by John Marrs
‘Deep breaths,’ advised Nicole, taking Savannah’s arm as a brown station wagon drove slowly past them and parked further up the street. ‘If you get stressed, the baby will feel stressed too.’
Slowly, they walked up the crazy paving that separated the lawn and towards the house Savannah had only seen in a brochure. The upstairs curtains were closed and the blinds in the downstairs windows pulled shut.
‘Good luck,’ added Nicole, as they reached the porch.
Savannah rang the doorbell, but was greeted by silence. After a few moments, she pressed the button again, but still there was no response. Finally she knocked, and then again, more loudly. And when she pulled the door handle and discovered it was locked, she couldn’t hold back her tears any longer.
Nicole walked towards the window and peered inside, but it was too dark to make out anything but an empty, furniture-less room. She turned to Savannah and offered her a sympathetic smile, but Savannah had already accepted the inevitable.
CHAPTER 76
With no credit left on his mobile phone, Declan used the pay phone in reception to call home to Ireland and check up on his younger brothers.
Meanwhile Matty made the most of his time alone to take a look at photographs of their travels he’d had printed on his way back from the pawn shop. He temporarily forgot the aches in his chest and smiled at a picture of himself wrapped in warm winter ski wear in Grenoble, France, drinking a yard of ale at a bar, and laughed at a passed-out Declan lying on a Moroccan street. He removed a selfie of the two of them inside Rome’s Coliseum, folded it in half and placed it in his shirt pocket. Then he put the envelope of photographs under Declan’s pillow, along with their Travel America guide with his crucifix placed inside.
All at once, Matty felt light-headed and sensed his pulse racing, so he sat on his mattress, closed his eyes, put his head in his hands and composed himself. Although they had stayed at more desirable places, it was the only hostel that Matty felt truly comfortable in and he was sure that when the time came to leave Declan alone, he would get the support he needed from the people around him.
Matty reflected on his time in Los Angeles and was confident he and Declan had gone out of their way to endear themselves to their fellow hostellers. They’d never lied about their intentions in their pursuit of the opposite sex, and as both had been up front about what they were looking for, their consciences were clear. The only thing troubling Matty about his forthcoming journey into the great unknown was the death of the postmaster and the role he and Declan had unwittingly played in it. He hoped that with just one transgression to his name – albeit a large one – he’d be allowed through the pearly gates.
‘You ready for some scran before the party?’ began Declan, bursting into the room, ‘’cos if I don’t eat soon, Sir Bob’s gonna organise a feckin’ benefit concert for me.’
‘Only if you’re buying,’ Matty replied, trying his best to put a brave face on the chest pains that refused to go away.
CHAPTER 77
‘How could I have been so dumb?’ sobbed Savannah, ‘I thought Jane was my friend.’
‘Sweetheart, I’m so sorry,’ replied Nicole, trying to console her. She knew too well how easy it was to be duped by someone you’d placed your trust in.
‘It’s not your fault, honestly. Sometimes we put our faith in people and they end up hurting us more than we can ever believe. We’ll find a way of sorting this out, I promise you.’
‘How? She has all my money. If I can’t trust Jane, I have no one.’
Nicole pulled a packet of paper tissues from her pocket and handed one to Savannah as they began to make their way back towards the waiting taxi.
‘Oh, you’re here already!’ a voice behind them suddenly chirped. Both Savannah and Nicole turned their heads quickly to find the front door open and Jane standing there, a bin bag in one hand and an empty cardboard box in the other.
‘What’s wrong? Is it the baby?’ Jane suddenly asked, noticing Savannah’s tears.
‘You’re here! But we knocked on the door . . .’ cried Savannah.
‘Sorry, I was out back scrubbing the bins. The last tenants left the place looking like a pigsty.’
‘I thought you’d left me.’
‘Don’t be silly! Why would I do that? I wanted to make the place shipshape before you and the furniture arrived. Oh, and I brought that money you hide so badly behind your locker just in case you forgot it.’
‘But your kids’ pictures were in the trash?’
‘They’ve been in my luggage so long they’ve become dog-eared, so I got some reprints done and bought a nicer frame. Have I done something wrong?’
‘Sorry, Jane, we were worried – you disappeared so quickly,’ replied Nicole. ‘And Savannah’s money had gone.’
‘Oh honey, I’m sorry, I just got ahead of myself without thinking. I’m your friend – I’m not going anywhere, alright?’
‘Okay.’
‘Now get your bum inside and I’ll put a brew on. Will you join us, Nicole?’
‘Thanks, but I’m going to head back and help with tonight’s party. Do you want me to pack your things up for you, Savannah?’
‘Do you mind?’
‘Not at all. Come by and pick them up when you’re ready.’
Nicole smiled as Jane put her arm around Savannah and the two headed into their new home and new life. And it restored a tiny, tiny piece of her faith in people that she thought she’d lost.
As her taxi pulled away, the brown station wagon parked further up the street remained.
CHAPTER 78
Nicole borrowed a key from an uninterested Sadie and let herself into Savannah and Jane’s room.
Her ribs still ached so she moved slowly as she folded up T-shirts and towels and packed them into Savannah’s suitcase. She wondered how she’d fill in the rest of the day until the party began in Santa Monica. With Tommy flying below the radar and Eric awaiting a court hearing, she had never felt so lonely in a building full of people.
Recent events had exhausted Nicole physically and emotionally, and she had no energy or desire to keep travelling alone, but she also had little reason to return to England. But she did have two holdalls hidden in the hostel containing more money than she knew what to do with. How she would use it to her advantage she had yet to decide.
Nicole scooped up half a dozen bottles of shampoo, conditioners, fake tan and body glitter, then tested out Savannah’s perfumes by spraying them on her wrists. She gave both sides of her neck a spritz with a large bottle of Beyonce’s Heat Wild Orchid, but as she went to place it inside a bag, she tripped over the bathroom mat.
There was nothing she could do to prevent the heavy mauve-coloured bottle from leaving her hands, flying through the air and colliding with the full-length wall mirror, shattering it into pieces across the bathroom floor. And she screamed when she saw the face of a terrified man in a room behind where the mirror had been.
‘Ron!’
CHAPTER 79
The photographs in the brochure Jane had shown Savannah didn’t do their new home justice.
Savannah entered under the tiled pitched porch roof and into a light and airy reception room. Through the kitchen window ahead, she saw into the colourful planted garden where a sprinkler threw water into an arc above the lawn. Inside and to the left, behind glass doors, was a dining room with an eight-seat table and wicker chairs still packed in cardboard and bubble wrap, and to the right was an empty lounge.
‘The beds are already here, but the rest of the furniture won’t arrive till tomorrow afternoon,’ advised Jane.
But Savannah didn’t care; she was already in love with her new house.
‘You don’t know where to look first, do you?’ smiled Jane. ‘I was the same.’
‘It’s beautiful, thank you so much for finding it,’ Savannah replied, and embraced her friend.
Jane led Savannah into the kitchen,andpoured hot water from the kettle to make two mugs of herbal tea. ‘Go and have a look
around while I pop to the loo.’
Savannah picked up her mug and wandered from room to room, wondering if Jane had been economical with the truth about the rental price. But even if she couldn’t afford to pay her way at the moment, she vowed to eventually.
‘We’re home,’ she whispered to her stomach and smiled. ‘We’re home.’
*
‘She’s here,’ Jane said curtly.
Inside the locked bathroom she whispered into a mobile phone. ‘I’ll give her a stronger sedative before she goes to bed, but wait until I call you before you send the car.’
Back in Montgomery, Alabama, Reverend Devereaux hung up the phone and gave a victorious smile.
CHAPTER 80
Ron and Nicole stared at each other, both equally frightened and uneasy.
Nicole took a step backwards, having learned from her showdown with Eric that when backed into a corner, human behaviour could return to its most basic, animalistic form at the drop of a hat. But the anger she felt towards Ron was stronger than her fear of how he might retaliate.
Confrontation did not sit well with Ron, but try as he might, he couldn’t find a way out of the situation. And in his sixty-two years on the planet, he had placed himself in many an unusual situation.
*
Ronald Arthur Hancock had never met anyone he could call a friend.
Home schooled on a remote corn farm in Oklahoma, and with no brothers, sisters or neighbourhood kids to play with, Ron was accustomed to his own company.
He was a shy, scrawny seventeen-year-old on a drive into town for farm supplies when the tornado struck. Ron and the general store’s customers took cover in the storm shelter until the violent, rotating column of air passed. By the time Ron reached his home later that afternoon, it was scattered in pieces across the great plains, along with his parents’ bodies. He was left with nothing but a generous insurance policy payout.
Being alone was made harder by Ron’s lack of skills that others took for granted – the ability to empathise, relate to or identify with other people. He’d been told by his father these were necessary smarts to get by in life, but the developmental disability in his brain caused him to freeze when anyone, even a familiar face, tried to engage him in polite chit-chat. As a result, much of his time he spent alone in his motel room, passing the time practicing conversations with his reflection in the bathroom mirror.
Ron took a rare excursion one Presidents’ Day when Uncle Sam’s Great American Circus rolled into town. As the townsfolk enjoyed the rides, stalls, animals and performers, it was the hall of mirrors that transfixed Ron. He was fascinated by how flexible glass contorted his face and body into mutated shapes. By simply standing and doing nothing, he could become something unrecognisable from himself. It was, ironically, a moment of clarity.
His first job after his parents’ farm was flattened was working for a mirror manufacturer in Tulsa. Despite his lack of experience, he was employed as an apprentice and learned how to mix the reflective coating, apply it to suitable substrates and construct frames from various woods, metals and plastics. Ron adored his new career, and each time he completed a commission, he saw something different about himself in his reflection.
A decade had passed when Ron was tasked with manufacturing a 5-feet-square, two-way mirror for the Texas State Penitentiary at Huntsville. As he hung it in the warehouse for a final check and polish before transportation, he was delighted by how he could observe his workmates from one side and not be seen from the other. A two-way mirror allowed him to be a part of the world without ever having to interact with it.
Ron joined his foreman Hank on the truck ride to Huntsville to fit the mirror in a small, green-bricked, brightly lit room. On one side where the mirror was to be pitted was a row of wooden chairs, and on the other, a stainless steel table with five leather straps and two wrist restraints.
‘It’s where the death row boys get the needle,’ Hank explained. ‘The witnesses can watch him die, but he ain’t gonna see them. All he can see is his own reflection and the light going out of his own eyes.’
Butterflies circled Ron’s stomach, and for the next fortnight, all he could think about were what stories the mirror he created would be able to tell. When child-murderer Bobby Dalgleish’s execution date was set for a month’s time, Ron invented an excuse to contact the prison and lied, suggesting the mirror might have a near-invisible hairline crack in need of urgent repair.
After giving it a detailed once over in a convincing performance, Ron asked if he could remain there to witness the execution. The suspicious chief eyed him up and down – it wasn’t a request he received often – but concluding Ron was innocuous, consent forms were signed and countersigned, and Dalgleish’s execution was the first of sixty-two Ron observed over the next two and a half decades. Ron gained no pleasure or thrill from watching a state-sanctioned murder; it was the ability to covertly watch someone at their most vulnerable that attracted him.
Executions weren’t a weekly or even monthly occurrence in Texas, meaning Ron travelled the country seeking them out. Sometimes he’d pose as a long-lost member of a victim or perpetrator’s family needing closure or to offer support; on other occasions, he pretended to be working as a reporter for an obscure small-town publication with a make-believe vested interest in the execution.
Not every appointment went the way Ron intended. When in Alabama he discovered the observation room contained a window not a mirror, he immediately walked out. In Arizona, he felt short-changed when a curtain was drawn as soon as the lethal injection was administered. But over time, the criteria for witnessing an execution became tougher, the identity checks more rigorous and Ron more frequently refused entry.
When his employers shut up shop in the recession, Ron’s savings and farm insurance payout funded his travels across America, and eventually he found himself as the oldest guest at a decrepit backpacking hostel in Los Angeles. The owner had made it known she’d happily sell for a bargain price, so Ron used the last of his savings to purchase his first home since the farm.
Although Ron didn’t need to interact with people, he learned to appreciate being surrounded by them, and sometimes he’d sit in his office with the door ajar, going about his hostel business as the voices on the other side went about theirs.
Ron had yet to meet a woman who would make any impact on his life. That was until the night he sat inside a private peep show booth at a strip club and instantly fell for a beautiful dancer called Savannah, as she moved before him from behind a two-way mirror.
*
‘You spied on Savannah while she was in her bathroom?’ Nicole began. ‘That’s disgusting! Jesus, Ron, she trusted you.’
‘I wasn’t spying – someone had to look out for her,’ Ron replied, his voice trembling. ‘She was vulnerable and she needed me.’
‘She was only vulnerable because of people like you taking advantage of her.’
‘I didn’t take advantage, I just needed to be close to her.’
‘Yeah, I can see how close you’ve come,’ Nicole replied, and gave a disgusted glance at the discarded tissues lying by Ron’s feet. ‘You’re sick.’
‘I’m sorry, please don’t tell her,’ replied Ron, and Nicole recognised angst in his eyes. He moved towards her, but a wary Nicole temporarily forgot about her bruising and reached down to grab a piece of the broken perfume bottle and held it in front of her like a weapon.
‘Why shouldn’t I tell her? Because she’d see you for what you are? A dirty, grubby little pervert?’
‘I’m not.’
‘What you’ve done isn’t normal, Ron! Surely you can see that? And Savannah needs to know.’
‘But if you tell her she’ll never come back, and I’ll never see my . . .’ Ron’s brow wrinkled and he clasped his hand over his mouth.
‘See your what?’ asked Nicole.
When Ron didn’t reply, the penny dropped for Nicole.
CHAPTER 81
The thumping beat of
electronic dance music blared from six large speakers surrounding a DJ’s booth as around 600 hostellers danced and drank across the floodlit Santa Monica beach.
Partygoers had walked or been bussed in from Los Angeles’ six hostels in Venice, Santa Monica, Hollywood and Hermosa Beach to mark the end of the summer with an all-night celebration. As a rule, LA’s vast beaches were legally out of bounds by 10 p.m., but tonight was an exception courtesy of a tourism initiative to promote the city as a place to stay rather than to use as a stopover between more traveller-friendly regions like San Francisco or San Diego.
LA Tourism Board and hostel managers collaborated to fund two photographers and a film crew to take pictures and video footage for a print and online viral video promotional campaign. Marshalls handed guests wristbands, coloured to match their respective hostels, and keep unwelcome gatecrashers out.
A scout was sent to find the most attractive of the travellers to appear in the forthcoming promo material, but Matty and Declan politely refused the offer when approached, and relocated to a quieter section of the beach. Declan tucked into a second cheeseburger with all the trimmings while Matty lay on the sand, propped up by his elbows, staring into the distance. He kept his exhaustion to himself.
‘D’you reckon we should start thinking about moving on?’ asked Declan.
‘Finish your food first.’
‘I meant leaving LA.’
‘Why? You love it here, we’ve made friends here.’
‘I know, it’s been a blast. I just thought you might want to try somewhere else.’
‘Nah,’ said Matty shaking his head, ‘if you’re happy, I’m happy, and this is a good place to be.’
Declan grabbed a plastic cup of beer and a bottle of water for Matty from an ice bucket behind him.
