by Ricki Thomas
“What! That’s ludicrous!”
“Hold on, sweetheart, hear me out. They’ve taken her description, some basic details, and said they’ll keep an eye out, but we should call all her friends and family to see if she’s staying with any of them. I’m sure she’s safe and sound, Mary’s a feisty lady, I can’t imagine a mugger or whatever would be brave enough to tackle her, so don’t you worry yourself.”
The gang had it all planned out, and it went like a dream. Stalk the victim to a suitable area, grab from behind, throw to the ground, disable, a few hefty kicks to the head, and a few stabs with the knife, that should cover all options. Quick, easy, and leaving no time for reaction. Go through the pockets, take the valuables, and get the hell away before anyone sees the body. Perfect. It only took a few moments, the body lifeless on the ground, and they raced into the darkness with some decent gains.
Harold, exhausted from his inability to sleep the previous night, had given up his vigil in the empty house, endlessly hoping to see the face of the woman he loved as she came through the door. Having discarded the uneaten sandwiches he’d prepared for lunch into the waste bin, his appetite waned from worry, he drove to Allenton: he needed company and Sophie was the obvious person to share this worrying time with.
She opened the door, her forlorn expression mirroring his, and she moved aside to let him through. “I take it you’ve seen the news.” Harold nodded, knowing his voice would crack if he tried to utter a word. He strolled to the living room, legs heavy with his burden, while she silently prepared a pot of tea in the kitchen. Carrying the laden tray to the room, she set it on the coffee table and poured a mug each.
“Where’s Jaimee?” It wasn’t really a question, more an attempt to break the deafening silence.
“Having a nap. Have you, er,” she was unsure whether it was the right thing to say, but continued, “have you heard from the police?”
Harold shook his head, eyes, sightlessly focused on the teapot. “No, I’ve called them several times, but all they’ll say is the woman remains unidentified as yet.”
The tense quietness returned, swamping them with its grief, and the minutes ticked by, two, five, ten. Harold downed his tea, slightly hotter than he’d anticipated, and stood, pacing, unable to sit any more. “The news report said the woman’s face had been beaten severely, so I guess they can’t have tied it in with Mary’s disappearance just yet.”
Sophie replaced her mug on the tray and reached across for her father’s hand. “Dad, it’s probably not her. It can’t be. You said yourself how strong she was, she knows how to fight a battle.” A quick glance at the window, the open curtains revealing the exhaust stained glass, the run-down buildings across the road. “You have to be strong to live in this area, I’m already learning that one.”
A heavy rapping at the front door snapped away their melancholy in an instant, they momentarily stared at each other with hopeful, yet fearful, eyes, and ran to answer. The younger and more agile Sophie won the race, tugging the door wide with shaking fingers, yet her shoulders sagged instantly when she saw Alan, beaming a wide smile. In his hand he brandished a zipped clothes bag from the metal hanger at the top, but when he saw their disappointment his arm dropped, the tough black polythene scraping on the cemented floor of the corridor. “You two look like death! What’s up?”
“You’d better come inside, son, we’ve got something to tell you.” Harold led Alan with a firm arm about his shoulders to the living room, aiding him to sit. Still standing, he explained the situation, the mugging, the murder of the woman. Suddenly Alan burst into raucous laughter, stunning his father and sister.
“I know for a fact it’s not Mary, I’ve just left her back at my house. She’s alive and kicking.” Harold and Sophie didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, their shocked expressions causing Alan to chuckle joyfully. He picked up the clothing bag and passed it to Sophie. “Go and get this on, get some make-up on, and do something with your hair, it looks a right mess!”
“What’s going on?”
Alan tapped his nose with his finger. “I’m taking you both out. I was going to give you an hour to get ready while I took Harry’s suit round to him, but I may as well go and get it from the car, let you get changed here, Harry, if that’s okay.” Both remained seated, sharing the confusion that had replaced their angst. “Look, you’ve nothing to worry about, Mary stayed at my place last night, we’ve arranged a surprise for you. Now,” he clapped his hands impatiently, “go and get changed!”
Sophie looked stunning, a complete transformation from the weary woman who’d greeted Alan at the door. The dress was incredible, a cream satin draped with lace, elegant and flowing, not too young, not too mature. It fitted her perfectly as if it were made to measure, haute couture with a princess neckline, and ankle skimming hemline. Somehow in the space of an hour she’d managed to create a shiny, elaborate up-do from her frizzy muss of unkempt curls, and her subtle make-up enhanced her strong features beautifully. Alan had never seen her look so wonderful, proud she was his twin, and Harold had only seen her sparkle so prettily at her wedding.
The suit Alan had brought for Harold was his favourite: many, many years old, but the quality and fit were as if it were new. They made a handsome family. Alan glanced at his watch. “We’ve got about quarter of an hour left, does anyone want a glass of Dutch courage before we leave?”
“Quarter of an hour? Alan, I’m not sure if I can get Jaimee ready in such a short time, she’ll need a bath, a…”
He raised his hand to stop her, chuckling again. “My sister will be here in a minute to baby-sit …”
Sophie was aghast. “I can’t leave Jaimee! I don’t even know your sister! She won’t be able to cope, Jaimee’s …”
Again the stilting hand rose. “Mandy’s thirty years old and has three kids of her own. I can assure you, she knows exactly what she’s doing. Now stop panicking and get ready to have a brilliant evening.”
As Alan drove them closer to Littleover in his car, both Harry and Sophie assumed that whatever event he was leading them to would be held at the parental home, so when he parked outside a quaint church hall, they glanced at each other, intrigued. “Well, here we are.” He stated needlessly as he opened the car door and stepped onto the gravel.
The trio strolled towards the heavy oak doors, arched at the top with an aging bath-stone lintel, and Alan knocked hard, a warning to whoever was inside. Standing patiently for a few seconds, he finally swung the doors aside, opening up the darkness from within, the silence reaching out like a tendril. Harry and Sophie exchanged a quizzical glance, before following Alan into the void, the blackness swallowing them.
Suddenly the lights sprang on, and the reality of the situation slapped Sophie on the cheek. Her jaw dropped, emitting an audible gasp, quickly replaced by a raucous ‘Surprise!” from the roomful of people. Laughter rang out at her shock, and within seconds cousins, grandparents, friends, uncles aunts, every person she knew that she could think of, were swarming around her, holding out presents, gift wrapped, coils of ribbon and pretty bows getting tangled together. She was bewildered.
“What is this?”
I took her by the shoulders and gently led her from the crowd, and took her hands in mine. “You’ve had a tough year, and you’ve shown remarkable courage in the face of it all. We thought it would be fitting to arrange a surprise birthday party.” Sophie opened her mouth to speak, but I silenced her, wagging my finger. “I know your birthday’s not for another five days, but this was the only date the hall wasn’t booked for.”
“My God! I never thought something like this would happen to me. It’s amazing! You must have worked so hard, my friends, all my family. I can’t believe it.” Sophie threw her hands around my neck, a proper cuddle from a daughter to a mother, and suddenly they both realised that their relationship had changed forever. Grasping my shoulders, holding me at arm’s length, Sophie’s voice was sincere. “Thank you. Thank you so much. Mum.” For the first tim
e I knew the word hadn’t been used by accident.
The evening flowed happily through the motions, first drinks poured, knocked back and replaced, time and time again, leading to merry laughter and happy dancing to the upbeat music. The caterers I had arranged presented a wonderful cold buffet, nothing unusual, but everybody loved the party food. Steve had busied himself by hauling the abundant pile of presents and cards into his car, ready for Sophie to open at a more suitable time.
Tired, yet glowingly content, Sophie stepped to the sidelines to take stock of the effort her brothers and I had made. The hall was basic, as most are, non-descript decorating, unfolded tables set with paper cloths, laden with the remains of the buffet, and stackable chairs lining the walls. But the entire place had been brought to life in a way I knew that only I could achieve, with fun balloons pinned everywhere, streamers, and, as a nod to my humour, a tacky revolving disco ball hanging from the ceiling. Sophie was truly happy with everything she had, everyone she was with, for the first time she could ever remember. The only thing missing was her adoptive mother, Beryl, but somehow Sophie knew she’d be there in spirit. And Juan, the man she loved, yet had discarded.
The hall darkened, the floodlights over the small stage lit up, and Steve strolled up the three steps to the centre of the stage. Waving his arms, the chattering hushed, a content peace settling over the partygoers. He launched into a witty speech, the audience chuckling at the cheeky digs and one liners, and eventually he invited his sister onto the stage. Embarrassed, but knowing she owed it to all the people who’d travelled from far and wide to be with her on this occasion, she stepped up to his side, her reddened cheeks a mixture of blusher, shyness, and the effects of four large glasses of wine.
“Sophie, you’ve been the best sister, and I’m proud of who you are, what you’ve achieved, and how you cope. But there is one thing lacking in your life, one thing you had, but chose not to keep because of your understandable insecurities at the time.”
Sophie bowed her head, unsure whether to speak or not. She chose not.
“Tonight, we have one more surprise for you. I want you to face the side of the stage, and close your eyes. Don’t open them, and I mean not even a little peek, I know what you’re like, until I say so.”
Sophie followed the instructions, completely bemused by what could possibly top the evening she’d already had. Gasps rang from the crowd as a tall, bronzed, unbelievably handsome man stepped out from the side of the stage and strutted in front of the puzzled woman. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a box, then knelt on one knee, the gasping louder. Sophie badly wanted to open her eyes, but she waited patiently until Steve said ‘now’.
Her hands jumped to her heart, stunned. “Juan! What are you doing here, oh my God, I don’t believe this!”
His words were nearly perfect, the English lessons having been worth the time, endless effort, and cost. “Sophie, can you please marry me? Please say yes.”
With tears streaming down her face, happiness, excitement, relief that she hadn’t pushed him away completely, gratefulness that someone so beautiful, inside and out, could possibly love her so much. She took the ring she’d tried on months before, and placed it on her finger, the only reply that was necessary. As the well-wishers clapped and cheered, whooping and whistling, the floodlights dimmed, and the sound of Snow Patrol’s Chasing Cars began to echo through the room, catching the moment, grasping the mood, enhancing the romance. As they stepped, hand in hand, from the stage, the crowd parted, and they began to dance, holding each other tight, aware of nobody but each other, hearing nothing but the haunting music, seeing nothing but each other’s souls through their eyes.
Chapter 24
Darren Delaney
Darren couldn’t understand why his head was hurting so incredibly, he’d never experienced anything like it, but when he tried to move his hands to the pressure points on his temples, a vague attempt to relieve the thudding, they were limp. His eyes wrenched in the sockets, darting stabs of pain, repeated, repeated, and he couldn’t even consider trying to open them as he was certain that light would be intolerable. To top it all, his kidneys were killing him, they felt as if they were going to burst from his body. He guessed it was the hangover from hell, and for the first time ever, considered never drinking again. No bacon butties this morning to soak up the alcohol, sleep was the only thing he could consider.
But lying there, the pain washed over him, keeping him awake, and he had no choice but to tolerate it, moving at all wasn’t an option so there was no way he could take some paracetamol. It was a nightmare. He could remember being at the bar, the three girls, now, what were their names? He knew he’d been laid, not that the quick fumble was worth it, up against a tree, the warmth of the night bringing sweat to both of their brows, because it was over in seconds, she wasn’t worth any more than that.
He recalled that he’d been to the supermarket the day before, stocked up on spirits for the next week or so, four bottles of brandy, two of vodka, one single malt, and he’d filled the fridge with beer cans. A few cartons of wine, just the cheap Spanish stuff, a mix of red and white. When his head cleared, he’d have to see how much of it he’d drunk when he returned home to make him feel so dreadful.
Gradually an odd sensation floated through him, and he wandered if he was in a boat, on the sea, the gentle waves lulling away the pain. Sleep was coming, and he gave no resistance, allowing the blackness to enter his mind, grateful.
It had been easier to stay the night at mine and Harry’s house, being just a short walk away from the party venue, it meant we could all have a drink in the evening, and Alan’s sister, babysitting Jaimee, assured Sophie over the telephone that she was coping fine, that everything had gone smoothly, the baby was sleeping peacefully, fed, bathed, happy. When Harry came down the stairs at his usual seven o’clock, he chuckled to himself at all the sleeping bags with mops of hair popping from the top that were strewed on the sofas and floor. He surmised he’d need plenty of teabags this morning to ease the quantity of hangovers that would gradually drift to the table. He dropped a couple of slices of bread into the toaster and filled the kettle, ready to read the paper.
As always on a Saturday, a different postman delivered the mail, and it was always hours earlier than the weekly delivery. As the letters dropped onto the mat, I rushed down the stairs. “I’ll get them, Harry, you sit down, I’ll bring them through and make you some breakfast.”
I scooped through the pile of letters and finally the postmark I’d been anticipating appeared. Snatching it out swiftly, I raced to the living room, stepped over three sleeping bodies to reach the bureau, and buried it at the back, closing the lid silently. With a sigh to calm myself, I straightened, strolled back over the mounds of snoring flesh, and into the kitchen.
I had no idea then that Alan had been awake, and he waited until he heard the door click shut, then clambered from the warmth of his covers, glancing about to ensure he had no witnesses, and retrieved the letter, quizzical. He sat on the edge of the armchair and took a closer look, and was surprised to see the mail was addressed to Sophie, and had been sent from Spain. Now his curiosity had arisen, he wondered what was his birth mother up to now. He debated for a few moments. Should he open it? No, he reasoned, because I would know someone had seen me, and for whatever reason I clearly wanted to keep something from his twin. He shoved it back into the bureau, deciding that this predicament needed some thought.
Back in the still warm cover, grateful for the quality carpet that reduced the hardness he hadn’t noticed the previous night, too many beers having killed any need for the comfort of a bed, he considered recent events, wondering what the letter could possibly be about. Thinking, thinking, against the clattering and chatter coming from the kitchen, and roughly an hour passed before Steve stirred.
Alan reached across and tapped the sleeping bag. “Steve,” it was whispered, “I need to talk to you.”
Steve groaned, his hand on his head as he rais
ed it and leaned on his elbow. “What?”
“Shhhh. We need to talk in private. I’ll go up to the bathroom, you come up in a minute or so, I’ll let you in.”
He squeezed himself from the covers again, and trotted to the stairs, inwardly swearing when the kitchen door opened and my head popped through. “I thought I heard movement! I’ve just made a pot of tea, shall I pour you one? Do you want cereal? Toast?”
Alan forced a smile. “Sure, just the tea for now though, I’ll be a few minutes, got to go to the loo.” He patted his belly. “It’s all that lager wanting out!”
I smiled brightly, innocent to his real reason. “Okay, I’ll see you in a minute.”
Having heard the brief conversation, Steve crept as silently as possible up the stairs and tapped lightly on the bathroom door, squeezing through when it opened, and Alan locked the door behind him. He explained what he’d seen, and Steve was just as puzzled as Alan had been. “I thought all the business in Spain had been done?”
“I know, so did I, we need to find out what the letter’s all about. I mean, I could lose my job if anything untoward gets out, I’m a copper after all!”
“Perhaps we should confront her, tell her we know she’s up to something.”
“Maybe.” Alan scratched his head, options whirring through his mind. “We can’t be implicated, not in any way.” The door handle turned making both men jump, nervously eyeing each other. Alan pointed to the bath, Steve jumped in and pulled the shower curtain across. His brother well hidden, Alan could now see who was trying to get in.