Nothing will go wrong, he told himself, but the Russian had laughed when Den called. Told him cash was hard to come by, interest rates sky high and he wasn't sure he could help. Always the same act with Rag Doll Eyes: make them suffer. Den tried not to sound cheesed off at having to beg and grovel and plead for money with loan shark interest rates. At last, and with a cheery voice, the Russian agreed to meet him on the pier, but warned him not to be late.

  "Sit on a bench near the lighthouse and wait," Rag Doll Eyes had said.

  Den arrived early. Two hours early. He'd wait all day if that is what it took to get his hands on a wad of the loan shark's cash. He smiled at Elfrid.

  "Wag your tail when the Russian arrives."

  Soon he'd have a stack of money to tide him over until his next job ended. Nine months of bills is a long time, but the Russian with rag doll eyes had the cash. At a price. Den factored that into his venture. He'd always made a huge profit. He just needed to find the right job soon.

  Two herring gulls squabbled over a fish and chip wrapper. Maybe he should snatch it from them, see if there was anything left for him and Elfrid to eat?

  Instead of fighting gulls, Den stared at his watch—an hour to go. Might as well get some shut eye. Nothing like the sound of waves crashing against a pier to ease you into the land of snooze. His eyelids closed.

  "What type of dog is she?"

  The voice broke into Den's dream at the point where his plate brimmed with steak and ale pie and he was about to take a bite. Elfrid's bowl overflowed with prime beef strips. He wanted a bite of that too. Who? Where? Confused, he blinked, expecting to see the sneering face of the Russian with rag doll eyes. He blinked again.

  She was in her late teens. Plump as a ripe melon even in an oversized neon pink puffer jacket which stretched over her wide hips. A dowdy pink skirt and pink ankle boots made up the rest of her wardrobe. Big boned and porky dressed in pink.

  Den held back a grin at the lardy lass and continued to take her in. A mess of blue hair straggled to her shoulders in greasy clumps. Her top teeth jutted over her bottom lip, and her sharp, angular, nose flayed out at the tip. A smear of acne splattered her flabby cheeks. An angry red wart sagged from the right corner of her bottom lip. It was her small eyes that should have bothered Den—dark and quick, with trouble in their sharp gleam.

  "Eh?" Den raked a slow hand over his chin, not sure of the question, but knowing there was one. "What did you say?"

  Her small dark eyes darted from the dog to Den and back again. "What breed is she?"

  "It's a he," Den said. "And I don't think he has much of a pedigree."

  "Can I pet him?"

  "Sure."

  The girl sat crossed legged on the wooden slats next to Elfrid, whispering into his ear. The dog's tail began to thump.

  A wave of joy surged through Den. His luck had turned. His idea worked. Elfrid, the ugly beast with the smiling snout, attracted teenage girls like fish bait. Oh Lord, he could kiss the dog. From now on, life would be easy.

  "I got him from the town shelter, saved him from the vet," Den said.

  The girl's eye's widened. "You mean they were going to put him down?"

  Den nodded. Again, he snatched a sly glance at her body. Not much up top. Strong hips, broad thighs, face bordering on the ugly. Perfect. He had a system that worked like magic. Pull on their heartstrings and watch them dance.

  The girl's gaze fell back to the dog. "What's his name?"

  "Elfrid," Den replied, placing a hand on his dome shaped double chin. He waited a heartbeat, knowing his next move might end the game.

  "And your name?"

  She poked at the wart on her lip. "Penny. Penny Adcock."

  "Nice to meet you, Penny." His thin slitty lips curved into a smile. "I'm Den."

  "Den as in Dennis?"

  "Denizio. It's Italian."

  Penny said, "Hiya Denizio."

  "Hiya Penny."

  Stick to the well-worn plan, Den told himself. Yes, it might take several days, but he'd have Penny Adcock on his hook. Smitten. Deeply in love. His to do with as he pleased. He'd work her like a farmer works fertile soil. Hard and steady until it bears fruit. Today, he thought, my luck has turned.

  "I'm new to town," Den said. "Do you work near here?"

  "Part-time at Logan's bakery."

  Joy of joys, she had a job. Den couldn’t believe his luck. The gulls continued to squabble over the fish and chip paper. His stomach grumbled.

  "You hungry?" he asked.

  "I'm vegan."

  "Me too," Den replied.

  God this was easy. He'd suggest lunch somewhere nice, make out he'd lost his wallet, and get the lardy lass to pay. Not a vegan place. No way. He'd order steak and ale pie with lashings of gravy and no veg. A bowl of steak strips for the dog. Not a big ask. Nothing to break the bank. Not at first.

  But he had a question. The same hook bait question he had used for years. He rubbed his dome of a chin. "I'm going to take a wild guess. I'm betting you are … twenty-five. No, twenty-three."

  She grinned exposing a mouth full of teeth. They always grinned. Always wanted to seem older. He knew how their minds worked.

  "What has it got to do with you?"

  "Just asking," he replied, his hand still stoking his double chin.

  My God, he was on his game and feeling good. He liked them plump and fresh and stupid. Eighteen, he guessed. Fertile soil. His girls had to be at least seventeen. No older than twenty. Older girls gave too much trouble. They'd lived a little and knew the score. Younger led to trouble from the law. He'd learned the hard way, got away by the skin of his teeth. Were they still looking for him? That's why he moved from town to town, staying in each new place for no more than a year. People forget your face if they don't see you every day. Den preferred it that way.

  He gazed at his watch—forty minutes before his meeting with the Russian with rag doll eyes. Plenty of time for a little side business.

  Penny was still considering his answer. He snatched a sly glance at her flat breasts. Oh, how he loved teenage girls. Not the confident ones. He sought the weak-minded and feeble and those who thought they were no good. The spotty and bloated and those with bad teeth. Runaways were best, or girls from broken homes where money was an issue. Plain and dowdy Penny Adcock fit the bill.

  Penny smiled, but did not speak.

  Den licked his cracked lips as he savoured his first bite in a long lean while. No way he'd throw roly-poly Penny back. Eighteen was just the right age. He'd haul her in with his biggest net.

  He tried to hide his impatience. "Come on then, how old are you? Don't tell me you are thirty?"

  "Do I look like an old fogy?"

  "No, but I can see you are a woman of the world."

  Penny giggled. "I'm thirteen, and have the day off school because I went to the doctor." She lowered her voice. "Twelve right now, but thirteen this August."

  "Jesus Christ," Den yelled. "Leave off the dog or I'll set him on you. Tear off your face, he will. Savage it, so it doesn't look so damn ugly."

  Penny sprang to her feet and faced him squarely. Her eyes blazed in fury. "What did you say?"

  "Bugger off you fat cow." Den's thin mouth stretched so wide his front teeth jutted out. "Else I'll have you on the butcher's slab and feed your bones to the pigs. Except your fat head. I've got a bleedin' big hook for that and will roast it on a bonfire. See, me and the dog ain't eaten for days. Think we'll enjoy the meat feast."

  Den lurched from the bench snatching at her face, fingers curled into claws. Just to frighten her away. A twelve-year-old! What the hell did she take him for?

  Penny screamed and took off in a splay-footed waddle. At the entrance of the pier, she turned left onto the boardwalk, her pink puffer jacket merging with the crowd. It was then that Den became conscious of a short figure weaving through the throng. A fat meatball of a man with toothpick legs.

  Den squinted. Yes, it was him. The Russian with rag doll eyes. And he was early.

  "Money," Den whispered to Elfrid. "Here comes cash on two legs."

  The Russian with rag doll eyes stopped at the entrance of the pier. He fooled around with a mobile phone, although his head swivelled owl like. You don't rise through the loan shark ranks without being damn sure you are not being followed.

  Den shoved his shaking hands into his pockets. This was it. Pay day. Steak and ale pie and steak strips for Elfrid.

  He considered climbing on the bench so he was easy to spot, but thought it would draw too much attention. The last thing he wanted was some sharp-eyed police officer accusing him of hooliganism and peppering him with questions. He shuddered. If they nabbed him, found out about his system, they'd toss him behind bars and throw away the key.

  The Russian looked back along the boardwalk. Past the ornate lampposts lit on bonfire night. Past the row of wooden stalls which served as gift shops during the summer. If Den had been closer, he'd have been able to follow the man's gaze. Impossible from where he sat.

  As Den was thinking about how much to ask for, the Russian with rag doll eyes took off at a fast walk. Away from the entrance of the pier. Putting as much space as possible between himself and Den. Almost sprinting now.

  "Hey," Den yelled, clambering onto the bench. "Over here."

  A flash of pink on the boardwalk caused his heart to skip a beat. Penny Adcock was jabbing and pointing and striding toward the pier with two policemen at her side.

  Chapter 30

  When Shirley Bickham scurried from the house in her pink headscarf, she had no idea where to go. The air was cool and crisp with black clouds hanging so low the street took on a grim sheen. A storm was brewing. A bloody big one. She couldn’t shake the unnerving sensation that she should run back home and slam the door tight shut.

  But the last thing she wanted was to face the woman detective coming to speak with her mam. If she went back, she might leave the house in handcuffs.

  The front gardens in the street seemed to shimmer. The sodden lawns and dark net curtained windows danced. Shirley's gut spun in sour angst. Foul-tasting acid crawled up her throat. Why did she hide her dad's medal box under that damn pillow? That was bonkers. Why was she such a fool? There was something off about the day from the moment she opened her eyes. More nasties to come, though she didn’t know what.

  From behind, came the grumble of an engine. She looked back. A blue Morris Minor crawled to a stop outside her mam's house. A slender woman with shoulder length grey hair climbed out. The woman slammed the car door and strode with zeal to her mam's front door. She exuded a strange confidence that told the world she knew what she wanted and would get it.

  Shirley watched in horror. No screaming sirens. No flashing lights. But that was the detective. What was her name? Sallow. Fenella Sallow. She knew a busy body when she saw one, but this woman was nosy above and beyond the blue uniform. This woman would grab at a secret and shake it until everything lay exposed. Oh God, she needed a drink.

  Shirley tightened her headscarf, turned in haste and hurried away, not wanting to draw the detective's eye. Mam would take care of it. She always did.

  It wasn’t until Shirley was around the bend and huffing for breath at the bus stop that the first stirrings of fury grumbled. Why was she running like a convicted crook? They had nothing on her. She should go back to the house to hear what they were saying. The detective would talk about Dad. How he died. What they'd found. There would be questions about what he did in his free time. His hobbies. Shirley frowned. Dad was either digging his veg or down the Hope Haven shelter with the teenage girls. His two loves, she supposed. And of course, he doted on Ginger.

  As she slumped on the metal bench at the bus stop, Shirley's heart pounded uncomfortably, and she began to have the uneasy feeling that the detective's questions would turn to her.

  She cursed. "I must go back to the house and stand shoulder to shoulder with my mam. Together, we'll face down that detective."

  The sound of the voice made her jump. It seemed to come from far away, but when she glanced around, she realised it came from her throat. It was one thing to think words, another to say them out loud. She'd been doing a lot of that lately. Jabbering away like a child with a secret friend. Was it the pills? Was it a good idea to go back home?

  Her mind flipped to the detective. Yes, she, Shirley Bickham, could exude just as much confidence once she had a drink to steady her nerves. She'd go back to the house and stand side by side with her mam.

  She set out flushed of dread and full of fury. She'd give that detective what for, beat her at her own game. What family lets an outsider into its private affairs?

  The slip-slop of her footsteps echoed in the silent street. Anger surged through her veins. She picked up the pace. This wasn't nuts she told herself over and over. What she did, had done, would do, made sense to her and that meant she wasn’t crazy.

  "You are a careful planner with a fine eye for detail," the psychiatrist had said.

  She recalled the grey medical eyeballs watching her, assessing her condition, writing in a notebook, nodding as they explained. They must have prescribed half a dozen pills.

  Mam pestered and pushed until Shirley promised to take them. Still thinks she swills them down daily with a mug of tea. Shirley knew better. Who wants to be a walking zombie? But part of her was scared of what happens when she does not take them. The blackouts. The wild rage. The violence.

  And she hadn't taken them for over a week. Not since she asked her dad why Ginger always spends her weekends with him in his single room bedsit. There is only one creaky old bed. Where does she sleep? Dad's Adam's apple bobbed. He flashed his sly smile. But he didn’t say a word.

  Slip-slop. Slip-Slop.

  She tried to walk with less sound, but her legs were heavy. She slowed, thinking about her late-night visit to Mrs Fassnidge's boarding house. What a bloody mess! It was not as quick or as clean as she would have liked, but the dark and the fog helped. A careful planner.

  A nasty twinge pulsated in Shirley's neck. A thought slammed her brain. She stopped. What did she do with the black clothes she wore on the night she went back to her dad's flat? The plan was to burn them to ashes. For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.

  Shirley clutched her head with both hands. The clothes were still in her bedroom, and the detective was in the house.

  "Oh God, what have I done to deserve this?" She was shouting now, screaming at the top of her voice. "I'm a great mam. A caring person who is trying to do her best."

  She needed a drink, couldn’t very well knock back shots of gin with the police in the house. And there was her mam's beady eye and sharp nose. No, she had to push on to wherever it was she was going. She must keep her head down, get on with the rest of her life and hope her dark secret never came out. Mam knew what to say.

  Shirley wandered back to the empty bus stop, mind whirling. Black wisps of cloud danced in demented swirls. She sat on the metal bench and considered her next steps. There were two parts to her problem. First: where to get a strong drink? Easily solved—take the bus to the beach, find a pub then burn off the toxic effects with a stroll on the sand. Second: she had to purge herself of the guilt and shame. The Irish priest in the black cassock with lemon breath had said, "Talk it out to lift the burden. A problem shared is a problem halved."

  And it worked. Shirley's pent-up rage withered when she shared. The urge for violence faded when she prayed. Not that it did much to quell her desire for revenge. Vengeance always burned wild and hot in her breast, even when she took the pills and told everyone they helped.

  A quick glance both ways. No sign of the bus. Not a soul in the street. She ripped out her mobile phone from her handbag, telling herself what she was about to do wasn’t a sign of madness. She hesitated, preparing herself. Then she dialled.

  "Hello?" The deep voice sounded groggy like the call jerked him from deep sleep.

  "It's me Shirl."

  "Shirl!"

  "I'm sorry Dad, I had to call. I hope you understand. See, I'm not nuts. God wanted it this way. His plan, not mine. Mam will help us and your medals are safe." Shirley was speaking faster now, spitting out words like sparks of fire. "Pray for me, Dad. Yes, we'll give the body a good send off. Weeping and moaning and gnashing of teeth. And I promise to plant geraniums on the grave. Wine red, with lots of mulch so they grow with thick green leaves. Make you proud."

  She hung up, shuddering with raw excitement, lungs oozing out heavy breaths. She pictured her dad's sly smile, his strong arms around her … around Ginger. Life and death and babies growing in their bellies. She laughed. Dad dead? That's crazy talk. He wasn’t dead, just hiding in a place where the police couldn’t find him. She'd go there too if they came after her. She didn’t know who the bloke was she found in her dad's allotment on her birthday. She didn’t know why the poor sod's face had been battered to mush.

  Shirley picked at a scab on her arm. She must remember to take her pills. But not yet. Not until after the funeral and they had buried the body, and the police had gone away. How long would that be? Weeks? Months. She longed for things to go back to the way they were. She longed to be normal. The wind picked up, snatching leaves from the trees and tossing them along the street. It hissed with a haunting howl.

  Oh crap, she forgot to mention she'd found out about Ginger's baby. She swallowed. Call him back? Her finger twitched toward redial. Before it touched the screen, the nurse with the flabby arms popped into her mind with a baby cradled against her breast. Tell them nothing the nurse said, eyes glowing like hot coals.

  "Purge me," Shirley whispered. "Purge my nasty, lurid soul."

  She squeezed her eyes shut, but she stifled the instinct to bow her head like when she was in church. She was not in church. She was not kneeling in a pew. She was at a bus stop with her eyes closed and God knows who else watching.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28