Lost Hours

by Lorena Franco

  “Do you recall if it was Tuesday, the eighth of October?”

  “I´m really bad with dates, boss.”

  Of course, that was the date. I remember well. I saw her, I saw the redhead woman that could barely stand. As a matter of fact, I found it so funny, that I described the whole scene to Paula the first time we met here.

  John is staying at my house. When I get home, he´s sitting on the sofa watching some cop flick.

  “Did you get dinner, Peck?” I ask, leaving my keys on the entrance table.

  “No. Should we order some pizza? Melinda never lets me eat pizza. I have to make the best of these days here in New York.” He winks at me, obviously enjoying himself, something he used to do when we worked together.

  “Done.”

  I sit beside him, folding my arms across my chest. I glance at him.

  “Is there something you haven´t told me Peck?”

  “What´s that?” He asks, bewildered and smoothing his bushy white mustache.

  “Forget it. Let’s order those pizzas.”

  PAULA

  Monday, October 21, 2013

  I´m starving. I´m cold and my back hurts. A car isn´t the best place to sleep, but it´s my only shelter here on the shore of Hemlock Lake. I dream of my ghosts. They whisper in my ear, asking me to come with them. I feel tempted by the depths of the lake. I could just walk in and let myself go, leave this sick body that holds me captive, behind.

  I have remembered each and all of the lost hours. Those hours in which I stopped being kind and gentle and committed the heinous crimes that I had so easily forgotten, and for which I could be condemned to death. Maybe I will die before that, from loneliness or hunger. From guilt or fear.

  At night, Josh cuddles with me, he looks at me with those deep blue eyes which I am unable to forget. It´s nice and comfy until the blood begins to spurt out of the wounds I inflicted, until his breath exhales a putrid smell.

  Often, I can see the little girl with the blue-black hair running through the trees. She turns to look at me, smiles and then drops to the ground with her skin white as snow and her lips tinged a dark purple.

  Matthew and Joana are always together, their bloodied bodies entwinning and kissing passionately; they stare at me mockingly, as they did in life. They made love and mocked me.

  Then there´s that young girl whose wrists I cut. She sits on the copilot´s seat, she screams hysterically and cries abundant tears, showing me the deep cuts on her wrists.

  The watchman shows himself very seldom. He hides in the cops of trees, puts his hand into his smashed skull, and shows me his crushed brains.

  It must be around noon. I curl up by the lake. The crystal clear waters of the lake shimmer, reflecting the sunlight and I remember gentler times. The picnics with my parents, when we couldn´t stop laughing, when there were no worries and my brain worked normally. I was a very happy child until I received the news of my parent´s death in the car accident. I went into shock, an uncontrollable state of madness. I became a burden to my grandparents, and instead of being patient with me and taking me for treatment with a psychiatrist, they locked me up in the that fucking madhouse which destroyed my life. Instead of getting better, I went mad. Crazy, really. My grandparents died and I was still locked up. Who wants to put up with a madwoman?

  “Paula…”

  My ghosts call me, but I choose to ignore them. I look into the distance and play with the dirt.

  “Paula…”

  Insistently. As I turn, I can´t believe my eyes. I smile shyly and play with a strand of my hair, the way I used to do then, when he came to see me at the insane asylum. He too smiles placidly, as if we had opened a door to the past. Older and more tired, the years have worn away the strong physical attraction that Peck had over me.

  “My little one…”

  He caresses my hair softly and gives me a fatherly kiss on the cheek.

  “I brought you a sandwich. Your favorite.”

  I snatch it from his hand and gobble it down in seconds. In low tones, we ask each other what has been of our lives over the last eighteen years.

  “Pam, you promised you would behave.” He tells me, serenely, calling me by my real name. It had been a long time since anyone called me Pam, I had almost forgotten.

  I shake my head and start to cry. He hugs me tightly, very tight, and I know he understands me. John Peck is the only person in the world I can trust.

  No one was waiting for me when I left the asylum. My father, as well as my mother, was an only child. I never got to me meet my paternal grandparents, and the ones that had put me in the nut-house had also left this world.

  When I got out, I was lost in the great city. I was only eighteen and Peck somehow managed things so I would get the full amount of my parent´s and grandparent´s inheritance.

  I was a young woman with a lot of money and no studies, who somehow managed to get directly into college to study advertising. I had a whole new identity so my past medical record would be cleared, to erase my whole past and re-invent a life that I would have liked to live. I did well, my cleverness and creativity helped a lot and I got ahead easily. He used to tell me: «Sweetheart, there´s nothing in this world that you can´t achieve. Always remember how special you are». Those kind words helped me believe in myself and persevere.

  “I have behaved really well for a lot of years, John,” I grumble, “I´m not a bad person, I promise, I´m not the bad one…”

  “I know sweetheart, I know. Tell me everything.”

  I prepare to tell him my whole story as calmly as I can. He listens, not making any judgements. I tell him about my obsession with Josh and how I killed him to avenge my parents. He nods. He understands my motives for snuffing the lives of my best friend and unfaithful husband. I skip the atrocious crime committed against Josh and Samantha´s young daughter.

  “And, what about Meredith? She was just an innocent child.

  “Don´t remind me. It hurts too much, John.”

  “Samantha killed herself,” he tells me.” She left a note saying that she would finally be joined with her little Peter Pan and with Josh, the love of her life.

  “I understand.” I mumble. “What am I going to do John?”

  “They´re looking for you, Pam. I´m taking a flight tomorrow back to Malibu and I won´t be able to help you a lot, but for now, you have a new identity. You will go by the name Jennifer Geller. I also brought some black hair dye, a pair of brown contacts and a pair of shades. In a few hours you have to be on a flight to London, and I have transferred some money to your new bank account. It will help you to start from scratch.

  “I will never be able to thank you for all you´ve done for me.”

  “My sweetheart… if it hadn´t been for you, I would be dead. You brought hope and light back into my life.

  “How did you know I´d be here?”

  “Every time you talked about your parents, you would mention Hemlock lake, so it wasn´t that hard to presume you´d be here. I had to try. Please, Pam, be good” he admonishes, patting my cheek gently. “Don´t ever let the monster inside you out again. I know you´re a good person. I don´t want to have to go out on a limb for you ever again, though I doubt an old man with Alzheimer´s would be able to.

  “No! John, are you sick?”

  “And my heart is a bit weak too, sweetheart. This is going to be the last time we meet, Pam. You have to promise that you will try to control yourself, that you will not backslide, that you´ll control your strength. And specially, you will keep track of the hours. Keep those hours in check. Never let them get away from you.”

  “I promise, John. I won´t hurt anyone. I won’t lose any more hours. I will control my mind… I will try to avoid inventing a life that does not exist,“ I tell him with a mental clarity that seems to surprise him. “No one else will be hurt, honest.”

  “And about Tischmann…”

  I sigh and lower my eyes.

  “Did you know he was my best assistant?”
I shake my head in denial. “Of course not, how were you to know? I doesn´t bother me that you slept with him. You are young, it´s normal. Don´t worry, he is a good guy and was madly in love with you.”

  “I know. And you know what? I was madly in love with him too.” I say, sadly, for what might have been. For what could never be.

  PAUL

  Tuesday, October 22, 2013

  I´m going crazy.

  There isn´t a single trace of Paula. She vanished off the face of the earth.

  Matthew´s mother, distressed, calls me every day to ask how the investigation is going. I have no answers, I don´t know what could have happened to her son. But I fear the worst. He must be dead. Buried or at the bottom of some lake. We keep looking for him on the outskirts of New York, though I believe, we might have to search further abroad.

  At Paula´s apartment, we did find some traces of blood, hidden to our eyes, but that cannot fool Phenolphthalein. When mixed with hydrogen peroxide, it detects it by turning pink. Matthew´s blood was mixed with that of another victim, which we identified as one Joana Spencer, a rather well known painter. She had gone half around the world and lived in innumerable cities, so no one had noticed her absence. According to her mother, nobody ever knows where in the world Joana might be.

  “This was a crime of passion.” Blurts out Stuart, with absolute certainty.

  I think about all the times I was inside Paula Hawkins. All the times I caressed and kissed her body. About how unlikely it is that we will find her.

  At four in the afternoon, I take my old friend Peck to the airport. Again and again he regrets that we haven´t found any clues leading to Paula. The truth is that on the day he got to New York, I was hoping he would help me with this case. That we would again become “Peck and Tischmann” two tough guys, who never miss a clue. What a dupe. He was so focused on enjoying his sugar and the foods Melinda strictly restricts in his diet, that he had no time for work. He even rented a car to do some touring around the city and show how independent he is.

  “Tischmann, when we talked on the phone, I told you that the truth will out.”

  “I remember.” I say as I pull his suitcase out of the trunk.

  “I was wrong.”

  “No, Peck. The truth will out. We know it was Paula and we will find her and she will have to pay for all the crimes she committed.”

  “You will never find her, Tischmann. Never.”

  Peck walks away without giving me a chance to say another word, or contradict him as I always used to. Astonished at all that Peck has kept hidden from me in the last days, I watch as he gets lost in the crowd.

  No, of course we would never be able to find Paula Hawkins. Maybe she didn´t even have that name anymore. And it´s quite likely that she is very far from New York by now, with a new ID. Peck has helped her again. I don´t doubt it for a second, I´d put my hand to the fire. The where and how, I don´t know, but I do know why. The old inspector, the same as I, is madly in love with the monster that inhabits the beautiful and apparently fragile figure of a woman.

  CHAPTER 13

  JENNIFER

  One year later

  William Schardan, the director of the architecture firm where I work as a receptionist, exits his office slowly and approaches me. We have been flirting for days. It´s eight o´clock at night, a cold dreary London Friday. I can tell by his look just what he wants.

  William reminds me of my ghosts: cheerful and happy, like Matthew, intense blue eyes like Josh had, strong and wild like Tischmann.

  I smile at him as I watch him get closer. I play teasingly with a lock of my black hair.

  “Anyone expecting you at home, then, Jen.” He asks from the other side of the counter.

  “Fraid not.”

  “Do you want to…”

  Minutes later we are making love on top of the copy machine in the meeting room. But the laughter of a lively girl, Joana, and Matthew´s moans, and the blood gushing out of Josh´s neck, stop me from thinking clearly.

  I fake an orgasm while William screws me furiously. He finishes and kisses me.

  “Should we go out to dinner?” He asks, still panting.

  “After dessert?”

  I wink at him, smooth down my pencil skirt, touch up my hair and walk out of the meeting room, followed closely by Williams stare.

  I take a deep breath as I stroll down the dark London streets, so different from those of New York. It´s always cold here, and the sky refuses to show it´s bright azure. It´s depressing, but charming at the same time.

  I watch all the strangers having dinner in snappy restaurants, the enraptured couples, dim lights on the windows of a multitude of flats.

  How many hidden stories, how many happy and troubled lives play out behind those discrete windows.

  I yearn to go back in time, recover the lost hours, spent doing evil, and bring the dead back to life. I yearn to lead a normal life, without hiding my name, without hiding from the authorities. They are probably still looking for me back in The States. Here in London, it´s as if I had been erased from the face of the earth.

  “Black hair looks good on you.” A masculine voice says behind me, as a hand rests on my shoulder.

  I´m startled out my reverie and look back, frightened.

  “Paul!” I exclaim, getting ready to run for it.

  “Easy, Paula. Paula?” he laughs.

  “Jen. Pam, call me Pam. Have you come to get me?”

  I could take it. I really could, of course. I spent six years in a looney bin, I could spend the rest of my life in prison. I deserve it, I will pay.

  “In a way.”

  “What? I don´t get it, Paul.”

  “Should we get a drink?”

  “You want to have a drink with a damned murderer?”

  “Pam…” he shakes his head and rolls his eyes. He is looking better since I saw him last, it seems his own ghosts and personal tragedies have let up, at least a bit. In his eyes, there is a special glow I wasn´t aware of before. “Paula, I can´t call you by any other name, I´m sorry. Yes, I do want to have a drink with you.”

  We walk in silence until we find an Irish Pub open for business. I repress my desire to take off at a run, yet, on the other hand, it´s good to see him again. To be with him once more.

  We sit on a pair of bar stools by the counter. He orders a Whiskey, and I, my customary Bloody Mary. He looks deeply into my eyes, something tells me that he hasn´t come all the way to London to take me into custody.

  “John Peck told me everything before he died.”

  “What? John is dead?” I ask, devastated.

  A tear runs down my cheek, I´m unable to hold back.

  “The monster has feelings.” Paul says, frowning as he wipes the tear from my face with a finger. “He had a heart attack two months ago. I´m sorry.” He lowers his voice, and continues: “They found Matthew and Joana´s bodies buried my lake Hemlock. I guess you already know.”

  “I don´t keep track of the news.”

  “Everything has been handled discreetly, the news haven´t reached the media yet, and you… with that black hair and your dark eyes, you look different.” He sighs, hesitantly takes a drink from his glass. “They found the abandoned car and dug up the bodies. You lied to me Paula.”

  “I´m sorry.”

  He takes another swig from his drink, unable to look at me.

  “John told me you have superhuman strength. It scares me a bit, you know? How many… how many people have you killed?” He whispers.

  “All told? Ten, eight of them directly and two were collateral damage… Samantha and Charlotte.”

  “Eight? It doesn´t add up.”

  “Two guys tried to jump me when I left your apartment, the day I took off. So I did away with them.”

  “We thought it was a settling of accounts.” Says Tischmann, brooding.

  “I´m OK Paul. I lead a normal life, I keep track of the hours and I haven´t hurt anyone. I promise.”

  “W
hat´s this about the hours, Paula? What do you mean by keeping track of the hours?”

  “With John, we used to say…” I sigh and the lump in my throat threatens to choke me as I remember John and think about his death. “We used to say that I had to keep track of the hours so I could control my mind. Yes, it´s true that I have a sick mind and will probably have it for the rest of my life. A monster took over when I found out my parents had been killed. I suffer from horrible hallucinations, caused by the guilt the good part of me feels. I see ghosts all the time, and I have trouble distinguishing what´s real from what is not. I imagine and live situations that never happen. In the meantime, it´s during those lost hours that the monster has taken over and gotten away from me.

  “You say that your mind is sick, and it probably will be for the rest of your life. That makes you very dangerous, Paula.”

  It is I who can´t look into his eyes now. I fiddle with my Bloody Mary and watch the bar tender fix a drink.

  “It might be for the best if you put me away, Tischmann. Don´t turn into an accomplice like John did. If I commit any more murders, be it because of my obsession or vengeance, or whatever, because I lose control of the monster and the hours, you will feel guilty for the rest of your life.

  “You know what, Paula? I don´t believe in monsters. Remember the tale I told you?”

  I search my memory, and fighting the tightening knot in my throat I recite:

  “An old Indian was talking to his grandson and told him: «I feel as if I had two wolves fighting inside my heart. One of the wolves is furious, violent and vengeful. The other is full of love and compassion. » So the grandson asks: «Tell me, grandfather, which of the two wolves will win the battle in your heart?» And the grandfather answers him: «The one I choose to feed. »”

  “Exactly, Paula. That´s why I´m here with you. So you can stop feeding the wolf, and only the good part of you, which John knew was there, can shine through. I too believe there´s a good side to you.

  He smiles, and when I´m about to kiss his lips, the waiter interrupts us with a sardonic smile.

  “Ey, missy! Are you waiting for someone? That ice is melted and the whiskey´s spoiled!”