by A. S. Hatch
What I saw stopped my heart.
‘Sorry if I woke you,’ Ruby said, glancing down at my boxers. She sounded different. Measured, composed, transcendent in the way that characters in films are when they return to confront their nemesis at the end. It’s hard to relay just how jarring this experience was for me. ‘You must be Dan?’ she offered her hand. I gave her mine and let it be shaken. ‘Jade.’
I knew then that it was all real. Ruby was telling the truth about everything.
Everything she’d said to me or done with me had been real. There had been no reason to distrust her after all. No reason to kill her. None. Oh god, what had I done?
I had been the one all along. Me.
I was the one who was dangerous, who was mad, who couldn’t be trusted.
Some instinct assumed control of my body and voice once more and enabled me to step fully onto the shale and close the door softly behind me. Whatever was about to be said I didn’t want Victoria to hear.
‘How can I help you?’ I said.
‘It’s my sister Ruby. I’m assuming there’s a high probability of you knowing this, but she recently got out of prison.’ I nodded. ‘Well she mentioned she’d got to know this guy, Dan,’ she said, gesturing to me, ‘while she was inside, through letters, correspondence. I understand she’s been spending some time with you since she got out, here?’
‘She visited me a few weeks ago to give me a painting. She’s a talented artist.’
‘The painting, yes. Highly skilled artist. She mentioned that, the painting.’ Jade looked pained, lost.
‘Is something up?’
‘Well since she got out we’ve kept in touch every day on the phone. I haven’t heard from her since the day before yesterday. It’s highly unlike her. Not to check in. Not to let me know she’s, you know, alive.’
‘And you’re worried is what you’re saying?’
‘Yes.’
‘That something might’ve happened to her?’ It took every ounce of willpower I had, actual physical effort, not to allow my eyes to dart either to the workshop or the woods where I’d hidden the Mini.
‘Yes. She’s been worried about her ex-boyfriend coming after her. She said she was coming to spend Halloween here, with you, at this place. Really excited.’
‘Really? That’s weird. I’ve only seen her the one time and that was when she brought the picture.’ Jade placed her hands on the back of her head and rotated slowly around scanning the treeline, as if she might catch a glimpse of her lost sibling wandering in the woods.
‘Right.’
‘Maybe she’s with this ex-boyfriend?’ I said. Jade snorted mirthlessly.
‘Highly unlikely. Very low possibility.’
‘I’m so sorry. Is there a number I can get you on if she happens to stop by again?’ She had by now begun meandering forlornly away from me, edging nearer and nearer to the workshop. ‘Jade?’ She stooped to look through the nursery window, making a visor of her hand on the glass. She suddenly straightened up and looked at me.
‘Number? Oh, no. That’s all right. It doesn’t sound like you can help. Thanks anyway,’ she said. Then she marched quickly away, cutting a huge corner over the clearing, and disappeared up the lane. She was in such a sudden hurry to leave that she flattened one of the crosses and didn’t stop to stand it back up. When she was out of sight I went to the nursery window myself and looked inside. When I saw what she’d seen I knew she knew I was lying to her.
The mural.
She’d obviously recognised her sister’s artwork. She was probably already calling the police.
I was straight back into crisis management mode. I went back inside. When I looked at Victoria I suddenly felt the weight of my betrayal. But there was no time to mope around feeling sorry for myself. I had to find a way to get through this. I woke Victoria up, fed her some lie about a job I had in someone else’s workshop. I had to go, basically now, and so did she, and we could pick this up later but I can’t lose this job and so on. I didn’t exactly stuff her clothes into her arms in a bundle but I think she took it the wrong way, judging by the wounded expression. I no longer cared. I knew now that the overpowering desire I’d felt to have her back was simply a desire for something familiar.
‘Can you drop me home?’ she said.
‘I’m going east to Bowland, you’re not on the way.’
‘Well call me a cab then.’
‘Right.’ The conversation was so reminiscent of how things were in those last awful months together. But at the time I was too preoccupied with getting rid of her before the police turned up for it to register.
I ordered a taxi and waited with her at the gate. She stood with her arms folded, not looking in my direction, not talking, and I knew that last night we had not reunited but only made our separation more permanent. I watched her get into the car. With Victoria gone I did another sweep of the rooms for Ruby’s things (I found her witch’s hat hanging on a doorknob and threw it in the fire), secured the workshop with another padlock and pulled the curtains to in the nursery. I was nervous about the Mini but there was nothing I could do about that before they came. I went to make the bed Vic and I had slept in, but thought it would be better to leave it unmade. Then I showered and dressed and sat at the kitchen table and waited for them to come. There was still Halloween stuff everywhere. Buckets of sweets, rotting pumpkins, decorations. They might ask if I had guests. I couldn’t say yes, there was nobody I could name to corroborate. I would have to lie and say I spent Halloween alone, that I did all of this for myself. It would seem odd. I would have to have my wits about me. I spent a few hours running through each possible line of questioning and shoring up my nerves. And then they came.
It was half-past three and the light was already fading. I heard the patrol car roll onto the shale and then two doors open and close. I went out the side door to meet them. Two uniformed officers, both female. One short, one tall.
‘Afternoon sir,’ the short one said.
‘Afternoon. How can I help you?’ The tall officer pressed her hat onto her head and wandered off towards the workshop.
‘Is this your property sir?’ the short officer said. The tall one began peering into the windows of the workshop one by one.
‘Yes. I’m the owner. Can I ask what this is about?’ I watched the tall officer move away from the workshop towards the garage.
‘Are you acquainted with a Miss Ruby Holland sir?’
‘Yes. I know her. Her sister was by earlier today asking after her too. What’s going on here please?’ The tall officer disappeared behind the garage.
‘Miss Holland has been reported missing. We’re trying to ascertain her last known whereabouts. Has she been here recently?’
‘She came here about a month ago to give me a painting.’
‘A painting?’
‘Yes, of me. She was in prison until recently. We used to write letters to each other, through a programme called –’
‘– and you haven’t seen her since?’
‘No. She only came here that one time. Is she in trouble? Is she all right?’
‘Do you mind if we have a look inside your property sir?’ The tall officer reappeared from the gap between the cottage and the workshop. She took her place alongside her shorter and evidently senior colleague.
‘Of course not, come in.’ I showed them inside. I was confident there wasn’t anything incriminating for them to see inside the cottage. But as I followed them from room to room I couldn’t control the furious beating of my heart.
‘Is this the painting?’ the short officer asked.
‘Yes,’ I said, folding my arms to hide the violent shudders seizing my whole body. The tall one ran her finger across the spines of the books on the mantelpiece. They did not enquire about the Halloween decorations. But on their way out I clocked a little nod of acknowledgement between them as they each saw the mural, which stretched, still unfinished, from the nursery all the way along the corridor. Back outside, t
he tall one whispered something into her colleague’s ear and then walked away muttering into her radio. ‘Mind if we have a quick look inside your outbuildings sir?’
Think! Quick!
‘Oh, I only use them for storage. I keep my old tools locked up in there. And some antiques, valuable antiques in fact some of them. I don’t have much call to go in there these days. In fact I don’t think I quite remember where the key is.’
‘I’d appreciate if you could locate it sir.’
‘Right, yes. Let me have a look for you. One minute.’ I went inside and stood in the kitchen. I could not generate a single productive thought. After a reasonable length of time I went back outside with a ring of keys in my hand and the actual key to the padlock in my pocket. ‘It must be one of these,’ I said, and proceeded to try them one by one. After a few fails the tall officer went to the boot of the patrol car and produced a pair of bolt cutters. She marched towards me.
‘Allow me sir,’ she said in a surprisingly high-pitched voice.
‘Hey, what do you think you’re doing?’ I protested, moving to block her way. ‘You can’t just destroy my property. You can’t just barge your way in without my permission.’
‘Sir, we can replace your padlock. Believe me it will be far better for everyone if you allow us to go inside now. Mostly, missing persons cases are solved within twenty-four hours or they’re not solved at all. All we’re doing is ruling out certain possibilities as quickly as possible. We don’t want to have to obtain a warrant and come back when we could be using our time to investigate other leads.’ I thought about my options for a moment. But then realised I had none.
‘No, I’m sorry, this is ridiculous. I won’t allow it. I don’t know what possibilities you need to rule out but you’re wasting your time here. And if you continue to harass me like this I’ll have to make a complaint.’ The tall officer turned to look at her superior who signalled for her to stand down with an almost imperceptible shake of her head. Then she lowered the bolt cutters and walked back to the car.
‘Have it your way. Thank you for your time sir.’ The shorter officer touched the rim of her hat, got back into the car and drove off.
For some time after they’d driven away I stared at the cloud of dust the car had kicked up. I watched it swirl and drift and eventually diffuse into nothing. And then I watched the space the car had occupied, unthinking, unmoving. And then, as though the idea had been waiting the whole time in the hidden chambers of my mind, I knew what to do.
I looked at my watch. Ten past four. The sun would set in an hour and a half. I had to wait for darkness to carry out the second part of my plan, they might be watching me from the woods. But it was already dark enough to do the first part, if I was careful.
I reversed the Transporter into the gap between the cottage and the workshop, obscuring any view of the door from the lane, opened the van’s back double-doors and went into the workshop. I crept slowly over to the trunk, listening intently. There was no sound. I knelt before it and pressed my ear to the lid – perhaps she was asleep – but I could hear not a thing. The task at hand was grisly but I told myself – repeating it like a mantra – it’s only a trunk, it’s only a trunk, it’s only a trunk, and I manoeuvred it, via a combination of pushing and dragging, out onto the shale. Then, with some difficulty, and trying to ignore the hard-soft sound of Ruby’s limbs knocking against the sides, I hoisted it up into the back of the Transporter. It’s only a trunk, it’s only a trunk. I managed to do all of this without looking at it directly. If I’d looked I’d have thought of what lay inside and my resolve would’ve collapsed. I slammed the Transporter’s doors shut and went back into the workshop to arrange the remaining trunks so they would appear how the tall officer had observed them through the window, marvelling and sort of inwardly convulsing at my own ability to think so clearly. I took the laptop from the drawer behind the Chinese screen and put it on the driver’s seat. It wasn’t safe to leave that lying around, it would have to go too. Then I resecured the workshop door with the padlock and went inside the cottage to wait for sunset.
I spent the intervening time alternating between sitting on the edge of the unmade bed and standing in the bay window looking out across the clearing. Already some sort of grief was taking hold of me. Echoes of things she’d said, images of her painting, cooking, reading aloud to me. As the sky darkened I looked up at the emergent North Star. If you can see that you’re not lost, she once said. Well I could see it now and I was completely lost.
At quarter to six I grabbed a cap and jacket and went out to the Transporter. There wasn’t a sound. Winter was near and there wasn’t a single sign of life from the woods. No buzzing insects or rustling birdlife. Everything was asleep or elsewhere. It was cold. I could see my breath. Just before I climbed into the driver’s seat I patted my pocket to check for both padlock keys, the one for the workshop and the one for the trunk. I rolled along the lane slowly, not wanting to jibe the trunk, not wanting to hear its mass scrape across the metal floor and clatter into the sides of the van. The police had left the gate open and I drove straight out to the road. I went left, east, towards Bowland, away from Wilder. I drove past Gray’s farm and The Lighthouse pub. As I ascended the crest of a gentle peak a pair of headlights, a couple of hundred metres behind me, flashed in my rear-view and caught my attention. Was someone following me? Of course not. I was feeling, understandably, paranoid. I’m certain everyone committing a crime, whether it’s swapping price stickers in the supermarket or transporting a body, feels they’re either being followed or watched. I continued on, along the road Ruby had herself driven in the opposite direction to get to me, towards Bowland Forest. It was only once I had breached the treeline and got out of the open that I felt safe. I kept a close eye on my rear-view as I followed the snaking lane through the forest. After a while I realised the headlights had disappeared. And when I rounded a few more bends I felt sure I was in the clear. I took the turn off to Bowland Reservoir and killed my headlights. The road here was extremely narrow and gravelly, more of a track than a road. I took it slowly, leaning forward over the steering wheel to try to pick out the track’s edges. Eventually, I reached a point where I could see the water, black and placid, a mirror for the stars. But I was not near enough to do what I came to do. I rolled the Transporter off the road to get closer and then turned off the engine. For a few moments I remained inside assessing the terrain between the front of the van and the water: a strip of moonlit scrubland which rose to a manicured grassy lip. I got out, taking the laptop with me, and went around the back of the Transporter. It would be necessary to put the laptop inside the trunk, having two separate things floating around out there represented a far greater risk. My hands were shaking uncontrollably as I reached into my pocket for the key. I still remember the sound of the key rattling like a cup and saucer in an earthquake as I struggled to align it with the lock. But suddenly I felt it slide in, and then I was turning it and pulling it loose and pushing open the lid.
She was curled up, foetal, as though she’d simply decided to take a nap. For a split second I thought she was OK. Just sleeping, I thought. Peacefully sleeping. But that was only upon first glance. When I looked closer, at her fingertips, at the markings on the underside of the lid, at her face, screwed up grotesquely, it was obvious she was dead. Gingerly, I reached inside and touched her cheek. I felt an overwhelming desire to massage her facial muscles into a more relaxed pose, as though this would somehow bring her peace. She was cold. I rubbed and rubbed her cheeks but I could not do anything about her eyes, which were glued shut into nasty little asterisks, or her distended mouth. I retched up caustic bile. Some went inside the trunk but mostly I got it on myself. I reached inside the trunk with both arms and pulled her heavy limp torso out and held her in my lap.
I think even before I heard the slamming of car doors or the sound of my megaphoned name, or saw the interior of the Transporter light up blue, I had decided to give up.
Lucy, I won’
t give you a blow-by-blow account of my trial. Now that is something you can find online. But I do wish to dispel a couple of myths. The press observed that I sat ‘stony faced’ throughout the proceedings. That isn’t true. They said I showed ‘no reaction’ when the judge delivered his summing-up. Lies. They said those things I suppose in order to paint an appropriate picture, to sell their chosen narrative, like a movie trailer.
Court was a circus. Wading through the scrum of newspaper photographers detonating their flashes and the TV journalists with their microphones pointed at me like bayonets was a degrading farce. People think the hand in front of the face is to avoid giving them a clear photograph but it’s really to protect your eyes from the flashes. I didn’t know why my trial had commanded so much media attention until one of the guards showed me a newspaper. HOUSE OF HORRORS, the front page shouted, with blurred black-and-white photographs of Lanes End dressed up for Halloween: the line of hosepipe nooses, the tools lined up on the tea tray, the ‘deadly chemicals’, the ‘cemetery’ out front, the jack-o’-lanterns leading to the workshop. FACTORY OF DEATH, the papers cried. They referred to my mango wood trunks as ‘coffins’. ‘Ready-made’ read the caption beneath the photo of them lined up in the workshop, lids open like hungry mouths.
I suppose the photographs were leaked or sold to the press by the police. There can be no other explanation. They made me famous, a Halloween monster. During my first interrogation they kept asking me over and over about the rosewood crosses on the lawn: Where are the others? Where have you hidden them? Who’s Alfred? Who’s Ivy? Tell us where you’ve buried them. You’ll get a shorter sentence if you tell us. If I was myself I’d have laughed at them. But my arms were still tingling with the feeling of Ruby’s limp body in the back of the Transporter. I could still smell the sweat-soaked polyester of her costume wedding dress. I could still see her open mouth and her scrunched-up eyes which I had tried and failed to prise open for one last look. I sat there in the tiny cold interrogation room with my hands open in the same position they were when they found me and pulled me away from her. Without me to hold her she had folded over the edge of the trunk like a ragdoll. How many others are there? Tell us! They seized on other things too: my inventory of supplies – the bleach, the razor blades, the electrical tape, the giant compost maker out back – for which I could offer no reasonable explanation. Just what were you planning, you sick bastard?
