Why We Die (31 page)

After a while he took his fingers from Katrina’s cheek, to find their tips still glowing with her heat. Our hearts should always be in others’ keeping, he thought. Having sole custody of his own had nearly broken him. Was that pathetic? Maybe so, maybe so. Something once firmly attached inside him slipped away with the admission, the way a label glued on a jar floats free after soaking.

He looked into her eyes. They were dark and deep, and it was possible he could spend the rest of his human span gauging their secrets. But first, there were things that cried out to be done. ‘We need to call Zoë again,’ he said.

‘Yes.’

‘And if we don’t get her this time, we’ve got to call the police.’

‘. . . Yes.’

Zoë went ahead of Trent, her wrists behind her back. The stairs were narrow, steep, and curved slightly in a way that didn’t seem deliberate. Perhaps the house was folding up in accord with its owner’s slow withdrawal . . . If she fell now, she’d send Trent crashing to the floor below with her. The way her luck was running, she’d be the one who broke her limbs. Reaching the top, she felt his push.

‘That way.’

On the landing was a bookcase on which sat a dusty vase holding a plastic spray of flowers. Cobwebs stretched between petals, and scattered round the vase’s base was a drift of husks: spider’s leftovers. The bookcase contents looked like they were on their way to or from a charity store: a mishmash of MacLeans, Wheatleys and
Reader
’
s
Digest
’s condenseds, among which nestled a pamphlet outlining the uses of a pressure cooker.
She
’
s never happier than
when she
’
s sorting through my books. Are you, Katie?
But Trent was hustling her away already; pushing her against a door which swung open to reveal very much a bachelor toilet.

‘Make it quick,’ he said.

‘I can’t manage like this,’ she told him.

‘I told you. I’m not untying you.’

‘You think I’ll run? There’s not even a window in there, for God’s sake.’

‘I’m not untying you.’

‘I still need your help.’

He looked at her.

‘You’ll have to undo my jeans. You think I’m Houdini?’

‘I’m not your fucking nurse.’

‘Trent, please. What’s the point of bringing me up here otherwise?’

From downstairs came a rattle of some kind: faint and indeterminate.

He said, ‘If he’s going walkabout, I’ll throw you down the fucking stairs.’

‘That’s a fair and reasonable response. Are you going to help or not?’

He didn’t want to. She could see that. But could see, too, that she’d backed him into a corner, one he was too accustomed to to leave easily. Being round Arkle had done that for him. Sooner or later, he’d end up doing whatever he was told, because otherwise he’d suffer.

She hunched her shoulders; allowed a whine to stain her voice. ‘Trent? This has got to happen soon.’

‘. . . What is it you want?’

‘Just undo my jeans, that’s all. I can manage the rest, but I can’t undo my jeans with my hands behind my back.’

He shook his head, but it was surrender, not refusal. Muttering something she couldn’t catch, he edged forward, hands fumbling in front of him.

‘You try anything –’

She closed her eyes.

And then he was in front of her, hands still fumbling; attacking the clasp of her jeans like a man in boxing gloves peeling an orange. This close, his stench was a physical object: stale tobacco and alcohol burying something grimier and forgotten. When she opened her eyes, she was looking down on the top of his head, where hair had matted into a nest; any moment, she’d see something stir in there, and scream . . . She spoke instead:

‘Have you done this before?’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Don’t be alarmed if I . . .’

‘What?’

‘Oh, nothing.’

As he pulled the clasp apart she moaned slightly, and he looked up in alarm.

Zoë brought her forehead into his face as she kneed him in the crotch.

. . . The crotch is the soft target: every good girl knows that. But in Trent’s case his damaged face was softer still, and his howl as he staggered back pierced the ceiling. She dropped her shoulder and charged, hitting him chest high, thumping him into the bookcase – the vase smashed against the wall, and books went everywhere: flopping down the stairs like poor imitations of birds. Zoë tripped, lost her balance, landed on her knees. Trent had pitched forwards, and was scrabbling to get up. She bunny-hopped on to his back before he could, feeling the air leave him as she landed . . . Five seconds in, it was going her way. But there was a law of slim returns operating, and the longer this continued, the greater his chances of shrugging her off . . . Raising herself, she dropped on him as hard as she could; and was again rewarded with a breathless grunt. But he was gathering now, and pretty soon, he’d throw her off . . .

She scrabbled to her feet, swallowed hard, and kicked him in the head.

. . . There were those who wouldn’t have been shocked to watch Zoë kick a fallen man in the head. Others might have expressed surprise that she refrained from it so often. But it didn’t feel good, it wasn’t who she wanted to be, and a large black lump reached her throat as she kicked him again, because however bad it felt, it was necessary Trent stay down long enough that she get her hands free. He grunted again and was still. She made to kick him a third time, but stopped. She looked at her feet, the black zipped boots she wore, and thought for a moment she saw blood on them, but that was a trick of her eyes. And she didn’t have time for this: Trent was out of action, but Arkle would be back any moment. She needed to find a knife or scissors – get out of the knots she’d been tied in. Then start bringing all this to a close.

. . . Among the scattered books was a pamphlet outlining the uses of a pressure cooker. When it had hit the ground, it had shed a load it carried; a sheaf of newspaper clippings hidden among its pages, held together by a paperclip. They’d landed facing away from her, and she squinted, trying to read the uppermost headline . . .

That’s what she was doing when the front door opened, and Arkle returned.

‘Still no luck?’

‘Her phone’s off.’

‘It’s late, Katrina. We need to call the police. We should have done ages ago.’

‘But –’

‘No. She’s in trouble. Or she’d have been in touch.’

‘. . . Okay.’

‘Do you want me to do it?’

‘. . . Yes. That’d be best.’

She handed him her mobile. As she did, her fingers touched his, and he smiled . . . This was strange, was practically supernatural, but it would keep happening, of that he was sure. No matter what else was going on, there would be moments of connection with this woman, and once enough of them had been laid down, they’d have a foundation on which to build.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.

‘Nothing. Just . . . Where are we?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The police. It’s the first thing they want to know, where you’re calling from. What’s this place called?’

‘I don’t know . . . There’s a leaflet somewhere.’ Katrina went into the kitchen, and found one on the windowsill: a photocopied sheet with instructions for use of the premises – hot water, binmen, recycling. She called out, ‘Poachers’ Cottage.’

‘Does it have an address?’

She read it out.

‘Okay.’ He looked down to figure out her mobile, and she came back into the room, arms folded across her chest.

‘Tim?’

‘What is it?’

‘Once you call the police, everything changes . . .’

‘I know.’

‘They’ll arrest me.’

‘I’m sorry. But we’ve got to do this. You know that, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘So is it okay? I have to do it anyway. But is it okay?’

‘Yes, Tim. It’s just . . .’ She half-laughed, or perhaps half-sobbed; something, anyway, that tore Tim three ways at once. But how many times could he tell her? The only future she had was if they buried her past, and however dismal a prospect that was, they’d survive. It wasn’t as if she was heading for prison. She had done nothing wrong. She had defended herself. And he tried to explain all this once more with his eyes, because words wouldn’t come; he was awkward and inarticulate again: a boy on one end of a sofa, with a girl on the other and the world in between.

But women, the world reminded him, always know which move to make.

Katrina’s eyes were wet when she said, ‘Could we stay this side of it a moment longer, Tim? Just hold me for a while before you call?’

Could he? He could. He put her mobile on the sofa, and took her in his arms.

Holding her – she felt slight, vulnerable – was coming home. To feel someone else’s bones beneath their skin, to feel them move between your limbs . . . To have all this taken away from you, and then brought back: it was coming home. He closed his eyes, she shifted in his arms, and his heart opened like a parachute. There was a reason for this. When he looked down, his eyes met the blunt handle of the knife protruding from his chest where she’d left it. So this is why we die, Tim thought. Oh. Katrina stepped away as he fell, and watched until she was sure he was dead. When she’d killed Baxter, she’d made the mistake of pulling the knife free, and had ended up washed in his blood. That didn’t happen this time, but there was no shortage of the stuff, all the same.

Once Tim was done, she stepped over him to tug at the curtains where they didn’t fit. There was little chance of anybody peeping through – they hadn’t chosen the cottage for its busy location – but you took no chances. She couldn’t think of any way Zoë might find her – for some reason, it was the very specific Zoë rather than the generalized police she was worried about – but there were always exits left uncovered, and no point relaxing yet. She’d drag Tim out of sight of windows, curtained or not, then carry the money upstairs, where it too would be safe from view.

There is always a moment when the heart stops in perfect time with the brain – when all falls blank and quiet, and the body’s on its own. When Arkle came back, Zoë’s body was abandoned for that split second at the top of the stairs; stuck and solitary, no clue what to do. And then whatever it was within her that habitually overrode fear kicked in – her sense of self, or her pigheadedness, or perhaps her fundamental belief that it was wrong that the thugs, creeps and stalkers of the world should hold sway. So she rolled out of his line of vision even as he registered events, and was flat on the floor when his first bolt hammered into the wall behind her at stomach height.

And then there was quiet . . . Only the gentle rain of plaster dust flaking down.

Until she heard him move.

It might have taken seconds . . . Arkle could have been up the stairs in seconds, leaving the tiniest splinter of infinity before he put his next bolt wherever he wanted. But he wasn’t; he was crossing the hallway, to where lay a chance of an angle on some part of her head.

Zoë tried to flatten herself further . . . Aiming for the instant diet: lose a stone in seconds.

Trent grunted, and a shudder passed through him.

Arkle said, ‘It’s like I’m the only one I can trust round here. Do you get that a lot? Nobody doing what you tell them?’

In case he took silence as provocation, she replied, ‘You can’t really blame him. I lied.’

It was surprising how steady her voice was. As if somebody else had charge of it.

‘You told him you weren’t going to trick him?’

‘Something like that.’

‘That’s the oldest one there is,’ he said, with genuine wonder in his voice.

Zoë didn’t dare raise her head, didn’t know what he was doing . . . A picture flashed through her, of him sighting down the stock of his bow . . . Of one injudicious glance, and his next dart sailing through her open eye . . .

. . . Inches from which lay a bundle of newspaper clippings, their upside-down headlines swimming in and out of the recognizable alphabet: Gτ H E o V ∑ . . .

And now something had found its way into Zoë’s side – something sharp and painful enough to pierce her as surely as anything Arkle sent flying up the stairs.

He said, ‘The money wasn’t there.’

‘. . . I guessed.’

‘You knew.’

‘No, Arkle. She tricked me too.’

‘I always knew she was a bad one.’

The thought of Arkle passing moral judgement would have been funny, if she wasn’t lying at the top of the stairs, wrists bound behind her back.

It was a shard of vase. The object biting into her side. With a little wriggling, she could get it into her hands . . .

Arkle said, ‘Did she have a key all the time then?’

‘There must have been two. One for her, one for Baxter.’

‘And she took his from Bax’s body.’

‘I guess . . .’ Zoë had hooked her feet around the toilet doorframe, and was easing the rest of her body that way. The shard of vase scraped with her, snagged on her top.

‘That makes you an idiot, doesn’t it?’

‘You might say so.’

She couldn’t tell what he was up to: priming his bow or just folding himself in righteous anger . . . Which was something Zoë was starting to develop herself. This had been the plan: Katrina got here first, grabbed the key, then took half the money from Big Red Box, leaving enough to satisfy the law. Then she’d send the cops . . . Once the key turned out to be still in the frog, Zoë’d known Katrina had fooled her, which meant she’d fooled Tim too, from the moment they’d met . . . For a second, the possibilities of treachery revealed themselves as a long long corridor, at the far end of which lay a body. What all this meant for Tim, she didn’t want to think about.

Daring to roll on to her side – becoming a larger target – she groped behind her and located the fragment of vase; took as tight a grip as she could manage between finger and thumb, and began sawing at the twine binding her wrists.

Arkle said, ‘Funny, really. She fooled Baxter. You fooled Trent. It’s like it’s only me nobody’s fooling, but I’m still standing here without the fucking money.’

‘A real heartbreaker.’

‘You didn’t kill Trent, did you?’

‘No, my hands were tied. All I did was knock him unconscious.’