My Bloody Valentine (Alastair Gunn) (3 page)

‘It won’t happen. That job’s yours.’

‘Bollocks. Come and get me.’

‘You’re still sick.’

‘I’m coming back to work, it’s the only way.’

‘Not on this train.’ He hung up.

‘You’re joking.’ She stared at the phone, then at the wheelchair. Then she scrolled down and selected another number, waiting for the answer before she spoke.

‘Dad? It’s me.’

4

The two men passed through the deepest patch of darkness on Chambord Street. A bony cat crossed the road in front of them, darting through the railings into the small park area beyond, when one of the men launched an empty beer can at it.

‘Fuckin’ pussy!’ he shouted as the cat fled, the can clanking along the pavement where it had been, and both of them burst out laughing. The cat shot under the nearest park bench and stopped, watching the men as they continued along the pavement, eventually disappearing from view.

Confident it was now safe to move on, the cat slid from its hiding place and started crossing the tatty grass towards the swings, stopping briefly to look back before rounding the corner. It seemed completely unaware of the homeless drunk huddled in the darkness under a damp cardboard duvet on the next bench.

Except there was no homeless drunk.

Bull sat under the broken streetlight, invisible.

Hunting.

From his covert position, he had a perfect view of the flats. The entire block was a toilet, that much was obvious, but there was something else, something weird
about the whole area. There were no kids hanging out on the corners, no hookers, no dealers with dogs. But it went deeper than that. There was no buzzing sense of danger, like you usually got in this kind of low-grade shithole. Maybe that was it: the place had nothing left worth fighting over?

It had given up.

He scanned the buildings for signs of life. Nothing. But that was no surprise. People here didn’t want to see or be seen. Every window was either shielded by thick curtains or unlit. Bull had seen no more than a few locals since arriving an hour ago and those he
had
seen slunk away fast.

Suddenly there was movement, next to the battered Toyota parked across the road.

The man was back.

Bull hunkered low on the bench, careful not to draw attention. There was no panic, though; the guy was a prune, a scruffy-haired thumbsucker with suede shoes and a cheap coat. He was slim, maybe younger than Bull, but no threat.

The man heaved another box from the car boot, balancing it between his leg and the bumper while he reached up to shut the tailgate. He pulled it down sharply, yelping as it wrenched his fingers, swearing when he dropped his keys. He bent awkwardly, groping for them.

Then he locked the car and trudged back towards the flats, into the central staircase and up to the second
floor of the seven-storey bughouse, where the authorities probably dumped all their scum. It was his third journey, so there couldn’t be many more boxes left. The Toyota’s boot wasn’t that big.

The guy reached the door of number twenty-eight, shoved it open with his foot, and went inside.

Ten minutes later he reappeared, but this time with company. The two people trudged to the pavement and stood talking by the car, although they were too far away for Bull to hear what was being said.

He watched, straining to make out detail in the dim light. She looked older, obviously, but there was no question.

It was her.

Even from a distance he could tell she looked tired, the face he knew so well lined with emotion and fatigue, creases etched ever deeper by the passing years. But he knew those feelings, too; shared every one with her.

That’s why she needed to die.

It looked as though the guy was trying to cheer her up, but he wasn’t having much luck. She stared into the distance as he rubbed her shoulders, and her arms hung limp when he gave her a hug. Then he got into the Toyota and drove away, leaving her alone on the kerb. Bull watched her standing under the streetlight. Was she crying again?

He wouldn’t have blamed her. Just being here was excuse enough. The council might have paid for this place, but now she was trapped by their rules, having to
wander down two flights of stairs in the middle of the night just for a fag. He’d seen the
NO SMOKING
sign on her front door.
How sick was that?

A moment later she moved across to lean against the wall, lighting up.

He waited, recognizing her routine. The only times she’d left the flat since he’d begun watching her were to buy food or to smoke, and all her pre-midnight cigarettes had been doused where she now stood.

But things changed after that. Once the temperature dropped she’d appeared less often: once every few hours through the night, wearing a coat and scarf, shuffling round several circuits of the small park area while she smoked.

But this time he’d be ready. Not on the bench like the first night, when she’d surprised him by coming into the park and walking straight past. With no choice then, he’d ignored her. Luckily, she hadn’t even glanced his way. And tonight he’d be further round the path, in the deeper shadows near the monument.

Twenty yards away she scratched out her cigarette against the wall, before dragging herself back up the stairs and along the balcony.

Then Bull watched as Samantha Philips opened her front door and slipped inside.

5

Hawkins jerked into consciousness, heart pounding. Blurred faces hung above her in the half-light, and immediately she was fighting the hands pinning her down, feeling the hot chill of sweat on her skin. Someone was talking.

‘
All right, Antonia, just try to relax. You’re okay. You’re safe.
’

Suddenly, her right hand was free. It flew to her chest, frantically searching for the raw puncture marks.

Where the knife had gone in.

‘
Miss Hawkins.
’ Another voice. ‘
Try to calm down. You were dreaming. You’ve pulled out your drip.
’

Hawkins stopped searching and swallowed, senses thumping, looking from face to face at the nurses standing over her bed. Slowly, her dream began to fade, the dimly lit hospital ward coming back into focus around them, her heart beat beginning to slow. She took a few deep breaths, rubbing her left hand, where the drip had torn the skin on its way out.

‘Better?’ one of the nurses asked.

Hawkins nodded, sitting patiently while they moved the cannula to her forearm and put a plaster on her hand, reassuring them again that she was fine, accepting
the offer of tea just to get rid of them. They retreated, leaving her exhausted but in peace, aside from her aching body and the pejorative stare of the old lady across the ward. She checked the time, sighing when she read 02:15.

Morning couldn’t come fast enough.

6

He struck.

The hammer dug in, punching straight through her temple. Perfect aim. There was a dull pop but no scream, and for a second they both froze.

Then she dropped like her brain had switched off.

Bull stepped back, watching her crumple on the path. He glanced around to check if anyone had seen, but the gloomy park was empty; the road outside clear. He could disappear in the shadows and let the freezing rain begin washing her mistakes away.

But there was a noise.

Panic flared as Bull looked down. Somehow she’d survived, and was trying to drag herself away.

Had he made a mistake?

He went after her, noting the extensive blood loss and the way her legs hung limp. Death was certain now.

He caught up in a few strides and hit her again. She dropped face down, twitching, but he didn’t stop, driving the hammer in time after time. Doing it right.

At last he stopped, shaking, his breathing ragged. She lay at his feet. Not moving.

Gone.

Bull
steadied himself, tucked the hammer into his coat, and walked away.

7

‘Whoops a daisy!’ The old man lost hold of his daughter’s wrist and she slumped into the passenger seat of his ice-gold Rover 75 estate. But his expression of mild amusement became one of admonition when he saw the resulting discomfort on her face.

‘Antonia … are you
sure
the doctor said you’re ready to go home?’

Hawkins looked out through the windscreen at Ealing Hospital and shuddered. ‘Yes, Dad. Would the nurse have wheeled me to the door otherwise? Now, please get us out of here.’

She’d neglected to mention the self-discharge form she had signed before her father arrived, the one that said something like ‘I understand I should stay in hospital, and I accept full responsibility for my own health, or lack thereof, as a result of my decision to leave.’

Her father made the short humming noise that meant he didn’t agree, but neither could he see any point in arguing. He stepped back, allowing her to shut the door.

She watched in the wing mirror as he pushed the wheelchair around to the back of the car and raised the tailgate. Her dad had entered that stage of life where
some people entirely stopped caring how they looked and settled into a pattern of wearing whatever the hell they liked, regardless of whether they were collecting their daughter from hospital or having tea with the queen. His mustard cords and psychedelically patterned jumper might have passed for Christmas irony if it hadn’t been mid-February. The tragedy was that satire had nothing to do with it.

Behind her, Alan Hawkins placed the distended crutches on to the cardboard that protected the plastic that protected the boot carpet, and then spent a while pulling at every bolt and protrusion on the chair, in search of the release catch shown blatantly to him by the nurse not five minutes ago.

Eventually, the law of averages won and he managed to concertina the wheelchair before hauling it on its side into the boot. Then he eased the tailgate back into place and shuffled round to the driver’s side.

It was only when he sat down that Hawkins nearly insisted, despite her injuries, on driving. This was why she resorted to asking her father for help only in the most dire of situations. Almost seven billion people on the planet, and who did
she
get in a crisis?

Alan Hawkins was wearing slippers.

8

‘Why don’t you come and stay with us?’ Alan Hawkins turned off the main road into his daughter’s estate. ‘Just for a few days.’

‘It’s nothing personal, Dad; I just don’t get on with your wife.’

He smiled. ‘I know you and your mum clash sometimes, but she’d love to help. She did use to be a nurse.’

‘Really? Why doesn’t she ram
that
fact down everybody’s throat whenever the opportunity arises?’

‘Antonia.’ He frowned at her. ‘She’d be upset if she heard you.’

‘And that’s why I can’t stay with you guys.’ Not to mention the fact that, if she stayed with them, her mum would try to stop Hawkins from returning to work.

Tomorrow.

Her dad made his short humming noise.

They rounded the final corner and the knot in Hawkins’ stomach pulled itself tighter as the house came into view. She dragged in a long breath.

You have to face it at some point.

‘Here we are, then,’ her father announced, before embarking on a five-minute parking ballet that ended
only when he involuntarily mounted the kerb at low revs and stalled the car.

The subsequent build-up to entering the house, which involved him retrieving the wheelchair from the boot, wrestling it back into shape, loading his daughter into it and edging her up the path, did nothing for Hawkins’ growing anxiety. But it wasn’t until she had to stand, in order to negotiate the step over the threshold, that the nausea really kicked in. She swayed.

‘You don’t look too well.’ Her dad left the wheelchair halfway through the door and caught her arm. ‘Do you need a bowl?’

‘No, I’m good.’ Hawkins propped herself against the wall while he dragged the chair inside and shut the front door. Then she sank into it and allowed him to push her slowly along the hall, willing the colour back into her cheeks as they passed the mirror.

She swallowed hard when they entered the front room, watching the kitchen slide into view.

The room where she’d been attacked.

‘Blimey.’ Her dad, oblivious, interrupted her anxiety. ‘Brass monkeys in here, isn’t it?’

He adjusted the thermostat, waiting for the sound of the boiler kicking in. ‘That’s better. Now, I’m under instructions from you-know-who. The deal is that if you’re having difficulties getting about, which you are, then I’m either to insist that you come and stay with us, or I have to stay here with you. So which is it?’

Hawkins groaned. She’d noticed her dad’s weekend
bag in the back of the car, which meant her mum already knew which way this would go. They all understood that, once her mother decreed an either–or ruling, you were getting either–or whether you liked it or not. Proposing that Mike, a man her parents had met just a couple of times, look after her, especially when he was on shift for the next couple of days, wouldn’t cut it. And if she refused both recommended options, things would only get worse. Because that would compel her mother to intervene personally.

‘You win.’ She shook her head and pointed at the ceiling. ‘You’ll need to make up the spare room.’

‘It’s not about winn–’ He stopped in response to the frown. ‘Where are the sheets?’

‘Airing cupboard.’

‘Right, I’ll pop up and do that. You get the kettle on.’ He headed for the stairs, apparently unaware of the irony that his slippers were appropriate footwear once more.

Hawkins watched him go, mildly hurt that he hadn’t asked if she was okay first. Then it occurred to her that he probably didn’t know much about the attack. She hadn’t been exactly forthcoming, and what little he
had
known he’d probably forgotten. He thought her difficulties entering the house had been purely physical, and last time he’d asked about that she’d bitten him. As far as he was concerned, she was back in the chair, so she was fine.