Francesca
Three
The river glistens up at Francesca as she leans against the railings of the Golden Jubilee bridge. London twinkles back at her, a glossy haze of purple and green lights twinkling against the shimmering waters of the Thames. Nearby, a boat sails away from her, playing loud music, masking the screams of party goers dancing and drinking on board. She closes her eyes as a cool wind tickles her face and teases at her hair.
Her phone buzzes for the seventh time and she pulls it, frustratedly out of her purse. Aaliyah again. She declines the call and shoves it back into her bag. She doesn’t need to speak to her. Explain herself. Besides, there is nothing to explain. She is meeting a future colleague for a drink. She is single, and she has no friends in the city. Plenty of people met up for a drink in central London. She feels in control. For the first time since coming out of the clinic, she feels powerful.
​
This was part of the test, she decides. Aaliyah said the first thing was exposure. She needs to expose herself to the real world. Nothing needs to happen. She won’t sleep with him. She won’t even touch him. She will have a pleasant evening with a nice man. She might dance, he will make her feel beautiful, and then she will go home.
​
She’s barely even dressed for a date, she thinks. She’s wearing an old T-shirt, a pair of Jeans and a leather jacket. That would send a message that she’s not meeting him for sex. She just wants the company. He would see that. He would get the message. Even if he did think he was getting lucky, Aaliyah had said he was a good guy.
​
Her phone rings again. This time it’s a withheld number. She stares at it until it finishes. A moment later, a text comes through. A voicemail. She calls the number and listens.
​
You have one new voicemail.
​
She presses one. A voice, sounding somehow distant, speaks out to her. It’s thin. A woman’s. She sounds tired, but her tiredness is shrouded thickly with forced sympathy.
​
‘Hi Francesca, it’s Mel calling from the New Life Clinic – we’ve heard from one of your emergency contacts that you-.’
She hangs up. She holds the button on the side of her phone and when it turns off, she shoves it into her purse. She would call them tomorrow. Explain it was a big misunderstanding. Aaliyah is worrying too much. She’s a single girl in the city. She’s in control.
​
Ryan arrives a few minutes later, apologizing profusely about his lateness, saying something about a flatmate and a blocked sink. He looks nice. A pale pink shirt tucked into fitted grey trousers. Not too showy. Smart. He opens his arms for a hug. Francesca accepts. He pulls her close and she feels her breath catch in her throat. He feels warm. She can feel his heart pushing out into her with each beat.
​
She’s there again. In the dim lights of that bar. A small corridor that joins the ladies’ bathrooms to the dancefloor. His chest presses her against the wall. She doesn’t want it, she says. She’s not in the mood. His voice responds, soft as faux leather. It’s okay, he whispers. I’ll look after you. The press of his body becomes firmer. She’s pushing back, but she doesn’t want to hurt him. She says no clearer this time, but the man is blinded by the drink and the drugs, and the swelling in his trousers. The muscles in his legs tighten. You’re safe with me, he whispers.
​
‘Fran?’
Ryan’s voice brings her sharply back to the bridge. To the river. To the twinkling lights of the city.
‘Sorry?’
‘Have you eaten?’ Ryan says, politely, though it’s clear he’s repeating himself. ‘There’s a nice burger place a little further up.’
Francesca says she’s fine. She’s not hungry.
‘A drink then?’
​
They walk along the bridge to the other side of the river and walk down the steps to the wide promenade that passes alongside the National Theatre, crowned in purple lights. The sound of shouts and squeals of delight echo from the skatepark behind them, cutting through the wash of traffic sounds and the steady ripple of the river. The myriad of lights crowds Francesca’s vision. Her eyes have never had so much brightness to take in. She feels dizzy with sensory overload, can barely keep up with what Ryan is saying. And the people. Ryan makes a point to mention that he’s never seen the Southbank so quiet before. Perhaps it’s because the show must have just started. Francesca looks at him. Quiet? She can feel the press of bodies surrounding her. So many heartbeats, so much warmth, so many hands. Her eyes find comfort in watching each of her feet being placed in front of the other. Ryan checks that she is alright. She’s quiet. She says she’s fine. She lies. Says she’s not used to cities. Ryan understands.
He leads her down a side street, in between a row of bushes and the wall of a pub. A man stands on the corner, whispering quietly but passionately into his phone. He begs whoever is listening to believe him. There is no one else. Whatever she has heard is nonsense. A small blonde girl, barely twenty, swings drunkenly from his arm, pressing her fingers to her lips and giggling to herself.
​
They come out of the side street and Ryan gestures to the end of a road. It’s deserted, save for a small gathering of people queueing outside a small bar. A blue neon sign hanging above the door reads ‘The Fox Lounge’.
​
‘Is it too loud?’ Ryan says, as they join the back of the queue. ‘There’s a couple of other places.’
‘This is fine,’ she says, eyeing the open door. The flashing blue lights and thudding music stares back at her. She can feel the vibrations through her feet. Somewhere at the back of the intense blackness, she can feel the ebbing and swelling of flesh pressed against flesh. A dense mass of bodies pressed against a bar. The twisting of sinew and tissue. The press of hands.
A small voice inside her is saying something. So distant it could almost have been a voice calling out from inside the bar. She ignores it.
​
The wave of sound hits them as they enter. A thudding so cumbersome it seems to rattle her heart inside her chest. The feet she places, one in front of the other, need ripping from the ground with every step, and the dimness of the room makes her almost feel as though her own body is immaterial, as though she is just a consciousness, floating in a void of sound and light. Ryan nudges her and points to a corner over by a fire exit. A small leather sofa curved about a small circular table is free. She nods, and he powers towards the bar.
​
The music is quieter in this corner. She sits down and clears a few napkins from the table. A couple in the table next to hers are kissing slowly and intently. A man dances next to them, trying to give his attention to his drink. As his eyes meet Francesca’s, she averts them quickly; finds interest in the crowd around the bar. His eyes stay focused on her. Unwavering. He drinks. She glances back at him. A smirk creeps up his face. She looks away, pointedly. He stops dancing. Francesca feels him approach her and feels a tightness seize her chest.
​
‘Not even a smile then?’ the man shouts over the roar.
Francesca pretends not to hear and leans towards him. She can smell the sweat on him like the sheen of old meat.
‘I said, the least you could do is smile. Some of us guys just want a bit of connection, you know? A bit of warmth. We aren’t all fucking rapists.’
Francesca nods. ‘Okay. I’m sorry.’
The man shrugs. ‘Whatever.’
He starts dancing again. He doesn’t leave.
‘So, you hear with someone, or…?’
‘Yes. He’s getting me a drink.’
The man turns and walks into the crowd. ‘Fuck’s sake.’
​
A few minutes later, Ryan walks over and places a drink in front of her. ‘Didn’t know what you like so I’ve gone for a Mojito. Crowd pleaser, you know? That okay?’
‘That’s nice. Thank you.’ She lifts the drink.
‘And… you’re definitely alright with alcohol? Honestly, don’t drink it to impress me or anything. I can go and get you something else.’
‘It’s alright. I’m fine with alcohol. Thanks for checking in, though.’
‘And if this is too much, we can just go sit by the river. That’s fine with me too.’
‘That’s okay. Thanks.’
​
They talk for a while. They are mostly questions Francesca feels comfortable with. He asks about family, she confirms she hasn’t got any. Ryan seems sympathetic. Wonders how they died. She’s practised this part of the story with Aaliyah a hundred times. Her mother died when she was younger. Cervical cancer, waited too long for a smear. Dad was killed in action before she was born. Easy answers, didn’t require much detail. Just a lot of ‘she wasn’t sure’ and ‘we weren’t that close’. No siblings. Grandparents checked in occasionally, but they lived abroad. Happy in their retirement.
​
Ryan tells her his dad was a lawyer, but his mother had also died when she was young. She worked with boats and had a nasty fall while docking. They talk briefly about how he coped as a young man without a mother figure, how he and his brother banded together when their father had taken to drinking. His brother had taken over the sailing company, but also started drinking heavily after a heavy loss betting on the horses when his wife was pregnant with their first. Depression caught up with him.
​
Aaliyah was right. He seems like a nice man. Troubled, possibly. A bit too obsessed with success, certainly. But she is comfortable. Perhaps she’s made a good call this time. He won’t be like the others.
​
The conversation turns to the job when Ryan places down their fourth Mojito. Francesca leans on her hand, feeling her body swaying with the warm rush from the drinks. It’s hit her harder than she expected. Perhaps she’s just not used to it.
​
‘Been a nightmare at the moment, speaking frankly,’ Ryan says, taking two attempts to place his drink down on the table. ‘Did I mention this Duffy case we’ve been lumped with?’
Francesca shakes her head.
‘Yeah, nasty stuff. It’s Criminal Law, so not really my remit, but Aaliyah is up to her neck. Needs all the help she can get.’
‘What is it?’
‘Started with a string of disappearances. Then it was murders. Aaron Duffy’s body was the first they found. Seventeen bodies in all. Dumped and hidden. Bizarre circumstances too. First four discovered in a barn just north of Dover. Next three were somewhere in Suffolk, I think. All victims came from the same area, though. All residents of North London – Harringay and Enfield, we think. All within a ten mile radius of there, anyway. The theory is that someone’s been murdering and spreading the evidence. Pretty widely, actually. Furthest was found in Newport, of all places. Our client is the accused. Can’t name names obviously. He’s a pretty sordid character, but the prosecution is clutching at straws. The only thing that connects him to any of it is he lives opposite Aaron Duffy and had worked with him before. Some private IT firm. He’s a nasty bastard, involved in some dirty money and hacking scandals, but he’s never murdered before.'
'That’s the trick, you see. In defence law, so many people think you have to change people’s minds about criminals. To somehow paint them out to be good men or misunderstood. That never does it. You have to embrace that about them. Yes, this man is awful. But did he do this? Hit them with the logic of it. How does one man murder seventeen people a spread them all across half the country without even seeming to leave his address? It’s in the bag, I think. But with so many dead, we’ve got to get it right. Aaliyah’s taking the lead on it though, and she’s doing most of it on her own, bless her. Practically insisting she doesn’t need our help. Don’t know what she’s trying to prove.’
Francesca raises her straw to her lips. ‘What’s your theory?’
Ryan shrugs, as though it couldn’t be simpler. ‘Group job. Has to be. Noone can move that many bodies around on their own. We’re thinking some kind of organised crime hit. There’s no commonality that links all the victims, but then, we don’t have to prove what did happen, we just have to prove what didn’t.’
​
Francesca’s head feels dizzy. She sways back in her seat. Ryan’s eyes glance at her body.
‘What did the murderer do?’ she asks, ‘To the bodies, I mean.’
‘Yeah… that’s the only thing that doesn’t quite meet the organised crime profile. Usually, they prefer clean kills. One bullet, or a knife. Poison, more often than anything else. No mess, nothing to clean up. Aaliyah showed me the pictures. This is not that. The poor fuckers were mutilated. Torn apart, limbs ripped off. Youngest victim was missing parts – still haven’t found them. Forensics are convinced that some blood has been taken as well, but we’re still waiting a second opinion on that.’
​
Francesca nods. Her eyes watch the bodies squirming on the dancefloor. She can almost feel the heat of them pressed into one another. Her mouth becomes suddenly clammy.
‘Sorry. That story is a bit much for now,’ Ryan says. ‘Shall we change the subject?’
She looks back at him. His eyes gleam at her through the shadow, his face appearing and disappearing with the glaring and dimming of the lights. She can’t tell if he is smiling.
​
‘I’d like to dance,’ she says.
‘Yeah?’
‘Is that alright?’
He holds out his hand. She looks at it for a moment, then back at his eyes. She reaches out and holds it. She feels the warmth of it, the tautness of each tendon, the softness of his skin, the soft sheen of sweat that coats it. She feels everything.
They stand together and walk into the fray, leaving their drinks. The thrumming of bass beneath their feet is like the moaning of a chained beast deep in the bowels of London, pulling at the links.
​
She sways. He laughs and moves with her. The press of people around her push them closer together. The smell clouds her judgement and vision, and suddenly she is aware of nothing but the scent of skin and sweat. Her heart hammers in her chest. The memory of him floods her senses. Not Ryan. Not any of the others. The first him, that is. When she was so young, so full of life.
​
The corridor of the club so many years ago. She thinks it was Earth, Wind and Fire that played. Or perhaps Duran Duran. She had trusted him, and herself. She had thought she was safe. After he had pressed himself against her and moaned into her ear, he had pulled her, unspeaking, into the taxi. Her head had swayed against the leather seats as they had pulled up to his apartment. She had been so dizzy. She had only had one drink, but now she couldn’t see. She remembers feeling empty, vulnerable. A distant voice had been screaming at her to take control, but it was miles away. She had not found her strength, even when he had thrown her against the bed. When he had torn off her clothes and lit a cigarette. She tried to cry out, but her mouth would not obey her. Her limbs flopped lifelessly as she had tried to heave her body, like cast iron or lead, towards the door. She remembers his hands again. Holding her still. One on her wrist, one on her neck. Squirming.
​
It wasn’t her fault. That’s what Aaliyah had said.
​
Ryan places a hand on her hips as they sway together. His eyes close as he takes in the sensations. Francesca’s hand is on his chest, trying to still the trembling. She tells herself it’s different now. She’s in control. She falls backwards into a blanket of sound, and heat, and skin.