Memento Mori: Mors Immatura

Chapter Twenty

I woke up and stretched, yawning so wide that I felt my jaw crack.

"I'm glad that someone had a nice night," Olena was perched on the end of the bed, giving me the side-eye. I yawned again, but this time I covered it with my hand. I bit back my retort about having a rough time after I died, but I didn't want to start off the day fighting with my friend.

"When did you get back?" I sat up, hugging the duvet to my chest. I'd slept like the dead...or at least how I assumed souls at rest slept in the Beyond. Once West had dropped me off back the shop, I'd taken another shower to try to warm up, before picking at the scab that I had carefully hidden away under my bed.

The worn carpet of my room was littered with letters haphazardly separated into piles; my solicitors' letters to the left, letters from the Investiture in the middle, and Christian Forbes' on the right. Unlike the Investiture and my own solicitors letters, which were printed on cheap printer paper, Forbes' letters had an embossed letterhead on premium, handmade paper. His letters had clearly been typed using a typewriter, and his signature, written with a fountain pen. He had an attention to detail and style that my own solicitor, a public defender, lacked.

I peeled back the covers before swinging my legs over the side of the bed, staring down at the thick, neatly folded letters. I let out a shaky breath; re-reading them had opened a lot of old wounds. The condescending tone, the unnecessary use of latin phrases, the sneering contempt radiated out of the paper, just as it had in the private messages on the dark web forum.

"A couple of hours ago; I tried to wake you, but you were dead to the world." Olena shrugged. "You know that you talk in your sleep, right?"

"Not all the time." I stood up and stretched, before hunting for some clean clothes to wear. I'd need to put a load of washing on soon, otherwise, I'd be out of clean underwear.

"'Oh! West!'" She mimicked me, clutching her hands over her chest, fluttering her eye lashes before making kissing noises.

My face flushed hotly; I couldn't remember what I'd dreamed, so couldn't even defend myself.

"I honestly don't get what you see in him." Olena rolled her eyes at me. "You could do better."

"There's more to him than you think," I retorted.

"Puh-lease," she rolled her eyes. "Just because he gives you a modicum of attention, it doesn't mean he's your soulmate. He's nice to you, because he finds you useful at the moment. And he'll keep using you, until you're all used up, and you have nothing left to give. Trust me, I learned that lesson the hard way."

"West isn't Vasyl," I yanked a mostly-clean t-shirt on over my head. "Not every man is just out for sex."

"If you say so," she turned away, giving me the cold shoulder.

"I'm not you, Olena," I don't know why, but she made me feel defensive. I had a crush on West, sure. And maybe, part of me thought this could be my meet-cute moment, just like in all of my books and films. I'd help West solve Olena's murder, and he'd fall in love with me. Was there anything wrong with wanting to have someone love me? "I'm not some love-sick puppy, following him around making moon-eyes at him. I'm a grown-woman; not an idiot!"

"But I am?" She glared at me, looking furious and hurt at the same time. "I thought Vasyl loved me. He swept me off my feet. I let myself get carried away with the fantasy, and look where I ended up!"

"It's not like that!"

"Oh, really? How much do you really know about him? Did you know what his favourite food is, what music he listens to? What about his family? You don't know anything about him other than his name and his profession. He's a blank slate for you to project onto. This isn't one of your stupid rom-coms!"

I scowled at her, and she gave me a haughty look, knowing that she'd struck a nerve.

"Where have you been all of this time?" I decided to change the topic. I didn't want to talk about West any more.

"Doing what you promised to help me do; solve my murder."

"Any luck?" I pulled the hoodie on over my head in time to see her shrug. We sat in an uncomfortable silence for a beat, before she let out a long sigh.

"I stayed with the kid, who just cycled around aimlessly for a bit, went to a chip shop, bought a roll and fritter, and then hung about the car park at the shopping centre for the rest of the day, handing out leaflets to Johns who approached him."

"Did you follow them to the brothel?"

"No," Olena shook her head, still refusing to turn around to look at me. "That kid, Gavin, he knows Vasyl. I think he works for him. I figured it was best to stick with him."

"Gavin?" I wasn't expecting that name for the child who led me to my death.

"I followed him home," Olena shrugged. "He stays with his mother. He's got a stash of £50 notes stuffed under his mattress, and an unhealthy collection of violent porn that he watches all night."

"That's more than I needed to know," I pulled on the lost property joggers, and wandered through to the kitchen to boil the kettle. Olena reluctantly followed me, but still giving me a wide berth. I dropped a teabag into my mug and set two slices of bread into the toaster, all under her watchful gaze from where she lurked in the doorway. As I waited for the water to boil, I went through to the living room and waited for my computer to load.

"Can you remember the route he took you on?"

Olena looked at the online map I'd loaded, and followed the canal with her finger to where we had first met Gavin, taken up pursuit, and where he had gone after I was out of action for the rest of the day.

"I think he lives here," Olena pointed to a group of houses that backed onto Knightswood Golf course. "I'd know the house if we went there. His door has a broken letterbox, and a fat dog that has shit all over the front garden."

"Lovely," I had a sudden thought, and opened my emails. Sitting in my junk folder was a confirmation email from Royal Mail advising that the letter I had sent to Ukraine had been delivered. Nothing from the newspaper about my correction, however. "Your parents have gotten your letter," I turned the laptop so that she could see the screen.

"Oh," she sat down next to me, looking small. Whatever she was feeling, it had taken the wind from her sails, and her anger was replaced. "That was quick."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, although, I thought...I don't know. I thought that I'd feel something like relief, or something."

"What are you feeling?"

"Apprehension, maybe?" She sat on her hands, and stared at the confirmation email. "I'm trying to imagine the letter arriving, and them reading it." She chewed her lip, looking pensive. "I feel guilty too, I guess. What if I've opened old wounds? What if they didn't miss me the same way I missed them? What if they'd moved on, forgotten about me, and I reached out, only to give them hope, and they get to find out I am dead?"

"You've told them that you love them, and you apologised?"

She nodded, blinking back tears.

"That's all they would have wanted to hear from you, Olena. You've given them your love. And if we can catch Vasyl, we'll give them closure as well. I promised you that, and I'm going to see this promise through. I swear to you."

"Thank you," she wiped her eyes. I wanted nothing more than to reach out and give her a reassuring squeeze. But we'd both said things to hurt one another, and I couldn't bring myself to bridge that gap at the moment. I heard the toaster pop from through in the kitchen.
I sighed.

"I'm going for a shower, and then I'm going to get you justice."