The Valley (27 page)

On my way to my bedroom I glanced at the fleece with my gun inside it, and then started to re-read my statement, inserting additional facts wherever I could. On the final two unused pages where I had intended to write about Angela, I now listed all the photographs that could support my story. Figure 1 – the shotgun Max had used to kill Gerry; Figure 2 – a close-up of the gun maker’s name and number, Figures 3 and 4 – the used and unused cartridges I had recovered from the gun; Figure 5 – the towel Max had used to soak up Gerry’s blood, with his and Lucy’s initials clearly visible.

When I had finished, I went over to the window again, and carefully peeled back the blind. There was no sign of Max. Realising that I had not eaten for twelve hours, I put a large potato in the microwave and found some cheese, ham and tomatoes in the fridge to go with it. When it was ready, I ate it in front of the TV, watching a contestant on a talent show sing ‘I will survive’.

It was only after the song had finished, that I heard the knocking sound coming from my patio door.

I put my plate down and walked over to my fleece, pulling out the gun.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I tried to remember if I had ever told Max about my patio. Even if I had not, he might have walked around the back of the mansion block, recognised my car, seen the gate in the railings and the awkwardly angled passageway below filled with children’s toys, and worked out whose flat it belonged to.

Clutching the gun I dialled his mobile phone number. It connected straight through to a robotic voice telling me that the person I was trying to call was unavailable.

Tap-tap. Tap-tap.

I stared at my door. It was solidly built and secured to the wall by a heavy duty metal frame. Behind the curtain, its window panel was double glazed with thick toughened glass. I raised the gun to my shoulder.

Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap.

In the background, I heard the talent show judges deliver their scores to loud whoops of delight from the audience. I went over to the television and switched it off. There was a final flurry of taps from my door, then silence – and that’s when I realised something was wrong. The tapping was too gentle for Max. He might have hammered on my door, or kicked it or bellowed at me so loudly that even through the double glazing I would have heard him, but the one thing he would not have done, was gently knock. And just then I remembered how Angela had once had a drink with me on the patio.

With my gun in hand, I rushed to the door, drew back the curtain and peered into the darkness.

The patio was surrounded by high walls and there was only a red glow from a distant street light. But this was just enough to show the outline of a girl walking away. I tried to shout to her through the double glazing, but she carried on around the corner, and out of sight. I scrabbled in my pockets for the door key, found it and unlocked the door. I thrust back the bolt, and was about to burst outside, when I remembered I was still holding a shotgun. For a split second I hesitated, before realising that the one way to scare Angela off forever would be to charge up to her waving a loaded gun. I turned around, thrust the gun back into the inner lining of my fleece, and dashed outside.

‘Angela,’ I yelled.

I sprinted around the corner of my patio, and almost ran slap bang into her – with Max behind her, leaning against the fire escape, his knee thrust between her legs. He had one hand clamped over her mouth, twisting her head back, and the other held a sawn-off shotgun like a pistol, pointing it straight at me, his finger curled around the trigger.

I skidded to a halt, less than a yard away from them. He swung the shotgun away from me and aimed it at Angela’s head. I could see the silencer taped to the end of its barrels. Angela’s eyes flickered from the gun to me and then back to the gun, her face drained of all colour.

‘We need to talk,’ Max said.

I led them back towards my flat, Max and Angela shuffling along together. He kept one hand over her mouth, whilst the other held the shotgun by his side. Her eyes bulged with fear.

‘Stop!’ Max ordered.

I had one foot inside my kitchen and I could see my fleece hanging from the chair. If I made a dash for it, I could reach it in two seconds. It would take a couple more seconds to disentangle the gun, and another two to aim and fire, but by then, I knew, both Angela and I would be dead.

‘You first,’ Max said, releasing his hand from Angela’s mouth and giving her a gentle shove. He waved the gun at me, indicating that I should follow and finally he stepped inside. As he closed the door, I inched closer to my fleece. By the time he turned around again, I could almost touch it.

‘What the hell is this about?’ Angela yelled.

Max and I both looked at each other, and it was only then I realised that neither he nor Angela knew who the other was.

‘Max, this is Angela,’ I said, trying to sound normal and calm. ‘She doesn’t know anything about what we need to talk about. You can let her go.’

‘What do you mean, “let me go”?’ Angela said. ‘I’m leaving – now.’

Max smiled at her. ‘I’m sorry but could you stay just for a moment or two? This won’t take long.’

He put a hand on her shoulder. She stared at his hand, challenging him to withdraw it, but he kept it there.

‘I don’t care how long it takes,’ she said. ‘I’m out of here.’

She twisted out of his grip and took half a stride towards the door. Max raised the shotgun above his head.

‘Angela!’ I screamed, as he smashed the shotgun’s butt down on her skull.

She crumpled in a heap on the kitchen floor. I rushed over to her, momentarily forgetting about the other gun. Max stepped back to let me pass and I slid down to the floor beside her, helping her onto her hands and knees. In the last three months she had let her hair grow and it was much longer than when I had known her. And on the crown of her head I could see a narrow streak of blonde hair turn a muddy brown as blood seeped through it.

I looked up at Max. He was pointing the gun directly at us, his eyes glancing from Angela to me and back again.

‘You’ve cracked her skull,’ I protested.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t want anyone to get hurt.’

‘She needs to go to hospital.’

‘You need to answer some questions first, John. Come on, she can lie down on the sofa. We can still sort this out.’

I put my arm around Angela and helped her stagger to her feet. Together we lurched towards the sofa until she was close enough to slump onto it. I thought she might slide straight off again, but she leaned forward with her head in her hands.

Max pointed the gun to the other corner of the sofa. ‘Could you sit over there please, John.’

I shuffled over. The sofa was small enough that could still reach Angela, so I stretched out my hand and laid it on her lap. She looked at me and smiled. Max was standing five feet away holding the gun in both hands, and beyond him, at the far end of the room, was the other gun, still hidden in the fleece.

‘So where’s all the evidence you showed me this morning, John?’

‘Out of your reach.’

‘Where?’ Max asked.

‘With my lawyer.’

‘Your lawyer takes possession of sawn-off shot guns does he?’

Angela groggily stared at me.

‘He takes possession of packages,’ I said. ‘He doesn’t look inside them.’

Max raised an eyebrow. ‘On a Saturday?’

‘Yes.’

Max turned his attention to Angela. She had been rubbing the top of her head and now she held her hand in front of her, studying the blood on her fingers.

‘Can I see your hand please?’ Max said, and before Angela could answer, he had grabbed her wrist. He examined her fingers. ‘You used to wear a wedding ring, didn’t you?’ he said.

‘No,’ she gasped.

‘You’re lying,’ he said, and then he looked at me, ‘and so are you’.

Angela tried to jerk her hand away from him, but he was too quick. He pushed her ring finger back at right angles.

‘Ow!’ she yelled.

He hesitated, looked into my eyes, and then snapped her finger back all the way, a full one hundred and eighty degrees, until her nail pressed into the back of her wrist, and the joint popped out and pressed against her skin.

She screamed, but her cry was cut short as he grabbed her hair and shoved her face down into the corner of the sofa. He pushed a cushion on top of her and then thrust his knee into the back of her neck, pinning her head into the crevice of the sofa.

I jumped out of my seat, but with his free hand he swung the gun towards me. ‘Take one more step and you’re both dead.’

I stopped in my tracks. The expression on his face was frightening. It was no longer the blind fury of the man who had stretched his arm across my car as I drove away. It was the same controlled, ruthless determination that I had witnessed when he executed Gerry.

‘Now tell me, John, about this lawyer of yours. What’s his name?’

I hesitated.

With his other hand he grabbed Angela’s flailing arm and delicately tapped the shotgun against her broken finger.

Even through the cushion I could hear her scream.

‘John, I don’t want to break all ten of her fingers, but I will if I have to.’

‘His name is Jonathan Harrison. His firm is called Goodalls.’

‘Where are they based?’

‘Southampton,’ I said, trying to recall what it said on the envelope I had put my cheque inside. ’42 – 44 Tobacco Docks.’

‘So how did you get the package to him this morning?’

‘I didn’t,’ I said. ‘It’s still here, or most of it is. Jonathan has photographs, samples of the towel and the signed statement from me. Get off Angela and I’ll show you what’s left.’

It was a gamble. Walking to my bedroom would bring me closer to the gun hidden in my fleece, and that might give me a chance.

Max’s shotgun bobbed in front of my face. I could tell he sensed a trap. But the reward obviously outweighed the risk because he slowly climbed off Angela’s back and let go of her arm. He backed away, letting me move over and hold her, whilst he aimed the shotgun with two hands at our heads.

‘So where’s the evidence?’ Max said.

‘In my bedroom. Do you want me to go and get it, or do you want to?’

Max studied me. ‘We’ll all go.’

I helped Angela onto her feet and walked alongside her. Max kept close behind us. When we reached my bed I let her lie on it, clutching her broken finger. I knelt down, unlocked the drawer beneath her and pulled out the backpack.

I passed him the towel first. He briefly examined it, before throwing it aside. He only glanced at the silencer and the used cartridge.

‘Where’s the gun?’ he demanded.

‘Buried.’

He raised his gun. ‘Buried where?’

I had to think fast and my brain seized on a story someone in the tennis club told me about his wife growing organic vegetables.

‘In a friend’s allotment,’ I said.

Max eyed me suspiciously.

‘It’s the latest fad,’ I added.

‘And you have one?’

‘No, but a friend has. He’s gone off to New York and I agreed to look after it.’

‘What’s he growing?’

I suddenly realised that gardening was one of the worst subjects to lie to Max about.

‘Strawberries and raspberries,’ I said. ‘And there are some potatoes, but I haven’t had to do anything with those yet.’

‘What are you doing with the strawberries?’

‘Nothing much. You know me, Max. I’m hardly a gardener.’

I tried to smile at him. He did not smile back.

‘And where’s this allotment?’

‘In Wandsworth, near the railway line.’

‘You’re lying,’ Max said.

‘I’m not. I’ll take you there if you want,’ I said. ‘Or you can take Angela. She’s been there as well.’

He looked at Angela. She was staring at her finger.

‘Is that true?’Max said.

She turned to him slowly. I held my breath.

‘The allotment – yes, I remember,’ she replied in a whispery voice. She then looked at me. ‘Why? What have you put there, John?’

‘Come on,’ I said and stood up and held out my hand to her. I still was not sure whether her dazed expression was genuine or part of an act to lull Max into dropping his guard.

She slowly rose to her feet. Max did not say anything, but he leaned back on the desk, so he could keep his distance from us as we shuffled past.

‘What’s this?’ Max suddenly said.

He held up my handwritten statement, scribbled on the Thomas the Tank Engine notepad. It had been lying on my desk.

‘It’s my witness statement. I told you about it in the café. There are two copies. Jonathan Harrison has the other one.’

He leafed through it, keeping one eye on us.

‘The copy Jonathan Harrison has will stay sealed and unread unless something nasty happens to me, in which case he has instructions to take it immediately to the police along with the photographs and the samples. Now, do you want to go to the allotment to get the gun, or not?’

I was already half out of the bedroom. The fleece was less than five strides away.

‘Just a minute,’ Max said. ‘I’d like you both to sit down on the sofa again.’

I looked at my fleece hanging from a kitchen chair. I could even see the faint outline of the gun inside its lining. It was so close. But even if Max let me reach it, our duel would be over quickly: he was an expert marksman, and I had never fired a shot in my life. And he would also have Angela as a shield.

‘Come on, move’ Max said impatiently.

Angela and I walked over to the sofa, with Max following a few paces behind. When we sat down, Max took a few steps back and then lowered his gun, before speaking in a voice that was eerily calm.

‘There isn’t an allotment, is there, John? Just like there isn’t another copy of your statement.’

‘What?’

‘The pages on that children’s writing pad were all bound together. They haven’t been through a photocopier.’

‘You’re wrong,’ I said.

Max’s eyes bored into me. ‘You told me you’d cut off a sample from the towel, and sent that to your lawyer friend as well. But the towel didn’t have any holes in it.’

I blinked. I had forgotten what I had told him. There had been too many lies to keep track of.

‘So where’s the gun, John?’ Max demanded. He raised his shotgun and aimed it at Angela. ‘Perhaps you know where it is?’

Angela glared back at him. ‘In the allotment,’ she said.

Max kept the gun pointing at her. ‘You disappeared for a bit, didn’t you? I remember now. John thought I’d killed you.’

He swivelled the gun towards me and then back to Angela.

‘John is now going to tell the truth.’ Max said. ‘Unfortunately Angela, you might not get to hear him, because I’m going to ask him some questions and if he lies again, I’ll kill you.’

‘For fuck’s sake, Max!’ I cried.

‘Question one, John: where’s the shotgun?’

I looked at him. I knew he would fire. But then he suddenly lowered the gun, smiled and stared thoughtfully at me.

‘Actually that can be question two,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a new question one.’

Relief surged through my body.

Max smiled. ‘Did you fuck my wife, John?’

For a second, I thought I had not heard him correctly. Our eyes locked.

‘Max, is that what all this is about?’

He trained the gun on Angela.

‘Answer the question honestly, John, or she dies. I’ll repeat it only once: on February 14th last year, did you fuck my wife?’

Angela clambered off the sofa. ‘Look, if you two want to argue about women —’

Max slipped the safety catch forward. I remembered how he had executed Gerry. First the warning, then the safety catch, and then the shot.

‘Angela, stop!’ I yelled.

She paused midstride and stared at me. I shook my head. She must have seen the blood draining from my face because she slumped back into the sofa, taking the spot furthest away from me. Whether this was from a wish to protect me if Max fired, or a desire to die as far away from me as possible, I could not tell.

‘It’s your final chance, John,’ Max said, aiming at Angela’s chest. ‘I will count to three. One, two…’

‘I wanted to fuck her,’ I said quietly, then stopped. I had lied so many times about what happened that night that it was now difficult to tell the truth.

‘Go on,’ Max said, his eyes squinting down the gun.

‘Not until you let Angela go.’

Max did not even turn to look at me. ‘John, we both know I can’t let her go.’

His finger curled around the front trigger. I knew I had to speak, and to speak quickly, and keep speaking for as long as possible until I could think of something better.

‘When Lucy first came round to my office, it was difficult talking to her,’ I said quietly.

Max turned to look at me.

‘She was nervous about something and I was even more nervous, because my business was in the balance. I thought a drink or two might help, and when she started gulping the stuff down, I kept pace with her. And the alcohol seemed to work: she was friendly and wanted to talk – mostly about you, Max, because she said she did not understand you anymore. Then we left the office and got drenched in the rain. Once we arrived at your house, she offered to dry my clothes in the tumble dryer whilst we ate some supper. It was all very innocent but it was also very intimate. And then we started drinking again and at some point she said something about me staying the night because she was frightened.’

I looked up at Max and saw that he was gazing at me, hanging on every word.

‘I didn’t know what she meant, so I made a joke, and she laughed and we drank some more. And then she said she really did not want to be alone. She started being friendly, and I started being friendly back, until suddenly we realised that something was happening that we didn’t really want. Or at least she didn’t really want it.’

I swallowed.

‘We were on your bed kissing when she said, ‘No.’ I thought she did not mean it, so I kissed her again, but she screamed. I rolled off her and tried to apologise but she was crying. When I tried to put an arm around her, she shrank away from me, screaming that she had thought I was a friend but now I revolted her.’