He remembers . . .
Six years old now. Still incredibly young, but the memories are more persistent. The impressions formed by his surroundings, his experiences, his mother are more deeply etched. They will not be easily erased, and later in life he will wish they could be.
His mother, in particular, looms large. He is torn between seeing her as the person who nurtures and protects him, and as the person who scares him more than anything else in the world. Already she is fracturing his mind.
This is a school morning. The end of the week, so he is tired. He oversleeps. This is unusual for him. Normally the sounds of his mother moving around will wake him, and fear of appearing slothful will keep him awake.
But not today. Today his eyes flicker open only when he realises his mother is already in his bedroom, fussing and clucking.
He realises something else too. And it is not good. In fact it is so bad he wants to cry. He has only just started his day, and already he is beginning to tremble.
She cannot know. He must keep it from her somehow.
She flings the curtains open. Praises the Lord for such a fine morning. Her words are those of someone who relishes life and is grateful for all the comforts that have been provided. But he sees through that. Even at six he detects the instability below the surface. All it takes is a shove in the wrong direction.
She bustles towards him, lecturing him on the perils of allowing this precious gift of time to be wasted.
He grips his bedclothes tightly. Keeps them bundled under his chin. Please don’t let her find out, he thinks. Please, Lord, if you love me, keep me safe. Don’t let her hurt me.
He tells her that he will get up in a minute. Tells her that she can use the bathroom first, if she wants. Anything that might buy him some time.
But she is not easily fooled. Not easily diverted from her mission.
Nonsense, she tells him.
And then she is taking hold of the sheets. Pulling them from his grasp. Yanking them across the bed to reveal his tiny, hunched-up, whimpering form.
And now she knows. Now she sees.
He has wet the bed.
Soaked the undersheet, his mattress, his pyjamas.
He is already telling her how sorry he is. Pleading with her not to be angry. He didn’t know. He didn’t feel it. He would have gone to the toilet if he’d known.
She stands in thunderous silence for a few seconds, but he knows it is only because she is in shock. This is the calm before the storm.
And then she erupts, as he knew she would.
The vice-like grip around his wrist. The feeling that his arm is about to come out of its socket as she pulls him up and off the bed. The whip-crack sounds and the intense stinging as she fires the slaps at his legs.
And throughout it all, her voice as she somehow turns this into a defiance not only of her, but of God. Words and phrases that he does not understand, but whose message is unmistakable. He is a sinner, and the Lord God is mightily displeased with him, and why would he want to go against all that the Bible teaches about respect and obedience and living according to the teachings of Jesus? Why would he do that unless he has the Devil in him?
And if that were the end of it, he could probably cope. He could get himself cleaned up and he could massage his red-raw legs and he could cry until he left the house, at which time embarrassment would take over and stifle his sobbing. He could go to school and he could allow himself to be distracted by the lessons, and when he returned home it would be to a better, calmer situation, and he and his dear mother could begin again, and perhaps optimism for future happiness and love would eventually sneak its way back in.
But his mother has other ideas. His mother is concocting further punishment that only much later will he come to label as psychological torture.
When he begins to strip off his pyjamas, she asks him what he’s doing.
They’re wet, he tells her. He needs to get changed for school.
And he thinks, but he’s not sure, that he sees a smile on his mother’s face as she tells him he will do no such thing. She tells him that he will wear those urine-soaked pyjamas all day, under his school clothes, because how else is he going to learn, hmm? How else is the lesson going to sink in that he needs to control his bodily functions? How else will he remember in future that soiling his bedclothes is a rebellion, a smack in the face of his poor mother who works so hard to keep this house clean and tidy? Honour thy parents. Do you understand what that means? Well, do you?
He doesn’t understand. Not those exact words. Not at the age of six. But what he does appreciate is that this is the worst punishment ever. This will be an ordeal that will last all day. This is nothing less than sheer cruelty.
But he does as she commands, because he knows that the alternative is much, much worse.
He dresses as she stands and watches. Pulls on his smartly ironed trousers and shirt and pullover. And already he can see the damp patches forming. He can smell himself. And if these things are so obvious to him, they will turn him into a beacon at school.
He tries one last time to plead his case, but she is having none of it. This is his own fault, she explains. Reap what you sow.
He thinks that she might change her mind at the last moment. That, at the school gates, she will drag him back home to change, saying something like, ‘Let that be a lesson to you.’
But that is being far too hopeful. His mother is a woman of her word, and of God’s word.
And so at the school gates she simply ushers him into the playground as she always does. As if this is a day just like any other. She waits until he is in the midst of the other children, when it is too late for him to escape. And then she disappears, leaving him to his fate.
And it does not take long for it to start. The sniggering and the pointing. At that age children don’t hold back. The questioning becomes direct. Have you wet yourself? they ask. And when he doesn’t answer, they assume the affirmative, and their laughter becomes uproarious, and they begin the teasing.
And when he takes his seat in the classroom, the boy next to him makes a show of pinching his nose and shuffling his chair away from him, much to the amusement of the other children.
He wants the floor to open up beneath him. He wants to disappear for ever, to go somewhere far away, where nobody makes fun of him, where nobody hits him or screams at him. Where people are nice and friendly, and show only love.
But it seems to cure his bed-wetting. Give his mother her due, she has managed to perform that minor miracle. Destroyed a part of her son’s mind in the process, but everything has a price, eh?
He sleeps on a knife edge after that. Snaps awake at the slightest feeling of fullness in his bladder, then goes to the toilet to empty it. Refuses to drink anything before bed, just in case.
And people wonder why he is always tired, always yawning in class. Don’t you get enough sleep? they ask.
About six months later, recovering from a debilitating bout of flu, he gets plenty of sleep. Too much sleep. He is almost in a coma, it seems. And when he awakes in the middle of the night, he is mortified to feel the wetness again. Mortified and scared witless.
His solution is a long session with a hairdryer. He switches it on at its lowest setting so as not to make too much noise, and then he blows air onto his pyjamas and his sheets. He continues to do this for as long as he can – until it is time to get ready for school again, in fact – just so that he can be sure that his evil, unforgivable deed will not be detected.
But still he is left with the guilt. He has deceived his mother, and God is fully aware of this, and ultimately he will have to face his punishment.
He must live with that burden.
That is what his mother has taught him.
20
She eyes up the muffins. The blueberry ones in particular. Then she weighs up the calories and decides she had best stick to her usual but less exciting order of a cup of tea. The man behind the counter of the Piazza smiles as
he serves her. It seems genuine enough. Not one of those ‘I know what you do’ types of smiles she sees all too often. So she throws him a smile back. It’s the Christian thing to do, and this is certainly the place for that.
She carries her tray across to a comfy-looking armchair she’s been coveting since she came in from the cold. As she threads her way between the tables, a uniformed copper seated at one of them looks in her direction and says, ‘All right, Cassie. How’s things?’
She recognises the policeman, but she’s not sure where from, and right now she doesn’t want to get into a conversation with someone who may once have arrested her. So she gives him a smile too, then presses on.
When she is seated, she immediately opens up the free copy of the Metro that she picked up at Lime Street station. She knows the copper is watching her, so she stares intently at the paper until she is sure he has lost interest in her.
She relaxes then. Actually starts to read what is in front of her. Sees that the police are still no closer to solving the murder of that woman at the Anglican – the poor cow.
Cassie has never really understood what people see in the Anglican. Okay, it’s more cathedral-like, and yes, it’s pretty impressive for what it is. But it’s so Gothic-looking. So gloomy and spooky. Especially on dark nights like these.
She’ll stick with this one, thank you very much. The ‘other’ cathedral. The Catholic one. Even though she’s not a Catholic and never has been. This cathedral is just so much more modern and funky. It makes you happy just to look at it. That woman would never have been killed here.
Cassie lifts her eyes from the newspaper. The copper has gone, thank goodness. She looks out through the huge windows of the café. No sign of him there either. Just a couple of backpack-toting tourists taking photographs of the impressive sight in front of them.
She takes her time supping her tea. There’s no hurry. She has all the time in the world.
She gets to the back page of the paper. She’s not that interested in sport, but it’s good to see that Everton are playing at home today. That means a healthy crowd of drunken fans hitting town tonight. Which in turn means a better chance of custom.
When she’s finished, she grabs her bag and exits through the glass doors. The biting wind hits her, and she turns away from it.
But then the building fills her vision, rising in stark outline against the leaden skies behind it, and all thoughts of the cold are forgotten.
Its proper name is the Metropolitan Cathedral of Christ the King, but it also has several colloquial names, derived from its unique shape. One of the most apt descriptions is that of a huge upturned funnel, and so it is sometimes referred to as the Mersey Funnel, which is also a pun on the Mersey Tunnels that connect Liverpool with the Wirral peninsula.
It is also often called Paddy’s Wigwam, although Cassie is never entirely sure whether that term is slightly racist – more so against the Irish than the American Indians. It definitely bears a resemblance to a circular tent of some kind, however, the flying buttresses looking like thick guide ropes tethering it to the ground.
Cassie has her own way of describing the cathedral. It always reminds her of the central console in Doctor Who’s Tardis. It could easily be something that was left here by alien beings.
She finds a real smile of happiness now, and almost bounds up the concrete steps. She glances briefly at the gardens to her right – a lovely place to sit and contemplate life in the summer months, but deserted at the moment.
She enters the building beneath the immense vertical slab of concrete that houses the bells. Pauses as she always does to gaze around the interior while she soaks up the peace and tranquillity.
Unlike the Tardis, it seems smaller on the inside. The altar is in the centre of the circular space. Above it hangs a spiked, metallic structure that is said to be symbolic of the Crown of Thorns. Above that again, the tower that forms the ‘stem’ of the funnel is lined with stained glass that, on a bright day, casts magical beams of colourful light onto the worshippers below.
Cassie turns to her left to begin her customary tour of the circumference. She once read an article claiming that most people unconsciously turn right on entering a large space, and that shop owners who are aware of this lay out their wares accordingly. But Cassie always goes left. She likes to be different.
She walks slowly past the various chapels, occasionally stepping in to study an exhibit or read a note of remembrance. She is not easily moved to tears, but finds some of the messages heartbreaking – particularly the ones from young children.
She completes the circle almost before she’s aware of it. As she reaches the baptistry, she turns and heads along one of the aisles between the benches surrounding the altar. Most of the benches are unoccupied, so she chooses one at random and takes a seat at its end.
Her prayers follow no well-defined structure. Most of her life has been spent without religion in it, and so she has no idea if there is any protocol here. The only thing she remembers from her school days is the Lord’s Prayer, but even that doesn’t seem relevant to her any longer.
So she does her own thing. Generates a stream of rambling, unspoken thoughts that she would like God to hear.
What she wants him to know above all else is that she is trying. She is not perfect, and she makes mistakes, and she doesn’t always fulfil her promises, but she is at least trying to be a good person.
When she has finished praying, she sits for a couple of minutes more, her head bowed and eyes closed. Because it’s peaceful here. There is no drama here, no danger. If she could stay here for the rest of her life she would.
Maybe I should apply to become a nun, she thinks. Ha – wouldn’t that be a turnaround?
Finally she gets up. There’s a reality to be faced out there.
She goes outside. Pulls her collar in against the wind as she stares towards Hope Street.
I wonder if there’s hope for me, she thinks.
She doesn’t retrace her way down the steps the way most people do. Instead, she turns to her left and goes around to the side of the cathedral. Her aim is to cross the grounds at the rear, then descend the steps near the crypt doors on Brownlow Hill.
It’s devoid of people here. She suspects that many of the cathedral visitors don’t even know you can come this way, or where it leads.
She halts. Gets out of the wind by stepping into an alcove beneath one of the buttresses. She digs into her pockets. Finds an almost-empty packet of cigarettes. Lights one up and stares into space as she savours the nicotine hit.
Forgot to say, Lord, she thinks. I’ve cut down on these too.
She flicks ash on the ground. Wonders how convincing she is to God. Wonders if her life will ever change.
A figure comes into view.
He’s male. Wearing a big black coat with the hood up. Hands stuffed in the pockets. She wishes she had a coat that’s as warm as his looks.
She blows out a cloud of smoke. Watches as the figure slows down, turns towards her slightly, starts to come over.
She wonders if it’s a punter. Someone she’s been with before. They don’t usually recognise her in the cold light of day, especially when they’ve sobered up.
As he gets nearer, he pulls one of his hands from his pocket. She sees what he’s holding.
A cigarette.
Poor bloke’s dying for a fag, and hasn’t got a lighter or a match. She smiles. She’s been in that predicament many times herself.
‘Got a light?’ he mutters hoarsely.
He keeps his head down as he says this, and his hood hides his face. There’s something about his voice, she thinks. But . . . Ah, to hell with it. Light him up and let him get on his way.
She digs in her own coat pocket for her lighter.
And then he punches her.
At least she thinks it’s a punch. But the pain is immense, and pinpoints of light are exploding behind her eyes, and she seems to be having trouble staying on her feet. And when she blinks
the world back into some kind of focus, she sees that it wasn’t a fist that caught her but a hammer. A large, heavy-looking hammer that swings into her face a second time. And she wonders why he’s doing that, and she decides to ask him. But her mouth isn’t working properly. The words won’t come out. Just meaningless noises. And something else. Her teeth, she thinks. Teeth and blood. All crunchy and wet inside her mouth. And now she doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t think there’s anything she can do. Her body isn’t responding properly, and her attacker is still there in front of her. She can see his face now, though. Confirms what she thought, but that makes no difference. He’s not going away. If anything he’s coming closer. He’s raising his fist too. Not the one with the cigarette but the one with the hammer. He’s going to hit me again, she thinks. This one won’t hurt, though. I won’t feel this one.
God will look after me now.
21
Cody has never been so glad to see Blunt.
Not because he’s expecting a hug from her or anything. He just wants to get out of this bloody freezing wind. He and the other detectives have pretty much done their bit up here, and have only stayed because Blunt ordered them to until she got there from her meeting.
But now she’s here, marching towards them like the lady of the manor confronting trespassers on her land.
‘I should warn you,’ she tells them all, ‘that I am not in the best of moods. Sometimes I could swear that the higher-ups in the force have completely forgotten what it’s like to work outside an office. So I want some good news. If this is another squeaky-clean, whiter-than-white—’
‘It’s not, ma’am,’ says Cody. ‘The victim was a prostitute.’
This throws Blunt. She stares at Cody, daring him to confess he’s pulling her leg.
‘A what? Are you sure?’
‘Yes, ma’am. Cassie Harris. She’s well known to the local bobbies.’
Without another word, Blunt walks away to get her first look at the corpse.
Cody exchanges glances with Ferguson, who is stamping his feet on the ground in an effort to keep warm. Webley, meanwhile, seems unwilling to look at either of them.
Hope to Die: A gripping new serial killer thriller (The DS Nathan Cody series) Page 12