The Death Knock

by Elodie Harper

  The only thing I can actually do besides walking round and round is drink, and it’s tempting to keep going. I’ve been resisting the urge to keep knocking the water back and instead have stretched it out, so there’s still enough left for however long he leaves me. But now it’s getting dark again, and there’s no sign of him.

  Whenever my eyes keep getting drawn back to The Stain, I try to distract myself. I go through the order of service again, revisit some of my favourite memories. That’s meant to help. I know, I did a module on it. Taking yourself to a safe place.

  I close my eyes. In my head I’m eleven and it’s the summer holidays. Matt and I take the small rowing boat out on the River Rother that runs near our grandparents’ old house. I trace every turn of the banks on our route, imagining it over and over again. We pass tiny Chithurst church, its tower just visible from the water. I can hear the splash of our oars echo as we pass under the old bridge. Over the side I can see grey fishes dart by, and the trees hang over the water, leaving us in the shade. We cut through farmland, cows cropping grass at the top of the steep banks, just above our heads. At the shallow sections we get out and walk, dragging the hull across the pebbles, scraping the fibreglass. Like all my memories from that time, it’s brilliant sunshine.

  We stop for lunch. This is a dangerous part to imagine, with my own stomach so empty. I can’t remember what our mother would have packed us, so I make it up, thinking about the things we used to eat. Ham sandwiches, Golden Wonder crisps and Babybel cheeses with their red wax wrappers. And cake. In the cold room my stomach gurgles. I ignore it and carry on upstream with my brother.

  Matt does almost all the rowing. I’m far too lazy, and to be honest, not very good at it. The exception is when we approach a small wooden bridge. It looks homemade, stretching out between the trees as if it was specially designed for children.

  ‘Here, you take the oars for a bit,’ says Matt. He’s fourteen, skinny and tanned in his swimming trunks. ‘Keep it still when we get underneath.’

  I do as he asks and he stands up, the small boat wobbling in the water at the change in the weight. Suddenly it rocks violently and I squeal in protest as he jumps upwards, grabbing the bridge so his legs hang down over my head.

  ‘Whoo-hoo, I’m Superman!’

  ‘Fly then!’ I say, rowing off and leaving him there. I crash into a bank, clutching onto the reeds so that the boat is not too far away from where he’s hanging, but still out of reach. My brother is a prankster, he meant for me to do this. It’s part of the code we have, there’s no need to explain what the joke is. With a shout he lets go and plunges into the water. The boat tips from side to side with the impact. I wait for him to surface and there’s nothing.

  ‘Matt?’

  A splash and his head comes up beside the boat. I laugh with relief, grab one arm, help him haul himself in.

  ‘Your turn!’ he yells, pushing me overboard. It’s icy cold. I splutter, treading water, weighed down by my summer dress. I grab hold of the side, looking up at him. We’re both hysterical with laughter.

  In my memory, my brother helps me back into the boat and we continue our journey on the Rother, both soaking wet, working out how we can dry off before we get home.

  I sit back against the concrete wall, exhausted by the effort of taking my mind to another place. Again I picture my brother suspended above the water, his legs kicking where I left him hanging. I look at the door, at the handle that still isn’t turning. The memory doesn’t feel so comforting any more.

  Frankie

  On Sunday Jack suggests heading to Holkham beach, the spot where she first fell in love with Norfolk. It’s another beautiful day. Frankie lets him drive, enjoying sitting back and watching the fields roll out, listening to his Brahms CDs. They don’t say much but it’s a comfortable silence. She looks at his profile as he concentrates on the road and finds herself comparing him to Brett. They must be about the same age, and any objective observer would tell her the barman is more attractive, but the quiet thoughtfulness she so loves about Jack’s expression is entirely lacking in Brett’s face. Jack glances in the side mirror and catches her watching him.

  ‘What?’ he laughs.

  She smiles at him. ‘Just thinking I’m going out with the best-looking geek in the lab.’

  ‘Now that’s a backhanded compliment!’

  They arrive at the Holkham Estate car park, and wrap up before setting off; the coastal wind is biting even from this distance. They pick their way through the woods, nodding to another couple with a dog passing them on the way back. It never gets less extraordinary, she thinks, as the enormous expanse of sand and sky suddenly opens out before them. They stand for a moment, Jack putting his arms round her as they take in the view. The landscape has an unearthly quality, the way everything merges. There’s no line where the sea meets the land; instead ripples of wet sand give way seamlessly to water, which in turn weaves its way through the dunes in silver ribbons, lying in wait for unwary walkers when the tide turns. And against the pale sand and sky, the black mass of trees keeps watch, like soldiers on the eve of battle. The tide and the wind are always changing the landscape, but the limitless horizon remains constant.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Jack says. They set off, taking the path down onto the sand. Hand in hand, their cheeks whipped scarlet by the wind as they walk along the beach, Frankie feels completely happy.

  They trek across to Wells-next-the-Sea, then cut into the town, choosing the first café they can find with a table spare. Frankie squeezes past an elderly couple by the door to claim the space, while Jack goes up to the counter to order their club sandwiches. The room is warm and noisy with the gurgle of the coffee machine and the chatter of customers. There’s a slight sheen of condensation on the plastic tablecloth beneath her fingers. She leans back and looks at the wooden seagulls hanging on the wall. One of them is missing a beak. Further up, lobster baskets hang from the ceiling, another decorative shorthand for seaside.

  ‘I said leave it!’

  She glances towards the counter where somebody seems to be having a row. With a lurch of embarrassment she recognises Debbie Richards and Martin Hungate. They’re looking over at her.

  ‘Shit,’ Frankie mutters to herself. This is the last thing she needs. Hoping to brazen it out, she raises a hand in a half-hearted greeting, a tense smile on her face. Immediately she wishes she hadn’t as Martin takes it as an invitation to leave their place in the queue. She looks desperately at Jack, but her boyfriend has his back to her, oblivious.

  ‘I hope you’re proud of yourself,’ Martin Hungate says, standing by the door and talking loudly at her over the heads of the startled pensioners.

  ‘Not here, Martin,’ Debbie hisses, tugging at his arm.

  He shakes her off. ‘Bet you had a nice laugh at our expense.’

  ‘Not at all,’ says Frankie. ‘We were representing all sides of the argument. I’m very sorry if you were disappointed by the report, but I believe it was fair.’

  ‘Fair?’ Martin says. ‘Making Debbie here look like some sort of Stepford Wife? You call that fair?’

  Debbie has gone bright red and Frankie feels a stab of sympathy. She hopes Martin hasn’t been taking out his frustrations on her at home. ‘I really didn’t mean to cause either of you any offence,’ she says. Debbie averts her eyes.

  ‘Do you mind?’ the older man sitting by Frankie interrupts, turning round to look at her and Martin. ‘Some of us are trying to eat our lunch in peace!’

  Martin looks as if he’d like to say something else, but instead bangs angrily out of the café. Debbie fights with the handle, struggling to open the door, and scuttles out after him. Frankie watches them pass the window, Debbie remonstrating as Martin stomps ahead.

  ‘Honestly!’ tuts the older woman, shooting a disproving look at Frankie.

  ‘Excuse me,’ says Jack, squeezing past with his tray. It’s empty apart from their table number and two sets of cutlery wrapped in paper napkins, which he sets dow
n with a clank. He doesn’t notice the other couple stiffen with irritation at the noise. ‘There we go.’ He scrapes back his chair and sits down, then frowns, seeing her expression. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Yes, it’s nothing. Some guy who was peeved at a report I did decided to have a go.’

  Jack looks around. ‘Which guy?’

  ‘Never mind, he’s gone now.’

  ‘Sorry I wasn’t here to stick up for you. You should have called me over.’

  ‘Oh don’t worry,’ she says. ‘Getting harangued by idiots is an occupational hazard. No harm done.’ She smiles at him, the knot of tension already unravelling. Jack smiles back and takes her hand over the table.

  The walk back to Holkham blows away any lingering sense of unease left in the wake of Martin’s outburst. In the evening, after they get home, Jack has to pop to the lab and check on his precious tomatoes, but Frankie’s in such a good mood she doesn’t mind being left alone. She even finds it touching, the way he frets over his plants as if they’re wayward children.

  She makes herself a hot chocolate, realising as she opens the cupboard that she forgot to buy more of Jack’s coffee yesterday. She crosses to the window, looks at the black water of the river, lit up in patches from the windows of her block of flats. It’s too dark to see much of the opposite bank. She leaves the thin linen curtains open and sits down to watch the evening bulletin on TV. It’s Zara in the studio, of course. Paul always manages to wiggle out of working Sunday evenings. She sips from the warm mug, relaxed by all the sea air, as her friend looks out at her from the screen.

  ‘Good evening, you’re watching the Eastern Film Company.’ Zara’s studio smile turns grave. ‘In the last hour, police have released a sixty-four-year-old man who was arrested in connection with the murder of three women and the disappearance of a fourth from Norfolk. The man, named locally as Donald Emneth from the Costessey area of Norwich, was taken in for questioning on Friday, regarding the murders of Lily Sidcup, Sandra Blakely and Hanna Chivers. A fourth woman, Ava Lindsey, remains missing. Police say Mr Emneth has been released without charge.’ Zara glances down solemnly at her papers, then looks up again, her tone brighter. ‘A church in Peterborough has become the first in our region to be powered entirely by solar power . . .’

  Frankie props her feet up on the perspex coffee table, settling back into the sofa. She feels sorry the killer hasn’t been caught, or Ava found, but part of her is already wondering whether Brett will agree to do the interview tomorrow. She’s especially glad she made the contact now. She picks up her phone, thinking about the promise she made to Zara. Ever since their drink at the bar she has resisted going onto Killing Cuttlefish, but curiosity and the urge to find something else Kiera might be interested in prompts her to open the tab.

  She scans through the latest blogs and spots another post from @Feminazi_Slayer2: We Mustie find Ava the Crustie! She clicks on it, and immediately a poor-resolution cartoon of a placard-waving hippie clutching a bomb comes up, with Ava Lindsey’s face superimposed on top.

  It seems Ava Lindsey, the supposedly innocent little sweetie pie who’s gone missing in Norfolk, is actually a FUCKING TERRORIST. That’s right folks, Ava is an animal rights activist, and the little BITCH cost the John Innes Centre thousands of pounds’ worth of damage last year at a violent protest.

  Of course, the MSM have nothing to say about this, do they? Oh no. Instead we get a load of hand-wringing crap about what a model student Ms Lindsey is, how her parents miss her etc. etc. etc. Imagine for a moment that Ava were a MISSING BOY who supports the MRA movement. How would the Lame Stream Media cover that, I wonder?

  That’s right, they wouldn’t. And that’s what we call DOUBLE FUCKING STANDARDS.

  We can be as peaceful as we like, campaigning for Men’s Justice, and STILL the media will cover us in shit, but a woman can be an ACTUAL TERRORIST and hey presto! she’s the victim. And they say there’s no gynocracy?? Of course, Ava is no doubt safe and well right now, hanging out with her crustie mates and planning on bombing a lab somewhere, but maybe we can dream, maybe our friend the Norfolk Strangler did pay her a visit. Here’s hoping you get what you deserve, BITCH.

  Frankie’s heart is racing. Even though the website’s bile is no longer a surprise, still, every time she reads it, it manages to get deep under her skin. It’s not just the hate directed at Ava, it’s the wilful mangling of facts: confusing Ava’s environmentalism with animal rights, lying about the scale of the protest at the John Innes. It makes her want to argue furiously with whoever wrote the blog even though she knows that would be futile.

  She looks at the blog again, knowing she shouldn’t, but it’s like returning to a scab. Directly underneath the text she notices there’s a link to a YouTube video, posted by someone calling themselves @Anabolic100. She’s half expecting it to be obscene, but instead is surprised to see it’s of Ava. She clicks on it.

  ‘Ava Lindsey is a long-time Green campaigner here on campus. Ava, what do you think the government should be doing about climate change?’ The video is amateurish, with the background in focus instead of Ava’s face. It must be by a student.

  ‘Well, anything would be a start. The Paris Agreement doesn’t go nearly far enough, we need to be taking action on all fronts, across every section of society . . .’

  Ava has an authoritative voice, her gestures firm and unapologetic. She goes on to outline a Green action plan, dwelling passionately on the damage plastic bags are doing to the oceans. In spite of herself Frankie feels a sense of disappointment she didn’t have this footage when she did her report on Ava, but at least she can tell Kiera and use it in future. The thought is followed by an immediate wave of self-disgust. She closes the site, throwing the phone onto the sofa. How can she possibly be using this blog as an aid to her own reporting? Her only task should be to expose it. The phone lies beside her, a dark grey slug against the cream upholstery. ‘Let’s see what Kiera makes of you, dickhead,’ she says.

  Monday morning is overcast, the covering of cloud so thin it filters the light through in a flat glare, like a giant photographic reflector. Frankie parks up, squeezing in between Charlie’s rusting Volvo and one of the other reporters’ cars, a grey Clio. As she locks the door a voice behind makes her jump.

  ‘Is Zara in today?’

  It’s Brian, standing so close she almost hits him with her bag as she turns round.

  ‘Jesus!’ she says. ‘Where were you? You’re lucky I didn’t run you over.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, stepping back. ‘I did wave, I thought you saw me.’ He’s shifting nervously from foot to foot, overweight in a faded red anorak. Even though he’s given her some space, his bulk is still blocking the narrow way out between her car and Charlie’s Volvo.

  ‘Can you let me past?’

  ‘Sorry, I’m sorry.’ He shuffles backwards. ‘Is Zara in today? I just want an autograph. That’s all.’

  Frankie steps beyond the bonnet of her car, away from Brian, unconsciously holding her bag close to her body, relieved to have open space between her and the door to reception. ‘I thought she’d already given you an autograph?’

  ‘Yeah well, I know I’ve asked before.’ Brian looks embarrassed. ‘It’s just I thought maybe she could sign some old memorabilia of your show, you know, some publicity material from the 1970s.’

  ‘You’ve got stuff from the Eastern Film Company from the seventies? Like what, old posters?’ Frankie asks, almost interested in spite of herself. Brian nods and she laughs. ‘Blimey. I had no idea it even existed.’

  He beams at her. ‘I love your programme. You’re so lucky to work here. You’re so lucky to work with Zara.’ He takes a step closer. ‘I don’t think that Paul Carter deserves her.’

  Frankie is not especially fond of Paul but she doesn’t like the way Brian is trying to gossip about one of her colleagues; it doesn’t feel appropriate. He’s looking at her eagerly and she notices a speck of dried food on his chin. Revulsion rises in her throat, then she i
magines the loneliness of his life, his probable lack of friends, and feels sorry for him. It’s not his fault he’s so unprepossessing. ‘Look, Brian, I know you mean well,’ she says. ‘But you’re really not meant to ask for Zara’s autograph like this. If you want her to sign something, you should leave it at reception and then pick it up later, not approach staff in car parks.’

  ‘Oh right,’ says Brian, crestfallen. ‘OK.’

  ‘Take care,’ says Frankie, turning and walking quickly across the tarmac. She pushes through the glass revolving doors, aware Brian is still standing where she left him.

  ‘You OK there?’

  It’s not Ernie on reception today, but a new guy she’s only met a couple of times. ‘Yes, I’m fine. I think our number one fan is getting a bit too keen to see Zara though. Maybe you could have a word with him? I’m sure he’s harmless, but . . .’ She trails off, feeling guilty about adding to Brian’s sense of rejection.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll handle it,’ says the security guard, moving out from behind the desk. Frankie doesn’t watch him head into the car park to talk to Brian, but swipes herself into the newsroom. Charlie beckons her over to his desk, brandishing one of the weekend’s prejudicial front pages. There’s a look of glee on his face.

  ‘We’ve had a call. About Donald Emneth.’