A Journal of Sin (14 page)

‘Wait. Wait.’ John raised one hand, clutching his stomach with the other. ‘Is all this over a woman? You want the books just to give to her?’ He backed away, knowing if he ran, he’d only manage a few metres before the pain from the punch crippled him.

‘None of your business.’

‘What’s in there that’s got you so interested?’ Sean took off his jacket and adjusted the knuckle-duster before pressing it into his other palm. His biceps bulged under the pounds of flab. A metal-laced punch from those arms could smash straight through John’s scrawny body. ‘Stop. I want to see it. The one you took.’

Negotiating from such a weak position wasn’t likely to work. He was cutting a deal with a giant; a giant with a metal hand, twice his size and three times as pissed off. Something they’d read in those books had made them want the others, want the others so badly one had offered a blank cheque and the other had no qualms in leaving him a bloody mess on the edge of St Peters. Maybe there was something in there for him.

‘What do you care?’

‘Jenny. My ex. There may be something in there about her.’

Sean relaxed his arms. ‘Why don’t you ask your cop friend to read them?’

‘She won’t. I asked. She’s playing it all by the rules.’

‘Makes a fucking change. Now that you mention it, there’s something in there about wanting to escape a deadbeat dad. Yeah, moving to the city, right?’

‘Fuck you.’

Adrenaline tapped his feet and clenched his fist. Sensing his anger, Sean swung first, missing by an inch. John dived forward, grabbing him round the throat with both hands and raising his knee into his stomach. Sean’s low gravity made him hard to move, but he stumbled as John’s punch struck the side of his head. He fell backwards, landing on the ground. Hard.

‘Are you fucking crazy?’ His bulk was a weakness on his back. Sweat covered his body as it heaved with each heavy breath. John mounted him and punched down repeatedly, each one landing square in his face. ‘Get off me, you fucking prick.’ Sean wriggled, but John managed to stay on top of him, like a cowpoke clinging to a giant bull. He wanted Sean’s secrets and was willing to punch them out if he needed to.

‘What do you know? Stop fucking around.’ John threw another punch to his face, but once Sean had his thick forearms in the way, his punches were like birds flying into a wall. John had the upper hand, but the adrenaline waned. Sean pushed up with his hips and threw a right hook, connecting with John’s kidney. The punch sent him reeling to the left. He clutched his side and squirmed in pain. Sean stood up, heaving and holding on to his chest. For a moment, John thought he may be having a heart attack, but he wasn’t to be so lucky. Sean’s size twelve’s plunged into his gut. He shrieked in pain.

‘What’s fucking wrong with you?’ John rolled onto his front and stumbled to his feet. ‘You want more?’

‘What do you know about Jenny?’ His body throbbed with pain. He should have stayed down – rolled over and played dead until the bully left the playground. He cradled his stomach and wanted to save energy rather than speak, but these were important words. He swung, but Sean was ready. John’s fist collided with his forearm as a right hook knocked his head to the side, leaving a metallic taste in his mouth.

‘Nothing, you little prick. I’m happy to beat you all day long, but there’s nothing in that book for you. It’s just a bunch of religious ramblings,’ said Sean, in between wheezes. ‘You’re fucking crazy. Let it go.’ It sounded like pity. Pity was all he’d had since the divorce. Pity wasn’t going to bring his family back. He sized Sean up, picked a spot to strike, but even though he wanted to throw more punches, his body simply didn’t respond.

‘You…don’t get…it.’ He spat blood, struggling to speak though a swollen jaw.

‘Alright, alright.’ Sean leant on his car, taking deep breaths, trying to settle his lungs. ‘My brother was assaulted. Abused. When he was young. It’s someone here, from Sunbury.’ He stumbled over his words, either due to carrying an extra six stone around his gut or describing tragic events from years ago. The fight had left him. ‘I can’t prove anything. Police did nothing, didn’t believe a word he said. He’s never fully recovered. It’s possible whomever did it felt guilty. Guilty enough to confess.’

They wanted answers. Answers about their family, the people they loved and a past they couldn’t change; both driven by blind faith, the hope that turning pages through a dead man’s thoughts could bring their anguish to an end. Hope’s smallest spark lit the possibility of redemption. Sean wanted to give his little brother the answers that up to now alluded him; John wanted to know his little boy growing up fatherless wasn’t his fault, that some other man was to blame.

‘Bring me those books. If I have to break in there myself, you’ll never see them. And no snitching this time.’

John nodded. Sean drove away, leaving him with a swollen mouth, a throbbing body and the aching need to get hold of those journals before he did.

NINE

The wind slammed the door behind her. Tom’s words ran through her head the whole way back, making the drive home exhausting. She wanted to collapse on the sofa and drift off for some proper sleep. Something caught her eye; a stranger’s jacket slumped over the bannister. Mens, brown denim, somewhere around a small, possibly extra-small. It was the kind of jacket Gap sells; nothing any of Sally’s friends would own. The house was silent. The lounge door creaked as she nudged it open and peered in. No sign of her mother or anyone else.

‘Mum?’ She walked into the kitchen. The saucepan on the hob was warm, the one they used to boil water for tea. ‘Mum?’ She called out. Footsteps walked above her. Someone was in the bathroom.

‘Sarah?’ Sally’s voice came from upstairs. Sarah relaxed. The pressure of the week and her lack of sleep had put her on edge.

‘Mum, whose coat’s this?’ She held it up. It was definitely a small.

Sally peered down over the landing. ‘It’s your friend, dear. He’s had a bit of an accident.’

Her mother’s idea of an accident differed from the general usage and understanding of the term. She expected to walk into the bathroom to see John with a grazed knee or a cut lip. Instead, he sat perched on the corner of the white bathtub, his left cheek swollen to the size of a small satsuma and one of his eyes closed and bloodied. He raised his hand to cover his face.

‘I don’t want you doing anything about this.’ He winced, talking out of the side of his mouth. Moving his mouth looked very painful and she was surprised he could form any words at all. She listened a little more closely than usual to make sure she understood every word.

‘What happened to you?’ She leant in for a better look, her curious nature quashing her manners. He turned his head away, reluctant to reply.

‘I’ll leave you to it.’ Sally handed her some cotton wool balls, antiseptic and a plastic box of small plasters. ‘Dab the wound with the antiseptic, then apply the plaster.’ The stairs creaked as she walked downstairs. Plasters weren’t going to help; the swelling could well indicate a broken cheek.

‘Promise you won’t go arresting anyone.’ He turned his head and she saw the full extent of his injuries.

‘Ouch. Who did this?’

‘Promise.’

Rounding anyone up for this would take a backseat to the murder in any case. There wasn’t enough time to deal with that, let alone whatever this punch-up was about. John would get his wish, for now at least. She didn’t like letting people off crimes they should be brought to book for. She lacked the time or the resources to pursue John’s assailant, whether he wanted to make a complaint or not, but she’d be sure to ask him if he wanted to reconsider once all this was over.

‘Promise.’

‘Sean.’

‘Sean?’ She hadn’t taken to him when they met. There was something about arrogant, misogynistic brutes she didn’t like. It made her wish she had her cuffs, baton and a few spare hours.

‘Over Suzanne.’

‘Two grown men fighting over a woman? Aren’t there talk shows for people like you?’ He choked a laugh, holding his chest in pain. It was a few moments before he could speak again.

‘Chest hurting?’

‘Ribs.’ He scrunched his face in pain

The stairs creaked.

‘Mum, don’t worry, stay downstairs.’ Sally stopped on the fourth step, holding two mugs of tea. She leant against the wall.

‘I’m only trying to be nice to our guest.’

‘I know, but going up and down is too much for you.’ Sarah met her on the stairs and took the mugs. She and Mark had talked about getting a downstairs toilet installed in the house. Sally didn’t like any fuss, so whenever the subject came up, she’d always refuse. Looking at her now, leaning on the wall for support and favouring her weaker leg when she walked, Sarah knew it was about time they went and did it anyway. Mother’s bloody-mindedness wouldn’t be an ample excuse should the worst happen. She’d say they were treating her like a child – Sarah could just hear it now – but it’d be in her best interest.

She put the mugs on the sink. John looked at them as if it was the tenth tea she’d made him since he knocked on the door. The hospitality was a sweet gesture, but it would be a while before he could eat or drink without a sharp pain on the left side of his face.

‘Isn’t Sean married?’ She caught herself, realising her old-fashioned sensibilities needed to make room for affairs and infidelity. Her parents married in their early twenties and stayed that way until her father died. She blossomed a little later, but intended on having the same commitment. Extramarital relations was the polite term for fucking your workmates whilst your partner stayed at home with the kids. Policing was rife with it and not just at her nick. It was a worldwide knocking shop. She was a family woman and, in all honesty, would rather spend a night on the sofa with a police dog than any of her workmates. Her single friends said she should have joined the fire service.

‘Yeah. He’s obsessed.’ He sounded like a drunk teen with a heavy lisp. She waited as he finished talking. ‘Sorry for coming here. I didn’t know where else to go.’ Going straight from the bottom of Sean’s boot to Suzanne’s house would have been suicide. Had he gone home, he’d have only hit the bottle.

‘How’d he find out you’d spent the night with her?’

‘No idea.’ Sarah drank her tea. The bathroom was small and there wasn’t anywhere to sit down. It was an old bathtub. She wasn’t entirely comfortable with John sitting on it, and was certain it wouldn’t take both of their weight. Her feet ached.

‘You need to get some rest. You need to get some medical attention, but there’s not much hope of that just yet. I’ve just been to the nearest access road; it’s still flooded.’ She put the plasters, antiseptic and cotton wool in the medicine cabinet above the sink. ‘Tom and Anne were out there. They’re a strange couple.’ John gave a knowing look. Asking a man in agony to continue talking when he should be on his way to A and E felt a little sadistic, but Tom had been his family friend. If he could tell her more about their relationship, something that may help Anne, she’d ask questions until he passed out on the bathroom floor a gibbering wreck.

‘Doesn’t talk much.’

‘Has she always been like that?’

He took a deep breath in through the nose. ‘She’s always been shy. I’ve only heard her speak a handful of times.’ He paused. ‘He’s a nice guy. She’s very quiet.’

‘Don’t you think it’s more than that?’ Dealing with vulnerable people on a regular basis gave her a certain insight. She picked up on signs, behaviours and facial expressions that suggested there was more to something than what lay on the surface, what was there for all the world to see. Quiet, shy, likes to keep to herself – these were sometimes easy ways of turning a blind eye.

‘She’s just quiet.’

‘What about you and Tom?’

He rolled his eyes. ‘Like I said. Friends with Dad. Hardly speak.’

‘He told me to avoid you.’ She stopped short of mentioning that he may as well have accused him of murder. Tom had sway over the people here and had the credibility that came with being in one place for a very long time. He was a stalwart of the town, knew everyone and seemed to have their respect. She expected him to offer his pennies’ worth at some point. He knew everyone and yet decided to point the finger at an old family friend, one he’d had little to do with anymore.

‘Huh?’

‘Any reason why he’d do that?’

‘No. None. What’d he say?’

‘He didn’t say any more, just that you should be avoided. Seems an odd thing to say about someone you’ve had little to do with for years.’

‘You suggesting I’m hiding something?’ He stood up too fast and held his chest in pain.

‘I’m suggesting that if there is anything you’ve been keeping from me, it’s best you start talking.’

‘I’ve told you what I know. I’ll ask him myself.’ He clutched his chest. ‘I don’t like this. Are you thinking I had something to do with the murder?’ Suspecting him of murder was a step too far, but she was starting to wonder if she could trust anyone in this town. An investigation was a search for the facts. Facts had to be separated from opinion. The more she thought about it, the more she realised she had very few facts to go on. Her investigation was being directed by rumours and hearsay.

‘No, but when one party is telling me everything’s amicable and the other’s saying it’s best to avoid them, it leaves some questions for me to answer. You’re in no state to talk to anyone; the best thing you can do is get some rest.’

‘Rest? I can’t rest.’

She took a bottle of Nytol from the medicine cabinet and gave it a shake. ‘These may help. Calming down after a night shift can be tough going; I tend to pop a couple of these and it sends me off to sleep pretty sharpish.’ They hadn’t helped this week. She’d spent the few short hours she’d had to herself rolling around on the spare bed trying to get some sleep. The bed wasn’t comfortable to start with. Sarah’s family were the only overnight guests Sally ever had and if they wanted to stay overnight, they tended to book a local B and B. The mattress had hardly been slept on, so didn’t have that lived-in comfortable feeling she was used to at home. Thoughts buzzed around her head from the moment she hit the pillow, and when she finally drifted off, the nightmares came. ‘Knock them back with a few painkillers.’ She held out the bottle. His hands stayed holding his chest.