Authors: Jack Jordan
‘Why would they do that?’
‘How should I know?’
They stare at each other for a few seconds.
‘Can I see them?’
Louise hesitates, before begrudgingly getting up from the sofa and retrieving the box. She puts it on the coffee table and opens the lid with trembling hands. Jessica leans forwards and grimaces at the stench. She looks down at the birds.
‘How many are in there?’
‘Twenty-two.’
‘
Twenty-two?
’
Louise nods nervously.
‘And you didn’t think to tell the police about this?’
‘I’m telling you now.’
Jessica looks at her quizzically, trying to work her out.
‘How long has this been happening?’
‘Two days.’
‘Twenty-two dead birds in
two days
?’
This is not where Jessica thought this night was going. She’s intrigued.
It appears Louise didn’t think it would go this way either. She looks terrified.
Louise nods.
‘Where were they left?’
‘The first two were left on the doormat outside the front door. The last two were… they were left in my car after it was attacked.’
‘Why did you remove them?’
‘I don’t know.’
Louise removes two dead birds from her dressing gown pockets. She places them in the box with the others. Jessica returns her eyes to the box. Twenty-four dead birds stare up at her.
The more Louise talks, the more Jessica becomes suspicious of her.
‘Where were the other twenty birds left?’
Louise hesitates. She looks away from the detective and takes another drag on her cigarette, as if unsure what to do or say.
‘Mrs Leighton?’
‘On my bed. While I was sleeping.’
Jessica is startled into silence. For a few seconds she tries to absorb Louise’s reply.
‘Someone came into your house and left twenty dead birds on your bed while you were asleep, and you didn’t think to call the police?’
The women stare at each other for an intense few seconds.
‘I’m having a really bad week, all right?’ Louise replies. ‘I’m not myself. I’m not thinking straight.’
‘I think I’ll have that drink after all, Mrs Leighton,’ she says, writing notes on her pad. ‘I have a lot more questions that need to be answered.’
‘I’ll put the kettle on, then.’
Louise puts out her cigarette and makes her way to the kitchen, while Jessica’s mind reels with questions and suspicions about Louise.
Chapter Twenty-six
Louise wakes to the sound of a large vehicle reversing, beeping as it goes. Sunlight frames each slat on the blind at the window, covering the room in stripes.
Exhaustion dominates her like a hangover. Her temples are throbbing and her mouth is dry. She remembers her eventful night: her missing daughter, her vandalised car, DI Jessica Dean and her relentless bombardment of questions. She instantly feels sick. She had managed only a few measly hours of sleep after DI Dean left.
Throwing back the duvet, she climbs out of bed and goes to the window. She raises the blind, allowing sunlight to burst into the room. When her eyes adjust to the light, she can see the truck towing away her car. DI Dean had told her this would happen: the car would be photographed extensively, before being whisked away.
DI Jessica Dean stayed until gone three a.m., asking her continuous probing questions about Brooke, Michael, herself; every aspect of Louise’s life was torn from her mind and scribbled down on the detective’s small pad. She left no stone unturned.
What time did Brooke go missing? Which way was
she travelling? Where was the exact spot that you last saw her at the station?
Can you tell me as much as you can regarding Brooke’s medical history, including any conditions she currently has and any medication she is taking?
What was Brooke wearing when she went missing? What colour? What style? What size? How about her hair? What condition? Was she wearing it up or down? Ponytail or plait? What sort of blonde? Dark blonde? Bleach blonde? Golden? Length? Thickness?
How was she acting before she went missing? How did she seem to be feeling? Would she ever wish to harm herself?
Does Brooke have any distinguishing marks on her body? Tattoos? Birthmarks? Moles? Scars?
What is her personality like? Introvert? Extrovert? What are her personal philosophies and beliefs?
Where does she frequently visit? A favourite coffee shop? Night club? Department store? Newsagents?
Who would she contact if she were to call or visit anyone? I need a list of names, numbers and addresses. Anyone and everyone you can possibly think of
.
Louise felt completely overwhelmed, even forgetting answers to some of the questions she should definitely know. When asked what Brooke had been wearing when she went missing, Louise visualised Brooke walking into the station and turning back for one last
look, holding her hand up to wave. Every time she tried to focus on an item of clothing her daughter wore, her mind went blank.
Louise realised that she hardly knows her daughter at all. She has no idea what she believes in or what her philosophies are. She doesn’t know her blood type. She doesn’t know any of her friends’ names or numbers. She can’t remember if Brooke has a birthmark, or if she has a tattoo.
Upon leaving, Jessica had told her she would be back again this morning to develop a plan to find Brooke: ‘Begin the investigation,’ she had said.
Louise opens the window, allowing the cold December air to rush into the room. She sits on the bed and sighs. She lights a cigarette. The smoke curls into the air, creeps towards the window and darts to the left with the wind.
Ever since Louise found out Brooke was missing, she hasn’t stopped smoking. Ashtrays litter the house, filled to the brim with odorous ash, as she no longer feels brave enough to smoke outside. She takes a drag on the cigarette, and coughs it out before she can inhale, startled by her phone vibrating on the bedside table.
Michael’s name flashes on the screen.
She cannot ignore him any longer – not now Brooke is missing.
Her heart begins to pound furiously. She can’t bear
to hear his voice. She loathes him, yet she loves him. She can’t stand him, yet she hates being apart from him. She promises herself never to set eyes on him again, but constantly sees him in her dreams.
She answers the phone, but is too nervous to speak.
‘Hello? Louise?’ He sounds surprised that she answered.
‘Hi.’
Michael sighs with relief.
‘Thank you for picking up. I’ve been going out of my mind.’
‘About Brooke?’
‘Yes. About you, too. I’ve missed you so much.’
‘This isn’t about us, Michael. It’s about Brooke now.’
‘Of course,’ he replies, clearing his throat. ‘Is she with you? Did you get my messages? My calls?’
‘She isn’t with me. Her phone is off.’
‘I know,’ he says, his voice riddled with concern. ‘I’ve been calling it all night.’
‘I’ve spoken to the police,’ she says.
‘You have? Already? What happened?’
‘I woke at midnight last night and saw your messages. The detective arrived shortly afterwards. She is coming by again this morning. I’ll know more by then.’
‘Detective? Shit. So they think she has actually gone missing? Not run off somewhere?’
‘I don’t know,’ is all she can muster.
The distance between them is stifling. Not only are they on different sides of the country, but they seem like two strangers, completely unsure of what to say to one another. There is an unfamiliar awkwardness sitting between them like a brick wall. She hates it. She wants the love of her life back, not this deceitful intruder who has helped to destroy her life.
‘I need to see you,’ he says.
‘I can’t see you right now. It’s hard enough even talking to you.’
‘Brooke’s missing, Lou. We need to be together, to support each other.’
‘This doesn’t change what has happened between us.’
‘For goodness sake, Louise. Brooke is missing. I need you. Dominic needs you. Come home.’
‘Brooke told me you hit her.’
She hadn’t planned to use this as a ploy to deflect his charm and pleads, but she had planned to confront him. The man she loves with all her heart hurt the very first thing they created together. It’s almost as treacherous and agonising as the affair.
‘I feel so awful,’ he replies. ‘I didn’t know I had done it until it happened. It wasn’t planned or decided, it just happened. I hate myself for what I did.’
‘I don’t understand it, Michael. You’ve never raised your hand to anyone – why Brooke? Why now?’
‘Everything is falling apart without you. I feel so out
of control. Brooke was hysterical, she said some spiteful things – not that that is a justification, it isn’t – but it happened, and I can’t take it back.’
‘Will you ever do it again? To Brooke? To Dom? To me?’
‘Louise, I promise you – this will
never
happen again.’
Louise realises that she had spoken as though she will return to him, that everything will somehow become normal once more. He is already slithering back into her life with his hypnotising charm. Her chest tightens and her lungs forbid her to breathe.
‘I’ll call you later, once I’ve spoken to the detective again.’
She hangs up, shaking violently. Her husband’s voice has caused her wounded heart to pine for him, despite his sickening betrayal. She hates herself for needing him. She can’t trust herself to stay away. Having been with him for twenty years of her life, from the tender age of twenty-one, she can’t adjust to life without him, especially while their entire life is up in the air, threatening to return to the ground and crush them with a sickening splat.
She stubs out her cigarette, which has become a long pillar of ash, and goes to the bathroom. She has to get ready for a new, terrifying day.
Chapter Twenty-seven
What does a distressed mother wear? Should I wear a blouse and trousers? Jeans and a top? A dress? Should I stay in my dressing gown and leave my greasy hair as it is? Would it be odd for me to wear shoes in my own house?
Having decided on a silk blouse, and black trousers, Louise sits awkwardly at the island unit, with a cigarette in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. She doesn’t feel comfortable waiting for the detective to arrive. She doesn’t feel as though she is being aided, but being investigated herself.
Does the detective think I have something to do with Brooke’s disappearance? Is that what she thinks I’m hiding?
She raises the cigarette to her lips and takes a long, deep drag. She feels sick with exhaustion and hunger. She wants to die more than ever, to drive back to the bridge and leap off the edge without a second’s hesitation. She longs to soar down to the water and let the rocks beneath break her bones; for the current to drag her down the river while in an unconscious slumber, until her life slowly trickles away.
Forever wondering where Brooke is, she comes up with all kinds of irrational ideas for where her daughter
might be, or who she might be with, but the only conclusion Louise can reach is the most terrifying one: the person who keeps leaving the dead birds, who left the bloodstained glove, and who trashed her car, has her daughter.
She tries to fight back the tears at the image of Brooke being snatched in the night, just as she drove away from the station.
I should have gone to the platform with her. Waited until I saw her get on the train. No, I should have made her stay somehow
.
The only person she can think of is the man from that night, the very same man that chased Brooke down the train. Even if it is him, she doesn’t know how she would be able to tell the detective.
She doesn’t know his name. All she knows is what he looks like before dawn on a winter morning. She can’t mention where she met him. Therefore, she cannot mention him at all. She wants to save Brooke, not incriminate her.
Louise imagines Brooke running down the train with the man from that night in hot pursuit. She remembers chasing the person that she saw inside her house, through the woodland and into the barn.
Was the man from that night, from the train, the same person I saw inside the house? The same person I chased into the barn?
The sound of the doorbell jolts her from drifting
between one unruly fear and the next. She stubs out her cigarette, wipes her sweaty palms on her trousers and goes to the front door.
On the doormat stands DI Dean.
She is no longer dressed head-to-toe in peach, but in a tight, fitted suit and a crisp white shirt.
‘Morning,’ Dean says.
Louise can only muster a nod, and stands to the side for Jessica to enter.
DI Dean enters the house and slips out of her coat, seeing the home in the light of day for the first time.
‘It’s a lovely house,’ Jessica says, looking around the ground floor as the sun pours in through the wall of windows. She scans the room with relentless eyes; nothing seems to escape her scrutiny. Louise worries that she might chance upon something again, just as she found the box of birds – which she ended up taking away with her when she left in the early hours.
‘I’ll miss it,’ Louise replies. She takes Jessica’s coat. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘Not this time,’ Jessica replies. ‘Shall we take a seat?’
‘Yes, perhaps at the table today.’
She won’t sit on the comfortable sofa. She needs to sit upright on a hard, cold chair, to keep her guard up – she refuses to be so penetrable again.
The women walk towards the dining area and sit facing each other at the table, which reflects the
sunlight on its varnished surface. A grand chandelier, covered in a thin layer of dust, hangs low from the beamed ceiling.
Jessica clasps her hands together and leans forwards in her chair, preparing to speak. Louise waits patiently with her hands twitching in her lap.
‘We got a call this morning. Blood was found at the train station.’
Louise’s heart jolts. Her stomach clenches tightly like an angered fist.