THE SOUL FIXER (A psychological thriller)

by D. M. Mitchell

  But he could no longer deny what was happening and his cries on learning what had befallen his daughter in his forced absence were primal and animal, like the wail of a severely wounded wolf. He punched a fireman for holding him back and two police officers had to physically restrain him. His daughter, the newborn baby he held so close to his chest twenty-one years ago, tears forced from his eyes at the marvellous, miraculous sight that so overwhelmed him, was dead. And he blamed his wife and himself.

  Their life could never be the same again.

  Truth, like water percolating through limestone, eventually dissolves denial.

  Their precious daughter Becky Carmichael, young, pretty Becky, who played her music too loud and sometimes wore dresses too skimpy, who painted her toenails red and prized above all else a bean-bag teddy bear from her childhood; who was studying sociology in Edinburgh, a subject not altogether beloved by her parents but who were heedful of her burning desire to do so, who thought one day she’d like to travel to Australia to see the outback, who used to look up at the night sky full of stars and say that life was a mysterious thing; who liked pizza just a little too much and who sometimes forgot her parents’ birthdays but sometimes bought them a box of chocolates and a bottle of cheap wine with money she’d borrowed from her father to say thank you; their precious daughter, Becky Amanda Carmichael, was dead and forever lost to them. A hole in their hearts they could never hope to fill. Truth dissolves denial. As truth sometime dissolves bonds that were once strong and sure.

  They learned how a young man named Eddie Hull – a drug addict and small-time drug pusher – had broken into their house and murdered their daughter, then set fire to the bedroom to cover his tracks. And all for what? A boxful of costume jewellery and semi-precious stones? A silver photograph frame that was worth hardly anything? A life ruined because of these simple, worthless, material goods. Was that really worth the heartache and loss?

  Eddie Hull had been found dead of an overdose. He’d been lying in his flat for a fortnight before the smell alerted neighbours. Breaking in, the police found the jewellery and the photograph frame, the bloodied knife and his blood-smeared jeans, proving conclusively who had committed the vile act. He hadn’t even bothered to take the jeans off. He had probably been so far off his head, the police said, he wasn’t really aware of what he was doing. It’s all about the fix, they said. It blots everything else out. At least he was dead.

  But that didn’t help the grieving couple. They wanted him to pay for it. They wanted to see him punished by the full force of the law, but he’d denied them that and they were left with an empty, unfathomable void that became their lives. A void that they tried to fill with explanations, with recriminations, with anger and regret.

  ‘Why had she been home in the first place? She was supposed to be in Edinburgh.’

  ‘She thought she’d surprise us,’ she said. ‘She missed us for some reason. Wanted to see us.’

  ‘Why were you out in her car at that time in a morning?’

  ‘Because she came home late in tears; she’d been out with her boyfriend to the club and he’d had too much to drink, had tried to force her to have sex, she refused, he beat her. She was in our bedroom, upset, I told her to get under the covers, sleep it off, like she used to do as a kid, get into mummy’s bed. But I was so mad with him. I’d gone round to his house and told him to lay off my daughter, that’s why I went out. Her car was parked behind mine on the drive so I took hers. I was protecting my daughter!’

  ‘You had to go out? Why didn’t you telephone the lousy fucker instead?’

  ‘Because he tried to molest her and I don’t think a damn phone call would have satisfied me. I needed to see the bastard’s eyes when I told him I’d kill him if he ever came near her again!’

  ‘And while you were out playing vigilante someone murdered our daughter!’

  ‘Where were you when we needed you? Skulking in some hotel, as usual!’

  ‘Skulking? I was at a goddamn conference! It’s my job!’

  ‘You only ever think of your pathetic little job!’ she cried. ‘If you’d have been home instead of always being away someplace selling lawnmowers maybe our little girl would be alive today!’

  ‘It’s more than fucking lawnmowers!’

  ‘You don’t have to do it. We have money, more than enough.’

  ‘You’re upset and talking crap. You never did understand.’

  She hit him.

  He stormed out.

  And so it went on. Angry ripples in a stream that cross over each other, bump up against each other, create more angry ripples till there are so many of them it becomes almost meaningless, difficult to decipher what exactly was being said and why. But the anger remained nevertheless.

  They took a morsel of satisfaction from what the police said later. An inspector called and told them Eddie Hull’s death might not have been an accidental overdose on his part. There was evidence to suggest someone had done it for him.

  ‘You mean he was murdered?’ said Susan.

  ‘It looks that way,’ said the officer.

  ‘Do you know who might have done it?’ Paul asked.

  He shook his head. ‘Not yet, but we’re working through a list of his contacts.’

  ‘I’m glad he was murdered,’ Susan said coldly. ‘I’m glad he had his life taken from him. Whoever did it deserves a medal. I hope Eddie Hull rots in hell.’

  A year became two, and the angry ripples eventually flattened themselves out. But the stream is never still and the ripples never go away, not entirely. Simmering bitterness became a way of life.

  A life that began to unravel with grim inevitability. He stayed out working more than ever; she spiralled deeper into depression. Their understanding, sympathetic friends that used to come round for dinner and discuss holidays in the Alps now kept their distance and one by one dropped away. All except Susan’s best friend Rose, whom she’d known since college.

  Rose MacDonald did what best friends did. She bore the barrage of tears and rage, shouldered the black moods and silence, and all with quiet stoicism. She’d been one of Susan’s bridesmaids at her wedding, one of Becky’s godparents. Rose and Paul never really hit it off, right from the beginning, when they were first introduced. He knew she’d said that he wasn’t good enough for Susan, that she could have done far better for herself. He called her a lousy, interfering redhead; she called him a model husband – and everyone knows what a model is: an imitation of the real thing. The hard insults had mellowed over the years, because even granite goes smooth if left to weather. There was still no love lost between them, but he suffered her visits because Susan and she were inseparable.

  ‘You look like shit,’ she told Susan one day. ‘Scratch that; shit looks better.’

  ‘Is that supposed to make me feel good?’ said Susan.

  Rose reached across the table, took Susan’s hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘You always look spaced out. What’s the doctor giving you?’

  ‘Citalopram, upped to 40mg a day. They say it doesn’t have side effects.’ She sighed. ‘Rose, I want to die…’

  ‘Don’t talk like that,’ she said, concern in her eyes. ‘That’s not my Susan.’

  ‘That Susan doesn’t exist anymore. That Susan came from a time before my girl was taken from me,’ she said dully. ‘I’ve nothing to go on for.’

  ‘What about Paul?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He needs you. He’s hurting real bad, too.’

  ‘And I’m not helping any. I can’t help it, Rose. I can’t get her out of my head…’

  ‘And you shouldn’t have to. What about counselling?’

  ‘The doctor’s suggested a shrink already.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’m not mad. I just want to die…’

  Rose raised a brow. ‘No one’s saying you’re mad, Susan. But you need help, from somewhere. You can’t go on like this.’

  She was right. She couldn’t go on like that. So s
he took the doctor’s advice seasoned with her friend’s concern. She undertook counselling for a while. Eight intense sessions.

  ‘He sells gardening equipment, a sort of franchise he’s bought into,’ she told the counsellor one day. ‘He couldn’t get a job doing anything else. He was forty-years-old – my husband’s two years older than me – and when he was made redundant he used his redundancy money to try to set something up for himself out of desperation. Gave him a sense of worth, I guess. He sells the equipment on a commission basis, travelling all over the country from conference to conference. He’s not that good at it and it pays crap. We were already struggling as a couple before Becky died. I don’t mean the money, though there was never that much spare. She was the only thing keeping us together. He loved her dearly. We both did. Then my father died and left me quite a bit of money. Turns out some of the shares he’d bought years ago had matured very nicely, but he had dementia and nobody knew anything about them till he died and we were sorting out his affairs. It was quite a fortune, to us at least. Enough to buy a nice house, nice car. Enough left over for me to pack in my crappy job as a receptionist and try my hand at writing. I always wanted to be a novelist. Everyone dreams of that at some time. So I wrote and I was starting to be happy again. Paul, though, he wouldn’t give up his job, even though he could have. He hated it, but he refused to give it up. I guess the rot had gone too far. And now we haven’t even got Becky to keep us together.’

  ‘Do you still love him?’ asked the counsellor.

  She had to think hard. ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Does he love you?’

  She shrugged. ‘I think so.’

  ‘Then all is not lost,’ said the counsellor, smiling. ‘Love can conquer all.’

  It was that conceit that made her decide she’d had enough of counsellors.

  She eventually forgave Paul. He said he forgave her. They promised each other they would try hard at their relationship, make the thing work. For the sake of Becky’s memory. But whilst her husband appeared to easily push what happened to one side in favour of moving on, Susan Carmichael could not forget. She refused to believe her daughter was lost to her.

  Then one night Becky came to her in a dream and told her she was unhappy. She was lost in the cold and the dark. Help me, mummy, she said, the young adult reverting to that of a child in her loneliness and fear.

  Susan awoke, her face wet with tears. The dream did not fade. It stayed as sharp as if her daughter had been in the room with her. She could almost smell her.

  Her husband slept silently beside her, though not as sound as he would like to have her believe. She thought about waking him to tell him that she’d seen Becky. But she refrained. She lay back on her pillow staring up at the blank ceiling and swore she had to see her again. She could not let her go. She would not let her go. She was not dead, not in the conventional sense. Something of her daughter remained behind, some indefinable thing that she had to reach out and touch.

  She closed her eyes and slept soundly for the first time in two years.

  * * * *

  3

  Weak

  It was late summer. The days starting to grow shorter. But the Sun appeared to grow hotter with it, as if it refused to give in to the coming autumn. Taking advantage of the last flush of warm weather, Susan Carmichael carried out a tray laden with two tall glasses of lemonade into the garden. Ice clinked against the sides of the glasses as she placed the tray down on the small wooden table. A light breeze flapped the edge of the umbrella that shaded them. Beyond the tall wooden fence they could hear the incessant but faint sound of traffic.

  ‘Is that just lemonade or does it have something stronger in it?’ asked Rose MacDonald.

  ‘You’re driving,’ admonished Susan.

  ‘I’ll let Darren take the wheel home,’ she said.

  Both women looked across the garden to the two men standing on the lawn. They faced each other with arms folded, between them a petrol lawnmower. Paul was gesturing to some part of the engine and his companion nodded admiringly.

  ‘So how is the latest?’ Susan asked.

  ‘Darren? Oh, he’s got his advantages,’ said Rose, sipping the drink.

  ‘Like free admittance to the gym?’

  ‘One of the perks of dating a gym instructor.’

  ‘Will it last?’

  She shrugged. ‘The sex isn’t as good as it could be.’

  ‘He’s built like an ox,’ Susan observed.

  ‘Certain parts, not the important ones.’

  ‘How are things?’ Susan asked tentatively.

  ‘Things are sort of OK,’ said Rose, putting the drink down and twirling the glass thoughtfully. ‘The new job at the estate agents is pretty basic, doesn’t challenge me in the least but it’s all I could get, what with this damn recession. But I need the job. You think things are going along smoothly and then wham! Life gives you shit, eh? First the divorce, then the redundancy. I’ve used every ounce of savings I had in the bank to buy out that bastard of an ex-husband who shall remain nameless, who insisted on his share of the house even though he hardly paid anything towards the mortgage the entire time we were together. Why I took it out in joint names I’ll never know, but I guess you think some things are going to last forever, like a marriage.’ She glanced up at Susan. ‘Sorry, I know you and Paul are having problems, but you’ll get through this.’

  ‘You’re still behind on the mortgage?’

  She nodded. ‘The job pays crap, and I’ve eight-fifty a month to pay which leaves me hardly anything after that’s gone. I got into arrears after the redundancy, couldn’t sell the house because of negative equity and now I’m stuck with a white elephant I can’t get rid of. But the swines won’t listen when I tell them I need another few months to get myself sorted. They’ll get their money, eventually.’ She looked up. ‘Are you sure you haven’t got anything stronger?’

  Susan got up, went into the house. A little while later she returned with a bottle of vodka and a cheque.

  ‘That should see you right for the arrears,’ she said, handing over the cheque.

  Rose gasped. ‘I can’t accept this, Susan! I wasn’t asking for charity.’

  ‘It’s not charity. It’s friendship. And it’s only money. I’ve got plenty.’ She refused to take the cheque back when Rose held it out.

  Reluctantly but gratefully she folded the slip of paper and placed it in her pocket. ‘Thanks, Susan. I’ll pay it back, with interest.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ she said dismissively. ‘So he’s not permanent?’ she said, nodding at Darren.

  ‘Like hair dye. OK for a while when you want a change but it washes out eventually.’

  ‘Someone will come along that’s just right for you. You’ll see.’

  Rose unscrewed the top of the bottle, poured a fair amount into the lemonade. ‘Yeah, sure he will.’

  They looked over to the two men.

  ‘I think Paul’s deliberately trying to bore him so he doesn’t have to speak to him,’ said Susan.

  ‘Darren’s not bright enough to be bored, or to spot when someone’s trying to bore him. Anyhow, forget Darren; what did you want? You sounded more upbeat on the phone than I’ve ever heard you sound for a good while. In fact, looking at you now I’d even go so far as to say you appear relatively perky.’

  ‘I want to ask you something.’

  ‘Ask away.’

  ‘You promise not to laugh?’

  Rose laughed. ‘See, that’s always been difficult for me.’

  ‘You have to take this seriously; it’s about Becky.’

  ‘Oh. OK, let me have it.’

  The tune from a radio floated over to them on the breeze; a tune so familiar yet one of those you never knew the name of. The memory of her daughter’s music filtering down from her bedroom forced itself upon her and gave her the strength to say what she had to say.

  ‘She’s been coming to me.’

  ‘Pardon? Who’s been coming to you?’


  ‘Becky.’

  Rose’s brows lifted. ‘Look, Susan…’

  ‘I know what you think, but hear me out. She’s been coming to me in my dreams. Most nights.’

  ‘In your dreams?’

  ‘Yes, sort of…’

  ‘Sort of?’

  ‘They’re stronger than that. Not really like dreams, but not quite real. Does that sound weird?’

  Rose gave a tiny laugh. ‘Too damn right.’ Then her face dropped sober. ‘Dreams of Becky are natural, Susan. I dreamed about my dad after he died. I still do, every now and again. I wake up with tears in my eyes sometimes. They don’t happen as often as they did, but I don’t for one minute think he’s coming to me as some kind of spirit. I mean is that what you’re saying here? That you believe it’s Becky’s spirit? If so then that’s a different ball game altogether. You know how I feel about that kind of thing. It’s a load of bollocks.’ She lifted the glass to her lips. ‘No offence.’

  ‘None taken. At least you tell it as it is. But this is different. It feels different. It’s getting more real every time I dream of her. It’s getting to the stage that I actually feel she’s there standing beside the bed when I wake up. But there’s nothing there, of course. Rose, she’s scared. My little girl is scared and I need to help her.’

  Rose MacDonald licked her lips. ‘I know you’re upset…’

  ‘I’m not asking you to believe me. I just need you to come with me somewhere.’ Susan cast a glance in her husband’s direction and then unfolded her fingers to reveal a small piece of paper. ‘I don’t want to go on my own…’

  Rose read the advert which had been cut out of a newspaper. ‘You want to go to see a psychic? Susan, this is a show, put on for people who are grasping at straws. Such things take advantage of people’s grief.’

  ‘He’s supposed to be good.’

  ‘Anyone calling themselves Barnaby Williams, Heaven’s Gatekeeper should be avoided like the plague! Susan, tell me you’re not serious!’