(2012) Say You're Sorry

by Michael Robotham

  “Is everyone OK?”

  They nod.

  Augie has his mother’s dark solemn eyes but his gaze, even at its steadiest, keeps pulling distractedly to one side. His hands are no longer bandaged, but the skin looks pink and painful, smothered in cream.

  From outside the chants are growing louder. Going to the front room, I open the curtain a crack. More police have arrived, linking arms to form a human chain, but they’re easily outnumbered. A bottle explodes on the tarmac, scattering diamonds of green glass.

  Joining the others in the kitchen, I try to calm their nerves. “How about a cup of tea.”

  Victoria fills the kettle.

  “Why can’t they just leave us alone?” asks Mrs. Shaw.

  “They’re angry at me,” says Augie.

  Victoria shakes her head. “It’s not your fault.”

  “Whose fault is it?”

  “You should never have gone to that farmhouse,” says his mother. “You should have stayed away from those people.”

  Tightening her robe, she looks through the pantry, trying to find a packet of biscuits. “I know I had some,” she says. And then to Augie, “Did you eat the biscuits?”

  He lowers his head.

  More police have arrived, but so have more protesters. Bottles and bricks are being thrown. Bodies forced back. Regrouping. Coming again. Each chant of “scum” makes Augie flinch. He presses his hands to his ears, trying to block the sound. He whispers in a little boy voice, “It’s my fault. I couldn’t save them.”

  “Who couldn’t you save?” I ask.

  “All of them.” He puts his finger to his forehead, corkscrewing it as if drilling into his skull. “I couldn’t save Mrs. Heyman from the fire. I couldn’t save my brother. I couldn’t save the girl.”

  “Natasha?”

  “The snowman took her.”

  “Why do you call him the snowman?”

  “He was made of snow.”

  A window smashes in the front room. Mrs. Shaw screams. Almost simultaneously, glass shatters upstairs. Bricks and bottles are landing against the house.

  “Everyone stay here,” I say.

  Crouching, I run along the hallway to the front room. The curtains are billowing. Broken glass glitters on the carpet. I move to the window and glance outside. The police have surrendered ground under a hail of missiles.

  Bottles and bricks are bouncing off parked cars, occasionally finding windows. A police van made it halfway down the street before being abandoned. Rioters are rocking it from side to side, creating momentum. It topples. Metal on tarmac. The mob cheers.

  A rock cannons against the window frame above my head. Another shatters a picture in a frame on the mantelpiece.

  Crawling to the entrance hall, I press my ear against the front door. I can hear a policeman outside, radioing for help, sounding desperate. I open the door a crack. Blood streams from a split on the bridge of his nose, running across his lips.

  “Stay in the house, sir,” he orders.

  I see his head snap back as a half-brick hits him flush in the face. He goes down, his helmet rolling across the steps. At that same moment, I see a flash of yellow and hear it smash as it lands. A whump sound fills the front room. Petrol igniting. Flames. Light.

  “There’s a fire!” screams Mrs. Shaw.

  “Stay in the kitchen,” I yell back.

  Retreating down the hallway, closing the doors, I reach the kitchen. I look out the window and notice a gate at the rear of the yard.

  “Where does it lead?”

  Mrs. Shaw looks confused for a moment. “There’s a lane. It runs behind the houses to Lovett Road.”

  “Where’s Augie?”

  “I thought he was with you.”

  “No.”

  “He must be upstairs.”

  “I’ll get him. You go. Take your coats. Call the fire brigade when you get to the lane.”

  “I’m not leaving without Augie,” says his mother.

  “I’ll get him.”

  Covering my mouth and nose, I climb the stairs two at a time. There are three rooms upstairs, two of them bedrooms, crammed with too much furniture. I call Augie’s name. No answer. I can’t see him.

  Walking around the beds, stepping over clothes, I glance out a broken window at the street. A phalanx of police wearing helmets and black body armor are marching from the northern end. Reinforcements. They’re pushing the crowd back, clearing the street like a human bulldozer. Behind them the road is littered with shattered bricks and broken glass. The police van is burning.

  I can’t find Augie. I search the wardrobes and peer under the beds. He’s not here. The smoke is getting thicker and my eyes are streaming. I crawl across the landing, bumping my head against the wall. My fingers find the skirting board and I feel my way towards the bathroom.

  By touch, I find the sink and turn on a tap, washing out my eyes. I manage to open the window a few inches and press my face to the gap, sucking in fresh air. Turning back, I notice a dark shape to my right. Augie is sitting in the bath, his arms wrapped around his knees.

  I grab his arm. Shouting. “We have to get out.”

  He looks at me. Tears stain his cheeks.

  “Come with me.”

  He pushes my hand away.

  “You can’t stay here. We have to go.”

  “I can’t,” he says, pointing to his ankle bracelet. “The judge said I couldn’t leave the house.”

  “This is different. You’re allowed.”

  “But they’ll kill me outside.”

  There is a whooshing sound from below. Flames sweep across the ceiling of the entry hall. Wood crackles and burns. The window won’t open far enough for us to get out. I can’t carry Augie and he won’t come with me. He’s too frightened.

  I can’t leave him here and I can’t stay.

  Turning on a tap, I wet a towel and drape it over his head.

  “Stay here, I’ll get help.”

  He doesn’t answer.

  I wet a second towel and cover my head. On my hands and knees, I reach the top of the stairs. Face first, I slide down the steps, losing control, landing on my shoulder and rolling. The burning ceiling twirls and dips.

  I’m breathing more smoke than oxygen. Blindly, I try to reach the kitchen, but everything has slowed down. I keep hitting my head on the wall. I can’t find the door. It’s dark. Poisonous. Hot.

  Curling up on the floor, I place my lips against the carpet, trying to find clean air. If I could just get one lungful, I could keep going. I can feel the heat on the back of my legs.

  Wood splinters and the air pressure changes. The fire feeds on the oxygen and bursts through the door of the front room. Strong hands grab me, lifting me, carrying me along the hallway. I try to help, but can’t support my own weight.

  My legs are bumping down the steps. I feel soft earth beneath me. Fresh air. I’m dragged across the garden and rolled onto my back. Coughing. Sucking in air. I can’t open my eyes, but I recognize Ruiz’s voice.

  “Is there anyone else inside?”

  I nod, but can’t speak. Another question, a different voice. Grievous is with him. I point upstairs. Every window at the rear of the house is lit up by fire. Firemen appear from the laneway, dragging hoses through the gate. The detective constable yells at them. “There’s someone still inside. Upstairs.”

  The fireman nods and uses his radio, calling for breathing apparatus. Flames are spilling from windows, licking at the eaves. Ruiz helps me to stand. I don’t want to leave. I reach out towards Grievous, wanting to thank him, but he’s already gone, issuing commands, growing in stature.

  Ruiz walks me along the lane past the fire engines and police cars. In the darkness I can’t see the smoke, but an orange glow is silhouetting the rooftops and the sparks look like bloated fireflies rising on the heated air.

  The crowd has gone silent. No longer hurling missiles, they watch the blaze like children around a bonfire, cheeks glowing, light dancing in their eyes, energy
draining away.

  One group of young men is loitering on the far side of the street, swigging from cans of lager. Two of them I recognize: Toby Kroger and Craig Gould. Kroger sees me and raises his drink in a grinning toast. Nelson Stokes is another spectator, gazing at the fire as though he expected something more impressive and shouldn’t have bothered coming out.

  Ruiz is still with me.

  “How did you know?” I ask.

  “I got your message. I came as soon as I could. Your girlfriend told me you were still inside the house.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I guess we’re even.”

  “How does it make us even?”

  “You’ll save my life one day.”

  Victoria Naparstek is sitting in a police car with the door open and a gray blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

  She looks relieved and then searches the road behind me. “Where’s Augie?”

  “He wouldn’t come out. I tried. I’m sorry.”

  Her first reaction is anger, then hurt, then sadness. She walks into my arms, resting her head against my chest, wiping her nose with the corner of the blanket.

  “They killed him,” she whispers, barely making a sound.

  This is how I wake,

  sliding warily out of sleep, listening for every sound, watching the shadows. He crept up on me last time, caught me by surprise. I won’t let it happen again.

  Squatting, pants around my knees, I listen to the tinkling in the bedpan beneath me, gazing at the dull white square of the window. Quiet. No birdsong.

  Afterwards, I climb on the bench and look at the pale nude sky.

  I wonder if George will come today. Until Tash left, I didn’t consider the idea that I was lonely. Now it’s driving me crazy. I can handle the hunger and the cold, but not this. I need George. Next time I’ll be nicer to him and he’ll bring me food and more gas and warmer blankets. If I’m nice to him, he’ll let me wash and give me clean clothes.

  I know what he wants and I don’t care anymore. He can stab me with his filthy penis. He can kiss me with his slimy tongue. I just want to know he’s coming back. I want to talk to someone. I don’t want to die down here alone.

  I’ve tried to use the walkie-talkie but I think it’s broken or the batteries are dead. I took them out and put them back in again, but it didn’t make any difference. The eye is still peering from the ceiling but I don’t know if it’s turned on or if George is watching. I’ve begged him to come back, but nothing happened.

  It’s cold. I pull on three layers of clothes and go to the gas burner. It’s empty. The tap is frozen. I’ll have to wait. The pipes will thaw when it warms up outside.

  When I’m hungry like this I think about home. I think about cottage pie and baked pears. Phoebe. Ben. I used to be able to describe The Old Vicarage down to the last detail, every crack and creak and wobbly window, but over time I’ve started to forget things.

  If I concentrate really hard, I can imagine throwing rocks into the pond and hear them land with a satisfying plonk before muddy bubbles break the surface. Then I can hear my mother calling me inside for breakfast but I keep standing in the garden, not wanting to leave, watching the first rays of sunshine reach across the lawn towards the greenhouse.

  Phoebe will be up early. She’s a morning person, always buzzing and chatting, treating each day like the start of a new adventure. If it’s Saturday morning she’ll watch TV, curled up on the sofa, creating a fort of pillows around her. She’ll get Ben breakfast because he gets hungry before Mum and Dad get up.

  I have a new baby sister. I don’t know her name. George didn’t tell me what they called her. I can’t remember much about Phoebe being a baby, but Ben came along when I was twelve. I saw him at the hospital, lying in a cot in the maternity ward. I thought he looked like Gollum from Lord of the Rings.

  There’s a sound above me. Boxes are being moved. For a fleeting second, I’m hoping that Tash has come back, but then I hear his voice.

  “Honey, I’m home,” he sings from the far side of the trapdoor.

  My bowels seem to liquefy. Stupid, stupid, stupid me! I wanted him to come. I prayed for it. Now I would take it back. I would take it back a million times.

  The trapdoor opens. His face appears.

  “Are you ready?”

  I draw back, shaking my head, waiting.

  “I heard you asking for me.”

  “Where’s Tash?”

  “I have food.”

  “I want to see her.”

  “Forget about her. She’s being punished. If you’re good to me, I’ll let you talk to her. Come on. Climb up. That’s it. Raise your arms. One, two, three, upsy daisy.”

  30

  The paramedics have flushed out my eyes and checked my lungs. Victoria Naparstek has waited for me, sitting in silence in a police car, lost in her own thoughts.

  DCI Drury steps over the hoses and shakes water from the shoulders of his coat, pausing to study the house. The front two or three rooms have been completely gutted but the main structure is intact.

  Avoiding a fountain of spray, he finds the senior fire officer, who is uncoupling the harness and lifting his tank onto the back of a truck. The fire chief has thick sideburns that make him look like the circus ringmaster. He takes off his helmet and wipes soot from his forehead, smudging it into a dark stain beneath his fringe.

  “There’s a body in the upstairs bathroom. Young. Male. Tag on his ankle.”

  Drury grimaces as though acid reflux is scalding his esophagus. He swallows and turns away, striding back towards the police lines. Ignoring the spray, oblivious to it, he yells instructions to DS Casey.

  “Get these people away from here. Call SOCO. Secure the scene.”

  “We don’t have the personnel,” says Casey.

  “Wake them up.”

  Drury notices me. One eyebrow arches. “What happened to you?”

  “I was inside. Grievous and Ruiz pulled me out.”

  “What were you doing here?”

  “She called me.”

  He turns his head and recognizes Victoria Naparstek. Something softens in his eyes and he draws forward, crouching beside the open car door, talking to her softly. Ash smudges her right cheek. He reaches to wipe it away. She pushes his hand away. Trembling.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “We should have had more officers… nobody expected this.”

  Victoria looks hard into his eyes, testing his honesty.

  “Who started the fire?” asks Drury.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did it start inside or outside?”

  “Something was thrown through the window. They wanted to kill him.”

  Shakily, Drury stands, stiff-kneed, joints creaking like armor. He stares at the house for a moment and then turns to Casey.

  “Get a warrant.”

  “Who are we arresting?”

  “Hayden and Victor McBain.”

  Victoria Naparstek lets me drive her home. We stop halfway because she wants to be sick. The fresh air makes her feel better. We walk in silence along the river, the mist shrouding the far bank where canal boats are groaning against their lines.

  Her shoulder brushes mine. I can still see the smudge of ash on her right cheek. Drury had tried to wipe it away. It was a gesture of intimacy, accompanied by something vague and bright in his eyes, a painful rapture.

  I should have seen it earlier. The clues. Drury had looked like a married man in the midst of an affair. Victoria acted like a woman trying to escape from one. I understand now why she wouldn’t go to the DCI’s house. She didn’t want to see his wife and children. That’s why she reacted so angrily towards him at the police station and again at the hospital. She expected more from the DCI because she had given so much of herself.

  I am not surprised. I don’t disapprove. Who am I to judge? Had I asked for honesty? No. The truth is an overrated quality. Lies make a dull world more interesting. They take things in unexpected directions. They add com
plications and layers of texture.

  Victoria tugs the collar of her coat more tightly around her.

  “How did you and Drury meet?” I ask.

  She is silent for a long time. “I did a psychiatric report for a defendant and gave evidence at the trial. It was Stephen’s case. He won. He took me for a drink afterwards. One thing led to another.”

  Another silence, longer this time.

  “Are you in love with him?”

  “No.”

  “Is he in love with you?”

  “He says he is.”

  “And now you feel trapped.”

  She looks up at me and back at the river. “Pretty much.”

  The wind is buffeting her, pushing her coat against her body and shaking her hair. We’ve reached a turn in the path. There is a pub ahead with closed shutters and Christmas lights blinking around the door. I push against her and kiss her clumsily, my hand slipping inside her coat to find her breast.

  Her mouth tastes of smoke and something yeasty and exciting. It’s the sort of kiss I would have taken for granted a few years ago—deep and unhurried—but now it feels like a rare gift. Pushing me away gently, Victoria looks past my shoulder and I have a sensation that she can see someone behind me, watching us from the shadows. It’s that same impression that I often get with her; that she’s dreamily preoccupied or looking for something other than me.

  “We had sex,” she says. “It wasn’t a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “There was always a conflict of interest. You are evaluating one of my patients. It could be misconstrued…”

  “The sex?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know it wasn’t earth-moving. Nobody is going to write poetry about it or paint a mural, but I’d be happy to do it again.”

  She laughs. “You’re a wonderful man, Joe. Far better than you give yourself credit for.”

  “And?”

  “You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”

  I feel like saying, I’m the one with the disease.

  We each exhale, our breath condensing and combining in a single cloud.