Authors: Jack Jordan
When she finds the master suite, she closes the door behind her and ventures into the en-suite.
She pulls down her underwear and slams down heavily on the toilet seat. She stares down at the tiled floor spinning around her, and feels the tickling sensation of her throat preparing to retch. She urinates, and slips her feet out of her heels, pressing her hot soles against the cold tiles.
You’re such a mess
.
She pulls up her underwear and kneels before the toilet. Holding back her hair with one hand, she forces her fingers down her throat with the other, urging vomit to spray from her mouth and pour into the toilet bowl. She sits convulsing, while the contents of her stomach gushes out until there is nothing left but bile and saliva slinking out of her mouth in thick strings. Wiping her
mouth, she stands unsteadily, flushes the toilet and heads for the mirror above the basin to look at her reflection.
‘I need to go home,’ she says to herself, swaying on the spot.
She drinks water from the tap like a dog lapping water from a hose, and gargles to rid her tongue and gums of bile. She squirts a stranger’s toothpaste into her mouth, and then chews it around to disguise the stench.
Brooke picks up her shoes from the floor and staggers into them, holding onto the edge of the basin for support, before leaving the bathroom either to find a way home or a spare bed to crash on.
A fat teenage boy is sitting on the end of the bed, looking at his phone. Inflamed acne frames his mouth. He looks up at her as she exits the en-suite.
‘Your friend Claire said I’d find you up here.’
‘Well, you found me,’ she replies. ‘But I’m going.’
‘What? The party’s just started. I wanted to get to know you.’
‘Tough luck. I’m going home.’
She heads for the door, but he stands in front of it. He smells of stale beer and sweat.
‘I’m Josh. It’s my birthday. My party.’
‘Happy Birthday, Josh… Bye, Josh.’
She tries the door handle again. His foot is resting at the bottom of the door.
‘Come on, lay down with me.’ He points to the bed with the turn of his head. ‘We can get to know each other.’
‘I’m not having sex with you, so you’d best go and pester another drunk girl. Claire’s quite the slut if you give her enough vodka. Try her.’
He grabs her jaw and forces his tongue into her mouth. She squeals and bites it.
‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ he spits, as blood fills his mouth.
‘Me? I’m not the one forcing myself onto drunk girls, you sicko!’
She frantically tries to open the door, but he slams it shut and pushes her against it. His hand presses on the back of her head, pushing her face into the door as he unzips his jeans.
‘
Help! Help me!’
He covers her mouth with his hand, and attempts to pull her underwear down her legs. She resists, trying to writhe out of his hold. She can feel the warm flesh of his erection against her back as he tries to keep her still. His hot, sour breath wheezes against her neck. Brooke throws her head back into his and instantly breaks his nose. Blood pours from his nostrils as he cries out in agony, stumbling back with his jeans around his ankles. He falls back, smashing his temple on the bedside table, and crashes to the floor, unconscious and bleeding.
Brooke pulls down her dress with shaking hands. She races out of the door and slams it shut behind her.
She rushes down the stairs and reaches the front door, looking behind her. The sound of music and distant voices echoes from further inside the house, but she doesn’t see anyone around. She opens the front door, instinctively grabs a ring of keys from the sideboard and disappears into the night.
Outside, the snow is thick and heavy. The wind is cold and painful against her bare skin, and her heels skid on the frozen ground as she rushes onto the driveway. She slips on a patch of ice and is thrown to the ground with a hard thud. Clambering to her feet, she frantically presses the unlock button on the car key. Several feet away, the lights of a black car flash in response; she runs towards it and climbs inside. She turns on the ignition and slams the gearstick into reverse. Frost coats the windscreen and windows, but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t have time to clear them. She needs to escape. She just needs to get home.
Brooke lifts the handbrake, her breath visible in the ice-cold air, and swings out of the driveway. The tyres skid and screech as she changes gear and races down the road.
Chapter Thirty-three
The chill of the night had seeped into the entire house through the broken window, bringing with it leaves, snow and arctic temperatures. Louise wakes up exhaling small clouds and shivering dramatically beneath the damp bed sheets. She escapes the cold bed and gets showered and dressed before venturing downstairs.
Beneath the shattered window, snow covers the hardwood floor. The blind had been torn down by a strong gale in the night, and lies beside the cracked lamp in a heap on the floor, like a battered flag.
She searches the Internet on her phone for a local repair man, and finds someone in the village who is a contractor by trade, calling himself ‘Sinster’s Handyman’ on his webpage. She calls and asks him what he can do. He can install wood panels to cover the window until the glass is replaced. He arranges to be round within the hour.
Louise slips into her shoes and winter coat, given that the house is as cold inside as it is out, and clears up the mess. She sweeps up the glass and snow. She bins the blind and cracked lamp. She clears the kitchen sink of the smashed mugs and wipes down the tiles and kitchen worktop.
Pouring the broken mugs from the pan to the bin, she recalls what happened the night before. She fears her volatile reaction to Jessica’s questioning may have made her appear guilty.
By the time the handy man arrives, Louise has made the house look presentable.
The man, who is white-haired and looks as though he is in his sixties, introduces himself as Handy Andy.
‘What did this then?’ he asks, intrigued, standing before the window with his hands on his hips, his gut protruding before him. ‘You must’a been freezing, poor thing.’
‘Painfully so. The worst night of my life.’
I wish it were the worst night of my life
.
‘
I’ll only charge you for the boards. I’ll take payment of a cup of tea and a smile for the service.’
She contrives a smile for him – her first smile since Brooke went missing – and puts the kettle on.
It takes just half an hour for the man to cover the window with boards, but it takes another thirty minutes to stop the man from talking incessantly, while sipping at his mug of tea as though he must make it last. She eventually gets him out of the house and relishes in the silence.
Louise eats for the first time in two days. She spoons hot porridge into her mouth with a shaking hand; it burns her tongue, but she craves the heat so much that she continues to allow the hot oats to scald
her. Still trembling, she washes the porridge down with hot coffee, and smokes cigarette after cigarette.
Today I’m searching for my daughter’s body
.
She feels she is to blame, and longs to turn back time – to make her daughter stay with her. If she had, Brooke might not have gone missing. She feels that she must confess to the detectives about that night; without that information, Brooke may never be found.
But I’ll be arrested and sent to prison. I won’t be able to raise my son. It may not help find Brooke at all. It may all be for nothing
.
Having lost one child, she cannot afford to lose another. She decides she must keep that night to herself, and defend its secrecy until the end.
She is startled out of her thoughts by her phone ringing in her pocket. It’s Michael.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi,’ he replies. ‘How are you?’
‘Worried sick. You?’
‘Terrified.’
‘About Brooke?’
‘Of course about Brooke,’ he replies, defensively.
‘Sorry. You have a lot going on, what with a prison sentence looming; I needed clarification.’
‘I deserved that,’ he says. ‘Are… are you coming home?’
‘No.’
‘We need to be together, Lou. For Dom’s sake.’
‘I need to stay away for my sake.’
‘That’s not fair.’
‘Life’s not fair.’
He sighs heavily.
‘I want to join the search. I want to be there. I want to be with the mother of my child through this ordeal.’
‘I need to stay strong through this. I can’t do that being with you. I need to be on my own.’
‘What shall I tell Dom when he asks when you’re coming home?’
‘Tell him Mummy needs time away because Daddy is a selfish, adulterous prick.’
‘I know you’re upset. I know you hate me. I deserve every spiteful comment that you can muster, but can you please wait until this is over? Until we have Brooke back?’
‘This may never be over, Michael. She may never come back to us.’
The realisation hits them both like a punch in the throat. They stay silent for a while, trying to compose themselves.
Louise suddenly longs for her husband to hold her. She needs to feel him, smell him, hear his voice whispering everything she needs to hear:
It’s going to be okay. We’re going to be okay
.
‘So, what is happening there today?’ he asks.
‘I’ll find out about the DNA results from the blood at the station. Two search parties will be combing the
village and the surrounding fields. The detective wants to get the media involved.’
He hesitates.
‘I think that’s a good idea.’
‘A good idea to help find our missing daughter? Or sway the public into feeling sorry for you when your trial arrives? You’ll be painted as a grieving father, not a criminal. I get it.’
‘That’s not what I meant at all and you know it.’
‘I’m sure the thought has crossed your mind at least once.’
‘So what if it has? My main priority is getting Brooke home.’
Louise lights a cigarette.
‘When are you going to give up that filthy habit? I can hear you smoking down the phone.’
‘I’ll quit smoking when you quit cheating. Plus, you smoke cigars.’
‘I broke it off with her. She means nothing to me.’
‘I don’t want to hear about you and her.’
‘Okay.’
They fall silent for a moment, but the tension buzzes like static down the line.
‘Louise, I have to ask you something.’
‘Then ask.’
‘Is Brooke’s disappearance anything to do with that night?’
Yes, Michael. I’m partly to blame for all of this and I
have no idea what to do
.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Louise, I’m your husband. I know something happened. When I went to bed, I had a carefree daughter and a wife that loved me. I woke up to a wife who couldn’t even look me in the eye, and a suicidal child. Something happened.’
‘Are you trying to blame Brooke’s disappearance on me?’
‘You know I’m not saying that. This is no one’s fault. I just need to know if her disappearance is anything to do with what went on with you both that night.’
‘If I knew how to get Brooke back, I would get her back. But I don’t. That’s the only answer you’re going to get.’
‘Why can’t you tell me? Why must you keep secrets? This is what pushed me away. We used to tell each other everything. Now, I feel as though I don’t know you at all.’
‘So, you were allowed to cheat because I was depressed – and now you’re saying it could be my fault that our daughter is missing, too. Thanks, Michael. Thank you for being supportive.’
‘I would have been supportive if I knew what to support, Louise. You were depressed for a
reason
. Until I know what the root cause is, I’ll never be able to be there for you.’
‘Well, now you don’t have to. You cheated. I’ll never
trust you again.’
He sighs, defeated.
‘I’m here if you ever want to talk.’
‘Don’t hold your breath.’
She hangs up and takes a drag on her cigarette.
Don’t fall for it, Louise. Don’t let him weasel his way back in. You deserve better than that
.
The doorbell rings.
She extinguishes her cigarette in the ashtray and goes to the door. When she sees the DIs standing outside, their expressions say it all: it’s bad news.
Louise is too overcome by the anxiety swelling in her chest to say anything as she opens the door.
‘Hello, Mrs Leighton,’ Jessica says.
Chris greets Louise with a nod and a sympathetic smile.
She nods in return and forces herself to speak.
‘I’m sorry about last night. My life is falling apart and I took it out on you.’
‘We understand.’
Louise moves aside so they can enter. Even though the fire is burning and the heating is as high as it can go, the cold still seeps in through the wood panels that are covering the broken window.
‘What happened?’ Jessica asks.
‘A tree branch fell down and came through the glass.’
‘Was it that windy last night?’
‘Windy enough to force a branch through my window.’
Jessica looks sceptical.
‘Would you like to hear how the day is going to play out?’ Jones asks.
‘I would like to know the DNA results.’
They share a look before they return their focus to Louise.
She holds her breath in anticipation.
‘Louise, the results confirmed that the blood at the station belonged to Brooke.’
Louise whimpers suddenly. Her throat begins to burn as she tries to hold back the tears. They eventually swim down her cheeks in a steady flow.
‘Brooke’s dead, isn’t she? My baby’s dead.’
‘We don’t know that, Louise.’
‘If you found her blood, it doesn’t mean she’s run off somewhere to live a new life. It means she’s been hurt. No doubt by someone else.’ She takes in a deep, rattling breath, trying to pull herself together. ‘It’s nearly been forty-eight hours, detective.’
‘The searches may give us hope, Louise,’ Chris says. ‘We may find reason to believe that she is alive and well.’
‘Louise, I really want you to think about having some support: family, friends, a liaison officer. You don’t have to go through this alone.’