White is the coldest colour: A dark psychological suspense thriller (17 page)

He wrote a short scribbled message to the effect that he missed his children, didn't love her and still loved his wife, and left it in the narrow galley kitchen propped up against the kettle, before making his urgent escape.

As he drove away with the accelerator pressed to the floor, the convertible’s tyres screeched loudly, leaving black rubber fragments on the dark tarmac. He sped down two fast darkening streets lined with modest terraced houses, and turned off into a quiet side street that he knew Tina was unlikely to visit on her journey home. He pulled the car up next to a faded red phone box, and tried to ignore the stench of stale urine permeating the air as he dialled Molly's number. She answered within seconds, but before she could even say hello, Mike was shouting into the receiver, ‘I’ve done it, Mo. I’ve left her. Can I come home, love?’

Molly punched the air in silent triumph, but immediately cautioned herself and actively adopted a sombre tone. ‘Do you really think it’s going to be that easy, Mike? Have you really thought about what you've put me and the kids through? Do I need to jog your memory for you? You shat on us from a great height. There were times I would have been quite happy never to see your ugly face again. I need you to understand that.’

‘I’m sorry, Mo. Really I am, but where do you expect me to go.’

‘That’s not my problem, Mike, but if you ever go near that tart again, that’s the end for us. No more chances. If you can get that into your thick skull, come over tomorrow evening and we can talk about the future’

‘That’s great, Mo, what time?’

‘About sevenish, we need to set some ground rules if there’s any chance of this working.’

‘Thanks, Mo, it’s appreciated. See you tomorrow. I love you, Mo. Give my best to the kids.’

She wiped a tear from her cheek. ‘If you so much as look at another women again, I’ll take a Stanley knife and slice your balls off.’

Chapter 21

M
ike arrived at his mother’s semi-detached 1950s council house just as the temperature was dropping to freezing point. The old lady shook her head repeatedly when she met him at the door holding his paltry possessions, but she chose to hold her counsel… He knew her well enough to know she disapproved. Why bother with words? There would be plenty of time for talking.

Mike carried his things up to the small box-room that had once been his childhood bedroom, and sat on the single divan bed… Life really had gone full circle.

He decided not to bother unpacking, and went straight back downstairs to have a cup of tea, and to let his mother have her inevitable say… It was best to get it over with.

They sat in her dated cheaply furnished but immaculate sitting room for about ten-minutes before June Mailer finally looked away from the television, and gave him a look of utter exasperation. ‘Sort it out with Molly, Mikey, for the kids sake, if nothing else.’

‘I am doing, Mum.’

‘I’m glad to hear it, son. Put the kettle on. A nice cup of Rosie will cheer us both up a bit.’

For the next twenty-minutes or so they sat in virtual silence, drinking tea from porcelain cups and watching a familiar, engaging, but ultimately pointless game show on HTV. Mike rose to his feet as soon as the early evening news started, and turned to face his mother. ‘Is it all right if I use the phone, Mum? It’s after six and it’s a local call.’

June checked her aged gold-plated Rotary dress watch and relaxed. ‘Of course you can, Mikey. There’s no need to ask.’

Phillip Beringer answered after about thirty-seconds. ‘Hello?’

‘Hi, Phil, it’s Mike. Fancy a couple of pints?’

‘Yeah, why not? Rugby club, eight-o-clock? Should be relatively quiet tonight, there’s an away game in the morning.’

‘Sounds like a plan. I’ll give you another hammering at darts, if you think you're up to it?’

‘Yeah, yeah, in your dreams. I’ll see you there.’

Beringer was standing at the bar engaged in animated conversation with an overweight but shapely, heavily made up middle aged bottle-blond barmaid, when Mike entered the unusually quiet rugby club bar. He ordered two pints: one Buckleys Bitter and one Guinness, and asked for the house darts, before finally bothering to say a belated, ‘Hello.’ Beringer reciprocated, accepted his pint gratefully, and took a seat in a quiet spot at the far side of the room behind the worn out pool table. Mike placed the three tungsten darts on a sodden Babysham beer-mat and proactively chose a seat with a good view of the barmaid and her overflowing low cut blouse.

Beringer stared at his friend and snorted. ‘For fucks sake, Mike. You don't change do you. Do you think you can actually concentrate on something else for a few minutes and tell me how Anthony’s doing?’ His expression became more serious. ‘What did Molly decide about the clinic?’

‘He’s been to another appointment, but she’s talking about cancelling the next one.’

‘What? I thought you said your car was out of action?’

‘Molly insisted I arrange a taxi.’

Beringer frowned uneasily. ‘How’s Anthony doing?’

‘Like I told you, he was in a cracking mood after the first appointment, but this time he came out in one hell of a state.’

‘Was Molly with him the entire time?’

‘No, it was just Tony and the doctor this time. But why the hell are you asking that? There had better not be more to this than you're letting on, Phil.’

Beringer drained his pint and struggled to maintain eye contact. ‘No, I told you, it’s nothing like that. I just don’t think it’s a good idea, Mike. That’s all! Do you want me to have another word with Molly for you?’

‘No, there’s no need for that, Phil. I can tell her myself. I think she’s come to the same conclusion herself anyway. I haven't told you: we’re going to be getting back together.’

Beringer felt a weight lift off his shoulders… It may already be too late, but hopefully not. ‘Does Molly know about this arrangement?’

‘Of course she does, you prat. I’m back living at my mum’s house for the time-being.’

Beringer laughed until his chest hurt and tears ran down his craggy face. ‘How's that working for you?’

‘I was hoping I could kip at your place for a while, to be honest?’

‘You have got to be kidding.’ He picked up the two empty pint glasses and grinned. ‘On a positive note, I suppose your mum’s pleased to have her little boy back home again. Suck it up, Mike. You deserve all you're getting.’

‘Yeah, you're probably right, Phil. Get the beer in.’

Chapter 22

M
olly spent a minute or two searching for Anthony’s soiled pyjamas and bedclothes, before eventually finding them hidden in one corner of his wardrobe under a Scalextric box. She gathered them up in her arms along with several other items of clothing and a pair of trainers contaminated by the urine, and fought back her tears as she descended the stairs towards the similarly overburdened washing machine.

Molly bundled everything with the exception of the trainers into the front loader, sprinkled in the powder from a half empty box of Daz, and washed her hands thoroughly before making a hot drink and slumping at the kitchen table for a brief but necessary reprieve. She sipped the hot liquid and sighed… Life appeared to be mocking her. It was as if some great puppet master in the sky were pulling the strings and toying with her fragile emotions for his own amusement. One step forward and two backwards. That seemed to be the way of things these days. Tony had been great after the initial appointment, but how long had that lasted? He’d been clingy and prone to tears over the weekend. And now he was wetting the bed again. Thing’s were just as bad as ever. Worse if anything! If she was going to cancel the next appointment she needed to get on with it. The doctor was a busy man. He’d probably want to fit in another patient.

Molly turned up the radio to drown out the incessant vibrating drone of the washing machine, and made herself another mug of mint tea. As she stirred in a large spoonful of clear cold-pressed honey, she silently acknowledged that she was simply putting off the inevitable… The decision was made. Maybe she should have listened to Phil in the first place?

Molly dialled the clinic’s number and only had to wait a few seconds before hearing Sharon’s cheery, instantly recognisable phone voice say, ‘Good morning, Dr Galbraith’s secretary. How can I help you?’

‘Hello Sharon, it’s Mrs Mailer, Molly Mailer, Anthony’s mother.’

‘What can I do for you, Mrs Mailer?’

‘I’d like to cancel Anthony’s appointment please.’

‘If the appointment isn’t convenient, I can look in the diary for another time that suits you?’

‘Please thank the doctor for me, but Anthony won’t be seeing him again.’

‘Really? Are you sure that’s wise? Dr Galbraith’s at a Welsh Office conference in Llandrindod Wells all day today, but I’ll give him a ring at home first thing in the morning and let him know. I suspect he may want to speak to you in person.’

‘There really is no need for that. I wouldn't want to waste any more of his time.’

Molly put the phone down as quickly as possible, before Sharon had the opportunity to argue the point any further… Anthony wouldn't be going again. It really was as simple as that.

Chapter 23

D
r Galbraith was back in his study at 7:15 a.m. on Tuesday 4, February: updating Anthony’s file, repeatedly checking his wrist watch, and trying to contain his burgeoning excitement… His head was already feeling a little better. Today was the day. It had finally arrived, and the agonising waiting would soon be over. What should he do first? Should he take the little bastard straight to the cellar? Yes, why not? Why not make full use of the time? He’d have to ensure he left no marks, of course. That wouldn't be easy. It would mean some unfortunate restrictions. But, like it or not, such things were necessary. Was everything ready? Had he put a new tape in the video camera?

He grimaced as a stabbing pain cut through his brain… He shouldn't have to deal with the damned minutia. Such things were for the Sherwood’s of this world. For lesser men! He should be able to focus on the bigger picture. Maybe he should have allowed Sherwood to live despite his many failings?

He screwed his face up… Get a grip, man. It was utterly pointless pondering such matters. Sherwood was dead for good reason, and time was getting on.

He rose to his feet and punched the oak panelled wall hard with a clenched fist, grazing his knuckles… He had to check things himself. What other option was there?

The phone sounded just as Dr Galbraith was leaving his study and walking in the direction of the kitchen. Cynthia reached it before him, and recognised Sharon’s voice immediately. She held out the phone at arms length, and spoke quickly before he reached her. ‘It’s Sharon, she needs to speak to you.’

He took the phone from her without comment… What did the obnoxious bitch want now? ‘Sharon, lovely to hear from you, my dear girl. Now then, how can I help you?’

‘I didn't want to bother while you were at the conference, Doctor. Mrs Mailer rang yesterday. Anthony won’t be attending his appointment this morning.’

Dr Galbraith gripped the phone table tightly with both hands, and lowered himself slowly to the hall floor before speaking again. ‘Did she say why? Did she arrange another appointment? Will I see him again?’

‘Are you all right, Doctor? You sound upset.’

His head pounded… Could she hear it? Surely the bitch could hear it?

Dr Galbraith closed his eyes, and began twitching uncontrollably.

‘Are you still there, Doctor?’

‘Another appointment? Did she make another appointment?’

‘No, she didn't, Doctor. I did say…’

Dr Galbraith was very close to tears.‘The number?’

‘I’m sorry, Doctor?’

‘The Mailer’s number, give me the damn number.’

It took Dr Galbraith three attempts to dial the correct number with a trembling finger… Answer, bitch. Answer the fucking phone.

‘Hello, Molly Mailer.’

‘Good morning, Molly, my dear girl! It’s Dr Galbraith. I was somewhat surprised to hear that you've cancelled Anthony’s appointment?’

‘We appreciate your help, Doctor. We really do. But I really don’t think the treatment is helping Tony.’

Fucking mothers, why did they always feel the need to interfere? Chose your words carefully, man. Chose them carefully… ‘You urgently need to reconsider, my dear. As I explained, it is essential that Anthony complete the course of treatment. You may recall that you signed an agreement to that effect.’

‘I’ve talked it through with my husband, Doctor. It’s not a decision we’ve taken lightly. We both agree that it’s best if Tony doesn't attend again. I’m very sorry if we've wasted your time.’

‘Are you an expert in these matters, Mrs Mailer?’

‘No, of course not, but…’

‘Is your husband a childcare expert, Mrs Mailer?’

Molly silently scowled… This was starting to get irritating.

‘Please listen to me very carefully, Mrs Mailer. It is crucially important that you recognise that despite appearances to the contrary, Anthony has made some significant progress. You may recall my shaking the bottle analogy: if he continues therapy his emotional trauma will eventually subside, and his behaviour will dramatically improve. He’ll be a happy child again. You do want that for your son, don't you, Molly?’

‘I suppose so, but…’

‘Now, now Molly, there is no room for doubts where a child’s wellbeing is concerned. I will ask Sharon to send you another appointment at the earliest opportunity.’

‘I’d like to think about it, Doctor. I’ll talk it through with Mike again, but please don't send another appointment letter at this stage. I wouldn't want to waste even more of your valuable time. If we decide Anthony needs to see you again I’ll speak to Dr Procter.’

‘You're making a grave error of judgement, Mrs Mailer.’

‘I’m sorry, Doctor. I will think about it, but I’ve got nothing more to say.’

Chapter 24

D
r Galbraith awoke in surprisingly positive mood on Wednesday 5, February, despite the bitter disappointment of the previous day… It was time for action. Time for a different more radical approach. There was no time for dwelling on past failures. His ultimate goal was far too important for that.