The Shining Girls

by By (author) Lauren Beukes

  The paint is flaking on the boards. The stairs are rotten. They complain under her every step as she gingerly picks her way to the ground-floor window that gapes open like a hole in a head. There is broken glass all over the ledge. The shards are dirty and rain-spattered.

  ‘Did you break the window?’ she whispers down to the crazy man.

  ‘You shouldn’t ask me nothing,’ he sulks. ‘Your business, you want to go in.’

  Shit. The house is dark inside, but she can see through the open window that it’s trashed. Junkies went to town in there. The floorboards have been ripped up, along with the piping, walls busted up and stripped to the bone. Through a door on the other side, she can make out the naked porcelain of a broken toilet. The seat has been wrenched off, the sink kicked to the ground and cracked open. It’s absurd that he would be hiding in there. Waiting for her. She falters on the edge. ‘Can you call the police?’ she whispers.

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘In case he kills me.’ This comes out more matter-of-fact than she would have liked.

  ‘Dead people in there already,’ Mal hisses back.

  ‘Please. Give them the address.’

  ‘All right, all right!’ He whacks at the air. Swatting at promises. ‘But I ain’t sticking around.’

  ‘Sure.’ Kirby mutters under her breath. She doesn’t look back. She lays Dan’s jacket down on the windowsill over the broken glass. There’s a lump in the pocket. Her pony, she realizes. She hauls herself into the house.

  Kirby and Harper

  22 NOVEMBER 1931

  Time heals all wounds. Wounds clot, eventually. The seams knit together.

  As soon as she crosses the window frame, she is somewhere else. She thinks she must be going mad.

  Maybe she’s been dying this whole time and everything has been an extended hero-trip, her brain’s last huzzah as she bleeds out in the bird sanctuary with her dog tied to a tree with wire around his throat.

  She has to push through the heavy folds of curtains that weren’t there before, into a parlor, old-fashioned, but new. A fire crackles in the hearth. A decanter of whiskey sits on the side table beside a velvet chair facing it.

  The man she followed into the house has already left. Harper has gone to 9 September 1980 to watch girl-Kirby from the parking lot of a gas station, sipping on a Coke because he has to hold on to something to stop him from crossing the street and grabbing the child by the throat with enough force to slam her off her feet and stabbing her again and again and again right there in front of the donut shop.

  In the house, Kirby finds her way upstairs to a bedroom decorated with artifacts taken from dead girls, who are not dead yet, who are perpetually dying or marked to die. They shimmer in and out of focus. There are three that belong to her. A plastic pony. A black and silver lighter. A tennis ball that makes her scars ache and her head reel.

  Downstairs, a key turns in the lock. She panics. There is nowhere to go. She yanks at the window, but it won’t budge. Terrified, she climbs into the wardrobe and crouches there, trying not to think. Trying not to scream.

  ‘Co za wkurwiajqce gówno!’

  A Polish engineer, drunk on his winnings and actual alcohol besides, fumbles around in the kitchen. He has the key in the pocket of his coat, but not for long. The door opens behind him and Harper limps in on his crutch from 23 March 1989, with a chewed tennis ball in his pocket and Kirby’s blood still wet on his jeans.

  It takes him a long time to beat Bartek to death, while Kirby hides in the wardrobe in the room and clutches her mouth. When the squealing starts, she can’t help it, she moans against her palm.

  He comes clomping up the stairs with his crutch, dragging his leg, one step at a time. Tok-tok. It doesn’t matter that this has happened before in his past, because it is folded over into her present, like origami.

  He comes to the threshold of the room and she bites her tongue so hard it bleeds. The inside of her mouth is dry and copper. But he passes right by.

  She sits forward, straining to listen. There is a mad bear in here with her. Her breathing, she realizes. She’s hyperventilating. She has to be quiet. She has to get herself under control.

  There is the unmistakable porcelain clink of a toilet seat being lifted. The splash of piss. A faucet running as he washes his hands. He curses softly. A rustling. The sharp tine of a belt buckle hitting the tiles. He turns on the shower. The curtain rings rattle as he yanks it across.

  This is it. Your only chance, she thinks. She should walk into the bathroom, take up the crutch, and smack him in the skull with it. Knock him out cold. Tie him up. Get the cops. But she knows – if he doesn’t wrest it away from her – she won’t be able to stop until he doesn’t get up ever again. The connections between her brain and her body have petrified. Her hand will not move to open the wardrobe door. Move, she thinks.

  The water sputters. She’s lost her moment. He’s going to emerge from the bathroom and cross over to the wardrobe to get clean clothes. Maybe if she rushes him. Shoves him and runs. The tiles will be wet. She might have a fighting chance.

  The hiss of the shower resumes. The pipes playing up. Or he’s fucking with her. Now. She has to go. Now. She shoves open the wardrobe door with her foot and scrambles out, across the floor.

  She needs to take something. Some kind of evidence. She snatches the lighter from the shelf. Exactly the same one. She doesn’t know how that’s possible.

  She steals into the corridor. The door of the bathroom is open. She can hear him whistling underneath the rush of the water. Something sweet and cheerful. She would be half-sobbing if she could breathe.

  She edges past, her back pressed against the wallpaper. She is clutching the lighter so hard that her hand is aching. She doesn’t notice. She forces herself to take one more step. Another. Not so different to the time before. And another. She forces her mind to blank out the man with his brains smeared across the floor at the bottom of the stairs.

  The water turns off when she is halfway down. She bolts for the front door. She tries to step over the body of the Pole, but she’s going too quickly to be careful and she stands on his arm. The give is horrible, too soft under the roll of her boots. Dontthinkdonthinkdontthink.

  She reaches for the latch.

  It opens.

  Dan

  13 JUNE 1993

  ‘In here,’ says the owner of the Finmark Deli, showing Dan to the back office. ‘She was in a state when I found her.’

  Through the window of the door, Dan can see Kirby is sitting in a highback faux leather roller chair at a plywood desk under a calendar of fine art prints, currently showing a Monet. Or a Manet. Dan never figured out the difference. It’s an impression of high-brow taste that is undone by the poster of the girl with her tits squashed between her fingers sitting on a Ducati on the opposite wall. Kirby looks pale and hunched up, like she’s trying to shrink in on herself. Her fist is clenched in her lap. She’s talking softly into the phone.

  ‘I’m glad you’re okay, mom. No, please don’t come down. Seriously.’

  ‘You think it’s gonna be on the evening news?’ Mr Deli Guy says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Because I should probably shave if it is. If they want to interview me.’

  ‘Do you mind?’ Dan is going to deck him if he doesn’t shut up.

  ‘Not at all. Civic duty.’

  ‘He means, can you leave us alone, please?’ Kirby says, hanging up the receiver.

  ‘Oh, right. Well, it is my office,’ he bristles.

  ‘And we’re so grateful you’re letting us use it to get some privacy,’ Dan says, half-shoving him out.

  ‘You know I had to beg him to use the phone?’ This time her voice cracks.

  ‘Jesus, I was worried.’ He kisses her on the head, grinning in relief.

  ‘Me too.’ She smiles, but it’s not really a smile.

  ‘The cops are there now.’

  ‘I know,’ she nods tightly. ‘I just spoke to my mom. The f
ucker broke into her house.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Tore it apart.’

  ‘Looking for something?’

  ‘Me. But I was with you. And Rachel was visiting an old boyfriend. She didn’t even know about it until she got home and found the place trashed. She wants to rush over here. She wants to know if they’ve caught him yet.’

  ‘Don’t we all. She loves you.’

  ‘I can’t deal with that right now.’

  ‘You know you’re going to have to identify him. Down at the station. Will you be able to handle it?’

  She nods again. Her curls are limp and dark with sweat.

  ‘Good look for you,’ he teases, brushing her hair away from the nape of her neck. ‘You should chase down murderers more often. Most manageable I’ve seen it.’

  ‘That won’t be the end of it. Still the trial.’

  ‘Sure, you’ll have to be here for that. But we can avoid the media circus. Make an official statement and then we can book out of town. Ever been to California?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Right. I forgot.’

  ‘Worth forgetting.’

  ‘Jesus. I was worried.’

  ‘You said.’ This time the smile is real. Tired, but real. He can’t help it. He can’t resist it. He kisses her then. Everything in her draws him in. Her lips are unbearably soft and warm and responsive.

  She kisses him back.

  ‘Uh,’ the deli owner says.

  Kirby touches the back of her hand to her mouth and looks away.

  ‘¡Por Dios!! Don’t you knock?’ Dan yells.

  ‘The uh, the detective, wants a word.’ He looks anxiously from one to the other, trying to figure out how to turn this into a TV-friendly sound-bite. ‘I’ll be, er, I’ll be outside.’

  Kirby pinches at the skin between her collarbones, absently rubbing the edge of her thumb against the scar. ‘Dan.’ The way she says his name unhinges him.

  ‘Don’t say it. You don’t have to. Please don’t.’

  ‘I can’t right now. You know?’

  ‘Yeah, I know. I’m sorry. I was just … Fuck.’ He can’t even get a proper sentence together. Of all the stupid moments.

  ‘Sounds about right,’ she says, not looking at him. ‘Hey. I’m glad you’re here.’ She punches his arm. It’s a brush-off. And something inside him breaks at the lightness and finality of it.

  There’s a sharp knock at the door a millisecond before Detective Amato pushes it open.

  ‘Ms Mazrachi. Mr…’

  ‘Velasquez.’ Dan leans against the wall, arms folded, making it clear he’s not going anywhere.

  ‘Did you get him? Where is he?’ Kirby looks fearfully at the black-andwhite screen connected to the shop’s surveillance camera.

  Detective Amato takes up a perch on the edge of the desk. Too familiar, Dan thinks, like he’s still not taking her seriously. He clears his throat. ‘Hell of a thing. The guy coming to your office like that.’

  ‘And the house?’

  He looks uncomfortable.

  ‘Listen. It’s been very stressful. It was very brave and stupid to follow him like that.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Easy to get turned around. You don’t know the neighborhood.’

  ‘You didn’t find it?’ Kirby stands up, pale with fury. ‘I gave you the address. You want me to gift-wrap him and put him under the fucking Christmas tree for you, too?’

  ‘Now calm down, miss.’

  ‘I am perfectly calm,’ Kirby shouts.

  ‘All right, everyone,’ Dan says. ‘Same team, remember?’

  ‘We couldn’t find the junkie you spoke to. I’ve still got guys asking around in the neighborhood.’

  ‘What about the house?’

  ‘What can I tell you? It’s abandoned. It’s a wreck. Pipes have been pulled out, copper wiring stripped, floorboards yanked up. Anything of value has been stolen and the rest has been trashed for kicks. There’s definitely nobody in there. But kids might have been smoking in there or having sex. We found a mattress upstairs.’

  ‘You actually went inside.’ Kirby says this with flat challenge.

  ‘Of course we did. What are you trying to say?’

  ‘And it was just a wreck?’

  ‘Lady, come on. I know you’re taking this hard. It’s not your fault if you got mixed up. It’s been very traumatic. Most people are terrible witnesses on a good day, let alone after they see the guy who tried to kill them.’

  ‘Coming back to finish it.’

  ‘So what happens now?’ Dan asks.

  ‘We’re going door-to-door. We’ve got the description. Hopefully we turn up your junkie and he can direct us to the place.’

  ‘The right place,’ she says, bitterly. ‘And then?’

  ‘We’ve got an APB on him. All stations. We find him, we bring him in. You have to let us do our jobs.’

  ‘Because you’ve done so well this far.’

  ‘Can you help me out here?’ Amato says to Dan.

  ‘Kirby—’

  ‘I get it.’ She shrugs him off angrily.

  ‘Have you got somewhere you can stay tonight? I can assign you an officer.’

  ‘She can stay at mine.’ Dan flushes as Amato’s eyebrows twitch upwards. ‘I’ve got a sleeper couch. I’ll sleep on that. Obviously.’

  ‘Have you caught him yet? Where is he?’ Rachel demands, sweeping into the tiny room in a storm of nerves and patchouli.

  ‘Mom! I told you not to come down.’

  ‘I’m going to claw his eyes out. Do we still have the death penalty in Chicago? I’ll flip the fucking switch myself.’ She is full of fierce bravado, but Dan can see that she is at breaking point. Her eyes are wild. Her hands are shaking. And her being here is winding Kirby up tighter.

  ‘Have a seat, Ms Mazrachi,’ he says, nudging her towards a chair.

  ‘I see the vultures are out already,’ she flings at him. ‘Come on, Kirby, I’m taking you home.’

  ‘Rachel!’

  The detective’s mouth narrows to a slit at having to deal with another crazy woman. ‘Ma’am, going home is not advisable. We don’t know that he won’t return to your house. You should book into a hotel for the night. And get some counseling. It’s been traumatic for both of you. Cook County has someone attached to the emergency room. All hours. Or here. Call this number. It’s a friend. Works with a lot of crime victims.’

  ‘What about the fucker who did this?’ Kirby is furious.

  ‘You let us worry about that. You look after your mom. Stop trying to carry this on your own.’ He frowns, not unsympathetically. ‘Now, I’m going to send an artist in to do an identikit with you and go through some photos, and then you are going to see the counselor and check into a hotel and take some sleeping pills. And you are going to not think about this any more tonight. Got it?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Kirby says, not meaning a word.

  ‘Good girl,’ Amato says, wearily, not meaning it either.

  ‘Sanctimonius prick!’ Rachel says, throwing herself into the vacated chair. ‘Who the fuck does he think he is? He can’t even do his job.’

  ‘Mom, you can’t be here. You’re upsetting me.’

  ‘I’m upset too!’

  ‘But you don’t have to try to be coherent for the police. This is really important. I have to get this right. I’m begging you. I’ll call you when I’m done.’

  ‘I’ll look after her, Ms Mazrachi,’ Dan says.

  Rachel snorts. ‘You!’

  ‘Mom. Please.’

  ‘The Day’s Inn is decent,’ Dan intervenes. ‘I stayed there when I was getting divorced. It’s clean. It’s reasonably priced. I’m sure one of the officers would be willing to drive you downtown.’

  She deflates. ‘All right, fine. But you’ll come straight there afterwards?’

  ‘Sure, Rachel,’ Kirby says, ushering her out. ‘Please don’t worry. I’ll see you later.’

  The atmosphere in the room chan
ges the moment Rachel is out of the room. He can practically feel the temperature drop. There’s a different kind of intensity – a terrible focus. Dan knows what’s coming.

  ‘No,’ he says.

  ‘You’re gonna stop me?’ Kirby says, cold as he’s ever seen her.

  ‘Be sensible. It’s getting dark. You don’t have a flashlight. Or a gun.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘And I have both in my car.’

  Kirby laughs in relief and unclenches her fist for the first time since she left the house. She’s holding a black and silver lighter. A Ronson De-Light Princess with an art deco design.

  ‘Replica?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘Not from the evidence room.’

  She shakes her head again. ‘It’s the same one. I don’t know how to explain it.’

  ‘And you haven’t shown this to the cops.’

  ‘Would there be a point? I don’t believe me. It’s so fucked up, Dan. It’s not wrecked inside. It’s something else. I’m so scared we’ll get there and you won’t see it.’

  Dan folds his hand over hers around the lighter. ‘I believe you, kiddo.’

  Kirby and Dan

  13 JUNE 1993

  She is tense in the car. She keeps playing with the lighter. Flick. Flick-flick-flick. He doesn’t blame her. The pressure is unbearable. Flick. Catapulting towards something that can be averted. A car crash in slow motion. Not just an ordinary fender-bender either. This is like your ten-car pile-up halfway across the freeway with helicopters and firetrucks and people weeping in shock on the side of the road. Flick. Flick. Flick.

  ‘Can you stop that? Or at least stick a cigarette in the hot end? I could use one.’ He tries not to feel guilty about Rachel. About driving her daughter into danger.

  ‘Do you have one?’ she says eagerly.

  ‘Check the glove compartment.’

  She pops the latch and the cubby dumps a bunch of crap in her lap. Assorted pens, condiments from Al’s Beef, a squashed soda cup. She crumples the empty packet of Marlboro Lights.