Extinction

by Carol Anne Davis

  Eventually – how long had it been? – she went slack but he continued to force his bruised fingers to make the connection as he didn’t want her to open her eyes and look at him, perhaps create a momentary guilt. Only when the stench of ammonia permeated the room, indicating that she’d lost control of her bladder in death, did he release her and sit back on his haunches to relax.

  By the time that he’d showered and washed and tumble dried the washable cover from the settee and the cushion cover, it was almost time for his lodger, John, to return. After replacing the fabric coverings, he left his study and locked it from the outside, putting the key carefully in his back pocket. He’d wait until dark before disposing of the body in the great outdoors.

  As usual, John managed to look apologetic for no particular reason.

  ‘Good day?’ Adam asked as the younger man walked into the lounge.

  ‘Quiet. You?’

  ‘I was counselling at the bereavement drop-in centre.’

  ‘Would you like to split a pizza or . . .?’

  His lodger, one of the most socially inept youths that he’d ever met, was the master of the non sequitur.

  Suddenly he realized that he was starving: rape and murder obviously used up vast amounts of energy.

  ‘I’ll get us one each. My treat.’

  He tipped the delivery guy well when he turned up on his motorcycle with two stuffed-cheese-crust meat specials. Apart from the throbbing in his hands, he felt great.

  ‘I appreciate this, mate,’ John said as they munched, drank ale and watched reruns of Top Gear on the Dave channel.

  ‘No problem.’ One day, in the future, John might have to be his alibi: indeed, he’d chosen the twenty-four-year-old because he was affable but awkward, clearly in awe of him. If questioned by police, John would tell them that he, Adam, was a great guy who loved to help his clients and who made instant friends with everyone else that he met.

  They made casual conversation about the TV as the night progressed but he was pleased when, at just after ten thirty, John stretched and said that he was off to bed.

  ‘I’ll hit the sack soon myself – got an early client tomorrow. He’s claustrophobic, can’t travel at busy times as he hyperventilates.’

  ‘Want me to air the rooms or . . .?’ The smell of stale cheese and pepperoni hung heavily in the lounge.

  ‘No need – I’m seeing him at the Counselling Centre as he’d feel trapped in my office.’

  He liked to work for several different organizations: it stopped him from getting bored so quickly and it was easier to keep prying colleagues at bay.

  He waited for twenty minutes after John’s bedroom door closed, then went to his study, unlocked it, entered and quickly relocked the door. The room smelt of blood, now, and something else that was less familiar. He looked at the body and it had gone a strange, almost luminous beige. Her eyes must have opened of their own accord, seemed to stare at him accusingly and he felt momentarily edgy, wanted her out of the way.

  Fortuitously, he’d bought a cheap sheet, with cash, for this very purpose, purchasing it from the supermarket a few weeks ago when the urge to kill had become almost overwhelming. Going into his cupboard, he brought out the king size piece of bedding and rolled her awkwardly into it, surprised that such a slender body was so difficult to manipulate. She’d stiffened so he had to half carry and half drag her through the darkened bungalow and out to his car.

  She was too rigid to bend into the boot so he put her on the back seat, still mummified in the sheet, and forced himself to drive slowly to the vast sprawl that was Weston Woods. Fortunately, at this time of night, only the most determined dog walkers were still active. He waited until the coast was clear before dragging her as far as possible from the path, removing the sheet and rolling her under a big clump of bushes. She was still visible so he fetched his secateurs from the boot and cut several branches from nearby shrubs and saplings then piled them loosely at each side. He threw several others around so that his disguise didn’t look too obvious: the foliage would soon start to wither and would blend in more.

  When she was out of sight – if not yet out of mind – he returned to his Fiesta and drove around until he saw an area littered with bin bags rather than the more commonplace wheelie bins. Putting the sheet in a bin liner which he’d brought with him, he dumped it with the rest of the refuse before driving home. If his luck held out, she wouldn’t be found for weeks, allowing decomposition to obscure the timeline and making it harder for the police to ascertain her final movements. He was probably home and dry.

  TWO

  That murder victim looked vaguely familiar, Beth thought, as she studied the photograph on the front page of the local paper, the Weston Mercury. There again, she saw so many people through her work at the hospital – staff, patients and visitors all made use of the restaurant.

  There were relatively few murders here in Weston-super-Mare, but more in the neighbouring city of Bristol. Many of them were domestic or were drunken fights between young men whereas the motive in this case appeared to be sexual. The body had apparently been hidden under some bushes but dragged out by foxes or badgers and briefly feasted upon.

  The young woman, Hannah Reid, had gone missing last Monday but her body had only been found on Sunday by the inevitable man walking his dog. It had doubtless featured on the local news but she, Beth, had been too busy to tune in, thanks to her busy working and social life. It was only now, on Thursday, when the new edition of the weekly paper came out, that she realized they had a killer in their midst.

  ‘Hannah was a sensible woman who wouldn’t have gone off with a stranger so we think that she knew her killer,’ the detective leading the case was quoted as saying. Good, Beth thought – she herself lived alone and hated the prospect of a man preying on random females. Not that Hannah had deserved to die for attracting Mr Wrong.

  ‘Beth – the rep hasn’t turned up to restock the snacks machine.’

  Everything was put out to tender nowadays at the hospital which was a problem if a company or individual became unreliable.

  She smiled at her assistant. ‘No problem. I’ll phone them and sort it out.’

  She went into her office and made the call. She also increased their order for fruit and salads. The warmer weather would be here any day now and the spring sunshine briefly encouraged people to get fit. The canteen would have a week or two of requests for healthier choices then the patients’ relatives would revert to their usual depressed state and go back to choosing sausage rolls and pies. She suspected that many of them only managed a portion of baked beans by way of vegetables, fell far short of their five-a-day.

  When she returned to the serving area, her newspaper had gone. That was typical of some members of the general public. If you didn’t nail it down, it walked. Still, she couldn’t complain: she’d met lots of caring people since becoming a young widow, and she usually enjoyed her job.

  At 3 p.m., she finished for the day and strode through the corridors, looking forward to walking home and having a long bubble bath. She’d have a lazy afternoon and a late evening meal as she wasn’t meeting her boyfriend at the pub until nine.

  As she reached the front doors, she saw a petite brunette, dressed casually in jeans and a denim top, sitting in the otherwise empty waiting area. Her head was buried in her hands and she was weeping silently. The receptionists behind the desk were both gazing awkwardly at their computer screens; it wasn’t the British way to get involved.

  Beth hesitated. The girl might be clinically depressed, in which case she had to be referred to the mental health ward, or she might merely be distressed, but, on balance, she couldn’t just leave her. She’d never forget her own first year of widowhood, how wretched she felt. Ever since, she’d felt compelled to reach out to people in a crisis, to get them through their most difficult times.

  ‘Can I help you? I work here at the hospital but I’m also a counsellor.’

  The girl looked up. ‘My husband w
as killed in an accident.’

  ‘Recently?’

  ‘This afternoon. He was walking to the supermarket when a car . . .’ Her voice cracked.

  ‘Is there anyone that I can phone?’

  The girl – who could only be in her mid to late twenties – shook her head and her crying resumed. When she at last calmed down she said, ‘My parents are dead and Zak grew up in children’s homes.’

  ‘Do you have work colleagues, then?’ She’d surely be reassured by familiar faces.

  ‘We work from home – he does accountancy, I make curtains and do dress alterations.’

  Beth realized that the truth of her husband’s death hadn’t quite sunk in, that she was still speaking about him in the present tense.

  ‘How are you getting home?’

  The girl shrugged. ‘I suppose I’ll walk.’

  ‘I could give you a lift.’

  It amazed her how little the hospital or social services did for a new widow. They invariably let her see the body for a few minutes, gave her a booklet on bereavement services and sent her on her way.

  ‘Thank you. I feel so shaky that I was scared I would collapse.’

  ‘That’s shock,’ Beth said gently. ‘I know. I was widowed three years ago when my husband died of leukaemia.’

  ‘I’m also being sick a lot. I’m four months pregnant,’ the girl said.

  It never rains but it pours.

  ‘I’m Beth,’ Beth said gently.

  ‘Olivia.’

  ‘My car’s in the car park.’ She helped the young woman to her feet. ‘Where do you live?’ she asked as they left the building and walked into the afternoon sunshine.

  Olivia named a fairly central location.

  ‘Oh, that’s handy for the supermarket,’ Beth said.

  She glanced at the younger girl’s pale face and realized that she was probably thinking that she’d never want to shop for groceries, far less eat anything, again. She’d doubtlessly enjoyed today’s lunch with her young husband with neither having the slightest notion that they’d never share another meal.

  She told Olivia about the bereavement drop-in centre as she drove, reassuring her that she could just turn up on the first Monday morning of the month, that she didn’t need to make an appointment.

  ‘It’s not formal counselling, unfortunately. There’s a waiting list for that. This is just a chat with someone who understands.’

  ‘Just me and you?’

  ‘And anyone else who turns up,’ Beth admitted. ‘It’s for all kinds of bereavement so we get people who have lost their parents, children, siblings or a spouse.’

  ‘But I’ll get to see you?’

  ‘Or my colleague, Adam, if I’m already talking to several people. We had a third volunteer for a while but unfortunately she moved away.’

  ‘And I can come in any time?’

  She’d already given out this information, but the younger woman’s concentration had understandably gone. ‘Unfortunately no – they are only held on the first Monday of the month.’ She parked outside Olivia’s house, went into her bag for a card with the drop-in centre address, and wrote the date of the next session on it. ‘In the meantime, I suggest that you put your name down on the waiting list to see a counsellor on a one-to-one basis – the details will be in that booklet you got from the hospital.’

  Olivia looked blank for a moment then belatedly stared down at the little white pamphlet that she was clutching. Beth knew, from bitter experience, that she would find it disappointing, that most of the organizations were aimed at older widows and widowers. Even for this age group, help was mainly only available in the bigger cities, a postcode lottery.

  ‘Can I come in and make you some toast and tea?’

  Sometimes, if you gave food to the newly-bereaved, they would eat it on automatic pilot. Olivia had to keep her strength up as she was with child.

  ‘Zak hadn’t reached the shops when . . . We’re out of bread.’

  ‘I’m sure that we can find something,’ Beth said gently. She followed Olivia into a clean and reasonably neat flat.

  For the next two hours she stayed and talked, even persuaded the widow to nibble at a little dry cereal. Should she cancel her date with Matthew and spend the rest of the evening here? He would survive without her. She was still debating what to do when Olivia’s lids began to flutter and she lolled back against the cushions then immediately opened her eyes.

  ‘Sorry, I’m exhausted.’

  ‘You get some sleep. I’ll let myself out and I’ll see you soon,’ Beth murmured and headed for the door.

  By the time that Matthew collected her from her home, she had showered and changed and was feeling slightly more lively. Still, she was glad that they were going out to eat as the food would distract from the fact that Matthew could be very quiet. Going out for a drink with him could be a challenge unless she carried the conversation, something which was tiring if she’d spent all day talking to the bereaved or managing the hospital restaurant. He loved his job as a locksmith but talked little about his work, though she tried hard to draw him out.

  ‘I missed you,’ he said as soon as he entered the hall.

  Beth hugged him tightly. She’d only seen him two days ago so hadn’t had time to miss him in return but it was lovely being paid so many compliments.

  ‘You’re so cute,’ she said, keen to sound as warm as he. It was more difficult for her to show emotion, she acknowledged to herself, as this was her first serious relationship since her husband’s death. In contrast, Matthew had been divorced for almost a decade and had dated several divorcees since.

  ‘And you’re so lovable.’ They’d only been dating for six weeks but he was already hinting that he was in love.

  At the restaurant, she told him about Olivia and her unborn child.

  ‘She’s lucky that she can see you at the centre,’ Matthew said, touching her knee under the table.

  ‘Well, me or Adam,’ Beth said. ‘I’ll give him all of the details so that he can meet her needs.’

  She was glad that Adam was fitting in so well at the bereavement drop-in sessions, was pleased that the unfortunate young widow would be in such capable hands.

  THREE

  Rise and shine – well, rise anyway. He’d never managed to be a little ray of sunshine. In fact, even when he was feeling happy, people in the street often told him to cheer up. John shuffled towards the kitchen, intent on making himself some coffee, but stopped in the hall and sniffed the air. The house smelt different, sickly sweet, as if something had gone off: it was similar to the smell that remained when a mouse ate poisoned bait and began to decompose behind the fridge or in a cupboard and it made him feel strangely ill at ease. Walking into the lounge, he scooped up the leftover pizza crusts and cartons from last night and put them in the kitchen bin but the stench remained. He’d better keep tidying, put the rubbish outside.

  As he exited via the side door, he was surprised to see that Adam’s car was still in the driveway. Hadn’t his landlord said something about an early appointment? He, John, must have gotten the details wrong – there was no way that someone as together and organized as Adam would ever sleep in. There again, it looked as if he was behind with washing his admittedly modest car: there was a reddish brown smear on the boot, presumably mud.

  After being out in the fresh air, the bungalow smelt worse so he opened several windows before making himself a much-needed cup of instant and two slices of wholemeal toast, lavishly spread with butter. As a personal trainer, he was supposed to eat a more balanced breakfast, something which included a reasonable portion of protein, but, at this time in the morning, toast was all that he could face.

  Why couldn’t he be more like Adam? The older man could eat a full English breakfast (grilled of course, rather than fried), find a parking space and get offered every job that he applied for. He also did very well with women – he, John, often stumbled into some giggling blonde or brunette in the hall, invariably wearing nothing
more than Adam’s shirt and a smile. Admittedly they didn’t hang around for long, but Adam had explained that he was playing the field as he recovered from the shock of his wife’s suicide.

  It was hard to imagine any woman wanting to kill herself when she shared her life with a bright, funny man like his landlord but apparently she had suffered from clinical levels of depression. She’d also self-medicated with alcohol which had only made the problem worse.

  He, John, could identify with that: he’d been deeply depressed himself as a teenager, what with being the thinnest and weediest boy in the class. He’d also struggled to find conversational gambits. Even his folks had said that he was so quiet that they had to take his pulse to ascertain that he was still alive. That was why he’d been so pleased when he and Adam had clicked, when the older man had hired him as his personal trainer. They’d only had a few sessions together before the psychologist’s workload became too onerous but by then the room that he rented out had become vacant and he’d happily moved in.

  Talk of the devil. He smiled as Adam walked into the lounge.

  ‘Bit cold in here,’ the older man said.

  ‘The place smelt odd so I’ve opened the windows.’

  Adam sniffed the air. ‘Probably the wind blowing our way from the dump.’

  ‘No, I’ve been outside with the pizza boxes and the air’s fine. The odour is in here. Maybe something spilled inside the bin?’

  ‘I’ll clean up later.’

  ‘I thought you were working first thing?’

  ‘He cancelled, seems to have totally gone off the idea of psychotherapy. I’m beginning to think that he’s schizophrenic as well as claustrophobic.’

  ‘Double trouble!’ John said and laughed at his own joke. ‘Talking of mood changes, I’m doing this motivational weekend in London in a couple of months.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan.’

  ‘It had better work, considering how much it costs.’

  ‘A girlfriend or your money back,’ Adam laughed.