by Ayre, Mark
Her face suggested plenty of follow up questions, but she didn’t ask one. Her eyes snapped ahead, and she walked alongside him in silence as he moved. Perhaps she wondered where he was going, as he had. Before Mark he had been walking at random, but not now. Where had Luke left the note? Where was the creepy place in the woods? Where might you arrange to meet someone privately?
Creating a map in his head he sped up, jogging and then running through the trees with Megan just keeping up. With every step, he grew more afraid, and angrier at himself for turning his phone off. If he hadn’t, maybe he could have reached her in time. That thought was frightening. He didn’t want to have it, and yet he did. Somehow he already knew.
Breaking into the clearing outside the shack he stopped. He had been planning his route through the scary building, but that wouldn’t be necessary. The moment they stepped out to face the side of the shack where he had slipped in the other night, they saw her.
“Call the police,” he said to Megan, who gave a little cry. “Ambulance too.”
But he knew it was too late. Had known it was too late before he phoned Mac back. Because he hadn’t reacted in time. Had given her his number then hadn’t answered when she needed him. Someone was more responsible for Mac’s death than him, but only one person, and alone he held enough responsibility for a lifetime’s worth of guilt.
Behind him Megan disappeared behind a tree, hiding from the body and calling 999, but he approached. Feeling his heart stop, he stepped across the clearing. She lay on her back. Her face was the palest white, and her eyes were filled more with regret than fear. It broke his heart to look upon them. Whatever she had done before, she had died trying to do the right thing.
The letter was draped across her chest. Lying over the place she had been stabbed, the white creating a contrast to the red that was almost artistic. Remembering every TV show he had ever seen with a murder, he knew he was not supposed to touch the note, but picked it up anyway.
Behind him, he could hear the deep breathing of Megan, hidden behind her tree. He could feel the rising sun on his head and hear the rustling leaves under the wind of the morning. He ignored it all, flipping open the letter, reading the second he had seen from Luke in the last three days.
You missed your chance.
Charlie and I are gone forever.
Don’t bother looking.
Luke.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
In Limbo.
James would have left that morning, had the option been available. Should have gone days ago, slipping from the village’s grasp. But the little community had continued to throw the rope and James had clung on. Desperate to feel part of something. Family. Community. Relationship.
By the time he realised the rope in his hands was not lifeline but noose, it was too late. He was ensnared. Trapped.
The image of Mac would not leave him.
Another body. Not such a gruesome imprint on his mind as Mohsin’s, but somehow worse. The blood and darkness had drained the reality of that situation. Turned it into a scene from any one of a thousand TV shows James had watched.
Not so with Mac. The cold eyes, pale skin and lost expression under the light of the encroaching morning had seared a haunting picture into his memory. A sight to inspire utter misery, with a desire to run fast and never to stop. James might well have done this.
The police had other ideas.
Reminiscent of the night Mohsin was attacked, they held him for over an hour, firing the same questions at him on repeat. As they circled the story, stuck in some time loop, the world changed around them. The sun continued to climb, as though attempting to distance itself from the scene below. Men in blue gloves turned up to examine the body. Forensics. That was it.
The process took a long time, and the men in blue gloves were still poking, prodding and photographing when James and Megan were invited into a police car heading for the station. They’d told their story a thousand times. Time to tell it a thousand more. This go round though, he was able to add more. To tell them about his attack, about who he believed to be responsible, and everything he believed Mark Barnes to be guilty of.
They listened, recorded, took notes. Would they proceed with any of it? Would anyone be arrested? He didn’t know and didn’t care.
He just wanted it done.
They released him soon after midday. There had been no breakfast, and the scent of the nearest cafe taunted his groaning belly, though he knew he couldn’t eat.
Instead, he crunched through the village, infuriating words of the police haunting him.
Don’t go far. We may need to speak again.
Not that this tied him to the village. He could set up in a hotel in the nearest town. Wait for the call that would pull him back or release him. This he would do, but first, a couple more people to see. One last pull on the rope around his neck, praying it would still be loose enough to remove afterwards.
First Megan, who had been released from the station before him. He gave her five minutes, and three knocks, before giving up, hoping she was out, rather than ignoring him.
Over to the Barnes’ home. The last place he wanted to go, but he owed Emma an explanation. It was she who would be most affected by Luke’s final actions, and he had fled without a word earlier that day. Not to mention his bags, which he had left behind. Nothing too important in there, but still worth reclaiming.
The nerves came like a swarm of bees as he approached the house, and he covered in the honey of insecurity. His fears sensed weakness and put on a show for him. Conjuring images of the door swinging open to reveal Mark and George waiting. As his foot found the step to the real entrance, the show had him dragged inside by the conjuring, screaming as the door slammed shut.
Through the spirits of his mind, he sent his fist, knocking on the door and producing a sound so distant it might have come from another world. From somewhere in that world came footsteps, tracing hardwood floors, reaching for him. A tall, slim shadow appeared behind frosted glass, and he took a step back in spite of himself as the door swung open.
“Hello, James,” said Christina, swaying a little and sporting an unnatural smile. “So glad you could pop by. Please, come in.”
He was given no chance to announce he was here for Emma, and Emma alone. Christina had hardly finished speaking before she twirled from James, disappearing into the house with the door left wide. Though he had little desire to stick around, his manners prohibited him leaving the invitation unanswered, and he found his feet overriding the protestations of his head as they stepped over the threshold.
Following Christina into the kitchen, he found her perched on an island stool, almost empty glass of wine in her hand, one empty and one half-empty bottle before her. As he entered, she drained her glass.
“Drink?” she asked, pulling the live bottle towards her.
“No, thank you.”
“Have a drink.”
She lifted the bottle, glanced across the table and noticed there was only one glass available. Giggling, her eyes went to the cupboard. She didn’t look as though she wanted to go.
“Don’t worry about it. I’m not here to drink. I was hoping to catch Emma.”
“My daughter is out,” Christina said, rising. “And a good hostess never lets her guests go drinkless. My mother taught me that.”
She went for the cupboard, stumbling en route and grabbing the handle as though it was a handhold on the side of a building from which she had been falling. Pulling it open she managed to get him a glass, almost causing the remainder to avalanche as she did.
As she returned, he came to the edge of the island, watching as she emptied the bottle into the two glasses, sliding him the new one and gesturing to a stool.
“Sit.”
He didn’t. She waited, then waved a hand and shook her head.
“My mother would have despaired,” she said, taking her seat with none of the grace she was known for. “A hostess’ job is to ensure all guests have a drink at
all times. That dinner is cooked to perfection. That conversation never runs stale.
“A mother’s job,” she continued, giving a light hiccup as she did, “is to ensure her children grow to be respectful, valuable members of society, loved and respected within their community. To guide them into jobs at the right company and relationships with the right partner.”
She twisted her hand in a practised wine swirling motion. One that would have been well executed had the glass not been full. As it was, wine slopped over the side and onto her hands. He watched as it dripped from one finger to the next, on its Odyssey. Christina didn’t seem to notice.
“I was always a wonderful hostess. Ask anyone. I’m known for throwing the best parties, best dinners. Best anything.
“I wanted to be a wonderful mother too. Ever since I was a little girl that was all I wanted, and I did what I could. Always tried.”
Across her lax features bitterness began to break out like hives, no longer contained by her medicinal consumption of alcohol. When she turned to James, it was with ugly distaste.
“My children were so bright in their youth. So full of potential. If they could have learned their lessons, they would have been perfect. An honour to their father and me.”
At this, James could not help but snort with derision. The bitterness grew. She spat her next word.
“What?”
“George, was no saint, was he?”
She refused to bite.
“A rapist. A man who sat in his little office and abused the girls he was supposed to protect. And you’re surprised his children didn’t want to honour him.”
At this Christina chuckled, and James felt himself tense. He watched her drink and gripped the island as though trying to crack it.
“We are none of us perfect,” Christina said. “And I would never ask for perfection.
“George, for example. I caught him with one of his whores early on, and he was quite horrified. Thought I would kick him out. Take the boys - this was pre-Emma. He cried. Poor man.
“I set him straight. Told him he could have as many affairs as he wished, with whomever he wished. He is, after all, a man, and men do have their habit of straying. I had no interest in stopping that.
“That look,” she said, laughing and pointing. “But you see, perception is reality. Everyone believed George was the perfect husband, perfect father, perfect man, so he was. That was all I ever asked from him and my children.
“Mark understood. After Katy, anyway. But Luke never could. I never envisioned a world where I would have to drive one of my children away, but in the end, Luke left me no choice. He wanted the world to know the Barneses were abusing girls, and drug dealing, and I, accommodating mother that I am, gave him what he desired.”
James released the island. Almost went for Christina. Could see his hands around her throat, squeezing, forcing the life out of her. She had done this. Had turned the village against her son. Had made him a monster.
“He was the only one,” James said, shaking, almost crying. “He was the only one with any heart.”
“Ideals,” Christina said, waving a hand as if it were nothing. “What use are they? Nobody looks at the idealistic and applauds. They see a troublemaker and walk in the opposite direction. Perfection is nothing more than smoke and mirrors. George understood that. As did Mark. That’s why they could stay and build their lives. At least, until you came along. I should have known you were friends with Luke from the start. You’re so alike.”
How that would have hurt a day ago. Now, it didn’t seem so bad, and how stupid had he been? Christina was right. Perfection was smoke and mirrors. A trick and he had fallen for it. They hadn’t had to try. He wanted to see a perfect family, and so allowed himself to see one. Now down it came like a tumbling wall, threatening to crush him beneath the rubble of the Barnes’ he had built.
“Do you even care about Charlie?”
“In so far as I have to,” Christina said, displaying no hint of humanity. “He is believed to be my grandson, so I act as though he is. Though it would have been easier with him gone. George cared. Deeply. That was his great weakness. It made things difficult.
“Not that it matters. We thought we were good, clear skies ahead but then it came. The black sheep’s shadow, crawling over our peaceful village, darkening everything. When it rained, that rain was you. His acolyte, drowning everything we built.”
Another chuckle and a wave of her hands at his face. Another gulp of the wine.
“No, I know, he didn’t send you, but that doesn’t matter. You did his bidding whether he asked you to or not. You exposed us and tore down everything I have worked so hard for. Emma, too, had a hand. Her continual attempts to embarrass me. Now my husband lies in hospital and will be thrown in prison as soon as he is well. My son is fleeing drug charges, and I am drinking like a lush.
“Congratulations. Well done. It’s over.”
She finished her drink and James stepped around the table. He wanted to hurt her. To take her head and crash it into the island. She felt none of the pain she had inflicted, and he wanted to make her feel it.
But he didn’t.
“Charlie is gone and thank God. Away from your poison, I have to believe he is better off. Mac stayed, and look what happened. Mohsin is awake and think yourself lucky because if he had died, that would have been on you. Everything that’s happened. It’s on you. I want you to know that.”
Christina stared into her glass. Ran her finger around the rim. Looked to his. Still full.
“Are you going to drink that?”
He stepped back. She rose and took the glass.
“I shall not miss you, James. You came here and tore everything apart. A mother’s job is image management for her family. A job I have handled with aplomb in difficult circumstances all these years, but now, I will never rebuild what I had, and that means there is nothing left for me. I only hope that something awful befalls you.”
She rose his glass in cheers and took a long, deep drink.
“Would you like me to show you out?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
This time, Megan opened and led him to her bedroom. His mind overflowed with images of what might be about to happen until she opened the door, revealing a suitcase stuffed almost to the brim with clothes.
“I’m sorry for kicking you out. Dismissing you. Once you were gone, I couldn’t stop thinking. Couldn’t sleep. I had no idea where Mark was, and after a while, I couldn’t take it anymore.
“I broke into his private drawer -” she held up two dresses, examining one then the other. “It was full of money and drugs. Weed, mostly, but other stuff, too. I don’t know what - it wasn’t labelled.”
One of the dresses was tossed aside. The other shoved in the case without care. One hand remained on the mountain of clothes, the other went to her face, covering her eyes. Her fingers pressed against her temples as she fought back tears.
“Fucking prick.”
He recoiled a little, as though she had aimed the words at him. A smile was thrown his way, to show this wasn’t the case, then she disappeared into the bathroom. James resisted the urge to follow, remaining by the bedroom door as she began chucking bits into a toiletries bag in the en-suite.
“He came home eventually. Never drank much, did Mark, but he was drunk last night. Must have been getting to him. All this Charlie stuff and with him trying to keep up his fucking double life.
“He came in and saw me. Saw the drugs on the bed and flipped, screaming at me, like I was in the wrong. He was screaming and screaming and -“ she came out of the bathroom to the foot of the bed, holding the toiletries bag ahead of her as though it were a full nappy - “he was here, and he hit me. Knocked me to the ground and I thought; ‘this is it.’ I was sure he was going to kill me.”
She lowered her arm. Chucked the toiletries bag into her case as she had the dress. Turned and faced the window.
“Then he looked out, onto the street,” she said, her
voice quiet. “I tried to say something, but he stepped right over me. Stormed out of the house. I heard the door slam and ran to the window, but by the time I reached it, there was only him, jogging down the alley.
“I tried to tell myself it was nothing but I knew that was a lie. I knew he’d seen you.”
Lifting a hand like he was trying to catch a slow moving object, he stepped forward, then stopped. In return, she granted him a wearied, pained smile, then turned away. Closed her case and pressed hard. Began trying to zip it up.
“You came up in the fight,” she said, now at war with the case and not getting far. “I said you’d told me about the drugs and he asked me if I loved you.”
His hopes soared -
“I said no.”
- and plummeted.
“I said I didn’t love him and he hated that, even though he doesn’t love me either. Said he needed me over and over, but never that he loved me. At least he didn’t lie. At least he had the decency to - ah.”
Her finger slipped from the immovable zip and dragged across the metal teeth. She pulled back and glared at the case as though it had bitten her, and James, unable to stand by any longer, came forward.
She might have thought he had come to kiss her, the look she gave him, but he pressed his hands flat on the lid of the case and tried to crush the monster mess of clothes beneath. This done, she was able to tug again, and the zip began to slide along.
Together, with much huffing and puffing and a bit of swearing - mostly from Megan - they managed to close it, falling onto the bed once done, panting and staring at the ceiling as though recovering from a passionate lovemaking session.
“Where are you going?”
“To my parents, in Scotland.”
“To stay?”
“God no. I couldn’t put up with them more than a month or so. I need to escape, regroup, then start again. I’ll come back to collect the rest of my stuff then I’m off to start a new life with a new job and new friends. Somewhere I can forget all this.” She waved a hand to signal the woods cloaked village in which they lay.
