The Minders

by John Marrs

  He waited until he was released back into the world to allow his fury to emerge and direct it towards those who deserved it, like O’Sullivan and, today, Graph. And there were still four more names on his list to suffer his wrath.

  CHAPTER 26

  FLICK, ALDEBURGH, SUFFOLK

  Flick sat bolt upright in bed, her skin painted in a hot, thin film of sweat. In the hazy early-morning light, she threw the sheets off her body so that they landed in a heap on the floor. She made her way to the bedroom window, unhooking the latches and lifting it open as wide as possible. She tasted the North Sea’s fresh breeze on her lips as it wafted into the room and cooled her body. Slowly, her escalated pulse began to decline and return to something approaching normal.

  Once again, as she’d slept, her knowledge had leaked into her unconscious, shaping her dreams. But it hadn’t been just one dream, it was a succession of them, all layered one upon the other, and all playing out at once. And each was made up of a different secret she was keeping safe. She wondered whether the dreams were a valve, easing the pressure inside; and if that was the case, who knew what the consequences might be if she stopped dreaming?

  It was just past five a.m. and now, wide awake, her mind was working twenty to the dozen. It fired in all directions as if someone had lit a box of fireworks inside her head. “It’s like a temporary form of anxiety that occurs when you sleep,” Karczewski had warned the first time it happened. “We’ve found that over time, it will pass. But to hasten it, take yourself out of the environment you’re in and go somewhere else. As your brain takes in alternative surroundings, it’ll replace your dream images.”

  Flick slipped on her jogging bottoms, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and a pair of trainers and, hoping not to wake Grace, tiptoed across the landing and down the carpeted stairs before leaving the house. She trudged across the pebbled beach before settling on a sitting position next to a stainless-steel sculpture of a scallop shell. She drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms protectively around them, as if she were trying to create an impenetrable shell of her own.

  She realised that her job behind the bar of the Fox & Hounds pub often took her mind away from the burden of knowledge. But she was extra cautious about the topics of conversation she involved herself in. It wasn’t always easy when a sizeable proportion of the role was engaging customers in conversation. Her brain often worked at double speed, rechecking everything she wanted to convey before saying it. She was mentally exhausted by the time she finished each shift.

  When she looked at her watch again, it was approaching six forty-five a.m. and she was surprised by how long she’d been there. Time moved much faster in the real world than in the solitude of her London flat, where she measured it in cigarettes smoked and television programming watched.

  As she made her way to a bakery to buy breakfast pastries for herself and Grace, she realised that Christopher hadn’t crossed her mind that morning. An hour at most might have passed at home before either his or one of his victim’s faces came to mind. Here, she’d slipped into a daily routine of running, yoga, bike rides, socialising, and evening work, leaving no time for thinking about him. She was sure that the two months she had spent in Aldeburgh was the best decision she’d ever made.

  * * *

  —

  A COACH TOUR of drinkers dispersed from the bar, leaving an unfamiliar figure perched on a stool. He caught Flick’s attention as he doodled in a notebook resting on his lap. She assumed from his empty glass that landlord Mick had served him earlier when she was on a toilet break.

  She couldn’t put her finger on what it was, but there was something a little offbeat about this man. There was nothing flashy about his fitted T-shirt, jeans, branded trainers, and chunky silver bracelet, but they hadn’t been absent-mindedly assembled. It was as if he were trying to blend in when by nature he was too distinctive to be assimilated by his environment. By the faint lines framing his eyes and stretching across his forehead, Flick guessed they were of a similar age. His light brown hair was flecked with strands of grey and his darker beard was highlighted by white wisps protruding from below the centre of his bottom lip. His eyes were the bluest she had ever seen and she wondered if he’d had them coloured. But if he was that vain, he’d have likely had his wrinkles smoothed out too.

  Conscious that she was now staring at him, she looked away. But each time she tried to fix her attention elsewhere, it invariably returned to him. He, however, had not looked at her once. Eventually, curiosity got the better of her and she approached him.

  “Can I get you another drink?” she asked, taking his empty pint glass away and placing it inside the dishwasher. She was surprised by the timidity of her tone. He smiled as he looked up.

  “I was going to have another Adnams but you’ve taken my glass.”

  Flick’s cheeks flushed.

  “Would you like to join me for one?”

  She declined politely but searched for a way to prolong the conversation. “Are you from around here?”

  “I live just along the beach, although I’ve been staying in London recently.”

  “Which part of London?”

  “Usually the west, Kensington, Notting Hill, et cetera. Are you familiar with them?”

  “A little,” she replied vaguely. She was a south-of-the-river girl, but she had spent many hours in Notting Hill traipsing around Christopher’s neighbourhood trying to get a flavour of him. “I went to university there,” she lied.

  “What did you study?”

  “Business.”

  Karczewski had assured her that if anyone were to check, her name would be in the records of the London Institute of Banking and Finance, along with her grades, lecturers’ comments, and faked photographs.

  “Business? Let me guess, you went on to make your fortune in the stock market and took an early retirement.”

  “I probably wouldn’t be working behind a bar if I were loaded.”

  “I’m Elijah,” he said, and held his hand out to shake hers. She liked his name. There was something heartening, even biblical, about it.

  “What are you writing?” she asked, drawn towards his notebook. It was unusual to see someone with a pen and paper instead of a tablet and stylus. He closed the cover.

  “Nothing important.”

  “Gone a little shy, have we, Elijah?” she teased.

  “If you won’t let me buy you a drink, then let me take you for dinner one night,” he asked.

  His offer caught Flick off-guard. “Oh, well, thank you—but no, thank you,” she replied.

  “You’re not even going to make an excuse to let me down gently?” he joked. “No ‘I’m just getting over a breakup’ or ‘I’ve just started seeing someone’? Just a flat-out rejection?”

  Guilt pricked her. She couldn’t deny an attraction to the stranger, but that was exactly what he was. He could have been anyone, and without his full name or access to an electronic device to complete a background check on him, she couldn’t risk it. Besides, emotional connections were strongly advised against by the programme.

  “It’s just a flat-out rejection, I’m afraid.”

  He raised his glass to her. “To honesty,” he said, and took a swig.

  Flick became distracted by a handful of new customers and moved to the other end of the bar to serve them. As they paid, she turned to take a sly glance at Elijah. Her chest deflated at the sight of his empty stool. All that remained was a scrap of paper on the bar top. She unfolded it to find a sketch: a portrait of her. It was incredibly detailed, even down to the strip of freckles across her nose that she’d assumed were invisible under makeup. Elijah had even spotted the slight indent of a teenage ear piercing in her right lobe.

  An unexpected warmth rushed through her body as she folded the drawing in half and slipped it into her pocket.

  CHAPTER 27

  CHARLIE, MANCHESTE
R

  Mate, what have you done to your leg?” asked Milo, staring at the red horizontal wound across Charlie’s thigh.

  Charlie had forgotten to cover it up with a bandage that morning and hadn’t noticed it when he had changed into his football kit to play a seven-a-side match either. He turned away from Milo and faced the tiled shower wall.

  “Oh, nothing,” he said casually. “I fell off my bike and landed on barbed wire.”

  “Where?”

  “Somewhere along the canal path by the undeveloped section, I forget what it’s called.”

  “It looks pretty raw; you might want to get a tetanus shot.”

  “No, it’s fine, honestly.” Keen to change the subject, Charlie chose to make light of it instead. “Are you sure this isn’t just an excuse to stare at my dick?”

  “Dream on, mate,” Milo chuckled. “Dream on.”

  The truth was there had been no barbed wire, only a shard from the drinking glass Charlie had accidentally broken weeks earlier and kept. He had been using it to cut himself ever since. Before each incision, he stood upright in the bath with the glass in his hand to see if anticipation of the act might prompt an emotion. But nothing came. There was no trepidation, no excitement, anxiety, or feeling of release from any of the lines of blood dripping down his leg and into the porcelain tub.

  Yet something compelled him to repeat the action every few days. New Charlie might have disliked the old version of himself, but he quietly wondered if a diluted form was lurking somewhere, if only to assure him that he was still human.

  “Can I borrow your shampoo?” Milo asked, and Charlie passed it to him.

  “I love how you have a never-ending supply of these tiny bottles,” said Milo. “It’s like you’ve robbed a hotel.”

  Charlie still hadn’t told any of his new friends that he was living at La Maison du Court. It would require too much explaining if they discovered someone earning a little over the living wage was spending his nights at the most expensive hotel in Manchester. But his conscience wasn’t pricked by dishonesty. He began to question whether he still possessed one. His lies only had to continue for another week before a room became available in a flat-share with two work colleagues. Perhaps living a more ordinary existence might lead him towards normality.

  Later that evening, Charlie accompanied the rest of the team to a pub adjacent to the indoor sports centre where they played their weekly matches. He’d been deliberately losing bottles of beer or pouring them away all night. And those he couldn’t get away with disposing of were swiftly followed by bathroom breaks to force himself to vomit before the anti-alcohol implant did it for him and in front of everyone.

  “Are you seeing anyone?” Andrew, another new friend, asked him suddenly.

  “No, not at the moment.”

  “What’s your type? Tall, short, skinny, plus-size, boy, girl?”

  “I don’t really mind,” he replied. “Well, girl, obviously.”

  “It’s never obviously,” Andrew continued. “What are you, Milo, pansexual? Bi? You seem to change from one month to the next.”

  “Never close a door before you’ve opened it.” Milo winked.

  “Why do you ask?” said Charlie.

  “If you’re in the market for a non–DNA Match date, my girlfriend’s cousin is single again.” He unfolded his phone and showed Charlie her Instagram profile. She was an attractive woman with dark brown hair, prominent cheekbones, and deep brown, flecked eyes framed by heavy eyebrows.

  “Thanks, but I’m okay,” Charlie replied. It wasn’t that he didn’t find Alix attractive; he just wasn’t attracted to anyone lately. Days earlier, he realised he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an erection, let alone masturbated. His sex drive had completely evaporated.

  “My round, same again?” he asked the table, to a chorus of approval.

  “I’ll give you a hand,” Milo said, and accompanied Charlie to the bar. The way Milo wrung his hands warned Charlie something was bothering him. Of the group, he was probably the closest to Milo, at least superficially.

  “Good game tonight,” Milo began. “It was . . . um . . . a good result.”

  “What’s on your mind, big man?”

  “It’s . . . a bit . . . well . . . awkward.”

  “Just say it.”

  “That cut on your leg. I was thinking about it and it looked a bit, I don’t know, too neat and too straight to have been caused by barbed wire.”

  “Oh, right.” Charlie nodded. He raised his eyebrows almost confrontationally, but softened the edges with a cock of his head. “Does it?”

  Milo nodded and cleared his throat. “It looks as if it might have been done . . . you know . . . well, not accidentally. And a couple of times when we’ve been out, I’ve heard you being sick in the toilets. Even earlier tonight.”

  “First you’re staring at my dick in the showers and now you’re following me to the toilets,” joked Charlie. “I mean, I’m flattered but you’re not my type.”

  “I just wanted to say that it can help to talk.”

  “About what?”

  “About anything. Whatever’s going on in your life that you might be having problems with. I know you’re quite a private guy and I might be barking up the wrong tree—”

  “You are,” Charlie interrupted.

  “But I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you and I’d said sod all.”

  “Milo, thank you, I appreciate it, I really do. But I’m fine. Honestly. And if there is something worrying me, then I promise I’ll talk to you. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Milo repeated, but Charlie knew his friend remained unconvinced.

  “I need a piss,” Milo said, and offered Charlie a half smile and a pat on the shoulder.

  “Is that an invitation?” Charlie replied with a wink.

  Situation defused, thought Charlie. Alone, he knew the old him would have been grateful to have someone show such concern. Because his former friends wouldn’t have. Now he saw it as an inconvenience.

  Later that night and back inside his room, Charlie was changing out of his clothes when the leg wound caught his attention again. He traced its outline with his thumb. It was slightly raised and a crimson colour. He couldn’t cut into it again as it was on Milo’s radar. He would have to challenge his inability to feel through a different means instead.

  He recalled the profile Andrew had shown him of Alix. Based on appearances alone, she was very close to his type, and once, he would have jumped at the opportunity to meet someone like her. Perhaps he had been too hasty in his dismissal.

  Tomorrow, he would stop by Andrew’s desk and tell him he’d changed his mind. Perhaps Alix might be the one to help him recapture what he’d lost.

  CHAPTER 28

  SINÉAD, EDZELL, SCOTLAND

  Sinéad sat on a grassy bank by the side of Scotland’s river Esk.

  She watched as leaves and twigs floated past, some becoming trapped in mini whirlpools, others sinking or disappearing sharply from view. Last night’s storm had brought silt particles from the riverbed to the surface, leaving the water a murky red colour and of indeterminate depth. Tentatively, she dipped her foot into it, grateful that her muted pain receptors enabled her to endure its icy temperature without fuss. She rolled up her jeans to just above her knees and slowly waded towards the middle. There, she removed six half-pint plastic bottles from a bag hanging over her shoulder. Each bottle contained a handwritten letter, one for each person she hadn’t had the opportunity to say goodbye to before she left Bristol.

  It had been one of her therapist’s suggestions: a symbolic gesture and final farewell to the past. The first three letters were to her former closest friends, Imani, Harriet, and Leanne. Over time, Daniel had made it clear that he disapproved of the time they spent together. He resented their girlie nights without partners when Si
néad returned home smelling of alcohol and fast food. He didn’t appreciate when they’d call or video-message one another. And once, when he’d scanned her emails, he exploded with anger when he read a joke she had made about their sex life. To keep the peace, Sinéad agreed to a joint email address and deleted her own.

  Her friends became such a sticking point that eventually she chose her marriage over them. She’d been too ashamed to offer them an explanation, so she avoided their phone calls and messages. It had been better to ghost them than to admit her husband was beginning to control every aspect of her life.

  Last night at the dining-room table in her rented house, as she wrote her three letters, she recalled the carefree times they’d shared. She thanked them for being loyal friends and admitted they’d deserved better than what she had offered.

  Letter number four was to her parents, whose sudden death in the Mumbai tsunami had shaped the next decade of her life. She had spent it searching for the same love they had, but in the wrong places.

  The fifth letter had been to Daniel and was the most painless to write. She detailed the emotional abuse and suffering he’d caused, why she’d left him but how she no longer blamed him entirely. She was also holding herself accountable for giving him power over her and for not walking away sooner.

  Sinéad wasn’t ready to think about the contents of the sixth letter again. Writing it had been emotionally crippling, even with her coping mechanisms in place.

  The letters hadn’t included the recipients’ names or addresses, nor had she signed them. She had also pierced each biodegradable bottle to allow water inside so they would sink to the riverbed and the ink would wash away. But on the off chance they were found and read, all parties were unidentifiable.

  One by one, Sinéad gently dropped each bottle onto the surface and watched as the current swept them away and out of sight, until only one remained in her hand. That, she gripped a little tighter than she had the others. Eventually, and with tears clinging to her eyelashes, she slipped it back inside her bag. Sinéad wasn’t yet ready to completely let go of her daughter, Lilly.