Only the Dead (11 page)
They’re at it again
.
The same old ritual. They’re in the bedroom. She’s crying. He’s shouting. She’s firing accusations between snivels. Sean’s downstairs. The television’s on. It’s early evening. The Goodnight Kiwi has just come on, telling him it’s time to go to bed. Sean thinks it’s too early for bed, and he won’t get any sleep with the noise going on
.
He climbs the stairs. It’s not an easy process. He’s still hurting from where Derren struck him with the belt three days before. Derren’s study and the phone within it are sacred. They’re strictly off limits, and failure to adhere to this brings savage penalties. The penalties had remained nameless until three nights earlier when Sean tried to ring 111 on the desk phone. Retribution was swift. Derren dealt punishment with a calm and wordless determination: a faint smile, a small showing of tongue at the corner of his mouth. Derren took his sweet time. Derren beat him raw
.
Sean reaches the landing. The door to the master bedroom’s shut this time — no gap. He puts his ear to the door. The shouting’s all one-way traffic: Derren only. The wife’s crying. Sean hears slaps in rapid succession
.
He pauses at the door. Conflict lulls. He can hear snivelling. Sometimes when the wife’s been put in her place, Derren leaves her be and goes downstairs and drinks a beer,
or pumps some iron in the back yard. Sean hurries along the hallway to his own bedroom, fearful Derren’s on the way out. He’s just reached his doorway when the wife crashes out of the master bedroom in a stumble and disappears into the adjacent bathroom. Derren’s not far behind, and he drops his full weight into a shoulder-slam against the bathroom door, but somehow she manages to get it closed and throw the catch across
.
Derren steps back. He’s in a singlet, fresh from lawns duty. His shoulders are rising and falling with exertion. Maybe the new wife is more than he’s bargained for. He stands there, hands on hips, facing the bathroom door, in profile against the entry to the study, maybe weighing up the pros and cons of busting the lock. A mirror shatters
.
‘
Bitch,’ he says. ‘If you bust up my bathroom, you’re going to be so fucking sorry. I tell you
.’
He sees Sean hovering in his periphery, and turns to him. ‘Piss off, you little shit
.’
He takes a step towards him, palms him in the centre of the chest and sends him sprawling on his back into his bedroom. Sean’s head whips back and cracks the floor. He sees stars, like a handful of crushed glass tossed beneath a bright light. Derren slams closed the bedroom door. Sean hears him move back down the hallway. Shouts back and forth through the bathroom door. A tap is running full on
.
It takes Derren a minute to put two and two together and work out what’s going on. When it all clicks he’s hammering on the door with his fist, hollering to be let in. No luck. He decides on a break-in. He’s a big guy: two kicks and he’s through. Sean hears the panelling crack like dry bone
.
‘
Oh, shit. Shit. Shit. No
.’
Sean picks himself up off the floor and steps into the
corridor. The bathroom door’s in tatters. It’s creased lengthways at midpoint, twisted backwards and clinging by its fingertips to the bottom hinge. Sean steals a glance around the frame. The tap’s still running. The bath’s half full and rising, the water deep scarlet. The wife’s draped limp as old bedding across one edge of the tub, one pale arm trailing gashed and blood-red in the water. Her head’s sideways, hair lank atop the water’s surface like some stringy weed. The frame and winking detritus of the trashed mirror are all around her. She’s got a wide pointed shard in one hand. She’s torn her forearm bone-deep, wrist to elbow
.
Derren’s on his knees, but his hands are in his hair, not helping her. He’s realised the time to stop her was maybe twenty or thirty minutes back. He’s a military man. Maybe he’s seen this before. He knows she’s on the verge of a flat line
.
Sean lingers there a second longer, and then he’s away down the stairs, full sprint. This time around, Derren doesn’t even bother to chase
.
He followed advice.
He went home and slept: catch-up on hours owed from last night, plus preparation for his outing with The Don. He woke at two-thirty p.m. and brought himself round with a shower and a cup of coffee. His phone was loaded with missed calls. He hit redial without checking the number, waited to see who picked up. He figured it could only be bad news. Call it Russian roulette, all chambers loaded.
Ellen picked up: ‘Are you okay? I’ve been trying to call you but you haven’t—’
‘Yeah … sorry.’
‘So are you okay?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine.’
‘You shot someone.’
‘It’s under control.’
‘Christ.’ She sounded strung out.
‘Are you at work?’ he said.
‘Yeah. I mean no. I’m at home.’
‘Should I come round?’
‘Yeah, come round. We need to talk.’
He didn’t reply. The ‘need to talk’ line stalled him.
‘Not
that
talk. Just come round.’
He washed his coffee mug and left. Across-town traffic was light, mid-afternoon. She was house-sitting at her parents’ place in Herne Bay, just west of the CBD. It was an old two-storey villa, well maintained. A Marine Parade locale afforded panoramic harbour views. He left the Commodore at the kerb and walked down. The front door was open, he made a clatter of removing his shoes in preference to calling out. It was a routine he didn’t know why he’d adopted. She came through from the kitchen: a concerned bustle, threading hair behind an ear as she moved.
She kissed him and hugged him close. Her hair smelled so good he wondered why he hadn’t visited sooner.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t call.’
She hung on to him. He realised he was just standing there blankly. He put his arms around her.
‘I hate having to find out from other people that you shot someone.’
‘I shoot anyone else I’ll tell you right away. I promise.’
She laughed.
‘God. I’m glad you’re okay. I thought you might have been hurt or something.’
‘They would have told you if I was dead.’
She pulled away and led him through to the front of the
house. The dining room’s bay window framed picturesque still life: pohutukawa trees below a two-tone block of blues where the harbour met horizon.
They sat at the table, adjacent corner seats, her knee against his thigh. She looked out at the view.
He tried for idle chat: ‘How long are your parents away?’
‘You can’t ever do that.’
‘What?’
‘Not tell me stuff. You didn’t ring to tell me anything. It scared the shit out of me.’
‘I didn’t know what to say.’
‘I’m sure you would have thought of something.’
‘I tried. Nothing came to mind.’
‘You could have just started with “I shot someone” and we could have worked from there.’
‘I think I’m just used to dealing with things myself.’
‘Yeah, but I’m not. And that’s the whole thing about a relationship. You kind of work together.’
He didn’t answer.
‘You can’t just internalise everything. You’ve got to tell me about these things.’ She smiled. ‘Otherwise I just worry, and I’m sure it can’t be good for you.’
‘I told John Hale.’
‘Yeah, but he’s not a normal human.’
‘Just because he drives a Ford Escort.’
‘Mmm … hilarious.’
Devereaux didn’t reply.
‘So what happened?’ she said.
‘I was light backup for a surveillance job. They were putting a GPS thing on a guy’s car. But the guy caught them at it, went at them with a machete. I had to shoot him.’
‘Was it …’ she searched for the word, “proper”?’
‘Could be touch and go.’
‘Why?’
‘I shot him through a door.’
‘So there could be trouble.’
‘I think there is trouble.’
‘Are you going to lose your job?’
‘Probably not.’
It didn’t seem to reassure her. She released a breath, touched a thumbnail to a cut in the edge of the table. ‘Is he still alive?’
‘No. He died this morning.’
‘Oh, God. Sean, I’m sorry.’
He didn’t answer.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I was building up to it.’
She blinked, wiped tears with the heel of her hand.
He said, ‘It’ll be all right.’
‘I’m meant to be the one saying that.’
He almost laughed, but bit down on it. ‘You shouldn’t chew your mouth. Makes you look slightly less pretty.’
She smiled and took his hand in both of hers, then leaned and kissed him on the mouth. He kissed her back, conscious of the fact he probably tasted like cigarettes and fast food. Maybe she liked it. Something about the mix had appealed to him. Her hand went to his collar, ran out along his shoulder.
‘Let’s go upstairs,’ she said. A whisper, an inch from his lips. He felt the heat of it in his mouth. She took his hand again and she led him.
The cop’s name is O’Dwyer. He’s a tall fat man in a suit. Sean can tell he’s had a long day. His jacket’s creased, and his tie’s spilling out one pocket. His hair’s rooster-tailed at the front like he’s been running a greasy palm past it for the last
eight or ten hours. He puts Sean in the back of a police car and smiles and tells him he’ll be along in a minute. He offers a piece of chewing gum, but Sean tells him no thank you
.
The street’s choked out with patrol cars, all of them parked crooked, doors wide, light bars flaring, dashboard radio units cranked to high volume so the cops on the footpath won’t miss an urgent callout
.
O’Dwyer and another, younger, cop in a suit rendezvous by the letterbox. They’re relaxed. They’ve seen suicides before. O’Dwyer’s checking his watch, like he’s late for dinner. Sean scoots across the back seat and drops the window a crack so he can catch what’s said
.
The younger cop says, ‘She’s got facial injuries that look ante-mortem
.’
‘
Okay
.’
‘
She bled out a long way, and the water makes it look even more than it is
.’
‘
Has the husband said anything
?’
‘
No
.’
‘
Be real fucking tiptoe if you question him. I don’t want him confessing something good, and then some shit-hot lawyer claiming he thought he was being questioned about an assault and not a homicide. You know
?’
‘
Yeah. I’m with you. Are you going to chat to the boy
?’
‘
Yeah. I’d better see the scene first
.’
O’Dwyer goes to look in the house, and he’s gone about thirty minutes. When he reappears he walks back to the car, and climbs into the back seat next to Sean. He turns sideways on the seat and pulls one knee under him and props an arm up on his headrest. He wasn’t chewing gum earlier, but he is now. Sean thinks maybe he always has a piece before he checks a crime scene, to take the edge off the smell
.
O’Dwyer says, ‘How are you doing?
’
‘
Good
.’
‘
Do Mum and Dad fight very often?
’
‘
They’re not my mum and dad
.’
O’Dwyer says nothing. He chews slowly and waits for Sean to volunteer the details
.
‘
I got sent here to live with Derren,’ Sean says. ‘He looks after foster kids. I’m just staying with him while my real mum’s in hospital, but when she gets better I’m going back to live with her
.’
‘
Okay.’ O’Dwyer nods to himself. ‘I understand. So how long have you been staying with Derren
?’
‘
Six months. About
.’
‘
Okay.’ He dips a beak of thick fingers in the breast pocket of his shirt and finds his gum. He pops another piece in his mouth. ‘Sure you don’t want some?’ he says
.
Sean shakes his head
.
‘
Is there anything that you want to tell me?’ O’Dwyer says
.
Sean’s quiet a second. ‘About what
?’
O’Dwyer shrugs. ‘About anything really. Maybe about what was happening this evening, if you happened to see anything
.’
‘
I don’t think I saw anything,’ Sean says
.
‘
You don’t think you saw anything?’ But he’s smiling, and there’s nothing aggressive in the question
.
Sean doesn’t answer
.
O’Dwyer says, ‘I saw that poster of R.E.M. on the wall in your room. You like R.E.M?
’
‘
Yeah. They’re cool
.’
‘
They are pretty cool. What’s your favourite song
?’
Sean gives the question careful thought. ‘“It’s the End of the World As We Know It”,’ he says
.
O’Dwyer nods slowly to himself, eyes narrowed, like that’s what he’d been expecting to hear. ‘That’s my favourite song, too,’ he says
.
Sean says nothing
.
O’Dwyer’s big arm is draped along the back of the seats, hand the size of a lampshade hanging next to Sean. O’Dwyer nudges him gently on the shoulder with his fingertips. ‘Do you reckon you might be able to tell me a bit about what happened tonight?’ he says
.
Sean thinks about it a long time. Cops are milling about on the footpath, eyes downcast, swiping footpath grit with their soles. O’Dwyer has a friendly look on his face. He likes R.E.M. ‘I was downstairs watching TV,’ Sean says. ‘I turned it off when Goodnight Kiwi came on
.’
‘
Did you? Good man.’ O’Dwyer smiles. ‘My little boy’s meant to turn off the telly and go to bed when Goodnight Kiwi comes on, but sometimes he doesn’t.’ O’Dwyer shakes his head, and looks a little disappointed. ‘So what was going on when you were watching TV
?’
‘
They were upstairs fighting
.’
‘
Where were they upstairs? Do you know
?’
‘
In Derren’s bedroom
.’
‘
In Derren’s bedroom. Okay. So what did you do after you’d turned off the TV?
’
‘I went upstairs, too.’
‘Where did you go upstairs?’
‘
To my room
.’
‘
Okay,’ O’Dwyer says. ‘So you’re in your room. And the others are in Derren’s room, fighting
.’
Sean nods
.
‘
What happened after that
?’
‘
She ran out of the bedroom,’ he says. He knows the wife’s
proper name, but for some reason he can’t bring himself to use it. ‘She locked herself in the bathroom
.’
He hasn’t told O’Dwyer about the sound of the mirror breaking, or the bath running, but that’s okay. He would have seen them and figured it out for himself
.
‘
What happened after that?’ O’Dwyer says
.
‘
Derren stood at the bathroom and told her to let him in. But she didn’t. He saw me standing at my bedroom door, and he pushed me over and slammed the door shut
.’
‘
Did he hurt you
?’
‘
A little bit. I hit my head on the floor
.’
‘
Is your head okay
?’
‘
Yes
.’
O’Dwyer feigns concern: ‘Is the floor okay
?’
Sean smiles shyly and nods. ‘The floor’s okay
.’
‘All right. So then what happened?’
‘
Derren broke down the bathroom door. Well, that’s what I heard
.’
O’Dwyer waited for more
.
‘
After that, I went and looked in the bathroom. She was lying in the tub, all bleeding. Derren was crouching next to her, with his hands on his head
.’
O’Dwyer sucks a tooth and patters his fingers against the seat. ‘Do you think you might have seen anything else after Derren broke down the door
?’
Sean says nothing
.
O’Dwyer looks at him. ‘Like maybe you saw Derren cut the lady’s arm,’ he says slowly
.
Sean says nothing
.
O’Dwyer shrugs. ‘I don’t know. Maybe you didn’t see anything like that. I just thought this chap Derren’s not a very nice guy, maybe you saw him hurting the lady in the bathroom
.’
Sean doesn’t reply. O’Dwyer’s nailed it, though: Derren isn’t a nice guy. He remembers being grabbed from behind when he was looking through the cupboard. He remembers being dropped when he tried to use the phone. He doesn’t need to remember the belt; he can still feel the injuries. He thinks if he tells O’Dwyer he heard the mirror break and the tap running before Derren was even in the bathroom, then things might play out a little easier for Derren. Sean definitely didn’t see Derren cut the wife, and he gets the feeling O’Dwyer’s trying to put words in his mouth
.
Not a very nice guy
.
O’Dwyer leans across and claps him gently on the knee. ‘Have a careful think about it,’ he says. ‘We’ll get one of the ambulance people to check you out, and then we’ll have another little chat. Okay
?’
Sean nods. The suspension wriggles as O’Dwyer climbs out, and the radio noise from outside spikes loud before he slams the door
.