by J. A. Baker
He needs to see Joss, to make sure his sister is still alive. He thinks of her dead. He thinks of his parents, how they will cope once this is all over and lets out a howl of protest; raw and animalistic.
He is hauled upright, his voice dulled by the ferocity of the movement, by the strength of the arms that pull at him, dragging him across the room. Everything swirls. His head pounds. Vomit courses up his throat, his stomach contracting. Still, the strong hands hold him, lugging him forwards, his feet gaining no purchase on the floor until fear and shock and dread win over, stars bursting behind his eyes as he falls forward and everything diminishes before vanishing completely.
41
It’s dark, all the curtains drawn, the musty aroma of unwashed clothes and dirty dishes hitting them full in the face as they push open the door and step inside. The place reeks of neglect.
Noise filters in from outside where a team of officers scale the perimeter of the property, torches lighting their way even though it’s still daylight. DI Rahman can hear them trampling through the tall reeds and tangle of shrubbery, pushing aside bramble bushes and thistles with their bare hands whilst scanning the area, their voices a distant murmur.
Rahman brushes his hand against the wall, fumbling for the light switch, slapping at it with his palm. A bare bulb illuminates everything, its white glow making him blink. He shields his eyes, glancing around the room, a breath trapped in his chest. He tries to ignore the mess, the feeling of being transported back in time as he takes in the dated furniture and décor and scans the immediate area for signs of anything suspicious.
‘Christ almighty. It’s like something from a bloody museum – you know, one of those rooms you go into to see what it was like living in the 1950s.’ Beside him, his colleague, Sarah Gallagher, stands, shaking her head and smiling as she surveys the living room. ‘Could do with a lick of paint, don’t you think?’
Rahman lets out a soft chuckle and sighs. ‘I’ll bet a local property developer would give their right arm for a place like this; get it done up and sell it for a fortune. Come on,’ he says quietly as he picks his way through the piles of newspapers and dirty cups that litter the floor. ‘Let’s have a proper look around. See what we can find.’
‘Do you want to have a look down here and I’ll go upstairs?’ The young female officer stares up at her boss, waiting for his reply. Standing at just over five feet tall, she has become accustomed to craning her neck upwards when conversing with colleagues, many of whom, like Rahman at six feet four inches, tower over her.
‘Tell you what,’ he says, his voice suddenly quiet, his expression sombre, ‘let’s go upstairs together. See what we can find.’
‘Not exactly sure what it is we’re looking for, sir.’ Gallagher raises her eyebrows, searching his face for any signs or clues.
‘No,’ he murmurs softly. ‘Me neither, but I’m pretty sure we’ll know what’s relevant and what isn’t if we find it.’
Rahman is busy pacing around the front bedroom when he hears the shout. He gave Gallagher the task of checking the bathroom and then the back bedroom while he scours Dominic Rose’s room. He feels sure that that’s where they will find something. Or at least, he did. Judging by the shouts from the next room, he thinks that perhaps he has got that wrong.
He finds Gallagher standing in the doorway, hand clasped over her mouth, eyes watery with shock. She’s new to this game. Rahman has been on the force for nearly twenty years and seen plenty but his stomach roils as he steps forward, gently pushing Gallagher to one side so he can get into the bedroom and get a better view.
‘Good God.’ Her voice comes from behind him. ‘What the hell is it?’
Rahman says nothing, edging forwards towards the bed, his footfall hushed against the decades’ old rug and a pile of dirty blankets spread across the floor.
‘How long has it been here for?’
He doesn’t answer, speaking instead into his radio, calling for assistance, his voice muffled. Urgent.
He looks down at the desiccated corpse on the bed, at its skeletal features, the wisps of hair swept across its bare bony scalp and the clothes that cover its frame – a pair of old jeans and a crocheted sweater – and tries to work out how long it has been here for. Twenty years, perhaps. Maybe thirty. Maybe even longer. Probably longer. He’s no expert, forensics and pathology aren’t his field, but he does know that this corpse is probably a damn sight older than his colleague, young Gallagher here, who at only twenty-five years of age is a novice to this sort of discovery.
‘Keep the blinds drawn in this room. We’ll let the crime scene manager take over from here.’ Rahman backs out, his legs suddenly weak. He has seen a fair few dead bodies in his time but nothing quite as macabre as this one. They’re usually recent deaths. Battered, bloodied faces, bloated corpses after being fished out from the river, their flesh tinged blue, but nothing like this – a fully dressed dead person, their few remaining strands of hair combed into place, shoes on their feet, propped up in bed like a mannequin. An undrunk cup of tea sits on the bedside cabinet alongside a plate of biscuits. This is like nothing he has ever experienced. This discovery is in another league.
At least he hasn’t become desensitised to it, he thinks as he closes the door and heads back downstairs. At least it still gets to him, catching him in his solar plexus, knocking all the air out of him, which is as it should be. Many of his colleagues can down a bacon sandwich and a gallon of coffee after discovering a dead body or after reading the pathology report of a murder victim who has been battered to death and left unrecognisable. Not him. He hopes it will always get to him, leaving him slightly discombobulated, wondering what goes through people’s heads when they carry out these atrocious acts. He is glad he is who he is, and not someone who has the capacity to take the life of another person. Or in this case, dress them up, feed them biscuits, prop them up in bed and pretend they’re not actually dead.
It’s coming to an end. Dominic knows it, is conscious of what is going on around him, his nerve endings absorbing every sensation, every nuanced word and look. He may be ill, his body broken and damaged but his brain is as active as it has ever been, and he knows that the game is up, that the future looks grim and he has nowhere left to go. No more hiding places. Nowhere left to call home.
He has no idea what day it is, how long he has been here, confined to this hospital bed, but he does know that police officers are lined up outside the door waiting to question him about Jocelyn, about Alexander and what took place in that room. To question him about Clara.
There is little to say. Everything that he knows is stored in his head and that is where it will stay. Releasing it would tarnish her memory and sully her good name. As for the events that took place in the school – there are plenty of witnesses who can give accurate accounts of what happened in that classroom. Their stories will all marry up. They don’t need to hear his version. He has his own story resting somewhere inside his mind, the one that he prefers. The truth is a strange thing; flexible to a point but brittle if bent too far. But then, they will discover that soon enough, that is, if they haven’t already. He made his life, shaped and moulded it as best he could to alleviate the heartache, the unending loss he felt for his dearest Clara.
He wonders if they have already forced their way into his home, their size ten boots trampling through his little house, desecrating and defiling the place, violating his memories, his property, his life.
They can do whatever they want now. It’s not as if he has the power to stop them. The only thing that concerns him is his lack of access to the letters. They will find them easily enough, the police and their team of investigators. He never hid them away. He simply stored them in a locked box for posterity.
He recalls the last time the police visited him after Clara disappeared. They descended on his home, questioning him about his movements the day she went missing. They didn’t stay long. There was nothing for them to see. No startling revelations. No visible signs that anything was amiss
.
That’s because they didn’t look hard enough.
Dominic closes his eyes and rests his head back against the hospital pillow, the crisp slightly yellowing linen soft against his bruised flesh. He tries to visualise his future; what sort of life lies ahead for him. This isn’t how he planned it but then, isn’t that how things often pan out? Life is full of twists and turns and unexpected deviations. His time with his dearest darling Clara has come to an end, that’s all it is. He once had her and now he doesn’t. His secret is about to be exposed. The general public will gorge on his story like hungry locusts, stripping bare the carcass of his life, leaving him with nothing but the bare bones.
Sleep comes quickly, a welcoming warm place free of misery and hurt where nobody can judge him or tell him what to do. He savours it, knowing it may possibly be the final time he will ever be truly free.
42
6am, 15th July 1978
‘You’re better off without her. She was never any good. Beneath you, she is. You can do far better if you just put some effort in and got out more.’ His mother’s voice fills every room in the house. It’s her way. It’s always been her way, making sure she gets heard. Making sure she has the final word.
Dominic zips up his jacket, pulling the collar straight before checking himself in the mirror, slicking back his flyaway hair and stepping outside, closing the door behind him with just enough force to let his mother know exactly what he thinks of her comment. She just doesn’t know when to stop, her pointed snide words always finding the chink in his armour and wounding him in ways only she can. Sometimes, it’s as if she saves up all her bile ready to spew out in his direction, each insult finding a special place to lodge in his heart, skewering him and cutting him to the quick. It’s a gift she possesses, being able to wound deeply without leaving any visible scars.
He slides into his car, the sudden solitude sitting well with him. He’s looking forward to the drive. She is right about one thing, his fiery old mother; getting out of the house is good for him. Getting away from her relentless jibes and tirades lessens his load, easing the tension that sits across his chest whenever he hears her voice, his shoulders hitching up to his ears to block out the hurt she inflicts.
The engine is a low purr as he turns the key and crunches his way off the small gravel drive and heads out onto the main road.
The early start worked well. He checks his watch. Just under five hours to get here. Still a long journey but setting off at 6am has ensured he has made it in time to catch her. They will have time to talk, to sort things out. He feels confident that they can make it work. He’ll buy her lunch, talk her round, get her to see that they are meant to be together. Once she sees him, she’ll know. It will all come flooding back to her. Distance has placed a wall between them, cutting off the familiarity and love that they once shared. Now he’s here, they can start to rebuild that familiarity, restoring the bond they once had, strengthening and securing it. And then everything will be perfect.
He has pulled into a lay-by rather than park up outside her grandparents’ cottage. Here is better, more isolated, the nearest shop over five miles away, no pubs or restaurants. Not much of anything except the shimmering lake and the squat white edifice of the small bothy in the distance. Were it not for the current circumstances, he would think this place perfect with its rugged countryside and complete silence.
Above him, clouds gather then part, scudding across the sky, the breeze forcing them towards the horizon. The weather is different here too; cooler, sharper, the light less translucent, a wash of grey covering the landscape, the air thinner and cleaner. He looks around at the scenery – a perfectly acceptable outlook in the summer months but bleak and barren come the winter, he imagines. He can see why she is struck by the place, why her head has been turned.
Clara is a gentle soul, prone to solitude and peaceful environments. As small and friendly as Ormston is, it is still a bustling little town and she would regularly become exasperated by its busyness, by the tourists that flock around the place in the summer months, filling the local shops and lining the pavements. She craves the quieter times, the cooler months when everybody has left and their hometown reverts back to its usual placid self. Ormston, the old lady of North Yorkshire. That is how Clara used to refer to their hometown, how she wants it to remain. Not the growing market town it has become. It has expanded, become too lively for her. This place is more Clara – fewer people. Less noise. Less stress. But of course, there is one thing that is missing from her escape plan. Him. Dominic. He isn’t here in the wilds of Scotland. And they are meant to be together. Not apart. Being apart isn’t good for either of them. Soon she will see that. He’ll make her see it.
A shard of anger is wedged in his throat, slicing at the soft tissue there. Shielding his eyes with a cupped hand, Dominic stares ahead, trying to suppress his growing discomfort. A sudden surge of blood rushes to his head as he turns and squints at the sight ahead. His breath catches in his throat. It’s her. Clara. His Clara. A shadow in the distance, a tiny silhouette, but definitely Clara. He would recognise that walk anywhere; her diminutive shape, the curve of her body, the slight dip of her shoulders. She’s here, walking towards him and his fury suddenly dissipates, scattering and disappearing into the warm breeze. Everything in his world is as it should be once again, his out-of-kilter perspective righted, his misery dissipating, replaced by a tide of happiness so large it almost knocks him off his feet. He had forgotten how light she makes him feel, how giddy and excitable – like an overeager schoolboy allowed to run free.
Above him, the sun continues to rise, burning at the back of his neck, fingers of yellow spreading over the ground, glazing everything with a welcome layer of heat.
He wants to run to her, to scoop her up in his arms and twirl her round in the air until they are both dizzy but stands instead, arms glued to his sides, his heart flipping about his chest. A drink would be most welcome right now, a tumbler of whisky to arm him with the courage that he needs, to help him find the right words to say what it is he wants to say. Words that will impress Clara and make her want to come home with him. Words that will make her love him again.
Her figure comes ever closer until he is able to make out her features, to see the creaminess of her skin, the lustrousness of her hair. The grooves in her forehead when she spots him standing there. The darkness that sets into her eyes as she fixes her gaze on his.
His stomach tightens and he knows then that his journey has been in vain. No welcoming embrace. No smiles and kisses. His dream that he would sweep her up in his arms, the two of them clinging onto each other for dear life, falls away, crumbling and turning into ash. It’s all been for nothing, this visit. A complete waste of time. No amount of talking is going to persuade her, no number of kind words will win her over. He can beg and plead and cry all he likes but it’s obvious that she isn’t prepared to listen to him. He can see it from this distance. Before she has even come close to him and opened her mouth, her thoughts are evident, etched deep into her frown, evident in the downward slope of her mouth, the way she holds herself as she approaches him, her spine suddenly rigid as if she is tensing herself for something terrible, for something or somebody unpleasant. Somebody like him.
‘Hello, Clara.’ He tries to sound jovial, like a meeting of old friends who are looking forward to a reunion, his voice as light as air; not too needy, not too overbearing. The voice of a man who has driven over 300 miles on his day off because he has nothing better to do.
She doesn’t reply. She is fortifying herself, trying to work out the correct response. He can still fathom her thought processes – the tiny crinkle between her eyes, the way she bites at her lip – all indicators that she is thinking hard, trying to decide what to say so as to cause minimum upset with maximum impact. Clara isn’t one for conflict, preferring instead to deflect and ignore. Or to run away, retreating into her lair until the battle is over. She thought she had run from him, but it wasn’t far enough. He
’s here now, and they have unfinished business, something that cannot be put off any longer. Their relationship is something that requires attention. No more hiding. No more ignoring. The time has come to sort it out once and for all.
‘Dominic,’ she says softly as she moves closer to him. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’
‘No, I don’t imagine you were.’ With growing impatience, he tries to remain calm, to not allow the months of festering anger and unhappiness and resentment to come pouring out. He has to hold it together if he is to gain her trust again. If he is to try to make her love like she used to.
‘Have you been and spoken to–’
‘No.’ He shakes his head as she points over at the home of her grandparents. ‘I pulled up here to take in the view of the loch. It’s very beautiful.’ It’s not strictly true. Although the loch is indeed a magnificent sight, he parked farther away so as not to be seen. He had envisioned Clara spotting him and hiding away, her grandpa telling him she wasn’t available and had taken herself off to Perth or Glasgow for the day and they weren’t expecting her back until after midnight, what with the long drive and the roads and the unpredictable weather up here in Rannoch Moor.
‘Ah,’ she says, a note of weariness all too obvious in her timbre.
They stand together, their hands within touching distance yet so very far apart, the rift between them growing wider by the second. He has to say something, to do something to bridge that gap, to stop her from slipping even further away from him. He needs her, has to have her. He will do anything to get her back. Anything at all.
Gripped by desperation he steps forward and tries to take her hand. She snatches it away, shoving it into the pocket of her thin summer jacket and dipping her eyes away from his, her gaze fixed on a point somewhere in the distance. ‘Don’t, Dominic. Please don’t.’
