The Society Of Dirty Hearts Read Free

motorists. Julian opened his window to take one from a pale, skinny girl with a swirl of self-consciously messy black hair hanging down almost over her eyes. Looking at him with a searching intensity that made him want to blink, she asked, “Have you seen this girl?” There was a picture of Joanne Butcher on the flier, the same one they’d shown on the news. Printed beneath it in large blood-red lettering was the word ‘Missing’. And beneath that was a brief narrative that read ‘Joanne Butcher has been missing since 13 th of May 2010. Her parents and the police are concerned for her safety. If you’ve seen her or have any information regarding her please contact us on the number provided below.’
    “No I haven’t,” said Julian. He drove on, turning into a broad street of large detached houses hidden behind tall hedges and fences. At a set of wrought-iron gates, he punched a code into a control box. The gates swung open and he drove along a tarmac drive through a meticulously cared-for garden to a single-story house of concrete, wood and glass. As usual, a feeling of ambivalence arose in him at the sight of the place. On the one hand, he loved the way its glass walls allowed the garden and the forest beyond to penetrate into the heart of its interior. On the other, he hated it for the same reason. He could never quite get used to its openness. It made him feel exposed and vulnerable, especially at night, when the darkness pressed in on him like a physical weight.
    Julian left his car and climbed a gentle ramp to the front door, which slid rather than swung open. As he entered the house, a black Labrador ran up to him, whining and wagging its tail. “Hello, boy. Hello, Henry,” said Julian, scratching the dog’s ears, ruffling the fur under its chin. Henry followed him through a minimally but expensively furnished, open-plan living space to a gleaming kitchen of stainless steel and granite. The kitchen had low work surfaces and no high cupboards. A brunette woman, about forty, with thick wrists and powerful sloping shoulders that looked like they were used to heavy work was in there chopping vegetables. She started and turned her head. “Bloody hell, Julian, you gave me a fright. What are you doing back from university?”
    “Hi, Wanda. I decided to pay a surprise visit. Where is she?”
    “Where do you think?” Wanda motioned with her chin towards the garden.
    “How is she?” Julian asked hesitantly, as if afraid what the answer might be.
    “She had a bad night. I told her to take it easy. Christine, I said, the garden will still be there tomorrow, but you might not be if you don’t rest up. But would she listen, would she hell as like. You know how she is about her precious roses. They won’t prune themselves, she says. Mind you, what do I know – or the doctors, for that matter. They all said she wouldn’t last more than six months, and that was over seven years ago.” Wanda paused to shake her head in awe. “She’s an amazing woman, your mother. A lesson to all of us.”
    Julian nodded agreement. “I’d better go see her.” With Henry still at his heels, he made his way to the back garden. A series of flat, smooth paths wound their way amongst the lawns, flowerbeds, rockeries, ponds and trees. He followed one to a rose garden. Some of the roses were just coming into bloom, others were already turning brown, drying-up. They gave off a mingled, sickly-sweet scent of life and death in the afternoon sun. Christine was bent forward in her wheelchair, pinching the deadheads off with her right hand – her left rested in her lap, clenched into a fist like an unopened flower.
    “It’s good to see you’re still not listening to Wanda,” said Julian, smiling.
    “Julian!” Christine spoke with a slight slur. She slowly straightened to look at her son. The right side of her mouth lifted as she returned his smile, the left remained immobile, drooping like a sleeper’s, a thin line of drool sliding