by Susan Gee
‘Did you know my dad?’ I ask.
She looks uninterested. ‘Nah, not really.’
I didn’t think so. It’s hard not to let the anger show.
‘Your hair’s nice,’ I say, ‘really soft-looking.’
She purses her lips together as she does when she wants to say something horrible, but she resists and says, ‘Thanks,’ with one of her best false smiles and then, ‘I’m growing it,’ before she flicks it back over her shoulder. She’s beautiful and ugly at the same time.
‘My dad cut all mine off when I was little. He didn’t like washing it,’ I say as I stare at the rocks in the river.
Maxine’s mouth puckers in disgust.
‘Jesus.’
‘You shouldn’t have said those things about him.’
‘Whatever.’
‘You should think before you speak,’ I tell her as we stand at the top of the bank, and I know that better than most. As we look down at the water below I wait for her to apologise, but she doesn’t.
‘Get over it,’ she murmurs to herself, but I still hear it.
‘Let’s go down the bank,’ I say as I touch the back of her shoulder. ‘There’s something I want to show you at the bottom.’
‘What?’
‘It’s just down there,’ I reply as I pick up a muddy rock and follow her down the hill. ‘You’re not a nice person,’ I tell her, ‘but I can help. You just need to say sorry for what you’ve done.’
She turns around and sneers, ‘I’m not sorry for shit and I’m not going through all that mud. I’ve had enough of this. I’m going back.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘What?’
‘By the way, it was me that’s been phoning you every night.’ I wink.
‘You what?’
She looks genuinely surprised and it makes me laugh. I thought she’d have guessed it was me by now, but apparently not.
‘Yeah,’ I grin.
‘You’re a freak, Reynolds. I won’t be—’
‘That’s right,’ I say as I lift up the rock, ‘you won’t.’
The realisation of what’s happening hits her just before the rock does and I get a new look from her. The same look that Kirsten gave me just before I killed her. It’s over quickly. It had to be that way. She was never going to change. Some people can’t.
After I’ve done it, she lies in the mud with her arm stretched out over her head as if she’s sunbathing and I lift the camera from my pocket. I take a couple of photographs until the camera squeals as the film winds back and I watch the numbers descend back down to zero. The film has finished. It’s over. As I try to pull her up the rolled-up handkerchief that she’s used for padding slips out of her top. She’s so fake.
Her mouth is open, as though she’s still surprised, and I know if I kissed her she’d taste bitter, like an unripe apple. I take some of her hair before I roll her into the river. As she goes under a black shadow moves on the other side of the bank and I shout across the water.
‘I’ve got you a present!’
A crow flies up from the field, its wings black against the expressionless grey sky, as the current carries Maxine away. Along the river she floats, face down on the water, towards Cheadle Bridge. The water is tinged with red and it’s beautiful: like a sunset reflecting on the water. I think about what Mike told me about the river being seventy miles long and I hope it carries her far away, on to Liverpool and then off into the sea. I remember Letter to Brezhnev and the darkness of the cinema and decide that Liverpool is a good place for her. I bring up the soft curl of her hair to my nose and it’s as sweet as summer flowers. There’s no need for her to worry now. No more hating everyone and no more having to be the best: she’s escaped at last. I’ve set her free. She’s lucky that she came here today.
As I sit there I imagine I must look like Gillian Gilbert in my New Order poster, with the same serene calmness by the water. It gets colder and darker as I stare at the water. It’s hard to leave, because I want this to last, and as I walk away I feel calmer than I’ve been for days. Even when I imagine Kirsten circling underwater like a dirty black mermaid, touching Maxine’s lips with her fingertips and trying to shake her back to life, I don’t feel anxious. The air is sharp and cold in my throat. I feel more alive than I’ve felt for weeks and I know that Kirsten will be pleased, because Maxine can’t hurt anyone else now. It’s what she would have wanted and I have the film of it to keep forever.
I wipe Mike’s camera with my jumper and put it back in my pocket. It hits my leg in a steady beat and I put my headphones in and listen to Talking Heads as I walk back towards home in the semi-darkness. As ‘And She Was’ plays, I know I’ve done the right thing for Maxine. She’s free and happy now, just like the girl in the song. Kirsten doesn’t mind that it’s not our usual music either. She knows that our songs are all on vinyl.
Mrs Green was right. There’s no point pretending to be anyone else than who I am. I’m not interested in clubs or seeing bands in town. College doesn’t matter. I don’t care about riots and bombs and police brutality. I don’t want to raise money for famines and write letters to foreign prisoners. I don’t care. The rest of the world means nothing. The river is my place and there’s no point swimming against the current, because it’s too strong. As the sky blackens, there’s a sense of relief in accepting it. She was right. There’s nobody better than me.
*
The next day, I watch the local news and eat breakfast with Mum and Mike. The news is all about a boy who got beaten up and there’s nothing about Maxine Turner. Mike’s camera is on the small table by the window where I left it. I will get the film out after he’s gone to work and put it with my other special things. If I ever want prints, there’s a developing room at college that photography club hardly ever use.
Mum chews on the corner of a piece of toast and the crumbs fall onto the floor without her noticing. She’s here, but somewhere else, as she was after the baby was gone. It happens every now and again: it’s just the way she is. She should let me talk to her about it. If I could tell her how sad and sweaty from crying he was, she might feel better that he’s free. I’m the one that was left behind.
‘You’ll be proud of me today,’ Mike says to me. ‘I’m the official photographer for the conference we’re having at work. Should have got some tips from you first though.’ He smiles.
All we do is make small talk now. When our eyes meet he just looks away and I decide that he never cared about me in the first place. He’s just the same as everyone else. He gets up and picks up the camera and I open my mouth as the thick black strap disappears into his workbag. I think about the two pictures of Maxine on there and wish I’d taken the film out when I had the chance. When I leave for college I don’t bother to say goodbye, I just grab my bag, and neither of them say anything to me either. I will get the film back later when he gets home tonight.
*
At college, everyone is talking about Maxine Turner, how she was meant to go and see Back to the Future with Beth, but has been missing all night. In the library, I sit on the table behind some girls so that I can hear what they’re saying. Every time the word ‘missing’ is mentioned, they lick their lips as though it’s the most delicious thing that they’ve ever tasted. I worry that she mentioned meeting me, but as the day goes on I realise that nobody knows anything. They’ve put a Christmas tree up in reception and tinsel on the noticeboard down the corridors as though Maxine Turner doesn’t matter to them at all.
I see Leila a few times, but then she’s gone. I look for her in the canteen, but she isn’t in there. She’s being taken in the opposite direction and I can’t grab her, because the pull is too strong. I’m just not ready to let her go yet. As it starts to rain, I think about the freckles on her nose that come out in the sun and try to imagine a place that I’d take her to if I could. All I can think of is the smelly hot-dog van on the pebble beach in Wales, and I realise that the only special place that I’ve got is the river.
On the way out, Dr Tibbs is outside her office and the sunlight shines in shafts over the scuffed floor tiles as she walks down the corridor towards me.
‘The counsellor said you left the session early?’ she says.
What I need to do is clear now. I can’t have her bringing the police to speak to me again. I need to blend in. I have to become another body in the corridor: a faceless, nameless girl with nothing to say. Kingfishers fly straight and fast. The only time they hover is for food. I need to do the same. Focus.
‘I lied about all that stuff, sorry.’
‘Pardon?’
‘I made it up. So there was no point going to see anyone about it.’
She looks me over as though she’s confused. ‘Why would you lie?’
‘I was bored.’
‘Are you joking?’
‘I was bunking off for no reason. Sorry, it won’t happen again.’
She stands open-mouthed and as I walk away it feels good. I don’t need her, or anyone else, pitying me. Why talk to people who don’t listen? You might as well save your breath.
When I get back home, I make 4 pieces of toast and I’m still hungry, so I start on the biscuits. As I switch on Channel 4 to watch The Tube, I know that things will get better. All I have to do is keep quiet and no one will ever know what I’ve done.
As Jools Holland and Paula Yates grin at me from the television screen, I smile back. Go West are live and, as dry ice pours over red stage lights, my thoughts are of Maxine, floating on pink tinted water towards another town.
Leila and Barbara will be getting ready to go out to Manchester, but it doesn’t matter anymore. As Peter Cox sings ‘Don’t Look Down’ through a white-toothed grin, I feel calm. It’s a relief. Maxine’s gone and nobody saw us together.
33
DS Beverley Samuels
I was feeling better than I’ve done for weeks until they tell me that Maxine Turner is missing. There’s been nothing else from Tom since the note and as the days have passed I’ve learnt to live with the idea that Kirsten Green’s death may have been suicide. I’ve tried to accept it and move on, although it hasn’t been easy. Nick and I have even been getting along and I wonder if it was partly my fault that we weren’t doing previously.
As soon as they say Maxine’s name I know that we won’t find her alive. The day that I spoke to her in the school office is still clear in my mind: the shimmer pink lipstick of a girl so desperate to be seen as beautiful. Nick catches my eye as we sit in the briefing room and I can tell that he’s thinking the same. As they discuss her last movements it all feels so very familiar.
The sick-empty feeling in my stomach is mixed with a tinge of self-satisfaction, because it links to Kirsten Green and I know that I was right. Like the weeds that wound around her thighs and held her body in place, my doubts wouldn’t let go of me and this is proof to me that I shouldn’t have dismissed them in the first place.
Nick’s face is pale and drawn. I can understand it, but what happened to Kirsten Green was inconclusive, despite my misgivings. When they mention the name of the college, he closes his eyes and rubs his forehead with his hand. We all think it’s too late.
We discuss the possibility of Maxine having run away, but her bank card and money were still on the window ledge of her bedroom. She didn’t take any spare clothes with her and had arranged to meet a friend at the cinema at 6.30 p.m., but failed to show. We know that she left her house at half past two, but there has been nothing since.
I think back to the day I interviewed Maxine in the college: the fake tears and the girls outside in the corridor who followed her around. Maxine may have run away out of guilt, but despite what’s being said I’m not convinced that she’ll be at a friend’s house.
Nick reads out parts of the statement taken from her best friend, Beth, who’d arranged to meet her. She said an older boyfriend was taking her abroad for the weekend, but claims she doesn’t know who he was. Her passport was at home though, and as he reads out the statement I worry that this is only the beginning.
It’s all so similar to Kirsten Green’s case and we have no witnesses at all. She has just vanished, as Kirsten did.
‘Are we looking by the river?’ Nick asks.
He glances over at me as soon as the words come from his mouth and I know that we’re thinking the same thing. He’s worried that whatever happened to Kirsten has happened to Maxine too. He looks up at the strip light on the ceiling and frowns as he recalls the details of the case.
‘I’d like to have another chat with Hayley Reynolds. I think she knew more about Kirsten Green than she was letting on,’ I say, and this time nobody disagrees.
‘I don’t like this older boyfriend thing,’ Nick says.
I wait for him to mention Michael Lancaster, but he doesn’t. We both know that he didn’t come and tell us where he really was on the day that Kirsten disappeared. I’ve still got the typed-up notes, so at least I’ve got a head start on some of his movements. Nothing for the dates that Maxine went missing though. I take a sip of my glass of water and think back to the day that I spoke to Maxine at the college. She seemed popular with everyone apart from Hayley Reynolds and I wonder if that’s important too.
As I look out of the small window at the back of the room, I think about Maxine in the brown river water and hope that I’m wrong. The sky is violet with streaks of pale white light as the sun attempts to break through the clouds. I know more about Maxine Turner than Kirsten Green already and once we start asking questions there will be more to go through. She was a popular girl.
‘Maxine Turner got a lift home from her English teacher on the day that Kirsten Green went missing,’ I say.
‘Is there a chance he was seeing Kirsten Green?’ someone asks.
I wonder why it didn’t cross my mind that he could have taken Maxine and Beth home and then gone to meet Kirsten afterwards. It wasn’t something I considered. If Kirsten was seeing him too it would make sense that no one would know about it.
‘We need to ask Beth directly if he was Maxine’s boyfriend,’ I reply.
My head throbs as I hope my attention hasn’t been fixed in one direction and made me miss something. I wish I’d been more thorough, but I tell myself that I did everything I could.
Dave doesn’t look at me. He’s worried that he’s done the wrong thing too and as he fidgets in his seat I’m the one that feels bad. I should have insisted. I was too quick to agree. That changes today though. Not Tom, Nick, Dave or anyone else will tell me how to think again. I will fight for everything I believe in and if there’s any chance that this girl is alive, then I will make sure that we find her.
Some of the officers go to the bus and railway stations, while Nick and I get ready to go and see the English teacher.
‘I hope you weren’t right about Kirsten Green,’ Nicks says as we walk out through the corridor. I glance over at him and he stares forwards with a frown that creases his brow. I resist the urge to put him in his place.
‘Yeah, me too.’
‘I should have supported you more.’
I think about agreeing with him and change my mind.
‘We need a list of connections between them.’
He stops walking to face me. ‘Whatever you say, I’m with you.’
I smile. He’s not so bad.
‘Sorry I’ve been a pain in the arse recently,’ I tell him.
‘Just recently?’
I punch the side of his arm and he screws up his face in mock pain.
‘Let’s see what this teacher’s got to say for himself,’ I say.
‘I paid your deposit for the do by the way. Put you down for turkey and Christmas pudding. Steve was going to take you off the list otherwise,’ he says, sheepishly.
‘Cheers.’
The thought of it doesn’t make me tense and as he walks through the doors to the car park with me, it feels as if things have started to change.
*
Mr Phillips lives
in a ground-floor flat in Levenshulme. The tower block is old, with artificial plants and a rusty hat stand in the entrance. He answers the door in tight jeans and a baggy jumper and clears his throat before he speaks, as though we’ve just woken him up. The whole place smells of caulk and damp.
He glances up, to check that no one is on the stairs, before he lets us in.
‘Thanks for seeing us on a Saturday,’ Nick says, as though he had a choice.
‘It’s no problem,’ Mr Phillips replies, and looks back at him as though he would rather be anywhere else.
His flat is tidy, with bookcases on every wall. Hanging up by the door is the brown leather jacket he wore to school the last time I saw him. I glance over the leather-bound poetry and classic literature that would have been so impressive to his young students, as he takes us into his living room, where a small orange sofa sits in the centre of a woven rug. The faint smell of joss sticks hangs in the air.
It’s easy to picture Maxine Turner being impressed by this. She wouldn’t see what I do. She’d see a freethinker and a clever man. Perhaps even an attractive one. Framed pictures of authors are scattered about the room. I imagine him placing a hand on Maxine’s shoulder and a kiss on her young neck. He notices me looking at the photographs and glances around, as if seeing them for the first time himself. His clothes are flecked with cat hairs and he looks me over when he thinks I’ve turned away.
‘You live alone?’ I ask, although I’ve already been told that he does.
‘It’s the only way to really know yourself,’ he replies, with a stroke of his moustache. He gives me a smile in an attempt to be charming.
‘He lives alone,’ Nick says. ‘Look around.’