Never Look Back

by Clare Donoghue

  Lockyer had moved his brother here five years ago when he discovered he had a brother, and when he saw the shithole Bobby had been living in on the outskirts of Manchester. He thought back to the day he had found out about him; he’d been sifting through his father’s effects and discovered numerous letters and bank statements, all relating to Robert Lockyer. He walked back through to the hall and up the stairs. The door leading to the rooms of Bobby and the other male resident, Ian, was wedged open with an ancient-looking fire extinguisher. He glanced into Ian’s room as he passed.

  ‘Hey, Ian,’ he said, slowing his pace just enough for Ian to get his hand up and wave back at him. There was no such thing as a quick chat with Ian, so he knew better than to stop. Lockyer had attempted a couple of the house outings in the past but he hadn’t coped very well. The excitement of a trip meant the staff spent most of their time keeping everyone calm: that had included him.

  He stopped outside his brother’s room and waited, staring at the pine door. It had been the right decision to move Bobby down here but every time he visited a pang of guilt tugged at his conscience. Bobby wasn’t physically disabled – far from it – but he needed care, he needed the kind of help that Lockyer simply couldn’t provide. Their own parents had washed their hands of Bobby and packed him off to Aunt Nancy’s when he was seven. Lockyer had been four, but despite hours looking through family albums he couldn’t stir even the slightest memory of his older brother from when they were children. Bobby’s autism was too severe for his parents to handle. That was what his father’s letters had said and, of course, that’s what Aunt Nancy had eventually said, too. Other people had made Bobby’s decisions for him his entire life. Anger and resentment for the life he and Bobby had been denied never failed to surface when he thought about what their parents had done.

  ‘Hey, there.’

  He turned to see Alice, another carer and possibly the happiest woman he had ever met, walking towards him. ‘You here to see the Bobster? He’ll be chuffed. And I see you’ve even shaved for the occasion,’ she said, giving him a friendly punch on the arm.

  ‘Hey, Alice. How are you?’ he asked, doffing an invisible hat.

  ‘Perfect,’ she said, smiling.

  ‘Good to hear. Any changes in the last few days I should know about? I saw Amber downstairs but she wasn’t in the mood to chat.’

  ‘Nah, Bobby never changes and you should ignore Amber. We all do.’ Alice gave him a wink and walked away.

  Grateful for the mood lift, he turned and knocked three times before opening the door to his brother’s room. Bobby stood by the window, staring out at the garden below. He was tall, like Lockyer, but thinner: a reed, swaying gently. His hair was greying at the temples but his skin was pale and smooth, not a line in sight. More than Lockyer could say for his own weather-worn face.

  This was Bobby’s world; a world in a vacuum. The cream walls were covered with pictures of animals, birds mainly. Bobby loved birds. The bed was pushed up against the wall. It had blue cushions arranged neatly on top of the blue-and- grey striped duvet cover, a Christmas gift from Alice. Lockyer had bought an extra set not long afterwards because Bobby had apparently freaked out when they tried to change his bedding. Bobby’s autism meant his ability to deal with change or the fast pace of the outside world was limited. As far as he was concerned his life was, and had always been, Cliffview. He remembered little else and little else interested him. He was content with his books, games and, most importantly, his routine. Five years Lockyer had been coming here, and Bobby still treated him like a new addition in his life.

  As he watched Bobby at the window, oblivious to his presence, he wondered how Jane dealt with it, the emotional separation. Her son, Peter, was autistic. Lockyer wasn’t sure of the severity of his condition and, if he was honest, was reluctant to ask. If he did, it would lead, no doubt, to talking about Bobby and he didn’t want to talk about Bobby to Jane, or anyone else. It was his private family business. He was sure Jane must feel the same about her son.

  ‘Hey, Bobby, how goes it?’ He walked over to the window and into his brother’s field of vision. Bobby turned his whole body to face him but didn’t meet his eyes. He never did.

  ‘It’s your favourite card shark.’

  ‘Cards,’ Bobby repeated. His voice was quiet and gentle. He rocked from one foot to the other.

  ‘That’s right, buddy, cards. You up for a game?’ He slowly reached his hand out and touched his brother’s sleeve. Sudden movements disturbed Bobby. Lockyer had witnessed a few of Bobby’s ‘episodes’ – that’s what Amber had called them – and he never wanted to see another one. Bobby, eyes rolling, arms lashing out at anyone and anything, and the noise, the noise was unbearable, grinding teeth and a wail that seemed stuck in his throat. He turned and walked away, Bobby following him, as if compelled by a force field. He sat his brother down in one of the two leather wing-back chairs, already positioned facing each other. A pine table had been set up between the two chairs, a blue deck of cards resting in the centre.

  Once Bobby was settled, Lockyer stood in front of him and offered his right hand. His brother lifted it to his face, focusing on the scar that ran from Lockyer’s thumb to his wrist. Five years ago when they had met, it had been the first thing Bobby noticed. The nurses at the home in Manchester told him that Bobby assigned different rituals and indicators to each of the regular nurses and doctors. Something small and seemingly insignificant; a smell or a wedding band or a certain footfall but for Lockyer, Bobby had decided on a scar. That was how he recognized him five years ago and, according to the research Lockyer had done into autism, it was how he always would. He watched Bobby trace the imperfection three times before dropping his hand and picking up the cards in front of him.

  ‘Cards,’ Bobby said.

  Lockyer sat down opposite his brother. ‘That’s right, cards. And I’m telling you, I’m not letting you win this time.’ He thought he saw just the flash of a smile and comprehension on his brother’s face, even though he knew in his heart it wasn’t possible. He picked up his own cards and rubbed his chest with the heel of his hand as the pain of reality subsided.

  7

  24th January – Friday

  Why hadn’t she answered? He needed to hear her voice. Exhaustion had become his constant companion but it seemed to prolong the thrill in a way he couldn’t have imagined.

  He used the steering wheel as leverage, arched his back and stretched his legs out into the footwell. His muscles felt tight, unyielding. He groaned, looked at the clock on the dashboard. It was 8 a.m. He pulled his coat around him and turned up the collar. It had dropped to minus three during the night but just being this close to her seemed to warm his blood. He was dying to tell her, for her to experience it through him. But she was ignoring him. He felt like her puppet: she pulled his strings and he danced to her manipulative tune. It had been months since she had deigned to speak to him. All he had to sustain him were overheard snippets of conversations she had with her neighbours. As he leaned forward to ease the ache in his spine he rubbed his hands together. The joints on his fingers were red and swollen, his knuckles covered in scratches.

  Surrey Road was quiet. The rustle of the ice-covered litter in the gutters and the wind whistling through the branches of the trees kept him company. Most of the Victorian terraces were split into flats. Hers was on the first floor: 10A. From his vantage point, sitting in his car, he could just see into her lounge, when the blinds were open. Her television was mounted on the wall next to the window. If she sat in just the right place he could see a perfect reflected image of her, curled up on a red sofa with a glass of wine and a book. But that hadn’t happened in a while. Now, when she came home, she put down her blinds immediately. He was left with mere glimpses: her shadow behind a veil of maroon silk.

  He pushed away his frustration, closed his eyes and imagined walking her home after one of her photo shoots, cooking for her and then sitting on her raggedy old sofa, just the two of them. He
r long blonde hair would be pulled over one shoulder and she would be wearing her leggings, slippers and hooded jumper. She would probably rest her legs in his lap as she read. His trousers tightened around his crotch as his interest grew. He could almost feel her hands on him. The sound of a bicycle bell brought him back to the car and out of his fantasy. The warmth of her touch vanished.

  She had known the effect she had on him the moment they met, all those months ago. It had been obvious. He had seen it in her eyes as she licked her lips when she talked to him, blowing on her coffee, her perfect lips pursed, as if waiting for a kiss. She was different from the others. As the cyclist disappeared around the corner, lights began to come on in some of the flats. Their warm glow bathed the dark street in little pools of gold. Her lights had been on all night. He knew she was home because he had watched her walk up the street yesterday evening, unlock her front door (she had two Chubb locks now) and go inside. So why was she ignoring his calls? ‘Selfish . . . bitch,’ he whispered, his breath fogging the window. He opened it a bit further so he had an uninterrupted view.

  As his anger subsided, cooled by an icy breeze, he heard a shout. His heart raced. Had it come from her flat? It was impossible to tell. He waited, straining his ears for another sound. He looked around at the deserted street. Nothing about it had changed but something felt different. Something was wrong. Condensation dripped down the windscreen. All his tiredness was gone. His eyes were fixed on her front door. ‘Please,’ he said, touching his cold hands to his hot face. He looked at the clock. It was almost 8.30. If she had a photo shoot she would leave her flat at 9 a.m. It wasn’t fair; leaving him to sit here unacknowledged was cruel.

  He watched as No. 12 drew back their curtains and No. 8 pulled up his blinds. Almost every flat showed signs of life now, except hers. The bald guy from No. 9 left his house at 8.45 a.m. He was wrapped up in a coat and scarf but had shiny brogues on his feet. He wouldn’t make it to the station without slipping, that was for sure. As No. 9 slammed his front door half a dozen other doors seemed to open in sync.

  As he opened his car door, a thin film of ice in the jamb cracked and broke. He paced up and down the pavement, hugging himself until a slamming sound made him turn. There she was. His anxiety, his anger, his weariness, they all disappeared. She was wearing her blue jeans and a black jacket he didn’t recognize. She didn’t have a scarf on or even any gloves. The coat was too big for her slim frame. She had lost weight. He was so relieved by her sudden appearance that he didn’t move. He stood on the pavement not more than three houses away from her, staring. Without making a sound he stepped behind a white van parked at the side of the road and watched her lock her flat and walk to her car. It wouldn’t do to startle her. She held up a delicate hand and clicked her keys. He noticed that she was muttering under her breath and her hands seemed to be shaking. The indicators flashed on her silver Golf as she pulled open the door and climbed in.

  The sound of her engine starting dragged him from his stupor. He crossed the road. It was so hard not to look at her as he ran to his car. Once he was in he fumbled to get the key into the ignition. The engine faltered for a second before rumbling into life. He had parked facing Peckham Rye, as she had, so all he had to do was wait for her to pull away before following, a safe distance behind. It was a test of skill to follow her by car. She drove fast and rarely obeyed the traffic laws. Before they had even reached the lights at the edge of Peckham Rye she was four cars in front. He craned his neck to keep the back of the Golf in sight but he was having trouble keeping up with her as she swerved from one lane to another. His car groaned and wheezed as he pushed it harder and harder to keep pace. In Forest Hill she ran a red light, but the roadworks outside Catford Station forced her to slow down and he was able to weave in and out of the traffic until he was two cars behind her. He ignored the shouts of protest from angry commuters.

  As they entered Lewisham and hit yet more roadworks he let himself relax, just enough to think about where she was going. She hadn’t been lugging her camera equipment when she had left her flat earlier. Her friend Toni, the rotund Italian, lived in Honor Oak, so she wasn’t late for a coffee date. Two cars pulled off on a side street leaving just one car between them. The temporary traffic lights outside Lewisham Police Station changed and she accelerated and then swung her car, without indicating, across the road. She was blocking the traffic, causing chaos. Once her car was wedged into a space, the traffic began to move again. He was so busy watching her that he almost rear-ended the car in front. He dragged his eyes back to the road and kept going. He looked over his shoulder as he drove past. Sweat prickled in the hairs on the back of his neck. He needed to find somewhere to park. If he hadn’t been right outside the police station he would have just mounted the kerb and left his car to its own fate. The bright yellow and orange of the Shell garage sign caught his eye. He indicated and pulled into one of the parking bays. He jumped out of the car and ran but by the time he reached her car she had disappeared. He scanned the street but couldn’t see her.

  The police station car park was on his left, teeming with people. Uniformed officers punctuated a meandering group of men and women as they drifted in and out of the station’s electric double doors. Then he saw her. She was sat on a long red-brick wall that ran down from the entrance. She had her hands tucked in between her knees, head down, her hair covering her face. She was rocking back and forth. He stared at her, willing her to look up, to face him. He wrapped his fingers around the bars of the fence, his knuckles white, but when she finally raised her head he loosened his grip on the cold metal. He saw her wipe away a tear from her cheek. He wanted to kill whoever was responsible for the agony he could see on her face.

  8

  24 January – Friday

  Lockyer sat back in his chair and stared at Debbie’s file, relaxing his eyes until the words blurred on the scattered pages. He had been stuck in his office, reading and re-reading the post-mortem report, since 7.30 this morning. He pushed the section containing the photographic record of the procedure further to the back of the file. There wasn’t one part of his brain that needed to see those images again. The first-hand experience had been enough.

  He let his head hang forward and closed his eyes. Despite speaking to Megan and seeing her for a takeaway last night, he still felt odd, shaky. The smallest, seemingly inconsequential details about Debbie’s case kept catching him off guard, liquefying his stomach, sending him running to the men’s room. It didn’t make sense. Her resemblance to his daughter was understandably unsettling but it hardly warranted this intense physical reaction. The only time he could remember feeling this emotionally drained and tense was when Megan was born. He had spent the first month of her life in a state of perpetual panic. The slightest thing had him convinced he was going to lose her. Even the memory made the muscles in his neck knot. But now, this case, this murdered teenager. Why couldn’t he focus? Why couldn’t he control his own body, for God’s sake? He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as bile pooled beneath his tongue.

  It was no good. The more he tried to push Megan out of his thoughts and concentrate on Debbie, the more his daughter’s face appeared in his mind. To top it off, there were no hits for the partial fingerprint or the DNA. That could change but he would have to be patient. And his calls to the organized crime unit hadn’t turned up anything on the drugs. No missing prescriptions or stolen drug batches to chase up. Doors were closing faster than they were opening.

  He picked up the transcripts of Jane’s interviews with Debbie’s family, work colleagues and friends. There was practically nothing to go on. Deborah Stevens had been an ordinary girl with a normal job, living with her mother and stepfather in a nondescript council house on a suburban street in Nunhead. They were separated from the darker, poorer streets of Peckham by Nunhead Cemetery and Dulwich proper – the posh part, by the Rye: a piece of parkland better described as a modest patch of grass. The family had been checked and ruled out, everyone but Debbie’s
real father, who hadn’t been located, as yet. Wherever he was, he wasn’t voting and he wasn’t paying tax. Lockyer would have to call in some favours at MPS to see if they couldn’t track Mr Stevens down using the missing persons’ database. Mind you, if the CSA hadn’t found him for child support, Lockyer doubted the MPS would fare much better.

  Debbie had worked for Foster Advertising for six months but none of her colleagues knew her well. In fact few seemed to know what her actual job entailed. Her manager, William Hodgson, spoke highly of her. He said she had been a hard worker; always on time, thorough and cheerful. Lockyer sat forward and looked again at the section on Debbie’s aborted pregnancy. There was no mention in any of the interviews about a man, a boyfriend. Her mother was adamant there was no boyfriend. ‘Debbie wasn’t interested in boys,’ the transcript read. ‘She wanted to make something of herself.’ Jane had told him that the mother’s voice had been brimming with animosity. Not towards Debbie, of course, but towards the killer, the police, anyone she could blame for the death of her daughter. He shook his head and pushed himself away from his desk. He knew there would be no respite for the family. Debbie hadn’t died of natural causes or been killed in some tragic accident. She had been viciously taken from the world. It wasn’t something her family would get over.

  He dropped the interviews back onto the file and pushed it to the edge of his desk, shifting in his chair. His arse was asleep. This office wasn’t designed for him. He was six foot three and could barely get his legs under the curved plywood desk.