Eeny Meeny (11 page)

‘Sure thing, Ash. Knock yourself out,’ Peter replied, handing Ash the packet and his lighter.

Peter watched him clumsily lighting his cigarette. Ash wasn’t much of a smoker and he was an even worse actor. Peter knew immediately that Ash had been sent out here to keep an eye on him. At the hospital, the doctors had spent over an hour discussing Peter’s mental state with Sarah, filling her already over-anxious mind with a host of nightmare scenarios. Which meant that Peter was pretty much on suicide watch, though no one would put it like that. Silly really – he didn’t have the energy for anything like that at the moment, though God knows it had crossed his mind enough times. Ash chattered on and Peter grunted and smiled, but he might as well have been talking Mandarin. Peter didn’t give a toss what he was saying.

‘Shall we go back in?’

Ash really didn’t look like he was enjoying his fag so Peter put him out of his misery. They stepped back inside to join the festive fray. The meal had been cleared away and the board games were out now. There was no escaping this one, so Peter settled down for more slow torture. He tried his best to be jolly but his mind was elsewhere. Somewhere across town Ben Holland’s fiancée was having a black Christmas, hating the life – hating the man – who had killed her love just weeks before their wedding. How could she carry on? How could any of them carry on?

Peter smiled and rolled the dice, but inside he was dying. It’s hard to enjoy Christmas when you’ve got blood on your hands.

33

The smell of spice was intoxicating and Helen breathed it in deeply. The one element of Christmas that Helen positively enjoyed was her defiant swimming against the tide. She’d never liked turkey and thought Christmas pudding was one of the most unpleasant things she’d ever tasted. She took the view that if you don’t like the festive season, then you should embrace your feelings and go the other way. So whilst others fought in toy shops and spent £80 on a free-range bird, Helen chose a different path, going as far in the opposite direction as she could. And her takeaway from Mumraj Tandoori on Christmas Day was the highlight of her annual rebellion.

‘Murgh Zafrani, Peshwari Nan, Aloo Gobi, Pilau rice and two poppadoms with extra chopped coriander on the side,’ Zameer Khan rattled off as he packed Helen’s order. He was a local fixture, having run his popular restaurant for over twenty years.

‘Perfect.’

‘Tell you what, because it’s Christmas and that, I’ll throw in a couple of After Eights as well. How’s that sound?’

‘My hero,’ said Helen scooping up her takeaway and smiling her thanks.

It was a large order and Helen always ended up eating leftovers on Boxing Day, but one of the joys of Christmas Day was spreading out this Indian feast on the kitchen table and slowly, deliberately loading up her plate with it. Clutching her haul, Helen headed back into her flat. Inside there were no decorations or cards – in fact the only new additions to the flat were the case files on Amy and Peter’s abduction that Helen had brought home to review. She had spent most of the night poring over them without a break and she suddenly realized she was starving. She cranked up the oven and turned to get a plate to heat up. As she did so her arm caught the takeaway bag, brushing it off the work surface. It hit the quarry tile floor at speed and the flimsy cardboard containers burst open, scattering pungent food everywhere.

‘Shit, shit, shit.’

Helen had only cleaned it this morning and the lemon of the floor cleaner merged with the Indian oils to produce an acrid and unpleasant odour. Helen stared at it for a moment in shock, then suddenly tears were pricking her eyes. She was furious and upset and wanted to stamp on the stupid shit, but she just about managed to rein in her violence, fleeing to the bathroom instead.

Lighting a cigarette, Helen sat on the cold rim of the bath. She was angry with herself for her over-reaction and drew hard on the cigarette. Usually the nicotine was soothing, but today it just tasted bitter. She threw the cigarette into the toilet in disgust, watching its spark die out in the water. It was a fitting image for her state of mind. Every year she thumbed her nose at Christmas and every year it punched her in the face. Swirls of dark feelings swam round her now like evil flurries of snow, reminding her that she was unloved and worthless. Slowly these thoughts started to take possession of her and as the depression began to eat into her brain, she shot a glance at the bathroom cabinet and the razor blades that were discreetly hidden inside.

The blade sliced into the turkey, allowing the clear juices to run free. Charlie, paper hat perched on her head, was in her element. She loved everything about Christmas. As soon as the leaves started to fall, Charlie’s excitement began to build. She was always very organized, buying all her presents in October, ordering the turkey in November, so that when December finally came she could enjoy every second of it. The drinks parties, the carol singers, wrapping up presents by the fire, cuddling up in front of a festive movie – it was the highlight of her year.

‘Can we open our presents yet?’

Charlie’s niece, Mimi. Impatient as ever.

‘Not until after Christmas lunch. You know the rules.’

‘But that’s
ages
.’

‘It’ll make it all the more exciting when it finally comes.’ Charlie wasn’t going to bend on this one – Christmas was all about idiosyncratic family rituals.

‘Who you kidding?’ Steve interjected. ‘You’re just delaying the inevitable anti-climax.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ said Charlie, cuffing her boyfriend, ‘I put a lot of effort into my Christmas shopping. If you don’t do the same, that’s your lookout.’

‘You’ll eat those words later. See if you don’t’ was Steve’s smug reply.

Charlie already knew what she was getting from Steve – lingerie. He’d been dropping hints for some time and besides their sex life was extremely active at the moment. More than anything else, Charlie wanted a baby. She felt it was her time – in truth it was the one present she really wanted. It hadn’t happened yet, even though they’d been trying for a while and for the first time Charlie’s anxiety had started to grow. What if there was something wrong with her? The thought of not having a family was awful – she’d always wanted two or three kids at least.

Still it was Christmas and not a time for unpleasant thoughts, so Charlie pushed her concerns to the back of her mind. It was Christmas Day, the best day of the year, so as she doled out the Christmas turkey, she beamed her biggest smile and did her best to spread as much Christmas cheer as she could.

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 – how
dare
he play host in what used to be
his
home. 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 discoloured 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 offence, she had provoked endless abuse and countless acts of random violence. And now this. The cruellest 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 towards the door, she stopped. Don’t do this. But she 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 estate. 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. Ok 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, whilst 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, shiteist 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.