‘I really need to talk to her, sir. It’s about girls that have recently gone missing,’ I say.
He says nothing. The dog’s barks become more insistent.
‘You can talk to me. I was here when it all happened. I don’t want you upsetting her all over again. You can talk to me.’
‘Okay. I know this may seem a strange question. I… err… listen…’
‘Go on then. Spit it out,’ he sneers across the line.’
‘Have you seen Sarah recently?’ I say. And the seconds tick by.
‘I’m hanging up the phone now.’
‘Listen to me! Please, I think – I feel… like I’ve seen her recently.’
‘She’s dead. They found her clothes and her blood. It’s been ten years. I’m glad I didn’t put you on to her mother, filling her head with this shit all over again. Now leave us in peace.’
‘Wait!’ I say. ‘Does she… has she ever mentioned seeing her? Ever? Since she went missing?’
The dog is quiet now. There’s nothing but silence across the line.
‘Tom. Tom is it?’ he says. His voice stiller now. A calm pond. ‘That’s the sort of thing that grief does, Tom. If she ever has, seen her, if she thinks that she has, then that’s what grief does. It’s a trick of the mind. Or perhaps a message from the Lord, in whom we trust. Who sends such things to comfort sufferers. But it’s not reality. You say you were a friend of hers?’
‘Yes, I was. I am,’ I say, though it stretches the truth.
‘Then I would suggest to you that you are merely grieving for your friend. I’ll tell you what I tell her. Get over it. Just, get over it.’
He crunches down on the words. And he’s not done.
‘Sarah was killed by Edward Rampling. Along with the other girls, and many other people too. And he will burn in hell for it.’
‘But Rampling wasn’t convicted of killing Sarah or any of the girls in Battersea. Just the ones in Woolwich. And that was years later. When Sarah went missing it’s doubtful Rampling was even active –’
‘I’m sorry! Tom? That’s what we choose to believe. You have to find closure in this. That is ours. We’ve looked into this from every angle, trust me on that. That’s what we believe!’
‘But Rampling never even admitted to those Woolwich murders, did he? He admitted to killing five people, but not Katherine Grady or any of the other Woolwich girls. And, I’m sorry, certainly not Sarah. There was only circumstantial rumour linking him to her –’
‘I know what was said, Tom! I was there. I was in that fucking court room. So don’t tell me what was and wasn’t said!’
We both breathe again.
‘Then what was said?’
He breathes in wearily. I feel like I hear weakness in his breath. This god-fearing man is quieter now. Wary of waking his wife upstairs.
‘Nonsense, some bloody nonsense about a paedophile ring, one involving police officers. He was trying to shift the blame somewhere else with some cock and bull story. He got away with a lot more than he was done for. He was done for Katherine Grady and should’ve –’
‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry to disabuse you. Katherine’s body turned up a week ago. Time of death was around thirty-six hours before she was found. Rampling, meanwhile, has been in prison for four years.’
‘Tom,’ he says. His voice is wet and gravelled. Suddenly vulnerable. ‘Either way. Sarah is gone and she’s not coming back. Of that we are in no doubt. As her… friend… I’d ask you to respect that.’
He’s not moving. We’re going in circles. I go to hang up.
‘Not that I believe you were her friend. She didn’t have any friends. That’s what a normal girl would have, and she wasn’t normal.’
‘Sorry?’ I say, off guard. ‘What do you mean?’
He takes a deep breath. His voice concrete again.
‘She’d get into trouble. She met up with the wrong sorts. Men. Girls. Messing about. She was always doing that. One of those girls, making mistakes, pushing her luck. Caused us no end of grief. She had to be… carefully handled. Disciplined. She was a bad girl. A bad girl.’
And the line goes dead.
33
‘She dah dah at half past nine
Dirty shoes, every time.’
When the next phone call comes it wakes me. Which is unusual. I don’t need much sleep and I almost never drift off before 1am.
When I got home after everything that happened today, though, I lay on my bed on top of the cold duvet cover and Mark came and rested against my head as my eyelids closed and I drifted off and away. It wasn’t Heywood or Miss Shelley. They’d both gone pretty quiet on me and I was left cursing my social skills and levels of physical attractiveness again, for leaving me divorced of good intelligent company.
‘I should tell you before anyone else does,’ says the voice without a hello. In my waking slumber, I don’t recognise it.
‘What is it?’ I say. As ever, my sleep had been far from restful, and filled with fractured images, just as my waking hours have been ever since I saw the stacked clothes and blood.
‘I’ve been suspended with immediate effect,’ it says.
‘Bartu. Is that you?’
‘Yes, Tom. Yes, it’s me, for fuck’s sake.’
‘How? Did one of the parents call? I bet it was Mr Bridges or…’
‘It doesn’t matter, it could’ve been anything, anything we’ve done – you’ve made me do… it doesn’t matter! What matters is that I can’t go anywhere near this case or even the station for one week, and when I get back I’m not coming anywhere near you either, otherwise I won’t have a job or a future anymore. Is that clear enough for you to understand?’
‘Yes,’ I say, guiltily.
‘Is that the whole picture? I know you only usually notice the corners. I know it’s easier if I spell things out for you.’
‘Don’t get mean, Emre Bartu. It doesn’t suit you.’
I think I hear a noise outside. Then I realise it’s the wind. A wild storm that’s whipping up the trees and casting everything below into a freeze.
‘I’m getting the feeling you haven’t heard anything about your position. Have you?’
‘No,’ I say, feeling very alone, looking for Mark, who must have wandered downstairs.
‘So I’m wearing this one, it seems. Ha.’ He laughs down the line. It’s a bitter, dry laugh and I want to laugh, too, but I don’t see what’s funny. I don’t think this is funny at all. I feel isolated.
‘Which is weird. Don’t you think?’ I say.
‘Oh come on, it’s not that weird. They can’t suspend you, it’d be like shooting a puppy. ‘Scuse the phrase.’
‘Not to worry,’ I mutter.
‘No. They need you around. You know what for.’
‘No. What do they need me for?’
Silence on the line.
Then nothing. He hangs up and I don’t think we parted on good terms. I understand the inference. I’m part of some quota, I can do what I want, I am… bulletproof. ‘Scuse the phrase.
I hear a smash outside my bedroom door.
My hand goes to my chest and I stifle a shout. Then Mark walks in sheepishly and offers himself for a stroke. I look at the broken pieces of a mirror that used to hang in my parents’ bedroom. I’d taken it down and leant it precariously against a wall, so I suppose it’s my fault as much as Mark’s. I look around and realise how many other little ghosts there are. Of my parents, of the stuttered attempts to make the place my own I’ve made over the years. The false starts, the lamps without bulbs. The pictures not framed. I sweep the broken pieces up and take them to chuck into my bathroom bin. I remember broken mirrors are supposed to signify something, but I can’t remember what. Good luck maybe, but I’m not so sure. There are thoughts that still lie out of my reach. Maybe I’m not getting better. Maybe I’m not progressing anywhere, in my rehabilitation, or with this case, or my life. Maybe I’ve been careless about too many things.
The phone rin
gs. I feel uncomfortable in my own skin and afraid of it. I want what appears on the screen to be a name, the shape of which I may recognise, perhaps one of the strong women in my life who might be able to come over and keep me warm for a while. But it’s numbers, ones I couldn’t attribute even if I could read them, each stabs like a compass, each one a possibility, each one a threat. I should’ve known. I was always destined to be alone.
‘Hello?’ I say.
‘Tom, it’s Aaron. Couple of things.’
‘Aaron, did you call Turan?’
The sound of an uncomfortable sniff. I picture him as an illustrated figure, pacing from one foot to the other.
‘Right, well. Let’s tackle that first. I checked in with Turan –’
‘And?’
‘And he said yes, yeah, of course. Wanted to know what I had exactly and what the results were. He was trying to cover your back, that’s for sure.’
Good old Turan, friend to the outsider.
‘Then when the detective called to ask about the blood results, I asked if he wanted details of the scarf, too, just in case he –’
‘Fucking hell, Aaron!’
‘Right, maybe that was… but look…’ He whispers now, conspiratorial. ‘If I’d known it was all your little side project then I wouldn’t have… look, they weren’t happy. I’m sorry if you got a slap on the wrist, but you shouldn’t have –’
‘Bartu was suspended.’
The wind whips up again and the windows in the house begin to shake.
‘I’m really sorry, Tom. But how was I to know?’
‘Can you at least tell me the results?’ I say, cutting in.
‘Yes. We got virtually nothing. It looks like there may be three different sets of fingerprints on the scarf. But they’re so faint it would take a month to get them to a standard good enough to test against our records. I’m sorry.’
I pull the phone away from my head and punch the bed. Then I think…
‘But we did find traces of iodine on it.’
‘Great. I have no idea what that means,’ I say.
‘Well, it’s often used as a strong disinfectant or –’
‘What about the blood results. Are they the girl’s?’
‘Oh, come on. I can’t tell you that. Not until the parents are informed.’
‘Aaron, I like you. I think we’re going to get on very well. But I think we can both agree you owe me this.’
‘Right. Yes, they’re consistent with their blood types, but don’t say you heard it from me.’
I hang up and slam the phone down onto the carpet. I hear nearby thunder and picture the calls the parents may be about to get.
A)Mrs Da Silva on her mobile, arm in arm with her husband, conjuring theories as they walk Tottenham’s streets.
B)The Bridges answering after the twelfth ring and listening before the phone drops to the ground and their lives finally do collapse under the weight of it all.
C)Ms Fraser, alone, despite my foolish suspicions.
I do need to trust myself less.
My head hits the pillow and it feels like it’s a sleep in my clothes evening. The rain lashes against my window. I hear a branch break outside. I hear the squeaks of what could be the long chains of neighbouring hanging baskets, or nearby swings, or my back door opening.
The night moves on. I sweat in the small hours. Taking a piece of clothing off hour by hour as my broken sleep is anything but restful. I picture them opening my back door, picking the lock, then stepping onto the cold kitchen tiles.
I feel like I hear a door close, but it could be a noise caused by the winds outside. It could be.
I dream of the shape she draws in lipstick on the board. The one I saw on the windscreen of that car. It changes in my mind. I haven’t seen it in so long. I didn’t make a copy of it, but my brain has been smoothing out its edges since I first saw it. I know now, it’s not about what it looks like, exactly. Jade loved to draw, but lipstick was a new tool. The question is: what was it meant to look like?
It’s not so much a symbol, as a picture, of a creature.
It was a childish off-the-cuff gesture that was shooting for romance. It’s meaning lies hidden and she didn’t get a second draft. As soon as he saw it and her, a thought took him over and he acted.
A new picture perfectly forms. I grab it and wrestle it down, dragging the colours and the shape in different directions. I manipulate its aspect until it becomes familiar. And I finally see it…
Then I wake. I think. I wake but I don’t open my eyes. I have the awful sensation of something being in my room with me. Another human. I feel and hear their gentle footsteps like a father as Santa Claus in a childhood bedroom. The door falls closed, that familiar creak, pushed by this being I cannot bear to open my eyes to see.
I could be asleep, I could be, I suppose.
Now I hear its breath. It. He or she. Calm and steady and definite, like they do this all the time. I keep my eyes closed because I can’t bear to look and it’s my best chance of not riling it. He or she. Just let them get what they came for and they’ll leave.
Its feet slide across the floor. Like an ocean. Or a pillow against the ear. Or a slow ‘shh’.
I picture its silhouette but I daren’t look. Not now. I know I am awake and my ears and skin sense the presence of another being. It’s an animal instinct and one I’ve always keenly had. Those people that turn around and shout, startled because someone has arrived in a room without being seen by them; I’ve never had that.
I think of the lipstick shape, distracting myself until it’s over, even if the ‘it’ is ‘my life’. I’m not in one of my gung-ho moods. If this is ‘it’ then I am going down without a fight. I will come quietly. I cannot locate the guts to fight it head on.
It seems to pause. Right over me. I feel the faintest hint of its breath as the wind rages on outside. The dark behind my eyelids seems to drop a shade further. It bears down on me heavily. Examining me, like the CT scanner did. I breathe deep and play act that I’m sleeping sound. The rustle of its clothes. The creak of the floorboards below me as it rouses itself so close to my face, just above me. The smell of it. I’d call it an aroma, but it’s really a smell, coloured blue, as it takes a long good look at me.
Emre Bartu lies at home next to Aisha.
I am here.
They have finally got me alone.
I hear a sharp intake of breath in preparation.
I remember, a note, she passed…
Documented Memory Project #4
Yes!
To me. Biology.
‘You’re so cool,’ it said.
Unusual. She didn’t always feel that way. She scrawled it, handwriting like ink on spider’s legs.
But hey, that day she wanted to talk and I fizzed like pop.
Then. Under the table indented with tracks made
by fountain pens, I wrote [concealed from Mr Sugar’s eyes] something like…
‘Biology sux’ but I didn’t feel that way. Really.
‘You sux,’ she wrote. With a frowny face next to it.
She watched my eyes as I looked at it and I smiled (because what else could I do?)
Changing to my red pen I wrote…
‘Why the blood?’
Her eyes were mischievous bored, as she scribbled. And I watched the ragged wet knuckles of her fist again.
‘It’s not mine,’ it read.
Mr Sugar’s eyes drifted over us as he turned on the overhead projector and the organs of a body appeared behind him, as the lights were flicked off by Kelly at the back after his nod.
‘Whose then?’ My next said (something like that.)
‘Kelly’s.’
Looking back. Through the light rays of the projector, I saw Kelly had a cut lip, (all fat and bust) and a bruised cheek.
‘Why?’ I write. (Feeling a bit sad for both)
‘Like fighting + she’s a bitch.’ The ‘i’ ripping paper.
(She was often fighting. I
heard. She never got caught.)
She passed me another note: ‘my mum keeps having miscarriages.’
(I’ll never forget that. Cos it was weird. She snatched it - wrote again.)
‘My stepdad slaps her around.’ Her face, so blank.
Then the lights came on. It got like the sort of thing an adult should know. But then. She was known for some tall tales and games, you see.
She was resilient. That girl.
Fuck knows. What Kelly did.
If Sarah was taken, she wouldn’t have gone without a fight.
I remember thinking… I wonder why she wrote me notes that day.
Maybe, she was just bored.
34
‘She never knew that kooky wooky love,
That hokey-cokey chokey love.’
Ring, Ring.
For a second, I don’t know where I am. A long second, in which my head cracks in its tiny places.
Night Reality is pulled together from dreams, waiting, and bits somewhere in between, elongated and amalgamated into each other. But the phone has the unerring ability to drag you back.
Ring, ring. To whatever you call Day Reality. Which, for me, isn’t much less psychedelic. The corners of my room soon blur into view. I wonder if I can move my arm.
Ring, ring. I can. And the diagnostics seem good for the rest of my body too. I turn and seize it. No name or number on its face. But its rumble stops, dead in my hand. Looks like I missed that one. I feel sorrow for my phone like it’s a dead canary. Its screen fades to black. The dark reflection splayed across its heart, mine I assume, looks awful.
The morning comes with little evidence of a presence in my room. Yet downstairs in the kitchen, my window bobs in the wind, ajar. Its jaws big enough for a body to sneak through. Below it, a knife and fork, which I left last night on the drying rack, lie kissing on a tile next to my bare feet. I could have left the window open, of course, it wouldn’t be the first time. The wind, or Mark, could have knocked the cutlery off the drying rack. But I’m sure I remember closing that window.
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