‘Allow me to French you.’
I did.
Her perfume was moth balls in chlorine. Blame the champagne but I came. Not in a spectacular way due to my exertions with Aisling, more a sad drizzle. Like rain they get in Crete.
Wiping her mouth, she said,
‘We need to get lead in that pencil.’
I said, ‘You’ve exhausted me, there’s no way I’ll get to the dance.’
She bought it, said,
‘We’ll dance our tomorrow, now sleep my sweet.’
When she’d gone, I took a scalding shower, couldn’t quite rid myself of her touch. In bed, I tried to think of Aisling, tried not to think of Briony.
Neither worked.
The call came at two o’clock on Wednesday afternoon. I picked up the phone, identified myself as ‘Yes’ to
‘Mr Mitchell?’
It was the police.
‘Are you familiar with one Aisling Dwyer?’
‘Yes.’
‘I regret to inform you there’s been a tragic accident.’
‘What?’
‘A piece of paper in her purse listed your name and number.’
‘How is she,
where,
when,
oh God.’
I got the address of the Islington hospital and drove over.
I don’t even remember the series of events. Only that she was dead, from a hit and run on the High Street. A man had leant over, held her hand until the ambulance came. Some time later, someone gave me a coffee. It tasted like the styrofoam cup. Then I was given the ‘brown envelope’. Her possessions.
It held
Money
Purse
Call card
Watch
No ring.
Must have left it at home. I was surprised she’d taken it off.
At an early hour of Thursday morning, I drove home. Drank lights out.
I surfaced around noon on Friday. Jesus, I was shook. My fingers fandangoed again as I tried to roll a smoke. Sweat cascaded down my forehead, stinging my eyes. I knew a shot of scotch would shut the works down, but would I stop?
Would I fuck.
Went to my mini fridge, got a brewski. Fosters.
When did I buy that or worse... why?
Never-no-mind.
Popped the ring, drank full. It poured down my chin, drenching my sodden T-shirt. Then, a la Richard Dreyfus in ‘Jaws’, I crushed the can, slung it.
Did its mini job and my system eased. Took a shower, shaved, changed into a white shirt, black fresh jeans. Risked a mirror glance.
Like any seedy waiter.
Okay, time to forage.
The house was silent, they really had gone. I avoided Lillian’s room. It was already too familiar. Took a time till I located Jordan’s. Knew it must be his as the door was locked. Braced myself against the far wall and took a flying kick. Near took it off the hinges.
I entered cautiously — booby traps were a definite possibility.
The room was spartan, with an army style cot, spit made.
I went through the wardrobes first. Half a dozen black suits, black shoes, and white shirts. On a top shelf was a shoe box which held a four-fifty-four Casull. It is one heavy mother. In every sense not too accurate, but the load it packs would blow a hole in an elephant. I put it gingerly in the waistband above my ass. Three drawers to go. First held spotlessly clean underwear. The second had a pile of old theatre bills, all Lillian of course. Finally a storm of socks, put my hand through them. Pulled out a dog collar, said,
‘What?’
It had dried blood and a name. Bartley-Jack.
Before I could react, my other hand touched a ring. Held it up to the light, the heart displaying the tiny flaw she so admired. I sank back on the bed, my mind reeling.
I think I must have made a sub-audible noise. It’s when people under total stress speak aloud without realising it. Everybody does it but some are more prone. I’d never be more prone than then. The sound is below normal hearing range. Years ago, it was called ‘thoughts in the throat’. Course, the higher the stress, the louder the sound. Mine was heard all right.
A voice said,
‘Ah, the penny droppeth!’
Jordan was leaning against the shattered door, his arms folded. It took me a bit to find some voice but eventually,
‘You killed them all...
Briony
the dog
Aisling?’
He nodded.
‘Christ Almighty... all of them?’
‘Obstacles.’
‘What!’
‘To Lillian.’
‘You’re a fuckin’ psycho.’
‘How trite, how utterly predictable.’
I gut-shot him.
They say it’s the most intense pain in the world. Slumped in the doorway, he wasn’t arguing it. I stepped over him, and he grabbed at my ankle, said,
‘Finish it.’
‘Get fucked—’ and I kicked him in the balls. Double his bet.
Lillian was sitting up in bed, a pink shawl on her shoulders.
She gave me a smile, asked,
‘What was that commotion, darling?’
‘The butler did it.’
I lazily raised the gun at her and she asked in a petulant voice,
‘Oh silly, really, how am I supposed to react?’
My turn to smile. I said:
‘You’re an actress. Try acting scared.’