Friday, 20 May
Brook and Noble arrived at the shiny new mortuary in the Royal Derby Hospital complex at nine the next morning and headed straight for the Post Mortem Suite. When they arrived, Dr Habib was already finishing work on the dead man and was preparing to remove his gown and mask while an assistant took the final photographs.
Habib was a short chubby Asian man with soft brown eyes blinking behind thick round glasses. His face was wrinkle-free, despite advanced age, his hair, sticking out from under his surgical cap, was reddish-brown save for a few strands of grey that hadn’t seen sufficient henna.
After he stuffed mask and gown into a hazard bin, he muttered an instruction to his assistant who set down the camera and laid out the deceased’s hands, palm up, and ready to roll on the fingerprint ink. When Brook and Noble entered the lab, fiddling with surgical masks, they ventured no further than the freezers.
Habib grinned when he spotted them. ‘Inspector Brook. And Sergeant Noble also. Nice to see you. Just finishing up.’
‘You got an early start,’ said Brook.
‘It’s a lot quicker without clothes to bag and organs to remove,’ said Habib. ‘And we’ve got a backlog to work off.’
‘What have you got for us?’ interrupted Brook, fearing a lecture on excessive workload — Habib’s favourite topic of conversation.
Habib paused, wondering whether Brook should be made aware of how much he had on his plate, then decided against it. ‘More questions than answers at this stage, I fear. A tricky case — but very interesting.’ He smiled warmly at his assistant who walked over to them, camera in hand. ‘Gentlemen,’ Habib gushed towards the detectives. ‘Can I introduce Dr Ann Petty?’
‘Detectives,’ she said through her surgical mask. Brook caught a glimpse of her green eyes as she ran them briefly up and down, first Brook’s then Noble’s frame before returning to her work. The two detectives pretended not to notice. This wasn’t a come-on but a reflex they’d noticed in every pathologist, undertaker or mortician they’d ever had dealings with. Without being aware of it, the technicians of death always ran an experienced eye over new acquaintances, to estimate their weight and assess how their corpses might present on a cold steel trolley. ‘Slab happy’ was the phrase Noble had coined to describe it.
‘Does this mean you’re no longer short-staffed, Dr Habib?’ asked Noble. Brook darted a warning glance at him.
‘For the moment,’ replied Habib. ‘For now, Dr Petty is under my supervision and will be replacing me when I retire next year, at which point she will be short-staffed.’ Habib chortled at his joke and looked around the room for approval.
‘Interesting case, you say,’ said Noble.
Habib gestured them through to the office at the side of the lab and removed his gloves while Dr Petty continued with the fingerprinting. ‘And puzzling, though you’ll be pleased when I tell you that we’re reasonably sure the deceased wasn’t murdered.’
‘It was natural causes?’
‘No, Inspector. But also yes. He died of alcohol poisoning. That’s what I’ll be telling the Coroner.’
‘Is that a natural cause?’ asked Noble.
‘Not officially. But it is if you’re a chronic abuser of alcohol and drugs. For this gentleman, ingesting large amounts of very strong spirits would be routine, judging from the condition of his brain. Also, needle-marks on his arms indicate occasional drug abuse. Probably heroin — we’ll know for sure after more tests.’
‘But he drank himself to death.’
‘It looks like it. At first, Dr Petty and I thought alcohol levels were so high that maybe there might have been some element of coercion — nearly 500mg of alcohol per 100ml of blood. No normal person could be drinking at those levels without passing out. But there was no evidence of force in the usual places.’
‘Usual places?’
‘Specifically the arms and the mouth. If someone were wanting to force-feed alcohol to a person, normal practice would be to restrain their arms and head before forcing the bottle or glass into the mouth. It’s very difficult to do and would require multiple assailants.’
‘But-’
‘But that usually results in cuts and bruising around the gums and mouth, sometimes chipped teeth. Obviously his mouth is not in tip-top shape but there’s no sign of such trauma. Coercion would also present distinctive bruising on the arms and neck.’
‘But there’s none of that.’
‘The body has the extensive bruising common to chronic alcoholics; some marks are old, some new — but nothing to indicate restraint.’
‘Couldn’t the alcohol have been injected?’ asked Noble.
‘Fresh needle-marks often take longer to present,’ said Habib. ‘We’ll re-examine in a few days to be sure, but it’s extremely unlikely because it’s far too inefficient as a delivery system for that much alcohol.’
‘Do we know what he was drinking?’
‘Given the absence of the stomach, liver and kidneys it’s difficult to be precise until we do more tests. We will need to slice and dice what’s left of the brain for a more detailed analysis of toxins to be absolutely certain. The absence of blood. .’
‘Absence of blood,’ repeated Noble.
‘There’s no clean blood. There was a little in the heart valves but that was clotted, and it would be contaminated. We’ve got enough for a blood group. And tissue samples should tell us. .’
‘What do you mean there’s no clean blood?’ asked Brook.
‘Oh, forgive me, I thought you knew. This gentleman has undergone some form of post-mortem procedure and is in the first stages of being embalmed.’ He walked them back to the body on its stainless-steel table. ‘As well as removing all the organs, he was drained of blood. You see these two puncture wounds in the neck? They tapped into his major arteries. It’s a common enough procedure for funeral homes. It stops discolouration of the flesh.’
‘So we don’t have a vampire at large,’ quipped Noble.
Habib chortled. ‘I’m afraid not.’ The diminutive doctor placed a thumb and finger on either side of the cadaver’s neck. ‘These incisions have been made by a surgical instrument so tubes can be attached. Draining the body of blood would require time and patience and preferably a tank to store the blood.’
Brook nodded. ‘So whoever did this might have access to specialist equipment.’
‘Well, it’s not essential, Inspector. Those preserving bodies in the Ancient World didn’t have any. But these days, as well as a large tank to contain the blood, he might also use a pump to help the blood drain. Otherwise things could get a bit messy.’
‘Not something that an amateur can do in his bedroom then,’ muttered Noble.
‘Absolutely not,’ answered Habib. ‘And strictly speaking he’s not an amateur. Whoever performed this procedure possesses a fair amount of anatomical knowledge.’ He indicated the large opening on the dead man’s flank. The stitching had been removed and, without thinking, Habib pulled the wound open so they could see inside. Noble looked at the ceiling while Brook pursed his lips. ‘This incision in his side was made to remove the internal organs and it’s quite a skill.’
‘Why remove the organs?’ asked Noble.
‘Well, unless he’s making a large haggis,’ sniggered Habib, releasing the flaps of flesh on either side of the wound, ‘the usual reason is to hinder microbial growth and decomposition. And it is common practice in hospital mortuaries for examination purposes, unless there are religious objections.’
‘Just hospitals?’ asked Noble.
‘There are scientific facilities that use cadavers, medical schools, that sort of thing — they have skilled technicians for such procedures. It’s about preservation and, of course, reserving the organs for whatever procedures they might be undertaking.’
Dr Petty walked over to them, removing her face mask and cap. She had short blond hair with tinted highlights. Brook noticed Noble looking at her for longer than necessary.
‘Speaking of undertaking. .’ she said to Habib.
‘Yes. Undertakers and funeral directors would be more likely in this case.’
‘Because it’s not clinical,’ said Brook, nodding. ‘But cosmetic.’
Petty smiled at him. ‘Right. Someone has very carefully, almost lovingly, begun the process of preserving his body. If he came to us as a suspicious or unexplained death,’ she nodded towards the spread-eagled chest cavity, ‘we observe the basics of our profession. We open them up completely for ease of access. It’s not pretty but it gets the job done. Equally, if we need to see the brain, we use a skull key and a saw to take off the top of the head. The only reason to remove the organs through this small incision seems to be cosmetic.’
‘To leave the torso unblemished.’ Brook nodded.
‘And this kind of cosmetic consideration is most likely to be found in the funeral service,’ said Habib. ‘Those gentlemen, and ladies perhaps,’ he added with a simper at Dr Petty, ‘are charged with bringing the dead back to life, at least while the coffin is open to relatives.’
‘That would explain the haircut and shave,’ said Brook.
‘We noticed that,’ said Dr Petty. ‘And did you see the fingernails have been scraped and clipped too. Also the body was washed, with an antibacterial agent, possibly alcohol. It’s difficult to tell after the body was in the water.’
‘Maybe why he was dumped in the river,’ observed Noble.
‘More than likely.’ Petty nodded.
‘I hate to bring it up, but is there any sexual angle here?’ asked Brook.
‘There’s no sign of any sexual activity, forced or otherwise,’ answered Petty.
‘And could the deceased have been through here already and been misplaced?’ asked Noble.
‘Indeed not,’ said Habib sternly. ‘We don’t lose corpses — our procedures are too thorough. And if we had processed him he would have been cut open from the thorax, as you see.’
‘What about the scientific organisations that use dead bodies?’ asked Brook.
‘I can’t speak as to their procedures, Inspector,’ replied Habib. ‘But they’d only accept intact bodies. And they’d also open up the chest in the traditional manner.’
‘So he hasn’t been seen by any agency that does official autopsies or post mortems,’ concluded Noble, scribbling in his notebook.
‘We don’t think so,’ said Petty. ‘Besides, any doctor attending this man could certify COD. But I’m guessing a doctor hasn’t seen him or issued a Death Certificate. Being homeless, it’s also unlikely the deceased has given informed consent for his body to be left to science.’
‘And without consent, a medical school couldn’t have his remains,’ said Brook.
‘Exactly. In the absence of next-of-kin, he would be routinely interred,’ said Petty.
‘So his death is completely off the books until now.’
‘It would seem so.’
Brook rubbed his chin. ‘So if the internal organs were removed. .’
Habib nodded in encouragement. ‘The intestines too.’
‘. . the intestines too,’ echoed Brook. ‘How did you manage to get blood from the heart?’
Habib grinned. ‘The heart was put back.’
‘Put back?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Why?’
‘No idea.’
‘You mean, whoever did this took out the organs and intestines but left the heart in,’ suggested Noble.
‘No,’ said Dr Petty. ‘The heart was severed from the arteries and removed with everything else, but some time later it was put back. There were even a couple of rough stitches attaching it to other tissue, presumably to ensure it didn’t fall out of the cavity.’
Brook’s brow furrowed. ‘What condition was it in?’
‘Very poor — the same as the brain. If he hadn’t died of alcohol poisoning, I suspect his heart would have failed within the year,’ said Habib.
‘Could someone be farming these bodies for profit?’ asked Noble.
‘And put back the heart because it was diseased and unusable?’ said Petty. ‘No chance. Given the condition of both the heart and the brain, I’d say none of the other internal organs would have been suitable for transplant.’
‘I see.’ Brook prepared to leave.
‘There’s one more interesting thing, Inspector.’ Habib walked over to a stainless-steel sink and picked up a small steel bowl to show Brook and Noble the two small pinkish-grey objects slithering inside. ‘This is what’s left of the brain. It’s in two parts because it’s going to be sectioned for analysis. As you can see, it’s fatally compressed.’
‘Unmistakable,’ agreed Brook, glancing sideways at Noble — but for once his Sergeant didn’t respond, preferring to stare steadfastly at the white wall behind Habib’s head. Now Brook could detect the sheen of sweat on his brow and upper lip. Once, Brook would’ve felt the same. He looked at his watch. ‘John, go and find us both a cup of tea and wait for me in the gallery,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘I’ll finish up here.’
Without speaking, Noble darted a glance at Brook and hurried out of the suite.
Brook turned back to the two doctors, both oblivious to Noble’s discomfort. ‘Go on.’
‘You’ll observe the necrosis affecting the brain’s tissue. Very damaged and typical of the alcoholic. But look at this.’ Habib held the bowl out to Dr Petty and she picked up the two pieces of brain in both hands and turned them over. Habib indicated a series of cuts in the underside. ‘If we examine the underside of the brain, we can see the membrane has been punctured several times. Indeed, there has been some slicing of the brain into smaller pieces, some of which are missing.’
‘Missing!’ exclaimed Brook.
‘Now why this was done we can’t be sure,’ continued Habib.
Brook narrowed his eyes. ‘Wait a minute. Pieces of the brain have been removed?’
‘Yes.’
‘But when we found the body, the skull was intact.’
‘It was.’
‘Then never mind why. How could someone do that to the brain with the skull intact?’
‘Good question, Inspector.’ Habib and Petty walked Brook back over to the ice-white corpse and pointed to the scarring below the deceased’s nostrils. ‘We’re not sure but we think someone has fashioned a tool, a kind of thin sharp probe a bit like a scalpel only longer and more robust, possibly hooked at the end. When placed inside the nostril at the correct angle, it can be forced up into the brain to puncture the membrane and allow the CSF to drain away.’
‘CSF?’
‘Cerebrospinal fluid,’ chipped in Petty, moving to the far side of the cadaver.
‘Sounds painful.’
‘Not if you’re already dead,’ she said, unsure if Brook was being serious. She pointed to the incisions on the upper lip. ‘The tool was pushed into the nostrils, causing these cuts as well as invisible scarring inside the nostrils. It would’ve been pushed up the nose, and forced through the cartilage and finally into the brain propelled by a heavy object such as a hammer. .’
Brook grimaced and looked around for Noble. He spotted him upstairs in the gallery holding two plastic cups and smoking a cigarette. Despite the reinforced glass screen between the gallery and the lab, Brook felt sure he could smell tobacco smoke.
‘. . and cut into the brain. Then the detached pieces must have been pulled back down through the nose — hence the hook.’
‘Nice. And you don’t know why, Doctors?’
Petty shrugged. ‘If I were starting out in anatomy back in the Dark Ages, I might puncture the brain like this to see what happened. Otherwise, your guess is as good as mine.’
‘And when you say a tool was fashioned, does that mean that such a tool doesn’t exist?’ asked Brook.
‘Why would it?’ said Habib. ‘We don’t need to get to the brain through the nose these days.’
‘These days? So such a tool may once have been used?’
Dr Petty nodded. ‘Hundreds of years ago. Longer even. Ancient anatomy isn’t my field. But if someone wanted to spend hours removing the brain without disturbing the skull, they’d certainly have to create one.’ She paused then smiled at him. ‘I’ll be happy to look into it,’ she added.
Brook nodded his thanks and left.
The front gate clattered outside and Becky jumped out of bed, pulling aside the shade on her bedroom window. The postman strode towards the house with a bundle of letters. This was it. She strained to listen and heard her father jump up to collect the mail. She held her breath and continued to listen for any reaction and heard first voices, then footsteps scuffling hurriedly up the stairs. She jumped back into bed. When the knock came on her bedroom door, she pulled the duvet back over her head. Another knock and a muffled conversation followed. Finally the handle turned and her father stuck his head into the gap.
‘Becks,’ he said softly.
Even without a word said, Becky knew her stepmother, Christy, was with him because the stench of stale tobacco hung in the still air — it followed her everywhere like her own toxic cloud.
Becky tried to affect the noise of sleep and her father made to close the door but his wife’s voice stayed his hand. ‘It’s ten o’clock, for Christ’s sake. Wake her up. It’s important.’ Her father must have hesitated. ‘I’m telling you, Fred. She should have been up hours ago.’
‘She’s tired,’ he whispered.
‘From what?’ replied Christy, raising her voice. ‘Opening all the gifts you give her? You spoil that girl, Fred, now wake her up.’
‘I’m awake,’ said Becky from under the duvet. She sat up, flinging the duvet from her head and glaring at her stepmother with undisguised hatred. ‘Happy now? Not that I could sleep with that stale fag ash polluting the air,’ she added.
‘Watch your tongue in my house, lady,’ retorted Christy.
‘Your house?’ snarled Becky, an ugly frown distorting her doll-like features. ‘Since when-’
‘Stop it, you two.’ Her father laughed in the light-hearted manner he affected to bridge the gulf between the two women in his life. He came and sat beside his daughter on the bed. He had an envelope in his hand. He placed it on the bed in front of her, looked expectantly into her eyes then lifted his hand to stroke her hair. ‘Aren’t you excited, darling? It’s finally here.’
Becky flicked a glance towards her stepmother’s sour gaze then smiled warmly at her father. She kissed his neck and played with the curl of hair around his ear to further stick it to Christy. ‘Course I’m excited, Dad.’
‘Open it then, princess. Put us out of our misery.’
Becky thumbed the envelope open and unfolded the letter. Without emotion she handed the letter to her father who read greedily. He stopped, took a deep breath and looked at his daughter.
‘Are you going to read it, or what?’ asked Christy.
Fred Blake smiled. ‘Dear Becky, I am pleased to tell you that we are able to offer you a place at our modelling agency, and would be grateful if you could contact us to arrange a meeting as soon as possible.
‘You did it, princess!’ he shouted. ‘You did it!’ He flung his arms around his daughter and she buried her head in his chest, unable to hold back a tear. ‘You’re going to be famous, Becks. Can you believe it? My daughter, a fashion model. Rebecca Blake, Supermodel,’ he announced, with a portentous wave of the arm. ‘You’ll be on the telly, maybe in films. You’ll meet famous people. You’ll go to New York, Paris, Rome. .’
‘I’ll be based in London, Dad,’ Becky reminded him, grinning.
‘Of course.’ He laughed.
‘But only after I pass my A-levels.’
He grinned again. ‘Beautiful and smart. You’ll knock ’em dead, honey.’
Becky held out her arms for another hug then sneered at her stepmother over his shoulder. The answering smile was sullen.
‘Where are all your photos, love?’ asked her dad, noticing the bare walls suddenly. ‘All your portraits?’
‘I thought I’d pack them away for the move to London,’ Becky replied after a brief pause.
Her father hesitated then said excitedly, ‘You’re right. We’d better get organised; you’re going to need a whole new wardrobe.’
‘So I guess we can kiss goodbye to a holiday this year,’ observed Christy, turning for the door.
‘Book your holiday,’ Becky spat at her. ‘The big fashion houses throw clothes at young models for nothing. It’s free advertising,’ she explained to her father.
‘Free advertising,’ her father echoed for the benefit of his wife. ‘Hear that, Christy?’ He gazed back, damp-eyed, at the apple of his eye. ‘Your mum would’ve been so proud.’
Becky returned her head to her father’s neck but, unable to keep her eyes from the door, looked up in time to see her stepmother stalking away. She grinned maliciously towards her retreating back.
Brook tapped on the window of the small hatch with his warrant card. The orderly looked up from his tabloid and gave Brook and Noble a steely glare before reluctantly dragging himself to his feet. He was small but powerfully built, despite advanced middle age, and was dressed in white trousers and snug-fitting, white T-shirt which matched his cropped hair and showed off hard, gym-pumped biceps. He barely glanced at them as he slid open the small window.
‘What can I do for you, Officers?’
Brook spotted the blue ink of prison on the orderly’s gnarled forearms and neck. ‘Detective Inspector Brook, Detective Sergeant Noble,’ he said, enunciating their ranks a little more distinctly than usual. ‘Is your supervisor in?’ Brook peered down at his ID badge. ‘Danny.’
‘Just popped out,’ grinned the orderly, exposing a rack of teeth like an elephant’s ribcage. ‘I’m in charge.’
Brook pulled out the SOCO photograph of the dead man and held it up to Danny’s cold blue eyes. ‘Do you recognise this man? Social Services think it’s possible he stayed here recently.’
The orderly looked briefly before shaking his head. ‘Can’t say I recognise him.’ He glanced back up at Brook. ‘You’ve tried Social Services then.’
‘And the Job Centre. Without a name they’re completely in the dark. They suggested we try here and the outreach centres.’
Danny nodded, sifting the information. ‘That’s fine. But we have a policy at Millstone House Shelter. If someone asks for help, we try to give it. We don’t ask questions about their background or whether they’ve been in prison. We don’t even ask for a name if they don’t want us to know. A hard bed and simple food is all we can give, but we give it willingly.’
‘Very commendable,’ replied Brook.
‘Look, we’re not doing the census, buddy,’ cut in Noble. ‘We just want to know if he stayed here in the last month.’
‘And you don’t have a name,’ said Danny.
‘Not yet,’ said Brook. He stared back at Danny’s lived-in features. ‘I think we’d better have a look round. Maybe ask some of your residents.’
‘They won’t be here for a few hours yet,’ said Danny, still pleased to be so obstructive. ‘Come back around five when the soup’s ready. Fine day like today, they’ll all be down at the riverside gardens tucking into a few tinnies.’
‘Five o’clock?’
‘Sure, if you like wasting your time. Even if you find someone who wants to talk to you, you won’t get much sense out of them. Not after tea-time beers. You’re better off coming back in the morning.’
Brook nodded. ‘You’ve seen a lot of dead men, have you?’ Danny’s grin disappeared. ‘Sorry?’
‘You didn’t turn a hair at the photograph,’ chipped in Noble.
Danny looked evenly into Brook’s eyes. ‘I’ve seen a few. I used to be in the life. You break into enough derelict houses to doss down, you’re gonna find bodies sooner or later — or what’s left of ’em. The lost ones. And, natural enough, the wretched and the desperate that come here are sometimes taken unto God in the middle of the night. This isn’t a health spa.’
‘You’re not in the life now,’ said Brook.
‘Not since Jesus found me in the depths of my depravity and held out His hand to me. Me! No matter what I’d become and what I’d done, He wanted me by His side.’
‘And now you do His work,’ said Brook, making some effort to keep the cynicism from his voice.
‘With a song in my heart, Inspector,’ replied Danny.
‘Praise the Lord,’ sneered Noble.
‘Noticed anyone else taking an unusual interest in your residents? Besides staff, obviously.’
‘In what way?’
‘Asking about your guests, where they might go after they leave here, maybe even plying them with alcohol.’
‘The only alcohol allowed in here, friend, is already in their bellies when they arrive. And no, no one has been taking an interest in the lost souls who end up here. Except the staff.’
‘And Jesus,’ said Brook. Danny answered with a fake smile. Brook turned and signalled to Noble to leave.
‘I think his name was Tommy. He was here,’ said Danny. ‘About three, four weeks ago.’
‘Tommy?’ asked Noble.
Danny turned to leaf through a ledger. ‘Tommy Mac, it says here. I assume that’s short for something. He was a Scot.’
‘Is there a date?’ asked Noble.
‘April twenty-fifth for two nights.’
‘Anything unusual about his visit? Anything happen to him, like maybe he got into an argument with someone?’
Danny shook his head. ‘He came. He left. Far as I remember.’
‘No one here he managed to aggravate, someone who might bear a grudge?’
‘There’s always conflict, Inspector. Spend a couple of nights here and you’d be arguing over a discarded tab end with the guy in the next bed. But the one redeeming feature about the demon drink is they rarely remember anything the next day.’
‘Do you have CCTV?’
‘Some. Thefts and assaults are not unknown.’
‘Would you have it for Tommy’s visit?’
‘Not after three weeks.’
‘I’d like a photocopy of the names of all the men who stayed here during those two nights. .’
‘I told you. .’
‘. . or whatever names they gave. I also want the names of staff on duty while Tommy was here.’
‘The staff I can give you. You’ll need the director’s permission for a list of guests. Not that they left contact numbers. They leave here and they become invisible again, as soon as the door shuts behind them.’
Jake sat on his bed, naked but for a towel round his waist, chatting on MSN with some of his fellow college footballers. They had a big game against Trent Poly at the weekend and his teammates were not shy in telling all their contacts on Facebook how convincingly they were going to win. Trent Poly r gay.
‘Trent Poly is gay,’ he said, but declined to correct their grammar online. Jake didn’t usually join in such meaningless banter. He didn’t see the point. They’d know the result after the match and the endless speculative boasting seemed like a waste of effort — doubly so if they lost. Tonight, however, he was happy to kill time, to be distracted by trivia and he spent another vacant half-hour trying to respond to his teammates’ incoherent ramblings.
Kyle’s Smiths CD was playing. After fruitlessly searching for Kyle in the dark fields the night before, Jake had returned to pick it up and bring it home. Now he was going to his party. What would Kyle say to him when he opened the door? Track 9 began to play. Take me out tonight.
Jake glanced sideways at the DVD-shaped parcel on the bed. Picnic at Hanging Rock — Special Edition. He’d bought it earlier today and it was expensive. His mum had wrapped it for him though he wouldn’t tell her who it was for in case she mentioned it to his dad. When she’d asked if it was for a girlfriend, he’d let her believe it.
With a heavy heart, he typed in a final inanity, being careful to misspell a couple of words, and logged out of MSN.
Becky’s face fell as Kyle opened the door to her. ‘Shit. What happened to you, Kylie?’
He smiled weakly at her despite the painful swelling around his face. ‘You should see the other guy — not a scratch on him,’ he joked.
‘But what. .?’
‘I had a disagreement with Wilson about my sexual orientation.’
‘That fat tub of guts. At least you’ve got a sexual orientation.’
Kyle giggled then winced in pain. ‘Don’t make me laugh. It hurts.’ He ushered her in. Becky couldn’t hear music or even a TV. Only Adele was there, sitting on a small sofa with a bottle of untouched WKD in her hand, staring into space. She glanced up at Becky and smiled when she saw the jeans, trainers and sweatshirt, the leather rucksack over her shoulder.
Becky nodded back at her and looked around. ‘Geek Boy not here?’
Adele shook her head. ‘Not yet. Do you want a drink?’
Becky prepared to refuse, citing her skin as the reason. A model must have beautiful skin. ‘Don’t see why not.’
Jake stood beneath the streetlight outside Kyle’s house. He’d been there nearly five minutes, just watching, wondering what to do. He’d seen no one arrive and no signs of life. There wasn’t even the barely muffled pulse of loud music that had greeted his arrival at every other teenage party he’d attended. Maybe Kyle hadn’t come home after the previous night’s beating. Maybe he was lying out in the fields injured or dead. For the first time in his life, Jake envied people who smoked.
With a deep breath, he approached the glass front door and raised a hand to knock. But instead of knocking, he waited. He couldn’t hear anything; no music, no laughter and none of the usual loud screeching and shouting for attention that characterised every other conversation held at such gatherings. It was as quiet as the grave.
He stood frozen, his hand aloft, ready to pound on the door. Finally he lowered his arm and walked around the side of the house where there was a large floor-to-ceiling window. The curtains were drawn but Jake could see movement on the other side so he drew nearer and fixed his eye to a crack in the material. He pulled back and turned away, deep lines of confusion etched on his brow. A second later he walked back down the small drive and set off for home.
Becky stood at the sink in Kyle’s kitchen and wiped the last of the talcum powder from her face. When she’d finished, she stared at her reflection in the window. The harsh strip-lighting left no hiding place for all the minor blemishes that others overlooked but she obsessed over. She looked away at once.
The noise of the TV increased as a door opened and Adele came over to put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Okay, Becks?’
Becky smiled faintly. ‘Always.’ She laughed. ‘Lamest party ever, right?’ Adele smiled back. ‘I should text Fern and tell her she got off lightly.’ Adele raised an eyebrow but Becky had already realised. ‘Right. No phones.’
‘Come and watch Badlands. You’ll like it.’