Have you noticed how Hollywood sci-fi does superpower invasions with heroes who always end up in a punch-up despite having laser blasters, whereas the UK does Doctor Who and A Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy? Odd bloke in a telephone box and another hitching a lift in a dressing gown. I listened to Hitchhiker’s on perpetual loop as a teenager, my way of combating exam stress. Something about the bemused outrage of Arthur Dent before the absurdity of the universe just hit the spot for me. Still does. The alien constructor fleet destroys the Earth to make way for a bypass. That sums up the British sense of humour and I think is closer to the shitstorm that is the universe than Hollywood’s grandiose ideas that anyone could be bothered to invade us. Stuff just happens – a meteorite arrives and kickstarts life, then another takes out the dinosaurs, and maybe yet another will bring down the curtain on this human experiment we’re running not very successfully. It would help if I could take comfort from this big-picture perspective but it’s hard when it’s your life, your cancerous meteorite.
Enough.
But back to the cruise ships. If I were in charge of the city, my first directive would be to keep them well away – make the tourists transfer by smaller vessels. It’s not as if Venice is short of visitors. They are killing the thing they love.
That’s the human condition, I suppose.
Thanks to the perfect choice of hotel, we didn’t have to go very far to find the carnival in full swing. We hired some costumes – not as elaborate as many on display – and joined in with the street party. It was a relief to have a couple of days off from that conspicuous group – the cancer treatment patient with a hairless head. I was gloriously anonymous in a gold dress, cloak, wig and mask; Michael wore an outfit in red and black which made him look like Zorro. He was very careful of me, mindful at all times of the doctor’s words, like I was a delicate confection of spun sugar that would fracture on the slightest brush against anyone. I wanted to tell him that I’m tougher than I look – I’ve had to be, considering my recent experience – but I think he was getting a kick out of being protective. It reminded me of the incident last year. I shouldn’t bring that up again with him, though. We’re both keen to forget how close we sailed to complete disaster. The might-have-beens still keep me awake at night.
I found it liberating to walk a city with my mask in place. We all dissemble, even with the ones we love most, smiling when we feel like crying. I’m so used to wearing a mask that lies just below the skin, that to have it out there for all to see was the most real, most truthful I’ve been for a long time.
Chapter 6
Jessica
It’s hard to read Emma’s diary on my cracked screen. I’ll have to download it to a computer if I want to finish the rest. I like the sound of her, though, with her asides on sci-fi and opera. We could’ve found plenty to talk about.
The train pulls into Feltham where Drew’s family have their business. The undertaker’s is on the corner of Manor Lane and the High Street, near the bright lights of Tesco and the shadier dealings of a government intelligence collection centre. Feltham has that unfortunate mix of no-longer-modern and not-that-old that screams airport suburbia. Planes are a constant companion roaring overhead as if the Viking God Thor has driven a thunderstorm to the long-stay car park and forgotten to collect it. Drew’s shopfront has pale-grey vertical blinds, half closed to give the clients some privacy, and a curly black script announcing the firm’s name which must be hell to read for someone with dyslexia. It’s a font favoured by the front covers of romantic novels, Regency tearooms and dealers in the dead – go figure that one out. I know from Drew that the funeral director’s is not a place many of the bereaved actually visit, with most transactions done on the phone. That means that when I arrive I’m not too worried that I’ll be interrupting a sensitive meeting, but it’s a possibility. I breeze in, ready to breeze back out immediately if I’ve called at an inopportune moment. I’m relieved to find Drew manning reception with his lunch and he’s alone.
He puts down his Tesco sushi, wipes his fingers on a napkin and gives me a welcoming hug. ‘Hi, Jessica, nice surprise! What are you doing here?’
‘Come to see you, of course. No DB to report. I’ve not done away with Michael, not yet, so I’m not asking you to bury him.’ Of course I have made that joke before with him: a good friend will help you move, a true friend will help you move a dead body. I’ve told him that under this criterion he is the perfect true friend.
‘So what do you have to report?’ He pushes a chair out for me and shoves the black sushi tray to halfway between us without asking.
I reel off the morning’s events while folding strips of dead-skin ginger over rice pinwheels. Am I the only person in Britain who finds those shavings of ginger root to be like something that’s been pickled for decades in an anatomist’s laboratory? I’m craving chocolate, my go-to comfort food, but Drew is unlikely to have any to hand as he is ruthless about healthy eating.
Drew fetches some water from the cooler and sets it down in front of me while I finish my story. He’s dressed in a white shirt and black tie and trousers, suit jacket hanging on the back of his chair, which means he’s probably already done a funeral today. On duty, he takes out his piercings but he normally has one in his eyebrow and several in his earlobes. With his slicked-back black hair and trim beard styled like an Elizabethan privateer, he carries a hint of feral even in a suit. What I love most about Drew is his optimism. He’s philosophical about death, and cheerful about the prospect of an afterlife. Bodies are just husks, he says. When you’ve handled enough of them, you realise that. Either the soul has buggered off to be somewhere different or dying takes the batteries out of a person. If option one, then great; if two, then we won’t know, so why worry? I once told Drew that he was restating Pascal’s Wager but he gave me a funny look and teased me for having a near-useless university education. I didn’t like to say that this was something I’d picked up from QI on Dave, not my psychology degree, because I enjoy him claiming I’m more intelligent than he is. It counters all those ‘dumb blonde’ moments I seem to get with Michael.
‘So what would you do if you were me?’ I ask at the end of my account.
‘I’d pack a bag and go visit a friend.’ He grins. ‘Especially if that friend has a fold-out bed they can offer.’
‘Thanks. Huge relief.’
‘So what are you going to do next?’
‘I don’t know. I really don’t.’
‘I think you need to find this Jacob wanker. It’s his mess. You need to make sure it’s dumped on his doorstep.’
‘How do I do that?’
‘Jess, have you or have you not just been working for a missing persons agency?’
I wonder for a fleeting second if he means to doubt my version of events but then I realise what he is implying. ‘Yes, I have.’
‘Have you or have you not learnt a few things along the way about how to find someone?’
‘I was just doing the psychological profiles to predict where the runaways might end up.’
He raises a brow.
‘But yes, I learnt a few things along the way.’
‘Then profile your boss as far as you can and see if you can trace him. This landlord guy will be after him too. It’ll be a race to see who gets there first. Consider it a professional challenge.’
The phone rings. I’m so nervous, I jump. Drew lays a hand on my shoulder and answers it.
‘Yes, this is Payne and Bullock. I see. No, I’m afraid we don’t do pet funerals. No, never. Really, we don’t. I’m sorry for your loss.’ He puts the phone down. ‘Jeez, a Saint Bernard for burial as it’s too big for the back garden, but why is it my problem?’
My faith in the absurdity of humanity restored, I rest my head briefly on his chest and then help myself to another piece of sushi.
Chapter 7
Emma, 28th April 2011
I freewheeled down Box Hill once when I was a teenager. I had the whole of the Surrey Hills s
tretched out before me and I was planning to ride to the coast. Best-laid plans… About halfway down I hit a pothole, sailed over the handlebars and ended up in the ditch. My friends laughed when they realised I wasn’t badly hurt. I was unbelievably lucky. Of course, I wasn’t wearing a helmet, though I’ve given that talk to my fair share of students since I moved into training. Like they do, I thought I was immortal. Thank God for bushes. Branches broke rather than my neck.
Why am I back at Box Hill? That’s the closest I’ve ever come to what it felt like sitting in that office to hear the specialist’s verdict today on how the treatment was going – a sickening ride through the air with the prospect of a not-so-soft landing, when I thought I’d get to the coast. I’d seen my life as an eighty, or even ninety-mile ride; I’m in fact getting only twenty-nine, thirty if I hang on for a few more pain-filled months. It’s the shock of rearranging it all in my head that has really floored me. I can’t get a handle on it – I find it almost impossible to believe. This voice, this me, that’s been chatting away in my mind, will fall silent. I won’t exist.
I don’t ‘get’ death. Don’t even want to write the word. I’m still flailing in that tumble through the air, as my mind has not quite caught up with what’s happened since the pothole.
We are so bad at dealing with death as a society. I’ve been sick now for a while so I’ve got to see how most people cope. Many of my friends at work, and Michael’s colleagues too, go for all that clichéd angry stuff, telling me ‘don’t go gentle into that good night’; they like to quote Dylan Thomas when something so unfair happens, as if it helps, as if rage is a good choice. I don’t like poetry and this advice is not helping. To me that’s the fake bravery of the generals sending the squaddies over the top, safe in the bunker themselves. I’d settle right now for ‘don’t go so fucking scared and confused into your grave’ and some answers on how not to do that. This is not how I want it to happen. I want some comfort.
But you don’t get what you want. I’m hearing my poor mother now – also dead too young from this same serial killer. I’ve got some shitty genetic markers. If life hands you lemons, make lemonade. She was big on the homespun wisdom. I now appreciate that she made a better exit than I am managing, finding a kind of calm in the storm that I can’t – just can’t – reach.
Hearing the verdict in that sunny office, Michael gave a sob then gathered himself. He held my hand, stroking my wrist, trying to comfort, but what could he do? This is a journey I make alone. I floated in a not-really-there daze as Dr Jackson gave me the options of pain meds, support groups and leaflets, like she was a travel agent and I was a client going on some bloody holiday.
How do you get a grip on what is a death sentence? Don’t tell me we’re all living under one; mine’s come early, too early. I’m not done with life yet, only just started. I have all this regret and nowhere to direct it. I am so—
I am angry after all. Raging against my own dark.
That was last week. I sound like a harpy. I’d rip out the page but Michael told me not to. Warts and all, he says. I love you, warts and all. I don’t have warts, thank God, but what about bald and sick? That too – more than ever, he says.
I’ve been too pissed off to write anything since. I worry someone will read these notes after I’m gone, so I don’t want to show my worst side here. Let that go with me. I want the courageous one to be remembered. Laugh in the face of a foe I can’t beat. Metastasised Me. I can’t control the timing of my exit but I can influence my legacy.
You know what I did today? Of course you don’t, because you’re an imaginary audience in the future. I persuaded Michael to get a cat – a kitten, really. This house has felt so bleak recently that I wanted us all to have something to make us laugh. When Michael agreed – he’d do anything for me, my poor love – Biff swung into action and got one from the rescue home. Predictably, Katy loved it at once even though it sank its claws in – tiny, not really hurtful spikes, so it was OK. I found I could still feel light-hearted when I watched the two of them playing. Michael is yet to be convinced that introducing a cat into our lives is a good idea but I’m leaving him with such a burden, he needs something to lift him out of his depression. Something to live for. Colette can be it.
Chapter 8
Jessica
Emma is haunting me and I’m trying to read more of the diary on the shattered screen even though I really should wait until I download the photos. I think I would’ve got on with her – apart from the bit about not liking poetry. How could she not? She comes across as sane and righteously angry about her diagnosis. The most perplexing thing from my point of view is that the Michael she describes shows tenderness towards her that I can only envy. I hadn’t realised how Colette came into the house. In my share of cat responsibilities, I’ve fallen into the life Emma ordained for Michael without being aware that it’s been her pulling the strings.
A warning flashes up and I have to put the phone on charge. I am parked for the afternoon in Drew’s flat above the undertaker’s. His parents lived there before they made enough money to move to a house near Windsor so it’s always been a family home rather than a temporary lodging. The wallpaper in the guest bedroom is small flowers on a blue background, an old Laura Ashley print, suggesting a last makeover in the Eighties when Drew’s older sister was little. Blu Tack marks show where posters once hung. He has replaced them with a photograph of a sunrise over the sea and a quote by his favourite nineteenth-century poet, Walt Whitman: ‘To me the sun is a continual miracle, / The fishes that swim – the rocks – the motion of the waves – the ships with men in them, / What stranger miracles are there?’ I mull over the phrase ‘stranger miracles’ for a moment, like sucking on a boiled sweet. My thoughts turn more prosaic. I’m standing in a minor miracle: the luxury of a spare room in London. Able to afford to live without a flatmate, Drew has set up the room as a study with a fold-out sofa. I unpack my bag and join him in the living room. He gives me the password to the wi-fi and leaves me to my searches, explaining he has to be at the crematorium at three.
First, I prowl the flat. Drew knows I do this so I don’t feel guilty. It’s part of my restlessness – I can’t settle until I’ve opened all doors, and peeked into every cupboard. I don’t know what I’m looking for, I just have to do it, like a dog circling before settling down on her bed. I pause in front of his drinks collection, heavy on beer, light on spirits and wine. No, I’ve got to be a good girl. I open the fridge and kitchen cabinets. He needs milk and some more indulgent cereals, as he’s bought the most bargain muesli. I see a trip to Tesco in my future. His visible music collection stops mid-2000s, a dusty rack of CDs. Metallica and Killing Joke feature strongly. There’s a man-sized TV screen. I flick it on to find it tuned to a sports channel – it goes off immediately. His pot plant, a ficus, is a little dry so I water it. A few leaves drift off on my touch. I hide them in the bin. I really should stop interfering.
Neurotic, that’s what Michael calls my behaviour. I prefer nosy. Sounds more normal.
Right, get down to work. I return to my bedroom and type in the most obvious search – Jacob’s name. It doesn’t throw up anything or anyone remotely like him. A film noir about murder, a wine seller in South Africa, a verse in Genesis. That raises the likelihood of it being a pseudonym. So what else do I know about him? I’m not the police, so I can’t demand his phone or bank records. I have to go on the information he’s let slip over the last three months. I make a list, realising I can’t trust any of the surface statements he’s made. I mustn’t think I know him. I have to dig deeper.
1. About thirty-five years old, from his cultural reference points.
2. Not talkative, brooding, but not unkind. He brought me lozenges one day when I lost my voice. Made his own tea and coffee without expecting me, as the office junior, to wait on him.
3. I would’ve said he was good at what he did, methodical in the presentation of his research. From a psychological point of view that clashes with the idea
that he had chaotic finances.
4. Dark-brown hair thinning at the temples and on top. Work-roughened hands which he explained as due to his hobby (gardening), so does he have a garden or allotment? Frameless glasses. Five nine? Smart casual clothes.
5. Grew up or has lived in or around Swindon, as he was familiar with local landmarks I mentioned – the White Horse, the Wyvern Theatre.
And now it gets trickier.
6. He was prepared to employ someone with a dubious dismissal-cum-resignation on her CV. That suggests a certain level of desperation or underhandedness (I should’ve asked more questions).
7. He has not hesitated to run away and leave me with his mess.
8. Unlike all the other lies, he really is an investigator. He had already compiled case files on the missing girls before I joined his one-man firm.
These girls are real. I’ve been investigating them for three months so I’m sure about that – all tragic, kick-you-in-the-gut cases of young lives cut short by sudden disappearance. I’d assumed he’d been employed by the parents or friends when the police searches had turned up nothing. Now I have to rethink.
I jot down in my notebook the names and dates of the girls while I can still remember them. Ramona James. Lillian Bailey. Clare Maxsted. Latifah Masood. I need to get my hands on the files and notebooks as there’s so much more in there. I’ve done ample research on them already, I don’t want to lose that. In the case of Lillian Bailey, I’d thought I was close to a breakthrough before I went on holiday. Just coming out of social services care, the eighteen-year-old had gone missing from Harrogate. I’d dug deep in her social media profile, not updated since she disappeared, and found a reference to a friend in Southwest London. From the profile I generated about her, I feel I’d got to know her. She was the kind of girl who took to strangers and would’ve been blind to the dangers of meeting them in a place where she was vulnerable, overestimating how streetwise she was. She might well have been lured down to London. That’s the darker explanation. The other, more likely scenario I’d come up with was that she seized on a chance to make a new start away from her old friends. She’d fallen out with her boyfriend of six months and spent a lot of time saying how she hated Harrogate and wanted to break free. She was an adult on paper so didn’t have to tell anyone. I handed the possible address over to Jacob to follow up but I’ve no idea if he did or not.
Don’t Trust Me Page 4