Top Suspense Page 5

  Cline felt something hard and metallic under his right hand. It was the pistol. He got his fingers around it, lifted it, pushed himself up on one elbow.

  "McCarthy," he tried to say. It came out of his ruined mouth sounding more like "Muhguthy, but McCarthy turned around.

  Cline wasn't sure he even had the strength to pull the trigger, but he did. He pulled it three times.

  The first shot missed and zinged by Dana. She rolled out of the chair and fell to the deck. Cline might have laughed had he been able, but he wasn't. He was pulling the trigger again, and this time, as much by accident as by design, he hit McCarthy in the stomach, bringing a look or shocked surprise to McCarthy's face, a look which was obliterated by the next bullet, which hit McCarthy right in the mouth and punched out the back of his head, taking a surprisingly neat square of skull right along with it, as well as some other stuff of red and gray that was not nearly so neat.

  McCarthy stood there for a second, and then something told him he was dead.

  He fell like a stone.

  The pistol dropped from Cline's fingers and he lay back on the grass.

  Dana stood up and walked across the deck and onto the lawn. She stood for a second looking down at McCarthy's body without any noticeable regret.

  Then she walked over to Cline. "I knew I could count on you, Jon," she said.

  He looked at her pleadingly. He didn't understand.

  "Daddy's never let me have enough money," she said. "That was the truth. But he's as healthy as a horse. The doctors are always amazed at his checkups. He'll live to be a hundred."

  "Buh-buh . . . ."

  "I decided to get Thomas's money. We've been engaged for ten months. Time enough for Thomas to make a will leaving everything to me. His father was in the way, of course, but you took care of that for me."

  Dana looked off into the distance. The sun was going down now, and her black hair looked even blacker in the dying light.

  "Then Thomas was in the way. I didn't want him, Jon, any more than I wanted you. But you took care of that, too, didn't you."

  Cline looked at her in wonder. All he could feel was pain, in his arm, in his chest, in his stomach, in his head. It had all blended into one gigantic pain that threatened to tear him apart.

  "Jealousy is a terrible thing, isn't it?" she said. "You killed Thomas's father, God knows why. And then you came over here to kill him." She looked back over her shoulder at Thomas's body. "You did it, too. But you didn't survive, did you?"

  Cline realized that he was crying. The hot tears were rolling down his face.

  "I was in the house when I heard the fighting," Dana said. "But by the time I could get here it was too late. I saw you shoot Thomas, and then you turned the gun on me, but you were weak and I wrestled it away from you."

  She bent down and picked up the pistol. "Four shots. There should be at least one more, shouldn't there, Jon?"

  She pointed the pistol at Cline's face.

  His broken mouth worked as he tried to speak, but no words came out.

  "What is it that you want, Jon?" Dana said.

  The pain ran through him like a living flame, searing him inside and out. His head rang like a cathedral bell. He had never known that pain could be like that. He thought he might shudder to pieces, or maybe explode, if he just let himself go.

  I want to die, he thought.

  But then the words came, and with them a sudden understanding. "I . . . want to live," he managed to say.

  Dana threw back her head and laughed. She had a beautiful laugh.

  Then she bent down over Cline like a ministering angel and shot him between the eyes.

  She dropped the pistol in the grass and walked back to the house, thinking of all the ways she would spend the money that would soon be hers.

  Poisoned, by Stephen Gallagher, was first published in issue 6 of Kimota magazine in the summer of 1997 and appears in the author's short fiction collection Out of His Mind. Gallagher's novels often fuse crime with elements of horror. His TV work includes scripting for Doctor Who and the creation of the CBS series Eleventh Hour.

  POISONED

  By Stephen Gallagher

  Dylan told his mother that he was going to read in the garden. It was a fine day, and it always seemed to brighten her up when he chose to read. Even a book with very few words and mostly just pictures was reckoned to be better than nothing. She said he watched too much television. She'd talk about rationing his TV watching, but then she'd never do anything about it.

  Thank God.

  "Stay where I can see you," she called after him.

  "I will," he said.

  The garden was a long one, and he could disappear into it. There was the part you could see from the house, and then there was the part beyond that had been left to go wild. It had dense bushes and an overgrown pond, and a derelict shed that he'd once turned into a den. Along the back of the garden, there was a wooden fence. This was rotten in places, although the greenery before it was so thickly-grown that there seemed to be no way to reach it. His father probably had no idea what state it was in. But if you knew what you were doing, and where you were going, there was at least one way to get through.

  "Dylan?" his mother called.

  "I'm right here," he called back.

  He left his book in the shed, went around the old pond, ducked and squeezed through the greenery, and then wriggled out through the gap that had been made by some dropped planking. Beyond the gap stretched a dozen yards of clear ground, not exactly a track because no-one ever came down here, and then the perimeter fence of the local sports field. Turn left, and the corridor went into a dead end; but go right, and it would lead along behind the other big houses with their big gardens and come out into a descending valley with a stream. If he should follow the stream down, then the landscape would open out endlessly before him.

  Halfway along behind the houses, he stopped and listened. Was that his mother, calling his name again? She was always checking on him. He lingered, torn by a vague sense of guilt. He knew that it was probably her, but a part of his mind was working hard to whitewash this out.

  When it had succeeded, he turned and carried on.

  The stream fed down into the first of the Ponds. There were three of these. There were also low hills, and flat plains, and sandy-coloured paths that snaked around and joined each other in unexpected places. It was something like a cruder version of a golf course, without the golf. The council had called it a country park, and put signs by the road. The river ran through it at the far end. Very few people came here.

  He turned and listened again. But he heard nothing now.

  So then, with a completely clear conscience, he went on.

  His parents watched him all the time. Talk about angels hovering around us while we pray; his parents hovered around him, whatever he tried to do. It nearly drove him mad. He'd been their only child, and he spent most of his time either alone or in their company. Their idea of a good day out was to look around the shops in a town they hadn't visited in a while, and then find a cafe for afternoon tea. All three of them, together.

  Occasional escape was the only option.

  He'd lost count of the number of sit-down serious talks they'd had on the subject of the Council Estate children. His parents wanted him to stay away from them but they could never give him a single solid reason, other than to say that anything else was "inappropriate'. By Dylan's understanding, that simply meant that his parents didn't like the idea. No reason, just reaction. But how could he make them understand? Everybody needed friends, and he'd never had any problem making them. The problem seemed to be that he'd never made one that they'd considered suitable, and probably never would.

  He followed the path of beaten sand, down into a field that had been churned up by horses' hooves into a surface like a choppy sea. Gypsies had camped down here for much of last year, and they'd left the place litter-strewn and blasted. Dylan's mother had been horrified by the gypsies' presence even mor
e than by the prospect of her son following the Estate children around. She'd signed a petition, and had organised their immediate neighbours to sign as well. Now all the country park's access roads had been blocked by concrete-filled drums and heaps of earth so that no vehicle could get in. If it had been quiet out here before, it was even quieter now.

  From the gypsy field, Dylan could hear voices.

  Over a hill and down the other side, he found them. In the dip stood a bent tree with a rope swing hanging from one of its branches. A length of log tied into the lower end of the rope made a crude seat. The ground underneath had been worn into plain dirt.

  One was up and swinging, three were watching. He knew them all. Fat Sam, Jason with the ever-runny nose, Kelly's brother Michael - the youngest by a couple of years - and Kelly herself. Kelly, the savage one, the tomboy; the one who both scared and fascinated Dylan. The boys were in jeans and trainers. Kelly was wearing a spotted dress and sandals.

  He stood at a distance for a while, watching them, not wanting to approach uninvited. He heard one of them - it might have been Sam - say, It's him again, all the more distinct because it was said quietly and not shouted. They didn't give any sign of awareness, but their game suddenly grew more elaborate, more of a performance to make him envy the fun that they were having.

  And it was hard going, because the rope had worn and snapped so many times that the seat had been repositioned too high for any of them to reach it with ease. When, finally, they got fed up and started to move on, Kelly turned toward him and called out, "Are you coming, or what?"

  It was the closest to an invitation that he was going to get. He ran to catch up.

  Michael was telling the others about a one-legged cat he'd once seen.

  "A one-legged cat?" Sam said.

  Jason, who seemed to have a permanent cold and whose nickname was Silversleeves because of his habit of relieving it on his pullover, said, "I've seen cats and dogs with three legs, but I've never seen a cat with just one."

  "Well," Michael said uncomfortably, "this was."

  It was obvious that what he'd had in mind was a three-legged animal, but now he was in a corner and he felt obliged to defend it. Better to persist in a mistake, the logic went, than to face the derision involved in admitting one.

  Sam said, "How did it manage to walk?"

  "I don't know," Michael said. "It just did."

  Kelly said, "What do you call a one-legged cat?"

  "Pogo!" Jason said, and everyone except for Sam hooted and cackled for as long as they could force it. Sam looked dark.

  "Snot fukkin funny at all," he said, with grievance.

  Dylan, just happy to be along, said nothing.

  They were trooping down a narrow cut with bushes to either side. Without warning, something burst out onto the path ahead of them. It was a black and white sheepdog with a pale wall-eye, and it must have been attracted by the noise they were making. Kelly gave a shriek.

  "It's all right," Dylan said quickly. "I know it."

  "He looks mad," Michael said, grateful to the point of eagerness for any change of subject. "Look at his eyes."

  "It's a she," Dylan said. "Those are just ordinary eyes for that kind of dog. Look at her tail."

  The tail was wagging.

  "Come on, Sherry," Dylan said.

  But the sheepdog, having checked them out and finding them of limited interest, dodged his outstretched hand and headed off and away. She was a neighbour's dog, forever escaping and coming down here to hunt for rabbits. Her owner would set out looking for her, blowing a special whistle which the dog would ignore. Sometimes she'd drag home the day's catch, to audible effect.

  Dylan said, belatedly, "That's how you tell with a dog. You look at the tail."

  "That's only for normal dogs," Jason said. "Dogs that get out here go funny."

  "They don't go funny," Kelly said. "Our Rex used to run all over around here."

  "I know, and then your dad had to have him put to sleep."

  "He did not. Our Rex went to live on a farm."

  They walked on up to the crest of the hill. There they sat in a line, looking down onto the river. It was some way below them. Where it turned, a brown foam gathered and piled. From here, it looked like dirty snow that lifted and moved when the wind blew.

  Jason wiped his nose in the usual way, and told them about a local dog he'd heard of whose puppies had been born without any eyes. This had been years and years ago, but for some reason people were starting to talk about it again.

  He said, "One of women from the big posh houses came knocking on the door last week. She was trying to get everyone to go to a meeting about it."

  Sam said, "If it really was dangerous, they wouldn't allow anybody down here."

  Dylan said nothing, knowing that by 'the posh houses' they meant the road on which he lived. The newer council housing was almost right alongside. Both sets of residents stayed aloof. The people in the big houses were still trying to get the street layout altered so the council residents wouldn't cut through. The council tenants accused the private residents of wanting to put up a dividing wall.

  Kelly said, "Them in the posh houses are always trying to get you to join something or sign something. Our dad always sends them off."

  Jason said, "My dad says there's all sorts under the soil out here. Before it was fields, it was all mines and factories that got pulled down."

  "I know there was mines," Kelly said. "That's what those fenced bits are."

  "There was a battery place and a dye works as well. That's why all that orange and green stuff comes bubbling up when it rains."

  Dylan's interest in the subject was waning already. There were trees, there was grass. All was fine. End of story. Could he hear a whistle? Jason was saying, "Then the dogs probably go home and lick their paws after they've walked in it. Then they go all strange and then they die. It's poison."

  "It's not poison," Kelly said. "I've supped some of that."

  "You don't know."

  "I know more than you."

  "My bum's all damp," Michael said, and so they got up and moved on.

  Walking down the side of the hill, Dylan looked across the fields and saw the figure of Mr. Johnson, Sherry's owner. He was alone. He lowered the dog whistle, and Dylan guessed that he was staring in their direction although at this distance it was impossible to be sure. He wondered whether he ought to wave, but he didn't.

  Dylan felt guilty for a while. But the guilt passed as they continued to descend, and Mr. Johnson was lost from sight.

  Kelly, whose grandfather had been a miner, was talking about the pit shaft heads that dotted the reclaimed industrial area underlying the country park. To Dylan, these were no more than occasional fenced squares about the size of a small vegetable garden, all in unexpected places on otherwise featureless slopes.

  Kelly said, "The tunnels are all underneath us. They go for miles."

  "They're supposed to have been filled in," Sam objected.

  "They're not," Kelly said. "There's all sorts down there. There's a town."

  "You liar."

  "It's for the politicians if there's another war," she said. "It's got streets and shops and everything, but it's completely deserted. They used the miners to dig it all out and then they sacked them all to keep it secret."

  Dylan said, "Is that true?"

  She turned to him. "You can see it, if you find the right place to go in," she said. "They've got hidden doors. I can show you one."

  A few minutes later, they were climbing the next hill toward one of the shaft heads. Like the others, it was no more than a dozen metres square and contained by a wooden rail fence with barbed wire strung along the top and between the rails. Inside the square Dylan could see tall grasses and young, stunted saplings. As they were making their way up toward it, Kelly was whispering something to each of the others in turn.

  It looked secure, but one of the fenceposts had been splintered at its base. It went over when Jason pushed, an
d the wire went with it. It didn't go all the way to the ground, but it was low enough for them all to be able to pick their way over. Michael got one of his socks caught on a barb, and squalled until Kelly pulled him free.

  Dylan was scared and excited, both at once. Scared at being caught somewhere that he wasn't supposed to be. Excited for exactly the same reason. There didn't seem to be much else to get worked up about. The shaft had been capped with a platform of concrete sleepers, and the cap filled over with several feet of dirt. Two of the sleepers had crumbled and dropped, and the dirt had collapsed downward through the opening. The result was a depression in the middle of the square, and it was deep enough for the five of them to descend into. At the bottom of the depression was the way in.

  "It's not like a trapdoor," Dylan said. "That's just a hole."

  "It's a hole where the trapdoor used to be," Kelly said. "There are stairs inside."

  "It's dark."

  "There's a light you can switch on. Don't you want to see it?"

  Dylan looked around. He realised that only he and Kelly had descended to the opening. The others were all back up at the top. Suddenly selfconscious, he said, "No, thanks."

  "You're the only one here who's not seen it," Kelly said. "Don't be such a baby."

  He could feel himself starting to blush. "I'm not," he said. "I'm just not that interested."

  "I'll come in with you," she said. "Go on."

  He had to duck to get under the rusty wires that were sticking out from the fallen concrete sections. He'd go in as far as the daylight reached, and no farther. Kelly was close behind him. She was still talking about how there were stairs and a light switch somewhere inside. It didn't look likely. The space beyond the hole formed a dark chamber. It looked as if the gypsies had used it to dump stuff. There was a car wheel with a bald tyre on it, and some bags of refuse that were split and seeping.

  "Feel for the switch," Kelly said from behind him. "It's on that wall."

  "There isn't a wall." There was only rubble.

  "You're not looking properly. When we get down there, you can just walk into any of the shops and play with all the things in them. It's great. There's no one around who can stop you."