Sarah Dee Was Here

by Steve Galloway

  “You weren’t to know...” said Adam.

  “Maybe the bullying would have died down. Maybe things would have gotten easier. But on her own Sarah was a sitting duck.”

  “What did you say to her?”

  I paused again, the lump in my throat making the words almost impossible to get out.

  “Nothing. I just started ignoring her.”

  Adam was quiet. I could tell he was shocked; shocked that I could be so cold. I shared his shock.

  *

  My mind wound back over the years and arrived at a point in time just after my friendship with Sarah had ended. Sarah had walked into French class late and followed the route to her desk to a chorus of sniggers. Her desk was empty: she had no friend to share it with. Her chair was pulled back for her and the initials GLF were scrawled on the back in marker pen: unseen by the teacher but visible to the rest of the class.

  GLF.

  Ginger. Loner. Freak.

  Sarah sat down on her chair and caught my eye: I remember her face being blank, like a mask: but in her eyes there was a look I still can’t quite fathom to this day. There was sadness, and disappointment, but also something else.

  *

  Adam put his hand on my arm.

  “Don’t blame yourself, Anna” he said, “there’s no need. It sounds like you just did what Maggie Dickens forced you into doing. She made Sarah a victim. Not you.”

  I smiled back at Adam. I didn’t believe him, but his words cheered me up. I leaned upwards into the sun and kissed his dry lips. As our mouths met I remember wishing deeply that the future could just be postponed.

  Forty-seven

  Right up until the moment he smashed the hammer down into Maggie’s head, CJ hadn’t believed he would actually be able to do it. But once that initial blow was over with it all became easy. All he had to do was think of the things Maggie had done to Sarah and the crunch of hammer into bone and brain was easily justified.

  Each blow to her head represented one of those terrible acts she had committed against the love of his life. He could have gone on forever, but he had to stop at one hundred. Had to make good his escape and form plans for the future.

  Leave it. Let things die down. Then go after the others.

  He knew Sarah was happy with what he had done. He knew that because of the messages she would send him from wherever she was.

  She’d send him the messages while he was sleeping: he’d dream of her beautiful, distant face and later wake up with a seemingly random song in his head: then he’d analyse the lyrics and suddenly the dream’s meaning would appear:

  One time the song was “Thank U”, and another time it was “Killing in the Name.” Once he’d woken up with “Together in Electric Dreams” in his head, and once it had been “I’m Waiting for the Day.”

  I know you cried, and you felt blue

  But when I could I gave strength to you

  I’m waiting for the day when you can love again.

  These were Sarah’s special messages to him.

  CJ stood at the top of the cliffs and looked out over the sea. The waves far below crashed violently into the rocks. It was all over now, surely. All three girls were dead, and Dylan Hansen was half-dead and now a murder suspect too. That had worked out surprisingly well: a bonus.

  The waves seemed to grow in strength the longer CJ stared at them. She was out there, somewhere over that sea, and it wouldn’t be long now until the tide brought her back to him.

  Back where she belonged.

  Forty-eight

  (Friday afternoon)

  It hadn’t been the most cheerful day of Nick Crane’s life so far, he had to admit. It had now been a week since Millie Blunden had gone missing, and it had barely been 36 hours since her dead body was found stuffed in an old fridge on a farm.

  That morning Crane had visited the local mortuary for a chat with the chief pathologist who had performed a post-mortem on Millie’s body. As suspected, the cause of death was confirmed as strangulation.

  The cool, water-tight atmosphere of the fridge in which she had been hidden ensured that Millie’s body was fairly well-preserved: her skin was ghostly pale, almost translucent, and her face looked weirdly serene. It was only the bruising around her neck that betrayed the violent manner of her death.

  Crane’s next port of call was the house of Ricky James, and it had been a rather odd visit. Ricky wasn’t officially a suspect, having alibis for the times of all three murders, but Crane still had his doubts about the lad’s behaviour.

  The James’ household bore all the outward signs of grief: the curtains were drawn, the TV turned off and a general sense of gloom hung in the air. Dave James was as brusque as ever: shaking Crane’s hand and muttering “nasty business” before wandering out into the kitchen. Ricky’s mother, Mandy James, seemed to be genuinely upset. She had brought Crane a cup of tea and told him in a shaky voice what a lovely girl Millie had been and what a shock it was to them all. Then she had called Ricky down.

  Ricky emerged into the front room still in his dressing gown and accepted a cup of tea from his mother. Crane patted Ricky on the back and offered his condolences, and Ricky wore a suitably solemn expression. He looked glum and tired but not, Crane noted, like a man in shock. And when Crane stared into his eyes he saw no sign of grief: no bewildered, confused look of ‘why me'? that he’d seen in so many bereaved faces over the years.

  When Ricky spoke there was no tremor of emotion in his voice. He just sounded flat and bored.

  “I’d really just like to be left alone at the moment, Mr Crane.”

  Crane had asked some questions about Dylan Hansen, but Ricky had answered as unhelpfully as he could without actually appearing rude: he barely knew him – he explained - and neither did Millie; he hadn’t seen him recently, he had no idea why he’d want to kill Millie.

  Crane chose not to reveal the fact that a search of Millie’s parents’ house had uncovered the other missing red Converse trainer of the pair that had once belonged to Callie. It had been sent away for forensic tests to see if it bore any link to Dylan.

  Or Ricky.

  Ricky may not have had any direct involvement in the killings, but something in the back of Crane’s mind – perhaps some weirdly-acquired copper’s sixth sense – told him that the boy had something to hide.

  Crane’s third stop that day, after a quick sandwich eaten in his car, was the hospital. He parked his Ford Mondeo just outside the main entrance and walked in, reading the various blue and white signs above his head. He was looking for Towers Ward: Harry’s ward.

  Eventually a nurse pointed him in the right direction and he entered a big, wide room with lines of beds on either side. He looked around him until he saw the face he recognised: sort of...

  Harry still had his boyish good-looks, at least on one side of his face. The other was a strange shade of purple, blue and green, and his left eye was blackened and swollen shut. He had a neck brace on and his left arm was in plaster. He was sitting up in bed in a blue t-shirt staring ahead of him. Crane approached his bed and threw a bag of grapes onto the shape of his body under the covers.

  “Bloody hell, you look like you’ve been hit by a train” he said.

  “So would you, if you’d been hit by a train,” Wollers replied with a painful smile.

  Crane had received a phone call that morning to say that Harry had regained consciousness, and rushed to the hospital as soon as he’d finished at the mortuary and Ricky’s.

  “What’s the damage then?” he asked Harry.

  “Shoulder blade broken in three places, leg too; punctured lung; bruises everywhere.”

  “Well I’ve got some more bad news I’m afraid” said Crane.

  “Yeah, what?” asked Harry.

  “You’re no longer the favourite for the annual office pool tournament.”

  Harry looked down at his bed.

  “I hate grapes.”

  “They’d sold out of strawberries.”

  Har
ry laughed, before grimacing in pain at the effort.

  “So, do you remember anything?” Crane asked.

  “Surprisingly, yes: but they say the train probably didn’t hit me directly. I seem to have picked up most of my injuries by being flung into a nearby tree. Hansen took most of the impact, but I’d almost dragged him off the line by then. They reckon he’s probably going to pull through, but there could be some brain damage...”

  “Did he say anything... you know, beforehand?”

  “Just some stuff about owing money; for drugs or something. But just before the train came he looked right at me and said I didn’t do it.”

  “I didn’t do it?” repeated Crane.

  “Yup.”

  “You believe him?”

  Harry shrugged his good shoulder:

  “Not sure, but at that point he thought he was about to die, so part of me thinks; why lie?”

  Crane nodded slowly and looked out of the ward’s window.

  Forty-nine

  (Friday afternoon)

  Jim Howell was as much a part of the scenery at the Tarnsey Star offices as the wallpaper and the leather chairs in the staff sitting room. He’d worked there for over thirty years: since the days when a reporter could happily lean over their typewriter with a cigarette dangling out of their mouth, spilling ash liberally over the hammers as they bashed the keys.

  Nowadays it was all PCs and laptops, and if you wanted a smoke it involved going down two flights of steps and standing in the car-park in the rain.

  For the first two years of his working life Jim had been sports correspondent. There followed a promotion to news editor, then chief sub-editor, then editor-in-chief, where he had remained for the past twenty years.

  Being editor meant he got his own office with a big black chair and potted plants dotted around the place, but it also meant he had to walk further for a cigarette.

  He had just returned from one of his tobacco breaks and let himself back into his office, wheezing slightly from the stairs and smoke. He noticed that Dave Kilpatrick, his assistant editor, was sat in the ‘guest chair’ which faced his desk.

  “Afternoon boss” he said.

  “Oh, hi Dave, what’s up?” said Jim, taking a seat.

  “Developments on the Blunden murder” he said: “the young copper who got hit by a train has apparently regained consciousness. This Hansen feller is still in a coma.”

  “I see” said Jim.

  “Good news for us though: since all this has happened our sales have gone up by twenty percent. Murder makes good reading, obviously” Dave said.

  “Hats off to young Adam then”

  Jim had made young Adam Jacks the chief writer on this story, despite the lad being only eighteen, and it seemed his choice had paid dividends: the youngster seemed to have a natural appetite for crime-reporting, and this story in particular. He’d been working long hours: attending police conferences, digging into the suspects’ pasts, and producing some good quality work.

  Jim was suddenly inspired to make one of his snap decisions:

  “What do you reckon we give young Adam a promotion? Make him chief crime-writer? Let him concentrate on the serious stuff instead of missing pets?”

  “If you think he’s up to it?” said Dave.

  “Do you?” asked Jim.

  “Yeah, I reckon he is.”

  “Let’s do it then. I’ll give the lad the good news later.”

  Dave stood up to leave, but then remembered something.

  “Oh, there is one bit of bad news though boss. One of our vans has gone missing.”

  The Tarnsey Star had a fleet of three small vans which were kept in a garage block at the back of the offices. They were used for various jobs like delivering newspapers to sellers, and also transporting video/camera equipment around when there was a big story breaking in the area. Any insured staff could borrow the vans, but they were meant to sign them out.

  “Nobody signed it out?”

  “No. Abdul just noticed it was missing this morning. Nobody’s used the vans for a fortnight or so, so it could have been gone a while.”

  Jim frowned. Either one of his staff was taking advantage, or some bastard had broken into their premises and nicked it. Maybe he’d have to ask young Adam to investigate.

  “Send an email to all staff about it. Someone’s probably just forgotten the procedure. It’ll turn up.”

  Fifty

  (Anna)

  (Friday afternoon)

  It was getting on for teatime on Friday, and my thoughts drifted back to the previous Friday: before my first date with Adam.

  Back then, just one short week ago I wouldn’t have been able to countenance the feelings I was having right now. Tomorrow, Saturday, I was due to go to Brighton with mum to look at some possible flats for the first time: a selection of flats; one of which could feasibly become my home for my first year of medical school. It was a date that used to fill me with hopeful cheer; that had been highlighted in excited red-ink on my calendar for weeks. But now it loomed sullenly like a painfully dull chore.

  What on earth was happening to me?

  Was I falling in love?

  It almost scared me to think how quickly my mind could be changed. Was I really that silly; that flighty; that shallow? Could a little bit of affection from one good-looking boy really be enough to throw a cloak of doubt over the golden future I had been working so hard towards?

  I knew deep down that I would still go to Brighton. I knew that – underneath my raging teenage emotions – my future was still the most important thing. But going away while my feelings for Adam were at this height would be a sad wrench rather than the exciting voyage it had once seemed.

  Right at that moment I considered taking out my phone and cancelling that evening’s date with Adam. I could make up some excuse; follow it up with another; avoid seeing him, and hope he’d get the message that it was over. It would certainly make it easier for me.

  But then I looked at the picture of him I’d taken off his facebook page and saved on my phone: I looked at his lean and handsome face and charming, confident smile, and I was once again overtaken by that need: the need to see him, to look into his eyes and just bask in the warm glow of his presence.

  I started to get dressed.

  The new dress I had bought on Thursday had looked great in the changing-room mirror, and Helen had commented on how nice it looked when I had stepped out into the corridor to show her. But here, in my bedroom mirror, it had become horridly clingy and just made me look fat. I felt fat wearing it. Sod it. I threw it onto the bed and searched for something more comfortable, amid the growing sense that a full-on wardrobe crisis was approaching.

  I had moments like this: and I knew that soon my bed would be covered in clothes; my wardrobe rooted through until I found something that didn’t make me feel so fat: something plain and comfortable. I hadn’t been like this for weeks though.

  It must be the stress.

  The crisis couldn’t go on too long: at half seven I was supposed to be meeting Adam for a meal in town. He had received some good news about a promotion at work, according to his email, and wanted to celebrate.

  After some minutes of clothes-related madness I eventually found a jumper-jeans combination that managed to combine relative smartness and comfort, and headed out for our date.

  Fifty-one

  (Friday evening)

  Ricky James took the letter up to his bedroom: it had been delivered like all the others; by way of the back gate at the bottom of his garden, placed in a plastic envelope and secured under the big stone next to the shed. It was safer this way; safer than phoning or texting.

  He read the letter, and once he had finished he took out his Zippo lighter and held it up to the paper until the corner started to catch fire.

  When the paper was fully-alight he threw it into his ashtray and watched it burn, until all that was left was ash.

  He did this every time he received such a letter.
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  This one made him angry though.

  What was he playing at? Surely it had to stop now?

  For fuck’s sake, when will it all end?

  Ricky pulled on his leather jacket and headed out into the night.

  Fifty-two

  (Anna)

  (Friday night)

  I was settled back in that familiar glow that Adam’s presence gave me. There was a permanent smile on my face and the buzz of wine in my head. The restaurant had soft lighting and a nice atmosphere, and the food I’d eaten had been lovely.

  Adam had his hand on my forearm, where it had been for the last few minutes. Our empty plates were pushed to one side as we savoured the last of the bottle of wine. We’d spent the previous few hours chatting: about everything and nothing; and laughing a lot.

  I had wanted to bring up some serious matters: to maybe ask where we were going... if there was such a thing as we. I was confused as to what exactly our relationship was. It seemed to be going somewhere: we’d kissed, but hadn’t done anything else; hadn’t spent a night together. Maybe this was a good thing, I supposed: a sign that Adam wasn’t rushing things.

  Maybe he was in it for the long-term?

  But then what about Brighton? The future?

  In the end I hadn’t managed to discuss any of this stuff. The evening was going well: I felt happy and relaxed, and decided just to let things happen. Let it flow, like the wine.

  Adam stood up and left the table, smiling at me as he went. He was wearing smart sand-coloured trousers and a navy-blue shirt, and seemed to have styled his hair with extra effort. He looked handsome and fit, and I once again basked in the simple fact that he was choosing to spend time with someone like me: someone overweight and shy. Somehow it seemed too good to be true.