Innocent Monsters

by Doherty, Barbara

  “Brown. Detective Charles Brown.”

  “Yes, Roger?” Her hand off the receiver, “There’s a Mr... Detective Brown here to see you... Yes... I’m not sure... Yes, of course.” She put the phone down, lifted a hand towards a door on her left and smiled her insincere smile again. “Mr Wither will see you right away.”

  “Thank you.”

  Roger Wither was sitting at a desk the same kind of wood, but a lot larger than his secretary’s. The more important, Brown thought, the bigger the desk. Obviously. Behind it, enormous windows showed an incredible view of San Francisco; it was enough to make anyone fall in love with the city.

  Wither stood up, offered a hand. He was well dressed, not a single stubble on his odd face. “Detective Brown, Roger Wither. Please take a seat.”

  Brown sat slowly in the plush swivel chair opposite the desk. His back was playing up again and he wondered if he’d have trouble getting out of it, wondered how much fishing he would actually be able to do once this case was wrapped up. Sitting for hours in a small, humid boat to catch something he would have to gut and cook on his own did not seem as appealing now as it had been months ago, when Chiara had outlined the scene for him.

  “First of all, thank you for seeing me. I just need to ask you a few questions and I will be on my way.”

  Roger sat back at the desk, poured himself a large glass of water but didn’t offer any. Poor manners, tiredness or uneasiness? People forgot to do the simplest things when they felt under pressure.

  “Can I ask what’s this about?”

  “Of course.” Brown fished Kaitlyn’s photograph out of the pocket of his jacket and offered it to him across the desk. “Have you ever seen this woman, Mr Wither?”

  Roger took his time, took a few sips of water and kept looking up with a mystified look on his face.

  “I think I know who it is, yes... Kaitlyn Lynch. Can’t really say I know her, though.”

  Brown took the photograph back, put it in his pocket again. “Can I ask how you know her name?”

  “Jessica Lynch, her sister, she’s one of the authors signed to this company. I must’ve met her sister here, maybe in the lobby? Can’t remember for sure. Can’t really think where else I would’ve seen her. She died recently, didn’t she?”

  “Yes, she did. We’re looking into her death.”

  “I thought it was suicide.”

  “You seem to know a lot about her, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  Roger took another sip of water. “Don’t mind at all. Ya get to know a lot more of your author’s private life than ya really care when you’re an editor, lemme tell you.”

  Brown laughed, looked around the walls: framed photographs, mostly scenery, city skylines, a couple of pictures of Wither with some probably well known writer. “Have you ever been to a restaurant called Gironda’s, Mr Wither? An Italian restaurant in Port Street.”

  “Lemme think... Maybe. Again, can’t remember for sure. I eat in a lot of restaurants around San Francisco, detective. I’ve got a busy life and I don’t really care for cookin’ when I finish work. Something tells me that if you’re askin’ me if I’ve been there, it means ya already know that I have. So, how we cut to the chase and you tell me why you’re askin’?”

  Wither was getting annoyed, he could tell, but Brown preferred remaining calm. He had been doing this job long enough to recognize in Wither the signs of a bad temper: his body language, the look in his eye, the tone of his voice, everything was telling him he was trying his best not to explode. Remaining calm, irritating him might make him spit out something he’d rather not share.

  “So you have been there?”

  “Yes, I have been at that Giro-whatever-the-name-is restaurant, months ago, a coupla times if I remember rightly. The food was rubbish the first time, I gave them another chance, cause that’s the kinda guy I am, it was rubbish again and I never went back. Now will you tell me what it is you askin’ me these questions for?”

  “As I said, we’re looking into a death, we’re just trying to make sure we talk to every person Miss Lynch might have been in contact with while alive.”

  “In contact?” Roger laughed, a laud, devilish laughter. “I’m sorry, buy I don’t exactly classify as someone she was in contact with. The only reason I know her name is because she and one of my writers are related. Or should I say were. In my book, that does not classify as any kind of relationship you should come and bother me with.”

  “Nonetheless. Thank you very much for your time.” Brown stood up from the chair, flinching as pain shoot up his back. He offered Wither his hand to shake. “I’m sure we’ll meet again. In the meantime, if you remember anything that might be of any help, please don’t hesitate to contact me. Anything at all.”

  He gave him a business card and watched him looking at it as if he had just passed him a handful of garbage.

  “Remember what else exactly? I told you I think I have only seen the woman once. I never spoke to her, haven’t seen her since. How have you even managed to link my name to her?”

  Roger was almost shouting now and Brown congratulated himself on knowing he would lose his temper this easily.

  “At this moment, I can only say that you and Miss Lynch appeared to be both at the same place at the same time. Obviously, I cannot ask her if you two had lunch or dinner together at any point over the past three or four months, so I have to come and ask you. There’s nobody else.”

  “So you’re tellin’ me you came here because I ate in the same restaurant as a dead woman a coupla times? Is this a fuckin’ joke?” Brown didn’t smile. He was obviously being serious. “Why don’t you ask her sister? She’ll tell ya me and Kaitlyn Lynch never met.”

  Brown moved towards the door. Another idiot trying to tell him how to do his job.

  “I might just do that. Thanks again for your time.”

  6 January 2001

  THE GREEN walls of the study reflected the light beautifully. It was a nice colour but not relaxing, not to her anyway. She couldn’t relax in here, not enough to write. Nowhere enough to write anymore.

  Jessica stood against the door frame of the sitting room with both hands cupped around a mug of coffee, staring at the black screen of the computer sitting on the table in the corner gathering dust, yesterday’s morning copy of the San Francisco Post folded next to it. She had been looking through it for a long time looking for inspiration —it seemed to work for some writers, it might have worked for her. But the incredibly gripping story she had been hoping to spot hadn’t materialised. Nothing caught her imagination, not even after reading the paper at least a couple of times front to back.

  She had been using the internet, been in chat rooms, online forums, tried to suck up anecdotes, details of lives that seemed richer, more interesting than hers; frustrated housewives, dog lovers, new mothers, teachers, pupils, sexually charged teenagers. Could she write about being young and carefree? Could she write about something she had never really experienced? Could she at least try to sit down and touch a few keys on the keyboard? An L... an O... An S...

  ...Loser.

  Somewhere among the long days and nights she’d shared with William since Christmas, Jessica had spoken to Brown again. He was still following the lead in the restaurant. It had not been easy, he had told her, looking for someone whose name he didn’t even know, but he was close, he was getting closer.

  Could she write about how sometimes, incredibly, she still caught herself hoping he might be right? About how sometimes she found herself wanting to believe again he would catch a killer, clear her sister’s name?

  The phone rang at the other end of the corridor and she turned her head still standing against the door frame, watched it ring for a couple of seconds wondering if it might be Lisa trying to speak to her again. She had left a message on her answering machine
at the beginning of the week, just after Christmas, “I waited for you to call,” Lisa had announced, “but I guess you’re not going to, so... Here I am. Anyway, just wanted to tell you I missed you on Christmas day and... Just wanted to wish you a happy New Year and, my number is still the same so, y’know, just give me a call one of these days. I miss you, you lunatic.”

  Jessica had been expecting the phone call, she had expected to feel remorseful when it arrived and hearing Lisa’s voice she had indeed felt a little guilty, but only for a few seconds and then absolutely nothing, like someone with a short-term memory loss who recalls having seen something but forgets within the following blink. Now you see it, now you don’t. Now you feel it, now you don’t.

  What was happening to her?

  The phone was still ringing in the corridor and she forced herself to move and go pick it up.

  “Hello?”

  “Jessica? Roger Wither here.”

  Damn. Damn damn damn. “Roger, I’m just in the middle of something. Can I give you a call back later this afternoon?”

  “Busy, uh? Nice joke. We gotta talk, Jessica, I gotta see you.”

  “Ok.” Damn damn shit. “Not today tho’. Today I can’t.”

  “Sunday?”

  “Sunday? Do you work on Sundays?”

  She heard him sighing heavily in the receiver, a long exasperated sigh.

  “Is Sunday good? ’Cause if it ain’t than how about we do it whenever the fuck you want?”

  “Jesus Christ. What is wrong with you?”

  “You know what’s wrong with me. You’re avoiding my calls, you missed the appointment on Friday, I ain’t got your fucking outline yet and you ain’t even got the decency to call me an’ tell me if I should expect it any time while I’m still alive.”

  “Sunday’s fine.”

  “Good. Sunday, at the Phoenix on Broadway, downtown. You know where it is?”

  “I’ll find it. Phoenix.” She scribbled the name on a piece of paper by the phone. “Eight thirty.”

  “See you then. I’ve got to go now.”

  He had already put the phone down. Shit.

  She folded the piece of paper, stuffed it in the back pocket of her jeans and closed her eyes, rested her forehead against the wall in front of her trying to breathe.

  Sunday. Phoenix. Eight thirty.

  She could clearly picture herself sitting somewhere with Roger, his black eyes staring into hers as she told him she had been living off the advance for a book that didn’t exist, as she told him she didn’t have a story, she couldn’t bring herself to write anymore, she couldn’t think about words, phrases, about a plot. He was right, she couldn’t do it, the urge to write down her feelings had disappeared. Everything has disappeared, nothing seems important anymore. Nothing, except William.

  She opened her eyes, turned her back to the wall and looked at her reflection on the mirror opposite her, someone who looked like her but wasn’t her exactly, only a reproduction, a cold, shallow, deformed reproduction. Empty.

  Could she write about emptiness? About the empty face she had been watching reflected on her computer screen for days now? About this someone who had stolen her thoughts, taken her place since the day of the funeral? Could she write about how Kaitlyn’s death had become the perfect excuse to stop writing, to stop doing the only thing she was any good at and keep feeling sorry for herself? Could she write about that? Could she write about anything? Anything at all?

  The reflection on the mirror looked back at her silent, it moved as Jessica passed a hand through her hair and pulled. It rippled, waved. It was ugly, monstrous.

  Then a fleeting, strange thought passed through her mind: if she died, the whole problem would go away. She wouldn’t need to come up with a new novel, she wouldn’t need to meet Roger on Sunday or any other day. Never again. He would not make her feel incompetent, force her to face up to her responsibilities. Sure, William would miss her, but she wouldn’t be here to know how much. Was a writer’s block a good reason to die? Could it be an excuse? Was this how the though of death started seeping through people’s normal, everyday thoughts?

  Could she write about death?

  COMPLETELY NAKED on her bathroom floor, Jessica was surrounded by white tiles.

  William kissed her and touched her. He made her feel alive. Him only.

  She lay down and turned her head, watched herself in the mirror opposite the bathtub where they had just been bathing together, her wet hair almost black against the immaculate floor. She looked at her own stomach, William’s tongue slithering from her navel to her breasts around her nipples. She watched his hand guiding her thighs open, his fingers stroking her pubic hair.

  “I never thought it could feel like this,” he whispered. “It’s never felt like this before.”

  Jessica closed her eyes and widened her legs, letting his fingers move deeper and deeper inside her, faster, faster and faster as she found herself imagining someone behind the mirror watching, watching him do this to her. Then his tongue replaced his fingers and for a while there was someone, she was sure, maybe fat, maybe ugly, maybe handsome, much more so than William. Maybe she was just losing her mind, but she wanted to share this with him, she wanted him to see someone spying on them the way she could. She opened her mouth to speak but none of the words she meant to utter came out, only a cry of pleasure as she tightened her legs around his shoulders to lock him where he was while the rest of her trembled. She waited for him to touch her again, everywhere, while her heart still raced inside her chest. Then he asked her to turn around and she did, she watched him in the mirror kneeling behind her, hugging her waist to lift her up, so that she was on her knees and forearms, buttocks in the air. He held onto her hips and entered her from behind, pushing hard into her, faster and faster, deeper and deeper. Jessica buried her face in her hands.

  Could he see? Could he see anyone?

  “Talk to me...”

  All she heard from him was a gasp and a moan as he started to slow down. She let herself go on the floor and he lay on top of her, his arms around her arms, warm sweat between their bodies. His weight on her back made it hard to breathe, but she wanted him close and they stood in the same position for a long time, until William moved away sitting against the bathtub and dragged her close to him. She was like a doll in his hands, a beautiful doll he could mould.

  “You’re beautiful,” he told her.

  Jessica smiled at his reflection on the mirror in front of them. He stroked her nose with a fingertip, held an arm around her neck and she looked at herself again, the way she had done only a few hours earlier. How could she look so different? How could she look so normal now when all she had been able to see earlier was an ugly monster? How could he make her feel so beautiful? How could she forget about the void, about the emptiness? How could sadness live in the same body with this kind of happiness? Or was it merely contentment?

  “What do you feel?” she asked him. “Are you happy?”

  “I am not always happy. But I am happy with you.” He brushed the hair away from her face. “Is it what you wanted to hear?”

  “I wanted to hear what you feel.”

  “It is what I feel. I am not always happy but I am happy with you. I forget myself. If I don’t remember, I feel happy... What do you feel?”

  “I can’t feel anymore. But I feel with you.”

  Sadness and happiness in the same body at the same time. What kind of happiness was this ever going to be? Could they be happy about being unhappy together?

  He snuggled his head between her shoulder and her neck and she caressed his cheek, his shoulder, his legs, traced a little scar on the inside of his knee with a finger, then a larger one on his left inner thigh and soon she noticed areas of both his legs covered with little white lines, some thicker and longer than others.

/>   “What happened to your legs?”

  “Accidents. I’m never really careful when I’m in a bad mood.” He tried to laugh but she didn’t understand what he meant and she didn’t laugh with him.

  William could still clearly see himself in his bedroom a couple a months earlier cutting a slice of his leg out with a razor blade, and before that, four months ago, six months, a year ago, two, three, more cuts, more pain, as early as ten years ago. It was funny how after he had done it he could never recall the pain, only the anger running out of his body with the blood. Harming himself was a way to calm down, a way to release the pressure inside him; it was his way of shifting his sorrow, turn it into something he could handle. Misery and rage were feelings he couldn’t handle because they didn’t come from any part of his body, they weren’t curable, they weren’t touchable. His pain was nowhere and it was everywhere. It drove him insane, it made him suffer more than any cut on his body.

  “Why don’t we go to my place tonight? I’ve got some work to do at some point, but... You can keep me company if you want. We can get something in to eat first, maybe watch a movie?”

  “I’d love to.”

  The room darkened. It was raining again outside.

  WHEN THEY went out that evening the first stars were already out; the sky had cleared but the air was still cool.

  They took a taxi and stopped at Jones Street, by the entrance to Macondray Lane. They walked under wooden trellis, on a cobblestone path lined with Edwardian cottages and trees. A flight of wooden steps lead them through vast private gardens and Jessica made a mental note of coming back in the day time to admire the flowers that were now giving off exotic scents. Through the foliage, somewhere in the dark, she could hear a swing moving back and forth, its chains squeaking.

  William’s house was a few yards away, one of a few that stretched for a block, very distant from each other, a deserted road extended between their fronts and a hillside draped with ivy. Peach trees and dark green bushes adorned his front yard.