Kaleidoscope (14 page)
Relief fell like a blanket as she entered the foyer of the building and began to climb the stairs. She sighed deeply, finally catching her breath again and began to feel her heart slow, no longer mimicking the thumping footsteps that had followed her home. When she reached the door, she placed the two bags on the floor by her feet and pulled out a set of keys. She suddenly heard a sound from behind her.
Her head shot around to the sound of footsteps thumping up the stairs behind her. Her face contorted with terror and she began to fumble with her keys as the footsteps slowly got louder. She could hear sniggering as they approached, but the source of the sound was out of view; hidden behind a bend in the corridor. Adrenaline began to surge through her veins yet again and her hands began to tremble; she couldn't get the key to her door separated from the rest and a small whimper left her mouth as her panic increased. The footsteps reached the top of the stairs and began to turn the bend. Sarah glanced back with huge eyes and she saw a young couple stumble into view.
They were arm in arm and drunk. They sniggered to themselves as they fell from one side of the hallway to another, occasionally laughing out loud as their heavy feet scuffed across the carpet. Sarah watched as they approached. They almost knocked into her as they went past, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she was there at all. She saw the man laugh again and fumble keys into a door further down then they shuffled into the room together.
She sighed, the air calming her again as it slowly entered and left her lungs. She smiled to herself, a physical manifestation of the relief she suddenly felt. The keys went into the door easier this time, but she noticed a small scratch on the lock plate which she quickly disregarded - determined to not allow the unwelcome bout of paranoia to continue. She picked up the bags and walked inside, pushing the light switch with her elbow.
After she had put her groceries away, Sarah went over to the radiator and felt it with the back of her hand. It was stone cold. She contemplated turning it on for a moment before deciding that she would just put on the cardigan she had forgotten to take out with her. She hummed quietly to herself as she went through the open door to the bedroom and didn
’
t bother to turn on the light since the lamp in the front room penetrated the gloom enough for her to see the wardrobe. She opened the cupboard door and pulled out a cardigan which she threw over her shoulders, relishing the sensation as the soft wool moved over her skin.
She paused for a moment,
what was that?
She heard something behind her, a sound that was so slight, she wasn't even sure if it had been there at all. Then it came again, a low shuffling sound of something moving slowly over the carpet. She frowned and turned as her eyes adjusted to the semi-lit room. Then they began to expand.
In the corner of her bedroom was the outline of a short, hunched figure which slowly began to move. The figure was obscured by the light but appeared male and as he approached, he dropped something beside him
–
something small, a plastic container or bottle, but Sarah was too shocked to dwell on it. She took in a deep breath, ready to exhale in a violent scream but the figure lunged towards her, his features becoming apparent in a split second as they reflected in the light from the front room.
"Shut your mouth," he sneered, spittle falling from his mouth and onto the wispy beard which clung to his chin. He pushed her backwards and she fell onto the bed, hitting the sheets hard before being flung to the opposite side and falling to the floor. She tried to scream again but only a shrill croak left her mouth as she hit the floor and pain resonated through her elbow. She turned round quickly and saw the man hobbling towards her from the other side of the bed with surprising speed.
"What..." Sarah said as he approached and tried to move away from him, but her back hit the wall. "What do you want?"
The man grabbed her arm with spidery fingers and pulled her closer. In his other hand, Sarah noticed he was holding something which looked like an old, flannel. She pulled away and kicked out hard with her leg. He grunted with pain as her foot collided with his knee and he released her momentarily. She tried to get to her feet, pulling on the sheets of the bed to help her up, but they fell away and she collapsed back to the floor. She felt her attacker come round behind her and throw an arm over her shoulder then he pulled hard, towards his chest and she let out a scream. It was louder this time.
Surely somebody heard that,
she thought as she gasped, ready to call out again, but then her mouth was covered with something. She felt fabric and a vaguely sweet aroma drifted up.
She breathed hard and suddenly felt dizzy so she pushed off the floor with as much strength as she could muster. The man fell back and the cloth was released from Sarah's mouth. She heard him mutter something as she lunged up and climbed over the bed. A hand clamped around her ankle and dragged her back. She kicked out again, but this time he was prepared. He grabbed her other foot and swung it out sideways. She turned and looked up at the pale skin and dark eyes of her attacker as he leaned over. He picked up a lamp by her bed and swung it down. As the lamp struck her head, Sarah thought she heard the porcelain base shatter, but then there was only darkness.
Chapter 15
Lewis stared at the gun resting in his open palm and scanned the coarse metallic grip as his hand slowly closed, fingers whitening as they tightened. The memory of the previous night had penetrated through the drunken fog from which it had been formed and Lewis could remember almost every detail. He could barely believe how he had reacted and was even more astonished that he had gotten away with it. Every cell in his body was telling him that he should be dead now; one more casualty of one more gang. But somehow it had worked. He had called Kyle's bluff and came away, not only with his brains intact, but also carrying the very weapon that had been used against him.
He had thought about taking the gun to the police and handing it in since he knew the gun laws were uncompromisingly rigid, especially regarding handguns. If he was caught in possession of it and had no reasonable explanation as to why, then he was sure he would face a severe punishment, perhaps even custodial.
Lewis also considered handing it in because he had absolutely no idea of how it worked or even how to check if the thing was loaded. He didn't trust himself to not accidentally shoot a bullet into his foot or shoulder as he tried to fathom how to check.
But deep down he knew that he wouldn't hand it in to the police because of a reason that was beginning to push the limits of his own rationality. It was the same reason he wasn't taking Hannah's diary to the authorities and requesting they immediately divert their investigation away from Craig Blaine and towards her mystery boyfriend, Joe. The reason was absurd and lurked in parts of his mind that thrived on such things. The reason was
he
wanted to find out what happened to Hannah himself. Involuntary laughter escaped him as he thought about this, still staring down at the gun.
Who do I think I am?
He thought, and twisted the heavy metal object in his hand.
He was certain that, were he to go to the police with any evidence he
thought
he had, they probably wouldn't even act on such information. What he had found in Hannah's diary and the letter she had sent him, spoke to him in secret subtexts that only he could truly decipher. They hadn't
known
her. In fact almost nobody knew her the way Lewis did and he realised that perhaps this could both help and hinder him in different ways.
He knew that what Hannah had written in her diary had come from her heart and she had been genuinely confused, upset and even scared. It was plain for him to see, but would everyone else see it that way? Had his closeness to Hannah obscured the facts that were presented on the opposite side of the table?
The police seemed confident that they had their man in Craig Blaine and the DNA evidence against him was perfectly clear - linking him directly to the crime. That was something that still bothered Lewis; how
had
Craig Blaine's DNA found its way under Hannah's fingernails? There was the far-fetched story told by his mother about some unknown woman scratching his face. But how had Craig's torn skin found its way to Hannah? The more Lewis thought about everything he had learned regarding her death, the more it began to feel like reading a book with chapters out of order or even missing completely.
Some things made sense, and he was absolutely certain in his own mind that Joe was in some way responsible for her murder. Yet he couldn't piece everything together with any coherence in order for it to make complete sense. He needed to find Joe to get to the answers, but he had precious little to go on. Nobody seemed to know who he was; Hannah had even kept him a secret from Kelly, why would she do that? Would Joe have requested that from her for some reason?
Lewis crossed the carpet of his flat and placed the gun down delicately in a drawer by his bed, wondering again why he insisted on keeping it. Could he ever really bring himself to use it? Even if he was absolutely certain that the elusive Joe had really murdered the woman he loved, and was standing before him, just waiting for the bullet. Could he do it?
Lewis dismissed the thoughts with rising unease. He was no murderer. There was something inside him that he was sure was innate in all good people; something that prevented him from killing another human being.
But was he sure?
Perhaps there was no
innate goodness
and everyone is capable of murder given the right circumstances.
Soldiers in a war are told that they're fighting for truth and freedom to justify the inevitable death that comes with their job. They are able to rationalise their actions based on this belief, even if that means that people on the opposite side, who believe just as strongly that they are the ones fighting for the greater good, have to die.
But even soldiers hesitate, or miss shots deliberately. Lewis remembered the article he had read that had discussed this statistic. Did that prove that there was something inside us that stops us from killing, even if we believe it is for the good of our king or our country?
When Lewis thought of someone forcing their way into Hannah's flat, beating her and then placing their hands around her throat as she begged for her life, his muscles contracted with rage.
As he closed the drawer, obscuring the gun from his sight, he tried to stop a fabricated image of her lifeless body from forming in his mind. He had never seen such an image; would never want to see one, but it was conjured like some cruel, sadistic trick by his mind nevertheless. He felt his jaw tighten and his teeth clamp down hard.
Could he kill whoever did that to her?
"Yes," he said in a low whisper, his teeth remaining tight.
But as quickly as the word left his mouth, doubt once again splintered this fleeting clarity.
He turned around and walked towards the door, picked up his jacket from the arm of the chair and swung it onto his shoulders before leaving.
***
The first thing Lewis noticed after stepping inside The Golden Anchor for the second time was how much busier it was compared to the previous evening. The bar was three people deep, all waiting to be served and he noticed that all the tables had been taken; even the pool table had been commandeered for the purpose of resting drinks. The worn, green fabric bore several wet rings from the bottom of glasses and even a purple stain where, presumably, a glass of wine had spilt. People were gathered around, chatting and leaning or perching on the edge of the wood.
The music, released from several old speakers in each corner, was loud, but overwhelmed by the bustle and chatter inside the room. It was only after Lewis had worked through the crowd and was waiting at the bar, that he realised it was a Friday night. He had no particular need to keep track of the days and they had all blended into one monotonous span of time, broken only by light and dark as he tried to bury his grief in a tsunami of alcohol.
He realised that he had willingly fallen onto a path which would eventually lead to nothing but self destruction; his constant drinking and self-pity were taking their toll on his health. He felt as though he was ninety-years-old and struggling to make it through each passing day. The only reason he continued to get out of bed in the morning was due to the vitriol he felt as he pictured someone placing their hands around Hannah's throat. Each morning he would try to convince himself that it would be the final time; no more drinking, no more self pity. He needed to focus. But as the hours passed and the reality of the day eroded his conviction, he began to allow his melancholy to sneak through unnoticed and overwhelm him.
What would Hannah think of him if she could see him now? He wasn't looking after himself properly; hadn't washed for several days and was drinking himself to oblivion. She wouldn
’
t have wanted this for him.
He glanced around as he waited, but saw no sign of the three men who had attacked him the previous night. He wasn't too sure how he would handle the situation if they approached him while he was sober and demanded their weapon back - he was sure illegal firearms carried a hefty price tag - but decided not to concern himself with that for the time being. He pulled out a five pound note from his pocket and held it in his hand as he waited to be served. He looked up and down the bar at the eager faces either side of him, checking for any men who had straggly blonde hair, but saw no one fitting the description. After a few more moments a barmaid approached him.
"Yes love, what can I get you?"
"A scotch..." Lewis paused, looking at the inverted bottles behind the bar and then looked down and through the fridges behind the woman. "Actually, I'll just have a Coke."
The barmaid nodded, brought over a bottle and glass filled with ice and took his cash. Lewis poured the contents of the bottle into the glass and then manoeuvred his way back through the crowd. There still weren't any tables free so he walked over to the corner of the room and stood next to a lifeless fruit machine, beside the pool table.
He sipped his Coke as he glanced around the room. The noise of chatter was almost deafening but he didn't try to focus in on any one particular conversation, although he could hear a couple arguing on a table close by. He allowed the noise to wash over him and took nothing in.
As he stood there, trying not to appear as if he was observing every person who entered and left the bar, Lewis noticed someone he thought he recognised. But when he looked again he saw that the blonde haired girl only resembled the person he thought she was. Abby Whitehead had been his girlfriend for almost two-years while they attended the same course at university. They had started out as friends and Lewis had always been convinced she was out of his league; she was extremely pretty and drew attention from most of the male population in any room. But they gradually grew closer and after one drunken night out with the rest of their group, they kissed and one thing led to another. They became inseparable for a while and spent almost all their free time together. Eventually, perhaps in part due to the initial intensity of their relationship, the flames had died down and they had slowly eased out of love with each other. It was a sad time for both of them, but also one which Lewis rationalised as simply a chapter that had ended.
He finished his drink as he thought of Abby and that period of his life, unaware of how thirsty he had been. But the drink hadn't quenched the real thirst; the one that could only be satisfied with alcohol. He tried to resist, telling himself that wasn't the reason he was there. But it was a battle he knew he was always destined to lose.
After making his way back to the bar and waiting for another five minutes, he ordered a double scotch and then stood, leaning on the wood as he drank. He turned occasionally as people entered or left, but his concentration quickly became overwhelmed as his mind relaxed. He stared into the amber liquid and then knocked it back, wincing before ordering another.
As the evening progressed, the crowd slowly thinned and more space appeared at the bar next to Lewis. A stool became free and he dragged it over and sat hunched over his glass as he tried to think of nothing; a task which became easier as his intoxication increased.
He turned his wrist and looked at his watch:
. The music was still thumping and, although less busy, there were still around twenty people gathered in groups in various parts of the room. Lewis knew he hadn't reached the levels of drunkenness he had attained the previous night and, in a summoning of will power that surprised him, resisted ordering another drink. He sat on his stool and twisted the empty glass between his fingers.
Someone brushed past behind him and stopped a little further along the bar. Lewis heard the man strike up a conversation with the barman, they seemed to know each other, but Lewis didn't look up. He continued to turn the glass, tipping it onto one edge and watching the light reflect from the transparent contours as the last residue of liquid rolled around inside. It reminded him of something, but he didn't have the energy to drag the memory through his whiskey addled mind to be fully recognised. He just let it rest there, a little beyond reach. But the sparkles of light on the glass pleased him for some reason and he imagined them turning and twisting into one another.
He looked over the bar and saw someone staring back at him; someone he barely recognised. His reflection in the stained back-plate, below the optics of liquor, was obscured by numerous smudges, but his features were still discernable, albeit alien to him now. The skin beneath his eyes was discoloured and seemed to droop down to his cheeks. His hair was long, unkempt and greasy as it fell over his forehead and ears. The stubble on his chin had grown into a thin beard and extended around his jaw. Unlike the glass in his hand, his eyes were now devoid of the brightness they once had; they appeared tired and hollow - lifeless. He drew his gaze away from his reflection and across the smudged mirror to the man standing further along the bar.
Lewis felt his jaw loosen and fall open as he caught sight of the man
’
s skinny features. He was taller than Lewis - probably a few inches over six feet - and had long, gangly arms. He wore a tight fitting t-shirt over a lean torso and smart, skinny jeans which looked new and expensive and held a brown jacket in his hand. He was still chatting with the barman and smirking occasionally as he reached up and dragged clumps of his thick, blonde hair away from his forehead.