Beneath the Folds

  "It's necessary that's all. We have to be sure. I see bad people every day, see them hurting others. People like your Darren."

  Darren was my husband of twelve years. He died last March. Came home drunk, fell down the stairs, broke his neck. I remember how easily he fell, how his body contorted and twisted in the fall, how he screamed just before his head hit the wall, then nothing. The police recorded death as 11:30. Wrong by five minutes.

  A silence fell again. We both ate to fill the gap.

  "I don't like the clock thing." Stella again, pushing her empty plate to one side and ringing the course bell as she spoke. "It's unnecessary. The boys will work it out soon. You are supposed to just kill them and get out, that's all. No calling card. Just straightforward execution."

  "Your boys are still way off base. And the time thing is important. It's part of why I do it. So just leave it." I felt my palm sweaty on my wine glass.

  "No, you do it because you have to." Her tone suddenly icy.

  She was right of course. Or at least, she used to be. I said nothing.

  "What did you do with the gun from Chatham?" Stella again.

  "The usual. Do you want to know where?"

  "No. Let's keep that consistent anyway."

  I touched my hand on hers. She felt soft and warm. My turn to ask a question. "What have you heard about the Chatham scene from your boys?"

  "Nothing. Look Lucy, I'm worried about you." She put her other hand on mine. I felt a gentle squeeze from her fingers. "You are still living out your anger. That's not good."

  "Nothing at all, or nothing important?"

  "Nothing important. Nothing new. They are still not connecting. Mrs Chatham is being looked at of course but nothing special. Lucy, your anger?"

  "My anger. Let's drink to it and its gradual dissipation." I touched my glass against hers and we drank a recalcitrant toast. Stella's reluctant smile was interrupted by another knock and our main courses arriving. Two waiters appeared, placed our dishes in front of us, removed the bell covers and slowly retreated from the room. Very sophisticated, this Gregorios.

  "Let's eat." said Stella looking down at her dish "Whilst you tell me about Fran. How's the little love doing? Missing her favourite policewoman?"

  The linguini was spectacular and Stella and I talked of Fran as we ate. There is genuine love between Stella and Fran. She is the only person to whom Fran always gives a spontaneous smile, something not even given infallibly to myself. But then that is Stella. Men, women, babies; she holds them all.

  Stella finished her course first, pushed her plate to one side, then scanned me intensely.

  "I have another one." Stella spoke, once again back in professional mode.

  My hand froze, fork in air.

  "It needs to be done quickly. He and his family are heading for one of the old Costas on the 28th . Looks like next Thursday is best. Wife will be out the way. Down our nick as it happens."

  I took a final mouthful, put down my fork, then took a slow sip from my wine glass.

  "What's the story?"

  "Nasty piece of work. Not a looker like Chatham, but still one for the ladies. Multiple times, but treats them like shit. And, yes, beats on his wife. Bastard".

  "The big double, eh?"

  "The big double."

  "You've been with him?"

  Stella's eyes stared right though me. "Safe to say we know each other. Or at least I know him. He thinks he knows a lady called Olivia."

  I tried not to imagine how Stella had worked him. Suddenly it all seemed obscene. Her drawing him in until she was sure. Then leaving him cold and exposed to my sharp teeth. Teeth that would readily tear him apart.

  "Olivia eh. Very sophisticated. Suits you."

  "I've used her before. On a legit undercover job a couple of years ago."

  I've often wondered about Stella's undercover work. A policewoman trained in covert operations. Undoubtedly brave but living long days in an unreal world. What does that do to a person? How does she keep her inner core unscathed? But, perhaps I already know that."

  "His surname?" When I'm being briefed I'm laconic.

  "Staunton. As in Imelda."

  "Address?"

  "The Priory, Church Lane, Bix, just outside Henley."

  "Sounds nice."

  "It is. Very classy, believe me."

  "You said his missus is going to be down the nick on Thursday. How come?"

  "She wants shot of him. She's coming in to answer a few questions as a witness to a recent mugging. Puts her in the right spot at the right time as it were."

  "She knows what's going to happen?"

  "Yes."

  "Christ. Isn't that dangerous?"

  "Not as dangerous as staying with him. She's half-dead already."

  "I meant for us. It's a possible link."

  "She'll be fine. Hard as nails and eternally grateful. He goes, the money stays, what could be better? Besides she doesn't know my name and has never seen my face. No link."

  "She knows the scam though. You sure about this?"

  "It's safe. We do it. OK?"

  "Any kids?"

  Stella looked deep into my eyes again. "Yes, one. A baby boy."

  Now I understood the stare. "He won't be there will he?"

  "No he won't. Promise. She'll make an excuse to take him out. He'll be with her when she voluntarily walks into our nick."

  "Unusual."

  "It happens. No one will suspect."

  "Alarm? CCTV?"

  "Yes and yes. The loyal missus will switch off the CCTV before she leaves though. During the day the alarm is never set. She will leave at nine. Simple."

  Simple was not what I saw. The arrangement with Stella had certainly started on a simple premise. That was true. Men get away with bad things, wives suffer. Stella doesn't like that, I don't like that. Stella recruited me. Simple. The rules? Infidelity, one mark, hitting the wife, one mark. Two marks ~ the big double ~ they die. She gets proof, I execute. Quite literally. One driven by a sense of injustice, the other self-interest.

  She approached me a few days after Darren died. She said she knew, that she had seen it before, but I was lucky she was leading the case. Of course I denied it but inside I thought everything had collapsed. Fran's life, my life, everything. She was patient sitting there in my living room, laying out my crime. I hadn't meant to kill him of course, I was angry, desperate, scared. But kill him I had and I regretted nothing. Stella said she saw something in me, something that told her I was right to help. I couldn't fault her judgement. There were other women in my position she said, others just as desperate and in need of the sort of help I had rendered to myself. She would let it pass she said, not push for evidence, if I helped them as well. Five men, she proposed, five men and then I was free. Risky, yes, but surely worth the chance, especially with her help. Look at Fran. Think of her life.

  At first what I saw in her was salvation, nothing more. We could still have a life, myself and Fran. What I came to see in her though was something more. A goodness. This was a woman talking to me, not a detective. She understood my terror and had reached out for my hand, not to cuff it but simply to touch it. A shadow fell across my life the day Darren died. I felt it deep in my heart when I looked at Fran. Her future, like mine, dark. Then Stella was there recognising my pain and offering me a light. Not the best one perhaps, but one I could nevertheless use. Simple. But here we were now, four dead men at our feet, adding complications.

  "You ok?" Stella again.

  "I was thinking about our first. It seems so long ago."

  "Fifteen months. Not so long. Listen Lucy, there is one thing I have to remind you about Staunton." A pause. An exaggerated breath. "He's the fifth."

  "I know." A strange sensation hit me, like insects on my skin.

  "After him you've done your commitment. You can let it go."

  "The last one then." My voice, yet somehow disconnected.

  "Exactly. You've been good Lucy, very good. Try
for a normal life now, with Fran. You've done your part."

  "I can do more." A simple statement, but from which part of me I could not tell.

  Stella was staring at me now. "You can, but you won't. Think of Fran. And the risk. Eventually our boys will find you."

  "But there are other women out there. Many more." That wasn't it and I knew it. So did Stella. She reached over and cupped my hand again. We stayed like that for a while. It felt good.

  "We'll meet again after Staunton. Then we can talk. For your sake, Lucy. Are you sure you can do him?"

  I was shaking inside, but from excitement or fear I wasn't sure. Or perhaps what I really feared was just that: the excitement. I knew I would find it again when I looked into the eyes of this next lump of shit.

  "Of course I can. It's this fifth that this has been for."

  "It's getting more personal for you that's all I'm saying."

  "Killing people is personal. They have faces."

  "You know what I mean. Keep it careful. Same routine."

  "I'll drop the clock."

  Her beautiful face smiled.

  I should have left it there. We would have had coffee, split the bill and left separately, her first, with me following later with my envelope of instructions. Our usual routine. As she was about to leave, however, I asked the question that had been forming slowly in my mind.

  "And what of you Stella? What about your part? Do you just stop here as well?"

  Before she answered I knew the truth. Her face betrayed it as she turned to face me. To her credit, her next words were honest.

  "No." She looked directly at me. "There are others, Lucy. Other women like you".

  ***

  The Priory at Bix is an imposing house, set back from others at the end of a long, moon-shaped drive. Red brick and modern, but handsome. I watched as Mrs Staunton left. The single empty milk bottle by the gate confirming that all was set. Staunton now stood alone inside his house. My tyres dug into the gravel, breaking the peace of a sleepy early morning. I heard him even before the tones of the doorbell had faded. Gothic chimes, very apt. Footsteps approached the door, a curse, then the sound of bolts being drawn.

  I checked my watch. 09:15. That's okay.

  Now anytime is killing time.

  END

  A CIVIL DEATH

  Sussex, England. September 2024.

  Archie, sitting alone in the back of a taxi, counted the birch trees sweeping past the window: 84...85…86. At the speed the taxi was travelling the trees flashed past at more than one a second, making it difficult to keep up. He needed to count though, needed the drumbeat in his head and the solidity it delivered. Earlier, when the taxi had first swung into the shadowed lanes, Archie had pulled a quote from his memory… If I knew I should die tomorrow, I would plant a tree today. It made him melancholy. So he had begun counting.

  The taxi driver eyed Archie in the rear view mirror. "This is the place coming up, mister. You want me to drive in?"

  From his back seat Archie couldn't see much ahead other than hedgerows and shark-grey sky. "Yes, please. It might be a long driveway".

  The taxi slowed. The indicator ticked. The wheels turned slowly into a gravel entrance. An egg smashed against the windscreen. The driver flinched. "What the shit?" He stopped the car with a jolt. Ahead of the taxi stood two figures swathed in black, one taller than the other, their faces contorted, shouting. To Archie they looked like demons and now more of them were swelling around the sides of the vehicle. A black mass. He ducked low. The driver leant out of his window, "Oi, clear out of it. Clowns."

  Policemen appeared., stepping between the vehicle and the demons, pushing them back from the road, away from the taxi. A face filled a rear side window. A young woman with a pleading look in her eyes. In her right hand she held a piece of paper which she pressed against the glass. 'NO to VWES' it said in stark red letters. A moment later, a policeman's arm was around her and she disappeared back into the mass of bodies. Ahead of the taxi wrought iron gates slowly swung open. Three policemen were dragging those in front of the vehicle off the path. The driver, his head now back inside but still shouting, pressed his foot on the accelerator and the taxi sped through the gap, missing the still moving gates by inches either side. As the car moved down the driveway, Archie looked back though the rear window. From here the crowd looked smaller and the mass of movement had already subsided, leaving a sense of sadness rather than anger hanging over the gates.

  Archie had guessed right - the driveway was long. It swung round in a broad arc guarded by lines of poplars left and right. Eventually the driver, still complaining about the mess on his windscreen, pulled the taxi to a stop in front of a washed-stone mansion. A silver plaque displayed Cantley Court in etched lettering. Archie Morgan had arrived.

  ***

  His appointment was 16:00. Now it was 13:50. Archie arrived early for everything. He liked time to smell the air of a place. The receptionist in the lobby smiled, checked the details on his data card and directed him down a corridor extending off from the right. Archie counted his paces as he walked. Fifty-three, slow and steady, until he reached a Waiting Room sign on a doorway to the left. Archie walked in.

  This was not a typical waiting room. A plush cream carpet softened dark wood-panelled walls. Along the far side, opposite to where Archie stood, a bay window gave a panoramic view of the wooded grounds of the estate. In the centre stood a low oak table and pushed back against the walls, five brown leather sofas encircled it. These were occupied by six people, spread out with as much space as possible between them. Four women, two men. Fellow applicants.

  Archie chose a sofa and sat down next to a well-dressed lady sitting upright, handbag held tightly on her lap. As he sat, she shuffled along, creating more space between them. Archie smiled to himself. Someone once described his shoulders as permanently in mourning and this made every jacket he wore look dishevelled. Along with his pall-bearer's face and pinhole eyes he found this enough for women to usually shuffle away. The question was only ever, how far.

  He studied more details of the room. Now he could see the doorway from which he entered. Further along the same wall, almost in the corner, stood another door. This one was closed and its stark white panels threw a harsh contrast to the rest of the room. Between the two doors hung a large framed landscape. It balanced the panorama from the window. Archie recognized the painting and remarked as such to the lady on his sofa. "That is John Constable's Salisbury Cathedral From the Meadows," he said. The lady turned to the picture but said nothing. "A great choice. English classic." Archie continued, but she looked away and pretended not to hear. Archie turned to his right. An older lady sat alone on the next sofa. Archie could see her grey hair tightly bunched at the back and a large diamond earring sparkling gently in the light. Her hands flittered in her lap like restless sparrows. "Constable came from near my home town in Suffolk." Archie said towards her. No response. Silence fell in the room.

  It was broken by the white-panelled door opening. A nurse in green uniform and white shoes walked through, looking down at a display panel in her hand.

  "Mr. Howard Shelton, please."

  For seconds no one moved then, slowly, a man in the far corner of the room stood up. He was old, unsteady on his feet.

  "You have your forms and records, Mr. Shelton?" the nurse asked, walking towards him. She had an Irish accent. Shelton nodded in affirmation and waved a data card in the air. Her arm under his, the two of them tramped carefully to the door, his gaze to the floor. No one spoke, the only sound, the soft whisper of Shelton's shuffling feet. The nurse, in her forties perhaps, moved her short compact figure with strong strides. Archie counted her steps. Fourteen. When they reached the door, she held it as Shelton shuffled inside, then disappeared through herself.

  Archie turned his gaze from the closed door and caught Lady Shuffle from his sofa looking at him. He smiled at her. "Reminds me of a tugboat with limbs, that nurse. Guiding us old s
teamers into harbour, one by one." Archie laughed. He liked his little joke. Lady Shuffle creased up her mouth, narrowed her eyes and still said nothing. Archie turned to the window. The folks here were no fun. He would give up talking.

  ***

  Eight applicants had now gone through the door since he arrived. Eight in two hours. This surprised Archie. He expected a slower pace; twenty or thirty minutes between each. Robbie had advised him so. It made him uncomfortable. Lady Shuffle had been the third to go in. Since then two new applicants had arrived, chosen seats and sat in the hard silence imposed on them by the room. Then they too had been called. He expected to be next. There were no other applicants in the room. Besides, it was nearly 16:00. His eyes moved back to the window and scanned the scene beyond, no longer as sure of himself as when he first arrived. The waiting had taken a toll on his resolve and he felt the familiar fog of his mind moving into confusion. In the last hour he had counted the trees over and over to try to push out other thoughts. Twenty-two. Between each count he practiced the words Tanya and Robbie had discussed with him, the ones he was to say when called. He found himself holding on to them, but they seemed less compelling than before. He wondered about leaving, coming back tomorrow. No matter what Tanya and Robbie said.

  The white-panelled door swung open. By now it had a familiar sound.

  "Mr. Archie Morgan."

  He turned. Nurse Tugboat stood by the oak table. The tree quote jumped into his mind again and for the second time today he felt sad. His good ideas always came too late. He wanted to stay seated on his sofa, to endlessly recount the trees . He wanted to say he wasn't Archie Morgan and he no longer knew why he was here. Instead, he sat still looking towards the window, one hand gripping the arm of the sofa. Nurse Tugboat moved towards him her voice ringing out and crashing through him.

  "Come now, Mr. Morgan. You’re the only one left."

  Archie stood and took his data card from his pocket. He wanted to throw it on the floor. She reached his side, took the data card and placed her hand firmly on his elbow.

  "Follow me, Mr. Morgan, you are our last today."

  Archie looked into her face and silently conceded to the guiding pull. After ten strides they reached the white door and Archie left the comfort of the waiting room.

  She led him to a brightly lit, square shaped room with a desk under a frosted glass window and a medical couch against the left-hand wall. She stepped over to the desk and said in an authoritative voice "Take off your jacket, roll up your left sleeve and lie down on the couch please, Mr. Morgan." Archie was confused. Tanya and Robbie had said he would be interviewed, asked questions. They had rehearsed what to say. The loss of control created a sudden terror in him. His hand started to shake and his mouth dried up. Tugboat turned and looked at him. She was gently tapping a syringe with a long needle. A frown crossed her face.