by Jim Ody
Her next book was a police procedural crime/thriller drawing on her experiences as a police officer. It told the tale of a young female police officer trying to crack a murder investigation while the old-boys-club of the brass did all they could to put her down. With this one, the investigative detail was spot on, but the story seemed a little too clichéd. She was lacking something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. The plot was a cross between an updated rewrite and a melting pot of a hundred other police procedural books. It was a little too crime-by-numbers.
The final one was there in front of her. It was essentially a romance novel, but Ginny had tried to squeeze the Jilly Cooper out of it and add a little Nora Roberts, preferring a story that was more fiction with a hint of crime and romance. Her main character was a strong, independent woman who meets a handsome widower, and is drawn into his life and family. The plot appears vague to start with, carrying you onto a ride filled with questions, and it transpires that the family have a dark criminal past, one that they may not have altogether left behind. Torn between morality and love, it poses the question that Meat Loaf once riddled about: love, and what we would or would not do for it. And then there is the strange attraction that her character has with a mystery person. It is new and intense, and she is unsure how to deal with it. A forbidden love that may turn the story completely upside down.
Ginny took a sip of her sweet tea and wondered whether the story was a little too vague to begin with and then suddenly complex. Was this a little too ambitious? She knew of a couple of real life examples she could dip in and out of for reference, but again she wondered whether the complexities of her protagonist’s love life would help or hinder as a side story.
She now picked up her mug and held it in both hands, looking over her words with pride and then distaste almost immediately. This was something creative people are burdened with. They can both love and loathe their work all at once. She had been mulling over the next part of the story for an hour. This once again made her wonder whether she was just letting her life pass her by. Maybe she needed to get involved in something. She missed the adrenaline rush of being in the front line. The everyday dealings with people—some of the most unpredictable creatures on the planet. Of course, the thought of going back to her old job brought fear, but what did she have now? She had a slow life living off of an early retirement, with the odd holiday lettings to boost her spending.
She now felt lonely. She was in desperate need to hold someone close. To feel her naked skin on another and kiss like she was a teenager.
If she was to be completely honest with herself, she was jealous of Sam. The way she was able to just hook up with men without any need to have a relationship too. Her ability to give herself over to a stranger with an intimate act of vulnerability. Ginny could never do that. Sure, she had fantasised about it, but that was simple. You held the cards; you were the master of sexual destiny in the fantasy, your mind indulging in every aspect of physical ecstasy, understanding where the boundaries were. The ability to quickly rewind and tweak the scenario as you saw fit. But reality bore no resemblance to these fantasies, and it was not long before the ideology of sexual perfection became nothing but a line of disappointments—a fallacy born from embellished stories. The probability of two people coming together and experiencing similar fulfilled expectations was somewhere between being abducted by aliens and being struck by lightning. Unless, of course, you’re an extremely open person who trawled the internet dating sites, expressing these desires as blatantly as others may wish for a sense of humour, a cat lover, or an interest in lizards.
It was amidst a daydream of a large burly delivery driver offering something more than a next-day-delivery that her phone rang. Here in the remote part of Devon, the landline was still seen as the most important means of telecommunication. Mobile phone signals were sketchy at best, either cutting out or unable to find a signal at all.
“Hello?” she said, part of her hoping for just a little bit of excitement.
“Hi. Is, um, Sam there?” the smooth deep voice asked. He sounded like a voice-over man for television commercials or documentaries.
Typical, Ginny thought, another man looking for more than the one night with Sam. “No, I’m afraid that she’s out at the moment. Can I take a message?”
There was a pause where the guy must’ve been weighing his options up. His need for more physical attention must’ve got the better of him as he replied, “Er, yeah. Can you let her know that Rupert called? Tell her that I really need to see her as soon as possible.”
“Okay. Has she got your number?”
“I bloody hope so,” he said with a chuckle, and the line went dead.
Ginny tried as she may to clear any sordid thoughts from her mind, but it had occurred to her on many an occasion that Sam may well be selling her body. There was no doubt she was attractive and had a wonderful body, and of course she never seemed strapped for cash. Rupert was the councillor that she had been with the night before. He was an okay-looking bloke in his fifties. A little skinny and plain looking, if Ginny was completely honest, but then she was used to being around the younger police officers that spent whatever spare time they had at the gym. Rupert was thinning on top but insisted on growing his hair slightly long and combing it back. It was one of those hairstyles that combed and covered in hair product was acceptable, but should one indulge in a heated bout of passion, then it would looked wild and unruly in a matter of minutes.
There was something about the phone call that stuck with Ginny. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but something just didn’t sit right.
She walked to the window and gazed out absently. She did this from time to time. It could be said this was an act of boredom, her way of searching for some stimulant in the outside world.
She really needed to do something, maybe go out for the day with Sam.
And then she saw him.
There were of course many odd people in the town, but one of the strangest was the little black boy called Benji. He wandered aimlessly around, and it was apparent that Missy didn’t have him on any sort of leash, seemingly happy for him to go as he pleased. He never seemed to get into any trouble, but that was beside the point. There was also a lot of talk about the relationship between them. Benji had only been in the town for the last couple of years. Before then, Missy lived alone. The rumour mill had produced a number of theories for this, but nobody was able to confirm the full story. Some say that he was living with her mother, and she missed him so much he finally came to live with her—that is the most popular of the stories. However, others say that he is her sister’s boy, and her sister had taken to drugs, so Missy stepped in to look after him. Then there is the wildcard of the stories, and this one of course is filled with mystery. The story goes that one night Benji just turned up on her doorstep, and Missy just started looking after him or rather feeding him and giving him a place to stay. Benji doesn’t speak, although there are those who claim to have heard him speak.
There is one thing for sure, he is a strange little boy indeed.
Bolan suddenly jumped up and ran to the window, a low growl coming from his furry snout.
Benji was walking up the hill past Ginny’s house when he suddenly stopped in his tracks. He turned his head slowly towards Ginny and grinned knowingly. There was nothing friendly about the grin, it was somewhat sinister, and made Ginny step back from the window immediately. She wondered whether he was autistic. Some people suggested Asperger’s Syndrome, but he appeared too confident for this. Whilst he appeared mute, every other aspect of his social interaction could be perceived as normal.
She slowly looked out again, only to see the boy pointing into the woods.
He knows something, she thinks, and after going back to her laptop, she started a fresh page and a brand-new story about a curious little mute boy who knew exactly when the world would end.
THE PLACE THAT NEVER EXISTED
Chapter Twenty-Four
D har
a loved photography, but she was currently an enthusiastic blogger spending all of her free time writing articles about everything a twenty-something female would want to know about. She wanted it to be widespread and available to everyone, but when you are a dark-skinned British/Muslim then you cannot help but cater for this demographic first. If you don’t appeal to them—the ones you know the most about—then how can you hope to appeal to others?
At school she had studied hard, encouraged by her parents and told that because of her religious beliefs, life would be harder for her. It wasn’t right, but that was the choice her parents had made when they arrived from the Middle East over thirty years ago.
Her blog was simply called ‘Dhara Writes…’, but it was also the showcase for her photography and poetry. She had toyed with investigative journalism, having studied both photography and journalism at Plymouth University a couple of years back. But the truth of the matter was that all the big meaty stories were already being covered, or she just didn’t have the experience and contacts to be able to break through that shell. She wanted to scratch under the surface of the lies, get on the inside and expose the truth.
Today she was just out looking for inspiration in beautiful woodland.
And to also check out a rumour she had heard about a house owned by a convicted killer, and that now made people disappear.
Armed with her Nikon D4 camera and her small GoPro camera, she had hoped to get some footage of the house. Something that would not just go up on her website, but would go on YouTube and gain her the credit from others. She knew success nowadays was measured so much differently to that of years gone by. With a huge pile of dedication, thought, and a little marketing, anybody had the potential to be a star. It wasn’t the fame she craved as much as the recognition of her craft by her peers, as well as anybody else. The ability to take a hobby and nurture the obsession into something others want to buy into was the epitome of a dream coming true.
Her silver Ford Fiesta was parked next to a classic VW camper van, and she admired the cream and bright orange exterior of the 1960s’ van, with its original split windscreen. This was the vehicle she wanted, if only for the look of it. There was something funky and timeless that screamed out adventure so much more than a fancy pickup or overly expensive 4x4 could. Perhaps the real adventure was the time spent on the side of the road, awaiting breakdown assistance while the vehicle bellowed and coughed out dark smoke. Or the fact that the engine screamed in pain when being pushed above sixty-five miles per hour, so long journeys became even longer when you were unable to get out of the slow lane. The vibrations through the seat with the stiff suspension made you feel a lot more alive than those poser-mobiles that absorbed every single bump and left you with as much comfort as a large soft bed. Ridiculous.
The wind was blowing gently, but it seemed to be rocking the van side to side. It appeared it wasn’t as sturdy as she had first thought. She took a picture of it and tried to upload it to Instagram, but she had lost her internet connection again.
Then the side door suddenly slid open, and a naked guy stood there half frowning. “Can I help you?” he said before grinning.
Dhara’s mouth fell open like the hinges on the sides had suddenly been disintegrated. “I…ah…no. Er, have a good day!” She even waved and walked off quickly. Very quickly.
Have a good day? she thought. He was naked in there, his day probably wouldn’t get much better, and I was stood outside taking photographs, like some sort of pervert! He probably thought I was some sort of peeping Tom or something. No wonder he was grinning.
She was mulling this over again when a voice suddenly said loudly, “Afternoon!”
She looked up at the voice and saw a shock of ginger hair and beard. Somewhere within the fur was a grinning mouth and friendly eyes.
“Hi,” she replied eventually.
“Nice day for it,” he said, not indulging in what “it” was as he walked briskly by.
“Apparently so,” was all she said, still thinking of the guy in the van.
He was a surfer, she had decided. He had more than likely been up at 5:00 a.m., sat out on the cliffs watching the waves roll in while his surfboard stood erect like a monument behind him. Then for hours he had swum out. At one with the ocean, he was contemplative about life, relaxed with his yin and yang. The water gently lapping against his rope-like muscles. He waited for the perfect beginnings of a wave that would build and grow, making him swim with powerful shoulder, chest, and arm muscles before springing himself upright onto the board and using all his experience and skill to glide on the crest. But then she had to wonder. The waves were predominantly more on the north coast and places like Croyde, with windsurfers preferring the south coast—and even that was a lot more easterly than here. She tried to reconnect with her fantasy. Of him, shaking off the salty water as he walked back to his van. He grabs an energy drink from his cooler, slips off his shorts and lets the sun dry him naturally. She could imagine rubbing down those well-formed muscles with a towel, perhaps using her own body heat to increase his…
Slowly returning from her reverie, Dhara was wondering whether he had had a girlfriend in there with him, blonde and lithe, or a boyfriend, equally as muscularly built, or perhaps he thought she was going to join him. She felt the heat rise in her neck and her heart skip again. A little smile played on her lips as her fantasy returned, but this time with a happy ending. One that may well get played over again and again in lonely times of need.
She probably should’ve been paying attention to where she was going, as suddenly she was engulfed by trees.
And there standing next to a large rock was a woman. She was talking into a small yellow walkie-talkie, which she thrust into her pocket the minute she realised that she had company. Then suddenly, she whistled loudly.
“Bolan!” she called. “Here boy!”
Dhara smiled and, without engaging in the tales of a lost dog, walked on by following a worn track. She pulled out her video camera, and clipped it onto her thick hoodie. She then pulled out her mobile, but unsurprisingly there was no signal. She had read that this area was a blackspot, and it had been said it was not the place for ramblers with it being so difficult to raise any sort of alarm should there be an emergency.
She took a quick glance over her shoulder just in case the lost-dog-walker was still there, and when she was satisfied that she was on her own, she left the path and walked through a patch of white wildflowers and towards what appeared to be a house.
“We cannot be entirely sure of the truth in the stories,” she commentated as clearly as possible. “But the house that we can see peeking through the trees is one that is said to be cursed. The legend goes that all those that have been inside the house have not lived to tell the tale. Of course, this sounds like a tagline to a horror movie. But dubbed The Place That Never Existed, it is the house of convicted killer Francis Dudley and has remained in the exact state that it was left in on the day that the police took him away in cuffs.”
She took a picture with her mobile. The dark clouds leered over the house between trees that held out their arms, almost beckoning her to come closer, little girl…
Dhara felt the air get colder and her spine shivered, but this was a natural psychological reaction. Her brain and body were telling her through preconceived ideas how she should feel, and so surely this was not that this “Place That Never Existed” was evil, rather a psychosomatic reaction. She knew she felt uneasy, and there was something thick in the air that felt like it was gently squeezing her windpipe, but again this was all tricks of the mind.
Unless…
Could a place actually be evil? Even without the person being there, a dark residual aura hanging over the place and polluting the air?
Dhara had spent many hours pounding away on her laptop trying to find pictures from the inside (or even the outside) of the house, but there was nothing. Not one recent photograph. Only a single angled view taken from before the murders was all that was li
ve in the photographic archives.
Walking closer again, she snapped more pictures. If nothing else, she already had more than anyone else.
And then she heard a bang. A door from around the other side of the house.
She jumped behind the small wall to hide from whoever was there.
Just who was there? she wondered.
And then she heard a loud, piercing scream.
And a single gunshot.
Sat as still as she could, her heart almost burst from her chest, and her breathing seemed to be incredibly loud.
Too loud.
Taking a deep breath, she got up and ran as fast as she could with her back to the house. Every nerve in her body felt like small electric shocks were stimulating them.
As she saw the break in the trees, she also noticed the same woman with the walkie-talkie again.
But no dog lead.
With her car and the bright orange VW camper van now in sight, she slowed to a jog and then, glancing behind, she finally walked the final few hundred metres.
She opened her car and sat down, her breathing erratic.
She smelt the smoke before she noticed him.
“Strange clothes for jogging.” He grinned, puffing on a cigarette.
“You an expert?” was all she could muster, although a playful smile followed.
“I’m a lot of things, but an expert I’m not. Well, not in everything.” He winked. She normally hated winking. It was one of those over-confident gestures that often had a dirty edge to it. But somehow it seemed okay on him.
