Stations of the Soul

by Chris Lewando

  After a couple of weeks had passed by, he reluctantly decided that he must have been one of her project recovery patients, after all; enthused, encouraged, and forgotten once they left.

  Chapter 12

  Redwall was irritated when his Super slapped a file down on his desk. ‘I’m already up to my eyeballs,’ he complained. ‘Can’t you give that to someone else?’

  ‘It’s another prossy. Thrown into a skip.’

  ‘Oh, damn.’

  ‘She’s got bruises on her neck. The pathologist has yet to verify that’s the cause of death,’ he shrugged, ‘but if it is…’

  ‘Yeah, OK.’

  As if he didn’t have enough to worry about. The first strangled prostitute, dumped several months back, could have been an accidental murder, perpetrated under the influence of drugs or lust. A second one, dumped in a similar manner suggested a pattern. This one possibly made it a serial. In all his time as a detective, he’d never inherited a serial killer.

  His caseload was seriously overwhelming, but the shortcuts, the odd slap on the wrist, weren’t possible these days, as they had been when he’d first donned the uniform. Even the kid who’d been caught shoplifting had to be given the full treatment, because he was now a teenager. What Redwall wanted to do was give the kid a clip around the ear and tell him to get a job. He could understand why the kid stole a phone, for Chrissake. TV and the internet blasted kids on a daily basis with all the things they needed to make their lives worthwhile, to be on a level with their peers. The kid was bright enough to know better, if anyone ever was, but the parents had decided not to cough up for the required phone. There was always something you wanted, and it was always just out of reach.

  He opened the file on the murdered prossy, read the minimal information, then shoved it onto Jim’s desk. He could do the donkey work, find out if the girl had relatives, and where she’d lived.

  He glanced at the pile of paperwork on the Stinger Killer pileup, and knew that too much time had passed. They were unlikely to find who did it, now, unless someone got lucky. The good news, if you could call it that, was that there hadn’t been a repeat performance. Perhaps he was wrong about his hunch that the guy was just getting started.

  Chapter 13

  When the people-carrier came to collect him for Trauma Therapy, Robin sent it away. He’d already told them he didn’t want to hear about other people’s problems, and didn’t want to wallow in his own. All they did, he said, was bore each other to tears at the expense of the health service. And he’d read, recently, that therapy largely concreted into the psyche things best pushed to the clutter in the back of the mind.

  The shrink, Derek, called at his house the next day. He was a gangling man, past middle-age, who wore a formal suit with sloppy disregard for its cost. To Robin, who’d always been clean shaven, Derek’s beard suggested inherent laziness. Robin stood back, invited him in with surly bad-humour.

  ‘You’re harbouring resentment,’ Derek said mildly, slouching the wooden chair back on two legs.

  ‘Of course I’m harbouring resentment,’ he retorted, eyes flashing. ‘Just look at me. It’s not hard to see why, is it?’

  The man stared at him patiently. ‘Who are you harbouring resentment against?’

  Robin glowered.

  ‘You see, the resentment you’re harbouring is against yourself. No-one else. It’s self-destructive. You’ve been damaged, you’ve got through a terrible experience, but now you have to go forward. Get on with life.’

  ‘I keep telling you, that’s what I’m doing. I don’t want to think about the accident. I want to forget about it.’

  ‘But to do that you have to first accept it. Remember what I said about the stages of grief?’

  ‘Yeah, denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. But I’m not grieving.’

  ‘You might not be grieving for a loved one, but you’re grieving for your lost future.’

  ‘Grieving’s a bit strong.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, that’s not surprising, I guess.’

  ‘No, but it’s still something you have to get past.’

  ‘I will. But you forgot the stages of revenge and retribution.’

  ‘That’s all part of Anger. But who is this anger aimed at?’

  Robin was frustrated by Derek’s lack of comprehension. ‘You’re not listening. I don’t subscribe to therapy groups. I won’t. I just want to get on with my life.’

  ‘You’re still on sick leave. Work with me, and I’ll give you a clean bill of health.’

  ‘You think I want to go back to my job?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Look at me. I’m a freak. Do you think the Bank wants me back looking like this?’ A small tic began to irritate the damaged muscles of his cheek. ‘Nothing can give me back what that fucker took away.’

  ‘A lot of people died in that incident, and you’re harbouring resentment for not being pretty?’

  That made it sound so trite, which was no doubt his intention. Robin smiled. ‘So, I’m human. I’d like to murder the guy that did this, not turn the other cheek.’ He fumed in silence for a moment, then added, ‘OK, so, I’m harbouring resentment. I would’ve thought that was fairly normal.’

  ‘It’s normal, but not constructive. What if the police never do find who did it?’

  ‘I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.’

  ‘There’s no end date to never. The group will help you identify with others in the same situation. You weren’t the only one to survive. Other survivors lost loved ones at the same time as being badly injured. If you would just listen to what they have to say, you might not feel so sorry for yourself.’

  ‘What don’t you get about I don’t want to identify with other people? I don’t want to listen to all that whingeing. I’ll handle this in my own way. If I’m going to do something, it will be something concrete.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Work with the cops to find out who did it.’

  ‘Have they asked for your help?’

  ‘No, but the one thing I’m good at is analysing data. I’ll offer. No amount of talking will change what happened. I’ve learned to look in a mirror and see a different face. I’ve learned to walk again on a leg that looks like someone’s taken a hatchet to it. I’ll find a way to cope with my five stages.’

  ‘Seven, including revenge and retribution?’

  ‘If that’s what it takes.’

  ‘So, you won’t change your mind?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Very well. Just let me know any time you want to come to the session, and I’ll send out transport.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Robin had been trying to get through to the fat cop who was working the case, but hadn’t managed to. The excuses were always that he was out, he was busy, he was in a meeting, he’d call back – but he never did.

  When the door bell sounded, he was hopeful, but opened it to a woman he didn’t know. Mid- to late-thirties, perhaps, she was thin and angular, her dark hair pulled into an unflattering knot. Her eyes, pale and direct beneath straight brows, perused him without the anticipated shock. He didn’t know her, but she’d been forewarned.

  She held her hand out. ‘I’m Helen Speakman. Derek suggested I might…’

  ‘Go away.’

  He slammed the door.

  Later the phone went. ‘Robin, it’s Helen –’

  He slammed the phone down, muttering, ‘Interfering fucking do-gooder.’

  A moment later it went again. He picked it up and listened in white-knuckled silence.

  ‘Please, just listen. Derek asked me to come around and talk to you, that’s all. He thought we could…’

  ‘Fuck Derek!’

  Twice more the phone rang, but he just glared at it each time. Then, an hour later, when he had been pacing the room in frustration, he picked up the receiver and dialled last number recall. He interrupted her soft answer with, ‘Why did Derek ask you
to see me? What’s in it for you?’

  This time it was Helen who put the phone down. Robin stood and stared at the buzzing receiver in his hand with incredulous disbelief, slammed it back, and after a moment picked it up again, and dialled.

  ‘Helen Speakman.’

  With an effort he kept his voice level. ‘Please don’t put the phone down on me.’

  ‘I will if you shout. Whatever cause you think you’ve got to be like that, I won’t be the whipping post for your anger. Not yours nor anyone else’s.’

  To his own surprise his anger fizzled. ‘I’m sorry. A year ago, I wouldn’t have done that.’

  ‘You can apologise any time you feel like it.’

  He breathed through clenched teeth. ‘I just apologised, for Chrissake, and you –’

  She put the phone down.

  To his own surprise, he began to laugh. He sat on the stairs and dialled her number again. It was answered by the silence of her breathing. ‘I’m truly sorry,’ he said. ‘Can we start again, do you think?’

  Her voice was clipped, cold. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Really. I was never rude before. I’m sorry. Being a survivor is a new experience for me. Would you... Can I make you some coffee?’

  There was a long pause, then she said, ‘Give me fifteen minutes.’

  Before she arrived, Robin had tried to find his Bank Manager smile in the mirror, but it was definitely gone. He opened the door, unsmilingly, and stepped back in invitation. ‘Come in, please. Helen, did you say?’

  ‘Derek told me getting through your door wouldn’t be easy.’

  ‘I’m surprised anyone would want to. I guess I’m a bit prickly at the moment.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have guessed.’

  He returned her faint smile, and pointed towards the lounge area of the open plan room. He leaned his sticks against the worktop, interested, despite himself. Had she been in the Stinger’s Pile-up? Or lost someone in it? She sat herself in a lounge chair, and watched. At least she hadn’t offered to help. He brought the mugs in one at a time, limping with one stick, slopping hers as he lowered it to the coffee table. He swore under his breath.

  Finally, he eased himself down with a sigh. ‘Simple things are not so simple anymore.’

  ‘You haven’t got to mind things being difficult. It’s just part of the challenge of continuing to live when you think there’s no point.’

  ‘You lost someone in the pileup?’

  ‘Not that crash. A month or so before that one,’ she replied. ‘My husband and daughter.’

  ‘Damn,’ he said, not knowing what else to say.

  Helen’s voice was clinical, dry. ‘My husband died when the car ploughed up the bank and rolled. My daughter survived for a few hours. She was nine. He was taking her to the zoo. It was her birthday.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He didn’t want to feel sympathy for someone else’s misfortune, but couldn’t help it, which was no doubt what Derek intended, though he didn’t quite see what it had to do with him.

  They were silent for a moment, then she added, ‘Someone fired a stinger across the road.’

  He froze, his interest grabbed instantly. ‘They did?’

  ‘Luckily for others, my husband’s car was the only one that got hit. By the time the police got there the stinger, and the man who did it, were gone. Inspector Redwall said my husband and daughter were possibly a trial run while he was perfecting his technique.’

  ‘He thinks the guy will do it again? Shit.’

  ‘Quite. That’s why the police kept the details from the press.’

  ‘But so far he hasn’t repeated it?’

  ‘Not that I know.’

  ‘And the cops are no nearer discovering who he is?’

  ‘No. When someone targets random victims, it’s very hard to find them.’ She rubbed a hand across her face. ‘The DCI said, with so many vehicle-cams being used, it’s strange that not a single one caught this guy. Not when Kenny and Rachel were killed, and not when your accident happened. It’s almost as though he has some kind of sixth sense.’

  ‘Superman with a grudge.’

  She smiled faintly. ‘Strangely, that’s exactly what Redwall said.’

  ‘So, why are you here? Does he think we can find some sort of connection?’

  ‘It hasn’t anything to do with the police. Derek sent me,’ she reminded him. ‘I want to go back to work. He won’t sign me fit.’

  ‘What work was that?’

  ‘I teach. Because I work with kids, he has to be sure I won’t go off the deep end.’

  ‘Won’t you?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘I don’t know. But my job is all I have left. I need it. Otherwise, what’s the point?’

  ‘So, you’re not here to help me, you want me to help you?’

  ‘Derek isn’t stupid. If we want to get back to work, we have to play his game.’

  ‘I’ve decided I don’t want to go back to work. It took an accident to make me realise how facile my ambitions were.’

  ‘You worked in a bank, didn’t you?’

  ‘All set for a comet-like career to the top. I’m damned good with numbers, had the right appearance, and the right drive. It does go to show what’s important in the grand scheme of things.’

  ‘Oh.’ She assessed his face, and said dryly. ‘I suspect the scar makes you more interesting, though.’

  ‘Well, anyway, I just want to find the guy, and kill him. I told Derek that.’

  ‘I suspect he’s heard it all before. I said I’d stick a knife in the guts of whoever killed my daughter, but I don’t know if I could, and I doubt I’ll be offered the opportunity to find out. I somehow doubt they’ll find him, anyway, whoever he is. Seems he’s canny as well as nuts. So, I have to move on.’

  ‘Can you?’

  ‘God knows, Rachel is in my mind every moment of every day, and I just have to pray that she knew in the end that I was there for her. I have to live with my daughter’s death.’ Her eyes flicked unconsciously to his face. ‘And you have to live with your disfigurement. That’s fact. Life goes on.’

  ‘Disfigurement.’ He tasted the word, slowly. ‘It must have been hell. Losing them both together, like that.’

  ‘We were divorced, actually. I hadn’t lived with Kenny for five years, but I didn’t wish him dead. It’s Rachel –’ She bit her lip. ‘That’s why I need to get back to work. It’s at home it catches me. When I see her swing or her toys. I just turn around sometimes, you know, like seeing ghosts out of the corner of your eye, yet when you really look, the room is empty. Have you ever lost someone you loved?’

  He thought about Marilyn, and was surprised to realise the hurt was finally gone.

  ‘Not really. Not like that. My Dad died young. I never really knew him. It was an accident at work, so the house was paid for. My mother already had cancer, so she was always ill. She died when I was nineteen. When I inherited the house, people said I was lucky.’

  ‘People can be such idiots.’

  ‘We all have potential. If I hadn’t been such a conceited asshole, trying to impress my bosses, I’d have been on the road half an hour later. I always had to be the first, the best, the quickest…’

  ‘I blamed myself for a long time, for Rachel’s death. Why did I let her have the day off? Why did I let Kenny take her to the zoo? I hate zoos, all those caged animals. If I’d stuck to my principles, perhaps they’d both still be alive.’ She sighed. ‘If we’re going to play the what-if game, what if you hadn’t been trying to impress, and the bloke who caused the pileup did it half an hour later? You can’t be angry at yourself for being there.’

  ‘Who else can I be angry at?’

  ‘The newspapers? The people who blazon your personal business to the world, as though others have a right to stand in judgement.’

  His brow lifted. ‘So, what happened?’ Helen paused long enough that Robin didn’t think she was going to elaborate. ‘It’s OK. I don’t need to know.’
/>
  She grimaced. ‘You do. That’s why I’m here. Do you read a daily paper, Robin?’

  ‘I used to. It’s only when you’ve really been involved with something media-worthy, that you realise how distorted the reporting can be, and how invasive, prejudicing views.’

  ‘And how destructive. Do you remember reading about the woman who attacked the nurse at the hospital when her child died?’ His arrested silence was answer enough. She carried on, ‘You see, while I was being questioned, and while they were talking of charging me for assault, I was newsworthy. The fact that I tried to blame that nurse, Sarah, was also newsworthy. Go on, ask me if it’s true. Ask me if I thought the nurse was some kind of monster who had killed my daughter.’

  Sarah? His Sarah? She worked in emergency, that would make sense. ‘They made it sound as if you were off your head.’

  ‘I guess I was, for a while. I’m not the first woman to lose a child. They tell me I’m young enough to get over it, start again. But I’ll never do that. It’s not about replacing the child I lost, either; you can never do that. I just couldn’t bear to lose another one.’

  ‘You’re making me feel guilty for reading it. What really happened?’

  ‘I can’t talk about it, not yet. I need to go, now.’ He sensed that she was losing the fragile hold on her emotions, and reached over the table to grip her hand. She let him, for a moment, then drew away, and stood. ‘Now you can tell Derek I’ve been a good girl, and I can tell him that you’re OK.’

  He was startled. ‘I am?’

  ‘In spite of your anger, you still care about other people.’

  He followed awkwardly to the door, and watched her walk towards a Micra, the dull green paint of which looked as if it had been scoured. ‘Helen?’ She turned back. ‘I’d like to hear your side of the story.’