30 Days in June

by Chris Westlake

  I push my phone back across the desk. "Check my calls. I was in a mad panic. I made a load of different calls. Just before I called you. My dad said I should call you if I was worried. And so I did. Check later. I called the same people again, to tell them I was fine, that the moment had passed..."

  Reeves reluctantly taps away at my phone. He knows he isn't going to find anything, that he is going through the motions. Why would I be so keen to pass him the phone if it contained anything incriminating?

  "I appreciate that this has been a difficult time for you, Marcus," Reeves says. This is textbook empathy. I know, because I've taught it in my workshops. The dumb prick is falling for it. "And to be honest with you, the anxiety is written all over your face. You look like a shadow of the man who sat opposite me a few weeks ago. No offence. And I know this recent revelation is only going to cause you further stress. But we both know that if whoever this is wanted you dead, then you'd be dead by now. This is a murder enquiry now, so I have a team working night and day on it. You need to tell me straight away if you hear anything. Do you hear?"

  "I hear."

  "Do you still feel something terrible is going to happen?"

  I shake my head. "The grim reality, officer, is that it already has happened. I feel nothing now. Just empty. That's why I couldn't get out of bed this morning. Numb."

  "Have you heard anything from him since you last saw me?"

  "Nothing. I've been looking out for him all the time. I've been a paranoid mess, if truth be told. But nothing. You'd be the first person I'd tell if I thought I was at risk, DCI Reeves. Despite all my false bravado, I'm aware you're the best there is, and I'd want you on my side if I thought I was in danger."

  This thaws the ice. I knew he'd like his ego massaged. I also knew he'd be too dumb to realise I'm taking the piss.

  "And you promise that you aren't holding anything back? That you are telling us everything you know?"

  "Promise."

  The stiff puts away his pen, looks ready to go get a coffee, maybe a biscuit, possibly a sugar donut.

  "Am I free to go, DCI Reeves?"

  "You've always been free to go, Marcus."

  DAY TWENTY-THREE

  23RD JUNE 1988

  Lisa James pulls her wrist close to her eyes and then squints. Jesus. 4am. Good girls weren't supposed to be out having an absolutely fabulous time at this hour. They were supposed to be tucked up in bed, wishing that they could be out having an absolutely fabulous time. This might possibly be the best night of her life ever.

  The night had started like any other. There had been no signs that this night would be different, would be special. They met at seven on Nolton Street, making the most of the cheaper drinks in the pubs, returning from the bar with two drinks each, spilling most on the floor. Lisa remembered smiling at her reflection in the mirror in the third pub, pouting her lips and blowing a kiss. She looked so much prettier after a handful of drinks, particularly through glazed eyes.

  By the time they reached the final pub the handsome barman in a black waistcoat had already told her off for dancing on the table. The leery men didn't seem to mind; they cricked their necks to look up her skirt. Her friends assumed, as they always did, because they didn't take the time to look – not really – that Lisa was the life of the party. Everything was always skin deep; they never talked about anything serious, anything that mattered. Lisa longed to tell them that she often dragged herself out of bed in the mornings, that she drunk buckets full of alcohol just to numb the taunting thoughts, to bring the occasional glimmer of light to the dark clouds that followed her. One particular night, she drank enough to tell her mate that she sometimes stood on the platform in the mornings, surrounded by the same grey faces as the day before and the day before that, and thought about jumping off just as the train arrived. Lisa looked up, ready for the aghast reaction, to be told she needed help, but her friend had her eyes closed, dribble trickling from the corner of her mouth. Lisa never bothered opening up again, never attempted to remove the mask with the curled red smile, just like the Joker.

  They were huddled around a large round table in the club when she first spotted him, stood on his own, dressed all in black, blending into the shadows. How could somebody so beautiful be so innocuous? At first, he was merely an interesting outline through her glass. It was only once she'd downed her drink and slammed it down (with a wet splash) on the table that she realised the interesting outline was looking at her. He signalled with his middle finger for her to come over. Oh, that line, Lisa thought. If I can make you come with my little finger, imagine what I can do with the rest of me. She glanced around the table to check whether any of her friends had noticed. They'd either mock or patronise; she didn't fancy either option. Luckily, they didn't appear to have spotted him. Lisa told them she was taking a leak, wetting the lettuce. They pointed and laughed, like they were in the presence of that comedian who'd died on stage a few years ago: Tommy Cooper was it? They all said she was the funny one which, Lisa felt, was the same as saying she was the one with a personality as opposed to looks.

  Fuck it. Her chair scraped along the floor. She shimmied her hips as she walked up to the guy, still half-expecting it to be a mistake, to be a joke. Lisa was ready for this boy to put her in her place, ready to sneak off to the toilet like they'd never exchanged a look, never uttered a word. At least enough alcohol flowed through her body to make a joke of it, to laugh it off.

  "You look like you're having a good time," the guy said, widening his grey eyes. His tone was friendly. There was no indication that he was mocking her.

  "Girls' night out, isn't it..."

  There was adventure in his eyes. Right at that moment, Lisa felt like she'd do anything he asked her to do.

  "I'm leaving here. Looking to broaden my horizons. Make the most of my night. Don't like routine. I prefer the unexpected. Why don't you come with me, become part of my evening?"

  Lisa brushed one hand through her strawberry hair and the other along the contours of his firm arm.

  "That's outrageous," she said, laughing. She let the words linger. She longed for him to contradict them. "I don't know you. I don't even know your name."

  The boy smiled. "It is outrageous. I know. And no, you don't. But if you knew my name then I wouldn't be a complete stranger, would I? But you want to come with me, don't you?"

  Lisa both nodded and shook her head all in one motion. The boy started laughing, and she did, too.

  "Where you heading to? How are you going to broaden your horizons? Isn't this all just talk? Cliché? Dare I say it: bullshit?"

  Lisa knew her eyes wandered over his body as she spoke, absorbed the long limbs, the narrow midriff. Lisa was aware he noticed, that he smiled.

  "Who knows? Maybe I am all talk? Maybe I just want to take you for a curry? But, are you willing to take the risk to find out?"

  Lisa glanced around at her friends. They hadn't even noticed her speaking to this boy. They assumed she was still in the toilet, applying an extra layer of soap to her hands. "Maybe."

  Moving closer to her now, he whispered in her ear. "Meet me over by Boots in five minutes. If you come then I know you really want to be here, that I'm not dragging you along against your will..."

  Lisa began protesting, started telling him that if he wanted her to go then he could damn well take her, but before she could, he was gone.

  She did meet him, of course. She wondered how long it took before one of her friends looked for her in the cubicles. He was waiting for her, his reflection visible in the shop window. He took her hand without uttering a word and then they walked the deserted backstreets until her heels clicked on the concrete steps to the park. Lisa was able to look for miles in every direction. She was completely alone with this stranger. And, true to his word, he'd remained a stranger.

  "There is a rope swing down there," he said, pointing to the river with the dead fish that floated on the surface, hidden by the overgrowth of trees.

  Lisa unhook
ed the strap of her shoes and ran barefoot towards the river. For once, she felt no urge to jump in the river, see how long she could keep her head under the water before she stopped breathing. The wind blew through her strands of red hair, which gathered in a mess, covered her eyes. She had no idea what he intended to do with this damn rope swing. He was no Tarzan (though she'd like to see him stripped to the waist) and she was sure as hell no Jane. He was damn sexy, though. He could do whatever he wanted with her down by the mouth of the river and nobody (but them) would know. It would be their little secret. She'd even resist telling her friends, not that they'd believe her anyway. Lisa was aware of the dampness that seeped through her knickers as her burning feet moved closer and closer to the mouth of the river.

  She turned around, gasping for breath. Leaning forward at the waist, hands on her knees, she could barely make him out in the dark open fields in his black clothes. He walked slowly, in no rush. Lisa glanced at her watch, gasped as she realised she'd been walking for hours with this stranger, that it was four in the morning.

  "So where is this mythical rope swing of yours? I hope this isn't some devious ploy to get me down here in the middle of nowhere on my own?"

  His face lights like a candle. This guy is full of mischief, she thinks. He'd had plenty of opportunity to take advantage of her, even on the drunken walk down to the park, but he'd chosen not to. He was biding his time, making her wait. He hadn't laid a single hand on her body yet. It could only be a matter of time, though. She looked into his eyes and she knew they weren't innocent, that thankfully they were full of ill-intent.

  "I have a better plan," he says. "Let's cross the river."

  “You what?” Lisa follows him anyway, grasping her shoes in one hand. It is only when she spots the thick metal pipe running from one side of the river to the other that she understands.

  "Ladies first," he says, holding out his hand, his long piano fingers spread wide.

  Blowing out her cheeks, Lisa puts her shoes down against the dry riverbank. Now, this is living! Placing one bare foot down against the cold pipe, her second foot quickly follows, hands gripping the railings. This was easy. Her foot slips. For the first time, she stares down at the shallow water below, barely covering the rocks and pebbles, realises just how high up she is. Her knuckles whiten as her grip tightens. She regains her balance. Dares to take another quick look down. Damn. If she fell then she'd break every fragile bone in her body.

  Only, she wasn't going to, was she? She wasn't alone. Not quite. Strong hands nestle around her waist, keeping her steady.

  "Careful," he whispers, his breath hot against her neck.

  Arching her body, Lisa pushes her buttocks against his crotch. He edges away. Fucking tease.

  She tenses, startled. Her eyes widen, then narrow. Something wasn't right.

  “You see that?”

  “See what?”

  She wants to point her arm, but she doesn't dare release a hand. “Over there. On the other side of the river. I saw something.”

  His laugh, over her shoulder, is rasping.

  “Darkness does awful things to your imagination if you let it. Relax. You're with me...”

  Lisa focuses her eyes. Feels ridiculous. All she can see are dark shapes. Everything is moving. The gentle, constant flow of the river underneath her provides some solace.

  He is right. This stranger. There is nothing there. Just the two of them.

  She is buoyed with even more confidence. She's had enough of his teasing. It is way past her bedtime and besides, she is a girl with needs. If he isn't going to make a move, then she is. There is no way she can fall from this slippery metal pipe, twenty feet or so from the river bank, not with his careful, considerate and strong hands protecting her. She swivels around on the balls of her feet, ready to welcome his sinewy body into her arms.

  All she welcomes, though, is his wide smile reflecting in the razor.

  Her only possible escape is the shallow river that lies twenty or so feet below, with the sharp, protruding rocks and pebbles. So what if she breaks every bone in her body? She lunges, but his hands are just too careful, too considerate and too strong to let her fall. After all, they are there to protect her from the water. Her knight in shining armour has a much worse fate in mind for her.

  Lisa stands, frozen to the spot, neither hand on the rail, as she realises it is him. She closes her eyes and releases a muffled whimper as she allows him to carve lines down her chest with his razor.

  She knows that, by the time she plummets to the waiting water below, she'll most likely already be dead.

  DAY TWENTY-FOUR

  24TH JUNE 2018

  Over the last few days and weeks I've been spending less and less time on my boat. There, I'm a sitting target. I know that, by staying away, I'm running. You can run, but you can't hide. I know Richard doesn't want me to run. No. He wants me to fight. Easy for him to say, hidden behind the comfort of his mahogany desk. The serial killer isn't interested in him. For me, right now, it isn't so much that I need to keep running; I just need to keep busy, to focus and distract my mind. And so I've roamed the streets, sometimes with purpose, mainly aimlessly.

  Passing a shop just like any other on the high street, I turn back and enter. Scanning the wall behind the glass counter, the shelves are stacked with an array of gadgets and accessories, such as iPods, headphones and laptops. This is the equivalent of a sweetshop for the modern male. Glancing at a faded white sheet of paper pinned to the wall with Sellotape, I hand the bearded guy behind the counter a quid and he silently points at a vacant computer behind me.

  This is only the second time I've been in one of these places. I never anticipated a second time after my first experience. Sure, it ticked most of the boxes. I purchased a lukewarm can of coke from the counter. The monitor was clear and free of glare. At a quid for an hour, I couldn't argue with the prices. So why was I put off? These establishments seemed to attract a particular type of clientele, that's why. I could cope with the punters shouting and arguing with the guys behind the till who didn't speak great English. I can't quite clear my mind of the guy next to me rubbing his dick under the table to some porn, though. I really don't care what goes on behind closed doors, so long as I don't have to see it when I'm checking my emails.

  I roll back the blue swivel chair, eyes checking for any unidentified white stains. I smile and nod to the young guy at the computer to my left; he stares at his monitor and rolls his chair further to the left. I click to start my hour, aware that I'm on borrowed time, hoping I won't need the full quota anyway.

  What, I ask myself, is the most appropriate search to find what I was looking for? Bowing my head, I close my eyes and thumb my temple. This is the first hurdle, and it seems I'm no Colin Jackson at jumping over them. This was going to be more difficult than I initially anticipated. How could I search for somebody when I didn't know who they are? I'm interested in two people, but I don't have either name. I type in the one name I did know, my only link to the other two.

  Jesus. He fills page one and so I click onto page two, then three. Clearly, I'm not the only one interested. I'm momentarily impressed at how popular he is, how much of a footprint he has made in his field. My hand hovers on the mouse. None of the search options fit the bill. I type some specifics into the search engine, then some more.

  That's the one.

  I glance at the countdown on the bottom right of my screen. I still have fifty minutes. I glance down at the crotch of the young guy to my left, just to make sure he hasn't taken things into his own hand; he rolls even further to the left. I move my eyes from left to right, like I'm at the tennis, as I scan the words on the page. At first I skim-read, skipping the occasional word and sentence to get to the gritty detail. By the second paragraph, my reading slows and my jaw drops. This is worse than I feared. My fingers tap against the edge of the table, then I slam my fist down hard. Eyes burn the back of my head. Glances are exchanged both left and right. I don't care; at least I don't ha
ve my cock out.

  The evil little bastard.

  I keep reading. I can't help myself. My heart is in my stomach, churning my guts, but I have a need. Suddenly, I sit up, press my elbows against the desk. There is a twist. A fucking immense twist. I shouldn't feel like this, but I can't help it. This is personal. The anger seeps out of my body and is replaced by a warm, numb glow.

  The evil little bastard got what he deserved.

  I wish I could have picked up a shovel and dug his grave myself. I would have used the shovel to smash his face first.

  Instead, something strikes me first. A thought. A terrifying thought. I recall our conversation. What he said. I repeat his words. The realisation hits me like a bowling ball to the skull. Pulling the chair back, I nod to the guy behind the counter and then the warm air outside hits my face. I don't even bother to log out, don't care that all and sundry can check my search. Sweeping some crumbs aside, fodder for the birds, I park myself down on a bench overlooking the passing traffic. I stare into space, oblivious to the pedestrians walking in every direction all around me. Have I jumped to conclusions? Richard warned me against this. I search for an alternative conclusion. Can't find one. Come back to my initial, gut conclusion.

  He killed him.

  DAY TWENTY-FIVE

  25TH JUNE 2018

  One day. That is all it has taken. One, solitary day and my approach has flipped. Total opposite. I’m no longer staying away from the boat. I don't want this misery to continue till the end of the month. Either I win or I lose, but I don't want it to be prolonged.

  You can run, but you can’t hide.

  The phrase keeps intruding my mind, joining all the others. There is barely enough room. One of them needs to roll over.