Flowers for the Dead (13 page)

Already giddy with anticipation, he hugs his arms tighter around himself and spins. Like a child in a playground, when he stops he tries to walk in a straight line and chuckles at the impossibility of it. He is still laughing softly when he finally tires of dancing and sits at his desk, staring at Laura’s smile in adoration. Full of inspiration he opens a drawer, pulls out the clay and tools he keeps in there, and starts to sculpt Laura’s lips.

Adam wakes bright and early the next day, as always. His routine is bed at 1am, up at 5am. There is always so much to squeeze into his day: exhaustively researching someone’s life then keeping a close eye on them to look after their every whim is time-consuming. He goes down to the gym he has created downstairs, in one of the rooms his gran did not use, and starts his vigorous daily programme of running, skipping, sit ups, push-up burpees and kick-boxing. Sweat drips down his wiry body and the muscles glisten as they move and start to burn, but he relishes the feeling of being master of his physique.

The push-up burpees are his favourite , as even when he is away from home they are easy to fit into his routine and keep him strong. Last year, whilst bored because he had no one to love, he had read about a burpee world record set by a man named Cameron Dorn, who had performed ten thousand one hundred and five burpees in twenty-four hours. Out of curiosity, Adam had broken it, achieving ten more. He had not bothered telling anyone, of course, it had been enough for him to know that he had the mental and physical strength to do it. His father would have been so proud.

After a long shower spent scrubbing himself hard, Adam checks on his garden. Keeping grounds so large in good condition is a full-time job and sometimes he struggles to juggle it with his other responsibilities when he is busy wooing. Control is everything though, and between his iron will, exceptional organisation, and his need for just a few hours’ sleep, he always manages.

Both his mother and father had taught him, in their different ways, about the importance of control. Adam is even in control of time – he can bring it back to life when a watch has stopped – and nature – keeping weeds at bay in his garden. That is what he spends most of the day doing, conquering his garden, paying particular attention to the place where his Boxes of Smile are buried.

The ladies Adam has killed in the past are not only present in his memorial garden. They live on inside him. Right now, they purr in approval at his devotions, complaining that Laura has been getting all the attention lately. Sometimes it is hard for Adam to keep everyone happy, but he always remembers his gran’s words about putting others first.

As he weeds for hopefully the last time this year, he hears a distinctive clamouring; a honking call repeated again and again by a large group. Realising immediately what it is, Adam jumps to his feet, looking skyward. He has to see this sight, the first of this autumn.

There! Canada Geese flying just above treetop level, in their well-known V-shaped formation. They call to one another the whole time, creating a sound that dominates everything else. Adam stands still, staring up at them, eyes shining at the sight as they grow smaller and smaller and finally disappear.

They are migrating to warmer climes. And Adam, too, feels the pull to be travelling once more.

The last thing he does that night before bed is pack ready to return to Laura. He has missed her so much, cannot wait to breathe in her smell once more. Watching her on camera simply is not the same. He is so excited he almost forgets to pack matching underwear and socks for the red top he has thrown into his suitcase, which would have been a bit of a disaster – he could not have worn it without them.

***

SEVENTEEN YEARS AGO

The grass was ticking his face, but Adam did not move. This was the perfect vantage point and he wasn’t going to stir to scratch his cheek because it would give him away. Like a cat, he stilled himself, concentrating on controlling every single muscle. Even his breathing slowed as the sight unfolded before him.

Of course he was aware that some young teenagers his age would take this chance to masturbate. Allowing themselves to get all red, sweaty and helpless as they pumped away with their fist, their urges completely in charge. Adam, though, could not help looking down his nose at boys like that, seeing them for the pathetic creatures with no self-control that they were. It was disgusting the way they acted and felt.

His mouth parting slightly and the bulge in his trousers gave away the lie though. He could not help feeling sexually excited as he watched his neighbour towelling herself down after her shower.

Sometimes he felt bad that Mrs Nixon had no idea there was a hole beneath the windowsill in the bathroom that went all the way to the outside. It offered an unrivalled view of the bath mat she stood on when she got in and out of the shower. On occasion he had thought of mentioning it, volunteering to fix it so that she would notice him and realise what a kind, helpful person he was. And manly too, if he was capable of fixing things around the house. But then he realised he would have to explain how he knew and things would get complicated.

Besides, fixing it would have meant no more watching…and the thought of giving this up made him feel out of control and dizzy, the way he did when he was with mother.

Mrs Nixon held her towel behind her with both hands and rubbed it across her back. She shimmied slightly, pendulous breasts wobbling. Her daughter was 14, the same age as Adam, and had much nicer breasts; smaller, more pert. But she was cruel and called him names such as weirdo and pervert.

Mrs Nixon had always been so kind to him. So very kind that he thought she must know about what he was doing – and enjoy it as much as he did. They shared an unspoken bond.

Her husband was in the army, often away for long stints, leaving her alone. Even when they were together they barely spoke. Sometimes she had such a melancholy look on her face. Adam longed to see her smile. Perhaps if he told her how he felt, she would.

The thought stirred something in him. Adam licked his lips and pressed his eye harder against the hole, feeling his body responding to what he was seeing and desperately fighting the urge to touch himself.

It was dirty, nasty, wrong. But…he wanted to so much. Almost moving of its own will, his hand went downwards, easing the zip with it. A little whimper escaped and he bit his lips. He knew he shouldn’t… Still, he wrapped his hand around himself and began to move as his neighbour rapidly dried herself. With a jerk he was done, just as she straightened up. Part of him was disgusted with himself for giving in, the other part pleased as punch that he had got away with it. He smiled to himself, whilst carefully tucking his shirt down to soak up the moisture; the last thing he needed was an unfortunate wet patch on his trousers giving the game away.

Checking the coast was clear first, he then grabbed his bat and ball, knowing that if anyone saw him they would assume he had been playing and had gone to retrieve his ball after a bad hit. An innocent look plastered on his face, he sauntered away, whistling to himself. He was used to living a lie.

A few days later, Adam once again hit his ball into the bushes and wondered over to the Nixon’s bathroom window, knelt down and peered at the little hole.

“Oy! What the hell are you doing?” came a shout.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

~ Scarlet geranium ~

Stupidity

The shout rang out again. Adam froze in shock like a dog with iced water thrown over it as he realised - Mr Nixon, he was home. The man shoved the teenager out of the way, looked through the hole himself, and gave a bellow of rage when he saw that it opened up to the bathroom.

Fear slammed through the teenager as a shriek came from inside. Crap, Mrs Nixon must have heard the kerfuffle and realised what was going on.

Sure enough, she emerged seconds later, red in the face, just as her husband was dragging Adam out of the bushes by the neck of his t-shirt.

“I-I wasn’t doing anything!” he insisted. The words seemed to stick in his throat and it took everything he had to protest.

“Yeah, then why were you peeking through that hole?” shouted the furious husband, giving him a good shake.

No words would come. Adam tried but he was too terrified. All he could do was hold up his ball.

“Look at him, he’s so scared he can’t speak,” said Mrs Nixon pityingly.  “Let’s just…calm down and take this inside.”

A snort of fury escaped from her husband, but he did as she suggested, pulling Adam along with him. When they reached the lounge, she turned to her husband again. “Now put him down. And both sit down, for goodness sake.”

Neither man nor boy argued, nonplussed by her calm. “Now then Adam, what were you doing? The truth now.”

“I-I-I w…was…” Gah, the stutter always kicked in when he was worked up. Easier not to speak, but that was not an option now. He took some deep breaths, tried again. “Getting. My. Ball,” he panted each word, and held the ball up again as evidence.

“Dirty little liar. I saw him! There’s a hole below the bathroom’s windowsill, I’ve never noticed it, but he was looking through it,” Mr Nixon exploded.

Mrs Nixon went red again. “Adam, is this true?” she snapped.

“N—” he shook his head furiously.

She looked at him long and hard. Finally, she spoke. “For what it’s worth, I don’t believe you. But I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt because you’re a growing lad and boys will be boys. You need to realise that what you did was totally wrong, and I want your word you’ll never, ever do anything like this again.”

He opened his eyes wide, the picture of innocence that he had seen on his mother’s face so many times. “I won’t,” he managed.

Another long look. Then a nod. “Then we’ll say no more about it. Don’t make me regret this decision, Adam.”

He forced a little smile, still confused and scared. “If m-mum finds out she’ll kill me.”

“So she should,” muttered Mr Nixon, but his wife simply told Adam to be on his way.

“And Adam,” she called after him. He stopped and turned. “If I see you near my house again I will not only tell your parents, I will call the police. Understood?”

Once outside, he bent over, hands on knees, trying hard not to vomit. How the hell had he got away with that? Sheer luck, that was all.

Well, he had learned a valuable lesson. Never, ever be stupid enough to get caught – he could not rely on luck for the rest of his life.

***

PRESENT

Life is improving slowly but surely for Laura. The more positive she acts, the more positive she feels. The urge to wallow loosens its grip on her. Ironically she finds herself remembering her family even more clearly, as though a veil of grief has lifted. She realises now that the living moving forward does not mean leaving the dead behind; she will bring them with her.

A few weeks later, she overhears the girls at work organising a night out to the local pub.

“Sounds good,” she says casually. “Umm, don’t suppose there’s room for one more to tag along?”

For a second everyone freezes.

“Really?” gasps Charlotte in shock, before being nudged not very subtly by Emily. “Sorry,” she recovers. “It’s just…you never come out with us. We’d sort of given up hope. That’s why we stopped asking you months and months ago.”

“Well, I mean, that’s if it’s okay for me to come,” Laura gabbles, flustered and seriously regretting opening her mouth.

“No, come!” everyone choruses at once. They all laugh, then start making plans.

Laura is excited as she gets ready that night. She grabs a quick meal of beans on toast, pretty much the only edible things left in the entire flat, then opens her wardrobe with the kind of determination usually reserved for more serious matters such as conquering mountains. As she tries to decide what to wear she is muttering furiously to herself.

“The problem,” she says, holding up a dress then throwing it onto the bed in despair. “…with never going out…” She grabs a skirt and top, puts them together, then tuts and flings them onto the ever growing pile on her bed. “…is that it means…” Another outfit tossed aside, almost taking out the vase of pale pink roses on her chest of drawers. They totter for a second then still. “…that I have absolutely nothing to wear!”

The final is said as a wail, and she throws herself down onto the bed. A few weeks ago the thought of having a night out would have been impossible to contemplate. Now though, she is looking forward to it and Laura refuses to be defeated by a crappy outfit. She tells herself to get a grip, because she more than anyone knows that there are way bigger things in life to worry about than this, and pulls on a cute vintage green silk mini shift dress that had been her go-to outfit four years ago. She would wear it with opaque black tights as a nod to the falling October temperatures.

“Crap, need to go to the cashpoint,” she remembers suddenly. Checks in her purse to be sure. “Oooh, where did that come from?”

She pulls out a crisp twenty-pound note. Result! She could have sworn she had only a handful of change.

Adam is watching on his tablet from the B&B he is staying in a few miles down the road. He sighs and shakes his head in mock despair, but a smile quirks his lips. He had left that money because he had noticed she was running low on food, but now she was going to spend it on a night out instead. As long as she is happy though, that is all that matters.

Laura is running late by the time she reaches the pub, but all the girls greet her with a cheer and hug her hello before bundling her inside. Someone is murdering
I Will Always Love You
as she pushes her way through the crowds. Karaoke night at her local is always busy.

Suddenly someone grabs her waist and pulls her to them.

“Yeah, this is my girlfriend,” says a man, introducing her to a woman. “Aren’t you?” he adds.

His big brown eyes twinkle down at Laura, begging her to go along with him. He clearly is not interested in the woman chatting him up. Anyone else and she might have unhooked herself, but he was the classic tall, dark, and handsome – must be close to six feet four inches.

Where was the harm?

“That’s right! I’m your girlfriend,” Laura winks. “But I’m just going over to say hello to my friends, babe,” she adds.

As mouth-watering as this stranger is, Laura is not yet ready for a relationship. She has dated a few people over the last few years. Like her latest ex, Ryan, they have all been dumped after trying to get close to her – which reminds her, she really needs to call Ryan and tell him to stop sending her flowers, it’s embarrassing. It’s been every single Saturday for the last month.

Although she is getting stronger, putting herself back together, she knows it will be a while before she can handle a relationship. Even if she could, she is not certain Ryan is the man for her – or Mr Tall Dark and Handsome either. And she’s not going to dump her new gal pals on their first night out together, this early on, just for a fling.

The stranger did give everyone something to talk about though.

“Who was that?! He’s gorgeous,” drools Emily.

“I was hoping one of you lot could tell me!” Laura laughs.

The rest of the night passes in a blur. People chatting, music playing, everyone dancing with big grins on their faces. And in the middle of it, Laura, feeling truly alive for the first time in a long time.

The following morning she is horribly hung-over. With a groan she sits up in bed, holding her head to try to stop the room from tilting. Water, she needs a great big glass of water…and some painkillers. She gingerly stands, ready to shuffle into the kitchen, then sees on her chest of drawers a glass, some tablets, and a banana.

Wow, she is one very organized drunk, she thinks. Despite the state she must have been in last night – she has only vague memories of the last few hours of it, and though she thinks she got a cab home she could not swear to it - she had obviously been together enough to put those things out, realizing how awful she would feel in the morning.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she mutters in a hoarse voice, grabbing them then sinking back into her pillows.

She has no idea the effect her words have on someone miles down the road, listening in, watching closely.

***

The woman in front of Mike is hunched over, sobbing. Her words are almost incoherent. Finally, she seems to gain some control.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice hitches.

“You’ve nothing to apologise for. Take your time,” Mike soothes.

He wishes there were somewhere more pleasant to take Stacey Salmon than interview room one, but it is the nicest of the three in the station. This says more about how awful the other interview rooms are than it does about the pleasantness of the tiny, windowless, cream room he currently sits in. At least it does not smell inexplicably of wet dog, for example.

Stacey does not seem to mind where she is though. The twenty-two-year-old has bigger things to worry about.

“It’s just so, so, so…horrifying. I could lose my job over this. My friends and family have all seen me like
that
. And now it’s all over the internet…”

The pudgy brunette disintegrates again, throwing her hands over her face. Her ex-boyfriend, bitter at them splitting up, has set up a Facebook page in her name, posted intimate and highly graphic images of her on it, and invited her friends, family and colleagues to have a look. Most had, by accident or design.

“I trusted him! What an idiot!” she wails.

“Hey, you were not an idiot,” Mike replies. “You were in a relationship, you trusted the person you loved. That’s perfectly natural. The fault lies with him and him alone, you’ve nothing to blame yourself for.”

At this, she peeks up from behind her bitten nails, finally able to meet his eyes. “You really think so?”

“I know so. And now we have your statement, we can prosecute him. Revenge porn is a criminal offence.”

By the time Stacey leaves she seems a little happier. She has stopped crying, at least, and her face is no longer mottled with embarrassment. Within hours Mike has managed to get Facebook to remove all the images, although it took him filing a complaint about each one individually. Some have already been leaked onto porn sites, though, and he has to face the fact that at some point he will need to inform Ms Salmon that some images will almost certainly stay out there forever.

He clenches his fist at the thought. Mike is not the kind of man who takes the law into his own hands, but he is tempted to have a quiet word with this bloke. It takes some self-control to stop himself.

It’s scary how easily information is spread on the internet. Hundreds, probably thousands have already seen Stacey in all her glory…

Hang on a minute. That gave Mike an idea.

As soon as he finished work, he gave Simon a call.

“A Facebook page. For Julie Clayton,” he says quickly.

“Not following, mate,” Simon replies.

“You should set up a Facebook page appealing for witnesses. Some people barely watch telly these days, don’t read newspapers, everything they do is online – it’s a whole new set of people who might come forward with fresh information.

“Plus, word spreads faster online. It’s a great way of reaching out to thousands.”

Simon makes a grunt that sounds positive. “Yeah, like it,” he says after a few seconds. “New detecting methods for a new era. Nice.”

The next day when he calls, he tells Mike the page has already been viewed over 250,000 times. But there is nothing new in the information coming forward.

Mike is not sure the killer will ever be found. It’s so frustrating he wants to roar with rage, not just on his friend’s behalf but for that poor young woman. But that’s police work: you can’t catch them all.

***

SEVENTEEN YEARS AGO

While most fourteen-year-old boys were thinking of sex more and more, Adam was repressing those developing feelings. They disgusted him. When he thought of the things he and his mother had done it made him feel physically sick. The incident with Mrs Nixon a few months earlier had been the final nail in the coffin for Adam. He felt nothing but shame about that side of life. Every time he thought of it his stomach clenched painfully, and he had to dig his nails into his palms hard to stop himself from keeling over. The look of horror on her face, the loathing that twisted her husband’s features unrecognisably, they haunted him, dancing in front of him to taunt him.