The Long Dark Road

by P. R. Black

  ‘I’d rather not. They already think I’m mad. And anyway, I can’t be sure.’ A cold sweat broke out across her body, and she stopped short.

  ‘You’re not going to be sick, are you? Because if you are, you know… get outside before you do it. This place isn’t the Palais but if you blow chunks, this is the most awkward place. Crook of a staircase? I wouldn’t want to get on hands and knees with the carpet cleaner in this space, love.’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you. Just tell me where I am and how I can get some transport.’

  ‘You head for the clock tower, you’ll go past the train station. There’s a taxi rank outside it.’ Lil steered her towards a door with a man in high-vis standing outside it. He eyed Georgia carefully as they went outside. The morning had a little bite in it, and there was some mist in the air. The last traces of winter, she thought; she checked her phone. Before 7am.

  ‘And… here’s my card. You get in touch if you need anything. But I won’t expect to see you back here.’ Lil passed her the paperwork. Lil Baikie, it read. Manager, Ellwood House.

  ‘Thank you,’ Georgia said, putting it in her bag. ‘I owe you a lot.’

  ‘It’s my job.’ Lil shrugged, nodded at the doorman, then walked in the opposite direction.

  Georgia’s head spun again as she shuffled into the taxi and gave the directions. If a spiral staircase is the worst place to be sick, then the back of a taxi is surely a close second, she thought, willing the roundabouts to ease up.

  ‘OK back there?’ asked the driver, a concerned pair of eyes in the mirror.

  ‘Just about.’

  ‘Big night, eh?’ She sensed rather than saw the grin.

  ‘Plenty big enough.’

  ‘Was it an eighties night, then?’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Eh, the hair. Bonnie Tyler? No?’

  Jesus. She felt her hair. It had in fact gone crazy. And she hadn’t even checked. ‘Yeah. It was a tribute night.’

  ‘Hard life, eh?’

  ‘Whatever. Turn around, bright eyes.’

  He laughed in unaffected mirth, but Georgia’s stomach was churning. Had she been drinking? It wasn’t something she could remember, but there was a sweet and sour aftertaste at the back of her throat that could have been spirits. She didn’t feel especially hung over, though. Had she drunk a shot or two? Perhaps, when it was passed to her. But Georgia was almost certain that she’d been slipped something. K was a possibility, although this was only something she’d read about like most other parents, rather than having experienced herself.

  She paid up and hobbled into the lobby of the lodging house. The pretty girl with the eastern European accent at the front desk looked up in some alarm when she entered.

  ‘I know, I need a shower, and I need a mechanic for my hair. I apologise. I haven’t looked this much of a fright since I was last on the telly with the police.’

  The girl got up; it took Georgia a while to take in what she was actually saying. ‘No, there was a man here for you, asking for you.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘He was white, white-skinned. He had a hat on, like a beanie hat, like you’d wear when it was cold. I’m sorry, I don’t remember too much more.’

  ‘Young or old?’

  ‘Forties, maybe fifties.’

  ‘Was he tall? Wearing glasses?’

  ‘No glasses. Quite tall.’

  ‘He didn’t leave a name, or anything?’

  ‘No, he left before I could ask. Said he would be back later.’

  ‘And this happened when?’

  ‘This morning.’

  She checked her watch. ‘It’s not even nine o’clock yet.’

  The girl shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know anything else.’

  No glasses? It could have been anyone. It could have been someone from the party. Or… It could have been one of those jackals who featured in her murky memories from Bewley Street. She pictured them with yellow eyes, but few other details came to the fore. God, she’d been screaming and shouting. I want to know about my daughter. Who knew about my daughter?

  In her room, Georgia flung off the rank clothes, then blasted with scalding water in the shower. Soon she was dressed in fresh pyjamas, her hair dried, saddled and shod. She looked at her phone, and realised it was dead – she had barely had time to check anything, after her original appraisal at the party. She plugged the phone into the wall, then rooted around inside a zip-up section, hidden at the back.

  ‘Special reserve. Thank God nobody found you boys,’ she said, addressing a blistered pack. Georgia hadn’t had cause to open these for a while; she popped two of them into a glass of water and watched them fizz, before knocking the cup back.

  Within a minute or two, any lingering hangover had gone, replaced by a certain controlled calm. That was better.

  She lay back on the bed, luxuriating in the sense of numbness, welcoming the dark to come. These were something she’d had been prescribed by a colleague who should probably have known better. She hadn’t resorted to these of late, but now was as good a time as any. Take the edge off. Maybe take the rest of the day off. Back into it tomorrow.

  Then, seeing a couple of energy bars reappear on the phone, she switched it on.

  And saw the messages. The new ones filled the screen, from many sources. The names involved made her heart kick: Rod, of course, with the majority. Then her friend and colleague since medical school, Barbara. Then one from Neal Hurlford’s personal number.

  Fear came in slow waves – it was something she was aware of without having direct experience of it, like the sound of an alarm breaking through the walls of a dream. She sat up; then she was on her feet. All the missed calls, too…

  Then the door was battered.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she could barely say it. She stuffed the blister pack back into her bag, her fingers taking on the consistency of plasticine, so slow were the movements.

  ‘Georgia, open up and let me in.’

  She did so – and there was Rod. Over his shoulder, the girl at reception’s face swung into view, pinched tight in anxiety.

  ‘I’m so sorry, he barged in – shall I call the police?’

  ‘It won’t be necessary, thank you. He’s my husband.’ She turned to Rod. ‘And without glasses, as I live and breathe. You got contacts? New girlfriend, so soon?’

  ‘Georgia…’ he sighed. He looked like he wanted to put his hands on her, but restrained himself. ‘They’ve found a body.’

  18

  I sank again the other day. I’d call it a fugue, but it’s so much better than that, so much more resonant. Some days with Cornfed, that’s all you want. That blissful fade-out. There is a price to pay after we’re apart, though. A phone call or a text message can’t cut it.

  From the diary of Stephanie Healey

  ‘What do you mean? Body? What body?’

  Georgia felt herself sinking to the floor in stages, like bad animation. Rod caught her before she got there. ‘A body,’ he said. ‘They found it yesterday. In farmland, not far away from here.’

  She let him sit her on the bed; let him hold her hand. She guessed from looking at the indentations his fingers made in her skin that he was holding it tightly, but she couldn’t feel it. ‘It’s her, isn’t it?’ she heard herself say. ‘It’s her. It must be her.’

  ‘Is everything all right, Mrs Healey?’ asked the receptionist. Her eyes might have been on stalks.

  ‘I’m Mr Healey,’ Rod snapped. ‘And she’s quite all right.’

  ‘It’s OK, honey. I’m fine.’

  Rod stretched out one long leg and swung the door to, cutting off the girl from reception. ‘They don’t know if it’s her,’ he said gently. ‘They’re carrying out some tests, but nobody can be sure just yet. Hurlford said they were waiting until they got in touch with you before releasing any information at all. He said, off the record, that it’s unlikely – but he wanted you to know they’d found something befo
re a story appeared in the media and you put two and two together.’

  ‘It’s her,’ Georgia said again. Was her heart beating faster? ‘It must be.’

  ‘He said not to leap to conclusions. He wouldn’t be drawn on any details, but said the word “unlikely”. I don’t know why he’s saying that. I don’t know what state… We have to hold on to that for now.’

  ‘I want it to be her. I want this to be over, now. I can’t stand the not knowing. I’m turning my cards in, Rod. I’ve had enough.’

  Rod took her by the shoulder – gently – and turned her to face him. He looked into her eyes, expressionless, for several seconds. ‘Where are they?’ he said.

  ‘What?’ She remembered to blink.

  He got up and tore through her bag. He unzipped, pulled open compartments and emptied the bag out. ‘The pills. The fucking pills! Where are they?’

  Georgia got up; the room seemed to swell and tilt, but she kept her feet. ‘You’ve no right. You never had the right. Get out of my bag, get out of this room, and get out of my life!’

  ‘This is going to end up with you dead. Do you even read the news? A GP, addicted to painkillers. In the name of almighty God…’

  She found her voice, and drenched him with it. ‘How dare you judge me? You of all people!’

  ‘What happened to you? The girl at reception said you were out. I saw you staggering out of a taxi this morning. Where were you?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’

  Rod hurled the bag with some force against the headboard. What he was looking for was still inside. Always the last place you look, she thought. ‘Don’t play games with me.’

  ‘For your information, there was a benefit concert for Stephanie last night. At The Orchard. This band, the Megiddos…’

  ‘Nice of you to tell me.’ He folded his arms, and ground his teeth.

  ‘This band, the Megiddos, they were Stephanie’s classmates. It was a benefit gig for the fund to help find her. If you’d been in contact with me, or if you’d been keeping in touch with the case, then maybe you’d have known that already!’

  ‘I’ve been busy,’ he said.

  ‘Oh yeah. With the new model. Taking your mind off things, is she?’

  ‘Let’s not do this here. I’m here for you.’

  ‘How did you know where I was?’

  ‘Hurlford told me. He contacted me, when he was trying to get in touch with you last night. He said you’d been in town. I came straight down to find you. He thought I might still know where you were.’

  Georgia stared at her pyjamas, her bare feet. She knew her heart was beating, but it was like taking a patient’s pulse, a distant percussion. ‘I need you to get out of the building, Rod. I’ll get dressed, then we’ll contact Hurlford. He must know the score by now…’ Clothes, Georgia was going to say. Perhaps they could tell by the clothes? But then of course, she might not have been wearing any. She heard Scott Trickett’s Year Four bullying voice, a fly orbiting her ear: ‘Wonder if she’s in a shallow grave? Or a deep one? In one piece? Or half a dozen?’

  ‘I’m staying right here.’

  ‘I’ll call Hurlford.’

  ‘You’re wasting your time – he’s been diverted to answerphone the whole morning. Last time I spoke to him, he said he would contact us.’

  She stifled a yawn. Even here, at a time like this, this is what the pills could make you do. She regretted taking them, full stop. ‘I’m not asking you again, Rod. I’ll call the police and tell them you’re intruding – which you are. I might even tell them you’ve been acting threateningly.’

  ‘No one’s been threatening you!’ he scoffed.

  ‘I might ask them to speak to the receptionist you just barged past and slammed the door on. The one who’s probably been listening to raised voices. If she’s a clever girl, she might even have called them already. I think I’d rather call the cops, than ignore the shouting and bawling and have something nasty happen.’

  Rod pursed his lips, and nodded. ‘Very calculating. That’s the Georgia I remember, all right.’ He applauded, sarcastically.

  Looking at him now, she could pinpoint when it was that she first realised she’d fallen out of love with him. It must have dated from the time he’d started wearing the glasses, and got paranoid about his receding hairline and cropped it as close as it would go. He’d lost weight, having gone down the angular, bendy rabbit hole that was semi-serious cycling. She’d gone past his cycling troupe one day, four of them going two abreast on a windy back road Georgia took to get home from the surgery to avoid traffic. She thought she’d recognised Rod’s bony arse pistoning above the flat blade of the saddle; when she saw the branded helmet and shades there was no doubt. She’d wanted to blast the horn at them, to scatter them like starlings.

  Later on, the preamble to that night’s argument had been, ‘I know cyclists have every right to be on the road, but…’

  He’d gotten paranoid about his weight round about the time Stephanie had gone to high school, and to be fair he stuck to exercise and dieting and removed a spare tyre he’d developed. The tragedy of it was, Georgia hadn’t minded the spare timber on him; some nights, when they still cuddled up on a Friday night to watch the chat shows, eat crisps and slurp wine, she had even liked it. The more weight he lost, and the fitter he became, the more pleased he became with himself, the less Georgia had liked it.

  Stephanie closely resembled him; there was no doubt they were father and daughter, although you would never have made the same call about Georgia and her own girl. Oddly, the angular features, the long nose and the pinched, but bright black eyes that looked so awkward on his face suited hers perfectly. The ideal ugly duckling, once she’d grown tall like he was, everything had fallen into place about her appearance. The long legs, the cheekbones, even the ears, which she’d been distraught about at age eleven or so, once the bitchy little friends had found an easy target. Even the teeth and the short hair and the long nose all made an appealing picture. Georgia hadn’t wanted her to cut her hair short, had hated it, but was forced to admit the effect was even more striking. Boys had adored her, particularly in her senior years at school. If only she’d realised.

  And now they had found her. Perhaps the features were no more. ‘Is she a skeleton?’ Scott Trickett’s voice, again. ‘Did someone smash the skull up?’

  Georgia slapped herself, hard. It certainly got Rod’s attention. ‘My God. Take it easy, Georgia.’

  ‘Take it easy yourself, you patronising twerp. I told you to get out. Final warning. I’ll meet you in the foyer. Wait there. I’ll be ten minutes.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘The police station, dummy.’

  19

  You should see my dad, running. He has the most comical run. He thinks he can do it with a bit of style, with proper structure, with his palms held flat I guess for the sake of streamlining, and his trousers flapping about his stork’s legs. He runs like he is trying to avoid each individual drop of rain; he has no forward direction. He’s a disaster in progress, a crane crashing through some scaffolding. He’s a video game character with a bug, out of control, in need of a reboot. All that effort to catch a bus. I told him, once I’d caught up with him, with the tail-lights over the hill: Never, ever run for a bus.

  From the diary of Stephanie Healey

  Georgia must have started crying because she saw tears drop onto her jeans, making dark little patches. It was something to do with the smile on the face of the female police officer in plain clothes who came into the room; the smile angled downwards, following the cast of the eyes perfectly. Georgia had wanted to make a joke about Princess Diana’s smile, but the police officer might have been too young to remember Princess Diana. There was a reason for that smile, its slightly smudged quality, a long way short of a grin, bereft of sincerity.

  ‘It’s her,’ she heard herself say. ‘Isn’t it?’

  The female police officer said nothing. She only leaned close, and took Ge
orgia’s hand. Georgia allowed herself to be led into the dance, her head on the girl’s chest.

  Rod said nothing. His hands were linked on the table, his shoulders relaxed, staring straight ahead.

  Hurlford came in. He had a folder, much like he had in the office when she’d spoken to him recently. She wondered if it was a prop, something to divert the attention. He cleared his throat before he said: ‘Thank you both for coming – I appreciate this is another difficult moment, on top of a lot of difficult moments. I’ll get it out of the way – it isn’t her.’

  Georgia’s emotions fluctuated, seeming to roll over the skin of her face, much as a cuttlefish might change colour when spooked. ‘What? It’s not her?’

  Rod’s hands unclenched. He took a slow, shuddering breath. Tears glinted behind his spectacles.

  ‘I’m so sorry – we couldn’t say for sure over the phone, before we knew for certain. It’s the body of a young woman in her early twenties, but we are certain that it’s not Stephanie.’

  ‘It’s not Stephanie?’ She was incredulous. After all this. ‘You brought us out here to tell us that? I was sure this was it… I was sure…’ Still, she couldn’t quite extricate herself from the policewoman’s grasp. She wasn’t sure she wanted to. Just sleep. To sleep… You need to sleep…

  ‘I’m sorry – I have a policy that I don’t just tell people over the phone, if at all possible. It’s better if you’re prepared. I can’t give people news of that nature while they’re on speaker phone in the car, say, or in the middle of doing something dangerous or important. I had to bring you in.’

  ‘I’ll tell you why you had to bring us in.’ Rod brushed a tear from his eye, before replacing them. ‘You wanted to have a look at us, didn’t you? Me in particular.’

  DI Hurlford showed no discomfort at this. ‘As I say, we have a clear procedure in place.’

  ‘Was the girl murdered?’ Rod asked. ‘Or can’t you say?’

  ‘We won’t be one hundred per cent certain until the toxicology report is in, but we would have to say that at the moment there don’t appear to be any suspicious circumstances.’