Cath Staincliffe: Dead Wrong

‘Hello?’

‘Miss Kilkenny?’ A woman’s voice but I didn’t recognise it at first.

‘Yes.’

‘I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know if I should ring or-’ Debbie Gosforth.

‘What’s up?’

‘It’s Ricky,’ she cried. ‘He’s gone. I shouldn’t have told him. I never should have told him.’

‘What? Gone where?’

‘He’s gone after him. He said he’s gonna kill him,’ her rising voice reached shrieking pitch.

Oh, God.

‘Debbie,’ I said sharply, ‘stay there. I’ll try and stop him. When did he leave?’

‘Just now,’ she sobbed.

I tipped half my cocoa down the sink, filled the cup with cold water and gulped it down. Sacrilege.

I scribbled the Ayres Road address on a piece of paper and took it in to Ray, who was in his room, at his computer.

‘I’ve got to go out,’ I said.

He looked at me as if I needed my head examining.

‘A different case,’ I said pointedly. ‘This is where I’m going. I may be a while but I’ll ring when I’ve an idea of how long. I’m taking my mobile.’

‘What’s the big hurry?’ he asked coldly.

‘Some guy playing vigilante. I’ve got my personal alarm, too. If he’s there I’ll call the police. I’ll be careful.’

He nodded, turned back to the screen.

‘Ray?’ What did I need? His benediction?

He looked at me then swung his eyes away. ‘I don’t have to like it.’

‘No. But you could wish me luck.’

A pause. He looked back, his eyes softening. ‘Yeah.’ A small, rueful smile. ‘Good luck.’

Of course I checked for the white van before leaving the house. Nothing. I drove as fast as I could, breaking the speed limit when it looked safe to do so but retaining control of the car. It was twilight. The rain was steady – a summer downpour that would make mud puddles on parched lawns and bruise the petals of large flowers. The wind had dropped and it was quite warm.

Adrenalin had me completely wired. Everything was clearer, brighter. The vermilion of the street-lamps, the patterns of headlights fractured by raindrops on the windscreen. I could smell the faint fruity scent of the sewers as they rose with the deluge.

As soon as I drew near the house in Ayres Road I knew Ricky had beaten me to it. Light spilled from the open front door. I ran from the car into the house. There were thumps and a scream from the room to my left.

‘Ricky!’ I yelled. ‘Ricky!’

I thrust the door open. The atmosphere of violence ran along my nerves, gripped my stomach.

The man was on his knees, his back to me. Above him, staggering and panting hard stood Ricky. He had bloody fists and blood on his T-shirt.

‘Ricky, stop it!’ I shouted.

He kicked out. There was a crunch, the man yelped and keeled over onto his side. Curled up into a ball. He was crying. I felt bile in my throat and a flame of rage leaping through me.

‘Stop it, you stupid prat, stop it,’ the anger in my voice was hard as granite. Primal. I had no fear. Ricky swayed, drunk on bloodlust, looked at me. ‘You stupid, fucking idiot!’ I bawled. ‘That’s not him. Do you understand? You stupid bastard, that’s not even Gary Crowther. It’s the wrong man. You’ve got the wrong man. Are you proud of yourself now?’

He blinked.

There was a noise behind me. It was Jules, the neighbour, without her silver lamé.

‘What the fuck’s going on?’ she demanded. She peered round me to see the carnage. ‘Friggin’ ‘ell.’

‘Ring an ambulance and the police,’ I instructed her. She blinked at me. ‘Now!’ I barked.

‘All right, keep yer hair on!’ she retorted and went out.

Ricky stood there. No idea what to do. I was still shaking with fury. ‘Sit down,’ I said sharply.

‘But Debbie said-’

‘Sit down and shut up. You can tell it to the police.’

I knelt beside the man called Chris McPherson. His face was awash with blood, it bubbled from his nose. His eyes were shut, swollen – one of his eyelids was split. He held his hands clasped together against his mouth. He was still trembling and crying softly. I spoke to him quietly, trying to reassure him. ‘It’s over now. It’s all right. The ambulance is coming. You’re going to hospital. You’re going to be all right.’ I put my hand lightly on his shoulder and repeated the words over and over, blanking out everything else. Blanking out the awful thought that I was culpable. If I hadn’t told Debbie where Crowther lived, this wouldn’t have happened, would it? Not now, not tonight, not like this.

‘They’re on the way,’ said Jules, ‘what happened then?’

I was silent.

Within seconds I heard the sound of the siren followed by the pulse of blue light. I moved aside to let the ambulance men past.

They checked Chris, exchanged some words with each other and one of them went back out to the ambulance.

‘What happened here then?’ asked the other.

A beat or two. No one spoke then I said, ‘He was attacked.’ I nodded towards Ricky. ‘Beaten up. We called the police as well.’ I looked at Chris McPherson. ‘Will he be all right?’

‘I think so. He’s got cracked ribs, a broken nose, and his eye’s a mess. They’ll need to look at that. They’ll keep him in, check for concussion, internal damage. He’s still conscious, that’s a good sign. You a relative?’

‘No.’

He looked at Jules; she shook her head. He didn’t bother asking Ricky. His mate returned with a stretcher. They lifted Chris onto it and covered him with a cellular blanket. ‘Going on his own then?’

‘Nah, I’ll go with him,’ said Jules. ‘Can’t leave him by himself. There might be people he wants to tell. Poor sod. I’ll get me bag. And you,’ she paused on her way out, looked at Ricky, ‘yer sad bastard, I hope they send you down for a good stretch.’

The police arrived and talked with one of the ambulance men in the hallway. They came into the room.

‘Bit of a mess,’ commented one of them, referring to Chris.

‘Come on, son,’ said his mate in a thick scouse accent. ‘You come along with us now.’

Ricky still looked dazed. ‘But Debbie said he lived here.’ As if it would all have been hunky dory if only he’d battered the right guy. ‘I thought-’

‘No, you didn’t,’ I said. ‘You didn’t think at all. You just…’ I couldn’t continue.

They’d all gone. I sat on the bottom stair, my arms wrapped tight around my knees. Trying to warm up inside where my guts were iced with rage and fatigue and fear. The front door was still open and I could hear the noises of the city; a plane climbing steeply, the squeal of a bus braking, the sibilance of cars on wet tarmac. I could see the drizzle floating down beneath the street-lamp.

Where was Gary Crowther tonight? Round at Debbie’s again, keeping vigil, watching, waiting? Thrilled by his obsession. Mentally composing more fevered letters of spite and sexual hatred to write on his return? Or off on some mundane business, working shifts, visiting family, catching a late-night movie?

I sat and let my mind meander. Recalled the sound of crying, my own voice screaming at Ricky: ‘It’s the wrong man!’ Joey D, dead now, Joey with his shades and his knife. Joey watching, yelling: ‘Ahktar! Ahktar! He needs an ambulance.’ Siddiq’s sidekick shrieking; ‘You done wrong, man.’ The wrong man…wrong man. Zeb and Ahktar, side by side, by the dance floor, matching jackets. Not wrong man… the wrong man. And then I knew.

So tired. I ought to leave the house in Ayres Road but the effort of getting up seemed beyond me. In a minute, I promised myself. In a minute.

It took five. Before I left I dialled Ray. Told him I wouldn’t be long.