In the Blood

by Ruth Mancini

  ‘He was great at first,’ I continue. ‘When the doctors first told us, Andy seemed to take it better than I did. But then after a few weeks, I realised he was drinking too much and hiding the bottles in the bin outside. He’d stay up late, long after Ben and I had gone to bed, and I’d wake to hear him crying through the bedroom wall.’

  ‘Understandable,’ says Alex.

  I look up in surprise. I’m glad that he doesn’t attack Andy, judge him, or suggest that he’d have been any different. Because it’s actually quite hard to imagine how any other man would have dealt differently with this sudden, devastating blow. Ben wasn’t an accident; he was planned. This was Andy’s first-born son, the boy he’d wanted to play football and rugby with, the son he’d wanted to take on fishing trips and to cricket matches, the son who would one day graduate with honours and become an astronaut or a doctor, his pride and joy. He’d taken it hard; anyone would. And, in the end, he couldn’t take it any more. I could understand that. I’d felt that way myself. And after he’d gone, there was an element of relief that I no longer had to take care of his feelings as well as my own.

  ‘On a practical level, of course, it was easier to have another adult around. I can’t deny that,’ I tell him. ‘And Andy did his share. But on an emotional level, it was hard work for me. I tried, of course, to help him, to reassure him, to promise we’d get through it together. But in the end, it wasn’t enough. He needed to go back to his family in Perth, and I needed to focus on Ben.’

  ‘But you must be tired. You need a break.’

  ‘I manage.’

  ‘Do you get much help? From family?’

  I shake my head. ‘My mum died a few years ago and my dad’s in Devon. We don’t get on too well. I have a brother, but he lives in Maidenhead and has his own family. I don’t think he actually realises the extent of Ben’s problems and I’m not that sure that he cares enough to find out. So that’s it.’

  ‘What about friends?’

  ‘They offer, sometimes. But it never quite works out. Everyone has busy lives, don’t they? The ones who have kids of their own have got their hands full, and the ones who haven’t are working way too hard. Plus, I don’t like to ask them to... well, you’ve seen what Ben can be like. It’s tough to deal with. And, besides... Ben’s not toilet trained.’

  Alex shrugs. ‘That’s what friends are for.’

  ‘No,’ I correct him. ‘You borrow clothes and money from friends. You phone them up and moan about your problems. You don’t ask them to clean up a five-year-old’s... well, you know.’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’

  I smile. ‘So if I asked you to change his nappy?’

  ‘Yeah, I’d do it.’

  Oh my God, I think to myself. Is this guy for real?

  He stands up. ‘But, not right now, if you don’t mind, because I need to make a move.’

  He pulls his jacket from the chair. Here we go, I tell myself. He’s done the right thing. He’s helped out a damsel in distress. Now, here’s the great escape.

  But then Alex looks me in the eye and says, ‘Could I take you both out on Saturday, for lunch maybe?’

  My heart leaps. Did he really just say that? I don’t get it. He’s had all these chances to walk away and he hasn’t taken a single one. For a moment, I’m too stunned to speak. Then, ‘That would be really nice,’ I say. ‘But it’s a bit limiting, with Ben. He isn’t really very good with bright lights and crowded places, hence the supermarket fiasco today... I’ve never been able to eat out in a restaurant with him.’

  I’m aware that this might sound as though I’m making excuses not to see him, but Alex is unshaken. ‘Well, what does he like to do?’

  I consider this for a moment. ‘He likes the park. He loves to feed the ducks.’

  Alex nods, slowly. ‘Sounds good. Isn’t Finsbury Park just round the corner? We could have a picnic.’

  ‘Really?’ I look him in the eye, dubiously. This is the kind of date that most men would cancel as soon as they’d got away and had a chance to cool off. But I can’t think of anything else to offer him, nothing that comes with such good odds that there won’t be a repetition of the meltdown that Alex witnessed today.

  ‘Why not?’ He shrugs. ‘It’ll be fun.’

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘The duck pond it is.’

  ‘Great!’ Alex shoves his hands into his pockets and grins at me. He pulls out his phone. I give him my number and watch as he taps it in.

  Then he picks up his shopping bag, leans over and ruffles Ben’s hair. ‘See you Saturday, buddy.’

  ‘Bah bah,’ says Ben.

  ‘Quite,’ says Alex, and I clap my hands together. Ben’s talking! He’s really talking! Well, he’s not, obviously. But, then again, he is.

  5

  When I arrive at the office on Friday morning, there’s a message from Ellie.

  ‘It’s urgent.’ Lucy hands me a telephone attendance note. ‘She needs you to call her back straight away. I tried you on your mobile.’

  ‘I’ve only just left court,’ I tell her. ‘I haven’t had a chance to listen to my messages yet.’

  I head up the stairs to my room and dial Ellie’s number.

  She picks up immediately. ‘Sarah?’

  ‘Hi, Ellie. Everything OK?’

  ‘Yes, but I need to get my bail conditions changed. I need to go away this weekend.’

  ‘Has something happened?’

  A pause. ‘Yes. My gran’s ill. I think she’s dying. I need to go and see her before she... before she...’

  ‘OK. Leave it with me. I’ll contact the court. When do you need to leave?’

  ‘This afternoon.’

  ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘Kent.’

  ‘And when will you be back?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Can’t you just get the condition removed?’

  I hesitate for a moment. ‘It’s not that simple, Ellie. The court normally asks for two days’ notice.’

  ‘Two days? No way. My gran could be dead by then. I need the condition removed today.’

  I glance at the clock on my phone. I’ve got to get to Camberwell for two. But there should be enough time. ‘I’ll see what I can do. But it’s tricky. You were lucky to get bail in the first place. We might need to offer something in return.’

  ‘Like what?’

  I think about this for a moment. ‘Do you have a passport?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, if you could get me your passport this afternoon, I might be able to sort something out.’

  ‘Why do you need my passport?’ Ellie sounds unhappy.

  ‘It will be an assurance to the court that you’re not going to leave the country, that you’ll answer your bail a week on Tuesday.’

  Ellie sighs. ‘OK. Tell them whatever you have to tell them. But please get it sorted today. I don’t want the police to come knocking on my door again tonight, ’cause I’m not going to be there.’

  ‘Ellie... wait...’

  But she’s gone.

  After several phone calls and emails to the court, my application is placed before a judge, who agrees that if Ellie’s passport can be handed in to her nearest police station this afternoon, the condition to live and sleep at her home address will be removed.

  ‘Good news,’ I tell Ellie when she picks up the phone.

  ‘It’s sorted? Great. Thanks a lot, Sarah.’

  ‘Hold your horses,’ I tell her. ‘They need your passport first. Can you drop it in to me? Or to your nearest police station?’

  ‘Seriously? I have to do that today?’

  ‘Ellie,’ I reprimand her. ‘I did tell you this!’

  ‘Thing is,’ she says, ‘I’m not at home right now.’

  ‘Well, where are you?’

  ‘I’m... I’m on the King’s Road. I’m nowhere near my place.’

  I sigh. ‘Look, Ellie, this isn’t going to happen unless you surrender your passport. That’s the deal. How long will you be?’
/>   She is silent for a moment. ‘Thing is, I was hoping to go this afternoon, straight from here.’

  ‘To Kent?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where’s your passport? At home?’

  She hesitates. ‘Yes.’

  I’m trying to figure out which train she’d need to take, from which station – London Bridge? No, probably Victoria – when she says, ‘I’ve got to go. I’ll call you back.’

  ‘Ellie. Wait,’ I say quickly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve got a hearing at Camberwell Magistrates’ this afternoon. Is there anyone who can pick up the passport for you?’ I ask. ‘Get it to me at court?’

  She says, ‘My neighbour might.’

  ‘Who’s your neighbour?’

  ‘Marie. Marie Thacker. She’s got a key.’

  ‘Get it to me there, OK? I’ll hand it in for you.’

  ‘Yeah, OK.’

  ‘So, what time can I expect your neighbour?’ I ask her.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll... I’ll call you.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘As soon as I can.’ And then she’s gone.

  *

  I’m finished at court by three o’clock, but there’s still no word from Ellie. I call her number and leave two messages before leaving a further message with the ushers and walking up Camberwell New Road to the shops. I stand at the bus stop, trying to decide what to do. If she doesn’t hand her passport in today, then the bail condition to go home tonight stands. If she does neither and the police knock on her door tonight, she’ll be circulated as wanted. If that happens, she’ll be arrested and her chances of getting bail again will be virtually zero. She hated it in prison; they had her on suicide watch. She might not see the light of day again for months. Years, if she’s convicted. I can’t understand why she isn’t taking this more seriously.

  I pull my phone out of my pocket and select Ellie’s number again. It rings out, yet again, and goes to voicemail, where a husky-voiced but typically laconic Ellie says, ‘It’s Ellie. Leave me a message.’

  I end the call, open Google Maps and tap in Ellie’s address.

  I’m directed across the road and down a narrow street that’s tucked in between a nail bar and an Indian takeaway. The delicious scent of spices emanates from the back door of the restaurant, making me feel hungry in spite of the run-down appearance of the street. As I turn the corner, I’m faced with the grubby backyard to the restaurant, which is full of tatty, dirty-looking cardboard boxes and potato peelings. A skinny cat snakes its way in and out of the boxes, looking for food.

  I’m conscious that I’m going out of my way to help Ellie, doing exactly what Gareth told me not to do: getting involved. But I somehow can’t bring myself to get on a bus and head back to Holloway, not just yet. She’s a young girl without a mother or father, a child, still, in so many ways, alone in the world. Underneath her abrasive veneer, I know that she’s suffering. I can’t bring myself to abandon her to her fate.

  Cedar Court is an ugly mottled brown concrete block with white PVC frontages on the edge of a small estate at the bottom of Eastfield Road. I can hear the distant shrieks of children, coming from the local primary school, and as I walk up the steps and along the first-floor balcony, I can hear more shrieking coming from inside one of the flats. It’s the noise of a man and a woman shouting, I realise, as it gets louder and I get closer, but it’s not until I’m right outside that I realise it’s coming from the flat next door to Ellie’s. Could this be Marie Thacker? I wonder. The neighbour with the key?

  I hesitate a moment, before knocking, but the argument is in full flow and doesn’t appear likely to stop in the very near future. There’s no door knocker or bell, so I tap on the glass of the front-door window as hard as I can. The man’s voice bellows something out in the background. I hear the woman respond and I wonder for a moment if they are just going to ignore me and carry on their argument. I am about to knock for a second time, when I hear the woman’s voice, still shouting, but getting closer.

  ‘Just shut the fuck up, will you, there’s someone at the door!’ she screeches, from the other side. I hear the rattle of a chain and then the door opens and a woman appears. She is significantly overweight, a disadvantage that isn’t assisted by her hairstyle, scraped back against her head in a tight greasy bun to reveal a larger than average neck and the broadest of shoulders. A gigantic cleavage protrudes from underneath a grubby white vest-top. The woman has a lit cigarette in her hand, which she’s waving unsteadily in the air. She reeks of alcohol.

  ‘Marie?’ I ask.

  A spiral of cigarette smoke snakes its way from her hand to my face, making me cough.

  She looks at me suspiciously. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name’s Sarah. Sarah Kellerman. I’ve come to pick up something for Ellie Stephens, your neighbour. She said she was going to call you about it. She says you have a key to her flat?’

  Marie wobbles a little and appears to look straight through me.

  ‘Give... me... the fucking... money!’ bellows the male voice from inside.

  ‘No!’ Marie yells back at him. ‘Not if you’re going straight back down the Camby Arms to spend it on that tart.’

  She disappears out of sight, leaving the door ajar. Everything goes quiet for a moment, but then I hear a thump and can see through the gap left by the open door that there is a shaven head and a bare shoulder moving around in the hallway, followed by a huge tattooed forearm. The door bangs shut and then bounces open again, and I realise with alarm that this is because Marie is behind it, trying to get it open, while the man pins her up against the wall, one arm twisted up behind her back. I can see she’s in too much pain to speak.

  ‘That’s it. Let it go,’ he tells her, as if talking to a small child.

  ‘Get the fuck off me,’ she screeches, finally, but her voice is muffled.

  ‘Marie?’ I call her name, tentatively.

  The door flies open and the shaven head and full set of tattooed shoulders appears. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  Marie appears behind him. I can see that she’s crying.

  ‘I’m here to collect something for Ellie, next door,’ I say. ‘Do you know where she is?’

  Marie wipes her nose with the back of her hand and looks me up and down. ‘Are you her solicitor?’ she asks me.

  I nod. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hmm. She’s probably at work.’

  ‘Work?’ the tattooed man sneers at Marie. ‘Is that what she’s calling it these days?’

  Marie flashes back, ‘Yeah, well I didn’t hear you dissing her when you were taking her money.’

  The tattooed man glares first at her, then at me. His face then breaks into a smile. He turns back towards Marie and cups her chin in his hand, leaning his face in towards hers and pushing his mouth up close to hers. For one awkward moment, I think he’s going to start kissing her, that they’re going to make up, with me just standing there in the doorway. But then I hear him hiss, softly, into her face, ‘Shut... your... fucking... trap.’

  The door opens fully. The man briefly inspects a bundle of notes that he’s holding in one hand and then shoves them into his jeans pocket before stepping brusquely past me and heading off down the balcony towards the stairs.

  ‘Wait!’ Marie screams after him. ‘I’m coming with you!’

  The man ignores her and carries on walking.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I ask.

  Marie nods and wipes her eyes with the backs of her hands. ‘Oh shit,’ she says, glancing down at the floor. She crouches down to retrieve the still smouldering cigarette end she’s dropped. She winces as she stands back up.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ I ask. ‘Do you want me to call someone?’

  Marie ignores me. She lifts her right arm high in the air and launches the lit cigarette over the edge of the balcony behind me. She winces again with the movement, which clearly causes her pain, and then lurches past me in the direction she’s just thrown the cigarette end and ho
ists herself up, so that she’s hanging over the wall.

  ‘Marie, stop!’ I shout, thinking she’s about to either jump or fall right over the edge.

  ‘Darren, fucking wait, will you?’ she yells, and then, ‘Fuck you!’ at the top of her voice. ‘Bastard!’

  She drops back down again onto the balcony and rubs her shoulder. She turns and looks at me, as if seeing me for the first time. ‘You’re the one who got her bail,’ she observes.

  ‘Yes,’ I agree.

  She nods slowly, moving her head up and down in an exaggerated manner. ‘You did good,’ she says, approvingly. ‘You looked after El. Got her out of that fucking hole. Well done.’

  ‘Well... thanks,’ I say. ‘But the thing is, she’s disappeared on me. I need her passport. She needs to hand it in to the police this afternoon. If she doesn’t, she’s heading right back to prison.’

  Marie frowns. Her eyes meet mine. Hers are glazed, red and tired, her face pink, blotchy and lined. She’s probably only in her early twenties, not much older than Ellie, but there’s a world of difference between them. ‘No.’ She shakes her head vigorously. ‘That ain’t gonna happen. Wait there,’ she says, and steps past me, back into her flat.

  A moment later she reappears. She steps out and slams her front door behind her, walks next door to Ellie’s and pokes a key into the lock, wiggling it around a little before it finally goes in and the door swings open.

  ‘Come on,’ she says, moving her arm in a wide arc and pointing it at the door.

  ‘Marie, I...’

  But before I can say any more, she disappears inside. I tentatively step in after her. I know this is wrong. I shouldn’t be here – who knows what I might find? Drugs? Guns? But I also know that, whatever happens, Ellie’s not coming back here tonight and I really don’t want to be explaining my involvement to the judge, or to Ellie, when she gets picked up and produced in the cells for breaching her bail. I haven’t got time to mess around. I’m with Marie, after all, and Ellie’s given her a key.

  I follow Marie down the hallway to the living room. It’s a nice little flat, small but homely, and surprisingly neat and tidy. Marie goes into the kitchen and starts to rummage through the cabinets and drawers.