by S A Tameez
“Mr Bailey,” a voice emerged from behind him. He stood up quickly and felt his calf pull. The pain didn’t register immediately, he knew it would later.
“Is she OK?” he asked as he saw the doctor stood in the doorway.
“She’s stable. But I can’t tell you anything else right now.” That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. He wanted him to smile and tell him that she was fine, full recovery and nothing to worry about, in fact, she’s ready to leave this dingy, disinfectant smelling shithole. Go home with their new Michael and live happily ever after.
“We were wondering whether you wanted to see your son?” Dr Waheed’s words terrified him. His son? Of course, he wanted to see his son, but could he bear to see him? Did he deserve to see him? The one who carried him, painfully, for the last 9 months, the one who nurtured him, had to deal with all of this on her own – she was the one who deserved to see him. Hold him. Embrace him. Not the fraud who stepped in at the last minute seeking all the glory.
“Mr Bailey?”
“Yes,” he responded quietly, “Yes, I would like to see my son.”
He followed Dr Waheed nervously into a room with a few incubators and bright blue lights.
“Your son has Jaundice,” Dr Waheed said casually. The word sent a swarm of butterflies into Nick’s stomach.
“What? Is he OK?” Nick vaguely remembered Stacey mentioning Jaundice and told him to read up on it. He never did. Like many other things, he left it up to her. Never imagining that he might have to deal with anything like this on his own.
“He’s fine. Very healthy in fact, 7 pounds and 8 ounces. Did you know that weight, 7 pounds 8 ounces is the exact average of a new-born baby in the UK? What are the chances, hey?” he said with raised eyebrows. It was irritating that his son was now just a statistic. He couldn’t even blame Dr Waheed, this was his job. He saw this and dealt with it every day. Nothing special, nothing to worry about.
“The Jaundice?” Nick asked ignoring his insensitive excitement.
“Oh, yes, sorry,” he said with his smile and eyebrows dropping. His expression turning more professional, more serious. “It’s nothing to worry about – it’s very common for Caesarean babies to have Jaundice. It occurs due to blood containing an excess of bilirubin – yellow pigment of red blood cells. It will clear up soon.” He smiled reassuringly, “You can pick him up,” he said pointing at the little guy.
Nick’s eyes opened wide as he looked down at a beautiful little boy in just a nappy. His eyes were covered, presumably to prevent the light from damaging them. But he felt as if the boy had covered them purposefully, so he didn’t have to look at the charlatan stood before him. The man who chose not be part of their lives until now. Until he was forced to.
His cheeks were puffy, and he had light fluffy hair. He looked perfect. Nick could feel his eyes welling up. It felt like a Déjà vu. He was too frightened to pick up straight away. He wished Stacey were here – she would whisk him in her arms and know exactly what to do. He was too worried. Worried that something would go wrong. Terribly wrong, like it did last time. The curse – everything he touched left him.
“He’s fine, honestly.” Dr Waheed said, “You can pick him up. He’ll like that.”
Flashbacks of Michael made him want to break down and cry, but he reminded himself that this wasn’t Michael. Michael was gone. Never meant to be here. He was living the rest of his life somewhere else, somewhere better than here.
This was his son, not Michael but his son, and he needed him. Needed him now more than ever.
He reached for him, hands trembling and picked him up. He felt light and vulnerable. Cold. But alive, very much alive.
“He’s a wiggler,” Dr Waheed said.
He sure is.
Nick sat on the chair next to the incubator and removed the fabric covering his eyes. He looked up at Nick and their eyes locked for the first time. He didn’t have anger or disappointment in his eyes. He looked at him with trust and dependence.
Everything else in the room disappeared. Just him and his son remained.
Love at first sight.
A moment he knew would never leave him. He was a father. Not sure whether he would be a good father, but he would try. He would do whatever it took be a father, a real father. Attend every school assembly, sports day, everything. Play with him, any game he wanted, protect him. Be there for him. Never miss a moment, this he promised himself. Whether he could keep his promise, only time would tell but for now, it was set in stone. This was his life. Everything he wanted. Him, his son and… the thought of Stacey came back to him. He realised that although it was a remarkable moment, beautiful, unforgettable, it wasn’t perfect, far from it. He was missing half. His other half. His better half.
“You can keep him warm with your body heat,” Dr Waheed said, “Skin to skin.”
“I… I don’t understand…” Nick muttered; his mind still very much occupied with his wife.
“If you unfasten the buttons on your shirt, you can pull him to your chest and hold him against your body. It is the best way to keep him warm… and it’s nice. Try it.”
He did it. He unfastened his shirt buttons and gently pressed his son against his chest. The doctor was right, it was nice, it was better than nice. It was amazing. The best feeling in the world.
“Now, you can wrap your shirt around him and keep him nice and warm for a while. Then we’ll need to keep him in the light for a little longer. I need to do a quick round and then I’ll be back to see how the little guy is getting on.”
“Thanks,” Nick said. He could feel his bottom lip quiver. It wouldn’t take much for him to break down, not much at all.
As Dr Waheed walked away, he peered back.
“It’s a special moment when you’re skin-to-skin with your baby. They say it helps build a bond that can never be broken. It can be stretched, twisted, but never broken.” He smiled. “Enjoy it.”
Chapter 32
Zoe should be at the station, ideally sitting with Marcus, discussing what Dominic had told them and what to do next. She should at least be looking through the notes or even be discussing the outcomes with Harold, but she wasn’t. Instead, she was sat at the café, hands tightly wrapped around the warm mug and in a world far from here.
She removed her phone and looked at her recent calls list. Nick’s number was the most frequently called. This wasn’t because she bombarded him with phone calls, well, at least she didn’t think so, the truth was she didn’t have many other people to call. She had plenty of old friends she didn’t call, and family was completely out of the question. She changed her number after the whole James thing and never bothered to let her friends know.
Perhaps she should give Nick a quick call, see how he was doing… if he needed anything. She couldn’t bring herself to do it. It would be awkward. What about a message? She could drop him a text and ask how he was doing, how Stacey was. She could find out if he needed anything, a bite to eat, a coffee, anything.
She began typing, Hi, how are you? How is—
She stopped tying and then deleted the message. She thought about how she would be feeling if she were in his shoes. She wouldn’t want a call or to see that text. Especially with such a stupid question.
How are you?
She hated that question. It was probably the only question ever asked that required a specific answer.
I’m fine. Thanks.
Then it is followed immediately by the same question.
How are you?
Hardly anyone answered the question truthfully. No one said, I woke up feeling like crap remembering my life is shit and I feel worthless almost every moment of the day. Unfulfilled, regret my life choices. Other than that, I’m just dandy!
It just never happened. Perhaps the world would be a completely different place if it did.
She was startled as the phone vibrated in her hand.
“Hello,” she answered.
“Are you coming back… from wherever it is you
’ve gone?” Marcus asked.
“Yup,” she swigged her tea.
“Because, if not, I could ask Vivian if—”
“No, it’s fine. I’ll be there in 10.”
The walk to the station and the cold air helped clear her head. She needed a clear head if they were to get anywhere with Dominic. He was smart, composed, confident and dare she say it, in control. If he was there intentionally, which she was confident he was, then why? Why would he do it? Give himself up? Lead the police to him?
Think… think…
Perhaps he wanted to get caught because he wanted to be stopped, stopped from killing anyone else. But he hadn’t killed anyone in a while. It was as if he had disappeared. no, it wasn’t to stop him – he had already stopped. This was something else. And he wasn’t going to just tell her. He wanted her to figure it out. He was playing games. That’s what this was; a sick game and he’s the puppet master pulling all the stings.
She walked into the station and marched towards to the meeting room. She was in no mood for games. Marcus was already stood outside. He looked at her as if he were going to say something but stayed silent.
She barged into the room and yanked the chair, forcing the legs to screech across the floor like a clichéd detective in a movie. All she needed to do now was curse, light up a cigarette and tell him he was about to get his arse kicked. And as much as she would have loved to rough him up, make him squeal like the little smug pig he was, she couldn’t. This was the real world. A world full of rules, rights and repercussions.
Marcus trailed behind and then sat next to her. He set up the recording equipment while Zoe and Dominic stared at each other.
“You wanted to be here,” Zoe said, “Why? Why would you want us to catch you? You killed people and covered your traces thoroughly to escape. You tried very hard to not get caught, yet here you are. Caught like mouse in a trap. Nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.” She wanted to provoke him. For him to get angry with her words. She wanted him to say something that would give away what he was hiding.
Dominic smiled. Still calm. Still confident. Still in control.
“I am not running and I’m not hiding.”
“You’ve confessed to murder,” Marcus said.
“Multiple actually, but not the girl you found between the bridges, what was her name again?”
He knew her name. He was toying with them. They just didn’t know why.
“We have called in a specialist who will be evaluating your mental health,” Marcus said.
“Do as you wish,” he said and leaned forward, “They will analyse me and try to figure out why I did it. All sorts of theories will be developed. Theories about my childhood, upbringing. They will try to figure out what made me tick and what made me tock. But they won’t figure it out. Was I abused? No. Did I hurt animals as a child? No. Did my teachers warn the authorities about me? You know, all the usual questions to ascertain one’s mental health.”
“Can you tell us about the sailboat?” Marcus asked. Wasn’t important to the investigation but she understood Marcus’ curiosity. She wanted to know herself.
“What about it?” He leaned back in his chair and his smile dropped, “Do you want me to tell you about some elaborate story behind the symbol? The symbol that has caused so much fear and speculation in London for so long. The symbol that has had the Police baffled.” He paused as if wanting them to say yes. They let the silence in the room answer for them. Trying not to give him the satisfaction but somehow giving it anyway.
“Fine, as you asked so politely, I will tell you. I suppose if after all these years, you were unable to figure anything out, this is the least I could do for you.” His smile was full of arrogance. “When I was a young boy. I couldn’t have been more than 6 or 7. We lived in a small house – my father worked in a factory, and we didn’t have a lot of money. It was hard times. My mother used to take us to the car-boot sale a few miles from our home. I loved going there.” His eyes were now glowing in excitement. “It was always my mother, my younger brother, Oscar, and I, who would go. My father was always at work and when he wasn’t, he was asleep. It’s what long hours at work and a few drinks could do to a man.” He looked at their eyes, presumably for a reaction.
“On one morning, at the car-boot sale, I saw something that amazed me. I couldn’t stop staring at it. Gave me that feeling deep in my stomach, you know the one.” He placed the palms of his hand on his stomach as if he was feeling it right now. “A model sailboat. Crafted from wood. Crafted to perfection. Creamy white sails with an elegant wooden body. Mayfair painted in perfect lettering on the sides. If it were a real boat, it would drink up the sea.
I couldn’t understand why anyone would want to sell a thing of such beauty.” His eyes were gleaming like that of a child. He stared through them to the wall behind. Swallowed as if his mouth was suddenly watering. “I wanted it more than anything else in the world. I yanked at my mother’s arm and asked her if I could have it. I would have traded anything for it. Anything. When the bearded man told her, it was five pounds, she shook her head and pulled me away. She didn’t care that I wanted it. That I begged her for it. She was happy to spend the money my father earned on her clothes and hairspray but not for the one thing I wanted more than anything else in the world. By the time we got home, I could think of nothing else. The sailboat and that she, my so-called mother, didn’t get it for me. She didn’t love me enough to get it for me.” He vigorously scratched at his scalp, seemingly irritated. “I waited until she went to the toilet and rummaged through her bag and found her purse. I took five-pound coins and rode back to the car-boot sale on my bike. I knew she would be furious when she found out, but I couldn’t think about that. I had to get that sailboat.
Thankfully, it was still there. I paid the man and took the sailboat. It was magnificent. Holding it was comparable to nothing else. When I got home and my mother saw it, she, as I had anticipated, was furious. She couldn’t understand why I would steal the money from her purse and go behind her back and get the sailboat and I couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t buy it for me. You could say, we didn’t see eye-to-eye,” he chuckled and looked to them as if expecting them to share the humour.
“As a form of punishment, she broke the sails on the boat and threw it in the bin. I cried for days, and I guess I never forgave her.” He then went silent. His smile remerged. “You have any other questions?”
What the hell is wrong with you? Was the only question Zoe could think of but didn’t ask. Marcus sat expressionless, as if still waiting for the punchline of the story.
What did he just explain? What did that have to do with anything? Events like that happen all the time throughout childhood. Even Zoe remembered sneakily taking a few quid from her mother’s purse to buy fags when she was younger. She got caught, got punished. Didn’t mean she would go around killing people and carving symbols on their bodies. Marcus was right to get him psychologically evaluated. The man was clearly insane. She had even started entertaining the idea that he made the entire thing up. Lied about killing anyone. He read the papers, read about The Sailor and fantasied about being him. The crazy thing about psychopaths is that they were usually remembered and even admired more than heroes. Hitler or Gandhi? Hitler. Churchill or Hitler? Hitler. Mother Teresa or Hitler? Hitler. Hitler won every time. It was as if he won even when he lost.
The possibility that this guy was half-baked grew in her mind.
“So, you went around killing women and carving a sailboat on them because you didn’t get a toy as a kid?” Marcus said.
“No, I did it because I wanted to,” he said, “Because I could. And no one could stop me!” There was evil in his words that filled the room.
“How did you select the women?” Zoe asked.
“I didn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I didn’t select them. They selected themselves.”
“They reminded you of your mother.”
He l
ooked over at Marcus and smiled.
“I told you this one was smart.”
Zoe sat at her desk and chewed on the end of her pen. She often did this subconsciously when in deep thought. It sometimes led to the pen leaking and her swallowing a significant amount of ink, which in a strange way, she liked. Petrol, nail polish, permanent marker pens were like perfume to her.
The evaluation of Dominic’s state of mind was being arranged and she knew it wouldn’t happen today. Maybe not even tomorrow. Her longing for things to happen instantly drove her mad. If things got done faster, they could get results faster. It was an important murder case – if he was the Sailor, then this was probably the most important case in recent years and yet here she was, waiting. Waiting for the psychological evaluation. Waiting for Forensics. Waiting for Norman Hyde to be apprehended.
Waiting.
She hated waiting. She could easily drive an additional 10 miles to avoid 10 minutes in traffic. Patience was certainly not one of her virtues. And the few strands she had were receding.
“DC Zoe Hall,” she answered the desk phone.
“The guys have run some quick tests on the items found…” Curtis said.
“And?”
“And they found lots of matching prints from the victims.”
“Are you sure about this?” she said almost falling off her chair in shock and excitement.
“They’re pretty sure. It was as if he had taken the items and preserved them perfectly. Never touched them.”
Shit. He wasn’t lying. And if he wasn’t lying about that then he most likely wasn’t lying about not killing Sarah Fowler.
“I just heard back from the team, and they’ve got loads of prints,” Marcus said, peering through the door.
“Yes, I just heard,” she said trying not to sound too excited.
“He’s the Sailor.”