Authors: Sharon Sant
I’m suddenly aware of pain in my fingers and I realise that I’m gripping the door handle as though it’s electrified and I can’t let go. The roar of rushing blood in my ears. Deep breaths, counting heartbeats, I prise myself away. In the bags, that’s where I’ll find what I’m looking for. I need to get in, grab a bag, get away. Then I can shut the door, shut out the pain forever. I force one foot forward. Then the other, and again, and somehow I’m across the room. As I reach for a bag, the handle slips from my grasp and the contents slide out. Notebooks, letter writing paper, pens – all covered in flowers and teddies and intricate patterns. Mum and Dad used to laugh about how they had managed to have two such wildly different daughters. I pull a notebook from the pile, turn and run. Light off, door slams, and I slide down it panting and shaking. This is my house, a house full of dead people’s things. A house full of ghosts.
I sit nursing a lukewarm cup of tea at the kitchen table, the notebook open at an empty page. Somehow, it feels blasphemous to write on Tish’s belongings, as though I’m defiling her memory. But I think about what Helen has said today and I know she’s right, and I figure that Tish would find it funny that I’m writing on her flowery paper so I try to decide what to write about. I don’t know what to say, though. I try to recall my day, what has happened to me, every little event. What was significant? There’s my escapade with the cat, of course. She’ll be pleased, no doubt, that I made some sort of effort with social contact. I scribble a few lines about what happened when I went out and how I felt about it, the fact that I’ve decided to keep the cat and already I don’t feel quite so alone. I drop the pen for a moment as my new friend comes for a fuss. I rub behind her ears and she jumps onto my lap, purring. Then she leaps down again and stands sentry at her bowl. I fetch an open pouch of cat food from the fridge, tip it into the bowl, and she dives right in. She’s still so hungry I can’t seem to feed her enough but I can see, already, that she’s putting on weight. It gives me a good feeling to see her thrive, a warmth in my soul that hasn’t been there for a long time. Maybe counselling isn’t what I need after all, maybe all that’s missing is a little love in my life. I can’t help the broad smile that stretches my face as she licks the last bit of jelly from the dish and looks up at me with bright, inquisitive eyes. ‘You’re not getting any more, piggy,’ I laugh.
Then I pick up the pen and I start to write again, the first thing that comes into my head:
Dante, like the painter. What’s your problem?
The phone wakes me from the warm cocoon of sleep. Maybe it’s Meadowview. I pull my dressing gown around me and run for the stairs. As I take the last step I lunge for the receiver and snatch it up.
‘Hello?’
‘Cassie, it’s Rob Johnson.’
I feel my hackles rise. All that worry and it’s just him, hassling me again. I had thought I was rid of him after the interview but it seems I was wrong. ‘I don’t have anything else for you.’
‘It’s not for me this time.’ A pause. ‘There’s someone else who really needs your help.’
Back at the same coffee shop where I met Robert, DI Karl Massey hands me a photo.
‘Taken three days before she was killed,’ he says in gravelled tones.
I recognise the girl as I take the picture from him. It’s a different photo from the one that’s been shown on TV but there’s no mistaking it’s the same girl whose murder has been a regular feature of the evening news for the past few days. She’s pretty, in an unassuming way, ash-blonde hair modestly drawn back in a low ponytail that sweeps her left shoulder, sweet, kind eyes behind trendy glasses. I turn my face back to him.
‘She was the same age as you,’ he says.
I wonder why this fact is significant but he doesn’t offer an explanation and I’m not sure how to ask. I stare at the photo, and then back at him while I hand it over and he puts it away in a plastic bag. Robert interrupts the moment, arriving back at the table with three coffees and two muffins, balanced precariously on a tray. He places it on the table between us and takes a seat, handing a muffin to Karl before starting on his own. I take my coffee and wrap my hands around it.
‘Will you help?’ Robert says.
Karl gives me this intense stare, like he’s getting the measure of me. Years of service, of dealing with the dregs of humanity, I suspect, has given him a keen instinct and an appetite for sniffing out bull. I know he’s trying to tell whether that’s what I’m full of or whether I’m the real deal.
‘It’s not really about whether I will, it’s more to do with whether I can,’ I say.
‘But you can do that thing…’ Robert lowers his voice as he switches his glance between the two of us.’
I shrug and take a sip of my drink, wincing as it burns the roof of my mouth. ‘I don’t know if it’s that simple. I have no idea whether it works for anyone or whether the special connection to my family was the catalyst.’ I don’t offer him anything else. I could try, but I don’t want to. The thought of having to live through this girl’s death fills me with cold dread.
‘Could you use an object?’ Karl asks. He seems to understand my reluctance more than I do. ‘I’ve heard of psychic phenomena being channelled through objects.’
I’m a little taken aback to hear him speak of psychic phenomena and it hadn’t really occurred to me before that what I can do might fit into that category of weirdness. Looking at him now, he doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who’d give any credence to psychics. Clearly, something has made him consider such things. ‘I don’t think so,’ I reply. ‘It’s only happened with a person before.’
‘Really?’ Disappointment registers on his previously composed expression ‘Can’t you at least try? You must know that we’re linking this murder to one from last October so I don’t think I need to spell out what I’m afraid we might be dealing with.’ He glances around and lowers his voice. ‘This is strictly confidential, but we’ve drawn a complete blank. Whoever this killer is, if the same man is responsible for both, he seems to be some sort of magician. Nobody saw anything, heard anything… forensics haven’t turned up anything significant.’
‘I’m surrounded by my family’s belongings and they don’t give me anything at all. I’m sorry but I’m pretty sure it has to be the person.’ I think about how hard it is living surrounded by the flotsam and jetsam of the dead at home, let alone getting flashback vibes off them.
‘I’m sorry too. We don’t have a great deal of information, but all the signs are –’
‘I know what you’re trying to say, Detective Inspector, I really do,’ I cut in. ‘And I wish I could help you but I can’t.’ I offer him an apologetic look, and he returns it with a wry half-smile. His manner is more open now and I think he’s decided I’m ok.
‘I’m sorry I asked,’ he says, taking up his cup again. ‘People think that serial killers are all over the place, but I’ve never had one on my patch in all my years of police work. I don’t mind telling you that I’m terrified we might have one on our hands now. I just want to get answers, one way or another, and I hope I’m wrong.’
‘And the public will be grateful that you feel that way,’ Robert chips in.
Karl looks at him as though he’s suddenly remembered his presence. ‘I’d appreciate it if you didn’t print this conversation,’ he says. His tone is steady but there’s a veiled warning in there.
‘But you said – ’
‘I said that you could write a story about Cassie’s involvement once the killer had been caught and if she consented to it,’ Karl interrupts, glancing at me. ‘There’s nothing to write at this moment in time that wouldn’t compromise the investigation in some way. And I don’t think repeating what I have just told Cassie will help the public feel safe, do you?’
Robert looks as though he may argue for a moment, but then nods his submission.
Karl drains his cup and pulls his heavy coat from a nearby chair. ‘Thank you for agreeing to come, Cassie,’ he says. ‘But I’m afraid I have to leave you as I have a great deal of work back at the office threatening to collapse my desk.’
I try to smile and then my gaze is drawn to the window. I’m suddenly aware of the gloom creeping over the street outside and what that means. Karl must see the apprehension in my face.
‘Would you like me to take you home?’ he offers.
‘No, I can walk, it’s not far.’
‘I can take you home,’ Robert offers.
‘Really, there’s no need,’ I say. Robert is the last person I want to spend time with right now.
Karl studies me thoughtfully for a moment. ‘I’ll drop you off.’
‘But I – ’
‘Cassie,’ Karl lowers his voice, ‘there’s a killer on the loose. Do you really think I’m going to let you walk home alone?’
There are many answers I can give to this: that I have to walk alone sometime, that many other girls are walking around alone in this city right now, that his warning only adds to my already extensive list of fears, that I’m not even sure I
can
die…
‘Thank you,’ is all I say, even though it’s the last thing I want.
Robert pulls his own perfectly-tailored coat on. ‘Before you go, Cassie, I was wondering about a follow up piece – ’
‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think so.’
This time, for a fleeting moment his face betrays his vexation, but he collects himself quickly. ‘I understand. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.’
I nod, though I know I won’t be calling him any time soon.
Detective Inspector Karl Massey, I soon discover, is a man of few words. While Robert Johnson rattles on like a stone in a can, eagerly filling the shortest silence with pointless drivel and empty platitudes, Karl is quiet, but I prefer it that way.
We’re almost at my house before he speaks.
‘I presume you live alone.’
‘Yes.’ It said so in the newspaper article, I think, but assuming he’s read it will indicate some arrogance on my part so I don’t mention it.
‘Ah yes,’ he says, ‘I remember now the newspaper article said so. Your photo was taken outside on your street.’ He pulls on the handbrake.
‘I didn’t want him inside the house,’ I reply. ‘I’m not sure why. I didn’t really want a photo taken at all but Robert insisted and it seemed easier in the end to give in.’
‘You could have provided them with a family snap?’ Karl says.
‘I didn’t think of that.’
‘Apart from that, do you feel safe at home? I can arrange for an officer to call and check your security, give you a personal alarm, that sort of thing?’
‘I have bolts on the door. I usually keep them locked when I’m in.’
‘What about your windows?’
I shrug slightly. ‘I think they’re ok.’
‘You should get them checked.’
‘My dad was pretty good about stuff like that. I think they’re fine, but thanks.’ I glance up at him. His heavy-browed gaze is fixed firmly on the road ahead, even when he’s talking to me, like he daren’t look. ‘I’m guessing you have a daughter my age,’ I say.
Now he turns to me with a faint look of surprise. ‘That obvious?’
‘It’s just that… you seem pretty hung up on this case, and on me being safe. So I think it has personal significance.’
‘Professionally, it has significance, regardless of what it means to me, personally,’ he says. Then he smiles slightly, his face lighting with obvious pride. ‘But yes, I have a daughter your age. Chrissy. I think you’d like her.’
If she’s like her father then I think I would, but it doesn’t seem quite appropriate to say that.
He looks up and down the row of terraces with approval. ‘Victorian. Must have been better off families who lived in these; some nice details in the brickwork.’
‘I don’t really know,’ I say, pulling my keys from my pocket.
I turn to thank him and he hands me a card.
‘Take this; it has my details on – number at the station and mobile. If you ever feel threatened or frightened or worried in any way by anybody, don’t hesitate, just call.’
I hold the card up to see it better. ‘Thanks,’ I say. I have a sneaking suspicion that he’s hoping I’ll change my mind about helping, but I won’t. I’m just not strong enough to experience flashbacks like I did from my family ever again. Even if I was, to experience the last living moments of a murdered girl? Nobody would be strong enough to experience that, surely? I can’t actually believe Karl expected me to, despite the fact that he seems like a decent bloke.
Once I’m out of the car he lifts an arm in farewell and starts his engine again. ‘No wandering alone after dark. In fact, no wandering alone, full stop,’ he says through the open car window. Then he drives away.
As I close the front door behind me I’m aware of a draught coming from the end of the hallway. I follow the source to the kitchen. The window is closed, but on further inspection it’s rattling in the light wind and I realise that it’s not quite closed. I step back, slightly alarmed by this discovery. I had decided the window didn’t need to be open now that the cat was staying. Had I really been so careless, thinking it was closed when it wasn’t? And after all I had just said to Karl Massey too. I pull it shut, chiding myself for the oversight. As soon as it is closed the house is bathed in silence, apart from the old kitchen clock and the low hum of the fridge.
‘Come on then, Kitty,’ I call, clicking my fingers and pulling a pouch of food from the fridge. ‘I bet you’re starving.’
But the cat doesn’t come running like she usually does. I call again, louder this time, but the house is still and silent. Maybe she got out through the window I left open. The thought fills me with inexplicable dread. I know that she’s a cat and perfectly capable of surviving, but I can’t help it. I unlock the back door and step out into the tiny garden, clicking my fingers and calling for her.
Just as I’m about to give up, I notice a flash of orange scoot behind the bins. I approach slowly and carefully and peer behind them. The cat is cowering down there, staring up at me with something like reproach in her eyes. I shake myself; the notion of a cat showing me reproach is ridiculous, of course. I scoop her gently up and into my arms. She struggles at first, lashes out at me with her claws, but thankfully they simply lodge in the fabric of my coat and I gently prise them out as I take her into the house. I sit at the table with her, holding her close and stroking her head as she shakes in my arms. Then I notice the cut on her ear. She could have got into a fight with another cat, I suppose; you hear them all the time around here at night. It was silly to think I could tame her wild ways so quickly and I guess it will take time and patience for her to truly be my pet.