DEAD GONE

by Luca Veste

  And Murphy can’t do anything but stand there and watch, as the man uses his father’s blood to send a message to him. To make sure he knows who is to blame.

  The man finishes, his white t-shirt now drenched in splashes of blood. He stands back and admires his creation.

  And he begins to laugh, quietly at first. Then more loudly, a crescendo of laughter erupting from him. He whispers, his voice slurred.

  ‘You can’t save them.’

  There’s another noise.

  Bang.

  The man turns, the laughter subsiding, changing to a sadistic grin.

  Bang.

  He looks down at the carving knife in his hand, and moves purposefully towards Murphy.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  Murphy woke up slowly, breathing rapidly as the vision of his dream followed him to full consciousness. The noise was there too. It took a few seconds for Murphy to realise the noise was real.

  He stepped out of bed and walked over to the window, closing it over where it had slipped its latch. He ran a hand over his face and checked the time. Four in the morning. Just a few hours’ sleep then. Great.

  There was no point in going back to bed, so he slipped on some jogging bottoms and padded down the stairs.

  He slumped onto the sofa, moved the photograph album back to beside the couch. He pulled the throw which adorned the back of the couch around his bare shoulders.

  He stared through the television, thinking, going over and over in his head what he might have missed.

  Ten days, three bodies.

  There was something there, on the fringes of his conscious, waiting to be discovered. The answer – how to stop all of this. But every time he tried to access that information, it would merge with everything else.

  He thought about ringing Sarah.

  He stayed there until the sun began to rise, failing to think of anything other than the images of death which replayed over and over in his head.

  32

  Tuesday 5th February 2013 – Day Ten

  Rob

  Rob dialled and waited, picking at a loose thread on his shirt.

  ‘Hi, Liz, it’s Rob.’

  ‘Hi, Rob,’ Liz replied, sounding resigned. ‘I’m guessing you’re not coming in?’

  ‘Think I’m coming down with something. Like you said yesterday, you know?’

  Rob heard a sigh over the line. ‘Okay. Do you think you’ll be back tomorrow? Only it’s coming up to a deadline for first years, and you know how busy we get.’

  ‘I’ll do my best. I’m sorry for leaving you in the lurch.’

  ‘It’s okay I suppose. Just rest up today. Get some Lemsip or something down you. And get your arse in tomorrow.’

  Rob smiled. ‘Okay, boss. Speak to you later.’

  Rob stared at the phone, feeling guilty for lying to Liz. He could have told her everything and not worried about her saying a word to anyone, but he couldn’t put her in that position.

  It was coming up to eight-thirty a.m. and he was at a loss at what to do. He had no choice but to wait. He smoked, watched TV, researched what being on bail meant on the internet. It was strange to think he was suddenly a ‘person of interest’. The past year, no one had been interested in him.

  He busied himself tidying up after the police search. Papers had been strewn around, cupboards emptied and not refilled.

  It took up an hour or two.

  He made notes. About Harlow, and what he had learned. Jemma, kept away from normal existence, like she was a lab rat.

  Rob could kill him. He had no doubt about that. Grab him by the throat and squeeze until his eyeballs popped.

  He phoned Dan, just to hear a friendly voice, but only spoke to him for a few minutes as he was off to a lecture.

  By the afternoon, he was pacing the living room. A stupid American sitcom which had already been shown that day on the same channel, was playing in the background, but Rob barely noticed. He wrung his hands together and stopped pacing when he reached the window, once more sweeping back the net curtains to look outside. Traffic greeted him from the road, but no mysterious figures. Watching him, waiting.

  ‘Ring, you fucker. Ring,’ Rob said, his voice raised over the sound of the television. His tension had grown throughout the day, as he felt it slip away with no contact.

  He slumped down on the sofa. Useless. That’s what he was … useless. The canned laughter from the TV mocked him. He tried watching but couldn’t even keep up with the simple storyline being played out.

  Just over an hour later his phone rang.

  ‘Hello, Rob.’

  ‘What took so long?’

  ‘I’m sorry, have you been waiting?’

  ‘Yes. You know I have.’ Rob stood up, wanting to say much more but holding back. ‘What happens now?’

  ‘No small talk? No, how has your day been or anything?’

  Rob gritted his teeth, his grip on the phone tightening. ‘Just tell me what I need to do.’

  ‘Very well, I can imagine this is a stressful time for you. Newsham Park. One a.m. tonight. There’s a duck pond with a bench, near the top right corner if you face it with the hospital to your back. Do you know it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Good. Wait there. As before, come alone. The first sense I receive that you’re not, she dies without you even knowing about it. The first sense I receive that you have told anyone, the same.’

  ‘Wait, let’s do it sooner. I’ve been waiting here all day. I’m ready.’

  The line went silent. ‘Bastard!’ Rob threw the phone at the sofa, looking around the room for something to take out his anger on. He was panting, his fists balled up. He closed his eyes. He pictured Jemma in his head, the thought of her coming home, lying in bed next to her. He opened his eyes again, feeling calmer. He retrieved his phone, making sure he hadn’t damaged it, before walking through to the kitchen to smoke. He looked at the clock on the wall, nine hours to wait.

  ‘You can do this.’

  Rob walked slowly around the lake for the seventh time since he’d arrived at the park. He’d got there early, waiting for whatever was to come. He checked his phone again; five minutes to one a.m. He completed the final circuit, and sat down on the bench.

  Rob looked up towards the sky. It was a clear night in the park, and even with the light pollution from the surrounding houses, he could see stars twinkling. He didn’t know any of the constellations, or names for the stars which seemed to be bunched together. It was calm, a serene sight. Any other night, he would have felt at peace there. That night however, he was on edge, anticipation running through his veins.

  He watched as the time clicked over to one a.m. without fanfare.

  The phone rang a minute later, surprising Rob from his star gazing. He quickly answered it, putting the phone to his ear.

  ‘You’re here. How delightful. And alone again, a trusting sort aren’t you?’ The voice held the same quality as the other calls, the voice raising up and down with changing pitch. Rob wouldn’t have been able to place that voice in a line-up.

  ‘I’m here. What happens now?’ Rob asked.

  ‘Stand up.’

  Rob stood carefully, looking around as he did so. ‘Okay, I’m standing.’

  ‘Now walk towards the exit, on Newsham Drive. I’ll call you back when you reach it.’

  The phone went dead, and Rob began walking quickly. It took a minute or two to reach the still pond to his left. He slowed down, wary of what hid in the shadows. He listened carefully, but heard only his footsteps on the path. The exit was closer, the road beyond it quiet. He looked towards the road, but couldn’t see clearly enough through the high railings to glimpse anything.

  He reached the exit to the park, and stood six foot away from the permanently open gates. He was still holding his phone in his right hand as it vibrated.

  ‘Good. That’s very good.’ The voice was quieter, as if whispering.

  ‘I’m here,’ Rob replied. ‘Are you going to tell me wh
ere Jemma is?’

  ‘All in good time.’ The voice came through. ‘Stay there and don’t move.’

  Rob stared at the phone, as once more the line went dead. He shivered a little, as the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. It was quiet, the road empty of passing traffic. To his left he heard a noise, the bushes moving slightly. He turned towards the noise, preparing himself, but there was nothing.

  He heard a rush of footsteps behind him, and then there was a blinding pain as something hit him in the back of the head. Then he was falling, the world going full black.

  He came to with a sound he couldn’t place. He was moving around, but was still groggy. He remembered what happened slowly, the pain in his head a reminder. He tried to move his hands to rub against the pain, but couldn’t.

  He was tied up, and from what he could see he guessed he was in the boot of a car, the small cramped space meaning he was lying in the foetal position, his hands palms together as if he was praying. The ties holding them wouldn’t buckle.

  This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. He thought he had more time, to become strong again. He’d only had a few days.

  Not enough time.

  The car came to a stop some time later, the sound of tarmac covered roads having changed to gravel moments before. He heard something mechanical, guessing it was a garage door. He braced himself, waiting for the moment the boot opened, determined to surprise whoever had brought him there, not to go down without a fight. He couldn’t move his arms, but his legs were free.

  The car moved forward once more, coming to a stop after only a few seconds. He heard the car door open, footsteps echoing through the enclosed space. He turned as much as he could, so his feet were facing the back of the car, ready to kick out as soon as he had the chance. The boot opened, bright light momentarily causing Rob to close his eyes. He opened them as soon as he could and noticed the space above him was empty. He blinked against the harsh light after the time spent in darkness, and waited, the only sound being his breath coming in short bursts.

  His vision darkened, yet his eyes were open. The figure in front of him, dressed all in black, hood covering his face completely, blocking out the light. Rob got ready, but stopped when he saw what was being pointed at him.

  The figure raised the hand that wasn’t holding a sawn-off shotgun up to his mouth, and the distorted voice came back.

  ‘You’d be dead before you even reached me,’ the figure said. ‘Lift yourself out of there. Slowly.’

  Rob didn’t think he could move; paralysed, fear crawling around his skin. His eyes never left the gun as he slid his legs out of the boot of the car. He stood up slowly, as the figure in black backed away, beckoning towards a door to the left corner of what Rob determined was a garage. He moved slowly, looking down at his hands cable-tied in front of him. He reached the door and turned towards the man who was standing behind him. He indicated with the shotgun to open it, but Rob held up his tied hands. ‘How am I supposed to do that?’

  The man moved quickly, pushing Rob through the door, causing him almost to lose his balance. The room beyond the door was dark, and Rob stiffened as he felt a barrel pushed into his back. He allowed himself to be guided along, his eyes becoming accustomed to the dark seeing a door in front of him. The voice came out of it. ‘It will open.’

  Rob pushed against the door, using his tied hands. There was a little more light there, small pale spots of illumination coming from the ceiling. He could see steps leading downwards in front of him, and feeling that now familiar weight pushing at his back, he headed down the steps.

  He was led into a small recess, a door on each side. The one on the left of Rob was open, and it was that one he was pushed into. That time, he did lose his balance, falling to the floor. As he turned around, trying to get to his feet quickly, the door closed.

  He rose to his feet. ‘What’s going on? Where’s Jemma?’ Rob said, his voice loud in the small space.

  He stood in the darkness, the silence overbearing. He ran his hands over one wall, pacing out to the opposite side.

  Realisation creeping over him all the time.

  ‘This is where she was held, isn’t it?’

  No answer came.

  PART THREE

  There’s nothing bad about it at all except the thing that comes before it … the fear of it.

  Seneca

  It is the great unknowable. One of the last mysteries of the common man. Whilst science still searches for new questions and new solutions for many different things, it still cannot ever answer the one question which plagues us all.

  Religion tries to provide an answer, yet even the most pious of believers still does not know for certain what lays beyond life.

  No one can ever tell us what the experience of dying is. How it feels, how it affects you. The experience is beyond explanation. No amount of experimentation can answer the unanswerable.

  However, this will not end the questions. Man cannot comprehend something over which we have no control.

  We are faced with a choice. Do we continue with our present set of ethical guidelines which forbids most forms of experimentation which could perhaps increase our understanding, or do we go back, to when the Harlows and Milgrams of the psychology world were performing incredible work which told us so much.

  In one way, we will all receive the answers we require. It is just presently impossible to acquire that knowledge whilst still alive.

  Taken from ‘Life, Death, and Grief.’ Published in Psychological Society Review, 2008, Issue 72.

  33

  Tuesday 5th February 2013 – Day Ten

  Murphy arrived at the station early, the team who had been working overnight unable to give him any good news. He sat at his desk and pulled up the list of university employees that had been singled out for attention. Nothing stood out really, just a couple of cautions, a few speeding fines, and some drunk and disorderlys. No violent behaviour, no bright, flashing siren saying ‘this is the murderer!’. No easy way out.

  Another press conference was scheduled for that morning. He looked down at the suit he was wearing. Licked a finger and rubbed off a bit of mayo that had stained the lapel.

  DCI Stephens breezed into the room, heading straight towards her office with only a pause to beckon Murphy to follow her. He chucked the pen he’d been holding on the desk and stood up.

  The door was shut five seconds before he reached it. Couldn’t leave it open could she … He knocked on the door and waited.

  ‘Come in,’ he heard from behind the door.

  Murphy entered and closed the door behind him. ‘Ah, David, sit down.’

  He sat opposite her and tried to find a comfortable position on the small chair Stephens provided for her guests.

  ‘I need to know you’re going to be okay this time, with the press.’

  ‘Of course I am …’

  ‘Wait, let me finish.’ DCI Stephens interrupted. ‘This case has already made us look like fools. We’re getting desperate now, the super wants my head on a platter next to the salmon sandwiches at the next gala dinner. If we have a repeat of what happened last time we went in front of press, we’re all screwed. What I need is your head clear and focussed.’

  ‘I understand,’ Murphy said. ‘I’m okay, I can do this.’

  ‘Very well,’ Stephens replied. ‘Inform me of any significant developments.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Murphy said, rising from the chair. ‘I assume you’ll be giving the same speech to everyone else on the team?’ Sarcasm, that’ll work, Murphy thought. Stupid.

  Stephens sighed. ‘You know why I’m saying this to you. Given what’s happened in your personal life recently. I’ve made arrangements for you to see someone in the past and you’ve not turned up. You’re good at your job but you need to talk things over with someone. Don’t become a cliché. I think it’d be best for all concerned if you didn’t keep things bottled up.’

  Murphy leaned over the desk, his size looming over the DCI. �
��Are you unhappy with my work?’

  ‘No,’ Stephens said. ‘You’ve done well of late, but they weren’t murder cases. You changed when this started. I just wanted you to be aware of your responsibilities, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m very aware of my responsibilities,’ Murphy said, backing away. ‘You have nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Good. That’s all I need to hear. So you’ll keep the next appointment?’

  ‘Of course, if that’ll make you happy. Just send the details my way.’

  ‘Very good. That’ll be all, David.’

  Murphy gave DCI Stephens one last look, and then turned and left the room. He tried to shake off the anger he could feel building inside him. The noise of the room began to gently build to his ears, as he calmed himself. It wouldn’t do to let his emotions take over now.

  ‘Again, we’d urge anyone with any information to come forward, especially anyone who was in the Albert Dock area on Friday night between two and five a.m. I’m going to hand over to Nathan Dunning, the husband of the second victim, Stephanie.’

  Murphy stared out into the crowd of reporters as Nathan Dunning spoke. He held it together for a solid minute, before the tears started. Murphy almost rolled his eyes, but thought better of it.

  He couldn’t stand it. The nakedness of it. Baring their entire being for people to chew over and make fun of. He knew, right then, there’d be someone sitting in front of their TV saying the husband did it. He’d been one of them at first, but it had been quickly dismissed when it was discovered he had an alibi for each of the murders.

  Nathan finished with a choked plea for help, before he had to stop. Flashes illuminated the podium, the shutter clicks fighting against his sobs to fill the silence. Murphy leaned forward. ‘Stephanie Dunning leaves behind two sons. Anyone with any information should come forward now.’

  He stopped, hoping that would be it, that he could get out of there without anything happening. No more videos showing up showing him shouting at idiot journalists.