Читать книгу The Murder House - Michael Wood - Страница 6

02.30

Jeremy Mercer couldn’t sleep. The room was spinning. He couldn’t remember the last time he had drunk so much. Still, it wasn’t a regular occurrence. A blow-out once in a while didn’t do any harm. Maybe he should have slowed down though. Looking back, he seemed to have had a glass of champagne in his hand since early evening until he staggered out of the marquee, into the house, and, somehow, managed to crawl upstairs.

He felt sick. He closed his eyes but that seemed to make matters worse. He quickly opened them again and gave a little laugh. He was back in the bedroom he had grown up in, his mother and father asleep in the attic room upstairs.

Jeremy had been sensible in front of his seven-year-old daughter, Rachel, but once she had gone to bed at eight o’clock, he’d let his hair down and allowed his father to continue pouring glass after glass of champagne down his throat.

Today, or rather, yesterday, was a special occasion. His little sister, Leah, had got married. As the fug of alcohol distorted his memory, one image of the happy day stuck out more than others. Just before the ceremony, he had gone into his parents’ bedroom where Leah was getting ready and they’d had a chat.

‘Wow, you look stunning,’ he said. ‘You look so grown up.’

‘Thank you. I can’t stop smiling,’ she said. The floor-length gown was an off-white colour. It was a simple design, but the material was sheer and elegant. It may have sounded like a cliché, but she really did look like a princess. ‘How’s Oliver doing?’

‘He’s fine. His shoes are hurting his ankles.’

The smile dropped. ‘I told him to put wet newspaper in them a few days before the wedding. Well, I don’t care if they cause blisters and he’s in agony for weeks, he’s leading me on that dancefloor.’

Jeremy sat down on the bed. ‘Can you believe this?’

‘What?’

‘It doesn’t seem like five minutes ago you and I were in the back garden pushing each other off the swing. Now look at us; you’re getting married and I’ve got a seven-year-old daughter, a mortgage and debts up to my eyeballs.’

‘It’s fun being a grown-up, isn’t it?’ she said with a twinkle in her eye.

Jeremy felt a tug of emotion. ‘I hope you and Oliver will be very happy together,’ he said, a catch in his throat.

‘Don’t make me cry, Jeremy. I don’t want to ruin my make-up.’

‘Sorry. I was just thinking of …’

‘I know. Today can’t be easy for you.’

‘It’s not. But, today isn’t about me. It’s about you.’

‘I’m not looking forward to everyone looking at me in church.’

‘Have you taken your medication?’

‘You’ve asked me that three times already,’ she said.

‘Sorry. I just want your day to be perfect.’

‘And me off my medication would ruin it?’

‘Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean—’

Leah giggled. ‘It’s all right, Jeremy, I know what you meant. Don’t worry. I’m fine. I feel fine.’ She turned to the mirror and looked at her reflection. ‘Well, time I made a move.’

Jeremy stood up, held his sister by the shoulders and looked deep into her eyes. ‘I love you, Leah.’ He kissed her on the cheek.

‘I love you too, Jeremy. I couldn’t ask for a better brother.’

‘One day, I might give you your Barbie doll heads back.’

‘Then you really will be the best brother ever.’

There was a knock on the bedroom door. It was time to go.

Jeremy pushed back the duvet and staggered out of bed. He needed a drink of water. Or maybe he needed to vomit, he didn’t know which.

Wearing only a T-shirt, boxer shorts, and, for some reason, one sock, he fumbled along the landing. He was tempted to look in on Rachel but didn’t want to wake her. He was sure she was fine. She had Pongo to keep her company.

Gripping the bannister firmly, he looked down the stairs. This must be what mountain climbers see when they’re at the top of Everest; a long and treacherous way down. Each step seemed to reverberate throughout his entire body. Even his hair hurt. He decided, right now, he was never drinking ever again. Well, maybe a glass at New Year. And at Christmas. And on special occasions, but not to excess. Apart from that, he was never drinking ever again. Obviously, he’d have a pint on his birthday, too.

He somehow made it to the bottom of the stairs. He felt a cold draught coming from somewhere and wondered if a window had been left open.

‘Jesus! You scared the life out of me. I thought everyone had gone home.’ Jeremy smiled. The figure in front of him was blurred. He tried to focus his vision, but he couldn’t make out who was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, or even if there was someone there at all.

The figure moved towards him. Jeremy felt a sharp pain in the side of his body. He placed a hand there, looked at it, and saw red. He staggered backwards and fell into the hall table and onto the floor. He looked around, but the figure had gone.

What the hell had just happened?

His T-shirt was turning red. His left hand was red. This didn’t make any sense. It took a while for his brain to make the connection. Then, the pain kicked in. He’d been stabbed.

He heard the sound of heavy footfalls on the stairs and the muffled yap of Pongo.

‘Rachel,’ Jeremy uttered.

He scrambled along the hall to the stairs and tried to stand up, but he couldn’t. He reached the bottom of the stairs, put a red-stained hand on the first step, and dragged himself up. It was no use. The life was seeping out of him and he had no energy to pull himself up a whole flight of stairs.

‘Who are you?’ That was his father’s voice. ‘What do you—?’

‘Dad,’ Jeremy whimpered.

His father was cut off from finishing his sentence, and all Jeremy could hear was the sound of gurgling and grunting followed by a heavy thud. Then, more heavy thuds as the figure ran up the next set of stairs to the attic bedroom. A loud piercing scream from two floors up was obviously from his mother.

‘Daddy?’ A pitiful cry from his daughter in the room next to his.

‘Fuck,’ Jeremy said to himself. He tried to stand up but the mixture of alcohol and heavy blood loss made him weak. ‘Rachel, sweetheart, it’s OK. Stay where you are. Don’t come out of your bedroom.’ His voice was slow and sounded like it was coming from someone else.

There was another yap from Pongo.

‘Daddy. I’m scared. What’s happening?’

‘It’s all right. You’re going to be fine. Just stay where you are. I want you to be a big girl for daddy. Can you do that?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Rachel. The chair next to your bed, I want you to put it under the handle of your door so nobody can come in.’ His voice was full of urgency. Slumped at the bottom of the stairs, one hand holding onto his side to stem the blood flow, the other trying to pull himself up the stairs. It was futile.

‘Daddy,’ Rachel cried.

‘Rachel, you need to do this. Please.’ He tried to keep the fear out of his voice for his daughter’s sake, but it was no good. He was petrified at what was happening. He waited for her to say something, but she didn’t. ‘Let me know when you’ve done it.’

He listened intently but he couldn’t hear any sounds apart from the grandfather clock in the living room.

‘Rachel?’

There was no reply.

‘Rachel?’ He shouted louder.

‘I’ve done it, Daddy,’ Rachel wept.

‘Good girl. Now, get back in bed and Pongo will look after you.’

‘Will you come and look after me, Daddy?’

‘I won’t be long sweetheart. I’m just …’

The figure stood at the top of the stairs looking down at Jeremy. His vision was still slightly blurred but there was no mistaking the amount of blood he was covered in. Jeremy tried to focus, tried to make a mental picture of his image, but it was no use. He had a balaclava covering his face.

‘What have you done?’ Jeremy asked.

The figure disappeared from view.

‘Not my daughter,’ he whimpered. ‘No. Not Rachel. Please. Kill me but leave her alone. Please. She’s only seven.’

The sound of yapping grew louder as the bedroom door was forced open, then a yelp and a whine as Pongo had obviously come to harm.

‘Daddy!’ Rachel screamed.

‘You bastard,’ Jeremy tried to shout. He was struggling to breathe, and tears were streaming down his face. ‘I’m going to kill you,’ he screamed. ‘Fucking kill you!’

With what little energy he had left in his body, Jeremy tried to pull himself up the stairs. It was no use. He had lost so much blood, he was weakening by the minute. He looked around him. The cream-coloured carpet was saturated with his blood.

The figure reappeared at the top of the stairs and slowly began to descend. There was a large knife in his right hand.

‘If you’ve done anything to my daughter. If you’ve hurt her, I promise your life won’t be worth living.’

He looked up and saw the glint from the bloodstained knife. He didn’t feel it enter his neck, but he could taste blood and his breathing became erratic. He looked down and saw his T-shirt turn red as the blood from a ruptured vein pumped out of his rapidly dying body. He tried to speak but he couldn’t. He choked as the knife was slowly pulled out of his neck and let out a small groan of pain as it was plunged into him once again.

As he lay at the bottom of the stairs, he looked up and saw the one-year-old Dalmatian puppy staring down at him. Jeremy smiled. Pongo was Rachel’s best friend. She loved him from the second he brought him home. She often tried to count the spots on his chubby little body, but Pongo was a wriggler, so she never managed to count them all. It wasn’t only black spots Pongo now had; some were red. Blood.

The last thing Jeremy thought of before he died was how do you get blood out of dog fur. He laughed at the implausibility of his thought as he slumped on the stairs and closed his eyes.