The Girl in the Water

by A J Grayson

  The blogs were already drawing connections to the Emma Fairfax discovery of just over two days ago, despite the difference of circumstance. Murders in northern California just aren’t as frequent as down south. With the exception of San Francisco and Sacramento, almost everything north of Los Angeles is a small town or farming community, and bodies being discovered at all is a rare occurrence. Two in so short a span is unheard of, and so even these outwardly different cases were inevitably going to be linked in the public’s eye.

  Right from the beginning, though, I was consumed with the differences.

  Apart from the location, the most notable difference was the sex. This body was male, which immediately suggested a range of quite different motives for suspicious death. The age, too, was disparate. Emma Fairfax was reported by the police as being thirty-nine, but the man’s body – no name or age was yet provided – was described as having grey hair.

  And there was a different cause of death. While it it had taken a while to be made public, it was now widely circulated that Emma Fairfax had been asphyxiated; while the man’s cause of death, by contrast, was made known immediately. A stab wound on his left side, a few inches above the hip. Other signs of conflict there, too – scrapes and tears in his skin – but the cause of death was unequivocally stabbing.

  Reports also indicate that he was well dressed, his clothes suggesting the budget of someone who wasn’t exactly living off welfare handouts. Not a shop clerk. Not a hairdresser.

  All of which I absorb as I read various articles, with an attention that becomes so focused I can no longer hear the beeps from the till at the door or the murmured tones of visitors among the aisles. I’m pretty sure Chloe has long since stopped speaking and moved on to other things, but she could be standing at my shoulder shouting into my ear and I don’t think I’d notice her.

  I want, I really want, my world not to start dissolving again. My irrational reaction to news of Emma Fairfax’s discovery had led me in every direction except the reasonable; but I don’t want to be that woman – the woman who worries and fears and speculates and suspects. I want to be the rational woman that I know I am. That I’ve always been.

  But I’m not sure how much we can control just who we actually are. As I sit at my computer, jotting down facts and figures onto my Hello Kitty notepad and bookmarking websites, the edges of my vision are starting to go white. My pulse is taking on the thrash of a heavily pounded drum, and my blouse is gluing itself to my back.

  35

  Amber

  I want to go home. Two days running, work has been an environment that catapults my inner world out of control, and I don’t feel I can bear it any longer. I just want to be in my kitchen with my dog at my ankles, my husband beside me, and nothing at all beyond that beautiful bubble. And it doesn’t take much longer for me to realize that there’s no real reason I can’t be precisely there.

  It’s coming on noon. For a few hours I’ve been caught up reading reports on the new body. Chloe seemed to sense my interior distraction, because she did what is relatively uncharacteristic for her and came over to help me through my morning obligations. Boxes unpacked. Papers racked. Pricing, done. Sorting, accomplished. A good friend is a good friend, and today she’s stepped up to the plate, seen me through my chores, and enabled my little obsession. God bless her for it.

  My normal lunch break kicks in at 12.30 p.m., but I don’t see any reason not to push it up and make a day of it. I can’t exactly take the rest of the day off, of course; even a low-stress job has standards of performance. But that doesn’t mean I can’t make up an excuse.

  I rise from my desk and walk over to the small L-shaped counter near the entrance that constitutes Chloe’s world. The iPad-based till has, as is often the case when she isn’t actively scanning a sale, been converted into a chat browser, and Chloe is masterfully demonstrating her ability to make it look as if she’s actually working while she chatters away with anyone willing to type back. She has a pair of white wireless headphones stuck into her ears and, between bursts of typing, she’s applying what can’t be less than the tenth coat of varnish to her fingernails. It’s the same shade of tangerine orange that decorates her eyelids.

  ‘Chloe,’ I announce to no response. I reach out and gently tap her shoulder. ‘Chloe, you have a second?’

  The nail varnish brush gets dropped into its tiny jar and a headphone – only one of them – is plucked from her ear.

  ‘What is it, hon?’ Spiked eyelashes flutter.

  ‘I think I’m going to head out a bit early, take the afternoon off at home for a bit of a lie down. Can you tell Mitch I’m away, if he asks?’

  ‘You not feeling well?’ Chloe’s eyes suddenly beam concern.

  ‘No,’ I say, honestly, though I make a motion towards my stomach that hints at indigestion or something unbecomingly bowel-related, which is less honest. I don’t want to talk about what’s hurting in my head.

  ‘Gotcha,’ she acknowledges, nodding. ‘Don’t worry. If Mitch comes questioning, I’ll let him know you’re unwell.’

  I pass her an appreciative look, tuck my notepad and computer firmly under an arm, and head towards the door.

  ‘Maybe it’s just your age, love,’ I hear Chloe announce behind me. ‘I hear a bit of bloating is normal with the onset of menopause.’

  I pause and turn back to face her. ‘Screw you. You’re going to get to this age one day, too, you crazy bat.’ But Chloe is all grins, and for one blissful moment so am I.

  I’m in the car, somewhere near Fulton, when I ring David. My Ford Fiesta predates Bluetooth call integration by about a century, but David got me one of the little earpiece options for my mobile a year ago. It’s in my ear without my really thinking about it.

  I don’t know why I call him, either. An impulse. I just want to talk, to be with him; because my vision is swooning again, and my headache is nearly too strong to bear. There’s no reason to think that David can help with this, but I still want to hear his voice. I feel the edge of an abyss drawing too close to the balls of my feet, and I want him with me.

  Another body, to go along with hers. My innards tighten. The abyss. Another corpse. Another death.

  At least there are no mystical visions in the car this time. No faces or names, just a deepening dread.

  The line buzzes in my ear, and after a few rings David answers.

  ‘Hello, love.’ His voice is warm. ‘This is a nice surprise.’

  I’m trying to keep the road in focus, working not to let the pain between my temples force me to close my eyes.

  ‘I’m on the road, David. I’m going home.’

  A slight hesitation. ‘Working lunch?’

  ‘I’m taking the rest of the day off. I don’t feel well.’

  Another pause, longer.

  ‘Is there anything I can do for you? I don’t think I can get away from the pharmacy early, but I could pick up some soup on the way home this evening. You need anything from here in the shop? Or maybe …’ there’s a change to his tone, which becomes suggestive, ‘or maybe just the promise of a little physical attention when I get there?’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I answer, completely ignoring the innuendo. ‘I just need to lie down, I think.’ I’m not sure lying down has anything to do with it. ‘When you come home, I want to tell you some things.’

  There’s an unidentifiable shuffling noise at David’s end of the line. A second later his voice returns, slightly quieter and with no romantic suggestion lingering.

  ‘Tell me things? What sort of things?’

  ‘I’ve got to talk to you about something I read in the paper. A girl’s body was found along Russian River a couple of days ago, and today the police found another body. Down in Felton. A man’s. I don’t know why, but the whole thing is really weirding me out.’

  The words flow out of me spontaneously, and David doesn’t say anything back. He’s normally chatty on the phone, but right now he’s stops and starts. Mostly stops. Then, after a lon
g pause, his voice finally sounds again in my ear.

  ‘I want you to drive straight home, Amber.’

  Odd. ‘I am already, David, I told you.’

  ‘Don’t make any stops along the way.’

  I’m not in the mood for stops, my thoughts answer. Not feeling like this.

  ‘I’ll be home as soon as I can,’ he continues, ‘within an hour or two tops, and we’ll talk.’

  ‘I thought you couldn’t get off early,’ I mutter.

  ‘I’ll be there. You just lie down and wait for me.’

  I have such a loving husband. Willing to bite into his day like that, just to care for me.

  ‘Lie down, wait,’ he adds, ‘and don’t call anyone els—’

  It sounds like he cuts himself off. Not sure, but I think I catch a whispered profanity slanted against the line.

  ‘Have a cup of coffee when you get back,’ he returns in full voice. ‘Nuke it from the counter, it’ll taste fine.’

  ‘I don’t feel like coffee.’

  ‘Just drink half a mug.’ Audible impatience. ‘It’ll calm your stomach.’

  Odd, I always thought coffee did the opposite.

  ‘And keep to yourself, Amber.’ His voice is steadier now. I think it might be calming. Sturdy.

  ‘Whatever you may think,’ David continues, ‘remember this. Absolutely nothing happened.’

  36

  Amber

  I arrive home in one piece. For a while, I had my doubts. My phone call with David ended and my head was spinning as much as I can ever remember it doing. Definitely not safe for driving, but I was already mid-highway and there wasn’t much to be done about that. Thank God, it was the middle of the workday and traffic was slight. I made it home alive, and so did everyone around me.

  My key is in the foyer lock with only a few slips at the slot, and I drag my ever-heavier feet up the stairs to our landing. Another key in another lock and I’m through the entrance and into the kitchen, which some star of a junior architect must have thought would make an appropriate front room. Its lights flicker like they always do, and when they finally snap to attention their white glow feels like it physically stabs at the back of my eyes.

  Sadie’s not in the kitchen. It’s not the first thing I notice, but it doesn’t escape me long. She’s somewhere else. Her leash isn’t hanging on its hook, either. I’ll have to go find her in a moment. I’ll enjoy a little snuggle.

  David’s voice is back in my ears.

  ‘Have a cup of coffee when you get back. It’ll calm your stomach.’ The advice even now strikes me as absurd. ‘Churn a little acidity into your burdened entrails’ doesn’t seem like the most common-sense counsel I’ve ever received.

  But the invitation is still tempting. I’d never gone through with making myself a replacement for the cup of tea that Mitch had drunk on my behalf this morning, and going from the start of work to lunch without so much as a cup after leaving the house is unusual for me. I crave tea, but David’s right: there’s still a bit of coffee left in the pot on the counter, and the microwave is faster than the kettle.

  I approach the countertop. The cold coffee, black and thick, sloshes around the bottom of the glass carafe with my handling. I draw it up to my nose, inhale a long whiff of its scent – but the coffee’s cold, and the scent is more stale than inviting.

  The man in Felton, stabbed in his house. His story is back in my head, too. No images of him, but I envisage his body lying prone on the floor. I wonder if it looked peaceful, as the woman’s had. At least, as I presumed she had, based on the image I’d formed in my head from the way Chloe’s chat-interlocutor had described her. Her eyes open, gazing at the sky.

  The online reports say the man had grey hair.

  Grey. Older. Something different.

  I stare down at the carafe in my hands.

  Screw this. I want nothing to do with the coffee. My appetite is entirely gone. With a little thrust the carafe is back on its pad and I’m turned towards the staircase. The having-a-bit-of-a-lie-down portion of my plan is still inviting, and the bedroom calls to me from its usual location up the steps. A three-storey apartment. Dear God, it’s just an absurdity.

  I wish I knew where Sadie was.

  On the third or fourth step upwards, Emma Fairfax is back in my head, just as the man had been. All the details I’d hoped I’d forgotten, lingering in my attention.

  I can’t forget this. Not any of it.

  The details of the memories mingle together. As they do, the staircase seems abnormally white, almost phosphorescent.

  Oh, God. It’s happening again. My vision blurs, and I can’t focus on the not-exactly-lotus-blossom patterns that line the staircase wallpaper. I grab for the handrail, suddenly unsure of my feet.

  David’s voice is back in my head, displacing everything else, and my spine goes solid as I hear him speak.

  ‘Whatever you may think, remember this. Absolutely nothing happened.’

  For the first time since he said them at the end of our phone call in the car, the full weight of my husband’s words falls upon me.

  Nothing happened.

  He can’t have said that. He can’t, because if he did, then I have the final proof that my memories – the briefcase, the desk, the leash, the box, the things swirling in my head – they aren’t my imagination. Something did happen, something real, and something my husband knows about. I’m not mad. I’m not mad.

  I’m racing up the steps, tears suddenly filling my already blurred eyes.

  I have only one target as I ascend the stairs past our bedroom and take the few extra that lead to our minimalist uppermost storey. There is only one place here that has the potential to make sense of all the strangeness colliding in my mind.

  I reach the upper floor and within a few steps I’m at the door to David’s study. I pause before I slowly slide it open. I need to breathe. Focus. Then move, and pray for some calm to prevail in what’s coming.

  The room looks exactly like I’d left it this morning. Exactly like it always does. I step towards the desk with my stomach turning over and David’s voice assaulting my memory.

  ‘Whatever you may think, remember this. Absolutely nothing happened.’

  And I remember another singsong voice, one I’d heard in the closet at our bedside when I’d discovered his briefcase there yesterday. He’s lyyyyyyying …

  The surface of the desk is tidy, organized with David’s customary efficiency. But this time, the tidiness seems fake. Fabricated. That something unusual took place here yesterday is no longer something I’m willing to relegate to fantasy. I’m sure of it now, and it means only one thing.

  I try not to envisage David clambering to gather up the files I’d strewn about the desk. The leash. Planning where to hide it all away from me again. Instead, I look towards the footspace beneath the desk.

  As before, there’s no briefcase there. But I expect to see the cardboard box, and I do.

  My head has resumed its swirling, though I manage to keep my balance under control as I lower myself down onto my knees once again. I reach out and lift the lid, finding inside it precisely what I remember. I stretch out a finger to touch David’s white t-shirt with its crimson UCLA lettering.

  This morning I’d been so certain that it was going to be blood, but it wasn’t anything like that. Yet there was still something, something here.

  Not in the box, beneath it. The memory resurfaces. A stripe of something rust-coloured, ground into the carpeting. Mud.

  But now I’m horrifyingly certain that it wasn’t mud at all. It was blood, like I thought from the very beginning.

  There’s one way to find out: I can fetch a flashlight and get a proper look. I’m not a forensics type, and I know CSI is mostly myth, but I think that under bright enough light I could probably tell the difference. I have to hope so.

  I slide the box out of the way, and I freeze.

  Beneath it, the carpeting is pristine. There is no smudge of anything, dirt, blood o
r otherwise.

  Vertigo threatens me even from my stance on my knees. This isn’t right. I’m sure I’d seen it. I’m … absolutely …

  I lean forward. I don’t know what possesses me, but I bow down, almost prostrate, until my face is millimetres from the carpet. I imagine my eyes are microscopes, capable of seeing at close range what I must have missed from a few feet away.

  But it’s not my eyes that make the discovery, it’s my nose.

  The scent of chemicals is overwhelming. Faux pine and ammonia and aerosol, so strong it burns my nostrils. I bring a hand forward and feel the spot beneath my face. It’s wet, and my fingers come away from the carpet with the same scent.

  ‘Oh my God.’ The words come out aloud, as I realize with deadened certainty that David had been here after I was. ‘He’s cleaned the floor.’

  It’s hard to know how to react when you suddenly become certain your husband is deceiving you. Not in general terms, the way most women wonder at some point whether they’re being cheated on or marginalized by another love interest, but in concrete, factual terms borne out by evidence that literally clings to your fingertips.

  As the chemical scent of the carpet cleaner sticks to my skin, I’m made firmly aware that David has done everything my unreliable mind had suspected him of since last night. He’s hoarded away our dog’s red, rope leash, made of the same course fibres the police say marked out the weapon that killed Emma Fairfax. It was wet, and sinister, and he tried to keep me from finding it. But I did, and now he’s covered up the fact that it was ever here; and he’s scrubbed up the stain beneath his desk, which means that it definitely wasn’t mud. He wouldn’t have made time to deep clean the carpeting for a scuff of dirt. He was evidently concerned enough about my seeing the blood stain that he’d have had to come back home after I left this morning, just to address it.

  ‘Absolutely nothing happened.’ His words echo more and more loudly within me.