DEATHLOOP (17 page)

“Well I don’t think so.”

“Well I do.”

A silence fell while they both considered their positions.

“Okay, so you stay here, I shouldn’t be long, an hour or so at the most.”

This annoyed Zack too. He didn’t want to stay in this poky little room that didn’t even have a television, what the hell could he do here? He could find a pub, but he knew exactly what that would entail, sitting surrounded by a bunch of geriatrics as they swapped dull tales of their dull lives and sipped the one pint of keg beer they treated themselves to at the end of another dull bloody day.

“Where is this place?” Zack snapped, grabbing the leaflet.

“Well I don’t know precisely but it can’t be far.”

“I’ll catch you up.”

“Okay, fine,” said Veronica on her way out.

He heard her footsteps as she ran downstairs and the sound of the glass door in reception rattling closed behind her.

Zack let out an irritated sigh and leant back on the bed in a strop. Ordinarily, he would have gone along with Veronica, but after the last few days he genuinely believed that another dose of weirdness would just about finish him off. However, he did feel guilty allowing her to track the place down on her own, he should at least have dropped her off there if nothing else. So now he was torn between remaining in their bloody awful room to sulk, or joining a bunch of delusional no-hopers in their quest for confirmation of eternal life. A rock and a hard place thought Zack, grimly.

Veronica found the little church easily enough. As she approached its dull squat exterior, (long ago a Baptist chapel), she noticed a dim light shining from inside and a few people scuttling towards its double wooden doors, keen to escape the rain. Veronica followed them, climbed a few stone steps and found herself in a spacious vestry, further doors leading inside to the chapel itself.

A makeshift poster was pinned on an easel and words were scrawled across it, which read: ‘RUSSELL GARRITY renowned spiritualist will lead our service on Sunday at 8.30 pm, everyone is welcome!’ Then as though an afterthought, in brackets the same hand had written ‘A collection will be made after the service for church upkeep.’

When Veronica pushed open the heavy doors leading from the vestry and entered the Spartan, broken down chapel, twelve pairs of eyes swung towards her. There were no pews. The congregation was sitting in a circle, on very old wooden school chairs, but there was one free, the thirteenth, and Veronica walked towards it.

“Okay if I sit here?” she said.

“It’s yours,” said Russell Garrity, with his back to her, “we were expecting you.”

The congregation swapped smug glances at this, content in the knowledge that with Russell they were in very good hands. A tubby, bespectacled middle aged woman, Barbara Quinn, wearing a hand knitted blue cardigan, a tartan kilt, and matching beret, smiled across at Veronica as though to welcome her to the group. A lanky woman with a bright red nose snuffled into a handkerchief which had the name ‘Violet’ embroidered close to its white lace border. A vacant young man with a moon face wearing a crinkly anorak hummed to himself and tapped his foot, impatient now for the show to begin. Finally, Russell turned to find the voice but when he saw Veronica, his face darkened.

Russell was 55 years old, with darting black eyes, long dark wavy hair that framed a big face, punctuated by swollen features. His clothes were ages old, threadbare and patched. Russell could not have cared less about clothes which was just as well as he had remained unemployed for eight years after being made redundant from the quarry up on Brigstock Moor. He had worked at the quarry for twenty years prior to that, and losing his job affected Russell very deeply. He had always thought he was a vital component of the place, but for some reason the owners took against him, preferring to employ kids, (louts Russell called them), from the neighbouring town.

Russell had never left home, but remained living with his mother, Elsie, 75 now and still, mercifully, in decent health. He had always been interested in psychic matters, and having so much more time on his hands since his redundancy had become completely immersed in spiritualism and the hereafter, revelling in the small time fame his dubious status afforded him, offering his services to radio talk shows, local community groups, and anyone else who would have him. Russell often said that he would not take his job back at the quarry now even if the owners went down on bended knee and implored him, after all, these days Russell had much bigger fish to fry.

Russell found himself gazing appreciatively at this beautiful woman, wondering if she knew. But he sensed that she did not know. Whatever was about to happen to her was a secret still and he was relieved at that, that was some consolation at least.

“Good,” said Russell, prowling round amongst them, very much in charge, “and so we shall begin. Hold hands, close your eyes and listen.”

And listen they did as the double doors creaked open and swung closed. This certainly wasn’t the sound Russell was expecting, he cocked his ear and frowned. When Russell’s eyes opened for a long moment he just stared, then gasped, then bursting with indignation he started to yell.

“Get out!” shrieked Russell, pointing at Zack with an accusing finger, causing him to stop dead in his tracks. “Did you hear me? Get out of here I said!”

The congregation looked horrified at Russell’s outburst then wildly curious as to what was behind it. Russell barged over to Zack, pushing him backwards.

“Get out for the last time! You’re not welcome here!”

“I’m going, okay… I’m going,” said Zack, completely mystified and not a little scared by the confrontation.

Russell lunged for Zack and grabbed him at the throat, dragging him out of the chapel and through the vestry to the front doors and onto the step. Veronica was there now, forcing her way between them, trying to intervene.

“Get off him, are you mad! Leave him I said! What’s wrong with you?”

Veronica managed to tug Zack free, but in the scuffle he lost his footing and sprawled down the steps onto the path. In one leap Veronica was there too, grabbing his arm, pulling him up to his feet and leading him out of the church grounds. At the top of the steps Russell stood like a sentinel. Only when they disappeared round the corner did Russell go back inside.

Sam and Clarissa sat beside each other on the Chesterfield, looking up at Susan who stood in front of them, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

“Please Susan… sit down,” said Clarissa.

Susan was not sure about sitting down, it made all of this a little too cosy for her liking, but finally she did, perching on the edge of Clarissa’s balloon backed chair. Susan was sporting a black eye, she also had cuts and scratches across one cheek and in their own way both Sam and Clarissa were unsettled by this.

Sam was furious with Clarissa for buzzing her up but he knew why she had done it. He knew that Clarissa felt rather sorry for Susan, and he also knew that on several occasions Clarissa had tried to warn her about Zack, but of course Susan didn’t listen, stumbling blindly on until disaster struck. Clarissa even made excuses for her following the incident at Bellini’s, which Sam thought ridiculous, in fact they had argued about it, Clarissa refusing to blame Susan for her actions, and Sam accusing her of condoning them.

“How are you?” asked Clarissa, awkwardly.

“How do you think I am?” said Susan.

“I’m not sure you should be here, actually,” said Sam not prepared to go through pleasantries with this nutcase.

“Yes, well, I might have known you’d say that.”

“How can we help?” asked Clarissa.

“By telling Zack to own up,” said Susan, as though it was obvious.

“Susan, listen to me,” said Sam, “I don’t know what happened between you two, but I do know it wasn’t rape.”

“Oh do you?”

“Yes, I do, so if you’ve come here to try to persuade us otherwise, you’re wasting your time.”

Susan smiled. It was a perky smile, as though she had all sorts of secrets hidden away that would blow Sam’s view of Zack right out of the water. “Well, a sure man is a dead man so they say.” Susan had heard that expression somewhere and it seemed very appropriate in the circumstances.

“Sam’s right you know,” said Clarissa, gently, “you shouldn’t be here, after all, we might be called as witnesses.”

“But you weren’t there.”

“Character witnesses…”

Susan let out a hoot of nasty laughter. “What character? He hasn’t got any.”

“This is revenge, pure and simple,” said Sam, on his feet now, right in front of her.

“No it is not.”

“Yes it is, and it won’t be long before the police work that out for themselves so I wouldn’t get too excited by your day in court if I were you.”

“We’ve got evidence,” said Susan, rather childishly.

“Entirely fabricated I imagine.”

“And what about this?” said Susan, pointing to her face “is this entirely fabricated?” This caused a hiatus and Susan knew it would. It was Clarissa who came back first.

“Look Susan, Zack is an absolute pig with women, I did tell you, but why waste your time on all this, you’d be much better off letting the whole thing drop.”

“Better for who?” said Susan.

“Better for whom…” said Sam.

“Better for both of you,” said Clarissa.

“I don’t want anything to be better for him, do I? I want it to be worse.”

“Okay right, that’s enough,” said Sam “this conversation is over with we’re all going round in circles here.”

“Clarissa offered me coffee a little while ago.”

“Well that offer has just been rescinded,” said Sam, over at the door now and holding it open, “time to leave.”

“How does it feel, Clarissa, having a rapist for your very best friend?”

“Right that’s it, come on, out.”

Sam grabbed Susan by the arm and yanked her up. He frogmarched her swiftly out of the living room and along the hall, but Susan pulled herself free at the front door and swiped at a pile of books on a shelf, causing them to scatter. It was a petulant gesture but she seemed to get satisfaction from it. Sam grabbed her again, pushed her out of the flat and slammed the door behind her.

“That bloody woman!” he said as he stormed back into the living room to confront Clarissa, “and don’t you start on all this ‘yes but…’ business, because she isn’t worth it, she’s round the twist.”

“But what about her face, Sam?”

“What about it?”

“A little bit worrying, don’t you think?”

Sam was waiting for this. Secretly Sam agreed that it didn’t look good, but he was still absolutely sure that Zack was not responsible for any of Susan’s injuries.

Zack had only mentioned his mother briefly on the night of his confession in Cambridge, but a few weeks later Zack told Sam that he had witnessed his mother getting beaten up on several occasions, once so badly that she ended up losing the sight in one eye. Zack said he hated his mother’s emotional weakness which made her accepting of the repetitive abuse, but that no one had the right to exploit her physical weakness, or anyone else’s for that matter. They were cowards, bastard cowards, and along with Richard he wished he could have drowned the whole fucking lot.

“Zack did not give her a black eye.”

“So what does that mean, she did it herself?”

“Obviously…”

“So how do you go about giving yourself a black eye?”

“Easy, you walk into a door.”

“And you really think she’s mad enough to do that?”

“Yes, I do.”

The conversation stopped for a short time.

“It’s just a game with Zack,” said Clarissa, quietly, “then when someone like Susan comes along and cries foul, he doesn’t like it. Everything has to be on his terms.”

Clarissa was right of course she was, but Sam would never admit it. “Hey, no one’s perfect,” he said instead.

“Some a lot less perfect than others.”

“Listen, he’s generous, he’s kind and he’s loyal…”

“And he saved your life at Cambridge.”

“And he saved my life at Cambridge on more than one occasion.”

“And he expects you to be grateful for how long exactly?”

“He doesn’t
expect
it, Clarissa, I just
am
grateful
okay
,” said Sam turning on her, “and I always
will
be grateful,
so stop using this crap with Susan as a stick to beat us with
.”

Clarissa was about to come back but she thought better of it. Sam didn’t lose his temper very often, but when he did it was better to batten down the hatches and wait for calmer seas.

“Anyway, I’m going out, I need some air.”

“Okay,” said Clarissa, “you do that.”

Sam barged off and a few moments later Clarissa heard the front door slam.

Intermittently over the years Sam had accused Clarissa of trying to find reasons for him to dump Zack. He knew she felt threatened by him, but to Sam that was just madness. Zack was his best friend and Clarissa was his wife. They orbited in entirely different galaxies. He loved both of them deeply and he found it really difficult when Clarissa spoke ill of Zack. Zack had never said a word against Clarissa, nor would he, so it riled Sam that Clarissa always seemed to want to do Zack down.

But Clarissa never thought of it as ‘trying to do Zack down’. She would have liked a little space between them, that’s all. She wasn’t trying to expel Zack from their kingdom, on the contrary, she loved him almost as much as Sam, but a leave of absence now and then would have been appreciated. Clarissa knew however that Sam thought it more sinister than that. Sam was so defensive when it came to Zack that he seemed to think even a vaguely negative comment about the great Zack Fortune was an attempt by Clarissa to wield the axe.

So although she didn’t know it yet, Susan’s ruse had worked. She had managed to drive a stake between Sam and Clarissa and there were divisions now, divisions which would pre-empt a fall.

In their small attic room, back at the guest house, Zack and Veronica lay together naked in each other’s arms. Despite its shortcomings, the room was a port in the storm, (literally), and they were grateful for it.