by Tania Carver
Rose said nothing, made notes, encouraged him to continue.
‘Then we’d go and meet people for a drink and beforehand she would tell me about things that I was supposed to have done. You know, if anyone asked me.’
‘Why did she do that, d’you think?’
He shrugged. ‘Dunno. Wanted to seem more popular? She didn’t think she was well liked, I don’t think. Felt she had to do something to attract attention to herself. Make herself stand out.’
Rose said nothing, just took notes.
He sighed. As he did so, there came the creak of floor-boards from upstairs. He glanced up quickly, Rose’s eyes following him.
‘Someone else here?’ she said.
‘No,’ he said quickly, his eyes darting down to the right.
He’s lying, thought Rose.
28
Phil opened the door quietly, slowly, like he would at a crime scene when he didn’t want to disturb anything.
The house was in darkness apart from one table light, its crackled, mirrored mosaic base casting out a spider-web glow into the room. An empty wine glass and bottle next to it on the table, a paperback book left face down and open, like a bird refusing, or unable, to fly.
Marina must have been sitting there. Ever the detective, he thought, then castigated himself for the thought. Loosen up. You’re at home now.
He listened. No sound. Josephina would be sleeping. He put his car keys on the table, went into the kitchen, took a bottle of beer from the fridge, opened it, returned to the living room and sat down in the seat Marina had recently occupied. Took a long drink, sighed, closed his eyes and put his head back, tried to work the tension of the day out of his body.
Phil opened his eyes, looked round. So unlike his old, comfortable house, things here were unfamiliar and out of place. Still trying to think of the new house as home, of Marina and Josephina as family. Knowing they were both things he would have to work at.
He got up, checked the CD in the hi-fi. Midlake. Thought of putting it on himself but didn’t want to wake his partner and daughter. So he took another mouthful of beer, sat back.
He felt restless, agitated. Tried to tell himself it was because of the case. But he knew it wasn’t. Knew there were other reasons.
Knew that wherever he went in this house there were invisible walls that he couldn’t see, couldn’t go round, couldn’t climb over.
It was an early summer’s evening, still light, still sunny. A beautiful, tranquil view just outside his front door, a promenade by the river. The three of them could have gone for a walk, put Josephina in her buggy, set off along the front. Maybe stopped for a drink at the Rose and Crown, sat out on the front and watched the boats bob in the low tide, the sun go down.
Enjoying life. Enjoying one another in each other’s lives. Living.
Irritation rose with him. Strong irritation. That was what he saw himself doing when he moved to Wivenhoe. That’s what he should have been doing. With Marina and Josephina. Relaxing, having fun. Enjoying each other’s company. As a family.
Instead Marina was living an almost separate life from him, like she was in a hermetically sealed glass box. He could see her and even hear her but not reach her, touch her. It wouldn’t have mattered so much if it had been someone else doing it. Someone who didn’t mean as much to him as she did. Didn’t mean everything to him. But it was her. She was excluding him from something - from her life - and it hurt. Badly.
He drained the bottle of beer, went into the kitchen to get another one. Stopped himself. No, he thought. This isn’t the answer.
Instead he turned, made his way upstairs. Slowly, so as not to wake them.
Marina had done the same thing the night before. Been asleep when he came in. Or claimed to be asleep. He was sure she was faking, lying as still as possible until he put the light out, fell asleep himself.
He wished he knew why.
He opened the bedroom door. Again, slowly, carefully. Looked in, expecting to see Josephina, with her tiny, perfect face, lying in her cot, Marina next to her.
But saw nothing.
He opened the door all the way, not bothering about making a noise now.
The cot was empty, as was the bed.
He checked the other rooms, called for her. No reply.
Downstairs, in all the rooms. No reply.
She must have taken Josephina for a walk, he thought, an angry envy working its way into his brain. Taking her for the kind of walk he wanted them to take as a family.
He checked for the baby buggy. Gone.
Then back into the living room, looking round again. And he saw the book on the table, the paperback Marina had been reading. Noticed there was something sticking out from underneath it. He crossed the room, picked the book up. Underneath was a folded piece of paper with his name written on it. He unfolded it, saw the first word.
Sorry . . .
Read the rest.
And sank into the chair.
‘Oh no . . . oh God, no . . .’
They were gone. Marina, Josephina. His family.
Gone.
29
‘Sure?’ Rose Martin looked carefully at Mark Turner. ‘Sure there’s no one here?’
He shrugged. ‘My girlfriend. New girlfriend. Having a . . . a lie in.’ His voice trailed away.
Rose stifled a smile. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘So, back to Suzanne. You were together for . . .’ She checked Anni’s notes.
‘Two years.’
‘Happy?’
He shrugged. ‘Yeah. Mostly. You know. Ups and downs.’
‘D’you miss her?’
He didn’t answer straight away. Instead, he glanced towards the stairs. ‘It . . . had run its course.’
Rose nodded. As he spoke, Mark Turner sat back, settled into the chair. He seemed to relax, become less bookish, more socialised. Growing in confidence as he dealt with questions he knew the answers to. Everything seemed fine, she thought. Couple more questions then she could go home. She checked the notes.
‘What about Anthony Howe? Where does he come into this?’
Turner’s mood changed instantly. He became tense, sat upright. ‘He . . . ask Suzanne.’ His lip curled. The words sounded unpleasant in his mouth. ‘Ask her.’
The way he said her sounded to Rose like he was saying whore. ‘I’m asking you.’
Mark Turner’s fingers became agitated, restless, like a jonesing drummer denied his kit. ‘That’s . . .’ His breathing became heavier. It looked like he was fighting to stop himself from saying what he really wanted to. He sat back. ‘No. There’s lying and lying. Ask her.’
Rose knew that was all she would be getting from him on the subject. ‘Where were you last night, Mr Turner?’
‘Here.’ He frowned. ‘When last night?’
Rose tried not to smile. ‘Wrong order.’
‘What?’
‘You’re supposed to ask what time I’m talking about before you say where you were.’
His features tightened. His eyes became lit by a cruel, angry light. Again, he seemed to be stopping himself from saying what he wanted to. ‘I didn’t break into her flat. I didn’t beat her up, or whatever. I was here. All night.’
‘Alone?’
He hesitated. ‘No.’
‘With . . .’
‘My girlfriend.’
‘Who would be . . .?’
‘She doesn’t need to be involved. I don’t want her . . . not with Suzanne. Please.’
‘She does if she’s your alibi. Is that her upstairs?’
He nodded. ‘She’s . . . asleep. I don’t want to bother her.’
‘Noisy sleeper.’
‘Yes,’ he said weakly, ‘she is.’
‘Right. And you and her were here all night. What did you do?’
‘I . . . I don’t know.’ He cast a look towards the stairs as if willing her to answer the questions for him, beckoning her with the power of his mind.
‘Read? Watch TV? A DVD?’
His phone rang. They both jumped.
He looked at Rose apologetically, pulled it from his pocket, answered it. After the initial greeting he turned away from Rose. He didn’t say much, just nodded his head, made a few affirmative noises. He rang off, turned back to her. There was a new kind of light in his eyes. Shining, more confident.
‘We were working,’ he said.
‘Sorry?’
‘Last night. We were working. Late. Here.’ He made the statement sound like scientific fact.
Whoever had been on the phone had given Mark Turner strength. Sitting there erect, he seemed to have grown taller, his eyes bright, alert. A small smile danced at the corners of his mouth. There was a kind of cruel triumph in the smile - like an habitual victim suddenly being gifted the power of the bully.
‘And I . . . I think, I think it’s time for you to leave now, Detective, Detective Sergeant Martin.’ His voice became clearer, stronger as the sentence went on. He stood up at the end to emphasise his words.
Rose stood also, flipped her notebook closed. ‘Thank you for your time.’ She made her way to the door. She could feel his eyes on her all the way.
Weirdo, she thought. And his ex-girlfriend sounded like she made stuff up all the time. There was a feel of that from the case notes. And that’s what her report would say.
She left the house and went to find her car.
Outside on the street, the level crossing siren was broadcasting at air raid pitch once again.
She blocked it from her mind, thought about the first gin and tonic waiting for her at home.
30
The Creeper closed his eyes, willed the night to wrap itself around him.
He had learned to love the dark. The time of hunters. Of secrets. Of lovers. It made him feel truly alive, let him move, flow like a living shadow. His vision was at its strongest. The world was at its truest. And Rani would talk to him the most.
Whisper her secrets. Tell him what to do.
He smiled at the thought.
He used to hate the dark. Hate and fear it. It was where the demons lived. Waiting until nightfall when they would emerge, come hunting for him. Canvas-covered, smelling of sweat and drink, of secrets and lies. Of pain and fear.
He hid at first but that never fooled them. They knew all his secret places. They would find him. And hurt him.
But that wasn’t him any more. That boy died in the fire. Now he was the Creeper. And he could fight back. And the demons couldn’t hurt, couldn’t scare him any more.
His eyes were screwed tight shut but darkness refused to fall quick enough.
He thought again of the previous night. Kneeling beside Rani, his head next to hers, smelling along her arms, the soft, downy hair tickling his nostrils.
Then later, moving her T-shirt up and licking her stomach. One long line from the top of her trimmed hair to her belly button. He had savoured the taste. Relived it now . . . Smiled at the memory.
The smile stopped. There would be nothing like that tonight.
Not with the blonde bitch there.
Rani had found her present. It had moved her to tears once more. He enjoyed seeing that. Afterwards, he was sure she would have sent the blonde bitch home, let the pair of them be alone. Together. But she hadn’t. They had drunk a bottle of wine between them and it looked like they were embarking on another. And sometimes Rani had cried and the blonde bitch had consoled her. Sitting where he should have been. Her arm round his love.
Him bringing the smile back to her face. Him. Him. His hands begin to shake. Not a good sign. He had always been angry. Like that kids cartoon character, the Tasmanian Devil, spinning and punching and kicking his way through life. Until Rani appeared. And he had learnt how to harness it. Use it, don’t let it use him. Difficult at first, but he had managed it. But it was still there, slithering underneath his skin, threatening to return him to how he used be, threatening to take control.
He watched them again. Rani thanking the blonde bitch for staying, the bitch saying it was the least she could do. Control the shake. Keep breathing.
And still, he hadn’t heard her voice.
He closed his eyes, tried to concentrate. He could see his lover better that way.
He felt himself stiffening. Felt that curling and writhing in the pit of his stomach. His hand moved down his body, found the waistband of his trousers. He sighed. Kept his eyes closed. Kept touching.
What are you doing now?
He took his hand away quickly. Tried to control his breathing. ‘Nothing . . .’
You sure?
‘Yes, yes, I’m . . . Sorry, sorry, Rani . . .’
Don’t be sorry. It’s nice you make tributes to me. Shows you love me, doesn’t it?
‘Oh, I do, Rani, I do, you know I do. That’s why I left you the present . . .’
She was silent for a few seconds. He heard her breathing, thought she was going to disappear again. Then she was back. Her voice less playful, angry even. You’ve been naughty again, have you?
He froze. She knew. The police, everything. She knew. He had to be careful, not lose her again. He said nothing.
You just had to touch, didn’t you? You just had to touch me . . .
He said nothing.
Didn’t you?
‘Yes . . . yes . . .’
You came into my room . . . touched me while I was asleep. Didn’t you?
He nodded.
Can’t hear you . . .
‘Yes . . . I’m sorry . . .’
You’ve caused a lot of trouble, you know.
‘I know. And I’m sorry . . .’
Lot of trouble. The police, everything.
‘I know . . . I’m sorry . . .’
I might have to disappear.
Fear suddenly grabbed him, a childhood demon, its claw round his throat. ‘No, no, you can’t, please no . . .’ Life without Rani. Wasn’t worth living.
You’ve made things very difficult . . .
‘No, no, please, don’t go, I’ll do anything, anything . . .’
She sent silent. He thought she had disappeared.
‘Rani . . .’
I’m here. I’m thinking.
Relief washed over him. Flooded through to his nerve ends. ‘Whatever you want. I’ll do it.’
I know you will. Let me think.
He waited, hardly daring to breathe.
I think . . . it’s time for me to change.
‘What? Again? But you’ve just . . .’
Doesn’t matter. You know what to do. Don’t worry. You’ll see me again.
‘Yes. I will. I never doubt you.’
Good. I’ll tell you where I’ll be soon.
‘I know you will, but . . .’
But what?
He looked at Rani again, sitting there on the sofa, the blonde bitch with her arm around her, her mouth moving but different words coming out to the ones the blonde bitch was hearing. Words for him and him alone. The truth. The blonde bitch getting any old lies.
He smiled.
But what?
He heard the sharpness in her voice, jumped. ‘The blonde bitch,’ he said quickly. ‘What about that blonde bitch?’
What about her?
‘She’s sitting there, talking to you . . .’
I’m only pretending to be interested. You know that, don’t you?
‘Yes . . .’
It’s you I want to be with.
‘So . . . what should I do?’
I don’t want her. You decide.
‘Right . . .’ He smiled.
You know what you’re doing?
He nodded. ‘Yeah.’
Good. Then do it. For me.
And she was gone.
He kept looking at her. Rani was alone now. The blonde bitch had got up, gone into the kitchen for another bottle of wine. Rani looked up. Right at him.
His heart jumped, he pulled a breath quick
ly into his body. Smiled at her.
‘For you . . .’
Stretched his fingers out. He could feel her, stroked her.
‘Soon,’ he said to her. ‘Soon, it’ll just be you and me . . .’
31
Zoe couldn’t sleep.
There should have been no problem, given the amount of wine she and Suzanne had put away. Not to mention the stress of the day. And if there was an intruder, the huge kitchen knife she’d placed under her side of the bed would offer plenty of protection. So she had expected to just drop straight off. But she hadn’t. She couldn’t.
Suzanne, lying next to her in bed, was spark out, but that may have been a combination of wine, exhaustion and sleeping pills. For Suzanne every little creak and groan from the old house, every car or lorry that went past the window was an intruder.
They should never have stayed. She knew that. As soon as they found that disgusting thing in the fridge they should have upped and left. Zoe should have insisted. But no, she had given in to Suzanne who didn’t want to be driven out of her own home. So they had stayed, tried to be comfort for one another, draw strength. And now, in what must have been the middle of the night, it seemed like a very stupid idea.
And, to make matters worse, she was hungry.
Another car went past, another jump and involuntary tug on the duvet. Another sigh, once it had gone.
‘This is ridiculous,’ said Zoe.
Zoe had made a decision. She wasn’t going to be scared any more. There was no one else in the flat but herself and Suzanne. She had checked, double-checked and rechecked the locks on the doors and windows. No way anyone could get through them. At least, not without making a hell of a racket in doing so. So they were alone. They were safe.
And she was still hungry.
She flung the duvet back, got out of bed. Her head spinning slightly from the wine. Suzanne didn’t wake, didn’t even move.
She padded to the kitchen, checked her watch as she went. Just after three a.m. What was that quote? Something about in the real dark night of the soul it’s always three a.m.? Was that it? And who said it? Scott Fitzgerald, wasn’t it? Well, she thought, looking round the kitchen, seeing yellow sodium streaks of street light and shadow snaking round the window blind, he had a point.
