Never Look Back

by Clare Donoghue

  Sarah sat on the sofa, crossing her legs as she carefully balanced the glass of wine on her knee. The oil burner’s lavender scent made the room feel warmer somehow. Lavender always reminded her of her grandmother’s garden. She leaned back, closed her eyes and took along drink, letting one of the ice cubes slip into her mouth. She played with it on her tongue and in between her teeth as it slowly melted away. The sound of the doorbell made her jump right out of the chair, sending her wine glass flying into the air. She made a grab for it, which only served to increase its momentum, wine covering her, the sofa and the floor. The glass shattered into a million pieces as it hit the painted floorboards. He was early.

  She thumped down the hallway and the stairs, pulling open the door to find Mike standing on the doormat, his hair, face and shoulders peppered with snow. She realized, as she looked at him, that it was the first time in months that she had opened her front door without checking who it was. ‘Come in,’ she said, stepping back. ‘I didn’t realize it was snowing.’

  ‘It’s been chucking it down since we spoke earlier,’ he said, taking off his coat as she shut the door.

  ‘Here,’ she said, reaching out and taking his dripping jacket. She hung it up and turned. ‘Come on up,’ she said, walking up the stairs, conscious of him behind her. She went towards the lounge but then remembered the glass, turned on her heel and bumped straight into him.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, backing up against the wall.

  ‘I dropped a glass – let’s go into the kitchen,’ she said, without looking at him. She was sure he would be able to smell the wine. She pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and gestured for him to take a seat. ‘Can I get you a coffee, tea?’

  ‘Coffee would be great,’ he said.

  ‘How do you take it?’

  ‘Industrial strength, no sugar,’ he said, smiling.

  The smile seemed to crack his face. Now he was under the harsh spotlights he looked knackered: grey, his expression strained. She filled the kettle at the sink and took two mugs and the coffee from the cupboard. She still didn’t look at him as she spooned in the coffee and stirred in some milk.

  He took some papers from the inside pocket of his jacket and spread them out on the table. ‘I’ve got all the information with me,’ he said. ‘There are a number of options open to you.’

  ‘OK,’ she said, feeling incapable of saying anything else. She wanted him here, she wanted to talk, but now he was here she felt unsure.

  ‘Do you mind if I take my jacket off?’ he asked.

  Was he hot? She was freezing. ‘Go ahead.’ The kettle boiled and she filled both mugs.

  As she walked towards him with their coffees she debated whether to sit in the chair next to him or opposite. Still undecided, she placed his mug on the table and retreated behind the work surface. Before she could speak his phone began to ring.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I won’t be a second.’ He stood and walked out into the hallway, his phone already in his hand.

  She sipped her coffee and pretended to look out of the window when really she was straining to hear what he was saying. He was muttering, his sentences short and sharp. ‘Of course not,’ he said, turning to look at her. He walked further down the hallway until she couldn’t see him, obviously keen to keep his conversation private. She opened the fridge and looked at some limp-looking lettuce, a packet of wholemeal pitta breads, a tub of tzatziki and half a pint of milk. Toni had offered to take her to the shops and had even dropped round a food parcel earlier in the week but it was all gone. She couldn’t bring herself to go to the supermarket. Too many people. She shut the fridge with a bang.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he said.

  ‘Is everything all right . . .?’ she asked. His eyes widened and his mouth opened but he didn’t speak. ‘Never mind. You said I had options,’ she said, watching as his face settled.

  ‘Do you want to sit down?’ he asked, pointing to the chair next to him.

  ‘I have some paperwork relating to restraining orders and injunctions for you,’ he said, handing her a few sheets of paper.

  Her breath caught in her throat. At the top of the page, printed in capital letters, was a name. ‘Malvern Turner,’ she said, looking over at Mike.

  ‘Yes . . . do you recognize the name?’ he asked.

  Sarah shook her head. ‘No . . . I don’t . . . who is he? How does he know me?’ The name was bouncing around her brain like a dodgem car.

  ‘According to the suspect, you met last year at an advertising firm in Camden. CBS Outdoor.’

  She stared at her hands, trying to remember. ‘CBS . . . I had a job there in July last year, maybe June.’ Questions flooded her mouth. ‘Does he work there? Did I photograph him? I don’t remember him . . .’

  ‘It’s all right, Sarah,’ he said, pulling the paperwork away from her. ‘He was painting some of the offices . . . he says. There’s no reason you should remember him.’

  She shook her head again. It was impossible to believe that something so insignificant, a job she barely remembered, could have led to all of this. She searched her memories for something, anything, but nothing came to her. All she had was a faceless name to go with her fear. ‘Please carry on,’ she said, hearing the defeated tone in her voice.

  ‘OK,’ he said, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair. The pine creaked. His shirt had come untucked on one side. She caught a glimpse of his stomach. ‘Let’s talk through your options,’ he said, resting his arm on the table, covering the papers.

  ‘I know what my options are,’ she said, rubbing her eyes, trying to erase the ache building up behind them. ‘I just need someone I trust to tell me what I should do.’ A flush of embarrassment heated her neck. She was saying she trusted him. And she did. She braved another glance in his direction. He seemed as struck by her words as she felt.

  ‘Absolutely,’ he said, nodding.

  When he didn’t elaborate, Sarah stood, pushed her shoulders back, walked over to her desk, picked up a pad and pen and returned to her seat. ‘OK,’ she said, sitting down, ‘I’m ready.’ She wasn’t going to let a name unglue her. Nothing had changed.

  For the next thirty minutes Sarah listened and took notes. No one could accuse Mike of skipping the details. He showed her the forms she needed, where to get others, how to fill them in and when she needed to send them. As he spoke she found herself staring at his mouth. She was nodding, trying to concentrate on his words, but she was immediately drawn back to his lips. When she had first met him she had thought his features almost cartoonish in their extreme. But now, looking at him, she could see that, in fact, his face had perfect symmetry. His eyes were set quite wide apart, his nose refined and centred. His cheek muscles seemed to flex with each syllable when he spoke. It was only when he began talking about court appearances that Sarah really tuned in to what he was saying, rather than how he looked when he was saying it.

  ‘I have to go to court?’ she asked, her voice heavy with the panic that had just struck her, off guard.

  He held out his hands. ‘It’s OK, Sarah. You don’t have to. The judge will examine the petition beforehand. Even if you decided you did want to attend, the defendant would be behind a Perspex screen. You’d be quite safe.’

  She was puzzled by his phrasing: quite safe. Of course, she knew what he meant, but why didn’t he say ‘very safe’ or ‘totally safe’? That would have sounded better, felt more reassuring. She pushed her coffee cup away. ‘I’m going to have a glass of wine. Do you want one?’ she said, already walking away.

  ‘Actually, I could go for a dash of that, if you don’t mind?’ he said, pointing to a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s on her kitchen counter. The familiarity of his tone made her smile.

  ‘I’ll join you.’ She took two glasses down from the cupboard and poured them both a small measure. As she handed him his glass their fingers touched for a second. Her eyes drifted to the clock over the cooker. It was half-past seven. They had been talking for over an hour
and she was knackered. ‘I’m so sorry, I’ve kept you so long.’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s no problem. I’m heading straight home after this . . . hence the beverage,’ he said lifting his glass. ‘Going back to the office smelling of whiskey is frowned upon.’ Despite his smile, Sarah could see just how tired he was.

  A thought entered her head; she debated for a second but then asked, ‘Well, if you’re not going back to the office, do you want something to eat? It’s the least I can do.’ As soon as the words were out of her mouth she felt her cheeks heating. ‘Don’t worry if you have to go,’ she said, giving him the out so she wouldn’t be further embarrassed when he made an excuse.

  ‘Well, now that you mention it, I am starving, and this . . .’ he said, gesturing to his half-finished drink, ‘goes down better with something to line the stomach.’ His smile was fuller now, more real.

  ‘I guess drunk driving is worse for you guys,’ she said, returning his smile. ‘I was actually thinking you look like you need a drink more than I do.’

  He chinked her glass with his and said, ‘Maybe, maybe not.’ She watched him take an appreciative sip.

  They both fell silent but it didn’t feel uncomfortable. In fact it felt nice; having a detective inspector in her kitchen gave her a sense of safety. She stared out of the window sipping her drink. The snow had eased off but it would still be hellish for driving. The traffic would be a nightmare. He should probably wait an hour for it to stop before he set off home. Her mind strayed to thoughts of him staying much longer than an hour. She turned and began rummaging around in the fridge. What was she thinking? He wasn’t staying. He was going. As she looked at the pathetic snack selection in her hands she realized she never usually ate on dates. But then this wasn’t a date. As if her body was listening, her stomach growled in anticipation.

  ‘Have you eaten at all today?’ he asked.

  She didn’t need to look at him to know he was mocking her. His tone sounded relaxed, intimate. Her stomach rumbled again, increasing her embarrassment. ‘Yes, maybe, no.’ She turned her back and busied herself with the toaster but a smile was playing on her lips.

  The silence between them now was anything but comfortable.

  ‘Hey, it’s OK. I live the life of a bachelor. I never have anything in my fridge either.’

  As she turned she saw his cheeks flush for a fraction of a second. His grey complexion had vanished, he looked revived. She brought over two plates, the pittas, dip and carrot sticks piled on top.

  ‘Dig in,’ she said. And he did, hungrily plunging into the tzatziki.

  A deafening thud made Sarah stand, dropping the food that was midway to her mouth onto the floor.

  ‘What the hell was that?’ he asked, putting down his pitta, brushing off his hands and heading down the hallway.

  Sarah couldn’t follow. She stood rigid, her heart beating so fast it made her dizzy. All she could do was listen and wait. She heard and saw Mike run down the stairs, heard the door open and felt the rush of cold air coming up the stairs. She waited, numb with fear.

  What felt like hours later she heard her name.

  ‘Sarah?’

  She heard his voice but couldn’t move, couldn’t focus.

  He walked back into the kitchen, his expression filled with concern. ‘Sarah, are you all right?’

  She couldn’t speak.

  He seemed to hesitate but then approached her, putting his hands on her upper arms, bending to look into her face. ‘Sarah, it’s OK. Two people had a shunt outside. Everyone’s fine. Everything’s fine. They’re exchanging insurance details now. It was just a bump, no real damage done.’ His hands felt firm on her arms. If he let her go, she thought she would slither to the floor like a discarded rag. She leaned into his body and closed her eyes. He whispered her name as his fingers tangled in her hair. He was telling her that everything was going to be all right. Sarah let his words seep into her bones. ‘You’re all right,’ he said.

  ‘I thought . . .’ She stopped, unable to go on. A tremor seemed to take hold of her spine, her hands shaking.

  ‘I know,’ he said, ‘I know.’ He pulled her into his arms.

  As he held her, she listened to his voice and let the tears come. She cried from the shock, from the fear, from the exhaustion, from everything. He fell silent but continued to hold her, stroking her back gently. Sarah finally pulled herself away, pushing her hair off her face. She dragged it up into a ponytail, walked unsteadily to the table and sat down. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  He sat and took her hands in his. ‘It’s all right. You’ve had a shock. Given what you’ve been through it’s no wonder. Just take some deep breaths. I’ll get you a drink.’

  Sarah rocked back and forth on the chair and stared down at her hands as she calmed her breathing. When he returned with her drink she sat back, took a large breath in through her nose and blew it out through her lips. She did it again, took the drink and looked up. ‘Thank you,’ she sighed. ‘I’m OK. Sorry, it was just a shock, that’s all.’

  ‘Really, stop apologizing. It’s fine.’

  Sarah looked at his face. He didn’t look fine; he looked uncomfortable, but then what guy wouldn’t be when faced with a crying woman?

  ‘I should go, let you rest,’ he said, standing to leave.

  ‘Please,’ she said, before she could stop herself. ‘Can you just stay for a minute? Just until I get myself sorted?’

  He seemed to think for a second, but then said, ‘Yes, of course. Take your time.’

  Sarah clutched her glass to her chest, taking small sips, her hands still shaking. The whiskey warmed her throat, relaxing her aching muscles. Mike sat quietly in front of her. When she looked up she saw something different in his expression. They stared at each other, neither looking away, neither speaking. She could hear the seconds ticking by on the kitchen clock. In the small gap between them Sarah could almost see a shimmering haze, as if heat was radiating off her body or his or both. His eyes were dark, his pupils large black circles.

  Without speaking, he reached up and touched her face. The warmth of his skin sent an unfamiliar shiver over her whole body. He held her gaze. She leaned towards him. He responded by brushing her lips with his. The kiss was gentle, caressing. He kissed her again, firmer this time. As Sarah closed her eyes she felt the tip of his tongue on her lips, a moan escaping her mouth as he pulled her to him. Without thinking she wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers burrowing into his hair. It felt coarse, his scalp hot to the touch.

  He stood, lifting her easily into his arms, his lips never leaving hers. She pulled him closer. She could hear his breaths coming in quick gasps as he grappled with her shirt. A button broke away from the fabric and skittered across the kitchen floor. He pulled back and looked at her. There was a moment, Sarah could see it. He seemed to be wrestling with his own indecision but it only lasted for a few seconds and then he was back in her arms.

  36

  7 February – Friday

  Lockyer pushed his front door closed and walked down the hallway, turning on lights as he went. It was still early: 7.15 on his kitchen clock. He flicked the switch on the kettle and looked out of the window at his snow-covered garden. An image flashed into his mind of Sarah, lying naked on her bed, reaching out to him. His body reacted to the memory. He pulled out a kitchen chair, sat down and put his head in his hands. ‘What are you playing at? Are you trying to get fired?’

  As the kettle boiled he stood up and made himself a cup of tea and walked through to his bedroom, taking small gulps as he went. If Roger hadn’t called and cancelled their meeting last night, Lockyer would have left Sarah’s house hours earlier. ‘Christ,’ he said, slapping his forehead. Was he really trying to blame his boss? No one had made him do anything. He had chosen to exclude Jane, his team and Roger. The sound of his doorbell saved him from any more mental remonstrations.

  He pushed himself up off the bed and walked out of the room and down the hallway, trying to decipher his
visitor by the shadowed form beyond the opaque glass. He couldn’t. He turned the latch and pulled open the door, immediately wishing he had been in the shower, or asleep, or anywhere but right here, standing at his front door facing his SIO. Roger didn’t even bother to greet him. Instead he pushed past and walked down the hallway and into the lounge.

  Lockyer followed and closed the door behind him. He didn’t need any nosy neighbours hearing the dressing-down he was about to get. This wasn’t the first time he had been on the receiving end of Roger’s fury. His SIO could never be described as quiet.

  ‘Can I get you something to drink, boss?’ he asked, deciding it was probably best to keep it formal.

  ‘No, thank you. This won’t take long,’ Roger said, not even bothering to look at him.

  ‘OK,’ he said, debating whether he should sit or remain standing like Roger. He decided at this point it made little difference, so lowered himself into an armchair. Sunshine streamed through his floor-to-ceiling Georgian windows, forcing him to shield his eyes as he mentally braced himself for what was to come.

  ‘I assume we can skip the preamble about why I’m here?’ Roger said.

  ‘Yes, sir. I . . .’ Before he had the chance to finish or even start his apology, Roger was shaking his head and pacing back and forth, periodically blocking the sun’s path into Lockyer’s face.