Not long to wait now. Already Mark’s mood was starting to lift at the thought of seeing Elsie again. This year Christina had ceded Boxing Day to him—first thing tomorrow he’d be picking his little girl up for a fun-packed festive day. It had been a truly shitty year, but at least it was ending on a high. He had booked ice-skating, cinema tickets, a table at Byron’s for cheeseburgers—it was going to be the mother of all blowouts.
The prospect of a day out with Elsie had just about managed to keep him upright through the last thirty-six hours. As usual, he’d dropped his presents for her round at Christina’s house on Christmas Eve. Elsie wasn’t there—she’d gone to a Christingle service with her mum at the local church—so Stephen was home instead. He took the presents politely, then asked Mark if he wanted to come in for a drink. Mark had wanted to punch his teeth in—howdaredhe play host in what used to behishome? What were they going to talk about? What Santa was going to bring them for Christmas? He didn’t know whether Stephen had done it on purpose—he looked genuine enough, but perhaps he was a good actor—but Mark didn’t stick around to find out. When the red mist descended, Mark knew from experience that it was best to walk away. His blood had been boiling ever since and he’d more than once berated the hands on the clock for moving so slowly, but... finally his time was coming.All good things come to those who wait.
Christmas was done for another year.
34
Marie lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling. Would this be the last thing she saw? This discolored, uneven excuse for a ceiling? It had never bothered her before, but she’d been staring at it for over a week now and it aroused an anger in her that was as fierce as it was absurd. She shouldn’t even be in here—she should be in the front room with Anna. From the moment it had happened, she knew she had to tell her the truth, but how to find the words? It was so awful, so unbelievable, what could she say to her? So she’d kept quiet. Day after awful day. Her daughter knew nothing about the deadly ultimatum or the gun that she’d hidden in the bedside table. Anna was a riot of misery and confusion and she would have to stay that way because Marie would not—could not—tell her the truth.
She was a bad mother. A bad person. She had to be to have invited such misfortune upon them. She had chosen a wrong ’un to marry and conceived a child who could barely function. Without giving any cause for offense, she had provoked endless abuse and countless acts of random violence. And now this. The cruelest of blows and the one that would finally end their sorry story. She had given up wondering why this was happening to them—it was just the way it was. She’d given up fighting too. The phone line had been dead since Ella left, the doors were locked from the outside, and no one responded to her cries. Once she thought she’d seen a figure—a child perhaps—when she was shrieking out of the window. But it had hurried off. Perhaps she’d imagined that. When you’re stuck in a perpetual nightmare, it’s hard to know what’s real and what’s not.
Anna was crying again. It was one of the few functions of which she was capable and it cut Marie to the quick. Her daughter was lonely and scared—two things Marie had sworn she would never be.
Marie found herself on her feet. Walking toward the door, she stopped.Don’t do this.But I must.She knew it, really. Their only weapon against the world was their love and their solidarity and Marie had stupidly smashed that because of her own fear and cowardice. It was pitiful, pathetic. Having determined not to tell Anna the truth about their predicament, now she knew she had to. It was her only weapon. Their only hope.
Still Marie paused. Trying to find the words to excuse her cruelty, her silence. But it was impossible to find the words, so, summoning up the courage, she left the bedroom and walked into the living room. She’d expected to be greeted by Anna’s accusatory glare, but, miracle of miracles, the girl was asleep. Her crying had finally worn the young teenager out, and for a brief moment she was free of their nightmare. Anna was at peace.
What if she never woke up? Marie was suddenly exhilarated by this thought. She knew she would never shoot her own daughter—that was an impossibility. But there were other ways. In the years since Anna was diagnosed, Marie had read of numerous instances where mothers who had been unable to cope with their child’s severe disabilities had taken their lives. They said it was to end their child’s suffering, but it was to end theirs too. Society viewed them with sympathy, so why not her too? Anything would be better than slowly starving to death here. Their bodies would rebel against them soon anyway, so what choice was there?
Marie found herself back in her bedroom. Heading to the bed, she picked up the thin pillow and turned it over in her hands. Her mind was racing now. Would she have the courage to do it? Or would her nerve fail her? Vomit suddenly rose into her mouth—she dropped to her knees and was violently sick in the bin. Picking herself up, she found that the pillow was still clutched tightly in her hands.
Best not to hesitate. Best not to waver. So Marie quickly marched out of her bedroom and back into the room where her daughter was slumbering peacefully.
35
I shouldn’t have done it, but I couldn’t resist. I’d searched in vain for ways to hurt him. Never been able to. And then suddenly it fell right into my lap...
My mother had found it rooting around the bins at the edge of the projects. Funny little mongrel with a white patch over one eye. Cute, if a bit mangy. She’d given it to my dad as a birthday present. I think she thought he might hang around if he had something to care for. A simple plan, but it kinda worked. Okay, so he still went off for days at a time, drinking, fighting and shagging the local slags, but he doted on that mutt. He was forever petting it, while the rest of us watched on, ignored.
It’s funny, but once you know you’re going to do something bad, everything immediately feels better. You feel light-headed, euphoric, free. No one else knows what you’re planning. No one can stop you. It’s your dirty little secret. The days before I did it were some of the happiest of my life.
In the end I opted for poison. The caretaker in our block endlessly moaned about the rats—however much powder he put down, he couldn’t get rid of them. So it wasn’t tough to half-inch a tube of the stuff. I thought this was the best way. The mutt was a greedy little beggar, could never resist a feed. So I made him a very special one. The cheapest, shittiest dog food laced with rat poison. He scoffed the whole lot.
I laughed later when I saw the mess. Dog shit and dog puke all over the kitchen floor. The life poured out of him from both ends and within a couple of hours he was dead. Mum was fucking terrified, wanted to bin it before Dad got back, pretend the mutt had run away or something. But he’d bunked off early and caught her in the act.
He went mental, knocking her around, screaming at her. But she was as confused as he was. In the end, he found the empty rat poison tube in the rubbish outside. Stupid mistake, really, but I was still young. He exploded back into the room clutching the tube and, silly cow that I am, I smiled. And that really did it.
He stamped on my head, kicked me in the stomach, booted me between the legs. Then he grabbed my neck and held my head against our three-bar fire. On and off, on and off. Don’t know how long he went on for. I passed out after twenty minutes.
36
The decorations were coming down and life was getting back to normal. There’s something peculiarly sad and depressing about an office still swathed in tinsel after the Christmas festivities have passed. Some people like to keep them up until well into January, but Helen wasn’t one of them and she’d tasked a pliant constable with removing every last bauble and streamer. Helen wanted her incident room back the way it should be. She wanted to refocus.
Predictably, Whittaker wanted an update, so Helen headed straight to his office. The press coverage of Sam’s murder seemed to have calmed down a bit—a large seizure of cocaine at Portsmouth Harbour had distracted the local crime reporters for now—and Whittaker was happy enough, so their catch-up was brief for once.
Returning to the incident room, Helen could tell immediately that something was up—there was a tension in the atmosphere, with no one quite daring to meet her eye. Charlie hurried over, then paused, unsure how to start. It was the first time Helen had ever seen her tongue-tied.
“What’s happened?” Helen demanded.
“Sanderson just took a call from uniform.”
“And?”
“They’re down at Melbourne Tower.”
Oh, God no.
“A mother and daughter found dead in their flat. Marie and Anna Storey. I’m so sorry.”
