She Is Gone

by Ben Cheetham

  “Is she?

  “I think this prick’s got a hearing problem,” said Steve. “Maybe we should rinse his ears out.”

  “Listen, Karl,” said Jack. “I’m trying to do this the nice way.”

  Karl arched an eyebrow. “Really?” He thumbed at Steve. “Is that why you brought that cunt with you? To put me at ease?”

  Steve grinned as if that was what he’d been waiting to hear. He stepped forwards, flexing his fists. “What did you call me?”

  His smile vanishing, Karl eyeballed Steve without a trace of intimidation. “Perhaps it’s you who’s got the hearing problem.”

  Jack stepped between the two men. “Look, Karl, I don’t want trouble. Like I said, I’m here to tell you what Butterfly told me. She doesn’t remember you. She has no feelings for you. Whatever there was between you is over.”

  “Why don’t we go see her, let her tell me that for herself?”

  Jack shook his head. “That’s not going to happen.”

  “Why? What are you afraid of?” The smile crawled back onto Karl’s face. “I’ll tell you what you’re afraid of. You know that deep down in here and here,” he pointed at his head and chest, “she remembers the love we had. I’m not talking about any ordinary love. I’m talking about something incandescent.”

  “Incandescent,” chuckled Steve. “Look at who knows big words.”

  Karl kept his gaze fixed on Jack. “That kind of love never burns out.”

  “You sound like a cheap Valentine’s card,” said Steve.

  “You know what, Jack? I’m grateful to you. You’ve looked after my Io, helped nurse her through a bad time. For that I thank you.” There was no hint of Karl’s earlier insincerity. He appeared to mean what he said. “But I’m here now, so...” He made a little shooing gesture as if giving Jack permission to leave.

  Jack felt no anger, just a rising tide of inevitability. “So what you’re saying is, you’re going to be hanging around here for the foreseeable future.”

  “For as long as it takes.” Karl raised his hand to display the tattoo of the handless clock. “Days, weeks, months, it’s all the same to me. All I care about is Io. And one day she’ll realise that you’re just a tiny little flame, a match that blows out in the wind, and I’m the sun–”

  “Oh Jesus, here we go again,” Steve broke in with a roll of his eyes. “This moron could give Barbara Cartland a run for her money.”

  Karl threw him a lewd grin. “I’ve got a lot more to offer than big words. My nickname in Belmarsh–”

  “I’ve already heard it from your mate Mick,” interrupted Jack.

  “Yeah, he told us how popular you were in the showers,” said Steve.

  Karl laughed. “Don’t project your fantasies on me, little boy blue.” He pointedly lifted his soft drink and resumed sucking on its straw. Gurgle, gurgle…

  With a sighing shake of his head, Jack took out his phone and dialled. He gave the switchboard operator his name, rank and warrant number, before adding, “I need a tow truck to remove an illegally parked car outside McDonalds on Barlow Moor Road, Chorlton.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” demanded Karl. “I’m not illegally parked.”

  Jack pointed to the Porsche’s rear wheel, which was just barely touching a double yellow line. Karl laughed again, but there was no amusement in his eyes as Jack continued into the phone, “It’s a black Porsche 718 Cayman.”

  “With a scratch on its bonnet,” put in Steve, taking out a key and scouring a white line along the pristine paintwork.

  A gleam of gold showed as Karl’s lips peeled away from his gums in a clench-toothed grimace. For an instant, he glared at Steve as if contemplating punching a hole through his face. Then, his lips relaxing back into a smile, he shook his head as if to say, Uh-uh, you’re not going to get me like that.

  Jack gestured towards his own car parked across the street. “If you’d please come with us, Mr Robinson.”

  “What about my car?”

  “There will be a parking fine to pay, plus a recovery fee. A letter will be sent out with all the relevant details.”

  “And where are you going to take me?”

  “Piccadilly Train Station. I’m putting you on a train to London.”

  Karl snorted. “You think that’ll stop me?”

  “No. But when you return to Manchester, I’ll find you again and put you back on a train. And I’ll keep on doing it until you get the message.”

  One of them on either side of him, Jack and Steve shepherded Karl across the road. “Watch your head,” said Steve, none too gently pushing Karl towards the backseat. He ducked into the car alongside Karl. Jack got behind the steering wheel.

  They headed into the city centre. Massed ranks of terraced houses gave way to lo-rise blocks of flats, which in turn gave way to towers of glittering glass and steel. Huge cranes punctuated the skyline. “Looks like this place is on the up and up,” commented Karl. “Maybe it’s not such a shithole. You know, I could even see myself living here.”

  “Keep your mouth shut,” growled Steve.

  Karl found his reedy laugh again. “Why do you guys always have to be so predictable?”

  “What if I was to shove my hand in your gob and tear your tongue out? Would that be predictable?”

  “Steve,” Jack said in a cautioning voice.

  The ring road ferried them into the city centre where bland modern buildings competed for space with elaborate Georgian and Victorian architecture. A grimy, exhaust-fume filled tunnel brought them to the contrasting blend of old and new that was Piccadilly Station. A curving building of metal and glass squatted atop a Victorian facade of brick and stone.

  They found a parking spot. Steve and Jack each kept a hand on Karl’s arms as they joined a steady stream of people passing between the station’s sliding doors. To their left train platforms with echoing vaulted-roofs were visible through walls of glass. To their right escalators led up to shops, cafes and fast-food restaurants. Steve stayed with Karl whilst Jack followed a sign for ‘Tickets and Travel Centre’.

  When they were alone, Steve leaned in close to Karl. “Jack’s a nice guy.” His voice was a menacing murmur. “I’m not. I see you back around here, I’m not just going to put you on a train.”

  Karl gave him a thin-lipped smile. “I guess we’ll see about that.”

  “I’ve got a tattoo too, you know.” Steve took off his jacket and pulled up his polo-shirt’s sleeve, exposing a grinning skull wearing a maroon beret at a jaunty angle. “That’s ten years in the Paras. We shit on wannabe tough guys like you. So if you feel like making a move...” He trailed off meaningfully.

  Karl spread his hands. “You’ve got me all wrong, Inspector. I’m not looking for trouble.”

  Steve and Karl competed in a staring contest. Neither broke eye contact until Jack returned with the ticket. He pointed them in the direction of a platform where people were boarding a bullet-headed Intercity train. “Looks like we’re just in time,” said Steve, prodding Karl towards the platform.

  “Shame,” said Karl as they passed between two rows of steel pillars that supported the soaring roof. “I was hoping to spend more time with you. Get to know you better.”

  Steve broke into a deep belly laugh. “Oh this one is priceless.”

  They stopped by a carriage’s open door. Jack pressed the ticket into Karl’s hand, looking him in the eyes without animosity. His voice was almost apologetic as he said, “I understand how it feels to lose someone you love. There’s nothing worse. I hope you can move on and find happiness. I really do.”

  Karl stared back, frowning faintly as if unsure how to take his words.

  “Tell your pal Mick Kelly he’s got twenty eight days to come up here and get his car back,” said Steve. “After that it’ll be sold at auction.” With a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, he added, “That is if we don’t have it crushed.”

  Karl’s cocky grin returned as if he was back on familiar territory. He turned
to board the train. The detectives watched him take a seat and waited for the train to pull out of the station. Steve waved Karl off with a taunting waggle of his fingers. Karl blew him a kiss.

  Steve swiped his hands together as if wiping off dirt. “Well that’s that.”

  Pursing his lips doubtfully, Jack headed for the street.

  “I take it you don’t think that’s the last we’ve seen of our new friend,” said Steve, following him.

  “He loves her,” Jack stated as if that was the only answer necessary.

  “Yeah, but she doesn’t love him.” Steve patted Jack’s shoulder. “Stop looking so worried. If he shows his face again, we’ll come down on him even harder. Maybe we’ll even magic up a parole violation, get him sent back to Wormwood Scrubs.”

  Jack heaved a sigh. “Why can’t life ever be simple?”

  Steve laughed again. “Where would the fun be in that? Come on, let’s go for a drink. I know a great little boozer just around the corner from here.”

  “I don’t drink, remember?”

  “So I’ll buy you a lemonade.”

  Jack shook his head. “I need to get home. This whole thing has left Butterfly in a right old state.” He gave Steve a grateful glance. “Thanks.”

  “It was nothing, mate. I enjoyed it. I haven’t had a buzz like that in ages.” As Jack got into the car, Steve added with a lewd grin, “You and Butterfly should get out of the city for a few days. A dirty weekend in Blackpool. Best stress relief in the world. Laura and I can look after the kids.”

  “Sounds like a good idea, except for the Blackpool part.”

  “There’s nowt wrong with Blackpool. You know what you are, Jack? You’re a southern snob.”

  Jack laughed despite the lump of tension in his stomach. “I’ve been called a lot of things, but never that. Besides, it would make no difference whether it was Blackpool or Barcelona. Butterfly won’t leave Charlie.”

  Steve gave him a nod of sympathy. “See you tomorrow then.”

  Jack’s smile faded as he drove away. The future held so much uncertainty, but he felt sure of one thing – Karl Robinson would be on the next train back to Manchester.

  Chapter 9

  When Jack got home, the house was eerily silent. He found Butterfly asleep on the sofa with the case notes spread over her chest and the carpet. Even in sleep, there was a crease between her eyebrows. He watched her for a moment before padding upstairs. Naomi and Charlie were asleep too. He fetched a blanket and returned to Butterfly. As he draped it over her, she opened her eyes. “Hello there,” she said, smiling. “How did whatever it was go?”

  He smiled back, feeling a ripple of guilt. “Fine.”

  Butterfly cheeks were flushed with sleep. Her lips slightly parted, she drew him to her and kissed him. She lifted the blanket for him to get underneath. A tingle of arousal coursed through him as she hooked a leg around his waist. “How’s your headache?” he asked.

  “Fuck my headache,” she said breathily, moving in to kiss him again. “You smell sweaty.”

  Jack thought about how striving to keep calm and impersonal with Karl had made sweat seep from his armpits. “I’ll get a shower.”

  Butterfly pulled him even closer. “No, I like it.”

  Then they were kissing again and peeling off each other’s clothes. The knot of tension in Jack’s stomach untied itself as he thrust between her thighs. Butterfly moaned, pulling him deeper into her. He kissed her face and neck, took her lower lip between his and sucked it. This was usually when Charlie woke up as if he had some sort of ESP and started bawling. But not tonight. Tonight they moved in unison until they climaxed together. Then they lay in each other’s arms, warm and heavy, not thinking about the murders or Karl Robinson or anything except being there with each other.

  “Let’s go to bed,” Butterfly suggested after a while.

  Jack gathered up their clothes while Butterfly returned the box of case notes to the cupboard under the stairs. “I never want to be anywhere else but here,” Butterfly murmured as they curled up against each other beneath the duvet.

  “Me neither,” he replied, proprietarily wrapping an arm around her. He drifted off to sleep with his nose buried in her soft auburn hair.

  It seemed as if he’d only been asleep for seconds when his eyes sprang open. Charlie was crying, but that wasn’t what had woken him. He couldn’t breathe. There were hands on his throat, fingers constricting his windpipe, nails digging into his flesh.

  His first thought was – Karl!

  By the faint light seeping into the room from the landing, he saw something that horrified him far more than that thought. It wasn’t Karl’s hands on his throat, it was Butterfly’s. She was straddling him. He couldn’t make out her features, but he recognised the shape of her body and the curl of her hair.

  “What are you doing?” His voice scraped out. With one hand, he tried to prise her off his throat. With the other, he groped for his bedside lamp.

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  It wasn’t only the question that sent a chill through him, it was the flat, unrecognisable tone of Butterfly’s voice. His hand found the lamp and switched it on. For an instant he saw an ice-cold light in her eyes, then she blinked and it was extinguished. Her eyes swelled, moving from confusion and surprise to horror. She snatched her hands away from his throat, looked at them as if they didn’t belong to her, then buried her face in them. Deep sobs racked her body. Her distraught voice shuddered through her fingers, “Oh my God, what’s happening to me?”

  Jack sat up and tried to put his arms around her, but she recoiled from him.

  Naomi poked her head into the room. “Charlie’s awake–” she started to say, but broke off at the sight of Butterfly.

  “It’s OK, she just had a bad dream,” Jack told her.

  “I’ll go see Charlie.”

  Thanks, mouthed Jack. Butterfly was facedown on the bed with her knees folded beneath her. “That’s all it was,” he said to her, “just a bad dream.”

  She shook her head hard, sobbing, “It wasn’t a dream.” She stabbed a finger at her head. “Io’s in there. She wants to destroy everything I’ve got. Oh god, Jack, what am I going to do? What am I going to do?” Her voice was ragged with desperation.

  Jack didn’t have an answer. He rested his hand on her back, his forehead folded into helpless creases. This time she didn’t move away from his touch. Charlie’s crying stopped. Once again, the house was eerily silent.

  Chapter 10

  A bell rang out and a voice shouted, “Time!”

  Steve raised a hand to catch the barman’s attention. He ordered another pint of lager and swilled half of it down in one. He glanced around blearily. Drinkers were chatting and laughing at little round tables. Some numpty was chucking his money away on a fruit machine. A TV was showing highlights of the footy. He drew in a deep breath, savouring the smells and sounds of the pub. God, he loved these places. But when the bun cooking in Laura’s oven found its way into the world all this would come to a stop. He’d made a promise to himself. It wouldn’t be like with his other kids. This time he would be there to change the little blighter’s nappies, feed it and do anything else that needed doing. He would be there for Laura too. He knew a good thing when he saw one and he was determined not to throw it away.

  He smiled at his pint somewhat mournfully as if saying a last goodbye to an old friend, before swallowing its remnants and turning to leave. On his way out of the pub, he texted Laura ‘On my way home. See you soon. Can’t wait to get my hands on that gorgeous arse of yours.’

  She messaged him back ‘Are you drunk? I told you I’m working the graveyard shift tonight.’

  Steve chuckled to himself. Laura was always quick to put him in his place, but he didn’t mind. He needed someone to tell him how it was, keep him on the straight and narrow. And she did have a gorgeous soft round arse, an arse you could get a real handful of. He swayed along the deserted street daydreaming about doing just that.
A black cab passed by. He raised a hand to flag it down, but it didn’t stop. No matter. There would be plenty of taxis outside the railway station.

  He passed beneath an arched steel-and-stone railway bridge. On its far side was a lonely patch of rubbish-strewn wasteland and a shop with graffiti-scarred roller-shutters. A figure stepped from behind one of the scrubby trees that dotted the wasteland.

  Steve stopped abruptly. The figure was dressed all in black and wearing a balaclava. Steve found himself wishing he hadn’t had that final pint as the masked figure blocked his path. He noted with some relief that the figure wasn’t holding a weapon in their gloved hands. He took out his warrant card. “I’m a policeman, dickhead.”

  He expected the figure to either take to their heels or demand his wallet and phone, but they simply stood there as if waiting for him to do something.

  “You stay right where you bloody are,” Steve warned needlessly, taking out his phone to dial for assistance. The figure’s hand flashed out like a whip to slap the phone to the pavement.

  “I dunno what your fucking game is, but you’re in deep shit,” scowled Steve, putting up his hands, fists clenched.

  The figure put up their hands too, crouching into a boxer’s stance.

  A glimmer of realisation twinkled in Steve’s eyes as he surveyed broad shoulders that tapered down to a narrow waist. “Robinson, is that you?”

  No reply.

  Steve’s teeth flashed in a wolfish grin under his salt n’ pepper moustache. “Yeah, it’s you. Take that mask off so I can see the look on your face when I put my fist in it.”

  The figure silently held their position, poised to strike.

  “One last chance, Robinson,” offered Steve. “Fuck off back to London and I’ll forget this ever–”

  Before Steve could finish, the figure darted in. Steve just barely evaded a right hook. Instead of retreating, he stepped in closer, thrusting out an elbow. The figure grunted as the elbow connected with their face. They tried to dodge out of reach, but Steve wrapped one hand around the back of their neck and pressed the thumb of his other hand into their eye. It was something that had been drummed into him as a Para – always go for the weak points – the eyes, neck and groin. At the same time, he pulled his attacker in even closer, not giving them any room to land a hard strike. The masked figure gave out a yelp as Steve twisted them around and put them in a headlock. He grinned as his hand slid under the figure’s chin. A quick squeeze against the carotid arteries and it would be nighty-nighty for this prick.