The scooter doesn’t want to start. He fires the ignition. Again. Kicks the front wheel in frustration. ‘Come on. Not now.’ He sits back, adjusts the strap on his helmet. Tries again. The bike comes to life and Davie turns, heads away from Willow Walk and back down into town towards Marie’s flat.
He slows down, glances up side streets. Peers at anyone he passes on the way. Looking for Marie. Looking for Graeme. The streets are quiet. It is still early in the morning. A few cars are starting to appear, people heading off to work. People going about their day. No one knows yet. The town is small, but news has not yet spread. The residents are being kept in their homes, asked to stay calm. Be vigilant. Try not to spread their fear.
It won’t be long before everyone knows what has happened. If they can find Graeme – find Marie – maybe they’ll have a fuller picture of what went on before the hysteria starts. Because it will start. There is no doubt about that. Davie turns at the bottom of the back street, heads up towards the estates. No sign of Marie.
He’s almost there, two streets away, when the engine whines and the scooter sputters to a stop. He veers off the road, almost hits the kerb. Manages to right himself just in time.
‘For the love of God, not now.’ The bike has been due a service. He had the letter from the specialist garage in Edinburgh over two months ago. He’s been putting it off. Trying to find time to get it done. Too late now.
He climbs off the bike, flicks out the kickstand. Leaves it sitting there at the side of the road. He could wheel it to Marie’s, leave it there, but he doesn’t want to waste any more time. He pulls off his helmet. Starts walking. Turns it into a jog. He glances down at his feet, realises he is still wearing the white shoe protectors.
‘Christ,’ he mutters. He stops, peels them off. Balls them up and shoves them inside the helmet that he is carrying by the strap like a basket of flowers. He picks up the pace. Jogs along the street, turns into the next one. He can see Marie’s flat up ahead. Nearly there. He passes a couple of people in suits, faces fixed on phones, fingers scrolling, texting. No one pays attention. No one knows what he knows.
Not yet.
He’d forgotten about the keys. He’d meant to give them back to Marie in the pub, but something stopped him. She’d asked him to keep hold of them. He hadn’t known why, but he was starting to realise. She’d been planning something. She knew something was going to happen.
Visions of Marie lying in the bath, wrists dripping blood onto the tiles. Marie slumped in a chair, a bottle of pills and a kicked-over bottle of whisky on the floor near her feet. Please, he begs, please don’t let me be too late.
He should’ve seen this coming. He should’ve known that something was very wrong. Marie’s behaviour had been erratic. Nonsensical. He’d put it down to him not really knowing her. Maybe she was prone to mood swings. Maybe she was a flake. He realises now that he got it wrong. She was all over the place.
She was terrified.
He tries the buzzer. If she answers, then he’ll know she’s OK. Nothing. He tries once more. Realises he is wasting valuable time. He sticks the key in the lock. Nothing. It doesn’t turn. Wrong key.
‘Fuck.’
His hands are shaking. He tries the other key. Turns it the wrong way. Fuck! Eventually, it turns.
He walks into the dim hall. Turns the corner to Marie’s flat. Braces himself for what he might find. He knows which key to use now. It turns on first attempt.
‘Marie? Are you in here? Sorry for using the key. I tried the buzzer first but there was no answer.’
Silence.
The flat is empty. He can sense it. But there’s something hanging in the air. A faint imprint of someone. Marie. She’s been here. But she’s not here now. He walks inside slowly, pokes his head around the kitchen door.
‘Marie?’
Nothing.
The kitchen is a mess. Plates and mugs lying on the worktop. A carton of milk left outside the fridge, the top lying on the draining board. There are envelopes scattered across the floor. Balled-up paper. The knife block is lying on its side. Four knives are stuck in it. A fifth has slid out, lies nearby. There are six slots.
One knife is missing.
Davie swallows. Tries to push the thoughts out of his head. The state of Ian and Anne’s new house. The blood.
The living room is empty. A blanket is crumpled up on the couch. The room smells musty, as if someone has been sleeping in there. Sweating. The window has been kept shut.
In the bathroom, he sees two small plastic containers next to the sink. Drops of liquid inside. Contact lens packets. The disposable ones. He’s seen these before. Knows that the liquid inside evaporates after a while, once they’ve been opened. The lenses shrivel up when exposed to the air. They’ve been opened recently. He steps closer, pokes at one with his knuckle. No lenses inside.
Marie has been back. Put new lenses in. But where is she now?
He goes back through to the kitchen. He’s about to pick up some of the letters. Thinks better of it. He takes his phone out of his pocket, photographs the kitchen. Tries to capture the scene. A pair of pink Marigolds is draped over a small metal sink caddy. He pulls them on, squeezing too-big fingers into narrow rubber tubes. Feels slightly foolish, but knows he needs to avoid contamination. He knows that the CSIs will have to come in here, search the place. Look for things. He doesn’t know what. Not yet.
He scoops up the letters that have been strewn across the floor. Unfolds one of them carefully. It’s dated 15 July. Only three weeks ago. The date sticks in his mind: Marie’s birthday. He starts to read. His stomach starts to churn again. I hope you haven’t cut your hair. Something about the line sends a chill down his spine. Marie has had short hair for as long as he’s known her. He takes the keys out of his pocket. Stares at her chopped hair. He swallows. Takes a deep breath, and picks up another . . .
17th July. There is always someone watching, Marie.
Another . . .
19th July. How are Mummy and Daddy? Are they dead yet? I hope so.
And another.
21st July. If only you’d listened.
26th July. You can’t ignore me forever. I won’t let you.
29th July. I miss the feel of your skin against mine.
30th July. I love you, Marie.
He drops the letters and the envelopes on the table. Bends down to pick up one that has been scrunched into a ball. It is creased and torn, dated 31 July: Did you hear me breathing that day, Marie? Did you feel me watching you? I always loved watching you . . .
Graeme sent her a letter every day, from their birthday to the 31st. The day before the woman was attacked. The day he went missing from the day trip.
‘Oh Marie,’ Davie says. He wants to cry. Wants to grab hold of her and shake her. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Why?’ He takes off the gloves and hurls them against the wall. Then he sits down at the kitchen table and calls Malkie.