One Last Hit

by Linda Coles

  Being married to a detective had its drawbacks. It was hard to keep your secrets safe even in the inner sanctum of your handbag, and she had the girls’ safety to consider too, the responsibility of making sure that they never found her pills. But right now, the pills were what she craved, what she longed for – the promise of what they could take away for a short time, until it was necessary to return to reality and all that came with it.

  The kettle flicked itself off. She stayed put, not really that interested in another hot drink at all; her thoughts were on something much more desirable. Standing, she picked her coat up, grabbed her keys and headed back out, slamming the front door behind her. Her Ford Focus was parked in the drive of their red brick house, gleaming blue in the ever-present rain. It started the first time, but then it always did. The car was only a few months old, bought brand new as a gift from Duncan for her last birthday. She’d been so pleased, so happy back then. She gunned the engine and her tyres squealed as they tried to catch a grip on the wet concrete. Praying she wouldn’t see anyone she knew, she headed down Clumber Road towards the A57 and across to Beswick.

  And what she needed.

  While she steered with her right hand, her left rummaged in her bag, fingers seeking and finding the soft pink leather wallet that had also been a gift from Duncan, though some years back. Flicking it open deftly as she drove, she fingered the stiff new bank notes, hoping they all added up to £50 so she could get the hit she so desired. Anything smaller wouldn’t do, not today. The familiar anxiety crept into her body, making its way across her chest like a heavy-limbed giant spider, grabbing at her shirt, twisting the cloth together and tightening its grip until breathing was hard work, almost impossible. And so was driving. Her windscreen was fogging up with her panting as she fought to control herself and not have a full-on panic attack. Not at the wheel, at least. Not again. She practiced taking deep breaths as she drove, telling herself slowly, “In. Out. In. Out,” her chest rising and falling as air drained away and refilled. Up ahead, she saw the road sign for the turning she needed and she indicated right, though in reality the road sign was superfluous to her requirements: Sam knew exactly where to head and could have probably done so blindfolded. Right again, then left and the house she sought was visible up ahead.

  It wasn’t the nicest part of town, but drug dealers rarely operated from big houses on the affluent side of Manchester. Of course, someone would be servicing the celebs – they wouldn’t be slumming it in Beswick from an old semidetached house with grubby net curtains and weeds two feet high out front.

  The house looked quiet. She hoped someone was in to process her transaction and take the pain away, take her to somewhere more relaxing, somewhere that cushioned her, like covering her in bubble wrap, helping her through the day unharmed. Then the side door opened and a tall, willowy, well-dressed blonde woman came out. She wore a pale pink skirt suit with fine stilettoes on her feet and looked rather out of place. The woman walked towards the street and Sam watched her as she crossed the road and got into a racy little high-end red Mini, not a car you’d associate with these parts either. Maybe she was a customer too, one who hadn’t found a dealer closer to home that serviced the more affluent. Or perhaps she liked the drive out here.

  There was no point sitting in the car, so Sam made her own way to the side door and knocked, then waited a beat or two before knocking again. Through the opaque glass she saw movement, and the silhouette of a woman approaching. The door opened slowly. The woman, a bit older than Sam, said nothing, but beckoned Sam inside into the pokey kitchen area and motioned her to take a seat. She smiled a little and flicked the kettle on to boil, though it was all for show, in case she needed a cover story. Sam couldn’t help noticing the woman’s roots needed bleaching; there was a good four inches of dark regrowth streaked with grey in a wide stripe down the centre of her head. She was otherwise tidy in her dress, though, wearing fitted black pants and a pretty blue blouse with a tiny flower print. Her gold bangles clinked together as she busied herself. Funny the things you noticed even when you were nervous, Sam thought.

  “What sort of tea would you like?” the woman enquired as she brought a shallow wooden tea box out from the pantry. Sam stared at the box like she’d never seen it before. It was made out of a fine balsa wood, stained and decorated with an intricate pattern. It looked like something you might have found in a Moroccan bazaar, and Sam wondered, as she did each time, where the woman had bought it. Maybe she had been to Morocco. Sam worked on finding her voice.

  “I’ll know when I see it. I can never remember what it’s called.”

  The woman opened the lid, revealing several small compartments, and lifted out the top layer that contained individually wrapped tea bags. Underneath, of course, was anything but tea. Sam scanned the compartments for what she wanted. Each little bag contained an assortment of tablets, and Sam instantly spotted the ones she preferred.

  “I like it quite strong, please,” she said as calmly as she could, keeping to the code they used.

  The older woman picked up bag of 80 mg tablets and showed it to Sam.

  “That should be strong enough, do you think?”

  Sam reached greedily for the baggy between the woman’s fingers, but the woman deftly withdrew her hand. Of course, thought Sam, mentally smacking herself. She wanted to see the cash first. Sam pulled out £50 in notes. The woman shook her head. Eighty milligrams was going to be more money. Sam pulled out the last note she had, another £20, and the woman handed over the pill.

  “Perfect,” Sam said, and slipped the pill straight into her mouth. The woman passed her a glass of water, which she downed nervously.

  “Actually, I’d better get going, but thanks for the offer of tea,” Sam said, and stood ready to leave. Inside she was climbing the walls, desperate to get out of the small kitchen and back into the familiar confines of her car, away from the woman, and away from the house.

  She wanted to be home when the effects fully kicked in.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Duncan pulled into his driveway. The house was in darkness again, save for the familiar chink of light showing through the curtains. A flicker of blue light accompanied it sporadically; the TV was on. He sat in his car; the interior was toasty warm after the drive home with the car heater on full. The kids would be in bed and Sam would be stuck in front of the television, he knew. He hoped she was at least dressed today. As for something warming and tasty to eat after another long day, he doubted it. Perhaps he should have stopped off at the chippy and eaten there, but he hadn’t fancied the grease overload.

  He opened the car door and the cold, damp air clung to his face as he took the few steps towards the side door and inside. He’d told himself on the drive over that he wasn’t going to be angry or disappointed, that he was to be positive and upbeat, pleased to see her, pleased she was okay, pleased the children were fast asleep. After a day working a missing children case, there were more important things to be thinking about than arguing with your wife. Everyone inside this house was safe and sound, and he thanked God for that.

  “Hi Sam, it’s me. I’m back,” he shouted through from the kitchen, but there was no reply. He sighed and collected himself as he opened the door into the lounge. He tried again.

  “Hi Sam, I’m home.”

  Sam turned towards him and smiled. “Hi, Duncan. I didn’t hear you drive up. Good day at work?” She muted the sound on the TV, a good start.

  “Ah, you know, it’s always tough when children are involved,” he said with a weak smile. “What’s for dinner? Is there anything made?” He was hoping, just not expecting.

  “I’ll put some soup and toast on for you. You sit down – you look done in.”

  Well, that was the truth. As for soup? At least it was hot and quick and reasonably nutritious.

  “Thanks, love. Four slices, please. I’m ravenous.” He began undoing his shoes and flicked them both off, wiggling his sock-covered toes, then flopped down on the soft
sofa and closed his eyes for a moment. Sam headed into the kitchen and Duncan could hear the soup pan hitting the stove, the toaster springs creaking as bread was pushed down into it, the clink of a bowl being retrieved from the cupboard.

  And humming from Sam.

  Still with his eyes closed, he tried to figure out two things: the last time he’d heard her hum, and what the song she was humming could be. He didn’t have a clue to either of them. He opened his eyes and stared at the TV. The set was still silent; the screen showed judges scoring a batch of scones made by a group of hopefuls. He pressed the mute button again and voices filled the room. He let the mundaneness of it wash over his body while he waited.

  Sam put her head around the door. “Who won the challenge?”

  “Sorry, Sam, I wasn’t paying much attention. I didn’t hear.”

  Sam flitted back into the kitchen to pour the soup and Duncan sensed that she was on edge again. He cringed; the slightest thing could end in a row, he knew, and he desperately wanted to avoid one. Not only that, he hadn’t the energy left to defend himself. He closed his eyes again and only opened them when the soup and toast arrived on a tray. Sam placed it roughly on the coffee table in front of him; some of the liquid slopped over the edge of the bowl. He said nothing, and neither did Sam. Instead, he stood and went to get some paper towel from the kitchen to mop it up. He was careful not to meet her eyes.

  “I’ve missed the end now. I don’t know who won,” she whined accusingly.

  Duncan concentrated on his toast, crunching loudly. Crumbs dropped into his tomato soup, his favourite. He heard her huffs and puffs of exasperation at missing the end of her program, but he carried on eating, willing her tension to drop back to a near normal level.

  The last couple of days at work had been tough, and the nights at home were not much better. Their house wasn’t what you’d call a relaxing environment to come home to. And he hadn’t seen his two girls in three days. They were always still in bed when he left and fast asleep when he returned. He’d look in and kiss them anyway when he’d finished his supper, but it wasn’t ideal. If he got some down time at the weekend he’d make it up to them, but that depended on the case. Leave had been suspended and everyone was expected to join in the search; the department was throwing all available resources at this case in the hope that the two missing children would be brought home alive and well, and quickly. They all knew the first twenty-four hours were crucial, and that deadline had passed, meaning the chances of the children’s safe return had slimmed down considerably. Nobody voiced the reality, of course, but everyone doggedly kept their hopes up.

  He was aware the volume on the TV was back up and Sam was talking.

  “You didn’t hear a word of that, did you?”

  Here we go.

  “Sorry, Sam, I was miles away. What did you say?”

  “Oh, never mind! You’re no different when you are here to when you’re not here. I’m talking to myself either way.” She got up and stomped towards the stairs in an obvious huff, but Duncan called her back before she had chance to disappear.

  “I said sorry, Sam. What did you want to ask me?” He stood up to make his point, hands on his hips. He really didn’t want to go there again – not another row, not tonight.

  “Oh, just fuck off, would you?” she yelled, and thumped up the stairs. There was little point Duncan saying anything or going after her; it would certainly turn nasty while she was in such a foul mood. He flopped back down, deflated, muted the TV again and tried to finish his soup and toast, but the food stuck in his throat. It was like eating balls of cotton wool dipped in ketchup. He dropped his spoon onto the tray, stood, and took his things to the sink where he rinsed his dishes. He opened the dishwasher door. It was still full of dirty dishes from earlier in the day.

  “Dear Lord,” he said to himself. Sighing, he put a tablet in the soap dispenser and switched the machine on, leaving his tray on the kitchen bench until the morning. Exhausted, he quietly slipped upstairs, avoiding the bedroom he shared with Sam. Instead, he tiptoed to the girls’ room and kissed his two sleeping beauties on their foreheads, being careful not to wake them. Leaving their door open just a crack, he tiptoed to the bathroom and brushed his teeth, then slipped into the PJs that hung on the back of the bathroom door, grabbed a couple of blankets from the hall cupboard, and settled himself back down on the sofa for the night. Within ten minutes of lying down, he was fast asleep, the TV still flickering.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sam lay alone in the double bed seething inwardly. She’d heard him climb the stairs and go into see the girls, but then he’d surprised her and gone back down to the TV room. When she’d crept to the bathroom shortly after, Sam had noticed his PJs, which normally hung on the back of the bathroom door were gone. He must have collected them with the intention of staying well away from her for the rest of the night, and that was a first for them both. The thought depressed her. But really, what did she expect after telling him to do one and then storming upstairs, closing their bedroom door behind her? It was hardly an invitation for some love and affection, now, was it?

  The digital clock read 12.15 a.m., and sleep eluded her as usual. She knew it was going to be a long night. Perhaps she could get through to the kitchen unnoticed and make herself some tea, though she didn’t want to face him if he awoke. She felt a twinge of guilt for her overreaction this time, but she knew her short temper was a symptom of how their relationship had deteriorated over the last six months or so. There was little love between them now.

  Love. Where had it gone?

  Sam flipped the bedside lamp on and the room glowed a pale peach colour, not bright enough to read by but just bright enough to fall asleep by. On the cabinet next to her pillow sat a wedding picture of the two of them. They would be ten years married next anniversary round, and Sam stared at the picture, dissecting herself ruthlessly. How she’d changed over the decade from that day. Her sun-kissed hair had been styled in an attractive and romantic up-do with tiny flowers woven through. Her figure had been slender in the full-length creamy silk slip dress, and she had looked radiant. Duncan for his part had looked happy and handsome. His cravat matched her dress and those of the two tiny bridesmaids. The sun had shone gloriously as the photographer had snapped away in the church gardens; the roses had been in full bloom. Where had those two happy people vanished?

  Sam looked at the young bridesmaids again. They had been the same ages then as her two girls were now, and she stroked their bright little faces through the glass. Thoughts of that day, their vanished happiness and the two little girls fast asleep in the other room made her eyes brim with tears. But she caught herself, wiped them away with the hem of the bedsheet and climbed out of bed, headed for Jasmine’s room next door. The handle creaked a little as it turned and she slipped inside, closing the door quietly behind her. She heard the light sounds of a little body breathing peacefully, unaware there was someone stood by the bed, watching and listening. She knelt down beside the bed and whispered what she wanted to say, knowing there was no way anyone could or would hear her.

  “You know how much I love you, both of you, don’t you? I hope you do, my love, because I’ll do whatever it takes to keep my two precious girls safe from harm and always happy. Whatever it takes, understand? You’ll always have me, your mother, looking over you, no matter what. I just want you to know that. No matter what.”

  Standing, she kissed Jasmine lightly on the cheek and headed to Victoria’s room, to check on her and kiss her goodnight. Once she was satisfied both were settled and fast asleep, she went out to her own room and the empty bed and climbed back in. The sheets were now cool and the temperature in the room seemed to have dropped a few degrees, so she burrowed down under the covers, pulling them up over her head, and finally let the tears fall freely.

  Eventually, Sam fell into a deep, undisturbed sleep. She slept so soundly, in fact, that she slept through the alarm the following morning. When she finally did come to, it was
gone nine o’clock. Her first thought was the girls.

  “Oh, hell!” she groaned, scrambling out of bed. “The girls!” She grabbed her robe as she flew from her room. Unsurprisingly, the girls’ door was open and the bed was empty. Victoria’s room was empty as well. Calling their names, her heart pounding, she catapulted herself down the stairs at speed and flung the lounge door open.

  “Jasmine! Victoria! Where are you?”

  That room was empty, too, but she noticed two folded blankets on the arm of the sofa. Duncan must have stayed there all night and tidied them away earlier this morning. She dashed through to the kitchen, expecting to see two small faces eating Cocoa Pops at the table, but it was empty.

  “Jasmine! Victoria! Where are you?” she called again. But it was obvious the house was empty.

  The girls were gone.

  Perhaps Duncan had got them ready and taken them to school? But why hadn’t he woken her? She looked around the work surface for a note, but there was nothing. If Duncan had taken them to school, he wouldn’t have been so heartless to not leave a note, would he? There was only one way to find out. She’d have to call him.

  Then a thought hit her. What if he had taken them? He would know she had only just got up and would be furious with her for oversleeping. But what if he hadn’t taken them? That would be far worse. There was no choice: she dialled his number and waited for it to connect.