by Will Carver
Aubrey had the same reaction to her apartment that Blair once had. It was clean and bright and huge. So huge. She was paying hardly anything and the lifestyle she had been used to while growing up was not the greatest leap from what was being offered at The Beresford.
That apartment meant freedom. Freedom to the lonely girl who did not fit in to her Christian-with-a-vengeance country community, and freedom to the woman who wanted to try something different from wealthy, protected suburbia.
But that did not mean they were the same.
Blair was like Abe and Sythe, and the carpenter from years before, and the prostitute before that. She did not belong.
Aubrey did belong.
She just didn’t belong at The Beresford.
And that was going to make it even harder for her to get out alive.
SEVEN
Gail was waiting. Mrs May hadn’t come back to Abe’s flat, and hours had passed. She looked into the corner of Abe’s bathroom where she had stacked the parts of his body, which she had sawn up and wrapped in plastic, into some kind of abstract pyramid. The old lady didn’t seem like she was coming back anytime soon, even though she had mentioned lending a hand with the clean-up process.
The act of sawing and rolling in a black bin liner and taping down the edges had proved to be a kind of repetitive therapy for Gail. It occupied her mind. But now that she was finished the young mother-to-be was on edge.
She wondered whether the baby could feel what she was feeling. The guilt. The anger. The shame. Somehow, no regret.
What if her baby’s first experience was feeling those sorts of emotions? How would that play out? What did it say about Gail as a mother?
Gail needed more monotony; the nothingness caused her mind to wander and whir. In Abe’s kitchen she found the mop. Dirty with Beresford blood. But she filled a bucket with disinfectant and warm water, and made her way back to the bathroom. The old landlady obviously wasn’t going to help at all.
It wasn’t her fault, though.
She hadn’t killed anybody.
Poor Gail had gone from one mess to another.
Poor Gail. Poor Abe. Poor Sythe.
She looked out through the peephole in Abe’s front door at the reception area of The Beresford. It was undeniably quiet. Eerily so. Her own apartment could be seen across the hallway. She could make a run for it and surely nobody would see her. But perhaps it’s exactly those kinds of risks that would get her caught. She gazed for another thirty seconds, looking over at Mrs May’s place and up the stairs to the new lady, Aubrey. Then she became annoyed, because that would have been more than enough time to make a dash for home. If it could be called that.
Then she got to thinking about mistakes. The ones she had made in her life. Had they led her to this place? She fought hard to remember a time before the beatings had started, but her memory kept warping back to that image of her husband’s foot above her head, ready to stomp down on her brain with all his might, undoubtedly cracking her skull and killing her. That moment had led her to The Beresford, to a broken vase, which she would use to stab through the eye of another attacker.
Where would this latest mistake lead her?
Down Abe’s hallway, Gail stopped at a trio of paintings on the wall. She ran her finger along the bottom of the canvas on the right, jumping it over the gap to the next section, until she had spread her DNA across the length of Sythe’s donated triptych. She had no idea what it meant or represented, but it was beautiful. Thought-provoking. Problem-hazing.
Dismembering a neighbour is physically demanding. Gail made her way to the kitchen for food. On the countertop, next to the microwave, was half a bottle of red wine. She searched the higher cupboards for a glass and found one behind the third door she opened. The glass was big enough to fit the entire contents of the bottle inside. She had just killed again, her baby would have to forgive this moment of weakness.
In the fridge she found butter, pastrami, salami, breaded ham and mayonnaise. She laid it between two slices of brown bread with a thick wedge of cheddar and placed it on a plate. Normally, she would cut the sandwich in half from corner to corner but she couldn’t be bothered to search for a knife, now that the food was in front of her. She took her snack and drink back down the hallway and into Abe’s bedroom.
It smelled like the bedroom of a man who lived alone. The bed was not made. There were clothes on the floor in the corner of the room next to an overflowing laundry bin. Three half-empty deodorant cans adorned the windowsill, and there were five separate glasses on the bedside table that hadn’t been taken into the kitchen to be washed up. Still, Gail sat herself on the edge of the dead man’s bed, balanced her wineglass on the table with the others and took a bite of her sandwich.
A sandwich. The abuser’s snack of choice.
Everything in that room, in that apartment, suggested that Abe was nothing remarkable. A normal guy with a healthy interest in books and an enviable quest for knowledge. He was normal. He was quietly spoken and helpful and gracious. No way would anyone suspect that he would raise his hand to a woman. What had Gail missed? What had he been hiding?
Nothing in that room was giving her a clue, and the sandwich was being washed down by a middling cabernet already. She pictured his kind face when she had arrived, and then the image flash-cut to the top of her body-parts pyramid.
She was tired. Tired of waiting for help. Tired of thinking about what she had done. Tired of overthinking what she should do next.
Gail laid back on the bed and pulled the crumpled cover over her legs. She thought about her husband. How he would have a drink, knock her around the lounge for a bit before eating a sandwich and going to bed. What did he think about? Did he feel guilt and shame? Or did he feel the way that Gail felt in that moment?
Alone.
Justified in her actions.
Tired.
And unapologetic.
She wasn’t like him. She wasn’t like herself.
The room was silent. Outside, the trees whistled as the wind rushed through branches. To Gail, it sounded like they were laughing at her. She was scared. For herself and the baby inside her, now the size of an avocado. But, while she was thinking of herself and her undoubtedly doomed child, she was not worrying about the police or her husband or the Jewish guy she killed that day. With the light still on in the bedroom, Gail closed her eyes and, within a minute, fell asleep, for the first time, as a murderer.
She did not wake once in the night, as is often the case for the guilty.
EIGHT
Counting backwards from five when you want to get your child to do something that they don’t want to do is an incredibly useful technique. It is nothing to do with fear, it is to do with the unknown. Your child does not want to know what happens if you get all the way down to one.
Yes, there are those who will push you all the way there, but most will get themselves moving at three or two.
As a parent, you don’t even know what happens if you manage to count all the way down. Somehow you have all the power but you share the fear because neither of you really wants to know. That’s why it works.
Mrs Conroy uses the same technique on herself in the morning. As soon as her alarm sounds, she switches it off and starts to count.
Five … four … three … two…
Then she sits up. She gets straight out of bed. No need for the snooze button.
She never gets to one.
Mr Conroy has a different technique. When his wife’s alarm sounds, he wakes up but does not open his eyes. He listens to her count backward then feels as she gets up off the mattress. He then pulls the quilt in tightly over his shoulders and curls his knees into his chest. Often he will drift back to sleep. A few minutes later, his wife arrives with a cup of tea and a kiss to the forehead. He sits up, asks her how she is feeling and whether or not she slept well.
He always tries to take a sip of his tea too soon and it is always too hot.
That day was no different
.
‘It’s at least two hours in the car, we need a good breakfast.’
She always makes a good breakfast but she couldn’t stop herself from saying it.
Neither of the Conroys had received a message back from Blair in weeks, which was odd because she had been dead for months. Both of them had tried their hardest to take the lack of contact as a sign that their daughter was growing up and being busy in the city. They didn’t want to appear pushy or overprotective so they’d held out. But even when Blair had ignored messages from her mother, she always responded to her father.
Always.
He had seen four messages go by without an answer. Two hadn’t even been acknowledged as being read. And one of those was an offer of financial help. He told himself that he was probably stepping on her independent toes so backed off, though it had plagued him.
Mrs Conroy was beside herself with worry. She hid the depth of her panic from her husband, but her mind wandered towards alcohol and orgies. To drugs and sex cults. She knew how absurd she was being but had no idea she was the closest to the truth.
And while she hid her anxiety and outlandish theories, her husband kept quiet the recurring nightmares he had been experiencing, where the Devil manifested Himself in a manner of guises. They concealed their insecurities from one another and delved deep into prayer for the safety of their daughter, like the good, ineffectual Christians they were.
Our thoughts and prayers go out to the family of the woman who was stabbed in the throat and burnt into a fine powder.
They set off early because they wanted to get back home early. Before it got dark, if possible. Mrs Conroy didn’t want to be in the city at night. It scared her.
The car journey was longer than either of them expected. Mr Conroy could only get close to the speed limit in his hometown, where he knew all the bumps in every road. Anywhere else, he was overly cautious if the car hit thirty-seven miles per hour. They tuned the radio to an easy-listening station, which kept them from having to converse too much.
‘Look how high those buildings are.’ Mr Conroy was in awe as he pointed ahead over his steering wheel.
‘Keep your eyes on the road. The next turning is on the left in two hundred yards.’
‘Are we close?’
‘It says seven more minutes.’
‘That’s close.’
Mrs Conroy nodded.
‘Here it is. On the left.’
Six and half minutes and they would see their daughter, their wonderful, kind-hearted Blair, in the flesh for the first time in half a year. Mrs Conroy’s stomach was starting to turn. Nerves. Excitement. She wasn’t sure. Blair would have no idea that her parents were coming to visit. If she was alive, she would have hated the surprise.
Blair was so lucky to be dead.
Both parents were shocked at the majesty of The Beresford as they drove up to the building. It was just far enough away from the taller buildings in the centre of the city to be classed as suburban or perhaps almost rural, Mrs Conroy thought. This pleased her, it wasn’t such a crazy adjustment from the town where they still lived and had brought up their daughter.
They could see life behind the twitching curtains and there were lights on in each corner of the house. They hoped one of those lights was Blair’s.
‘You’re sure you don’t want to ring her to say we are here rather than rocking up to the front door like a pair of gate-crashers?’ This was how her father showed his nerves.
‘It wouldn’t be much of a surprise if we announced it, now, would it?’ This was how her mother hid her excitement.
‘I guess you’re right.’ He turned the key to cut off the engine, and they spent a moment leaning forward and looking up at The Beresford, wondering which room belonged to their special girl.
They looked at one another, and Mrs Conroy suggested that it was time to get out the car, stretch their legs and give Blair a huge hug. They both knew their daughter would be shocked, perhaps even annoyed at the impromptu visit, but they were past the point of caring. They needed to see her. They needed to look into her eyes and ask her how she was getting on with her life. They wanted to witness the way she was carrying herself now that she was independent and earning money and fending for herself on every level.
They wanted to tell her, in person, that they loved her. Without making her feel bad.
The Conroys stopped in front of the main entrance. Before pressing the doorbell, they took a deep breath, and Mrs Conroy counted backwards.
Five…
Four…
Three…
Two…
NINE
She never got to ‘one’.
‘Hello.’ A tall, angular woman – handsome, rather than pretty – opened the door before Mrs Conroy’s trembling finger managed to hit the button for the bell. ‘Can I help you?’ She stood there with her red hair caressing her shoulders and a book in one hand. ‘I was just getting a book from the library when I saw you through the window.’ She smiled, her eyes flitting between both Conroys, not giving either of them more time with her gaze than the other.
‘Ah, yes. We are here to see Blair.’ Mrs Conroy, obviously, took the lead.
‘We’re her parents,’ Mr Conroy chimed in, seemingly proud of his achievement.
Aubrey didn’t know how to respond, what to say, so she opted for the truth.
‘I’m sorry but I don’t know a Blair. But then I have only been living here for a day. There’s Gail and Mrs May and Abe, but I have not heard of a Blair. I could be wrong of course. Why don’t you come in?’
They wiped their feet on the outside mat and went to step over the threshold when Mrs May appeared from nowhere.
‘Hello. I’m Mrs May, I own the building. Is there a problem here?’
The old lady knew that there was no problem, there was going to be a problem soon, but at that point, she could see their eyes. The hope, the wonder, the trepidation as a parent struggles to let go of their child and does not know whether they will be different from the person they once were, whether they will be pleased to see their parents.
The hope was the worst thing.
‘Oh, no. Not a problem. We are just here to see our daughter.’
Mrs May let the end of the sentence hang uncomfortably.
‘Blair,’ her mother continued. ‘Blair Conroy. She moved in around six months ago.’ Mrs Conroy knew exactly how long it had been. Being aloof did not suit her.
‘Yes. I know Blair. A lovely girl. Always reading or running.’ Mrs May smiled. This relaxed the Conroys as they recognised their child in those two activities. ‘But I am afraid that she no longer lives here.’
‘What do you mean?’ Mr Conroy seemed angry.
‘Well, it was maybe six weeks ago, she just upped and left. No word. Very unlike her. At first, we thought she had gone home to see her family, but a week or two passed and there was no word.’
‘You didn’t think to call the police?’
‘She is an adult, Mr Conroy. She can come and go as she pleases. She chose to go. Anyone who lives at The Beresford can choose to go. I’m not responsible for her decisions. I provide a roof for those who stay here and pay their rent on time. Your daughter forfeited her deposit, and I used the money to clear the apartment for the next tenant, who kindly answered the door to you moments ago.’
The agitated parents look at the tall redhead next to the old lady. She looks uncomfortable, awkward. Nothing like their sweet Blair.
‘Where the hell did she go?’ Mr Conroy was taking charge of the situation over his wife, who balked slightly at the mention of Hell. ‘She didn’t leave a forwarding address? That doesn’t sound like Blair at all.’
Mrs Conroy cycled through those words and images in her mind that had been tormenting her lately.
Sex. Drugs. Drinking. Rape.
Aubrey didn’t know what to do. She felt like she was intruding on something that was not her business, but it would be rude to just walk away. She stared at Mrs May, hop
ing that the old woman would come up with some adequate reasoning behind Blair’s sudden exit.
‘I’m sorry to say that this is more common than I would like. I keep the prices reasonable, as well as the up-front deposit, and it means that people often don’t mind forfeiting it. They pack a bag in the night and leave. It’s become so common that I don’t even think about it anymore.’
‘I don’t give a damn about your business practices, I care about where my daughter is right now.’ Mr Conroy raised his voice. His wife seemed embarrassed.
First Hell, then damnation.
‘I would appreciate you not coming into my home and raising your voice at me, Mr Conroy.’ There was a quiet spite to Mrs May’s tone. Her eyes bore into the old man to let him know that she meant it and that this was his last chance to back down.
He couldn’t see that. He was too riled. Too worried about his only child. But his pious wife was rattled in a different way. She saw a darkness. In front of her was an evil. The way the old lady turned was unholy. Ungodly.
She was not as she appeared.
Mrs Conroy pulled on her husband’s arm to drag him out of there. He was steadfast in his slander and blame. She yanked harder, seeing the venom rise within Mrs May. There was something in those eyes.
‘Come on.’ She used all of her strength to pull her husband away. ‘There’s nothing to be done here. She left without a word. She’s not here.’
He slumped. A human sigh.
‘But she sent me a message last week.’ He looked as though he might cry.
Mrs May was confused. She allowed her own ire to evaporate as she listened in on the Conroys. Somehow, Blair had sent her father a text recently. There was no cause for concern. She seemed happy enough. She had mentioned Abe.
It couldn’t be true. Mrs May knew that Blair was gone. She was never coming back. She could not have sent those messages. She did not get out of The Beresford alive. There was no way.