by Ryan Casey
“Who is it?” Ashley asked. He kept his hands at his side. A solicitor? A friend of his? Who was he such good friends with that they’d actually come to visit him despite all the media were reporting?
The guard took a heavy step closer to Ashley, keeping the cuffs held out. “Come on. Let’s find out, ‘ey?”
Ashley held his sweaty hands out and allowed the guard to wrap the cuffs around his wrists. He did it with an intensity reminiscent of a heavy-handed grandparent, not intentionally malicious but enough to make Ashley whimper a little.
“Don’t be such a baby,” the guard said, smiling as he planted a heavy hand on Ashley’s tender back and escorted him out of his cell. “I’m a big friendly bear next to the guards at Salford Prison.”
The pair of them walked down the corridor past the other holding cells. The lighting out here was dimmer, which was a relief to Ashley’s light-burned eyes. But the walls were painted just the same. The same fresh white over brick. The same dark, echoey hard floor underfoot. And the same smell of paint, overridden by this guard’s sweaty armpits.
But it was nice to be out. Nice to be stretching his legs properly for the first time since he’d been thrown in that holding cell. He’d not expected to walk again before his interrogation started tomorrow. This was a pleasant surprise.
But who was here to see him?
The guard planted his big hand on the far door handle, just as metal as the rest of them in here, and looked at Ashley with a yellow-toothed grin. “Now you’re gonna have to promise me you’ll behave. It’s a Sunday. Not in a mood for breakin’ up any scraps before me Sunday dinner, you get me?”
Ashley nodded. He looked at the closed metal door. Felt his heart starting to pound as he pictured what might be on the other side.
“Okay,” the guard said. He lowered the squeaky door handle, the sound cutting right through Ashley. “In you go.”
When the guard pulled open the heavy door, the first thing Ashley noticed was the abundance of natural light spread around this large room.
But then he noticed something else.
Somebody at one of the small, square tables in the middle of this wide, otherwise empty room. Somebody who he recognised very much.
The person stood up. Cleared his throat. Twiddled with his tie to make sure it was properly tightened around the collar of his white shirt.
“Mr…Mr. Wisdom?” Ashley said, his voice faltering, his stomach churning with nausea, hunger, all sorts.
Mr. Wisdom stared down at Ashley’s feet. He was pale. His eyes were wide and baggy, just like they were when Ashley had seen him at Grace’s first funeral.
“Ten minutes,” the guard said, slamming shut the heavy door to the holding cells. “Better make it count.”
THIRTY-SIX
Considering they only had ten minutes, Ashley Chester and Mr. Harold Wisdom didn’t exchange many words for the first two or three.
Ashley sat upright in the grey plastic chair, which dug right into his legs. Mr. Wisdom was opposite. He rubbed his fingers against the creases on the cuffs of his white shirt. Every now and then, he looked up at Ashley, just a peek, then looked right back down again as soon as Ashley made eye contact with him.
A visit from Mr. Wisdom. A visit from Grace’s father. On the anniversary of the sinkholes, too. On the anniversary of Grace’s first death. This was not what he was expecting. Not at all.
Ashley heard the guard behind them clear his throat. A not-so-subtle indication to get on with things before their time ran out. But what did he say? What could he possibly say to Mr. Wisdom? Sorry about your daughter? Sorry I killed her, only I didn’t really, she was some weird possessed thing? Oh, and sorry about your son too. Your daughter cut him up into pieces while she was acting weird.
“My wife’s down at the memorial service. Little event in town. Never have been one for ceremony.”
Ashley felt the skin on his arms prickle as Mr. Wisdom broke the silence. He cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he said. It was about all he could manage. All the fucking words flying around his mind and all he could manage was a “yeah.”
“There’s TV crews. Journalists from all over the country have come to commemorate the one hundred and fourteen. And the crowds of people gathered around Avenham Park. You should see it.”
Again, Ashley kept silent, but less out of choice and more out of sheer confusion as to what to say. What did Mr. Wisdom want? Why was he here?
“My daughter. My son. My…My Grace.”
He paused. Looked right at Ashley with his intense eyes.
Ashley stared back at him. Gulped down the sickly taste in his mouth.
“She…I need to hear it from you. I need to know what happened. The police are saying…the police say a lot of things. About Steve. About—about how they found him. About how they found Grace. But I need to hear it from your mouth, Ashley. I need to hear your version of events.”
Both of them were staring at one another now. Mr. Wisdom wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t red like he was when he got angry. Come to think of it, Ashley could smell something on him. A bitterness. Like he’d had a drink. Apparently, Mr. Wisdom hadn’t had a drink for a long, long time. He didn’t press the matter though. There were other things to think about.
“My…” Ashley started, his throat clunking together. “Mr.—Mr. Wisdom I’m not sure you—”
“I saw the seizure she had,” Mr. Wisdom said, raising his voice. “I saw her muttering those words. And I saw her etching those shapes on my kitchen floor. I saw her…” He paused. Rubbed his stubbly cheeks and took a deep, audible breath. “I saw her give birth to three stillborn children that shouldn’t have even been inside her in the first place. So I can…if I push myself, I can see why you—”
“I didn’t—I didn’t mean to—”
“Her eyes,” Mr. Wisdom said, even louder than he’d said the last words. His voice echoed around the empty, well-lit meeting area. “I saw her eyes,” he said, his lips shaking. “The dullness to them. The distance. The detachment. I saw it and I know you saw it too.”
Mr. Wisdom spat out these last words. Ashley got a full whiff of the stench of alcohol on this man’s breath. He felt a pain in his upper legs and realised he’d had his hands tightly wrapped around them to stop them shaking. As Mr. Wisdom finally broke Ashley’s stare, Ashley still wasn’t sure why he was here. Mr. Wisdom probably wasn’t sure himself. But what mattered was that he’d seen it in Grace too. He’d seen it in his own daughter. The change. The difference. He’d seen it, and a part of him wanted to admit it.
Ashley rubbed his hands up and down his smooth trousers. “I…I don’t know what you want me to say. You know I love your daughter. You know how much Grace means…how much she meant to me. You—”
“Just tell me something,” Mr. Wisdom said, twiddling with his cuffs still. His eyes met Ashley’s briefly again.
Ashley nodded.
Mr. Wisdom straightened his tie. He sat himself upright and cleared his throat, then laid his eyes right on Ashley again. “Did you kill my son?”
Ashley gulped. He held Mr. Wisdom’s hard stare. Shook his head. “No.”
“And…and the girl they’re saying you killed. Did you kill my daughter, Ashley? Did you kill her?”
Ashley looked him right back in the eyes. His stomach was swarming with butterflies. Heat prickled his cheeks in this silent, silent room.
And then, like a bursting balloon, Ashley said: “No. The girl I killed was not Grace.”
They were silent for a few moments. Silent and still, just staring into one another’s eyes. Ashley could see Mr. Wisdom’s eyes going bloodshot. He could see his eyelids twitching as he stared at his face, weighing up Ashley’s answer, deciding what to say.
Then, he took in a sharp breath, and he nodded.
He stood up. Grabbed his suit jacket from the back of the grey chair and slipped into it. He half-smiled at the guard and walked away tow
ards the blue door at the other side of the empty room of seats and tables, opposite the way Ashley had come in.
As more guards escorted Mr. Wisdom out of the room, Ashley could only think of that nod. The way Mr. Wisdom had looked at him so intently, then nodded. The nod of approval he’d given when Ashley first asked him if he could take Grace on holiday. The nod of approval when he’d fixed his dishwasher, written up an objection to a planning proposal for him.
A nod of acknowledgement that Mr. Harold Wisdom didn’t give away lightly.
“Come on, pal,” the big-featured guard said, helping Ashley to his feet as the door slammed shut at the other side of the room and Mr. Wisdom disappeared, not once turning back. “Back to your cot. Dunno what you’re grinnin’ about.”
Ashley could feel himself smiling as the guard walked him towards the doorway to the cells. Back to that monotonous hallway, and back to that white-walled, paint-smelling room. Back to more endless days and endless nights merging together as one.
But as he walked, his feet hitting the hard floor below, he smiled, and he tasted salty tears running onto his lips.
Because the way Mr. Wisdom had looked at him. The way he’d nodded. He understood. He understood that Ashley hadn’t harmed his daughter. That Ashley would never harm his daughter.
Grace died a year ago today. Mr. Wisdom realised that just as much as Ashley did. He hadn’t said much about his son, but that was another matter. Another matter for both of them to deal with in their own ways.
And although he was being escorted back to his cell, Ashley felt a weight off his shoulders just for having someone believe him.
Because Mr. Wisdom, whether he admitted it or not, understood that Ashley hadn’t harmed his daughter.
The guard pushed him into his cell. Slammed the door shut.
“See you at teatime,” he said.
Ashley looked around his cell. Looked at the white-brick walls and the thin mattress on the floor.
Then, he walked over to the bolted window and he stared outside. Stared at the sun shining against the barbed wire above the fences.
Goodbye, Grace, he thought. And he didn’t think of the Grace that had returned. The thing using her as a vessel, whatever it was. He thought of the times before. The constantly warm smile. The forever-deep blue eyes. The Grace he’d lost a year ago. One of the one hundred and fourteen.
He leaned against the cold, hard wall and closed his eyes, the warmth from the sun kissing his arms as tears dripped down his cheeks.
If he squinted enough, he could still feel her right there beside him, the sun peeking through that partly-opened blind on a Sunday morning.
Goodbye, Grace.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Bob Whittaker never liked working Sundays. But Sundays when the entire damn population of Preston seemed to be at some grand event, well. Those Sundays were okay. Bearable, just about.
He sat behind the desk at the police station in his comfy leather chair. He had a book on his lap — one of Andy McNab’s new ones. He kept it on his lap just in case anybody caught him slacking on the job. But mostly, he kept it there because people gave him this shitty look when they saw he was reading Andy McNab books. Like people looked at pedos or homos, that kind of look.
He heard footsteps pass by up ahead. He looked up to make sure his boss or anybody wasn’t coming his way. Phew. Just a fellow officer in a shortish skirt. Nice dark hair. Arse wiggled good too. Definitely had to get her name when he got the chance.
He watched her walk out through the large glass automatic doors. As the doors opened, he heard more footsteps outside. The chattering of a usually quiet city; the pipping of car horns uncharacteristic on a Sunday. But this wasn’t any old Sunday. It was memorial day. Anniversary day since those people dropped down into the abyss. This day would never be the same around Preston again, apparently. But people always said that, didn’t they? They always made out as if they’d always remember, always mourn. Like after the London bombings. First anniversary was mourned. Second was too, but a bit less. Then the fifth.
Since then, he hadn’t heard a bloody whisper about it.
A cool breeze swept in through the closing automatic doors and almost rustled Bob’s book pages out of place. He gripped the top corner of the book. Fuck. He wasn’t getting far with this one. Entertaining read, but too much talking. Not enough action. All these questions and not enough answers.
He folded half of the page over and tossed the book over his desk. He knocked over a black pot of chewed-down pencils beside him, but they scattered over the top of his book so they hid it from sight pretty well. He’d handle that.
He leaned forward and shook his mouse. The computer screen stayed frozen for a few seconds, like it always did, then sprung to life. Shit. 14:07. Another three hours till he could leave. Another three hours of absolutely nothing. Sundays were always shite. He’d thought today was okay. But shit, was he bored. He just wanted to get home. Get his feet up on the sofa, beer in hand, and watch “Match of the Day 2”. Not this shite.
He took in a deep breath as he opened up Internet Explorer and regretted it immediately as he got a whiff of fries from the street outside. Damn, they smelled good. He could taste the grease from them in his mouth already; the over-saltiness of them…He wanted them, so bad.
Not long now. Three hours or so. Just another three hours.
He opened up BBC News. Mainly for the sports section, but he scanned over the headlines to see if there was any mention of the sinkers memorial on the main site. Always made him feel a little bit famous and proud of little Preston when it made the news. All sorts of journos from all over the place were around town, apparently. He wondered whether any of them would come here and interview him. Interview him about that Ashley Chester nutter they had locked up. ‘Cause that was the weekend’s other big twist. Ashley Chester gets found out for some kind of fraud stunt in his girlfriend’s “disappearance” then goes on some mental murderous rampage when he gets found out. Weird, for sure. Convenient timing.
He glanced briefly down the main headline—something about unemployment rising, something else about Saturn getting brighter in the night sky—and he headed over to the sports page. Liverpool were playing Chelsea today. Win and they’d be game on for the title. He bit his lip. Held his breath.
Liverpool 0-2 Chelsea.
“Fuck,” he muttered, his stomach sinking. He scratched the side of his aching head. That one thing he had to look forward to watching the highlights of and he’d been fucked over. What a day this was turning out to be. Come to think of it, normal Sundays were alright after all.
Bob puffed out his lips and leaned back into his leather chair, which squeaked with his weight. He stared up at the grey ceiling. Pictured himself working the streets, kicking the shit out of scrawny little criminals and scrotes, like he’d imagined working for the police would be when he signed up. Before the twinges in his back, which were better now anyway. Before the fall from the ladder.
As he rubbed his palms down his aching face, he heard the automatic doors jolt open and felt a strong, cool breeze carry through the smell of car exhaust fumes. He jolted forward in his chair, planting his hands on the desk in front of him for balance. He always had to look professional. A member of the public couldn’t see him looking like a slacker. A boss, especially not.
But this wasn’t a boss. So that was something.
But these three people, they didn’t look like your typical members of the public who came wandering into a police station either.
There was a woman. Short, with short dark hair. She was wearing a black suit with a little white name-tag clipped to it. Her shoes were really clean. She must’ve been in her late forties, early fifties, the lines across her head giving that unwanted secret away.
She was holding the hand of a young boy. He had curly hair, and the biggest blue eyes you could imagine. He had a white t-shirt on with a big Converse star across it, as well as skinny blue jeans and white Nik
e trainers. A mish-mash of kids’ fashion.
And beside him, as the three of them walked in the direction of the desk, there was a man. Now there was something weird about this bloke. Something familiar about him, yet Bob couldn’t for the life of him place him, especially not in the police station. He was bald. Ginger beard. Quite a tall, lanky chap, too. He was wearing a blue hoodie and some beige cut-off shorts. Fortunately, he wasn’t wearing any socks with his leather sandals. Looked the type that might, though.
Bob watched these three as they approached. He saw all sorts of types working at the desk of the main Preston police station, but these three were a whole new category of weird altogether.
And this man. This man with his bony cheekbones and his ginger beard. He looked familiar. For some reason, he looked familiar.
Bob forced a smile as the trio got closer. They were silent, and they all had this weird look on their faces. Wide eyes, mouths zipped shut, like they’d done something very wrong and were all coming here to confess it. But they didn’t look like crims. Not any sort of crims Bob was used to. Not the type that turned themselves in at a police desk, anyway. More the type that’d get their friend to do that for them as a last resort.
“Can I help you?” Bob asked, making his voice as posh and assertive as possible. Just something he’d been asked to do.
The three of them got closer to the desk, their shoes clunking and echoing against the floor in unison.
Bob’s eyes stayed on the man. Stayed on this ginger-bearded skinny guy’s face. He’d seen him before, definitely. Maybe it was down at the pub. No. No, it wasn’t the pub. It must’ve been here. It must’ve been—
Bob’s thoughts froze and crystallised all at once. Simultaneously.
A bolt of realisation struck through him.
The family of three stopped walking towards Bob. They looked at him. All of them looked at him with wide, bloodshot eyes and quivering lips.
But the man. He knew the man. He’d seen him.