Hunt Hunted Murder Murdered (2 page)

1.1 Aidrian Burgess

The doorbell rang. Saturday morning.

‘Dad, can I answer the door’, sang 8 year old Ellie.

‘Hmmph’ Aidrian lay in his pit. Saturday mornings were blissful. Kids could dress and wash and feed themselves now. Only their fighting over MTV v CITV kept him awake.

Last nights sleep had been full of angst. Worry about work, worry about Monica, worry about the kids. Work should be an easy one, but he was having difficulties. Working long hours wasn’t helping at home, but then the money had to be found to pay for the mortgage or they could lose the house… and how could he face telling Mon that?

The door clicked open.

‘It’s the postie’

The postie? What’s Monica been buying now? He thought. It’ll be something incredibly useful from E-bay, a new dress that she won’t wear or something he was meant to have bought last weekend up the town. Not a dash or sprint, but a slounge from the side of the bed and into navy slippers, he headed towards the bedroom door.

Monica had left to take Stephen to his football match, and then she had 2 appointments before lunch. Her hairdressing kept her out of the house much of the time that Aidrian was at home. What was the point of money if there was no time to spend it?

The out-dated carpet on the stairs led him down to the front door where an eager Ellie waited impatiently, guarding the house from the stranger, but keen to learn what the package contained.

‘Morning dad’

‘Morning’

‘Just this package here and here’s your mail’. The postie handed Aidrian a clipboard to sign off. No clever quips. Just straightforward duty to sign off, hand back, cheers and cheerio. The door closed.

‘What are we going to do today dad?’ Sleep? Aidrian looked at the cuckoo clock on the wall. The cuckoo had died after a couple of days when he had allowed Stephen to ‘play’ with it. But the hands still worked and, through bleary eyes, he could see it was coming on 10.

‘Don’t know darling, what do you want to do?’ He put the package down on the sideboard and ambled through to the kitchen without looking, switching the sound down on the telly as he passed it. The kitchen was a good size. When they had bought this place, he and Monica were well pleased. They were the first out of his mates to buy a place and, instead of living in the council estate, they had moved to the new houses behind the woods – a place they had dreamed of moving to when they were younger.

He leafed through the mail.

The kitchen was bright with a breakfasting corner and a huge dining area to the back, with patio doors leading to their greenery beyond. A south facing garden with no properties overlooking. The thrill was so great for the couple when they got the keys that they put Stephen down and stripped off, making love on the newly laid turf.

Now he was lucky if he was able to paw playfully at Monica at all. They hardly spoke and when they did it usually ended up in an argument of some sort.

Mr Aidrian Burgess. A Rust coloured envelope.

Ms Monica Delaney. Another Rust coloured envelope.

‘Dad.’

‘Uh huh’, Aidrian started to open the letter, catching the envelope edge under his nail making him wince.

‘Can I make you a coffee?’

‘No. I’ll do it’. Ellie made to argue, but they had been here before, and this time she backed down, crawled into the corner seat with her bowl of Cheerios, and mouthed them down, watching ‘Hider in the House’.

The envelope was intriguing. Not a bill (and they were coming thick and fast) or junk mail, but an actual letter. Please let it be a cheque….

‘Please be advised that Lady Elizabeth Ratzenberger invites you to attend Heighley House with a view to discovering the truth behind the mysterious death of her late husband Vincent.’

A party. Drink. A laugh. Maybe even some drunken fondling with Mon, or someone!

‘Please be told that food will be provided, but if you desire to drink alcoholic beverages, you are cordially asked to bring these with you!’

Interesting. Very interesting. And maybe just the lift he needed. Bob and Marie would make great hosts.

Aidrian dropped the letters into the letter rack and puts Monica’s to the front, so that she didn’t accuse him of hiding it. The package forgotten, he ascended the stairs, slightly happier, a little more exhilarated, found his bed, and lay down again.

1.2 Monica Delaney

The car purred. She had been sitting for 10 minutes, but she knew Stephen would appreciate her more for not coming out to get him from the changing rooms. She could wait. A gap between the corrugated sheets surrounding the pitch showed her the game had finished. No one remained except some hoodies necking. Hopefully boy-girl, but who knew in this day and age. It’s amazing how difficult it was to look away as a hand touched a thigh, and then a bum cheek. She looked away from them into her rear-view mirror. Her hairdressing appointment after costs netted her about 15 pounds. The shoes she wanted for going to the pub with Emma tonight cost £125. She would get the shoes though. This was just a hairdressing gig today. Sometimes her clients wanted more than a comb over. The money helped. She could hide it easily from Aid by saying new shoes cost less than they did. I’m so materialistic, she thinks. The sex meant nothing when it wasn’t with Aidrian. But lately there had just been no interest in the bedroom at home. Not from Aidrian. Every time it was the same. Aidrian doted on her, that’s why they had been together so long. He had chased her until he got her. They fell in love and now they acted like a whole.

Stephen was just like his dad. He played games. He was big and athletic. He would make the girls swoon in years to come. It’s just his dad wasn’t Aidrian. She would never tell Aidrian this of course as they had him when they were only kids themselves and Stephen must never find out. But she had been living a lie that had lasted 14 years and would last a lot more so long as those who knew could keep their mouths shut. Stephens’s dad never knew. He must have had an inkling though, when he was still involved in their lives – as he had been Aidrian's friend.

After 14 years she wished that these thoughts would die away, but somehow they got stronger as she waited for the secret to come out. But it hadn’t yet.

‘Hi Mum’ – Stephen bellowed in the door and Monica shook herself out of her daydream. ‘Can Raj get a lift back?’

’Of course. Hi Raj’

‘Hi Mrs Burgess’.

Of course she still wasn’t Mrs Burgess, but what was the point in saying anything. Stephen was a Burgess now in every way. Aidrian had been his Dad and was his Dad in all but blood. But she remained a Delaney. It wasn’t a problem. When they had the money they would get married. If they had the money…

Raj dispatched home, Stephen out of sight up to his room, listening to the SPL on the radio, rather than looking at nude pictures on his internet or magazines she found under his mattress, she hoped. They are all the same. Men.

Kettle on. Washing out of the machine, and folded for ironing. Another load on. It was never ending. Aidrian can work all the hours for cash, yet Monica still felt she deserved more for all the work she put in.

A parcel sat on the sideboard. Monica picked it up and walked through to the kitchen.

Relax for a minute. She took off her top. Better go for a wash before Aidrian returns. The parcel was unopened. FAO Aidrian Burgess. Intriguing. Nothing special most probably, but intriguing... she pushed the parcel aside a little frustrated. Monica sat comfortably amid the cushions pillowed up the walls of their breakfasting area. The rust coloured envelope to the front of the letter rack was beautifully written in calligraphic font. Monica Delaney. Another open envelope. Aidrian must have got one, too.

1.3 Bob Reilly

‘Think fast!’ a 5” drill bit flew past Bob’s ear.

‘Bastard!’ laughter boomed from his workmates. The factory ceiling acts as an amplifier, round and deep. He picked up the bit, and pocketed it. Revenge would be sweet.

Still morning, but only a half day work, so back home by lunchtime on a Saturday. The craic was good though. Already stories of last night had filtered through. A night with the lads was always welcome and on Friday nights Bob had a night off from Marie.

There was nakedness, there was touching, there was kissing at some point, but not necessarily by Bob. Marie found him starker’s lying on the doormat at 2am, dragged him in, closed the door, and headed back to bed. A normal Friday night in the world of Robert Reilly.

His head was beginning to swell, but for Saturday morning this was tame. The overtime hours were often missed. For instance the two guys he had left behind at Ricardo’s night club/ strip joint, last night - no sign of those boys today! Maybe it was the drink. Maybe something a wee bit stronger. Laxatives in the late night curry won’t have helped them, Bob grinned to himself.

Three more bolts to torque. Hard work could be dangerous. But you had to have a laugh, the older colleagues told them, showing them the joints that used to house fingers after past mistakes and horseplay. If he was honest with himself he would tell Marie that one of the main reasons he wouldn’t get married was because of fear of being found with a tarring of his privates, or a cock up his arse on his stag night, thanks to his so called friends…!

Marie was a lovely girl, now more of a wife – as the nagging never seemed to end. If she had a pet maybe that would fulfill her, the thought came and went quickly. A kid? No way. Then it really would all be over. Bob thought about Aidrian's life since he found himself a dad at 18. The last time they got drunk together Bob discovered that it had been over 2 months since Aid had last had a shag with his missus. That was no life at all. And then, with the kids harping on, needing lifts and money and clothes and fed… Not a starter. Not at all. No way.

Shift over. The bike sat gleaming in the near empty car park by the waters edge. Ducati. It’s yellow and white torso covering a pristine stainless steel frame beneath. The River Forth lapped at the dockside. A lovely spring morning lost to the factory, but the day was still young. There was football to watch, bookies to beat and surely Aid would be up for a bit of that.

‘Aright mate?’

‘Aright Bob, you finished?’

‘Pub?’

‘I’ve got the littl’un the now, but I’ll see you there.’

‘Where are you?’

‘At the Glen…, you know.’

‘Seven Kings – 1 hour, Oh and yer horse, Namir, is running in the 2.40 at Haydock.’

He closed the mobile and shoved it in his shirt pocket. Afternoon sorted. Marie would understand. He was a listening ear and a shoulder to cry on. Bob told Marie about all his mates’ worries… OK normally half a story when drunk, and having to explain again when sober, and not really wanting to talk. She would understand OK, but it would be Bob who was buying the pints.

1.4 Marie Smith

The mobile buzzed. The text read. ‘Goin 2 7 kings wi Aid. Cum f u like. Back l8r.’

The gym was quiet. Marie did her classes on a Saturday morning. No sex to hinder her early morning since Bob rarely performed after a night out. She got her kicks from the adrenalin rushing during a spin class, watching the customers ogling her rear end, while she forced them to work harder. Like the bondage queens she watched on TV documentaries, she had power and used it.

Quiet now. Sweaty men of various shapes and sizes traipsed off to showers thinking about her. Bulging in their shorts. She felt good.

So what to do this afternoon? Go and see Bob? Why? She would be ignored and bored.

Bob was a nice guy, mainly, but they had reached their equilibrium with each other, and life was stale. The gym was a good get away from it all, but the feeling was only temporary. Marie needed more. Much more. She dreamed of the early days. They really were loved up, although not without their own faults – she had had one relationship she could call an affair… and dreamed of those feelings, as they did happen and were real. But Simon, Spiv, was a complete loser… he still flirted with her though, and she always thought if there was a time and place, she would lose herself to him. Again.

The bikes sat empty in the mirrored hall. The mats were being moved onto the floor now by a couple of 40 year old, naturists whose yoga class was popular with the blue rinse brigade. Marie wondered how long it took to get their piss-drenched pants off the floor at the end of the class. Last year one of the ‘customers’ had died during the session… no-one noticed until it was over. Even the deceased’s partner hadn’t noticed, or didn’t want to make a fuss. She just sat next to him, propping him up. People might exaggerate, but it was said that the beardy naturist ran and grabbed the defibrillator regardless of the fact that the corpse was cold and blue.

‘just goin 2 shops. U want 2 go out 2 night. Or will I just c u at home.’

Bob probably wouldn’t answer the text, but at least she had replied. She now had the freedom of the afternoon. Juice machine and Diet Irn Bru, gulp down a little, burp privately. ‘Bye’ to reception, and into the car park. Seems a joke but she took the car to the gym despite the 400yds walk it would have been from the back door of her 2 bed house. Unnatural sports car, sunshine yellow and bulging with spunk. She couldn’t really afford it, but it went with the territory. If you have a car parked outside the Gym, it’s got to look as good as the owner. Sunglasses on. ‘It’s a bright day’. Back to the house. Bob’s bike in the close. He had bought that yellow bike only days after she bought the car claiming, in some way, that it showed her how much he loved her. Stupid yellow bike. Car parked out on the street. Some kids playing kerby down the way. Grass needs cut. Too early in the year, it will just grow quicker if you cut it. It will just cut up the soil… any excuse. Front door locked, as predicted. Mail sitting on the sideboard. At least Bob took a telling, and he didn’t just leave it lying. Toilet. Not flushed. The shit! Why does he do that?? Phone bill, already know what it says from the online account. Junk mail, why do they insist on sending me this shit? No responses from the gang yet. She only sent them out yesterday, but maybe someone would have left a message on the answer machine. Marie made her way through the hall, avoiding boxes of bike parts and tools – which would eventually reach the shed, Bob assured her, and looked across the kitchen to the digital display. 1 message.

‘Hi Marie. Just Mum. What are you doing this afternoon? Are you working? (I never work on a Saturday afternoon and she knows that). If you aren’t could you come over and see the paint I bought for the back room? I just want a second opinion and I know you have good taste. (Clever, very clever). Oh well, that’s the afternoon gone. An afternoon discussing the colour and listening to how little time her mother would have to do the painting, and her father’s bad leg and back, and her illness last week, and if only Bob had more time around the place, when were they going to get married…. And that would be when she caved in, put on the overalls and painted the fuckin room…

A knock on the door. Oh god, its Tom.