The Nurse(23)

He put his empty mug down. ‘It’s strange, but I feel we are related in a funny kind of way.’

‘Really?’ What was this strange, and increasingly creepy little man up to?

‘Yes, it’s like you’re my niece.’ He smiled in what I supposed he hoped was an avuncular manner.

I decided to play along, see where he was going with this. ‘I don’t have any relatives. An uncle might be nice.’ When he grabbed my hand with his smooth clammy one, I had to stop myself pulling mine away with a snort of disgust.

‘We could be good for each other,’ he said, ‘get ourselves through this bad period. Plus, I could help you with the finances. Save you whatever astronomical fees Brooks would charge.’

He looked at me expectantly. Did he expect me to jump up and throw my arms around him in gratitude at being rescued?

‘I’m going to make more tea,’ I said, getting to my feet abruptly. I took both mugs back and emptied the dregs into the sink. As the kettle came to a boil, I stared at the knives sticking from the block. The biggest was gone. Sitting in some police station as evidence. But there were a couple as sharp and almost as long. It would be easy to take one out, keep it concealed till I brought over the tea and used it to silence the toad-like man forever.

Two things stopped me. First – I’d killed two people and so far had managed to escape detection. I might not be so lucky next time, and prison was not on the list of places I wanted to visit. The second, and probably the more important deterrent – both my killings had been a means to an end. Killing Jemma had stopped the hideous bullying; killing Olivia had secured my mother’s future. Alan Burton was a creepy little toad but if I killed him – if I started down that road of killing without real reason, of killing everyone who pissed me off, wouldn’t that make me a monster?

Or was I fooling myself – was I already one? The thought made me shiver and I shut my eyes, blocking those tempting knives from view.

‘Here you go,’ I said, a minute later, putting a fresh mug of tea in front of him. I waited until he’d taken a mouthful before saying quietly, ‘When you’re finished, I want you to go away, and I never want to see you again. Okay?’

He sputtered and coughed, sending tea in a spray across the table. ‘What?’

Perhaps my quiet restrained delivery had failed to get the message across. ‘You heard me, you money-grabbing leech. Finish your tea, get out, and don’t come back.’

He didn’t wait, standing and backing from the kitchen with his mouth agape as if the sixteen-year-old pushover he’d assumed I was, had become rabid and turned on him, snapping and snarling.

So he escaped. Alive. But he’d made me face the truth about myself – maybe I wasn’t a monster, but I had something monstrous buried inside.

Alan Burton was lucky she hadn’t wriggled out to introduce herself to him.





17





Jason Brooks, our solicitor, contacted me later that day to break the sad news about Olivia. I didn’t mention her brother had been to visit. Since I’d made my position clear, it was unlikely he’d tell the solicitor.

‘Sometimes,’ Brooks said once he’d finished, ‘bad news can have pleasant repercussions and so it is in this case. With Ms Burton’s demise, her life interest reverts to your father’s estate.’

‘Okay.’ I was relieved to hear not the slightest suspicion in the solicitor’s voice at this conveniently great news for me and my mother. I had to play it carefully though, maybe pretend to be a lot dimmer than I was. ‘I’m not sure what that means for us though?’

‘It simply means that the house Ms Burton lived in now belongs to your mother. It can be sold, I can handle the legalities for that, acting in her best interest. The money can be used to pay the arrears on the mortgage, your mother’s clinic bill and provide for any care she might need in the future.’

I hung up. I’d done it. Made our life more secure.





My mother was unable to go to the funeral of her beloved husband. I had asked the undertakers to keep it simple… aka as cheap as possible. There was no hint of criticism, they were completely respectful and supportive all the way through.

Haycombe Crematorium is on the far side of Bath in Englishcombe. When the day of the funeral came, I searched Mother’s wardrobe for something suitable for me to wear. She was my height and build, but I’d lost more weight and the black shirt and trousers I chose were too big. I hooked a belt around my waist. That was as much effort as I was willing to make for my lying, cheating father.

Jason Brooks had offered to pick me up, but I told him I’d prefer to make my own way. Perhaps he thought I was going to go by a limousine provided by the undertaker. They’d offered, but at a crazy price. The bus suited me just fine.

The celebrant did his best to say some kind words. He didn’t get them from me. When he asked me, I told him about the bigamy, how my father had lied and cheated. He’d backed away from me as if bitten, an effect I increasingly had on people. They shouldn’t ask if they can’t handle the truth.

He must have spoken to someone more willing… Dr Brennan or Mr Brooks perhaps… because the kind words that he did say reminded me of the father I had loved, and they brought a lump to my throat.