Her voice was barely more than a whisper. ‘I killed her.’
‘There’s no proof you—’
‘I killed Mr Denholm’s dog with rat poison! You think it’s a coincidence Mum died of the same thing? I killed her.’
‘You were only five, Lucy. After all this time, does it really matter? What would it change?’ The Bloodsmith wrapped his arms around her and held her tight, her forehead pressed against his chest. ‘Shhh... It’s OK.’
‘I’m a monster.’
A light kiss brushed the top of her head. ‘You’re amazing. You’re smart and funny and clever and you don’t give up. Whoever you were, that’s not who you are now.’ There was a pause. ‘Unless you want it to be, of course?’
No. She didn’t.
Lucy spat a bitter mouthful of saliva-and-unleaded out into the back garden. She’d parked Dad’s Bedford Rascal in the garage, shutting the door so the neighbours couldn’t watch as she filled three ancient metal jerrycans from the van’s fuel tank.
The Bloodsmith nodded. ‘Excellent job. Now, all we need is something to act as a fuse and we’ll be ready to go.’
She went into the house, returning with an empty bottle that used to contain elderberry and pomegranate cordial. Filled it up from one of the jerrycans, screwed the top on tight, and tied a rag around its neck. Then loaded it and the jerrycans into the van, snapped off her blue nitrile gloves, and headed back inside.
Sitting on the kitchen worktop, her phone launched into its bland ringtone — the name ‘ARGYLL MCCASKILL’ glowing in the middle of the screen. She didn’t answer it. Marched through the hall and into the lounge instead.
She stood in the middle of the room, with its massive murder board, staring at the victims and the suspects and the notes and the Post-its and the hours and hours of work and study and worry and trying to figure out what was going on and who the Bloodsmith was, when all the time she had Dr John Christianson locked up in a chandler’s sodding warehouse.
The Bloodsmith stalked in after her. He dug Dad’s secret stash of cigars out from under the sofa. Rolled one back and forth in his fingers. Sniffed it. Smiled. ‘My favourite brand.’ Then lit the thing, puffing out a thick veil of pungent smoke as he watched her like a cat watches a wounded bird. ‘You’re very quiet, Lucy. Are you feeling all right?’
‘No.’ Grinding her teeth. Hands clenched into aching fists. ‘It’s all lies, isn’t it? All of it.’
‘Lucy, you—’
‘I’m driving around in that crappy Bedford Rascal because you slashed my tyres. Only you didn’t slash them, did you? Because you’re not real. It was me.’ Getting louder with every word. Blood pounding in her throat. Headache screaming. ‘I did it. I slashed my own tyres; I cut the sodding telephone line, what, just to sabotage myself? BECAUSE LIFE WASN’T HARD ENOUGH?’
He tried to take her hand, but she jerked it away.
‘Lucy, I know it’s confusing, but you need to—’
‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’ She snatched at the nearest suspect and tore his photo from the wall, throwing it to the floor and grabbing the next one, and the next, ripping them down in handfuls now, hurling everything to the carpet at her feet. Then the victims and the post-mortems and everything else, stomping it into the faded Axminster and screaming and crying and yelling till there was nothing left but the pockmarked wallpaper and an aching throat.
Lucy swayed there, breathing hard.
All of it, nothing but a waste of time.
She bent and picked the photo of Mum and Dad from amongst the drifts of suspects and the dead. The glass was cracked into a jagged mosaic, but there they were, still smiling away behind it.
‘Lucy?’ The Bloodsmith settled onto her father’s couch.
‘All this time, he told me she died of cancer. Lying to the police about her being suicidal, when he must’ve known it was me. No wonder he could barely look at me after... after the funeral.’
‘He must’ve loved you very much.’
She sank down into the other settee, the photo on her knees, both parents smiling up at her. ‘I used to hate him. Why wasn’t he there for me? Why did I have to get put in a home with those bastards?’ A harsh laugh barked out of her. ‘Can you imagine what it must’ve been like, trying to raise the child that murdered your wife? I’m surprised he didn’t smother me in my sleep...’
‘Lucy, you need to forgive yourself.’
‘The world would’ve been a better place if he had.’ Scrubbing the tears from her eyes with the heel of her palm. ‘It’s all lies and shit and horror.’
‘Come on, Lucy, don’t—’
‘I CHAINED A MAN UP IN A BASEMENT AND TORTURED HIM!’
The Bloodsmith got up and knelt in front of her. Taking her hands. Cigar poking out the side of his mouth. ‘You’re just doing what you need to survive. That’s all. You didn’t have any option.’
‘There’s one other option: I don’t have to kill Dr Christianson.’ She pulled her hands free and stood. Lurched out of the room and up the stairs. Thumped through the tears and into the bathroom.
It wasn’t anything fancy — a bit old-fashioned, with a nice big enamel bath and clean white tiles. Even if the grout was going a bit grey and mouldy in places. A row of glass bottles and plastic containers were lined up along a low shelf above the bath. Lucy grabbed one, cranked the taps on full, and tipped in a good glug of ‘relaxing’ bubble bath, leaving the water running while she stomped back downstairs to the sideboard, where Dad’s bottle of eighteen-year-old Glenfiddich had lain for the last half-decade, gathering dust, awaiting a special occasion that never came.
Well, this was its lucky day, because today was going to be very special indeed: the last will, testament, and breath of Lucy Roxburgh McVeigh.
44
‘Lucy, are you sure this is what you want to do?’ The Bloodsmith perched on the toilet lid, legs crossed, brow furrowed, as if this was some sort of therapy session and she was lying on a couch instead of in a hot bath.
‘I told you to get out.’ Glaring at the bubbles that covered nearly every bit of her that poked out of the water.
‘Lucy, it’s all very dramatic — the bottle of whisky and the razor blades — but if this is a cry for help, no one’s coming to save you.’ He took a long draw on his cigar. ‘It’s just us in here, Kiddo.’
She picked off the foil that covered the bottle’s cork. ‘I don’t want to be saved.’ Pouring a stiff measure into one of Dad’s good crystal tumblers. The ones she was never allowed to touch. ‘Leave me alone.’
‘Come on, Kiddo, things aren’t that bad. OK, so you’re not who you thought you were, but nobody is. We’re all different versions of ourselves every—’
‘Please!’ She screwed her eyes tight shut. ‘Please, just leave me alone.’
The silence stretched.
Then, ‘OK. If that’s what you really want.’ A sigh, then a creak — that would be him getting up off the toilet. ‘But if you change your mind...’
Now the only noise was the faint effervescent susurrus of tiny bubbles popping. And when Lucy opened her eyes, she was the only one there.
The tumbler was heavy in her hand, the rich scents of warm peat and sharp ethanol mixing with the lavender-and-honey bubble bath. Been over a year since she’d last touched alcohol. Not much point staying teetotal any more — wasn’t as if she’d be around tomorrow for the hangover.