by Fen Wilde
41
Natalie arrives at her parents’ house unannounced.
She doesn’t so much as glance at number seven on her way past. Grant Boyd has been forgotten amidst more pressing worries.
The curtain in the living room of his house flickers briefly as she pulls into her parents’ driveway, but Natalie doesn’t notice.
She doesn’t notice the figure standing behind it, looking out.
She’s focused on one thing only. Carried on by the fury and the energy of the desperately wounded, she careens into her parents’ living room, determined to either demand all their love and acceptance and support right this minute, or relinquish it forever.
Upeksha looks up from the couch, startled. Unbridled hostility or demands are not how things are attended to in her house. And Natalie has clearly got all her weapons drawn. Rather than the travel allowing them to dissipate, she’s ruminated the whole drive there, her feelings of anger only growing.
“Grant is an arsehole,” she howls, fists clenched, teeth grinding as soon as they meet again after the first angry words escape her lips. “You never stood up for us! You never fought for us! People treated us like shit. No one else was brown. No one wanted us to be brown! Not even you.”
Ravi has glided into the room, his small frame and trim figure not making a sound on the carpet as he approaches.
“That’s enough, Natalie,” he says quietly. “You’re upset. Go home.”
“Yes! I’m upset! You’re supposed to comfort me! Support me! Something! Not push me away because you don’t want to feel anything yourself. It’s your job! You’ve always opted out of it! Like you signed up for only half the parenting responsibilities. Keep them alive! That’s all you bothered with. Not help them feel loved!”
On some level, she knows this approach will not achieve even close to her aims—confrontation means uncertain outcomes, and uncertain outcomes feel risky to her parents. But she can’t help herself. It’s all suddenly too much. Letitia. Grant. Racism. Griffin. She wants to blame someone who she can have some impact on.
Oddly, it’s not suspicion around Griffin and his burner phone and nonexistence that frightens or hurts her. Though she wouldn’t admit it, she thinks she’s smarter than anyone who might try to play her, and doesn’t genuinely feel that Griffin is a threat. A combination of trusting her judgement and an “it won’t happen to me” mentality guides her on that front.
No, what stings is his defection following her showing him something of herself, being vulnerable. Even while she can see that the pain is survivable, and that she stands by her choices in a way she’s never really been forced to before—by someone outright rejecting them—she’s still angry with him for responding this way. She feels almost like she could be devastated, and he didn’t know that she wouldn’t be devastated, so his behaviour is hurtful and awful and unforgivable.
To not even speak.
Coupled with the resentment that has been eating away at her about her parents for forever means that they are the perfect target to vent all her rage upon.
“I will not go home!” she screams, whirling on her father, a finger stabbing at the air. But just as quickly as it came on, the fire goes out of her. Her shoulders slump, her pointing finger dangling uncertainly for a moment, then falling to her side.
“I’m an escort,” she says quietly, looking first her mother, then her father in the eyes. “Letitia was an escort. That’s how we met. And someone is killing brown escorts. Five so far. The police are even interviewing my boyfriend. So you see? You can’t pretend I’m not brown. You can’t pretend I’m not part of this. And don’t you dare tell me the solution is to change myself. Make my world smaller. Give up my job. I like my job and no racist, murderous arsehole is going to take it away from me. I’ll skin him alive if he so much as tries.”
With this—pulling herself up to her full height—she gives her parents one last defiant glare before sweeping back out the front door, her visit a whirlwind in every sense of the phrase.
She spun in, she spun out.
At high speed, at high volume.
And left devastation in her wake.
Ravi and Upeksha stare after her in silent shock.
Post-confession, Natalie drives around in some kind of stunned disbelief.
It doesn’t occur to her that “coming out” to her parents, as a truly proud thing to do, might have worked better if she’d stayed to answer questions and convey her pride in her work and her community. Leaving with a giant cymbal crash could be read as defiance, or it could be read as shame.
But she doesn’t think about these things. To Natalie, all that matters is that she has spoken some kind of truth to her parents, who are not—and have never been—receptive to it. Maybe it marks a turning point of some kind in their relationship. Or maybe it’s meaningless on that front. But she’s done something. Something on her terms.
She feels both bad and good.
Hopeful and crushed.
Restored and ruined.
It’s hard to change the dance you do with your folks, no matter how hard you try.
It’s late by the time she heads home.
If you asked her, she wouldn’t have been able to tell you where she went or what she did. Whether someone followed her, or no one did.
If anyone had questioned her about how she felt—driving around with a killer hunting escorts of colour, with a boyfriend under suspicion, and without her phone—all she would have said was tired.
She felt very, very, very tired.
She wasn’t watching out for any danger at all.
She paid no attention to anything except the blur of family-related memories that clashed and chimed and pushed and pulled her in all sorts of directions.
Left her breathless and shaky.
It’s bigger than stating she’s an escort, and bigger than at last—decades later—telling them how she felt as a brown child, then a brown adolescent in their world.
It’s stepping out of line. It’s doing what is right for her. It’s exhilarating, and terrifying. Because once you take that leap, the dance changes.
And sometimes your partner no longer wants to dance with you at all.
42
Back in Linfield, Ravi and Upeksha glance at each other.
No words pass between them; none need to. Ravi can see what his wife is thinking by the set of her jaw.
She, too, knows what he is thinking, without even having to look at him.
Nevertheless, she gives him a sidelong glance, to see if he knows that she knows that he knows.
He is looking at her intently, but remains calm and poised.
“Leave it,” he says softly. “You promised.”
But he knows it’s no good.
He’s seen that look in her eyes before.
43
The plan has been set in motion.
The man hates these fucking “high class” whores, who charge ridiculous amounts of money. Like their pussy is any better than the next one.
He likes to toy with them before he kills them.
He likes to get them panting for his dough.
He pretends to be such a model client. He’ll screen without question. He’ll offer a deposit. They’ll trot along to the booking thinking he’s “easy money.” A respectful client who knows how it all works and follows the rules.
He makes them pay for it later, though.
Oh yes.
They’ve all paid the price for their slovenly ways.
Now, he confirms the date and sends a picture of someone else’s license.
He pays a cash deposit at an ATM.
Then he waits. Patiently.
Now, it’s just a matter of time.
44
By the time Natalie turns onto her street, she’s beyond exhausted.
The day has taken so many turns in unexpected directions that she suddenly, desperately just wants to lie down.
She pulls over opposite the garage door into the apartment
car park and hesitates. There’s nothing in her fridge. Not even a bottle of wine to lament her day with.
If ever there was a day for take away, this would be it.
Slumping over the steering wheel, suddenly too tired to even hold her head up, she deliberates with closed eyes about whether she is even capable of driving any further. Perhaps delivery or even toast will do for dinner. She’s almost certain there’s at least some bread in the freezer.
But even as she decides that toast will do, and she can put the car away for the night, there’s a sharp rap on her passenger window, then the large shape of a man slides alongside her into her car.
45
Colombo, Sri Lanka – August 1977
Thirty-year-old Upeksha Coommaraswamy sits back on her heels, the stench of vomit strong in her nostrils.
Her stomach is churning.
Reports of widespread rioting throughout her homeland fill her with terror. Her fears, stirring uneasily inside her ever since the formation of the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam the year prior, have proven well-founded.
Initially, she had felt guilty for her lack of enthusiastic support. Her father had believed passionately in the future of a Tamil state. So much so that he had lost his life, protesting peacefully following the implementation of the Sinhala Only Act in 1956. Upeksha had only been nine at the time.
For a while, in her youth, she was passionately and fervently interested in politics, partly as a way to stay connected to her father, and feel like he was proud of her.
But now she feels dread, not hope.
After trying for three years, she is finally pregnant.
Her eldest brother did not return from work four days ago, and they do not know where he is.
They keep getting reports on various acquaintances who have not been heard from since the riots started in Jaffna two weeks ago.
What sort of future can she hope for, for the small life growing inside her, in these circumstances?
Ravi is sitting on the edge of the bath next to her, one hand lightly on her back. He should be at work, but he has been unable to find any since being laid off earlier that year, ostensibly due to poor performance, despite being the most diligent and respected professor at the university.
They don’t need to speak; both understand that it is not just the new life growing inside Upeksha that is making her nauseous. Reports of acts of violence have given life, dimensions, colour to all their fears.
Both Ravi and Upeksha are past wanting to support their people. They want no part in civil war.
They just want somewhere safe to raise their baby.
46
Natalie screams.
The man looks surprised, and slightly irritated.
After a few beats, Natalie recognises Detective Burns from that first day at her parents’ house.
She can hear her heavy breathing, feel her heart thudding. Some detached part of her mind is interested to note that she didn’t endeavour to flee when presented with danger. Just stared at the intruder in shock.
“I’m sorry,” he says, defensive. “I left you a message telling you I was waiting out front.”
“Jesus,” Natalie mutters. “There’s someone killing escorts of colour and you just jump into my car without warning?”
Relief is coursing through her, but also frustration that anyone could have so little empathy or insight into the power that they hold. That they just don’t think about how terrifying their actions could be.
Natalie frowns, not able to remember when she last saw her phone.
“Anyway,” the detective continues, as though terrifying someone could be brushed off after twenty-odd seconds and the conversation continue as normal. “I’ve been in touch with Detective Casey. She hasn’t been able to locate Griffin or get him on the phone. I was going to have a chat with you about Grant Boyd, so I thought I’d drop by to see if he was with you at the same time.”
Though Natalie’s first thought is why he didn’t just call on both accounts, she’s too interested in what he has discovered about Grant to ask him. “And?” is all she says, her breathing slowly normalising.
“We questioned him about Letitia, as you suggested. He wasn’t very cooperative. I think you probably summed him up nicely, actually. But Casey’s filled me in on the other cases. And he has an alibi for three of them. Mostly, he’s been behind bars. So if we are looking for a serial killer—and we believe that we are—he’s not our man.”
Natalie slumps back in her seat. She didn’t know what she expected, but it wasn’t that. Surely a phone call would have sufficed for that information to be passed on to her?
She wonders, then, if his visit is to check up on her. To ensure that she is okay, is her first generous thought, and she softens slightly. But then she thinks perhaps it’s more likely he’s checking that she’s not hiding Griffin—far less charitable, she knows, and slightly nonsensical.
Usually, she might try to find out more. But she’s simply too tired to even talk.
Her question is answered anyway though. Burns is watching her carefully.
“However, we have gone back over all the descriptions provided by witnesses of people seen in the areas around where each victim was found. It’s not a lot to go on, as there aren’t really any defining features…but a couple of people saw someone matching Griffin’s description in the area of two of the cases. One of them, actually, was your mother. We’d like a photo, if you have one, to take back to these witnesses and see if they recognise him.”
Natalie blinks and shakes her head.
“No,” she says, and Burns frowns.
“I mean, it’s not him. I’m sure of that. But yes, I’ll text you a photo. I don’t have many.” She feels confused and irritated. “But why would he invest months in dating someone? He’d be the first suspect now if I went missing. It doesn’t make any sense. You’re on the wrong track.”
Her irritation growing, Natalie explains that she’ll text him later; she doesn’t have her phone. Then nods slightly toward the car park, indicating that that’s where she’s going, and that he’s dismissed.
Burns hesitates slightly, then exits the car.
47
On Monday morning, Natalie feels as though a truck has not only run over her, but has paused atop her bones for a while, crushing the life right out of her. Then reversed backward and forward a few times for good measure.
She’s left several messages for Detective Casey, but can’t get through and hasn’t heard back.
Not that Griffin has been trying to contact her anyway.
Cup of tea in hand, Natalie slouches back to bed. She’s supposed to be seeing a new client at 11 a.m. Ordinarily, feeling like this, she’d just cancel the booking. But the client has paid a deposit which she doesn’t want to refund, so she thinks she might as well just get it over with.
Also, she’s worked so little of late, she could really use the cash. Her savings has depleted more in the last three months than in the prior three years.
Still, perhaps just a little more sleep, she thinks, crawling back into bed.
She’s asleep in about twenty seconds.
Natalie arrives at the hotel after significant effort.
She really can’t be bothered today.
Her parents haven’t spoken to her since she stormed out of their house. Not that she expected a follow-up call. More likely, she had expected that they would pretend it never happened. So she is surprised to get a text message—for the first time in living memory, cancelling Sunday lunch. Your mother is unwell, Ravi had texted, no curter than usual, but the accusation hanging in the ever-present unsaid stuff between them. Sunday lunch is cancelled.
Natalie resisted the urge to suggest that perhaps she would have six days to recover between now and Sunday lunch. But she knows what message they want her to understand, and it’s quicker just to understand it than to pick it full of holes.
In a way, she’s glad she didn’t cancel the client. Continuing with wor
k feels like an act of resistance. A rebuttal of their rejection. Dismissal of their protest.
But in another way it feels too hard, with all the unfinished business hanging over her.
Sighing, Natalie steps out of the lift.
She checks her phone.
Brody.
His driver’s license is in his text, albeit with a thumb over the photo and address.
A unicorn, maybe?
She snaps her phone shut, and knocks on the door.
48
Brody sits on the bed, waiting.
Today will likely bore him.
He needs to be “good.” Kind, respectful, easy to please.
Sluts like Ivy don’t deserve “good.”
Still, good things come to those who wait. This is all just due diligence, to make sure everything goes smoothly for the second “date.”
The trick is to be a model client this first time.
Leave it a few weeks.
Then strike.
That’s when the real fun begins.
Today: it’s just a formality.
He hopes to get it over with as quickly as he can without seeming odd.
49
When the door opens following her knock, Natalie steps back in shock.
Something deep and primal and terrible kicks in, in a way that it simply didn’t in the car with Detective Burns.
She has no time to think: adrenaline surges in her system and she turns and bolts as fast as her Loubs will allow her, before she even realises that’s what she’s chosen to do.
Back at the lift, another couple look at her in surprise.
Her eyes dart around frantically as she waits, her limbs twitching, her heart hammering. If they speak to her, she doesn’t hear.
