Before i die, p.22
Before I Die, page 22
‘You wait for Michael, Maureen? He is not coming. He is dead, I think.’ She paused and watched as Maureen’s hands went to her face in horror. Dolores’s interest was dispassionate, like that of an actor learning technique. She added some detail. ‘He is on the street. It is a mess, so much blood and, also, he has vomited.’ Her eyes were fixed on Maureen’s face, absorbed. Maureen rubbed away tears and shuddered.
‘What did you do?’ Her eyes were wide with horror. Dolores laughed, a harsh sound.
‘Me? I did nothing. It is his dealer friends who do this, the druggies. He owes them mucho money, so they kill him.’ She sniffed as she said it. ‘I tell to them, you get your money. He is there, back in his dirty room. So they go, and they find him. It is one more problem fixed.’
As Maureen flinched and shook her head, Dolores moved closer, so close Maureen could sense the excitement in her body and hear her rapid breathing. ‘It is your fault,’ she murmured, watching Maureen with avid attention. Her breath was warm against Maureen’s ear. ‘You rang me, and I knew where you were… so now he is dead, and it is all your fault.’
Maureen turned her head to look at her tormentor. Dolores’s eyes were too bright, as though Maureen’s pain was feeding something that lurked within. Something that could never be satiated; a cruelty like a tapeworm, its size and appetite growing each time it was fed. Maureen stepped away, repulsed. Dolores was between her and the door. She needed time, either to get away, or to stall until Alva arrived. She began to talk, her voice shaky.
‘I’ve got the evidence. They’ll believe me now. You killed Frank.’
Dolores shrugged. ‘So? It does not matter. This… evidence. My property. I will take that now, and you… I do not worry about you.’ Her voice took on a tormenting tone. ‘Poor Maureen, she was… what is the word? Demented? Crazy. Loca. Ran away with a junkie murderer. Now…’ She sighed theatrically. ‘Now she is dead. Killed by the junkie, maybe? Or the dealer. It does not matter.’
‘I’m alive, and I know what you did. Not just Frank, but your mother, and that woman in England.’ Maureen’s words were defiant, but her voice trembled. Dolores was going to kill her. She backed to the wall, looking around her for a weapon, but there was nothing.
‘You are dead. You just do not know it yet.’ As she spoke, she moved closer to Maureen, her hand touching Maureen’s hair. ‘Such nice hair. Soft.’ She twirled a lock of it with her finger, then let it drop as she moved to the evidence table.
‘My pictures.’ Her tongue flicked across her lips as she inspected them. Her hand went to the scarf, lingering on its smooth folds for a second before pulling it through her fingers, her movements slow and sensual. When she turned back, her face was blank of all expression, but her eyes flickered behind their heavy lids. Mobile, restless eyes. The eyes of a predator.
Breathing hard, Maureen looked across at the door, then took her chances and ran for it, stumbling on a loose floorboard as she did so. A strong hand gripped her arm and pushed her back across the room to land on the floor with a crash. Winded, Maureen struggled to face her attacker. Dolores was standing over her, her movements unhurried. Her hands were occupied with something. A syringe. She was removing the plastic cover from the needle. When she looked at Maureen, her eyes glittered.
Maureen’s mind flashed back to the outing, as though it had been a preparation for this moment. That strange vision of Dolores, eyes black, backlit by an evil glow. The sense of dread that had gripped her then returned now. The ground seemed to be tilting beneath her. She froze as Dolores bent to her, needle held high.
‘What are you doing!’
The shout made Dolores turn her head. Maureen rolled to one side. Alva was standing at the door, open-mouthed with shock. Dolores moved fast. In a second, she was across the room and had gripped Alva by the throat as she turned the needle towards her.
The sight of her daughter in peril triggered something in Maureen. Adrenaline coursed through her veins as she pulled herself upright and grabbed the kettle from the floor. She hobbled towards her enemy, hampered but determined. The shriek that Dolores unleashed as the recently boiled water splashed across her shoulders reverberated around the room and echoed into the hallway. Alva pulled away from her and ran to her mother.
‘Are you all right?’
Maureen nodded, not taking her eyes off Dolores, who still blocked access to the door space. Maureen picked up a chair and held it, legs outwards, a defensive weapon. Alva looked at her, amazed, then at Dolores. It took a second for her to absorb what was happening; then her practical nurse instinct kicked in.
‘Give me that,’ she said, pulling the chair from Maureen’s hands. Wielding it like a shield, she went straight for Dolores, poking and pushing at her, shoving her towards the door. Dolores, face contorted in pain, grabbed the chair legs. The two women were locked in a grim dance as each tried to gain control. Maureen could see what Alva was aiming at – to get Dolores out into the hall.
Dolores was heavier, though, and strong. With a wrench, she gained control and used the chair to pin Alva against the wall. Maureen screamed. A train thundered past, rattling the building and drowning the sounds of struggle. Maureen ran to Dolores and pulled at her red coat, but her efforts were shrugged off by Dolores, who was intent now on sticking Alva with the syringe. The chair pinned her victim, but hampered her own movements.
Maureen fell to the floor, weeping with frustration and fear. From her low angle of vision, she saw a brush with a broken wooden handle that Michael had used to sweep up the damage to his room. Frantic, she clawed across to reach it, then jabbed it into Dolores’s legs. As Dolores stumbled, the syringe flew out of her hand. Breathing hard, Alva pushed her away, regaining control of the chair and using it to hack at her enemy with all her strength. Dolores ran to the door and into the hall. Alva moved fast, kicking the door shut and leaning her back against it. Maureen crawled over to help her block the door.
Outside, Dolores was shouting, but in Spanish. A crashing, stumbling sound made them both brace for trouble, but it wasn’t coming their way. It seemed to be coming from the stairs. They looked at one another; then Alva cracked open the door. Dolores was clinging to the stair rail, shouting. Maureen saw that her ankle was gripped by two thin wrists and bony hands rising from a bloodstained body and a face that belonged in a grave. Michael’s face.
Dolores kicked and struggled, but the hands were locked on. Her face desperate, she gave one final, successful heave and fell free against the shaky handrail. With a cracking sound, the rail split under her, and she dropped, screaming, into the stairwell. A single dull thump signalled her landing on the stone-tiled floor two flights down. Her final scream echoed through the building, even after the pool of blood spreading from her head told the shocked onlookers that Dolores was dead.
The two women looked at one another, shaken. Alva, ever practical, had pulled her phone out and was thumbing in the emergency number even as she moved to check Michael, his hands empty now, lying motionless on the stairs.
‘Hi. I need police and an ambulance. Two injured… one may be dead…’
Maureen sat on the top step, shocked into silence. It was over.
39
Maureen studied Michael’s bandaged head and battered face. Better than the previous visit. At least this time he was able to talk. The bruising around his eyes had faded from blue-black to greenish yellow, which was progress. A fractured leg, bound up in a cast, was suspended above the bedclothes. His other injuries were less obvious, but she knew they included broken ribs, severe bruising and multiple minor cuts.
‘How in God’s name did you manage to crawl up that stairs?’ Maureen marvelled every time she remembered that vision of Michael, like the living dead, pulling Dolores down to hell. He shrugged, then grimaced as the gesture caused him pain.
‘Couldn’t tell you. It was like a weird sort of bad dream. Just something in my head kept telling me I had to get up there. I’m not sure there was even a reason attached, but I knew I would die if I stayed on the street, and she’d propped the front door open to stop it from crashing. That helped. I got her, though. She didn’t get away with it.’ His expression was triumphant for a moment, then lapsed into a dissatisfied sigh. ‘So. Here we are.’
Maureen nodded. ‘Yes. It’s almost an anticlimax, isn’t it? We were living so much on our nerves those last few days, at least I was.’
He nodded, eyes closed. ‘Yeah, there’s a sort of what now feeling, all right.’ His voice took on a note of self-mockery. ‘And I thought I was going to die young and beautiful, with people making nice speeches at the graveside.’
Maureen gave a wry smile. ‘Didn’t we all, sometime or other.’ Her thoughts went to Frank. ‘Your father would have been proud of you, you know.’
Michael didn’t answer. She patted his hand. After a minute, he spoke.
‘I let him down. My mother, too. I can’t forget that. It’s when I’m clean, like now, that it gets to me. All the stuff I did and things I said... If I had drugs, I’d take them just to make it go away.’ He turned his face aside, but Maureen could see tears forming.
‘He loved you. You should remember that. And he knew… he told me it was a disease, your addiction. He understood that, and he never gave up on you. And now you’re off heroin…’
‘For the moment.’ Michael’s voice was harsh. ‘I’m safe in here, with my meds dished out and monitored, but I know how tough it will be when I leave. All those empty days to fill, and all those memories to face…’ He paused, then forced an optimistic note. ‘Anyway. One day at a time, isn’t that what they say?’
Maureen agreed. ‘Live in the present. Don’t think too far ahead. Will you be moving back into your father’s house? I’m guessing it reverts to you now that Dolores…?’ She had wondered about the legal implications of that.
‘Yeah. Seems there’s a law about a murderer not being able to inherit or benefit from the estate of her victim… Thing is, she’s dead, not convicted of murder. I reckon it comes to me, but I have to talk to a solicitor about all that when I get out. I’m telling you, though, Maureen, legal or not, I’m moving back in there when they discharge me. Fuck’s sake, where else can I go?’ Michael didn’t seem too bothered about the legal niceties. Remembering the misery of his previous accommodation, Maureen couldn’t blame him. His talk of murderers brought her mind back to Dolores.
‘Did you hear the latest about Dolores? They think, now, that she might have killed at least six people. They’re tracking back on people she worked for who died unexpectedly. It might even be more, but of course, some people were cremated, so they can’t prove anything.’
Michael looked interested. She continued in order to distract him from thoughts of his father. ‘It seems a few people she looked after were found dead at home from overdoses, and they were sort of posed, in a window, like with your father and her own mother. It was some strange twist she had.’
Michael puzzled over it. ‘Will they ever prove it, though, now she’s dead?’
‘There’ll be some sort of inquiry, I think. I don’t know how all of that works. At least people know.’
‘And we stopped her.’ He looked at Maureen. ‘How are you doing, anyway? You must have been freaked when I didn’t come back, and then you had to face her on your own…’
Maureen thought for a moment before answering. How was she? She didn’t quite know the answer to that herself. Her physical injuries were minor. Her doctor had muttered, ‘Might be some post-traumatic stress,’ when she told him about her bad dreams and recurrent, intrusive memories of events. He’d offered her pills, but she had declined them.
She was okay, though. Glad to be alive. Determined never to be in anybody else’s power again. Vowing not to become isolated.
‘I’m good. Volunteering for some things. Keeping occupied. I need to be with people, and not just other old people. Alva was right about that, at least.’
Michael grimaced. ‘But not about a lot of other things.’
‘No. She knows that now.’ As if on cue, Maureen’s phone rang, and she pulled it out and looked at the caller ID. It was Alva. Maureen mouthed ‘excuse me’ at Michael as she answered her daughter.
‘No, I’m not home. You’re at my house? I wasn’t expecting you…’ The tinny voice at the other end sounded frustrated. Maureen’s voice was soothing. ‘Oh dear, I am sorry you wasted your trip, but you know, I can’t be sitting around the house all day, on the off chance of a visitor… can I? You should let me know when you’re coming. How about next Sunday? For lunch?’
She listened for a moment. ‘No, I can’t do Saturday. I’ve got another engagement. Okay. Sunday it is, then.’ With that she turned off the phone. Michael was watching with a crooked smile on his face.
‘You enjoyed that.’
Maureen looked a bit abashed, then grinned. ‘Was it that obvious?’ She didn’t wait for his answer. The phone call had reminded her that she did, in fact, have somewhere to go. She stood up and looked over at Michael. ‘I’d better be off. I’m meeting Elizabeth for coffee, and she’s a terror for punctuality. When do you get out of here, anyway?’
Michael sighed. ‘Next Tuesday, they say. It depends on the doctor’s final check.’
Maureen hesitated, then spoke. ‘Meet me for lunch on the Wednesday. One o’clock. Then you won’t have an empty day waiting for you.’
‘You don’t need to… I’ll be fine… Thanks for visiting, but don’t worry about me.’ Michael was avoiding her eye.
She remained standing until he looked at her; then she spoke.
‘I know I don’t need to. I would like to buy you a burger. I’m an old woman who needs company. You’re a young man who needs something to do.’ Her tone was firm. She was not going to take no for an answer.
Michael gave a nod and a half-smile.
‘Okay, Wednesday, one o’clock. Burger place. See you then.’
As Maureen left the hospital, she wondered if he would show up. She thought he would. Then again, at her age, there was no guarantee that she’d turn up, either. Live for the present, she’d told him. It applied equally to herself. She felt the warm spring sunshine on her face and smiled. The familiar streets of the town seemed so much more inviting now that she was sure Dolores wasn’t lurking in them. It was good to be alive. What was that saying again? The Latin one? Her mind sought the words, then found them. Carpe Diem. Seize the day. Nodding at the thought, she headed purposefully towards her appointment.
From Jackie
My thanks to Brian Lynch and Garret Ryan of Inkubator Books for their helpful feedback and advice which kept this book on target and (almost) on time. Thanks also to my patient and supportive family for the steady encouragement and endless mugs of tea which fuelled my progress.
If you could spend a moment to write an honest review, no matter how short, I would be extremely grateful. They really do help readers discover new authors.
Best wishes,
Jackie
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Published by Inkubator Books
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Copyright © 2020 by Jackie Morrissey
BEFORE I DIE is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Jackie Morrissey, Before I Die
