by Jack Jordan
She had asked the question, but she couldn’t bring herself to stay for the answer. She snatched the bottle of whisky from the top of the island and headed for her study.
‘And if you don’t know the answer to that, I suggest you start thinking about it. We can’t live like this for ever. I can’t live like this for ever.’
She slammed the door behind her and retreated to her chair, just as the first tear fell. She had done it, uttered the question she had longed to ask for years, knowing full well that once it had been spoken aloud, she would never be able to take it back. She had practically given him an ultimatum: work to fix their mess or leave. Deep down, she knew which option made more sense.
Worst of all, he had been right. Following this path could mean putting Lily in danger. Whoever did this wanted her to stop. She thought of her brother, and how no one had helped him. Finn had no one looking out for him either, no one who cared, no one except for her. And pitifully, Finn was all she had. There was something comforting in knowing that he was lonely too; just knowing that someone else had felt so isolated made the silence a little easier to bear.
She checked her phone and looked through the unread messages. All of them were from Rob.
I had a great time with you today. Give me a
call if you want another round.
Fancy grabbing a drink tonight?
As friends, I mean, if that’s what you’d prefer.
Have I done something wrong?
The light caught her wedding ring, flashing in her lap.
She buried the phone in her pocket and closed her eyes.
FINN’S JOURNAL
23rd January 2018
It was more than a week until I saw him again.
I had completely forgotten about him. My new role had demanded all of my attention: working all hours, skipping meals, falling straight into bed the moment I arrived home, only to wake up and do it all over again. Working as hard as I did gave me no time to ponder on how alone I was; the minute I stopped working, reality trickled in: I had no one, nothing except for my work. I would jump in again, keeping the cycle in motion, distracting myself to keep reality at bay. So when I hadn’t received a response to my text message, I thought it was over, dealt with.
It was a Friday, and I was hours away from completing my second week on the job. The first edition of the paper that was partially under my helm was about to go to press, and I walked to work with a new rigour, even with puffy eyes and the fizz of exhaustion inside my skull. I didn’t stay up all night worrying that my landlord still hadn’t fixed the lock on my door, or that I had yet to make any concrete friends inside the office; my ambition was enough to put a smile on my face; soon I would be holding a copy of the newspaper in my hands.
When I saw him, my smile fell.
He blended into the morning rush well; to anyone else on the street, he was just your typical man nearing middle age, waiting for a bus or a friend. It was astonishing how normal he looked. Dark hair swept back with gel, a black suit that made his shoulders look even broader, an off-white shirt without a tie at the collar. He was scrolling through his phone with a cigarette burning between his fingers. He was waiting outside my office.
I watched him from across the road as he fidgeted restlessly, gave the occasional glance down the street, first left, then right. He was looking for someone.
He was looking for me.
I checked my watch: five to nine. If I stalled any longer I would be late for the morning briefing. But the sight of him froze me to the spot, as though his hands were on me, pinning me there.
I knew I had to move before he spotted me. If his presence alone could scare me into submission, I couldn’t risk meeting his eye.
I crossed the street with my head down, my heart fit to burst. The street was heaving with people, a sea of coffee cups and frustrated tuts. I knitted my way through the crowd for the doors and dared to look in his direction.
He was staring right at me.
I will never forget the look on his face. In just a glance, I could see the madness in his eyes; a specific, unhinged glint that sent a shock of nerves through me.
I rushed inside the lobby and allowed myself to breathe. My legs were shaking and my head felt light. The security guard by the door gave me a concerned glance. I forced a smile and made my way to the lift.
Maybe it was a coincidence that he was outside my office. I had no idea what he did for a living; perhaps he worked in the same building. After all, I had met him outside the coffee shop across the street. Maybe he wasn’t there for me at all.
But, however many times I told myself that it was just a coincidence, I was unable to forget that look of glee in his eyes when our gazes met.
I ordered in for lunch that day, and didn’t leave the office until long after dark, telling myself I was there to catch up on work and not because I didn’t want to leave the safety of the building. I found myself constantly eyeing the window as the sky darkened, making the walk home all the more terrifying, but I couldn’t find the strength to rise from my seat and slip into my coat. By the time the clock struck seven, I forced myself away from my desk and collected my things, ignoring the light tremble of my hands.
I stepped outside the office and immediately looked to where he had stood that morning. He wasn’t there.
That was the first time I wondered if I was going mad, if it was really me who was unhinged, terrified of a man who had only tried to woo me and taken the rejection to heart. I wasn’t used to being desired; I had never thought myself worthy of it, too shy to meet a man’s eye, constantly misconstruing their advances as politeness or a gag to humiliate me. Maybe my fear of being wanted had gone so far as to make me fear a man I didn’t even know.
I walked along the street and raised the collar of my coat. Night had fallen, firmly in winter’s grasp, making it so easy to mistake a shadow for a dark silhouette or the echo of my footsteps for a second pair of feet. Even though I was the only person walking along the street that night, I could feel the presence of someone else, as though eyes were blazing into my back. No matter how many times I looked around and found myself alone, I couldn’t shake the feeling. Every fibre in my body knew something was wrong.
I got home, flustered and sweating, and fought my key into the lock on the front door of the building. I shut the door firmly behind me and pressed my back against it, listening to the rush of my heart. This was madness – I had been alone the whole way; the only thing I had to fear was my imagination. I was a grown man, not a child, and yet somehow, meeting him had made me afraid of the dark again, made me doubt my own sanity.
I sighed and peeled myself away from the door. It was all in my head. I’d worked too long; drunk too much coffee. I took my post from the pigeonhole on the wall in the hallway and let myself inside my flat.
The apartment still didn’t feel like home; it had an empty chill to it, housing simple furniture and beige walls without a single clue of who lived there; it could have belonged to anyone. I think I wanted that on a subconscious level: I wouldn’t be here for long. Rearwood was just a pit stop.
I went to the windows and closed the blinds before even turning on the light, conscious of not wanting to be seen from the outside. I left the post on the coffee table and sank onto the sofa, resting my head to close my eyes.
I had to give myself time to settle, that was all. I was overwhelmed by so much change: new job, new town, new flat. I was bound to be on high alert, taking everything as a threat. It was in my nature to worry.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. I opened my eyes and blinked furiously, my contact lenses sticking to them like glue. I checked my phone.
Like your post?
Him.
My eyes shot to the envelopes on the coffee table. Three envelopes, two white, one brown.
He sent the text the minute I got home, which meant he had to have been following me. I hadn’t been imagining it.
I picked up the envelopes, my hands already shak
ing. The first would be a bill; it had a sticker on it, indicating the reroute to my new address. The second envelope was the same, with my bank’s logo in the bottom right-hand corner. The brown envelope just had my name, written by hand.
I turned the envelope over and peeled back the lip, tearing it open with the swipe of my thumb. Slowly, I slipped my fingers inside and withdrew the small piece of paper – a newspaper cutting with part of an article and the page number in the corner. I turned it over.
It was the photo of me that the paper had printed to mark my employment. Jagged crosses blacked out my eyes, and a penis had been drawn beside my mouth, with drops of ejaculate doodled onto my face, as though it was running off my chin.
I dropped the cutting to the floor and stared ahead, feeling his presence behind the curtains, as though he was out there, somehow able to see in. I swiped a chair from beneath the table and pressed it beneath the handle on the front door.
My phone vibrated on the coffee table, far longer than before. I edged towards it.
He was calling.
I watched the phone shiver across the surface of the table, seemingly louder and harsher with each ring. Even when I shut myself in, lowered the blinds, barricaded the door, he still found a way to get to me.
I took a deep breath and snatched up the phone.
‘What do you want?’ I barked, trying to sound as brave as I could, but the fear was evident in my voice; it had me by the throat, squeezing the words out of me.
I listened to him breathing down the line. Goosebumps bristled up my arms, as though each breath was unfurled on my skin.
‘You,’ he whispered.
The call ended.
TWENTY-ONE
Rose sat in her chair before the window and fought back tears. It wasn’t the sight of the bridge, but sheer frustration at yet another sleepless night. Her whole body ached as though exhaustion was slowly rotting her from the inside out.
On the other side of the window, the day was overcast, making the river water grey, and the trees colourless skeletons. She refused to look at the bridge – it would only provoke more tears. Once she started, it was almost impossible to stop.
She rose from her seat and headed out of the study, her throat parched and longing for a tall glass of water. She stepped out just in time to see Lily as she reached the bottom of the stairs. She was already in her uniform, with her hair straightened and swept across her shoulders. Her skirt was hiked too high, the waistband folded over and hidden with a belt, to reveal more of her legs, the pale skin hidden by thick black tights. She headed for the door.
‘Lily, wait.’
Rose strode up the hallway, striding into a jog as Lily opened the door and kicked the burnt bag out of her way. Ash flittered with the wind.
‘Have you eaten breakfast?’ she called after her. ‘Do you have money for lunch?’
Lily kept walking and disappeared around the corner.
Rose sighed and went inside for cleaning supplies: a bucket with hot soapy water and a sponge, broom and bin bags.
She swept away ash and bagged up the debris before pouring some of the water down the steps, watching the soot turn the suds black. She knelt down and began to scrub, until the sponge blackened in her hand and ash was bedded beneath her fingernails.
She had known Violet inside and out. Violet had shared everything with her, told her every thought, secret or worry. But Lily always preferred Christian, even before the crash. As a child, she would never tell Rose anything, or come to her without being prompted. Rose had had to tease the smallest truth or thought from her. But now, she didn’t even get the chance to do that. Her own child was a stranger.
Stop thinking about what you cannot change.
She remembered Rob’s messages and the day at the range. He had been kind, funny, flirtatious, and it terrified her. Christian might be able to move on while they were still married, but she couldn’t. Tethers held her life together; pursuing whatever was between her and Rob could destroy it beyond repair.
As she scrubbed, she thought of who would have gained from making the mess. She had lost her bag the day she attended the police station. If the police had anything to hide, could they have left this as a warning? It seemed Detective Seb Clark was capable of something like this, just by the look in his eyes, the smirk he had given at the mere mention of her name. But if he did, then why?
Maybe Shane regretted speaking with her, and had decided he wanted the past to be left alone. But he hadn’t had access to her bag, not like Detective Clark. Perhaps she had just left it on the bus. Or maybe the bag had been returned after all, and Lily wanted to get her back in some small way.
But that doesn’t explain the message, she thought, as she chucked the remainder of the water across the steps to wash away the bubbles.
If you play with fire, you’re going to get burnt.
There was only one way to make sure. She had to speak to someone who knew the police well.
She left the bin bag on the path just beside the drive and headed back into the house to scrub her hands clean before messaging Shane and asking to meet again.
They could threaten her all they wanted; she had lost so much, had been hurt so many times, she had nothing left to lose.
If they wanted her to stop, they would have to do much better than that.
TWENTY-TWO
Night had fallen by the time Rose reached High Gate Park. The chill in the air had seeped through her clothes and skin. Even though her teeth chattered and her body was numb, the empty chill was familiar. Exhaustion did that to a person, it sucked the heat from their bodies, hollowed them out; drifting, empty vessels, asleep on their feet.
She checked her phone for the time, her tired eyes watering at the brightness, and waited for Shane by the gate.
When she’d spoken to him that afternoon, he’d sounded more open to talking than the first time, but as the minutes passed and the silence stretched, a voice crept from the back of her mind: He isn’t coming. He’s changed his mind.
Gusts of wind curled through the iron gates in a high-pitched whistle, pulling them against their hinges, the sound like grinding teeth. The rustle of leaves silenced as the wind fell. Flowers had closed their petals. As she stood alone in the dark, a familiar breed of loneliness crept in.
Ten minutes passed. Twenty. Twenty-five. She checked the text messages again. Perhaps she had turned up on the wrong night. It wouldn’t be the first time. But it was right there on the screen: he had confirmed tonight, nine on the dot.
Something had to have changed his mind.
She pressed herself against the gate and peered down the pathway, numbing her cheek against the cold metal. The iron gave way beneath her hands. The gate creaked open. She stood before it, watched it sway with the wind.
If Shane no longer wanted to see her, had decided to leave his past behind, who was she to bring it all up again? She had to respect his wishes. But she also had to find out the truth about Finn Matthews.
She stepped inside and shut the gate behind her.
At thirty-nine years old she was still afraid of the dark. Shadows crept from beneath the trees, darkened the lawns until everywhere she looked was a sea of black. It wasn’t the darkness itself that scared her, but what might be lurking within. She picked up the pace with her head down, the wind whipping locks of hair against her face.
Reaching the end of the path she headed down the hill, pulling her coat to her torso as the wind swept across the open field, the grass moving with it in waves, and stopped before the cottage.
The front door was ajar.
A beam of light shone through the break in the doorway. She edged forward to peer inside.
A telephone table had been knocked over. The phone was lying away from its cradle to the endless sound of the dialling tone. The mirror on the wall had been smashed, reflecting the rest of the house in each shard like the view from a fly’s eye.
A clock ticked from a distant room. The wind howled behind her,
picking at her hair. She pushed the door open.
Dark drops of blood stained the carpet. Muddy footsteps had been ground into the fabric. The wallpaper had been slashed with a knife to form a word.
FAG.
She tried to swallow, but her mouth had dried. When she went to call out, the word caught. She cleared her throat and tried again.
‘Hello?’
She stepped inside, trying to avoid the blood, red streaks smeared into the carpet and packed down with dirt from a stranger’s boots. She returned the phone to its cradle to cut the sound.
The mess on the floor led through an open doorway off the hall.
Her senses exploded with the slightest sound. Her legs jellified. Nerves stung through her.
She pushed the door wider. The light from the hall sliced through the dark room.
A table had been overturned. Pictures had been slashed and thrown to the floor, their frames broken into splinters. Glasses had been smashed and cushions gutted, their feathers trodden brown with earth and kicked about the room. She eyed the blood and mud at her feet, following the path as though someone had been dragged.
A man lay before the fireplace, naked and quivering.
‘Shane?’
She couldn’t tell. His eyelids had sealed shut. His lips were cut and bloody, his cheek and jaw had swollen as though he had been stung. His ribs were already bruised, maroon clouds swelling in his skin. She looked around the room, but failed to spot his clothes. Amongst the mess was a blanket, twisted up beneath the sofa that had been thrown onto its back. She tugged it free and rushed to him, covering his naked flesh.
‘Shane?’
He jolted with the sound, like a man waking from a dream in which he was falling, waiting to hit the ground, and instinctively protected his face with his hands. Marks had been left on his wrists where someone had held him down. The fingers on his right hand were twisted, surely broken.
