by Sibel Hodge
‘You’re not at all. Of course you’re not. I want to give you a hug.’
I stayed in bed, unable to will myself to get moving.
Finally, when I knew I couldn’t delay the moment I’d have to get ready any longer, I dressed in black trousers and a black polo-neck jumper. My slow, shaky movements belonged to a ninety-year-old instead of a thirty-seven-year-old. Everything seemed impossible—breathing, walking, standing—and yet somehow I put one foot in front of the other, even though my world crumbled a little more with each step.
I made it down the stairs. Sat in Ava’s car next to her as Craig drove behind the hearse to the church. I said hello to Paul and Jamie’s other colleagues. Accepted warm, sympathetic hugs from Becca and Lynn, and my other friends and people I worked with. Watched the vicar without listening to his words. He didn’t know Jamie. I bet he said the same thing every time he held a funeral. I didn’t bother mouthing the words to songs I didn’t give a shit about. I stared at the flowers people had left. Numb. Frozen. As if it was happening to someone else. I watched the coffin disappearing into the freshly dug grave. Disappearing. And all the time I thought, This isn’t real.
Then somehow Ava and Craig were guiding me away, and I was back at their house, where Ava pressed a glass of wine into my hand. People milled around, chatting in sombre voices, flicking sad looks in my direction as I sat in the kitchen. I couldn’t stand. My legs wouldn’t hold me up anymore. I didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to be there. Becca and Lynn hovered beside me, tears in their eyes. People bustled in and out. Kissed me. Took hold of my hands and squeezed them. Gave condolences. Left cards on the table for me. Said what a lovely service it was and other inane things that made me want to strangle them. More wine. More chatter. Finger food that I couldn’t touch. Everything was hazy around the edges, as if I was being sucked underground, somewhere I couldn’t breathe, being buried alive. I was a spectator in my own life, hanging on by a strand of the finest silk. A scream was barely stifled beneath the surface.
And then suddenly it was dark outside, the house was empty, and Ava was sitting next to me, squeezing my hand, not saying anything.
We sat in silence for I didn’t know how long before I stood up, clutching onto the table for support. ‘I need to go home.’
‘Do you want to stay here?’
‘No. I need to be on my own.’
She opened her mouth to speak but then appeared to think better of it and pulled me into a tight hug. ‘Just phone me if you need me.’ She let me go, picked up the condolence cards people had left on the table, and shuffled them into a neat pile before walking me out to her car with them in her hand. She put them in the centre cubby box and drove back to my house. Jamie’s house. She pulled up on the drive, and I got out.
‘Thank you for today,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t have done it without you.’
She waved my words away. ‘I just wish I could make things better for you.’ I turned to leave, and she said, ‘Wait, take the cards. At some point, you’ll want to look through them, I’m sure.’
I took them, knowing full well that I wouldn’t. Could never bring myself to.
I opened the door to the cold, empty house and thought, That’s it. The end of everything. Jamie’s life is really over.
JAMIE
Chapter 22
There were more parties. More drink. More drugs. More themes. More games that always ended in rape and abuse.
One night the theme was hide and seek. The men gave us ten minutes to find a suitable hiding place, and as my friends ran in different directions, I headed down a corridor that led to the back of the house, finding myself in a room I’d never seen before. A library. Whole walls were lined with book-filled shelves. It had a couple of dark green leather chairs and an antique mahogany desk in the corner with photographs on top. I glanced briefly at images of the judge, pictured in his robes and wig with several important-looking people in fancy uniforms, before my eyes scanned the room for somewhere to go where they’d never, ever find me.
Footsteps came closer to the door. My heart beat wildly, threatening to explode in my chest. There was nowhere to hide that they wouldn’t find me easily. I saw the deep green curtains and darted behind them, flattening myself against the wall and rearranging the fabric around me carefully. I looked at the sash window behind me and tried to lift it, but as always, it was locked.
The door creaked open. My pulse hammered in my ears so loud I thought he would be able to hear it.
‘Where are you?’ the policeman said in a sing-song voice. ‘I know someone’s in here. I can smell you.’ I could no longer hear where he was, as the thick carpet masked his steps. ‘Under the desk, I wonder…no, not there. Hmm…well, there’s only one place left to hide.’
I squeezed my eyes tighter. Pressed myself flatter against the wall and the edge of the windowsill.
I could dive through the glass. Drop to the ground and run. Run and run and just keep running. I could—
He pulled the curtain back, and an evil grin snaked up the corners of his lips. ‘Looks like I’ve got my prize!’ He held out his hand. ‘Come on, then. Let’s have a few drinks before we really get started.’
My gaze darted back to the window. I could bash my head against the glass. I could kill myself. I could die, and it would all be over.
‘Let’s go.’ His voice hardened.
I couldn’t do any of those things.
When we arrived back in the lounge, Billy, Sean, and Trevor were already there, along with a boy I’d never seen before. He was about eight years old, biracial with smooth cinnamon skin and green eyes. He was beautiful. A paedophile’s dream. His eyelids drooped with the concoction of drink and drugs he’d obviously been given.
‘Look what I’ve got. Special delivery!’ The judge chuckled raucously, his eyes gleaming with excitement as he said to the other men, ‘I bet you’re all jealous.’
‘Want to share?’ The banker grinned greedily.
The judge looked down at the boy, who had now mercifully fallen into a drugged sleep on the sofa. ‘Why not? There’s plenty to go round.’
‘Let’s go to the dungeon.’ The children’s minister smirked.
They finished their drinks, and all the men disappeared with the boy. Billy, Trevor, Sean, Dave, and I darted scared looks at each other as we drank and drank in that locked room, trying to numb ourselves, because we’d all been in the dungeon before. It was downstairs in the basement. The walls were painted black, with chains, ropes, and whips hanging from them. A big wrought-iron bed was against the centre of the back wall with handcuffs attached to the head and footboard. It smelt of decay and dead things, and spots of dark purply-red were on the floor. A video camera was set up on a tripod in front of the bed. There had been another ‘special guest’ in the room with me and the other men. Someone who wore a long black cape with a hood, his face covered with a mask. And I’d thought they were going to kill me down there as they’d killed that other boy in front of my eyes.
Hours later, after Sean had been sick in a wastepaper basket, I’d passed out on the sofa and was woken by the door being unlocked. The bearded MP’s hair was messed up, strands out of place and falling over his ears. The judge was red-faced. The policeman had a tiny speck of what looked like blood on his cheek. The children’s minister was breathing heavily and sweating.
A cold knot of terror ripped through my insides. I knew what was going to happen next.
And I knew what had happened to that poor, helpless boy.
MAYA
Chapter 23
Jamie was the first thing I thought of when I woke up. The last thing at night. And all the hours in between. I couldn’t shake the sadness. The emptiness. I couldn’t face going back to work, even though Ava thought it would take my mind off things, but I also couldn’t face being in the house any longer, alone. I knew I couldn’t go on like this forever. I had to make a start on trying to get through this. Rebuild my life. Somehow.
And the qu
estions in my head refused to go away. What was Jamie doing before he was snatched away from me? What did the list have to do with it? Had he been involved in something dangerous, criminal? Had he witnessed something? Were those men on the list friends of Jamie’s? Friends I’d never known existed? Had someone really murdered Jamie? Or was I going mad?
No. I was convinced someone had killed Jamie, and somehow I was going to prove it. I just didn’t know how. Didn’t know where to look anymore.
Two weeks after the funeral, I forced myself to open the condolence cards Ava had given me and the ones that came through the post. They all said pretty much the same thing. Sorry for your loss. My condolences. We’ll miss him. Thinking of you. Sending our love. All except the last one, which, according to the postmark, had been delivered a few days ago.
I slid my forefinger under the flap of the envelope and tore it open. It had a sepia-coloured photograph on the front. A man with his back to the camera, walking along a seashore, the sun shining over the ocean, the words In Sympathy in bold white at the centre. Something about the photo reminded me of Jamie. How he loved to walk in the country, in the woods. How he loved the outdoors and large open spaces. How he was a loner.
I put it down on the kitchen table. Poured yet another glass of wine. Stared at the photo. I took a sip of wine and picked up the card again. Inside it read:
Dear Maya,
You don’t know me, but I knew Jamie. I’m sorry I missed the funeral. It must’ve been very difficult. I have some information about Jamie’s death that you may want to hear. I’ve thought long and hard about whether to tell you or not. In the end, I decided you should know, then you can make up your own mind.
Call me on this number 07580 3657789, but don’t call from your mobile or landline. Don’t tell anyone or go to the police, either. You’ll understand why after we speak, but your safety depends on it.
Mitchell
I sat rigid, reading the words again and again as they ricocheted around my head like bullets.
Who was this Mitchell person? I didn’t know anyone of that name, and I’d never heard Jamie mention him. A thought flashed into my head that it was a trap. If the person who murdered Jamie suspected I knew something, were they intending to kill me, too, and make my death look like an accident or another suicide?
Your safety depends on it.
There was only one way to find out. I grabbed my bag and walked into town, stopping at the first phone box I found. I hadn’t used one since I was a kid and realised that they didn’t take coins anymore. I needed to buy a phone card, so I walked to the newsagents, purchased one, and walked back. I opened the door, stepping over a broken bottle. By the time I put the card in and dialled the mobile number, my heart was pounding, a pulse in my temple twitching, a nauseous feeling rising in my stomach.
The number rang in my ear. Once. Twice. Three times. On the fourth, a deep voice answered.
‘Hello?’
I started to speak, but my tongue felt as though it was blocking my dry mouth.
‘Hello?’ the voice said again.
I panicked and put the phone down, my heart racing into overdrive.
I swallowed. Reached out a hand to the glass wall to steady myself. Swallowed again. Licked my cracked, dry lips.
I picked up the phone and dialled.
‘Hello?’ the voice answered.
‘Hello. This is Maya,’ I blurted out before I could change my mind again.
‘Maya,’ he said. ‘Thanks for ringing me. You got the card, I take it?’
‘Yes. Can you tell me what this is all about?’
‘Not on the phone. Can we meet somewhere?’
I hesitated, thinking of some kind of trap again. ‘Why can’t you tell me on the phone?’
‘Lots of reasons, but we really need to do this face-to-face. I’ve got something for you. Something of Jamie’s you probably want to see.’
‘What is it?’
‘Again. Not on the phone.’
‘Can’t you post it to me?’
‘It’s not the kind of thing you’d want to fall into the wrong hands. Or to get lost. We can meet somewhere out in the open, where there are lots of people. You choose the place.’
‘Where are you?’
‘North London, but I can meet wherever you want.’
My mind suddenly went blank as I tried to think of somewhere. Did I want this person coming to St Albans? What if they followed me home? But then they’d posted the card, so they already knew where I lived. ‘How about Molly’s? It’s a café on St Peter’s Street in St Albans.’
‘Okay. When and what time?’
‘Can you make it today?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. Tomorrow? I can get there by ten.’
‘Okay,’ I said breathlessly. ‘Ten tomorrow.’
‘I’ll see you then. And Maya…I’m really sorry about Jamie.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It’s very important that you don’t tell anyone about this. Your safety is at risk if you do.’
‘Why not? Is it—’ But the dialling tone sounded in my ear then as Mitchell hung up, cutting me off.
I stared at the receiver, trying to work out how I was going to get through the next twenty-four hours. What did he have of Jamie’s, and whose were the ‘wrong hands’ he didn’t want it to fall into?
When I got back home, I wondered if I was safe there anymore. Someone had definitely been in here before, I was sure of it now. Someone who’d done a tidy search. Someone who’d probably wiped Jamie’s laptop, his satnav. Someone who’d probably planted in the shed the rope that they’d strung Jamie up with. Would they come back for me? Should I go somewhere else? A friend’s? Ava’s? I didn’t want to mention this to any of them because they wouldn’t believe me. They’d say I was depressed, in denial, confused, seeing connections where there weren’t any. I supposed I could tell Ava I didn’t want to be in the house on my own anymore, but what if she and Jackson were dragged into this? Whatever this was. Something terrible was going on, something that had got Jamie killed, and I couldn’t put them in danger, too.
I watched the clock. Paced the floor. Wrapped my cardigan tighter round me in the cold. Jumped at every creak in the house. I made myself eat a sandwich. Avoided alcohol for once so I could be clear-headed. That night I lay on the sofa with all the lights on in the house.
I waited. And waited. At some point, I fell into a restless sleep, then something jerked me awake. My heart thumped wildly. I strained my ears, listening for the sound of someone breaking in—the turn of a doorknob, footsteps creaking, a window shattering. I searched the room for something to use as a weapon and picked up a heavy vase.
But there was nothing. No sounds. No movement. The house was empty, except for Jamie’s ghost and me. I lifted the corner of the curtain in the lounge that overlooked the front of the house and saw a fox rummaging around in the black rubbish bag a neighbour had left next to their overflowing wheelie bin. Then the corner of my eye caught movement further down the street, at the end of the cul-de-sac, but as soon as I turned my head, it was gone. Had someone been walking down the street? A friend of a neighbour who’d been visiting? Or something more sinister?
I let the curtain fall, my heart pounding, and clutched the vase. I watched the clock. Wondered. Thought. Terrified myself with possibilities. With questions.
I was a nervous wreck by the time I walked into Molly’s twenty minutes early the next morning. I stood by the door, surveying the customers already inside. A young couple was at one of the tables, holding hands and laughing about something. In the corner, an elderly woman sipped a cup of tea and smiled at me. A man walked out of the toilets at the rear. He was in his thirties, with dark cropped hair and a thick beard. Was that him? He glanced at me briefly then sat at a table with a woman and a young girl who was licking the icing off a sticky bun.
I walked to the counter and ordered a double espresso. The door opened. A woman walked in and queued behind me. I took my dri
nk and sat in a private corner away from everyone, where we could talk without being overheard, my gaze firmly fixed on the door as I fidgeted with my hands.
Ten minutes later, a man entered. He was medium height, stocky, broad-shouldered, probably late fifties, maybe older, but looked very fit for his age. He had a smoothly shaved head and a round face. He wore jeans and a white T-shirt, even though it was February and really cold. Sleeves of tattoos were visible up the length of both well-muscled arms. He had a small white plastic bag in a large meaty hand.
Our gazes met.
He smiled. It was warm, friendly. Not a psycho I-killed-your-boyfriend-now-I’m-going-to-kill-you smile. But it crossed my mind that he could easily kill me. Crush my windpipe in a second with those hands.
He walked towards my table. ‘Maya.’
I swallowed and nodded.
‘I’m Mitchell.’
‘Hi.’ I’d pictured him in my head, but he hadn’t looked anything like this. And the more I looked at him, the more I thought I’d seen him before, but I couldn’t place where.
‘Can I get you another drink?’
I looked at my half-touched, now cold coffee, wanting to scream, No! Just get on with it! Just tell me why you’re here! What’s going on? Instead, I said, ‘No, this is fine, thanks.’
‘Okay. I’ll be back in a minute.’
I observed him as he went to the counter and ordered. He came back, sat down with his back to the wall, placed the bag on the table in front of us, his gaze scanning around him, and that was when it hit me. The petrol station. He’d been filling his car up when my bag had split open.
A cold vibration washed over me. ‘I’ve seen you before. You were at the petrol station.’
He looked at me but didn’t say anything.
‘Were you following me?’
Reluctantly, he nodded. ‘Yes, but it’s probably not what you think.’
