Live to Tell (31 page)

“Listen, tomorrow night. Will it be okay if I leave the van here all night? I’m having a bit of extracurricular, if you see what I mean.”

Yes, I did see exactly. But it didn’t matter to me. “That’s okay,” I said. “Oh, and thanks.” Then I closed my door and locked it.

Inside I paced around. How on earth could I track down the collector in such a densely populated area? Just wandering about on the off chance wasn’t working and if he was out and about, why had I not seen him until now, despite living here for over a year? Perhaps he’s been in prison? Only just been released? No, he was too healthy looking. Oh, damn.

I got my A to Z map book of London streets from my briefcase and started to mark off the ones that I had already roamed through. The Gladstone pub still seemed the best place to resume the search. Turning round, I almost fell over. The workmen had covered the downstairs carpet with plastic sheeting but a bit was sticking up. Damn, I thought again, I think I’ll go to bed before I break my neck. I’ve done enough for one evening. Thank goodness my new bed will be delivered next week. I can’t wait. At least that’s something to look forward to.

The next night was Friday and I was back on the beat. I pushed open the door to the Gladstone pub and looked around. I couldn’t see the evil creature I was seeking, just the same drab people as before plus a few others. Once again I ordered a gin and tonic and once again the young barman looked me up and down suspiciously. Once again I stood with my back to him searching the assembled faces.

This wouldn’t do! It was getting me no-where. I approached the table where the man with the Zimmer frame and two others sat drinking.

“Hello,” I said. “Can you help me? I’m looking for a man who used to come in this pub fifteen years ago. He has a pockmarked face and used to collect money for the IRA. Do you know him?”

Through the gloom, the three of them stared at me, open mouthed. A silence fell on the room. Then I felt a swift and heavy hand on my shoulder.

“Ere, that’s more than enough of that. My customers come here for a quiet drink, not to be questioned by the likes of you. On your way. And don’t come back.” A tall man gripped my arm behind me and forced me backwards across the room. I looked around and saw the barman smirking.

“Out,” the other man said and pushed me through the swing door onto the street.

Outside in the dark again I felt furious. Especially because other than hanging around, I knew there was nothing I could do. Perhaps if I go back in, make a fuss, they’ll call the police. Then I can explain. Oh, shit. What’s the point? That would never work.

Two days later I was returning from my weekly visit to see Mum and Dad. To get me away from the decorating chaos of my home, they invited me to stay over. I was grateful for the change of scene. I had not confessed to them what I was up to, as I knew if I did the whole week-end would be riven by pointless argument. They would worry and insist I was inviting danger down upon myself.

Driving back along the Edgware Road, I realised the hunt for the collector was becoming an obsession with me. But, I reasoned, how hard can it be to trace a person who obviously lives in the area? It had to be just a matter of time. But what if I couldn’t find him? Was the rest of my life to be spent endlessly wandering about?

I decided that to gain some peace of mind, I needed to keep up my watch but in a controlled more focused way so I parked again in the side street opposite the Gladstone pub. Night fell and I sat there waiting. Finally I got out to stretch my legs and stood leaning against the car. At that moment the young barman also sallied forth to have a smoke. We confronted each other on either side of the road.

After a couple of puffs, he discarded the cigarette and with an angry backward glance at me, went inside. This is getting nowhere, I thought and with a sigh got back into my car and drove away. I reached home and parked in front of Mrs Jeffery’s house surprised that Barry’s van still stood outside mine.

As I turned my key in the lock, a noise startled me. Before I could look round, a hand clapped over my mouth and a large weight fell against my body forcing me through the door. My bulky attacker and I fell onto the floor together. Rapidly he regained his feet and slammed the door shut with a bang. I felt a sharp pain in my shoulder as my elbow was kicked from under me. Then another pain erupted in my side a couple of inches above my waist.

In the dark I struggled to escape. The rooms were still shrouded with decorators’ paraphernalia. On my knees I managed to scrabble across a few feet of plastic sheeting. The man caught me and threw his body on top of mine.

“You think you’ve been stalking me don’t you, my pretty but I’ve been stalking you. You think you’re clever but you’re not as cute as I am. You little whore. You’d have to get up early to get the better of me, sweetheart.” He spat the words at me in that low rasping voice I knew so well.

Like a sledge-hammer his knee pressed into my back taking my breath away. I started to cough. In the gloom face down against the plastic sheet I could smell paint. Tins, some of them opened and re-sealed, lined the skirting board with a roller tray and a pallet knife. Was that all? I tried to remember.

His left hand grasped the back of my neck but his other harshly formed into a fist and forced its way between my legs. If only I wore trousers not a skirt.

“I know a man what wants to meet you, girlie. He saw you in that graveyard with your poofter friend; desecrating the consecrated site. Little whore. He’s got something for you. A nice little present, he’s got. But only after I’ve had my fun first.”

He clawed at my underclothes. I felt sick. How could I have been so stupid to think this vile man would allow me to interfere in his life in the way I had without retaliation? Who did I think I was?

“They call my friend Skin. You know why? Skin likes to carve initials on people’s faces. He’s got a special big one reserved for you. A nice big H.”

Fear gripped me as an image of the P carved into poor Aidan’s forehead flashed into my brain. The collector shifted his knee and I thought my back was going to break. My chest was so constrained I could hardly breathe let alone speak. Despite the danger I felt confused. H? I twisted my head around. I could smell the grease of his oily reptilian skin. “H? I don’t understand. Why H?”

“H for whore. Whore by name and whore by nature.”

He clutched at my groin and dug his fingers into the skin covering my pubic bone. To survive I must gain the upper hand, shift the balance of power, and quickly. And he had just handed me the weapon.

“What? You pathetic ignoramus. You cretinous moron.” Contempt surged within me and I forced the words out in gasps.

“Who are you calling a moron, bitch?”

“You, you Irish retard.” I had to insult him, make him lose his concentration. “You don’t even know the Queen’s English. Pathetic
IRA
moronic retard!”

“The Queen? What’s the fuckin’ queen to do with me?”

“H isn’t for whore, moron. Whore begins with W.”

“Huh?” He raised himself up, grabbed my hair and pulled my head back. He pressed his mouth against my nose. “I’ll give you…”

As the weight lifted off my body, I seized my only chance. It was now or never. To my right was some implement left by Barry’s crew. Not even knowing what it was I grasped it, swinging my arm wildly behind me. With all my might I hit him hard. He collapsed on top of me.

We lay there for what seemed like eternity. He was so heavy and still, I couldn’t get away from him. Each time I moved, he moved with me. I managed to turn over onto my side and shake him off. I crawled away.

At last I found the light switch. Leaning exhausted against the wall, I surveyed the newly illuminated room. The man lay in a strange twisted shape, a thin rivulet of blood dripping from his head. I looked around for the weapon discarded in the momentum of my attack and there it was a few feet away. I had hit him with the decorators’ short handled mallet. What on earth did they use it for? I picked it up and held it to me.

Even with my back against the wall, my legs felt weak and wobbly. I began to slide to the floor, mesmerised by the sight of his body and the puddle of blood, slowly pooling on the plastic sheet. I felt no compassion only utter revulsion. Sobbing quietly, I clung to the mallet as if it was an old friend and my only link with reality. My back was throbbing. There was a searing pain in my ribs and a feeling like fire burning between my legs. I was rooted to the spot, unable to help myself.

Then horror. He moved and gave a low grunt. I forced myself to my feet and staggered the few steps towards him. I don’t know how many times I hit him. He lay still, as if flattened by my onslaught. I rested my head against the by now blood splattered wall and started to shake. I sat down on the floor again and watched the inert body for signs of life. None came.

What must I do? I couldn’t stay here all night like this. The house was in silence, the silence of death. Was anyone about in the world outside? Where were Mrs Jeffery and Mr Bonneville? Had they heard any noise? Surely someone must have. I had murdered a man. A recurring image of the policeman who interrogated Jurgen and me filled my head. He made me feel cheap and nasty even though we were innocent. This time things were different. I felt sure they would accept one blow as self-defence. But a torrent of blows? Never. Especially with the history between us.

I couldn’t expose Mum and Dad to all this. I was stalking the man and now I had killed him. Who would want a tax consultant connected to a murderess? It would ruin him. And Mum, facing the pity of her friends? They didn’t deserve this. No I must somehow conceal what I had done.

I looked at my watch and was amazed that it was only just after midnight. It felt later. I forced myself to stand up. My back and side still ached and my legs were stiff but although I couldn’t think clearly, I knew I had to act.

I couldn’t bear to touch the creature, so I tugged at the thick sheet of blue polythene his body was lying on, and dragged it across the room. When I was level with the front door I turned off the light and peered out. The mews was as quiet as a graveyard and the houses were in darkness. I wrapped the plastic sheet around the body and rolled it over to secure it. This isn’t enough, I thought. I must find something to tie it with. I’ll never be able to move it like this.

I managed to find an old washing line left over from my house move. It was all I had and would have to do. I spread the line out along the carpet and rolled the body back within its makeshift shroud. Alert to prying eyes, I pulled the plastic-coated corpse outside. Then I opened the back door of Barry’s van and with super-human effort, hoisted it in. My state of shock had been replaced by a tenacious determination to cleanse my home of the canker that recently invaded it.

Terrified I would disturb my neighbours, I drove quietly away. I used only sidelights to illuminate my route and headed North through the affluent suburb of St. John’s Wood towards the Finchley Road. It’s amazing how little traffic there is, I thought, just a few taxis. In the darkness I drove past the Wellington Hospital. Must be because it’s Sunday night. All’s quiet except inside my head.