by Chris Simms
Fiona shook her head defiantly. There was no way she was becoming a charity case for her friends. ‘I’m fine for now. Listen, I’m just glad you’re prepared to give me unpaid leave.’
They all heard the front door open and Fiona shrank backwards. ‘Is it him?’ she whispered, knowing her face was draining of colour.
Alice looked round the corner. ‘Hi, Zoe. Chocolate Hobnobs? Good choice.’
When Fiona eventually set off for her bedsit, the salon’s Dyson in the boot of her car, guilt hung heavy over her. She’d caused so much trouble to so many people. Dawn Poole appeared in her head. Another one she owed an apology to. Especially after sending Alice’s other half round to question her.
At the end of the street she turned towards the A57, deciding to put things right at the Platinum Inn straight away. When she pulled into the car park a short while later she couldn’t decide which slot to take, it was so empty. Inching slowly forwards, she decided on the far side, away from the day manager’s silver Volvo and near the gap in the hedge she’d squeezed through several days before.
How hopeless her life had seemed that evening. Not that it was a whole lot better now. She thought about the cramped little bedsit that was her new home. Her money had almost run out and she had no idea how she was going to meet next month’s demand for rent.
Her mind turned to her husband and she pictured him during his more pleasant moments. Laughing at something on the radio, delightedly rubbing his hands when his football team scored. She wondered what he was doing, how he was coping without her. He spent so much time at work, he’d never find the opportunity to clean the house. She imagined the state of the kitchen. Maybe she should call and see how he was. If he showed remorse for his violence and agreed to seek counselling, perhaps they could discuss the possibility . . .
She shook her head, realising where her train of thought had so insidiously led her. ‘What are you doing even considering it?’ she asked her reflection in the rear-view mirror, focusing on the first glimmers of a life free of fear. ‘You’re not going back.’
She turned the radio on. The seven o’clock news on Smooth FM mentioned the Butcher of Belle Vue case. The police still hadn’t been able to identify the third victim – once again, anyone who knew of a missing female in her late teens to early twenties with shoulder-length brown hair and a distinctive tattoo on her lower body was asked to call the incident room. A tattoo? she thought. That was a detail they hadn’t included before.
A thin figure came hurrying up the path and went into the motel. Dawn. Fiona waited for the day manager to drive off before climbing out.
Dawn’s face remained blank as Fiona walked through the doors.
‘Hi there,’ Fiona announced uncertainly.
‘What do you want?’ Dawn replied, busying herself with some paperwork.
‘I’ve come to say sorry. I didn’t mean to cause you any bother.’
‘Didn’t you? Well, you fucked up there, then. What did you expect would happen if you went to a copper and told him you heard someone being killed in the next room?’
Fiona sighed. ‘What I heard really shook me up. Then, when I read the report in the paper later that morning...Do you realise her body was found only just down the road?’
‘Of course I know that. Jesus, I’ve got to walk from the bus stop to here every single bloody day.’
‘Oh, Dawn,’ Fiona frowned in sympathy. They regarded each other for an instant.
Dawn brushed a stray hair from the counter. ‘It’s all right, as it happens. He buggered off after a few minutes.’
Fiona kept her voice casual. ‘So he didn’t go poking around?’
‘No, thank God.’ Dawn reached for a cigarette, offered one to Fiona. ‘I thought he was going to look around the room at least, but he just asked me if I’d ever heard of a girl called
Alexia.’
Fiona was seething at Jon’s claim to have searched the place.
‘And have you?’ she asked. ‘The woman who owns that escort agency, Cheshire Consorts, reckons someone using that name tried to get a job with her. I think the same girl worked in a massage parlour just down the road near the Apollo. A place called the Hurlington Club.’
Dawn lifted the counter flap. ‘You’ve been busy. Come on, let’s have a coffee.’
They went into the back office and sat down on the comfy seats.
‘Go on,’ Dawn prompted.
‘Well, I think it was the same girl. It could have been an
Alicia, though – there was a bit of confusion with names.’ Dawn was searching for her cigarettes. ‘And what did this girl look like?’
Fiona frowned. ‘I don’t know. Around my height with shoulder-length brown hair. Pretty, apparently, but quite thin in the face. She may be using drugs.’
Dawn looked up, a pinched expression on her face. ‘How old?’
‘Young. About twenty at the most.’
Looking relieved for some reason, Dawn opened a desk drawer and drew out a fresh bottle of brandy. ‘Doesn’t sound like anyone who comes in here. Fancy a splash?’
The glowing liquid shifted in the bottle. Fiona felt the muscles in her throat tighten with the anticipation of its warmth. She knew that having just one drink would be impossible and the thought of ending up in one of the motel’s grim rooms again was just enough incentive to turn it down. Swallowing back a rush of saliva, she said, ‘No, I’d better not. You know, driving and all that.’
She looked away and listened as Dawn poured a dash into her own cup. There was a clink as the bottle was replaced in the drawer.
‘Why are you so determined to find this Alexia? If she even exists.’
Fiona looked fixedly at the tip of her thumb as it probed at the tops of her fingers, like a creature checking its brood. ‘I just hate the idea of this poor girl being out there so alone in the world.’
‘So do I. But there’s only so far you can go. I think you should try and forget it. This search of yours is dangerous, Fiona.’
Fiona’s eyes were still locked on her hand and when she finally spoke her voice seemed to have retreated deep inside her chest.
‘I had a daughter once. Emily. But she died.’ Her thumb foraged about, touching the tip of each finger. Counting them in. ‘I lost her because I wasn’t there for her.’
‘What happened?’ Dawn whispered.
‘Jeff – my husband – had really gone for me. It was the first time he ever did. He stormed back from work early one afternoon. He’d been drinking and I did something – I don’t know what – to aggravate him. He turned round and punched me in the stomach. No warning, nothing. He hit me so hard I knocked the kitchen table over as I fell. Emily saw everything. He’d left the front door open and she ran out into the road shouting for a nee-nar. She was four years old and that was her word for an ambulance.’
Tears broke from Fiona’s eyes.
‘He’d knocked the wind out of me and I couldn’t get up. I could only lie there, gasping like a fish. It was a car. I heard its tyres screeching. I still hear its tyres screeching.’ She swallowed a moan, unable to mention the thud of metal on flesh that followed.
Dawn put her drink down and grasped Fiona’s hand. ‘You can’t blame yourself for that, surely?’
‘I try not to, but it doesn’t help much. After that things were never the same. One moment’s loss of control and our lives were ruined. I could see the knowledge of what he’d done eating away inside him. At first I was glad, but I forgave him eventually, trying to salvage something between us. He’s never been able to talk about it. I tried so hard to make things work. He was my husband and, despite everything, I still loved him. But the more I reached out to him, the more distant he became. Then, maybe five years ago, he attacked me again. And you know what?’ She smiled sorrowfully, shaking her head. ‘Afterwards was the only time he’d shown me any affection in years.’
Dawn squeezed her hand. ‘Don’t waste your time. It’s not you who’s provoking him. He’s the one to
blame, not you.’
Fiona nodded. ‘I know. But now I’ve got my head full of the noise of that poor girl choking. Apart from the man who attacked her, I may be the last person to hear her voice.’ She looked up at Dawn. ‘That room was used, wasn’t it? You did let a couple in there.’
Dawn raised her cup to take a sip, using it as a way of breaking eye contact. ‘Yes, I think so. It was a pretty busy night, though. People were coming and going and I was a bit worse for wear after all that brandy we drank.’
‘But surely you remember handing the key over? Surely you’d remember a couple checking out again?’
‘No. The key’s missing and the lock doesn’t work properly, anyway. And if they went out by the fire escape, I wouldn’t have seen a thing. What makes me wonder if it was used at all is the fact it was so immaculate. I certainly didn’t clean it.’
‘He did. That’s what I heard him doing after it all went quiet.’
Dawn shrugged. ‘Who knows what happened?’ She raised her cup and took a generous sip.
Watching her, Fiona thought, God, I need a drink. She put her coffee cup down. ‘I’d better go. Listen, I want you to know how much I appreciate your help that night. Are we still friends?’
Dawn smiled. ‘Still friends. I just wish I’d put you in an upstairs room. It’s all but untouched up there.’
As Fiona stood she said, ‘Oh, I’ve got a place of my own. It’s not much, but I’d love it if you could pop round.’
Dawn looked genuinely pleased. ‘I’d love to. So you moved out of Hazel’s place. What about your husband?’
Fiona flexed a wrist backwards. ‘History. He’ll never find me. I’ve been back and taken all the stuff I need.’
‘Good for you. I’m so pleased.’ Dawn reached for her handbag and produced an address book.
‘I feel so excited.’ Fiona said, then dictated her new address and mobile number. ‘You’ll call me soon?’
Dawn closed the book. ‘Will do.’
Fiona ran the Dyson backwards and forwards over the same small, tired square of carpet. After a while she turned it off and looked around the bedsit. There was nothing left to clean. Deep inside her something began to stir. It felt like despair. I need something to do, she thought as the hazy image of Alexia appeared in her head. She looked at the clock. Quarter to nine. Would many girls be out on Minshull Street yet? Probably not. Her eyes snagged on the suitcase. The bottle of gin was like a beacon inside, emitting a signal she could no longer resist.
‘Just a couple – God knows I’ll need it where I’m going,’ she said quietly to herself, grateful now the decision had been made.
The bottle chinked against the rim of the glass and gin glugged inside. She allowed the level to rise the width of another finger before righting the bottle. The tiny fridge was full, the bottle of tonic nicely chilled. She filled the glass to the top, then took a series of small sips, soon swallowing as much as if she’d given in and gulped it straight down.
Almost immediately the alcohol caused a lifting sensation in her head and without realising it, she let out a satisfied sigh. Now, what to wear? Nothing remotely dressy, that was for sure. She laid out a baggy top and plain trousers then, after sipping the glass dry, set off for the shower room on the first floor.
The train pulled in to Piccadilly and she walked slowly through the station, mentally running through what she’d say. Out on the concourse she looked down the slope towards the road that led into the city centre. The Malmaison Hotel dominated her view, yet now she knew that just a few streets behind a different world existed in the shadows. She broke off from the flow of people marching up to the bright lights of Piccadilly Gardens, headed down a dark side street and emerged into a nearly empty parking lot.
She heard the hoot of a tram as it emerged from the tunnels beneath Piccadilly station. The noise had a desolate note that echoed clearly through the night air. Seconds later the tram nosed into view, trundling round the bend in the hard metal tracks, wheels whining and squeaking in protest. Emotionless faces looked at her from within the bright carriages and then it was gone.
Making her way across the parking lot, she scanned the dark areas behind the trees lining Minshull Street on the other side, and soon caught sight of a lone female figure.
Unsure suddenly of what to say, she walked straight past the woman and found herself being dragged towards Portland Street. She emerged on to the busy road and looked around. A garish bar was on her immediate right and she went in.
The double gin disappeared in no time. She looked in her purse. She didn’t have the cash to afford city centre prices, not after spending so much on things for her room. As she swung her knees round to climb off the bar stool, she nearly bumped a man who had appeared at her side, a fifty-pound note in his hand. He was late forties, thinning hair, but nice eyes.
‘Sorry,’ she said.
‘Time for another?’ he asked, nodding at her empty glass. Fiona’s mouth opened and shut. She hadn’t been bought a drink by anyone other than her husband in years.
‘Don’t look so surprised.’ He tapped the menu card on the counter – until then she hadn’t been aware of it. Thursday night
– Singles night! Bottles of bubbly half price!
His smile revealed a row of white teeth, one canine slightly chipped.
‘Sorry.’ Fiona shook her head. ‘You caught me by surprise.’ She felt her hand going up to her face. The cut over her eyebrow was becoming less and less apparent, but it still made her feel uncomfortable.
‘Are you waiting for someone else? I mean, I hope I’m not . . .’
‘No.’ she shook her head again. ‘I just popped in. I’m on my way somewhere else.’
‘Anywhere interesting? I’m only here on business and I haven’t a clue where to go.’ He lifted a hand to his chin, allowing it to linger, the lack of wedding ring obvious.
‘Er, actually, I’m just delivering a message. I shouldn’t be long.’
He blinked, trying to work out what she meant.
‘If the person’s not there, I should be back in five minutes,’ Fiona explained, trying not to look at the money in his hand. Thinking of how many drinks it would buy.
‘So, maybe see you here in a short while?’
‘Yes, hopefully.’
‘I’m Martin, by the way. Martin Mercer.’ He extended a hand.
‘Fiona,’ she answered, shaking it and climbing down simultaneously.
Minshull Street stretched off to her side like a dimly lit tunnel. In its murky depths she could see silhouettes of girls caught in the headlights of a slowly approaching car. Before apprehension could take hold, she strode purposefully forwards.
The first girl she got to was dressed in a surprisingly conservative way. Her skirt was a little too short, but the shoes weren’t ludicrously high heeled and the jacket looked practical. She had heard Fiona’s approaching footsteps and was keeping one eye on her and one eye on the road in front.
As Fiona slowed to a halt, the girl turned to look at her properly. Fiona guessed she was in her late twenties. ‘Hello.’
She nodded back.
‘I wonder if you could help me. I’m looking for a girl. I’ve heard she’s often around here.’
The woman raised her eyebrows, so Fiona pressed on. ‘She uses the name Alexia, but I’m not sure if it’s her real one.’
‘How come you’re looking for someone and you don’t even know their name?’
Her voice had a pleasant Scottish brogue and visions of unspoilt glens sprang up in Fiona’s mind. How had she gone from there to here? ‘Well. . .’ Fiona dried up. The question cut straight through her story of Alexia being a friend’s daughter.
‘It’s a strange story.’
‘I bet,’ the girl replied looking away. ‘Never heard of her.’ Another car was slowly approaching and she stepped nearer the kerb, one hand on her hip. Fiona moved back against the tree trunk until the car had passed. When it had, the girl didn’t turn back and Fiona g
uessed the opportunity for questions was over.
The next girl was older and slightly overweight. She also wore a sensible jacket but it was almost fully unzipped. A white lycra top bulged with flesh underneath. This time Fiona chose a more direct approach. ‘Hello, I’m looking for Alexia. Have you seen her around?’
She turned, jaw moving and lips apart as she worked on a piece of chewing gum. Her open-mouthed expression lent her a vacant air. ‘You what?’
‘I’m looking for a girl called Alexia. Have you seen her?’
The girl scratched at her neck. ‘Reddish-brown hair? This tall?’ She held a hand up to the level of her ears.
Fiona nodded.
‘Not for a bit. Who are you?’
‘A friend. Her mum and me are best mates.’
The girl’s voice hardened. ‘Maybe she doesn’t want to see her mum. Not after she sided with the dad over what he did to her.’
Despite the implications of the comment, Fiona felt a surge of excitement. This girl was more than just a casual acquaintance.
‘She’s sorry. And he’s gone now. Her mum just wants her back. Listen, can we go for a coffee and talk?’
Another car was coming. The girl looked at it, then back at Fiona. ‘If you’re paying. It’ll be thirty quid.’
Fiona’s hopeful smile gave out. ‘I’m sorry. I haven’t got that kind—’
The girl cut her off. ‘Prime time, love. I can’t afford to be sitting in cafés right now.’ She stepped towards the kerb and the car slowed to a stop.
Fiona turned away, feeling as awkward as if she was watching another person going to the toilet. She started towards the other side of the road.
The girl opened the passenger door. ‘Try Crimson,’ she called. ‘She might be hanging around there, pocketing the free rubbers.’ She got in and the car pulled away.
Crimson? What was that? Fiona started back towards the first girl, but she’d obviously heard the exchange. ‘Second on your right, back that way.’ She pointed behind Fiona towards the area of Canal Street.
‘Thanks,’ Fiona replied, turning round.
The side street was like a narrow alleyway, barely wide enough for a car and she hesitated before setting off down it. Black forms crouched menacingly in the doorways and Fiona couldn’t be sure they weren’t all full bin liners. With her first step, her heels caught uncomfortably on the cobbles. Up ahead people mingled in a pool of soft red light. They were going in and coming out of a doorway. She looked back towards the normality of Portland Street, bathed in brilliant light and she thought about the man in the bar and his bulging wallet.
