The Death of Me

by Natalie Hames

  “So, who’s your boss then? Golden Boy Holdings Limited?”

  He typed the company name into the search bar and sure enough it appeared. He jotted down the names of the directors, many of which were other companies and ran searches on them all, one by one. Soon, his computer screen was full of opened tabs with more opening the further he investigated. Time sped by and soon he realised another night had passed without a wink of sleep. Closing the tabs in reverse order he hovered over the most recent search and startled when he read the name of one of the companies.

  “G.T.H. Assets? That’s Guy’s company.”

  The tiredness which had pervaded his heavy body instantly flushed away as soon as he saw the name and he checked the time. Guy would be up and about to set off for the City by now and, without hesitation, he hobbled out of the office to the living room where he had left his phone on charge to send his brother a text. He hesitated. What would he say? Everything he composed looked ridiculous when he read it back. He needed to find out more but what if his findings caused his brother to be investigated?

  “Argh.”

  Exasperation at not being able to move forward as fast as he wanted to filled him with frustration and he threw the phone onto the sofa in annoyance.

  “Are you okay?”

  Phil spun round, every raw nerve prickling with the shock of hearing Katherine’s voice right behind him.

  “Christ, you nearly gave me a heart attack,” he said in a breathy voice, clutching his chest.

  “How long have you been home? My God, what’s happened to your leg?”

  He glanced down at the blood soaked dressing on his thigh and wracked his brain for an answer which didn’t involve the words ‘bullet’ or ‘gun’.

  “Ah, it’s nothing,” he replied, vaguely. “Just caught my leg on some railings when I climbed over.”

  “Have you been to the hospital to have it looked at, what about a tetanus jab?”

  Phil brushed off her questions and distracted her by pulling her close. She wrapped her arms around his waist and reached up on her tip-toes to give him a light kiss. The hard bulge of her stomach pressed against his and with it a sense of normality calmed his over-active mind. He knew his obsession would destroy his sanity if it continued but he had come too far to go back. Disclosing his findings to DCI Burns wasn’t an option. Investigating a fellow officer and reporting him would be committing professional suicide and there was no way he wanted to get anywhere near the Anticorruption team at this stage. Mick had overseen the cases on Jason’s computer so he would do everything in his power to discredit him in order to save his own career.

  Katherine chatted away as she prepared breakfast but Phil wasn’t listening. Occasionally he would nod or let out a grunt of acknowledgement whenever she made a statement or asked a question while he mulled over his next move. She didn’t seem to notice his lack of focus. She had become accustomed to living with his deep thoughts and so his mood went unchallenged. Finishing his last mouthful of cereal, he picked up his mug of coffee and disappeared into his office. There was half an hour spare until he needed to set off for work and he decided to use the time to check on the tracker. He settled himself down and booted up his computer, then clicked on the software program and sat back while it opened and updated.

  “What?”

  Leaning forward, he inspected the coordinates and rubbed his eyes in disbelief. Leaping from his seat, he slammed his mug down on his desk, slopping coffee onto its surface and peered through the venetian blinds.

  “Where is he?” Phil muttered, checking up and down the street for Jason’s car but it was nowhere to be seen.

  He bent over and examined the computer screen again. The coordinates pointed to his house and he clicked on the ‘refresh’ icon in case there had been a glitch with the software, but the same coordinates remained. He peered through the blinds for a second time, unable to comprehend the information. His office was at the front of the house, giving him a clear view up and down the small suburban street but there was still no sign of Jason’s car. Suddenly, the unthinkable hit him. Rushing outside in his bare feet, he fell to his knees and ran his hand along the underside of his car until his fingers touched a small round metallic object.

  “Damn.”

  Blood from his limbs drained, flushing at high speed to his face.

  “He knows.”

  He stumbled back inside the house and up the stairs to the bedroom where he paced back and forth, his fists clutching his dark, shiny hair.

  “What the hell am I going to do? Think. Think,” he hissed as he attempted to gain some clarity.

  He stopped pacing just short of the window and placed his hands on his hips while he took some deep breaths to calm himself down. The last thing he needed right now was for Katherine to come in and start firing questions. He had to think as a detective would instead of a man who had been caught tracking his colleague. Time was running out. If he was late setting off then the traffic would be heavy making him late for the morning briefing. Yanking open his drawer, he grabbed a pair of socks and perched on the edge of the bed as he struggled to put them on, then hopped down the stairs to avoid bending his wounded leg.

  “I’m off now, see you later,” he called as he left the house.

  He would use the driving time to think. Forgetting to clean his teeth prior to setting off, he popped a stick of chewing gum into his mouth to get rid of the roughness stuck to his enamel. He never forgot to clean his teeth.

  “Christ, I look a mess,” he mumbled, running his fingers through his hair while using his rear view mirror.

  Panic levels increased the nearer he got to work and the sight of the tracking device sat on the seat beside him only made it worse. If he showed so much as a hint he knew about the tracker it would immediately be an admittance of guilt, so he decided to keep quiet and allow it to track him.

  The car park was half full by the time he arrived and he made his way to the area furthest away from the entrance where there were more spaces. Jason’s car was in its usual place and he glanced to see if he was sat inside as he cruised past. Once parked and the ignition turned off, he checked his appearance one last time then headed over to the entrance and straight into the lift. Tension rose with each level and his imagination was going crazy by the time it stopped and after a brief pause the doors slid open. His legs wouldn’t move. Rooted to the spot, he scanned the office and each colleague’s face in turn for any sign they knew his secret. The office appeared normal, the same as any other day. Colleagues were busy taking phone calls, one was using the photocopier while others were staring at their computer screens. No one even glanced in his direction or even nodded as he passed through the pool of desks trying to disguise his limp.

  “Get all your work done last night?”

  Jason peered from around his partition with a sarcastic smile.

  “Yep. All caught up,” Phil replied, ignoring his lingering gaze and acting as innocently as possible.

  He continued to stare until it felt unnatural to ignore him any longer.

  “What?” Phil asked, retaining an innocent tone to his voice.

  Their eyes locked and he knew if he looked away his guilt would be revealed. No words were spoken for a moment as the staring match continued and Jason had an expression which said ‘I know, you know.’

  “You’re looking rough today.”

  Eventually Jason broke the awkward silence.

  “Oh, is that all? I thought you were going to tell me I’d got an extra head sprouting.”

  Jason leaned back in his chair and rested an elbow on one of the tubular metal arms as he twirled an object around his index finger and laughed.

  “Nah, a second head would be pretty useless on you now, wouldn’t it?”

  Phil scowled at the insult, his eyes darting to the spinning object as it wrapped and unwrapped around his finger and a flush of panic burned his face. His mind rewound to when he last had his rosary and the shock of remembering drained the
colour from his face in an instant. He patted his hands over his trouser pockets in a desperate attempt to refute what he already knew.

  “Is…is that my rosary?” he stammered, not knowing what else to say.

  Jason threw it over and it bounced off Phil’s chest and fell into his lap.

  “You need to be a bit more careful where you leave it.”

  Phil froze. His mouth turned dry whilst his back and underarms, dripped. What was he going to do? He tried to act as innocent as possible but he knew Jason had seen the tremble in his hands and the flash of terror run across his eyes. They stared at each other in silence. Jason’s face set in a hard expression, his body tense as if holding back a violent rage.

  “Where did you find them?”

  He winced as the question left his lips and he already knew the answer, but it seemed more natural to ask.

  “Hmm, now let me think?” Jason replied, faking a thoughtful expression as he pressed the tip of his finger against his chin. “Where do you think I found it?”

  Cold flushed over his sweaty skin and a lump formed in his throat as his breakfast was on the brink of resurfacing. Jason’s eyes narrowed as the corners of his thin cruel lips, curled. Deep down in the pit of Phil’s unsettled stomach he knew he had been caught.

  Paranoia accompanied him on his journey back home after his shift. Every car in his rear view mirror felt as if it was following, tailing and watching his every move. Thoughts of freak accidents and meeting with an untimely death, never seeing his unborn child, teased and tormented him mile after mile until he pulled up on his driveway. He had to think what he was going to do. Should he ignore it, forget everything he had seen? Or, was he already in too deep?

  Chapter Twenty Four

  The letters dropped to the floor, scattering as they caught the air on their descent from the small table by Tom Dalton’s chair. He sat in silence and observed the beauty of the pattern they had made, like a cruel artistic twist too ironic for anyone else to appreciate but himself. They had been delivered thick and fast upon his return home after the acquittal but had now dwindled to just a couple a day. Leaning forward, he summonsed the energy to scoop them up and stack them neatly, placing them back by the side of his morning coffee.

  He had given up on opening them months ago, their hateful words and empty threats no longer holding any shock value to his numbed existence. Occasionally their senders would offer a morsel of false hope, claiming they knew Grace’s whereabouts but all stating she was dead, and he would duly place them in the box along with the others ready for the police to collect. They were the worst. Raising his hopes with their deluded conspiracy theories only for him to fall when the investigations drew a blank. How he hated the hoaxes and do-gooders with overactive imaginations, they hurt more than the anger and bile spewed out from the ones who knew he must be guilty.

  The police had told him to ignore the ones containing threats. They hadn’t the funding to chase down their senders and there were too many to know where to start. He knew they were right. They held no other worth than to help ignite the kindling wood in the open fire.

  The living room, once bright and airy was now heavy and gloomy. Particles of dust, catapulted into the air when he sat, danced in the shaft of light projecting across the room through the partly drawn, dark blue, velvet curtains. This time, one year to the day, life had been normal and his mind played the events of their last morning together as if he were watching a movie. He wanted to press pause, hold her in his arms and tell her to stay at home. Maybe rewind and spend more time with her, fly one more kite together. Slowly, his imagination faded and the image of Grace standing by the door were replaced by the stack of placards and banners leant against the wall. Her name daubed across each of them along with the same plea in different combinations of words.

  “People are so fickle,” he muttered out loud to himself as he looked away in disgust.

  Since Julie had left and taken Elspeth with her, the house had become a replacement prison. In a macabre way he had welcomed her announcement not long after his acquittal as she stood by the door wearing her smart red blazer and matching lipstick. Peaceful, constructive conversations had departed from their marriage as soon as Grace had gone missing, quickly replaced by criticisms and blame. Loneliness and isolation had become a welcome alternative to the conflict. Her words were too sharp, cutting him deeper than any knife and leaving irreparable scars. At least she was being well looked after by her new wealthy lover. Phil shook his head. He had always known she was high maintenance and enjoyed the finer things life had to offer, but he didn’t realise her love hinged entirely on her unrestricted access to his credit card.

  “She’s his problem now,” he whispered, the hint of a tear forming in his eye as the sight of their wedding photograph on the mantelpiece, now used as a wedge for the solicitor’s letters, mocked him.

  He lashed out, swinging his outstretched arm across in a surge of anger, sending the photograph flying through the air and smashing against the wall. Shards of glass shot across the room forming sparks as they passed through the shaft of dusty light, the edge of the frame taking a chunk of plaster off the wall. The sudden display of anger made his underweight body shake. It was out of character and for a moment he found it hard to process, shocked he was capable of such sporadic rage.

  The letters demanding him to place their home on the market mingled with the broken glass. He had tried his best to get her to stay, resorting at one point to begging.

  ‘Grace will want her family together when she comes home,’ he had pleaded.

  She had never replied, only lowered her eyes sheepishly and making it clear she didn’t share his optimism. Just one small action by her changed everything between them in the space of a second. He fell to his knees, the broken glass tearing through his trousers and cutting his skin. He welcomed the pain, savouring it as it gave a contrast to the never ending numbness and void which had become his life.

  “What am I going to do?” he sobbed, covering his eyes to blot out reality.

  He hadn’t cried properly since Grace had disappeared and it only served to increase the tightness of pressure in his bony chest. Crying had always been discouraged in the Dalton household when he had been a child, open displays of emotion were deemed as a sign of weakness especially in a man. The pain of losing Grace had built up, hidden deep behind a stiff upper lip. But as the first tear fell it released a deluge.

  Alone in a house which no longer felt like a home he allowed himself a few moments of weakness until his cognitive childhood training plugged the tears once more. Standing up, he brushed the broken glass from his knees, carefully picking out any pieces still embedded into his skin, then made his way to the kitchen for a dustpan and brush. His arm hurt. An intense pain travelled across his jaw and he rubbed at them both in turn. Maybe it was due to the crying, or perhaps he’d jarred himself when he swiped off the photograph and slumped to his knees. The pain was intense and sharp and it halted him in his tracks for a moment as he stooped to fish the dustpan and brush from inside the cupboard under the sink. Droplets of sweat formed on his forehead and down his back cooling an already icy cold skin and he blew the air from his lungs out through pursed lips to stave of the dizziness.

  “When did I last eat?”

  He tried to remember. Was it yesterday, or the day before? He struggled back to the living room and knelt carefully by the broken picture to sweep up the glass.

  “I’ll finish this then I’ll make a sandwich,” he told himself as he swept up the largest pieces.

  Black swirls started to form in his peripheral vision until only the picture of Julie wearing a white, Italian silk wedding dress remained through his tunnelled vision. The pain in his arm and jaw were excruciating, preventing him from continuing with the cleaning and he dropped the dustpan to clutch his chest. Sweat oozed from every pore as he struggled with his shortness of breath.

  “Christ, what’s happening?” he wheezed, asking himself a question
his instincts already knew the answer to.

  Desperation gripped him as the realisation he needed to get to the phone and call for an ambulance became his only priority. Panic surged through him and with it a determination to reach the hallway, pushing his knees forward as he clutched at the pile on the carpet to propel himself forward. The pain worsened. Gasps replaced his shallow breaths. Shards of glass gouged into his knees as he crawled, leaving streaks of bright red blood on the pale beige carpet, not registering the insignificant pain. The black swirls darkened more, only the determination of making it to the hallway kept him going.

  Not today. I’m not dying today.

  The doorway was near, within touching distance. He just had to get through it and reach the phone on the small oak table and help would soon be there. He pulled at the door, heavy as lead as it resisted against the carpet. Irrational thoughts of how he had always intended to shave a little of its base flashed into his mind along with memories of flying a big red kite with Grace. So many things he wanted to do yet never did. So many regrets. With one final burst of energy he tugged the door open and the phone came into sight. Footsteps broke the silence.

  Someone’s here.

  The footsteps grew closer, stopping as they reached the other side of the door.

  “Help.”

  He tried to call out but there was no air, no strength, only a faint whisper crushed by the sound of a letter falling through the box. The footsteps faded. Paralysis covered him and he felt as if his whole body had turned to concrete.

  “Please…help.”

  The footsteps disappeared leaving him alone beside the door. He gasped, desperately trying to breathe. Where had the air gone? Tom’s face, distorted with pain as he clutched his chest and stared at the letter laid on the mat just inches away. The black swirls came closer and an apathy, an acceptance washed over him. No longer able to carry the weight of his head, he rested it on the floor beside the mat and stared at his name neatly printed in Arial Black font on a crisp white envelope. Its frank mark smudged a little over the top of the solicitor’s company logo. His eyes closed, screwed tight at first then relaxing as the pain which wracked his body melted away down into the floor beneath. A calm swept over him.