Painkiller (33 page)

His eyes grow cold.
Where is she going with this? What have I said now?
That’s what I can see in those eyes.

I stand up, holding the gun. I don’t know how, but I do. I walk over to my suitcase, pull out a plastic wallet from it, and extract a sheaf of papers. I throw them carelessly up in the air, and they fall down around Niall’s shoulders like fat snowflakes.

Niall looks down at the printed sheets, mystified.

‘What are these?’

‘Photos of me, Niall. Taken by a private detective.’

‘O… K…’

‘In the first year after the accident, my husband had me followed by a private detective.’

‘What? He had you followed? Why?’

‘It doesn’t fucking matter why. That’s not important now. Can you see, Niall? Can you see, in all those photos? What can you see?’

He’s looking and he can see a car. He can see his car. It’s parked not far from me when I’m walking down a road. He can see his car again, edging into the corner of another frame, parked near a café where I was sitting. And he can see himself in a park, sitting on a bench, looking at me on the next bench. Watching me weep and trying to feed the pigeons.

I sink back into the chair and wave my hand at the bits of paper. ‘So there you are. And there you are,
and ooh!
There you are
again
! Funny that. My husband didn’t even know you existed, but it was him who caught you, he did it for me, even though that’s the very last thing he wanted. My life is one fat irony.’

I go and sit back in the chair. Some of the bits of paper have landed on it. I daren’t turn away from Niall to brush them off, so they crinkle against my bottom as I lower myself down.

‘So you were
never
an osteopath, and you
did
push me, and it
wasn’t
just a chance encounter. I told you about lies piling up, Niall. Oh. And here’s another one. I talked to Karen Willikins, my old assistant. Surprise surprise! I wasn’t even your agent at the time, was I? I’m guessing… correct me if I’m wrong, that I sacked you, and you got mad at being sacked, and when you saw me on the car park roof, alone and defenceless, you took your petty, small-minded revenge? Is that it? Is it as simple and as grubby as that?’

My goading is working. He draws himself up, angry now. He really is the big bad wolf, now. His nostrils are flaring; he is ready to huff and puff and blow my house down.

Here it comes now
, I think.
Here comes the truth.

‘I love you! Don’t you get it?’ he yells. ‘I loved you from the start! I knew that I was the best thing for you! Better than that… husband of yours. I heard you shout at him on the phone! Calling him useless and everything else under the sun! He wasn’t good enough for you, and I knew I was! I saw, with my own eyes, how much better I was for you.’

Back and forth he goes, pacing, growling, snapping at me.

I’m stunned by what he’s saying. Is he saying that my injury is my fault?
Yes, he thinks that. He’s convinced himself of it. Don’t let him persuade you it’s true. It’s not your fault.

‘And you know it too, deep down! You’ve brought me here to trap me, but you didn’t! If you’re honest, really honest, deep down, you
know
you brought me here to free yourself!’

I flinch.
He’s right. He sees it.

‘I know it! I can see it in your face! You
know
you’ve brought me here to replace him! You’re using me so you can move on and leave it all behind!’

He’s right again.
I gasp with the awful realisation of what I’m doing.

‘No…’ I say.

‘Yes! Yes you are! I mean, so what if you know the truth now? Nothing’s really changed, has it? So what if I did follow you? I followed you because I
loved
you! So what if I did push you? I pushed you because I
loved
you! Because I saw you were getting trapped in a terrible marriage, trapped by having a child with… him!’

He’s crying now – properly crying, not just pretend – and his nose is starting to run.

‘Everything –
everything
– that’s happened to you has been for the
best
! You said in the pub that the pain made you into a better Monica. And you just said, just now, when we were making love, that the pain came into your life, and I came into your life, to strip everything bad away, like a fire, and you might tell yourself that it was a lie to trap me, and you don’t believe it, but you do believe it! Together, the pain and me, we have stripped away everything that’s wrong about your life, your horrible job, your lousy friends, and yes, your fat husband too! He was wasting your life, leeching off you, failing you, and the only way you could see it was all wrong was by having the pain! By having
me
! I came into your life to show you what a supportive caring man could be! You hugged me. You cried. You accepted my help.’ He’s crying now, sobbing angrily. ‘
You need me!
’

I do need him. (
He knows
)
I do need him.

‘And now you’re better, we can start a new life. We can move on and go to France and…’

That snaps me back into focus.

‘You idiot,’ I say.

‘Don’t call me an idiot.’

‘You fucking idiot.’ I laugh.

‘Don’t laugh at me.’

He even moves towards me, before I twitch the gun in my hand.

‘You see, Niall, I’m good at lies too. Do you really think I’m all right? Do you really think the pain has gone? Do you think the pain can be wished away just like that? I’m still up to my fucking neck in pain…’

I stand up, flick off the straps of my dress, and show him my nakedness. I show him what’s beneath. Big ugly patches, covering the front of my body; across my breasts, my belly, my abdomen.

‘I’m drowning myself in morphine patches just to be here, Niall. I’m barely able to keep conscious fighting the pain, and
you didn’t even notice
? I just pretended to be over the damn pain to lull a simple-minded fool like you into admitting you pushed me down those steps.’

I laugh again, my cruellest laugh. The one I used to use a lot. Before the pain.

‘I’ve spent five years learning that lesson, that pain can’t be wished away with a magic cure. I told you that before, and you didn’t bother to listen. I just had to tell you I was cured and you believed it, because you just heard what you want to hear. Because that’s how you go through life, just hearing what you want to hear.

‘Well listen to this, Niall. And listen hard. I hate you. I hate you more than anyone else I’ve ever hated. More than the friends who left me, the Atos man, the stupid people who never understood, even the darkest moments when I despised my husband… It is nothing, NOTHING to the concentrated, everlasting hate I feel for you now.’ There is a new expression on Niall’s face, but I’m too angry to care. ‘You made me like this! Like a mad scientist makes a monster! You ran, and you left me in agony, and then you waited a while, and then you put your filthy hands on my body and relieved a tiny bit of that agony. You little shit. You plunged me into the fires of hell, and you sold me an electric fan.’

‘You’ve still got the pain?’

‘Yes, didn’t you hear me? Aren’t you listening?’

‘I am.’

‘Well hooray for that!’

‘It’s just,’ he says slowly, ‘if you do have your pain… I would severely doubt you have enough strength to pull that trigger.’

(
Finally
)

He’s thinking,
Perhaps it’s simplest that I should kill her.

But this is not the way I planned this. So I raise the gun, and shout: ‘This is for Dominic!’

‘Dominic’ is my safe word.

He gives a bellow of pure frustrated rage, and rushes to take the gun.

Suddenly, the hotel room is a scene from bedlam.

The door bursts open and they both rush into the room. Someone runs forward and blocks my aim. All I can see is the word POLICE emblazoned on the pocket.

Someone else screams in Niall’s face, ‘Get out of here, you idiot! She’s trying to kill you! Run! We’ll deal with her! Get out!’

Niall’s face is a picture. He starts to speak…

‘Get out of here!’ she screams again. ‘Run as far from here as you can, and don’t look back!’

… thinks better of it, and dashes out.

I am back on the bed. I am trying to imagine Niall running, terrified, from the bed and breakfast, past the bemused clerk, and into the street.

‘Are you all right, Mon?’ Angelina’s voice is soft, a whisper.

The pain is screaming in my ears, but my spirits are fluttering high, high above me. Now I’m imagining Niall running along the street in his bare feet, with his shirt flapping behind him. I’m imagining the silent, circular eyes of the CCTV camera capturing his panicked little form as he runs, thinking his life is in mortal danger. Thinking how lucky the police were there to save him.

‘Darling?’ Angelina hisses. She takes off her police hat and runs towards me, her face knotted with concern, but I shake my head. ‘Don’t touch me, Lena. Evidence…’

She understands, and backs off, looking me up and down.

‘Jesus, Mon. Was this all worth it?’

I don’t answer the question. ‘You look very nice in a police uniform.’

‘It has been said,’ she says, but her eyes are sad.

Larry is there too. He looks comical, dressed as Dixon of Dock Green. I try to laugh, but my voice is going. The last vestige of morphine is draining from my system, and it’s reminding me why I’m here. My system is shutting. Down.

His gloved hand is holding the pillow I threw at Niall. ‘Are you sure you want this, Sunflower?’

Angelina bursts into tears.

‘I’m sorry,’ I croak. ‘And I understand why you kept everything from me, when the drugs were in my head, and I couldn’t remember. I understand. Truly I do. But this is the real me. And this is what the real me wants.’

I try to dial a number on my mobile, but I can’t.

‘Please, Lena… Last number I called… Just press redial.’

She does, and holds the phone to my ear.

‘Hi,’ I say, my voice barely a whisper.

‘Monica,’ says DI Geoff Marks on the end of the phone. ‘Your husband’s been telling me this story…’

‘I want to drop all charges against my husband.’

‘Monica —’

‘And I want to talk to him.’

‘I can’t —’

‘Now.’

There is a brief pause, and my husband comes on the line. My beautiful, gentle, useless husband. Who I pity, love and adore in equal measure.

‘Monica, don’t do this.’

‘Please.’

‘I love you.’

‘I know. And I love you. I forgive you. Please forgive me.’

‘Monica…’

‘No more words, Dominic. Just goodbye. That’s all. Sorry about everything. And goodbye.’

‘OK. Love you lots.’

‘No… love
you
… lots.’

I am so suffused with pain that I can’t speak any more. My voice is a ghost. Dominic provides the script for both of us.

‘You hang up.’

Silence.

‘No
you
hang up.’

Silence.

‘No
you
hang up.’

Silence.

‘No you.’

Silence.

‘Brrrrrrrrr.’

Silence.

I press the button with the last of my strength. I hang up.

I lie back on the bed. Somewhere, from a million miles away, I can hear voices discussing things. Things not intended for my ears. Was it my mother?
How could you have been so stupid, Adrian?
Were they muttering about where to bury the rabbit? Where to put my capsaicin patch? No more. Not again. No more treatments. No more painkillers. No more false dawns.

No. They weren’t talking about Jumpy the rabbit, or treatments. They were talking about me.

‘I’ll do it, Buttercup. You don’t have to do this.’

‘No, it’s fine, Larry. She always wanted me to do it. I promised. I said I would. I owe this to her, yeah?’

‘No, Buttercup. We’ll do it together.’

And then I see a cloud. A lovely cloud held by two chubby hands along one corner, and slender hands along the other. I can see the ghost of black fingernails inside the surgical gloves. And there is something so soft and warm on my face.

So soft.

So warm.

‘Goodnight, Mon. Goodnight, my lovely Monica.’

I think I’ll go to sleep now.
 

DI Geoff Marks only saw Dominic twice more after that interview. The first time was during the trial, when Niall Stewart got convicted for Monica’s murder.

Of course he got convicted; how could he not? His DNA was on the pillow that suffocated her, the gashes on her cheek, the marks on her arm, the semen inside her body, just everywhere. There was CCTV footage of Niall running from the bed and breakfast, and other bits of footage from motorway cameras showing their journey to Dover in Monica’s car.

Things were discovered in Niall’s flat. Souvenirs of Monica. Items of clothing. His wife was brought in as a hostile character witness and gave a scathing testimony about the oddness of his character. It all cemented the image in the jury’s mind of Niall as a dangerous sociopath, who sweet-talked his way into Monica’s life.

Niall’s story, that Monica had been alive when he left her, and there were police who suddenly turned up out of the blue… Well, it was logged and recorded, but without physical evidence or motive it sounded madly implausible. His barrister told him not to repeat the story during the trial. Particularly the bit about Monica holding a gun on him. It wouldn’t come across well. It showed a lack of sympathy for the victim.

His barrister grasped a long straw, a theory that Monica’s husband was behind the murder, and put Dominic on the stand. He was cross-examined about the incident four years ago, about the time he asked people in a pub to kill his wife. Dominic repeated his story – and this time Geoff supported his testimony – that it was just a kinky game between husband and wife.

Dominic cried a lot, but he recovered enough to quite reasonably point out that he had no idea where his wife was during her murder. Monica had fled the family home in a great hurry, with her new muscle-bound lover in tow. He was very angry at her betrayal, yes, but even if he wanted to do her any harm, he was languishing in police custody at the time.

Geoff was called to the stand and stood there, stiff and awkward in his full uniform, and explained that Mr Wood had been interviewed because he resembled a man who tried to buy a gun in Woolwich. It turned out to be mistaken identity, so Mr Wood was released without charge.

Dominic added one more thing to his testimony. Shortly before her death, his wife rang him on her mobile, to say sorry; about everything. She left him heartbroken, but he appreciated the final apology from her.

The jury took forty minutes to deliver their verdict: guilty.

DCI Geoff Marks saw Dominic just once more, a few years later, on a cold autumn day in North Kensington. He was driving in plain clothes, just after getting his promotion. He was not on duty, just looking for a decent beer garden and allowing the weak sunshine to find his face through the rooftops. He was enjoying thinking of moving to Cambridge, imagining himself driving around in a shiny vintage car, and arresting crusty old dons in their caps and gowns.

He saw a glimpse of someone he recognised, just a flash through the railings, and he stopped the car straight away.

He heard the squeals of the kids even before he rounded the greenery and saw the park. A lot different to his day, where you just had swings and slides, and if you fell off, you had hard tarmac to break your fall. There were huge multicoloured monstrosities, looming over the place like H.G. Wells’s Martians.

Dominic was sitting on the bench with a woman, and they were both watching a little boy grapple with ropes on the far corner. Geoff watched the boy wrestle his way to the top of a huge cat’s cradle and give a cheery mittened wave to them both.

Geoff felt the letter in his pocket, where he still kept it close. Monica’s letter. Dominic gave it to him, after his police interview.

Dominic told Geoff that he could do what he wanted with it. Burn it, show it as evidence, whatever. He was the law, after all. Dominic took the decision out of his hands and put it into Geoff’s
. I suppose Monica was right; her husband was a bit weak.
Judging by the fact the letter was still in his pocket, Geoff was forced to admit that he was a bit weak too.

The woman turned to look at Dominic, and Geoff was struck by how like Monica she looked, the same dark hair, the same pale complexion. She was beautiful, and looked at him for just a second, and it was a look of love, sure it was, but it was also something else. Geoff had seen that look on coppers’ faces loads of times.

Searching, investigating.

Then the boy took a tumble, crashing to earth with a jolt. He wailed, loudly and angrily, with a child’s lack of shame, and the woman leapt up and ran to him, dragging him upright, dusting him down, inspecting his knee, kissing his tears and taking the pain away.

Dominic stayed on the bench, watching the scene with concern. Once he realised that everything was OK, and the boy hadn’t broken any bones, he turned his head away, and his eyes fixed on Geoff’s.

They stared at each other for a long time. Or it felt like a long time. It was probably just a few seconds. And then there was the tiniest ghost of a smile on Dominic’s face, then he mouthed something.

Thou shalt not bear false witness.
 

Then he turned his face away and looked back at the boy, who was already climbing back up the climbing frame, and whooping on top of the world.

And then Geoff looked away too, and left.