by Julie Howlin
Death and Faxes
Julie S. Howlin
Copyright © 2014 Julie S. Howlin
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1499646526
ISBN-13: 978-1499646528
1 Clare
Clare was trembling as she slowly and carefully got to her feet. Oddly, there was no pain, not even in her throat. She was surprised to have regained consciousness at all. She glanced over her shoulder, dreading what she might see. All she saw were the outlines of the great oak trees, barely visible against the night sky. All she heard was the rustling of leaves in the breeze. He was gone. So was her handbag – he'd robbed her, too, then.
Clare felt a cold wetness between her toes and realised she was barefoot.
As she glanced around looking for her shoes, she saw a woman’s body lying on the ground at her feet, lying face down in a muddy puddle. Clare gasped and took a step back, hands over her mouth, then, as her initial shock subsided, she leaned forward for a closer look.
The dead woman was wearing an Air London stewardess uniform, identical to the one Clare herself wore. Her brown hair had, at some point, been twisted into the regulation chignon, which Air London cabin crew were required to wear if their hair was longer than chin length, but it had come loose and covered her face. Clare couldn’t tell if she knew the woman or not.
As Clare stared at the body of the young woman, she couldn’t help thinking how short and fragile life was, and what a lucky escape she had just had.
She recalled the bitter row she’d had with her boyfriend that morning. It replayed like a high definition film in her mind.
‘Just get out, Mark, I don’t want you here when I get home tonight,’ she had yelled, storming out and slamming the door behind her.
She remembered how she’d wished today's rota was sending her somewhere exotic and far away, not just Manchester and back; how she had resolved to flirt with any good-looking male passenger, purely from spite.
No one had caught her eye on the outbound flight, but on the return journey there had been passenger 27B. The killer.
Nothing could bring this poor woman back. Reporting it could wait. Making up with Mark had to come first. She ran towards home in her bare feet.
**
Standing outside the flat she shared with Mark, she saw that the light was on, and the door was open. She padded into the kitchen.
Although the kitchen light was on, Mark wasn’t in the room. His briefcase was on the chair, where he usually dropped it. He’d picked up the post and left it unopened on the table. Junk mail and bills, Clare guessed, left for her to deal with, as usual. A dirty plate, fork and glass were in the sink. When he’d realised she wasn’t going to be home for dinner he’d fixed himself beans on toast. She could hear music coming from the lounge.
It was dark in the lounge, but she could see Mark, sitting on a stool by the window, playing his guitar. The street-lamp outside bathed him in an eerie orange glow. A lock of his dark hair fell forwards, hiding his face as he bent over the instrument.
The song he played was so sad that it wrenched at Clare’s heart. She hadn’t heard it before, and guessed it was one he was in the process of composing. She stood in the doorway for a moment, listening, before she spoke.
‘Mark?’ There was no answer. ‘Mark, I’m really, really sorry about this morning.’
He still didn’t reply, but kept on playing the same sad, mournful tune. Tears sprang to Clare’s eyes. She didn't usually get emotional about music. She realised she was trembling. If ever she needed Mark, it was now.
She tried again. ‘I love you, Mark. I’m sorry. Speak to me, please?’ Nothing. ‘I know I’ve been stupid, Mark. I apologise. I didn’t mean any of those things I said. I love you. What more can I say?’
For one heart-stopping moment, he stopped playing. Clare took a step towards him, arms outstretched. He turned away from her to the window and peered out. Then he turned back to his guitar and started to play another tune, even more mournful and heart-breaking than the first. ‘Stop it, Mark,’ she cried, tears dripping down her cheeks. ‘Look at me! Please.’ He carried on playing.
Clare was about to wrest the guitar from his hands and force him to acknowledge her, when she noticed they weren’t alone.
A young woman was leaning on the bedroom door. ‘Hello, Clare,’ she said.
‘Who the hell are you?’ Clare demanded.
‘Why, it’s me, Persia,’ the woman replied, seeming slightly surprised, as if Clare was supposed to know exactly who she was.
‘That’s not a name, it’s a country,’ Clare said, petulantly. ‘And I’ve never seen you before. What are you doing in my flat?’
‘You don’t recognise me, do you? Even though I’ve been with you all your life.’
‘What are you, my conscience?’ Clare’s voice had a sarcastic edge. ‘Come to tell me off for having a row with Mark?’
‘Not exactly. That argument hardly matters now.’ Persia met her gaze without a trace of the guilt Clare would have expected from a woman who’d just been caught with someone else's man. Her hair was short, black and spiky and she wore a black lace blouse over a short black denim skirt and leggings. She was tiny: the top of her head barely reached Clare’s shoulder. She looked very young. The most remarkable thing about her was her eyes; vivid turquoise, the colour of a tropical sea. Almost, Clare thought, like something from another world. Clare told herself not to be so fanciful. She’d never believed in aliens or anything of that sort.
‘Okay, so I know your name,’ Clare said, ‘but you haven’t really answered my question. Who the hell are you? And what are you doing in my flat? As if I need to ask. It’s quite obvious what you’re doing.’ Clare turned to Mark, now standing gazing out of the window, his back to them. ‘How long has this been going on, Mark?’
He ignored her, but Persia spoke. ‘Clare, there’s nothing going on between me and Mark, but there is something you need to know.’
‘So. If you’re not Mark’s fancy woman, who are you?’
‘I’m your spirit guide.’
‘My what?’
‘I know, it sounds crazy. But everyone has a spirit guide. Some people call us guardian angels. We’re the little voice that suggests that you do or don’t do something, to keep you on the right life path.’ Persia walked across the room and sat on the shabby armchair, stretching out her legs and crossing them at the ankles. Making herself at home, Clare noted, bitterly.
‘Sounds the same as a conscience to me,’ said Clare.
‘Similar, except only we’re not there to make you feel guilty. Just stop you from getting things wrong. Keep you out of trouble.’
‘Well, if you’re here to stop me getting things wrong, and keep me out of trouble, you didn’t do a very good job of it today,’ Clare snapped. ‘Did you?’
‘You have free will, and you chose to ignore me,’ Persia said, brightly. ‘You know those nagging gut feelings you get sometimes that perhaps you shouldn’t do something? Well, that’s me.’
Recalling the events of the day, Clare realised that she knew the kind of feeling Persia spoke of only too well.
Passenger 27B. Dark and brooding, not her usual type, but she had found his attention flattering; the way his steel blue eyes had met hers and his well-manicured hands had lingered just that split second too long when she took his glass from him during preparations for landing.
When she had walked out into the arrivals hall, he’d been standing there, and had walked over to her as she waved goodbye to her colleagues.
‘Drink?’ he’d asked.
She’d blushed like a teenager. Then she’d relished the revenge she was about to have on Mark for his unreasonable behaviour. That was when the nagging feeling had whispered, ‘Do
n’t do it, Clare. He’s dangerous. Don’t go! Say no.’
But she’d said yes. A little danger was just what she’d fancied.
They went to the airport bar and he’d bought a bottle of Chardonnay. During the hour they spent there, he’d put her completely at ease. He was easy to talk to, a good listener. He’d listened as she told him about her row with Mark. He’d just let her talk, yet he hadn’t given away anything about himself, not even his name. He’d filled her glass much more frequently than he’d filled his own.
‘Let me give you a lift home,’ he’d said when the wine was all gone.
The feeling had been there then, too, saying, ‘Don’t, Clare. Leave now. Get a cab home.’
Clare had ignored it, remembering how Passenger 27B had bought an Air London Stewardess Mitzi Doll from the trolley for his niece. A man who would buy a souvenir for his niece couldn’t be bad, surely? Besides, cabs were expensive. It was another week till pay-day and Clare was already overdrawn.
She had gone with him to the medium-stay car-park and got into his car. Even when he had stopped the black Audi at the edge of the common and suggested walking the rest of the way in the moonlight, she had stifled her misgivings, telling herself that, having been captain of the school running team, she could make a quick getaway if necessary.
She had wondered why he’d paused to take the carrier bag containing the Mitzi Doll out of the boot. ‘We’re alone together. We need a chaperone,’ he had quipped. ‘She’s coming to keep an eye on us, make sure we don’t do anything we’re not supposed to.’ Clare had laughed, but as they walked, that nagging gut feeling had told her his behaviour was extremely odd and she should run for it. Now. Instead, she’d set off with him across the common.
‘How old is your niece?’ Clare had asked. He hadn't answered. ‘Do you travel to Manchester often?’ He had said nothing, walking so fast she had found it hard to keep up. Her smart heels kept sinking into the soft ground. He’d changed from the open, friendly guy she’d started to get to know in the bar. He was closed to her, focussed on something deep inside himself. Clare had looked back and seen that they were a long way away from the main road. Clare's heart had begun to race. This felt very wrong. She’d stopped, turned and had begun to pick her way back to the road.
He had moved fast, dropping the bag with the doll in it and grabbing her from behind. ‘Let me go,’ Clare had said, trying to sound calm. ‘You’re hurting me.’
He had pushed her to the ground and pinned her down with his body, ripping at her clothing. She had struggled, in vain, as he undid his fly and forced her legs apart with his knee. She had seen the doll lying on the ground, and as he violated her, violently and painfully, Clare couldn’t help thinking what a rubbish chaperone Air Stewardess Mitzi had turned out to be.
When it was over, Clare had struggled again, trying to twist herself out of his grip, but he had his hands on her throat, tightening, tightening until she could no longer breathe. Panic took hold of her. Desperately, she’d clawed and scratched at his face, drawing blood on his cheek, but he was too strong for her. Her vision was blurred, and the last thing she’d seen before blacking out was the blank stare of Air Stewardess Mitzi.
‘I told you not to go with him,’ Persia said, shaking her head. ‘Several times. But you didn’t listen, and now it’s too late. Such a shame. You and Mark had a great future together.’
‘What do you mean had?’ Clare demanded. ‘Mark? Speak to me, Mark?’ He still didn’t respond. It seemed Persia was right. Mark had frozen her out.
Clare glared at Persia. ‘I don't know who the hell you are, but you've got a damned nerve. Spirit guide, my arse! Is Mark paying you? To get back at me?’
‘Mark has no idea you went off with that slimeball.’
Clare took a step back. ‘How did you know about that?’
‘I told you. I'm always with you. I know everything about you.’
‘Tell me something,’ Clare challenged her. ‘If, as you say, you’ve been with me all my life, how come I’ve never seen you before and you suddenly turn up now?’
‘Well, like I said. There’s something you need to know. People in your position often don’t realise what’s happened.’
‘What’s happened is perfectly obvious,’ said Clare. ‘There’s a strange woman in my flat with my boyfriend and he can’t seem to look me in the eye. I don’t believe any of this spirit guide claptrap for one minute, so cut the crap and tell me what you’re really doing here.’
‘I’m here to take you home,’ said Persia, standing up. ‘It's time we were going; there's nothing more for you here.’
‘I am home,’ snapped Clare. ‘This is my flat. I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I'm not going anywhere with you. I’m going to the police station, because I was raped and nearly killed on my way home.’ She spoke the last sentence a little louder, directing it at Mark, who stood peering out of the window. ‘Not only that, he only let me go - I only survived - because he was disturbed. The woman who disturbed him is lying dead in a puddle. I have to tell the police all I know so they can catch the bastard before he does it again. And while I’m there, I might just report you for breaking and entering, not to mention trying to steal my boyfriend.’
Persia shrugged and walked towards the door. In the doorway she turned back and said, ‘Have it your own way. I can’t force you to do anything. When you’re ready to go home, just call me.’ Then she was gone.
‘Who was that woman, Mark?’ He didn’t answer. ‘Okay, Mark, ignore me. Ignore me when I really need you. I was attacked and raped and nearly killed. I’m going to the police now. Come with me – please?’ Clare prayed that he would turn around and look at her and realise she was telling the truth. He didn't. Her anger flared again. ‘Suit yourself,’ she snapped. ‘I’ll go on my own.’
Clare turned on her heels and stomped out into the night. As she approached the police station, her resolve began to crumble. Her pace slowed and she paused at the door, looking up at the blue sign above her head. They’d say she’d asked for it. If only Mark was with her, it might be easier. Even if there was no hope for them as a couple, he should be supporting her. Whatever happens, she thought, grimly, when this is over, a serious re-think about our relationship is on the cards.
**
As Clare left, Mark turned away from the window and looked around the empty room with a puzzled look on his face. He shivered.
**
The police station was quiet. The reception area was lit by a dim, sickly yellow light, and smelled of sweat and floor polish. A clerk sat at a desk writing. The only other people there were a young black man and his girlfriend, sitting on the plastic chairs opposite the counter.
Clare marched up to the desk and cleared her throat. The clerk didn’t look up. ‘Excuse me,’ she said. Still no response. Just like Mark, Clare thought. It’s as if I’ve become invisible all of a sudden. ‘I’m here to report a murder,’ Clare continued, more loudly. ‘There’s a body on the common, I know who did it. He nearly killed me too. I’ve got his DNA on me; he was in seat 27B on the 17.15 Air London flight from Manchester.’
The clerk stood up. At last, Clare thought. I’ve finally got his attention. But he turned his broad back on her and shuffled into a back office. Clare turned to the couple. ‘Did you see that?’ she cried, exasperated. ‘No wonder there’s so much crime in this city - they don’t want to know!’
The couple, too, were ignoring her. The girl shivered and turned to her boyfriend. ‘Cold in here, innit?’ She said. ‘Can I borrow your jacket?’ The young man removed his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. Neither of them looked at Clare at all.
Before Clare had time to ponder this, the clerk reappeared with a steaming cup of coffee and settled back into his seat. ‘Excuse me,’ Clare tried again. ‘There has been a murder! M-U-R-D...’
Before she could finish, the door opened and Mark walked in. Finally, the clerk looked up. ‘Can I help you, Sir?’ he said.
�
�Mark!’ Clare cried. A wave of sweet relief flooded her being. He was going to support her after all. ‘Thank God! Perhaps he’ll listen to you. Tell him, there’s been a murder!’
Mark looked right through her as he stepped up to the desk and said, ‘I want to report my girlfriend missing.’
2 tabitha
My older sister inherited my grandmother’s nose. My younger sister inherited her eyes. I inherited her ability to talk to dead people.
Gran was the only person who understood about the people who came and spoke with me in my room at night. It was she who told me that the white haired old gentleman with a twinkle in his eye was my grandfather, who had died before I was born. She told me that the young Native American boy, who said his name was Dakota, was my spirit guide. ‘They're your friends, Tabitha,’ she would say. ‘They are here to help you. There is no need to be afraid of them.’
My parents didn't understand. When I first started to see and hear spirits - I couldn’t have been much older than two or three - I would tell Mum what I’d seen. I didn’t know that the spirits I saw at night were any different from the living people I saw by day. I assumed that everyone could see them. I quickly learned that they could not.
At first, my mother would scold me for making things up. When I carried on talking about them, she took me to see a psychiatrist. I was six. I remember his office clearly. He had a huge desk in the middle of the room, and what seemed to me to be huge leather chairs to sit on. My legs didn’t touch the ground when I sat there. The walls and ceiling were yellow - I realise now that this was probably because Dr Brooke was a chain smoker. The wooden floor was pitted where women in stilettos had walked on it in years gone by.
The room smelled of tobacco smoke and wood polish. While he was talking to us, Dr Brooke left a cigarette burning in an ashtray on his desk, carefully positioned so that he could inhale the smoke, without having to take a drag in front of his clients. The smoke burned my throat and made me cough. Nonetheless I was fascinated as I watched the cigarette turn into a slim column of ash and waited for it to fall into the ashtray.
