Chapter Four

  Virginia…

  When people discover who I am, they immediately blame me. In their eyes, it’s impossible that I had been married to such a fiend, and not known about his extracurricular activities. They question how I accepted all those times when he was late coming home, staying long after his employees. How could I have mistakenly put it down to dedication to his work, and helping the families who wanted to bury their loved ones without delay?

  In their view, I had to have known, had to have condoned it. Or at least had turned a blind eye to what had been going on.

  The truth is, I had no inkling.

  My husband was an undertaker, I had no interest in his work. I didn’t want to hear about the wonders of makeup applied to a car crash victim so they could have an open casket. I couldn’t imagine anything worse than dinner conversations about how many bodies he’d recently had in, and definitely didn’t want to hear about the manner of their deaths. Ralph had worked, had earned sufficient money to pay his part in putting food on our table and keeping a roof over our heads. That was all I needed to know about his employment. Ralph seemed content keeping the details to himself.

  Not long after we were first married, I had supported him when he started up his own business. My name had been on the loan for the premises which had long since been paid off. One thing can be certain in the world of undertaking, there was never going to be a shortage of clients, nor a lack of work. It had been a secure investment.

  I, on the other hand, worked at the university. I’d earned my first degree, then a PhD, then progressed to become a lecturer. I was lucky enough to get a chair and be called professor. The retelling of my days was much more appropriate for a discussion while eating our dinner. I was engrossed in my own research and enjoyed sharing my knowledge. I loved the inquisitiveness of some of the students, how they challenged me on a daily basis. Ralph would listen and laugh in the right places. He played the role of the ideal, supportive husband.

  When the story broke, I’d lost my position. Not directly, the university couldn’t have arbitrarily dismissed me for what Ralph had done, but I could no longer force myself to go onto campus. I think my bosses were relieved when I’d handed in my notice. Wherever I went, people looked at me oddly, or turned away when they realised I was her.

  My presence was distracting, and even if they kept quiet, I knew the questions that were on their minds. Had I known? Had I covered for him? How could I live with the knowledge?

  My name was on everyone’s lips. My face was recognised. Oh, I’d tried to hide when Ralph’s despicable story had come out, but the press had hounded and caught me. Unable to speak to him, they’d decided to speak to his wife, and as a consequence, I became a minor celebrity.

  The families of the victims, they seemed to hate me the worst. Not that I blamed them. Losing a member of your family or a friend is hard enough to come to terms with but knowing their bodies had been molested at the very time they should have been treated with respect, had been devastating to the many tens of families affected.

  I no longer felt welcome in my hometown. Every trip to buy groceries had me ducking my head to avoid the stares and the whispers. As well as giving up my job, I moved across the state and dropped the Roberts from my name. But people still recognised me. So, I’ve become a recluse, lucky enough to be able to work from home as an editor of scientific papers.

  Nowadays, I rarely show my face in public, but sometimes real life interferes, like today, when I came to the bank to beg for a loan.

  Maybe it’s me. Maybe bad luck follows me. The thought makes me sob. Is it my fault the bank robbers had struck today?

  “Hey, Virginia, it’s going to be alright.”

  I get the feeling Marvel’s not a touchy-feely person, yet here he is, again attempting to hold my hand. When his fingers touch mine, he realises his mistake and pulls them away. Bizarrely, my fingers follow his. Tentatively, he grasps mine again, and I let him. The tactile comfort is reassuring, even if I can’t understand why I’m allowing it.

  Since Ralph, I haven’t been able to bear anyone touching me. The only explanation must be that today the circumstances aren’t normal.

  “I wish I hadn’t come to the bank.” My voice is of necessity quiet, but forceful.

  He snorts. “Join the club, babe.”

  “No, I mean, maybe it’s me. Maybe I attract trouble.”

  “Hell no.” He moves to a kneeling position and stares at me. “This has nothing to do with you, okay? You’re not some kind of bad fuckin’ omen. It’s on the heads of those men out there. Just like you had no responsibility for what that bastard ex of yours got up to. And for the record, woman, if anyone thinks that you were, well, it’s them that’s twisted.”

  But half the country at least thinks I looked the other way.

  “I think the dead haunt me,” I tell him. “I have nightmares.”

  He snorts. “Dead’s dead, babe. Once you’re gone, you’re gone.”

  I look at him curiously. “Don’t you believe in an afterlife?”

  “Nope.” He presses his lips together. “It’s more comforting to think when you die, you just don’t feel anymore. You just end. Job done.” He shakes his head. “Do I want to think I’ll be there in some form to watch life going on? Hell, that’s not me. Not if there’s no way I can influence it, or not in any way other than by rattling doors. Do I want to know what people say about me after I’ve passed? Fuck no. They can say it to my face when I’m alive or go fuck themselves.”

  “You don’t believe in God?”

  He adamantly shakes his head. “No, and if I did, I’m unlikely to meet him. If I have to face Satan one day, I’ll gladly admit to my actions that sent me to him. I might not be a good man, but I’ve not done wrong for the sake of it. If I did do wrong, it was because I was on the side of right.”

  It’s so strange to be having a theological discussion while a bank robbery is going on behind the door. But at least the conversation is keeping my mind off what’s happening in the lobby.

  “You sound like a good man.”

  He snorts again. “No, I am not.”

  There’s another commotion outside the door—no shots at least, but a lot of shouting. Only some of the words I can distinguish, like, “Get back, or I’ll shoot her.”

  Death’s so close it makes me shiver. “I don’t want to die.” My voice trembles as I confide in him.

  His eyes sharpen. “Not one of my plans either.”

  No one does, but that’s not what I mean. I turn away, unable to face him. In a hoarse whisper, I try to explain. “Knowing what happens in those places, knowing what Ralph did. Thinking what could happen to my body, I have nightmares about being violated like his victims.”

  His eyebrow quirks. “That’s what’s got you worried?” His lips purse. “You’re not scared about being shot, but what happens to your body afterward?”

  “What if I’d know?” I whisper. “What if I’m looking down and…”

  Appearing bored with the conversation, he picks up his phone. He types out a message on it, then one side of his mouth rises when he gets a reply. The texts go on for a while.

  Deciding his view of there being no afterlife means he can’t understand the fears that haunt my dreams, I stare at my feet instead. A tap on my arm forces me to look at him.

  The corner of his lip turns up as he places his phone in my hand. “All sorted.”

  Confused, I look down.

  Marvel: Prez, do me a favour. If we die today, bury me and the woman I’m with up behind the compound. Same grave.

  Wiz: You’re not gonna die today, asshole.

  Marvel: Just promise me, yeah?

  Wiz: I fucking promise. But it’s not gonna happen.

  I think that was all I was supposed to read, but the phone keeps vibrating as more messages come in.

  Wiz: You and a woman in the same fucking grave? What gives?

  Wiz: You don’t like fucking women.

  Wiz: That came out wrong. Should have left out the fucking.

  There are a couple of laughing emojis at the end.

  Marvel takes possession of the phone again, gives a cursory glance at the messages, but doesn’t respond.

  “There,” he says, that attempt at a smile appearing again. “No fuckin’ undertakers required. My brothers will claim our bodies, dig a grave, and throw us both in. Job done.”

  Knowing he can’t be serious, I shake my head.

  Gauging my reaction, his finger comes under my chin and gently turns me to face him. “Reckon you were serious about being scared, and I can fuckin’ understand why.” He raises his phone, flashing the texts once again. “Ain’t joking, Virginia. Not that it’s going to happen, but were we to die, club’s got the land, won’t be any skin off their nose to bury us there.”

  But that’s plain crazy. Apart from any environmental laws… “You’d be buried with me to protect me?” My eyes widen.

  “To protect you like pharaohs used to have their slaves slaughtered along with them?” He chuckles.

  I decide to tease him. “Well, if I’m right and you’re wrong about there being an afterlife, you’d be taking a chance you’d be stuck with me for all eternity.”

  “Pretty certain it’s me who’s right, babe. It’s not something I’m gonna worry about. And, anyway, we’re not going to die. But, if we do, then you’re sorted, alright?”

  Despite the topic of our conversation, I put my hand to my mouth to stifle a startled laugh. For a few moments, all conversation falters.

  “You work?” he asks suddenly, as though he wants to keep talking.

  “I was a college professor,” I tell him. “But I had to leave that job. I edit scientific material now. Papers, books, stuff like that.”

  “Because of your ex.” It’s a statement, not a question. He grimaces as if his attempt to get onto safer topics hadn’t worked.

  We fall silent again. As the moments tick by, reality creeps up on me. “What do you think’s going on out there?” I ask.

  He glances at me, but doesn’t brush me off, saying how the hell should he know? “I reckon the cops are trying to negotiate.”

  I nod down to the phone. “Can you contact the detective and find out?” I shift a little. The feeling’s been growing on me, and while I don’t want to admit it, it’s starting to become pressing. “I, er, I’m going to need a bathroom soon.” I’m really regretting that extra cup of coffee this morning.

  Instead of laughing or saying something about females being unable to hold it, Marvel sighs. “Me too, babe. Me too. Getting old sucks, doesn’t it?”

  “You’re not old.”

  “Fifty-five,” he announces.

  “I’m fifty-one.”

  “A mere baby.” He chuckles, then picks up his phone.

  Almost as soon as he sends a message, he gets one back. The to-and-fro goes on for a while and I take the opportunity to watch him. I’ve spoken to this man more in the last couple of hours than I have anyone in what seems like forever. I’ve never really spoken about my beliefs before, and certainly not shared them with a stranger. That my sleep is haunted by visions of indignities heaped on my dead body, while I hover overhead, powerless to stop it, I’ve not told anyone, not even my therapist.

  I’ve let this man hold my hand.

  Since Ralph’s arrest, I haven’t been able to stand anyone touching me. My brain freezes, demanding to know where have they been, what have they been handling? Even if I’d been given verbal answers, I wouldn’t have been able to believe them. The thought of Ralph’s fingers running over my body, now knowing what they’d been caressing before, sends shivers through me. Just a man’s touch can make me want to vomit.

  But, for some reason, not his.

  I glance at his hands. They’re not those of a gentleman. There’s grime under his fingernails, oil stains which won’t wash out. Maybe it’s because his dirt is earned honestly. I frown at myself. I know nothing about him, and certainly not whether he’s honourable or not.

  Finally, Marvel puts the phone down. His brow creases, and he rubs his hand over his beard. He sighs, then raises his eyes to mine.

  “They’re still negotiating, but from the sound of it, not getting anywhere. He wanted me to try to see where people are, but I told him, I’ve probably only got one shot at it. Can’t see fuck all through that glass, and if I open the door and am seen, it could panic them and start a massacre. When, if, the SWAT team are going to come in, I’ll chance it then, but not before.”

  “What could they be negotiating?” I wonder aloud.

  “Transport to make a clean getaway, I expect.” Marvel appears to be thinking about it. “The only way they’ll get out of here is to take someone with them, use them as a human shield. The cops won’t let them get away, and hell if I know how they’ll persuade them to give themselves up.”

  He sits himself back down beside me, stretching out his long legs. “We’ve just got to be patient.”

  His phone vibrates again. Picking it up, he reads the text, and then sets it back down again. At my raised eyebrow, he gives more of a smile. “My brothers want to know how we’re bearing up. That was Hound, our sergeant-at-arms. I told him as well as can be expected under the circumstances.”

  I doubt he’d said that much. I’d noticed his texts were brief. But it must be nice to have friends who care about you. Friends so close you refer to them as family.

  Of course, I had friends before, but like any couple married for two decades, the friends were ours, not his or mine. And when what Ralph had done came to the surface, it wasn’t comfortable being friends anymore.

  Partly, I know, they felt what I was feeling, having to ask themselves why they hadn’t seen the type of man Ralph was. Whatever friendship there had been between us had been tainted—trust broken, never to be restored.

  My parents are long gone, taken by an accident shortly after I married. I’ve a sister, sure, but being ten years younger, she and I have never been particularly close. When it all came to light, she and my brother-in-law had fallen in the camp of thinking I must have known. She couldn’t believe that I could have been so blind as to not know I was living with such an abuser, a person who committed such heinous crimes

  I only keep in touch for the sake of my niece and nephew, but that’s rare and now related to Christmas and birthdays.

  Tears prick at my eyes as I start feeling sorry for myself. I’m falling into the hole of despair, and I have to claw my way out of it. There’s only one thing that might help—getting my mind off myself and instead focusing on someone else.

  “Tell me about you, Marvel.”

  Chapter Five

  Marvel…

  Tell her about me?

  From the hard topics she’d already shared, I know she doesn’t mean the trivial stuff, like what kind of motorcycle I ride, my favourite food or the activities I like. And some of those activities I would not disclose to a lady such as her.

  With possible death waiting on the other side of that door, this is not simply making conversation to pass the time, it’s a chance to bare the soul, to admit to the darker truths of our lives, the shit that otherwise we’d take to the grave as unspoken secrets.

  The last person I told about my past had been Bird, the old president of the San Diego Satan’s Devils, who was responsible for me joining the club. I’d sworn him to secrecy, and he’d kept his oath of silence until the day that he died.

  Should I take this chance of getting it off my chest once more? Tell her about the wounds which, even after so many years, are still open and raw? About the hurt that still festers? Expose the incident that had more of an effect on me than anything else in my life? That still to this day shapes me?

  But what could it hurt? Once this situation is resolved, we’ll either be dead, or we’ll part, and go on living our separate lives. Our paths are unlikely to cross again.

  I have no fear she’ll gossip about me. She knows only too well about secrets that shouldn’t be told, and what it’s like to live with a memory of the utmost betrayal.

  I glance at her, but she’s waiting patiently. Right now, it seems we’ve got all the time in the world. We’re stuck in this strange cocoon, this oasis of calm while outside is turmoil.

  Before I’m really conscious I’ve made the decision, words start coming out of my mouth.

  “I was a blond-haired surfer dude,” I begin so suddenly I see her jump. Catching her eye, I give her a twisted grin. “I had a trade. I was a mechanic, but it was in the waves where I came alive. A typical Californian, a beach bum if you like. Every moment I could, when the waves were right, I’d be out there catching them.”

  Shaking my head in memory, I wink at her. “I was a babe magnet, though you’d probably have difficulty imagining it.”

  She smiles, a little weakly, but it’s a definite smile. “It’s not hard to picture.”

  She’s being kind of course. I’m a long, long way from the man I once was.

  “I liked the girls, and they liked me. Most were hookups, just casual relationships. They’d like to hang out in their skimpy bikinis on the beach, and well, when I rode the waves, I made sure they were looking at me.” In my mind, I’m picturing it again, things I don’t normally allow myself to think on. The times before. When I had an easy smile for everyone, and any repartee wasn’t sarcastic or soured. When I still trusted the world. When I still trusted the girl.

  “She was called Davina. Hell, she was a beauty.” For the first time in decades, I allow myself to remember her features. Boobs that looked too perfect to be real, but which were. An ass that was heart-shaped and pure perfection. A tiny waist, brilliant sparkly eyes. A smile that held promise and a body, that as I found out, really delivered. “We hooked up, but this time it was different. I wanted more. We dated. I wooed her. Bought her flowers, chocolate…” I pause as I remember how sappy I’d been back then. “I was a man falling in love, and she, well, she said she was falling for me.”

  I glance sideways to ensure she’s paying attention. She’s rapt, hanging on my every word. But her expression is cautious as if she already knows this story won’t have a happy ending.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33