by Naomi Joy
The simple movement of rising to a seated position had awoken a variety of aches and pains and the skin on my back protested angrily at being pulled in a different direction. I became aware of how much the corners of my mouth hurt. I looked down at my ripped clothes. My body was a patchwork of purples, reds, blues and yellows. I had some cuts, they were fresh and they weren’t that deep, but they were too numerous to count. I traced hand marks round my wrists and a lump on my head.
I didn’t remember being in a fight.
I didn’t remember much at all.
That had to change.
I closed my eyes and cast my mind back.
50
Jade
I blinked my eyes rapidly, the scene before me an incomplete mosaic. Eventually, the shapes sharpened and I saw a woman sat across from me. I sniffed the suffocating smell of antiseptic and, as I tried to move, became aware of a large needle embedded in my forearm. I was trapped in synthetic sheets full of static electricity, held down by a handcuff attached to a rail that surrounded all four sides of my bed. They were trying to kill me in my sleep. I thought how Olivia would appreciate the poetic justice of the situation.
A consistent, high-pitched pip repeated nearby and I turned my attention to the long tube of fluid attached to the needle in my arm. I was too drowsy to do anything about it, even though I knew it was poison, it was why my mouth tasted of chalk: they weren’t letting me drink anything.
‘Jade, hello, my name’s Barbara.’ She had bags under her eyes, fine lines on her forehead and wore crumpled clothes. She looked like she’d be a good mum. Had she been sleeping in that chair?
I tried to tell her ‘hi’ but my mouth didn’t open and my head didn’t nod.
‘I wanted to check you were doing OK. We have you on some strong medication to help with those hallucinations, and you’ve had surgery to remove the hair from your stomach.’
Hallucinations.
She must already know about the way I see Olivia wherever I go and whatever I do.
‘The dosage was a little high, so we’ll be weaning you off it bit by bit. I’ve recommended a course of hypnotherapy, we can start tomorrow if you’re feeling up to it.’
She squeezed my hand and I fell back to black.
‘PSYCHOTIC’ JADE FERNLEIGH CLEARED OF ALL CHARGES, DESPITE CONFESSION
In the latest shocking twist in the Ava Wells case, ‘unstable and unpredictable’ Jade Fernleigh has been cleared of all wrongdoing despite no alibi on the night of Ava’s disappearance, a number of colleagues speaking out against her, and an obvious obsession with Ava herself. The charges have been dropped on the grounds of her mental health.
The police have released a statement:
‘Proper protocol was not followed in the questioning of Ms Jade Fernleigh. She is being detained in a secure mental health facility and should not have been subjected to a police interrogation, or held in a solitary cell, without prior evaluation of her mental state. There will be a full and thorough review into these failings. No further evidence links Miss Fernleigh to Miss Wells’ disappearance. She has been discounted from the investigation.’
51
Josh
You never know how close your world is to totally falling apart until it’s too late. There’s never a warning, a heads up, no softening of the blow. It just explodes. One minute you’re eating your breakfast, checking your messages, the next someone calls you saying, I need to tell you something. Are you sitting down? I was on my way back to Olivia’s flat from the supermarket – I’d been camped out here ever since Ava went missing – and walked by plain-faced people as they went about their everyday business. I looked directly into the eyes of every single person I passed, wondering if they knew how close they were to disaster, but the warm whip of summer meant the eyes and mouths I observed were all smiley and happy, incapable of pain, worlds away from understanding what it felt like to suffer. It told me something though: that none of them had just been dealt a blow, that none of their loved ones were missing, dead, or dying. My face, in contrast, was bare, an open book, chapter one, page one, of recent emotional disaster. Things like sun and rain and temperature become so irrelevant when someone you know is in danger. Worrying about the weather is a luxury reserved only for the content and, in fact, I’d have preferred it to be cold: the cold would have made me feel useful, the pain of it connecting me to her in some way.
My first experience with the life-altering-explosion-effect was with my parents. They were on holiday, I was at school. In the middle of a maths exam, actually. It was interesting how the memory began, right at that first sign of trauma, with David appearing at the door of my classroom. Even then, at that young age, I could tell immediately that something was terribly wrong. It was written all over him. I clearly remembered my overriding emotion at the time, too: embarrassment. Did he really have to draw this much attention to me in front of my friends? What if he was about to say something that would make me cry? David had appeared at the door and my first, powerful thought was that I really, really, wanted him to leave.
He hadn’t, of course, he’d hurried in, slowing slightly as he’d entered the room, all eyes locked onto him, realising we were sitting an exam, a modicum of social awareness cutting through his urgency.
‘Josh, can you?’
That was all he’d said.
I’d risen from my desk, head bowed, and left with him as quickly as possible. He’d wrapped his arm round my shoulders and again I’d felt an all-consuming embarrassment, sick with the knowledge that, for at least the rest of the week, I’d be called gay.
The finer details of being told, how much I was told, how I was told, were a little hazier. I’d been drip fed the truth over the years to the extent that all the memories have merged together and my childhood was now just a reflective blur of sadness and anger. Back then, I’d been absolutely hell-bent on my own self-destruction because David wasn’t my dad, he couldn’t tell me what to do. Olivia was probably the only person that had kept me from toppling over the edge. Like me, she was damaged, and it was the basis of our bond. Her mum was dead. Taken by an overdose when she was so young. Our stories were slightly different because her memory of her mother was almost nothing. She said she could only remember flashes and the picture she recalled most clearly was so depressing she didn’t like to think about it often: Kate Watson passed out in the lounge, a cigarette in her hand burning a hole in the carpet. Olivia had been hungry, flapping round her mother like a young animal after a teat. Said she’d been there for a while. Limp. She wondered if that was the day she’d died. No screaming, no broken bones, no grand exit. Just a flaming cigarette and a life extinguished. The poor girl.
I really loved Olivia. And, with her as my almost-sister, things had started to make sense again. David, however, even though I hadn’t liked him much back then, was responsible for pulling me back from the brink of addiction oblivion. He didn’t have so much success with Olivia. David and I had started to make things work between us. I guess it was simply that I was growing up, could understand my emotions and realise that it wasn’t David’s fault my parents weren’t alive any more and that, actually, he’d really helped me, looked out for me, brought me up as his own despite everything I’d thrown at him.
I started working for him when I was 22 and the purpose of a career, prospects, being good at something for once, empowered me and kickstarted the process of welding my broken pieces back together again. Things were good, I was settled, I had my own place, I was dating, happy, and, a few years later, a new girl started at work who I was mad about.
Her name was Ava. She was a bit like a siren, I guess. A beautiful, bewitching, mythical creature too good to be true. I was so drawn to her, so intrigued by the thoughts in her head and the curves under her clothes. Even imagining her talk to me made my heart twinge. In the beginning we weren’t close, but, when Olivia passed away, her siren call had been strong and we’d knotted together, bound to one another before either of us really kn
ew how strongly we’d felt about the other. And now my siren was missing and it was like I was dealing with that and losing Olivia all over again, a bundle of sadness delivered in the same macabre package. I honestly didn’t see the point of life any more if this was what was going to keep happening to everyone I ever loved.
I fit the key into the lock as I approached the front door of the flat. I stopped for a moment and contemplated knocking, just to see if Ava would come running down the stairs to let me in, her brightness glowing through the doorway, the rush of her vanilla scented skin as she bent in to kiss me. Even though Olivia had been an integral cog in my life for so many years, it was Ava who’d started to make me feel like someone new. The last dots of ash from the explosion of my parents’ passing had finally been reborn. I’d let someone love me. And now she was gone and I was questioning everything. Why did we get so close to just a handful of people? It was so risky, so fraught with problems. It just didn’t make any sense, did it? You put all your hopes and dreams into a few select humans, built your future entirely on the premise that the people you selected would live through it with you, but, and here was the crux, you couldn’t be with those people all the time; to tell them not to go near that cliff edge when taking a photo, to force them to get their chest pains looked at by a doctor, to warn them the lorry behind them was veering off-course, or that the aeroplane they were flying on had a terrible safety record.
And then, before long, one of them would die. And everything would fall apart, and it would be hideous. Because you’d invested so much of the rest of your life into them, you’d live forever with a handful of horrible questions. What would we be doing now? … How many kids would they have had? … How would she have handled this situation? … Would we still be together?... Would something have pushed us apart? And, if it’s a partner, you move on with someone else and you do it all over again. Why? I could tell you, having lost almost everyone I hold dear, that it was probably better to live alone, cut out your family and only let people into your life for a few months at a time, than axe them when things got heavy, so no ashes could build up, so that it was your decision not to continue with them and not that of The Universe, or God’s so-called plan.
I’d resolved to stay in her flat until she was found. David knew all about Ava and I and – though he wasn’t particularly pleased at the news – he was happy for me to be here now things were serious and she was missing. The police said she went willingly to Ireland, they showed me some grainy CCTV footage of a blonde woman in a baseball cap and massive sunglasses showing her boarding pass to an airport official. I’d told them emphatically at the time it wasn’t her, but they treated my refusal to identify her and agree with them as if I was a blinded relative, acted as though the blurred footage of someone clearly posing as Ava was the same as her having left me a long goodbye note.
I’d told the police everything, how irrationally and erratically she was acting in the hours before her disappearance, how she’d fed me a story about her mum being ill, how she’d been hyper-emotional about leaving. How it had all been completely and utterly wrong. I wished that I’d followed her that night, the thought had actually crossed my mind at the time, which made swallowing the situation ever harder. I could have stopped this in its tracks.
I hovered in the kitchen doorway. I’d been to the supermarket to pick up bin bags as the food she’d left behind was going mouldy and suspicious smells were floating from the fridge. I had to deal with it, stop putting off the difficult jobs that I didn’t want to do, but wouldn’t let anyone else do in case they threw something important of hers away. Each cupboard took a lifetime as I held each item for a while, thinking, for example, that she’d picked this packet of spaghetti from the supermarket specifically, opened it with her elegant fingers and taken a little portion from within. I wondered what she’d had with it.
My mouth drooped at the corners as I cradled the packet for a little longer before putting it back in its place. When she got back, we’d eat Bolognese together. I’d cook. My eyes were foggy as I shuffled with the black bin liner to the next set of drawers. The top one was extraordinarily stiff, its handle reluctant to open fully, stuffed to the brim with paper. I couldn’t explain why, but I just knew I had to get in there. It focused me and the tears that pricked the edge of my eyes evaporated as I inched my hand under the small gap in the drawer and pressed down on the stack of paper which was stopping it from opening properly. Inch by inch I coaxed it open. The writing was all the same, flashes of words standing out.
Bitch. Slut. Cheat.
All of them signed by the same author.
Charlie, Charlie, Charlie, Charlie, Charlie.
He must have sent at least fifty. There were no stamps, or envelopes, which meant they must have been posted directly through the letterbox. Why hadn’t the police found these? My stomach dropped as I thought about her hiding them from me. Why would she do that? I knew what she was going through with Charlie, we went through it together, or at least I thought we had. I read the note at the top of the pile, the most recent:
I want you to wear white to my funeral. You were supposed to be my bride; it’s poetic. Pick something out this week. It won’t be long now. And, while you’re standing in the pew, remembering me, I want you to know that the tears of those round you are all your fault. It didn’t have to end this way. If only you’d listened. In fact, wear red, Ava. It will match the blood on your hands.
All my love,
Charlie.
An instant later, I was calling the police, ready to run them through the contents of the notes in my hands, the stack wobbling in my grip as I thought about how long I’d been sat right on top of the evidence I needed to get Ava back. How they’d failed to turn these up in their search, I didn’t know. The phone rang once then was picked up with satisfying efficiency.
‘Police, how can I help?’ She was too cheery, her voice round and full and nowhere near officious enough.
‘I’m calling about Ava Wells, missing person, I’ve found a stack of notes at her home. They’re from her ex. I think he might have taken her.’
The line went quiet for a moment. ‘Could you bring them down to the station? I’ll make sure someone’s free to meet you.’
The night was closing in, but I didn’t hesitate before leaving, these were the way back to Ava, I could feel it.
*
My sad image was reflected back at me in the mirrored surfaces of the brightly lit station as I pushed my way past drunks and worried relatives to the front desk. I was wearing a khaki parka zipped up to my nose, my hair dishevelled and, if someone was describing me now, they’d say I had a beard. Not stubble. A full-on bushy monstrosity, an unkempt nest on my chin. Ava wasn’t a fan of beards. I’d have to shave before I saw her again. Because I would see her again. I had to keep telling myself that. I thought about her hair, swishing round her shoulders in its iridescent shades of blonde. I thought about how soft it was to the touch, how my beard and her hair were the very antithesis of one another. What I wouldn’t do to run my hands through those golden strands now, to stroke her skin and kiss her lips.
DI Frederick Crow greeted me. I’d met him a few times. We hadn’t got off to a great start what with him insisting Ava had run away from me and me insisting that he and his team were a bunch of jobsworth idiots. He offered me a half-smile and a handshake, but the frown-line between his eyebrows gave him away. He wasn’t pleased to see me, either. I was aware I must have appeared more aloof than normal because I completely ignored the first question he asked me, my attention distracted by a puce-faced busker who’d just danced into the station with an accordion blaring out ‘We Wish You A Merry Shitmas’. The remix the world hadn’t asked for. Especially not in the middle of summer.
‘Mr Stein?’
‘Yeah, sorry,’ I grunted as I realised he’d already set off to our destination. He swiped us through the security doors and into what I guess they’d call the ‘soft room’. This room wasn’t for suspects:
there were too many comfy furnishings, potted plants, black and white pictures in half-decent frames, an artificial smell supposed to remind me of fresh air. This was the kind of room where you’re told your entire family has been killed and the police have no idea who did it. I’d been in a couple of them now. I took a seat and removed my parka. The T-shirt underneath had basically changed from blue to green I’d been wearing it so much. Fuck it, there were much bigger things to worry about than what I smelt like today.
‘Tea? Coffee?’ Crow asked.
I turned down his offer.
‘These are for you.’ I produced the stack of notes from my coat pocket and put them on the metal coffee table between us. I let out a deep breath. ‘I already told you about Charlie, her ex.’ I paused, I didn’t want to antagonise him, so I kept my tone even and considered. ‘But even I didn’t know how bad things were. I had no idea he was sending these.’
Fred Crow snapped on a pair of gloves to sift through the evidence. Probably something I should have thought to do. His lips were pursed, expression dubious, and his eyes darted from letter to letter as he skim read each one.
A pulsing began at the top of my head, an urgency.
We don’t really have time to read every single one, mate, we just need to put some more people on a team in charge of finding Charlie.
‘OK,’ Crow sighed and bowed his head. I heard him crack his knuckles against each other. He closed his eyes. ‘We haven’t been able to find Charlie yet.’ He gripped the top of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.
Tension crept up through my spine and met at the pressure point at the top of my head. He’d told me this before, five days after she went missing.
We haven’t been able to locate Mr Munk, yet, but, don’t worry, our best guys are on it.
He was so fucking sexist on top of everything else.
‘Guys’, what about your ‘gals’, Crow? Don’t let them work for the police yet, am I right? Too risky?