Saving Grace, page 18
My hands are shaky. What the hell is going on?
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
THEN
The sun bounces off the glassy waters. The ocean is calm, but underneath its surface lies a never-ending battle to win the fight for survival. Nothing is as it seems. Today is Imogen’s funeral, and instead of the gratification and fulfilment I expected to feel, I am instead fuelled by envy. The sudden loss of a young life always brings about an intensified mourning amongst those who knew the deceased, but perhaps that is because the death of the young is not life’s order, no matter how pitiful they were when they were alive. Her eulogy will be told like a fairy tale – make-believe. Here, we will not find the real truth of the ostentatious, spiteful, back-stabbing cretin I know she was. I offered to go with Grace, but she considered it a couple of moments too long enough for me to know my presence wasn’t required. It was a blow – I think this is the moment my victory was snatched away from me only to be replaced with the toxic envy I am feeling. I wonder, just for a moment, how Grace would react if I was the one who died? Would Imogen be at my funeral?
In the near distance, a boat idles on the surface of the sea; it’s close enough that I can hear the laughter of the two people on board. I force myself to laugh too, because I need to acknowledge the fact that today is a good day; Imogen Tasker will soon be six feet under with nothing but maggots and worms to keep her company. Then soon the words on her headstone will fade to nothing, the hands of time will weaken the world’s memories of her and soon she’ll be nothing more than a drop in a boundless ocean. Fuck you, Imogen. I won.
The wake was held in a forest. I imagined it would be in some upmarket pub; there was nothing real or organic about this girl, so why have her wake connected to anything but her status lifestyle?
‘When Imogen was a girl, if she felt unhappy, her parents took her to the woods, and it would brighten her mood. They called it her happy place, so it seemed fitting they should go there. It was beautiful and, in a sense, joyous. I could feel her spirit as the wind blew through the trees, like she was there, approving of her final farewell.’ What a lovely sentiment Grace had spoken. All I could feel was bile rising at the back of my throat. I wanted to scream, but instead I smiled. It was more like a grimace, really, like when babies are too young to smile and they’re actually doing a shit. That’s how I saw the situation, nothing but a pile of shit.
It is Saturday, and we sit in the warmth of Grace’s conservatory overlooking the large garden.
‘How big is your garden?’ I ask.
‘A few acres, but it has so many little nooks and crannies that, as a kid, this was my adventure playground. It’s probably a bit muddy from last night’s rain, but we could take a walk if you like. I’ve got a spare pair of wellies in the mudroom.’
‘A what room?’
‘It’s a transition between the outdoors and the indoors. You keep things in there like coats, boots, wellies, that kind of thing.’
‘They’ve got a name for everything.’
‘My parents lived in America before I was born. That’s where they got the idea from. It’s always served us really well, especially when we had dogs and were living so close to the sea. Come on. Let’s go.’
We enter the mudroom and the first thing I notice is that I live in a flat that is smaller than this ‘essential’ room. Everything is neatly stored; it doesn’t live up to its name. The walls are painted in duck-egg blue, expensive-looking shelves are attached to the wall, and the drawers that look like they belong in a showroom are strategically placed with bushy house plants. There are even three hooks attached to the walls with names engraved in shiny silver: Annie, Charlie, Fritz. Grace catches me looking.
‘Those belonged to our three Weimaraners. Mum never took them down because she was so upset when they all died.’
‘They died together?’
‘No, they all died at different times, old age. Except Fritz. He was only eighteen months when he died, just a puppy.’
I never had pets and I never understood why people cared for them so much. We had a neighbour who had an annoying Yorkie-terrier-whatever dog with a pathetic worm-like tail that would yap for hours on end and cock its leg up to piss every ten seconds. I wanted to wring its scrawny neck and toss it off the top floor, but I never got close enough to catch the vermin.
‘He was so beautiful. Dad would say his coat was like the silver of the moon. He got bloat, which is time-sensitive in terms of life and death and passed away during surgery.’
‘That’s unfortunate. I’ve never had a pet.’
Grace opens the door and wind funnels along the side of the house. I step back and realise my jumper isn’t going to be warm enough even for a short walk.
She takes a waxy, navy-coloured coat and holds it ready for my arms to slip in. There is a weight to it that tugs on my shoulders, I try to zip it up but the zip only glides along to the underside of my chest.
‘My mum is super tiny. But it will keep the chill off you.’ Her nice way of saying I’m not a fat lump.
The garden is filled with shrubs and flowers that are still in full bloom even though it’s out of season. At the end of the path, the garden opens up into a large clearing, there are some private steps which we walk to. It leads onto a high point in which the sea can be seen. The steps themselves don’t lead onto another pathway, but the tip of a cliff, the edges pointed and treacherous. The sting of the salty air gives me a shiver, and Grace wraps her arm around my body and pulls me into her. I don’t expect it. My body stiffens as we both look out onto the horizon watching pointed crests forming whitecaps, neither of us saying anything until I turn to kiss her and a voice cuts through the air like a butcher’s knife, slicing right through the bone.
She quickly steps away and turns her back to the direction the voice comes from.
‘It’s my mum… shit, that was close.’
Reality sinks its long teeth into my skin, and I am reminded of a bitter fact.
I am a disgusting secret.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The emptiness of St George’s Park was a clear indication that half term was over, absent of children at play, with a few dog walkers, joggers, and parents pushing prams, it was an ordinary day. It was hard to believe the world kept on moving when his had ended. He appreciated his sister had dragged him out for a walk, and it would have felt good to be out if he didn’t feel so bilious.
‘I drank too much last night, feel so bloody ropy.’ Jordan didn’t have the energy to fix what was broken or the headspace to analyse what went wrong for his girlfriend to leave him for another man, so whisky functioned as the anaesthetic to numb the pain.
‘Fresh air will do you good.’ Carly looked at him, his body trembling, his skin clammy and pale. ‘Oh crap, Jordan, are you about to be sick?’
‘Dunno!’ Jordan leaned forward and inhaled loud breaths before his body convulsed like a sick dog and he projectile vomited onto the grass.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Jordan. You can’t spew up in a family park – there, look, go to the toilets.’
Jordan bolted, hands cupping his mouth. Carly walked to the swings near the toilets and waited, she heard the sounds of his retching echoing off the walls and took instant pity. Then it went quiet, and then the sound of a primal scream made her heart fall into her stomach and her legs momentarily go limp.
She ran to the entrance of the gents. Jordan appeared in the doorway gripping its frame to steady himself, panting, unable to find his voice, his face ashen, eyes crazed and bulging.
‘What… what’s wrong?’ Her pitch was high enough to shatter glass.
Her eyes transfixed on his.
‘There’s a dead body in there.’
‘What the hell.’ Carly pushed past him. In a cubicle, the body of a female, hair matted with dried blood, spilled out on cold tiles. Both siblings were rooted to the spot, shock gripping them both as if they were watching a film and this wasn’t really happening. Eyes transfixed with horror, unable to look away.
Carly threw her bag onto the floor and pressed her fingertips against the victim’s neck.
‘Call 999,’ she shouted over her shoulder.
‘Is she still alive?’
‘Shut up, I’m trying to…’ But Carly knew the tell-tale signs of death. She’d seen it hundreds of times on the ward. Sure, she wasn’t a nurse anymore, but the nurse still lived within her and there were just some skills that never fell away.
They both crouched beside the corpse. Jordan took off his jacket and was about to place it under the victim’s head.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ she hissed.
‘I dunno… I just… it feels like the right thing to do.’
‘This is a crime scene, Jordan. Don’t piss about.’ She looked across at her bag heaped on the floor which would now be contaminated. They slowly stood up and moved away from the body, waiting outside the entrance to the toilets, waiting for the wail of the ambulance and police cars to cut through the air.
CHAPTER FORTY
JENNIFER MACK
Just before noon, I’m standing in a park, which on any normal day would be considered pretty with its viridescent backdrop, sounds of tranquil running water from a large fountain featuring a young girl jumping over a skipping rope. But when you throw in the press, the police, ambulances, and a stretcher with a body bag on it, the scenery changes dramatically. I’m taking a witness account from a man called Jordan Fitzpatrick. He looks to be in his late thirties, maybe younger, and his withered skin indicates he’s been living his own trauma, not just the one he stumbled on today. There’s years of grief etched onto his face. His expression is alert when we first engage, and out of all the other journos he gravitates toward me. He is what I call a little rough around the edges, his London accent reminds me of Pete, and it makes my heart sink; but I push the thought of him out of my head and focus on the job.
‘Not exactly how I planned my morning,’ he mutters.
I notice his scent is really off, one that is concurrent with vomit. I take a step back which he immediately addresses.
‘Sorry… I’m a bit under the weather. Nothing you can catch, mind you. Got sloshed last night.’
I nod. Been there. ‘Can’t have made you feel any better to find a body.’
‘Bloody horrible. Is it… you know, one of them? Another Grace?’
‘We’re waiting on a formal identification. But in the meantime, can you tell me what happened?’
‘Not much to tell. I felt ill, ran to the toilet ’cause my sister was having a go at me about throwing up in the park. Not something I could help, I might add. I pushed open the loo door and there she was. At first, I thought it was some street bum passed out or something, but then I saw the blood and the putrid smell hit me. Fuck. As if my life couldn’t get any more fucked up.’
I think he’s hinting for me to be his sounding board, but I don’t bite. I don’t have the time or the energy to deal with this guy’s problems. And thankfully, before he can volunteer that information himself, I see a familiar figure come into view from the corner of my eye.
‘Jennifer.’ Lilith nods and then turns her attention to Jordan. My phone rings in my pocket. I’m irritated by the interruption; I want to hear what Lilith has to say.
I swipe the phone and snap, ‘Hello?’
‘Jennifer, it’s me.’ Me? I don’t recognise the hurried, panic-stricken voice.
There’s a pregnant pause. ‘You need to get to the office immediately.’ When the voice on the phone evens to a calmer tone it clicks that it’s Olivia.
‘I can’t right now. I’m at the park where they’ve found another victim.’
‘Yeah, I know that, but you need to get back here now. It’s important. Is Grain with you?’
My head feels light, my legs unsteady.
‘Yeah, why? What is this about?’
‘Tell her to come with you.’
‘Olivia. Just tell me what the hell is going on.’
‘There’s a package waiting for you, and it isn’t a normal package. Oh God, please just come. Come now. I can’t explain, you just… just get here.’
The line goes dead.
I feel dizzy. I try to steady myself but everything and everyone around me feels far away, as if I am in a goldfish bowl, a dream where I am screaming but nobody hears me. Nobody sees me.
Lilith is talking to the witness beneath a tree, her gaze is set on Jordan, absorbing every detail he is sharing with her.
I approach her with caution. Her eyes narrow at me in annoyance.
‘Lilith, you mind driving me back to the office?’
‘Have you lost your mind?’ she says through gritted teeth.
I stare at her for a moment too long, hoping she will read my pleading eyes.
‘I got a call from the team, and they asked me to come back, Olivia said it’s urgent, there is a package and…’
‘A package?’
‘Yes, it–’ I continue but Lilith breaks me off mid-sentence, sunshine breaks through the clouds and I blink into the piercing light. The seed of a headache that has been looming begins to manifest itself into the pain it has been threatening all day.
‘I am at a murder scene. If you need assistance to come away from here, then I suggest you ask one of the other officers.’
Dry-mouthed, I look around and try to pick out an officer in the crowd who isn’t in the thick of all the commotion.
I turn back to Lilith. I don’t know where the emotion has come from, but I am swallowing down tears, thick and lumpy in my throat.
‘Lilith… I…’
‘Excuse me,’ Lilith says to Jordan Fitzpatrick. He holds his hand to his mouth and nods his head. He still appears dreadfully nauseated and probably grateful for the reprieve.
‘What is wrong with you?’ Lilith says, her tone low, talking through her teeth again.
‘Call from one of my colleagues, she said there’s a package at the office and to bring you with me.’
‘Why couldn’t she tell you what it is over the phone?’
‘I don’t know, but it has to be something bad.’ I hate the sound of my own voice. Needy. Childish. Desperate.
‘Wild wolves will not pull me away from where I am right now.’ She shouts over my shoulder to an officer, and he jumps to her command like an obedient dog. He looks about eighteen, tall and slim without so much as an etching of facial hair. His police uniform looks incredulous against his slender frame, it can’t be that long ago since he was in a school uniform, let alone the police uniform that makes him look like he is playing dress-up.
On the way to The Chronicle, we ride in near-perfect silence except for static coming from the police radio.
I take the lift with PC Hall to the second floor and we are met by a very pale Olivia. She points to a medium-sized box that sits on my desk.
I’d absolutely kill for a drink right now to take the edge off my nerves.
When I peer into the box, my heart stops.
‘Holy Mary-fucking Christ,’ I spurt. This feels like a nightmare and I am waiting for the alarm to go off and take me out of this moment.
It’s as if my brain cannot process what is in front of me. Or it doesn’t want to.
PC Hall pulls out his phone and makes a call. I can hear the unmistakable voice of Lilith on the other end, it is distant, but I know her voice as it’s embedded in my head. PC Hall ushers me back and puts the phone on speaker. ‘Ma’am, this matter calls for your attention. We need you here.’ He begins to explain what is in front of us, the cold, hard facts bring the sheer horror to the surface. Lilith is eerily calm. There is no surprise tangled up in her words, but then again, she is a seasoned detective.
I step forward. My eyes do not pull away from the content of the package. ‘Have you called Jacob?’ I ask Olivia when I finally find my voice.
‘Left two voicemails.’
‘And the name, it’s specifically addressed to me?’
‘Yeah. Here.’
‘Don’t touch it!’ PC Hall shouts as Olivia pulls down the cardboard flap. ‘Don’t touch a bloody thing! Forensics need everything intact. This is now a crime scene.’
Olivia and I exchange a fearful look.
This is not a sick joke, it’s personal.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
JENNIFER MACK
A middle-aged officer, PC Shah, takes me into a room with a red, frayed couch and pillows now stained a tobacco yellow alongside a fake house plant, its plastic leaves weighed down with dust. I feel uneasy, like I am the one in the firing line, that I am the criminal. With the absence of a window and natural light, the room feels closed and claustrophobic; I have nightmares of places like this where I search for a door, but there is nothing but thick concrete closing in on me. I find it hard to breathe.
‘Can I please have some water?’ I ask.
‘Yeah of course.’ Shah leaves the room and returns momentarily with a half-filled plastic cup. I gratefully take it from her and down it in one go. My mouth isn’t quenched but I don’t want to ask for more.
‘Do you know if they’ve found who the… you know, who it belongs to?’
‘Not that I know of, but I’m sure we’ll know soon enough. Must’ve scared you, like something out of a horror film.’
That’s exactly what it was. An absolute horror. The white, bloodless image stains my memory and every time I blink, the exposed bone from where it’s been surgically cut at the radius flashes in my mind. It’s one thing reading about gruesome subjects – that I’m used to – but it’s quite another having a severed hand delivered to you personally.
At this moment, I cannot imagine how my life will ever feel normal again. This story has consumed me – somehow, I felt emotionally crumpled, and the reality of my loneliness has kicked in. I have nobody to call. Nobody to wrap their arms around me and tell me it is going to be all right. I keep asking myself: Why do I take everything so seriously? When was the last time I laughed? And then I remember it was with Pete.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
THEN
The sun bounces off the glassy waters. The ocean is calm, but underneath its surface lies a never-ending battle to win the fight for survival. Nothing is as it seems. Today is Imogen’s funeral, and instead of the gratification and fulfilment I expected to feel, I am instead fuelled by envy. The sudden loss of a young life always brings about an intensified mourning amongst those who knew the deceased, but perhaps that is because the death of the young is not life’s order, no matter how pitiful they were when they were alive. Her eulogy will be told like a fairy tale – make-believe. Here, we will not find the real truth of the ostentatious, spiteful, back-stabbing cretin I know she was. I offered to go with Grace, but she considered it a couple of moments too long enough for me to know my presence wasn’t required. It was a blow – I think this is the moment my victory was snatched away from me only to be replaced with the toxic envy I am feeling. I wonder, just for a moment, how Grace would react if I was the one who died? Would Imogen be at my funeral?
In the near distance, a boat idles on the surface of the sea; it’s close enough that I can hear the laughter of the two people on board. I force myself to laugh too, because I need to acknowledge the fact that today is a good day; Imogen Tasker will soon be six feet under with nothing but maggots and worms to keep her company. Then soon the words on her headstone will fade to nothing, the hands of time will weaken the world’s memories of her and soon she’ll be nothing more than a drop in a boundless ocean. Fuck you, Imogen. I won.
The wake was held in a forest. I imagined it would be in some upmarket pub; there was nothing real or organic about this girl, so why have her wake connected to anything but her status lifestyle?
‘When Imogen was a girl, if she felt unhappy, her parents took her to the woods, and it would brighten her mood. They called it her happy place, so it seemed fitting they should go there. It was beautiful and, in a sense, joyous. I could feel her spirit as the wind blew through the trees, like she was there, approving of her final farewell.’ What a lovely sentiment Grace had spoken. All I could feel was bile rising at the back of my throat. I wanted to scream, but instead I smiled. It was more like a grimace, really, like when babies are too young to smile and they’re actually doing a shit. That’s how I saw the situation, nothing but a pile of shit.
It is Saturday, and we sit in the warmth of Grace’s conservatory overlooking the large garden.
‘How big is your garden?’ I ask.
‘A few acres, but it has so many little nooks and crannies that, as a kid, this was my adventure playground. It’s probably a bit muddy from last night’s rain, but we could take a walk if you like. I’ve got a spare pair of wellies in the mudroom.’
‘A what room?’
‘It’s a transition between the outdoors and the indoors. You keep things in there like coats, boots, wellies, that kind of thing.’
‘They’ve got a name for everything.’
‘My parents lived in America before I was born. That’s where they got the idea from. It’s always served us really well, especially when we had dogs and were living so close to the sea. Come on. Let’s go.’
We enter the mudroom and the first thing I notice is that I live in a flat that is smaller than this ‘essential’ room. Everything is neatly stored; it doesn’t live up to its name. The walls are painted in duck-egg blue, expensive-looking shelves are attached to the wall, and the drawers that look like they belong in a showroom are strategically placed with bushy house plants. There are even three hooks attached to the walls with names engraved in shiny silver: Annie, Charlie, Fritz. Grace catches me looking.
‘Those belonged to our three Weimaraners. Mum never took them down because she was so upset when they all died.’
‘They died together?’
‘No, they all died at different times, old age. Except Fritz. He was only eighteen months when he died, just a puppy.’
I never had pets and I never understood why people cared for them so much. We had a neighbour who had an annoying Yorkie-terrier-whatever dog with a pathetic worm-like tail that would yap for hours on end and cock its leg up to piss every ten seconds. I wanted to wring its scrawny neck and toss it off the top floor, but I never got close enough to catch the vermin.
‘He was so beautiful. Dad would say his coat was like the silver of the moon. He got bloat, which is time-sensitive in terms of life and death and passed away during surgery.’
‘That’s unfortunate. I’ve never had a pet.’
Grace opens the door and wind funnels along the side of the house. I step back and realise my jumper isn’t going to be warm enough even for a short walk.
She takes a waxy, navy-coloured coat and holds it ready for my arms to slip in. There is a weight to it that tugs on my shoulders, I try to zip it up but the zip only glides along to the underside of my chest.
‘My mum is super tiny. But it will keep the chill off you.’ Her nice way of saying I’m not a fat lump.
The garden is filled with shrubs and flowers that are still in full bloom even though it’s out of season. At the end of the path, the garden opens up into a large clearing, there are some private steps which we walk to. It leads onto a high point in which the sea can be seen. The steps themselves don’t lead onto another pathway, but the tip of a cliff, the edges pointed and treacherous. The sting of the salty air gives me a shiver, and Grace wraps her arm around my body and pulls me into her. I don’t expect it. My body stiffens as we both look out onto the horizon watching pointed crests forming whitecaps, neither of us saying anything until I turn to kiss her and a voice cuts through the air like a butcher’s knife, slicing right through the bone.
She quickly steps away and turns her back to the direction the voice comes from.
‘It’s my mum… shit, that was close.’
Reality sinks its long teeth into my skin, and I am reminded of a bitter fact.
I am a disgusting secret.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The emptiness of St George’s Park was a clear indication that half term was over, absent of children at play, with a few dog walkers, joggers, and parents pushing prams, it was an ordinary day. It was hard to believe the world kept on moving when his had ended. He appreciated his sister had dragged him out for a walk, and it would have felt good to be out if he didn’t feel so bilious.
‘I drank too much last night, feel so bloody ropy.’ Jordan didn’t have the energy to fix what was broken or the headspace to analyse what went wrong for his girlfriend to leave him for another man, so whisky functioned as the anaesthetic to numb the pain.
‘Fresh air will do you good.’ Carly looked at him, his body trembling, his skin clammy and pale. ‘Oh crap, Jordan, are you about to be sick?’
‘Dunno!’ Jordan leaned forward and inhaled loud breaths before his body convulsed like a sick dog and he projectile vomited onto the grass.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Jordan. You can’t spew up in a family park – there, look, go to the toilets.’
Jordan bolted, hands cupping his mouth. Carly walked to the swings near the toilets and waited, she heard the sounds of his retching echoing off the walls and took instant pity. Then it went quiet, and then the sound of a primal scream made her heart fall into her stomach and her legs momentarily go limp.
She ran to the entrance of the gents. Jordan appeared in the doorway gripping its frame to steady himself, panting, unable to find his voice, his face ashen, eyes crazed and bulging.
‘What… what’s wrong?’ Her pitch was high enough to shatter glass.
Her eyes transfixed on his.
‘There’s a dead body in there.’
‘What the hell.’ Carly pushed past him. In a cubicle, the body of a female, hair matted with dried blood, spilled out on cold tiles. Both siblings were rooted to the spot, shock gripping them both as if they were watching a film and this wasn’t really happening. Eyes transfixed with horror, unable to look away.
Carly threw her bag onto the floor and pressed her fingertips against the victim’s neck.
‘Call 999,’ she shouted over her shoulder.
‘Is she still alive?’
‘Shut up, I’m trying to…’ But Carly knew the tell-tale signs of death. She’d seen it hundreds of times on the ward. Sure, she wasn’t a nurse anymore, but the nurse still lived within her and there were just some skills that never fell away.
They both crouched beside the corpse. Jordan took off his jacket and was about to place it under the victim’s head.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ she hissed.
‘I dunno… I just… it feels like the right thing to do.’
‘This is a crime scene, Jordan. Don’t piss about.’ She looked across at her bag heaped on the floor which would now be contaminated. They slowly stood up and moved away from the body, waiting outside the entrance to the toilets, waiting for the wail of the ambulance and police cars to cut through the air.
CHAPTER FORTY
JENNIFER MACK
Just before noon, I’m standing in a park, which on any normal day would be considered pretty with its viridescent backdrop, sounds of tranquil running water from a large fountain featuring a young girl jumping over a skipping rope. But when you throw in the press, the police, ambulances, and a stretcher with a body bag on it, the scenery changes dramatically. I’m taking a witness account from a man called Jordan Fitzpatrick. He looks to be in his late thirties, maybe younger, and his withered skin indicates he’s been living his own trauma, not just the one he stumbled on today. There’s years of grief etched onto his face. His expression is alert when we first engage, and out of all the other journos he gravitates toward me. He is what I call a little rough around the edges, his London accent reminds me of Pete, and it makes my heart sink; but I push the thought of him out of my head and focus on the job.
‘Not exactly how I planned my morning,’ he mutters.
I notice his scent is really off, one that is concurrent with vomit. I take a step back which he immediately addresses.
‘Sorry… I’m a bit under the weather. Nothing you can catch, mind you. Got sloshed last night.’
I nod. Been there. ‘Can’t have made you feel any better to find a body.’
‘Bloody horrible. Is it… you know, one of them? Another Grace?’
‘We’re waiting on a formal identification. But in the meantime, can you tell me what happened?’
‘Not much to tell. I felt ill, ran to the toilet ’cause my sister was having a go at me about throwing up in the park. Not something I could help, I might add. I pushed open the loo door and there she was. At first, I thought it was some street bum passed out or something, but then I saw the blood and the putrid smell hit me. Fuck. As if my life couldn’t get any more fucked up.’
I think he’s hinting for me to be his sounding board, but I don’t bite. I don’t have the time or the energy to deal with this guy’s problems. And thankfully, before he can volunteer that information himself, I see a familiar figure come into view from the corner of my eye.
‘Jennifer.’ Lilith nods and then turns her attention to Jordan. My phone rings in my pocket. I’m irritated by the interruption; I want to hear what Lilith has to say.
I swipe the phone and snap, ‘Hello?’
‘Jennifer, it’s me.’ Me? I don’t recognise the hurried, panic-stricken voice.
There’s a pregnant pause. ‘You need to get to the office immediately.’ When the voice on the phone evens to a calmer tone it clicks that it’s Olivia.
‘I can’t right now. I’m at the park where they’ve found another victim.’
‘Yeah, I know that, but you need to get back here now. It’s important. Is Grain with you?’
My head feels light, my legs unsteady.
‘Yeah, why? What is this about?’
‘Tell her to come with you.’
‘Olivia. Just tell me what the hell is going on.’
‘There’s a package waiting for you, and it isn’t a normal package. Oh God, please just come. Come now. I can’t explain, you just… just get here.’
The line goes dead.
I feel dizzy. I try to steady myself but everything and everyone around me feels far away, as if I am in a goldfish bowl, a dream where I am screaming but nobody hears me. Nobody sees me.
Lilith is talking to the witness beneath a tree, her gaze is set on Jordan, absorbing every detail he is sharing with her.
I approach her with caution. Her eyes narrow at me in annoyance.
‘Lilith, you mind driving me back to the office?’
‘Have you lost your mind?’ she says through gritted teeth.
I stare at her for a moment too long, hoping she will read my pleading eyes.
‘I got a call from the team, and they asked me to come back, Olivia said it’s urgent, there is a package and…’
‘A package?’
‘Yes, it–’ I continue but Lilith breaks me off mid-sentence, sunshine breaks through the clouds and I blink into the piercing light. The seed of a headache that has been looming begins to manifest itself into the pain it has been threatening all day.
‘I am at a murder scene. If you need assistance to come away from here, then I suggest you ask one of the other officers.’
Dry-mouthed, I look around and try to pick out an officer in the crowd who isn’t in the thick of all the commotion.
I turn back to Lilith. I don’t know where the emotion has come from, but I am swallowing down tears, thick and lumpy in my throat.
‘Lilith… I…’
‘Excuse me,’ Lilith says to Jordan Fitzpatrick. He holds his hand to his mouth and nods his head. He still appears dreadfully nauseated and probably grateful for the reprieve.
‘What is wrong with you?’ Lilith says, her tone low, talking through her teeth again.
‘Call from one of my colleagues, she said there’s a package at the office and to bring you with me.’
‘Why couldn’t she tell you what it is over the phone?’
‘I don’t know, but it has to be something bad.’ I hate the sound of my own voice. Needy. Childish. Desperate.
‘Wild wolves will not pull me away from where I am right now.’ She shouts over my shoulder to an officer, and he jumps to her command like an obedient dog. He looks about eighteen, tall and slim without so much as an etching of facial hair. His police uniform looks incredulous against his slender frame, it can’t be that long ago since he was in a school uniform, let alone the police uniform that makes him look like he is playing dress-up.
On the way to The Chronicle, we ride in near-perfect silence except for static coming from the police radio.
I take the lift with PC Hall to the second floor and we are met by a very pale Olivia. She points to a medium-sized box that sits on my desk.
I’d absolutely kill for a drink right now to take the edge off my nerves.
When I peer into the box, my heart stops.
‘Holy Mary-fucking Christ,’ I spurt. This feels like a nightmare and I am waiting for the alarm to go off and take me out of this moment.
It’s as if my brain cannot process what is in front of me. Or it doesn’t want to.
PC Hall pulls out his phone and makes a call. I can hear the unmistakable voice of Lilith on the other end, it is distant, but I know her voice as it’s embedded in my head. PC Hall ushers me back and puts the phone on speaker. ‘Ma’am, this matter calls for your attention. We need you here.’ He begins to explain what is in front of us, the cold, hard facts bring the sheer horror to the surface. Lilith is eerily calm. There is no surprise tangled up in her words, but then again, she is a seasoned detective.
I step forward. My eyes do not pull away from the content of the package. ‘Have you called Jacob?’ I ask Olivia when I finally find my voice.
‘Left two voicemails.’
‘And the name, it’s specifically addressed to me?’
‘Yeah. Here.’
‘Don’t touch it!’ PC Hall shouts as Olivia pulls down the cardboard flap. ‘Don’t touch a bloody thing! Forensics need everything intact. This is now a crime scene.’
Olivia and I exchange a fearful look.
This is not a sick joke, it’s personal.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
JENNIFER MACK
A middle-aged officer, PC Shah, takes me into a room with a red, frayed couch and pillows now stained a tobacco yellow alongside a fake house plant, its plastic leaves weighed down with dust. I feel uneasy, like I am the one in the firing line, that I am the criminal. With the absence of a window and natural light, the room feels closed and claustrophobic; I have nightmares of places like this where I search for a door, but there is nothing but thick concrete closing in on me. I find it hard to breathe.
‘Can I please have some water?’ I ask.
‘Yeah of course.’ Shah leaves the room and returns momentarily with a half-filled plastic cup. I gratefully take it from her and down it in one go. My mouth isn’t quenched but I don’t want to ask for more.
‘Do you know if they’ve found who the… you know, who it belongs to?’
‘Not that I know of, but I’m sure we’ll know soon enough. Must’ve scared you, like something out of a horror film.’
That’s exactly what it was. An absolute horror. The white, bloodless image stains my memory and every time I blink, the exposed bone from where it’s been surgically cut at the radius flashes in my mind. It’s one thing reading about gruesome subjects – that I’m used to – but it’s quite another having a severed hand delivered to you personally.
At this moment, I cannot imagine how my life will ever feel normal again. This story has consumed me – somehow, I felt emotionally crumpled, and the reality of my loneliness has kicked in. I have nobody to call. Nobody to wrap their arms around me and tell me it is going to be all right. I keep asking myself: Why do I take everything so seriously? When was the last time I laughed? And then I remember it was with Pete.
