by Jack Jordan
‘Your husband committed suicide. You’re grieving. You’re probably drinking more than usual, which makes you more likely to act out of character. According to the report on the graveyard incident you said you didn’t remember doing it or why.’
‘But these things didn’t happen because of my drinking. I didn’t do any of this. I wouldn’t forget chucking out all of my husband’s things. My drinking can’t be blamed for the other car in the graveyard, can it?’
‘Except for the car in the graveyard, I don’t really see any other answer to what’s happening. Your mother-in-law said she didn’t take Ryan’s belongings, and she is the only other person with a key to your house. Were there signs of breaking and entering?’
‘Well no, but—’
‘Paige, I’m sorry, but I reckon you’re overthinking this. It sounds like you’ve been drinking, acting out, and then forgetting about it. I’m like that when I drink. A lot of people are.’
‘Graham, I didn’t do any of it. I know I didn’t. I’m not mad.’
‘Why would someone do those things? What’s in it for them to fold up your nightgown and clear out your husband’s sock drawer?’
‘I don’t know. That’s why I called you.’
‘I think you need to drink a little less. The less you drink, the more you’ll remember, and the clearer everything will become.’
Paige began to doubt herself.
‘Well, explain the other car in the graveyard then. I can’t be blamed for that.’
‘The graveyard could be a new dogging area. I’ve heard of odder places.’
She hadn’t thought of that. ‘Graham, I’m not mad.’
‘I’m not saying that, Paige. I’m telling you to stop drinking.’
Balding took another sip of coffee and glanced at his watch.
‘It’s been ten years since Chloe was killed,’ she said, hoping he would stay a little longer.
‘I know. I never forget a case. Especially unsolved ones.’
She longed to ask him so many questions, but she knew he wouldn’t know the answers. Why Chloe? Why us? Why my family? The only person who knew the answers was the person who killed her daughter.
‘Will you ever revisit it? Try and find out what happened to her?’
‘It has already been up for review, Paige. You know that. The decision was made to leave it be. I’m sorry. If no new leads come around within a decade, it’s hard to imagine finding anything else now.’
‘So cases like Chloe’s are swept under the rug? How many other dead girls are under there?’
‘Let’s just say that Chloe isn’t alone. I’m sorry, but the budget is tight and controlled from higher up – it’s not my decision to make.’
Balding looked at his watch again. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go.’ He rested his hand on top of hers. ‘Once you stop drinking, you’ll realise that nothing is wrong, that all of this was just a misunderstanding.’
She couldn’t say anything. In a moment she would be alone again; the thought made her bottom lip begin to quiver.
‘Take care of yourself,’ he said and headed for the door. As he placed the hood of his coat over his head and took hold of the door handle, he looked back at her. Pity glimmered in his eyes. He nodded farewell, and left.
I’m not mad.
A tear slid from underneath her sunglasses. She wiped it away as quickly as she could.
But what if I am?
EIGHT
The moment she returned home from the coffee shop, doubting herself and fearing insanity, she remembered the gun. Falling in the river, Ryan’s possessions vanishing into thin air, the scene at her in-laws’ house – she had completely forgot about the gun hidden in her house.
Paige raced up the stairs towards the office, leaving wet footprints in her wake, and paused in the doorway.
Do I want to know the truth? Haven’t I gone through enough without digging up Ryan’s secrets?
She stood there, watching dust dance in the path of the sunlight shining through the window, and considered shutting the door on the office for good.
I’m not mad. This could explain everything.
With a new wave of courage, she walked towards the desk, opened the drawer, and removed the false bottom.
The black handgun was waiting for her. The old phone lay beside it.
Ryan had owned a smartphone. She had never seen this phone before.
With a tentative hand, she reached down and picked up the gun. She hadn’t expected it to be so heavy. It was hard and cold. She could feel her pulse in her grip on the gun.
This is too dangerous. Put it back and leave it there.
But she couldn’t, not now. With the gun in one hand, she picked up the phone with the other and went downstairs. She placed the gun on the coffee table delicately, as though it were a ticking bomb. Adrenaline pulsed through her. She turned on the phone and waited. She ignored the dry puddle of sick on the carpet.
You can still take them back upstairs. You never have to know. You can move on with your life, forget all of this.
As soon as the phone turned on, she went straight to the text messages. The only messages were from an unsaved number, replying either yes or no. She searched the Sent folder. Her husband had sent about five texts to the same number. The last one read:
Meet you outside the Bird Block. Usual time?
She knew about the Bird Block. Everyone in Maidstone knew about it. It was a particular block of flats on the Tovil Estate, a block that was said to house dozens of prostitutes. Once the girls went in there, they never came back out. Drug overdoses, rough sex turned ugly, beatings, robberies and police raids. People only went to Bird Block to pay for sex or cause trouble.
The phone trembled in her hand.
Ryan wouldn’t go there for sex. He was a better man than that. He could have got any willing girl to sleep with him. He wouldn’t need to pay.
The sun shone through the window and reflected in the metal of the gun.
Why did you need a gun, Ryan?
She poured herself a glass of wine and returned to the sofa. She needed to calm her nerves. Before she could change her mind, she began to write a text message on the old phone to the mysterious number.
It took her over five minutes to punch out the message using the outmoded keypad.
I need to see you. Meet me outside Bird Block. Eight p.m. Important.
She read the message over and over, reluctant to send it. The person could be dangerous. This could be a huge mistake.
She pressed send and drained the wine from the glass. She leaned back on the sofa and waited for a reply.
NINE
The taxi pulled up outside the Bird Block and Paige instantly felt nauseous.
You can still go home. You can forget all of this.
The taxi driver had been friendly until Paige had told him where she wanted to go. They spent the drive in an awkward silence. Paige took the water bottle filled with wine from her bag and took a big gulp.
The driver turned around in his seat and faced her.
‘Are you sure you want to get out here, love?’
No. Take me home. I want to go home.
She nodded unconvincingly. ‘Can you wait for me?’
The driver hesitated. ‘I can come back in an hour,’ he said at last.
He wasn’t going to stay on the Tovil Estate for an hour. His car would be picked apart and sold off in pieces in that time.
Paige looked out of the window at the Bird Block, reluctant to leave the safety of the taxi. The brown-brick building stood five storeys high. Some windows were dark, while others were lit up, the rooms on the other side hidden by blinds or curtains. She didn’t want to know what was happening in the darkness. She imagined dozens of girls lying under sweating, grunting strangers, while all they could do was dream of their next fix.
Paige paid the fare and held onto the door handle, too terrified to open it.
‘You’ll come back and take me home? You won’t for
get?’
‘I’ll be back.’
Paige got out of the taxi on shaking legs and watched as the taxi drove away just in time for her to close the door.
Please come back. Please don’t forget me.
A streetlight flickered above her. A dog was barking. Sirens wailed in the distance. Music rumbled from a nearby house.
I shouldn’t have done this. I should have stayed home.
She walked up the path towards the building and stood in the shadows by the door. Her hands were quivering as she took her cigarettes and lighter from her bag. She checked the phone: no reply. She had waited for a reply until six in the evening before she decided to head to the block of flats and wait.
Maybe the person doesn’t even use that phone number anymore. This could be a complete waste of time.
Now that she was closer to the building, she could see how neglected it was. Duct tape covered cracks in the glass panel of the door; the concrete path was covered in cigarette butts and litter; a used condom lay underneath a ground floor window. Was it her imagination, or could she hear the distant sound of a woman screaming?
She hugged her coat close to her body and pulled up the hood to cover her face. As soon as she finished the cigarette she lit another, and then another. She sipped wine from the water bottle until it was gone.
What the hell am I doing? I should never have come here. I’m so stupid. I need to go home right now.
She could smell cannabis in the air. More sirens. Loud music blared from passing cars. A girl was definitely screaming.
The clock on the phone screen changed to 20:40. She had given the person over thirty minutes to appear.
Maybe I got it wrong. Maybe Ryan was paying young girls to pleasure him in the worst part of town.
She thought about calling the number.
I can still go home where it’s safe. I don’t have to do this.
She remembered how DI Balding had looked at her – he thought she was crazy.
She called the number and held the phone to her ear.
The dialling tone began to sound.
And then she heard the phone’s ringtone from behind her.
She tried to scream but only managed muffled whimpers behind the stranger’s hand as she was yanked from the darkness and through the front door of the Bird Block. She couldn’t see her attacker, but she could feel a strong body behind hers and hot, laboured breaths close to her ear. An arm was wrapped around her neck in a chokehold as she was dragged up the stairs to the first floor. Paige kicked her legs wildly. Tears ran down her face, soaking the stranger’s hand. As they reached the first floor, she sank her teeth into the skin. The rough hands pushed her away and down the stairs. Each blow felt like a punch as she hit her head, her back, her ankle, her wrist, her nose, before landing on the concrete of the ground floor with a thud. Hot blood trickled down her face. Pain pulsed through her in waves. She looked up to see her attacker coming down the stairs towards her.
He had dark brown skin and a gold tooth glinted from within his snarl. Tattoos covered his neck and hands, and on his face was a small black teardrop, just below his left eye.
She shrank away as he reached down and snatched her arm.
‘Get up,’ he spat, and dragged her back up the stairs.
She couldn’t see her attacker anymore, she was dizzy and tears blurred her vision, but she could feel the anger in his tight grip and the sound of his fast breaths. He led her up through the building, leaving droplets of her blood in their wake. On the third floor, he flattened her to the wall with his face an inch from hers.
‘What… what do you want?’ she asked with blood on her lips.
‘That’s what I was going to ask you.’ He put his free hand into his pocket and flashed the phone screen in her face.
The taste of blood filled her mouth. Tears ran down her cheeks. Her scalp was hot and pulsing. She had made a huge mistake.
‘I’m sorry, my husband…’
‘Not here.’
He snatched her wrist and led her along the hallway towards the next flight of stairs. Her shoes scuffed along the dirty floor, and her wrist burned from his grip.
‘Please… please don’t kill—’
‘Shut up.’
I should have brought the gun. Maybe that’s why Ryan had it. Maybe he needed it to protect himself whenever he met this man.
She could barely string thoughts together as she tried to think of a plan.
Kick him in the crotch and run. What if he has a knife or a gun? Should I scream? Will anybody in this block care?
They stopped on the fourth floor. A young girl, barely able to stand, was leaning on a respectable-looking man in his fifties, dressed in a suit and tie. He immediately looked to the ground.
‘You see anything tonight?’ Paige’s attacker asked.
‘No. I didn’t see anything,’ replied the man, flattening himself to the wall so they could pass.
‘What you doing with that old bitch?’ the young girl said in a foreign accent. ‘You can have me. I’m still tight. Wanna test?’ she lifted up her skirt and flashed herself. Semen was slithering down her bruised thigh. She stumbled forward on her high heels and landed against Paige’s attacker, who pushed her to the ground with one hand.
The man in the suit yanked the girl upright. He looked terrified. His eyes went to the blood dripping from Paige’s jaw.
Paige was dragged past them and up to the fifth floor. Her heart was racing. Nervous sweat dripped down her sides.
The man opened a door on the fifth floor and shoved her into the darkness. She hit the floor hard. He slammed the door shut and turned on the light.
It was a small room with a double bed. Everything was shabby, dirty, and dated. Damp speckled the ceiling and cobwebs sat in the corners; the carpet was covered in stains. The room reeked of marijuana and stale sex. A used condom hung over the edge of the bin by her head.
The man stepped over her and headed for the table in the corner. He tossed something onto the table. She heard the spark of a lighter and saw rising smoke. He turned, sat on the edge of the bed and stared at her on the floor.
‘Please, this was a mistake. I should never have come here. Just let me go. I won’t say anything to anyone!’
‘Why did you text me?’
Her words tumbled out of her in a nervous rush. ‘My husband, Ryan, he had a phone to text you – only you. I wanted to find out what he was up to. I found the phone and a gun. He committed suicide two months ago.’
She stared at him from the floor, watching him think and smoke, never taking his eyes off her. He threw her a cigarette and a lighter. He knew she smoked. He must have been watching her for a while. She stared at the cigarette on the filthy floor, unable to understand the act of generosity. A tear dropped onto the carpet. She took the cigarette and tried to light it, but her hands were shaking too hard and wet with her own blood. The man got up, crouched over her and lit the cigarette. He sat back down and Paige leaned against the foot of the bed, taking deep drags on the shaking cigarette.
‘I remember your husband. Don’t see many people like him round here.’
Paige wiped her cheeks of blood and tears and focused on the man’s deep, slow voice.
‘Didn’t know he killed himself, neither.’ He took a drag on the cigarette and studied her. ‘You shouldn’t have come here.’
‘Please…’ she begged without anything left to say. Her life was in his hands.
‘I’m not a nice man. I kill. I kill to live.’
‘You’re… a hitman?’
He nodded his head once. ‘And other things. Gets you paranoid, this job. You kill people, others come lookin’.’
‘I won’t tell anyone about what you do, I swear. I only came to find out why my husband had a gun.’
‘Well he didn’t come to me for a chat. You figure it out.’
‘Why? Who would he want dead so badly?’
‘Confidential, innit. Ain’t about to break my word to a dea
d man. I ain’t no snitch.’
‘Did you do it? Did you kill whoever he wanted dead?’
He took a drag on his cigarette. ‘He called it off night before. Asked for a gun instead. Paid a lot for it, too.’
If Paige hadn’t been so terrified, she would have begged him to tell her. The fear of rape sat in the back of her mind. She eyed the condom on the edge of the bin.
‘I won’t contact you again. I’ll give you the phone. Here.’ She slid the phone across the stained carpet.
‘Do you know how stupid you are coming here?’
‘I’m sorry… I just… I had to know what he was up to.’
‘Your man bought a gun from me, lady. Whatever he was mixed up in ain’t worth your time, or your life. Prob’ly wanted to kill the man himself.’
What man? Who would Ryan want to kill?
‘You can go.’
She stared at him in disbelief.
‘You don’t wanna stay here, lady, trust me. Get up and fuck off.’
Paige scrambled to her feet, the cigarette still burning between her fingers. She swung the door open and sprinted down the hallway for the stairs, following the trail of her own blood.
TEN
Paige woke up on the sofa to a ferocious headache. The room was dark, but daylight framed the curtains. Her scalp was burning, as though clumps of hair and skin had been ripped from the bone. The palms of her hands felt tender and hot, and her whole body ached.
The hitman.
She took a couple of codeine tablets and waited for the pain to ease. It was as though her wounds had their own pulses, all of them screaming to be soothed.
Paige went upstairs and showered, standing in a crimson pool as blood circled the drain by her feet. The shower gel stung her grazed palms.
Once dry, she stood in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom and let the towel fall to the floor. Cuts and bruises covered her pale skin, like milk in a dirty glass. Her body was a bundle of contradictions wrapped in skin: she was too skinny in some areas, which was evident from her protruding ribs and collarbones, but plump in others, like the tyre of fat that was forming around her hips and stomach from drinking. In some lights she looked youthful: she had firm breasts that had not yet sagged; but in other lights her body revealed its age, as shown by the crow’s feet that had begun to form at the corners of her yellowing eyes. The faded scar from her caesarean smiled at her in the mirror. She ran a finger along it, feeling its ridges and bumps, and promised herself not to cry. Chloe had died and left nothing but scars.