Saving Grace, page 4
Lilith Grain is diminutive. Her office seems too big for her; she stands no taller than four feet. Her dark eyes bore into mine; her ultra-short, pixie-style hair sharpening her angular face. When she speaks, she does so with authority, for what she lacks in height, she makes up in confidence. Duncan, who owns Fruits & Roots back in Cornwall, used to talk of short man syndrome; I wonder if the same could be true for women? Grain is a veteran in her field, she’s served in the Metropolitan Police for fourteen years, starting as constable and climbing her way to chief inspector and detective chief inspector. She rose to stardom for her role in capturing Derek Johnson, the serial killer known as the King’s Cross Ripper, and the South Kensington Strangler. She wrote a book of her account of capturing Johnson called I Found You in the Dark; it featured in a documentary on the BBC and was optioned for a mini-series.
‘Thank you for seeing me today, Miss Grain.’ I extend my hand out, which she takes but then snaps back just as quickly, like I have a virus. Her fucking name is as bad as her handshake; all starchy and self-righteous. I imagine she has no close relationships and if she does, she’ll be a dominatrix with a whip and adopt a Russian accent forcing her mortals into submission. The weight of the journey has started to catch up with me, I do not feel sharp, and I am hoping she will at the very least offer me a cup of tea, water, but she doesn’t.
‘The connection of the murders. Grace 1 and Grace 2.’ I hold my breath as I notice the ghost of a smile curl her thin lips.
There is no room for mistakes. No possibility of a rewrite. Lilith taps her fingers; silence fills the room, and I’m aware that I’m sweating. I hope she doesn’t see the inexperience flooding out of my pores.
My stomach turns over with nerves. Say something.
‘This must be a very big story for you?’
‘The biggest!’ I want to shove the words back into my mouth – what a childish response!
‘A few things I should educate you on, Miss Mack. The relationship between the police and the media should be taken with integrity, impartiality, and it is my job to safeguard the confidentiality of information, as it is also my duty to be open and transparent.’
‘I understand.’
‘Good. I don’t like the media. Too many times our investigations are muddied with inaccurate information all just to grab the headlines. If you are one of those reporters, which I suspect you are, then it is better you leave now. Safe travels back to Cornwall, a lovely part of the world. You can let yourself out.’
I am at a loss for words. I have travelled for hours to get here to see Lilith Grain. I feel heat rise and anger set in. This is something she could have told me on the phone, in an email. Why get me to travel all this way to tell me to leave?
I sit straighter, pull my shoulders back. I know what I need to do.
I hold Lilith’s gaze, reset my focus, clear my throat. I catch my reflection in the window behind Lilith, its view of a brick wall, and I don’t recognise myself, perhaps it’s the unfamiliar surroundings or the voice in my head telling me to grab this opportunity or regret it forever. A smile stretches across my face. I can hear the confidence in my voice as I say, ‘Yes, Cornwall is lovely, but a heinous murder has taken place and now a second one. I’m not here for a thrill – I fully respect your position and your reputation, but I also need you to respect mine. I can write any story, I can write a horror even Stephen King would take note of, but that’s not why I am here. Yes, the media has a bad rep, but with all due respect, so do the police and wouldn’t it be something if we worked together to help get a killer, a potential serial killer, off the streets.’
I take a breath. ‘Work with me, Lilith.’
‘Impressive speech. I admire your passion, but–’
‘No buts and no more bullshit. I haven’t travelled all this way for you to send me away. I’m here for a story. I will get it. How many times did you get snubbed, walked over, dismissed because you were a woman? I know this about you, Miss Grain, because you talked about it in an interview with Aaron Priestley. It’s not a well-known interview but let me just say, I can do my homework too. Why did you even invite me here if all you intended to do is shove me out? Let’s work together.’
Lilith’s eyes narrow, and I keep my face set even.
‘What do you need?’ she asks. I pause long enough to make her ask me again. ‘Well?’
‘An exclusive. You only talk to The Cornwall Chronicle about the London murder; to be clear, just me.’
There have been too many moments when I have asked myself, What if?
I leave it there. I thank Lilith for her time and remind her she has my number. It’s a bold move, and this could go one way or another. I pick up my bag and leave the office and navigate through the busy police station where the silence is replaced by ringing phones, loud voices, and chaos.
When I’m out of the building, I walk to the corner of the street and take several deep, slow breaths.
CHAPTER NINE
THEN
The deep fryer had formed a waxy substance around the surface just begging to be scraped away; plates dirtied with ketchup and dried egg from the breakfast rush are piled up. The smell of fat hangs in the air, made even worse by it being such a stifling day without the hint of a breeze. I’ll carry the stink of the café home with me later. Already I am imagining a cool shower and soap being washed into my skin, cleansing me of this horrible place. It’s quiet for now, but soon the pace will crank up into another gear when the workmen arrive for lunch like a gaggle of geese – hungry and impatient, ordering food that will clog their arteries and take them on their first journey to a heart attack before they reach fifty.
When the workers arrive, they will not pay attention to me. I’m just there to take their orders and serve them quickly. They don’t know my name, but I’ve learnt to respond to clicking fingers and the occasional ‘love’.
I move through the café, wiping the tables clean and setting cutlery, neat napkins, and bottles of ketchup and mayo while trying to think back to this morning – the house, privilege, wealth, a world I so desperately want to be part of. Ian, Boss Boy as he likes to be called, likes to point out errors, his favourite quote being ‘missed a spot’. If I had a bloody pound for every time he said that to me, I’d be a millionaire, so I would. I think of Grace and feel a wave of embarrassment over who I am, working in this place, living where I live. She’s used to having the best of everything, you can tell, even by her every well-spoken word. I found myself trying to speak better when I was with her, not wanting the real me to penetrate through. See, we are all born into one of two things in this part of the world: wealth or poverty.
Ian emerges from the kitchen in his stained apron, his balding hairline glistening with sweat. ‘Got some extra shifts next week.’
I shrug. ‘Thanks, can I let you know?’
‘You are always begging for extra shifts. Got somewhere better to be?’
‘I…’ I can’t think of an excuse. ‘That would be great,’ I say, wishing I did have somewhere better to be, but I need the cash. I won’t be telling Mum about the extra shifts. She’ll spend my money before I’ve even cashed the cheque. I need to start looking out for myself. Fuck her.
Ian slaps my back and I feel myself stiffen at his touch. It’s the first time he’s ever put his hands on me, and I don’t like it. Sometimes I’ve noticed him staring at me, but up until now I thought that was just to be an overbearing boss, but there is something in his touch that brings a strong sense of unease. His hands do not belong on me. My mind flashes back:
My bedroom, Queen poster on the wall, the door slowly opening, I pull the covers tightly round my shoulders, a whisper, a shush, a promise I am made to keep it our little secret. Freddie Mercury’s smile is what I focus on, he’s the one who gets me through it.
When Ian leaves the kitchen, I feel like I can’t breathe. I reach for a knife, small but its blade sharp enough; I take a quick look over my shoulder to make sure nobody is watching and slip the knife under my T-shirt. I need to splash cold water on my face, I go to the toilet, which smells of stale urine and bleach. It is clear someone attempted to clean up the mess, but it has done nothing to mask the smell. I pull down my jeans and press the knife into my inner thigh, dragging it along my pale flesh until blood begins to well. Soon it will scar into a thin white line, like the rest, but for now I enjoy the stinging sensation and watch the dark crimson trickle down my leg. I am the one in control of my pain, just for a short while the memories fade. For now, I breathe a little easier.
One Week Later
I wasn’t expecting her. She walks into The Coffee Bean. Effortlessly stylish – she looks soapy clean even from a distance. She smiles politely at the barista; it’s easy to see that she is a nice person. She runs her hand through that pretty butter-blonde hair, and I wish I were close enough to inhale her scent. I recognise the girl she is with, delightful Imogen. She is not polite; she doesn’t look up from her phone as she orders a skinny latte. I’m only here for the free wifi and to cash in on the free coffee voucher I snipped out of the paper.
I sink back a little further, allowing the sofa to swallow me. Beside her is a soft brown leather handbag; simple, expensive. I spy a book, but what book? I edge closer, grab my phone and open the camera – full zoom – hoping my one shot gets me the information I need. Snap!
Stephen King – oh I never had her down for a horror fan, the king of horror at that: A Good Marriage. Interesting, very interesting. There’s a Waterstones on the main high street, what time is it? 3.30pm. I have time. Imogen places a copy of a woman’s magazine called Grazia next to her tall glass and takes a photo.
Why?
Oh, of course – social media. Art, impression, desperation. I have not jumped on the social media bandwagon; I prefer to remain anonymous, hold my own power and not let other people decide my worth by how many likes I get. That, and there’s also the lack of friends in my life – you need to be ‘social’ to have a network of people to connect with.
Social media belongs to arseholes, that’s where you’ll find them all; forget a natural pose at Aunt Mary’s sixtieth, it’s all about lighting, angles, and don’t get me started on the whole ‘caring is cool’ gang, the armchair philanthropists whose only real care is themselves and how much attention their charitable posts will gain – how sweet!
My heart skips a beat. She looks in my direction, curious. I’m all too aware I look like shit in the same pair of jeans I’ve had on for three days straight, and they’re sagging, coupled with a T-shirt that if you look close enough, you’ll see a faint tea stain that refuses to wash out. I’m a mess.
She walks over, smile fixed; thank God Imogen hasn’t followed, but I still see her cold, judgy eyes. I can almost hear her voice ‘loser’, but I don’t care.
‘Well, fancy seeing you here.’ She puts her coffee next to mine. ‘All better?’ I don’t know what she means. Was I sick? Is that why I woke up at her house last week and haven’t gotten her out of my mind since. If I made an arse out of myself, she’s not letting it show; no, she is acting like a sweetheart.
‘I’m good, thanks. You?’ My tone comes out a bit too matter-of-fact, but she doesn’t seem to pick up on it.
‘I’m great! I got the job at the nursery, starting Sunday.’
Sunday. I take note.
‘Congratulations.’ I don’t know what else to say but there is so much I want to say, need to say to keep her talking, keep her next to me. I want her to see me again. Not just bump into, because today, right now must be fated. It must be!
‘Thanks, I’m excited.’ I can see that she means it, her almond eyes wide and bright. Excited over seedlings and soil? Well, it doesn’t match her look, but then people think they know me just by how I look. They couldn’t be more wrong.
‘Anyway, I better get going. It was really nice to see you.’
She didn’t have to come and say hello, but she did and it means something.
She’s walking away, and I watch Imogen meet her gaze mouthing her disapproval; I could let it go and I probably should, but that kind of behaviour only transcends me to loserdom.
‘Hey Grace.’ My voice is confident, strong. She turns back, still smiling. Thank God.
Imogen looks away.
‘Let’s catch up after you start your job.’
She raises her eyebrows. ‘You really want to hear about photosynthesis?’
‘Well, I’m keen.’ She has no idea.
‘What’s your number? I’ll drop you a call, then you’ll have mine and we can arrange a date.’
A date. Did she just say that out loud, in this coffee-house surrounded by above-themselves people, trendy geeks with their thick-rimmed glasses and Apple Macs, and, of course, Imogen with her jaw clenched shut. She isn’t even bothering to hide her disapproval; her icy gaze is boring into me. Grace is not her friend; she’s her possession and I am a big annoyance. People like Imogen think the world should fall at their feet because of their good looks, their expensive clothing, their privilege. Tough shit.
Our numbers electronically exchange, and my stomach flips in the same way as when you’re at the top of a rollercoaster and about to fall – and I know I am falling hard.
Waterstones is quiet for this time of day. Usually when school breaks, it’s busy. There is something about the smell of books that is so alluring. You can live a thousand lives through books. I love bookshops; the sensation of flipping through the pages. There is something fundamentally harmonious about choosing a book, or the book choosing you. My gaze travels over the new titles section. My fingertips delicately touch the spines and trace the names of authors, some I have not heard of and some old-timers who have cemented their name in the lit world: Martina Cole, a veteran of crime writing like Mike Tyson is in the world of boxing. Then the young adult section appealing to tweens and women (although they won’t admit to it) transfixed into the world of Edward Cullen and Bella Swan’s romantic fantasy. I do not know what I would have done if the book in Grace’s bag had been Meyer instead of King; would it have piqued my interest in the same way? Would I have thought differently of her? There is something to be said about Meyer though. She has transcended her words to a diverse audience, the woman who had a dream and in her waking world spun it on its head, making her dream a global phenomenon – like it or loathe it, everybody has heard of it. The sleek black bookshelves house something for every taste. I need to get to horror first, but before I do something catches my eye. The book stands like an ornament, waiting to be noticed, to be touched. Held. Read. The orange background is hard on the eyes, the woman on the cover holds her cuffed wrists close to her neck as if she herself has surrendered. Even with her eyes closed, she looks euphoric. Then I notice the orange jumpsuit, a garment that identifies her as a prisoner, the dress code of the damned. The last thing I see is the title Monster. Yes, yes, I remember the movie with Charlize Theron. It was a long time ago and I only saw it once, but it is one of those stories that stays with you. I didn’t see Aileen Wuornos as a devil woman, not the cold-hearted killer she was portrayed to be, if anything I resonated with her. The scene with the baseball bat flashes in my mind, the barbaric cruelty of a man asserting power over a woman, put to death like a dangerous dog, but just like a dangerous dog she was fighting back out of fear, out of pain. Nobody thought about her pain. Didn’t try to put her on a pathway to rehabilitation. She wasn’t evil, she was broken and she had to pay the price of a judicial system that failed her over and over again, shoving that baseball bat up her arse one last time and executing her by lethal injection.
Rest in peace, Aileen Wuornos.
For those who have failed you, may they pay.
For those who hurt you, may they pay.
For those who have judged you, let them too be judged.
I come across another book about Jeffrey Dahmer. People say he was born evil. He wasn’t born into the arms of loving parents, he was isolated, he had no friends and no one to talk to, I resonate with him too.
I often thought of him and all the different ways to punish him, most of these thoughts included a knife, sometimes surgical scissors, and the severing of his dick. I imagine the blood. So much blood. The pain wouldn’t be enough, but at least he couldn’t hurt anyone anymore. His weapon, his pleasure – gone, but his testicles would remain in place. He could never again satisfy his sick sexual needs, never again darken the doors of my private surroundings. Never again will Freddie Mercury need to save me.
‘Can I help you with anything?’ A friendly voice interrupts my thoughts.
His fiery red hair sits on his head like a flame; he’s kind and he has a round face that softens his features.
‘Stephen King,’ I say, letting out a long, shaky breath. ‘I think… it’s called A Good Marriage.’
‘Right this way.’
I follow him to the horror section. King has his own shelf; why wouldn’t he? He is his own genre. His own league. The classics have their place: Carrie, what a goddamn hero. Dear Pennywise, IT, the creepy smile masquerading the evil within.
‘Ah, here it is.’ Flame Boy hands me A Good Marriage. It’s different from the rest of King’s mammoth books, thinner, so much thinner.
‘Thank you,’ I say to Flame Boy. He smiles and politely interprets my attention to the book blurb as an invitation to leave.
Aside from an empty carton of milk, half a pack of ham – dry and curling at the sides – and a Dijon mustard bottle at least three years old, the fridge is empty. As usual. I slam the door shut and swear under my breath. My stomach grumbles in protest; I should have popped into Tesco after I left Waterstones, it was only next door, but I wanted to get back, to start reading.
