Page 46 of The Bodies
FORTY-ONE
The second time Enoch Cullen jerks back into consciousness, he can’t figure out how long he’s been out, whether it’s late afternoon or late morning, whether a few minutes have passed or several hours. He can’t decide if he was having a nightmare or has just re-entered one.
Struggling up from his chair, he goes to the kitchen, opens the fridge and grabs a beer. He chugs half the can, gasps and wipes his mouth.
The kitchen clock isn’t working, the microwave isn’t set to the right time and his phone isn’t in his pocket. Returning to the living room, he turns on the TV and checks the guide.
It’s eight minutes past five, Tuesday afternoon. Last night, the Carvers had left around one a.m. Afterwards, he’d sat up drinking until five. Which means he’s slept, give or take, for twelve hours.
He finds his phone wedged between the arm of his chair and the seat cushion, the screen dead and unresponsive.
When he goes to the front door, he finds a police contact card on the mat, handwritten with an officer’s details, a reference number and a message to call in.
Beside it lies a sheet of A4. The word MISSING is printed above his daughter’s image, along with a few lines of text. Scrawled in biro along the bottom:
Made these earlier and putting them on lampposts today. Gave you a knock but no answer.
Tilz xx
Finding his charger, Enoch plugs in his phone. As soon as he switches it on, it begins to chime and buzz with updates: texts, missed calls, voicemail alerts, social media notifications.
The first voicemail is from a wet-as-shit-sounding detective sergeant based in Crompton.
The second is from Erin Carver, calling to see how he is.
Enoch calls the station first, chugging the rest of his beer while he waits for what feels like a couple of weeks until somebody fetches the right guy.
The detective is as useless as Enoch had expected, and he has no real news to share: they’re continuing to look for Drew, just want to keep him informed, blah-fucking-blah-blah-blah.
Only when Enoch ends the call does he remember something important: a dream fragment, perhaps – but he doesn’t think so.
Back in the living room, he rips the seat cushion off his chair and daggers his hand along the cavity around its sprung base. He checks beneath the coffee table, beneath the TV cabinet and around the partially collapsed stacks of DVDs.
Enoch finally discovers the phone beside his boxed-up Christmas tree. Not a dream fragment, then. Nor a false memory created by booze.
The phone is a Samsung, just like his. Taking it to the kitchen, he unplugs his phone and connects the new one.
A few seconds later, a lightning icon appears.
Enoch holds down the power button until the device buzzes in his hand.
While he waits for the screen to load, he grabs himself another beer. While he drinks, he thinks.
The phone can’t be Paula’s; his bitch ex-wife hasn’t visited in weeks, and there’s no way the battery could have lasted that long. It had died only when he tried to answer it. That means it couldn’t have been in the kitchen cupboard where he first found it more than a few days.
Finally, the phone wakes. Unlike his own, it doesn’t immediately freak out with updates. The wallpaper is a half-length portrait of Drew pouting for the camera. It looks like the image was snapped early evening, on the Carvers’ back lawn.
Enoch sways on his feet when he sees it. His daughter is wearing pink lipstick, a ruched pink dress and pink opera gloves. Surrounded by globe lights, she’s as pretty as a pearl.
‘Where are you?’ he whispers, and is dismayed at the catch in his voice. It’s the kind of tragic drama-queen shit he’d expect from Paula. Not from a capable, hairy-arsed brute like himself.
When he touches the screen, a padlock icon appears.
When he swipes right, he’s offered the option of a fingerprint unlock or PIN.
He tries 1-2-3-4. When that doesn’t work, he tries 0-0-0-0 and fails again.
Last night, Tilly Carver had told him the code for Drew’s iPhone, but however hard he tries he can’t remember it.
Nor does he know Tilly’s number to call and ask.
Enoch presses his index finger to the scanner, baring his teeth in frustration.
Then he slams his fist into the cupboard opposite, splintering the panel.
Rage is a more useful emotion than despair, even if it leaves his knuckles skinless and bloody.
Finishing his second beer, he pulls a third from the fridge.
‘What you need right now, boy,’ he growls, ‘is a moment of fucking clarity.’
Enoch cracks his knuckles, belches. He pops the tab on his beer, takes another long swallow. Then, returning to the hall, he retrieves the MISSING poster from where he dropped it. Beneath the printed text he sees Tilly Carver’s contact details.
‘Sherlock fucking Holmes,’ he mutters. Draining the rest of the beer, he tosses the can into the sink. From the living room he fetches the landline handset. Back in the kitchen, sitting at his kitchen table, Enoch dials his daughter’s best friend.