I knew he was putting on a brave face. I knew deep down that he was petrified of what he had just committed himself to.
‘I…I can’t let you do this, Angus. I’m sorry, I just can’t,’ I said, massaging my neck where decades-worth of tension had wrapped thick, tight knots under my skin. ‘Ilook afteryou. This is how it works. This is how it’s worked since you, me and Edith.’
‘Okay. So, you don’t let me do this, and then we both go to prison, and who’s that going to help?’ Angus said, slowing his words to try and drive the point home about how idiotic he thought I was being.
I had been on my feet since barging into the custody suite, stomping around the cell, but I felt like my legs could barely take it anymore. I slouched down against a corner of the room, not exactly sure what this cocktail of emotions was inside of me. Guilt? Shock? Relief?
‘So, the police and the CPS, they just…withdrew their whole case against me?’ I said, holding my head in my hands. ‘Just like that?’
‘Well, I’m sure you’ll be called as a witness in my trial, you’re probably guilty of something, but I guess we’ll cross that bridgewhen we come to it,’ Angus stated, unsuccessfully trying to hide the quiver of fear in his voice. ‘But I want everything they did to come to light. I know you killed two of them already, but I want the world to know what they did to us, to Edith.’
I gave a quick glance around the cell to just make sure there were no clandestine CCTV cameras fitted in shadowy corners.
‘Do you not see why I had to do this?’ Angus asked.
I gave a grunt. That was all my body had left as a response now. I couldn’t argue or fight any more, I couldn’t debate or shout or get mad. All I had the emotional and physical capacity to do was to sit with Angus in silence – me stooped on the floor, Angus sitting at the desk in the cold, lonely, steel vacuum of the custody suite.
‘Clark,’ I uttered, the word I knew Angus wouldn’t want to hear.
I waited for him to shush me, to tell me to shut up and not throw my life away again, to tell me he had just sacrificed his life to keep me out of prison and here I was thinking about leaping back into the murdering pensioners business.
But instead, he just kept staring blankly at the desk in front of him, his hands interlocked, and did one of his trademark deep sighs, inflating his diaphragm fully before sinking back into his chair with the exhale.
‘I’m not going to tell you what you can do with your life. I guess some people dream of being astronauts or scientists or models. Some people dream about murdering people.’
My ikiagi,I thought to myself silently.
‘You just…you have to understand what you’re giving up, is all.’
‘But…but…just how?’ I stammered. ‘How has all this happened?’
‘Like I said, I think you really need to talk to your husband.’
TWENTY-FOUR
GARETH
Twenty-Four Hours Earlier
I had been to a few hoarders’ houses in my years of police work. Each one had a different smell, depending on that individual’s particularities. Some would have the pungency of days-old rubbish, festering in the bin, while others would carry a delicate aroma of rot and mould. So when it came to Angus’s apartment, I was somewhat surprised. Fran had told me that he wasn’t the most fastidious of individuals, but did have a tidy streak. I braced myself for theeau de accapareur, but as Angus cautiously opened the door, I found that he had actually invested in a few different electronic heavy duty air fresheners that had been strategically placed around the flat.
‘Angus,’ I said, greeting him. ‘You called?’
‘Gareth,’ he replied. We had never really acknowledged each other before, so two words in, we were already breaking new ground.
‘So, ummm, have you been well?’ I asked as Angus led me into his apartment, guiding me through the sacred columns of newspaper I had heard so much about. I sat down precariouslyon the sofa, having placed some stacks of broadsheets – as neatly as I could – onto the light grey cord carpet. Fran had complained to me about Angus and his obsessions, but I almost felt she’d undersold it. While I’d imagined these glorious word pictures of newspaper skyscrapers that stretched up to the ceiling, she really hadn’t been joking: the whole place felt like the bunker of a post-apocalyptic kleptomaniac.
I could feel Angus’s glare, watching every movement of every one of my fingers that touched his papers. I sat softly against the sofa, being very careful not to move a muscle out of place, for fear of accidently knocking a tower over. His face didn’t seem to shift into panic or rage, so I presumed that this particular spot was acceptable.
‘You just came from the trial?’
‘I have,’ I responded.
‘How was Fran?’
‘Well, only an hour ago, I did see her get sort of thrown into a police van and dragged away, so that wasn’t a particularly lovely image.’
‘Okay. Let’s cut the crap. You know my sister killed Macleod and O’Neill, right?’ Angus said.
