by Jacqui Rose
I watched as carefully as possible, for any signs of other life, but I innately knew she lived alone. The way she carried herself, her age, all adding up to indicate she was on her own.
I went back that night.
The street was even quieter at two in the morning. Not a light shone from any of the houses on either side of hers, the random streetlights providing dull illumination. I gained entry through the back door, an old wooden type which was only locked by the mortice near the handle. Within thirty seconds I was in, hoping the noise from my entry was ignored by the neighbours; somehow knowing it would be. Even a car alarm in the street doesn’t cause concern these days.
My first thought was to this house’s occupant though. Did she hear it, and would she investigate? If she was in deep sleep, I doubted she would have stirred much, but as I moved further into the kitchen which was presented to me upon entry, I stood off to the side of the door which led to the rest of the bungalow, and switched off the torch app on my mobile.
I counted off seconds in my head, quietening my breath as I stood stock still. When I reached 300, I moved.
Leaving the kitchen, and activating the light on my mobile phone again, I immediately heard soft snoring coming from a room next to it. The door was slightly ajar, creaks from the bed springs echoed through the darkness. I switched off the light app again and entered the room.
I stood next to her sleeping form. She looked even older asleep, as light from outside came through the thin curtains. As my eyes adjusted further to the darkness, I could make out the features on her face clearer. She was definitely old and at the moment completely defenceless. I wasn’t about to check to be 100% sure, but she was certainly a woman. Checklist complete.
Her short, grey hair splayed across her pillow as she lay peacefully on her back. One movement was all it would take. Grab the pillow from behind her head and with some force I imagined, place it over her face and hold it there until she stopped moving. I pictured it, how it would be.
I calmed myself. Took three breaths in.
Then, I did it.
That one was tough. But I had no choice. If I wanted my life back, I had to do as he said.
***
‘Where is he?’ I repeat.
He shook his head. ‘Not … not here,’ he whispers.
I can feel the lie as soon as it leaves his lips. An almost imperceptible movement of his eyes over my shoulder to the door behind me compounds my feelings. I lock eyes with him. Blue with shades of grey, filmed with the beginning of tears.
‘Don’t … please. I’m … I’m sorry.’
‘Sit down on the fuckin’ floor, now. Move one inch and I’ll put this blade in your eye.’
He knew who I was. Knew I’d make good on the threat. Which made all of this,what he’d set in motion, all the more unreal. I back away from the man, keeping my eyes on his as he lowers himself to the kitchen floor. The tears were starting to flow, his shoulders hitching up and down.
This was the man who had filled me with so much fear. Who I had destroyed my life in order to please. Pathetic.
It takes me this long to find him and I’m feeling nothing but disappointment. I was expecting something a little more high-tech. Not some poxy little flat above a shop on Smithdown Road. Everything I’d been led to believe was bollocks. My life, my sense of peace, gone in just a few days of madness.
‘He’s all I have.’
I stop at this. Try to maintain control. If he’s not here, I’d need the man alive. I tell myself to ignore his delusions. Anger is swelling up inside me now, much quicker these days than before, but I force myself to count to ten before continuing to move back.
‘No. He’s not.’
I turn to open the bedroom door and hear movement behind me. I pivot on one foot, just as his snarling face comes into view, his arm raised as if he’s about to punch me.
I sidestep him, allowing him to crash into the door. The knife in my hand moves as if by its own volition. Quick, precise.
He’s not dead. I need to see him first.
16,080 minutes. Or 382,400 seconds to be more precise. Leading me here to this moment. I turn the handle on the bedroom door and enter. Close the door behind me softly. I’m greeted by silence. I move to the bed and shake off the dirty old duvet covering it. Nothing. I hear movement and turn to the built-in wardrobe behind me. Walk towards the doors and pull them open.
He’s there.
***
She came to me the night after I’d smothered an old woman, whose name I still don’t know, to death. I was sitting on the leather recliner which was always my designated seat in the living room. It felt empty sitting there alone, just a TV showing some old black and white movie I’m not following, and a glass of Jack Daniel’s and coke. The ice cubes inside now so small from the heat of my hand mixed with the humidity in the apartment.
‘We were supposed to be moving somewhere else soon.’ Her voice came from behind me. ‘A proper home, rather than this place.’
‘I reckon we can still do that.’ I could hear my slurred voice and placed the glass I was holding down.
‘Can we? What would be the point?’
‘It’s not over yet. We still have options.’
‘I know what you’ve been doing.’
I allow the silence following her statement to grow, not knowing what to say in reply.
‘They’re worth less than him.’ That’s all she says, turning and going back to bed.
‘The next day, we find the man’s address. I say find. More, it’s given to us.
***
Huddled into the corner, sitting with his knees up to his chest and his arms around his legs. He lifts his head towards me and squints from the sudden light that has entered as soon as I’d opened the doors he was hiding behind. His face scrunches up, the effect on me instantaneous. Love, pain, grief, hope, all mixed into one bunch of internal feelings.
An expression of confusion passes across his face.
‘Dad?’
Six years old. He’s six years old and away from his parents for 22 days. Or 536 hours. Or 16,080 minutes. Or 382,400 seconds.
I hold my arms out and he scrambles towards me.
‘It’s okay, son’ I say holding him tightly to my chest, afraid if I let go he will disappear again. ‘I found you.’
***
Detective Inspector David Murphy paused as he let the cameras get into position. He shuffled the notes in front of him, took a sip of water from the glass positioned to his right, before receiving a nod from DCI Stephens who was stood away from the throng of reporters, allowing him his moment.
‘Right. Thanks, first of all, for coming. We don’t often get to sit in front of you to relay good news, so I’m delighted to say the search for Joshua is over. This morning, he was reunited with his mother and father, having been missing for over three weeks. I can’t go into many details now, but we are looking for more information on a person of interest.’
Murphy went on to name and describe the man they only knew as ‘Frank’ at that moment, before facing a barrage of questions from the rabble. He took them in his stride, his relations with the media being much better of late. Even the sweltering heat outside made little difference to his mood, his levels of sweat which usually accompanied his media appearances was at a minimum.
It was a good day.
He left the media room, not stopping as DS Laura Rossi fell into step with him.
‘They reckon this heatwave will break tomorrow. Storms all weekend.’ Rossi said, her hand tapping a pen against her thigh as she walked.
Murphy grunted. ‘About time really. Back to the proper Northern weather of rain and clouds.’
‘What do you reckon then?’
Murphy stopped as they reached the vending machine at the end of the corridor. ‘Reckon about what?’
‘I’ll have a Kit-Kat.’ Rossi said ‘D4. Do you think we’ll know the whole story?’
Murphy paused after pressing the D button, b
efore the machine beeped and prompted him to press the 4. ‘Probably not. But the little lad is going home. I guess that’s the best we could have hoped for.’
Murphy didn’t want to say aloud his feelings on the matter, but he knew there was more to it. If he’d gone to his DCI and told them his theory, she’d probably laugh him out of the office. What would two lads being killed in a playground near Toxteth, a bomb scare, and the sad death of an old woman have to do with a child kidnapping?
But Murphy had looked into that father’s eyes and seen something. It wasn’t just joy about being reunited with his son. It was there in the mother’s eyes also. There was sadness there. Loss.
The fact that the father’s car had been spotted on CCTV in two of those different places, albeit the driver never directly seen walking to the scenes the crimes took place, would make little difference. And the best shot of the suspected bomb hoaxer shared some similarities with him, but it wasn’t enough.
He’d asked the father, in a roundabout way about those links, but didn’t get a response. Just an effect of surprise at being asked about the unusual cases. Could be a simple answer, Murphy supposed, but had he detected something lurking behind the facade?
Two scallies, with a charge sheet longer than usual. An seventy-eight year-old woman, mass panic in Liverpool One … was the price high enough?
Murphy didn’t know the answer. He wasn’t sure he’d like one anyway.
‘Come on.’ Murphy said, crouching down and grabbing the few items from the vending machine. ‘Let’s see if we can find the bastard who took him.’
They won’t.
As I left the flat, holding my son, his legs wrapped around my waist crying into my shoulder, I handed him over to his mum. We shared a look over his shoulder. She knew I had to finish it.
It’s amazing what can be lost and found in a city the size of Liverpool.
*****
And here’s an exclusive look at Luca’s debut novel,
Dead Gone.
Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It’s the transition that’s troublesome.
Isaac Asimov
We are taught from an early age to fear death. The unknowable force which we are all moving towards through our mere existence. However, this aspect of human life is not one discussed easily. It can be shown, that death is not a topic which is open for debate between many members of the western population. This one aspect that binds us all together, touches us all, irrespective of race, gender, or orientation. It is the one thing we all have in common. Yet, it is often considered a ‘dark’ subject. Talking about one’s own mortality is considered morbid and morose.
One truth remains however. We all die. Every single living organism experiences death. Indeed, according to Dr. Sigmund Freud, ‘It is the aim of all life.’ We live to die. Homo sapiens as a species have shown great technological advances over the past few centuries. Yet one thing we have not, and will arguably never achieve, is to create a way of dealing with death in a uniform manner as a population. We grieve differently, we die differently.
Death touches us all. Should we fear death, try to actively repel it, through attempts to prolong our lives? If technology moved to such a point that death could be avoided, endless life became a possibility, would we ever be able to really live?
Without being able to investigate death and the repercussions for the deceased, is it possible to study death in any meaningful way, without being able to experience it?
Taken from ‘Life, Death, and Grief.’ Published in Psychological Society Review, 2008, Issue 72.
Experiment Two
She wasn’t afraid of the dark.
Not before.
Not before it crept up on her when she wasn’t aware, waited for its moment and then stole her away. The darkness enveloping her like a second skin, becoming a part of her.
She hadn’t been claustrophobic, or scared of things that crawled around her toes. Not afraid to sit alone in a darkened room and wonder if something was touching her face, or if it was just her imagination. To be petrified the walls were closing in around her, and because she couldn’t see them, she’d be crushed to death without knowing they’d even moved.
She was now.
It took time to become afraid of those things, and time was all she had, stretching out in front of her without end.
She blamed herself. Blamed her friends. Blamed him. She shouldn’t be there, and someone was too blame for that.
Had to be.
She’d become a responsible adult. The right thing supposedly. Gone were the days she’d spent going into town two, sometimes three times a week. Karaoke on a Friday, pulling on a Saturday, if there were any decent lads out of course, quiet one on a Sunday. Now, she was always the first one to leave, early on in the night when everyone else was just getting started.
She didn’t like the feeling of being drunk. That feeling of a sense of loss. Loss of control, of sensibility. She’d been hungover too many times, it wasn’t what responsible adults did. Her mum had drummed that into her, one night as she held back her hair as the contents of two bottles of white wine, and who knows how many vodka and lemonades, decided they wanted out.
She’d rather be at home now, watching TV after a day’s work, especially if it meant he him sat close to her. She didn’t even mind that he always had the laptop on playing the stupid football management game. She still enjoyed a drink at the end of a work day, a glass of wine with a meal and the occasional full bottle at the weekend. But the binging had stopped. That was for certain.
So when a glass of Cheeky Vimto cocktail had been forced into her hand by one of the girls who told her she’d love it she didn’t say no. Port and WKD. Who thought of these things? She didn’t care. It tasted bloody great.
One more led to four more, and before she knew it, she was in an eighties themed nightclub, dancing her heart out to Chesney Hawkes’ only hit. Two a.m. hit, and she was saying her goodbyes. She loved them all. Her girls. Always left wondering why they didn’t see her more often.
‘Don’t go yet, we’ll all share a taxi later. Club doesn’t shut for another hour.’
‘It’s alright, I’ll be fine. I’m knackered, want my bed. Need to get back … No, it’s okay I’ll walk up to the tunnel stretch by the museum if I can’t get one.’
Voice going hoarse from shouting over the ear piercing music blaring from unseen speakers. Promises to do it all again soon. To give them a text when she’d arrived home.
Out the club finally, the bouncer helping her down the final step. Fresh air hit her, and so did the realisation she was as drunk as she’d ever been. She began searching through her handbag for her phone, eventually finding it in the same pocket it was always in, wanting to try and call a taxi to pick her up.
‘For fucks sake.’
Too loud. Not in the club any longer, but her voice hadn’t caught onto that fact yet. A couple stared as they passed by, as she continued her argument with the stupid battery sucking Smartphone, wishing she’d never upgraded. Half an inch bigger than the last model, which seemed to mean it needed twice the battery power. That’s how they get you. The decision to wear comfortable shoes becoming the best idea she’d ever had. She set off for the taxi ranks at the end of Matthew Street, hoping it wouldn’t be too long a wait. She walked past the old Cavern Club, some shitty band murdering old hits wafted out of the doors as a couple of touristy looking women spilled out onto the street.
She couldn’t find a taxi, queues down the street for one on the main stretch of North John Street. She walked away from the lights of the clubs in the city centre, hoping to get one coming out of the tunnel. When she was younger it had been easier, there was enough of them to be safe getting the night bus home. Now she had money in her pocket, and she wouldn’t have to sit on a full bus, the stink of kebabs and vodka shots seeping into her clothes. The lads who were either squaring up to each other, or trying it on with any girl with a pulse. No thank you, she could pay the eight quid and get ho
me without any of that.
She stood on the corner near the museum, waiting for a hackney with its light on to pass her. She wrapped her arms around herself, the cold January air beginning to bite as she stopped with her back to a small wall, St John’s Gardens behind her, the museum to her right. The entrance and exit to Birkenhead tunnel directly opposite her. Swaying to silent music.
Fifteen minutes went by. She was cold, wishing she’d picked a warmer coat when she’d left the house earlier. She’d picked the right shoes, that was supposed to be enough. She was about to give up and go wait in the queue when a hackney finally came towards her, slowing down before going past.
‘Hey!’
It went up towards Whitechapel town and all its shops in the distance, before doing a u-turn and coming back her way. The light on top switched on as it got closer to her. She stuck her arm out, waving it down.
The cab came to a stop in front of her. She opened the door, barely registering the driver at all, just shouting her address at him, and settling back in the seat. She was glad to be in the warmth of the car.
As they drove through the city centre, she began to feel just a little uncomfortable, the driver looking straight ahead, barely acknowledging her presence. He’d not said a word since she’d entered. Must be one of the new foreign drivers that were coming over from Eastern Europe or wherever. Her mum would know. She should ring her mum tomorrow, she thought. She hadn’t been in touch much lately, and she wanted to catch up.
She was tired, her eyes closed as the cab wound its way out of the city centre towards home.That was her mistake She woke up when the cab came to a stop. She looked up to see the driver getting out of the cab. Through bleary eyes, confused by the sudden lull of movement, she sat fully upright.
‘I’m awake, it’s okay.’ She called out, but he was already walking around the cab, past her door and out of her sight.
Panic didn’t set in straight away. Confusion first.
‘Where are we?’ The windows inside had misted over, and she swiped her hand over the pane. To one side she saw trees lining a gravel driveway. She tried opening the door, but the handle wouldn’t budge. She moved across the seat, and tried that door handle. Same result. She swiped her hand over the window again, seeing a house to the other side. A strange house. Not her house.