Dead End

by Leigh Russell

  When all the fireworks were over a few people started to drift away. It was late, past midnight. ‘Got to go,’ Vernon mumbled, laughing. Suddenly it seemed hilarious that he could hardly find his way across the room which was swaying gently as though he was sailing away, free at last. ‘Sailing away,’ he said out loud. He began to sing.

  As he made his way along the street, not quite sure where he was, he heard singing. ‘I am sailing, I am sailing.’ He hiccupped and the singing jerked. ‘It's me!’ he shouted in sudden realisation and carried on raucously as the road swayed from side to side. All at once he felt sick. He was aware of a dull ache in the small of his back, between his shoulder blades, and with every step he thought he might vomit. He thought of his mother. Was this what if felt like to be old and sick? He felt like crying.

  He sat down on a low wall, shaking, with his head in his hands, and closed his eyes. After a few moments his head began to clear a little, and he sensed someone standing in front of him. Raising his head, Vernon thought he recognised the man looking down at him but it could have been a mask he'd seen earlier at Gary's. He blinked. The face was still there. A voice was talking to him, slow and silky. ‘I hardly need to sedate you now, do I?’ Vernon laughed uncertainly. He felt very confused. ‘You've done the job for me.’

  ‘Were you at Gary's?’

  The face grinned. ‘Yes. And now you're coming with me.’

  Vernon shook his head and everything moved around unsteadily. ‘No, sorry. See the thing is, I've got to get home to my mum. So I can't come with you, can I? I can't come with you because I've got to get home to my mum –’

  A hand gripped hold of him, like a vice. Sharp pain shot down Vernon's arm and he opened his mouth to yell but something was forced against his mouth. He swung out with his left arm and it flailed uselessly in the air. ‘I'm going to be sick,’ Vernon tried to say, but no words came out.

  ‘Just as well I've come prepared,’ the voice purred by Vernon's ear and everything went black.

  A face was floating above his head, bobbing about like a balloon. He knew it wasn't a balloon because the mouth was talking. Vernon tried to move but couldn't. He didn't mind. It was like being asleep while he was awake. With an effort he focused on a voice that seemed to be coming from the balloon face. He wondered if it was supposed to be a Hallowe'en mask.

  ‘Soon you won't be able to see anything.’ Huge white teeth grinned down at him, but the voice was very gentle. Vernon wanted to smile back at the friendly face. It was funny to be reassured by a balloon. He remembered his mother and tried to speak, to explain that he had to get back to her.

  ‘Don't worry,’ the grinning balloon said. ‘It won't hurt. Not for long anyway. Soon you won't be able to feel anything.’

  A black point hovered over Vernon's left eye. He barely felt the sharp blade slice into his flesh along the top of his cheek bone before burning pain overwhelmed him, but he couldn't move or cry out.

  32

  MISSING

  The Incident Room was ominously quiet on Sunday morning. Computers hummed, voices kept up a muted muttering, and an occasional telephone shrilled, but they couldn't pretend anything was happening.

  ‘No news is bad news,’ Peterson grumbled as Geraldine passed his desk. The sergeant hated being stuck at the station, tidying up his paperwork. Geraldine walked on, past a couple of constables who were chatting as they worked.

  ‘Did you see the bonfire night display down at the recreation ground?’ one of them asked.

  ‘I don't think they should've held it this year, so soon after that poor woman was found there.’

  ‘But it had been planned for months. And anyway they always do, it's the only place really.’

  A name caught Geraldine's attention as she crossed the room and walked past a constable talking on the telephone.

  ‘What was that you said?’ she asked when the constable hung up.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You said something about Vernon Mitchell?’

  ‘That was his mother on the phone, ma'am. She's worried because he went out to a party and didn't come home last night. But a seventeen-year-old boy staying out all night is hardly headline news, is it? After all, it was Hallowe'en. I expect he went to a party and stayed over. That's what I told Mrs Mitchell anyway. She seemed quite upset though.’

  Geraldine nodded and went to find Peterson. ‘Vernon Mitchell's the boy who saw a man arguing with Abigail Kirby just before she died.’

  ‘Yes, I know who he is, gov. And?’

  ‘And yesterday he came here to report that he thought someone was following him –’

  ‘Which we both agreed was hardly likely.’

  ‘I know. He was probably just feeling edgy because Abigail Kirby was murdered so soon after he saw her. But still –’ She looked at the sergeant, a worried frown creasing her forehead. ‘His mother just phoned in to report him missing.’

  ‘Did she now.’

  ‘It seems he went out to a party last night and never arrived home again.’

  ‘Well, that sounds fair enough. He's a young lad, could be off anywhere.’

  ‘But it's a coincidence all the same, isn't it? He thought he was followed home from work on Friday evening and the next day he disappeared. I think we should go and have a chat with the mother, see if she has any idea where he might be.’

  The sergeant shrugged. ‘If you think so, gov. But it can't be the first time he's been to an all night party.’

  ‘It's the first time she's phoned in to report him missing,’ Geraldine replied sharply. She was feeling decidedly uncomfortable about her dismissal of Vernon's worries the previous day and hoped she'd been right in assuming his concerns about being followed were unfounded. ‘Come on, let's go.’

  Mrs Mitchell lived in a row of well-kept terraced houses a couple of miles from the town centre. They were able to park right outside, and admired the neat tiny front garden as they approached the house along a short level path.

  A voice called to them from the other side of the door. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Mrs Mitchell, it's the police. You called the station to report that your son may be missing. We'd like to talk to you if it's convenient.’ The door was opened by a woman in a wheelchair. She had curly blonde hair and was wearing metal-rimmed glasses, which she took off to look up at them.

  ‘Mrs Mitchell?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Geraldine introduced herself and her sergeant, and they followed Mrs Mitchell into a small living room. Geraldine saw a table and a couple of comfortable chairs, with a space between them large enough for the wheelchair to fit in, opposite a small flat screen television.

  ‘It's my son, Vernon,’ the invalid began when they were all settled. ‘He went out last night to a friend's party and hasn't been home since. The thing is, officer, Vernon's not like other boys his age. He never stays out all night. He doesn't like to leave me on my own of an evening, in case – in case I need anything.’ She gave an apologetic grimace and gestured to her wheelchair. ‘I know he'd never stay out all night, not unless something was wrong.’

  ‘Have you tried to contact him?’

  ‘He left his phone at home last night. He didn't want to go out in case I needed anything, but I told him not to be daft. I'm fine on my own for a few hours and there are plenty of people I can call if I need help, which I don't. But he's been very protective of me since my illness. I had to insist he went out. He's a young boy, he should get out and enjoy himself. Only he hasn't come home and I think something's happened to him.’ She pressed one hand against her mouth and stared at them wide-eyed with worry. ‘Something's happened, hasn't it? That's why you're here, isn't it?’

  ‘I'm sure whatever the explanation is will turn out to be perfectly simple, Mrs Mitchell.’

  ‘Probably involving alcohol,’ Peterson added with forced good cheer.

  ‘Now, exactly when did you last see your son?’ Geraldine asked.

  ‘He was going to a Hallowe'en party. He lef
t at about eight and – and I haven't seen him since.’

  ‘Do you know where he went when he left yesterday evening?’

  ‘Yes. He went to his friend Gary. Gary Morecombe. I don't know his address but Vernon left the number in case I needed him. I phoned Gary when Vernon hadn't come home this morning and he said he wasn't sure what time Vernon left his house but it was before midnight anyway. Vernon definitely hadn't spent the night there and Gary didn't think he'd – gone home with a girl. In any case,’ she added quickly, ‘Vernon would always have called to let me know he was fine, and to check I was all right. He'd never go off like that without getting in touch. I know he wouldn't.’

  ‘We'll send a constable to speak to Gary Morecombe straightaway.’ Geraldine nodded at Peterson who went out into the hall to make the call while Geraldine reassured Mrs Mitchell the police would do what they could to trace Vernon. She promised to call the fretting mother as soon as they found him. ‘I expect he went home with a friend and got drunk,’ Peterson reassured the anxious mother as he came back into the room. ‘Seventeen-year-old boys can be very thoughtless like that.’

  ‘Not Vernon,’ Mrs Mitchell insisted. ‘He's always worrying about me. I wish he wouldn't feel so responsible, but since my husband died it's just the two of us and, as you can see, I'm not fit.’

  ‘What do you think, then, gov? If you ask me it's a case of a drunken lad who went out and got laid, or paralytic more like, and forgot all about his mother waiting for him at home.’

  Geraldine hoped Peterson was right.

  33

  SCHOOL

  Since her mother died, the teachers had stopped pestering her to work, but the other girls carried on taunting her as though nothing had happened. Lucy wasn't even sure if they knew about her mother's death. She certainly wasn't going to tell any of them about it. Debra was the worst, but they were all mean. It wasn't as if she'd done anything to provoke them. She was just a new girl who didn't fit in.

  ‘Do you think she likes being so skinny?’ Debra asked the other girls.

  ‘She's so boney!’

  ‘She thinks she looks like a supermodel.’ They all laughed. Lucy shrugged and turned away, but they had backed her into a corner and were blocking the corridor.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘She thinks we want something. From her.’ They sniggered again. ‘Have you looked at your Facebook page lately, scarecrow?’

  ‘I've closed my account. I never go on Facebook any more so you can say what you like about me. I don't care.’ She knew they had written horrible things about her, calling her ugly and making up lies about what she did with any boy desperate enough to go near her.

  ‘She's not on Facebook!’

  ‘Saddo!’

  Lucy made a sudden dash forward and caught the other girls off guard. They fell back allowing her to make a bolt for the toilets, while their jeering followed her along the hall. Lucy had never fitted in at school, and now it was just the same at home. Her dad didn't care about anyone but Charlotte, and Ben never stood up for her like brothers were supposed to do. He came barging into her room, poking his nose in where it wasn't wanted, as though she had no right to any privacy. As if that wasn't bad enough, now Aunty Evie had turned up and was sleeping in their mother's old room, and Lucy's father and brother didn't seem to mind at all. Lucy scowled. Auntie Evie hated her, and the feeling was entirely mutual. The only person who had ever cared about Lucy was her mother.

  Someone rattled the door. Lucy drew her knees up to her chest and sat perfectly still on the toilet lid.

  ‘Someone's in there,’ she heard a voice say. Lucy held her breath but the speaker swore and moved on to another cubicle.

  Cisterns flushed, the bell rang, and a voice called out. ‘Come on, girls, the bell's gone.’ Footsteps scurried past while Lucy perched on top of the lavatory, waiting for the commotion to die away. She couldn't face a geography lesson and considered going to the medical centre. Sister had told her she could go there whenever she felt the need for time alone. The school nurse wasn't normally so nice, but she was obviously being kind to Lucy because her mother was dead. Sister usually sent pupils straight back to lessons unless they were really sick and needed to go home, in which case she would phone their parents and insist on them being collected as quickly as possible. She was supposed to be the school nurse, but she never wanted to look after the children when they were sick. Adults were all like that. Fathers were supposed to take care of their children but Lucy's father was hardly ever even at home, and Aunty Evie said she'd come over to look after Lucy and Ben. That was a joke. Who wanted to be looked after by an old witch like her?

  The final straw for Lucy was when Ben told her he liked having Aunty Evie around.

  ‘That old cow? You must be joking!’

  ‘She's not that bad.’ Ben sat on Lucy's bed. ‘At least she can cook proper food.’

  ‘Is that all you care about, stuffing your face? And you can get off my bed.’

  Ben didn't move. ‘I didn't say that was all I cared about. At least I don't go round looking like a skeleton. Aunty Evie thinks you're anorexic.’

  ‘Well she doesn't know what she's talking about and you don't even know what anorexic means. And I thought I told you to get off my bed.’

  ‘Of course I know what it means. I'm not an idiot, and I can sit here if I want.’

  ‘No you can't. Get off my bed.’

  ‘Stop telling me what to do. Just because you're older than me doesn't give you the right to boss me around all the time.’ He lay back and stretched out on the bed.

  ‘Get your filthy shoes off my bed!’ Lucy shrieked. She leapt forward, seized him by the legs and pulled him as hard as she could. Ben grasped the duvet which slid across the bed beneath him. He was laughing so hard that he let go and landed on the floor with a thump, clutching his stomach. They heard Aunty Evie calling from downstairs. Ben clambered to his feet, still laughing, and left the room. Swearing furiously under her breath, Lucy replaced the duvet and brushed it down, although she couldn't see any mud from Ben's shoes on it. ‘Filthy little shit, thinks he can come in here and do what he bloody well likes.’

  She realised she was muttering to herself as she sat in the cubicle at school, clutching her knees to her chest, and fell silent, thinking, but as she tried to focus on making plans for the future, she heard Miss Abingdon calling her name.

  ‘Lucy, are you in here?’

  With a sigh, Lucy stood up and opened the door. ‘Yes, Miss. I've got a headache.’

  Miss Abingdon looked relieved to see her. ‘As long as you're alright,’ she said.

  Lucy frowned. She had just told her teacher she had a headache. How was that alright? And her mother was dead. She'd been murdered. Was that alright? ‘Yes, Miss.’ There was no point talking to idiot teachers. They didn't understand anything.

  ‘Shouldn't you be in geography now? Or do you want to go the medical centre and have a rest?’ Miss Abingdon put on an air of fake concern, as though she cared about Lucy when the truth was she simply didn't want any bother. If Lucy had killed herself, there in the school toilets, it would have caused her tutor no end of trouble. Lucy lowered her gaze and stared at the grubby floor tiles wishing she'd done it, cut her wrists so Miss Abingdon would have walked in and seen the floor of the toilets swimming in blood. It would've served her right.

  ‘Yes, Miss,’ she said.

  ‘What do you want to do, Lucy? Do you want to go and lie down? You look –’ Miss Abingdon was keen to pass the responsibility for Lucy on to the school nurse. ‘You don't look very well.’ She didn't say Lucy looked as though she'd been crying and it might be best not to return to her class looking like shit.

  ‘Yes, Miss. I'll go to the medical centre,’ Lucy answered.

  She glanced back over her shoulder before she turned a corner in the corridor. Miss Abingdon was watching her, a worried frown on her face. Lucy walked past the entrance to the medical centre and out through the side door into t
he school yard.

  34

  NEIGHBOURS

  Geraldine and her sergeant went to interview the Kirbys’ neighbours to see if they could add to the picture the police were building up about Matthew. The Kirbys lived in a detached house towards one end of a wide avenue lined with silver birch, a mixture of detached and semi-detached properties. To one side of the Kirbys was a semi-detached house and they tried there first.

  The door rattled and a grey haired woman opened it slightly. ‘Yes?’ She peered suspiciously up at them, and they saw she had the chain on.

  Geraldine held out her warrant card and the woman removed the chain and opened the door fully. She was short and very thin, her shoulders bowed with age. Geraldine thought she would probably scare children, with her sharp eyes, pointed nose and chin.

  ‘How can I help you, officer?’ Briefly, Geraldine explained the reason for their call. ‘I thought it would be about the woman next door. Shocking business, isn't it? Although I suppose it's all in a day's work for you. Well, if you're hoping I can help, I'm sorry to disappoint you but I can't really say I knew them at all. To be honest, I hardly spoke to them. Not that there was any bad feeling, but they were busy people and I don't go out much these days. My daughter comes when she can –’

  ‘What about the children?’ Geraldine interrupted her.