A Dark Matter

by Doug Johnstone

  She couldn’t see Liam, which meant he’d gone into one of the buildings.

  She hesitated then entered the square. The windows were small on all sides, and she hoped he wasn’t looking out of one. She got her phone out and pretended to be absorbed by it, checking a map having taken a wrong turn. She went to the first door and took a photo of the name, Red Box Design. Then she wandered to the other door and took a picture of the sign without breaking stride. It was cheap metal, bolted to the stone, Maritime Artist Studios. She walked out of the vennel then along the street and into a café thirty yards back down the road. She ordered a black coffee and sat at the window, glancing through the glass and Googling both names. The first place had a snazzy website, bespoke graphic design for trendy clients. Maritime Artist Studios just came up with a link to the map on her phone. No phone number or website, just a couple of mentions on a sculptor’s blog, some pics of recycled metal installations in a small studio.

  She drank coffee and waited. Being an investigator was boring ninety-five percent of the time, sure, but she had the bug now, she needed to find out what this was about.

  Over the next couple of hours a handful of people came out of the vennel entrance, presumably employees of Red Box or people from the studio. No Liam, though. She searched more online, didn’t find anything useful. She was jittery from the coffee and wondered if she’d missed him while looking at her phone. She was about to go around the square again when Liam appeared and walked briskly past the café. She turned away as he passed then got her things and left, following him back the way he’d come. He got to the corner of Bernard Street then turned into The King’s Wark, a pub on the corner.

  She waited a full minute then approached, pulling the door open. She’d drunk in here before, a woman her age had drunk in most pubs in Edinburgh and Leith. According to the plaque on the wall, this place had been around for 600 years, since some royal guy needed a place for a quick pint before getting on his ship at Leith Docks.

  Liam was sitting at the bar drinking craft lager and looking at his phone. She went to the other end of the bar, faced away from him and ordered a double gin and tonic from a young guy with sculpted pecs and oversized glasses. The place was busy with office stragglers and early-evening diners. It was dingy, blackened stone walls, small windows, candles on the dinner tables. The layout was labyrinthine and she found a cubbyhole table where she had a view of Liam.

  He smiled at a barmaid. They chatted, the body language suggesting this wasn’t the first time. He said something and she laughed. She was early twenties, tall and plain-faced, with a tight body in bar T-shirt and leggings. She might be flattered by his attention, and he would definitely be flattered by hers. They talked for a few minutes then she went to serve someone. His gaze lingered on her arse as she walked away, then he went back to his phone.

  Was this it, the barmaid? Then what was the stuff at the studio? Maybe the two were connected somehow. She thought about men looking at women the way Liam looked at the barmaid. Hardly a crime, men would argue, but it built a bigger picture, a culture of objectification that changed the dynamic. Jenny had internalised it all her life, taken part in it, she maybe even enjoyed the attention when it wasn’t knuckle-dragging or harassing. But wasn’t that just a kind of Stockholm syndrome? Men treat you like shit so often that when you find one who’s not a complete bastard you’re so grateful you jump into bed with him. But that line of thinking turned it into a war. She’d felt confrontational for a long time after Craig left, men were the fucking enemy, their bad behaviour excused by society, women going along with it.

  That anger wasn’t sustainable. It ate away at her for the first few years, though she didn’t want Craig or Hannah to see it, because then the victory was his. But that was the language of a war again. She wondered how she would feel if she was watching a middle-aged, married woman flirting with the young barman with the muscles. She would cheer her on, waving pom-poms from her cubbyhole.

  Maybe it was just her age. Hannah’s generation were so much more sorted about gender, misogyny, patriarchy and the rest. Jenny always thought of herself as a feminist but maybe that was a lie, because she didn’t call out the daily bullshit of catcalling, stalkerish behaviour, aggressive flirtation. She used to get groped at grunge gigs and just accepted it as part of the experience. There was that guy Dale who she slept with then dumped, and he stood across the street every night for a month, staring at her bedroom window for hours. Hannah’s generation was flagging this shit up, and that seemed to percolate through society.

  At least Hannah would never be cheated on by a boyfriend or husband, but was it any better if she was betrayed by a girlfriend? What if Indy slept around behind her back, or if Hannah did it to Indy? Relationships were a mess, Jenny knew that well enough.

  Liam began talking to the barmaid again. It looked like she was flirting with him, but her job was to keep drunk people sweet. Jenny thought about Craig, wondered how he was able to fuck Fiona at the office or in a hotel when he had a wife and daughter at home. But we all compartmentalise, we make excuses to ourselves, justify decisions, ignore the awful things we do because the alternative is to accept that we’re bastards.

  Christ, this case wasn’t doing her head any good.

  Her phone rang, and she panicked and pressed answer, worried the noise would make Liam turn round.

  ‘Hi, Jen.’

  Craig. A message from the universe.

  ‘Craig.’ She kept her voice down, hand over her mouth. There was enough noise in the place to cover her, but it felt weird. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘I’m not interrupting anything?’

  She looked at Liam, nearing the end of his pint. He hadn’t ordered another one yet, was still talking to the barmaid, who was playing with her ponytail.

  ‘Not really, what do you want?’

  ‘Just phoning for a chat.’

  ‘Come on.’

  A pause on the other end. ‘OK, I had lunch with Hannah yesterday.’

  ‘I know. And?’

  ‘She said you’re looking into her flatmate going missing, as an investigator.’

  Liam had almost finished his pint now. The barmaid was serving someone a complicated cocktail, and he flicked through the back pages of a tabloid. Just a guy in the pub doing guy stuff.

  ‘Yes,’ Jenny said.

  ‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Shouldn’t you leave it to the police?’

  ‘The police aren’t bothered, that’s why I’m doing it.’

  ‘And Hannah is helping too?’

  ‘She knows Mel best.’

  ‘Doesn’t she have exams?’

  ‘Exams aren’t for ages,’ Jenny said. She resisted the urge to say that he should know that.

  ‘I just think, with Jim passing and everything, I don’t know if you and our daughter should be getting involved in this.’

  That use of ‘our daughter’ really got to Jenny. A way to apply pressure and link himself to her and Hannah.

  Liam tipped up his glass and finished his beer, folded the paper and laid it on the bar. Jenny thought of Hannah asking around about Mel, Dorothy asking about Jim and the money, the pair of them at that old man’s house with the spy cameras. She scooped her G&T as Liam said goodbye to his barmaid. So he wasn’t waiting for her to come off shift, take her back to his studio and fuck her brains out. Or maybe he was heading there now to get the place ready for her. Either way, Jenny had to find out.

  ‘It’s none of your business what me and Hannah get involved in,’ she said.

  Liam was at the door of the pub, a blast of traffic noise and splash of evening light as he opened it and was gone.

  Craig cleared his throat down the line. ‘I just think—’

  ‘Sorry,’ Jenny said, getting up. ‘I don’t give a shit what you think and I have to go.’

  She hung up, put her phone away a
nd followed Liam out of the pub.

  22

  HANNAH

  The Old Bell was dead and the Quantum Club were in their usual corner around two small tables at the far end of the bar. It was gloomy, dark-burgundy leatherette seats and black beams across a low ceiling. In winter it might’ve been cosy, but with autumn sunshine outside it seemed perverse to be cowering in the darkness.

  Hannah was ready to get stuck in as she walked towards them. There were seven of them, two girls and five guys, including Xander and Bradley. All of them had frothy brown drinks in front of them, Deuchars eighty shilling or IPA. Louise and Ayesha had halves, the rest pints. Lovely bit of conforming to gender stereotypes, Hannah thought.

  She caught Xander’s eye and he looked away. He was boxed into the corner by Louise, who was sitting close to him, legs almost touching.

  ‘Have you heard from Mel?’ Xander said as she reached the table.

  Louise reached for her drink and sipped, eyes averted.

  Hannah shook her head, partly answering his question, partly in disgust at him sitting here drinking with the rest of them when Mel was gone.

  ‘What the hell do you care?’ Hannah said, which made them all stare.

  ‘What?’ Xander said. He looked uncomfortable and Hannah was glad.

  ‘If you gave any kind of a shit, you’d be helping me find her.’ She looked round the table. ‘That goes for all of you. This is serious, don’t you get it?’

  They all looked at their drinks or down at their laps.

  ‘Just a minute,’ Bradley said. He was on the nearest stool, and he stood up and towered over her. ‘We all care about Mel, but what can we do?’

  Hannah turned to him. ‘I think you’ve done enough.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ His fists were at his sides, but he was wavering.

  ‘You really want to go there?’

  Bradley seemed to get a second wind. ‘Was that your mum came to see me the other day? Are you crazy, sending your mother to harass innocent people?’

  ‘Innocent?’

  She turned to Xander, pointed a thumb at Bradley. ‘Did you know he sent dick pics to Mel?’

  Xander’s face flushed and he pushed past Louise’s legs as he came round the table. ‘What?’

  ‘That’s bullshit,’ Bradley said, standing his ground.

  Hannah spoke to Xander. ‘He admitted it to Mum, said he fancied her and thought he would try it on.’

  Xander frowned. ‘What’s your mum got to do with this?’

  Bradley lifted his chin up. ‘She sent her psycho mother round to threaten me.’

  Hannah laughed. ‘Intimidated by a middle-aged woman?’

  ‘Obviously being a nutter runs in the family,’ Bradley said.

  Hannah ignored that, turned back to Xander. ‘Mum’s helping me with the investigation.’

  ‘What investigation?’ Bradley said. ‘You’re not a fucking cop.’

  ‘No, but I’m going to find Mel, even if morons like you don’t give a shit.’

  ‘I give a shit,’ Xander said.

  Hannah raised her eyebrows at him. ‘You’ve got a funny way of showing it.’ She pointed at Bradley. ‘This arsehole sent photographs of his penis to your girlfriend, don’t you have anything to say?’

  Xander took a step towards Bradley, Hannah in between staring up at the two of them.

  ‘Is that true?’ Xander said.

  ‘Of course not.’

  Xander turned to Hannah. ‘He says he didn’t do it.’

  ‘He would, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Do you have any proof?’

  Hannah held her hands out. ‘He admitted it.’

  ‘You have the pictures?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I thought you had Mel’s phone?’

  Hannah wrinkled her nose. ‘She had another phone.’

  Xander stood down from high alert. ‘I didn’t know about another phone.’

  ‘Vic told me,’ Hannah said. ‘She got disturbing messages on it.’

  She looked at Bradley for that last bit.

  ‘Do you have that phone?’ Xander said.

  Hannah looked from one to the other, then at the rest of the group watching slack-jawed in their seats. ‘No.’

  All energy seemed to leave her. She wanted to confront these dickheads and their lack of compassion. She wanted to trick them into something, a slip-up or a fight, rolling around on the floor punching each other. She just wanted people to give a shit about a missing young woman, all the millions of missing girls across the planet that men didn’t give two fucks about. Here were two well-educated young guys acting like cavemen, chatting up girls in bars when their girlfriend was missing or sending photos of their genitals on the off chance they would get lucky. There was no concern here and that just made her more angry, more determined to find Mel and return the world to the way it was before her grandpa died and her friend disappeared.

  23

  DOROTHY

  She was young again, her skin tight and smooth, the muscles of her legs toned and firm. She rubbed sun cream into them and looked around. Pismo Beach didn’t have the tourist appeal of Santa Barbara or Malibu, but the sand was still golden and the surf was high. Jim sat next to her on the towel watching the surfers glide on the breakers. Jim was young and strong too, thick arms and solid chest. They had their whole lives to come.

  It was Easter Sunday and the beach was full of Hispanic families barbecuing, large groups spread out on blankets, chairs, even benches carried down from front porches. Beer in the coolers, a game of catch, kids kicking a soccer ball. The sun was high and Dorothy felt it soak into her bones.

  Jim watched two young women in bikinis walk past, kicking up spurts of sand. A flicker of irritation passed through her then slipped away. Men will be men, it was only looking, Dorothy had his heart. They were in love and he made her feel beautiful. He was attentive in the bedroom, gave her gifts and compliments, was devoted to her. He’d never met anyone like her, she was sure of that, back in gloomy Scotland with its rain and inhibitions. He told her all about it, how depressing the place was, yet something in his voice spoke of his love for the place, as if he carried some of that dourness in his DNA.

  Jim turned from the girls and their jiggling asses, saw that Dorothy had been watching him, and leaned over to kiss her, lingering, his hand on her thigh, fingers touching the strap of her bikini. She felt the heat rise in him and herself, as if their bodies were communicating with each other directly.

  She woke in the grey-striped dawn in her bedroom, still on her side of the bed, next to empty space. She remembered finding Jim on the toilet floor lying in his own piss, his skin already shrinking, lips a lighter colour, eyes wide open.

  The warmth of her dream faded, replaced by the chill of Scottish autumn. She hated dreams of California, they made her miss her childhood home in a visceral way. And now she hated dreams of Jim too, a reminder of what she’d lost.

  Men will be men.

  But what if he didn’t just look at other women?

  She sat in the body van and looked at Rebecca’s house. Archie needed the van for a pick-up later this morning so she had to be quick. It was obviously better to bring the anonymous white van rather than the silver hearse. Park a hearse anywhere and people will start talking. She breathed deeply, reciting a simple mantra in her head to stay calm. She wasn’t sure why she was here but she had to speak to Rebecca again. Her car was in the drive, so she wasn’t at work yet.

  Dorothy got out and walked across the road. It was dreich today, a good Scots word for it, low cloud and cold mizzle hanging in the air, Arthur’s Seat vanished in the mist. She pulled her collar up against it, went up the path and rang the doorbell. Waited. Breathed in and out.

  She heard the clumping footsteps of the girl inside, then Natalie opened the door. She was in a white polo shirt and black leggings, bare feet. The smell of burnt toast lingered and she had a smudge of chocolate spread at the corner of her mouth.

/>   ‘Hi, Natalie,’ Dorothy said. ‘Remember me?’

  Natalie nodded but didn’t speak.

  ‘Is your mum around?’

  Natalie looked nervous. ‘She’s upstairs.’

  Dorothy nodded, leaning forwards. ‘Could you get her, please? Tell her Dorothy Skelf is here to see her.’

  She could hear the sound of the shower running as Natalie thudded up the stairs with flat feet.

  ‘Mum?’

  She heard Natalie walking across the upstairs landing. There was a muffled reply through a door.

  Dorothy stood in the doorway and looked down the hall. The detritus of an ordinary life, shoes piled on a rack, an umbrella, bike helmets. On the banister were jackets hung by hoods, and on top was Natalie’s school sweatshirt, the burgundy one with the school crest on it. Dorothy stepped forwards and saw something on the sweatshirt, several of the girl’s black hairs clinging to the material. She stared at them for a few moments, listening to Natalie upstairs talking through the door to her mum, the smell of toast still in her nose, cartoons on the television in the living room. Then she carefully picked as many of the girl’s hairs from the sweatshirt as she could see, took out an old receipt, folded the hairs inside the piece of paper and placed it in her pocket. She heard the bathroom door open upstairs as she turned and left, striding down the path and breaking into a jog as she crossed the road to the van. She got in, started the engine and pulled out, not looking in the rear-view mirror as she drove away.

  Archie and Dorothy sat in the van waiting for the council waste lorry to pull away from the large commercial bins round the back of St Columba’s. Archie waved to the lorry driver as they passed, and Dorothy felt bad as she thought about their two services picking up different kinds of refuse from the hospice.

  They reversed the van to the corrugated metal door and Archie killed the engine. He lifted a rolled-up body bag from the back seat and they got out and went to the buzzer next to the gate.