The Resident, page 24
I . . . I can’t. It’s—
KILL HIM!
And then Brogan was exploding through his wall of boxes, leaping towards Martyn with a demonic scream, and Martyn could only freeze, his jaw dropping open as his attacker flew towards him.
But Brogan tripped. Caught his foot on one of the boxes and lost his footing and barrelled towards Martyn in an untidy windmill of arms and legs. The collision was messy, imprecise, the two men connecting and then rebounding, careening in opposite directions. Brogan’s head hit a rafter and lights fired across his eyes, and by the time he’d recovered his senses he saw that Martyn was now in control of his own body, that he was now ready and able and willing to fight for his life.
The men ran at each other. Each had dropped his torch. Brogan had also lost his knife somewhere. They clashed again, on more equal footing this time, both fit and strong, one resolute on killing, the other determined to do anything to save himself. But Brogan knew violence, knew how to use it to his advantage. He attacked with savagery while Martyn defended with desperation. The two men grunted in the semi-darkness while they launched punches and kicks at each other, some connecting and some not. They grabbed at clothing, at skin, at hair, at anything that might aid their cause.
And then Brogan suddenly found himself on the defensive as Martyn managed to haul him to the floor. The boards shuddered as he crashed onto them, and Martyn was on top of him, straddling him, landing punch after punch to his face. Brogan tried to twist his body, to protect his face, to drag himself away. He reached out for something, anything, that could be used to help him. His fingernails dug into the wooden floor as he scrabbled for purchase, while Martyn continued to rain blows on him.
And then his fingers found something else.
His knife.
KILL HIM!
He drove the weapon low and hard into Martyn’s abdomen. Felt it sink deep into the soft tissues. He pulled it out, emitted an almighty roar, then stabbed it home again.
Martyn stopped punching. He clambered off Brogan and scrambled backwards, staring in disbelief at the knife protruding from his stomach. He brought his hands to the hilt of the weapon, clearly unsure what to do, while whimpering at his lack of success and his pain and his acceptance that all was lost.
As he gathered breath, Brogan kept his gaze fixed on his opponent. The pain of others normally fascinated him, and Martyn was undoubtedly suffering, but this was different. This had not been achieved by design, had not been engineered with the precision and patience and ingenuity that Brogan took great delight in employing. This was crude and spontaneous and it infuriated him.
He approached Martyn slowly, panting, ready for a last-ditch attack. But Martyn had lost interest in him. His focus was wholly on the knife. He continued to retreat, but his options were limited. Brogan could see what was going to happen and did nothing to prevent it. Martyn stepped back off the floorboards and his foot missed the joist and smashed through the plaster. He fell backwards, his upper body crashing through plasterboard too, but on the other side of the joist, his snagged foot holding him fast and preventing him falling all the way into the bedroom.
Brogan raced down the ladder and into the bedroom.
It was an incredible sight. Like a scene from a medieval torture chamber. Martyn was hanging upside down through the ceiling, his arms out to the sides, mouth gaping, the knife still embedded in his abdomen. Blood ran down his chest and across his face and dripped steadily onto the bed below. Drip, drip, drip. A countdown to death.
TUESDAY 18 JUNE, 6.47 PM
It was unlike her to be so late, and he began to worry that she wasn’t coming home. He’d been lucky so far. The fight had created a lot of noise, but if Jack and Pam next door had heard any of it, it didn’t seem to have provoked them to take any action, perhaps because the presence of Martyn’s car on the street suggested he hadn’t left for work. In keeping with that narrative, Brogan had pressed Martyn’s thumb onto his mobile phone to open it, then texted his boss to say that he had food poisoning. When the door didn’t come crashing in during the hours that followed, it felt to Brogan that the coast was clear.
But what if it wasn’t? What if Colette had somehow got wind of what had happened? What if his next visitors were to be the police?
Brogan picked up Martyn’s phone from the kitchen table. Martyn was seated here now, his back to the door, all ready for his wife to come home. Brogan used Martyn’s thumb to unlock the phone again. He sent a text to Colette.
Martyn: Where are you?
It took a while for her to respond. But then:
Colette: Told you. Visiting Elsie.
Brogan breathed a sigh of relief.
Martyn: Sorry. Forgot.
Colette: And I bet you forgot to put that suitcase away too!
Martyn: Nope. Did that first thing as instructed.
Colette: You know who’s boss! See you in about half hour. Get dinner on.
Martyn: Will do!
Brogan stared at the phone for a long time before replacing it on the table.
He resumed his surveillance of the street. When Colette’s car pulled up outside at half past seven, he raced back into the kitchen and pressed the play button on the music system. He had already selected the track. ‘I’m a Believer’ by The Monkees. He ramped up the volume, then hid behind the kitchen door. This room was perfect. As an extension to the main house, it had no shared walls. He could drip-feed the pain, with his victims’ cries – and there would be plenty of those – drowned out by the music.
She’s coming.
I know.
I’m so excited, I could wet myself.
He couldn’t hear the front door being opened, but he heard the subsequent shouts.
‘Martyn? Martyn?’
And then her shadow. A glimpse of her through the narrow gap between the door and the jamb as she entered. Her raised voice again.
‘Martyn. What the hell are you doing? I can’t hear myself think in here!’
He could picture her staring at the back of Martyn’s head as he sat in the kitchen chair. She would go straight to the music system and turn it off. Any second . . .
Now.
And then . . .
‘MARTYN!’
The scream as she saw her husband from the front. Saw the tape across his mouth, the blood covering his face and torso.
‘MARTYN!’
And now she would be going to him, trying to help him . . .
Brogan heard the ripping away of the tape, the rush of air into Martyn’s lungs, his voice as he tried to let her know.
‘Colette. Get out! GET OUT!’
Brogan pushed on the door. It swung silently. Colette had her back to him, struggling to undo the rope binding Martyn’s hands.
‘Martyn, who did this to you? What happened?’
‘Colette, please! Run while you can!’
And then Brogan’s arms coiled around her, a snake’s embrace. He clamped one hand over her nose and mouth, cutting off her oxygen supply. She struggled and tried to yell, starting to panic.
‘Hush!’ he told her. ‘I have a knife. Don’t make me use it.’
She relaxed a little in his arms, but her chest still heaved. He lowered his hand slightly, allowing her to breathe, then dragged her over to a chair opposite her husband.
‘I’m going to tie your hands behind your back. If you yell, I will cut out your tongue. If you try to escape, I will break your legs. Do you understand?’
Colette nodded. Before taking his hand from her mouth, he pulled his knife from his waistband and showed it to her.
‘You see this? I will use it if you make me. You will be quiet. Okay?’
She nodded again. He released his grip, then from his pocket he took out a length of string he’d found in one of the kitchen drawers. He pulled Colette’s arms through the slats in the back of the chair and began to tie them together. She stared straight at her husband.
‘Martyn. What did he do to you? There’s . . . there’s so much blood.’
Martyn found it difficult to speak. ‘He . . . stabbed me.’
‘Oh, God.’ She turned to Brogan. ‘He needs a doctor. Please.’
Brogan touched a finger to her lips. ‘Don’t worry. I sewed him up myself.’
Colette stared at her husband’s blood-soaked shirt. ‘Why? I don’t understand. What are you going to do to us? Who are you?’
Brogan moved around to stand in front of her. Her eyes were wide with fear.
He smiled. ‘I’m the new kid on the block. Don’t you recognise me?’
She studied his face. ‘N-no. I’ve never seen you before.’
He leaned down. ‘You sure? Take a closer look.’
It dawned on her then. ‘Oh, God. Oh, please no . . .’
‘Who am I?’
‘You’re . . . you’re . . .’
‘Who, Colette?’
‘You’re the man on the news. The one who . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘You . . . you killed some people. Your parents . . .’
Brogan clapped his open hand against the fist holding the knife. ‘Well done. At last we’ve been properly introduced. Pleased to meet you, Colette.’
‘Why us?’
‘I thought it was time I paid you a visit. After all, I am a local resident. I’ve been living close by.’
She shook her head in confusion. ‘What do you mean?’
He laughed. He was beginning to get into his stride. The old Brogan was coming back and it felt good, it felt right.
‘I’m the Neighbourhood Watch. By which I mean that I watch the neighbours. I know Elsie, I know Jack and Pam next door, and I know you and Martyn. We’re a very close-knit community.’
The mention of her husband’s name caused her to snap her attention back to him. ‘Martyn. What’s he talking about? What does he mean?’
Brogan laughed. ‘Tell her, Martyn.’
‘The attic,’ Martyn croaked. ‘He’s been living in our attic.’
Brogan saw how Colette’s expression transformed from puzzlement to understanding and then horror. She looked up again.
‘Our attic? You’ve been . . . It was you! You moved things. The photographs. The ring. You wrote the messages. You slashed my dress. It was you!’
Brogan nodded proudly. ‘Yup. The credit is all mine. And you had to go and blame Martyn for messing with your head. Poor guy.’
Tears suddenly spilled from Colette’s eyes. ‘Oh, Martyn. I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s all right, Col. It doesn’t matter now.’
She turned to Brogan again. ‘How did you get into our house? How did you—? Oh, of course. Elsie—’ She cut herself off.
The name sent a jolt through Brogan. ‘What about Elsie?’
Colette didn’t answer, as though sensing a reply would lead to trouble.
Brogan showed her the knife again, then placed its tip beneath her left eyeball. ‘What about Elsie?’
‘She . . . She’s not well. I visited her in hospital this evening. There was a news report on the television about you. They were showing what you might look like with glasses or a hat or a . . .’
‘A beard?’
‘Yes. Elsie pointed at the television, said it was her son, Alex. He’s been dead for years, but she was convinced it was him. I tried to set her straight, but she wouldn’t have it. She said he’d been visiting her. She was right, wasn’t she? It was you.’
Brogan nodded. ‘She’s a nice old lady. I like her a lot.’
Don’t be getting all weird now. Stick to the plan.
‘And what about us?’ Colette asked. ‘What are you going to do with us?’
Brogan looked down at her, then at Martyn, then back at her.
‘I’m going to play a game.’
TUESDAY 18 JUNE, 7.41 PM
‘What kind of game?’ Colette asked.
‘It’s like Truth or Consequences,’ Brogan said. ‘All you have to do is tell the truth. If you don’t, there will be consequences. Simple.’
‘W-what kind of consequences?’
‘The kind that will hurt Martyn. I’m not interested in how much you can take. I want to see how much pain each of you is willing to inflict on your other half.’ He paused. ‘Right, who wants to go first?’
This is great. I love it. Good to have you back, man.
‘No volunteers? Okay, then, I’ll decide. How about you, Martyn? Anything you’d like to confess to your beautiful young wife here?’
Martyn squirmed in his chair. His pain was evident. Beads of sweat had formed on his brow and were running down to intermingle with the blood on his cheeks.
‘I . . . I . . .’
‘Come on now, Martyn. Don’t be shy. We’re all friends here.’
‘I can’t . . . think of anything.’
‘No? Are you sure about that?’
Brogan moved behind Colette. He gathered her hair into a ponytail, then leant forward and inhaled its aroma.
‘Ah, that’s gorgeous. I used that shampoo when I was in your shower. Bit girly for me, really, but it helped to remind me of you when I was stuck up in that attic.’
He felt the tremor run up Colette’s spine.
‘You . . . you used our shower?’
‘I did. I like it a bit hotter than you do. And I don’t hum tunes like you do.’
‘How do you . . . ?’
‘I’ve watched you, Colette. I’ve stood in your bathroom doorway and watched you shower. I’ve seen lots of things. You know that little hole in your bedroom ceiling?’
Colette’s shoulders rolled. ‘Oh, God. I think I’m going to be sick.’
‘You can be very athletic when you want to be. Martyn, too. Isn’t that right, Martyn?’
Martyn coughed, grimaced, but gave no answer.
‘I said, isn’t that right? Even when Colette isn’t there.’
‘I . . . I don’t know what that means.’
‘Of course you do, Martyn. But Colette would probably appreciate some clarification.’
Martyn glared at him. ‘You’re making things up to hurt us.’
‘Am I? What do you think, Colette?’
‘Martyn?’ she said. ‘What’s he talking about?’
‘Nothing. I don’t have anything to say.’
Brogan twisted Colette’s makeshift ponytail. He brought the tip of his knife to her ear.
‘I will start here,’ Brogan said. ‘First the right ear, then the left. Then I think the nose.’
‘Martyn!’ Colette shrieked.
‘All right, all right!’ Martyn said. ‘It’s true. I’m guilty, okay?’
‘Tell her,’ Brogan prompted. ‘Before she’s unable to hear anything.’
‘Oh, God,’ Martyn said. He was crying now. ‘I’m so sorry, Col.’
‘Tell her!’
‘I . . . It was when you were away in Edinburgh. I . . . I wasn’t alone.’
Colette’s mouth dropped open. She shook her head, trying to deny the painful truth. ‘Who was with you?’
Martyn swallowed. ‘Gabrielle. I was with Gabrielle.’
‘Gabrielle? You brought her here, to our house? You . . . you fucked her? In our bed?’
Martyn’s features twisted. He lowered his head and sobbed.
‘How could you?’ Colette cried. ‘Why?’
‘I don’t know,’ Martyn whispered. ‘I don’t know.’
This is incredible. You should feel proud.
And he did feel proud. The old Brogan was back. He’d only just begun and already these two were a wreck.
‘It’s how it is, Colette,’ he said. ‘People are selfish. Love is always a mistake. The things I’ve done are nothing in comparison to what I’ve seen couples do to each other.’
He moved behind Martyn. Put the tip of his knife to the man’s neck.
‘Your turn, Colette.’
She sniffed. ‘I don’t know what you want me to say.’
‘Come on, Colette. You’ve heard Martyn’s confession. Now let him hear yours.’
She shook her head. ‘I haven’t been unfaithful.’ She practically spat out the last word.
‘That’s not the only one of the ten commandments it’s possible to break. The sin you committed is much more serious.’
She shook her head again, but with less conviction this time. ‘Please. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Brogan pressed harder on the knife and a trickle of blood ran down Martyn’s neck. ‘Do you want me to hurt him? Perhaps you do. After what he’s just told you, perhaps there’s nothing you’d like better than to see him suffer.’
‘No! Don’t hurt him. I’m trying. Really, I am. I just don’t . . .’
‘Think!’
‘I am! I don’t know what to say. Please stop!’
‘I’ll give you one clue, Colette. Jeremy.’
She stared into his eyes, flames dancing in her pupils. ‘Jeremy?’
‘Yes. Tell Martyn all about Jeremy.’
‘He already knows.’
Do it.
‘Not everything.’
‘Yes, everything. He knows that Jeremy took his own life.’
Do it.
‘Is that all you’re going to say?’
‘What more is there?’
Do it!
‘Last chance, Colette.’
‘I’ve always been honest with—’
DO IT!
Brogan rammed the knife through Martyn’s cheek. Then he slit through the flesh from cheek to mouth, sending a geyser of blood spurting onto the table.
Martyn screamed. Colette screamed.
Yes! Yes!
‘Stop it!’ Colette yelled. ‘It’s true! Jeremy didn’t kill himself. It was me! I killed him!’
TUESDAY 18 JUNE, 7.52 PM
You were right.
Yes. I was right.
She’s a killer. Just like us.
No. Not like us.
Brogan had taken a gamble, and it had paid off. The insight that had suddenly come to him in the night had been proven correct.
Colette raised her head and looked at him. ‘How did you know?’
‘I didn’t. Not for certain. But you were so afraid that Jeremy might come back to haunt you. And the whole story just seemed odd. A man so depressed that he goes on holiday to kill himself? No witnesses? And then the note.’ Brogan pulled it from his pocket, enjoying Colette’s look of horror. ‘“It would be unfair of me to leave without some parting words. I can’t carry on like this.” And then, “You deserve a future. But it has to be a future without me in it.” He wasn’t planning to kill himself. He was leaving you.’
