Wish Me Dead

by Malcolm Richards

  Her phone started buzzing on the bedside cabinet. Emily scooped it up and checked the screen. But it wasn’t Becky calling.

  “Hi, it’s me,” Angela Jackson said, her voice high-pitched and breathless. “Sorry, I only just listened to your message. Has Becky turned up yet?”

  Emily shook her head. “No one’s seen her.”

  “I did,” Angela said. “I saw Becky.”

  “When? Where?”

  “Sunday evening on campus. She was with a guy. They were having a fight.”

  A sliver of ice slipped between Emily’s shoulder blades. “What guy? Was she okay?”

  There was a terrible silence before Angela spoke again. “Em, she got into a car with him. Then he drove away.”

  4

  THE SUN WAS SETTING, casting the campus in tangerine light. Hordes of young people swarmed around the entrance of the Students’ Union building, drinking beer from plastic glasses as loud music pumped out through the doors. Emily scanned the crowds as she strode past, heading for the quad. Becky was not among them.

  Angela was sitting at a picnic bench, eyes poring over a heavy looking textbook, red hair shimmering in the sunset. Seeing Emily approach, she pushed her glasses up to the bridge of her nose and waved a hand. Like Emily, Angela was quiet and studious. The two had been friends ever since their very first lecture. But where four years of university had bestowed Emily with a quiet confidence, Angela had remained endearingly nervy.

  As Emily tried to sit, her friend shook her head.

  “Library,” Angela whispered, gathering up her books.

  Leaving the quad and pushing through the library doors, the two women were immediately immersed in a comforting hush. The librarian, a conservatively dressed man in his early sixties, smiled and tapped his wristwatch.

  “I’m closing in twenty minutes, girls,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

  Emily arched an eyebrow as they headed for a private study nook. Girls? She hadn’t worn her hair in pigtails for quite some time.

  Reaching the nook, they sat down.

  “Tell me what you saw,” Emily said.

  Angela heaved her shoulders, a deep frown burrowing into her brow.

  “It was early evening,” she began. “I’d just returned a book to a friend and I was heading back to my car when I heard raised voices. I saw Becky with this guy. They were arguing. It looked heated. Lots of finger-pointing and hands in the air. Neither of them seemed to care how much noise they were making.”

  “Who was the man? Did you recognise him?”

  “I don’t know his name, but I’ve seen him around. He’s tall. Muscular. A white guy, with a shaved head, about our age.”

  It didn’t sound like any man Emily had ever seen Becky with. But as she was quickly learning, that didn’t mean much. “He’s a student here?”

  Angela nodded. “I’ve seen him at the bar a few times – not that I go in there often.”

  “What were they fighting about?”

  “I wasn’t close enough to hear, but they both looked like they wanted to tear each other apart. For a second, I thought it was going to turn violent. I had my phone out, ready to call security. But then it went quiet. They both got into his car – a black convertible BMW. He started the engine and they drove away.”

  Emily clenched her jaw. She didn’t like what she was hearing. “What time was that?”

  “Around six.” Angela’s large eyes swivelled from side to side. “Becky didn’t come home?”

  “No. She didn’t.”

  Who was this man with the black car? There were over two thousand students at the university and whole swathes that Emily could readily admit to having never seen before. She pulled out her phone, prompting Angela to point at a poster on the wall: Strictly No Mobile Phones. Ignoring her, Emily tapped the screen and opened Facebook. Revisiting Becky’s profile, she scrolled through the few pictures that were present, searching for the man Angela had described. When she failed to find anyone matching his description, she read through Becky’s updates. One post stood out, written back in May. It said: Fuck This!

  Wondering what had caused such an outburst, Emily got to her feet.

  “What now?” Angela said. “Because I have to get home and mentally prepare for tomorrow. There’s this boy in my class. Daniel Ballinger. Anyone would think he was the teacher and I was the student.”

  Emily wasn’t listening. “You’ve seen this man in the bar?”

  “Yes, but –”

  Grabbing Angela by the arm, she headed out of the library and towards the Students’ Union building. Inside, they negotiated heaving crowds and surging bodies as booming dance music roared from speakers. Standing on tiptoes, Emily strained to see over the heads and shoulders of her fellow students. Young men and women heaved and jostled. Beer splashed. Colourful lights dazzled and flashed.

  “Do you see him?” she yelled.

  Angela whipped her head from side to side, wincing and flinching. She shouted something but her voice was lost in the din. Above the bar, an LED screen announced a two-for-one deal on tequila shots for the next thirty minutes, immediately causing a stampede.

  There was no way they were going to find the man in here.

  Retreating, they moved back along the corridor and exited the building. Angela’s shoulders were almost touching her ears.

  “I need to go home,” she moaned.

  But Emily was lost in thought. Becky had been missing for two days now. She’d been last seen fighting with a dangerous looking man before climbing into his car and driving away. But before then, she’d been moody and sullen, skulking in her room or staying out late, missing more and more lectures, even dropping out of her teaching placement. She had been crying out for help, it was obvious now. But Emily had been too preoccupied with her own life to notice.

  “Em, I really need to—”

  “Sure. You should go. Thanks for your help.”

  But Angela remained where she was, shifting from one foot to the other.

  “What are you going to do now?” she asked. “I mean, about Becky?”

  Emily looked up, her head feeling heavy on her shoulders as she pulled out her phone. “I think it’s time to talk to the police.”

  5

  POLICE CONSTABLE ANDREWS was tall and slim and looked far too young to be in uniform. His job, he told Emily and Charlotte as they sat in the dimly-lit living room, was to assess the risk level of Becky’s disappearance and to decide if any further action needed to be taken. He began by asking questions: When had they last seen Becky and where? What kind of mood had she been in? Had Becky displayed any unusual behaviour lately? Did she have a history of mental illness? Addiction issues? Struggles with debt?

  Emily and Charlotte answered as best they could. They’d last seen Becky at home at the weekend and she’d either been in a bad mood or was hungover, or both. In the last few months, she’d been growing increasingly distant, and now they’d learned she’d all but given up on her studies. And yes, sometimes she’d disappear for a day, sometimes two. But she’d always check in by replying to Emily’s concerned texts.

  There was no history of mental health that they knew of, but there was a chance she was depressed. And no obvious debt issues judging by the fact that Becky was out most nights.

  This steered the interview towards Sunday evening and the fight Angela had witnessed.

  Andrews looked up from his notepad. “Did Miss Jackson recognise the man Becky was fighting with?”

  Emily shook her head. “Just from around campus. A white guy with a shaved head, about the same age as us.”

  The police officer nodded as he took down the description. “And the make of the car?”

  “A convertible black BMW.”

  “License plate?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  Charlotte looked up, her mouth half open. “A convertible?”

  Emily stared at her. “You know it?”

  “Well, it sounds like you’re talking about Da
mien Harris. But why on earth would Becky be hanging around with him?”

  “Who’s Damien Harris?” Andrews asked.

  Charlotte crossed her arms and looked away. “I don’t want to get anyone in trouble...”

  “But...?” Emily said.

  “Well, from what I hear he sells drugs around campus. Mostly recreational stuff — weed, pills — that sort of thing.” Her face glowed as she stared at the lurid red carpet. “That’s the rumour, anyway.”

  “What else do you know about Damien Harris?” Andrews asked.

  “I think he’s a chemistry student. Which figures.”

  “Would Mr Harris and Miss Briar have a romantic connection?”

  Charlotte glanced at Emily, who shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t know. Becky was involved with different guys at different times. Nothing serious, though. And from what I hear, Damien seems to change girlfriends every couple of weeks or so.”

  The scratch of the police officer’s pen filled the silence.

  “There’s something else,” Charlotte said. “Last year, Damien put another student in hospital. Michael Nowak or something. Damien beat him unconscious with his bare hands. I'm not sure what started it but Michael was a mess. I'm talking broken bones. But somehow, Damien managed to get away with it. No charges were brought against him. So the rumour mill goes...” She stared at Emily. “You never heard about that?”

  Emily shook her head and clenched her jaw.

  Andrews frowned as he filled his notepad. “I’d like to see Miss Briar’s room if I may.”

  Leading the police officer upstairs, Emily stood in Becky’s doorway and chewed on her lower lip as she watched him search the room. Becky’s suitcases were still under the bed. Her clothes were still hanging in the wardrobe, although Emily couldn’t say if any were missing.

  “What about Becky’s family?” Andrews asked. “Any trouble there?”

  “Becky never really spoke about her family and they never visited.”

  “Have you contacted them?”

  “I couldn’t find a number.”

  Andrews stared at her. “Well then, that should be our first port of call.”

  “But what about Damien Harris?”

  Ignoring the question, the police officer moved over to the dresser and opened the lid of a jewellery box. A tiny ballerina sprang up and began to spin around as a familiar lullaby started to play. He sifted through the contents of the box, paused, then plucked something out.

  Emily stepped into the room and glanced over his shoulder.

  “Receipts for a pawn shop,” Andrews said, sifting through the small pile of papers. “Looks like Becky is having financial problems after all.”

  He dropped the receipts back inside the jewellery box and closed the lid.

  Emily stared at him. “What happens now?”

  “We’ll track down Becky’s parents, see if she’s gone home. If she hasn’t we’ll speak to your friend Angela.”

  Nodding, Emily led him back downstairs, where Charlotte was waiting in the hallway.

  “I know it’s difficult but try not to worry,” the police constable said. “It seems like Becky’s having problems with her studies, perhaps with drugs. There’s a good chance she’s gone home or she’s off somewhere lying low for a while.”

  “And if she isn’t?” Emily asked, wrapping her arms around her ribcage.

  Andrews shrugged a shoulder. “Talk to your friends. Use social media. Ask around campus again. In the meantime, if we can’t confirm Becky’s whereabouts I’ll report back to my supervisor and we’ll go from there.”

  “That sounds a lot like ‘if we decide there’s a risk we’ll investigate further.’”

  Andrews offered her a reassuring smile as he reached the front door. “Will it help if I tell you that ninety-nine percent of people reported missing in the UK are always found?”

  Emily frowned. “What about the other one percent?”

  The feeling of dread that was crawling inside Emily’s stomach climbed up to her chest. With PC Andrews now gone, she and Charlotte returned to the living room. They sat in silence, occasionally shooting nervous glances at each other.

  “What now?” Charlotte asked after a while.

  “We do what PC Andrews says,” Emily said. “We keep asking questions.”

  She drummed her fingers against her knees. Unpleasant images assaulted her mind. Broken limbs. Bruised flesh. Lifeless, staring eyes.

  Emily stood and headed for the door.

  “I’ll make some tea,” she said.

  Charlotte nodded. In the low light of the room, her eyes were dark and worried. “She’ll come home, Em. I’m sure of it.”

  Emily said nothing. The images in her mind grew darker, more violent.

  Where are you? she thought.

  6

  PAIN WOKE HER. She didn’t know how long she’d been unconscious this time, lying in the darkness on the cold ground.

  What had happened to her? Why couldn’t she remember?

  My name is Becky Briar. I’m twenty-two years old. Life sucks.

  That was something she supposed. But then another voice whispered in her ear.

  Sleep. Let it all go. Let the darkness wrap around you.

  Fresh terror welled inside her. Becky trembled. Wherever she was, she had to find a way out.

  Using her good hand, she felt along her body until she came to her jeans pocket. Fishing out a disposable lighter, she clenched it between her teeth. Then she pulled out a second object. Her phone.

  Good, she thought. Soon, this would all be over.

  Fumbling with the phone, she tapped the screen. When it didn’t light up, she tried the power button. Nothing. Only blackness.

  Slipping the phone back inside her pocket, Becky sat up and plucked the lighter from between her teeth. She pushed her thumb down on the spark wheel. The room lit up in a flash. She tried again. And again.

  Sparks turned into a flame. The flame flickered and threatened to extinguish. Becky reached her left hand to cover it and was rewarded with agonising pain. She howled then clenched her jaw. In the weak light of the flame, she saw that her left wrist was swollen to twice its normal size. Her pinkie and ring finger were bent at unnatural angles.

  Moaning, she stared at the ground . It was solid concrete, cracked in places and spotted with moss. She swung the lighter left to right. The ground stretched out in all directions, far beyond the reach of the flame. Now she looked up, but all she saw was infinite darkness.

  Where the hell was she?

  She wondered if she was outside, left for dead in wasteland on a starless night. But the air was musty and there was a distinct lack of night-time sounds.

  In fact, there were no sounds at all.

  Becky shivered. The flame flickered and died.

  Plunged into darkness again, she resisted the urge to scream. She was still unbearably thirsty. Her body was a carcass of aches and pains. And now her head was floating away from her body.

  There were two things she needed to find – water and a way out. If she didn’t find them soon, she was going to die.

  Squeezing her eyes shut, she focused on her breathing, drawing the air in and out of her lungs in slow measures.

  Becky pushed herself up onto her knees.

  She stood. Fresh pain bolted through her left foot and up her thigh.

  Clenching her teeth, she applied more pressure. Perhaps her ankle wasn’t broken after all. At the very least, she had a severe sprain.

  But now she was standing. Her next feat was to walk.

  Sparking the lighter again, Becky held the flame up and cast her body in a circle of protective light.

  Catching her breath, fighting the pain, she hobbled forward.

  7

  THURSDAY MORNING PASSED slowly, as if time had been caught in a jar of molasses. Emily stood at the front of the classroom with one eye on the clock as she attempted to discuss the moral compass of William Golding’s Lord of the Flies. Sensing her mounting
agitation, her students grew restless and unruly, only settling into quiet study when she threatened them with detention.

  There was still no word from PC Andrews. He had called Emily yesterday evening to say that he’d tracked Becky’s parents down. They had confirmed what Emily already believed – that Becky had not gone home. Andrews had also spoken to Angela Jackson. Now he needed to return to his supervisor with a risk assessment before approaching Damien Harris.

  Her shoulder muscles aching with tension, Emily had spent the rest of the evening trawling social media, first asking about Becky’s whereabouts, then finding out what she could about Damien Harris. The man had no social media presence. Those who knew him were reluctant to talk; Damien’s reputation, it seemed, was enough to instil caution. What she did learn was the identity of his current girlfriend. It wasn’t Becky.

  Her name was Tamara Sawyer and she was a first year Business student. Finding her Facebook profile had been easy. Tamara Sawyer was blonde-haired and blue-eyed, with a penchant for heavy makeup, expensive jewellery, and hedonistic nights out. She undoubtedly thought that dating a drug dealer was edgy and dangerous; a thrill to shake up the drudgery of her entitled lifestyle. Emily wondered if she’d ever had to worry about paying her tuition fees or, on occasion, about where her next meal would be coming from. Hunched over the keyboard, Emily typed out a message and clicked send. It wasn’t her intention to cause trouble for Tamara, but Becky was in trouble. Emily was sure of it. Which meant time was running out.

  Now, the final bell of the school day rang out through the corridors. Emily ushered her students out of the classroom and into the playground, then checked her phone. Still nothing from PC Andrews. What was taking so long?

  Entering the staffroom, she grabbed her belongings and made her way towards the exit. Principal Talbot’s voice stopped her in her tracks.

  “Emily, how are you?”

  She turned around. Forced a smile. “I’m very well. And you?”

  “Have you come to any conclusions about my offer?” he asked. “Only time is of the essence.”