How to Be Bad (24 page)

“What kind of dreams?” I said.

Mum took a tissue from her bag and blew her nose. “Oh, terrible, mixed-up things. I just knew something wasn't right.”

Dad nodded. “That's why we came to see you, son. She couldn't stop worrying about you.”

“Caroline was never right for you,” said my mum. “You should never have married her.”

“We're stuck with each other now,” I said. “She's pregnant.”

They were both so stunned they could barely speak. I was aware of their reservations about Caro, but until that moment I had no idea how much they actively disliked her. “Didn't you know it's customary for parents to be happy when they find there's a grandchild on the way?”

“Well, she'd make a terrible mother,” said my father. “She's only interested in herself.”

“You think she's a bad person?”

“Not exactly. We just want to see you settled, and we don't think you could ever be settled with a girl like that. It's like when I was younger and bluffed my way backstage after that Wings concert.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “Not the dreaded Paul McCartney ancedote.”

“Hang on,” said my dad. “I've never told you the full story. Yes, I met Paul McCartney. Yes, I talked to him in his dressing room, and yes, it's my only claim to bloody fame. What I didn't tell you was that while we were chatting, McCartney's eyes kept darting round the room, looking for someone more important to talk to.”

“What's this got to do with Caro?”

“Well, if you ask me, that's what she's like,” said Dad. “Always on the lookout for a better offer. She'll never be happy with someone ordinary.”

My mother was nodding in agreement.

“Who are you calling ordinary?” I said. “I'm not ordinary.”

“Ordinary isn't the right word,” said my mother. “Normal. You're normal.”

“That's even worse.”

My dad cleared his throat. “I drove by Caro's old flat the other day,” he said. “All the windows were boarded up. The porch had caved in. I never realized what a bloody slum the place was. Looks like it's been hit by a bomb.”

“That's landlords for you,” I said.

“Oh, and someone was asking after you,” said Mum. “Nice chap. Came round to the house. Tall with long hair and a beard. What was his name? Victor something. Said he wished to be remembered to you and did I have your address?”

“You didn't give it to him?”

“I thought I'd better check with you first,” she said.

“Don't tell him where I am,” I said.

My parents exchanged worried glances. “He's just someone I met in a pub,” I added quickly. “He's a Jehovah's Witness. You know how persistent they can be.”

“What was he doing in a pub?” said Dad. “I thought Jehovah's Witnesses didn't drink.”

“Who said he was drinking?” I said.

My dad gave me a look to show he wasn't fooled.

“What about this baby?” said my mother. “Was it planned?”

“Not exactly.”

She tutted. My dad sighed.

“Things have been bad,” I conceded. “But listen, I want you both to know something. Nothing that's happened or may happen is your fault. I couldn't have wished for better parents. You're not to blame for the way I've turned out.”

“Son,” said my dad. “What are you talking about? We love you. We couldn't be happier with the way you turned out.”

*   *   *

A
FTER LUNCH
we took a stroll by the seafront. It was a dry, windy day. The clouds rolled like gunsmoke. The waves were tall, their white crests rising far out to sea. “You know, it's a shame,” commented my father. “This wouldn't be such a bad place to live if you and Caro were getting on better.”

I walked my parents back to their car, waiting until they had driven away before entering the house, quickly slamming the front door behind me in case the smell of death leaked out.

The lino in the hall was damp, and there was a reassuring smell of disinfectant. Caro, wearing a headscarf and rubber gloves, came down the stairs to greet me, a wan smile on her face. I could see that I had redeemed myself and was back in her good books. Once again, I was her indispensable personal assassin.

“I've been cleaning up the bedroom. The blood has come off the walls, but we'll have to dump the bedding. Luckily, nothing seeped through to the mattress. But I'm never sleeping in that bed again. Or that room.”

I nodded darkly.

“What's the matter?” she said.

“Before he died, Danny told me something. He says you asked him to kill me.”

“That's crap,” said Caro.

“Are you sure? I did almost get run over outside my house.”

“Well? You always were a clumsy fucker.”

“And another thing,” I said. “What's this about us not being legally married?”

Now Caro looked affronted. “What about it?”

“Is it true?”

“Well, if you're going to be really pedantic…”

“So it
is
true?”

“Legally, maybe,” she said. “But not spiritually.”

“Of course it's true! If you and Danny never got a divorce, it's true.”

“I decided we were divorced,” she said. “I didn't want to see him or hear him or be near him or be touched by him ever again. That's about as divorced as you can get. As far as I'm concerned, it was official.”

“It's up to a judge to make that decision. Not you.”

“Why? Why should some dirty ex–public school prick who's into child pornography have the authority to say whether I'm married or not?”

I sighed. “If no one but you has the right to say whether you're divorced, no one has the right to say you're married. So why did we get married? You should have married us yourself.”

“You're right,” said Caro. “I should.”

“And Wallace. You even screwed Wallace? For fuck's sake!”

Caro didn't seem to think this warranted a response.

I followed her upstairs, to be shocked anew by the sight of Danny lying dead on the bed. Caro's optimism about the walls was slightly misplaced. Although she had indeed sponged most of the gore away, the once-white walls were now tinted pink. The whole room seemed to be screaming murder.

“I'll tell you about me and Danny, shall I?” she said. “When I married him, I thought he was a romantic figure. Then I found out he never washed properly. He always had dirty fingernails. He ate with his mouth open. What's worse, he taught art but he didn't have the remotest spark of talent. His paintings were like smears of shit. He was always scratching himself and farting. I might as well have married a chimpanzee.”

We tried to put trash bags over the chimpanzee, only to discover he was as stiff as a board. “How long does rigor mortis last?” Caro asked me.

“A few hours, I think. It might not make any difference. We can't move the bodies before midnight, anyway.”

“And just exactly where are we going to move them?”

“The same grave as before. We might as well.”

“What if someone's noticed it's been tampered with? What if Danny didn't bother to fill it in?”

“Then we're fucked.”

*   *   *

W
HEN IT
was dark I took a flashlight and went next door to see if Danny had left anything incriminating behind. The back door was unlocked, so I went inside, my footsteps echoing through the empty rooms. In one of the bedrooms, I found a greasy sleeping bag. Underneath the pillow was an ancient, crumpled Polaroid. It was a picture of Caro at seventeen, sitting in a field. She was smiling at the camera, a piece of straw dangling from the corner of her mouth. On the back, in smudged ink, someone had written “free and in love.”

That was all. It was just an empty, unfurnished house, sad and neglected. Unlike the house next door, which we'd brightened up considerably by splattering blood over the walls.

When I stood in the kitchen, I could hear a radio booming through the wall. Ricky Cragg was listening to the World Service. The old man seemed so cheerfully self-contained, so willfully indifferent to the world around him. I wondered if he ever got lonely. Then I bolted the back door and returned to the house next door.

Caro was in the kitchen, playing a Durango album at antisocial volume. I went up to the bathroom, took the gun out of my trouser belt, and sat on the toilet seat, trying to analyze our situation. This is what I came up with. Most of the trouble we were in had been caused by Caro. Some of it was God's fault. None of it was my fault. I was blameless. In fact, I admired myself tremendously.

So what was I worrying about?

Feeling better, I left the bathroom and began to descend the stairs. Then I stopped. I saw there was a man standing in the hall below, looking solemnly up at me. A cold wind blew through me as I recognized the Jazzman. Bad Jesus had found us. And there was no doubt in my mind that Bromley and Flett had led him to our door.

The Jazzman was holding a shotgun. I glanced back toward the bathroom, where I'd left my gun, resting on the linen basket. I couldn't decide whether to go back for it or not. The Jazzman helped me make up my mind. In a rapid flowing motion, he pumped the shotgun and aimed it at my head.

“Down,” he ordered, as if I were a very bad dog.

Caro and Jesus were seated at the kitchen table. Caro had tears in her eyes and a red handprint on her left cheek. Jesus was holding her hand, more out of sadistic ownership than affection. There was broken glass on the floor where the Jazzman had smashed the window in the door to get in. Cancer Boy, chewing gum noisily, was smiling as he counted our money.

Bad Jesus wasn't smiling. He looked stern and cold, as if he were about to rebuke the Pharisees or cast the moneylenders out of the temple. “You're the dirty rat who killed my brother,” he said.

“No,” I said. “I liked your brother. I wouldn't have done anything to hurt him. I know exactly who planted the bomb.”

I tried to sit down. The Jazzman yanked the chair away, and I fell over. Cancer Boy thought this was hilarious. I picked up the chair and sat in it.

“Now,” said Bad Jesus. “Have you anything to say before we turn you inside out?”

“You know those e-mails you've been getting? The guy who's been sending them turned up.”

“I know the very guy,” said Jesus. “Green hair, long nose, wears a jester's hat.”

“He's a real person,” I insisted. “You'll find him in the room at the top of the house.”

“Is this true?” said Jesus to the Jazzman.

“How the fuck should I know?”

“Go and look.”

The Jazzman hesitated as if he wanted to refuse but didn't quite have the nerve. Then he did what he was told. A minute later, he called down to Jesus.

“Boss? You'd better see this.”

“Watch them,” said Jesus to Cancer Boy. Then he joined the Jazzman in the attic. They almost ran down the stairs. The Jazzman looked bewildered. Jesus had a wild look in his eyes. “Tell me it again, from the beginning.”

I told him all about Danny, which meant that I also had to fill him in on Mrs. Mather.

“Woah,” said Jesus, stopping me. “You saying you killed somebody else?”

Caro started to confess, but Jesus snarled at her like a rabid dog. “You speak when you're spoken to, bitch.” He turned to me. I pointed to the hall. “First door on your right.”

This time they all went to see. I heard Cancer Boy gagging when the smell hit him. Jesus reentered the kitchen and banged his fist down on the table. Cancer Boy and the Jazzman now surveyed me with a kind of sickened respect. Jesus' face had turned dark, and a vein was throbbing on his forehead.

Cancer Boy whistled softly. “Seems you were right, boss. This guy
really
is a killer.”

Jesus didn't look happy at all. “So let me get this straight,” he said. “These crazy e-mails this guy sent out, they were all because he was driven mad with jealousy. Because Lizzie Borden here was still his wife?”

“That's right,” I said.

“So when I decided to leave her alone out of respect for her marriage to you, she wasn't married to you at all?”

“No.”

“In that case,” said Jesus, “I've got as much right to fuck her as you have.”

“You've never fucked anyone,” said Caro scornfully. “You wouldn't know how to. All creeps like you ever do is masturbate inside women's bodies.”

Without the slightest alteration in his breathing or his facial expression, Jesus belted Caro across the face with the back of his hand. She fell off her chair.

“Look,” I said, “why don't we just write you a check for whatever you think we owe you? I'm genuinely sorry about Rock, I mean it. So we'll even slap an extra hundred grand on top. Call it compensation. Then we'll be quits.”

“Oh, no,” said Jesus, pointing at me. “This isn't about money anymore. Even if you're telling the truth, I'm still holding you responsible. It was your car, man. It was you who offered it to my brother. It was up to you to check there wasn't a fucking bomb underneath it. Cancer Boy? Bring me the implements of torture.”

“Fuck
off!
” said Caro from the floor.

Jesus kicked her in the ribs.

Cancer Boy went out and returned with a large leather doctor's bag. He emptied the contents on the table. There were pliers, a small blowtorch, a nail gun, a small bottle of acid, a set of kitchen knives. A drill, a pair of handcuffs, a blindfold, a collection of fishhooks, a club, a syringe, a length of rope, a leather whip, a cutthroat razor, a hammer, some very large nails. Everything, in fact, except a cuddly toy. “Tie him to the chair,” ordered Jesus.

Cancer Boy picked up the rope, but Caro stepped between us. “What do you need to tie him for?” she said. “Are you afraid of what he might do to you?”