Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

‘What he did to her? How about what you did to her? You never loved her!’

‘Of course I loved her!’ Tears glistening on Helen’s cheeks now. ‘She was my baby, and—’

‘Then why were you never there for her?’ Voice sharp and cruel, circling Helen, spitting it out. ‘If you loved Mum you wouldn’t have spent half her life in prison! And even when you weren’t, Caroline told me all about the drinking and the drugs and your dodgy criminal mates coming to the house at all hours. Police kicking down the door every other day.’

Gordon Smith stepped towards them.

But when I opened my mouth to warn Helen, all that came out was a barbed-wire wheeze.

‘Leah, that’s not... I made some mistakes, but—’

‘Mum hated you. You poison everything you touch. She was better off dead than being with you.’

Helen wiped the tears away, but more spilled down her cheeks. ‘I didn’t—’

‘Granny and Grandad looked after me, because you weren’t there! You weren’t there for Mum and you weren’t there for me, because you’re a selfish cow!

‘Leah, it’s not—’

‘I HATE YOU!’ Leah’s hand flashed out, the slap ringing in the barn’s cold air.

Helen’s phone flew, bounced once off the concrete floor, then skittered over the edge of the pit and disappeared. She turned back to face Leah, a scarlet weal already starting to swell up on her cheek. Muscles cording in her neck like guy ropes. Empty hand clenched tight into a fist. Body trembling.

Deep breath. Force it out. Warn her. A barely audible, ‘Look out!’ crackled from my ruined throat. Ropes biting into my wrists and ankles as I thrashed against the restraints. Getting nowhere.

And Helen didn’t move. She stood there staring at Leah’s twisted flushed face.

Gordon was behind Helen now, the kitchen knife clutched in his right hand as he snatched his left arm around her throat, just like he had Leah. Helen stiffened, but the blade was already streaking down towards her stomach.

A thunk , a grunt, then another and another and another, the knife punching its way into Helen’s T-shirt, over and over. Thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk...

The rusty splitting maul / sledgehammer clattered to the barn floor and Helen’s knees gave way. Then Gordon Smith let go and she slumped beside it. Dark red spreading out into the grey concrete.

He stepped back, arms outstretched, standing perfectly still for a moment. ‘And: scene.’ He gave Leah a deep bow. Turned and did the same to me.

Leah bit her lips together. Then wiped a hand across her tear-stained cheeks. Shuddered out a breath. Raised her eyes from her murdered grandmother, to Smith. Voice small and hesitant. ‘Did I... Did I do it right?’

‘You did it perfectly, Pickle Pudding Pie!’ He swept her up in a hug, lifting her off the ground and spinning around a couple of times, before depositing her back on her feet again. ‘You’re the best granddaughter an old man could ever have. Yes you are.’ Booping her on the nose. ‘I’m proud of you.’

Oh, for God’s sake...

Looked as if we knew what happened when a couple-that-kills loses one half. It recruits another.

‘You pair of bastards.’ A sandpaper whisper, that probably didn’t travel more than a couple of feet.

Leah skipped over, grinning. ‘I can’t believe you fell for all that text nonsense. “Oh, I’m so scared!”, “I don’t know where I am!”, “Please come rescue me, because I’m a weak and feeble woman and you’re a big strong man!”’ A mocking pout. ‘Bit of a sexist bastard, aren’t you?’

‘Language!’ Smith glowered at her. ‘We’ve talked about this, Leah.’

‘Sorry, Grandad.’ She lowered her eyes, all scrunched up with deference. Then reached for my jacket. ‘And speaking of phones.’ Going through my pockets till she pulled mine free.

Leah gave it a quick once-over, then turned and handed it to Gordon Smith. ‘Here you go.’

‘Thank you kindly.’ He flipped the case open and poked at the screen. ‘What’s the passcode?’

Wasn’t easy, with my throat like scorched gravel, but I managed to force it out: ‘Go fuck yourself.’

‘What did I say about bad language? Leah?’

She curled a hand into a fist and slammed it into my stomach. Only she wasn’t used to punching people, and I was far too used to being punched. She’d telegraphed it badly enough I had plenty of time to clench all the muscles and be ready for it.

‘Now, Mr...?’ he looked at Leah, eyebrows raised.

She smiled back. ‘Henderson.’

‘Ah yes, Mr Henderson , don’t you think it’d be fun if we sent your “guvnor” a series of texts saying you’ve searched the family farm and moved on to greener pastures? Maybe you’re having a long dark night of the soul? After all, there’s lots of places a poor depressed policeman can throw himself off the cliffs and into the sea around here.’

‘It won’t work.’ Starting to get a hint of my old voice back.

‘It did with Leah’s mum, Sophie. I was particularly proud of that suicide note; six pages of tortured angst, and they believed every single word. Took sixteen years for you to come sniffing about like Dixon of Dock Green. Now can I please have the passcode for your phone, or would you rather play Spanish Inquisition? I have lots of lovely toys in the car: all sharp and spikey and so full of screams.’

‘You can’t trust him, Leah. You were right — sooner or later he’s going to turn on you.’

‘No, he won’t.’ She took his hand. ‘Grandad’s been there for me my entire life. We’re family.’

‘He’s insane ! He’s talking to his dead wife, Leah! You can’t trust...’

Wait a minute.

Her grin was huge, eyebrows up. ‘That was my idea. We rehearsed it all the way up in the car.’

‘Isn’t she clever?’ Smith pursed his lips together, nodding as if he was accepting an award. ‘People like a compelling narrative, Mr Henderson. The dotty old man talking to his dead wife. It’s a standard enough trope — so far, so pedestrian — but what if she answers back? Oooh, he must be dangerous and deranged! A wild and crazy man!’

‘And you fell for that too.’ Leah gazed up at him. ‘Grandad won’t hurt me, because he loves me and I love him.’

Time to start on plan B.

I stared at Smith. ‘You’re shagging her? What, your real wife dies of bowel cancer and you take up with the girl who thinks you’re her grandfather ?’

The smile slipped from his face. ‘You watch your mouth.’

‘Moved her right into the bedroom and let her take your dead wife’s place, didn’t you?’

‘I’m warning you, Mr Henderson.’ Teeth bared, knife clutched in his blood-dripping hand.

‘Did you bother waiting till she was sixteen, or did you come back from the funeral and screw her on the kitchen counter? What was she, fourteen? Because we know you like them young, don’t we?’

‘YOU SHUT YOUR FILTHY MOUTH!’ Moving fast, knife flashing upwards.

‘No!’ Leah got in between us, arms out, blocking the way. ‘He’s doing it on purpose, Grandad! Trying to get you mad. Shh... It’s OK. Shh...’ Sounding exactly like her grandmother. ‘He wants you to kill him quickly. And we want access to his phone, right?’

Gordon Smith lowered the knife. ‘You’re right, you’re right.’ And the smile was back. ‘You’re a good girl, Leah.’ He placed the blade’s tip against my chest, Helen MacNeil’s blood seeping into my shirt. ‘I don’t know what sort of perversions you get up to in your family, Mr Henderson, but Leah is my granddaughter. We don’t do that sort of thing.’ He put a bit of pressure on the knife.