Flowers for the Dead (26 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

~ Marjoram ~

Delusion

Mike looks at the pale-faced individual regarding him. He is a young man in his late-twenties to early thirties, well groomed, and has a tidy, polished, older model Ford Fiesta that appears well maintained. From the look on his face, he is not used to being pulled over by the police.

“Your rear registration number has faded, it’s barely legible,” Mike explains. “Did you know that’s an offence?”

It’s like watching clouds clearing from the sun, as the man’s expression goes from confusion to comprehension.

“I-I’m so sorry,” he replies sincerely. “I had no idea. When I had the car MOT’d two months ago they did warn me it would need replacing, but they thought it would be fine until my next test. I-I-I’ve got the p-paperwork somewhere.”

Mike takes in his open countenance, the way he pauses to breathe over certain words in order to overcome a stammer. And he feels like a complete git for pulling over someone who would clearly not say boo to a goose. The detective’s guilt kicks in. What sort of officer is he, abusing his power like this? He can barely bring himself to look at his poor victim.

“Look, I’ll let you off with a warning. It’s not quite illegal yet, just get a new one sorted quickly,” he shrugs apologetically.

“Oh, yes, of course! I, err, I hadn’t r-realised,” the man replies, clearly relieved.

Mike feels dreadful as they go their separate ways. It is not his style to take his bad mood out on someone else; he is ashamed of himself. He is glad he had not fined the poor bloke, and really spoiled his Christmas.

***

Adam’s calm façade melts away as he drives off. For the entire journey to Birmingham he glares into the twin pools of light his headlights make in the night, obsessing over what a close shave that had been. There had been a few moments there when he had felt completely out of control, having to trust to luck.

Adam does not like feeling out of control.

***

The desk sergeant recognises Laura when she arrives at the station. He nudges his colleague, the movement sending his hair momentarily wafting up over his balding pate like a dandelion clock in a breeze.

“Hey, it’s cushion women,” he murmurs from the corner of his mouth. His mate looks blank. “You know, cushion woman. The one who thinks someone broke into her flat and rearranged her soft furnishings.”

PC Smith smiles guiltily now, remembering the laugh they had had at her expense.

Laura is not sure whether it is a good thing or a bad thing that she is talking to the same officer: there is continuity with her complaint, but he probably still will not take her seriously. It is late, gone ten o’clock, but it had taken her a while to stop crying enough to see the photographs she was taking so that she could bring them to the police station that very night.

She swallows hard then pulls out her phone.

“I don’t know if you remember me, I came in four days ago because someone has been breaking into my flat.”

Sergeant Biggs innocent expression seemed a little off to Laura. “Ah, yes, so you did…”

“Well, it’s happened again, and this time they did this.” She shows him a snap of a table laid for one, complete with meal.

“Looks tasty,” offers PC Smith.

Laura takes a deep breath, trying to stay calm. “Please…I know it sounds crazy, someone breaking in to tidy my flat and cook me meals, but it’s scary. Someone is stalking me.”

Her voice wobbles dangerously, but it isn’t fear, it’s anger.

“Is there any sign of break in?”

“You asked me that last time. The answer is still no,” she says in little more than a growl. “Look, I don’t know how this person is coming and going without a trace, but that’s exactly what is happening.”

“What about changing your locks?” offers the desk sergeant.

“Done it.”

He shakes his head; his hair gives a gentle wave. “I’m sorry, there doesn’t seem to be a crime occurring. How about you keep a diary for a few weeks, and see if anything else happens.”

“Isn’t breaking and entering a crime?”

The desk sergeant has the good grace to look embarrassed. “Well, yes, it is,” he says gently. “But…”

He trails off delicately, and Laura realises that he thinks the whole thing is her overactive imagination. She groans in frustration, knowing she is being fobbed off.

“If you’re worried, these leaflets on stalking might help,” adds Sergeant Biggs, passing over a couple.

Laura glances inside them, and the sergeant taps one. “This one explains why a lot of evidence is so important, because stalking is hard to prove,” he explains.

What else can she do but agree to keep a diary and continue to take photos? Even she can see that someone slipping money into her purse, giving her flowers, or making her a meal does not sound like the crime of the century.

***

FOUR YEARS AGO

The books Adam read as a child lied to him.

They tell you that if you’re weird and different and don’t fit in, then it’s okay because you’ll have something wonderful waiting for you, and that’s the reason you don’t fit in: because you’re special, unique, set aside for great things. You will make amazing friends who are as special and wonderful as you, and together you will have adventures. And it is all thanks to the fact that you see the world in a different way.

The thoughts whirled round Adam’s head in his anger. He could see the trails they left behind in his mind, like sparklers writing, writing in the darkness, writing in his brain. He hit his head with his fist to be sure they were real. They did not go. They would not leave him. They carried on whirling, whirling, whirling.

And you’re just brilliant! Because you are different, that’s what makes you so wonderful. That’s what they pedal to you in books as you grow up. Harry Potter, Matilda, The Little White Horse…. It’s all crap!

Adam had always been different. Adam had never fitted in. Adam had never felt right.

You grew up and you stayed different and weird and avoided by people. You never fitted in. You are not special, you are just odd. You have no exciting future ahead of you. Just the same old shit as everyone else. As for finding somebody special who gets you. Bollocks. Nobody gets you. Nobody.

And nobody ever will.

The words flailed him like a cat o’ nine tails, making him cry out in agony as they lashed him. It was true. All true. He was so lonely, it hurt so much. He did not want to be alone any more.

Sometimes he would walk down the street and have tears in his eyes, find himself crying. He would be in the park, walking along, looking at the trees, see their beauty and long to share it with someone, and he would be crying with loneliness.

The thoughts were right. There was no special person who accepted him. Sometimes he honestly did not think he would ever find anybody. He had been looking all his life. And there was nobody. Not a sniff of romance after two years solid of dating; not a glimmer of hope after a lifetime of rejection. Every time in his twenty-seven years that he had let his defences down and tried to open up, someone had hurt him.

He was not sure he could do it any more. But what choice did he have? He could not give up, could he? If he gave up he would never meet anybody. If he could just even have a friend, that would be something. Social situations were torture for Adam, though. Instead of building up his confidence, the last few years had chipped away at what little he had built up. He had reached a stage where, despite his longing, conversation was almost impossible. It made him panicky. Instead of listening to people, he wasted time worrying that he might not be able to think of a reply, or that they would be bored by anything he said. Then he would be stuck in horrifying silence, knowing the other person was trying to work out what the hell to say to extricate themselves.

If only there were a way for him to get to know people without them realising it. Perhaps a way he could show them the kindness, the deep capacity for love he had in his own heart, but while somehow staying anonymous.

He was lonely. He was so lonely. And he could not stand it any longer. Tears coursed down his face. Gran was the only person who had ever truly loved him. Gran would know what to do, if only she were here.

He had to try harder. He had to make someone fall in love with him. If he could show someone how much he cared, put his all into making them happy, then they would see him for the person he was.

His hands trembled as he wiped at his eyes, full of determination, but the voices were starting up again.
You’ve been lied to! You’re not special! You’re useless!
Grabbing the remote control, he put the television on – he did not often watch it, but it felt like the best way to shut everything out. An advert was on, an old song being played which suddenly captured him.

“Make someone happy. Make just one someone happy. And you will be happy too,” the rough voice of Jimmy Durante advised, half singing, half speaking.

The words resonated with Adam, making him tremble with hope this time, not despair. It was a sign. It had to be. He had not been lied to, he had to keep going.

“Once you've found her, build your world around her,” Jimmy sang.

Adam most definitely would.

***

PRESENT

The dramatic notes of Holst’s
Mars,
Planet Suite
slam into Adam, reflecting his fraught feelings. He hugs his knees, rocking backwards and forwards gently to comfort himself. It is not working.

Impatient, he switches the music to something more soothing. The
Adagio of Spartacus and Phrygia
always moves him, the lilting beauty and sweeping build up of the melody by Aram Khachaturian both energising and pacifying him, generally.

It does not work this time. Nor does the choral peace of
Le Miserere
. Adam turns it off and lets silence fill up his mind and try to smother his thoughts.

He curls his fingers into his hair and clutches it tight, pulling at the follicles, trying to find the magic off-switch that will stop his mind racing and buzzing. He has not stopped obsessing since he arrived home the night before, and has not slept a wink.

The food thing was bad, he is still feeling hurt by Laura’s actions; he felt a thank you would go a long way to making him feel more appreciated. Right now, he feels taken for granted. But what is really throwing his equilibrium is the run-in with the policeman. Things could so easily have got out of control. He could have been arrested. He might never have seen Laura again, and all his plans would have come to nothing.

Yes, but they have not, he reminds himself.

He lets go of his hair, forces his tense muscles to uncoil, and heads into the garden. Perhaps he can rediscover peace there. The dawn light is still dim as he steps into the cold December air, so sharp he can smell it. There was a frost overnight, and now the ground is iron hard beneath his feet. Everything is white. Each delicate vein on the remaining leaves is trimmed with frost, their soft curves sharpened. Blades of grass are outlined perfectly as stark white shards. Where he treads there comes the gentlest of crunches as the crystals give beneath his weight.

Already he feels calmer.

Drawing his eye is the memorial garden he has created.  Although none of the flowers are currently in bloom, he can see them in his mind. Each one a reminder of his victim’s personality. Lisianthus for Irene. Sandra’s primroses. Mimosa for Alex, and stock for Sharon. The latest addition is Julie, whose lips lie beneath the nodding yellow trumpets of daffodils in an annual shrine of remembrance.

Much as he loves them all, much as he adores having them with him still, he hopes that this time he has found a woman he can truly share his life with. He would love to be able to sit with Laura, listening to music, laughing at films, reading favourite bits of books aloud to one another. Simply being together.

He would like to share a candlelit meal, just like his parents had that wonderful time before their deaths, the memory of which he will cherish forever. He would like to be able to have a conversation with the woman he loves the way other people do. Because as much as he enjoys having the souls of his harem with him, he is aware that this is not quite usual.

He has spent his whole life wanting to be normal, like other people. He hopes that with Laura he might achieve this, and not have to put her happiness before his own by ending her life. Perhaps they can, dare he think it, be happy together.

From everything he has learned about love and relationships through research and observation, he knows the key is honest communication. He must take the bull by the horns and let Laura know how taken for granted he feels. Inspired by the other ladies in his life, he brings out his secateurs and cuts rhododendron: its meaning is ‘beware’.

He goes to his greenhouses and looks around for inspiration. Mustard flowers for hurt, a piece of lichen for dejection. He softens the message by adding ‘you are my life’ with lungwort.