by A. S. French
Astrid picked up the yellow pen to sketch Olivia’s face on the wall, to have something to hold on to beyond her memories. She wasn’t worried about revealing anything too personal about her life. The Agency knew of Astrid’s niece because they were the ones who’d dropped the bombshell about Courtney.
‘Your sister is pregnant.’
Astrid had spat her drink over the floor when Director Cross told her. She’d always assumed Courtney was barren. The only emotions Astrid saw from her sister were negativity and hatred, so how she’d snared a father for a child baffled her.
‘Are you spying on my relatives?’
She’d said it in jest to distract herself from the feelings she couldn’t quite understand. Why should she care about her sister’s baby?
‘We keep eyes and ears on all our agents’ families; you know that.’
George spoke with one of those warm smiles, which meant Astrid should consider her new relatives’ imminent arrival. She’d done her best to ignore the news for as long as possible before doubts poked at her skull. Five years she’d waited, filling her time with Agency assignments and fleeting romances; she never checked on her sister’s life and refused any opportunity to discover anything about her niece. It was two years after the birth when she finally saw Olivia’s name, and that was by accident when she found a report written by George. Or perhaps it wasn’t an accident, and that email came to her account deliberately. To her surprise, she’d grown closer to Director Cross the longer she worked for the Agency, and she was aware of his concern about how she’d isolated herself from the others
Once Olivia’s name was imprinted onto her brain, her restlessness drove her to discover more about her niece, searching out photos online, finding the name of her school and friends, and tracking down information about the nanny. Once Astrid started the whole process, she understood it wouldn’t be long before she had to see the kid in person, and it couldn’t be with Courtney around. One of them would likely kill the other, and she wasn’t sure who would get the first blow in.
So, twenty-four hours before leaving the country forever, Astrid had made a choice; but it wasn’t only about seeing her niece. She’d been in the park to question the nanny about Astrid’s father’s involvement in Olivia’s life, unsure how she’d respond if she learnt he’d returned. She’d have to speak to Courtney at least, a continuation of their last conversation years ago.
Why did you let me suffer? Why didn’t you help me?
Astrid had asked those questions before, calmly speaking to Courtney when they were both teenagers. Her sister’s violent response, Astrid’s cracked cheekbone and dislocated socket healed a long time ago, but the pain was always there, and prevented her from saying what she wanted.
Why did you lie about me? Why did you encourage him?
And:
Why do you hate me so much, Courtney?
Those words, those feelings were locked away with all the other terrible memories in the shadows inside her head. She knew the only way to get rid of them was to face them. Seeing Olivia would lead to facing her sister; Astrid realised that before she set foot in the park. So she constructed her plans, unfurled a road map inside her head which led to Courtney. The plans of escape from the Agency neared completion; all she had to do was finish the others concerning Olivia and Courtney.
But then everything changed in that playground.
She’d pushed those plans to one side once the racist and his thugs appeared. Astrid had no choice but to react the way she did, but her actions that night distracted her, fooled her into thinking she was returning to the Agency because George needed her. Olivia could wait one more night, and the reunion with Courtney was something she was glad to delay. The plans still lay inside her head: speak to her sister and ensure Olivia’s safety. Astrid only had to escape from her current predicament, which meant figuring out who’d framed her.
Astrid picked up the purple pen and moved to the wall near the sink, searching into her memories, considering who hated her so much. She drew the letter A on the concrete and stepped back from it, staring at the thin lines; it represented the Agency. The obvious choice would be somebody she’d worked with: an agent would have the resources and the motive if they wanted her out of the way, the irony being they were unaware she was on the verge of leaving.
But which agents? It must be more than one for something this complex and stretching over so many cities and countries in Europe. Who knew she intended to travel abroad? Only George and she trusted him with her life. Perhaps he’d let something slip in this building, an innocuous comment, a careless mistake. It wouldn’t have been too hard then to find her holiday itinerary; she’d booked everything online and in her real name. But why murder those people? Sure, she’d fallen out with all of them, but there must be specific reasons to target those four. She placed that problem in one corner of her mind and considered the killer’s identity.
Beside the A, she wrote R for Ramon Sheen, the man who’d rescued her from a life on the street and integrated her into his criminal fraternity. She’d dumped him and left the gang, and he’d never forgiven her for both things. He claimed still to love her: Valentine’s cards arrived every year, even though she kept her address a secret. It was over ten years since Astrid had seen him, but his family lived and died for the vendetta, so he would never forget. Perhaps his loss had festered for all this time until he couldn’t hold it in any longer. He was smart enough for a complex operation like this, and he possessed the resources to stretch across the continent. Would a broken heart transform into revenge so horrible and devious, become so twisted he’d plot and plan for so many years?
And then there was Lawrence Snow. If anybody hated Astrid enough to frame her for multiple murders, it would be her father. She wrote the letter L next to the other two. She tried not to think of him, but it was as Lawrence and not her father when she did. He had the connections, motivation and determination to pin these murders on her.
Why wait all this time? What she’d done, exposing his crimes against her to the world, ruined his career. Courtney and their mother stood by him, which was no surprise to Astrid, but his life with the police was destroyed. But some believed his protestations of innocence or just didn’t care about what he’d done to his younger daughter. Yes, he’d lost his high-profile job, and it damaged his reputation, but some continued to help him. Maybe it had taken him all this time to gather his resources to frame her; plus, she’d been well hidden and protected inside the Agency.
The question of time also related to Ramon. It would have been a lengthy period to wait for either of them to come after her. Astrid dwelt on the problem for a minute before pushing it to one side. She hadn’t eaten for most of the day, but her body was past hunger. She needed to turn her brain off, and there were only two ways which worked for her: her favoured choice was sex, but she wasn’t getting that here. She might fantasise about Agent Laurel Lee all she wanted, but it wouldn’t switch off the freight train of information screeching through her mind.
So she had to try something else. First, she stood and placed her hands on the wall next to where she’d written the letters. Astrid flexed her fingers against the concrete, before pulling them away and squeezing her nails into her palms. She stopped before breaking the skin. Then she turned towards the bed, stretched one leg on to it and bent her knee half a dozen times, repeating it with the other leg. When she felt warmed up, she jogged on the spot until the sweat trickled down the back of her neck. Then she twisted her body to each side, using the motion to shake her thoughts until they came together. When she’d had enough physical exercise, she lay on the bed.
Astrid stared at the empty walls and scanned for the hidden cameras in the room. She tilted her head to the side so she couldn’t see the letters; gazing at them would have meant she’d have focused on who had framed her all night: that process was for tomorrow. Her gaze melted into the empty wall, her focus meditating on a single precise open spot; all the thoughts of the day, of
the Agency, the murders, her family, and eventually, Olivia, disappeared into that emptiness. Then she retrieved an instrumental soundtrack from her inner jukebox, a collection of Eno tunes, and allowed them to wash over the events of the day. She lay on the uncomfortable bed, letting her body succumb to sleep. Her dreams were fitful and strange, drifting in and out of the ordinary and bizarre like waves caressing the sand before rushing away.
As she slept, one image repeatedly returned: a body floating face down in the water. She wanted to reach in and turn it over, to see their face. But she was too afraid. Too afraid it might be her face, not dead but alive, and the realisation she’d submerged her emotions all these years for nothing.
And afraid it might be Olivia in the river.
9 Riders on the Storm
Sometime later, she woke and gazed at the walls. While she’d rested, somebody had left water and food in the cell. Two tired-looking sandwiches stared at her from the floor. Astrid picked one and bit into it with relish. Pale ham and plastic cheese fell down her throat, desperate to silence the grumbling at the bottom of her gut. It tasted terrible, grit and cardboard masquerading as nourishment, but was a banquet to her withered insides. She drank half the water in a gulp to remove the flavour. Then she turned her attention to the wall, glancing at the purple letter A.
Astrid took the red pen and started doodling, sketching a face half Picasso and half Dali, in style, not in homage. She’d always wanted to be an artist after a teacher introduced her to Hieronymus Bosch, but her parents frowned upon the idea, forcing her to concentrate on maths and science. She became the geek everybody ridiculed; until she smacked the biggest bully to the ground, pushing his thick nose into the dirt and rubble. None of the kids bothered her after that. Some of them whispered about her behind her back, mentioning how special she was, but meaning it as an insult. She wasn’t the only kid in the school with ADHD, but she was the only one not taking medication for the condition. Her father didn’t believe in using pharmaceuticals for solving health issues, and it was the one thing she agreed with him on.
She probed her memories and sketched the faces of the murdered agents on the wall: Delaney in red because Astrid broke her heart; purple for Dark because she’d made a mistake; Andrews in black for a rapist and sexual predator; and finally, Chill in yellow because he was a traitor. The Agency wouldn’t return to her for weeks, but the cameras watched her, and she wanted to give them something to dwell on. And it helped to stay focused.
More nourishment came later, pushed through the vent: a stretch of grey plastic pretending to be meat, plus some tired green mush which might have been vegetables in a previous life. Another jug of water arrived with it, the drink reminding her of the rivers and the bodies. The murderer knew about her trip to Europe, knew which cities to visit, which meant they might have hacked into her computer. That thought consumed her sleep that night.
The second day, she returned to who’d framed her. Astrid focused on her family first. Her mother and sister hated Astrid, but they weren’t capable or desperate enough to devise something so complicated, which left only him. Lawrence was in his seventies. Would he have the strength to strangle four people? He would; his hate would provide him with all the fuel he needed. Part of her hoped it was him, but she thought it unlikely.
Ramon and his gang were a more obvious choice. She’d ended up in prison because of them, failed to steal what they wanted, but she couldn’t see this being their work. It was more than a decade ago, and none of them were the sharpest tools in the box.
No, it had to be somebody she’d worked with at the Agency, so she focused on that. Astrid spent the rest of the day staring at the letter A, trawling through memories of every assignment she’d undertaken for the Agency.
On the third day, she wrote her favourite song lyrics on the walls. To make it enjoyable, she did each artist in a different language. The Smiths in English; Bowie in German; Joy Division in Danish; PJ Harvey in French; the Sex Pistols in Spanish; Nina Simone in Urdu; and, to keep herself amused, the Stooges in a bastardised version of American English.
By the end of that night, Astrid was surprised with how creative she’d been; and how she’d staved off the boredom so far. She fell asleep, wondering what she’d do next to keep her mind active, but she didn’t have to worry too much as they came to her the next day.
Late in the afternoon, when the mush masquerading as food arrived, the door opened and in walked Agent Lee. Astrid continued to lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling.
‘Only four days; you must miss me.’
She wanted some fresh clothes, but didn’t bother making a futile request.
‘I have important news for you.’ Ice seeped from Laurel’s voice, and it disappointed Astrid.
‘I’m all ears.’
‘There’s another body, this time in the Manchester canal.’
Astrid sat up with her mind full of a thousand possibilities.
‘So, that proves I’m innocent, right?’ She hated herself for sounding so desperate.
‘I wish it were true. But the pathologist puts the time of death to about six weeks ago.’
Astrid sighed. ‘When I was there before my flight to Berlin?’
‘That’s what they say.’
Astrid slumped back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling again. ‘It’s another agent?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Who is it?’ Astrid couldn’t be bothered to guess.
‘Agent Joe Storm. Do you remember him?’
She’d never forgotten Joe since he saved her from a life of crime. She lifted, confident she’d found something to dispute their accusations.
‘Joe rescued me from prison; why would I want to kill him?’
‘The theory is you resented him for bringing you into the Agency, and this was payback.’
‘After ten years? Are they crazy?’
Her patience was worn as thin as her nerves as she picked up a group of the pens and smashed them against the wall. Small shreds of plastic splattered over the table like tiny ink-stained children birthed from the hand of destruction.
‘I’m sorry, Astrid; I thought you should know. The media have also connected the five murders and have given the killer a name: the Reaper.’
Laurel closed the door and left as Astrid stared at the blank parts of the wall and remembered Joe Storm. She picked up the black pen, searched through her memories until she found the one she wanted. In it, she was confined, like now, but in a different environment. Whereas her current one was sparse and clinical, the one from her youth was the hustle and bustle of a detention centre. Staff wandered around, ever vigilant to visitors passing things to inmates they shouldn’t, while most of the prisoners were furtive and agitated. Astrid was a picture of serenity, staring at the unknown man who’d come to see her: his long aquiline face, sculpted cheekbones, neatly brushed short inky hair and narrow eyes which gave nothing away. He made her an offer that day which she couldn’t refuse.
She kept the image of him in her mind and drew it on the wall. When she’d finished, Astrid sat on the bed, pushed her shoulders against the concrete and gazed at her work, pleased with what she’d created. After staring at it for five minutes, she returned to it, using a different coloured pen for each letter, and in her best cursive handwriting wrote one word: Reaper.
By the end of the week, she was surprised at how refreshed she felt, both mentally and physically. The cell was small and sparse, but it gave Astrid room to continue her exercise routine: sit-ups, press-ups, running on the spot. It made her think of Joe Storm again and her early days at the Agency when they’d concentrated on getting her fit.
The work she’d done on the wall recharged her mental batteries. It surprised Astrid in the discovery of talents she’d long thought lost. She switched from focusing on who’d framed her to the method: why strangulation and why dump the bodies in the rivers? The last part might be a forensic countermeasure. Why did this Reaper strangle the victims when ther
e were easier ways to kill people?
And what happened to the missing fingers?
I wanted to feel the power flowing through my hands, their lives flowing into mine. Would the experience make me feel alive? I have to admit that, at the start, the deaths were a means to an end, her end, but as I went along, they took on their own objective. Murder took on its own life.
The Manchester one was the worst because Storm had a family, and that made me uncomfortable. Families always make me uneasy; I never know how to act around them and those who put the family at the zenith of achievement in their existence. Still, my plans had to begin somewhere, and a journey of a thousand steps starts with one, so they say. Joseph Storm was the start of my voyage.
It was easy to get him out of the house: a promise of secrets too scandalous to be shared anywhere else but a derelict warehouse on the outskirts of Greater Manchester. I beguiled his weary soul with the lost and clandestine treats. His reputation in recent years was a man of notorious melancholy and sombre disposition. This changed when he met someone new.
He appeared older than I expected, with thin greying hair and thick dark bags under tired eyes. I guess that’s what a new wife and family will do to you.
‘I can’t be gone too long,’ he said to me. ‘It’s my youngest daughter, Ella, she has football practice tonight, and I said I’d watch her play.’
An attentive father; a loving father. What a rare beast he was, and there I stood, ready to take him away from that child. In the long run, I’d be doing the kid a favour.
‘Don’t worry. You’ll be back in plenty of time. Perhaps I’ll come with you.’
Yes, I could watch kids enjoying themselves and marvel at what I’d missed out on in my life.
He was excited as he entered the building, more about our location than anything else. I don’t think he remembered me; he just wanted to see the spot where Joy Division first practised as a group. It was nonsense, a lie I’d told him over the phone; music addicts like him were always ready to believe anything if it fuelled their fantasies.