by Tania Carver
She checked herself. She was dressed, still wearing the same clothes as when she had left home earlier in the day. To go to the Custard Factory and confront Hugo.
Hugo. The name hit her brain like a flash of lightning.
That was where she had been, the last thing she could remember. At Hugo’s house. Telling him about her problem. Trying to get him to understand. How upset she was. What she felt for him. Maddy tried to remember. To fill in the blanks, work out what had happened.
She had been sitting on the sofa alongside him. He had offered her a drink. Then… nothing. Until now.
She stopped walking, shocked. She checked her watch. Nearly midnight. God, that meant she had lost… hours. How many? She had no idea. She felt panic rising. What had happened to her? What had she been up to?
She tried to think it through chronologically. Keep calm and be methodical.
Sitting on the sofa at Hugo’s place. A drink. Then… nothing. No, not nothing. Think, think… The drink was strong. It hit her head straight away. Made it spin, made the room blur in and out of focus. She had lain back against the sofa, her body heavy, her head too big to support. She tried to keep her eyes open but her eyelids refused to co-operate. Her arms, legs wouldn’t move.
So she must have slept. That was it. Slept. But that wasn’t right. If she had slept, why had she woken up walking along a street near her home?
So she hadn’t slept. Then what had happened?
Maddy stopped walking, closed her eyes. Replayed what memories she could. The last thing she remembered seeing was Hugo’s face. Right next to hers, smiling. And… something more. His hands. Yes. His hands… on her thighs…
Her eyes opened again with another jolt. Oh God. Hugo’s hands on her thighs. What had happened? He wouldn’t have… No. Not Hugo.
Her legs were shaking as she hurried along. She tried to remember more details, but her memory wouldn’t work. The blackness wouldn’t shift, allow her access.
She had to get home. As fast as she could. While she was walking, she took out her phone. Punched in Hugo’s number, put the phone to her ear. It rang. Her blood pounded, her heart skipped in double time, twice for each ring of the phone.
Come on…
The phone kept ringing. Maddy was holding her breath.
Answer… please…
Ringing and ringing. Then a voice telling her that the mobile she was calling had been switched off and to try again later. She called again. Got the same thing. And again. The same. She put her phone away. Kept walking. Shaking from more than just the cold. Anxiety eating through to her bones.
‘Oi! Oi!’
Oh God…
The voice was behind her. Her heart, already trip-hammering, went even faster. That was all she needed. Some drunken nutter on the street. She felt in her handbag for the rape alarm that the university had supplied. She usually carried it when she was out at night, but it wasn’t there. Left at home because she hadn’t expected to be out this long.
Shit…
She kept going.
‘Oi! Wait!’
The voice was getting nearer. Maddy had almost broken into a run.
‘Maddy! Wait!’
She stopped. Turned. A young man was hurrying towards her. About her age, tall, dark-haired. Smiling. Dressed like a student. Did she know him? He knew her, apparently.
She moved into the beam of the nearest street light, making sure she was well lit, and waited for him to approach her. Still unsure of him, her hand inside her handbag. Her fingers curled round her door keys, making sure the jagged edges were sticking through her knuckles. Just in case.
He reached her. Stood next to her. Out of breath but smiling.
‘Hi, Maddy. Thought it was you…’
She just stared at him. He frowned.
‘Ben,’ he said. ‘Remember? Mike’s friend? Who’s seeing Abby? American studies Abby?’
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘Ben. Yes…’ He obviously knew her, but she still couldn’t place him. And it was impolite to say so, so she would just have to pretend until it came to her and hope he didn’t notice. ‘Hi. What are you… Where’re you off to?’
He shrugged. ‘Just going home. Been down the Bristol Pair with the others. They were heading off into town to Snobs but I didn’t fancy it. What about you? You been out?’
‘Yeah,’ she said, not wanting to tell him anything until she had worked it out for herself at least. ‘Yeah.’
‘You live round here, don’t you?’
Oh God, she thought, he’s probably been to a party at our house and I still can’t remember him. ‘Yeah, that’s right. Just off Coronation Road.’
‘Right,’ he said, nodding. ‘Thought so.’
They stood in silence beneath the street light, their breath fogging the night air.
‘Listen,’ he said, looking round. ‘Bit dodgy being out here on your own. Never know who you’ll bump into. Shall I walk you home?’
She flinched as he said the words. He caught it.
‘Oh no,’ he said, ‘I just meant…’ He shrugged, his voice dropping. ‘It’s safer with somebody with you, that’s all.’
‘I… I don’t want to put you out. Out of your way.’
He gestured behind him, the way he had come. ‘I’m only ten minutes back that way. Not putting me out at all. Plus I’m making sure you get home safe. That’s all.’
Her fingers began to uncurl from the key ring, her hand slipped out of her handbag. ‘OK, then. But I’m very tired.’
He frowned.
‘I’m… just going to go straight to bed.’
He laughed. ‘Do what you like. As long as you get home safely.’
She looked at him again under the street light. Maybe there was something familiar about him. Maybe she could remember him after all. Mike’s friend. Abby. Right. She’d just had a bad day, that was all. A bad few days. Didn’t mean everyone was a nutter. Or out to hurt her.
She thought of Hugo. Sighed. Felt that familiar sink of depression in her stomach.
‘You OK?’ he asked, concern in his eyes.
She looked up. ‘Fine,’ she said. Hugo could wait until tomorrow. He would have to. ‘Let’s go home.’
They walked off down the street together.
31
T
he house was in darkness when Phil let himself in.
He put his car keys on the kitchen table, his bag down by the side. They hadn’t been there that long and already he was establishing patterns of behaviour, getting used to the new routine. He had read somewhere that human beings were predisposed to find routine in everything. He remembered an old crime novel he had read, years ago, in which a man left his family and job and went to another city to set up a new life. When the private detective found him, he had established a new family and a new life. Routine had taken over.
He shook his head, wondered why his mind had thought of that, opened the fridge door. There were half a dozen bottles of beer on their sides. Routine dictated that he would take one, sit down and use it to help him to dial out work, dial in the family.
Except it was very late and the rest of the family were in bed.
He closed the fridge door, made his way upstairs. He thought of having a shower, decided against it. He was dog tired and it might wake him up, then he’d never sleep. And tomorrow, when he went to talk to Hugo Gwilym, he would be half asleep and might miss something. Given the level of scrutiny he was feeling from the rest of his team, that wouldn’t do.
Hugo Gwilym. Phil had heard of him, knew of his media profile, but nothing more specific than that. And he knew Marina was working alongside him at the university. She hadn’t mentioned him, except a few disparaging offhand remarks, but he wanted to talk to her about him. If she was friendly with Gwilym – which he doubted – there might even be a conflict of interest and he would have to step down as SIO. If that happened, he could just imagine what the office gossip would be like. And how much further his standing would slip in the eyes of the
rest of the team.
He made his way slowly up the stairs, using the flashlight from his phone, so as not to wake the other two. He put his head round Josephina’s door, saw his daughter fast asleep, clutching her favourite soft toy, Lady. It was disgusting, filthy and ragged, but Josephina and Lady had been through a lot together, so neither he nor Marina minded her hanging on to it.
A quick visit to the bathroom, then into bed. Marina was lying on her side, eyes closed, breathing steady. He moved slowly round to his side, careful not to wake her, got undressed and slipped in beside her. Setting the alarm on his phone, he closed his eyes.
He had thought he would lie awake most of the night, working out the case in his mind, but he was so tired and, if he was honest, relieved to be engaged to this degree once more that he went straight off to sleep.
Marina had heard Phil come in. She knew his pattern: the door opening, the keys on the table, the fridge door. She heard the fridge close again, heard him make his way upstairs.
And her heart flipped.
She should talk to him. She knew that. Share what had happened to her.
But what had happened to her? She couldn’t remember. She had spent all day trying to relive the previous night. Over and over in her mind, replaying every single second that she could remember until she wasn’t sure what was real and what she was imagining was real.
Had she been raped? Or had it been consensual and she was so out of it she hadn’t been able to remember? And if so, if she had been so out of it, wasn’t that just date rape? Not if what Gwilym said was true. That she had wanted it, instigated it. She wished she could remember. Or at least part of her did. The rest wanted it never to have happened.
She heard Phil on the stairs. Opening Josephina’s door, checking she was OK. Routine. Then the bathroom door. She quickly lay on her side, closed her eyes. Pretended to be asleep.
She knew it was cowardly, but she didn’t know what else she could do. She couldn’t talk to him about it. Not now, perhaps not ever. And that made her feel even worse inside.
She heard the toilet flush, the bathroom door close. And then Phil was in the room, making his way slowly round the bed. A considerate and decent man. One of the few she had met. Partly why she loved him so much.
He got into bed next to her. She didn’t move in case he realised she was awake.
She needn’t have worried. He quickly got himself settled and his breathing changed. She knew he was asleep.
Marina lay there, physically so close but emotionally miles away from her partner, feeling warmth from his body but so, so cold inside.
She didn’t move all night.
PART THREE
HEAVEN AND HELL
32
T
here. That should do it.
The Arcadian stood back, stared at the doll’s house once more. It still didn’t look right. It looked wrong, unbalanced. And that didn’t just niggle away at him when he looked at it; it burned. Inside. Even when he wasn’t looking at it, he knew it was there, could feel it was there. He had wanted perfection. He had failed.
The blonde doll sat at the table where she always sat. Her new friend sat in an armchair next to her. And the Arcadian hated seeing him there.
He wasn’t the one the doll should be with. One look told him that. The Arcadian had done what he could to make the new doll fit in. He had already prepared him before he had gone to the house, what he thought he should look like, be dressed in. His character built up in the Arcadian’s mind, how he would complement the doll already there. But the reality was very different. The fat, legless slob he had discovered just wasn’t right for the doll, not right at all. Not fit to share her house, not worthy of being her companion.
But he had to make do with what was there. The Arcadian had known this one would be different, accepted that. But he hadn’t known just how different. How much of a disappointment it would be.
He looked at the new doll once more. It fell off the chair.
Anger rose within him. He wanted to tear it apart, throw it at the wall. But he didn’t. He just picked it off the floor, plonked it roughly back down again, forcing it down, making it stay.
Maybe I shouldn’t have cut the legs off, he thought. But no. I had to. Because that was the way he was. And that’s the way it has to be done.
So he looked at the doll once more, mentally challenging it not to fall, threatening it with unspeakable tortures and punishments if it did.
It stayed where it was.
The Arcadian smiled. Relieved.
He thought back to the previous night. Shambles. Absolute shambles. But that was good in a way, he thought. That meant they wouldn’t connect the two murders. He thought again, mentally corrected himself. Three murders.
The blonde woman. The only good thing about the previous night.
Killing the man had been most unsatisfactory. No release, no catharsis, nothing. No butterfly. But the woman, that was different. She had been more fun.
Once he had overpowered her – which was easy, because while she stood there in shock, mouth gaping open to scream, he was on her – he stood back, regarded her. Like a butcher deciding which cut would be the most succulent. No, not a butcher. A fishmonger. Because she wasn’t meat, she was female. Smelt different, bled differently. And he had gone to work on her.
Maybe he had been angry with her and let it show. At least with her he had found his catharsis, his release.
No butterfly, though. Or at least not that he had noticed.
And no doll for her either. Yet.
The Arcadian didn’t like women. Never had. The woman who was supposed to have been his mother hadn’t been particularly maternal. And because of that he had nothing but hatred for her.
But he also had reasons to be thankful to her. Because if it hadn’t been for her, he would never have found his true calling, his real identity.
He couldn’t remember his father. He must have had one, but his mother never talked about him, or if she did, his description changed every time. Sometimes he was tall and bald, sometimes short with blond hair. It was only later that he realised what a whore his mother was and that his father could have been any one of a number of men.
That just made him hate her more.
But one thing he did remember. He’d been little, sitting at home in their flat, rehoused again in a high rise in Rotherham, watching TV. His mother had come into the room. He’d known instinctively something was up. She was smiling at him. She never did that unless she was either drunk or about to hit him.
‘Scott,’ she had said, using his real name, his old name, ‘someone’s here to see you.’
She stood aside and let two men into the room. They were both smiling. He felt immediately suspicious. They didn’t look drunk, so it must be the other thing. One of them stepped forward, handed him a present. A red fire engine.
‘You can play with that in a while,’ the man said, kneeling down. ‘We’re just going to have a bit of fun first.’
Up close the man had bad, uneven teeth and his breath smelled. The man stretched out his hands towards him. He looked up, fear and panic gripping him. He saw his mother take some money – big money, notes – off the other man, tuck it down her top and leave the room, closing the door firmly behind them.
Then they had fun with him. Their idea of fun.
No matter how much he screamed, how much he begged, his mother didn’t come back into the room. Not until they were finished. And all that evening she just sat on her own, away from him, drinking. She cried at first. But the tears soon dried up.
That was the first time. But not the last.
And the fire engine was never played with.
That day was the end of his childhood and the start of… something else. His journey to becoming who he was now. Who he could be.
After coming out of the YOI he had done time in for rape and assault, they approached him again. Not to use him any more. He was too old for that. They didn’t fancy him. No.
They wanted him to go recruiting. Find new young lovers, just like he used to be, that they could play with.
He didn’t want to at first. Told them where to go, what to do with themselves. But they kept on at him. Reminding him of who had brought him up, the things they had done for him. And they had done things for him. Good things. They had given him days out, holidays. Bought him stuff, toys and clothes.
‘We were your real dads,’ the first one, Brian, had said.
And they had been, really. They had been good to him and he had even got used to Brian’s rotten teeth and breath.
Along with a few other things.
He felt guilty when they said that. So he did what they asked. And it wasn’t too bad. It was fun. He enjoyed it. They even let him join in himself.
Targets were easy. Young single mums who weren’t too choosy. Who wanted to believe everything he said. Give a fake name and he was in. He had to fuck them, which was distasteful, but he just kept in mind what he was getting in the end.
And it worked. Always. Well, nearly always. If it didn’t, just offer money. That usually did the trick.
But something was missing. He didn’t feel right. So he left town. Overnight; there, then gone. Ended up in Birmingham. Stuck in the middle of the country. He liked that.
And that was when he set about making a new identity for himself. That was when he started becoming the Arcadian.
He continued the education had started in prison. Bought books about things that interested him. Went to places that he enjoyed. Found people who shared the things he loved to do. And things were good.
Then he heard his mother had died.
He lost it a bit then. Drinking, drugs, sex, violence. Horror and hatred. Hitting out. Hard. But it was no good. Still he saw her face everywhere. And nothing he took or did could take that away.
Eventually he was spent. Slowly he rebuilt himself. And as he did so, he told himself there would be some changes made. No one would ever hurt him again. In any way at all. In fact, from now on he would be the one doing all the hurting. He would enjoy that. And it would make him perfect.
