Night By Night

by Jack Jordan

  She. When Finn worked there as assistant editor, the editor of the newspaper had been a man. She immediately felt thrown, but forced herself on.

  ‘If you could give her a call and tell her that I would like to speak to her regarding the disappearance of Finn Matthews, I’m sure she will want to see me.’

  The woman’s confidence slipped from her face. Her lips parted.

  ‘Are you a reporter?’ she asked suddenly.

  ‘No, merely a concerned member of the public.’

  The woman hesitated, her eyes glancing to the left.

  ‘Is there a problem here?’ a man asked behind her back.

  Rose turned and saw a security guard, his thumbs hooked inside the loops on his belt.

  Shit.

  ‘No problem,’ Rose said quickly and turned back to the receptionist, her eyes flicking to her name badge. ‘Maggie was about to call upstairs to confirm my appointment before I went over to North Heath Press instead.’ She turned back to the guard. ‘It would be better for the Evening Herald if I shared my information here – it’s to do with the disappearance of an exemployee after all, and the gross misconduct from the paper at that – but I’ll leave it up to Maggie to decide.’

  Both Rose and the guard turned to the receptionist. Her face had grown pale.

  ‘One moment, please,’ she said, and picked up the phone.

  Rose smiled at the guard. He looked her up and down before turning back to his station by the door.

  Rose faced the desk again to hear the end of the call.

  ‘Yes, Finn Matthews.’ Maggie looked up at her. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Rose Shaw.’

  ‘Rose Shaw,’ she repeated into the phone. ‘Okay.’

  Maggie placed the phone in the cradle.

  ‘Take the lift to the fourth floor. She will be waiting for you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Even through her sleepless haze and the pull of her aching joints, she couldn’t help but smirk at her triumph. After so many years of keeping her eyes to the ground, it felt good to hold her head high.

  She stepped into the lift and took out her phone the moment the doors closed to search her browser for the name of the new editor of the newspaper. She hadn’t anticipated this, but she could spin it back to Finn. Her phone buffered, the connection faltered from the lift, and failed to give her the name before the doors opened on the fourth floor.

  A woman was waiting for her in a dark brown suit, pulled in at the waist, padded at the shoulders, neat lines pressed into the front of her trousers all the way down to the tips of her heels pointing out from beneath the hem. Her hair was dyed dark brown, almost black, and starting to show grey at the roots. When she smiled, Rose thought she wore too much make-up as she watched it cake between the lines around her eyes and mouth.

  ‘Rose Shaw,’ the woman said confidently, holding out her hand. ‘Miranda Lawrence, editor of the Herald.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Rose said.

  ‘My office is this way – we can chat there.’

  Miranda led her confidently through the open-plan office with a quick stride. Rose had felt confident before, but Miranda seemed to ooze with it, each movement sharply executed, as though each breath and word had an important purpose, and anything that didn’t was a waste of her time.

  ‘Here,’ she said, opening the door to a small office and holding it open for Rose to pass. ‘Can I get you a drink? Tea? Coffee?’

  ‘Coffee, please,’ Rose said as she took a seat before the desk.

  ‘Lindsay, coffee,’ she called out into the office, and closed the door.

  Lindsay. The colleague from the bar.

  Miranda made her way round the desk and sat quickly, every second precious, and clasped her hands together on top of the desk.

  ‘How can I help?’

  Rose had never trusted journalists. There was something coldblooded about them, a ruthlessness they had to have to bag the best story, a trait she couldn’t trust. Whatever Rose gave, she knew this woman would counter with a question of her own. But however she planned to spin this, Rose would leave with the upper hand.

  ‘Finn Matthews is missing.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she said quickly, her voice void of any sign of genuine concern. ‘I never met him, but I heard good things about his work.’

  ‘Did you also hear of the abuse he received during his time in Rearwood?’

  ‘I am aware he may have experienced some difficulties.’

  The door to the office opened quickly, pressing into the wall with a bang. Miranda jolted behind the desk and closed her eyes briefly, the bones of her jaw clenching beneath the skin.

  A young woman entered with a tray and placed it on the desk. Two cups, a pot of coffee, sugar and milk. Sugar granules fell from the bowl in her shaky grip.

  ‘Thank you, Lindsay,’ Miranda said between tight lips.

  Rose eyed the woman properly for the first time. Ashy blonde hair flat-ironed to within an inch of its life, heavy eye make-up and bold red lips, with a skirt suit too tight for her frame and ballet pumps on her feet.

  She nodded quickly and headed out of the room, closing the door with a quiet click.

  ‘I was hoping you could tell me if you knew where Finn was,’ Rose said, as she watched Miranda pour the coffee, shaking her head when she offered sugar and milk. ‘Perhaps he asked for a reference for another employer? Had his P45 sent to a new address?’

  ‘We don’t have that information, I’m afraid,’ the editor replied, stirring sugar into her cup before taking a sip. ‘And even if we did, I wouldn’t be at liberty to share that sort of private information with you.’

  ‘Right,’ Rose said, jumping to plan B. ‘Then I would like to put this in the next issue of the Evening Herald.’

  She took the folder from her bag and pulled out the sheets of paper. It had taken less than an hour to mock up in the library, and a kind woman at the computer next to hers had read over the paperwork to check for spelling mistakes, in case her tired brain had missed any. The woman’s eyebrow had risen in an arch as she read the headline, but she was too polite to ask.

  Miranda took them with a steady hand and read for a moment.

  ‘I’m sure we could slip this into the ad pages somewhere. . .’

  ‘No,’ Rose said sternly. ‘The back page. All of it.’

  ‘Mrs Shaw, we can’t just pull planned ads from an issue and replace it with. . . something like this.’

  ‘We both know you can. And wouldn’t you be putting the company first? Yes, backing from advertisers must be helpful, but I’m sure support from the town, your entire demographic, is more important. I’ll be doing a lot of talking about this, about Finn. It’s up to you whether I tell the town about the lack of support you at the paper had for him. I have a good way with words too, Miranda.’

  The woman eyed her coolly from the other side of the desk, but one corner of her mouth twitched with a threatening smirk. She was impressed.

  ‘You can have the ad space if you pay double. I won’t upset a devoted advertiser if it’s going to put us at a loss.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Don’t you care how much it is?’

  ‘Do you prefer cash or card?’

  She smirked again, both corners curling with it this time, and pressed a code into the phone on her desk. ‘Rick, bring me the necessary paperwork for taking ad space at the back of the paper.’ She hung up swiftly, giving little time for the person on the other end of the line to reply.

  Miranda leaned back in her chair and looked Rose up and down, the smirk never leaving her face.

  ‘Have you ever thought about selling your story?’

  It was as if the woman had taken Rose’s confidence, ripped it off like a second skin, and pissed all over it. Her past meant that anyone who knew of it could snatch back control within a second. Her most dreaded memory was public, a weapon everyone in the town knew to use. She crossed her arms.

  �
��No.’

  ‘It could help close that chapter in your life. It’s been what – four years?’

  ‘I’m not selling my story.’

  ‘It would help pay for the ad too. You could have all the ads you wanted.’

  ‘I have the money.’

  ‘It could help your cause. If people see you in a good light, as a mother controlled by her insomnia, rather than someone irresponsible and reckless, you might have more people willing to help you with this.’

  Rose snorted. ‘Please don’t try to act like you have some sort of moral integrity. You’d spin the story in a second.’

  A man entered the office with a pile of papers, as flustered as Lindsay had been. Miranda had clearly made an impression on the office, but she didn’t scare Rose. She had stared death in the face; Miranda Lawrence was nothing.

  ‘Think about it,’ she said, before her smirk dropped and she eyed the man standing beside the desk. The paperwork shook in his hands. She signalled for him to put it in front of Rose with a sharp tilt of her head.

  ‘Sign where it’s crossed,’ she told Rose. ‘And fill in your payment details towards the back. Your ad will run in the paper next week.’

  ‘Next week?’ Rick asked. ‘But Miranda, that space is—’

  ‘I didn’t realise I needed to consult you on this, Rick.’

  ‘You don’t,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’

  Rose took the pen he gave her and signed by the crosses, flipping past pages of text she was too exhausted to read. It wouldn’t do her ‘strong woman’ persona any good if she fell asleep face first on the desk. She signed the last page and placed the pen on the desktop.

  ‘Pleasure to have met you, Rose,’ Miranda said and shook her hand. ‘And think about what I said.’ She clicked her fingers. ‘Rick, show Mrs Shaw to the lobby, and then process the forms.’

  He nodded quickly as he snatched up the paperwork and rushed for the door, holding it open for her. Rose walked through, excitement buzzing in her gut. She had done it. The first real step in finding answers. All she had to do now was wait.

  Rick led her back the way they had come, past the desks piled high with paperwork, the distant bleep of a phone the only persistent sound in the room. Lindsay stood from her desk, smoothing down her skirt and slinging her bag over her shoulder before heading across the office, through a door for the ladies’ room.

  Rose stopped before the lift.

  ‘Can I use the toilet before I go?’

  Rick checked his watch nervously, glancing back at Miranda’s office.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ she said.

  ‘Okay, there’s one just off the reception. I’ll show you.’

  ‘I. . . I’d prefer if I could go now.’ She waited a beat. ‘Ladies’ problems.’

  ‘Right, of course,’ he stammered. ‘You can use this one.’

  He ushered her towards the door.

  ‘Thanks.’

  The room was small, with just two cubicles and a lone sink beneath a smeared mirror. The light bulb flickered briefly above her head. The floor appeared clean, but stuck to the soles of her shoes as she stepped closer to the mirror.

  One of the bathroom stalls was shut. Lindsay moved around inside, pulling at the toilet paper dispenser.

  Rose stood before the mirror and almost flinched at the sight of the woman staring back at her. The dark shadows around her eyes made it look as though the sockets had sunk inwards. Her hair was ruffled and the first signs of grease shimmered at the roots. Insomnia had a way of sucking the life from a person, paling the lips, dulling eyes, thinning the skin. It had been years since she’d recognised herself in the mirror.

  The toilet flushed behind her. She fussed with her appearance in the mirror to look busy, and watched as Lindsay left the cubicle, zipping her pencil skirt up behind her back.

  ‘Sorry to ask,’ Rose said. ‘But do you have a tampon?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  Lindsay took a tampon from her small bag; clearly her time of the month if she was traipsing back and forth to the bathroom with it.

  ‘Thanks. Lindsay, right?’

  ‘Yeah, sorry about. . . her. Was Miranda nice to you?’

  ‘She was fine. Although Miranda doesn’t seem like the easiest person to work for.’

  ‘That’s putting it kindly,’ she said as she lathered her hands in soap.

  ‘You knew Finn, right?’

  Lindsay stopped instantly at the sound of his name, bubbles coating her hands as water continued to run into the bowl.

  ‘He disappeared,’ Rose continued. ‘I’m worried about him. He said he was having some trouble with a man, which started the night you all went for drinks. Do you remember? A man from the bar walked him home.’

  ‘He was a twat,’ Lindsay said, washing the soap from her hands.

  ‘How old did he look?’

  ‘I don’t know. Forties maybe?’

  Lindsay was young, in her twenties. She would think anyone over thirty-five was in their forties. Rose didn’t want to know how old Lindsay thought she was.

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Black hair,’ she said, remembering, and snorted. ‘Probably a dye job. He seemed like the vain type. All right body from what I could see of it. Plain old face you’d forget in a minute.’

  ‘Were there any distinguishing features you can remember?’

  She thought back for a moment, chewing lightly on her bottom lip.

  ‘Now I remember why I didn’t like him,’ she said. ‘He was wearing a wedding ring.’

  ‘What a pig,’ Rose said, goading her.

  ‘You’re telling me. My dad was a cheat, completely broke my mum. Can’t stand guys like that now. Makes me feel sick even looking at them. I mean, he even wore it when he was out on the pull. Crazy, right?’

  ‘Right. Crazy. What did it look like, the ring?’

  ‘Just a simple gold band.’

  ‘Had you ever seen him before?’

  ‘No, nor since.’

  She dried her hands with paper towels, taking her time, as if delaying her return to the office.

  ‘Would you recognise him again, if you saw him?’

  ‘Maybe, but like I said, I haven’t.’ She headed for the door, but hesitated. ‘It’s funny, isn’t it? You can live in a town all your life and still stumble across people you’ve never met.’

  Rose smiled and thanked her again for the tampon she didn’t need, and watched Lindsay leave.

  Rose wasn’t worried about suspecting people she hadn’t met in Rearwood before. She was worried about the people she already knew.

  Rose turned off the path at the head of the drive and noticed there were lights on in the house. They were actually home, for once. It had to be both of them; neither of them liked to face her alone.

  She stopped outside for a moment, silently preparing herself for the tension she would be welcomed with. It was almost possible to watch them shutting her out just by looking in their eyes and watching as they cooled. Trying to chip away at the barriers they put between them and her every day was exhausting.

  When she headed up the steps for the front door, she stopped, her hand clapping against her lips.

  Her bag was lying in front of the door, burnt to a crisp. The top step was charred from extinguished flames. Her phone was on the step beneath, away from where the flames had been, perched against it so the screen reflected her face in the glass. She snatched it up and saw an unsent text message.

  If you play with fire, you’re going to get burnt.

  The front door burst open. She stumbled back, the phone clenched in her grasp. Christian stood in the doorway, chest flared.

  ‘What the hell is this?’

  Anger radiated from him. She looked down at the bag, just as the breeze wafted the scent of burning fabric between them. It was eye-watering. She met his eyes again. He had found the mess and gone inside so she would find it like he had when she returned home.

  ‘I lost it,’ she said, l
ooking from her bag to him. ‘I thought I’d lost it. But obviously someone took it.’

  ‘But why? Why would anyone do that?’

  Christian would never understand why she was doing this. If he knew, she would have to face the pity in his eyes. For once she wanted something that was just hers. Lily had her friends, Christian had his mistress; all she had was the hunger for justice for a man she had never met.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What do you mean you don’t know? The message said you were playing with fire.’

  ‘You looked through my—’

  ‘Rose, what have you done?’

  ‘I haven’t done anything!’

  He scoffed and turned away, striding down the hall. She pocketed her phone and stepped over the bag, closing the door behind her.

  Music was booming from upstairs, so loud she could almost hear Lily’s bedroom door shuddering in its frame.

  Rose strode down the hallway and found Christian in the kitchen, pouring himself a whisky.

  ‘Where were you today?’ he asked.

  ‘Where were you last night?’ she retorted.

  ‘Don’t be so childish, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘So you get to do whatever you want, see whoever you want, with no regard for me? And yet I’m expected to answer to you?’

  He finished off his drink in one. It was clear it hadn’t been his first drink of the evening; the whites of his eyes were red, his pupils glassy.

  ‘Whatever you were doing pissed someone off. They know where we live. Don’t you care about Lily’s safety? She was the one to find it, by the way. She came home from school to your shit melted to the doorstep.’

  ‘If you were here more often, maybe she wouldn’t have been alone.’

  ‘I think you’re forgetting I have to work to pay for the roof over our heads.’

  ‘The house I bought, Christian, don’t you forget that.’

  ‘Yes, and a house I have to work day and night to keep.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why do it? Why stay? You clearly don’t love me. So why are you still here?’

  ‘You want me to go?’

  ‘You should want to go. You said you were as sick of this as I was, so why put up with it? You’ve met someone else, you see her more than you see me, see us, and yet you keep coming back.’