by Luca Veste
‘I see your point, but it would be some coincidence. From what I’ve been told, no one from the apartments has said anyone is missing. We asked a fair few of them if someone hadn’t come out. Tough with these students, though. Don’t know their arse from their elbow. I’m sure this has already got its own WhatsApp group. If anyone was missing from inside, we’d have been told by now. We have a young woman, possibly suicidal, nineteen years old, who was last seen on CCTV a few yards down the road. Now, a dead woman of the same age and build, lying at the bottom of a tall building. Doesn’t take much to put it all together.’
‘We don’t know anything about Emily being suicidal, though, do we?’
‘I’m just guessing. You know what these teenagers are like these days. Not a day goes by when we’re not dealing with some form of bullying on social media, or mental health issues. Everyone pretending that they’re kind people, until someone does something they don’t agree with. And we’re left to pick up the pieces.’
‘Suppose so,’ Mark said, wishing he could make this giant leap with DS Cavanagh. They didn’t know for sure that Emily was suicidal. No one did. ‘Take me over.’
DS Cavanagh gave him a look, but didn’t say anything. He led the way, the sea of various forensic and uniforms parting in waves. They couldn’t go too close without donning white suits, so they kept their distance but he could see into the hastily erected tent from where he was standing.
Mark could only see flashes of her. A flay of hair here, a twisted foot there. And a lot of blood. More than he’d probably ever seen. It fanned out around the body, like a painting by an artist he couldn’t remember the name of. He didn’t want to think too much of the impact from a height such as it was, but he could see the body hadn’t broken up. That was what he’d been worried about most, he realised. That it would be unrecognisable to anyone. Instead, it looked like she had simply dropped to the floor and stopped being.
That’s if you ignored everything around her, of course. It certainly looked like the young woman he’d been looking for. It was difficult to be sure, though, and it didn’t help that he’d never met her in person.
There was only one way to be sure. The family would have to identify her.
He was suddenly glad he hadn’t eaten that morning. Wondered for a second if he ever would again. It never became any easier for him, it seemed. Even when the others carried on as if this was just a fact of life, he still felt that queasiness in his stomach.
The faces behind the masks of those working in the tent looked blank and uncompromising. He knew that’s the way they had to be, but not for the first time, he wondered if a career in welding or topiary would be more his thing.
‘You’ve looked at her picture more than we have,’ DS Cavanagh said, bringing Mark back to the real world. ‘Does it look like her?’
Mark made a show of leaning forward for a closer look, but didn’t really take much in. ‘It does. Damn. I was hoping this was going to be one of those rare times we had good news for one family, at least.’
‘Have you got very far in tracing her movements?’
‘Not really,’ Mark replied, taking the opportunity to turn his back and make a show of looking around the rest of the area. ‘It was three nights ago that she left the house and was seen further up the road. Makes you wonder where she was the rest of the time. But the CCTV didn’t show her leaving the yard where the blood was found.’
‘You think this happened last night?’
‘That’d be my guess. What about you?’
Cavanagh scratched the thick beard covering half his face. ‘I don’t know. It’s not an easily accessed area. She could have been sitting on that roof for a couple of days, I suppose. Working up the courage, maybe? We’ve worked stranger cases.’
‘Yeah, I guess,’ Mark said, but didn’t feel confident. ‘I hoped this wasn’t going to be where I ended up with this one.’
There was a moment when he thought Cavanagh was going to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder, but he seemed to think better of it.
‘That’s how it goes sometimes,’ Cavanagh said instead, placing his hands in his trouser pockets slowly. ‘There’ll be other cases for you, though. Ones with a better ending. You couldn’t help this girl. Doesn’t mean there won’t be others out there you can help.’
Mark nodded without conviction, thinking of the family Emily had left behind. The faces he would soon have to visit and deliver the news to.
‘Maybe it’s not her,’ Mark said, but even he didn’t believe it now. Cavanagh gave him a grimace and walked away to talk to someone else on the scene, leaving Mark alone. He thought of Emily’s mother, the way she was already struggling to face reality. The sullen younger brother, Charlie, who would retreat even further into himself now, he guessed.
He thought of Stephanie. Hoped this wouldn’t break her. Knew it probably would. He could feel the weight of responsibility weighing him down, but also knew his role in all of this would soon be over. There’d be an inquest, where he’d have to explain his actions, but it would be a formality, he hoped.
He couldn’t get it out of his mind, though. The fact that something could have stopped this. If he had stayed at his desk all night until he’d found a secret – a key to finding her at the top of that building, waiting to be saved.
Mark tried to put that away – putting it in the little box in his mind he’d been told to construct when he first joined the police. In there, you place all the cases, the people, the victims, the perpetrators… all the faces you try so hard to forget. You place them in the box and forget it exists.
He’d never been able to close the damn thing.
Eleven
Him
This was the part he hated the most.
Hearing them downstairs, moving around as if only a few feet above their heads, their son’s life meant nothing.
Acting like all he needed was a job or a college course, rather than being left alone. Sitting him down at the dining-room table periodically to ask him what he was doing with his life. What he wanted to do with his life, as if they had all the answers.
Concerned eyes and the ability to make you feel both loved and like a disappointment at the same time.
Affecting interest. Strong hands, tapping against the table, as he explained what needed to happen.
Worried about him, wondering if there was anything they could do to help.
He could feel their eyes on him still, even now when he was alone. The look of desperation, as they attempted to work him out. To understand him. His wants, his needs, his desires.
There was nothing they could do now. It was too late. They had missed the opportunity to make a difference. Lost in a haze which they had believed was a normal, everyday, family life. He’d felt ignored because they’d never listened. They’d let him drift away without ever realising he’d become unmoored. They’d been involved in his life every single minute, but never in an attempt to know him.
He felt hatred for them all.
He lifted the lid on his laptop and clicked in the address bar. He had the website memorised now, but it had taken a long time to remember the string of digits which had been thought up a long time before. When the site had been set up, privacy had been key.
He needed to be in this group. They were the people he needed to speak to most. And it couldn’t be taken away from him.That’s how it seemed to him now.
His fingers trembled over the keys as he finished typing, a black screen appearing and shuddering as he moved his cursor across the monitor. In the upper right-hand of the screen, he clicked a few times to find the hidden link, then pressed down.
The screen changed, a simple username and password box revealing itself. He logged into the forum, his password an endless, indecipherable series of letters, numbers and punctuation. Something he’d learned from all the time he’d spent lying on his bed, his laptop perched on him, reading and absorbing everything he could. Living a life he could never do outside that room. He tried
to breathe normally, but he was beyond normality now. He pressed enter on his keyboard, waiting for the site to load and the posts to begin appearing. His breathing slowed as his safe space appeared. The place where he could find solace and freedom. He clicked on the only thread.
THE GAME
New comments were towards the bottom of the thread, the rules posted at the top. The beginning of the thread a series of questions – to the point, no messing around.
He could see new messages to be read, almost coaxing him to go there first. To read what other people had sent him. To see what stories had been shared, what people were saying.
Instead, he navigated to the last page. The newest comments left on the thread.
Deadbehindtheeyes – Advanced Member – 3 hours ago
Does anyone have any pictures of her yet?
Artasdeath – Forum Junkie – 3 hours ago
Bit early yet. Got to make sure they weren’t caught. Could be she just chucked herself into the river. Wouldn’t surprise me. She was messed up by the sounds of it.
NEED ANSWERS!
WestsideBlackSheep – Noob Member – 2 hours ago
OP – Where are you?
Deadbehindtheeyes – Advanced Member – 2 hours ago
@JaLoNeNoMoReYou need to come back NOW! We need to know!
He rubbed sweaty palms against each other, clicked on the reply box, then hovered his fingers over the keys.
The Game had been a saviour to him. This forum, these people, they had saved his life. Gave him a purpose he didn’t realise he needed. Didn’t realise existed. They were more of a family to him than the strangers he shared a house with.
He didn’t know if the people on here even realised it was real. That people were dying because of them. The power they had.
The Game gave him what he’d been looking for all those long, lonely years spent alone with only his thoughts for company. The dark, hidden secrets he kept inside.
If she had just loved him, things would have been different. If she had just given him the time of day, listened to him, accepted him… maybe this wouldn’t have happened.
She had been a nobody. A girl with no other options than the one he’d given to her. He had offered her salvation and she had rejected him. She could have been someone with him. But if she’d simply given in to him, he wouldn’t have found this place. Wouldn’t have found all those who had the same story as him, all looking for the answer The Game had given them.
There was a sound from somewhere, crunching and gravelly. He was aware of it, the noise making his fists clench, sweat break out on his brow.
He realised it was coming from him.
His teeth grinding together, as he thought of her face. The look she’d given him. Sympathy, sadness. The way she’d hummed and hawed, trying to find the right words.
Not the right words.The right words would have been very different to the ones she’d chosen. She would have welcomed him in. Touched his arm, smiled and reciprocated.
Instead, she’d stuttered and stammered and looked at him with nothing but pity. As if he’d just announced a beloved family pet had died, or he hadn’t got a job he’d really wanted.
He never wanted to see that look.
Not from her. Ever again.
Now, he hunched over his screen as he imagined a different look on her face.
Like the look on Emily’s face.
He needed a new player.
And he knew just who it should be.
She shouldn’t have let slip what she’d been doing to people. Trusted him with her secret.
Then, it wouldn’t have been used against her.
Twelve
Mark was dispatched to be with the family, given he was the only one from Major Crimes who had met with them.
Emily would be similarly dispatched elsewhere soon enough. Straight to the hospital morgue, to await identification by the family.
‘That’s all we know for now,’ Mark said, finishing his stilted update. He’d arrived thirty minutes earlier, knowing word had already reached them of the discovery that morning. Uniforms had beaten him there.
‘They’re going to let me know when we’ll be taking the next step, but for now, I’m afraid we’ll have to wait for more news.’
He’d be done with the case by the end of the day, he thought.
He hoped they wouldn’t be able to see much when they ID’d her. That this wouldn’t be made even worse.
There was no sign of the younger brother but Julie and Stephanie were sitting together on one sofa. Stephanie with a hand on her mother’s, the other softly caressing her back. The uncle was currently pacing up and down the small back yard.
‘They don’t know if it’s her though,’ Stephanie said. Her voice was still as solid and confident as it had been the previous day.
She was being strong for her mum, Mark thought.
‘I mean, it could be anyone,’ Stephanie continued, fixing Mark with a blue-eyed stare. Daring him to disagree with her, it seemed.
‘Yes, that’s true,’ Mark said, treading carefully as he spoke. From what he’d seen of the body, he knew the odds were slim. That it was only a formality now. Yet, he couldn’t come out and say that for sure, so he had to dance around the subject, as if there was another answer for them. As if they could still hope for a different outcome.
Mark felt that a narrative was being created already, now they had a body. He was being pushed in one direction, one he couldn’t really argue against. The possible lines of enquiry he might approach the family with, the questions he could ask.
Suicide.
Self-harm, which caused the blood they found. When she couldn’t see that through, or lost her nerve, she found an easier way. It was possible she could see the student flats from where she was standing, he thought. On the riverside, a new addition to the waterfront, a mile or so from the old dockyards and a little further still to the Albert Dock and Liver Building.
Yards away from where her blood was left to pool and be washed away.
‘Do you think I’ll have to see her?’ Julie said, speaking for the first time since Mark had arrived. ‘Like, identify her or something?’
‘We’ll deal with that as it comes, Julie,’ Mark replied, trying to catch her eye and give her his patented caring look. Knowing the answer was yes, but knowing there was no good way to tell someone that within hours, they would see a dead body. Her eyes were fixed on a spot over his shoulder, towards the window. As if she was waiting to see Emily walk up the path to the front door.
He watched Julie’s hands tremble, the same rhythmic motions they’d been making since he’d arrived. The electricity running through her body, struggling to be contained. The grief and horror that wanted to be released.
‘We don’t know if it’s her yet, Mum,’ Stephanie said again, continuing to hold on to her mother’s hand, as if she could absorb whatever she was wanting to let out. ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Until we know for certain, Emily might come back at any moment.’
Mark had been around people who had lost loved ones in this type of situation before. Quite a few times, in fact. Yet each time seemed like the first.
No. That wasn’t quite true, he thought.
Each time just became a little harder to get past. To put away and draw a close on. It sometimes felt like he left a little of himself behind with each family he dealt with. As if they were each taking a portion of his soul and keeping hold of it.
Mark shook his head, catching a frown from Stephanie as he did so. The radio was playing softly in the background, before a grave news voice kicked in.
‘A body has been found on Liverpool’s waterfront area this morning, in the search for missing teenager Emily Burns…’
Mark reached across and shut off the radio before standing up, hoping to distract the two women. ‘Shall I put the kettle on?’
‘Seems like the good British thing to do,’ Stephanie replied, as Julie continued to stare out of the window. ‘You know whe
re it is.’
It wasn’t a question. He nodded and stood up, making his way towards the kitchen. He lifted the kettle and filled it, spying the big man out in the back garden through the window. He had his back turned to him, phone clasped to one ear, as the other hand gesticulated wildly. Mark stepped away, his eyes still on the man’s back, clicking the kettle back into its base and flicking it on.
He wondered what the uncle was doing out there. Who he was talking to. What he was saying.
He took a few mugs down from the cupboard, rinsed them and put a teabag in each, lost for a few seconds in the mundanity of it. It wasn’t exactly in the training, making cups of tea for grieving family members.
‘Is my sister dead?’
Mark had been pulling the cutlery drawer open when the voice jumped into the silence behind him. He banged the thing shut, knives and forks startling themselves with a clang. He turned, breathing harder than he wanted to show.
‘Charlie,’ he said, trying to calm himself. ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’
‘Is she dead?’
Mark cocked his head, quickly working out how best to approach the youngest member of the Burns family who had been mute up to now. ‘I’m afraid we don’t know. We’re waiting to hear what’s happening at the moment. Nothing has been confirmed yet. We should have more information about the next steps soon.’
‘Why won’t you answer the question properly? She’s either alive or not. She’s not Schrödinger’s cat.’
Mark considered the young lad more closely, the way his arms folded across his chest, chin jutting forward with barely disguised disdain for him. The typical teenage pose when confronted with authority. There was something else there though. Something barely constrained, under the surface. He wasn’t sure what it was. ‘Someone has died,’ he said, choosing his words ever more carefully. ‘We don’t know if it’s Emily or not right now. As I said, we have to wait for more information.’
‘I knew she would be,’ Charlie replied. He was playing the role of unaffected teen well. But when Mark had spoken, he’d noticed a slight clouding of his eyes. As if he’d been expecting to hear something else. Had knowledge of something else.