by Ben Cheetham
Neal stumbled but didn’t go down. He twisted to clamp his hands onto Jack’s head. Jack realised that he’d badly miscalculated. An insane strength pulsed through Neal’s hands. The pressure on Jack’s skull was so intense that he feared his head would be crushed like a melon in a vice. His fingers sought the wound in Neal’s side and pressed into the warm, sticky laceration. Grimacing, Neal thrust Jack to the ground.
Neal turned to wade into the water. It was deceptively deep. Within a few paces, it was up to his thighs. “Oh dear, I’m a quarter gone,” he said in that same chanting voice. Another couple of steps and the water was past his waist. “Oh I’m half gone.” The water rose to his shoulders. “I’m three-quarters gone.” Gurgling as the water filled his mouth, Neal exclaimed, “I’m all gone!”
As the water closed over Neal’s head, Jack scrambled to his feet and plunged into the river. It shelved steeply beneath his feet, cold enough to snatch his breath away. Struggling to get enough oxygen into his lungs, he ducked under the surface. A vague shape was visible through the dark water a metre or two down. Jack dove towards it, stretching out a hand. He caught hold of Neal’s arm and attempted to pull him upwards. Neal prised his hand away. Jack returned to the surface, sucked in air and dove again. This time, Neal grabbed Jack and pulled him so close that their eyes were centimetres apart. He held Jack there for a moment, then shoved him away. Jack broke the surface with a gasp. He didn’t dive again. He’d read the warning in Neal’s tortured eyes – Leave me alone, unless you want to die with me.
Jack waded to the shore and dropped panting to the smooth pebbles. He watched the water. A few bubbles burst on the surface above Neal, then there was nothing. The river flowed on. He heaved a sigh.
“Jack!”
He turned at the familiar voice. Eric was running through the trees accompanied by officers sporting semi-automatic rifles.
“We saw you coming down the hill,” said Eric. “Where’s Neal?”
Jack pointed towards the river. “In there.”
Eric’s eyebrows lifted. “Bloody hell. How long’s he been under?”
“Too long.”
“Are you sure?”
Jack nodded. “I tried to pull him out but…” He trailed off into another heavy sigh.
“Where are his mother and father?”
“Back at the farm, along with Butterfly, Charlie and Karl.”
“Bloody hell,” Eric exclaimed again. “We found Phil Beech, shot dead.”
Nodding as if he’d expected to hear as much, Jack handed Eric the Glock. “I took that from Neal after he put a bullet in Karl.”
Jack’s words prompted a third, “Bloody hell,” from Eric. “I’d better call an ambulance.”
“Butterfly’s already called for one. Not that it’ll do much good.”
As Jack rose to his feet, Eric suggested, “We’ll head up to the farm in my car.”
They made their way along the riverbank, emerging from the trees at a lane that had already been cordoned off by police tape in readiness for scene of the crime officers.
Eric’s Landrover was parked on the wooden bridge. They set off in it, followed by the AFOs in a BMW with red ‘armed response vehicle’ stars in the windows.
They found Pam at the farmyard gate holding her head in her hands as if she already knew Neal’s fate. She said nothing, avoiding eye contact as Eric cuffed her wrists.
The AFOs went into the house, shouting, “Armed police!”
They re-emerged with Butterfly and Charlie. Jack didn’t need to ask about Karl’s condition. Butterfly’s grim face said it all. She hurried across to him. He enveloped her and Charlie in a hug, kissing them. “Oh Jack, I…” Butterfly trailed off as if she didn’t know what to say.
“It’s OK,” he said softly.
“I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again.”
He smiled. “You won’t get away from me that easily.”
“I don’t ever want to be away from…” Butterfly’s voice faltered. “I don’t ever want…” she repeated, wrinkling her forehead as if her mind had suddenly gone blank. She swayed on her feet.
Jack caught her. “What’s wrong?”
Butterfly didn’t hear him. The drum was beating in her head like a panicked heart. She felt as if she was on a roundabout, spinning faster and faster. The world was blurring. As her body went limp, she pushed Charlie into Jack’s arms and slipped through his hands like cooked spaghetti.
“Butterfly,” he exclaimed as her eyes rolled back in their sockets.
She tried to speak, but all that came out was a garbled, “Tfggn ohfg Chgliee.” She felt a stab of frustration. Take care of Charlie. That was all she wanted to say. Why wouldn’t the words come?
The world wobbled back into focus. Jack was looking away from her, his mouth opening and closing frantically. Charlie was staring at her with his big blue-grey eyes. He looked as placid as a Buddha. She held onto his gaze with everything she had, but it wasn’t enough. The drumming swept her up and carried her away to some unremembered place.
Chapter 27
She could hear voices, but they were so faint she couldn’t make out what they were saying. Like a fish swimming against a strong current, she edged towards the voices. Slowly, ever so slowly, they grew loud enough that she could identify an occasional word – well… expected… how…longer… not…
She clung to the words, using them to pull herself forwards fraction by fraction. She could see a light now, as if she was approaching the end of a tunnel. The light was growing brighter. Suddenly she found herself squinting up into a man’s face. He had worried brown eyes. He was wearing a baggy sweatshirt and tracksuit bottoms. At his side was a bespectacled, suited man whose expression was both concerned and curious. They were in a white room of humming, beeping machines.
“Welcome back,” said the bespectacled man. “How are you feeling?”
“How am I feeling?” she murmured, forming each word tentatively like someone testing out a new language.
“Any pain?”
She replied with the slightest shake of her head. Her body felt warm and floaty.
The other man took her hand in his. His fingers were clammy. “Butterfly,” he said, his voice edged with anxiety and hope.
“Butterfly,” she echoed. Then, as if the word had pierced a membrane in her mind, it all came rushing back. A small smile found its way onto her lips. “Hi Jack.”
Heaving a breath of relief, Jack broke into a smile too.
“Where am I?” asked Butterfly.
“Cumberland Infirmary in Carlisle,” the bespectacled man informed her.
Butterfly’s bleary gaze shifted to him. “Hello Doctor Summers.”
“So you remember our names. That’s very good,” said the doctor. “What else do you remember?”
Butterfly’s eyebrows pinched together as an image of Karl’s lifeless face flashed through her mind. For a moment, she couldn’t bring herself to speak. Then she asked, “Where’s Charlie?”
“He’s with Laura and Naomi,” said Jack.
“I want to see him.”
“You will do soon,” said Doctor Summers. “Right now you need to rest. You’ve been through a long operation.”
“The bullet,” Butterfly murmured with sudden realisation. Trembling with the effort, she lifted a hand to her bandaged head.
“We removed it.”
Her eyes danced between the doctor and Jack as if she couldn’t believe her ears. “It’s out?”
“That’s right,” smiled Jack.
She released a shuddering breath. It’s out! her mind exclaimed. And you’re still here. You’re still Butterfly. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh, cry or do both.
Jack’s smiled wavered. As if he could hardly bring himself to say it, he began hesitantly, “Karl said he killed Sutton and Beech. That’s right, isn’t it? He killed them both?”
Butterfly’s gaze drifted off, a cleft forming between her eyebrows again. Had Karl killed Sutton or had h
e said he did to protect her?
“I’m not sure you should be asking those types of questions now,” said Doctor Summers.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” Jack’s gaze sought out Butterfly’s. “And anyway, I already know the answer.”
Her haunted eyes met his. “Do you?”
Recovering his smile, he nodded. “Now close your eyes. Get some sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
“You promise?”
Jack gently squeezed her hand. “I promise.”
With a shudder, Butterfly allowed her eyelids to slide down. Another image flashed into her mind. She saw herself standing over a lifeless body as fat as an old pig. She was holding the Glock. A bullet had already torn away part of Dale’s skull, splattering chunks of bone and brain over the rug. But that didn’t stop her from pulling the trigger again and again and again, until his babyishly smooth face had been all but obliterated. As the echo of the final bullet faded away, she stared at him with cold nothing in her eyes.
Chapter 28
Jack lifted Charlie out of his car seat. Butterfly was still too unsteady on her feet to carry him. The operation had played havoc with her balance. The tablets Doctor Summers had prescribed only partially alleviated the dizziness that washed over her every time she stood up. She adjusted her bobble hat in the mirror before getting out of the car. It was an unseasonably warm September day, but her hair had not yet grown back enough to completely conceal the curving Frankenstein scar on the lower left side of her skull. Not that she felt particularly self-conscious about the scar. Much like with the tattoo, it was simply easier not to have to answer the questions it prompted.
With Charlie nestled in the crook of his arm, Jack took hold of Butterfly’s uninjured hand. The fingers Butch had broken were still bandaged and splinted. “We can’t stay long,” he reminded her.
They had an appointment at Greater Manchester Police Headquarters that afternoon. Ostensibly it was to go over Butterfly’s statement, but Jack had been given a heads up as to the real reason. Despite having Sutton’s blood on her clothes, her fingerprints being on the Glock and a gunpowder residue test showing she’d been within close proximity of the pistol when it was discharged, Butterfly was to be officially informed that no charges would be laid against her. Jack had heard Karl’s dying confession. The ligature marks where Karl had tied Butterfly’s wrists and ankles confirmed that she’d been with him under duress. Beech’s bloody fingerprints had been found on Karl’s throat. Footprints with tread patterns matching Karl’s trainers had been found at the edge of the pond where Sutton’s corpse was dumped. All of it added together was seemingly enough to put Butterfly in the clear.
Jack pressed a buzzer, and a nurse came to the door. “How is she today?” Butterfly asked as they signed-in.
“Same as usual,” answered the nurse.
Same as usual. In other words, away with the fairies. Butterfly sighed.
“It’ll brighten her up seeing Charlie,” Jack tried to reassure her.
She pursed her lips doubtfully, recalling her previous visit. She stopped outside her grandma’s room and said to Jack, “Do you mind if I talk to her alone for a moment?”
“Of course not,” he said, looking askance at her.
Without replying to the question in his eyes, she went into the room. Shirley was laid in bed, staring off into space. Butterfly searched her face. It was like looking at a blank page. She rested a hand on her grandma’s spindly arm. “Hello Grandma, it’s me.”
It’s me. It was such a vague way to identify herself, but there seemed little point saying, It’s Butterfly, when Shirley would have known her as Tracy. Removing the bullet hadn’t brought Tracy back. Or Io. Those parts of her remained cloaked in darkness.
Not that it would have made any difference if she’d called herself Tracy. Shirley continued to stare obliviously at the ceiling.
Butterfly stooped closer, so close that Shirley’s frizzy grey hair tickled her eyes. “We got him, Grandma,” she whispered into Shirley’s ear. “The man who murdered Mum, Dad and Charlie is dead.”
She drew back to look in Shirley’s eyes. Nothing. Not even the faintest flicker of awareness. Tears threatened to fill Butterfly’s eyes. She fought them back, remonstrating with herself, What did you expect? You’re about ten years too late.
Before turning to leave, she kissed her grandma’s forehead and murmured, “I’m sorry.”
“What’s going on?” asked Jack, catching hold of Butterfly’s hand as she passed him.
“I’m sorry,” she apologised again. “You were right. We shouldn’t have come here today.”
Jack gave her a look that suggested he understood completely why she’d needed to make the trip.
“I still don’t know whether to hate or pity Neal,” she said.
“You don’t need to feel anything for him anymore. He can’t ever harm you again.”
Charlie stretched his hands towards her, mumbling, “M…m…”
As always, Butterfly found a smile for him. Keeping a tight hold of her hand, Jack headed for the car.
As they left behind Rochdale, Butterfly stared silently out of the window. A short while later they were passing through the outskirts of Manchester. She drew in an apprehensive breath when the glass and concrete box of GMP HQ came into view.
“Remember what we discussed,” said Jack. “Keep it simple.”
Butterfly nodded. They’d been over and over what she should say, especially where Dale Sutton was concerned. “When I passed out, Dale was still alive. And when I regained consciousness, I was back in the car.”
“And that’s all you need to say.”
Butterfly turned to Jack, her eyes tormented with the question – Is it? “I had the dream again last night. Karl was trying to make me shoot Dale. That sound, that drum was banging in my head. I fell to the floor and everything went black. But this time I regained consciousness in the bungalow and said to Karl, ‘Give me the gun.’” Her voice quickened. “And he gave me it and I pointed it at Dale’s head and–”
“You’ve got to stop this, Butterfly,” cut in Jack. “It was only a dream.”
“But what if it’s not just a dream?”
“It is. So stop torturing yourself. Do you hear?” When Butterfly didn’t reply, he repeated, “Do you hear?”
She gave a little nod, tentatively lifting a hand to her forehead as if afraid of what she might find. “It’s strange, even though the bullet’s gone, I can still feel it in there sometimes. I can feel Tracy and Io too, even though I can’t remember them.”
“Doctor Summers said that if your memory hasn’t returned by now, it most likely never will.”
“I don’t care what he says. They’re in there.”
A barrier lifted and Jack pulled into the carpark. “We shouldn’t be talking about this. Let’s just concentrate on getting through the next hour. OK?”
“M…m…m…” Charlie chirped up.
Butterfly glanced at him. She gave another more determined nod. “When I passed out, Dale was still alive. And when I regained consciousness, I was back in the car,” she repeated. “Karl told me he’d shot Dale. I tried to run away with Charlie. That’s when he tied me up…” she trailed off with a shake of her head.
“I know you hate lying, Butterfly, but ask yourself this – what would telling the truth achieve?” Jack stooped his head to catch her eyes. “Besides, Karl did shoot Sutton. All that crap about Io coming back was just him trying to manipulate you. The fact that you refused to shoot Beech proves what I’m saying.” He cupped Butterfly’s chin, angling it towards him. “You can do this. Tell them what they need to hear, then we can go home and get on with being a family. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“More than anything.” For the first time, there was genuine conviction in Butterfly’s voice. “But it’s not just the lying. It’s…” Once again, she faded off into a troubled silence.
“It’s what? You think Io will come back and hurt som
eone? That’s not going to happen, and I’ll tell you why. Karl’s gone. Neal’s gone. There’s no reason for Io to come back.”
Karl’s gone. The words sent a sharp little pain through Butterfly’s heart. She glanced at herself in the wing mirror. The tattoo’s colours somehow seemed to have lost their lustre since his death. “There’s no reason for Io to come back,” she echoed.
“That’s right. Now come on, let’s get this over with.”
They got out of the car. Jack lifted Charlie from his seat. Pressing her nose to Charlie’s head, Butterfly inhaled deeply as if seeking to draw strength from him.
They headed into the building. Jack nodded hello to his colleagues as they made their way along a corridor. They caught a lift up to the Serious Crime Division’s floor.
They were met by Steve. An angry red indent above Steve’s right eye lingered from his fight with Karl. “You’re looking a lot better,” he said to Butterfly.
She smiled. “No I’m not, but thanks anyway.”
Steve broke into his usual cheeky-chappie grin as he turned to Charlie. “Bloody hell, Charlie boy, you get bigger every time I see you.”
Butterfly felt another squeeze in her chest. Charlie boy. That was what Karl had called Charlie.
“No need to look so worried,” Steve said to her. “This is just a formality. The DCI’s waiting in interview room two.”
They made their way to a claustrophobically windowless little room with a table and three chairs in it. The table was cluttered with recording equipment, case files and mugs of coffee. Two of the chairs were already occupied. Detective Chief Inspector Paul Gunn – a mid-forties man with grizzled hair and a face almost as crumpled as his suit – rose to shake Jack and Butterfly’s hand. He introduced the other attendee – a late middle-aged woman with broad angular features that made Butterfly think of the Brays. “This is Detective Inspector Alice Hayton of Cumbria CID.”
A frown tugged at Jack’s eyebrows. “No one mentioned that a detective from Cumbria would be present.”