The moment we left the freeway we could have been in leafy suburban Surrey. Large detached houses lined the road, and just about every one seemed to have a seven-seater people-carrier in the drive and, of course, a basketball hoop. I remembered only too well the route we were taking to the estate – or community, as it liked to be known – where Kev and Marsha had lived with Kelly and her younger sister, Aida.
We turned on to Hunting Bear Path and carried on for about a quarter of a mile until we reached a small, one-level parade of shops arranged in an open square with parking spaces, mainly little delis and boutiques specializing in candles and soap. That was where I’d stopped that day to buy sweets for Aida and Kelly that I knew Marsha wouldn’t let them have, and a couple of other equally unwelcome gifts.
Far up on the right-hand side among the large detached houses I could just about make out the rear of Kev and Marsha’s ‘de luxe colonial’. The Century 21 for-sale sign had been up for five years now, and had become faded and weatherbeaten. As co-executor with Josh of their will, I knew not to get too hopeful when anyone came to view it. They never stuck around long once they discovered its history.
8
‘Mrs Billman’s back.’ Josh nodded at the blue Explorer in a driveway fifty metres ahead. The houses round here were quite a distance apart. He stopped, blocking in the other wagon, and arched his back to reach into his cargoes. ‘I’ll go check with them, you go look around the house. Here.’ He threw a bunch of keys at me on a Homer Simpson ring. ‘I won’t come looking, OK? I’ll stay in the truck to give you kids some time. Know what I’m saying?’
We both climbed out of the Dodge, and as he went up the Billmans’ drive I stood looking up the road at the light-brown brick and white weatherboarded house. I hadn’t seen it for a year or two, but not much had changed: it just looked older and a bit more tired. At least the ‘community’ cut the lawns and trimmed the hedges so it didn’t make their world look untidy.
I began to walk up the driveway. I was kidding myself – everything had changed. In the old days, I’d have been ambushed by now. The kids would have jumped out at me, with Marsha and Kev close behind.
I’d known the Browns a long time by that spring of 1997. I was there when Kev first met Marsha, I was best man at their wedding, and was even godfather to Aida, their second child. I took the job seriously, even though I didn’t really know what I was supposed to do.
I knew I’d never have any kids of my own; I’d always be too busy running around doing shit jobs for people like George. Kev and Marsha knew that too, and really tried to make me feel part of their set-up. As a kid on a run- down estate in south London I’d grown up with this fantasy of the perfect family, and as far as I was concerned Kev was living the dream.
I went straight to the up-and-over garage door, but it was locked, and none of Homer’s keys fitted. I skirted round the left side of the house and headed for the backyard. No sign of her. Just the big, wood-framed swing, a little the worse for wear, but still there after all this time.
I slotted a Yale in the front door and gave it a turn. Six years ago, as I remembered only too well, I’d found it ajar.
Kev’s job with the DEA [Drug Enforcement Administration] had been mostly deskbound in Washington for the previous few months. He’d made enemies in the drug-dealing community when he was an undercover operator, and after five attempts on his life, Marsha had decided enough was enough.
He loved his new, safer life. ‘More time with the kids,’ he’d say.
‘Yeah, so you can carry on being one!’ was my standard reply.
Luckily Marsha was the mature and sensible partner; when it came to the family, they complemented each other well. Their house was a healthy, loving environment, but by the end of three or four days I’d have to move on. I’d joke about it and complain about the house smelling of scented candles, but they knew the real reason: I just couldn’t handle people showing this much affection.
The stale, musty, unlived-in smell hit me the moment Homer did his stuff and I stepped inside. The corridor opened up into a large rectangular hallway with doors leading off to the downstairs rooms. Kitchen to my right. Lounge to the left. All the doors were closed. I stood just the other side of the threshold, spinning the key-ring slowly on my finger, wanting badly to smell those candles again.
All the carpets and furniture had been taken away a long time ago. It was the first thing the realtor had got us to do when we put it up for sale. Prospective buyers didn’t go a bundle on bloodstained shag pile and three-piece suites. Kelly hadn’t minded anything going, but insisted we hung on to the swing. Next, we’d got every trace of blood steamed away. The smell was still there, though, I was convinced of it: the haunting metallic tang was starting to hit my nostrils and catch in the back of my throat. Shoving Homer in a pocket of my bomber, I ventured deeper into the house.
As I passed the solid wood lounge door, my heartbeat quickened. I couldn’t help myself; I had to stop and face that fucking door. I even started reaching for the handle, but then my hand dropped away. I knew I couldn’t do it. And this wasn’t the only door here that made me feel like that.
I’d come back more than once to oversee removal men and cleaners, but I’d never made it further than the kitchen. In the end I’d had to leave that side of things to Josh. I’d never told him why, never told him about the doors I just couldn’t bring myself to open. Smartarse that he was, he probably knew anyway.
I just stood there, staring at the handle, my forehead against the closed door. My hands went into my bomber pockets. My fingers closed around Homer’s head and the keys, clenching them until they gave me pain.
Sunlight had cascaded through the lounge door that day in April 1997, but I hadn’t bothered looking in. I’d been too intent on making a beeline for the soft rock music in the kitchen. Something must have snagged in my peripheral vision, though, because after a couple of steps I froze in my tracks. My brain must have taken in the information, but for a split second refused to process it.
I gripped Homer hard, while a wave of nausea washed through me. My internal video had begun to play back what I’d seen, in full technicolour. Hard to believe it had been six years ago, even harder to believe it could still be stored so close to the surface.
Too late. It was running.
Kev was lying on his side on the floor, his head battered to fuck by a baseball bat. It was the one he’d shown off to me, a nice light ‘aluminum’ job. He’d raised his eyebrows and laughed as he told me the local rednecks called them Alabama lie-detectors.
Then I was checking his body, just in case he was breathing. No chance. His brains were hanging out, his face pulped. Blood all over the settee and chairs. Some even splattered on the patio windows.
What about Marsha and the kids? Was the killer still in the house?
I’d needed one of his pistols, the very fucking things that had been supposed to be there to protect them. He’d once shown me all the places they were concealed, always above child level, always loaded and made ready, a magazine on the weapon and a round in the chamber. I’d soon got my hands round a Heckler and Koch USP 9mm, a semi-automatic pistol. This one even had a laser sight under the barrel; where the beam hit, so did the round.
My eyes welled as the song from the radio came back to me, some Aerosmith thing, one of Marsha’s favourites. I stayed leaning into the door, waiting for my heartrate to slow, then pivoted my head to the right, towards the closed kitchen door. That had been the room I’d checked first for Marsha and the kids. It had been the nearest, the one with music.
I pushed away from the door, my Cats echoing as I walked across the bare hall, Aerosmith providing the soundtrack to the video in my head.
Pistol out in front of me, ready to fire as soon as I saw a target, I had given the door a push, and moved back from the frame. The radio had become louder, and the washing-machine was on – turning, stopping, turning.
I’d moved forward and pushed the door fully open. Nothing. Just a small dot of brilliant red light where the laser splashed on the opposite wall.
Today, no radio, no washing-machine, no nothing. But even then it had been like stepping aboard the
