Faceless, page 19
‘No. No I didn’t. As they said, he killed himself.’ Again Max heard the echoes of manic laughter, the laughter as the crazed young man had brought the knife up to his own throat and with theatrical decisiveness had ripped it across. ‘He killed Jess, then he killed himself.’
‘How?’ God, why would he want to know that? Why would he possibly need to know that? ‘Please?’
‘He slit his own throat. He slit his throat too.’ And it all came back then, the iron stink of hot blood, the wetness of it as it seeped through his clothes, across his skin as he cradled his girl, her long blonde hair stained red as it fell across his arm, as he cradled her body and rocked and cried out to God to take it all back, to bring her back to him, as he cried out to anyone, anyone who could hear, as he screamed for help. Max slumped forward in the seat as grief and pain wracked his body, and he cried, he cried the hard, hot tears that had locked themselves away for so long. Through the torrent of his own outpouring he heard one more question, one more devastating question.
‘If you hadn’t have gone there, would she still be alive?’
He answered in the only way he could. ‘Yes.’
Billy
Billy wipes the tears from her face and the snot from beneath her nose. She aches in ways she never imagined she could ache. The ferocity and anger of his attack flashes her back to that other attack, when He had slapped her and punched her and called her whore and slut and castigated with his fists and his tongue, and She had stood there, cowering and had done nothing, nothing. But whereas then she had been cast out to find her own way in the harsh world, now she was imprisoned. Then she had been among family, those who should have loved her and cared for her; now she was at the mercy of a stranger. But that was where the differences stopped. The strands of the two intertwined on so many other levels. Both men had beaten, belittled, accused and humbled. Whore, bitch, slut – both had showered the words over her, and they had stung as much as the cuts of the whip or the throb of the fists, and threatened to erode her strength. But she can’t allow that to happen, she won’t allow that to happen, and she scrunches her eyes closed and casts out in her mind to her strength, her talisman, her Bubu. She invokes the memories of her, happy memories of hearing mythical stories and of wonderful hours spent creating, crafting, plaiting and weaving. Of her sitting cross-legged on the exquisite flaxen mats, a flower tucked behind an ear lending its scent and beauty to the moment. Of the gap-toothed smile and warmth of her Bubu telling her what great work she was doing; that she was pretty, and clever and good, that she was a good girl; and how much that made her heart soar and her soul sing.
‘I am good,’ she whispers to herself, ‘I am a good girl.’ And with her fingers she reaches out for the pile of hair, of her beautiful, beautiful hair, feels it spring beneath her touch, and she thinks of her Bubu and those tranquil, happy moments together, and her fingers pull out three small bunches of strands, and she starts to plait them, twisting them together, left over right, right over left, falling into that comfortable rhythm, with one hand then the other hand, over and hold, over and hold, rocking gently with each movement, over and hold, over and hold, because she is a good girl, over and hold, over and hold.
Max
How long had they been sitting there? It could have been seconds, minutes, hours, he didn’t know; all he was aware of was pulling himself out of his reverie and being aware Harry was still in his. He looked back up at the sky; it hadn’t fallen. He had squared off against that which he had been hiding from, and the world hadn’t ended. But he hadn’t come through unscathed. He ached, his body responded like some hollowed-out creature, not quite human, some automaton acting out a prescribed series of movements, but not capable of anything further.
‘What did you want with me?’
It was back to the questions. Harry had sat up and blown his nose, and now looked at him. The burden of knowledge made him look old beyond his years.
‘I need your help with something.’
‘What kind of help?’
How a barely seventeen-year-old could help he wasn’t sure, but in a world where the only person he trusted and relied on had been stolen from him, it was his only hope.
‘I have a friend and she’s in trouble.’
‘Is she your girlfriend?’ He could hear the wariness and hurt in his son’s voice.
‘No, no way, she’s my friend, that is all. I know my word probably doesn’t count for much, but there’s never been anyone for me but your mother.’
He heard his son inhale and let his breath out slowly. ‘She’s got a boyfriend.’
Max thought he’d grown immune to pain, but that news cut like a claw raking across his back, exposing nerve and bone. Of course he had no right to expect her to hang around for however long and wait for him to have his crisis – after all, he’d left them, left her; his brain told him that – but his heart was another matter altogether. His mind flooded with questions. Who was he? What was he like? Was he good to her? Was he good to him? Silence hung on his lips.
‘She said she didn’t owe you anything, that she couldn’t wait forever for you to make your mind up, sort yourself out.’
Was he doing this on purpose? Were these knives, thrust with such deadly accuracy, Harry’s revenge? He looked at his son, but the boy’s face was guileless, and he recognised someone just telling it like it was.
‘Fair enough,’ he said.
‘You don’t hate her for it?’
‘No, of course not.’ And it was the truth. He couldn’t hate her; and with that knowledge Max knew he was coming right, that he would be alright. There was more he could offer to the boy, a sliver of comfort so Harry could justify what he perceived to be his mother’s disloyalty. ‘I didn’t give her much choice, did I?’
They sat in silence again, although this time it was as if a critical test had been passed for both of them, and it was a lot more comfortable. It was time to steer the conversation back towards its main purpose. The clock was ticking, and Max felt the weight of exhaustion after so many self-revelations.
‘This girl, we look out for each other, on the streets. She is young, doesn’t have anyone, any family who care for her. I was, well, pretty troubled, and her presence gave me purpose, gave me a reason to get through each day. She kept me alive. But she’s gone missing, and I’m worried sick about her. Something bad has happened, I know it.’
‘You mean Billy?’
Max’s head spun around, and he searched his son’s face. Had he heard right? He saw the concern there, and though he tried he couldn’t mask his astonishment.
‘You know her?’
‘The Fijian girl?’ Harry’s face flushed, making the pimples flare out even more.
‘But how do you know her?’ There was no way their lives would intersect, not a street girl in central Auckland with a schoolboy from the North Shore. All sorts of scenarios went through Max’s mind, none of which was very comforting. He looked closer at his son.
‘I, ah…’ Harry looked away, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he tried to swallow. ‘I saw you with her.’
‘When?’ His interrogation voice had crept in, and in response Harry’s became defensive.
‘A few times, when I’ve been in town. I…’ He hesitated, as if he was embarrassed. ‘I came looking for you, okay? I had to know if you were alright. Mum didn’t seem to care, or didn’t want to know, so she wouldn’t check up on you; but I had to know how you were. I never told her what I’d done, she’d have been pissed off, she wouldn’t have understood, so I kept it a secret.’ He blurted out the words, and Max felt a fresh wave of guilt at the worry and stress he’d caused wash over him. In his self-survival state he’d never considered the impact it would have all had on his son. He hated having to admit to himself that, after Jess had been murdered, it was as if he’d forgotten he had a son. What despicable creature could do that? Forget about his own son?
‘How often did you come?’ The detective voice had been replaced by one of infinite tiredness. ‘Why didn’t you talk to me?’
‘I didn’t know what to say. I just wanted to make sure you were alright. Someone had to. I saw you with Billy a few times, so I went up to her one day, and we talked about you. She was nice. She told me you were having a hard time, but you were getting by.’
‘You talked to her?’ He was aghast. It had never occurred to him his son might seek him out. His astonishment was mixed with something – what was it? Admiration, pride? And Billy had never said. She’d probably promised Harry not to breathe a word, and one thing about Billy was she always kept her promises. Another suspicion jumped into his mind when he thought of Billy and the numerous occasions she had brought him food, drinks, even medicine when he was sick. ‘Did you give her money?’
‘Sometimes. I had to do something. I’ve got a weekend job, so I didn’t take it from Mum.’ Jesus, the child carrying the burden while the parents went to hell. A barrage of guilt hit him again. ‘Did she give it to you, the money? God, I hope she did. I thought I could trust her.’ The poor boy looked so worried.
Max laughed then, the noise a crackle in his swollen throat. ‘She knew me too well. Knew if I had cash I’d just buy booze and cigarettes. So she bought me food, bought me things when I needed them. You put your faith in the right person.’ He turned then, rested a hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘Thank you.’ Harry just nodded, a grim expression on his face, but this time he didn’t shrug off the hand. ‘Billy’s missing, and as you know she is always trustworthy, always reliable. She would have told me if she was going off somewhere for a few days, but she didn’t. She’s vanished, and I know she’s in trouble.’
‘Have you been to the police?’ The obvious question.
‘Yeah, and they are doing what they can. I gave them as much information as I could.’ The vision of Meredith slipped into his head, and his deceit. ‘They won’t include me in the investigation, for obvious reasons. But I have to do something, I have to do something before it’s too late.’
‘So how do you think I can help?’
He laughed. ‘I don’t know, I really don’t know.’ He looked at him then, this boy-turned-young-man. Jess had always been the spirited and playful one, the one who brought equal measures of colour and joy and trouble into their lives. Harry had been the quiet and resourceful one, the observer, the problem-solver, the serious one. Had he changed that much? ‘You tell me: how can you help? Will you help?’
‘I’ve got a car.’ He said it with the first hint of a smile. The sense of relief was overwhelming.
‘That’s a damn good start. I’ve got some people I need to call on.’
Bradley
The sound of a sharp knock at the front door pulled his head up.
‘Are you expecting anyone?’ he asked Ange as she hurriedly pulled on her jeans and then threw a jumper over her head. She didn’t bother with a bra, and Bradley enjoyed the way her nipples pulled at the knit, it made him want to grab her and drag her back to bed, to hell with the front door. It was probably just the Jehovah’s Witnesses or Mormons, or someone peddling home-ventilation systems.
‘It’s the pool boy, come for his turn.’ She leaned over and gave him a kiss and a wink as she left the room.
‘Hurry on back now, you hear?’
He leaned against the pillows and smiled to himself. Fuck this was good. It was as if every electron in his body was supercharged, every hair standing to attention. Ange had always been a very generous and enthusiastic lover, and a little giving on his part had resulted in the kind of gymnastic and playful romp they’d enjoyed as twenty-year-olds. Who would have thought it could ever go back to this? He felt so alive. No longer the downtrodden underling, he was in control, control of Ange, out of that fucking hellhole of a workplace, and most of all, in control of her. He was master of his universe, and the world was a bottomless well of opportunity for him.
Ange had opened the door, and he heard her voice change from one of greeting to wariness. That difference in inflection caused the afterglow of afternoon lovemaking to be washed away by the cold shower of caution. He jumped out of bed and started to pull on his trousers.
‘Bradley?’ he heard her call, and noted the alarm in her voice. He pulled the merino top over his head and came out to the hall. A glimpse of a blue hat, and his heartrate skyrocketed. What did they know? Had they found something; had they found her? No, don’t jump to conclusions; it could just be that fuckwit from work. He hadn’t done anything there to bring about a police complaint, had he? No, he hadn’t nicked off with the office stapler on his way out – apart from keys and wallet, he’d left empty-handed. Why were they here then? He made himself breathe regularly, approached the door and gave a hopefully convincing smile at the young woman officer.
‘Hi, what can we do for you?’
‘Hi, sorry to disturb you. We’re doing an investigation into a missing person, and I just needed to ask some routine questions.’ Just breathe, he thought, just breathe. ‘We are visiting all the owners of cars in Auckland with numberplates with a range of digits that may include those of the last person this particular young woman was seen with. That covers a lot of vehicles, but we do have to talk to everyone.’ She sounded apologetic for disturbing him. A lump of fear cramped in his belly. She looked oblivious to his discomfort – as did Ange, who stood by his side. Surely she could feel the heat that was emanating from his body in waves. ‘I understand you drive a Nissan Primera, numberplate—’
‘Daddy, Daddy, why is the police lady here?’ Ellie had pulled herself away from Paw Patrol on the TV – the electronic babysitter they had put on to keep the kids occupied while they fucked each other senseless. Her arrival had broken the tension. He swooped her up onto his hip and, after brushing away the fringe of her strawberry-blonde hair, planted a kiss on her forehead.
‘The nice police lady has to ask some questions about cars, sweetheart, it’s nothing you need worry about. Off you go, back to Katie.’ He placed her down, and she gave a shy little wave at the policewoman before heading back towards the lounge. ‘Sorry about that.’ There was a look that could be taken for longing on the policewoman’s face, and Bradley promised himself he’d buy Ellie that Sylvanian Families set she had been asking for. ‘What were you wanting to know?’
The young woman looked back down to her clipboard, smiling. ‘Your car numberplate has some digits in common with a vehicle we are trying to trace.’ How the hell did they get part of a numberplate? Did K Road have surveillance cameras now? Surely not. It had never occurred to him there could be some record of him picking up the girl. Where had it come from? He had to know, but there was no way he could ask, not without arousing suspicion.
‘Did you want to see our car?’ Bradley asked. He made sure his words made it sound like the family car, safe in the knowledge the constable had been charmed and was now on their side. He felt the tension begin to leak out of his body, control resume its rightful place. He could play along with this game, be helpful, like he had nothing to hide.
‘Yes, please.’
‘I’ll just go and grab the keys.’ Before he picked them out of the drawer, hidden from sight, he held his hands out and smiled when he saw all traces of tremor had disappeared. He clutched the keys in his fist and made his way back to the constable, who was chatting amiably with Ange. All good.
‘The car is down in the garage. It’s easier to go through the house, along this way.’ Nothing to hide, nothing to give away. ‘Did you say someone was missing? I haven’t seen anything on the news about it. Who are you looking for?’ His voice sounded calm and even, just interested enough, but not too keen. He congratulated himself on his deception.
‘A young eighteen-year-old woman. I imagine it will be on the news tonight.’
Ange followed them down the hallway too, with Ellie and Katie tagging along behind. It was a family trip to the garage.
‘I also need to ask you what you were doing on the night of Monday the eighth?’
It was obvious he’d be asked that question, he should have expected it, but still it threw him. God, Monday night. How could he possibly forget, it was only the most fucked-up night of his life. What was he going to say? He’d come home a little later than usual, because he’d picked up a prostitute, bashed her on the head and kidnapped her, taking her off to a vacant industrial property he owned? Hardly. He wasn’t about to confess to anything.
Ange came to his rescue, and for once he didn’t resent it. ‘That would be the night you were sick, wouldn’t it? He was vomiting his head off that night.’
‘I think you’re right,’ he said. He wasn’t about to correct her or offer a detailed timeline. It appeared to satisfy the officer. He opened the internal access door to the garage and flicked on the light switch. His run-of-the-mill Primera was closest to the door; Ange’s hybrid Toyota Rav4 on the far side. The officer did a lap around the vehicle. He’d always been very careful with cars, had them serviced regularly, washed them once a week without fail, made sure they were well maintained, tyres inflated properly and with sufficient tread to be in good safe order. His father had impressed upon him that a car was an asset and had to be maintained. God, he hadn’t thought of his old man in years. He’d died a decade ago, after a short battle with cancer, and Bradley felt a flicker of shame at what his father would think of all this, before he shook his head of it and continued on with his careful web of lies. He had to remember exactly what he said here. It was the little things that tripped you up. He’d learned that from all of those TV programmes – Criminal Intent, CSI, Bones. The killer always gave themselves away with some little thing, an inconsequential detail. He wasn’t about to make that mistake.
‘I’ll need to take a photograph of your car, for our investigation.’ She’d moved to the front but was hindered by the workbench. The tool drawer with its illicit lock of hair seemed to scream out, Look in here! and he had to divert her attention away from it.
