by Ian Skewis
‘He’s soft, pliable – so you will rule the roost, as all women should.’
She went on to talk sotto voce about his good prospects. ‘He’ll be running that shop before long. Or rather, you will.’
They were married and stayed that way for the next 40 years, during which the shop closed and her mother died and life became something to be endured rather than lived. Hugh was not a bad man. He’d stayed faithful for the entire four decades, but all the while Margaret wondered what life would have been like if she had just waited a little longer, held on for something better – too late now, of course. A lifetime of listening to Mother and being the good wife had worn her heart out. Being a spouse to Hugh was a full-time job, for although he ran the shop for a time, he was useless at anything else. Forty years of finding his socks for him, cooking his meals, then keeping his failing mind occupied with various chores in the twilight years of his life. Her mother was right. She should have asserted herself from the start, but she had grown complacent as her heart’s desire dwindled, until she realised too late that her existence, like that of so many women, meant revolving around the needs of men who were still boys at heart; the wars they tore into as if it were a game. The lives they destroyed in the process.
Even setting up the hotel business, although a brief respite from the grim realities of her married life, was simply more unending labour spent caring for guests who could be polite on arrival and monstrous by the time they checked out. Perhaps Mummy dearest had infiltrated her daughter’s dreams with her own disappointments – why else would she repeat her mother’s mistakes? But she was past caring now, for Margaret no longer had the energy to expend on the hotel anymore. In the end she had become her husband’s carer and there was no time for much else – exactly as her mother had said it would be.
So when Jason Black booked in to the Warm and Friendly she was surprised to find herself fawning over him like a little girl with a crush. His good looks and stature reminded Margaret of her late father, but she could still hear her mother saying, ‘soft centred, like all men, and as easily pushed about as dust on a mantelpiece.’ Margaret, however, couldn’t help herself. His arrival was a welcome interlude from her humdrum reality, an intrusion that seemed almost exotic, particularly as the case he was in charge of had been so newsworthy.
‘I’m investigating the disappearance of Caroline Baker,’ he had said to her discreetly one night. ‘But you mustn’t say anything about it. It’s a covert operation.’ He gave her a wink and bared his white movie star teeth.
‘You’re a detective?’ she exclaimed, then put her hand over her mouth, realising she had almost shouted it. ‘I had no idea.’
She gazed at her reflection in the mirror. ‘You still have no idea,’ she said, disapprovingly.
It had all felt so exciting, breathtaking. She was playing hostess to a detective, and not just any detective, but a handsome young officer who was in charge of a very important case. It was even on the television. But now all she felt was her mother’s disapproving stare bearing down on her. A distant rumble of thunder seemed to lend her a voice; her warning, ominous and foreboding, but ultimately a long way away and all too easily ignored.
She heard the car pull up outside. Dutifully, she adjusted her hat, then took one last look in the mirror. She heaved a sigh, wanting to get it over with. Thinking that she would pour herself a stiff gin and tonic when it was all over, off she went to bury her husband.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
September 10th
Rachel Russell was sitting by her husband’s bedside in the hospital, watching him breathe. Her emotions fluxed with each rise and fall of his chest. There was hope, but it was all too quickly replaced by anger, because she felt he should have been better looked after by his own team. She replayed the conversation in her head.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Russell,’ the Chief Superintendent began, ‘but Jack had already decided to go it alone. He didn’t call for back-up until it was too late. I don’t know why he did it. But he has been known in the past for being something of a “hero”.’ He smiled gently but firmly. He offered his condolences, but only as she was being shown the door.
So now she was angry at Jack too, and possessed of a sadness that resulted from the fact that she was in hospital again – the same hospital where her son Jamie had died after the car crash. ‘History repeating,’ she heard her husband say – one of his pet phrases. And that girl he found. Caroline. She ended up here, too. God, the irony. It all seemed so unfair.
Perhaps worst of all was the loneliness.
There were cards from well-wishers sat on Jack’s bedside table. A hastily written one from the Chief and another one from officers Campbell and Driscoll.
But then there was the bouquet of flowers she had found with its anonymous and spiteful message spelled out on a card:
R.I.P.
Who would do such a thing? she wondered. She knew from experience that Jack could be an easy target, given his job, but never before had she beheld something so personal, so nasty. ‘Whoever did this has a real grudge against him,’ she had said to the nurse, who explained that she did not know who brought it in, or when.
‘Don’t you keep a record of visitors?’ she had asked, trying to keep the accusation from her voice.
‘No, sorry,’ the nurse replied.
‘That’s not good enough.’ Rachel rebuffed her. ‘That means anyone could get in here and do something, anything, to him.’
The nurse was young and without much experience, which made Rachel feel all the more frustrated. It was clear that the nurse had no solution to offer.
Rachel concluded with one of her own. ‘From now on, the only visitor will be myself. I don’t want anyone else to be admitted into his room.’
She called the police station. The Chief offered his sincere apologies once more and said he would check the hospital’s CCTV footage so they could track the culprit down. The bouquet of flowers was taken away for fingerprinting, which at least made her feel a little better. She was doing something about the situation now. Fighting back, refusing to be a victim.
It was the unfairness of it all that got to her the most. It was akin to kicking a man when he was already down. Very few, it seemed, had come to assist her in ways that were helpful. There were some close friends and a couple of well-meaning but nonsensical relatives who suggested that Jack was a workaholic and had exhausted himself into an early grave. Rachel heard herself say, ‘He isn’t actually dead.’ But no one was listening, apparently. The press had shown an interest, but she refused to play ball. They’re only after some local colour, nothing more. The entire situation antagonised her. Has everyone suddenly forgotten about all those lives he’s saved in the past, all those people he’s helped? Why do none of them come forward now?
But that was the crux of the matter. Jack’s job was pretty anonymous. Very few people knew of his plight, even more so now that the bouquet had been discovered and therefore security in the hospital had been tightened up. She thought about the brat that Jack had found and who had been at the very same hospital. Rachel wished she could swap their places now, especially as she had found out that the girl was probably not as innocent as she had at first seemed, given that she had been seeing someone else. Rachel managed to glean that information not from her husband, but from Colin’s wife, who always had her finger on the pulse.
Rachel forced a smile and stroked her husband’s face. Avoiding eye contact, she walked out of the hospital with as much dignity as she could muster. She retained a brave face all the way to her car, where she strapped herself in and drove off slowly and calmly. She stayed on course until she came to a quiet spot, where she pulled over and her sensible demeanour began to fall apart. Through almost painful sobs, she recalled how a junior nurse had explained to her in quiet and sympathetic tones that as well as a fractured neck and a broken femur, Jack had sustained a severe head injury. As a result of this he was in a comatose state. It was gently broken to her that t
he longer Jack was out, the longer it would take for his memory to recover. She immediately understood the implication – if her husband didn’t awaken soon, it would be several weeks or even months before he recognised his own wife.
‘He’s lucky to be alive, really,’ the nurse had said.
As Rachel sat there in the car, it seemed that Jack wasn’t really alive – not with all those tubes coming out of him, not with his head and his left leg in plaster and the bruising across his chest. And the neck brace, the stitches and the dried blood.
It reminded her of the framed photograph that sat on her husband’s desk: the photo of herself, taken a long time ago, when she was younger and happier. It didn’t matter to Rachel that her husband thought enough of her to have such a keepsake in his private study. What did matter was the boy who took the photograph. Jamie – her absent, yet ever present, son, who they never spoke about or even alluded to, and who they both grieved for separately and in private. Every day, she still saw in her mind’s eye the look of dead calm on his young face as he had lain in the hospital mortuary – and it was the same look that was on her husband’s face now. It was a strange thing to observe, for Jack’s facial muscles were so still; not a twitch, as if embalmed. After a lifetime of work, endless days away from home, and sleepless nights, Jack suddenly seemed unburdened, uncomplicated by the stress of daily life, and absolved of all his responsibilities. His much anticipated retirement had arrived a little earlier than either of them had expected, and he was finally getting the sleep that Rachel knew had evaded him for so long – and his grief seemed forgotten. It made him seem youthful somehow, and there was even the suggestion of contentment in the slightly upturned corners of his mouth. Rachel could see clearly and painfully her son in that visage. Her son, who died, aged only seventeen. Jack, however, had slipped into a coma and lived, if indeed his current state could be called living.
Her husband had always been obsessed with his work, but since the day of his son’s death he had become even more so. Perhaps he blamed himself for it, but they both knew that their son’s demise came about because he had only pretended to lock his seat belt into place. Deliberately flouting his father’s authority had become second nature to Jamie and it was to be his final act for someone then crashed into their car. Death was instantaneous. It was that simple.
Rachel was faced with the unblinking reality that her husband had ended up almost as dead as her son. There was now the worry that increased with each passing minute that he might end up with no memory of what had happened either to himself or his offspring. It shocked her that she couldn’t help but feel a little envious – Jack’s obsession with his work was his way of trying to forget about what had happened. Now he could.
Did Jack deliberately crash his car into that ditch? she wondered guiltily. Was he punishing himself? Trying to end his pain once and for all?
She frowned and shook her head, knowing full well how unlikely that was, but her mind was racing for newer and more fantastical ways to blame herself. She couldn’t help it. They had both made a pact of silence on the matter of their son’s death and on Jack’s ensuing depression. Her complicity in this had blinded her to the fact that the man she knew as her husband had disappeared at the same time. Now that he was out of action, she could see how flawed that complicity had been. But this was her chance to rectify it.
She started the engine and drove back to the hospital. As she flitted past the reception desk, the nurse who was stationed there gave her a smile, and she found herself smiling back, for whom better to find comradeship in than a nurse? With their sisterhood acknowledged through a tacit exchange, Rachel felt unburdened somewhat and promptly sat back down beside her husband, took his hand and held it, her wedding ring there for all to see, her dignity and pride intact. And she waited for him to wake up, for the amnesia to lift, for the day when they would look each other in the eye again and renounce their mourning – for the day when she would lead him out of the darkness and into the light once more.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
September 10th
Scott was hitchhiking his way to a new home. The air was clear, and despite the weight of the belongings on his back, he could feel the burden lifting from him as he neared his new destination.
The journey hadn’t been an easy one, however. Scott had wandered aimlessly for days, drifting on the sidelines. He had no idea where to go or what to do next. Finally, he resorted to thumbing a lift. Only one person stopped for him – a loud and brash builder, who was driving a small van.
‘So where you heading, son?’
Scott had no idea. ‘Glasgow?’
‘Sure,’ replied the driver. ‘Hop in. I can only take you as far as Dumbarton, then I’m heading elsewhere, okay?’
Scott nodded and smiled. The driver made small talk and Scott listened, clutching his haversack protectively between his knees in case things got ugly. He’d heard stories about getting into cars with strange men. The driver, who called himself Joe, asked Scott a few questions about himself.
‘Where you from, mate?’
‘I come from Hobbs Brae.’
‘Never heard of it,’ replied Joe, breezily.
‘It’s near Loch Ness, well it’s just a short distance from there, I think…’ He trailed off, and he could see that Joe was casting looks at him, his easy smile beginning to falter. As the exchange continued, Scott could feel his confidence sapping. Why can’t I speak properly? he wondered. I can barely hold a conversation. He looked down at his hands, which were shaking, and he tightened his grip on the haversack.
The small talk rapidly got smaller and the silence loomed between them like a brick wall. Scott could feel the tension in the air. His shoulders began to shake now, too, and he could feel his lip begin to tremble.
A service station came into view and the now spooked driver abruptly pulled into it and said sternly, ‘This is where you get off.’
Scott took his bag and slinked away. He watched sadly as his lifeline drove off into the distance, abandoning him. He went to the service desk and asked, ‘Is this Dumbarton?’ The woman behind the counter looked at him as if he was nuts and said, ‘You’re about three hours away from there, pal.’
‘Do you mean walking distance?’
‘No,’ she laughed, ‘driving distance.’
He got some vague directions from her and continued on his way, mooching along the roadside, the cars whizzing past, the resulting blast of air pummelling him each time and threatening to knock him over. He stopped somewhere quiet to cry, all the while thinking about how much he missed his mother.
That night, he bedded down amongst some trees and dreamed of his father laughing cruelly at him. And the river, and the blood.
And, illuminated by a flash of lightning, the knife.
Chapter Sixty
September 11th
DCI Colin Clements felt as light as air, having just had confirmation of his promotion from the Chief Superintendent.
Not before fucking time, he wanted to say, but thought better of it.
Those three little letters that now preceded his name summed up all that he had strived for over the years – a sure sign of success and a certain social status, too. But these things were academic to a man like Colin, because for him it meant one thing and one thing only – it was an acronym of power.
He marched through the corridors of Hobbs Brae Police Station, carefully considering Jack’s accident – a reversal of fortune that no one could have seen coming. Only days ago he would have welcomed such a gift. It had played right into his hands. With his boss quite literally out for the count, it meant that his upgrade had arrived early and the case was now fully under his charge. But since they had made up, the now expedited promotion left a bitter taste in his mouth. He had craved it for so long, but not like this.
It was a strange thing, though – carelessness was something he had never before attributed to Jack. Really, his old rival should have known better. He had been warned about tak
ing on too much responsibility in the past many times before. And now he was out cold. Colin had mixed feelings about it, but his wife was very happy, deliriously so.
‘Not that I wished Jack dead,’ she said coyly, ‘but a coma is the next best thing.’
‘You are wicked, Mrs Clements,’ he said, forcing a smile.
He thought of all the boxes and stacks of paperwork that he had been meticulously packing in his office – a boring task that he had surreptitiously started on long before he had even received the official news of his promotion. Now that it was a done deal, he had a renewed vigour and was looking forward to organising the rest of it all and reclining in his rather more spacious office opposite the Chief’s own. He recalled a dog-eared volume on medicine that he still had from his student days. Sometimes he wondered how his life might have turned out if he had finished his studies and taken his Hippocratic Oath, but he quickly learned that helping others was never going to be enough for a man like him. Colin desired power, and he was never going to find that in the medical world – at least, not the kind that he craved. So, after much thought, he had decided on the police force. Looking back on it now, he had comparatively few regrets.
But Colin knew how much he owed to Jack. His old sparring partner had rescued him from many situations that were less than professional in the past, and so he was struck with a pang of guilt at how he had sunk so low and told Driscoll about Jack’s son. It was not like him and it was ultimately pointless. He blamed it on his medication.
‘Jack was and always has been something of a one man show,’ his wife had said, over some wine, demurely clinking her pinkie against the stem of the glass and almost purring with delight as the Rioja slipped down her throat.
‘Aye. I’ve always despised the way he tries to take credit for everything. There’s an entire team working behind him and they barely get acknowledged.’ He clinked his fork against the rim of his glass, as if to say, Your turn.