Sirens

by Joseph Knox

  Waited.

  I watched the lift’s excruciatingly slow progress on the small digital screen beside it. I didn’t turn around. As it reached the forty-third floor I had a sudden sense that there would be someone in it. Kernick, Rossiter, the two constables.

  I waited.

  The doors opened.

  The lift was empty.

  I walked in and pressed for the lobby.

  ‘’Scuse me, son,’ said Mr Reed, half-running towards me. ‘Excuse me.’ Hating myself, I put my arm forward and held open the door. He got to the lift, breathing hard and sweating. ‘The key?’ he said.

  ‘Of course.’ I fumbled in my pocket and handed it over. He stepped back and I let the doors close. By the thirty-fifth floor I realized I’d been holding my breath and tried to breathe. Look normal. I was fingering the note I’d found when the lift reached the lobby. The doors opened. I walked out and went straight to the main entrance, exiting on to Deansgate. I could feel the paper burning a hole in my pocket.

  I saw police cars on the street. I saw men I thought I recognized.

  I didn’t look at the note until I’d walked five hundred feet and turned down a narrow, dingy alleyway. I glanced over my shoulder then leaned back against the wall.

  Breathed.

  I took the slip from my pocket and opened it up, hands shaking. It was written in stark, red ink.

  NO ONE CAN EVER KNOW.

  5

  I was eight years old when I made my own bid for freedom, when I started lying for my own benefit. I manipulated everyone else in the room, and it was one of the last times I ever saw my sister.

  Annie had stopped sensing or seeing a shadow over her bed at night. Now the shadow was a man who could reach out and stroke her hair. She thought she’d imagined him to life. I remember her, scared, urgently whispering to me the next day: ‘If I dream something, can it come true?’

  It’s difficult to articulate the powerlessness of a child in care. Everything, from your daily routine, to the building you sleep in, is changeable at a moment’s notice. The only things that felt permanent were our names, which fit uncomfortably as the damp-smelling, hand-me-down clothes we wore, and felt less like identities than scars for life. Vicious parting shots from people who didn’t want us. As Annie and I became unmoored from our old lives, drifted further from safety, I saw that our welfare was just an illusion.

  An unspoken lie that we were expected to live inside.

  The last time we met with a couple I was stubborn, stand-offish. When they asked me questions, I shrugged, sighed, muttered my responses. I stood apart from my sister and wouldn’t look at her. I could feel her eyes on me. Her big, thinking head turned in my direction. She thought I was angry with her, and tugged one of her knee socks back to its rightful place to appease me. When we were told to go and play, I followed her to the toy box. She peered over the edge at whatever was inside.

  As she was about to tip it over, I pushed her. She landed on her bottom and looked up at me, wide-eyed. Then she looked down and cried quietly into her hand, the way our mother taught us to. I threw a toy at her head and shouted a dirty word I’d heard one of the older boys use. I turned my back on her and played on my own. I squeezed a plastic figure in my hand so hard that it broke. The man who’d been sitting on the sofa walked over to Annie.

  ‘Hey, it’s OK,’ he said, picking her up.

  Proceedings started that day, and her new parents had no guilt at separating her from her bullying older brother. She fades from my memory soon after that. For years after she left The Oaks I saw her everywhere. On streets, on passing buses, in bars. I did a double take at any girl who might be the same age, and I still see her everywhere. She’s Joanna Greenlaw and Isabelle Rossiter. She’s Catherine and Sarah Jane. Training to become a detective, it was always in the back of my mind to look her up, to find her and explain myself. I never got further than working out she was still in the area.

  Unfortunately, she’d found me.

  I felt inside my pocket for the letter that Sutty had passed on, the letter that had arrived at the station after my suspension. It was from my sister. Opening it, I found I still couldn’t take in the contents. I felt the hot tears of shame welling in my eyes. I scanned to the bottom of the page. Anne, as she signed her name, had seen my picture in the papers.

  Disgraced Detective Aidan Waits.

  She’d known it was me immediately.

  ‘You’re my family, I can help you,’ she’d written but, refolding the letter, I knew I wouldn’t reply.

  Leaving the alley, looking both ways, I had scattered black thoughts. Of girls I’d grown up with, self-harming. Sometimes they’d run away and be dragged back, humiliated, days, weeks, months later. Sometimes we’d never hear from them again.

  The dismal grey morning had turned into a dismal grey day. The pavements were blocks of ice under my feet, and I could feel the cold through the soles of my shoes. I thought about the past, the sunspots. The terrifying blackouts of my youth. I thought about never seeing my sister again. I thought about Isabelle. First scared, then alone, then dead.

  6

  I knew her service would probably be over. I drove towards the monastery more by accident than design. It was only three or four miles out of the city and, with Isabelle on my mind, seemed too short a distance to pass up. I kept thinking of the note I’d found in Rossiter’s penthouse, the messages I’d seen, smashed into the mirrors. I kept asking myself:

  No one can ever know what  ?

  The small, low-cost houses that surrounded it had probably seemed incongruous when they were first built. It’s the monastery that’s out of place today, though. An obsolete show of power and wealth from a God that the world decided, all at once, didn’t exist. It had recently been refurbished at a cost of millions, but the money had come from heritage funds rather than the Church. The building’s main use was as a conference centre, and the service had been humanist.

  When I drove past, there were still a few people standing around. Some girls about her age talked in a group. They wore smart black dresses, stark red lipstick, perfect, shaded veils. I wondered what kind of friends they’d been. What kind of people they’d grow into. I wondered if they’d hung on there to attract the attention of some photographers, still taking pictures of the grounds. Then I saw one of the girls comfort a crying friend and wondered what my fucking problem was.

  There were a couple of uniformed officers moving the photographers along. As I pulled away, I saw an old hack I recognized, those bloodhound features, sitting in his car, calling in his copy. I saw him idly try to place me as I went by.

  Yesterday’s news.

  Although it hadn’t been reported in the press, I had a good idea of where the burial itself would be. Gorton Cemetery was just a few minutes away. When I arrived, there was still a hearse parked up, alongside the black saloon cars that family and friends had been driven in. I parked a little further down the road and walked away from this, the nearest entrance. Felt the white-hot anger burning a hole in me. A photographer was trying to long-lens the mourners.

  There were two funerals taking place. It was the perfect day for it, and I joined the back of the smaller one. There were only five or so people standing around, but I kept my head down, kicked my heels, and no one noticed me.

  About a hundred feet away I could see that Isabelle had already been buried. Some people were standing in groups, talking or hugging. Some were alone. Most were already walking back down the path to the black saloon cars. The official who had led the service was working the crowd, shaking hands and offering her condolences.

  I thought of Isabelle, passed out with her head in her hands. Of her toying with the scarf at her neck. Of her nudging me, laughing like a whip-crack. I thought of the look on her face, her wide-open eyes when I had found her dead. I thought of the veins in her arms, that unnatural, dark colour beneath white skin. The black half of her body, injected with pain. The smell of sex, the tally marks cut into her in
ner thighs. With effort, I remembered the pictures I’d found in her desk. A seventeen-year-old girl, laughing with her friends.

  Of the few people standing around the grave, the first I recognized was Detective Kernick. I’d expected to see him at the gate, wearing sunglasses and an earpiece, and was surprised that he seemed to be attending the service as a family friend. He was standing with a dark-haired woman and a young girl. His family, I thought. I knew he’d worked with the Rossiters for years but hadn’t realized they were this close. His girl was around Isabelle’s age, obviously upset, and I wondered if they’d been friends.

  When Kernick put his arm around her, I felt a stab of guilt. I remembered him in the stairwell at the station, staring right through me, trying to see if I had taken advantage of Isabelle. He’d acted more like her father than Rossiter had. He’d visited me earlier, insisted I stay away, because he didn’t want to work today. He turned the girl from the grave and nodded at the dark-haired woman. His wife? They began walking towards the gates.

  My eyes went to a solitary young woman at the graveside. She wore a dark-grey coat and a small black hat, standing with her arms wrapped round herself, radiating grief. A couple walking away gave her a covert look, then began talking about her like she was famous. She didn’t look up. She didn’t seem to notice anything going on around her. She had the same pixie features as Isabelle, and her hair was a similar blonde colour – albeit a shade darker.

  The older sister, the runaway found.

  She let out a long sigh and stepped back from the grave. Just as she was about to make her way down the path, David Rossiter appeared. Her father. For a moment I didn’t recognize him. He’d messed up his hair by running his hands through it, and his face seemed bloated, haggard and tired.

  He’d been crying.

  He and the girl looked at each other. They were only a few feet apart, but it seemed further. His mouth opened to say something but the words didn’t come. The girl’s expression darkened. She gave a small shake of her head and walked past him, down the path. Rossiter didn’t turn to watch her go and when his knees buckled I thought he was going to fall down. He drew himself up, messily wiped his face with his forearm and looked about the people still in the cemetery.

  The only other person of note was a tall, attractive woman in her mid-forties. The streaks of grey in her hair just made the blonde stand out more, and the veil did nothing to diminish her striking appearance. I recognized her from the reports of Isabelle’s death as Alexa Rossiter, Isabelle’s mother. She wore her grief with an upright, almost iconic kind of elegance. Her face was set, with very little emotion allowed through it, just the squint in her eyes hinting at what must have been behind them.

  She and her husband glared at each other.

  His face, his mouth and eyes, were open in some kind of communication, some kind of apology. Mrs Rossiter’s expression didn’t change. She returned his look until he couldn’t take it any more. He turned and walked down the path. After he’d gone far enough away, she followed.

  The service I was standing with had come to an end, and people began shaking hands and dispersing. I walked down the path, keeping a distance from anyone who might recognize me.

  Mrs Rossiter strode past her husband, got into the back of a car and closed the door. She spoke to the driver and he indicated to pull out into the road. Rossiter looked round, lost. Kernick appeared, offering his arm. Rossiter allowed himself to be led to another car.

  I remembered meeting David Rossiter for the first time. Remembered his wedding ring, cold to the touch because he’d only just put it on. Remembered him telling me about his depressed daughter. Her suicide attempt. That he’d called the ambulance. That he’d kept it out of the news. That he’d gone to the papers himself and begged them.

  I remembered him telling me about his basket-case wife. I thought of the way she’d looked at him. The way she’d strode past him. The way she’d left, head high, the picture of self-assurance, without him.

  He’d been lying to me.

  7

  On my way back into the city I stopped in a pub to warm myself up. A TV over the bar was showing the news on mute, a report of Isabelle’s funeral. The scrolling text at the bottom of the screen reminded viewers that she’d been sexually active from a young age, that she’d overdosed.

  A zooming camera showed a small group of people standing around the grave. I ate some peanuts, drank a couple of slow beers and left.

  I parked a few streets from my flat and walked the rest of the way. It was dark and the buildings hung over my head like black thoughts. I kept my eyes low. The pavement was frosted with ice and I thought of the city freezing entirely. Everything and everyone in stasis for a few months while the evil dissipated, while the people got their breath back.

  My shoes crunched the light ice. I was almost surprised when I turned on to my street without having thought about where I was walking.

  I looked up.

  Stopped.

  On the other side of the road, parked right outside my flat. A fourth- or fifth-generation Mustang hatchback. Black body with thin red stripes of detail. The engine was running and I could see the exhaust fumes under the street lights. Grip’s car.

  Grip.

  I stepped into a doorway and looked about the street for him. There were a few silhouettes, a few people walking in or out of town, but none with his uncomfortable, labouring gait. I looked at my building. The street entrance. The door was closed and the hallway was dark. I looked up at my flat. The window above the street. The light was off but I couldn’t remember how I’d left it.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  I started. It was a voice from the intercom in the doorway, which I must have leaned on. I glanced around, up at the building I was standing beside. A young woman was in the window a few floors up, wondering why I was hiding in her building’s doorway. I gave her a small wave of apology and walked out on to the street.

  I went slowly towards the car, walking on the other side of the road. I could still go straight past. As I got closer I heard the low rumble of the engine. Coming alongside it, I gave the car the most casual of sideways glances. Then I stopped and looked again. There was no one in the driver’s seat. I checked both ways before I crossed over.

  More for Grip than for traffic.

  When I looked through the window, I saw there was no one in the car. The keys were in the ignition and I knew something was wrong. The car was the way Grip defined himself. Even ducking into my flat for a few minutes, he’d have taken the keys.

  He’d have locked it.

  I took a breath, opened the driver’s side door. I had been expecting a little warmth but the interior was cold, no better than street temperature. I saw that the heaters were turned right down. No one had been sitting here waiting.

  I looked about the street again.

  Reached in and turned the key. The low rumble of the engine cut out. I took the keys and closed the door. Walked to the rear and stopped.

  Looked round again.

  It was dark and there was no one within fifty feet of me.

  I turned the key and narrowly opened the boot. The interior lit up when I did, and I saw inside for a moment before closing it.

  I tried to breathe out the smell.

  My hands were shaking and I spread them flat on the car. It was the only thing holding me upright.

  I heard street sounds again and turned my head. There was a group of people, drunk, singing, coming down the pavement towards me. Couples, arm in arm.

  Silhouettes in doorways.

  The girl I had seen a few minutes earlier.

  She was still standing in her window. She was still looking down at me. Talking to someone on the phone. I walked round the car, got in at the driver’s side and turned the ignition. I started it up and pulled out into the road.

  8

  The Mustang’s engine had been designed to give off a certain sound, even within the speed limit. It growled, low, insistent, a voice
in my head. As I drove, I thought I heard tapping, rattling sounds coming from the car boot.

  I knew that was impossible.

  It was after five when I arrived at Fairview. I parked on a parallel street, got out of the car and stood for a moment, breathing the cold air. I walked to the house, up the path, and knocked on the door.

  I heard footsteps inside.

  They stopped abruptly as someone looked through the peephole. Sarah Jane opened the door. She consciously softened her expression when she did. It was the first time I’d ever noticed her doing that, and I wondered if she was lonely. Isabelle dead. Zain arrested. Grip missing. Catherine too. She gave me a small, nervous smile and I thought how young she must be.

  ‘Hi,’ she said.

  ‘Hi,’ I said. We looked at each other for a second too long and then both spoke at once.

  ‘Would you like to come in—’

  ‘I’ve found Grip,’ I said. She peered over my shoulder for him. ‘Not here.’

  ‘Is he OK?’

  ‘He’s still in one piece. I can take you to him.’ She had an ear for cruelty, and I saw her wondering why I’d phrased it that way. Why I’d turned up here unannounced, and why I was trying to take her away.

  ‘No,’ she said, but it was more like a reaction to bad news than an answer. I could see the blood draining from her face.

  She stepped back.

  Started to close the door.

  I got my foot in the way and pushed it open. I walked in and slammed it behind me.

  ‘I know, Sarah.’

  She didn’t move but her eyes lost focus on me. She stood there stunned, as if I’d slapped her in the face. I moved past her, found the fur I’d seen her wearing before, and started to put it over her shoulders. Her arms moved into the sleeves automatically. I gave her a little push forward, towards the door, and she went.

  She didn’t open it. Just stood there with both hands on the wood, like she was checking for fire on the other side. When she turned to look at me there were tears in her eyes.