Hauntings of the Past

An imaginative composed by Scarlett (Year 10, Writer’s Collective Cross Campus Elective Course)

A strained sigh carries the plume of smoke through Detective Davies’ lips and out into the cold, chemical-scented air, like a warm blanket being pulled away from a newborn baby to reveal the evils of the world. Davies’ eyes linger on the woman laid out lifeless in front of him, covered to her shoulders, skin pale and translucent apart from swollen blooms of purple and blue contusions etched into her face. She was at anything but peace.

“This was no accident.” The faint scent of death slowly climbs up his nasal cavity; he took another hit to mask it. 

“They found her two nights ago. What should we do with her?” 

The forensic pathologist, Laika Hayward, neatly adjusts the unnerving metal tools on the tray beside her, lining them up with unsettling precision as if displaying products at a makeup store. 

“Run me through the injuries. This is still under investigation, we won’t know much for days.” She nodded, lifting a pointer wand to indicate wounds.   

“Deep contusions to the crown…. Severely fractured left scapula…. Bruises on the lumbar spine...” Hayward gave a light tap to each site of injury. She was like a fairy godmother for the bodies left behind by their souls. The statements seemed to blur together as more and more injuries were added to the medical report, giving Davies’ bony fingers an unnecessary workout. At this point he knew he was coming back for a big, unsolved mess.

As Hayward finished up, a golden glint caught Davies’ attention, drawing his eyes to a cluster of large plastic sleeves dumped in the corner of the bleak room, labels stapled onto each. Evidence bags. Must have been the belongings of this unfortunate woman. In the centre of them a small purse peeks through the clear packaging; a gold chain strap. A vintage floral pattern so uncannily familiar he can’t look away. Hayward caught his eyes on the bags, scoffing.

“The officer here previously forgot those, you’ll need them back.” His brain must have failed to interpret her words because as he collected the bags into his arms, nausea surged - a familiar poison. 

Mum. 

Driving with a trembling body never proves a good mix, and this morning’s double shot was now certainly fuelling his hypervigilance into overdrive, like dowsing kerosene on a summer bonfire. He hadn’t had an episode in years, and now violent memories threaten to override his vision of the road. He could still see his mother purchasing that purse on their trip to London, it was one of a kind. His Mother, who was murdered on the way back from the same trip when Marley Davies was only 13 years old. He recalled his teenage self being so fascinated with that damned purse, why a materialistic object held such capital value yet such little purpose in one’s life, or death. 

Back at the police station the trembling doesn’t cease, but the desire to continue pursuing the case does, and only the disgusting thirst for information on that purse remains. Muscle memory and an accelerated heart rate lead Davies to Constable Taylor’s office, his only constant in all his thirty-three years of life. There for him during his darkest moments, when the world would swallow him whole with memories he cared to bury forever, showing up each year with a homemade carrot cake. Davies gave a great sigh as he leant against the doorway; the cluttered office that smelled of mildew was empty. 

“Patrol..” He muttered, stabilising himself into the office chair. 

The contents inside the purse had been removed and placed in separate bags, but he inspected each compartment just in case. Within an inconspicuous zipper hidden inside the bottom pocket of the purse, he found a creased scrap of paper. As he carefully unfolded it, Davies’ suspicions were confirmed. His heart somersaulted in his chest as he instantly recognised his mother’s handwriting on the page, even after twenty years. 

It was a list, just a simple list from that night at the petrol station. The same petrol station his mother exited in a body bag. 

Marley - Doritos, freddo frog 80p

Charlotte - Pringles, sunnyD £2.50

Caleb - Cheesestrings, sunnyD £2

about £25 worth of petrol 

“Are we there yet?” 

My little brother Caleb nagged in his whiny tone, the one I knew mum despised.  

“Yeah, I’m hungry!” my eight-year-old sister Charlotte added, beginning to kick the back of my seat. 

“Stop it, Lottie!” I yelled over the tunes of my Walkman, tapping the dash to the beat. 

“Cut it out, you two. Since we’re driving well into the night I suppose we can stop at the next petrol station, we need some fuel anyway.” Mum sighed. 

Little did I know travelling those next seven kilometres to the station would be the last my siblings and I would see of our mother alive. 

“Quick, two things each,” Mum scribbled our choices down on a scrap of paper. “Marley honey, pump the fuel, just £25 worth, while I go grab the snacks. Then meet me at the register?” I nodded and heaved myself out of the car as my mother disappeared into 7-Eleven. I hunched over the car and secured the pump into the gas tank, Caleb making faces at me through the window. Honestly, I could block out anything as long as I had my Walkman. 

“Load up on guns, bring your friends…” 

Just as the chorus of ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ flooded my ears, the piercing sound of a gunshot sliced through the crisp air; an invisible katana of the night snapping me back to reality. I instinctively drop my body to the concrete, taking the fuel pump with me and dousing the thick, foul-smelling petrol all over my body. This was the least of my worries. It was coming from inside 7-Eleven. ‘Mum. Mum. Oh God,’ was my only train of thought, rotating in my mind like a carousel of hysteria. 

“Here we are now… entertain us.” 

Before my head can react, my heart throbs with adrenaline and I yank my feet up 

and my headphones out, and sprint toward those foreboding front doors, not stopping even after noticing the spatters of carmine clouding the glass. Every step is heavy and shaking, like I am running in slow motion. As I reach the doorway, I am stopped by three men in all white suits and black ski masks, splattered neck to toe in blood. 

“Sh**! I didn’t know there were kids here!” One of them spat. 

“Leave him, let's just go!” The second makes his way to a black sports car, probably stolen, that I was admiring on the way in. The third pushes me to the ground and scurries after the other two, my mother’s new purse swinging from his bloody grip. 

The scene that laid before my eyes surpassed that of any horror movie. The cashier was slumped face down against the register in an expanding pool of crimson, and it was what I saw in the centre of the first aisle that caused me to expel my lunch onto the already-stained tiles. 

My mother. 

My support.

My hope for life. 

Facing me, with lifeless grey eyes which stared through my soul at something beyond my comprehension. 

One hole in her head, three in her chest. 

My delusional self tried to perform CPR, but deep down I knew she was gone, from the moment I heard that gunshot. The other three weren’t necessary. 

I called the police, I did everything I could but it still wasn’t enough. I wasn't there to stop them, to reason with them. I would’ve snatched that purse myself and given it to the thugs if it meant keeping my mum alive. I knew she would’ve been too proud to let that purse go, to let her hard work go to waste, but that cost her her life and my sanity. It wasn’t her fault. I could’ve saved her if I was there. 

The case was never solved, even after Marley’s constant efforts of sketching headshots to the police and of the car, those malevolent bastards: villains by the Devil’s law, disappeared into the night without a single consequence, and Louisa Davies’ blood on their hands. 

That night was the sole reason Marley Davies became one of the highest-performing detectives in London, so now he had to help the poor woman in his case find the justice his mother never received.