Two strides and she’s standing over Neil Black, breath wheezing in her tortured throat.
Her whole arm shudders as she smashes the geode down on the back of his head. There’s a muffled thunk and he jerks.
Then pushes himself over onto his back, one eye partially shut, the other glaring at her as if she’s out of focus. ‘Bitch...’
Lucy raises the geode and cracks it down again, right into his bloody face. Then again. And again. And again. And again. Hitting, battering, and hammering away, until there’s nothing left but dark-red mush and Neil Black is never going to hurt anyone ever again.
23
This time, the silence was so thick you could choke on it.
Dr McNaughton’s jewellery rattled.
The blood sang in Lucy’s veins. Fingers trembling. Breath coming in shallow panting gasps. As if the bastard’s hands were still wrapped around her throat.
‘And you still feel responsible?’
‘I killed him.’
‘Lucy’ — Dr McNaughton’s voice softened — ‘you were traumatized and drugged. He tortured your friend and made you watch. He subjected you both to unimaginable horrors.’
‘They couldn’t even identify him from dental records.’
‘His actions were what led to his death. All you did was defend yourself.’
She blinked up at the ceiling, trying to keep the knots in her throat from tightening. All those stupid pipes and cables up there, going nowhere, doing nothing. Just gathering dust.
Like her.
‘We wanted to keep it as quiet as possible, not tell anyone what actually happened, but Neil Black’s family...’ A deep shuddering breath. ‘We were liars; it never happened; we faked the PM tox report so we could ruin his reputation by saying he was a junkie; we planted drugs in his flat, too; Gillian was a crisis actor; the whole thing was staged, a false-flag event to cover up Neil’s murder.’
McNaughton had gone back to being a pot plant again. Giving her enough quiet to hang herself. As usual.
‘Dad had a stroke when he heard about what happened. Took an hour for the ambulance to arrive, and by then there wasn’t much left of him. Died in hospital six weeks later, a hollowed-out figurine of a little old man. Never said another word.’
All those stupid pipes and cables and ducts.
‘Gillian tried to get over it; she really did. Took a leave of absence. Put the house on the market — because you wouldn’t want to live there, would you? Not after everything he’d done. Only no one wanted to buy the “Horror Rape House”.’
What was the point of them?
‘We found her three days after Christmas. She’d been dead for nearly a week, full of pills, in the bath, with her wrists slashed all the way to the elbow.’
What was the point of any of it?
‘And the pain Neil Black caused, just goes on and on and on...’
What was the point of anything?
‘Lucy, it’s no surprise that you’ve been having these episodes. The things you’ve been through would’ve broken anyone. You need to not blame yourself; you need to give yourself time to get better.’
As if that was ever going to happen...
Lucy blinked at the Bedford Rascal’s dashboard. Seven twenty-five, according to the dusty clock.
Where the hell...?
It had actually stopped raining. Sunlight brushed the top of the buildings in front of her with a sliver of gold, making the pantiles glow.
She leaned over, staring into the wing mirror. Down the valley, across houses and rooftops, to the river, then on to Castle Hill and Logansferry. The twin red lights on CHI’s incinerator chimneys glowing away in the twilight.
How did...?
She had her phone in her hand; had she been calling someone? But when she unlocked it, the screen showed an unsent text message.
Mandy, I know we haven’t spoken since the funeral, and I know you blame yourself for not getting that taxi to take Gillian home, but
But what?
Lucy swallowed. Let loose a trembling breath.
Why should it be her job to make contact first? If Mandy didn’t want to talk to her, she could go screw herself. Not like Mandy was the victim here, was it? Not like she’d been trapped in that bloody living room with the bastard. Had to watch what he did to Gillian.
So what if they’d been friends since university? That was just something else Neil Black had taken away.
Lucy deleted the text, opened the van door, and stepped out onto tarmac.
It was a parking lot, outside a small line of shops.
A man’s voice — bored, crackling, and echoey — boomed out through a tannoy, somewhere behind her: ‘Passengers are advised to take care, as the platform may be slippery due to weather conditions.’
She turned.
That small, branch-line train station in Blackwall Hill sat on the other side of the road. The one that was meant to be the start of an integrated transport project, twenty years ago, that hadn’t integrated anything and got cancelled in the next round of budget cuts.
Nearly half seven, and here she was, at the wee shopping centre where Benedict Strachan was due to meet his mum. Must’ve driven over here on autopilot.
That was Dr Sodding McNaughton’s fault. Same thing happened last time she saw him — stirring up things that should be left alone. Making her go through all... that again. As if it wasn’t bad enough at the Fatal Accident Inquiry, or the internal investigation, or when all the bloody press were shouting questions through her letterbox. No wonder she’d been sending Mandy a text — he’d torn the wound open again and filled it full of salt.
Why could no bastard ever leave anything alone? Why did they have to pick, pick, pick at the scab, and then act all surprised when the bleeding started? Why did...
Lucy froze.
That feeling was back again — the one where all the hairs on the back of her neck rippled, as if waves of electricity pulsed through them. But when she spun around, there was no one there. Just the fading evening sky, the spreading web of streetlights glittering away down the valley and up the other side, the glowing lump of the tiny train station, and the little row of shops.
Still, hard to shake the notion that someone was out there, watching her. Someone who definitely wasn’t friendly.
God’s sake.
Bet that was Dr McNaughton’s fault as welclass="underline" getting her all wound up and jumping at shadows.
OK. Deep breath.
The coffee shop was second from the end, sandwiched between a dry cleaner’s and a place that did shoe repairs and key cutting. The other shops’ shutters were down, but ‘MOLLY’S BEAN MISSING YOU’ had a big ‘OPEN TILL NINE, EVERY NIGHT!’ sign in the window. All lights blazing.
The only other vehicle in the car park was a big BMW four-by-four. The one that’d been parked outside Mr and Mrs Strachan’s house earlier. No one in it now, though. Mrs Strachan would be inside.
Lucy wandered over to the coffee shop, doing her best to look casual, as if she was out for an early-evening stroll and fancied an overpriced hot beverage. Not a police officer looking to pick up an idiot before he fatally violated his release conditions and needed carting back to the nick.
No sign of him through the window, but his mum was sitting all alone at a table near the counter, facing the door. Fidgeting with a napkin while a large mug steamed away in front of her.