Honest Page 16

  A gargling, choking sound came from his lips, flecks of blood spitting from them, until even those sounds were stifled. I pressed on his arm, forcing the blade in deeper, while his tongue protruded and his face became mottled and purple. Stooped, hunched and frozen between life and death, his eyes still wriggled in their sockets, watching mine.

  The breaths came again, just briefly, enough for him to say, ‘Peter.’

  Peter gave David’s arm a shove, silencing him for good. He slumped to the ground, on his knees, before rolling on his side. His hand still clutched the knife, eyes open and staring at the floor. The numbness lifted from me and I, exhausted, fell to the ground as limply as he had.

  Chapter Twenty–Two

  When I came to, the sky was so dark outside that the kitchen window appeared at first to me as a great, black void, until everything came into focus. My knee throbbed, as did my hands, though I could hardly figure out what had happened until I saw him. Before me the slumped, curled, hours–old corpse of David Peirce looked back at me.

  And all at once I remembered. All at once I realized that I, Peter or no Peter, had killed him.

  The kitchen was dark, and despite my confusion I found it easy to crawl into the hallway and help myself into my wheelchair. It gave me something to focus on while I recalled everything; his tongue on my cheek, the fright in his eyes, all that energy swelling up inside me.

  Then I remembered the knife, cool and swift, slicing into David’s torso at a clean, straight angle, engulfing me in a euphoric lust to just twist it, just twist it a little further...

  I wheeled into the kitchen and, meandering around the pool of blood swelling around David’s body, fast drying, I pulled the blinds down over the window. After that, I turned on the light and gave his body a proper look.

  I was amazed, initially, at how fast he had deteriorated. His skin looked waxen, yet underneath it blushed a bloody purple. The breath caught in my throat. I didn’t blink; didn’t dare, in case the body disappeared in that split second. Tears dripped from my eyes not from sadness, but from savouring the image.

  Did this make me a murderer? Well, I’d always considered myself one, but this was different. More justified, even, because after all I hadn’t done it all alone. Peter had been inside me, helping me, lifting the burden of taking on David by myself.

  Yes, I realized, that was the truth of it. Peter might have hated me enough to throw me down the stairs and even from my window, but if he hated me, he clearly loved me just as fiercely. Even in death he was suspended in the limbo between the two; baiting me, taking over me, and yet adamant to keep me all for himself.

  I sneered at the corpse, leaning forward in my wheelchair. ‘You know what that means don’t you?’ I said to the sweet stench in the air, addressing David’s drooping face. ‘It means you lose. He chose me, didn’t he? Not you.’

  It dawned on me quite suddenly that, if Peter’s...spirit, let’s say, was in this house and entering me, then what had become of David’s? Did everybody have a spirit, or a soul, and possessed the abilities that Peter had?

  Perhaps it was unique to Peter, because he’d always had so much fight in him. Still, I began to shake and look about the place, glancing around myself with prickling skin, afraid of what might be lurking.

  It wasn’t the body that scared me, but what came after; the stuff that was lighter than flesh.

  I gasped when a key turned in the lock, cool air rushing in, and Dad appeared in the doorway wearing his work coat. He was carrying a shopping bag. He dropped it when he saw me, pale and flecked with blood, surveying my kill on the kitchen floor. His face paled, beads of sweat collecting on his forehead.

  ‘I can explain,’ I said softly, looking up at him between two strands of hair stiffened by clotted blood. ‘Please don’t panic.’

  His lips opened and closed, mouthing the words that he had neither the energy nor voice to say. Then he smacked the kitchen door with his fist and screamed, straining the tendons in his stubbly neck. He clawed the hair back from his face, his eyes pale and wild, his boots treading dry mud all over the floor.

  ‘Oh no, oh no, oh no,’ he said repeatedly, shaking his head.

  ‘Dad. For Christ’s sake, Dad! Remember what we discussed, all right? Look, I can explain everything. Just sit down, will you? Please?’

  His face frozen in stunned bewilderment, dad obediently pulled a seat out from the table and sat down, facing me. His lips remained parted, slack and lost for words. While he remained silent I explained everything, detailing my fear when he threatened to rape me, describing my lack of control as I, in defence, turned the knife on him.

  I didn’t mention the skin wrapped up in his blood–stained pocket.

  At that last part, he nodded slowly, his eyes still wide and unblinking, staring off into the hallway. Between us David’s corpse waited.

  ‘Dennis killed a man once in a robbery, back in Liverpool,’ said Dad, his voice slow and drawling like a zombie. ‘He got off on grounds of self defence. He never regretted a thing.’

  ‘See!’ I said, reaching out and grabbing his hand. He pulled it away, letting it fall slack by his side. ‘Dad, it’ll be the same for me.’

  ‘Look at the state of it, Ellen. Nobody will understand that.’ He shook his head again and started to breathe quickly, as if the air was running out.

  ‘Well what are we going to do?’ I said, looking at David’s body like the trash we had to take out. Then it struck me. ‘Let’s wrap him in bin bags, right? We can wrap him up tight and hide him while we decide what to do. Or we could...I don’t know, do what they do in those shows, you know? We could put each limb in a bag and dump it in the sea.’

  ‘Where did you learn to talk like that?’ Dad asked, finally looking in my eyes. His was a look of utter disbelief. ‘How do you talk like that?’

  ‘Dad, we don’t have time for all this. I’m trying to be smart about it.’

  ‘Smart?!’ Dad got up abruptly and pointed at the body, his expression wild. ‘Is that what you think this is, smart? Logical, is it? Make bloody sense to you, does it?’

  ‘It doesn’t make sense to get irrational,’ I said.

  ‘There’s something wrong with you,’ he said. ‘You’re not well. Just look at this...just look at this mess.’

  ‘So help me clean it up,’ I said. I thought rapidly, figuring out where we could stow him until we thought of somewhere better for the body to go. ‘The loft, Dad. We can put him in the bin bangs, nice and tight, then wrap him in a sheet, or duvet, maybe? Then take him to the loft until we can think of somewhere else. Then we take the van—’

  ‘No,’ said Dad. ‘He came here and never left. We’ll be caught. It’s all over.’

  ‘It isn’t.’ I urged through gritted teeth. ‘We can do this.’

  ‘There’s no way we can get rid of this evidence, not unless we torched the whole place.’

  We both paused in thought. ‘No, Dad,’ I said. ‘Not the cottage.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We can do that. We could...we could light the fire in the living room, and...I’ve got it. We’ll make it look like an accident in the fireplace.’

  ‘But that brings people to the body,’ I said. ‘They’ll find his...remains.’

  ‘If they do they’ll think it’s one of us, so long as we do it properly. We could fake our own deaths. We’ll have to abandon the van, our things, everything.’

  Something didn’t feel right about Dad’s proposal. He wasn’t that adventurous. I would have believed he’d turn himself in for the crime and take the blame, rather than put on a stunt like that.

  ‘Dad, this doesn’t sound like something you’d say.’

  ‘No, no, I’m not,’ said Dad. ‘I’m thinking clearly. This could be our clean break, couldn’t it? It’s fate, this is. Now you aren’t the only one who can use the police as a threat. I could do just the same to you.’

  My heart thudded faster. ‘What?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Dad, laughing and rubbin
g his hands together. ‘Yes, this makes sense. Now we’re equals — we’re both ugly criminals.’

  My skin prickled to hear that, but there was nothing I could say. He was right. All I knew was that we needed to get rid of this evidence somehow, and I could only hope that during that time I would think of some way to get out of this.

  ‘What are we going to do about all the blood on the floor?’ I asked.

  He took a deep breath. ‘We’ll soak it up with towels and put them in bags too. In the loft there’s a roll of lino that I could replace it with, same design, same roll...That’ll be fine on first appearances. After the fire, it might look normal...’

  There was no way out of this, and it was too late to change anything now. In truth, I was just relieved that dad hadn’t gone totally nuts yet. As things stood, he was still partially under my control.

  We got to work. I laid the towels down and soaked up all the blood, the taste of iron filling my mouth as the thick air settled on my tongue. I didn’t squirm or even feel nauseous, but the sight of it all, drying against the lino, would be the stain on my mind forever.

  Dad took the knife out and grimaced as a thick, dark liquid oozed from the dead tissue. He washed it up and then wrapped the body in black bin bags and tied it tight with lengths of string from the van. After that he mopped the plastic down with wet cloths and towels to get rid of all the residual blood he’d smeared about in the process.

  By the time we’d bagged the towels and scrubbed the lino, the stain had sunk in deep. ‘We’ll get that lino from the loft,’ said Dad. ‘But first I’ll get him up there.’

  I winced. ‘Don’t call it him,’ I said. ‘Say the body.’

  ‘All right,’ said Dad. ‘The body.’

  It was almost, almost funny to me when dad revealed how he intended to get the long, weighty body up those stairs. But as we watched the shiny black sack slowly hoisted up the stairs in my very own lift, I found I could only — for once— admire dad’s foresight. It had proven a very useful investment after all.

  Dad was laying the new lino at around midnight when the knock on the door came. I’d had a soak in the bath and a change of clothes, and I’d even mopped down my wheelchair, paying particular detail to the ridges on the wheels. When I realised it wasn’t the police knocking, I decided it was best to ignore it.

  Whoever it was kept on hammering on the door, though, and after a fashion they even opened the letterbox and called through. The voice was alien to me, but when I realised who it was I almost laughed. It was the very girl we’d been arguing about; the one who’d led to all this trouble.

  ‘Tell her David came hours ago and then left to go to the pub.’ Dad hissed, on his hands and knees in the kitchen. ‘Tell her it’s late and you want to go to bed.’

  ‘She’ll know.’ I hissed back.

  ‘Just get rid of her.’ Dad snapped. ‘Or she’ll go and get the police.’

  When I plucked up the courage to open the door, I found Lauren still standing on the doorstep, huddled in an oversized plaid coat — probably David’s— reeking of alcohol. Her mascara was smudged and her hair backcombed and tangled. She looked like she’d been drowning her sorrows all evening.

  ‘I’m not here to start a fight,’ she said, holding her hands up in their large cuffs. ‘I just want my boyfriend. My ex, or whatever.’ She slurred, her mouth slack and lips glistening like jelly.

  ‘He isn’t here,’ I said. ‘He came here hours and hours ago, but he left to—’

  ‘Hey.’ Lauren interrupted me, squinting, looking me up and down. ‘You changed your hair. That’s funny.’

  I kept my wheelchair wedged tightly between the opening and the door, just in case she decided to make a run past me and went upstairs. ‘Why is it funny?’ I asked.

  Lauren shrugged, swaying slightly. ‘Because David really likes blondes,’ she said.

  Chapter Twenty–Three

  I held the door tight against the wheel of my chair, blocking Lauren’s view into the house as much as I could. I found I was paranoid about the smell of the house. Would she be able to smell that much blood from the doorstep? Perhaps the brine of the sea was strong enough to cover it, just to bide us more time.

  Lauren hugged herself in the oversized coat. ‘I just need to say something to you,’ she said, her black–outlined eyes narrowing.

  ‘What is it?’ I said.

  ‘I’ve felt sorry for you before, you know, especially when I met you that time when you were soaked in that frumpy dress. Dave told me you’d always been a bit psycho because your mum dumped you as a kid, but I always gave you the benefit of the doubt, if you get me. Dave’s told me loads about Pete as well. When he told me you were with him when he died, I felt even more sorry for you.’ She shook her head. Her eyes became curious slits as she studied my face. It was as if, even at that moment, she was still trying to figure me out.

  ‘But after you started saying things about my boyfriend, that was it. I just can’t hack people like you.’

  Hack. That was such an ugly word it made my skin crawl. I writhed in the seat of my chair, sure that my skin had come alive with maggots. It was a kind of palpable word, evoking strange noises in my head...a quick dull thud, followed by a juicy, slick sound. Like a spoon hollowing out a fruit.

  David’s split flesh, oozing out dark blood, came to mind. I could almost feel him now, his ear pressed against the attic floor, listening through all the layers of black plastic we’d wrapped him in.

  ‘What are you doing? Why are you moving like that?’ she grimaced, watching me wipe furiously at the skin of my arms.

  She didn’t realise how dirty I felt. I’d always felt dirty, but now it was like the grime had gotten thicker, like all that browning blood was coated all over me. But how could she know that, when she’d never had a life like mine?

  ‘I’m just not feeling well,’ I said, trying to shake David from my mind. It was awful, knowing he was up there, while she was down here.

  ‘You’re not feeling well? I’ve dumped my boyfriend because of you, always sticking your nose in, trying to get attention by making up lies.’

  ‘What lies?’ I said.

  She tossed her head back and laughed, even clapping her hands with their chipped black nail polish. The alcohol on her breath came over me in short, warm waves. ‘Oh good one. How about telling that counsellor of yours that Dave was coming onto you? Calling him your boyfriend? What about that?’

  I frowned, thinking hard. Why had I said those things? I couldn’t remember.

  Besides, it wasn’t untrue anymore. David had acted just like my father, and probably every other man on the whole planet except my Peter, who I’d given myself to completely and willingly.

  ‘He did come on to me,’ I said, looking her in the eyes. ‘He tried to rape me.’

  The colour drained from her face, her plump mouth hanging open. ‘You liar. When? Come on, if it happened, then when?’

  ‘Earlier today.’

  ‘Shut up!’ she cried. In the kitchen, I heard a pause in dad’s movements. He was listening.

  ‘It’s true,’ I whispered, eager to keep the conversation just between us. I saw the tears in Lauren’s eyes, and the way her hands quivered and fumbled for one another under her large cuffs, searching for comfort.

  That look in her eyes grew darker, more fearful, but with an undercurrent of denial. Their sparkle was still there, twinkling inside her tears. ‘You shut up. You think you’re so special, don’t you? A real charity case, that’s all you are.’

  I’d rumbled her deep down, I could tell. I just wasn’t so sure why she was so willing to believe me, if she despised me this much. You think you’re so special, she’d said.

  ‘What’s special about rape?’ I hissed, keeping my voice extra low so Dad couldn’t hear us. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘He wouldn’t do it. You’re horrible, you know that? And as for that thing you sent to my house—’

  ‘What’s so special about rape?’ I repeated,
watching a tear tumble over the lip of her eye and stream down one cheek. ‘Is that what he saves just for you, eh?’

  ‘No!’ She snapped. ‘That’s disgusting.’

  ‘Is it really so disgusting? I’ve got it, haven’t I? David was a weedy little bully all his life, and now he gets off on bullying you. How did you get the guts to leave him, Lauren? What with him making you feel so special it must have been hard to break away.’

  My small, skeletal body rattled under the skin, but I made myself say those words. I found my hand inching towards my breast plate, reaching for my heart, just because a little part of it was beating in unison with hers. Perhaps we weren’t so different. We were both special girls to someone.

  But Lauren had the power to break away, where I only had as much power as I could throw from my wheelchair.

  ‘My dad doesn’t think I should be messing around with someone who brings me trouble, like you. He says I’m too good for David as well.’ She smoothed the hair back from her face and let it hang stiffly over her shoulders, dry with bleach.

  ‘Then if you agree with him, why are you here?’

  She blinked. ‘Because I still love him. We love each other. You can’t just switch that off. You know what? You’d better tell me where he is, because if he really was here earlier than you’d know.’

  He’s upstairs in a plastic bag.

  ‘I’ve got no idea. But if you want my advice, I wouldn’t go running after him. He’ll only drag you down with him.’

  Lauren stepped down from the doorstep, her hair catching in the wind. ‘There’s something weird about you. There’s something weird about the whole fucking bunch of you. Just stay away from me, all right? Just stay away from my house.’

  She huddled up in her coat and made for the road, but I found myself screaming for her to come back, mindless of my father who listened from the kitchen. She stopped, looking back at me with her kohl–smudged eyes.