A Simple Act of Violence

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Epigraph

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  FIFTY

  FIFTY-ONE

  FIFTY-TWO

  FIFTY-THREE

  FIFTY-FOUR

  FIFTY-FIVE

  FIFTY-SIX

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  FIFTY-NINE

  SIXTY

  SIXTY-ONE

  Teaser chapter

  Praise for R. J. Ellory

  ‘Ellory is a powerful talent, and this, his fourth novel, seems set to launch him into the stratosphere of crime writers’

  Independent on Sunday

  ‘A Quiet Belief in Angels is a beautiful and haunting book. This is a tour de force from R. J. Ellory’

  Michael Connelly

  ‘Ellory writes taut, muscular prose that at its best is almost poetic . . . City of Lies is a tense and pacy thriller taking the reader into a world of secrets, betrayal and revenge’ Yorkshire Post

  ‘A sprawling masterpiece covering 50 years of the American dream gone sour . . . [A] striking novel that brings to mind the best of James Ellroy’

  Good Book Guide

  ‘Genuinely heartbreaking . . . an extremely vivid, moving picture of the human condition, Ghostheart is a superb tale of tragedy and revenge’

  Big Issue

  ‘An ambitious first novel . . . incisive, often beautiful writing’

  The Times

  ‘You know you’re on to something from the opening line . . . compelling, insightful, moving and extremely powerful’

  Sydney Morning Herald

  ‘Another fine book from Ellory, with an unpredictable conclusion’

  Daily Telegraph

  R. J. Ellory is the author of five previous novels: Candlemoth, Ghostheart, A Quiet Vendetta, City of Lies and A Quiet Belief in Angels, which was a Richard & Judy Book Club Selection for 2008. Twice shortlisted for the Crime Writers’ Association Steel Dagger for Best Thriller, and also for the Barry Award for Best British Crime Novel 2008, Ellory’s books have been translated into nineteen languages. Having originally studied graphics and photography, he intended to pursue a career in photojournalism, but for many reasons this never came to fruition. He started writing more than ten years ago and hasn’t stopped since. He is married with one son, and currently resides in England. Visit his website at www.rjellory.com.

  By R. J. Ellory

  Candlemoth

  Ghostheart

  A Quiet Vendetta

  City of Lies

  A Quiet Belief in Angels

  A Simple Act of Violence

  A Simple Act of Violence

  R.J. ELLORY

  Orion

  www.orionbooks.co.uk

  An Orion paperback

  First published in Great Britain in 2008

  by Orion

  This paperback edition published in 2009

  by Orion Books Ltd,

  Orion House, 5 Upper St Martin’s Lane,

  London WC2H 9EA

  An Hachette UK company 1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Copyright © R. J. Ellory Publications Ltd 2008

  The right of R. J. Ellory to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book

  is available from the British Library.

  eISBN : 978 1 4091 0647 0

  Typeset at The Spartan Press Ltd,

  Lymington, Hants

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by

  Clays Ltd, St Ives plc

  The Orion Publishing Group’s policy is to use papers that are natural, renewable and recyclable products and made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The logging and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

  www.orionbooks.co.uk

  For my wife, Vicky, and my son, Ryan, who tolerate my idiosyncrasies, and understand that I love them without limit.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Though authored by one, a novel is not the achievement of a single individual.

  A number of people have contributed in different and generous ways to this work and, while a simple acknowledgement cannot do them justice, they should know that this novel could not have been fully achieved without them. Though I have come to know them through our work together, they have now become part of my family. Those that are not mentioned by name will, I hope, forgive me - they know who they are.

  I owe a special debt to my agent, Euan Thorneycroft, a man of endless patience and unmatched standards; Jon Wood is the very best editor an author could wish for, and I thank, too, his wife Ellie for her friendship, and for making Jon a better man; my friends at Orion - too many to mention - have made this past year truly memorable. Robyn Karney, who makes such difficult work so easy has, with her keen eye and commitment, made all my books that much better. I would like to acknowledge the huge support and encouragement of Amanda Ross, Gareth, Duncan, John, and all those at Cactus TV; my thanks also to my brother Guy, who reads with a sharp eye and challenges so ferociously.

  Last, but far from least, my gratitude to all at the Richard & Judy Book Club, 2008, for the tremendous endorsement and promotion afforded to A Quiet Belief In Angels.

  R. J. Ellory, 2008

  Assassination has never changed the history of the world

  Benjamin Disraeli

  PROLOGUE

  She stands in the kitchen, and for a moment she holds her breath.

  A little after five in the afternoon. Already dark outside, and though she can remember standing in the same spot a thousand times before - ahead of her the sink, to her right the counter-top, to her left the doorway to the hall - there is something different.

  Extraordinarily so.

  Air is the same, but seems harder to breathe. Light above her the same, but somehow harsh and invasive. Even her skin, something never noticed, appears to feel tighter. Her scalp itches as she starts to sweat, she feels the pressure of her
clothes, the weight of her arms, the tension created by the rings on her fingers and the watch on her wrist; feels her underwear, her shoes, her necklace, her blouse.

  This is it, she thinks.

  My name is Catherine. I am forty-nine years old, and this is it.

  Fuck.

  Moves to the right. Reaches out her hand and touches the cool surface of the sink-edge. She grips it and, using it as leverage, turns slowly towards the door.

  She wonders whether he’s inside the house already.

  She wonders if she should stand still and wait, or if she should move.

  She wonders what he expects her to do.

  It is quite some time before she makes a decision, and when she makes that decision she goes with it.

  Walks right across the kitchen and into the front room of the house - businesslike, straightforward; takes a DVD from the bookcase against the wall and, with the remote in her hand, she opens the player, puts the disc inside, closes the player, pushes buttons, and waits for sound . . . and then the picture comes and she hesitates.

  Music.

  She ups the volume.

  Music by Dimitri Tiomkin.

  It’s A Wonderful Life.

  Remembers the first time she saw this movie. Remembers every time she’s seen this movie. Whole sections by heart, word-for-word. Verbatim. Like she was cramming for a test. Remembers the people she was with, what they said, the ones that cried and the ones that didn’t. Remembers things like that at a time like this. Figured that she’d remember the important things.

  Hell, maybe these are the important things.

  Heart is big in her chest. Heart the size of a clenched fist? Apparently not. Not in her case. Heart the size of two fists together, or the size of a football. The size of—

  What? she thinks.

  The size of what exactly?

  Looks at the TV screen. Hears the sound of the tolling bell, and then the playful strings-section melody. The sign that reads YOU ARE NOW IN BEDFORD FALLS. A picture postcard street, snow falling . . .

  Catherine Sheridan starts to feel the emotion then. It isn’t fear, because she’s long since passed the point of being afraid. It’s nothing immediately definable - something like loss, perhaps something like nostalgia; something like anger and resentment, or bitterness that it had to end this way.

  ‘I owe everything to George Bailey,’ the voice from the TV says. ‘Help him dear Father. Joseph, Jesus and Mary . . . help my friend Mr Bailey . . .’

  A woman’s voice: ‘Help my son George tonight.’

  The camera pans away, up into the sky, away from the house and into space.

  It’s everything and nothing all at once. Catherine Sheridan sees the whole of her life collapsed like a concertina, and then drawn out again until every fraction and fragment can be clearly identified.

  She closes her eyes, opens them again, sees children sledding on shovels, the scene where George saves Harry from the icy water. And that’s how George got the virus in his ear, and that’s how he lost his hearing . . .

  It is then that Catherine hears something. She thinks to turn, but doesn’t dare. A sudden rush of something in the base of her gut. Wants to turn now. Wants so desperately to turn around and look him square in the face, but knows that if she does this she will break down, she will scream and cry and plead for this to happen some other way, and it’s too late now, too late to go back . . . too late after everything that’s happened, everything that they’ve done, everything they’ve learned and what it all meant . . .

  And Catherine thinking: What the fuck were we thinking? Who the fuck did we think we were? Who the fuck gave us the right to do what we did?

  Thinks: We gave ourselves the right. We gave ourselves a right that should only have been granted by God. And where the fuck was He? Where the fuck was God when those people were dying, huh?

  And now I have to die.

  Die like this.

  Die right now in my own house.

  What goes around comes around.

  That’s what Robey would have said: ‘What goes around comes around, Catherine.’

  And she would have smiled, and said: ‘You were always such a fucking Buddhist. The job you do, the things you’ve seen, and you think you can quote me some sort of self-serving, zero-responsibility platitude. Fuck you, John Robey . . . you ever listen to yourself?’

  And he would have said: ‘No . . . no, I never listen to myself, Catherine. I don’t dare.’

  And she would have known exactly what he meant.

  After a while you don’t dare face what you did. You just close your eyes and grit your teeth and clench your fists and make believe everything will come out right.

  That’s what you do.

  Until a moment like now.

  Standing in your own front room, Jimmy Stewart on the TV, and you know he is behind you. You know he is right behind you. You have some kind of an idea of what he’s going to do ’cause you’ve read it in the newspapers . . .

  Catherine looks at the TV.

  George is at the bank.

  ‘Avast there, captain . . . where ya headin’?’

  ‘Gotta see Poppa, Uncle Billy.’

  ‘Some other time, George.’

  ‘It’s important.’

  ‘There’s a squall in there, it’s shapin’ up into a storm.’

  And Catherine senses him behind her, right there behind her . . . could reach her hand behind her back and touch him. Can imagine what’s going on inside his heart, his head, the rush of emotion that will be almost overwhelming. Or maybe not. Maybe he’s tougher than me. Much tougher than I believed. But then she hears the slight hitch in his throat as he inhales. Hears that slight hitch and knows - just knows - that he feels this thing as much as she does.

  Closes her eyes.

  ‘It’s a good face,’ the voice from the TV says. ‘I like it. I like George Bailey. Tell me . . . did he ever tell anyone about the pills?’

  ‘Not a soul.’

  ‘Did he ever marry the girl? Did he ever go exploring?’

  ‘Well . . . wait and see . . .’

  Catherine Sheridan closes her eyes and grits her teeth and clenches her fists, and wonders if she needs to fight back. If it would make sense to try and fight back. If anything will ever make sense again.

  God I hope we’re right, she thinks. I hope that everything—

  Feels his hand on her shoulder. She’s rigid now, every muscle, every nerve and sinew, every atom of her being is tensed up and taut.

  Sorts of leans back toward him as she feels his hands close around the back of her neck. Feels the strength in his grip as it tightens, and knows that it is taking every ounce of his will and self-discipline to do this thing. Knows that this will hurt him more - much, much more - than it will hurt her.

  Catherine tries to turn slightly, and even as she does so she knows she is only contributing to the swiftness with which this thing will be done. Perhaps that’s why she turns. Feels the pressure of his fingertips, feels the pressure change as he moves to the right, as he maintains his grip on her throat, as he changes pace, builds pressure, eases back, uses his forearm to tilt her head to the left . . . and her eyes sting as tears fill her lower lids, but she’s not even crying. This is some kind of involuntary reaction, and the tension rises in her chest as her lungs begin to resist the absence of oxygen . . . and she starts to feel dizzy, and when her eyelids flutter she can see deep rushes of unidentifiable colors . . .

  Sound erupts from the middle of her chest. A red-raw thundering fuck of a sound. Rushes up through the middle of her chest and stops dead at the base of her throat.

  Oh my God, she’s thinking. Oh my God . . . Oh my God . . . Oh my God . . .

  Feels the full weight of her own body as it starts to drop, feels the way he struggles to hold her upright, and though she knows it will soon be over there is something inside her - something genetic, something basic, an instinct threaded through and around her being - that still fights for li
fe even though she knows it’s no goddamned use now . . .

  Now her eyes feel full of blood, they see nothing but red. Great smashing swathes of burgundy and rose and scarlet and crimson and claret . . .

  Oh my God . . .

  Feels the weight of her head as it lolls forward.

  Knows that even if he stopped right now, even if he released his grip and let her go, even if paramedics arrived and bound her to a stretcher and pushed a mask over her face and told her to Breathe goddammit woman, breathe! . . . even if that oxygen was pure and untainted, and they raced the ambulance to Columbia Hospital or the University Medical Center . . . even if they did these things there would be no way she would survive . . .

  In her last moment she strains to open her eyes, and there she sees George Bailey’s face light up at the dance, sees Mary look back at him, and it’s one of those moments, one of those stop-dead-in-your-tracks, love-at-first-sight moments that only ever happen to the best of people, and only ever happen once. And if you don’t go with that moment, if you don’t go with that rush of spontaneous magic that fills your heart, your mind, fills every little bit of everything you are . . . if you don’t just go with it you’ll remember it for the rest of your life as the one thing you should have done, the only thing you really should have done, the thing that might have made your whole life different, might have made it worthwhile, made it really mean something more than what you ended up with . . .

  And Jimmy Stewart says: ‘Well, hello.’

  Catherine Sheridan can’t fight any more. Doesn’t want to. Her spirit is broken. Everything that was something now counts for nothing at all. Lets it go. Feels herself slide to the floor, and feels him release her, and thinks: I’m not the one who has to go on living with the knowledge of what we did . . .