by CS Savage
6
Rowan
Thank God she was still with him. He was buff – even if he could be a dick at times. Couldn't all men? She felt the stinging between her legs, the sweet soreness of her thighs – a hangover from their sex the previous night. She yearned for more. Sitting up, careful not to disturb him, she reached for her phone. She gave a sigh as she realised it was already afternoon. She knew Vic should be at work, hoped he wouldn't be pissed at her, but she didn't want him to wake up and go. So, she gently rested her head back down and carried on observing him.
After waiting half an hour, her conscience got the better of her. She eased her hand from under the duvet, poked him gently in the chest. He rolled towards her, slid his hands behind her head and pulled her to him. Their lips met and moistened, their skin touched, and before long, they were back in the rhythm of sex. She guessed he knew he'd overslept as the light shone through the curtains. She let the pleasure roll through her as she realised he was in no hurry to leave. Revelling in the feel of his skin, she wanted the moment to last forever. But all too soon, it was done. She flopped on the mattress next to him, snuggled as closely into the warmth of her chest as she possibly could. He looked down at her.
'I knew I could get you back.'
Initially, she wasn't sure how to respond, whether or not he was joking. But she could read his expression – an odd mix of triumph and satisfaction. She tried to suppress the knot of fear that welled up in her, reminded herself that he loved her – she believed him. She had to. She watched as he threw off the duvet and walked to the bathroom, tried to follow, wanted to get in the shower with him. Perhaps have more sex – but he had locked the bathroom door before she got to it. She wasn't going to give him the gratification of making her knock. When he came back to the bedroom, he started rummaging through the pile of clothes on the floor in search of his trousers.
'It wouldn't do you any harm to give this place a good clean,’ he spat out.
What a fuckin' nerve.
She just managed to hold her tongue, she didn't want to snap at him and ruin the moment. How did he always push her so quickly onto her back foot? She ignored his comment and watched while he picked up his phone and sent a text to work saying that he had a stomach bug.
'I'd love to stay with you,' he said, without looking her in the eyes, 'But I'm playing footie with the lads later.'
'How about tomorrow, fancy meeting up?' She watched as he shifted his weight from foot to foot, as if he needed a wee.
'No. I'm busy tomorrow.'
'Oh, really, what you up to?'
'Meeting up with some mates in Sutton.' He hesitated before adding to his sentence. 'But it's definitely boys only, sorry.'
Rowan looked at him, a feeling of unrest rising in her chest, but before she could say anything, he had moved towards her and kissed her on the nose.
'Come on now, Ro, we've put all that behind us, haven't we?'
She didn't have the energy left to argue. Nodding, she knew her smile didn't reach her eyes. She watched through narrowed eyes as he headed out of the door, his hips swinging. He’s up to something. As soon as she heard the front door close, she picked up her phone to text Amy – but then remembered Amy was mad at her. She knew she shouldn't have let her down last night, but surely Amy would understand. She knew Rowan was keen on Vic – even if she didn't like it.
Soz about last night. Fancy going out tomorrow.
I'm good enough now then.
He just turned up, not planned.
Ok, you're forgiven. Where do u fancy?
Sutton. Vic's out – lets go stalk him.
7
Clancy
Standing for a moment behind the faux mahogany door, she listened carefully. She could just make out a low murmur of voices. She gently pushed the door open, took in the room. It was furnished with a large veneer-dressed-as-wood table, the chairs surrounding it at least matching. These risk meetings were potentially the most formal part of her job, and – as expected – the conversation was muted and polite. Dan wasn't going to make it here today, thank God. Instead, she made eye contact with Steve who was seated to her left. She slipped into a vacant chair and flipped her laptop open. She had made it just in time. The car journey into Sutton had been challenged by road works. She wondered why they always decided to dig up two routes at the exactly the same time. Someone had once told her it was because the council were trying to get rid of underspend before the new financial year, but she thought it was far more likely just to be bad planning. Having slung her car – illegally, as usual – in the superstore car park, she took an age – again, as usual – to get through security at the police station. She had wanted to take a swing at the officer behind the desk who had appeared immune to her haste.
As she settled into her seat, the Chair – the borough service director – called the start of the meeting, and the atmosphere immediately became serious and still. Clancy studied the agenda. The first few clients for discussion were not patients of hers, but she still listened. This was a more interesting part of her job, and it was always satisfying to get inside information about who was out there and what other colleagues were having to manage. It was always a little frightening. It made her want to lock Ro up and never let her out. Sex offenders were monitored by this committee, and it made Clancy's skin icy to learn how close some of them lived to her. There were at least thirty names on the list. Her ears pricked when they got to Samuel Cole – a twenty-two-year-old that Clancy realised used to be one of her patients. She kept alert during the discussion, horrified to hear he had been arrested for molesting a woman six months ago. The woman had dropped the charges, didn't want to proceed through the courts, and the CPS hadn't taken the case up, thinking they had little or no chance of a conviction. A mental health assessment had been carried out at the time, but he hadn't been thought to be presenting with any mental health problems.
She exhaled, as if blowing out smoke, before joining the conversation. 'I saw him about a year ago. He was referred when his mum died. They'd had an odd relationship, over involved, and he was isolated. He didn't have any friends or other family. He didn't admit to anything else at the time, no symptoms of psychosis…and he wasn't keen to take medication. From memory, I just referred him back to the GP for bereavement counselling.'
The borough director looked at the people sitting around the table, but no-one else made a contribution, only the clattering of keyboard keys broke the silence. 'Is there any reason to believe he has mental health problems now?' he asked, when it was evident no-one else was going to pipe up.
Clancy raised her upper lip a little as she spoke. 'Not if they thought not at the MHA…I can check when I get back, have a look at his notes…'
'Great. Now on to number five.'
The meeting continued. Clancy couldn't help checking her watch, her phone, fidgeting. She knew she was attracting looks from some of the others, but she had so much to catch up on back at the office. Eventually, she was asked to feedback on Mr Hussein – the sole reason for her attendance. The faces round the table appeared glum as she spoke.
'Can't you just bring him back into hospital again, if he's not complying with his care plan?'
She heard her curls rustle lightly as she shook her head. 'Not as easy as that, I'm afraid. He has to actually start relapsing again before I can realistically section him. I'll never get an AMHP to make an application otherwise.' There was some general low-level muttering about the ridiculousness of this, and Clancy felt her cheeks flush in response. It wasn't her bloody fault; she didn't write the Mental Health Act. But they soon moved on, and at last, the Chair called an end to the meeting.
As everyone stood up, she moved towards Steve and touched him on the arm.
He turned, his shoulders relaxed, 'Hey, how are you, Clancy?'
Steve was her main link within the police, and she had decided she was going to ask him for some intel. 'Wanna keep me company as I walk down to reception?'
'Of cours
e.' He turned and followed her from the room. As they started to descend the cream tiled stairs, she brought up Lowe.
'Can I pick your brains?' She continued speaking when she saw him nod in agreement. 'It’s a chap who lives up on the Shanklin estate. I think he's got a forensic history, we're having a bit of difficulty clarifying. And we're worried about him, he's behaving oddly and saying things…'
'Like what?'
'Oh, messages from women, stuff like that. Can you look him up for me?'
'Yeah, of course. And don't forget to look up Mr Cole.'
As they reached the reception, the stale odour of unwashed bodies rose above the disinfectant.
'I'll call you when I get back to my desk.' She turned and shook Steve's hand before setting off through the rain towards her car.
Holding the steering wheel with one hand, she rummaged in her bag with the other. She drew out and lit up a Mayfair. She put the filter to her mouth, inhaled, held her breath before blowing out. The nicotine rush hit her. God, she loved it, couldn't even contemplate giving up. Five minutes later, she pulled into the entrance of the Victorian hospital. The beauty of the place still gave her a lift – the sole perk of working here was the splendour of the site. The hospital had a gothic appearance; tall, rectangular, white stone windows set against red brick. It was such a shame the buildings were not cared for – faded paintwork and cracked glass panes standing out like blemishes on a jewel. The grounds were extensive and peaceful. Wide lawns surrounded a carved stone fountain – though no water had flowed through it for many years. A pile of rotting leaves gathered in the pool below. Neat flower beds were bare and ready for spring planting. When she had the time, frankly not that much lately, she came out here to walk at lunchtime – whatever the weather – to try to find some peace.
Slipping her Golf into a space in the empty car park, she gathered her things, locked up and walked through the reception to the team-base. She walked straight past the in-out board without sliding her name in and headed as fast as she could to her office. Shutting her door behind her, she leant back against it, checking for voices – great, she had got away with it. Her stealthy entries were well practiced, designed to give her some time alone to get on with things before a steady stream of colleagues began to interrupt her.
She took her seat and logged onto her computer, immediately going into the patient record system and looking up Mr Cole. Ignoring the pop-up informing her she had no legitimate relationship with this patient, she clicked on his progress notes. She could see that she had been the last person he had seen. There were no open referrals, only a brief write-up from the mental health assessment she had heard about at the risk meeting. If he was having any problems, he either wasn't seeing anyone locally, or he was dealing with them on his own. She closed the progress notes and clicked on the national spine tab which would give access to some GP records – sadly not the complete set. But she could see he was still registered locally, and that he hadn't been prescribed any medication recently by his GP. She stopped short of ringing his GP, didn't really know what she would be asking. Instead, she picked up her handset and dialled Steve's number from memory. For once, he picked up.
'Hey, it’s me. I've looked up those notes. Sorry, can't help you very much. He hasn't been seen here. And I can't see anything on his records that indicate he's seen his GP. Not to say he hasn't…' She heard Steve let out a long breath, could detect his irritation as if he had been in front of her. She waited for his reply, which arrived after a moment of silence.
'Well, thanks anyway for your trouble.'
Clancy interjected before he put the phone down. 'Did you manage to get any intelligence on that Mr Lowe I was asking about?'
'Oh, him, yeah, as it happens, I did. Not going to cheer you up much, though.'
It was Clancy's turn to produce an exaggerated sigh. This was not what she had wanted to hear. She tapped the desk with her pen as she waited for more and then started scribbling as Steve spoke.
'He's been accused of stalking a couple of times…both times, no charges were made because of a lack of evidence. And on one occasion, he was charged for sexual assault. The woman was drunk at the time of the offence, looks like she was thought to be an unreliable witness. CPS didn't press the charges. He has a caution for possession of class As – cocaine. Can't see anything else.'
'Shit. So he has previous. I'll try and get hold of him. Thanks for that Steve…and stay in touch.' She heard the line go dead, but continued to sit with the receiver in her hand, staring at the door in front of her, her mind racing.
8
Beth
She gave the driver a tip before jumping out of the car – less about generosity and more to bring good karma – then strode through the glass swing door into the pub. The building was large, glass-fronted and well lit. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see a crowd of guys huddled by the bar, but other than that, the place was empty, with plenty of free tables. She tried to keep her eyes low as she checked faces, but could see no-one that looked anything like the profile picture of her date.
She walked to the opposite end of the bar, ordered herself a glass of white wine and then chose a table by the window – facing the door so that she could monitor new arrivals. She immediately started flicking through her phone, moving straight to Facebook and checking his profile again. No messages and no update since their last conversation. The last thing she could see was his previous post to her in a private message. It didn't look like he'd been online since then. Sipping her drink, she waited, flicking at her screen and tapping her nails against the phone case.
She could feel the confidence drain from her as time ticked, like she had taken off her stage costume and was returning to her normal dull self. After waiting for thirty minutes, she considered getting another glass of wine, but instead took a final look around the bar. There was no flash of recognition.
The group of lads had been joined by a couple of girls. None of them were paying her any attention. She swallowed hard, her cheeks burning. She felt a strong urge to hide from the world. She should have realised it was a sham. Why would I be in line for any luck? She packed up her things and headed to the door while wriggling into her coat. There was no point wasting money on taxi fare, so she left the bright lights of the bar and headed past Barclays and the police station, her head down, staring at her shoes.
As she trudged towards home, she set her face against the rain. It was dark, but she was fully immersed in her thoughts, content walking alone. It was not until she turned down Lind Road that she noticed anything. The streets had become quieter; there were no other pedestrians around. And then, she became aware of the echo of footsteps behind her. She swung around, but as soon as she did, the sound stopped. Staring hard into the shadows, she couldn’t make out any silhouette. I must be hearing things…I'm stressed, that’s all it is.
Even though she was blaming her own mind for the sounds she thought she heard, she picked up speed and rushed the thirty yards to her front door. Shuffling through the bottom of her bag feeling for her keys, she almost tripped over a loose paving slab. She just managed to right herself before racing to her front door and thrusting the Yale into the lock.
As soon as the door had opened she ran in, slamming it behind her. She moved directly to the window where she checked the street, searching for movement – but could see none. All seemed still.
The wall of her hall felt firm against her back as she leant against it. She could kick herself, tried to tell herself she was being silly – but she couldn't escape the feeling that she had been followed. The heating was on, and the room felt warm, the flat silent apart from the quiet rumbling of the boiler. It was tidier than it would usually be as she had prepared for a possible guest. What a waste of time that had been. She hung her raincoat on the hook behind the door, walked across the black and white tiles to put the kettle on and then fell into the armchair. When her iPhone broke the silence, she jumped before swiping at the screen to answer the cal
l.
'Hi Beth, how's it going, can you talk?' Suze's voice asked.
Beth struggled to keep her voice level. 'He didn't turn up.'
'No! What a tosser. Unbelievable.'
'Too right.' Beth paused for a second before continuing. 'I don't know Suze, it’s strange. I could swear I was followed home. I heard what sounded like footsteps…and I don't know, I just…felt something'.
'You didn't see anything, then?'
'No…but I heard someone walking behind me...' She was aware of a lengthy silence before she heard Suze's voice again.
'I hate to ask you this, Beth, but are you taking your tablets?'
It was like someone had lit a fuse inside her. She wanted to snap. For God's sake, does no one believe anything I say anymore? But she bit her lip. Still she ruminated…there was no point in her talking to anybody about any worry she had because they always just thought she was relapsing. She gripped the phone, then mumbled, 'I've missed a few doses…not many. I can't bear how drowsy it makes me in the morning. Please don't have a go at me…'
'Oh, Beth, I'm not angry, just concerned. Are you going to take some tonight…please…?'
Beth crossed her fingers. 'I s'pose so. But it's not going to stop me being followed.'
'It'll help you sleep, anyway,' Suze said. 'Look, sorry, I've got to go…I'll call you tomorrow. Ring if you need anything…sleep tight.' And the line went dead. As Beth put the phone down, the sound of footsteps echoed in her mind.