He explained the phone call, told them about Nigel blowing his head off and how he had been unable to move Edward from the barn.
‘Oh shit. What do we tell Mary and Abigail?’
‘He’s hysterical. He heard and saw his son taking his own life. He’s blaming himself, his selfish actions. I don’t know what we’re going to do, Laura. I think if there were another bullet, Edward would have shot himself. The caller was clever, knowing what would happen – the trap he set. We thought Nigel would either shoot his father or drop the gun. I didn’t see this happening. It’s not over. This maniac is just starting.’
Laura looked across the fields. ‘Where is he now?’
‘His only communication is this phone.’ Ben brought the mobile out from his back pocket. ‘He called us when we reached the barn. He was listening to everything unfold. Nigel played right into his hands. He’s out there somewhere now, planning the next game. He’s having the time of his bloody life with these people.’
Laura waited, processing what her husband was saying. ‘We’re not going to make it, are we? It’s only a matter of time?’
Ben held his wife tightly. ‘I’ll do anything to protect you and Milly. I won’t let anything happen to you both. That’s a promise. I love you so much, Laura.’
She rested her head on her husband’s shoulder. ‘I love you too.’
Despite pleas from his family, he couldn’t leave Edward alone. He needed to give Edward time with his son to grieve, but it wasn’t safe with the caller out there. He assured everyone that if he saw the caller moving towards the coach, he’d get back, untie everyone and they’d run together. Then he walked back along the path to the barn. He thought about what Laura had said and how they would break the horrific news to Mary and Abigail. It was Edward’s responsibility. He was the one who had to tell them, his way.
Back at the barn, Ben found Edward dragging the body along the floor. He searched his mind for the right words. What do you say in a situation like this? What words could you use to console the bereaved? He had a good innings. What an exit. Bang. Did you see that? Such an awesome way to go, it certainly won’t be forgotten.
Edward looked up. ‘Can you help me? I want to bring him back to the coach. Let Mary say goodbye.’
‘Edward, I’m sorry, but I don’t think it’s a good idea. Do you really want Mary to see him like this? Her state of mind isn’t strong at the moment. Please consider your actions here.’ Ben didn’t want more confrontation. They needed to work together.
‘Then what do you suggest?’ Edward asked.
‘I know it’s difficult. I can’t imagine the pain you’re feeling. But you need to think of Mary and Abigail. They’re relying on you now. You need to take care of them, step up, do the right thing.’
‘I’ll never deal with this. It will kill my wife. She lives for her son.’
Ben listened to the word ‘lives’ and its present tense. He didn’t choose to correct the older man.
‘Look, for the moment, I suggest we place Nigel on that cart and cover him with hay. Give him some dignity. When this is over, you can organise a proper funeral,’ Ben said.
Ben and Edward lifted the body, placing it on the wooden platform. They found enough hay to place on top of him, hiding the disfigured face, the blood-splattered clothes, then Edward said his goodbyes.
On the walk back, Edward was reminiscing about Nigel’s childhood. Ben listened without interruption to the stories of when Nigel started school, his favourite programmes, his awkwardness around girls and unruly fashion sense. Every couple of minutes, Edward stopped, placing his hands over his face and bawling.
Ben moved across and held him. ‘You need to be strong; you’ll have time to mourn. Christ, Edward, I’m so sorry for your loss. Mary needs you, now more than ever.’
‘What do I say to her? Do I tell her? I can’t say he shot himself. I can’t.’
‘Maybe you need to say that you didn’t find him. That’s all I can think of at the moment. She has to get through this, telling her about Nigel will break her in two.’
Edward turned to Ben. ‘You’re right. It will break her. Thank you for what you’re doing. I couldn’t go through this alone.’
Ben looked at Edward’s tear-soaked face, his bloodshot eyes, the dribbles coming from his nose. Whatever bad things this man had done, however gross his actions as a father, he didn’t deserve this.
The phone vibrated in Ben’s pocket just as they reached the coach and were climbing the steps.
Ben turned around and went back onto the road. He pressed the answer button, listening with impatience.
‘That was quite the outcome, wouldn’t you say? I didn’t expect that. I knew there’d be blood but not his son’s.’
Ben wanted to tear the guy limb from limb, smash him hard in the face and keep going until there was nothing left to hit for what he was putting everyone through. Ben’s wife, his daughter, these strangers.
‘That poor man. How could you do this to him? How could you put him through such a horrific ordeal?’ Ben waited for an answer.
‘See, now he feels pain. He feels what it’s like to be on the receiving end. For too long, he’s had his own way. He’s trodden on people, used them, spat them out. Now he knows, he’s facing his penance.’
‘It’s not for you to deal out,’ Ben said.
‘Then how will he learn? His judgement day would not have come until he’d faced his maker, looked that person in their eyes, spilt out his sins, his wrongdoings, confessed all the terrible things he’d done while he was here. That’s not good enough. Who’ll be around to see it? None of us would have seen that day, but now we can. He’ll understand what it’s like to lose someone, to hurt someone, to be on the receiving end and repent. I’m doing him a favour, giving him an option to change before it’s too late.’
Ben wanted to stamp on the phone, hurl it as far into the field as possible. He jammed the nail of his right forefinger into his thumb, pressing as hard as he could. The frustration was building fast, edging its way through his body. He wanted to shout, to scream at the top of his voice. He kept quiet, waiting for the caller to talk.
‘Listen, Mr Do-Gooder, let me explain something. Every morning, you leave the house for work, maybe you wear a smart suit, polished shoes, your shirt is crisp, pristine, tucked into your trousers. Your tie is clean, the knot tidy, not too big. Your hair is combed with just the right amount of wax. You take care in the way you look, your appearance, how you present yourself. You smile at the people you pass in the street, maybe you wave to a neighbour, wish them a pleasant day, ask how the family are, tell them you’ll get together and have that drink you’ve promised for God knows how long. You feel a sense of pride if you like, being part of the community. Everyone notices Mr Do-Gooder, on his way to work, a nice chap, that’s what the people say about you. A genuinely nice guy. He’s Mr Do-Gooder. There he goes, what a man.
‘Now, let’s look at another scenario. The alternative. You get up; you’re late for work, you snarl at your wife, leave the house without saying goodbye or telling her you love her. Your jacket is old, worn, the colour fading. Your shirt is dirty, dishevelled, untucked; you’re wearing odd socks, a whiff of body odour that people are too frightened to mention. You rush along the road, snapping at people, wound up, wondering why the hell people are staring at you. Your mood is set for the day, dark, dull, sullen. Your neighbour contemplates waving over, they don’t like you but all the same, it’s a good way to start the day. They watch from across the street, your tight face, gormless expression, ready to pop the next person that gets in your way. Tell me, Mr Do-Gooder, which one are you?’