Death Day (5 page)

    'What are you going to do with the medallion?' the youngster asked.

    'Mind your own fucking business,' rasped Mackenzie.

    Steve swallowed hard, disturbed by the tone of the older man's voice. What he had just seen had caused him enough trouble, he didn't want to end his first working day with a fight.

    When they reached the van, parked outside the cemetery, they dumped their tools in the back and Mackenzie threw the ignition keys to Steve.

    'You drive,' he ordered, 'I've got a blinding headache.'

    Steve didn't argue. He got in, started the van and drove off towards Medworth. Mackenzie sat silently beside him, head bowed, his breathing low and guttural.

    The youngster put his foot down. He would be pleased to get home.

    

    

    Debbie Lambert turned the big master key in the door of the library and smiled at the three women behind her.

    'Another day, another dollar,' she grinned.

    The women said their goodnights on the steps of the library then went their separate ways into the chill night. Although it was only six-fifteen, frost was already beginning to speckle the roads and pavements. It would be black ice by ten that night.

    Debbie shivered and walked around the side of the building to the car park. She was struggling under the weight of a large plastic carrier bag she held. It was jammed full of ledgers. Reluctantly she had, as expected, been forced to take some work home with her.

    After dumping the carrier on the passenger seat she slid behind the wheel and started the engine of the Mini. It spluttered a little then burst into life and she guided the car out into the street in the direction of home.

    The journey didn't take her long. Their house stood on a small private estate about ten minutes from the centre of town, in a street with only six houses on each side of the road. As she turned into the street she could see lights blazing from the living room windows of their house. She parked her Mini behind Lambert's Capri and walked around to the back door.

    The smell of cooking met her as she entered the kitchen, and she sniffed appreciatively. Lambert, dressed in a plastic apron with a bra and knickers drawn on it, was standing by the cooker stirring the contents of a large saucepan.

    Debbie took one look at him and began laughing.

    'I bet this never happens to Robert Carrier,' he said, grinning.

    She crossed the kitchen and kissed him, peering into the saucepan.

    'What is it?' she asked.

    'What is it?' he mimicked her. 'It's stew, woman, what does it look like?'

    She nipped the end of his nose and retreated into the living room. There, she dumped her carrier bag full of ledgers on the coffee table and called to Lambert that she was going to change her clothes. He shouted something about slaving over a hot stove and she laughed as she bounded up the stairs.

    His mood had changed, she thought with relief. But that had been the problem since the accident. His temper and character seemed to fluctuate wildly. One minute he was happy, the next he was plunged back into the abyss of self-reproach and guilt. Debbie removed her clothes and left them in an untidy heap on the end of. the bed. She fumbled in the drawer for a t-shirt, stood before the mirror, unhooked her bra and threw it to one side before pulling on the t-shirt.

    Her nipples strained darkly against the white material. She slid into a pair of faded jeans, patched so many times she'd lost count, and padded, barefoot, downstairs.

    Lambert was ladling out the stew when she walked into the dining room.

    They ate slowly, at a leisurely pace, chatting about this and that, feeling the tensions of the day slowly drain away.

    He poured her another glass of wine and sat down again, gazing across the table at her as she drank.

    'I'm going back to work at the end of the week,' he said quietly.

    She paused, her glass midway to her lips and asked why.

    'Because I can't sit around like this any longer.'

    'You know what the doctor said.'

    'Oh, sod the doctor. He doesn't know what it's like. Sitting here every day and night thinking about that bloody accident. I need to go back. I need something to occupy my mind.'

    'You said yourself that there was nothing doing.'

    'I know,' he took a sip of his wine, 'but at least I wouldn't be shut up here in the house all the time.'

    'Just give it a little longer, Tom,' she asked.

    'It's been a fortnight now,' he said, his voice growing to a volume which he didn't intend. He looked down at the patterned table cloth and then across to her again. 'I don't think I'll ever be able to face it, so I might as well just keep running.' He drained his glass and poured himself another.

    'And what happens when you can't run anymore?' she wanted to know.

    He had no answer.

    

    

    Ray Mackenzie stood on the pavement outside his house as the van drove away and rubbed his eyes. Christ, the bloody headache was getting worse and now his eyes were starting to throb. He felt as if he hadn't slept for a week. He looked up into the dark sky and inhaled deeply. As he walked, the medallion bumped against his thigh, secure in his trouser pocket.

    There was a small tricycle lying outside the back door and he bumped his shin against it as he rounded the corner. Snarling, he lashed out at it, sending the tiny object hurtling across the yard.

    

    

    Inside, June Mackenzie sighed. It looked like one of those nights. She had been expecting him for the last hour and a half. He'd probably been down the pub for a couple of pints. Well, she'd give him a piece of her mind when he came in. Half past seven. What sort of time did he call this? It was the same every day, wondering if he'd be home straight from work or down the bloody pub with his mates. She had put up with it for the ten years they had been married but she sometimes wondered how much more she could stand. If not for Michelle, now nearly five, she would have left him long ago. At thirty-four, she felt that life was somehow passing her by. Even if he'd offer to take her out once in a while that would be something. But no, same routine every night. He came home, stinking of booze. Had his dinner, went back down the pub until nine then flopped in front of the TV for the rest of the evening. Christ, what a way to live a life. His idea of a great night out was sitting and watching a darts match down the local. He'd asked her to come with him occasionally but there was no one to look after Michelle and, besides, she didn't fancy sitting with a bunch of boozy men all night, cracking jokes about their wives' frigidity.

    June shook her head. There must be more to life than this?

    She had thought about trying to get a flat for herself and Michelle but the waiting list was four years long and, with the child just starting school she didn't want to move too far away. Besides, her own measly wage could never support them. She worked part time as a cleaner in a car showroom but there had been talk of cut-backs and she was beginning to wonder how much longer they would keep her on. Ray didn't earn a lot. Just enough to pay the rent and the H.P. They had everything on H.P. If he ever lost his job and the payments couldn't be met, half the house would be repossessed. She shuddered at the thought.

    The back door flew open and Mackenzie staggered in.

    'Who left that fucking thing outside the door?' he shouted, rubbing his bruised shin.

    'Do you have to shout?' she demanded, 'do you want the whole street to hear you?'

    He walked off into the living room, grunting at Michelle who was playing on the rug in front of the gas fire.

    'Your dinner is ready,' called June, 'and has been for the last hour.'

    He ignored her and stormed upstairs, his heavy boots crashing heavily across the landing. She knew that he must have gone into their bedroom. She shook her head angrily.

    'What's the matter with Daddy?' asked Michelle.

    Mackenzie moved about the bedroom without turning on the lights. His headache had grown steadily worse and he found that bright fight aggravated it. Despite the blackness in the room, broken only by the dull glow of the street lamp outside, he moved with assurance. Sitting on one corner of the bed, he pulled the medallion from his pocket and studied it. He guessed by its weight that it must be solid, a good pound and a half. He tried to guess at the value but the persistent buzzing pain which throbbed behind his eyes and in his temples made rational thought impossible. He sighed, disturbed at the intensity of the pain. It felt as if someone were driving red hot nails into his scalp. He stood up, shakily and crossed to a drawer where he pulled out his wife's jewel box. It was wooden, the top carved ornately, making it look more valuable than it actually was. He flipped it open, emptying its meagre contents onto the floor. Then, carefully, he laid the medallion inside. It seemed to wink mockingly at him and, for a moment, a wave of icy air enveloped him. He shut the box lid and -it passed. He hid the small box beneath his pillow and walked out of the bedroom.

    When he entered the kitchen, his dinner was on the table. ItTiad dried up long ago, the chips looking like mummified fingers.

    'I don't want any dinner,' he growled, raising one hand to shield his eyes from the bright glow of the kitchen's fluorescents.

    'Look,' said June, 'it's not my fault it's like that. If you'd come home at the right time.'

    He cut her short. 'No fucking dinner.' He screamed the words, grabbing the plate and flinging it at the far wall where it shattered, splattering food in all directions. He turned on her, spittle sticking in white blobs to his lips. June was suddenly afraid.

    She took a step backward, watching him as he glanced up at the light. He hissed and covered his eyes as if the white glow were causing him pain.

    He rushed to the switch and slapped it off, plunging the room into darkness.

    'Ray,' said June, her tone softening, wondering just what was happening, 'what's the matter?'

    'Light,' he grunted, 'can't stand the light.'

    He turned and stalked into the living room, recoiling madly from the shaded hundred and fifty watt that illuminated the room.

    'Turn it off,' he screamed and dashed for the switch.

    The room was now lit only by the glow of the television screen and Mackenzie growled something as he stood looking at it. Michelle got to her feet and ran to her mother, suddenly frightened by her father's behaviour. He put both hands to his head and moaned, slumping into one corner of the room, head down.

    June crossed to the phone and began dialling, 'I'm going to get a doctor,' she said.

    Mackenzie leapt to his feet and was across the room in a second, his hand closing around his wife's wrist in a grip which threatened to snap the bone. She gasped and tried to pull away. The phone dropped uselessly from her hand and swung by its cord. His voice almost a whisper, now surprisingly calm, Mackenzie said, 'No doctor.'

    She looked down at the hand which gripped her arm and tried to pull away. Mackenzie smiled, his eyes blazing in the reflected glare of the TV. He released his grip and pushed June away. She bumped into a chair and nearly fell.

    'What the hell is wrong with you?' she said, becoming angry, 'had too much to drink?'

    He snarled and stepped towards her, bringing his arm back then striking forward with the back of his hand. The blow lifted June off her feet and sent her crashing into the metal guard of the gas fire. She rolled forward, blood weeping from her split lip. Still stunned from the force of the blow, she peered up at him. Mackenzie stood, legs astride, glaring down at her, his eyes narrowed to protect himself from the light of the TV.

    'You bastard,' she said softly. 'You mad bastard.'

    Michelle began to cry. She had been standing in the doorway between kitchen and living room and had seen it all. Now she watched as her father turned and stormed out of the room, his feet slamming up the stairs. She heard the sound of a door being smashed shut. Then she ran to her mother who had managed to drag herself up onto her knees. She caught the little girl and hugged her to her chest, feeling her own blood dripping slowly down her chin.

    This time he'd gone too far.

    

    

    June looked up at the clock on the mantelpiece. It said ten thirty-five.

    She had put Michelle to bed two hours before and had sat, alone, staring blankly at the television. There had been no sound from Ray. She had gone up there once and tried to open the door but found that he had locked it from the inside. She licked a tongue across the swollen cleft in her lip. The bastard must have fallen asleep. She had called his name but there had been no answer. Not a sound from inside the bedroom. She had then gone to the child's bedroom at the far end of the landing and peeked in. Michelle had been asleep, a ragged old Snoopy clutched between her tiny hands.

    Then June had returned to the living room. She had sat there all this time. Wondering what to do. If Ray wouldn't open the door, she'd just have to sleep on the sofa. She gritted her teeth. God, would she give it to him in the morning!

    She waited ten more minutes, until the hands of the clock had crawled onto ten forty five, then she moved quickly through the house, locking doors and windows, pulling plugs and prepared to go upstairs. She doublechecked the back door. Burglars had always been one of her biggest fears. Though, God knew, they had nothing worth taking. Nevertheless, she pulled the bolts tight, peering out of the small window into the darkness beyond. The street lights still glowed like trapped fireflies and one or two lamps burned in front rooms but apart from that, the street was quiet.