Blood Rush (Lilly Valentine)

by Black, Helen

  ‘Let me cook dinner for you, Karol,’ she said. ‘To say thank you for all your help.’

  ‘It’s not necessary,’ he replied.

  Lilly’s smile slipped. She’d overstepped the mark.

  ‘But it would be lovely,’ he smiled back at her.

  Jamie wakes up desperate for a drink. His throat is raw and bloody.

  He and Trick spent the night in the crack house taking drugs, kissing, touching one another, taking more drugs. Finally he fell asleep, completely spent, at dawn.

  He struggles to sit, pushing up from the stained mattress that served as their bed. He blinks into the stale room and sees Trick stood at the window, shivering.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Jamie’s mouth feels like someone rubbed it down with sandpaper.

  ‘Got any money?’ Trick doesn’t turn towards him.

  Jamie pats down his pockets and finds a few coins. ‘Not much.’

  ‘Shit.’

  Trick’s whole body shakes. Even his knees knock. Jamie’s heard people say that and thought it was just a figure of speech. But Trick’s knees are indeed beating against one another, making a slight click as the bones meet.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Jamie crosses the room, stands next to him.

  ‘Sick.’ Trick’s stomach contracts in and out. ‘You know how it is.’

  Jamie lifts a hand to touch his friend but leaves it in mid-air, unsure. Then Trick turns his face, cheeks wet with tears, his wretchedness complete.

  ‘My mum ain’t due her Giro til Thursday,’ he says.

  Jamie has no idea what that means, but he nods.

  ‘And there ain’t nothing left to sell,’ Trick continues. ‘Telly, CD player and that lot, it’s all gone.’

  A small bubble of snot forms under Trick’s nose. Strangely, it doesn’t make Jamie feel sick, only sad. He’s got money at home. Fifty quid at least. His godfather sent him a hundred from Beijing. Jamie hasn’t seen him in years, but Uncle Theo never forgets his birthday. A card with a few scribbled lines saying they must catch up soon, and a postal order. He’s bought a couple of games but the rest is still sitting in his bedroom drawer.

  ‘I can get some cash,’ says Jamie.

  Trick’s eyes light up. ‘When?’

  Jamie doesn’t have anything for a taxi so he’ll have to take the bus home. ‘An hour and a half.’

  ‘I can’t wait that long, Jamie.’

  Tears stream down Trick’s face and he falls against Jamie, sobbing. Jamie wraps his arms around him and holds him tight. He rubs his hand up and down Trick’s bony back, his watch strap catching on his shoulder-blades. That’s it. His watch. Dad’s always moaning at him for leaving it face down by the bathroom sink. At this age, Jamie should have learned to respect things. Especially things that cost such a lot. Money doesn’t grow on trees. Blah, blah, blah.

  ‘Wait here.’ He races for the door.

  Trick looks uncertain. He wants to trust Jamie, but his need has stripped him of anything but hopelessness. Jamie nods and bolts down the stairs. He hears retching from another room. Trick is not alone in his sickness. When he gets to the kitchen door he hammers on it.

  ‘What the fuck?’ The door is thrown open by an angry black man. Then Jamie sees his chest. The man is actually a woman, just like Trick told him.

  ‘I need some meth.’ Jamie is out of breath.

  The man-woman glares at him. ‘And you think you can just come demanding it like this?’

  Her accent is very strong, the sound of the words strange and exotic.

  ‘My friend is ill,’ says Jamie.

  ‘Everyone in this place is ill.’ She draws a circle around her temple with her forefinger. ‘Sick in the head.’

  Jamie hops from foot to foot. He has to help Trick.

  ‘This is worth a lot.’ He pulls off his watch. ‘I’ll give it to you for ten wraps of glass.’

  The man-woman takes it from him and inspects it. ‘Five wraps.’

  ‘It cost at least four hundred pounds,’ Jamie pleads.

  ‘Then take it to a shop.’

  The man-woman drops it back into his hand and reaches to shut the kitchen door. Jamie’s heart lurches. His dad will kill him when he finds out the watch is gone. That won’t change, however much he gets for it. He has to help Trick.

  ‘Okay,’ he breathes, ‘five wraps.’

  She narrows her eyes at him and snatches the watch back. Then she disappears into the kitchen and returns with five baggies.

  ‘Enjoy.’ She laughs and slams the door.

  Jamie takes the stairs two at a time and falls into the room where he left his friend. Trick is squatting in the corner, the wall behind splashed brown. He looks up at Jamie in abject misery.

  ‘I’ve got it.’ Jamie holds up the bags of meth.

  He leads Trick back to the mattress, as much to get away from the shit as anything else, and presses him to sit down. Then he taps out the powder and lights it for Trick, holding the empty barrel of a biro to his lips. Trick accepts, like an invalid being fed soup. He inhales the white smoke once, twice, three times, until the softness returns to his pretty face. Soon, he’s completely himself, grinning wickedly at Jamie. He lifts a hand, but doesn’t take the foil or the pipe. Instead, he sneaks it between Jamie’s legs.

  ‘You want a little action?’

  Jamie smiles. He does want some action. As soon as he’s had a hit.

  Jack had a heaviness in his chest as he left the hospital. An acid discomfort that burned. Malaya hadn’t been able to offer any help about what happened in the rec, leaving him with Chika as his main and only witness.

  He played the bail hearing over and over in his mind. Chika’s evidence had been solid and she’d held up well under Lilly’s questioning, but something was missing, though he wasn’t sure what.

  Dark clouds had gathered and Jack put up his collar against the wind. A storm was on its way.

  His mobile rang.

  ‘Jack?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Jez Stafford here. I’ve been thinking about that bail hearing.’

  ‘You and me both,’ said Jack.

  ‘Something wasn’t quite right.’ Jack knew exactly what he meant. ‘Something in the back story.’

  That was it. Chika had been word perfect recounting her version of the attack, but she hadn’t said a thing about what had gone before. Why she and Tanisha had fallen out.

  ‘We need to know why our witness hates our defendant,’ said Jez.

  ‘I’m on it.’ Jack flipped his phone shut.

  Why hadn’t Jack tackled this before? He’d been so busy dancing around, building a case, he hadn’t dug in the dirt.

  A cold spot of rain hit Jack’s cheek. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and called Chika.

  ‘Let’s meet and you can tell me it all, from start to finish,’ he said.

  Chika groaned. ‘Again?’

  ‘Again,’ said Jack.

  Chika paused, groaned again. ‘I got something to do right now, but you can meet me in Dirty Mick’s in forty-five.’

  ‘I’ll see you there,’ said Jack.

  ‘Get me a chocolate milkshake,’ she ordered and hung up.

  Jack took his time driving to the Clayhill, listening to the wall-to-wall Christmas songs being played on the radio. He wished to God he’d written one of those things. Imagine the royalties when it was played year after year. Now that would be a legacy to leave Alice.

  He pulled up outside Dirty Mick’s. The café was almost deserted. A family in the corner getting their tea before heading back to a noisy homeless hostel. A couple of scallies, making a few dodgy quid over a bacon roll. He locked the car and headed inside.

  ‘What can I get you?’ the owner shouted from the till. By the look of his oriental features there was little chance he was called Mick.

  Jack surveyed the menu on the wall. For so many reasons he should order nothing more than a Diet Coke.

  ‘Double egg, chips and a cuppa,’ he said. ‘And a
chocolate milkshake.’

  Mick disappeared into the kitchen and Jack took a seat at the table by the window, watching the rain smack against the glass. Moments later, a greasy plate was plonked in front of him. He squirted brown sauce on the chipped edge, and plunged a steaming chip into one of the yolks.

  Outside, a gang of girls scooted past, hollering at one another, jostling with their elbows. Jack looked out for Chika but she wasn’t with them. He went back to his food. One of the things he missed about Lilly was her cooking. Mother of God, it was to die for. Sometimes he would get home from work and the cottage would be alive with the smells of a chicken roasting or cinnamon cookies. And she would look up at him, her nose covered in flour and offer him a taste. What he wouldn’t do to go back to that.

  He forced his mind from Lilly, ate the last of his food and drained his tea. Chika’s milkshake stood untouched. He checked his watch. Half an hour late.

  He pulled out his phone. No missed calls, texts or messages. He called her number but it went straight to voicemail. Damn.

  ‘Don’t suppose you know Chika Mboko?’

  Mick took the ten pound note Jack was holding out and slid it into the cash register.

  ‘She was in earlier, giving me all the usual grief.’ He tossed Jack’s change on to a stained saucer and pushed it towards him, the coins rattling.

  ‘Any ideas where I might find her?’ Jack asked.

  Mick sniffed once, then turned away.

  Jack pocketed the cash and set out for the block where Chika lived. It was bloody freezing, but the car was safer outside the café than by the tower blocks. The last thing he needed was to spend half the night looking for Chika, only to find his car on bricks. He pushed on at a lick, padding through the darkness to the quad at the foot of Chika’s block.

  She better have a bloody good explanation for standing him up.

  He held a hand above his eyes to shield them from the downpour and looked around for any sign of Chika. The quad was empty apart from a girl hovering by a parked car. She stared at him through the gloom, holding up her hood against the wind. It was hard to make her out. He thought he recognized her but couldn’t be sure.

  ‘Do I know you?’ he called out.

  ‘Yeah.’

  He took a few steps towards her and saw she was shivering without a coat. She lifted a hand to her mouth and blew on it. Each nail was painted a headache-inducing mess of oranges and yellows. Jack was sure she had a connection with Chika but couldn’t remember.

  ‘How do I know you?’

  The girl looked at the ground. Jack took another step closer.

  ‘I’m Malaya’s sister.’

  That was it. Jack recognized her now from the hospital. The family lived in the next block.

  ‘Well now, Malaya’s sister, you look like you need to get indoors.’

  The girl nodded and turned to walk away. Then suddenly she stopped. Jack watched as her back went rigid and she lifted her chin towards the night sky. He followed her eye line to the tenth floor, sheets of water hitting his face. He blinked.

  There was a figure leaning over the side of the walkway, as if she were trying to attract their attention. He couldn’t be sure, but the hair and jacket seemed familiar.

  ‘Chika?’ Jack took several steps forward, until he was directly beneath the walkway.

  It was Chika, stretching down towards him, her mouth open. He strained to hear what she was saying.

  ‘What the hell are you playing at, Chika?’ he shouted up at her.

  Again she didn’t answer but her hand reached out to him.

  ‘Chika?’ Jack had a very bad feeling.

  He watched in horror as she slid over the side and dropped. There was a moment when she seemed to levitate in mid-air, and Jack’s scream was lost in the wind. Then she plummeted through the sky and landed with a crunch of skull and a splash of blood at Jack’s feet.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘You look terrible.’

  Phil Cheney, handed Jack a forensic suit. It was white and papery, trying to blow away in the night wind.

  Jack and Cheney went back years. Their friendship survived on a diet of beer and banter and this was Jack’s cue to take the piss. But tonight, Jack couldn’t manage it. He was exhausted and brittle, fingering the suit, listening to it crackle, oblivious to the drilling rain.

  Cheney raised an inquisitive eyebrow. Jack was a copper. Bodies and death were his stock in trade.

  ‘I was here when she jumped,’ Jack explained.

  Cheney remained unimpressed, and ducked under the yellow police-tape that cordoned off a twenty by twenty rectangle surrounding Chika’s body. Someone had covered her in a brown blanket. Jack hadn’t seen who.

  He watched Cheney approach. If he’d been a plant, the FI would have been a cactus. Round and plump, not fat, just sort of juicy. And, like a cactus, he was covered in spikes. Metal bars pierced the skin of his ears, nose, lips and tongue. During a pub crawl in Brighton, as he tried to impress a couple of seventeen-year-olds in skirts so short you could see the colour of their knickers, Cheney had lifted up his jumper to reveal rings through each nipple. Now that was a sight Jack wished he’d never been party to.

  ‘Are you coming or what?’ Cheney called.

  Jack put up a finger. ‘Give me a minute.’

  ‘Take your time, girlfriend.’ Cheney shook his head, throwing off rivulets of water like a dog. ‘I’ll take a look and see if we need the tent.’

  An icy shiver ran through Jack as Cheney lifted the blanket, and he had to turn away. He couldn’t get it out of his head that he was responsible for this. He had known Chika was damaged, had spotted from the off that she was on the edge. Yet he’d pressured her to make a statement, pressured her to attend court. Hell, he’d dragged her there himself. Then, earlier tonight, he’d pressured her again, insisting they meet so she could spill out painful memories over a glass of chocolate milk. What had he been thinking? That it was okay to mess with someone’s mind to get a conviction? Did the end really justify the means? Remembering the sound as Chika hit the concrete, Jack knew it did not.

  ‘You need to get over here, mate.’ Cheney wiped rainwater from his eyes.

  Jack sighed. He didn’t want to do this.

  ‘I don’t need the suit,’ he shouted back, ‘I’ll be all over the scene.’

  He snuck under the tape and tried not to look at the body.

  ‘I sat with her until the ambulance arrived and pronounced her dead,’ he said.

  He didn’t mention that he’d knelt at Chika’s broken head and stroked her hair.

  ‘Anyone else at the scene?’ asked Cheney.

  ‘There was a girl.’ He looked around for Malaya’s sister, but she had melted away. ‘She must have been terrified.’

  ‘I’ll need a swab,’ said Cheney.

  Jack frowned. Cheney was superb at his job, thorough to the nth degree. ‘Is that necessary for a suicide?’

  ‘No it’s not,’ he reached for a plastic evidence bag, and dropped Chika’s phone inside. ‘But this one didn’t kill herself.’

  Jack felt the air being sucked out of his lungs and had to bend forward, his hands on his knees. There were dark patches on his jeans. Not from the rain.

  ‘What are you telling me?’ he asked.

  ‘I can’t be sure, until we get to the lab,’ Cheney crouched next to Chika’s back, ‘but there are stab wounds.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Jack skirted around the body.

  Cheney pointed with a gloved finger at a blood-soaked tear in Chika’s coat.

  ‘Couldn’t have happened in the fall?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Possibly.’ Cheney reached under the ribbed edge of the coat and lifted it to reveal Chika’s back. An inch above the fastening of a scarlet bra was a puncture wound, like a small pink mouth. ‘But this wasn’t caused by blunt trauma.’

  ‘Knife?’

  Cheney smoothed Chika’s coat back into place. ‘Almost certainly.’

  The cottage
was cosy. Built at a time when tradesmen chose the best materials rather than the cheapest, it was designed to hold fast against rural winters and the rain beating against it.

  But Lilly knew full well it wasn’t just the insulation making her pink.

  ‘You are full of surprises, Lilly Valentine.’ Karol appraised the book case in the living room, his finger moving across the book spines. ‘Henry James, Thomas Hardy, Charlotte Brontë.’

  Lilly perched on the end of the sofa, wine glass in hand.

  ‘Where are your airport thrillers? Your detective stories?’ he asked.

  ‘Too much like real life,’ she laughed.

  He slid a volume of Lord of the Flies back into its place and moved to the sofa, where he sat, his arm sprawled behind his head. ‘I get the impression that you like excitement.’

  ‘That’s an accusation that is regularly levelled at me,’ she nodded.

  ‘And you don’t think it is true?’

  Lilly pushed her hand through her hair. ‘All I can tell you is that I am very glad to be no longer involved in the McKenzie case.’

  ‘A quiet life without any thrills?’ He moved closer to her.

  ‘How about a quiet life, with thrills.’

  He edged nearer still, until she could smell the blackberry tang of Pinot Noir on his mouth. The room was silent and they stared at one another intently. He was going to kiss her. If Lilly wanted to stop him she needed to say something now.

  Suddenly, there was a hammering on the door. The sound crashed through the house, making Lilly jump.

  Karol glanced at the clock. ‘It’s very late.’

  Who could it be? The only person who could conceivably come this late at night was Jack.

  Jack.

  How would he react to the sight of Karol, comfortable in the place he used to watch the footie? She’d explain that Karol worked for her. An employee, nothing more. But the dirty dishes abandoned in the kitchen, the smell of basil oil in the air and the empty bottle of wine on the floor would tell another story.