by Jack Jordan
Air caught in her lungs.
Montgomery.
She was too stunned to speak. She breathed down the line as the memories hurtled back. He had witnessed the worst day of her life, seen first-hand what she had done.
‘I was calling about the journal you found. Are you available to come to the station this afternoon?’
How could she face him? Look him in the eye when he had seen her daughter dead on the bank, all because of her?
‘Or I can come to you,’ he said, filling the silence.
‘No!’ she replied, too quickly. She couldn’t have him in the house. If Christian saw him, it might reignite his hate and make everything worse. ‘I’ll come to the station. What time?’
‘Is midday too early?’
‘Midday is fine.’
‘Great.’
They both lingered on the line, listening to each other’s breaths. He had to be thinking of the past too.
‘See you then,’ she said, and hung up.
She looked out of the window. Her eyes travelled to the river. She thought of Montgomery dragging her from Violet, the look he had given her as she rocked the limp little body in her arms.
She couldn’t meet him like this, not when she felt so vulnerable.
She sighed into her lap and snatched up her bag in search of cigarettes. But there was something else inside that caught her attention. She took the man’s card from her purse, and remembered meeting him in the café, his cheeky, sideways grin. Rearwood Rifle Range. It was exactly what she needed. She took up her phone again and dialled the number.
‘Rearwood Rifle Range,’ Rob said as he answered the call.
‘I need to let off some steam,’ she said.
He chuckled into the receiver. It felt good to make a man laugh again.
‘What time can you get here?’
FINN’S JOURNAL
11th January 2018
I saw him again that Thursday. I thought it had been a coincidence, something that came with living in a small town. I had no idea then that he had been following me, noting my every move, waiting for the perfect opportunity to infiltrate my life again.
I had almost survived my first week at the paper, and my new colleagues had pressured me into going for a drink with them to celebrate nearing the end of my first week, and although all I wanted to do was go home and read a book, I agreed. It had been so easy to shrink into myself in London, a city where it was near impossible not to be lost amongst the crowds. But I had to make an effort; I had spent far too many years alone already.
They took me to a series of pubs, each one dingier than the last, but as the night went on, I cared less – my colleagues refused to let me pay for my drinks, and by ten p.m. my thoughts and worries were swimming in gin.
We were in the Fox and Pheasant when I spotted him, or should I say, when he spotted me.
‘No coffee on you this time?’ he asked as he approached with a smile, his hands raised in mock surrender. ‘I’m safe?’
‘Well, I’ve drunk my body weight in gin, so I wouldn’t be too sure.’
‘You never did get me that coffee,’ he said. ‘How about a beer?’
‘Of course,’ I said quickly, slightly slurred.
He expertly whisked me away from the comfort of my colleagues towards the bar, spoke to me in an endless stream. I leaned on the bar to order his drink, my shirt sleeves soaking up a puddle of beer from a previous punter.
‘So, you’re new in town?’ he asked, when his drink arrived. He took a sip, licking foam from his top lip.
‘Yeah, only been here a couple of weeks. I grew up not too far from here though.’
‘Where was that?’
‘North Heath.’
‘Finn!’ Lindsay said, bursting between us.
Lindsay wrote the back pages – obituaries, ads, the small stuff – and was convinced that I would become her ‘gay best friend’, as if my attraction to men made me a far more remarkable, exciting pal to have. Harmless, but intense.
‘We’re having shots and then moving on.’
‘If I have another tequila I’ll throw up,’ I said. ‘I’m going to grab some chips and head home.’
‘No!’ she whined, dragging out the word. ‘It’s your night, you have to stay!’
‘Honestly, if I stay, I’ll vomit,’ and on cue, the hiccups came.
‘I’ll walk you home,’ he said.
‘Who’s he?’ Lindsay asked, stumbling on the spot.
‘Michael,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘Finn and I met earlier this week.’ Lindsay didn’t even look at him. ‘Stay, Finn, it’ll be fun.’
‘He said he wants to go home,’ he said, sternly. His tone almost sobered me up. Almost.
Lindsay looked at him then, her brow creasing.
‘You go and have fun,’ I interjected. ‘I’ve had a great night, thank you. I’ll see you in the morning.’
I said goodbye to her and the rest of the group, with Michael behind me, waiting. I didn’t want him to walk me home, but I didn’t want Lindsay to cause a scene either. She was staring at him, thinking of the right words to say. I got out of there as quickly as I could.
The cold night was fresh in my lungs, and cooled the sweat on my brow from the hot room. I’d almost forgotten about him until I felt his breath on the back of my neck as he stepped out into the cold.
‘So, which way?’
‘Oh, erm. . . this way.’
I have never been good at saying no. After years of being told I was abnormal, a freak, even mentally ill for loving the same sex, some way along the line the need for people’s approval, the hunger to be accepted, became ingrained into my psyche.
‘That Lindsay’s a live wire,’ he said.
‘Yeah, she’s a fun one,’ I said with a forced laugh. Surely he could sense my unease, the way I stepped back from him when he got too close, looked away when he tried to meet my eye.
‘You’re shivering. Here.’ He slipped out of his jacket.
‘No, honestly, I’m fine. You keep it.’
‘Don’t be silly, you’re freezing.’
He draped it over my shoulders. I felt his body heat radiating from the fabric. He was trying to be romantic, but instead of being comforting, his warmth made me cringe. Mistaking it for the cold he pulled me in, rubbing my arm roughly to bring the heat of my blood to the surface.
‘Thanks,’ I said and slowly put distance between us again.
For years, I had watched straight couples walk hand in hand in the street, kiss whenever the mood took them, and felt sick with jealousy at their freedom, to express themselves in public without fearing for their safety; now I had a man trying to be affectionate in the same way, but it felt wrong, coming from him. Rushed.
We walked in silence, turning from one road to another. The sounds from the bar had gone, drunken shouts and laughter replaced with the scuffle of our feet and the whistle of the wind.
‘Were you alone in the pub tonight?’ I asked. Even then, drunk out of my mind, I was beginning to doubt him. I should have listened to my gut, thrown his jacket to the ground and run.
‘My friend cancelled last minute. I was about to leave and then I spotted you. Had to get that drink, didn’t I?’
He laughed, so I laughed too.
He spent the rest of the journey telling me about himself, and I believed him; but now I know the truth, that everything he told me that night was a lie. When we reached the top of my road, I stopped.
‘This is me.’
‘I’ll walk you to your door.’
‘No, honestly, you’ve already gone out of your way. I’ll be fine.’
‘I insist,’ he said. ‘It might not be London, but we have our fair share of nutters too.’
I’ve often wondered if he thought of himself when he said that, whether it was some sick joke, or if he truly believed that he was exempt, that his actions were justified and not those of a madman.
I gave in, as I always did. I let him walk me stra
ight to my door, a decision I would spent many sleepless nights wishing I hadn’t made.
‘Thanks,’ I said as I stopped outside, and turned to say goodbye. His hands were on me in an instant, clamping me down before him. His lips were on mine before I even had a chance to take a breath. His kiss was so hard it hurt. His stubble scratched my face; his hands pressed against my body until I could feel the ache of his grip against my spine. I pushed his chest and stepped back, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
Even then, I knew I shouldn’t anger him. There were so many signs, but I had batted them away, longing to ignore them, to believe I was safe.
‘Night.’
I shot up the steps towards the communal front door and rushed to find the keys. Dropping them in my haste, I heard him breathe a laugh behind me. He was still there, lurking. I found the key, turned it in the lock so hard it could have snapped, and closed the door without looking back.
Now he knew where I worked and where I lived. He knew my name and had my phone number. All I knew of him then was the false life he had created for me, and that he didn’t take no for an answer.
I let myself inside my flat. The door swung wide before I’d even turned the key, the slight pressure of my hand enough to open it. I swore under my breath as I stepped inside and shut it behind me. I locked it, my hand pressing it firmly into the frame. My landlord had promised to fix the faulty lock before I moved in – it was one of my conditions before signing the lease. I vowed to call him the next day and demand he have it replaced.
I liked my flat, before he took it from me. The ceilings were high, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out to the street. The main space was one large room, with the living area at one end and a small dining table separating it from the newly refurbished kitchen at the other. Off it was a small corridor leading to the bathroom and my bedroom.
I undressed lazily, leaving my shirt crumpled on the back of the sofa and my jeans in a pile on the floor, and stumbled to the kitchen to get a glass of water.
I got into bed with a relieved sigh, and groaned when I realised I hadn’t lowered the blinds. I staggered out and held the blind cord, freezing as I caught sight of something on the other side of the street. A shadowy figure.
Through my drunken haze, I didn’t even think it could be him, watching me from outside as I stood before the window in just my underwear. I didn’t think much of it at all, until later when everything began to fall into place. I lowered the blinds and returned to bed.
The countdown to my death had begun.
FOURTEEN
The taxi pulled up outside the gun range an hour later, but Rose’s need for release had died on the journey. All she wanted to do now was ask the driver to turn around and take her home again.
‘This is the right place, yeah?’ he asked.
She couldn’t see his lips, but she could tell he was smirking by his eyes, as if driving her all the way out there had been a joke and he was waiting for her to deliver the punchline.
‘I said the gun range, didn’t I?’ she replied and thrust the fare towards him.
She stepped out of the car and walked towards the entrance without looking back, but when she tried to open the door, she found it locked. She refused to look round, and imagined the driver laughing as he turned and drove back down the gravel drive.
Just as she began to worry that Rob wouldn’t turn up, that it really was all some kind of joke, she saw movement inside through the glass in the door, and sighed quietly as he appeared on the other side. He unlocked the door with a grin on his face.
‘Hey,’ he said.
‘Hi.’
‘Come in.’
‘No one else around?’ she asked as she stepped inside.
‘We don’t usually open at midday in the week, but we make the odd exception.’
Fear ached behind her ribs. It had begun to form on the journey over as she thought of meeting with a man she didn’t know, a man passionate about deadly weapons, but now they were alone together, she realised what a stupid decision she had made. He locked the doors and her mouth dried.
‘Can’t have anyone waltzing in and leaving with a gun,’ he joked.
‘Am I allowed to do this? Just turn up and shoot a bunch of guns?’
‘With me here you can,’ he said, putting his hands in his pockets as if to make him seem smaller, less intimidating.
She relaxed a little.
‘I was giving out flyers for an open day next month to rope in some more members, but I gave you my card instead.’ He winked again, but it wasn’t crude, more playful.
She relaxed some more.
He was better-looking than she remembered. He had a kind smile; white teeth and a full bottom lip, carved cheeks and jawline covered in stubble. His eyes were both green and blue, ocean-like. She eyed the broadness of his shoulders and chest and laughed out loud suddenly.
‘I have no idea what I’m doing here.’
‘Don’t overthink it,’ he said, smiling back. ‘Let’s just have some fun. I’ll show you around.’
The entrance hall was like an old American lodge with rifles on the walls and a buck’s head over the reception desk. She met its glassy eyes and looked away.
‘We do clay-pigeon shooting –’ he nodded towards the window at the sprawling lawn – ‘but I’ve always preferred the inside range.’
He headed to the desk. ‘Would you mind signing up for our newsletter? We have targets to hit each month and we’re falling behind.’
‘Sure.’
She signed her name, jotted down her email and home address.
‘This way,’ he said, leading her through a doorway as he opened another on to a narrow staircase.
‘I’ve laid out some guns I thought we might try.’
She followed behind him, barely listening as he spoke. Her heart was hammering in her chest. She had never liked guns, and yet here she was, moments away from pulling a trigger. She was locked in a room with a total stranger and no one knew she was there. It was madness.
They stepped out into a large room, separated by booths that faced a large open space where bullet holes littered the walls and paper shooting targets hung, waiting to be torn to shreds.
‘Why did you approach me?’ she asked suddenly. ‘In the café.’
‘Am I not coming on to you hard enough?’ he said and laughed.
Tell him you’re married.
His eyes turned serious.
‘You looked. . . lost. I know how tough life can get sometimes. You looked like you needed to take control. I get that feeling here.’ He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. ‘Right, let’s get started.’
He led her over to a booth where a row of guns waited for them, growing in size and presumably power. He talked her through them, picking up a shotgun that looked small in his hands but large in hers. He showed her how to load and reload, check the safety, demonstrating how to hold them and where to look. She watched and nodded in a blur, only taking half of it in. She didn’t belong here, surrounded by dangerous weapons. Her hands shook as she took the safety equipment from him, placing the noise-cancelling ear protectors on her head and the plastic glasses over her eyes. He helped her slip into a vest to ease the recoil of the gun. And suddenly it felt very real. She was about to shoot a gun.
‘Ready to get started?’
‘You go first,’ she said. Even her voice was shaking.
‘All right.’ He lifted the shotgun, talking her through as he went, and took the first shot. She jolted with the sound and instinctively covered her ears and clamped her eyes shut. When she opened her eyes again, she saw him lower the gun and smile towards the target. A gaping hole where the head should be.
Her whole body was jittering. Adrenaline pulsed through her.
‘Ready?’
She was on the verge of tears but didn’t know why. She laughed nervously and nodded.
‘Right, so. . .’ He placed the gun in her hands and arranged them in the correct pla
ces, telling her where to put her thumb and not to hold the trigger until she was ready to shoot. He moved the butt of the gun to the right position on her body, and stood behind her, instructing her where to look, to raise the end of the gun to meet just above the desired spot. She felt safe there with him behind her, with his hands over hers.
‘Ready?’ he asked.
She nodded and placed a shaking finger on the trigger.
‘Don’t overthink it,’ he said.
She pulled the trigger and her whole body jolted with the power of the gun, the butt of it thrusting into her like a punch to her shoulder. Adrenaline exploded in her chest. Even with the protective gear, she could hear the ring of the shot.
She had hit the target in the neck.
‘Great,’ he said.
Tears rolled down her cheeks and a manic laugh burst from her lips. He laughed with her, which only made her laugh harder. This was the most foolish, exhilarating thing she had ever done. She had the sudden urge to kiss him, to keep hold of the rush she was experiencing.
‘How was that?’ he asked through a grin.
‘Again,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Let’s do that again.’
FIFTEEN
Rose stood before the police station and stared at her reflection in the glass doors. Her hair whipped up with the wind, shining like copper as it hit the light. The positioning of the sun cast shadows in the pockets of her eyes, and with her pale skin, it was like staring at a bare skull.
The exhilaration she had felt at the range had been replaced with exhaustion, which clung to her again and pulled at each limb. It was as though the full night’s sleep she’d had before had been a dream. She scoffed at the irony. I could only have dreamt it if I had been asleep. She had been a different woman at the gun range: she wasn’t the woman who had killed her daughter, the mother hated by her only living child and resented by her husband. She was a woman with a gun, and a desired one at that. But the moment she’d left in the taxi, reality had seeped in again. Anxiety had given her the willpower to step out of the cab and walk the short distance to the station, but now it had her by the throat. Her past was waiting for her inside.
