by Jack Jordan
She looked up at the library, and felt a nostalgic twang in her chest. Insomnia hadn’t just taken her child, it had sapped every ounce of pleasure from her life. It was only now as she had a clear head from a full night’s sleep that she remembered what life had been like before.
Before insomnia and motherhood, she had been a ferocious reader. But the disease had whittled down her attention span to mere seconds. She would read a sentence and lose her place, skip lines without realising, forget what she had read the day before. It had stolen memories of her children, her desire for her husband, the enjoyment of food that had become nothing but tasteless fuel, like ash on her tongue.
Jay had loved reading too. Whenever she had read a book after he died, she wondered whether he might have enjoyed it. But death had claimed him and left her without answers, just like the man in the journal, his fate left hanging on the last page.
Finn Matthews had been the assistant editor for the local newspaper. If it were true, she might be able to find him in the library archives. She would be able to put a face to his name.
She stepped inside the library. The smell of books hit her instantly, paper that had been touched by hundreds of hands, year after year. She went to the reception desk and smiled down at the woman behind the counter, who tidied away a half-eaten muffin and wiped crumbs from around her mouth. She looked up through thick-lensed glasses that magnified her eyes.
‘Good morning,’ she said.
‘Hi. I’m hoping to look through some old newspapers. Do you keep a record here?’
‘You can access the newspaper archives from the computers upstairs.’
‘And that will have copies of the local paper?’
‘Sure does.’
The librarian made it sound easy, but Rose had no idea where to start. The woman noticed her reluctance.
‘Here –’ she wrote down a web address on a slip of paper and handed it over – ‘use this. It’ll have what you’re looking for.’
‘Brilliant, thank you.’
The woman looked at her face for a beat too long, as though she was putting her face to a name. Rose turned away, her cheeks already beginning to burn. She knew what was coming.
‘It’s Rose, isn’t it?’
She stopped in her tracks.
‘I’m sorry about what happened with your daughter,’ the woman said to her back. ‘Terrible thing, that.’
Rose couldn’t face her; she couldn’t stand the pity in people’s eyes, nor the silent blame that always festered beneath.
‘Thanks,’ she said finally, and headed up the stairs, fighting the urge to take them two at a time.
The library was deathly quiet, with the exception of the odd rustle of a page or a stranger clearing their throat. She headed towards one of the computers and hung her coat on the back of the chair, then sat down and rested her hands on the keyboard.
After following the instructions taped to the desk to log on to the computer, she brought up the website the receptionist had written down for her and typed in the name of the local paper.
The date of events in the diary began in January 2018, the month he had started work at the local newspaper; almost two years ago. She pulled up the newspaper issues that month and flicked through page after page, looking for articles on new staff appointments, read the names of the authors by the articles, but upturned nothing. She checked each issue a second time, until her eyes burnt from the strain and she began to yawn. It had been a long time since she had given herself any mental stimulation; she forgot how tiring it could be. As the minutes passed, she began to wonder if it really was just a fantasy jotted down on paper.
As she opened the last issue of the month to read through once more before giving up, she spotted him.
Whether it was magazines or newspapers, she had a habit of skipping over the editor’s note at the front of each issue; the habit had been so ingrained in her that she had completely overlooked him.
It had to be him. The man in the photograph by the editor’s letter fitted his description perfectly: blonde hair, a white smile, even green eyes when she neared the screen and squinted. She thought back to the man in the street. Had it been him? But it had been too dark to spot the colour of his hair or eyes. She read the write-up and spotted his name.
Finn had been appointed as the new assistant editor of the local paper, after working as a digital content editor for another newspaper in London. But that wasn’t what interested her.
The man from the journal wasn’t a figment of someone’s imagination. He had been a living, breathing person. But what had happened to him?
What had become of Finn Matthews?
ELEVEN
Rose returned home with an energy she hadn’t had in years. She had bought a slab of steak from the butcher’s shop on her way home, Christian’s favourite, and a flan for herself, with flowers for the table and the best red wine she could find. She was going to show him that she still loved him. He usually returned home just before seven. She had time to prepare dinner and get ready before he walked through the door.
She peeled potatoes and rolled them in garlic and rosemary, oiled a frying pan for the steak, and foiled a baking tray for the grilled vegetables, all the while thinking of him that morning and the flicker of affection she had caught in his eyes. It had been years since he had looked at her like that. She wouldn’t let the opportunity pass.
She put the flan, potatoes and vegetables in the oven and headed upstairs, stripping the sheets from her bed and replacing them with a fresh set. She showered, blowdried her hair, applied make-up for the first time in months, and fished out the lingerie that had been pushed to the back of her underwear drawer.
It had been years since she had dressed herself to be desired, and in that time, her reflection had changed. She stood before the mirror in the black lingerie and eyed the way her skin had slackened in places, the shadows between her ribs and the sharpness of her collarbones, but it was still the body he knew, the same skin he had kissed every inch of.
She slipped into her favourite black dress and ran her hands over the fabric. The fit was looser than it used to be at her chest, and tighter around her hips, but the cut of it helped to give her more of a proportioned shape, rather than the uneven body which grief had left her with.
She returned downstairs and fired up the hob for the steak, turned the potatoes to brown on the other side. She lit candles for the table and arranged the flowers, poured herself a glass of wine for courage, and left the bottle to breathe.
When the clock struck seven, she arranged the food on the plates, placed them in the oven to keep warm, and waited.
And waited.
By quarter past seven, she had finished her glass of wine and poured another. Her foot tapped against the floor as she watched the seconds move around the face of the clock, each second feeding her doubt. He was coming, he was just held up at work, or stuck in traffic. He had said he would see her later. She took the plates from the oven and placed them on the table, hoping to tempt fate. He would be back any second. He would.
When it reached seven thirty, the make-up she had applied felt stale on her skin, and her teeth furry from the wine. She checked her phone in case he had texted her about a hold-up. She had no messages.
The dinner was cold, and the bottle of wine was half-empty. She unlocked her phone and typed out a message.
Are you still coming home tonight?
She had finished the rest of her second glass by the time her phone pinged. She opened his message with a racing heart.
Sorry if I wasn’t clear earlier. I’m away
tonight, home Saturday and Sunday.
Her heart dropped.
Of course he wouldn’t stay at home with Lily away. Rose had known him for half of her life, and heard him use the phrase See you later to mean See you soon countless of times before. She wanted to believe that deep down she had known all along he wouldn’t come home with her there, but she had truly believed he wanted to mak
e it work.
Tears built in her eyes and blurred the flicker of the candle. She wiped them away as they cascaded down her cheeks. The meals sat uneaten on the table. Candle wax had melted down the silver holders. She tried to steel herself against the tears, clenching her teeth and tensing the muscles across her chest, but the tears refused to be buried. Of course he wouldn’t want this. She looked down at herself, at the dress she had pulled out from the back of the wardrobe, the lingerie hidden beneath.
You’re a fool. He would never want you. Not after what you did.
She stood and pulled at the dress, snagging the zip when it caught, ripping the fabric from her with a desperate cry. She wanted to shred it, burn it, forget she had ever tried.
She stumbled to the utility room and took a clean pair of pyjamas from the ironing basket, ripping the lingerie from her body. She couldn’t bear the touch of silk on her skin. But even when she was dressed in her pyjamas, the humiliation refused to budge. She shoved the lingerie and dress deep into the bin. She wouldn’t be able to look at them again without remembering the embarrassment of it all. She leaned over the table and blew out the candle, smoke curling up towards the ceiling, took her wine glass and the bottle and shut herself away in the study.
If only she could sleep to forget. But she knew that insomnia would keep her awake for hours, leaving her to fester in her own shame.
TWELVE
Somehow she kept walking, one step after another, up the slope and onto the bridge. Her feet were frozen and cut on the soles. DS Montgomery guided her with an arm around her waist to keep her from buckling. She could still feel the tickle of Violet’s hair against her face, the icy chill of her daughter’s chest against her cheek.
They both stopped at the sound of her name.
Rose blinked away the tears. Christian stared back at her with bloodshot eyes. His hands were clenched into fists by his sides, his knuckles white to the bone.
‘What have you done, Rose?’ he asked hoarsely. His voice quivered as a sob clawed up his throat. ‘What have you done?’
She watched a tear slip down his cheek, listened to agonised sounds that she had never heard him make.
‘WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?’
She jolted as the sound echoed down the bridge. Montgomery stood quietly by her side; the onlookers at the barricade continued to stare, their eyes burning into her back like flames.
Not here, she thought. Please not here.
He wanted to know what she had done, but she couldn’t bring herself to say the words, or believe them herself. Only that morning she had kissed Violet on the head, hugged her tight. Now she was on the bank, as cold as the river bustling beneath them. Every second she stood without speaking, his rage seemed to rise closer to the surface, dilating the veins in his neck, turning his face and neck crimson.
‘She’s. . . she’s dead, Christian. Violet’s dead.’ Then she broke down, gasping for precious air. Montgomery clamped on to her when her legs threatened to buckle.
The words seemed to hit him physically, sucking the life from his eyes, every ounce of strength from his limbs. He collapsed to his knees and covered his face with his hands.
She instinctively went to comfort him, but Montgomery kept her at his side.
‘Don’t,’ he whispered.
She stood helplessly and watched her husband, taking in every sob, every quiver of his body. She was watching his heart break.
Christian screamed into his palms. His face went bright red, anger scalding his skin. He lowered his hands and bellowed deep from his gut, until spit flew from his mouth and strung between his teeth. She watched helplessly as he beat the tarmac with his fists, thrashing the ground until the skin on his knuckles broke and bled. She could imagine he was thinking of her beneath him, her bones snapping with each blow.
He stared at his quivering hands, at the blood dripping from them and onto the tarmac, and finally met her eyes.
She knew he loathed her. He wished it had been her dead on the bank, rather than their child.
He stood and turned without a word, and marched towards the police car. Rose pushed away from Montgomery and followed the drops of blood in his wake.
He opened the rear door and bent inside, returning into view with Lily clinging around his neck.
‘Stay away from us,’ he said as she approached.
‘Christian, please. . .’ she sobbed, snot and tears glistening on her face. She reached out and touched him.
‘STAY AWAY!’
She backed into Montgomery, who had followed close behind. It was all too much. She was light-headed and shaking all over. She reached out for him again.
‘Please don’t leave me. Please don’t take Lily away too!’
Montgomery held her back gently. She was too weak to fight him.
Christian walked further along the bridge, with Lily watching her over his shoulder, her blue eyes wide with fear, taking in the sight of the break in the bridge, the mess of car metal and glass littered on the road.
‘No!’ Rose shouted. ‘Please!’
She snatched herself away and raced behind him. Glass bit into her feet and the wind cooled her tears. She couldn’t lose them too. She grabbed the back of his shirt in both fists.
‘Please don’t leave me!’
He turned swiftly and pushed her away. She fell to the ground with a thud; the air was forced from her lungs.
‘You stay away from my daughter,’ he spat, pointing a finger at her face. Blood ran along it, etching around his fingernail. ‘I never want to lay eyes on you again.’
She took in his reddened face, the venom in his eyes, and knew that in that moment, he could have killed her without regret.
He turned and walked on, holding Lily tighter.
‘No. . .’ She tried to stand but stumbled, fell back to the tarmac. ‘NO!’
Mist crawled across the bridge, drinking in the view of them until they were nothing but shadows.
She hadn’t just lost Violet. She had lost them all.
THIRTEEN
Rose woke from the memory to a sudden sound.
She had fallen asleep at dawn with the sun rising against her face. It was higher in the sky now, but the birds still sang. Her tongue and teeth felt furry from the wine, and she remembered why she had hit the bottle. Her gut twisted with the memory. She longed to return to sleep.
She remembered the happiness she had felt as she bought the steak from the butcher’s, the stupid smile she had worn all the way home; the hope that had flared in her gut as she cooked for him and set the table, arranged and rearranged the flowers so they could see each other over the petals and leaves.
What a fool she had been. All he had done was show her some kindness, and she had taken it to mean so much more.
I’m pathetic, she thought.
She looked out the window and caught her reflection in the pane. Her make-up had smudged beneath her eyes; her lips were stained crimson from finishing the bottle of wine, drinking herself into a brief coma. Suddenly it hit her.
The door. She had woken to the sound of the front door closing.
The table was still set for two.
She darted from her chair and stumbled out of the study, her limbs still slow from the wine.
Christian was standing before the table, looking down at the food that had congealed on the plates, the stray splotches of red wine on the tablecloth. One of the flowers had drooped in the vase.
Her throat and cheeks burnt. She quickly began clearing the table.
‘Rose, I—’
‘Don’t, please.’
She placed her plate over his and chucked the cutlery amongst the food. Her grip on the plates moistened with the slop as she headed for the sink.
‘I’m sorry. I had no idea.’
Tears built. She blinked furiously.
‘Christian, please. It was stupid. Forget it.’
‘Let me help. . .’
‘No. I’m fine.’
She turned quickly so
he couldn’t take them, and cutlery fell from the top plate and clattered to the floor. The plates followed, slipping from her hands and smashing against the tiles.
‘Jesus!’ The word rang through the house.
She looked down at the mess, her hands shaking by her sides, and turned towards the kitchen window above the sink to hide her tears.
‘If I’d known. . .’ he said.
She couldn’t trust herself to speak. If she did, she was sure a sob would rip up her throat. She dropped her head and closed her eyes.
A brief silence swelled in the room. Christian moved behind her back. He swept up the broken china, took sheets of paper from the kitchen roll to wipe up the slop. She couldn’t hold herself together. He had to leave, or she would only humiliate herself further.
‘Christian, please,’ she begged, tightening her grip on the rim of the sink. ‘I need you to leave me alone.’
‘Okay,’ he said.
She would rather he laughed at her, left the room the moment he saw what she had planned for them, but instead he pitied her with a soft, remorseful tone, moved gently around the room so as not to break her.
He opened the bin and paused. She turned to see him looking down at the dress and lingerie she had thrown away the night before. His cheeks reddened and his jaw clenched. He emptied the dustpan into the bin and left the room.
Staring out the window, she let the tears fall and dry on her face. While she had been preparing the meal, he had been getting ready to see another woman.
Her phone rang from the study and broke her from her thoughts. She tried to wipe the tears from her face, but they had dried on her skin in salty trails.
She sat down in her chair before the study window and answered the call.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, is this Mrs Shaw?’ a man asked. She recognised his voice from somewhere.
‘Yes.’
‘This is Detective Inspector Montgomery.’