by Steven Dunne
‘It wasn’t for long. And there was nothing else she could get in Chester.’
‘Don’t they need models in Wales then?’ asked Fern, turning to grin at Becky. To her surprise, Becky looked away, unsmiling.
‘She must be raking it in now though, if you’re such a moneybags,’ said Kyle.
‘Not really,’ said Rusty. ‘But it was my eighteenth last week so Mum’s spoiling me.’
There was an uncomfortable silence round the table from all except Fern. ‘Happy Birthday,’ she said gaily, missing the sudden mood-change. ‘Did you have a party?’
Becky and Adele rolled their eyes at Fern until she became vaguely aware she’d said the wrong thing.
Rusty smiled at the table, equally unaware of her faux pas. ‘No. But my mum bought me this new camcorder.’ He brandished it proudly. ‘And a cake.’
‘Your mum sounds nice,’ said Kyle warmly. He nodded sadly at the others. Poor Rusty. Nobody knew. Eighteenth birthdays were a big deal in a life so short of landmarks. They were an excuse for wild partying and drunken revelry with friends, extravagant presents from parents and maybe even a cruise round Derby, hanging from a Stretch. Assuming you had friends, of course. He looked at Rusty and realised he knew very little about him.
Suddenly Rusty looked up into his eyes. ‘What’s a MILF?’ The others darted their eyes around the table in panic. ‘That is what Wilson called my mum, isn’t it?’
It was difficult for the others to keep a straight face in the ensuing silence. Fortunately the writer among them came to the rescue. ‘It stands for Mums I Like Fine,’ said Adele, with a quick glance at Fern to discourage giggling.
‘That’s right,’ agreed Becky. ‘And Wilson’s such a good judge of personality.’ She stared at the top of Rusty’s head, then open-mouthed at Fern and Adele. Was this guy for real? Social skills zero, street patter zero. She sneaked a glance at Fern, who was starting to snigger, and Adele who was mouthing at her to stop.
Rusty looked up again and smiled. ‘Funny, I had Wilson down as a bit of a knobhead but he’s right. Mum’s the best. It’s been very difficult for her, having to move again.’ He looked away again, embarrassed, and no one pressed him to finish. They’d all heard the rumours of bullying.
‘It’s my eighteenth tomorrow,’ said Kyle, changing the subject. He looked round at his fellow students with an apologetic smile. This time even Fern was on message and looked intently at her drink. ‘Don’t worry,’ he continued. ‘You don’t need to waste your weekend on me. I’m not having a party either. Things are tight at the moment. There’s just me and Mum. Daddy Warbucks offered to pay but Mum doesn’t . . .’ Kyle’s voice became more halting and he began to wish he’d said nothing. ‘Well,’ he finished tamely.
‘I couldn’t come anyway,’ said Fern, trying to hide her relief. ‘My parents are taking me Bournemouth for the weekend. Lame or what?’
Adele laid a hand across Kyle’s and fixed him in her gaze. ‘You should celebrate.’
Kyle looked at her with his doleful eyes. ‘Should I?’ He emitted a half-laugh. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Well, I think so. You only get one eighteenth. And on a Friday too.’ She smiled but felt a stab of pain. Friday was always her special night with Adam. The first time they’d made love was on a Friday, last summer at his cottage.
‘He doesn’t have to celebrate if he doesn’t want to,’ said Becky.
‘Celebration implies happiness,’ said Rusty almost to himself.
‘Rusty’s right. There’ll be other times,’ said Kyle. ‘When I’ve . . .’ He hesitated, then smiled sadly. ‘But thanks, Ade.’
Adele’s face hardened. ‘Suit yourself,’ she replied. ‘You can sit in the corner fondling your Morrissey posters and feeling sorry for yourself. But I’m coming round at seven with your present and you damn well better be there, Faggot.’
Kyle’s mouth fell open and there was shock and surprise around the table. Adele raised an eyebrow and glared at Kyle and he glared back. A second later Kyle’s mouth curved into a huge grin as Adele started to chuckle. ‘You saucy bitch,’ he screamed at her in his campest voice. ‘You’re so un-PC, girlfriend.’
‘That’s a date then.’ Adele laughed and everyone joined in. Even Rusty managed a thin smile.
Kyle looked around the table. ‘And you guys are all invited.’
‘Going Bournemouth,’ repeated Fern.
Becky looked at her sternly. ‘Yeah, leave me dangling, ho – that’s dread.’ She turned reluctantly to face Kyle. ‘I normally wouldn’t waste a Friday on you, Faggot, I want that understood, but if Fern’s dumping me then I’m sure I can find an hour for you – as long as we’re not listening to the fucking Smiths all night.’
Kyle smiled at her. ‘Great. I’ll lay on some booze. Uncle Len can afford it. What about you, Geek Boy? You gonna come?’
Rusty looked at him, puzzled. ‘Me?’
‘Yes, you.’ Kyle nodded.
Rusty was still confused. ‘You mean come to your party? As a guest?’
‘No, as a waiter, you sherm. Yes, as a guest.’
It took him a little time for the penny to drop. Then his face lit up. ‘I could film it for you,’ he said. ‘You’ll be the stars. And I promise I won’t get in the way.’
‘We’ll let you know if you do.’
‘And I could bring another DVD,’ he said excitedly. ‘Have you seen Badlands?’
‘Is it as good as Picnic at Hanging Rock?’ asked Adele.
‘You liked that?’ asked Rusty.
‘It was wicked,’ said Kyle. ‘Wondrous.’
‘Pretty good,’ conceded Becky.
Fern looked less certain but nodded in agreement. If Becks liked it, she liked it.
Rusty managed to lift his head towards Adele. Her eyes were still red from the tears. ‘What about you? Ade?’
Adele stared off into the distance. ‘Haunting,’ she said finally.
Rusty smiled and looked briefly at each in turn, before returning his eyes to the floor.
Becky held her hands open. ‘Just one thing, Geek Boy. What happened to the three girls in the film?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, where did they go?’
‘They disappeared. They walked up Hanging Rock and were never seen again.’
Becky pulled a face. ‘I know that. But it’s a film – what happened to them in real life?’
‘You’re missing the point, Becks,’ said Kyle.
‘I’m missing the point? Cheeky fucker.’
‘But you are,’ said Kyle. ‘See, it doesn’t matter what happened to them.’
‘It matters to me.’
‘Kyle’s right,’ said Adele. ‘What matters is they left of their own accord, on their own terms.’ She looked over at Kyle, who held her gaze for a second.
‘Oh, is that what matters?’ said Becky. ‘Well, that’s not what matters to me, Ade. I want to know if they really died. I mean, they must have found out what happened. Three girls can’t just vanish like that, can they?’
‘One of them was found a week later, remember,’ said Rusty. ‘But she had no memory of what had happened.’
‘D’uh!’ said Becky. ‘I’m not a mong. I saw the film.’
‘Yes, you did. And you should already know the most important thing,’ said Kyle. ‘They left their pain behind them for everyone else to bear.’
‘Yeah, okay, they left their pain behind. Boo hoo! But what actually happened to them?’ she insisted. ‘I can’t write a five-hundred-word review on just that. Three girls climb a rock and disappear. End of.’
‘It’s a mystery,’ said Rusty, risking another smile.
‘Stop grinning at me, Geek Boy, or you’ll be wearing your teeth as a necklace.’
‘He fancies you.’ Fern laughed, leering at her friend. Rusty looked away, suddenly flushed.
Becky sidled round to him and put a hand up to stroke his cleanshaven cheek. ‘Course he does. He’s got eyes, hasn’t he?’ She rem
embered a line from the film. “Am I your Botticelli Angel?” ’ She giggled at Fern then turned back to Rusty and kissed him on the same cheek. ‘Mmm, you’ve got quite the manly stubble, haven’t you, Geek Boy?’ She laughed.
‘Don’t be dread, Becks,’ said Adele.
‘What?’ Becky held her hands open to underscore her innocence.
Rusty didn’t move, a faint smile fixed on his face. He pulled the camcorder up to hide his reddening features and began filming her.
Becky’s expression betrayed an objection but she didn’t voice it. ‘Stop hiding behind that thing, Geek Boy. Tell me.’ Rusty kept filming so Becky gave in and pouted at the lens, fluffing up her curly blond hair with her hands and striking several poses. ‘I mean, if it’s based on a true story, where did they go?’ she said as she looked at the camera with a startled expression.
‘Here’s a theory even somebody shallow and superficial can understand,’ said Adele, an icy edge to her voice. Becky narrowed her eyes. ‘Without doing a day’s work in their lives, those girls became famous. They were frozen in beauty and time forever and here we are talking about them over a hundred years later. Jealous?’
Rusty put the camcorder down and smiled hesitantly at Adele. ‘That’s very clever, Ade.’
‘Jealous? Me?’ sneered Becky. ‘You mental bitch.’
‘When I go that’s what I want,’ said Fern. ‘People everywhere talking about me, missing me. It’ll be so sad. Like Romeo + Juliet.’
‘Kylie’s the jealous one,’ continued Becky. ‘He’d have loved going to a girls’ school, wouldn’t you, sweetie?’ She directed her laughter towards Fern, who cackled her approval.
‘All those gorgeous dresses to wear,’ Fern answered.
Kyle managed a good-humoured middle finger.
‘Never mind, Geek, I can guess what happened,’ replied Becky, sitting back down. ‘I’ll bet those blokes raped and murdered them. Only sensible solution. Men are only interested in one thing. Isn’t that right, Kyle?’
Kyle squirmed under her accusing gaze but this time didn’t react. The limelight shifted quicker that way.
‘No answer from Faggot.’ Becky downed her drink and stood to leave. Fern followed suit. ‘Well, I’ll see you all at Sad Bastard Central tomorrow night. And you better not tell any cool people I’m coming to your party, Kylie.’
‘I don’t know any,’ quipped Kyle.
Becky glared at him but decided not to challenge. She stalked away as if on a catwalk, Fern trailing in her wake.
Rusty stood to film them as they walked away. ‘Poor Becky.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Kyle.
Rusty stared at the table. ‘To be so ugly inside.’
Adele gazed at him, a thin smile forming around her mouth. ‘Maybe it’s a cry for help, Rusty.’
Rusty turned the camera on Adele but lowered it when she became uneasy. He looked into her dark eyes briefly.
‘Do they really not know what happened to those girls on the Hanging Rock?’ asked Kyle.
‘No, though there are lots of theories,’ said Rusty, finishing his drink. ‘The favourite is that they were buried under a rock fall somewhere near the summit. Me? I prefer not to know. That way they do live forever.’
‘Live forever.’ Adele nodded at him. ‘Like angels.’
‘Or gods,’ chipped in Kyle.
‘And poor Sara who flew to her death from the roof of the school – did she really kill herself? For real, I mean.’
‘Sara?’
‘The orphan – the girl who wasn’t allowed to go on the picnic because her school fees hadn’t been paid. She lost her best friend on Hanging Rock and later jumped off the roof of the school.’
Rusty shook his head. ‘I don’t really know. Most people concentrate on the girls who disappeared.’ He looked at her, pleased, and then a moment later said, ‘She had to content herself with being mortal.’
Adele nodded at him, her dark sad eyes mesmerising. ‘And alone.’
At that moment Rifkind entered the refectory and glanced across at Adele. She darted a quick peek in his direction then looked away.
‘You okay?’ asked Kyle.
She raised her dark eyes to him and smiled. ‘I will be.’
Six
BROOK DID A FEW HOURS’ paperwork then set off home in the late afternoon as there was little more to be achieved after details of the incident had been entered on the PNC. It was a fine warm day though he was so tired he hardly noticed. The post mortem on the unknown corpse would take place in the morning, and without a cause of death and an ID, there was nothing left to do except pointless theorising.
Dr Higginbottom had already emailed a copy of his preliminary report. He couldn’t speculate on COD but his initial inspection had shown that several, if not all, of the deceased’s organs had been removed, so the corpse had clearly undergone a rudimentary post mortem.
One possibility mentioned by the doctor was that the body might have already been somewhere in the mortuary system but had been misplaced or misappropriated, so Brook had Noble contact the Coroner’s Office to request a list of all recent post mortems performed on corpses fitting a broad description of their John Doe. Brook then compiled a list from Yellow Pages and the trade website for undertakers and funeral directors of all organisations who might employ a mortician. He restricted the search to Derby and the surrounding area but even so there were still dozens. Death was a reliable employer.
One drawback to Higginbottom’s theory was the unusual incision in the man’s side. The doctor had never seen a corpse after a PM with such an aperture, and neither had Brook or Noble for that matter. More often than not, a British pathologist or mortician would cut a corpse down the middle of the chest from the neck to the pubis with a slight detour around the sinew of the belly button, because it was difficult to both cut and sew up afterwards. Brook had known pathologists who’d trained in the United States as Medical Examiners and used the Y-shaped incision often preferred over there. But no reputable pathologist would extract the organs of a cadaver from a six-inch opening on the flank. It just wasn’t practical, according to Higginbottom.
Before heading for home, Brook and Noble searched the Missing Persons databases for both Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire and marked the files of the dozen men around the right age who were unaccounted for. Unfortunately, though some had seen the inside of a prison, none had been born in Scotland. The attached photo IDs for the subjects didn’t look promising either, though some of the images were out of date, sometimes by many years, depending on the date of disappearance.
‘Want me to start ringing round the funeral homes?’ Noble had asked.
Brook picked up his car keys and shook his head. ‘Let’s have that conversation tomorrow when we have more information and maybe an ID.’
American Beauty starring Kevin Spacey, directed by Sam Mendes in 1999 – an exploration of romantic and paternal love, sexuality, beauty, materialism, self-liberation and redemption. According to Wiki at least. He could show them that film at the party. Adele would love it. Kyle too. Maybe Becky would be more cynical.
But the bonus was Ricky Fitts, one of the characters. He was young and cool and spent all his spare time filming on his camcorder. Just like me.
Rusty stopped at the side of the road and bent down to the pavement. Yeah, American Beauty. Life – a journey without meaning. This pigeon knew. You live, you get by, you die and everyone forgets you. He lifted his camcorder and zoomed into the pigeon lying on the ground, its neck slack, and its opaque sightless eyes half-open. Maggots were chewing through the bird’s intestines.
A few seconds later he zoomed out and continued on his short journey across the Brisbane Estate, at the western edge of Derby. He replayed the short sequence as he walked through the cool night air then deleted it. His brand new Sanyo camcorder had great picture quality even at night. Just as well.
Becky Blake read the letter one more time, refolded it and slid it into the small gap between the
carpet and the actor’s make-up bureau which her dad had made especially for her. The light bulbs around the frame were to accustom his daughter to stardom.
She sat on the padded chair, cradling her old teddy bear and staring at her reflection in the illuminated mirror for what seemed hours. Finally, she sat up straight and Justin the bear fell to earth. She looked away from her reflection but there was no escape from her face – wherever her eyes wandered in her bedroom, her image glared sassily back at her. Sometimes writhing on a bearskin rug, sometimes peeping coquettishly over a bare shoulder, sometimes hands on hips in Don’t-fuck-with-me mode. The confident, self-assured bitch snarled next to the vulnerable girl/woman, who jostled for wall space next to the siren looking for love. Her portfolio of portraits, professionally done and paid for by her father, filled the walls.
A tear fell as Becky turned to face herself on the wall. She couldn’t meet her own eye and was tempted to trash the shrine, tear down every corrupting image and deconsecrate the pink room completely. Avoiding her own gaze, she looked instead at the few remaining posters fighting for space, posters that spoke of Becky’s graduation from thirteen-year-old wannabe to the luminous cynicism of the eighteen year old. Thus the lacy chutzpah of Gwen Stefani was juxtaposed with the brassy sexuality of Christina Aguilera, the perky whole-someness of Hannah Montana with the brooding promise of Rihanna.
With a sigh Becky stood in her silk slip as another tear fell. Calmly, methodically she toured the room taking down all the photographs her father had paid for then slid them under her bed. She flipped up the lid of her laptop and clicked off Facebook to load the document she’d written a couple of days previously. Dear Becky, I am pleased . . .
She finished reading and spotted the spelling mistake underlined in red but it was too late to correct – it was already two days in the post. As she closed the brief letter, a casual glance back at her mirror caught a movement outside in the darkness. A second later her eyes widened in disbelief at the sight of Rusty Thomson, Geek Boy, shinning his way along the branch of the large tree outside her window. Her initial impulse was to turn and vent her spleen, but to her astonishment she found herself watching him in the mirror, unable to move, as he slithered into position.