Little One

by Sarah A. Denzil

  But there was something altogether more malign released from the apartment when the door opened. They reacted to it at the same time, covering their mouths and noses with their hands or forearms. Fran retched as soon as the smell hit the back of her throat. The toxic stench that emanated from the open door reminded her of a dead rat Adrian had found in their chimney cavity. This was worse. This was sickly, and decayed, and rotten. Fran knew right away what it was, and she was convinced the others did too. A body.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Fran did not walk forward, she stood in the doorway, frozen by her own dread. The manager stepped back into the corridor, took a phone out of his pocket and called the police. She heard him speaking through the dull, thudding of the blood in her ears. Next to her, she was vaguely aware of Naomi speaking. Something about not going inside in case it was a crime scene. She ended with, “Poor Noah”.

  Fran stared at the open apartment. She saw a mackintosh hung up on the wall, white walls turning yellow from sun damage, and a threadbare carpet. She saw the corner of a kitchen; one pale green cupboard with white paint peeling from the handle. She saw the edge of an old sofa, the arm worn down from years of use. There was the hint of a curtain. It did not billow. There was no air.

  When she finally stepped into the flat, no one stopped her. The manager was preoccupied, pacing up and down the corridor outside the flat, perhaps worrying about his job, or the other residents. Naomi had bent down to check on the cat again. No one was watching Fran as she walked past the mackintosh, the kitchen cupboard and into the lounge area.

  Noah hung from the back of a door. He was on the opposite end of the room, facing Fran. His head had lowered, and his arms and legs were hanging limply. He was obviously dead. His socks were ripped to shreds from where the cat had clawed them. Fran gasped in horror and turned away, closing her eyes to try and eradicate the sight of the body. She could not. He was etched there on the back of her eyelids like the inversion of a bright light. Her stomach lurched but she fought hard to keep her body under control. No, she would not vomit. No. She opened her eyes and scanned the room, trying not to look at Noah’s corpse.

  That was when she saw the handwritten note on a shelf above the gas fire. She stepped over and took it. The note had been written on a standard sheet of A4 paper, folded over. On the side facing out, Noah had written the name James. With shaking hands, Fran unfolded the note.

  I’m sorry I left. This is for you and perhaps it will bring me back to you.

  I apologise to the person who has the burden of finding me. If it brings you comfort, I am at peace.

  Blessings to you.

  Noah

  “What are you doing?” the manager stared at Fran holding the note with an expression of horror on his face. Then his gaze trailed over to the body and he ran out of the room. From either the kitchen or the hallway, he yelled. “Put that back and wait out here for the police. Are you mad? You can’t tamper with things.”

  Fran folded the note as it was and left it on the shelf. She knew she shouldn’t have touched anything, but she hadn’t been able to help herself. On the way out she tried not to look at Noah one last time, but then she turned and saw those clawed socks. Back in the hallway, where Naomi cradled Noah’s cat in her arms, Fran started to cry.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” Naomi said, perhaps forgetting that Fran had never met Noah before.

  The police came soon after. In the manager’s office they took statements and examined the scene. Fran left her details with them so that they could contact her if they needed anything. She and Naomi exchanged phone numbers, too. They were linked now, by this experience. Aside from the grimness of the smell and the state of the body the police came across as relaxed. It seemed to be an obvious suicide. There was the body of a lonely man hanging from a door, and a note that told them he’d done it to himself.

  Fran left as soon as the interviews ended. She cast a quick glance at Naomi, who had left the cat in her apartment, with a sad smile. None of this had gone the way she’d hoped. Now, all Fran wanted to do was go home, and try to scrub away the smell of Noah’s decomposing body.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  It was the day of the choir summer shindig, and Fran’s group were convening at the village hall for a pot-luck lunch. She walked up the hill for the first time since her disagreement with Emily, a loaf of Adrian’s banana bread in her bag, and a bottle of wine in her hand. Her heart was pumping harder than during her morning run. This, she felt, was her last opportunity to get information about the Whitakers. It was now or never.

  She was tired. At night, she saw Noah Martinez hanging from the back of a door, a leather belt cutting into the flesh around his neck. She saw him alive, regretting his choice in his final moments, fighting against the belt, kicking and gurgling. White foam forming at the corner of his mouth. Then she would wake, go for a run, and try not to think about it. She told herself that it’d only been a week and soon she would begin to go back to normal. Noah had been no one to her. A random person connected to the Whitakers. Why had the sight of his body affected her so much?

  Because it was not the first body she had found. Of course, it came back around to Chloe, it always did.

  Anita Ellingham waved at her in the carpark and Fran’s stomach flipped over. As always, she was dressed well, her sky-blue dress co-ordinating with dark blue shoes and bag. The colour complemented her deep olive skin tone. Her lips were a tasteful plum, her hair blown out into waves. She pulled Fran into a hug.

  “I’m so glad you reached out,” she gushed. “I’ve missed the choir.”

  “It’s lovely to see you again,” Fran said, as they walked into the hall.

  “What did you bring?” Anita bent around Fran to look at the bottle of wine in her hand. “Pinot. Lovely.”

  “And Adrian’s banana bread. Not mine.” She laughed. “Mine always comes out with a soggy bottom.” They walked over to the trestle tables and Fran put her bottle down with the rest. She picked up two plastic cups. “Fancy a glass?”

  “Go on then.” Anita placed a bottle of champagne next to Fran’s Pinot Grigio. Then she reached into her oversized Coach bag to retrieve a bakery box. “I didn’t know what to bring. In the end I decided not to unleash my terrible baking skills on the group, so I bought doughnuts.”

  Fran raised her eyebrows at the label on the box. “Butterfly Bakery. Lovely.” She knew they wouldn’t be regular doughnuts, but fancy, artisan ones with luxurious, creamy centres. Her mouth watered just thinking about taking a bite, but she had to admit that Adrian’s lovely banana bread now looked a bit sad next to the colourful array of treats.

  As Fran passed her a large glass of wine, the rest of the choir gathered around to ask Anita questions. What had she been up to? Where had she been? What was her holiday like? And so on. Fran took big gulps of her wine, regretting this plan. Convinced that it wasn’t going to work. Feeling like a failure, and not just because she didn’t bring expensive champagne to their pot-luck shindig.

  Throughout the afternoon, Fran and Emily avoided each other. She frequently heard the older woman’s voice, but she never felt the urge to go over to her. A few of the others asked where she’d been over the last few weeks, but Fran made up excuses about a cold. As the day went on, and she’d almost finished the bottle of Pinot, that excuse sounded phoney even to her own ears. But she was too distracted by watching Anita to care.

  It was around 3:00 p.m. that Fran managed to wheedle herself into Anita’s company, pulling up a chair next to hers. Anita had kicked off her heels and was rubbing the ball of her left foot.

  “Had enough?” Fran asked, nodding at Anita’s bare feet.

  “I’m still breaking these ones in. Either that or they’re breaking me.”

  Fran laughed. “If it wasn’t for Adrian, I’d wear Crocs all day, every day. But I suppose I’d still like him to find me attractive.”

  “Oh, he’d fancy you in a bin bag,” she replied, smiling. She took a
sip of her wine and the smile faded away. “What do you need, Fran?” She flipped her hair over one side of her shoulder and stretched out her athletic legs, calf muscles flexing and relaxing.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come on. You invited me personally. It’s not like we’re great friends or anything. And I got the email sent to everyone on the mailing list anyway. But you wanted to make sure I came, and there’s a reason for that. I’m the only rich bitch in my family, I know when someone wants something from me. Out with it, then. What do you want?”

  “I want to know where the Whitakers came from. I want their previous address in Arizona, and I think you have it. You’re the landlord. If they told anyone, it was you.”

  “Why do you want to know that?” she seemed genuinely surprised. Fran wondered what she’d been expecting. A loan, perhaps.

  “Because I think that little girl is in danger and I want to help her. But I don’t know where any of them went.”

  “What are you going to do if I give you the address? Are you going to fly to Arizona and demand they don’t abuse their child? What’s the endgame here?”

  Fran’s throat grew thick and dry. The wine sat sourly in the pit of her stomach. “Yes. I will go there if that’s what I need to do.”

  Anita crossed one foot over the other. “Well. All right then. I’ll tell you everything I know. It’s not much, but it might help.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Once again, Fran woke up to find a text message waiting for her. This one contained an address in Arizona that she jotted down in her notebook. Then she sat for a while, still in her pyjamas, considering everything she knew.

  A second text came through a few minutes later, from Naomi at the apartment block. It was short and to the point: Noah’s death had been officially ruled a suicide, and his family had been notified. Fran thanked her for the update, to which Naomi responded with a photo of Noah’s cat: He didn’t have much family. I might have to plan the funeral myself and keep this little guy.

  Fran wrote down the name Noah Martinez. Deceased. Then she wrote down what she remembered about his suicide note. He’d mentioned a man called James as well as some vague regrets and a belief that his death was in some way an atonement for leaving. He’d also written a wish to reunite with James in the afterlife. But what did he leave? A community? A place? A relationship?

  I apologise to the person who has the burden of finding me. If it brings you comfort, I am at peace.

  Noah had written those last lines for her. He would never know her. Never know what she looked like, or the expression of horror on her face as she’d walked into the lounge. Yet he wrote those lines for her.

  She pulled her thoughts back to what she knew. Noah must be a spiritual man, otherwise he wouldn’t be so sure about finding peace and meeting James again. Perhaps that was the thread connecting him to Mary, Elijah and Esther. She wrote down the words Father James. Yes. That was it. Esther had once mentioned Father James who was the pastor of their local church. So perhaps they went to the same church. But how, and why, did they all leave the country to start afresh in England?

  She shut her notebook with a sigh and opened her laptop instead. Adrian was still asleep in the bedroom while she sprawled out on the sofa doing her research. In a way, this was what she’d imagined doing with her journalism degree, except it would be night and she’d have pots of Chinese food spread over a desk, just like in the movies. But it hadn’t happened like that. It’d never quite taken off, and she’d been stuck writing personality quizzes and articles about brunch.

  It struck her then that in her mid-forties she should’ve achieved more. Children at least. Wasn’t that what society dictated of women? Procreate to prove your worth. Otherwise, what are you? What’s your worth? Well, maybe this was it. Saving Esther and Mary Whitaker. After all, she called the police. She caused the mess.

  Fran entered the Arizona address into the Google search bar. According to Anita, Mary and Elijah came from a small town outside Tucson. The street view showed a long, straight road flanked by cacti and straggly desert plants. About as far from Leacroft as imaginable. These wooden houses were spaced far apart, their land often covered by old trucks and wire fences. Fran zoomed in on the building that appeared to be Mary’s old house. It was big enough for about three bedrooms. The outside was a pale rust colour. The roof was some sort of corrugated material rather than traditional tile. The gate, hanging crookedly on its hinges, was missing one bar. She tried to zoom in again to no avail.

  She took the cursor further down the same road and found a school. She imagined tiny feet kicking up the dust as children ran laughing from one end of the yard to the other. A slide would drop them squarely onto the sandy ground. There was a cactus over seven feet tall looming over the fence. Perhaps this was the place Mary went to school. Fran imagined her as a similar child to Esther. Quiet and shy, but fiercely self-possessed. Then she dismissed that thought. Mary didn’t know herself, not even now. Mary was too insecure.

  Fran closed the site and opened a new one. She searched for flights to Tucson. Then flights to Phoenix and various connections to Tucson. She compared the prices on several different sites and made up her mind. A few moments later, Adrian yawned his way into the room, stretching out his arms, his joints clicking and popping.

  “Fancy scrambled eggs this morning? Didn’t you go for your run? Too hungover, eh?” He bent to kiss her on the head but paused before his lips reached her messy hair, seeing the computer screen. “What’s this?”

  Fran lifted her head and viewed her husband from upside down. “I’m going to Tucson. Anita gave me Mary’s previous address.”

  Adrian moved around the sofa so that they were face to face. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am.”

  He shook his head and lowered himself onto the coffee table. “This is way out of hand. This… this is too much.” His eyes widened and his chin wobbled as his voice became louder, filling the room. “I’m sorry, I’ve tried to support you with this, but you cannot go to Arizona. It’s complete madness. Absolutely bonkers! You see that don’t you, Franny? Don’t you? What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking that I have a lot of spare time on my hands and there’s a child in Arizona who might need my help.”

  “Oh, come on. You don’t even have any proof she’s in danger.”

  “I don’t care. I’m going.”

  “This is insane.”

  “Yeah, you keep saying that. What you mean is that I’m insane.”

  “No. Don’t put words in my mouth. That’s not what I mean.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  He sighed, placing his head into his hands. “I’m worried about you. Am I not allowed to be worried about you anymore? Is that politically incorrect now? As your husband? Hmm?”

  “If you’re so worried you can come with me.” Fran jutted out her chin. A challenge.

  He walked out of the room. The slammed door made the entire house vibrate.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  In the taxi on the way to the airport, Fran continued to use Google street view on her phone and imagined what it would be like to grow up on that dirt-track road; miles of flat land, a beige and lime green landscape. Vast space between houses. She could run around a single property, looping it several times, never needing to venture out into the world.

  There were many flags, but few shops. After scrolling for several minutes, she found a general store, and opposite, a church. It was a geometric, modern church, the cleanest and tidiest building on the street. Did Mary and Elijah meet each other in that church? Did Father James preach there? She tried to imagine a twenty-year-old Mary falling for this older man. It wasn’t as though Fran hadn’t seen May-December romances play out before, but they were usually between incredibly attractive older men—often in a position of power, such as a professor—and an equally attractive, if somewhat insecure young woman. Elijah wasn’t particularly attractive, but he did have a certain c
harm, the kind she imagined most sociopaths possessing.

  The taxi driver dropped her off at Manchester airport, where she dragged her suitcase through customs, and onto a plane to Dublin. It was going to be a long day. She’d booked a city hotel in Tucson, with a warning to the management that she’d arrive sometime in the early hours of the morning. It was hot in England, she expected it to be hotter there. Adrian wouldn’t cope well during the British heatwave, but she wasn’t going to fare much better.

  He was not coming with her.

  When the first plane finally departed, she rested her head against the tiny window and thought about her husband’s cutting words. Insane, crazy and mad had been repeated many times. In the end, she’d thrown her belongings into a suitcase, booked a taxi, and left mid-argument. It’d been the worst fight they’d ever had. Never before had she witnessed that expression of utter betrayal on his face. Adrian. A mild-mannered, kind-hearted man who simply wanted to cook for his wife and read books in his study. He’d flailed and yelled and almost cried as she’d walked out of the door.

  She closed her eyes.

  The second leg of the journey, from Ireland to Phoenix, went by in a limbo-like daze, as Fran found herself sitting next to a woman who decided to tell her all about her divorce. Fran smiled and nodded, considered ordering a whisky, continued to smile and nod. The hot Arizona sun was a relief to the barrage of bullet-fire insults the woman continued to levy against her lawyer ex. If he wants a fight, I’ll give him one, was her battle-cry, and he’ll never see the kids again her promise. It’d been an exhausting flight.

  From there, Fran waited for a transfer from Phoenix to Tucson. It was late, she was exhausted and her clothes were stiff with sweat. The air-conditioning was a blessing as she climbed into the surprisingly small SUV. Here she found herself with three other passengers, all of whom immediately took out their phones and ignored her. She breathed a sigh of relief as she did the same. Silence had never tasted so sweet. She had two hours of it. No one spoke the entire time they were together, all too interested in their own lives. Fran scanned their faces. Two men in suits, both middle-aged, and a young woman with her hair pulled up into a neat topknot. She imagined that they were here on business. It surprised her when the three of them left the SUV at the same hotel and helped each other with suitcases. All that time and it turned out they were on the same trip. She watched them walk up to the hotel, still not talking, before the SUV pulled away again.