Last Rites Page 9

  Robbie looked over the parapet down at the deserted town centre. Then, almost wearily, he lifted himself up onto the concrete barrier, standing with his legs splayed, balancing effortlessly on the narrow ledge.

  He stepped forward into empty air.

  Two seconds later, his body hit the concrete fifty feet below.

  22

  North London

  The attack came upon him suddenly and Mason wasn’t ready for it.

  One minute he was standing in the aisle of the supermarket leaning on the trolley and peering intently at the shelves of pasta, the next, he thought he was going to faint.

  It was as if someone had suddenly pumped his head full of compressed air. His heart began pounding hard against his ribs, as if he’d just finished a long and gruelling race. He felt a sheen of sweat on his face and the palms of his hands. His legs began to shake. Mason found that he was breathing quickly through his mouth, his tongue dry and chalky.

  ‘What the fuck,’ he murmured to himself, gripping the handle of the shopping trolley more tightly for fear that he might collapse.

  A woman in her forties looked accusingly at him as he uttered the words then she hurried past him, pausing at the end of the aisle to look back in his direction, perhaps afraid that he might be following her. In his current state, Mason couldn’t have even described the woman let alone registered the expression on her face.

  As far as he was concerned, his head was still inflating. Perhaps, he thought, it actually was. Growing in size, filling with air until the climax of this episode would come when his skull exploded. He tried to swallow but his mouth and throat were too dry. He blinked hard and attempted to control his breathing but still he took deep, almost racking breaths.

  That’s why your head’s inflating.You’re breathing too hard. Ha ha fucking ha . . .

  ‘Stop,’Mason said under his breath as if voicing his concern would end the panic attack. It had no such effect. He stumbled forward a couple of steps, wondering perhaps if he started moving whether or not the feeling would pass.

  He could barely lift his foot. It was like trying to raise a dead weight. He looked down, his vision swimming for terrifying seconds. His foot hadn’t left the floor. Mason felt as if he was rooted to the spot, magnetised to this piece of supermarket floor.

  Go on. Fucking move. Walk. Get out of here. Leave the fucking trolley and move.

  He daren’t take his hands off the trolley, fearing it was the only thing keeping him upright. Again he tried to slow his breathing and again it was useless. His chest was beginning to hurt, to tighten.

  Perhaps you’re having a heart attack. Or a stroke. That’s it. That’s why it feels as if your head’s inflating. One of the arteries in there is going to blow. You’re going to die. Right here and now in the middle of the fucking pasta.

  Mason closed his eyes tightly, simultaneously taking one hand off the trolley long enough to dig his nails hard into his palm. The brief moment of discomfort jolted him and he used the nail of his index finger to gouge into the flesh of his thumb. The pain was more pronounced this time.

  Mason was vaguely aware of two young women passing him, both of them manoeuvring pushchairs. He heard them say something as they passed and one of them ducked past him to pick up a packet of pasta from the shelf nearby. The girl holding the pasta looked at him.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she enquired.

  Mason looked at her, aware of how pale he must look. He felt as if all the blood had been sucked from his face. He could feel more beads of perspiration on his forehead now.

  ‘Do you want me to get help?’ the girl persisted.

  Mason opened his mouth to say something. He wanted to ask her if she could fetch a member of staff. Perhaps if he sat down for a moment, away from the glare of the banks of fluorescents above him, he would feel better. Perhaps his head would stop expanding.

  Ask her if your head looks like a balloon. Ask her if she can hear your heart beating because the way it’s banging she must be able to hear it. The whole fucking shop must be able to hear it. Go on. Ask her.

  No words emerged from Mason’s mouth. He merely felt his lips flickering uselessly but no sound came forth. He managed to shake his head, his only response to the girl’s enquiries. It felt to him as if his head was on a spring and that it would never stop moving. It would just keep on going back and forth for the rest of the day and the foreseeable future, like some out of control toy in the hands of a persistent child.

  Chicken head. Chicken head.

  ‘I’m OK.’

  When he spoke the words, they sounded as if someone else had said them. They seemed to be coming from somewhere behind him.

  OK.You don’t fucking look it or sound it.

  ‘Thanks,’ he persisted, his words slightly slurred. ‘Yeah, I’m all right.’

  Perhaps you have had a stroke.

  The young woman looked at him for a moment longer then she and her friend moved slowly away from him, both of them turning to look back at him. One of the kids in the pushchairs turned and waved good-naturedly at him.

  Mason clung onto the handle of the shopping trolley, relieved that his heart wasn’t hammering so fast and so hard in his chest now. He was even more delighted that his head seemed to be deflating. He wiped a hand across his face and felt the sweat on his flesh.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ he murmured, sucking in a slower and deeper breath.

  He stood there for a moment then left the trolley and walked as quickly as he could out of the supermarket.

  23

  Walston, Buckinghamshire

  Amy Coulson moved slowly up the stairs, muttering irritably under her breath when the stairs creaked beneath her. She didn’t want to wake her parents.They’d be angry that she’d stayed out so late as it was and the last thing she wanted right now was a confrontation before she went to bed.

  She’d got the taxi to drop her on the corner of the street and she’d walked the fifty yards to her house along the darkened thoroughfare, glancing at her watch every now and then as if to remind herself of how late she actually was. However, her progress had been slower than usual because of her discomfort too. Even now, as she reached the landing and turned right towards the bathroom, she winced at the burning sensation between her buttocks.

  She moved as hastily as she could into the bathroom and turned on the shower, stripping off her clothes quickly. She tested the temperature of the water with one hand then stepped beneath the cleansing jets. Amy closed her eyes and allowed the water to splash her face. She remained like that for a moment then opened her eyes and reached for the soap, washing her body but paying particular attention to her buttocks and vagina.

  Amy soaped that most sensitive area, wincing slightly as she ran her fingers over her anus.

  She’d never been penetrated there before and it had been painful to begin with. On more than one occasion she had thought about asking them to stop but the feelings had passed and she had allowed them to continue. By the time the third of them had pushed his thick erection into her sphincter she had become accustomed to the sensation and, by the time the fifth boy poured his thick seed into her anus, she was almost enjoying the feeling. All helped by the constantly stroking and probing hands of the two girls who had been in the room as well. Amy hadn’t been too happy about the way they’d treated her once they’d finished, snapping at her to get out. Even the two girls had merely dressed and left the room.When she’d asked the oldest of the boys when she could see him again he’d merely laughed and pushed her away but she knew he’d call. If he didn’t she’d see him in the town.

  She hadn’t even cared that they’d taken photos with their expensive digital cameras or that they’d recorded the entire scenario on camcorder. It had been fun and, as much as she was a little sore now, Amy couldn’t deny that she’d enjoyed herself for much of the night. Especially the touch of the two girls. She wondered to herself if she would ever have contemplated having sex with another girl if she’d been sober
but the hesitation vanished as she remembered her experience. The soft caresses of their fingers and tongues and the series of orgasms they’d brought her to. How she wished she’d been able to do the same to them. Perhaps next time, she mused, switching off the shower. She stepped out, drying herself with the large white towel that was draped over the radiator. She inspected her body in the mirror as she wiped moisture away.

  There were several red marks on her hips and buttocks where the boys had gripped her skin a little too tightly as they’d reached their own climaxes, she decided. Amy raised her eyebrows. They’d fade soon enough and no one would see them. Perhaps she’d show them to her best friend when she told her about the events of the evening. Maybe she’d even tell her what happened. Amy decided to leave out the part about the two girls. Perhaps if she just mentioned one of them. The blonde one, Sammi.And maybe it might be better if she only explained that she’d had anal sex with two of the boys, not five. Or perhaps, Amy mused, she should keep the entire escapade to herself.

  She stepped from the shower and wrapped the towel around herself. Then she brushed her teeth quickly and headed for her bedroom where she pulled on pyjama bottoms and a white T-shirt before placing her mobile on the bedside table and sliding into bed. She flicked out the bedside lamp.

  With any luck she’d hear her alarm at seven the following morning. If not, she reasoned, then her mum would wake her. She always did.

  Amy settled herself, a slight smile touching her lips as she remembered the events of that night.

  Her phone buzzed, vibrating with each ring. She snatched it up quickly and flipped it open, seeing that she’d received a text. Who, she wondered, was sending her messages at this time of night?

  She recognised the name and smiled thinly as she prepared to read the text.

  URA DIRTY SLUT.

  Amy frowned and thought about sending a message back. She closed the phone again and was about to settle down for the second time when another message arrived.

  CUNT.

  It was followed swiftly by a third.

  SLAG.

  And a forth.

  CHEAP CUNT.

  By the time the fifth one arrived, she was almost in tears.

  24

  North London

  ‘I realise it’s to be expected considering what I’ve been through,’ Mason said. ‘But that doesn’t make it any easier to cope with. I thought I was dying.’

  As he sat in the kitchen with the phone jammed between his ear and his shoulder, he looked at the letters before him, moving them slowly back and forth as if he was shuffling giant playing cards.

  ‘We’ve got an appointment at five this afternoon,’ the doctor’s receptionist told him.‘Can you come along then?’

  ‘Will the doctor give me something?’ Mason insisted.

  ‘I can’t say that, Mr Mason, you’ll have to discuss it with him,’ the receptionist went on.

  ‘I’m not coming to the surgery for nothing. I want some bloody tablets to help me. I want to know that he’ll give them to me.’

  ‘You could call your consultant at the hospital, I’m sure he’d give you a prescription. Especially if he recommended tranquillisers to begin with.’

  Mason sucked in a deep breath.

  ‘I’m sure the doctor here will be able to help you,’ the receptionist continued.

  ‘All right, I’ll take that five o’clock appointment then,’ Mason sighed.

  He hung up.

  Again he shuffled through the mail he’d picked up. A couple of circulars. Junk mail. Bills. And a white envelope bearing a crest. Mason saw the postmark and opened it excitedly. His heart was thumping hard.

  Perhaps it’s another panic attack.

  He sipped at his tea, wincing when he found it was cold. He tutted irritably and continued to open the white envelope.

  The paper was headed and the crest was there again, this time embossed with gold foil. A smile spread across Mason’s face and he read aloud.

  ‘Langley Hill, private boarding school,’ he said, running one index finger over the bas-relief of the words as if he were blind and reading Braille. ‘Dear Mr Mason, further to your letter.’ Mason allowed the words to trail away into the air and he continued reading to himself, his eyes flicking swiftly but intently over the words before him. By the time he reached the bottom of the page and the sweeping signature of the headmaster (a certain Mr Nigel Grant), there was a broad smile plastered right across his face.

  ‘We invite you to an interview at the school,’ he read again, finally standing up from the table. ‘We do hope that you will be able to attend.’ Mason punched the air triumphantly. ‘You’re fucking right I will,’ he said. He walked briskly from the kitchen to the bedroom, pulling open his wardrobe, inspecting the clothes that hung within. He ran his hand along the fabrics and nodded. His charcoal-grey suit. That should be perfect for the interview.

  The one you wore for Chloe’s funeral.

  Mason swallowed hard as the recollection hit him like a thunderbolt. He stood motionless before the wardrobe for a moment then slowly removed the suit and raised it before him on the hanger.

  Nice suit. You haven’t worn it since, have you?

  He brushed some fluff from the shoulder and slipped the jacket on, checking the fit.

  Why bother? You haven’t put on any weight since she died. Perhaps you’ll look as smart as you did that day. That day they put your daughter in the ground.

  He looked at his reflection in the mirror, angry with himself for allowing the memories to intrude so brutally.

  Yes, after all, you’re supposed to be happy now, aren’t you? The last thing you want is thoughts of your dead daughter fucking up your day.

  Mason pulled the jacket off and slid it back onto the hanger then he hooked the curved metal over the handle of the wardrobe and stood there looking at it.

  I’m sure Chloe would have approved.

  The tears that began to roll down his cheeks came more quickly and more plentifully than he would have thought possible. He sat down on the edge of the bed and sobbed uncontrollably.

  25

  Walston, Buckinghamshire

  Miserable fucking day, thought Amy Coulson.

  She lay on her bed gazing blankly at the ceiling, the residue of a headache still gnawing at the base of her skull. She’d taken two or three paracetamol during the day at work but they hadn’t relieved the symptoms much. It had been busy in the shop too, no time to sit and take it easy. Amy had worked at the Cottage Loaf bakery in Walston for almost six months since leaving school. She’d left with no qualifications so, her mum and dad had told her, she’d been lucky to get any job at all. It wasn’t particularly hard work and the people she served had got to know her and she liked many of them who came in on a regular basis. Especially the guy who worked at the mobile phone shop next door. He came in every day for his sandwich at lunchtime. Always tuna and sweet-corn. And every day he chatted to her. He had this particular day too but, she had noticed at the time, without his customary smile and, even more puzzling to her, he had barely looked at her even when she handed him the sandwich. Just one of those days, she’d thought.

  The headache, she assured herself, was due to what she’d drunk and taken the previous night. She always got a hangover when she mixed her drinks and, the night before, she’d drunk more than usual. Perhaps, she mused, they’d slipped her something. Fuckers. Rich, arrogant fuckers. She sat up slowly and swung her bare feet onto the carpet, taking the two steps to her desk and the laptop perched there. She’d been talking to one of her friends on MSN when she’d been forced to lie down because of the headache and sickness but now they’d both subsided sufficiently, she went back to the computer and prepared to continue her conversation.

  WTF DID U DO LAST NITE?

  The message came through from another of her friends who had just signed in.

  WENT OUT Amy typed in.

  U MUST B RAW 2DAY.

  Another message. She didn’t recognis
e the sender this time.

  WHO R U? she typed.

  CHECK OUT YOUTUBE another message told her.

  WOT A SLAG trumpeted another message.

  U MUST HVE N ARSEHOLE LIKE A CLOWN POCKET another offered.

  UR ON YOUTUBE U SLUT. MEGAROTIC.COM IS GD. U SLAG.

  The messages were flooding in now, most of them from names she didn’t recognise.

  Amy frowned, minimised the communication and typed Megarotic into the search engine, gazing in bewilderment at the screen as the search results came up.