by Niki Mackay
I am interrupted from these thoughts by a ringing sound; it makes me jump and I can’t think what it is. I’m up and looking for its source. It goes again, shrill and obtrusive. I see something that looks like a phone by the door lighting up red. I pick it up.
‘Hello?’
‘Kate, it’s me, I’ve been ringing for bloody ages. Buzz me in.’
‘How?’
‘What?’
‘How do I buzz you in?’
A pause. ‘Hold down the button.’ I look and do as he says. I hear a click, and then soon enough a knock at my front door.
My hand leaves a wet imprint on the handle as I turn it. I’m wiping the sweat off my palm and onto my leg as he appears. My big brother. He has written me a letter every month for the past six years but he hasn’t visited. None of them have. The one time I called him, he refused to take the call. The only visitor I got was Dean. The letters from Marcus were mundane mostly, relaying details of his own progress, my father’s company, my sister’s ongoing mental health issues. Often he would repeat himself. He has sent me pictures. Photos of the wedding I missed, his wife, the spitting image of our mother, his daughter who’s now nearly three. My niece.
I wondered why he bothered but I treasured every word, every photo, hungrily devouring all the news and was too scared to ask in case he removed me entirely. Like my dad. I responded, of course. At first I bombarded him, with emotion, with crap, pouring my heart out. Asking a million questions, telling him I was scared. Trying to add a depth to our relationship that had never been there.
And now here he is, at the door.
‘Hello, Kate.’ He was nearly twenty-three when I last saw him. Into adulthood but still gangly. The years have been good to him. He is well dressed. Polished. He’s lost the unsure hunch he used to have. I stand for a moment, not certain what to do next, and he reaches down and holds me, just for a second. I’m sure it feels as awkward for him as it is for me. But I squeeze back as hard as I can.
He has a bag and heads to my kitchen. He starts unpacking things I hadn’t thought of – bread, milk, tea bags. ‘Claudia suggested I bring a few essentials for you. We didn’t know if it would occur to you. I don’t suppose you did your own shopping in there.’ He says ‘in there’ with distaste.
The last items are two mugs. He fills the kettle and makes us tea, waving sugar and milk at me in question. I stand watching him, drinking him in. Bombarded by memories. He places the two cups on the table and gestures for me to sit.
I say, ‘You look well.’
He smiles. ‘You look bloody thin – just like Martha. Your hair’s dark.’
‘I dyed it. How is she? Martha?’
He holds my gaze. ‘As well as she ever is.’
The last time I saw her was the day of the party. She had been on a stay away on the actual night. Stay away was family code for the nuthouse. Dad was tying up a deal in Bristol. I guess he knew Marcus and I wouldn’t manage her.
‘Is she in the same place?
He sighs. ‘Sometimes she’s at home.’
‘With Dad?’
He nods. ‘We can’t have her, we have Bethany.’ His voice is defensive though I’ve made no accusation. ‘She’s in Sandcross at the moment.’ A psychiatric ward dressed as a spa.
‘I’d like to see her.’
He avoids my gaze but nods. ‘You should call ahead when she’s there and let her know you’re coming. I’ve printed her details, and mine . . . addresses, numbers.’ He hands me a sheet with typed information on it. Not Dad’s though.
He clears his throat. ‘You’ll need to get a mobile phone. I trust the bank card and what-have-you arrived?’
‘Yes. Thank Dad, will you?’
‘Sure.’
‘How are you, Marcus?’
He gives me a million-dollar grin, baring perfectly straight, suspiciously bright, white teeth. ‘Life’s good.’
‘What’s Bethany like?’
He shrugs. ‘I think she’s great but I’m biased.’ He sips at his tea, the grin dissolving to be replaced by discomfort, and suddenly he says, ‘Why are you here, Kate?’
And it’s like being sucker-punched in the gut. ‘Are you not pleased to see me?’
‘It’s not that.’
‘But you were hoping never to see me again?’
‘Not here, Kate. I wasn’t expecting to see you here.’
I sigh. ‘I know.’
‘Do you? It was pretty awful after you were locked up. Fucking press hounding us endlessly. Bringing up all kinds of shit. Dad went all silent, stopped working and I had to take over. I mean, clients were leaving us left, right and centre.’
‘How inconvenient.’
‘Right, it was.’ He misses my sarcasm. ‘Now it’s okay. Business has improved, we’ve bounced back. I married Claudia – I have her and Bethany to think about.’
‘And now I’m back stirring stuff up?’
He sighs. ‘Have you thought about us at all?’
‘Of course I have. I’ve thought about all of you every day for six years. I’ve missed you.’
He seems intent on studying the contents of his cup.
‘None of you came.’
He stands up, walks to my sink, empties out and rinses his mug. Ignoring the accusation in my voice. He says, ‘I’m worried about Bethany being affected, so is Dad.’ He looks again at the now clean mug, avoiding my eyes.
I wonder if my father is the same way with her that he was with us. I wonder if he gathers her up in his arms and swings her round and round until she’s so dizzy she can’t walk. I hope so. I sip at my own tea; it’s starting to get cold.
‘I’d like to meet her.’
‘Bethany?’
‘Yes, and Claudia.’
‘Claudia obviously has some reservations.’
‘The killer in the family, worse than your average black sheep, I guess.’
He flinches.
‘What’s she like?’
He smiles then. ‘Claudia?’
‘Yes.’
‘She looks like Mum.’
‘I thought that when I saw your wedding pictures.’
He sort of chuckles. ‘I’m sure Freud would have a field day with me.’
‘Is she . . .?’
He shakes his head. ‘God no, she’s a great mother. Dotes on Bethany.’
‘Will you have any more?’
He nods. ‘Probably. We don’t want her being an only child.’
‘Must be fun being a daddy?’
He stands, wandering around the small galley kitchen. When he stretches upwards he almost fills the whole space. ‘I’ll arrange dinner.’
‘What?’
‘For you to come around . . . for dinner.’
I feel my pulse pick up. ‘I’d love that. Do you think Dad will come?’
‘No,’ he answers quickly. I feel a familiar stab, the pain that I can’t indulge or it takes over. I think of climbing my dad like a frame, of hugging him and thinking he must be a giant. I think of his face at the police station while they questioned me. How wretched he looked in court, pale and baffled. The last time I saw him.
‘I’ve got to get to work.’ He points at the printed sheet of paper. ‘Text me from your mobile when you have it, to that number.’
‘Okay.’
He pauses at the door as if there’s something else but nothing comes. Just a nod and then he’s gone. I’ve missed him. I always loved Marcus more than he loved me. He could be cruel, my brother. I suppose all children can, but he was angry with it. At Mum, I think, but he’d turn it on me. I used to trail around after him anyway, looking to play, to hold on. I’ve missed his wedding, his child. The letters he sent weren’t warm, he might have been relaying information to a stranger. Worse than that though was my dad’s silence. So absolu
te and unbreakable. I’d left messages on his answering machine. Begging for forgiveness. Telling him I was frightened. Asking him to come.
My mother, Ruth, killed herself when I was thirteen. It’s not an excuse for anything. I tried to use it one of the first times I met my therapist Dean, a get-out clause for my messed up head.
Dean laughed when I told him the dead mum story, actually laughed. I was used to people’s sympathy. When he’d stopped cackling he pointed out that shit happens. I spent the rest of the session sitting in miserable, fuming silence. I had no intention of seeing him again but it was court ordered and the boredom of long days got me talking in the end. Despite hating him to begin with, he has become my only friend.
I take off my pyjamas and dressing gown and put on the greying, awful, prison-issued underwear from my backpack and my second tracksuit. This is pretty much the sum of my wardrobe.
I head into town. Walking slowly, the noise builds up the closer I get to the centre and I tread carefully, trying not to let the sounds bombard me. People whizz past and I jump each time.
I recognise Topshop and head in. In prison, I quickly realised it didn’t matter what I wore. I stopped looking in the mirror the day Naomi died anyway. I found it hard to meet my own eyes in the early days of being locked up; I never knew if it was a killer looking back. Then it became habit. Now in the noisy communal changing rooms I’m looking hard. New start, new behaviour. Plus, no one’s going to steal my clothes out here. I sneak glances at some of the other girls and women. Lots my age. I look like them. Normal. I look normal in jeans and a T-shirt. I pay and ask if I can change there. The girl at the till looks at me like I’m a bit odd but nods. I ball up the tracksuit, the trainers, the shabby underwear and chuck it all in the nearest bin outside.
I buy a phone next. They do a million different things now and I am overwhelmed by the salesman’s talk of apps and camera settings. I opt for the simplest one available. He sets it up for me in the shop, grudgingly, I guess disappointed by my choice and its accompanying low price. I also buy a laptop and when I get home I google Oliver. He’s on something called LinkedIn. There is a photo of him. Too small for detail but I feel my heart race nonetheless. I sign up and send him a message.
5.
Madison Attallee
I wake up short of breath. My hand fires out of my bed, reaching for the bedside table, ferreting, searching. Where is it? And then I realise for the umpteenth time – it’s not real. The vodka isn’t there. It was a dream. I’ve been having them since I sobered up. They’re an absolute fucker. They even have a term in the stupid rehab community: ‘drinking dreams’. My shithead counsellor told me ‘normal people’ didn’t dream they were paralytic and then wake up looking for a drink. She said it smugly as though proof of your own flawed soul was something to be bloody celebrated. I have them fairly regularly. The worse bit for me is that they combine a sort of glorified falsehood with shitty real events. And they always end the same way, with me waking up thirsty as hell, reaching for the bottle and the background thought that maybe this time it will be different. For fuck’s sake. I smoke two fags then I get out of bed, put System of a Down on the stereo and sing badly while I shower. It takes me nearly a full half-hour to blow dry the mess that is my hair into something reasonable. I cut it once, thinking it might be more manageable short, and certainly more professional, but it was even more of a bastard and I sported a bell shaped almost-bob until it grew back. Far from looking sleek and sharp I’d looked even more unkempt than normal. Now I pretty much let it do its own thing. Resigned to the fact that it will always look wild. The rest of me is carefully put together; I think about my clothes and I spend time and effort on my face. It’s like a disguise and I feel naked without the slap and the heels. As though if I look all right on the outside, everyone will think my insides match.
When I get in I call a meeting with Emma – that’s fancy speak for ‘I perch on the edge of her desk and talk at her’. Whenever I get a new client we go over the particulars. I give her a general gist of what I’m going to need administration-wise, and then she adds to it, usually with far more useful suggestions than mine. Generally this is a horribly brief process. This case is different and she is sitting ready to take notes. Her eyes widen as I outline a bit of background.
‘I remember reading about it at the time.’
‘It was my first murder.’
‘And do you think she might be innocent?’
I shrug. ‘It’s unlikely, I guess, but I don’t think we investigated it thoroughly enough.’
‘Ah, a chance to make up for it now then.’ She smiles.
‘I suppose it is, yes.’
‘And what’s she like, Ms Reynolds?’
I like that she uses the formal address. Killer or not she’s still a client and a well-paying one at that. ‘She’s . . . nice enough.’
‘Is she different from how you remember her?’
‘I only met her briefly, probably not at her finest hour either. She was pretty disturbed. And she was like that for the whole trial; the press described her as dead inside. I suspect she was in shock.’
Emma tuts. ‘And yet she was sentenced for voluntary manslaughter, wasn’t she?’
‘She was.’
‘Dear me.’
I hide a smile behind my hand.
‘She’s due any minute. I’ll need you to take a retainer from her today then we’ll bill her weekly.’ I think about how wonderful that money will be. I’m currently paying Emma’s wages out of my personal account.
‘Righty-ho, I’ll start a file.’
‘Yes, thanks. I’ve gathered up some old press coverage, if you could date it and see what else you can find . . .’
‘Consider it done. I’ll pop some coffee on.’ She gets up and starts bustling about.
‘You read my mind.’ She doesn’t drink it herself – in fact I’ve never seen her with anything other than water, but she seems to intuitively know when I’m running low on caffeine.
I have a good memory and I spend the next two hours writing up everything I can remember about the Andrews murder. It doesn’t add up to a great deal. I wasn’t the lead on the case, I wasn’t even one of the major players. I had no real understanding of the nuances of a murder investigation or I’d have known that the one we conducted was pretty flimsy. It stuck with me, nonetheless, my first murder. It gave me a feel for how it would be, a thirst for solving the puzzle. This one is tricky; to all intents and purposes the puzzle was solved long ago. But I’d say there are still a few pieces missing.
Kate is better dressed than she was yesterday. Emma smiles, asks what she’d like to drink, settles her into my office and takes her coat.
‘How are you?’ I ask her.
She shrugs, thin shoulders rising and falling. ‘I don’t know really . . . It’s all odd . . . like switching from black and white to colour, does that makes sense?’
‘Yes, it will take some adjustment. I believe it’s quite normal to be institutionalised at first.’
She laughs. ‘I suppose I am, aren’t I? I hadn’t really thought about it.’
‘Plenty of people get released and commit another crime within days so they can go back.’
‘There’s a certain safety in it I guess.’ She doesn’t sound convinced.
‘You’re not missing it too much?’
‘No, I went to Topshop this morning and ate food with flavour in a coffee shop that looked like a restaurant.’
She smiles, though it’s faltering. Prison must have been an absolute bitch for someone like Kate. She’d have stuck out like a sore thumb. I smile back at her.
Emma comes in with a tray of drinks, a jug of milk and some spoons. I watch Kate pour three spoons of sugar into her tea. She catches me looking and says, ‘It’s the not being rationed. I’m sure I’ll be as big as a house before the month is out.’
&
nbsp; ‘You should join a gym.’
‘Do you go?’
I scowl at her and quickly try to rearrange my face into a less disagreeable pattern. ‘I’m going to record all of our conversations. I hope that’s all right with you?’
‘Okay.’
‘It covers you as well as me. Nothing goes further than myself or Emma. Unless I thought you were in danger yourself, or may prove a danger to others.’ I give this spiel to everyone and then make them sign loads of things as well. Gotta keep your own back covered out here in lone-ranger land.
She nods. ‘Understood.’
‘It’s going to be a lot of rehashing the past, obviously, and it’s not just going to be that day. I’ll need a full picture. Who was where and when. Who your friends were, boyfriends. I’ll want to speak to them and your family.’
She nods but looks less certain.
‘Have you seen your family yet?’ I ask.
‘My brother turned up this morning.’
‘Did he visit you often in prison?’
‘No, no visits at all.’ Her eyes flutter nervously.
I tilt my head. ‘None of your family?’
‘No.’
It’s unusual. I dealt with a particularly vile case where a juvenile sexually assaulted his own mother. When his sentence was finished his registered address was the family home. Blood is usually a strong enough tie to overcome all kinds of things.
I ask, ‘Why?’
‘Excuse me?’
I speak more slowly. ‘Do you know why they didn’t visit?’
‘Because they think I’m a killer. Would you turn up?’
I think of my own mother and all the disappointing things she’s done. Not murder but things that hurt, from which I’m still scarred. I think of Molly. I think of the ache I get from not seeing her. So harsh it’s physical.
‘Yes, I would.’
She is silent for a moment. ‘I expected them.’
‘So your brother turned up out of the blue after six years?’
‘Not exactly out of the blue – he’d written.’
I wonder why he’d bothered to write but not shown up. Less effort perhaps. ‘How often?’