DEAD GONE

by Luca Veste

  ‘The first time she left, she was gone three days,’ Helen continued, ‘she was only sixteen. She left a note saying she was going away for a while and not to worry.’ She snorted quietly. ‘Being a parent, that’s your main job, to worry about your kids. Anyway, the police weren’t really interested, said she’d turn up when she ran out of money. I was sick with worry, had my sister’s husband driving me all round Liverpool trying to find her. Then, three days later, she walked through the door like nothing had happened. You can’t imagine how I felt those three days. I was lost, imagining everything that could have been happening to her.’ She shuddered as the memories came back to her. Rob sat in silence, taking in the very different version of the woman he’d shared his life with.

  ‘I screamed at her, called her everything, but she didn’t listen. She wouldn’t even tell me where she’d been. For the next few years, she’d take off every month or so. Sometimes a couple of days, sometimes weeks. When she met Mark, I thought she was settled. She was happy again, her old self.’ Helen shrugged her shoulders. ‘But it didn’t last. She’d tell me about the arguments they would have, that kind of thing. And then she left. Six months she was gone. Not a phone call, email, nothing. After a month or so, I started to worry. Phoned everyone in the family, her friends, no one knew where she was. I called the police, but she was twenty, she could do what she liked. They put her on a list, questioned Mark a little, but nothing came of it.’

  She paused, tracing a finger over the rim of her cup. ‘She’d been at my sister’s. She lives in Boston. Over on the east coast.’

  ‘In America?’ Rob asked, surprised Jemma had never mentioned it.

  ‘No, it’s in this country. Funny, I know. It’s nice over there, but we don’t talk much, me and my sister. Especially since then. Not once did she tell me Jemma was there. The worst thing was what my sister said when Jemma came home and told me where she’d been. Said she’d do it again if Jemma asked.’ Helen muttered something under her breath which Rob thought sounded a lot like ‘Stuck-up bitch.’

  Rob finished his tea, took the cup over to the sink. ‘It’s different this time, Helen.’

  ‘It’s not though, Rob. You know that. You’ve been arguing a lot, she told me. She wasn’t happy.’

  Again, surprise. He’d had no idea she’d been talking about their relationship behind his back. Play with it. ‘This again? We were fine, we didn’t argue. I don’t know what she was telling you but it’s wrong.’

  ‘Rob. This is what she does. Why would she lie about you two arguing? Maybe you just didn’t think it was that big a deal.’

  Rob slammed the cup down into the sink, breaking the handle. The crash made Helen jump. ‘Sorry. I just … I just don’t understand any of this.’ Rob’s voice was loud in the silent kitchen.

  Helen stood up. ‘You don’t get it, Rob.’

  Was this his out? Dampen the guilt he was feeling? ‘What don’t I get?’

  She smiled softly. ‘She’s run away again. That’s it. You need to accept that.’ She glanced at the gold-plated watch on her arm. Jemma had bought it for her birthday.

  ‘Look, I best be going, Danny will be wondering where I am.’ Rob moved aside as Helen placed her cup in the sink.

  ‘Helen …’

  ‘Don’t, Rob. I’m going home. Make sure you eat.’

  Helen walked out of the kitchen and Rob watched through the doorway as she put her coat on and let herself out the door. Rob pulled his phone from his pocket, searched for Jemma’s number and called it.

  He hadn’t tried for a few hours. That wouldn’t look right.

  Voicemail again.

  ‘Jemma, it’s me. Look, I don’t care what’s happened, or if you’re worried about coming back. I just want you home. Please come home. I love you.’

  Rob slumped back into the chair.

  His head fell into his hands, and for the first time since he’d woken up alone that morning, he let the full weight of what had happened fall on him.

  His face grew damp rapidly as the tears fell from his eyes.

  He wasn’t just going through the motions, even though he’d dealt with this before.

  It was different.

  He was different this time.

  He made a list.

  He had to get it right this time.

  He didn’t title it WHAT A NORMAL BOYFRIEND WOULD DO IF HIS GIRLFRIEND WENT MISSING.

  That would have been too much.

  He wrote down what he’d done so far. Began adding items.

  He had to go to Boston and visit the aunt. That was first.

  Chase up the police. Make them aware he was worried about her safety. See if that got them moving.

  Missing posters? Contact the media? Convince people she hadn’t run away. Get them thinking.

  Good. He was on track.

  Rob mindlessly flicked through channels on the TV, unable to concentrate on any programme for longer than a minute or so. His head was spinning, lack of sleep and food causing his thoughts to be in disarray. Around three a.m. his stomach growling became too hard to ignore and he got some food from the kitchen. By the time he’d sat back down with ham on two slices of wholewheat bread, and a packet of crisps, his stomach began to churn. He didn’t make it past two bites, the crisps sitting on the coffee table, unopened.

  It was almost dawn when he finally drifted off, unable to keep his eyes open any longer. A dreamless sleep, enveloped in darkness, unaware of his slumber.

  He woke slowly a few hours later, aware of the low hum from the TV which was still tuned to the last channel he’d been watching. For a second he forgot why he was asleep on the sofa, before reality came back to him. The weight of it on his chest, heartbeat increasing by the second as the panic set in, his mind racing with images. He remembered arguments. One in particular. Where the sense of foreboding had begun. When he knew it was only a matter of time. A couple of weeks before Christmas, when the university had finished for the first semester.

  He’d gone to the pub after work one night, had phoned Jemma to tell her he’d be late in, promised to be home within an hour. He’d had one drink, then another, chatting to his mate Dan, who was bending his ear about students and the lecturer’s life.

  He’d been in the pub for three hours when he realised what time it was. He’d quickly checked his phone, discovered he’d missed quite a few calls from Jemma. He’d finished his drink and gone home straight away, trying to call her the whole time, but she wasn’t answering. He’d got a taxi home and steeled himself for a bit of a telling-off, then a takeaway and a cuddle more than likely.

  Instead they’d argued for most of the rest of the night. It’d turned out Jemma had decided to cook a romantic meal for them, a meal which was cold by the time he’d walked through the door almost three hours later than she’d expected him to. It was a big deal really. Rob took on most of the cooking, so it was a special event when she made the effort. The only remnants of her labour, dirty pans and melted candle wax pooled on the surface of old saucers.

  He apologised, but after a barrage of woe is me and why don’t you understand, and why don’t you listen to me, and me, me, me, he’d grown weary. He was feeling brave with four pints in him, and he’d begun to argue back, making the point that maybe if she cooked more often it wouldn’t be such a big deal if he missed a meal she’d prepared every four years or so. Plus the pork looked overcooked, and the sauce had stuck to the bottom of the pan. Another Jemma special. It escalated. A plate or three was thrown. Rob thought he may have been responsible for at least one of them. Within minutes she’d stormed upstairs, calling him a boring, selfish bastard and slamming the bedroom door on her way. It was at that point Rob had started to feel guilty. He’d followed her, found her lying face down on the bed, and started to apologise profusely for the next hour. They’d fallen into an uneasy truce, ordering pizza, and going to bed soon after, with only the TV providing noise.

  He made his way to the bathroom, yawning as he lifted the seat. Jemma
’s toiletries overwhelmed what surface space there was in there. She seemed to have creams or lotions for any possible event. Rob looked around whilst relieving himself, noticing for the first time that this room was the only one that still retained the scent of her.

  Not true.

  He finished up and went through to the bedroom and sat on her side of the bed. Lay down and buried his face in her pillow. He’d seen it being done in films, the one left behind searching for the scent of the other.

  All he could smell was fabric softener.

  Everything started to swim in front of him. He turned and threw a straight right fist into the wall above the bed, then grabbed the first drawer out of the bedside cabinet, flinging it across the room, spraying its contents across the floor. Adrenaline was pumping through him like water through an open dam. He was aware of what he was doing on one level but felt powerless to stop himself on any other. He upended the mattress on the bed, before turning over the small dressing table, sending the surface contents scattering.

  He was conscious enough of what he was doing to stop himself breaking the full length mirror which was propped against the wall, pausing before it, seeing his reflection. He was blowing hard, red in the face, tears falling slowly down his cheeks. His usually coiffed hair looked bedraggled, the last twenty-four hours conspiring to leave him close to breaking point. He wanted to lose it completely, smash the reflection of himself, destroy himself.

  No. He couldn’t do that.

  Everything could be mended. Broken to unbroken in a matter of minutes.

  Almost everything.

  He wiped tears from his eyes, not knowing when he’d begun to cry. Let a quiet chuckle pass his lips, and began picking through the bits of bedside table drawer, finding an address book and snapping back into reality. He picked it up and, giving one last look around the mess, went down to the kitchen and filled the kettle. He placed the book down on the small table and made himself a cup of coffee.

  Leafing through, he recognised most of the names; old friends, new friends, doctors, dentists.

  Item one on the list. Go visit the aunt.

  He mentally added, fix the bedroom, to the list.

  He went back to the beginning, praying she’d listed the aunty in there. Rob didn’t have a name for her, just a place name, and he really didn’t want to involve Helen in this. It needed to be of his own accord.

  It would look better. More proactive.

  He found it near the end, Aunty Alice, an address in Boston, no phone number.

  He put it down, picking his coffee up and draining half the cup in one gulp. He stood and emptied the rest into the sink, standing at the window, looking out over the garden. Jemma had been gently mithering him for months to sort out the overgrowing grassy patch which took up most of the space.

  Now, there was no one nagging at him over the small, insignificant things that just didn’t matter. A constant droning, which had only become worse over time.

  He wasn’t sure if he preferred the silence.

  Rob pulled his trainers over his feet in the hall and grabbed his car keys.

  It was time to go through the list.

  Experiment Four

  He’d shocked himself with his capacity for anger. He’d never have believed he was capable of the violence months before. He searched for a cause for it. An answer to why he’d lost it so completely.

  When it came, it was simple.

  The first one hadn’t screamed as much.

  This useless lump of skin and bones had almost brought the ceiling down with the level of her cries. And then, with her mouth wide open, her teeth had almost made contact with his face.

  The nerve of her.

  ‘Mmmf, mmmf.’

  She was still going on. Even behind the gag he’d now secured across her filthy mouth. Her naked body already showing red marks rising up from where he’d had to placate her.

  ‘I had plans for you,’ he said, pacing back and forth in front of her. ‘So many plans. You could have been so much more. There’s a plan. A step-by-step guide. And you’re ruining it.’

  He knelt down in front of her, far enough away that her thrashing limbs did not touch him. Her face was marked with black streaks, as tears and sweat mingled to create a river of mascara cascading down her round cheeks.

  ‘I was under the impression all you girls used that waterproof stuff these days. You look awful.’

  He studied her some more, attempting to formulate a different sort of plan. One that would appease.

  It was no use though, and he knew it. It was supposed to go a certain way, and he’d already failed. He’d marked her, spoiled her features.

  It wasn’t his fault. It was his mistake, but she had caused it.

  ‘You stupid fucking bitch. Do you have any clue as to what I am doing here? I am changing things. This work is important. But you don’t care, do you?’

  He stepped forward, drawing his foot back, kicked the bottom of her outstretched left foot. The noise behind the gag grew louder.

  He enjoyed that sound. He felt something shift inside him. More alive. More powerful.

  ‘You’re selfish, you know that?’ He punctuated his words with more kicks. ‘Your death could have been glorious. A work of art. They would have still been talking about you, long after we’re all gone. Now, you’re a worthless piece of excrement on my shoe. A hindrance, a burden on me. I would have shown you the courtesy of dulling the pain. Now … now you’ll feel every last second of what I’m going to do.’

  He crouched down again, taking in her sad form. He snorted. ‘You are undeserving of this work. You’re just a piece of waste to be taken care of.’

  He reached into his back pocket, held up the knife into the light glaring from above.

  She recoiled as he walked back towards her, breathing heavily as she attempted to break free of her chains. All the while, a muffled scream was the only noise in the room.

  Then he moved quicker. Arm raised above him.

  And then it went down towards her. Again and again.

  The room turned red. He didn’t stop until the exertion overtook him, leaving him panting for breath with his back against the wall.

  She was lifeless. Unrecognisable from the woman he’d brought here.

  He smiled. He knew how to rectify this mistake.

  12

  Monday 28th January 2013 – Day Two

  The dashboard clock flicked over to eight-fifteen p.m as Murphy pulled the car up outside his house, his phone chirruping as he switched the engine off.

  ‘Murphy.’

  ‘Where are you?’ Jess’s shrill voice barked down the phone.

  Murphy shook his head, smiling. ‘Hello, Jess.’

  ‘Yeah, fuck that. Where are you? I’ve just driven all the way out to yours, and you weren’t even in.’

  ‘I’m not sure if you’re aware, but I’m working a murder at the moment. Long hours kinda come with the job.’

  ‘You’re still on that? Thought they’d have dropped you by now.’

  Murphy sighed, getting out of the car, locking it behind him. ‘Yes, thanks for the support.’

  ‘That’s no excuse. I have to go to my mum’s for food now. You know how I feel about that.’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry. Maybe ring ahead next time, make sure I’m in?’ Murphy said, smiling.

  ‘You wish. Listen, Sarah called me again today.’

  Murphy sighed. ‘What did she want?’

  He heard Jess breathe heavily before continuing. ‘She wants to see you.’

  ‘Not going to happen.’ Murphy extricated his keys and opened the door, entering his house in darkness.

  ‘Think about it. You can’t just ignore her forever.’

  ‘Yeah, okay, Jess. Listen I’ve got stuff to do, big case and all that. Give me a ring tomorrow.’

  ‘Fine, whatever, Bear. Just think about it, okay?’

  Murphy closed the door behind him quietly. ‘Okay.’

  He walked up his small
hallway, flipping the light switch and relaxing as he bathed in light. He removed his jacket, kicked off his size fourteen shoes and walked through to his living room, collapsing on the sofa. He reached for the TV remote, wanting to switch off for a few minutes at least.

  Sarah. She wouldn’t just give up. At least she’d stopped ringing him personally. Now she just went through his friends. Well, friend.

  His stomach growled at him. He knew he’d forgotten something. He’d wanted to pick up a takeaway on the way home, but instead had driven in a daze. Distracted.

  Twenty minutes and a trip to the kitchen later, Murphy was flicking through the TV recorder, trying to decide what to watch from the seemingly hundreds of programmes he’d saved over the last month or so. He settled on an episode of The Sopranos and sat back with his microwaved family-sized lasagne to watch. The meal was its usual disgusting fare, but Murphy carried on eating, dipping slices of dry bread into the lowering amount of sauce. He made a note to buy margarine at some point, knowing he’d forget within seconds.