The Long Dark Road

by P. R. Black

  ‘Bits and pieces. It covered the people she’d met so far in her first year, her opinions of them. It’s funny – there was something in the tone that reminded me of the baby diaries. “That Jessica Jerome… what a show-off. I can’t abide that!”’

  ‘Jessica Jerome was a show-off!’ he spluttered. ‘She dropped out, in fact. Last heard of spending her time at stage doors, hoping she’ll be spotted.’

  Georgia made eye contact, and held it. ‘Some of it was quite frank. I shouldn’t be shocked, really. It was the eighties when I was a student, so, you know… it wasn’t the Victorian era. We had AIDS to worry about, but we tended not to. Sorry, I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.’

  ‘You don’t make me feel uncomfortable.’

  Except she did. His stance had shifted; the left hand had come away from the back of the chair, where he’d left it dangling, and linked with his right on the table.

  ‘She mentions someone called Neb. Do you know who Neb is?’

  He shook his head. ‘Can’t think who that would be… There’s Katie Neville, a classmate of ours. That’s about as close a match as I can come up with. Off the top of my head.’

  ‘No, Neb’s definitely male.’

  ‘Any other details?’

  ‘Yeah – Neb is you, in fact.’

  ‘Neb? She never called me that.’

  ‘It was a pet name. The person called “Neb” is definitely you. She mentions the red hair – I remember the words she used: “like a really interesting crayon, the one you would eat first out of the pack”. She mentions the freckles that you’re embarrassed about, but she finds quite cute… mentions your jawline, how square it was. The dimples. You’re a classmate, you’re friends from almost the first day, you spend time together. She mentions that your favourite writer is George Orwell. You want to write a great social document for the twenty-first century… Don’t look so embarrassed! It’s all good stuff. But you’re Neb. There’s no doubt.’

  ‘What on earth is “Neb” short for? I don’t know what it means…’

  ‘I think she means “neb” as in nose. Northern English or Scots, I think. Not too popular a phrase down here. We’re back to Stephanie’s Scottish granny again, with that one.’

  ‘I didn’t realise I had a big nose,’ he said, a little tartly. He restrained himself from touching it.

  ‘You don’t have a big nose. It’s used in terms of being nosy. As in, “Keep your neb out of my business.”’

  ‘Nosy?’

  ‘Yeah. I think she meant that you were a little too keen on her. She felt a little bit uncomfortable about it.’

  ‘…Too keen on her? Excuse me?’

  ‘Yes. That’s why I wanted to talk to you, specifically. It pointed out a few things. Such as, that even though you said you were her boyfriend, and you described yourself as such in direct quotes with the police… that wasn’t really your relationship. Was it?’

  ‘Hey… we were lovers, if that’s what you’re asking. We spent all our spare time together. That’s boyfriend and girlfriend, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not according to Stephanie, no. I mean, she goes into details… Lots and lots of details. She mentions that you kissed her one night in the Acropolis, a club out of town that you all went to. She mentions that she didn’t really want to do it, but felt as if she had to. She felt sorry for you; she thought it was a mistake. A fumble. She mentions that you slept in the same bed, but never actually had sex. You were too drunk. Not that you couldn’t perform or anything – you literally couldn’t get your clothes off. But she says that after that, you were always hanging around. And this is what puzzles me, because she says that nothing happened after that. That you were a fixture, you came around for coffee, but you weren’t really… Well, you weren’t lovers, were you?’

  ‘Listen – what she writes in her diary is up to her, but we were together when she went missing. That’s it – that’s the truth.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound like it, Martin. I don’t want you to be upset, I just want you to explain some things to me. She says she wants rid of you – that she hopes that after your first-year exams are over, you’ll find someone else to hang around waiting for after lectures. She says you used to do this a lot – popping up outside classes that she’d taken, but you hadn’t. I remember the exact phrase, now, she was good at that stuff. “Waiting for her inside phone boxes no one even pisses in any more”, waiting for her to pass by. She said you surprised her once or twice. She found it creepy. She says – pointedly – that she’s quite repulsed by you. That you’re the last person she wants to sleep with. And she said… what was the wording, again? She says she can see herself ending up inside a fridge on a landfill site if she lets you into her life.’

  Martin Duke’s bottom lip trembled. He bit it, took a breath, then said: ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘Bullshit? So, Stephanie was making it all up, then? It sounds to me – and I don’t know the truth, here, I’m just going by what she wrote – that you weren’t remotely boyfriend and girlfriend. She is exasperated when you show up one afternoon and she’s sleeping with another boy. Did you know about this other boy?’

  Martin’s jaw dropped. ‘Other boy? When was this?’

  ‘February morning – sunny, but very cold, she said. She said she had to wear her hiking socks and three layers of clothing because the boiler packed in. But she had someone else with her. You were at the security door to the block of flats. She said she’d already tried to get rid of you for the day by text message. But you were persistent, she said.’

  ‘Listen… This was a while ago.’ He licked his lips. ‘Stephanie and I didn’t sleep together until April, after the Easter holidays. After that, she rarely stayed in her own flat. If you must know.’

  ‘I must know,’ Georgia said.

  ‘We were together, when she disappeared. I don’t know about other boys, or whatever else she was doing. That’s down to her. I can’t answer questions about that, or how she felt. We had a relationship – it might not have happened right away, but we were together. Boyfriend and girlfriend. That’s the truth.’

  ‘So, you didn’t actually become lovers, in the sense that most people would understand it, until right before she disappeared?’

  ‘If you mean had sex, and you aren’t counting a “fumble”, as you termed it, then yes. That’s true.’

  ‘Thing is, this isn’t quite what you told the press and the police. You said something like, “When we first laid eyes on each other, it was like an electric shock… We couldn’t stay away from each other, or keep our hands off each other.” That’s what you said.’

  ‘That’s how it felt to me. And I’ll tell you this, if we’re being frank… You reckon Stephanie said that she wasn’t that into it? Not how I remember it, Georgia.’

  ‘“We had made plans together… We were looking to a time past when we were at university.” You said that as well, or words to that effect, didn’t you?’

  ‘I know the report you’re talking about. I was encouraged to say that by a reporter. He put a lot of words in my mouth.’ Martin shrugged. ‘I didn’t think too much of it at the time. We were trying to find Stephanie. That was the priority. That was the only thing I could think about. The idea was to jog people’s memories, to find out if anyone had seen anything or knew anything. It might have helped put a human face on me, after everyone accused me of killing her. But it wasn’t to provide a step-by-step record of every single encounter we had. If that’s what interests you.’

  Georgia’s pulse was racing. She wanted to reach out and grab that head, to clutch at the loose flesh around his cheeks, to hurt him. What’s in there? she wanted to ask. What do you know about my daughter?

  But instead, she said: ‘I don’t know the full facts. But if I was building some kind of argument, then I’d say to you: “I think you’re a fantasist. I think you were chasing my daughter, but you didn’t succeed.”’

  Martin smiled, surprising her. ‘I’m well-schooled in this, you kn
ow. You should have heard some of the stuff the police put to me. You’d think they wanted me to make a confession. They built up all these scenarios. They said I was jealous, in fact. A jealous boyfriend. So I did away with her, out of jealousy. That was it. No, wait – I was a creep, a weirdo. A psycho who reads too much Edgar Allan Poe. Obsessed with death, because I read Keats and Shelley and Byron. Or, what was the other one? Oh yeah, you’ve just told me – I was a fantasist; they said that, too. That I claimed we weren’t together when we were. One or two other theories came out, too. They claimed I was secretly gay, because Stephanie had short hair, therefore I liked boys, really. Then they claimed I was secretly into her pal – what was her name, Adrienne? – and I was using Stephanie to get at her. So of course, I killed Stephanie, because she got awkward about it. They mentioned other boys, but I didn’t know anything about them. If you’ve learned anything new, you should take it to the police. You have taken it to the police, haven’t you? These ideas of yours?’

  Georgia said nothing for a moment. Then: ‘There’s an inconsistency, Martin. You said similar things to me, when we spoke. You’d think you had been together for years. But you were only together for a matter of days, really, when you think about it. A blink of an eye. That’s going by what you’ve just told me.’

  Now he looked angry again. He drummed his fingers on the table, then said: ‘I don’t know anything about what happened to Stephanie. No – look at me. Look at me, please.’ His small eyes flared as wide as he could make them, as he recited: ‘I – do – not – know – what – happened – to – Stephanie. It haunts me. I considered transferring, taking a year out – but didn’t. I was persuaded to stay. The university were kind. Especially when it was proven that I had nothing to do with it. You believe that, don’t you?’

  ‘The police were very thorough.’

  ‘No, say it, Georgia. I want you to say it. “The police proved that you had absolutely nothing to do with what happened.” Say those words.’

  ‘I can’t say it, because I don’t know it for a fact, Martin. If you don’t know what happened to Stephanie… someone does. Even if no one actually abducted her, and the suicide theory checks out…’

  ‘It wasn’t a theory, Georgia. I’m sorry, I’m going to have to…’ He looked around, as if for support.

  ‘… Even if the suicide theory checks out, then someone knows what the circumstances were.’

  ‘It’s not a theory. I’m sorry, but we’re done here, Georgia. Please don’t hang around outside lecture theatres waiting for me again.’

  That stopped her. ‘I was just trying to catch up with you.’

  ‘You sure? You know, Georgia, if I was building a theory about you, I’d say that you were a bit obsessive. Hanging around lecture theatres, arranging to meet me for drinks… It’s a bit strange, isn’t it? Paints an ugly picture.’

  Georgia ran her hands through her hair. Her voice broke, as she said: ‘I want to know, Martin. I want to know the details. Even if I’ve heard them before, I want to go over them again and again. I want to see the inconsistencies. It doesn’t add up, Martin.’

  ‘It does. Stephanie killed herself.’

  ‘Then where’s her body?’ This came out shrill; Reg and one or two others looked in their direction. ‘Where’s her body, Martin?’

  ‘You know where it went. I’m sorry, I… Look, a lawyer told me a while ago, when I sued the papers, that I shouldn’t speak to anyone about Stephanie. I’m breaking that, here. I’m so sorry.’ He signalled towards the front door.

  It was Colette. She frowned at the pair of them, then grew concerned as she noticed the tears kindling at the corners of Georgia’s eyes.

  Colette laid a hand on Martin’s shoulder. ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Fine,’ Martin said brightly. ‘We’ve been having a catch-up. It got a bit emotional.’

  ‘My God… can we get you something, Georgia?’

  ‘She’s fine,’ Martin said, getting up. ‘I think she was just going.’

  4

  ‘And this is…’

  Before I could say her name, or even say ‘This is my mother,’ Adrienne launched herself at Georgia.

  ‘Mummy!’ she cried. ‘Look at you!’

  The girl kissed my mother hard on the cheek, and hugged her uncomfortably across the throat. ‘You could be sisters! Look at you, you’re a fox! You’re coming out, aren’t you? Stephanie, please instruct your mummy to come out with us. You’ll knock them all dead! We’ll have a trail of stuttering boys to follow in your wake, then we shall dine on your scraps!’

  ‘I guess… I’m going out,’ Georgia said.

  Adrienne squealed and hugged her harder.

  Over her shoulder, I shared a look with my mother.

  From the diary of Stephanie Healey

  Georgia locked herself in the car and sat in a car park behind a KFC drive-through, and cried and cried. These were best places to do it, she had found – alienating, dispiriting, grey blocks and white lines cramming in people stuffing their faces, oblivious to what was going on around them. She had suffered an anxiety attack so acute just two months after Stephanie had gone missing that she had thought she might actually die – despite all her training, all her experience in trying to help people manage the crushing weight of life and expectation, the deep breaths and the safe spaces and the mindfulness, she had sunk on one knee in a clothes shop when she had read a sign that said: ‘New season stock in NOW!’ and she had looked at the row of models in the picture – some blonde and cherry-cheeked, some edgy-looking and scowling, all different shapes and colours except for the geometric perfection of their teeth, and something in this new season and new line taking place without it being possible to imagine Stephanie wearing these clothes, having these friends or indeed attempting these smiles had strangled her.

  So it was now after a quick drink with Martin. She had thought about eating, but this afternoon’s encounter had stripped her of any desire to do so. This car park was just out of town, and incongruent with the ancient structures stretching up into the sky over the wall in the background. Unlike the new buildings on the campus, no one had objected to the out-of-town shopping complex, the beige brick blocks with their well-known arches and primary colours and logos. Georgia cried and cried, until she felt better, then cried a little more. She gripped the steering wheel of her car, but did not batter the horn, as she felt she must. Across the car park, in the space opposite, a woman was feeding fries to a three-year-old still strapped into a back seat. She did not glance once in Georgia’s direction.

  She waited until the windows had steamed up, before blowing her nose, using a wipe to clear the tide-mark horror beneath her eyes, waited until her eyes were marginally less bloodshot, then she took the car back into the centre.

  The new buildings in the centre had messed with her sense of geography; the Bryant Tower was a strawberries and cream coloured fibreglass building that she was sure would be a residential property. It turned out it was the new arts block, and at the top of this, in what appeared to be an actual penthouse, was where the student newspaper was produced.

  Georgia had only hazy memories of the student newspaper back then – a scandal sheet of sorts, which scored one notable coup where it turned out a physics professor had been selling his services as an escort through the small ads in the town’s proper newspaper. She had only seen the outside of the Ferngate Ferret’s offices in the old union building – a reptile tank of a room, the glass reinforced with mesh like an off-licence in the centre of Dodge, its windows blotted out with Bauhaus, Slayer and Morrissey posters. When she passed through the intimidatingly clean and spacious reception and got to the top, she was surprised to find a working space that resembled an Apple store rather than a newspaper office. It was clean, for a start; there were also a load of computers, which had been in-built into the desks – Macs for design, Windows machines for word processing, with few signs of debasement or debauchery.

  Four or five people were
in there, curiously spread out, and everyone seemed to be actually working, heads bent to the task. A television set high on wall showed Sky News; in the opposite corner was a gigantic poster of a shirtless Justin Bieber. Whether this latter had been installed with any sense of irony, it was difficult to say, though it had been defaced a hundred times as seemed appropriate. This was the music desk, surely. The one everyone wanted to work on.

  Georgia spotted Adrienne right away. She had changed little since Georgia had seen her last – still well dressed, the only change being that she was wearing clothes for work, not the editorship of the Ferngate Ferret.

  The girl had a face like a heart that had been scrawled in haste – pale and pretty, with good high cheekbones and something of a sullen mouth. Her hair was cut a little shorter, but the colouring was the same – reddish shot through with blonde. It was the first thing you noticed upon entering any room she inhabited, a colour that demanded a double-take, then a closer look. She had the same sapphire necklace Georgia could remember, a chill pulse that caught the light about her throat – an heirloom from a grandparent. Georgia remembered it had been one of the first things they had spoken about. Adrienne had invited her to handle it – a sturdy thing, set in tarnished metal. ‘I don’t think it’s worth very much,’ she had said, thereby guaranteeing that it was worth a lot.

  Adrienne Connulty was the type of person who greeted people she knew much as a bowling ball might greet a set of skittles, but she was more reserved this time upon seeing Georgia. ‘And there she is! Hey!’ She hugged Georgia close, patting her on the shoulder. ‘How you been?’

  ‘Bearing up. Sorry to spring this on you at short notice.’

  ‘No problem at all. Let’s head into my office.’

  ‘You’ve got an office? My God, they treat you well in here.’

  ‘Perks of the job, Georgia, perks of the job.’ She turned to a young man with a flap of hair on top of a tight-cropped back and sides, one of three other people who were in the office, all spread out across the desks. ‘Josh – you mentioned you were making tea?’