by Max Hardy
He reached over and placed one of his hands over hers and squeezed, smiling reassuringly back at her. ‘At your own pace.’
‘It’s sad, I know, but I could produce a distribution graph of the times she called. It was always between ten and ten thirty. Ten thirteen was her favourite time. Twenty times she called at ten thirteen. It’s irrational, I know, but once it got past ten thirteen, I would start to panic slightly, concerned that she might not call. There was never an occasion, once I started to receive texts that she didn’t call: but the closer it got to ten thirty the more fractious I would become.’
‘Once she did call, whatever the time, the relief I felt at hearing her voice again was palpable and my body would quite literally swoon at the deep seductive timbre in her tone. She was always playful. It was never as simple as getting an address to a club or some other location and turning up. Sometimes it would be a trail of calls and instructions to go to places and do things before we would eventually meet up. It was fun, it was thrilling and she played on my voyeuristic tendencies, always pushing my preconceptions and moral boundaries.’
‘In what way?’ Dr Hanlon enquired.
‘Lots of ways. On one occasion she had me dress in nothing but high heels and a knee length leather coat and get onto a busy bus. Once on, I had to stand in the middle of the aisle and slowly unbutton my coat, letting it open up about a centimetre, exposing my nakedness underneath. I then had to watch the reaction of the people on the bus. It was enlightening. Most didn’t notice. They were absorbed in their own world of everyday, unfocused eyes lost in the strobes of streetlights flitting by. Some glanced my way and looked me up and down and didn’t even see the flesh on show. It’s the way the mind works for some people. You would know all about that.’ she said, smiling at him. ‘They saw a lady in a coat. A centimetre of skin wasn’t enough to register in their conscious mind. Then there were those who did see. You had your furtive glances from those, mainly men, who didn’t want you to know that they had seen and would never, ever make eye contact. You had couples who would giggle under their breath to each other, even the older ones. No one, not one person ever showed an ounce of indignation or outrage. At the worst, they simply didn’t acknowledge me, even though they had seen my teasing flesh. The most interesting, and the ones I had to tell Madame Evangeline all about, were the women who watched and drank in every last sliver of my skin, the women who looked achingly into me: the women who were at my behest.’
‘Interesting, very interesting. And how did she use the information you gave her, about these women?’ Dr Hanlon delved, leaning forward in his seat and listening intently.
‘To play, to pretend. I would tell her what they looked like. I would tell her how they dressed. I would tell her how they wore their hair. I would tell her how their dilated eyes devoured me. I would tell her how their lips traced elation on the echoes of my flesh. I would tell her where their hands caressed their curve and swell. I would tell her how I could feel their simmering sensuality tingling in the rhythm of my skin. She would tell me to imagine I was them. She would tell me to do all the things to her, that I imagined they wanted to do to me. She would tell me to live out their fantasies on her. She would say: dominate me.’
9:22 am
A shaking slender hand, three false nails now missing from it, snaked out from beneath a deep burgundy silk duvet cover which was pulled right up to a black wrought iron bedhead. It ungraciously patted over the top of a bedside table, which was carved out of a solid piece of oak, until it hit upon the Bose Clock Radio sitting there displaying the time. The hand yanked it under the duvet, the power cable being pulled taught which knocked an empty wine bottle onto the floor in the process with a loud clatter, spilling the remnants within.
A mumbled ‘Shit!’ could be heard, which was quickly followed by the duvet being unceremoniously thrown off the rising figure beneath, onto the sheepskin rug which covered exposed oak floorboards. Floorboards now stained with the dregs of her last tipple.
Sarah sat up too quickly, her torso and head spinning as she tried to gain her balance, her eyes blinking furiously as they tried to adapt to the light that was streaming through the open curtains into the bedroom. She was still in her red dress and dressing gown. Her mobile was impressed into the mattress underneath where she had been lying. There was a trail of dribble mixed with sick and red wine on the pillow where her head had been sleeping. That trail continued on her cheek and chin. In her left hand she had a worn and smelly faded green taggie, three of her fingers through tags on the outer edge. She lifted this to her face, covering her mouth and nose with it and breathed its odour in deeply, letting it fill her lungs. She exhaled, then used it to wipe the sick off her chin.
‘Jacob, my gorgeous baby boy.’ Sarah said, drinking in the scent of the taggie again, ‘I’m sorry.’ she jittered as she burst into uncontrollable tears. For a moment she sat there on the bed, weeping, staring blankly ahead of her, until her gaze started to focus on a painting on the wall, another one of John’s original compositions, an abstract she hated. It was so abstract, even John couldn’t explain what it was meant to represent. A steely resolve started to course through her with that thought, quickly followed by a spasm of pure anger. The radio was still in her right hand and, yanking the power cable from the wall in the process, she hurled it with palpable hatred at the canvas, screaming the word ‘Bastard!’ at the top of her croaky voice as she did so. The radio hit it, smashing on impact, fragments flying in every direction, ripping a huge hole in the centre of the picture.
The fury dissipated from her in a second as she took a deep breath and regained her composure before saying ‘Right.’ firmly, standing up with conviction: then immediately sinking back to the bed as the quick change of altitude befuddled her head. ‘Okay, perhaps not so quick.’ she said, admonishing herself, slowly standing this time, reaching down to get her phone as she did so.
Sarah started to slouch slowly out of the bedroom, checking her phone as she went. ‘Nine missed calls, seven texts and three voicemails.’ she mumbled as she shuffled, opening the call list to see that five were from John, her mumble changing to a growl, and four from Rob, at which point her voice rose in a panic, ‘Holy Cow!’ she exclaimed, stabbing the call icon next to his name and pushing the phone to her ear as it started to ring.
She started to pace up and down on the landing, forcing one of the false nail-less fingers through a tag on the taggie, straight into her mouth, and nervously began chewing the small amount of real nail that was left.
‘Rob!’ she squeaked through gritted teeth as the call was answered, the finger she was chewing joining its brethren in a fist which she curled up under her chin. She stopped pacing at the same time and stood up on her tip toes as she began to speak.
‘I am so, so sorry. Truly. I am just so disgusted with myself for getting that drunk and leaving all of those messages. I’m mortified too that I kissed you. You must think I am a total bunny boiler. I know I left a message saying I was sorry, then another saying I wasn’t, but I am.’
As Sarah paused for breath, Rob took the opportunity to speak. ‘Whoa, slow down there. Deep breaths please: and shush….’ he said jovially, replaying words he used to calm Sarah on the odd occasion she would have panic attacks when Jacob had particularly bad fits.
‘Sorry.’ she said, taking in the instruction and physically forcing herself to shush: to breathe in deep and let the whispered word elongate on the wave of the exhale.
‘How’s your head this morning. From your messages I’m guessing you had a glass, or two, or three and that John didn’t come home.’
‘Three bottles, I think. My head doesn’t quite know what to do with itself yet. It’s already had to cope with anger, frustration, hate, embarrassment, trepidation, excitement, loathing and panic and that’s just in the last five minutes. The anger, frustration, hate and loathing were all for John, by the way. Well, mostly. There was a bit of self-loathing in there. And the rest: they were for you.’
‘I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you last night. I wasn’t with a girlfriend, and no, before you ask, I don’t have one. I volunteered for a locum stint at the RVI until five. I’ve had a few hours sleep and I’m off into the office shortly. Don’t beat yourself up about the kiss, or the messages. I do like you, but I know you have a lot going on at the moment and your emotions are all over the place. How you think you feel about me is probably getting exaggerated out of all proportion and seems to be the antithesis of how you feel about John. You need to talk to him.’
While Rob had been talking, Sarah had walked into Jacob’s bedroom and was distractedly running her free hand up and down the soft cotton sheet in his cot.
‘I know I do. And if he ever comes home, I will. Jacob is at the centre all day, so hopefully we will get a chance to talk later. Thank you for understanding. I miss that, I miss that so, so much with John. I just….’ she paused, welling up with tears, her lips trembling before she continued. ‘I just don’t know if we can ever get it back.’
‘You never will if you don’t talk about it. Are you going to see how Jacob is?’ Rob enquired.
‘No. That’s my commitment, you know that. A full break for 24 hours. No fretting, no stressing, no constantly calling to see how he is doing. Proper respite, just as we agreed. I can be a good girl you know.’ she said playfully, a warm smile on her tear, makeup and vomit stained face.
‘Yes, but I bet you are in his bedroom in that stinking dressing gown with that tatty old taggie in your hand.’ he teased.
‘Pah!’ she laughed. ‘And I thought you knew me.’ she answered. ‘Thank you again, let’s talk tomorrow when you are around.’
‘Tomorrow, I will burn that bloody dressing gown. You take care, and please, talk. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ he finished and hung up.
Sarah looked at his name on the phone for a few seconds and let out a deep sigh, saying ‘And shush…..’ under her breath.
She flicked onto the text messages, all from John, and read through them with a resigned, almost hollow stare. She then listened to the voicemails, pushing the Pinocchio mobile above Jacobs cot gently around as she did. They were all from John, all reiterating what the text messages said. That he was sorry, that he was tied up on a case and that he didn’t know when he would be home but would call her later. ‘Nothing new there then.’ she grumbled as she hung up, staring at the spinning mobile until it came to a stop.
When it did, she flicked through names on her phone until she came to ‘Allie McNeil’ and pressed the call button, raising the phone to her ear once again.
‘Magic Mike’s Meat Munching Massage Parlour, this is your Dish of the Day Joanna speaking, how may I spank you.’ came the reply when the call was answered.
‘Morning Allie, are you fantasising about Matthew McConaughey again.’ smirked Sarah as she left Jacob’s bedroom and wandered back into her own, a lot steadier on her feet now. She started to take some clothes from the wardrobe as they spoke.
‘Ah, he could have been mine Baby Girl, he could have been mine. If my agency was on the other side of the Atlantic and not in Newcastle. If he was X-list calibre and happy with satellite TV commercial fodder rather than being an A-List celeb who makes Hollywood blockbusters. I know he’d love my breasts, I had them made to the exact specification Wikipedia said he liked.’
‘You do know people can put whatever they want onto Wikipedia, don’t you. It’s not all factual.’
‘Hey, factual or not, even I love these boobs. Why are you calling me this morning Baby Girl? I though last night was date night. I wasn’t expecting you out of your love shack for hours yet?’
‘He didn’t turn up. Called out on a case. I got smashed on my own, a three bottler.’ Sarah answered, cradling the phone in her chin as she took matching underwear out of the solid oak dresser at the side of the bed.
‘Oh, sorry to hear that Baby Girl. Are you suffering?’
‘From the drink, no. From everything else, I am feeling pretty messed up at the moment. Are you free this morning to grab a coffee and have a chat, I need my girlfriend.’ she asked, slumping onto the bed next to the clothes she had collected, finally taking the taggie off her hand and laying it precisely on her pillow.
‘Of course, what’s bothering you?’ asked Allie, the light-heartedness replaced by concern.
‘Well, if I tell you the least of my problems is that I made a pass at Rob last night, does that give you a feel for how bad the worst might be.’ offered Sarah.
‘No way! Gorgeous Rob the Doc? You are kidding me, you sly bitch. He was my Matthew stand in.’ she answered in surprise, light-hearted all over again.
‘Way. I have talked to him this morning and apologised profusely. He was so nice about it, so understanding. Everything John used to be.’
‘I guess the worst is John then: again.’
‘You guessed right, but you don’t know the half of it. I just don’t know what to do. I don’t know him anymore. The best I feel is animosity, the worst I feel is nothing, absolutely nothing.’
‘Jeez Sarah, they are strong words, I didn’t think things were that bad?’
‘It’s been simmering, but recently some of the things he has said, some of the things he has done are off the map.’ she paused, shaking her head, ripping another false nail off with her teeth and feasting on the real one below.
‘I don’t like him anymore. I don’t want him around me and I certainly don’t want him around Jacob. To be absolutely honest, I think I want a divorce.’
9:39 am
‘We have made good progress.’ relayed Saul, looking towards the camera concealed in the bookcase. He was standing beside the small table with the phone on it, opposite the door into the Drawing Room of Featherstone Hall and looking between the bookcase and the plasma screen above the fireplace. Strange was standing in the corridor just outside the room, looking on encouragingly.
‘I’m sure you will know that Rebecca Angus has gone missing. She was last seen being taken from the Fielding Institute by someone purporting to be Dr Hanlon. We have reason to believe that you and he may in fact be the same person.’ Saul waited for a second to see if the telephone rang, wandering closer to, and staring intently at the bookcase. It didn’t ring, the only sound the constant background beep, beep, beep from the heart monitor on the TV.
‘Every Police Force the length of the country has an image of Dr Hanlon and of Rebecca Angus and are on high alert for anyone matching their description. You may find that movement in public will become difficult.’ Saul suggested, calm and measured in the delivery. He waited again, walking away from the bookcase and sitting down at the piano, lifting the lid over the keys. He plinked a key in time with the heart monitor, gazing over to Strange as he did, who frowned, and shaking his head, raised two fingers and mouthed ‘Plan B’.
‘We have confirmed that Michael was in this room, probably on the night of his death. After reviewing the case files, we can also confirm that Rebecca Angus stated that she was also in this room. I am sure you know that Dr Ennis felt this location was part of Rebecca’s DID. We now know it wasn’t. We are also assuming her assertions about Madame Evangeline are true. We are trying to find some evidence of her existence. Based upon Rebecca’s statements, if she is real, then either she was involved in Michael’s death, or knows something about it.’ He stood up from the piano and walked towards the crate in front of the fire, running a hand along the top of it, then tapping a finger slowly on the side. He shot a challenging glare back at the bookcase as he did so.
‘We did think it might be Rebecca in the crate. But we have pictures of how she looks now. They are harrowing.’ he said as he leant against the crate. ‘I can fully understand why you are so furious, if that is what has happened to her as a consequence of a miscarriage of justice. I can see why you would want to help her in any way you can. I can see why you want whoever is responsible for the atrocities exacted upon her brought to justice. We feel the same. I feel the same.’ he
stood up from the crate and walked towards the plasma screen, positioning himself in front of the right hand side of it, which showed the arms of the person in the crate.
‘What I can’t understand, of someone who is so passionate in their convictions of Rebecca’s innocence, of someone who is so forthright in wanting to see justice done, is why they would threaten the life of someone else to reach their goal. Does that make you any better than the person who killed Michael and let Rebecca be convicted?’ he posed, running a finger down the image of the arm on the screen as he spoke.
‘There have been twelve people reported missing in the past forty eight hours in Northumberland and the Scottish Borders. Their families are distraught, each and every one of them frantically wanting to be reunited with their loved ones. They want to know where they are and what has happened to them. One of them could be in that crate. One of those families could have their minds put at ease. One of those families could be reunited with their loved one. You could make that happen.’ he turned back to the bookcase, imploringly, the beep, beep, beep of the heart monitor the only sound in the room as he waited patiently for about thirty seconds.
The beeping continued as Saul sighed dejectedly. ‘We are doing everything we can to try and get a resolution to this case in the next fourteen hours. I will do everything I can. I would just ask that you work with us. Please.’ he shook his head disconsolately as he started back towards the door into the room. He paused before he went through it, looking at the ‘Basket Of Apples’ picture for a moment, taking in the different perspectives in the painting before continuing out.
‘It was worth a try John.’ consoled Strange, falling in behind Saul as he headed off down the corridor, patting his back as he passed by. ‘We have to try and open some kind of communication channel with him, see if we can negotiate.’
