30 Days in June

by Chris Westlake

  "DCI Baldwin?"

  I know that he is just Mr Baldwin these days, just as Mrs Baldwin dutifully informed me. It somehow feels disrespectful to call him that, though, like calling an old teacher by their first name. He slowly turns to me, like a sloth. He holds my eyes for a few seconds, his face neutral. And then, he smiles.

  "Marcus," he says. "It has been so long. You look well. And very, very, different from the last time I saw you."

  He looks different, too. Naturally; after all, a lifetime has passed since we last met. He is an old man now. There are more grey hairs sprouting from his nostrils than from the crown of his head, and his face is lined like dried cowpat. But - to me, at least, then just a boy - DCI Baldwin was an old man even back in the eighties. His face looked grey and shallow and exhausted, just one sleepless night from running out of gas. Now, despite the inevitable passing of time, he somehow looks healthier, like he is further away from the grave. His cheeks have a surprisingly rosy tinge, like he spends a great amount of time outdoors. He stands straight and there does not appear to be much baggage circling his midriff. To put it bluntly, I expected much, much worse.

  DCI Baldwin opens the cage door and steps out. This is a relief. There are tens of budgies in the cage and I don't fancy any of them plopping on my head.

  I'm guided to a wooden bench. I blink my eyes. Brut. He smells exactly the same. Sitting down, he stares at me with apparent wonderment for a few moments, like he can't quite believe it is me sat there. I don't sense any negativity towards me. Time really must be a great healer.

  "I heard that you have done rather well for yourself, young man," he says. "Which is amazing really, all things considered. No offence, like. You were a prime candidate to end up at the bottom of the River Taff, weren't you? You proved me - for one - wrong, and I do like being proved wrong. Good on you, I say. Don't think me a stalker or anything, but I did keep an eye on your progress. Couldn't help it.”

  I laugh. "Depends what your idea of doing well is, Mr Baldwin," I say. "I earned some decent money working in the city, for sure. And the money enabled me to live a good life. But I can't say it provided all the answers. I've taken a step back now, and I must say, my life is better for it."

  I don't really want to talk about my life to date. I turn to DCI - Mr - Baldwin. "You're looking well."

  His face breaks into a broad smile. I can't remember the old DCI Baldwin ever smiling. "I bet you're surprised I'm even alive, aren't you? You and me both, son!" His laugh is deep and raucous. "I had to quit the drink to save my sanity and I had to give up the fags to save my lungs. I've been clean of both for over twenty years now. If I hadn't, then I'm sure the only way you'd be communicating with me would be through a medium."

  He doesn't ask what the hell I'm doing there. He must be thinking it, though. Ideally, I'd like to avoid that awkward moment, so I take the initiative.

  "I'm really sorry to come to your house and disturb your retirement, Mr Baldwin..."

  "I'm hardly rushed off my feet now, am I? What is it you want? You want my opinion on Ant running off with his wife's friend?"

  “What?”

  “You know. Ant from Ant and Dec. The one with the big forehead. Got done for drink-driving. That one...”

  “Oh,” I say, breaking into a smile. “Surprisingly not. But now you mention it, I do want your opinion on something...”

  He presses his hands down on his knees. I suspect it has been some time since anybody asked his opinion on anything important. “Whether England will win tonight? I hope not...”

  I laugh. Pause. Take a deep breath.

  “Do you think he could still be out there...?"

  He gazes at me again. His blue, sparkling eyes are truly intense, totally intimidating. I long to look away, but that would feel disrespectful. I look right back at him.

  "Why are you asking...?"

  He doesn't ask who I'm talking about. I like that: there is no bullshit, no pointless foreplay leading to the main event.

  "Somebody has been playing with my mind, bringing up the past. It came out of the blue. Only been the last couple of weeks. Since the beginning of the month, to be exact. Now it is either him, or somebody who wants me to believe they are him. You knew the case better than anyone. You knew him better than anyone. If anyone could tell me if there is even the remotest possibility that he is still out there, then it is you..."

  DCI Baldwin looks away, stares into space. "I don't deny that I know him better than most, but that doesn't mean much. The bastard consumed my life for over five years. I was obsessed. Every time I felt like I was getting close, that I was within touching distance, I realised that I was nowhere, that he was just pulling me close so he could laugh in my face. The longer I was on the case the more I realised that I knew shit. I wasn't one of his victims, but I may as well have been. He killed me just like the others, only he tortured me. The guy is an enigma. I haven't a clue who he is..."

  The words trail off. Plump, wet tears trickle down his cheek. I feel torrid for bringing up the subject, for being here, in his home, disturbing his retirement, bringing up memories of a life long gone. This old man doesn't need this, doesn't need me. He looks at me now and, though his eyes are red, salty slits, I'm scared. "We both know I don't know him better than anybody," he says.

  I look away.

  "You were the only clue I ever had to solving the whole thing,” he says. “That's why I tried to suck everything I could out of you. I was doing my job, damn it."

  "I know that," I say. Looking down, I notice his hands are cracked and threaded with blue veins. The fingers tremble.

  "So what do you think?" he asks. "Do you think he is still out there?"

  I've been asking myself this question repeatedly over the last few weeks. It is only now I feel certain of the answer. "I do," I say. "I think all of this is him. I can feel him. Watching me. Laughing at me. I just don't know what he wants."

  "He wants revenge," Baldwin says. "And he wants it in kind."

  He speaks the words so matter-of-factly that I flinch.

  "So you already know the answer to your question," DCI Baldwin says. "I'm no longer a detective, but I suspect that isn't the real reason you're here?"

  I turn to him now. Make sure my eyes stay fixed on his. "I just wanted to say thank you," I say.

  His eyes flicker over my face, but his mouth remains closed. Moments pass with us sat in silence. Then DCI Baldwin nods his head and smiles.

  ******

  I put my key in the lock to the door to my home. I haven't checked the time, but a full, white moon tells me it is late. I take a deep breath. It is odd - it is bizarre - but I haven't lived in the house back in Bridgend for thirty years and I've not visited in all of that time, and yet it still feels like my real home, not the home in Clapham, and definitely not this makeshift, temporary one that isn't even designed to remain in one place. It can be moved at any time. The fucking thing floats!

  There is a reason for the deep breath, of course. I am taking a moment. It reminds me of when Emma was a baby. I'd stand over her cot in the morning and just watch the gentle rising and falling of her body. I savoured the few, peaceful moments before she woke. Emma was, and still is, a beautiful, tiny bundle of joy and happiness and yet - and yet she was a baby - and so she was also a beautiful, tiny bundle of manic, zany energy.

  Now, these are my final quiet moments before the storm erupts.

  I push open the door, and the storm erupts even faster than I expected. Footsteps charge down the narrow passageway, a Labrador protecting his home from an intruder. The footsteps are fast and frantic and they're coming straight for me. My face begins breaking into a friendly smile, but before it can do so, my face is struck. On the cheek. Hard.

  "Where the fuck have you been?"

  My natural reaction, the response that is spontaneous to Marcus Clancy and not to Jeffrey Allen, is to say something sarcastic. Nice to see you, too. But even Marcus Clancy is not that shallow, not that pathetic. Not q
uite. Erica has done nothing with her hair; it flows freely to the nape of her back. Her scent feels natural, like she has just jumped out of bed without spraying any perfume. I notice that her face is free of make-up. The light sprinkling of freckles are visible on her nose and cheeks. Paradoxically, considering she'd just slapped me, my first thought is that she looks impossibly sexy. My second thought is that I want to tear those flimsy clothes from her body. My third thought is that I want to be inside her, right now; I want to hear her moan and writhe as she rides me.

  The rapid thoughts are thrown into disarray as she continues her onslaught.

  "You are gone for days without even a phone call. Just what sort of a prick are you? I've been calling you, texting you. Do I mean that little that you can't even bother to reply? To me? Where the fuck have you been, you dumb little shit?"

  My eyes lower to the spittle on her lips; her sharp incisors glisten. I watch, wide-eyed, as she opens her hand, my eyes focussing on the long, pointed nails that protrude over the tips of her fingers. I know Erica. She is preparing to scrape those fingernails down the side of my face, use them as weapons. She wants blood. I grab both her wrists and I push her away. I just need to keep those hands away from me. I feel her tension ease away, feel her strength fade. Staring into her beautiful, angry eyes for signs, I need to know that her attack is over. I release my grip from her wrists. There is a moment of silence, of inactivity, where we both look at each other, two boxers considering their opponent's next move. Erica pummels her fists into my chest. She is like a drummer. This is harmless. I let her hit me, use my chest as a punch bag. She just needs to let her anger out. She needs to wear herself out. The erection in my pants grows.

  "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I say. "I love you so much. You know I love you so much."

  Erica arches her neck to the side. I know that look: are you fucking with me? Are you really fucking with me, you little son-of-a-bitch? After days and days away, I tell her I love her? But it is how I feel. It is probably how a husband feels after hitting his wife, but that doesn't make it any better, does it?

  "My brain was fucked, Erica. I needed time away. Like, really needed it. I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to stop me going. I knew you'd worry. I really am sorry."

  "Where did you go?"

  I look away. I can't bear to look at her. Jenny knows where I went. I do love her. Erica.

  "I can't say. It was nowhere. Just somewhere. I just needed to be somewhere else. Somewhere other than here."

  She has a million and one angry questions to ask me. Her mouth opens and she begins to speak but I think she realises my answer is likely so pathetic that it is beyond taking it any further. Just isn't worth going there.

  "Why? What is wrong with you? Are you sick?"

  I think about this. I feel sick, and maybe I am sick. It feels like a disease has infected my body over the last few weeks, since the beginning of the month – this awful, decrepit month of June - has spread over every fibre of my being. But I can't use that as the reason. It isn't the reason, not really.

  "My mind hasn't been in the right place, darling," I say. "My brain has been messed up. I needed to get away before it got really bad, before I got into major trouble."

  A few cute lines appear on her forehead. She crinkles her nose. Erica knows I struggle. I think it was part of the appeal when she first met me, like a bird with an injured wing she wanted to heal. She knows I have a history that is always there, lurking like a monster at the bottom of the bed. I've told her I have a past, that I used to be a different person. She just doesn't realise I meant literally a different person. Does she need to?

  "Why couldn't you tell me this before you went?"

  "Because I didn't want you to stop me going."

  "You think that little of me?"

  No, no, no. That isn't it at all. "It is because I think that much of you. I know you love me, although I have no idea why you fucking do. I know you would have tried to stop me because you didn't want me to get hurt."

  "Did you tell her where you were going? Was it her you went with?"

  I press my forehead gently against hers, tell her that of course I didn't. She doesn't move away. I lower my hands. Erica rubs her thumb along the length of my middle finger. I kiss the tip of her nose. "You need to think enough of me to know that I wouldn't stop you from doing anything you believe you need to," she says. I pull my face back and nod my head. My lips caress her own. She tastes salty. I dread to think how I taste. Raw sewerage probably has nothing on me right now. Still, Erica allows her tongue to slip inside my mouth. I wonder whether she can feel me pressing against the smoothness of her inner thigh. Erica pulls way. Maybe she does feel it?

  "Don't ever fuck off like that again," she says. "Or I swear, it'll be me who leaves you. You can go back to her, to your perfect little wife."

  I make a million and one promises to her. Sensing the tension fade away, like the air has been released from the balloon, I tell her that I'm going to take a shower. Erica doesn't argue. She can smell me. I need to wash the dirt from my body. I need to wash away the guilty thoughts, the lies.

  Deliberately, the shower is cold, that kind of shower I'd take to soothe my sunburned body after a day by the pool. Lowering my head, the jet sprays bullets against my neck. The boat is shaking. Looking down, I realise it is not the boat; it is me. I am shaking. I stare at my upturned hands like they are tea leaves, offering all the answers. My palms are white and crinkled. I find no answers.

  I hear something outside the bathroom. I think I hear something outside. Was it the door? Is he on the boat? Again? I turn off the shower. I stand in the tiny cubicle- naked, wet and shivering. I listen for noises, for signs, for anything. Erica is pottering around. She is washing the dishes. He'd get to her before he'd get to me.

  My nerves are shot to pieces. He is getting to me. I haven't heard from him for days, for all the time I was in Wales. The phone was in my pocket all the time. At first it felt like it was alive. I was sure I felt it vibrate with every movement I made. I compulsively pulled the phone out of my pocket and checked it. The red phone. Nothing. As the seconds and minutes and days passed I became used to it. It became a weight, a shape, just a harmless part of me. I very nearly - nearly - forgot that it was there.

  I know damn well what I need to do. I need to do what Richard told me to do. I always listen to Richard. I need to make the right choice. I need to choose to ignore him.

  It is all in my mind. He is not outside. If he was, I'd confront him, stop him from getting close to Erica. I pull the shower curtain open. Step out of the shower. Dry myself down in the towel. My mind drifts. I suddenly feel stronger than I have for weeks, for years. I am empowered. I have a choice. I can make the right choice. I am strong enough. I am brave enough. Things are going to be alright.

  My phone vibrates.

  The red phone. His phone. Whoever he is. I stare at it. I somehow wish that I can make it vanish, make it disintegrate into dust. It stays there, lying on the floor on the rug, next to my discarded trousers, seemingly growing in size. I want to pick the thing up and throw it against the wall, smash it into tiny pieces. I pick up the phone. I click on a button. The screen lights up.

  I do hope you enjoyed your little trip away, Jeffrey. I expect you got used to the break I gave you. Holiday is over! I've kindly sent you a video so you don't get any post holiday blues.

  I stare at the screen. I read the words again. And then again. There is no video. What is he talking about? He is just playing games. The phone vibrates in my hand.

  This time there is a video. I don't want to open it. I long to put the phone in my pocket and take it straight to DCI Reeves. This is real evidence. This is something for his stats. Whatever the video is, the mere fact that I have one on my phone would make him salivate with anticipation.

  I click the button to open the video. I watch with an open mouth. I arch my neck and adjust my position to make sure I believe what I am seeing. I close my eyes and squeez
e the handset. I drop it to the floor. It is the only thing I can do to stop myself from crushing it.

  I have just watched a video of my dad, sat alone in our kitchen, cup of tea by his side, palms of his hands rubbing his face.

  I am quite sure that he is quietly sobbing.

  DAY NINETEEN

  19TH JUNE 2018

  This is a bad sign. This is the second time I've been here in less than a week, and the first time wasn't exactly a jovial experience, either. Then I'd been in and out and on my way to the supermarket car park to gift Ken his unexpected treat. Now I perch on the edge of a high stool, absent-mindedly gazing at the endless flow of pedestrian traffic through the window. Of course, England is a happier place this week. They won. Harry is the new hero of the nation. Unfortunately, I'm not one of the happy people. Last time I was here it had been two cardboard cups to take away; now it is one white china mug please for Billy No Mates in the corner.

  Years and years of a relentless working environment made me adept at making decisions. There was no time for dithering. There was no room for niceties. Sometimes I got it right. Sometimes I got it wrong. Most of the time I really didn't give a fuck. Nothing puts things into perspective more than getting slashed seven times with a cut-throat razor. Most of the time I was just glad to be alive. The rest of the time I was glad I was not sitting alone in an empty house, like when I first moved to London.

  Now the odds are serious, and I'm clueless what to do. I spend my working days (when I bother to work, that is) telling others how to speak and how to behave. Usually I playfully mock and undermine the students. Now I'm a duck, keeping calm on the surface but madly kicking my legs under the water. I don't want to over-think, but then I do want to put my thoughts into some sort of order. Right now they are rebounding off each other like bumper cars at a makeshift fair.

  Last time he only impacted me. I was an adolescent, with no wife or girlfriend, no children. The aftermath, of course, was a different matter. But – physically at least - he only hurt me. That was enough, really. The rest unravelled by itself. So many more could get hurt this time. Now, of course, I can't even be sure who I am dealing with. DCI Reeves was pretty certain it wasn't him. If it wasn't him then what sort of a sick bastard would play copycat? What was their motive? Where did they want it to end? Why should he stop at me? I can cope with him hurting me, but not my dad. And why would he stop at Dad? Why not move on to Erica? Maybe move onto Jenny? And then finish with...