by SE Moorhead
‘A whole heart?’
Ray shrugged.
‘Was there an inscription on it, writing, anything?’
Ray shook his head. ‘I don’t remember.’
‘Have you still got it?’ asked Tom.
‘No, I sold it for a few quid. Like I said, it was silver.’
Tom put his pen down for a moment. ‘And you’re sure this was February the eighth?’
‘Yes. Saturday. Saturday,’ Ray repeated, but then shook his head. ‘I’m not a hundred per cent sure what day it was.’ He considered this for a moment, then held up his index finger. ‘No, I’ve made a mistake. It was Saturday the first.’
‘What makes you say that?’ Tom’s voice was unable to hide his exasperation.
‘Yes, because I had a newspaper. The story about the politician who smacked his girlfriend at the restaurant, so it must have been the first.’
‘You don’t remember exactly where this incident took place, Mr Clarke?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘But you think it was Saturday the first?’
‘Yes, definitely Saturday the first. That was the date on the newspaper.’
‘Mr Clarke, our victim was at home safe and sound on that date.’
Ray’s eyes swivelled slowly in their sockets. He focused on Tom.
‘But I saw her! I saw the woman. It was the first. The paper said,’ he insisted.
‘Mr Clark, had you drunk much alcohol that night?’
And then that was it. Ray clammed up as though he didn’t understand the questions anymore.
Interview terminated.
Frustrated with the lack of information on the data and still sore at Tom for sending her home for the day, Kyra took a walk to buy some wine. On the main street she was bombarded, as usual, by targeted salespops. The advertising projectors stood bright in the darkness of the street. As she walked past, they scanned her and immediately reacted to her.
Kyra, when was the last time you had a check-up? Our private healthcare offers the very best in …
Don’t you think you deserve a reviving health spa, Kyra? With vitamin drip, detox and total rest and relaxation, we’ll make you feel like the best version of yourself …
‘News,’ she commanded, a little too loudly, and one or two people looked around.
A newspop immediately appeared.
There has been another attack by People Against Poverty, who claim the government has targeted the long-term unemployed by deliberately cutting all forms of discounted healthcare unless they find a job. Five private clinics were firebombed across the city …
‘Lomax,’ Kyra said to the screen.
There are questions about the security of Rockwell prison and their security firm Tartarus Security after notorious killer David Lomax, escaped on the night of Caylee Carmichael’s death. To hear the whole story, scan your bank details …
Further along the road, Kyra passed a building that had once been known as Our Lady of Mercy Roman Catholic church but was now a homeless shelter, as so many disused churches were. Outside, between the gothic arches and stained-glass windows, many of which had been smashed and replaced with hardboard, a large screen projected life-sized images of missing people in the hope that someone might recognise them – name, age, last seen, what they might look like now. She thought back to what Marcus, Ray’s son, had said fifteen years ago about his father’s last-known whereabouts.
She stepped into the porch and stood wondering if she should ask around, knowing the chances of Ray even being alive were slim. If he was, he could be in any one of the shelters around London. Would the street-dwellers give information to a stranger? She doubted it.
She looked up to a painted plaster statue of the suffering Christ that hung above the sanctuary, gazing down on the crowd of despondent men and women sleeping on roll mats, or eating brown sludge scooped out from an enormous pot into small cardboard dishes. The smell turned her stomach.
As she was leaving, a street dweller was coming into the porch and she caught a glimpse of his face.
She could hardly breathe with shock.
Her father peered out at her from under a dark woolly hat, a great weeping sore on his lower lip and chin.
‘Oh my God!’ she whispered. ‘Dad?’
The man suddenly lunged at her and grabbed her arms with his claw-like, filthy hands. His grip was tight, painful. He locked eyes with her.
‘Kyra, love, you’ve got to stop this.’
‘Dad?’ she said, distraught.
‘You’re going to make yourself ill, Kyra. You’ll never catch him, love. Go home. Molly needs you now. Your mum needs you.’
He let go of her and shuffled into the church.
‘Dad! Dad!’ screamed Kyra. A few of the residents gawped at her.
The man turned back to see what was going on, confusion on his face.
He looked nothing like her father.
She moved into the street, unable to breathe easily, using her inhaler, wondering what the hell was going on. Her father had been dead for nearly five years. Was this a phantom? Or was it because she wanted him back so much that somehow her brain had confused her? What had she been thinking? The street dweller was nothing like her dad. Her brain was traumatised with the technology. She had done this to herself. Jimmy was right – this had to stop.
But even then, she knew that she wasn’t going to stop.
Not now.
9.45 p.m.
‘What’s going on?’ Not wanting to be alone, Kyra had driven to her mother’s straight from the shelter.
Her mother, dressed for bed, shut the front door behind them and winced as there was a crashing sound coming from upstairs.
‘Molly’s having a hard time adjusting …’ She shook her head, tears in her eyes.
‘She’s got to start acting her age.’
There was another thump coming from Molly’s room as something hit a wall.
‘She’s young and upset,’ her mother began.
‘No, Mum! This is ridiculous! She’s nearly an adult. She needs to grow up and stop being a burden on you.’ She felt a surge of annoyance towards her niece.
‘She’s always been like that, Kyra. Always full-on, all or nothing. With your dad gone, she’s been a lifesaver really. What would I have done with myself? Moped around the house? She’s good company, mostly. She’s having a hard time.’
‘Don’t be playing it down. If she’s being a pain, then she needs telling.’ Kyra was surprised at the aggression in her own voice.
‘She always plays up at this time of year. She’ll settle down when Emma’s anniversary has passed,’ her mother said gently.
‘She needs to grow up. Emma was pregnant with her at that age.’ A horrible phrase popped into Kyra’s head, stupid little whore getting caught … She shook herself. Where had that come from?
There was a flicker of pain on her mum’s face. ‘I can’t believe she’ll never get to know her own mother.’
‘I’ll stay tonight. I’ll go and have a word with her.’
As she moved to go upstairs, her mother caught her arm. ‘Be kind, Kyra. Please. Just be kind.’
‘She hasn’t exactly been kind to you,’ she replied, pulling away roughly. ‘I’ll put her straight.’
‘This isn’t like you.’ Her mother appeared confused. ‘What’s wrong?’
But she ignored the question and stomped up to Molly’s room.
‘Molly, what the hell?’ she said as she opened the bedroom door.
Part of her knew that a teenager who trashed her room was someone in despair, someone who needed help, but she felt a deep irritation bordering on anger.
‘Get up!’ she shouted at her niece who was lying on the bed amidst the chaos, clothes everywhere, the wardrobe doors open, pictures torn off the walls, possessions flung around, a long crack down her mirror.
Molly half sat up, her long dark hair tangled over her still-wet face.
Kyra bent down, grabbed her by the shoulders and
roared, ‘You can’t behave like this!’
Molly winced.
‘You’re upsetting your nan. We all lost your mum. We all feel it. Stop being selfish!’
Molly looked at her with surprise and then shouted, ‘You don’t know what it feels like! I was there!’ She seemed almost relieved to have someone to take her tantrum out on. She raised her hands to hit out.
‘You don’t remember any of it! You were only a kid!’ Kyra yelled back at her, grabbing her by the wrists.
Molly opened her mouth in shock and then her expression morphed into a scowl. ‘I don’t care what you say, it still hurts. I know it’s in my head but I don’t remember.’ She tried to wrestle away from Kyra.
‘Stop being so dramatic!’
‘Get off me, you bitch!’ Molly burst out.
Kyra released one of her wrists and slapped her niece across the face, brief and hard.
There was a moment of stillness, both of them shocked.
Kyra let go of her altogether and put her hand to her mouth.
Molly’s hands flew up to cheeks, her eyes welling up with tears, turning from anger to distress.
‘Oh God, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to …’ Kyra began. What the hell had she just done? She had never lifted her hand against anyone, never mind her niece.
‘Get out of my room! Leave me alone!’ Molly threw herself back on her bed, face down.
As Kyra left, she caught a glimpse of herself in the broken mirror, the crack dissecting her face, her heart also feeling fractured. She made her way to the spare room, in a daze, tears brimming in her eyes. What was happening to her? She lay on the bed, exhausted, feeling as though she was coming apart at the seams. How could she have treated Molly like that? She lay, unable to sleep, thoughts about the recent days’ events tumbling through her mind, listening to her niece sobbing in the next room.
Finally, after Molly had cried herself out and was asleep, and her mother had long gone to bed, sounds suddenly burst in Kyra’s ears, as though the screen downstairs had come on automatically at full volume. She sat up, disoriented and afraid, to the sound of two people arguing in her mother’s kitchen, shouting, screaming, and smashing crockery.
It wasn’t Molly and her mum arguing, it was too aggressive – they wouldn’t behave like that, would they? She was certain that they were asleep. But then she heard the roar of a man’s voice.
‘How many times do I have to tell you, stupid bitch?’
There was a crash as something flew against the kitchen wall, shattering Kyra’s nerves. She jumped off the bed, pulled on her sweater and made her way tentatively to the bottom of the stairs. This must be a dream, surely?
But when she got halfway down, she heard a woman’s plaintive cries, ‘Please, please, I’m sorry, I’m sor—’ Followed by a sickening ‘urrgh’ which rendered the woman silent.
This wasn’t a dream – it must be happening. This was too real. What the hell was going on?
‘You stupid little whore! I … don’t … have … to … tell … you … again!’ came the man’s voice, the effort of his violence punctuating his speech.
The door of the kitchen was ajar, and Kyra saw someone move on the other side. In a panic, she slipped on the last stair, twisting her foot. She winced in pain, stifling a cry, and crawled up a few stairs, horrified, but desperate to know what was happening.
Then came the woman’s howls from the kitchen, ‘No, no, please, let go, Dave!’
Dave?
‘Why do you make me do this?’ he yelled and then a horrible thudding sound.
Kyra lay sprawled on the stairs, not knowing whether to go up or down, petrified, but desperate to stop whatever it was that was happening. Should she go into the kitchen? Would everything disappear in the light, as it had done at her flat the other night?
She pushed herself up straight, her foot aching, and took a deep breath.
It’s not real! It’s not real! she told herself, moving towards the door, ready to shed light on her own imagination, but this was the most vivid phantom she had experienced. She went to reach for the handle, breathless.
Terror stabbed at her heart as the door to the kitchen was flung open. There stood the large silhouette of a man who, even from this view, she recognised immediately.
David Lomax.
Her logical mind was telling her: This is a phantom. He is not here. He’s in Rockwell!
But she was utterly petrified. Her legs quivered as though they were going to give way beneath her.
Her foot throbbing with pain, she clambered back up the stairs, using her hands to claw her way up, to the spare bedroom. She could hear the thudding of his feet as he made his way up behind her. He was gaining on her. Her heart and head pounded. Her mouth was dry. The woman in the kitchen was silent now.
Was he going to silence her too?
She flung herself into the bedroom and shut the door behind her, out of her mind with fear, desperate to find somewhere to hide. She ducked down onto the floor, ready to scramble underneath the bed when she saw a sight that almost stopped her heart.
Two children, a young boy and a very young girl, hid under her bed, their huge terrified eyes staring right at Kyra. The boy had his arm wrapped around the little girl.
They looked at each other, fear etched onto their little faces, and then turned back to Kyra, put their fingers to their lips and whispered Shhhh!
Chapter Twenty-Six
TUESDAY 5 FEBRUARY 2035
7.50 a.m.
Kyra sipped at the coffee in the reinforced paper cup that she held tightly, as though it contained liquid gold. She had bought it from a proper barista bar after smelling the aroma pumped out by the 3D salespop near the lab. It was the real thing; expensive and irresistible. She stood in the street nearby the lab and glanced at her Commset. Jimmy would be there in another ten minutes or so. He was usually on time for work. The main street was quieter at this time of day, but the ever-shining lights from the shops and salespops lit the gloomy early morning, straining her eyes.
Those children she had seen last night … What the hell was happening to her? The phantoms were getting worse. Was she going mad? Jimmy would be able to reassure her, wouldn’t he?
Where was Jimmy? She tried to distract herself by giving in to the ubiquitous screens throwing out all sorts of images which vied for her attention.
The Well-Being Centre caught her eye.
Are you concerned about your health and fitness … you only have one body, Kyra, and we can help you to reach optimum …
Our latest computer programme to reduce stress has been rated by the Health Ministry as one of the best available …
Kyra swiped it away, only for it to be replaced with a more irritating salespop:
Having a partner can add so much to your life. We can match you based on your values, ideals and …
Tom immediately came to mind. There had been a point fifteen years ago when they should have made more of it, but that was in the past now. She lived with enough regret, she had to let it go.
She dropped her coffee in shock as Lomax’s face appeared in front of her, staring out from the hologram, straight at Kyra, the eyes following her wherever she went. A newsreader’s face replaced him.
And in breaking news, a secret source from the Met has divulged that police are now looking for more than one suspect in the Mizpah Murders. This surprise revelation comes as information was leaked that David Lomax, convicted of the horrific attacks on six women fourteen years ago, may not have acted alone. Reports that Lomax was not at the scene of the …
Looking down at the pool of coffee around her feet, Kyra groaned. No doubt the press were going to start digging around every tiny detail of the case and accusations of police incompetency would be flying. Tom would be furious. Where had the information come from? Was there a mole on the team? How would it affect her mother, or Molly, all the other families of the victims who would hear this and realise that they had been let down, that there might still be so
meone out there to fear – who might kill again.
Isabel Marsden appeared next, a full-body hologram much shorter than Kyra, her hair blonde and shoulder-length, her face pleading. She reached out her hands to Kyra, her voice echoing: ‘Have you seen me?’ She disappeared and reappeared, stretching out her hands again and again and repeating, ‘Have you seen me?’ on a loop. Then, Tom appeared in a face-to-camera interview. Kyra halted and passers-by moved around her as she stood still to watch.
‘We are very concerned for the welfare of Isabel Patricia Marsden, twenty-one, who has been missing since Friday night.’ Tom’s voice was clear and deep, his gaze steady. ‘She was last seen at approximately 10.40 outside the Farmers’ Arms pub on Marlborough Street. Isabel is a student nurse and she was tending to an injured man outside the pub. We strongly urge that person to please come forward so that we can eliminate him from our enquiries. Isabel knows staff from the Royal University Hospital and there is a possibility she may have gone there with the injured man or been picked up by a non-registered taxi. Her bank card has not been used and there has been no activity on her social media accounts. If you have any information, even if you think it is trivial, please do not hesitate to call, text or email on the number on the screen. It is essential that we find Isabel as soon as possible.’
Kyra moved down the street and the press-conference newspop continued on another screen where Isabel’s father, face white and strained, his voice trembling, begged for information.
‘Isabel, I love you and …’ He choked. ‘Isabel, I love you and I want you home. If you are having problems, we can face them together and work through this. Please, if you are watching this, either get in touch and let me know you are okay or be assured that we are doing everything we can to bring you home.’
She looked up to see Jimmy sauntering along the street, moving in time to music only he could hear. When she dived in front of him, his face fell.
‘Jimmy! I need to talk to you.’ Did he just roll his eyes?
‘Stop music,’ he commanded his Commset. ‘I’m on my way to the lab.’
‘I know. I know.’ She grabbed his arm. She could feel the muscle tense. ‘Please, Jim. I need to talk to you.’