Gone

by Leona Deakin

  Two hours and fifty pages later, he arrived home. There was no more news about Jane. What the hell had she been doing at King’s Cross? The police had tried to trace her phone, but it was switched off. He had a bad feeling. Jane wasn’t the type to play truant. She was responsible. Running away simply didn’t make sense.

  After taking a shower, Jameson headed into town to meet Sarah. He’d been tempted to call it off – he wasn’t sure he’d be good company – but in the end he’d decided to go. It had been a long time since he’d wanted to see a woman as much as he wanted to see Sarah, and he’d just be sitting at home waiting for news, so why not sit with her? It might take his mind off things.

  On the tube, he reflected on the first few chapters of Confessions of a Sociopath. He wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about it. The author, a self-confessed sociopath, was articulate, intelligent and, on occasion, witty. But there was an underlying tone of frickin’ scariness. There was something so removed about how she viewed the world and other people, as though they were pawns in an elaborate game of chess.

  Jameson stepped out into the chilly March sunshine and headed towards Fork. They were meeting there and then heading to a nearby pub. As he turned the corner and Fork came into view, he saw Sarah waiting for him. She was wearing a tailored white coat with black knee-high boots. Her hair was long and straight, stretching halfway down her back. She looked his way and smiled. He’d made the right decision. She was bound to cheer him up; he’d feel much better in a few hours.

  But she never had the chance.

  Jameson caught sight of the cyclist, riding low and fast, his legs pumping hard, just as he lost control. He mounted the kerb and hit Jameson at full speed, head on, striking him to the floor and knocking him out.

  33

  ‘Are you comfortable?’ said Dr Bloom. Her voice was softer than normal.

  Seraphine wiggled around to find the best position. She was sitting in a large cushioned chair with her feet flat on the floor, her hands on her thighs and her eyes closed. She listened to Dr Bloom’s voice and followed her instructions. Her body felt heavy as she began to relax. She was totally awake and fully aware, but things felt different. She noticed the weight of her hands on her legs, and as she concentrated on breathing in and out, she became more conscious of her own body and less aware of the room around her.

  ‘The first thing I’d like you to do, Seraphine, is imagine a place where you feel safe and happy. It might be a house or a park or a beach. The choice is yours. But it’s a place you can go to when you need space and peace. I want you to pick the place, real or imagined, and study it. What can you see, hear and smell?’

  Seraphine picked the children’s playground she’d visited as a child, because she never felt different there, only excited and happy. She pictured herself standing at its centre, turning to see the large red slide built into a train, the yellow roundabout that she’d clung to, and the swings, two for babies, two for older kids. She remembered how the chains on the big swings could be wound around each other, so that you were high off the ground and could spin, wobbling, as they unravelled.

  ‘When you’re happy in your place, raise your little finger,’ said Dr Bloom in her soft, distant voice.

  Seraphine concentrated on the weather in the park. It was warm and sunny. She could smell chips. She remembered the ice creams from the cafe with their multicoloured sauces: red, yellow, blue and even black. There was not another soul in sight. The park was hers and hers alone. She raised her little finger.

  ‘Good,’ said Dr Bloom. ‘Now I’d like you to think deeply about what makes you different and how that makes you feel.’

  Seraphine pictured herself sitting on the roundabout.

  ‘You may sometimes find it hard to identify your feelings, Seraphine, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there. The volume of them is simply turned down. So here in your safe place you can practise turning the volume up and exploring how it feels to be sad, or afraid, or lonely.’

  Seraphine recalled the first few weeks at secondary school when she realized that everyone else had moved on. They were having conversations that she couldn’t follow. There were dramas, romances, and stupid fights over stupid things. She pictured standing with her back to the wall of the corridor, watching these laughing, squealing, screaming beings rushing by as she stood rooted to the spot. She had assumed she’d catch up. When she was more mature, she’d be just like them. But as the years went by she remained standing at that wall, watching and losing patience. Not with herself. Their dramas and romances and fights were nonsense. There was no logic, no gain and therefore no point in them. She didn’t want to be like them. It was more important to them to be seen to win an argument than to actually win.

  She thought of Mr Potts, the History teacher. He was a bully. He thought nothing of ripping up someone’s homework, or keeping the whole class in at lunchtime to punish one disruptive boy. And if you were talking in his lesson he’d come up behind you and squeeze your shoulder very tightly. He wasn’t supposed to, but no one dared say anything. Until Jamie Parker and Lucas Kane decided to turn the tables. They spoke louder and louder in his classes, becoming more disruptive, failing to turn up to detention, and not doing their homework. Jamie even walked up behind Mr Potts and squeezed his shoulder tightly one morning. They became the class heroes because they were seen to be fighting back, but ultimately they lost. Their parents were summoned, they were punished for their bad behaviour, and Mr Potts carried on as before.

  So one morning, when Mr Potts had gone to the staffroom for his usual coffee, Seraphine sneaked into his classroom and placed a pair of girl’s pants in the zip pocket of his work bag. She had bought the underwear specially. Then she went to the computer room, set up an anonymous Yahoo account and wrote an email: I am a Year 7 pupil in Mr Potts’ class and he kept me in detention and asked me to remove my knickers and give them to him. I knew it was wrong but I was scared and didn’t know what to do. She sent it to the headmaster and to Mr Potts’s wife, who was one of the PE teachers. And that was the end of Mr Potts.

  ‘There are many advantages to your condition, Seraphine,’ said Dr Bloom’s distant voice. ‘You are unlikely to feel fear the way other people do and unlikely to panic in the face of danger. Which can make you brave and capable. But it can also make you reckless and unaware of possible dangers. There are people who will want to take advantage of you, manipulate you, or goad you into competition. But you should remember to keep your head. Logic and intellect are your strengths, so you must endeavour to use them wisely.’

  Seraphine wanted to laugh. She knew that no one could manipulate her. They simply weren’t clever enough.

  Dr Bloom continued, ‘You may hear it said that people like you cannot feel emotions, but you can feel happiness and sadness, pride and anger. What you may struggle with is feeling shame or guilt for the things you do, things that affect others negatively. But again, this does not mean you cannot understand, rationally, that such actions are wrong. Just because you can’t feel it doesn’t mean you don’t know it. And this is where you get to choose.’

  Dr Bloom would probably think that what she’d done to Mr Potts was wrong. But was it? The man was a tyrant. He clearly didn’t like or understand teenagers. Is the means to an end ever justified?

  And while she was contemplating her treatment of Mr Potts, Seraphine felt the strangest thing. She focused on it. She tried to turn up the volume. It felt warm and she struggled to put a word to it … safe, maybe? No, that wasn’t right. It felt … she felt … accepted. For the first time in her life, she was sitting in the company of another person who knew exactly how she differed but didn’t judge or fear her. Seraphine smiled.

  34

  ‘Marcus? Marcus, can you hear me?’ The voice was distant, far away, as though he were hidden at the bottom of a well. ‘He’s been unconscious for the last four minutes,’ said the same voice. ‘His name’s Marcus.’

  ‘Marcus, I’m John,’ said a second voice
from the top of the well. ‘Can you hear me?’

  ‘A cyclist hit him and he banged his head on the kerb.’

  Sarah. The first voice belonged to Sarah.

  ‘He’s coming round,’ said John. ‘OK, Marcus, I’m just going to check your vitals, mate. Where’s the cyclist? Are they hurt?’

  ‘He left.’ Sarah’s voice was shaky but a little clearer now, as if she’d been lowered towards him.

  Jameson felt John’s hands on his neck and tried to speak.

  ‘I’m putting a neck brace on you, Marcus. It’s just a precaution, because you hit the ground hard,’ said John.

  Jameson opened his eyes. The bright light hurt and he felt a piercing pain at the back of his head.

  ‘Hey, you’re OK.’ Sarah’s face came into view, her hair hanging over him.

  He tried to speak again but there was no sound.

  A hand took hold of his and squeezed tightly. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll come with you. Not the ideal first date, but at least I get to show off a little.’

  Jameson tried to smile.

  35

  Visiting hours had only just begun so there was no one else around. Jameson’s injuries did not justify a private room but due to a full ward he’d been lucky enough to get one. Bloom entered and found him asleep on his back with his arms above the covers. His left arm was badly bruised and he had cuts and bruises on the left side of his face. His head was bandaged. Claire said there was a closed fracture to the back of his skull but, thankfully, no internal bleeding. Bloom pulled up a chair.

  Jameson’s eyes flickered open and he stared at the ceiling before looking her way.

  ‘I’ve brought grapes and Lucozade,’ she said.

  ‘I love Lucozade.’ His voice was hoarse but it did not mask his sarcasm. He frowned and rubbed his head. ‘Can you find someone to get me something for this headache?’

  Bloom returned a few minutes later with a nurse called Lucy who checked his chart and administered some more pain relief.

  ‘So what happened?’ asked Bloom.

  ‘Some cyclist lost control and took me out.’

  ‘You’re sure it was an accident?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. The guy took the corner too fast and I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’ He huffed a half-laugh. ‘I nearly didn’t go, too.’

  ‘But Claire said the cyclist didn’t stop.’

  Jameson closed his eyes. ‘He probably panicked.’

  ‘When did you become so magnanimous?’

  ‘It was an accident, Augusta. It happens.’

  She didn’t push it, but she knew they were thinking the same thing. ‘So what have the doctors said?’

  He turned his face to her and opened his eyes again. ‘You mean when are they letting me out so I can get back to work?’

  ‘Actually, I was planning to bring your work in.’

  He smiled and then winced.

  ‘But, really, what’ve they said?’

  ‘It’s a moderate head injury – I was lucky.’

  ‘But you have a fractured skull?’

  ‘Another war wound. It’ll heal. I’ll be out in the next day or so. You know how desperate they are for beds.’

  ‘Well, don’t rush to get out. And don’t be getting all stroppy and bossy with them. Try to be patient.’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’ He faced the ceiling and closed his eyes again.

  Bloom noticed the Fork deli logo on the two takeout cups on the table. ‘Have you been sending Claire to get your fancy coffee? I’m happy to bring it in for you.’

  ‘I’d be lucky if Claire went to Costa for me. Sarah bought them.’

  ‘Sarah is your date lady?’

  Jameson looked her way. ‘Yeah, she’s my date lady. You do have a way with words, Augusta.’

  Bloom ignored his teasing and patted his hand as gently as she could. ‘I’ll let you rest.’

  ‘What’s happening with the case? With Jane?’

  Bloom stood. ‘We have it all in hand, Marcus. Just you get yourself better.’

  The train to Bristol took an hour and a half. Bloom sat in the quiet coach, on a table of four, beside a businessman annotating a printout of a PowerPoint presentation. She looked out of the window. Something wasn’t right. Her professional reputation was the most important thing in her life and Jameson’s physical fitness was a source of great pride to him. Both had come under attack in the space of twenty-four hours. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Jameson’s accident and her investigation must have been engineered. Psychopaths were incredibly adept when it came to identifying and playing on an opponent’s weaknesses. Bloom couldn’t help but think of Seraphine.

  Two hours later, Bloom arrived at Bristol’s Central Police Station. They’d agreed to meet there instead of Portishead. She headed towards Chief Superintendent Barker’s office, where the team were assembled.

  ‘Sorry to hear about Mr Jameson,’ said Barker. ‘How is he?’

  Bloom placed her coat on the back of the only spare chair and took her iPad and notes from her bag. ‘In quite a bad way, actually. He thinks he’ll be out in a few days, but I saw him this morning and I’m not so sure.’ She sat down and looked around at the team. ‘Quick question, before we begin. Has anyone else had bad news or a bad experience in the past day or so?’

  The group looked at one other, shaking their heads and mumbling low ‘no’s.

  ‘Why do you ask?’ said DC Akhtar.

  ‘I had a call from my professional body yesterday. They said a serious complaint has been made against me.’

  ‘Are you thinking Jameson was targeted?’ asked DS Green.

  ‘Possibly. Whoever’s collecting these psychopaths is clever. I’d be surprised if they didn’t suspect they were being traced.’

  ‘You think they know it’s us?’ said Barker.

  ‘I’m not one for gut feelings, Steve, but I think we should all be on our guard, just in case.’

  ‘I might be able to help there,’ said DC Logan. ‘It turns out that as well as one hundred and nine players still active, there are a few who’ve returned home.’

  ‘And attacked their loved ones?’ Barker’s words were full of dread.

  Logan shook his head. ‘No. I’ve had one person contact me to say their father received one of these cards, disappeared for a bit, and then just came back.’

  ‘What? Really?’ said DS Green. ‘As if nothing had happened?’

  ‘Yep,’ said Logan.

  Everyone looked at Bloom.

  ‘How does that fit with Faye Graham?’ said Barker.

  Bloom thought about it. ‘We need to speak to the returned player. Can you arrange that?’ she said to Logan.

  He nodded. ‘I don’t see why not. I know who he is.’

  ‘Good,’ said Bloom. ‘We need to find out what this game is really about.’

  36

  Jameson woke up hungry – ravenous, in fact, which he figured was a good sign. And his headache felt dull enough to ignore. He climbed out of bed, put on socks and a blue jumper that had been brought in by Claire, and went to collect breakfast from a room at the end of the corridor. It was a sad little collection of cereals, yogurts and toast, but he was too hungry to care. He selected a strawberry yogurt, three slices of toast and a pot of blackcurrant jam. Then he requested a mug of tea from the woman behind the counter, who had an impressive tattoo of roses that covered her left arm.

  Back in his room, he watched the morning news as he ate. By the time he’d finished, his headache had picked up steam again. He put his headphones in and listened to the audiobook of Professor Kevin Dutton’s The Wisdom of Psychopaths. It was all about how useful psychopathic traits can be. How it can be advantageous for surgeons or bomb-disposal experts, for instance, to suppress their emotions and operate in a calm and calculated fashion. And for spies and serial killers to be able to charm their target and mask their true motives. In his concluding remarks, Dutton described a common psychopathic blueprint: that whether such people are saints, spies or sinn
ers, they are bound by their ceaseless quest for new heightened experiences.

  What might that mean for how these people lived their lives? Jameson had experienced his own fair share of risk and he loved adrenaline-fuelled sports – that intoxicating combination of danger and endorphins – but he wasn’t always looking for new highs.

  For the first time, he was thinking about psychopaths as simply ‘other’ rather than ‘wrong’.

  ‘Christ,’ he said to the empty room. This was what Bloom had been banging on about. Psychopaths were unavoidable. If it was advantageous for humans to be fearless, adventurous, calm, unfeeling or selfish, it made sense that some people would be dealt all these cards. That was evolution.

  ‘All right, sleepyhead. Wake up.’

  Something soft but heavy hit him in the face. Jameson opened his eyes and picked up the roll of fresh socks from his chest. ‘Subtle, as always,’ he said to his scowling sister.

  ‘What’s going on, Marcus?’

  Jameson sat up. He checked the clock: 12.15pm. ‘Give me a clue, sis.’

  ‘Jane has been missing for four days.’

  Jameson waited for Claire to expand, but she didn’t. ‘What do you want me to say?’

  ‘I want you to say you’re doing something, not just lying here listening to your stupid music.’ She gestured to the headphones still plugged into his ears.

  He removed the ear buds. ‘I’m not the police, Claire. And I’m actually in hospital with a head injury.’

  ‘Oh, man up. You’re fine.’