Dance of Ghosts (39 page)

‘I know what you’re doing.’

He looked at me for a few moments, thoughtfully nodding his head, then – very slowly – he got to his feet and began walking towards me. ‘So how about it, John?’ he said calmly. ‘You give me the gun, we sit down and work things out, and that’ll be it – end of story.’

‘End of story?’ I said incredulously.

He nodded. ‘Trust me – I can fix this. By tomorrow morning, Ray will be gone, Bridget will be in hospital, and you’ll be wherever you want to be.’ He stopped in front of me and held out his hand. ‘All you have to do is give me the gun.’

I looked up at him, and if it hadn’t been for the overbearing weight of tiredness inside me, I might have actually laughed out loud at the idea of trusting him … but I was so exhausted now, so lost and black and full of nothing, that I could barely even think. I was deep down in the black place, draped in the darkness, and I’d been there for ever and I’d be there for ever …

I couldn’t do anything.

Didn’t want anything.

What was the point?

The temptation to just end it all was almost irresistible. All I had to do was move my finger … I could do that. Move my finger, pull the trigger …

Once … and Ray Bishop would be gone.

Twice … his brother.

And a third time …

Nothing.

John?

Fuck everything, just do it.

Listen to me, John
.

‘Stacy?’

Bishop’s right … Bridget needs you
.

‘He’s just saying that, Stace … he’s just using her –’

I know he is. But she still needs you. And you need her
.

‘I don’t –’

Yes, you do
.

‘I want to be with
you
, Stace.’

I’m in your heart, John … always. No matter what
.

‘I love you.’

I know
.

‘John …?’

I looked at Bishop. He’d crouched down beside me and was staring into my eyes.

‘It’s OK, John,’ he said quietly. ‘Everything’s all right … just give me the gun …’

I looked down at his outstretched hand – seeing the shape of it, the colour, the texture of the skin … the lines and the whorls and the pores – and all of a sudden I knew that I didn’t have to think any more. All I had to do was place the pistol in Bishop’s hand, and that would be it. No more decisions, nothing to think about. Whatever happened would happen. If I lived, I lived. If I died, I died.

The future doesn’t exist.

I moved my finger off the trigger, slowly lifted the gun, and placed it carefully in Bishop’s hand.

‘Thank you,’ he said. He studied the pistol for a moment, frowning slightly, then he looked down at his brother.

‘Micky?’ Ray muttered quietly. ‘Are we –?’

‘Goodbye, Ray,’ Mick said.

He put the gun to his brother’s head and calmly pulled the trigger.

I probably only sat there for a minute or so, perched in stunned silence on Ray Bishop’s dead body, but it seemed like a long, long time. His brother remained where he was too, and when I finally managed to turn my head and look at him, I saw that he was crying. There was still no emotion in his face, and he wasn’t making any sound; he was just crouched down on the floor, staring at his brother, the tears streaming silently from his eyes.

I didn’t say anything.

I didn’t know what to say.

Eventually, Mick took a deep breath and let it out slowly, and without taking his eyes off Ray, he said to me, ‘It was the only way. There was nothing left for him. It had to end.’

I remained quiet.

Bishop looked at me. ‘He was my brother. I looked after him. I gave him his life …
I
had to give him his death. No one else … not you. I couldn’t let you do it. He was my brother.’

I nodded. ‘So what happens now?’

He blew out his cheeks and stood up. ‘Like I said, I fix it.’

He held his hand out to me. I reached up and took it, and he helped me to my feet. I looked over at Bridget. She was still out cold.

Bishop pulled a mobile phone from his pocket. ‘I’ll call an ambulance for her as soon as I’ve got everything cleaned up in here. I need to make some calls, make some arrangements. It’ll take a while, but that’s how it’s got to be.’ He looked at me. ‘Are you all right with that?’

I glanced at the pistol in his hand. ‘I don’t have much choice, do I?’

‘No.’

While Bishop got busy on the phone, I went over and sat down beside Bridget. I put a cushion under her head, cleaned some blood from her face, stroked her hair … I told her, very quietly, that she was going to be OK. And then I think I probably cried for a while. And then I went into the bedroom and found the bottle of whisky that Bridget had told me about. As I poured myself a dusty glassful, I pictured us lying in bed together, and I could remember almost everything about it – the feelings, the sounds, the scents … I could
see
myself in the bed, rolling over and reaching down for my jacket, patting the pockets until I found my cigarettes. I could hear myself asking Bridget if she minded if I smoked, and her saying, ‘There’s a bottle of whisky somewhere. Sarah’s always liked a drop of good malt … I think it’s in the cupboard over there. Just help yourself if you want.’

And I’d said,’ I’m all right, thanks.’

I remembered all that. But as to
when
it had happened … I simply had no idea at all. Today? Yesterday? This week? Last week?

My head was blank.

I just couldn’t remember.

I went back into the sitting room, sat down beside Bridget, and lit a cigarette.

It took Bishop about forty minutes – and at least ten separate phone calls – to make all the arrangements, but eventually he put the mobile back in his pocket and sat down on the settee.

‘All right,’ he said to me, glancing at his watch. ‘It’s all done. There’ll be some people coming round in a while to take the body away and clean everything up. They won’t have time to make the place forensically clean – and it’d be too risky ripping out carpets at this time of night anyway – but they’ll make sure there’s no visible evidence left.’ He looked at his watch again. ‘I’ll get Ray’s house sorted out tomorrow, and the rest of it … well, you don’t need to know about that, do you?’

‘What about me?’

He shrugged. ‘What
about
you?’

‘What’s going to happen –?’

‘Nothing’s going to happen.’

‘Your brother was a serial killer –’

‘And now he’s dead.’

‘You
helped
him kill all those people –’

‘What would you have done, John? If someone
you
loved, if the only person you’d ever cared about …’ He sighed, rubbing his eyes. ‘I mean, imagine if Stacy had killed people, and you’d found out about it. What would you have done?’

‘She didn’t –’

‘But if she did. Would you have given her up? Would you have had her locked away in Broadmoor for the rest of her life?
Would
you?’

I shook my head. ‘I don’t know …’

‘I did what I had to do, John. I traded a few dozen worthless lives for the life of my brother. Right or wrong, that’s all I did. You can judge me if you want –’

‘It’s not up to me to judge you. It’s up to a court.’

He sniffed. ‘If I go to court, so do you, for killing Anton Viner. That’s why nothing’s going to happen to either of us. You know what Ray did, you know what I did – and what I’ve just done – and I know what you did. We’re all in the same boat, John. We can either sink in it together, or we can survive together. And the way I see it, if we both go down … well, what purpose will it serve? What good will it do anyone?’

‘What good will it do if we both survive? What good will
that
do to anyone?’

He smiled. ‘You’re a cheerful fucker, aren’t you?’

I didn’t smile back. ‘What about Cal?’

‘Cal Franks?’ Bishop shrugged. ‘He does the same as us – keeps his mouth shut about everything.’

‘And if he doesn’t?’

‘I’ll just make a couple of phone calls to some very spooky people who don’t take kindly to cyber-terrorists. By the time they’ve finished with him, he’ll be lucky if he knows what a computer is, let alone how to use one.’ Bishop smiled at me again. ‘Any more concerns?’

‘What are you going to do about the Anna Gerrish investigation?’

‘Nothing … I’ll keep it alive for a while, go through the motions of looking for Viner, and then gradually wind it down. No one’s going to care. It’s just another murder … the media will soon forget about it.’

‘You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you?’

He nodded. ‘It’s what I do.’

‘Do you enjoy it?’

He just shrugged again. ‘It’s what I do.’

I looked at him, sick of talking now. I just wanted this to be over. I wanted to be alone. I wanted to be at home, sitting in my armchair beneath the high window, drinking whisky in the darkness, listening to the whisper of ghosts …

A bell sounded downstairs.

‘That’ll be them,’ Bishop said, getting to his feet and heading for the door.

‘I want the gun back,’ I told him.

He stopped. ‘The gun?’

‘I want it back.’

‘Why?’

‘Does it matter?’

He took the pistol from his pocket, studied it for a moment, then looked at me. ‘It was your father’s, wasn’t it? It was the gun he used to kill himself.’

‘How do you know that?’

He carried on looking at me for a second or two, then he took the magazine out of the pistol, emptied the bullets into his hand, put the magazine back, and passed the gun to me.

‘How do you know it was my father’s?’ I asked him again.

He dropped the bullets into his pocket, turned round, and left the room without saying anything.

Bridget was finally beginning to come round as I went over and sat down beside her. Her eyelids were twitching, her lips were fluttering, and she was making faint little whimpering sounds.

I took hold of her hand.

It was cold.

‘It’s OK, Bridget,’ I said softly. ‘You’re going to be fine now. Everything’s going to be all right …’

But I knew I was probably lying.

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