Black by Rose

by Andrew Barrett

  And then she surprised him by taking off the chain and opening the door.

  “Oh God,” he said.

  Her face was red across one cheek, and the skin beneath her eyes was puffy, eyelashes stuck together in tear-soaked clumps. She bit down on her bottom lip in embarrassment, as though declaring herself ready for inspection, as though she was going to say, “Happy now?”

  “Ros,” he whispered, and that was enough to get her crying. “What’s he done, sweet?”

  “It’s my fault, Eddie.”

  He stepped forward and he embraced her, and a small part of him that he felt revolted by enjoyed holding her close again; it was like old times refreshed, a new memory to add to those of yesteryear. But a bigger part of him wondered how anyone could leave her, Ros, in such a state. She was… she was a bundle of goodness, through and through, top to bottom, left to right, and front to fucking back; how could anyone make her cry?

  And then, as though his mind had shut with a clang, he wondered how many times he’d made her cry. And then he felt guilty, and cold; and then he felt like he shouldn’t be holding her so closely, so tightly.

  He slackened his grip. But she didn’t.

  “This is really shitty timing, Ros—”

  “What’s happened?”

  “I can’t tell you. I have to show you.”

  “Eddie,” she sniffled, “I’m really not up to it tonight.”

  “I know,” he nuzzled into her hair. “But I know this too. I can’t leave you here with him. I just can’t. I know you’re not supposed to get between a man and his wife, I know that… but,” he was shaking his head, “I just can’t see you in pain like this. It’s killing me.”

  “If he comes back now, he’ll save you a job.”

  “Come with me please, Ros.”

  “If I go with you, he’ll kill me too.”

  He pulled away from her, and through gritted teeth, said, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She smiled. “What could you have done?”

  He looked away, knowing she had a point, but you could only help a person if they wanted to be helped. And at least until now, he knew she didn’t want help; Ros, the famous battler, wouldn’t stoop so low. Ros was the helper, not the helpee. “Grab your coat, you’re coming with me.”

  “Oh no I’m not.” She pulled away from him and tried to take cover behind the door.

  “I mean it. There’s not many times in my life I make bold decisions,” except the one he made only a couple of hours ago, he conceded, “but I’m making one tonight.”

  “That’s kidnap.”

  And then he smiled at her, thinking of all the things he could be locked up for right now, “Kidnap is so low down on my offences list, you have no idea,” and the silly smile turned into a grin. “Grab your coat, and I promise in less than half an hour, you’ll forget all about Brian.” He shouldn’t have said that. It was belittling her problems, and not only that, when he’d used her for advice and guidance, she was going to have to come back to Big Bad Brian and face the music, and where would Mr Bold Decision be then? Well, that was something he’d address when the time came. For now, he had priorities: sort Charlie out, and then deal with Ros.

  It sounded awful, but that’s just how it was.

  Ros took a deep breath. “Wait there,” she said.

  * * *

  “What’s the deal between you two?”

  “Thanks for taking me out for a drive, Eddie, but I don’t want to talk about that.”

  “You really are a stubborn—”

  “Cow?”

  “Yes, dammit. I want to help you, and you’re too fucking proud to let me.”

  “You don’t need to help me.”

  “How often did you prop me up, eh? How often did you bail me out of the shit with Sammy, or with Jilly? A thousand times, that’s how often. And was I too proud?”

  “You were too drunk to have pride.”

  Eddie stared forward. It was probably just an unfortunate phrase that escaped her mouth, and she meant nothing by it; but it was below the belt. And it hurt.

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—”

  “It’s okay. You don’t need to apologise. You’re right. But even when I wasn’t drunk, I wasn’t too proud to accept your help. That’s my point; let me help you.”

  “I don’t need help.”

  “Your glowing red cheek suggests otherwise.”

  “It was just a silly misunderstanding.”

  “Okay.” He drove on.

  They covered another three miles before she spoke again. “What is it you’re so desperate to show me?”

  “If I tell you,” he said, “I wouldn’t need to show you.”

  “Tell me!”

  He blew out a sigh, as though psyching himself up. “I know you’ll hate me for this,” he ventured.

  “This sounds very bad. Have you blown up MCU?”

  He didn’t answer, just drove.

  “Eddie?”

  He snatched a glance around at her. “Okay,” he said, “you know my theory of how Blake Crosby died was utterly waterproof, utterly bulletproof?”

  “You went to Angela Charles’s house tonight, didn’t you?”

  “Jeffery tell you?”

  “Spit it out.”

  “She didn’t kill him,” he said again.

  “I’m a little afraid to ask how you know that.”

  “I’m a little afraid to tell you, if I’m honest.”

  Ros turned in her seat; didn’t say anything to him, just watched him.

  He felt nervous now, tapped the wheel, swallowed and then whispered, “She told me she didn’t kill him.”

  Ros blinked, and a noise like a cross between a sigh and a half-hearted laugh fell out into the car. “You found her?”

  “She’s petrified, Ros. Poor kid’s been hiding in her house for two days.”

  “Eddie—”

  “The gang is after her. They traced her home, they broke in. They killed her cat while they tried to find her. They want her dead.”

  Ros’s mouth fell open. She stared forward, and then confusion blossomed on her face.

  “She didn’t kill him.”

  “And you believed her?”

  “Yes. I believed her. If you’d seen her. She was shaking with fear; Ros, she’s been raped.”

  “Why are we going to your house, Eddie?”

  Eddie didn’t answer.

  “Eddie, tell me you just called it in and got the police to pick her up.”

  Eddie didn’t answer.

  “You did the good Samaritan bit and took her to the hospital. Where you called it in.”

  Eddie turned on to his road.

  Ros closed her eyes. “Eddie, you idiot.”

  “If I call it in, she ends up in a cell until we can prove she’s innocent.”

  “That’s because she’s guilty!”

  “She isn’t. She saw who killed him. And if the gang don’t get to her then she’ll go nuts inside a cell. Ros, we have to help her.”

  “We?”

  He brought the car to a halt. “Well…” he looked at her. Was she serious? He thought, out of all the people he could choose, that Ros would be the one. It’s always been Ros; she would help anyone. He stared at her, a real fear on his face now. “She’s injured. If I took her to hospital, they’d call it in. She needs your help.”

  “My help? Jesus, Eddie, I’m not a gynaecologist; what am I supposed to do?”

  “I can’t do anything. At least you… You could, I don’t know!”

  “You are so fucking dumb sometimes.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And what, you’re going to keep her here until she’s proven innocent?”

  “Yes.”

  “What if we can’t do that?”

  “We can. I’ve sorted it.”

  “If you get caught with her, you’re heading to prison. You know that, don’t you?”

  “She needs help.” He thumped the steering wheel, “Why is this s
o fucking hard?”

  Ros breathed hard. “Okay,” she said, “let’s go and see her.”

  “She’s afraid, Ros, I’ve never seen anyone so scared.”

  “Okay, I hear you.”

  Eddie turned onto his drive and he looked at Ros, “Thanks,” he said. “I am very grateful.”

  But she wasn’t looking at him. Ros was looking right past him, right through the side window. Eddie turned. “Oh fuck, no!”

  — Two —

  Eddie was out of the car and at his front door in seconds. And he stood there, rigid with anger. Ros walked up to him.

  The door was open, kicked open. On the floor were shiny bits of metal from the ruptured locks, and Charlie’s safety had poured out into the night like Metaxa brandy down the toilet. Slowly he stepped into the house, the lounge and bedrooms to the right, the kitchen straight ahead, and the bathroom to his left. It was dark. It was silent.

  His greatest fear while he was away for two straight hours was that she would get scared and decide her best chance of freedom was out there. He was afraid she’d just open a window and step outside. He never once thought…

  Eddie walked into the lounge, turned on the light. There were cushions on the floor. He’d left her sitting by the window, in his favourite window seat, padded out with cushions, with a small table an arm’s length away where his ashtray was, where the coaster was.

  Lying on the floor among the cushions was a smashed mug, tea splashed all over the floor and up the sofa front. Eddie walked through the lounge, “Charlie,” he said barely above a whisper. There was a quiver in his voice as he reached the lounge doorway that gave onto a short hall. Off the hall were three other doorways; one for each bedroom, and one at the end, a second entry to the bathroom.

  He swallowed and walked the hallway. “Charlie, it’s me,” he said, “Eddie.”

  He nudged open the first door, the one to his bedroom. Nothing out of place. So he walked on; one flat footfall after the next until he was standing in the doorway of Charlie’s room. He didn’t need to turn on the light. He could guess what had happened.

  “Go on,” said Ros from behind him.

  He stepped forward and turned on the light.

  Charlie was huddled in the furthest corner of the room, squeezed into the corner, sucked there by fear. She had been shot in the head. In her hand was a small silver brooch; looked like a cameo.

  Eddie fell to his knees and sobbed. Ros stood over him, rubbing his shoulders. “Why?” he said. “Just a couple of days, that’s all I needed.” He stood and was about to walk over to her, but Ros gently held him back.

  “No,” she said. “Stay back now, Eddie.”

  “I made her a promise, Ros. I was only trying to help her.”

  “I know you were.”

  “I told her she’d be safe here.” And then Eddie turned to face her; both their eyes wet with tears, and Eddie drew her to him and he whispered. “She trusted me, Ros. I told her she could trust me. I made her trust me.”

  Ros didn’t try to speak. She just looked at Eddie with eyes full of pity.

  “I’m going after them, Ros.”

  — Three —

  The car rocked as Ros climbed back in.

  “Well?”

  “He was great about it.” Her voice gave away the surprise she felt.

  “He wasn’t pissed off with you?”

  “No,” she said. “Not at all.”

  “That’s good,” said Eddie. But his face was just plain worried.

  Ros made no reply, and even though he didn’t look at her, he knew she was scared. When you expected a bad reaction from someone, and you got a good reaction instead, it usually meant it was a bad reaction dressed up to look disarming.

  * * *

  It was a little late to start following protocol.

  Eddie sat in the car with the door open, feet scratching in the dirt on his driveway, and he flicked ash. He’d called three-nines. He was going to call Jeffery at home, but wondered what the point of that would be. Even if he came out here, Jeffery would tell him to call it in the same way anyone else would call it in if they found a woman’s body in their house. They had procedures to follow; he understood that. But it didn’t make the wait any easier.

  He stared at his hands. The overhead lamp in the car and his solitary streetlamp told him they were trembling. And he wasn’t surprised. If ever Eddie had wanted a drink in the last two years, now would be that time. He was nervous of the police, despite working for them for God knew how many years. He had seen justice doled out inconsistently in the past; and he knew all it would take would be one pissed-off copper for him to land his sorry arse in a cell at least for the night as a murder suspect.

  Other emotions swamped his mind right now that elevated the nerves a little. One of them was sorrow. Abject sorrow. If he’d taken her to a hospital or a police station she would be alive right now; and although she’d be under arrest until he could prove her innocence, he didn’t think she’d have killed herself, as she’d threatened to. Surely, if she were going to kill herself, she would have done it before now. And he was sure that, shit as the justice system could be at times, it would treat her with sympathy and courtesy.

  My, thinking fucking straight now, eh? Pity you didn’t think this straight a couple of hours ago.

  But it had been different a couple of hours ago. Standing before him a couple of hours ago had been a scared and defenceless young woman who’d been through the most horrific trauma; it was easy to be blinded by her fears, it was easy to offer her comfort and see that she made it through the dark times. All he’d wanted to do was help her on a basic human level – nothing more; he didn’t want recognition, he didn’t even want thanks, he just… he wanted to make sure she was okay.

  No, no; he’d wanted to put right what someone else had done to her.

  His eyes opened wide. That was it; that was his base feeling.

  He could never do it, though. How could you put right something like that? It was like asking someone to unlearn something. Couldn’t be done.

  And then he finished off the thought: if I’d just turned out her bedroom light and walked away, she’d still be alive. If I’d taken her to the station or the hospital, she’d still be alive. I rescued her, and now she’s dead. I led them to her. “I killed her.”

  He sighed, shoulders rounded. He felt like shit. It was because of the one single overarching emotion he felt right now.

  And then Ros leaned over and rubbed those shoulders. For a second he stiffened just as Charlie had back in her bedroom. And then he seemed to remember where he was and who had touched him, and he sighed, flicked away the cigarette. “I’m sorry I got you into all this,” he said.

  “So am I.”

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Eddie, stop talking while you still can. I know you did your best to help her, but you messed up. Again. And this time you messed up really big.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “I’m not saying you killed her though.”

  “I did though; sure as if I pulled the fucking trigger.”

  “Start feeling sorry for yourself, and I’m leaving.”

  “Long walk home.”

  “I’ll get them to drop me off.”

  Eddie looked up and suddenly his little roadway and his little cottage were awash with headlights. The single streetlamp seemed utterly insignificant now, its feeble light bleached into orange shadows by three vehicles – a van, a police car and a plain car. Eddie closed his eyes for a moment, checking his tripping heart, and then stood to approach them.

  “Don’t forget,” he said, “she gave me no name.”

  * * *

  “Have you noticed?”

  “What?”

  “Everyone around you turns into a corpse.” Benson growled, “You’re a shit-magnet.”

  Eddie said nothing. He wasn’t in the mood for small talk.

  “You really are one dumb fuck, Collins.”

 
He peered out of the windscreen, watching the officers, and said, “I asked you to make sure they didn’t touch the front door. And make them stay off the kitchen floor.”

  “This is your house,” Benson said, “it is not your crime scene.”

  “It is a crime scene! And they’re fucking ruining it!”

  “Never mind them.” Benson tapped him on the shoulder, and Eddie looked round, “you should be concentrating on me; you should be impressing me with the honesty of your answers; you should be making sure your arse stays out of the clink; you should be making sure I don’t suspend you from fucking duty.”

  Eddie turned away again and watched Ros answering questions in the ARV. It was a little late to try and keep the witnesses apart, but they were following procedure. He wished he could swap places so he could get his hands on the M16 they kept in a box between the front seats. He could put it to some very good use.

  “Tell me where you picked her up.”

  “Garforth,” he said without looking around.

  “Why did you pick her up?”

  “I was on my way back from a job in Barwick-in-Elmet. She was standing at the roadside waving at me.”

  “And?”

  Eddie sighed, turned to face Benson. “She looked distraught, worried. She looked unkempt. I wanted to make sure she was okay.”

  “So you picked her up?”

  “Yes. No, I mean I wound the window down—”

  “Did she have any baggage with her?”

  “What? No, she—”

  “Did she offer you money?”

  “Why would she offer me money?”

  “I wondered if she thought you were a taxi.”

  “In a fucking van?”

  Benson stared hard at Eddie.

  “She said she needed to get away,” Eddie said, “that she had nowhere to go.”

  “Ah, Eddie Collins, the good Samaritan.”

  “Don’t take the piss.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Eddie smiled. “I don’t care.”

  “You should. I’m the one who’s stopping them driving you to the Bridewell.”

  “On what charge?”

  “I refer to my earlier comment: you really are a dumb fuck. Why do you think?”

  “I didn’t kill her, Benson.”

  “What’s her name?”