Chapter
I - Before
There
was a refreshing breeze as the car swept by. And when Marc looked up to
watch it disappear, he saw the brake lights glow and the back of the car
weave as it braked suddenly and very hard. It looked as if the car and
maybe the driver too, were as surprised as Marc was. He trotted
obediently up to the passenger side and smiled his least threatening
smile.
Marc
had felt uneasy at hitchhiking; after all he was 41 years old. It was
years since he’d unselfconsciously hitched half way round Europe, in
his student days. But however awkward he felt, the prospect of a
seven-mile walk in the roasting July sunshine made him hold out his
thumb and proffer a self-conscious smile at an old couple as they
trundled past in their ancient Austin.
He’d
decided to walk while he hitched, if nobody stopped, he calculated
he’d arrive at his hotel about two hours later, exhausted and sweaty
no doubt. It hadn’t looked far from the air, he’d no sooner flown
over his destination; a small market town, than it was time to descend
into the landing circuit of the quiet country airfield.
It
was 5 minutes before Marc had heard the drone of the next car. He’d
stuck out a thumb and, as the sound got nearer, stopped walking and
turned to look at the driver. He’d tried to look tired and
non-threatening in equal proportions. But when he’d seen that a woman
was driving the little roofless sports car, he’d looked away,
retrieved his thumb, turned and continued walking. ‘She won’t
stop,’ he’d thought.
“It’s kind of you to stop” Marc said removing his
sunglasses to meet her enquiring brown eyes, “I’m heading for Lower
Upham, the Ship Hotel”.
“It’s
on my way,” she said, “get in.”
Marc
opened the door and squeezed into the tiny passenger seat, he had to
juggle with his baseball hat, sunglasses and his bomber jacket, in order
to shut the door. He hadn’t started with the contortions required for
the seat belt when she pulled away and accelerated briskly up the hill.
“Thanks
again,” he said. “You’ve saved me a long hot walk. I don’t
normally hitch,” he told her above the wind, which was buffeting
around his ears.
“I
don’t normally stop,” she told him in a cool neutral tone.
“I
was surprised when you did,” said Marc. “You know it’s not too
late if you want to change your mind.”
“What?”
she said turning towards him, frowning, her short straight black hair
fluttering around her smooth pale face, made Marc think of Urma Thurman
in ‘Pulp fiction’. “Just drop you off here in the middle of
nowhere? Why would I do that?”
“I
just thought you might have changed your mind, that’s all.”
The
road was narrow and twisted between tall hedgerows, a little way ahead
it widened where a farm track joined and formed an impromptu lay-by of
baked mud and gravel. With a deft flick of the wheel and no warning at
all, she threw the car onto the loose surface and expertly brought it to
rest in a cloud of dust and rattling stones. Marc was stunned at the
latent violence in the manoeuvre and took a second to orientate himself.
As the dust began to settle he started juggling with his belongings and
fumbling for the shiny silver door handle. He assumed he’d upset her
and now she was taking him at his word. He was more surprised than
frightened when he looked over to say goodbye and saw the gun.
It
was black and looked very military, way too big for her delicate hand.
Marc could clearly see the bright red spot on the side of the gun above
her thumb, it was the same colour as her nail varnish and meant that the
safety catch was off; it was ready to fire, Marc wondered if she was.
She
was looking at him intently in a detached kind of way, she didn’t look
angry or frightened just interested. For a few seconds they just sat
there looking at each other, and then as if a switch had flicked inside
her head she blinked then nodded to herself. Apparently satisfied, she
then put the car into gear and put the gun into the door pocket and
drove calmly back onto the country lane.
Nobody
spoke for a mile or two, she was driving smoothly and confidently, Marc
thought he sensed a little more purpose in her attitude, as if she’d
reached a decision or resolved some nagging doubt. He wondered why he
still didn’t feel scared. While he was curious Marc was determined not
to say anything corny like, ‘why did you stop the car and point a gun
at me?’ Instead he said, “Why didn’t you shoot me?”
She
didn’t answer, he wasn’t sure she’d heard him, but something in
her calm and determined demeanour made him check himself from simply
repeating the question, perhaps he was a little afraid of her after all.
After
another mile or so of twisting lane, in and out of sunshine and shade he
tried another tack.
“Do
you know why you didn’t shoot me just now?
She
looked across at him, she was attractive, not pretty as such, not trying
to impress, she had a sort of natural beauty; effortless. A quizzical
frown appeared on her face as she returned her eyes to the road.
“Why
would I shoot you, I don’t even know you?” she asked, as if
surprised that he should ask.
Marc
wondered if she was mad and if so, how mad. Neither spoke again for a
couple more miles till they stopped at a junction. They waited for a
break in the traffic; there were a few houses around now and a steady
flow of traffic on the road. They were on the outskirts of town.
Ignoring
a pause in the flow of cars she turned to him and said sharply, as if
snapping back after miles of persistent nagging, “I just wanted to see
what it felt like OK! I needed to know if I could; like a kind of
practice?”
Despite
what she was saying or doing Marc could not believe she was either mad
or a direct threat to him.
“So
how did it feel, was it a successful practice?” He asked her lightly.
“It
was fine.” She assured him in a patronising way.
Marc
realised he hadn’t seen her smile at all so far, as well as appearing
purposeful she had an underlying sadness, a kind of resignation. A gap
appeared in the traffic and she surprised him by turning left instead of
right, towards town.
“My
mother is very sick.” She said in a level tone, apparently to the
windscreen. “She’s dying, very slowly, and in tremendous pain. She
knows what’s happening, her medication is too weak, she has no dignity
in that place.” The woman turned to look at Marc her blank expression
giving nothing away. “She wants me to kill her.” She said.
Marc
started to protest but she interrupted him. “No really! She’s asked
me to. Do you know how hard it must be to ask your daughter to kill
you?”
“Tell
me you’re not planning to shoot her? Marc said as levelly as his
incredulity would permit. “You’ll end up in jail,” he warned her,
wondering if he ought to report her to the police or the social services
or something.
“You
know,” she said glancing in the mirror and setting the car to turn
right into a driveway with large white gates, “if I let an animal
suffer the way they let her suffer, I would be in jail already.”
Marc
was suddenly alarmed, the signs on the open gates read ‘Hazel Copse
Hospice and Sanatorium’, what had been a hypothetical problem, an
ethical point for discussion or persuasion was suddenly an imminent act
of…well…murder! Could he stop her? Could she really do it? Should he
stop her? Marc’s mind was starting to spin.
“What
about your father?” he asked her, more to hear his own voice than to
hear the answer.
“He
died; twelve years ago.” She said levelly. “She still misses him.
Still not for much longer.”
Marc
was dismayed, he felt lost, out of control, all unfamiliar sensations.
He felt he was being swept along on a wave of madness yet could find no
logical arguments to stop it.
“Look
hang on a minute,” he stuttered, bereft of his usual calm control,
wanting to slow everything down, he wanted time to think, to reason with
her, to let reality creep back into this crazy situation.
“You
will come in with me won’t you? She’d love to meet you, she’ll
think we’re lovers. She’s always nagging me about finding a good man
and settling down, it’ll make her happy.”
She
drove straight into a parking slot near the front entrance of what must
once have been an elegant Manor House. Now somewhat dilapidated,
plastered with health service signs directing visitors, deliveries,
patients and staff. Marc was struggling to lose the dream-like quality
of his situation as she got out of the car took her bag from behind her
seat and put the gun inside it. He clambered out of the car, still
grasping for a way to stop her or even slow her somehow. He found
himself trotting around the car and caught up with her on the broad
steps, which swept up to the enormous, open, front doors. Listen to me
for a minute he tried to sound stern and authoritative, but it came out
like a whimper and she kept walking. She smiled at the receptionist as
she strode past and Marc caught her by the elbow as she started down a
long cream coloured corridor. She stopped sharply and turned angrily to
face him, her eyes wide and her hand delving into her bag.
They
stared at each other for a long moment, he could see the resolution in
her eyes, he wondered what she must have been through, how much she had
suffered before arriving at this position. He knew he could raise a
commotion, wrestle her for the gun. He imagined watching her being led
away in handcuffs by the police. He imagined how she might look at him
as she was bundled into a squad car and driven away leaving behind her
mother in so much pain. And he suddenly knew he wouldn’t try to stop
her. She must have seen that in his eyes, she turned and continued
walking; straight backed, head held high until she stopped outside the
last door at the end of the passageway.
“My
name’s Naomi” she said as she reached for the handle of the door
labelled ‘Bluebell 2,’ “what’s your name?”
“Marc”
he replied quietly, as the hospital atmosphere began to sink in.
She
walked into the room. There were six beds, three on either side; pastel
coloured fabric screens separated each from its neighbour. Naomi walked
to the third bed on the right and Marc followed. A nurse looked up and
smiled at them as they passed the patient she was tending in the bed
between the pale pink screens, and then returned to her ministrations.
“Mum
this is Marc,” she said to the grey and shrivelled woman whose face
was creased in a permanent mask of pain. Even so, she was clearly trying
to smile, either at Naomi, Marc or at the sight of the gun, which Naomi
was showing her. The old woman started fumbling with a tiny bony finger
on a withered right hand at her left shoulder. Marc grimaced wondering
if her pain was increased by their presence. Eventually she caught the
corner of the blanket and pulled it away. Her scrawny, grey body was
covered by a bright floral-patterned nightgown. Naomi held the gun about
an inch from her sunken chest with both hands, she whispered I love you
mum, and shot her twice in the heart.
She
was still hugging her dead mother when the police marksmen dragged her
away 20 minutes later.
Chapter
II - After
Five
hours later it was getting dark when exhausted and bemused Marc emerged
from the police station. Naomi was waiting on the steps by the rear
entrance. Marc was exhausted from the hours of constant questioning;
‘how did he get the gun’, ‘why did he make her do it’, that sort
of thing. He was bemused because it was Naomi who’d put up his £10,000
bail, without her credit card it seemed he’d have spent the night in
the cells.
“There
you are,” she said, “thank-god, I’ve been waiting hours for you,
what were you doing in there?” Naomi was smiling up at him, a little
bit manic perhaps, but a smile none the less. “Come on I’ll give you
a lift.” she turned and walked towards the little sports car parked
next to a row of police patrol cars. Marc wondered how else he’d get
to the hotel, he certainly wasn’t going to Hitch, and he knew he’d
done that for the last time. He walked up to the passenger side and
squeezed himself into the seat. He didn’t really believe his eyes when
he watched her put the gun, now in a clear plastic bag, back in the door
pocket, so he didn’t say anything at first.
“So
they didn’t lock you up then?” Marc said indicating his surprise;
he’d fully expected to be locked up himself.
“No
they were very good about it really, you know once I explained it all. I
was only in custody an hour and a half, luckily they had a solicitor
there already, so once we’d done the statement and they’d checked a
few facts that was pretty much it.” She started the car and reversed
it neatly out of its space. “We’re going for a guilty plea on
Manslaughter,” she told him cheerfully. “1 – 5 years; hopefully
suspended,” she announced with apparent satisfaction.
Naomi
drove out of the car park and onto what looked to Marc like the high
street of a small country town, he wasn’t even sure which town. The
aftermath of the shooting was all a bit of a blur. The booming reports
of the gun, the long silent wait, the thundering boots in the corridor
the shouted warnings and the brutal body search, the handcuffing, the
journey in the cramped sweaty squad car were all very hazy in his
memory. The streetlights were coming on and the wind in the cockpit of
the little car was cool and refreshing. First the shops and then the
houses began to thin out as Naomi drove out of the town and into the
countryside once more.
Marc
took a deep breath, “Tell me I didn’t see you put the gun back in
the your door pocket.” he said in as level a tone as he could.
“Ha!”
she tossed her head back and laughed then turned to him smiling, even in
the dark he could see her eyes were twinkling and her smile was
mischievous, like a child’s. “That’s the funny thing, it was just
there, on the table, just sitting there! They kept going out of the room
to whisper, so I put it in my bag.”
“Christ
Naomi!” Marc blurted “That’s crucial evidence, they’ll go nuts
when they find it’s missing”. Naomi shrugged, “Well they should
have taken better care of it, shouldn’t they? Besides I’ve got used
to it now, I don’t feel properly dressed without it.” She laughed
again and slowed down for a junction up ahead. Marc starred at the road
silent and incredulous, this whole day seemed too crazy for real life,
Marc hoped it was a dream.
He
stayed quiet for a while, until she asked him if he was hungry, “I
honestly don’t know,” he Said. “What about you?”
“I’m
OK,” she told him. “Once I was bailed they took me to the hospital,
to identify the body, there’s no one else could do it. We stopped at a
burger bar on the way back.”
“You
were hungry after that?” Mark was surprised.
“Starving”
she said, “my mother looked wonderful, so peaceful, I’m so glad we
did it.” ‘We?’ thought Marc, but before he could make a point
about the ‘we’ part, her mobile phone chirruped like a Cricket. She
fumbled behind her for her bag and Marc reached over, retrieved her
phone and passed it to her. Not likely to be surprised by anything now,
Marc listened with growing incredulity to just her half of the
conversation.
“Hello?”
“Oh,
hello Sergeant”
She
turned to Marc and mouthed in an exaggerated mime ‘the Police’.
“Have
I got what?” She paused and listened to the Sergeant repeat the
question.
“Well
yes, actually I have, sorry, shouldn’t I have taken it?”
The
innocence in her voice left Marc staggered. She listened again briefly,
and replied, “Well it was just there on the table when we all got up
to leave, I didn’t think you wanted it, …you know?”
Another
short pause, “Yes; well sorry; listen I’ve still got it, I could
drop it in on Tuesday when I report for bail if you like; if you don’t
need it before then?”
Naomi
nodded seriously at the road in front of her.
“OK
then…no, don’t worry, I won’t…alright then…. thanks; bye!”
She
clicked the call off and handed her phone to Marc who starred wide-eyed
at her, his mouth more than a little agape, unable to believe what
he’d just heard. She smiled at him reassuringly, “Detective Sergeant
Norton,” she said to Marc “He wants the food receipt. You know? For
his expenses.”
“I’m
tired, let’s find your Hotel,” she said to Marc, in an entirely
matter of fact voice.
“I
don’t know if they’ll have another room,” he told her.
“They’ll
have your room won’t they?” she queried. “Besides,” she said,
“I don’t want to be alone tonight, after all I was just orphaned
this afternoon.”
It
was only then that Marc thought, for the first time in hours about his
‘real’ life, the one, which he understood and felt in control of,
the one that seemed a million miles away right now; a million miles from
this little red sports car.
“Christ!”
he said, “I’d completely forgot. Whatever happens I’ve got to be
in Brighton by eleven o’clock tomorrow.” He looked at her with wide
eyes and raised eyebrows to stress the importance. “It’s my
daughter’s wedding, if I’m late for that my ‘ex’ will kill
me!”
Naomi
nodded seriously, “Would you like to borrow my gun?”
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