by Lauren White
It is obviously a woman’s house. The walls are painted pastel colours - peaches and pinks, mainly - and at the windows, there are chintzy curtains. The living room has been colonised by a pack of cuddly toys, which perch on every arm and cushion of the three piece suite. No human being, other than Gail herself, could ever feel comfortable in this room, not when a sudden movement could send several of the furry creatures flying to the floor.
We wait twenty four hours for her to receive the letter which, after much deliberation, we have decided to send her. When it finally arrives, the postie has to knock because it’s too bulky to squeeze through the letter box. Gail examines the envelope but she doesn’t open it. She puts it in a bag and takes it to work with her.
This is how the three of us come to spend the day with her in the back room of the flower shop, where she is employed to make funeral wreaths, and wedding bouquets.
Bim keeps sneezing. It's the pollen. It's aggravating my hay fever.
You're dead for heaven's sake! How can you have hay fever?
The only answer I get is another sneeze.
Gail works with only a tiny radio tuned to a pop station for company. It is a warm day outside but this room is chilly - for the flowers, we assume - and she wears fingerless mittens to keep her hands nimble. She is dressed in jeans, a short sleeved white blouse, and a baggy navy blue jumper which reaches down to her knees.
Between sneezes and sniffs, Bim is humming Eleanor Rigby, the radio station's Hit of the Day, as we watch Gail wire a bouquet together. We’ve heard the Beatles version three times and Bim's rendition twenty - at least.
Well, I'm sorry, she declares when Kerry and I moan, as she starts the song all over again. I think it's really apt. I do. Look at her. The poor creature is so lonely, it is pathetic.
Maybe she has a rich internal life which compensates for the lack of people in her life, I point out, equitably.
Does that look like a woman with a rich internal life to you?
We all turn back to Gail.
It is hard to tell. She doesn't seem unhappy to me. She is just...self contained.
Nutty, Bim interjects.
In her own world, Kerry trumps us both.
She does like her little routines, I suppose.
It's called obsessive compulsive disorder.
Don’t exaggerate, Bim.
I’m not. She checked the front door was locked five times before we could leave this morning.
Kerry asks: Do you think our envelope has upset her?
I nod. I don’t suppose she gets much mail.
Maybe, she’d feel better if she actually opened it, Bim scoffs.
I doubt it, given what’s inside.
She’s lucky. She managed to fight him off. Heaven knows how!
We all examine Gail again.
Do you envy her?
I’m angry that she is alive and I’m not.
I might be wrong but I think we should try to come to terms with being dead. It's not so bad, is it?
It is to me, Triffid!
Well, when this is over, and we’ve caught this killer, I’m going to do something meaningful with my afterlife.
Bim rolls her eyes.
I’d like to ask Kerry what she'll do. No, I’d like to ask what I should do. She is right, though. None of us is in any position to criticise Gail. We cling to the living and our investigation and she to her cuddly toys and little routines. What’s the difference, really? None of these things are doing us much good. We are comforted by them, but what changes?
For lunch, she has a sandwich bought from a snack bar a few doors up the road. We have an exciting ten minutes, waiting in the queue with her, trying to guess what she will order. Bim suggests banana and walnut on rye. I try bacon, lettuce, and tomato, on white. But, Kerry is the one of us who truly understands this woman. She wins with tuna and mayonnaise on wholemeal.
The afternoon passes slowly. We play I-spy for a while and at four o'clock the owner of the shop, a plump woman in her fifties, called Madge, who speaks with a slightly affected southern accent, drops by for a cup of tea, and a chat. She lists the customers she has had, that morning, by what they’ve bought.
The dozen red roses – his wife's birthday – was followed by a poesy of sweet peas. Then, came the lilies and, after that, more roses, but yellow ones, this time. Oh yes, and an order was placed for a couple of wreaths too, she says, capturing a strand of nicotine blonde hair and twisting it back up unto her bun. The funeral is next week; one of the teachers at the local school. She died of ...She mouths the word cancer and presses her lips together in a grim yet satisfied smile, her eyes glistening with the self-bestowed importance of imparting her sad news. She was riddled with it, her mother-in-law said. It started…Her voice drops to a whisper...down under. Cupping her hand, she raises her eyebrows to reiterate the unspeakable nature of the body part to which she is referring.
Kerry looks at us perplexed.
She means Australia, Bim enlightens her, with a snigger.
An hour later, we're travelling home with Gail, on the bus, convinced that when she gets there, finally, she is going to open our envelope. Yet, unbelievably, she stalls again until after she has cooked herself her dinner - a pork chop and salad followed by rice pudding - which she eats seated at her kitchen table. Pushing her half-finished dish of rice pudding away, she reaches for her bag, and extracts our envelope.
The moment has come. We can barely believe it, nor conceal our excitement. She pulls out the letter which we printed off onto official police letter-headed paper and reads:
Dear Miss Martos, we are writing to you regarding your attempted abduction in Leicester, four years ago. Please find enclosed here two envelopes, marked A, and B. You should open A, first. In this, you will find a computer generated image of a man. We need to know from you whether or not you think this could be your attacker. In B, you will find a photograph of a man and we need to know from you whether or not this man could be your attacker. To help you, you will find on the sheet, attached to this letter, a multiple choice of responses, covering a continuum of possibilities from, “Yes, I am sure this is him” to “No, I am certain this is not him”. Please complete this questionnaire and return it to us in the prepaid envelope provided.
The main risk in our approach is that she realises it is a hoax and tears the whole thing up but to our delight she follows our instructions. She opens envelope A, slitting the flap with a knife, before sneaking a look inside. As she pulls out the contents, her reaction is immediate. She cries aloud, stands up from her chair, and drops the computer image.
There is no question about that, ladies. She recognises him, Bim trills.
I not going to quibble with her but at best her reaction means that Kerry’s description of her killer strikes some kind of chord with her too. I am expecting a more muted response to the photograph in envelop B, because a computer generated image can't fail to make someone look like a psychopath, whereas a guy with his arm around an old lady has to be a bit of a sweetie. But, the moment she pulls this photograph from its envelope, her hands start to shake, the vibration rapidly travelling up her arms to her torso, where it soon rushes in all directions, until the whole of her body is trembling. It reaches her lips last, making her teeth chatter, as a strange mewing sound emanates from deep within her. We look at each other in alarm, uncertain what to do as she flees past us on the way to the bathroom, where she is violently sick. She is still clutching the photograph in her hand and noticing it, she throws it away from her.
We hover around her feeling useless and guilty for being the cause of her distress. It was a game to us. I'm not sure I ever believed she would be able to recognise either of our pathetic exhibits. That Gordon could really turn out to be The Weasel seemed too much of a long shot. But, Gail's reaction is both sobering and shaming. We've upset her, deeply. And, we might actually be on to something too.
When there is nothing more in her stomach to bring up, she hauls herself up from
the floor and staggers to the living room, where she heads for the sofa. Here, she immediately curls up into the foetal position, and clutching an ear-less teddy to her, she closes her eyes.
She didn't finish her rice pudding, Bim says, forlornly.
As Gail drifts off into exhausted sleep, Kerry sings her a lullaby to prevent the Weasel from stealing into her dreams and disturbing her again.
I watch her breathing in and out with a mixture of fascination and shock. My thoughts are fragmented by a caravan of unanswerable questions. Can we rely on the outcome of our experiment? Did she really recognise Gordon Richards as her attacker? Or could her reaction merely be hysteria, brought on by the stress we've put her under? If Gordon Richards was the one who tried to abduct her, why would he stay living and working in Leicester, for the best part of two years, before he went off travelling? She could have run across him, and recognised him as her assailant, at any time.
We should feel triumphant, shouldn't we?
Neither Kerry, nor I, answer Bim, who has asked the question.
Then, why do I feel so terrible?
She is expressing the sentiment of us all. One by one, we curl up too, Kerry and I in the armchairs and Bim on the hearthrug, each of us cradling a cuddly toy.
AUTUMN
It is Halloween and I'm doing my best to bring a white sheet with two black eyes and a circle for a mouth to life but, according to my nephews, I'm not moving it correctly.
How come I'm the one who is dead and yet you know more about ghosts than me?
You have to make it look like there's a person under the sheet, Auntie Kate, otherwise we can't take you trick-or-treating, Sam explains, patiently, for the hard-of-thinking.
Shouldn't that be the other way around? I’m the one who is supposed to be taking care of you.
Carrie has gone to a Halloween party with Nigs and I'm the only babysitter she could find. I have strict instructions to A: stay out of sight – which I can't help but manage. And, B: keep the boys inside the house. It is part B of my responsibility which is proving to be the most difficult. All dressed up with nowhere to go, my nephews are too nine, six, and three years old to understand their mother’s insistence that trick-or-treating isn’t a British custom. Besides, her stand against Americanizing our culture is obviously self-serving. The truth is she wanted to go out and there was nobody living who could take the boys from house to house. This is why against her orders I have agreed to let them trick-or-treat the houses in the next street, where we don't know anyone, provided I accompany them. The plan has floundered on my inability to make the sheet look as though someone living is walking under it, however.
It's okay Auntie Kate, it's not your fault, Sam my wizard of an oldest nephew says, kindly. But, I can tell from the faces of Dracula and the Mummy that disappointment hangs heavy in the air.
My subsidiary task is to oversee sweet distribution when the neighbours’ kids, who haven’t heard that trick-or-treating isn’t a British custom, come calling. Without an adult here, it would be one sweet for them to avoid a trick and the rest of the packet for my nephews. I'm not doing too well with this either. I forgot my sheet when Harry and Davey, the brats from two doors down, came around, and when I offered them a toffee apple, they ran away screaming.
If you scare all the kids away we could eat the rest of the sweets ourselves. Then, we might not feel so bad about you not being able to take us trick-or-treating, Jethro tries.
I particularly like the use of 'might not' in that sentence.
A baffled expression settles on his sweet face. Does that mean we have a deal?
I feel so sorry for them I can't bring myself to refuse.
They stand giggling in the hallway, waiting for our first victims to knock. Two witches greet me when I open the door. They have their father with them - at least I assume that's who it is under the weir wolf make-up
That's really clever, boys, he says, when the tin of sweets levitates off the hall table towards his offspring. How do you do it? Is it on some kind of thread? It's very good. You can't see it, at all. Just take a couple of sweets, girls. Leave some for everyone else. ‘Night, boys. Great trick!
Harry and Davey are pathetic, Jethro mutters, glumly, as they walk away.
Caleb punctures me with a quizzical expression which I suspect has something to do with wondering what dead aunts are good for. While Sam is looking wistfully at the receding back of a father prepared to take his children trick-or-treating.
Carrie should never have gone out to that party. She always was man bloody mad. It just wasn't apparent because she got with Phil when she was so young. She is obviously one of those women who needs a man by their side in order to define themselves. Now, she is latching onto Nigs, when really she needs to be here with the boys and her recently deceased and extremely traumatised older sister.
Do it how you did with Arry and Davey, Caleb whines.
Harry, I correct. Okay, when the next ones call, you lot have to hide behind the door. If they can’t see anyone at all, they’ll know it’s a real ghost.
I lift the tin into the air, ready, as we hear footsteps approach. Open it, Sam, before they knock, but do it slowly like in a haunted house.
As the door creaks wide, my life and death flash before me. Carrie is standing before me, her hand outstretched, holding the key.
She sees the tin in mid-air and goes ballistic.
Are you completely mad, she shouts, barging past me. When Maggie rang me to tell me what happened to Harry and Davey, I knew you were pulling some kind of bloody silly stunt. She was threatening to report my 'babysitter' to the police, if I didn't come home and investigate what was going on. Bed, now, all of you! No arguments. We'll talk about this in the morning. Don't look like that, off you go, and don't forget to wash the makeup off. Not you, Kate! Put that tin down. You, I want to talk to now.
She waits until the boys are in the bathroom, before she explodes again. I had to leave Nigs at the party. Did you do this on purpose just to ruin my date?
I only wish I'd thought of it. You should... I'm sorry Carrie but you're going to have to change out of that shower curtain, if you want me to take this seriously. Who are you supposed to be anyway?
I'm the murdered woman in Psycho, she states with misplaced dignity. Why? Isn't it obvious?
Not to me, it isn’t.
Well, the fake knife fell off. It was supposed to be sticking out of my breast, like this. See? Wait a minute. I understand what you're doing. Stop trying to change the subject. Where was I? Yes...What would have happened if the neighbours had called the police first and me, second? If they found out there was nobody here with the kids – nobody living, I mean – they could have taken them away from me. She starts to cry. How could you be so thoughtless! I'm all they've got, Kate. There are no grandparents for them to turn to, no living aunt, and now the poor little things have lost their father too. I'm all alone here. Do you have any idea what that feels like? I'm scared, Kate! That's what it feels like. I have three small boys to rear on my own and that scares me rigid.
She is crying so hard by now there is snot running down her lip. I wish I didn't notice this but I just can't stop being her shit of a big sister.
How many people do I have to lose, Kate? How many?
Her voice has the same cadence as the hook in a song - those few notes that get you every time you hear them, filling you with pain and yearning. I want to tell her I'll make everything up to her because I feel so terrible but what's the point? She’ll never believe me. She knows me far too well.
Gerte has taken to dropping by my office on her bus tours of London so I can update her on how the investigation is going. She has an analytical way of thinking, reminiscent of my boss, Bixby, which frequently turns these meetings into impromptu case reviews. It is hard to keep hold of the fact that she is one of the murder victims herself because she seems so happy. Dressed in her pink and white tracksuit and pink towelling bandanna, her presence shows no sign of the stra
ngle marks, or glassy eyes, that Kerry and Bim still have.
As she appears before me, she is holding a polystyrene cup of coffee which she has snaffled from the café on the corner. She can't drink it, of course, but she likes to marinade in its aroma.
I tell her about my plan to go to Sheffield to take a closer look at Jackie Brand's boyfriend, Brian Jones. I don't believe he has anything to do our inquiry but I have a theory Jackie might be there. I've searched everywhere else for her so it can't do any harm to try.
You have no actual proof she was murdered.
She disappeared from her car, though, Gerte. Just like the others. Just like you. And, Gordon Richards is a pretty good suspect for doing away with her.
It only fits as a hypothesis. You don’t have one shred of irrefutable evidence against him and we already know where that leads - to innocent people going to jail for crimes they didn't commit.
Karl is bound to be released soon.
So you keep telling me, but that doesn't change the circumstantial nature of your case.
It is not easy being D.I. Ghost, you know. The police procedures, I used in life, don't work now I'm...I 'm about to say now I'm in spirit, but the phrase feels so alien, I falter. Now I'm...whatever, I mumble, instead.
Well, if it did turn out you were right about this man, you'd be way ahead of the police. You just have to prove it, beyond a shadow of a doubt, is all I'm saying.
And, what happens then? I can hardly arrest him, can I?
You'll think of something. You'll have to because the alternative would be too grotesque to contemplate. After putting all this energy into trying to bring him to justice, just imagine what it would feel like to have to sit back and watch while he goes on slaughtering women.
Brian Jones is still at the same address where he was living when Jackie went missing three years ago. It is a light and airy maisonette with two bedrooms, occupying the upper floor and attic of a large Georgian house, in one of the city’s leafier suburbs. It should be a pleasant place to live. Yet, the scene Bim, Kerry, and I, encounter upon our arrival is one of devastation.