The Girl in the Empty Room

by Neil Randall

  “I tried my best, but they don’t speak very good English, and I just presumed they’d hitch-hiked it down to the smoke.”

  Hepworth nodded his head a few times. Priestly jotted rapid-fire notes into a pad.

  “Okay, that’s very enlightening, Mr Leach. Now, onto another matter: the disappearance of Miss Jacqueline Franklin. You were a couple at one time, weren’t you? – boyfriend and girlfriend.”

  “Sort of,” he replied. “Didn’t last very long, though, bit of a nutcase, that one, loose bloody cannon, off her face half the time, didn’t know whether she was coming or going. So I got rid of her.”

  “So we understand, having spoken to a few of Miss Franklin’s close friends. Now, have you any idea where she might’ve disappeared to?”

  “No. None. We, erm…didn’t exactly part on the best of terms. It was a bit messy. She sent me a good few abusive texts, stuff like that.”

  “And did you reply to the texts?”

  “No, I ignored ’em, ignored her. I wanted to move on.”

  “Okay,” said Hepworth. “I can understand that. And when was the last time you saw or spoke to Miss Franklin.”

  “Cor, don’t know off the top of my head, probably one of those texts was the last time she contacted me, but I hadn’t seen her, face to face, since I gave her the elbow.”

  “And during the time you were with Miss Franklin, did you have genuine feelings for her?”

  “What?”

  “I ask the question because some of the people we’ve spoken to suggested that you were guilty of infecting her with a venereal disease. And if that’s the case, Mr Leach, then why haven’t you reported to the quarantine zone? As you must be aware, for their own well-being, all people who’ve had unprotected intercourse in the last twenty-one days are –”

  “Venereal disease! Me? Never! Always use protection. Besides, I haven’t got any symptoms, no rashes, no nothing.”

  Hepworth took a notebook out of his inside pocket and opened it on a marked page.

  “What about your liaison with Ruth Green, the sixteen-year-old sister of Mandy? According to her, the two of you were engaged in sexual relations up until a few weeks ago when she informed you she was pregnant with your child. The same goes for a, erm…Diane Peterson, one of the first young women in town to be tested positive for a sexual infection, which, she alleges you passed onto her via unprotected sex.” Hepworth looked up at Jason over the notebook. “Both young women are currently at the quarantine zone, so I suggest you pack an overnight bag and come with us immediately. We’ll drive you out there so you can undergo tests.”

  “Oh, come on, mate. If I ain’t got no problems downstairs then I’m in the clear – surely. And you shouldn’t listen to what all those local slappers say, full of shit, most of ’em. And I’ll get the bullet if I have to piss off from work for best part of three days. Can’t you –?”

  “No. I’m afraid we’re going to have to insist.”

  ***

  “Right,” said Hepworth, from behind his desk at the local police station. “Now we’ve got the names of the two missing girls, all we can do is wait until we hear back from our Polish counterparts. But if they left the house, factory and their jobs together, the chances are they could very well have decided to try their luck somewhere else.”

  “Maybe,” said Priestly. “Although there was something very shady about that Jason Leach, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Clearly he’d been briefed by Babb, told exactly what to say to us.”

  “Oh, without a doubt, the question is why? Because he knows what happened to those two young girls, or because he runs a shady operation bringing unskilled workers over here and paying them peanuts, like an unsavoury, whip-cracking gang-master in an Armani suit?”

  “Maybe both,” said Priestly. “And what about this Bogdanovic character? I had HQ run a check on him.”

  “And their findings were?”

  “To say not a great deal would be an understatement. No-one by that name has ever been on the electoral register. The land he lives on belongs to a farmer Stiles, a man who committed suicide ten or more years ago. As the deceased had no direct descendants and left no will, things, apparently, have got very sticky in the legal sense – outside parties making a claim for this and that, the Town Council trying to have the entire area levelled for construction of a new surgery. As a result, the plot of land Bogdanovic occupies, and most of the surrounding fields and woodland, have just lain fallow.”

  “And the clever chap has decided to pitch up home there.”

  “So it seems,” said Priestly. “What we do know is that he’s been living in and around town for that ten-year period, but has never had any official employment as such, never claimed any state benefits, never been in trouble with the police. To all intents and purposes, he’s an invisible man.”

  “An old gypsy type, living off the land but, undoubtedly, someone connected with local criminal elements, someone we need to speak to again. We’ll call in to see him sometime tomorrow.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Two Days Earlier: Late on the Saturday Night

  When she got home, Jacqueline’s heart was still pounding against her chest. To try and calm down she poured half a bottle of wine into her last surviving wineglass (one of those fancy, deep and wide middle-class receptacles, a gift from her dad one Christmas), guzzled most of it back, took out the remainder of her weed, and started to roll a joint. Only she couldn’t stop her hands from shaking. In the street earlier, she’d been sure Michael Babb was going to hit her. And in that split second, or series of seconds, when he raised his fists, she almost wished he had; because she knew it would’ve given her unlimited power over him.

  After another big mouthful of wine, she was finally able to control her fingers, to break off a little weed and load it into a cigarette paper. Be a while before we get hold of any more of this stuff, said a voice in her head. No it won’t, another, sterner, far more persuasive voice argued. It was then she remembered exactly what Michael Babb had said, exactly what had passed between them. And it was then she started to feel guilty and ashamed. It was then she remembered standing in the bathroom looking at that poor young Polish girl, at that ugly rash. Had she really sold her out for money, a bribe? Had she really let Babb, and all those bastards like him, off the hook, just when she’d got him exactly where she wanted him? But it was a hell of a lot of money, Jacque, the persuasive voice reemerged. Think what it could do for you? – wipe out all your debts, a few quid for clothes, records, maybe even a ticket to Glastonbury, a holiday for the kids. But, Jacqueline, said the other voice, if you take the money, you’re letting Babb win, Jason win, you’re letting them walk all over you all over again, you’re betraying everything you’ve ever believed in, and all the hard times, the heartbreaks and disappointments, would’ve been for nothing. Think about it.

  Jacqueline buried her face in her hands. The last seven or eight years flashed through her head. What was she doing with her life? Since leaving school she’d never had a proper job – bar one summer working in a local pub before she fell pregnant with the twins – had just stumbled from one bad relationship to the next, had never felt happy or fulfilled. And she couldn’t see that changing for the next ten years, when the twins would be getting ready to leave school. And ten years seemed like a lifetime. By then she’d be approaching forty, middle age, and knew she’d have so many regrets, that she’d look back and realise she hadn’t achieved anything, that her best years had been wasted, spent staring at these four ugly walls. And this really, really scared her.

  ***

  In pitch darkness, Jacqueline woke up on the settee, a strange prickly sensation needling away at her wrist, near the tattoo of the Indian chief she’d had scraped across her skin all those years ago. Sitting up, she turned her arm over and looked at the image of Chief Wanayama just as a bright lustrous light emanated from the tattoo itself, illuminating her lower arm. To her complete astonishment, the Chief then
turned his head and started to talk to her in a deep, booming voice.

  “Please, do not be alarmed, Jacqueline. You are not hallucinating, nor are you are in the midst of a terrible nightmare. It is I, your great spiritual teacher, Chief Wanayama, the man you have always felt such affinity with.”

  Jacqueline tried to respond, to say something, to move, to shake herself from what she was sure was a drug-induced, paranoid delusion, but all she could do was stare at her wrist, at the very real and human face now talking to her.

  “I have travelled across many oceans of time to speak to you.” Wanayama stepped out of the tattoo, out of her wrist, into the room. Now he stood in front of Jacqueline, a full life-size man, his arms folded across his chest. “In moments of great crisis, pure noble souls such as yours need guidance. Life has not been very kind to you, Jacqueline. True, you bear a certain responsibility for your misfortune. You have made many bad decisions. You have allowed yourself to be pulled by the tide of other people’s lives, unworthy people, to the extent that you have almost drowned in foreign waters. But do not let that deter you from your greatest challenge.”

  “My greatest challenge?”

  “Yes,” said Wanayama. “I am, of course, referring to the money you have been offered. In normal circumstances, it would be a great moral crime to accept this evil white devil’s proposal, for he would be buying your very soul with a handful of banknotes. However, my true dear strong fiery powerful, Jacqueline, these are far from normal circumstances. There are dark forces at work in this town. You yourself have fallen victim to them many times before. For there is no sin greater than to spark the light of love in another’s heart when you feel nothing but cold indifference stirring in yours.”

  “To lead someone on, you mean? To say you love someone when you don’t? To sleep with them when you don’t find them attractive, when you don’t really want to see them again?”

  “Exactly. Never doubt the power of your own intuition and intelligence. It can serve you well, never more so than now.” Wanayama crouched and put a hand on Jacqueline’s shoulder. “So this is what I propose you do: take the white devil’s money, all of it, store it away in a safe place, then exact revenge on him and all those like him.”

  “Revenge? What kind of revenge? What do you mean?”

  “You must break in the way you yourself have been broken, Jacqueline. Only then will you be able to become the pure, beautiful, talented person you were once destined to be.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  When Jason Leach was escorted into the tent Sergeant Harris had to switch on a section of the main lighting, so soldiers setting up a camp-bed could see what they were doing. This disturbed those who had struggled to get off to sleep. One by one heads rose from pillows to see what was going on.

  “What?”

  “Who’s that?”

  On recognition, the mere sight of Leach nearly started another heated argument. Ruth Green and Diane Peterson (who, ironically, had been allocated neighbouring beds) started to shout abuse at him.

  “That’s Jason bloody Leach, that is, the bastard who infected us!”

  “Him and that little twat Aaron are the main culprits, you can bet your life on that.”

  This, in turn, alerted many other women, who had, up till that point, been fast asleep.

  “What? That’s the bloke you were telling us about earlier, the one who got you pregnant, dosed you up with a S.T.I., and then didn’t want to know?”

  Before things got out of hand, Harris marched over to the women’s side of the tent.

  “Ladies! Don’t make me haul you out of bed. Don’t make me place any of you in solitary confinement. Whatever your relation to the new arrival, keep your anger in check. In the morning, the doctors will hopefully confirm a course of effective treatment, allowing you all return to your homes. Until then, I will not tolerate another disturbance.”

  Across the tent, Aaron studied Jason Leach intently. This was, or so he thought, the first time he’d ever seen the man Jacqueline hated so much. But as his eyes adjusted to the light, he recognised Jason from high school. In particular, he remembered his very first day, when he was all nervous, shy and awkward, a twelve-year-old dreading big school, and the terror of being around so many new faces. At lunch-time, having not made any new friends, having barely spoken a word to anyone else, he went inside the main building to use the toilet. Outside a nearby classroom were a group of much older boys, scruffy, unruly, in their final year.

  “Look at this little wanker,” one said in reference to Aaron. “Looks like an extra from Revenge of the Nerds, with his rucksack, side-parting and shiny new blazer.”

  Before Aaron knew what was really happening, one of the boys, Jason Leach (although he had never put a name to that face before), grabbed him and wrestled him to the floor. Too afraid to struggle, to kick out, to put up any kind of resistance, Aaron just closed his eyes and hoped everything would be over quickly. Roughly, he was whipped over onto his front, his face pushed right up against the cold stone floor. Groping hands unzipped the rucksack and rummaged around inside.

  “Jackpot!” said Leach. “A bloody king-size Mars and a shit load of tuna and mayo sandwiches!”

  Hungry as he had been, Aaron felt a strange relief wash over him, presuming that now the older boys had got what they wanted they’d leave him alone. But that didn’t prove to be the case; the worse wasn’t over yet.

  Leach rolled him back onto his front, grabbed pieces of discarded, mouldy orange peel from the dusty floor, and started to force them into Aaron’s mouth, one at a time.

  “Open up, shit for brains.” He jabbed the peel against Aaron’s pursed lips. “You’re gonna have to have something for lunch, now we’ve nicked your sarnies and chocolate. Wouldn’t want to see you go hungry now, would we? Ha!” And he wouldn’t give up until Aaron had opened his mouth and started to chew on the rank, disgusting orange rind. “That’s it, needle dick, you chew your way through that lot, swallow it all down like a good little boy.”

  As hot tears filled Aaron’s eyes, he realised that a big crowd had congregated, that they were laughing at him, that they were egging Leach on, encouraging him to insert yet more orange peel into his mouth.

  ***

  With a start, Aaron woke up in the dead of night. What time it was he couldn’t have said. All around him he could hear the steady rising and falling of breath, the odd low persistent snore, cough or splutter. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to force himself back to sleep, to attach his mind to an involving, slumberous thought, only for a strange prickly sensation to needle away at his wrist, near his new tattoo. Sitting up in bed, he turned his arm over and looked at the severed pig’s head just as a bright lustrous light emanated from the tattoo itself, illuminating his lower arm. To his complete astonishment, the pig started to talk to him in a low yet clear human voice.

  “Do not be alarmed, Aaron. Keep your composure. Do not lose your head. I am not a product of your imagination. You are not in the midst of a terrible nightmare. No. I am a very real and powerful spiritual presence in your life, your very soul. Ever since you learned of my brethrens’ fate, slaughtered en masse, cut down by the evil white man’s murderous weapons of destruction, you have not been at peace, have you?”

  “No. No I haven’t.”

  “And now you find yourself in this humiliating position –” the pig stepped out of the tattoo, out of Aaron’s wrist, and into the tent. Now it stood on its hind legs by the bed, a full life-size pig, not just a severed head on a stake – “incarcerated with these wretched non-entities, symbols of retarded lethargy, the kinds of people who see nothing wrong in slaughtering innocent creatures, the kinds of people who have always tried to put you down: the bullies at school, the teachers who told you you were stupid so many times you came to believe them, the childhood sweetheart who claimed you had just drifted apart, when, in fact, she had been seeing another man for many months. And while they may be innocents themselves, guilty only of ignora
nce and indifference, you need to exact revenge, you need to make a statement, one as grave and symbolic as the agents of the great Satan in that field all those years ago. Come.” The pig gestured for Aaron to get out of bed. “Let me show you exactly what you have to do.”

  With Aaron following on close behind, the pig trotted over to each and every person in each and every bed, pulled the covers down, exposing their shoulders, and rolled them onto their sides.

  “Here.” It plucked an incredibly large, incredibly sharp machete from the air. “Take this.” He handed the weapon to Aaron. “What you must do, my young friend, is aim the machete at the top of the head, at the back. Here.” He pointed a trotter at Jonathan Reynolds’ scalp. “Focus, do not rush. Imagine you are at your place of work, the drawing tool in your hand. Imagine these people are no more than plucked fowl-like cadavers. Then, when you are ready, bring down the machete with true and terrible force, slice the scalp from the top of the head, and when the poor unfortunate jerks up, crying out in pain, as all will surely do, slice their throats, quieting their pitiful screams once and for all.” He turned and gestured to the main entrance. “Pile the severed scalps over there by the door. They will be your offering to the great Chief Wanayama.”

  Aaron stared at the machete in his hand.

  “I – I understand,” he said, feeling as if this was the only available truth left to him, as if this was the moment he had been waiting for all his life.

  “Good.” The pig patted Aaron’s shoulder. “Your destiny is assured. No-one will find you until your deed is done. The fate of the other soldiers and policemen, the forces of oppression, is already sealed. It will be dark again before they seek you out.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  From the front page of the Coastal Courier’s Website, 5th November 2014

  SECOND BODY FOUND WASHED UP ON BEACH

  – POLICE SAY DISCOVERY COULD BE CONNECTED TO FIRST WOMAN