The Ladykiller (2 page)

He pushed the magazine from him, every nerve in his body vibrating with shock.

He had cut himself! He stared down at the gash on his thigh. It was pumping blood everywhere. He jumped from his seat in a panic. The knife had slit his jeans and pierced his own flesh!

He must tell Elaine. Get her to take him to the hospital. He went to the shed door in a blind panic.

Then he remembered the books.

Holding the injured leg with one hand, he gathered the magazines from the floor. He thrust them into the child’s desk with the others. Bundling the jumpers on top, he shut the lid. He could feel the blood running down his leg.

He picked up the pile of gardening magazines and threw them on top of the desk. Blood was everywhere now.

Pulling the bolt from across the top of the shed door he burst out into the sunlight. The sound of splashing and shrieking coming over the larch lap fence assaulted his ears. George ran up the path to the back door and thrust it open.

Elaine was preparing the vegetables for dinner. She turned towards him in dismay. He stood before her, covered in blood.

‘I - I’ve cut myself, Elaine.’ He was nearly crying.

‘Oh my God, George!’ She grabbed a tea towel and would it round his leg, pulling it tight. ‘Come on. I’ll drive you to the hospital.’

George lay in a cubicle of the Accident and Emergency department of Grangely Hospital. He felt sick. A young nurse was trying to remove his trousers.

‘Please, Mr Markham. I must take them off.’ Her voice was young and husky.

‘No! No, you mustn’t. Cut the trouser leg off or something.’

George and the nurse stared at one another. Then both looked towards the curtain as it was pulled back. The young nurse breathed a sigh of relief. It was the Charge Nurse, Joey Denellan.

‘What’s the matter, Nurse?’ His voice held the false jocularity peculiar to male nurses.

‘Mr Markham won’t let me remove his trousers.’

The man smiled at George. ‘Bit of a shy one, are you? Well, never mind. I’ll do it for you.’

The nurse left and before George could protest the young man was pulling off his jeans. George tried to grab the waistband but the boy was too strong. They were off.

George swallowed deeply and turned his head away from the boy’s face.

Joey Denellan stared at the wounded leg with an expert eye. Deep, but it had not affected any main arteries. His eyes flicked over the man before him and stopped dead. No wonder the old boy was so against Jenny pulling his trousers off. The stains were very recent and still sticky. What had he been up to that could have got him such a large gash in his leg? He shrugged. Theirs was not to reason why.

‘What kind of knife was it?’ Joey was careful to keep his voice light.

‘Oh, a Swiss army knife.’ George’s voice was small and the younger man felt sorry for him.

‘Well, it will need a few stitches in, but don’t worry. You didn’t sever anything important. Would you like me to see if I can find you some clean pants?’

George heard the ‘man to man’ inflection in the other’s voice. He nodded. ‘Please. I . . .’

‘Righty ho then. I’ll be back in a minute. The doctor will be here soon, OK?’

‘Thank you. Thank you very much. Would you . . . keep my wife away, please?’

George’s eyes were pleading and Joey nodded slowly.

‘OK. Don’t worry.’ He walked from the cubicle and went out to the reception area.

‘Mrs Markham?’ He looked around the assembled people and was not surprised to see the fat woman with the dyed red hair and bright green track suit stand up and walk towards him. He had somehow known that this would be the poor bloke’s wife.

‘Is he all right? My God, only George could cut himself while sitting in a bloody shed. Honestly, Doctor . . .’

‘Nurse. I’m a nurse.’

As Elaine went to speak again he interrupted her.

‘We’re going to stitch your husband after the doctor has seen him. If you would like to get yourself a coffee or something, there’s a machine at the end of that corridor.’ He pointed to the swing doors to the right.

Elaine knew when she was being shut up and her eyes took on the steely glint usually reserved for George. Turning away, she walked towards the swing doors and pushed them open with such force they crashed against the walls.

Joey Denellan watched her. No wonder the poor old sod looked so downtrodden. Being married to her must be like being married to Attila the Hun. Still Joey was puzzled. How did the old boy get the gash on his leg? What had she said? In a garden shed. How did that account for the semen, which it definitely was, in his underpants? He heard someone call him.

‘Joey, an RTA on the M25.’

‘How many involved?’ He walked towards the reception desk.

‘Four. Estimated time of arrival seven minutes.’

‘OK. Call Crash.’

Joey began to make arrangements to receive the casualties from the road accident. George Markham was pushed from his mind.

‘Are you coming, George?’ Peter Renshaw’s deep booming voice seemed to bounce off the walls of the office and hit George in the face.

‘Coming where?’ He peered at Renshaw.

‘To the do, Georgie. The bloody leaving do - for Jonesy.’

‘Oh, yes. Jonesy’s leaving do. Of course, of course. Yes, I’ll be going.’

‘Good on you. Got him a strippergram, the lot! Tell you what, Georgie, it will be a great do. Bl-oody great!’

Peter Renshaw had a habit of stressing some words by chopping them in two to get his point across. It drove George up the wall.

Renshaw was a salesman for the clothing company for which George worked. He towered over George in height and it was obvious he liked this. Peter Renshaw was in his early thirties and from what everyone could gather, he earned a lot of money. He was the number one salesman. He liked George for some strange reason and always made sure he was invited to any dos that were on the agenda.

‘I arranged the strippergram meself, Georgie boy. Biggest set of Bristols this side of the water. Can’t wait to see old Jonesy’s face.’

George smiled.

Old Jonesy . . . Howard Jones was younger than George himself. About forty-five was Howard Jones. George was fifty-one. He shuddered inwardly. Fifty-one. His life was nearly over. Peter Renshaw’s voice was still booming on.

‘It’s all arranged. The Pig and Whistle first. Twenty quid whip-round by the way. Then on to that new night-club - what’s it called? The Platinum Blonde, that’s it. Watch all the little birds stru-tting their stuff. Be a right laugh!’

George carried on smiling.

‘Well, I’ll let you get on then. Got a hot piece of pussy down in accounts who’s just dy-ing for it. See you Friday then?’

George nodded. ‘Yes. See you on Friday, Peter.’

He watched the man walk from his office. Old Jonesy . . . He supposed they called him Old Markham. He looked at his watch. It was five thirty-five. He got out of his chair and, putting on his jacket, made his way out of the building.

Kortone Separates was a thriving firm, even in the recession. George worked in the book-keeping department of accounts.

He left the small corridor and went to the stairway that led to the car park. He never used the lifts. As he walked down the stairs he saw Miss Pearson kneeling on the floor picking up some papers. She was young, only about eighteen, and had worked for Kortone’s for a year. George had never spoken to her. She had left three buttons undone and from the landing above her George could see the swelling of her bosom as she stretched out her arms to gather the papers.

He stared down at her. The creamy flesh was firm and inviting. The girl looked up at him. He saw the heavily made-up face and forced himself to move down the stairs. He bent down and retrieved some papers, handing them to her silently.

‘Thank you, Mr Markham.’

She knew his name! George felt an enormous surge of pleasure over this little fact.

‘You’re welcome.’ He stood up and looked down at her again. Then the door above opened and Peter Renshaw’s voice boomed down to them.

‘There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you. You sly old fox, George. Might have known you’d be where the pretty girls are!’

Miss Pearson looked at Peter and gave a broad smile. George watched her face closely.

‘Oh, Peter.’ Her voice was husky and breathless. ‘I waited for you but . . .’

George was aware of Peter Renshaw’s footsteps on the stairs, bringing him closer. He quickly picked up the rest of the papers from the floor and handed them to Miss Pearson.

George walked away from them, certain that he would not be noticed. He was right. Neither of them said a word to him. He walked out of the building and unlocked his car, an A-reg Orion. He sat in the driving seat, waiting.

The couple finally left the building and walked towards Peter’s car, Renshaw’s arm draped across the girl’s shoulder, one hand squeezing her breast. Miss Pearson giggled and pushed it away.

Another slut. Another whore. What had Peter said? Dying for it? George closed his eyes and savoured the picture his words had conjured up.

He visualised Miss Pearson, her body open to him, her legs sprawled apart, tied to the legs of a bed. Her hands tied behind her back, her heavily made-up face smiling at him as he approached her. She was begging for it. Begging and pleading with him . . .

‘Mr Markham?’ George’s eyes flew open.

‘Are you all right? You look very white.’

George stared at the man looking in at the window of his car. It was the car park attendant.

‘Yes, thank you.’ George smiled timidly. ‘I felt a bit tired, that’s all.’

The man made a salute and straightened up.

George watched him walk away, his heart hammering in his ears. He tried to get the picture back in his mind but it was no good. Trembling, he started up his car and drove into Grantley town centre. The books he had ordered were due in today. He smiled, enjoying the late summer sunshine and the exquisite feeling of anticipation.

It crossed his mind briefly that his ‘hobby’ was now becoming an obsession, but he thrust the thought aside. His leg was still sore and he rubbed it absentmindedly as he drove.

It was the end of September 1989.

Chapter One

Elaine Markham looked at her husband as he watched the television. His shiny balding head was nodding up and down as if he was agreeing with everything that the newscaster said.

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, George! Stop agreeing with the TV.’

He turned in his chair to face her, a hurt expression on his face. Elaine closed her eyes. She could feel her hands clenching into fists and made herself relax.

‘Shall I make you a cup of Ovaltine, dear?’ George asked in his soft voice.

‘Yes, you do that.’

George went out to the impossibly clean kitchen and set about making the bedtime drinks. He put on the pan of milk and then, opening one of the kitchen cabinets, took out Elaine’s sleeping pills. Carefully grinding one between two spoons, he placed the powder in the cup with the sugar. Smiling, he poured steaming milk into the cup and stirred it vigorously. Then, removing two more of the sleeping pills, he took the Ovaltine and the pills into Elaine.

‘Here you are, dear. I brought your pills in for you as well.’ She took the drink and pills from him.

‘Thanks, George. Look, I know I go on at times . . .’ Her voice trailed off.

‘I don’t take the slightest bit of notice, Elaine. I know that I- well, that I irritate you is the word, I suppose?’

George smiled at her, the sad smile that always made her want to rip him to shreds.

She put the sleeping pills into her mouth and washed them down with the Ovaltine, burning her lips.

George was still smiling.

‘This tastes bitter.’

He raised his eyebrows and took a sip of his own drink.

‘Well, mine is fine, dear. Maybe it’s the aftertaste of the pills?’

‘Could be. I think I’ll take my drink up with me.’ She pulled herself from her seat with difficulty.

‘Night, Elaine. Sleep well.’

She stared at her husband.

‘If I slept well, George, I wouldn’t be taking sleeping tablets.’

‘It’s just an expression, dear. That’s all.’

Was it her imagination or was George different lately? Although she could not pinpoint what had changed, she had the distinct feeling that the balance between them was shifting slightly. Looking at her husband now, she would swear on a stack of bibles that he was laughing at her.

‘Good night then, dear,’ he said again.

She tried to smile at her husband.

‘Yes. Good night, George.’

She walked from the room and his gaze followed her. As she made her way up the stairs to their room, the feeling of uneasiness came over her once more. It was the beginning of December and George had been ‘wrong’ somehow for the last couple of months. Nothing she could put her finger on exactly, but subtle little differences. He had taken to going out in the evenings for walks, for instance. He was only gone an hour or so but . . .

She pulled off the candlewick dressing gown and sat on the edge of the bed. He had never once, in twenty-seven years of marriage, gone out walking anywhere. In fact, it was his pet hate.

She took off her sheepskin-lined slippers and rubbed at the corn on her foot. Her legs were fat like the rest of her and were disfigured by varicose veins. She stared at them and shrugged.

She sat against the pillows, picked up her latest Mills and Boon and read while the pills took effect and she finished her Ovaltine.

The words were becoming blurred. She blinked her eyes, trying to focus. The pills were working quicker and quicker lately.

Finally she gave up. Turning off the bedside lamp, she settled down to sleep.

Ten minutes later, George popped his head around the bedroom door and grunted in satisfaction as he heard his wife’s heavy snores.

George slipped out of the house. He had on his heaviest overcoat as the night air was cold and damp. In the street light he looked no different from anyone else who walked the streets late at night. He pulled on the cheesecutter hat he had recently purchased and began his prowling.