The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 9 Part 52

"Oh?" Mary said.

"She had two ma.s.sive heart attacks last year. Refuses to lose the weight, take care of herself. Really, Miss Collins, it's just a matter of time for our Annie. And whilst your visits might be a little unorthodox, I think Annie's earned the right to have tea with a friend every week, don't you?'

The news came as a shock. "Thank you," was all Mary could say.

Mary broke up with Steve just a few weeks later. His continual insistence, insane schemes and emotional bullying finally became too much, even for previously mild-mannered Mary. After a huge row, he left, vowing to "stay over with a proper girl I sometimes knock about with from time to time". The revelation didn't come as much of a blow to Mary, more of a relief that he'd be out of her life. Mostly, she pitied the "proper girl".

She thanked Annie when she next saw her, telling the old inmate that she'd never have had the courage to cause the row in the first place if Annie hadn't advised her to do so.

Annie smiled, nodded, yet seemed older, slower. "Well, he sounded like a right rum lot to me, dear. You're well shot of that sort, believe me."

And then, without prompting, Mary told Annie of her ex's madcap ideas, the research into the crime he'd done, the obsession with the missing money, the almost daily insistence that she steal Annie's precious canvas.

Annie gently laughed, looked over at the picture, its pride of place on her small table. "Well, he was one idiot who added two and two and made fifty-five, Miss Collins.'

"Five hundred and fifty-five," Mary added.

"He really thought I'd buried my husband's money up at the manor house? Preposterous!"

Mary nodded. "He wasn't the brightest colour on the palette." She paused, not knowing whether to ask the next question.

Annie sensed the hesitation. "And now you have something to ask me?"

"Is it OK?"

"Fire away, Miss Collins."

"Why did you go back there, to the house, after you ...?"

"Killed them?"

Mary nodded.

Annie smiled, seemed to drift back through time to a better place. "To see the constable, Miss Collins. The one who was always hanging around. I needed to confess, after all." She looked over at the ageing canvas, heaped with years of paint, then back to Mary. "Promise me this one thing. If you have the chance, then you'll paint again, Miss Collins."

"I'd love to, but ..."

She put a finger to her lips. "No buts, Miss Collins. Too many of those. I've lived a life of them. I did a truly terrible thing, and have paid the price ever since. Now, I simply want to hear if there's no 'buts' from you."

Mary took a breath. "If I had the chance," she slowly replied, "then there's nothing more that I'd like to do than paint."

The old woman nodded, her eyes suddenly tired and heavy, yet also seeming to glimmer and s.h.i.+ne with something that Mary hadn't seen in Annie Morgan before contentment.

Annie Morgan pa.s.sed away three days later another prison suicide. At the end, she had decided to take final matters into her own hands and used a bed-sheet and gravity to take her from this world into the next. On her bedside table was a sealed, handwritten envelope addressed to "Miss Collins", together with Annie Morgan's old canvas, both of which were given to Mary by the governor after the funeral.

"Sad," the governor observed, handing her both items. "All there is to show for a life is a load of paint on an old canvas. Still, it's yours. She wanted to leave it to you as a gift. Not quite sure what you'll do with it, though."

Mary took the treasured canvas in her hands. The last picture Annie Morgan had painted before her death was a crude likeness of Mary herself, painting in a vast studio, sunlight streaming through wide, imaginary windows. At the bottom, the t.i.tle The Gift; for Mary, from Annie.

Back home, Mary placed the picture gently on the mantelpiece and opened the letter: Dear Miss Collins, Well, dear, here's the picture your repulsive ex-boyfriend wanted so much together with a few answers he'd have craved even more.

Strange though it is to admit, however, he did get a few things right. After disposing of my husband and sister, I did indeed take the money from underneath the bed and replace it with torn-up newspaper before setting the fire, then returning to the manor house.

Why did I go there? Not to bury it, but instead to give it to the owner, a sweet and caring old woman who needed it far more than I. One of those cla.s.sic cases, Miss Collins, a large house doesn't necessarily mean a ma.s.sive income. She loved the place, couldn't bear to sell it, but was being forced to sell the antiques and old paintings simply to meet the upkeep. I gladly gave her the money after telling her what I'd just done. Shocked though she was, she reluctantly took it our secret. Remember, at that time, I was convinced everything would be destroyed in the fire. I had no idea those d.a.m.ned burnt newspaper fragments would be found.

On remand, whilst I was awaiting trial, she came to visit me and gave me this small, white, unframed canvas, which I instantly recognized by its dimensions. It had hung in the main hall, largely unnoticed, but was a favourite of mine ever since I'd begun work in the house. She'd taken it down, removed it from its frame, carefully painted over it in white, then pa.s.sed it on to me as a gift, together with some paints. Seen as harmless by the authorities, I was allowed to keep it, and began a series of paintings from that very day, each one layered over the next, until you see the final bizarre monstrosity that I leave you now.

I a.s.sume she thought I'd be shown mercy from the courts and receive a much lighter sentence, and could therefore use the painting in the future. However, that was not to be. I got two life sentences, and she died long ago, but always knew I treasured her gift, took it wherever I went, never let it leave my sight.

And now, Mary it's yours. My "time" is done. Some will say I took the cowardly option, and maybe they're right, but in our hearts don't we all have choices? Mine is to end my life as and when I see fit. We've talked about yours, Miss Collins. Given the choice, you'd rather paint. Now you have that choice. Do with this gift what you will. However, it might be rather rash to take your ex-boyfriend's advice and sell my story and this picture to the papers. Trust me, there are no maps, there is no money to find. Any money was spent many years ago.

Although, it might interest you to know more about "the policeman that hung around the manor house" that I was so eager to see on the day of the murders. Like I said, he was a constable. A John Constable the picture in the hallway, the one you now have, my gift to you.

Interesting, isn't it, what happens when we peel away the layers and reveal what's underneath? I suggest a very mild turpentine solution to start with. Good luck, Mary, and please: for me, my former employer and even Constable himself, enjoy your painting.

In appreciation, Annie Morgan

THE SKIN WE'RE IN.

Matt Hilton.

COUSIN BILLY WASN'T happy, and he told me.

"I'm no happy, Alec."

His voice was nasal Glaswegian, the same accent I'd tried for years to lose. Brought me too much trouble this side of Hadrian's Wall.

"Everything will be OK. Trust me."

He gave me the look, eyebrows steepled, tip of the tongue just peeking from beneath his protruding front teeth. "Trust you, Alec? It's because I listened to you that I'm in this s.h.i.+te in the first place. You told me to stand up to him and all that got me was a death sentence."

"Don't worry." I showed him the Browning pistol. "This time things'll be different."

"That's what I'm no happy aboot."

"I'm not gonna use it. I'm only gonna show them it so they know we mean business."

"And what then? What if they dunnae listen to you? Are you gonnae use it then?"

I didn't have an answer for him. "Just quit worrying, will ya? You're making me nervous now."

"So let's just get the f.u.c.k oota here and forget all about them."

"Here" was in my beat-up Volkswagen Golf, just across the street from the hangout of the man Billy was so terrified of.

"Can't, Billy. We do that, we'll never be able to walk these streets again."

"Won't be walking anywhere if Gardy kills us."

I laid the bulls.h.i.+t on thick. "So go to your grave with your honour intact. I'd rather be a dead hero than a living coward."

"I'm no a coward."

"Didn't say you were. Just making a point."

"I'd rather be a live hero, but."

"Exactly my point. That's why I brought my gun."

Before he could say anything else, I slipped out of the Golf, jamming the Browning into my belt at the back. I hid it under the tail of my sweats.h.i.+rt, pulled up my hood. Billy didn't follow. Good lad. He wasn't there to back me up, just save me if things went t.i.ts-up and a quick getaway was in order. Billy scooted over into the driving position, and turned on the ignition. He drove the Golf away and into a parking s.p.a.ce next to a Spar shop on the corner. I watched him nose the car round and then reverse into the shadows. The lights went off, but I could still hear the low thrum of the idling engine. Out of sight, but not out of mind. I left Billy there and walked across the street to the pool hall.

Couple of kids in the doorway gave me the thousand-yard stare, eyes like jaundice pouring from manhole covers. High. I pressed between them and they grunted, didn't want to move, but they'd no option. One of them pressed his forearm to my lower back but that was the extent of his defiance. I gave him the dead eye: the old silent promise. Maybe he'd felt the weight of the gun in my belt 'cause he quickly moved away, towing his drug buddy along with him. I let them go; they meant nothing to me.

First thing I noticed was the smell of pot, heavy in the air like a dampener. Next was the stench of sweat. Something else. w.a.n.k juice. Smelled like teenagers. There was a short vestibule, which doubled as an occasional toilet judging by the stains on the walls. Then there was a narrow flight of stairs leading up into darkness. From up there in the rafters came the clack of cues on b.a.l.l.s. There was the low rumble of conversation, punctuated by harsher curses and raucous cheers. I felt like my a.r.s.ehole was doing a Betty Boop pout, but I went up the stairs. Like I told Billy, rather be a dead hero ...

If someone came down, maybe that's as far as I'd get. I went up the last few steps with my hand tucked under my sweats.h.i.+rt, thumb on the gun's grip, ready to tug it out and start blasting. But no one came down. Thought, thank f.u.c.k for that, and kept going.

Another corridor.

This one was graced with strip-lights. One of them flickered. A bluebottle bounced along the plasterboard ceiling, doing a crazy waltz. I tried to ignore the loud buzz, but it was much the same as the sound inside my head. They blended and grew exponentially, juxtaposing one on top of the other. My mouth felt dry, like Ghandi's flip-flop. Like Billy's credit score.

There was some hip-hop s.h.i.+t playing through a speaker. Couldn't stand the stuff. All these young lads in the pool hall playing at being gangstas. Would've made me laugh if they weren't so serious. Now I wasn't happy. Maybe Billy had a point. Wasn't too late to walk away.

Of course it was. I'd made it all the way into the pool hall and it was like in those old westerns my dad used to watch on a Sat.u.r.day afternoon. If there was a pianist, he'd have stopped playing. The hip-hop jagged on, and that was the only thing that spoiled the effect.

There were kids in the big room, slouching round green baize tables with cues held like torches to ward off the dimness. They were all in the obligatory hoody and baggy trousers. Chains hung from a couple of pockets, beanie caps pulled low like it was winter outside. I ignored them. They were just tag-alongs. I walked across the room, down the centre of the dozen pool tables. I was watched all the way. Mouths hung open. No one spoke, they didn't have to. Their faces said, What the f.u.c.k is he doing here?

I told them.

"This has got f.u.c.k all to do with any of ya. I'm here to see Gardy."

"Dead man walking," someone said, like prison rap.

Maybe he was right. I was taking a big chance throwing myself into the lion's open mouth, but hey, sometimes you've gotta live dangerously just to get by.

The pool hall was spread over two floors. The boys, they had to hang out down here in the s.h.i.+tty quarters; the men, they all went upstairs into the loft. It was like they were saying that they were above the others, and I'm not talking literally.

This time I didn't get a free walk up the steps.

I was stopped by two guys. One of them was a hard b.a.s.t.a.r.d I knew as Toad. No one called him that to his face, 'cause it was nothing he'd go by. The other I didn't know. In my head I called him s.k.a.n.k, 'cause that's the way he smelled, like a wh.o.r.e b.i.t.c.h.

Toad was an ugly man. No one would deny it, not his mother even. He'd a round head, warty texture, flat nose, and wide lips. Get the picture?

"The f.u.c.k you doin' walking in here?" he said with a hand flat on my chest.

"No other way in."

"Who says you're goin' in?"

"Me," I said, "and Gardy. He's expecting me."

"Whatcha carrying?"

I showed him my empty hands.

He snorted at the other man, who began wiping me down.

"You like how that feels?" I asked the s.k.a.n.k. "Rubbing yoursel' all over another man?"

"The f.u.c.k's this?" he asked touching the bulge in the back of my pants.

"I s.h.i.+t mesel on the way in when I knew you'd be here to stop me," I told him.

He withdrew his hand, looked at Toad for what to do. Toad knew I was packing, but asked anyway.

"You packin', Alec?"

"'Course I am."

"Gonna have to have it."

"Touch it," I said smiling, "and you'll get it all right."

Toad rocked back on his heels. His tongue went from one side of his lips to the other. I half expected his eyes to roll back as he blinked, but they didn't.

I could hear the silence behind me, as contradictory as that seems. It was as if the hush was a tangible weight pressing down on my shoulders. The gangsta music had faded so even it was indistinguishable from the buzzing in my skull. My peripheral vision retracted, like I was a horse in blinkers. I zoned down on the hand pressing on my chest.

"Take your hand off me, Toad, or I'll break it."

"f.u.c.kin" Toad?"

"You heard."

Toad removed his hand.

But only to coil it into a fist.

He should have hit me then. But he didn't. He was hard when he got going, but he was a p.u.s.s.y beforehand. No real bottle. He flicked his gaze to the s.k.a.n.k standing at my shoulder and I guessed that's who would kick off first. I smashed the p.r.i.c.k in the throat before he got the chance. Point of my elbow bone right in his voice box; f.u.c.ker couldn't even scream.