Saving Rose

by Kate Genet

  She almost stopped breathing when he came and stood next to her, scanning the brightly-wrapped chocolate.

  He smelled. Like he hadn’t washed or anything for a few days. She wrinkled her nose, unable to help herself. Whatever anyone could say about her and George, she always kept them clean. You wouldn’t see her kid running around with a permanently snotty nose and he’d never once had nappy rash. She’d always changed him as soon as he was wet. Even though it cost a fortune in disposable nappies.

  He smelt like smoke. Risking a glance, she frowned at him. Unshaved, his clothes were rumpled like he’d slept in them, and yeah, he definitely smelled like smoke. Looked like his hair was clogged with dust too. She knew a lot of people had no running water anymore, but still, how much effort did it take to shake the bloody dust out of your hair?

  He chose the Moro bar and went even further down in her estimation. Moro bars were a real con. Just that nougat stuff and some caramel. If you were going to have caramel, then go for the real thing and eat a Caramello. Otherwise, stick nuts with it and buy a goddamned Snickers bar.

  She had to swivel slightly to properly hear the murderer’s conversation with old Betty at the counter. Betty wasn’t paying any attention to her, of course. She knew Tracey would potter around in the shop, looking at the magazines and stuff before buying her chocolate and maybe a TV guide. She always paid. They knew she would never scam them. She just wasn’t that sort of person. No matter what anyone thought to look at her.

  But Betty wasn’t having a bar of this guy. And just as well too because he was trying to chat her up about Sahara. Underneath her skin, Tracey’s blood first heated up in outrage, then turned as cold as that dry ice stuff that everyone said was cold enough to turn your hand solid if you stuck it into it and then your fingers could snap off.

  When he asked what Jeanette’s address was, she couldn’t help herself, she yelped out loud. Quickly, she turned back to the racks of chocolate and grabbed the first one that came to hand, fastening her fist around it like it was gripping his neck instead. She squeezed, realised what she was doing, and forced herself to replace the chocolate bar, slightly the wrong shape now in its foil wrapper.

  She took hold of George again and wheeled him closer to the door. The man who had killed Sahara was spouting on about how he had to pick his wife up from Jeanette’s place, and oh golly how silly of him, he’d forgotten the address she’d given him.

  The bell above the door did its shake, rattle, and roll as she wrenched the door open and jammed George’s pushchair through it. She was feeling a bit sweaty herself now, but the guy at the counter was leaning toward Betty as though he could sweet talk her and didn’t even look her way.

  Bummer, she didn’t have her phone on her. Because she knew something that Betty behind the counter didn’t. She knew the wife was dead. In her car when a building fell down right on top of her. Jeanette had told her that just this morning. She’d been on the phone with a child protection officer and got told.

  But Tracey had dropped her bloody phone into the loo trying to juggle it and pulling her pants up and now it just kind of dripped and wouldn’t turn on. She’d actually flushed the toilet on it, not wanting to fish it out when it was still covered in pee.

  Whatever, it was sitting on a plate in the top of the hot water cupboard and she was hoping that it would dry out, because she couldn’t just go out and buy another one. Although she might be able to get the Social Welfare to loan her the money for one, on account of how she didn’t have a home phone and George sometimes suffered from a bit of asthma, and what happened if she needed to call for an ambulance or something in the middle of the night? Though she didn’t want to explain to them about trying to watch one of those funny animal videos on Facebook and dropping it in the loo, so she was hoping that it would dry out instead. She’d taken the back off and everything.

  So she ended up jogging behind the pushchair down the street to the block of flats where she and Jeanette lived. The breath whistled in and out of her lungs and burned after she’d passed only about five lampposts, but she didn’t stop, didn’t even slow down.

  George lifted his hands up and squealed, urging her to go faster.

  55

  Jeanette didn’t bother yelling anything in reply to her mother’s shout that she was going to the shop for milk or some such rubbish. It was too much effort. Instead she just sat in the chair outside, staring at the little patch of yard where Sahara had played since she was big enough to crawl about, getting grass stains on her hands and knees and more often than not finding a slug or worm or something to chow down on.

  ‘Fuck!’ A head appeared over the fence separating her from the next flat in the block. She stubbed out her cigarette and thought about lighting another one.

  ‘Jeanette! You gotta hurry!’

  She shook her head. ‘What are you on about, Trace? And for god’s sakes why aren’t you coming to the door like a normal person?’

  But Tracey was shaking sweaty red hair. ‘No, listen. I’ve just been to the shop, and he’s coming. He’s coming here to get you, Jeanette.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Him. You know. The creep who murdered Sahara. I was at the shop getting something, some, you know, stuff for George, and he was there, bold as brass, asking Betty what your address was.’ She slipped and lost her grip for a moment, dipping out of sight, but appeared again a moment later. ‘You got to come over, hide at my place. He’ll be here any moment.’

  Tracey’s words entered her ears and went spinning into a tangled jumble. It took a long moment for Jeanette to sort out what her friend and neighbour was saying.

  ‘What?’ she repeated, then the words filtered finally into the right order. ‘He’s coming here?’

  ‘He really is, Jeanette, I swear I'm not making this up. You gotta come over to my place. I don’t know what he’s gonna do, he could be coming to murder you too, for knowing too much.’

  Unsure about that, exactly, Jeanette had to acknowledge that she was in complete agreement that this development wasn’t anything good at all. The man had killed her little girl, she was absolutely positive of it, which meant that if he knew she knew – and he probably did, because Zoe wouldn’t have been able not to say anything – then he was a loose cannon and she was a pretty good target.

  ‘Mum’s just gone off to the shop,’ she said.

  Ropes of red hair thumped against Tracey’s wide forehead. ‘Can’t worry about her,’ she said. ‘Just get your arse over the fence right now.’

  Tracey’s urgency infected her. Standing up, she looked towards the sliding door into her living room. ‘My phone’s inside,’ she said.

  ‘Not enough time,’ Tracey all but screeched. ‘Jeanette, he’s on his way right now!’

  She felt the adrenaline flood through her body like someone had poured cold milk through her veins. A moment later she was scrabbling to get a grip on the fence and was hauling herself over. They’d tried to get permission from the council to get a gate put in between the properties, but the idiots in their suits and comb-overs kept saying no.

  Tracey caught her as she landed awkwardly on the other side, grabbing her by the arm and tugging her towards the door where George stood on the other side of the window, hands pressed against the glass in little starfishies.

  ‘Ow,’ Jeanette said. ‘You’re hurting me.’

  ‘Better than being murdered,’ Tracey said. ‘I wanted to arrest him, but of course I couldn’t do that, so this is the next best thing. We’ll hide in here until he’s come and gone.’

  ‘What about Mum? I can’t just leave her to walk in on him.’

  Tracey wrenched the door open and dragged Jeanette in behind her. ‘I’ll go warn her,’ she said after a moment, her face glossy with sweaty determination. ‘Yeah. That’s what I’ll do, but you’re not to budge, you hear?’

  ‘Maybe he’ll leave when he sees I'm not at home,’ Jeanette said, but she knew it probably wouldn’t be that easy. She couldn’t imagi
ne Danny Fry knocking politely on her door, waiting a moment, then turning back and driving away when she didn’t answer. Not in these circumstances. Her stomach churned at the thought of coming so close to the man who had taken her daughter from her, her sweet Sahara, wanting to use her, hurt her.

  ‘Let me use your phone,’ she said. ‘I’ll call Sergeant Hodge. She was going to come around today anyway. Maybe she’s in the area.’

  There was a pause before Tracey answered. ‘My phone’s not working.’

  Jeanette blinked at her. ‘Why not?’

  ‘I, um, dropped it.’

  ‘The screen smashed?’

  She shook her head, looking at the floor. ‘Nah. Dropped it in the loo.’ She looked up at Jeanette. ‘I hadn’t done anything but pee in there before it happened though.’

  The decision not to carry on the conversation was easily arrived at. Jeanette turned her mind to what to do and went back to the door. ‘I need my phone,’ she said.

  The hand that clamped back around her upper arm was going to leave bruises. ‘No way! It’s not safe.’

  Her own hand was on the door ready to slide the glass back when the head popped over the fence, scanning from left to right.

  It was Tracey who reacted lightning-fast, her hand still fastened around Jeanette’s arm, pulling her back behind the curtains before Jeanette could even blink.

  ‘That’s him, the bastard,’ Tracey hissed. ‘He must have parked out by the entrance to the alley.’

  The block of flats were mirrored by an identical block on the next street, their fenced yards backing onto a narrow alleyway lined with rubbish and recycling bins and a constant litter of leaves and candy wrappers. Sometimes worse.

  The head was gone when Jeanette loosened Tracey’s grip and peered around the curtain. With fingers almost numb with shock, she inched open the sliding door.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Tracey hissed. She’d tumbled to the floor where she sat gripping little George, her face creased with worry.

  ‘I need to hear what’s going on,’ Jeanette said. ‘And I'm worried about Mum. We can’t let her walk back into the house when he’s there.’

  Tracey struggled to her feet, bringing the boy with her and planting him on a hip. She licked her lips. ‘I’ll go up the street,’ she said. ‘Intercept her. Maybe she has a phone we can use to call the cops.’

  A shake of the head. ‘She doesn’t carry her phone round on her. I'm always telling her to, but she’s never really got the hang of using her mobile.’ Jeanette sniffed. Her mum was awesome, but pretty old-fashioned when it came to technology.

  ‘Well, okay then,’ Tracey said. ‘I’ll just go find her and bring her back here.’ She was moving towards the door but stopped and turned around. ‘Do you think you should come too?’ she asked. ‘Maybe we should stick together?’

  ‘No. I'm going to stay here and see if I can figure out what he’s doing. Please though Tracey, I’d be really grateful if you could find Mum.’

  Tracey stared at her a moment, then nodded. ‘Course I will, Jen,’ she said. ‘But you gotta stay here, right? Don’t go confronting him or anything. You know how dangerous he is. He killed your girl.’ Her face crumpled for a moment, then she pulled it together and sniffed.

  ‘I’ll be right here,’ Jeanette promised. ‘You find Mum and then we’ll figure out a way to talk to Sergeant Hodge. She’ll know what to do.’

  Tracey gave a last nod and disappeared out the front door, lurking there a moment, George on her hip, before pulling the door shut behind her. Jeanette breathed a sigh of relief. She could rely on Tracey. She was a good mate and her heart was always in the right place. She’d find Jeanette’s mother and make sure she was all right.

  56

  Danny thought he counted the flats right but when he stuck his head over the fence that backed onto the alley, all he saw was a bunch of little kid toys. Boy stuff. Bouncing back down onto the path, he went down one more to the next gate and reached through to unbolt the gate.

  The bloody thing was padlocked. Narrowing his eyes, he stood there a moment second-guessing himself. Maybe he should have tried the front door.

  But the alleyway was perfect. No one was about, there was no one watching to see him letting himself into Jeanette Woolsley’s house.

  ‘Except I'm not bloody letting myself in, am I?’ he muttered, standing a moment longer then shaking his head. ‘Fuck it,’ he said. ‘Luck’s gonna hold.’

  And it did. A bit of a run and jump and he teetered over the top of the six-foot fence and landed cleanly in the backyard without anyone coming to the window to see him.

  Luck kept holding too, because the sliding door wasn’t locked, and it slid smoothly and silently back on its runner when he opened it.

  ‘Oh Jeanette,’ he whispered under his breath. ‘Coming ready or not…’

  The living room was empty. And tidy. For a moment he wondered if anyone even lived there, it was so clean. But he spotted the empty milk bottle on the counter in the adjacent kitchen and smiled. So Jeanette was a bit of a neat freak? That explained the way her daughter had always looked so lovely, her hair shining in the sun, clothes nicely washed and pressed, skin always so clear, honey-coloured and covered in the softest of downy hairs.

  Sucking in a deep breath, Danny turned for the hallway, padding down the length of it on quiet feet, congratulating himself on his stealth, and looking into each room he passed. There were only three.

  And each was empty.

  A scowl creased his face. How had he come all this way only to miss her? There was a dressing gown on the bed in the main bedroom, so she’d obviously gotten up and gone somewhere.

  Without locking the doors?

  Sniffing, he backtracked and poked his head into Sahara’s room, then stepped inside and stood on the round rug in the shape of a smiley face beside the bed.

  Everything looked like it would have if she were still alive. He reached out a finger and wiped it across the dressing table. Not a speck of dust. His finger hooked around the knob of the top drawer and it slid open under a slight tug. His mouth quirked in a greedy smile.

  A neat pile of underwear lay stacked in the drawer. Pretty little pairs of underpants on the right, matching little singlets with ribbon bows on the left.

  The topmost pair of knickers disappeared into the pocket of his jeans and nestled there, teasing him.

  But there wasn’t time for anything. He was there on serious business. Business that had him backing out of the room and turning once more for the living room, wondering what to do now.

  Perhaps he needed to wait for her. His eyes took in the empty milk bottle. Maybe she’d just headed out to the shop. His lips pursed in thought. That would be a bastard. Pat would mention him, more than likely. Then she might be smart enough not to come home.

  A phone snagged his glance, lying on the small dining table. Eyebrows raised, he moved towards it, a broad smile blossoming on his face. Eureka.

  She’d told him once that the only camera she had was on her phone, and it hadn’t surprised him. A camera phone was all most people needed, and after all, it was perfectly adequate for Facebook and whatever other method you chose to spread around all your selfies.

  His thumb was already scrolling through the photographs.

  And stopped when he saw himself at the park.

  So Zoe had been telling the truth. Jeanette really had accidentally caught him on film. Or phone. Whatever.

  It wasn’t much, that was for sure. He’d thought he was going to see him and Sahara heading for the privacy of the trees, but here Sahara was grinning in the middle of the shot and he was only visible in the distance, hardly even recognisable.

  Bah. They had nothing on him! He didn’t know what insanity had had Zoe jumping to bizarre conclusions and he didn’t give a shit. Not only would he be able to talk himself out of this, there was nothing to fucking well talk himself out of in the first place.

  He almost took the phone and put it in his pocket
but stopped himself with a grin. Much more fun to do it like this. A moment later and the photograph was deleted and the phone back on the table. He nudged it with his finger and looked at it, satisfied it was sitting exactly as he’d found it.

  There was laughter bubbling up inside his chest as he let himself back out the sliding door and walked across the lawn to vault himself over the fence again.

  He was safe. Absolutely, completely safe. There was no evidence against him. Not now all the photographs were gone. And Zoe. Now she was gone too, unable to make a fuss about anything.

  Which meant he could take his last drive back over the bloody Port Hills and go get his Rose.

  After that, the world would be their oyster.

  57

  Jeanette was counting under her breath, ticking off the seconds without even meaning to. She’d heard the door to her flat slide open then closed again and let herself inch out of Tracey’s.

  Pressing a hand against the fence between the two places, she strained to hear more, but Danny Fry was being quiet, and she knew he was creeping around her place, poking into all the rooms, looking for her.

  Poking into all the rooms. She shivered, realising he would be pushing open the door to Sahara’s room, standing there taking in all her things. The cheerful rug on the floor that Sahara had loved so much because it was a big yellow smiley face and Sahara had drawn faces just like it on all her schoolbooks and all over her schoolbag.

  And her stuffed animals. Mrs Doppo, a kind of cross between hippo and dog that she’d had since she was just a tiny thing, and the cheerful Pooh Bear Jeanette’s parents had given her when she was born. Her dad had been alive then and he’d been so proud in the hospital, holding his little granddaughter in his arms, not even caring that Jeanette was only seventeen and the baby’s father was a loser.

  She scrunched her eyes shut for a long moment then opened them back wide, determined that she had to do something.