by Simon Lelic
‘What’s wrong with you? Are you okay?’
‘No. I’m fucking not.’ The man shuffled until he was sitting, shifting his weight onto his backside and hooking his arms over his knees. He hung his head. ‘I’m fucking dying. What the hell do you want?’
‘I told you, I… Look. Really. Can I get you something?’
Archie laughed, as though tickled by his impending wit. The laugh turned into a cough. ‘Some morphine, maybe. A replacement head. Even a Bloody Mary might do the trick.’
A Bloody Mary? Leo took another step. He leant and he sniffed. ‘You’re hungover?’
‘Actually, scratch that.’ Archie pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. ‘Just the thought of vodka makes me wanna…’
Leo dropped beside him, grabbed his dressing gown and shook the man straight. ‘The photographs! Where are they!’
‘Ow! For fuck’s sa—’
‘I don’t have time for this! I need the photographs now.’
‘Seriously! The decibels! I told you, I’m fucking dy—’
‘I DON’T CARE.’ Each word seemed to strike like a blow. Leo tried standing, meaning to drag the photographer upright. ‘STAND UP. STAND UP!’ He hauled but the man was like a ton of sleeping cat. ‘I’M NOT GOING TO ASK YOU AGAIN! STAND UP! I SAID, STAND—’
‘Okay!’ Archie reached a hand to the wall. He started to claw himself vertical. ‘Just stop shouting, will you?’ He found his feet and dragged a hand across his pallid face. He blinked.
‘The photo—’
‘The photographs. I heard you. Just give me a minute. Okay? Five fucking seconds.’
He looked left, right, then stumbled deeper into the apartment. Leo followed. At the doorway to the living room, he stopped short, marvelling at the scene beyond. It was carnage. A battlefield, with the casualties yet to be removed. There was a girl curled between ashtrays on a flammable-looking sofa, and a man strewn across an armchair. Beneath Jimi Hendrix posters sagging from the smoke-stained walls, record sleeves vied with beer bottles for floor space. There were patches, too, of visible carpet: person-shaped, suggesting not all of Archie’s guests had failed to make it home.
‘I told you I’d delete them. Didn’t I?’
Leo turned. Archie seemed to be searching for somewhere to slump. He settled for a spot furthest from the daylight that was seeping through the blinds, in the shade of a gargantuan rubber plant.
Archie was right. Leo had forgotten. Not forgotten: he had not believed what the photographer had told him in the first place. ‘Did you?’
Archie shrugged, shook his head. ‘Nope.’ He extended a foot, prodded a laptop beside the coffee table with a toe. ‘They’re on there. Help yourself. But hey! Mind the carpet!’
Leo, in his rush, had toppled a highball. The liquid inside merely merged into a pre-existing stain.
‘It’s not working.’ Leo was kneeling now, pressing, holding, prodding the computer’s on button. He looked at Archie, who had his eyes closed.
‘The battery’s buggered,’ the photographer said. ‘You need to plug it in. But seriously!’ At the sound of clinking beer bottles, Archie opened his eyes and raised his drooping head. ‘You’re making a mess!’
Leo knocked over another bottle as he lunged for a power socket. He ignored Archie’s remonstrations and beat the plug into the wall.
‘What’s the password?’ Leo said, when the screen on the laptop prompted him. ‘Archie! What’s the—’
‘Jimi!’ Archie snapped back. ‘That’s i, m, i, all lower case.’
Leo typed two-fingered. ‘And the folder. Which folder? Jesus, Archie, there’s hundreds of—’
‘The date! They’re sorted by date. You’re really not helping my headache, you know. I should call the fuzz or something.’
Archie grumbled on but Leo stopped listening. He was searching the photographer’s hard drive, which was mercifully better organised than the man’s living space. Kneeling over the screen and working his fingertip clumsily on the touchpad, Leo located a directory that was arranged by month. He found February, and then the week, and then the day of their trip to Dawlish. He clicked again, twice in succession, and the screen was filled with thumbnails of his daughter. On the village green carrying her ice cream. In the parlour choosing the flavour. Outside, on the pavement. Emerging, further up the street, from the clothes shop with Meg. In her seat, on the train, marvelling at the sea.
Leo dragged the computer to the top of his thighs and leant his head in close. His daughter. Image after image of his daughter and in not one of them, it struck Leo, was Ellie smiling. He reached a fingertip to touch his daughter’s cheek. He felt instead the coldness of the laptop’s screen.
‘You were on the train,’ Leo said. ‘You were taking pictures of us even before we got there?’
Archie was a ball on the floor, his eyes shut once again and his nostrils pressed into the carpet. ‘I was following you,’ he mumbled. ‘You went by train. Er-fucking-go.’
Leo scrolled again through the thumbnails, focusing on the images of his family crossing the green.
‘How do I enlarge these?’
Archie did not answer but Leo had worked it out for himself. He double clicked an image, scanned it, closed it again. He checked another, and then another, and then another. There was nothing, no one. He zoomed in, then reset the image. He opened another, zoomed, panned out again. A beard. Anyone with a beard. Anyone who looked even remotely like the man Megan had seen at the—
A face. Masked, almost, by an upturned collar, a beanie pulled low over the eyes. Leo zoomed. He stared. And he heard the voice.
Not exactly beach weather is it, Leo?
26
This was harder. At least before it had felt like they had been through the worst of it. Their oxygen had been cut off and, after the initial panic, they had submitted to asphyxiating slowly – not without pain but numb to it. Now, waiting, it was like they had been instructed to take a deep breath while someone worked on fixing the supply. They had no idea how long it would take or whether it could even be done. All they knew for certain was that this was their very last gasp.
Leo, for the first time in a while, was attempting sitting. He beat the table, drumming out his fretfulness through his fingertips.
‘Leo.’
Megan was standing beside the sink, her arms around her middle and her back to the room. In front of her was a plastic milk bottle and a mug of half-made tea. Either she had forgotten what she had been doing or she was drawing out the ritual for as long as possible.
‘Leo,’ she repeated. ‘Please.’
Leo, with a glance, settled his fingers. He stared at his flattened hands.
What if he’d fled? He must have known, surely, that they would catch up with him. Somehow, at some point – in this day and age. So if he fled. If he panicked. If he suspected he was running out of time… He would let her go. Wouldn’t he? Surely he would. It was the only rational course of action. He was caught anyway. Why make things worse? Not just worse: intensely, immeasurably so.
‘Leo.’
Even to someone as addled as this… this lunatic.
‘Leo, you’re…’
And he was that. A lunatic. Someone deranged. Quite what had happened to make him so, Leo could not begin to imagine. It wasn’t rage, this, after all. Or if a mist had descended, it had settled. Low enough to obscure any guiding light but not so dense that the man was unable to plan, to scheme, to act as though—
‘Leo!’
Megan was facing him now across the breakfast bar. Something in her seemed to have shattered. ‘Stop!’ she said. ‘Please! Stop drumming your blasted fingers!’
Leo swallowed. He slid his hands into his lap. Sorry, he tried to say but his throat, his mouth, was gummed dry.
Megan, eyes closed, said it instead. She started to say something more but turned back in silence towards the worktop. She stood facing the sink. She flicked on the kettle. It must have been the third or fourth time she
had set it to boil.
Leo studied her. She had on her pyjamas, as well as the jumper that had emerged from her closet on day two: a polo neck, the one she described as her hot-water bottle and only ever wore when she was ill. It was fraying at the joins and two sizes too big, so that the sleeves hung to her knuckles and the shoulders overlapped her arms. Her hair was gathered in a shabby bunch and her skin was sallow and free of make-up – and not just because it was the middle of the night.
Leo swallowed again. He slid back his chair. It scraped on the ceramic-tiled floor and he saw the sound rattle Megan’s spine. She twitched her chin in his direction, then gripped the handle of the kettle, as though impatient for it to steam. Leo touched the chair, the table, the dresser. He moved from one piece of furniture to the next. He closed on Megan’s back and reached his hands towards her shoulders.
‘Don’t.’ Megan stepped away and turned. She pressed herself against the roll of the worktop and wrapped herself tight.
‘Meg.’ Leo took another step and his wife seemed almost to flinch.
‘Don’t,’ she said again. ‘Please.’
It was the please that hurt most.
‘Meg. We need to talk. Don’t you think?’
She did not answer – and her silence, suddenly, was more than Leo could bear. After weeks of this. The skulking, on his part; the passive loathing on hers. Nothing said, everything implied, even through the cold formality of the words they did exchange. No physical contact of any sort, though Leo longed to hold his wife, to be held in turn by her. They had collided, once or twice, in doorways, around corners, and he had caught the scent of her – the warmth of her – only for Megan to bear it briskly away. She had not even unpacked. The case she had filled the day Ellie had been taken lay distended on their daughter’s floor. Her family had returned to their homes – to their beds, anyway, though Megan’s mother was invariably back with them by nine – but Megan herself behaved like a guest: sleeping apart, eating apart, confining herself to narrow corridors of space. Not a guest, then. A prisoner. Someone trapped. And even though Leo had tried everything he dared to free the both of them, she refused to look beyond what in her mind had the inviolability of scripture: that everything that had come to pass – all of it – was Leo’s fault.
‘I didn’t mean for this to happen, you know.’
Plaintive, he was dimly aware, would have been a better tack: healthier, more nourishing, less like gobbling grease to sate a hunger. Yet he could sense his fury gathering, barging its way towards the surface. ‘Is that what you think?’ he heard himself saying. ‘That I meant for this to happen? That this was somehow my plan all along?’
Megan remained silent. Everything about her seemed to tighten.
‘I’m sorry, Meg! I don’t know how many times you want me to say it!’
She watched him. Just stared at him.
‘She’s my daughter too. I want her back too!’
No movement. Nothing. Not a twitch – until he stepped.
Megan slid away, towards the open part of the room. ‘Don’t,’ she said once more.
Don’t. Don’t, don’t, don’t. Leo held up his hands. ‘Fine.’ He backed as far from his wife as the kitchen units would allow. ‘Don’t talk to me. Don’t touch me. Just carry on acting like I don’t exist. Like you’re the only one who’s feeling any pain.’
Megan made a sound. It was difficult to read. Disdain, most likely. Or pity?
‘We need to get past this, Meg. We need to talk about it. Because when they find him. When they find El—’
‘Don’t! Don’t say it!’
Not pity then. Leo felt his chin fall. ‘What? Why not? They’ll find her, Meg! How can they not? One way or…’ He shook his head. He had not meant to start that sentence. ‘The picture,’ he said. ‘It’s all they needed. With the picture they—’
‘Stop it! For God’s sake, Leo! Don’t you think you’ve taunted fate enough!’
‘Fate?’ Leo felt his lip curl. ‘Fate has nothing to do with this!’
‘No. Of course not. I forgot: this is about you. Right from the start, this has only ever been about you!’
He shook his head. ‘That isn’t fair. You know it isn’t.’
Megan angled her chin as though studying him. ‘You think this absolves you. Don’t you? You think finding some blasted picture makes everything else all right. Well it doesn’t, Leo! It only goes to prove how much you’re actually to blame!’
Leo spread his arms. ‘I just said! Didn’t I? I said I was sorry!’
‘And what? I’m supposed to forgive you?’ She touched her forehead, let her hand rebound. ‘Of course. I forgot. In Leo-land, that’s how it works. As long as you’re sorry, you can get away with anything.’
Leo smiled. He looked at his watch. ‘Congratulations, Meg. You made it, what, a whole thirty seconds this time before bringing up the case?’
‘I didn’t say anything about the fucking case!’ She wiped her chin with a sleeve. ‘And anyway so what if I did? I can’t mention it? We can talk about your daughter being abducted but Daniel Blake being convicted of murder – sorry, that cuts too close to the bone.’ Megan pressed a palm to her brow. She opened her mouth to say something more but seemed suddenly overwhelmed by the futility of it, the effort of it. She made, instead, to walk away. Just walk away.
‘It doesn’t absolve me,’ Leo said. And a voice, after, added: stop. Leave it there. Let Megan go and be grateful that you did. But this was something. Shouting, fighting: it was better than doing nothing. He wanted to keep Megan there because he could not face going back to where they had been. He would do anything to avoid that.
‘It doesn’t absolve me. I never said it did. But at least I’ve done something. At least I’ve been doing something.’ He paused, peered over the edge. ‘What have you done, Megan? Between blaming me? Between pining, making tea? What have you actually done?’
‘Excuse me?’ The warning sign on Megan’s face was plain to read. Leo hurtled past it.
‘I’ve been out there. Every day. Driving, walking, searching. And I found something. Something important. All you’ve been doing is—’
‘How dare you!’ Megan moved with a speed that caught Leo by surprise. She flung a hand and Leo, reacting, caught it. She flung the other and hit Leo on the upper arm. She swung again and this time Leo caught her other hand too. She was thrashing in his grip, yanking at her wrists to try to free them.
He pushed and she stumbled away. She made to come again but Leo held out his hands to ward her off.
‘Megan! What the hell are you doing! Calm down!’
‘You wanker. You bastard!’ Her hair had come loose. Her jumper had twisted and she writhed to try and straighten it. She started to cry. More than that, she began to heave, gulping and sobbing all at once. She gave up on the jumper and tried to drag her hair from her mouth, as though to make space for air – but it was stuck there by her spit and her snot and her tears. Leo had never seen her look so wretched; so wounded and terrified both.
‘Meg.’ He took a step. Megan sniffed, sobbed again but marginally recovered her breathing.
‘Meg, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean…’
She recoiled.
‘I need you, Meg. More than ever. You need me too, I know you do.’
Which made her look. Into his eyes and beyond them. It was just a look but as clear an answer as Leo could have asked for.
‘Meg.’ Leo could feel his own tears now, massing though yet to break. ‘Meg, please. Don’t. Just think for a minute before you—’
A ringing. The sound they had been waiting for.
Leo was closer. He looked at the phone and back at his wife. She was motionless all of a sudden, her hand halfway to her cheek, her lips pressed tight. A tear fell and she let it.
The ringing. Once again Leo turned. His feet pointed one way, his shoulders the other.
‘Answer it.’
Leo looked at Megan.
‘Answer it!�
�
Leo scrambled. He lunged and snatched up the receiver. ‘Hello?’
There was quiet for a moment at the other end. A rustling, voices in the background, then finally a cough. ‘Hello?’ said a voice back. ‘Mr Curtice?’
‘Inspector?’
‘You’re there. Thank God.’
‘What’s happened? What’s going on?’
‘Are you… Can you get down here?’
Megan, Leo was aware, was beside him. He turned and held the receiver so that she might hear.
‘Of course. But what’s happening? Have you got him?’
‘We’ve got him but… Look, you need to come down here.’
‘Why? Inspector? Have you found my daughter? She’s not… Please don’t tell me she’s…’
‘Don’t drive, Mr Curtice. Just stay put. A car’s already on its way.’
27
‘He says he won’t talk to anyone but you.’
They marched along the corridor, Detective Inspector Mathers supposedly leading but Leo setting the pace. He was surprised, given the hour, how busy the station was. It was kicking-out time at the city’s nightclubs, which explained the bustle in the lobby, but here, amid the back rooms, they had barely passed a room without a light on.
‘He’s refused a solicitor, too,’ said the DI. ‘Doesn’t want a duty. Says you’re the only lawyer he trusts. Seemed to think that was amusing until I reminded him what it was he was doing here.’
Leo broke step. He was laughing? He was sitting, waiting… laughing?
They stopped outside a windowless door. Mathers reached for the handle and held it. ‘Listen,’ the DI said. ‘I realise this is going to be hard for you but it’s important that we keep our cool. We still don’t have your daughter, Mr Curtice. Whatever he says, whatever he does, you need to keep that in mind.’
Vincent Blake was pacing the edge of the room, tapping his cigarette packet against his thigh. From the door side of the table, a constable roughly double Blake’s size tracked his progress. Other than a chair either end of what looked like a 1980s school desk, there was nothing and no one else in the cell.