by Belle Brooks
Blue and red lights finally appear, and for one split second I relax and allow my shoulders to drop. It’s short-lived because a second later, my shoulders launch by my ears once more. The flashing of these lights brings help, but it also brings the reality of the fact my wife is quite possibly missing.
In the hazy cloud the rain creates, it seems as if two police officers are hurrying up the grey stepping stones that lead to the steps and onto the veranda.
“Where have you been?” I snap. “Seriously, do you not realise my wife could be missing? Forty minutes. Are you shitting me it takes this long?”
Two men in uniform quickly take shelter on the veranda in front of me as the wind whips the leaves of two potted palms, on either side of the staircase, crazily.
“Reid Banks?”
“Yes.” I scowl.
“I’m Constable Maloney and this is Constable Stratt. Can we come in, please?”
I pause. But comply with a yes. “My wife,” I bark once we’re inside and the door is latched.
“Can we sit down, Mr Banks?” Maloney’s outstretched finger points in the direction of the dining room table.
“Whatever.” These two losers have no clue what they’re doing. I can tell by the look on their inexperienced youthful faces as I eye them in the light. Where’s the real police? Fuck, I should have gone and looked for Morgan myself.
“We’ve had a report your wife hasn’t returned home as expected and you have some worry,” Maloney says, finally getting to the matter at hand.
“No shit, mate. I made the report. Go find her.” I’m trying to rein in my hurt, but I’m failing miserably.
“Calm down, mate.” Maloney’s eyes narrow in warning.
“Fine.” I throw my hands onto my head and entwine my fingers.
Constable Stratt pulls out a notepad and a pen before his honey-coloured eyes connect with mine. “Mr Banks, when did you last speak to your wife?” His voice is deeper than I’d expected. He’s not overly large, yet his voice is so low you would expect someone much bulkier.
“Seven past seven.”
“That’s pretty exact, Mr Banks. How did you know it was exactly this time right down to the minute?” His expression is questioning. It makes me want to lash out. I don’t, instead opting for a strained calm.
“Well, this would be because it was only four hours ago that she called to tell me she had a flat tyre, and I took note of the time because Morgan said she’d be home no later than seven. A mechanic, I think she said, was helping her change it roadside.” My jaw flinches as my teeth clamp down in a hard bite and tension continues to pulse through my veins. “She never showed. I can show you on my phone when she called if you need.” My arms cross defensively, and my teeth grind together. Why is he looking at me as if I’m to blame? Stay calm, Reid!
“Are you sure she was coming home?” Stratt’s voice implies so much more than his words.
Am I sure? Well no, I’m fucking not sure, but she said she was. It’s none of Stratt’s damn business.
His glare tells me he thinks I’m talking crap, and his sudden changed expression tells me I’m looking guilty as shit right now.
“Yes, I’m sure,” I answer in a hard-to-control tone.
“Mr Banks, if the last time you spoke with your wife was 7:07 p.m, and you were expecting her home without delay, why is it then, that you waited to alert authorities?”
I pause. My fingers fiddle nervously in my lap as I sit. “I don’t know.”
“Mr Banks.” Maloney turns his attention to the shiny silver watch secured to his wrist. “It’s only 11:02 p.m, so is there any chance Morgan hasn’t just dropped around to see a friend or a family member?” The emphasis on friend makes me think by “friend” he means “lover”, and by “lover” he is reading my thoughts.
“No, she said she was coming home. She had a busted tyre, it got fixed … She said she was coming home.” As I say this aloud, even I wonder if I’m speaking the truth. My fingers are so contorted it causes pain to shoot through my radius, and I force my hands to relax.
“Mr Banks—”
“Can you call me Reid? Shit. Mr Banks is my father.”
Maloney’s eyes widen as a ghost of a smile slightly lifts his thinned lips. “Reid, is your wife normally out this late at night?”
His doubtful tone causes my anger to build rapidly. Why is he asking so many pointless questions when he should be out there searching for Morgan?
I swallow the ball of concrete, in my throat. “No, never. Unless she has a function. But I would know if she had a function tonight. I am her husband. I know these things.” Why am I being so defensive? Get a grip, Reid.
“Okay, well it hasn’t been too long, so let’s just relax for now. I’m sure there’s been a misunderstanding. Can I ask if the two of you have had a fight today or recently that might have caused Morgan to take some time away? You know, mate—maybe she took some time out for herself? Got some space?”
How fucking dare he? The launching of my head backwards and my pinched lips must clearly answer his question, so he moves on to the next.
“Is there any reason you can think of as to why Morgan might not want to come home?”
“None. Well …” I pause, trying to replay our phone conversation from earlier this evening through my mind. “The man who helped her, what if he didn’t …” I pause once more, too scared to speak the words out loud. “What if she never left on her own? She said she was leaving, but what if he…”
“We will look into this incident.” Stratt writes in the notepad.
“Okay.”
“Who is Morgan’s best friend?” Maloney says.
“What does this have to do with anything?” Shit. The last thing I need right now is Linda involved in this.
Stratt’s eyebrows lift high on his forehead as he says, “You’d be surprised, Reid. Most times we find a quick chat with a woman’s best friend results in a speedy recovery of a missing spouse.” His blue eyes, are streaked with silver lines, his voice controlled.
But Linda has nothing to do with this.
“Here, mate, just write down her friend’s name, address, and best contact number for us.” Maloney slides a notebook and pen across the table in my direction.
Extending my arm, I clasp the pen in hand. “Linda’s away on business, I tried calling her already and it went to voice mail. Just like Morgan’s phone.” Maybe they are together. Maybe she took a flight out and was never driving home to begin with. But why lie about the flat tyre then?
“Reid, can you write down your wife’s plate number too, please?”
“It’s simple to remember,” I say writing down Linda’s details. “It’s B.A.N.K.S.0.2.”
How can this be happening?
“We will see what we can find out. If she is not home by the morning, come into the station so we can investigate further. In the meantime, we’ll have some officers look into the flat tyre and the alleged mechanic who helped her. Where did you say Morgan punctured her tyre?”
“I didn’t.”
He shifts his attention from Stratt to me. “Where did it occur?”
“On the highway. About fifteen minutes away from home.”
He cocks his eyebrow.
For fuck’s sake. My hands start shaking. My heart plummets before going on an erratic sprint, and my stomach drops low. I have to keep it together, but how can I? What if she’s hurt?
“Whilst we are looking into these matters, I suggest you keep calling your friends and family to see if she has turned up at any of their homes.”
I throw my hands into the air in frustration. “Please tell me you’re fucking joking right now?”
“No, Reid,” Stratt says bluntly. “At the moment, all we can do is make inquiries. We will find her if she is nearby. Don’t worry, mate. We’ll go for a look, see what we can find out.”
Do they expect me to sit at home and simply wait? Not a chance. My wife is out there, and what if she does need me? Ignoring t
heir lack of concern, I push the chair out with complete disappointment before standing. “I can’t wait here and do nothing.”
“It’s all you can do. It’s best you stay here and wait for her like you have been.”
I run, flinging open the front door in my haste. The grass is cold under my bare feet as I rush to an adjoining property, the rain still pouring like an ocean being dumped in one bucket load from the sky. I have to find my girl.
Reaching the neighbour’s home, I bang my fist loudly against the doorframe.
“Shirley … John, it’s Reid, please open up.” My voice is strained from pure desperation. “Open the door John, it’s an emergency.”
Their outside light switches on before the sound of clicking alerts me to the lock turning over. With a soft creak, it swings wide on the breeze. John stands wearing long pyjama bottoms, wiping the sleep from his eyes.
“Reid! What’s wrong, my boy?” His grey eyes reflect a worrisome stare as his hands fall away.
“John. It’s Morgan. She hasn’t come home.”
John shifts his gaze over my shoulder, which in turn alarms me to do the same.
Maloney and Stratt approach with caution.
Expelling a puff of air, I search John’s eyes once more. “These idiots are doing nothing about it. I need to go find her. Can you and Shirley come over? The kids need someone to watch them. They’re asleep,” I add, my feet shifting involuntarily on the wooden surface below.
“Reid, of course.” Reaching out his hand, he firmly grips my shoulder, and with his touch, my throat strains from tears suddenly threatening to fall.
“I have to find her, John,” I whisper.
“I know, boy. You will. Try not to worry.” His aged fingers bear down, applying even more pressure, reinforcing his own worry. “Shirley, come quickly,” he calls.
It takes only a moment until the sound of footsteps draw near.
“What’s wrong, John?” she mutters, making it to his side. Slipping her glasses out of the pocket of her night gown, she slides them on. Her long nightgown sways with the wind blowing around her ankles and when I flick my eyes upwards I watch her pull a knitted shawl around her shoulders tighter. “What’s wrong, John?” Shirley repeats as her hazel eyes finally connect to mine. “Reid, what’s wrong, sweetheart?”
“It’s Morgan. She’s missing—”
“Go boy, go. We’ll watch the kids.” John doesn’t have to tell me twice.
I run back across the saturated grass and I’m quick to move throughout the house, grabbing my wallet, mobile and keys from the kitchen bench. My feet barely meet the floor on my way to the garage.
Pulling shoes on just before I enter my SUV, I devise a plan. Turning the ignition over while drawing a large breath of air, I hope with everything I’ve got I’ll find Morgan safe and sound and soon have her home.
The roller door takes forever to go up. Reversing out with speed, I see John helping Shirley up the stairs to our property. Backing out farther, I get a visual of the two police officers climbing into the cop car. I don’t afford them another word, but happily offer them my middle finger stretched into mid-air. Fuck you.
I drive, following the exact route Morgan would normally take on her travels home. Within five minutes, a Range Rover appears in amongst the long grass, a touch inside the estate. Her number plate glows as lightning crashes around it. The interior light is on—it’s the first thing to catch my eye as I close in, and then the back end of the car distracts me. Has it been pushed in? How did the cops not see Morgan’s car here? Fucking double entry. They mustn’t have entered from the highway like Morgan would have, instead they’ve come in the route from in town. Fuck! She’s been so close all this time. Pure panic rattles me.
“Morgan,” I yell, turning the car around. Each breath frantic when I pull up not far from her SUV. I sprint the short distance between the vehicles. Her driver’s door is open wide.
“Morgan! Morgan!” My desperation is palpable as I race to the driver’s door, before looking at her seat through eyes I know are bulging out from their sockets. I hoped … I even said a silent prayer for Morgan to be curled up in a sound sleep. She’s not. My heart skips an entire beat by what I can only assume is from frightful fear.
She’s not here.
The air bag is deployed. Her handbag and phone rest on the passenger seat. There’s blood on the steering wheel. I’m paralysed as I fall heavily onto my knees, trying desperately to stem the multitude of emotions steam-rolling me in one blow, drowning me in despair.
“Morgan,” I roar, as a primal noise follows.
Flashing lights fill the gloomy sky when a police car comes to a halt closely in front of me. Dropping my head allows the brutal rain to wash over my slumped shoulders before trickling down my face, a disguise for the tears suddenly leaking from my eyes.
“Morgan,” I whisper. "Where are you?"
Morgan
Two hours earlier
Yep. It’s a flat.
“Shit,” I mutter as I kick the tyre forcefully. My peep-toe stiletto cracks. And I cuss loudly, hopping around with my foot in hand, clasping at my now throbbing toes.
"Hell," I cry out. My fricking toes. I think closed-in shoes would have been a better idea today. And of course, as I sit to check said toe, long pants would have been ideal, too. One never presumes they will be changing a tyre at the start of their day when they are choosing a tight pencil skirt for work.
This. Blows.
Hobbling to the back of the Range Rover, I pop the boot and locate the tyre iron. Thankfully, I know what it looks like.
“It’s not going to change itself, Morgan, so you better get started,” I huff, realising it’s best to call Reid and have him come do it. Request denied, rips through my brain. Yep, always the person hardest on yourself, aren’t you, Morgan? When are you going to stop being so stubborn? I want to tell my thoughts to shut the hell up. Lately, my own mind is driving me insane.
I can do this on my own.
Grabbing my mobile from the console, I open Google. Google to the rescue.
How do you change a tyre? Search.
Browsing through, I mumble out loud. “Need a jack … Lift the tyre off the … blah, blah, blah ... oh, and somehow you need to loosen those bolts.” Okay, yep, seems easy.
Throwing the phone on the driver’s seat, I scurry to the back once more and locate the jack.
“What in the hell?” It’s in two pieces. Google said nothing about this. Why is it in two pieces? Stomping back to the front of the car, I mumble profanities under my breath before locating my phone from the seat once more.
The Google homepage screen is redisplayed.
How do you put the jack together? Search.
Some light reading and I think I have it under control.
Sliding the now-intact equipment under the base of the vehicle, I start twisting it round. It begins to rise like it should. Okay, I’ve got this. See, you can do it. Easy peezy, right?
“Now to loosen these bolts,” I mutter, while lining the tyre iron up with one of the nuts. It starts to turn but doesn’t budge. I push harder. Still not budging. I push with everything I have and it twists around flinging me flat on my arse, ripping the sleeve of my favorite silk blouse in the process.
GREAT! FUCK I HATE YOU, TYRE! GO FUCK YOURSELF! WHY GOD? WHY ME?
And then, to top my night off, the rain begins to fall.
Oh NO, buddy … no, you don’t. Don’t start the rain. I’m sorry for being crude. Please turn it off now. Make it stop, I’m sorry, I plead internally, before tilting my chin skyward. It doesn’t work. The rain pours down with more force and before I know it, the beginning of a storm is upon me and I’m drenched.
My silk top is stuck like glue to my skin. My skirt feels like it has turned to cardboard—heavy, stiff, and constricting. I need to get home and out of this storm. Rising from the ground, I walk in the direction of the driver’s side door once again.
“I need to get out of the
rain. Reid will sort this shit out faster than I can,” I moan in defeat.
A sudden loud and drawn-out honking sound startles me. Every muscle in my body tenses. I’m not on the road, so what’s the problem? “What now?” I yell, turning—my eyes immediately burning from bright lights blinding me. As the lights fade, I spy a glimpse of a small sedan parked behind mine. My eyelids flutter, attempting to re-adjust my sight to the now darkened surroundings.
“Got a flat?” a deep voice yells.
“Yes.”
“Let me give you a hand.” A man appears tall and sturdily built as he walks towards me. He closes in, and I notice his grease-stained coveralls and a baseball-type cap, but it’s too dark to make out any other details, until a passing car’s lights gives me another visual … possibly early forties. I’m strangely calmed by his presence, which is unusual for me, given the circumstances and the darkness I find myself in. I don’t know who he is, and he doesn’t offer any introduction, but I’m glad he stopped in this downpour to fix a stranger’s tyre.
“Let’s get this sorted for you so you can get back on the road.” He has a kind expression in his eyes.
“Are you a mechanic?”
“Yes, I am. Looks like it’s your lucky night.” He seems to grin as he rests his hands at his hips.
I giggle. Me—lucky? Never.
“Well, now you’re here, I guess it is.” For the first time in hours, I find myself smiling with genuine happiness. “Luck is not something I seem to have much of. Maybe my luck is turning around.”
The mystery man smiles at my statement. “I’ll get to it then.”
By this time, it buckets down with ferocity.
I keep a studious watch over him as he picks the tyre iron up off the ground and crouches down inspecting my handy work. By torchlight, the corner of his mouth rises into a small smirk. Eyes as grey as the stormy sky look up to me. A deep and masculine laugh explodes from his mouth, but he quickly stops and clears his throat.
“What’s so funny?” I shyly ask.