The Advent Killer (20 page)

‘Obviously,’ Mike parodied. ‘And that’s it? Nothing … happened?’

‘Oh, please. Of course nothing
happened.
’

‘And he didn’t give you any sign he’s not OK with that?’

‘No.’ Hawkins pinched the bridge of her nose with thumb and forefinger, feeling the exhaustion of the past twenty-three days washing over her. ‘Not until just then.’

‘John’s got a crush on you,’ Mike reiterated. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I don’t know. I suppose it was around the time everything blew up with Paul.’

‘Oh, and by
blew up
, you mean when you did exactly what I warned you not to and told him everything.’ He looked at her. ‘You gotta get John back in here, Toni – you can’t let this kind of shit go on.’

‘So now you’re running my team
and
my life?’ Her voice rose as she stood. ‘John’s
my
responsibility, not yours. I’ll deal with him because
I’m
in command. That’s something you’d do well to remember, by the way.’

Mike’s lower jaw shifted slightly as he conceded the point.

His voice was quieter when he spoke again. ‘I still can’t believe you didn’t tell me about it.’

‘We had our own problems, remember?’

‘I mean since I got back. Doesn’t it bother you?’

‘Not really, no. And this is hardly the time to be addressing some schoolboy crush.’

‘He’s hardly a schoolboy.’

She didn’t reply.

Mike frowned. ‘Or
did
you do something to ask for this?’

‘What are you suggesting?’ Hawkins heard her voice rising again. ‘That I led him on?’

She stared at Maguire, waiting for him to retract the question. When he didn’t she turned away, running a hand through her hair, unable to comprehend how things between them had turned so bad so fast.

‘Just go,’ she said to the wall.

Mike breathed at her for a few seconds before she heard him move. She blinked as the door slammed, and stood looking at the photo of the two of them. How could these emotions still be so raw? It was as if they had
simply paused the argument six months ago, and now that Mike was back, it had started right up again.

She sighed and sat down at her desk, picking up the phone to call the techs, but she pressed down the receiver button after dialling only half the extension number: it had been only minutes since she’d last checked, and they’d promised to let her know as soon as copies were made.

She held the receiver for a moment before she started to dial Mike’s mobile, cut it off, then tried again. On the third attempt she completed the number and held her breath while she waited for it to ring. She exhaled when his voicemail kicked in. Hawkins replaced the handset and let her face sink into her hands.

It was a long time since she could remember feeling so alone.

She
stared back at him.

The photograph was old and battered, but in it her expression was one of satisfaction. Yet her current mood was of discontent. He knew because he had been watching, furtively tracing her regular paths, conscious of the locations from where he could observe without risking detection.

Her face told him everything. She was rich in so many ways: attractive, and gifted with compassion and grace. Traits that precipitated his infatuation. But, recently, she had become sullen and withdrawn.

So he had a decision to make.

He dug a hand in his pocket and touched the folded paper, taking comfort in its well-worn softness. He didn’t need to read its contents; they were etched in his memory. Simply having it to hand gave him strength.

He remembered the moment when he had received the letter, shortly after his eighteenth birthday. The day the authorities delivered it, and also informed him of his father’s death.

A decade’s worth of anger at the man had prevented him from opening the letter, addressed so clearly in his father’s handwriting. It would be almost two months before he tentatively broke the seal. The words played themselves back in his mind …

Son,

I hope this letter finds you well. I realize that to expect a reply would be unrealistic, but I have been granted a very different perspective on life in recent months, and I want you to know the truth.

 

It shames me to think of the tortured childhood I did nothing to avert or improve for you, yet I believe there were injustices perpetrated against me that you deserve to understand.

 

Your mother was once a rational, compassionate person. We were happy for many years, until she gave birth to you and your twin sister. She had always wanted a girl, but your sister died before taking her first breath. The experience left your mother emotionally disfigured, the worst expression of a parent. This, unfortunately, was the woman you knew.

 

I was aware of her subsequent alcoholism, and of her violent nature towards you. I’m ashamed to say that I was too weak to confront either. I stood by, despite her repeated adultery; in the hope that eventually the woman I loved would resurface. Perhaps that was an impossible dream.

 

One day she told me I was no longer welcome in our home, and that if I didn’t leave, she would kill you in your sleep. Shamefully I did as she instructed.

 

I don’t want you to forgive me. I will never forgive myself. But I wanted to behave like a parent at least once in my life.

 

If this letter is to have any positive impact at all, you must learn from my mistakes. If you see injustice, fight it. If you know what is right, act.

 

Don’t let your life be filled, as mine was, with regret.

 

Dad

 

He had known immediately that every word was true. But his father’s absence – the lack of a voice of reason – had rendered his mother’s lies so believable.

His father hadn’t killed her; hadn’t even known of her death during all the years he remained elusive.
She
had been the evil one.

She hadn’t wanted him or his father, hadn’t even wanted to live. But neither had she wanted them to have each other. She’d forced her husband to leave, and turned his son against him before ending her own life.

At 1 a.m. that Sunday morning, when everything changed.

The ambulance crew had dragged him out of the kitchen and away from his mother as he screamed at them to make her better. The police had looked after him until the next day, when a social worker had arrived to take him to the first in a long line of juvenile care homes.

At first he’d struggled to cope with his mother’s death and his father’s disappearance. There had been no police enquiry. He followed events on TV as far as he’d been able, but the coroner returned a verdict of suicide and the case was dropped.

And as soon as it became clear his father was not going to return, he’d been absorbed fully into the care system.

He found interaction difficult, soon retreating into mute isolation. And throughout his time being shunted from one communal home to the next, it seemed all anyone wanted to do was fix his damaged, juvenile mind – they did nothing to protect him from the constant violence of older boys, interested only in eradicating the
psychological trauma caused by his abusive mum and his abandoning dad.

And those that talked to, rather than
at
, him, had wanted only to convince him his mother’s death had been self-inflicted.

He hadn’t listened, any more than they had when he repeated her lies.

After a while, he had simply acknowledged everything they said; repeated everything they wanted him to say, knowing that eventually they would lose interest. And they had.

He had learned to live with the torment, the nightmares, the pain. But he had neared adulthood with trepidation, aware that he would soon be required to choose a path in life.

Then his father’s letter had arrived and, while he could not forgive, the man’s words gave him direction at least. He’d walked out of his final care home determined to make a difference.

For a long time he foundered, his attempts to improve the lives of those around him having little impact. Then he had met
her
, and for a while he had thought that perhaps they could be happy together, a paradigm of solidarity and love.

But she had desecrated him, just as his mother had.

He had decided that, whatever failings men like his father demonstrated, women were always worse. They led society’s decadent march towards destruction. Morality and justice hung on the precipice. He knew then his destiny.

Nemesis was born.

He’d hoped that his initial acts of retribution would make society listen; and sate his ravenous pain. But they had not.

Which meant there was only one possible course …

Suddenly everything slotted into place, and his eyes snapped back to the picture of his prey.

Forfeiting her
was
the answer. He would condemn his former love to oblivion, forever aware of who had served sentence on all who tried to crush or undermine his cause. With her death would come recognition and release.

And, at last, his torture would ease.

He stared at the picture, envisaging her pain, dismissing the remnants of compassion tugging at his core. She was the last, the crescendo of atonement.

Only the ultimate sacrifice was enough.

And
she
would be his.

The doorbell went at 07:19.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ Hawkins killed the hair dryer and dumped it on the floor. Recently restructured post routes meant her mail had started turning up at this time of day, while early exiting neighbours with mail-order obsessions meant the packages often weren’t even for her. But if she didn’t answer, she knew the postman would be back at the same time every morning until he ruined her weekend lie-in.

Even though she’d be lucky to see one of those before summer.

She groaned, adjusting the towel around her damp, naked body and shuffled towards the stairs. The doorbell rang again when she was halfway down, this time followed by a knock.

‘
Coming
,’ she shouted from the bottom of the stairs, checking her bedraggled appearance in the mirror as she passed.

Hawkins arrived at the front door and fumbled with the lock, bracing herself. On the right day her postman’s insensible enthusiasm was entertaining. Today it was going to be hard work.

Her mood after the argument with Mike was not the best. In fact, she’d stewed all night. But as the cold air
began attacking her extremities, Hawkins reminded herself it really wasn’t Royal Mail’s fault.

She freed the lock and, determined to maintain decency at least, clamped the end of her towel with one hand as she opened the door.

To Paul.

‘Hi, Ant.’ Her former fiancé stood on the front step, apparently unfazed by the dreadful condition of his ex. ‘Not a good time,’ he stated, once it became obvious she wasn’t going to say anything. ‘I’ll come back.’

‘No,’ Hawkins spurred herself as he began to turn away. ‘It’s OK. I’m not really awake yet and I wasn’t … expecting you. What’s up?’

‘Sorry, didn’t mean to intrude, but I was passing and, well, I left a message …’

‘Your stuff.’ The penny dropped. ‘It’s here.’

She moved aside, and Paul stepped past her into the hall with all the civility of someone on a first visit; so credibly, in fact, that Hawkins had to remind herself that, less than three months ago, he’d lived there.

Over his shoulder, she caught a glimpse of a new-looking Jaguar saloon parked out on the road.

‘Blimey.’ She pointed. ‘That yours?’

‘Yeah, well, sort of. Company car. Just got it.’

‘Nice. Promotion?’

‘Don’t be daft, Morrison’s don’t do Jags. I’m with John Lewis now. Store design, don’t you know.’ He pulled his posh comedy face.

Hawkins laughed. It was refreshing to see this side of Paul again: it had been missing in action for the last six months they’d lived together; presumed dead once she’d
told him about her and Mike. But here it was, back and convincing.

She shut the door, feeling somewhat less self-conscious than she’d expected, despite her attire.

‘So what happened to the Peugeot?’

‘Oh.’ He looked sheepish. ‘Sold. You don’t mind, do you? I’d have offered it back, but we weren’t really speaking.’

‘It’s fine.’ Hawkins smiled, determined not to fall out with two ex-boyfriends within twenty-four hours. ‘I still owe you a percentage of this place, after all. We’ll have to sort that out at some point.’

‘No rush.’ Paul crouched beside one of the boxes and pulled out a
Star Trek
DVD. ‘Bloody hell, I thought you’d have had these away by now.’

‘It’s all there,’ Hawkins said with dignity, opting not to tell him the majority had sat exactly where it was since the day he’d left. ‘I’d give you a hand loading up, but I can’t risk flashing the neighbours; I’m on my final warning.’

Paul stood, grinning. ‘Wow, the old routine, ay?’ He looked at her, his smile slipping a bit. ‘I didn’t think we’d ever get to do it again.’

‘Yeah.’ She nodded.

‘Anyway’ – Paul picked up the nearest box – ‘I guess we both have work. I’ll load up and be out your way.’

‘Sure.’ She opened the door to let him exit, noticing as he passed that not only did he smell great, he also seemed to have gained some weight; although the extra bulk looked like the result of increased fitness rather than indulgence. And while he’d never been tall, his posture was straighter, somehow.

His dress sense had improved, too; something she’d never successfully been able to influence. The jeans looked expensive and, contrary to his traditional approach, the nicely cut jacket definitely wasn’t supermarket own-brand. Even the hard-soled brogues he’d always insisted on wearing everywhere had gone.

Hawkins propped the door open and went upstairs to dress, keeping an eye on his progress out of the upstairs window, and noticing that the last remnants of Sunday’s snow had gone.

She went downstairs as he finished loading the car and came to the front step. ‘Well, that’s it. Had to use the back seat, but at least it’s done in one trip.’

‘Great.’ For the first time Hawkins realized his hair had changed, too, and was now cropped, instead of the scruffy mess she remembered. Was it ironic that this was the version of Paul she’d always wanted?

Her mind flashed back to Mike as she remembered whose fault the split had been, ‘Anyway, we’ll have to arrange a time to talk about your share of the house and, you know, catch up or something.’

‘Definitely.’ He smiled. ‘I’d like that.’

‘It’s good to see you looking so well. New job, new car.’

‘New house, too, actually; just across town. I’ll text you the address.’

They stood for a moment in appreciative silence.

Paul broke it first, fishing a card out of his wallet. ‘By the way, here’s my new mobile number. Don’t be afraid to use it, OK?’

‘OK.’

He headed for the car, and Hawkins actually found
herself checking out his backside before he turned again halfway down the path.

‘Hey, why don’t you come over and see the new place? I’d love you to meet Nancy.’

‘Nancy?’

‘The soon-to-be Mrs Shefford. Bring someone; we’ll have a blast.’

‘Wow,’ Hawkins tried to cover her shock, but managed only to make her next statement sound a little forced, ‘Congratulations.’

‘Thanks,’ Paul didn’t seem to notice, ‘so you’ll come for dinner?’

‘It’s a date.’ Hawkins waved the card, indicating that she’d call to make arrangements. ‘Take care.’

She watched Paul drive away before shutting the door, and stood in the hallway, feeling distinctly outdone. If the new house and the new ‘soon-to-be Mrs Shefford’ were anything like the car, Paul’s life was going a lot better than she’d expected.

And a thousand times better than hers.