Jemma Lee Baskins

It is a Sunday night at the gym, which means it is quiet and I am bored.

As I wander between the treadmills, I listen to the sounds of metal on metal, the odd bang and strained grunt. The music in the background is a low hum of shitty pop. I walk for hours, trying to find someone to talk to, walking up and down the floor in a jaded haze, but there is no one I know.

Working in a twenty four hour gym can be dreary work.

Once I reach breaking point, I finally make my way to the cleaning cupboard. I pull out the bolt cutter and decide cutting padlocks from lockers is good enough entertainment. I begin with the female dressing room, since there is no one in there.

Do not worry by the way; I am not simply doing this for the sake of it. The gym has a policy to say any locks that have been forgotten overnight will be cut off. The ones I am about to chop have been logged. They have also been here for at least a week.

The first padlock I snap off and open the door of has absolutely nothing in it. What is the point of that? I move onto the next, twisting the cutter at the last second because the tool is blunt and slightly out of line. The metal snaps, I swing the door open and again, nothing. The third locker has in a bag of toiletries, shower essentials and a few hair combs. I find clothes, towels and an empty bag as I move along. By time I reach the sixth locker of the night, the void within the metal reveals a single book, sitting on the bottom.

Intrigued, I drop the clippers and reach in.

The book cover is a sleek black. Flipping through the pages briefly, it is not even filled. The writing encompasses the first couple pages only. What a waste of a journal. The paper is nice, thick and lined. The black cover is clean and unscuffed.

I sit down on a bench, the changing room is still empty and I turn to the first page.

The first thing I read is an Instagram username, which could be the title I guess.

Frowning, I pull out my phone, being the epitome of modern day youth. A book in one hand with a phone in the other.

Opening Instagram I type the provided username into the search box.

Xo_jemma.lee.baskins_oX

Once I type it in and click on the first search result, a public account opens. The first thing that hits my brain is that she is fit.

There are copious photos of herself. Selfies, pouty selfies, breasty selfies, booty shots in the mirror with tight dresses and low cut tops. She is a brunette with blonde highlights, heavy makeup and perfect features. There is even a load of pictures of her with men. She is sat on some of their laps on a yacht of some kind, sat on a beach with a bikini and being held by her bare legs. I notice the men are all different in each picture and they are old. All of them. Really old men, maybe in their sixties kind of old.

I scroll for a long time, just staring at her body and face. I interestingly inspect her choice of male. She is pretty and she has a nice ass, but why old men. There must be hundreds of pictures of her body on show.

Finally scrolling back to the top, I see she has at least ten thousand followers and as I click on the number, most of them are male. None of the comments indicate that she has female friends following her on the account. Instead most of the replies consist of food symbols and water droplets. I chuckle to myself, she is a hooker, or a gold digger? Have I stumbled upon a hooker’s diary? A stripper maybe? Are the older men rich? It seems to be the case, looking at the exotic settings and places.

Clicking on the most recent picture however, it is the only one that consists of writing and lacks an image of herself.

“Missing,” I read to myself under my breath. “Please call if seen or found.”

The caption underneath includes the mobile number of who to contact but that is all, there is no name. It does not mention if it is a friend or family member that is looking for her. There is no personal heartfelt message of ‘we miss her so much’.

I frown. Strange.

The post is dated three months ago. She has been missing for around three months. There is also nothing else in her personal information, just her account name. In fact there is nothing really personal about the whole account, there are no captions she has written about herself, she has not liked or responded to any of the comments either.

I wonder who posted the picture explaining that she is missing. Someone else must have access to her account.

The door to the changing room opens and I stand up immediately, snapping back to the present situation. A girl that I know walks in.

“Oh hey Kaleb,” she pulls off her headphones and drops her bag onto a bench. She leans forward to hug me.

“Hi Luce,” I respond. “Legs tonight right?”

“Right,” she responds and then glances at the mess I have made. “You cutting lockers up?”

I chuckle. “Yeah, lockers that have been left here for a while. I’ll leave, gimme a sec.”

I quickly tidy up and grab the black diary. I smile at Luce as I skip out of the door in a hurry and make my way to the staff room. I dump everything on the table and shut the door behind me. The sounds of the gym muffle and hush.

Sitting down on one of the chairs, I unlock my phone and take one last look at the girl on Instagram. She is fit, I repeat to myself.

Finally putting the phone down I pick up the diary once more. The handwriting is scruffy and hard to read in places but I try my best. There is literally only two pages of writing though. What a waste of a book. Her Instagram account is much fuller.

Take a look at my Instagram account, what do you see? Do you see how fucking fit I am, do you see me?

Someone knocks on the door and I slam the book shut. The line I just read repeats in my mind and I stand up to open the door. It is a gym member I do not know.

“Hey man, I’ve lost my keys. Has anyone handed them in?”

“What kind of keys mate? No one’s handed anything in tonight.”

“VW. It has a key ring on,” the guy continues, “and a bottle opener.”

I rummage through the crap in the box behind me. “There’s nothing here mate. Maybe take a look around where you last were. Want me to come out and help?”

He shakes his head. “Nah…it’s okay. I’ll go back to the changing room and have a look. Thanks man.”

He shuts the door slowly and I am left alone once more.

I grab the journal again.

Take a look at my Instagram account, what do you see? Do you see how fucking fit I am, do you see me?

Do you like it? Do you like me? My ass, my tits, the men that always have their hands on me? Like I am a thing. Like I do not give a shit. Maybe I don’t though, maybe I do not give a shit at all. I mean, I chose all this. I chose it for the money. Why should I be pitying myself? Why should anyone pity me?

Maybe I am only questioning all of this now because of what has happened. Maybe I would have been perfectly fine to continue, if not for this one thing.

What a bastard. What a disgusting bastard. How the fuck dare he. How dare he? But then again, how dare I? What kind of person am I? What am I? I am a disgusting, horrible person. I am awful. I am absolutely awful.

I took the money. But I do not want it. You can have it. I am ashamed of it. I regret it. But I am giving it to you. You can have it. Take it.

Underneath that last cryptic line is an address. It is the address of a graveyard.

I feel a little shaken and I do not completely understand. So I re-read the two pages of scrawl, really trying to comprehend everything. But it does not give me the answers I want, even after reading it a fourth time. Even after dissecting each line. I flip through the rest of the pages of the journal, but there is nothing else.

Checking the clock, I see I have one hour left for my shift. I finish at midnight. I Google Map the address and discover the graveyard she has scribbled down is literally a five minute walk away from the gym. In fact, I know the church, I walk by it every day. How convenient.

Sliding the book into my hoodie pocket – it fits in perfectly – I give the gym a last tidy and do a few checks before I leave. The cleaner thankfully arrives ten minutes earlier, so I pack up. I keep the book in my pocket and leave the gym in a hurry like I am on a mission. I pull up my hood and run to the graveyard. There is no one about, the streets are empty because it so late.

Pulling out the book, I re-read the address. It even details out a gravestone.

Dorothy May

1914 – 1990

Beloved daughter and mother.

Thankfully, the graveyard is small. I pull out my phone and use the torch to search through the gravestones. I feel sketchy. The dark looms in on me, but I am focussed on the stone engravings. Amazingly so, someone has vandalised the gravestone I am looking for, with what looks like spray paint covering up some of the carvings. I mean it is rude, but the initials are JLB.

Xo_jemma.lee.baskins_oX

I kneel down before the grave and see the mud itself has been disturbed, like it has been recently upturned. It looks soft enough and choosing the most broken away section of the ground, I plunge my hands into the earth. It is soft and easy to pull away.

I switch my torchlight off, constantly glancing left and right, hoping no one can see me. I do not want to get caught. I work as fast as I can.

My nails fill with mud and my arms are caked up to my elbows, but I keep ploughing my way through. My hands eventually find something solid that is not stone or twig. It is not deep enough to be a coffin so I am unafraid of it being anything else. It is maybe a foot down.

Pulling the object out, it feels like a box. After some extra digging and shifting about, I pull out a small wooden chest.

I laugh out loud. “Fuck me.”

Lifting the lid up which is thankfully unlocked, the box reveals money.

A lot of money.

“Fuck me!” I say even louder.

Take it, she had written.

So standing up, clutching the box to my chest, I run away as fast as I can and I do just that. Literally, a thief in the night, a grave robber.

Drinks are on me lads.