Page 35

‘Okay, no worries,’ I said, closing the door behind me and flipping his Closed sign to Open as I ambled in and looked at all the tat he had assembled.

It had the familiar, very distinct smell of old .

I didn’t want to look at his face, but I was hoping that my coming in had frustrated him.

I tried to put salt in the wound by touching and inspecting all of the crap he had in his shop, smoothing my hands over everything I could, praying that he was cursing me silently as he watched from the counter.

‘Anything you’re looking for, Miss?’ he said as I took a glance at the diaries still dated for this year. Somewhat ironic, given that it was October.

‘Oh, not really, just browsing,’ I said, giving him an obviously plastic smile as he set up the till.

I took a moment to take a really good look at him.

There was no denying the man looked good for his eighties.

His skin still glowed, wrapped tight around his face; crystal blue eyes; his thick white hair was slicked back.

No wonder he was popular with the OAPs in the village.

As he pushed his hand up to his lips to wet his fingers to turn the page of a catalogue in front of him, I saw the bronze ring, glistening in the daylight.

It was the complete lack of shame shown by them continuing to wear the rings that really made my blood boil.

Like there was no repentance for what they had been a part of.

I grabbed a huge pink glitter pen with a tuft of tiny artificial feathers at the end, presumably this would catch the attention of whatever young girl had been dragged along on her father’s errands.

I walked up to the counter and slid it across to him, curious to see if he would recognise me up close.

‘Aren’t you a bit too old for that?’ he said, half smirking, unveiling his unusually pearly white teeth.

‘No,’ I said, staring at him, dumbfounded. ‘What makes you say that?’

Clark, who didn’t recognise me in the slightest, wasn’t going to miss the chance to make a woman feel stupid.

‘That pen sells very well with our primary-school demographic. Good to know that there’s a market with yours, too.’

I faked a playful ‘oh you’ expression as he began to tap on the keys on the till, still amused by his own comment.

‘One pound, please,’ he said.

I showed him my credit card to gesture for him to do contactless, watching him groan as he picked up the card reader. The banks would rob him for just this purchase in transaction fees. It gave me a tremendous amount of glee to know he would be barely turning a profit with this sale.

I exhaled, stretching my arms out wide before settling them in my pockets.

I felt comforted by the small pocketknife resting there, curling my fingers around it like a stress ball, realising how easy it would be to swipe it across his neck and watch him clutch and claw at the gaping wound before bleeding out on the counter.

Knowing the knife would only need to leave my pocket for a couple of seconds, before I could nestle it back in there.

God, I knew I was going to enjoy killing him the most. Far more than Macleod and O’Neill.

Clark had always been the ringleader of the gang.

I was sure everything that had happened had been his idea from the start.

After all, it was his career that had helped them all to get away with it for so long.

I wanted to kill him so desperately, yet I found myself hesitating. As I pushed my card firm against the reader, I realised that Clark had a hold on me that none of the others did.

‘That’s all done for you,’ he said as the card machine began to vomit up a receipt.

I snatched up the pen and examined it in front of him.

He watched me scornfully, clearly wondering why this city girl was still even in his shop.

I wished that my purchase would have been a good murder tool, death by pink sparkle-bedazzled pen would be a wonderful way for Clark to depart the mortal coil.

I knew this was only supposed to be a reconnaissance mission, but my fear was fast obliterating any restraint I had left. The thought of allowing a man who could instil such terror within me to continue living for a second longer was unthinkable.

‘Tell me, Abe, do you remember a place called St Nicholas’s?’ I asked him.

His old, sagging face slowly crumpled in shock. He remembered.

As my heart hammered against my ribs, I grabbed the handle of the blade in one hand, placed the other on the counter to steady myself, and, planning a clean route up to his neck, yanked the knife out of my pocket.

‘Hey, Grandad.’

A young lad, no older than about fourteen, gently pushed open the door. He smiled at me through his braces. I stopped. The knife was out of my pocket, but Clark was distracted as he glanced towards the door. I shoved the blade back in, piercing myself in the hip a little in the process.

‘Hello, son, how are you?’ Clark said, clearly relieved as he gently lifted his hands up in the air as a salutation.

‘I’m all right. Do you want me to start unpacking some of the stock out the back?’ the boy asked whilst pulling off his hoodie, folding it, and placing it by the door.

I felt the sensation of blood begin to dribble and drip down my hip.

I just had to wait long enough for the boy to go into the back of the shop, then I could still strike and kill Clark.

The boy would be scarred, of course, but I’d seen worse by the time I was half his age.

With some therapy, he would be absolutely fine. Ten to fifteen years, maybe.

‘That would be great. Just start with rearranging some of the boxes this side of the shop though, please.’

Shit.

The boy gently and courteously excused himself by me as I tried not to let my leg tremble or shudder, the prick of the edge of the blade still wedged firmly in my skin.

‘So, are you sure there’s nothing else I can do you for?’ Clark asked, his slack jowls growing ever more taut.

‘I’m fine, thank you,’ I said, struggling to keep it together as I gave a small wave goodbye and awkwardly began to limp out of the shop, hoping that I wasn’t leaving a long trail of blood behind me. For whatever reason, fate wasn’t going to let me kill the bastard today.

‘Oh, you forgot your pen,’ I heard the boy call.

I began formulating and streamlining the plan to kill Clark on the way home.

It excited me, like the moment before you drop on a rollercoaster.

Killing him outright in the shop would be too obvious.

Anyone could walk in. And as much as a stabbing would give me an extortionate amount of joy, the connotations of murder would be too obvious.

It would need to look like either a suicide, or an accident.

Considering how difficult staging a suicide had turned out to be, I figured an accident would be both easier and more plausible.

I rewound and replayed the morning in my mind.

There was a small alcove at the back of the shop where Clark kept a load of boxes.

What would happen if one accidently fell on his head, giving him a concussion?

Or what if, perhaps, he happened to slip on an uneven surface?

I made a mental note to research the most fatal kind of accident and see how difficult it would be to recreate it.

After I dropped off Angus, who had decided he wasn’t on speaking terms with me after I’d left him in the pub, I reached the house, passing a police car in the driveway.

After a quick inspection of the number plate, I saw that it was Gareth’s.

He was home. I hadn’t sent any messages to him in the end; I thought it was just best to talk to him and try to save my marriage through good old communication.

At least, I hoped I could save it. I knew he was wondering if I actually was a murderer.

I hopped out of the car and braced myself. I could see Gareth inside through the window. His eyes looked up to somewhat acknowledge me and then back down to the kitchen table. So, it was time for the talk.

I took a deep breath to steel myself. I was ready to apologise, to take the blame.

Gareth was the best thing in my life, and I needed to be as honest as I could be with him.

I would tell him about what the doctor had said about my fertility; he had an absolute right to know about that.

I didn’t think I would tell him about my childhood, though, about St Nicholas’s and Edith.

I didn’t think I’d ever be ready to do that.

I walked slowly into the house, as if going the wrong way on a moving walkway, and glanced up again at Gareth in the window. He looked borderline depressed. The window was obviously accentuating his crow’s feet and pale skin, but the man looked like he had just caught the plague.

A figure skulked past the window – bulky, tall, and imposing.

I froze as I realised the silhouette was in fact, a reflection from someone behind me.

Whirling around, I came face to face with Cecilia, whose presence seemed to loom particularly menacingly above me today.

I recoiled, stepping back as another officer flung open my front door and descended the steps towards me, the distinct sound of handcuffs rattling in his hand.

‘Francesa Donoghue, I am Detective Steve Norton. I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of…’

Steve stuttered as the words seemed to get stuck in his throat. His eyes, panicking, looked to Cecilia as I stood there, frozen to the spot, unsure if now was the best time to run or to object, or what even exactly the best thing to do in a situation like this was.

‘I forgot his name,’ Steve murmured. ‘Damn.’

Cecilia jerked Steve out of the way, shaking her head, and placed a hand on the small of my back, guiding me towards the police car.

Cecilia recited the rest of the rights to me, but I didn’t really listen.

I realised this was what people would refer to as an out of body experience.

I felt completely detached from my own movements as they placed me into the back seat of the car.

I just kept my eyes focused on Gareth, through the window.

He didn’t even glance up from the kitchen table to look at me.