by SJI Holliday
He started on my face. I tried to fight him off, but in the end I just gave up. I’d already passed out by the time he started to shove it inside me. I think he tried to wake me up. I have vague memories of him slapping me, spitting on me, shouting in my face. ‘How do you like this, sweet Marie? How do you like this?’
He stopped, eventually. Jumped out of my bedroom window onto the roof of the outhouse at the back. Disappeared. They found me, then they found him. They thought I was dead. There was so much blood. The whole place had to be bleached down and re-carpeted afterwards. A specialist team came in to do it. Crime-scene cleaners. Who knew those things even existed?
I stayed in hospital for six months. They patched me up. Let me convalesce. When I came out, Mum and Dad had already sold the house. They’d enrolled me in a new school. Given me a new name. I liked Bloomfield. It reminded me of my gran. But the best thing was, it was something that Graeme would never have. He would always be Graeme Woodley.
They’d managed to prise us apart.
I missed him at first. I know that probably sounds strange. But before he hurt me, I loved him so much. He was my best friend. He taught me everything. I never laughed with anyone as much as I did with him.
Therapy helped. They taught me that it wasn’t my fault. That Graeme had developed an obsession with me. It wasn’t natural. He wasn’t well. They’d diagnosed him a schizophrenic. It explained a lot of the things he’d done over the years. The paranoia, the delusions. The nightmares that turned out to be hallucinations.
When he came back, I didn’t know what to do. Part of me wanted to see him. Talk to him. Ask him why he did it. I wanted him to be better. I wanted him to be the old Graeme, the brother I loved.
But it became obvious that he wasn’t better. He would never be better. He was still obsessed with me. He would always be obsessed with me. I didn’t have a choice. I’d seen what that drug did to Harry. I knew it could kill – especially if it was given to someone who had other issues. Other problems. Someone who hadn’t drunk alcohol for more than twenty years.
I just wanted him to go to sleep.
I’m sorry for what happened. I never thought it would react so badly in his system, sending him into a frenzy like that. I thought he’d have a fit. Choke on his own vomit.
I thought he would die . . . I didn’t even know he had the knife.
Maybe he’s told you now, what he had planned. But I think I know. He took that knife and he followed me to that party. He wanted to kill me. Just me. Kill or be killed. He’s not stupid. He must’ve known I wasn’t going to let him stay with me any longer. If only I’d called the police. If only I’d told Davie. Forgive me.
Marie lays the pen on the plastic mattress. Folds the sheets of paper in half. Louise is still watching, waiting.
‘I’m done,’ Marie says. She offers Louise the papers. ‘Here. I suppose you’re getting the exclusive.’
DC Louise Jennings tries to suppress a smile. She takes the papers from Marie, picks up the pen from beside her. She walks out of the cell, leaving Marie on her own. With just the plastic cup. The water inside is cloudy. Lukewarm.
Marie lies back on the narrow bed. Throws her arms back behind her head. She is tired. So very tired. She takes a breath.
Sixty . . . fifty-nine . . . fifty-eight . . .
Closes her eyes.
Waits for whatever is going to come.
30th July 2015
Dear Marie,
Remember when we used to go swimming? I loved those days with you. I loved the shape of your body inside your costume. That shiny pink Lycra with the silver stripes on the sides. The way your hip bones jutted through the fabric. I loved your hair when it was wet, slicked back smooth and flat over your head. You reminded me of a baby otter. Flipping and swimming and popping your head up out of the water. Remember how we used to hold our breath and sink to the bottom of the pool? I used to love to sit there on the bottom, looking up at you, watching your legs scissor-kicking up above me. I could make out the shape of you beneath the fabric. Every last shape and fold of your skin. I longed to touch you there, but I stopped myself. I know we had to keep our little secret.
You saved me that day. The day I stayed down for too long. One hundred . . . ninety-nine . . . too much. Too long. But I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to watch you. I don’t remember you coming down there to get me, but I know you did.
I woke up when you kissed me.
I could taste your lips.
I love you, Marie. I’ll always love you, Marie. No matter what. We’re one, Marie. One being, split into two. Fused together, split apart. But we don’t need to be apart any more.
Ever.
I’ll always be watching, Marie.
With love,
Graeme xx
44
They arrive quietly. Davie takes the lead. Malkie follows close behind. There are three squad cars parked around the back of a disused warehouse next to the river. Waiting. The strategy is simple. They’ve given no indication that they know anything. As far as everyone who was able to has reported, Gaz was not at the party. He didn’t supply any drugs there. He has no reason to suspect that they are on to him. Unless someone has tipped him off, and Davie can’t see who would gain from that.
Davie walks across the grass towards the fairground. Most of the machinery has been taken down, folded up and packed into sections. Tents have been flattened, poles lie on the ground. There don’t seem to be many people around, yet everything is getting done – quickly, efficiently. It is a well-oiled machine. It’s almost a shame to upset the flow.
Somewhere inside the perimeter of the fair, a radio is playing. The tinny sound of a recent pop song that Davie vaguely recognises. This time there is no smell of food. The burger vans are closed up. Piles of rubbish are loaded into trailers ready for them to take to the dump. He can’t complain that they’re not leaving the place tidy.
They’re due to drive down to the coast now. Next stop: Dunbar. Davie hates to think of the kids being disappointed, but he’s thinking more about the older kids now – the ones who just might live a bit longer if Gaz and his dodgy legal highs don’t make it down their way.
Legal highs. Not the best name for some of them. Herbal highs. Yes. The one that Gaz has concocted is herbal, but the herb that it contains – a disgusting, sharp-flavoured South-east Asian plant called Kratom, or Mitragyna speciosa – is not legal in the UK. It’s not even legal where it comes from. There will be measures taken to shut down the suppliers; new government legislation will soon be in force, making sure that all psychoactive substances are regulated – but it’s complicated, and the problem isn’t going to go away overnight. So they have to take baby-steps.
First, they’re going to take Gaz – and then Gaz’s boss. And hope it leads them to whoever is making this particular batch of stuff, which has unpredictable consequences, and has become popular primarily because someone has made the stuff into a capsule that can be swallowed. There aren’t many people who would buy the herb themselves, not with all the hassle of making it palatable. Most of these kids are lazy. Alcohol is easy to get hold of. Weed, coke, whatever. Not really a stretch. But there’s a horrific new appeal of these herbal things. They can justify it to themselves that they’re legal and therefore they’re safe. But they’re neither. Far from it. Without instructions on dosage, they are dicing with death every time they touch one. These kids are kidding themselves. It’s a bleak reality, but maybe they might’ve learnt a few lessons from recent events. Two overdoses . . . then something that no one could have foreseen.
Graeme Woodley’s reaction was a massive psychotic episode. Hallucinations. He was only trying to protect himself, the doctors said. He didn’t realise he was waving a kitchen knife at real people. Hacking them down like weeds in a potato field. He says he got the knife from Marie’s handbag, but it’s his word against hers on that. Marie’s not denying it’s her knife. But she’s not admitting to taking it with her to the party. No one is
ever going to know the truth about that.
Davie spots him. He’s rolling a huge tarpaulin on the ground. A younger boy is standing nearby, holding a rope. Davie ushers an arm behind himself, wants Malkie to hurry up.
They walk in through a gap between two dismantled rides.
‘Gary McKay?’ Davie says.
Gaz turns to face them, a scowl on his face. Ready to have a go at whoever is here disturbing him from his work. The kid with the rope drops it on top of the tarp and runs off towards one of the caravans.
‘What do you want?’ Gaz says.
‘Not very polite, is it?’ Malkie says. He takes his badge out of his pocket. Davie takes a step back.
Gaz stands up. A smirk plays on his lips. Davie watches as his eyes dart this way and that. He’s looking for an escape route. Hedging his bets. Davie crosses his arms and gives him a look.
‘I wouldn’t bother, if I were you,’ Malkie says. ‘We’re not here alone.’
Gaz scans the remnants of the fairground. Stands up on the rolled tarp and puts a hand to his forehead as if he is a captain of a ship, looking for pirates in his midst.
‘You sure about that?’ Gaz says.
Malkie’s radio crackles. He takes it out of his pocket. ‘Be ready,’ he says.
Gaz’s expression changes. The smirk fades away. Just for a moment. Then it’s back. ‘I think I asked yous what yous wanted,’ he says.
‘What do you know about a robbery at the vet’s surgery on the High Street on Monday last week?’
He shakes his head. Looks confused. He wasn’t expecting this. ‘I wasn’t here. We were still in Ormiston on Monday.’
‘I know that,’ Malkie says. ‘I didn’t ask where you were. I asked what you knew about it.’
Gaz barks out a single beat of laughter. ‘Well, nothing. Obviously.’
‘What about the thirty litres of medicinal-grade ethanol that was stolen. Know anything about that?’ Malkie says.
‘Or this?’ Davie says, stepping forward, holding up a small plastic bag with one capsule in the bottom. The bag that Laura had handed in. The one Mark got from Gaz on their first night at the shows. It had already been dusted for prints. Mark’s were on there, Laura’s . . . and a third set. Presumably belonging to Gaz.
Gaz shrugs. ‘You’ve got nothing.’
‘Fair enough,’ Malkie says. ‘You’ll have no objection to coming down to the station with me then. I’ve got a few more questions. And I’ve a couple of people there who’ve agreed to look at an identity parade. Be in your interests if we could eliminate you from our inquiries.’
‘I doubt there’s much I’d be able to help you two gentlemen with. As you can see, I’m a bit busy at the moment.’ At that, the young boy from earlier comes running back from the caravan. Behind him three men follow. They don’t look happy.
Malkie sighs. ‘I offered you the easy option,’ he says. Then, into his radio: ‘Come in, please. All units. Assistance required.’
Davie watches as the men form a barrier around Gaz. None of them speak. Someone in one of the cars switches on the siren. The noise is loud as they appear from behind the warehouse, making their way across the grass.
Gaz’s face is beetroot. He knows there’s no point in running. He knows they wouldn’t have brought back-up if they weren’t sure they had something worth bringing in. As it was, they have several witnesses from around the county who are happy to identify Gaz from a line-up. News of what happened at the party and a last-minute article in the Evening News had prompted a bout of mild hysteria. People were handing stuff into police stations, asking for amnesty if they helped find who was behind it all. It had all come together quickly. The intelligence had been building and the recent events in Banktoun helped whip it all to a soft peak.
The other officers are out of their cars. Gaz doesn’t put up a fight. Jennings cuffs him and pushes him roughly into the back seat. She nods at Davie. Says to him and Malkie: ‘Nice work, fellas.’
‘Thanks, Louise. See you back at base,’ Malkie replies.
Davie leaves them to it. He’s on his way to offer help setting up the cordon – they want to search the place before the fair is allowed to leave, they want to question everyone on site to see if more arrests are required – when he spots a familiar figure crouched down behind one of the lorries. A strand of pink hair blowing outside her hood gives her away. He walks over. He can hear her sobbing.
‘Hayley, can you come out from behind there, love?’
‘No. What’s going to happen to me?’
Davie takes a few steps closer. ‘If you haven’t done anything wrong, then nothing’s going to happen to you. Have you done something wrong?’
‘No.’ She stands up, walks around so she is at the side of the lorry now, still some distance away.
‘How about I take you home then? If there’s anything you need to tell me, you can tell me in the car. How does that sound?’
‘Will I get in trouble?’ Her voice is small, quiet. She’s not so bold and bolshie now, all on her own, in the presence of twelve policemen and a group of massively pissed-off fairground workers who’re set to lose a lot of cash if they don’t make it to their next gig.
Davie wonders how many of them knew about Gaz’s little extra-cash earner. He imagines that some of them won’t be best pleased. There’s a code of honour amongst these people. They try to stay under the radar, within the law. Gaz is not going to be popular at the moment, that’s for sure.
‘Come on,’ he says.
Hayley walks towards him, her head bowed. Hands shoved deep into the pockets of her jeans. Davie rests a hand on her back and guides her across the field. There are crackles of radios. Car doors slamming. Several conversations going on at once. Gaz is in the back of Jennings’ car. He taps on the window. Davie and Hayley turn. He blows her a kiss, and she looks away. Embarrassed.
‘I’m such an idiot,’ she says.
Davie smiles. ‘There’s a lot of that going about.’
Epilogue
Two Weeks Later
It was a joint decision by all the families involved. There could be six separate funerals, six days of grief. Or there could be one for them all. A memorial event. Something to mark the event with the gravitas it deserved.
There hadn’t been a tragedy like this in the town in the town’s history. It was something that no one could have predicted, something that would never happen again.
It was right to mark it. Remember the victims.
All six.
Sam Murray
Lauren Reeves
Scott Philips
Leanne Baxter
Susan Pola
Sean Talbot
The last one to die had been Sean. He’d stepped in front of Tracy Cavan and taken a knife to the heart. His was the cleanest kill of them all. He’d fallen back onto the sofa, looked like he was sleeping. Tracy had passed out from the shock, and when she’d woken she’d refused to believe that the whole thing wasn’t some sort of alcohol- and drug-induced nightmare. They’d found her huddled in a corner. Singing to herself . . . something about heading to the Milky Way. She’s here today, with her sister. She’s wearing oversized sunglasses, has her hands clasped in front of her. Most of the girls are the same. Black dresses, solemn stances. Hayley is here, standing alone.
Things will be different after this.
The boys and the men are all in black suits. There was talk of going informal, T-shirts and jeans, skirts and tops. But the consensus was that some ceremony was required. They’d make up for it in the pub afterwards, no doubt. Ties would be removed when the pints started to flow.
Davie sits next to the central aisle in the last pew, right at the back of the nave. He’s in dress uniform, something he hasn’t worn for a while. It feels good, feels right. Malkie sits directly in front of him; he has managed to find a suit that isn’t crumpled and ripped. He actually looks smart. Davie glances around at the congregation, a sea of bowed heads. So many young people. They are hurtin
g, unable to stop their tears. But there is a lesson here too, as much as they might not want to see it now. It wasn’t only Marie that led them to this day. It was Gaz, and Stuart Mason, and everyone else who was involved – buying the legal high, spreading its buzz. Taking it to the party.
He knows that Laura, too, feels responsible. She saw what Marie did, but she didn’t act. She was too wrapped up in herself, desperate to be back with Mark, hidden in their love nest – and Davie couldn’t blame her for that. But he knew Laura would struggle with it. She would need help. Wouldn’t they all?
Laura sits quietly to his left. Next to her is Mark. Head dropped low to his chest as if in deep contemplation. Davie can see he is trying to hide his tears. He’s clearly feeling the enormity of it all. What could’ve been. It could’ve been him. His knuckles glow white where he is gripping Laura’s hand.
Davie looks away. Stares down the central aisle towards the chancel. He thinks about the dead. Scott. The downward spiral from losing his job to splitting up with his fiancé, Jo, to where he is now, has been rapid. He’d taken too many chances, too many risks. He wanted some fun – to break away from the norm. Doesn’t everyone? His only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Scott and Leanne were the first ones to die. They’d been the trigger. What had Graeme seen there? A young couple having a bit of fun, a quick shag in a place where they thought no one would bother them. Was it a reminder? A snapshot of him and Marie, from a different time and place?
Davie closes his eyes. The minister stands at the altar talking in low, soothing tones. His magnified voice seems to float through the air. He has given the eulogies – the relatives of the deceased too distraught to stand up there themselves – and he’s listed their names, over and over, like a chant. Davie opens his eyes as the old man begins the committal:
We have but a short time to live.
Like a flower we blossom and then wither;
like a shadow we flee and never stay.
In the midst of life we are in death;
