The Queen of Yesterday

by Rob Kinsman

  “I could be an imposter.”

  He snorted, amused.

  “Who’d pretend to work here?”

  Five words which, remarkably, made Zoe feel even more wretched about her life than she already did. Alarmed by Alf’s unexpected metamorphosis into a functional security guard, she made her excuses and got the lift up to her office. The others were already there, all looking thoroughly knackered.

  Great, my one chance in twelve years to get brownie points for being early and I’m still the last one in.

  Zoe collapsed into her seat and prodded her computer’s keyboard. The screen seemed bright to her fragile eyes. Before she knew it, she’d let out a wide yawn.

  “Don’t worry, we all feel that way today,” said Peter.

  “How was your madman?” asked Martin. “The one with the genitals.”

  Dead.

  “He’d gone by the time I got back. How about your son? Did you pick him up alright?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  They exchanged a pleasant smile, the sort colleagues do when they don’t hate each other. This really was turning into a day of firsts.

  Zoe started browsing the news websites, searching for stories about what had happened in her flat. Fortunately your common or garden massacre wasn’t front page news at the moment, the dream still being the only issue anyone really cared about. There were a few small articles mentioning Sid’s demise, but Zoe’s name didn’t appear anywhere.

  Content that no-one was about to start hounding her with questions, she started reading up on last night’s dream. It was the first day since this had all started that the people around her looked neither smug nor happy. She soon realised why. Until now the tone of the media reports had been celebratory, as if the dream was the great leveller, something that united people. Today, however, it was as if the hacks had been confronted by the man who’d just screwed their virgin daughter.

  ‘Sinister dream frightens children!’

  ‘Dead king terrifies the elderly!’

  The only dissenting paper was the Express, which continued to speculate that Princess Diana was the missing queen.

  Zoe looked around the cramped office at her tired colleagues, all furiously sipping caffeine. They’d clearly had a bad night. In that, if nothing else, Zoe finally had something in common with them.

  After three hours of work – or, in Zoe’s preferred measurement of time, 17 games of Spider Solitaire – the police phoned.

  “Can you come to the flat?” said DI Kent.

  “Why?”

  “We need you to check if there’s anything missing.”

  “Ok.”

  Zoe hesitated, not sure how to ask what she wanted to know. Kent was ahead of her.

  “We’ve moved the body.”

  “Oh. Good. Thanks.”

  “Do you know if he had any living relatives?”

  “He never mentioned any.”

  Sid had in fact once muttered something about being the bastard child of Simon Cowell and Queen Nefertiti, but Zoe thought it best not to mention it.

  “We need to see if there’s anyone willing to organise the funeral.”

  Poor Sid. He spent his life alone, and now he’s going to be buried that way.

  “Let me know if I can do anything to help.”

  It struck Zoe that she might be the closest thing Sid had to friends or family, although even she had spent most of their acquaintance being variously bemused, repulsed or terrified by him.

  After she hung up she started contemplating how she was going to get the time off work without admitting what had happened. Not to worry, she’d find a way. Zoe was exceptionally unsuited to her job, but the nature of public service contracts meant she was consequently almost impossible to get rid of. If incompetence and laziness couldn’t get her the sack then there was no way that yet another sneaky afternoon off was going to be a problem.

  “Sorry Nigel but it’s a family emergency.”

  They were in the tiny former bleach cupboard turned command centre for the one-man HR department.

  “We’ll have to dock your pay.”

  Zoe was outraged.

  “What?”

  “You don’t have any holiday left, and compassionate leave only stretches so far.”

  “No it doesn’t. That’s why it’s compassionate.”

  Nigel looked even more tired than the others. Zoe wondered if he’d stayed here all night, waiting for the angry mob outside to disperse. He was certainly the type to go down with the ship.

  “Which aunt is it?”

  “Betty.”

  “You’ve never mentioned an aunt Betty before.”

  “Why would I?”

  “I feel like I’ve heard a lot about your extended family.”

  It was true that over the years Zoe had claimed to be the sole carer for an extraordinarily sprawling and sickly family.

  “Haven’t I got time off in lieu?”

  “In lieu of what? Look, Zoe, everyone’s tired today…”

  “Then you should let us all have the day off so we can work more efficiently tomorrow.”

  “The council doesn’t recognise tiredness.”

  “It’s got a fucking policy on dreaming, how can it not recognise tiredness?”

  Now she’d blown it. Nigel had three no-go areas: swearing, dermatology and the decline of the Weimar Republic. The later came up rarely, but following an ill-fated appearance on The Weakest Link it was best avoided at all costs.

  “I’m sorry Nigel, I didn’t mean to swear.”

  “You can go if you really need to, but we have to draw the line somewhere.”

  “I understand that, but poor Aunt Mavis…”

  “Betty.”

  Zoe gave up the fight. She held her hands up.

  “It’s a fair cop.”

  “Thank you, Zoe,” said Nigel, relieved.

  “The truth is that the police have asked to talk to me.”

  Zoe was pretty sure she saw him actually physically shake. Betrayed, he looked up at her like a puppy peering out of a sack at a previously loving owner.

  “Please credit me with some intelligence,” he said in a low voice.

  “I swear to you it’s true. Something happened in my flat last night. Something bad.” She wiped away a tear which she was surprised to find she didn’t have to fake. “Ok, look.”

  She leaned across to use his computer and brought up the news report of Sid’s death.

  “This is where you live?”

  Zoe nodded. Nigel peered closer at the grainy picture of her crumbling block of flats.

  “I haven’t told the others, you know what gossips they are. Please don’t say anything to them. I can trust you, can’t I?”

  From the look on his face, Zoe knew she had him. If there was ever a man who felt the need to be trusted by others then it was one with terrible acne who ran a much hated department from a cupboard.

  “Yes, of course. I won’t say a word.”

  “Thanks Nigel.” Zoe wanted to get out while the going was good, but Nigel’s mood seemed to have abruptly shifted gear. He was staring at his desk like it was a river he was about to jump into. “Are you ok?”

  “No.”

  His voice was barely more than a whisper. Zoe desperately didn’t want to have this conversation, but it seemed the wheels were already in motion.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “What?”

  “The dream.”

  “Nobody understands it, Nigel.”

  “Things used to make sense. There was an order to it. But now this thing has happened and I don’t know what the rules are anymore.”

  A lonely tear dropped unnoticed from his cheek, blotting the ink on the forms laid out before him.

  Zoe didn’t move. She didn’t know how to deal with his… what was it? Fear? Grief? He’d stuck his pitted neck out for her on several occasions, the least she could do was patiently listen to him for ten minut
es.

  “I really do have to go,” she said quietly.

  Nigel flushed red, which meant his skin now resembled two thirds of a traffic light.

  “Yes.” His voice was brusque again. “I’ll see what I can do. About the TOIL.”

  “Thanks.”

  She wasn’t even out his office before she realised what a selfish, insensitive cow she was. Zoe had always likened Nigel to an estranged father: someone who’d always give her what she wanted as long as she laid on the guilt trip about mummy drinking herself to sleep. He was a good man at heart, it was there for all to see, but he hid his frailty behind a wall of rules and regulations. And now, finally, he’d opened up and Zoe had scarpered before he could get going.

  No wonder you’re all alone, you selfish bitch.

  There was a small crowd holding vigil outside Zoe’s block of flats, a bunch of freaks hoping to glean some gruesome details about what had happened. It was the biggest collection of loners and social misfits Zoe had seen since the time she‘d tried ceroc.

  A policeman was standing guard by the entrance, keeping the weirdoes at bay. Zoe wondered how she was going to get past them without being photographed.

  Flash.

  Too late.

  She moved quickly over to the officer.

  “This is my flat. DI Kent wanted to see me.”

  Flash.

  “Go on through.”

  She headed inside, managing to avoid any further prying lenses by climbing the stairs rather more like a crab than was normal. It wasn’t dignified, but it did keep her face away from the windows.

  At the end of the landing she could see forensics officers coming and going from Sid’s flat, seeing what clues they could find there. There would certainly be no shortage of dried fluid samples.

  Zoe braced herself then stepped into her own flat.

  She could hear voices from the bedroom but hesitated before moving towards them. The door to the living room was ajar.

  Don’t look. You don’t need to see it.

  She peered through the gap.

  It was hard to imagine it was the same room she’d spent so much of the past few years wishing, dreaming, but mostly just existing in. The carpet was scarred with crimson blood. Various pieces of equipment to mark and measure the carnage were still set up around the room. Straight away Zoe realised this wasn’t a place she would ever call home again.

  She still couldn’t picture Sid’s desecrated body properly, didn’t even want to try. It was a secret her mind was keeping locked away for the sake of her own sanity.

  “Thank you for coming.”

  Zoe hadn’t seen Kent entering behind her.

  “Have you found out anything?” asked Zoe. “About Nick.”

  “No. It seems he was just gate-crashing in the flat. The owner uses it when he’s doing deals in London, he’s not there much. Nick is probably some kind of conman, we’ve known others do this in the past. They find out when someone’s going to be out of town, and just move themselves in. Lock any personal photos and so on out the way, then make the most of the empty flat. Once the owner returns, they move on. It takes confidence, of course, but that’s one thing these people aren’t short of.”

  “Nick isn’t a con-man.”

  It was one of those things Zoe felt she had to say, but even she didn't believe it anymore. DI Kent just pretended she hadn’t said anything, which was probably for the best.

  “We want you to have a look round the flat. Just to see if there’s anything missing, anything unusual.”

  Zoe followed her into the bedroom.

  I made love with Nick here.

  The whole bloody flat seemed determined to haunt her.

  “We weren’t sure if someone had been through your drawers or if you were just very messy,” said Kent, unapologetically.

  The drawers were indeed messy, but that was mostly Zoe’s fault. The few things worth anything, mainly odd bits of jewellery she’d picked up over the years, were still there. When she’d finished searching, she told Kent that everything was much as she’d left it. Then she made her excuses and got away as quickly as she could.

  Her first stop was a nearby café. She made herself snug in a leather armchair and started to drift off. When the staff started getting anxious about how long she’d been there she ordered more coffee and muffins.

  She kept thinking of Nick. Making excuses for him. The police had assured her that they would find him, but Zoe knew a PR speech when she heard one. It seemed the only clue they had to go on was fingerprints, which would only help if Nick – or whatever he was really called – already had a criminal record.

  Over and over she kept telling herself that she desperately hoped Nick was alright. That the man who’d chased them hadn’t caught up with him. But that wasn’t what she was really thinking, of course. She was actually wondering if Nick was responsible for what had happened.

  Playing the scene over and over in her mind she remembered the strange reaction Nick had had when he’d seen Sid. She’d assumed that her late neighbour had been regaling Nick with one of his trademark stripteases, but she hadn’t actually seen anything through the crack of the door. Perhaps Nick had recognised him from somewhere and… and…

  Sooner or later these thoughts were going to drive her mad. She bought herself another coffee, settled down with a discarded magazine. Before long she realised she was just staring through the words, her mind elsewhere.

  It was nearly nine before Skyhawk finally phoned.

  “It’s me.”

  “Let’s meet,” said Zoe.

  Nine

  Skyhawk had suggested a variety of shadowy places to meet – dark alleyways, bridges, etc. – but Zoe had insisted on somewhere a bit less John Le Carre. Consequently she found herself at 10pm sitting in Mega Chicken, a fast food joint with sterile strip lighting and shiny red furniture.

  There were a few people scattered around the other tables, taking their lives in their hands by trying the food. Zoe pecked at a Mega Chicken own recipe drumstick, which certainly wasn’t mega and probably wasn’t even chicken. Still, at least she was in plain sight of others here.

  A man in a trench coat came in from the dark street, looking for all the world like a spy. Head bent low, eyes darting around the room. He scanned her from top to toe.

  Skyhawk.

  Zoe clenched her jaw, determined to look confident. She was in charge of this encounter. He could make whatever demands and threats he liked, she wasn’t going to be intimidated.

  The man walked straight past her, bought an Ultra Bucket of Mega Chicken and left.

  Oh.

  “Were you followed?”

  Zoe started, surprised. It was the teenager on the next table who had spoken to her.

  “Do you know that man?” he said, his voice familiar.

  “Are you Skyhawk?”

  The chubby adolescent nodded. He looked about sixteen, wore a grubby T-shirt for a rock band Zoe had never heard of and seemed like the sort of geek who’d know his dungeons from his dragons.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were here?”

  “I wanted to make sure you were alone. Have you seen that man before?”

  “No.”

  “We should go somewhere else.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “He was staring at you.”

  “That’s because I’m the only woman in here who doesn’t look like they’ve got TB.”

  Despite the circumstances, Zoe felt comforted that Skyhawk was just a kid. If he did turn out to be dangerous she could probably distract him by running next to pornography.

  Skyhawk gestured to the empty seat opposite him. “Sit over here. We don’t know who’s listening.”

  “No, you come here, young man.”

  Skyhawk sighed, fed up of a joke that had run short for him a long time ago.

  “I’m legal,” he said. “Don’t you worry about that.”

  “I really wasn’t.”

  “I’ve j
ust got boyish features.”

  He ambled over and slumped down opposite her.

  “Why did you phone me?” said Zoe, her voice just above a whisper. “I kept my message anonymous because I didn’t want creeps like you calling me on my private number.”

  You didn’t reply to my emails. Why bother writing an advert if you don’t want to talk to anyone?”

  “You crossed the line. I felt violated.” Skyhawk slurped noisily from his drink, which contained enough liquid to drown a kitten in. Zoe sensed empathy wasn’t one of his strong points. “Have you told anyone about me?”

  “No.”

  “Why did you want to talk?” said Zoe, relaxing a little.

  “I need to know if you’re for real.”

  “I told you. I was just joking around.”

  “Of course you were.” His smug look of disbelief bore eerie resemblance to a dolphin’s smile. “With your help I can find out why this is happening.”

  “And then what?”

  He leaned towards her, confessional.

  “I can make it stop.”

  Zoe felt a chink of sunlight on her soul. For the first time, their eyes connected.

  “Why would you want that?”

  He didn’t reply, but whatever was going through his mind caused his eyes to cloud over. In that moment there was an age and weariness about him at odds with his young looks.

  “Why do you think this is happening?” said Zoe.

  “There are a few possibilities.”

  “Like?”

  “Mass hallucination. Foreign bodies in the food and/or water supply. Intervention from deities and/or extra-terrestrials.”

  “So basically you don’t know?”

  “I’ve been collating evidence.”

  “So has every journalist on the planet. They haven’t proved anything.”

  “Ah, but I have access to something they don’t.”

  “What?”

  “You.”

  Zoe fidgeted, uncomfortable.

  “If I’m going to help you then I’ve got conditions,” she said.

  “Name them.”

  Zoe straightened her posture, trying to convey authority – not an easy thing to do under the kind of strip lights that would give her a tan if she got too close.

  “You have to promise you won’t tell anyone about me.”