Faceless, p.23
Faceless, page 23
‘Why don’t we just stay? Won’t he do something straight away?’
‘No, he’ll think and he’ll wait. If he went out now he’d be signalling to his wife that he’s guilty of something. He won’t act till morning, and when he does, we’ll be waiting.’
Meredith
There was a chill wind, and she shuddered as she stood on the footpath with crossed arms and watched as the navy-blue Nissan Primera was winched onto the tow truck. The spasm wasn’t only due to the cold. She watched the Fordyces, standing arm in arm on the driveway, a picture of unity; but most of all she watched him. He had been helpful, he had been polite and, apart from the bits where his domineering wife had taken it on herself to speak on his behalf, he had been communicative. He hadn’t whined when they asked to take his vehicle, he’d been most obliging. Even when his wife had mentioned the warrant word, he’d not taken up her objections. He was hiding something. From the moment he’d opened the door she didn’t trust him. She didn’t like the way he’d looked at her, she didn’t like the way it made her feel when he’d looked at her – defensive and even a bit grubby – and most of all she didn’t like the fact he’d answered the door with an erection. Detective McCarten hadn’t noticed, but she had. It wasn’t her usual practice to greet a man by looking at his crotch, but she’d seen what she’d seen.
McCarten wandered over towards her as the truck drove out of the driveway and headed up the road.
‘We’re all done,’ he said. ‘I’ve told them we’ll be in touch as soon as we can release the vehicle.’
They walked across the street to where she’d shifted the unmarked patrol car out of the way. Again she shivered and, unable to shake off an uneasy feeling, glanced further down the street, but there was nothing out of place, just a few parked cars. She must have been tired – but then it had been one hell of a strange few days. Max’s reappearance in her life had rattled her more than she cared to admit, and she couldn’t get the sight of him, emaciated and derelict, out of her head. He was the ghost who walked. They climbed into their vehicle and she waited until McCarten had clicked his seatbelt before she started the engine.
‘Well, that was a waste of time,’ he said.
‘You’re kidding me, right?’ She looked at him in amazement.
He looked puzzled at her response. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Bradley Fordyce is our man, I guarantee it.’
‘What on earth makes you think that?’
She’d thought it was perfectly obvious, but she wasn’t about to dignify him with a full explanation. ‘Because I know. He’s the one. He’s the one we’re looking for.’
‘And this is based on what? A feeling? Woman’s intuition?’ She noted the sarcasm in his voice. He was new to the station, and relatively new to the job. No one else would have dared doubt her so-called woman’s intuition – well, not to her face.
‘How long have you been a detective, McCarten?’
‘This is my first year qualified.’ Jesus. Bloody newbies thought they knew everything.
‘Right, tell you what, then. When you’ve been qualified for more than five minutes, then you can sit there and give me your opinion on whether I’m right or not. Until then, you can shut the fuck up.’
Billy
Her muscles scream out in protest with the slightest movement, lines of fire scorch across her back, buttocks and arms. Her body burns, her heart weighs heavy in her chest, and her mind still reels from his latest attack. He has transformed and been reborn as some terrible creature from myth and legend, a chimera; he has become a god, a god of war, a god of hatred, a god of pain. Gone is the frightened man with the desperate eyes who kidnapped her. He has been possessed, possessed by something evil. Her hands finger the long rope of hair she has plaited, finger it like the rosary, her lips whispering prayers and entreaties to a kinder god, prayers for help, prayers for strength. The air becomes warm and the scent of frangipani makes her smile. Her Bubu begins to talk to her again, the soothing rhythm of her voice tells her tales and stories of bravery and valour; of demons and gods and the heroes who vanquish them; of heroes who cast aside their fear and weaknesses and draw on all of their courage and strength to banish the evil back to the hell it emerged from. Her face relaxes and despite the flare of pain as the T-shirt that has stuck to her bloodied back rips away from her torn skin, she leans back against the wall, settling in to listen to her Bubu and the stories that lull her to sleep.
Bradley
Sirens surrounded him, enticing him, luring him into a sea of tarry blackness. They called to him, husky, sultry voices, their long, lustrous hair flowing, caressing, swaying just enough to reveal the curve of breasts, the hint of nipple. A tall red-headed woman moved to the front, and as her face came into focus, the freckles across her skin glowed with vitality, her feline eyes burned with desire, and her arm reached out, her hand slid in behind his neck, pulling him forward to her, he could smell the scent of frangipani infused in her hair, the warmth of her breath as she pulled his unresisting lips onto hers, he felt their softness meld with his, then press, press harder, and harder, and he pulled his head back, trying to escape their pull, but she was unyielding, and he felt his breath being sucked away, and as he tried to draw another, the wave of panic flashed cold through his body and he tried to run, but she had dragged him into the tarry water, was dragging him deeper and deeper and his leaden legs couldn’t find purchase and he tried to scream, but all that came was a muffled groan, and another, and then a shaking, and a shaking and a voice, a voice calling his name, ‘Bradley, Bradley,’ and he flew back into consciousness, heart pounding, breath rasping, Ange’s hand on his shoulder, shaking him.
‘Wake up, you’re having a nightmare, wake up.’
‘Jesus, what the…?’
‘You were moaning and kicking like an animal.’
‘Ugh, sorry.’ He tried to shake his head, shake away the bitter taste left in his mouth, but it wouldn’t budge. His heart still banged in his chest, and he took a deep breath and held it, to try and force it to slow down.
‘Is it getting to you?’ Ange asked, her voice soft with concern.
‘What?’ he said, although he had heard her.
‘This business with the police coming back. Is it upsetting you?’ She rubbed her hands over his back, trying to ease his fear away.
‘It must be,’ he said. ‘But it is kind of strange, isn’t it? It’s not every day you get your car hauled away on the back of a truck. I hate to think what the neighbours made of it all.’
‘Well, we might not get invited over for dinner for a while,’ she said, and he appreciated her attempt to make light of it all. ‘At least the police will be able to eliminate you, and then we’ll be left alone.’
‘Yeah, you’re right.’ He was wide awake now, his legs twitched and he had an overwhelming urge to run. ‘You go back to sleep, I’m going to get up for a bit.’ He pulled on a sweatshirt and slippers and padded out to the lounge. His eyes flicked up to the clock, it was only 2.00 am. Too early to go without arousing suspicion. He felt the need for something to drown out the turmoil in his head, so he turned on the TV. There was nothing that screamed out to be watched and he flicked channels, through the BBC, endless infomercials, home shows, music, sport, kids cartoons and documentaries before flicking back to the crime channel. The programme followed the investigation into a man who had murdered his wife in the United States. They were always in the US, and there was apparently an endless procession of men dissatisfied with their lives and their wives for whatever reason, who saw murdering them as the only way out. And as the images scrolled by, of the woman’s body, the plastic bag over her head, the staged break-in, the police forensics, the news footage of the distraught husband appealing to the public for information on who might have done this dreadful thing to his beloved wife, so convincing, so grief-stricken, his own scattered thoughts began to take shape and form as he came to the realisation that for him there was no alternative. That the police would keep coming back until they found the girl, whether it be days, weeks, years or decades. Because it had come down to that. Unless, by the grace of God, they found absolutely no trace of her in the car, he was a suspect. And even if crossed off the list, his name would still be sitting in a file somewhere, ready to be probed again when they came to a dead end. The simple fact was he had everything to lose. So he had no choice, he had to clean up this god-awful mess he’d got himself into, he had to finish this properly, because the only way he could escape the net that was drawing ever tighter around him was for her to disappear, forever. Every last trace of her had to go. He’d have to scrub out and bleach that room and make it as pristine as an operating theatre. That would be the easy part. But was he capable of dealing with her? Was he capable of doing something that drastic when his mind couldn’t even bring itself to use the word ‘kill’? Can I kill her? He forced himself to think those exact harsh words. And his heart began to race, and his breath quickened at the thought. There were many things he’d proven to himself in the last week: he’d done things he’d never dreamed he was capable of, guilty pleasures that thrilled and excited him, sinful acts that made him feel masterful, in control, more alive than he’d felt in his life, and he knew he didn’t want that feeling to end, ever. And he thought of the girl, that stupid, greedy girl, waiting in the dark, because it was her fault it had come to this. She’d had her chance, but she’d fucked it up, she’d brought it on herself. His eyes took in the scene on the television – the body. How would it feel? How would it feel to have the power of life and death in his hands? His stomach tingled with the stirring of nervous excitement and anticipation, and he noticed it wasn’t just his gut that was eager, his cock stirred too. He could do this.
Max
He sat in the dark in the armchair. The tick of the lounge clock split the air with its repetitive click. His body felt like every nerve ending was simultaneously firing, and his mind was sharp, so sharp the clarity hurt. He had his man, he knew it, and he would lead them to Billy. And it would be over. In the morning he would track his prey; he would find her and she would finally be safe, safe in his arms, safe under his protection. It would be different this time. ‘Jess, it will be different,’ he whispered.
Billy
She feels a frisson in the air, that feeling of pressure intensifying before a storm and the dull headache it brings. She imagines the bulbous steel-grey clouds gathering on the horizon, leaves scattering and flags whipping with the first fluttering of wind, the scent of ozone on the air. The tempest is building, and in her heart she knows everything is coming to a head. He is coming. He is coming back, and this time he will finish it. She thinks of her brothers and sisters, and her heart saddens, and although she tries not to, the thought of her mother intrudes, and with it the sour taste of disenchantment. Such weakness. How could she not have advocated for her own daughter, protected her? But no, she had cowered before that man, that murderer. She was not strong. The image of Max drifts into focus, and she smiles. He is steel under that wasted exterior, she feels it; and so is his son. She recalls the young man’s smile, his shy approach but understated strength, a quiet guardian. Hope, they bring her hope, and hope brings strength. The soothing voice of her Bubu whispers in her ear. He is coming, but you are strong. Because the storm is breaking – but she is ready, she is ready for him, and her fingers run across the bobbles of her plaited hair, of left over right, and the love and strength of her Bubu’s stories are woven into each strand of her rope, her Bubu’s stories of gods and demons, of warriors – and heroes.
Max
It was dark; it felt darker than dark. Not even the amber glow of the streetlights could penetrate deep into the night. No moon, no stars, instead a brooding blanket of black and the heady promise of rain. Harry had already been awake when he’d entered his room to rouse him, and had moved with quiet solemnity as they dressed and took the drive over to Albany. In the city that never slept there were scant cars on the roads at 4.00 am; the trucks ruled the motorways. As they traversed the arteries, and then the arterioles of Auckland, the car’s engine sounded outrageously loud in the curtained and locked world of suburbia. They entered the cul-de-sac, each oversized house shoulder to shoulder with its neighbour, looking much like queens and kings on a chessboard, their wheelie bin and recycling bin pawns guarding the footpaths.
‘Drive past, turn around and park over there, so we’re facing out.’
Harry did as he was told without comment, turned off the headlights, killed the engine. Their vantage point gave a clear view of the garage door. There were no lights on in the house: all seemed deathly still, eerily silent.
‘Now we wait.’
Bradley
He nuzzled into his wife’s neck and murmured, ‘I’m off to the gym.’ She mumbled a dreamy ‘Goodbye,’ and he slipped out of the bed. He found his clothes in the dark, trying to be as quiet as possible. His toe caught the corner of something and he swore with the jolt of pain. When he bent down to move the culprit he felt the soft nylon shell of his gym bag. Jesus, what an idiot. He would have forgotten it. That could have spoiled everything. No simple mistakes. Only when he was in the garage did he dare turn on a light: her car looked lost, alone in that vast space. He unlocked it and slung the bag in the boot. Then he went over to the laundry and utility cupboards that lined the back wall. He searched through until he found the grocery bags, each one carefully tied in a half knot to prevent one of the kids accidentally suffocating. The irony of it made him snort. He sorted through them and selected four that didn’t appear to have any holes in them. A bundle of black polythene bags caught his eye and he decided to take them for good measure, as well as a small box of disposable gloves. Lastly, he went to the tall end cupboard and pulled out a spade, a blue plastic tarpaulin and a bundle of nylon rope. His hand hovered over his tackle box, and then Bradley opened it and retrieved the sheathed fishing knife. Just in case.
Max
A flood of light bathed the driveway as the garage door of the house slowly rose. It was 5.13 am. Harry sat up in his seat, but Max pulled him back down, out of sight. A red Toyota Rav4 reversed out of the garage, its headlights cutting an arc across the front of the house as it swung into the street. As if an omen of the pending storm, the first drops of rain began to spit onto their windscreen, distorting the red of the tail lights as the car pulled away into the distance.
‘Keep well back, and don’t turn your lights on yet.’
Harry started the engine and drove off with deliberate calm. The beacon of red had disappeared left around the roundabout, and when they caught sight of it again it was indicating to turn right into Gills Road. It was ironic to Max that a man on his way to continue the perpetration of a heinous crime was being so law-abiding as to indicate in the wee hours of the morning when there was no one to see. He would have laughed if the situation hadn’t been so serious. Harry instinctively hung back, keeping as close to the kerb as possible. If Fordyce looked in his rear-vision mirror, he’d just think it was a parked car. They drove this cat-and-mouse course down through to the turnoff joining up with the main road. Fordyce turned left onto the highway. As they rolled up to the intersection Max was surprised at how many cars were on the road at this hour of the morning.
‘Lights on,’ he said. ‘We don’t want to get pulled over now.’ The rain was falling hard enough now to require the windscreen wipers; the buzz of the tyres on the tarmac, the orange glow of the sodium lamps and the hypnotic swish of the wipers made it feel surreal. There were now two cars between them and Fordyce, which suited them fine.
‘I’ll bet he’s heading to the Northern Motorway, towards town.’
‘Good. He’ll be easy to keep track of then. We’ll be able to slot in behind like any other commuter with an early start.’ Harry was the essence of calm and concentration, and Max felt a surge of admiration for how the boy was handling all of this. He was certain he’d never been that mature at his age. But then Max, by his very actions, was the reason the boy had to grow up ahead of his time. ‘You’re doing a great job,’ he said. Harry just nodded and kept his eyes on the road.
The pitch of the wheel buzz changed as they crossed the harbour bridge. The lights of the city were blurred by the haze of rain that had descended upon it. The Sky Tower pierced the sky like some science-fiction light sabre thrust up from the cityscape. The Rav4 passed the off-ramps that led into the city and continued south. It finally veered from the motorway at the Mount Wellington off-ramp, slowing to a halt and then turning north. The traffic lights in front of Fordyce changed to orange, and the Rav4 sailed through, but the car occupying the place between them decided to be a good citizen and stop. The lights, for what felt an interminable length of time, stayed red.
‘Shit, we’re going to lose him in traffic if he gets too far ahead,’ Harry said, fingers drumming on the steering wheel and frustration edging into his voice.
Gotcha, Max thought, a smile creeping onto his face for the first time that day. The list of the Fordyce’s property locations played in his mind. ‘That’s okay, we don’t need to follow him anymore. I know exactly where he’s going.’
Meredith
‘Got you, you bastard,’ she uttered to herself as the automatic door crawled up and a red Rav4 backed out of the garage. The door started its slide back down and Meredith’s eyes followed the vehicle as it drove up the street.
