. ‘OK, whatever. Phone me back at one o’clock. No later.’

  The call ends. The sound of the mobile being put down. On a shelf? A table? Footsteps as Jukes walks away, into the house, leaving the door ajar. Morgan is rooted to the spot, not daring to move. Moments later, she hears the sound of running water – a shower. She counts to ten, then inches forward, peering around the open door. No sign of life.

  The mobile is on a table, just inside the door.

  The baby coughs.

  Once

  Twice.

  He starts to cry.

  Morgan darts through the door. Takes two quick paces inside the house. Snatches the phone from the table. The baby’s cries grow louder. The shower stops. She turns to the door, retracing her steps.

  ‘Hello?’

  Jukes’s voice from the other room.

  She steps out onto the path. Heads for the gate. Her fingers grasp the latch. She doesn’t look behind her. The baby’s cries stop. Morgan opens the gate. Walks through to the front garden. Closes the gate behind her. She hears footsteps inside the house. Imagines Jukes’s face as he realises his mobile is gone.

  ‘What the fuck?’

  Tucking the phone into the pocket of her jeans, she breaks into a run, passing the motorcycle and heading for the front gate.

  He’ll be here any second.

  He’ll see her.

  She changes tack and ducks behind the motorcycle. Hears the click of the latch. Footsteps. Bare feet on concrete.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  She holds her breath. Imagines him scanning the empty street. Naked? In a dressing gown? A towel? More footsteps. He’s on the other side of the motorcycle, just yards away. The harness digs into her ribs. The baby is wriggling. Another crying jag is seconds away.

  ‘Give me my fucking phone!’

  The furious cry echoes down the street. She imagines veins bulging in the man’s neck. His eyes combing the road as he searches for the thief in the night.

  More footsteps. He’s moving. Out of the garden, onto the pavement, heading along the road.

  Charlie is wriggling in the sling, scrunching his face in an expression Morgan has come to dread. The baby is filling his nappy, a crying fit is seconds away. Reaching into her jacket pocket, Morgan searches for any kind of weapon. Her hands make contact with something small and hard. She draws it out.

  Ben’s rape alarm.

  She doesn’t hesitate, yanking the pin from the device. The sound is high-pitched and deafening. She draws back her arm, lobbing it like a grenade. But her aim is off. Instead of landing several houses away, distracting Jukes from her hiding place, the alarm ricochets off a telegraph pole and lands in the middle of the road, yards from where he’s standing. She sees him running towards it, cupping his hands over his ears to block out the piercing sound, angry eyes scanning the empty street. He’s wearing a black dressing gown. Reaching the alarm, he stoops to pick up something from the gutter – a stone? a brick? – raises it above his head and smashes it onto the device. The wailing stops. Silence descends. Morgan holds her breath.

  Miraculously, the baby hasn’t started crying. But it’s only a matter of time.

  Now another sound, from across the road. A rapping on glass. A voice, muffled.

  ‘Can’t hear you,’ sa
ys Jukes. Angry. Frustrated.

  Peering through the spokes of the motorcycle, Morgan sees him approach the bungalow opposite. An elderly woman stands at the window, gesticulating towards the motorbike, mouthing, like a character in a pantomime.

  ‘Behind you.’

  Unlike Jukes, Morgan can decipher what the woman is saying. Striding through the gate, the man in the dressing gown approaches the house, raising his voice.

  ‘What the hell are you on about?’

  Morgan can wait no longer. She straightens up. Runs for the gate. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Jukes, his back to her, the woman rapping on the window.

  Suddenly, he turns.

  Sees her.

  ‘Hey!’

  Morgan is running running running, holding the baby tight, her footsteps echoing down the street as she races towards her car.

  ‘Hey!’

  She hears him breaking into a run. The Mini is a hundred yards away. If it weren’t for the baby, she could beat him to it. But he’s closing in.

  Seventy yards.

  Charlie starts to cry.

  Jukes’s angry voice.

  ‘Bitch!’

  Fifty yards.

  Morgan reaches into her jacket pocket, fumbling for her keys.

  Thirty yards.

  The baby’s cries grow louder.

  Morgan zaps the fob. It doesn’t work; she’s too far away.

  Twenty yards.

  She tries again.

  The lights flash as the doors unlock. She glances over her shoulder. His dressing gown is flapping open, exposing his belly and boxers.

  Ten yards.

  ‘Fucking bitch!’

  She turns back to the car, hand outstretched towards the driver’s door.

  And drops the key.

  Watches it slither into the gutter.

  Slams into the car, jolting the baby, who cries louder.

  Feels Jukes’s meaty hands grasp her arm.

  They stand there, panting, eyes wide. She can smell his tobacco breath.

  ‘Help!’ Her cry echoes along the deserted street. No sign of life. ‘Help!’ Three houses away, a curtain twitches in an upstairs window. ‘Help me!’