Never Look Back (33 page)

‘Right,’ he said.

Megan smiled. ‘Now, Uncle Robert . . . this is a mummy. When they died the priests wrapped them up in all this material, here,’ she said pointing to a picture on the page. ‘It’s like swaddling . . . but they had to remove their organs first . . . they took the brain out through the nose with this hook,’ she said, turning to another page.

‘Steady on, Megs, you don’t have to be quite so graphic. The pictures show enough, I’m sure,’ he said, smiling.

Bobby appeared to be completely at ease. He had even assigned Megan an indicator. As soon as she had walked into the room and into his brother’s field of vision Bobby had been taken by her hair. With his head cocked on one side he had stared, transfixed. She had such a natural way with him that, even after five years, Lockyer hadn’t perfected. There was no tension or anxiety in either of their faces. As he stood watching he wondered, again, why he had kept them apart for so long. The family he had lost when he and Clara separated, the family he had longed for, it was right here. This was his family now.

‘OK . . . time to go,’ he said again, practically dragging Megan out of the room. She was still talking when he pulled the front door closed. Her excitement was infectious, almost. As they walked down the driveway to his car, he felt the pain creeping into his bones.

‘I wanted to say I was sorry, Dad,’ Megan said.

He turned to look at her. Her eyes were shining with tears.

‘You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, Megs. I’m the one who’s sorry,’ he said, tipping her chin up so she was looking at him.

‘No, I mean I’m sorry about . . . Sarah.’

He stepped away as if the sound of her name was a physical blow. Of course his daughter knew about his personal relationship with Sarah. There had been no avoiding it after what had happened on French Street. Despite Lockyer’s protests, Megan had attended three interviews to establish Sarah’s last movements. Up until now he had avoided talking about Sarah on the premise that it would be too upsetting for Megan. He had been so wrapped up in his own pain that he hadn’t realized that not only was his daughter suffering from her ordeal but she was also hurting for him, for his loss.

Megan was shaking her head when she said, ‘She was . . . lovely. Really lovely. She wanted to surprise you, make you something nice for dinner. She wanted to look after you. I should have called you. If you’d known she was there, you might have come home, you might have stopped him,’ Megan said, tears rolling down her pale cheeks.

He stepped forward and put his hands firmly on her shoulders, pushing away the image of Sarah standing in his kitchen, smiling and laughing with his daughter.

‘Megan, you need to listen to me,’ he said. ‘This is not your fault, sweetheart.’ The authority and the calm in his voice surprised him. ‘Do you understand me? This had nothing to do with you.’ If anyone was to blame, it was him.

‘What will you do now?’ she asked, wiping her eyes with her sleeve.

‘I will be fine, honey. I don’t want you to worry about anything. Everything will be fine.’ He took her hand in his. It was time to start thinking about Megan, about Bobby. It was time to start putting them first.

Daniel sat on his bunk, his sheets and blanket folded at the end of the bed, resting against the bars. He stared at the blank walls but to him they were filled with colour, with images of his girls: Phoebe, Katy, Debbie, Hayley and finally Sarah. He saw their faces and bodies mingling together as one.

Phoebe had been his first real test, stretching his skills, his patience. He remembered her strength when he took her. With the graves of others surrounding them, she had kicked, screamed and flailed like a stranded fish. But he had taken her resilience and absorbed it, empowering him to do more. Katy, in contrast, had been weak. Too scared to cry out, too obedient to struggle. The remembered disappointment cramped his thoughts but Debbie and Hayley had renewed his faith, confirmed his efforts. It was Sarah who had changed everything.

Her lesson should have been easy; his preparations were faultless. He had known Turner was watching. Of course he had. The man had been following him for several days. Ever since he had let himself be seen outside Sarah’s flat and everything had flowed effortlessly until she had decided to leave her flat. He sat back, the prison walls cold against his back. Instead of the pathetic amoeba Daniel had witnessed, Turner had been an enraged animal. If the kitchen knife hadn’t already been in his leg, Daniel might have laughed at the absurdity of facing someone of his power with such a pathetic tool. But Turner had surprised even him with his gusto, his fight for the woman he loved.

He heard Joanne’s voice, her whispers circling his cell. She had killed their baby, taken from him the one thing he craved. But now he understood. She had set him on the path, prepared him for what was to come, for what he was to become. He smiled. DI Lockyer would have found his room, his sanctuary for the innocent. No doubt he would be racking his brain to discover its purpose.

Daniel closed his eyes and let himself imagine what was to come. There were more houses, more rooms, ready and waiting for their tiny occupants.

COMING SOON

17 April – Thursday

Maggie tried to run but she couldn’t feel her feet. Her breath felt warm against her cheeks as each step pushed air out of her lungs. She could hear him. He was behind her, the sound of his arms brushing against his sides as he ran, insistent, a buzzing inside her head. She had to move faster but her body wouldn’t respond. She could smell him. It was an earthy, feral scent chasing her through a labyrinth of hedges, trees and bare brick. Her throat closed up, refusing to ingest his stench. She looked up at the sky. It was black, not even a pinprick of light to guide her. The darkness pressed down; a velvet cloak soaked interror. Her fear was collapsing her, suffocating her, trapping her inside. Her lungs burned, her eyes stung. She reached out but touched nothing. The walls retreated from her fingers. There was no way out; no trail of breadcrumbs to follow. A door appeared up ahead, its red paint peeling away from the doorknob as if repulsed. She reached out to open it, his smell crippling her body, the sound of his footsteps throbbing inside her head. The red door shook, and vanished into the blackness. She screamed herself awake until she lay panting on her back, her throat dry. The dream was fading, the door was slipping away. He was slipping away.

She arched her back and let out a low groan, expelling the nightmare. Her muscles seemed reluctant to yield, preferring to return to their constricted state. She blinked. Not even a streetlight penetrated the blackness in her room. The power must be out on the street. She should get up, find out what was going on, but she couldn’t, still paralyzed by her dream. She covered her face with her hands. Her fingers felt damp against her lips, her tongue was swollen and heavy in her mouth. Memories of the previous evening began to flit through her mind like a magic lantern display. Had she had a lot to drink? She didn’t think so. She had been to his house. They had eaten dinner. He had been angry. They had fought. Then nothing: only a void.

Maggie allowed her muscles to retract and draw her body back into a foetal position as she felt around for the duvet. Her hands were heavy, clumsy. Sleep was pulling at her, dragging her back under. She wanted to give in but she was too cold. Yet she was sweating, her skin clammy beneath her cotton pyjamas. As she ran her hands over the freezing bed sheet she became conscious of a familiar odour. It was earthy, the smell of her parents’ front lawn after the rain. Her heart began to beat faster, a pain spreading and gripping her lungs.

This wasn’t her bed.

She sat up, staring into the inky blackness. She felt as though she were falling, her body shaking, shivering. She touched her face. Her skin felt cool, slick, alien.

What?

She turned her head from side to side but there was no light to soften the darkness.

‘I can’t see. Please, someone, help me.’ She stopped, her chest heaving. Her words sounded muted, almost lost by her leaden tongue. She listened.

What’s happening to me?

Maggie tasted bile in her mouth. She tried to swallow but more came as adrenaline flooded her system. She flung out her arms as far as she could in front of her: nothing. To the sides: nothing. She tried to stand up but her head struck something solid above her. Her whole body was shaking, her teeth biting down on her tongue, but there was no pain.

She inched her palms up higher and higher until they rested against a flat, marble-like surface. She pushed against it: no movement. She snatched her hands down and began rocking back and forth.

It’s all right. It’s okay
.

She drew her knees up to her chin, put her arms around her shins and held herself. Her head ached as she tried to pull her thoughts into focus. This wasn’t real. She was still dreaming, hallucinating – something. She began to count, slowing her breathing with each number, ignoring the aching in her bones and the slur in her voice.

When her shuddering body had settled enough for her to move again she turned, until she was on her hands and knees in the empty space. God, she hoped it was empty. She let her head hang. It was too heavy for her to hold it up any more. The counting was helping but she needed more, she needed to fill the silence. She began to sing as she crawled, crab-like, to her left.

‘One little elephant came out one day, upon a spider’s web to play,’ her voice trembled. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and forced the words out, ‘he . . . he had such tremendous fun that he called upon another elephant to . . . come.’ Her head hummed, as if a hundred flies were trapped behind her eyeballs. ‘Two . . . two little elephants came out one day, upon a spider’s web to –’ She stopped, her head pulsing in rhythm with her voice as her hip struck a wall. She sat back on her haunches and with her palm flat she ran her fingers as far along in front of her, and then behind her, as she could. She leaned her face closer to the wall until her nose was pressed against the icy surface. She took a deep breath. Soil. Mud. She touched it again. It was earth, compacted earth, smoothed to a slick finish. ‘No, no, no,’ she said, shaking her head, tears rolling off her cheeks. ‘No.’ She closed her eyes but forced them open when she realized sleep was trying to suck her under again. She raised her shaking hands above her head, humming the nursery rhyme to herself. She couldn’t bear to hear her laboured words, to feel her tongue, bitten and raw in her mouth.

In the same crab-like movement Maggie followed the line of the wall to one corner, then another, and another until finally she reached the fourth: the final wall of earth enclosing her. She could taste blood and soil. Panic needled her spine, her neck, like a shard of glass in her throat, tearing at the delicate tissue. Her breaths were coming in ragged gasps, her head light. An image of a grave flashed into her mind. Her bladder let go, the urine was warm against her thighs. She began to scream, all rational thought lost.

She screamed and screamed until she didn’t know if she was screaming at all.

21 April – Monday

‘I know,’ Jane said, waiting for the next line in what was a well-rehearsed piece. ‘Yes, Mother, I’m aware of that.’ She looked at the digital clock on the bottom right-hand side of her computer screen. She should be done soon. ‘I agree. I’ll call as soon as I leave.’ The second sticked by. ‘Yes, clean ones are in Peter’s room.’ She resisted the temptation to drum her fingers on the desk. ‘That’s right, where they’re always kept.’ Jane could sense other people in the office beginning to tune into her conversation. ‘Nothing. There was no tone. Sorry, yes, you’re right. I’ll be home soon.’ Almost there. She hoped. ‘Before eight. Yes. Okay. Yes. Good. Thank you, Mum. Bye.’ Detective Sergeant Jane Bennett put the phone back in its cradle, closed her eyes and let her head drop onto her desk with a thud. The polished melamine felt cool against her skin.

Her mother didn’t object to looking after Peter. Far from it. She was ‘happy to help.’ Jane would have the words engraved on her mother’s tombstone. ‘Celia Bennett, beloved wife, mother and grandmother. “Happy to help”.’ The image relaxed Jane’s shoulders and she smiled. The ten minute ear-bashing she had just endured was routine. Her mother was happy to care for Peter, but in return she was fully entitled to ring Jane up to nag at her whenever she felt like it. Jane didn’t mind. To know Peter was being looked after by someone who loved him meant everything. Her working life didn’t allow for routine, something Peter craved. She simply couldn’t be there all the time. So every pick, veiled dig, subtle criticism or direct assault her mother levelled against her was worth it. Peter might not care who picked him up from school, but to Jane, it mattered. She wanted the best for him. Although, she couldn’t deny that taking her mother’s abuse also helped to alleviate the guilt that shrouded her. She should buy shares in the ‘Bad Mother Award’. She lifted her head off the desk, using her fingertips to pull her fringe back into place. The heat of the day had all but gone. The office had cooled. She turned and pulled her jacket off the back of her chair and slipped it on.

Peter would be eight in June. When Jane looked at him she still saw the chubby, red-faced baby who was always hungry. That was before his autism had been diagnosed, before the invisible barrier separating mother and son had been explained. Eight years old. She couldn’t believe it. She would have to organize a party, get his friends over. Her mother would help. Jane rolled her eyes. It was an involuntary action, as she pre-empted what her mother would say. She pushed the power button on her laptop and waited for it to shut down. The weather should be good in June. She might even get away with a barbecue; paper plates, no washing up.