by Lisa Hartley
‘It’s been a lovely evening.’
Catherine wrinkled her nose. ‘The thirty seconds Melody was quiet for, you mean?’
Ellie laughed. ‘She must have swallowed her food without chewing it.’
‘If we go out with her again, let’s order her a well-done steak. Might keep her busy for a while.’
The hotel was quiet, the bar still open, though there were only a few people dotted around the seating area. They climbed the stairs to the first floor, where Catherine’s room was. It had seemed extravagant to book into the hotel when she lived less than twenty miles away, but now she was pleased Ellie had suggested it. An anonymous room suited her mood tonight.
When they found her door, Catherine stopped, fumbling to swipe the key card, conscious of Ellie standing close beside her. As the light on the lock flashed green, Catherine glanced at her friend and Ellie smiled, her eyes bright. She held Catherine’s gaze, stroked her hand, still resting on the door handle. Catherine swallowed, panic rising in her belly as Ellie stepped closer, her intention clear. Closing her eyes, Catherine willed herself to relax as Ellie’s lips met her own. Hadn’t this been inevitable? Hadn’t she been anticipating it earlier while she carefully straightened her hair, applied her make-up? She tangled her fingers in Ellie’s thick, dark-blonde hair, pushing her doubts away. Ellie was perfect – kind, funny and gorgeous.
And Catherine felt nothing.
Furious with herself, she broke the kiss and fumbled again for the door handle. Half-turning back, she was stung by the confusion evident on her friend’s face. ‘Ellie, I … I’m sorry. Goodnight.’
She fled inside, closing the door before she could see Ellie’s reaction, flicked on the lights and stumbled into the bathroom.
How long could this continue?
2
‘All right, Mackie?’
He nodded, lifting the bottle to his lips, swallowing enough to dull the cold in one gulp. He didn’t bother to see who had spoken to him. They all knew him, but were also aware he liked to be left alone. Tucking his chin into his scarf, Mackie hunched his shoulders. He hated sleeping here. Too many people knew about it. He’d told some of them - those he liked, trusted – about it himself. But it was a cold night, and there had been drizzle earlier in the day. He knew from experience once you were cold and wet, you would stay that way for hours, even days. There was the homeless shelter, but he couldn’t go back there now. Taking another mouthful of vodka, he tipped his head back against the wall behind him. The bricks were cold, as was the bench beneath his backside. The vodka burned his throat, and he drank greedily, savouring the warmth as it reached his gut. He huddled deeper into the sleeping bag, drawing his feet onto the bench, twisting to lie on his side. A cold wind whipped across the open front of the pavilion. It wasn’t the ideal place to spend the night, resembling a large bus shelter, with a concrete floor which leeched the warmth from your bones. Still, it was better than being out in the open, in a doorway. Mackie had built himself a shelter using a couple of broken pallets and some plastic sheeting, had spent a few nights there, but it was a risk to stay in one place for too long. Eventually, you were found. Do-gooders trying to nurse you back into society, coppers, or maybe people fancying knocking a homeless person around before staggering off to hail a taxi.
Last night, it had been drunks. Not young lads either, older men in their thirties or forties, pissed on cheap lager and wanting to prove they weren’t past it. Beating up a tramp, four against one, had obviously seemed like the perfect way to do so. Egging each other on, laughing and boasting, kicking the shit out of someone who could barely stand even before they touched him.
Running his hand across his chin, Mackie winced as he explored the bruising along his jaw. He didn’t have many teeth left, but Christ, the bastards had dislodged some of those that remained. Lifting his head, he threw more vodka down his throat. He had managed, eventually, to beg enough cash to buy something to take the edge off the pain. You had to avoid the police, be on your guard constantly. He couldn’t blame them. People didn’t want to see the homeless, didn’t want to know. Anything that was a reminder of how fragile day-to-day existence could be was a threat. Mackie knew how it went. He had been on both sides of the argument.
His body ached with fatigue, but the pain of the cuts and bruises, each flaming and burning every time he moved, would allow him no rest. His eyes were open, watching cars flit by on the nearby road, headlights cutting through the chill air. What would the people driving them think to him settling here for the night, if they saw him at all? Most homeless folk were invisible, Mackie had realised. It was amazing how many people could simply see straight through them, continuing their day as they passed, turning their heads and focussing on anything but the person huddled on the ground. It had angered Mackie at first, shocked him, though he knew he had been no better. When he’d had a job, a family, a home, a life. Respectability. A purpose, a point. Those were all long gone. His existence now was a drag towards death. No need to dress it up, no wish for sympathy. He would do nothing to hasten his own end, but he wouldn’t fight it either. His decisions, choices he had made, his own actions had left him here, alone and afraid. Homeless, drinking, and trying to sleep on a bench – what a cliché. In his former life, he would have disgusted himself. Now, it was different. Once you were used to the discomfort, the smell of your own unwashed body, the loss of respect and status, the boredom, the absence of hope, there was nothing left to fear. He could sink no further.
He was punishing himself, and he deserved to.
There were four other benches in the pavilion, and glancing around, he saw all were occupied. The low hum of voices, an occasional burst of laughter. The smell of dope and dog. Sweat. Despair.
Cradling his bottle, he slowly, painfully, got to his feet. He couldn’t stay here. There would be no sleep, not yet. He would walk, haunting the streets as he had years before, when he was on the beat.
*
You could still hear the screams. The castle had been a powerhouse, a place of imprisonment, of punishment. The crown court, still in use, stood in the grounds. Mackie stood on the cobbles of Castle Hill, the cathedral looming behind him. He loved the city of Lincoln, the place of his birth. There were a few people around, but not many. Mackie held his vodka bottle close, his rucksack digging into the bones of his shoulders. Carrying your life on your back was hard work. For reassurance, he patted his trouser pocket, where his ancient leather wallet, cracked and faded now, but still serviceable, was held safe.
Soon, it would be filled with banknotes. He would leave the city he loved to make a new life elsewhere.
It was a glint of hope, a glimmer. He turned towards the cathedral, glowing against the night sky. As he approached it, there was a sense of awe. He wasn’t religious, not at all, but there was wonder, all the same. The scale of the building, the detail, the love. The splendour, the celebration, while people begged, starved, lived and died on the streets below, as they always had. History could appear to erect barriers between the present and the people of the past, but Mackie knew none truly existed. People didn’t change. Human nature, every thieving, greedy ounce of it echoed down the ages.
Checking his battered watch, Mackie drank the last of his vodka and turned away.
It was time.
3
Sunday morning, close to midday. The jangling of her mobile phone shook Mary Dolan out of a restless doze. She turned her head on the pillow, her tongue as dry as one of the horrible brown crackers she’d force down her throat later in deference to the diet she’d started yet again. Her hand knocked a half-pint glass of water from the bedside cabinet to the carpet beneath, and she cursed.
‘Where’s the bloody phone?’ She was talking to herself, but there was a muffled grunt from the other side of the bed, and she froze. Who the hell had she brought home? She ought to know, given it was such a rare occurrence. This was why she seldom drank alcohol these days.
The phone was still ringing, and
she ran her hand around again on the floor by the bed. There. She squinted at the display: Collette. Her head ached, her stomach protesting as she struggled to sit upright.
‘Coll?’ Dolan’s voice was more a growl. She moved the phone away from her mouth and cleared her throat, working her jaws to introduce a little moisture into her mouth. Pity the glass of water was now decorating the carpet. She could hear her friend breathing, but she hadn’t spoken yet. ‘Collette?’
‘Mary.’ It was a sob.
Dolan stifled a groan. ‘Don’t tell me. Not again?’
Collette sniffled. ‘It’s my own fault, I …’
‘Provoke him,’ Dolan interrupted, rolling her eyes. ‘Yes, Collette, you do. It’s not his fault at all, it’s yours.’
‘Mary …’
‘Come on Collette, when will you see it? I can’t help you until you help yourself. Pete’s a bullying shitbag, and he won’t ever change.’
‘He loves me.’
‘He’s got a funny way of showing it.’
‘I annoy him …’
‘You annoy me, but I don’t punch you in the gob, do I?’ Dolan had had this conversation more times than she could count.
There was another sniff, followed by a strangled laugh. ‘It wasn’t my gob, as you put it. It was my stomach.’
‘Oh well, okay. Lucky he didn’t damage your precious dentures. Wait a minute, Pete’s the reason you had to get false front teeth.’
‘I don’t know why I bother ringing you, I get more sympathy from the gerbils.’
Dolan shook her head. ‘Come on, Collette. I want to help, but you won’t let me.’
Another silence. ‘Mary, please don’t arrest him.’
There was more movement in the bed as a hand searched for Dolan’s thigh, found it and gave an affectionate squeeze. She blinked as realisation dawned.
‘Mary? Are you still there?’ Collette’s voice was plaintive.
Dolan gave the hand an experimental slap. It squeezed again. ‘Yes, though I don’t know why.’
‘You won’t arrest Pete, will you?’ Collette bleated.
Dolan settled back against the headboard. ‘I haven’t decided yet.’ Collette made a sound reminiscent of a cat being trapped in a door. Dolan shook her head, patience exhausted. Talking to Collette always had the same effect; her friend’s passivity and excuses infuriated Dolan, though she had seen similar situations more times than she cared to remember. ‘I’m not going to barge into your house and handcuff him, Collette, as you know. You could find some balls and dob him in, though.’ The hand tried to explore further, and Mary shifted, grabbing it and halting the movement.
‘Collette, I’m going to have to go, I need the loo. Is Pete still asleep?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Right, well, I didn’t tell you this, but you need to go out to the shed, grab a shovel, take it into the bedroom and …’ Collette hung up. Mary turned to the other occupant of the bed. ‘Right, show yourself.’
Laughter. He pushed back the duvet, hair tousled, his face flushed red.
‘Charming,’ he grinned.
Mary shook her head at him, dismayed. ‘What are you still doing here?’
*
Catherine Bishop drove from Lincoln to Northolme, the market town where she had lived and been based since she joined Lincolnshire Police. She turned into her drive, frowning as she saw Anna Varcoe’s car parked at the side of the road. Rummaging in her bag, she took out her phone.
‘Thomas, I’m home.’
‘Yeah, your car appearing in the drive was a bit of a giveaway.’
She could tell her brother was smiling. ‘Wanted to warn you.’
‘Give us chance to make ourselves decent, you mean?’ Thomas laughed. ‘Don’t worry, we’re fully dressed, ankles covered and everything.’
‘You’re hilarious.’
They were in the kitchen, sitting at the table eating scrambled eggs on toast.
Anna offered a warm smile as Catherine dropped her keys onto the worktop. ‘Morning, Sarge … Catherine. I hope you don’t mind me staying?’
Thomas squirted more tomato sauce onto his plate. ‘She’s said she doesn’t. Have you eaten, Catherine?’
She filled the kettle, took three mugs out of the cupboard. ‘Yes, thanks. Ellie and I had breakfast before we left the hotel.’ Catherine didn’t want to think about it. No reference had been made to the kiss. It had been stilted conversation under a fog of awkwardness. She indicated their plates, trying to lighten her tone. ‘Your scrambled eggs look better, though.’
‘How was your night?’ Thomas raised his eyebrows as his sister turned to look at him, oblivious to her mood. ‘How’s Ellie?’
‘She’s okay.’
‘And?’ Thomas drawled.
Catherine folded her arms. ‘Ellie’s colleagues were a nightmare, except Faye, but the food was good. You should try it, new Italian restaurant on Steep Hill.’
‘Nothing happened?’ Thomas was aghast.
Catherine turned to the fridge before they could see her face. ‘What were you expecting?’
‘You and Ellie spent the night in the same hotel, and there’s no gossip?’
‘We’re friends, Thomas. Sorry to disappoint you.’ Catherine set their teas on the table with a thump, remembering the moment at the bottom of Steep Hill. The kiss. Her reaction, and Ellie’s expression. The guilt she had experienced after she closed her bedroom door firmly in her friend’s face.
Anna glanced at Thomas, obviously uncomfortable. ‘We’re going out soon, for a carvery.’
‘But we’re still eating our breakfast,’ Thomas protested. Anna frowned at him, and he lowered his head to his plate again.
‘You don’t have to leave because I’m home. I’m going to have a bath,’ Catherine said, irritated.
Lying back in the bubbles, she sighed as she heard the front door close behind them, annoyed with herself again. When Thomas had asked if he could move in for a few months while he found a job, she had been pleased to agree. Now he had Anna, and four months into their relationship, they were happy. Catherine was pleased for them, but a tiny part of her, a small voice she tried to ignore, couldn’t help being a little resentful too. Admitting it wasn’t easy.
Dressed again, she went back into the kitchen and found her phone. No missed calls, no texts. She scrolled through her list of contacts. How long it had been since she had spoken to some of them? Months, if not years. She could blame her job, but she knew the real reason she had lost touch with them all was her own apathy. Social media meant she kept up with new relationships, babies and bereavements, but there was no one she could phone for a chat. It was sobering, though there was one person who might answer.
*
Jonathan Knight set his elbows on the table, pressing his fingertips to his forehead. When he finally raised his head again, he had to blink a few times to bring the room into focus. He never slept well, but the late evening rush to London and a night spent reading, browsing the internet and staring at the ceiling in his hotel room had taken its toll. He struggled to his feet, his back aching, and went across to the counter to order another cup of coffee. As he waited for the barista to work his magic on the complicated-looking machinery, Knight heard his phone ringing. The name was a surprise. ‘Catherine?’
‘Hi.’ Her voice was flat.
‘Give me a second.’ Knight smiled his thanks as the man passed over his drink. Back at the table, he took a sip before lifting the phone to his ear again. ‘Okay, I’m here.’
‘Are you still in London? Is there any news?’
‘Not yet. Caitlin said she’d phone me. To be honest, it was a mistake to have rushed here last night, cost me a fortune in taxi and train fares. I don’t even know which hospital she’s in.’
There was a pause as Catherine digested this. ‘Bit daft.’
He laughed. ‘Jo told me the same thing.’
‘How is Jo?’
‘Fine. Busy. Catherine, are you all right?’
‘I’m waiting for the train now, trying to wake myself with a few cups of coffee.’
‘What time do you arrive at Retford? I’ll meet you if you like.’
Knight smiled at her tone – casual, offhand. The station was about twelve miles from Catherine’s house in Northolme, the nearest place to catch a direct express to London. It was unlikely she would be passing. ‘Thanks, Catherine.’
*
Sleeping with her ex was always a bad idea; a terrible, potentially disastrous idea. Having turfed him out of her bed and her house, Mary Dolan had boiled the kettle, made some toast and given herself a stern talking-to. All right, it had only happened once recently. Twice now. Shit. She didn’t know why; she’d tried to forget him years ago, but she struggled to sever him from her life. She would never be able to completely because of their daughter, but she needed to keep him further away than this. She blamed the wine. She never usually drank the stuff, apparently with good reason. It couldn’t happen again. She’d be courteous if she saw him, but no more. No flirting, no giggling. He’d visited because Mary wanted to discuss how much he was going to contribute to the cost of their daughter’s education now she was at university, but the two bottles of wine he brought had disappeared far too quickly. She had no idea if they’d even reached an agreement, no doubt just as he’d planned.
As the kettle boiled, her phone pinged. She poured water onto another tea bag, sloshing it around with a grubby spoon. She needed to wash up. Should have made him do it. He’d done little else, except steal her spare toothbrush. There was the sex … She couldn’t remember much about last night, but it had been good when they’d been together before. Not that she’d had anything to compare it to in those days …
Slopping milk into the mug, she sat again at the kitchen table and opened the text. It was from her daughter: Mum, please can I have £50? Sorry. Love you x
Cheeky madam. Mary already paid an allowance into her account each month. She sipped her tea, knowing she’d send the money. After twenty years in the police force, she’d seen every mishap, accident and cruelty a body could endure, and she had no intention of her daughter becoming a victim of any of them. Walking home when you didn’t have the money for a cab, sitting alone in a carriage on the last train …