Wish Me Dead

by Malcolm Richards

  “Emily, I’m sorry,” PC Andrews said at last. “That’s not ... That wasn’t very fair of them.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. After all, they have their integrity to uphold. I’m sure they don’t need some silly little girl like me getting in their way.”

  “I feel responsible. I encouraged you to ask questions. Obviously, I didn’t mean you should go trespassing on Councillor Beaumont’s property but –”

  “Forget it. Besides, I learned something new. On Sunday night, Becky left the Beaumont’s in a taxi. If you had the taxi company’s number, you could find out where it took her.”

  "I’m one step ahead of you,” PC Andrews said.

  “Oh?”

  PC Andrews cleared his throat. “The taxi company’s records show that Becky was taken to the train station. The driver confirmed he dropped her off at approximately nine p.m.”

  “But how do you know she got on a train?”

  “Because I’m a police officer. Believe it or not, I’m pretty good at my job. Besides, she was caught on CCTV buying a ticket.”

  Emily stopped still in the middle of the street, forcing other pedestrians to swerve around her.

  PC Andrews sighed. “I’m afraid it looks like Becky has decided to take off. As far as I can tell, she owed money to a lot of people, she was more than likely having issues with drugs, and she had certainly failed her degree.”

  “Stop talking about her in the past tense! She’s not dead.”

  More tears were coming. She could feel them filling her ducts.

  “I’m sorry, Emily,” PC Andrew said. “But based on the evidence we’ve gathered, it’s obvious what’s happened. Hopefully, Becky will show up at some point soon, when she’s ready. But for now, I’m afraid there’s nothing else we can do.”

  “Did the CCTV show her getting on the train? How about interviewing the staff? Or questioning Damien Harris? Have you even talked to him?”

  “As a matter of fact we have him in custody. Not because of Becky,” Andrews added quickly. “But it seems you may have been right about him dealing drugs on campus.”

  Emily shook her head. “What do you mean ‘not because of Becky?’ He was with her the night she disappeared!”

  There was a pause before PC Andrews spoke again. “I’m sorry, but unless crucial evidence turns up it’s out of my hands. I’ve filed my report. You can try contacting Missing Persons, but they’re a charity, not the police. They can put together a social media campaign, posters ... but that’s all they can do. It’s down to the Briar family if they want to continue searching for their daughter.”

  “So that’s it? You’re dropping the case?”

  “There’s no case to drop.” PC Andrews apologised again. “Hopefully Becky will get in touch with somebody when she’s ready. In the meantime, the best thing you can do is get on with your life. You have exams coming up. Harassing important figures such as Councillor Beaumont is only going to cause unwanted trouble.”

  Emily had reached the bus stop. She slumped down on the bench, her fingers throbbing as she clutched the phone.

  PC Andrews cleared his throat. “Well, if that’s all...”

  “What if something’s happened to her?” Emily said, her voice trembling. “What if she’s hurt or worse?”

  But PC Andrews had already hung up.

  Emily leaned back against the bus shelter. A lone woman sat on the other end, trying not to stare.

  Had she been wrong all this time?

  Her mind circled the events of the past few days, over and over, trying to find something she’d missed. Further down the road, a bus turned the corner. More people appeared at the bus stop.

  Why was she so insistent that something terrible had happened to Becky? Why couldn’t she believe the facts just like everyone else?

  The bus pulled in. Emily dragged herself to her feet.

  Becky had been missing for at least five days. The police had just dropped the investigation. Everyone had turned their backs.

  It’s because they’ve already made up their minds, she thought. Becky Briar wasn’t a vulnerable child snatched from the park. She was a university drop out who was disliked by her peers, who hung around with a known drug dealer, and who had very probably been nurturing a drug habit. Becky Briar wasn’t front page news. Even if she had been, people would read her story and think to themselves: It’s her own damn fault.

  Boarding the bus, Emily planted herself in a window seat and turned away from the other passengers. It felt a lot like time had run out.

  15

  THE MUSCLES OF HER good arm begged for rest. Her left leg was all but useless. Pain had nearly toppled her twice. But somehow, Becky had almost reached the top of the ladder.

  Now, with just a few more rungs to go, with light pouring over her face, she felt a last desperate rush of determination.

  Clamping her jaw shut, she hauled herself up to the next rung, waited a full minute, then hauled herself up to the next.

  The hatch was within reach.

  Leaning her full weight against the ladder, Becky reached up and touched the hatch door. It was cold and wet. The locking mechanism was different to that of the main door. This one had a handle that, when turned, would open the hatch outward.

  Becky’s fingers grazed the tip of the handle, then moved to the edge of the hatch where daylight was streaming in. A cool breeze kissed her skin. She heard leaves rustling on branches. Birdsong, swooping and playful.

  She had to move now. Because soon, her strength would be gone and there would be nothing to stop her from tumbling back into darkness.

  Pressing her body into the ladder and pushing down on her good foot, Becky wrapped her fingers around the handle. She pulled.

  Nothing happened.

  She pulled again. This time, she heard a dull grate of metal.

  “Come on!” she hissed through clenched teeth.

  She pulled again, drawing on her remaining strength.

  Metal screeched. Large chunks of rust rained down over her head.

  The handle turned ninety degrees.

  And snapped off in Becky’s hand.

  She tipped back, the weight of the broken handle pulling her away from the ladder. Instinctively, she released her grip and let the handle fall away.

  Her fingers shot forward and latched onto a rung. There was a long, terrible silence. Then a deafening clatter rang up from below as the handle smashed into the ground.

  Becky clung to the ladder, breathing hard and fast.

  Her last chance had been snatched away and there was nothing she could do about it.

  Tears came, bringing a terror so absolute it consumed her entire being.

  She was going to die.

  Alone.

  In the dark.

  It would be a horrible, drawn out death.

  Trembling uncontrollably, Becky opened her mouth and let out a strangled, horrified scream.

  16

  CHARLOTTE WAS SITTING on her bedroom floor, dismantling a chest of drawers with a screwdriver. An open suitcase lay on the bed, half filled with clothes. In no mood for conversation, Emily tried to creep past the open door. But Charlotte was already looking up.

  “Hello stranger.”

  Before Emily could protest, Charlotte had jumped up and grabbed her by the hand, pulling her into the bedroom.

  “How are your DIY skills? Because this beast is going to be the death of me.”

  Heaving her shoulders, Emily negotiated the piles of belongings on the floor and sat down on Charlotte’s bed. She looked around the room.

  “What is all this? You’re leaving already?”

  Charlotte nodded, her face turning red as she struggled to loosen a screw on the chest of drawers. “Tomorrow. Us history undergrads had our finals last week. You know this. I told you like a hundred times.”

  “Sorry. I’ve been distracted.”

  “Still no word on Becky?”

  Emily filled her in on the events of the last twenty-fou
r hours: her encounter with Damien Harris; trespassing at Beaumont House; the meeting with Vice Chancellor Eriksson, Councillor Beaumont, and Bill Creed; the CCTV footage showing Becky at the train station.

  Charlotte was quiet for a long time, staring into space. “So, she really did run away. What do we do with her things?”

  Giving up on the stuck screw, she passed the screwdriver to Emily and cleared a space for her on the floor.

  “I’ll contact her family and see if they want me to pack it all up.”

  “I’m sorry I won’t be around to help, Em. I feel bad leaving but I’ve already booked the removal people. They’ll be here at two tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” The screw wouldn’t budge. Emily leaned into it, clenching her teeth.

  “How about you? When are you leaving?” Charlotte asked.

  “As soon as the exams are done.”

  “Are you taking the job at Hight Mount?”

  Emily grunted. The screw turned and loosened.

  “I’ll decide after the finals.” It was the closest to a decision she could make right now. “Here.”

  Charlotte stared at the screw in her palm then added it to the pile on the carpet. Without warning, she threw her arms around Emily’s shoulders and pulled her in.

  “It’s been great living with you,” she said. “You’ve been my voice of reason. I’m going to miss that.”

  Some of the tension in Emily’s shoulders loosened as she folded into Charlotte’s embrace.

  “I’ll miss you, too,” she said.

  Getting up, she left the room and hovered on the landing. But instead of going to her own room, she pushed open Becky’s door.

  Sunlight poured in. Motes of dust danced in the stale air. Emily crossed the room and opened the window, then stood for a while, staring at the mess of Becky’s belongings. A thought returned to press on her conscience: What if everybody’s wrong?

  She went to the wardrobe and opened the doors. Becky’s clothes still hung from hangers and filled the upper shelves. Her suitcases sat beneath her bed, collecting dust. The only obvious missing element was her laptop. Perhaps she had sold it. If she was in as much debt as PC Andrews suggested it was possible that Becky had sold all her valuables.

  Emily cast another glance over the room. PC Andrews had already conducted a search, but that was before they’d learned about Becky’s activities. Perhaps there was something here that the police officer had missed.

  “Or perhaps you’re beating a dead horse,” Emily muttered.

  She began with the bedside drawers. Finding nothing, she pulled out the suitcases from under the bed and opened them up. They were empty. Next, she moved over to the dressing table. Various items of makeup sat on top, along with the jewellery box. There were no family pictures, Emily noted. In fact, looking around the room, there were no photographs of Becky’s family anywhere.

  Emily’s gaze returned to the jewellery box, which was old and battered, the silk exterior frayed at the corners. She flipped it open and the tiny dancing ballerina sprang up as music began to play. Emily picked up a bracelet made of black beads. Painted on each bead was a tiny white skull. It was typical Becky. Or was it? She didn’t know Becky at all. Not like she had thought.

  Picking up the bundle of receipts that PC Andrews had found, Emily inspected the first one. It was for a transaction of thirty pounds, made at an establishment known as Rockin’ Roy’s Pawn Shop.

  Guilt sat heavy on Emily’s shoulders. Why hadn’t Becky told them about her debt? Why hadn’t she reached out and asked for help? Emily certainly wasn’t wealthy, but what she lacked in funds, she made up for in resourcefulness. She could have helped Becky to find a way out of this mess.

  There were seven receipts in total, some for just a few pounds, others for several hundred. All shared the same date: 5th June. None listed the items that had been pawned.

  Emily eyed the other objects on the dressing table. The feeling that she was missing something pulled at her stomach. She went over the events of the last few days again; unpicking them, replaying scenes in her mind. No matter which path she took, each one led her to the same place.

  Vice Chancellor Eriksson’s office.

  Her unconscious was trying to tell her something. But what?

  Emily turned to face the room. She started searching through Becky’s belongings again.

  Ten minutes later, she found what they had all missed.

  On the first page of a clean notebook were the words: Michael Nowak, 8th June. 2 p.m.

  An address was scrawled underneath.

  Emily stared at Becky’s spidery handwriting. Her heart beat a little faster in her chest.

  “The eighth of June,” she said. “Two weeks before Becky disappeared.”

  17

  MICHAEL NOWAK LIVED fifty minutes north-east, in the city of Bristol. Emily hadn’t wanted to come all this way, but he had insisted on discussing the matter in person. Now she sat in the living room of a large town house, the half-closed curtains letting in little light, while Michael sat in the chair opposite, twisting his fingers in knots.

  He was a gaunt young man, pale and haunted, with a mess of dark hair, sharp cheekbones, and wide, pale eyes that regarded Emily with a nervous distrust.

  She had arrived just a few minutes ago and had been welcomed by Michael’s mother, a middle-aged woman with a kind face. After serving coffee and a plate of chocolate cookies, she had made her excuses and left them to talk. Now Emily and Michael Nowak stared awkwardly at each other while silence draped the room.

  “So, you want to know about Damien Harris,” Michael said at last, his voice cold and brittle. “About what he did to me.”

  Emily leaned forward to show him Becky’s notebook. “As I explained last night, my friend Becky is missing. She –”

  “I thought you said she’d run away.”

  “Yes, but I think she’s in trouble and I’m trying to find out why. Your name was –”

  “Why?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Why are you trying to find out?”

  Emily stared at him, the notebook still extended in her hand. “Because if she’s in trouble, I want to help.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t want your help,” Michael said, shifting slightly. His face tightened, as if the movement had caused him pain. “Maybe she just wants to be left alone.”

  “It’s possible. But does that mean I shouldn’t try?”

  “What if the trouble is of her own doing?”

  “What if it is? People make mistakes. Sometimes they need help with making things right.”

  Emily dropped the notebook on her lap. Silence filled the space between them once more.

  Michael reached for his coffee. His fingers trembled.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “But I hadn’t heard Damien Harris’s name in almost a year. Now you’re the second person to ask about him. He’s not someone I want to remember.”

  “I didn’t come here to cause you further pain,” Emily said, glancing down at the notebook. “You said I was the second person. Becky was the first?”

  Michael nodded. “She showed up a couple of weeks ago. I vaguely remembered her face from university. She wanted to know about Damien, about what he did to me. About the fact no charges were brought against him.”

  Emily had been wondering that herself. “I heard Damien put you in hospital. You must have been badly hurt.”

  “That’s one way of putting it. He broke my arm in two places, fractured my skull, crushed my hand. I was a music student. I used to play the piano.”

  He sat for a moment, staring into space at a life that could have been if Damien Harris hadn’t destroyed it.

  Suddenly Emily felt guilty for coming here. “Michael, I –”

  “Please don’t. I’m so sick of everyone’s pity. You came here to ask questions about your friend Becky. So, ask.”

  He seemed to fold into himself, sitting limply like an old man.

 
Feeling wretched, Emily drew in a breath. “Why was Becky asking about Damien?”

  “Because he’s a fucking psychopath and she wanted dirt on him. Something she could use to protect herself. That’s my guess, anyway.”

  “And you gave her something she could use?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Michael shrugged a shoulder. “It means she asked questions and I answered them. Same as we’re doing now. Only, she was better at asking the right questions.”

  He stared at her with a raised eyebrow but said nothing more.

  Emily took a second to refocus. “Fine. Why did Damien Harris attack you?”

  “I told you. He’s a fucking psychopath. There I was, walking to my next class, my head in the clouds as usual. I turned the corner and . . . bam! I walked straight into Damien and his girlfriend. I knew who Damien was — someone you didn’t want to cross — so I mumbled an apology and tried to get out of there as fast as I could. But Damien had different ideas.”

  Emily watched as Michael clasped his hands together and began massaging his fingers. He shifted in the chair again, until a shadow fell across his eyes. “He grabbed me as I walked away, dragged me back to his girlfriend, demanded I apologise properly. Jesus, it was like being back at school. I honestly thought university would be different; that I’d be surrounded by young adults with mature minds. Idiots like Damien Harris aren’t supposed to get an education. They’re supposed to get crappy jobs and drinking problems and knock around their girlfriends.”

  Emily stiffened and wrapped her arms around her ribcage. “What happened next?”

  “I was forced to apologise in front of a packed audience. It was humiliating. Everyone staring and no one doing a damn thing to help. I apologised, but that didn’t seem good enough for Damien. He was about to take it outside when his girlfriend intervened. She told him enough was enough, to let me go. He did, reluctantly, but not without telling me to watch my back. Like a coward, I nodded and apologised again. But as I walked away, something came over me.

  “I suppose it was the realisation that university was no better than school. That wherever you go, there will always be people like Damien Harris; angry at the world, thinking everyone owes them a favour, and determined to take out their frustrations on poor unsuspecting bastards like me. It pissed me off. So, as I was leaving, I turned and gave him the middle finger.” His eyes lit up at the memory. “It felt very daring at the time. Like I was saying a big ‘fuck you’ to everyone who had ever pushed me around.”