Ben Cheetham - The Society of Dirty Hearts

Julian noticed that there was a message in his Facebook inbox. It was from Morsus. ‘I’ll be in The Cut tonight’ it read. He stared at the message, fingers hesitating over the keyboard, a queer feeling in his stomach, like a hunger pang, only deeper and heavier. He wasn’t debating what to do. He knew he had to see her, speak to her. The question that bothered him was, to what end? What would come of it? Swallowing, he typed ‘I’ll see you there’ and hit reply. He moved to lie down. The queer feeling sat on his stomach, tiredness throbbed in his head. He couldn’t let himself sleep, though. It wasn’t safe. Not with the dream lurking like a viper in the darkness behind his eyelids.

After a sleepless rest, Julian took Henry for a walk in the forest. They didn’t get far. A policeman blocked the path. He could see others amongst the trees, advancing in a long line, combing the undergrowth.

For a second day running, Julian’s dad didn’t return home in time for the evening meal. He knew then that his mum was right about there being something wrong with his dad’s business. “So come on,” said Christine as they ate. She was smiling, but there was an undercurrent of seriousness in her voice. “Tell us what Mike Hill wanted. We’re dying to know.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“I just can’t, that’s all.”

“Has all this secrecy got something to do with your dad?”

When Julian made no reply, Christine glanced at Wanda, as though his silence confirmed something they’d been discussing. “I think I’ll eat in my room,” he said, standing.

“There’s no need for that, Jules. I won’t ask any more questions about it.” An edge crept into Christine’s voice. “In fact, if that’s the way it is, I just won’t ask you any questions about anything.”

Julian winced inwardly, hating to see his mum waste the little energy she had on anger. After eating, he got ready to go out, taking longer than usual over it. When his dad still wasn’t home by seven, he started to feel impatient. He wanted to be there when his mum was told about Joanne Butcher. He wanted to make sure she was told. At eight o’clock, he went in search of her, intending to tell her himself. But when he saw her so fragile and tired looking, he knew he couldn’t break his promise. “I’m going out,” he said. She made no sign of having heard him. He let out a slight sigh. “Don’t be like that, Mum.”

“I’m not being like anything,” Christine said, without looking at him. “You’re a grown man now, Julian. You go where you want, see who you want, say what you want, and live with the consequences. It’s about time both of us recognised that.”

As Julian drove to The Cut, his mum’s words weighed on his mind. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to be ‘a grown man’. And he knew with absolute certainty that he wasn’t ready to ‘live with the consequences’, whatever they might be. He felt an urge to turn around, head home and tell her about everything — about Joanne Butcher’s corpse, the dream, everything. He wanted to lay his head on her lap, feel her stroke his hair, hear her tell him everything would be alright. He wanted her to soothe him off to sleep, like she’d used to do. But he didn’t turn around. Another stronger urge — an urge that was both within and outside his understanding — prevented him from doing so.

Mia Bradshaw was sat on her own at the same table as the previous night. She was dressed the same, too. When she looked at Julian, he saw that her mask of makeup was streaked, as if she’d been crying. She wasn’t crying now, though. Her eyes were like blue porcelain. They seemed to be weighing him up, or maybe working out what they could get from him. Under their steady examination, he suddenly felt — despite the years he had on her — very young and green.

“I’m Julian,” he said, for want of something to say.

“I know.”

He motioned to her empty glass. “Do you want another?”

“Vodka and coke, double.”

Conscious of Mia’s eyes following him, Julian ordered her drink and the same for himself. Upon returning to the table, he said, “I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about your friend.”

The eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “Why should you be sorry?”

“Because, well, because I am…” Julian trailed off lamely.

Mia drank her drink. Then she reached for Julian’s and drank that, too. “Is that why you’re here, because you feel sorry for me?”

Julian was silent a moment, then he admitted, “No.”

Mia tapped her glass. “I’ll have another.”

Julian fetched another round. Mia lit a cigarette. She smoked a little self-consciously, like someone for whom the habit wasn’t yet automatic. Looking at her through the smoke she exhaled in his face, Julian caught a glimpse of what she really was — a fifteen-year old girl trying to look and act eighteen. As if suddenly conscious of this, she crushed the cigarette out after only five or six puffs. “Tell me what Jo looked like,” she said.

“What do you mean?” Julian asked, although he knew what she meant.

“What did she look like when you found her?”

“Do you really want to know?”

Face intense as a knife-cut, Mia leant forward close enough so that Julian could smell her alcopop-sweet breath. “I want to know every detail.”

Julian glanced around. The bar was busier than the previous night, most of the surrounding tables were occupied. Although the music pumping out over the sound system made conversation difficult to overhear, he didn’t fancy describing how Jo Butcher’s corpse had looked with other people in earshot. He didn’t fancy describing it again at all, but something told him he’d have difficulty refusing Mia that, or anything else she asked. “My car’s outside. Let’s go somewhere else, somewhere quiet.”

Mia gave Julian that quick, weighing-up look again. She spoke in a flat, hard voice that went through him like a shiver. “Just so long as you promise not to rape me and murder me and hide my body in the forest.”

The queer deep, heavy feeling flared, pushing up Julian’s throat, big as a fist. “That’s not funny.”

“It’s not meant to be.” Mia threw back her drink and stood up. When Julian remained seated, frowning at her, she said impatiently, “Well, come on then, let’s get going.”

“But I haven’t promised yet.”

Mia gave a little smirk, as if to say, oh, I think I can handle anything you’ve got, and then some. Biting back his irritation, Julian led her to his car. “Nice wheels,” she said.

“Where shall we go?”

“Start driving and I’ll tell you, rich boy.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? That’s what you are, isn’t it?”

“Well, yeah, I suppose, but-”

Mia cut Julian off with a loud exhalation. He stared at her a moment, then started the engine. “Which way?”

She pointed and he followed the line of her finger. She switched on the radio and, finding a tune she liked, turned it up loud. She sat slumped down in the car seat, listlessly staring out the window, trying to appear relaxed, bored even. But there was a tension about her. Julian noticed that her right hand trembled ever so slightly, while her left fidgeted with something in her jacket pocket. They drove to the northern edge of town, to The High Bridge.

“Stop here,” Mia said.

They pulled over in front of a sign displaying the telephone number of The Samaritans, which had been put up a few years earlier after a spate of suicides. They walked beneath the arched steel frame to the centre of the three-hundred foot span. “You can understand in a way why people come here to end it all,” said Mia, leaning out over the murmuring black water. “It’s such a beautiful place.”