A Gift for Dying

by M. J. Arlidge

  Smiling politely at the officer’s warning, Adam took the paperwork from him and leafed through it. Juveniles in detention are routinely screened before facing a detective, and it was the duty of psychologists like Adam to decide whether they were fit to be questioned.

  Kassandra Wojcek. She was obviously of Polish origin, with an interesting rap sheet. Possession of Class B drugs, theft, resisting arrest, assault, acting under the influence and, according to the accompanying school paperwork, an impressive record of cutting class. She hailed from Back of the Yards, a southern suburb near the old stockyard which had once been popular with Polish workers, but which had now been abandoned to the Puerto Ricans.

  ‘Mother? Father?’ Adam asked.

  ‘Father’s deceased. We’ve tried to contact her mother, but … Hopefully we can raise her in time for questioning –’

  ‘Let’s see if it gets that far,’ Adam interrupted, gesturing for the officer to open the door.

  The officer looked at him, clearly marking him down as a candy-assed liberal, before unlocking the door. Adam stepped inside, placing the girl’s file gently on the chair, before turning to his charge.

  ‘Hi, Kassandra. Do you mind if I join you?’

  The teenager said nothing, but finally ceased pacing.

  ‘My name is Adam. I’m a psychologist and I’d like to talk to you. Is that ok?’

  A grunt was all Adam got by way of response. Already he had the feeling that the girl didn’t have much time for shrinks.

  ‘Now what should I call you? Kassandra? Kass—’

  ‘Kassie,’ she answered, still hiding behind her fringe.

  Adam nodded, taking her in properly for the first time. She was a strange-looking girl – tall, gawky, but not unattractive, with long auburn hair fringing her pale face. She was dressed in torn jeans, a faded Motörhead hoodie and battered sneakers. It was hard to tell if this dishevelment was a teenage fashion choice or the product of deprivation, but, given her background, Adam suspected the latter.

  ‘Ok, then, Kassie,’ Adam continued, shifting slightly to get a better look at her narrow, freckled face. ‘I hear you had a bit of trouble today. The police have already told me their side of the story – I’d love to hear yours.’

  His tone was open and encouraging, implying sympathy for the incarcerated. Curious, intrigued, the girl now chanced a quick look at him. And immediately Adam clocked a reaction. She looked surprised, even shocked, by his appearance, and immediately began to withdraw, turning from him and retreating to the corner of the room.

  ‘I know you’re scared, confused even,’ Adam continued soothingly. ‘And that’s fine. Nobody likes being put in a police car, being brought down here. I just want to make sure you’re ok, so we can sort this out and get you home. Will you help me do that?’

  A long silence, then the briefest of nods.

  ‘So, you were on North Michigan Avenue. Heading home? Heading to the “L”?’

  ‘Home.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  Another lengthy pause. In the distance, Adam heard footsteps, but tried to ignore them, focusing on Kassie instead.

  ‘I bumped into this guy …’

  ‘Physically bumped into him?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Someone you knew?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And then?’

  The girl hesitated to answer. The footsteps were getting louder now, so Adam pressed on.

  ‘Kassie …?’

  ‘He helped me up … then he took off.’

  ‘Did you talk to him?’

  ‘Not at first …’

  ‘So, later …?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Why was that? Why did you go after him?’

  Another pause, as if the girl was making a decision, then:

  ‘I wanted to speak to him.’

  She had clearly done much more than that, having to be dragged off the protesting victim.

  ‘Why? What did you want to say to him?’

  Kassie hesitated now, even as the footsteps came to a halt outside the door.

  ‘I wanted to … warn him,’ she breathed quietly.

  ‘Warn him about what?’

  The door swung open and the custody officer stuck his head through the door.

  ‘We’ve got hold of Mom. She’ll be here in twenty minutes.’

  The door slammed shut again. Adam turned back to his charge, but Kassie had turned away, curling herself up into a ball, clearly alarmed at the prospect of her mother’s arrival.

  ‘Why you were concerned for him, Kassie?’

  It was said brightly, but he could see that he was losing her – the fragile trust between them shattered by the custody officer’s clumsy intervention.

  ‘You said you had to warn him,’ Adam persisted, taking a small step towards her.

  Still the teenager didn’t move, staring resolutely at the wall. So Adam made one last attempt to reach her:

  ‘Please, Kassie. What did you want to warn him about?’

  5

  ‘I don’t want to press charges. I just want to forget the whole thing.’

  Jacob Jones stood in the gloom of his hallway, the phone pressed to his ear. He had only just got home and the landline had been ringing as he unlocked the door. Hurrying inside, he’d snatched it up, expecting it to be his mother, who often called when Nancy was away. But it was only a follow-up call from the Chicago Police Department, after the earlier incident.

  Jacob’s immediate concern was that he sounded intoxicated. He’d had three beers in quick succession – he’d needed them to steady his nerves, but now chided himself for his weakness. Putting on his professional voice, he answered the police officer’s questions soberly, making it clear that he didn’t want to take matters further. The officer seemed disappointed, not surprisingly perhaps given Jacob’s profession, but he wasn’t going to push it.

  ‘It’s your decision …’

  ‘Absolutely. And thanks again for the call. I really appreciate it.’

  Jacob was a practised liar and the officer rang off happily enough, bidding him a cheery goodnight. Shaking his head at the craziness of the last few hours, Jacob replaced the receiver and belatedly shut the front door, locking it behind him. He had the place to himself tonight and was looking forward to watching the White Sox game – perhaps with another cold beer.

  Dumping his bag and coat on the floor, he flicked the light switch. To his surprise, nothing happened. Just about keeping his temper – another light bulb gone – he marched into the kitchen, switching on those lights instead. But again, nothing happened and he remained in darkness. He flicked the switch back and forth – once, twice, three times – without success.

  ‘Jesus …’

  Hurrying over to the window, Jacob peered out on to the quiet suburban street. All around him, the pretty houses twinkled, brightly illuminated from within.

  ‘Of course, it’s just me,’ he muttered, his resolute good humour finally evaporating.

  Turning on his heel, he marched back across the hall and pulled open the door to the cellar. A flashlight hung on a hook just inside and Jacob turned it on before descending into the gloom. Dust danced in front of the flashlight beam, as he walked carefully down the rickety steps. He seldom visited the basement – and Nancy never ventured down here – and he was quite certain he’d miss the final step or stumble on some forgotten piece of junk. His work schedule was too blasted to accommodate a foolish injury, so he proceeded with caution, eventually making it to the basement floor.

  He cast around for the fuse box, eventually locating it on the far wall. He made for it, dodging boxes of high-school yearbooks and mouldering sports gear, remarking to himself how large this space was. They should do something with it – an extra room could add thousands to the value of the property – but not today. Today, he just wanted to download and unwind. So, opening the fuse box, he searched for the master switch.

  It was facing down, as it should be,
and investigating further Jacob now realized that none of the individual switches had blown.

  ‘What the –?’

  Was he going to have go call someone out? At this hour? Grasping the master switch, he yanked it up, held it for a second, then pushed it firmly down. Still he remained swathed in darkness. So he tried again. And again. The same result. Resting his weary head on the fuse box, he swore quietly to himself.

  And now he became aware of something else. The sound of someone breathing.

  It couldn’t be, could it? The house was secure, there was no sign of –

  Now he heard someone coming towards him. Panicking, Jacob swung his flashlight around.

  To see a man in a ski mask descending upon him.

  6

  The Union Stock Yard had always reeked of death. Located in Back of the Yards, it had been a magnet for immigrant workers, who’d flocked to the slaughterhouses in their thousands. Back in the day, when Chicago was the hog-killing capital of the world, the work had been plentiful, over a billion animals passing through its gates on their final journey. But the yard was now derelict, long since mothballed, superseded by more efficient operations elsewhere.

  Kassie and her mother walked past it in silence. Kassie’s father, Mikolaj, had worked and died in the stockyard and the sight of it always brought their conversation to an abrupt halt. Not that this was a problem today – Natalia hadn’t said a word since collecting her daughter from the Juvenile Detention Center. The call had come just after she’d finished work, which was one small mercy, but clearly not enough to buy Kassie any slack.

  They turned the corner on to South Ada Street, passing a couple of boarded-up properties as they walked the last hundred feet together. The house that had been Kassie’s home for the last fifteen years stuck out like a sore thumb. It was a small but pristine brown-brick bungalow. The tiny strip of grass out front was neatly clipped, the steps up to the porch were clean and the ornate metal grille protecting the front door was freshly painted. Say what you like about the Wojcek home, it was never less than immaculate.

  Kassie stared at her dirty sneakers, as her mother unlocked the grille. To many, Natalia’s high standards were admirable, but Kassie had always been slightly embarrassed by them. They harked back to a bygone era, when the suburb teemed with good Catholic families, all competing with each other to display their new-found prosperity. But the other Polish families had moved on now, as other communities settled in the neighbourhood, most of the incomers choosing more desirable streets than their own. There were several abandoned properties in the road – realtors couldn’t shift units round here – but it was as if Natalia hadn’t noticed. As if she were still a young woman fresh off the boat, full of hope and dreams.

  Life had not been kind to either of them, and Kassie felt her heart sink as they entered the quiet bungalow. Kassie – Kassandra Alicja Marta – was Natalia’s only child and as remarriage was out of the question for a respectable widow, it had remained just the two of them, circling each other in this gently old-fashioned family home year in, year out.

  Natalia walked into the kitchen, depositing her purse on the table with a heavy thump – a thump which Kassie knew was aimed at her. Normally Kassie would have headed straight to her room, but she lingered in the doorway watching her mother. She knew she was in trouble, but the truth was that she was still upset by the afternoon’s events, and was hoping for some small sign of a thaw, some crumb of comfort.

  Natalia opened the refrigerator, removing from it a small china plate with half a sausage and a fresh tomato on it. Without looking at her daughter, she moved into the living room, switching on the TV as she settled into the easy chair. Kassie turned to look at her, realizing how small her mother seemed in the large room that framed the ancient television set and the numerous photos of Pope John Paul II. They had played this scene out many times before, her mother pretending to watch television, while actually taking nothing in. The food sat unmolested on her lap and the TV anchorman talked pointlessly to himself, as Natalia fiddled with the rosary beads she’d inherited from her grandmother. It was a ridiculous tableau but it made its point forcefully. Kassie would not be fed tonight, nor would she be comforted.

  There was no forgiveness here.

  7

  The traffic was light, ‘November Rain’ was playing on WKSC, and already thoughts of a challenging day were receding from Adam’s mind. Though his journey from south Chicago to leafy, middle-class Lincoln Park was often accompanied by a pang of guilt, it always relaxed him, the view of Lake Michigan never failing to raise his spirits. It looked particularly beguiling tonight, the sun reflecting off the water, as the numerous birds who nested here each spring circled lazily above. But his drive along Lake Shore Drive meant more to Adam than just pretty scenery. It meant he was going home.

  Home was a beautiful three-storey row house. They had bought it last year – at considerable expense – and they’d never regretted it. Their new home had four lovely bedrooms, space for them both to work if necessary and, best of all, lots of outdoor space. Adam already had visions of his first-born toddling around the backyard, taking his or her first steps – it had been worth mortgaging themselves to the limit. This was what you did after all – studied hard, worked hard, so you could buy a nice house and play at being grown-ups.

  The song had now changed to a forgettable Bryan Adams track, so, flicking the radio off, Adam turned on to North Lincoln Avenue and moments later pulled up outside the familiar greystone building. In his fantasies, he’d sometimes imagine Faith standing in the doorway to welcome him home with a cocktail, but in practice this never happened. Faith was busy and, besides, that was far too suburban an image for her. Adam had always known this – in fact it was one of the reasons he married her.

  Closing the front door behind him, he deposited his bag on the floor and poked his head into the kitchen. It was empty, but Adam was amused to see the newspaper lying open on the counter at the horoscope page – his wife’s guilty pleasure. Leaving the kitchen, he hurried past the living room, past the guest bedroom, towards the studio that looked out on to the backyard. This was Faith’s kingdom and he entered reverently, teasing open the door and tiptoeing inside. To his surprise, his heavily pregnant wife was sitting on her stool, her back to her painting, staring directly at him.

  ‘As subtle as a brick, as quiet as an elephant …’

  Faith looked at him admonishingly, but there was a smile behind her eyes. She was British and Adam loved the way she expressed herself. Despite the fact that they had been together over ten years now, she still came out with phrases or words that surprised him.

  ‘Still, it’s nice to have you back,’ she continued, turning back to her painting. ‘I’d almost given up on you.’

  It was done for effect and Adam didn’t break stride, walking up to her and sliding his arms around her bump, pulling her in close.

  ‘Long day,’ he muttered, kissing her neck.

  ‘Is it ever anything else?’

  ‘Whenever there’s need …’

  ‘My hero. Talking of which, I’m lazing for two right now, so I haven’t had a chance to fix dinner.’

  ‘I’m on it.’

  ‘You are my hero,’ Faith replied, as Adam kissed her neck once more.

  She resumed painting and, disengaging, Adam stared at her for a moment. He had been dazzled by her when they first met – in the waiting room of his swanky new office – but he was utterly conquered by her now. Her warmth, her wisdom, her talent, her grace. He loved to watch her paint, applying brushstrokes with practised ease, utterly focused on the task in hand, lost in the moment. It made him feel that all was well in the world. It made him feel love.

  Retreating to the door, he paused to take one last look at her. It was times like these that made him feel like he was the luckiest man alive.

  8

  Jacob came to with a start, suddenly aware of how cold he was. His head was pounding, his neck ached, but it was his shiveri
ng limbs that demanded his attention. He could feel goose bumps on his exposed forearms and moved to rub them away … only to discover that his arms were secured behind him. He tried to stand, but his bare legs were similarly bound. To his horror, he realized that he was tied to a metal chair, naked, vulnerable and alone.

  Now it started to come back to him. The cellar. The masked face. That awful feeling of suffocation. A terrified whimper escaped from his lips and, realizing there was nothing over his mouth, he cried out:

  ‘Hello?’

  He was met by silence. He scanned the dingy room, but it appeared to be empty.

  ‘Please … can anybody hear me?’

  The sound rebounded off the walls, but there was no response. Wiggling his frozen toes in a feeble attempt to keep warm, Jacob now noticed something else. There was something beneath his feet. It was cold and smooth, and crinkled noisily when he moved. Confused, he looked down. And now his blood froze. The chair he was tied to was positioned in the middle of a large plastic sheet.

  Panicking, he started to buck furiously, trying to move the chair forward. Terror drove him on and he strained and hopped violently. The chair moved forward an inch, then another – then suddenly his head snapped sideways. For a moment, he was dizzy and disoriented, unable to comprehend what had happened, but as he righted himself, he realized that someone had struck him hard on his right cheek.

  ‘Sit still.’

  The voice was calm, sending fear arrowing through him. It was coming from behind him and Jacob strained to get a glimpse of his attacker. But with his arms and shoulders firmly secured, he couldn’t turn far enough around.

  ‘Please,’ Jacob gasped. ‘I’ll give you whatever you want –’

  ‘I have everything I need,’ the voice hissed quietly.

  The man came to a halt behind him. Immediately Jacob stifled his moaning – something cold and smooth had come to rest on the side of his neck. Slowly it inched upwards, then stopped, turning on to its side. A second later, Jacob felt a short, sharp sting, then a warm feeling, as blood started to trickle down his neck.