Faceless, p.18
Faceless, page 18
Jac23K94
ERROR
Fuck.
Dan23Ielle94.
It worked, it bloody well worked. With the jubilation came a flicker of remorse, but it was soon swamped by urgency. He logged into the motor-vehicle registration network and typed in the scant information he had – those magical two digits. He looked at the screeds of matches and knew he had to narrow it down, so he filtered it through colour and region like Meredith had; but he also added an age range. Although he wasn’t a complete car fanatic, he knew enough to be able to narrow the shape and design features of a vehicle down to a five-year manufacturing range. That still left thirty possibilities, but it was still too many numbers. He clicked one more filter. He was ninety-nine percent sure the car in the picture had been a Nissan Primera. They were a dime a dozen. He was having to rely on memory here, as the photo was now, no doubt, part of a file on Meredith’s desk, and he wasn’t about to try and sneak into her office. But that extra information narrowed it down to five numbers; five names and addresses. That was manageable.
He looked around the room and was relieved to see a printer in there. Some rooms had shared printers, so it was a stroke of luck. He was going to need a lot more of that if he had a hope of making this work. He hit the print icon but had to wait for a few agonising heartbeats until he heard the whir of the printer as it came to life. The sound of footsteps approaching down the corridor made him freeze; the cramp of panic gripped his bowels and he held his breath as they paused outside, and released it through tight pursed lips as they walked on. Shit, he wasn’t cut out for this clandestine crap. He logged out of the computer and made sure it was on the right screen before putting it to sleep – anything to help this interlude go unnoticed. The sheet of paper he grabbed from the printer seemed so insubstantial compared to the amount of stress needed to acquire it, but it held the vital piece of information, he knew it did. He folded it as small as he could before sliding it into his back pocket, and then slipped over to the door, leaning his head against it and listening before he poked his head around the corner to check the way was clear. There were two women down the far end of the corridor, talking. Fuck. He pulled his head back into the room, trying to decide what to do. They weren’t between him and the exit – at least that was something – but what if they saw him? The longer he stayed here the greater the risk of being discovered, but if he stepped out now he could be challenged. Damn it, he had to go, he had to get out of the building before he was discovered, before his bowels exploded or he had a nervous breakdown, whichever came first. He took three steadying breaths and then, with as much confidence as he could muster, walked out of the room and straight towards the stairs. He didn’t look back, he didn’t look to the sides, he tried to exude a nonchalant air of I belong here. The stairs were only a few strides away, and when he reached them the door felt insurmountably heavy and it took all his strength to open it. He stepped through into the cooler air of the stairwell and let out a sigh of relief.
‘Max, what are you still doing here?’ He froze, felt the acid tang of bile rush into the back of his throat. Fuck, it was Meredith. He turned around to see her four steps up from the landing, making her way down. Going by the dark look and the drawn eyebrows she wasn’t pleased to see him.
Jesus, how was he going to bluff his way out of this one? His innards felt hot and liquid and he thought if he didn’t get to a toilet soon the consequences would be dire. That spark of an idea was his saviour.
‘Sorry, I had to stop in at the toilets. After everything that happened up there, I, well, you know.’ He was pretty sure he looked pale enough to sell it.
Her face softened and he knew, with both relief and shame, she’d bought it.
‘Come on, then, I’ll see you out.’
Bradley
He stood in front of the mirror. The face reflected at him looked like the same old Bradley – same coarse skin, same sprinkling of wrinkles around the eyes, same mousey blond but greying hair, slightly receding hairline. But the Bradley on the inside felt inhabited by some strange alien creature. If he had to put words to it, it was as if the mild-mannered Bradley facade was a host, a host to a new and improved being, a creature of power, a superman, a god. He laughed to himself at the childishness of the image, and then laughed all the more when he saw his teeth were still the same old Bradley teeth. In a weird kind of a way it reminded him of that first time, when he’d lost his virginity, that moment where clumsily and nervously he’d crossed some magical border between boyhood and manhood. But there had been nothing clumsy or nervous about this crossing. His hand clenched and unclenched at the memory of that feeling, the intense satisfaction of emptying his anger, of emptying out his frustration, of emptying out his impotence. He had crossed a border, a crossing that made him something despicable in the eyes of most; but the odd thing was, that didn’t worry him. Because he had felt power, true unbridled power, power and control. And he could carry it hidden in his heart, his own special secret. Was this what it felt like to be a woman, to be pregnant, to carry such a mystical and magic secret so deep within? He thought of Ange, how easily he’d swept aside her fears of his infidelity, how easily she’d surrendered herself into his arms, how good it felt to satisfy her, to be in charge, to dominate her. He felt his prick stiffening, and he looked at that face in the mirror again, looked at the proud and self-assured look in its eye. Who gave a fuck that he’d been fired? He’d fix them. He’d fix them all.
Max
This was an agony of waiting. Uniformed students had started pouring out of the school ten minutes ago, and his eyes had searched the face of every boy who walked past him. He had enough sense not to wait right outside the entrance, he knew Harry – well, any teenager – well enough to know you didn’t want to meet your parents out front. Instead he’d asked to meet him at the park a couple of hundred metres up the road, far enough away to be private, but public enough to be non-threatening. The bench he sat on was set ten metres back from the footpath, under the shade of a huge, old pōhutukawa tree, and the whole thing shook with the vibration of him jiggling his legs. It was a bit late to be having second thoughts about this; the invitation was out, and it couldn’t be rescinded. And he’d had to catch a bus across to the Shore. That had chewed up a huge chunk of his precious money – prices had hiked in the time he’d been in his self-imposed exile. He didn’t have enough for a return fare; but then there were more immediate things to worry about than how to get back to the city.
Jesus, what if he didn’t show? What if Helena had intercepted the message and banned him from coming, or, worse, showed up herself? His head swivelled around, and his eyes leapt from woman to woman. The blonde? No. The grey? Too old. Shit she was brunette, was that her? No, a long-haired boy. What about that other brunette? His eyes flicked back to her face with a jolt of apprehension before discounting her and moving on to the next. He also took in every car, registering colour and shape, number of passengers. Did she still have the white Subaru? Or had she got rid of that like she’d got rid of the house? It irked him that he was so bloody paranoid, but he’d been through enough emotions today without adding her to the load. He didn’t know if he had the emotional strength to get through meeting his son, let alone the wherewithal to face her and handle the fireworks she’d set off. The knot of tension that had cramped in his stomach began to loosen when he noticed there weren’t any more women around. The noise of a large group of boys announced their approach. He cringed at the language, the f-word dropped in as an adjective as casually as the basketball being dribbled along the pavement. The boys in this group wore their uniform in every imaginable way except the proper one, and Max recognised them as the kind of boys who often found themselves in trouble with the police. They were harmless enough, but stupid. He’d come across enough of them in his police career to pick the type instantly. Unfortunately most of them were equipped with equally stupid parents, who did everything they could to protect little Johnnie instead of letting the little shit see the consequences of his actions. The herd was parallel with him now, and as they walked past a tall boy peeled off the back and walked stiffly over to him.
‘Max?’
Max climbed to his feet, his eyes locked on that face, his jaw slack. To see it in the photo had been one thing, but to see the boy, the younger version of himself standing before him, flesh and blood, shook him more than he imagined. The reminders of the years he missed were there, accusing him. The light stubble where he’d shaved, the soft fuzz of the areas that weren’t quite there yet. A smattering of acne across his cheeks and a few blackheads on his now manly nose. The boy who never used to care about his appearance now sported a hairstyle that must have taken considerable time to achieve.
Tears sprang into Max’s eyes, he tried to blink them back, and a shiver traversed his entire body. He had no idea what to do next. What did you do when you finally met up with the son you hadn’t seen in two years? Shake his hand? Hug him? Did Max deserve that right? After all, he’d essentially abandoned him. Harry stood before him, hands jammed into his pockets, shifting his weight awkwardly from foot to foot. Max could see his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he tried to fight his own feelings. Harry gave a half-smile and the sight of his teeth, straight and true, braces gone, pushed Max beyond the edge of control, and the tears escaped his eyes; he felt their wetness crawl down the skin of his face to his jaw.
Still he stood there, frozen, incapable of anything. He willed himself to say something, anything. The boy looked embarrassed and turned aside to look at the backs of his retreating friends.
‘What do you want?’ The words were quietly spoken. They contained no anger, no disrespect, no warmth, no nothing. They sounded empty. The knife twisted in his heart. This was not how he’d imagined this moment. In his heart he’d thought the father-son bond would break down all barriers, and they’d fall into an embrace and tears and mutual backslapping. The awkwardness of this was excruciating. What did he want? So much, probably too much – too much to articulate in words in this place and at this moment.
‘I need your help.’
‘Why would you want my help?’ Again, the tone was quiet, sober.
‘I have no one else to turn to.’
The boy met his eyes then. Max saw a reflection of his emaciated self.
‘Why should I help you?’ The challenge was clear.
Max felt his resolve crumple as the heat rose in his face. Why indeed? What right did he have to even ask? Why had he even harboured the hope his son would want anything to do with him? This was stupid, he shouldn’t be here, this was all wrong. The urge to bolt rushed over him, the need to escape those eyes, to escape that question. He stood gawping like a stranded fish for a few moments before abruptly turning and obeying his heart’s command to escape. He had to get away, and fast. What had he been thinking? There was no way in hell he was ready to face this, face him. His feet led him away from the guilt, from the pain: it took every ounce of his self-control not to break into a run. There were thirty paces between them before he began to slow, before the cogs of his conscience pulled him to a halt, and it dawned on him that he was doing it again. He was walking away from his son, his only son, because he couldn’t face him, couldn’t face the truth, couldn’t face himself. He stood stock-still, looking up to the heavens, taking in the seagulls soaring overhead, so carefree. He dropped his head. Jesus, just turn around, you only have to turn around. With what felt like a monumental effort, he turned his shoulders and then his body, his eyes searched to find the boy, find his son. But he was gone. For a panicked few moments Max looked up the road, before he saw Harry had sat down, was on the park bench, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Max took the long walk back, and carefully lowered himself onto the seat next to the boy. No, not boy, he thought, young man. He leaned back, looked up into the cloudless sky and pushed the air out from between his lips in a big sigh.
‘You left us.’ The voice rippled with suppressed emotion.
‘I know. I’m sorry.’ Powerful words, softly spoken.
‘After everything that happened, how could you do that?’
God, how? He’d asked himself that very question constantly in the last few days. How could he describe the desolation, the darkness? ‘I was fucked in the head. I was in a really bad space and made some awful decisions. But I was shattered, utterly shattered. I had to get away before I did something rash, did more harm.’
‘It never occurred to you running away was rash?’ It was said without humour.
‘I wasn’t thinking. I…’ He couldn’t find the words to express how the aching sorrow and guilt in his heart had painted his entire landscape black, how he’d blanked out the world. How he’d had to – there had been no other choice, other than ending it all, and it had come so very close to that.
‘What happened?’ Harry spoke with a whisper. ‘What happened to Jess?’
Max froze. ‘Did Mum never tell you about that?’
‘She wouldn’t tell me anything – she couldn’t talk about it, refused to talk about it. You might have run away, but she may as well have, because everything changed, it was like living with a ghost. She just said Jess had been killed and it was your fault.’ Max closed his eyes against the impact of those words. ‘I found most of it out from my friends. But I need to hear it from you. Was it your fault?’
He swallowed, and then told the simple truth. ‘Yes.’
‘How?’
He looked at him then, their eyes locked. ‘Do you honestly want to know?’ Did he want to tell? But for Max, that dam had already burst, and the aftermath of ruin and destruction was inevitable after the initial deluge. He was ready.
‘Yes.’
God, where to start? ‘He was supposed to be her boyfriend, but he was bad news. Jess,’ he still winced when he said her name, ‘was going through a difficult time, a bit rebellious, and he was part of that. Except he was a P smoker, in a gang and right on the edge, you know. He was every parent’s worst nightmare, and we tried to tell Jess that, to make her see, but the more we tried to warn her off him, the harder she clung, and the worse he treated her. We had to back off and let her find out for herself, which was heartbreaking for us both, because it felt like we were abandoning her to him; but eventually, she finally saw through him, saw him for what he really was and tried to break it off. She came back to us for help, but that was when things got truly ugly. He was an evil, evil young man. He took her. He kidnapped her and took her away. We hunted them for days, but he was always one step ahead.’
This was where it got hard, and Max took several deep breaths before he carried on. When he did speak, his voice sounded hollow and dead.
‘I was a detective then, of course, but because I was too close to it all I’d been kept off the case, which was the most frustrating time of my life; I felt hamstrung by them, stonewalled. But they finally got a handle on where this guy was, where he had her, and I, well, persuaded a colleague to tell me.’ He rubbed his hands together, trying to figure out how to justify himself, how to spin it, but in the end, Max knew Harry would draw his own conclusion.
‘You have to understand how worried, how terrified I was for Jess, we all were. I was mad with worry. I went there, went after them by myself, I thought I could talk him into releasing her, make him see sense, give her back to me.’
‘But he didn’t, did he?’
‘He was high, high as a kite, and manic. He … he…’ The visions assaulted Max’s mind, and he had to clasp his hands together to stop them shaking. ‘He killed her, right there in front of me.’
‘How?’
The thin red line, gaping, the awful sucking sound.
‘He slit her throat.’
Max could feel the shaking of the seat, hear the quiet sobs beside him. He reached out to put his arm around his son, but Harry shook it off. Max pulled it back like he’d been burned. The sound of the man’s mocking laughter filled his ears, overshadowing the question from his son.
‘Sorry, what did you say?’
‘They didn’t get him, did they? The papers I looked at later said he’d died, that he killed himself, but I don’t know what to believe. Mum wouldn’t let me see anything at the time, television or newspapers, so I had to ask my friends and they told me a bit about it. But they didn’t say much – I guess they wanted to protect me too.’ He paused before asking the next question. ‘Did you kill him?’
He’d fantasised about that so many times – that he’d snatched the knife the bastard had used to butcher his daughter, that he’d taken that knife and stabbed it into his heart, and that he’d twisted and twisted that knife as he listened to the screams for mercy. But that wasn’t what had happened.
