Memory Scents (3 page)

CHAPTER TWO

Norfolk 1982

              Lucy cycled her usual route she followed at the same time every day to the village shop. The sun had crept through the clouds and was warming the freshly sprinkled rain. The dirty spray from her bicycle wheels was soaking her white socks and splattering muddy water up her shins. She marvelled at the colours reflecting off everything and how sparkly everywhere looked, as it always does when the sun arrives after the rain.

              Lucy smiled to herself as she thought about the youth disco she was going to that night. She couldn’t believe her Mother had agreed to let her go. She was so protective of her and at fourteen she was beginning to develop a more social personality and she’d wanted her to loosen the apron strings. With her head full of outfits and friends she wasn’t concentrating on her bicycle when the tyre burst and caused her to come off the quiet country road and skid into a field. For a few seconds the world seemed to turn upside down.

              Once everything stopped moving and she managed to untangle herself from her slightly mangled bike Lucy was able survey the damage. A few bruises were appearing on her grazed legs and there was a throbbing in her elbow, which she had landed on.

 
              But this was nothing in comparison to what she would look like in a few hours time. Unfortunately, while Lucy was examining the cut on her arm, she was unaware of the gloved black figure approaching her. Or the rope and sack they were carrying or the red car that she would be bundled into, that was parked in the field behind the hedge.

              There wasn’t much of a struggle, Lucy was very slight and being caught unawares hadn’t given her much of a chance.

              Her bicycle was neatly leant up against the hedge, out of view of the road, and the rain began to pour again, washing away any trace of Lucy on the muddy track.

*

Norfolk 1998

              Grace was comfortably ensconced in her favourite tatty armchair in the kitchen, staring at the dead and empty fire place. A draft was occasionally circling her feet and scuffing up the ashes in the grate. She was falling into the depths of her mind, like a deep sea diver moving softly through the chilling water. Grace’s thoughts were becoming colder and colder as time ticked on. Images of children intruded her mind, pricking her conscience and sending a wave of pain across her heart.

              The sound of her husband Tim coming through the old cracked latch door brought her quickly back to the surface, giving her the emotional bends. He turned on the kitchen light causing her to squint and jolt her mind back into the present.

              “Whatever are you doing sitting in the dark like that? You almost gave me a fright.” he said, resting both hands on the arms of her chair and leaning in to look at her perfectly formed, childlike face.

              Grace could smell the warm deep scent of rum on his breath and her stomach turned in revulsion as the bristles of his grey moustache kissed her on the lips.

              Tim pulled away from her and studied her face, just in time for her to plaster her usual well practiced false smile on.

              “You alright gal?”

              “Yep, I’m fine. I was just out visiting our new neighbour and thought I’d have five minutes in the chair when I got back. I must have nodded off; too much wine I should expect. You know what that does to me,” she said, scraping her chair back across the rickety stone floor, causing him to move away from her. She pushed passed him and busied herself with the supper.

              “Get on well did you?”

              “Yes, we did actually. She’s really nice.”

              “Good for you. What’s for supper? I’m starving!” he said, hanging his coat up behind the door and wandering into the sitting room to put the telly on.

              “I’m making a curry,” Grace called after him.

              And that was pretty much the end of their conversation for the rest of the evening. Grace’s hatred towards him had simmered in the pit of her stomach for over a year. She’d not liked him much after thirty years of being treated like a second class citizen and having to put up with his selfish, tedious ways, although this wasn’t what had caused her hatred towards him. But her feelings were beginning to bubble dangerously close to the surface. As she prepared the supper, she tried to get a grip of herself and her thoughts. Meeting Chrissie had unsettled her for some reason. Her face was all too familiar and it had brought back flashes of the past. She poured herself another glass of wine; the only thing that would get her comfortably through another excruciating evening with Tim.

              It had taken all the will she had not to walk out on him almost a year ago, but Grace felt that she could do a better job if she stayed. She’d come so far. Having to share a bed with him, a table, even a drink; it all repulsed every cell of her body. But she was going to have her revenge and get away with it because like everything else in Grace’s life, when she set her mind to do something she made sure she carried it out.

              Unfortunately, Grace hadn’t discovered he was having an affair or that he had a secret life with someone else. But a different personality, that involved children. She’d found out that Tim was a murderer, a child killer in fact. It wasn’t information she was unsure of, and it certainly wasn’t something you discovered about your partner every day. She only wished he had been having an affair. That was the grim reality Grace had discovered about him over a year ago. And it didn’t matter how much she thought about it or pondered over it, it was still there, set in stone because she couldn’t turn back the clock and erase the irreversible damage that he’d caused.

*

Dear Alice,

              Daddy is talking about us having a holiday in Spain. He says we need to get away and that we can’t stay here forever, hoping that you’ll walk through the front door. I don’t want to go but there is a part of me that thinks we may feel differently after a holiday. I’ve barely been out since you left for fear of missing you, but maybe he’s right. Are you really going to walk through the door after ten years?

              I’ve spent all this time dreaming of it, imagining you every day, opening that door and shouting your greetings. I’ve even imagined you as you would be now, grown up. Your beautiful blonde hair stylishly cut; stopping in on your way home from work to tell us about your day.  Every day I wake up and go to the window…but you’re never there.

              I’m sorry darling; I promised I wouldn’t get maudlin in my letters to you.

              Daddy painted your bedroom last weekend in a gorgeous shade of apple green. We’ve put everything back where it was but we wanted to give it a spring clean because it was getting a bit dusty in there.

              I’ve been thinking about starting an art course to try and pick up my painting again. I’ve found a really good home studies course, but Daddy says I’d have to go to college to do it properly and you know how I feel about going out to new places. I can just about cope with visiting Nana and Granddad at the retirement home, let alone anything else. He thinks I’d benefit more from the course if I went to college and mixed with other people. I’ll think about it a bit longer.

              Nana and Granddad are settling in well by the way and getting used to their new surroundings. They’re still arguing as much as ever! Granddad says he’s going to buy his own microwave meals because he hates the food there and thinks the wardens are trying to poison him.

              That’s all my news for now my beautiful darling and I’ll write again soon.

Loving you always – Mummy

*

NORFOLK 1998

              Tim sniffed hard at the small child’s T-shirt that he had screwed up in his hands and then took another swig of his rum bottle. Even though the item of clothing smelt of the sheds that it had lived in for fifteen or more years, he could still occasionally catch a whiff of the child’s smell that he so adored. He had always been fascinated by the smell of children, especially when they lost that baby smell and gained the smell of school and hormones. It comforted and eased him in a way that nothing else could. Everything had a particular scent to Tim and the first thing he did when he discovered something new was to sniff it. He saw it as an invisible label; like looking at an object and observing its colour or shape.

              Tim liked nothing more than sitting in his shed with a bottle of rum and reminiscing over his box of souvenirs. They were what he called, his ‘memory scents’. He’d thought of this nickname whilst he muttered to himself about all the boxes of children’s clothes and toys he had stored one day when he was in his shed. He tried to preserve the scents by putting each one inside a polythene bag, as though he was vacuum packing them. Each time he held one and smelt it, it conjured up memories of the short time he’d spent with that particular child. Tim felt they were celebratory, happy times in his life, filled with excitement and thrills. Another conquest gained through planning and hard work and a pat on the back for not getting caught. The only blessing to each child being dead was that they weren’t alive to reflect on the horror that he had put each one through.

 
              The particular child’s T-shirt that he was pondering over wasn’t one of his favourites. But he always started off with the lower impact items and then ended his session in the shed with the items that had the most recent smells and the most vivid memories.

              The T-shirt belonged to one of his earlier victims; a small boy with a strangely angelic face which had captured Tim’s attention. Tim didn’t know why he’d murdered him; he usually went for girls and grabbing the small boy hadn’t been anything sexual. It was in the early days and he put it down to a bit of practice and the fact that six year old Jonathan had been quite happy to talk to him. And quite happy to get into Tim’s car and quite happy to go and look at some puppies that didn’t exist. Jonathan played along amicably with the game, until he realised what Tim was going to do to him. But to Tim’s disappointment he died quite quickly and he put that down to him being small for his age, and not the fact that the frayed rope was extremely tight around Jonathan’s neck.

              He breathed in deeply and tried to recapture the boy’s smell so that he could revel for a little while in that fond memory. But it was becoming distant and it only just triggered a feeling and a memory, like a wasted spark trying to reignite a dead fire. It was slowly being replaced with a musty stale odour and the scent of turpentine which was found in most sheds.

              The police had discovered that particular victim, which had been another thrill for Tim. He loved it when they found one of the bodies, but there was also something thrilling about the body they had never uncovered. It was a huge power game to Tim; he’d laid out a knotted web of a puzzle for the police to untangle, with a few prizes here and there. But there was one body he wanted no one to ever find. It made him feel as if he was keeping the game alive. He didn’t want the police thinking they’d completed a part of it; he wanted them to be forever wondering, the same as he wanted the families to keep hoping, and then he would revel in what he’d caused when their precious children were found. There was a feeling of tragedy and despair and Tim was so sick and twisted that he absorbed himself in it. He loved watching the families on the television, appealing for anyone with any information to come forward. The feeling of power and adrenaline that rushed through his body was immense. The knowledge that he was the only one who knew what had happened to that particular child. Being the only person in the whole world made him feel like he could rule it.

              But there was one family who didn’t know what had happened to their little girl. They had a good idea, but Tim got a kick out of the fact that they didn’t know for sure.

              Alice had been special, partly because she was to be his last victim for the time being and also because she had the strongest scent of all. Alice not only had the scent of a child turning into a teenager but she had traces of her Mother’s perfume on her clothes, which reminded Tim of his own Mother.

              He often wondered whether this was where he got his urges from; having been brought up by a woman who was one minute over protective and emotionally smothering and then the complete opposite end of the scale; cold, dismissive and distant.