With Murder in Mind: The Matt Saga

Prologue

Marie danced in her mind. She swirled and twirled, her chiffon dress floating and light around her. Her hair spun and shone in the sunlight.  The greens of the garden were vibrant and luminescent. Her mum was holding her hands and they were laughing together. Spinning together. Marie laughed. Her mother laughed.

The cloud darkened and they both looked up at the sky together, still dancing, still laughing. Huge drops of rain tumbled down and drenched them both. Her hair hit against her as she danced, the wet strands sticking to her arms. Water ran down her body in rivulets. She laughed and laughed and laughed. Her mother laughed too.

The image slowly faded. When she became aware of her surroundings, she saw she was, in fact, spinning slowly in her hospital cell. Her hospital gown was a heavy grubby off white cotton. It hung loosely about her. It didn’t float. There was no sun, there was no rain, there was no mother holding her hands.  She stopped and listened for the voices.

‘Why did they do this to her? Tease her with happiness and joy then take it away?’

Come back! Her voice was loud as she shouted to the walls. ‘COME BACK!" Her voice was desperate, afraid. There was no response only silence.

Marie’s legs folded and she sat on the floor where she was; she held herself and rocked backwards and forwards.  Humming absentmindedly, she smiled and waited for the sun to come back. When it did, she would stand up and dance again. She closed her eyes and waited. She waited for her mother to come back

Across the city, in his police holding cell, Matt sat on the floor of his room, his eyes closed. He waited for Venia to come to him. He escaped into his mind and into his memories.

Both twins lived in the past. Neither had a future or hope. Both were entwined emotionally, physically, mentally, and spiritually.  Pain and suffering clouding everything but the moment.

Marie reached out with her mind and for a moment Matt opened his eyes. He looked into open space, and saw a vision of Marie smiling at him. He smiled back and closed his eyes again.

The mental connection had been reestablished. Matt and Marie were reunited once again. Both could give strength to the other. A link had been bonded, a new start for them both.

It wouldn’t be long now.

Chapter One - Julian

Julian looked at his reflection in the mirror. He’d been haunted by Venia’s death. His wife was dead because of her crazy sister, Devia. In his heart he knew he’d married the right sister. He couldn’t bear the thought that maybe, in all that time, that whole year; he’d been with Devia. Crazy Devia. The thought sickened him.  He retched into the sink.  Jack Daniels whiskey that had curdled in his stomach with his gastric juices coloured the white porcelain. Small round brown dots swirled around and went down the plughole. He vomited again.  His stomach clenching and spasming as it emptied the contents into the sink.  When it had stopped, he wiped his mouth, rinsed it with water, and gargled. Then his hand reached out, picked up the bottle of whiskey, and he drank.

He felt the whiskey burn down his throat and hit his empty stomach walls. A warm comforting fire started inside him. He smiled at his unkempt reflection and turned away from the mirror.

Walking back to the living room, he sat on the sofa, the memory of Venia, a clear ghost of alcoholic thought, by his side. He smiled at her and drank again. On the TV, the news report of her death.  Some sick bastard had filmed Venia falling from the rooftop.  Devia could be seen clearly from the ground.  Then Matt appeared naked and aghast. His body had been blurred out, but everyone knew he was naked. His face looked like he had just died himself. He reached his arms out over the side and dropped to his knees. Devia looked at Matt horrified. Then turned and ran.  You could see it was a moment before rage filled his face, and he leapt up and ran after Devia.

Once again we apologise for the disturbing footage of recent events in Las Vegas.  Mr. Matt Mellor has been taken into custody for questioning and police are now searching for Mrs. Devia Mansell. If you know the whereabouts of this person. Devia’s picture filled the screen. They had used the one from her recent hotel experience, where she was being held for theft and shoplifting. It showed her disheveled and furious. Looking at her police picture with her name and police file underneath, she looked a real criminal.  You are asked to contact Las Vegas Police Department with any information. All information will be treated confidentially.

A police spokesman came on television; Michel Le Sime was standing by his side. 

This woman must be considered as highly dangerous. We believe that she is mentally unstable and should not be approached. We advise that anyone spotting this woman should get in touch with LVPD or their local police station immediately.  We cannot stress enough; she may be armed. We do not advise any citizens to engage with her.

Julian picked up the bottle and drank from it again. It burned as it went down his throat and mixed with the rest of the whiskey. He hadn’t eaten anything for the past forty-eight hours. He sipped from the neck of the bottle until no more came out. He placed it alongside the sofa, where the other empty whiskey bottles stood in disarray.

The door opened and Julian turned around to see who was coming in to his motel room. He retched again and vomited all over the sofa he was sitting on. It was Michel Le Sime.

Mr. Mansell. I have been knocking on your door for some time now. You did not let me in.

He recognised that foreign accent.  ‘It was that twat of a French inspector.’

Get out! Julian rasped at him, vomit-stained spittle flying from his mouth.

Is that how you are going to deal with this? With a bottle? Michel looked at the bottles strewn across the badly carpeted motel room floor. I need you to help me catch that woman.

Go away. Julian wiped the back of his hand on his mouth and took another swig from the next newly opened whiskey bottle.

We, the police, need you. We need you to think, Mr. Mansell. You know this woman better than anyone. We want to bring her to justice. She killed your wife.

I KNOW! Julian tried to stand up. He staggered to his feet. I don’t need you fucking telling me. Look! He pointed to the TV screen. He flicked through the channels. On every channel, there it was, over and over again. New reports from every TV station, all showing Venia falling; all showing Devia’s angry, criminal face. All the piteous or blank new readers’ faces as they read the story. ‘Didn’t they know what they were doing to him? They were killing him every second of the day.’

Michel looked at him with such pity that Julian threw the brand new bottle at the wall. It was almost full. It smashed against the wall; the liquid running down in brown trails. Glass flew in every direction. Michel Le Sime ducked from them, whereas Julian stood there oblivious. One piece of glass hitting him deep in the arm, like a small dagger.  He didn’t even notice. Blood started to trickle down and soak his sleeve.

Michel thought for a moment. He needed to reach Julian. In his alcoholic haze it was nigh on impossible. He needed to reach somewhere deep inside his psyche.

Mr. Mansell. Do you want this woman to pay?

Julian looked at him, his eyes red, and bleary.

Of course I do.

"Then drinking will not help. Drinking will help her, not you. Every sip you take from those bottles. He gestured to the empty bottles on the floor. Is helping her escape. Do you want that?"

Julian shook his head. He sat down, put his head in his hands and wept. But underneath the tears, anger was rearing its ugly head again.

By the next morning, Julian would be painfully sober, and seeking revenge. Devia would need to run very far and very fast to escape him. 

Chapter Two - Marie

Marie was guided from her room to the visiting area. She didn’t know where she was going, nor did she care. Sometimes they led her to the showers and bathed her, other times they took her to a room where they fed her. She needed quiet though. She didn’t like people, she didn’t like the communal rooms; she didn’t like to be surrounded by the mad people. The people who told her that her mother wasn’t real, her mother wasn’t there. ‘Why couldn’t they see her?’  Whenever she went into the room with the others, they looked at her and she started screaming. All their hateful eyes on her; they frightened her. When they came close, she shut down mentally.

Now the staff kept her quiet.

On this particular day, she was taken to a chair in a room, where the nice man sat. She saw him often. She didn’t know who he was, but she liked his eyes.  He talked to her. He said things. She listened only for the word Matt. Sometimes he said it, and sometimes he didn’t. But that was her favourite word, Matt.  She didn’t know what Matt meant any more. It was a word she said like a prayer. She couldn’t remember what Matt was. It was someone, she thought, in her life. Who had been in her life. Where was Matt? Who was he? She wanted to know who Matt was, but all she knew was that every time he said the word Matt, she got excited. So she knew it was a good word. Matt was a good person, whoever he was. One day she would remember. She was trying hard every day to remember him.

Marie watched as Michel Le Sime chatted with her about Matt. She saw his mouth moving, but no words reached her ears. She just knew he was a kind man. The way he smiled at her, his eyes twinkling and creasing at the corners. He put his hand on hers, and she automatically looked down feeling the contact. A second later, she pulled back her hand sharply. She didn’t like to be touched. Only water was allowed to touch her. Water was kind. She loved water. Everything else hurt.

Michel looked momentarily hurt that she had refused his kindness, and it affected her so she looked away.  He stopped talking and stood up to leave.

No! she cried out, her voice guttural and desperate. Please stay.

Marie, dear, I do need to go. His kindly eyes smiled at her.  She withdrew inside herself to listen for voices, to find them inside her mind. ‘Were they in her mind?’  She looked around as Michel walked away.

No! she cried out again. She reached after him with her hands and leapt up suddenly to chase after him. She grabbed him and clung on to his jacket. He was the only happiness she had, and she didn’t want to let it go, she let go at the word Matt.

I’ll be back in a few days. I am going to see Matt, now.

Matt, she repeated. Matt. A small smile curled on her lips. Yes. Matt. She waved, a jerky gesture and Michel waved back. He wasn’t sure how much she knew he was there, but he didn’t want to leave her alone. She had been through so much; it didn’t seem fair to abandon her. She had no one, only Matt, and he wasn’t in a position to visit her. 

Matt still didn’t know he had a sister. He was sat in a holding cell somewhere, waiting for his trial to begin. They hadn’t told him yet.  They didn’t want to distract him. They needed him calm and focused.  As it was, Matt didn’t really respond to questioning either. He had taken to silence. He had nothing more to say, his mind an inner turmoil, an inner anguish that wouldn’t go away. All he thought of was reuniting with Venia. His death couldn’t come soon enough. Matt was in solitary confinement, with no access to anything he could kill himself with. Whilst he never said anything, his haunted eyes said everything the doctors needed to know. He wasn’t even in a position to proceed with a trial. He was ‘not of sound mind’ a psychological test had revealed. He hadn’t acknowledged the psychiatrist was even present. The only time he had looked up was when she had shown him a photograph of Venia with him on their wedding day. His hand had slowly reached out, trembling, touched the corner of the photograph, and then his hand dropped. His thoughts withdrawn into himself, as he tried to cope with the surge of alien emotion to him. Love. He could handle anything but love.  Whilst he loved Venia, he was useless to everyone.  Days passed, the sun rising and setting, he sat in his cell in the one spot, his shadow casting against the wall. At night he sat too, the moonlight surrounding him; if he slept, he saw Venia. He couldn’t bear the waking up alone, and so he tried to avoid sleep.

Sleep was his enemy. Life was his enemy. Breathing was an effort. He breathed in and out. He had tried not to breathe, but suddenly his lungs would gasp for air. Hours, then days, passed like minutes.  People came and went.  After a few weeks, they inserted a drip into his arm. He didn’t notice. He remained seated where he was as they pricked his arm with the needle and inserted the I.V. in to his arm. After a few more days, they added food to his tube. 

Matt had become skeletal and drawn, a stubble forming, then a bushy beard on his now gaunt face. His eyes were sunken, and the moods swung between tortured, haunted, or blank.  Michel had tried to reach him, and in the end, sat quietly and watched him. Whilst he was like this, he couldn’t answer for his actions. He couldn’t stand trial. If the jury saw him like this, they would put him in a prison for the criminally insane. Michel knew he wasn’t criminally insane. He knew it. He had been aware of everything he had done. He needed to be tried as a healthy man.  He just needed time, and luckily, being in the holding cell whilst he awaited trial, he had all the time he needed.

Michel was still building the case. They had loose ends they needed to tie up. They had the police looking for Devia. They had people looking for Julia. She had been involved with Matt, and she’d had a child with him in the past. She was part of his life, and could act as a witness, and maybe shed light on his actions during the time she’d known him.

Marie could corroborate that Dean’s death had been an accident, but her information would not be accepted in court. They wanted a complete case, involving everyone that had been in Matt’s life.  Some people were still being sought.  The house where they had found the girl in the bath with her throat slit was still being searched by forensics. They were building a full profile of Mirielle. They hadn’t found the nurse from the hospital, but they were sure she would turn up eventually. The doctor said she had been pregnant, and received ten million euros off Matt. She may have changed her name and disappeared to start a new life. They were also trying to search for Matt’s hidden bank accounts. He had money stashed everywhere. Every time they thought they had all the information, something else turned up. Matt was such a multi-layered character, but he had such a skill for making money and killing. He would have been perfect in the secret service with his languages, looks, and assassination skills.

In another life, Matt could have been feted with the government, but not as a common murderer.  Murder was illegal unless you were ‘allowed to kill’ by your government.

Michel’s desk was buried under the papers from the Matt case. He lived and breathed Matt, every day.  The more he got to know him, the more he understood him. The more he wished he didn’t have to bring him to justice now.

Michel was getting inside Matt’s mind, and drip-by-drip, Matt was filling his thoughts.

Chapter Three - Marie

Marie was dancing in her room when suddenly she felt a sharp pain in her stomach. It was a searing pain: as though a javelin had been rammed through her.  She stopped dancing and spinning, the vision slowly fading. She moaned with the pain. Her hand went to her stomach and she held it there. The pain increased and she yelped. She screamed until her voice had risen to a howl.  She fell to her knees.  Blood started to pool on the floor around her knees. It poured down her legs in red rivulets.  She touched it with her hands and smeared it against her in amazement.  It was warm and sticky and wasn’t stopping.  A pain went through her again and she stopped stock still until it passed. She gasped and breathed slowly, the breaths coming in gasps as the pain increased and ebbed over her body in waves of searing agony.

On her hands and knees, she rocked backwards and forwards as blood gushed from her. She couldn’t help it. She was wailing and howling, not understanding what was happening.  She wailed and wailed, panting through the pain. 

Moments later, the pain suddenly stopped and she looked down to the red stickiness surrounding her. Confusion filled her mind.

MAMMA! she shouted out.  Her back arched with another pain, one stronger than before. She felt a pushing against her vaginal lips. She put her hand down to feel where the pain was coming from, just as her stomach started juddering with pain again. Her voice rose and filled the room as she called to her mother.  Her hand felt a lump. It was pushing her hand away. She screamed in terror, as the lump got bigger.  A wave of pain was so bad that she almost fainted, but still she breathed and screamed, breathed and screamed.

As the blood surrounded her, she began to swirl it across the floor around her, in pagan swirling hand patterns. There was a musty sweet perfume to her blood. She lay down on her back and made a blood angel on the floor as she felt the pain go through her again. She smiled without knowing why she was smiling. Her mind had been flooded with so many natural endorphins, and the panting had caused her to hyperventilate. She was so happily dizzy.

Then it suddenly stopped. She changed position, pulling herself up onto her hands and knees.  ‘Was it all over? Finished as quickly as it had started?’  She smiled to herself. She loved red. She loved the red on the floor.  She looked at her hands.  There was a sudden fullness and a slipping feeling as though she were doing a bowel movement but not from her arse, from her pussy. She sighed in relief as she heard a squelching thud on the floor. She turned around.

There in the middle of all the blood was a small baby, bloody and so tiny.  She cried out in surprise and grabbed at the child. The umbilical cord was still inside her, attached to the placenta, and she felt it tug against her inside as she pulled the baby up to her breasts.  She held it close and sat down. She kissed and kissed it, the blood from the birth smearing over her face.

Mine! she said to herself over and over again. Mine, she whispered.

Marie started to laugh as the baby mewled in her arms. She had never been so happy. 

‘Maybe this was Matt? Was this Matt?’ Marie remembered holding a baby before. ‘Was it a memory or a prediction?’ Marie didn’t care. She smiled down at her baby.

Marie had a reason to live. Marie had hope for the future. Marie was going to get better and look after her son, Matt.

She