Truth or Dare (6 page)

T
he needle clicked, returned. Clicked, returned. Again. And again. Stuck after the fade-out, hissing and crackling, time looping on dead air.

‘Come on, Philip, where are you?’

He stared at the TV screen, sound down, waiting. He was becoming impatient, his earlier euphoria wearing off, the thrill of seeing his handiwork, his mission, on TV becoming something of a let-down.

‘Who are you talking to?’

He looked around, jumped a little. Christ, what a time for his sister to appear.

‘No one. The TV. That’s all.’

His sister looked at the TV also. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘That’s just over the road.’

‘It is, yes. That’s why I’m watching it.’

‘Oh.’

His sister stayed there. He wanted her to leave again, go back to where she had come from but she didn’t move.

‘D’you want anything? You here for anything?’

‘What? No.’

‘Then why don’t you pop off for a while. I’ll let you know if anything happens.’

‘Okay then.’

And off she went. He waited until he knew she was gone then gave his attention back to the TV.

No one from the police had spoken directly to camera. No one. He had expected DI Brennan, considering their previous exchange, but no. Nothing.

He had played it over in his mind, what he was expecting, what he wanted. DI Brennan to be interviewed on TV, to stand in front of the camera, microphone thrust into his face, and tell him he knew what he was doing. He
understood
. Justice. Right. And he applauded his work.

And he would nod as he said this, listening, understanding what the detective was saying, feeling their bond. Knowing that his work was going to make him famous.

Famous. He felt immediately guilty at the thought. No. That wasn’t right. Famous. That wasn’t why he was doing this, not the reason behind it. No. Famous meant
X Factor
.
The Voice
. That jungle show. All those kinds of people. Katie Price. The Kardashians. He smirked. He had thought they were aliens off
Star Trek
when he first heard the name. Then after he saw them he was convinced that’s what they were. No. That’s what famous was. Being a celebrity because you couldn’t do anything else. Being famous because you were famous. Vacuous non-entities, all of them. Not like him. Not like what he was doing.
Why
he was doing it.

His job. His calling. After waiting so long for acknowledgement from the police on the TV and in the downer of a mood he was currently in, he felt slightly ridiculous saying it. Calling. But that’s what it was. He knew it. Like when religious types hear the voice of God and get called to be a priest. Or go and work as a missionary with Mexican street kids or something. Yes it was his work, but it was pure. Unsullied by financial transaction. Or by God. It was a service he had decided to provide but in return he didn’t want payment. All he wanted was recognition for what he was doing. Fame didn’t enter into it.

He shook his head once more, concentrated on the TV screen. It was brand new. A huge, smart flatscreen TV. Almost the size of a cinema screen. And surrounded by all the latest equipment for the enhanced home cinema experience, the brochure said. But he needed it. All of it. It was for work.

He watched as the news came on once more, back to the same scene. He held his breath.

‘… at this time, but from what I can gather…’

The reporter stood at the bottom of Legge Lane, young and ambitious, tie tight, hair perfect, eyes shining with the thrill that this could be the story that gets him out of the provinces. Behind him, the half-demolished building cordoned off with police tape, covered with white plastic sheeting. Shadows moved against it from inside and it ruffled in the breeze, making the building look like a becalmed sailing ship.

‘You’ll find nothing there,’ he said out loud, ‘nothing. I promise you.’

‘… two bodies have been carried out of the house. It’s thought that one person was still alive when police arrived at the scene. This person was in a critical condition and has been taken to hospital. There’s no news yet on the identity of the two dead individuals, nor who is responsible. But the police are treating these deaths as suspicious.’

He laughed. Was that as much as the reporter had managed to get out of the police? With everything that had gone on in there? Pitiful. No national jump for him. A life in the provinces beckoned.

The camera panned round the area then ended up back on the fluttering white plastic sheet. The reporter was talking over the top but the more he went on, the less he said. Eventually he was left standing in the street as the news returned to the anchor in the studio.

He sat back. His heart sank even further. Where was Brennan? Why wasn’t he on there, talking to him, making an appeal? Why? Blood pumped quickly round his body. He became short of breath, slightly giddy. Yes, he had done it. That was true. All that planning and it had paid off, actually worked. Hooray for him. But they hadn’t worked it out. Hadn’t got it.

He closed his eyes. Perhaps he had been too oblique. Too obscure. Maybe they really were as thick as he had heard, maybe he was giving them too much credit. He had thought Brennan was clever. Or at least cleverer than the rest. That’s what he had been led to believe, anyway. What his research had told him. Maybe he had been told wrong.

He opened his eyes, looked at the screen once more. The news had moved on and they were now talking about a traffic accident on the M6. The feeling of sudden, euphoric elation was just as suddenly disappearing. Yes, that was his work up there on the TV for everyone to see but… there was something missing. He thought, staring hard at the TV. Not seeing the images, only the thin, black frame. Something missing.

But what?

He kept staring. And it began to reveal itself to him.

No word from the police. No news yet. One person in a critical condition. Treating the deaths as suspicious.
 

He nodded. Yes. That was it. That’s what was missing. What had he just seen on TV? What had he
really
just witnessed? Just a breathless, slightly incompetent reporter talking about a double murder. That’s all.

And what was missing?

Everything
.

The work. The explanation. What he was really doing. What had actually happened.

Justice
.

Yes. A sense of justice.

He flicked off the TV, sat back. All around him were the carefully made structures of ages gone by. Craft. Pride. Old words now, he thought. Dirty words.

He heard, as if for the first time, the click and hiss of the old 45 as the needle caught the groove. Dropping back, never finishing.

The room began to feel dark and oppressive. He began to feel uncomfortable in it.

He closed his eyes once more, tried to think.

Justice. How could he let them know about his work, his quest?

He smiled. Quest. Yes. That was the right word. Quest. Something mythic, something epic. A great achievement. Quest. Good.

So. He had to explain. They had to understand. Only after they understood what he was doing could they realise that what he was saying was the truth. In fact, it was the only way until everyone learned from his example. And then he would be celebrated.

He laughed. Maybe he would be famous after all.

He thought some more. And smiled. A new thought occurred to him. Perhaps the police weren’t so thick. Maybe they were clever. Maybe they were deliberately withholding things from the media, not telling them the full story, or indeed any part of the story.

So what to do next?

He opened his eyes. He knew. It was so obvious, so simple. He had their attention. Now he had to let them know he was serious.

He got up, crossed to the jukebox, set up another record. Garnet Mimms: ‘Cry Baby’.

No need to cry, he thought. The future had never looked brighter.

‘S
o has she been charged with anything?’ Marina asked as she walked down the corridor in Finnister House, Anni and Mickey alongside her. A male nurse, tall and stocky, followed along behind them. ‘This Fiona Welch looky-likey?’

‘Well, that’s the thing,’ said Mickey. ‘We’re not sure what to charge her with.’

‘We could have done her for accessory after the fact with regard to the murders or false impersonation, that kind of thing.’ Anni shrugged. ‘But I guess as soon as she announced herself as Fiona Welch alarm bells rang and we brought her in here.’

‘And she came here of her own free will?’ asked Marina.

‘It was a compromise reached with her solicitor,’ said Mickey. ‘No prison, no remand. She can be studied and helped in here. She was all for it.’

‘Didn’t that make you suspicious?’ said Marina.

‘Yep,’ said Anni. ‘Which is why we brought you in.’

‘Amongst other reasons,’ said Marina.

Anni and Mickey said nothing.

They stopped walking. The corridor was bright and airy. It could have been an ordinary hospital were it not for the wire-reinforced glass in the windows, the heavy security locks on the doors. The constant monitoring presence of swivel-headed CCTV cameras in the top corners. They had even passed some inmates walking about unaccompanied. Marina knew that wouldn’t have been the case. Unaccompanied perhaps. Alone and unwatched, never. That was the kind of place it was.

‘Here we are,’ said Anni.

The door in front of them looked like all the others on the corridor. Solid blond wood. A heavy metal security lock. The male nurse stepped forward, took a chained key from the leather pouch on his waist and unlocked the door. Before opening it he turned to the other three. ‘You want me to come in?’ he asked. ‘Rules and that.’

‘If you like,’ said Mickey. ‘But it’ll be a bit crowded.’

‘Suit yourself,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait out here. But remember, no physical contact. Don’t get too close. You’ve had the search, yeah? Left everything at the gate?’

‘We have,’ said Mickey.

‘Can’t be too careful.’ He turned, opened the door. ‘Hope you’re decent, Fiona,’ he shouted. ‘You’ve got visitors.’

The door opened widely. Marina peered in. On the bed sat a woman. Young, late twenties, early thirties at the most. Her legs were drawn up beneath her and she was reading. She looked up. Scanned the faces of her visitors. Smiled.

‘Come in,’ she said. ‘I don’t often get guests.’

They stepped into the room, the door closing behind them. Marina sized up the woman calling herself Fiona Welch. Small. Compact. Dark-haired. Wearing the hospital standard issue of T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms. She slowly unfolded her legs from beneath her and got gracefully to her feet. The smile remained in place on her face, giving nothing away, letting nothing in.

‘Please, sit down if you can find somewhere to sit,’ she said.

Marina looked around the room. It had the spartan simplicity of a prison cell – bed, desk, toilet cubicle and washbasin – but there were signs it had been decorated. Toiletries lined the single shelf along with books and folders.

Marina found the desk chair and sat. Anni perched on the edge of the desk. Mickey remained standing.

‘I’m afraid I can’t offer you any tea,’ Fiona Welch said. ‘Or anything for that matter. We’re not trusted with such things. Apparently they fear we can turn any household item into a weapon, an instrument of torture or an object for self-harm. It’s like we’re malevolent
Blue Peter
presenters.’

‘I’m fine,’ said Marina.

‘Good,’ said Fiona Welch, nodding. She resumed her seat on the bed. ‘So to what do I owe this pleasure?’ She paused and looked straight at Marina. ‘Ms Esposito?’

‘You know who I am?’ asked Marina.

‘Of course,’ said Fiona Welch. ‘I know your husband. We worked together.’ Her expression changed, her eyes downcast. ‘Alas no more. We… disagreed on too many things.’

‘Disagreed.’

Fiona Welch smiled. ‘I was very impulsive in those days. Very rash. You know how it is, first flush of youth and all that. One is sure one is right. All the time. I’ve mellowed considerably since then.’

‘Have you now?’

‘Absolutely. Oh, don’t get me wrong, one can still hold the same views and convictions but one doesn’t necessarily have to express them in so strident a fashion. In fact, one can often affect more change by employing more subtle methods. Don’t you agree, Marina? May I call you Marina? After all, we have so much in common. I feel I know you.’

Despite the reassuring presence of Anni and Mickey, something about this woman was making Marina feel uncomfortable. Unsettled. ‘What do we have in common, exactly?’ she said, hoping her voice remained steady.

Another smile. ‘How is your husband?’ she asked. ‘I genuinely did enjoy working with him. Despite the fact that he constantly belittled my theories. Theories which, I’m sure you’re aware, have since been borne out to be true.’

‘Which theories in particular?’ asked Marina, her voice steady and neutral.

Fiona Welch sat back, enjoying the attention. ‘Morality and manipulation,’ she said. ‘Especially where men are concerned. We like to fool ourselves constantly. Tell ourselves, as a community, a society, that we’re moral. That we know the difference between right and wrong. And that, more importantly, we act on it. Always. Given the choice, that’s what we do. What we would always do. We live our lives around those beliefs.’ She shook her head. ‘No. It’s a lie. All of it. There’s no such thing. No such differentiation. No right and wrong. No black and white. There aren’t even any shades of grey.’

‘What is there then?’

She continued talking, her voice patient as if she was a primary-school teacher explaining rudimentary mathematics to five-year-olds. ‘An assumed set of values, of course. Relative ones, that can be dispensed with or bargained away depending on what one’s needs are at any given time.’

‘Is that right?’ asked Marina.

‘It is.’ She moved forward, warming to her theme. ‘For instance, you want to take care of your family. It’s your primary concern. What lengths would you go to to do it? What kind of extreme behaviour could you justify to yourself in order to do that? Any, I would think. One can rationalise away anything if one has a good enough reason for doing so.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Mickey. ‘We’ve all seen
Breaking Bad
.’

A look of anger rippled across Fiona Welch’s face. In that instant, Marina could imagine her raking her nails slowly and deeply down the side of her husband’s face.

She managed to regain her composure, leaned forward once more, a small smile playing on her lips. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Marina? Wouldn’t you say that you have done things to protect your family? Hmm? Things that could be considered morally dubious, if not outside the law?’

Marina stiffened. She was aware that both Anni and Mickey were watching her. She bit back her initial response, kept her voice low and calm. Professional sounding.

‘So there’s no such thing as morality,’ said Marina. ‘That’s what you’re saying. It’s all relative.’

‘Absolutely,’ said Fiona Welch. She sounded disappointed that Marina hadn’t risen to her words.

‘So someone could commit a crime and they should get away with it providing they’ve got a good enough excuse, is that what you’re saying?’ said Mickey. ‘That what you mean?’

She put back her head, closed her eyes. Smiled. ‘The response I expected from a police officer. You’ve got a lot to learn,’ she said quietly.

‘So why are you here, then?’ asked Marina. ‘What are you doing in this place if your theories are true?’

Fiona Welch opened her eyes, leaned forward. ‘I’ll tell you.’