Pretty Lady (17 page)

‘He shouts at me, Denny, and he hits me sometimes. And, look –' she pulled at the lace hanging loose at her neckline – ‘he tore my gown, too. Just before you got here. You saved me, Denny. You're going to save me again, aren't you?'

‘Bad man. Bad, bad man.' The room began to dip and sway. His knees felt wobbly. He'd thought it was all over, that he'd successfully frightened the bad man before and won his promise to stop hurting Merelda. But the man was trying to come nearer – to take the gun away from him – perhaps to hurt Merelda again. Bad men didn't keep promises.

‘Keep back.' He waved the gun. ‘Keep away. You stop hurting her.'

‘Where did he get this wild idea?' the man demanded plaintively. ‘What makes him think I've been mistreating you, lass?'

She ignored him. It was nothing but a ghost speaking – or soon would be. He was already dead, he just didn't realize it. Only the final step remained.

‘Denny.' She stood beside him now, close enough to put one hand on his shoulder, steadying him. What was wrong with him? He had nearly blown the whole scene. Not to worry, it didn't matter now. He was here, the gun was here. And Keith was standing there, on the wrong side of the gun ... waiting.

‘Denny ...'

He turned his head – it seemed to have grown too big and heavy for his body – towards her. Then, sensing movement from the man, turned back. It was getting harder to hold up the gun, he hoped the man didn't notice this.

‘Merelda,' he whined, ‘I want to go home. I feel awful.' He'd told her that before. Why wasn't she paying any attention? Merelda was his friend, wasn't she?

‘It's all right, Denny,' she cooed. ‘It's almost over, and then you can go home. There's just one more little thing you have to do. You know that, don't you? We talked about it.'

‘Do ...?' The lights were so funny, they kept going on and off. It didn't seem to bother the others, but it was making him dizzier. He tried to concentrate on what Merelda was saying. She seemed to want something more from him, something else he had to do. ‘What...?'

‘You
know, Denny.' Her voice was soft, insinuating. He. struggled to comprehend. He was disappointing her in some way, he knew. He didn't want that.

‘He won't keep his promise, Denny. He never keeps his promises. You've got to make him stop. For good. Help me, Denny. There's only you to save me. You're my friend, aren't you, Denny?'

‘Yes.' He grasped thankfully at that, the one sure point in all the fog and darkness. ‘Yes, Merelda, I am.'

‘Then – shoot! Shoot him!' Her voice rose, her hand pressed down on his shoulder urgently.
‘Use
the gun – I showed you how. Shoot him – kill him!'

‘By God!' the man said. ‘By God!' He leaped forward. Denny struggled to pull the trigger, but his fingers were nerveless. Even the hand holding the gun was betraying him, trying to drop down to his side. He could feel Merelda grabbing at the gun. The man loomed up in front of him like some creature from a nightmare, elongated, shadowy, menacing. The room gave one final, terrible lurch and he dissolved into the swooping blackness.

‘All right,' Merelda said. ‘All right, then
I
will!' She hurled herself at Denny's drooping arm, forcing it up, her hand curling over his on the gun.

‘Lass, you've gone mad! Stop it. It's all right now. He's passed out.' Keith was babbling at her. Just what you might expect from him. No dignity in the face of death, no memorable last words. What use his money and his power now?

He closed with Denny, fighting both of them for the gun. His pleading eyes met her triumphant ones and she had the satisfaction of seeing full knowledge of the situation register in them. He knew now.

>‘You told this poor daftie about the gun,' he said. ‘You told him I mistreated you. You deliberately worked on him to –' Even then, he couldn't quite say it, still avoided the admission. He twisted at the gun with both hands, so did she. Face to face, they battled for possession, but Denny's inert hand still clung tenaciously to it.

‘I hate you,' she gasped. ‘I've hated you for years!' They renewed their struggle for the gun. Denny gave a convulsive movement, returned to semi-consciousness by the battle raging around him – throwing them both off balance. The first shot rang out.

She saw Keith's face go blank with shock. Until then, the fool had still been fighting to believe she didn't mean it. For good measure, she fired again. But, so near her goal, triumph had unsteadied her and the shot went wild, shattering 'the picture window.

Denny crashed to the ground, dragging her down with him. They dropped the gun. Keith had stepped back, staring down at them both incredulously. He would fall next.

The shots would bring the neighbours, the police. She lay where she had fallen, it would be a nice tableau for them to discover. The loyal wife, overcome while struggling with the hulking brute who had killed her dear husband. But why didn't Keith fall?

The room had cooled rapidly, the chill of the river mist swirling into it through the broken window. It was amazing how cold it had become so swiftly.

Keith still remained standing ... perhaps one more bullet... just to make sure. She groped for the gun, but her hand was already numbed by the cold, she couldn't close it round the gun.

‘Lass, lass –' He dropped now, to his knees beside her. ‘Eh, lass –' Tears were in his eyes. She tried to move away as he reached out for her, but felt curiously inert. Perhaps it didn't matter.

‘Eh, lass –' He pulled her free of Denny, cradling her in his arms. ‘I tried to give you everything any woman could want. I thought you were happy –'

There was blood on his shirt now. She smiled in faint satisfaction at seeing it. ‘I ...' But her voice wasn't quite strong enough. Her lips seemed numb. Along with the growing coldness in the room, there seemed to be an increasing darkness, as well. She tried again. ‘I ...'

‘Shhh, be still. Save your strength.' He raised his head, listening to footsteps racing up tire stairs. ‘Help's coming. We'll get a doctor for you –'

‘Me... ?' He had it wrong. He was the one who needed a doctor, something she must delay until it was too late to do any good. She struggled feebly to get up ... feebly.

‘No ...' Her hands fluttered, trying to explore. There was no pain, no consciousness of a wound. Only the coldness ... and the dark.

‘Easy, love, easy.' Tears were streaming down his face. That was what convinced her.

Even now, a wave of irritation swept her, he still didn't understand. He'd rearrange the facts until they became his own kind of truth. Something he could continue to live with. If she could not finish him, at least she would destroy that.

‘I ... hate ... you ...' Her voice was stronger, she watched him wince as the words hit him. ‘I tried ... to kill you ... I tried ... my best ...'

‘It's all right, love.' He stroked her hair. The fool thought she was apologizing. ‘It's all right. Happen women get strange fancies at a time like this.'

A time like this ...
Her eyes blurred, she fought against it.
Time
... How could this happen to her? She was too young, she had too much to live for. It was Keith who ought to be lying here, dying, to free her for the wonderful life that would stretch ahead of her as a young, healthy widow.

‘Get a doctor!' Keith snapped out the order to someone she could not see, someone who stood in the doorway. It was too much effort to turn her head. She tried to say something and heard herself moan faintly instead.

‘Hang on, lass,' he said. ‘Hang on, love. We'll pull you through. You're going to be all right. You're both going to be all right.'

Then she knew what he meant, realized what he had been thinking.
A time like this ...
She pulled herself away from him with the last of her strength.

‘You fool!' she said. In this last rally, her voice was high and clear. ‘You fool! Did you think I'd have ...
your
child?'

Shards of glass showered on to the pavement, just missing them. They didn't hesitate any longer. Turning the key, Peter pushed the door open and they rushed into the hallway.

There, at the foot of the stairs, was Denny's familiar airline bag. The shots had come from upstairs.

‘Oh, God! Oh, Denny!' Sheila started forward, but Rembrandt pulled her back.

‘We'll go first. Keep well behind us.'

They were trying to protect her, to shield her from the scene that might be waiting behind that door at the top of the stairs. Sheila followed so closely she was nearly treading on their heels. Intent on what lay ahead, the men paid no further attention.

She was looking over their shoulders when the door opened. Directly opposite, the broken window gaped into blackness. At first, there seemed to be no people in the room. Then she saw them – they were all on the floor.

‘Denny!' Heedless of danger, she pushed Rembrandt and Peter aside and ran to him. He lay huddled near the fire. The shots did not appear to have touched him. He was still breathing, in the same strange way Mum had been. But more lightly. He moved and groaned when she tugged at him.

‘
Get a doctor
!' At first, she thought she'd said the words, they were so prominent in her mind. Then she realized someone else had spoken. Still intent on Denny, she sensed, rather than saw, Rembrandt leave the room. Peter came forward.

‘What's happened here?'

‘Hang on, love.' She saw the man, then, kneeling on the floor, holding a woman in his arms, talking to her softly. He ignored Peter, ignored everyone but the woman. Blood stained the ruffles and lace of her negligee. That was where the other shot had gone.

Denny stirred and she lost interest in everything else in the room. ‘Denny! Denny!' As Aunt Vera had done with Mum, she slapped his face lightly. He whimpered and his eyelids twitched. His head rolled away from her protestingly.

‘Denny! Denny!' She shook him. He responded further, encouraging her. Perhaps he hadn't taken as much of the cocoa as Mum had, or there hadn't been so much barbiturate in his cup. Also, he was a lot bigger and that made a difference, didn't it? A stronger dosage would be needed to still his heavy frame.

Across from them, the woman raised her head, shouted out something – something about a child – and then her head fell back against the man's arm, her eyes not quite closed, but no longer seeing anything.

‘Wha ...?' The woman's voice reached Denny, got through to him as her own had not. He lifted his head, struggling to one elbow, and opened his eyes, looking over at her. ‘Merelda?' Throwing off Sheila as though she had not been there, he rolled to his hands and knees, crawling over to crouch beside the woman.

Sheila watched uncomprehendingly. Who were these people? How had Denny got mixed up with them? What had happened here?

The man was crying openly. Tears of sympathy rolled down Denny's face. The man was still stroking the bright shining hair. Denny's hand crept out uncertainly towards the shimmering head. He touched it gently.

The man looked up at Denny. ‘Eh, lad,' he said. ‘You loved her, too.'

Sheila was singing in the kitchen. Sheila sang a lot these days. She called out something to Mum and Mum answered, laughing. Mum laughed a lot these days. Even Aunt Vera was nicer than she used to be.

It was something to do with the long, long time that Mum had been away in hospital. She'd had an operation and whatever was wrong wasn't as wrong as everybody had thought. And she was like herself again and didn't get upset so easily any more.

He'd been in hospital himself – just for a few days, they said. He hadn't had an operation, though – he didn't know what he'd had. It was a time he couldn't remember very clearly. Just a swooping blackness and the voices. (
‘Denny, Denny ... you're my friend, Denny ... you'll help me, Denny ...
) And the awful feeling that he had to push himself on, because there was something he had to do. (
‘It was all a bad dream, Denny. Forget it, Denny. Don't bother your head about it, Denny.'
)

Constable Peter was coming to dinner. He came to the house often now. So did Rembrandt. They were good friends. They took him out to the films and on picnics – and they let Sheila come, too. They were better friends than ever, these days.

Only, once, hadn't there been another friend? A different kind of friend? Soft, shining hair and Madonna face; low, trusting voice. (‘
You'll help me, Denny. You'll save me, Denny.'
) Or had that all been part of a dream? That long, confused dream of a pretty lady.

Had it really been a dream? There were times when it still seemed so real that he could almost see her again and see the house she took him to. Soon after he got out of hospital, he'd gone looking for it along the river.

He'd found it, too, although it didn't look quite the same. The plants in the five earthenware flower-pots were dead, just twigs, with a few rustling leaves attached, sticking up out of dry cracked dirt. The big upstairs window was boarded up. There was a ‘
FOR SALE
' sign on a tilting post. It didn't look as though anyone had lived there for a long, long time. And yet, it was the right house, wasn't it?

He'd stood there, frowning up at the boarded window, as though it could tell him something, if it would. And then Constable Pete had come by and found him. (‘
Come along, Denny. That's just an empty house. The owners have gone away. They won't be coming back.'
) And he and Pete had gone and had an ice-cream.

But, just for a moment, there had been something he'd almost remembered, standing there. Something about two shining colours: a tawny-gold and a dark, sticky, wet red. And a bad man, who didn't seem bad, somehow, and who was crying. But that proved it was a dream, didn't it? Big boys don't cry. (Even though sometimes, like now, trying to think about it, to remember the lost dream, the lost time, he wanted to.)