by TL Dyer
‘Sienna’s first year, Anna’s last.’
I look to Toby when he speaks, and realise I’ve been smiling at the photo.
‘The only time they were in the school together. Seven years between them. That was taken last year, before she went off to college.’
‘She seemed like an intelligent girl, Mr Johnson.’
‘Yes. Oh yes, always the bright spark in her class. No idea where she got it from. Not us, love, was it?’ He glances at his wife and softly smirks. ‘Actually, it’ll be from her mother, of course. She’s the school teacher. I’m just the paper shifter.’
‘What is it you do?’ I ask.
‘Civil servant. Answering phones, sending papers from one side of the office to the other, making sure everyone’s doing the job they’re supposed to.’
‘A noble profession,’ I say, and mean it. Personal experience has taught me our Force would be worthless without the staff in the office, the ones rarely seen behind the computers and the telephone lines. They’re our backbone. We couldn’t do the job without them.
‘Pays the mortgage,’ Toby concludes, and I smile in response.
We drink our tea quietly, only the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece a reminder that life outside these four walls goes on. It’s 3.40pm and Ange and Dan will be home soon.
‘Would you mind me asking when the funeral is, Mr Johnson?’ I ask, returning the empty cup to the table.
Toby lowers his own and rests it on his polyester trousers. The shirt he wears, buttoned to below the dip of his throat, looks like new, the collar crisp, telling me that despite what he said earlier about the little tasks, he nevertheless felt it appropriate to dress up to make the funeral arrangements for his daughter; make a good impression.
‘We didn’t want it too soon, you know. Still getting our heads round it.’ His free hand flutters over his forehead, knowing already perhaps that getting his head round it will never happen. ‘But at the same time...’
He looks to his wife, but gets no help from there.
‘So it’s next Thursday. Three o’clock is the earliest we could get.’
‘I’d like to attend, if that’s okay with you.’
Toby’s eyebrows lift. ‘Of course. That would be very good of you. St Catherine’s Church for the service. Then onto the crematorium. Food at the rugby club afterwards. All welcome.’
I smile, thinking only the service will be appropriate. It doesn’t hurt to show that the Force cares, that each fatality is another loss to our community we register as more than just a statistic.
I excuse myself and ask if they’d mind if I use the bathroom before I go, then follow Toby’s directions to the top of the stairs and the room at the far end of the hall. It’s a sizeable bathroom, all white tiles and quaint seaside memorabilia, and as I wash my hands at the sink, I picture Anna there brushing her long black hair in the mirror. I stare into my own eyes and for a second imagine she looks back, from somewhere there beyond the glass, her smile the same as on the photo downstairs, light eyes brightening the muddled brown-green of my own.
The floorboards are silent as I return down the hallway, doors on either side of it. I have no intention of stopping, but the last door on my right is ajar an inch or two, and through it I see a pale pink and grey striped duvet cover and a picture of something on the wall. I take a step back and realise it’s a poster of a glossy black stallion.
My fingers press at the door so it eases open. The room is large and tidy, the double bed made, and with red feathered cushions arranged neatly against the pillows. There are no other posters other than the horse – the rest of the walls are bare but painted a soft pink to match the duvet. A long dressing table sits beneath the window, on top of which are neat rows of bottles and creams and makeup, and around its mirror those strings of lights that everyone seems to like these days. These ones are stars. Beneath them, tucked into the mirror’s frame, are a series of passport photo snapshots. I tread over the grey carpet and peer at the pictures of Anna and a group of friends posing for the camera, at one point five of them all squeezed into the booth together. Three girls, two boys. I try to pick out which one of the two might be Brad, but somehow I don’t think either is.
I step back out, and am pulling the door to almost closed, when a quiet voice behind me says, ‘That’s Anna’s.’
I turn to see Anna’s sister leaning against the door jamb of a room on the other side of the landing. Her hair is held back by an Alice band, her face pale, as her sister’s was that night.
‘You must be Sienna,’ I say.
She knots her arms across her t-shirt.
‘Anna told me about you,’ I add, wondering what I’ll say next; whether I’ll lie and say something cliched like, ‘She thought a lot of you,’ or, ‘She said you were the best sister anyone could have,’ and if she’d believe me if I did.
But I don’t have to wonder for long. Sienna Johnson disappears back inside her room, slamming the door hard enough that the vibration rattles under my feet and up into my calves.
*
That night I can’t sleep. My body’s still trying to catch up with what shift pattern I’m keeping these days. But when some time after three in the morning I manage to drop off, I dream about Anna. Or at least it’s her to begin with.
In the dream, we’re in the ambulance alone. No Charlotte, no second paramedic, just me and Anna. She’s afraid and she wants me to do something. I can’t see her legs all that clearly, but I can see the blood. It pours from the stretcher in sheets, the same way it would in a horror film, or in a cartoon when someone forgets they left the bath running. Except this is neither of those things. Where Anna’s blood hits the floor, it pools around my boots in a circle that draws ever closer, ensnaring me and splashing up to stain my trousers. I can smell it. Though not the rustic metal scent of fresh blood, but the cloying, rancid stench of meat on the turn, as if she’s already dead.
Anna’s fingers get hold of my utility vest and yank at me, her eyes hard and cold, a vicious fury seething inside her. I see it in her face, but more than that, I feel it inside me. It lodges there in my very centre, except I don’t know what to do to help her, not really. My first aid training will only take me so far.
I rip off my vest, twist it up and try to make a tourniquet out of it around one of her legs, but there’s too much blood and I’m fumbling. My fingers slide over her thigh, my hands tremble against her cool skin. Then the rear doors of the ambulance are flying open.
Toby stands there. He’s furious. As furious as his daughter, his eyes black with rage. I look at the stretcher, except it’s no longer Anna lying there but Sienna, and she’s crying. The blood has gone – there is no blood, only tears, and I’m standing over her with her dress up over her knees and my hands still trying to tie my screwed up vest around her thigh.
Toby comes at me, pushing me against the back of the ambulance. My mind shouts that what he sees is not what he thinks, but none of it makes it out of my mouth. I see his fist as he raises it. But right before it hits, my eyes are wide open and I’m sat up in bed, my heart punching through my chest.
Chapter 12
Freddie thrashes me at squash, the bastard. It’s a rare occurrence and he makes the most of it, giving it all mouth from the showers to the lounge where we go for coffee. He tells me I’m past it now that I’m approaching forty, and suggests I might want to think about slowing down. I take the ribbing, let him get it out of his system. But once he’s settled down a bit, I tell him I went easy on him and he shouldn’t get complacent. He’s insistent though that I’m losing my edge. I say, ‘Fuck it,’ and order a low-alcohol beer to go with the coffee. He does the same.
‘What’s Ange got planned for you, then?’ he asks, before tipping the bottle of light ale to his lips, eyebrows fluttering at me from across the small round table where we sit in faux-leather armchairs.
‘I’d rather keep you out of our bedroom, if that’s alright with you, Freddie-Boy,’ I say, peeling my ar
m from the armrest to stir the coffee even while I’m still holding the beer in my other hand.
Fred blinks slowly, unamused, resting the bottle on his broad thigh. He’s never been one to shy away from the weights in the gym, though he always seems to get it just right – not pumped up, not taking himself too seriously, but give him grief and you’ll be in for a surprise; he’s got enough there to handle himself against some hefty competition. That and his height gives him another weapon of defence. Not a bad-looking swine either. The Silver Fox, I’ve heard some of the women call him – light-heartedly when in his presence, more flirtatious when not. I might have taken a bit of a dislike to him for all that if I didn’t know the plonker so well.
‘Believe it or not, Stevie-Boy, your bedroom athletics are pretty low down on my agenda of Things I Would Benefit From Knowing. I’m talking about your birthday, you clot. I mean, what she’s planning for your big day.’
‘Hopefully nothing,’ I say, watching two old fellas perch awkwardly on the stools at the bar, still wearing their gym gear. Freddie and me, thirty years from now.
‘Four-O, mate. Got to do something.’
I bring my attention back to my friend lounging in the armchair opposite. Aside from the white hair, or maybe because of it, he looks good for his age. Alert, at least, which is more than I feel after only a couple of hours’ sleep.
‘Well I won’t be hiring some fancy hall and fuelling half the Force, that’s for sure.’
He chuckles. ‘Come on. It was a cracking night. Even you enjoyed yourself. Up to a point anyway.’
The ‘cracking night’ was Freddie’s fortieth last November. The ‘point’ was the brawl that broke out at the bar between an embarrassingly large percentage of our own constabulary. Being one of the few purposely sober ones on that occasion, it was up to me to get in the middle of it and calm it down before some smarmy prick snapped the whole thing on his iPhone and circulated it across the interweb. But as luck would have it, drunk though the off-duty coppers were, they were still of a sense to understand that this was not a good look and agreed to go their separate ways. Even letting your hair down is risky in this job. Better to stay home and drink yourself stupid where no one can see you.
‘Fuck that for a game of soldiers,’ I say. ‘If I do anything at all, it’ll be jumping in the car or on a plane and heading somewhere far from you lot for a fortnight.’
Dalston flips his hand and drops it to his thigh as if he gives up. ‘You might want to tell Ange that, then.’
I pause with the bottle halfway to my mouth. ‘Something you’re not telling me?’
‘Not at all.’ He holds my gaze as he finishes his beer.
‘Shit.’
Ange gets along like a house on fire with Freddie’s wife Lisa, we’ve all known each other for too many years to remember. But the problem with that is that nothing between us is ever private. Fred’s the closest I have to a brother, and I’ve always got along with Lisa, she’s an intelligent woman (aside from contracting herself to his nibs at the altar) and a loyal and decent human being. But the whole bloody Chinese whispers thing drives me up the sodding wall. What the hell, we might just as well have the pair of them in our bedroom with us, because I’m sure there’s little Ange and Lisa don’t talk about when their heads get together. I’m only hoping that my best mate’s call to play squash this morning, was his own idea and no one else’s.
‘Anyway, it’s ages away yet,’ I conclude, thinking six months should be enough to get my opinion across. ‘I mean it, Fred, a fuss is the last thing I want.’ So pass that to Lisa and send it down the bloody pipeline as quick as you like.
Fred tips the bottle to the air and nods his head to confirm he understands.
‘You on next Thursday, or is it Roberts?’ I ask, changing the subject.
‘That’ll be me, fella,’ he says, returning the empty to the table and picking up his coffee, now probably tepid. ‘And thanks for bringing that up.’
‘Anna Johnson’s funeral is at three. I’d like to be there.’
Freddie downs the coffee in one, and snags the temporary moustache with his bottom lip. ‘Can’t see why not. I’ll clear it with our OGO first, but shouldn’t be a problem. Be good to have one of our faces there.’
The Oh Great One in this instance is Inspector Barry Clarke, six foot six and half as broad. A scary-looking character with a strong North Wales accent that tears up consonants like a chainsaw through bark. He’s also a grumpy old sod, but fair when called for. It’ll be interesting to see how the team dynamics shift when Clarke moves on and, should all go to plan, Freddie-Boy Dalston fills his rather large shoes. A lot of the officers are wary around Clarke but more at ease with Fred, but that doesn’t mean the mood will improve for the better. Promotion through the ranks brings greater authority along with the greater responsibility, and Fred will need to enforce that authority and ensure it’s respected, or else risk his staff walking all over him. Either way you frame it, change is on the horizon.
I finish the beer, thinking about the promotion everyone expects me to grab at with both hands, and an uneasiness settles in my gut. I shift in the seat. I know what it is, I’ve just never given much thought to it before. I look across the table to my friend and boss and wonder what he’d think if I told him I’m not sure the sergeant’s job is what I want any more. Or if I ever wanted it. But his mind is elsewhere.
‘Hey, you remember that prick sparking those fires all over town last summer? The one you and Clayton nicked?’
The coffee I’ve just downed leaves a sour taste on my tongue when I say, ‘Zippo. What about him?’
Freddie looks over my shoulder and flicks his chin. I turn to see the man himself standing no more than thirty feet away, laughing and joking with a couple of other lads, his hands crammed into the pockets of his jeans. I’ve only got his profile from here, but I’d recognise him with my eyes shut. Thin and wiry, balding pate. He doesn’t look all that, he never did. Arseholes rarely do.
Zippo got his nickname from the lighter fuel he favours when indulging his craving for fire-starting. I don’t call him an arsehole or talk about his addiction lightly; pyromania is a pathological disorder as serious as any other addictive illness, and something tells me I wouldn’t need to dig too far into Zippo’s past to find the root cause. But when that addiction endangers others, like the six-month-old baby who almost died twice on route to the hospital and who will likely be dealing with breathing difficulties of some sort or another for the rest of her life, then it’s hard to be sympathetic. That was one of those nights when self-control and cool professionalism were tested to their limits – when shutting down and going through the motions was the only way to get it done. But that doesn’t mean I’ll ever forget the euphoria on his face as we cuffed him, or in the custody suite when we booked him in and he looked like a meth-head who’d just had a fix after a long abstinence. His high was sickening. It still sickens me now.
‘What the fuck?’ I say, turning my back on him. ‘That was less than a year ago.’
Freddie hitches up his eyebrows and his mouth in a ‘that’s life’ kind of way. ‘He’ll have been released on the proviso that he attends some program, no doubt.’
Cynical, I know, but I snort a sarcastic laugh. I try not to be that bitter, jaded copper who wonders why he bothers, but sometimes it’s hard not to be.
At the bar, the old fellas have finished with their half-pints and are picking up their racquets from the floor to leave, their weekly social outing done.
‘Another one, mate?’ I ask Freddie, as he’s pulling his phone from the pocket of his joggers.
He clicks out of the side of his mouth, tapping his index finger at the screen. ‘Love to, fella, but the missus is on the warpath. I was supposed to be back by now.’
‘Something exciting planned?’ I grab my bag from the floor and get up, the faux leather creaking under me.
Freddie peers up at me like I’m taking the piss. ‘If you call loitering outside
ladies’ changing rooms all afternoon looking about as shifty as a dildo at a nunnery exciting, then yeah.’
He sighs when he gets up. But if I know Fred, he’s not as bothered as he makes out. The standard joke is he’d jump off a bridge for Lisa if she asked. Because she did ask. And he did jump, off the transporter bridge to raise funds for the children’s hospital she works at. The staff at the bridge said they’d never had such a crowd of spectators for a bungee before. Not to support Fred’s cause, as such – more like, half of those on the SEWP payroll who were only too happy to part with their well-earned wages just to watch their sarge shit himself as he launched chest-first from a great height and went plummeting towards the murky waters of a River Usk that was precariously shallow after a long and unprecedented early spring dry spell. The officers who were lucky enough to be off duty made a day of it with a few beers afterwards; Freddie included, whose hands didn’t stop shaking until he’d downed his third pint of Stella.
‘Never again,’ he said at the time. But ask him now and he’ll say, ‘Best thing I’ve ever done. What a rush.’
Got to hand it to him though, that’s dedication.
I slap him on the back as we head away from the table and across the lounge. We’re almost to the exit when a prickle at the nape of my neck makes me glance back. Zippo’s staring right at me over the shoulder of his friend, his eyes as fixed as the half smile on his lips. It’s an expression that says he knows something I don’t, and I’ve seen it a thousand times on a thousand different faces. I blank him, turn away. But as we go out through the door and it bangs shut behind us, a shiver goes down my spine like someone’s just walked over my grave.
*
Old Man Roberts is the sarge on duty when I return on Tuesday morning. Which means I have no concerns pulling him to one side before briefing and asking if there’s any update on the investigation into Anna’s death. He tells me it got wrapped up over the weekend and concluded as driver impairment and distraction. She lost control of the car at 93mph, aided by the cannabis traces found in her blood and saliva samples, and the phone calls she was trying to make around about that time, all to the same number. Calls that went unanswered.