Escaping Life

by Michelle Muckley

  “They died over a year ago now. Feels like yesterday.”

  “Do you still look for them?” He knew he did. Less, but he still looked.

  “How can I stop? I think, what if I made a mistake? What if it wasn’t really them?” He picked up a stone and threw it into the ocean, far enough to splash into open water, but too far to be heard.

  “What happened?” For a moment he sat in silence, stunned at the question. Nobody had ever asked him this before. When he met Kate, she knew what had happened. She knew before he did. His colleagues had thought better of it, and the family that he had left, his brother and sister-in-law, could never bring themselves to bring it up. “If you don’t mind me asking?” He was surprised, but he didn’t mind. He thought about the words as he formulated them in his mind and the way he would tell the story; the last memory before the glare of lights, the days of darkness afterwards and the lost memory in between; the smell as he saw their bodies charred and powdery black like coal. Somehow, even the fact that he was about to tell somebody else, this woman who was virtually a stranger, released a pressure that had built up since that moment of impact: the life-destroying moment that he had buried deep in his mind like a dirty and shameful secret.

  “It was a car crash. My wife, Rose. She was driving. Joshua .......” he smiled as he closed his eyes, the thought of his smiling face going back and forth as he pushed him on his swing set, the sunshine of early summer flushing his fat three year old cheeks burst into Jack’s mind. “..... Joshy was three. And perfect. His little hands you know, they were so chubby, and he would grip onto me pulling me around. I followed him everywhere.” As she looked upon his face, his eye muscles twitched as he relived those happy days. She was certain that she could see tears forming in the corners of his eyes. “We were on the motorway. It was late, and he was crying. I took off my seatbelt and leaned over to him to try and soothe him. She was distracted, just for a split second. The driver’s side of the car was completely destroyed. They cut me out easily, because I had taken off my belt, but,” he paused, looking down at the stones for the courage to continue, the courage to feel those tormenting memories again, “they couldn’t get them out. Then it started.” That same smell and taste of fire, the hot choking smoke that had filled his days for months after the accident was in his mouth again now. It filled his nose, travelling deep into his lungs before he coughed its imaginary presence back out. “Took a while to get it under control. I was unconscious - I didn’t know what had happened for three days.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. She thought about the flaming wreck of Rebecca’s car, as it lay at the bottom of the ravine. She flicked between these real images and the horrific pictures that her mind was creating, automatically, against her will, of his car engulfed in a fireball with his wife and son inside. They sat there for a while, staring out to sea, the gulls calling out above them, the rustle of trees behind them and the sound of the ocean as it awoke once again with larger rumbling waves. Only two weeks ago, she would have thought that they had so much in common; the idea that her sister had died in a car crash engraved so vividly into her mind. Now, as she sat on the beach with the stranger who had opened up next to her, she was grateful for the second chance. The chance to help Rebecca, even after her death. The chance to actually say goodbye.

  “I think we should go back to Chesterwood.” Before he answered, she was already on her feet. She had had enough of this place; she didn’t want to be here anymore. “I’ll go back to Haven. Think about the clues. My father needs me too.”

  “Of course. I’ll drive you to the bus station. Or train, whatever you’d prefer.” They drove the fifteen miles across town towards the bus station almost in silence, the uncomfortable type of silence when you feel that you may have been too open and too sharing with a stranger and that it will push them away. Jack felt as if he may have crossed a line, but he still felt good about it.

  As they pulled up, she jumped out, still flicking sand out of her loose slip-on shoes. She ran inside the bus station to check the bus times. Glancing up at the flickering orange lights, thousands of them, twinkling like stars to navigate the people gathered below, looking to find their destination, she could see it would be another hour before her bus would leave. She ran back out to the car, cupping her hands over the open window pane of his truck.

  “Doesn’t leave for an hour. Want to grab a coffee with me? My shout. I think we could both use it.” He nodded, and pulled his truck into the nearest parking space and they settled down for a coffee surrounded by the muffled sounds all around them. There were a thousand conversations swirling around, people rushing and racing like bees darting from one summer bloom to the next, looking for the best spot, the best pollen. They sat on the small immovable plastic seats, their shoulders hunched over close. Their discussion at the beach was hanging over them. They looked like a married couple trying to fix their problems, there and willing, but with a world of difficulty resting between them. It was Elizabeth who made the first cut, the first hammer strike to the ice.

  “I guess when I called you and told you that my sister had died in a car accident, it couldn’t have been very easy.” A broken smile came across his face, soft, and defeated.

  “Yeah, I guess.” The words were coming to him, but he felt reluctant to say them, his face giving it away with a puzzled screwed-up expression.

  “What? Just say it, whatever you’re thinking.” She wanted him to talk. He looked like he needed to speak to somebody and she knew how that felt.

  “I was thinking that I’m happy for you.” His words needed clarification. He could see her shock and guard rising. “I mean, that you had a second chance to say goodbye.” Her shoulders dropped again. He was right. She was glad too. She was about to open her mouth and agree with him when she heard somebody call the name.

  “Rebecca!” Surely she was wrong, yet there it was again. “Rebecca!” Jack hadn’t heard it at first, his attachment to this case the image of a dead face and the name of the woman alive and well before him uppermost in his mind. But it was a name forever etched into Elizabeth’s mind, and she always listened out for it, just in case. As she looked up, she could see the short man walking towards her, waving his hand as if greeting a friend. He said it again:

  “Rebecca! Hi!” He was walking directly towards her. Jack saw the expression on her face change, the change in situation tangible in the wide-eyed look of somebody who had seen a ghost, shock and disbelief all at once. The short tubby man was standing before her now, smiling and slightly out of breath. He looked in his late forties, and like he should go on a diet. He gave Jack a cursory glance, before he spoke: “I missed you last Saturday. How are you? Did you go away? You look great!” Elizabeth stared at the man. Then she turned back to look at Jack, who himself had now realised the man’s mistake. They stared at each other in disbelief, no need for words or questions. They both knew what was going on.

  Elizabeth looked up at the red-faced man. “You called me Rebecca. You know her? You know Rebecca?” His confusion was obvious. He looked back at her as if she was crazy, confused that she didn’t even know her own name. He pleaded with her, open arms and open mouthed. Surely she must know her own name?

  “Of course I know Rebecca.” He patted her lightly on the arm, feigning attack, tutting as he did so. “Do you know Rebecca?” He backed away smiling and laughing, as if now somehow he had understood her joke.

  “I’m not Rebecca.” She said it flatly and simply. His face became falsely serious, his lips pursed and pointed as if he might be about to kiss her. “I’m her sister.” His humour and pretence was immediately washed away, leaving only shock that he could be so very wrong.

  “Unbelievable! You look identical.” She could see the thoughts running through his mind. What a surprise, he must be thinking, there are two of them! He obviously had no idea that Rebecca was dead. “So you came to see her instead this weekend?” he said, with emphasis on the word ‘her’. The way he spoke implied
something; it implied a history, and knowledge. Knowledge of a life. Rebecca’s life. He had her attention before. Now, he positively demanded it.

  “Just a minute,” Jack interrupted. “Who are you? How do you know Rebecca?” He was looking at the man hard, a fixed and official glare. The red-faced man could sense that somehow he had unwittingly stumbled into something more complicated than a simple case of hello and good morning.

  “I work here.” He pointed over to the ticket booth, the queue forming in front of the screen of glass covered with a blind that read ‘Closed’. “I see Rebecca every week. We have coffee together whilst she waits for her bus. She tells me that she goes to see her sister. You, apparently,” pointing to Elizabeth and seemingly now slightly annoyed at the inquisition he was receiving, when all he had really wanted to do was say hello to a friend. “Rarely, her father.” Could it be true, that for all these years she has been living a few hours away and travelling back and forth to visit Elizabeth’s life from a distance as a casual observer, never properly involved in the world of her living sister? She brought her fingers up to her mouth, trying desperately to hold her quivering bottom lip steady. But it was useless and before she knew it, the tears were trickling over her fingertips, running down the channels and pooling in her lap, onto her white cotton shorts that she had been wearing since the day before. Instinctively, Jack reached out, resting his hand onto her arm. Before he knew it he was stroking her skin, and trying to reassure her, whilst never taking his eyes off the mystified man standing before him.

  “You knew Rebecca and you are telling me she used to come here every week and take the bus?” The man stood there, unsure of what it was that he was saying that was so very difficult.

  “Yes,” he said very slowly. “I work there, and we had coffee here every Saturday, except for last week.” He pointed uncomfortably to the ticket booth once more and at the coffee table before him as he spoke. The woman before him, who was wiping tears away from her face, was making him nervous.

  “Why not last week?”

  “I took a holiday - what is this?”

  “When did you last see her?”

  “As I said, I took a holiday. She was going for a day out, so I took her and then carried on for my holiday. Where is Rebecca? Why are you asking me so many questions?” Jack could see the tan on his face, and it certainly explained the red cheeks. His hands were tanned too, with a clear white mark where his watch had covered his skin from the sun.

  “Where did you take her? When?”

  “Couple of Sundays ago. Said she was going for a day out to the beach and wanted dropping off early as possible near the other side of the city. Said she would walk a couple of miles and spend the day there. I was going early to miss the road traffic. You look so alike, you know.” He was staring at Elizabeth again, surveying her face, just to make absolutely sure that she wasn’t Rebecca. Looking for the tell-tale marks, the wrinkles, the moles, the subtle differences that helped people tell them apart.

  “What’s your name?” Jack was taking out his small black notebook that was permanently stowed in his jacket pocket. He placed it on the table and began flicking to a blank page. The short ruddy man, wishing that he had never even approached the table, could see the notebook. Normal people didn’t make notes about what other people said. Only crazy people and the police. He didn’t know which he’d rather Jack to be.

  “Barry. Barry Smith.” He had shoved his hands down into his pockets far enough to hold them steady and to stop them shaking. He could feel his pulse quicken into a gallop, uncertain at what he had walked himself into. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and there were small beads of nervous sweat starting to trickle down his forehead. He wiped his brow furiously with his milky white wrist before quickly tucking his hand back into his pocket. He didn’t want to look shaky. “Why? Why is all this so important?”

  Jack wrote the name ‘Barry Smith’ onto his little black leather pad and circled the name twice. He placed the pencil down and stared up at Barry, who was gulping back his fear. Jack was about to make it worse.

  “Because you were the last person to see Rebecca alive.”

  Twenty one

  As they drove the fifteen minutes across the city, the car was silent. Passing by the buildings that soared towards the sky, Barry sat motionless, his hands tucked underneath his legs like a school boy awaiting judgement from the headmaster. He could feel Elizabeth’s eyes boring into him in the reflection from the vanity mirror, looking for answers. He sat staring at the back of the headrest of Detective Fraser’s seat, scared to look at either of them in case he accidentally let something slip, something he wasn’t even aware of. When you’re the last person to see somebody alive, you need to be careful with your actions, guilty or not.

  “Pull in over there. I live just here.” His practical words broke the silence. As Elizabeth stared up at the run-down building, she wondered how anybody could live there. The top two floors looked derelict, boarded up and empty. Turning to Barry, she could see that he almost looked ashamed as he pointed to the spot where he had told Jack to park. “I’m afraid it isn’t much. I’m not used to guests.” They got out of the car and the heat and smell of the city crawled upon them. Barry lived in an almost uninhabited area, grey and cold and virtually devoid of people. Generally, people avoided Woodside, except for those who lived an alternative existence, one not compatible with the majority.

  Barry nudged open the door, putting his weight behind it as he jammed the key in the lock. He looked jittery, much less confident and bolshie than at the bus station. Elizabeth watched him as he glanced over his shoulder, checking the perimeter to his home, ushering them through. He looked relieved as he closed the door behind him, glad to be inside, and protected by four walls. The entrance room was small and cramped and the door to his apartment locked. The other wall was bricked up, bare chestnut-coloured bricks lined with sandy cement. It covered what once would have been the entrance to the stairs. It would have been a grand entrance to surely what would have been a grand house, before the centre of the city was moved and the residents left their houses, no longer interested to be near the old mills and factories. The wall looked haphazard and unprofessionally built. Jack looked at Elizabeth, his eyes wide. She thought that he must be used to a lot of things as a detective, but it seemed even places like Woodside could surprise him.

  On the other side of the door, it was like a different world. It was as if they had stepped into another realm, another life, to the one that they had left behind. The carpet looked freshly hoovered and the cushions lined up in order along the ornate and old fashioned settee. There were pictures on the wall, generic-looking pictures of country scenes and still life fruit. There was a small table in front of them, with an open space through to the kitchen. There was a scent of roses that permeated the air, which almost masked the smell of old damp wood. Barry offered out his hand to a place on the sofa, and as they sat, he closed the door behind him, securing the chain and closing it as solidly and securely as possible. Elizabeth watched him closely as he checked the locked door handle, and she realised that she knew that feeling. She knew what it was like to be scared in your own home. She hoped never to have that feeling again.

  “You can’t be too careful around here,” Barry said, as he pulled up the armchair next to them. “When I went away for the week, I left these timers on,” he said pointing to the little boxes that sat next to the lamps, “so it looks like somebody is here. Since I laid the bricks to shut off the door to upstairs, I feel a lot safer though. Now,” he said as he slapped his hands down onto his knees, “what do you want to ask me?”

  Jack had been thinking about this ever since he first started the journey to Woodside. He had been desperate for a lead, any lead, and had been searching for one hidden amongst the clues and details of the case. This new lead had fallen completely unexpectedly into his lap, a curve ball from far up field that he had been neither anticipating nor prepared for. To find a random s
tranger offering up information had thrown him completely off course. He was getting used to that feeling in this case.

  “I think you should start by telling us exactly what happened the last time that you saw Rebecca.”

  “As I say, I went on holiday to Torquay for a week.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes. I was going to drive down early, I told Rebecca about it and she asked for a lift. It was maybe five, five-thirty when I picked her up. I don’t remember exactly.”

  “From where?”

  “Outside a paper shop. It’s in the city, the small one on the corner before the main shopping street. She told me to meet her there.” Jack thought back to the time that he was at that paper shop and what the shop owner had said after he had chased out the would-be teenage thieves. He had described Rebecca at that shop at that time. It had been her. “I drove her about ten miles, close to the beach. She said she wanted to go to the seaside for the day.”

  “Did you notice anything strange about her that day?” Barry shifted in his chair, gulping harder than before. He looked as if he was trying to hide something, but even he didn’t look like he knew what it was. He had the face of an innocent, the actions of a perpetrator.

  “Well, she was dressed differently. Not like her. I just thought she had dressed up for the day.” He rubbed his hands across the back of his neck. There was something on the tip of his tongue; it was burning him, making him cough and choke. Whatever it was, he wanted to spit it out. Jack could sense the impending words; he had sat waiting with expectant eyes for the one vital piece of information, desperately snatching it out from the torrent of useless facts, countless times. He had developed patience. “She,” Barry began, pausing in case what he was about to say might, in some unexpected way, implicate him in a horrible crime, “she was acting a bit weird.”

  “What kind of weird?” Elizabeth interrupted. She was sat there listening to the details of the final moments of her sister’s life, from a man she had only met an hour ago. He knew more about Rebecca’s life, it seemed, than anybody else. It was he who Rebecca had seen last. He was the person with whom she chose to spend her final shared moments on this earth. Rebecca had a family: a father, a sister, a brother-in-law. She had had friends and a life and it had been rich and warm, yet right before she took her own life, she had dressed in her mother’s old clothes to spend her final fifteen minutes with a stranger from the bowels of the city.