by Keith Dixon
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE COLD CHILL of a damp paving slab on my cheek. The tingle of an arm that has lost its circulation because it’s twisted beneath my body. The realization as I begin to open my eyes that it hurts, that this is serious, that I’m in a really bad situation here. The will to move my knee—and it slides slowly along the ground. I bring up an arm and feel the effort as I shove and twist my weight to one side. The taste in my mouth of grit and blood, and the pounding in my head as I become aware of the beat thumping like an urban rhythm in the back of my brain.
As I rise to a hip I become aware of the subdued countryside chirps and rustles, the occasional swish of traffic on the road below, the lowing of a cow and the distant whine of an aeroplane far above, heading for sun.
I’m sitting now, feeling my jaw and rubbing yard dirt from my cheek and the elbows of my jacket. My head is clearing though still painful. I turn to stretch my neck—and see the open door of Tara’s house, its light pulsing out slowly into the dark courtyard and illuminating a sad private detective who wishes he were somewhere else.
I rise to my feet and stumble inside. The Chopin études have finished and the house feels even more forlorn than it did when they played. The atmosphere is chill and empty, though all the lights are still on, the furniture inviting and the colours and style still trying to impress the adventurous guest.
Stumbling further into the house, I call Tara’s name, but there’s no reply. I inspect all the ground floor rooms but there’s no sign of life. I find the stairs and gripping the newel post and the dark wood banister I begin to haul myself upwards. The stairs turn sharply twice and I have to hold tight to pull myself up. At last I reach a broad expanse of carpet that I follow, in turn, to three ordinary bedrooms, a master bedroom, a study, and a bathroom. The door to the bathroom is partly open. I lean forward and push it fully ajar, then extend my willpower and walk into the room.
It’s relatively small and as green as the inside of an after-dinner mint. There’s a sense of bathwater having been run—the mirror is partly steamed and the shower curtains over the bath drip with condensation. The curtains have been drawn together and tucked into the bath, their bottom edges trailing listlessly in six inches of water.
I reach out and pull back the shower curtain, expecting to see Tara curled in the bath—but she’s not there. The images I had in my head refuse to go away—images of her slouched lifeless with her wrists cut, or her face blue from strangulation. Suddenly I find myself bent over, breathing deeply, supporting myself with one hand on the toilet cistern. I don’t like those pictures in my head.
Then I turn and see a clump of red hair that lies in a tight bunch on a white Lloyd Loom chair next to the bath. On the mirror over the sink there are words that have been written in either lipstick or blood. They read: ‘Where’s the little girl?’
