Читать книгу DEAD GONE - Luca Veste, Luca Veste - Страница 10

Rob Barker was nothing if not average. Average height, average build, average wage earner, average Sunday League player.

No one called him special. He didn’t win trophies or certificates.

He lived in an average-sized house, with an average-sized garden. His car was an average-priced model.

When magazines or newspapers talk about the ‘average twenty-five to forty-year-old male’, that was him. He ticked all those boxes.

It wasn’t accidental. He desperately strived to go unnoticed, not to do anything special as he’d grown older and reached that pivotal moment of his early thirties. Bad things don’t happen to normal, average people. That fact had been drummed into his head from an early age.

Don’t get cocky. Don’t strive for more than you can handle.

Bad things happen to those who put themselves out there, raise their head above the parapet and ask life to take pot shots at them. Much better to fly under the radar, coast through life, happy and content.

Yet there was one area of his life he couldn’t control.

Who he would fall in love with.

Intelligent, witty, beautiful. Jemma was all that and more. So much more. She was bright, quick witted, and the worst cook Rob had ever known. She put a whole packet of noodles in a microwave once. Might have been okay if she’d taken them out of the packet and added water first.

She was gone.

And it was his fault.

Rob woke that morning to the sound of a Scottish ex-footballer complaining about a red card in a football match he hadn’t seen. The joys of talkSPORT. He steadily came around, listening to the radio as he began to wake. A split second when he wondered where he was before normality came in. It always took him some time to wake up – he was a deep sleeper, as Jemma would constantly remind him. With a radio show on, especially one discussing football, he was more likely to be up and ready for work a lot quicker.

She’d texted him before midnight to say she was having a late one. Rob had pretended it was fine, no big deal. Inside, he was shaking. How would she get home? Anything could happen to her at that time of night. Did she care?

He didn’t trust her. He couldn’t remember a time when he had. Everything was too good. Too nice. They barely argued. It didn’t feel real. Relationships weren’t perfect.

She wasn’t in the bed next to him. He wasn’t surprised. He’d been prepared for that.

‘Downstairs. She’ll be downstairs.’ His voice sounded alien, scared. He knew that she wouldn’t be, but he wanted to kid himself everything was still normal. An alarm bell at the back of his mind clanged against his skull with every thought of her being home and safe. That wasn’t the case, and he wouldn’t let himself believe it.

He sat up in bed, swung his legs to the side and slipped on the clothes he’d discarded the night before. Blue tracksuit bottoms and a footy shirt. Red.

The house was too settled, no sounds of light snoring coming from downstairs. When Jemma had been drinking she had a tendency to snore a bit. He’d hoped to turn into the living room and find Jemma lying there, sleeping off a heavy night.

He wasn’t surprised to hear silence.

Panic started to permeate inside him, a churning feeling. He began rubbing at his stomach, wondered if they had any Rennies left.

How does Mr Average react to his girlfriend not coming home from a night out? Does he ring the police straight away? Her friends … her mum? He was sweating, nervous energy running through him. He needed to think.

What had he done?

‘Relax,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Calm down.’

Rob boiled the kettle and had a cup of coffee. Two and a half sugars. A dash of milk. The early morning sunlight came through the window in the empty kitchen, reflecting off the microwave he barely used. The kitchen was exactly as he’d left it the night before. Nothing disturbed. Everything in its place.

She’d barely been on a night out since they’d moved in the house. Rob had never stopped her, she just preferred staying at home, watching a film or some crap on TV whilst he messed around on the laptop next to her. She never seemed unhappy.

He believed she was. Why else would she stay out late?

It was true that he’d pushed her to go out with her friends. Told her she needed to have a night out, let her hair down, dance to shit music and have a few drinks. He wouldn’t stop her enjoying herself. She just needed to stay safe. That’s all. Not put herself in danger.

She hadn’t listened to him. Obviously. She never fucking did. That was the problem. If she’d just listened, they’d be sharing breakfast now.

They never listened to him.

Four years they’d been together. She’d even started dropping hints about marriage, kids. They weren’t getting any younger.

He couldn’t see it. One day, she would have realised she was wasting her life with him. Left, and found someone as special as her.

He should ring around. Check her mates out. Do something.

‘Phone.’

He checked his pockets, coming up empty. Took the stairs two at a time as he remembered where he’d left it. Entering the bedroom he was struck by her absence again, the unslept-upon side of her bed. Always the left side, even though that had been his side of the bed when he was single. She got her way about that, as she’d continued to do throughout their relationship, Rob happy to give way on just about everything.

He reached over the bed to find his phone, having left it on the bedside table the previous night. He looked at the screen to check there were no missed calls, or texts waiting for him; a blank screen flickered back at him. He clicked on the phone button, Jemma’s number the first one on the list of recent calls.

‘Hi, this is Jemma. Can’t get to the phone right now …’

It was right that he tried her first. He had to think things through properly. He ended the call without leaving a message. Started flicking through the contacts on the phone to find her best friend’s number. Pressed the green call button and waited.

‘Hello.’ Carla’s husband. The woollyback with the fake Scouse accent. Rob bit his lip.

‘Andy? It’s Rob. Is Carla home?’

‘Yeah, mate. She’s in bed. Left her phone down here. What’s going on – it’s a bit early isn’t it?’

‘Is Jemma there?’

‘Erm, no. Should she be?’

‘She hasn’t come home. Can you see if Carla knows anything? Starting to panic a bit here.’

‘Course, Rob.’

Rob heard him walking, a muffled conversation, before he came back on the phone. ‘Carla said she got off early. Said she was getting a taxi home,’ Andy said.

Rob swore under his breath. ‘Didn’t anyone go with her, make sure she got off okay?’ Rob said, his voice rising. He needed to know whether anyone left with her; to know that she left the club alone, as anything could have happened in that time.

‘I’ve no idea, mate.’ Andy replied. ‘Jemma’s a big girl though, she can look after herself. I wouldn’t worry about it yet. She could have gone on to somewhere else or something.’

‘Who with, Andy? She said she was going home. Get Carla up for me. I need to speak to her.’

‘Come on, Rob, she didn’t get in ’til late. She deserves a lie-in, she hasn’t been out since the baby was born.’

‘For fuck’s sake, Andy, Jemma hasn’t come home. Tell Carla to get on the fucking phone. I want to speak to her.’ His own anger didn’t surprise him. People not listening to him. Always a trigger. He needed to calm down. If he carried on, alarm bells would start ringing with the stupid dickhead on the end of the phone. Rob softened his voice. ‘She could be anywhere.’

‘I understand, mate, but it’s only early, you need to calm down a bit. Don’t start worrying just yet. Give it a couple of hours and see if she turns up. Have you tried ringing her mum yet? She might have gone there for all you know.’

Rob sighed. Strike two. ‘No. I’ll try now.’

‘Cool. Look, I’ve got to get on with giving Leah her feed. Let me know when she turns up, okay?’

‘Okay.’ He ended the call and tried ringing Jemma again. He had to leave a voicemail this time. Could be important.

‘Jemma, it’s Rob. Ring me.’

He sent a text message.

Babe, I’m worried. Where are you? x

He rang the number for Jemma’s mum from memory. When they’d first started seeing each other they spoke on the phone a lot. Her mum used to go mad at her for tying up the line.

Jemma’s mum answered on the third ring. ‘2461.’

‘Hi, Helen, it’s Rob. Is Jemma at your house?’

‘No. Should she be?’ Rob heard her stifle a yawn.

‘I don’t know. She went out with Carla and the others last night. I’ve woke up this morning and she’s not here. Just thought I’d check to see if she’d ended up at yours instead.’

‘I haven’t heard from her for a while. Are you saying she’s missing?’

‘I don’t know. It’s just not like her to not get in touch.’

‘Have you spoken to her friends? Maybe they know something.’

‘Yeah, spoke to Carla, well, Carla’s husband Andy anyway. She left earlier than the others and went for a taxi.’

‘This doesn’t sound good, Rob. Should I come over?’

‘No, you don’t have to. I’m sure it’ll be fine.’

‘Well, I suppose I best stay here just in case she comes here. Ring me the second she turns up.’

‘Will do.’

Rob pressed the red end call button and stared at his phone. He stood next to the bed, and dropped down when he’d ended the call. He tried to think of where else she might have been. Who else he should call before the police.

What was he supposed to do? What was the right course of action?

Carla and her mum, they were the only people he knew Jemma spoke to regularly. He glanced at the alarm clock.

‘Shit.’ He should have been leaving the house now, going in to work at the university for overtime. He wasn’t going anywhere though. He walked back downstairs, going through to the living room and looking outside, hoping to see Jemma passed out on the doorstep. Nothing again. Outside, only socks on his feet, looking around the front of his house, the pavement, the side alley near the bins. Still the expected nothingness. Rob shivered, looking around the quiet street, looking for any curtains twitching. Anyone walking past or peeking out of their windows from the houses surrounding him would have seen a confused looking, average bloke, searching for someone. That was right.

He went back into the living room, ran a hand through his hair, still messed up from sleeping. Dropped his hand across his face and the intentional three-day stubble. Stood near the window, opening the blinds and began drumming his fingers on the windowsill.

It had finally happened.

She was gone, and now he had to deal with the consequences.