Sixth Victim

by Kate Mitchell

  Her legs demanded that she stand and go across to Mr. Davis to put that much-needed arm of comfort around him, but that instinct, the recorder of knowledge warned her to wait and listen; there are many ways of giving kindness and this was one of them.

  Again, Mr. Davis shook his head. ‘It was always me, Mary said she wanted to marry, not Richard. A man who had everything to offer. But what did I have to give?’ he opened his hands in front of him. ‘Look, you can see what I’ve got, nothing but this awful grief…’

  ‘You gave her your love which is more than most people have in their lives,’ said Cecelia forced to speak for this man who was unable to speak for himself. ‘What I saw when I went into your wife’s room is a happy woman, she has been fed well on love. Perhaps you didn’t have your children for long, but God gave you these wonderful spirits. I’m not telling you to be thankful.’

  His head slipped down while listening to Cecelia.

  ‘It’s important you recognized what you were given if only for a short time.’

  He turned with questioning eyes. ‘That’s the sort of thing Marcia would have said. Perhaps you are a messenger from our dear girl. The father said we shall hear from Marcia and that she is always around us. And you have come as the bearer of her thoughts.’

  It was not possible to be what he wanted her to be. Cecelia hadn’t wanted to hear his pain and had supplied something like a tourniquet to stifle it. A few kind words were all it took.

  ‘I heard the police believe they have caught Marcia’s murderer,’ started Mr. Davis.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I would like to meet him just to talk to him, just once to know why. I would not have been able to ask that a week ago,’ Mr. Davis’s heavy sad eyes once again strayed to Cecelia’s face. ‘I just don’t understand what sort of person should ever think about taking another’s life, perhaps this man doesn’t know why himself. But that doesn’t seem to matter anymore. If I can keep this news from my wife, I will die happy. You can see for yourself she is not a well woman; it’s just a question of time.’ His eyes began to glisten. ‘I don’t want to lose her, but God would be merciful if he took her.’

  Why had she imagined she would get her story without any display of emotions? Because it was convenient and what she chose to believe? A clinical extraction of facts without any mess or unpleasantness as if the person had been lifted from life while the whole event had been swallowed into comfortable digestion. But when life is torn from the side a jagged hernia is wrenched out.

  ‘I’m really sorry I came,’ this time she made up her mind to go. ‘I feel I have done more harm to your grief.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ genuine surprise stood out from his eyes. ‘I thought you came for a story. I cannot help my anger or cover my pain.’

  ‘Yes, I came for the story, but I am doing more harm.’

  ‘Do you know how many people have come to visit us since we lost Marcia? Not one. No one wants to be around unhappiness, they feel it’s catching. But my Mary needs people, she needs the compassion and understanding of society, but except for the police and the father, no one else has come to see how we are. And do you know how lonely this makes me feel?’

  Biting her bottom lip, Cecelia stood in the room like a naughty child who deserves to be told off.

  ‘Like we are lepers.’ Hard as ice his eyes were gripping Cecelia’s. ‘When I leave Mary asleep to get our groceries, I enter a world alien to ours. People greet, laugh, they are there for today while we are trapped still in yesterday. They don’t want to get personal with unhappiness—oh yes, they want to read about it in the papers or hear about it on the television news, but they don’t want to meet or do anything about it. Yes, I am bitter and sometimes, God forgive me, I have wished the same on them. But with you coming here today, admittedly, it wasn’t very pleasant, but you gave something back. You listened, you were a witness to our injustice, you said you are going to write about it. Well, you write about it, missy. You make people understand what we’ve gone through, and then they’ll learn something about our grief.’

  His voice had become stronger while his anger which had been kept under was now released.

  ‘People must know, they must come to understand that it could happen to them. We are a society. We need to care for each other. So, you will stay and write our story, won’t you?’

  9

  Now back home, Cecelia began writing up her notes. Mr. Davis was prepared for any of her questions; she could be brutal as much as she wants. It was not that which was injurious to him, it was indifference. He and Mary had become ghosts.

  But he was nervous, he was about to talk about a private life which were meshed with fancies and ideals, preserved in ice, never to age or become ugly. In fact, the beautiful fairytale. To get to the murderer, Mr. Davis was prepared to slash the ice. From the back of the kitchen cupboard, he took out a small bottle of old bourbon and poured a healthy dose of it into his cup. Did Cecelia want any, he held the bottle up in offer. No, she did not. He stirred his cup and laid the spoon by the side. One sip and then two sips, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Arms on the table, he cradled the mug, this drink was the genie that unlocked all dark thoughts.

  As far as he knew, Marcia was still a virgin. Of course, at her age she was interested in boys and men. And she had an on and off relationship with Tony Hare.

  Tony Hare was a new name and one which could be relevant, Cecelia underlined it.

  ‘Marcia stopped dating him,’ continued Mr. Davis now looking into the pith of the wood as if to raise the molecules from the grain with a stare which was molecular. ‘When she discovered he was having a child with Meghan Dark, it was a great shock for her especially hearing those whispers, but she had to know the truth from him. Tony Hare could not deny it. As far as she was concerned, they were finished. Marcia has values, though she cried her heart out. He asked her to forgive him, perhaps she might have done if he hadn’t tried to get totally out of the responsibility. Tony told Marcia that Meghan had tricked him.’ Mr. Davis stopped talking to look into the journey of his thoughts. Was there anything he could have done to stop this from happening?

  Beside Tony Hare’s name, Cecelia had written the possible murderer? But what about the other women?

  ‘We spoke about Tony and the child which was due to arrive four months later. Marcia always came to me when she had doubts or problems,’ said Mr. Davis reflecting on that past conversation. ‘I asked her if she cared about him, you know it’s difficult when it’s about the heart, each of us errs in life, but not everything is forgivable. In the scripture lessons, we learn to forgive the sinners, something which is easy said than done but can be done through love. Marcia said to me, dad, I do care about him, I love him. But I have no rights anymore because there’s a child involved. He has to do right by Meghan, I have nothing to do with their lives.’

  ‘Do you think she tricked him,’ said Cecelia ringing around Tony Hare’s name. ‘It might not be his child. She might have laid with someone else.’

  ‘This is a mortal’s battle with trust which we all must make. Finally, I believe Marcia couldn’t trust him that’s what love is about. It didn’t matter about Meghan’s history; the problem was Tony Hare. If he had slept only once with Meghan, it was enough for Marcia. She said that she couldn’t be bound to a man who shares himself. Marcia was a good and forgiving girl, but her standards were high, and I admire her for that, but it always comes at a price.’

  ‘What happened to Tony Hare?’ Cecelia had asked looking up from her notebook. Her mind now on the idea that Tony Hare was Marcia’s murderer.

  ‘He wouldn’t leave Marcia alone; he was always begging her to forgive him. Following her, aping her footsteps, she didn’t say anything to me, but I believe she feared him. Marcia forgave him of course, she even told him to get on with his life and be happy. But she was firm with him when she told him she could have nothing to do with him anymore. I believe he broke Marcia’s heart. She wouldn’t sp
eak about him after that instead, she took to going to church regularly.’

  Church, another reference which Cecelia as a possible meeting place for the murderer.

  ‘Gone was our sweet child. Her natural gaiety turned to devotions. She had always been a church server, but now she was taking on extra duties, visiting people especially the sick in the parish. It gave her something good to believe in. And she was always good with her mother, reading to her, feeding her, giving Mary her medicine. And that night when she disappeared, I waited up for her, but she never came home. On that same day when I was pacing the room, alert to any slight sounds at the front door, that knock came. I knew instantly this wasn’t Marcia. I knew before I opened the door that our visitors were the police. The look on their faces when I opened the door told me straight away that it was bad news. It was the same look that they had when they come to tell me about Rodin. I wanted to curse them and tell them to go away and never return. A tidal wave of bad tidings, and once more I prepared myself for grief.’

  Holding on to her pen, Cecelia stopped to read that expression fixed inexorably on Mr. Davis’s face. This was the story she should now write when one wicked person’s fleshed desires had on other people’s lives.

  ‘Inside, I bore rivers of blood. I cursed mankind and demanded the devil to destroy everyone else’s love. I looked up to my God and asked why, what had I done? Am I so important that you should take your revenge out on me?’ Mr. Davis shook his head lost in comprehension. ‘Do you know why He has taken out His wrath on me?’

  Cecelia shook her head. A God like that is not to be trusted. She lowered her head from his stark eyes.

  ‘But the hardest task was to come. I had to pretend to Mary that everything was fine with our Marcia. I told my darling that Marcia had got that place at the hospital, the one she had always wanted. I had to lie to my darling and tell her the world was good when it was not.’

  Mr. Davis looked at Cecelia for acknowledgment.

  ‘Do you understand anything of this because I don’t? What had Marcia done to anyone? Or Rodin. Why were we punished because this is torment?’ Mr. Davis looked down. ‘I lied to Mary. It was the first time I had done that. I had broken one of my marriage vows to the woman I love most in the world, the woman who was also my best friend.’

  ‘You lied to protect her,’ said Cecelia yet again coming to Mr. Davis’s defense. ‘It was a good lie because you didn’t want to hurt her.’

  ‘Is keeping the truth away doing her more harm?’

  An earnest question that needed an answer. Not for the first time, Cecelia found she needed to reach inside and give Mr. Davis that necessary balm.

  ‘I think we hold too much importance in truth,’ Cecelia found herself searching for something which would help him. ‘True truth is beautiful, but only when it doesn’t harm. How many times has another type of honesty been substituted?’ What was he expecting her to tell him? ‘If you love someone, you do what you think is best for them, and that is the real truth.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right.’

  Leaving Mr. Davis was difficult, Cecelia felt she should visit again, but she had already made a problem for herself with Mary Ann, she didn’t intend to do it again. There are some people whose loneliness is unbearable. The best way she could help was to write for him.

  Spooked, this was how she felt. The interview had been a strain and trying to disengage her feelings at the door was nigh impossible.

  Now in the gradually darkening evening, Cecelia felt ghosts catching up and following in her company. A few days before Marcia was murdered, she had confessed to her father that she thought she was being followed, Mr. Davis offered to walk her to the evening mass. But no, she didn’t want him leaving mother. And mother to Marcia always came first.

  How Mr. Davis regretted not accompanying her now. And then that night just before her murder, she told her father that it was Tony Hare who had been pursuing her. She had waited for him around the corner in the dark and caught him. He told her he was in love with her and that what she was doing to him was punishing. He couldn’t live without her in his life.

  ‘I think,’ said Mr. Davis staring at someone who should have been standing by his side instead of this ghost. ‘That she considered getting back with him. I don’t know for sure. But she loved him, I am certain about that.’

  ‘So, what happened to Tony Hare when he found out that Marcia had been murdered?’

  Was this the man who had murdered not just Marcia, but also all the other girls? Facts that could be stretched to cover every possibility.

  ‘Tony disappeared, no one has seen him since the night he came to see me. He told me he had waited until the police left. You must understand that my priority was Mary, I didn’t want Mary knowing anything about it, and I didn’t want her seeing Tony. She never liked him or trusted him; she thought our daughter was too good for him.’

  Mr. Davis took a deep breath and wavered his eyes to the side, there was a world of regret in his breast. Again, in her notebook, Cecelia summoned those words—so difficult to find the feelings to express, and feelings are more powerful than facts. Everyday feelings are lived after accepting the facts. There were no words Cecelia could write for him except, Mr. Davis looked sad.

  ‘When the doorbell went again,’ continued Mr. Davis, another thought had accidentally dropped in. ‘I thought the police had returned, I was preparing to tell them to leave Mary and me alone. But it wasn’t the police; it was Tony. He had been crying, no, not just crying, sobbing, and he was troubled. At first, it was difficult to feel any pity for him, after all, it was us who lost our only daughter, he could always find himself another partner. But I invited him in. He refused to enter, it was as if he were spooked about something. Bad luck. When people believe they have bad luck, they know they can pass it along. And we’ve had our fair share of bad luck. I said come in man, you’ve had a shock as big as ours, we need to take comfort from each other. I was in shock. Yet, it hadn’t quite sunk in to me that our Marcia was gone. My main concern was not to upset Mary, any more bad news would kill her.’

  Listening dutifully, Cecelia entered the scene.

  ‘We stood just inside the house,’ continued Mr. Davis. ‘This was the first time we met. I often saw him sitting in his car waiting for Marcia to leave the house for their date. A smart looking man, I thought, no wonder she’d picked him. Yet, that day, he wouldn’t sit down, he was nervous and frightened, there was something bad on his mind. When he told me, he was sorry, I asked him, why? What was there to forgive? And then he babbled on about it would never have happened to Marcia if it wasn’t for him. I didn’t understand what he meant, and I still don’t understand. When I tried to put my arm around him to comfort him, he backed away and told me not to touch him because he was evil and that he couldn’t stop washing himself after it had happened. I was confused by his behavior; I didn’t know what to do for him. He stayed for less than ten minutes. And that was the last time I saw him.’

  ‘Did you tell the police about Tony Hare?’

  ‘No, no. I was worried about Mary. If I told them about Tony Hare, they would be nosing around us.’

  This is not your business wrote Cecelia, a note to herself on her notepad. You are here to write the facts and not solve the case, that’s up to the police. You could end up making things worse.

  ‘What does this Tony Hare look like?’ asked Cecelia without looking up from her doodles.

  ‘Oh, he’s a handsome man, there’s no doubt about that, all the girls were after him, but he chose Marcia. And she was flattered because she knew she wasn’t a beauty. But she’s a good girl and a strong girl; she was not afraid to say what was on her mind—I’m not saying she is tactless,’ and then he smiled. ‘I like to think she takes after me.’

  Again, Cecelia underlined, handsome.

  ‘And was he Marcia’s age?’

  ‘A few years older, and a basketball player. When he was younger, he played for the Inter-Hoops Basketball League
. He was spotted by a talent scout for the Las Vegas Acres just over a year ago, the future looked good for him. At twenty-four, he could have made a great deal of money, not that money was what Marcia was interested in, although it’s always comforting.’ Mr. Davis stopped to reflect. ‘But then he had an injury, knee cartilage. He was still able to walk after the injury, but basketball was out. A great shame for him, and he was of course very disappointed and angry that life had thrown him a curb ball.’

  Mr. Davis spoke slowly and thoughtfully directing his eyes to moments in time while Cecelia built her own picture. Her thoughts were not illegal, but they weren’t governed with facts or proof. Just over a year ago when Marcia Davis was found it coincided with Tony Hare’s accident. If the murderer was still on the loose, she had to do her duty and hand in her findings as she had promised. And she would do this first thing tomorrow after she had carefully edited her piece.

  The offer of bourbon would have been appreciated now, and with her head full of questions and answers, Cecelia wasn’t going to get any sleep tonight unless she had a drink.

  At the back of her kitchen cabinet was a bottle of vodka and it hadn’t been opened. Not her favorite drink, but any port in a storm. What to have with an unpleasant drink to disguise the taste and why on earth had she bought it when this didn’t suit her taste?

  Orange juice, Cecelia nearly always had this juice, but looking in the refrigerator, her hunt was bare, but there was some grapefruit juice which would have to do. Adding the juice to the ample measure of vodka, Cecelia forwent the ice.

  Taking a drink on an empty stomach was not the smartest thing to do especially as she was completely reliant on her abilities. Imagine not remembering to eat, and now not really hungry, she began looking through her cupboards. She had heard so much pointless horror and sadness that her appetite had suffered. Why is it some people can eat for comfort while others like her found food in times of stress unpalatable? Questions she was not going to sit around and pontificate. It’s the way some people are. What was there in the house to crave her hunger?