by CJ Carver
‘Can’t you persuade him?’ she wheedled.
‘We’ve a new DI, don’t forget.’
‘Ah, shit.’ She had forgotten. She just had to hope the new guy was amenable to having an inferior foot-soldier muscling in on his case.
‘Look, I’ll try and put in a good word for you, OK?
‘Thanks, sarge.’
Lucy walked to the beat office barely taking in anything around her. She could see the pink and blue pack of Zidazapine hidden in the back of her bathroom cabinet. She could hear Baz’s voice, and she was back in his office, listening to him tell her she was to resign from the Met. She hadn’t reacted very well to the news. In fact, she’d reacted rather badly. She remembered staring at Baz, his short-cropped brown hair and steady brown eyes that were unable to meet hers. It was the realisation that if she didn’t resign from the Met she’d get kicked out and never work as a police officer again that made her snap.
‘Fuck,’ she’d said.
‘I’m sorry, Lucy,’ Baz had repeated. ‘It’s not my decision.’
It was like a geyser exploding inside her chest, erupting into a great cloud of rage. She was on her feet screaming and Baz’s voice was calm and controlled and she was yelling at him and the rage expanded so far it made her head swell until she thought it would burst. She slammed out of his office, still yelling. The whole sector office fell silent as she stormed across the room. Twenty pairs of wide, shocked eyes stared at her. She yelled at them too, feeling her face twist, hating them for conspiring against her, hating herself for losing control. Fuck the lot of you!
How she got outside she couldn’t remember. The next thing she knew she was in a pub. She didn’t recognise it. She was downing vodkas. Ignoring the stares. She was in uniform. Against the rules. Rules rules rules made to be broken, fuck them.
‘Are you OK?’ the barman asked.
Shit day. Shit shit shit.
When she stumbled outside, it was pouring with rain, bucketing down, but she couldn’t feel it. She had too much energy to expel, too much anger, so she broke into a run. People glanced at her and then around, looking to see who she was chasing.
I am not a failure, I’ll show them.
Neon signs fizzled all around. She hadn’t realised evening had fallen. Cars and buses swept past, throwing up spray and water and making the neon shimmer. She increased her pace, I’ll run until I can’t feel any more – but something rolled beneath her foot – maybe a can, a stone – and she lost her balance, teetered wildly on the kerb and then –
Nothing.
She awoke in hospital.
Mum crying.
She hated herself for making her cry.
A man she’d never seen before was standing nearby. He looked as though he might cry too.
I’m fine, I promise.
Her mouth was dry, her skin taut and hot, her head pounding. Familiar sensations of a hangover. How much had she drunk? She couldn’t remember.
Her mother held her hand.
‘Lucy, love. This is Marc Davey.’ She introduced the man. He’d been driving his car when she’d appeared from nowhere. How he didn’t hit her, he doesn’t know. He must have missed her by millimetres. He jumped out of his car to find her in the gutter staring up at him. She hadn’t said a word. She appeared to be in some kind of shock, so he took her to hospital.
‘I didn’t hit you,’ he said. His hands were spread, begging her to believe him.
How long have I been here?
‘Overnight,’ said her mother.
‘Were you chasing someone?’ the man asked.
Yes. Sorry I gave you a fright.
‘So you won’t press any charges?’ the man said. ‘I mean, I didn’t hit you . . .’
No charges.
The man hesitated a second, then scarpered, quick smart.
Who knows I’m here?
Her mother looked blank. ‘Everybody,’ she says. ‘I mean, Nate. Your boss, Baz. I rang him. He came by earlier but you were asleep.’ Her mother studied her carefully. ‘Lucy, what happened?’
She nibbled the inside of her mouth as she prepared to lie. I was chasing someone. A young guy who’d snatched a woman’s bag, right in front of me.
She stuck to her story through thick and thin. All she could think was that she had to stop anyone knowing what really happened. That she’d lost it. She would never tell anyone the truth. Thank God the barman of whatever pub she’d ended up in seemed to have kept quiet. Everyone appeared to believe what she told them. That she’d been chasing a criminal.
Nate took her home to their flat. ‘Don’t go to work,’ he said. ‘Not until you feel better.’
Lucy hadn’t argued. She was exhausted, utterly spent. She went to their bedroom and drew the curtains. Lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. She crept to the tiny dark cave inside her skull and curled up inside it. She didn’t want to eat or drink. She was numb, she had no interest in the world. No energy. Nothing.
Nate came and sat with her for a while. ‘It’s a bad one, isn’t it, Luce? I’m sorry.’
She didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. She let him hold her hand until he got bored and went away.
She heard car engines outside occasionally, the sound of a telephone ringing, the radio. Nate went to work and came home around six. He tried to reach her, but her mind was slow, her thoughts sticky. It was oddly peaceful, being alone with the hum in her head.
When he came to bed she turned away and faced the wall. Slept.
‘Baz told me about you having to resign,’ Nate said the next morning. It was a Saturday. He was drinking tea in bed next to her. He sighed. ‘What a bugger.’
He didn’t say any more because that was his way. He didn’t need to say anything more. It was indeed a bugger. She reached across and touched his face with her fingers. ‘Thanks,’ she said.
‘Welcome back.’ He smiled.
She’d got up then and had a shower. Re-entered the world feeling fragile, slightly shaky, but soon her strength began to return and she knew she was on the uphill slope once more. Nate made her scrambled eggs and bacon, and gave her the newspaper to read.
Late morning, she was at the kitchen table, drinking tea, when she heard the doorbell chime. She heard Nate answer it and the next instant their GP, Dr Mike Adamson, walked inside. Mike was also an old school buddy of Nate’s and the two men saw one another every other week or so, meeting up for a beer, playing football, the odd game of poker. Lucy had seen Dr Mike – as she called him – professionally once, to get a prescription for the Pill. Standing before her in a jacket and tie, with his medical bag, he looked ten years older than he did when he was kicking back in jeans and trainers.
She glanced past him. ‘Where’s Nate?’
‘He’s stepped out for a bit, to give us some privacy.’
Alarm bells began to ring, but she leaned back. Circled her mug with her hands.
‘Privacy?’ she repeated.
‘Nate wanted us to have a chat.’
‘What about?’
‘I hear you had a bit of a close shave . . .’
‘Yes. But I’m fine.’
‘Perhaps I could take your blood pressure.’
‘But –’
‘Indulge me.’ He smiled gently.
She tried not to sigh dramatically as she stuck out an arm. While he checked her out, they talked about nothing in particular. He told her about Chelsea’s game against Liverpool. She told him about arresting two football hooligans last Saturday. Once he’d put away his equipment he calmly looked at her and, out of the blue, asked if she’d ever considered she might be bipolar.
‘I’m sorry?’ Her mind went perfectly blank.
‘Bipolar. It describes a variety of mood disorders, defined by mood swings, from excessive energetic highs to depressive lows.’
She stared at him. ‘I don’t get depressed.’
‘Nate said you have bouts of excessive happiness, hopefulness and excitement. Increased energy and less ne
ed for sleep –’
‘I was only in the hospital because I was chasing a criminal down the street and ended up nearly getting run over.’ Her voice was flat. What was going on? Jesus, if she had some mental problem she’d be thrown out of the police faster than Magellan could say good riddance.
‘There’s nothing wrong with me,’ she added tightly.
He looked at her for a while. ‘It’s not something to be ashamed of.’
‘I’m not ashamed, OK? I get a bit excited sometimes, that’s all. And I get tired. Like most people do.’
‘Nate says it’s a bit more than that.’
‘He would.’ Lucy flung up her hands. ‘He hates it when I get emotional. And it’s not just Nate either. Everyone gets uptight as soon as someone shakes the box. We live in an emotionally repressed society where anyone who’s not a stuffed shirt, all bottled up and inhibited, is considered a freak.’
‘Do you consider yourself a freak?’ he asked.
‘Of course not!’ Her cheeks started to heat. ‘I just get more emotional than other people, a bit headstrong, and people find it difficult to cope with because they’re so dull and boring.’
A long silence followed.
Lucy looked away.
‘Nate’s concerned, that’s all,’ he said softly. ‘So am I, especially considering the job you do.’
Her stomach lurched. If he wanted to, he could end her career with a single phone call. So she fixed her gaze on the footy calendar stuck on the wall and concentrated on turning her mind away from her anxiety and relaxing the tension in her shoulders, her belly. When she looked back at him, she was pretty certain she appeared calm and that she’d hidden her fear successfully, caught it like a slippery eel in her fist.
‘You’re both really kind.’ Lucy was pleased she sounded relatively genuine even though she detested them for talking about her behind her back. ‘But I’m OK. Seriously.’
‘I’d like you to consider taking something that might help balance the more extreme spectrums of the condition.’
She stared at him, shocked. Suddenly she wasn’t just a young woman being forced to resign from a high-pressure job she loved, she was a patient with a mental disorder.
‘Like what?’ she managed.
‘Zidazapine. It’s very effective at smoothing out excessive mood swings. It also helps you sleep, and you will probably find your relationships improve, both at work and at home.’
Her mouth turned dry. He was serious? He really believed there was something wrong with her?
He gave another gentle smile. ‘I gather things have been a bit tough lately.’
A chill swept through her. He knew about her situation with the Met?
They were silent for a minute. Then he said carefully, ‘I think you should consider trying it, at least.’
The first clear thought arrived: No one must know.
‘OK,’ she said.
He brought out a prescription and five small boxes containing samples of Zidazapine. Each box was stamped with the name ‘PepsBeevers’.
‘I will ring you at the end of the month . . .’ He checked the date on his phone. ‘And you can tell me how it’s going. Not everyone necessarily responds the same way.’
She managed a nod.
‘If it works for you, I’ll monitor you.’
‘OK.’
She hadn’t seemed to have a choice. He’d know if she didn’t try it. She only had to take the stuff until she knew what effect it had, and then she could, if necessary, lie and say she was still taking it. Anything to prevent her from getting chucked out of the police.
*
When Nate asked how the visit had gone, she locked her emotions down tight. ‘Fine,’ she said. She wanted to slap him for going behind her back and jeopardising her career, but didn’t dare do anything overdramatic that might get reported to Dr Mike. So she swallowed her anger along with the pills.
When she’d gone back to the sector office she was as calm and cool as a glass of freshly poured spring water. She worked her final shifts without raising her voice once, without being irritable or unpredictable. She apologised to everyone for being so indefensibly rude and bought them all cakes and doughnuts and although nobody cheered that she was going, nobody said they’d miss her. Except for Baz.
‘It’s going to be very dull without you,’ he sighed.
At first it was OK, she found she had more self-control, but soon she started feeling odd. Yes, she slept like a log, but her thoughts and responses slowed to such a level that if she hadn’t known differently, she’d think she had flu. Her thoughts were grey. She had to drag herself out of bed in the morning and sat through every briefing as though poleaxed.
‘You’re so much better I can’t tell you,’ said Nate one evening. He hugged her happily.
She drew back, looked at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re not as volatile. You’re calmer, easier to deal with.’ He grinned. ‘You haven’t yelled at the TV once.’
‘We haven’t had sex since I’ve been taking them either.’ A high-pitched hum started in her ears. ‘Anything else?’
He shrugged. ‘You’re a lot easier, I guess. Less combative. I don’t have to worry about how you’re going to react to anything.’
‘You prefer me like this?’ Half dead, comatose, unfeeling and with the emotions of a fish that’s been filleted?
‘Why?’ He looked puzzled. ‘Don’t you?’
She’d ditched the pills the day she’d left him. The same day she’d left for Stockton. She couldn’t risk him telling Dr Mike she wasn’t taking them anymore. Within a week she was back on form, sparky and alive, her mind flourishing with colours. The relief of having reclaimed her own emotions and energy was indescribable.
When Dr Mike called, she lied. She told him she found the drug helpful and that she’d get another prescription from her next GP in Stockton. He said, ‘I’m so glad, Lucy. I was really worried that I might have to report this, but if you continue being monitored, we’ll be fine.’
Yeah, right.
*
The morning briefing had just finished when Lucy’s mobile rang. She checked the display.
Blocked.
Puzzled, she answered. ‘Hello?’
‘Ah.’ A man’s voice. ‘Is this the police officer who will be ringing the CID in Chennai?’
‘Er, yes, this is she.’
‘Good evening, madam. My name is Senior Constable Niket. I have been hearing you were ringing our department last night. How may I help?’
Quickly, she grabbed a pad of paper and a pen and scribbled down Niket’s name.
‘It’s regarding a girl we found,’ she told him. ‘She was badly beaten and mutilated, and dumped in a shipping container, nearly dead.’
‘A girl?’
‘Yes. Bella Frances. She is eighteen years old. You can check the story on the BBC website immediately, if you like.’
A brief silence. ‘I am having the BBC site in front of me. The girl is in hospital now, am I being correct?’
‘Yes.’ Lucy talked him through the case. At first she’d thought he was an older detective, but as they spoke further, she realised he was in his twenties like herself. Apparently, a boy called Chitta had answered the phone. Chitta cleaned their offices every night and was always answering the phone and pretending to be a police officer.
‘We have been telling Chitta he will be losing his job if he does not stop his pretending,’ Niket said.
‘Please thank him for taking my message.’
‘We must not be encouraging him.’ Niket’s voice was tinged with amusement. ‘He might be thinking he is a real policeman and taking over my job. Please, tell me what I can be doing to help you.’
Lucy asked him to check what happened to RFC’s containers when they arrived in Chennai. ‘I want to make sure that the charity is legitimate. That nothing illegal is going on with the organisation in your country.’
‘Of course I will be looking int
o this for you straight away.’
After they’d hung up, Lucy began making notes to share with Bella’s case team, so they could see her thread of investigation.
‘Lucy,’ said Jacko. ‘I’d like you to meet DI MacDonald.’
She looked up expecting to see her new DI but instead she saw Sergeant Faris MacDonald.
‘Hello, Lucy,’ he said.
A kaleidoscope of memories tumbled: his hands, square-tipped, broad and masculine, on her body; his mouth on hers (much softer than she’d imagined); his bare skin beneath her fingertips (smooth and firm and sunbaked warm and smelling of suncream); sand gritting against her shoulders; his chest above her (broad, strong and immense like a statue); his head haloed by blue sky and two soft white puffy clouds; the faint sound of seagulls, kyow kyow.
She realised she was staring at him and jerked her gaze aside. What the fuck was Mac doing here? She was trembling inside, her cheeks aflame. Cool it, she told herself. You’re a single woman now. It’s OK. Calm down.
He was saying something but it sounded as though he was underwater so she looked back. Sharpen up for God’s sake! She tried to concentrate. He was broader than she remembered but the curly brown hair was the same, as were the mismatched grey eyes. Then she took in the two pips on his epaulettes. He wasn’t a sergeant any longer. She tried not to show her shock. Fucksake. He was her new DI, and the Senior Investigating Officer into Bella’s case.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Mac put out a hand. She had no choice but to shake it with Jacko watching them. His grip was as warm and dry and strong as she remembered (his hands on her naked waist, lifting her up to meet him before slipping them round to support her backside).
‘Hello,’ she said. Her voice was raspy, her heart galloping away.
‘Nice to see you again.’ His face was neutral.
‘You know each other?’ Jacko looked between them.
‘Er . . .’ said Lucy.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Mac. The neutral expression remained but his eyes began to dance. ‘Lucy and I met on a team-building exercise in Wales for new recruits. We found we had a mutual passion for coasteering.’