by Jack Jordan
‘NO! Don’t take her away! Please let me stay!’
The officers tugged at her arms and waist as the paramedics swooped down over Violet like vultures ready to feast. She watched until the sight of them blurred with tears and the woodland beside the bank echoed her screams.
NINE
Rose woke with a desperate gasp.
She could still smell the water, taste it on her lips. She licked it from her bottom lip and looked down. It wasn’t Violet in her arms, but a cushion clamped to her torso.
She longed for sleep, but when it came, the past was waiting for her. She craved rest, but dreaded it in equal measure.
Sunlight sliced through a crack in the curtains. She had fallen asleep on the sofa. Her clothes had twisted in her sleep, stuck to her skin with sweat. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply to calm her heart.
Despite her nightmare, she felt almost rested for the first time in weeks. She sat quickly and reached for her phone to check the time.
‘It’s almost nine,’ he said.
Rose flinched and looked towards the doorway.
Christian had to have been home for some time. His face was freshly shaved, and he wore a different suit from the day before, the tan-coloured one that clung to his body in all the right places.
‘I slept for seven hours,’ she said. ‘I didn’t wake once.’
For a brief second, he looked elated for her.
‘That’s good,’ he said. His smile fell. ‘What happened to your eye?’
She saw him take an instinctive step towards her.
Immediately, she remembered.
The man, the journal, the crime.
The skin on her cheek pulsed with her heart. She felt the hot flesh with her fingers.
‘It’s nothing, I. . .’
She was going to lie to him, but didn’t know why. She looked down at the journal lying on the carpet beside the sofa.
‘I wasn’t paying attention. Hit my cheek on the corner of the chest of drawers as I unplugged the hairdryer.’
‘Put some ice on it,’ he said.
She nodded.
When the silence grew between them, as it always did, they looked away from each other, thinking what to say next to fill the void.
‘You haven’t been in here for a while,’ he said.
She couldn’t tell if he was pleased to see her there, or whether her presence was an invasion. It had been hers too, once. She wondered if he had forgotten that.
‘No, I haven’t,’ she said.
‘Did Lily come home before going to school?’
‘I wouldn’t know. Do you know the friend Lily stayed with last night?’
‘She’s a new friend from school. They’ve grown quite close. Nice girl.’
‘I see.’
Where had she been, when Christian met Lily’s friend?
Silence swelled between them again. They listened to the tick of the clock from the hall.
‘I’m at home this weekend,’ he said suddenly.
‘I know, I saw it on the calendar. Your turn to choose the film, right?’
He blushed and looked away.
‘You can join us on Saturday. . . if you want.’
She couldn’t hide her elation. She had waited so long for an olive branch like this, but the more she thought about it, the more she heard the force with which it was shared, and her elation withered.
‘I can’t imagine Lily would be happy with that.’
‘No, I don’t suppose she would.’
The silence returned, the kind of silence that made it difficult to breathe, silence that felt like unwanted hands closing around her throat.
‘She’s out tonight,’ he said. ‘Over at Samantha’s again.’
‘Right.’
The two of them had been so close before her insomnia emerged. They never ran out of things to say or got sick of each other’s company. Sometimes they talked for hours, and only stopped when they saw the sun start to rise behind the curtains. They would often finish those nights by making love, starting in bed but ending up on the floor, their limbs entwined, her head on his chest listening to the beat of his heart. And once Violet was gone, they practically became strangers. She could never have imagined them ending up like this.
‘Just so you know,’ she said. ‘I hate this. I really, really hate this.’
‘I do too,’ he said, before glancing at his watch. He couldn’t wait to get away from her. Just like Lily. ‘Look, I’ve got to run, I’m late.’
‘Right,’ she said.
‘I’ll, er. . . see you later.’
He headed for the front door.
‘Christian.’
He turned back.
‘If you hate this too, then maybe you’ll help. I may never get you back – that’s not up to me – but please, help me with Lily.’
She thought of where he had been the night before, who the mystery woman was. Her stomach clenched like a fist at the thought of them together, their bodies linked the way theirs used to be.
He held her gaze for a while, nodded briefly.
‘See you later,’ he said again and turned away. She listened to the front door shut behind him.
They couldn’t keep living like this, but she couldn’t bear to let them go either. In four years Lily would be off to university, and things would have to change, if they hadn’t already. Living with them was hell, but the thought of living without them, left alone with her grief, was unbearable.
It would just be the two of them tonight. She remembered the happiness in his eyes when she’d told him how she’d slept. However hard he tried to hide it, he still loved her, but in a new, guarded way. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d been home alone together for an evening. Her chest gave the slightest of flutters. Maybe he did hate this as much as she did. Maybe this was her opportunity to make it right.
But there was something she had to do before then.
The journal.
She had read it from cover to cover before she slept, devouring every flick of the stranger’s pen. She saw how his neat handwriting got messier as his fear grew; the pen had practically broken the paper in the last few passages.
She had read it like a novel until she reached the last page, and realised that the victim and the abuser weren’t fictitious characters, but living, breathing people – or at least they had been. What happened to Finn Matthews wasn’t a turn in a plot, it was the destruction of an innocent man’s life. Had she found the journal too late? Was he already dead?
A new fear shook through her.
Who was the man she’d bumped into? Was it the victim? Or the man who hunted him?
She stood up from the sofa and headed for the hallway with her eyes on the stairs. She couldn’t do much, but she had to do something – she had to go to the police.
FINN’S JOURNAL
8th January 2018
The day my life changed for ever was supposed to be the best day of my life. It was my first day as assistant editor for the local Evening Herald, a position I’d been working towards for years. But the best day of my life would soon turn out to be the worst, only I didn’t know it then. If only I had. I might never have met him. I might have stood a chance.
I had been in town merely a week, and despite the awkwardness of settling in and meeting my colleagues, I was in my element. After three years at university and nine years in the business, I was finally another position up the ranks and that much closer to getting into the hot seat as editor-in-chief. But the whole experience was dirtied by the fact that I’d had to come home to achieve it.
Rearwood wasn’t technically home – that was twenty-five miles north – but the two towns were eerily similar, evoking memories I’d fought for years to forget. The people of Rearwood were just like those of North Heath: closed-minded, hidden from the world and content with their lot. However much I had tried to escape home by moving to London, life had dug in its claws and dragged me back.
I left the office
at midday on a coffee run to avoid the endless small talk that was slowly curdling my brain and felt totally overwhelming after a week of being alone in the silence of my new flat, unpacking and making it a home.
I crossed the street and stepped inside the café. I knew immediately that I was in a unique establishment: teapots with knitted cosies, odd tables and chairs, the café’s history framed on the walls with photos of the owners arranged in a family tree; the business had been passed down to each generation, a strange discovery after living in London for so many years where a Pret A Manger sat on every street corner.
‘There’s a face I’ve never seen before,’ said the woman behind the counter. She was large for her height, with brown hair, red blotches on her face, sweat on her lip.
I smiled nervously.
‘Hazelnut latte, please.’
Her smile vanished.
‘Not even a hello?’
I blushed. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. I. . .’
‘Where’re you from?’
I looked at the queue of people behind me. They all looked back at me like the woman. The café was silent.
‘London,’ I replied.
Everyone in the queue nodded, as though that small, two-syllable word explained everything.
‘I see,’ she said, her spine straightening. ‘Well, here, we say hello to one another.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend. . .’
‘Two-eighty.’
I handed over the change and waited for my coffee, my cheeks still burning as people continued to stare.
‘Here,’ the woman said as she placed the takeaway coffee cup in front of me. ‘We don’t do any of that fancy syrup stuff. There’s your latte.’
I thanked her and left with my head down. In my desperation to escape their glares, I rushed out onto the street in a blind hurry, and straight into him. The cup burst open and threw scalding coffee over us both.
‘I’m so sorry, I. . .’
The man stood before me his white shirt soaked. His face was bright red with either fury or pain or both. He had dark hair, wide shoulders and cold, bottomless eyes.
I loathe confrontation, especially with men; it reminds me of all the abuse I received in my youth, taunts that have never truly left me. I stood before him shaking, waiting for a homophobic slur or punch to the mouth. I couldn’t even feel the coffee burning my skin, just the heat of his eyes looking me up and down as he decided what to do with me.
But then our eyes met and the rage suddenly vanished.
‘I was running late for work and I. . .’
‘It’s all right, you didn’t do it on purpose.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
I was a mess. Sweating, twitching with nerves.
He smiled. ‘You can make it up to me by buying me my coffee,’ he said with a smile.
I looked into the café.
‘I don’t think they’ll want me back in there. I didn’t make a very good first impression.’ I rummaged around in my pocket for my wallet. ‘I’ll give you the money for it.’
I picked at the change with a shaking hand.
‘I don’t want your money,’ he said. ‘I was after your company.’
I stopped and looked up at him. No one had ever been this forward before. My immediate thought was that he was joking, that this was some sort of game. Were his friends sitting in the café by the window, laughing with him. . . at me?
‘We could go to the café down the street, they’re much nicer.’
I glanced at my watch. Coffee had splattered on the glass face.
‘I really should be heading back to work.’
‘Where do you work?’
‘There,’ I said, indicating the building behind him.
‘Oh, the paper.’
‘Yeah. I’m so sorry again. . .’
I crossed the road, thinking of how I was going to explain my soaked shirt and burnt-red skin to a roomful of new people. There was a clothes shop a few doors down that I’d passed on my way to work. I decided I would buy a new shirt and hope no one noticed.
His voice broke through my thoughts.
‘Can I have your number, then?’
I turned. He had followed me across the street.
‘Pardon?’
‘Your number. You said you didn’t make a good first impression, so you must be new here. Weird way to make friends, throwing coffee on people, but it’s a start.’
I laughed nervously.
He took his phone from his pocket and handed it to me. I tapped my mobile number in, saved it under my name, and passed it back.
‘Bye.’
‘Bye, Finn.’
I walked up the street towards the clothing store, bewildered and sweating, finally feeling the burns on my skin, with no idea that I had just met the man who was going to kill me.
TEN
Rose paced outside the police station puffing on a cigarette, her hair darting to the north with the wind.
She was going to sound mad. But however it sounded, she had the journal filled with crimes in her possession. She could tuck it in a drawer or throw it in the bin, but if she did that, she would never know what had become of the man who had written it, the man who was convinced he was going to be murdered.
The whole thing could be a joke, or the first draft of a novel, maybe even some sort of perverted fantasy. But if she didn’t find out, she would never know for sure. She remembered the last sentence the man had written on the first page, before he began to document his own living hell.
Please, if nothing else – believe me.
She dropped the cigarette to the pavement, ground it beneath her shoe, and stepped inside the police station.
The reception was empty but for a police officer sitting behind a glass partition shielding the desk. Chairs lined the left wall, screwed to the floor. She approached the reception desk and stood before the glass. The policewoman reluctantly looked up from the computer screen: she looked young but tired around the eyes.
‘Good morning,’ she said with a false smile. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Morning,’ Rose said, and took a breath. ‘This is going to sound odd, but I’ve found a journal with tales of abuse written inside.’
The officer frowned and looked her up and down.
She thinks I’m crazy.
‘Confessing what?’
‘Stalking, breaking and entering, a range of assaults, quite a lot of things. But the most disturbing part. . .’
The officer waited.
‘The author of the journal was convinced he was going to be murdered.’
Rose spotted a flicker of interest in the other woman’s eyes.
‘Do you have it with you? May I see?’
Rose took the journal from her bag. The officer stood from the desk and walked towards a door in the glass partition. Rose followed her, her heels clipping against the lino floor. The officer opened a hatch in the door and took the journal.
‘Where did you find it?’ she asked as she returned to the desk and opened the cover. Rose followed her on the other side of the glass.
‘Last night I bumped into a man, or rather, he bumped into me. He was running – away from something, I think. He dropped it and left it behind.’
She watched the woman scan the page before turning it over to assess the next.
‘I probably shouldn’t have read it,’ Rose said, filling the silence. ‘But I looked inside for his details in the hopes of returning it, and well, the content caught my attention.’
‘Does the journal contain any names?’
‘Yes, but. . .’
‘And you’ve read it all?’
‘I have.’
She stood in silence while the young woman read a passage, turned another page to eye the other side. She closed the journal and looked up.‘I’ll pass this on to one of our detectives and see what they say. I’ve. . . I’ve never come across anything like this before.’
Rose suddenly realise
d that she didn’t want to part with the journal, but what had she expected? She watched the policewoman slip the journal into a bag and place it inside her desk drawer.
‘Could you get in touch and let me know of the outcome?’
‘Yes, the detective will be in touch. Should this go any further, we’d need a statement on how you came across it.’
Rose hadn’t done anything wrong, but the idea of being questioned by a detective made her chest tighten. She had always been that way when it came to authority figures, but since the day she’d lost Violet, she’d seen the police as a threat. She couldn’t be questioned again.
The policewoman slipped a form beneath the glass barrier. ‘Fill out this contact form with your details, please, and we’ll be in touch.’
As Rose filled it out, she noticed her hand was shaking.
You’ve done nothing wrong, she thought. You’re doing a good thing.
She slipped the form back beneath the partition.
‘Thank you –’ the officer looked down at the form – ‘Mrs Shaw. We’ll be in touch.’
Rose headed for the door.
‘Mrs Shaw. . .’
She turned and swallowed. Perhaps the officer had recognised her name: Rose Shaw, the woman who drove her daughters off a bridge. The policewoman was eyeing her expectantly.
‘Yes?’
‘The pen.’
Rose looked down at her hand. She was still holding the biro she had used to fill out the form. She laughed nervously and returned it beneath the partition with hot cheeks.
As she left the building and braved the cold again, she lit a cigarette and headed up the hill towards the town centre. She took her usual route around the lanes, but it felt different from before. Something was missing.
That morning, the journal had given her a purpose. Now, her life had no importance once again; she was simply the woman who drove her daughter to her death.
Rose stopped outside the library. The emptiness hadn’t left her. All she could focus on was the man from the journal.
She had to put a face to his name. Without it, the people, the crimes, they didn’t seem real. But it could take weeks to hear back from the police to confirm the contents of the journal, if they got in touch at all.