The Reprisal Page 7

  The tone in his voice alone made her want to cry. It was so typical of Paul. Her own safety, just as it always had been, was his only concern. She opened her mouth to speak, only nothing came out.

  He put his hands on her limp arms, moving his head from side to side, forcing her to look up at him. “What the fuck has he done to you, Cath?” He inspected the slit above her eyebrow. “I think you might even need a couple of stiches, babe.”

  Reaching up to tentatively touch the cut, Cathy’s throat felt as though it was filled with sandpaper and she swallowed deeply, biting back the tears. Her fingertips were slick with blood and when she finally spoke, her voice was husky. “He … he … was ….”

  Paul nodded his head. She watched him glance over his shoulder and saw him swallow just as deeply as she herself had done moments earlier. “I know,” he whispered, “and you don’t have to say it, darling. I already know. He would have killed you given half the chance, wouldn’t he?”

  “I have to phone the police.” She wrenched herself out of his arms and took a deep breath. She wasn’t thinking straight. In fact, she was barely thinking at all. Her mind and body were numb, as if she was in a daze. Looking down at herself, she rubbed at her arms furiously, wanting to bring some life into them, wanting more than anything to actually feel something, anything. “I have to call them. They have to come and …” She nodded down at her husband’s body, leaving the sentence unsaid.

  “Like fuck you are,” Paul barked out. He grabbed her forcibly by her forearms and gently shook her. “No police. You’ll go down for this. Is that what you want, Cath? To rot away in a prison cell and for who, eh? For that piece of shit?” He glanced behind him and screwed up his face. “He deserved everything he had coming to him; you know that as well as I do. I need you to think clearly, Cath.” His voice was a lot gentler now, almost pleading. “Who’s gonna look after your kid if you go down, eh? Angie, Social Services, foster care? Or how about children’s home after fucking children’s home? Is that what you want for your kid, to be passed around, used, and abused by all and fucking sundry? Because if it is, then tell me and I’ll call the filth myself, right fucking now.”

  She shook her head, tears blinding her vision. Of course it wasn’t what she wanted. Angie’s threat that she would have her baby taken away from her suddenly became more real, but what was the alternative? “I killed him,” she whispered. “I killed my own husband.” The tears came then, great big sobs that shuddered throughout her body and threatened to take her breath away. “I’m scared, Paul, so scared.”

  “Come here.” Paul gently pulled her shaking frame into his arms. “It’s going to be all right, Cath.” He stroked her hair. “I’m going to help you sort this out, okay?” He took a step backwards, and holding her at arm’s length, he stared into her eyes. His sapphire blue eyes that had always mesmerized her in the past were now filled with concern and something else she noted, love. “I’m going to fix this.”

  He released her then, and as he rubbed at his temples, she could sense his mind ticking over, thinking of a way, any way that he could help her. However, even she could see there was nothing he could do to help. He may have been a lot of things, but he wasn’t a miracle worker. He couldn’t turn back time, could he?

  Finally, he looked up at her. “I need you to go and shower.” His fingers reached out to touch the hardened strands of her hair that had been splattered with blood. “I need you to shower. You need to wash off the blood, sweetheart.” He spoke to her like she was a child, and she numbly nodded her head at his words, implicitly trusting him. “You need to get dressed and then I need you to go back to the pub. You have to be seen in there.”

  “No,” Cathy’s eyes flew wide open and she gulped loudly. Returning to the pub was the last thing she wanted to do. “I can’t, I can’t do that.”

  “Yes you can and you will.”

  There was an urgency to his voice, and absentmindedly, she nodded her head, if for no other reason, but to placate him. As she walked from the room, her movements were both sluggish and slow, as though the energy had been zapped right out of her. Reaching the door, she stopped and looked over her shoulder.

  “What will you do with him?” she asked quietly.

  Paul looked up. He still hadn’t thought of a solution as of yet, and he resisted the urge to shrug his shoulders. “I’ll think of something, Cath. Don’t worry about it, okay? Just go and get yourself cleaned up, sweetheart.”

  She nodded her head a second time, then walked toward the bathroom.

  * * *

  Lucas Vaughn watched his boss Dougie Ward warily. They were at Dougie’s home—The Manor, as he’d nicknamed the property and the word conjured up an image of a long sweeping tree-lined driveway that led to a large, grand dwelling, boasting a thick blanket of dark green ivy weaving its way up the intricate outer brickwork. In actual fact, the property was nothing of the sort. No, The Manor was actually a disused morgue that Dougie had bought at auction. He’d bought the remote property, lock, stock, and barrel, for a steal, and much to his delight, that had included the contents, too. The property boasted not only a cold room containing several working fridges, but also a shiny black private ambulance, pine coffins for viewing purposes, and a stainless-steel embalming table that sat proudly in the middle of the sterile room. And it was sterile, Dougie made sure of that. The pungent unmistakable cloying scent of disinfectant permeated the air.

  As he’d entered the cold room, Lucas swept his eyes over the table. The action had almost become a habit of his and he knew for a fact that he wouldn’t rest easy until he had seen the face of the unconscious man laid out before him.

  Methodically, Dougie began polishing a series of instruments, and taking a cloth, he lovingly wiped it across the steel handle of a scalpel. Why? Lucas had no idea. Within seconds, the instrument would be bloody. Still, it wasn’t his place to ask questions, and as a result, he didn’t. After all, he wasn’t daft, and more importantly, he didn’t have a death wish.

  With the scalpel held between his thumb and forefinger, Dougie looked up. He was a medium-set man of average height with mousey brown hair that was beginning to turn grey at the temples. At first glance, there was nothing about him that screamed out dangerous. More importantly, there was nothing to alert an innocent bystander that they should steer clear of him. It was only after being in his presence for a few moments that it became clear something wasn’t quite right. He was unhinged—that was the first thing people usually noticed. There was an arrogance about him and a complete loss of human emotion that set him apart from others.

  “I’ve got a couple of men coming in.” He tore his stare away from Lucas to look at Ernest Bright, a man of equal age and build. With a nod of his head, he motioned for him to throw the bucket of icy cold water over the unconscious man.

  Lucas watched the man gasp and splutter as the water roused him, and he kept his face neutral. Despite being a hard man and being more than capable of looking after himself, this was the part Lucas loathed. Any moment now, the man would begin screaming. His high-pitched wails would resound off of the walls, and he would thrash his arms and legs around, powerless to escape the bindings that tied him to the table. He silently willed the man to stay quiet. It was the fear that Dougie craved—the paralyzing fear that his latest victim was being subjected to—that coupled with the knowledge that his life was now completely and utterly at Dougie’s will and there was fuck all he could do to help himself. The blood curdling screams Lucas duly noted only seemed to spur Dougie’s viciousness on.

  “It wasn’t me, Mr. Ward, I swear on my life it wasn’t.”

  Dougie began to laugh manically. He lifted the scalpel in the air, as if inspecting it for any finger marks. “That’s what they all say,” he answered, with a long theatrical sigh. Satisfied that the instrument had been polished to perfection, he took a step toward the table.

  “Please, Mr. Ward, whatever you think it is I’ve done, I swear to you it wasn’t me.”
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br />   “It wasn’t me.” In a sing-song tone, Dougie mimicked the man’s voice. His eyes held a steely glint to them, as he glared down at the table. “I have it on very good authority that you’ve been telling all and sundry that I’m mad, that I’m some kind of fucking nut job.” He held the scalpel in the air and his voice took on an incredulous tone. “I’m not mad, am I Ern?”

  Ernest shook his head from side to side. His lips opened to reveal a set of crooked teeth and he gave a soundless cackle. Minus his tongue, he could only grunt out inaudible sounds that only Dougie seemed to understand.

  “Honest to God, it wasn’t me.” The man’s eyes widened. As the enormity of the situation sank in, he thrashed his head from side to side, as if he believed the action would somehow save him—even though Lucas knew from experience that it wouldn’t, nothing would.

  Dougie chuckled once more and he shook his head as though disappointed. “As I’ve already stated, that’s what they all say.”

  Behind them, Lucas cleared his throat. All he wanted to do was get out of the room, and more importantly, get away from the barbaric torture that he knew for a certainty would come. Drugs may have been Dougie’s main game, a living that he obviously profited from greatly, if the wealth that surrounded them was anything to go by, but it was torture that the mad man thrived on. He took delight from it with a pleasure that for the life of him, Lucas was unable to get his head around. As far as he was concerned, the murders were senseless. There was no reasoning behind them. There was nothing for the mad man to gain by murdering those he believed had slighted him. “You were saying, Mr. Ward, that you’ve got some men coming in?” he asked impatiently.

  Dougie paused. He had totally forgotten that Vaughn was even the room. “That’s right. That sly bastard, Samson, has arranged for them to do a couple of jobs for me.” He pointed the scalpel forward and his voice held a steely tone to it. “Now, I don’t trust them, I don’t trust anyone.” This was said as a barbed threat that Lucas duly took on board. “Maybe other than Ern over there, but that’s only because the cunt can’t fucking talk.” He nodded his head toward Ernest, almost apologetically, and the man grinned back at him manically in return. He turned back to face Lucas. “Watch them. Watch their every fucking move, and report everything back to me,” he instructed.

  Lucas nodded his head. “Was there anything else?”

  “Nah.” Dougie shook his head, and he turned back to the table. He squinted down at the shackled man as though trying to figure out which part of his body he should slice away first. “Oh, one more thing.”

  “Boss?” About to walk from the room, Lucas came to a halt. He closed his eyes in irritation and gritted his teeth before turning back around, his expression once again neutral.

  “Arrange a meet with Matlock and make sure the bastard hasn’t tried to tuck me up.” He looked into the distance and shook his head disapprovingly. “I swear that little fucker was dropped on his head as a child.” He sighed dramatically. “Still,” he grinned, opening up his arms, “who am I to judge?”

  Lucas gave a weak smile. He wasn’t sure if Dougie actually expected an answer from him or not, and so he kept his mouth firmly closed. After all, the man had said it himself, who was he to judge? And let’s face it, if anyone had been dropped on their head as a child, then surely it had to be Dougie. The man was a different breed altogether. He was stark raving mad for a start.

  He turned on his heels and walked from the room, thankful to be able to gulp in lungsful of fresh air. Behind him, he heard Dougie begin to whistle. It was a cheerful little tune, and he knew instinctively that that was when the real screaming would begin. The knowledge was enough to make him feel depressed.

  * * *

  Cathy walked out of the bathroom, and wearing a fresh set of clothes, she rubbed the damp towel over her head.

  She could see Paul in the kitchen area and deliberately avoided looking down at her husband’s body that was still laid out on the tiled floor where she had left him. She studied Paul’s muscular back. His movements were easy and carefree, and she stifled down the urge to cry at his involvement. She should never have involved him in her problem. Briefly, she pondered the word. The murder of her husband was a little bit more than just a problem, and that was saying something.

  Her detachment from the situation and lack of emotion startled her. It had to be the shock, she told herself, it just had to be. Once upon a time, she would have moved heaven and earth for her husband, until that was, he had betrayed her over and over again. His infidelity and careless disregard of her feelings had finally taken its toll, and as a result, his death made her feel nothing. It was almost as though she was an empty vessel. Her entire body felt numb.

  Paul turned to face her then, and she could see that he had emptied out the small cupboard underneath the sink. Every single bottle of bleach and floor cleaner she owned was now sitting on the worktop. She also noted that he had dragged the large rug that she kept in the lounge closer to the kitchen.

  She gave him a small smile and he gestured toward the worktop.

  “This was all I could find.”

  Cathy nodded her head; it was all she had.

  He looked down at his watch. “You need to get a move on, Cath. You have to get to the boozer.” He cleared his throat. “You need an alibi, darling.”

  “What are you …” She glanced down at her husband and shuddered. She had already asked the question once, and he hadn’t been able to give her a straight answer, but she had to know. For her own sanity, she needed an answer from him, even if it was one that she didn’t like very much. “What will you do with him?”

  Paul shrugged. “Don’t you worry about that.” He moved toward her and rested his hands on her shoulders. “All you need to think about is getting to the pub, and when you get there, you’re going to tell them that Terrance has fucked off. Tell them that he left you.” He looked down at the body, his usual handsome face now hard and twisted with hatred. “Tell them that he went to live with one of his many slags.”

  She swallowed deeply and a flood of panic washed over her. “No one will believe that.”

  “Then make them fucking believe it.”

  It was said a lot harsher than he’d intended, but she had to know the score. This wasn’t some lovers tiff, it was murder, and if anyone was to catch so much as a whiff as to what had gone down, then she could say goodbye to her freedom. More importantly, she could say goodbye to her kid. It stood to reason that she would have the book thrown at her, and even if by some miracle, she found herself some shit hot lawyer and pleaded self-defense, there was no guarantee that she would get off with the crime. Well, at least not before spending some considerable time locked up on remand.

  “Okay, Paul.” It was said quietly and his heart went out to her.

  “I’m sorry, Cath. I didn’t mean to …”

  Cathy put up her hand cutting him off. “No, you’re right. I need an alibi.” She gently rubbed her bump. “And I have to put this little one first, don’t I?”

  She walked away from him then, and closing his eyes, he rubbed his large palm across them wearily. She would thank him one day. After all, he was only looking out for her best interests, something her husband had never done throughout their entire marriage, by all accounts. He looked down at the rug and chewed on the inside of his cheek. After thinking the situation through, the only solution he could come up with was to use the rug to transport the body out of the flat. From the size of Matlock, he was guessing the task in hand would be no mean feat. He’d been a lump, had Cathy’s husband, and he was going to need some help in moving him, there was no question about that.

  “Come on.” His voice sounded a lot more cheerful than he actually felt. “Get yourself off to the boozer, sweetheart.”

  The front door closed quietly behind her and Paul sighed. Fucking Matlock. His only regret was not taking the man out himself. In fact, nothing would have given him greater pleasure, not that he could tell Cathy that, of cours
e. He had a feeling that she was fragile enough as it was.

  * * *

  Angie was astonished. The last person she’d expected to see waltz through the pub doors was her daughter.

  “What are you doing back here?” Angie narrowed her eyes, until they were two mere slits in her drawn face. “Let me look at you.” She roughly grasped her daughter’s jaw and tilted her face from side to side, as she inspected the latest damage her son-in-law had inflicted. “He’s a vicious bugger, a fucking animal. Whatever the fuck you see in him, Cath, I can’t for the life of me understand.” She shook her head, a smug expression across her face. “I would never have put up with it. You don’t take after me in that respect, do you, darling?”

  Cathy wrenched her face free. “I must take after my dad then, eh?” she replied angrily. “Not that I would know. I’ve never had the privilege of meeting him, have I?”

  There was an edginess to her daughter’s voice that Angie had never heard before, and immediately, the grin was wiped from her face. She held up her hand, feeling both contrite and thoroughly ashamed of herself. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Cath. It was a cheap shot, and well, quite rightly, you’ve put me back in my fucking place.”

  Cathy shrugged her shoulders; it was her way of accepting the apology. She swallowed deeply at the lie she was about to tell, and it was no white lie. She better than anyone knew that. No, the words she was about to utter were huge, colossal, and off the scale when it came to telling a porky pie. She glanced down at the glass of wine sitting in front of her mother. She would do anything for a shot of something right now, to take the edge off of how she was feeling.

  “Yeah well, he won’t be bothering me anymore.” She recalled Paul’s warning. She had to make them believe her. “He’s left me, Mum.”