Chris Simms - Killing the Beasts

She stood up and snarled, 'It's not a child. It's a blip, a few cells … a cross on this thing.' She waved the pregnancy tester in his face. 'One pill and it's gone.'

'Charlotte,' he moaned, hands thrust anxiously between his knees. 'You can't destroy it. It's our future.'

She held up both palms to him. 'Slow the fuck down. What the hell were you thinking?' Her cheeks grew red as anger began to take hold. 'You plan all this without telling me a thing?'

'I meant to. I was waiting for the right time, that was all. Charlotte, please — it could be so perfect.'

'My future's here, in Manchester. Not in some windswept wooden shack serving cups of bloody tea.'

Tom looked down at the carpet. 'What's this city got that's so great?'

She put a finger on her lower lip and began counting with her other hand. 'Well, let me see. Restaurants, bars, delis, coffee shops, beauty salons.' She ran out of fingers and carried on anyway. 'Nightclubs, nightlife, life full stop! Selfridges has just opened and there's a Harvey Nichols opening next year.'

Tom said very quietly, 'You'd destroy our baby because a Harvey fucking Nichols is opening next year?'

'Don't call it a baby! It barely exists yet!'

'You'll kill our baby because it might ruin your shopping? You selfish, self-centred, self-important bitch.'

'I'm not listening to this.' She began walking from the room.

He pursued her, weeks of tension suddenly finding an outlet. 'Do you realize how shallow you sound? How shallow you are? We've got a chance to build a meaningful life — not one based around what you purchased in town today — and you can't be arsed because you don't want to miss out on lounging around in the sports centre, going shopping, eating in nice restaurants and taking expensive drugs!'

She changed her mind about going upstairs and grabbed her jacket and handbag, heading for the front door instead.

'Where are you going!' he yelled. Bounding forwards, he grabbed her arm. She spun round and said mockingly, 'Late night shopping.'

Without thinking he slapped her.

'Don't you fucking touch me!' she screamed, tears spilling down her face. 'You go to bloody Cornwall. Don't expect me to come.'

She stormed out of the house, slamming the door shut behind her.

Tom stood, fists clenching and unclenching, nostrils flaring as breath shot in and out of his nose. He turned round and climbed the stairs two at a time. Rummaging around in his wardrobe, he found the packet of powder and tapped a large pinch of it into the palm of his hand. Greedily he licked it up.

Back downstairs he'd just got the stopper out of a bottle of single malt when the phone rang. Grabbing it, he breathlessly demanded, 'Charlotte?'

'Tom?'

'Who's this?'

'Andrew Soloman. I've been trying to get hold of you all afternoon. What the bloody hell happened in Manchester today? I've had the top guy at X-treme UK on to me. They've pulled the business. They've been on to Centri-Media and there's no promotion for their chewing gum booked into Piccadilly station. They say we've invoiced them sixteen grand for that job, and they sent the cheque weeks ago. Where's the money, Tom?'

'I have it — it's just that the slot at the station wasn't booked. They can have a refund.'

'A refund? They had an entire promotion arranged, luxury holiday to Malaysia, boxes of a special limited edition flavour made. We're liable for all those costs. Too right they'll get a refund — and if the cheque hasn't been touched, you might just avoid being prosecuted for fraud.'

Tom was staring at the TV, but not seeing a thing. 'Listen, they can have their money back. Every penny of it. Just tell them there was a mix-up. Shit happens, you know?'

' Shit happens ? Are you drunk?'

'What do you mean?'

'This is it, you realize that, don't you Tom? They want blood, so you're out of here. We're taking the Porsche back and you get three months' money as a senior account handler.'

'Actually, I'm the managing director, in case you've forgotten. That's six months' money and my profit-related bonus.'

'You think there'll be any profits after this fuck-up? And check your contract, Tom — it's another thing you forgot to sign. As far as we're concerned, you're still a senior account handler.'

Realizing he'd lost it all, Tom started laughing down the phone, the hysterical whooping of a hyena. The handset fell from his hand and he staggered through the French windows onto the patio. Swigging directly from the bottle, he was just able to make out The Plough above him before fireworks from the opening ceremony filled the sky with showers of bronze, silver and gold.

2 November 2002

Jon's car pulled to a halt by the incident van positioned at the top of forty-six Lea Road. It had started drizzling a couple of hours earlier and, leaning forwards for a better view of the sky, Jon could see the motionless layer of cloud stretching away like an expanse of concrete in all directions. 'Great,' he muttered to himself. He opened the car door and jogged over to the van, noticing the Lexus tucked in beside it.

Stepping in to what was really a mobile home made into an office, Jon used one hand to wipe the droplets of rain coating his cropped hair. He said to the crime scene manager inside, 'Nice motor parked alongside. What are they paying you guys again?'

A middle-aged man with a thick head of grey hair smiled. 'The Lexus? I should be so lucky. It's the couple's in the flat above the victim's. They don't like leaving it on the road — it's been keyed too many times.'

Jon nodded. 'Are they in? I need to question them about Mary Walters' death.'

'I haven't seen them go out,' the CSM replied.

Jon ran to the front door of the house and pressed the intercom for flat two. After he'd told them who he was, he was buzzed in. A smooth-looking man in his mid-to-late twenties showed him into the flat and through to the front room. Inside were cream leather sofas and stripped floorboards, palms stretching almost up to the roof, Rothko prints on the walls. He sat in the chair opposite the man and his wife and pulled his notebook out.

'You've done this flat out nicely. Is it housing-association owned?'

'Was,' replied the husband. 'We bought this flat off them last year. They said they'll be selling off the others, too.' Jon understood the process taking place: prices had shot up and the housing association was cashing in by selling its properties in the area, probably to buy more in the cheaper Moss Side. The wealthy couple he was looking at were at the vanguard of a wave that would soon sweep the older residents of Whalley Range clean away.

Their statement had little of potential interest — both husband and wife worked long hours for a law firm in Manchester. The only conversation they'd had with Mary was when she had asked if they had any objection to her pinning the CCTV notice up.

'Ah yes,' said Jon. 'One of her friends mentioned she had problems with prostitutes and their clients parking in the back yard.'

The couple nodded knowingly. 'I think it bothered her more than us,' said the husband. 'We come and go by the front hallway.'

'Excuse me,' interrupted the wife. 'We usually park round the back and driving over used condoms most mornings wasn't exactly pleasant.'

'The Lexus?'

They nodded, looking proud.

'Nice car, that,' Jon said, looking at his notebook. 'So did the notice work?'

'Like that,' replied the wife with a snap of her fingers.

Back in the incident van he asked the crime scene manager if any photographic albums had been found lying around Mary's flat. Nothing so far, came the reply. Jon asked if he could go back in for another look around. The man signed his name in the log book and tossed him a crime scene suit, overshoes and gloves.