Blood Loss

by Kerena Swan

‘Sorry. I didn’t take much notice of the other year groups.’

  ‘You always stood out for me. How are you?’

  ‘Stood out?’ I know I’m fishing for a compliment, and I should avoid anyone who knows me, but I’m curious. I wouldn’t consider myself striking and my fragile ego needs a boost.

  ‘You always looked… I don’t know – delicate, like you needed someone to look out for you.’ He gives me a small, almost apologetic smile. ‘I heard you’d moved to Manchester.’

  I feel a prickle of unease. ‘Who told you that?’ I was right to change my name when I went there. I’ve only been back here a couple of days and already my past is haunting me.

  ‘I read it on Facebook. Someone had seen a discussion about your dad on a crime forum recently.’ He shrugs and grimaces. ‘Sorry, that was tactless.’

  Bloody Facebook. Full of bitchy girls mouthing off about my dad and how he should be banged up for the rest of his life. I’d secretly agreed with them at the time, but I’m mortified that my family’s sordid past has been unearthed via a crime forum eight years after the event. When the story flared up again two years ago following a television documentary, I’d closed my Facebook account, left the area and changed my name as it was the only way to escape the gossip.

  ‘You weren’t to blame for what your father did, everyone knows that.’ He reaches a hand out to rest it on my forearm but I back away with a shrug and pick up a book, making a play of studying the cover to let him know the conversation is over.

  ‘Do you fancy going for a coffee somewhere?’

  God, he’s persistent. I continue to look at the book. ‘No, sorry, I’m working.’

  I’m mulling over his comment about me looking fragile. I suppose he means vulnerable and he’s right. I was vulnerable. Still am, in fact. Perhaps that’s why I seem to attract the wrong men. They think they can use me and abuse me because happiness never comes my way. But I’m sick of being made to feel I don’t matter and I’m pushing back.

  ‘Excuse me.’ I steer the trolley past him and head for the reference section. He might just want a chat and a catch-up but I’m not taking any risks. I don’t want another relationship until I’ve got my life on track, and even then it’ll be on my terms.

  I stack a few more books, studying the covers and blurbs on the back before I slot them onto the correct shelves. Who reads books about fishing anecdotes or the Japanese guide to the art of tidying? My mouth curls into a smile. Maybe I should take that one home for Mum.

  I pick one up about DNA testing and flick through the pages, reading stories about people who have tried to trace their ancestry then been shocked to discover they’re not related to their family at all. I think about my parents. I’d be happy not to be related to my dad.

  I put the book on its shelf and walk on but then it hits me – an idea that has me sinking into the nearest chair. Maybe I’m not related to the man I’ve always believed to be my dad. What if Mum did have an affair with Colin from her work and he’s my real father? If Dad thought I wasn’t his child all these years, it would explain why he’s always loathed the sight of me.

  I have to do a DNA test and soon.

  Back at the house I make myself a cup of tea and, while Mum lies on the sofa drinking vodka, sit at the table to study the book about DNA testing which I decided to bring home from the library. Her words are already slurring and she looks dreadful. She’s managed to get dressed but her clothes are crumpled and stained, and her stringy hair hangs limply around her grey-skinned face. She’s aged so much, and I can’t help but think what a waste her life has been.

  I put the book down and sit on the sofa by her feet. ‘Mum, I’m going to write to Dad.’

  She looks at me with her mouth open. ‘Why? You haven’t wanted to for the past eight years.’

  ‘I’ll ask him to do a DNA test and I’ll do one too. Something you said the other night about not being unfaithful got me thinking and now it all makes sense. Dad’s convinced I’m not his child, isn’t he?’

  ‘Of course he isn’t.’

  ‘That’s why he never loved me. Jesus, I can’t believe I never realised this before. We’ve never had anything in common. We don’t even look alike.’ I’d also like to know that I haven’t inherited a gene that gives me a predisposition for violence – that I was pushed into it rather than it being part of my genetic make-up.

  Mum struggles to sit up. ‘He is your dad. I swear on my life. Don’t waste your time or money. Those kit thingies aren’t accurate. They give… Oh what did they call them on the telly? False readings. That was it.’

  ‘You were probably watching some daytime TV shit. I’m reading all about the tests in a book I got from the library and the results are accurate.’

  Mum snorts with scorn.

  ‘People are tracking their ancestors all the time. One woman found out she was two percent Norwegian and another that she had fourth cousins in New Zealand. Now they all meet up. It’s fascinating.’ I might be related to people I’ve never heard of. If Colin is my father, I might have uncles and aunts, cousins and even grandparents. I carry on regardless of her derision, ‘If you didn’t have an affair, then you’ve got nothing to worry about.’

  ‘I did not have an affair!’ Mum shouts.

  I jump in surprise at her flash of anger then move my head just in time to avoid her glass whistling past my ear. It smashes against the wall with a bang, glass shattering across the floor. Next door, the dog starts barking and a voice yells for it to shut up.

  ‘You’re crazy,’ I say shakily, getting to my feet. ‘I’m going to do this, Mum. He’s at Belmarsh prison, isn’t he?’

  Mum slumps back into the cushions, shuts her eyes and refuses to say another word.

  Chapter 13

  February | DI Paton

  February

  Paton pulled his collar higher to keep out the bitter wind whistling around the side of the building. This wasn’t the best place to make a personal call, but he couldn’t do it from the office. As the sound amplified and crackled into his phone he couldn’t hear if there was ringing at the other end so gave up and pressed the red button. It was no good. He’d have to walk to his car and waste a few more minutes.

  The snow had stopped but was several inches thick on the ground, giving a satisfying creak as he put his weight on it.

  ‘Just a flindrikin,’ Cheryl had said about the weather.

  ‘A what?’ Paton wondered when he’d remember all the strange words the locals used.

  ‘A wee bout of snow here and there. Nothing to get het up about.’

  Clearly snow was a fact of life in Perth. They rarely saw any when Paton had lived in Weymouth but he’d get used to it. Once inside the vehicle he started the engine and put the heater on full blast. He was hungry. He’d only had time to pack something for Tommy and now his stomach groaned. Was there anything to eat in the glove box? He leaned over and flicked it open. A cereal bar and some Werther’s Originals. Hardly a proper lunch but it would keep the pangs at bay.

  He dialled Wendy again but the phone rang out and he stared at it in frustration. Wendy’s depression was getting harder to cope with, especially now this case demanded all his attention. He pictured her lying in bed, where she’d been for the past two days, the duvet wrapped tight over her ears to shut the world out. Tommy was used to it, had grown up with it, but Paton had to ensure his son was safe. Even with Wendy in bed upstairs Tommy could be at risk. What if he set light to something in the kitchen again? When he’d tried to warm a pan of soup the other day and left the corner of the tea towel in the gas flame, he’d panicked and run out of the room. What if Paton hadn’t been there to whip it off the cooker and throw it into the sink?

  Tommy would arrive home from school in half an hour. Paton would have to go home and prepare Tommy a snack and settle him in front of an old police drama before he could return to the office. He rang Cheryl to say he had to go somewhere but he’d be back for the team meeting at four. He didn’t need to te
ll her where or why. She knew.

  Paton listened to the evidence gathered by his team and his spirits sank further. The investigation wasn’t going well and his DCI wasn’t happy. A week had already lapsed, they still didn’t have a definite identity for the victim and the forensics would take another couple of days yet. Who the hell was this man? Surely someone was missing him by now.

  The tyre tracks had revealed that the treads could belong to numerous types of small, compact cars, and the vehicle had departed at a steady speed. Whoever had left there had been driving cautiously so as not to get noticed, but the tracks did show which direction they took as they left the lane. The tyre tracks heading into the property must have been washed away by rain. Judging by the recent weather, that meant the victim most likely stayed in most of the week.

  ‘Any luck with looking at the recordings of cars entering the motorway in the right time frame?’ Paton asked Mitchell. He knew he was clutching at straws but the roads might have been quiet at that time.

  ‘We counted over two hundred, boss. We’ve got the number plates. Do you want us to check them all?’

  Two hundred? Damn. Paton thought for a moment. It would be time-consuming but it might give them a lead. ‘Yes, please, but just the cars with tyres that might fit the tracks. They’re a universal tyre type used for a number of small cars so focus on them. Forget the vans and 4x4 Range Rovers.’

  No doubt the DCI and the SIO wouldn’t be pleased at the expense but he was running out of ideas to move the investigation forward, and desperate to make a good impression with this case. Cheryl raised her hand. ‘Do we know yet how Richard Newman got to the cabin in the first place, Boss?’

  Before he could answer, a young woman from the incident room put her head around the door and everyone turned to look at her.

  ‘We’ve just taken a call and we’ve got a possible match for your victim.’ She looked excited and Paton wondered briefly if she aspired to being a detective. ‘A woman in Leeds has reported her husband missing and he fits the description.’

  Chapter 14

  The Following June | Jenna

  ‘Surprise!’ A crowd of brightly dressed people are crammed into the lounge as we open the door, all holding glasses aloft. ‘Happy Birthday!’ they chorus.

  Mum clutches her chest. Is that a flash of dismay in her eyes or is it just shock? ‘Oh, my word!’ She laughs but so loudly that it sounds forced. ‘What are you all doing here?’

  Her face is shining but is it more from the exfoliating facial she’s just had than the excitement of a birthday party she didn’t ask for? I watch her closely as she hugs and kisses her friends and colleagues from the University. Lucy stands a few feet away, hair and make-up perfect, and wearing a new summer dress – a sharp contrast to me in my T-shirt and leggings, and not even a trace of make-up. She has a self-satisfied smile on her face.

  Grace has helped with the party arrangements so she’s there too. She’s made an effort to dress up for it in a neat blue top and skirt that bring out the chestnut of her hair instead of the drab browns and blacks I’m used to seeing her in, but she doesn’t look quite comfortable in a crowd and there’s concern in her eyes as she watches Mum. Clearly, Grace doesn’t think this is a good idea either.

  Poor Mum puts on an award-winning performance of enjoyment. ‘This is wonderful.’

  She sweeps her arm to indicate the double doors leading to the garden where the open flap of a marquee gives a glimpse of tables laden with food and trays of sparkling wine. Miniature lights strung through the trees glimmer with the promise of a fairy tale wonderland when the sun goes down, and music plays softly from the borrowed sound system.

  ‘I’m pleased you like it. I want to make your birthday special. I’ve been busy setting up all day!’ Lucy grins like the winner of Britain’s Got Talent.

  I wait for her to mention that Grace and I helped with the preparations, but she’s embracing Mum and wishing her a happy birthday. Bloody hell! After all the effort I put in? Running errands, collecting names for the invite list, writing a menu, doing a supermarket shop while Grace has cleaned and polished like crazy. My indignation rises and my face grows warm. I’m about to open my mouth when there’s a light touch on my arm.

  ‘Let her have her moment of glory,’ Grace says.

  ‘She didn’t thank you either.’

  Grace shrugs. I suppose she thinks she doesn’t deserve special thanks as she’s only done what she was paid to do. She won’t say anything against Lucy anyway. It isn’t her way to say anything against anyone. ‘Your turn will come,’ she says, and, as I watch her gaze tracking Mum around the room, I realise that what she’s really saying is, Don’t start bickering with Lucy now or you’ll ruin your mum’s birthday.

  ‘You’re right,’ I tell her, feeling a little ashamed of my indignation.

  Grace pats my arm then picks up a tray of drinks and begins to circulate, offering them to guests. I’m about to slip out of the room to get changed when Mum catches my hand.

  ‘Thanks, Jenna. I’m guessing the spa day was a strategy to keep me out of the house. Did you help plan the party too?’

  ‘A bit. Was it a nice surprise?’

  Mum’s smile is valiant but can’t quite hide the strain. ‘It’s lovely to see everyone and I’m flattered you’ve both gone to so much trouble. I won’t forget this birthday.’

  ‘Grace helped too.’ I nod at her and catch her eye. She walks over to us and offers us glasses of bubbly. ‘Thanks, Grace,’ I say, thinking the alcohol might help me relax.

  I take it to my room and drink it while I’m getting changed.

  Back downstairs, and feeling more like my old self with my dreadlocks adorned with ribbons to match my floral dress and strappy sandals, I take a deep breath then make my way to the throng of people in the marquee. I don’t know why Lucy insisted on this glorified tent in the garden. There’s plenty of room in the house. Actually, I do know why she insisted on a marquee. It’s to impress people. Other people’s admiration, and even possibly envy, are so important to Lucy. That’s why she needs the flashy car, designer handbag and a bigger house.

  My hand hovers over a glass of orange juice. Sod it, why not? I take another glass of Prosecco instead but decide to make this my last because I’m not great with alcohol. Lucy is playing the role of the hostess and flitting from one group to another, soaking up their praise like a lizard under a heat lamp. Her fiancé, Ellis, stands alone in the corner, his head bowed under the low fabric ceiling. I don’t know what she sees in him. He’s a tall, streak of piss whose idea of fun is trying to improve his Mensa score. I suppose Lucy enjoys taking the lead in the relationship, and, as he has the backbone of an invertebrate, he lets her.

  I listen as Lucy talks to a couple of middle-aged lecturers about the lack of commitment from students who seem more motivated by parties and alcohol than by learning. I approach them to join in, but Lucy directs them away to introduce them to another couple. I stand still, feeling foolish until Grace appears next to me.

  ‘You look lovely, Jenna. Your hair’s amazing.’

  ‘Lucy thinks I’m an embarrassment.’ I gulp down the last mouthful of wine and rub the end of my nose. It’s starting to go numb. A sure sign that the alcohol is hitting my blood stream.

  ‘You know Lucy loves you really. She just wants you to fit in.’

  ‘I’m getting another drink. Want one?’

  ‘Maybe you should eat something first.’

  I was going to get an orange juice but fuck it. I’ll have another Prosecco. I watch people pile their plates with food from the buffet and cringe inwardly at the platters of cold beef and ham, thinking of the poor animals that have been sacrificed to provide this feast. The roasted cauliflower bites and spinach pinwheels I made are being overlooked in favour of the mini bacon and egg quiches and chicken skewers. I grudgingly admit that Lucy was right about the food and people’s preferences.

  I manage to chat superficially with a few people and nod as the
y lavish praise on Mum about her work. They ask me how she’s managing without Dad, and I lie and say she’s coping well.

  ‘What are you doing these days, Gemma?’ an old friend of Mum and Dad’s asks.

  He never gets my bloody name right. His permanently raised eyebrows have creased his forehead into furrows and the hairy mole on his nose moves as he speaks. I fight the urge to giggle.

  ‘I’m planning to travel soon – Cambodia, Thailand and maybe Vietnam.’

  ‘How wonderful. Are you taking a gap year? Oh no, silly me. You’ll already have finished University. What was it you studied? I can’t recall.’

  I bet he knows I didn’t even make it through Sixth Form College, the old bastard. ‘Life studies,’ I say with a sweet smile, then I make my excuses and walk away, giving the uneven floor my full attention. Why do my family and their friends always make me feel such a failure?

  After twenty minutes I can’t take any more polite chit chat and the alcohol is making me feel disassociated from everything. I slip outside to stand behind the marquee and watch the sunset instead. I’ve almost emptied my third glass of wine and am marvelling at how the horizon is tilting like a plate on a juggler’s pole when I realise I’m not alone. Ellis is standing next to me eating raspberry cheesecake.

  ‘Like to try?’ he asks, holding some out on a fork.

  It looks rather nice and I do need something to mop up the alcohol. I open my mouth like a baby bird but almost miss the spoon. He lifts a finger and gently wipes a smear of cream from the corner of my mouth. Oops. It occurs to me that I haven’t checked that the cheesecake is vegan and I’m about to ask when he leans forward and kisses me, burrowing his tongue between my lips.

  Eugh. Gross! I push against his chest and lean away from him but he moves forward, one arm around my waist so he can keep his mouth on mine. I push again, and take a step backwards, but my heel catches in something and the pushing turns to clutching as I fight to keep my balance.