by David Hatton
‘So what are you going to do now?’
‘I’m going to go home.’ Suzanne looked at her watch and placed on her coat.
‘Even though you believe her now?’
‘Yeah, I’ve got my message now. There’s little to stay for. I feel bad leaving but Jackie was very clear. Jason wants me to fix my marriage and that’s exactly what I’ll do.’
‘I understand. I suppose I better go home too, I’ll get in trouble for being out this late.’
‘I suppose us meeting like this isn’t helping the situation. Can we meet again soon though? I’ve missed you,’ Suzanne pleaded.
‘I don’t know if I can risk it, but I’ll try. I don’t want anyone getting suspicious. Anyway, do you want a lift home?’
‘No, Michael doesn’t know I’m here. I don’t want to risk us being seen together either. He’ll only ask questions and I’m sick of lying,’ Suzanne said. ‘Besides it’s only a short walk home from here. Thanks for coming with me tonight. I really appreciate it. I hope I haven’t got you into any trouble.’
‘Don’t worry about it. You got a lot out of it.’
‘I really did. I can’t believe she knew all that. It’s like she looked directly into my soul. She’s a miracle maker. I feel bad that I had doubts earlier.’
‘You’re really not going to stick around for the second half? We could grab a drink?’
‘I really shouldn’t drink.’ Suzanne shook her head and lowered her thirsty eyes. ‘I’m not going down that path again. It’s an hour until she’s on again anyway, I should really get going.’
They parted ways and Suzanne left the hotel. It was a crisp evening and only Suzanne’s woolly white coat with a hood of faux fur kept her warm. Winter had made its debut and snow hailed down on the streets of Manchester. The stone path grew a coating of ice, offering a slippery surface for Suzanne’s high heels.
A stroll up Oxford Road on a Saturday evening was far from tranquil. The boom of a bass shimmered from an illuminated nightclub. Two teenagers argued while a bouncer broke up a fight between a City and a United fan following a brutal battle during the derby earlier in the day. A lone girl stumbled out of a bar dressed in attire more appropriate for an Ibiza beach as her arms, legs and belly remained bare. She threw up on the road before grabbing her alcopop and continued to sup the poison which made her spew. The bile dribbled down into a nearby drain where a teenager sobbed alone. The raw scent of vomit and kebab meat filled the air and Suzanne picked up the pace to escape the youth, denying her own irresponsible past as she hypocritically shook her head in judgement.
A silver Rover hatchback pulled up beside her. The window wound down and Lady Gaga’s latest hit roared from the stereo. The side of the vehicle had crumpled and a wing mirror had snapped off.
‘Alright, love?’ the driver called.
‘Can I help you?’ Suzanne hobbled over to his aid.
The driver was in his early sixties. His stripy shirt had the remnants of tomato juice, and saliva dribbled from his swollen red lips. His greasy matted hair had grown grey and his blotchy cheeks were as red as a sun-kissed pepper. The stench of whisky steamed out of the car window and his distant eyes struggled to focus.
‘Do you want a lift, love?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Suzanne’s smile fiercely retracted.
‘I am a cabbie, love.’
Suzanne stood back and browsed over the vehicle. There was no council-approved sign over his number plate, nor was there a telephone number or company brand stamped onto the side of his car.
‘I don’t think you are,’ she barked. ‘And even if you were, I wouldn’t get in a car with you. If you don’t clear off, I’ll call the police.’
‘Alright, well at least show us your tits.’
Suzanne toppled back. She sneered at the driver before pacing up the road away from the vehicle. Occasionally turning her head, she found the Rover static and the driver continued to stare at the lone pedestrian as she escaped his lust. The slip of her sole thrust her off-balance. She grabbed on to the plastic handle of a red phone-booth door. Placing her hand over her expanding chest, she took a moment to read the call-cards lining the window until her heartbeat regained its usual rhythm. She glimpsed back to find the Rover had disappeared and she let out a ‘phew’.
Recommencing her walk home, she became distracted by the orange neon sign of a convenience store. She glared at the promotional signs offering discounted prices on bottles of wine. She battled between her commitment to her rehabilitation and the lust for a silky Merlot. Choosing the former, she strolled on leaving the chants of the Chianti behind.
Eager to depart the commotion of Oxford Road, she strolled down several stone steps onto a towpath beside a canal. A light spring entered her step. Her earlier fears of limbo’s entrapment on her child eroded like the gravelled pathway she now walked upon. A full moon reflected within the water providing natural light for her quiet stroll home. She skidded across the black ice as winter spat its fatal attraction on a picturesque Castlefield. The rustic limestone of abandoned factories provided a glimpse into Manchester’s industrial past as she stumbled across the towpath.
She walked deeper into the picture-perfect scene, suitable for a festive card. It was just two weeks until Christmas but she had few plans. The previous year they refused all invitations to dinner and enjoyed the company of Jack Daniels and Jim Beam instead. This would be the second Christmas without Jason and she was determined to make it a better one.
The twinkle of stars above gave her hope for the future as she reminisced over a story from her past. Following the death of her grandmother, her mum encouraged her to look up to the skies.
‘Every time a person dies, a new star appears in the sky.’
Suzanne glanced up at the dusting of light across the dim sky and winked at the brightest one.
Her enthusiasm dampened as she reached the entrance of a tunnel which took her underneath the bustling traffic and on to her apartment. The tunnel acted as a vacuum, eliminating all light from under the bridge. Passing through the tunnel she struggled to see her own hands as she erratically waved for obstructions ahead. Suzanne found herself in a black hole; quantum physicists claimed the holes tunnelled through to alternative universes. But Suzanne had discovered her own entry into another universe earlier in the evening at the Sleep Tight Hotel; the amazing Jackie Wallace.
Unlocking her mobile phone, she used the small glimmer of light to guide her way through the tunnel. The stone beside her was tarnished with multi-coloured graffiti, sprayed on by the youths who spent their evenings beside the canal downing their cheap beer, hiding away from their parents, the authorities and their own troubles. Declarations of love and telephone numbers offering no-strings sex filled the rock which she now gripped on to for support. Urine tickled her nostrils; remnants from the homeless and midnight drunks caught short along the towpath. The cold bite of a whaling wind nipped at her dry skin, whistling as it passed.
A heavy splash shook Suzanne. She turned around and aimed her tiny speckle of light from her phone towards the echo. A patter of footsteps followed; she turned but the dim torch failed to detect any activity.
‘Hello?’ she called, her timid voice bouncing across the walls.
Silence followed the reverberating dance of her call. She shook her head in embarrassment.
‘I’m losing it.’
The growing light at the end of the tunnel brought some relief. The patter of footsteps behind didn’t. She turned around and found a silhouette. Shining the light from her phone towards the figure, she struggled to determine the features of the following shadow as it stood still, staring at the vulnerable walker.
‘Hello?’ she shouted again but her calls went unanswered. ‘Screw you then.’
The petrified pedestrian paced towards the light, eager to get into her secure apartment which required a key-fob to enter. As she picked up her pace, she heard the racing patter of soles behind her. Suzanne ran out of the tunnel
and turned around, pausing as the shadow became increasingly familiar with every step into the light.
‘What are you doing here?’
The dark fiend stared at Suzanne but did not speak. Suzanne broadened her shoulders and made her approach.
‘Why are you following me?’
The figure pulled out a gloved hand from a black overcoat; in it, the rusty handle of a crowbar was juggled. Suzanne’s eyes widened but she didn’t have time to scream as the metal penetrated her temple, taking her into unmeasurable darkness.
Blood ran down from her head, staining the snow like a sprouting amaryllis. Standing over her, the figure glanced around, searching for witnesses to the crime. They were alone. Stepping out of the blood, the fiend moved any evidence of Suzanne’s ventures along the towpath and returned to the bright lights of Manchester.
1.
“Without a grave, unknell’d, uncoffin’d and unknown.”
- Lord Byron (1818)
A buzzing woke Michael Walker. A beam of light stung his squinting eyes as he attempted to focus on the illuminated red symbols on his alarm clock. It was mid-morning, a standard Monday for Michael, who rolled over into the empty dip on other side of his bed.
The buzzing continued. His pillow, curved around the back of his head, failed to drown the world outside his bed. He sat up and a sickly settlement churned in his stomach; the results of the empty gin bottles now spread across his bedroom floor. Catching a glimpse of his naked body in the mirror, he sighed. His scrawny, malnourished body had grown a plump round belly making him the perfect double for E.T: The Extra-Terrestrial. His ruffled mousy brown hair had thinned, exposing his flaky scalp and blotchy red skin.
Grabbing his navy woolly dressing gown, he hid his nudity, stepped out of the patio doors and onto a balcony, which stretched across the bedroom and living areas of the apartment. He lit up a cigarette and sucked in the enslaving taste of nicotine. The buzzing continued behind him but his visitor could wait. He stared down at the black Mercedes convertible beneath with the registration plate, RWA1KER. The top was down exposing the cream leather interior and top-of-the-range entertainment system. A briefcase slept on the passenger seat.
Sucking in one last satisfying drag, he threw the tip into the canal below and walked into the lounge. He pressed on the intercom to allow his visitor to enter. Within minutes, the door opened and a gentleman in a black pinstriped suit entered with a copy of the Financial Times and wrapped his arms around the decaying creature before him.
‘Michael, not again.’ He groaned and tilted his head; Michael could see his father in that disapproving stare.
‘Robert…you’re my brother, not my dad.’
Despite being older, Robert’s jet-black hair, smooth skin and buff physique forced others to question the age difference between the siblings. He was nearly forty but his dashing looks caught the attention of teenage girls who were momentarily distracted from their One Direction posters.
Robert opened the curtains. Pizza boxes and crushed beer cans lined the floor. A yellow burn etched into the arm of a brown leather sofa and the smell of sweat and cigarettes oozed out of the yellow walls.
‘Did you have a party here last night?’
‘No, this was all me.’ Michael shrugged. ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’
‘I’m the director. Who’s going to tell me off?’ he said as he cleared away Michael’s shame.
‘Well haven’t you got any properties to buy or develop? I don’t know…anything which stops you from coming round here every day?’
‘Be grateful,’ Robert snapped. ‘I’m here to check you’re still alive, and if I wasn’t here, it’d be Mum and Dad. Do you want that? I’m the one keeping them blissfully ignorant of your state.’
‘Cheers,’ Michael reluctantly replied.
The apartment was open plan with a small white kitchenette towards the back. A framed photograph of his wife and son sat on a bookshelf. A brown rug, covered in crumbs, protected his feet from the sharp cold touch of a laminated floor and a glass coffee table was topped with a suspiciously white powder, which his brother chose to ignore.
‘Well I can see why you’ve kept the curtains closed.’ Robert rolled his disapproving eyes. ‘I’d have blocked this out too. This needs to stop, Michael. You’re thirty-five years old, you’re not a student anymore. It’d kill Mum and Dad if they saw you like this.’
‘You’re keeping them away, besides whenever they come to Manchester, I always clean up.’
‘And what about Suzanne?’ Robert asked and threw up his hands. The mere mention of her name forced Michael to stand back.
‘What about her?’
‘What if she came home and found you like this?’ Robert’s palm followed the trail of destruction around the apartment.
‘Is that why she left me? Could she not take this anymore?’
‘I don’t know any more than you do, Michael, and you know that.’
‘That’s even if she’s still alive?’ Michael’s voice broke as he considered the possibility.
‘Excuse me?’
‘It’s just too strange for her to leave without any clothes.’
‘Michael, her passport and purse are missing. She could have gone anywhere.’
‘But she hasn’t used her debit cards. If she’s still alive, where is she and how is she paying for things? I might call the police and see if there’s been any more leads. It’s been six months for Christ’s sakes.’
Michael walked into his bedroom and found his jeans dumped in the corner of his room. He searched his pockets before grabbing his mobile phone. As he began to dial, the phone was furiously snatched out of his hand. He looked up and found his brother hiding his device away in his jacket pocket.
‘If the police had any details, they’d have called you by now. This obsession is killing you.’
‘If I could just find out what she was up to in those last few weeks. Who she was with… we might finally find out where she is now.’
Suzanne’s elusive behaviour up to her disappearance forced the police to delay their usual twenty-four-hour period before they searched for a missing person. They assumed, just as everyone else had, that she had upped and left her jigsaw marriage which had too many missing parts to piece together.
‘She used to go away all the time but she’d always come home eventually.’
‘Enough of this,’ Robert barked. ‘Go and get showered and for God’s sakes clean your teeth. You stink. I don’t know which is worse, your breath or this apartment.’ He marched over to the refrigerator and glanced over the rotting vegetables. ‘I think a trip to the supermarket will be timely too.’
The brothers made their way to Hulme to commence their weekly shopping trip. Michael hovered behind Robert like a frustrated child. Collecting as many fresh fruit and vegetables as possible, Robert was eager to restore his brother to the man he once knew. Microwaveable ready-meals also made up their cart, knowing that if Michael couldn’t cook it, he wouldn’t eat it. Robert spent two evenings a week with his brother, preparing him home-cooked food, just to make sure he had something which wasn’t coated in preservatives.
‘How’s Elizabeth?’ asked Michael.
‘She’s fine. She sends you her love.’
‘She always seems in a hurry to get away whenever I see her.’ Michael shrugged.
‘Maybe that’s because you interrogate her every time you turn up. You can’t keep quizzing her about Suzanne, you’re stressing her out.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Michael bowed his head. ‘They just used to be such good mates, we all were. I’m just wondering if she knew where she might have gone.’
‘She’s grieving like you, Michael. It’s not like she doesn’t understand but you and Suzanne were difficult to be around after Jason died. We didn’t know what to say and we were lucky if we found either of you sober. She misses you, Michael, but you can’t keep cross-examining her every time you’re over. She’s your sister-in-law, not a suspect.’
>
The two couples once lived just streets apart. They spent their holidays in Robert’s second home in Portugal and their Friday evenings in their conservatory in Didsbury knocking back a bottle of Robert’s finest port. Their social calendars died the day Jason did.
‘They have an offer on beer at the moment, I’d like to stock up.’ Michael pulled out a coupon he’d cut out from the previous day’s paper.
‘Not while I’m paying you’re not. How are you doing for money anyway?’
‘Fine,’ Michael lied. He’d hidden the letters stamped with Final Notice warnings on the envelopes away from his brother’s prying eyes, piling them beneath the mountains of take-out menus and free newspapers.
‘Have you considered returning to work?’
‘I’m not ready for that yet.’
‘That money won’t last forever, you know?’
The money Robert was referring to was the sale of their suburban house, just yards away from his brother’s, which Michael and Suzanne sold after the death of their son. Riddled with debt and with little appetite to return to work, they packed up and used the profits to live off while they rented their downsized property in Castlefield.
The brothers collected the rest of their essentials and made their way out of the store, stopping by a kiosk to allow Michael to buy cigarettes. The queue was long and Robert amused himself by browsing through the local listings in the Manchester Reporter.
‘The Philharmonic Orchestra is coming to Bridgewater Hall next week if you fancy it?’
‘It’s hardly The Rolling Stones, Robert, I’ll give it a miss this time.’