by N. M. Brown
The three loud shots hit Leighton Jones in the chest and he fell backwards in a fine mist of blood.
As he lay gasping for breath in the hot dust, Leighton saw what he would consider two of the most important things in the whole world. The first was Vicki, being lifted by stretcher to safety, with a clear hemisphere of an oxygen mask fastened to her face. She was alive, and she was safe. That was good enough. Peering at her, Leighton felt his life slipping away like the fading remnants of a dream, and his fingers twitched upon the dry ground. He smiled a little and let his head roll back to face the heavens, where the final image his closing eyes saw was the small, swooping circles of an expectant Merlin hawk, dancing expectantly in the sky above him.
Chapter Forty-Five
The Eternal Hills Memorial Park looked pretty in the morning sunshine. It was located seven miles to the north of Oceanside, with a view of the distant waves.
As she laid the flowers on the ground so she could lock the door of her parked car, Vicki noticed the air felt similar to the day she and Leighton had first travelled together up to Barstow. This thought came with a surge of emotion which threatened to knock her to the ground.
Steadying herself, she took a deep breath and leant against the warm metal of the car for a moment. The doctor had placed her bandaged arm in a neoprene sling and told her not drive for several weeks, but she had ignored him. She had simply pulled the throbbing arm out of the sling while driving, leaving the impotent support around her neck like a burst bicycle tyre. The other options were taking a cab, which she couldn’t afford, or taking an intercity bus – something she would never do again.
Turning around, she surveyed the serene beauty of the cemetery – lush, green grass beneath a perfect sky. Somewhere in the distance, a sprinkler stuttered to life. Vicki glanced at the paper map of the cemetery for a moment, then picked up the bouquet of flowers and made her way slowly to the graveside.
Following the map, she found herself standing at a shaded spot beneath an apple blossom tree. It was only September, but some of the curled blossoms had already begun to float gently down to rest upon the neatly cut grass.
The simple, polished headstone before her was clean and honest like the man whose name it bore.
Vicki knelt down before the grave, thinking the company had done a good job of matching the two engravings, despite being separated by so many years.
She didn’t look around to see if anyone might overhear her.
‘Your dad didn’t believe he was a good man,’ she said softly, ‘but we know better than that, don’t we?’ As she spoke, Vicki wiped the hot tears dripping from her nose. ‘He told me once he always wanted to bring these for you.’
Placing the oversized daises next to the headstone, Vicki winced as she adjusted the sling on her right arm. A small golden ring, encrusted with garnets, sparkled on her finger as she gripped the bandage.
Looking at the two names on the memorial, Vicki smiled.
Annie May Jones
1999-2007
Beloved Daughter
Leighton Jones 1957-2017
Loving father of the above.
‘You were good enough for me, Leighton Jones,’ Vicki said through the tears. ‘You hear me, dammit? You helped me more than you know – I’ve got out of my mother’s house, you know – I’m renting my own little place.’ She wiped at her wet cheeks. ‘I’ve got my own little patch, and I’m keeping it free from the mess of the world like you said. You saved us all, Leighton… you saved us all.’
Epilogue
It was a hot afternoon in West London. As he leant out of the small balcony to smoke a pre-dinner joint, Joshua Miller could smell roasting garlic from an open kitchen window. He was dressed in a pair of rolled-up linen trousers and sandals. From another balcony, he could hear the mellow sound of Bob Marley singing “Stir it Up”, while from somewhere across the city, the sound of a siren rose, like the moan of a captured phantom. Joshua smiled and took a long drag on the cigarette. Much as he loved the vibe of the city, he and Claire would soon be leaving it behind for an entire month.
His flat was on the inner side of a circular building of English red brick. Built in the 1930s for families hoping to escape the depressing familiarity of traditional homes, it was now the preserve of the city’s bright and fashionable young things. Far below in the grassy courtyard, a group of tanned young ladies in floral dresses were lounging on blankets, sharing cocktails, and browsing designer shoes on a selection of digital tablets. As his eyes wandered over them, Josh mentally ranked them based on attractiveness. Then, as if sensing his indiscretion, his girlfriend called him from inside the flat.
‘Josh, you’ve got to come through here and see this, babe!’
Claire glanced up as her partner came into the living room and flopped onto the white leather sofa beside her. Taking the joint from his hand, she took a puff then handed it back.
‘I was just about to confirm the Portland accommodation when this popped up.’
As she spoke, Claire tilted the iPad so he could see the display. The screen revealed a photograph of a colonial style building surrounded by tall Eastern White Pine trees. The text beneath it read:
Prince of Maine Hotel – Your confirmed rate for Luxury Suite $29 per night (includes complimentary buffet breakfast and all taxes)
‘What is this?’ Josh asked in a hoarse voice, as he passed the smouldering joint to her again.
‘It just appeared, honey,’ she said with a shrug. ‘I went to the site for the Old Colonial, like we agreed, and typed in our dates, and a new window just appeared.’
‘Is it legit?’ Josh tried to sound casual, but he was clearly just as intrigued as his girlfriend.
‘I think so, and look at this price; we could save four hundred dollars over the ten days in Maine.’
‘And it’s free on our dates?’
‘Yep.’ Claire grinned.
‘Okay then, what are waiting for?’ Josh shrugged. ‘Let’s book it!’
Claire kissed him on the cheek and excitedly began typing in their details.
…
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Acknowledgments
Heartfelt thanks to Betsy and the team at Bloodhound Books for their tireless commitment and support.
Copyright © 2018 N.M Brown
The right of N.M. Brown to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2018 by Bloodhound Books
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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For my children
Introduction
These events take place ten years before those of The Girl on the Bus.
Prologue
In the minutes before the first murder, Sarah Kline had been squirming at the cluttered table for too long. She had been waiting for almost half an hour for the other members of the dinner party to finally finish eating their various main courses. Only then would she finally be free to excuse herself from the claustrophobic corner of the Beach House Café in the harbour area of Oceanside. The café was a relaxed place where surfers and tourists were equally welcome. On that particular Friday evening, some Sheryl Crow song was playing in the background and bouncing off the various classic surfboards that were hanging from the ceiling.
All around Sarah people were tearing at burgers that were dripping with guacamole and ranch sauce. She, however, had stupidly skipped the main course, opting only for a side order. Her reason was purely financial – it was close to the end of her month and her bank balance would not extend to a main course and beers. If she had to choose, beer would be given greater priority. She had therefore decided to order something small and cheap.
When the sizzling bowl of hot fries had arrived, Sarah had cheerfully popped each of the golden sticks into her mouth one by one. Upon reflection, she wondered if she should have paced herself a little. Having finished her small bowl of pleasure, Sarah realised that she would have to endure watching her colleagues gradually devour another entire course. This situation would have been okay if she had been sitting beside someone sociable. Unfortunately, Sarah was hemmed in a corner by a mousy woman from the mailroom who smiled nervously, avoiding eye contact with any of the other diners, whilst taking delicate sips of mineral water.
Taking a gulp of her beer, Sarah felt the bubbles tingle her tongue. The sensation reminded her of her childhood, when she had often loved drinking Coke from green glass bottles.
As she enjoyed the beer, she glanced absently through the large window of the diner at the bruised colours of the darkening October sky. She almost shivered at the thought of standing outside in the cool air. It was not a particularly inviting prospect at this time of night, but her addiction was a powerful force and a means of escape.
Following the imposition of a strict smoking ban in her office – the result of a dangerous fire in a mailroom cupboard – Sarah had promised to quit cigarettes almost three months earlier. At the age of twenty-six she had better things than cigarettes to spend her income on; plus, the habit was becoming increasingly antisocial. Unfortunately, wrestling that particular monkey off her back had been much harder than she had anticipated, and now that most of her colleagues had replaced the coffee-break smoke with an extra strong latte, she was forced to visit the stub-littered area outside the depot’s fire exit on her own.
The reason for the celebration that evening was Ted Shennan’s leaving dinner. He was a popular and good-natured manager, who fostered good relations with the staff, but an unseasonal dip in temperature had meant fewer people than were expected had shown up for his farewell feast. This fact didn’t seem to bother Ted, who was laughing loudly and shovelling lobster into his mouth with all the passion of a Roman emperor.
Eventually, Sarah’s craving eclipsed her sense of propriety. She stood up, excused herself, and squeezed free of the table and diners.
Her long dark coat was hanging like a witch’s cloak on the row of hooks next to the café’s entrance. Sarah slipped on the garment and felt a sense of relief as her fingers instinctively found the angular cigarette packet in one of the pockets. Pulling open the door, she glanced quickly at the other diners. For a second she considered sneaking home without letting anyone know.
‘Goodnight!’ one of the cheery waiting staff called to her, thinking that she was genuinely leaving.
‘I’ll be back. I’m just heading out for a smoke,’ she replied, but the busy waiter had already been distracted by a waving hand from another table.
It was even colder outside than she’d expected. For most of her life she had only ever known the southern Californian coast to be comfortably warm in October. Yet tonight a formidable bank of fog had drifted in silently from the ocean, and was creeping into the harbour area like a sprawling phantom. Having pulled her collar up against the relatively chill air, Sarah plunged one hand into her pocket and pulled out a battered pack of cigarettes. Popping one in her mouth, she felt the pockets for her plastic lighter: both were empty.
‘Shit!’ Sarah stomped the heel of her shoe against the sidewalk. Her lighter was most likely sitting on her cramped desk – back at the depot.
She glanced over her shoulder to peer through the window at her fellow diners. They were all still consuming their meals; returning to endure another half hour of drooling and slurping was not an option. In a moment of desperation, Sarah briefly considered trying to cross the freeway to either of the two nearby gas stations. However, deciding that she was quite likely to find another shunned smoker at the rear of the café, Sarah wandered to the quieter Cassidy Street side of the building. The parking lot, which was located behind the café, was empty except for an old, silver Ford and a chilled-food delivery van.
Sighing, she wandered back to the main entrance, and discovered a woman standing smoking on the corner of Cassidy and the South Coast Highway. Sarah, who was still fixated on a nicotine hit, naturally assumed that the woman was a diner from another table, who had also popped outside for a smoke.
‘Excuse me!’ Sarah called over to the woman.
‘Hey, Jenna.’ She responded with small wave and hurried across the sidewalk to Sarah.
‘Did you call me Jenna?’ Sarah asked, with a small frown.
‘Sorry, I thought you were somebody else.’ The woman partly turned her head and blew a grey cone of smoke into the air. ‘Did you call to me?’
‘I wanted to ask if you could give me a light, please.’
‘Sure, honey,’ the woman said as she turned around, revealing her leopard print jacket, stretched miniskirt and cropped vest. She dug into her tiny pink handbag and produced a cheap, gold coloured lighter, which she held out to Sarah.
‘Are you a pros …?’ the words escaped Sarah’s lips before she’d intended them to.
‘Yeah, I am,’ the woman said defiantly. ‘You got something you want to say about that?’
‘No,’ Sarah said with a shrug. ‘I just … guess it’s a cool night to be working out here.’
‘Damn true, but, take it from me, the weather sure isn’t the worst part of the job. Are you wanting this damn thing or not?’
‘Sorry,’ Sarah said, as she accepted the cheap plastic lighter and lit her cigarette.
At that moment, a glossy black police car pulled into the brightly lit gas station across the freeway. In response to this, the woman instinctively turned away from the vehicle. Her almost subconscious response at seeing the car was not lost on Sarah.
‘Do you get much bother from the cops?’ she asked, with an air of fascination.
‘No, honey,’ the woman replied, with a shrug of her shoulders, ‘most of the time we’re pretty much invisible – not just to the cops either. It’s what comes with the territory. But sometimes some assholes from Vice will haul a couple of girls into the station to keep the legitimate business owners happy. The rest of the time, we’re just trash on the street.’ Something shifted in her eyes, as if a light had dimmed. ‘Hookers aren’t real people – at least not to the customers, the cops, or the public. Working on the streets is a bit like being a ghost.’
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence until Sarah suddenly realised that she could at least make a gesture of acceptance. She turned to the woman and met her gaze.
‘I’m Sarah,’ she said, purposefully, and held out her hand.
The woman looked at Sarah’s hand and then at her face, as if to say: are you shitting me? But the persistent hand remained, hovering there just the same.
‘Rochelle,’ she sai
d, taking Sarah’s hand and shaking it briefly.
‘Your hand’s freezing,’ Sarah said. ‘Aren’t you cold?’
‘No,’ Rochelle said, with a shake of her head, ‘the temperature doesn’t get to me much any more. I’ve just got a full bladder. Either that or I’ve picked up a urine infection again – another bonus of the job I guess.’ She smiled grimly and sucked on her cigarette.
Suddenly, Sarah found that her own job, stacking mail in the depot, wasn’t quite as grim as she had thought.
‘Hey, why don’t you use the bathroom in there?’ She nodded over her shoulder to the bustling café.
‘You kidding?’ Rochelle raised her drawn-on eyebrows at the suggestion. ‘Dressed like this, I’d be spotted and thrown out before I’d even reached a cubicle. It’s cool; I’ll survive.’
Sarah looked at Rochelle for a moment then glanced down at her own knee-length coat.
‘Listen, take mine,’ she announced suddenly. ‘I mean it’s long enough, and no one will ever know. Our hair’s pretty much the same colour so the staff will probably just think it’s me heading back in to rejoin the party.’
‘You sure?’ Rochelle asked in a tone of disbelief. Two acts of courtesy in one night was something she had never encountered before.
‘Of course,’ Sarah smiled, and had already begun to slip her arms out of her coat.
As the two women exchanged garments, each of them knew that the gesture involved a silent exchange of experiences too.
As she quickly sneaked into the brightly-lit bathroom of the café, Rochelle almost didn’t recognise her reflection in the mirror. Her deep-set eyes looked tired and older than her twenty-two years.
