by Tania Carver
And that was exactly what he had done.
He had thought long and hard about it at first. About who had hurt him, had made him the way he was. And he knew straight away. Women. Not men, never men. Just women. And not all women, either. Just the ones he had been in contact with.
His mother had been the first. But the box he had put her in was so large and complex and so deeply buried that he could never think about her. If he was ever tempted to mentally exhume her, he knew the effort would be so much, the consequences so dire for himself, that it wasn’t worth it. So that particular part of his past would have to stay buried. No matter what.
But the others. That was different…
All the girls who had broken his heart, had thought him weird, had called him names, shamed him, humiliated him, made him want to kill himself… they were fair game. More than that: they were necessary. But he couldn’t do it with the actual women. No. For one thing he didn’t know where they were, and for another, if he could find them, the police might link their deaths to him. And he couldn’t have that. So after much thinking he had settled on his plan. Surrogates. That was what he needed. And he knew where to get them.
It was simple. So simple. Find the right girl. A damaged one, so she would empathise with what he had been through. Then take her. Keep her safe until she was in the correct state of mind and body. Then take her heart. Once he had that, it was a simple matter to evoke the particular memory. They were never far from his mind. Then perform the ritual. Box the heart up. Seal it. And that was that. Another part of his past put firmly away. One step closer to moving on completely. To becoming a full person. To letting his inner man become his outward one too.
His therapist would have been proud, he thought, that he was taking his advice so literally.
And it was working, he could feel it. As each heart was safely boxed away, he felt something inside him lift. A stone, a great weight. He felt he was inching his way to being like everyone else. If not happy, then at least normal.
He heard someone come into the lavatory, try the door to the cubicle. Heard a mumbled sorry, then the retreat of feet. The action brought him out of his reverie. He took his hands away from his face, blinked as the light hit his eyes. Then rubbed his face, like he was trying to wake himself. He stood up. Pulled himself physically together.
Something would have to be done. He knew that. Because he’d panicked last night, because he’d spoiled the ritual and the memory was still stuck within him, he would have to rectify the situation. Sooner rather than later. And the thought of that – the promise of that – would have to be enough to keep him going. For now.
But first, he had the rest of the day to get through.
31
Marina entered her office, closed the heavy wooden door behind her, waited for the click of the lock. She put the overhead light on, then her desk lamp. Checked every corner and shadow in the room. Satisfied that she was alone, she crossed to her desk, sat down in her chair and closed her eyes. Exhaled.
She opened her eyes, sat forward. Her hands were shaking from her time in the gym. Thirty minutes with the bag in two-minute sessions, interspersed with one minute of aerobic jumps and jabs. Hard, pounding. Relentless. Just let anyone try something. She was ready for them.
She reached down into her bag, drew out the two folders Imani had given her. Ran her hands over them, feeling that familiar thrill once more. The sense of delving beyond the surface, turning the academic into the real, slipping out of one world into another. Marina knew that on one level it was probably wrong to feel this way. For the sake of decency to the dead. But she couldn’t look at it like that. Despite everything that had happened in her own life, she still had to know, had to dig deeper. Find the skull beneath the skin. And the mind within it.
But she didn’t even have time to open the folders before there was a knock on the door.
Marina froze. No one knew she was here today. She stood up, her gym-hardened body ready for whoever it could be.
Another knock.
She waited.
A voice. ‘Hello?’ Small, timorous. But male. Definitely male. Not female.
‘Yes?’
‘Could I… could I come in, please? I need to see you.’
Marina’s body began to relax slightly. A student, that was all. Come to see her about work. Or just to moan about the course and use her as a surrogate mother. The usual.
‘Just a minute,’ she said.
Leaving the folders where they were, she walked to the door, turned the lock, opened it.
And there stood Phil.
Marina was too stunned even to slam the door.
‘Hi,’ he said, waiting for her familiar response. It didn’t come.
She found her voice. ‘How did…’
‘How did I get in?’ Phil edged himself just over the threshold. ‘Police ID. Warrant card. Just asked. Can I come in?’
She was still staring as he moved forward. She made to close the door on him, but he was already too far in. It slammed harmlessly against his chest. She began to get angry.
‘That your police tactics, is it? What you do with suspects when you call on them? Just barge your way in?’
‘Look, Marina, I know you’re angry, but please. Stop shouting. Or at least close the door.’
He stepped fully inside. The door closed behind him. She walked across the room to her desk. Once there, she turned to him, her anger becoming fury.
‘You just walked in. Just showed your card and walked in. Just like that.’
‘Just like that, I suppose, yeah. But Marina, I —’
‘Don’t you but Marina me.’ Her voice hissing out like a sudden leak in a high-pressure hose. Before he could say anything more, she started on him. ‘If you could do it, she could too, couldn’t she? Just walk in here, get into my office when I’m alone. It wouldn’t take much, would it? To find a warrant card, do that. She could…’ She ran out of breath, of words, of anger. Even as she spoke, she doubted it was true. If that woman had found her way in, Marina would have been ready for her. It was one of the places she expected to be attacked. But she wasn’t ready for Phil. She was still too raw, too mixed up in her own head about what they had been through, what she was going through now, to have him near her again. Not yet.
‘I just wanted to talk to you, that’s all. Please.’ Phil’s voice was plaintive. ‘I need to talk to you. To see you.’
He crossed the floor to her desk. She saw him coming, opened a drawer. Took out a letter-opener. The blade glinted under the overhead lights. She pointed it at him.
‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Just stay where you are.’
He did so. ‘Marina…’
‘Don’t.’
He looked at the letter-opener. ‘I could have you for possession of a dangerous weapon.’
‘Try it.’ Again her voice hissed. ‘I know the law. It’s not counted as a dangerous weapon. It serves a purpose.’
‘It looks sharp.’
‘It is,’ she said, ‘it has to be. In case I need to use it.’
Phil sighed. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’m tired of this. And from the look of you, you are too. Let’s talk. Let’s… find a way through this. Come on, we have to. We need to.’
Marina looked at him then, seeing him properly for the first time since he had entered her room. He was unshaven, his hair greasy and standing up even more than usual. His eyes looked like they had been hollowed out from his face and his clothes seemed to have been slept in. There was also the faint tang of something unpleasant around him. Stale sweat and alcohol.
In that second her heart broke. She missed him so much, wanted him, desired him.
Phil moved forward. ‘Marina, you’re just causing us more pain…’
‘Shut up. Don’t throw all this on me. And stay where you are. Don’t…’ The letter-opener brandished once more.
Phil stopped moving. He stared at her. His eyes fell to her desk. He saw the folders.
‘What are th
ose? How did you get them?’
‘Something I’m working on for Imani,’ she said. ‘Unpaid.’
He stared at her, unconvinced. ‘That’s… that’s my case…’
‘It’s from Imani, not you. Nothing to do with you.’
He seemed to be about to answer back, argue further, but his face fell. Collapsed.
‘I can’t live without you,’ he said. ‘Or our daughter. It’s not right to keep her from me. You can’t… I can’t…’ Tears formed in his eyes. ‘I’m not right without you…’
‘Stop it,’ she said.
‘No,’ he said. ‘You know what I mean. You complete me. I know that sounds like bullshit but you know it’s true. You’re my missing part. I’m yours. That’s how it’s always been. Two sides of the same coin, you said. Both damaged in different ways, healing each other. That was our life. But I can’t… I can’t function without you…’
She couldn’t bear to see him cry in front of her. She didn’t know whether she would resent him for it, think him weak, or whether it would make her want to join in. Either way she couldn’t face it. ‘Just… stop it.’
‘Please… please, Marina. We can face this together. We can. We’re stronger together than apart. Just… come home. Please, we can sort it…’
She sighed. It would be so easy. She knew that. Just to say yes and go. Do as he was asking. Take Josephina. Go forward together.
But she remembered what it had been like before she left. What she had been like before she left. Every day lived in fear, in desperation, just waiting for that woman to turn up, to destroy everything and everyone she loved, everything she held dear in the world. Every time she looked at Phil, she saw the same thing in him reflected back at her. That waiting. And she couldn’t bear it any longer. But there was more than that: with it came the knowledge of his inability to protect her and their daughter. That was why she’d had no choice but to leave. To save herself and Josephina, and to perhaps save him as well.
‘Please go,’ she said, her voice almost breaking.
‘Marina…’
‘Please, just… go. Now.’
Phil stared at her, unable to comprehend what he was hearing. ‘Couldn’t we just —’
‘Leave. Now.’
He didn’t move. ‘So is this it, then? Is this the end?’
Marina turned away from him. Couldn’t answer. Knowing that if she did, she might well say yes to him. Return to him, take their chance. And she couldn’t. She couldn’t.
She heard movement behind her, and she knew that Phil was making his way to the door.
She heard the door open and softly close. Even then she hoped he would come back in, that he wouldn’t take no for an answer, that he would make her come home. But she knew he wouldn’t do that. And really she knew it wouldn’t be right. If he did that, she would always feel as if she had been forced. And every time she looked at him there would be the ghost of that decision always between them.
So she stood there. Alone. Her back to the door. Telling herself she had done the right thing, made the correct decision. Waiting until she was sure he had gone.
And then the tears came.
32
‘Feeling better?’
Lesley Bracken sat behind her desk. Roy Adderley came back into the office and resumed his seat, hands still wet from where he had washed them in the lavatory.
‘Thanks,’ he said, absently.
Rage was simmering inside him now. He had run the gamut of emotions since leaving the police station, had tried to sort things out in his head and had thought he had succeeded. But he hadn’t. Now he was just left with anger.
‘You’re breathing rather heavily,’ said Bracken, concerned. ‘Sit back, take some deep breaths.’
‘I’m not going to have a heart attack, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t give Brennan the satisfaction.’ And wouldn’t want you to not be paid, of course, he thought sarcastically.
He knew he wasn’t having a heart attack. It wasn’t his time yet. God had other plans for him.
He stood up once more. ‘He has no right, no right…’
‘No,’ said Bracken, ‘he doesn’t. That’s why we…’
Adderley tuned out. There were two kinds of law. God’s law and man’s law. He had seen man’s law in action, been at the wrong end of it. And it wasn’t remotely concerned with justice. Just revenge. So he didn’t answer her, just let her talk. And while she talked, he thought.
‘I said,’ said Bracken, realising he wasn’t listening, ‘he was out of order to bring up your past like that.’
Adderley nodded. A plan forming in his mind. God’s law. Pure law.
While she spoke, he prayed for guidance.
And received it.
He stood up. ‘I’m going now. I’ve got things to do.’
Bracken, mid-sentence, just stared at him. He ignored her, walked out of the building and drove away. Off to gather the materials he needed for the test that lay ahead.
He sat, arms against the steering wheel, steadying himself with a few words of prayer. He heard God’s voice telling him that what would come next was the right thing to do. The just thing to do. And he replied saying he wouldn’t let Him down. That he would shine like a light in the world.
He felt his breath catch when he thought those words.
He opened his eyes once more, took in his surroundings. The Pentecostal church he attended was right before him. An old converted hall in a poor area of Handsworth, it was where he had found God. Or rather, where God had been waiting for him to enter.
He could remember the day vividly. He still didn’t know what had made him walk into the church. He had been out all afternoon with friends, drinking and watching the football in a pub. His wife was at home, Carly was only four. He had thought that married life would suit him, settle him. Hoped it would. But it hadn’t. All his life he had felt like he didn’t fit in. Not at school, not at home. His father constantly reminded him of that, telling him he wasn’t the son he wanted, favouring his brother instead. His father had been the kind of post-war petty tyrant who ruled the home with an iron fist. His mother was almost a ghost, like subservience had worn her away. And Roy had always blamed her for being weak, never forgiven her for that.
He had been, even from an early age, a failure. Not sporty at school. Not intelligent enough to do well either. Not physically robust enough to follow his father’s footsteps into factory work. Not like his brother. Never like his brother.
So Roy had played up to it. If he was the idiot son, he would act like it. He got drunk, took drugs. Went looking for trouble round the city centre bars and clubs. Frequently found it. Managed to get a job, several jobs, but never held them down for long. As for women, it was just frustration after angry frustration. And then he met Gemma.
They moved in together when she was pregnant. By the time Carly was born, Roy had a job at the airport and was trying to stay on the straight and narrow. But it was hard. He missed his friends. He missed the fights, if he was honest. The raw feel of fist upon flesh, of grappling muscle on muscle, the crack of bone as his opponent went down. Usually his opponent. Sometimes himself. But he missed it. It was the time he felt most alive.
He supposed that was what had brought him into the church that Sunday three years ago.
He had sat on a chair and listened. And watched. All the people around him had seemed so content. All sharing stories about how good Jesus was, how happy he had made them, the strength they had drawn from him. They made him sound like the best friend a person could ever have. And Roy wanted some of that. When he left to go home that night, there were tears streaming down his face.
He went back. Again. And again. Soon he was asking to be baptised. He had watched them do it to others, a full pool at the front of the church, the person totally immersed in the water. He wanted that more than anything. That cleansing of body and soul. And he got it. And that, he had thought, was that.
Except it wasn’
t.
Yes, he had accepted Jesus into his life. And he now had God to help him cope. But other things hadn’t changed. Gemma, for one thing. She seemed to be living her life in a way that wasn’t taught at his church. She wasn’t showing subservience to her husband, like the Bible said she should. She was arguing with him, telling him when he was wrong, defying him. That wasn’t the way she should be behaving. Not her. Not his wife.
She was dressing immodestly. When he complained, she looked at him uncomprehendingly. This was how he liked her to dress, she said. How she had dressed when they first met. He told her he had moved on since then. And she would have to as well. He didn’t like the way she was bringing up Carly, letting her watch inappropriate things on the television. Ungodly things. Licentiousness and worldliness.
One day he had had enough. Enough of Gemma defying him, answering him back, telling him he was wrong. Just another woman disappointing him. Enough. So he took the Bible down from the shelf and, rage blinding him, let her have it across her head.
Afterwards he was in tears, sobbing and praying and begging for forgiveness. Not only from Gemma but from God himself. Gemma forgave him. God, he felt, did too.
But that was only the first time. There were others. More and more frequent. Gemma needed to be taught a lesson. She needed God beaten into her. And he, God had told him, was the one to do it. To bring her under the obedience of her husband in a Christian manner.
And all that had led him to this.
He got out of the car, went to the boot. Took out the things he had bought, put them on the pavement, closed the car, locked it. Then picked them up, went into the church.
Praying all the while.
