by Nick Oldham
Food, he decided, then school.
Face it head on.
Mark left the living room and turned in to the hallway. The kitchen door was at the far end of the hall, closed. With his mouth screwed up thoughtfully, his mind still a raging mess, he walked the few steps in the direction of the kitchen, pausing at the door, his hand resting on the handle. He turned it slowly and pushed the door open and stepped into the kitchen.
It was as though 100,000 volts of electricity had hit him, arcing with searing agony through his whole being.
Mark stood open mouthed, hysteria rising rapidly through him as he sagged down to his knees next to the body lying across the middle of the kitchen floor.
‘Beth?’ he gasped. ‘Beth?’ This time more desperately. ‘Beth?’ He touched her face, and her skin was cold.
He knew she was dead.
Seven
She must have been lying there for some while, spread-eagled face up on the tatty vinyl floor, dressed only in her bra and knickers. The blood in her body had settled to the lowest parts of her, making her top half a kind of marbled bluey-white and her bottom half – buttock, thighs and back – red with blood.
Her eyes were still half open, her head skewed in the direction of the kitchen door. Her pupils were a milky colour, her mouth twisted open with dribble, vomit and blood having trickled out, mingling in a horrible concoction on the floor, underneath her head, neck and shoulders.
The palms of her hands were open and lying across her right hand was a hypodermic needle, a small, tiny one really, half filled with blood. There was a tourniquet around the bicep of her left arm – a belt trimmed down to size to do the job – and red pinprick-sized marks in the soft flesh of her inner elbow, showing where she had been injecting herself.
Mark looked desperately at her chest.
Was it his imagination? Did it just rise and fall? Was she breathing? Mark stared, hoping it would be true. Please be alive, he intoned silently to himself.
He kept staring.
But she did not move. She had not moved.
Mark knelt over her, knowing she was dead, but not wanting to accept that truth.
His sister. Dead.
‘Beth?’ he said hopefully, his voice cracking. He bent his head low so he could look into her eyes. ‘Beth.’ They were blank, milky, no longer seeing anything.
It took a great deal of courage to do what he did next.
He touched her. Remembering the lesson on first aid at school – how to check for a pulse – he placed his first two fingers on her neck, trying to discover the artery there, hoping there would be a beat.
Touching her reminded him of touching a fresh chicken from Asda.
Quickly he pulled his fingers away with a shiver.
Nothing.
It was building up inside him again.
He began to rock back and forth on his knees.
The pressure grew. Bursting point approached.
His face distorted as the agony and pain of the gruesome discovery hit him harder than anything had ever hit him before. His whole being convulsed, then his hands tore at his own face and he scratched himself madly as though afflicted by some horrendous disease. A kind of non-human roar burst out of his lungs.
‘No-o-o-o-o!’
He sank back on to his heels, howling at the ceiling, then toppled over on to the floor beside Bethany, so his face was only inches away from hers.
His sister. Bethany Carter. Aged seventeen.
Dead.
He huddled on his bed, knees drawn up to his chin, his duvet wrapped around his shoulders – but not stopping him from shaking. His head rested on his forearms and his eyes were tight closed as he unsuccessfully tried to stop his tears from falling. Deep, raking sobs tore his whole being, making him feel as if he too was going to die. Just at that moment, death felt as though it would have been a good option. His grief was all consuming, all pervasive, like nothing else he had ever experienced. He moved his arms and, keeping his forehead on his knees, covered his ears with his hands and started banging his head against his knees in a rhythmic beat.
Bang, bang, bang …
‘Mark Carter?’
Mark continued to pound his head.
‘Mark Carter?’ a voice asked again from somewhere a million miles away.
Still he did not respond. The voice did not really penetrate his world, meant nothing to him.
Then somebody touched his shoulder, sending a jolt through him like a crack of static. He stopped the banging and raised his ravaged, anguished face.
A man stood there. Mark could only guess at his age, maybe forty, maybe fifty. He had a stern, lived-in face, hard, yet with a compassionate edge to it. His hair was closely cropped, a grade two on the clipper scale. It wasn’t a close enough cut for it to be threatening, but near enough to give him a bit of a fear factor. He was wearing a suit, looked smart. He was about six-two, broad shouldered and had a middle area that could’ve done with a few sit-ups. He looked cool, in control.
He was a cop.
‘May I come in?’
‘You’re already in.’
The man shrugged.
‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Henry Christie … I’m a detective chief inspector, what they call a senior investigating officer. I work at Blackpool nick and I’ll be in charge of this … incident.’
‘Oh, right.’ Mark had switched off. The words were just an incoherent babble, meaning nothing to him. He dropped his head on to his knees again.
‘Mark … I need to ask you some questions.’ Christie sat down uninvited on the foot of Mark’s bed. ‘I know this’ll be a tough time for you, I know you must feel terrible—’
Mark cut in, instantly enraged. ‘You don’t know sod-all,’ he blasted the cop. ‘Not a thing. No idea how I’m feeling. That’s my sister down there, dead in the kitchen.’
Christie blinked, allowed Mark his rant, not in the least sidetracked by this outburst. ‘I need to establish facts,’ he said calmly with an undercurrent of assertiveness. ‘That need won’t go away, however you might be feeling … and yeah, it will be hard for you, but it has to be done.’
Mark glared at him, eyeballing him ferociously. Christie held the look impassively, with a slight sadness behind his eyes. Mark tried to outstare him, but eventually he dropped his eyes and replaced his forehead back on to his knees again. He convulsed with sobs.
Christie sighed and laid a comforting hand on Mark’s arm, letting him cry until the torrent subsided. In due course Mark raised his head again. His eyes were red raw, nose running, snot and tears mixing down his face. Christie removed his hand.
‘I hate crying.’
‘Everybody needs to cry at some time. Nothing wrong with it.’
‘Feels so pathetic.’
‘But you have good reason.’
Mark’s eyes looked into Christie’s once more, this time without the anger, trying to weigh up the cop. ‘I need to wash my face.’
Christie nodded. ‘Do it.’
Mark shrugged the duvet off his shoulders and slid off the bed, leaving the detective in his room while he went to the bathroom. He ran the water cold, as cold as he could get it, and filled the washbasin. Then he dunked his face in it, keeping his eyes open, holding himself there until he thought his lungs would bust, then lifted his face out of the water, gasping for air, sending water splashing everywhere.
He reached for a towel and dried himself off, then regarded his reflection in the mirror. He looked ravaged and older. He felt like he’d aged ten years since finding Beth’s body. The image of her corpse came back into his mind and his chin started to wobble as he attempted to hold back further tears.
The detective, DCI Christie, was looking along the titles of the books on the shelf in Mark’s bedroom. There were lots of them, all carefully chosen by Mark, mixing classics – such as his favourite, Treasure Island – with more up to date stuff like Harry Potter and some thrillers. He was particularly fond of James Bo
nd, preferring the books to the films. There was even a book of poetry.
Christie looked around at Mark when he came back into the bedroom. He’d taken about ten minutes, but the detective hadn’t pushed him by knocking on the bathroom door or anything like that.
‘You still here?’ Mark snapped.
‘Oh yes.’
‘They’re not stolen, you know. Nothing in this room is nicked.’
‘I never thought it was, Mark.’
‘I mean, don’t tar me with the same brush as the rest of the shit-heads on the estate. I don’t steal. I don’t do drugs.’
‘Hey,’ Christie said quietly, ‘that’s enough, less of the defensive, Mark. I only come to conclusions about people when I get to know them, OK? I’m here to investigate your sister’s death, not to worry about whether you nicked a library book, or not.’
The two faced each other across the room.
‘All right,’ Mark relented sullenly. He sighed deeply, then sat on the edge of the bed. ‘What do you wanna know?’
‘Where’s your mum, first?’
Mark shrugged. ‘Dunno … she comes and goes … could be anywhere … don’t see that much of her, really.’ Mark’s jaw line tightened as he tried to hold back his tears for a whole different reason. ‘She’s probably at work. I’ve phoned my big brother, Jack, though; he’s on his way. He lives in Preston.’
‘And how old are you?’
‘Fourteen.’
‘I need to interview you in the presence of an adult.’
‘Why? I didn’t kill her.’
‘Did somebody kill her?’ Christie asked quickly. ‘Or was it just a terrible mistake?’
Mark shrugged again. It was becoming a horrible habit, but somehow he could not find the words to respond properly. He rubbed his eyes.
‘Just tell me about this morning, eh?’ Christie said softly. ‘From getting up to actually finding her and calling the ambulance.’
Reluctantly Mark began to retell his morning’s activities up to the point where he stepped into the kitchen. He didn’t mention reading the paper about the drive-by shooting and the angst that had caused him.
‘If only I’d looked into the kitchen before setting out,’ he moaned sadly.
‘I know it’s no consolation,’ Christie said, standing by the bedroom window, half-eyeing what was going on outside, ‘but I don’t think you could have done anything to save her, Mark. The doctor said she probably died about three this morning. She was dead when you left for your paper round.’
The front door slammed. From the front hallway there was the sound of an argument. Banging, raised voices.
Mark became alert.
‘This could be your brother,’ Christie said.
Mark shot off the bed, out of the room and down the stairs.
‘What the hell d’you think you’re playing at?’ Jack snarled, enraged and red-faced. He was shouting at the detective who’d been speaking to Mark. ‘You are way, way out of line questioning a kid without an appropriate adult present. I’m going to see my solicitor about this. I’ll have your job for this!’
‘Jack!’ Mark protested.
‘Keep outta this, kid,’ Jack snapped. ‘They think they can walk all over you, this lot. Cops! Huh! I’ve crapped ’em.’
They were in the hallway of Mark’s house. The kitchen door was closed. A uniformed PC stood this side of it, guarding what Christie had described as a possible crime scene. Christie and Jack were head-to-head, but the detective was more in control than Jack, who had lost it totally to Mark’s eyes.
‘I was talking informally and none of it is on record,’ Christie retorted, ‘and if you don’t settle down, Jack, you’ll find yourself locked up for Breach of the Peace – and I will do it.’
‘You wha—?’
Christie held up a warning finger. ‘I’m investigating a possible – and I do say possible – murder here. Every sudden death starts with the presumption it’s a murder until we know different, and I’ll talk to anyone – that means anyone, Jack – who is a possible witness, kid or otherwise, including Mark, whether you’re there or not.’
‘Don’t push me around, cop,’ Jack uttered.
Mark looked quizzically at his brother. ‘Jack, he was only doing his job. Don’t you want to know what happened to Bethany?’ Mark suddenly felt very mature. ‘It starts with me, dunnit? I found her, so course they’re gonna want to talk to me first.’
Jack glared, his nostrils flaring. ‘Never,’ he snorted, ‘never trust a cop.’ He turned fearsomely to Christie again, eyeballing him. ‘They’ll screw you and fit you up and before you know it, you’ll have said something completely innocent that they verbal up, and you’ll be facing a murder charge.’
Mark grimaced as he tried to add up what the hell had got into Jack.
Christie said, ‘Jack, belt up, eh?’ He checked his watch and looked toward the kitchen door, which opened as if on cue. A white-suited crime scene investigator poked his head through the crack. The uniformed constable stepped aside.
‘We’re about done here, Henry.’
Christie nodded. He turned to the two brothers. ‘That means the scenes of crime and scientific people have finished,’ he explained. ‘Now we have to move Beth’s body to the mortuary. Then I’ll inform the local coroner who will order a post-mortem and I’m pretty sure he’ll want a full inquest because of the circumstances.’
The words seemed to have a soothing, salutary effect on Jack. He leaned against the wall and raised his face to the ceiling. Mark could tell he was about to cry. He grabbed Jack around the waist and buried his head in his older brother’s chest. Jack’s arms encircled him and both of them gave convulsive sobs, desperately clinging to each other.
Christie stepped back, allowing them their moment of grief.
‘Let’s get up to your room,’ Jack said through his cascade of tears. ‘I don’t want to watch her body being dragged out.’ He shot Christie a look of hateful contempt and ushered Mark upstairs.
Eight
The undertakers arrived twenty minutes later, a local firm in a black Ford Transit Van specially adapted for the carriage of the dead. Not a hearse, but simply a means of transporting dead bodies. Two stone-faced black-suited men climbed out. Mark watched them from his bedroom window, repulsed but fascinated. He expected to see a coffin, but instead all they had was a big, grey zip-up bag, reminding him of a guitar bag, and a folding trolley, rather like waitresses use to carry dirty pots and pans, though twice as long.
Christie met them at the missing front gate, spoke to them, obviously giving instructions.
They nodded. Their faces said they did this sort of thing day in, day out. They walked past the detective and Mark heard them enter the house.
He remained at the window, his eyes on Christie.
Jack’s Porsche Cayenne was parked a little way down the road. Mark saw Christie clock it, saw him react, then turn his head toward the bedroom window.
Despite feeling he should duck down out of sight, Mark stayed where he was and exchanged a look with the detective.
Mark gulped. A cold shiver ran through him. Did he know? Did the detective know that a Porsche Cayenne had driven away from the scene of a shooting with two males on board? One mid-twenties, the other early teens? That they could possibly be witnesses to an attempted murder? Mark prayed that Christie wouldn’t take a close look at the car and see the bullet hole.
Christie looked at the Porsche again, gave Mark another quick glance, then walked back up the path to the house.
In that instant, Mark experienced two conflicting things. First, relief that Christie hadn’t inspected the car; then the certainty that the DCI had done some sums in his head and was just working on the answer.
The bedroom door opened, Jack entered. He’d been washing his face, which looked drained. There was going to be a lot of face-washing today, Mark thought sadly. A lot of tears would need to be cleaned up, cleared away.
He decided not to share hi
s thoughts about what he’d just seen outside with Christie and the Cayenne, but just said flatly, ‘The undertakers are here.’
Mark expected that Bethany would be zippered into the body bag, heaved on to the fold-out gurney and wheeled out of the kitchen, down the hall, out of the front door, down the few steps, along the path and slid into the back of the Transit. He caught his breath when, unexpectedly, the two undertakers emerged from the front door with the body bag slung easily between the two of them, carrying it with the light body inside, to the van. She was so light they didn’t even have to put her on to a trolley. It was so … Mark searched for the word … undignified. She didn’t even get wheeled out, just heaved out between two blokes who were chatting to each other, who didn’t know her, like they were moving sacks of veg in ASDA.
That was all his sister had become.
A commodity to be moved.
The harrowing thought he had then was that there was no dignity in death. You might meet your death with honour – or not, as in Beth’s case – but beyond that you just became something to be shifted about, to be poked at or investigated, then buried or burned to ashes.
Footsteps on the stairs made him turn.
DCI Christie again.
Jack stood up. He’d been sprawled on the bed, a pillow pressed down over his face in an effort to smother his sobs.
‘We’ve finished in the kitchen now,’ Christie said, poking his head around the bedroom door. ‘I can recommend someone to come and do a clean-up if you want.’
‘Stuff that,’ Jack said, wiping his eyes, ‘we’ll do it.’
‘Whatever,’ Christie said. ‘I need to follow the undertaker down to the mortuary for evidential reasons, so I’m going now.’
‘What happens now?’ blurted Mark.
‘As I said – coroner, post-mortem, inquest, maybe a full police investigation.’
‘What happens at the post-mortem?’ Mark asked.
‘An expert finds out how Bethany died.’
‘In other words, you cut her up?’ Jack snarled.
Christie eyed Jack as though he were an imbecile. ‘That will happen as there’s no other way of doing a PM … now, I need to go. I want you,’ he turned to Mark, ‘and you,’ he looked at Jack, ‘to be at Blackpool Police Station at 1 p.m. today. I need to interview Mark and take a statement, OK?’