Nothing Else Remains

by Robert Scragg

  Max’s message was short, and to the point.

  ‘It’s me. Max. I need to speak to you. Call me when you get this.’

  A dozen questions, and the one man he’d sworn to turn his back on now looked likely to be the only one with any answers.

  When Porter made it back into the station, he did a double take. Most of the people in the office, Styles included, had gathered at the far end, but he couldn’t make out anything past a general murmur of group chatter. He ignored them and slumped into his chair. It creaked as he leant back, like a door in a haunted house, and he saw Styles clock him over his shoulder.

  Nick Styles towered above the others. At six foot four, he made some of the others look as if they were standing in a trench next to him. He beckoned Porter over with a jerk of his head. Porter nodded an acknowledgement, but leant back, closed his eyes for a few seconds. How long had it been since he’d taken any time off? Real time away, not just a few days, or a long weekend. Holly’s funeral, and the week afterwards, but barely anything since. Seemed almost pointless. When she died, he was like a boat that slipped its mooring in that respect. The only thing that made sense was his job. It kept him sane, focused.

  These last six months had taken more out of him than he cared to let on, even to Styles. Evie Simmons almost dying on the job had felt like Holly all over again. The prospect of someone close to him dying, and him powerless to do a damn thing about it. Not that anything had happened between the two of them, other than a single drunken kiss.

  ‘Someone to see you, guv.’ Styles’s voice snapped him out of his moment of self-pity.

  Porter pushed himself out of his chair, swearing under his breath as his knee cracked against his desk drawer. He bent down to rub it as he wandered over to see what all the fuss was about. As he stood, the line of people parted like a big reveal in a West End show.

  Evie Simmons’s smile seemed to double in size when she saw him approaching. It spread across her face like a ripple on a pond, reaching all the way to the edges. Porter slowed, feeling a smile of his own surface. He hoped it didn’t look as goofy as it felt. Simmons had sustained a life-threatening head injury in the Alexander Locke case. James Bolton, Locke’s right-hand man, had slammed her head into a wall, triggering a blood clot that almost killed her. She’d flatlined twice; once in the ambulance, and again as surgeons battled to stop the bleeding on her brain.

  It had been five months since he’d seen her, and her hair was longer than he remembered. She usually wore it up for work, but it spilt down in a dark wave over her shoulders. She looked small, almost child-like, as she turned to face him, knuckles white where she leant forwards on her hospital-issue crutches.

  ‘Morning, guv,’ she said, as a few of the crowd peeled off back to their desks.

  ‘Morning,’ Porter replied, doing his best to ignore the smirk on Styles’s face. ‘You’re not back yet, are you? Didn’t think we’d be seeing you for another month or so?’

  She shook her head. ‘Just a social visit. Well, mainly social. The super wants to have a chat about a phased return, but yep, hoping to be back next week actually; well, a few half days to start with. Drives me mad sat round Mum and Dad’s house all day.’

  ‘I’ll pity the poor bloke who tries to cross you while you’re wielding those,’ said Styles, nodding towards her crutches.

  She flicked the end of one of them towards his legs, giggled as he skittered out of the way. This was definitely a better version of her than Porter had seen when she was discharged from hospital earlier in the year. He’d toyed a few times with getting in touch via her father, just to see how she was coming on, to let her know he cared enough to ask. The guilt of those missed opportunities sat heavy, front and centre in his chest now.

  ‘I’ll, um, just leave you two to catch up,’ said Styles. ‘These naughty criminals don’t just lock themselves up you know. Good to see you though, Evie. Get back in here soon, yeah?’

  She flashed another of her full beam smiles at him. ‘You don’t get rid of me that easily.’

  Styles wandered past Porter, back towards his desk, leaving just the two of them.

  ‘How long do you have to use the crutches, then?’ he said.

  ‘Get rid of them this week, hopefully.’

  ‘I meant to give your dad a call, you know, see how you were doing, but, you know …’

  ‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘I’m fine. Just looking forward to getting back now.’

  Even with the murmur of background noise, people getting on with their day, Porter felt as if all eyes were on them. On him. It was like that moment in a club, last dance finished, house lights on, scrabbling for words.

  Porter snapped out of it first. ‘Yeah.’ He nodded. ‘Yeah, I bet.’

  He didn’t know where to pick up from whatever connection they’d started to make, back before her accident. Didn’t know whether there was even still anywhere to pick up from. He opened his mouth, not entirely sure which of a dozen lame lines might come out first.

  ‘Listen, Evie, I—’

  ‘Simmons!’ Milburn’s unmistakable voice, cranked up to near-max volume. ‘Ready when you are.’

  He looked over her shoulder, saw Milburn’s head and one shoulder hovering through the doorway to his office.

  ‘I’d better get this over with,’ she said, pivoting on her right-hand crutch. She stopped after a few steps, turning back to him. ‘Shouldn’t be more than an hour. If you’re around when I’m done, maybe we could grab a cuppa. You still owe me one, remember?’

  Porter smiled. ‘I haven’t forgotten. Yeah, that’d be good.’

  He watched her go, bobbing up and down with every swing of her crutches, remembering a drunken kiss outside a bar almost six months ago. Had she thought of it since then? Was that what made her smile like she was in a toothpaste ad?

  Oh, yeah, because of course she’s not had anything more important to think about, has she? Like five months of treatment and rehab for starters. Have a word with yourself, Jake.

  Styles’s eyebrows were practically vibrating up and down as Porter headed back to his desk.

  ‘So …’ he said, drawing it out as if it had half a dozen vowels at the end.

  Before Porter could fire anything back, the phone on his desk rang.

  ‘Saved by the bell,’ said Styles, narrowing his eyes.

  Porter ignored him and scooped up the handset, wondering who had come to his rescue.

  ‘Detective Porter, Sameera Misra. I’m a counsellor with the Occupational Health Unit. Superintendent Milburn asked me to give you a call to set up an appointment.’

  Did he indeed, thought Porter. Says a lot when Milburn didn’t even trust him to make the call.

  ‘Yeah, he and I spoke about that earlier this morning. I’m a little tied up at the moment, but maybe we could set something up for next week?’

  Whatever slot she gave him for the following week, he’d find a reason to be somewhere else. He could be doing a hell of a lot more by sweeping up the dregs of the Alexander Locke case than fidgeting in some counsellor’s leather chair watching the seconds tick off the clock.

  ‘Really?’ Misra’s tone sounded borderline amused. ‘Superintendent Milburn said he’d stood you down from a case, and that you’d be free today. You’re in luck as it happens, I’ve got an opening in an hour.’

  Porter slumped into his seat, eyes closed. Deep breath. He felt about as lucky as a turkey at Christmas, but this was like quicksand; the more he struggled, the more Milburn would smother him, stop him from doing his job.

  ‘Fine. Where do I find you?’

  He’d turn up, sit in the chair, nod in the right places, tell her what she wanted to hear, and hopefully be back out in half an hour tops. He agreed to meet her up on the second floor in an hour’s time, and let the handset drop the last inch, clattering back into place.

  ‘You look less than chirpy, guv. Care to share?’

  ‘Nope, right now, actually I don’t.’

  Style
s leant back in his own chair, holding both palms up, and turned his attention back to his monitor. Styles was the one person he did open up to, albeit once in a blue moon, and usually over a few drinks, but Porter felt ruffled by the twin pronged attack from Milburn and the well-meaning OHU counsellor. He had time to kill, and no case to work. Milburn’s door was still closed. Maybe he’d finish with Simmons before Porter’s appointment. Maybe there’d be time for that coffee. Somewhere away from the station, where they could talk properly. All those maybes felt like they were in cahoots with Milburn, conspiring against him.

  He opened his mouth to apologise to Styles but closed it as another thought hit him. What if the real problem, when you stripped away all of the politics and procedure, was that talking about everything, Holly included, might actually help him come to terms with it all? To move on. To accept that she was gone for good. If normality was accepting a world without her, he wasn’t sure he wanted any part of it.

  Can’t let go of her. Can’t keep going like this. Restless nights. That ever-present gritty feeling behind his eyes. Something had to give.

  Just hope it’s not me.

  Milburn reminded her of her Uncle Alfie. Ramrod straight like he had a broom handle down his back. Using a dozen words when two would do. In love with the sound of his own voice. Eve Simmons rubbed at a twitching muscle in her thigh. Felt like a grasshopper was bouncing inside. Milburn droned on, saying the right things, how they’d welcome her back, that there’d always be a place for her, that they needed more of her spirit and dedication. Whether he’d stick to the party line when she caught her crutches against his shin in the corridor was another matter.

  Coming back in was harder than she’d thought. Sitting at home, it was all she could think about. Now she was here, she felt like an outsider. Plenty of warm hellos, but just as many lingering stares. Unasked questions. Could she come back from her injury? Would she have their backs if it happened again, or would she freeze up? She’d asked herself these more times than she cared to remember and wasn’t convinced by the answers.

  She smiled and nodded at the right places. Yes, she was looking forward to getting back to work, even though the thought of it terrified her. She still saw flashes in her dreams of what had happened. She hadn’t actually seen much at the time, but her brain filled in the blanks. Shadows rearing up around her, black as coal, heavy, like a wet blanket. Pain like she’d never thought possible. Not real, of course. Only a nightmare, but enough that she still felt the echoes of it every time she woke up in a cold sweat.

  Milburn said his piece, started checking his watch, and she was glad to hobble back out into the open-plan area. She scanned the rows of desks, looking for Porter. Nick Styles was there, but the desk beside him was empty. Porter was a source of confusion for her. She had practically offered herself to him on a night out earlier this year, before someone saw fit to stave her head in against a wall, of course. She was usually good at picking up signals, working out whether someone was interested or not. Her gut told her he was, but it was as if he wasn’t aware of that himself.

  She had hoped he would have been in touch while she had been off. Check in and see how she was doing. No strings, no expectations. But he’d kept his distance. Was she damaged goods now? She knew about his wife, how she’d been killed in an accident. Office gossip said he hadn’t so much as looked at another woman since, but that was a few years ago now. Couldn’t grieve for ever, surely? She loped over to where Styles sat, long strides on her crutches as if it was the same as stretching her legs after sitting so long.

  ‘Porter still around?’ she asked.

  He looked up at her, with what? Pity? Curiosity? Hard to say, but it irritated her all the same. ‘He had to pop upstairs into a meeting.’

  ‘Meeting?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘Dunno, he didn’t say.’

  Like pulling teeth. Didn’t say because it was none of her business, or didn’t say because it was just an excuse to pass on the coffee? These last four or five months had eroded her confidence like a melting glacier. Same bar, same situation today, and she doubted she would make any kind of move on him. Wasn’t sure how she’d handle the knock-back. That’s what was coming if she did, surely. If he was interested, he would have been in touch these last five months. Would have waited around for her today, or at least left word for her.

  First day back at work would be challenge enough. One step at a time.

  The angry rattle of Max’s mobile against the glass coffee table made him jump like a slap across the face. He sat up, wincing as he swung through the sunlight that scythed through a gap in the curtains. The anchor on Sky News was wrapping up the headlines, handing over to an unnaturally cheery weathergirl. Pins and needles fizzed along his right arm. He reached for the phone with his left hand, shaking life back into the other.

  ‘Hello?’ Not a number he recognised.

  ‘Mr Brennan? It’s Amy, from Beacon Estates. We spoke earlier about your father?’

  ‘Yes, of course, hi.’ Max sat bolt upright. ‘Has he been in touch?’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of calling him. He says he can meet you here at three-thirty if you’re free, at our office.’

  Max checked his watch. Five hours to kill. ‘Yep, I’ll be there. See you then.’

  He hung up and looked at the screen after the call had cleared, checking for missed calls or texts. Nothing. Jen’s face stared back at him from the screen. His background shot was the two of them on a night out in Vegas, Bellagio Fountains dancing behind them. Good times. Max forced himself back to the here and now, flicked into his contacts, and tapped Porter’s number.

  Hey, it’s Jake. Leave a message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.

  Max’s message was short and sweet, telling Porter where he was headed, and asking him to call back, news or no news. He slipped the phone into his pocket as he stood and was halfway to the door before he turned back. He scribbled a hasty, hopeful note to Jen, left it propped up against that morning’s coffee cup on the kitchen bench, and headed out to finally meet his father.

  ‘He’s just been under a lot of pressure, Em,’ said Styles, looking over his shoulder to make sure Porter hadn’t come back yet.

  ‘So have you, Nick, but he’s the last person you’d take it out on,’ Emma Styles replied. ‘I bet you’ve not told him yet either, have you?’

  Styles sighed louder than he’d meant to. ‘It’s not exactly a good time.’

  ‘It never is,’ she snapped back.

  ‘I will,’ he said, keeping his voice low. Open-plan offices didn’t make for the most private conversations. He debated calling her back from his mobile and heading outside. ‘Just not today. I’ll explain when I see you, but Milburn’s already torn him a new one. I’ll take him out for a beer one night this week.’

  ‘It’s not like it’s all bad news,’ Emma said. ‘He’s going to be godfather to Styles junior, assuming he accepts of course.’

  ‘He’ll say yes.’

  ‘You’re not having a change of heart, are you?’

  ‘What? No. Why would I ask someone else?’

  ‘I mean about the job, silly.’

  Styles paused, only a few seconds. Hopefully not too long. ‘No, of course not,’ he said. ‘It’s just that I haven’t even heard if it’s definite yet. No point in saying anything till it is.’

  She didn’t reply at first. He gripped the phone. His old boss had said the job was his if he wanted it, back in the Specialist, Organised & Economic Crime Command, promising him DI within two years. After everything that had happened in the Alexander Locke case, Simmons nearly dying, Porter getting shot at, in Emma’s mind it was only a matter of time before Styles was the one in the line of fire. Truth be told, Styles still wasn’t sure he wanted the move. He’d worked hard to get where he was, and the thought of taking even the tiniest step backwards brought out his stubborn side.

 
He felt boxed in, painted into a corner. Emma was a bundle of nerves at the best of times, but now she was pregnant, everything was a risk in her eyes. Getting bumped around on crowded Tube trains, worrying about someone’s bag swinging into her stomach. Whether eating too many Snickers bars could give the baby a nut allergy from birth. Styles’s job was just another uncertainty.

  Finally, Emma spoke. ‘As long as you’re still sure, then.’ Another stretched-out silence.

  ‘I’d better go, Em. Got a witness to interview in a few minutes.’ The lie came easily. Easier than where the conversation was headed.

  ‘Love you,’ she said, voice almost a whisper.

  ‘You too.’

  He ended the call and huffed out a loud sigh. She’d asked him the same night she’d told him she was pregnant. Would he take a sideways step, somewhere less in harm’s way, for the baby’s sake? She wasn’t alone. His family had waded in on her side, his mum and grandma to be precise, both forces to be reckoned with. A week visiting Grandma Clara in Barbados over the summer had made him a captive audience for her and Emma to whittle away at his resistance, and his mum had picked up the slack as soon as they’d gotten back to London.

  What could he say, except he’d see what he could do, but for him, this would feel like a backwards move. He’d be letting Porter down as well. Not that his partner would ever say as much, but they’d been through a lot in the three years they’d worked together. Porter was a man who you knew would do right by you, even if he’d been a little distant lately. Would their friendship survive the move if he did make it? Their usual banter came in fits and starts these days. Had since the Locke case came to a head. The old Porter was still there – he just switched places with a moodier version of himself more often than Styles liked.

  Having said that, Styles wondered how he’d cope if he lost Emma. How would he feel? He tried to imagine it but felt too morbid and gave up. Up ahead, Milburn’s door opened. Simmons hauled herself out, glancing towards where Styles sat, looking for Porter no doubt. He saw her smile shrink back when she realised he wasn’t there. They exchanged nods at a distance, and she hobbled towards him.