My suit is in a pile on the floor, puddled as if I had just climbed out of the leg holes and left them there. Next to that is a work shirt and tie on the floor next to my open overnight bag and briefcase. The contents of the bag is in a pile on the chair, seemingly dumped. One side of the bed is in disarray, the other side virtually pristine even though I awoke there.
Frowning, I survey the scene to the soundtrack of a bubbling and hissing, disproportionate to the kettle’s diminutive size. I just don’t feel hung-over. In fact, I feel great. Energetic. Ready to take on the world.
‘This is weird’
I say it aloud to the room. Shrug. I’m sure all will become clear.
I switch the TV on and flick through the channels, passing the TV ones and on to the radio ones, opting for Radio 1, where Chris Evans is introducing Josh Wink’s Higher State of Consciousness. Jigging, pumping fists, I walk over to make my coffee; still concerned but less so now, as there’s now the BPM of high energy dance music. My second choice to rock music.
I already feel like I’ve had loads of caffeine. What is going on? What went on?
There is a tiny half memory of meeting someone. Possibly someone who led me astray, maybe. But to do what? What would make me forget?
I walk/dance in to the bathroom, what I see makes me stop jigging, and place my coffee by the sink. The scene before me brings on ‘the fear’ that I now realise I was missing from this wake up after a ‘grey out’. I’ve woken up many times wondering what happened the previous night, with entire periods of time elusive to my memory; the jigsaw pieces of which only to be put together by friends telling me what I’d done. Even then, it’s rare for the memories to ever return, and never fully. They are still often fabricated ones, borrowed from accounts of others, but blank areas filled regardless.
Until then the ball of angst in my stomach and the cloud of guilt I exist under always remain. But who the hell is going to fill in the blanks this time?
Hanging over the shower curtain rail are my jeans, black tee shirt and even my trainers, laced together so that they hang. All are wet as if they have been washed. Drips hang suspended on the lower parts of each, in the way they do when all moisture has left the top of items that haven’t been wrung out properly.
In the sink is a porn mag. Razzle. Where did that come from? Not my taste at all, I like the American ones: Velvet, Swank and the like. Lots of group action. Razzle was just a bit, well, tawdry.
On it, and the bottom part of the mirror, it looks like there is spunk. This triggers a nanosecond of memory. My eyes. My hand below, pumping.
...dark, struggling, flash of a violent scene.
Water has also been splashed everywhere around the sink and bath, some of which has a pink tinge to it.
I check my face. Mouth, lips, gums, teeth. No injuries. My hands. Nothing. I look in the mirror, turning as far as I can to see my back, then use the shaving mirror on an extendable chrome attachment to check the rest. Not a scratch.
I check my scalp. All good. My hair has no wax in it, so I must have even washed that last night.
‘What. The. Fuck?’ I ask aloud.
That is blood in the water. Surely? I can’t think what else it could be.
No idea how or why it could have ended up in the sink, and so with rising dread, I rip some toilet paper off anyway, and check down below. It’s a huge relief when it comes back clear of any red.
I check the hung up clothes. Part wet, mostly damp I can’t see anything that sheds light on anything. They’re black clothes. Darker for being wet or moist, of course, but other than that, nothing seems to be out of order.
Confounded, a bit worried, but having to get on with life, I decide to have the first smoke of the day, then get showered (again, apparently). Then check out. Then breakfast. This will all, I’m sure, become clear in time with a few jigsaw pieces.
However, checkout is at 10am, need to get a wriggle on. It’s rude to be late, even for that.
Chapter 19
I walk up to the hotel reception, bag in one hand (heavier now from the wet clothes) and briefcase in the other (magazine added, waste not, want not), a smile ready on my face for whomever chooses to serve me. The nicer you are to people, the better they respond. The two girls look up, both vaguely familiar.
‘Morning Mr. Manners, are you feeling refreshed this morning’? The one on the left asks. Her name badge tells me her name is Carina. Dark hair, big eyes and freckles with a crisp white shirt stretched across breasts deliciously disproportionate to her height. She has an air of familiarity in the way she addresses me. The other girl on reception to my right and Carina’s left has finished on the phone and is now looking over.
‘Er...Yesss?’ I semi laugh back, ‘I feel great, I must have slept like the dead last night. I got LOTS of beauty sleep’.
‘It worked’ Carina says playfully, holding eye contact. Then they look at each other. Laughter, again.
‘Well you seemed very energetic last night when you bounced in’. It’s the other receptionist. Lisa, her name badge says. ‘I’m surprised you got any sleep at all’ she says, obviously taking the piss. She has a glint in her eyes, and a husky voice.
More familiarity. These two may have the jigsaw puzzle pieces I need to fill in the yawning chasm that is the last...well....12 hours or so. That makes my stomach flip.
Nice girls. Polite. Helpful, that’s what they are. Let’s see how much.
‘I take it you two saw me last night?’ I smile the smile, and lean in, elbows on the reception desk. They instinctively lean forward. I look at each girl, back and forth, maintaining eye contact equally.
‘Er, yes, we saw you’ Lisa replies, ‘we were talking to you as well. Why?’ She smiles, eye contact, and a flash of mischief with a hint of filth. My kind of girl.
‘Girls’, I say in a hushed conspiring tone, ‘I feel a bit silly. I have a few blanks about last night and wondered if you could fill in some of those blanks. I’d be most obliged if you could help’. Followed up with 100% grin.
They smile. It’s the full charm offensive with a touch of self-deprecation. It’s taken many years to realise it, and subsequently hone it; but it gets me places and it gets me stuff. This time, it should get me favours and some much needed information. Who knows, it may even get me a number. Maybe two.
Trust gained through body language and eye contact, they lean even further forward. They then proceed to tell me all about my return to the hotel the previous night.
Chapter 20
‘Did you touch the body?’ DI Shanks asks the two uniforms as they stand outside the incident tent.
‘Yes, sir. But only to check for a pulse, not that I expected one. We then called it in and waited for the others to turn up. The tent went up when forensics got here, but other than that, no one was touching anything ‘til you got here sir’. He was young, shaken and Lentus noted how ingrained his respect of the hierarchy was.
‘If it’s all the same sir,’ said the other uniform, ‘we’ll stay out here’. He looked very green around the gills, queasy with a sweaty upper lip that was nothing to do with the heat.
‘Yes, guys. Thanks. You did good’, it was Gavin, showing compassion. A new part to him that Lentus had yet to see. Mark and Martin seemed unphased by it. Maybe this was why such a prick had done so well, through applying masks also. Or maybe through just being a prick.
DI Gavin Shanks put his hand on the flap over the door of the tent protecting the crime scene; turned around, and said ‘Lentus, are you ready for this? You could still go back down the ladder and avoid all this shit’. Yes, there was bravado, but there was also a hint that he actually cared about what was about to happen to this rookie under his wing.
‘Nope. Let’s do this, I’m good’. His voice didn’t suggest how fearful, excited and anxious he was feeling. Masks. Everyone had them.
Shanks opened the tent, they walked into its cloyingly heated and fetid interior. The first thing Lentus noticed was the smell. He gagged.
A mixture of the start of rot, the coppery tang of blood and the earth that was soaked with it. There was a hint of urine as well. They were all dealing with it in their own ways, coughing against handkerchiefs or hands. Lentus was secretly pleased to note that the surly Martin had a little gagging session, his adam’s apple bobbing as he fought to control his gag reflex.
‘Holy shit’ Gavin Shanks was the first to the body, his voice and demeanour pretending nothing with this response. He was obviously taken aback. Mark was next:
‘Shiiii...’
Then Martin ‘Fuuu..’
Detective Constable George Lentus stepped forward and stood next to the other three. He looked down and at first saw the girls feet held together with a garden locking tie. That in turn had been secured to the ground with what looked like a tent peg. He decided that if he took the approach of mentally logging each part, objectifying and compartmentalising the scene, then that may help to enable him in dealing with the trauma of his first real murder scene.
One foot had a shoe, one did not. His eyes went up her legs, and saw a few splatters of blood on them. He reached her underwear, still on but the white lace was stained yellow where her bladder had given up, probably upon death. Her skirt was hitched up, suggesting the possibility of a sexual crime. Many more splashes of blood on her now only slightly white blouse, still buttoned up. He visually logged the arms, tethered and above her head, saw the multiple stab wounds to them, mentally wincing at the ferocity of the damage done to this poor girl.
He purposely didn’t look at the face, other than with his peripheral vision. However, that was enough to start his body to go cold as his sixth sense began to talk. He looked briefly at the hands that had had all digits removed and remained fully outstretched and locked together then pinned to the ground, surrounded by a now dark brown area of blood soaked earth.
He knew, really. He’d at least started to know. His world was already falling away from him when he saw the bespoke silver pendant around the neck as he finally moved his eyes up to her face. In a nanosecond, a memory of him buying the same pendant with his own initial on, a symbolic purchase when they had moved down south after the death of their parents. The memory exploding away as he rested his eyes on the death mask of Polly. Polly with eyes wide open, her face frozen in a mask
...all masks...
of unfathomable fear. His vision began to fade and his stomach flipped as vertigo took him, as he looked upon her mouth stuffed with her fingers and thumbs, a portrait in red, of gore and of horror. A portrait that he had seen grow up and change as she had turned from child to girl to young woman. A beautiful and loving young woman.
A changing family portrait that had been his pride, his love, his friend, his helper and had been with him for 21 years.
As he fully comprehended that this really was his sister, Polly, lying dead before him, violated, mutilated. His world went dark, and Lentus fainted and fell to the ground, a man without a single living relative left in the world.
Chapter 21
Anoushka. The antithesis of pretty little Polly. Aesthetically, at least.
Over confident, over brash, over opinionated, over talking, OVER LIFE. Her horrible little flame, the flame she believed burned so beautiful and bright is snuffed out. And what a joy. What a noise she made.
This one was still a delight to get rid of. Less personal, unfortunately. I would have liked to have savoured permanently silencing the whore a bit more though. The surroundings, alas, did not allow it.
The World is a better place today, though. One less self-serving, self-obsessed mouth breather. Vermin.
Her chit chat, her arrogance continued to the bitter end, until she finally realised this was one situation she would NOT talk her way out of, by talking AT the situation.
You know the type, can’t hold a conversation, let alone debate a topic without letting loose a stream of words, a verbal attack. Words in a torrent so that any sane individual cannot get a word in, and so ultimately the sane person realises it and concedes; as in this life too often people are prone to do. Just to avoid confrontation.
Today, words came back. The final words she would have heard. Then they stopped.
And finally, Anoushka is quiet.
Chapter 22
Anoushka Slade tottered on her inappropriately high heels, walking a walk that in her head was a sashay worthy of a supermodel. In reality, it was very much a different story.
She was in her early thirties, but dressing a decade younger than that. She knew what people thought, but she’d be damned if she was going to dress dowdy for them.
Besides, it didn’t do any harm for her to show a bit of flesh here and there. She wasn’t totally deluded, and was ok with playing to her strengths if it got her what she wanted and another step forward to where she wanted. And she wanted, oh how she wanted to get far. As far as she could go.
She stumbled on her high heel. ‘Shit’, she hissed and then out-stared an oncoming pedestrian who was smirking at her loss of balance.
It seemed that her aura was one that was easy to take an instant dislike to, before any words had even been uttered. She was used to those kind of first reactions. Occasionally, very occasionally she would sometimes ponder upon whether that was the effect after the cause. Whether she could perhaps strive to be a better person.
Those rare epiphanies tended to happen in the brief period between total inebriation point and passing out. She always had a fortifying and redefining word with herself the following morning.
‘Wanker’ she muttered, and turned to the shop window to her side, partly to apply more lipstick and partly to just gain some balance. Maybe she’d over indulged on the wine back at the pub after the Area Meeting. She had certainly been schmoozing everyone she could there.
Then there was Robbie. Oh, how she loved to wind that one up. She fancied him, she really did, but he held no worth for her. Sleeping with him would afford her no advancement so he was to just get the sharp end of her. Ha. She smirked.
While the Directors can give me their sharp ends! She laughed out loud to herself as she looked at herself in the dark shop window.
She knew what the other girls thought of her actions on that front as well. Well, they can all go fuck themselves as far as she was concerned. Prissy bitches. They can keep their hard work, their years of climbing up the ladder. She knew they thought she was a bit sad, that she was ‘putting feminism back years’. They had even had the gall to say that to her face, in their cups one night. Yes, she’d pushed, and pushed them; needing to know what they thought of her; trying to do that all-girls-together thing that had always seemed so alien to her. Cheeky fucking mares. She had laughed at them, of course.
Anyway, back to our little golden boy Mr Manners. She’d seen another side to him tonight. Colder, darker, more…..composed. She’d actually felt a bit of a thrill when he’d confronted her, had even said that things were going to change. That she had a shock coming.
Just a shame that he was her level, she could do that some serious damage. Not that he’d easily let her, it was plain to see that he couldn’t stand her. Although she was predatory, she was a hunter; she got what she wanted and that was that. She smiled. Patted her hair in her reflection and then noticed a figure stood still, watching her from the other side of the road.
Chapter 23
Hand written diary entry
August 23rd 1996
I really didn’t do much work today. I tried, I did my three visits and squeezed Mr. Singh in first thing. But it really was just showing up and having a coffee and/or a fag with them. I was so spooked after the grey out, and REALLY freaked out by my car being in a different place.
I always remember where I’ve put my car.
So the little hotties in the hotel told me about last night. It’s just bloody weird...
They saw me leave with my overnight bag and saw me come back. I seemed sober and apparently very chatty. In fact, it seems I was articulacy and etiquette personified, to t
he extent that I seemed to have charmed the shit out of them. And I don’t remember.
Could have missed a trick there. Well, there’s always next time.
Still, that’s not the point. Think with your head, Manners! The one on your head, NOT the purple one. HAHA.
They reckon I was talking to them for quite some time when I came back. They didn’t think I was pissed (good job, I’d taken the car), and I didn’t smell of booze. I know I wasn’t anyway, of all the people that can tell a hangover it’s certainly me.
When I left, bag in hand, they said that I’d replied (they’d asked if I needed help, assuming I was after a gym – the bag and all that) that I was off to take care of some loose ends. I seemed like a man on a mission, they’d said. Serious and focussed were the words they’d used.
Manners Cost Everything (Manners Trilogy Book 1) Page 5
