Flowers for the Dead

by Barbara Copperthwaite

  Despite the pep talk she keeps tenaciously giving herself, she finds she is going slower the closer she gets to her flat. The fatigue that has made her sluggish all day has disappeared. Now she is jangling as if she has had the biggest caffeine hit in history. Her stomach roils and her heart is thumping hard enough to break through her ribcage as she slides the key into the door, one hand holding up a can of pepper spray she bought that lunchtime, ready to surprise her stalker.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  ~ Marigold ~

  Despair

  Laura gives her front door a gentle shove and it swings open as she raises the pepper spray defensively in front of her.

  It is the smell that hits her first. Roast beef?

  Confused, she edges into the flat, looking wildly around her, even above her in case the weirdo has somehow turned into Spiderman and is lurking on the ceiling.

  One step, two step, three…she reaches the lounge door. Her heart rate goes up another notch.

  I’m going to have a heart attack, she panics.

  She swings the door open and gasps. Her table has been pulled away from the wall, into the centre of the room, and a candle has been lit on it. It is set for one person, and on the plate is a pie, nestled among a myriad vegetables and a pool of gravy.

  It is one of the scariest things she has ever seen.

  “Leave me alone!” she screams.

  But there is no one there to answer her as she slides down to the floor and curls up in tears.

  ***

  When Adam logs on to the website he is in time to see Laura scraping the whole meal, untouched, into the bin. He can only assume something has happened at work because she is incredibly upset. Shaking, in floods of tears. He wonders if he should go round and comfort her. Perhaps it is time to reveal himself. But no, it doesn’t feel right yet. Too soon. He has messed things up before, with other women, by coming out into the open too early. Women like mystery, have to have time to fall in love with the person doing all these things for them.

  Besides, he is more than a bit annoyed about what Laura has done.

  He has been worrying about how little she is eating lately. She is so tiny, and although he thinks she looks wonderful, he is concerned she not lose any more weight. She needs someone to look after her. So he had gone to a lot of trouble and expense to make her a good, home-cooked meal. It had taken him most of the day to make the pastry from scratch, do the steak and ale filling, the mix of roast and mashed potatoes, the sweetest organic peas and carrots, and roast parsnips, all cooked to perfection and steaming hot for her when she got home. He had only just left when she got in; it was only thanks to the app on her mobile phone, which lets him know her location at all times, that he had managed it.

  All that effort for nothing.

  Adam sits on the strange bed in a B&B in Clacton and feels totally rejected. He knows Laura is upset about something, but he cannot get over the way she threw his food away without so much as an apology. Honestly, he cannot help feeling a bit taken for granted.

  There is a week to go until Christmas. The last thing he wants to do is be without Laura at this time of year, but he makes the heart-breaking decision to withdraw to Moseley for a few days to lick his wounds. Hopefully they can sort things out before the big day itself.

  Adam walks out into the cold, dark night and jumps into his faithful old car, the one his parents bought him for his seventeenth birthday – their last together. He likes to use it because it is more innocuous than the car he bought himself, a very comfortable Mercedes C-class. His Ford Fiesta attracts no attention because it is such a generic car, the most popular in the UK, he has read.

  Even though he knows he is doing the right thing by leaving, Adam cannot resist taking a detour at the start of the three-hour journey, to drive past Laura’s house on his way to his own home. He slows slightly as he goes by, craning his neck, hoping against hope for a glimpse of tell-tale red hair in the darkness. Silly really, he knows she is inside, perhaps calmed down now and watching television in her pyjamas.

  He gives a shaky laugh at his foolish heart, and is about to indicate for a left turn when he notices something in his rear view mirror. Blue lights flashing on top of a plain car.

  A siren gives a little whoop that makes Adam’s heart jump painfully.

  Oh God, no; it’s the police. They have finally caught up with him. What should he do?

  ***

  The first festive season without Mags had passed in a haze of grief. Mike had pulled out all of the stops for his little girl, of course, and the day had been full of presents and forced cheer, but when he looks back on it he can’t remember it properly.

  This second Christmas is a different thing entirely. Though easier in some ways, it is harder in others. The rawness of the loss has lessened, but that makes Mike sadder. It is a step away from his wife.

  This was her favourite time of year. She had always wanted to get the decorations up the moment December hit, but Mike hadn’t liked them up until the week before Christmas - but he had always given in to her excitement. The look on her face as she had pulled out boxes and bin bags full of all kinds of seasonal glitz and glitter!

  Each room had had a theme.

  “I’m thinking Scandi-chic in this room,” she’d say. Laughing at his bemused expression, she would then hold up the red and white felt decorations – stars, reindeer, bells, snowflakes…

  “Then multi-coloured for the lounge, glitter up the stairs; and lights, lots of lights - everywhere,” she would add. He used to come home to Santa’s grotto.

  Last year he had managed to put the tree up and shove some baubles on it, but it had looked a sad affair. This year he owes it to both Mags and Daisy to try to make it as special as it used to be. He has already let things slide by being late putting the trimmings up; there is only a week until the big day, and Mike knows his wife would not approve.

  But how can it be perfect without his other half?

  Still, he forces a smile on his face as he and his little girl go through the decorations. Daisy coos over each piece of tinsel she finds, wrapping herself in a silver one as if it is a feather boa.

  “Bend down, Daddy,” she orders.

  “What are you up to?” he smiles, but obediently kneels, then bends his head down as instructed. Daisy concentrates as she ties some tinsel around his balding head.

  “There!” she says, standing back to admire her work. “Now you look like an angel. Like Mummy, she’s an angel.”

  His eyes are swimming. Embarrassed, he hugs his girl close and kisses the top of her head to hide his tears. The moment passes. With a playful roar, Mike surges up, still holding Daisy tight, and twirls her round until she is screaming and giggling all at once, and he rumbling and laughing with her.

  “Come on, Daddy, let’s get on with it,” Daisy grins finally.

  First they put up the little fibre optic tree which Mags always put beside the television; she had loved watching that tree slowly change colours, said it was hypnotic. She had a point: it is definitely relaxing to watch.

  Daisy is all business though, no time for sitting around watching things. The next point of business is the real tree she picked out with her father than morning, and he has dragged into their dining room. She chooses baubles, examines them, and puts some on it while rejecting others as “not quite right”. Mike realises with bittersweet delight that she has inherited her mother’s eye for decorating.

  The tree looks a dream when it is finished. There is just one more thing.

  Mike picks Daisy up and holds her aloft as she puts the star on top of the tree. She reaches easily in his arms. Perfect.

  Time for the lights. “Three…two…one…yay!” they cheer. The fairy lights flash at epilepsy-inducing speed. Mags would have loved it.

  Daisy, exhausted from all the excitement of preparing for Christmas, goes to bed without fuss that night. After tucking her in and reading her a story, Mike walks into the lounge, goes to put on the tel
ly, and stops, frowning.

  The fibre optic tree is no longer lit up. That’s strange.

  He checks it is switched on. It is. He feels a bit sick as he switches it off then on again. Nothing. He unplugs it, counts to ten, then plugs it in and tries again. Still nothing.

  He can fix it, he tells himself. But he doesn’t know where to start. He sinks to the floor, cradling the useless lump of plastic, and sobs like a baby.

  No matter how hard he tries to keep things the same, they are changing.

  How much longer will Daisy believe in Father Christmas? What would Mags make of the job he is doing raising their child? With every year that passes, Daisy’s memory of her mother will fade. As she grows older he will have to make decisions about things that he always assumed would be done with Mags by his side; have to explain things that he had thought would be a mum’s job to tell a girl. He feels so lost without his wife to guide him.

  Despite the fear eating at him, he knows there is no point worrying, knows all he can do is jump each hurdle as they appear. But still he is far from his usual glass half full outlook; he is more like a bear with a sore head as he pulls on his coat, ready for the night shift. When his babysitter arrives, he can barely grunt at her before he stomps to his car, fantasising of fags and crisps.

  On the way to work his headlights pick up a car in front of him with a faded registration number at the rear. Normally he would not care, but Mike is in such a bad mood that he cannot help himself: he pulls the driver over. Blue lights flashing on top of his plain car, his siren gives a little whoop.

  ***

  Adam stares in his rear view mirror as if sheer force of will is going to change what he sees.

  It is the police. They have finally caught up with him.

  He grips his steering wheel, trying to decide what to do. Perhaps he should just floor it? His car isn’t that fast, though.

  His brain is whirring, synapses firing faster and faster. He only has moments to make a decision. The officer probably does not know who Adam is or what he has done in the past. So Adam should pull over. But if he decides to search Adam’s car, he will see all his locksmith equipment in the boot. If Adam himself is checked, the officer will come across the scalpel in his jacket inside pocket.

  All he can rely on is luck. He indicates, pulls over, his hands suddenly slick with sweat on the steering wheel. A deep breath helps focus him, and he quickly slips the scalpel out of his pocket and slides it down beside his leg for quick access if needs be. Seconds later his window is tapped on by what must be a plain-clothes policeman. Jesus, he’s tall!

  Adam covertly wipes his clammy hands on his trousers. He reminds himself that he is a hunter; that he has nothing to fear because his quest is pure. The women he has killed gather together inside him, lending him strength.

  “Hi, is something w-wrong, officer?” he asks calmly as he winds down the window. The scalpel’s presence beside his thigh is a comfort.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  ~ Marjoram ~

  Delusion

  Mike looks at the pale-faced individual regarding him. He is a young man in his late-twenties to early thirties, well groomed, and has a tidy, polished, older model Ford Fiesta that appears well maintained. From the look on his face, he is not used to being pulled over by the police.

  “Your rear registration number has faded, it’s barely legible,” Mike explains. “Did you know that’s an offence?”

  It’s like watching clouds clearing from the sun, as the man’s expression goes from confusion to comprehension.

  “I-I’m so sorry,” he replies sincerely. “I had no idea. When I had the car MOT’d two months ago they did warn me it would need replacing, but they thought it would be fine until my next test. I-I-I’ve got the p-paperwork somewhere.”

  Mike takes in his open countenance, the way he pauses to breathe over certain words in order to overcome a stammer. And he feels like a complete git for pulling over someone who would clearly not say boo to a goose. The detective’s guilt kicks in. What sort of officer is he, abusing his power like this? He can barely bring himself to look at his poor victim.

  “Look, I’ll let you off with a warning. It’s not quite illegal yet, just get a new one sorted quickly,” he shrugs apologetically.

  “Oh, yes, of course! I, err, I hadn’t r-realised,” the man replies, clearly relieved.

  Mike feels dreadful as they go their separate ways. It is not his style to take his bad mood out on someone else; he is ashamed of himself. He is glad he had not fined the poor bloke, and really spoiled his Christmas.

  ***

  Adam’s calm façade melts away as he drives off. For the entire journey to Birmingham he glares into the twin pools of light his headlights make in the night, obsessing over what a close shave that had been. There had been a few moments there when he had felt completely out of control, having to trust to luck.

  Adam does not like feeling out of control.

  ***

  The desk sergeant recognises Laura when she arrives at the station. He nudges his colleague, the movement sending his hair momentarily wafting up over his balding pate like a dandelion clock in a breeze.

  “Hey, it’s cushion women,” he murmurs from the corner of his mouth. His mate looks blank. “You know, cushion woman. The one who thinks someone broke into her flat and rearranged her soft furnishings.”

  PC Smith smiles guiltily now, remembering the laugh they had had at her expense.

  Laura is not sure whether it is a good thing or a bad thing that she is talking to the same officer: there is continuity with her complaint, but he probably still will not take her seriously. It is late, gone ten o’clock, but it had taken her a while to stop crying enough to see the photographs she was taking so that she could bring them to the police station that very night.

  She swallows hard then pulls out her phone.

  “I don’t know if you remember me, I came in four days ago because someone has been breaking into my flat.”

  Sergeant Biggs innocent expression seemed a little off to Laura. “Ah, yes, so you did…”

  “Well, it’s happened again, and this time they did this.” She shows him a snap of a table laid for one, complete with meal.

  “Looks tasty,” offers PC Smith.

  Laura takes a deep breath, trying to stay calm. “Please…I know it sounds crazy, someone breaking in to tidy my flat and cook me meals, but it’s scary. Someone is stalking me.”

  Her voice wobbles dangerously, but it isn’t fear, it’s anger.

  “Is there any sign of break in?”

  “You asked me that last time. The answer is still no,” she says in little more than a growl. “Look, I don’t know how this person is coming and going without a trace, but that’s exactly what is happening.”

  “What about changing your locks?” offers the desk sergeant.

  “Done it.”

  He shakes his head; his hair gives a gentle wave. “I’m sorry, there doesn’t seem to be a crime occurring. How about you keep a diary for a few weeks, and see if anything else happens.”

  “Isn’t breaking and entering a crime?”

  The desk sergeant has the good grace to look embarrassed. “Well, yes, it is,” he says gently. “But…”

  He trails off delicately, and Laura realises that he thinks the whole thing is her overactive imagination. She groans in frustration, knowing she is being fobbed off.

  “If you’re worried, these leaflets on stalking might help,” adds Sergeant Biggs, passing over a couple.

  Laura glances inside them, and the sergeant taps one. “This one explains why a lot of evidence is so important, because stalking is hard to prove,” he explains.

  What else can she do but agree to keep a diary and continue to take photos? Even she can see that someone slipping money into her purse, giving her flowers, or making her a meal does not sound like the crime of the century.

  ***

  FOUR YEARS AGO

  The books Adam rea
d as a child lied to him.

  They tell you that if you’re weird and different and don’t fit in, then it’s okay because you’ll have something wonderful waiting for you, and that’s the reason you don’t fit in: because you’re special, unique, set aside for great things. You will make amazing friends who are as special and wonderful as you, and together you will have adventures. And it is all thanks to the fact that you see the world in a different way.

  The thoughts whirled round Adam’s head in his anger. He could see the trails they left behind in his mind, like sparklers writing, writing in the darkness, writing in his brain. He hit his head with his fist to be sure they were real. They did not go. They would not leave him. They carried on whirling, whirling, whirling.

  And you’re just brilliant! Because you are different, that’s what makes you so wonderful. That’s what they pedal to you in books as you grow up. Harry Potter, Matilda, The Little White Horse…. It’s all crap!

  Adam had always been different. Adam had never fitted in. Adam had never felt right.

  You grew up and you stayed different and weird and avoided by people. You never fitted in. You are not special, you are just odd. You have no exciting future ahead of you. Just the same old shit as everyone else. As for finding somebody special who gets you. Bollocks. Nobody gets you. Nobody.

  And nobody ever will.

  The words flailed him like a cat o’ nine tails, making him cry out in agony as they lashed him. It was true. All true. He was so lonely, it hurt so much. He did not want to be alone any more.

  Sometimes he would walk down the street and have tears in his eyes, find himself crying. He would be in the park, walking along, looking at the trees, see their beauty and long to share it with someone, and he would be crying with loneliness.