Dead Blonde

by Beck Robertson

  Pushing open the door to the bedroom they shared, he flicked on the light, blinking as his eyes took in the situation. Everything that had been hers had been cleared; all of her toiletries, the trinkets she used to keep on top of the little white painted dresser, all gone. The stack of books she kept by the bed had disappeared too. Walking up to the mirrored wardrobe that the two of them shared, he flung open Maria’s side. His stomach lurched. Her side of the rail was empty, nothing had been left at all, save for some empty hangers rattling miserably, depressive in their solitude.

  Sitting down on the edge of the comfortable king sized bed where they’d slept so many nights together, cradled in each other’s arms, he raked a hand through his dark hair. He felt helpless, and he didn’t know what he could do about it. Perhaps he would call her, yes that's what he should do. After all, they couldn't just leave it, not like this, they owed each other more than that. She owed him more than that surely?

  No she didn’t. She didn't really owe him anything. He hadn’t been there for her. She had spoken the truth when she’d told him she was unhappy, she’d not been happy for a long time. He knew he hadn't been there for her, that he hadn’t made her happy, but he’d kept on burying his head in the sand, thinking it would be alright, that everything would work itself out. Well that approach hadn’t done any good had it?

  He hadn't listened to her, had tried to brush away her unhappiness but she had needed someone, had needed him and he wasn't there for her. But someone else had been. He didn't know whether the thing that hurt the most was the fact that she'd left or the realisation that she’d left him for someone else. Either way it hurt.

  She was probably enjoying herself with Daniel right now, the two of them together in a restaurant perhaps, somewhere ambient and romantic. Maria loved to eat out, she was probably smiling across the table at him while he sat here in the dark alone. Smiling and laughing, her long dark hair falling in wild waves over her elegant shoulders, those intense brown eyes dancing as she shared a joke, the little copper flecks inside her irises illuminated by the candlelight.

  Stop dwelling you miserable old bastard. He had a tendency to wallow, ironically it was Maria who had told him that. What did it really matter where she was or who she was with, the point was she wasn't here and she didn’t want to be. And it was all his fault. Just then the telephone in the bedroom rang.

  "Hello Dad," Brandon said. His heart leapt at his son’s voice. Those two little words, they meant a lot.

  “Brandon! How are you doing son?”

  “Not too bad Dad, doing well at school, got a good report so Mum said I might be able to come over see you in the school holidays.”

  “Yeah? That’s great. Got some fun stuff planned for us for when you do come over. You know how you wanted to see the London Dungeons, they just expanded it, it’s double the size now.”

  “Cool.” Brandon’s voice sounded small, lost. Wish you could come over here and see me though. I miss you a bit Dad.” He winced at that, he wished he could too. But there was no way he could take the time off, not when every spare copper was needed. Not when they had a serial killer to catch.

  “Brandon, you know I’d love to come and see you…” he paused, “I’m just very busy with work at the moment and I can’t get the time off.”

  “You always say that, you’re always busy with work,” his son replied, his tone resentful. He sighed.

  “Look, I’m sure your mum and Kevin are looking after you well and hopefully-”

  He was interrupted mid-sentence as the phone started to beep, another call was trying to come through. He checked the electronic display, it was Doyle.

  “Brandon, wait a sec ok, I have to answer it. It’s work.”

  “K Dad,” his son said sighing. He sounded disappointed. Why did people always have to call at the absolute worst fucking time? Reluctantly he placed his son on hold, as he mentally kickedhimself. Doyle’s voice was immediately in his ear.

  “Gaine. Another one’s been found in the Bayswater area, body was found in a disused alleyway.”

  “Same MO?”

  “Yeah, everything the same.” Shit, Birthstone had struck again, just what they needed.

  “You down there now?”

  “Yeah I’m at the scene and forensics are headed here.”

  “Has the pathology told you the time of death yet?”

  “Nope, we dunno that yet, she wasn’t discovered until a couple hours ago when some school kids cut through it on their way home.”

  “A couple of hours ago? How come you only just arrived there?” Why the hell had it taken the Squad so long to respond?

  “When it was called in, they thought it was a prostitute been murdered by her pimp at first, we didn’t get it transferred to us until 40 minutes ago.”

  “Alright I’m on it, what’s the location? I’ll be down there as soon as possible,” he said, sighing heavily. He waited as she relayed it to him, then hung up, switching the line.

  “Brandon, I have to go, can we talk later?”

  “But Dad…”

  “I’m sorry son, I really have to go. There’s been something very important come up at work.”

  “Dad why do you always do this?” The boy’s voice was pleading, adding to the guilt he already felt. He didn’t need this right now.

  “I don’t always do this, you’re exaggerating, come on be fair.”

  “I am being fair, you’re the one who’s not being fair, last summer when I came to see you you left me in the museum because you had to leave and go back to work,” Brandon’s said, his tone angry.

  It was true. He’d booked the day off so he could take Brandon to the Science Museum but he’d been needed back at work. Beeton had been screaming down the phone and he had had to call Zoe to come and get Brandon while he returned to the station.

  “But we still got to spend plenty of time together during the two weeks you were over here visiting didn’t we? We had fun?” The click on the line told him everything he needed to know,

  “Brandon, wait” he tried to protest, but the buzzing tone told him his son had already hung up the phone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE – BIRTHSTONE

  Standing across the road from Mrs Brooke’s neat semi-detached, he watched the house from the corner, waiting for its occupant to exit. He’d managed to find out what time the property would be empty by employing a little forethought and a certain amount of cunning, telephoning the house after obtaining the number from directory enquiries.

  He’d pretended to be calling from a new local gym and had, after asking a few strategic questions managed to glean certain facts from the unsuspecting Mrs Brookes. Facts, such as what times she would not be at home to answer calls.

  He knew for example, that tonight was the night she attended her weekly Pilate’s class, which ran from 8-9 pm. A cursory glance at his watch revealed the time to be 7.45pm. Soon she would be leaving in order to make the short journey to the little town hall, where, after a little more research, he’d discovered the class was held.

  Tapping his foot impatiently, he waited for her to leave, his jaw clenched in frustration as he eyed the house’s small, green painted front door. The front door opened a crack just then, and he ducked down the street out of sight, still keeping his eye on the house.

  Sure enough, Mrs Brooks emerged into the balmy May evening, clutching her black handbag protectively to her chest with one hand, as if the bag were a shield against some as yet unknown assailant. The fingers of her left hand were firmly clasped around a bundle of keys, one of which he supposed was for the ignition of the red Ford Fiesta that sat in the driveway.

  He watched as she walked up to the car and unlocked the doors with a short, piercing beep, temporarily shattering the silence of the quiet suburban evening. Then, opening the doors, she climbed in to the driver’s seat where she proceeded to rev the engine and pull out slowly into the road.

  He watched too, as the car drove off down the road, its headlights blinkin
g. Only when it had completely disappeared from sight did he dare emerge from his camouflaged position, crossing the street rapidly as he looked about him. After all there might be some nosey neighbourhood watch types observing him from behind the privacy of their curtains, watching him with suspicious eyes as he made his way up the driveway of the house where Sally had lived.

  He had to work quickly, it wouldn’t be long before she returned. Pulling the lock picking tool out of his trouser pocket, he slipped it into the lock and begun to fiddle with it. After a brief tussle the lock yielded and the door creaked open, allowing him access to the house’s shadowy hallway. He slipped inside, drawing the door shut behind him with a quiet click and locking it, just in case she had occasion to return home early for some unexpected reason.

  No it wouldn’t do to get caught, not at all, not when he was so close, so very close to being finished. So close to ending what had been set in motion all those years ago. First though, he needed to get what he had come here for. The necklace, Sally’s necklace, the one he had spent the money earned and saved up from the paper round he had had on. The same necklace she’d refused to accept, thrown back in his face, as she had looked at him pityingly.

  “I’m not like that you know.”

  His temples tightened as he remembered the disdainful way she had uttered the words, the familiar prickling sensation he got at the back of his scalp returning. The sensation was the same every time he thought about it.

  It was the necklace that had started it all. And now he would retrieve it and give it to her again. Only this time, she would accept it and finally everything would be alright. Then the voices in his head would finally shut up and go away and he would find the peace he sought. With her.

  She’d be his again, after all these years. A ghoulish smile played over his lips, as he slipped the slim torch with its metal casing, out of his pocket and flipped the switch on, careful to keep the bright beam low so as not to arouse the suspicion of the occupants across the streets.

  Flicking the torch’s beam around the small entranceway he spied the stairs, set off to the left. Not that he needed a light to remember where they were. He knew the layout of Sally’s house better than he could recall the house he himself had grown up in, so often had he replayed the events of his last visit here over and over in his mind, like some horrific Cinerama.

  Mrs Brooks would likely have kept it in there, in the small room that had been Sally’s ever since she had been born. Treading carefully, he began to make his way up the staircase, holding the torch out to illuminate his path as he climbed. Reaching the top he turned off to the right instinctively. Pushing open the door to Sally’s room, he flashed the torch around, briefly revealing the little room’s contents.

  Just as he’d suspected, the room remained almost identical to the one he remembered visiting seventeen years ago. Everything was in the same place, from the coats and jackets hung on the back of the door, down to the tattered Skunk Anansie poster on the wall that Sally had lovingly placed there, its edges now curled and frayed by the years. The CD player that had been her prize possession still sat atop the bedside table, the stack of 90’s CD’s piled up on top of each other on the shelf underneath.

  He saw her then, lying on her belly on the little single bed, painting her nails and humming along to one of the bands she loved. Her long blonde hair loose, cascading in rivulets of creamy silk down the slender, elegance of her back as she kicked her long legs behind her, wiggling them in time to the music.

  Frozen, he stood there rooted to the spot as he watched her, scared that if he moved the image would disappear. His hungry eyes drank in every inch of her, as if by doing so he could imprint her DNA into his consciousness.

  “Sally…” he murmured. She turned around at that, even though the music was so loud you could have shouted her name without being heard. It was as if she had sensed his presence there, been waiting for him even. Had she been waiting for him to come for her?

  She looked at him, her blue eyes piercing, her face just as lovely as he remembered it to have been all those years ago. Her lips curved into a smile as she saw him and his felt his heart bump against his chest. It was going to be alright, she was alright, she forgave him what had happened. Understood that he had only done it because she had hurt him, rejected his love for her.

  She had just been scared, he shouldn’t have rushed it, he should have waited longer and she would have accepted him. Just look how she responded to him now, after all these years apart from each other. Smiling, she extended one delicate hand to him, her eyes holding him in thrall.

  “She could never love you.” Get lost Mother. Ignoring the voice, he walked forward, his own hand reaching to meet her proffered one, grasping, grabbing at the air. Where was it, a step closer, no, wait, something was wrong. Looking at her helplessly, he tried to speak but found himself suddenly unable to talk.

  “You killed her didn’t you? Filthy little pervert.” Desperately he reached for her, his eyes trying to communicate that he was unable to take her hand. The look on her face had changed and now she looked at him sorrowfully, what was happening, what was the matter with her? Slowly she shook her head, those piercing eyes staring at him, as if they were boring into his skull. He felt unbearably warm.

  Just then, as he watched, the left corner of her mouth crumpled as blood began to leak out from her lips. Black blood, thick, treacly, and dark. A panicked expression twisted her lovely features as a small dark horizontal line began to slowly appear at her throat. He tried to move forward but found he couldn’t move.

  “No!” he cried out, but no sound escaped his lips. He could only stare in horror as the line at her throat deepened in colour, spreading and widening until it became a bloody gash. Thick, inky globules of goopy dark liquid began to drip from the wound, splashing upon the pure whiteness of the bed sheets as she clutched at her throat in desperation.

  “She doesn’t want you. She never wanted you.”

  “No!!” he yelled again. This time he heard his voice, hoarse and desperate, a death sentence. She grinned, a funny little smile, her lips parting to reveal white teeth coated in a slick claret.

  “Don’t go, don’t leave me,” he pleaded, frantic. She spoke then, her voice a dry rattle, hissing and gurgling as the blood rose in her throat.

  “I…told you I didn’t want you,” she rasped, blood crackling in her mouth as she spoke, the effort draining her. The circles under her eyes darkened into black hollows, the spotlight of the torch serving to highlight the effect. A cold chill filled the darkened room.

  “No!” he yelled, stepping forward, his legs finally obeying him. Grabbing at her, his hand passed into nothingness as she tilted her head up and smirked at him, her hollow eye sockets boring into him. Her skin was blue, translucent, barely stretched over the bone and she clutched her claw like hands to her throat where the smooth flesh of her beautiful neck had previously been.

  “I told you she could never love you. No one could ever love you.” Dropping the torch he sank to the floor, beating at his head with his hands.

  “No, no , no, no” he chanted, refusing to look up at the bed, the baseball cap falling from his head as he pounded the sides of his face with his fists. Blood spurted from his own mouth, as frustrated tears ran down his face, mixing with it to make a salty, red slime.

  “Pull yourself together, you pathetic loser.” His mother’s voice again, mocking and shrill. He beat harder with his fists, as if he were trying to punch through his skull into his brain and tear her out, beat the voice into submission, silence her, stop her from taunting him.

  Squeezing his eyes shut, he stuffed his fingers in his ears, trying to block her out, the way he had done ever since he was a small child. He had to silence the awful screaming in his brain.

  It’s just an illusion, a trick. He was imagining things of course. Breathing hard, his body shaking, he tried to calm down. You just have to finish it, finish this nightmare, and you can make all of it stop. Jus
t remember why you came here. He collected himself, his breathing easing slightly; though his legs still trembled uncontrollably and his heart yammered in his throat.

  Getting to his feet shakily, he collected the hat from where it had fallen at his feet. Replacing it atop his head, he looked for the torch, which had rolled under the bed, the sharp beam giving its position away easily. Scrambling underneath, he reached for it, his hands grasping, yet just unable to reach. Manoeuvring further underneath in order to reach it, his hand hit something soft and rough.

  His brain took a moment to recall the familiar texture; Sally’s schoolbag. He remembered the rough, blue, hessian, army style satchel, the kind popular with many of the students at the time. As his hand closed around the torch he saw it, the outside adorned with the graffiti she had scrawled on it. Names of bands she obsessed over and random quotes, lines from songs she admired, and some of the little doodles, caricatures she had loved to draw.

  The bag would have been handed back to her mother after the police had looked through it. The necklace must be in there. His stomach knotted as excitement rose in his chest. She had brought it with her the night she agreed to meet him, had tried to return it to him. Just before, no, he didn’t want to think about that now. Opening the bag hurriedly he scrabbled around for it, his fingers fumbling among the bag’s jumble of contents. There it was, the familiar red velvet box.

  Flipping open the lid, he checked the necklace was still inside. There it was, nestled into the black satin cushion, the small pearl, set off perfectly by the fragile gold chain it dangled from. The same chain that would soon adorn her neck once more, just as it always should have done.