by J G Alva
“Why were you there?”
Mike dragged angrily on his cigarette.
“Do ee not remember? I told yus this last time. What the fuck is yus askin’ I again for?”
“I just want to go over it, to see if you remember anything more.”
“I told ee: I was deliverin’ a telly. For fuck’s sake…”
There was a mantelpiece above the fireplace. Sutton moved toward it, and then from the bag he was holding, he began lining up the items he had bought from the shop they had stopped at: a bottle of Absolut Vodka, a bottle of Jim Beam, a bottle of Jack Daniels.
Mike’s eyes watched Sutton, and once he was done they moved to the bottles on the mantelpiece.
“What the fuck is this?”
Sutton said, “I didn’t know what you liked. Are you a vodka man? Or perhaps you prefer Jack Daniels? How about Jim Beam?”
Sutton saw Mike swallow thirstily.
“Who the fuck be you?” He said, his eyes angry on Sutton.
“I’m a…consultant,” he said, leaning on the mantelpiece. He looked at the bottles, touching them in turn, gauging Mike’s reactions. Finally, he settled on the Absolut Vodka. “I’m here to do what I can to find the girl that was abducted. Now. This is good for you, because it means I can buy some vodka and give it to you, and I’m not breaking any rules. Because I don’t work for the police, there are no rules for me to break.” Sutton hefted the bottle of Absolut Vodka in his hand. “But I’m not an idiot. You have to give me something. I think you know more than you’re telling us about what happened that night. I thought you might be more inclined to tell the truth if there was something in it for you.”
Mike looked longingly at the vodka, and then dragged on his cigarette.
But he did not speak.
His eyes flicked to Sutton; they had a hard sheen on them.
He would not talk so easily.
Sutton twisted the top from the vodka and then began pouring it on to the living room carpet.
Mike baulked.
“What the fuck is you doin’!”
He came for Sutton. He had turned; it was that quick: the violence, like a knife, had been drawn. Sutton saw the flash in his eyes and was ready for it. Mike had both hands out to grab him, but Sutton stepped coolly back and then with his open palm hit Mike across the side of the face. He put a bit of force behind it. Mike’s head rocked back, and he stumbled, grabbing the mantelpiece for support. By then, Sean had an arm around his throat, his bicep bunching impressively.
“I’ve got him,” Sean said.
Mike gave a strangled grunt.
“Yus fuck…”
“Fucking hold him,” Sutton said.
Sutton did not speak again until the entire contents of the bottle had been emptied. The smell in the room was strong. He then replaced the cap, put the empty bottle back on the mantelpiece, and then reached for the Jim Beam. He twisted the top off and was about to pour it out when –
“Wait.” Mike had his hand out. He struggled against Sean’s hold on him, but to no avail. “For fuck’s sake. Jus’…jus’ fuckin’ wait.”
“What?”
Mike’s eyes flicked to Sutton, and then back to the bottle. He licked his lips, but could not bring himself to speak.
Sutton poured.
The alcohol splashed all over the floor, acidic in all of their nostrils.
“Awright, awright, fuckin’ stop, fuckin’ stop it!”
Sutton stopped, but held the bottle in such a way that his final intention, should he not be satisfied, was clear.
Mike licked his lips again, his eyes on the bottle in Sutton’s hand.
“There…there might have been sumfin of a…of a delay between when he attacked I, and when I called to tell ee what had happened.”
“How much of a delay?”
Mike shook his head, already regretting his decision.
“Twenty minutes?”
“Twenty?”
“Maybe…maybe aff hour?”
Sutton looked at Sean; his expression was hard.
“Why?” Sutton asked.
Mike squirmed against Sean’s hold on him, but upon his admission the fight seemed to be leaking out of him.
“Aw, come on, gis I a break…”
“Why?” Sutton pressed.
“’Cause…” Mike cleared his throat, looking trapped in that moment. “’Cause…’cause when ee attacked I, when ee shocked I with that fuckin’ fing, I woke up and I felt around and knew…he had made I shit myself.”
Mike looked embarrassed of all things. His eyes looked up at Sutton and just as quickly looked away.
Sean released Mike, giving him a little bit of a push. Mike stumbled, and reached out to the mantelpiece to steady himself. His head was hung low; the fight had totally gone out of him.
But as he spoke again his anger sparked briefly; it was not however directed either at Sean or at Sutton.
“When he zapped I, I shit myself, awright? And I weren’t goin’ to let no one fuckin’ know about it. I didn’t want to talk to no pigs – to the police – smellin’ of shit. So when I comes around, I got in me van and drove back here and changed me clothes.” He looked at Sean. “I even thought about not calling ee at all.”
“So why did you?” Sean asked.
Mike’s eyes slid away.
“I dunno,” he said, and shrugged, but he did know. “I thought someone might gis I a reward or sumfin.”
Sutton stared at Mike, and then looked at Sean. What he was saying was the truth, it felt like the truth, but was it all of it? Sutton wasn’t sure.
But he thought that that was probably all they were going to get from him tonight.
Sutton replaced the cap on the Jim Beam and then put it back on the mantelpiece next to the Jack Daniels. He looked at Sean, who nodded his agreement.
He indicated the bottles to Mike with a flick of his hand and said, “consider this your reward.”
*
They stood outside a moment, at the foot of the path, digesting what Mike Ruffall had told them. Sutton could see the silhouette of Robin in the car. She was watching them.
Sean began, “do you think-“
His mobile phone rang.
He shuffled it out of his pocket, flipped it open and held it to his ear.
“Hello?”
He listened, and his face turned hard.
“Alright. Okay. Yes. Give me ten minutes.”
He ended the call, put the phone back in his pocket, and stared at nothing for a moment.
Sutton waited him out.
He came back to himself, and his expression was grim.
“Come on,” he said, and started back to his car. “They’ve found another one. Not Andrea, but another body.”
*
CHAPTER 4
Helen was a student.
She was nineteen, blonde, slim, and had big blue eyes in a small soft face. She dressed like she didn’t know she was attractive: baggy jeans and shapeless khaki tops and worn out trainers. She always had a bag over her shoulder. She always wore a frown. A very serious girl.
Guy saw her walking into the Waterstones opposite the HH Wills Physics building on Tyndall Avenue and felt compelled to follow her. It was that sudden, and that strong.
But when he got inside it was like she had vanished into thin air. He couldn’t see her anywhere.
Students milled in the aisles. The woman behind the till looked at him with curiosity.
Damn. He shouldn’t be here.
But he couldn’t leave. Some part of him forbid it.
So he wandered the aisles in the hopes of finding her, not interested in the books on the shelves, intent instead only on finding that lean figure with the dull clothes, searching faces for that serious look, for those big blue eyes.
Until turning a corner into the Classics section he bumped into her, spilling the three books she had in her hands to the floor. It was like his worst nightmare had come true. He felt appalled at his own stup
idity. Other people were stupid; he was not.
In that immediate confusion, his hands flew up, and one brushed her breast. It was completely accidental, but there was no way he could believe that she had been unaware of it. He could not meet her eye. His face blazed.
“Oh God, I’m sorry, I…oh God…” He heard himself stammering, the words spilling out of his mouth beyond his control. “Please. I didn’t mean, I mean, I didn’t, I’m…I’m so sorry…”
“It’s okay,” she said, and he looked up briefly to check her face; she was smiling. He couldn’t believe it. What was going on? What was her plan? “It’s okay. Accidents happen.”
“Look,” he said, bending to pick up the books, desperate to hide his embarrassed face. “Look, look,” he said again, thrusting the books at her. Automatically, he noticed that she was studying the Classics: Dickens, Austen, Hardy, some of which he had read, and found completely baffling. They were about people and places he could not connect with, a world that didn’t exist, had never existed. “Let me help. Let me…I’m so sorry…”
“It’s alright,” she said, but now her voice was no longer friendly and forgiving; it was uncertain. His wrongness was obviously apparent to her, as he knew it must be to anybody who spent any time with him.
When she had all her books back in her hands, he stepped back from her, aware that he was doing everything wrong, aware that his behaviour could only engender suspicion in her, that by being so obviously distraught layers of secrecy were being shed like a snake’s skin, to reveal his true self. But that was the thing: he couldn’t help it.
“Thank you,” she said quietly, hugging the books to herself.
He looked at her face again, quickly, a darting glance, expecting to see the distrust and suspicion that he knew must be there, and then was surprised to see neither of those emotions but something else altogether. But he had no idea what it could be; he did not recognise it.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, and turned and walked out of the shop, his heart hammering wildly, sweat pouring down his back, tricking from his armpits down his sides. And his face…it was hot and itchy and embarrassed.
Outside he was able to calm himself. No longer like a drop of water in a hot frying pan, he was able to think clearly, and along with coherent thoughts came the need for her, a real thing, a force, so strong and so powerful that he almost turned back around to re-enter the shop. At the last moment he managed to stop himself, and walk away.
He lingered outside for a time. He wanted to follow her, but daren’t. She had spoken to him, she would know him if she saw him trailing her. No.
Her curious expression at the end of their meeting flashed into his mind suddenly. He did not understand. Why had she seemed…concerned? Had it been for her own well being? Was that it?
It had to be that.
In the street he stopped so suddenly that a woman walking on the other side of the street turned to stare at him.
He realised with something like shock that she had looked at him as if she…as if she had…liked him.
My God. Had she been interested in him?
Oh no. No no no no no.
God, he felt sick with fear at the thought.
He wanted to kill her, right then, at that moment. It took all of his willpower to deny himself. He couldn’t go back for her. Because if he did follow her, to her home, and she saw him, and recognised him, and stopped to say hello…
What if she invited him in?
Good God. He couldn’t go through with that.
He couldn’t. Couldn’t talk to her, couldn’t have a cup of tea with her, couldn’t just be in a room with her…it would be impossible.
He couldn’t relate to normal people. It was not something that was within his power.
But oh how he wanted her.
Those eyes.
Feeling sick with loss, he walked back to his van, hoping against hope that he might run into her again, but not really believing it.
*
That night, he wrote in his diary:
Why did that look scare me so much? What am afraid of? I am quicker, stronger, and smarter than she could ever be. So why did I feel so threatened? Why did I flee like a frightened child?
Because to conform to her rules is to deny myself, to play a game I have no hope of winning. She has all the cards, and she knows it. And at every juncture, at every test, I would so obviously fail. After all, I am ill equipped to play a game that is completely foreign to who I am. And what I am is completely foreign to everything she has ever known.
And to play would be to admit that I somehow want to win, that I want her approval. Why should I want the approval of someone so far beneath me?
I break all rules. That is what I do, who I am.
The justification for my fear can only be that, had I unleashed myself in that moment, had I taken her in that shop, I would not now be a free man.
*
His problem with women could quite easily be traced back to his relationship with his mother.
He was something of an eager student when it came to psychology. Many years ago, in his bid to win his freedom, he had learned more about himself than he could ever honestly be comfortable with.
And he had learned that his mother had more than a casual hand in the unusual way he had turned out.
His father had left when he was young. He didn’t know the particulars, and had very few memories of the man who had been half of the party responsible for spawning him. Strange, that he had never bothered to look for him. Even now, he felt no curiosity about someone who was that important. He was a tall man, he remembered, like a giant. Guy did not know why he had left. His mother wouldn’t talk about it. Whenever Guy asked her, she always responded with variations on the same sneering remarks:
“Because you disappointed him, you little fucking retard. You and your fucking silences. You and all those poor animals you tortured. All those girls you kept following. You and the fucking reports from your teachers. You’re like an untrained animal. Like a stupid gorilla. The poor man couldn’t take it, and who could blame him. Me, I deserve a fucking medal, the things you’ve put me through. Well? What have you got to say for yourself? Huh? What’s the matter? Forgotten how to fucking talk?”
And then she might hit him, if she’d had a particularly bad day. An open handed blow, across his cheek. He came to expect it. Absurdly, if she didn’t, he came to miss it a little bit.
It was the only love he knew.
But in recent years, and after his recent researches into psychology, he had begun to doubt her.
She wasn’t the smart, able, intelligent woman he had always believed she was. No. If she was so incredible, then how come the men she brought back with her to their home did not stay for more than a couple of nights? If she was so irresistible, why could she not keep a man? Why must there always be more? More men, different men, of all shapes and sizes.
And she had to fuck them all. Oh yes. He could hear it through the walls, the groaning, the screaming, his mother’s voice as if suffering some terrible torture, as if she were being skewered on a six foot pike, not a man’s cock.
And always, always, at the sounds, he would become aroused.
But the question, like a fire in an abandoned warehouse, could not be ignored:
What if she, herself, was not normal?
This of course was the crux of it all, because if she wasn’t, if the standards he lived by, that she had imposed on him, were unreasonable, were in fact not tailored at all to the world in which he lived, in which they both lived, well…
Then he might slip free of those standards, once and for all. To be his own man.
With this new found knowledge, he was beginning to think that there might come a day when he would have the courage to challenge her. To challenge those precepts that she had used to beat him round the head with all this time.
His loving mother.
*
He visited the area in and around Tyndall Avenue alm
ost every day after that first fraught meeting, in the hopes that would see Helen again, and had almost given up when, on the fifth day, he saw her walking with a friend down Tyndall’s Park Road, toward Whiteladies.
Confident that by now she must surely have no recollection of him – after all, it had only been a brief encounter, and he was hardly memorable – he followed her, watching as she turned on to Elmdale Road, following haltingly as she turned into one of the houses opposite Priory Road, fumbling with her keys at the door, before finally letting herself in.
So. He now knew where she lived.
Of course, it was only a short step from there to finding out her name, what she was studying, if she had a car, if she had a part time job.
After that, it had been a waiting game, one he was familiar with, and even enjoyed from time to time. The anticipatory thrill made his skin tingle. It was agony, but it was a delicious pain. He almost couldn’t stand it. Almost.
Until, late one night, dressed in completely different clothes than her usual non-descript sexless uniform, she left the house alone.
And that was when he grabbed her.
*
There were steel rings installed in the ceiling of his studio.
Guy knew that they had once been used for cables. Now, he tied the rope around Helen’s wrists, took hold of the hook at the end of the rope and, mounting the step ladder to the top, pulled on it, Helen’s body rising, until he was able to slip the hook through the steel ring.
There. Perfect.
She slowly revolved on the rope, her arms pulled high over her head. She was unconscious. The Prod had done that. 50,000 volts through your system was liable to take you off guard somewhat. It was anyone’s guess when she might wake up.
He climbed down the step ladder, folded it up and placed it against the wall.
He spent a moment watching her; the skin, the face, the hair. Beautiful.
She turned, the rope creaking. She was like a particularly unusual child’s mobile.
He went back to the work room, picked up a pair of scissors and carefully cut off her top.