by S. B. Caves
Emily’s expression hardened, her chest noticeably rising and falling with every breath she took. ‘It’s been so long. Your memory might’ve tricked you. I mean, I can’t even remember people I met five years ago, let alone twelve.’
‘I hear what you’re saying, believe me I do. But you have to trust me. There’s no way I’d get something like this mixed up, and I wouldn’t have even mentioned it to you if I wasn’t a hundred percent sure. I will never forget that moment, Emily. It is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me and I still re-live it each day. I wish I could forget, but I can’t. If you’d been there, you’d understand. I know this is the man.’
Emily’s eyes sparkled. She knuckled the tears away, rubbed her palms down her face and said, ‘Do you ever watch any crime shows, Jack?’
‘Crime shows?’
‘Documentaries. You know, how they catch the serial killers. That sort of thing.’ Jack shook his head. ‘Well, I do. And sometimes, when someone’s been through an ordeal, like you did, they get confused. Like they might say the killer had black hair when he was actually blond, or that he had green eyes when they were actually blue. Do you know what I’m getting at?’
‘Yes,’ Jack replied. He wanted to barge in and persuade her that his memory of that night was crystal-clear, but he resisted the urge and let her finish.
‘So how certain can you really be that he’s the one that killed Kate? If he was a boy then and now he’s a man he could’ve changed so much.’
‘He has changed an awful lot. But the one thing that hasn’t changed is the eyes. I know I keep going on about it, but, well, like I said, I won’t ever forget them. It is him, Emily. You have to believe me. Don’t you think I know how crazy this is, me bringing you here? I wouldn’t put either of us through this if I had even a hint of doubt. This isn’t some gut feeling or me just acting on a whim here. I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t be so… irresponsible.’
She sniffed. ‘Do you have any tissues in here?’
He opened the glovebox again and handed her a packet of Kleenex. She dabbed her eyes and then wiped her nose. ‘OK. So let’s say that’s him. What do you want to do?’
Jack reached into her lap and claimed the bottle, and then took a long slug. It was cheap stuff and burned on the way down, but it gave him the kick in the head that he needed.
‘I want to kill him,’ Jack said. ‘I was wondering if you wanted to help me.’
Chapter Three
Two cups of black coffee from the bakery hadn’t even tickled him. Jack got out of the van and walked around toward the warehouse door, his eyes aching in their sockets. He never got more than four or five hours’ sleep a night anyway, but today he was running on fumes. He hadn’t been able to sleep after how things ended with Emily. But what had he been expecting? The best-case scenario would’ve been a conversation about his proposal, but all he got was stony silence. She hadn’t even said goodbye when she got out of the van. But she hadn’t exactly told him to fuck off either.
All Emily needed was some time to think it over.
‘Oh? And what time do you call this?’ Colin said, sitting on a box with a smirk on his face.
‘You want me to start counting up all the time you spend on your phone when you should be unpacking boxes?’
‘Touché.’ Colin stood up. ‘Perhaps I can get you a cup of tea, boss?’
‘Coffee, black.’
‘I’m on it.’ He walked up the steel steps, his footfall clanging through the warehouse.
‘Be snappy about it too, we have a lot of drops today,’ Jack said, consulting the clipboard.
Colin saluted him from the top of the staircase.
Jack started heaving some of the more manageable boxes to the back of his van. He couldn’t help thinking about the way Emily had stared at him. Had it just been shock or was she frightened of him? Jack wasn’t talking about giving the man a stern telling off, he was talking about murder. Maybe she thought Jack had lost his marbles.
Maybe she was right.
‘I could rip that fucker apart with my bare hands. With my bare hands!’ That had always stayed with him. Jack had actually believed her capable of it. That was when the pain was still raw, a couple of months after Kate was killed. Jack knew for a fact that kind of fury never really went away. It just learned how to hide.
* * *
‘Do me a favour, will you? Get off that phone for a minute.’
Colin flung his iPhone onto the dashboard but immediately began drumming a rhythm on his thigh with his hands. The boy had the attention span of a gnat. ‘What’s up?’
‘How long have you been here now? Two years?’
‘It’ll be four in June.’
‘Four?’ Jack scratched his beard. He remembered the day Colin started; he wouldn’t say boo to a goose. Jack turned down the radio. ‘You happy?’
‘Happy? Yeah, sure. I mean, I’d like more money obviously. I have my performance review in March, so I’m hoping…’
‘I can’t guarantee you a raise, but I think you’re a good guy. You piss around a lot, but you pull your weight. I’ll see what I can do about getting you up a bit. Probably won’t be much, and it’s not for certain, but you know, every little bit helps, doesn’t it?’
Colin’s grin widened. ‘I’d appreciate that, Jack. I really would.’
‘I know. Which brings me on to my second bit of business.’
A text alert popped up on Colin’s iPhone, snagging his attention. Colin’s eyes shot to the screen instinctively, then back to Jack. ‘I’m listening, I’m listening.’
‘Do you wanna earn some extra beer money for the weekend?’
‘Extra money? Yep, of course. What do I have to do?’
* * *
Colin saw a pair of women leaving the building and grabbed the door before it closed. He pressed the call button for the lift but there were no signs of life. Looked like a death trap anyway. He picked up the box and shouldered through the door leading to the stairwell, where he was met with the stink of fermented piss, mingled with something vaguely chemical.
Bottles, crushed cans and twisted cigarette ends littered the stairs. The graffiti-camouflaged walls in the stairwell were slick with condensation, and there were puddles on the uneven concrete landings. Colin was extra vigilant about where he trod. One of his best friends was a bin man and he said that a dirty needle pricked him through a rubbish bag he was handling once. Thank god it had only been an insulin needle, but still.
When he reached the eighth floor, he wrapped the sleeve of his fleece around his hand and pulled open the landing door. The windowless hallway stretched forever, its eggshell walls reflecting yellow fluorescent tube lights. The box felt heavy as an anvil in his arms now as he approached number 83. Music pulsed from behind the door and set his heart racing. He’d asked Jack what this was all about, but Jack told him not to worry about it. The fifty pounds he offered Colin soon put a stop to any more questions.
Colin pressed the doorbell but the music swallowed the sound. He pressed again, and when he still didn’t get an answer, banged on the door with his fist. The music died.
From behind the door: ‘Who is it?’
‘Strident Homeware. I have a delivery.’
‘Delivery for who?’
‘Ah, that’s the thing.’ Colin released a nervous laugh. ‘I’m not exactly sure.’
The door opened. A large man filled the doorway, dressed in a T-shirt, boxer shorts and a tatty dressing gown. He stared at Colin blankly. Colin felt the hairs on the nape of his neck rise.
‘What delivery?’ the man said, unblinking.
Colin stroked sweat away from his neck. ‘There was a slip-up at the warehouse.’ He pointed at the box, unable to meet the man’s piercing eyes any longer. They were so green they almost looked neon. They creeped Colin out big time. ‘This box has an address but some idiot in the office left the name off it. It’s for a “mister” but that’s about all I know. This is number 83, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know that either. If I had to guess, judging by the size and weight, probably a microwave?’
The man stepped out of his flat and nudged the box with his toe. ‘I didn’t order a microwave.’
‘You didn’t?’
The man looked at him, and for a second Colin thought the man was going to slap him. ‘No.’
‘Shit, it happened again. Well look, this box has your address, so as far as I’m concerned, it’s yours.’ The man’s eyebrows pinched together suspiciously. ‘You’d be doing me a favour if I didn’t have to carry it back down those stairs.’ He tittered again, shifting from foot to foot. The man just continued staring at him. ‘If it’s a microwave in there, like I think it is, then it’ll be a good one. You’re looking at a hundred and fifty quid for a Strident microwave.’
‘All right. I’ll take it. But if you try and come back and want me to pay for it, you ain’t getting shit. Got it?’
‘That’s not going to happen,’ Colin said. He was so nervous he nearly patted the man on his shoulder just to occupy his hands. ‘It’s got your address on it, so it’s accounted for.’
The man eyed Colin again, and then picked the box up and took it inside the flat.
‘Oh, one last thing,’ Colin said before the man closed the door. ‘I’ve to get a signature just to say it’s been delivered.’
Colin handed the man a folded invoice and a biro and pointed at the X on the paper. The man scribbled on the line and handed it back to Colin.
‘Just for my records, what’s your name, mate?’ Colin tried to make it sound casual, hoping that the man wouldn’t pick up on the anxiety in his voice.
‘Craig Morley,’ the man mumbled, and closed the door.
Chapter Four
May slid into the booth and shrugged out of her faux-fur coat. She’d glammed herself up with blusher, dark eyeliner and fire-engine red lipstick, and was wearing half a bottle of perfume by the smell of it. ‘Look at this decor. It’s so trendy, isn’t it, hun?’
Jack smiled, nodded. ‘It’s great,’ he said, reaching for the laminated menu. He had no appetite for a hamburger or a milkshake, and he was too tired to put on much of a show for appearances. He’d already planned to blow off date night and spend the evening researching Craig Morley, but when he pulled up to the warehouse at the end of the day, May was already parked there, waiting for him. It was a surprise, she said. It was a trap, he thought.
‘Look at this, Jackie – they do Cajun chicken burgers. That’s just what I’m in the mood for. What are you going to have?’
Enthusiasm jumped off her in sparks, and it made him feel even heavier. She was so excited about a burger and all he could think about was getting away from her and obsessing over Craig Morley. Craig Morley, Craig fucking Morley. He couldn’t get the name out of his head.
Be nice, he reminded himself. Even if you don’t feel like it, be nice. He reached across and patted her hand. ‘You get anything you want.’
‘Starters too?’
‘Go for it,’ he said. She gave him a look of such sincere gratitude that he felt genuinely sorry for her. ‘Get a cocktail too if you want.’ Why not? he thought. He was stuck there for at least an hour. Might as well show her a good time.
After dinner, he drove May back to her house. She raved about the food all the way home, the two Cosmopolitans she’d drunk causing her to trip over her words. When he pulled up to the kerb, she leaned over and gave him a wet, breathy kiss, clutching his face with both hands. ‘I can fix us some drinks inside. I’ve got all the ingredients for a screaming orgasm if you want one,’ she said, rubbing his inner thigh.
He braced himself, stroked her cheek with his knuckle, and said, ‘I can’t, love. Not tonight.’
Her lipstick-smeared mouth slackened. Her eyes shimmered with drunkenness. ‘You’re not coming in?’
‘No.’ He had to look away. He liked May a lot; she was talkative where he was contemplative. She was interested in things where he was indifferent. She was a petite little thing and made him feel like a giant when he held her. But she was clingy and used her tears to get her way and that manipulation made him resent her. In a selfish way, he’d come to depend on her, so that he didn’t spend all his time alone in the house brooding, or looking at pictures of Kate and crying himself to sleep like he’d done in the years before. Soon, he knew, he would come to depend on her even more. Maybe one day he would open up to her, show her who he really was, warts and all. But she wasn’t ready for that yet.
‘May, I’ve not been feeling well. I’m run-down.’
‘I don’t understand this, Jack.’ She shook her head slowly, the confusion contorting her face. ‘We were having a nice evening. The dinner was lovely… I’m all dressed up and I thought…’ She shook her head again. ‘Is it me? Have I done something? Just tell me if I’ve done something wrong.’
‘No, no, of course not.’ He rested a large hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. ‘I’m not feeling very well, that’s all.’
‘Well, what’s wrong with you?’ she whined, screwing her face up. The storm had broken and the first tears squeezed from her eyes, trailing mascara down her powdery cheeks.
‘I don’t know. I’m going to make a doctor’s appointment first thing Monday.’
She wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands, smearing the makeup. ‘How about you just come inside? We don’t have to have sex if you don’t want to. You can just go to sleep and I’ll look after you.’ She clutched at his shirt, grabbing two handfuls of collar. ‘I’ll give you a massage or… or I can just leave you alone and cook for you. Soup! I can make you soup.’
She was blubbering and babbling and Jack was too tired to listen to it. ‘May,’ he said firmly, ‘I need to go home and rest. We’ve had a nice night, and I just want to…’
‘It’s another woman, isn’t it?’ She was sour now, the pouting replaced with a sneer. She looked a little crazy with her smudged raccoon eyes. ‘Don’t treat me like a fucking idiot. Just be straight with me and tell me. You owe me that much at least.’
He took a deep breath. The tiredness was chiselling away on the inside of his skull. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stem the oncoming headache.
‘May, I’m going home. I’ll call you tomorrow.’
‘Fine. Fine.’ She fumbled with the lock and eventually got the door open. She climbed out of the van, arse first, and stumbled in her heels. Jack reached across and closed the door. ‘Go on, drive off and do what you want. I don’t care.’
‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ Jack said again.
‘Piss off,’ she shouted from the kerb.
Jack started the engine. When he looked at the wing mirror in preparation to pull out, May reached out to the van, slapping the window with both hands.
‘I’m sorry, Jackie. Please, I’m sorry! Don’t be mad. Are you cross with me?’
He knew if he stopped the engine now she’d guilt him into the house. Either that or she’d turn nasty again, slagging him off, accusing him of nonsense. He wound down the window, blew her a kiss and said, ‘It’s all right, May. Go to bed and I’ll—’
‘You’ll call me tomorrow? But I want you tonight!’ She almost screamed it, her reedy voice cutting through the silence of the street.
Jack put his foot down and watched her shrink in the rear-view mirror. He hoped that once she sobered up she’d see sense, but he doubted it. It wasn’t the first time she’d accused him of ditching her to see other women, but it was the first time she was right.
It was just after eleven when he reached Emily’s house. She lived in an attractive, three-storey Victorian build on a nice middle-class street. It was the kind of place where people took the time to separate their rubbish from their recycling, kept their lawns clipped, and had a rapport with their neighbours. She’d moved there with some friends in her early twenties and the landlord hadn’t ever given her a good enough reason to l
eave. The last time Jack was here was a year or so after Kate’s murder. Emily had invited him round for tea and cake and he had agreed. They needed to prop each other up, to talk about Kate and keep her memory alive. Ever since then, they had settled for the occasional phone call, a cordial ‘how are you?’ every two or three years, which eventually tapered off.
It took him a long time to walk up the path. He knew he shouldn’t be here, especially not this late, but the name Craig Morley was stuttering in his head like a stuck record. He had to speak to her about it.
He caught sight of his blurred reflection in the frosted glass window of the front door. He looked like a shaggy bear. He pressed the bell and stepped back, keeping at a non-threatening distance as he waited. A silhouette appeared on the other side of the glass, and then the door opened.
‘Hello?’ said a tall, slim man with salt and pepper hair and glasses. He hadn’t asked ‘Who is it?’ before he opened the door, and that bothered Jack. It bothered him badly.
‘Hi, I’m sorry to be calling at such a late hour. My name’s Jack. I was wondering if I could speak with Emily please, if she’s available.’
‘Sure, just a moment.’ He closed the door and walked off. A minute later Emily appeared, dressed in a faded cotton T-shirt and leggings.
‘I thought you’d be calling,’ she said, lighting up a cigarette.
‘Sorry, I know it’s late. I haven’t disturbed you, have I?’
‘I was just watching Netflix, nothing important.’
‘Can I come in?’
She exhaled smoke, squinting. ‘Probably not a good idea. I haven’t really spoken to Roger about you.’
‘Oh. Right, of course.’ He forgot that she had her own life. ‘Tell you what, if you’re free at all this weekend, I’d like to see you again. To talk about, you know, that thing we were talking about.’
She looked down the street. ‘I don’t know if I want to.’
