Читать книгу Blackbird - Natália Gomes - Страница 11

I’ve been having the same dream for three days now. It’s not so much of a dream. That indicates something pleasant is happening during your REM cycle – a long-harboured ambition being realized, a new love, the meeting of two friends who haven’t seen each other for a long time.

No, this isn’t a dream. It’s a nightmare.

I can see her, hear her. But I can’t touch her. In all of my nightmares, she is always just out of reach. My mind is taunting me, playing with me. It knows I will stretch my arm out a little further to reach her. It knows I never can.

In these dreams, she is sitting on her bed, in her lavender-coloured bedroom that has photos of her and her friends on the wall in the shape of a giant letter O. In the middle of the O is a butterfly ornament, like in her real bedroom.

In the dream, I’m right there with her. I’m sitting on the rug near her, watching her dangle her legs over the side of the bed. Her toenails are painted a pale taupe and she’s swinging her feet gently side to side, like windscreen wipers on a car.

Swish.

Swish.

Swish.

Then we’re outside suddenly, and she’s on our old swings. Again her legs hang over the edge, but here her feet can touch the ground. She’s too big for the swings now. She’s not a child any more.

I can feel the grass on my fingers, the tips slightly damp from the morning dew. I can smell the soil in the air from the vegetable patch where my mum had just planted strawberries the morning before. I can hear the birds overhead, squawking and communicating with each other. They’re black as night. They soar overhead like my sister on the swing, gliding effortlessly through the air.

A knocking from behind makes me turn around, away from my sister. My mum’s hand hammers the kitchen window. Her finger points to the sky. Her terrified screams call out to me. When I turn back, the birds aren’t gliding and soaring. They’re swooping. There’s something different about them now. Now, they’re swooping towards us.

Their eyes gleam like black coal and their beaks snap frantically at our clothes and hair. But I can’t move. The grass grips me, its blades now sharp and suffocating. I squirm and struggle, but it won’t release me. I can hear my sister screaming. I can hear her calling out to me. She’s dying.

And I can’t help her.

I can’t reach her.

And soon, I won’t be able to save her.

I beat at the ground, the blades of grass stabbing at my palm. Nails curl into the soil, heaving my body up and out from their grip. I’m dragging my body now, hurling myself towards her, trying desperately to touch her –

‘Alexandra?’

I stir slightly, hearing the voice filter into my nightmare but it won’t let me go.

‘Alexandra?’

My eyes flicker open, and I sit upright feeling the back of the chair slam against my spine. It’s over. The nightmare is over.

A deep sigh escapes my lungs and I cover my face with my hands. Why can’t I shake this nightmare? Why does it follow me like this, day after day?

I look up and see DI Birkens standing over me.

‘How long has she been here?’ he calls out to the woman behind the glass screen in the reception room.

She shrugs her shoulders and gets back to her magazine, twirling her curly red hair with a pencil.

‘How long have you been here?’ he asks me.

I look at my wrist and realize I forgot to put my watch on today. I glance out of the window beside the big wooden doors that I came in. It’s already beginning to get dark.

‘A few hours, I think.’

He looks around. A man texts on his phone opposite us, barely glancing up. To my left, an older man sits and waits, his sheepdog curled up beside his feet. When I had come in, this place was empty. Now people wait to be noticed, wait to speak out, be heard, wait for answers to their questions. Like me.

‘Is the interview room open?’ he calls back towards the woman at the desk.

‘No, Boyd is in there until six,’ she says, not looking up.

He looks back at me and releases a long, drawn out sigh. ‘Oh OK. Well, come on through.’ Birkens gestures towards another set of heavy wooden doors. This one has a security keypad beside it. He punches in a four-digit code and the doors click open. He pushes them and waits for me to follow. I haven’t been here since the day after my sister was officially reported missing. I had wanted to leave that day. I had thought she was just staying at a friend’s house nursing a hangover. I had been so sure we’d find her. He had been so sure we’d find her – or had he lied to me?

I get up and hear the sheepdog barking behind me. The doors seal tight after I walk through. Dozens of desks stretch out before me, most unattended. On the desks sit stacks of file folders, coffee mugs and framed photos of smiling children.

I walk past the desks to his, wondering if these files have some new information about Olivia. I feel a dull ache spread along my shoulder blades. That chair in the waiting room was not the most comfortable. I don’t remember falling asleep. I remember waiting for Birkens to come back from a call, and then being in my nightmare. It had happened so fast, before I had even felt myself slipping into sleep’s grasp.

Officer Allans sees us coming and stands up from his chair. He looks eager, ambitious. All the things Detective Inspector Birkens isn’t any more.

‘Big night last night?’ he asks Birkens.

Birkens ignores him and shakes his head. He gestures me to sit down, and walks over to a coffee cup on the windowsill.

‘Don’t drink that!’ says Allans holding his hand out.

Birkens looks into the mug, then places it down on the desk beside me. I glance into the deep mug and see a film of white foam on the surface.

‘How long has this been sitting here?’ Birkens asks.

‘I think you poured that cup over a week ago, sir.’

‘That’s disgusting,’ he says. ‘And stop calling me sir. It makes me feel old and superior.’

‘But you are my . . . superior.’

‘In a few months you’ll have passed your exams and be a detective too. Then you can take over from me after I leave. You’ll really have to stop calling me sir then.’

‘I’ll only be a DC. It’ll take me years of experience to get to be you, sir. But I hope to be.’

‘I hope you don’t,’ he says, glancing back at me.

‘You’re leaving?’ I ask, feeling my chest tighten. He can’t leave. We haven’t found Olivia yet. Why would he leave now?

He sinks into a distressed brown leather chair and leans back. He legs fall to the side, and his long dark raincoat folds underneath him. I don’t know why, but I want to remind him that his coat will wrinkle if he sits like that. Why did I just think of that?

Eventually he clears his throat, ‘I’m retiring. Officially on the first of January but then this came up and we didn’t want it to go to Aberdeen.’

I feel that pain in my chest return. I sit up and hunch over, clasping my hands together.

‘Don’t worry,’ he says, ‘I won’t be going anywhere until we find your sister.’

I take a deep breath and nod, feeling a little lighter than before.

He’s staying.

He’ll find Olivia.

I get up from the chair and walk to the window. A seagull swoops past the glass causing me to take a step back. Seagulls are everywhere on an island. You can’t escape them. Hungry, desperate birds.

‘Any messages for me since I’ve been out?’ I hear Birkens and Allans talking behind me.

‘You have three phone messages from Mrs Laird. She says you promised to talk to the McAllastair boys about staying off her property. She says they’re scaring the sheep again.’

‘Why is it that Mrs Laird thinks I have nothing better to do with my time than tend to a sheep dispute?’

‘Because we usually don’t have anything better to do with our time,’ laughs Allans.

I glance back at them.

‘Sorry. I forgot you were here,’ says Allans, his face starting to redden. ‘Sir, is the interview room not free?’

I sit back in the chair and lean back, letting my knees fall awkwardly to the sides. Mahogany shelves hold books on criminal investigations, forensic evidence collections, and the odd non-fictional account of past cases from Scotland Yard. A large white board sits on the wall to the right of the bookshelf, probably meant for case profiling but a 2012 calendar is still taped to it. The office probably hadn’t had a real investigation in years, clearly since before 2012. Island police crime tends to be the odd house break-in, motor vehicle theft and even an occasional sheep scaring.

I see another police officer in uniform sitting at a desk closer to the back wall, likely completing mundane administrative tasks, such as filing reports or documenting office expenses in a spreadsheet. I wonder what Glasgow’s main office looks like compared to this.

The heater in the corner of the room splutters gently and churns to radiate more warmth for the office, but fails. Outside, seagulls squawk, waiting for me.

‘You’ll need a new calendar,’ Allans says, nodding towards the white board. ‘I think I have a spare one at the house. I’ll get Jenn to bring it over.’

Birkens ignores him and stares at me. ‘Do your parents know you’re here?’

I shake my head.

He sits down beside me. ‘I’ll go call your mum and dad and let them know you’re here. They’ll be worried sick about you.’

‘They probably haven’t noticed I’m gone,’ I mumble.

‘There’s nothing you can do here, Alex. We have officers out in the field following up on new leads –’

‘That’s a lie. You don’t have any new leads,’ I say.

‘We’ll call your house immediately if we find anything, you know that.’

‘I don’t want to be at home right now.’

He frowns and takes a deep breath. He looks a little younger than I first thought, maybe mid-fifties. Too young for retirement. So why is he so desperate to leave? What does he hide behind those dark eyes? He sighs and gestures to the entryway at the back of the office. ‘Go make a cup of tea, and I’ll call them and tell them you’ll be home within a half hour. Deal?’

I nod and follow Allans to the break room. He shows me where the teabags and sugar are, and flips the kettle on for me.

He leans against the tiled counter and folds his arms against his chest. ‘You know, I am really sorry that you and your family are having to go through this. It’s not easy, and it’s not fair.’

‘Thank you.’

‘My wife and I don’t live too far away. If there’s anything we can ever do for your family, please let us know.’

I nod, smiling awkwardly as the churning of the kettle gets louder.

‘Did your sister ever keep a diary or a journal of some kind?’

‘Not sure, maybe a journal?’

He nods his head slowly.

‘Why?’

‘There may be something in there to indicate where she could be, who she could be with.’

‘You still think she’s hiding out somewhere? Even after all this?’

‘She could be anywhere.’

‘Not Olivia. She would see all this, the newspapers, the flyers. She’s even on television. She wouldn’t want us to worry like this.’

‘Maybe you’re right,’ he says, the noise of the kettle starting to drown him out. He releases his arms, his hands dropping heavily by his side and slides past me out the door.

The break room is smaller than I thought, with only a square plastic table and five chairs around it. A fridge sits in the corner, buzzing loudly. The noise of the kettle soon masks the buzzing. It boils fast then stops.

I dunk a teabag into a chipped mug and stir milk into my tea. I’m too tired to remember where Allans said the sugar was so I drink it as is.

The heat penetrates my hands as I hold the mug in my palms. I hadn’t realized how cold I was until now.

I head back towards the main office, to Birkens’ desk. I can hear someone else speaking now. Another male voice, but deeper and hoarser than Birkens’ or Allans’. I slow down and lean against the wall. I’m not ready to leave. I’m not ready to go home and face my parents. I rest my head and listen to them talk.

‘Phonecall from Mrs Laird. You can pick it up on line two.’

I immediately recognize Birkens’ voice. ‘No, not today. I don’t have time for her ramblings today. I have to drive Alex McCarthey to her house. Have someone take a message and tell her Davey here will get on to the McAllastair boys tomorrow.’

‘No, it’s not that,’ says the unfamiliar voice. ‘She said there’s a body out by the Ring of Brodgar. Right out in the open. She said it’s a girl. A dead girl.’

Suddenly the air leaves the room and I’m panting for breath. I hear my mug hitting the ground and feel hot liquid spray up my leggings. My hands are shaking wildly. What did he say?

I see Birkens in the doorway, looking at the spilled tea all around me. He looks at me, as I gasp for air. He slowly reaches his hand out to reach me, but I don’t take it. I see his mouth opening, but I don’t wait for his words. I just start running. I run down the hall, away from the three police officers. I hear them shouting my name, running after me.

I don’t stop.

I keep going down the hallway, having no idea where I’m going. Then I see a green exit sign lit up and I know that’s my way out. I slam into the door and push it open. I hear a click and the fire alarm wails.

My name is being called again, but this time it’s only Birkens yelling it. I run faster, harder, until my thighs throb. I don’t hear him behind me any more. He couldn’t keep up.

Overgrown blades of grass strike my legs as I run through the field. The long stems tangle around my boots, and grip me, pulling me down into the soil like in my dream. But unlike in my dream, I’m stronger. I fight back and push through them, hearing them snap and break.

The earth is damp from the morning rain, and my boots sink slightly into the thick mud. It slows me down, but again I fight through.

I can still hear the police officers calling my name even though they’re long gone now. Their voices echo in my head. Then I hear Olivia’s. She’s screaming, like in my dream.

I can’t help her.

I can’t reach her.

Olivia, I’m coming.

Wait for me.

I know exactly where I’m going and I know I’ve reached it by the crowds of people gathered. Their bodies block the standing stones and I can’t see past them. Two police cars with flashing lights are parked horizontally, and officers frantically tape off the car park, shouting to the crowd to move back. But they don’t move. They strain their necks to see more. They’re enjoying this, I think. They like the drama, the excitement in the air. They crave it. They’re bored. They are here because they need this.

I start pushing them out of the way, hearing them swear at me. A couple of them turn and see my face and nudge their friends. They recognize me. They all think exactly what I’m thinking – that’s my sister out there. My sister’s body has been found.

She’s dead.

I push them harder, screaming at them, ‘Move!’ My body hits the yellow tape and I see a female office running towards me. ‘Stop!’ she yells. But I don’t. I can’t.

I duck under the tape and start running again, this time faster. Another officer starts chasing me, but he can’t reach me.

The slick grass is harder to run on, and it slows me down. I see two officers standing over something. It’s long, and it lays awkwardly on the ground. I see an arm. A leg. Long dark brown hair spread wide on the grass.

Suddenly I feel arms around me, pulling me away, pulling me down. I hear Birkens’ voice trying to calm me but I thrash violently. ‘Let me go!’ I scream. The officers ahead turn at the noise and that’s when I see her more clearly.

My sister. My big sister. That’s me lying there. That’s my blood. We share the same blood. And it’s everywhere. It’s all around her head. It’s on the grass, it’s matted in her hair.

Then everything goes blurry. I grip Birkens’ shoulder and throw my head back. I see birds soaring overhead, circling us, circling her. I open my mouth and scream my sister’s name. Then darkness takes me.