by Gwyn GB
Reg and George had stumbled and muddled their way through an awkward conversation with her father. She’d hoped the arrival of adults would solve things, not bring her mother back - she isn’t that childish - but bring some semblance of normality into their grief-stricken world. She soon comes to realise that most adults are befuddled and afraid of the extreme emotions grief creates.
Reg and George look embarrassed and almost afraid of the toll this beast called grief has taken on her father. They mutter platitudes and quickly return to safer ground, promising to look after the cows for him. Her father nods in reply but looks as though he couldn’t care what they are saying or what they’ll do.
Rachel thinks of the cows in the barn, oblivious, and is grateful they’ll be fed and watered. For a moment she wishes she was one of them, chewing and poo-ing, just worrying about the next mouthful.
The conversation between the men is brief. Practical. Rachel follows them back out to the kitchen, just in case a magic solution to their situation appears.
‘You alright Missy?’ Reg asks.
Even at 11, she can see from his face that he’s hoping she’ll say yes, that he doesn’t really know what to do next if it’s a no. She hesitates.
‘We’ll be fine,’ Rachel replies.
Overnight she has aged far more than just one day. Yesterday she believed adults, especially her parents, could fix everything, knew everything. Now she realises they can be as vulnerable and clueless as the cows in the barn.
Reg and George put their boots back on and scuttle back to the safety of their own world. Rachel closes the door and prepares to return to her new reality.
Before she can gather herself, the silence in the house is broken by the sound of guitars, and then Elvis’s voice.
‘Hold me close, hold me tight...’
It’s her mother’s favourite album, the record she played every time she was in a good mood, at home cooking or just relaxing. She’d grab Rachel’s hand and dance with her, making exaggerated movements to the music and the words as she sang the song.
Rachel doesn’t move, transfixed by the weight of the memories as the hypnotic swirl of music transports her mind.
When Elvis finishes and the silence returns, Rachel becomes aware of her own breathing and the occasional drip from the tap, before more gentle guitars waft through the house and “Love me tender…” fills the void.
Why is her dad doing this? It’s torture listening to the songs her mother loved so much. Elvis’s voice sad and lost filters through their home and their heads. Rachel imagines her father sitting bereft, ‘For my darling I love you and I always will.’
She can’t move. All she can see is her mother, the flash of her smile. Spinning as she dances, hair flying. Calling to her to join her as she flits around the house. She can’t be gone. How can someone so alive be no more?
Rachel grips on to the empty work surfaces in the kitchen, a grinding pain in her gut.
She doesn’t want to go back into the sitting room, to see the stranger that’s replaced her father. Instead, she goes upstairs to her parents’ bedroom and sits on their bed looking at the room. Her mother sat in the same spot on this bed, putting on her make-up every morning - except this one. She didn’t have many things, but what she did own sits abandoned on top of the chest of drawers, which once belonged to one of Rachel’s grandparents.
Rachel reaches out and touches the bottles, running her fingers over the same smooth, cool surfaces her mother will have done. The coldness emphasises their abandonment.
The perfumes are mostly small tester sizes, no big expensive bottles of Chanel. Her mother’s favourite, a miniature of Thierry Mugler’s Angel, takes centre stage. Rachel picks it up, it’s almost finished, but the smell instantly brings her mother back to her. She slips it into her pocket. It will be her own genie in a bottle to conjure up her mother whenever things get too hard to bear.
Rachel feels tired, weak even, her legs and arms heavy. Tiredness strokes her eyes with its promise of an escape from reality. She focuses on her memories, playing short clips of her mother in her mind. Then the tiredness wraps its arms around her and she leans into it, curling up on the bed and willing release.
It’s the cold that wakes her. She shivers on top of the bed. This time she doesn’t need to struggle to think where she is or what has happened.
Elvis has stopped singing and the silence in the house sets alarm bells ringing. She jumps off the bed and quickly heads downstairs to find her father.
She needn’t have worried. If it wasn’t for the fact she knew he’d had to get up to turn the record player on, she wouldn’t believe that he’d moved at all.
‘Dad, do you want a cup of tea?’
Rachel’s voice seems to startle him. ‘Rachel!’ he says, as though seeing her for the first time since it happened. ‘I’m sorry love.’
Relief floods through her, he’s coming back to her. She goes to him and hugs him, wrapping her arms around him, seeking his familiar safe harbour. His arms stay on his lap. Nothing. Not even a brief pat on her back. His rejection is a new pain to add to the chronic ache of her grief.
Rachel returns to her sofa and to watching her father. If only she knows what to do to help him. Who can she ask?
Outside it starts to rain, hard. It’s coming down in straight streaks of water. She tries to focus, to see the drops, but it’s impossible. Occasionally they’ll fly slant ways across the window driven by a gust of wind which smashes them into the glass pane. The windows rattle in sympathy, disturbing the curtains with their suffering.
She can hear the raindrops tinkling into the drains, pattering onto leaves and foliage and banging on the roof tops. Why does it rain? Without rain and water there can’t be life, so what magic occurred to create this natural wonder? How do we know it will continue, that the pitter patter she hears now, like the rustle of a million leaves, won’t just suddenly stop forever? We can’t take anything for granted. If her mother can be snatched from her then so too can anything - the rain, the sun, her father. Anger rises in her. Why do we even exist when all we do is die? What point is there to anything?
16
Claire, 14th October 2016
When she arrives home it’s immediately obvious to Claire that Jack isn’t there. The flat is dark and silent. When he’s in it’s filled with him - music, TV, PS4, there’s always something on and usually more than one thing. She’ll come back and find him living out his firearms fantasy with Call of Duty, or knocking back the beers with a couple of guys from the station. He seems to hate being home alone, he needs his pack around him. The flat is a constant backdrop to his busy life and Claire ends up an extra waiting on the side-lines for the main actors to clear the stage. Tonight, though, she has the stage all to herself. Her only regret is that it’s late, she’s tired and she isn’t going to get to enjoy a full evening home alone.
She turns on the lights and goes round pulling curtains, pausing to look out the window. Two of the Indian take-away staff, food-spattered aprons on, are having a quick cigarette out the back near the bins. She notices some mould on the inside window frame, cultivated by condensation, and inspects the paintwork. When she looks outside again the men are staring up at her and so she nonchalantly pulls the curtains closed. She can’t quite shut out the neon glow of the takeaway sign which stays like a yellow stain on the fabric.
It looks like Jack left some time ago. There’s a light flashing on the phone and she listens to the message. It’s Matt, Jack’s best friend.
‘Yo dude you wanna catch the footy tomorrow? We’re meeting at The Crown if you’re around.’
That means Jack hasn’t gone to Norfolk with Matt. Claire looks at the time, it’s 9.45pm, not too late for her to ring him. He’s probably in a London pub somewhere, tanked up, ready to roll home after closing and shatter the silence like a thunderclap.
She calls his mobile, but it rings out. She tries again and then sends a text. ‘Hi where r u? I’ve just got in C’
One good thing about living with Jack is that there’s always alcohol chilling in the fridge. She nearly finishes an already opened bottle of white wine and plonks herself down on the sofa to watch the ten o'clock news. The death of Coronation Street’s Hilda Ogden, actress Jean Alexander, is in the headlines; as too is the acquittal of former footballer, Ched Evans for rape. The case has been going on since 2012 and been a controversial one. He’d always insisted he was innocent, but there’s criticism from some. The appeal court allowing the cross-examination of the victim’s sexual history is one reason why; as too was the offering of a £50,000 bounty to anyone with information that could bring about his acquittal. It makes Claire think back to what Rachel said earlier about being nervous to report her stalker. It’s not always clear who gets put on trial.
Her mind is still buzzing with the case and the day’s caffeine intake, and so she finishes the wine in the hope of dulling her brain. She’s more successful than she expects because she falls asleep on the sofa before the national news has finished.
Claire wakes up feeling cold and confused, just in time to witness the end of the Graham Norton show. The heating has gone off and some sitcom about a bunch of flatmates is coming on the TV. She can’t bear all these cosy ‘Friends’ style set ups and so she hits the off button on the remote. Her neck is stiff from where she’s let her head loll back into the cushion, and the empty glass of wine still sits on the table in front of her. She was more tired than she realised. Claire reaches for her phone and is shocked to see it’s 3am. There’s no message from Jack and he’s obviously not home.
Where is he?
17
Claire, 15th October 2016
When you’re on a murder case like this, there is no such thing as a weekend. Every day is a working investigation day. Claire had sent Jack another text at 3am telling him to get in touch and let her know where he is, but she guesses he’s probably crashed out on Matt or someone’s sofa.
Her alarm wakes her up at 6am again and she feels dazed and heavy-headed from the broken sleep. There is still no news from Jack, but she’s not worried. He knows she is working the case and so isn’t going to be home much - he’ll always find somewhere to go rather than be home alone.
She sends him another text to say she’s at work all day and probably this evening again, then heads for the shower.
Bob is already in by the time Claire rocks up. It’s still not even 8am, but she guesses he’s been there a while, a spent coffee cup and what looks like the remains of a bacon sandwich, are on his desk.
‘Alright?’ he asks her in the way of good morning.
‘Fine,’ Claire replies, ‘You been here long?’
‘Since just before 7, wanted to get a head start. We’re going to the dating agency for 9am.’ He looks up at her for confirmation and she nods back.
‘Lew is on his way to Mike Stratton’s flat. Can you go through the Current Situation Reports, catch up with progress and see if we’ve any matches to our MO on the HOLMES computer. This could well not be their first attack.’
Claire’s annoyed, she should have been in earlier if she wants to impress and show she can lead an investigation. It’s her own stupid fault for drinking the wine last night. She should have read the CS reports and be checking through the police computer systems to see if anyone has spotted any links or fresh evidence.
‘Sure thing,’ she replies, ‘Need a coffee?’
‘No I’m good.’
And so their day begins.
When Lew returns and reports that Mike Stratton is not only not at his flat, but actually gave the lease up three weeks ago, the buzz in the room rises noticeably. The hounds think they could be onto the scent of a fox.
‘Don’t all sit around waiting,’ Bob shouts at the room, ‘This might turn out to be a red herring, or another dead body. Keep looking at that CCTV and going through the gathered statements. I want Michael Stratton tracked down now.’
‘You heard from Rachel Hill?’ Claire asks Bob.
‘I called her first thing. She didn’t see anyone last night, but she can’t be sure. Maybe they saw us and it’s spooked them. Either way, I’ve told her to remain vigilant. We’ll have to put off our agency visit, we need to focus on this Stratton guy.’
Lew plonks down onto his seat opposite Claire and yawns.
‘I hate the earlies,’ he says to anyone listening.
Claire wonders if she can ask him if he’s heard from Jack, without it sounding totally weird that his girlfriend hasn’t. She decides against it and instead texts Jack again. He’s never done this before, just disappeared without a word. He knows she couldn’t go to Norfolk because of the case, he can’t be blaming her for that surely?
Jack’s whereabouts are distracting her from work and that annoys her. She needs to be 100% focused on this case. They need to get their killer and she needs to prove she is up to the job. Typical of Jack to be trying to get her attention, even when he isn’t around.
‘Found the parents,’ DS Sarah Potter shouts out triumphantly bringing a hush to the office. ‘They moved last year into one of those retirement estates in Essex.’ Bob looks positively delighted.
An hour later the team watch as he rubs his head. Michael Stratton’s parents said he’d gone travelling, backpacking through Asia but they hadn’t heard from him for a while and they had no idea of his current position. His work confirmed that he’d been on a zero hours contract and one day had just told them he wasn’t coming in again. The parents did say it was a little out of the blue. Someone in the team got confirmation from immigration that he’d left the country - on board a flight to Vietnam three weeks ago. Michael Stratton is highly unlikely to be their murderer - unless he somehow snuck back into the country.
‘I want him found,’ Bob barks to the room. ‘Why has he left in a hurry? What’s he running from and is this connected to Neil’s murder? The timing is too coincidental and for someone who has always been active on social media to suddenly clam up, suggests he’s laying low. Did the pair of them have any business dealings together? What else links them besides their friendship? I want him tracked down in Vietnam and I want him questioned.’
18
Rachel, 15th October 2016
She is trying really hard not to be paranoid. Coincidences happen right? How can it possibly be anything to do with the stalker when the rabbits have been safely locked up in the shed all night?
Amber is poorly, off her food and sitting in the corner of the hutch with her ears forward. Reg is keeping away from her, but he’s not his usual cheeky self either, sensing his mate is ill. She’d been a little quieter than usual yesterday, but Rachel hadn’t thought much of it, suspecting that the banging and noises associated with fixing the alarm system to the shed were the likely cause. Now she’s not so sure. She’ll keep them inside today; it’s getting a bit too chilly to keep putting them out anyway. Perhaps she got cold yesterday in the run.
Rachel strokes her gently, willing her hands to be healing hands, her touch to send the right vibes through her fingers to make Amber well and draw the illness from her. She stays with her as long as she can, one eye on her watch. She’s working today and she needs to walk to the tube station. They’re back-to-back with clients so she can’t be late.
She locks the shed and heads inside, heavy hearted. She knows some people would ridicule her for how much she adores her rabbits, but she doesn’t care. They are easy company, it’s nice to have something to take care of, no strings attached. Rabbits are so uncomplicated compared to humans.
As she gets into the kitchen Rachel hears the letter box open and something drop onto the hall floor. Probably just another bill or some letter trying to persuade her to open a savings account with the amazing interest rate of 1.25%. As she walks towards it, she can see it’s neither.
Rachel picks up the let
ter from the floor and turns it over so she can see the address written on the front. She’s not sure what it is, it can’t be the innocuous printed label, but alarm bells jingle through her body. Here she is being paranoid again, reading danger into everything she sees and touches. What is wrong with her? She needs to pull herself together. She toys with the idea of leaving it on the kitchen table while she goes to work, but chances are it might be nothing at all and she will have spent the whole day worrying about it.
Rachel carefully opens the envelope, gingerly tearing the paper as though it contains a booby trap that will jump out and startle her.
Inside is a single piece of paper, A4 folded over. Probably just a marketing letter. She takes it out and unfolds it.
‘I’M WATCHING YOU’
is printed in big letters across the length of the paper. Her head swirls and she reaches out to steady herself. When was this sent? Before the police came round? She looks for a date stamp on the envelope but there isn’t one. If this went through the mail then it must have been posted before the flowers were delivered. Should she ring the police? Maybe there’s some kind of forensic evidence they can get off the letter and envelope.
Why are they watching her? Who are they? The hairs on her neck are up again and her stomach churns, pushing bile up into her throat. She imagines prying eyes everywhere she looks, everywhere she goes. Her first instinct is to call in sick and stay at home, hide away from everyone and everything - but that won’t help. This person has already infiltrated her home with their poison. Perhaps she’s safer outside where there are people, among those she knows at the office. She hates this feeling, hates it. She wills herself to get angry about it instead of feeling paranoid. She needs to fight this intruder in her life.
