Dark Fragments: a fast paced psychological thriller

by Rob Sinclair

  ‘But when Alice first told you of her cheating, that moment seems to be some sort of tipping point from which many of your problems flowed.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess you could say that. But I was still me after that. At least I think I was. I think I was that person all the way up to her murder.’

  ‘So it was her murder that changed you?’

  ‘How could it not? Maybe some of the change had started already, but it was really only coming out the other side of her death that I felt different and I acted differently. After Alice was killed, I was locked in grief. Anger, it wasn’t a by-product of that grief, it was more like … it was what came to fill the void left by the sudden absence of happiness and hope. I just didn’t know it at first.’

  She shifted in her seat. ‘We’re getting somewhere here,’ she said. ‘So the anger that you feel sprang up when Alice was murdered, was it anger at you? At her? At having been left on your own with a child?’

  ‘I don’t know. It … didn’t really come straight away. Or at least I wasn’t aware of it.’

  ‘So when did you become aware of this all-consuming anger? There must be a point you can take yourself back to and say, “That was the moment when things really changed for me.”’

  ‘Like I say, it was Alice’s death.’

  ‘No, I mean after that. Long after you’d finally come out of your grief. When was the moment you woke up and saw that everything had changed? When did you realise you were a different person and know you had to take action?’

  ‘Okay, okay, I know what you’re getting at. Yes, I can pinpoint that moment.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Things really came to a head after that meeting with O’Brady. When he tore up the cheque I gave him and threw it back in my face. I think something inside me snapped.’

  ‘What do you think it was about that moment?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly. The violence that I’d just witnessed perhaps. The pressure on me had been there before that, steadily building for years. Alice cheating. Me getting sucked into O’Brady’s world. Alice’s death. My problems at work. My problems with Gemma, our failing marriage. But that moment in O’Brady’s office, as I watched him nearly beat a man to death so coldly … that was the tipping point. I came out of the club that day a different person. And then when Gemma …’

  ‘So that was where the list came from?’

  ‘There was no list,’ I said again, irritated. ‘But it was that moment when I realised I needed to take action – do something drastic to halt my downward spiral. But really, in the end, it all came down to chance.’

  CHAPTER 25

  I was still fuming as I thudded out of my house, lugging my meagre belongings. I could feel the thunder filling me, sticking in my throat. I had to get away from the house, away from Gemma, before I erupted. I stormed over to my car. Only when I was in the driver’s seat, door shut and locked, did I finally let it out.

  I yelled, a deep, guttural sound. I yelled so hard it made my head spin and my jaw ache. My voice was hoarse within seconds but I couldn’t stop. I started shaking uncontrollably, my fists clenched, my knuckles white, the muscles in my arms and my back and my neck flexed and tight and ready to uncoil.

  I thumped on the steering wheel, ignoring the pain that immediately shot through the thin bones in my hand and the stabbing that worsened in my ribs from the beating I’d taken at the strip club. I was past caring. I hit out again and again. When that wasn’t enough, I grabbed the wheel and starting pumping up and down as though trying to tear it right off. I bucked back and forth in my seat, my head crashing against the headrest behind me.

  When I was finally finished, when my ragged body was spent, I slumped down. My breathing was fast and wheezy, my heart was racing. Sweat droplets formed a continuous mask on my brow. I hung my head down, waiting for a sense of normality to return.

  After a few minutes, the fury was still there; I could feel it simmering. For now, though, it was over – I was back in control.

  But something felt different.

  I pushed the ignition button and enjoyed a moment of satisfaction as the powerful engine of my BMW roared to life. I looked over to the house. Gemma was standing in the bay window of the lounge, arms folded and a dark scowl on her face. She shook her head at me. I just looked away and then I stuck the gearbox into reverse and rolled the car out onto the road.

  I drove on for twenty minutes, not entirely sure of my destination, my head brimming with thoughts. I needed somewhere to stay. I had only a small number of close friends in the area but they were all married with kids. I was sure none of them would have wanted me turning up on the doorstep. And the majority of them were from Ellis Associates. I was fast coming to the realisation that it was about time I burned my bridges with that life.

  There was my sister, Dani, too. She would surely take me in if I asked. I guessed, based on our last conversation, that she was still living alone – unless she’d shacked up with her latest fling in a whirlwind romance (that was almost certainly doomed for failure) and had simply failed to inform me.

  I decided against that idea as well. There would be too many questions from Dani, too much prying. And I was sure that even though she would likely provide me with a roof over my head, my visit wouldn’t be entirely welcome. Not given our recent history together. I didn’t need that hassle.

  Having driven around in circles, never moving more than a couple of miles away from my house, I finally fixed my sights on a small hotel on the Birmingham Road, the main road linking Sutton Coldfield to Birmingham. I would have had many more options if I’d moved further afield into the city, but the hotel was a temporary measure, one way or another. And while Gemma may have kicked me out of my own house, she sure as hell wasn’t going to stop me seeing my children; I wanted to be close to them. With my marriage and my job on the rocks, and my life and sanity in the hands of my father-in-law and an Irish mobster, the kids were the only positive thing I had left.

  I parked in the small car park that was nothing more than a large tarmacked driveway and carried my case through the entrance toward the reception desk. Having agreed a nightly rate with the receptionist of fifty-five pounds for an unspecified length of stay, I dragged my case up the single flight of stairs to room five. I turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open, then studied the cramped space before me.

  It smelled old and worn, and the sparse and aged furniture only complemented the aroma. There was a single bed, the plain white sheets neatly tucked in a turn-down that reminded me of hotels at which I stayed with my parents in the eighties. The patterned carpet and curtains also suggested the decor was the design of someone stuck in the past.

  It was somewhere warm and dry to sleep at least. But I didn’t want to be in the room any longer than necessary. I left immediately and headed downstairs to look for the bar. Or at least what passed as a bar. I’d seen a more impressive array of drinks in people’s houses before. And there wasn’t a soul in sight. It appeared, in fact, that the receptionist doubled as a barmaid on the rare occasion that anyone fancied a drink.

  I headed out and walked for a good mile or so until I found a decent enough pub in the Wylde Green area of the town. I’d never been in the Shoulder of Mutton but had passed it countless times in the car. It was entirely generic inside, and I was surprised when I entered that the clientele appeared so downtrodden given the relative wealth of the neighbourhood. I guessed on a Wednesday night there weren’t that many punters around. Local pubs simply didn’t have the draw they’d had a generation before – unless there was an important football match on.

  I took a stool at the bar and started to drown my sorrows. And I probably would have stayed there until closing time, or at least until I was rolled out of the door drunk, if something hadn’t happened. Actually, it wasn’t something, but someone. A face from a long time ago. One I hadn’t seen in years, and didn’t think I’d ever see again.

  This wasn’t a person who should have moved me
particularly. But with the turmoil that was going on inside me, seeing that face changed everything – my entire way of thinking.

  I sat staring, oblivious to everything else around me. Thoughts were coming thick and fast, but few were sticking. My brain was on fire as I tried to grasp where to start, but at the same time I felt an incredible determination and an almost surreal calmness.

  Gone was the all the pain and sorrow of the last few years. Gone was the misery of losing Alice. Gone was the anger and bitter resentment that had clouded me for so long. I felt alive, as though this was the answer to my many problems.

  And then, just like that, I determined what I had to do.

  I had a plan.

  CHAPTER 26

  I wasn't a violent person. But I did think about violence. I’d thought for years about all the situations I’d been in where I could have taken action, but didn’t. I’m sure that was the same for almost everyone. Yes, it was just daydreaming, but what if the opportunity actually presented itself?

  That was where the idea had come from: a lifelong habit of avoiding confrontation and letting people get the better of me.

  People like Callum O’Brady, like Whitely, like Rottweiler. And people like Andrew Dove, the man I saw entirely by chance – or was it fate? – in a pub I’d never been to before on a soggy Wednesday night in Sutton Coldfield.

  Even twenty years after the event, what he’d done to me still burned strong in my memory as a moment of regret and shame. Like I said: I wasn't a violent person. But I wished I hadn’t been so weak so often. My whole life I’d preferred to walk away from my troubles whenever I could rather than face them head on. Over the years my cowardice had caused me more problems than I cared to think about.

  When I was a teenager, my dad had led me to believe that it took great strength to walk away from a fight. That it showed character and made me a real man. I reckoned most parents would say that to their children, though. After all, this was my dad who'd tried to reinforce this belief in me, despite his having been quite the fighter in his youth.

  The reality is that it takes much more guts to stand up for yourself and to defend yourself against others, knowing that you may end up getting hurt, than it does to run away.

  As a young teenager, when I’d walked away after taking a beating from Dove, I’d been ridiculed at school for weeks afterwards. With a black eye and fat lip, I’d had to wear my failure every day like a badge of shame while my enemy was lauded with praise for having wiped the floor with me without a single scratch inflicted upon him. My dad was proud of me for having done the ‘decent’ thing. Great. Because that made a whole lot of difference to a thirteen-year-old kid.

  The truth was, I hadn’t walked away from that fight as a show of strength. I’d simply been scared and confused. Dove’s sucker punch had taken me completely by surprise.

  I’d always been a competitive person, never afraid to fight in a non-physical sense, and even in a physical sense when it came to sports. That had seen me excel at many things, rugby included. My sporting prowess was no match for Dani’s; she had far greater athleticism – balance, co-ordination and speed – to back up her winner’s attitude. But I was still seen by my peers as one of the top dogs on the rugby field at least.

  Teachers and coaches had said I had natural ability, that I was a raw but talented athlete. I was good, but never quite good enough. In later teenage years I was quickly overtaken by those kids who were able to bulk up and become the mountains required in the man’s game. But as a determined thirteen year old I’d been an ace on the field.

  It was during a training match that it happened. I’d been hurtling around the field for the best part of fifty minutes, tackling here, there and everywhere with ferocity. I’d scored two tries, including one where I’d sprinted a full fifty yards with not one opponent able to get within two yards of me. I was also the kicker and hadn’t missed a single attempt in the whole match. It was a training match, sure, and not everyone was giving one hundred per cent, but I took pride in outshining them all.

  And that was probably my downfall, because the opposition was clearly becoming disgruntled by my heroic display. So when I went in hard on Dove, tackling him just below the waist and sending him crashing to the ground, that was the last straw.

  He immediately swivelled around to sit on top of me, and for the next few seconds, with me lying helpless on the ground, his fists rained down on my face.

  I've never known why I didn’t hit back. The opportunity was there. I was bigger than he was. Stronger too. But in the moment I panicked. I’d never been in that sort of position before. Rather than even attempt to throw a punch back, my only focus was on dragging myself out from underneath him and escaping the beating.

  By the time I finally managed that, a teacher had already darted up to us and pulled us apart. I looked over at Dove and saw a wicked grin on his face. He knew he’d put me back in my place. His look was replicated across the faces of most of his team. Everyone knew it.

  The teacher barked instructions but I was sure neither of us took in his words. A friend put his arm around my shoulder and guided me back to the changing rooms.

  I looked around on my lonely walk and spotted Dove, still on the field, basking in his teammates’ praise. The brave victor. It didn’t matter one little bit that I had been the hero during the game. There was only one winner that day in the eyes of everyone on the field, and everyone in the school afterwards.

  When I reached the changing rooms I flopped down on the wooden bench and, despite the kindly encouragement from my friend, I cried.

  Twenty years had passed since then, and yet thinking about that day still had a powerful effect on me, bringing back raw emotion. Needless to say, Dove and I had never been friends after that. When we’d both left school at eighteen, our separate circles of friends had only become further dispersed into the wider world. After I spotted him in Wylde Green, however, it didn’t take me long to track him down.

  I guessed his being in the local area meant he still lived there. In the modern world, people leave such a big imprint of their lives in cyberspace (mostly unwittingly), so it took only some brief searches to find that Dove had never made it out of the Midlands. Having attended Aston University, he’d gone on to work for a local accounting firm. His social media profiles showed he lived in the small village of Wishaw, just a few miles away. It wasn’t a big place and two quick searches – first in the online phone directory and then on the electoral roll – allowed me to pinpoint his home address.

  I scoped out his house. He lived in a newly built executive home – far bigger than the Victorian semi that Gemma and I had splashed out on two years previously. I was immensely proud of our home. It had style and class. Dove’s home was almost certainly a lot more expensive than ours, but it was also quite tasteless in my eyes.

  Money without class was one of the most vulgar sights to behold, and my impression of who Dove had become was further confirmed by the two large four-by-fours parked in his driveway. With their lowered suspension, giant alloys, sporty trimmings and sparkling paint, I guessed they were used only for showing off, ferrying kids about and doing the daily commute, rather than for any off-road activity. Before I’d even spoken a word to Dove I hated him with renewed vigour.

  I watched him come out of his driveway on foot as I sat hunkered down in the front seat of my car, across the road from his house. He walked out of the gates and turned left, back toward the village. He was older and plumper and had less hair, but he certainly hadn’t lost any of his arrogance, judging by his cocky swagger.

  I watched him in my rear-view mirror. When he was a good distance away, I turned on the engine and swung the car around to follow. When he took a left turn, I sped up to the junction to close the distance, then pulled the car over to the curb and killed the engine. I got out of the car and headed after him on foot, keeping on his tail as he walked to a local pub – the Hare and Hounds – on the main road that bisected the village.


  Inside he met with two men I didn’t recognise, and spent the rest of the evening working his way through six pints of beer. The pub was comfortably busy with both eaters and drinkers, which allowed me to keep my head down and stay out of sight. I kept a baseball cap pulled low over my face to better my chances of remaining incognito, but I had to assume that if Dove looked over at me, if I caught his eye at the wrong moment, he would recognise me.

  But then, he hadn’t spotted me the other night in Wylde Green, and really it wouldn’t be that big a deal even if he did see me – I doubted he would want to come over and chat. Most likely he would quickly look away and pretend he hadn’t noticed me and then spend the rest of the night trying his hardest to not look again.

  As it was, I didn’t need to worry. The night passed in a haze of beer and drunken chat. The three of them were certainly louder and more raucous than they had been at the start – and Dove was the loudest and brashest of them all – but they all still seemed in control. No-one was falling on the floor, and I presumed, in fact I hoped, that the night would come to a lacklustre end not long after the closing bell rang.

  In the intervening time I’d worked through three beers and a shandy myself, and had politely rebuffed the attempts of two locals – whom I took to be regulars – to engage me in lengthy conversation. All in all, I was feeling relaxed and ready.

  When the barman signalled last orders, I decided it was time to make myself scarce. I got up from my seat by the bar and kept my head down as I walked out into the cold and blustery night.

  A handful of customers loitered in the car park, either smoking or saying their goodbyes, and I decided not to hang around there. I walked away from the pub and took the turning off the main road into much quieter surroundings. Even during the day the village was peaceful, I knew, but at eleven p.m. on a weekday evening it was entirely dead.