Murder in Mayville - Chapter One (Present Tense)

A Chapter by TinyTori

Beginnings of my first crime/psychological thriller/adult life and family lifestyle novel.

CHAPTER ONE

ANNIE

“Do you remember where you were on the night of August 30^th 2015?”

“Yes…I was at home, with my husband, watching telly.”

“Are you sure about that? Because I’ve been informed by someone else that you were outside in your garden for a large proportion of the evening.”

S**t. I froze. What the f**k was I meant to do now? I was screwed, I was royally and

utterly fucked, I was going to prison, that was it!

No, I have to think of something. Twenty-four is too young to be locked up, especially for something so minor.

Do you really think killing a man is minor? Are you insane?

Shut up, shut up. He asked for it, he deserved it, it was the right thing.

You keep telling yourself that Annie.

“Yes, I am sure, and you can ask my husband, he was here with me, he’ll remember!”

“Okay, I will do just that. Thanks for your time Mrs Winters.”

“Call me Annie.”

“No, Mrs Winters will do just fine. Goodbye.”

Detective Inspector Brown exited my house rather swiftly, waving a snotty goodbye as he walked up the gravel footpath. As soon as he was out of sight I slammed the door shut and flew up the stairs. Poking my head round their door I saw that the twins were asleep, snoring gently, and my heart fluttered at the sight of their little faces all calm as they dreamt about yet more sleeping they would do tomorrow. Their existence was so far from the life I had to leave behind, from the life I was going to find myself in if I didn’t sort this mess out.

I crept quietly into the shower and washed myself quickly, not even bothering to condition my hair. I needed to get to bed before Alex came home. It would look suspicious if I was up so late considering the time I had to get up in the morning.

Groaning and cursing to myself I climbed into bed, my hair still wet from the shower and my skin not much dryer and set my alarm for four-fifty am. I hated early shifts, they were the worst, but it meant that I finished in time to collect the twins from their childminder’s house and spend the evening with them, feeding and bathing them, before I did the same to myself.

Sometimes I just wished they would hurry up and grow up and then I would have time to myself, without having to juggle changing nappies and heating baby food, but all my friends with children had told me that these early years were the ‘best and the most precious’, but I was quick to disagree with them. Maybe when the twins were older I would look back on these sick-and-baby-s**t filled memories and smile fondly but I was more inclined to think I would be sighing with relief, that they had grown up and could look after themselves.

I find it difficult to sleep. My doctor has tried me on countless sleeping pills, but I go through each one, label by label, never settling the buzzing in my mind. I take them, I get into bed and I wait for the welcome warmth of sleep to envelope me, but it never does. I usually resort to reading; it makes my eyelids heavy and most nights I do fall asleep with my head in a book and Alex has to rescue the poor creased novel when he gets in, but lately, just lately, I’ve been cracking open a bottle of whisky, which seems to do the job.

****

JACK

I don’t trust her. I don’t know why, but there is something about her that makes me feel uneasy. On the surface she appears quite normal, but I just have an inkling that there is something about her that she’s hiding, something secret that she doesn’t want anyone to know. I need to find out what it is.

As I’m trudging down her gravel path she is staring at me, I can feel her watching me, it is burning into my back. I glance round and give her a quick wave, trying to smile. She just looks straight through me, like I’m invisible, which maybe I am.

The drive to my flat is quick, easy and no different to any other day but today it feels even more gruelling, even more depressing and even more pointless.

I lock my car and start to climb up the stairs, a fox is screaming in the distance. I hate the sound they make, it’s like a baby crying, and even though I know it isn’t I always wonder that, just this time, it might be.

Stop thinking. Just stop.

The stuffy stench of my flat greets me and I open the windows, the cold evening air whooshes into the flat, eradicating the smell and making me shiver.

I jump in the shower and take my time washing, using the flannel and some soap to scrub my body " my legs, my arms, my armpits and my genitals. I scrub them until they’re red and sore, still not feeling clean enough.

The Lynx body wash goes on next, white bubbles drip down my skin and the manly scent clings to my body. I shampoo and rinse, then do it again and finally I condition.

My mates are always taking the piss out of me for being so clean, but I don’t see it as a bad thing. Personal hygiene is important and has always been something I’ve taken pride in. Whilst my brothers were stinky, sweaty young men, I was always perfectly clean and my hair was washed at least once a day. My mother called me her ‘soapy son’, which I pretended to hate but actually really liked. It reminded me that I was clean, I was pure, and if I was clean then I was a good person. Or at least that’s what I told myself.

When I was sixteen my dad began referring to me as the ‘soppy kid.’ A clever play on Mum’s fond nickname. I hated him for it, as much as he hated me for being such a f*****g f****t. I left home at seventeen. I couldn’t stand to be around him anymore.

I try to sleep but I can’t. I should never have let myself think about him. I know I’ll never sleep again if I really remember it all. I pop a couple of my prescription sleeping pills and begin counting sheep. It knocks me out for the count, ironically.

The next day my alarm screams at me. I jolt awake and glance at the clock. It’s six am. Time to get up. I begrudgingly roll out of bed and wipe the sleep from my eyes. I’m sticky with sweat, which makes me feel uncomfortable and dirty. I don’t have time for a shower though, I’ve got to be at work for seven-thirty. I’ll have to shower later.

I spray myself with at least half a bottle of Lynx Jungle spray and a few squirts of my favourite aftershave. My stubble has barely grown, and despite hating the rugged, unshaved look, I tell myself I’ll shave later, when I get in, when I have time.

My stomach is rumbling like an impending earthquake so I carefully place two slices of brown bread in the toaster and stumble bleary-eyed around the kitchen while they toast.

It’s only once I’ve poured myself a strong, black coffee and sat down at the breakfast bar that I realise I haven’t buttered my toast. Glancing at the clock I notice it’s almost seven already, no time for Lurpak, I tell myself and wolf down the dry toast.

Unfortunately I tend to take a long time packing my briefcase and rucksack for the day and this usually drains me of time, which means I am never early at the office, not as early as I would like to be anyway.

Daena is in and her smile gives me a mini heart attack and a swelling feeling in my crotch. I pray to God that my boner doesn’t show as I mumble “good morning” and collect the essential files from my manager’s desk.

***

“Hey you!”

It’s an hour into my day and already it’s going balls-up. I forgot my red notepad, the one in which I jot down the notes from home visits and my computer is trying to install some blasted update which means I can’t do anything while I wait for it to finish.

Daena has popped her head round the office cubicle and is waiting for my reply.

“Morning” I mutter, and flash my teeth at her in an attempt at a smile.

What was that? You f*****g idiot! You look like a f*****g psycho now!

“How’s your day going?” she asks, cutting off the internal critique and causing me to blush slightly. I’m such a f*****g pansy!

“Alright, yours?”

She nods “It’s going well, but I’ll tell you what would make it better…”

“What?” I question, feeling my hands clam up with sweat.

“If you’d accompany me for a drink at lunchtime tomorrow” she says flirtatiously, her blonde hair falling in ringlets around her shoulders. Her tits look huge, gaping out of her perfectly ironed white shirt. I feel the familiar swell in my crotch and have to restrain myself from putting my hand down there to try and cover it up.

It’s fine, your desk is in the way. She won’t see.

“That would be lovely” I reply, flashing another, slightly less creepy smile.

“Great” she whispers seductively, flicking her hair behind her back and sauntering into my office. She leans into me and pats my shoulder, like my mates do when I’ve said something they agree with. I try to hide my confusion at her odd advances and exclaim “Nice perfume!”

WHAT THE F**K WAS THAT?!

“Thanks” she says, grinning and seemingly ignoring the awkward tension that is radiating off of me. “I better get back to work” she tells me, and I force myself to turn back to my computer, swearing under my breath as the screen informs me: 20% configured.

CLARICE

It still hasn’t sunk in. I don’t think it ever will to be honest.

I can’t stop shaking, even though I’m wrapped up in my fleecy dressing gown and wearing thick flannel socks. Mum has just come round and she’s made me dinner, but I’m not hungry.

Macaroni cheese. Your favourite.

That’s what she said, I don’t have the heart to tell her it hasn’t been my favourite since I was about fifteen. She doesn’t like acknowledging the fact that I’m an adult, with my own life.

“Clarice!”

Mum is hollering my name, like I’m a dog that is going to come bounding through the hallway and into the dining room, scoffing my chops with her freshly made pasta dish.

“Yes?”

“Dinner is ready darling.”

I try not to shudder at the thought of her macaroni cheese. She puts boiled eggs in it.

Who does that?

“Coming Mum” I shout, feeling about twelve years old.

I walk into the dining room and tears fill my eyes. Mum has laid out the table with my finest cutlery and crockery, the set reserved for guests and special occasions and she’s poured me a glass of my favourite Zinfandel wine.

“Mum, you didn’t have to do all this.”

She smiles weakly, “Yes I did darling. You need your mother around, especially at a time like this…” She trails off, not wanting to put into words the horror that is today.

I sit down at the table, tucking my chair right in like she always told me to do and pop a spoonful of the cheesy pasta in my mouth. It’s not actually that bad and I feel guilty for slating her cooking. Then I taste egg and immediately feel sick.

“Mum, why do you put eggs in your macaroni cheese?” I ask. I’ve never actually asked her the question before. I thought it would be one of those unanswered questions I would take to my grave.

That’s what Pete always told me anyway.

“You can’t ask her why she puts eggs in her dish Clarice, it’s one of those deeply personal things, like asking a woman why she doesn’t breast-feed or a man why he shaves his stomach. You’re gonna have to face the truth, you’re going to die not knowing why.”

He smirked at me and kissed me on the top of my head, like he knew I loved.

I felt a gut-wrenching sadness wash over my entire body and vomit flew up my throat and into my mouth. I couldn’t be sick now, not while eating Mum’s food. It’d kill her.

Not her, just him.

Nooo! Shut up. I hated my stupid mind for thinking stupid things and upsetting me further, why wasn’t I being soft on myself, after a day like today?

I swallowed the vomit down, trying not to pull a face while I did so and shoved a huge spoonful of the now lukewarm food into my mouth.

Mum nodded in approval and tucked into her own dinner.

Chicken salad.

I wished I could’ve asked for what she was having, but it would’ve offended her, and shattered the delusion that I loved her macaroni cheese.

I was still waiting for her to answer my damn question.

She looked up at me, a salad leaf dangling on her fork and said “Marco Pierre puts them in his darling. That’s why!”

I don’t bother asking who Marco bloody Pierre is.

“Oh okay.”

She pulls a face as if I have offended her, which I probably have. God she’s so easily offended, it annoys me.

We eat the rest of our meals in silence and when I’m done I wipe my mouth with the silk napkin laid out for me, then I collect the plates and carry them into the kitchen.

I’m just loading up the dish-washer when Mum sidles up behind me and puts her arms round me.

I nearly jump out of my skin! “Mum! You scared me half to death!”

Stop using that word.

“Sorry dear. Now let me do that. You need to get some sleep!” She strokes my head with her hand and my eyes fill up again. “Go on, upstairs, now!”

I obey her orders and tiptoe up the stairs, my bare feet cold on the hard wood of the stairs. We are the only people I know with wooden stairs.

You mean you, not we.

Once I’m in our bedroom, or my bedroom, I take my clothes off. The scruffy grey jogging bottoms need a wash, still stained with mud from the other day when I went running in them. My white vest top has a now dry gloop of cheese on it and I smell the dairy smell as I take it off, feeling nauseas again. I chuck both the bottoms and top in the washing basket next to my mirror and pull open my chest of drawers, taking out my favourite nightie.

It’s my Bambi one. Pete always took the micky out of me when I was wearing it.

“It’s a child’s nightie!” he scolded. I knew he was only messing about though.

It was in fact a child’s nightie, aged 14-16 from Tesco, but it fit me fine and it was comfy. It was my comfort nightie, I wore it when I was feeling sad or lonely or when my period pains were squeezing my uterus or when I was ill.

Pete always knew I was feeling s**t when I was wearing this nightie, it was like a code, a metaphor, a silent word spoken.

He always scooped me up in his big manly arms and kissed my hair until I fell asleep.

I get into bed and the tears come thick and fast. Rushing down my cheeks like they’re escaping from me. The utter and inevitable grief is so raw I feel I might die.

I rock myself into oblivion. The wails of pain floating from my lips into the air.

I fall asleep with snot dribbling down my mouth and salty tears drying on my cheeks.

****

JACK

It’s half f*****g eight and I am still at the damn office.

Daena has left too, which gives me barely any reason for even being here. Well, apart from the obvious one of doing my job. I have a ton of paperwork I need to get done but it’s too late to do it now, the lights are dim and most people have gone home, apart from creepy Colin who is in his office, with hideous classical music escaping from his earphones and no doubt a pen lodged between his teeth as he pores over documents, trying to forget the fact he’s almost forty and still single, childless and extremely unpopular.

I’m such a twat. I cannot be judging Colin because I am basically in his boat, or perhaps the boat next to him, but it’s close enough.

I’m only five years younger than him and haven’t had a shag since 2012. Well, unless you count the hooker, which I am never telling ANYONE about. That will go to my grave with me.

“I’m off now Brown!”

I nearly jump out of my chair when I see Colin’s creepy face poked round my cubicle door. It annoys me no end that he calls me Brown, I have told him countless times to call me Jack, but he just ignores me.

Perhaps I should start calling him Berkenhaven, see how he would like that.

“Alright mate, see you later!”

He nods at me, a bead of sweat dripping down his forehead. He’s completely bald and this doesn’t help his conspicuous looks. I’m embarrassed to realise even Colin is now leaving, which means he definitely wins the upper hand over me. I’m still in the office and Colin has gone home. What has my life come to?

I guess I should start packing up my stuff but I really can’t be bothered to move. The image of my lonely flat awaiting my arrival filters into my mind and causes a surge of depression to wash over me.

I need to sort my s**t out.

My heart flutters like a fourteen-year-old schoolgirl when I remember that Daena invited me out for lunch tomorrow. Maybe my s**t is coming together. It’s about time!

I collect my paperwork and stash it in my briefcase, laughing to myself as I remember the taunt “Briefcase wanker” from The Inbetweeners. That is me, I am basically Will but seventeen years older. I recoil as I realise Dad would love associating me with that character. Awkward, clumsy and a giant loser. I must prove the b*****d wrong and visit him soon with a stunning girlfriend and a swanky car. Put him to shame.

The evening is a cold one, for early September, and I wrap my suit around me, my Police Officer’s lanyard swinging as I do so. Once I locate my pathetic Ford Fiesta in the back of the Station carpark I rummage around my rucksack for my car keys, my stupid plastic lunchbox falls out onto the ground. Just as I’m leaning down to pick it up, I hear a rustling sound. It’s coming from the bushes nearby. I freeze in fear and then have to mentally slap myself and remind myself I’m a bloody Police Officer and should not be scared of noises in the dark.

“Hello?” I call, like an idiot.

No-one replies, just like I expected so I shove the lunchbox back in my bag and fish my iPhone from my trouser pocket, switching on the torch app and shining it in front of me.

A cat waltzes up to me and wraps itself around my black trousers, ginger hair sticking to them. I curse the damn thing and jiggle my leg, trying to free myself from the four-legged-feline. I’ve always hated cats. I don’t really know why but I think it is the way they hiss and spit and always seem to be scheming, planning some attack on you. I’ll never admit that I have a slight fear of them to anyone though. That too will die with my, along with my steamy night of prostitute-loving.

It strikes me as ironic and a bit dangerous that I’m a member of the Police Force and have used a prostitute. No-one can ever know or I’d be out of the force before you can shout “Hooker hire!”

The damn cat doesn’t budge so I gently push it off of me and it hisses and strides off, in search of a bird to catch or a fox to taunt. I am about to unlock my car when I hear the rustling again. I am rather scared now, as I thought the cat was making the noise, rummaging through the leafy undergrowth in search of a human to tease, but if it wasn’t the cat then what the hell was it?

I tiptoe towards the bushes, my heart beating in my chest and spot a puddle on the floor. It looks too dark to be water, too light to be petrol, and it is only when I am up close that I realise it isn’t petrol or water, it’s blood.

My heart almost stops as I bend down and dip my fingers into the sticky congealing liquid. I curse myself, telling myself I’m a freaking police officer and should not be scared right now.

I sniff my hand and the distinct metallic aroma hits my nostrils.

It definitely is blood.

next chapter

© 2015 TinyTori

Author's Note

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Shawn

This story was gripping until the very end, and very graphic! You really packed a lot of content into one chapter. The characters in this book are understandable and can be related to. Good job on that front!You could break it up into multiple chapters to better keep the attention of your audience. Again, this is optional, so don't feel like you have to take my advice. Also, one thing I noticed in the first couple lines is that you forgot to censor a f**k. Nice chapter, keep it up!