by David Mark
…the door bursts open, knocking him off guard.
A uniformed officer, his nose bloodied, calls for help. Shouts and screams emanate from the court building down the hall.
Swearing, switching off phones and pulling batons from their coats, the two officers race into the corridor and down towards the main body of the court. Roper, blowing McAvoy a kiss, follows behind them. The camera crew, mindful of the ban on filming inside the precincts of the court, shimmer with frustration as they crane their necks to see what is happening.
His breath coming in stutters, the tension draining out of him, McAvoy wills his feet to move.
Near blind with tears and frustration.
He fumbles at the door and pulls it open, the gun, hot and guilty in his pocket.
Stumbles down the corridor and into the wide, circular body of the court building.
Three officers are holding back Ella Butterworth’s father. He is struggling in their grasp, roaring like an animal, his hands and face, spattered with flecks of blood.
McAvoy pushes through the press of bodies.
Ushers.
Court clerks.
Solicitors.
The innocent and the guilty, waiting to be judged.
On the floor, like a whale beached on umber sands, Choudhury is sprawled, not moving. An island in the rich sea of his long, flowing, barrister robes.
Two uniformed officers tend to the wounds on his face. His turban is askew on his head. Long hair, snaking from his colossal round head, puddles on the floor. One of his polished shoes has come off. He looks like a slain sultan. A fat, rich crook, beaten bloody by a weak old man.
“He was laughing,” screams the man with blood on his hands and the toes of his shoes. “About getting paid twice! Said he’d be back next time. Nice little fucking payday! That’s my daughter, you bastard! My daughter! Dead! Murdered! And you’re making money from the man who did it!”
As he folds in on himself and gives in to great racking sobs, McAvoy slips away.
The emptiness inside him is dissipating. The guilt, at his own weakness, his feeble inaction, his naïve belief in the goodness of those around him, turning to smoke on the fire of his sudden sense of what must be done.
He’s filling up.
Gorging himself on righteous rage.
And visions of what must be done.
Out to find a killer.
61
The air-conditioning is on in the internet café and Tony H is shivering. The only spare terminal was directly under the blower, and the breeze on his cold clothes is making him feel snappy and irritable. He keeps sniffing, and his bones are starting to ache as if he’s coming down with something.
He wants a cigar, but there’s no chance in a place like this. It’s all nerds, geeks, students and foreigners. They don’t know who he is, or that he’s used to being an exception to the rules.
He logs on to his own website. Hull Daily Mail. The late edition hasn’t hit the streets yet but the website is usually updated first, and he’s eager to see how the silly bollocks on newsdesk have treated his copy.
Clicks on the top story and reads the words he sent through before lunch, his phone tucked under his chin as he sat, warm and dry, in the front seat of Roper’s sports car.
He smiles as he reads it. They’ve left well alone. Put the exclusive tag on it and left in the meat.
Poor fucker, thinks Tony, as he reads the hatchet job he’s done on his best pal.
The guilt has gone, as he knew it would. He tells himself that Owen would have done the same were the situation reversed. That he’ll forgive him. Let him off. Probably even send him a visiting order and invite him over for a spot of company at the nick. Not that he’ll go. He doesn’t like prisons. Never has. It’s been over a decade since he last lay on a prison-issue mattress: his nostrils full of bleach and body odour, stewed food and the shit-bucket. He hadn’t coped well inside. The other inmates had him down as a nonce, and he took his fair share of kickings before he toughened up and started hitting back. He wonders if Owen will fare any better. If he’ll have to suck a cock before he’s allowed to get a good night’s sleep.
He reads the story again, for the sake of completeness. Wonders if Owen will ever get to see it. If he’ll mind the description of his sister as a “city prostitute”.
Tony had been surprised to learn just how many bodies his friend had been able to rack up. Even with his fucked-up history, he didn’t have Owen down as a killer. Too bloody soft. Feels sorry for people, and himself most of all. Always trying to pull somebody out of the shit. His girlfriend. His sister. Poor Kerry. Seven stone of poison, puncture wounds and crumbling bones. She’d been pretty when he’d first met her. He’d even thought about pursuing it. But the smack had grabbed her quicker and firmer than he could, and soon she wasn’t worth his time.
Vaguely, not really thinking about it, he logs onto a porn site. He keeps the sound down so as not to alert the other users, and watches one of his favourite little videos. It doesn’t get him hard, but he likes to watch it. Nothing really gets him hard. Not when they give it up so easily. When they offer themselves so freely. When pretty things are willing to let an ugly bastard like him inside them. He can’t fuck something he doesn’t respect. For Tony, it’s about the thrill of the chase. Finding somebody perfect, angelic and beautiful. Watching over them. Becoming a part of their lives. The shadow behind them. The handprint on the window. The words in the condensation on the bathroom mirror. When they shiver, and wonder if he’s watching. That’s when he knows he’s inside. And when the knife goes in, and his image is burned into their dying eyes; that’s when he knows he has mattered more to them than all the dirty bastards combined.
The air-conditioning starts making a clicking noise and Tony feels like he’s sitting in a wind tunnel, so he logs off and stands up. Stares through the window at the half-dark street and shudders at the thought of going out in the dreadful weather. It seems to have been like this ever since he moved to Hull. He can’t remember what the sun feels like. The people seem wraith-like. Their skins pale and unhealthy. Grey-green, like a wet headstone. It had been hard to find somebody beautiful. Somebody worth getting himself in a lather about. He’s always been at his happiest when a woman’s got under his skin. Somebody worth making up fantasies about. Painting mental pictures of possibilities and perversions. Ella had been like that. Somebody with sparkle. Effervescence. Charm. A smile that from the first moment she flashed it at him, he had wanted to split with his cock. More than that. He’d desired her more than sexually. Wanted to hold her hand and kiss her hair as she fell asleep. Wanted to embrace her, stroke her skin. Sniff her feet…
He’d got carried away, of course. Gone too far, like always. Wound himself up to breaking point. He knew she would never have looked at a man like him. That it was obscene to even hope. Got his kicks another way. Being close. Watching her sleep. Taking the little things that belonged to her and which, he fancied, still smelled of her scent. Revved his engine until he couldn’t take it anymore. Had to end it. Had to stop her from debasing herself with an obscenity like him. Had to save her from herself.
Standing in the doorway, watching the rain, he indulges himself in the memory of their association. The time he managed to nab a pair of her tights from the wash basket and found that they were still warm. Still carried an unmistakable scent. Or the yelp of fear when she saw his shadow at the window. He half wishes he could have kept it at that. Let the thrill plateau, and stayed there. But he wasn’t that way inclined. He needed stronger hits. He climbed the ladder of adrenaline, until only violence could excite him. Until every part of his body was buzzing with a need to hurt her. To punish her for being so pretty. For being so unobtainable.
So he killed her.
Watched her run from the house in her bare feet and wedding gown. The red stain, spreading across the pure white, somehow a portent of what he would do.
He followed her.
Stood in the alleyway, the knife in one hand, h
is exposed dick in the other.
Remembered past glories.
Other times.
Other snotty slags.
Saw her coming back. Her tears glistening in the shadowy yellow light. Her face cold and raw from the wind.
And he stepped out.
Gave her a wink.
Then bared his teeth.
Enjoyed the moment of recognition. Her understanding of what he intended.
Then he showed her the blade.
Let her scream.
Then took what he wanted. Scared himself with the ferocity with which he attacked her.
He hadn’t realised until then just how much he wanted this one. Just how angry he was with her for being so fucking pretty.
Slag.
Slag.
Slag.
Then she was dead. And he was taking great, exhausted breaths. Bathed in blood which was growing cold from the gale.
And somebody was coming. A hulking lad that Tony would later dub The Chocolate Boy.
So he ran.
Rode his luck.
Got away with it.
Tony ducks into the street and heads for the car. It’s mid-afternoon and the story’s changing by the minute. More and more national reporters are arriving on his patch, and he’s in two minds about going and joining the pack outside Owen’s flat, where forensics investigators are picking over the mutilated bodies of two unnamed men. There might be something juicy for him to pick up, but if the TV crews catch him on camera, he fears there’s always a chance some old lag will recognise him as the flasher from E-wing, and burst the bubble, like last time. When he had to get the fuck out of Birmingham and head north, for another fresh start. It’s one of Tony’s constant regrets that his journalistic star will never shine on a national scale, because his face has just a little too much history in it.
He climbs inside the car and feels a vibration in his pocket. Smiles with smug contentment as he realises it’s the Batphone, and somebody’s about to tell him something exclusive and delicious.
He looks at the screen, and his leg starts to jiggle with shock and excitement as he takes in the number.
Fucking hell…
“Well, well, well,” says Tony, as he opens the phone. “The man of the hour.”
62
I can’t hear his voice at first, over the rushing of blood. It’s like driving too fast with the window down. I force myself to sound right. To keep it together. I chew the end of my cigarette. Taste blood and tar.
“What are the headlines?” I ask.
Tony gives a snort of laughter. “This is something of a surprise, Owen,” he says. “I mean, I appreciate the call, but I figured you’d have pressing engagements. Like fucking off.”
“I’ve always got time for you, Tone. Least I could do, after all the loyalty you’ve shown me.” I say it sarcastically, keeping the anger out of my voice. I can’t give too much away.
“Now, now,” he says, jokily, and I hear his soft exhalation as he lights a Hamlet. “You know the job. What was I going to do? Sit on it? I didn’t enjoy it, if it makes you feel any better.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Yes you did. You loved it, mate. I can picture you, tumescent with fricking glee.”
He gives a giggle, and we’re suddenly two old friends again. “Maybe a bit,” he concedes. “Still, it’s the job, isn’t it? Worse to come tomorrow too. Last call I took from Roper and some lass has come forward saying you and her have been meeting up regular as clockwork at that same spot in the Country Park. One of Roper’s tame informants, no doubt, but she’ll stick to the story if it gets her in his good graces. He’s got it sewn up, mate, unless you’ve any bright ideas. After what happened at court, he’ll need a result.”
“At court?” I ask, unable to help it. “Cadbury?”
“The Scottish detective – looks like an advert for Quaker Oats and always seems to be about to burst into tears. Went back on his statement, didn’t he? Said he had grave misgivings about Cadbury’s guilt. If he survives the night he’s definitely worth having a dig-around. I’d heard there was a copper married to some pikey princess but it sounded too outlandish. I reckon we need to bring it all into the light, eh?”
I shake my head, unable to find the right words. Then: “Leave him be, Tone. He’s doing his damnedest. Can you imagine what it took to do the right thing?”
Tony laughs, full and throaty. “Of course I can’t,” he says. Then: “Where are you?”
“Million dollar question,” I say, drily. “Apparently, a few people are quite keen to have a chat with me. It seems they’re under the impression I’ve killed half of Hull.”
“Dunno where they got that idea,” he says. “Maybe the bodies all over the city?”
“Aye, maybe.”
“So what’s the plan?” he asks, genuinely fascinated to know what I’m going to do next.
I turn my head and the picture before me slows down and comes apart. Suddenly my vision is full of purples and reds. Claws. Tails. Talons. Faces. Each one uglier than the last, intertwining, conjoining, twisting, building, growing: a writhing throne on which she sits, golden and serene.
“I’m coming in,” I say, quietly. “There’s nowhere to run. Nowhere to go.”
“Roper will be pleased,” he enthuses.
“Last thing I fucking want,” I growl. “That’s what I need you for. He can’t get the credit if he’s fuck all to do with the collar. And he can’t have me fall down the stairs if you document the bruises that are on me before I go in. You can orchestrate the lot. Have the whole pack there, if you like. There to see me, getting out of your car. I’ll give you chapter and verse.”
“Fuck.”
“Fuck indeed.” Then, to seal it: “Despite everything, you’re the only one I can trust not to sell me out.”
There’s a pause, heavy with excitement and desire. I can hear Tony’s brain whirring. Working in headlines. Opening paragraphs. Images of celebrity. The solidification of his legend. And then the obstacles. The pitfalls of being seen. Of stepping out from behind the by-line and into the glare of the media with the country’s most wanted murderer on his arm.
Greed wins.
“Where do you want to meet?”
63
McAvoy chews on a cardamom seed, and holds a handkerchief, containing a crushed sprig of lemon thyme, to his nose. Breathes deep, his eyes closed. Roisin gave him one to settle his stomach, the other to mask the stench of rotting meat that seems to be again spilling up from his throat and into his mouth.
The smell of Ella Butterworth’s body.
Fetid and decomposing.
Headless, but still somehow accusatory in its stare.
He sits at the kitchen table and listens as his wife fusses over their child in the playroom upstairs. It is a happy sound. Roisin’s songs. Fin’s laughter. Footsteps, unusually heavy and thudding for such a small frame, thudding on the hardwood floors of the blue-painted room.
Here, in the house they are renting until they save for a future. Three-bedroomed, thin-walled, and characterless. An interchangeable landmark in an ocean of bland housing. Utterly unremarkable.
He stares at the phone, tasting the bitter seed, breathing in the herbs, concentrating.
In.
Out.
Soft.
Slow.
The nervousness bubbling in his stomach.
The gun on the table.
You’ve done it, he tells himself. No going back now.
He makes a fist and hears the thyme rustle through the cotton. The smell grows stronger, and the retch of decay seems to recede.
Perhaps it isn’t the herbs, he thinks. Perhaps it’s having somebody to give them to you. To stroke your hand. To tell you to do what you must. That she believes in you. That you’re a good man.
He tries to stop shaking: the adrenaline, still rich in his body.
He’s made the call.
Said what he must.
And they’ve said they’ll co
me. Hear what he has to say.
Help him.
He crosses to the window. There’s little view, save the houses across the street and the fly-curtains of rain. No children playing. No cars swishing by. Just homes, like a bleak Lowry, and a sky the colour of his father’s hair.
*
His telephone rings, and he composes himself. Wonders if it’s them. Ringing back. Confirming details of their appointment. Checking he hasn’t lost his nerve.
He answers it to a hysterical female voice.
Shouting, against the sound of a storm.
He can pick out only a smattering of words, as she snotters and cries.
“He’s going to kill him!”
And then, as he asks her to say it again…
“Tony H. He killed Ella Butterworth. And Owen knows!”
64
The Humber Bridge Country Park.
Back where it all began.
Owen Lee Swainson, leaning against a silvery tree.
Watching…
The gale pulls at the tails of the fluttering garrotte, yanking it tight around the trunk of the half-dead sycamore. It is a noose of blue-and-white police tape, and it seems ravenous as it chews through the rotten bark and into the living flesh of the tree.
I force myself to look away. It makes no difference. I can still visualise the tightening knot; the bubbles of oozing sap.
Breathless, fingers making fists, I snatch a glance at my watch, wiping rain from its face and my own. Jerk my head skywards. Damp leaves and rotten branches form a ragged canopy above this patch of woodland where the ground is too rocky for the trees to grow. Beyond, the sky is all ripped tissue and hard slate.
I look down, the smell of blood inside my face.
Amid the mulch of timber and twigs, there is evidence that this place has seen violence. Polythene evidence bags. The page of a notebook, littered with crossings-out. The prints of size-ten shoes, forming fish-shaped hollows in the mud. They took pictures. Maybe one of the men and women in white suits asked why they couldn’t find anything. More likely they didn’t care.
