Light from the hallway shone through the glass of the door. A signal to say it wasn’t safe. She turned away straining to stay calm when time was running out. The next place was easily a mile away. Not too far in daylight, but in the dark and with what she carried under her cape it would be difficult. Nudging the weight into a different position, she cautiously moved on, her arm numb. The road was quiet, but sensing danger, she slid into the shadow of the wood. It wasn’t much safer. If she was caught it would be said that a woman alone at night was asking for trouble.
“I mean,” she said, “clearly there’s something not quite right here, something’s missing.”
DI Jenkins sighed and bit down a sharp retort. Of course there was something missing. In fact, there were a few things – eyes, fingers, liver, lungs, kidneys, and, possibly most disturbingly, the victim’s trousers. His dentures had also been removed and were in the middle of a damp stain on the carpet.
He was just grateful that whoever had done this had stopped the mutilation there. After all, he already had one young constable throwing up in the back garden, and his sergeant was looking a bit queasy too.
He looked at her round red face that had once suggested an arse. Then he had fallen in love with it, and all he could think of were apples, strawberries, ripe fruit, things sensuous to the tongue. Lately though a falling off, and rotting and withering slithered about his brain.
‘There was a man who considered his life was like a jigsaw.’
‘That it?’ she said.
‘You want more, Rebecca?’
‘Have you got more in you?’
‘A couple lunched out on a death anniversary. He, Bren, was thinking of a childhood conversation with his late mother. “That’s Nanny in Ireland,” she’d said as a sound like a distant earthquake rumbled in her belly.
She heard a low rumbling as she walked along the cliff top. It sounded like thunder, but came from deep below, a guttural sound, almost like the Earth was groaning. There was a shudder and a loud crack as rock splintered. Grass twisted beneath her feet and the pathway crumbled to nothing. She stepped onto icy air, then she was falling; her backpack scraping against rock, its straps catching on roots and jagged stone. Wind snatched her hair. The sandy shore, littered with clumps of rock and jumbled shells, drew closer. She wondered if it was the last thing she would see.
When she was a child, she collected shells like treasure. She remembered a queen conch that she’d carried from a distant beach. Every time she wanted to hear the waves, she’d held it to her ear, comforted by the gentle swish. Her bedroom held shelves filled with glistening razor clams, ridged limpets, pretty cockleshells and periwinkles in different hues, olive-green, deep red, primrose yellow and delicate pink. Cockleshells were her favourites. She distracted herself from the drop, trying to remember every tiny detail of them; their delicate fan shape, the pattern of fine lines etched in burnt umber on their backs, and the smoothness of the inside where she liked to rub her thumb. If only she was safe in her childhood bedroom now, admiring the cockleshells and conjuring the roar and hiss of the sea with the conch shell.
A miracle; no other way to describe it. After the washing-up of Sunday lunch, she and Freddie had either taken a left out of the front gate and walked towards Mam’s parents, or turned right over the railway bridge to Dad’s. Attempted recall techniques had included a retracing on GoogleMaps of as much of the route as could be remembered by a failing 90 year old brain and cajoling her granddaughter to drive her on their weekly car trip along every exit of every roundabout in the town. Pris was giving up hope. There were over a hundred roundabouts and at least five hundred possible exits. Some she recognized; some not. Road realignments, estate clearances and the ripple-out expansion of shopping centres, had remodelled the once familiar. Every now and then something – the sight of an old industrial chimney, a stretch of stone wall, the metallic nose of rusting industrial archaeology blasting through the car’s air vents – promised to tug a distant memory chime, only to muffle, return into the unrecognisable and remain silent. Did she have 10 years?
“Go into business with your twin,” they said. “It’ll be fun,” they said.
If you call sweating in a café, cleaning up after customers while your twin sister’s gallivanting overseas in pursuit of new teas and coffees to sell, “fun,” then they were right.
I sigh. Where to start with this clean-up operation? I watch the stain spread across the pale wood floor, seeping into the grain. It was her idea to get wooden floors, of course. Wood the colour of her platinum blonde hair that she insists on bleaching to look as different from me as possible. “Mousey,” she calls our natural hair colour. “Classy,” I always reply.
The cardigan with the paint stain on the elbow that she could never wash off: why had she kept it so long? She remembered touching up the sitting-room door, brush in one hand, Sylvie in the other, when a blob of gloss had attached itself to her sleeve almost as firmly as her baby’s fingers.
The uncomfortable wooden armchair that guests sat on, or rather, hovered above as though it were a large hedgehog. The enormous ghetto-blaster like a plastic-armoured beetle squatting on the windowsill. Rachel’s drum: memories of a small child marching around the sitting room like an infant platoon, noisier than a massed military band. She ought to let all this stuff go.
You wake up, tied to a tree in the middle of the woods.
Tugging at your restraints, figuring out that some bastard has bound you with a rope. You kick, you scream, and nothing happens.
Last thing you can recall was riding the school bus back home, looking forward to wading the night out curled up on the couch, high on paracetamol, on account of one motherfucker of a migraine.
You’re trying not to panic over the fact you’re totally powerless, so if you starve, freeze or a wondering bear decides you’d make a good snack then Christ, there’s not a lot you can do.
In his mother’s bedroom, Christmas Day. He puts the cup of tea and mince pie by her. She stirs. ‘Thank you, son. You look after me, don’t you?’ Then she’s asleep again. Worn out, she lays there like an old sack, split, on the verge of falling apart.
His mind shifts. Boxing Day races tomorrow, eleven venues, seven races at each. Kempton, 2.30pm, Energy Supply. That boy’s a flyer. He opens the top drawer of the dresser, takes out the credit card, hesitates. Guilt like a barbed wire suit pricks him. He hates these tricky moments.
Felicity handed the wine bottle around. The girls had decided on a quiet weekend, nibbles and wine, relaxing in their pyjamas, the usual banter – who did what to whom and how their romantic lives were. The subject of Kelly came up when Jodie asked why she wasn’t there.
Felicity laughed, ”Have you not heard? She has a new infatuation.”
Groans and laughter spread across the room. Jodie looked towards the heavens. ”Who is it this time? Thought she was still chasing Simon?”
Well, why not? Seven tasty days and nights with her in that holiday camp, fifteen years ago. She’d said she lived in the Swansea valley, place beginning ‘Ys’, on an estate. Probably married now and moved. Probably wasting his time.
Atop Ystalyfera, a couple of streets clinging to a hillside, a deep valley dizzying below. A faded place: dogs, kids, toys on the pavement. Even the evening sun seemed grubby. He was getting in the car, about to go, when, standing by a front door, a blonde, thirties, curvy, nice.
She’s at it again, using her allure to get people to do things for her. I watch jealously from my bric-à-brac jumble sale stall. I had spent the last half an hour carrying heavy bags from my car. Now, she strolls in, followed by a team of eager pleasers hauling all her boxes. I really hate her sometimes.
Angela, five foot eight and with an effervescent personality and curly blond locks. I understand what the entire male population sees in her, but what I don’t get is why she is able to bewitch the female population as well. That doesn’t include me, of course. I’m immune to her charms.
“Toby Metcalf!” thundered Mrs Thomas. “Are you insulting my intelligence with this effort!?”
It had been a simple request. Mrs Thomas, covering Mr Ellison’s art class, had tasked the students to colour in a black and white drawing of a king standing outside his castle. Whilst the kids scribbled on their printed copies with coloured pencils, she had marched between desks, sniffing out any miss-behavers.
“I want normal colours,” she boomed, “no purple grass or orange skies, realism is your goal!”
Lewis and Jackie Mullens accommodated mother and son asylum seekers for six months. Their action surprised the neighbours who’d considered the childless pair to be the most boring couple on the estate, Jackie doing something with ledgers and her husband something similarly uninspiring with laminate flooring. Both had fewer interests than a sleeping tortoise.
Initially the visitors brought no change to their lives. Lewis tall, walking with the gait of a superannuated guardsman, had a face stamped in capital letters with silliness of the kind found in nineteenth century inbred, minor European royalty. Jackie was equally unemotional, her mouth usually clamped shut as though she’d swallowed a rat. Occasionally when nervous she uttered a loud laugh that could cause a stampede at a horse fair. They were expecting Greta and Volodymyr to fit in with their rigorous dullness.
As Clare put her key in the lock, a sense of foreboding overcame her. She slowly turned it and pushed the door wide open. Her flat was in disarray. Everything she owned seemed to be scattered all over the floor. As her knees collapsed, she grasped the doorframe as her body slid down to the floor.
Without bothering to get back up, she phoned the police.
The wind howls around the hospital towers. I squint through the rain, and for a moment the birds overhead look like tiny witches on broomsticks, swooping unpredictably in all directions.
‘Meadowside Child and Adolescent Mental Health Unit,’ a sign announces. Like everything else up here, it is wonky, madness seeping into any semblance of order.
Nestling deeper into her bedding Valentina sighed pleasantly tired. It had been a busy day but she was sure the end of her journey was at hand.
She remembered the stories her mother had captivated them with as babies. Ivan the terrible was a folk hero to them. Fighting for the territory around them, often returning bloodied from battle: that was her great grandfather. Romance of how he met his wife in the tunnels they inhabited, love at first sight – so her mother told them. How he fought for her hand, paying a heavy price, losing territory but Ivan was elated to have his beloved Sasha by his side.
Julie: We always thought it was funny to dress the same and pretend to the guys that we were sisters. We used to have great times together, we were always in each other’s homes.
Now it just seems that she is stalking me. Since I’ve been going out with Brad I find her presence unsettling. I wish she would find someone special for herself and leave me alone.
Samantha: Julie always seems annoyed at me these days, I just don’t know what I’ve done. That Brad is a right creep, she deserves someone better, and she just can’t see it.
On his haunches outside the toilet, whimpering. Of course his mistress would return. But what if she stayed there for ever, studying the face she saw reflected in the tiny pool fixed on the wall above the sink?
Anxious? Indeed. He hadn’t forgotten his first eight years, had he? Living in a shed, Mr Phillips cursorily leaving him food, then ignoring him. Occasionally the house dogs, big as buses, would come out and get angry with him. ‘Outsider!’ they would snarl. ‘Stay out of our house. Not welcome!’ One of them, an Alsatian called Farage, the head on him the size of his shed, bit him once him on top of his skull. Mr Phillips had put a bit of rag over the cut, muttering, ‘Now what’ve you been up to? Flipping nuisance!’
The syringe went in. As small wisps of raw power arced between her fingertips, she let out an involuntary gasp. She’d been expecting something of course, just not… this. Her entire life she’d been told she was special. “One in seven billion,” said the very serious looking people in white coats, who’d crowded round her prodding, poking, and doing all sorts of other tests, then shaking their heads.
Now, those same men stood back, as awestruck as she was, before turning to shake each other’s hands.
“We’ve done it!” one of them whispered reverently. “We’ve tamed Clarke’s Third Law.”
She didn’t know what that meant, and then… she did. Information was there for her instantly; every electron that had ever passed through any electronic storage device available for her to access at will. Some of it was fascinating, some too disturbing to contemplate, but suddenly she understood what she was. Who they were. What they’d done to her. Her brain and body felt truly alive… electric.
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