The Dead Lie Down (58 page)

She started to paint other pictures that weren’t of Aidan, ones she kept. The ones I saw in her house, of the family who used to live on her estate, and the
Abberton
series. Those might not have been of Aidan, but they were about him. About what she did to him. They mattered to her. They were the story of her life.

‘You . . . got scared.’ I stop, try to fill my lungs with the air I need to carry on. ‘You understood . . .’ I want to tell her I know how she felt.

‘What? What did I understand?’ She shakes me, and I let out a howl of pain. My body throws out a last spurt of energy to fight it. I use it to get more words out. ‘You understood . . . how it would feel to have your pictures . . . destroyed. The worst thing . . . what you’d done to Aidan. You felt guilty.’
That’s why you won’t admit it. The guilt, once you felt the full horror of what you’d done, was more than you could bear.

‘I don’t believe in guilt,’ says Mary quickly. ‘My therapist said it was an unproductive emotion.’

I see how it must have happened: her guilt and shame transmuted into paranoia, that Aidan would find out about her—where she was living, what she was doing. That he’d do to her what she’d done to him. She couldn’t risk it. The only way to make sure it never happened was never to sell any of her paintings, to maintain absolute control. She was terrified of what Aidan might do to her, of the punishment she felt, deep down, that she deserved from him. At the same time, she couldn’t resist the impulse to close in on him, once she knew where he was—to infiltrate his life, lurk on the edges of it, where he might just notice her.

She took her paintings to Saul to be framed, knowing Aidan had worked for Saul, that Saul had bought a picture from Aidan’s exhibition. Mary had to have whatever had been Aidan’s, including Saul’s support.

I know I’m right. Mary set out to steal Aidan’s life as a punishment, because she believed he’d stolen Martha’s. She moved to the same town, lived in his old house, did the work he used to do, mixed with people who had been his, like Saul—all without him realising. It was about proximity as much as punishment; she wanted to be close to him. Her plan worked perfectly, until I ruined it, until Saul sent me to Aidan to ask for work. That was when the past and the present crashed into one another. She must have known they would, eventually.

What was supposed to happen? I want to ask her how she imagined her and Aidan’s story would end, before I came along and disrupted her plans, but my tongue has sunk to the floor of my mouth like a lead weight. Something else has changed, too. The song has stopped: ‘Survivor’. Stopped for good. It’s still playing inside me, the lyrics and music imprinted on the dark walls of my mind, like gold letters left on the night by sparklers.

How can it have stopped? Mary hasn’t left the room. She doesn’t seem to notice the silence.

‘Stand up slowly and raise your hands above your head.’

Stand? I can’t move at all. Then I realise it was a man’s voice I heard, not Mary’s. He was talking to her.

I drag my eyes open and at first see nothing but Mary’s hair spread across her back. She’s turned away from me. Then she growls and lunges and I see him crouched down in the corner of the room. He’s got the gun. He knocks Mary to the ground.

Waterhouse. DC Waterhouse.
He speaks to me without taking his eyes off Mary. ‘It’s all right, Ruth. There’s an ambulance on the way. You’re going to be fine. Just hold on.’

 

Mary crawls across the room like a spider, grabs the hammer that’s lying near Aidan. I blink at Waterhouse, my eyes watering until I can hardly see.

‘What are you planning to do with that hammer, Mary?’ He sounds calm. I like hearing his voice. ‘Put it down.’

‘No.’

‘If you try to use it on anybody, I’ll shoot. Without hestitation. ’

A few seconds later I hear a crunch of bone. All I can see is greyness.

‘There. I used it on myself, and you haven’t shot me. You were lying. Shall I carry on? I’ve got nine other fingers: Abberton, Blandford, Darville, Elstow, Goundry, Heathcote, Margerison, Rodwell, Windus.’ She giggles hysterically.

‘Try to accept that it’s over, Mary,’ says Waterhouse.

I hear footsteps, too heavy to be Mary’s, then her voice. ‘I wouldn’t bother. If he’s got a pulse now, he won’t have for long.’

My mind clears in a flash. Why did she say that? She told me Aidan was dead. Was she lying?

I wait for Waterhouse to say the words I’m desperate to hear, but he says nothing, and I’m too weak to ask.

If he’s alive, then he’s about to die. Mary thinks he’ll die. This might be my last chance.

If I pretend he and I are the only people left in the world and force my words into his mind, maybe he’ll hear me.

In London, when you told me about Mary Trelease, I didn’t say what you needed to hear. I didn’t say I loved you no matter what, even though you’d said it to me. And then the next day, when I told you I’d seen the picture:
Abberton
, by Mary Trelease, dated 2007 . . . I told you you couldn’t have killed her. I’d met her. I described her, described Martha Wyers. You recognised the description—the hair, the birthmark under her mouth—and you knew. In that instant, you must have seen it all: that Martha had assumed the name of the woman you’d killed. It had to mean she knew what you’d done. She knew, and she was in Spilling, she’d been to Saul’s gallery. She was moving in closer. You thought I might be hers, not yours—I might have been part of her plan. Another trick. Like your sell-out exhibition, the success you’d believed in until she showed you the truth.

It won’t have taken you long to see the problem with that theory: it was too simple. Mary hadn’t gone to the police, not so far. She couldn’t have—the police had shown no interest in you. I didn’t go to them either, after what you told me in London, not straight away. And I loved you: you could see I loved you. You could feel it. You started to hope that maybe it wasn’t an act, maybe I was telling the truth. Was it a test, sending me to her house for the painting? If I was innocent, if I wasn’t conspiring with her against you, then surely I wouldn’t be able to get my hands on it—was that what you thought? When I came back with
Abberton
, what did you think then? That it all seemed a bit too easy: the artist who’d refused to sell me her painting suddenly decides to give it to me as a gift? Even then, you couldn’t bring yourself to believe I was on her side, because you loved me.

Was it revenge you had in mind at first? Do what she’d done to you? Did you want to get your hands on her picture so that you could obliterate it? Or did you only want to see it? You hadn’t known she was a painter until I told you. Did you want to see her work, see what it was like? Whether she was any good? Did you fantasise about killing her when you heard she’d called her painting
Abberton
? She was taunting you. You knew that, Mary being Mary—being Martha—she’d see it through to the end, that
Abberton
would be followed by
Blandford
,
Darville
,
Elstow
and the rest: the buyers who’d never existed and never bought your work, named after the boarding houses at her school.

At the art fair, at your insistence, I described the picture I’d seen on TiqTaq’s stand: the outline of a person, not recognisable as male or female, stuffed with what looked like scraps of painted cloth. Pieces of your pictures: that’s what she used to fill in the human form. Did you want me to get
Abberton
for you to prove I wasn’t lying about having seen it, or because it had those pieces in it and you wanted your pictures back, even in shreds? Maybe both. I think you wanted to have the scraps of your work rather than let her keep them.

I hear another bone-splitting crunch.

‘Don’t do that,’ says Waterhouse. ‘How can you do that to yourself?’

‘Easy. I don’t paint with my left hand.’

‘Hold on for the ambulance, Ruth. It should be here any minute.’ Waterhouse is talking to me. All I want is to know if Aidan’s alive or not. Why won’t he tell me that?

‘You’re not as clever as you think you are,’ I hear Mary say.

‘How clever is that?’

‘I followed you to London. You were following Aidan. You didn’t see me, did you? You took me straight to Gemma Crowther’s flat.’

‘You killed her,’ says Waterhouse.

‘Not me. Aidan.’ She knows I’m too weak to contradict her. She’s enjoying it: lying in front of me, knowing I can’t stop her.

‘You’re holding the hammer you used to knock her teeth out and hammer nails into her gums,’ says Waterhouse.

‘Aidan did those things. Why would I kill her? He wanted revenge for what she did to Ruth. Anyone would.’

‘If he was the one holding the gun on Monday night, how come he ended up getting shot?’ There’s a pause. ‘You’ve got no answer for that, have you?’

‘I’m not saying I didn’t shoot
him
. I’m saying I didn’t shoot Gemma.’ He’s made her angry. ‘You’re no Sherlock Holmes, are you? It’s okay, you don’t need to be. I can tell you what happened. ’

‘Go on.’

‘Where do you want me to start? Aidan had to find out about Gemma and Stephen for himself. Ruth told him nothing—can you believe that? No communication whatsoever. A relationship like that can’t last. If Ruth didn’t want him to know, she shouldn’t have kept so many trauma keepsakes. That’s very common, to do that. Did you know that?’

‘No.’

I feel as if I’m hearing the conversation from a distance. It’s like listening to a far-away radio. I could so easily drift out of the range of the voices.

‘Aidan found a box full of souvenirs under her bed, everything she’d kept from Gemma’s trial.’

When? I want to ask. I can guess the answer: after the art fair, after he moved in with me. He searched my house, looking for evidence that Mary and I were in league against him.

‘He looked Gemma and Stephen up on the internet and found what he expected to find,’ Mary tells Waterhouse. ‘Their attack on Ruth, all that. But the name Gemma Crowther kept coming up in another context too—on Quaker websites. That’s how he found out which meeting she went to. He started going too. He wanted to find out if she was the same Gemma Crowther who’d nearly killed his girlfriend.’

‘Told you all this at gunpoint, did he?’

‘He didn’t have to say anything he didn’t want to. Neither do I. I’m telling you because I want to, no other reason.’ Mary’s voice is full of scorn.

‘Did he find out, then?’ Waterhouse asks. ‘That she was the same Gemma Crowther?’

‘Not at first. Not until she mentioned that she used to live near Lincoln. Then he knew. He asked her why she moved to London. That was the test: to see if she’d changed. If she had, he said, she’d have told him the truth: what she’d done to Ruth, and that she was sorry, that she was a different person now. At the very least she’d have mentioned having been in prison, even if she didn’t say what for. But she didn’t. She lied—made up some story about wanting a change of scene and career. He knew she was a fake when she told him that.’ Mary laughs. ‘She was a healer, did you know that? What a fucking hypocrite! No loss to the world, that’s for sure.’