Nadia and the forever ki.., p.4
Chaz Brenchley, page 4
Tina moved up and patted the sill beside her. “Come and sit down, I’ve been keeping it warm for you.” “It’s all right, I’ll just lean, thanks.”
He propped himself up against the wall and took out his cigarettes, handing the pack round. Tina took one, the other two didn’t. “Fenner, these are the people who’re driving us down to the cottage. The scruffy one’s Georgina Hughes” - the tall blonde raised her glass to him and smiled - “and this is Jude. Judith Eliot.” “Hullo.” She looked him up and down, and said, “So what do we call you? Fenner, or what?” “Just Paul.” Tina had taken his surname, for her exclusive use. It was a romantic gesture, he knew; but it meant something to both of them, so they might as well indulge it. “I like the penguin suit,” he said, trying to avoid asking the inevitable party questions: what do you do, what do you want to do, where did you meet Tina. “She only wears it to show me up.” Georgina smiled, relaxed and confident in simple jeans and T-shirt. “She doesn’t,” Fenner said, knowing that she knew it, but wanting to say it anyway. “There’s charming, now.” Jude looked at him sardonically, while Georgina laughed. “Does he make toast too?” “No, he burns it.” Tina hooked her fingers into Fenner’s belt and pulled him closer. “Don’t you, sweetheart?” “Always.” “Typical man,” Jude said.
“Gives you cancer, burnt toast does. He’ll have you in your grave before you’re forty.” “Oh, I don’t eat it. We save it up to feed the pigeons with. Come back in a year, and there’ll be carcinomatous pigeons dropping dead all along the West Road. Pigeon pie, for the cost of half a pound of frozen pastry. Long range planning, see. “We won’t be here in a year,” Fenner reminded her gently. “So we’re providing a charity.
Feeding the poor.” She put her feet up on the window-sill, leaning back against Fenner for support. “I’m an absolute saint at heart. Besides, I hate frozen pastry.” Georgina put her glass down on the wall beside her; Jude picked it up and emptied it. Georgina smiled. “There’s plenty more upstairs,” Fenner said. “No, it’s all right,” Jude said. “We’d better be going. We only looked in to see Tina.” “Don’t be silly.” Tina swung her feet down and stood up abruptly. “The night’s hardly started yet.” “Tell that to the buses.” “Sod the buses. Fenner’ll drive you home.” “No, it’s all right. Honest. I’ve got a job in the morning, anyway.” “Stay an hour, at least. You’ll be safe with Fenner, he’s not drinking. “Actually, darling,” Georgina said, getting to her feet and stretching lazily, “what Jude’s trying not to say is that she’s got the hots for me, and she can’t wait to get me home and tear the clothes off my back. Compris?” “Si, comprendo. Sluggy bastards, the pair of you.
Have fun.” She hugged them both, and watched them walk up the road arm in arm. Fenner hesitated, then said, “Urn, did they mean it? About going home to screw?” Tina shrugged. “I expect so. I wouldn’t know, really, would I? But they do, if that’s what you’re getting at.” “Yeah, that’s what I’m getting at.” She glanced up at him. “Fenner, if you say one word about it being a shame and a waste, two such pretty girls and all, I’ll murder you, I promise. Or maybe I’ll just tell Jude and let her loose on you, she’d do it better than me.” “I’ll bet. I wasn’t going to, though. At least, I don’t think so. I might’ve thought it, a bit.” “It was written all over your face.” “Well. They are pretty.” He shot her a sideways glance. “Does that put your nose out of joint?” She tested it with one finger. “No. But honestly, Fenner, you’re like a kid with his face pressed up against the glass. You’ll be asking me what they get up to in bed, next.” “No, I won’t. Don’t need to. I saw a dirty movie once. Swedish. Very erotic.” “Filthy pig.” A door opened, milk-bottles touched and sang softly. “Hullo, you two.” “Diana! Hi.”
“Don’t tell me you’re on the run from your own party, you spineless creatures.” “Not really. Just having a breather.” Fenner gestured at his own open door. “Are you sure you won’t come up for a bit? It’s quite an education, watching the young at play.” “Yeah, come on, Di, you’d enjoy it. “Dressed like this?” She was wearing a long quilted dressing-gown over a cotton night-dress; when she moved, Fenner caught a glimpse of the famous bedsocks on her feet. “I’m not getting changed again, just to come and be deafened by music I don’t understand, and shouted at by reds in the bedroom. I know what student parties are like, I’ve had them overhead for the last ten years.” “Is it that bad?”
Tina asked worriedly. “I mean, they’ll quiet down a bit if I ask them.”
“Bless you, no. Not to worry. It doesn’t disturb me. I don’t sleep much anyway; I’ll probably outlast the lot of you tonight. I’ll be reading till three or four in the morning, and getting up again at eight.” “That doesn’t sound enough to me,” Tina frowned. “It’s all my body wants nowadays. Old age catching up with me, I expect. But you get back to your party,, the pair of you, and don’t fret about me.
Goodnight, now. The door closed behind her, and Tina shuddered theatrically. “Four hours’ sleep a night? How can she? It’s not healthy!” “Healthy enough, if that’s all she wants. We don’t all need ten hours, like some people I could mention.” “I don’t need them, I just like them. You wouldn’t begrudge me my simple pleasures, would you?”
“Not so long as I get to share them.” A car came slowly down the hill, stopped opposite the flat. Fenner lifted a hand in greeting, as Mike and Susan got out. Mike had a bottle in his hand. “Oh, help…,’ That was Tina, beside him, slipping her hand into his. “Relax,” Fenner murmured. “The war’s over, remember? This is peacetime.
Reconciliation.” “Yeah, but it was still them turned you into an alky.
Her.” “No, it wasn’t. It was me.” And then there was no time to talk any more. Mike reached them first, smiling with only a trace of anxiety, holding the bottle out as an offering. To Tina. “This is for you,” he said awkwardly. “I reckon I owe you more, for looking after Paul the way you have; but.. Tina shrugged, looked embarrassed, looked down at the bottle - and finally smiled. “Well, don’t tell him, Mike, but it’s been a pleasure. Mostly.” “My fan.” Fenner grinned down at her. “Why don’t you take Mike upstairs and get him a drink? I’ll bring Susan up in a minute, I’d like a word with her first.” “Sure. Come on in, Mike - but do me a favour, eh? Forget you’re a policeman, just for tonight?” “No problem,” Mike assured her, following her inside. Fenner turned back to the street, where Susan was standing on the pavement, watching him with quiet, careful eyes. Her blonde hair was cut differently, shorter and more fashionable, and her clothes were new; but the greater change showed in her face and body. Despite the tensions of the moment, she looked and moved like a woman at peace with her world and herself, happy in a way Fenner hadn’t seen since the early days of their marriage. He remembered the last time he had seen her, when they had met in her solicitor’s office to discuss details of the divorce; he remembered the hunched shoulders and the face pinched in so tightly on itself, and wanted to say a hundred different things; and couldn’t think of any way to say them, so simply said hullo. Her lips twitched into a smile. “Hullo. How are you?” “Good. Very good.” “Mike said you weren’t drinking any more?” “That’s right.” “I’m glad, Paul. Truly.” “I know.” Their smiles came easier now, as each recognised in the other a reflection of their own contentment. “You’re looking well.” “Mmm.” The acknowledgment stretched into a gentle hum, and Fenner laughed. “Fancy a drink, then? I’ll fetch it, if you don’t want to face the mob just yet.” “I’d like a tonic water, if you’ve got it. Or fruit-juice. No alcohol.” “You don’t have to keep off it for my sake.” “I’m not.
Drinking makes me feel sick at the moment, that’s all.” Her eyes sparkled with secrets, and the desire to tell them. Fenner found a conclusion, and jumped to it. “Are you pregnant, Susan?” “So my doctor assures me.” “I don’t have to ask if you’re pleased about it,” Fenner chuckled. “You look as smug as a saint after her first miracle.” He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her lightly. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks, Paul.” She glanced in through the open door, then looked up at him curiously. “I suppose that was your Tina, who stole my husband away?” “Yes, that was my Tina. Want to meet her?” “Mmm. But does she want to meet me? I thought she scuttled away a bit fast.” “Yeah, maybe.
But there’s only one way to get over that. Want to chance it?” “Yes.
Once more unto the breach, and all that.” She slipped her arm through his, and smiled suddenly. “This is nice, Paul. Being able to talk to you again.” “Right.” He squeezed her arm in agreement, and led her inside. “What about this Wales thing, though, Paul?” Malone said, above the babble of twenty urgent voices. “Seriously? Can you really see yourself keeping goats and chickens, and brewing nettle wine and all the rest of it? I never noticed you showing any interest in so much as a pot-plant, up to now.” “No, Tina’s the one on the self-sufficiency kick.
I’ll help out, but it won’t worry me if it doesn’t work. We’re not short of money. I’ll be happy just to be shot of this place. I’ve been here too long, the city’s gone sour on me.” “What the hell are you going to do, though, if you’re not ploughing the fields and scattering? You’ll be bored out of your mind, son. Guaranteed.” “Not me, Dad. I’ll work. I want to do another book, just to find out if the first was a fluke or not.” “Yeah? What about?” “I don’t know, haven’t a clue. Maybe a novel. I’d like to do that.” “I’ll tell you something else you could do,” Malone said. “A book about the Butcher. There’ll be a flood of them when we finally run him down; but if you started on it now, you’d be well ahead of the field. You know the case inside out to start with, you worked on it yourself, and you’ve still got friends on the inside.
You couldn’t miss. “No, I probably couldn’t. If I just wanted money.”
“It’d be more than that, Paul. I know most of the real-life shockers are only pulp, but they don’t have to be. You didn’t do MORAN for the money, did you?” “No. I don’t think so.” “Right. So why not work the same way on this? It could be a really important book. Apart from anything else, a sideways look from you might help us see where we’ve gone wrong this time, which could be right handy when the next psychopath turns up.” “Keep trying, and you’ll talk me into it. I don’t know if I could cope, though. It’s such a foul case, I was glad when they pulled me off it; I don’t particularly fancy plunging right back into all the details again. And I’d probably have to meet the guy himself, if you catch him. Try to find out what makes him tick.” “When, not if. But I could fix a meeting.” “Sure you could - but the question is, do I want to meet him? I don’t know, Mike. If there’s one thing that makes me feel I’m well shot of the force, it’s that case. I think I’d like to stay shot of it, and try something new.” “Well, it’s your decision. But think about it. Me, I’d like to see a book written by someone who’s pretty much on our side, forachange.” The heavy rock had given way to a gentler music, and the dancing to quiet talking. Some people had left, a couple drifted off to sleep; the rest, the serious party-goers, were settling down to the next stage, breaking out hidden bottles of whisky or vodka and starting to look towards dawn. Mike and Susan had long since gone, but Fenner was settled more comfortably with Tina’s friends, now that alcohol and time had worn down the rough edges of their youth. He sat by the window, part of a small group talking about anything that occurred to them, and staying quiet in between. Tina appeared, looking harassed. “Fenner, love - cigarettes?” she muttered, running both hands through her tousled hair. “I’m half-gone, but Marie’s having a crisis, and she’s got to talk to someone. I don’t mind, but I can’t face it without tobacco.” Fenner groaned, and stood up. “Sorry, I’m out myself; I’ve been bumming them for the last hour.
But you get back to your Good Samaritan act, or whatever it is. I’ll nip up to the all-night garage. I could use some air anyway.” “Sure?”
“Sure.” “Oh, you’re a lovely man.” She hugged him briefly, then yawned.
“I think I’ll make some coffee, while I’m through here. It’ll keep me going through the true confessions. You want?” “I most definitely want.
I’ll only be a couple of minutes.” He ran down the stairs and out into the night. Up onto the West Road, still jogging; but there he slowed to a walk, and finally to stillness. The city dropped away below him to the river, the familiar bridges lit like jewelled bands across the dark water. He knew this view at every time of day and night, in every season; it was the face of the beloved, dirty enough to be human, loved enough to keep him so through the bad time, before he met Tina. It was the face he had denied, and meant to turn his back on. It was beautiful tonight, warm under the hazy yellow of the street-lights - but, thank God, it was no part of him now. He saw the same face, and the same humanity; but his burden of love was gone, deliberately rejected. He looked, and knew he could leave with an easy heart. Tina was another matter. The move had been her idea, and she truly wanted to go; but she was reaching out for a dream, rather than walking away from a reality.
The difference in perspective might yet bring the whole adventure crashing down in ruins. Fenner had seen tonight how much a part of the city Tina still was. She was tied into it through a hundred friendships, where Fenner had only memories; and while he had been cutting as many links as he could, to leave free and unencumbered, Tina seemed to be reinforcing hers, wanting to be sure they would survive the separation. Perhaps they would; perhaps hers was the best way, after all. The human way. He couldn’t tell. Perhaps by keeping her friendships strong and secure, she would find them supporting her in Wales, keeping her going through the bad times and helping her to believe in the good. Or perhaps they would bring her running back inside a month, lonely and bored out of her mind without their bright company. The only thing he was sure of was that it was her decision, and she had made it. All he could do was watch, and hope, and follow her.
Chapter 8
From the report of the post-mortem carried out on the body of Kathryn Holland, age 29, occupation telephonist: The spike penetrated five centimetres below the xiphisternum, passed through the medial edge of the right crus of the diaphragm, and left the chest through the third intercostal space, posterially. The tip of the spike abutted against the anterior surface of the scapula, and seemed to have caused a comminuted fracture of the wing of the scapula. Both second and third ribs were fractured at the site of penetration. The insertions of latissimus dorsi and subscapularis were avulsed. The lung parenchyma were su1’prisingly undamaged. There was a longitudinal split of the aorta, which was full thickness and twelve centimeters in length. The right hemithorax was full of blood. The diaphragm was greatly bruised.
The mode of death was exsanguination. The appearances suggest a high-velocity penetration injury, and that the body was suspended on the tip of the spike for five to seven hours before discovery. - Or in other words, you impaled her. She was waiting for you by the roadside; and together you walked down one of the steep paths that lead into the dene.
It’s a sweet place, this, a sudden valley turned to a great garden, slashing like a deep green living wound across the north side of the city. A place of lawns and rhododendrons, waterfalls and bridges, swans. A place to be beautiful in, and happy. But she is bleak as the weather, bitter rain that snags your skin like gravel. Her voice jars at you, ugly words with an ugly insistence; and yet you deal with her kindly. Kindly by your lights, that is - but your world is harsh-lit, and cruel to shadows. And she is all shadow. You meant to give her to the river in a slow offering; but the path you take leads you down past a half-demolished cottage, and in a skip outside, you see a rusting length of iron, sharp at one end. Part of an old fence, perhaps, or just a support for a washing-line. Who knows? Whatever it was made for, it can serve another purpose. So you ask her to wait, while you pull it from the skip; and then you carry it down with you without explanation, to the burn at the valley bottom. She asks no questions. Impatient now, with the rough iron biting at your hands even through heavy leather gloves, nevertheless you let her lead you along beside the water, until you reach the waterfall, and the rocks. There, you stoop for a stone; and casually, easily, you bring it down on her neck. She crumples, as though there are no bones in her. You lay her out, put the jagged point of your pole a little below her ribs, and thrust steadily. You would have taken it slowly, knowing no urgency and finding less pleasure in haste; but somehow, as you feel thefirst grating resistance of bone and see a dark stain touching the cotton of her dress, her eyes open like a lid onto darkness, and she draws a clumsy breath to scream with. And you drive the spike sharply in, twisting and turning it while she flops and jerks like a fish on a gaffe; and with one movement you hoist her high, and drive the bun-end ofthepole deep into a split in the rock, where it wedges and sticks fast. And there you leave her for the morning to find, hanging above water, like a flag.
