The thoughts were right. There was no special person who accepted him. Sometimes he honestly did not think he would ever find anybody. He had been looking all his life. And there was nobody. Not a sniff of romance after two years solid of dating; not a glimmer of hope after a lifetime of rejection. Every time in his twenty-seven years that he had let his defences down and tried to open up, someone had hurt him.
He was not sure he could do it any more. But what choice did he have? He could not give up, could he? If he gave up he would never meet anybody. If he could just even have a friend, that would be something. Social situations were torture for Adam, though. Instead of building up his confidence, the last few years had chipped away at what little he had built up. He had reached a stage where, despite his longing, conversation was almost impossible. It made him panicky. Instead of listening to people, he wasted time worrying that he might not be able to think of a reply, or that they would be bored by anything he said. Then he would be stuck in horrifying silence, knowing the other person was trying to work out what the hell to say to extricate themselves.
If only there were a way for him to get to know people without them realising it. Perhaps a way he could show them the kindness, the deep capacity for love he had in his own heart, but while somehow staying anonymous.
He was lonely. He was so lonely. And he could not stand it any longer. Tears coursed down his face. Gran was the only person who had ever truly loved him. Gran would know what to do, if only she were here.
He had to try harder. He had to make someone fall in love with him. If he could show someone how much he cared, put his all into making them happy, then they would see him for the person he was.
His hands trembled as he wiped at his eyes, full of determination, but the voices were starting up again. You’ve been lied to! You’re not special! You’re useless! Grabbing the remote control, he put the television on – he did not often watch it, but it felt like the best way to shut everything out. An advert was on, an old song being played which suddenly captured him.
“Make someone happy. Make just one someone happy. And you will be happy too,” the rough voice of Jimmy Durante advised, half singing, half speaking.
The words resonated with Adam, making him tremble with hope this time, not despair. It was a sign. It had to be. He had not been lied to, he had to keep going.
“Once you've found her, build your world around her,” Jimmy sang.
Adam most definitely would.
***
PRESENT
The dramatic notes of Holst’s Mars, Planet Suite slam into Adam, reflecting his fraught feelings. He hugs his knees, rocking backwards and forwards gently to comfort himself. It is not working.
Impatient, he switches the music to something more soothing. The Adagio of Spartacus and Phrygia always moves him, the lilting beauty and sweeping build up of the melody by Aram Khachaturian both energising and pacifying him, generally.
It does not work this time. Nor does the choral peace of Le Miserere. Adam turns it off and lets silence fill up his mind and try to smother his thoughts.
He curls his fingers into his hair and clutches it tight, pulling at the follicles, trying to find the magic off-switch that will stop his mind racing and buzzing. He has not stopped obsessing since he arrived home the night before, and has not slept a wink.
The food thing was bad, he is still feeling hurt by Laura’s actions; he felt a thank you would go a long way to making him feel more appreciated. Right now, he feels taken for granted. But what is really throwing his equilibrium is the run-in with the policeman. Things could so easily have got out of control. He could have been arrested. He might never have seen Laura again, and all his plans would have come to nothing.
Yes, but they have not, he reminds himself.
He lets go of his hair, forces his tense muscles to uncoil, and heads into the garden. Perhaps he can rediscover peace there. The dawn light is still dim as he steps into the cold December air, so sharp he can smell it. There was a frost overnight, and now the ground is iron hard beneath his feet. Everything is white. Each delicate vein on the remaining leaves is trimmed with frost, their soft curves sharpened. Blades of grass are outlined perfectly as stark white shards. Where he treads there comes the gentlest of crunches as the crystals give beneath his weight.
Already he feels calmer.
Drawing his eye is the memorial garden he has created. Although none of the flowers are currently in bloom, he can see them in his mind. Each one a reminder of his victim’s personality. Lisianthus for Irene. Sandra’s primroses. Mimosa for Alex, and stock for Sharon. The latest addition is Julie, whose lips lie beneath the nodding yellow trumpets of daffodils in an annual shrine of remembrance.
Much as he loves them all, much as he adores having them with him still, he hopes that this time he has found a woman he can truly share his life with. He would love to be able to sit with Laura, listening to music, laughing at films, reading favourite bits of books aloud to one another. Simply being together.
He would like to share a candlelit meal, just like his parents had that wonderful time before their deaths, the memory of which he will cherish forever. He would like to be able to have a conversation with the woman he loves the way other people do. Because as much as he enjoys having the souls of his harem with him, he is aware that this is not quite usual.
He has spent his whole life wanting to be normal, like other people. He hopes that with Laura he might achieve this, and not have to put her happiness before his own by ending her life. Perhaps they can, dare he think it, be happy together.
From everything he has learned about love and relationships through research and observation, he knows the key is honest communication. He must take the bull by the horns and let Laura know how taken for granted he feels. Inspired by the other ladies in his life, he brings out his secateurs and cuts rhododendron: its meaning is ‘beware’.
He goes to his greenhouses and looks around for inspiration. Mustard flowers for hurt, a piece of lichen for dejection. He softens the message by adding ‘you are my life’ with lungwort.
It takes a while to balance the arrangement, but eventually the large and small purple flowers are broken up beautifully by the splashes of bright yellow. Even the lichen has its place in the heart.
By the time he is done, the sun has come out. The world is sparkling, winking at him to tell him that everything will be all right. By half past ten, the rising temperature has made the frost start to melt, creating a soft mist that hangs in the air to give everything a dream-like look. Adam lies on the sofa, pulls a blanket over himself and falls asleep, content again.
When he wakes, he gets straight into the car to deliver the bouquet to Laura.
He is halfway there when his phone buzzes: Laura is texting someone and he is automatically receiving it too, thanks to the spyware he has put on her phone.
Thought about your offer. OK if I come over tonight, 7-ish? Stay ‘til Boxing Day?
Irritation moves through him, as swift as a bee sting. But with a sigh, he puts his phone away and continues with the plan. He ought to be more understanding: it is inevitable that she wants to be with family during the festive season, and all he really wants is for her to be happy. Next year will be different though; next year he will be her family.
He feels almost no annoyance when a few seconds later his phone buzzes again, this time with Aunt Linda’s reply for her niece.
Great! Stay as long as you like! Big hugs xxx
***
FOUR YEARS AGO
Since Adam had the argument with the voices, choosing to ignore them on the advice of Jimmy Durante, he had launched himself into the search for the love of his life with renewed vigour. He had, however, decided to take a different tack. Technology was fine up to a point, but he was never going to find his ideal match through dating sites, speed dating or the like.
Instead, it was time he capitalised on the fact he was different.
He wanted to find a woma
n as broken as he, and together they would fix each other. After all, what woman did not want to be swept off her feet by a knight in shining armour? He would rescue her – and she would rescue him.
At first he had hung out in Birmingham’s bustling city centre. The Bullring shopping centre, New Street Station, the beautiful canal area crammed with bars and restaurants. But then he had decided that if he was playing a numbers game, the chance of him coming across his perfect woman was far greater in London.
Covent Garden quickly became one of his favourite places. It was busy, yet not dauntingly large, and was a popular place for people to meet up. Lots of locals and tourists around. An addiction grew; Adam adored watching people’s faces light up when they spotted someone they knew. With so many people finding happiness there, he thought it inevitable that he too would find a connection eventually. And so his addiction grew.
He became better at seeing people’s auras, reading the people who were actually masking terrible sadness. The women who were surrounded by clouds of grey, but had little sparks of other colours fighting to get through.
They were the broken ones like him.
The time was not yet right for him to make a move though. He had spent his childhood being cautious, ever watchful. It had served him well, allowing him to survive his mother, and dispatch his parents. His years alone had made him relax, forget some of the pain, and he had totally abandoned his reserve when he had attempted the dating game. Rejection after rejection, hurt after hurt had been piled on him, until finally he had remembered the lessons of his youth: to be reserved, be watchful, be prepared. ‘Hope for the best, plan for the worst’ had become his new motto.
With that in mind, it was another reason why he had chosen London – should something go wrong with his plan, and he have to move to protect himself, there was nothing to connect him to the woman. That lesson had been learned from Lisa, and even from Mrs Nixon back in his Peeping Tom days. He would never again allow himself to be vulnerable. It was time he took control of his life again, the way he had when he had killed his mother.
Romance research was replaced by the study of forensics, as a result. Just in case. The information he picked up from his father was ten years out of date; there had been no end of advances in that time. Adam was stunned to discover it was possible for police to pick up a killer’s fingerprints even if they had been wearing gloves. Admittedly it was only if the gloves were very thin, and would only help them if the boys in blue already had the perpetrator’s prints on file. But still, it was a worrying development. He tracked some gloves down online that should be thick enough to prevent his fingerprints showing through, but still thin enough for him to be able to operate effectively in.
Adam had also done some research on how detectives used CCTV footage. Forces could run software that recognised the way a person walked and moved, so that even if that person, for example, ditched their coat and put on a baseball cap, the computer would still identify them. It was fascinating. Adam experimented with subtly different walks and body language from that point on.
As soon as he was ready, he started looking in earnest for the love of his life. She wouldn’t know what hit her once he started sweeping her off her feet.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
~ Milkvetch ~
Your Presence Softens My Pain
PRESENT
With a yawn and stretch, Adam stirs himself from sleep. He is amazed at the time – he has been out for the count for six hours, which is unprecedented for him. Since he was pulled over by the cop lethargy has clung to him like a creature on his back, weighing him down, but he is feeling a little better this morning. Today, he is doing something extra special for Laura.
He rarely ventures into Birmingham city centre these days; he has so little free time now that he is frequently in Colchester. But the day before, he had hit the city’s shops in order to buy something that would make Laura feel like a princess.
Today, he will deliver it. And hopefully see his love.
The miles seem to fly away under the wheels of his Ford, which now has brand new, easy-to-read registration plates. The closer Adam gets to Colchester, the lighter he feels. It has been torture for him to stay away from Laura; he feels the physical distance is causing him to fade away, like the Beast did when Beauty went to visit her father. Just as Adam had when Julie went off on holiday without telling him.
Staring at the road ahead, which acts like a grey ribbon attaching him to Laura, he ponders what had happened with Julie. He had been so hurt when she left him suddenly, but during her absence he had realised that her trip was a cry for help. She had been running away because she could no longer cope with life. It had been with regret that Adam had been forced to step in and put her out of her misery, but he had had no choice. Gripping the steering wheel tight at the memory, he remembers the desperate look in her eyes as he had euthanized her. She had been pleading with him to end things for her. When her soul had entered his it had been confirmation that he had done the right thing.
Laura seems so upset lately, too. What on earth can be wrong? He is going to have to keep a close eye on her when she gets back. If he has to kill her it will break his heart.
With an impatient tap of his fingers on the steering wheel, he dismisses the thought.
“I will not be miserable today,” he says out loud, “because I am seeing my lovely Laura soon.”
The car seems to move faster, spurred on by his enthusiasm. The journey is so familiar he wonders if he could literally do it with his eyes closed. Almost. The thought of trying makes a giggle bubble up, the ladies joining in inside him, but he reminds them that it would be too dangerous. He should not be drawing attention to himself, not after his run in with the police.
Once at Colchester, he uses the locator app on Laura’s phone to find her aunt’s house. It is a modest semi with a frustratingly large and over-grown hedge. He cannot see a thing behind it. In desperation, he pulls out his tablet and uses Laura’s mobile as a microphone to listen to her conversation, but it is muffled, indistinct.
He would give anything to see her, anything in the world. He hates his life without her. If he has to absorb her soul in order for them to be together forever, then so be it, he decides impulsively; it is better than the torture of separation.
Perhaps he could break into the house. He has brought his locksmith kit with him; he never goes anywhere without, or his scalpel. But no, it would be crazy, the chances of being caught too high when there are so many people inside, and without his cameras to let him know when they are all asleep. His heart gives a thump of frustration as hard as the one his fist gives to the dashboard.
It is only after several deep, calming breaths that he is able to allow himself to drive away. He briefly stops off at Laura’s flat to leave her present. Lies on her bed, breathing in her scent, sprays the air with her perfume, runs his hands over the clothes in her wardrobe, but the place feels as empty as his heart without Laura.
It is a long journey home. A12, A14, dual carriageway, roundabouts, passing lorry after lorry, M6, M40, mile after tarmacked mile of relentless grey. White lines flickering past him hypnotically.
Adam cannot live like this much longer. He makes a new year’s resolution to step up his wooing in January, then finally reveal himself. It has been long enough, and Laura’s Christmas present should be a great start to his plan.
***
FOUR YEARS AGO
Ah, Irene. Wonderful, beautiful, spirited woman that he adored. Always so chatty, always smiling. She hid her sorrow well, but Adam had looked deeper and seen it. He had vowed to rescue her from it.
As he walked towards her cute stone cottage, he turned to drink in the wonderful view of the River Ness. Yes, he might consider a permanent move up to Inverness, despite the pesky midges. The city was just the right size, had a fabulous historic centre with a cobbled High Street and beautiful architecture, and dominating the whole was the castle.
But what he loved most was
the river, which he had fallen for almost as hard as he had for Irene. There was something soothingly hypnotic about watching it flow away from him, taking with it his troubled past.
After a minute or so he turned again and walked towards Irene’s home, reminding himself to limp slightly with his right foot. That would throw off any CCTV footage. For on the way back to his hotel he thought he might go for a Noel Gallagher-style swagger, because it always makes him laugh.
Inside the stone cottage the thick walls acted as a natural noise reducer as soon as Adam closed the door. Irene had not doubled glazed the tiny windows though, because it wasn’t in keeping with her home’s age…plus she could not afford it. This meant the drone of cars passing by was not blocked out completely, and if someone on the pavement was talking loudly the conversation could be made out.
The interior was tastefully but quirkily decorated. A piece of driftwood, bleached like an old bone and twisted into a fascinating shape, was used as a small coffee table, with thick glass artfully held in place as the table-top. The squishy sofa was covered in a brightly coloured patchwork throw Irene had made herself.
Arranged in a frame was a collection of seashells from the beach she visited when she went on her holiday of a lifetime to Thailand a few years back. She sometimes looked at them and talked of returning there one day, perhaps on honeymoon if she ever met Mr Right. Adam was not sure how he felt about going abroad.
He tidied up then noticed Irene needed stocking up on food, so hurried out and sorted it for her. Then he returned to the hotel in the city centre, first nipping down an alley uncovered by CCTV, turning his reversible top inside out, and coming out again with a completely different walk and air about him. He was almost there when a florist shop seemed to call to him, red tulips acting on him like a siren’s call to sailors.
Flowers for the Dead Page 24