by S. B. Caves
Eventually that sort of negative reinforcement corroded her sweet tooth and killed her cravings. She began weighing her food, preparing child-sized portions for herself, or skipping meals completely. That regime, combined with the stress of living with her then-husband Carl, helped the weight to melt off her. In six months, she lost four stone. She could see her ribs, her cheekbones, started noticing new things about herself.
She lost all the excess fat and after a couple of years she found that she had lost the desire for the sweets and snacks that she had coveted as a girl. Yet every now and then she would reward herself with a little something as a reminder of how well she had done, and how far she had come.
Today was a special occasion. The willpower she had demonstrated in losing the weight paled in comparison to the nerve it had taken to retrieve the hammer and the gun. She had saved Jack and proved her worth.
Having those items in the boot of her car as she gave her statement to the police was the most nerve-wracking and electrifying thing she had ever done. For the first time in her entire life, she felt powerful. Now, as she sat there watching BBC News, she felt a pride that far surpassed she felt a pride that far surpassed what she felt when she had pulled herself up from the dungeon of depression.
There were still things that bothered her about the incident, but they would be easy enough to figure out once she spoke to Jack. Again, it had taken every modicum of self-restraint she had not to go running after him like a dog with her tail between her legs. He would like that, wouldn’t he? For her to trot after him with her tail wagging, so eager for a pat on the head. Well, the dynamic of their relationship had shifted somewhat, hadn’t it? She had his freedom tied up in a bin liner and stuffed into the cupboard beneath the stairs. And that’s where it would remain until he showed her the respect she deserved.
The mystery woman didn’t grate on her so much, not after the news had reported who it was they’d kidnapped. May was quite sure that their relationship wasn’t sexual, and therefore the woman wasn’t a threat to her. Still, she wasn’t exactly thrilled that he had a double life and dealings with this woman, but that could be ironed out. That would be one of the parameters of their new relationship: no secrets, no living in separate houses, no more treating her like a toy he could pick up and discard whenever he grew bored. She would be in full control, and that was best for everyone really.
She dragged herself away from the TV and freshened up. It was time to phone Jack and talk things through. She didn’t care how busy he was with whatever trouble he had cooked up. She was going to click her fingers and he was going to jump through her hoop. He owed her that much at least.
She phoned his house phone. The line wouldn’t connect. She felt the anger rising in her. She wanted to throw her mobile phone through the window and scream the house down. How could he continue to exist like an ape? Why couldn’t he just get a mobile phone so that she could talk to him wherever he was? His stubbornness enraged her, but then she thought about the bag beneath the stairs and a cool balm of reassurance caressed her. It was good to feel reassured and in control.
Fine. If she had to make a concession in order to kick-start her plan, then she would. She swept her hands through the empty wrappers in the chocolate tin and settled on a toffee, unwrapped it and popped it in her mouth. Then she headed out to her car.
If he wasn’t at his house, then he would be at the woman’s. And if he wasn’t at either of those places, then the little boy he worked with at the warehouse might have a good idea where he was.
She drove to Jack’s place and rang the bell. The windows were dark, and when she peered through the letterbox she could neither see nor hear anything stirring within the house. Sometimes when she made an impromptu visit, she’d hear the clang of weights from behind the garage door. She walked across to the garage and placed an ear up to the door. She couldn’t hear anything. She reached down and tried the handle but it wouldn’t budge, nor had she really expected it to.
As she walked back to her car, she wondered whether this mystery changed the way she felt about Jack. In the last twenty-four hours, she had learned that he was an incredibly dangerous man. And until then she had thought of him as her sweet, quiet Jackie, a man that wouldn’t hurt a fly. How wrong she was.
No, it didn’t change how she felt. If anything, it amplified her love for him, made her want to rip his clothes off and make love to him over and over again.
She wasn’t annoyed when she got back behind the wheel and began driving to the mystery woman’s house. She hadn’t expected him to be home anyway, the same way she didn’t expect him to be at this woman’s house, but she wasn’t going to leave any stone unturned.
Finding the house was easy. When she had followed his van there yesterday afternoon, she’d made a mental note of the street name and house number. Google Maps did the rest.
She pulled up at the house. The street was silent as she stepped out of the car, walked up to the front door and rang the bell.
A man answered and gave her a quizzical look before saying, ‘Can I help you?’
‘Yes,’ May said with a smile. ‘I was wondering if Jack was here, please?’
‘Jack?’ The man cocked his head. ‘No, sorry. Nobody called Jack lives here.’
‘Oh, I know he doesn’t live here. But he was visiting a friend here yesterday and I thought he might be here again. Sorry, I forgot the woman’s name.’ She smiled sweetly again to reassure the man that she didn’t intend to bring any drama to his doorstep. ‘Blond, about five seven?’
The man seemed to remember something because he nodded and said, ‘Can you give me a minute? I think my housemate will know.’
‘Sure.’
She stuffed her hands in her pockets and waited.
Another man came to the door. He was chewing something, and didn’t stop to swallow before asking, ‘You’re looking for Jack?’
‘Yes. I’m his fiancée,’ she said proudly. ‘I don’t suppose he’s here?’
‘No,’ the man said, and shook his head to remove the hair from his eyes. ‘I think he’s at the hospital.’
‘Hospital?’
‘Yes. My girlfriend’s with him.’ When he saw no sign of understanding on May’s face he added, ‘Emily?’
‘Emily?’
‘Yes. She’s his sister-in-law. Well, I don’t know if they’re technically still in-laws now that his wife is dead, but, you know.’
May had never been good at masking her emotions, especially when something caught her by surprise. She felt the hinges of her jaw loosen, her mouth dropping open. She had known Jack had been married, but always assumed it had ended in divorce. She hadn’t exactly had a desperate urge for the messy details; in fact she felt sick at the idea that another woman had once shared his bed. But she had no idea that her Jack was a widower.
‘Yeah,’ the man replied, and the first trace of doubt lined his face. ‘His mum. Didn’t he tell you?’
‘Tell me what?’ she said, barely able to follow the conversation now.
‘Well, I think his mum’s really sick. Emily says she hasn’t got long. She’s been at the hospital with him, you know, saying their last goodbyes and just waiting really.’
‘Really?’ May said exaggeratedly. ‘That’s strange.’
‘Why’s that strange?’ he asked, his voice lowering to accommodate the suspicion.
‘It’s strange because his mum died when he was a teenager.’ She let it linger a moment before adding, ‘Maybe you heard your girlfriend wrong.’
‘No.’ He stepped out and said, ‘They’re definitely visiting his mother.’
‘Then they’d be at a graveyard and not a hospital.’ She smiled and then added, ‘I’m sure this is just a mix-up. Anyway, I’m sorry to have disturbed you.’
May walked away with a smile on her face.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Bernard finished his twelve-hour shift and shambled out of the police station with the sound of the cell buzzers still ringi
ng through his head. It had been a full house since two in the morning and now the exhaustion had settled into his marrow. He squinted at the fading daylight, his eyes achy and raw, sparks of pain jumping up through the arches of his feet.
He got into his car with a huff and allowed himself half a minute or so before slotting the key into the ignition. It was the first time he had sat down in half a day, and had he not hated the sight of the station so much, he could have quite happily fallen asleep right then and there. He was also very hungry. One of the benefits of being a detention officer was that he could help himself to all the ready-made meals his heart desired from the selection kept in the freezer, provided because it wasn’t the sort of job you could leave the building mid-shift to get a snack. But when you spent most of your shift watching detainees smear shit on the walls or drink out of the toilet, it robbed you of your appetite somewhat. Apart from that, the ready-made meals stank as bad as some of the filth they scooped off the streets. And the coffee was even worse.
It usually took him about twenty minutes to get home if the traffic was light, but that wasn’t the case this evening. The roads were clogged, and the shrill sounds of sirens sang in the distance. Maybe there was a pile-up somewhere.
When he turned the corner onto his road just over an hour later, he saw the gaggle of boys playing football outside his house and felt a stab of pain in his stomach. That fucking African family had been nothing but trouble since they were gifted a council house opposite his. The kids ran wild, booting the ball off the parked cars or running up and down the street screaming their heads off into the early hours, and the parents were just as bad. Well, parent, he thought; he had only ever seen their mother, and all she did was sit on the porch talking on her fucking phone so loud he could hear the conversation from his bedroom.
A big heap of a woman with her clan of noisy kids, all looking at him like he was the one who had something to be ashamed of. Him – a hard-working white man who paid his taxes so she could live rent-free. What a joke this country was.
The boys saw him approach and made no effort to stop their game or at least postpone it so he could park in his space. He honked his horn. The boys imitated the sound before cackling like a pack of hyenas. He wound down the window.
‘Get out of the road,’ he shouted.
‘Get out of the road,’ one of the spindly boys repeated, altering their accent to match his. He wasn’t sure why, but that childish needling set his blood on fire. Perhaps it was the fact that these foreigners had the nerve to mock his English accent in his own country. He gripped the handbrake, yanked it up and then flung the door open. The boys scattered, shrieking gleefully as they ran away from him. He looked over at the mother who was on her phone. She stared back at him defiantly, unwilling to pause her conversation or so much as yell her usual ooga booga at the boys.
‘Next time I’ll run them over,’ Bernard said, pointing at the boys who were now taunting him at the next speed bump further down the road.
‘Wha?’ the mother said, her expression turning mean.
‘Oh, you heard me?’ Bernard said and got back into his car before he could say any more. He was so agitated that it took him three attempts to reverse park into the spot that was wide enough to slot in a limo. He got out of the car and trudged up to his house, wishing that he could just turn round and call her exactly what he wanted to call her. He slammed the front door behind him and heard the noise echo down the street.
The tension gnawed at his muscles. The pain in his head, which had been a manageable dull throb for most of the day, now felt like screws tightening into his skull. Even his gums seemed to hurt from clenching his teeth.
Thank Christ there was beer in the fridge. He slapped together a three-tiered cheese, mayonnaise and ham extravaganza, grabbed two bottles and slumped down in his threadbare armchair.
Before he turned on the TV, he could hear the boys outside his house again, circled in a game of kick-ups. The sandwich turned to glue in his throat and he cringed every time he heard the thud of the ball. Quite sincerely, he thought he would go out and beat the living shit out of one of those black boys if that ball came through his window. The pain pinched in his stomach again.
Angrily, he snatched the remote up off the floor and turned on the TV. There was no way he was going to be able to sleep now, no fucking way at all. He thumbed through the channels, hoping to catch a film that would distract him from the bag of shit his day had been. Outside, the African woman guffawed, bellowing laughter that climaxed in a high-pitched squeal. The sound cut straight through him.
He put on the news. Maybe there’d be a segment about benefit cuts or a crackdown on illegal immigrants that would brighten his mood. He twisted the cap off his first beer and killed half the bottle in one mouthful. The alcohol burned as it swished through his belly. He’d have to get that checked out at some stage; he was sure it was an ulcer.
The screen showed a grim tower block the colour of cigarette smoke, cordoned off with police tape. Bernard turned the volume up. The reporter, a pretty white woman with blushing cheeks and blond hair, addressed the camera:
‘…and we’re told an unusually high number of calls have come flooding in with information about the possible whereabouts of drug boss Craig Morley, who was abducted from this car park late last night.’
An acidic burp worked its way up Bernard’s throat and he grimaced at the taste of it. Craig Morley? He knew that name, didn’t he? Had he booked him in the cells before? Bernard couldn’t recall. He set the beer bottle down and leaned forward, watching the TV intently.
The screen cut to a middle-aged woman with thinning hair scraped back into a ponytail. ‘I don’t know what he’s involved in, but I will tell you this for free,’ the woman began, her steely glare fixed on the interviewer behind the camera. ‘I’m sick to death of all the drugs around here. We’ve got babies, little kids that want to play in the park, but they can’t ’cos it’s too dangerous. So, if he’s keeping guns and god knows what else up there, then, well, you know what I say? What goes around comes around. Good. Get him off the estate so the rest of us can go about our lives in peace.’
Her impassioned monologue earned mutters of agreement from a group of Frazier Avenue residents that had gathered nearby.
Craig Morley. Why was that name so bloody familiar? Bernard picked up his phone and ran the name through Google. An ugly brute of a man appeared on the screen above numerous breaking news reports. Bernard didn’t recognise him, but he definitely knew the name. Craig Morley… Craig Mo–
‘I have a friend and she’s dating someone, but I have my suspicions about him. I get a weird vibe off him and I just know he’s dodgy…’
He leapt up from the chair, knocking the half-empty bottle of beer over. An electric charge pulsed through him, and in less than a heartbeat, he was flooded with sweat. He became short of breath, a bolt of panic pinning him to the spot. The room tilted ever so gently.
‘Emily,’ he whispered, and grimaced as claws ripped at the walls of his stomach.
Outside, a football bounced off the bonnet of his car.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Emily had been watching the news on the laptop in the warehouse office for hours. Staring at the screen in the darkness didn’t go a long way toward helping her migraine, but the fear exceeded her discomfort. It enslaved her.
The reporter had just begun touching on a conspiracy theory that was spreading through social media, detailing the possibility that Morley had staged the kidnapping to get out of his obligation to a criminal organisation, when Jack entered and interrupted.
‘I think I’m going to have to do something about how he’s tied up.’
‘Shh,’ she hissed, flapping her hand.
‘What is it?’ He stood next to her and watched the laptop.
‘He’s trending on Twitter,’ Emily said. It felt like something was lodged in her throat, and her neck muscles had to work around it in order to speak. She exhaled slowly and touched
the back of her hand to her forehead, which was hot and moist despite the chill in the warehouse.
‘What does that mean?’ Jack asked, his brow furrowing with confusion.
‘It means he’s all over the internet. Everybody’s talking about it.’
Jack shrugged and put a hand on his lower back, wincing. ‘Who cares? Tomorrow something else will happen. Someone will get stabbed or some poor kid will get his head blown off and everyone will be typing about something else.’
‘Oh Jesus.’ Emily cupped her hands over her forehead and peered at the screen. ‘It’s like it’s turning into a game. There’s a hashtag and everything.’
‘Let me see.’ He squinted at the laptop, saw the wall of messages ending in #FindMorley and shook his head. ‘This doesn’t mean anything. Why are you getting so stressed out about this? I can’t believe people have the time to type all this shit.’
‘It’s picking up speed. This is how it starts. You know how many crimes get solved by these internet detectives?’
‘Internet detectives? Don’t make me laugh. What does that even mean?’
She thought about trying to explain it to him, detailing the lengths that some true crime fanatics would go to. Social media was just the tip of the iceberg; there were forums, clubs, gatherings. There was even a Facebook group that discussed the mystery surrounding Kate’s death, although, after a year or so, the messages had fizzled out.
‘I’m going home,’ she said weakly.
‘You can’t.’
‘I can’t?’ She turned and gave him a look full of poison. ‘I can’t? What do you mean, I can’t?’ Her voice was shrill and frayed.
He shook his head irritably. ‘I didn’t mean you can’t leave, I just meant not right now. I need your help with something.’
