Come and Be Killed: A Chilling Psychological Thriller, page 8
‘Sorry, OK?’ And, having locked his Raleigh Tourer’s front wheel, Martin stalled. Should he risk more grief from the stranger or try the further compartment, which heaved with a scout party?
‘In a hurry, then?’ the man asked as Martin manoeuvred himself down the aisle between mostly full seats. The blast of voices on mobile phones almost drowned out the stranger’s chitchat. ‘Don’t blame you, mind. Getting out of London, I mean. Where you off to?’
Another hesitation. Ed and Den were still on the loose. Still larger than life in his head. It was far too early to trust anyone.
‘Barnfield. Small place near Worcester.’ His once best mate Chris’s parents used to live there, but they’d split up and he was now in Australia, working in IT. Another reason why the city had lost its charm. He’d been hard-up, lonely and in danger.
‘Posh there,’ the man opined. ‘A house price hotspot.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘You bought summat, then?’
‘A year ago. Small pad for weekends and holidays.’ The lie sounded good and the man seemed satisfied, staring out of the murky window at the passing houses. To Martin, their back gardens were the real giveaways. Just like people, he thought, squeezing himself next to a teen reading a sci-fi magazine with an illustration of an empty coffin with its lid raised accompanying a short story called ‘Afterlife’.
He thought of his mother and her untended grave. He’d not been back there since that March evening. How could he? And each jobless day that had passed increased his guilt at this negligence. But if there really was an afterlife, perhaps she’d understand his predicament. As for his father, his presence was neither missed nor desired. However, a parole date had been set for the 1st of September. Something to look forward to, then.
The teen eyeballed him, closed the mag and then as if in spite, extracted a cheese-and-pickle sandwich from its wrapper. The smell made Martin’s stomach lift from its moorings. He got up and searched for another empty seat and, as Slough came and went, placed himself alongside the guy with the fold-up bike.
‘What’s yer job, then?’ the other asked, letting an oily forefinger probe both his nostrils without success. ‘Let me see.’ His wrinkled eyes looked him up and down. ‘A plainclothes copper? Yeah. A rookie, I’d say.’
A blush hit the base of his neck. Part pride, part embarrassment. Was his deepest desire actually visible?
‘I’m still looking, OK?’
‘Fair enough. You got a mortgage?’
‘Yup. Fixed interest for two years.’ He didn’t know why he was lying, but London life had taught him to be all things to all people. That way he was left alone. Except for what had happened on the 20th of January.
‘Greedy bastards. And there’s a fucking great penalty for paying it off early.’
‘Too right.’
Once he’d started at Thom’s he’d looked into buying a studio in Hackney, but even with regular overtime and Sundays, the repayments would have crippled him. Never mind finding the deposit.
‘I’m Rio Docherty, by the way,’ his companion told him. ‘Named after the Rio Grande for some reason.’ He glanced at Martin as if expecting a similar revelation.
‘Dave,’ he lied, on the spur of the moment. ‘Dave Webster.’
‘OK, Dave. You want to make good money? Own your place outright quicker than you think?’
Crack was Martin’s first thought. People-smuggling a close second. The news was full of it. Crime seemed to pay.
‘Tell me more.’ As Oxford’s dreary outskirts came into view.
‘Monroe’s my boss. Developments all over the south and west. Wherever they can start digging.’
‘Yeah. I’ve heard of them. For professional singles.’
‘It’s the future, my son.’
Those last two words sent a further pang of exclusion through his system and he was glad for the diversion of the ticket collector doggedly nudging his way down the aisle towards them. So far, no one had been caught out, at least until now.
‘Couldn’t miss this bloody train, mate,’ Docherty explained to the man, still with no ticket or pass in evidence, but whipping out his wallet instead. Martin noticed it bulging with old notes. ‘Got a job starting at four. Time’s money for me. Never done this before, mind. Honest.’
Martin doubted if that was true, aware of all eyes on them doubtless hoping for some drama. Just when he wanted to be anonymous, one of the crowd. Docherty was handing over the price of his fare and telling the official to keep the change. However, his relief once the uniform had gone, was obvious.
‘First time for everything,’ his companion smiled, but it was clearly an effort. ‘Anyway, as I was saying, Monroe’s big and getting bigger. How would a grand a fortnight suit you?’
Martin gulped.
‘Gross?’
‘Net.’
‘I mean it. No kidding. I’m a foreman with them. I should know.’
‘What’s the deal?’
‘Cloud-hopping. Roofing, to you.’
Docherty pulled out a small card from inside his tracksuit pocket and passed it over to Martin. Sure enough, he was who he’d said, plus there were two groups of letters after his name and an HQ address in Worcester.
‘Give ’em a call. Why don’t you?’
‘I’ve never been up a ladder in my life.’
‘Ever heard of training?’
The man gathered his few things together, signalled that Charlbury was his stop then stood up, leaving a stale odour in his wake as he went to retrieve his bike.
‘Might see you around,’ he called back. ‘And good luck.’
‘Cheers.’
Martin watched him disappear through the station’s exit door.
*
At Worcester’s Forgate Street station, Martin made his way to the empty waiting room and punched in the number on his mobile. The receptionist who answered, confirmed that yes, a Mr Docherty was foreman on a site near Evesham and yes, there were vacancies for roofers in Malvern. She also needed an address.
‘I’ll have one pretty soon, if that’s OK. Just left London.’
‘It’s my job to ask for one, Mr Webster, that’s all. No problem.’
‘I’ll get back to you. Thanks.’
He decided that the city centre’s Travel Lodge would do the trick at least until the end of the week, and when the brief exchange ended he prayed they’d have a vacancy. He needed some luck coming his way. His father, bankrupted by a damages claim from one of the injured in the Gerona crash, had lost the house in Buckingham Avenue. Lost everything. It was important, or so he’d said in his latest letter from the Verne, that his son understand how he felt.
More bollocks. He’d no wish to see him ever again.
He cycled west down the Butts towards the River Severn and followed signs for hotels. Once he was ensconced in a plain but comfortable room, he made himself an instant coffee in one of the tiny plastic cups on offer and stood at the window looking up at the summer sky imagining he was up there already. Closer to heaven and Louisa Webb than he’d ever been before.
*
The letter, franked with the Monroe crest, arrived at the Travel Lodge next morning and contained a single-sided application from to be handed in before his interview at 3 p.m. He’d also need his birth certificate and driving licence as proof of age and domicile.
He dug around in his backpack for the birth certificate. Seeing his parents’ names again, scripted in such vivid black ink, gave him a jolt and he quickly folded them out of sight. Next came a note from Charlene which had arrived at Juniper Road only three days before. She had got herself another job in a travel agent’s. She ended with the news that Ed and Den had been sighted in Kennington. The reason she’d started dating Constable Dunn. For protection.
He returned the silvery card to its place, aware his fingers were trembling. Kennington wasn’t so far away. However far he might remove himself from the Big Smoke, its greedy tentacles still managed to reach him.
David Webster, he wrote in the application form’s first box, suddenly aware of the mismatch with his birth certificate.
Damn.
Just this once he’d have to abandon this new name and be what he’d been for the first eighteen years of his life. But could it really be called a life? It seemed like one of those self-assessment tick-box sheets his former Head of Year at the college made everyone fill out. And those crosses which meant ‘No, I haven’t achieved this’ far outweighed any ticks.
*
The sun lay behind him this time as he cycled along Deansway towards the cathedral, where defunct offices were being converted into lifestyle apartments. He could smell the wet cement, feel the layer of sand under his wheels and realized, almost as if by Divine intervention, that to actually help make something might give him a whole new take on life. OK, the construction industry would never have figured on either of his parents’ wish-list for him but, in a perverse way, that made the idea more appealing. It made him pedal all the harder towards Monroe’s white, glistening edifice.
The same girl who’d answered his first enquiry was in reception. Her name, Dora, set in a holder on her desk, struck him as unusual and not in the least representative of its owner, whose smooth honey-coloured fringe, huge earrings and an unmissable portion of bare midriff between her T-shirt and black trousers was the uniform of most Londoners her age.
‘Martin Webb for three o’clock,’ he reminded her and was rewarded by a flicker of curiosity – no more. Her white-tipped nails tapped almost musically on her keyboard as she asked him to take a seat. ‘I told you and Mr Docherty I was Dave Webster,’ he explained. ‘Sorry.’
‘We’re all different people. All actors.’ She smiled to herself. ‘Don’t worry about it. Anyway, Mr Pryor won’t be long. Monday’s his busiest day.’
But Martin, still puzzled by this insouciance, preferred to stand and study the clip-framed series of architects’ drawings and watercolours arranged around the walls. Their skill in execution and the vision of twenty-first-century life they seemed to promise the young upwardly mobile left him open-mouthed and unaware that the HR manager was fast approaching from a door near the desk.
Within these pristine painted worlds there was clearly no crime, no stepping out of line or even anything as messy or inconvenient as being ill or dying. The figures portrayed were like Dora. Young, smooth-skinned, well fed, with clear life goals. Deeply alluring in every way.
‘That’s our Hill Springs development at Malvern,’ said a man’s voice behind him, making him spin round. ‘Due to complete by Christmas. Smart pads, aren’t they?’
‘Amazing.’
A short dapper figure in a navy-blue suit offered his hand. Where Ed’s had been cold and had lingered for too long, this was warm yet perfunctory. Meaning business.
‘Nick Pryor,’ he said. ‘And you’re Dave Webster. That right? Rio Docherty just phoned in.’
The girl was looking their way.
‘No, he’s Martin,’ she raised her voice. ‘Martin Webb.’
The man, like her, seemed unfazed by this contradiction. Took his application form from the envelope and skimmed the contents without a comment.
‘We’ve got a crisis, Mr Webb,’ he began, walking towards the far end of the plate glass front window. ‘Confidentially, Monroe are six months behind schedule already, even though good weather’s been on our side. The council there have ordered us to complete all work by our promised date, or else.’
‘What do you mean, or else?’
‘We pay a penalty and it won’t come cheap. Apart from that, it’s loss of reputation. We need everyone on board we can get.’ He focused on Martin the way a fox might size up a full chicken coop. ‘So, Mr Webster, when can you start?’
The pause which followed was soon filled as the manager went on.
‘We’ve our own rent-free accommodation on site plus canteen, catering for halal and chechita needs. As much as you can eat. There’s also free protective clothing and – the icing on the cake – a month after starting work, you’ll have a hundred free shares in our company included in your first wage packet.’
‘Which is what, exactly?’ Rio’s boast now top priority.
‘Two hundred a day. Cash in hand. That suit you?’
Martin could see Dora leaning forwards, listening. Docherty had been right about that one.
‘What’s the catch?’
Pryor looked offended. Checked his watch as if there wasn’t a minute to lose.
‘You won’t be insured by us. That’s up to you.’
‘Now I get it. I break my back and that’s me done for?’
‘Three days’ training’ll do the trick.’
Like some old photograph left too long in the damp, the edges of this particular dream were beginning to darken and curl. Then he suddenly thought of Ed Thom and Den. If Charlene was right and they were on the run, he’d be with Monroe, in the safety of a group. ‘Done,’ he said.
He saw Dora smile.
‘Tomorrow it is, then,’ said Pryor, looking relieved. ‘Follow me. Just some formalities such as your NI number, and then you’ll be on your way,’ he said. ‘I’ll make a call to get you picked up.’
He winked at the girl as Martin followed him into his office and, within ten minutes, with the afternoon sun hitting the blinds and making the already bright walls even brighter, Martin felt that after all the wrong turnings and cul-de-sacs, that life-sized tick-box was looking far more promising.
He waited outside the building for the surge of traffic to ease, then mounted his bike to return briefly to the hotel. Ahead lay an old guy on a tricycle, pedalling leisurely at nil miles per hour. Martin swore under his breath and slowed up behind him rather than swerve out and risk ending up a mess in the road. As he braked, he became aware of something much closer, boxing him into the kerb and causing his bike to grind to a halt with his legs still pedalling.
He saw a black saloon, its tinted windows reflecting others beyond the pavement and then his own face. A mouth opened in surprise. Car horns now, as his heart froze and the car – a Merc – almost reluctantly left him and overtook the tricycle. Martin logged what he could of its mud-smeared number plate to memory then began to move again. The saloon he’d recognized went through the next set of lights on red and vanished round a left-hand bend.
Chapter Twelve
The grey morning did nothing to encourage Evelyn from the warmth of her bed now in the front lounge at the Gables, and once she’d struggled to the front door mat, she wished she’d not made the effort.
MONROE DEVELOPMENTS UK.14th June 2002
Dear Mrs Scott,
On behalf of the Managing Director of Monroe Developments UK, I’d like to thank you for your letter of the 1st June concerning our Spring Hills Development. He would like to reassure you that the few caveats from the County Council, relating to our planning application, have already been fully addressed and he hopes that this will allay any concerns you might have.
Yours sincerely,
Dora Tebbitt
pp Denzil Turner FRICS. M.D.
‘Arrogant idiots!’ Evelyn tore the letter up in disgust. ‘Don’t they know how much influence I have in this area?’
Then she saw her reflection as if for the first time and realized with a hollow ache that as she’d not attended any Scott’s Rifles meetings or any black-tie functions since early spring, this so-called ‘influence’ had vanished. And when had she last visited the hairdresser, the manicurist, the chiropodist? Questions too painful to answer, because the truth was, these outings put too much strain upon her degenerating joints. Although Sean Brownlow never referred to her appearance, she’d often seen a canny look in his eyes when he’d not realized she was observing him. And as for the balance owing from the sale of her Jaguar, she’d still not had a sou. He was also becoming a regular visitor to Teme House. Was this altruism or something less noble?
As she binned the pieces of the letter, all her anger transferred to this lavish development aimed solely for the young. Brownlow had brought her a copy of the plans showing one- and two-bedroom apartments arranged with restaurants and bars around an Olympic-sized swimming pool. Why should the young have it all? They were spoilt enough as it was.
Evelyn reached for her Zimmer frame, her thoughts full of the injustices of life and how much longer she could continue living alone without the aid of a full-time live-in carer like Merle. As well as the chandeliers festooned with cobwebs and the curtains full of moth holes, the once-pristine skirting boards were also coated in a thick layer of grey dust.
At least according to her sister, Teme House was getting some attention and she herself seemed to have acclimatized to Kylie Watts’ brusque ways. Perhaps for the time being it was best to let sleeping dogs lie, however coarse and lacking in manners they were. Thankfully, there’d been no more mention of Jenny, but that didn’t mean the problem had entirely gone away, for the Manchester Evening News had recently printed a small paragraph about John Arthur Holt’s suicide. She’d cut it out and added it to her small collection, wondering about the possible fallout from two deaths on the rest of that faraway family. But, like the 20th of February 1980, it was water under the bridge. Water equally unsuitable for bathing or drinking.
She returned to the lounge and was just about to settle herself in her tip-and-tilt chair when the hall telephone rang.
‘Damnation.’
Her steps towards it seemed slower than ever, her ankles, despite her weight loss, creaking as if they might break at any moment.
Only three people ever called her now, Dr Khan, Sean Brownlow and the young Australian, and, as she progressed across the Persian carpet, she tried guessing which of these three it might be. However, the caller was Merle.
‘Help,’ murmured her sister. ‘I’m so frightened.’
‘No yer not,’ interrupted the girl’s voice. Sharp and angry. ‘Stop giving me so much fuckin’ grief.’
With only one hand gripping her frame, Evelyn felt unsteady. She also felt sick.
‘How dare you use language like that in my sister’s house, young woman. How dare you.’
