David Jackson - The Helper

He regrets it when he sees the look of amusement on her face.

‘My God, Cal. Next you’ll be telling me you like musicals too. Is this just the tip of the iceberg? Are you wearing my underwear?’

‘Hey, I can still be tough too. You should’ve seen me today.’

‘Why? What’d you do? Claw someone’s eyes out? Pull their hair?’

‘Ha! Very funny. You mind stopping with the insults now? I went to see that private investigator. You know, the one who’s conning old Mrs Sachs?’

‘Is he still doing that to that poor woman? I hope you smashed his kneecaps, that bastard.’

Doyle stares at her. He was about to tell her how he got his message across to Repp, but saying that he made the man’s finger bleed doesn’t seem to match the level of vengeance that Rachel expects.

Their conversation is interrupted by the chirrup of Doyle’s cellphone. He checks the screen, sees that there is no caller ID. Kills the call.

‘Who was that?’ asks Rachel.

‘Nobody.’

She gives him a searching look that feels to him as though it’s penetrating his skull and tearing its way through his mental database.

‘By nobody I guess you mean somebody , but somebody you don’t want me to know about.’

‘I. . no. That is, it’s not that I’m keeping it from you, it’s just that it’s not a call I want to take. And I don’t just mean now, because you’re here. I mean ever .’

He can see the questions scrolling across her eyes. Like a Las

Vegas slot machine. Which one will come to rest there first?

She says, ‘That has to be one of the biggest loads of garbage I’ve ever heard you speak.’ She pats the seat next to her on the sofa. ‘Come here, Cal. Sit down.’

He doesn’t want this discussion, and it’s like he’s walking through treacle as he comes around the sofa and then lowers himself onto it. He feels like a kid who knows he’s about to get that birds and bees lecture.

She grasps his hand in hers, but it’s some time before she speaks. The earlier levity has become a fading memory.

‘Cal, what’s going on? You haven’t been yourself for days. All these phone calls you don’t want me to hear, it’s driving me crazy.’ He stares into her eyes, not knowing what to say. Feeling that he wants to tell her everything, but not wanting to put her in that uncomfortable position. And the longer he sits there in silence, the more he senses her distress building.

It is left to her to break into that silence, and when she does there is a tremor to her voice and a pooling of water in her eyes that threatens to overflow and cascade down her face.

‘I just want you to tell me that. . I need to know that. .’

He studies her face, trying to read her. Trying to finish her sentence for her.

And then it hits him. He understands. And he hates the fact that he can understand. It shouldn’t be able to enter his mind. Shouldn’t be able to sneak into Rachel’s head either. Their relationship should be stable enough to fend it off.

But there it is, and all because of what happened with Laura Marino, his ex-partner. Or rather, the thing that didn’t happen with Laura Marino but which seems to have established its own poisonous existence in their past.

He clasps Rachel’s face in his hands. ‘Rachel, listen to me. I know what you’re thinking, and you’re wrong. This has nothing to do with another woman.’

She sniffs. ‘I. . I wasn’t trying to say. .’

‘It’s okay, really. I understand. I’ve been acting kinda weird and you’ve been looking for explanations. But it’s not a woman, okay? You’ve been watching too many of these old movies.’

She nods. ‘All right. So what then?’

He chews on the inside of his cheek. What to tell her? He should just come clean, he thinks. Let her know exactly what’s been going on. She’s his wife. The woman he loves. She’ll understand.

‘There’s stuff I haven’t been able to tell you. Something going on. Nobody knows. If I tell you, you have to promise not to tell anyone else.’

He watches her as she mulls it over. He can tell she’s not certain she wants to hear it.

‘I promise. What is it?’

‘You know that murder they brought me in on the other day?’

‘The bookstore girl? What about it?’

‘Turns out she’s not the only one. Did you hear about the cop shot in his apartment the other night? And then the psychologist being thrown out of his apartment window? They’re connected. We got a serial killer on our hands, Rach.’

‘Oh my God. A serial killer? How do you know? No, wait, don’t answer that. I’m asking too many questions, I know. But, well, Jesus. A serial killer?’

‘Uh-huh. This isn’t common knowledge, Rach. You mustn’t tell anyone. It could hurt our chances of catching this guy.’

‘No, I swear.’ She wipes her eyes, drying them off. ‘And there was me thinking it was another woman. Christ, was I way off the mark. I’m sorry, Cal.’

She pulls him into her embrace. And while he hugs her he tells himself, You don’t deserve this hug. You don’t deserve this woman. So, okay, you told her about the killer. But the phone calls? Your little helper friend? When did that creep into the conversation? Where was all that in your little confession?

Shame on you, Callum Doyle.

His ears should be burning.

The man who has just been the subject of discussion in the Doyle household is troubled.

He is in his living room, sitting bolt upright on a wooden chair, staring at the staircase. He does this each night, building himself up to the task ahead. It’s the reason he chooses a straight-backed wooden chair. Because it’s not very comfortable and he can’t sit here too long. His lower back will begin to ache, even though he was told that such chairs are supposed to be good for his posture. The pain will gnaw at him and it will gradually build and then he will have to stand up, and that will prompt him to carry out his task.

He hates having to do this, but he knows it’s necessary. It can’t be left. Not even a day. It wouldn’t be right.

So do it, goddamnit!

He pushes himself off the chair. Orders himself not to think about things as he marches upstairs, toward the bedroom door. It’s okay, he tells himself. It’s fine. You’ve done this a million times. Just do it and get it over with.

He turns the doorknob and urges himself inside, snapping on the light before dark shapes can take on unwanted forms before his eyes.

He stands in the doorway, panting. His heart batters against his ribcage.

It’s okay. All okay. You can relax.

It’s a small room. Not much to see. A desk. A dresser. A closet.

And the bed, of course.

He steps across the room and stands at the side of the bed. He looks it up and down and he remembers.

The bed is empty now, but in his mind it is occupied. He is reminded of why he decided to help others. It’s a calling. There are people suffering out there, and they need him. Who else is going to do it?

He sets to work. He strips off the covers and the sheets and the pillowcases and piles them on the floor. Then he goes over to the closet and opens it and takes a fresh set of bed linen down from one of the shelves. He returns to the bed and makes it up again. He does this slowly, methodically and with great care. Edges tucked in neatly and tightly. All creases smoothed out. He walks around the bed, checking and rechecking his handiwork. And when he is finally able to tear himself away, he picks up the old bed things and carries them out to the bathroom and dumps them in a laundry hamper.

Tomorrow he will have to do it all over again. It’s never easy. Sometimes the stress of trying to get it right is unbearable. He can be in there for hours on some nights. It’s the price you pay when you care about people so much.