Gone

by Leona Deakin

  Bloom’s heartbeat began to pound in her ears, a thud-thud pulsing far too quickly. She stepped off the train and when she looked up the man had disappeared. She checked back towards the rear of the train, but he wasn’t there. Jameson was no more than five minutes away, maybe less if she walked quickly.

  As she approached the front of the train, the driver climbed out and shut the door behind him. He was a young guy with pasty skin and far too much gel in his hair. He smiled at Bloom, then looked past her and, to her utter dismay, lifted his chin and gave another smile. She glanced at the train window’s reflection to see who was walking behind her. It was the elderly gentleman. He must have stepped back on to the train and waited for her to pass. That’s how he had disappeared. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, or the advantage, of knowing she suspected him, so she concentrated on keeping her head up and her shoulders square. She climbed the escalator, but was blocked by a small Asian lady and her son. They were so engrossed in their conversation that they didn’t hear her excuse mes.

  Bloom placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and said, ‘Sorry, can I get past?’

  But by the time they’d looked at her, apologized and moved over, they were at the top anyway. She fought the urge to run. He might not be behind her; he could be stuck at the bottom of the escalator or behind some other slow family. She bolted past the Pasty Shop concession stand and around the back of Starbucks. The rear exit barriers were just ahead. She felt for her ticket in the left pocket of her coat. It wasn’t there. She tried the other pocket. Also empty. She opened her bag and reached inside for her purse as she approached the barrier. The ticket inspector was resting against the gate post on the opposite side. There were no other passengers at this exit. She riffled through the receipts in her purse but it wasn’t there. She knew it wouldn’t be. Had she left it on the seat? Dropped it on the floor? She felt panic rising hot and acidic in her throat.

  ‘You know you can get electronic tickets on your phone now,’ said the inspector.

  She always put her ticket in the left-hand pocket of her coat. She tried the pocket once more and there it was, a satisfyingly firm strip of card nestled against the outer fabric.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said to the inspector.

  Once through the barrier, she risked a look behind her. The elderly gentleman was walking towards the barriers with his ticket in hand.

  Keen to put as much distance as possible between them, Bloom walked swiftly down the escalator, glancing briefly back at the man behind her, who was sharing a smile and a few polite words with the ticket inspector. The inspector was standing straighter. He probably wasn’t even aware of it. Most people unconsciously adjusted their behaviour in the presence of people they perceived as being more successful or powerful. And functional psychopaths had the uncanny ability to be both charming and intimidating at the same time, a combination that provided fertile ground for manipulation.

  At the bottom of the escalator, Bloom walked to the Granary Wharf exit. She could see the entrance to the Hilton Hotel straight ahead and, housed in its ground floor, The Lock, where Jameson and Sarah were waiting. She broke into a jog. The elderly gentleman didn’t look like the running type. As she ran out of the building and into the pedestrian area surrounding the fenced canal dock, a familiar face stepped into her path. She came to a swift halt. She heard footsteps behind her. ‘Dr Bloom,’ said Stuart Rose-Butler as he reached for her left bicep, ‘perhaps you’d be kind enough to come with us.’ The elderly gentleman took her right bicep, and she knew she had no choice but to do what they asked.

  64

  Jameson drained his pint and checked his watch. Augusta should be here by now. He scanned the large windows at the front and left side of the bar. There was only a handful of people heading home from work. Dusk had settled and they were all hunched over to keep out the chill.

  ‘She’ll be here,’ said Sarah, folding slender fingers around the stem of her wine glass.

  He’d told her the whole story – from Lana receiving the invitation, to his and Bloom’s challenges.

  ‘I feel rude for not having thanked you for coming to my rescue,’ said Sarah.

  ‘Of course I was going to come to your rescue,’ he said.

  ‘You’ve only known me a couple of weeks.’

  ‘Sixteen days, but who’s counting?’

  Sarah sipped her drink, but he could see her smile behind the glass. ‘You really think that’s long enough to fall in love?’

  Jameson smirked. He knew it was, but he was still a long way from being able to admit it. ‘I wouldn’t say fall in love, exactly.’

  ‘They call it limerence, you know. The inability to concentrate, the increased heart rate, the acute longing for another person.’

  ‘Limerence?’ he repeated.

  Sarah held his gaze. ‘It’s not love, but people mistake it for love. I’m not saying that’s what you are doing …’ She reached for his hand.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ He rose from his seat, feeling more than a little awkward. ‘Time for another drink.’

  ‘Wait.’ Sarah held his hand firmly. ‘I did have a point. I read that psychopaths lack the capacity to experience limerence, because they don’t produce enough oxytocin.’

  ‘Isn’t that the baby hormone?’

  Sarah nodded. ‘It’s often referred to as the attachment hormone. We feel it when we bond with other people and even with animals. It’s released when mums feed their babies, when we have sex and even when we stroke a dog.’

  Jameson sat down again, intrigued. ‘So psychopaths don’t get attached because they can’t feel that high?’

  ‘It’s just one hypothesis, but it might be why psychopathic partners can walk away from a relationship without looking back.’

  ‘They really are wired differently.’

  ‘Seems that way. Although whether it’s in response to genetic factors or environmental conditioning … that’s something Augusta would probably know.’

  ‘I’ll probably feel like a bit of a gooseberry when she gets here, with you two nattering on about psychopaths …’ He checked his watch again. Her train had arrived fifteen minutes ago. ‘I’ll give her a call. Maybe she’s gone to the wrong bar.’ Before he could do so, a broad-shouldered man approached their table; his black suit, polished shoes and general demeanour screamed policeman.

  ‘Mr Jameson, Dr Mendax – DCI Beardsley.’ He flashed his warrant card, then placed it back in his jacket pocket. ‘I believe you’ve just given a statement to my colleagues over in Sovereign Square car park. You mentioned a man called Stuart Rose-Butler? I’ve been looking for Mr Rose-Butler in connection with a case I’m working on. Could you spare me a moment of your time?’

  Jameson felt a flicker of something, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. But he and Sarah had indeed reported Stuart to the officers in the car park.

  ‘Take a seat,’ said Sarah, clearly happy to help.

  ‘Could we discuss it at the police station?’ The DCI looked from Sarah to Jameson. ‘It’s only a five-minute walk.’

  ‘We’re waiting for someone.’ Jameson felt an echo of suspicion.

  ‘You can text her and ask her to meet us there, can’t you?’ said Sarah.

  ‘She should be here by now.’ He stood, peered out of the window and scanned the concourse again. Four businessmen walked past and into the Brazilian restaurant on the opposite corner. There were three students in skinny jeans and trainers at the end of the dock, unlocking bikes from the railings. But no sign of Augusta.

  He took out his phone and called her. It went to voicemail.

  ‘It’s me. Did you catch the four fifteen? We’re still in The Lock.’ He looked at Sarah. She was standing with her jacket on and was chatting with the policeman. ‘But we’re heading to the police station to answer some questions about Stuart.’ Sarah would do whatever it took to catch the perpetrators; he couldn’t blame her.

  ‘So what’s this case you’re working on?’ Jameson asked,
holding open the door for Sarah and DCI Beardsley.

  Beardsley, he thought as the guy passed him. Why was that familiar?

  ‘I’ll fill you in when we get there, mate.’

  Mate. There was a Liverpudlian undertone to his accent.

  That was it. DCI Beardsley was the police officer in Liverpool who’d received a birthday card. He was one of them.

  ‘Sarah?’ Jameson held out his hand to her and she turned, confused by his tone. ‘Come back inside.’ At least there were witnesses in the pub.

  Beardsley reacted quickly to Jameson’s tone, reaching inside his jacket for a Taser gun and aiming it at Sarah.

  ‘You’re a man of the world, Jameson. You know what this is and what it will do to your little girlfriend here if I pull the trigger. Now, you wouldn’t want that, would you?’ Beardsley’s smile failed to touch his eyes. ‘On the other hand, if you’re not bothered, I’m sure I’ll enjoy seeing her pretty body writhing on the floor. Your call.’

  Jameson couldn’t disarm the guy. But it would be madness to go anywhere with the psycho.

  ‘And if you’re considering any heroics, bear in mind that if this lovely lady has a heart condition, this thing will kill her.’

  Jameson tried to read Sarah’s eyes, tried to get her permission. They couldn’t comply with these fruitcakes. Fighting back was the only option. But Sarah’s gaze gave nothing away.

  And then Beardsley said something that changed everything.

  ‘We better get a move on. Dr Bloom is waiting for us.’

  65

  Bloom sat in a wooden chair. Her wrists were bound with a rope that was stretched in a taut line, binding her ankles too. Her feet were pinned together and her hands drawn flat on her lap. There were two other wooden chairs facing her, rope slung over their backs, and, surrounding this trio, six quite different chairs were set in a circle, with wide-cushioned seats upholstered in purple velvet. They were empty. Bloom was alone.

  Stuart and his colleague had brought her to a derelict unit beneath the dark arches of Leeds station. They hadn’t said a word. They’d ignored all of her questions. They’d taken her phone, tied her up and then left. Some of the arches facing out on to Granary Wharf had been converted into trendy bars and restaurants, but this was an internal arch, used only for parking. Its walls and ceiling were bare brick and there were sections missing from the concrete floor, revealing the cobblestones below. It was cold and the place smelled dank. To Bloom’s left were six large window panes, cracked and with blackened glass from years of neglect. The sun setting behind created a mustard glow. The opening to her right, where cars entered and exited, bore wooden double doors, painted black and bolted shut. She had shouted for help, hoping a passer-by might hear, but no one had responded.

  The door opened again now and Bloom locked eyes with Jameson. The fury on his face melted into concern as he scanned the rope that tied her to the chair. Behind him was a woman with long blonde hair – presumably his new girlfriend, Sarah. A man in a grey suit accompanied them and they were followed by Stuart, the elderly gentleman and a small plump lady of mixed race. Denise.

  ‘Sit,’ the grey-suited man said to Jameson. He pointed to the chair on Bloom’s right.

  Bloom thought he might refuse, but he did as instructed. Sarah was directed to the final wooden chair, where Stuart began to tie her wrists, just like Bloom’s. Sarah avoided looking at Stuart, keeping her focus on Jameson. She didn’t look scared. Bloom knew Jameson would be impressed by her bravery.

  ‘You OK?’ Jameson glanced briefly at Bloom.

  ‘Yes. You?’ she replied.

  He didn’t answer. His attention had moved on to Sarah. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘You’re only here because they’re using you to get at me. You’ll be fine. I’ll make sure of it.’

  Jameson was speaking with such confidence.

  Bloom felt a crushing sadness.

  The grey-suited man secured Jameson and joined the others on the velvet chairs.

  ‘Surrounded by a circle of psychos. Lucky us,’ said Jameson. He glanced at the two empty seats, one behind Sarah and one behind Bloom. ‘Someone can’t keep time.’

  Their observers didn’t speak.

  ‘Sarah, is it?’ asked Bloom.

  ‘You must be Augusta. Not the best circumstances in which to meet, but … hello. Marcus tells me great things.’

  Bloom smiled. ‘We’re something of a mutual appreciation society, aren’t we, Marcus?’ She was being childish, but she couldn’t help it. Maybe it was because she was tied to a chair. Or perhaps it was the brutal reality of someone else receiving all of Jameson’s attention.

  Bloom looked around. She’d always understood why psychopaths existed. They were evolution’s most uncomplicated human design. We are born alone, we die alone and the journey between is ours alone. So why not make it entirely about that single being?

  She looked at Jameson looking at Sarah.

  Love. That was why. And it was blatantly obvious that Marcus Jameson, her closest ally and dearest friend, was in love. A fact that broke her heart.

  Bloom turned again to Sarah. ‘Mendax is an unusual surname. Is it Latin?’

  Sarah smiled, impressed. ‘Actually yes. Do you know that you’re the first person to ever ask that?’

  ‘Why are we here and who are we waiting for?’ Jameson craned his neck. ‘OK, well, you can let her go.’ Jameson nodded at Sarah. ‘She has nothing to do with this.’

  Bloom didn’t miss the quick curl of a smile on Sarah’s lips.

  ‘They are not waiting for anyone else, Marcus,’ she said. ‘The two remaining chairs are for two of us.’

  Jameson looked at her, his mind joining the dots, making the connections. ‘A final challenge?’

  ‘Not so much a challenge as an invitation, I think. Please do correct me if I’m wrong.’ She addressed every other pair of eyes in the room.

  ‘Not so much dare to play as dare to join?’ Jameson’s sarcastic delivery gave way to a deep frown as he absorbed Bloom’s expression. ‘Seriously. You think they’re trying to recruit us?’

  Bloom shook her head slowly. ‘Not us.’

  ‘You?’ he asked. ‘But there are two seats. Who’s the other seat for?’ He looked around the room again. ‘Hey! Circle of psychos! How do you plan to fill seat number two? I’m not playing your games any more.’ He looked back at Bloom. ‘Why aren’t they speaking? I thought you said these people were show-offs. Why are they sitting like timid mutes?’

  ‘Because, despite their psychopathy, they are still human. They are primates. And they’re waiting for their Alpha to speak. Isn’t that right, Seraphine?’

  Jameson twisted in his seat, the ropes straining against his skin, to face the plump olive-skinned woman sitting to his left. ‘This is your teenage suicide girl? You were right?’

  ‘Seraphine was always good at hiding what she was,’ said Bloom. ‘But no. Seraphine was fair-haired, pale-skinned and blue-eyed. Even she couldn’t pull off that level of transformation.’ Tears were stinging her eyes as Jameson swivelled back to face her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘What? I don’t …’

  ‘Mendax,’ said Bloom. ‘It’s Latin for liar. A little joke of hers, I imagine.’

  ‘I think you’ll find it’s noble liar,’ said Sarah. Jameson spun to face her. She rubbed her left and right wrists together; the rope that had tied them now lay coiled at her feet. ‘I thought you’d be pleased to discover that I’m alive. And that I’ve found a clear purpose.’

  ‘This is not what I meant,’ said Bloom.

  ‘Did you really think I’d use all my talents and years of training as a doctor to become some brilliant but anonymous surgeon hidden away in a hospital theatre?’ Sarah looked at Jameson. ‘My kind have something of a knack for high-risk, high-pressure careers.’

  ‘So you became a psychiatrist and collected psychopaths. Why?’ Once Bloom had realized that they were missing a key component – the answer to why someone would bo
ther to recruit psychopaths – she had been almost there. On the train, while hiding by the toilets, she’d finally found the courage to google ‘experts in functional psychopathy’ and she’d discovered, top of the list, revered psychiatrist Dr Sarah Mendax.

  Sarah wrinkled her button nose. ‘Oh, Augusta. You can do better than that.’

  Jameson broke his silence. ‘I’m sorry. What? You …’ He looked at Bloom. ‘She can’t be Seraphine. I’d have known.’

  ‘Seraphine Walker is a very high-functioning psychopath,’ said Bloom.

  ‘Fine. But Sarah is warm and … good. She’s a doctor. She saves people’s lives.’ Jameson was staring at Sarah.

  ‘Marcus,’ said Bloom. ‘Look at me. Look at me now. Seraphine … will be whoever she needs to be … Whoever you need her to be in order to get what she wants from you.’

  The adult Seraphine stood and stretched her back. Her long, athletic limbs and attractive features were no doubt another great weapon in her armoury of manipulation. ‘I prefer Sarah these days.’ She cocked her head towards Jameson. ‘I didn’t really get why you worked with this guy before,’ she said, walking over so that she could look down on him. ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ she said. ‘You’re a treat in the sack.’ She turned to Bloom. ‘But I couldn’t work out what he added to you. And now I see.’ She placed a hand on Jameson’s shoulder. ‘He brings all the emotion. The stuff you lack nearly as much as I do; the humour, the trust … the love.’

  Jameson shrugged her away. ‘Get your hands off me.’

  ‘See? He’s all reactive and passionate. It’s gorgeous.’ Seraphine moved into Jameson’s eyeline. ‘You really are gorgeous, Marcus. I’d love to let Augusta keep you.’

  Bloom felt the room chill a few more degrees.

  ‘Wait,’ said Jameson. ‘But what was all that about in the car park? Pretending to be thrown off?’

  ‘Ah, bless. You’re still catching up here, aren’t you, sweetie?’ Seraphine perched on the edge of her wooden chair. ‘Augusta was taking too long to work out who your new girlfriend was, and quite frankly … I was getting bored.’