She was alive, she was breathing, and, most importantly, she wasn’t hurt. And she wasn’t panicking. Maybe that’ll kick in later. Maybe shock explains this numbness I feel right now. Can that happen? Does shock make you feel like you’re looking at everything through someone else’s eyes?
She flexed her hands in front of her face, watching as each finger moved stiffly but obeyed commands from the brain in charge of it. Which wasn’t her brain. She was fairly sure of that. But something was controlling her body as she slowly dragged herself to her hands and knees.
Cellophane crinkled beneath her palms, creating a sound she couldn’t stop herself from focusing on. The high-pitched, almost static-like sound normally grated on her nerves, but today it felt like she’d never heard it before. Even though she knew she had. She rubbed two bits of it together to hear it again. It sounded false, fake, plastic. That’s because it is plastic, moron, she told herself, but her brain still wasn’t cooperating. It still insisted that she was a passenger along for the ride and that the body was functioning just fine without her, thank you very much.
The sensation—that distant feeling—reminded her of a film she’d watched years ago, Being John Malkovich, where people went through this tiny door into a tunnel and then found themselves inside the brain or the consciousness of the actor John Malkovich. They saw what he saw, did what he did, felt what he felt, but at first they had no control. They were simply voyeurs in his life. She felt the same way. She saw what her eyes saw, felt the glass cut into her knees through the denim of her jeans, but she had no control over anything. None.
Was this a new manifestation of her panic attacks?
To her left, a woman whimpered. Gina saw her own hand move forward, felt her legs move beneath her as she crawled towards the sound. She wouldn’t give in to another panic attack. She couldn’t. No, she didn’t have to. She was stronger now. She was the one who could be in control. Just like the character John Cusack played. The puppeteer. Eventually he learned to control the body he inhabited. He learned to make John’s body do everything he wanted, and eventually he controlled the mind too. All she had to do was the same.
She tried to focus on her breathing. If she could control pulling air into her lungs, then it was a start. Gina closed her eyes and concentrated on that one thing. Drawing air into her lungs. She put a hand to her belly and envisioned herself making that hand move by simply breathing. Once, then twice, until she shook off her daze and felt as though she were in control of her body again.
The soft moan drew her attention out of her own self again, and she moved quickly to the woman’s side. Panic, shock, someone else in her head—whatever it was, it was done with now. She was in control and she was focused. Most importantly, she was focused on helping someone else.
The woman’s blond-white hair was streaked with blood and shards of glass. Her lipstick was smeared, and her white jumper was quickly turning a deep claret. Blood bubbled on her lips, and her eyes looked glassy.
Gina grabbed at the first bit of fabric she could reach and pressed it against the wound in the woman’s belly. “You’re going to be all right. The ambulance is bound to be on its way by now.”
The woman pushed at her hands.
“It’s okay. I’m trying to help you. I’m sorry if this hurts, but I need to try and stop the bleeding.”
“Too late,” the woman whispered. Her breath caused the bubbles on her lips to pop and spatter blood across her cheek. “Help someone else, girlie.” Her Irish accent was thick and lilted like a lullaby as she tried to shoo Gina away.
“Not a chance. I’m here and I’m helping you, so get used to the idea.” She smiled down at the woman and saw that she was considerably older than Gina had first thought. Crinkles at the corners of her eyes spoke of the years she’d seen and laughed her way through. Middle age was well behind her, and Gina would have placed her in her late sixties, maybe even a little older. “I’m Gina. What’s your name?”
“Pat.”
“Nice to meet you, Pat. Now, hold still while I take a quick look at this wound, okay?”
Pat nodded.
Gina lifted the bloodstained satin, then Pat’s jumper, before quickly pushing them all back in place. Blood gushed from the wound the moment she relieved the pressure. Bad. Very bad.
“How’s it look?” Pat asked.
“I’ve patched up worse cuts on my nine-year-old when she jumped out of a tree.”
Pat chuckled, then moaned. “You’re not a very good liar, Gina.”
Gina snorted. “Well then, it doesn’t look great. I definitely think you need to see a doctor. Probably wants a stitch, maybe even two. Better?”
“Don’t make me laugh. It hurts.”
“Sorry.” She smiled weakly. If help—of the trained medical variety—didn’t get there soon, then it would be too late for Pat. Maybe it was already.
“You said the ambulance was coming.”
Gina kept one hand pressed against Pat’s middle and held her hand with the other. “Yes. My friend called before she…before she passed out.” She glanced over at Stella, grateful and scared that she hadn’t moved.
“Your friend’s hurt?”
Gina nodded. “But she’s a police officer. She called in the cavalry before she…before she gave in.”
“Brave.” Pat closed her eyes and grimaced, clearly fighting the pain she was in.
“Hmm. Something like that.”
“You don’t agree?”
“Oh, I think they’re brave all right. I just worry.”
“She’s your friend. Of course you do.”
“Yeah.”
Pat opened her eyes and looked at Gina. It was a piercing look, a penetrating look, one that Gina knew was looking deep into her soul. “Oh. I see. Not just a friend.”
Gina frowned. “No, Stella is just a friend. But her work partner is also my partner.”
“Sounds like fun,” Pat said and then coughed. More blood slipped from her lips and dribbled down her chin.
“Try to keep still. I’m sure help will be here any moment.”
Pat nodded and closed her eyes again.
Gina wasn’t sure what to do, but she was pretty sure that her closing her eyes and going to sleep wasn’t a good idea. At least it always seemed not to be when they died in films and on the telly. “Stay awake, Pat. You need to stay with me. Tell me why you were in here today?”
“Probably same reason as you.”
“You wanted to buy sexy lingerie for your girlfriend? Go, Pat.”
Pat chuckled and moaned again. More blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. “In that case, not the same reason. I came for something for myself.”
“Oh.”
“Recently divorced. Usual old cliché, I suppose.”
“Never too late to discover one’s inner self, Pat.” She winked.
Pat coughed again, and more blood dribbled down her chin. “I hope not.” She squeezed Gina’s hand in hers and tugged her closer. “I let too much time go by. Wasted too much. I didn’t tell the people I loved that I loved them enough. I didn’t enjoy life enough.” Her voice faltered a moment, then returned with more strength than Gina thought she would have been capable of. “Where’s my bag?”
“I don’t know. What does it look like?”
“Brown leather, shoulder bag. Big.”
Gina saw one a few feet away and stretched to grasp a handle without lifting the pressure from Pat’s stomach. “This one?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
“Here you go.”
“My purse. There’s a picture.”
“You want me to get it out for you?”
Pat nodded.
Gina unzipped the large bag using her foot to keep tension and make it a little easier to open. The purse was on top, and the flap popped open easily. The picture under the plastic cover was of a very young Pat and a soldier. The picture was badly faded. The miniskirt she wore and the mod haircut spoke of the late sixties, maybe early sev
enties. She couldn’t be sure.
“Is this your husband?”
Pat shook her head. “No. He’s the man I should have married. My George.” She smiled and lay her head back down.
The wistful look on her face made Gina wonder about the pain she must have been in. It almost seemed like it had gone, as if whatever she was thinking about had taken it away from her.
“Why didn’t you?”
“My father. The great Paddy O’Shea.” She said his name with a sneer. Clearly not a great father-daughter relationship. “He wouldn’t let me marry an Englishman. And certainly not a soldier. Murdering bastards, that’s what he called ’em. Not his daughter, not over his dead body.” She coughed up more blood. “Not a good Catholic family like we were.”
“Oh. I see.”
“Aye. I had to marry another good Catholic boy, even if I didn’t love him and he didn’t love me.” Pat tapped the plastic. “But my George. He loved me. Wanted to run away with me, he said. Said he’d go AWOL and everything to get me away from Ireland and the troubles.”
“You refused?”
Pat nodded. “Couldn’t. Didn’t want to ruin his life.” She laughed a bitter-sounding laugh. The movement caused her to cough up more blood.
“Please be careful, Pat. You need to keep still. Where the bloody hell is that ambulance? It must be coming by now.”
Pat waved her hand in the air. “Too late for that now, Gina. Too late.” She sucked in a gurgled breath.
Gina could feel tears wetting her own cheeks.
“Now, now. Enough of that, girlie.” She smiled. “It’s okay.”
“No, it isn’t, Pat.”
“It is what it is, child. Life’s funny like that.” She tapped the picture again. “His name’s George Boyne.”
“That’s unusual.”
“There’s a letter in there for him. I always said I’d find him and give it to him.”
“Then you should definitely do that, Pat.”
Pat closed her eyes again. “No time.” She squeezed Gina’s hand. “Find him for me. Find him and give him the letter.”
“No.” Gina shook her head. “You can do that, Pat. Just as soon as the ambulance gets here, we’ll get you better, and then you can go find your George.”
Pat shook her head again. “Find him for me.” She wheezed, the Irish lilt shifting from lullaby soft to gutter harsh as she begged. “Please.” Her grasp relaxed. “He deserves to know the truth.” The strength in her arm faltered completely and fell from Gina’s wrist. “About everything.”
“Pat? What do you mean?” Gina grabbed at her hand again and shook her arm. “Pat?” She dropped her hand and slapped at her cheeks gently, trying to wake her. “Pat? Come on, now. Wake up and tell me more about this dishy soldier of yours.”
Pat didn’t move.
Gina lifted the cloth from her stomach, and the blood oozed slowly. No more gushing. No more pumping. The tension was gone from Pat’s body, and Gina realised for the first time that she was kneeling in a pool of the other woman’s blood.
Gina didn’t know how long she’d been there but she had no intention of moving. She wouldn’t leave Pat—she simply couldn’t. She’d seemed so lonely that Gina couldn’t bring herself to leave her all alone.
Instead, she stared at the picture of Pat and her soldier. How many years had she carried it with her? In her purse? Where a woman would normally keep a picture of her husband, her children…grandchildren even. Instead she’d carried his picture. Just since her divorce? Or longer? How many years had she dreamed of finding him again? Was it even something she could do? Did she want to? Was it something she should do?
Gina looked at Pat, her face relaxed in death as the pain of her injury was taken from her. Only the blood that marred her skin belied the fiction of a peaceful slumber. That and the pool of blood that surrounded them both, soaking into Gina’s clothes.
Whoever she’d been in life, Pat hadn’t deserved to die like this—terrified, in pain, and, for the most part, alone. From just the few moments they’d spent together, it had been so obvious that Pat had a wicked sense of humour and an adventurous spirit. She must have done, to be here in a sex shop at sixty or seventy or whatever.
She didn’t deserve to die like this.
No one did.
Chapter 3
Kate blindly pulled up behind the string of cars already blocking the exit to the bus station. Nothing would be moving in or out of there for a good long time. Well, except the ambulances that were flying past at a rate of knots, ferrying the wounded to hospital.
A small flurry of snow drifted between the buildings, and a heavy clump slid from the roof of the bus shelter, landing in a sodden heap close to her feet. Snow in Norfolk was a rarity. When it fell, it was always in much lower volume than the rest of the country, and it didn’t seem to last long. Except this year. Inches lay across the fields she passed daily. The surface had turned to an ice crust, reflecting the sun with blinding shafts of light.
She spotted Timmons in the middle of the walkway towards the main shops, next to the entrance to the supermarket, directing officers and first responders alike. She ran over to him.
“Sir,” she said.
“Brannon, good. We’ve got a fuckin’ mess here.”
“What happened? There’s absolute bullshit flying about. Some idiot’s spreading a rumour this was a bomb going off.” She kicked the soft snow from her boots. A habit she’d formed already in an attempt to remain on her feet in the winter conditions.
“Bullshit.”
“Exactly what I said, sir.”
“It was two of ’em.”
Kate froze in midstep. “What?”
He turned to look at her. “Two bombs went off. Goodwin was on the scene when it happened. She’s injured. I’m going to see her now.” Timmons shrugged his massive shoulders and ran his fingers through what was left of his hair. “Gonna be a bloody nightmare, this.”
“Bloody hell. Bad?”
He shrugged. “Don’t know yet. When I spoke to her, she was slurring her words. Sounded pissed. Probably a head injury.”
“Shouldn’t she already be on her way to hospital, then, instead of waiting here for you to speak to her?” She didn’t like the idea that the tough-as-nails DI would put Stella in jeopardy for a bit more information, but like herself, coppers did tend to have a one-track mind when it came to things like this. And Timmons might be her boss, but she wasn’t afraid to stand up to him. She’d learned over the past couple of months that he respected that. Stella was her friend, and she clearly needed medical attention.
“I’m not holding her here, Sergeant. I’m going there now to make sure the bloody paramedics don’t fanny about and get her to see the quacks as quick as fucking possible.”
Kate stared; his thinning hair was wet and looked like he’d scraped his hands through it so many times it was ready to stand up on its own. His eyes were bloodshot, and he was breathing heavily. He clenched his fists over and over as he led her through the shopping centre and along the street.
“Sorry. I thought—”
“I know what you thought. But my officers mean more to me than that, Brannon. All of you.”
She ducked her head. “Understood.”
“Good. So, we’ve got two suicide bombers in a shopping area two weeks before Christmas. Two women, Asian, wearing burquas, who looked to be pregnant, walk into a sex shop and blow the fuckin’ roof off.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
“How many injured?”
“We’ll find out in a minute. The boys from the counterterrorism unit will be taking the lead on this one.”
“Sir, we don’t need—”
“Yes, we do.” He pointed to what was left of a row of shops. She knew that there’d been a shoe shop, a chemist, a card shop, and a clothes shop along the street next to the Ann Summers shop that was at the centre of the row. There wasn’t a window left intact. Walls were crumbled in places, plaster
hanging perilously in clumps, swinging on the wind. Kate held her breath, waiting for the clump to fall.
The wail of sirens, car alarms, and burglar alarms sounded a high-pitched chorus to a sickening melody of crying and screaming people. Paramedics, firefighters, and first responders of all kinds crawled over debris from one person to the next, offering assistance, comfort, and sometimes a shroud.
Knowing there was nothing more she could do for the fallen and the injured, she scuffed the toe of her boot in the glass. A blackened nut skittered away from her, pinging into a couple of ball bearings and a bent nail sticking out of a fragment of half-melted plastic.
“Shrapnel,” he said. “They put them inside the vests to cause maximum damage when they…when they detonate.”
Kate nodded. She knew that. They all did. Unfortunately.
Detective Constables Tom Brothers and Jimmy Powers stood together outside the front of the shop. Jimmy’s face was ashen, verging towards the grey spectrum, and he seemed unable to tear his gaze from the floor.
Kate couldn’t stop herself. She nodded in greeting to them both, even as she stared down at Jimmy’s feet. Or, rather, at what was laid at Jimmy’s feet.
A child’s pushchair rested upside down on its front. Only one wheel was left, and it swung idly in the gentle wind. The canvas fabric of the chair was shredded and blown inside out. The arms and legs of the child that had been inside it protruded at sickening angles. Its clothes were torn, as was the little flesh she could make out. Bright-red blood pooled and cooled, forming a frozen pond around the sickening sight. Scarlet darkened to crimson and stood in stark contrast to the greying snow that clung to the stone paving slabs.
Her breath fogged as it left her lips in short, sharp gasps, and a cold that had nothing to do with the weather seeped into her soul.
Tom pointed to a dustbin that was mangled and dinted. “Puke over there if you got to.”
Kate put her hand to her mouth and fought it, letting her head swing from side to side. She’d never been the weak woman on the force whose emotions got in the way of doing her duty. She’d never vomited at a crime scene. Never ducked out of a postmortem. She didn’t intend to start now.
The Last First Time Page 3