Broken Toys

by Jackson Lear

  “Few people do,” said Josh.

  “Do you think you’ll tell Hannah about Brooke?” asked Amanda.

  “One day, maybe. Right now she’s kinda miffed that I’m supposedly distracted by Catherine Shiever’s murder.”

  Amanda glanced over with a curious look. “Anthony mentioned her the other day.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve found a bunch of old journals from when she disappeared. Half the time I’m actually trying to piece together what happened, the other half I’m trying to avoid Hannah.”

  “Right. I don’t want to say your relationship sounds like it’s doomed …”

  “It’s doomed,” said Josh.

  “But hiding from your girlfriend isn’t a good sign.”

  “Neither’s saying it’s doomed. But hey, worse case scenario, she and I break up, Brooke never leaves her husband, and you can move into my spare room. That’ll certainly get you out of your mum’s house.”

  A smile spread across Amanda’s face. “You know I can’t pay rent, right?”

  “Yeah, but I figure you’ll stroll around in your underwear enough to make up for it.”

  Amanda slapped Josh across the arm. “So how did Catherine die?”

  “No clue.”

  “Not much of a detective, are you?”

  “Our prime suspect at the time was Toads.”

  “The creepy kid?”

  “Yep.”

  “I see a problem in that.”

  “Which is?”

  “How old was he at the time?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “There you go. Thirteen year olds are dumb. While it’s entirely possible that he could’ve killed Catherine, it’s impossible that he had enough sense and knowledge to be able to keep her hidden for twenty years. Teenagers lack a lot of processing in consequences. He wouldn’t know about all the evidence he’s left behind and how to clean it up. He wouldn’t know how to dispose of a body properly. He might think he knows, but even today you have adults who have grown up watching all these movies and TV shows who kill someone and they’re caught. Sometimes they are smart adults with an education but they make one mistake that the police narrow in on. A thirteen year old like your Toads fella is going to make a hundred mistakes.”

  Josh jogged along and absorbed as much of what Amanda told him as possible. “It was pissing down with rain that night. It would’ve washed away a lot of blood.”

  “Did it wash away her body as well?”

  “Then maybe an old man saw her drinking and smoking. Maybe he beat her up for being a sinner.”

  “I’d suggest trying to work backwards. Instead of looking at every possible way that she died, try to find out where she is. Then tell the police and let them figure out who did it. Or maybe she just ran away and now lives in Ontario.”

  “After all this time I’m hoping she really is dead, and not locked in someone’s basement,” said Josh.

  “I’d rather the basement,” said Amanda. “At least then there is the chance of freedom.”

  “Not me. All that torture and agony …”

  “If she’s still alive she would’ve had the opportunity to kill herself, which would tell her rescuer that she prefers life over death. But if you were going to kill someone and hide them in Luxford, where would it be?”

  Josh cocked an eyebrow at her and shook his head. “If I had to get rid of someone I would dump them on the train tracks.”

  “Ew, really?”

  “It’s less worrying than digging a grave and waiting for someone to find it one day.”

  “How would you get them to the tracks?”

  “Wait until midnight, drag them out there, and let the first train of the day drive over them.”

  Amanda felt the power of a train slicing through her shins and shivered.

  “But I don’t think that happened to her.”

  “Good.”

  “She would have to be buried somewhere,” said Josh, as he ticked over the possibilities.

  41

  Anthony

  After a year of planning, with a thousand tulips and two hundred guests, Bruce and Lucy said their ‘I do’s. Much to Anthony’s surprise, Lucy did not look like a giant meringue. She wore a sleek white wedding dress with silver waves sewn into the fabric. Later in the day she donned a faux fur jacket which looked more like a waist coat with sleeves. She had three costume changes during the photo shoot between the wedding and reception, which left Anthony plenty of time to check his phone while Gemma was busy looking glamorous.

  Bruce gifted a different coloured tie to each of the groomsmen. In some of the portraits, Bruce somehow found a top hat and a cane, wore a cheeky look, and had managed to convince Lucy that for every serious and lovey-dovey picture they had to have one that seemed like they were two best friends having the happiest day of their lives.

  During the service, Gemma glanced over the two hundred immaculately dressed guests and shot Anthony a wide-eyed ‘help me!’ look. All Anthony could do from the fifth row was nod assuringly. He had just a few minutes to calm her down before the bridal party disappeared for photos at an old hotel and garden lawn. Anthony had to assure Gemma via text message that her speech later that night was not going to ruin the wedding no matter how shaky her voice was.

  He had listened to three versions of her speech during the week and had run out of ways to suggest that she trim it down. Two minutes was an acceptable length, but the five minute speech that Gemma tried to memorise was littered with so many ‘um’s and ‘ah’s that the whole thing had doubled in length.

  At seven o’clock the main course was served. Anthony went to find his wife and let her know that her freaking out time was over. Also, that her fish was getting cold. He found her in the ladies’ bathroom, pacing back and forth in the black and gold dress with her head down in serious concentration.

  “Thought I’d find you here,” Anthony said.

  Gemma snapped her head up in surprise. “This is the women’s bathroom!”

  “And everyone is out there sitting down to dinner. I’ll leave if anyone comes in. So, how are you doing?”

  “You don’t want to know,” Gemma mumbled, before resuming a quick pace.

  “I could always leave you in here and drink all the wine they’re serving the both of us.”

  “Half of that is mine, and probably more than just half, considering how many people I have to do this in front of.”

  Anthony looked his wife up and down, scanned the empty bathroom, and smiled to himself.

  “What?” Gemma asked.

  “I know exactly how to distract you.”

  Gemma rolled her eyes. “I don’t have time for that.”

  “Considering all the weddings we’ve been to, our own even, I think it’s about time to cross a few things off on the great to do list.”

  “Oh yeah? You think it’s a good idea for me to hawk up my dress so that you can get a quick shag and then you’ll be leaking out of me while I’m the centre of attention in front of two hundred people?”

  Anthony blinked a couple of times and felt his libido drop. “I wasn’t going to phrase it quite like that.”

  “Shoo,” said Gemma. “I have to get this right.”

  “You told me to keep you calm.”

  “I can do it by myself,” said Gemma.

  “I love you. If you start to panic just say: ‘But enough about that. To the happy couple!’”

  “Go. Please.”

  Anthony nodded, backed away, and last saw his wife drop back to a frantic pace with her head down. Anthony left the ladies’ bathroom, went to reclaim his seat at table one, and gulped back the two glasses of wine that were sitting in front of him.

  Half an hour later, Josh wandered over with his tie loosened around his rented suit. “How’s it all going over here?”

  Anthony shrugged and stared at Gemma’s full plate of food.

  “That good, huh?” Josh and sat in Gemma’s chair, which was only four over from where he had been
sitting for the last hour. “So guess who just shot me down on wedding sex?”

  “If it’s Gemma I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “What? No. Hannah. Why, is Gemma up for it?”

  “No, she is not,” said Anthony.

  Josh glanced to one side and, drunkenly, tried to look Anthony in the eye. “Did you get laid on your wedding day?”

  Anthony shook his head. “I had about three glasses of wine that night. I tried to keep it together so I could thank everyone for coming and I made an effort to go and talk to everyone, but the party finished at four in the morning and Amanda and I were just wrecked. We had morning sex, though, which was successful.”

  Josh gave Anthony a wry look.

  “What?”

  “You said ‘Amanda’ instead of ‘Gemma.’”

  “Slip of the tongue,” said Anthony. “You know she wanted to babysit Tom and Sarah today?”

  Josh lingered on his pause for a little too long. “Did she?”

  “Gemma crapped all over that one and insisted that they go to their grandparents. Apparently Gemma is concerned about our New York spinster friend.”

  Josh helped himself to some of Gemma’s re-filled glass of wine. “Your wife has a few issues.”

  “It comes with having two kids,” Anthony said. “And FYI, Bruce keeps saying that you’ll be next.”

  “Ha! What, marriage or the kids?”

  “Probably the marriage bit.”

  Josh nodded quietly to himself.

  “Been reconsidering things?”

  “Who the hell knows? A week ago I was sure of some things and now … now I’m getting drunk on free wine and avoiding my girlfriend.”

  Anthony felt an alcohol burp come along, which made him look as though he was sighing.

  “Did I bum you out with that one?” Josh asked.

  “Not at all.”

  “But if you could do it all over again then I’m guessing it wouldn’t have been a slip of the tongue?”

  Anthony looked over the drink in Josh’s hand. “How much have you had?”

  “Enough to start flirting with your sister,” said Josh.

  “Well, good luck there. She’ll chew you up before you even realise what’s happened to you.”

  “Oh, no question. But she did come to a wedding alone and she’s certainly getting some attention.”

  Anthony glanced over and found Claire sitting in the back, laughing with someone Anthony hadn’t met yet. Ian was staying at their parent’s house for the night alongside Tom and Sarah, so it gave Claire free reign on whoever she brought back home.

  They were interrupted with a knife tapping against a champagne glass. The best man got to his feet and smiled at the crowd.

  Gemma peered out from the bathroom door. She was next.

  42

  Zofia

  Zofia Bukowski stood at the junction of Tress and Blyth, looking over the arched bridge with the stream lapping against the rocks as it ran underneath. She held her position and scanned the scene, taking it all in, trying to find an ideal location for a photo. She pulled out her Canon DSLR and uncapped her 28mm Zeiss lens, held the camera to her left eye and fired off a couple of shots.

  The only thing that disturbed her was a man walking in the distance. He walked with a cane but he didn’t have that hunch around the shoulders that old men had. There was a definite limp, though. Zofia stepped off the road and climbed down to the water’s edge. She headed below the stone brick walls and entered a world of ancient England, surrounded by trees and moss, with the smell of a recent rain still soaking through the bark and leaves. She fired off a couple of photos, dropped to one knee and got a low angle shot of the brickwork. The belly of the bridge was covered in graffiti. She crossed to the other side of the stream. From there the afternoon shadow masked some of the spray painted dick and balls.

  Click.

  The man with the cane stared down at her from on top of the bridge. Despite the rampant grey in his five-day stubble, he was a lot younger than Zofia first expected.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled, lowering the camera to her chest.

  James stared back at her. “I thought you had fallen down.”

  “No, I just come … came to take some pictures for class.”

  He didn’t take his eyes off her. “You’re from London?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have an accent.”

  Zofia’s smoky hazel eyes glossed over as she readied her usual answers to common questions. “I’m from Poland.”

  James pulled back off the road. Zofia lost sight of him but didn’t hear him walk away. She leaned back to see if the haggard man was still there or not. The thing that pushed him away was finding out where she came from. It wasn’t the first time something like that had happened to her face but it did sour her trip to Luxford. She looked back under the bridge to gauge the level of graffiti. It also gave her some grumbling time against the obtuse welcoming. She moved along the water’s edge to get a shot of the water running towards the bridge. At least from there she could see if anyone was still watching her.

  After a few minutes of ducking in and out of trees, braving the crumbling slopes of the river bank, she had enough long exposures for her assignment. She made a plan of heading farther up the road to see the older style cottages and Tudor houses before heading back to the bus station. With any luck she’d make it to her dorm before dinner.

  Twenty minutes later she stood along Strachen Road. The house that took her fancy sat on a curved lane facing a set of hedges with a sharp drop on the other side. It, like several of the other houses on that road, had a whitewash finish to the walls. This particular house had a hauntingly abandoned feel to it, with the splotchy straw roof and cracked window frames. Zofia lowered herself down to catch a shot of the roses growing in the front garden next to the high walls surrounding the house.

  She looked back beyond the hedges and could see the bustle of a motorway in the distance. On a clear day she could’ve seen London. She would have to keep an eye on the weather forecast and return when it was foggy. Imelda and Erik would freak out if they got a chance to showcase their Gothic and steam-punk costumes among the fog and abandoned English cottages.

  Click.

  For now, the overcast sky breathing over London would have to do.

  There was a crunching of leaves to her side. She could only see a few metres in either direction because of the sharp curve of the road. She lowered her camera so as not to offend any local who might shout at her for taking a picture of their neighbour’s derelict house. She prepared a smile for whoever passed her.

  It was the man with the cane. He now wore a long coat and a black scarf hung freely down the side of his body. He had also acquired an old man’s cap. He walked stiffly and stared straight into Zofia’s eyes.

  Zofia felt her veins freeze and her pulse bottom out. It wasn’t just the shock of seeing James again, it was the way he moved towards her. She recapped her camera and readied herself to run if the limping man became violent. She feigned a smile while the life inside her squirmed.

  James pulled out a black Smith & Wesson and pointed it at her face. “Don’t you fucking move.”

  Zofia fell into total brain lock. Every idea she ever had came back to flood her senses in an instant. It was a misunderstanding, she was trespassing, he had the wrong person, she had to catch the 17:15 bus back to London, the ticket was in her wallet in her bag and if she lost that she would be stranded in Luxford ... the words blurred together and her mind slipped back into Polish.

  James pointed to the house behind her. “Inside. Now.”

  Zofia inhaled a short shock of fright. No one killed anyone on the street. Not like this. They reserved that act for indoors.

  James pointed to the side of the house, towards a tall iron gate. “Come on.”

  The words stumbled out of her. “Please, I’m just–”

  “I will shoot you in the fucking face if you don’t move your cunt. Give me that came
ra.”

  Zofia’s hands rattled beyond control as she handed over the best present she had ever bought for herself, all three thousand pounds worth of camera and lenses. She needed it to complete her course. It wasn’t insured and she couldn’t afford to buy another one.

  James took the camera in one hand and pointed again to the side of the house. “Move. Or I’ll smash your camera right here.”

  With the weight of the camera gone and the gun barrel aimed between her eyes, Zofia felt like she was now lifted up by helium. She raised her impossibly light hand, pushed open the rusty gate, and drifted towards the side of the abandoned house.

  James followed her towards the edge of the property, to another rusted gate leading to the large back garden. He stood next to Zofia for the briefest of moments, breathed on her and felt her smallness right in front of him. He pushed the gate open as the hinges creaked, causing bits of muck to fall to the side. He nudged Zofia inside.

  “Move it.”

  Another whirlwind burst through her mind; that this was her last day alive, that she was about to be raped and shot and no one knew where she was. Her shallow breaths were enough to strangle her, swallowing her towards blacking out.

  “I said move it,” James said. He pushed her towards the back of the property. She stumbled forward, giving James the space he needed to close the creaking gate after themselves. It was an effort to force it back into place. That would serve him well if she tried to escape.

  “You see how heavy that gate it? If you run you won’t get a chance to open it before I shoot you.”

  Zofia’s peripheral vision clouded over. She couldn’t even remember how they got into the rear garden, let alone how to get back to the bus station. The walls looked the same as everything else in town.

  “Give me your bag.”

  Zofia slipped it off and laid it down on the ground. James grabbed it and stared at a small rainbow coloured flag sewn into the top. He had seen something like that before. He took one look at Zofia and figured her out. He dumped the camera into the black bag and saw Zofia wince at how he handled the most precious thing she owned.