Saviour

by Andie M. Long

  She snorts. ‘Eden stalked you. You should really tighten up your privacy settings on Facebook. You tagged yourself to that restaurant every Monday.’

  ‘I’m trying to raise its profile for Paulina.’

  ‘Yeah, well if you want more stalkers, keep at it.’

  ‘Seriously, she looked me up?’

  ‘Yeah. She said she was bored.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Kara’s laugh tinkles down the line.

  ‘She looked you up, typed in your first name and location and was amazed to see you appear on a search. Then she Facebooked you, and sent me a picture to rub it in my face that she’d bonked a hot man.’

  She thought I was hot. She talked about me.

  ‘What else did she say?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Was it usual for Eden to find lovers in Escape/Find?’

  Kara goes quiet for a moment. ‘Eden’s a complicated woman. She was never inhibited sexually.’

  I pick up a vibe from the tone of Kara’s voice.

  ‘Did you...?’ I let my voice trail off. I’ve overstepped the mark.

  ‘No. Not me, but she had a lot of lovers and fooled around with a female. She wasn’t sure about that side of herself. Didn’t talk about it much. That’s why I’d thought the job might help settle her mind. Do you know what I mean?’

  No, I don’t know. It’s not what normal people do.

  ‘We’re best friends. Eden doesn’t have a family. Like I said, she’s complex. She needs something in her life, but can’t work out what that is. I thought it might be a three-way in Altrincham, but that wasn’t suiting her either.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘She told me she was bored, remember?’

  ‘Well, it looks like the thought of a free holiday got her over that.’

  ‘Yeah, looks like it. Listen. Is it okay if I call you in a couple of days? It's hard for me to deal with the police from Spain. If I haven’t heard from her, then I have to report it to the police. Fuck, I want to stay but I’m going to lose my job.’

  ‘That’ll look good, her one-night stand walking in and reporting her missing.’

  ‘Well someone has to and Eden has no one else. You might have been the last person to see her anyway, so tough.’

  I sigh. ‘Okay. I’ll send you my number.’

  ‘I’ve got it. You’re calling me from it.’

  ‘Great. Let me know if you hear from her. In the meantime, is there anyone else who might be able to shed light on this couple? You recommended them? Where did that recommendation come from?’

  ‘A nanny called Bridget. Shoot, I never thought of her. Can I text you her number because I have to leave? I’m going to miss my flight. Please, Xavier, ring me if you hear anything, and I’ll do the same.’

  ‘I will. Not a problem.’

  ‘And Xavier?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Sorry to have given you attitude at the restaurant. I’m just concerned for my mate.’

  ‘No worries. I’m sure I’d do the same.’

  If I had any friends.

  Chapter Eleven

  Xavier

  I always knew my mother was different. She’d be fine for ages. A normal mum. Then I’d notice her speech getting faster. As the years passed, I learnt the reason-bipolar disorder. When I was younger, no-one felt I needed to know my mother’s history of mental illness. She’d return from shopping, buzzing with the amount of shopping she’d bought. Bags upon bags of shoes one time. Half of them weren’t even her size. I detected the strain on my father’s face; watched as he asked for the receipts. My mother’s temper at being told to hand over her bargains. Then she’d spit at him and hit him as he mentioned taking her to see the doctor. ‘You just want to be rid of me.’ I’d ask if I could do anything to help. My Dad would realise I was witnessing her madness and his face would shut down. He’d tell me everything was in hand, that he’d deal with it and I didn’t need to worry. To excuse her he said she was stressed.

  In 2003 the 14-year-old me came home from school to a mother who’d packed my cases and told me we were taking a trip. A year out. A taxi came and took us to the airport. Smiling, she told me my father would fly out later. I had no reason to believe it was anything out of the ordinary. She was my mum. She’d always been impulsive. Trips to the seaside, letting me skip school; “Why waste a lovely day stuck indoors?” Sometimes she’d throw out the food she’d bought and make Dad take us to a restaurant. She was fun. This holiday seemed fun. It contrasted with times when I’d felt she was bored, being stuck at home with me and Dad. She’d stay in her room for days on end, not bothering to shower. She’d stare blankly as I’d show her what I’d drawn at school that day. I’d leave her alone thinking she wasn’t impressed, that my work was below par. I didn’t realise it was part of her illness.

  I was happy she was happy. She said Dad would meet us there, in Salou, after he’d finished work. A few hours later we were in an apartment. The sun shone and I was excited about my dad’s arrival. I didn’t know that when he arrived home from work, my father would go frantic, having been greeted with a note on the table that my mother had found a great holiday and we’d be back soon. He phoned the police, and a day later I was back home with my father. Mum had been admitted to a Psychiatric Unit and medicated. I was left with a lasting reminder of my trip. My mother had insisted that we got matching tattoos. To celebrate our holiday in Salou. We both had a sunshine tattoo. Her on her arm, mine on my chest. It became our thing. As I got older, I stopped my father from halting our trips. I’d take my mother away, ensuring her mental state was steady, and we’d get tattoos. Reminders of everywhere we’d travelled to. They began to spread out across my chest. A story of my travels with my mother. She loved feeling free.

  I stand in the mirror and look at my chest. At the half-finished surfboard on my lower abdomen. The one I was getting done at the same time my mother was drowning in the sea. I was nineteen.

  My anger towards my father, especially when I discovered his relationship with Jane knew no bounds. My close relationship with alcohol began. Work could fuck off. Instead, I’d sleep off hangovers. I stopped taking care of myself. My girlfriend Chloe, who I’d been dating for almost two years, couldn’t stand it any longer and ended our relationship. Throughout the year, I languished in a cesspit of mourning and selfish introspection. I failed to notice the effect it was having on my father. At the end of his rope, he made an appointment for me with my mother’s psychiatrist. Following my assessment, the doctor said I was grieving and perfectly fine. I watched as my father slumped in his chair and wept. It was like I woke up there and then in the counselling room. From monosyllabic answers to the doctor, to throwing my arms around my father and us crying together. We continued the sessions. I came to terms with my loss as much as anyone ever can. My father explained how he’d carried my mother for all those years. That although he’d loved her, worshipped her, at times she became someone else. As the years had gone on, the strain had shown. He’d confided in Jane. A relationship had begun. My more mature self realised my father hadn’t intended to cheat on my mother. He was trying to survive. Guilt had eaten him alive as he’d realised he had relished spending time with Jane while my mother’s life ended on a Beach in Newquay.

  The stress of everything would mean his premature death from a heart attack when I was twenty. I could have hated Jane, but she’d been nothing but kind. What good would come from more misery? Jane became someone I could trust and depend on. She looked after me, did my ironing, brought me cooked meals for the freezer until I learned to be self-sufficient. Then she taught me how to take charge of the business where I’d worked intermittently from the age of sixteen. I had no choice but to grow up. Investing in my future I took further qualifications and discovered I was bloody marvellous at selling homes. My colleagues supported me, whether through their fondness of my father or the fondness of keeping their jobs. Keeping just the one agency was completely the right decision. It became, and
still currently is, the number one agency in Manchester. Within the year, I had sold my parental home to a fifty-year-old divorced bloke as I vowed not to put another family in that home. An apartment in the centre was fine for me. After a one-night stand wouldn’t stop quizzing me about my chest I gave up on women. I didn’t have the energy to explain myself. Until one night in a nightclub when something aligned and bodies met in a frenzy of need. Now my head can’t stop picturing her and my mind and body won’t quit reminding me of my gut instinct. That something is very wrong.

  Chapter Twelve

  Eden

  Now I know the true meaning of boredom. I lament my spoilt brat behaviour of the past where I thought my life was tedious. I tried to keep track of the first few days by looking at my watch. Sleeping at odd hours has me confused as to exactly how long I’ve been here now. The stupid door has a hatch at the bottom, through which meals and drinks are pushed through. I thought they’d try to make me live on porridge as if I was in prison but they serve me fish and vegetables. They need me well, I guess. I no longer drink from the tap, unsure as to whether they would call a doctor or leave me at a hospital if I became ill. My guess is that they wouldn’t and that frightens me more than footsteps echoing down the corridor.

  So far that’s been it. Long, terminal periods of time spent alone. I feel like I’m going insane. Maybe I am insane? Maybe I’m not really here. What keeps me awake at night is the fact I know there’s no-one to miss me. I have Kara but she’s abroad. I have no one. Who would bury me if I passed? Maybe my foster brother would be allowed out of his jail cell long enough to pick over my belongings and score some crack.

  Not a soul has passed this property to my knowledge. We’re in the middle of nowhere. I can see nothing but a concreted area through the gaps in the window. A stray cat passes, its fur mangy and its body emaciated. At least it’s free. I’m fed but imprisoned.

  Footsteps come down the corridor. The hatch is raised.

  ‘Please pass your plate under.’

  Jack. Always Jack. I wonder where Sienna is?

  I push the plate under and crawl onto my front to peer through the hatch.

  ‘If I promise to be good can I come out for a while?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Eden. I’ve yet to decide what to do with you.’

  A guttural roar escapes my throat, leaving a sore ache behind. As he reaches for the plate I stab his hand with my fork.

  He screams, ‘You bitch.’ The plate clatters and breaks. The door is unlocked and Jack enters, his eyes so wide it shows the white. His hands clench and unclench before he grabs my throat and smacks me against the wall.

  ‘Don’t you ever fucking try anything like that again.’

  I scrabble at his hands unable to breathe, trying to loosen his grip.

  The pressure on my windpipe increases and everything starts to darken. I can see starry white spots at the edge of my vision. He’s killing me.

  He throws me onto the mattress. My vision flickers as I try to stay conscious while I learn to breathe again. The lack of air and subsequent change of position leaves me dizzy. Jack crawls onto the mattress above me. Oh, God, no, please no. My arms flail but I’m so damn weak from the lack of oxygen they’re useless. He pins my wrists above me with his left arm. Damn the fucking gym.

  He trails his right hand up my thigh, then slowly up the side of my body to my cheek. He brushes my face tenderly with his fingers. ‘You’ll learn to treat me nicely if you want to enjoy your stay here.’

  His erection presses against my leg. The struggle has made him hard. I hold my breath, causing the dizziness to consume me yet again.

  ‘If only you hadn’t tried to leave. I don’t like it when people try to leave,’ he whispers in my ear. ‘Do you want to leave now, Eden?’

  I tremble under his fingers.

  He grabs my chin, his fingers pressing into my face as he tilts my head up to meet his gaze.

  ‘I said do you still want to leave?’

  ‘This room. I want to leave this room.’ I manage to squeeze out. My throat is sore from the scream and the constriction from my neck.

  ‘Do you want to leave me?’

  ‘No,’ I lie.

  ‘Learn to behave and we’ll see if you can earn some privileges.’

  He gets up and picks the fork up from the floor. ‘Do unto others.’ His hand rears back and he brings it down onto my thigh. The teeth pierce my skin. That’s enough for my brain for one day. I pass out with one last screech.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Kara

  I got as far as ordering a taxi to take me to the station. Then I called back and cancelled it. So now I need to ring Dave and see if it's okay for me to stay awhile longer. After that, I need to contact my employers, who will no doubt fire me. That woman will bloody owe me if she comes back tanned from a fortnight in the Bahamas.

  I send Xavier a text about my change of plans and tell him I’m going back to the police station later that afternoon. I’m not happy to leave things any longer. He replies, insisting on coming with me. This should be interesting.

  I also tell him I’m meeting Bridget for a coffee at eleven. I want to ask her about the Loxley’s myself. With her being a mate, she’ll tell me things she probably wouldn’t feel comfortable saying to Xavier. He’s showing a house and can’t make it anyhow, which suits me just fine. Bridget can be a little needy, she’d be bound to do some helpless female bit in front of Xavier with him being so attractive. He’s not my cup of tea. I prefer them tanned and lanky, but I can see why Eden was captivated. He has an aura. That’s the only way I can describe it. When he texted to say he was coming to the station, I accepted it. He’ll get further than I would with the police. Xavier has that way about him. He appears trustworthy-that’s what it is-I trust him, even though I barely know him. Even though, I recall, he was one of the last people to see Eden before she disappeared.

  Bridget shows me through to the kitchen and makes a pot of tea. The kitchen is spotless. There’s one of those planners on the wall with columns for all the household members. I can see piano lessons on it. I wonder if the kid enjoys it or feels pushed into it because Molly, Polly and Dolly also take piano. The noticeboard is strangely uniform with invitations and forms pinned neatly. Not like mine and Eden’s that was a mass of drunken photos and out-of-date reminders.

  ‘How’s Spain?’ asks Bridget, bringing me out of my thoughts of our old digs.

  ‘I was enjoying it, but now I’m not sure if I have a job. They said they’ll talk to me about it when I’m ready to go back.’

  ‘So what’s happening then? You said you’d not heard from Eden.’

  I fill her in on events. She agrees to ask her friends and employers if they have any more information on the Loxley’s. For now, I can only wait for her to contact these people. The rest of my visit is passed with worthless gossip. She fixes me some lunch and then I leave to make my way to the police station. Time to hit the Metro.

  The massive Greater Manchester Police Headquarters looks more like a hotel from the outside, with its glass frontage. I meet Xavier outside. He’s groomed to perfection and dressed in a suit, obviously setting out to be taken seriously. I’d made an appointment so we’re soon greeted by a woman PC who introduces herself as PC Staniforth. Her dark blonde hair is tied back in a bun. She shows us through to an office.

  ‘Okay. So, I’ve pulled up the report from before which we had classed as a no-contact.’

  ‘No contact?’ questions Xavier.

  ‘Yes. If a case doesn’t look suspicious and it's just that the person has lost touch, it's classed as a no contact.’

  ‘And you don’t look for them?’

  ‘We don’t in that instance, no, but you can still go through Missing Persons. Anyway, today we’re going to go through a more formal procedure, okay?’

  PC Staniforth fires up her laptop.

  ‘So firstly, can you give me your full names and your relationship to the lost contact.’

&nbs
p; I go first. ‘Kara Mitchell. Best friend and ex-flatmate. We went to Manchester University together.’

  ‘Okay.’ She focuses on Xavier, ‘and you are?’

  Xavier holds out her hand to shake PC Staniforth’s. She obliges.

  ‘Xavier Harrington. I’d only met Miss Stark once, at a nightclub. However, I saw her again prior to her leaving the accommodation, hence why I’ve accompanied Miss Mitchell, to see if I can be of any assistance.’

  ‘Right.’ PC Staniforth’s eyebrow raises. Her interest peaked by this non-standard interview. ‘Well let’s continue with this form. Then we’ll chat some more. Does Eden have a middle name?’

  ‘Yes. Elizabeth,’ I tell her.

  ‘So Eden Elizabeth Stark. Correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Date of Birth?’

  ‘Second of January 1993.’

  ‘Do you have a photograph of her?’

  ‘Yes.’ I reach into my handbag for the photo of Eden. In it she’s beaming. It was from a night out before we left University. We’re in a bar. Her long dark hair, straightened, hangs down past her shoulders, a cocktail umbrella tucked behind her ears. Her teeth, all white and straight, except for one slightly discoloured canine. I proceed to describe her physically, giving her height, etc.

  ‘Okay. To your knowledge, who was the last person to see Eden and where?’

  ‘That would be me,’ says Xavier, and he recounts the incident on the pavement near Jack’s house.

  ‘So this is Jack whom?’

  ‘Jack Loxley. He lives there, lived there,’ he corrects himself, ‘with his wife Sienna.’

  PC Staniforth’s brow creases. ‘And these have been Eden’s employers since?’

  ‘Sixth July,’ I answer.

  ‘Year?’

  ‘This year.’

  ‘How did she get the job? Newspaper advert?’

  ‘I was informed about the post through a friend. I’ve asked her to ask the people she knows for more information.’