The Book of Revenge Read online

  Liz climbed into her car. ‘Goodnight.’ She said, closing the car door and firmly shutting him out.

  Kylie was sound asleep. Curled up in the foetal position, the quilt pulled up high around her. The bedroom curtains were slightly open and light from the streetlamp outside flickered, casting eerie shadows.

  A noise from outside and she was instantly roused, wide awake and full of fear.

  She could hear his footsteps on the drive. In her head she could see him fumbling in his pocket for the door key. She heard the key in the lock and the door open and then slam shut behind him. She knew he’d go and see the mutt. He always did. No matter how pissed, he always petted Bruce the dog. The kitchen door closed and she heard him start up the stairs, heavy, drunken footsteps. She knew every creak and every groan that each step made, the third from the top was the noisiest. He was almost at the landing. She heard him stumble and swear.

  Kylie pulled the covers tight around her. She looked across at the door, her chest of drawers were pushed against it. A small and ineffective barrier, she knew it wouldn’t stop him.

  The footsteps paused right outside her door.

  Kylie was trembling. She closed her eyes and wished herself away, anywhere, anywhere but there. If she believed in God she would be praying now. But she didn’t, so she couldn’t. No one could help her, not the school or the social worker who came snooping around last year, and definitely not divine intervention.

  The footsteps moved on past and Kylie breathed again.

  She lay back down and listened to him heaving in the bathroom. If there really was a God or any justice in the world, then surely her father should choke on his own vomit and die.

  Matt was alone in the house, again. He wondered where his wife was. What she was doing every night until the early hours. And who she was doing it with! Then he wished he hadn’t. Some thoughts were best left well alone. He picked up the full bottle of whisky that was on the table beside him. He stared at it for several seconds and then with some reluctance and a surge of resolve he put it down and took himself off to bed.

  But he couldn’t sleep. The demons that had haunted him for twenty years had gone into overdrive. Like a child who had feasted on cola and cake, his demons were hyperactive and wouldn’t give him any peace. He sat up and without turning on the light he pulled a bottle of pills from his drawer. He took two out and headed for the bathroom to get some water to take them.

  Back in bed he lay down and waited for sleep.

  But even with the tablets, it eluded him. He climbed out of bed and went downstairs. The whisky was where he’d left it. Full, unopened and taunting him with his weakness. He poured himself a large glass and drank it down in one go. Then cradling the bottle and the glass he headed back upstairs to his bedroom. He paused in the doorway; he thought he heard a noise, was Avril home? He walked across the room and glanced at the bedside clock. It was gone two am. How had his marriage come to this?

  Matt sat down on the bed and poured another glass, he drank it swiftly. Then he stood up and walked to the window. He looked out and down to the drive. His wife’s car wasn’t there. Maybe she’d got a taxi home.

  A noise behind him made him spin around and all his nightmares suddenly became reality.

  The figure was all in black. Through his fear Matt half wished he’d put a light on so at least he could see his killer properly. But maybe it was better this way. Resignation washed over him. He wished he hadn’t had the whisky, he could feel its warmth surging through his veins, making him slow and sleepy. Matt’s eyes focused on the gun. It was pointed at his head. The gloved hand that held it was steady.

  Matt thought about fighting. He imagined himself lunging for the killer and wrestling the gun from his hand. But even with his brain as slow as it was, he knew he would be dead before he’d even made the first step. It seemed the sleeping tablets were finally kicking in, his eyes were heavy and the world was spinning.

  The gunman was waving at him to get on his knees. Just as well as he was pretty sure he was about to fall down anyway.

  Matt knew he should be afraid, and he was, but probably not as much as he ought to be. All he really wanted to do was sleep. Even the adrenaline that was surging through his body couldn’t counter the effect of sleeping pills and whisky.

  The killer lowered the gun and left the bedroom.

  Matt couldn’t comprehend what was happening. Had the gun been fired? Was he hit? Was he dying or even dead?

  His body collapsed onto the floor, he tried to keep his eyes open; he didn’t want to die alone. He heard footsteps. The killer was back, returned to finish him off. He tried to lift his head, but it was as heavy as lead. The figure leaned down and looked into his face.

  Matt fought for clarity. He tried to focus, all he saw was a bleary image of his wife Avril with the look of contempt that he’d come to expect from her. His eyes closed and he slid into darkness.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Liz walked down the High Street. It was lunchtime, and the town was busy. Uniform were on a PR excercise; display a strong presence and pretend the police were in control. The public were getting twitchy with a killer on the prowl and the press were feeding the fear. So police officers were out in force in clean shiny uniforms and she was walking through the town centre as a representative of law and order. Of course catching a killer would be better served by all uniform being hands on in the investigation. But that was police politics for you. It all came down to perception.

  She didn’t really mind. She would rather be walking and mingling than at a desk piled with paperwork or more house to house questioning. Her head was all over the place. She’d struggled all morning to get focused and motivated. If she were in the mood for being honest she would have to admit that the reason for her distraction was Matt. But she wasn’t ready for honesty and was pretending not to think about him at all.

  A shopper approached and Liz looked up with a smile ready on her lips. The smile faltered. It was an elderly lady, smartly dressed and made up. She had clearly been a stunner once, but now looked faded with an air of resignation and sadness.

  The lady looked at Liz. ‘Hello Beth.’

  Liz took a deep breath. She knew that this meeting would come. She thought she was prepared for it, she was wrong. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I could ask you the same thing?’

  ‘I’m working…’ All Liz really wanted to do was run. Get out; get away, as far away as possible. Moving back to the town inevitably meant that her mother would hear about it. The WI had spies everywhere and her mother was queen of the cupcakes. But even so, seeing her mother standing in front of her was tough. The pain and the anger were as raw and powerful now as it had always been. Time did not heal. That was a myth. Time just masked the emotions.

  ‘I can see that. Can you take a break? We could have coffee.’

  ‘Just go,’ Liz said, desperately trying to keep a grip on her emotions. She didn’t want to create a scene.

  ‘That’s it? You can’t be civil to your own mother?’ The lady reached out to touch her arm, ‘please Beth…’

  Liz looked into her mother’s eyes. She could see the pain and sorrow of loss and separation. The eyes were a watery grey, they used to be clear and blue like a summers day. A tiny slither of sympathy and regret stirred, she shook it away along with her mother’s arm.

  ‘I’m busy.’ She said and walked quickly away.

  Andrew paced the shop floor. He was bored and restless. There was only one customer in the shop. An elderly man, Gemma could handle him. Without bothering to tell Gemma, he left the shop. He headed down the High Street towards the pub. He crossed the road and as he did so he saw Liz. There was something vaguely familiar about her. She was a stunner alright, certainly memorable. He wondered if she’d arrested him. He’d been picked up a few times, unfairly, when all he’d done was enjoy a few drinks. Either that or he’d seen her around.

  She looked his way and their eyes locked and held. Just br
iefly, before she turned and walked further into the shadows, away from his view.

  Andrew felt unsettled by the brief encounter. He couldn’t account for it. He definitely needed a drink.

  The first thought that struck Matt, was that he was alive. The second was that he felt like shit. He was on the floor; he ached all over, which was bad enough, but nothing compared to the searing pain in his head when he tried to sit up. He looked down at his body; he was only wearing boxer shorts, easy to check for bullet holes or dried blood.

  What the hell had happened last night?

  According to his clock it was lunchtime, he’d be late for work, although that seemed to be the least of his problems. He picked up the bottle of pills and read the label. Big letters: Do Not Drink Alcohol...

  Bugger, bit late for the information check now, he probably should have read the label before taking them. The doctor had prescribed them months ago, maybe even as long as a year ago. Insomnia had been his constant companion for years but the doc thought that his inability to impregnate his wife must be down to stress and lifestyle. He suggested gentle exercise, healthy diet, meditation, massage and sleeping pills. Of course the best route to pregnancy was sex. But they had both given up on that weeks ago. And even before that it had become sporadic and only when Avrils fertility charts dictated.

  Avril? He needed to remember something about her. He had an image of her face looking down at him. She had been there, last night, he was sure she had been there.

  Matt stumbled from the bedroom. He was still groggy, the hangover from hell. He pulled open the door to the spare room, but it was empty. He forced himself to tackle the stairs even though every step jarred, sending a shooting pain through his head.

  But Avril was not in the house.

  He made himself a coffee and searched the kitchen drawers until he found paracetamol. He sank down into a chair at the table and tried to relive and remember the night’s events. Not very successfully, his thoughts were blurred and unfocused. Had he imagined the whole thing? Surely if the killer had been in his house, in his bedroom, pointing a gun at him, he would not be sipping coffee several hours later.

  By the time he was showered, dressed and at his desk at work, Matt had convinced himself that none of it was real.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It had been a long and difficult shift. Liz parked her car on the drive and climbed out. Seeing her mother had really rattled her and she hadn’t been able to concentrate all day. The only good thing was that focusing on her mother meant she’d been able to block Matt from her thoughts. How had everything become so muddled?

  Her neighbours were in the front garden. Liz had mostly managed to avoid them, despite them spending a lot of time in the outside. Since it was already immaculate, Liz had come to the conclusion they liked to watch the street life unfurling. The man was middle aged and wore a long suffering expression; he was mowing a lawn that didn’t need mowing. His wife was weeding, or at least was pretending to be engaged in the task while spying on the street life.

  The woman waved, and Liz smiled and waved back, desperately hoping that she wouldn’t have to stop and talk. All she wanted was a strong cup of tea and a long soak in a hot bath.

  The young teenage daughter of the couple hurried out of the house. She was dressed for fun – short skirt, skimpy top, bare midriff, hair newly straightened and her face made up. She was a pretty girl with a wide sunny smile.

  The smile however wasn’t shared by her mother. Liz watched as the woman stood up and scowled at her daughter.

  ‘You can’t go out looking like that. You’re asking for trouble...’

  The teenagers smile disappeared.

  A car with windows down, music pumping, pulled up. The daughter ran for the car, climbed in and it shot off at speed.

  Liz was flooded by memories. She was fifteen, her sister Melissa two years older. They were dressed to impress. Just like in the pictures on the wall at the place she had dinner with Matt, short RaRa skirts, big big hair, high heels and great glittery make up. Liz had been particularly proud of the makeup, Mary Quant; she’d spent all her Saturday job wages from Woolworths on buying it. They were laughing and joking together, happy and excited, until their mother followed them out of the house wagging her finger.

  ‘You look like a pair of cheap tarts. Don’t come crying to me when you get into trouble.’

  Liz gritted her teeth against the unwanted memory and watched the car drive away. She walked across to the fence and looked directly at the woman.

  ‘Nobody asks for trouble, but sometimes it finds you anyway.’ She said, then without waiting for an answer she turned around and headed quickly for her front door.

  Once safely inside she couldn’t hold the tears back any longer.

  Matt, her mother, memories, it was all too much.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I knew that this hit would be successful. No more mistakes. I had to up the pace, I was already behind schedule. And now I had the added problem of dealing with James Tate.

  Getting close to him a second time wouldn’t be easy. I had been weak. But I knew what I had to do and nothing was going to stop me.

  I would leave him to last. Or maybe second to last. Let him get complacent, catch him with his guard down. Right now I had to concentrate on this job.

  The house was dark. That suited me fine, I knew the layout, I had memorised it. The street was quiet, a nice suburban house with neatly trimmed hedge and perfect lawns. Brian Chard had done well for himself. I knew he was divorced, he had a daughter who lived with his ex and he ran a small but profitable estate agency. He’d managed to remain independent, mainly because he’d cornered the lucrative lettings market. Even now with house prices plummeting and the recession biting, he was doing alright.

  I’d watched him, closely and frequently for several years. He was a charmer. Always ready with a smile and a handshake, the kind of man who made everyone his best mate. I’d had to stop myself a few times from running over and declaring to the world that the man was a fake. Why could nobody look into his eyes and see the blackness that dwelled within. Strip away the trappings of success and charm and all that’s left is bleak, black evil.

  I had three names on my hit list that were highlighted in red. Thick, bright, blood red, and he was the first of them. I’d known even in the moment of my deepest terror and torment, that he was different. Him and the other two. When all around were doing dreadful deeds, he stood out as a man who was motivated by cruelty and hatred. A man without humanity.

  As I slipped quietly into his house, I felt a surge of excitement. I knew he would want to live. I knew he would not give up his life easily.

  I was right.

  His eyes never stopped searching for a chance, an opportunity to escape. He offered me money. He tried to cut a deal. He was babbling in the end. Anything he could think of, to buy me or bribe me. The bastard even offered me his daughter.

  It’s always in the eyes.

  Why did nobody else ever see it? Had his wife? Or was she as blind as everyone else?

  He fought back tears when resignation finally found him. He knew he was going to die. He dropped the lipstick onto the carpet and looked up at me. ‘Do I get to know what I’m sorry for?’ he managed to sound indifferent, dismissive, even though his voice broke from fear. If I hadn’t hated him so much, I might have admired him for that.

  I pointed the gun and then on a whim I pulled the balaclava from my head.

  I saw his shock, then surprise, recognition replaced by terror. He went to lunge for me but the bullet stopped him. A perfect shot straight into the forehead.

  I almost expected to see black blood ooze from him, but I knew I was being absurd.

  The bastard was dead.

  Matt heard her come in. He glanced at the clock beside his bed and groaned. It was almost two. He heard her shoes on the stairs. He knew she wouldn’t come into their bedroom. He was right. She went straight for the spare room and shut the door. Ho
w had it come to this? They had been happy once, hadn’t they? He thought so, but then how and when had it all gone so wrong?

  Even through the wall he could hear that she was crying. And not just a few muffled tears, she was sobbing loudly. He thought about going to her, he even threw the covers back and climbed out of bed. But then he changed his mind. She wouldn’t want to see him, nor talk to him. The marriage was over, they both knew that. He couldn’t give her comfort. He couldn’t give her any of the things she wanted. Not even a baby. He tried to switch his mind off and not dwell on who or what had reduced her to tears. It certainly wasn’t him; the only emotion she had left for him was contempt.

  He wrapped the quilt around him, pulled it high to his face to muffle the sounds of his failed marriage and went back to sleep.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Matt stared down at the body of Brian Chard. He knew he couldn’t deny the link any longer. Three dead bodies, James a near miss, he couldn’t shrug it off as coincidence.

  Jen hurried into the room, she was flushed and excited. ‘We’ve got ‘em Gov...’

  Matt knew her well enough not to get contaminated by her enthusiasm. What she probably meant was that tyre tracks from something really popular like a Ford Fiesta had been discovered. That would narrow it down to about a third of Bidbury inhabitants.

  ‘Guy across the road...’ she continued, ‘he runs the neighbourhood watch for the street. He has a camera pointed out of his bedroom window and straight onto this front door!’

  Matt was mildly impressed. Certainly better than tyre tracks, but he had a feeling that this particular killer wasn’t going to be quite so easy to track. Each hit had shown a level of competence that could only have come about by meticulous planning. Matt was pretty sure that would have included extensive surveillance. But he knew he ought to show some enthusiasm, so he forced himself to smile. ‘Great. So what’s it show then?’