by Jaq Hazell
But there was no milk. From a restaurant stuffed with fresh produce to this. Black coffee it is then. I returned to my room, relocked the door and sat on my bed. What’s on? I flicked through a chat show, two American comedies, the end of a film and the weather and went back to the film, thinking I might recognise it.
Turn off the light, look out the window – it might be more interesting.
Across the street, leaning against the wall of the Asian family’s house was Girl-with-braids dressed in a micro-skirt and leather jacket. She checked her nails and paced up and down past three or four houses.
A white car pulled up. It had lettering on the side – probably a cab.
“Go fuck yourself, arsehole!” She stepped back and away, while the car stayed put. Should I do something?
The cab pulled away and Girl-with-braids gave it the finger. Good for you, girl. Don’t worry, I’ll watch out for you. Girl-with-braids walked off down the street and disappeared out of sight.
I withdrew from the window, found my sketchbook and wrote “Girl-with-braids, white car,” and the date and time. Then I looked around, straining to see. The room was dark apart from the telly’s flickering brightness. I moved towards the mirror that hung on the chimney breast, took off my T-shirt and jeans and kicked them aside. Mismatched underwear – there’s a surprise – pale pink knickers and a black bra.
I switched on my Anglepoise lamp and gathered paints, water and some heavy textured paper, and placed a drawing board on the floor. I unhooked the mirror from the wall, leant it against the unlit gas fire, and knelt in front of it.
The blank paper’s whiteness glowed, appearing vast and daunting. Can I do this? Can I make it work? I took a medium sable-hair brush and ran its soft bristles over the bare skin of my thigh and dipped it in water, and Naples yellow, more water, titanium white and a spot of carmine red.
The translucent colour punctured the paper’s whiteness as I sketched a fluid outline. I thought of the eels in the kitchen, and it was as if the delicate pools of welling, spreading watercolour were skinning me alive as the hard shell I felt forced to wear each day dissolved before me. There I am, that’s me: twitching and unsure, I thought, as I let more drops of watery colour drip and spread like the unshed tears I was constantly battling to withhold.
Eight
The woman found dead on Forest Road East had been named as Loretta Peters. She was pretty with a tanned, smiling holiday face shown in an old snap from years before, and she was a mother of two, as well as someone’s ‘lovely, bubbly’ daughter until a boyfriend introduced her to drugs.
Since Loretta’s murder, there had been no further squabbles about watching the news. Kelly shushed us so she could hear. “They’ve found another body,” she said.
“It must be a serial killer.” Spencer sat forward.
As did Slug. “Loretta – she’s not bad. You wouldn’t think she’s a prostitute.”
“I don’t recognise her,” I said.
“Is there something you need to tell us, Mia?” Slug said.
“Have you not noticed them outside our front door, Slug? We do pass them every day. You must recognise some of them?”
“I don’t care what they look like as long as they’re kneeling.”
“Slug!” Kelly threw a magazine at him.
“Are you working tonight?” Kelly asked.
“I’m not going,” I said.
“That’s not like you.”
“I’m phoning in sick.”
“Yeah, I would,” Tamzin said. “Say you’ve got a migraine.”
It was a Friday, which meant Neon. Every day of the week had its associated club nights. Friday was Neon, the Forum or Lost & Found and my housemates favoured Neon. I didn’t like it but as I usually worked that night the choice wasn’t mine.
There was the usual shouting, drunken queue for admittance.
“Go on, Mia, get in there,” Spencer said, as the doorman lowered the rope for the next batch of club-goers. We were in, and immediately I joined another queue for the ladies, as we’d already been drinking heavily at Ruby’s. The toilets were packed: girls in skimpy tops, with competing perfumes, vied for cubicles and mirror-space, reapplying lipstick that didn’t need to be reapplied. It wasn’t easy to gain the space to wash my hands and I was glad to get out, back to the bar area, where Kelly had bought me a vodka.
“Come on, let’s go upstairs to the balcony,” she said. It was a good place to go to look around and check out who was there. But it was just as busy as downstairs. We walked around and stopped briefly, holding on to the chrome railings, as we looked down below. There was no one I liked, though I could see Spencer at the bar below ordering drinks, while Tamzin was up against a pillar kissing some rugby-type, the size of a small wardrobe.
The music changed tempo. “Bee Gees!” Kelly pulled at my arm, but I hated the Seventies slot – so predictable. Tamzin turned up (minus wardrobe-man), and they rushed to the dance-floor, doing exaggerated disco moves to Staying Alive.
Bored, I looked around even though I didn’t expect to see anyone I’d like. Hold on... There was a guy with jet-black hair and heavy-hooded eyes, like a Raphael self-portrait, updated and come back to life. He was too beautiful but even so... “Are you French?” I said.
The heavy-hooded eyes looked my way. “’ow did you know?”
“I’ve seen you before.” It was true. He’d been in Saviour’s but he didn’t ask where I’d seen him. He must have been accustomed to being admired from afar.
“What’s your name?” I asked, taking in the fine features and olive skin.
“Bert.”
“That doesn’t sound very French.”
“It’s Bertrand.” He then asked my name.
“Do you like it here?” I asked, glancing around at the tired chrome fittings and royal blue carpet.
“The whisky is very cheap.”
“But it’s a bit crap, isn’t it?”
“The music’s not so good.”
Our small talk continued until someone distracted him.
“He was nice.” Kelly had returned from the dance-floor. “Where’s he gone?”
“His friend dragged him off somewhere.”
“He’ll be back,” Kelly said, but I wasn’t so sure.
“I need another drink; do you want one?” I went to the bar, knocking back more vodka, then a few minutes later Kelly nudged me. Bert was there, sitting on some steps at the far side of the bar. And when he saw me look over he stood up and waved. God he’s beautiful – can he really like me?
“You’re in there,” Kelly nudged.
And so it was that within a few hours he was walking me home, drinking my coffee, easing me back on my bed, gently pushing my hair away from my face as if he couldn’t see enough. Can I do this?
He kissed my neck, my shoulder, and right breast, as his hand slid behind the waistband of my jeans. I could barely breathe let alone speak. I had wanted this. I had wanted him. I liked him. Only, it was as if I were outside myself, like watching a soap opera sex scene that went on and on to underline the fact two characters are an item. I moved my hips and feigned desire, kissed, licked, nibbled and faintly scratched – all the while willing him to come so it would stop.
He did stop and he lay still, still inside me. I wanted him off. I curled myself away from him, only for him to follow me across the bed, kissing the back of my neck. What made me think I could cope with a stranger in my bed?
How did I manage that? I asked myself the next morning. I’d been inebriated of course. My head hurt. I need to stop drinking so much. It’s not helping. He lay there filling my single bed, his renaissance profile highlighted by a shaft of light eking through a crack in the curtains. I was staring and he must have sensed it.
“I’ve got to go,” I said, though I didn’t really – I just wanted him out.
He shook a little as he got up, his lean, defined torso rock god material. “Can you sing?” I asked.
“No. Why?” He b
ent down to sort the clothes he’d dumped by my bedside. I gave him only moments to dress – didn’t offer coffee, didn’t offer breakfast.
“I’ve got to go this way,” I said, after leading him downstairs and out the front door onto the pavement. “What about you?” He pointed in the opposite direction and smiled, his face a little confused. I don’t think any girl had ever turfed him out before.
Nine
It was just like any other Sunday, the day I heard. I’d had a hangover all day and was desperate for food. I checked my kitchen cupboard. “Dried pasta and tuna – I can’t believe that’s all I’ve got,” I said to Kelly.
“Nightmare,” she said, without looking up from her copy of Vogue.
“Do you think Vogue’s advertisers realise it’s bought by penniless students?”
Kelly shrugged. “I’m going downstairs.”
I flicked through the Student Cookbook. There had to be something I could make with these few ingredients. Tuna bake was the best option, but I’d need some Campbell’s Condensed Mushroom Soup.
I found the few coins I had left and walked down the road, glancing up at the three-storey terraces. Are any of the windows watching? It felt like they were.
On the wall at the crossroads sat a young girl – one I hadn’t seen before – in a crop top, short skirt, bare legs and trainers. Her hair was in gelled ringlets and her hands tight in her pockets. She looked fed up. No one was about. Punters would surely be home with their families eating Sunday roasts. And besides, hadn’t she heard about Loretta and the other woman? She shouldn’t be out. What is she doing?
Around the next corner, I entered the tiny over-filled shop. There were only two aisles, so I soon located a dusty tin of soup. It was too dark to see a Use-By date but I guessed it would be okay. The shopkeeper checked my carefully counted out coins and nodded as his wife stood silently by in her sari and thick cardigan.
“Hey, pretty girl,” a guy shouted from a third-floor window in the house next to the shop. He always said something or else he just went ‘psst’. I kept walking. I mean, did he really think he could pull from up there like a male Rapunzel?
Back round the corner, girl-on-the-wall had gone. I hope she’s safe. Please let her be safe.
Mix the condensed mushroom soup with the pasta, tuna and sweetcorn, place in an ovenproof dish and top with buttered bread and grated cheese. Oh yes, though I’d never eat this at home, I can’t wait. It needed to bake for twenty minutes so I sat in my room with my sketchbook open and thought again of the Frenchman tenderly pushing the hair back and away from my face.
The warm fishy smells drifting up to my room grew stronger so I knew it was time. Downstairs, the kitchen window was fogged as the bubbly, boiling tuna and soup belched like volcanic mud. I spooned a large dollop of the steaming gunk onto one of our mismatched plates and made my way downstairs to join the others.
“Shove up, will ya?”
Reluctantly, Slug and Spencer made some space on the collapsed green sofa.
“Antiques Roadshow – will that programme ever end?” I said.
“This bird’s painting’s gonna be worth a packet.” Slug nodded towards the old woman who was telling the valuer how she was downsizing due to bereavement.
“Yeah, all right love, we’re all very sorry, but stop going on.”
“It is a most ravishing painting,” the TV expert said.
“What you eating?” Spencer asked.
“Tuna Special.”
“Looks like elephant dung,” Tamzin said.
“Don’t diss my cooking.”
“You could stick it on one of your paintings like Chris Ofili,” Kelly said.
“You what?” Slug said.
“He sticks elephant dung on his paintings.”
“Did you hear that – one hundred fucking grand for that picture,” Slug said. “I’m on the wrong course.”
Kelly curled her lip. “Colours looked muddy to me.”
“I don’t like it,” I said.
“That was the door. I’ll go.” Tamzin went to answer, and quickly returned looking concerned. “It’s for you, Mia. It’s the police.”
Oh my God. “What?” I got up, taking my plate with me.
Two dark uniformed figures filled the doorway.
“Mia Jackson?” The younger one asked. He was cute with chocolate button eyes. Is this who they send when it’s bad news? I nodded and thought of Flood. Do they know something?
The police officers introduced themselves. The cute one was called DC Stanmore or Standard or something? I couldn’t take it in.
“Is there somewhere we can talk, Miss Jackson?” The older one had a thick Scottish accent and a miserable, craggy face. “Can we come in? You have somewhere we can talk?” He had to repeat himself. I wasn’t reacting but where could I take them? Everyone was in the living room. It would have to be upstairs. I led them up to the first-floor kitchen.
Just say it. Tell me what it is. Get it over with. Don’t let it be Mum and Dad.
My plate wobbled as I placed it on the side. And I gathered up two further dirty plates and there were mugs with browning dregs and fag ash. I started tipping slops into the sink.
“Please, don’t fuss,” the older officer said. “We need you to sit down.”
Our chairs were rickety and the police officers looked too big for them.
I gripped the sides of my old wooden seat.
“You’re a friend of Jenny Fordham?” the young officer asked.
Jenny? I racked my brain. I only know one Jenny. What’s her surname?
“She’s a chef. You work with her at Saviour’s Bar and Restaurant.”
“Oh Jenny, yes, of course. She’s okay, yeah?”
Their hesitation was my answer.
“She’s missing,” the older, craggy-faced officer said.
And I laughed. It seemed absurd. “No, she can’t be.” They looked at me as if I might know something. All I knew was that people I know don’t go missing.
The older officer leant forward. “This is strictly routine, but we have to ask: where were you on Friday night, 11.40pm?”
I gripped the edge of the old wooden chair and glanced at the dirty plates and empty cereal packets. What to say? I should have been there. “I phoned in sick. I’ve never done that before, it’s just I couldn’t face it. I told Vivienne, that’s my boss, that I had a migraine but really I went out with my housemates.” I gripped the chair tighter. “Are you going to tell her that?”
They didn’t reply. They just carried on looking, waiting for me to say something significant. “If you can think of anything and I mean anything – please give us a call.” The older officer passed me contact details. “We’ll show ourselves out.”
The younger one nodded towards the dirty plates piled on the worktop and in the sink. “Reminds me of my student days.”
I poked at my tuna bake. I no longer wanted to eat, and it had congealed anyway, so I scraped it into the swing bin where it landed with a thud.
Ten
Jenny – I saw her everywhere. I looked for her in every face I passed, on every pavement, in every crowd but always it turned out to be just her chin walking around on someone else, or the way she’d shyly look away, or the back of her long, straight hair worn by a less attractive woman. Sometimes, I thought I’d caught sight of her back disappearing down a side street or in a crowd and I’d have to change direction and follow, walking for ages out of my way. It was exhausting, the constant looking, and the willing, wanting her to be alive and back again.
People go missing every day, often because they want to get away.
I took my camera and snapped away at the overflowing bins and relatively empty Sunday streets. Perhaps I’d capture something, a clue, and not even realise till later when I looked over the images on my computer.
Six hundred people disappear every day. It’s not unusual.
My housemates wanted to help. They asked what Jenny was like and I zipped through the images
on my mobile, determined to find a photo. Eventually there she was in the kitchen at work, smiling and slight in her chef whites, her long mousy hair tied back, and her arm round a grinning Donna.
“She often wears her hair tied up but she should wear it down. If I had hair like that I’d wear it down,” I said.
“She looks nice,” Slug said.
“She is – way too good for you.”
Saviour’s felt like a morgue long before we knew anything. It amazed me that anyone would want to eat there while there was a question mark over Jenny’s whereabouts, but people did.
The police did a reconstruction with a young female officer in a long, straight wig and the same sweatshirt, combats and trainers Jenny had worn the night she disappeared. And they released a police statement, saying: “Trainee chef Jenny Fordham is a popular young woman who was born and brought up in the Nottingham area. She is a keen runner, as well as an active member of a young Christian group. It is out of character for her to go missing or fail to keep in touch.”
Jenny, being considered ‘nice’ and ‘middle-class’, had become newsworthy.
It is rare for anyone who goes missing over the age of sixteen to gain news coverage. Girls go missing all the time, girls with piercings, bleached or dyed hair, girls who wear tight, revealing clothes; the media rarely bothers with them unless they’re particularly young or vanish in unusual circumstances. Only the wholesome are considered worth looking for – the rest had it coming. But Jenny was good, she was different – her parents live in the Park area of Nottingham, a desirable enclave of period homes near the castle. The national press picked up on the story and Crimewatch ran a reconstruction. And there was the front of Saviour’s on TV, the curved Art Deco windows looked decorative and smart as the Jenny impersonator walked out, Nike kitbag over her shoulder. And that was it, reconstruction over, because that’s all they had – one night, Jenny left work and vanished.
