Approaching Zero (25 page)

When Suri had been asleep for about ten minutes, Kathy went downstairs to double lock the front door and double check the back. When she was happy that they were safe, she walked up the stairs again, checked on Suri one last time before pouring herself a glass of wine, undressing and slipping into her own bed. She took a long sip and then placed the glass on the bedside table, knowing that she wouldn’t return to it. Suri’s story was draining enough for her to feel exhausted, so she flicked the lamp switch and now the whole house was in darkness. She snuggled down under her duvet and let out a long, tired sigh. There was so much in her mind to think about that it all seemed to be crashing against itself, each thought canceling out the next so that she felt a calm peacefulness that she had no business feeling in the face of Suri’s distress and the daisy skull, Marcus’s true nature and the list, Heston Wellsey and the psychic killer. Consequently, she closed her eyes and was asleep within minutes.

She didn’t often dream, but on this night she was transported to a hot, hot place, where the air was thick and heavy with the smell of fish. At first she had no idea where she was but then she knew that she was in Suri’s homeland. The river in front of her was animated with a skipping sun and beckoning her in. She moved to the edge and dipped just her toe in to the water. When she pulled it out it was coated in silver, as if the whole river were mercury. But it was cool, so very cool, and she was naked and burning, so she stepped in and kept walking until the liquid silver had reached her waist. The cool of the water brought relief to her lungs and she had never breathed such clear air, but then the fish began to float past her, one or two at first, and then she couldn’t move for fish, which were so vivid in death against the silver liquid with their bloodied guts and empty eyes. And again she couldn’t breathe, only this time her in-breath had locked and her lungs solidified. There was no more air to breathe and her hands began clawing at her neck and throat to alleviate whatever was restricting her. Then her eyes were open, jolted back to reality by the distress, and she was in her bedroom once again, but the nightmare had only just begun. The powerful hands of a masked assailant were squeezing the life out of her and as hard as she tried, she couldn’t move his hands from her throat. He was straddling her, crushing her ribs with his weight and stifling her breathing with his heavy, hairy hands around her throat. She tried her hardest to suck at the air, but her lungs had become rocks and the air was lined with barbed wire. She could feel the pressure in her face of the blood rushing to the surface and her vision had become blurred and heavy, her eyes struggling to transmit messages to her oxygen-starved brain. She tried to move her body, but he was too heavy. The blows that she managed to land on his body had no impact on him whatsoever but took everything out of her. Finally, now convinced that death was just a step away, Kathy reached over to the bedside table, grabbed the bottle of wine by the neck and swung wildly at the man’s head. The first hit caused a heavy thunk and his grip was loosened but only slightly; the second hit smashed the bottle and glass rained down onto Kathy. The man now released her and fell backwards. Air rushed into Kathy’s lungs like water through a shattered dam; the third and fourth hits cut deep into the man’s masked face until he was still. The fifth lodged itself in his flesh and Kathy finally let go of what was left of the bottle and fell on the floor behind him, sucking the air in and out of her lungs painfully and noisily, lying on the floor as if she were attached to it. When her breaths had evened out a little and the room had stopped spinning, she lifted herself up onto her elbows and then managed to sit up, feeling her bruised neck for damage. When she was satisfied, and amazed, that there wasn’t any serious damage, she crawled up onto her feet and stood over the man. She stayed there for a few minutes, breathing heavily, exercising the freedom that she now had to do so again. She looked at her hands to see if they were shaking and saw that they were covered in blood. She looked down at the man again and the bottleneck sticking out of his face. All she could feel was relief. If it hadn’t been him, it would have been her. It was self defence. Not only this, but she wasn’t his first victim; she had avenged he deaths of two other psychics. This man deserved all he got. Kathy looked down at her hands again; they
were
shaking and as much as she told herself that everything was okay, she couldn’t make them stop. She glugged at the glass of wine, poured earlier, and then raced to the bathroom to wash her hands. The sink filled with red as soon as she turned on the tap, and she scrubbed and scrubbed until all traces of this death were off her. On her way back to the room, she checked on Suri and saw that, thankfully, she had slept through it. This was the last thing she needed. In her room, nothing had changed and now she reached down to the man’s wrist and felt for a pulse. There was no sign of life, but the feel of his flesh, still warm and covered in hair—he was a real person—made her body heave and suddenly she was back in the bathroom again, puking into the toilet, unable to stop the tears that came with it. She sat on the cold bathroom floor for some time after that, not quite knowing what to do and then she knew that she had to call the police.

***

Ten minutes later, Kathy was sitting in the living room with a female police officer as other employees of the law moved around her house, some in uniforms, some in white, plastic suits. She was dressed, although she didn’t remember doing it, and someone had made her a cup of tea, which she was gripping tightly without being able to bring herself to take a sip. The police officer was saying soothing words to her that didn’t seem to be making contact with her brain, and Kathy sat wondering if the attack had left her brain damaged. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion, voices were louder and lower, but made little sense and she could hear the beating of her own heart above it all.

“Suri!” she suddenly said. “Please don’t wake Suri. She’s not well.”

“It’s okay, Miss Smith. Suri’s fine. She’s still asleep and we’re not going to disturb her.”

Kathy worked out from this response that she had obviously told the police about Suri already, but she didn’t remember it.

“It’s shock,” the PC said warmly, and Kathy saw a hand appear on her knee that made her jump rather than soothing her. “Drink the tea. It will help.”

Kathy tried a sip, but almost gagged on it. “How long will I be here?” she asked.

“We need to get the body out and get some evidence from you, Kathy, and then a more senior office will decide what needs to happen next. I know it’s late and we won’t keep you up longer than we have to.”

“And he’s dead?”

“Yes, he’s dead.”

The police officer took her hand back and then both women were silent for a few minutes. The silence was eventually broken by the arrival of a familiar face.

“I’ll take over from here, Jones,” Spinoza said, taking heavy strides across the room to arrive at Kathy’s side.

“Very good, sir,” the young officer replied and after yet another warm smile in Kathy’s direction, she stood to take her leave.

When they were alone, Spinoza said, “Kathy, what the fuck?”

Kathy had dropped her head into her hands but looked up sharply when she heard this. She didn’t have the first idea how to answer, though, so she didn’t try.

“Didn’t we speak about this just today, just earlier today?” he couldn’t keep the frustration out of his voice and Kathy still didn’t know how to answer this. Shouldn’t he have been comforting her after her ordeal or praising her for looking after herself and not being the one who ended up dead on the bedroom floor? Shouldn’t he be thanking her for doing his goddam job and nailing this murdering bastard?

“What do you mean? This isn’t… He broke into my house.” Kathy told him, her voice high and uneven. “Don’t you know who that is? That’s your murderer guy.” The fire in her belly was restoring her and every word she fired at Spinoza seemed to bring her closer to her senses.

“
That
was Malcolm Scott. You remember him, don’t you? The man you knocked down on your bike. A murderer? My bet is that he was coming to thank you for ending his life.”

“Ending his life?”

“He was a farmer and after you permanently damaged his leg he wasn’t able to manage his farm. He was going to have to give it up.”

“Well, boo hoo! Fucking paedo! Coming to thank me? He was trying to kill me. Seriously, Spinoza, it was me or him.”

“Stabbing him in the face, Kathy? Not just once—the man’s unrecognisable. What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that I would be dead in seconds if I didn’t get his hands off my throat. Look.” She threw her head back to show him the bright red bruising on her neck. “I feel like I’m talking French.”

“I’m going to have to take you in, Kathy. I’ve got no choice.”

“What the–?”

“On your feet.”

“But–!”

“On your feet!”

Kathy stood up slowly, too shocked to do otherwise and Spinoza turned her around, gripping her hands behind her back.

“Katherine Smith, I’m arresting you on suspicion of manslaughter. You don’t have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something you later rely on in court.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me, Spinoza. It was him or me! It was him or me!”

“Anything you do say may be taken down and given in evidence.”

“You can’t do this. It was him or me.” But judging by the handcuffs that were slapped on her wrists, he clearly could do this and was.

***

If there had been a rainier night, Kathy had not experienced it and simply being led from the house to the back of Spinoza’s car drenched her through, her hair clinging to her forehead, her mascara running down her face and her soul dampened. She was desperate to wipe her face, but the handcuffs prevented it. And it had been such a clear night earlier, too hot, she now realised: hot and heavy—a storm had been hanging in the air and now the skies had opened and unleashed thick arrows of rain. The assault continued inside the car with the cacophony of rain splatters, thrashing wind and the terrifying roars of thunder. It was a night to be inside, in the warm, in one’s own bed, safe and secure; it was a night to be observed from the safety of a lover’s arms; it was not a night to be sitting in the thick of it in the back of a police car. And it was only getting worse.

As they slowly progressed through the night, Kathy stared into the window beside her and could see only splashes. Ahead of her, the windscreen wipers were doing their best, but would ultimately succumb to nature’s brute force. She watched Spinoza straining to see past it all to get some sense of the road beyond, but he too would be defeated and just minutes after they had started the journey, he pulled up at the side of the road. As he did so, a terrifying crack ripped through the sky and they both jumped as if the thunder was in the car with them. A wave of rain swept over the car and Spinoza sighed deeply, knowing that he had made the right decision to stop, but clearly frustrated with the hold up. Kathy stared out of the window beside her again, a blur of streetlamps, magnified in the rain, dazzling her, and before she could control herself, tears were rolling down her cheeks again. She tried to sniff them away, but Spinoza had already noticed. However, he didn’t move to comfort her or offer her words of reassurance. Perhaps there were no words.

“You’re right,” she sobbed. “I am a monster. My own mother’s afraid of me, for Christ sake. Can you imagine how that feels?”

Spinoza turned to look at her, but didn’t answer. His hair was wet and loose, but Kathy couldn’t bring herself to note how attractive he looked.

“And do you know why, Spinoza? Because I hit her. That’s how I ended up living at my nan’s when I was fifteen. Can you imagine it? I hit my own mother—and hard. I broke her cheekbone. And all because I couldn’t cope with her caring for me.”

Spinoza strained to understand, to find some way of offering compassion; it showed on his face and it was also clear that he was struggling.

“But I didn’t know that was Malcolm Scott in my house, Spinoza, you have to believe me. I thought it was this psychic murderer guy you told me about. There’s no way I could have known. But it wouldn’t have changed things anyway. He was trying to kill me, and I had to act.”

“You had to bottle the guy in the face over and over again?”

“I just lost it! I always…”

“What?”

“You’re right. I do deserve to be here. I always lose it and I need some help. I’m scared, Spinoza. I don’t want to be like this.” And now the tears were uncontrollable as she cried for herself and somewhere deep down for Malcolm Scott, for Suri, for her mother and for the way she had treated Spinoza. It all came out in a crescendo of emotion that rivaled the weather outside and caused Spinoza’s face to soften. Kathy felt his hand on her knee, soothing her and she looked up.

“It’s going to be okay, Kathy. We’ll get you some help, okay. I know you won’t be charged, I just wanted you to know…”

Kathy sniffed back her tears. “To know what?”

“To know how this feels, Kathy. That there are consequences and…”

“And what?” The tears were becoming a distant memory.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“And what? You did this as, what, a joke?”

“Of course not, I…”

“To teach me a lesson? Don’t you think I’ve been through enough?”

“Look, you’re obviously not going to be charged and, well, it kind of works to my advantage having you at the station, Kathy.”

Kathy looked at him, unblinking. His face was now softer; he was closer to the man she had seen that night at her house. He was almost smiling.

“Are you for real? You get me here, bearing my soul to you… My God, I can’t believe I told you about my mother. Why are you doing this to me?”

“Tell me that you don’t feel better for telling me that. I just wish you’d tell me what was behind it all—what’s making you so angry, Kathy?”

“Fuck you!”