The doomed life of Edward Heeley

CW: Contains themes and/or references to murder and distress

At exactly 6.58am his darling wife Sandra places a steaming mug of black coffee onto their teal set of matching coasters.

At 7.05am his wife and the boys flee to school in the family's Mitsubishi Outlander while Edward soaks in the glorious twenty minutes of serene silence before leaving himself.

He rides the tube until 8am with a hand tucked into his tweed jacket and the other wrapped around the hanging rail, it’s always busy.

He passes the stall next to the office building at 8.15am and exchanges a few pennies for the daily newspaper. The politics page is more ridiculous than yesterday's, with shrewd lies about the economy causing his eyes to roll back with each passing floor in the elevator.

Beaming back up to Edward from his personal desk are three picture frames. A fondness tugs at his gut as he squints down to see the much younger face of Sandra and him on their wedding day. Dressed in far too wide bell bottoms and ridiculous frills on his wife’s cape.

At 12.05pm he politely eats the turkey sandwich Sandra packed him while sitting isolated in his cubicle, and at 4.45pm Edward departs the office with a brisk nod of the head to the receptionist.

Sandra sways her hips in the kitchen as he arrives home, dishing out her world famous crispy potatoes. The clock chimes 5.30pm and they dig into a rowdy family affair with their four rambunctious boys.

His fluffy slippers slide under the bed at 8.52pm, and he wedges himself into the covers. All ready to wake to his alarm at 6.30am.

He is a normal man.

Except for his dreams, where promotions and family beach days had long disappeared. Now, it was a flash of auburn splayed across the windshield and a half full Jack Daniels resting against the passenger seat.

--

“Hey love,” He kisses Sandra on the cheek, hand outstretched accepting the red hot cup of coffee waiting for him.

“You look tired again Edward, rustling at all hours of the morning.” Her eyebrows sky high, flipping another pancake, adding to the mounting stack for their growing boys.

“There’s an important meeting at work today.” He winces at the burn of the coffee against his tongue, “If we pass the deal, the contract comes with early bonuses. Think of the boys' long Christmas lists.” Edward lowers his voice.

She turns away from the stove, fingers fumbling to tighten the knot of his tie. Practiced movements as it presses into his trachea. “Don’t work too hard, love.” She pats his chest.

“Dad guess what?” Rory, his youngest, asks with his mouth full of mushed pancake. “What?” Edward hums, hardly paying attention.

“Mr. Causeway said the police were coming in this morning. To talk to us about prison, isn’t that cool?” He beams, pancake falling back out and onto the plate.

“Yes, so cool.” Edward parrots back. Staring hard at the brown murky colour of instant coffee swirling in his cup. Moderately better viewing than the crimson which plagues his mind every time his head hits the pillow.

“Isn’t it time your mum drove you to school?”

“Go wait in the car boys, I'll be right out.” Sandra throws her front apron on the counter, she swirls around, hands on hips. “Would it kill you to be present for once, seem a little interested in your son’s lives? Or I don’t know Edward, just listen to them.”

“I’m here aren’t I, at the kitchen table, listening. I don’t understand what you want from me Sandra.” He huffs, knife scraping against the plate, piling the ends of the pancake onto his fork and shovelling it into his mouth.

She snatches the keys from the bowl.

“I’ve tried to give you time to get over whatever this is but you haven’t been right for months Ed. Since that night you came home covered in mud–”

“For the love of god, I’ve told you a thousand times. There were a few drinks involved and I– I pulled over to throw up into a bush.” He chugs his coffee, slamming it on the oak table. “And you know the drinking stopped, like you asked.”

She frowns, tilting her head and batting those expressively sad blue eyes at him, “But you’re still not you Ed.”

Edward shakes his head, “Leave this for tonight Sandra, it's too goddamn early for your preaching”

Edward is a normal man.

It’s been his mantra every morning for a hundred and eighty two days. Carving out the same breakfast, same route, same times until he sinks into his reclining chair at work. The squared partition walls holding all of his hushed secrets, bearing witness to the mask slipping. Just briefly.

Edward is a normal man.

Chasing deadlines and crunching numbers, silence filled with the soft clacking of his keyboard. It’s mindless, it’s nice.

He avoids the break room like the plague, nothing would be worse than becoming trapped in the mindless chatter between simpleton members of the workforce. Something he accomplished daily since resident millennial Millie had cornered him to ramble about Taylor Swift's latest album.

He breaks his routine for the first time in six months, glancing once at the sad beef and horseradish sandwich Sandra packed him, the one which is only brought out if she’s especially angry.

He props up on his chair and peers over the divider, “Reuben, hey how’s it going? Did you want to head out for lunch?”

Edward doesn’t mind Reuben, although not overly fond of the man’s ridiculous spotty bow ties or unnecessarily enormous framed glasses, he manages to crack a half decent joke every few minutes. And apparently, is very knowledgeable of the best Shawarma in the city.

Edward hums, letting the hot juices spill over the wrapper’s foil edge. “This is damn good!”

“What did I tell you, ten times better than our wives cooking. We should do this again, if you ever crawl out of that darn cubicle.” He laughs. “Don’t take the wrong way Edward but you seem very prim and proper. You must have some wild stories from back in the day, racing cars or something like that?” Reuben asks, biting more of his wrap.

Edward pauses, “My wife uses the car to ferry around our boys now. I haven’t had a chance to drive it for a while now.” He laughs horribly and too fake, fighting the urge to close his eyes and remember exactly why he gets nauseous within five metres of his car.

“I used to have a really flashy Porsche back in the day though.”

“Drive it wildly? Show it off to all the girls?” Reuben smirks, raising his Shawarma almost in a toast. “Yeah, I was a bit reckless.” Edward smiles, tapping his own wrap to Reuben's, “Can’t do that with a seven seater Mitsubishi.”

Reuben leans in, all conspicuous, “I bet you could if you wanted to.”

Oh Reuben you have no idea.

Hitting a hundred and fifty in kilometres in that piece of crap was the most free Edward had felt in years.

The agitation to break from his routine proves to be the wrong choice, not even five minutes after he arrives home Edward hears it from their cable tv.

A sentence that makes his stomach drop before he’s even changed from his work clothes.

‘Mirobel Stevens, aged 19, has finally been found six months after she vanished just off the Bakerville Road on July 2nd.

Her body was found this morning by a dedicated local group who never stopped looking and police have issued a statement that they’re treating this as suspicious.’

Edward lunges forward, slamming his keys on the coffee table, gripping it tightly.

“No way! Rory turn that up, the boys at school said they’d never find her.” His eldest murmurs from the far end of the sofa. Edward expels a reckless harsh breath, “Turn that off.” He says, hands clenching around the table edge.

“What?”

“It's inappropriate listening for a twelve year old. Off, now!” He grinds his teeth just as Sandra swoops in to ease the tension, “Listen to your father.”

Silence stretches to every corner of the living space. His wife splays a hand over the middle of his back,

“Edward?” She murmurs, concern inhabiting every inch of her tone.

He can’t look at her, he won’t, for fear she may connect the dots. Always a smart woman, his Sandra. Even long after she’d succumbed to play the role of doting housewife.

“Sorry, it’s just been a long day.”

“Edward.” She hisses his name this time.

“I’ll have my dinner later love.” He sighs, already loosening the knot of his tie and trudging upstairs.

Edward is a normal man and up until six months ago that statement rang true.

Now he played the part of Edward Heeley, a grumpy but sweet husband. Involved, playful father. Hardworking and knowledgeable salesman.

Edward Heeley, who wore tweed jackets and paper thin black ties. Who combed his receding hairline until it was sculpted against his skull and shaved his beard every morning.

Neat enough to not tickle Sandra when they shared their morning and evening kisses.

He looks at himself in the mirror, skin wrinkled at the corner of his eyes, face sullen and lifeless. Once round cheeks thinned out. Months of stress would do that to you. Edward barely recognises the man staring back at him, he looks transported fresh from one of his nightmares.

“Go away.” He pleads, face falling into his hands. “I’m done.”

Edward doesn’t sleep that night, hardly flinching as Sandra’s shrill alarm rings out at 6am. Pretending not to notice as she places a kiss tenderly upon his forehead.

“Thanks love.” He flashes her a small smile, receiving his favourite mug. A forest green shade with a frog sitting on a mushroom at the centre, and reading its favourite book. Lord of the flies.

Sandra pauses from where she’s flipping more pancakes, “You feeling better Ed?”

He nods, “Amazing what a good night's sleep will do for you.”

It's a bold faced lie and they both know it, he hadn’t been quiet in his tossing and turning all night.

His usual seat has already been pulled out as his boys run rampant around the table, chasing one another with foam swords; doing nothing to help the dull pound of his headache. His bum barely touches the seat cushion when a round of thuds bang against the door.

“Who on Earth is knocking at 7am?” Sandra tuts, dusting off her hands on a tea towel. Edward springs up, following her closely to the door.

“The Heeleys?” The woman asks, a shade of deep red wetting her lips. His mouth dries significantly as the shiny badge of the metropolitan police stares back at him.

“Yes, that's us. What can I do for you, officer?” Sandra presses her back into him, pushing with all her weight. She’s worried.

Edward curses, twisting his lips into a concerned frown he hopes looks convincing. “Is there something wrong?” He asks with a slight wobble.

“I’m afraid we have some questions for you Mr. Heeley. Nothing to worry about just yet but we’d like to get you down to the station.”

“For what?” Sandra asks, Edward can’t see her but her voice strains croakily. “Nothing to worry about Ma’am, standard questioning.”

He squeezes his wife’s shoulder, the police officer's stare hardening the minute he steps forward.

Nothing about this was going to be standard.

“I’ll see you later, love.”

--

“Where were you on the night of July 2nd between the hours of 7pm and 9pm?” Edward blinks into the furious light of the interrogation lamp.

“I don’t know, it was like a half a year ago.” He slumps into the uncomfortable leather, forcing every part of his body to relax.

“You don’t know? I can pull footage right now of a car with the licence plate of 5N0 YW83 belonging to you driving past the intersection of Bakersville road during those hours.”

She leans forward, every bit playing the character of a small town cop show.

“My work is a twenty minute drive from home, Bakersville is the quickest route there, It’s entirely possible I was on my way home from work.” He doesn’t like the way she stares him down, body bent so ridiculously forward, itching to pounce.

He shifts, feeling more and more like a sitting duck.

“It takes five to six minutes to drive from the camera just off Lincoln to the one at the end of Bakersville. Five minutes Mr. Heeley. Care to guess how long your car took?” She pauses.

He leans forward to meet her, “I’m not betting man Ma’am.”

“That’s a shame.” She tuts. “Two hours, Mr. Heeley. Two hours. Is it just a huge coincidence that you were in the blind spot for that long on the same night a young girl disappears? Last seen only three streets over.”

Fuck.

“I think you’ve hit the nail on the head officer, a coincidence.” He smiles, “I go to AA now, but I wasn’t in a good place six months ago. My wife can attest to that. Look I pulled over, drank my sorrows away. But I never saw that girl.”

“Is that why you’ve not touched your car since the date of her disappearance.” She states, folding her arms.

He raises his eyebrows, “Yes Mr. Heeley we’ve run your plates.”

“Then you’d know it's a condition of my AA sobriety.” Edward scoffs, “Now am I free to go or do I need to get a lawyer down here?”

The policeman behind produces a clear bagged kit, loaded with swabs and toothpicks. “Sure I think we heard all we needed to, as long as you don’t mind consenting to a DNA sample?”

Edward shrugs off his jacket, rolling up his shirt sleeves.

“If its going to help you catch the fucker that murdered her, then sure.”

He sits awfully quiet as they collect their samples, they wouldn’t find anything, he never touched the body with his bare hands.

The bed creaks in a familiar way as he dips into bed, pulling the duvet quietly up his body. A faint hum sings in the background, the dishwasher running on the first floor. Moonlight floods through the slither left open by the curtain.

It’s peaceful.

Sandra shuffles, and Edward can’t help but sigh. “I know you’re awake.”

She rolls over, huffing. “You were taken for questioning Edward of course I’m still awake– I mean what happened?”

“They just wanted to ask basic questions, you know I was driving that way after work that night.” He finds the ceiling, their motorised fan spinning slowly. “It's nothing Sandra.”

“Nothing? You’ve been a shell of a person since the incident,” His wife whispers,

“I’m working on it.” Edward bites back.

“Did you do it?”

What? “What?” He rolls onto his side, facing her. Edward can barely make out the shape of her face in the dark. “No Sandra. Christ.”

“What am I supposed to think?” Her voice wobbles. “You come home late that evening, you reek of alcohol, a girl disappears and then you don’t want to touch your car again. You acted like a ghost for six months.”

The moon aligns just with her left eye and Edward swallows at the sight of tear tracks down her face, “Who do you think I, your husband, am? I told you I didn’t, can’t you believe me?” He whispers across the space. The pause from Sandra is a welcome one, he’s not sure he wants to know. Edward could deal with the nightly image of a pale ghastly face and auburn hair plastered on his dashboard, watching life drown out in her eyes. Her hazel eyes. He could cope with never driving again or flinching as he passed scout groups going off adventuring in the woods. Edward could do it if no one were to know.

“You didn’t do it?” Sandra breathes out, almost relieved.

“No.” He finds her hand under the covers, entwining them together. “You know me Sandra, I’ll be better, I promise.” He squeezes.

Edward is. Better. For the next week he becomes the normal man he’d chanted in his mind for six months. It’s okay like this, Sandra’s arm tucked in his as they watch their youngest’s football match on a frozen Sunday morning. Bundled up in knee sized coats and cashmere scarfs, spare hand wrapped around a crap cup of coffee from the local stand.

He closes his eyes, biting his lip, before looking back up. Reflective blue and yellows of the police officers' uniforms step foot onto the grass. Strutting past the clubhouse and down field number three.

“Ed?” Sandra holds his arm tight. Squeezing at now tense muscles. He guesses not all secrets can be held in.

“Edward Heeley you are being arrested on suspicion of murder of 19 year old Mirobel Stevens. You have the right to remain silent, you have the right to a power of attorney–”

The air turns staticky, his ears buzzing as all twenty two footballers stop to crane their necks and watch the officer tighten the handcuff until it itches red on his wrist. Edward can't bear to look towards his wife, the image of her sunken betrayed face too much to handle, too haunting.

Maybe if he doesn’t look at her it can remain a secret, if he looks away he can pretend she never found out.

“Fuck.” He bangs his fists in the holding cell.

Shards of glass in her hair, they said. That was all it took to shatter his whole life apart.