Dead Time

by Anne Cassidy

  ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘I’m here to see Josh,’ she said, as pleasantly as she could.

  The young man who she supposed was Darren Skeggs gave a sigh and turned away. He trudged up a narrow stairway shouting Joshua’s name. She stepped inside, assuming she was meant to follow. At the top she could see Joshua and hear him saying something. Then he gave her a beaming smile.

  ‘Hi, Rosie. Put the bolts on, would you?’ he called.

  The door had a metal bolt at the top and a smaller one at the bottom. In the middle was a chain. Puzzled, she fastened them all and went up the stairs. Joshua gave her a hug.

  ‘You’ve met Skeggsie, my landlord?’ Joshua said.

  Rose looked again at the young man, her eyes fixed on the heavy black glasses. His clothes were close-fitting and the shirt he had on seemed to be buttoned up to his chin. He was a complete contrast to Joshua, who had fair hair flicking round his ears and was wearing a faded, wrinkled T-shirt with a row of beads around his neck.

  Skeggsie nodded stiffly at her. She opened her mouth to say something but he turned away and walked off. She frowned.

  ‘Come on, let me show you the flat,’ Joshua said, oblivious to her discomfort. ‘Put your bag down. Take your coat off!’

  She placed her bag on the hall floor and shrugged off her coat, taking care with her arm which was still tender from the tattoo. She let it hang down by her side.

  ‘Come on!’ Joshua called.

  He showed her a huge living room, one corner of which was filled with one of the biggest televisions she had ever seen. Opposite was a long low sofa, the kind you might find in a hotel foyer. A coffee table sat in front of it, every centimetre of which was covered by piles of books and DVDs. There was nothing else in the room. The floorboards were polished and the walls were four different colours. It was odd, like a set for a play and yet Rose quite liked it.

  ‘My room’s here,’ Joshua said.

  His bedroom was small but neat. Rose was reminded immediately of the box room he had had when they lived in Brewster Road. Then his bed was high up so that he had space underneath. Now a double bed took up most of the space in the room. A rail sat alongside the opposite wall, crammed with clothes, some of which were on hangers, some just draped over the top. On the ground were trainers and boots piled on top of each other. By the side of the bed was a full-length mirror fixed on to the wall. On the bedside table sat a screwdriver. It was squat, bright yellow, different from the one she had seen him with on Tuesday night. There was a narrow rug on the floor with just enough space to walk along it to the bed and back.

  ‘It’s compact,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve got another room, a study.’

  The room next door was twice the size and held a desk and a table and a couple of chairs. The walls were covered in posters for bands and movies and there were some big beanbag-type cushions in one corner underneath an old standard lamp with no shade. She looked back to the desk and the table alongside it. There was a computer monitor and a laptop, and a printer and a black box with a light blinking. There was wire snaking in and out, hanging precariously off the table, cascading down to a multi-plug adaptor.

  ‘Wow,’ she said, ‘you’ve got a lot of hardware.’

  ‘This is nothing. You should see Skeggsie’s room.’

  She screwed her face up thinking of the rude young man. Joshua seemed to read her expression.

  ‘Skeggsie’s all right. His people skills aren’t great but he’s a brilliant guy. Put your coat down,’ he said, pulling her jacket out of her hand and laying it over the beanbags, ‘Here, come and see my websites. Sit here.’

  He pulled one of the chairs back and she reluctantly sat down. He’d mentioned these websites to her a couple of weeks before. She wasn’t looking forward to seeing them.

  ‘Skeggsie helped me set these up. Without him I couldn’t have done it. This is the first.’

  He tapped on the keyboard and then, on the screen, a website appeared, missingones.com. The background was deep red and underneath the web name was a brief outline of the site. Rose let her eyes run across the words. She was distracted, though, by the photographs which materialised down each side of the page. Her mum and Brendan. She stared at each one until it faded and was instantly replaced by another. Her mother’s face, smiling, her glasses slightly crooked, her hair pulled back; Brendan grinning at something off camera; Brendan with a peaked cap; her mum wearing dark glasses, looking sombre.

  She looked back to the words, trying to ignore the images.

  Each year 275,000 people disappear.

  Most of these people return to their families within a day or two.

  The number of people missing from their families for more than a year is 16,000–20,000.

  Kathy Smith and Brendan Johnson are two such people. We want them back. We need them. This site is about them and about the circumstances of their disappearance.

  Rose felt her throat begin to tighten. She looked away from the screen at Joshua’s profile. His eyes were fixed on the images, his jaw and neck tense. The beads, which had looked so casual moments before, seemed tight like a choker. He turned to her before she could look away. Their eyes met.

  ‘I know you don’t approve of all this,’ he said, holding his hands out, encompassing the technology that sat glowing in front of him, ‘You said that in your emails. But I have to go on looking for Kathy and Dad.’

  ‘I understand,’ she said softly. ‘But the police explained …’

  ‘But nothing is proven. Nothing is certain. That’s why I have to keep looking. And in any case if the police were right, if they were …’

  He licked his lips before going on.

  ‘If Kathy and Dad were killed then I’ve set up this other website. Look.’

  He pulled the laptop towards him and tapped on the keys. Its screen was smaller but in a second a website filled the space. This time the background was black. oldmurders.com. The font was sombre. Rose frowned. This was stark, funereal. There were no photographs, just some text that had been bulleted.

  • Many murders go unsolved.

  • They sit in police files for lack of resources.

  • The murderers are free to get on with their lives.

  • This site is about a possible murder.

  • Kathy Smith and Brendan Johnson disappeared.

  • The police think they were murdered.

  • Help us to find out one way or another.

  Underneath was a menu: Biographies; Last Known Whereabouts; Witnesses; Maps; Car; Contact us.

  ‘See, these websites can reach two potential communities. People researching crime or murders, other police forces, private investigators. Look, I’ve tagged all the important words. So, say if anyone was searching for the Tuscan Moon, for any reason, then this website and missingones.com would come up.’

  Joshua seemed breathless. Rose gave a smile but it wasn’t an encouraging one. He carried on, not giving her a chance to speak.

  ‘I know you don’t think I should do all this …’

  ‘It’s up to you what you do,’ she said.

  ‘You have your way of dealing with what happened. This is mine.’

  ‘I don’t exactly deal with it. I just accept it.’

  ‘I can’t …’

  ‘You can’t let it go,’ she said slowly, almost to herself.

  He shrugged.

  The sound of footsteps going downstairs made Joshua look around. Then the bolts of the street door shot back. The door opened and closed with a slam.

  ‘Skeggsie’s gone out,’ Joshua said with a half-smile.

  ‘Without saying anything? Isn’t he a bit odd?’ she said, moving her chair back, relieved to be turning away from the content of the screens in front of her.

  ‘He is odd. But trust me,’ Josh said, standing up, fiddling with the beads around his neck, ‘he is the best.’

  ‘What’s with the bolts on the door?’ she said.

  ‘Ah, the bolts,’ he
said. ‘Come on, I’ll make you a coffee and explain. Oh no, wait! It’s not coffee. It’s tea. Tea bag left in for exactly sixty seconds, a touch of milk and no sugar,’ he said.

  She smiled. He’d remembered what she liked. He, on the other hand, had large mugs of lukewarm, milky coffee. When they had lived in Bethnal Green with her mum and Brendan she would sometimes find them in his room days after he’d made them, a third of the liquid left, the top covered in a chocolate-coloured scuddy skin. It used to turn her stomach but still she carried them downstairs and washed them up before her mum or Brendan noticed.

  As they left the room she turned back for a second to see the screens sitting side by side, the monitor big and brassy, the words missingones.com dominant. The laptop was smaller, at a slight angle, the word murder just visible.

  While Joshua was fussing with the drinks Rose thought of the Tuscan Moon. It was her mum and Brendan’s favourite restaurant and they went there regularly. Rose and Joshua had been there a few times with them for an early meal. The waiters spoke a lot of Italian and there were pictures of Italian footballers all over the walls. Rose used to have a Margherita pizza and some garlic bread but Joshua liked the lasagne and insisted on having it with chips much to everyone’s embarrassment.

  The Tuscan Moon was the restaurant her mum and Brendan went to on the night they disappeared.

  ‘Here you are!’ Joshua handed her a mug of tea.

  They were sitting at a small table in a long narrow kitchen.

  ‘What’s with Skeggsie and the bolts?’

  Joshua let out a sigh.

  ‘He’s had some bad times. You remember I told you how we hooked up? Me and him? Well, he’s the kind of kid who seems to attract – I don’t know – nasty types. His dad bought this flat. And during his first year at uni he had a couple of other students share it and they took advantage. He had trouble getting rid of them. During his second year he lived here alone. He was burgled, though, and he’s sure, positive, that it was some of the kids who had lived here with him. A couple of weeks ago he was in the flat on his own and he was sure he heard someone open the front door. He called out thinking it was me but it wasn’t. When he went downstairs the door was wide open. It freaked him out. Hence the bolts.’

  ‘Oh, not good.’

  ‘But it’s more than bad luck and it’s more than about security. He is a bit obsessive. You know I sometimes hear him have showers three, four times a day. And the bolts thing? He likes it locked every time we come in. When I go out I have to lock two separate Chubb locks. He’s a little insecure.’

  ‘I didn’t warm to him,’ Rose said.

  ‘You would if you knew him. Actually, I’ve got something to show you. Skeggsie has this software he’s developed. Well, it’s hard to explain. Come and see. Bring your drink.’

  She followed Joshua into one of the tidiest rooms she had ever seen. It was as big as the living room and seemed to be divided in half. On one side was a bed and wardrobe and chest of drawers. The bed was made, the doors and drawers were shut and apart from a couple of photos in old-fashioned frames there was nothing on the surfaces. No books, magazines, no personal items, nothing. The other side of the room was full of computers. She gasped at the amount of equipment on view. A long table, like an old dining table, was flat against a wall. There were four monitors, one of them huge, like a widescreen television set. Under the table were four base units. The rest of the space was covered in electronic equipment, things she had never seen before. Amid it all were the spaghetti wires that ran in between the machinery.

  ‘Here, look,’ Joshua said, holding up an A4-size photograph.

  Rose took it.

  ‘Skeggsie’s got this way of getting into programs? He calls it a Trojan Horse Incursion. This is the Network Rail CCTV system. Look, this is a photo of you. Last Tuesday night.’

  Rose looked hard at the dark grainy picture. It showed a railway station platform. On it was a girl and a boy standing together. At the bottom was a date and a time. The date she saw was the previous Tuesday and the time was 19.46. With a shock she registered that it really was her and Ricky Harris. They were standing a metre or so apart and as she examined the picture she saw that in fact Ricky Harris was talking on a mobile phone.

  It was the night he was stabbed.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘How could Skeggsie get this?’

  ‘He’s spent the last three years working on software stuff. He’s a genius when it comes to all this.’

  ‘And he hacked into CCTV cameras? When?’

  ‘Late last Tuesday. When I got back from seeing you at your gran’s house I asked him if he could get an image.’

  ‘Isn’t it illegal?’

  ‘It is but Skeggsie does it in such a way that it can’t be traced. He lays all these false trails. He’s the world’s first true Cyber Escape Man.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Why did you get him to do it?’

  Joshua looked puzzled.

  ‘I thought it would be interesting.’

  ‘This boy got killed …’

  His face fell.

  ‘It’s bad taste, isn’t it? I didn’t think. I was just showing you how clever Skeggsie is. I’m sorry, Rosie. You know me. I sometimes jump in without thinking.’

  ‘That was a terrible night for me. Why would you think I wanted to be reminded of it?’

  She was angry. She took a last look at the photograph and then tossed it aside.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Josh said.

  It was only her second evening with Joshua. The first one had been messed up and now she was feeling annoyed.

  ‘I just thought you might want to look at this. It was stupid.’

  She glanced round at the wall of computers and pictured Skeggsie sitting bolt upright in front of them, the screens reflected in the lenses of his big glasses.

  ‘He had no right to steal this image of me!’ she said.

  ‘It was my fault. I asked him to. I’ve mucked up big time, haven’t I?’

  Joshua looked crestfallen.

  ‘No …’ she said, feeling foolish. ‘No, ’course not …’

  ‘I have,’ he said.

  He reached out and took hold of her arm. She flinched, pain crossing her face.

  ‘What?’ he said. ‘What have I done now?’

  ‘Nothing. Really.’

  He took a step back from her. He was upset. The evening was going wrong. She spoke quickly, holding her arm out to him.

  ‘Look, I’ve got this tattoo.’

  She pulled her sleeve back. The tattoo was still red and raised but the blue outline of the butterfly was clear.

  ‘When did you have that done?’ he said, a curious smile on his face.

  ‘A week or so ago. It’s still quite sore.’

  ‘A butterfly.’

  ‘A Blue Morpho.’

  ‘But why a butterfly?’

  ‘I like the look of them. I like the blueness of it.’

  ‘Blueness?’

  ‘Don’t mock me,’ she said, letting her sleeve drop.

  ‘I would never do that,’ he said. ‘Actually, this is amazing. Come on, let’s get out of Skeggsie’s room. I’ve got something to show you.’

  She followed him out and back to his tiny bedroom. Once inside he walked to the wall mirror. She stood by the door, slightly embarrassed.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Come closer.’

  She stood by him. There was no space to move. He crossed his arms and pulled his T-shirt up over his chest and head and threw it behind him on the bed. She was startled but tried to keep a neutral expression on her face. Then he turned away from her and she saw it.

  ‘Oh!’ she said.

  On the side of his ribs was a butterfly tattoo, twice the size of the one she had, its blueness sharp and vibrant, its wings wrapping around him.

  ‘We’re a team, you and me,’ he said.

  He was staring into the mirror, looking straight at
her. She looked back at him, her eye dropping to the tattoo. After a second she reached across with her hand and touched his skin with her fingertips.

  Her sleeve fell back to reveal the edge of a blue wing.

  ‘A team,’ he whispered, grinning.

  SEVEN

  On Saturday morning Anna seemed to hang around Rose a lot of the time. She stood at the corner of her study door and watched as Rose sat at her desk working on her laptop. She asked her questions about the events at the station. The questions were separated by long gaps as if Anna was weighing up every word of her answer. Rose typed on and felt Anna’s eyes on her back.

  In the end she stopped working and turned to face her. Anna, seemingly disconcerted by Rose’s scrutiny, picked up a cushion that had fallen off the big armchair and straightened it.

  ‘I was wondering whether it would be good to give violin a miss this week,’ she said.

  Rose remembered the violin lessons that were no more. After returning from boarding school she’d gone to a woman in Hampstead, Isabel Popper, to keep up her practice. Once a week she went for an hour playing her pieces, practising her chords, preparing for an exam that she had never intended to take. After the summer, when school began, it was easy to say that she was transferring to another tutor nearer to home. She had continued to go out every Tuesday. A small victory against Anna. The money she was given she kept in a box in her room.

  ‘I don’t want to miss my lesson,’ Rose said.

  Her grandmother nodded and paused for a second before walking out of the room. Behind her she left a heavy flowery scent.

  When she was sure she had gone Rose opened up her blog, Morpho. She scrolled down some recent links and pictures and clips she’d uploaded and read over the most recent entry she’d made. It was a week or so before she was to meet Joshua. She smiled when she read the optimism there, the feeling that the evening ahead was a new beginning for her and Joshua. Her optimism had been well founded. She and Joshua had met up and were now a family of sorts again.

  But in between she had witnessed a murder.

  She made a new heading.