Last Rites

Twenty-six

One of the first things Preston had done after they’d arrived at Maureen’s had been to down two large cups of tea laced with brandy; the other was to strip to his skin right there in the kitchen: twelve years of prison slop-outs and prison showers didn’t leave much room for embarrassment. “Burn them,” he said, indicating the pile of soiled clothing.

Maureen looked at him helplessly. “What?”

“I said, burn them.”

“There’s only a gas fire, natural effect.”

“What about the dustbin?”

“Plastic.”

Preston cursed. “Bin bags. You can take them to the dump later.”

Reluctantly, Maureen bent down to pick up the clothes, her head level with his crotch; Preston watching her, a smile playing round the corners of his mouth.

“Well?” he said.

Maureen stood up, blushing, unable to look him in the eye.

Preston laughed and turned away, knowing that she was looking at him as he climbed the stairs, the long curve of his back, his balls just visible between his legs, that tight arse.

The first thing Maureen had done when she moved into her thirties house in Bramcote Hills was to have several acres of moss-green carpet cleared from the floors and the original boards sanded and varnished, polished till they shone with a deep hue that her cleaning lady worked hard to maintain. Layers of flowery paper were stripped from the walls and the whole of the downstairs painted creamy white. Aside from the kitchen, which resembled the stretched interior of a spaceship capsule, Maureen had been keen to mix old and new, the contemporary with items which brought out that original thirties feel. In the living room, a brown leather settee shared the space with a pair of upright Waring and Gillow armchairs; a trio of hand-thrown prewar vases sat on a molded plastic coffee table from IKEA.

It was a beautiful-to Maureen-stylish home. And now she was trapped in it with a man who had killed and could kill again.

While she was waiting for him to be done with his bath, she put food on the table-cold roast chicken, tomatoes, potato salad, cheese, two sticks of French bread. There was ice cream in the freezer, Ben and Jerry’s, three flavors; she kept it there as a lesson in temptation. She thought for the hundredth time about making a run for it; she thought about opening wine. Maureen laughed nervously. Was that what you did when you were kidnapped by your brother-in-law who’d just escaped from prison? Get out the best silver and a bottle of Chilean Cabernet?

She was thinking about him, up there in that oval tub, feet up on the edge most probably, knees spread wide. How easy it would have been for her to slip her mobile from her bag and dial 999; lock the front door from the outside, jump into the car, and drive away. Anywhere. Surely that’s what she should do?

Kill you. Since that first warning, he hadn’t wasted words on another.

Hearing a movement upstairs, she slipped the clear plastic corkscrew over the head of the bottle and began to twist.

Shaved, a comb pulled through thick, short hair, Michael Preston stood in the doorway, barefoot. The clothes Maureen had chosen, the pre-faded denim shirt, the dark olive chinos, fitted perfectly. As they should. It was her job.

“Feeling better for that?” God, listen to her!

“Yeah.” Looking at the food on the table, he grinned. “Been busy, I see.” He pulled out one of the pale, high-backed dining chairs and sat down and poured himself a full glass of wine; as an afterthought, he poured a second for her.

Maureen sat opposite him and unfolded the napkin from beside her fork.

“Your idea, the bath? That shape?”

“Yes.”

“Nice. Lets you spread out.” He reached toward the chicken and, ignoring the carving knife, took hold of the bird with both hands and broke off a leg. “Fit two in, I dare say. At a squeeze.”

Maureen cut the tomato on her plate in half and half again.

“Bit of a luxury for me, lazing about in all that hot water. Bath foam. Body lotion. Not needing eyes in the back of your head. Some bastard who’s signed on queer for the duration; bar of soap in one hand and his scabby dick in the other.” A piece of dark meat threatened to fall from his mouth and he caught it with his tongue.

Amused at her discomfort, he tipped potato salad on to his plate. “Make all this yourself, did you?”

“No, I …”

Preston jabbed the air with his chicken bone. “You know, Maureen, there’s one thing you’re going to have to learn: when I’m serious and when I’m not.”

He lay fully stretched out on the brown settee, eyes closed, enjoying the strangely warm softness of the creased leather, his wineglass on the floor alongside. It was at least ten minutes since he had spoken and, less than comfortable on one of her prize chairs, Maureen wondered if he had fallen asleep. How long was he going to keep her there, a prisoner? Tomorrow, Sunday, the shop was closed. Monday, too. And after …? She looked down at him, so seemingly sure of himself, sleeping. How long did he intend to stay?

She was bracing herself to move when he said, not bothering to open his eyes, “The police, they been round?”

She hesitated. “To the shop, yes. They contacted everyone, I suppose. Everyone who’d been at the funeral.”

“What kind of police? CID? Plainclothes?”

“Uniform, two young men in uniform. Why? Does it matter?”

“Sometimes.”

“They just asked me if I’d seen you since the time at Derek’s house and of course I said no. If I’d noticed anything unusual, that kind of thing. Nothing, well, specific, you know?”

“Not suspicious, then, you didn’t reckon?”

“No. No. I mean, why would they be?”

He startled her by sitting up suddenly and swinging his feet round to the floor. “They haven’t been watching the house?”

“Here? No, of course not.”

“How ’bout Lorraine’s?”

She blinked. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

He leaned back against the settee. “Bound to have been. A while, at least. They’re not stupid, you know. Not altogether.”

He leaned back against the settee.

“You’ll be wanting to see her, I suppose?” Maureen said. “Lorraine. You’ll be wanting to get in touch?”

“Yes,” he said. “Most likely.”

It was silent for some moments, neither of them moving.

“Michael?”

“Yeah?”

“What … what are you going to do?”

Slowly he smiled. “You’ll see. Soon enough.”

It was dark outside. The last she had seen of Preston, he was watching TV. Only now he wasn’t; he was there in the kitchen, leaning against the door frame, staring. Maureen felt her skin go cold.

“That day,” he said, “the funeral. Back at Lo’s place. You were coming on to me.”

Maureen blinked. “I don’t think so. Was I?”

“You know bloody well you was.”

She half turned away. “I’m sorry, I …”

“What? Didn’t mean it?”

“No.”

“Talk like that to all the boys?”

She tried to swallow but her tongue, marooned, refused to move.

“The way you was leaning across me, touching me, every now and again, just a little. Here.” He stroked the inside of his forearm with the knuckles of his free hand. “You remember?” Staring at her all the while, staring.

“Yes.”

“Making sure I could get a good view of your tits.”

Maureen wanted to go to the bathroom; she needed to pee. Now his hand was back in the pocket of his chinos and she could see the movement, slow and rhythmic, beneath the slightly shiny fabric.

“Fancied me, didn’t you.”

“Look, Michael, I’m sorry …” She moved several quick paces toward him and then stopped.

“All an act, then, was it?”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying. I … I suppose … Well, yes, I was … attracted to you. I …”

He was smiling with his eyes, gray eyes. “Not just a prick teaser, then?”

She shook her head.

“One of those tarts get turned on by someone doing serious time?” He took the slightest step toward her.

“No,” she said, trying to stop herself shaking. “No, honestly.”

He touched her. “Kiss me then. On the mouth. Now. Yes, now.”

She felt his tongue push past her teeth inside her and the movement of his hand accelerating, clear and hard against her side. His teeth bit down into her lower lip, not deep; she felt a shudder travel through his body and then his hand was still, his tongue withdrew.

Maureen didn’t know if she should stay where she was or move away.

After a few moments, he said, “I’m going upstairs, take a nap. I need to catch up on some sleep. Wake me in a couple of hours, right? Don’t forget. There’s a call I’ve got to make.”

Maureen nodded, barely able to move her head.

She needed to feel clean. While he slept, she stood in the shower for a long time, temperature racked up high, and when she stepped out the bathroom was rich with steam. A towel round her body, another round her head, she sat on the toilet seat and sobbed.

The door to the main bedroom was ajar and she could see him spread diagonally along the surface of the bed, naked; hear the faint hiss and whistle of his breath.

She thought she could fetch a hammer and bring it down with all her strength against his head; she thought that she could slip out of her robe and rest her face against the swelling of his chest.

She went downstairs and poured herself a drink, and didn’t go back up until it was time for him to be called, and when she walked across the floor toward him he blinked instantly awake.