Feeling Bad (Anna McColl Mystery Book 2) Read online

  Feeling Bad

  Penny Kline

  © Penny Kline, 1994

  Penny Kline has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1994 by F. A. Thorpe Publishing.

  This edition published in 2016 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  1

  They say you can have a pizza delivered to your home faster than you can summon an ambulance. In America, that is, but I dare say it’s the same in this country. Still, a delay, if there was one, would have made no difference to Paula. She must have been killed almost instantly. Scooped up into the air like a heap of old clothes before she struck the road and skidded head first towards the oncoming traffic.

  *

  The phone rang just before midnight. Luke’s landlady, Elaine, her voice controlled, almost matter of fact, but underneath the tell-tale signs of shock.

  ‘Anna? Can you come? There’s been an accident. Luke’s friend.’

  ‘What happened? Is Luke … ’

  ‘Unharmed, but Paula — I’m afraid she’s … ’

  ‘Dead?’ But I already knew from her tone of voice that the accident had been fatal.

  ‘The police,’ she said flatly. ‘They wanted Luke to make a statement but … He won’t speak. Not a word.’

  ‘Fifteen minutes,’ I said. ‘Tell him I’m on my way.’

  Outside the air was heavy, oppressive. Petrol fumes drifted up from Hotwells Road. I could taste them on my tongue. In the grounds of the student flats at the top of the hill a cat let out a series of eerie high-pitched yowls.

  Across the road a figure emerged from the basement and paused for breath, leaning against the iron railings. Janos taking his dog for its final evening outing. He saw me and called out softly.

  ‘Anna? Everything all right?’

  ‘Yes. No. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’

  Half running, half walking, I set off in the direction of Cliftonwood Road. My car was parked opposite the children’s adventure playground, or was that where I had left it the previous day? My brain buzzed with half-remembered words. Luke’s words. ‘I see people walking towards me. Ordinary people. Women and children. Supposing I … I wanted to hurt … I wanted to … ’

  Breathe deeply. Keep calm. But my heart continued to thump painfully. There’s been an accident. Luke’s friend, Paula. There’s been an accident. But was it an accident?

  Forcing my hand to stay steady I fitted the key into the car door, then switched on the engine and sat quite still, staring at the lights of the town houses reflected in the floating harbour, recalling Luke’s words when he came for his Tuesday morning session. ‘But how do you know I won’t harm someone? I think about it all the time — when I pass people in the street. A boy in a Mickey Mouse T-shirt, a woman in a yellow top. Supposing I touched … Supposing I … ’

  Luke, looking more like a seventeen-year-old than his chronological age of twenty-two, dressed in jeans and a blue and white sweater, his straight fair hair falling over his face, his long thin fingers reaching up to push it back. Had I misjudged him completely, encouraging him to bring his anxieties out into the open when he should have been receiving heavy doses of sedating drugs? ‘Supposing I touched their skin with a lighted cigarette. Supposing I didn’t know what I was doing, supposing I couldn’t stop myself. Supposing … ’

  And my calm, reassuring words. ‘Look, it won’t happen, Luke. The thoughts are just a symptom of your general anxiety. You suppress all your normal aggression — the kind everyone has. For you it’s too frightening to express it in an ordinary way. Huge, overwhelming fears of the kind you’re telling me about — they prevent you from becoming aware of your real anxieties. In a way they’re protecting you. When you feel confident enough to talk, then it’ll start to change. In the meantime … You won’t actually harm anyone, I promise you won’t.’

  He had looked up for a moment, then returned to staring at his feet, clenching and unclenching his fists. Winding one leg round the other, he had moved his head from side to side, unwilling to be reassured, certain I had failed to understand the strength of his violent fantasies.

  *

  Elaine and Doug Hargreaves lived in one of the streets off Cold-harbour Road in an area of Bristol just east of the Downs. Their house was identical to its neighbour on either side. Grey pebble-dash walls, red-tiled roof, cream paint on the window frames and drainpipes. A low wall marked the boundary between the tiny front garden and the cracked, uneven pavement. A small glass porch — one of Doug’s home improvements, constructed during the six months since he received his redundancy notice — obscured the green front door.

  The first time Luke and I visited the house the porch had just been delivered and was still in a flat pack in the garden shed. That was where Elaine had hoped it would stay. Doug’s ‘early retirement’ was proving to be more than just a financial problem. I had the feeling Elaine was nearing the end of her tether and having Luke as a lodger would be a way of bringing fresh life into the house and dissipating Doug’s constant demands for attention.

  Ahead of me lay a long, difficult night. When Elaine phoned I had been sleepy, ready for bed. Now, standing in the porch, I was wide awake but with that odd uncomfortable alertness that adrenalin always produces.

  ‘Come along in, Anna. We couldn’t think who else to ring. He trusts you. We weren’t sure what to do.’

  Doug stood back to let me pass. He had taken off his glasses and was polishing them with a small piece of newspaper.

  ‘The printer’s ink,’ he explained. ‘Acts as a cleaning agent.’ It was the kind of absurd, irrelevant remark that people often make in times of stress.

  I wiped my dry shoes on the doormat, playing for time, listening for sounds of sobbing, Elaine’s deep, soothing voice. There was nothing.

  ‘What happened, Doug?’

  ‘We don’t know for sure. Crowds on the pavement. Traffic merging from Anchor Road and Park Street. The lad’s in the kitchen. Hardly spoken a word. His GP — the police thought — but Luke wouldn’t have it — we wondered if you’d brought any medication.’

  ‘I’m not a doctor,’ I said sharply, and then, to compensate for my defensive reaction, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take him up to his room, calm him down. Later, if that’s all right, I’d like to talk to you and Elaine.’ He nodded. His glasses were back in place and he looked more in control of himself, less vulnerable. He hadn’t meant to imply that I was incapable of dealing with the situation. It was just that he saw tablets as the answer to everything. Even though in Luke’s case an overdose had nearly cost him his life.

  ‘Right you are,’ he said briskly. ‘Anything we can do to help we’ll be more than willing. If you ask me it’s a crying shame, just when the lad was starting to get back on his feet.’

  He held open the kitchen door and stood to attention with a small click of his heels.

  The room smelled of cooking oil and salmon fish cakes. Elaine, who had been sitting with her arm round Luke’s shoulder, rose slowly and squeezed her large bulk between his chair and the wall.

  ‘I’ll make some tea. Coffee if you prefer.’

  ‘Tea would be fine.’

  She caught my eye, then turned her back. I had expected her to look pale,
shocked, but her face was flushed with anger.

  Luke sat with his elbows resting on the table and his hands covering most of his face. A mug, with ‘Skipper’ printed on the side, had been placed in front of him but left untouched.

  ‘Luke?’ I said gently. There was no response.

  ‘Two sugars in his tea,’ said Doug. ‘Drink up, lad, it’ll make you feel better.’

  Elaine turned round briefly to give her husband a pitying look. Then she busied herself with a drying-up cloth and a pile of cutlery.

  I smiled at Doug and he smiled back, hoping to make up for his wife’s coolness.

  ‘Sit yourself down, Anna. Luke, Anna’s come to see you.’

  Luke buried his fingers in his hair, keeping his arms pressed together so his face remained hidden. Elaine, still standing by the sink, turned to glance at me. She said nothing but her eyes conveyed the message perfectly. ‘I told you so.’ Not the accident, not what had happened to Paula Redfern, but hadn’t she known all along that agreeing to have Luke for a lodger would only end in trouble.

  ‘The police brought him back,’ she said. ‘Must’ve been around eleven fifteen, wasn’t it, Doug.’ She dropped a tea bag into a mug, fetched the milk jug from the fridge. ‘They wanted a statement but he can make it later on. Tomorrow or whenever he feels up to it. They didn’t seem bothered.’

  ‘Thank you for phoning.’

  She shrugged. ‘We didn’t know what else … ’ The rest of the sentence was drowned by water splashing into a plastic bowl.

  With a sudden rush of movement Luke pushed back his chair, scraping it against the wall. Then he stood up and left the room.

  I followed as he stumbled up the stairs, opened his bedroom door and flopped on to the divan bed, where he lay on his back with his eyes wide open.

  It was the first time I had been upstairs since I had brought Luke to meet Elaine and Doug. The room was tiny, with just enough space for a single bed, a brown bentwood chair and a small chipboard chest of drawers. I wondered where Luke kept the rest of his stuff, although he never wore the kind of clothes that needed to go on hangers.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed I touched him lightly on the arm. ‘I’m so sorry, Luke. It’s a terrible thing to have happened.’

  His lips moved slightly but he made no sound. I pulled off his trainers and placed them side by side under the chair, straightening them until they were exactly parallel, breathing in the faint scent of leather and human feet.

  He was dressed in his usual jeans, but minus the blue and white sweater he wore over his T-shirt, winter and summer. His socks had been clean on this morning. Did Elaine do his washing or did he take his clothes to the launderette? Perhaps he had another pair of identical jeans, folded neatly in one of the drawers. He was so still only the faint rise and fall of his chest indicated that he was still alive. His floppy straw-coloured hair was damp with sweat, his skin a pale golden-brown. He looked like the beautiful boy doll I had longed for as a child but had been denied because it was so absurdly expensive.

  I waited, hoping now we were on our own he would start to talk. The room felt stuffy. The curtains — pink and green imitation William Morris — were still drawn back but in spite of the warmth the window was firmly closed. There were few signs that anyone used the room, just a clock and a paperback lying open, face down. I picked it up and read the title. Abnormal Psychology. It was one I knew well, a shortened version of a huge textbook that must have been ploughed through by generations of psychology students.

  Replacing it on the chest of drawers I stood up and crossed to the window, where I fiddled with the catch, then banged the frame with the palm of my hand. It was useless. Several coats of thick white gloss guaranteed that not the slightest draught could penetrate.

  ‘Listen, Luke,’ I said softly. ‘I know how you must be feeling but I have to ask a few questions. You and Paula — you were crossing the road, were you?’

  His leg jerked and he closed his eyes. I should have let him tell me in his own time but I was desperate to know exactly how the accident had taken place.

  He gulped, as though he had something stuck in his throat, and his head moved a little. It could have been from side to side.

  ‘No? You hadn’t started to cross the road. So you were standing on the pavement.’

  He sat up slowly and leaned against the hard wooden bedhead. His eyes were open again but he was staring at a fixed point on the opposite wall.

  ‘No space. No time.’

  ‘No space? The pavement was crowded with people?’

  ‘On the move. More and more.’ His voice sounded mechanical, like a doll with a tape inside its body.

  ‘You and Paula were waiting to cross and — ’

  ‘Let me go.’

  ‘Go where, Luke?’

  ‘They never let you go.’

  ‘Oh, you mean in the ambulance. Honestly, Luke, there was nothing you could have done.’ I eased him back into a position where he could sleep. ‘Try and get some rest. In the morning we’ll talk properly. It’ll be all right. I promise.’ What would be all right? Paula was dead. Had other witnesses come forward? Did they agree that too many people were waiting to cross the road? Paula had been jostled by the crowd, lost her balance, stumbled in front of the fast-moving traffic. That must be how it had happened. Nothing to do with Luke. The wrong place at the wrong time. Pointless, meaningless death.

  I drew the curtains, pulling at the thin material that was barely wide enough to cover the window frames. Outside on the pavement a dog was sniffing at a fast-food container, scratching with its paw to try and reach whatever it could smell.

  Luke’s breathing was slow and even.

  ‘I’m going downstairs now,’ I said, ‘to talk to Doug and Elaine. Then I’ll make up a bed in the front room.’

  Why? Why had I decided to stay the night? Because Elaine or Doug might call Luke’s doctor? I was playing for time, keeping Luke out of the clutches of the medical profession. For whose benefit — Luke’s or my own? If I had ignored the seriousness of his mental state, been seduced by his good looks and the childlike quality I had found so appealing … His doctor would be coldly objective. If he referred Luke to a psychiatrist a formal complaint might be made about my professional judgement.

  I stood up and tiptoed across the room and out on to the landing, leaving the door ajar.

  Downstairs I could hear the murmur of angry voices. Elaine and Doug arguing fiercely but doing it as quietly as possible. They stopped when they heard my footsteps in the passage. When I entered the kitchen Elaine was pouring tea and Doug was looking up, smiling self-consciously and pushing his glasses up his nose. It was well past midnight.

  ‘He’s asleep,’ I said.

  Elaine nodded. She was wearing grey track suit bottoms and a pink sweatshirt. Since my last visit her hair had been given a chestnut rinse and it was cut shorter than I remembered, curled under at the back and round the ears. It didn’t suit her. I doubted if she had ever been pretty but once she must have looked quite striking. In a way she still did. Small hazel eyes in a large roundish face, a broad, slightly uneven nose and a mouth that seemed to give her an expression of permanent cynicism; but she stood up straight, held her head high. She was proud, determined, and it was her personality, not her physical appearance, that would have caught people’s attention.

  Doug, in contrast, seemed to sink into the background. Everything about him was small. His head, with its closely cropped hair, his short straight nose and sucked-in cheeks. A long thin upper lip seemed to emphasize his protruding front teeth. He was wearing beige trousers made out of some smooth synthetic material and a cream nylon shirt. The trousers were held up with a black leather belt, bunched together at the waist as though they were several sizes too big. Had he lost several pounds or had I forgotten that he was as thin as his wife was overweight?

  ‘So,’ said Elaine, pushing up her sleeves and revealing large pale arms. ‘Now what?’ Her cold, angry manner seemed to have
been replaced by something slightly less hostile. ‘Sit down, then.’ She patted the shiny red seat of the chair next to her own. Then she opened a drawer in the table and took out a mat which she placed under my mug.

  Doug stood up, stretching his arms self-consciously. ‘Not sure I locked the shed. Won’t be a moment.’

  I heard him let himself out of the back door, then watched him walk slowly down the crazy paving path. In the semi-darkness the rectangle of grass surrounded by a few dingy shrubs looked quite attractive. Light from the kitchen window reflected on the small circular pond. Doug disappeared inside the shed.

  ‘Photography,’ said Elaine, holding her mug with both hands and taking small, noisy sips. ‘He’s made himself a darkroom. Hoping to sell his pictures to one of the gift shops.’

  ‘Oh. Good.’

  She gave me a funny look. ‘I haven’t the heart to disillusion him. He was out at his framing class earlier on, didn’t get back till just before the police turned up.’

  ‘His class goes on till eleven?’

  ‘Afterwards they go to the pub. Suits me nicely. Saturday evening’s the only time I’m alone in the house.’

  I smiled sympathetically. ‘It must be difficult.’

  ‘Would be but I’ve had my hours increased.’

  ‘At the supermarket?’

  ‘They’ve made me a supervisor.’

  ‘Oh, good, I’m glad.’ We should have been discussing the accident but what was there to say?

  Elaine smiled to herself. ‘Doug says women take away men’s jobs.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ I hesitated. ‘This picture framing. I didn’t know they had adult education classes at the weekend.’

  She laughed. ‘Think he’s been carrying on, do you? It’s run by a man called Neil something. Doug saw a card in the newsagent’s. He teaches them in a room in his house. Well, that’s what Doug says and I’ve no reason to — ’

  ‘No, of course not. I was just interested.’

  ‘Do a bit of photography yourself, do you? You must talk to Doug. Roped in Luke to give him a hand turning the shed into a darkroom.’