Bloody Mary (17 page)

I debated internally for a while, running the money through my hands, drinking in the texture, the odour, wondering if I could justify keeping it to myself and using my manipulative skills to hit back at Darren Delaney. It was so wrong, but it was also so tempting. Think of all the things I could do with two thousand pounds. Right or wrong, I don’t know, but I made up my mind.

During our failed attempt to persuade Sophie not to leave England, I had discreetly unclipped the fob from Darren’s key-ring, and now it lay on the table beside the stack of cash. I glanced from one to the other, then resolved to keep the money for myself: it was worth more in my pocket than in Darren’s, and I hoped that, with the personal possession I’d gleaned from him without his knowledge, Sophie would never be a stranger. Stashing the cash in the back of my sideboard drawer for now, I took the crude material effigy of Darren I’d made weeks ago out of boredom, short tufts of brown wool stitched into the head, ochre eyes created with a felt pen, and clipped the fob to its side.

Harold would never know the truth, he was too gullible, and I could be a good liar.

It had been a busy day for Sophie, the storage company arriving early and taking the furniture to their depot, the garage to collect their cars ready to sell on their behalf, and later, the removals company picking up the boxes they were transporting abroad. Darren had finished working now, but he was nowhere to be seen throughout the chaotic arrangements, having left to see his parents in a borrowed van, their own lives in equal disarray, to ‘discuss plans’. Sophie was too excited to be annoyed, as she would have normally been at such a massive task being thrown onto her shoulders, her only focus was to get all the chores done, and then to look forward to the hotel tonight, the flight tomorrow. Meanwhile, three events were taking place of which she was completely unaware:

Maureen poured a plastic cup of coffee from a full flask for each of them as the house was being emptied, all items being placed on an articulated lorry for immediate transportation to Mallorca, and they stood, with nowhere left to sit. “I’ve been giving her alcohol, Mam. I’ve done my research. If I tell the doctors she’s got a secret drink problem then they’re more likely to offer withdrawal drugs to the baby when he’s born.”

“Not in the quantities she’s been having. Just enough to register that she’s a drinker, but not enough to cause problems.” He tapped his nose. “I’m being careful, it’s my son, remember!”

Alan knew he was abusing his position as a constable, but, sometimes, real life mattered more. He’d spent the morning calling round the removals companies in the area, and had finally hit the jackpot when ‘Archies’ reluctantly admitted, pressurised by his status, that they were the company moving Mr and Mrs Delaney’s belongings to Mallorca. However, they refused to give the receiving address without seeing identification. Alan was in the car within seconds, he had no time to lose.

The building ‘Archie’s Master Removals’ inhabited was a grubby place, grimy, dirty, and Alan began to wonder if they were as professional as their name suggested. He found his way to the main office and requested the man he’d spoken to on the phone, Tony Archival. “I’m PC Taylor, we spoke an hour ago. I have my ID”

Gruff and dismissing, Archie waved his hand. “I can see your uniform. Why the interest?”

“I’m not at liberty to say, Mr Archival, I’m afraid, but we do need a forwarding address.”

He wasn’t concerned in the slightest, he didn’t owe the demanding couple anything, their details weren’t something he could be bothered to protect. He scanned through the hand-written list, coffee stained, scuffed, and curled at the edges. “Puerto de Pollenca. The address is,” Archival checked Alan was ready with pen and paper, “Plot one two three, Number two, Calle El Nogel.”

Determined not to take anything down wrongly, Alan glanced at the paperwork. “Calley?”

“ It’s pronounced Kiy-yeh, it means street. Is that it?”

Alan nodded at Archival’s abruptness, resolute that if he were ever fortunate enough to move abroad, ‘Archie’s Master Removals’ would absolutely not be the company he chose to take care of his cherished belongings.

I was also unaware of Darren’s latest plans, as much as I was unaware of Alan’s success in gaining a forwarding address, so was at a complete loss. I’d spent the morning poring over all the details, and my theft of Harry’s money, and the answers I wanted to see were never there. I know I should have been happy for my birth daughter, pleased that her future appeared so positive, but from what he’d suspiciously said on our last meeting, I had such a gut feeling that Darren had some nasty plans up his sleeve, and I wanted to pre-empt him in some, any, way. Regardless, the bottom line was simple: he was bad news, he didn’t love Sophie the way she thought he did, and somehow, no matter how, this journey had to stop.

But with just one day to go before they flew across the other side of the Pyrenees, and my determination to keep Harry’s money for myself, it was time to see if this desperate attempt at voodoo idea that I’d been casually thinking about actually worked. I’d bought the book for myself the previous Christmas from the charity shop, never flicked through it or anything, just put it on the shelf for another day. So now I took it down, blew the dust away, and flicked through to the index, searching. I found the chapter that seemed to fit the circumstances most appropriately, ‘
Spells for Revenge
’, and read through it carefully, taking every word in. Eventually I was ready to give it a try. But first of all I needed a pink-ended pin. I rummaged through my haphazard sewing box, and found the tub of pins, a scrap of pink material from which I cut a small square, and then found the superglue in the kitchen drawer. Attaching the pink to the end of the pin, I was nearly ready, I just needed the ambience in the room to feel right, mysterious, mystical.

From under the sink in the kitchen, I collected a box of tea-lights, and scattered them around the room, moving the piles of junk aside to make space, lighting them before switching the central light off. Perfect. The tiny flickering flames cast a wonderful spiritual glow throughout.

Back at the table, I carefully took Darren’s effigy and laid it before me. Slowly, my every thought concentrating on my revengeful wishes, I recited the words from the book, and when the spell was fully vocalised, I took the pink pin, the colour of death, according to the book, and plunged it through the doll’s chest, grinding it from side to side, concentrating, willing evil on the man I hated passionately.

But completely engrossed in my rudimentary ritual, I failed to notice the sheets of paper that had fallen from one of the stacks of junk onto a burning candle, and it wasn’t until the sideboard was thoroughly alight that I noticed the fetid smell of my possessions as they were perishing to cinders. If only I had read the final sentence in the chapter, I would have been aware that the spell could backfire and unsettle the karma if it was unjustified, and I might have reconsidered casting it.

But I hadn’t, and, swamped with fear, I had only one thought: the money from Harry was in the drawer of the burning cupboard. I had to get it.

The fire engine and ambulance arrived within seconds of each other. Having retrieved the charred wad of twenty pound notes from the drawer and zipped it into my duffle coat, the raging fire singeing painful burns on my face, arms and chest as I did so, I just managed to call the emergency services before succumbing to the odious smoke. As my eyes drooped, aware the fiery smoke was stifling my lungs, I accepted that this was it: this was where my life ended and I finally got to see if spirits really did remain in the human world. I was completely unaware of the brave fireman rescuing me, carrying my limp body from the inferno, and of the paramedics taking over in the cool air of the balcony. I had no recollection of the emergency ride to hospital, while the fire department hosed the flames, soaking the flat and what was left of my treasured possessions.

Harry had been anxiously waiting for a call from me to tell him that his investment in Darren’s blackmail had gained Sophie’s contact details, and, at such a late stage decided to call on me to ask what was happening. He got to the block of flats at the same time as Alan, alerted unwittingly of the emergency call from a comment a colleague in the control room mentioned. Harold ran up the stairs behind his son, two at a time, fuelled with desperation by Alan’s urgent shouting: “It’s Mary’s flat! I just heard about it at work.”

Reaching the balcony was an anti-climax, the adrenaline in their veins still pumping with excitement, which was now falling flat. The turquoise door was propped wide open, water spilling over the step from inside, and two firemen stood, doing nothing more than guiding the hose. “The lady who lives here, is she in there.”

“No, mate. Went to hospital about twenty minutes ago. We’ve nearly finished here ourselves, controlled the blaze, just dampening everything down now.”

Alan didn’t have the slightest idea how he felt about the situation. If he’d have had a choice about whom his birth mother was going to be, he certainly wouldn’t have chosen the oddball he’d ended up with. But that was irrational, I was his mother, it was my body that had given him life, and he owed everything to me. There was no love yet, but there was compassion and protectiveness. Thinking speedily, he grabbed Harold’s arm, leading him along the balcony back towards the concrete stairs. “Come on, let’s get to the hospital.” He shouted back at the man who’d informed him. “Is it Derby City General?”

The fireman was nonchalant, he shrugged. “I guess so, mate!”

Darren, annoyed that he hadn’t been able to scam any cash at all from Sophie’s family, albeit reasoning that there was still time yet, put the suitcases into the taxi, and climbed into the front. Sophie was already seated on the back seat, sorry to see her much-loved house for what would probably be the final time, yet intensely excited about the new life ahead, away from all the confusing drama her parents, Alan Taylor, and that awful Mary Miller had bestowed upon her.

After stopping at the estate agent’s to drop off the keys for Iris Cottage, they began the lengthy journey to the Radisson SAS Hotel at Manchester Airport. There weren’t any words shared as they travelled, everything had already been said in the past few days, and the couple, each with their minds lost in conflicting thoughts of their new future, watched the scenery through the windows, the sky turning from dull grey, to charcoal, to black.

The room was comfortable, although nothing extraordinary. White emulsion walls, plain blue carpet, chequered bedspread, and furniture created from pale oak. Dumping the cases, Darren headed straight for the mini bar, a kid in a sweet shop, and helped himself to a few of the bottles, lining them up on the bedside cabinet, pouring the first one swiftly, downing it, and proceeding with the next two.

“Go easy, Darren, we’ve got an early start tomorrow.” Sophie was unpacking her cosmetics into the en-suite bathroom, eager for a shower to wash the day’s hard work away.

Lounging back comfortably on the pillow, remote control in his hand, flicking through the channels of the television, Darren was unperturbed. “I know! I know! I’ll be fine. Shall we go and suss out the bar? We can have a couple of drinks, then have something to eat in the restaurant when Mam and Dad get here.” They’d managed to book the same flight as Maureen and Bob, which would be convenient for the journey to Puerto de Pollenca once they got to Palma Airport.

“What time did they say they’d be arriving?”

“Didn’t say, Mam just said she’d call me.” Darren had found the Comedy Central channel and was loosely watching South Park, an episode he’d seen many times before, and he chuckled every now and then.

Sophie closed the door and turned the shower on, undressing. “Just having a shower, won’t be long.”

Moments later Sophie’s mobile began to ring, and Darren reached for it across the bed, checking for the name on the display, but only the number came up which aroused his curiosity. “Hello.”

Harold’s voice was strained. “I’d like you to pass a message to her.” Darren didn’t bother to respond, and, after a few moments, Harold continued. “It’s Mary Miller. There’s been a fire in her flat and she’s been badly burned. She’s in Derby General.”

Darren was completely disinterested, with no sentiment felt or expressed. “So why are you telling me?”

Harold was vexed at the cold arrogance. “I’m not. I’m passing a message to Sophie through you, Mary’s her birth mother and she needs to know.”

Dismissive and bored, Darren had no intention of passing any message regarding her parents or the crazy old bag. “If you wanted me to be your go between, Harold Waller, oh, sorry, Dad, then you should have given me the money I asked for.”

Harold was astounded, and his voice reflected it. “But I did!”

“Don’t fucking lie to me! If I had the dosh you’d have the forwarding address, wouldn’t you!”

There was an element of panic creeping into Harold’s voice. “But I gave it to…” His words tailed off as it dawned on him what must have happened.

Through the silence, Darren had his final words on the matter. “Face it, Harold. You’ve lost her.” Darren ended the call and switched off Sophie’s phone, burying it deep in his hand luggage.