What Lies in the Dark (14 page)

The local news is dominated by footage of the protesting students and police appeals for information. Asking if anyone can give any information on a man, around six feet tall, who was wearing dark clothes, last seen around the park on November 11th.

This is something Elizabeth Mitchell notes grimly.

The Chief Constable also appears regularly on television, warning the citizens of the city not to carry weapons in the street.

“It is dangerous and illegal, anyone caught carrying weapons in public will be arrested and prosecuted. I understand that many of you are afraid right now but this is not the answer. Anyone who feels unsafe or threatened should call the police immediately on the hotline number. I would like to remind all females not to walk alone, especially at night. There is a special seminar being held.”
He lists the times, locations and dates slowly.
“These seminars will include instructions on how to protect yourself and your family. I would like to stress again that no one, no one should be carrying weapons on the streets. This will not be tolerated.”

Madison Albrook’s funeral is held the day before Isobel’s. Her mother decides to bury her in the city, rather than bring her home. Madison had just never belonged at home. Her father chooses not to attend. For once, Madison’s mother doesn’t complain, it doesn’t feel right to have him there. It doesn’t feel right that she herself attends. She didn’t know the girl, but everyone seems to be grieving for a remarkable girl while she is there out of … obligation? Duty? Demand? Why is she here? Did Madison actually mean something to her? It is with a stony face she acknowledges the other mourners, refusing to allow herself to be pulled into hugs, refusing to even cry. Her eyes stay firmly fixed on the wooden coffin that contains her only daughter.

“Dearly beloved …”

She just doesn’t know what to feel. During the service, she slowly stands up, without saying anything or looking at anyone and hurries away. Ignoring her family’s calls, rushing past Madison’s friends and an astonished Jennifer Taylor. She leaves the funeral alone, before her daughter is even lowered into the ground. One lone camera snaps her behaviour, catching the normally tall proud Mrs Albrook just as she is leaving, catching the astonished, angry, bereaved faces but not catching the single tear that is sliding down Mrs Albrook’s face.

Isobel Hilarie’s funeral is a little different. It would have been disappointing to Isobel. Isobel would have been startled maybe even amused to see her boyfriend Frank with a fresh haircut, actually wearing a suit and even sober. She would have been happy to see her father comforting her mother, despite the angry looks from her stepmother. Isobel wouldn’t know the woman who approached her mother at the end of the service, a mousy woman. Out of sight from the other mourners Jennifer Taylor and Mrs Hilarie murmur, close to the grave of Fran Lizzie Taylor before one turns away with anger and tears in her eyes.

Three days after Madison’s funeral Ms Albrook is accosted on the stairs by an extremely smelly but chatty woman. Ms Albrook hasn’t talked to anyone, hasn’t answered her phone. In her mind, she has a plan, she is going to empty Madison’s flat, the rent will be running out soon and Ms Albrook doesn’t want to pay another month’s worth, not when no one will be using it. She has charity bags ready, then she is going to go home, go back to work and just … forget. This seems the most practical of solutions, this is what is going through her head as the smelly woman prattles on and on about how sorry she is for her loss. Ms Albrook has heard that a lot recently. I am sorry for your loss, it doesn’t really feel like she has lost something. Ms Albrook doesn’t really feel anything. Mrs Chalmers babbles about her son, Augustus,
how he is going to make a mural for Madison, something to honour her memory. Ms Albrook barely hears any of this. In her mind she is just concentrating on doing this and getting home. Quietly she says goodbye to Mrs Chalmers and rudely walks off. Mrs Chalmers glares after her for a brief moment then scurries back into her flat, to complain to Augustus.

Madison had been renting a flat above Mrs Chalmers, a two-bedroomed flat that currently has one bedroom empty. Well two empty bedrooms now. Madison’s previous flatmate had moved out two months before and Madison had been looking for a replacement. Ms Albrook would never know that Madison was planning to have her girlfriend move in. Madison’s previous flatmate would not be found by the police. The girlfriend would never admit anything to anyone.

Ms Albrook calmly unlocks the door, she has been here before, when Madison first moved in, supervising the move. Now the flat looks different, the police have left behind only a slight impression of violation. In their search, they have left drawers open, other things just slightly out of place. Despite this, it looks different because it has touches of Madison in it. It is Madison’s clothes that cover the floor. It is Madison’s art prints on the walls. Ms Albrook casts her eye over the Asian, Mexican and spicy foods cookbooks that fill Madison’s bookshelves, fitting neatly with Madison’s criminology text books and romance novels. She didn’t know her daughter liked to cook, it wasn’t really done in their house. She didn’t know her daughter had seriously considered switching from criminology to food technology, or dropping out altogether to train as a chef.

The walls had been painted a pretty yellow colour, giving the room a warm welcoming vibe that Ms Albrook had never known. Looking around the abandoned room, she realises that there was a lot she had never known and now never will.

Brandi is realising just how much she hates her life. Her mother is a consistent nagging harpy, perching firmly on her
shoulder. The attacks mean that her mother is calling every single day now, “Just to make sure you are OK.” Any excuse to jabber on about her sister’s new jewellery and how Brandi should go around to meet the new man. “He does have a brother darling, recently divorced.” Brandi has no desire to meet her sister’s new toy or his brother. Brandi does not want to see her brand new house or the new jewellery that is 14 carat gold. “Real diamonds, darling,” her mother says breathlessly. So what?

Brandi hates her mother, hates hates hates her. Hates her sister, stupid bitch, just because she got the good hair, the good face. No one tells her sister that her nose is too big, her sister never gets as much as a pimple. Stupid fucking bitch.

How sorry would they be if she got attacked? Would that finally make her the honoured daughter? Not even her mother would speak ill of the dead. She could be the favoured daughter then … and what if she caught this guy? Lured him and caught him? Suck on your diamonds then sister, I caught the bad guy. I am the hero … Brandi suddenly smiles. The male sitting opposite her, on the bus, looks away quickly, there is something about that smile that almost seems … predatory.

A seventy-two year old woman is not a scary predator – usually. Unknown to Brandi Parr, her predatory smile is being copied by Elizabeth Mitchell, only Elizabeth’s smile is even creepier, as her pearly white false teeth glimmer from behind her purple drapes. He has gone. She has waited forty minutes to make sure he isn’t coming back. He has definitely gone. Her arthritic hands shake with excitement as she grips old Arnie’s key. One quick glance tells her the street is empty. Her neighbour to the left is visiting her grandchildren for two weeks, and the house to the right has been empty for several months. No one will see, no one will know. She walks quickly out of her front door, straight past her beautiful garden and across the road into his not so beautiful yard where he has let the rubbish bags pile and fester. Elizabeth feels certain that one of those bags will contain … no, she
will ‘borrow’ the bags later, she can go through those in her own house. Slowly she clicks old Arnie’s key in the door and pushes it open. A smell immediately drafts through to her wrinkled nose. A rancid foul odour, as she closes the door behind her softly, Elizabeth sees just what is causing that odour.

Number 32 has not yet rotted. He had killed her back in October but the onset of cold weather means that she is slow to decompose. How annoying. Perhaps he will stick her with the others. He can’t leave her where she is for much longer. They might start looking again and she is a little too obvious. In life as in death, she has always been a little too obvious. No one has missed her yet, that was a good start. No one really misses people like her do they? He didn’t even want her, he deserves better than her, but he needed her, needed that release. Maybe he should let her be discovered. Maybe little Roxanne needs her moment in the spotlight. That moment she had craved her entire life. Ha ha.

Oh what to do, what to do? He could put her with the others, she would rot eventually wouldn’t she? The cold temperatures won’t preserve her forever. Could stick her with the other numbers, it is getting crowded though. He can barely move in there now, without stepping into something icky. Maybe he should get rid of them all. One big massive bonfire. Let the city choke on the flames of its dead. Maybe he should give them all to his good buddy Aaron. He might appreciate the early Christmas present. Then Aaron could take care of them all. He definitely doesn’t want them anymore. He has other things to remember them by, and now they are just in the way. Keeping them could be dangerous, especially if they start to figure things out. Actually realise what’s going on. Maybe he could play them, tell the world how to find them. Set up a few ‘accidents’ for the search crews and scare them all even more. If he does it right then maybe he could even make them turn on each other. Keep on increasing that fear. But then that would make it harder to hunt. He likes challenges but then that’s how people get caught, isn’t it? Going too fast, taking too many risks, taking stupid chances. People like Aaron aren’t that stupid, they will start to discover things. Maybe they already knew one or two things. If he gives the others girls to the city, they might find
something, that little hint, then he will have to find a new city, new places to hunt. He likes hunting here, it is his home. No, for now they can stay where they are, it isn’t like anyone is going to find them any time soon is it? Maybe he should think of ways to make them a little less obvious, do a little more digging before the ground freezes.

Still, what to do with Roxanne? Little Miss Number 32. He could just send her to Aaron, one little gift. That would be fun wouldn’t it? But then how to give Roxanne to Aaron … it isn’t like he could just leave her on Aaron’s doorstep, could he? Aaron probably won’t appreciate her either. She would be wasted on Aaron and he had gone to so much trouble too.

He needs to hunt again soon. He is impatient, the cold nights and his wife mean that jogging is out of the question. Maybe he needs to cool down a little anyway, he doesn’t want to be caught, he is having too much fun. If he goes out too much, without a good reason, his wife might get suspicious, maybe he will have to deal with her. But then how to do it? He would need a good alibi. If she went missing he would be an immediate suspect. They would notice if she went missing too. Even if she wasn’t found, they would still suspect him. Investigate him! It is too close a link. Right now no one suspects him and he can continue. But he does so badly want to get rid of her now, she is annoying him. At first her fear amused him, but now she is irritating, a constant wet blanket. There has to be an easy way to get rid of her. She is nosey, maybe he could exploit that? Set up a beautifully tragic accident for her, maybe. Thinking of a non-suspicious way to get rid of her is something that will keep him occupied for a while, something to think about.

She can’t be allowed to live for much longer, oh no. Christmas is coming, a lot of accidents happen around Christmas don’t they? Cars accidentally slide off roads, Christmas lights have been known to explode, and whole houses can just catch fire.

Elizabeth Mitchell stands in his front room, too scared to move her feet. All over the floor are scattered take-away boxes, growing mould and releasing rancid odour into the air. Piles of dirty plates are stacked. A drum kit stands proudly, covered in dust. In front of her is a dirty grey-stained sofa. Little splats of curry dot the floor, weird little splats of … something else cover the walls. She stands, too disgusted to move, scared to move her feet in case she stands in something. Part of her screams to get out, to let the police handle this. But they can’t do anything can they? Not unless they have some sort of proof, and she owes it to those girls to find proof. It has to be him, she just needs to prove it. He always went out whenever there was a murder. He is six-foot. He is always wearing black. She just needs some proof it’s him, something. She edges one foot forward slowly. Where is best to start? She has an hour or two before he will come screeching back. Where do serial killers keep their evidence? A wild giggle escapes her throat. The bedroom maybe? Or the bottom of the garden? Old Arnie did have a dilapidated garden shed. She creeps into the kitchen and stops again.

Elizabeth hears the noise first. The constant drip, drip, drip, combined with the buzz of a refrigerator. Drip, drip, drip. Her eyes begin to adjust to the gloom. The sink is filled with rotting plates. Another overpowering smell hits as she creeps closer to look through the dirty window and sees that the plates in the sink are covered in a thick layer of green mould, she thinks she can see things … wiggling. The smell is overwhelming, the deaths of a thousand take-aways waft through. Drip, drip, drip. She turns, that sound is definitely not coming from the rusty taps. She imagines blood dripping, almost hopes it is, as that means she can leave and call the police. She moves closer to the sound, drip, drip, drip. A cold wet dot falls down on her cheek.

Claire shrieks in a high pitched fury, “Oh get off your high mountain Aaron.”

Fletcher’s parents, when they were naming Aaron Fletcher, did not know that Aaron meant High Mountain.
Unfortunately, Claire does. Fletcher sometimes wishes that Claire meant daughter of the dog or lopsided cow.

Fletcher takes a deep breath and tries to assure himself that they are both adults, they can talk this through calmly and rationally. “I just wish you would consider this.”