Shed No Tears

by Caz Frear

He’s agitated, pumping one fist on top of the other. One potato, two potato, three potato, four. “Crime of passion—there’s your big difference. His victims had done nothing to him, nothing, whereas she’d disrespected me, told lies. And do you have any idea what my bosses would have done to me if they knew I’d been sleeping with the enemy? I didn’t have any choice. It was the only way to prove I was still one of them.” He honestly believes his own spin. “And I was drunk.”

  I stare at him, at the perfect skin, the grass-green eyes, at the sandy hair running a little too long, all the better to run your hands through.

  He’s repulsive.

  “You were drunk?” I repeat, lip curled. “Do you know the last time I used that excuse, Jacob? I’d had one too many mojitos and told a colleague his ex-girlfriend was boring. You’re a fucking disgrace and I hope you never see the light of day again.”

  “I’m sorry, it was the drunk comment, the way he just threw it in as an excuse. Oh, and what he said about Stephanie—how her shoes got her killed. Funny, I always thought that was Masters’ doing.”

  As we head back to Dyer’s car, my phone’s buzzing in my hand, demanding my attention, but I’m more concerned with explaining my sweary outburst to my honorary boss for the afternoon.

  And it’ll only be Aiden anyway. Asking me what’s the difference between a quiche and a flan, and do I want “poncey” bread or will a crusty white loaf do?

  “Don’t worry about it,” she says. “You did well in there. Really well.”

  I actually blush. I’m hoping her Jackie O sunglasses will keep her from noticing.

  “Did I? We didn’t get anything that helpful.”

  “Mind if I . . . ?” She pulls cigarettes from her bag, offering me the packet. Briefly, a stupid desire to fit in, to bond, even, almost makes me accept, but the thought of kissing Aiden later stops me. “That stuff Masters said about Holly—that’s something. It’s more than ‘I did it,’ which is all he’d ever say to us.”

  Something scratches at me though, prickly heat on my brain. “So we believe Pope then?”

  She lights up. “You don’t?”

  “Not sure. He gave it up quite easily. The minute I said we’d look into privileges . . .”

  “In his dreams.”

  “Well, yeah, but he doesn’t know that.”

  “He knew about her breast implants, though. I know the tabloids were bad but I don’t remember them ever mentioning those.”

  We’re at the car now, mercifully shaded by the branches of a huge draping willow tree. Dyer sits on the hood to finish her smoke, but I don’t take it as an invitation. With my luck, I’ll scratch it.

  “A guy like Pope,” I say, “I reckon he’d be a connoisseur. He’d know a fake pair from a real pair just by looking at her photo. And I mean, they were . . .”

  “On display,” offers Dyer, taking a long drag. “Honestly, it was maddening. We had other photos—cute ones from when she was a kid, sitting on Santa’s knee, holding the school rabbit, that kind of thing. Papers still ran with the glamour shots.”

  “Surprise fucking surprise.” I’ve sworn once in front of her, might as well let the floodgates open. “Anyway, look, I’m not saying I don’t believe him. I just don’t know how worthwhile it all was.”

  She points the cigarette at me. “Have you met many convicted killers, Cat? Conducted many prison interviews?”

  “No. When I meet them, they’re usually still as pure as the driven snow, protesting their innocence.”

  “Well then, it was worthwhile. A learning exercise.”

  Which is lovely, but with eight live cases and an inbox that growls at me every time I log on, I could have done with leaving the lessons for another sunny day.

  Although I enjoyed it, if “enjoy” can ever be the right word. I enjoyed Dyer, anyhow. She has the clout of Steele but with a kind of head girl “cool.” A heady mix. Something to aspire to.

  I wiggle my phone at her. “Better check this. Someone’s after me.”

  Someone being my sister, Jacqui. Five missed calls, no voicemail. One text.

  Dad’s in A&E—the Whittington. You need to get here ASAP

  15:59

  “Oh my God, my dad’s in the hospital.”

  Concern floods Dyer’s face—more of it than I’d expect from someone I only met a few hours ago. “Oh hell, Cat, what’s wrong with him?”

  “Um, I don’t know. My sister hasn’t said.” Embarrassment bites hard. I know this isn’t normal.

  Give me something, Jacqs. A sprained ankle? An aneurysm?

  I try calling but her phone rings out. Is this a good sign? A bad sign? Is she holding his hand while he takes his last breath? Or is she on the toilet? Paying for parking?

  “Right.” Dyer throws her cigarette down. “Where is he?”

  “The Whittington—bloody miles away.”

  “OK, OK.” She opens the back door and throws her bag on the seat, murmuring to herself, making some kind of calculation. “Right, get in. This is what’s going to happen. I’m going to drop you at Plumstead station and you’re going to get the Thameslink to London Bridge, then the Northern Line to Archway. It’s the quickest way. I’d drive you there myself but it’ll take too long. We’d get to the coast quicker than we’d get to North London at rush hour.”

  I nod, succumbing to her efficiency. Or, at least I think I nod. I feel strange, slightly outside myself.

  “Unless you don’t want to be on your own, of course. In which case, I’ll drive you to the door.”

  I hear myself saying, “No, no, it’s fine” but everything’s not fine. It was fine ten minutes ago when I was seated across from a double-murderer. That windowless room, with its harsh lights and nailed-down table, seems like the softest, safest cocoon in the whole world, now that I’m out here dealing with the fact Dad might be . . .

  God knows.

  I know I should call Aiden. But if I call him, he’ll want to do something. Meet me there, wait outside, buy Dad grapes, donate a kidney? I’ve no idea what state my only remaining parent is in.

  With a kick of shame, I tap out a text instead.

  Can’t make picnic. Sorry.

  Aiden deserves better, but even through the panic, I’m a pragmatist.

  He can’t be anywhere near that hospital.

  Aiden can’t be anywhere near my sister.

  4

  Hot weather always makes casualties spike and so, unsurprisingly, A&E is packed to the rafters with not just the usual mix of blood, guts, and people with minor ailments who refuse to wait two days to see their GP, but also heatstroke and lager-stroke, judging by the state of a few louts.

  Right now, I couldn’t care less about any of them. I only care about Dad. I want to make amends. Make promises we won’t keep. I want to change his dressing, push his wheelchair, lecture him about mixing his medication with his nightly Jack and Coke.

  I need to find Jacqui.

  I don’t spot her at first. My sister’s hair has been as blond as golden wheat for as long as I remember and I’m thrown by its reddish hue. Saddened by it, even. By the fact I didn’t know she’d dyed it.

  She’s smiling though, so that’s something. I’ll take that as a sign we’re not orphans just yet. Her now coppery head is dipped low, headphones in, watching something on her phone. As I get closer, the smile gets wider and the screen comes into full view. An episode of Friends we’ve watched fifty times already.

  I stand behind, tug a headphone from her ear. “Is that ‘The One Where Monica Scares the Shit out of Ross by Leaving a Message That Their Dad’s in the Hospital with No Other Frigging Detail’?”

  She turns her head, but not enough to face me. “You can’t have been that scared. I left the message three hours ago.”

  “I was inside a prison. I didn’t have my phone.”

  She turns fully this time, her eyes rolling at my excuse, or rather the places my job takes me. Against the sterile white backdrop, her skin looks pasty, her face drawn. And th
e red definitely doesn’t suit her, although if I’m asked I’ll say it does.

  “And it was South-East London,” I blabber on. “It took me over an hour to get here. Someone was taken ill at Maze Hill, see, and then London Bridge was overcrowded and . . . Jesus, why am I even explaining myself? What’s happened? Where’s Dad?”

  She’s on her feet, disappearing into a gargantuan green tote bag. Good Vibes Only! it states, which suits head-in-the-sand Jacqui to a T.

  “Car keys, car keys,” she mutters, then almost as an afterthought, “He’s broken his arm. And there’s some bruising too. He’s through those double doors. I needed a break so I came out for a bit. It’s pretty grim in there.” No gesture to signal where “there” might be. “Anyway, you can take over now. Me and Finn have been here for hours. Ash’s working away so there was no one to pick up Finn, which meant I had to take him out of school early and the poor guy’s missed his Sports Day. He’d been practicing all week for the hula-hoop challenge. He’s gutted.”

  “Hula hoops! A broken arm!” I keep my voice down in the name of common decency but my anger could power the whole hospital. “I’ve been imagining all sorts, Jacqs. Car accidents. Heart attacks.”

  A gunshot wound, courtesy of his “boss” Frank Hickey’s enemies.

  She stops rummaging, amused. “A heart attack? As if! Dad’s fitter than most men half his age.”

  Of course he is. On Jacqui’s rosy-glow plane of existence, Dad’s the fittest man, the kindest man, the shrewdest man. The Man.

  “So where’s Finn?” I say, looking around. The thought of seeing my barrel-of-joy nephew momentarily cools my jets.

  “He’s getting a Wonder Green smoothie from the kiosk.”

  This detail is pure Jacqui. God forbid I think she’s letting him drink Coke or beer or battery acid.

  “So let me get this straight before Finn gets back . . .” I try to stay calm, visualizing a great big red STOP sign—a therapist’s tip for keeping it together when you’re about to lose your shit. “You didn’t think it would be nice to text, There’s no need to panic but Dad’s in the hospital with a broken arm instead of, Dad’s in the hospital, you need to get here ASAP?”

  She doesn’t answer. Too busy emptying her tote onto the seat, the contents piling up like landfill waste—wet wipes, Haribo, makeup bags, sunscreen, flip-flops, phone chargers, and if I’m not very much mistaken, pepper spray, although I’m going to choose my battles and let that one go.

  “Jesus, let me, would you?” I nudge her out the way, taking over the excavation. “You’re useless at looking for things. You’d be no use at a crime scene.” I unzip one compartment, then another. Ten seconds later, job done. “Here.”

  She snatches them off me, then gathers up her stuff. “Family’s never been your priority, Cat. Are you honestly telling me you’d have come if I’d said there was no need to panic?”

  “Hold on, you’re saying you were deliberately vague?” I could cheerfully slap her, put her in the bed next to Dad. “That’s cruel, Jacqs. That’s not fair.”

  She leans in for a kiss, or rather a lazy sweep of her cheek against mine. “Look, I have to go, but I’d quit with the tone, baby sis. Manipulating you into visiting your own dad in the hospital—I think that says more about you than it does about me.”

  “Auntie Caaaaaat!” Finn’s voice behind me, bouncy and breathless, saves me from having to admit she’s probably right.

  I spin around. He’s had a haircut since I last saw him. He has kind of a “do” now, something styled and complicated and glistening with gel.

  “Hey, Finn-bo.” He gives me more of a headbutt than a kiss. “How’s my favorite nephew doing?”

  “Er, you’ve only got one nephew, duh.” He unscrews the cap of the smoothie, slurps half in one go.

  “Who knows?” I say to Jacqui, quietly. “Only one that I’m aware of. I doubt safe sex has ever been high on Noel’s priority list.”

  Jacqui’s face sours and I almost laugh. The fact she finds the idea of our brother having a sex life more unpalatable than the fact he’s currently languishing in a Spanish prison on drug charges sums up everything that’s wrong with our family.

  Finn tugs my arm. “Hey, guess what, Auntie Cat? Two things, two things.”

  “Um . . . you’re having McDonald’s for dinner?”

  “Yeah, right, when does Mum ever let me eat anything I like?”

  I try another guess. “You’re getting a dog?”

  “No. Even better. Uncle Frank gave me £50. Fifty!”

  “You just missed him,” Jacqui says, as though this is a great shame. “He said to say hi.”

  “You said two things,” I remind Finn, instantly blocking any talk of Frank Hickey. “What’s the second?”

  “Oh yeah!” He lets out a loud screech. “Grandad’s got a girlfriend.”

  He’s doubled over. This is clearly the funniest thing that Finn’s ever heard. It’s the most heartbreaking thing from my side, because despite the fact that Dad’s rarely been without female action since Mum died—and let’s be honest, for the most part when she was alive—they’ve always been abstract. He’s always kept them private. If Finn knows about this one, it means this one could be serious. This could be the one who finally usurps Mum.

  Not for us, obviously, but in Finn’s life. Finn has no memories of Mum; he was only one when she died. And with Ash’s mum dead before Ash even reached his teens, Finn’s never had a grandma. Although knowing Dad, this “grandma” could still be paying off her student loan.

  “Jacqs?” It’s all I can manage.

  “Don’t start, Cat—she’s called Ange and she’s nice.”

  “I wasn’t planning on starting anything.” On the contrary, I want this conversation over as quickly as possible.

  “You missed her as well, actually.” She hoists her bag onto her shoulder, ushering Finn toward the exit. “She brought Dad in—insisted on it, thank God. She left about an hour ago to check on the pub.”

  So it is serious.

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah, wow. A lot can happen in six months. Maybe if you visited him more often . . .”

  I ruminate on the name. Ange. Angela. I didn’t go to school with any Angelas so I’ll take a punt she’s older than me.

  “So how did he break his arm?” I shout at Jacqui’s departing back.

  Parting the seas? Healing the sick? Rescuing a kitten from an old lady’s tree?

  She stops in front of the reception desk, where an old guy with an eye patch is crying because there’s no one to take him home. I want to cry too. I want to flash my warrant card, call Parnell, get this far worthier cause than Dad the help he so blatantly needs.

  But blood is inconveniently thicker than water.

  “Something to do with a beer barrel,” Jacqui says, making a circular shape with both hands. “I said to him, ‘It’s ridiculous. You pay people to do that stuff nowadays.’ But you know what he’s like.”

  Yeah, I do, Jacqs. And it’s a far cry from all the World’s Best Dad! merchandise you bombard him with.

  “OK, well, I’d better go and see the patient then. Where is he, exactly?”

  She tips her head to a spot behind me. “Through the swing doors, right down the bottom. Oh, and I forgot, I got him these. There was a stall outside.”

  From another bag compartment, she produces an apple and a bruised pear. I know he won’t eat them, but with Jacqui, that’s not the point. Jacqui doesn’t care about outcomes as long as she’s doing “the done thing.”

  “Right, can we finally go now?” She’s trying to sound put-upon, but we both know there’s more to it. “It’s just these places, you know . . .”

  “I know. Go on, bugger off. See ya, Finn-bo.”

  Finn isn’t listening. He’s got Jacqui’s headphones in, doing a little dance to some freeform jazz, judging by his complete lack of rhythm.

  I blow Jacqui a kiss, feeling bad that she bore the brunt of today. Feeling sad that she’s
spent too much time in hospitals already. Too many nights spent carrying Finn over their aggressively lit thresholds. Timing seizures. Learning medication schedules. Basically, worrying herself old.

  Hospitals don’t bother me.

  When you work for the dead, even the sick seem kind of fortunate.

  I find Dad looking far worse than I expected on a trolley bed, sandwiched between two cubicles. To his left, there’s an old lady with a beehive and a split chin. To his right, a full-scale amputation, if the noise is anything to go by. He rallies when he sees me, pushing himself up a little higher using his good arm, wincing sharply at the effort.

  “Jesus, I think my ribs are in a bad way.”

  There’s no “think” about it. His shirt is open all the way down, revealing not only his daily commitment to one hundred–plus crunches, but also a tramline bruise on the cusp of turning blue.

  “Have you looked in the mirror? Your face isn’t looking too hot either.”

  He presses his jaw. “Thanks very much, sweetheart. Good to see you too.”

  I stand at the foot of the trolley, center stage, so he can’t avoid my eyes. “So when did this happen?”

  “This morning.” He looks away as he says it. Not quite the breezy liar he once was.

  “I see. Morning, as in eleven a.m.? Or morning, as in two a.m.?”

  His gaze lands back, unimpressed. “Does it matter?”

  He can play the innocent but we both know it does. We both know that in Dad’s world, the subterranean world he’s gone back to, the worst things happen once the sun’s gone down. Betrayals in the dark. Lessons taught when you least expect them.

  And I know that bruise is more than half a day old.

  “Must have been a big barrel,” I say, drawing first blood. “This barrel have a name?”

  “Yeah.” He smiles, then flinches, the tiny movement costing him dearly. “God’s Twisted Sister. It’s an oatmeal stout we’re trialing.”

  “Fine, have it your way. But the doctors aren’t stupid, you know. Forget your arm, that bruise is a dead giveaway.” I lean forward, peering closer at his chest. “So, what was it, Dad? An iron bar? A baseball bat?”

  I see it cross his face, that split second where he thinks about lying. Where he forgets that we know the very worst things about each other—that he’s a criminal and I’m worse; I’m his protector.