Third Time Lucky

  "It's a miracle you weren't killed, Marion!"

  Trust Jack to bring religion into it, thought Marion Riley sourly.

  "You're coming to live with us," her brother continued, his voice taking on that familiar hectoring tone. "You're obviously not fit to remain here on your own."

  Marion tried not to grind her teeth. She was sixty, four years older than Jack, but he had always believed he knew best -- what could you expect from someone raised to think he was God's gift, the only boy in a house full of Catholic women? She wondered how on earth Stella put up with it.

  She let his words wash over her and glanced at her bandaged left wrist; the doctor had prescribed rest and painkillers. It didn't hurt very much really -- she was used to pain. It would be inconvenient doing things one-handed for the next few days, but she was certainly not going to move in with Jack and Stella.

  "Don't be silly, Jack," said Stella hotly, clearly disconcerted by her husband's decision. "Marion's not incapable just because she fell down the stairs once. Of course, if she wants to come and stay for a while--," she turned apologetically to Marion, "--she knows she's very welcome."

  The tips of Jack's ears went bright red and he glared at his wife. "I'm only thinking of what's best for my sister," he said. "It's the obvious solution; we've got plenty of room now the boys have left home."

  This had gone far enough, thought Marion. The way Jack was talking, you'd think she was senile! And she couldn't let him spoil her plans.

  "I'm sorry, Jack. I appreciate your concern, but I can still look after myself." God knows she'd had enough practice over the years, she reflected wryly, what with running the house and car and organizing the building society account.... "It's only a sprain. I'll be right as rain in a few days."

  Jack compressed his lips into a thin line. "You always were stubborn. But I suppose if you're set on it...."

  "I am." Stella gave Marion a grateful smile.

  "Very well. But I'll ask Father Patrick to look in on you from time to time."

  "Please don't," said Marion sharply. The last thing she needed was a priest interfering.

  Jack shrugged. "As you wish." He rose stiffly from the shabby armchair. "I'll pray for you, Marion."

  Marion watched her visitors trudge down the drive to their car. She felt a stab of fondness now that Jack was leaving - strange how she had always loved the idea of a brother more than the reality.

  Marion's wrist had returned to normal, and she was tired of being cooped up indoors while the sun shone. She put on her coat and warm boots, heaved up the garage's sliding door and gave a friendly pat to the large maroon Rover waiting patiently inside.

  The car deserved an airing as much as she did, she thought. Pity it gobbled petrol like nobody's business. Still, there was money in the building society -- not as much as there used to be, true, but enough to last. She would have chosen something smaller, easier to handle and more economical, but George, her ex-husband, liked big cars.

  Most of Marion's possessions had once belonged to George Riley -the house, the furniture... and every three years, when he religiously bought a new one, his old car. It had been the price of her agreeing not only to the divorce but to the annulment that allowed him to marry his devoutly Catholic bride.

  Annulment. George's hypocrisy, and the Church's collusion, still made her feel bitter. Their twenty-year-old marriage might have been childless, but it had been enthusiastically consummated until George met the younger, prettier Brigid. From the moment she first glimpsed his bearlike hulk, Marion had loved George, had given up thoughts of a career to cook and care for him. But in the end all that had counted for nothing.

  She reversed out of the garage, watching the steaming exhaust fumes in the rear view mirror. This frosty weather should make the surrounding hills look like a Christmas card scene. And she was in need of a dose of beauty; sometimes reality's ugliness was too much to bear. She sighed, remembering. Last month she had even got as far as tipping the contents of a bottle of paracetamol into her cupped palm, but the convent school teaching about suicide had proved too much for her. There had been no escape that way.

  Marion turned onto the road leading down the valley. She drew in her breath sharply at the view, feeling the prickle of tears, and let the Rover coast down the hill. As the dogleg bend at the bottom approached, she applied the brakes firmly. The pedal had no effect. She had only a moment to wonder why the car wasn't slowing when she realized the hedge was nearly upon her. She threw up her hands to protect her face....

  The young nurse finished fixing the support collar around Marion's neck. "That should make you more comfortable, Mrs. Riley."

  "Thank you, dear."

  The harassed casualty doctor had already cleaned the cuts on her face -- luckily they were only superficial -- and warned Marion to expect bruising from the seat belt and aches and pains in her back; apparently, the cartilage between the spinal discs could sometimes take a while to recover. She had been lucky, he told her, to escape worse injuries.

  An ambulance took her home.

  It was two days later, and the doorbell rang. Marion hobbled to the front door, still aching from the crash. Two policemen stood there.

  "Mrs. Riley? DI Stavely... and this is DC Cohen. May we talk to you for a moment?"

  Marion peered at their ID cards, then nodded reluctantly. "Come in."

  They followed her into the lounge. The Inspector sat in the armchair opposite hers and pulled a small notebook from his breast pocket. The Constable prowled restlessly, picking up and replacing the delicate ornaments on the mantelpiece.

  "About your recent car crash, Mrs. Riley. It appears the brakes were tampered with."

  She marveled that anyone could tell such a thing from the mangled wreckage.

  "It looks like someone tried to injure you ... possibly kill you."

  He blinked at her. "You don't seem very surprised."

  She smiled wryly. "The hospital gave me a week's supply of painkillers. I'm so full of them, the roof could fall in and I wouldn't bat an eyelid."

  He returned her smile, then glanced again at his open notebook. "I understand you had another accident, just over a week ago. Fell down the stairs and sprained your wrist. Is that correct?"

  "Yes."

  "You don't mind if we take a look? The top step, wasn't it?"

  Before she could reply, Stavely nodded at Cohen, who vanished into the hall. Marion heard the heavy clump of police boots on the stairs, followed by silence. After a few moments, the boots clumped down again, and the Constable came into the lounge clutching a little polythene bag. Inside it was what looked like a length of black cotton and some nails.

  He smiled triumphantly. "Broken thread. Couple of tacks. Would've been quite strong enough to trip someone before it broke, guv."

  Marion gazed anxiously at the policemen. This was an unexpected development.

  "Do you mind if I ask a few personal questions, Mrs. Riley?" asked the Inspector.

  She shrugged, then winced as the bruise on her shoulder made itself felt.

  "I've already spoken briefly to your brother, and he tells me your main source of income is your ex-husband, George Riley. Is that correct?"

  She nodded. "When we got divorced, he agreed to support me until my death. This house was once his. So is... was... the car."

  "And has he ever expressed any resentment about this agreement?"

  Marion thought for a moment. "George complains about everything, Inspector. It doesn't mean anything; it's just his way. He has plenty of money ... he can certainly afford to support me as well as Brigid."

  "Circumstances change, Mrs. Riley. Your ex-husband recently lost heavily on the stock market."

  Marion was shocked. Why hadn't George said anything? Then she realized where the conversation was heading. "This is preposterous, Inspector. George wouldn't harm me."

  Stavely got to his feet. "Nevertheless, I think we'll pay him a visit. Good day, Mrs. Riley."

  Marion gazed thoughtfully after the departing figures.

  Evening was drawing in. Marion switched on the gas fire, drew the thick curtains and settled down to read.

  The words on the page swam -- probably all those painkillers she'd taken during the day, she thought tiredly. Not that they made much difference. The pain was worse tonight, like a bradawl turning slowly inside her hip. She tried to ease herself into a more comfortable position.

  She put the book face down on her lap, then leaned back and closed her eyes. Fancy the police suspecting George! Talk about grasping at straws. He needn't worry -- there should be nothing to link him to the stairs or the car. But it would give him a good scare being taken to the police station to answer their enquiries. She allowed herself a momentary satisfaction that just for once her ex-husband might feel a little of the anguish he had caused her.

  The heat was stifling, and Marion's face felt flushed. She opened her eyes and gazed blearily at the gas fire. Had she turned it up higher than usual? But the thermostat was at its normal setting.

  She shrugged and was about to return to her book, when she realized there was something different about the gas fire tonight. Something brown protruded from where it joined the chimney; it looked like sacking. She frowned at it for a few moments, and then the penny dropped. The flue was blocked. What she was experiencing was carbon monoxide poisoning.

  For a moment Marion's heart beat wildly, and she was tempted to get up from her chair, to turn off the gas. There was still time... Then she regained
control, took a firm grip on the chair arms, and deliberately closed her eyes once more.

  The fire's hiss seemed to grow louder, and she saw again the young man's gaunt face, his glittering eyes, his unkempt appearance. He had needed the money badly, she could tell. She hoped he would spend the £5000 wisely, but he probably wouldn't. She also hoped that he had covered his tracks well. After all, his punishment would come in the next life -- if there was one.

  Marion had almost changed her mind at the thought of the burden she was imposing on him. But she had been desperate. She wanted to die, but she couldn't bring herself to commit suicide. And as he had explained, after his previous conviction for manslaughter, one more death would make little difference to his immortal soul. No doubt a priest would disagree.

  Her head lolled sideways, and she realized there was nothing she could do about it. She was committed now; there was no turning back. She hoped Jack would be able to forgive her. George too.

  Suddenly, the pain from the bone cancer, her constant companion for the last six months, was gone, as though it had never been. Then consciousness began to slip away. Third time lucky, thought Marion gratefully. Thank God for that.

 

 

  Barbara Davies, Third Time Lucky

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