by TL Dyer
‘Mate, can you hear me?’ I shout over the furore behind me, trying to keep the panic from my voice. ‘Mark, it’s Sacha. Can you hear me?’
He groans when I touch his neck to check for a pulse. His eyes flutter open. I draw my hand back, and it’s streaked with blood where it’s brushed against the collar of his polo shirt. There’s a scuffle just feet away and I glance to my right. A sea of officers descend on the members of TB-21, all three of them brought down to the floor and restrained while the cuffs go on.
‘You’re alright, Mark,’ I say, as Jonesy groans a second time. ‘Help’s coming. Where are you hurt? Can you tell me?’
Features screwing up in a wince, he tries to pull himself upright. It’s then that I see the other side of his face which has lain against the floor. It’s such a mess of blood and skin I can’t make out what the damage is exactly, just that it’s bad. Worse than that, blood leaks from a deep wound on his neck, too. I tear apart the Velcro fastening on my utility vest and shrug it off, then unzip and remove my fleece, bunching it up to press to the cut beneath his right earlobe.
‘353. Officer has sustained lacerations to the face and neck. ETA on paramedic, please.’
‘Noted, 353. Paramedics are en route. I’ll update them. ETA imminent.’
‘It’s alright, mate, lie still. We’ll have you out of here soon.’
‘What’s the hell is this?’ John Russell crouches near the head of our prone colleague. ‘You playing soldiers again, Jonesy, lad?’
A quivering hand rises from the floor and responds to Russell with a middle finger.
‘That’s the spirit, mate. You can tell me where you got your balls of steel from when you’re in a better mood.’
For all his banter, I can see the concern on Russell’s face. This is a lot of blood. More blood than we care to see from one of our own, and right now that’s far more troubling than the pain he’ll feel in his cheek when the numbness wears off. Russell catches my eye and flicks his chin to something behind me. Beneath a table a couple of metres away is the neck of a broken beer bottle, its edges daubed in red.
‘I’ll make sure no one touches it,’ Russell says, getting to his feet.
‘Hey, Mark, you’re not falling asleep on me, are you?’ I say, moving closer so he can hear me, while keeping pressure on my jacket at his neck at the same time. I’m praying he’ll stay conscious until help arrives. If he doesn’t, I won’t know what to do.
He puffs a response to my question from between his lips that could mean just about anything.
‘Good. Because your shift’s not done yet. You’ve got to write all this up.’
His left eyelid cracks open and he narrows it at me. Or perhaps that’s as far as it’ll go.
‘Fair one,’ I say. ‘Maybe they’ll let you off for tonight.’
‘Right, what have we got?’ a friendly female voice says, as a figure drops to her knees beside me and unhooks a hefty backpack from her shoulder.
I give her the rundown. Name, injury points, and object used to inflict them, then step back out of her and her colleague’s way. The three men who caused all the damage are being escorted from the pub, but several officers remain to take statements from the bar staff and bystanders who probably wished they’d stayed at home on such a god-awful night, one that got a lot worse than just the weather. The sarge, Fred Dalston, stands beside Russell, his gaze concentrated on his officer currently receiving treatment. ‘You alright, Sanderson?’ he asks, as I approach.
‘Fine, Sarge,’ I answer. Standard response. But now that the adrenaline’s wearing off, I’m not so sure. The smell of blood is all around me, the image of Jonesy’s torn face, flesh and skin mashed together in the wrong order at the forefront of my mind. This must be what a war zone is like. I’ve seen enough blood, puke, and body parts that are meant to be on the inside rather than the outside, but it’s a whole other feeling when it’s someone you know. I hold the back of my hand to my mouth to stem the queasiness, but all that does is remind me my skin is coated with his blood. I drop it and draw in a breath instead.
‘He was already down when I arrived,’ I say, just as the name of the paramedic comes to me. Sam. I wonder if Dalston recognises her as the woman at Smithy’s when we went to bring him in for questioning. How must she feel now that he’s been cleared? Does she even know yet?
‘You got here as soon as you could, Sacha,’ Dalston says, turning to me. ‘You all did. Superb response. Saved your colleague’s life.’
None of us say any more as Sam and her colleague stabilise Jonesy enough to get him onto a stretcher. They inform us before they leave that they’re taking him to the University Hospital in Cardiff, and the sarge thanks them. Once they’re gone and the SOCO team arrive to forensically process the scene, he instructs an eager Russell to follow behind our injured newest recruit to keep abreast of his progress and help with anything he needs.
‘Someone has to tell his wife, Sarge,’ I say, as Russell leaves. ‘I think it would be better in person.’
The sarge looks at me a long moment before he agrees, but then stops me with a hand on my arm as I turn to do just that. ‘Not you, Sanderson. I’ll do it. You’re going home.’
‘I’m fine, Sarge.’
‘So you keep saying. All the same, get the unit back to the station, get cleaned up, and go on home.’
He doesn’t give me a chance to argue. And I know as I drive through the battering rain that I should be grateful for a boss like him. Resources are tight enough as it is, there aren’t many sergeants who, despite all that, will put their officers’ wellbeing above figures and stats and targets. Dalston would rather do the work of three of his officers than have them suffer from lack of proper care, even if that makes him answerable to those above him. But none of that appeases the way I’m feeling. It was Jonesy who took the hit tonight, not me. Why should I get special treatment? I don’t deserve it.
At the station, I take a long look at myself in the mirror. I don’t know this person staring at me. She has hair that’s wild, pulled loose from the band at the back of her head, damp and curling from the rain. Dark shadows circle her eyes, her lips are pale, and a line of dried blood marks one cheek in the exact spot where Jonesy was cut by the jagged end of the smashed bottle. The luminous utility vest that sits lopsided over her shoulders is flecked with rust-coloured patches. She shivers under the air conditioning unit in just her short-sleeved polo shirt. And her eyes… They’re the most unfamiliar of all. A stranger’s eyes. As equally dark and bottomless as they are empty. The eyes of a liar? A deceitful manipulator?
The hot tap runs, its steam drifting up from the basin to fog the woman in the mirror. In my right hand, I clutch the small plastic nailbrush and put it to my left fingernails to scrub at Jonesy’s blood. But the bristles have barely touched the surface of my skin when I remember that there’s no need for this. It doesn’t matter about the blood. Jake’s not here. He’s miles away. Hundreds of miles away.
I turn off the tap, return the nailbrush and the contents of my utility vest to the locker, throw the vest in my rucksack with my joggers and sweatshirt, grab my car keys, and drive home just exactly as I am.
Chapter 44
The envelope on the mat is stamped in red with the words Harper Sheppard Solicitor’s Office, St Mary’s Street, Cardiff. There’s no postage on it, and it wasn’t here when I left for work earlier, which means it’s been hand delivered. In the dark hallway, lit only by the upstairs landing light, I tear open the letter and take out a batch of documents, eyes skimming over the first few paragraphs.
The papers fall from my fingers to the floor and I go up the stairs one heavy step at a time.
Submitted an application for a child arrangements order…
From the airing cupboard, I pull a towel.
Newport Civic Family Court…
In the bedroom I take off my boots and thick socks, strip out of my rain-drenched, blood-soaked clothes. Polo shirt, cargoes, bra, knickers.
Determine visit
ation…
With the towel wrapped around me, I walk across the landing to the bathroom.
Mr Darren Isaacs and Master Jake Sanderson…
Clutching the towel, I crouch to the tiles beside the bath.
Fourteen days to acknowledge receipt and submit paperwork…
I pull my knees up and drop my forehead to them, my head warm, skin on my legs cool, rain-damp hair falling against my cheeks.
Preliminary court hearing…
Smell of blood still on my hands.
Or further orders may be issued.
Jonesy’s torn face behind my closed eyes. Half there, half gone.
Chapter 45
‘Bloody hell, you’re freezing. Here, put this round you.’
Shaun’s batting his hand to get me to lean forward so he can place a towel over my shoulders. Then he disappears. Comes back with another towel he wraps around my legs.
‘Are you hurt?’ he asks, crouching in front of me. ‘Has someone hurt you?’
I shake my head. It’s heavy and there’s a dull thud at the top of my neck.
‘Sacha, you’re covered in blood.’
I look down to my hands. It’s dried now, the blood, almost black. Jonesy’s.
‘Not mine.’ My voice is thin, mouth dry.
‘How long have you been here? You’re like ice.’
Daylight comes in through the bathroom window. It was dark when I got home, early hours. Letter on the mat. Court order. Darren.
My eyes fall closed, my breath quickens. He’s going to take my boy. I’ve lied and I’ve manipulated and I’ve done things I shouldn’t have, and Darren will tell them all that. He’ll tell them all the ways that he’ll be so much better for Jake than I am and he’ll take him away. He’ll take him to Ty Bryn, then shut me out the same way I shut him out. I squeeze my eyes shut, tears hot over my cold cheeks. And somewhere down a long tunnel, Shaun’s words disappear.
‘I need an emergency doctor. Today. It’s my sister.’
Chapter 46
For a health professional, Bill Wilson is a terrible listener. He takes no notice when I tell him I’m fine, that my brother was just being over-cautious, that the way he found me earlier was only because things had got messy at work and I’d fallen asleep with exhaustion before I could get in the shower. I agree it must have been a scary sight, but I assure him there’s nothing wrong that a decent sleep won’t put right. While he listens up to a point, the sick note he signs and hands over to me suggests he hasn’t really heard a word I’ve said. Not only that, but the note signs me off work for eight weeks. Eight weeks. They won’t be able to manage without me for eight hours.
‘I don’t need this,’ I say, trying to give it back. ‘I appreciate it and everything, but I really, really can’t take that much time off.’
‘It’s not a request.’ His eyes are unforgiving, lips pinched. Like a stern headmaster. ‘And if your mother were here now, she’d be saying the same thing.’
I drop the hand holding the slip to my lap with a thump. ‘That’s a cheap shot, Bill. But if Mam was here, I’d be telling her what I’m telling you. I’m fine. I have to work. I’m depended upon.’
‘Here’s another cheap shot. Your family depends on you more. Much as I admire your dedication to your job, Sacha, you are dispensable. To them you are. Though not to your dad, not to Shaun, and not to Jake.’
I clamp my teeth together. If I don’t, I’m not sure what I’ll do. Shout, scream, cry. Any one of those would confirm Wilson’s diagnosis. He might even add another month for good measure. From his bag, he takes a pill bottle and rests it on his knee to write across the label.
‘I don’t need those either,’ I say, but he ignores me.
‘A low-dose sleeping tablet, that’s all. To assist with your disrupted sleep patterns. But with the eight weeks off, perhaps that will right itself. If you need more, you know where I am. If you need anything else, the same. There’s nothing wrong with some help now and then, if only just to get you back on your feet. Now what about the talking therapies I mentioned?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘It doesn’t hurt to speak to someone. Your job is tremendously stressful.’
‘We have systems in place for that.’
‘It’s perfectly fine to say you’re exhausted and you need a break.’
‘I know, but I’m not and I don’t.’
‘If you burn yourself out, then what use will you be to anyone?’
To Jake. That’s what he means; what use will I be to Jake? What kind of useless mother…
‘Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I can’t handle it, Bill.’
‘Just because you’re a police officer doesn’t mean you’re invincible,’ he snaps, riled by my insinuation. ‘You deal with more trauma in a year than most of us experience our entire lives. That will take its toll – man, woman, beast, whatever you are. I’ve seen it time and again. I don’t want to see it happen to you. If you refuse to stop and rest, Sacha, your body and mind will make you. And this was just the first sign.’
He snaps his bag shut and drops a small stack of leaflets beside the sleeping pill bottle on the coffee table, then gets to his feet. For a moment he pauses, and I know even with my gaze on my lap what he’s doing – looking to the framed photo of Mam and Jake above the fireplace. His sigh is soft, before he says, ‘Please, Sacha, you can only take care of others if you’ve taken care of yourself first. I’ll say my goodbyes to your brother, then I’ll go. But you know how to find me. Don’t be afraid to call.’
The conversation he has with Shaun in the kitchen is a low rumble, their voices hushed but the topic so obviously me; saying I can’t cope, saying I’m worn out, weak, all of that and maybe more. Maybe that I shouldn’t have become a police officer in the first place, and that I’d be a better mother to Jake if I wasn’t. Or maybe that it takes a certain kind of person to be an officer, a particular type of resilience that I just don’t have. I’m too soft. Too fickle. Too guided by my heart instead of my head, and that’s not good. That’s not good for anything, but especially not good for making decisions. Time and time again I’ve proved that much.
The front door closes as Wilson leaves, and Shaun comes back into the room. From where I’m sitting with my legs curled up on the sofa, I fold my arms over my chest and try not to look at him as he sits on the armchair opposite.
‘Dad was trying to get hold of you,’ he says. ‘Jake wanted to talk.’
‘Jake? Is he alright?’
‘Course he is, he’s fine. He wanted to tell you he saw a green sky last night. That’s what Dad said he called it.’
The Northern lights. Jake was watching the sky burst with magical colour while I was feeling sorry for myself for everything I’ve done wrong.
‘I should call him.’ I look for my phone and see it on the mantelpiece. Shaun must have put it there.
‘They’ve gone to some creamery, whatever that is. But I told Dad you were okay, just sleeping heavily after a busy night. I said you’d call later.’
I nod, picking at a thread of cotton on my joggers. No blood on my hands now. I showered before Wilson came. Couldn’t have him seeing me like that, he’d have had me down as certifiable.
‘This is bullshit,’ Shaun blurts.
I think at first he means me. All this trouble I’ve caused. But when I peer up, he’s clutching the solicitor’s letter in his hand, all the papers back in the envelope. My cheeks burn as if someone’s lit them on fire.
‘I’ll speak to Jen about it,’ he adds.
‘I already have. But whatever, knock yourself out.’
‘He hasn’t been his father. He has no rights at all.’
I shrug one shoulder. Not because I don’t know what the legalities are, but because I have no desire to talk about them.
‘Cheeky fucking—’
‘Don’t do anything stupid, Shaun.’
‘What, like beat the fucking shit out of him?’
For someone who
doesn’t like confrontation, he’s doing a reasonable job of it now. But he can only hold my gaze for a short while, and as always he’s the first to look away. With his head dipped, and his sigh heavy, I have the sudden urge to say, What the hell. Do it. Just do it. Beat the crap out of him. Anything. Just get him off my back and out of our lives.
‘Did you tell Wilson?’ I ask.
He holds up the envelope. ‘About this? No. Why would I do that?’
‘I don’t know, Shaun, why would you call him at all?’
‘Because you’re not a machine. Much as you wish you were. You needed help. I was helping.’
We fall silent, the tapping of the letter against his thigh the only sound in the room. And my brain too fogged to come up with a comeback.
‘Fuck off,’ I mutter.
‘No,’ he mumbles in return. ‘But same to you.’
I close my eyes and wish he’d leave, but he doesn’t. It’s another two hours before I’m finally alone, full of the soup he made for lunch that I didn’t want but he insisted I eat. And now that I have space to think, I psyche myself up and put in the call to the sarge on his mobile.
First I ask about Jonesy. No transfusion was needed and his face has been stitched, but he may need surgery in the next day or two. He’s in good spirits though, and that goes a long way. When that topic’s exhausted, I explain the other reason I’m calling. And with one more of our team out of action now, it’s hard to say the words. I suggest taking the leave later, once cover is arranged, and maybe not the whole eight weeks, maybe just a couple of days. But Dalston shuts me down. Cover has already been pulled in from elsewhere to fill the gaps. We’ve been stretched for too long and he’s been asking for help for weeks. Now we’ve finally got it. Which means my excuses are futile. He insists I take the time the doctor’s prescribed, and that’s the end of the conversation, until several hours later when I’m preparing dinner for me and Shaun over at Dad’s and an email pings up on my phone. Links to organisations that offer support to officers, as well as a name and contact number of our in-house mental health champion. He signs off with, And failing all that, my office door’s always open. Take all the time you need, and we look forward to having you back in the field when you’re ready. Fred.