Hope's Vengeance (31 page)

In the kitchen he strode purposefully to the larder, but didn’t feel able to open the door just yet, he needed something to calm his nerves first. The brandy bottle and dirty glass from the previous night remained on the worktop, he tipped a large measure in, sipping it, enjoying the searing sensation of the spirit as it flushed him from within. Pacing a tight circle in front of the door, Griffin steeled himself, taking a deep breath in before reaching for the handle.

The dense odour knocked him as soon as he opened the pantry. Not decay, he was sure, it was too early for that. A heady, gassy smell, grotesque and cloying, almost palpable. The smell of death. He wanted to run, to run from the house, from the town, from the country, from the world. But instead he grabbed the floppy arms that had fallen, splayed across the tiles, a mottle of purple and white, he gripped her wrists firmly before tugging with all his strength. The carcass was so heavy, he half expected the chubby joints to snap, leaving him carrying just the two hands, but they remained firm, and five minutes later he had managed to drag her behind the boot. Somehow he needed to lift her in, and so far he hadn’t come up with a plan, it was a quandary.

Griffin shivered, returning to the kitchen. The freezing air in the garage alongside the chilling task brought goose-bumps to his body, and he threw two sturdy logs into the grate. Pouring another hefty brandy, he was aware that he still had to drive, but, uncharacteristically, he was unconcerned. The usual whiteness of his face was flushed: the alcohol, the roaring fire, and the hard labour all contributing to the redness. From nowhere a solution to the sordid problem presented itself: he would tie rope around her body, feed it through the rafters, and hoist her up.

It took over an hour of sweaty exertion for Griffin to winch the body high enough to swing her into place, he pushed the massive form across, using the last of his strength, and gratefully released the thick rope. The body slumped into the space, head resting unnaturally at a right angle to her ample chest, creating a new set of chins, and bulbous legs spilling over onto the green paintwork. Amazed at the limpness, contrasting with the weight of the limbs, he folded them over her body, feeling the joints creak as they bent further than they had since her skinny, active childhood.

Eyeing the monstrous discoloured corpse a sneer of distaste settled across Griffin’s lips, wickedly musing how she as ungraceful in death as she had been in life. With a final glare of contempt, he slammed the lid down, a heartfelt sigh heralding the end of the hideous task.

After a final warming brandy, his head now fairly woozy, Griffin cursed as the wooden doors of the garage squeaked when he dragged them open. He stepped into the freezing mist, ears alert, eyes searching, ensuring nobody was nearby to witness his sordid comings and goings at the unsocial hour. Satisfied he was unwatched, he climbed into the car, closing the door as quietly as possible, and turned the key in the ignition, grateful for the new exhaust he’d bemoaned two weeks before, the engine purring quietly.

Griffin began the short drive, wary of any other car, of any pedestrian, of any sound, light, or unexpected shadow, but the journey was unhindered. He reversed as close to the riverbank as the reeds would allow, and killed the engine, breathing the damp air in deeply to steel himself for the heavy task he now had to do without the help of any tools. This time it was just him and his unfound strength.

Stepping from the car Griffin took a furtive glance around the black field, listening for any sounds from the surrounding bushes. Content that he was totally alone, he opened the lid, the same gruesome stench from before swamping him, making him recoil. Even steps away from the car, the thick odour grasped at his skin, settling on his tongue, filling his pores, and he wanted to scrub it away, spit it out, scrape it off. He backed further away, turning his back on Dorothy’s body for a moment, eager to breathe freshness, grass, water, determined to remain detached from the reality of the situation.

Bracing himself, Griffin unfolded the legs first, the creaking now raising a sadistic smile, draping them back over the edge to flop down while he debated how to move the rest of the body. Taking her wrists he tried to lift, but he’d barely been able to drag her before, let along lift the eighteen inches needed to clear the boot. The most his meagre strength could move was her left shoulder, and he dropped it back, frustrated. He tried a further three times, aborting each attempt with growing anger, before throwing an infuriated punch into Dorothy’s bloated, bruised face. He kicked the tyre, disheartened.

A dog barking brought Griffin to attention, his ears strained to hear where the sound had come from. There were no houses nearby, and he realised with both despondency and urgency that the sound meant there was a dog walker nearby. Panic began to swell his dilemma: did he find the strength from desperation to be rid of the body, or did he fold her back up and get the hell out of there. In an instant he chose the former, firmly gripping the waxy skin, determined to shift her this time, be rid of her forever. The huge form inched up as he forced every ounce of energy into the effort, emitting an uncontrollable, guttural moan with the strain. His hold loosening, he grasped her nightdress, using it as a handle as the body inched slowly towards to the top of the boot, and with a final breathtaking heave she was over the edge, the body falling ungracefully into the reeds, icy water lapping at her grey pin curls.

Relieved and exhausted, Griffin shoved Dorothy with his brogue, watching as the pointed leaves slowly entangled her body, claiming her for their own. The dog barking again, nearer this time, threw him back to reality. After a swift look around, he took a final glance at the disappearing corpse, and hopped back into the car, driving away as fast as the overgrown, frosted grass would allow.

His mind whirred, a cacophony of sadness for the loss of his wife, euphoria that he’d soon be in Eva’s arms, inside her, distaste in the chore he’d just completed, and extreme tiredness from the nocturnal events. He’d need a good few hours sleep before setting off for Cambridge, and a hot soak in the bath to remove the stench of death that filled his pores.

On the riverbank Richard Shearsmith crouched beside Bernie, his aging red-setter, barely noticing the copious dribble that dripped onto him from her soft jaw, and watched as the red lights of the Vectra disappeared from the field. He’d wait a few minutes before moving, just in case the car returned, before going to investigate the area the car had been parked in. In the meantime he’d flick through the photos he’d taken of the event on his mobile phone, after all, it was probably just a fly-tipper, but the dumped load looked remarkably like a human, although he was sure it was probably his unreliable eyesight playing tricks on him.

By the time the sun decided to show a wintry appearance, Dorothy’s body had been photographed in-situ, hauled from the weeds, and finally whisked to the mortuary. Richard’s phone was taken to be analysed, hopefully leading to the identity of the person who’d disposed of the body so ungracefully.

Rick’s Delusions

He had never wanted children, whatever yearning for babies and procreation other people felt had evaded him. But, then again, he’d never wanted marriage either, and as he studied Hope’s face, the prettiness, the stunning figure, his heart leapt, the intense love an experience he’d never had before. He dropped his toast on the plate and followed her to the car, admiring her orderliness as she dropped a couple of bags into the boot. He reached her just as she turned, taking her in his strong arms, kissing her forehead tenderly. She glanced up, smiling, and warmth flooded through the core of his body. For the first time Rick wanted a woman to bear his child: Hope.

An impractical man, he watched lovingly as she efficiently gathered the children together, somehow squeezing an inordinate number of suitcases and bags into the car, whilst ensuring every opening to the house was locked and secure. Twenty minutes of orderly organisation later, Hope slipped into the plush driving seat, checked the kids were behaving in the rear view mirror, and started the engine.

The journey to Tunstall was uneventful, the traffic neither good nor bad, and Hope passed the journey wondering how Charity would respond to her after her insulting outburst the day before. She could feel Rick gazing at her several times, but, unwilling to look at his face more than absolutely necessary, she kept her eyes straight ahead, concentrating on the road, on the traffic. As much as she detested him now, she needed him to help her with her plans, and the fact he was transfixed by her ensured he was putty in her hands.

Charity remained in her bedroom for the duration of Hope’s short visit, the bi-weekly cleaner informing the visitors that she had taken to bed suffering from severe morning sickness. Hope knew she was being avoided, but she had more important things on her mind than petty sulks and sibling trauma. She gave the haggard cleaner a brief summary of how to handle her children, and hastened back to the car, eager to get the tortuous journey started.

Bringing the car to life once more, Hope reversed out of the drive, leaving Charity and Keith’s luxury house behind. She was aware of Rick adoring her again, and her instinct was to turn and slap him, he made her skin crawl. She restrained herself, counting the cat’s eyes in the centre of the road to distract her thoughts.

“Hope, I want to ask you something.”

Her head screamed obscenities at the smooth, charming tones of the man she had once loved, she wanted to spit at him, smear it, wipe the smile from his smug face. “Go on.” She kept her tone light.

She could feel him grinning at her, and had to keep reminding herself that she needed him tonight, but after that she wouldn’t ever have to see him again. “Let’s have a baby, me and you, babe.”

Without checking the mirrors, Hope swerved to a stop on the roadside, pulling the handbrake and moving the gear lever to neutral. Her eyes stayed firmly on the road, hands gripping the steering wheel, and she remained silent, no expression, and no body language for Rick to read. Inside she felt sick, tremendously sick, that the man who had fucked her first born now wanted to have a baby with her. Rick shuffled on his seat, Hope’s speechlessness filling him with trepidation, terrified that he’d scared the big love of his life away, and his knuckles slowly whitened as the silence progressed. “Babe, it was just a suggestion, right. I mean, we don’t have to…”

His sentence halted as, in a swift movement, Hope jumped from the car, doubled over and began to retch over the ditch beside them. Her body heaved, expelling every scrap of her stomach contents, squeezing her, turning her inside out. Tears of strain tumbled down her face, and her clenching stomach muscles were swamped with pain. And now she had a dilemma. If she told Rick the reason her reaction had been so extreme she doubted he’d go ahead with her plans, but if she didn’t, then how could she explain the vomiting. She reached into the car for her handbag, pulling out a tissue and blotting at her eyes, her nose, mouth, buying time.

Rick was still in his seat, a face full of concern, and he stroked her hand as she climbed back into the car. “Babe?”

She had it. She had the answer. It was a lie, but she’d be rid of him by tomorrow, so he’d never know anyway, and it would guarantee his collaboration later. She turned to face him, eyes down and bashful, a shy smile, and he grabbed her hand tightly. “I was going to tell you tonight, but I might as well do it now, seeing as you’ve just witnessed the morning sickness.”

Hope let the sentence hang, if he picked up on the words, she won’t have lied at all. It took a short while, but after repeating the words in his head, an overjoyed smile spread across his face. “You mean…?” She nodded, and suddenly his arms were crawling over her body, hugging her tight, wet, slimy lips kissing every inch of her face. She remembered her three attempts at prostitution, the way she’d managed to deaden her emotions, and immediately forced herself to the middle distance, ceasing every sensation from his touch. It was necessary, she needed his help

Eventually the smothering stopped, and Hope hastily re-started the journey: at least when she was driving he couldn’t physically assault her any more.

Griffin’s Relief

Even though he’d managed a full seven hours sleep, the enormity of the past few days had drained him, and he was still exhausted when he awoke mid afternoon to the sound of knocking on the front door. Yawning, he plodded down the stairs to see who was calling, and was stunned to see two constables. The woman spoke. “Mr Griffin Hall?”

Griffin could feel his heart racing in his chest, so loud he imagined his visitors must be able to hear it, and he felt faint. How did they find Dorothy so quickly? And how did they know he was her killer? He nodded lamely, eyes wide and scared, and it occurred to him that if he let them take him away, he may never meet Eva Brunel.

“Can we come I please, we have some bad news, I’m afraid.”

Griffin, now fully awake, stepped back, opening the door for the constables to enter. They stepped in and followed his lead into the kitchen, seating themselves opposite his chosen chair. “Mr Hall, I’m afraid we have some bad news about your wife, Dorothy.” The mention of her name felt so personal, and it dawned on him that the room, usually full of bustling life and sumptuous aromas, felt empty, smelt empty, without Dorothy’s homely presence. Briefly he missed her, until Eva and her passion, her mystery, returned to his thoughts. As his erection stirred underneath the hefty table, he wondered if Eva was a competent cook. “Mr Hall?”

Griffin snapped to attention, remembering the present company. “I’m sorry, I was just thinking about my wife.”

The two constables snatched a confused look at each other, they didn’t usually get a reaction like this when handing out bad news, his behaviour was odd. “Mr Hall, I’m afraid your wife’s body has been found, I’m sorry to have to tell you that she was pronounced dead at the scene.” Griffin’s expression remained static, the blankness in his eyes not wavering, and once again the constables exchanged quizzical looks. “Mr Hall? Are you okay? Did you hear what I just told you?”