Phoning, talking, driving, speeding. If Harrison hadn’t called me he’d still be alive. Worse still, if I’d been sober, I would have detected slurred speech and told him to pull over immediately. I could have rescued him. McCarthy knew it too.
I
had
murdered my husband.
She was waiting for me, peering down the spiral stairwell, relieved to see me return home. “Someone was here looking for you,” Rosalind Thomson said, gripping the banister.
I had worked at the office until 11pm and was surprised to see her. It was past her bedtime.
“Who?”
“A man.”
“Are you okay?” I detected a slight sheen to her skin–not her usual powder-pressed self.
Rosalind Thomson nodded, and steered me into her apartment with surprising force, rushing me down her carpeted hallway into a spacious reception room scented with expensive lime, basil and mandarin candles. “He was
here
. Outside your door.”
“Oh.” I was taken aback. McCarthy had a habit of turning up unannounced but he didn’t seem the type to climb four flights of stairs for anyone.
The elderly woman took quick little steps back and forth, rattled. “He was just standing there.
Staring
at the door.”
I apologised. “I should have told you. His name is Eddie McCarthy,” I explained. “Detective Inspector Eddie McCarthy and he is going over details of Harrison’s death–the car accident.”
I stopped short and was wondering how much more to say, when Ms Thomson steered me to the nearest chair and literally sat me down, hands shoving on shoulders.
“This
wasn’t
a police officer.”
“He wasn’t? Did he give you his name?”
“No. He asked me if you lived here and kept repeating your name. He mentioned your husband’s name, too.”
I froze. “What did you tell him?”
She straightened her shoulders. “I told him to leave. Immediately.”
Weightlessness washes over me and my father’s advice roars in my ears:
when the cable breaks and a lift goes into freefall, lie down so the impact acceleration is distributed over as much surface area of your body as possible.
This theory similarly applies when you receive bad news–don’t sit, lie down. Get to the floor.
“He looked… he looked
deranged
. He was unshaven, agitated; kept asking me if you lived here.”
I studied the carpet. “Did he hurt you?”
“No, I’m fine. I told him to leave or I would call the police and this seemed to spook him.”
“Thank you,” I gasped, breath whipped from me as I plummeted.
She disappeared and returned with two cups of tea fortified with gin and sat on the sofa opposite me.
“Please be careful. I didn’t like the look of him. I don’t want to scare you; but he seemed…” she lowered her voice, “reckless–someone with nothing left to lose.”
I closed my eyes. The waiting was almost over.
Before I returned to my apartment, Ms Thomson said she had something for me. She went directly to a cabinet drawer and returned with a small silver gun that looked more like an ornamental belt buckle than a firearm.
“Is that
real
?”
“Yes. Have you ever used one?”
I shook my head.
“Husband number three insisted I keep a gun in the house. Intruders.” She straightened her shoulders, feisty. “I’m no expert either but I can run you through the basics. It’s loaded, mind, and this is the safety catch.”
This was one of my more surreal moments. Gun lessons from a former soprano singer turned pensioner. Dundee cake to this…
I had Kate’s whatever pistol hugging the bottom of my bag, lurking beside lidless pens and lipsticks, loose change. Now it had another gun for company. Rosalind Thomson’s parting tip was, “Shoot at the largest part of your attacker.” This would give me a better chance of hitting them—him. I had it covered: aim at the heart.
Back home, I went online–instructions straightforward. I pressed the button to eject the magazine and in went the ammo–pop, pop, pop. Reinsert the magazine, which took a couple of attempts before I heard the
clicking noise
. I ran my finger over the safety lever and noticed how level and controlled I was–no shakes. When I disengaged the safety, I released a long-held breath as a bullet went into the firing chamber. Further instructions, place pointing finger onto the trigger and make sure you have a target in clear sight. Pull the trigger.
I phoned McCarthy the next day. He listened until I ran out of steam. I was surprisingly succinct though: The Watcher was closing in. End imminent.
“I’ll look into it,” he said. “In the meantime, it would be a good idea to visit your sister.”
“Dear God, is she okay?” The question ended on a panicked high note. “Do you think this… this man knows where she lives?”
“She’s fine. She knows we’re looking into your husband’s death?”
“Yes. And that someone’s been following me.”
“Talk to her.”
“I’ll drive to Aberdeen.”
He hesitated. “Take someone. I can come with you.”
I quickly resisted his offer. “No. I have someone.”
Jim drove and, for once, I was relieved to take the passenger’s seat. No energy to change gear.
“Does your sister know we’re coming?” he asked. “And about The Watcher?”
“No, she’d make an excuse. Be out.”
“What are the police going to do? This guy will probably return, you know that?”
“My neighbour has given them a detailed description. It’s something.”
“You okay?”
“I think so.” I sighed and looked across at his handsome profile. “No. I’m not.”
We reached Aberdeen and I almost looked forward to Gee’s no-nonsense takedown of the situation: ghosts don’t exist.
“Want me to come in?” Jim pulled up outside the house. “I can wait here, catch up on work.”
“No, come in. Meet my nephew.”
I saw Gee’s husband Chris in the kitchen as we walked to the front of the house. I didn’t know he was on leave but the timing was good–he listened when she didn’t. Question was, how did I break it to them:
psychotic friend slash family member of Harrison’s controversially deceased patient is on the loose. Revenge attack is imminent.
For a moment, I thought no one was going to answer the door. “We should have phoned ahead,” said Jim, sitting down on the doorstep. “Picked up food.”
Seconds passed and I was just about to connect a call to Gee’s mobile when the door opened a fraction. There she was, fringe falling over her eyes. Lipstick smudged.
I didn’t bother with hello. “It’s
me
. Let me in.”
“Now’s not a good time.”
“
What
?” She really was going to turn me away on the doorstep. “I need to speak to you, for Christssake–lemme in.” I pushed the door aside, shoving her with it.
“I
said
, it’s not a good time.” Gee marched after me, grabbing my arm, as I headed for the living room.
I turned on her, furiously, shaking off her grip. “I need to speak with you. We’ve driven from Edinburgh when we both should be at work. What is
with
you?”
Bad behaviour stopped here. I’m done. It was tempting to walk out and let her deal with the fall-out–would have done so had it not been for my nephew and our mother.
Jim hovered behind me, uncomfortable. I know what he was thinking: damn, shoulda stayed in the car.
Gee was furious. We both stood our ground. Why do I even bother, I seethed. Honestly, why does she have to be so complicated?
Then Chris slipped into the room, not raging but rabid, frothing at the mouth. I barely recognised the man. I felt Jim move a fraction closer and no wonder; wasn’t exactly a winning first impression.
“Chris, this is Jim,” I said, unnecessarily cheerful.
He ignored the introduction. Ignored everyone in the room except me. When he spoke, he sounded strangely delirious and made no sense. “I’m the one who walked. I’m still here.”
Jim’s fingers curled round mine and I gripped them as one would drop-down oxygen in a downward-spiral aeroplane.
There is a change in speed. We go faster and faster without ever leaving the room. While Kate can write a mathematical description of molecular collisions, I can write about how it feels: an attacking force as Chris throws himself at my world and shatters it spectacularly. He moves further into the living room, shutting the door behind him, hands hanging at his side. He has lost weight and is unshaven with sunken cheeks and, worse still, intently watchful; serial-killer stare.
Gee spoke, briskly. “Let me handle this.”
Chris raised his voice. “No, let
me
.”
I lost patience at this point, looking at my watch. “What the hell is going on?”
“Stop,” said Gee, putting a hand up to silence her husband.
He edged closer still. “We tell her or the police do.”
“You’ve been followed, too?” I gasped. “Listen, I can explain everything. It’s the reason I’m here.”
Meanwhile, Gee took a step towards her husband, fist clenched, jaw set. “I don’t want you here,” she hissed. “I will handle this.”
“I’ve got it covered. You don’t call the shots now.” He leered at me. “She never wanted you to find out.”
I blinked, no thought formation at this point. I looked at Chris and thought how much he needed a shave. And some sleep. Couldn’t we all?
Then I was aware of his super-absorbent stare, locked onto its target: me. Pieces fell into place in my brain and the first confusing notion was,
dear God, Chris is The Watcher.
My sister, despite her aggressive stance, looked stunned and I felt a protective rush towards her.
She is afraid of him
, I thought.
Terrified, even
.
What goes on in other people’s marriages, no one knows. Our mother had seen the signs while I refused to look or listen. Guilt hit home:
I can make this right
, I thought, staring at Gee, attempting to send out a telepathic message as some sisters do:
things can be fixed.
“
You’ve
been following me?” I turned to Chris and kept my voice level, “I don’t understand…”
Chris’s eyes never left mine and, at this point, he didn’t confirm or deny.
Jim edged forward, positioning himself slightly in front of me and I could feel the heat through his T-shirt. I kept accusations out of the question and asked Chris levelly, “What’s this all about?”
His eyes closed fractionally, releasing me for a second. Then he whispered, leaning towards me, now Neanderthal. “I haven’t been following you.
This
is different shit.” He jerked his head in Gee’s direction. “Tell her.”
My sister had turned mute. I could see her body drawing all the blood from the extremities to the core; its protective procedure before she went into shock. Even her lips turned white.
“Tell her,” goaded Chris. Still she couldn’t speak.
“Tell her
,” he screamed, fists clenched. Canon balls.
I dropped Jim’s hand and gripped onto his belt, locking on. Safety-harness survival.
Chris continued, whispering again, “It was me, Lori. It was
me
. I sent the email.”
The sentence had immediate effect, booming round the living room with alarming guile. I expected to see cracks form on the walls from the hammer force. I didn’t move, stupefied, feeling the words break bones. The vowels blistered and cracked, realigning in a different shape and form but delivering the same message nonetheless:
my husband was murdered
.
Chapter Forty One
He Loves Me Not
Darkness almost catches me. I need to fly faster than the earth rotates if I want to remain in the sunshine but I can’t move. I might fall. McCarthy is not here to catch me now.
Take someone with you
.
I grip Jim’s belt harder, fingers loop under the leather, and we stand horribly transfixed in the room with its Graham & Brown triffid-print wallpaper looming at me from the far side, threatening. The truth; a bomb is about to go off–and we’ve left it too late to save ourselves. I cover my ears.
I think my husband was murdered
.
“I wanted him dead,” panted Chris, pacing the room.
I looked at Jim, stricken, but he was staring at Chris, transfixed. Under a spell.
“Goddamnit, I took the car to over 140mph and wanted to hit bricks.” He smacked his hands together violently to make his point. “I wanted to smash into a wall and break bones, break him into pieces. Let him know how it feels.”
Gee made a small moan from the corner of the room but was still standing. I looked at her, thinking,
this is some joke, right
?
She refused to look at me and I whispered the words in my head,
Please, not this, please
.
Words unspoken, I knew what was to follow: tsunami-strength truth rolling into the living room, obliterating me, smashing furniture, everyone washed away unable to hang on for dear life. Chris’s impatience was audible. “Did you hear me? I wanted him dead. If the crash hadn’t killed him, I would have ripped him apart with a knife. Finished him off. Yes, that’s right–premeditated stuff.”
I physically flinched.
His breathing intensified, the claustrophobic sound inside a bomb suit as the pressure builds:
in out, in out, in out–
“I wanted him to know how it feels to bleed out; lose everything until there is nothing.” He raised his fists to his temples. “NOTHING LEFT,” he roared.
I gasped, petrified. Honestly, I have never seen a human being so ravaged. Tears streamed down his face but his fury made him untouchable. He threw off an impenetrable heat. All we could do was watch the incineration.
Gee, for once, was uncharacteristically out of control. No words to comfort me.
I turned to Jim for an explanation but he was at a loss, much like me.
Chris continued, panting like a dog in the desert. “I found him. He wanted to meet
her
for a drink but had to make do with me.