I Love My Smith and Wesson (23 page)

Nikki wasn't supposed to know Billy hid champagne in his wardrobe, just as she wasn't supposed to know that he called her Cowface in his diary. He presumably imagined Nikki was far too honorable to read his diary or search through his belongings. For an author, supposedly blessed with a modicum of insight into human beings, he could be remarkably naive.

In the far corner of the wardrobe she found two bottles of Bollinger, standing at attention like sentries. As she reached out for them, Nikki was irritated to see a small pile of T-shirts and shorts, lying in a crumpled heap. Not an unusual sight—Billy was often too lazy to drop his underwear into the dirty-linen basket. As Nikki picked up the bundle, something fell to the bottom of the wardrobe with a dull clunk.

Nikki retrieved the object. It was a beautiful revolver. She knew just by looking at the gun that it was no replica. This was the real thing. The weapon was dark gray with a black grip and the manufacturer's name on the side:
SMITH & WESSON, SPRINGFIELD, MASS
. For a device capable of murder, the gun was curiously bland, a neat, lightweight treasure that fitted perfectly into Nikki's slim and elegant hand.

She felt her cheeks burning as an appalling thought occurred to her. What if Billy had shot the Reislers and those two police officers? But that was impossible. Billy had been with her all evening. Then what did he need a gun for? Not for the first time, it occurred to her that she might be sharing her life with a madman.

*   *   *

By 7:30 she was wearing her makeup and a tight little black dress, listening to Bach as she laid the table for dinner. She was setting out the candles when Billy walked in, a big grin on his face.

“Something smells good,” he said.

She stared at him, hoping it was all a bad dream.

“I can smell my favorite meal. You knew I was coming, didn't you? You always were a bit spooky.”

At the start of their relationship, their psychic bond had been so strong that Nikki only had to will Billy to ring her for him to pick up the phone, wherever he was, whatever he was doing. Those days of spiritual closeness were long gone. Nowadays all they shared was the desire to kick each other up the arse.

Billy toured the house looking for his daughter. On failing to find her, he went down to the kitchen. “Where's Maddy?”

Nikki didn't answer. She was standing at the sink with her back to him. That was never a good sign. Then Billy saw his Smith & Wesson lying on the kitchen table.

“Where's Maddy?” he asked again.

“Where did you get the gun?” she said.

“I bought it off a guy in a pub. Why?”

“I'd like to know,” she said, not looking at him, “what you think you're doing keeping a gun in the house when we've got a small child.”

He only hesitated for a second. “Considering that our next-door neighbors have been fucking shot, I think it was a good idea.”

“Firstly, you're breaking the law. Secondly, it wasn't even properly hidden. It was in the wardrobe. What if Maddy had got hold of it?”

“She never goes anywhere near my fucking wardrobe.”

“What if she did?” Nikki was getting angry now.

He glared at the back of her head. “I've just come home after working my fucking balls off for this family. Is this the welcome I get?”

“You know what I think about guns.”

“Guns are only dangerous if the person using them is dangerous.” He picked up the gun and stood beside her. “This isn't even loaded.”

Now she was taking out her anger on a pan, scrubbing it clean, refusing to look at him. “Look,” he said. He pointed the gun at the window and tried to fire. There was a click. “See?”

She elbowed his arm. “Keep it away.”

“Nikki, why are you cooking a meal for me if you don't like me?”

“I'm not cooking it for you!”

“Yes, you fucking are! Who else do you make lasagna for?”

She slammed the soapy pan down on the draining board and started on a wooden spoon. He pointed the gun at his own head. “What are you so mad about?” He squeezed the trigger. Another click. “OK. I bought a gun. Maybe I shouldn't have done that. I was nervous.”

She turned on him, spitting venom in his face. “Just go! Get out! I don't want to see you! You wanker!”

“It isn't loaded, you fucking cunt!” yelled Billy. To hammer home the point, he aimed the gun at her and squeezed the trigger.

There was a thunderous bang and a ragged hole opened in the middle of Nikki's face. Bright red blood sluiced across the sink and the kitchen window. Nikki toppled over. It was an awkward fall, jerky and unconvincing. If any actor had executed such a fall, the director would have demanded an instant reshoot.

Nikki wasn't acting. She was dead before she reached the floor. Billy had killed her.

He looked at his wife, then examined the smoking weapon in his hand. The gun was warm to the touch.

His head felt like a Halloween pumpkin, huge and swollen and hollowed by knives.

Billy was blushing in pity, terror, and shame.

“Sweetheart, sweetheart,” said Billy. Trembling as he got down on his knees, hoping to revive his wife by pressing a tea towel against the hole in her face. Knowing she was dead. All the time thinking that her last words to him were, “
You wanker
!” And his final words to her were, “
You fucking cunt
.”

*   *   *

Rawhead didn't get an answer at the front door, so went round to the back. Billy was in the kitchen, sitting on a stool. He was crying. Without a hint of emotion, Rawhead looked down at Nikki, saw the globs of brain tissue that were spattered on the kitchen window, and realized that any attempt at resuscitation would serve no purpose.

“What happened, Bill?”

Billy held up the Smith & Wesson. In a strange, shaky voice he murmured, “You told me it wasn't loaded.”

Rawhead sighed and took the gun.

“Why did you tell me that?”

“It was the quickest and easiest way to stop you shooting at me. Have you called anyone?”

“Not yet.”

“Don't. Stay where you are. I'll be right back.”

Rawhead left the house and returned a few minutes later with a loaded syringe. Billy hardly registered his return. A moment later, a generous shot of morphine launched Billy into a state of floating bliss. As Billy flopped, giggling, Rawhead picked him up, carried him into the living room, and laid him on the sofa.

When Rawhead returned to the kitchen, the timer on the oven was buzzing. Feeling it was a shame to waste good food, Rawhead took the sizzling dish out of the oven and laid it on the blood-spattered windowsill to cool. He looked in the fridge, saw the champagne, opened a bottle, and poured himself a glass.

Then he sat down at the kitchen table and raised his glass to the dead woman, confident that the world she had entered was infinitely superior to the world she had left behind.

*   *   *

After midnight, Billy awoke. He recalled that something truly dreadful had taken place but could not remember the details. The sight of Rawhead, who was sitting beside him on the sofa, jogged his memory. As the full horror of his wife's death swept over him, Billy screamed. Rawhead put his hand over Billy's mouth.

“All right. Take big breaths.”

Billy sat up too sharply, felt dizzy, and almost fell off the sofa. Rawhead laid a steadying hand on Billy's chest.

“Jesus Christ almighty. Tell me it isn't true.”

“It's true.”

“Is she dead?”

“Yeah. But it was an accident. A complete fluke.”

“It's still against the fucking law.” Billy started crying. “You said it wasn't loaded.”

“I had to say something. You were trying to shoot me.”

Billy wiped his nose on the sleeve of his shirt.

“Do you deny that?” asked Rawhead.

Billy shook his head.

“OK, listen to me.” Rawhead looked at Billy, his expression stern. “I know you set fire to the caravan with me in it. And, naturally, I wanted to get back at you for that. But I didn't want anything like this to happen. I didn't trick you into shooting Nikki. Do you believe me?”

Billy nodded. “Will you do me a favor?”

“What?”

“Would you phone the police? I don't think I could.”

“I'm not phoning the police. Nor are you.”

“But they'll find out. They'll notice she's gone.”

“Billy. Look at me. The police do not care about Nikki. The police are ignorant bastards. All they care about is getting easy convictions. Your punishment will be living with what you've done. You're just a writer. You pose no real danger to anyone. What good would locking you up do?”

“Maybe I'll get off.”

“Wake up, Billy. Not only will they nail you for Nikki; they'll try to pin the deaths of your neighbors and those cops on you. You had a
gun
. An unlicensed firearm. That's all they'll need to influence a jury. Tell anyone about this, anyone at all, and I guarantee you will never see the light of day again.”

Billy looked into Rawhead's eyes. “So what can I do?”

“First of all, you call Nikki's mobile. You do that now; leave a message to ask where she is. Because you've just come home and no one's here. In the morning, you go round to Nikki's mum to pick up Maddy. You ask Nikki's mum where Nikki is; she doesn't know; you call the police.

“The good news is, Nikki has gone AWOL before. This is what she does. She gets depressed and walks out on everyone. The police aren't going to view her as a priority.”

Billy started crying. “But the body…”

“I'll take care of that. I've cleaned the kitchen. Now I'll bury her.”

“Where? Where will you put her?”

Rawhead could see how important this was to Billy. “Somewhere peaceful,” he answered. “Somewhere where she can see trees and blue skies and hear the birds singing.”

*   *   *

Three hours later, Rawhead carried Nikki into his house by the church. Her body was swaddled in bin liners. He turned on the light and, showing no respect for the deceased, threw his burden to the floor. Then he walked through to the kitchen. He plucked his keys off the wall, went down to the cellar, and unlocked the door. Insects flew into his face as the door yawned open, breathing out its customary stench.

Under the sink, he kept a heavy flashlight which he now took into the cellar. Rawhead used the light to wedge open the second door, aiming it down the subterrannean tunnel toward the pit. Then he returned for the body.

Flinging the corpse over his shoulder, he noticed a sweet smell. Parma violets. For some reason, the smell reminded him of childhood. He assumed that the fragrance was something to do with Nikki and blanked it out of his mind. Then he carried her down to the cellar. Where there were no trees, blue skies, or birds singing.

Only flies breeding in the mephitic darkness.

Not bothering to remove the bin bags, Rawhead thrust the body in through the gap in the wall. A second passed and then he heard the
whumphh!
as Billy's wife reached her final resting place. He remembered Sirus and wondered if he was dead yet. So he went back for the torch. On his return, he leaned through the gap in the wall and cast his light into the pit.

Sirus was there, twisted onto his side. Not moving or breathing. Over him, partly covering his legs, lay Nikki in her corporation body bag. To their right lay a middle-aged man in a lilac shirt. The man was lying on his back, grinning like a game show host. The top of his skull was as jagged as a medieval parapet. While Rawhead shone the beam over the man's middle-aged paunch and middle-aged trousers his pulse quickened. Because he knew, knew beyond all doubt, that he had never before seen the corpse in the lilac shirt.

Fourteen

I did but see her passing by,

Yet I will love her till I die.

—ANONYMOUS

By noon Rawhead was back at Billy's house. Billy, his face lime green, was playing with his daughter on the living room floor.

“What did the police say?”

“Very little,” said Billy. “Nikki's dad came to the police station with me. He could see how fucked I was, so he did most of the talking. It was easy. I never knew this, but according to her dad, she tried to kill herself when she was eighteen.”

“That's good,” said Rawhead.

“Good? What's fucking good about it?”

“I mean, it's consistent. With someone who walks out on her husband and daughter. So you think they believed you?”

“Nikki's mum and dad did. No question. They think I'm a prat, but they'd never have me down as a killer.”

“Mummy,” said Billy's daughter. Billy stared at her in horror. As far as he knew, it was the first time Maddy had ever uttered this word.

“You found somewhere for her?” he asked Rawhead.

“The perfect spot.”

*   *   *

They drove to Disley to drop Maddy off at Billy's sister's house. It was no chore for Carole—she adored Maddy and had always wanted a daughter of her own. And even Carole, hardly Billy's greatest fan, could see her brother was suffering. “She'll be back. I'm sure she will,” she told him, kissing Billy awkwardly on the cheek. “Try not to worry too much.”

Rawhead waited outside the house, pretending to be a cabdriver. Billy was crying again when he got back into the car. That was how he was at the moment: the slightest sign of sympathy from anyone was enough to set him off.

When they arrived at Billy's house, a Mondeo estate was sitting on the drive. Billy's stomach churned. He thought it was the police. But it was some young black guy in a leather jacket. He and Rawhead seemed to know each other.

“Billy, this is Brando. He's a friend of mine. I'm busy tonight; I've got things to do. But Brando here is going to stay with you, make sure you've got everything you need.”