by Ed James
Cullen shook his head and focused on the faces around him.
Sharon was standing at the bus stop across the road, watching him with a blend of disbelief and disgust.
Cullen took a step towards her, but stumbled as the sudden movement sent a rush of blood to his head. He staggered to a stop, and leaned over, hands on knees, waiting for the black spots in front of his eyes to disappear.
Sharon was still standing at the bus stop, arms folded, tutting. ‘Look at the state of you, Scott.’
‘I’m not drunk. Just three bottles of Nanny State. Half a percent each. I’d need to drink ten to get a slight buzz.’
‘So why are you stumbling like you’ve been out with Rich and Tom?’
‘Because I’m knackered and I’ve not eaten and because a woman was shot right in front of me.’
That got her. ‘Shite.’
‘Bill’s running a murder inquiry and it’s my fault. Supposed to be easy, but…’ Cullen ran a hand down his face. Made no difference. Instead, he concentrated on her disapproving stare, using it like a taught rope to pull himself up and all the way across the road to the bus stop. ‘Look, Bill’s a wanker. He’s acting like the big man because his team just caught the bad guy and he’s had a few too many pints and he’s feeling all invincible and—’
‘Stop rambling, Scott! It’s not him I’m pissed off at.’
‘But that joke about us not having kids and—’
‘Scott, listen to me.’ Sharon grabbed his shoulders and shook him. ‘The joke was tactless, sure, but it’s you who’s pissed me off.’
Cullen frowned. ‘Me?’
Sharon glared at him. ‘Bill’s right, you know, I might as well hire a surveillance expert to follow you around. I just can’t trust you.’
‘What?’ Cullen wracked his brain, replaying the scene in the pub.
I didn’t do anything wrong. Did I? Or is she talking about something bigger? Does she suspect me of cheating on her?
He cleared this throat. ‘What have I done?’
‘You’re plastered.’
‘I had two bottles—’
‘It was three a minute ago.’
‘Shite.’ Cullen leaned back against the bus stop. ‘Okay, so I had a pint of beer. Alcohol and all that. Bill forced me.’
‘And you just took it?’
‘He said it’s what a team leader does.’
‘You’re sure it was just the one?’ She let go off his shoulders. ‘Scott, you can hardly stand up.’
‘Might’ve been two. But I switched to the—’ He burped into his hand. ‘Christ. I switched to the alcohol-free one.’
‘What was it you had?’
Cullen couldn’t help but smirk. ‘It was Elvis Juice.’
‘This isn’t funny!’
‘I know, but Bill was going on about drinking pints of Elvis’s piss.’
She pulled out her phone and started thumbing the screen. ‘You stupid bastard. That stuff is six and a half per cent. You’ve not touched a drop in months, no wonder you’re bladdered.’ She put her phone away and looked around for a bus. ‘Scott, you promised me you wouldn’t start drinking again without a discussion.’
‘Sharon, I—’
She cut him off with a look as sharp as broken glass. And as glittering. She blinked away the tears, then dropped her gaze to the ground. ‘I’m not even sure we’re doing the right thing anymore.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Scott, you know I can’t have children. That’s all under the bridge. Yeah, yeah, we can adopt, but I just don’t know if you’re fit to be a father.’
That stung like a punch in the gut. ‘What?’
‘You’re a child. I don’t even need to ask if I’ll be a decent mother, because I’m looking after you.’
Cullen put his arms around her and drew her in for a hug. ‘Come on, that’s—’
‘Scott!’ She held up her hand like she was going to invite him into Lamb’s slapping club. ‘Back off.’
Cullen stepped away.
Jesus Christ. What a bloody mess. What the hell do I do?
A bus rumbled towards them. A couple of drunks counted change in front of them, jostling for position.
Cullen took her hands and went down on one knee. ‘Sharon McNeill, will you marry me?’
Monday
13th February
18 months later
7
Cullen couldn’t look at Amy Forrest.
So he looked at DC Simon Buxton instead. Watched him stroke his goatee, seemingly lost in thought, giving his groomed beard a break to swipe his floppy fringe from his forehead.
Cullen took a deep breath, made sure his most encouraging smile was fixed firmly in place.
Amy was sitting in an armchair, her baggy grey leggings sagging around her knees, hugging her oversized grey fleece jumper tight, the material splattered with food, snot and puke stains, trying to calm a baby boy with a tired rocking motion. Trying and failing. The child kept whining, not a proper cry, but the sort that couldn’t be ignored for long before the floodgates would burst. Despite the nine months practice as a mother, Amy seemed to have no idea about what to do with her son. Still looked like a child herself – just eighteen.
Hard to reconcile the image with her previous life as a stripper.
Cullen cleared his throat. ‘Thanks for agreeing to see us this early in the morning.’
‘Aye, no problem.’ Amy didn’t even have the energy to look up at him. Just left her blank gaze resting on the coffee table between them. ‘It’s not like I’d be sleeping otherwise. Zak’s up at the crack of dawn. Every single day…’
‘Right, well, we’ll not keep you anyway. Our visit is to make sure you have no further questions about the trial proceedings. I take it you’re still okay to testify?’
Amy reached for the wee one’s bottle on the coffee table, then leaned back on the couch and tried to plug the rubber teat in his mouth. He turned his head away and cranked up the noise. ‘Aye, no problem.’
Cullen glanced at Buxton, but it was clear Buxton also doubted if she had understood the question. So Cullen looked back at Amy. ‘So there’s no problems?’
Amy paused. Seemed to think about it. Then closed her eyes. ‘What was the question?’
‘I asked if you’re still fine to testify at the trial.’ Cullen measured his voice, matching it to her slower cadence to establish an unconscious rapport. He paused, just like she had. ‘Are you?’
Amy opened her eyes again and met his concerned gaze. ‘You think I don’t look fine?’
Cullen saw exhaustion. Self-loathing. Regret. And an utter lack of hope. In the deep shadows under her eyes. In the hard set of her mouth. In the sallow tone of her skin. He had to look away. Silence settled between them, and Cullen didn’t know how to break it.
Buxton leaned forward on the couch, switched on his cockney charm. Not too much, not too little. ‘That’s the great thing about having a nipper at a young age – both nans will all still be alive, right? You must get lots of support from family and friends?’
Amy snorted. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Well, I mean, both my brothers have got boys and girls. Both nans love looking after their grandkids. I bet yours do, too, right?’
‘You’re a special kind of stupid.’ Amy stared at him. ‘I was a stripper when I got pregnant after that cunt raped me. Exactly how excited do you think my family were when they found out, eh? And how many pals do you think stuck around when the baby came? Eh?’
Buxton swallowed. ‘I… I hadn’t thought of that.’
Amy’s eyes said she was about to flare up, but she deflated quickly. She turned back to the baby and tried to coax him into accepting the bottle, waving the little teat under his nose. The boy just screamed louder.
Cullen cleared his throat. ‘Is there anything we can do to help you?’
Her head snapped up. ‘You got a time machine?’
She had a lifelong habit of rejecting polite offers of
help with equally polite reassurances that she was fine, just fine. She wasn’t fine. And someone needed to tell her that was okay to not be fine.
‘I wish I did. We’re here to help you.’
She stared at him. Gradually, the fire in her eyes went out. Then she thanked him with the tiniest of nods, grabbed the baby and held it out to him.
Cullen froze, unsure what to do. Am I supposed to look at the boy or hold him?
‘Here, take him. I need to get a jar of mush from the kitchen, since he won’t take the bottle.’
Cullen jumped up from the couch, rounded the coffee table and took the squirming boy from her hands, her slippered feet padding through to the kitchen. He looked down at the little thing in his arms. The baby’s right eyebrow was circled by a faint birthmark. Couldn’t weigh more than a stone. Is that normal for a nine-month-old? Seems very light, but what do I know? He hugged the baby to his chest and started swaying, silently at first. So he started talking to the boy, his head bent low. ‘Hey, little man. It’s not always this cold outside, you know? It can even get quite warm.’
Buxton was frowning at the stream of nonsense.
The little eyes looked up at him, puzzled. Then the expression hardened and all Cullen could see was the steely grey of Dean Vardy’s eyes. Made him flinch, made bits of him clench tight.
It can change as they grow up, but Jesus, I hope that’s all he’s inherited.
Buxton was still watching.
‘Your mummy’s just gone to get you something to eat. She’ll be back soon enough.’
The boy settled down, shut his eyes and puckered his lips. Then fell asleep.
Cullen gazed at the slow rise and fall of his small chest, the warmth of his tiny body, the looseness of his short limbs.
The silence was shattered by a single, piercing sob.
The baby jumped with fright. Cullen clamped on to Zak, fast and tight, and felt it take a shuddering breath, then unleash a high-pitched scream.
Amy was standing in the kitchen doorway, a hand clamped over her mouth. In the other she held a jar of baby food, useless and forgotten. She watched Cullen snap out of it and soothe her son with a gentleness that was as far beyond her reach as the stranger across the room. Her trembling hand dropped to her side and she started crying, her face twisted up and red – like mother, like son.
Cullen walked over to her and gently placed the boy in her arms. He tried to put some cheer into his expression, let her know that her life wasn’t always going to be like this, but he couldn’t make his face lie and Amy wasn’t looking at him anyway. She was looking at her child, like a prisoner looks at her warden.
‘Excuse me?’ Buxton over by the coffee table, an impatient question in his eyes. ‘Can I just wind back a bit? You implied you don’t have a support network, yeah?’ He frowned, as though to prove he really had been thinking. ‘Those animals will ask this in court, so this isn’t me being harsh, yeah? If it was so obvious to you that you’d be raising the little guy alone, why did you have him?’
Amy’s eyes widened.
Cullen mouthed, ‘What the hell?’
Buxton tried his cockney geezer act again. ‘I mean, I know you didn’t choose to have him. But when you found out you were pregnant, you decided to keep him, and that was your choice, and I’m wondering why. Dean Vardy’s lawyer is a real nasty piece of work. In court, he might suggest that you having the child indicates a certain desire to be a mother, and he might claim your relationship with… your child’s father is a little more complicated than that of victim and rapist. He’ll certainly ask the jury to question the validity of your testimony, so I want you to be prepared for that, yeah?’
Cullen could only stare at him.
Amy didn’t say a word, just sobbed even harder, the baby responding to his mother’s anguish by arching away from her and screaming so loudly his eyes bulged. She trudged back to the couch and slumped down on it, letting the child squirm and scream on her until he tired himself out. She settled him on her lap and opened the jar as if on auto-pilot, looking around the other scraped-out jars and scrunched-up wet wipes on the coffee table. She reached over and picked up the least-dirty teaspoon, rubbing it on her fleece jumper. Then she spooned some of the bright yellow fruit mush out of the jar and held it in front of the boy’s closed mouth. His eyes opened, followed by his mouth, and she stuck the spoon in.
In the awkward silence, Cullen sat down on the chair across from the mother and child. Buxton looked ready to continue the questioning, so Cullen got in first. ‘We’re here to help, Amy. We’re sorry we can’t do more, but we can help you prepare for what you’ll face at this trial.’ He shot a glare at Buxton that hopefully read, ‘Keep quiet,’ then smiled at Amy again. ‘Could you maybe talk us through your thoughts when you found out you were pregnant with Zak?’
Amy looked up. A shadow fell on her tired face. ‘Suppose.’ She looked back down at her child and continued feeding him. ‘I was working at Wonderland at the time, but you know that. Anyway, after… after that happened, one of his partners took over the day-to-day management and the show went on, and so did my life. At least I thought so, until I got sick on stage one night. Took a sick day, felt like shite. Went to the chemist, got a pregnancy test and that was that.’ She paused.
Cullen didn’t want to jump in – wanted her to explain it. Her own words, whatever that meant.
Amy held Zak up to her face, making eye contact with him. ‘I told my best mate about it and she told me to get an abortion. Course she did. She’d had one herself. No big deal. Right?’ Her eyes burrowed into Cullen, her stare vicious. Then she shook her head and her focus went back to her son. ‘Or so I thought. I mean, I’m not religious, and it was the only way to keep my job and my friends and my lifestyle and…’ She swallowed, a brief flicker flashing over her eyelids. ‘Just after I started there, one of the girls got knocked up and had the kid. Last we saw of her. I tried to stay in touch, but it’s hard when you’re working all night. Means you’re asleep when the mothers are up, and we ran out of stuff to talk about in ten seconds flat. Not like you can laugh about the sad wankers trying to grope your tits all night while she’s breastfeeding her kid, eh?’ She looked up and laughed, her eyes staying dead. ‘When I found out, I was most scared about being alone. I was used to being judged and, one way or another, I’ve always been alright for money. But I’ve never been alone.’ She went back to feeding her baby. ‘But something changed. Maybe it was the hormones. But maybe this was my chance to do something that wasn’t about me, something selfless. Something good.’ She looked up at Cullen again, but the ghost of a smile had vanished. Instead, fresh tears welled up in her eyes. ‘But this isn’t good. I’m not good. I’m failing every day.’ She looked back down at the baby. ‘And he reminds me of him all the time. And of what he… did to me. Because my child looks just like… like my fucking rapist.’ She shut her eyes as a sob wracked her body.
Cullen couldn’t look at her.
Buxton was, and Cullen could’ve sworn they were thinking the same thing.
This was useless.
They were useless.
There was nothing they could do to help this woman, and in all likelihood, there was nothing she could do to help herself.
Her testimony alone wouldn’t secure a conviction for Vardy, and they were making her put herself through the ordeal of reliving the violence he made her suffer, and in a courtroom full of strangers. And the system required more than her word against his for a murder conviction.
Cullen glanced at the kid. DNA evidence showed that Vardy was the father, but he’d said the sex had been consensual. Normally, it would be her word against his, but of course they had an audio recording of them having sex after the rape. For whatever reason, Amy wouldn’t pursue it. Too busy getting on with things.
Cullen’s phone rang. DI Bill Lamb. He raised a hand in apology to Amy as he got up. ‘What’s up?’
‘Scott, someone’s got to the witness.’
8
Sammy McLean was lying in the left one at the large window, breathing through a tube. But at least he was breathing.
The attending doctor stood by his bedside, her hair in a severe bun, her back to the door. She seemed to be examining the stats on the machine, and seemed to be in no hurry about it, as she made a series of adjustments. Then she turned around to inspect the new arrivals with a grim-faced scepticism.
Cullen flashed his warrant card, Buxton following suit. ‘DS Cullen, DC Buxton. How is he?’
‘My name is Dr Helen Yule.’ She folded her arms, cracking the starch of her white coat, and peered over her glasses with a stern frown. She took the glasses off and breathed on the lenses, polishing them on her short sleeves. Her right eyebrow was half missing, an old scar intersecting it. Then she put her specs back on, the strip lights turning the round lenses into mirrors. ‘Mr McLean is in no fit state to take visitors.’
Cullen looked down at the patient next to her, but it could’ve been anyone. White bandages covered most of his head, the rest was purple skin obscured by a breathing mask. ‘Look, we really need to speak to him, if you don’t mind?’
‘I do mind.’ Yule took a step towards him, arms folded even tighter. ‘Mr McLean here is in a critical condition. In order for him to make a full recovery he must be spared any and all forms of stress. And something tells me stress is all you brought with you today.’
Cullen recognised a trap when he saw one. So he got a grip on his temper. ‘No stress at all, Doctor. We need to ask Mr McLean about the circumstances of his assault. As an eyewitness in a forthcoming trial—’