Touch
Touch
By Mark Sennen
Copyright © 2011 by Mark Sennen
Touch is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and organisations are products of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously.
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When Harry was a child he lived at the top of the house. His little bedroom had been crammed under the eaves and had funny shaped walls, sloping ceilings and iron hooks in the beams to which you could tie things. Most of the year the temperature seemed glacial and when night fell he would go to bed fully-clothed and try to think himself warm. Then he would lie in the darkness listening to the noise of the water tank hidden behind one wall. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep until he was sure nobody would come, but as long as the room stayed dark he didn’t get afraid. The dark felt comforting. Safe. In the dark he became invisible. It was when the light came on he got scared.
Harry peered through the window into the gloom beyond the cracked glass. Nothing to see but black. Clouds hid the moon and stars and there were no streetlights, no cars or other signs of life. Not out here. Harry smiled to himself. He didn’t get scared. Not anymore. It was other people who needed to be scared now.
Harry turned from the window and gazed across at the girl. She slouched in the chair dressed in the white underwear he had bought for her. She didn’t say much, just sat unmoving, eyes wide. Her silence was understandable, after all they had been together for weeks and she didn’t have much left to say. Still, he could tell by her demeanour she wasn’t comfortable, that something wasn’t quite right. Harry tutted to himself and shook his head. This would never do. He went over to the girl and reached out and touched her skin. Cold. Ice cold. Poor girl, no wonder the smile on her face had gone. He bent down and fiddled with the fan heater, turning the knob up a couple of notches. The fan whirred in protest but the air seemed a little warmer. He moved the heater and angled the air flow upwards so the warmth reached the girl’s body. There, she looked almost happy.
Almost happy would do for him too, he thought. He didn’t think it was much to ask. Years back he’d seen a woman lawyer talking on TV. ‘There are human rights’, she said. Those rights meant you could get stuff you didn’t have. Stuff like happiness. It was the law. Written down. In books. You could go to court to get it. You could sue the council or the government and get damages. But now he knew there were easier ways.
Harry’s ways.
He didn’t need a lawyer and he sure wasn’t going to have anything to do with the council or the government. Those tricksy people in their sharp suits used big words and had too many teeth to say them with. Big words told big lies, and the more clever people seemed, the less honest they behaved. Harry liked things plain, liked things to appear as they were. If things looked right they usually were right, and you knew you wouldn’t get lied to and you wouldn’t get a nasty surprise.
The girl looked right.
Harry moistened his lips and pushed his tongue into the corner of his cheek and chewed for a moment, letting his eyes wander over the girl’s body: pink toenails, delicate feet, shapely calves, not-too-thin thighs, rounded stomach, nice breasts, gorgeous long black hair... Nice. Very nice.
Her breasts were the best thing about her. Small and pert, the nipples pushing upwards through the white material of the bra. Towards God. As if thanking her creator for producing such a work of art. Harry considered the girl again. Overall she scored nine out of ten. Maybe nine point five. You would go a long way to find a better looking specimen.
Harry scratched the stubble on his chin. The nagging thought that had first come to him a few weeks ago returned. Things hadn’t worked out as they should have. Not with this one. She was like an apple that was ripe on the outside but rotten within. Full of worms and maggots, or perhaps hiding a wasp. Yes, a wasp. You would get stung if you bit into a piece of fruit with a wasp inside. He needed a girl who was clean and pure. Untouched.
A hint of a smile played on the girl’s face for a moment. Was she mocking him or just feeling a little happier now the room had warmed up? Really it didn’t matter. He could do whatever he wanted to her and she wouldn’t mind because she loved him. He supposed he had made the same mistake when he had been a kid. He had let his parents do as they wished because he loved them, but they hadn’t loved him. Ever.
Harry went back to the window and stared into the emptiness again. Nothing. For a minute or two his mood darkened, black, like the night. Thinking about the past did that because he had a whole bunch of memories he didn’t want to recall. They still kept coming back to haunt him though, like a bad smell that crept up unnoticed. One moment you got a slight whiff in your nostrils and the next you were gagging on puke.
Harry scolded himself. It was stupid to dwell on the past. Futile. He looked at the girl again. She might not be right but that didn’t mean they hadn’t had some good times together. He smiled. Rapture would have to wait until the next one. For now he would just have some fun. He licked his lips and began to remove his clothing.
Bovisand, Plymouth. Sunday 24th October. 9.05 am
Detective Inspector Charlotte Savage woke with a sense of loss and sadness. Numb. The way she always felt after the dream. The last nightmare had been months ago, but if anything that made the shock more acute. She rolled over to look at the bedside clock, groaned at the time, and then saw the message light on the phone blinking. She sighed and sat up to swing her legs over the edge of the bed. She would play the message in a moment, but first she wanted to check on the children.
The morning light filtered into the house, the weak light of a stormy autumn day. Savage peered through the landing window into the garden where sheets of rain lashed down and saplings whipped back and forth in the wind. Beyond the garden the ground dropped to the sea where a mist of spray rose and fell with every wave that hit the shore. Farther away, out across Plymouth Sound, a couple of tankers and a navy supply vessel lay anchored behind the shelter of the mile-long breakwater that cut off the roadstead from the open sea. Huge rollers crashed over the breakwater rocks as the storm tried to batter the city into submission.
She climbed the stairs to the attic suite of rooms where the kids slept and paused at the door to Clarissa’s old room, now used as an office, and the familiar twinge down in the pit of her stomach returned. She closed her eyes for a moment and there, right on the edge of her consciousness, she heard the little
ding-ding
of a bicycle bell. When she opened her eyes she was almost tempted to go to the window and look out, thinking she might see Clarissa riding in circles on the patio. Silly. Life went on, things got easier, but they never got put right. She shook her head and went to check on Samantha and Jamie. Of course they were fine. Samantha beginning to wake, a tangle of red hair painting the pillow, her limbs akimbo and the bedclothes half on the floor. No doubt she would soon be protesting about having to get up and dressed. The scattering of teen mags, the posters on the walls, glitzy clothing and the mess on the floor said the room belonged to a fifteen year old. Savage had to remind herself that Samantha was only thirteen, still her baby girl for a few more years yet.
In the adjoining room the mess belonged to Jamie. He’d come along only six years ago, time that seemed to be measured in a mere blink. Unexpected, unplanned, it had surprised Savage how much she loved him. Not a love she’d had to grow and nurture like she had with Samantha and Clarissa, but an instant, protective love as powerful as it was scary. Savage moved over to the bed where Jamie lay curled in a tight ball, knees pulled up to his face, almost as she had left him the previous night. He reminded Savage of a hedgehog hibernating for the winter, protected from anything outside its own little world.
It was Sunday, so she would let them sleep some more. She would go downstairs and defrost some bagels, make tea, grab some orange juice, jam and butter and carry the whole lot to her bedroom where they could cuddle up and watch the storm develop through the big window that looked out across the sea. When Pete was home they’d do the same, and Savage reckoned it was good to keep to the routine when he was away. Keeping the children sane and secure while he was on patrol was something they had both agreed was important. Groundwork, her own mother had called it. With strong enough roots a tree could stand any gale, she had once said.
Down in the kitchen the base station on the phone blinked. She pressed the button on the unit and the Irish lilt of DC Patrick Enders rang out. His upbeat tone wouldn’t have been out of place introducing a programme on a children’s television channel, Savage thought. Instead his message informed her a woman’s body had been discovered over at Wembury beach. A recovery operation was going to take place at the next low tide and Detective Superintendent Hardin had requested Savage attend. She’d have to phone Stefan and ask if he would come round for a few hours to mind the kids. Sunday was supposed to be his day off, but looking out at the weather Savage didn’t think he would be racing.
Finding Stefan had been a godsend for the family. They had discovered him one August morning down at the marina moping about waiting for the Fastnet Race yachts to finish. He was meant to have been crewing on one of the boats but had broken his arm the week before. Chatting to Savage he had revealed he was from Sweden and a primary school teacher by trade. Really though, he lived for sailing. One thing led to another and two weeks later Stefan had been installed in the granny annex as the family’s unofficial au pair. Now, with Pete away on an Atlantic voyage and Savage working long hours, having him around to help out made all the difference.
Savage deleted the message on the phone and then glanced at the fridge where a printout of the week’s tides hung clamped in the jaws of a green and purple magnetic dinosaur. Low tide Devonport was eleven thirty-seven. She smiled to herself; still time enough for those bagels.
*
Rain slatted in from the southwest in bands and the low clouds threatened to roll back the daybreak. The drive from her house to Wembury, a village a few miles to the southeast of Plymouth, had been treacherous. Water lay everywhere and twice Savage had to brake sharply to avoid fallen branches that half-blocked the road. With some relief she pulled into the car park at the beach and stopped the engine. Now the sheer force of the wind became apparent and the car shuddered as a gust spilled up from the shoreline, the rain drumming the windows even harder. She remembered back to a spring day many years before when she and Pete had been to a friend’s wedding at the church on the cliffs high above the beach. The view had been spectacular, with the sea looking an impossible holiday-brochure blue, sparkling in the bright, early sun. With the joy and laughter of the occasion the place had seemed like something close to heaven. In late October, with yet another deep Atlantic low moving in, nirvana lay out of reach, redemption impossible. Unless you were already dead, that was.
On the other side of the car park a huddle of uniforms stood next to the shuttered cafe. They were preventing people from going down to the beach or along the coast path. Not that they had anything to do. The blue and white tape they had strung up oscillated in the wind, achieving nothing much other than to catch the attention of the occupants of an arriving car, the kids in the back seats pressing their camera phones to the windows in the hope of capturing a glimpse of something sordid or shocking.