by Dan Noble
There was a large-chain bookshop in the shopping centre in the middle of town, and it opened at ten. She’d be there by eleven, hopefully find what she needed, and get out.
Amazingly, they had only one book on the topic; three copies. It was new, on the recommended non-fiction shelf. She picked it up with a very passable look of surprised interest, as if she wouldn’t expect it to be so interesting, but that last episode of Poirot had got her thinking, and she happened to pick it up and found herself engrossed. Surely, if she logged onto Amazon, there would be hundreds, if not thousands of such titles. The back matter confirmed her beliefs: “armchair forensics,” they called the growing category. Probably, even if someone did recall her purchase, it wouldn’t be remarkable at all—she was one of a million would-be sleuths. Relief coursed through her. She let the best writer’s feeling in the world sweep over her—she’d unwrapped her destiny; some mystical force had given her the power to make such a turn and then another in order to do so. Now the pull toward the conclusion was fierce. She looked down at her fingers on the pages and saw they were trembling, as if she couldn’t get there fast enough.
The first words she underlined were, Every contact leaves a trace. It was poetic and simple, and yet a practical statement of the kind readers would lodge in their minds to whip out later when they were trying to work out a mystery. It put into words the concerns she’d had upon gathering information on forensics: she didn’t want to make contact with people who might be able to trace the remarkable behaviors back to the crime. The next line she highlighted was: The perpetrator of a crime will bring something into the crime scene and leave with something from it, and both can be used as evidence. Genius: again, this info wasn’t surprising, but seeing it in this way made her hyperaware of the care she needed to take with Mick. She was on the right track. And then another line on the physical evidence found at a crime scenes: Only human failure to find it, study and understand it, can diminish its value.
The further she got into the material, the more poetic the trope of murder and forensics became. It was the DNA that stole the show, an entity so delicate, but fundamental to life; understand it, and you would control life itself. What goal was more central to literature? No wonder the armchair forensics titles were outselling cookbooks.
And then literature came into the picture; it was Sherlock Holmes who popularized and gave credence to forensics. The signs were everywhere.
Sherlock Holmes? At this point, she was struck by her heretofore cavalier attitude about murder. MURDER. Despite all the satisfying reassurance her work was providing, could she possibly kill someone? This was not Sherlock Holmes.
She made herself page through to the crime scene analyses. But it was all so distasteful: the body, identifying marks, gas collection in organs and tissue. Her own daughter would have been spoken about this way by someone.
Disposing a body in the ocean was too risky: it might rise up as gas collected in the tissue and cavity. They called this a “floater.” Disgusting. Could a person become merely bait? How was this possible? What had she been thinking? Life was sacred. She’d never be able to go through with it. Would she? For her daughter, yes, she could. It was all she could do for her now, and she owed her that much.
The key was to prepare as best she could, then put herself in the situation and see what happened. That was the real test; she could only plan so far until circumstances took over.
She forced herself to continue reading the book. Perhaps she could just concentrate on the writing. If there was a connection between her writing and reality, then surely things would take care of themselves. She knew that in her bones. Her whole life was a testament to it. Her daughter had been sacrificed to it. She was overthinking. The thing to do was to jump right in. And so she put her head down and wrote.
Practicalities: from her reading, the only methods of murder (God, that word!) she could probably even manage were what forensics science called “blunt force trauma,” which amounted to hitting him over the head with something, or poison (here she flashed to visions of fairy tales and Nazis). But poison was too risky—there was the procurement of the chemicals, which could be traced (thank you, terrorists), and the chance it wouldn’t work. So, blunt force trauma. Surely there was something in his house she could hit him with. She remembered a pair of old stained glass lamps, which probably came with the house, and a few paint cans.
Erika wore her favorite silk slip beneath a simple cream dress she used to love. She’d worn it when Gav was handed over the brigade flag, and when he’d received a plaque from the governor general. It had been years since the icy feel of it on her skin, the satisfying pluck of straightening the spaghetti straps. A thing of beauty, but merely another thing whose beauty would be folded away in a drawer, leaving her life as ugly as it had been before her encounter with it.
She parked her car three blocks away and around the corner to avoid anyone recalling it by Mick’s house. The sky was just darkening; evening seemed to take forever to get itself together up here. Something that would startle you in other parts of the world with its sudden cloak swung over everything was an enormous achievement here, a slow, painful birth, a death. When the process was finally completed, it was always with relief. There was the lasting image of this town’s imposter sunset, though—reminding everyone what they so easily forgot every day—remember, we must die. When you really understood that, the world was a very different place.
Once she started writing, the sunset image helped her to refocus on Olivia, because every word brought her closer in spirit to her daughter. “Silly Mummy! Puleaze can I have a choccy?” Suddenly, she could rally her thoughts around the murder as a necessary step. Erika must be brave to get to her daughter again. Was she strong enough to endure this distasteful act in pursuit of being somehow reunited with her daughter? Memento mori. She wanted some kind of tingly reaction to the words pouring from her, but that initial frisson of moments ago had left her as focus consumed her. Maybe she was just in a mood? Sometimes you didn’t feel like writing, but you wrote anyway. Feelings weren’t always to be trusted.
Still, her heart raced as the ballpoint bit into the page, the momentum—good or bad—tightening her muscles, her grip on the pen aggressive. The symbolism, the idea of some meaning to her actions gave a more palatable presentation of the action, even if it was more an in-general feeling than a specific logical thread. This was where art was better than life. You didn’t have to be so black and white, to broadcast everything in sound bites.
Besides, she’d become knowledgeable in the subject area, and this always lent authenticity to the story. Even Erika herself was impressed with how convincing it all was: The greater the surface area struck by the blow, the less the injury. So, she’d have to keep her strike focused with a smaller object. If she was going to use the lamp, she’d have to turn it over and hit him with the narrow base. It is difficult to determine what instrument caused a blunt-force injury. The book went on to describe the types of wounds related to the victim trying to defend himself: on the palms and ulnar (little finger) side of his forearm. Abrasions, contusions, lacerations, and even broken bones could be defensive wounds. It was the wounds Mick might inflict on her that could get her into trouble. So, she would need to be careful to not receive any contusions (bruises). She’d need to wipe prints. Another thing to watch out for would be her saliva. They would be able to profile her from her saliva, so she would not be able to kiss him on the chance they could identify her “junk DNA.” Even cleaning up might not remove all blood traces. It was too messy. At every turn, she would be undone. She didn’t know where to go from here.
She shook out her hair, secured it up in an elastic, closed her eyes, and stretched her fingers before gripping the pen. Right.
Micko didn’t answer the door on the first knock. There was no bell. Just a bare pair of wires twisted, poking out as if in wait. Erika could feel her breath becoming shallow and tried to settle it with a long inhale. Her fingers trembled. S
he knocked again, tried to peer into the leaded glass peephole. It was too wavy to see through.
Finally, footfalls down the stairs. She couldn’t stop thinking about the boot print. What was his motivation here, at this moment? It was important she know this to get the upper hand.
When he opened the door, it was with a grand gesture. “Come in.” Immediately, she smelled rosemary. Lamb. She hadn’t expected lamb.
“Smells good.”
He smiled. “Drink?”
Erika nodded and settled herself on the sofa, placing her handbag at the base of the stained glass lamp. He disappeared into the kitchen.
Fuck it. This was too slow. She needed more action. Tapped her pen on the notebook edge. Probably a reader would want sex now. The scene was set for it. Maybe sex could provide something unique. Funny, at the word, her mind settled on Gavan. He had always been excellent in that area, with his distance that people were always trying to bridge. He could have had sex with anyone, probably. It was childish, but the idea of this always turned her on.
Micko was different. There was a sense he really wanted her to want him. Strangely, this knitted them in a way she’d not experienced before. Beneath it all, wasn’t this what everyone wanted? And so, now, playing this game, she had the sense they were playing at playing it. Beneath that: a kindness, a loveliness. Was this just the artist in her, or was it really there? She tested herself. Could she see herself lifting this lamp, and smashing him in the head with the narrow base? Kiss, kill. Where had she heard that before? She forced herself to picture it as he handed her a glass of Sav Blanc. Had he been playing with that beer-only offer at the bar that time? She made herself visualize the whacking over and over again, to desensitize herself. But she shuddered inwardly.
“You okay?”
And maybe outwardly.
“Yes, yes.”
“You have a murderous look about you.”
No, no. He wouldn’t say that. But maybe he would. It would say let’s not do this. Kiss, kill? Funny, she could see through a crack in the story an alternate ending: one where they live here in this house, and she helps him to brush varnish onto decking, and they get really into good sex. But there isn’t the desire there like the one pushing her to reach Olena. She can’t get there from here. Mummy! I don’t wanna go to the store! Her little fists at Erika’s thighs. Then that defiant pinch, which stung like hell. How she’d prided herself on the manner in which Olena would always apologize without being asked to. Sorry for being naughty, Mummy.
She didn’t finish the scene. It didn’t seem to matter anymore. Things had crescendoed. What happened on paper or at Micko’s house was in motion, was gaining speed, rolling her down to some kind of ending. Yes, an ending. Her ending. Why hadn’t she realized before? A deep sigh. Finally, she’d worked it out.
You don’t know how you got here
You just know you want out
—U2, “Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me”
It wasn’t a song of theirs she’d particularly liked or even knew well, but now she listened to it. The meaning mirrored everything she was doing here, as if she’d tapped into some collective unconscious that was right on. She got up to go, this time leaving the pages out in the open on her desk. So what if Gavan saw them now? This was it. Tomorrow, what would be would be.
11
IRENE
I wanted to tell him about his wife’s affair, but I knew it would ruin everything. Part of the appeal of us was that he had taken the initiative to do what he wanted; if he knew his wife was doing the same, where would the illicitness be? I understand about affairs. I see enough handsy couples springing for the pricey bottles on their way next door to the hotel. I don’t feed off it the way Aggie does. In fact, it makes me feel sick, thinking of the deceitful ways people pleasure themselves. For me, knowing his wife was cheating made the whole thing easier for me. Besides, I liked her, and now I didn’t feel so bad about fucking her husband. I was glad I’d done the Google search.
Sex had never been all that as far as I could tell. I think he saw that about me the first time, and he cared to have me enjoy, which was nice. That was when I really saw his kindness. He was good at it, too. Not practiced, but he had a natural way of being—that same impenetrable quality as when I’d first met him—that made you want to rip into him. I found it irresistible.
“What would you want with someone like that?” Aggie, my bartender friend, had asked. “There’s no future, no availability, no commitment.”
How could I explain that that was the appeal? I was me, but there was this other neat part that slotted in now, with him. I didn’t need any more than that. Didn’t want any more than that. I liked that he had another life that had nothing to do with me. It made the life we shared all the more special, because we couldn’t have it all the time, couldn’t waste it or take it for granted. When he expressed my own feelings back to me exactly, I felt relief, like everything had been perfectly worked out and I’d figured out life. What next? World peace? I really did feel I could do anything; I didn’t know why people made this life thing so complicated. It didn’t need to be.
“Metaphor,” Gavan said, “is when you apply one word for an object to which it is not literally applicable.”
Literally applicable. It sounded lovely, like something Cinderella’s fairy godmother would sing as she magicked all her dreams into reality. I’d used the word, but only sort of knew its meaning.
“Like when your wine smells like Christmas, only instead of being ‘like,’ you set up the words so your idea replaces the original thing. A powerful act.”
“Your cock is heaven.”
“You’re a natural.” Oh, the giggles were a clear blue sky.
At home, I poured out Mom’s tea, enjoyed knowing her one-sugar-plus-a-splash-of-milk habit. Dad was famous for making his own tea and even washing up without a trace, just so he didn’t have to make one for anyone else. I enjoyed her complaining over the newspaper headlines as if they were a personal affront. More legislation for those poor farmers. How is anyone expected to survive? I doubted she knew what the legislation was about, but that wasn’t the point. If anything, looking over her shoulder, her long, grey-tinged plait down to the bench, this familiar ritual seemed more pleasing to me in that it was mine alone. Nothing to do with my time with Gavan.
I wasn’t even sure I’d considered this intimate knowledge of Mom as a benefit before, or even considered it at all, but all sorts of ordinary things began peeking out at me, demanding I recognize their charm. I’d never been happier.
But then it started nagging at me. The whole thing was built on the premise that Gavan’s other life was the way he left it, too. Only it wasn’t. His wife was with Mick, and from what she said, she had strong feelings for him. How could I not tell Gavan?
“You can’t,” Aggie said. “It’s not right. Think about all the movies, when this kind of thing is eating somebody up, so they go and confront the person. And it’s always a gigantic mistake. It ruins everything. He has a secret, and so does she. So what? For all you know, he already knows, and you’re part of some sick game where he’s holding all the cards.”
I couldn’t get that idea out of my head. It was ruining everything. For such a short time—perfection. And now this. I felt, more than anything, that I had to restore the equilibrium of the way we were.
But I knew Aggie was right about one thing. Telling him would only make things worse. And so I took it one day at a time, trying to keep it to myself.
And at first, I thought I’d gotten the hang of it. I Googled “keeping secrets” and followed the best advice I could find. I imagined the secret as a bird (or the secret is a bird, metaphorically, which if you think about it is powerful), watched the bird in my mind’s eye as it flew out of sight, and told myself it was now gone forever. Initially, the active energy required to keep the thought at bay made me cranky; any additional issue—no matter how small, “No, I cannot remember to buy the cheap kind of eggs on my way h
ome!”—took too much concentration when I was still juggling the bird out of sight, and I began to snap at people. I became distracted, made mistakes on the till, dropped things. But as the days progressed, it got easier. The bird had become a benign midday shadow (too bad I couldn’t share that gem with Gavan), and pretty soon I could ignore it altogether. I started to feel like myself again.
Until I made a really stupid mistake. I drove to the big house up at the point. I told myself I’d just do a loop on the road in front, from the museum up to the fort; I was determined to do just that, but then, after I’d turned around to head back, I noticed that guy Mick’s truck. It was impossible to miss it; his construction company’s logo was posted on the side: ProBuild. Made into one word like that, as if he was cleverer than everyone else who had to use two words to say such a thing. He was in the driver’s seat, eating something wrapped in paper, and watching the house. I made a right at the end of the block and parked the car to get my thoughts in order. Yes, I had a sinister feeling about his presence there. Why would he be watching the house? Gavan or his wife could be in danger. What did anyone really know about this Mick character? I couldn’t keep it to myself. What if something terrible happened and I could have prevented it? I did recon the following two days, and there he was. Watching, eating, like the house was there for his entertainment.
I went back and forth about this for a couple of days, alternately believing I was overreacting, needed to stop watching COPS and NCIS, and then believing that I could not keep my mouth shut. Maybe an anonymous call to the police was in order? Perhaps Mick was just so smitten he couldn’t keep away. Still, even that was extreme behavior and could be headed somewhere bad. Or it could be love in its purest form. What did I know?
