by Jack Jordan
Before becoming a mother, she had been so strong, so confident. She had flown all over the world exhibiting her art. She had walked into every room with her head held high. Now she was weak, trampled down by grief and guilt. Somewhere along the line, insomnia had stolen her inner fight, and she had let others chip away at her until she no longer recognised the woman in the mirror, glaring back at her with bloodshot eyes.
She slipped the key in the lock, turning it loudly so those inside could hear, in case they needed to pull their clothes back on, yet slowly enough to brace herself. Bile collected in her throat, which burnt with threatening tears.
She shut the door behind her. The kitchen door was open, lit dimly from the lights underneath the wall cupboards. Silence rang from the room. She listened for life upstairs as she passed, wondering if she would be able to hear the squeak of bed springs from the ground floor. She clasped her stomach with a shaking hand and stepped into the kitchen.
Christian and Heather were sitting at the island unit, watching her in the doorway.
Heather’s lips were ajar, eyes wide. She moved on the stool so her knees weren’t so close to Christian’s.
The shock of seeing her there in her home with her husband was like a swift punch to Rose’s gut. Christian didn’t look embarrassed or ashamed, and she hated him for it. All she saw was the familiar pity in his eyes. She bit the inside of her lip to fight the urge to cry.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked.
‘I’m fine,’ she said, her chest tight. The words barely escaped her lips.
‘Hi, Rose,’ Heather said.
Rose shot her a look. Heather looked down at her lap.
She had to get out of there before she was sick. Just seeing them together made her stomach twist, her throat close up.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she said, and headed for her study.
‘Rose, wait,’ Christian said, but she couldn’t. The tears had already started to fall. She shut the study door behind her and clapped her hand over her mouth as the pain erupted, then slid down the back of the door, sobbing into her hand.
Christian and Heather. Her husband and her best friend. Not only had she lost her daughters, the love of her life, her best friend, but now she was made to watch as they continued to exist, to love, without her.
She lay down on the floor with her knees pressed against her chest and let the tears soak into the carpet.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Rose paced outside the gun range, limping slightly from the night before. But she had no room to think of the man in the street, the way his hands had searched her up and down.
The two people she trusted the most had betrayed her in the worst possible way. She had lost them both a long time ago, but seeing them together had been like the final, fatal severing. She hadn’t just lost her husband, but her best friend too. Even though she had woken that morning with grazes and a smarting hip, it was the betrayal that hurt the most. She wondered what else happened in her absence, as she slipped her wedding ring off her finger and into her pocket.
‘I didn’t think I’d hear from you again,’ Rob said through a smile as he opened the door.
‘Sorry, I have a lot going on. It’s not you, it’s—’
‘Me?’ he said through a grin.
She couldn’t help but smile back.
‘Except it’s not a lie.’
‘I believe you. Come on in.’
She rubbed her arms to rid herself of the cold clinging on to her from the outside.
‘You fancy a coffee or anything?’
‘Please.’
‘This way.’
He led her past the door down to the basement and into a kitchenette. She stood in the doorway, watching him move.
‘You’re here a lot,’ she said. ‘Do you live here or something? Sleep amongst all your guns?’
‘Something like that,’ he said as he poured coffee from the pot. ‘Milk, sugar?’
She shook her head and looked at the floor.
‘Sorry, I’ve never been good at jokes.’
He handed her a mug and gave her a kind smile.
‘I’m finalising my divorce. The rent was up on the flat I’d moved into when my ex and I separated. Thought I’d save some money and crash here until the house is split between us.’
‘How long were you married for?’
‘Nine years. Two kids. You?’
This was it: the moment the flirting stopped, and any opportunity of going further was crushed.
‘It’s complicated.’
‘I saw your wedding ring last time.’
She could almost feel it burning a hole through her jeans.
‘He’s seeing someone else,’ she blurted out. ‘My best friend, in fact. Something happened four years ago, and we’ve been effectively separated ever since, but under the same roof. We’re married on paper. In reality we’re. . .’ She thought of the way he avoided her, the contempt she saw every time they met each other’s gaze. ‘Strangers.’
‘I’m sorry about your best friend,’ he said.
‘Thanks.’
‘Want to blow holes in shit, and pretend they’re our exes?’
She laughed, a real laugh with a smile that made her cheeks ache.
‘Yes. Let’s blow holes in shit.’
He led the way down to the basement and dressed her in the safety gear before himself. She watched his hands move, wondering what they would feel like on her body: warm, strong, tender.
Stop.
He picked a gun for her and one for himself, going through the motions with her until it had sunk in enough for her to pull the trigger. She had her own booth this time, directly beside his. When he raised his gun, she did the same. He winked at her before turning his sights on the target.
‘Fuck you, Erika!’ he bellowed, and pulled the trigger. The paper-head ripped open in strips.
‘What’s your husband’s name?’ he asked breathlessly.
‘Christian,’ she said.
‘Fuck you, Christian!’
He pulled the trigger again, blasting the target through the heart.
She jolted with each of the blows, adrenaline exploding behind her ribs.
‘Your turn.’
She focused on her target, breathed a laugh.
This is crazy.
This is weird.
This is fun.
‘Fuck you, Christian!’
She pulled the trigger, jolting back with the force. She missed the target by an inch.
‘FUCK YOU, CHRISTIAN!’
She shot again. This time, she ripped his head clean off.
When she saw it she laughed, the exhilarating hysteria clouding her mind again.
‘What’s your best friend’s name?’ he asked, prompting her.
‘Fuck you, Heather!’
Bang.
Reloaded.
Bang.
Bang.
Her whole body was vibrating. The rush was like a drug. She didn’t want more: she needed it, craved it.
‘Nice,’ he said.
She looked at him and took in his body, his smile, and moved without thinking. She put down her gun and marched to him, throwing her arms around his neck, pressing her lips against his, tender at first, until their hunger grew and each caress became a desperate grab.
In the basement, she wasn’t the mother who’d killed her child, but the woman who was desired, who could do anything she wanted. For the first time in four years, she left her grief at the door.
Rose lay with her head on Rob’s chest, listening to the sound of his heart, and closed her eyes. He had fallen asleep with his arms around her, and it was the safest she had felt in years. She didn’t want the life that was waiting for her outside the lodge; she wanted to stay here in his arms, where the past couldn’t reach her.
A heavy knocking sounded from the front door, slicing through the silence. She jolted. Rob stirred beneath her.
‘Someone’s at the door,’ she whispered.
&nb
sp; ‘Shit, what time is it?’
‘I don’t know.’
He looked at her through a sleepy smile. She kissed his lips without thinking, as if they had been hers to kiss for ever.
The knocking persisted.
‘Christ, I’d better answer it.’
They got up and dressed, laughing as they hobbled and lost their footing. Something strange was happening in her chest. It was warm, light. ‘You can stay here,’ he said. ‘If it’s regulars, I only have to let them in – they do the rest.’
‘I should go,’ she said, taming her hair with her fingers.
He came to her and kissed her again, holding her body against his. She breathed in his scent: aftershave, sweat, the lingering scent of sex.
It had been four years since she had been touched, and each time he put his hands on her, she wanted to keep them there, hold them down with her own.
‘Are you going to pick up the phone next time I call?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘If it’s going too fast, tell me, and we’ll slow it right down. Just tell me what you want, and I’ll do it.’
Her heart ached.
Shit.
‘The door,’ she said, when he tried to pull her back.
He kissed her one last time, tender but quick, and led the way to the door.
A group of men were waiting outside, jeered when they saw him approach. When she recognised one of the faces, she stopped dead.
Detective Seb Clark.
She scanned the other faces.
They were all policemen.
When he opened the door, she watched them hug him the way men often did: hardly touching, slapping each other on the back, more like an assault than a greeting. Just seeing Rob with them made her recoil.
When Seb saw her, he smirked.
As the other men greeted Rob, Rose and Seb stared silently at each other across the room.
‘Good to see you’re getting some, Rob,’ Seb said, and clapped him on the back. ‘Although I’m sad to see your standards have slipped since you split with Erika.’
Rose strode for the door, slamming her shoulder against him to clear the way, and shot out onto the drive.
‘Rose!’ Rob called after her.
She picked up the pace, but he was faster.
‘I’m so sorry, I don’t know why he would say something like that.’
‘I need to go, I’m sorry.’
‘Rose, I–’
Seb called his name. Rose picked up speed and turned right onto the road.
Just because Rob is friends with them doesn’t mean he’s one of them. It doesn’t make him a monster by association.
But already she was thinking of him differently, walking faster to put further distance between them.
She knew what it had been now, that warm, light feeling in her chest: happiness. It had been so long that she had forgotten how it felt, and as the icy cold sadness crept in again, she remembered it, mourned it.
She walked through the dark, and thoughts of the night before crept in.
The man from the bus had wanted the journal, and had been willing to hurt her to get it. He knew who she was and seemingly found her with ease. Did he know where she lived? If he did, she wasn’t just putting herself in danger, but her family too. In a single moment, the idea of unearthing the truth of what happened to Finn Matthews seemed too daunting, too much of a feat for just one person. Shane was leaving. Anna refused to help. The police were working against her, and the man responsible was closing in. Every person she went to for help had turned their backs.
Her mobile vibrated in her pocket.
She had been with Rob all day and hadn’t even thought to check it.
Missed calls.
Text messages.
Emails.
Social media notifications.
The newspaper ad had been published.
Her heart beat faster. She scrolled through the list of unsaved numbers, opened message after message.
Finn is not the only one.
My son went missing.
The police wouldn’t help us.
Rose lowered the phone, stopped on the dark lane.
Finn wasn’t the only one.
The phone vibrated again. It was a call from an unsaved number.
‘Hello?’ Her voice was strained. Fear had clamped down on her neck.
‘Hello, I, erm. . . I found your ad in the paper, about the missing man.’
Pain reverberated from the woman’s voice. It was so distinguishable, as though grief lined the vocal cords, hardened the skin of her throat.
‘My son,’ she said. ‘He was murdered eight years ago, and the police can’t tell me why.’
Rose took a breath to speak.
‘But there’s more,’ the woman said. ‘There are more of us. Families who have lost our loved ones without explanation. We want to meet you.’
The words caught in her throat. She bit down on her lip. This was too much.
‘Please,’ the woman said. ‘We’ve had so many years without answers. It’s given us hope to know that someone out there cares, that we’re not alone –’ she took a rattling breath on the other side of the phone – ‘and that our loved ones aren’t alone in this either, that there are more waiting to be found, stories that need to be heard. Please.’
Rose stared out into the dark. Her whole world had changed the moment the car burst through the barrier, and only now, looking into Finn’s disappearance, did she feel alive again. Christian had moved on. Lily had grown up. Rose might not be able to paint for a living any more, or sleep through the night, but she could do this. It gave her heart a reason to keep beating. Doing something good eased the guilt of doing the unimaginable. If the missing men were connected, the families could have information to help solve Finn’s disappearance, and in the hunt for justice, she might be able to help them get answers too.
She took a deep breath, closed her eyes. Once she said the words, there would be no going back. When her eyes opened, her decision was sealed.
‘Where would you like to meet?’
FINN’S JOURNAL
18th February 2018
Three days had passed since giving my official statement at the police station, and for the first time in weeks, I woke with a sense of peace. My chest was no longer lumbered with the weight of fear; I breathed deeply and clearly. My first thought wasn’t of him.
When I rolled over and checked my phone, it wasn’t to check if there were any messages from him, or a reel of missed phone calls and voicemail messages clogging the inbox to the brim, but simply to check the time.
But without fear came the realisation of another feeling: loneliness. I had been in Rearwood for almost a month, and spent the majority of my time in the office, even the weekends, so as not to sit inside my apartment waiting for Monday. I could join a book club, or sign up to an app to meet people in the area, maybe even get a cat, but each time I considered attempting to branch out, I would push the thought away. It was safer not to let people in.
I got out of bed and drew back the curtains.
It was him.
He was standing on the other side of the street, leaning against a lamp post. It wasn’t like before, when he attempted to fit into the crowd by checking his phone, diverting his attention up and down the street. This time, his eyes were set firmly on the window, and I was sure, looking directly into mine.
I clambered over the bed and snatched my phone from the bedside table. The pressure was back on my chest. I dialled 999 and followed the steps, refusing to take my eyes off him in case he left.
It wasn’t a coincidence. Not like before, when he could have been waiting for someone, or about to head into the office. He was standing directly outside my house.
He was there for me.
‘999. What is your emergency?’
‘My stalker is standing outside my house. I reported him to the police just a few days ago. They said they were going to talk to him, they s
aid—’
‘Okay, try to slow down. I’m here to help. Are you alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘And is your home secure?’
I strode across the apartment and propped a chair beneath the door handle.
‘Yes, it’s secure.’
‘Okay, I’m going to need some details from you, and then we will send someone to take a look.’
I gave her all the details she needed, all the while peeping through the blinds in the living room, watching as he eyed every window, smoked a cigarette to the filter and immediately lit another, his attention never wavering from the front of the building.
‘How long will you be?’ I asked.
‘Officers will be with you as soon as possible.’
It took the police car two hours to arrive.
I spent the time standing at the window, refusing to take my eyes off him, watching his eyes flit from window to window, crossing one leg, then switching it to the other. I called my landlord to chase the repair of my door, phoned the office and told them I would be running late. But after two hours of standing by the window, I needed to use the toilet, couldn’t hold it any longer. When I rushed back to the window, he was gone. Just when the police car pulled into view.
As the officers got out of the car and walked up the stone steps towards the door, I realised I wasn’t prepared for them at all: I was still in my underwear, my teeth unclean, my hair a wild mess, but I didn’t give a damn. I could barely think of anything else but my fury. I wrapped myself in my dressing gown and rushed back towards the front door.
I removed the chair from beneath the handle and strode down to the main front door of the building, swung it open before they even had a chance to press the buzzer.
‘Where the hell were you?’
It wasn’t the officers that I had met at the station, but two new faces. They removed their hats, almost in sync. One was a woman with warm, ebony skin and almond-shaped eyes. The other was a man, with pale skin and freckles, and hair dampened by sweat. The woman spoke first.
‘Mr Matthews? I’m PS Angela Croft, and this is my colleague, PC Alan Spelling.’
‘We didn’t see the man you described, Mr Matthews,’ PC Spelling said.
‘Of course you didn’t! You’re two hours late. He left before you arrived.’
