by Elena Wilkes
Let’s get on.
She eases the handle down and opens the door. The curtains are drawn back, and the bright moonlight bathes every surface in grey light. A laptop is sitting neatly on the desk and she goes over, flipping open the lid as the screen flashes blue into the darkness. She beckons Martin to start on the drawers. She sees they’re full of paperwork: innocuous stuff, boring minutiae of old bills and bus timetables, parking machine tickets and bits of grubby Post-It notes. The laptop whirrs gently, lighting up and immediately letting her in.
‘This must be Vanessa’s,’ she whispers. ‘There’s no password.’
She goes through clicking on the files, one after another after another. She frowns: this looks more like Peter’s stuff. There are gardening tips and planting timetables, seed suppliers; nothing dodgy at all. She double-clicks onto others: there’s reminders from the National Trust, Over Sixties’ holiday brochures. Exasperated, she begins on the browsing history. It’s all the same tedious, everyday rubbish. She glances at Martin. He’s pulled out great swathes of paperwork and is holding up a document that looks as though it’s something to do with the house. The torch on his phone flickers across the page. It’s a typewritten letter addressed to Peter, and on the back, Peter has drafted a handwritten reply. Martin focusses the torch and Frankie peers closer.
It’s nothing like the writing on the notes; the script is totally different. It has an upward left to right slope and the writing is pinched and tiny.
She looks up at Martin and shakes her head, puzzled.
‘And the laptop?’ he whispers.
She shakes her head. ‘Maybe we just don’t know enough about how these people work,’ she hisses in a low voice. ‘They’re secretive. They know how to hide stuff so that it all looks innocuous.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘Let’s take this.’ She unplugs the laptop. ‘We’ll find someone who knows how to dig deeper in to the memory. If there’s nothing there, then we have to find Peter and we threaten him,’ she whispers, wide-eyed. ‘We tell him what we know. We make sure that he’s aware we’re watching him. And we will watch him, and we’ll keep watching him for as long as it takes.’
There’s a sudden sound and they both snap round.
Frankie can hear Martin’s breath, high and scratchy. Neither of them moves a muscle. There it is again… a tiny creak coming from the next room.
Holding her finger to her lips, Frankie slips closer to the door and puts her ear to it.
Martin is frozen to the spot. Frankie holds up a hand, hesitating in mid-air. She listens.
Is it Chloe?… Where’s she gone? The bathroom? For one terrible moment she thinks she might have gone in to Vanessa and woken her.
She holds her breath.
There’s another crack and the slight squeal of a door.
She waits. It all goes quiet. She points at the bedroom wall and holds up a hand. Martin nods.
Time stands still. Nothing moves. Carefully, very carefully, she eases the door open, glancing back once to make sure that everything is as they found it. The landing is dark. She beckons Martin forward to where the stairs begin. Just a few steps and they’ll be down them and out of there… Just a few more steps.
There’s a soft shushing movement from behind Chloe’s door.
They freeze. Only Martin’s eyes move in the darkness.
The door is no longer closed. A shadow in the gap moves a little. Frankie thinks her heart might burst at any moment. She can’t look at Martin. They stand, paralysed.
‘Fraaankie…’
Her whole spine turns to ice.
Slowly, almost in imperceptible degrees, her eyes move towards Martin. His face is like a ghost.
‘Fraaankie…’ A giggle, tinkling like a child. ‘Mummy…’
The door begins to open. Bit by bit, inch by inch, it widens to reveal the moonlight dappling across the sheepskin rug, a duvet, thrown back. A dented pillow.
No Chloe.
Frankie reaches out, cautiously touching the door edge. She can feel Martin close behind her. They step into the room. There’s no one there. They stand, unsure, blinking into the shadows. There’s a movement: a red eye blinks right back, as a cloak of darkness shifts and it turns to face them.
The door slams.
The light goes on.
Jack is standing with his back to it. He smiles suddenly. His look is indescribable: the eyes are mad, glassy: drugged up.
‘Well, well,’ he chuckles. ‘Well, well… It’s just like old times.’ He smiles broadly at Martin who only stares back at him.
‘Jack? What are you doing here? What is this?’ she starts.
‘Why did you have to come back into our lives, Frankie?’ Jack shakes his head. ‘Why couldn’t you have just gone away like you were supposed to?’
‘I don’t understand…’ she grapples. ‘What’s going on?’
‘You had to turn up on our doorstep when everything was just ticking along nicely.’ He takes a breath and tuts. ‘I had it all sorted: Dad and you and Vanessa and Chloe. But you had to keep turning up and I had to keep finding ways to head you off.’
‘Where is she?’ Frankie takes a step towards him but instantly feels Martin’s hand on her arm. She sees his gaze flicker downwards. Jack is holding a can of lighter fuel.
‘Of course she’s not here. Vanessa thinks you’re the devil incarnate.’ He smiles. ‘You’re so easy to wind up and manoeuvre, Frankie.’ He grins widely. ‘All that sitting outside the house, and being a nuisance at the school; you’re such a nut-case. So she’s taken Chloe away.’ He cocks his head on one side. ‘I had to make sure she’s safe. She’s my prize possession.’
‘You orchestrated all that?’ Cold air slips into Frankie’s lungs as her brain tries to process what she’s hearing.
‘Chloe looks just like Charlotte, she sounds just like Charlotte, she feels just like Charlotte.’ The grin becomes a wet leer.
Frankie gasps in fury. She wants to scream and claw his face off. But Martin’s grip on her arm tightens.
‘Don’t worry. I haven’t touched her yet. She’s a dish that’s yet to be savoured. The anticipation is as delicious as the first spoonful.’ He licks his lips.
‘It was you.’
The sound of Martin’s voice snaps her round.
‘What was me?’
‘It was Peter Vale and you.’
‘No, no.’ Jack grins his strange grin. ‘No, my dad is a fine upstanding chap, everyone knows that. That’s why his fall from grace was so dramatic. There was this fantastic family man, who would do anything, anything to protect his family. But then, you’d know better than anyone, Martin – You know he would. You’ve got the evidence in that scar around your neck.’
Frankie’s eyes flit down again to the fuel can that he’s gripping and loosening at his side.
‘You killed Charlotte,’ Martin says flatly. ‘You and him.’
‘Me?’ His hand flies to his chest like he’s some second-rate actor. ‘No, dear me, no. I was having far too much fun with Charlotte to want to kill her.’ He smiles at Frankie. ‘And you, lovely girl. I was just beginning to have a bit of fun with you. Remember the bathroom? “You’re so beautiful,” he hisses, giggling. “I just love seeing you naked.” The sniggering breaks into a throaty laugh. ‘Christ! The look on your face!’
Frankie suddenly can’t find any air.
‘I loved seeing Charlotte naked too… Did you know she wanted to be a model?’ Jack cups the back of his head as he strikes a pose. ‘And I just obliged. Silly bitch,’ he sneers. ‘She thought it made her look powerful and sexy, but she didn’t see all the dirty-minded men using her pictures to spill their filth into. That’s how powerful she was,’ he laughs. ‘You’re all silly bitches. Her and you and all the others.’
Martin jolts beside her as though he’s woken from a trance.
‘So that’s why she couldn’t tell me what was going on: because it was you Jack! She only hinted at what you were doi
ng to her… And the indecent images – they were yours, weren’t they?’ Martin shakes his head, incredulous. ‘That’s the bit we missed. Peter took the rap for you.’
Jack only looks back, blankly, for a moment. ‘It was my idea,’ he says suddenly. ‘To kill two birds, as it were. You and my dad.’
‘Why would you do that to your own father?’ Martin looks at him, horrified.
But Jack’s face clouds. ‘Have you got any idea what it’s like to be neglected all your life, hmm? To be the child that doesn’t exist? Have you?’ He glowers. ‘All I ever wanted was for him to see me, but he never did; it was all Charlotte, Charlotte, Charlotte.’ His mouth grimaces. ‘So bit by bit, I took her away from him until I took her away for good. It didn’t take much to convince my mental father to kill the man who had murdered her – It all seemed so sweet.’ Jack looks directly at Martin. ‘But the incompetent old fucker didn’t kill you, did he, Martin? He ballsed up and you get to make a nuisance of yourself with her.’ He points the can at Frankie. She sees that the cap is off.
‘How I wanted you dead, Jarvis.’ Jack’s grimace turns to anger. ‘You just couldn’t keep your hands off anything, could you? Charlotte was mine and you had to go and touch her.’ His face hardens. He grips the can until it makes a denting sound, in and out, in and out. ‘And she wasn’t yours to touch.’ He pulls a lighter from his other pocket.
‘Jack, you’re not serious,’ Frankie starts. ‘Put that down. What do you think you’re doing?’
‘He touched her.’ Jack doesn’t take his eyes from Martin. He rolls the lighter wheel again.
‘But I didn’t touch her Jack! She came to me a few times and we talked. That’s all! That night at the party was different: she was crying. She was shit-scared. Now I realise she was scared of you, Jack – you were everything she hated… It was you.’
‘You’re a liar.’ Jack flicks the lighter once, then twice. ‘You were telling her to get away and leave me. I knew it wasn’t her saying that shit. You put the words in her mouth.’
‘She was terrified. She said something really bad was going to happen to her. I told her to go to the police, but she said no one would believe her.’
‘See? See?’ Jack’s head snaps back. ‘You couldn’t help yourself. We were fine until you came along. She was happy—’
‘You’re not going to do any of this, Jack. You’re not that stupid.’
Martin glances at the lighter can and then at the flame that keeps popping and fading from under Jack’s thumb. Frankie shoots a look at him in warning. What was he thinking, antagonising him?
‘Don’t you tell me what to do.’ The flame sends weird dancing shadows across the glint of Jack’s eyes. His thumb pauses menacingly. ‘You’re not in charge here, Jarvis: I am.’ He eases the door open behind him. ‘All this and you…’ he waves the can across the floor and a spray of fluid patters across the carpet, ‘… are going up in smoke.’
There’s a sudden blur of movement.
Martin lunges for Jack, knocking the can from his hand. A spray of lighter fuel fountains into the air, pattering across Frankie’s face, leaving her gasping. There’s a crash as the two bodies hit the wall. A whole shelf of books topples, smashing to the floor as Martin makes a dive for the can but misses.
‘Frankie!’ he yells.
Jack has grabbed him, pinning him to the floor; his elbow is at his neck. Martin thrashes wildly, his fingers reaching for Jack’s face. He rakes at his mouth, digging his nails in and tearing downwards. There’s a howl from Jack and a sudden spurt of blood from his lip as Frankie suddenly jerks into action, leaping onto Jack’s shoulders and using her whole bodyweight to haul him backwards. He stumbles, floundering madly, wheeling her round and crashing blindly into the bookcase. A load of books topple, and then he has her: his fingers dig into her windpipe, squeezing and squeezing as she claws frantically at his clothes. There’s a buzzing in her ears, the sound is getting louder as the room begins to fade around the edges. She’s aware of Martin somewhere, his voice sounding very far away, getting fainter and fainter… then there’s a sudden release of pressure and she takes a huge gasp of air.
Martin is shouting, she doesn’t know what. Jack’s weight lifts and her senses come rushing back. She finally hears the words he’s yelling. Her fingers fumble to her pocket and suddenly she has it: the Swiss Army knife is in her hand, the blade pulled and pointing and she thrusts forward, not knowing what she’s doing or where it’s aiming.
Jack screams, and both men pitch backwards into the bookcase. She is aware of the sound of splitting wood and looks up to where the shelves used to be. In their place is a camera, its hooded black snout pointing in her direction, its red camera eye blinking and flexing, and what she saw that night begins to fall into place. Jack is crouched on all fours, bleeding from a cut on his face. Martin is lying slumped against the far wall. Disorientated, she becomes aware that there’s paper, lots of it, bits of paper dropping from the back of the smashed shelves. It’s not paper, her brain tells her… This isn’t ordinary paper… These are photographs.
Hundreds of them.
She grapples to make sense. Pale naked images of flesh slide across the floor towards her – she sees arms and legs, breasts and buttocks… Photographs… loads of them, slipping from their hiding place and floating to the floor. Charlotte. Charlotte… more of Charlotte. And then her eyes catch another: it’s Chloe, partly dressed, her arms crossed above her head as she takes off her top… Then there’s Charlotte again: her bare back and shoulders. Frankie’s hand reaches out to touch it, as a sudden yell rents the air. She turns to see Jack. He has crawled and grabbed the lighter. He raises it in the air as their eyes lock. The moment seems to last an eternity as the blur of Martin moving in front of her paralyses everything. There’s a flash of what looks like lightening, and a piercing shriek from Jack. She shields her eyes in the sudden flare, as the heat, a searing, sudden heat, crackles all around and a caustic stink scours her nostrils.
‘Frankie!’ She can hear someone bellowing. ‘Frankie!’
Then there are hands around her waist, pulling her backwards. All she can hear is a terrible screaming that goes on and on and a smell that’s so, so dreadful… She gags and retches, bending double. Dragged by a sudden massive force, she finds herself on the landing and half-stumbling, half-falling down the stairs and out through the front door. She gags and retches again, hands on knees, coughing and spitting, her eyes streaming with tears as she fights to get the words out.
‘Jack…’ she splutters. ‘Jack…’
She glances up. Martin’s arms are still around her as he hauls her out into the street. Palls of smoke are billowing high into the night air. There’s a terrific crack and roar of flames and suddenly the upstairs window shatters, sending shards of glass tumbling down into the garden.
She sees Martin with a phone and is yelling, panicked. ‘Please! Fire brigade and ambulance!… Hurry!’
She looks back up at the house with tears flooding down her face. ‘Oh my god…’ she whispers softly. ‘Oh my god…’
But Martin’s arm tightens around her. ‘Come on,’ he says gently. ‘Come and sit in the car. There’s nothing we can do. Leave it, Frankie. Just leave it.’
She allows herself to be guided. Her feet feel as though they’re barely making contact with the ground. Martin holds the door open, helping her into the passenger seat. She’s not really there; her hands and face feel numb. He slips off his jacket and wraps it around her.
‘Your shirt—’ she can barely get the words out. ‘Look at your shirt—’
He looks down. He’s soaked in drying blood.
Clamping her jaw, she swallows hard. ‘W-What happened, Martin? W-What the hell just happened?’ Her eyes are full of grit and smoke. She can barely see. Martin doesn’t reply. He looks round into the wall of blue and red flashing lights that are coming down the road towards them. His face looks pinched and weird in the maddened light.
‘What’s that?’
Her eyes follow his.
She realises she’s clutching one of the photographs. The room is Charlotte’s bedroom and in the foreground is a face she instantly recognises: Jack. He’s looking back over his shoulder, smiling impishly into the camera lens.
‘I don’t know,’ she says automatically, but even as she utters the words, she knows that she does.
He gently takes the photograph from her, tipping it into the light. There’s a sudden glare of headlights and the photograph is lit in all its obscene clarity.
There in the background is Charlotte, naked and asleep on the bed, one arm sprawled above her head, one hand clutching the covers part-way across her breast as though seeking a little modesty. He pushes it back at her.
‘I don’t want to see that. I don’t want that filth in my head.’
There are shouts from the fire fighters and a group of police begin to swarm from their cars.
‘We’d better go and speak to them.’ He sounds utterly exhausted. ‘Or I will. Yes, you stay here, Frankie. They’re going to want to talk to both of us, but I’ll tell them we’re going to the police station.’
She watches him walk slowly towards the officers, his gait leaden with weariness. They can’t escape. She leans her head back against the head rest. Martin is a black outline against the blaze of lights. Groups of people in their dressing gowns have gathered on the pavement to watch. Every face is a mask of disbelief. Somehow, in the midst of the horror, she feels a kind of appalling relief that Chloe is safe, that Vanessa is with her—
But Jack.
She can’t get his face out of her head. Jack. What he told them; none of that could be true, could it? She knew Jack. He was kind to her. They laughed together, chatted together. The person in that house tonight wasn’t the boy she knew. She starts to cry, the tears and sobs choking and unstoppable down her face as the recollection of what took place tonight plays over and over. He caused such unbearable suffering, such horror… how could he have done all that? Jack – The other Jack. The one she didn’t know. The tears start to flow, as the darkness of her reflection stares back at her in the window. She rests her forehead against the glass, grinding the bone until it’s painful.