A Cross to Bear: A Jack Sheridan Mystery

by Vogel, Vince

  The Beast, though, was never far away, the sections containing it dreamlike and full of fantasy. Jack couldn’t determine if the Beast was the representation of a real person, or a piece of pure fancy from Becky’s imagination. Or both: an amalgamation of several men, or all men, into some kind of symbolic metaphor.

  Sometimes he shows me his face. It’s the dirt-smeared face of an old tramp, an expression of bitter hatred mingled with the filth. A long black matted mane flows all around his head, pulsating like thick smoke. From his begrimed cheeks down to his beard-shrouded chin, wiry hairs burst out and join the rest of the knotty hair in a single mass. Only his completely black eyes, pimpled red nose, and thick purple lips are on display. The vision of those eyes are always with me. Even now I see them. Two black holes in space, dragging everything into them. I feel myself pulled into them. Floating off into an abyss of pure black. I have become certain that it is the face of a demon. An entity that feeds on my fear. I’ll never forget the feel of his long, blue tongue slivering over my skin and the smell he leaves long after he’s left.

  To Jack, this explained nothing. Was a disheveled stranger getting into Becky’s room at night? No, was the short answer to that. Too implausible. It could be explained that someone wandering the local neighborhood had gotten into her room through the bedroom window and attacked her once. But Becky described countless visits from the Beast. And not just in her bedroom but in other places too. The odd serial rapist might return once to a former victim, to relive the previous time, but rarely will it be a regular occurrence in multiple locations. And surely not without being reported.

  Jack began to realize that the Beast was a way to talk about things that had happened in her life, things that had left her scarred, without having to be definite with names and places. She was protecting herself from the truth, while simultaneously discussing it. The Beast could be anyone or no one. It was like Lauren said: Becky had a way of saying stuff without actually giving you any real facts.

  “Here’s your brekky, Ty,” Jack said, sliding the plate of fried eggs and toast under the boy’s nose.

  Tyler was playing some game on his phone and looked away from it at the food with an instant air of disgust creeping onto his face.

  “You burned it,” he exclaimed, looking at the solid orange yolks, brittle plastic whites, and black toast before him.

  Jack looked away from the diary and saw for the first time the mess he’d served up to his grandson.

  “It’s not too bad,” he commented, more in hope than anything else. “If you cover the toast in butter, it’ll soften it a bit.”

  The boy merely looked up at him with a grimaced expression.

  “All right, I’ll make you some more,” Jack conceded, picking the plate back up and tossing the mess into the bin.

  “What you readin’ anyway?” the boy enquired.

  “A girl’s diary,” Jack replied, placing it down on the counter so that he could invest his full attention into cooking the boy’s breakfast this time.

  “I thought you weren’t supposed to read girls’ diaries.”

  “You’re not.”

  “Then why are you?”

  “Because I’m a police officer and I’m allowed to look in anyone’s diary.”

  “Oh yeah. Mum said you was Old Bill.”

  “Old Bill?”

  “Yeah. The police. Or Babylon as my uncle Raymond used to say. He was from Jamaica. He used to say that you couldn’t trust them. My dad said that too. And my uncles Billy and Tristan.”

  “You had a lot of uncles?”

  “They wasn’t exactly uncles. They was more like dads. After Dad left, Mum tried to get me a new one. She said it would do me good. But then she’d send them away for somethin’, and I wouldn’t see them again. Then she’d sometimes go too, and I’d have to live with other people till she got back.”

  Jack felt a glimmer of shameful reproach ripple through him. He was sure that, on some level, he was to blame for this boy’s fragmented existence.

  “Well, maybe things will be better from now on,” Jack said as he fetched the toast from the grill.

  “That’s what she always says.”

  “Who—your mum?”

  “Yeah. She always says that it’ll be better, but it never is.”

  “Have faith, son.”

  “You mean in God and stuff?”

  “Kinda,” Jack said, tossing the eggs up onto the toast. “I was meaning more about believing in your mum making things better.”

  “She always tries. She even got a job this time. But she’s sad a lot.”

  Jack felt another pang as he placed the fresh breakfast in front of Tyler.

  “That’s better,” the boy rejoiced.

  Jack took a seat across the table from him and watched Tyler eat for a moment. He felt such responsibility toward this young boy. It was hard not having a father around—Jack should know. He never knew his own dad. In truth, he’d not once even laid eyes on so much as a photograph of the man. Years ago, Jack had attempted to track him down, but his mother hadn’t even had a first name to give him, only an address from the early sixties. 19 Brighton Road, Brixton. That was his father—19 Brighton Road. When he’d checked the city’s consensus from around that time, only the landlord had been listed as the occupant of the tenement building, no one else. His father continued to be 19 Brighton Road. Apart from the old address, the only other thing Jack had on his old man was that he was of African descent. This was easily deduced from the fact that his mother, who raised him single-handedly, was a white, fair-headed Irish woman. Jack had dark brown skin and tightly bound black hair. It wasn’t hard to determine his father’s first name wasn’t Fergus.

  “What about your real dad?” Jack enquired.

  Tyler finished his mouthful, thought a while, and then said, “He’s in the nick.”

  “You mean prison?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why’s he there?”

  “Mum told me you’d ask a lot of questions.”

  Jack smiled. The kid was sharp. He decided to play it as truthfully as he could.

  “I haven’t seen your mum in a very long time. Longer than you’ve been alive. So I want to know what she’s been doing.”

  “She said you had a fight.”

  “We did.”

  “What about?”

  “Now who’s asking all the questions. What did your mum tell you?”

  “Just that you made her angry. That you weren’t nice to her mum.”

  “I guess that’s accurate. Eat your breakfast.”

  The boy shrugged and dug back into the toast and eggs. Jack retrieved the diary from the side, sat back down, and continued reading.

  When I got to Rampton, I was in a terrible mess. I hardly even remember being driven strapped to a bed in the back of the ambulance. They took me there straight from hospital. I was trapped in some kind of waking nightmare. Everything felt too much, and it was like being sat on the bottom of the ocean, surrounded by darkness and unable to breathe. Three days earlier I’d tried to kill myself. I’ve only ever told Gemma about it. Doc said I had to open up, even if it was only writing it down and not talking to him about it. Well, here goes. I’d just had the terrible fight with Mum after I’d been arrested with that guy. I went up to my room and locked myself in. About an hour later, Mum called through the door to say she was leaving. So I thought I was alone in the house. While I sat in my room, I’d come to a decision. It was even stronger than the time before. I wanted out so bad. I wanted all the pain to end. Alex leaving. Dad dying. Coop getting me to sleep with those men because he owed them money, then begging for forgiveness and me taking him back every time. Everyone using me. And most of all I wanted away from the Beast. So I ran a bath and got in. I was in a trance—that’s why I guess I forgot to lock the door. At Rampton they asked me what I was thinking at the time, and I said nothing. It was true. Only one thing existed in my mind then: to escape this life. Everything in my head cleared
away like clouds uncovering the clear blue sky. It was a moment of crystal clarity. Nothing but the task in hand was in my head. I took one of Steve’s razor blades from the cupboard. He’d bought one of those old-style double-edge butterfly safety razors years ago at a vintage fair. It came with a bunch of blades in wax paper that you screwed into the handle. I took one of the blades out of the paper and got in the bath. I let my skin soak up some of the water, and the moment I thought it was soft enough, I lifted my wrist up, pressed the blade in, and dragged it—

  Jack’s phone rumbled in his pocket and he jumped a little in his chair. He put the diary down on the table, took his phone out, and saw that it was Lange. He stood up, grabbed his coffee from the side, and said to Tyler, “I’m just going out into the garden.” The boy simply gave a nod.

  Jack left the kitchen and made it to his usual smoking spot, plonking the coffee down onto the dustbin lid. Though the sky was shrouded in filthy dark clouds, it wasn’t raining, so he didn’t need the umbrella. He answered the phone, holding it in the crook of his neck, and simultaneously got a cigarette out, shoving it between his lips and lighting it.

  “What’s up, George?” he asked, the fag flapping about in his mouth.

  “Are you still home?”

  “Yeah. I’m not due in till nine.”

  “Well, I just had Caldwell on the phone.”

  Jack raised his eyeballs to the sky and groaned.

  “What does he want?”

  “Us at Glenmouth Wood immediately.”

  “Why didn’t he call me himself?”

  “He asked me to.”

  “Wimp,” Jack muttered under his breath, before adding to Lange, “What’s happened at Glenmouth Wood?”

  “A member of the public said there’s been a mass shooting. Uniform are down there now and have confirmed it.”

  “How many victims?”

  “Lots apparently.”

  “Have Scotland Yard been informed?”

  “They’re on their way there now. Uniform called for backup and are sealing the woods off.”

  “If it’s anything to do with terrorism or organized crime, they’ll kick us straight out. And this sounds like that sort of thing. What’s Caldwell want us down there for?”

  “Why does the DCI ever want us there. It’s on Upper Hackney turf, and he wants the overtime, prestige, and argument for a bigger budget. He’s the only copper in Upper Hackney that prays for a crime wave.”

  Jack took in a large drag of his fag and closed his eyes, savoring the flavor of the smoke and trying to clear his mind. He was busy with this murder case. Caldwell knew that. But once again his pain-in-the-ass DCI wanted to plant his flag in a case and get the hours and credit. Jack wouldn’t mind if Caldwell gave all that overtime out, but he always kept a little back each year to prove that he was running under budget. It gave him a bargaining chip during his yearly appraisal with which to negotiate a pay rise and possible promotion. Jack had gotten into it for the work, Caldwell for the career.

  “Tell him we’ll be there in an hour,” Jack finally said.

  “We? I’m only twenty minutes from the woods now.”

  “Yeah, but you haven’t picked me up yet.”

  “What happened to your car?”

  “I can’t drive a car while I’m reading, George. And if we’re going out to Glenmouth Wood to be told to piss off by Scotland Yard’s Tactical Crimes boys, then I want to spend the time wasted getting there reading this diary and gathering evidence on a case that I am allowed to be part of.”

  “What’d you find in it?”

  “I’ll tell you about in the car.”

  Lange let out a perceptible sigh.

  “All right, sarge. I’ll turn around now and see you in fifteen.”

  “Good boy, George.”

  Jack put the phone down, looked up, and swore at the big sheet of cloud over his head. Caldwell was trying to put as many fingers in as many pies as he could. The problem for Jack was that it was his fingers Caldwell was shoving in those pies.

  He finished his fag and went back in the house. Tyler had eaten and was already back playing on his phone, his greasy fingers slipping across the screen. Jack took his plate and washed it up, cleaning the rest of the kitchen too, as well as spraying air freshener. Marsha never could abide the smell of burnt grease.

  Once the kitchen was clean, Jack told Tyler to wait in the lounge. He’d be back in a minute, he was just popping next door. After switching on the telly to keep an eye on the boy, Jack left the house, went down the driveway, turned immediately left, and went down Jean’s driveway.

  After the second ring on her doorbell, she answered.

  Jean was in her late fifties, though how late Jack never knew because she never gave him her exact age. Just late fifties. Could have been early sixties for all he knew. But she kept herself in good form, and if she was that old, she looked impeccable for her age. She had dark russet-colored hair without a touch of gray in it, although Jack had once spotted a bottle of hair color in her bathroom cabinet during a decidedly nosy visit to the toilet. She didn’t overplay her makeup and obviously used moisturizer, because her skin was taut as a drumskin and soft as silk. The tanning salon was a favorite spot of hers, and she was a golden brown. She was also into jogging and keeping fit, preserving her body in immaculate condition. Jack had always fancied Jean Graham, from the first day she and her ex-husband, Glenn, had moved in twenty years ago. Of course, while Marsha had been at home and Glenn hadn’t yet slept with his twenty-five-year-old yoga instructor, Jack had merely admired her from across the fence.

  “Are you coming in for a coffee before work?” she asked in a friendly tone.

  “I can’t. You’ll never guess who turned up last night?”

  Jean crumpled her mouth and shook her head a little.

  “Beats me. Who?”

  “Carrie.”

  “My God,” Jean softly exclaimed. “How was she? Is she still there?”

  “She’s gone.”

  “So she just came over and that was it?”

  “Not exactly. She spent about an hour with me and then—”

  “What does she look like?” Jean couldn’t help interposing.

  “She looked well. Still pretty. A little bit anemic and dark around the eyes, but that’s just this bloody weather.”

  Having said this, Jack stood silently for a moment, biting his lip and trying to think of how to say the next part. Jean recognized the look and narrowed her eyes at him.

  “What else?” she enquired suspiciously.

  “You see,” he began, “it’s funny you should ask. Because there was something else. Well not something, but someone. And I kind of need your help in it. Have you got any plans for today?”

  “Not really. I was thinking of doing a bit of shopping.”

  “You can still go shopping. You can take him.”

  “Take him? Who’s him?”

  “Tyler. Or Ty. I think he prefers Ty.”

  “Ty?”

  “You see, Carrie introduced me to someone last night. My grandson.”

  “She’s got a kid!?” she exclaimed, her narrowed eyes shooting open.

  “It would appear so.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Eight.”

  Her eyelids grew even wider apart.

  “Eight! Carrie has an eight-year-old boy. Now I do feel old, Jack. I remember when she was eight.”

  “But that’s not all.”

  “Don’t tell me she’s got more kids.”

  “Not more. Just that… well… Tyler’s back at the house. Next door. She left him with me.”

  “She left him with you? Not a dicky bird in ten years and now she’s left her kid with you. Where’s she gone?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Didn’t you ask?”

  “Of course, but she fobbed me off. I didn’t want her running out the house again. I was scared to push her too hard.”

  “When’s she coming back?�
��

  “In a week, she said.”

  Her eyes narrowed at him once more.

  “And I suppose you want me to look after him while you go off to work?”

  Jack softened his face and made his eyes as large and dreamy as he could. He got down on his knee on her doormat, put his hands together, and gazed up at her. She giggled at his antics.

  “Miss Graham, most beautifulist girl of my dreams,” he said in a humble voice, “could you please do a poor fool a favor and look after his newly acquired grandson. He’ll be eternally thankful.”

  “Get up, you silly sod,” she chuckled. “The neighbors will see.”

  “Will you help me in my hour of need?”

  “Yes. I’ll look after the boy. Now get up.”

  Jack stood up, leaned forward, and kissed her lips.

  “Thank you, Jean,” he said softly.

  “He’s not a handful, is he?”

  “The boy hardly moves, Jean. Hardly moves. The TV’ll do most of the work.”

  “And are we still on for tonight?” she asked with a sultry look.

  “Of course we are.”

  28

  Dorring stepped into the room and found Chloe already awake and dressed, her wet clothing having dried on the radiator during the night. She was sitting on the bed next to a blue plastic carrier bag. Once inside the room, Alex was overwhelmed by the stench of vinegar and meat.

  “You’re back,” she said gleefully. “I got us breakfast.” She nodded toward the carrier bag.

  “What was it?” he jokingly asked, placing a black holdall on the floor by the door and coming over to the bed.

  “Very funny,” she said, dipping her hand into the bag and bringing out two Styrofoam takeaway containers. “It’s doner kebab meat and chips.” She opened up one of the containers, and Alex felt slightly disgusted by what he saw. “I didn’t put chilli sauce on yours, because I wasn’t sure you’d like it.”