by Jack Jordan
‘I found a journal. The man it belonged to, Finn Matthews, wrote of being stalked, and how the police failed to help him. I took the journal to the police, but nothing was done, and they couldn’t tell me what happened to him. It was then that your ex-colleague spoke to me, and told me to get in contact with you.’
He was silent for a beat, but she could almost hear him thinking, his mind ticking over. She spoke again.
‘Finn feared the police weren’t taking him seriously because he was attracted to men. . . and so do I.’
Shane didn’t speak for several minutes. They walked along the path as it curved down a hill, and it was then that the moon appeared through a break in the clouds, releasing a sheen of light on the surface of the grass and the tops of the trees swaying in the breeze. In the distance, the lake reflected the night sky, with clouds drifting across the rippling surface, and perched above it on the hill was a small cottage with a thatched roof, and one lit window on the ground floor. She wondered if Shane had a partner inside, waiting for him to return home, or whether he lived there alone, behind all the locked gates and the endless silence of the park.
‘You’re right to be worried,’ he said finally. ‘The force in Rearwood is a team of close-knit locals, made up mostly of traditional-minded heterosexual men with old-fashioned values. From the outside, each cog seems to turn like any other force, but inside, it’s a hierarchy built on toxic masculinity and prejudice. Homophobia has been institutionalised in the force, and not just in Rearwood. It’s everywhere.’
Of all the things she had imagined him telling her, she hadn’t even considered that.
‘Did you hear about the four gay men murdered by Stephen Port in London back in 2014?’ he asked.
‘No, I didn’t,’ she said.
‘I’m not surprised. The police failed to share news of the killings, so the press didn’t catch wind until it came out about how poorly the case had been handled. Not because of lack of staff or funds, but because the men were gay.’
Rose didn’t want to believe that people were still penalised and ostracised for their attraction to the same sex; she thought that as a society they had come such a long way, become a place where men like her brother could have thrived, or at least had the right to live peacefully.
‘Despite numerous connections between the murders, each blindingly obvious clue was overlooked, leaving Stephen Port to kill again and again. Port was messy, leaving numerous mistakes in his path, but he continued to get away with each murder because the police failed to act in numerous ways. They didn’t appeal for public information until the last body had been discovered; the public weren’t even aware that there was a serial killer targeting a minority group, and gay men in London had no idea that their lives were in danger. The police failed to make the obvious connection between the two bodies that were found in the same location just three weeks apart. Evidence was left untested for DNA, and we’re talking crucial items found by the bodies, the sheets they were wrapped in, a forged suicide note written by the killer that not only wasn’t analysed by a text specialist, but wasn’t even tested for fingerprints. The worst part is, they had the killer’s DNA on file after a previous arrest. Had they actually done their jobs, the number of victims would have been three, not four. They had the chance to catch Port and turned their backs at every opportunity. It wasn’t only Stephen Port who killed those men – those who worked on the case killed them too.’
‘I. . . I had no idea that sort of thing went on, in London of all places. I can’t believe. . .’
‘It’s not just London, Rose. It’s a nationwide problem. In fact, it happens all over the world.’
‘And here,’ she added.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Rearwood too.’
‘What do they do, in Rearwood?’
‘Victims are unsupported, abuse and assaults swept under the rug. Even if someone in a cell wasn’t gay, you’d be sure to hear them being regarded as a queer. And if they were, they were treated differently: more force, less support, their rights waived depending who was on shift. I couldn’t watch victims of crimes be turned away any more. After a while, I noticed that hate crimes stopped being reported. That wasn’t because the number of hate crimes had decreased, it was because victims stopped reporting them; they knew they wouldn’t be helped.’
‘Is that why you left the force?’
‘I didn’t have a choice. Once my colleagues knew I was attracted to men, they made it their personal mission to weed me out, as if they wanted to make the force pure again. But it’s anything but – it’s rotten to the core.’
‘You shouldn’t have to, but couldn’t you have moved stations, continued your career?’
‘And have the reason why I was transferred printed in black and white? The news would spread through the new force like a forest fire. I couldn’t go through that all over again.’
‘But there are women on the force, surely they aren’t as bad as the men? Couldn’t they help?’
‘Women in the police force are only a notch or two above us. If they spoke up, their careers would be in as much danger as ours, and there are still women who think of us as unnatural just as the majority of the men do.’
Even in the dark, she could sense his pain; he seemed so lost, as though he had fallen apart and been stitched back together in scars.
‘I’m so sorry.’
She thought of her brother, and how he hadn’t gone to her for help. Did he truly believe he had no one to turn to? Was she as bad as them?
‘So this Finn Matthews, you think he’s missing?’
‘The police make it out like he moved away on his own accord. But towards the end of the journal, he seems terrified, depleted, sick with nerves. His fate doesn’t sound planned or safe at all. He was convinced his stalker was coming for him. I can’t stop asking questions until I know he’s alive and well.’
She thought of the man in the dark street, colliding into her and looking back the way he’d come, as though he had something to fear.
Maybe Finn’s still in Rearwood.
‘That’s why Anna must have given you my number,’ he said. ‘To warn you of what you’re up against. Whatever you’re trying to do for this man, you won’t have help from the police; if anything, you’ll have to work against them. If there was any neglect of duty on their part, they’ll want it buried.’
‘Maybe I could go higher up. Speak to someone who manages every force in the county?’
He exhaled in a short laugh.
‘Them too?’ she asked.
‘Yes, them too.’
She had been so focused on his words that she hadn’t realised that they had looped around the park and were approaching the iron gates again, the black metal glinting in the moonlight.
‘Why are you doing this?’ he asked. ‘I understand wanting to right a wrong, but this is a tough challenge you’re about to face.’
‘My brother,’ she said. ‘He committed suicide when he was seventeen. He was constantly berated and abused for who he was, and he couldn’t take it any more. I couldn’t save Jay, but I can try and get Finn the justice he deserves.’
The torchlight flickered at their feet. The night was cold, but she could barely feel it from the heat of the rage burning through her.
‘I hope he gets it,’ he said.
As he retrieved the keys from his pocket and unlocked the gate, Rose was reluctant to leave him. The thought of him locking himself inside the park and returning to the cottage alone made her throat ache.
He opened the gate again to the same squeal of rusted metal. Without thinking, she hugged him. His body tensed against hers, but eventually he took a breath and relaxed into her. One hand rested on her back for a beat, before returning to his side.
‘Can I come again?’ she asked as she pulled away.
‘If you have any other questions, give me a call.’
The torch flickered again and slowly died, leaving them to the darkness. The gate shut with a clang, w
hich echoed around them, and the key twisted in the lock, firming the seal between them.
He headed back towards the park. Just as she turned to walk home again, she heard gravel crunch beneath his boots.
‘Rose,’ he called.
She turned back.
‘Good luck.’
She watched as he walked out of sight, his silhouette lost to the shadows of the night.
FINN’S JOURNAL
12th January 2018
I woke the next morning, the memory of him yet to surface, and looked around my bedroom. Even with a hangover beating at my temples, I smiled. It wasn’t London, but it was progress; after a few years as assistant editor at the local Evening Herald, I would be back in the bustle of the city with the same title but almost twice the salary. I was on the right track to becoming the editor of a London paper before the age of forty.
I was so naive.
I rolled over and took my phone from the bedside table; it was a text alert that had woken me, just fifteen minutes before my alarm was set to sound. I blinked my eyes awake and looked at the screen.
I really enjoyed seeing you last night.
Immediately I felt the scratch of his stubble around my lips, the lingering scent of his aftershave and sweat. I remembered his calm yet authoritative tone, nudging me into doing what he wanted with each word.
I had to let him down easy, before it went any further. Although it was a small town, it was big enough for me to avoid him; I needn’t see him again.
I had no idea that I didn’t have a choice.
I planned to respond after my first cup of coffee, but before I could, my phone pinged again.
You have the softest lips I’ve ever
kissed. I can still taste them.
I read the text and forced a laugh to hide my fear, even from myself. Even then I seemed to sense that giving him what he wanted would feed a fire that I had no way of putting out.
I left my phone on the bed and showered and dressed for work, the thought of him fleeing to the back of my mind as I went over my to-do list for the day. I had meetings until late afternoon. A good thing about my new colleagues: they kept the coffee flowing. By my third meeting, my hangover would be gone.
I walked to work tenser than usual. I wasn’t able to take in the sights and sounds of my new home, or force a smile at each passer-by as I tried to shake off everything I had learned in London to fit in. I couldn’t, because my phone vibrated in my pocket every ten steps.
It would be emails dropping into my inbox; someone must have got to the office early to tackle theirs before a day away from their desk. He wouldn’t be as desperate as to text again and again without a single response.
I arrived outside the office and checked my phone.
He had texted ten times.
My heart quickened. The phone shook lightly in my hand.
I wrote out a quick text; I couldn’t have my phone going off every five seconds. I had a reputation to build.
I’m at work. Talk later.
I left the office at the end of the day feeling sick with exhaustion. Too much coffee had my hands jittering at my sides. Staff writers had been sending articles for approval all afternoon, and I had spent over an hour on the phone to a freelance journalist chasing payment for an article that had been printed months before. Not to mention all of the meetings, each one providing a problem for me to solve.
I turned on my phone as I headed up the street and slipped it back in my pocket as it booted awake. Each breath I took unfurled in a visible cloud.
I stopped in my tracks.
My phone was going berserk, alerts almost overlapping each other, the vibrations stinging against my thigh.
I immediately thought of everything that could have occurred. A death, or an accident. I was miles away from London, with only my phone to keep me connected to my past life. Something terrible had happened and I had been none the wiser.
I removed my phone and scrolled.
Thirty-nine missed calls.
So many texts there were too many to count.
All of them from him.
I had completely forgotten. The day had been so hectic, I hadn’t given him a second thought.
I tried to open my inbox but my phone froze, overwhelmed.
Anxiously, I looked up and down the dark street. Shop shutters were lowering over the windows; the odd person milled around further down the street, only distinguishable when they passed under a street lamp.
I looked back down at my phone and tapped his name, bringing up the thread of unread messages.
What are you doing tonight?
Fancy grabbing a drink?
We could go to the pub again,
or try somewhere new.
Hard to get, huh? Dinner then. On me.
Hope work’s okay.
You there?
What could be so important that you
can’t take a second to reply?
I scrolled further, my heart beating harder and faster as his frustration grew, as his words got nastier, filthier, threatening. The phone began to shake in my hand. I couldn’t move from where I stood.
Pick up the fucking phone, you cock-tease.
You do this to all the guys? String them along
and then drop them like a sack of shit?
Fuck you.
You’re not even that hot, you just think
you are. You’re not special. You’re nothing.
You ugly fuck.
I hope you fucking die.
‘Excuse me.’
I jolted so hard that I dropped my phone to the tarmac.
An elderly couple were behind me. A man pushing his companion in a wheelchair. Both were wrapped up warm in winter layers and waiting to pass.
‘Sorry.’
I snatched up my phone and walked ahead, too embarrassed to look back. The screen had cracked, the light behind brightening each break until they looked like veins in a sun-lit leaf. But even through the cracks, I could see his last message.
The world would be a better place without
scum like you.
I walked home with my head down, my heart pulsing in my throat. I couldn’t stop myself from flinching at the slightest sound, peering down every road and path. My mouth dried until my tongue stuck against the sides of my teeth. Even though I was freezing, sweat began to form on my brow and beneath my clothes.
By the time I reached my front door, I was shaking all over. I dropped my keys in my rush to get inside, and snatched them up again, shooting a glance over my shoulder in case he was there, remembering the sight of him at the foot of the stone steps the night before, his eyes looking me up and down.
I locked the door behind me the second I got into the flat, but it wasn’t enough. The lock was unreliable, and I wouldn’t rest until I was certain that he couldn’t get in.
When I look back, it’s almost like I knew what was coming.
I shoved the back of a chair beneath the door handle and rushed to each of the windows, eyeing the darkness of the street before dropping the blinds.
I stood in the middle of the flat, panting, and snatched my phone out of my pocket.
A new message. From him.
I’m sorry.
I dropped the phone to the sofa as though his text had bled into the hardwiring of the phone, made it dirty.
He was deranged, he had to be. No one sent messages like that to someone they barely knew.
I thought of the man who had walked me home – overly keen, but not terrifying. Then I imagined that same man typing out the words in my phone. It was like they were two different people.
I sat on the sofa and picked up the mobile. This was going to end now.
He had to understand that I wanted nothing to do with him. I had to tell him no.
First, I texted my landlord and told him to fix the lock as soon as possible, reminding him of his promise before I signed the lease, scolding myself for not asking for it in writing, before opening a n
ew message to send to Michael.
I was at work, I always turn
my phone off at work. . .
Why was I making excuses? I deleted the message and started again, writing numerous versions until fury and fear were quaking through me, giving me enough courage to tell him what I wanted, clear as day.
I’m not interested in you, and after
your messages, I never will be. Contact
me again and I’ll go to the police.
I sent the text and dropped the phone to the sofa. It was done.
NINETEEN
Rose’s welcome at the police station had been different this time. The man at the front desk, albeit a new face to her, seemed to know exactly who she was before she even uttered her name.
‘The detectives will be with you shortly,’ he said, and signalled for her to take one of the seats in the waiting area. She sat in the chair closest to the door.
The measly hour’s sleep had caught up with her. Her eyes stung, every muscle ached, her heart beat sporadically, unable to fall into a steady rhythm. She hadn’t eaten breakfast or lunch – even the thought of food made her feel sick – but as she sat waiting for the detectives to arrive, she could hear her stomach whining beneath her coat.
Detectives, the man had said. She wasn’t just meeting with Montgomery, but someone else too. She thought of the woman who had chased her down, searching her mind for the name that refused to stick, and hoped that perhaps the woman had spoken to Montgomery herself; maybe they were going to do something about it. Anna, that was her name.
But when the door opened, the tired smile she gave Montgomery quickly fell as she eyed the man following behind him: Detective Seb Clark.
‘Rose,’ Montgomery said, forcing a tired smile of his own. ‘You wished to speak with us about Finn Matthews.’
The muscles in his face seemed tight, as though pain had set his expression into a permanent grimace.
