Next of Kin

by TL Dyer

  ‘My god, look at the state of you. What a stupid pair we are, letting it go this far. Let’s stop this. We don’t have to fight. Why don’t I cook for us and we can eat as a family tonight, for the first time? Spend some quality time together, just the three of us. Then later, once Jake’s in bed, you and I can talk this through properly. Without arguing or all this silly fighting. We’ll draw up some ground rules so we both know where we stand, how about that?

  ‘We don’t need to drag all this through the courts, Sacha, neither of us wants that, not really. We can be good, you and I, I know we can. We can be something really special, we proved it that night. It wasn’t cheap, Sacha, not like I made out it was. It was nothing like that. It was incredible. You were so beautiful laid out for me in the moonlight. We can have that again. And I’ve got that big old house with no one in it but me. You and Jake can fill it. We’ll be a proper family. It’ll be perfect. When you have to work nights, you won’t have to worry, I’ll be there to take care of Jake, get him to school in the morning, cook his dinner when he comes home.

  ‘Please don’t cry, Sacha, we can figure this out between us. I’m sorry, okay? Is that what you want me to say? I’m sorry for the things I said, I don’t mean any of them. It’s only because I care. I care about you and I care about our son, and I want all this fighting to stop. I want to be free of it. Please, Sacha, don’t fight. Please don’t fight me any more.’

  Chapter 56

  I can’t feel the stroking of his finger over my swollen cheek, but I see it through weary, stinging eyes. I see his smile too, as tender as his tear-filled gaze and as gentle as the words he speaks. Which from one lover to another would be touching, but from him to me, lying prone on the kitchen floor too weak to move, only slither through my head, each word a droplet of poison more toxic than the last.

  His lips press slowly and carefully to my forehead, and he sweeps the hair from above my eyes like I’m a sick child. ‘Here’s what we’ll do. First, we’ll get you cleaned up. Then you’re going to put your feet up and relax in front of the TV while I cook for us all. How does that sound?’

  He waits for my response, still smiling, still combing back my hair. More than anything, I want him away from me. To stop touching me. Stop talking. So though it’s painful and I want to throw up, I nod.

  ‘Come on then, sweetheart, hold on to me and I’ll help you to your feet.’ He moves to my side to slip an arm under me and pull me up. It’s excruciating, every movement an effort, my head thick and heavy, vision narrow, ears ringing. ‘That’s it, you can do it, there’s a good girl. You’ll feel better once you’re up—’

  His words freeze in his mouth, gaze flips to the right, down the hallway.

  Not Jake. God no, not Jake. Not like this.

  But then I hear what he hears. Banging on the front door.

  Shaun. Thank Christ, at last. Shaun.

  Look through the letterbox. Just look through the letterbox and you’ll see.

  I’m already pulling away from Darren when he jumps to his feet. There’s a second of a pause before he turns to the back door. And with no thought, only instinct, my hand shoots out and clamps onto his ankle. He tries to shake me free, but I firm my grip. He aims kicks at my face, my head, my already vulnerable spots, but I reach over with my other hand and hang on with the last of the energy I have left. And at last, when I think I can’t hold on a second longer, the back door flies open. Voices ring out. Shouts. Orders I recognise. They tell Darren to get outside, get down on the ground. They repeat it over and over. But only when he complies do I finally let go, turning away from the fracas, drawing my knees up to my stomach, my hands over my head to protect myself, as beyond the door the yelling intensifies.

  Down on the ground. On the ground now. On your stomach. Keep your hands where we can see them.

  ‘Mate.’

  This voice not shouted, but clearer and closer than the others.

  ‘Control. 426. Officer down. Repeat, officer down. Paramedic required ASAP. Head and facial injuries. Stand by.’

  Something touches my head and I jump.

  ‘Sacha. It’s me, it’s John. Take it easy. You’re safe. Okay? You’re safe now.’

  Facial injuries – that’s what he’d said. My hand trembles as I bring it to my face. There’s blood in my throat, on my tongue. Blood on my fingers when I hold them where I can see them. Blood blurring my vision. And footsteps on the stairs…

  ‘Don’t let him see me,’ I stammer, rushing the words and covering my wounds with both hands. ‘Please don’t let Jake see me.’

  I hear the boots cross the kitchen, voices down the hallway, the click of first the kitchen door closing then the dining room.

  ‘He’s fine, Sacha,’ Russell says, returning to my side. ‘We’ve got him, he’s fine. He’s looked after. Don’t move, stay right there. Shit, mate.’ He stands and turns to the sink.

  I get as far as sitting upright, then have to rest against the kitchen cupboard. My head feels like a watermelon caught beneath the wheel of a tractor. I’ve only just enough sense left to fold my torn blouse across my chest. When Russell crouches again, he takes his phone from his pocket and snaps the camera at my mashed features.

  ‘Hope they’re not for your private collection,’ I mumble, every word drilling through my skull.

  ‘You wish, Sanderson.’ He pockets the phone and the pictures as evidence.

  ‘How did you know?’ I ask, when he raises a damp tea towel to the cut on my forehead. Warm water streaks down past my ear.

  ‘Some little dude put the call in.’

  I lift my head to better see if he’s serious.

  He smiles. ‘What, you didn’t think some of it would rub off?’

  More boots step into the kitchen through the back door.

  ‘Detained,’ a familiar voice confirms. ‘Alright, Sach? Ooh, ouch, nasty.’ PC Neil Smith screws up his features at the sight of me, which I’m guessing is not a good sign.

  I squint up at him. ‘Good to see you back in your best suit.’

  He pats at his utility vest. ‘Only a matter of time.’

  Beside me on the floor, Russell glares up at our colleague.

  Smithy holds out his hands. ‘What?’

  ‘What do you mean, what? Is that any way to speak to your sergeant, son? You know the protocol. Stop standing around jawing and get a brew on.’

  ‘Right, yeah. Sorry, Sarge.’ Smithy steps over to the counter to fill the kettle with water, snagging his lip in childish protest the moment his sergeant’s back is turned.

  ‘Don’t you worry, Sach,’ Russell says beside me, refolding the damp towel to a fresh part and bringing it to my numb cheek. ‘We’ll have you looking pretty again in no time.’

  I jerk my head up from the cupboard, propelled by a sudden urge that forces a stream of vomit from my stomach all over Russell’s boots. He freezes on a gasped inhale. Neither of us move for the longest time, the stunned silence in the room broken only by Smithy’s pathetic attempts to stifle his muffled laughter.

  Chapter 57

  ‘That’s it then. No going back now.’

  Dad watches the seven and a half tonne Walter & Jones removal truck, carrying the contents of his workshop and the remainder of his and Shirley’s belongings, take the turn at the end of the street and disappear from view. All five of us are lined up on the pavement to witness the event, Jake standing on the wall beside me, my arm around his waist.

  ‘Anything else for the car?’ Shaun asks, rearranging cases to fit in the boot of Dad’s Kia Estate.

  ‘I’ll double check.’ Shirley touches a hand to Dad’s shoulder as she passes on her way into the house.

  ‘Well, drive safely,’ I say. ‘Take your time, plenty of breaks. And phone me when you get to your stopover in the Lake District.’

  ‘Yes, yes, and yes, Officer Sanderson.’ He flips a salute that makes his grandson chuckle.

  I whisper in Jake’s ear and he jumps down from the wall to run inside. Once h
e’s gone, I give Dad a hug. This was always going to be the hardest part, and if I’m about to break down, then I would rather Jake wasn’t here to see it. He’s seen me cry enough lately. It’s possible I’ve no tears left after these last few weeks since Darren was arrested and charged for grievous bodily harm, setting in motion a series of events I still haven’t yet come to terms with.

  ‘October half term, Sacha, you promise me. We’ll be waiting. I’ll pay for your flights, I told you. All three of you.’

  ‘We’ll be there,’ I say, letting him go. ‘If I’m back in work by then I’ll tell them it’s pre-arranged. Book a few days leave.’

  He lightly flicks his knuckle under my chin. ‘So you’re not going to tell me you’re quitting, then?’

  ‘Not a chance.’

  ‘Well. Worth a try. When are you going back?’

  ‘As soon as I’ve found a childminder. I’ve a few in mind, just got to narrow it down now. Since Bill extended my sickness leave, I’ve got about three weeks left. Should have it sorted by then. Don’t worry, Dad, honestly, it’s fine. It’s not your problem.’

  He cups his hands around my face, the shine in his eyes different this time from the shine put there when he saw what Darren had done. That was another point at which the Scotland move almost never happened; until I convinced him we’d never have to worry about Darren Isaacs ever again. That he was gone from our lives, and that’s the way it would stay.

  ‘Everything to do with you is my problem,’ Dad says, kissing me on the cheek. ‘There’s a room for you and little ‘un at our place, don’t you forget.’

  ‘What about me?’ Shaun asks, holding out his palm for Dad to shake. He takes the hand offered and pulls Shaun closer for an uncomfortable hug.

  ‘Aye,’ he says wearily, but with a soft laugh, patting him on the back before he releases him again. ‘And one for you too, son. Most definitely one for you too. But only if you all come together. No one left behind. Alright? Promise me that.’

  ‘Of course,’ I say, as Dad dabs at his eyes with a tissue from his pocket.

  ‘Grampy.’

  ‘Yes, my man.’ Dad hurries to pocket the tissue as Jake rushes up to him, holding out a piece of paper, the drawing he made this morning at the kitchen table.

  ‘That’s the last,’ Shirley confirms, coming out from the house with her handbag and coat propped over her arm. ‘Just a holiday. Think of it like that. Just a wee holiday.’

  She says it more to herself than us, but as she hugs first Shaun, then me, and finally Jake, anyone would be forgiven for thinking this was one holiday she’d rather get a refund on.

  ‘You drew this specially for us, wee hen?’ she says, holding the artist’s portrait of his family, the five of us at the farmhouse under the blazing sun with the chickens and baby Highlands for company. Jake puts his arms around her neck when she cries. I have to look away. I think of Mam, how she had shed tears for him too, but her goodbye had been silent, unspoken. Mam won’t be the one he remembers. That saddens me more than I can put into words. But Shirley’s here and Mam’s not. Mam is part of my memories, Shirley will be part of his.

  ‘Come on, Jake,’ I say, gently releasing him from her. ‘Nanna has to go now and get the farmhouse ready for when we visit in the holidays.’

  I lift him onto my hip, and he drops his head to my shoulder. Shirley gets to her feet, lightly rubs his back. Her smile tells me my words are bittersweet, my reference for the first time to her as Jake’s nanna the best parting gift I could have given. She gives me a nod of thanks and I do the same.

  Dad doesn’t glance our way again, getting in the car as if he might never go if he does. He starts the engine, and it’s Shirley who looks over her shoulder as they pull away. Shirley who beams a broad smile and waves. Dad toots the horn, but still doesn’t turn back. He can’t.

  ‘Wave, Jake,’ I say, swallowing over the lump in my throat and shrugging my shoulder so he raises his head. ‘Bon voyage, safe trip, see you in the holidays.’

  He doesn’t join in my fake enthusiasm, but waves his arm in the air until the car is out of sight.

  ‘Can I go watch telly now?’ he says after a moment, curling a lock of my hair around his finger.

  ‘Course you can, mate.’

  Once he’s back on the ground, he runs in through the front door and a second later the sound of cartoons filters out to the two of us who are left in the street.

  ‘He got over that quick enough,’ Shaun says, from where he sits on the wall outside what effectively is now his house. My name is on the deeds too, but only to please Dad in honouring Mam’s wishes. The mortgage is paid, the lucky sod, but I’ll let him have that. He works hard and always contributed to the food bills. I’ve got my own place and a mortgage, but to balance it out I have Jake, which means I won’t be alone. Shaun stares up the road in the direction they left, and I wonder if I should have been more concerned about the effect of their departure on him rather than my son. He’s the one with the empty house now.

  ‘When’s the first rave then?’ I tease, sitting beside him and nudging his elbow. He huffs a laugh, suggesting he doesn’t have the energy for that.

  ‘You know, if you want, Sach,’ he says, ripping up a blade of grass from between the cracks of the pavement beneath his legs, ‘you can stay here. I mean, if you’re afraid or anything.’

  Am I afraid? I’m afraid of a lot of things. Mostly the things I don’t know. But not Darren Isaacs. I’m not afraid of him. Not now I know everything about him.

  ‘Do you mean if you’re afraid?’ I say, and smirk.

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘You fuck off. But nah, you’re alright, we’re good. Besides, wouldn’t want to cramp your style. Heard you and Jen been spending a bit of time together.’

  ‘So? We always fucking have done. We’re friends. That’s what friends do.’

  ‘Alright, whatever. If you say so.’

  He scowls and reaches down to tear up another weed from its roots. His eyes are cool and clear, and their simple honesty is something I’ll never take for granted again.

  ‘Listen, Shaun. I know I complained when you bought Jake that phone, but if you hadn’t I don’t quite know what would have happened. Any one of us could have been hurt.’

  ‘You were hurt. He hurt you.’

  ‘Yeah, but I mean, worse. Jake hurt, or you. Dad, even. Any of us. But none of that happened because you got him the phone.’

  He shrugs a shoulder. ‘I gave him the tools, so what? You gave him the knowledge to call 999 and not be scared shitless when his house was stormed by police.’

  ‘God,’ I say, at the memory of it. Because Shaun, on the other hand, was scared shitless when he came round to put a game on Jake’s phone and found that the police cars screaming around the streets just fifteen minutes before were actually on their way to our house.

  ‘He was brave because of you,’ he says, throwing the remnants of the grass so they float on the breeze to the pavement. He looks at where they land beneath the heel of his trainer for a moment, then lifts his head, his eyes darkened by the crease along his forehead.

  ‘They can never let him out though. You know that, don’t you?’

  I squint against the sun to see what he means.

  ‘Because if they do, Sach, I’ll fucking kill the bastard. And I don’t care how long they put me away for.’

  Chapter 58

  It’s taken four weeks since Dad left, but finally I’ve plucked up the courage to drive over here. Seven weeks since Darren stormed into my house and in the process of attacking me loosened his tongue a little more than he probably wishes he’d done in hindsight. Not that it matters. I was already putting the pieces together by then. The message left on my voicemail by Eliza’s father was the point at which my eyes slowly opened to the possibility that his daughter hadn’t returned to Ireland as everyone said. Hadn’t, in fact, left home at all.

  We’re into autumn now. Rain spits at the windscreen as I stare up the road t
o the place I won’t ever come to again after today. I’ve done one set of shifts so far after returning to work. Paid a hefty cake fine for refusing to let a suspect go despite unreasonable risk to personal safety, while at the same time received a commendation from the Inspector for commitment and bravery in the line of duty. Not strictly in the line of duty, of course, but once an officer, always an officer, on-duty or otherwise. Jake, too, is something of a hero, receiving his own commendation issued by South East Wales Police for outstanding bravery and courageous action in adversity, which resulted in his picture printed in the local paper and flaunted around the internet, clutching his official certificate and award. The Sanderson family will be dining out on that for many years to come, I feel.

  For reasons I haven’t yet managed to grasp, events of that evening even seem to have diminished Jake’s fear of blood. Though he didn’t see me immediately after the assault, instead staying with Dad and Shirley while Shaun came with me to the hospital, in the days afterwards when the sutured cut on my forehead would sometimes weep with blood, he never once showed alarm. It would be nice to think that his taking action and helping me that time has enabled his subconscious to relate injury and hurt to help and assistance, as opposed to helplessness, where perhaps that fear originated. For the time being, I’ve asked his teachers to observe him around incidents in the playground rather than whisk him away from them, and to report back how he reacts. If any signs of the phobia persist, or reappear, I’ll refer him through Bill Wilson for Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, something I’d always intended to do when he was older if I couldn’t first help him myself. And as I’ve learned in the last few months, parental instinct goes a long way. Mine had been working well enough right from the very start, more than six years. I needn’t have doubted it.

  I get out of the car so I can look at the place properly. The air is mild despite the light rain. Leaving the raincoat on the back seat, I tug the hood of my thin cotton jacket over my head as I cross the road, walk up to the house, and stop at the bottom of the front steps. I don’t wish to go any further than this. Even if the police tape didn’t still ring the entire property, I wouldn’t get any closer. It’s only a house – Ty Bryn written in gold script on a dark grey slate hanging beside the door – but I want to look it in the eye. Let it know I have the measure of it now. It fooled me enough times. Never again.