Breakneck point, p.30
Breakneck Point, page 30
As her timeline flicks into view, a sick feeling masses in the pit of my stomach. What else don’t I know about Megan’s life?
Her inbox is filled with messages from Jay. They begin smugly discussing how much easier it is to talk now she has a secret phone. I curse the boy under my breath, but my mood softens as their conversations unfurl.
Jay talks of how he misses his mother who died of a heroin overdose when he was twelve. His dad is due out of prison, but Jay wants nothing to do with him as he got his mum hooked on heroin and it is his fault she’s dead. He hates the bastard, but he hates himself more for being like him and he’s considered ending his sorry life more than once.
Megan shows a compassion I didn’t know she had, telling him he doesn’t have to be defined by his parents’ behaviour. He can take a different route. Her words encourage, cajole and even threaten him to stay alive, to get himself clean and to make his mum proud of him. Megan is Jay’s lifeline. That’s why he gave her the phone. She kept him alive. I’m bursting with pride for my incredible daughter, and shame for writing Jay off as drug-dealing scum.
I carry on searching her messages and am beginning to give up hope when a name pops up: Ruggerboy666. Rugger is a slang term for rugby. It’s quite old-fashioned. Do teenage boys use words like rugger any more? I don’t think so. It’s Pascoe. I know it is and I can almost sense his breath on my neck as I read his words.
Ruggerboy666: Hi. How’s it going?
Its feigned lightness turns my stomach. I can hardly bear to read on, but I must.
TwilightSparkle: Do I know you?
Ruggerboy666: Yeah. We’re at school together but can’t tell you my name. It’s complicated.
TwilightSparkle: Yeah, right. Go away or I’ll report you.
Ruggerboy666: OK. I was pretty cut up when you hurt yourself at school. Realized then how much I liked you.
TwilightSparkle: Who is this?
Ruggerboy666: Can’t say. Soz.
TwilightSparkle: Why not?
Ruggerboy666: Because I’m seeing someone else at the moment. Trying to break it off with her, but she’s going through some stuff. Don’t wanna make it worse. Can we just hang out here?
TwilightSparkle: OK. Guess there’s no harm in it.
Oh Megan. It’s so obvious he’s playing you. How can you not see it?
Ruggerboy666: Thanks, but don’t tell your mates. In case it gets back to her.
The conversation ends but picks up again a few days later.
Ruggerboy666: Hi. How’s it going? Just had the biggest row with my mum. Moaning at me for not doing my homework. Who d’you have for maths? I’ve got Mr Blakewell. He’s a total psycho.
Clever. Dropping a teacher’s name into the conversation. It wouldn’t have taken much to find out who works at the school – a quick check of the school website would do it – but it’s enough to persuade Megan he is who he says he is.
TwilightSparkle: Ha! Ha! Yeah, I know. I had him last year. How’s your girlfriend?
Ruggerboy666: Pretty mixed up. Am trying to help her. Wish I was with you, though, but she needs me right now.
TwilightSparkle: She’s not your responsibility.
Ruggerboy666: I know, but she’s got no one else.
TwilightSparkle: Sounds like she’s lucky to have you.
Ruggerboy666: Not really. She’d be really upset if she knew I was talking to you.
TwilightSparkle: We’re only talking.
Ruggerboy666: Yeah, but it means a lot. Just having someone to talk to who understands.
TwilightSparkle: Yeah, I know what you mean.
The next few conversations bat backwards and forwards, harmless banter that borders on the inane at times, but each time another layer is added to Pascoe’s façade as a caring friend. Someone to be trusted. God, Megan, if only you’d told me. I’d have seen through this shit.
Ruggerboy666: Guess what?
TwilightSparkle: What?
Ruggerboy666: I finally got up the nerve to finish it with her.
TwilightSparkle: Wow, how did she take it?
Ruggerboy666: She was really cut up, but I couldn’t go on faking it.
TwilightSparkle: What now?
Ruggerboy666: Can we meet? But not in Bidecombe.
TwilightSparkle: Not sure.
Ruggerboy666: ’Course. Don’t worry. I wouldn’t want to meet me either!
TwilightSparkle: Lol.
And then there’s nothing, not until the night I sent her to her room for truanting from school while I went to Penny’s to cool off.
TwilightSparkle: You there?
Ruggerboy666: Yeah. You OK?
TwilightSparkle: No. Bunked off school. Don’t want to say why. My mum went mad. Grounded me. The bitch.
Ruggerboy666: That’s OK. I’m here if you wanna talk. Your mum was probs just worried about you.
TwilightSparkle: She doesn’t give a shit about me. She’s never around anyway. Always at work.
Always at work.
Ruggerboy666: I’m sure that’s not true.
TwilightSparkle: You don’t know her. She totally lost her rag with me.
Ruggerboy666: Sounds like you need saving from her.
TwilightSparkle: Ha! Ha! Too right I do. Sometimes I can’t stand her and I wish I was a million miles away.
Ruggerboy666: Maybe you could be. Wanna meet?
TwilightSparkle: Maybe. Gotta go now. The witch is back.
The conversation resumes a few days later. The night after Cheryl Black’s death.
TwilightSparkle: Fancy meeting up?
Ruggerboy666: Yeah, sure. What changed your mind?
TwilightSparkle: No reason. Off school at the mo and a bit bored.
That’s it? She met him because she was bored being at home on her own?
Ruggerboy666: OK then. I know a great place.
TwilightSparkle: Where?
Ruggerboy666: Three Brethren Woods.
Three Brethren Woods.
The words swell my insides, expand up into my throat and explode from my mouth in a spew of vomit that splatters the path in front of me.
Three Brethren Woods.
55
It’s early when I pull out of the exit of Seven Hills Lodges, take a left turn and head down the hill towards the town centre. There I opt to take the lower road along the seafront, like I always do.
The road climbs out of Bidecombe, passing the turning to the Tarka Estate where Cheryl lived and died, and out onto the main road towards the neighbouring county of Somerset.
Five or so miles out of Bidecombe, I swing into a narrow single-track lane, a grass mohican growing down the centre through disuse; it’s a place known only to locals. The high-hedged track twists and turns until suddenly dropping down into a modest car park, enclosed by a low bank.
On the other side of the bank is the pebbly shoreline, no more than thirty metres wide, scooped out of the cliffs a millennia ago. Jagged rocks rise up either side of the inlet, speckled with gulls’ nests balanced precariously on a dozen summits. A crumbling stone jetty hints at the cove’s illegal past when smugglers, chased by the Royal Navy, would suddenly lurch towards the shore and seemingly disappear like a ghost ship only to drop anchor at Brandy Cove to unload their bounty. They wouldn’t stand a chance today. CCTV covers the car park, installed a year or two ago following a spate of car thefts, making it the perfect place to meet Sean.
When I suggested we meet at Brandy Cove, he readily agreed. We used to come here in the early days before the violence started. They were happy times. Or so I thought. Sean would take Megan rock pooling while I laid a picnic on the beach. He didn’t have kids of his own and I admired his confidence with her and his firmness when she pleaded too keenly for an ice cream. I even remember thinking, See, Megan, you won’t be able to twist him round your little finger. How I hate myself for that now. On one trip, she slipped into a rock pool and the water came over her boots. He told her off, shouting at her for her clumsiness. He went on and on at her and I began to feel a slight unease at his disproportionate anger, but I was still in love with him then and love excuses terrible things.
A white van swings into the car park, and parks on the opposite side to my car. Sean gets out and swaggers towards me, wearing his builders’ hobnail boots, khaki trousers splashed with paint and a victorious smirk. I want to get back into my car and drive away, but I can’t. I have to do this. It’s the only way.
We meet mid-point in the car park. Out in the open. He stands too close to me, invading my space, deliberately using his size to intimidate me and I instinctively want to take a step back, but I don’t budge, and this amuses him. This is an Ally he doesn’t recognize. He glances down at my hand, holding a white piece of paper.
‘You got my letter then.’
‘Yes, I did.’
His smirk progresses to a grin.
‘I heard you got done for assault too.’
Of course he has. This is North Devon. Everyone knows everyone’s business.
‘Yes.’
I have no intention of protesting my innocence to Sean. He’s not worth the effort.
He shakes his head sadly.
‘A disabled lady too. That’s well out of order.’
I say nothing. I just want this to be over.
Sean eyes me up and down.
‘You’re not quite as perfect as you think you are.’
‘I guess not.’
He licks his lips and a shudder ripples through me at the memory of the same hands that stroked me and then slapped me all in the name of love.
‘I always had my suspicions you were a bit of a wild one. I’d have liked to have seen that side of you when we were together. Maybe things would have been different between us.’
‘Maybe.’
He smiles at some memory of what could have been. I swallow my revulsion.
‘Anyway, I take it that you’re here because you’ve finally seen sense?’
Finally seen sense. The phrase echoes around me, bouncing off the cliffs, picked up and translated into the cry of the gulls. Finally seen sense.
I smile at him. He frowns.
‘It’s taken a while, but yes, I think I finally have.’
Over Sean’s shoulder, the tide is rising, but the sea is calm, enjoying the respite offered by this quiet cove before it rejoins the hurly-burly of the Channel currents.
* * *
Right on time, Billy Strudwick appears on the ridge above Breakneck Point. He sinks deeper behind the gorse bush although he’s sure Billy won’t see him.
He wasn’t certain the boy would make it this far. Teenagers aren’t known for their love of rambling, but Billy’s a good kid. He would feel bad about what’s going to happen to him, only looking after his dad is already a prison sentence of its own. Somewhere behind him on the beach, the cripple is being carted up and down the sand dunes in a buggy, pretending to be normal.
Billy pauses to look out to sea, but boredom soon sets in and he turns and heads back towards the beach. Maybe he’ll pass TruffleDelite on the way. That would be helpful, but not essential. The timing and his proximity to the scene will be enough, along with his tie, of course. Detectives are always so excited when they find the murder weapon, they never question it.
His watch tells him his shift starts in an hour. He’ll make the anonymous call about ten minutes before he starts, saying he saw two people arguing on the cliff, perilously close to the edge.
The police will respond first and more than likely find TruffleDelite. By the time the ambulance station gets the call, he and Trisha will be ready to go. This time, he’s not taking any chances with Trisha. He’ll be riding up back. He’s already texted her that he has a migraine and can she do the driving today.
He emerges from the bush and makes his way down the cliff towards the bench that sits at the lowest point in the path. He’s almost there when he sees her and his heart flips. She’s sitting on the bench, her back to him, her hood up, hugging her knees against the chilly wind. She’s keen. He likes that.
He’s about to call out to her when he stops himself and drops behind a gorse bush. The last one was too quick. It was over in a flash. Then Trisha spoiled it all by insisting on riding up back. That’s not going to happen again. He wants to savour this one so he stays hidden and watches her a while longer.
She looks around before finally getting her phone out. He thought her parents had taken it off her. Maybe she’s got a special phone like him.
His phone vibrates in his pocket. Yes. It’s her.
TruffleDelite: I’m here. No sign of Luke. He’s coming, right?
Ruggerboy666: Sure, just seen him. He’s on his way.
TruffleDelite: It’s freezin’.
Ruggerboy666: Am sure Luke will soon warm you up!
She posts the crying with laughter emoji:
TruffleDelite: Thanks for setting this up. Whoever you are.
Ruggerboy666: Told you I’d save you, didn’t I?
TruffleDelite: Owe u.
He puts his phone back in his pocket, his fingers brush Billy’s tie, giving him a little frisson of anticipation. It’s time.
Emerging from behind the gorse bush onto the narrow path, he dusts himself down. He wants to look his best for her.
She doesn’t hear him coming. The stiff breeze blowing around them sees to that, drowning out all sounds apart from the screeching gulls overhead. He is less than two metres away. Still she doesn’t look up. But that’s OK. He’s ready. He’s waited so long for this.
‘Hi there, everything OK?’
* * *
Circling high above the cliffs, like tiny white sails against a pewter sky, the seabirds seem greater in number and stronger in voice here as if word got around that what’s about to happen is worth an audience. An unseasonably sharp wind gathers into a gust that buffets me hard, trying to force me to move. You shouldn’t be here. You should leave before it’s too late. But Breakneck Point is exactly where I should be.
I’ve been sitting on our bench for some time now. I wanted to make sure I was here in plenty of time and my meeting with Sean was shorter than I anticipated, but it served its purpose. It gave me the greatest pleasure to tell him to stick his letter, especially as he’d convinced himself I was going to give in to him. I told him if he took me to court, I would reveal that he had been violent to me and then everyone would know what he was really like. He laughed and said I had no proof so I showed him the photo Penny had taken the day I walked out on him and reminded him this was a family court not a criminal court and I had more than enough to expose him for what he was – a wife beater. He called me a ‘fucking bitch’ and, for a moment, I thought he was going to hit me, but he followed my gaze, spotted the CCTV camera, and thought better of it. Instead, he stomped off to his van and skidded out of the car park in a cloud of dust. I have the impression that’s the last I’ll see of Sean Parker.
I don’t hear Pascoe approach. It’s only when he speaks that I know he’s there.
‘Hi there, everything OK?’
The familiarity and softness of his voice sends a current of fear through me, but his tone is so unthreatening, it’s almost impossible to think it could be attached to a monster. Is this how Janie, Cheryl and my Megan felt in the seconds before he turned on them? It’s OK. I can relax. I’m safe now. The paramedic is here. But I know what he has done.
For a moment, I can’t move, paralyzed by the thought of the minutes that lie ahead, terrified that any move I make will be the wrong move, but I have to do what I came here to do so I stand up.
My legs are weak like they’re barely able to support me and my heart is careering out of control. And so it begins, but first I must do something. I turn towards Pascoe and pull my hood down. I want him to see it’s me: Ally Dymond. TruffleDelite.
I’ve been TruffleDelite since yesterday, just after I left the police station. After I left the custody suite, I picked up a message from him telling me he’d succeeded in hacking the Instagram account I’d asked him to take a look at. It belonged to the young girl Simon rescued from the cliffs nearby. With just a newspaper photo and a name to go on, ex hi-tech crime unit Liam took just forty-eight hours to track down her username and crack her password, a record even by his standards. He really is one of the good ones.
I changed her password and took over her account. Just in time it would seem. She’ll be annoyed as hell, but she’ll never know how close she came to becoming Pascoe’s latest victim. I would have preferred not to meet at Breakneck Point, but then it occurred to me that it is the perfect place to meet.
Shock registers on Pascoe’s face. His brain struggles to tally TruffleDelite with the person standing in front of him. The CSI in me wants to know what turned him into a killer. But it’s too risky. I have only a few seconds to act before he gets himself together. I only need one.
I rush him, grabbing his waist in a rugby tackle, driving him towards the edge of the path and the sheer drop on the other side, but he holds firm, much stronger than his size suggests. He’s invincible. Unkillable. And there is no plan B.
I keep pushing forward, but he grabs my back and tugs hard; he’s trying to twist me around, fling me over the edge. The gravelly noise is my trainers sliding against the dry loose dirt on the path. It can’t end like this. He can’t win. Megan needs me.
Deep from within my belly comes a noise, deep and guttural, a war cry of the final onslaught. Now or never. Do or die. I muster everything I’ve got and, head still bowed and arms locked around his waist, I heave Pascoe just an inch or so from the ground and step towards the edge. His back foot lands, but there’s nothing there.
I see this before he does and immediately release him. His eyes flash with panic as his foot continues downwards and his arms shoot upwards, rotating like propellers, but it isn’t enough; his balance is lost. He looks to grab on to something, anything: me. I need to move away, but I’m not quick enough. I’m neither flight, fright or fight, just mesmerized by the sight of this man refusing to die.
