Part 2
The next evening at Rose Hill House:
Greg is wandering restlessly around the den, the television flickering and chattering in the background. He walks into the dining room and squats down to choose a bottle of wine from the wine rack, reads the label then chooses a different, larger bottle. He sets it on the table, checks the time on his watch, and with an air of expectation goes upstairs to shower and dress.
In Greg's car:
Greg is driving, the bottle of wine on the seat beside him. He pulls his mobile out of his breast pocket. He has Marcey's number on one-touch calling now, but the mobile rings once and then trills to signal the battery is dead. He rolls his eyes but then smiles, thinking of how Marcia knew he was lying on the day of the inquest. He turns the phone off and fits it into the car-charger. As he turns off the motorway at the Failstone exit, he makes a little face and says the word 'special'.
He parks outside her flat on Pritchard Street, sees her lights are on and, carrying the wine bottle, walks up to ring the door. He hears noises inside but gets no response; he rings again and then hears a male voice shouting angrily and Marcia's voice answering defensively and fearfully. He tries the door and it opens, so he walks slowly up the stairs, listening and trying to figure out what's happening in her flat.
The male voice is cursing and threatening, and Marcia's voice is pleading for him to go home. Greg stands listening near the top of the stairs, but can see nothing and no one. He hears a crash of furniture and a cry from Marcia. He calls out her name and the male voice shouts,
"Who in hell's this, then? Got yourself a boyfriend, you useless cow – more like a paying customer. I knew you'd sink to that level, stinking whore!"
Greg hears a distinct slap and a cry of pain; he bounds up the stairs and walks quickly, tense and alert into the sitting room, but it is empty. He calls Marcia's name again as he moves through the hall towards the closed kitchen door. The male voice shouts,
"Clear off, she's not working tonight. Not for you, at least"
Greg steps back as if to kick in the door, but then thinks to turn the handle. The door opens on the horrifying scene of Marcia pushed face down over the small kitchen table, an arm twisted painfully and held pinned behind her back. A tall, brutish, drunken man is standing behind her, apparently about to force himself onto her. Greg recognizes him from the photo as her ex-husband, big Ben. He shouts angrily to get his attention.
"Hey!"
Ben turns his head sharply; his free hand is on the fly of his unfastened trousers, and he is clearly unimpressed with the intruder.
"Clear off, you tosser!"
He reaches to pick up a vase by the sink and hurls it at him. Greg ducks out of the way as it shatters against the doorframe.
When Marcia sobs in pain and fear Ben wrenches her arm and shouts,
"I'll f****n' break it!"
Ben glares down at her triumphantly and Greg is galvanized into action.
He rushes forward - and in one fluid motion swings the heavy wine bottle up at full arm's length and smashes it against the side of the drunken man's head.
Glass and red wine spray across the wall and cupboard doors. Ben is knocked sideways from the blow; his head slams against the cupboard and, on the way down, cracks hard on the edge of the kitchen counter. His entire body shivers like a felled tree as he crashes to the floor, lying face up.
Marcia pushes herself off the table and scrambles out of the way to cower on the floor in the corner beyond the sink. She pulls a chair in front of her as a shield, hyperventilating and staring in wide-eyed terror.
Greg stands ready and waiting for the man to move, expecting to be attacked, clutching the broken neck of the wine bottle in his hand.
"Come on, you shit –!"
But there is only a strangled sort of gurgling sound and then silence.
Marcia's choking sobs gradually subside as she realizes Ben is not going to move – ever again.
They both stare at the body and then look across at each other, horror dawning on their faces.
"Christ. The son of a bitch –!"
Marcia slowly rises to her feet, clutching her dressing gown at her throat, still pressed into the corner.
"I thought it was you at the door–. I didn't know he was drunk! I'd never have let him in if I'd known he was drunk!"
She begins to weep helplessly. Her face is marked; her lip is cut and bleeding. Greg takes a step towards her, but she holds up her hand to stop him in his tracks.
"Don't touch me! Don't come near me!"
He's shocked, hurt and confused, until she says,
"DNA – they'd take samples from me and him. They can't find yours as well. Greg, if the police link our names together in this – after Martin –!"
"I know! I know! Jes–. It'd all be opened up again! Linda still can't – they'd never believe this wasn't planned! "
He puts his hand to his forehead and stands thinking for a second, then turns to look at the body.
"Maybe he's not –."
He steps over to make sure Ben is really dead, prodding him none too gently with the toe of his shoe.
"Bastard."
Greg turns and looks at Marcia with a troubled question in his eyes, but glances away when she meets his gaze. He stares at the broken bottle in his right hand.
Marcia is hurt by that questioning look. She lowers her head sadly, and then says quietly.
"Give me that."
He hands it to her with a worried expression; she wipes it carefully on her dressing gown and then wraps her fingers around it.
"I did it. He attacked me. Self-defense. You were never here. Go home, and I'll make the call. We can't let any time go by."
"I can't just leave you here like this, Marcey – Christ."
"You have to. I mean it, Greg; go."
He nods decisively, turns away in anguish and makes for the door, avoiding the broken fragments of the vase. As he passes the doorway he thinks to take out a handkerchief and wipe down the inside and outside door handles. But on the stairs he suddenly he remembers something else, curses and walks back to the kitchen entrance.
He hears her weeping softly.
"Marcey?"
"Get out Greg; just go!"
"I'm sorry – the wine? It's a home kit. It's got Steph and Danny's label on it."
"Shit."
"It's pretty good, actually."
"They don't sell it in markets or anything?"
"No – just give it to friends and family. Um, the police might not look too closely – I can take the label bits away. I mean it's obvious what's happened here. Why would they reconstruct the bottle?"
"They might notice if there's no label at all."
She thinks furiously for a minute.
"Look, there's a bottle of red wine on the sideboard. Bring it here. Wait! Put the kitchen gloves on first."
He pushes his hands into the yellow rubber gloves, which are too small, and fetches the wine.
"This is a much smaller bottle." He remarks, carrying it into the kitchen.
"Well, it's all I could –. It's the same colour glass, and it won't matter when it's smashed."
"Oh. Um – shall I hit him again –?" Greg seems willing to do it.
"No!" Marcey goes into her crisis-prevention mode.
"It would be the wrong splash pattern. Put that down for now. Fetch the small bin-bags out from the drawer there. Gather up the label bits. You'll have to make sure there are none in – in his head."
Glass crunches underfoot as Greg carefully examines the cupboard doors, the counter surface and then picks through the debris on the floor, depositing label and glass fragments into the bag. Finally he bends to look closely at the dead man's clothes, face and hair.
"Ohhh. I think I'll need tweezers." He sounds a little queasy.
"Right. I'll fetch them."
She sees the broken bottle's neck is still in her hand and sets it on the counter. Barefoot, she edges past the sprawling body that seems to fill the entire floor area of her small kitchen.
"Mind your feet – god, you'll cut your feet to ribbons!"
As she passes and makes her way to the bathroom, Greg can see that she is still shaking and is truly terrified of her ex, even now. He looks back at the savage face of the dead man and mutters to himself.
"Jesus, what a brute. Why in the hell…?"
Marcia brings the tweezers to him and retreats to the doorway.
"He wasn't like this when I married him."
Greg looks up, stricken that she has overheard his comment.
"No, of course not; I'm sorry. People change –."
"Yeah, people change."
She wipes at her eyes with a tissue, her hand trembling.
"Sometimes your best mate changes into your worst nightmare. Why do you think I'm working days and nights? It's not for the money, not only; it's to be out of the house, with other people. To be safe. With the catering, he could never know where I was evenings."
"He'd come round in a state like this?"
"Sometimes not so bad; a couple of times, worse."
"Christ, Marcey, I'm sorry…"
"Yeah. He must've had some charm left, for my sister to take up with him."
She turns sadly from the doorway, catches sight of the clock in the sitting room and pulls herself together.
"God – the time, Greg!"
Down on his knees by the body, Greg fumbles with the tweezers but the ill-fitting gloves make it impossible to work.
"Shit. I can't – I'll have to take these off."
"No. I'll do it."
She takes the tool from his hand, kneels beside him and, after a long shuddering breath, wipes her eyes with a sleeve and begins to pluck bits of glass and paper out of the scalp and ear, dropping them into the bag Greg holds open.
He watches her closely with anxious concern, but then catches a glimpse of a perfect little breast and realizes that she is naked under the dressing gown. Greg's mental gears start to grind as he considers the implications of this, since she had been expecting to greet him when she first answered the door.
"There. That's the lot."
He forces his attention back to the task at hand. They stand up together, but Marcia sways off-balance and he reaches out to steady her. She panics and pushes away from him.
"Don't –. Don't –! Oh, Jesus."
She trembles uncontrollably; Greg can't bear to see her like this and insists on putting his arms around her, but holding his hands, still in the rubber gloves, away from her back. She sobs on his shoulder, desperate for his comfort yet terrified of causing him to be implicated in the death.
He speaks to her with an unexpected quiet strength.
"It's okay; I'll clear off. There'll be nothing for them to find, love. I promise."
She looks into his face, seeking confirmation of his reassurance. He holds her gaze; she nods, takes a few deep breaths, and regains her composure.
"Right. Sorry. Umh… put the wine bottle inside this bag and smash it in the sink. Wrap this tea towel under it so the sink isn't scratched. Use this."
She fishes a small hammer out of a drawer. Still wearing the rubber gloves, Greg raises the hammer and strikes the bottle several strong whacks.
With each strike Marcia starts nervously. He sorts out the label fragments and drops them carefully and strategically around the head and body.
They stand together surveying the scene.
"He pushed you backwards onto the table. You reached an arm out –."
"My left arm. Oh –!"
She wipes off the large bottle neck again, visualising the angle and motion as Greg speaks, and wraps her left hand around it.
"You grabbed the bottle and hit him with it in self-defense."
Marcia rehearses the actions of reaching blindly for the bottle and swinging it up and across to impact where Ben's head would have been.
"I'd have got hold of it this way –."
"It's a difficult angle, but still, you could've swung it pretty hard, given the – uh, the circumstances."
"Yeah." There's a world of understatement in her simple answer.
"Wait."
Greg wets his gloved fingers in the bag in the sink and flicks wine droplets across Marcia's hair, face and robe.
"You'd have been splashed a bit, I think."
As she blinks and flinches, she can't suppress an hysterical giggle.
"You're getting good at this."
Greg has the sense not to find her remark amusing.
Marcia looks around and then turns her attention to the sink. She drains off the remaining liquid and wraps up the bag of broken glass and the soaked tea towel inside another bag. She runs the water in the sink to flush away the wine and rinses, dries and puts away the hammer. Greg peels the kitchen gloves off into the bag; she ties a knot to seal it and sets it in the sink.
"Who threw the vase? Cause it's clearly going out of the kitchen." He gestures to demonstrate its trajectory. "Did you throw it at him?"
"No. No, that would seem like I was fighting with him, and I wasn't. I never fought with him – I never argued with him; it was more than my life w –. It was too dangerous. He'd pick a fight with his own shadow."
Greg is visibly upset to hear this further truth about her past life and curses under his breath.
"Well, it's got his prints on it. He smashed it to scare you."
"Yeah, that's exactly what he'd do."
Greg looks around, scanning for any important missed details, but everything looks correct.
"What about your neighbours? Won't someone have heard something or seen him - or me - come in? They'll be questioned, won't they?"
"My flat's the only one with windows on the front. The walls are pretty thick."
"Across the street?"
"They'd only ask if there was something not right."
Marcia pushes back Greg's jacket sleeve to look at his watch.
"You have to go – it's been over thirty minutes. Don't carry that bag home, Greg. Throw it in a tip somewhere. Here's another bag for your shoes. Take them off at the door so you don't tread glass splinters out onto the stairs – or into your car."
He looks down at the floor and sees bloody footprints.
"Marcey, your feet – oh, Jes–!"
"It's fine. I'll walk back and forth as if I were hysterical – that's what they'd expect. I probably will be after you've gone. They'll insist on taking me in to hospital. Don't try to phone. Wait til I phone you. Now go, please."
He bites his lower lip and looks at her with deep sadness and worry.
"Christ, I want to kiss you."
Her eyes fill with tears and she lightly brushes her lips across his.
Greg takes the bags from the sink, removes and bags his shoes at the door, and before going down the stairs looks back for an instant.
Marcey stands framed in the kitchen doorway, clutching the broken bottle in her hand, holding her robe together at her throat; her ex-husband lies dead on the floor behind her. She looks exactly right.
In a flash of macabre humour Greg gives her the thumbs up.
She can only stare back at him in disbelief.
At the foot of the stairs he fishes out his handkerchief to open the door, wipes the handles, and steps out.
In his car, Greg shoves the bags under the passenger seat and starts up the motor, but instead of leaving the area he goes around the block, turns up a side street and parks where he has a view of her building. He warily peers up at the surrounding windows, then slouches down to wait. A man with a dog strolls past on the pavement and Greg shrinks down as far as possible and mouths a curse under his breath. He keeps checking his watch, as it seems to be taking too long. He turns his mobile on. At last sirens sound in the distance, grow louder, and a police car and ambulance pull up in front of her flat. When the officers and attendants have gone in, he turns the ignition key and drives away.
tbc...