Dark Winter (8 page)

We turned on to Hunting Bear Path and carried on for about a quarter of a mile until we reached a small, one-level parade of shops arranged in an open square with parking spaces, mainly little delis and boutiques specializing in candles and soap. That was where I’d stopped that day to buy sweets for Aida and Kelly that I knew Marsha wouldn’t let them have, and a couple of other equally unwelcome gifts.

Far up on the right-hand side among the large detached houses I could just about make out the rear of Kev and Marsha’s ‘de luxe colonial’. The Century 21 for-sale sign had been up for five years now, and had become faded and weatherbeaten. As co-executor with Josh of their will, I knew not to get too hopeful when anyone came to view it. They never stuck around long once they discovered its history.

8

‘Mrs Billman’s back.’ Josh nodded at the blue Explorer in a driveway fifty metres ahead. The houses round here were quite a distance apart. He stopped, blocking in the other wagon, and arched his back to reach into his cargoes. ‘I’ll go check with them, you go look around the house. Here.’ He threw a bunch of keys at me on a Homer Simpson ring. ‘I won’t come looking, OK? I’ll stay in the truck to give you kids some time. Know what I’m saying?’

We both climbed out of the Dodge, and as he went up the Billmans’ drive I stood looking up the road at the light-brown brick and white weatherboarded house. I hadn’t seen it for a year or two, but not much had changed: it just looked older and a bit more tired. At least the ‘community’ cut the lawns and trimmed the hedges so it didn’t make their world look untidy.

I began to walk up the driveway. I was kidding myself – everything had changed. In the old days, I’d have been ambushed by now. The kids would have jumped out at me, with Marsha and Kev close behind.

I’d known the Browns a long time by that spring of 1997. I was there when Kev first met Marsha, I was best man at their wedding, and was even godfather to Aida, their second child. I took the job seriously, even though I didn’t really know what I was supposed to do.

I knew I’d never have any kids of my own; I’d always be too busy running around doing shit jobs for people like George. Kev and Marsha knew that too, and really tried to make me feel part of their set-up. As a kid on a run-down estate in south London I’d grown up with this fantasy of the perfect family, and as far as I was concerned Kev was living the dream.

I went straight to the up-and-over garage door, but it was locked, and none of Homer’s keys fitted. I skirted round the left side of the house and headed for the backyard. No sign of her. Just the big, wood-framed swing, a little the worse for wear, but still there after all this time.

I slotted a Yale in the front door and gave it a turn. Six years ago, as I remembered only too well, I’d found it ajar.

Kev’s job with the DEA [Drug Enforcement Administration] had been mostly deskbound in Washington for the previous few months. He’d made enemies in the drug-dealing community when he was an undercover operator, and after five attempts on his life, Marsha had decided enough was enough.

He loved his new, safer life. ‘More time with the kids,’ he’d say.

‘Yeah, so you can carry on being one!’ was my standard reply.

Luckily Marsha was the mature and sensible partner; when it came to the family, they complemented each other well. Their house was a healthy, loving environment, but by the end of three or four days I’d have to move on. I’d joke about it and complain about the house smelling of scented candles, but they knew the real reason: I just couldn’t handle people showing this much affection.

The stale, musty, unlived-in smell hit me the moment Homer did his stuff and I stepped inside. The corridor opened up into a large rectangular hallway with doors leading off to the downstairs rooms. Kitchen to my right. Lounge to the left. All the doors were closed. I stood just the other side of the threshold, spinning the key-ring slowly on my finger, wanting badly to smell those candles again.

All the carpets and furniture had been taken away a long time ago. It was the first thing the realtor had got us to do when we put it up for sale. Prospective buyers didn’t go a bundle on bloodstained shag pile and three-piece suites. Kelly hadn’t minded anything going, but insisted we hung on to the swing. Next, we’d got every trace of blood steamed away. The smell was still there, though, I was convinced of it: the haunting metallic tang was starting to hit my nostrils and catch in the back of my throat. Shoving Homer in a pocket of my bomber, I ventured deeper into the house.

As I passed the solid wood lounge door, my heartbeat quickened. I couldn’t help myself; I had to stop and face that fucking door. I even started reaching for the handle, but then my hand dropped away. I knew I couldn’t do it. And this wasn’t the only door here that made me feel like that.

I’d come back more than once to oversee removal men and cleaners, but I’d never made it further than the kitchen. In the end I’d had to leave that side of things to Josh. I’d never told him why, never told him about the doors I just couldn’t bring myself to open. Smartarse that he was, he probably knew anyway.

I just stood there, staring at the handle, my forehead against the closed door. My hands went into my bomber pockets. My fingers closed around Homer’s head and the keys, clenching them until they gave me pain.

Sunlight had cascaded through the lounge door that day in April 1997, but I hadn’t bothered looking in. I’d been too intent on making a beeline for the soft rock music in the kitchen. Something must have snagged in my peripheral vision, though, because after a couple of steps I froze in my tracks. My brain must have taken in the information, but for a split second refused to process it.

I gripped Homer hard, while a wave of nausea washed through me. My internal video had begun to play back what I’d seen, in full technicolour. Hard to believe it had been six years ago, even harder to believe it could still be stored so close to the surface.

Shit, I thought I’d got this under control.

Too late. It was running.

Kev was lying on his side on the floor, his head battered to fuck by a baseball bat. It was the one he’d shown off to me, a nice light ‘aluminum’ job. He’d raised his eyebrows and laughed as he told me the local rednecks called them Alabama lie-detectors.

Then I was checking his body, just in case he was breathing. No chance. His brains were hanging out, his face pulped. Blood all over the settee and chairs. Some even splattered on the patio windows.

What about Marsha and the kids? Was the killer still in the house?

I’d needed one of his pistols, the very fucking things that had been supposed to be there to protect them. He’d once shown me all the places they were concealed, always above child level, always loaded and made ready, a magazine on the weapon and a round in the chamber. I’d soon got my hands round a Heckler and Koch USP 9mm, a semi-automatic pistol. This one even had a laser sight under the barrel; where the beam hit, so did the round.

My eyes welled as the song from the radio came back to me, some Aerosmith thing, one of Marsha’s favourites. I stayed leaning into the door, waiting for my heartrate to slow, then pivoted my head to the right, towards the closed kitchen door. That had been the room I’d checked first for Marsha and the kids. It had been the nearest, the one with music.

I pushed away from the door, my Cats echoing as I walked across the bare hall, Aerosmith providing the soundtrack to the video in my head.

Pistol out in front of me, ready to fire as soon as I saw a target, I had given the door a push, and moved back from the frame. The radio had become louder, and the washing-machine was on – turning, stopping, turning.

I’d moved forward and pushed the door fully open. Nothing. Just a small dot of brilliant red light where the laser splashed on the opposite wall.

Today, no radio, no washing-machine, no nothing. But even then it had been like stepping aboard the
Marie Celeste
. There’d been food on the side, in the midst of preparation. Kev had said Marsha was going to cook something special. There were vegetables and opened packs of meat. The table was half laid.

I had moved slowly to the other end of the room and locked the door to the garage. I hadn’t wanted to clear the bottom of the house only to have the boys come in behind me.

I suddenly realized I was still throttling Homer, and released my grip. As blood rushed back into my hand, I leant against the sink and stared at the garage door. That was the one I should be going through, but I couldn’t help myself, I needed to go upstairs.

I went out into the hallway again and put my foot on the uncarpeted bottom step. The bare wood creaked unnaturally loudly.

The girls’ old room was waiting for me at the top of the stairs. Six years ago, it had been the world’s biggest shrine to
Pocahontas
– T-shirts and posters, bed-linen and even a doll who sang something about colours when you pressed her back. The door was closed, but that door wasn’t the problem.

The next room down on the left had been Kev and Marsha’s. The door was slightly ajar.

My heart sparked up again, my mouth went dry.

Why the fuck have you come up here? You promised yourself you never would again.

I couldn’t help it. I edged nearer, as if the door was a dangerous animal, and smelt that faint, metallic tang again, as strongly as if it was really there – and then the stench of shit.

Fuck this.
I headed back towards the stairs, but stopped and turned back, lying to myself that I had a reason to stay.

Get a grip! You’re here to find Kelly.

The video was running. I wasn’t able to stop it. Sinking down on to the bare floorboards of the landing, I just stared at the part-open door, my head replaying every last fucking detail.

It had only been when I’d inched round the frame that I’d got my first glimpse of Marsha.

She’d been kneeling by the bed, arms spreadeagled on it, the bedspread covered with blood.

I’d gone in, forcing myself to ignore her. The room was clear. The en-suite was next, and what I’d seen there had made me lose it, totally fucking lose it.

Bang, I’d smacked back against the wall and slumped on to the floor. Blood everywhere. I’d got it all over my shirt and hands; I’d sat in a pool of it; it had soaked the seat of my trousers.

Stop this – fucking stop it! Cut and run . . .

Too late. Much too late. Aida had been lying on the floor between the bath and the toilet, her five-year-old head nearly severed from her shoulders. Just three inches of flesh left intact, the vertebrae scarcely attached.

Then I’d
really
seen Marsha. Her dress had been hanging normally but her tights had been torn, her knickers pulled down, and she had shit herself, probably at the point of death.

All I had seen in that moment was somebody I really cared for, even loved, on her knees, her blood splattered all over the bed. And she’d had the same done to her as Aida had.

Not even Homer could divert me now. I was taking deep breaths and wiping my eyes, just as I had done then. Feeling the same shock and disbelief, the same devastating feeling of failure.

What if you’d got here earlier? Could you have stopped this fucking nightmare?

I wiped my face.

I had to cut away, or I’d go crazy. It had taken me years to learn how to keep the zoo gates closed, and I’d done myself no favours by giving them the chance to open.

I gripped the banisters and pulled myself up, and then went downstairs to see her.

9

Kev had shown me the ‘hidey-hole’, as he called it, the same day he showed me where all the weapons were concealed, just in case shit happened. It was built from the boxes the kitchen appliances had come in, under an open staircase in the garage that led up to a little makeshift loft where he used to stack his ladders and stuff. The kids knew they had to run straight there if Kev or Marsha ever shouted the word ‘Disneyland!’ They were to keep very quiet, and they weren’t to come out until Daddy or Mommy came and got them.

Back down in the kitchen, I took a deep breath and got myself together, then went through into the garage.

In the old days they could easily have fitted three extra vehicles beside the company car Kev always used to keep there, a navy Caprice Classic bristling with aerials. ‘Fucking thing,’ he would always complain. ‘All the mod cons of the nineties, in a motor that looks like a nineteen-sixties fridge.’

The kids’ bikes had used to hang from frames on the breeze-block wall. They’d been disposed of with all the other clutter that families accumulate. All that was left was a collection of unused removal boxes that we’d stacked under the staircase. Kelly had made herself a new Disneyland.

I moved towards them, calling out gently. ‘Kelly? It’s Nick. Are you there?’

When Kev had made his cardboard cave he’d provisioned it with a few dolls, bottles of water and chocolate bars. Last time I’d approached it on my hands and knees, the pistol down my waistband. I hadn’t wanted Kelly to see a weapon, hadn’t wanted her to know there was a major drama going on.

I’d tried to coax her out as I moved Kev’s boxes aside, inching towards the back wall.