by SJI Holliday
Same as the poor Jane Doe in the hospital right now.
Davie looks at the photograph again. Shudders. Something about his face. It’s familiar, somehow. He can’t place it. A feeling, too. Something he hasn’t been able to shake since the attack on the woman who’d led them to all this.
Underneath the article are links to others that Malkie has pasted in with question marks at the end: what happened to him (detained indefinitely under the Mental Health Act), an interview with a neighbour (‘We always thought that boy was a strange one but we had no idea he was a paranoid schizophrenic’), links to articles on the effects of cannabis misuse and the triggering of mental illness. Finally, at the bottom, an article in a medical journal about ‘Patient X’. It’s been anonymised, but Malkie has written next to it: This is a study by Woodley’s doctor. Let’s just say I had to buy a bloody expensive bottle of whisky to get hold of it. Of course, we don’t have any concrete evidence that this is the guy we’re looking for, but you can’t ignore the similarities between the attack and what Woodley did to his victim. We’ve got tissue samples at the lab, so we’ll know for sure soon. In the meantime, we can’t use this or say anything officially, but it might give you an idea of what we’re dealing with.
He can’t take any more of the brutality right now. He skims the synopsis. Scrolls down through the background sections. Patient X had a history of cannabis use and was badly scalded as a child, as was his sister. This type of trauma is a risk factor for schizophrenia, yet his sister was not affected (as far as the doctor knows, as he has never actually spoken to her and got an assessment). It’s more common in boys. There is some anecdotal evidence that the boy almost drowned when he was young. Further trauma. He was a loner, very withdrawn. Blah blah blah . . . then he sees it:
Patient X was a twin.
The victim was his sister.
‘Christ,’ Davie mutters. He rarely drinks, but he could do with one now. He’s not used to reading things like this, but if he wants to stay with CID, he’s going to have to harden up.
He takes a long, slow breath. Lets it out fast.
He closes the laptop again, and as he does he spots Marie’s keys sitting behind it. He picks them up and stares at the keyring. Sunlight has faded the photograph so the two faces look bleached and almost featureless. All that are left are eyes and lips. He recognises Anne. She has barely changed. The same cheeky grin. The wide smile. Marie looks haunted. Her hair is roughly cut, choppy, as if she has done it herself. As if she has tried to become someone else. Her mouth is a dark slash, the tiniest of curves at one corner, as if she is trying to smile but can’t even fake it for the camera. Her eyes are deep hollows, staring at something long gone and far away. Her eyes . . .
His eyes.
Marie was sixteen when she moved to Banktoun. Anne took her under her wing. He remembers now, him and Anne drinking cans of Coke on a bench after school one day. Anne saying: ‘Something bad happened to that girl, Davie . . .’
He closes his eyes. Runs a hand across his face. He can smell the lasagne burning in the oven.
Snippets of information – clues and connections – burst into his brain like soap bubbles popping in the wind.
It is all starting to make sense.
20th July 2015
Hey Marie,
Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.
Is that enough?
Please write. Please.
Love,
Graeme
24
Marie wakes up crunched up on the couch. She pulls herself up on one elbow, feels the stiffness in her neck. Something sharp pokes into her chest, and she realises she has been lying on top of an eight-inch carving knife. She pulls the knife out from beneath her and holds it up, turning it this way and that. Flashes of light bounce off the surface and cast reflections on the walls.
She can’t go on like this.
Graeme is missing. Except he isn’t. Not really. It’s obvious now, like it should have been from the start.
She has barely slept, feels stiff. Her eyes sting. But she has to go to work. Feels a drive that she hadn’t realised before. But mainly, she has to get out of this flat. She will call Davie, tell him everything. She should call the police now – tell them she thinks Graeme is upstairs . . . but something stops her. Despite it all, he still has that hold over her. That bond she just can’t break. Even after all he’s done, she wants to see him. She needs to see him. Because he is still her brother.
After shoving the knife back into the wooden block bedside the others, she dresses quickly, doesn’t bother to do her hair. She grabs her swimming stuff and her work clothes and rushes out of the house before she can change her mind. Cadbury is dozing in her basket. She’ll be trapped inside all day now, but it’s the only option. She can’t leave the kitchen window open. Not now.
The swimming pool is quiet and she manages to get back into her usual routine. A mile, including the short wade across the shallow end to the steps at the end. The Australian lifeguard isn’t there. It’s a young girl that Marie recognises. She gives her a wave. She wants everything to look like normal. She imagines the girl being interviewed by a newspaper. ‘She didn’t seem worried to me. She swims here every day. Same routine. I didn’t notice anything unusual.’
Keep calm, Marie.
At work, she arrives wearing her best smile. Chats to the couple of old regulars who are sitting at the bar. Keeps it all in. Gives nothing away.
After the lunches have been cleared, she crouches down behind the bar and starts to remove all the bottles of mixers so that she can clean the shelves.
Keep busy, Marie.
She’s halfway through putting them back on the shelf when she hears the door to the lounge bar open. The sound of someone pulling back a stool. Dropping a bunch of keys on the bar.
‘Oi you, missus. Where’ve you been? I’ve left you messages.’
Marie turns at the sound of the familiar voice. Pastes her smile back on. Stands up, cloth still in hand.
‘Oh God, sorry,’ she says. ‘Just one of those weeks, you know . . .’ She lets the sentence trail off. This is Anne. One of her closest friends. One she’s been trying to avoid talking to for the past week, knowing that there will be only two questions asked: one, what’s the score with you and Davie?; and two, are you coming to the party? Anne can read Marie like a book. She can tell when she’s upset, tell when something is wrong. Marie has a tendency to retreat into her shell. She’s like a porcupine; she’ll stay inside and attack people with sharpened quills if they try to get her to unfurl. The only way to avoid Anne’s probing is to avoid Anne altogether. Marie feels her heart start to pick up the pace.
Keep it together, Marie.
Anne gives her a hard stare. ‘What’s going on, Marie?’
Marie feels herself start to sweat. Beads of moisture form on her back and trickle down towards the waistband of her skirt. ‘Let’s do lunch soon, OK?’ she tries. ‘I’ll tell you everything, I promise.’ She smiles, tries to let her pulse return to normal. ‘All set for the party?’
Anne looks wary, but she lets it pass. ‘Ian’s been to the cash and carry. The house is full of beer, wine and cheap crisps. If anyone wants anything more exotic, they can bring it themselves.’
‘You sure about all this? You don’t want the place getting totally trashed, do you? I’ve heard loads of people mentioning it. I reckon you’re going to have a full house, even if it is a Wednesday night.’
‘It’s summertime. No one cares what night it is, if someone’s supplying them with booze! Plus, I told you – it’s our last big blowout. We want to do it now before we start decorating the place, and well . . . once we start the IVF, I doubt we’ll be doing much partying.’ S
he looks away.
‘Hey,’ Marie says. She lays a hand over Anne’s, squeezes. ‘You’re not going to give a shiny shit about parties once this baby comes along. I can’t wait for that. We’re getting too old for all this boozing anyway.’
Anne smiles. ‘Yeah, I know. Maybe you can convince Ian, though? I think he’s worried he’s never going to sleep again. Personally, I’m just worried that it’s not going to work, and we’re going to spend the rest of our lives pacing about in a house that’s too big for us, wondering why we didn’t just spend the money on a camper van and fuck off around Europe. God. Remember when we were eighteen and those houses got built and I said to you, “Oh, I’d love to live in Willow Walk when I’m older”? You laughed and said they’d look like shit in five years’ time. You were right. But I’m still glad we managed to buy one of them. It will be lovely when it’s all painted . . .’
Marie is about to say something else, when the door of the public bar slams shut. She flinches. Turns round. There’s no one through there. Empty pints have been left on the bar from the two old fellas that were there earlier, but they’d already left before Anne came in. She’d have washed their glasses after she’d finished refilling the mixers shelf. As it was, half of the tonics were still lined up on the floor like soldiers. The two pint glasses were still on the bar. Anne was looking at her strangely.
‘I . . . That door never bangs shut,’ Marie says, trying to fight off the feeling that someone had come in, and someone had left, and she hadn’t seen them. Her handbag was through there. Under the bar but not hard to find.
‘Hang on,’ she says to Anne.
Anne just watches her, quizzically.
Her handbag is where she left it. Doesn’t look like it’s been touched. She walks round the other side of the bar to the door and sees that the doorstop is lying in the middle of the floor. She opens the door, looks outside. No one is nearby.
‘Marie, is everything OK?’ Anne calls through from the other bar.
Marie is about to answer when she hears rustling in the store cupboard. Her heart almost stops as the door is opened. Helen walks out, looking down. Marie almost bumps into her.
‘Jesus, Helen, you gave me a heart attack!’
Helen laughs. ‘Shit, sorry. I knocked the doorstop when I came in and the door banged shut, then I came in here to leave my bag and this door shut behind me too. I’m determined to close all the doors behind me today, for some reason . . . I’m a bit early, but you can go if you want. Doesn’t look like there’s much doing.’
Marie takes her handbag from under the bar and walks back through to Anne. ‘Let’s go,’ she says.
‘See ya!’ Helen calls behind them. Marie ignores her.
‘What was that all about? You’re a nervous wreck.’
Marie shakes her head. ‘Want to walk back home with me? I, um . . . I’m just feeling a bit out of it at the moment.’
Anne stops walking, pulls Marie back. Twirls her round to face her. They are about the same size, and Marie feels uncomfortable with her friend’s face so close to her own. She feels herself shrink back, pull away.
‘I think you might need a rest, Marie. Forget about the party. Go home and get some sleep. You look dead on your feet. You’re probably coming down with something and I’d prefer if you kept it to yourself, OK?’ Anne smiles, but Marie can see the worry in her eyes.
‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ Marie says. They both know that she won’t.
At home, the air in the flat feels thick and stale. Marie searches the cupboards for something to drink. The cat hears her come in, pads across the kitchen lino. Shoves herself up against Marie’s leg, rubbing at her. Mewling. She can sense something is wrong. Knows it’s not normal for Marie to leave her shut inside.
Marie takes down the final bottle of wine. Opens the cupboard beneath and takes out the pile of letters.
She’ll read one or two, she thinks. That’s all. Then she’s definitely phoning the police. She glances up at the ceiling, expecting to hear the now familiar scrape of someone moving around up there, but there is nothing. The only sound is the hum of the fridge as the fan starts whirring. The sound of her own breathing. The quiet purr of the cat sitting on her lap.
She pours red wine into a tumbler. Drinks. Slides a letter out and unfolds it. Tries to ignore her shaking hands as she starts to read.
25
Davie knows he has to tread carefully. If his theory is right, if Marie Bloomfield is Marie Woodley, then not only is he amazed that she’s managed to create any sort of life for herself at all, but there’s also the real worry that she might be in danger. But he can’t just storm in there and ask her about her brother. She’s never hinted that she might have one. In fact, hadn’t she said she was an only child? So far it’s only a theory, and it’s been pieced together by evidence he is not even supposed to have. The official news reports don’t mention Woodley having a sister. But maybe that’s because they weren’t allowed to. Marie’s identity as his victim wouldn’t be released, regardless of whether they were related or not.
Did Graeme Woodley attack the woman at the bus stop because he genuinely thought she was Marie? Or was it just a coincidence that the first person he saw when he ran across those fields was a woman that reminded him of his sister? If Davie is right, then there’s no doubt that Woodley is trying to send a message. He’s not sure if it’s a good thing or a bad thing that Marie hasn’t received it. He’s spoken to Malkie, asked if they should talk to Marie, tell her about the attack on the woman – who has now been identified as the housekeeper for the farm next to where she was found. Tell her about Woodley’s escape – see if it leads her to open up. The hospital is desperate to keep it low-key, out of the papers. But it’s only a matter of time. Malkie will make a statement to the press. Once they find out that Woodley’s sister is in the vicinity, it’ll be a sensationalist headache for all concerned.
He has to talk to Marie.
He’s not giving her the chance to avoid him this time. He knows she’s off work – she’d said so during their disastrously brief day out. Before she’d run off and left him wondering what the hell was going on. And what is it that’s going on? Davie wonders. Maybe this hasn’t got anything to do with him at all. He doesn’t really know her, not enough to understand her. He’s always struggled with women. Never been able to work out what it is they really want from him.
He lets his thoughts trail off. Has he got it all wrong? Maybe Woodley isn’t her brother. Or maybe he is, but he hasn’t been in touch after all. It could be anything. She could be ill. Jesus, she could be ill and she’s too scared to get involved with him . . . His mind is all over the place, like the tangled tape of a cassette chewed up in an old stereo.
Just talk to her, Davie.
He walks round to her flat. Rings the buzzer. No reply. He waits a moment. Tries it again. He could go round the back – that gate at the side is never locked – but he doesn’t want to appear at the kitchen window and give her the fright of her life. He could use the key. Let himself in. But something stops him. It doesn’t feel right. He tries the buzzer again. This time she answers.
‘Hello?’ Her voice sounds disconnected, far away. Tired.
‘Marie? It’s Davie. I was worried about you. Thought I’d pop round.’
Silence. Broken by the faint crackle of static from the intercom.
‘Marie?’
She doesn’t say anything else, just clicks the button to let him in. There is a buzz and a snick as the door is released. He goes in, walks round the corner. Expects her to have already opened the door to her flat. The door is closed. The corridor is dark without the light from the panes on the front door around the corner. A strip light above crackles and flickers, giving out a low hum and a dim light. Davie frowns. Knocks on the door.
‘Marie? It’s me.’
Again, it takes too long for her to answer. He is about to knock again when he hears the rattle of the chain being taken off. The key in the mortise lock b
eing turned. The catch on the Chubb sliding off. He feels a flutter of fear in his stomach. He’s worried that he’s already too late.
She opens the door, but he barely catches a glimpse of her face. She has already turned back, headed inside. Davie senses a stillness. A darkness. The curtains are still drawn, despite the sunny day that is trying to filter its way inside. He closes the door behind him, locks it and slides the chain onto the runner. In the living room, Marie is curled up on the couch, knees pulled up to her chest. Her eyes are fixed on the TV screen, where Jeremy Kyle is silently berating his plethora of unruly, undesirable guests. Marie’s hair is mussed, sticking out at all angles. Her face is pale and her eyes are ringed with dark shadows.
‘I’ll make us some tea,’ he says. He tries to keep his voice jovial, but it’s not easy. The fear in his stomach has grown tendrils, and they are slowly worming their way throughout the rest of his body, making his limbs shake. Trickling up and down his spine like an annoying bug.
Davie picks up the kettle. An empty wine bottle lies on its side in the washing up basin; a tumbler, stained red, lies beside it. He fills the kettle. Ignores what is in the sink. He’s never made tea here before. Last time he was round, a couple of weeks ago, he sat at the kitchen table while Marie chirped and fussed, making tea in a pot and putting different kinds of biscuits onto plates. It is very different today. The mood is sombre. Muted. It can’t go on like this.
He opens a cupboard to the left of the sink. Glasses. Napkins. Nothing else. He opens one to the right. Cups, saucers. Paperwork. Mugs. He reaches in to lift two mugs from the bottom shelf and, as he does, his wrist catches the upper shelf, flicking it up off the brackets. A cascade of envelopes slides out on top of him, hitting his face, shooting across the worktop, sliding onto the floor. He tries to catch them, knocks a mug onto the floor. It clatters hard, shatters into tiny pieces.