10 - Full Disclosure
Freddie Jacobs didn’t know what Mr Perskine looked like, but he recognised him all the same. There was no mistaking a buyer, particularly the wet, pliant sort. They were Freddie’s favourite kind. He smiled to himself as he took a last drag off his fag, flicked it out of the window and sprayed some deodoriser to mask the smell. When the scent of Alpine Forest had spread through the car’s interior, he switched on the engine and drove over to pick up Perskine.
Freddie Jacobs didn’t know what Mr Perskine looked like, but he recognised him all the same. There was no mistaking a buyer, particularly the wet, pliant sort. They were Freddie’s favourite kind. He smiled to himself as he took a last drag off his fag, flicked it out of the window and sprayed some deodoriser to mask the smell. When the scent of Alpine Forest had spread through the car’s interior, he switched on the engine and drove over to pick up Perskine.
It was a horrible day, no mistake about it. The rain had come late last night and didn’t show any signs of abating. There were reports of floods in the next county, but that wasn’t about to stop Freddie from continuing with business as usual.
“Mr Perskine?” he said to the bedraggled man standing in the rain and when he nodded, Freddie opened the passenger door and told him to get in.
Perskine clambered into the car awkwardly, dripping all over the upholstery. Freddie had just had it valeted.
“Don’t worry about the leather,” Freddie said, “just get yourself inside.”
Perskine used several combinations of the words “thanks”, “sorry” and “urgh” to get across what an awkward time he was having. Once he had finally settled, he turned to look at Freddie, who took control of the the conversation.
“Freddie Jacobs,” he said, sticking out his hand, “it’s good to finally meet you in the flesh, Mr Perskine.”
“You too, Mr Jacobs.”
“Call me Freddie.”
Mr Perskine didn’t offer his first name. That didn’t bother Freddie. The customer was always right, even when he was uptight.
“Hope you weren’t waiting too long,” Freddie said. “The trains on that little line can be a bit erratic.”
“Is that so?” Perskine said. Freddie realised that he was undermining the transport links of the property he was trying to sell and backtracked smoothly.
“Can be,” he conceded, “but the property we’re going to is actually closer to Crowborough, which has the proper mainline service to Hastings.”
“Then why did I have to come here?”
The atmosphere in the car turned chilly. Freddie turned up the heater.
“Ah, well, I had other meetings in the area. Hope I didn’t inconvenience you too much.”
“No,” Perskine said. “Not too much.”
Freddie realised that he had somewhat misread Perskine. While he was a bit of a cold fish, he wasn’t as wet as he first appeared and that business was a better option than banter.
“Seen many other properties in the area, Mr Perskine?”
“A few. Mostly around Mayfield, Rotherfield, some of the villages around that way.”
“Seen much you like?”
Perskine shrugged his shoulders. “OK, I suppose. A lot of new builds.”
“Not your sort of thing?”
“Not at the prices they’re asking, no.”
“And who’s been showing you them?”
“Peterson & Lowe. You know them?”
“Aha. Yes, I know them alright,” Freddie chuckled.
“Something funny?”
“Oh, no. Peterson and Lowe are a good company. Very successful, do a lot of business.”
“But?”
Freddie sucked his teeth. “Not exactly known for the personal touch.”
Perskine’s eyes narrowed. “No… I suppose not. I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
“Look, I’m not knocking them,” Freddie said. “They’re a big firm. Six offices, lots of agents, big contracts. All well and good, but sometimes the customer gets left behind in the shuffle, you know what I mean? They’ve got all these agents trying so hard to screw each other out of commission that sometimes they forget that people have to live in the places they’re selling. It’s one way of doing business, I suppose, but I’ve been in this game for twenty years and I’ll tell you something that most agents have either forgotten or never knew.”
“What’s that?”
“The property business is the people business.”
Freddie paused a moment to let his great truth sink in, before then going on to expand on it.
“Sure, we deal in bricks and mortar, but it’s about people. It’s about their homes, their businesses, their lives. Our homes and our places of business are where most of our time is spent. The connection you feel with a place doesn’t just boil down to facts and figures. It comes from here-” he took one hand off the wheel and touched the centre of his chest. “-you know?”
“Yes. I do, actually.”
“You trying that to the kids Waterson & Lowe have got working for ‘em and they won’t know what you’re talking about.”
Perskine nodded, but didn’t say anything and the two men sat quietly for a while. Freddie glanced over at Perskine and saw that he was playing with his wedding ring.
“You married?” Freddie asked, nodding at the gold band on Perskine’s finger.
“Oh. Um… yes.”
That ‘um’ told Freddie a lot.
“She’s not coming with you to look at houses?”
“She’s in the States at the moment. Working. You know how it is…”
Freddie nodded. He suspected there was some doubt as to whether the wife was coming back at all. From Perskine’s agitated state, Freddie guessed that he himself wasn’t sure of this fact and perhaps was banking on a new house and a fresh start to seal the deal. Perskine’s battered shoes and tatty briefcase told Freddie that money was tight, but a woman who flies to the states for business probably did alright for herself. People could be old fashioned, though - even career women who expected their husband to be the main breadwinner, even though he had no hope of living up her overachieving standards. Freddie had seen it all before, but said nothing. Instead, he just said: “You must miss her.”
Perskine looked surprised and said that he did. Very much.
Conversation fell away again and as the A-road disappeared beneath the tyres of the Vauxhall Insignia. Perskine didn’t want to talk and Freddie was trying to ignore a feeling in his gut. Eventually, he could disregard it no longer and broke the silence.
“Can I be straight with you, Mr Perskine?”
“Um… Yes. Of course.”
“The house we’re going to look at probably isn’t for you. I mean, it’s nice enough, but it’s not going to be much different from anything Waterson & Lowe would show you. It might have the features you’re looking for - two bed, one bath, blah blah blah - but it’s just a box on a street full of other boxes that all look the same. Fine if you like that sort of thing, but I get the impression that you’re after somewhere a little different. Somewhere that’s going to feel special. Somewhere that your wife will want to come home to. Am I right?”
Perskine looked at Freddie curiously, swallowed and then said: “Yes. That’s exactly right.”
“Then, if you don’t mind, I want to take you somewhere else. It’s a bit out of the way, but it’s a one-of-a-kind property that’s going for an absolute song. It’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but I suspect it might be yours and if you’re willing to indulge me, I think you’ll find it’s worth your while.”
“Ok…” Perskine said, slightly suspiciously.
“If you don’t like it, we’ll go on to the terrace in Furness Road, but for the sake of half an hour, I really think you should take a look. All right?”
“OK,” Perskine said. “Let’s do it.”
“There’s just one thing I need to know beforehand,” Freddie said, “and it’s going to sound a little bit peculiar, but I ask you to bear with me and just be honest.”
“Sure.”
“Are you superstitious?”
Perskine’s eyes widened with surprise. “Not as a rule, no.”
“What about your wife? Would you say she’s given to that sort of thing?”
Perskine snorted and said: “She’s American”, as if that was all that needed to be said.
“OK then,” Freddie said as he flicked his indicators to change lanes. “Let’s have a look then, shall we?”
“What does that mean, about being superstitious?” Perskine asked.
“I promise I’ll tell you everything,” Freddie said, “I won’t leave anything out. But after you’ve seen the property, OK?”
Perskine considered for a moment and then shrugged and said: “Fair enough.”
Pine Barrow didn’t so much stand on top of the hill as it did crouch. The farmhouse squatted low, as if ready to pounce on anything that dared to cross its path. Not much did, however, as the house was some 500 yards from the road, with only a jutted driveway connecting it to the thoroughfare.
“That’s it?” Perskine said quietly as the car approached.
“That’s it,” Freddie said, glancing at his client and seeing that he was already taken with the place. Sometimes you needed to help them along, talk them up and point out the reasons they and the house were right for each other. Other times, though, you just needed to stand quietly by while they got acquainted. Pine Barrow wasn’t like other properties, but they could go through that later. For the moment, Freddie was content just to quietly by while Perskine fell in love with the place.
The car crunched its way along the surface of the rough driveway. It sagged and bobbed on the pitted path, but Perskine’s eyes never left the house. Once the car was parked, the two of them sat there for a moment.
“You want to have a look?” Freddie asked.
Perskine just nodded, but Freddie knew that this wasn’t due to taciturnity. He was smitten.
Strictly speaking, Pine Barrow was a farmhouse, although it hadn’t served as one for sixty years. The surrounding fields had been absorbed by a neighbouring farm, then turned over to the National Grid and other anonymous concerns. The house still stood, however, and had been modified and adapted by each of its subsequent owners, with various extensions and enhancements extruded out from its core. At the centre of it all was a tough stone structure, impervious to the elements. So it had to be, for as much as its position on top of the hill afforded Pine Barrow stunning views, it also left it exposed to the elements. Rain, wind and hail lashed against it constantly and such barrages left no trees to offer cover in winter or shade in the summer. Still, the enduring strength of the building gave it character. While the surface was battered, its heart remained strong and the weathered appearance gave it character. Freddie let Perskine admire the front while he got busy trying to find the right key.
The back door led straight into the kitchen, which despite being stripped of most of its features still had enough of them to make a good impression. Perskine’s eyes went straight to the Aga.
“Yeah,” Freddie said, “that’s worth about three grand in and of itself. Heats the kitchen, too. I’ve never used one myself - more of a microwave man - but people tell me nothing but good things about them.”
Perskine nodded, but said nothing. Freddie let him find his own way through the house, trailing him at a discreet distance and making comments only when they seemed necessary.
“Fireplace works,” he said as they went through to the living room. “From what I’m told, between that and the Aga, you won’t go cold downstairs. Upstairs, well, you can put electric heaters in the bedrooms and there’s an electric bar in the bathroom.”
Again, Perskine nodded and allowed himself to be led upstairs. In each of the bedrooms, he looked in wonder at both the rooms themselves and the views out of the windows. All three bedrooms were all of a good size and he started to see himself making a future in Pine Barrow. Both he and his wife could have an office of their own and fulfil their long held dream of working from home. The box room would make a perfect walk-in closet for her clothes and even though the bathroom was small, there was a huge bathtub in there. Big enough for two.
When Perskine had seen enough, Freddie took him back down to the front room and asked him what he thought.
“It’s… amazing,” Perskine said. “It’s really, really… amazing.” He shook his head. “But there’s no way I can afford it. I would love to live here, but it’s got to be five times the price of what I’m looking for.”
“You’ll be surprised,” Freddie said and mentioned a figure that made Perskine’s jaw drop.
“That can’t be right, can it?” Perskine said, agog. “That’s like giving it away.”
“But nobody wants it.” Freddie said.
“You asked me if I was superstitious,” Perskine said. “Is it… haunted?”
“No,” Freddie said and they both shared a laugh at the notion.
“Not to my knowledge,” Freddie continued, “and I’ve lived around here all my life. I don’t believe in that sort of thing, but there’s plenty that do and one of them would have told me by now. It’s not haunted, but nobody’s lived here for over ten years.”
“Why not?”
“It used to belong to John and Freida Cooper.”
It was clear that Perskine didn’t recognise the names.
“They killed thirteen people in this house,” Freddie said. “Chopped them up and buried the pieces in the ground.”
That made Perskine’s eyes widen.
“Wow,” he said. “Here?”
“Yeah.”
Freddie watched as Perskine looked around the house, the new information altering everything he thought he knew about the property.
“Amazing,” Perskine murmured. He turned back to Freddie. “Tell me more.”
“I don’t know a lot,” Freddie said with a sigh, “but from what I can recall, it was mostly hitch-hikers, or kids that had run away from home. They would offer them a place to stay for the night, or a hot meal and then… they would do away with them.”
“‘Do away with them’?” Perskine insisted. “How do you mean, exactly?”
Freddie sighed. “I don’t know all the details, but from what I recall it was mainly done with an axe from the woodshed. Frieda would make them dinner and she would flirt with them and then John would split their head open with an axe. There used to be a chest freezer in the kitchen. They would put the bodies in there for a while, then bury them in the cellar.”
“There’s a cellar?” Perskine asked.
“Yes.”
“Can I see it?”
Freddie looked at Perskine, as if considering whether he could refuse. Eventually, he relented.
“If you must.”
After the right key had been found, Freddie opened the cellar door and handed a large Duracell torch to Perskine, who switched it on and gingerly crept into the cold, dark basement. Freddie stayed by the door, where it was light. After a few minutes of wandering around and shining the torch here and there, Perskine turned back to Freddie.
“How were they caught?”
“I think they got careless,” Freddie said with a shrug. “They’d been doing it so long, they probably thought they could go on forever. Living here, you know, away from people, they must have got further and further away from reality. They just got sloppy, by all accounts.”
“Still…” Perskine muttered. “Thirteen people…”
“Yeah.”
“And now no-one wants to live here?” Perskine said, running the torch beam across the cold dirt floor of the cellar.
“Live here? No. People visit from time to time.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” Freddie sighed, seemingly disappointed that he was forced into this further revelation. “You know the type - people who get off on murder and stuff. You don’t get ‘em so much any more, but a few years ago, when the case was in the papers, they were up here pretty regular. I mean, I doubt you’d get any now, if that’s a worry…”
“And, what, they just wanted to look around?”
“Some. Others wanted… well, there were a couple of teenagers who came here one night and… they said it was one of them suicide pact things. Both of them took pills and never woke up.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah. And there was the homeless guy who broke in. Junkie, you know. Overdosed in the front room.”
“Blimey. And that’s why people don’t want to live here?”
“I suppose. It’s not like people think it’s haunted; it’s just that they know so many people died here. Not just with John and Frieda, but after that and all.”
“Was that all of them - the kids and the junkie?”
“No. There were a few more hitchhikers. They came here and never left. Nobody ever found the bodies. I think that when people come here, they sort of sense all the death in the air. That’s why most people don’t like it.”
“Huh,” Perskine said, taking one last look at the floor and ruminating on the secrets it held. “Well, that sort of thing doesn’t bother me. To be honest, I find it all quite fascinating. Has anyone ever written a book about it, because-?”
Perskine stopped mid-sentence as a thought suddenly struck him.
“But if they never found the bodies, how-?”
He turned to Freddie, who was standing in the doorway and watching Perskine very, very closely.
“Um… I think I’ve seen enough now,” Perskine said. “Can we go back upstairs?”
Freddie didn’t move. He just smiled.
“Really,” Perskine said. “I’d like to get out of here. Now.”
Freddie kept smiling.
He was, after all, in the people business.
9 - Safety
At 11:22 PM on Friday evening, PC Beresford and PC Dalton arrived at 18 Rose Hill Gardens to investigate reports of a disturbance. Neighbours had heard a commotion and the sound of a woman screaming. The house appeared quiet on approach, with a single light on in the first floor window. After ringing the doorbell several times, the door was finally answered by Shirley Cobham, a petite woman in her early 50s. She was wearing a silk kimono and appeared indifferent to the arrival of the police.
At 11:22 PM on Friday evening, PC Beresford and PC Dalton arrived at 18 Rose Hill Gardens to investigate reports of a disturbance. Neighbours had heard a commotion and the sound of a woman screaming. The house appeared quiet on approach, with a single light on in the first floor window. After ringing the doorbell several times, the door was finally answered by Shirley Cobham, a petite woman in her early 50s. She was wearing a silk kimono and appeared indifferent to the arrival of the police.
“Are you alright madam?” PC Beresford asked.
“You’d better come in,” she said.
Mrs Cobham led the officers upstairs to the bedroom, where they found Jeremy Cobham lying face up on the bed with a sabatier carving knife sticking out of his chest. PC Beresford checked for signs of life while Dalton called an ambulance and reported it to the station. When it became clear that Mr Cobham was dead and there was no chance of resuscitation, Beresford - the older of the two officers - turned to Mrs Cobham.
“Did you do that?” he asked.
She nodded. Beresford placed her under arrest. While he explained her rights to her, Shirley nodded attentively and repeatedly murmured “whatever you say”. As she this was happening, Pc Beresford noticed a large purple bruise on Mrs Cobham’s neck.
“Did he do that do you?” PC Beresford asked, pointing at the injury.
“Yes.”
“Did that sort of thing happen a lot?”
“Yes.”
“Is that why you did what you did?”
Shirley opened her mouth, but no words came out. Instinctively, her eyes went to her husband for instruction.
“It’s alright,” Beresford said. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”
The woman burst into tears, burying her head in her hands and sobbing violently. Beresford attempted to comfort her, but she refused all attempts at solace.
PC Dalton was standing by the dressing table and motioned for his colleague to come and have a look at what he had found.
Laid out on the dressing table were a ball gag, a riding crop, a leather executioner’s hood, sixteen crocodile clips, two pairs of handcuffs, a length of rope, assorted phallic objects and an ominous looking rubber thing with spikes on it.
The younger PC grinned salaciously, but Beresford sighed with mild disappointment.
“We had one rule,” Shirley said, wiping away her tears and refocusing the officers’ attention. “If either of us weren’t comfortable we just had to say ‘apple’ and we would stop. That was it, ever since the beginning. Tonight’s our anniversary, you know. Twenty years today. He said he had something special planned, but all-” she said, indicating the items on the dressing table “-isn’t anything out of the ordinary for us. It’s meat and potatoes. I was sort of disappointed when he brought it out, but we got into it and he starts hurting me and it was good for a while, but then it got more than I could bear, so I had to say ‘apple’, but he didn’t stop, just kept going and going and I kept saying it and saying it, but…
“Afterwards, he said he couldn’t help himself. Said that he was sorry and that he didn’t mean it. I knew that was a lie, so I went to the kitchen and I got the knife and I stuck it in him.”
She clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and turned to look at the body on the bed.
“Before he could say ‘apple’.”
Shirley looked at the policemen and asked: “Am I going to prison?”
Beresford said that he didn’t know. Probably.
“I hope so,” she said, before turning back to her dead husband and smiling. “I think I’d be good at it.”
8 - Salt In The Wound
“Morning Detective,” Gregory said. “Lovely morning for a murder, wouldn’t you say?”
“You’re sure that’s what it is?”
“Well, unless he’s a blooming contortionist, I don’t see how he could have stabbed himself in the back like that.”
Durban shrugged. He never ruled anything out unless he had to.
Detective Sergeant John Durban sipped rooibos tea from his flask and watched as the SOCOs sealed off the street corner. Uniformed officers directed traffic down Queen’s Road and fielded angry complaints from drivers on their way to work. Ice on the the roads had already complicated the morning commute, but that same ice had led to the discovery of the body, further delaying the irate travellers of south-east London. Still, a crime scene was a crime scene and no amount of complaining was going to alter that.
One of the Scene Of Crime Officers that Durban recognised came over and smiled a broad smile. It was Paula Gregory, a short stout blonde woman in her early thirties who had the manner of a PE teacher at a girls public school, but was one of the sharpest and most diligent technicians on the force. Durban had worked with her before and trusted her opinion above those of her supposedly more experienced colleagues.
“Morning Detective,” Gregory said. “Lovely morning for a murder, wouldn’t you say?”
“You’re sure that’s what it is?”
“Well, unless he’s a blooming contortionist, I don’t see how he could have stabbed himself in the back like that.”
Durban shrugged. He never ruled anything out unless he had to.
“Hang on a second,” he told Gregory, nodding across the road to the spot where his colleague was parking the unmarked police car, “I want Pierson to hear what you have to say.”
The pair of them waited as Detective Inspector Derek Pierson got out of the car, ducked under the police line and strode over to join them.
“Morning, John. What we got?”
“Council workman was clearing the road of ice and found a body in the salt bin. Looks to be a white male, late thirties, early forties maybe. Stripped naked. No ID, no distinguishing features.”
“Cause of death?” Pierson asked, turning to Gregory.
“Won’t know for sure until the autopsy,” she shrugged, “but he’s got a deep knife wound in the back. From the depth of the wound, I’d say it’s a stabbing with a large knife, going in the full length of the blade, rather than a slashing wound.”
Pierson took out a packet of Marlboro Lights and offered the pack around. He was the only one who lit up. Durban offered him tea from the flask, but Pierson shook his head.
“That redbush stuff?” Pierson said, taking a drag on his cigarette. “No thanks. I’d rather drink dog piss.”
That can be arranged, Durban thought.
“Did you talk to the bloke who discovered the body?” Pierson asked, taking another pull off his cigarette before exhaling a massive cloud into the cold winter air.
“Yes, guv. Danny Corcorant. Works for the council as a labourer. Bit of a drinker from the looks of him, but he seems shaken up to have discovered the body. Don’t think he’s got anything to do with it.”
“How long’s the body been in there, you think?” Pierson asked Paula Gregory.
“Difficult to say. The salt preserves the body. Could be days, maybe even weeks.”
Pierson sucked his teeth in disapproval, then turned his attention to Durban, who was staring at the yellow salt bin.
“What are you thinking, John?”
“The Ancient Egyptians used salt as part of the mummification process. Well, natron actually, which is a similar chemical compound. I’m wondering if there isn’t some significance to this beside the mundane. I think I’m going to need to speak to someone at the British Museum.”
Gregory stared at the floor and Pierson resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. Durban was a good detective, but had a tendency to launch straight into an esoteric line of enquiry without first considering the more mundane (and perhaps more plausible) options directly in front of him.
“Err… Maybe somewhere down the line,” Pierson said. “For the moment I want you to concentrate on the process these bins get filled by. I want to know whether the body was dumped here, or at the… refinery?” He shook his head. “Whatever the fuck it is that you call a place that makes salt. You understand?”
Durban nodded, but didn’t make eye contact with his superior.
“Was there anything else you wanted to know?” Gregory asked. “Otherwise I’ll get back to it, if that’s OK.”
“Go ahead,” Pierson said. Once the SOCO was out of earshot, he turned to John and murmured: “Come sit in the car for a moment. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
Durban threw the rest of his tea away and followed the Super back to his Vectra. when they were both inside and the heater had run for thirty seconds, Pierson launched into it.
“It’s a bit delicate,” he said, biting his lip as he spoke. “I wanted to talk to you outside the station, you know, but there never seemed to be a good time. I had hoped we could talk about it over a pint or something, but you never come to The Eagle and it never…” The DI blew out his cheeks in exasperation. “Look, there’s no easy way to go about it, so I’ll just say it.”
“Right,” Durban said. He knew what was coming and it wasn’t a rebuke. If it had been a bollocking, Pierson wouldn’t have pussy-footed around like this. Instead, Pierson was finally going to tell Durban that he was seeing his ex-wife. This, apparently, was supposed hard for Durban to hear, which is why Pierson was making such a song and dance about it. Durban was bored already, but he knew he had a part to play, so read his lines like a pro.
“What is it you need to say?” he asked.
“I’ve been seeing Carol,” Pierson said. “About four months now. It wasn’t something either of us planned, but it just sort of happened and… well, it’s starting to become a bit more serious.”
Durban feigned shock by widening his eyes and looking out of the window.
“Wow. I… uh, didn’t see that coming.”
It was bullshit. Durban had deduced that there was a relationship between his ex-wife and his DI months ago. It didn’t bother him, but he knew that it was supposed to.
Pierson looked at him with grim concern. “Yeah, I know. I want you to know that neither of us planned it and that there was never anything going on while the two of you were married.”
“Really?”
“Really. I know things didn’t end well for the two of you, but that doesn’t mean… All I’m saying is that I hope that you’re OK with this. I know it must feel a bit strange - your ex and your DI shacking up - but I don’t want this to become an issue between us.”
Durban didn’t think that such a thing was entirely Pierson’s decision, but didn’t bother to say as much. Instead, he took a deep breath that was supposed to signify that he was taking it on the chin.
“Well… It’s come a little out of the blue,” Durban lied, “but I appreciate you being straight with me. And, you know… even though it didn’t work out between me and her, I do want Carol to be happy. If that’s with you… well, good luck to the both of you.”
“That’s very decent of you,” Pierson said, “very decent indeed. I’ve wanted to tell you for a while, but…”
“It’s OK. I know how it is,” Durban said. He didn’t, but could pretend to if need be. Now that he was struck with the reality of his suspicions, he found them almost laughable. Of course she would choose Pierson. The two of them made more sense than he and Carol ever had. Carol liked George Clooney and Chicken Kievs. Pierson read Andy McNab and drank beer out of a can.
“Listen, John, there’s a reason I’m telling you this now,” Pierson said.
Because you finally plucked up the courage? Durban thought, or because you couldn’t take the guilt any more?
“Carol’s pregnant.”
And this time, Durban didn’t need to feign shock. A weight pressed down on his chest and was several seconds until remembered how to breath. When he did, he almost blurted ‘but Carol doesn’t want kids’, until he realised that this unshakable belief was his own assumption, rather than anything his ex-wife had ever expressed. The truth, it seemed, was that she didn’t want children with him. He felt a slicing pain in his gut, but decided to stow it away for later, when he could treat it at home with a bottle of Cachaça and a slow raking over old coals.
“Congratulations, Derek. That’s fantastic news,” Durban heard himself say. “I’m please for you both.”
Pierson looked at him with wary hope. “I know it seems a bit sudden,” he said, gabbing rapidly to work through his nerves, “but we’re not getting any younger and we might not get another opportunity. It wasn’t exactly planned. Not exactly.”
“I understand,” Durban said, staring through the windshield at a ghostly vision of Pierson impregnating Carol. It wasn’t a pretty sight and he didn’t want to watch, but his mind’s eye refused to close so he just stared at the phantasms.
“You’re OK with it?” Pierson asked. “Really?”
“Yeah. I didn’t think I would be, but I am. I really am.” Durban turned away from the sexual spectres outside the car and looked at the flesh and blood Pierson sitting beside him. “Carol will be a great mother. She deserves this chance to be happy. You both do.”
“Thank you,” Pierson nodded before leaning back and exhaling loudly. “Boy, I can’t tell you how nervous I was about that.”
“I’m sure. But thanks for telling me. I’ll call Carol this evening, but in the meantime pass on my congratulations, won’t you?”
“Will do.”
Durban nodded and kept a rictus grin fixed on his face. He didn’t know what else to say and there was a long pause as both men tried to find a comfortable exit.
“Well-” they both said simultaneously, before laughing about it.
“Better get back to it,” Durban blurted as he bundled himself out of the car. “I’ll see you back at the station.”
Shutting the door behind him was a relief and each step towards the crime scene made him feel a little better. Each breath of the cold morning air cleared his head and the further he got from Pierson, the less sick he felt. Having the last word was Pierson’s speciality, however, and even in this delicate situation he couldn’t let it go. Durban heard his name being called through an open car window and was forced turn around and look back at the wife-shagging bastard.
“Maybe give the BM a call about that mummification thing,” Pierson shouted. “You never know, eh?”
Durban nodded and gave a thumbs up - a gesture that felt utterly alien to him - and muttered ‘patronising wanker’ under his breath as Pierson rolled up the window and started to drive away. The Vectra beeped as it went past and Durban’s eye once again fell on the salt bin containing the body. He idly wondered how many roads around here were yet to be cleared of ice and whether Pierson’s Vectra had anti-lock brakes. While calculating the likelihood of a fatal accident, he walked back over to where Gregory was standing.
“Mind if I have a look?” he said, pulling on latex gloves and looking at the corpse.
“Be my guest,” she said. “He’s not going anywhere.”
Durban looked at the body in the salt. The white crystals looked like snow and even though the dead man didn’t look comfortable, there was a certain peace to him.
“Was he dead when he went in there?” Durban asked.
“Can’t tell at the moment. We’ll have to wait for the autopsy.”
“It would have hurt like hell, though, wouldn’t it?” Durban wondered aloud. “You know what they say about salt in the wound…”
Paula Gregory clucked her tongue and tilted her head to one side as she considered the point.
“Least of his worries, I would have thought.”
Durban wanted to look more closely at the body, but his vision was blurry, so he stepped back and turned away.
“Everything all right?” Gregory asked.
Durban nodded and quickly rubbed his eyes with the sleeve of his coat.
“Let me know when you have something more,” he said, then turned and walked away. There was work to be done - statements to be taken, facts to be checked, theories to be considered.
But all Durban wanted was to find a yellow bin of his own.
7 - All Of You Are Going To Get it
The first one is my neighbour. He plays his music all day and night, but then has the balls to complain to me about some mould coming through the walls, as if that’s my fault. I’m just leaving my flat and locking the mortice when he comes out to meet me. He’s probably still up from the night before and it’s difficult to make out what he’s saying, but once I’ve finished locking up, I put my keys back in my pocket and turn to face him.
What about the mould? he asks. What are you doing about it?
My answer is one quick karate chop to the throat.
The first one is my neighbour. He plays his music all day and night, but then has the balls to complain to me about some mould coming through the walls, as if that’s my fault. I’m just leaving my flat and locking the mortice when he comes out to meet me. He’s probably still up from the night before and it’s difficult to make out what he’s saying, but once I’ve finished locking up, I put my keys back in my pocket and turn to face him.
What about the mould? he asks. What are you doing about it?
My answer is one quick karate chop to the throat. Startled and unable to breathe, his hands go up to protect his neck. With the arms occupied, there’s no difficulty in manoeuvring him round and banging his head against the concrete wall of the corridor. I beat out the same four-four rhythm as the atrocious club music he plays all hours of the day. Eventually, though, the drums get too squidgy, so I let his body fall to the floor and step carefully over the soggy part where his face used to be.
Walking down the corridor, I tread lightly so as not to attract the attention of Mrs Docherty, who would doubtless tell me of all the horrific things she had seen the “little brown ones” doing on the estate. I sneak past her door, but the sound of the lift must get her attention, as she scurries out as I press the button for the ground floor.
“Is that you?” she asks and I just get the tiniest glimpse of her as the doors close. It’s not much, just a thin vertical viewport, but I take the opportunity to flick a ninja star through the gap. I have just enough time to hear it thunk into her forehead. As a bonus I get too see her expression change from pursed disapproval to horrified shock, before the doors close, her body falls and I never have to see her again.
On the journey down, I ready myself for the lobby. I wish I could tell you that it’s jam-packed full of armed guards and that I was steeling myself for a Matrixian orgy of bulletplay, but the truth is that there’s only ever one guard on duty and I all I need is the small Derringer I keep in my ankle holster. There’s a security camera in the lift, but I doubt that anyone watches it. Still, I go through the charade of tying my shoe so I can slip the compact pistol into my hand as inconspicuously as possible.
When the doors open, I stride out confidently and walk up to the bulletproof glass that’s supposed to protect the security guard inside.
“Good morning!” I say to the obese attendant behind, before inserting the slim barrel of the Derringer into speaking hole and pulling the trigger.
Pop, one in the guard’s right eye. Pop, one in the left. The bullets may be small, but when they go through soft eyeballs and directly into the brain, they do the job as well as anything. It’s something the designers never saw coming, but then no-one’s as good a shot as me.
“Have a good day!” I say cheerily to the pile of flesh and spilled papers in the security office, before pushing open the heavy door to the block and stepping outside.
The teenagers hanging out in the courtyard are easily dispatched - one fragmentation grenade thrown at their overpriced trainers gives them just a second to consider that maybe they shouldn’t call people “battyman” for no reason. Then the thunder comes and hot shards of shrapnel rip through them while I continue on to the bus stop.
Going to work at the same time every day means you get to recognise faces. You never really know them, but you know what they’re like. Girl With Croissant always spills crumbs on the floor, Bald Telegraph Reader thinks his rustling pages conceal the sound of his morning farts (they don’t) and even though she’s always here first, Humming Lady always lets people push in front of her, specifically Sweaty Suit Man.
Not today, though.
When the 48 comes and Sweaty Suit Man steps forward, I unsheathe my katana and decapitate him with one swift blow, removing his head in a straight line above the greying collar of his aged Burton shirt. Everyone pauses to watch his head bounce into the gutter, but as soon as the bus pulls up, it’s business as usual. Everyone moves forward until I raise the ninja sword again and nod to Humming Lady. She whispers a humble thank you as she steps onto the bus.
The 48 is so crowded that I have to stand on the top deck, despite the sign that specifically says that this is not permitted. I tell myself that it’s OK, that we’re all just trying to get where we’re going and to this end I make sure not to kill anyone on the bus. A death on board would make the driver stop and investigate. The controller would be radioed, the police would come… and I would be late for work. Instead, I take out my blowpipe and poison darts and aim through the small window to the street below. As it turns out, there are numerous targets. The fashion students get blowpiped on general principle, as do the gaggle of noisy Italian exchange students once they get off the bottom deck. I kill a couple of pedestrians, a traffic warden and even a guide dog as the bus lurches through traffic, all through the small aperture at the top of the window. The shot I’m most pleased with is the one that goes not only through the narrow bus window, but also the small opening at the top of the driver’s side window of the BMW idling beside us at the lights. The guy driving the beemer is not only using an electric shaver behind the wheel, he’s also talking on the phone and blasting The Black Eyed Peas at an indecent volume. The dart hits him at an unshaven point on his cheek and the BMW stays at the lights while the 48 judders away from it. That’s the highlight, but puncturing the front tyre of a retro BMX being ridden by a poseur twat is a close second. He loses control of his ridiculously undersized bike and careers under the wheels of a cement mixer. Top deck pot-shots prove to be so much fun that when the bus starts to empty out, I stay standing just for the sport. The bus continues to leave dozens of corpses in its wake until I reach my destination, when I press the bell, head down the stairs and put the blowpipe back in my coat pocket.
The walk from the bus stop to the office is usually a combative race, all elbow jabs and people crossing invisible lanes to gain an advantage. A silenced 9mm Glock makes everything a lot easier, however. I’m able to walk at my own pace, quietly thudding bullets into the back of people’s skulls and walking over their fallen corpses. The silencer is essential. As well as sounding cool, it means that no-one else notices, tries to help and thereby gets in my way. I go through three full clips by the time I get to the pelican crossing in front of my building. A guy in a wheelchair is having trouble negotiating the kerb, so I use my super strength to rip the brakes off his chair and roll him out into the road. That stops traffic long enough for me to cross.
My company is based on the eighth floor of the building, but I’m not going to squeeze into the lift with the other sardines. Instead, I rack my shotgun and fire six shells into the elevator, killing everyone inside. One of them is Sandra from HR, which is an added bonus. Perhaps in her last moments, she will regret querying my overtime request. I drop the shotgun outside the lift and stroll over to the stairs, whistling “Boom Boom Pow” to myself as I start to bound up the stairs two at a time. That’s a little too zealous for me and by the time I get to the second floor, I settle down to a more sensible gait. When a young IT manager passes me on the way down, I make a point to kick his legs out from under him and watch him tumble down the steps, his head crunching on every single one. That makes me feel a little better, but not much and after two more floors I’m sweating buckets and I’ve got a sharp pain in my left hand. I should probably stop and have a rest, but after the joyous slaughter of the morning, I really want to cap it off by splitting open my line manager’s head with an axe. It’s the only thing that makes coming into work worthwhile.
I get to the seventh floor (lucky number seven, I tell myself) when I walk into an elephant, which tells me very firmly to stop walking, which I do. As if that wasn’t enough, the elephant uses its trunk - heavier than you might think - to swat me down to the floor. The elephant then proceed to sit its big grey arse on my chest. The crushing weight is unbelievably painful, but I think if I stay still, maybe it won’t be so bad.
There’s another shockwave of pain and it becomes clear that this is something serious. I’m having a heart attack, right here on the stairs of my office building. It seems such a ridiculous thing to happen that I can barely believe it. And as the biggest, sharpest pain comes and the elephant bears down on me again, there’s one final thought that echoes through my darkening mind.
You fuckers. I’ll get you for this.
6 - Dr. Kenner's Journal
Day 187
Johnson’s really starting to get on my nerves. I know it’s inevitable, given that we’re alone together in the Antarctic studying ice samples, but I really am beginning to find him quite tiresome. He keeps making the same jokes over and over again. If I hear him say one more time that he’s just popping out to the shops for a pint of milk, I think I might snap.
Day 187
Johnson’s really starting to get on my nerves. I know it’s inevitable, given that we’re alone together in the Antarctic studying ice samples, but I really am beginning to find him quite tiresome. He keeps making the same jokes over and over again. If I hear him say one more time that he’s just popping out to the shops for a pint of milk, I think I might snap.
Day 188
I find it difficult to maintain my calm when Johnson insists on acting like a child. He seems to be under the impression that we’re in primary school and keeps playing pranks of the most juvenile order. I was pulling on my coat to go over to the supply station when I found that my hood was full of snow. I’ve got as good a sense of humour as anyone, but we are in a dangerous, unforgiving environment and cannot afford to take risks. I made this very clear to Johnson as I was scooping snow out of my hair and hood. He had the temerity to tell me to keep a cool head.
Day 192
Making good progress with Specimens 18-24, although it’s too soon to say whether the results we’re seeing are due to seasonal aberration or are part of a larger trend. Still, I’m pleased that the results are so consistent and it bodes well for further funding. I know that some of my peers thought it a mistake to begin with only a two man team, but I honestly believe I had no choice.
Day 193
Things got very tense in the lab this morning. Johnson thinks it’s hilarious to make farting noises while I’m recording notes on my dictaphone. Needless to say, I do not. Eventually, I had to tell him to stop it and he accused me of being a killjoy. No matter how many times I try to remind him that we have a serious purpose for being here, he always says that he’s just trying to lighten the mood. I suppose I shouldn’t blame him for that. I’ll try to be more tolerant.
Day 194
Johnson has been feeding the huskies chocolate again. I’ll have to take it up with him, because our lives depend on those dogs, but I’m not looking forward to another round of accusations and recriminations.
Day 195
As I feared, my casual enquiry as to the diet of the livestock caused Johnson to lose his temper and make all sorts of unnecessary and inappropriate comments. I was as calm as could be and stated once again that the huskies were not pets and in any case, chocolate was not good for canines, to which Johnson first stated that he was well aware of the facts and hadn’t been feeding them anyway. His story changes from minute to minute, but pointing that out to him only makes things worse. I decided not to press the matter any further.
Day 197
Things have been tense ever since Johnson and I argued about the huskies and Johnson has been sulking like a teenager. What’s worse is that he seems to be trying to deliberately act out. It’s happening in very small ways, but it makes for a very tense atmosphere.
Day 198
After seven hours of research, I decided to relax this evening by watching a DVD. Somehow, the player’s language settings have been compromised and it will only play discs with a Hindi soundtrack and Greek subtitles. I suspect this is Johnson’s work, but I can’t prove it. I decided to stick it out anyway and defiantly watched “Wallander” without understanding a word.
Day 200
Johnson still sulking, which means he isn’t talking much. Unfortunately, this doesn’t mean that he’s being quiet, as his lack of speech is offset by the incredible amount of noise he makes as he walks around the compound, crashing into everything in his path. It’s most distracting. When I try to talk to him about it, he says he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. To be honest, I deeply regret assigning him to this expedition. While his professional credentials are impeccable, I now see that he is a deeply flawed human being and not the sort of person one should spend any amount of time with.
Day 201
I have been laid low with the most dreadful case of stomach flu I have ever encountered. Horrible D&V. Unable to move more than ten feet away from the latrine and have had to station myself in there with a laptop. I’ve not experienced anything it since I volunteered as a student in Nepal and drank some contaminated water. Truth be told, I haven’t experienced anything like this in any of the six other polar expeditions I have made (if anything, the opposite has been true and things have been rather difficult to accomplish). Anyway, I’ve been put into quarantine as a precaution. It’s giving me lots of time to think.
Day 202
Johnson made dinner that night.
Day 203
I keep turning it over in my mind and the more I think about it, the more suspicious I grow about Johnson’s actions on the night I got sick. He was peculiarly insistent about preparing the food, even though it wasn’t his turn. He’s usually rather truculent about about doing anything for anyone else, whether it’s expected of him or not, and yet he insisted on making dinner. At the time, I thought it was a peace offering, but now…
Day 204
Am I crazy for thinking like this? For all his faults, Johnson is a scientist who has dedicated himself to the betterment of humanity. Is it possible for someone like that to act in such a wilfully dangerous manner to a fellow scholar? I wish I could say no, but I’ve seen many a learned fellow act like a spoilt child when their carefully-constructed world views are challenged. Does that mean Johnson would endanger my health, just because of a few petty disagreements? A person would have to be severely unbalanced to even consider such a thing, wouldn’t they?
Day 205
Johnson moved a TV in front of the small window in the quarantine area and has been playing “Ever Decreasing Circles” through the porthole. No sound, of course, and the subtitle track is still all Cyrillic, but it’s a distraction from the dark matters at the heart of the Johnson situation. I’m feeling rather faint at the moment. I lost a lot of body fluid through my various expulsions and I’m finding it difficult to keep anything down.
Day 206
A face keeps appearing at the window, staring at me and doing a slit-throat mime. Sometimes it looks like Johnson and sometimes it looks like Richard Briers. They both have the same bobble hat. I want to get out of this room.
Day 207
I asked Johnson when I could come out of quarantine. He said it would be a couple of days yet. I don’t see what can be taking so long. It was just a case of stomach flu / food poisoning. Why would he insist on keeping me in isolation? Is it that the disease is worse than first thought, or is there another reason for not letting me out?
Day 208
I keep hearing strange sounds coming from outside the quarantine room. I don’t know what Johnson is doing out there. I don’t trust Johnson, but I need to earn his trust if I’m ever to get out of here. Although… maybe I’m safer in here, by myself. I’m not sure I’ll feel secure if I’m out there, where Johnson can get to me at any time.
Day 209
Quarantine over! I’ve never been so happy. Johnson said that the danger had passed, although by what means he determined this, I couldn’t say. Still, it felt good to be able to return to my quarters. It felt strange, being in the rest of the building, however. Things have been moved around and changed. All the photographs have been taken down from the communal areas and Johnson has moved the stereo system into his quarters. I thought it best not to ask why, as I would like to keep things cordial. Johnson is trying to act friendly and he even opened one of his precious bottle of scotch in order to celebrate my freedom. I politely refused, as I will not eat or drink anything that he has touched. I cannot risk being poisoned again. I’m out of quarantine, but that doesn’t mean I can relax. While I was in isolation, I only had one door to watch. Now, danger could some from anywhere.
Day 211
Johnson has become rather taciturn, whereas I find myself being more verbose than ever. Perhaps it’s a reaction to being in isolation, but I seem to have developed a serious case of logghorrea. It’s as if our roles have reversed - I’m full of blithe jocularity, whereas he is the very model of quiet suspicion. It’s frustrating, because I know there’s no real way to allay his fears without stoking them further. Such is the paranoid mindset. I’m grateful not to be in that frame of mind any more and it’s frustrating to see in manifesting in someone else. Of course, the question remains - why is Johnson so paranoid? What does he have to hide?
Day 212
Smothered Johnson in his sleep last night. I didn’t have a choice. He was acting so strangely that it was just a matter of time until he killed me. He struggled underneath the pillow, but the process was surprisingly easy. I realise that writing it down here is an admission of guilt, but when read amongst the other entries I’m sure it will all make sense. Surely anyone can see that I had to do it. Johnson was not only an impediment to the scientific progress of the project, but he was also mentally unstable and had proved on several occasions that he had homicidal intentions. I wish I hadn’t had to do it, but now that I don’t have to put up with his idiotic jokes any more I can finally get some real work done.
Day 213
Today was fantastically productive. I was not only able to analyse the latest data sets, but I also programmed an algorithm that will highlight anomalous trends and automatically correct the data. It’s wonderful to be able to work in peace and quiet. Johnson’s body is still in his bunk, but I don’t have time to deal with it now. I’ve got to catch up with work.
Day 214
Looking back over the research for the past six weeks, I’m shocked at what a bad state it’s in. Much of this is Johnson’s fault, of course, but I have to bear some responsibility for it as well. As I review the materials, I can see fundamental errors which never should have been allowed to slip through. Of course, The Johnson situation accounts for a lot of these mistakes and now that has been resolved I can go back and amend the original research data so that it is more supportive of my hypothesis. My only concern is that it may not be entirely ethical.
Day 215
Have decided to go ahead with the revisions. Presenting a coherent proof is more important than any fusty notions of empirical propriety. I rewrote the sample logs for the entire expedition and burned the originals. Wondered whether to burn this journal as well, but then realised that it is the only company I have nowadays. Without it, I might turn peculiar.
Day 216
Now that I’m free from the shackles of provability, I am doing some truly remarkable work. It seems that every hour I am making extraordinary discoveries which will revolutionise science. New theories present themselves in quick succession and my only problem is keeping up with them all. I originally came to Antarctica to do some piddling research on the deterioration of permafrost, but now I have stumbled on the great truth at the heart of the universe. I thought I needed a laboratory and funding to conduct my work. Now I see that all really needed was isolation. Great work can only take place away from the chatter of modern society and the tedious business of other people. I just need to keep working. No time for sleep. No time to eat.
Day 218
Frustrating day. Am on the verge of discovery, but nothing seems to be fitting together properly. Johnson mocks me from beyond, not with jokes and false flatulence, but with a noxious stench that distracts me from my work. The odour of his corpse really is most unpleasant, but I cannot allow myself to become distracted. I am on the verge of greatness. I haven’t studied physics since secondary school, but I am drawing up plans for a perpetual motion machine.
Day 219
Work on the PMM has hit a wall and for that I blame Johnson.
Day 220
Johnson’s body has disappeared. I don’t know what to make of it. I don’t think I moved it, but I can’t say for sure. I’ve been so busy that it’s difficult to keep track of everything. Maybe I took him out of his bunk and buried him in the snow. I don’t remember. Whatever happened, it means there’s less of a stink in the sleeping quarters, which is good. Back to work.
Day 221
The perpetual motion machine was folly. Madness. I can’t afford to get sidetracked with these distractions. I have no business dabbling in physics and must limit myself to my field of expertise. With that in mind, I am refocusing on practical, rational science - the transmutation of lead into gold.
Day 223
Stripped all the lead out of the Support Centre. It affects the insulation and I had to pull out a lot of wiring to get to it. As a result, half of the electrical systems have gone down. Am wondering now if I have the necessary reagents to perfect the alchemical process. I was going to check the stocks in the supply centre when I felt snow in the hood of my coat. I don’t know what this means.
Day 224
It occurred to me today that I couldn’t remember the last time I fed the huskies. When I went out there, only three of them had died. Only three? Surely more should have perished through starvation? Unless… has someone else been feeding them? Is it possible that Johnson was only pretending to be dead and has in fact been hiding in the facility this whole time? His sabotage has been subtle, but effective. It would explain why none of my experiments are working as they should.
Day 226
Spent the day hunting for Johnson, but still he eludes me. It’s difficult to stop looking, but I realised that by making me chase him, he’s doing exactly what he wanted - stopping me from working. It’s difficult to see a solution. If I leave him alone, he wins. If I chase him, he wins. It’s enough to drive you crazy.
Day 227
I think I’m hearing voices. Not Johnson’s voice, though. These are new. Strange. They keep repeating the same phrases over and over, asking if there is anyone there. Of course there’s someone there. Me. I’m here.
Day 228
Turns out the voices were just the radio. Had a good laugh about that. The relief team will be coming in 3 days. I have just 72 to hours to find Johnson and beat the truth out of him.
Day 229
Doing everything I can to bring Johnson out of hiding. Sometimes I try to act friendly and other times I threaten him, but nothing seems to work. I’ve tried using blasting Mantovani through the PA system because I know how much he hates it. Still, he refuses to come out from wherever it is he’s hiding.
Day 230
I killed all the remaining huskies today. I know how fond Johnson is of them and hoped to provoke some reaction from him, but to no avail. I’ve searched everywhere on the base, but he’s nowhere to be found.
Day 240
Well, this is confusing. The relief team came this morning and quickly asked what happened here. The strange thing is that they keep calling me Johnson and asking what happened to Dr Kenner is. The leader of the relief team is a man called Peters, who says he’s met me before, but if that’s the case, why won’t he use my proper name? I’ve stated time and time again that I am Kenner, but they won’t listen. It’s all so strange. They’re talking about taking me somewhere, but I don’t know what they mean. They’ve asked to see my journal and I’m happy to give it to them, as I think it will explain everything. With that in mind, I think this will be my last entry, at least for a while. Hopefully, this misunderstanding will be cleared up and I can return to my studies.
I think I’m on the verge of something important.
5 - One In, One Out
On the 1st of January at 12:02 AM, the following took place at The Wash nightclub in Dalston.
On the 1st of January at 12:02 AM, the following took place at The Wash nightclub in Dalston.
On the roof terrace:
Graham shuddered to the first orgasm he had ever shared with another person and thought that this was going to be the best year ever.
Paul was one of many people who were pretending they couldn’t see the couple shagging behind the azalea bushes.
Simone was wondering why there weren’t any fireworks. Weren’t there supposed to be fireworks on New Years Eve? Where were the fireworks?
Fergus was considering throwing Simone off the roof if she didn’t shut up about fireworks.
Tammy was having her last cigarette before quitting.
Keith was trying to discreetly roll a spliff without attracting too much attention.
Georgina thought Keith looked like a young Jeremy Vine. Apart from the dreadlocks, obviously.
Maria was trying to get people singing and didn’t understand why no one was joining in.
Claudette was one of several people wondering why Maria was singing “How Much is That Doggy In The Window?”
Hadley wanted to go back inside.
Sandeep was wondering who his ex-girlfriend had kissed at midnight.
Tara thought she and Sandeep had a future together.
Harry was wondering who the fuck invited their dad out for New Year’s Eve.
Ron was talking about the pills back in the day and how you just had to take one and you were on one for the rest of the night.
Chas hadn’t felt old until he’d seen the expressions of amused contempt on the faces of those kids as they took the piss out of his brother.
Billy looked at the skyline and wondered what the year ahead would bring.
On the upper staircase:
Caroline was crying.
Julianne had her arm around Caroline, was rubbing her shoulder and said “there, there” but wasn’t really in the mood to be going through these dramas so early in the evening.
Nicholas stood around awkwardly, wondering what – if anything – he could do.
Genovese was knocking on the office door, so Ken could reset the credit card terminal.
In the office:
Ken was busy racking up lines of coke.
DJ Dan Diamond was promising himself that he would stop taking crappy bookings in these shitty two-bit clubs.
Chantelle was wondering if Ken expected her to shag DJ Dan Diamond.
Vicki wished she’d been able to get tickets for Ministry.
Pete was fairly sure he’d once had a handjob from DJ Dan Diamond at a festival in Berlin.
In the stock cupboard:
A mouse was nibbling on a pistachio nut.
In the first floor bar:
Sam was ignoring his boss’s previous warnings about drug use and necked two pills behind the bar.
Georgia thought that if Sam wanted to keep his job, he should either be more discreet or learn how to share.
Hamish still couldn’t get served, even when there was nobody else standing there.
Chris wasn’t sure whether to say Happy New Year to Pauline or Sabrina, so just stood there with his arms half outstretched to the room in general.
Sabrina was hugging Pauline and telling her that it was going to be their year. THEIR YEAR.
Pauline wished that Sabrina hadn’t eaten so much garlic before coming out.
Freddie was waiting for Sabrina to shut up so he could say Happy New Year to Pauline.
Tim was putting something in Pauline’s drink.
Kenneth wasn’t sure he wanted to hang around with Tim any more.
Michelle was wishing that she had stayed at home.
Tom was wishing that Michelle would take that look off her face and at least pretend to have a good time.
Carol hoped that she and Julius didn’t end up like Tom and Michelle.
Julius felt homesick.
Maxine was sick, but kept her mouth shut and was doing her best to swallow it without anyone noticing.
Jack tried to make a move on Maxine and didn’t understand why she wouldn’t kiss him.
Sharon watched Jack make a fool of himself and knew that she would be the one he went home with at the end of the night.
Andy thought he definitely was in with Sharon.
Penelope suddenly felt a sharp pain under her chin, like she’d been punched by an iron fist. She fell to the floor and was dead before reached it.
Kevin thought that Penelope was just staggering because she was drunk and was about to laugh at her. Then he saw the blood.
Jocasta was about to slap that fucking bitch that was bumping into her.
Coralina wished she’d worn better shoes. That heel was just about to snap.
Patti wasn’t going to be able to take her top back tomorrow. Not with Bacardi spilled down the back and sweat in the pits.
Carl had his hands on the skinny arse of some girl he had been introduced to twice, but whose name he had forgotten.
Jemima wondered if wanting to get off with a black guy - any black guy - was racist.
Callie had never seen what happened to Jemima when she drank and now understood why she generally only had lemonade at their works do’s.
Samson wanted to know why this one wasn’t as much fun as her friend.
Roxanne wondered what the point of wearing makeup and putting on nice clothes when guys went for scruffy old tarts.
Jack thought seventy-five a gram was extortionate, even for New Year’s Eve.
Toby would have given the gear away for free if it meant he could go home and be with Joy and the baby, but Ansell needed his money and wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Sandra watched the deal go down and reminded herself that she was off-duty.
Bea was only pretending to be drunk. It was the only way she could justify acting the way she did.
Kayleigh wondered why Bea had to get so wankered every time they went out.
On the lower staircase:
Kyle was explaining this theory about a universal consciousness and how we are all different vibrational frequencies of the same energy.
Sharon had no fucking idea what this guy was on about.
Pauline was just pleased that she had found somewhere to sit down.
Derek had surreptitiously bombed a load of speed and wanted to head back to the dancefloor.
Rose made a joke about ants in the pants, then blushed furiously for no discernible reason.
Luke had no idea that the woman he was snogging would be his wife by this time next year.
Cora was glad she had brought mints and condoms out with her.
Dave skipped down the stairs two at a time, keen to get back to the serious business of strutting his stuff.
In the gents toilet:
Bill was completely missing the target and pissing all over his shoes.
Kamal couldn’t go.
Wendall was thinking that if he didn’t pull tonight, he might try being gay for a bit.
Nigel was remembering the time he ate a urinal cake for a bet and had to go and have his stomach pumped. Why didn’t he have nights like that any more?
David didn’t notice that there was blood in his piss, but could feel the stinging sensation.
Pete was trying not to be rude as he knocked on the cubicle door, but he was about twelve seconds away from shitting his pants.
Clyde told whoever it was outside knocking to fuck off and die.
Jacques was tapping his arm, trying to find a vein.
Andre hated toilet men and tried not to make eye contact.
Keith smiled as he held out a towel to the guy washing his hands.
Idris waited patiently for his turn and was careful not to make eye contact with anyone or any thing.
In the main room:
DJ Cheddar didn’t care if it made him a sellout - this year he was definitely going to produce a mash-up version of “Auld Lang Syne” and make a fortune.
Cheryl had dropped a contact lens and was weighing up the pros and cons of trying to find it versus spending the rest of the night winking like a pirate.
Liz wished she wasn’t on her period.
Kevin thought Liz smelled funny.
Theresa had dropped six pills and didn’t feel a thing. If she saw that scrawny fucker that had ripped her off, she was going to rip his tits off.
Dreamer was just there for the music. He didn’t hold with this new years shit.
Christos had been dancing for over and hour and hadn’t moved his feet once.
Sami thought house was for poofs and hairdressers, but these girls seemed to be into it, so…
Hector made the box.
Charlene liked to dance, but preferred it if guys were a bit clumsy. For some reason, she found it reassuring.
Veronica had been saving the last few drops of her vodka and coke for twenty minutes, waiting for someone to buy her a drink.
Bettina wondered why she was getting funny looks.
Lewis didn’t want to stare, but couldn’t help but notice that girl’s dress had gone totally see-through.
Bernard didn’t mind staring at all.
Francis thought they didn’t make tunes like this any more, even though the song had, in fact, only been released three weeks ago.
Indigo would rather have been in Bali.
Karl couldn’t work out what that guy was so upset about.
Frank knew trouble when he saw it and was pushing Karl and Dayton away from the dance floor.
Dayton was pissed off they had to leave. That girl in the see through dress was hot.
Fiona saw the flash above the crowd and thought it was a firecracker.
Ben did his best to aim Stephan’s hand way from the crowd, but couldn’t stop him from pulling the trigger.
Stephen had got the gun from his uncle and would have used it on that pussyhole motherfucker, if Ben hadn’t smacked his hand upwards and sent the shot into the ceiling.
Jason felt his eardrum burst as something loud exploded near his head.
Isaac knew what that pop meant and started running for the door.
Jen wanted to know where the fuck Isaac was going.
Freya didn’t know what the fight was about, but felt certain that her stupid little brother had been the cause of it.
Gemini thought it was typical. You couldn’t go for a dance without stupid men ruining everything.
Inga wanted chips.
Marco was feeling self conscious, but didn’t want anyone to know it.
Heidi was never drinking Jagermeister again.
Delores was considering a round of Aftershocks.
Jacqui thought she might go blonde this year.
Krystof kept one eye on his rucksack, which was in the corner of the room.
In the ladies toilet:
Kirsty had noticed that one of her pupils was larger than the other and couldn’t stop staring at them.
Petra was wondering if her top made her look too slutty… or not slutty enough.
Christine was systematically washing every square centimeter of her hands while counting to five hundred and fifty five.
Jessie was using her lipstick to write “Cora is a big fat slag” on the cubicle wall.
Verity was wondering whether she could ask the girl in the next cubicle if there was any loo roll in hers.
Kat thought she felt something snap in her nose as she took that last bump.
Gina didn’t like the way Kat was scratching.
Louise had totally emptied her stomach, but still had the dry heaves.
Clair was holding back Louise’s hair and wondering whether putting her in a cab and sending her home alone made her a bad person.
Joe was having his first night out as a woman and apart from a couple of odd looks here and there, was actually starting to have a good time.
In the cloakroom:
Petra realised that she’d forgotten to put any tickets on hangers and was looking intently at items of clothing to see if she could remember to whom they belonged.
Paolo slid an iPhone out of a coat pocket and put it in his bag.
On the door:
Ansell was telling a pissed student to fuck off home.
Miguel was laughing.
Donald didn’t know why these guards were outside his hall of residence and wouldn’t let him go to his room.
Tania was one minute into the New Year and had already broken her resolution to stop smoking.
Heidi was wishing she’d worn tights. It was freezing out there.
Donna thought that drunk guy went to her university and might be on her Introduction to Economic Theory course.
Marie was trying to get a signal on her phone to send messages to all her friends.
Penny had a signal, but no messages.
4 - Last Christmas
Jim and Toby had both worked in the health service long enough to know that you took Christmas when you could. Jim was a radiographer and was rostered on-call for the 24 hours spanning Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, while Toby was a paramedic working the graveyard shift of Christmas Day evening to noon on Boxing Day. They resolved, therefore, to have their own little Christmas on the 23rd, in Jim’s flat, while everybody else was still shopping and making last minute preparations. It was early days in their relationship. They had been introduced by mutual friends at a work function some four months earlier and while neither of them were quite ready to say it, both thought that this could be something special.
Jim and Toby had both worked in the health service long enough to know that you took Christmas when you could. Jim was a radiographer and was rostered on-call for the 24 hours spanning Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, while Toby was a paramedic working the graveyard shift of Christmas Day evening to noon on Boxing Day. They resolved, therefore, to have their own little Christmas on the 23rd, in Jim’s flat, while everybody else was still shopping and making last minute preparations. It was early days in their relationship. They had been introduced by mutual friends at a work function some four months earlier and while neither of them were quite ready to say it, both thought that this could be something special.
Jim had sensed a certain coolness in Toby towards the idea of Christmas, but did his best to convert his ex-council flat into a snug winter grotto. He lit candles and decorated the small tree he had paid over the odds for at Columbia Road flower market. While dinner cooked in the oven, he began mulling some red wine and the scent of spices, cloves and cinnamon filled the room. Adding to the christmas ambiance was a specially-purchased CD of Christmas music that played on the hi-fi. Bing was singing pah-rum-pum-pum-pum when the entryphone buzzed over him. Jim didn’t bother to check the tiny black and white screen on the video phone (the camera downstairs never worked anyway) and pressed the button to unlock the downstairs door. After putting the front door on the latch, he checked his appearance in the hallway mirror, fussed at the obstinate cowlick that wouldn’t stay down and then ran back into the kitchen to give the impression of being both casual and diligent. His eyes scanned the room. There was no time to change anything, but still he worried. He wanted everything to be perfect for their first christmas together.
Still, it didn’t pay to seem too keen, so he needlessly stirred the mulled wine as the footsteps on the landing got closer and clumped their way towards his front door.
“Brrr,” Jim called, “it’s cold as fuck out there. Close the door and get your admirable backside in where it’s warm.”
Jim wore a smile on his face as he turned the corner from the small kitchen to his modest hallway, but the expression dropped off his face once he saw the figure standing there, dressed in a black coat with a fur-lined hood that obscured his facial features.
The hooded figure stood there without saying anything.
“Um… hello,” Jim said.
The hooded figure didn’t reply.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” Jim asked, but still the hooded figure said nothing.
Jim glanced back into the kitchen, where a sabatier carving knife gleamed on the sideboard. Two steps back and it would be in reach.
“Toby…?” Jim asked, mentally calculating distances and arm lengths and staying out of the hooded figure’s immediate snares. “Is that you?”
When the hooded figure raised his hands, Jim flinched and very nearly made a dive for the carving knife, but within seconds the gloved hands had popped down the collar of the parka and revealed Toby’s grinning face.
“Merry Christmas!” he said.
“You dick!” Jim gasped, smacking Toby lightly on the arm. “You scared the shit out of me in that thing.”
“You like it?” Toby said, giving a slow twirl so Jim could see the back and front of the long padded parka. “A&F sale started early. 40% off. Can you believe it?”
Jim shook his head. “You’re an arse.”
“Yes, I am,” Toby nodded solemnly.
Jim started to turn back to the kitchen, babbling inconsequentially about turkey and marinades when Toby caught his arm and gently pulled him back towards him.
“Hey,” he said. “Merry Christmas.”
And one long kiss later, Jim forgot all about being angry.
The rest of the evening went well. Once dinner was finished, they retired to the sofa and gave each other their presents, each gently chiding the other for going above their pre-approved spending limit. As they lay on the sofa in each others arms, each thought about the year ahead and realised that they were looking forward to the prospect of spending it together.
They sat, looking at the glow of the gas fireplace, quite content just to be with each other and let the music wash over them. As the Carol of the Bells faded out, a more synthetic melody started seinto the mix.
Jim felt Toby tense up in his arms.
“What is this?” he asked.
“This?” Jim said, “You must know this. It’s the greatest Christmas song ever written.”
Synthesizer pads gave way to a jaunty drum-machine pattern and a familiar voice started singing from the iPod speaker dock.
# Last Christmas, I gave you my heart #
“Stop it,” Toby muttered.
# But the very next day, you gave it away #
“This year,” Jim sang, accompanying George Michael on the stereo, “to save me from tears,”
“FUCKING STOP IT.”
Toby stood up, wrenching himself from Jim’s embrace and marching over to the stereo and hitting the stop button violently.
Jim, surprised by this sudden development and dabbing away the wine that had been spilt by Toby’s sudden outburst, asked what the fuck that was about.
Toby, breathing deeply and apparently shaking with rage, got enough of his breath back to say:
“I just… don’t like that song.”
“Really? You don’t like Wham?” He narrowed his eyes in mock suspicion. “Are you sure you’re gay?”
Jim’s attempt at levity faltered before it ever had a chance. Toby looked at him with an expression that said he wasn’t in the mood to play.
“Don’t ever play that song again, you understand me?”
Usually, Jim would have said that it was his stereo and his flat and he would play whatever he felt like, but there was something in Toby’s expression that told him not to. The petty anger slipped away from him and he stood up and went over to console Toby, who now appeared to be on the verge of tears.
“Hey,” Jim said. “What’s this about? It’s a song, that’s all.”
“I know, I know,” he said. “It’s stupid. It’s just that it reminds me of…”
“Reminds you of what? Come on.”
Toby let himself be led back to the sofa and sat down. Jim refilled both their wine glasses and Toby took a greedy slurp, draining half of the large balloon glass in one go. Jim took Toby’s other hand - the one still holding the iPod - in his and held it.
“Can I trust you?” Toby asked after a few deep breaths. “I know it’s only been four months, but I feel like we have something here.”
“Me too.”
“I’ve never told anyone this,” Toby said, his voice shaking, “but if I tell you, will you swear never to tell another living soul? Even if we break up, or I turn out to be a wanker or any number of things happen, I need to know that you’re never going to tell anyone about this. Can I trust you to do that?”
“Of course you can,” Jim nodded. “Really. I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it. Whatever it is, I won’t tell a soul.”
Toby nodded and took another gulp of wine before proceeding.
“I guess you know that I’m not really into the whole Christmas thing. I mean, today’s been great, but as a rule I don’t really celebrate it. No, it’s more than that. I hate it. I have ever since I was six years old.
“You haven’t met my mum yet. That’s not an accident. I love her and everything, but I know how difficult she is to be around. She’s one of those hard women, you know? She sees the worst in everything, just because that’s hjopw she’s had to survive. She brought me up by herself and with all the problems she had along the way… I don’t know. It’s not like I can excuse some of the things she did when I was growing up, but I also can’t blame her either. For better or worse, she did what she could.
“I know that she loved me, even if it felt like she didn’t really like me most of the time. I look back on it now and she was only sixteen when she got pregnant, her family turned their back on her and never spoke to her again. My dad fucked off before I was born and nothing was never easy, you know? We never had much of anything and I suppose I learned from an early age that life was hard. Still, I wished that she wasn’t so… spiky. It’s the way I always think of her. She’s been better as she’s got older. A bit. I don’t know. You don’t want to hear about all of this.”
“I do,” Jim insisted softly. “I really do.”
“Anyway,” Toby continued, “even though things were always tough, Mum always made a big thing out of Christmas. She loved it and really went to town. She would buy a tree on the first of december and just cover the whole thing with tinsel and baubles and all the trimmings, I mean so much that you couldn’t even tell that there was a tree under all that silver and gold. She really pulled out all the stops for Christmas. She said it was the one time of the year when everyone was supposed to have a good time, no matter what. I loved it, but it wasn’t really because of the presents or the carols or the films on telly, it was just her. I liked it when she was happy and she always seemed more… loving, I suppose, when it was Christmas time. More fun.
“But there was another side to it, in that she would go out drinking a lot and leave me by myself. It’s one of those things that you just accept when you’re a kid, but when you look back on it you start to see that maybe being left alone when you’re six isn’t so clever. Sometimes there would be a babysitter or a neighbour, but a lot of the time it was just me on my own. I got used to putting myself to bed at night, but most nights when mum was out I wouldn’t go to sleep until I heard her come in. I couldn’t stay up, but I’d stay awake in bed I’d know that she had back OK and then I would go to sleep. Or I would try to, because Mum was never that quiet when she came home. She’d either put on The Osmonds and sing along, or she’d knock something over or she’d have somebody with hr and they’d make all sorts of noises, if you get me. But it was OK with me. I always felt better when I knew that she was back and I could sleep through pretty much anything she did. Like I said, it’s what you get used to, isn’t it?
“Still, this was Christmas Eve 1984 and Mum had left strict instructions that I was supposed to go to sleep. She said that if I didn’t, Father Christmas wouldn’t bring any presents for me. When she went out , I was kind of torn between wanting to sleep and wanting to stay up so that I’d know she’d got home OK. Anyway, it gets really late, and I must have gone to sleep for a little bit, because I woke up and I could hear noises coming from the front room.
“At first I’m happy, because it means that mum’s home and that we can have Christmas. But then I listen and it all starts to change, because I can hear my mum crying and talking really low. The crying’s not that unusual - she often had a case of Malibu tears when she came home - but the way she’s talking is different from anything I’ve heard before. I listen in the dark and I can hear that in between the sobs and the tears there’s another voice in the room, one that I don’t recognise, and my mum saying ‘please… please… please….’ over and over again. She’s begging this other person and that just fucking shocks me, because my mum never begged anyone for anything, not in her life.
“So, I think she might be in trouble and even though I’m only six, I don’t want anything bad to happen to my mum, so I get out of bed in my pyjamas and I go to the front room and look in through the crack in the door.
“There, standing in my living room, is Father Christmas. I mean, it looks like Father Christmas from the adverts and the cards, you know - red costume with the white trim, big white beard, all that - but it all seems wrong somehow. I mean, I know that thing that they tell kids, that you shouldn’t stay up for santa, because you won’t get any presents, but that wasn’t the reason I stayed outside the door, looking in. It was… just wrong somehow. Little bits and pieces come back to me over the years. Some of them I think are true, some of them are just things that I think my mind’s tried to use to fill in the gaps. But there are some things that I know for sure. One was that this Father Christmas had his trousers around his ankles. I supposes that should have seemed funny, but it didn’t. He had a can of beer in one hand and he took a swig out of it and he looks down at where my mum’s sitting and says something that I didn’t catch. It might have been something about being a bad girl this year, or that might be one of the parts that my mind’s filled in. Either way, the next part definitely happened, because after he’s taken the swig out of his beer, he turns around and he says that she doesn’t deserve any presents and he takes his dick in his hands and aims it at the tree and the presents. And my mum, who never begged anyone for anything in her life, she wails and pleads with him not to do it. She says that she’s sorry and that she didn’t mean it and begs him not to do what he’s about to do. But that doesn’t stop him and he starts, you know, going all over everything. I mean, he’s pissing on the tree, on the presents, on everything.
“And as he’s doing it, he’s singing ‘Last Christmas’ by fucking Wham.
“Mum tries to get up to her feet and I see then that it’s not because she’s drunk, it’s because she’s hurt. Her dress is torn and she’s got a black eye and a cut lip and as she tries to get up, I can see that it hurts for her to move, but this fucking bastard is still singing as he’s pissing on our christmas tree and she… she just lunges at him. I think she was just trying to get him to stop, but because he’s got his trousers around his ankles he falls over in a heap, knocking the tree over and falling into the presents and then he just fucking roars at her. I mean, it’s the only way I’ve got to describe it. He roars at her, he calls her a bitch and he’s trying to get his trousers up and get up and get his footing, when mum picks up this brass horse thing which always sat by the telly and she cracks him over the head with it. That doesn’t stop him, so she hits him again and again and again, crying and swearing at him until eventually he stops moving and he’s just there, laying on top of our christmas tree, the presents crushed beneath him, his red and white trousers still around his ankles.
“He was dead. I mean I didn’t really know what dead was, not properly, but I knew. I knew that my mum was hurt too, so I ran into the room and even though she was in shock, she took me in her arms and she just kept saying sorry over and over again. It’s the only time she ever apologised to me. I don’t know if she was sorry for killing him, sorry that I had to see it, or sorry for ruining Christmas. Either way… you see why I don’t like that song.”
Toby took a deep breath and looked at Jim, who was completely shell-shocked by what he had just heard.
“It’s… dreadful.” Jim said. “I mean, you poor thing, to have to see that. It’s terrible.”
Toby shrugged awkwardly. “Yeah, I mean… people go through worse, right?”
Jim gawped.
“Listen,” Toby said, holding up his now empty glass. “do you mind if I have another drink?”
“No, of course. Jesus. I’ll be right back.”
“And I’ll put the music back on. I’ll just skip past that track, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course. We never have to hear it again.”
“I’m sorry for making everything so miserable,” Toby said. “I didn’t mean to ruin everything”
“No, no,” Jim said soothingly. “That’s not how it is at all. I’m glad you told me. To be carrying that around for all these years… It’s dreadful.”
Toby pressed a button on the stereo and a new song started playing. A sweet melody filled the air and as Toby hung his head.
“It has been tough,” he said. “I’m glad you understand. It’s just that most people don’t understand when you tell them-“
The sweet melody turned into a patented Wall of Sound as the Ronettes started singing and Toby accompanied them, slightly altering the opening lyrics as he did so.
“I saw mom-my kill-ing Saaaanta Claus!
“Under-neath the mistle-toe laast niiiight!”
Toby was wearing the same expression he had done when taking down his hood. He pointed at Jim and jigged around the room, utterly delighted at the trick he had played.
“You bastard,” Jim said. “You absolute fucking bastard.”
“I had you!” Toby crowed. “I really had you, didn’t I? Oh, it’s too sweet! Too, too sweet!”
Jim shook his head and had to turn away in disgust. Their first christmas together was also going to be their last.
3 - Bitter Tang
When the phone call came, the staff at the Orange Blossom Palliative Facility tried not to get excited. The hospice had been home to several notable figures in their final days, but none of them had warranted a phone call from the White House. As much as the staff wanted to be around to eavesdrop, they recognised that this was a moment they could not intrude on and left the patient to have his conversation with the president in private.
When the phone call came, the staff at the Orange Blossom Palliative Facility tried not to get excited. The hospice had been home to several notable figures in their final days, but none of them had warranted a phone call from the White House. As much as the staff wanted to be around to eavesdrop, they recognised that this was a moment they could not intrude on and left the patient to have his conversation with the president in private.
This was the fourth US President that Captain Steve Powell had spoken to in his lifetime. The first had been on his return to earth, when Powell had been proclaimed a national hero simply for not dying. The second had been during a child literacy program in the 1980s, the third during a Celebrity Golf tournament and now this guy, whose name Steve couldn’t even recall. Luckily, protocol dictated that he didn’t require this particular piece of information.
“Mr President,” he croaked, “thank you for calling.”
“It’s my honor, Captain Powell. I’m just sorry that it has to be under these circumstances.”
“Well, there’s nothing either of us can do about that, sir.”
“No, I suppose not,” the President said. “Are they taking good care of you down there?”
“Yes sir. They’re taking real good care of me.” It was a bland thing to say, but Powell had little choice. He had acute pancreatic cancer and the only thing the staff could do was manage his pain with blessed morphine.
“I’m glad to hear it,” the President said, before switching gears to the official business of the day. “I wanted to take this opportunity to thank you for your service to NASA, the United States of America and the entire planet. Your courage was and will continue to be an inspiration to all and a lesson that one should never give up hope.”
“Thank you sir, that’s very kind of you.”
“I was in college when the mission took place and I can tell you that everyone, no matter what their beliefs or politics, was shocked and saddened by the loss of Lt. Jameson and were praying for the rest of you to come home safely.”
Steve closed his eyes and tried not to groan. Even on his deathbed, there was no getting away from the spectre of Jim Jameson, the first American to die in space. Steve had lived in the shadow of his passing ever since the mission.
“I can’t imagine how scary that must have been for you all,” the President continued, “to lose a crew member like that.”
Steve felt his heart pounding and tried to calm himself with a deep breath. A doctor - presumably monitoring his pulse on the EKG - looked in through the window, but Steve waved him away.
“Such a tragedy,” the President mused, “but the way you rallied the crew and returned to earth, well, it was one of the formative moments in American history. Through your actions, you inspired many acts of courage and you showed a generation that no matter how bad an accident may-“
“It wasn’t an accident,” Powell said.
The President, usually so sure of himself, was momentarily flummoxed.
“Excuse me? I don’t think I heard you correctly.”
“Mr President, I punctured Jim’s suit so he’d lose air pressure on the space-walk. It wasn’t a mistake. I did it on purpose and I had a dozen chances to stop him before he walked through that airlock.”
“Captain Powell, are you telling me that you deliberately sabotaged Lt Jameson’s equipment? That you were responsible for his death?”
“Yes sir. I murdered him, just as sure as if I’d shot him in the head.”
It felt good to say it out loud. Steve had often wondered what it might be like to tell someone about what he had done, but never thought he would get the opportunity. It always seemed like too big a secret, with consequences that would reverberate through history. Now that Steve was on his deathbed and staring into the abyss, it didn’t seem like such a big deal.
“I suppose I’m telling you because I thought someone should know and I don’t have anyone else to tell. None of my wives speak to me any more and my kids know what a rotten father I was, so… well, you’re it.”
“Is this a joke?” the President asked. “Because if it is, I think it’s in very poor taste and I fail to see the humor in it.”
“No sir, it’s the god’s honest truth,” Steve said. “I wish I could tell you I had a good reason, but the truth is that Jim was a prick and I thought the world would be a better place without him.”
It was a long time until the President spoke again.
“Well… obviously, I’m shocked,” he said. “Shocked and appalled. Not just morally, but on an operational level as well. I was under the impression they gave you guys rigorous psychological testing and whatnot.”
“They do, sir. They did. But I guess they didn’t ask the right questions, because nobody ever suspected a thing.”
The President cleared his throat.
“And… uh… what exactly do you expect me to do with this information, Captain Powell?”
“Frankly, Mr President, I don’t give a damn,” Steve said, before letting out a sharp bark of laughter and hanging up the phone.
The President hadn’t heard a dial tone in quite some time. He put the phone down and sat at his desk, pondering what to do next. After a minute of contemplation, he decided that it must have been a prank, a piece of delusional hijinks from a man who had seen the stars up close and perhaps become a little dazzled by them. The President took an executive decision to pretend the conversation hadn’t happened.
Meanwhile, in an air-conditioned room in Florida, an EKG reached the end of its countdown. Not for the first time, but certainly for the last, Steve Powell took his leave of planet earth.
2 - 'Til Death Do Us Part
I told myself it was only ten minutes. Ten minutes was nothing. There were any number of reasons why a person would be ten minutes late. The cab could have got a flat tyre. There could be roadworks. She might have spilled something on the dress and stopped at a dry-cleaners. Really, when you thought of all the things that could prevent a person from arriving on time, it was a miracle that anyone ever got anywhere. I wasn’t worried. I knew she would get here. It was only ten minutes.
I told myself it was only ten minutes. Ten minutes was nothing. There were any number of reasons why a person would be ten minutes late. The cab could have got a flat tyre. There could be roadworks. She might have spilled something on the dress and stopped at a dry-cleaners. Really, when you thought of all the things that could prevent a person from arriving on time, it was a miracle that anyone ever got anywhere. I wasn’t worried. I knew she would get here. It was only ten minutes.
The registrar shuffled awkwardly and maintained his wan smile while the CD looped back to the beginning of the track. I was really starting to hate Pachibel’s Canon, but at least it covered up the whispers that were echoing around the room. There weren’t many people in attendance - neither of us had much family to speak of - but there was enough of a crowd to make the murmurs of discontent seem louder and louder as each agonising minute went by.
But it had only been ten minutes. Aside from the basic logistical factors, there were all sorts of reasons why Karen might not have been able to get here, up to and including terrorist hijack, elephant escape and alien abduction. As I was ranking these in descending order of probability, everyone else leapt to the mundane conclusion that she had got cold feet and wasn’t coming at all. I was doing my best not to look at anyone, but I caught glimpses here and there of painful sympathy mixed with secret, shameful glee at witnessing a live Hollywood trope: the runaway bride jilting a sap at the altar. It was too ridiculous for words, so I concentrated on the route Karen’s car would take to get here and whether it would pass the elephant enclosure at London Zoo on the way.
Lee came back into the church through the side door, slipping his mobile phone into the pocket of his suit.
“No answer,” he said. “I left another message, but…”
It was clear that he had given up on her. He was my best mate and my best man, but he’d never thought much of Karen. While he had never come right out and said it - you don’t, do you? - he clearly thought I was a mug for taking her back. Maybe I would have felt the same in his position, but he didn’t know her like I did and, more than that, he didn’t know everything that she and I had been through. If he had, he might have thought differently. Or maybe not. I don’t know.
“Listen, mate…” Lee said, glancing around at the small, agitated crowd shifting in their seats.”I don’t want to be the one to do this, but, you know, maybe we need to start thinking about the possibility that she’s not coming.”
“She’ll be here,” I said. “It’s our wedding day.”
“Chris…”
“She’ll be here. There’s just been a delay, is all.”
Lee looked at me with something approaching pity, before quickly stowing it away from view.
“Yep. You’re right,” he said. “Just a delay. We’ll sit tight.”
And that was why he was my best mate, because he had my back even when I wouldn’t see sense. It didn’t mean I wanted to speak to him, though, so I just looked at my shoes and did my best not to catch anyone’s eye. The whispers amongst the dearly beloved were starting to get louder and less discreet. I didn’t need to pick out the specifics to know that word was travelling around the room that I was about to become an anecdote that would be retold for years to come. Poor Chris, left at the altar by that Karen.
When the door at the back of the room burst open, my heart leapt into my mouth, before dribbling over my lips and onto the floor. It wasn’t Karen who bustled her way into the room, but her best friend, the supposed Maid of Honour. Up until that point, I was sure that some sort of minor accident was preventing Karen getting to the ceremony on time, but Michelle’s arrival seemed like a bad omen. Lee went over to talk to her while I tried to reassure the registrar that my bride would be along shortly. He nodded in a way that suggested he didn’t believe me for a moment.
I glanced over to Lee and there seemed to be some debate going on between him and Michelle. Even from across the room, I could tell that the main thrust of Lee’s argument was “tell him” and that Michelle was hesitant. There were a couple of nervous glances in my direction, before Lee coaxed Michelle over to where I was standing.
“Hi Michelle,” I said. “What’s going on?”
“No-one knows. Karen’s not at the flat, she’s not answering her phone and no-one’s heard from her.”
I nodded. I felt surprisingly calm about the whole thing.
Lee prodded Michelle. “Tell him the rest.”
Michelle bit her lip and then said:
“I was passing by her place last night and… well, I don’t know for certain, but I’m pretty sure I saw Russell’s car parked outside her house.”
And that was when I started to feel scared.
Russell, who had been with Karen for four years before she and I got together. Russell, who did something for a living that it was better not to ask too many questions about. Russell, who had dominated and abused Karen to the point that she had been terrified to breathe without his permission. Russell, who despite being an utter shitbag and the worst thing to ever happen to her, was who Karen had gone to for comfort when she and I split up for two weeks last August.
Lee looked at me with such naked pity. I couldn’t bear it.
“I’m sorry, mate. I really am.”
I shook my head. “This is all wrong. Karen wouldn’t… She just wouldn’t… Something’s happened.”
Lee and Michelle shared a glance and it was clear that they were trying to find a way to get me to see what they thought was self evident.
But I knew differently. If there had been any remaining doubt about whether Karen was coming, I knew that she wouldn’t be with Russell. At that point I was willing to believe that she’d got cold feet or something like that, but I just knew that she wouldn’t be with Russell. Not by choice. It didn’t make any sense.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I said to them, doing my best to keep my voice level, “but I really think something is wrong. Karen wouldn’t even talk to Russell. She wouldn’t have anything to do with him. Why would she see him the night before her wedding?”
Lee and Michelle didn’t think that the question needed an answer and had clearly decided that I was in traumatic denial, but I felt I had to try and get across the severity of the situation. I knew what sort of man Russell was. He was clever, amoral and capable of anything. I didn’t know what to do.
The registrar shuffled up towards us and discreetly made himself known.
“Ah, if there’s not going to be… That is, if there are further delays… Well, I have other ceremonies to conduct today.”
I could no longer say that Karen would be here. I didn’t know if she would or not. I still believed in my heart that she wanted to be here, but there was a terrible sense of dread stealing over me. As I tried to work out what to do next, Lee and Michelle discreetly told everyone that perhaps it was best if they went along to the reception and had something to eat and drink. Although they said that I would be along later, I knew I wouldn’t be. If Karen wasn’t coming, I wasn’t going. There was no way I could leave the registrar’s office and once everyone had left to go to the pub, I sank into a seat at the back of the room, crushed by the weight of the situation.
Michelle went off to make phone calls, while Lee stayed and kept me company. We didn’t talk much, but I was glad that he was there. Most of all, I appreciated him not trying to say ‘I told you so’.
I was present for nine weddings that day, none of them my own. Truth be told, they all kind of blurred into one. After each ceremony was over, the book had been signed and the guests had cleared the room, Lee tried to convince me that maybe staying in the registry office wasn’t a good idea. He would try his best to make going home, or to the pub, or even just for a walk, seem like a good idea. I understood why he was doing it, but I couldn’t leave. I knew something terrible had happened, but I felt completely unable to do anything about it. I wished I could have got up and gone to the pub, or gone to a railway bridge and thrown myself off, or even gone to the police station and demand they put on a search for my missing bride. There were a million things I could have done, probably should have done, but I didn’t. My whole life had been based around Karen and without her I didn’t know how to do anything.
The fading of daylight was the only method I had of telling time and gathered from from the increasingly awkward coughs of the registrar and his assistant that the day was winding down and that their office was about to close. I was just wondering whether it would be OK for them to lock me in overnight when I heard her voice.
“You’re still here.”
I wasn’t sure if it was just a dream in my head, but when she stepped in front of me I could see it was really her. She was wearing the white dress I bought her in Portugal and oh my god she looked beautiful.
“Yeah, welll… I didn’t have any other plans,” I said.
She nodded.
“Are you OK?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Michelle said she saw Russell’s car outside your flat last night.”
“You know about that?”
“Yes.”
She sighed. “I didn’t want you to find out.”
It felt like she was resting a dagger on my heart, grazing me with the tip of the blade and daring me to lean in towards her. I couldn’t stop myself, so I asked the question.
“So, you’re going back to him? We’re over then?”
“No… Chris… I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Yeah, you are…” I conceded. “But you’re late.”
“I know. I’m so sorry about that. It couldn’t be helped.”
“But Russell-“
“Isn’t going to bother us again. I promise.”
“Did he hurt you?” I whispered.
“He tried. But don’t think about it any more. There’s something I need to ask you.”
Karen knelt down beside me, but I couldn’t look her in the eye. I stared at my hand as she took it in hers. Karen said something that I didn’t hear because I was distracted by how raw and scraped her knuckles were. I was about to ask her what happened when she brought her other hand up to my face and gently turned my head to look at her as she repeated the question.
“Will you marry me?”
From the expression on her face I could tell that she genuinely didn’t know what my answer would be. How could she not know?
“Of course I will,” I said and her smile made everything else irrelevant.
We hugged and kissed and as I held her close, I buried by head in her shoulder and burst into tears, not because I was sad, but because we were going to be together for the rest of our lives and it was everything I ever wanted.
And through the tears, I saw the small streak of blood on the collar of Karen’s dress and I knew what she had done and why she was so certain that Russell wouldn’t be a problem any more. Still, I didn’t let her go.
For better or for worse, right?