Hands of the Ripper (25 page)

He went to bed.

Anna had bundled herself beneath the duvet and
wrapped
the pillow around her face. Anything to stop hearing the voices.

They were back in force now, Bad Father, Soft Mother, Father Legion … all of them arguing with one another, all of them wanting her to themselves.

And the blank periods were back. One moment she was in the leafy square, the next she had been stood outside the university with no memory of how she had got there. Checking her reflection in a shop window, she had gone into Verano, bought herself a coffee and snuck into their bathroom to tidy herself up. There had been pieces of leaf in her hair and grass stains on her knees. At some point she had broken a nail, though whether that had been falling over earlier or during some unremembered accident since she couldn’t say.

She drank her coffee and tried to put on a natural smile in time to cross over and pick up John.

It would be fine, she convinced herself. There had been an accident, that was all, and it had triggered an episode. She was getting better, for sure. Getting much, much better.

But she couldn’t believe it, not with the glimpses of Bad Father she had suffered for the rest of the day. He had been peering through the kitchen window, standing in the airing cupboard, loitering beneath the street lamp opposite the house. He was everywhere. He would never let her go.

‘You need me, girl,’ he had whispered, lying next to her in the bed, curling himself around her, spooning beneath the duvet. ‘You need what I can do.’

‘No, no, no …’

She gripped the sheets and held on, terrified that if she loosened her grip for a second he would have her and she would find herself somewhere else. Maybe even in John’s room with a knife in her hand …

‘We’d teach him a lesson, my girl,’ said Bad Father, ‘wouldn’t we?’

She bit into her tongue and fought her way through until dawn.

‘Why are you still here?’ Laura asked the following morning. ‘You can’t come, you know.’

John was sat in the lounge flicking through the free newspaper that had been abandoned on his front door mat that morning.

‘I don’t have to go in till later,’ he explained, ‘and I know I can’t come, I’m not girly enough for girls’ adventures.’

‘Precisely. You might encourage Anna along though, she still hasn’t come out of her room and we need to get there before twelve.’

‘God’s not going anywhere.’

‘Maybe not, but he’s not allowing tourists after then, they’re closing off the galleries for a service.’

‘How is poor God to earn a living?’

Laura squeezed his hand and walked out to the front door. ‘I’m just popping to the post office,’ she grinned and held up a small parcel. ‘Emergency provisions for Michael in Weymouth! I’m sending him some Kendall Mint Cake, a miniature bottle of scotch and a porn mag.’

‘A life-safer, I’m sure,’ said John, getting to his feet. ‘I can take you.’

‘You sit down, John Pritchard,’ she said, opening the front door, ‘I’m perfectly capable.’

‘I wasn’t suggesting otherwise,’ John insisted, putting his hand on her shoulder, ‘but I’m still only too happy to go with you.’

‘You just make sure that woman’s ready,’ she replied. ‘We leave the minute I return!’

Laura grabbed her cane and stepped out of the door. John watched her walk along the path and admired her every step of the way. She had already become familiar enough with the distance between the front door and the gate that she barely needed her cane to get herself out onto the pavement and strolling down the road in the direction of the shops.

If she can overcome her difficulties, he thought, we all can.

He pulled the door closed just as someone stepped through his front gate. He watched the distorted image creep closer through the smoked-glass window in the door. For a moment he thought of Jane. Not the real Jane, the one he had loved and lost, but the terrible shadow she had left behind to haunt him.

He opened the door and came face to face with Aida Golding.

‘Hello John, my dear,’ she said, ‘and how have you been keeping?’

Aida had been watching the house for about an hour. She had sat in the car, chain-smoking cigarettes and trying to decide whether John had left early for work or was still there. It would be easier, she had decided, were
she
to confront Anna on her own. After all, Anna was weak and easily controlled. She had no doubt that she could have the stupid girl doing whatever she wanted within a few minutes of coming face to face with her. Not that she didn’t want the chance to get back at John too, she was not a woman who bore any aggressor, however ultimately small. But Anna first. She’d drag that snivelling creature back into line if she had to half-kill her to do so.

She had briefly considered calling on the Barrowman brothers. She’d maintained her relationship with Luke throughout her time with Alasdair. Luke’s needs were unconventional and she enjoyed fulfilling them. She had known that all it would have taken was one brief phone call and both boys would have been around here last night teaching John and Anna what happened when you took sides against Aida Golding. On the whole, though, it had felt too easy. After what had happened to Alasdair (and Glen and Sacha, she reminded herself, though who really cared about those two?) she had increasingly felt the need to reassert herself. Frankly, she wanted to smack the world in its mouth.

She saw a young woman appear at the front gate and, for a moment, she wondered if she had the wrong house. The girl was obviously blind, tapping her way towards the gate with her stick. Maybe he had a blind daughter? She decided there was only one way to find out.

She got out of the car and made her way along to the front gate. The door was just swinging closed as she
walked
down the path and she recognised the indistinct shape beyond the glass as John.

It
is
the right house, she thought, and we’ll have to start with Pritchard rather than Anna, after all.

The door opened again, John had clearly seen her too.

‘Hello John, my dear,’ she said, ‘and how have you been keeping?’

He actually went to shut the door in her face. She saw his shoulders tense in preparation. She shoved forward, refusing to let him.

‘I wouldn’t, darling,’ she said. ‘We need to talk, you and I. It will be a lot more painless for you if you manage not to piss me off any further.’

‘We have nothing to discuss,’ he replied, nonetheless forced to let her past. It was either that or physically throw her out and she guessed rightly that he wouldn’t be able to do that. No, however angry he might be, John was old school.

She walked through into the living room, sat down in one of the chairs, pulled out a cigarette and lit it. She was like a cat, marking her territory.

‘I don’t allow smoking in here,’ John said, his voice getting louder before he seemed to get a lid on it. She noticed he made a tiny upward glance before shutting the lounge door. Oh yes! That was it, Anna was upstairs and he didn’t want her to know … He thought he might be able to get her back out of the door without the little bitch even twigging she’d been here.

‘Never dictate to guests, dear,’ she replied, ‘it’s not polite.’

‘You’re not my guest out of choice,’ he said, ‘and if
you
don’t leave straight away I shall call the police.’ He reached for the phone.

‘And tell them what? That you refused a mother access to her legally adopted child? Good luck with that.’

‘After they hear about the way you treated her I’m sure that won’t be a problem.’

‘Happy to talk about that, is she? Really? The bitch has grown some claws at last.’

‘With my help we’ll see you serving a sentence for abuse.’

‘Always making threats aren’t you?’ she replied, ‘“I will do my utmost to ensure you never practise this charade again.” That’s what you said that night after the seance, remember? All riled up and manly. You wanted to ruin me, didn’t you?’

‘I did,’ he admitted, ‘and still do. I find you contemptible.’

‘Clearly. Enough to steal my daughter!’ she raised her voice at that, intentionally wanting it to carry upstairs, to reach Anna and make her afraid.

‘I didn’t steal her, she came here for help.’

‘Or to hide after killing Father Goss?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I met with Probert, I know all about Trevor Court.’

‘Do you now? And how exactly do you think he managed to sneak into the room, cut the priest’s throat and then vanish again? He may have been to blame for Alasdair …’ her voice cracked slightly at the mention of his name but she was damned if she was going to lose strength now, ‘but Goss was killed by someone else.’

‘By himself then, like we all said.’

‘Or by Anna … consumed by the personality of her father. She’s a very sick woman you know. Very sick.’

‘Thanks to you.’

‘Oh, I didn’t start her off, dear, you know that. I think some kids are just born bad, don’t you?’

‘No, I don’t, but I think a lifetime of sustained abuse is enough to make people sometimes do bad things.’

‘Oh, so you are willing to admit she’s bad then?’

‘No!’ John paced up and down, frustrated by her presence. ‘Just get out, I’m not having any more of this conversation.’

He began dialling the phone as she stood up. Might he actually call the police? Aida wondered. If he did she’d fight but, really, she had little ammunition, just hot air and a lot of determination. Perhaps a sustained period of intimidation would be better. She doubted it would take long for Anna to come running home if she made a habit of calling round.

‘I’ll be back,’ she said, ‘don’t worry about that.’ She opened the lounge door and turned back to offer him a smile. ‘A mother has a right to visit her daughter.’

‘You’re not my mother!’ Anna screamed, hurling herself through the doorway.

‘Anna!’ John shouted, seeing the kitchen knife in her hand, ‘don’t!’

But Anna couldn’t hear anything but the pumping of her own heart and the laughter of Bad Father. She slashed the knife across her foster mother’s throat in one smooth movement, like running a bow across the strings of a cello.

‘Oh God!’ he said, dashing forward, ‘please don’t!’

‘Shut up!’ she shouted her voice deep and rough.

That’s the voice, he thought, the voice I heard outside, the voice at the seance. That’s Douglas Reece.

She got to her feet and he held his hands out towards her, trying to reassure her, trying to calm her down.

‘Please,’ he said, ‘we can fix this, it’s fine. Let me just call an ambulance.’

‘Call it for yourself,’ she said in that same rough tone, and stabbed him in the stomach.

He doubled over, shocked and winded, a small circle of blood growing larger on his shirt front. ‘Anna?’ he asked.

But Anna was long gone, now there was just Bad Father.

Sixteen

The Dead Are Not Jealous

BAD FATHER DROPPED
the knife on the floor where it was absorbed by the fast stretching pool of blood from Aida Golding’s throat.

‘Anna,’ the old man said again, reaching out towards her.

‘No,’ Bad Father replied, walking out of the room and closing the door firmly behind him.

The front door was still wide open and he stepped outside, taking a deep breath of fresh air and wondering what exactly to do with himself.

There was a soft tapping noise coming along the street and he walked up the path to look. Of course, the blind girl, Laura. They had an adventure to go on didn’t they? They certainly did.

He went back and closed the front door to Pritchard’s house before calling out to her.

‘I’m ready when you are!’ He took extra care over the voice, making sure it sounded like his daughter.

‘I should hope so!’ she called back, holding out her arm for him to take it. He did so.

‘You all right?’ Laura asked, ‘you sound a bit funny.’

‘Fine,’ Bad Father replied, ‘perfect in fact.’

‘That’s all right then, let’s have an adventure!’

‘Yes,’ Bad Father replied, ‘let’s.’

John tried to control his breathing, pressing his hands against the wound in his belly. There was a lot of blood. He felt light-headed. Staring at Aida Golding’s dead body he felt his vision blur and his head topple.

Then he was awake again. He’d passed out.

Probably shock as much as blood loss, he decided, need to get myself together, stop the bleeding and …

And stop Anna.

Yes, that was the thing, wasn’t it? He had to stop Anna. And unless he kept his wits together …

He carefully undid his belt and pulled it free of the waist-loops of his jeans. Reaching for a cushion from the sofa, he gave an involuntary shout of pain and sat back for a moment to build up courage for the next movement. He stripped the cover from the cushion, folded it and, using the belt, strapped it as tightly over the wound as he could. He couldn’t help but cry out as he yanked the belt tighter but he knew that it was useless unless he cinched it hard. The pain actually motivated him a little. Adrenalin, he realised, my body’s trying to help out.

He slowly got to his feet and walked as slowly and as carefully as he could out of the lounge and into the hallway for the phone.

‘Ring Laura first,’ said a voice from the stairs and, glancing up he saw Jane’s feet stood near the top. Not the terrible, long-dead feet he had glimpsed before. This
was
the real Jane,
his
Jane, here to help. ‘You need to warn her,’ she continued, ‘as soon as you can.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘warn Laura first.’

He dialled her mobile number.

Laura could tell something was wrong with Anna but chose not to pry. One way or another she’d shake her out of it. Wasn’t that what friends were for?

‘What time is John back this evening?’ she asked, thinking they might all settle down with a takeaway rather than Anna cooking.

‘I don’t know,’ Anna said, ‘I didn’t think to ask.’

‘I can just ring him,’ Laura said reaching for her phone in her pocket. ‘Oh … I left it on the kitchen table. I thought I’d be going back to the house before heading off.’