Saving Sophie

by Sam Carrington

  Karen opened her laptop. It was positioned on the glass, rectangular dining room table where she always sat to trawl the internet. She chose the black leather and chrome chair facing the wall, closest to the patio doors leading to the back garden. The front window was at the far end of the open-plan lounge to her left. It was good to get the overall feeling of light, of an outside world, but not too much of it. If she positioned herself in a certain way she could achieve the right balance of enclosure and an illusion of space. Safe space.

  Having completed the shop in record time, Karen selected the delivery slot for an evening. Mike or Sophie would be around then to open the door and take the shopping from the driver. She stretched back, clicking her neck from side to side. Her days were a far cry from those she’d spent working in probation. She’d never had time to pee then, let alone sit around trawling the internet and playing Bejewelled on Facebook. Part of her missed the job, the service users, her colleagues – but mostly she’d forgotten it, forgotten the woman who’d once inhabited that role. How quickly things had changed.

  The dark cloud began its descent. Thinking back always had the same effect; a physical reaction creating a heaviness in her limbs, a black cloak dropping over her head. Breathe in … and out. In … and out. Karen reached for the keyboard, navigating to the desktop, and clicked on the icon that might stop the progression of another attack. The virtual lounge appeared on her screen. She quickly typed in the name of her online friend in the self-help clinic and waited. Hopefully she’d be logged in and see her ‘red flag’, indicating she needed someone to talk to urgently.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  ‘Did you go?’ Mike emerged through the kitchen door. He banged his rucksack on the counter then bent to untie the laces of his walking boots.

  ‘I’m guessing you already know the answer to that, so why don’t you cut the crap and say what you really want to say about me letting Rachel down. Get it over with.’ Karen crossed her arms and hugged her chest. She turned her head away from him, waiting for the critical analysis of her obvious lack of loyalty. She’d heard it all before, albeit in a different guise.

  ‘Don’t jump down my throat the second I walk through the door.’ He kicked off his boots, propelling them under the breakfast bar, flakes of dried mud leaving a trail. Karen tutted.

  ‘Then don’t attack me with nasty questions as soon as you set eyes on me.’

  They both fell silent, the bitterness settling for a moment. This was how it had been for a long time, before Erin’s murder, before Karen’s attack. The two of them on stand-by, waiting for a single reason to strike, or go on the defensive – waiting to inhabit the roles they had each given themselves in this marriage. The hostility seeped through the cracks every now and then, when they couldn’t be bothered, or didn’t have the energy to fill them temporarily with tactful, carefully chosen words.

  ‘It wasn’t a nasty question. It was a question, because I wondered, if you hadn’t yet made it over to Rachel’s, whether you’d like me to take you this evening.’

  Evidently, he was in the ‘we’ll paper over the cracks and be nice to each other’ mode. Karen’s arms loosened and slipped to her sides.

  ‘Um, well …’ She darted to the cupboards, clattering the tins around. ‘I’ve got dinner to start … um, and then …’ There was no and then, but she continued to flit from drawer to fridge, rummaging for the items for a dinner she hadn’t even given thought to until now, hoping he wouldn’t push the matter further.

  ‘Karen.’

  She ignored him as she went about choosing the right pan size for the unidentified meal.

  ‘Karen, stop.’ He came to her side, took the pan from her hand and forced her around to face him. ‘Look at me.’ He tipped her chin up with two fingers.

  ‘What?’ She faced him, but averted her eyes.

  ‘I’ll take you.’ Softly spoken, compassionate, almost caring – the way he’d been a lifetime ago.

  ‘I should wait for Sophie to come home.’

  ‘Sophie’s old enough to take care of herself, she doesn’t need you.’

  ‘She doesn’t need me? What’s that supposed to mean?’ She pulled away.

  ‘Christ. Just that she can cook for herself, she doesn’t need you to worry about it for her.’ He’d swapped the compassion for irritation like a flicked switch but she’d been the one to do the flicking.

  ‘I know that. But she’s vulnerable at the moment, and she does need me. She needs me here.’ Karen stood firm. Mike’s eyes travelled to the pan she’d picked back up. He took a step away from her.

  ‘She will need you for support, yes, but at the moment I think Rachel’s needs are greater, don’t you?’

  ‘Look, I’ve spoken to Rach today, she understands that I can’t be with her in person, she knows I’m only a phone call away.’

  ‘And that’s good enough, is it? When you were attacked, how would you have felt if Rachel hadn’t physically been there for you?’

  ‘That was different—’

  ‘Too right it was.’ He moved towards Karen again, his finger jabbing in the air in front of her. ‘You were a wreck, she drove straight over as soon as she heard, she stayed all night with you, sat with you, comforted you. And you hadn’t lost your daughter, you’d just been a victim.’ Mike’s face was too close to hers, a fine spray of spittle overlaying her skin. He looked right into her eyes, then whispered: ‘But, I guess you always are the victim.’

  Karen’s mouth fell open. No words came to her. Thrusting the pan into his stomach, she turned and walked into the lounge.

  The television was muted, but the images jumped from the screen. Karen rushed to the controls and turned it up. Erin’s face was in the background, the newsreader’s voice low, serious. It was the first time Karen had seen anything official about the murder; she gagged on a mouthful of sick but managed to swallow it down, acid burning her throat. She paused the telly, not ready to hear more yet.

  ‘Mike,’ she shouted, his horrible dig at her temporarily forgotten. ‘Come here … it’s on the news.’ Her voice faltered; she took some deep breaths, sat down on the sofa.

  Mike strolled in, but didn’t make eye contact with Karen. She restarted the news. Briefly, they were joined in their horror, their anguish, and both watched in silence as the story unfolded. Footage of the scene where Erin’s body had been found, the detective inspector – a red-headed wispy-looking woman with a strong, firm voice – telling the bare facts, some fuzzy CCTV footage depicting Erin walking down the main street of Coleton. Karen gasped. Even though she knew Sophie had been with her, now seeing her familiar form tripping along beside Erin brought a jolt; her daughter, together with a number of other girls who weren’t easily distinguishable in the grainy image, walking side by side with a murdered girl. How can this be happening?

  An appeal followed. DI Wade spoke in her firm monotone again, this time asking for help: an appeal to the public for information and witnesses from Saturday night, from anyone who may have seen Erin, so they could chart her last known movements. She stated they had some CCTV from the early evening, but none after Erin left the White Hart pub.

  The pub from which Sophie’s friends supposedly put her in a taxi to go home.

  DI Wade ended with, ‘I urge anyone with information that could help this enquiry to contact us. No matter how trivial you think the information might be, please let us be the ones to decide what is significant. Thank you.’

  An incident line had been set up; the number appeared on the bottom of the screen. Mike finally turned and faced Karen. ‘Wow. This is truly terrible.’ And then he added something that made Karen’s blood chill in her veins. ‘What if he does it again?’

  For some reason it hadn’t occurred to her. She wrung her hands in her lap, staring blankly ahead. She didn’t want to think about that possibility.

  ‘Pray they get the bastard quickly, then,’ she managed.

  The sound of her ringing mobile tore into her thoughts. She rea
ched to the sofa arm to get it. Rachel. A shiver ran down the length of her back and crawled across her skin.

  This was going to be a tough conversation.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Sophie

  Sophie’s morning had dragged; she’d lost count of how many times she’d gazed at the clock on the till, keen to spend her lunch break with Amy. She’d hoped that together they could assemble some kind of timeline, recover some memories of the moments leading to her getting in the taxi, share their anguish and anxiety. But, despite Sophie leaping straight to the point and firing rapid questions at Amy the second they closed themselves in the staffroom, Amy told her the same lines, the same story the rest of her group had already given her. As Sophie listened to Amy’s answers any hope she’d had of connecting with her ebbed away, pushed back by Amy’s strangely detached tone as she recounted how she and Erin had put her in the taxi.

  Sophie slumped further down in the chair, sighing loudly. It seemed less and less likely anyone was going to help her piece together the events of Saturday night. If the police had this much trouble, they would never catch Erin’s killer. How would anyone gain closure or a sense of justice then?

  ‘So, after you both bundled me in the taxi, where did you go?’ Not content with letting it go, she pushed the conversation on.

  ‘I don’t remember.’ Amy shrugged her shoulders, then stuffed her sandwich in her mouth.

  ‘Really? Well, did you go back inside the White Hart, or go to the next pub?’

  Amy chewed noisily. Apart from this, the room was silent. Sophie waited for her to finish her mouthful and answer the question. Her own food, a shop-bought salad bowl, remained untouched on the small table between them. The moment stretched. Sophie cracked her knuckles.

  ‘Ew! Sophie, don’t, you’ll put me off my food.’ Amy put the sandwich back up to her mouth, about to take another bite.

  ‘Amy, did you hear what I asked?’ Sophie’s irritation was growing; she wanted answers.

  ‘Yes,’ she snapped, ‘but we only get half an hour y’know … sorry if I have to eat.’ She sounded like a sulky teenager.

  ‘I’m worried, Amy. This is really scary. Aren’t you scared? Don’t you want to figure out where she went, who may have killed her? Don’t you care? How can you be so calm? The killer is still out there!’ Her breath ran out; she gulped in some air. Amy stared at her, eyes wide. She was still chewing. ‘I can’t take this.’ Sophie propelled herself out of the plastic chair, snatched her salad and strode across the room to put it back in the fridge.

  ‘Look,’ Amy wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, ‘if you think it would help, let’s get together tomorrow after work – go for a drink. See if we can answer some of those questions – two heads are better than one, eh?’

  It was the last thing Sophie felt like doing, but as she was making no headway, she didn’t see she had much choice.

  ‘Fine.’ She left the staffroom and the unhelpful Amy behind. She’d have to think of another way of recalling Saturday night more precisely. She had to, not just for Erin, but for herself. Someone was playing with her, sending pictures, taunting her. It might just be a stupid joke, but it could be serious. Before mentioning it to her mum, or the police, she needed to remember more. She wanted to know where he took the photos, who he was and why it was her he was targeting. She hoped she didn’t receive any more, she really didn’t want to have to tell anyone, the embarrassment would be crippling, she’d never live it down.

  As predicted, it had been the slowest day ever. Sophie grabbed her things from the locker, sliding a hand inside her bag to retrieve her mobile. Dammit. It was habit. The police did say they’d be able to give it back to her soon. She was bereft without her lifeline nearby. If they didn’t hurry up, she’d have to buy a pay-as-you-go one.

  As she stepped outside the staff door, a gust of wind snatched her breath from her. She paused, took in some deep lungfuls of the cold air, and looked up and down the main street of Coleton. Anderson’s store was situated in the middle of the pedestrianised street. A street that hadn’t changed very much in the last five years: a few cheap pound shops had come and gone, a grocery store had been replaced by a mobile phone shop, the walkway to the indoor market had received a facelift – an attempt at modernisation – but that was about it. A shudder wracked her body. This was a small, quiet market town – and her friend had been murdered here. Unbelievable.

  She’d always felt safe in Coleton, safe out at night. Yes, there’d been trouble: a few brawls, arguments spilling from the pubs to the streets, drug issues. Somehow, they didn’t seem significant enough to cause her to question her safety. Standing alone now, buffeted by the wind, Sophie did question it. Perhaps she’d been lucky. Now that luck had run out. An uneasy sensation filled her belly. A prickle began at the base of her neck, rose upwards, her whole head feeling tingly.

  It’s just the cold wind.

  She turned, started walking the route to the car park; every few steps turning around, head over one shoulder, checking behind her. For what? She quickened her step. There were a few people milling about, some she recognised as employees leaving the other stores, their bright uniforms giving away their places of work. Outside the pub on the corner, some of the usuals stood under the large, less-than-stable umbrella, shielding their cigarettes from the wind. A hurricane wouldn’t keep those people from their habit. She carried on, crossed the road, passing the brown-bricked symmetrical building of the magistrates’ court before she got to the pedestrian entrance to the car park, commonly known as ‘the police car park’ due to its proximity to the town’s station. It was less than two minutes from Anderson’s, but felt longer this evening.

  Her breathing shallowed, she fumbled in her bag for the ticket, her purse. She always had the correct change for the machine, and with an unsteady hand, deposited the coins in the slot. Fidgeting, waiting for it to spew the ticket back out, Sophie scanned the area again. She couldn’t see anything untoward, so why was she shaking? Why did she feel so uneasy? Snatching the ticket, she hurried to her car, pleased now she always parked it close to the machine. Once inside, she hit the central locking button.

  What the hell was that all about? She was becoming her mother: a paranoid bag of nerves. She had to get a grip. It was only a day ago she’d found out about the murder of her friend, though, so she should expect some anxiety. What she didn’t expect was to feel as scared as she did right now. After taking a few minutes to calm herself, to stop shaking, Sophie started her car and exited the car park. Once on the road with all the other 5.30 p.m. traffic, her unease reduced.

  Safety in numbers.

  But the question was still rattling around inside her brain: what, or who, was there to be afraid of?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Karen

  ‘Did you see it? Did you watch the news?’ Rachel asked, her voice wavering.

  ‘We did, Rach. It’s so unbelievable.’

  ‘When I used to hear people say they expect them … their dead loved ones, to walk in through the door at any second, I thought, what a cliché.’ She let out a short burst of laughter. ‘Well, I am now that cliché. I’m constantly waiting for her to walk through the door, turning my head towards it every five minutes. If there’s any noise, I’m up, at the door thinking she’s home.’ The tears started again. ‘I just want my girl to come home. I do not want to see her face splashed on the telly, hear people talking about her, listen to the police say how he …’ Karen heard Rachel draw in a big, ragged breath. ‘How that murdering bastard hurt her. Oh, Karen, what he did …’

  Karen’s eyes stung with tears; she tried blinking them away. She sniffed, wiped her running nose with her sleeve. Mike passed her a box of tissues, mouthing I’ll take you there. Karen shook her head, mouthed back, I can’t. He walked off, heading towards the kitchen.

  ‘They took everything,’ Rachel continued, her voice barely a whisper.

  For a moment Karen questioned her use of ‘they’,
surely there was only a single killer suspected. Then she realised she wasn’t talking about the murderer, it was the police.

  ‘Her laptop, items from her room, even clothes, which I don’t understand … why do they need those things? They’ve ruined her bedroom, they’ve been to Adam’s too, taken more from her room there.’

  ‘Oh, darling, I know that must hurt. They’re only doing it so they can figure things out, find out who she may have been talking to, seeing. Any bit of information they can glean from her things is a step closer to catching the bastard.’

  ‘I can’t bear it. I’ve lost her, now her possessions …’

  ‘They will return them, you haven’t lost them.’ Karen flinched as she spoke, realising too late the sentence had sounded flippant. Rachel had lost her daughter, and no doubt the items in Erin’s room had suddenly gained new meaning – a deeper appreciation, each holding a different memory of her. Having them taken away, even if she knew they’d be brought back, must feel like another part of Erin being ripped away from her.

  Neither Rachel nor Karen spoke then, the expanse between them increasing in the silence. Karen knew she should at least try to be at her side. It was expected. Rachel should expect it as a bare minimum from her lifelong friend. She was letting her down, she knew it, and Mike certainly knew it too. Would Rachel end up hating her for it?

  Rachel then uttered the question Karen had been dreading.

  ‘You said before that Sophie didn’t remember any of Saturday night, surely she does now? She must do, she must remember something, something that can help.’

  Karen paused. She had to be careful in her approach to this. Knowing Sophie was one of the last to see Erin was a huge responsibility to bear. For Sophie and for herself. People, especially Rachel, would presume Sophie would be the one to unlock the mystery surrounding the events of those last few hours. She’d expect Karen to push her into remembering, force the issue to enable Rachel to thread together her murdered daughter’s last hours of life. Karen didn’t want Sophie to be the pivotal piece of the jigsaw, the focus of attention from police, hounded into recalling a night she’d already tried to remember on numerous occasions. She’d be made to feel guilty. Karen was afraid of the effects on Sophie, how it would affect them all. Their small family unit was already in a precarious position; this kind of stress wouldn’t help. Karen had been trying so hard to keep the family together, but this threatened to tear it apart again, cause the cracks to reappear, run deeper. Become irreparable.