by Tania Carver
He checked for the baby buggy. Gone.
Then back into the living room, looking round again. And he saw the book on the table, the paperback Marina had been reading. Noticed there was something sticking out from underneath it. He crossed the room, picked the book up. Underneath was a folded piece of paper with his name written on it. He unfolded it, saw the first word.
Sorry…
Read the rest.
And sank into the chair.
‘Oh no… oh God, no…’
They were gone. Marina, Josephina. His family.
Gone.
29
‘Sure?’ Rose Martin looked carefully at Mark Turner. ‘Sure there’s no one here?’
He shrugged. ‘My girlfriend. New girlfriend. Having a… a lie in.’ His voice trailed away.
Rose stifled a smile. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘So, back to Suzanne. You were together for…’ She checked Anni’s notes.
‘Two years.’
‘Happy?’
He shrugged. ‘Yeah. Mostly. You know. Ups and downs.’
‘D’you miss her?’
He didn’t answer straight away. Instead, he glanced towards the stairs. ‘It… had run its course.’
Rose nodded. As he spoke, Mark Turner sat back, settled into the chair. He seemed to relax, become less bookish, more socialised. Growing in confidence as he dealt with questions he knew the answers to. Everything seemed fine, she thought. Couple more questions then she could go home. She checked the notes.
‘What about Anthony Howe? Where does he come into this?’
Turner’s mood changed instantly. He became tense, sat upright. ‘He… ask Suzanne.’ His lip curled. The words sounded unpleasant in his mouth. ‘Ask her.’
The way he said her sounded to Rose like he was saying whore. ‘I’m asking you.’
Mark Turner’s fingers became agitated, restless, like a jonesing drummer denied his kit. ‘That’s…’ His breathing became heavier. It looked like he was fighting to stop himself from saying what he really wanted to. He sat back. ‘No. There’s lying and lying. Ask her.’
Rose knew that was all she would be getting from him on the subject. ‘Where were you last night, Mr Turner?’
‘Here.’ He frowned. ‘When last night?’
Rose tried not to smile. ‘Wrong order.’
‘What?’
‘You’re supposed to ask what time I’m talking about before you say where you were.’
His features tightened. His eyes became lit by a cruel, angry light. Again, he seemed to be stopping himself from saying what he wanted to. ‘I didn’t break into her flat. I didn’t beat her up, or whatever. I was here. All night.’
‘Alone?’
He hesitated. ‘No.’
‘With…’
‘My girlfriend.’
‘Who would be…?’
‘She doesn’t need to be involved. I don’t want her… not with Suzanne. Please.’
‘She does if she’s your alibi. Is that her upstairs?’
He nodded. ‘She’s… asleep. I don’t want to bother her.’
‘Noisy sleeper.’
‘Yes,’ he said weakly, ‘she is.’
‘Right. And you and her were here all night. What did you do?’
‘I… I don’t know.’ He cast a look towards the stairs as if willing her to answer the questions for him, beckoning her with the power of his mind.
‘Read? Watch TV? A DVD?’
Turner looked from Rose to the stairs and back again. ‘We… I…’
His phone rang. They both jumped.
He looked at Rose apologetically, pulled it from his pocket, answered it. After the initial greeting he turned away from Rose. He didn’t say much, just nodded his head, made a few affirmative noises. He rang off, turned back to her. There was a new kind of light in his eyes. Shining, more confident.
‘We were working,’ he said.
‘Sorry?’
‘Last night. We were working. Late. Here.’ He made the statement sound like scientific fact.
Whoever had been on the phone had given Mark Turner strength. Sitting there erect, he seemed to have grown taller, his eyes bright, alert. A small smile danced at the corners of his mouth. There was a kind of cruel triumph in the smile – like an habitual victim suddenly being gifted the power of the bully.
‘And I… I think, I think it’s time for you to leave now, Detective, Detective Sergeant Martin.’ His voice became clearer, stronger as the sentence went on. He stood up at the end to emphasise his words.
Rose stood also, flipped her notebook closed. ‘Thank you for your time.’ She made her way to the door. She could feel his eyes on her all the way.
Weirdo, she thought. And his ex-girlfriend sounded like she made stuff up all the time. There was a feel of that from the case notes. And that’s what her report would say.
She left the house and went to find her car.
Outside on the street, the level crossing siren was broadcasting at air raid pitch once again.
She blocked it from her mind, thought about the first gin and tonic waiting for her at home.
30
The Creeper closed his eyes, willed the night to wrap itself around him.
He had learned to love the dark. The time of hunters. Of secrets. Of lovers. It made him feel truly alive, let him move, flow like a living shadow. His vision was at its strongest. The world was at its truest. And Rani would talk to him the most.
Whisper her secrets. Tell him what to do.
He smiled at the thought.
He used to hate the dark. Hate and fear it. It was where the demons lived. Waiting until nightfall when they would emerge, come hunting for him. Canvas-covered, smelling of sweat and drink, of secrets and lies. Of pain and fear.
He hid at first but that never fooled them. They knew all his secret places. They would find him. And hurt him.
But that wasn’t him any more. That boy died in the fire. Now he was the Creeper. And he could fight back. And the demons couldn’t hurt, couldn’t scare him any more.
His eyes were screwed tight shut but darkness refused to fall quick enough.
He thought again of the previous night. Kneeling beside Rani, his head next to hers, smelling along her arms, the soft, downy hair tickling his nostrils.
Then later, moving her T-shirt up and licking her stomach. One long line from the top of her trimmed hair to her belly button. He had savoured the taste. Relived it now… Smiled at the memory.
The smile stopped. There would be nothing like that tonight.
Not with the blonde bitch there.
Rani had found her present. It had moved her to tears once more. He enjoyed seeing that. Afterwards, he was sure she would have sent the blonde bitch home, let the pair of them be alone. Together. But she hadn’t. They had drunk a bottle of wine between them and it looked like they were embarking on another. And sometimes Rani had cried and the blonde bitch had consoled her. Sitting where he should have been. Her arm round his love.
Him bringing the smile back to her face. Him. Him. His hands begin to shake. Not a good sign. He had always been angry. Like that kids cartoon character, the Tasmanian Devil, spinning and punching and kicking his way through life. Until Rani appeared. And he had learnt how to harness it. Use it, don’t let it use him. Difficult at first, but he had managed it. But it was still there, slithering underneath his skin, threatening to return him to how he used be, threatening to take control.
He watched them again. Rani thanking the blonde bitch for staying, the bitch saying it was the least she could do. Control the shake. Keep breathing.
And still, he hadn’t heard her voice.
He closed his eyes, tried to concentrate. He could see his lover better that way.
He felt himself stiffening. Felt that curling and writhing in the pit of his stomach. His hand moved down his body, found the waistband of his trousers. He sighed. Kept his eyes closed. Kept touching.
What are you doing now?
> He took his hand away quickly. Tried to control his breathing. ‘Nothing…’
You sure?
‘Yes, yes, I’m… Sorry, sorry, Rani…’
Don’t be sorry. It’s nice you make tributes to me. Shows you love me, doesn’t it?
‘Oh, I do, Rani, I do, you know I do. That’s why I left you the present…’
She was silent for a few seconds. He heard her breathing, thought she was going to disappear again. Then she was back. Her voice less playful, angry even. You’ve been naughty again, have you?
He froze. She knew. The police, everything. She knew. He had to be careful, not lose her again. He said nothing.
You just had to touch, didn’t you? You just had to touch me…
He said nothing.
Didn’t you?
‘Yes… yes…’
You came into my room… touched me while I was asleep. Didn’t you?
He nodded.
Can’t hear you…
‘Yes… I’m sorry…’
You’ve caused a lot of trouble, you know.
‘I know. And I’m sorry…’
Lot of trouble. The police, everything.
‘I know… I’m sorry…’
I might have to disappear.
Fear suddenly grabbed him, a childhood demon, its claw round his throat. ‘No, no, you can’t, please no…’ Life without Rani. Wasn’t worth living.
You’ve made things very difficult…
‘No, no, please, don’t go, I’ll do anything, anything…’
She sent silent. He thought she had disappeared.
‘Rani…’
I’m here. I’m thinking.
Relief washed over him. Flooded through to his nerve ends. ‘Whatever you want. I’ll do it.’
I know you will. Let me think.
He waited, hardly daring to breathe.
I think… it’s time for me to change.
‘What? Again? But you’ve just…’
Doesn’t matter. You know what to do. Don’t worry. You’ll see me again.
‘Yes. I will. I never doubt you.’
Good. I’ll tell you where I’ll be soon.
‘I know you will, but…’
But what?
He looked at Rani again, sitting there on the sofa, the blonde bitch with her arm around her, her mouth moving but different words coming out to the ones the blonde bitch was hearing. Words for him and him alone. The truth. The blonde bitch getting any old lies.
He smiled.
But what?
He heard the sharpness in her voice, jumped. ‘The blonde bitch,’ he said quickly. ‘What about that blonde bitch?’
What about her?
‘She’s sitting there, talking to you…’
I’m only pretending to be interested. You know that, don’t you?
‘Yes…’
It’s you I want to be with.
‘So… what should I do?’
I don’t want her. You decide.
‘Right…’ He smiled.
You know what you’re doing?
He nodded. ‘Yeah.’
Good. Then do it. For me.
And she was gone.
He kept looking at her. Rani was alone now. The blonde bitch had got up, gone into the kitchen for another bottle of wine. Rani looked up. Right at him.
His heart jumped, he pulled a breath quickly into his body. Smiled at her.
‘For you…’
Stretched his fingers out. He could feel her, stroked her.
‘Soon,’ he said to her. ‘Soon, it’ll just be you and me…’
31
Zoe couldn’t sleep.
There should have been no problem, given the amount of wine she and Suzanne had put away. Not to mention the stress of the day. And if there was an intruder, the huge kitchen knife she’d placed under her side of the bed would offer plenty of protection. So she had expected to just drop straight off. But she hadn’t. She couldn’t.
Suzanne, lying next to her in bed, was spark out, but that may have been a combination of wine, exhaustion and sleeping pills. For Suzanne every little creak and groan from the old house, every car or lorry that went past the window was an intruder.
They should never have stayed. She knew that. As soon as they found that disgusting thing in the fridge they should have upped and left. Zoe should have insisted. But no, she had given in to Suzanne who didn’t want to be driven out of her own home. So they had stayed, tried to be comfort for one another, draw strength. And now, in what must have been the middle of the night, it seemed like a very stupid idea.
And, to make matters worse, she was hungry.
Another car went past, another jump and involuntary tug on the duvet. Another sigh, once it had gone.
‘This is ridiculous,’ said Zoe.
Zoe had made a decision. She wasn’t going to be scared any more. There was no one else in the flat but herself and Suzanne. She had checked, double-checked and rechecked the locks on the doors and windows. No way anyone could get through them. At least, not without making a hell of a racket in doing so. So they were alone. They were safe.
And she was still hungry.
She flung the duvet back, got out of bed. Her head spinning slightly from the wine. Suzanne didn’t wake, didn’t even move.
She padded to the kitchen, checked her watch as she went. Just after three a.m. What was that quote? Something about in the real dark night of the soul it’s always three a.m.? Was that it? And who said it? Scott Fitzgerald, wasn’t it? Well, she thought, looking round the kitchen, seeing yellow sodium streaks of street light and shadow snaking round the window blind, he had a point.
She crossed to the fridge, opened it, glad of the unapologetically bright light that shone out, looked inside. Suzanne didn’t have much. Cheese, milk, some leftover pasta, a bit of salad. A couple of bottles of white wine. Cheese gives you nightmares, she thought. She doubted that. You had to be asleep to have nightmares. That would do her.
Taking out a lump of cheddar, she stood up, closed the door, turned.
And stopped dead.
Was that a shadow flitting across the doorway? Someone moving in the hall?
Her heart tripped. ‘Suzanne?’
No response.
Zoe looked round. It was impossible. She had locked the doors and windows, checked and double-checked them. No one could have got in. She would have heard them.
She stood still. Listened.
Nothing.
Must have been a trick of the light. Seeing things out of the corner of her eye. Her imagination working overtime. Yes. That’s what it was.
But still…
The knife. She had left it in the bedroom. It was the only sharp thing in the kitchen, Suzanne being domestically useless. She should get it, just in case. She would feel safer with it in her hand.
The cheese forgotten, she put her head slowly round the kitchen door, checked both ways up and down the hall. Nothing. She hurried across to the bedroom. Suzanne was still lying there, sound asleep, mouth open, snoring slightly.
Zoe knelt down at the side of the bed, felt for the knife.
It was gone.
Her heart hammered once more.
The rational side of her brain kicked in. She must have pushed it underneath, knocked it with her foot, sent it further in than she had realised. She felt around, arm extended as far as she could.
Nothing.
Quickly, she straightened up. Thought of waking Suzanne, decided against it. She was too out of it. Instead, she ran across the hall to the kitchen, pulled out drawers, frantically searched for another knife, anything she could use as a weapon.
Nothing.
Then, a noise. From behind her. Zoe turned.
A figure moved forwards. Big, dark, like a living shadow had detached itself from the corner of the room and come to life. It seemed to flow towards her.
Zoe didn’t have time to cry out, to scream.
She barely had time to feel the knife �
� the missing knife from underneath the bed – slice quickly across her throat, push into her neck.
She knocked the lump of cheese from the worktop to the floor as her hand went to her throat.
Thoughts spat, rapid fire, through her head.
Cheese gives you nightmares – that was quick, haven’t even eaten it yet…
The real dark night of the soul is always three a.m…
Sodium yellow streetlights and living shadows…
I checked all the locks, I double-checked…
The knife…
Hungry…
She fell to her knees, her hands feeling hot and wet at her throat.
Nightmare…
She saw the shadow flow out of the room, head towards Suzanne’s bedroom. She tried to call out but no sound would leave her lips, just more hot redness.
Darkness began to grow before Zoe’s eyes, a darkness more than night, untouched by streetlights or shadows.
Then her eyes closed and she felt hungry and sad and anxious.
And scared.
Very scared.
Her head hit the floor, her body shuddered and vibrated like it was trying to expel its last few atoms of air and there was no more time to think or feel anything.
Nothing.
PART TWO
32
Phil stood once more on the threshold. The gateway to another world.
There is a darker world, Phil knew, that lives alongside the everyday one. This secret world was unpleasant and depressing, a world of pain and hurt and sudden, senseless death, loss and despair. It turned homes, places of refuge and safety, into cold, abattoir death scenes. Destroyed lives both by what it took and what it left behind.
It was a place most people were aware of but chose to ignore, hoping that entry would only be for others, something that only happened to someone else. Not them. Never them.
But it didn’t work like that. The doorway to the secret world could be opened at any time, anywhere by anyone. This was the silently acknowledged truth. Its worst kept secret.
And here it was again, on Maldon Road in Colchester.