The Crime Tsar

by Nichola McAuliffe

Gary was on the floor amidst the Scrabble set, his pills and the pile of sandwiches she had left for him. His catheter had come away and the bag of urine was empty, its contents over Gary and the carpet. Lucy shouted his name. She crouched beside him and tried to wake him. His lips were blue. By shaking him gently she released the clamp in his throat and he took a long juddering breath.

  She picked up the phone, also on the floor, and dialled for an ambulance. Then she sat holding him, trying to ease his breathing and crying at the thought of his lonely suffering. Why hadn’t he called her? Because he hadn’t wanted to spoil her evening. The thought of him being so thoughtful upset her even more. While she was standing outside the back door kissing someone else’s husband, her own was lying on the floor, helpless.

  By the time the ambulance arrived she had bargained with God that she’d never see Tom again if Gary could recover. It was all her fault. She should have stayed at home. Her self-flagellation was total. When they arrived at the hospital she knew she didn’t really want Tom. It was just an infatuation. A desire for a thrill to relieve the boredom of her life. Looking at Gary’s face, covered in an oxygen mask, she swore she’d never want excitement again. At that moment she would have given anything to be playing Monopoly with Gary on a wet February afternoon.

  There was no bed for him at the hospital and none of the nursing staff seemed to have experience of multiple sclerosis. Lucy kept telling them he would need a special bed, a ripple bed. One that would prevent sores, keep the blood moving, avoid the necessity of manhandling him so the risk of spasm was minimised. She was smiled at and reassured, but nothing was done. Luckily he was still unconscious and his body couldn’t cause him any pain.

  The doctor who examined him said it was pneumonia and that he was ‘very poorly’. Lucy hated that expression. ‘Your cat’s very poorly,’ ‘That geranium looks very poorly,’ ‘Your husband’s very poorly.’ But it wasn’t in her to be rude, to say something sharp to the condescending child with a shiny new stethoscope in his pocket. All she could feel was misery and regret.

  She sat by the trolley on which Gary lay hooked up to tubes, holding his hand and loving him. Not that silly girly feeling she had for Tom but a deep ache, a knowledge that without Gary her life wouldn’t be worth continuing. She knew she could never have Tom and even if she could he wouldn’t be half the man Gary was. But had Gary been this man before the illness? Probably not. He’d never had to call upon his better self while out there competing, running, striving. Gary was what was left of the man when job and position were taken away.

  And if Tom had got MS and Gary had got his dream of becoming an MP? What would be left of Tom? Lucy tried to change her thoughts. Find some that didn’t automatically revert to Tom Shackleton. But she was in the grip of a disease and could no more talk her way out of it than out of the flu. She would just have to wait until it passed and hope that, like shingles, it didn’t keep coming back.

  She’d made her decision. When Gary recovered they would move away – but if Tom got the Met? – they’d move away, never mind Tom! she shouted at her mind. Shut up about bloody Tom. Gary and I will move right away, to Cornwall maybe. The weather’s good there. Or Sussex – Gary had always loved Brighton. Yes. That’s what they’d do.

  ‘We’ve found a bed for Gary.’ The tired-looking nurse was smiling her professional smile. ‘It’s about sixty miles away, in Kent. We’re just waiting for an ambulance to take him.’

  Lucy was confused. She didn’t know what to do. If she went with him, she’d have no clothes, no money. But if she left him and he woke up to find her not there. She wanted help but didn’t know what help she was asking for.

  She had some change in her pocket and seeing the phone down the corridor she loosed her hand from Gary’s and followed the coloured lines on the floor towards it. Red for X-ray, Blue for Wards, Yellow for Outpatients. She pushed in the numbers. Five rings and Tom answered. It was eight o’clock.

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Lucy.’

  He gave a nervous little laugh.

  ‘Good morning – I’m afraid you’ve just missed Jenni, she’s gone to London.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’

  Lucy could hear none of the intimacy of last night in his voice.

  ‘It’s just that Gary’s been taken ill. Pneumonia. He’s in hospital here but there are no beds and they’re transferring him to Kent and I’ve got no clothes or money and I don’t want to leave him.’

  There was a tiny pause. Lucy knew he didn’t want to be involved. That this was irritating.

  ‘I’m sorry, Tom, I suppose you’re just leaving for work.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve got a conference in Birmingham.’

  ‘If you could just …’ Lucy didn’t know where she found the strength to coerce him. ‘Get my front door key from the hook in your kitchen and bring my handbag. It’s on the fridge. I forgot it.’

  She knew asking for clothes would be pushing him too far. She could already feel his reluctance.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you.’

  ‘Oh, it’s no bother. I’ll see to it straight away. I only hope Gary will be all right. Anything else?’

  Yes, Tom, despite all the promises I’ve made to God, Gary and myself in the last seven hours, I still want you and I’d like you to come here now and just take me away from all this illness and smell.

  ‘No. Just my handbag. Thanks, Tom.’

  After she had given him the details of the hospital he rang off with a brief goodbye and a softly spoken ‘Take care.’

  She went back to Gary. Well, at least she’d see Tom, if only for a minute. She went to the Ladies quickly. She looked a mess. She splashed her face with water and dried it on paper towels. Immediately the skin felt tight and shiny. She wished she had some moisturiser. A comb. She sighed. What was the point? She went back to Gary who was moaning quietly but still unconscious. Every twenty minutes a nurse checked his vital signs. His blood pressure was low; Lucy told them that was normal for Gary. His temperature though was high.

  Lucy saw a policeman come in. One of the many that had passed through Accident and Emergency since she’d been sitting there. But this one was carrying her handbag. She called him over. He gave her the bag and she signed a chitty for it. He seemed a pleasant young man and no, he’d never met the Chief Constable. Lucy couldn’t believe Tom hadn’t come himself. She was angry and deeply hurt. But within a few minutes she was making excuses for him.

  And Jenni would come home to the pile of unwashed dishes and glasses. Her dining room a litter of crumbs and candle wax. Lucy left an apologetic message on Jenni’s answer machine. The early years had left their mark; she was still more frightened of losing friends by causing offence than she was fearful of being regarded as a doormat.

  The ambulance was ready. Gary was loaded gently into it and Lucy took her place beside him.

  While Lucy was worrying about the washing up, Jenni was hearing a favourable future told by her hairdresser’s medium.

  She had arrived at the modern brick-built cottage in a cul-de-sac of similar homes near Tower Bridge a little early. The extraordinary creature who opened the door begged her indulgence while she watched the end of Star Trek on Satellite.

  Jenni was seated in the ‘reading’ room which doubled as sitting room. The small television kept the medium rapt while Jenni stared around in astonishment. Heavy curtains framed the double-glazed patio doors leading to a small square of green complete with umbrella-shaped clothes-dryer. The rest of the room was a riot of icons. Virgin Marys jostled with voodoo figures and sinister-looking carvings. Buddhas and Hindu gods were hung with rosaries, and pentagrams fought for space with crosses. The furniture was draped with cheap Indian shawls, and joss sticks filled the air with the smell of seventies student parties.

  Star Trek came to an end and the medium, a hefty Danish woman with long blonde hair parted centrally in the manner of a semi-professional folk singer, made camomile tea and sat down to
commence the reading. She talked non-stop for an hour saying all the things Jenni wanted to hear. She even summoned up a message from the other side that Jenni identified as coming from her grandmother. As Jenny handed over her £25 at the end of the session she clasped the Viking’s hand.

  ‘And my husband will get the … promotion?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’m sure of it. And you’ll both be very happy. You wait, you’ll be coming back to me in six months saying, “Ailse, everything you told me was right. Everything.”’

  If Jenni had analysed what she had been told she would have recognised it all as confirmation of what she’d said herself. But she didn’t analyse it. She wanted to believe. She wanted to go to her meeting with the Gnome bolstered by magic.

  She drove to Russell Square and parked in a fearsomely expensive car-park under a hotel then walked the short distance to the Gnome’s flat. It was a beautiful day and London was full of brainless tourists in ghastly clothes drifting along in herds, like wildebeest. Jenni wished the predation that beset the wildebeest on the plains could be visited on these ugly specimens of humanity. She hit an impenetrable wall of French schoolchildren. They were open-mouthed with boredom and refused to part to allow people to walk on the pavement. Jenni did not walk in the gutter for any spotty adolescent.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  No reaction.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  A little louder, a little less reaction. She smiled and pulled a couple of designer-jacketed sleeves.

  ‘Excusez-moi. Parlez-vous anglais?’

  There was a surly chorus of Ouis and yeses.

  Jenni beamed at them and said in the loud tones of English people talking to foreigners, ‘Then get out of my fucking way. Now.’

  As if Moses had raised his rod the sea of horrified young faces parted and Jenni proceeded, triumphant, to the Gnome’s block.

  She pushed the buzzer and was answered by his voice and another buzz to signal the opening of the door. She went in, paused to repair her immaculate make-up, and got into the lift. He met her as the doors opened and immediately had his hand on her. She felt like a whore who had been ordered like a pizza. She went into the flat and was just preparing to comment on its decor, the view, the weather, when he spun her round and rammed his snake-like tongue into her mouth. There was no trace of Robbie MacIntyre. This was The Gnome.

  As quickly as was polite she pulled back.

  ‘Robbie, well, good morning.’

  He grunted and started to undress her. It was impossible to recognise the urbane and charming dinner guest of the night before. His strange ugly beautiful face was contorted by determined lust which transformed it into a vicious blood-engorged mask. She wanted to scream. His sweaty hands were leaving marks on the cream silk of her blouse. He had dropped her linen jacket on the floor. Didn’t he know how badly linen creased?

  ‘Robbie. Wait. Just a minute.’

  He was annoyed.

  ‘Why? I have got something you want and you’ve got something I want.’

  She tried coquetry.

  ‘What have you got for me, Robbie?’

  ‘Don’t be a silly bitch, it doesn’t suit you. Whatever I have to give you, I can withhold just as easily. There’s no such thing as a free lunch, Jenni, you know that.’

  Jenni had never been spoken to like this and she considered walking out. A woman less accustomed to her own way with men would have seen the danger signs. But no man had ever dared go further than Jenni allowed; rape and assault were what happened to other women. Not to her. The medium had said she’d get what she wanted but she hadn’t asked how. She couldn’t afford to walk. She smiled at him from under her eyelashes, a look guaranteed to disarm. He didn’t see it. He was pulling at the blouse again. He pushed it up like a doctor preparing to examine her chest. Then he grabbed her bra and pushed that up too so her breasts hung below a tyre of clothing.

  He grabbed them.

  ‘Nice tits.’

  And then he began biting and sucking at them. Jenni felt such revulsion she had to hold her breath. It was like being eaten alive. At the same time he heaved up her skirt and dragged her knickers and tights down to mid-thigh.

  ‘Tights. Don’t like tights. Like stockings. Go in the bathroom and put some on. In the drawer.’

  He said it all while chewing on her nipples. Humiliated but glad to be out of pain she went to the door he indicated, pulling up her knickers and pulling down her bra. She thought he’d give her a moment alone, a moment to find the control of the situation, to turn him back into Dr Jekyll, but she was wrong.

  ‘Still like me, Mrs Chief Constable?’

  She swallowed. ‘Of course, why not? These?’ she held up a pair of black stockings and suspender belt.

  ‘They’ll do.’

  He watched her change in silence.

  ‘Take it all off except the stockings.’

  She could see herself in the huge mirror. It covered one wall. She saw him sit in an oriental-style chair and watch her. He was dribbling with anticipation. Inhuman. She stood in front of him.

  ‘Put your shoes back on.’

  She obeyed. As she straightened up he flung himself on to his knees and buried his face between her legs. She tried to clench them but he prised her thighs apart and continued on her clitoris what he had begun on her breasts. His abnormal tongue searched further and deeper. She was disgusted with herself when she felt a twinge of pleasure.

  It passed quickly when he bit her, hard. She yelped. She had to get out – nothing could be worth this. He stood up and grasped her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. He pulled so hard her pretty breasts looked like empty bags of skin.

  ‘Do you want your husband to be Commissioner or do you want Geoffrey Carter to be Commissioner? It’s up to you.’

  ‘How do I know I can trust you? That you won’t give it to him anyway.’

  ‘Because I give you my word. You walk out of here and your husband will get that job over my dead body.’

  She looked at him as if that were an option.

  ‘Your word?’

  ‘My word.’

  She let the air out of her lungs and gave in. As he continued to treat her body like a plate of junk food she found a sort of detachment. She watched him in the mirror and was fascinated by his absorption. He had no desire for her to react. She just stood there. But she could feel he had no erection. She moved her fingers to check that she was right. He pushed her hand away from him as if she was interrupting.

  ‘Get in the bath.’

  She didn’t hear him: his voice was muffled by her flesh.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Get in the bath. On your hands and knees.’

  She did what he said. She was looking down the plughole. The taps were big, Victorian originals. The bath was cold cast iron. And uncomfortable. Hard white enamel.

  She jumped when she felt the warm water on her back. Then she smelt it. The sharp acid smell of male urine. It cascaded over her back and hair. It went on and on and on. A form of shock set in. She couldn’t think or feel, she just endured. The shower finally stopped. Silence. She didn’t dare move. She closed her eyes. Her knees were hurting. She wondered if Lucy had put the glasses on the right setting in the dishwasher. Then she looked round.

  Now he had his erection. Because he was so short it was waving on a level with her eyes. It was enormous, shades of red and purple, utterly repulsive. She knew she would be sick if he wanted to put it in her mouth. But he didn’t, he wanted her in the bedroom. Stinking and wet she walked ahead of him. He had taken off his trousers but still had on his shirt and socks. He was encouraging himself with his hands as he followed her.

  ‘Lie down.’

  She lay down.

  ‘Turn over.’

  The words formed themselves quite clearly in her mind: No. Oh no, please. Not that.

  She had once had an internal examination carried out by an Egyptian junior registrar. She had had to lodge a complaint after he caused rectal bleeding.
But this was worse pain than she even remembered from childbirth. She knew that pain was worse. But the utter degradation that accompanied this made it the final pit of hell.

  She tried to scream and found she couldn’t breathe through the pillow her face was now pressed into by his weight. He struggled and pushed and thrust as if he was trying to win a race. Still ramming into her he pushed his long-nailed fingers into her vagina. He rubbed them hard against his penis through the thin skin. Then with a rictus of loud ecstasy he came deep inside her, smashing against her buttocks. She had to brace her hands against the headboard to stop her head smashing into it. With a final grunt he flopped on to her back, murmuring, ‘Good fuck, Jenni. Better next time, eh?’

  And then he was asleep. Still inside her though she had collapsed on to the bed now with no pretence of enjoyment. Detached from the hideous reality, she unloaded him. She didn’t look back at his repulsive body sprawled, snoring, across the bed as she ran into the bathroom. Twenty minutes later she was still standing under the shower and the blood still ran red in the water.

  Her hands shook as she dressed and she found she had to sit down to do up the buttons of her blouse. The mirror that had witnessed her degradation showed her a composed and beautiful woman with slightly flushed cheeks. There was no mark on her face to show what had happened to her. But the tearing pain below was more eloquent than a broken nose or black eye.

  Jenni went back into the bedroom determined to be controlled, cool with him. As if he had done nothing she had not experienced before. He was lying against the piled-up pillows that were marked with her lipstick, smoking a cigar. His face was once again his own, no longer inhabited by evil. There was even a sweetness in his expression, a gentleness. He was in a fine mood.

  ‘Always have a cigar after a good meal.’

  ‘I’ve got to go, Robbie. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting something, Jenni?’

  A kiss goodbye? An affectionate hug perhaps? Jenni looked blank. She couldn’t go nearer to him.

  He put his abnormally long hand under the pillows.

  ‘This. You could have read it if you hadn’t been enjoying yourself so much.’