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CHAPTER FOUR
White Hyacinth
~ I’ll Pray For You ~
PRESENT DAY
Aunt Linda is standing on the doorstep, a big smile slapped on her face, holding aloft a bag of food fresh from the supermarket down the road.
“Ta-da! Brought you a present,” she says over-brightly, kissing her niece on the cheek then bustling past without waiting to be invited in.
Laura screws up her face in frustration but doesn’t say anything. She hates arguing with her mum’s sister, because she is so like her mum; same eyes, same voice, auburn hair only a shade darker. The mannerisms are particularly painful for Laura to see.
“So…what are you up to today? Any plans? Seeing your boyfriend?” asks her aunt, with her head now stuck in the fridge, putting the food away.
“No plans except watching telly. And I’ve split with Ryan.”
Her aunt’s head appears round the fridge door. “Well, that’s a shame. He seemed like a nice young man…”
“We had nothing in common.”
“Oh? He’d just qualified as a junior schoolteacher, hadn’t he? Wasn’t that enough to start with? Thought he might get you thinking along those lines again. You have to take time with people, get to know them… Let them in a bit, Laura. You mustn’t be afraid of letting someone love you.”
“Okay, okay! You have to stop!” Laura puts out a hand to illustrate. “Just…stop with the advice. With buying groceries. With tidying up. With trying to be my mum! I’m fine as I am.”
Aunt Linda seems to turn stiff and brittle at those words. “You’re fine?” she asks.
She closes the fridge door slowly and deliberately, then looks at Laura as if she has never seen her before.
“You’re fine?” she repeats incredulously. “Have you looked in the mirror recently, Laura? Have you bothered to take stock of your life? Four years ago you were a bright, bubbly girl who had a wonderful life ahead of her. You wrote all the time, too; when was the last time you wrote anything? You were training to be a nursery nurse, and you’d have been bloody good at it – you’re a natural with kids.
“But then… I know what happened was terrible. It doesn’t get much worse, and for you to witness it… But you should be glad to be alive.”
Oh, sod off! Laura wants to scream.
“Coming so close to death has given me such a positive attitude towards life. Seize the day!” she mocks angrily. “And if I can’t live for myself I should be living for others; it’s my debt, because there but for the grace of God, eh?”
“Well, you should be making an effort.”
“Making the effort?” snarls Laura. She stands with her fists balled, body trembling, voice growing louder by the word.
“Are you stupid?! Every single one of us lives every second on a knife-edge. Any moment one tiny, seemingly innocuous thing could happen that brings our little story to an end. Bloodily. How the hell am I supposed to ‘make the effort’ knowing that?
“You might as well give up now, Aunt Linda, because we’re all doomed. All you can do is keep your head down and pray nothing happens to snuff you out in the next thirty seconds.”
She wants her words to make Aunt Linda reel. She wants to hurt her, to slap those rose-tinted glasses off her aunt’s face. Instead she looks at Laura like she is a silly little girl.
“You didn’t die that night but you might as well have done,” Aunt Linda says calmly. “You’ve given up on your studies, you’ve given up on your appearance, friends, life. Your parents would be ashamed of you if they could see you now.”
The words hit so hard that Laura gasps.
People have tended to tiptoe around her since That Night. It is one of the things that makes her furious, but she realises now that she has also been relying on it. Knowing that no one will tackle her for her bad behaviour because they don’t want to upset her further has been useful, and she has taken full advantage. To say that her parents would be ashamed of her…that’s below the belt. They wouldn’t be. Would they?
She looks at herself through other people’s eyes. Long, wild hair, no make up, lived-in clothes. Drifting through life without touching anyone or letting anyone touch her, unable to let people get close to her in case something scary happens to them. Shutting her emotions down in order not to deal with the anger and bitterness and guilt that makes her want to smash the world or herself. No, her parents would not be proud of any of that.
The knowledge makes her long legs go weak and she folds onto the kitchen floor. Looks up at her aunt, but can barely see through the tears that have gathered.
Aunt Linda sits down beside her, silent.
“I constantly wonder why I walked away without a scratch, when everyone else was killed. Why me? I don’t deserve to be here,” Laura admits quietly.
“But you are here. That’s the only fact that matters. You have to find a way of moving on from this.” A heavy sigh. “I know I’m not your mother, and never can replace her, but I do love you, and I am here for you.
“But you know what else? I can’t do this for you – only you can make the decision to live again rather than merely exist.”
The clock on the wall ticks off the silent seconds.
“Would Mum and Dad really be ashamed of me?” Laura finally asks in a small voice.
Another big, sad sigh. “If you carry on the way you are, yes. You know what your dad was like about wasted potential.” As a teacher it was something he saw a lot of and did his best to stop.
More silence, broken only by Laura sniffing. The older woman nudges her niece. “You always were a stubborn little thing. Remember how you always had to have the last word in an argument, even with your father. We’d hear you chuntering away to yourself up the stairs, having the last word. Why don’t you put that strength to good use: make up your mind to turn your life around. Please.”
“I’ll try. I will try.”
“Would you ever consider talking to a counsellor?”
Laura feels her face screwing up and quickly tries to smooth it again. “Umm, well, it’s an idea… It’s not very ‘me’ but…”
“No, you’re right. I knew it before I said it.” Her aunt nods crisply. “But I think you need to get this out of your system once and for all so that you can start putting it behind you. What about writing it down; keeping a diary?”
“Maybe?” Laura catches the expression on her aunt’s face. “No, I mean, yes, I’ll do it. I’ll try.”
The pair share a slightly damp hug, then pull apart.
“This lino is cold,” Aunt Linda announces. “Why don’t we go sit on the sofa instead? And I’ll make us a nice cup of tea first – if you don’t mind.”
Laura laughs shakily and agrees, wiping tears from her face. Her aunt bustles around the kitchen, and soon the pair are chatting about Uncle Kieran’s latest project. A DIY enthusiast, he has decided to build a boat. Both women agree they definitely won’t be going anywhere near it.
It is late by the time Aunt Linda gives Laura a bone-cracking hug goodbye. The pair have talked, laughed and cried together. It is the first time Laura has really communicated with anyone for years, and it is a strange mixture of vulnerability and pleasure she feels at having let her brittle guard down a little.
When she goes back into her lounge she notices something on her table. At some point her aunt had put out a notepad and pen without the younger woman noticing. The sneaky…!
The eye-rolling is automatic, but Laura forces herself to pick them up and make herself comfortable. No time like the present, she decides, and starts to write, slowly at first, then with gathering speed as writing muscles she has not flexed for years loosen up.
The morning mist hung thick over the fields, dissipating the low, late autumn sun into a heavy haze of golds and oranges. It lurked in hollows and piled up against the gentle rolls of the land, obscuring the scenery to mere hints of occasional hedge or tree as I drove to work from the out-lying village of Layer into Colchester.
That’s when I saw the white van appear. It was travelling towards me in the opposite direction, going straight and true…and slightly over the centre. I tried to move over but there was little room on this narrow country lane. Closer it got, closer. It was going to hit me.
Heart racing, I beeped my horn, but it didn’t move over. The driver probably did not even realise he was on my side of the road because he could not see properly.
Everything happened at once. The white wall of van flying by. A bang, a shattering sound, glass raining over me. Gasping, I pulled over in time to see the van disappear into the mist.
I looked down at my hands and felt like they belonged to someone else as I watched blood blossoming from myriad pinprick injuries. Glittering shards of glass dusted my flesh, my coat, the steering wheel; they seemed to be everywhere. And more blood. There was a lot of blood for such tiny injuries.
Suddenly I noticed those hands I was gazing at were now shaking.
Breathing hard but brain on autopilot, I turned off the radio, leaving a scarlet smear on the button. Put the gear stick into neutral, and turned the engine off. Almost fell from the car. Only then did I burst into tears by the side of the road.
The van had smashed into my wing mirror hard enough to tear it off and send it shattering through the driver’s side window. Unbelievably, though, that was the only damage. No scrape down the side of the car, no serious injuries on my part. Only a broken wing mirror, broken side window, and a few little cuts to my hand.
I had called my dad, Seamus, in tears, and he had immediately called the police, then fetched me. Had sorted everything for me and got the car fixed within days. Typical Dad, he always looked after me.
“You were so lucky,” he kept telling me. “It could have been so much worse.”
I kept grumbling back that I didn’t feel very lucky.
No, she had not felt lucky at all at the time, Laura remembers. She lays her pen down, unable to see through the tears that are now coming faster than the memories. She wraps herself in a hug, wishing it were her father’s arms she could feel, wishing that she could go back in time and stop the tragedy hurtling towards her that far overshadowed this silly crash.
Neither she nor her father had had any idea at the time that this random accident would save Laura just weeks later. The difference between life and death had been a knife-edge of coincidence.
***
Loneliness eats at Adam’s core, a werewolf ripping him apart and gnawing on his bones. He can feel the teeth, hear the lips smacking. Red Riding Hood lost and needing to be saved.
No, no, he is the huntsman, strong and coming to the rescue.
Only he does not feel strong, he does not feel like he is coming to the rescue. Why can’t someone save him? Even with Julie crooning words of comfort inside him, as she has for the last six months, he cannot find respite.
He rubs his head. It hurts. Everything hurts. His face is wet with tears.
Huntsman. He needs to go hunting.
***
TWENTY-FIVE YEARS EARLIER
Adam was not much of a talker. At the tender age of six he had already learned there was little point because no one listened. Instead he would sit quietly, trying to keep as still as possible so that people didn’t notice him. The only movement would be his fingers picking at a scrape on his knee, elbow, knuckles…
His parents often despaired about how clumsy he was, telling him he should look where he was going then he would not fall over so much. Adam did not argue with them, he simply nodded and made himself even more still.
He was never tempted to tell the truth: that he hadn’t fallen over, that his mummy had got some sandpaper and scrubbed at his tender flesh with it. He deserved it for being a bad boy, and it never would have happened if he had been good. From drinking his orange juice fast enough, to keeping his room tidy, to not looking at his mummy in the right way, he was never good enough. Adam was bad to the bone.
CHAPTER FIVE
~ Rose Of Sharon ~
Consumed By Love
PRESENT DAY
Blue lights blaze, a siren piercing the summer air and leaving behind a tinnitus impression. Mike watches the squad car nose its way through the heavy congestion that always builds up around the traffic lights outside the station, and wonders where it is heading.
He will find out if it is anything interesting when he goes back inside, but currently he is busy having a sneaky fag, making the most of not only the rain stopping but the August sun popping out briefly. There is a small patch of grass nearby, and he stares at it absently, watching a bumblebee hypnotically moving from clover flower to clover flower. He looks without seeing, though, lost in thought over a case he is working. His wedding ring twinkles in the sunlight occasionally as he brings his cigarette up for another drag.
Ring! Ring!
Mike visibly jumps then smiles at himself as he fishes his mobile from his pocket. It is Simon.
“You working? Or you all right to talk?” his friend asks after they have exchanged greetings.
“Fag break. Just wondering if I can hand a case over to Trading Standards. We’ve a load of counterfeit goods flooding the area at the moment.”
“Hah, don’t blame you for trying to get rid. Wish I could get rid of Operation Blaze.”
“Still no break through?”
“Nope.”
“What about the driver of the light-coloured Ford Focus seen in the area? It sounded promising.”
“Tracked down the driver and eliminated him from our enquiries.”
Mike takes another gentle drag, then stubs the cigarette out on the wall he is leaning against. The brick is blackened from such use. He knows that right now what his friend wants is someone to talk to who is nothing to do with his case, so that he can unload some of his frustration. In front of his team, Simon must remain confident so that they continue to have faith in him but the pressure of leading a murder investigation is great. So Mike stays silent, allowing Simon to fill it.
“Detectives have tracked the movements of several hundred registered sex offenders within our jurisdiction to determine the individuals’ whereabouts on the day of Julie Clayton’s death.”
Mike nods to himself. Although she had not been raped there was a strong chance the attack had a sexual element to it. But the detective sergeant’s instincts are tingling, telling him Simon has more to say.
“You worried he’ll strike again?” he probes.
Simon sighs down the phone. “Worried he already has. Obviously, we’re looking into the vic’s background: friends, family, lovers, colleagues, the usual suspects, just in case it is a straightforward case. But… I know I don’t need to tell you to keep it under your hat, but it looks like we may have a serial killer on our hands.”
“Rare,” breathes Mike.
“Rare, and a bloody nightmare.”
Both men know that if it is a serial killer the chances are there will be nothing at all connecting the women. That sort of murderer tends to pick victims at random. The police’s only chance of catching him is him killing again, and again, and again, until he slips up or they get a lucky break.
“The MO is fairly unique, with him cutting off the victim’s lips,” continues Simon. “So we’ve been scouring the country for similar open cases. Turns out there have been a few. A Sandra Yang, killed in Sheffield, in April 2012. Then two in 2013: Alex Deane, from Skegness in Lincolnshire, murdered in the February, and Sharon Humphreys in Wimbledon, South London, in August. Lips removed every time. We’re looking for c
onnections between the women, but so far there doesn’t seem to be anything. I’ve eighty people on this, but…”
But it is like looking for a needle in a haystack. Without something definitive, some firm physical evidence or a way of connecting the women, all anyone can do is wait for the killer to strike again.
Mike cannot help thanking his lucky stars that his biggest case right now involves fake iPads, and that he is merely a spectator in the investigation into Julie Clayton’s death.
***
TWENTY-FIVE YEARS AGO
The door was only slightly ajar, but it was enough for the sounds of the argument to float through to six-year-old Adam, who was curled up on the floor, face pressed to the crack.
“He barely says two words! How can you say he doesn’t need help? It’s not normal,” said his gran. She wasn’t shouting, simply speaking, but there was an authority in her voice that made it carry.
“And I suppose that’s my fault, is it? Graeme, how can you stand there and let her accuse me of being a bad mother?”
“She isn’t saying that…” his dad began, but got cut off.
“Oh, of course you’d side with her.”
“Bickering isn’t helping anyone,” Ada said. “Adam should be seen by a doctor or child expert or something.”
But his mum was not listening. Adam could hear her starting to cry gently. “Of course it’s my fault. I’m a terrible mother. I just don’t know how to be a mother, I never had anyone to learn from.”
Her voice grew muffled and Adam knew it would be because his father was holding her, comforting her.
“I-I was pushed around from pillar to post, different foster carers, different homes,” she snuffled.
“This isn’t about you…” said Ada.
“It is; it’s about my parenting skills. I know I don’t have any. I was so young when I had Adam. But I’ll try harder, I’ll…” The words disappeared into sobs.