One
'18th September 1.35 pm Penton Police Station, Penton, South of London'
‘Watch your back. Trust no one except Andy and me; you are being framed. Chris had been lied to and steered to uncover some dangerous secrets. Talk soon,’
Two gunshots, one through his head, two clearly in the wall and a small calibre left smoking on the floor. The dots didn’t connect. I felt the world’s weight on my confused shoulders, slumping on the wooden bench, slouching my sweaty back against my flimsy metal locker. An exhausted mess. ‘Did all that just happen?’ I thought in a daze, processing the details and several unusual comments that stood out the most. Not every day do I get made the prime suspect in a murder investigation.
None of it made sense. I was slow on the uptake or had to figure out the hidden meanings. Issues my brain was too tired for. ‘Where was I in a rush to go? A moonlit walk to howl at the moon?’ Detective Dalton said in response to my impatience. Also, Sgt Morris seemed to be in on the joke. One that I wasn’t finding funny. There we were, standing by my friend’s dead body. I was barely keeping a lid on my emotions and nausea from staring at the splattered brain matter. They were busy insinuating I was an animal.
All that did was annoy me more than I already was. I overreacted to everything out of frustration and annoyance. I’m struggling to remember what happened between coming into work this morning until I found him, and all I had was the contents of my pockets. The slightest noise and I were jumping like a cat on a hot tin roof, making my heart skip a beat; I was on edge enough; no need to add fuel to the fire.
I hadn’t realised before it was too late. I’d missed the warning signs, and now my friend was dead, murdered, and the world was looking at me. At least, that’s how it felt; I could feel myself drowning in waves of turmoil and emotions. Now, the number one suspect and the little voice in my head screamed, ‘It’s a setup’.
And I wasn’t the only one to figure that out as I let the message on the hastily concealed paper sink in. Detective Dalton tried to hide a note on me. Theatrics and dodgy comments aside, it left me questioning. Why? No tapes were rolling; nobody would’ve heard.
Then, as I leave, he whispers, ‘Keep your head down and gob shut’ in my ear. Giving his best impression of a cockney gangster that’s bathed in expensive aftershave. All five feet eight of narcissism blazing a day’s coffee fumes against my cheek. None of it made sense, and I needed to know the ‘why’ and ‘how’ to clear my name.
Deep in my procrastination, I was looking forward to a much-needed drink and toying with the contents of my pocket. I was picking out the fluff when I noticed my locker key—stubbily small, silver, with a flat, smooth, oval-shaped finger surface that holds a print if pressed hard enough. I reached for the other one and paused, checking that the coast was clear; the last thing I needed was curious eyes.
I was fairly out of the way, but that didn’t stop me from being paranoid and breathing in the odour of sweaty boots above my head. Rows after row of lockers, like a gym changing room with lines of light pine brown benches and a row of bland grey on either side. With the key left by Chris in my shaky hand, I compared it to mine. They were the same design; each had a serial number that matched a lock.
Glancing across at first few, I suddenly had second thoughts, questioning whether now was the time to loop in Sgt Morris. I knew he’d hit the roof for concealing the evidence in the first place, and I couldn’t help worrying over how deep the conspiracy went, but I felt bad for not telling him. No, if he caught me here and now, I would have to make an excuse that Chris had slid the key into my locker at some point. After all, nobody had searched it, unlike as Detective Dalton had insinuated.
Dalton bluffed, hoping I’d fall for it; his lack of conviction was telling. I hope he turns out to be on our side and not using the profile and publicity of this case to win a promotion. Things would be fine if the note were anything to go by, yet there was still a sour taste in my mouth and the thought of ‘why me?’ Christ, the chills.
Why did I have to be the one at that moment with no recollection of entering the room? Fate seemed to enjoy fucking with my head. I had ten minutes to feed my morbid curiosity. If I wanted to beat the evening traffic chaos towards the A2, it had been bumper-to-bumper most nights.
I shuffled through the walkway, checking it against the other lockers, my thoughts drifting back and forth, contemplating the contents of the small grey ‘Sony’ Dictaphone. Could it hold Chris’s last words? The post-it note on the speaker said... ‘The dead still talk,’ which seemed odd unless the catchy title of a horror flick.
Instead, it went with an intriguing drawn symbol of a circular winged serpent with a trident for a tail. The scrap paper that the Dictaphone rested on got my attention the most. Lots of random scribbles and comments that took a minute before they made sense. ’Pointed to by ‘C’ must be an informant. ‘Is the supernatural real?’ had me intrigued. No case files I knew of had anything like that, but it made me think of the nightmares I’ve been having.
The looming, blood-red eyes drift toward me as heavy metal chains smashing against the stone floor echo in the darkness—the disappearing basement stairs. I was in the third row deep; then I saw the one underneath, a little white sticky label on the corner. I’d found Chris’s locker, which wasn’t a match.
It stood out differently from the rest. I crouched at the sound of lactic acid popping in my sore knees. The numbers matched. I checked the coast was still clear, knowing it could all be an anti-climax, finding the locker empty. What I hoped to find were answers. My hand shook as I grated the little key along the grooves—a squealing of the grinding hinge as the door came free. My mind raced.
With the door wide, I got a little surprised. As lockers go, this one was quite neat. At least compared to mine. This one was a more thinking man’s storage. A lot of random Post-it notes, words that didn’t make sense, a torn-out page of the A-Z with Bethnal Green circled in red ink and the letter ‘C’. There was a small box of tapes; initially, I thought they were spares.
Until I saw the label, ‘updates’ and were at least four, maybe six weeks’ worth—the weeks leading up to his death. The locker’s contents had me in a daydream, staring blankly at the inked circle and ‘c,’ my head had gone back to the moment I found him. Two loud claps rattle between my ears. I pictured the lines of brain matter trickling down, the way the blood glistened in the yellow light, littered with skull pieces, and matted brown hair, with a bullet hole dead centre of the mess.
Only the bullet was missing; it had been dug out, causing plaster dust to sprinkle across the blood. Yet, the moment I noticed the edge of another circle. Barely visible just over the top, a second shot to mask the first that had me thinking I was being ‘framed.’ Gagged at the thought of Chris’s blown-out skull, I returned to the locker.
I’m drawn to a printout of a newspaper clipping. It had to be the best part of being nearly thirty years old. ‘A house fire in East London, one sole survivor being a young child, several dismembered bodies discovered in the basement. Believed to result from satanic worship,’ My heart jumped, and flashes of my nightmare buzzed across my mind.
I could hear the loud chains clanging again, causing me to close my eyes. Seeing the darkness, watching the dust kicking in the air, and, scariest of all, those haunting red eyes. Shaking my head free, I took a breath. I’ve never been a fan of coincidences. A clipping about a basement, and I dream about one.
Why would Chris be concerned with a fire so many years ago? He’d made a spider web of taped strings to addresses in other parts of the country and written ‘+1 or +2 children’. Whatever Chris was into seemed to involve missing kids. But why all the secrecy? Was it he felt he couldn’t trust anyone, even me?
I could hear raised voices heading my way as the late turn began rolling in, so there needed more time to go through everything. There were small bundles of papers and other bits. I grabbed the tapes and Jammed the door shut before returning to my locker. My heart raced as a few from the next shift came in. I slumped down on the bench. The day had caught up with me.
The brave face was gone; I didn’t have the strength to keep up the pretence. I took a quiet moment to reflect as reality finally hit me hard. I looked around as most went about their business as normal. Thanks to Detective Dalton, I hadn’t had the time to mourn or consider any emotional fallout. The surge was coming, rising like a shaken champagne bottle, and the cork was about to explode.
That’s how I felt—wondering if we were safe, especially from ourselves. A mind is fragile, and Chris was one of the strongest I knew. My best friend was dead; I had found him murdered. All I had now were the tapes in my pocket to help. Dalton had me on edge over the higher-ups coming after me, and I had to watch my back. I needed to remember. I wanted to know why.
