by Chris Simms
‘Nearly there. Keep breathing and don’t, whatever you do, start to push.’
Jon had stepped into the lift and he kept his finger on the button with two arrows pointing away from each other.
‘Cheers, mate,’ one of the paramedics said with a smile. ‘This pair of charlies’ – he nodded jovially at the couple – ‘didn’t want to bother anyone by coming in early. Waited until her contractions were nice and close. A bit too close, though!’
Damp hair plastering her forehead, the woman was deaf to his attempt at humour, eyes tightly shut, focus directed entirely inwards. The moaning began again and Jon saw a glance of concern flit between the two paramedics. He wondered if he could jump back out of the lift, but the doors were sliding shut.
Jon looked at her partner, searching for clues as to how he should handle himself when it was his turn. The man began to brush strands of hair from her forehead and Jon thought what a futile gesture of comfort it was. But what else could he do? He was no more part of the process, no more able to share in what she was going through, than the rest of them. Jesus, thought Jon, everything about parenthood scares me shitless.
‘God,’ she growled. Her tone was masculine, like someone straining to lift a barbell in a gym. She began a shallow and desperate panting and her eyes snapped open, the look in them giving Jon the impression of a wild animal in pain. Her eyes settled on him for a second before shutting again, and somehow he felt guilty for being a man.
At last the lift came to a halt and the doors opened. A midwife was waiting for them and the group sped off to the nearest delivery room. Jon found himself alone in a corridor plastered with thank you cards and badly taken snaps of women lying on beds, tiny babies clutched in their arms. He leaned closer for a better look, alarmed at the lines of exhaustion on so many of the new mums’ pale faces. Except for the pride shining out from their sunken eyes, they looked ideally suited to a hospital ward. And the babies. So small, so fragile. Dough-like features as if their faces had not yet formed, and some with plastic nasal tubes taped to their tiny cheeks. Not for the first time he looked at his thick fingers with their network of nicks and cuts from rugby matches and thought he was the last person on earth suited to this sort of thing.
‘Can I help you?’
Guiltily he dropped his hands to his sides and looked at the bird-like woman who had appeared silently at his side. ‘DI Jon Spicer.’ He started fumbling for his ID, uncomfortably aware that he was wearing trainers, paint-flecked tracksuit bottoms and an old rugby shirt beneath his jacket.
‘I just spoke to someone on the intercom about—’
‘Yes, I heard. I’m Sister Cooper.’ In order to meet his eyes she had to bend her head back. ‘They certainly breed them big in the police nowadays.’ Her eyes snagged on the bump in the bridge of his nose before dropping to the club badge on his chest, where they found an explanation for his injury. ‘Rugby player?’
Jon nodded, never sure whether the admission would bring a knowing smile or a wary look.
Sister Cooper smiled. ‘So was my husband. He’s confined to criticising it from his armchair nowadays.’
‘Oh well,’ said Jon. ‘I suppose you get to spend more time with him at the weekends now.’
‘More’s the shame,’ she rolled her eyes theatrically. ‘Always under my feet, he is. Like a lost puppy, now he doesn’t play.’
Jon laughed.
‘Please.’ She waved him on down the corridor and into a staff room. A couple of other midwives were sitting on the padded blue seats that lined two sides of the room. ‘Do you need to speak in private?’
The midwives had obviously been tipped off he was coming and were already beginning to stand. ‘No, that’s fine,’ said Jon, gesturing. ‘Please don’t get up. I just need to check something.’ He moved a copy of the local newspaper out of the way and took a seat, aware of the fact that his towering form didn’t exactly encourage a relaxed atmosphere. ‘I was talking to Carol Miller’s mother and she mentioned Carol was trying to lose a bit of weight. She said Carol had come back from work excited about discovering a new way to regain her shape. I’m interested to know if you have a staff noticeboard where people advertise things for sale.’
‘It’s right behind you.’ Sister Cooper pointed above his head.
Jon craned round and saw a noticeboard plastered with pieces of paper. He stood up and started to scan them.
Salsa lessons. Spanish teacher. Thursday evenings.
Panasonic video camera.
Income tax and preparation of accounts.
Garden maintenance and lawn-mowing services.
Britax Excel 3 in 1 travel system.
‘Did she mention anything to any of you?’ he asked over his shoulder.
One of the midwives said, ‘Yes. Is there an ad for a rowing machine up there? One time she was talking about how effective rowing machines are for burning off calories.’
All three of them joined him and they began searching through the notices together. Within two minutes they’d checked the entire board, but without success.
Jon was about to give up when Sister Cooper announced,
‘Here you are.’ She was lifting up a large sheet with a photo of a Nissan Micra for sale. Beneath it was a plain postcard.
York Sprinter Rower. Computer screen showing strokes, time, distance, calories. Cost £139, will accept £80. Never used. Call ext. 241 and ask for Pete.
Jon removed it, hoping none of the women had seen the extension number. ‘I just need to borrow this. Thanks very much for your help. I won’t take up any more of your time.’ Hoping his exit wasn’t too abrupt, he started for the door.
‘DI Spicer?’ It was Sister Cooper’s voice. He turned round.
‘How are Davey and the grandmother? Are they coping?’
‘Social services are helping out. Apparently there’s a cousin as well. . .’ His voice fell away.
Sister Cooper gave a tight smile and Jon retreated from the room, a woman’s shrieks following him all the way to the end of the corridor.
Outside he walked round to the hospital’s main reception and approached a woman behind the desk. Discreetly he placed his warrant card on the formica surface and asked if there was a list of internal phone numbers he could look at. She opened a drawer and removed a clipboard with several sheets of A4 pinned to the front. He traced a finger down the columns, searching for extension 241. Eventually he found it within the section headed
‘Porter’s lodge.’
Chapter 2
She found herself lying on the kitchen floor, blood clogging the vision in her right eye, cheek pressed against the fake marble tile. There was a piece of pasta beneath the cooker and she wondered whether the small brush in the cupboard under the sink would be able to reach it. He hated mess. Her face was one big blot of pain. Bottles clinked in the front room.
What’s happened to our marriage? she thought. It was good once. It was normal. If only we still had Emily, things wouldn’t have ended up like this.
Slowly she got to her knees, feeling as if the weight of her skull had trebled. Drips of blood fell onto the floor with a steady ticking sound. Reaching up, she curled her fingers over the edge of the sink and got stiffly to her feet. The J-cloth smelled faintly of sour milk as she dabbed the blood from her eye.
‘Taped over Man United. Stupid bitch.’
It wouldn’t be long before he came for her again, rage restoked by the alcohol. She opened the cupboard door, leaned forward and tried to reach the floor cleaner, spotting her gin hidden behind the bleach just before her vision darkened. She heard a bottle bang down on the coffee table in the front room, followed by a sharp intake of breath.
He was really going for it. She changed her mind about cleaning up, knowing how the whisky set his demons free. Following a routine that was getting more and more frequent, she grabbed her handbag off the top of the fridge and unbolted the back door.
As she walked unsteadily to her car she thought about how their
life had gone wrong. He’d always got a bit lively after a drink or two. Things would get knocked over in the front room if his football team let in a stupid goal. She’d seen the occasional flash of aggression in the pub. Not enough to attract other people’s attention. Just sneers at young and boisterous groups. People he felt were lacking in respect.
But he hadn’t drunk enough for her to perceive it as a problem. That only happened when his career started to stall. As he was passed over for promotion again and again, the resentment began to build, a dark anger at the world. Trying to get him to talk about it only led to accusations of being a nag.
As she reversed out of the drive he appeared on the front doorstep. The surprise on his face turned to a snarl and he staggered across the lawn. ‘Where are you going?’
Her hands were shaking as she got into first gear and accelerated away, the whisky bottle bursting against the back windscreen.
As usual she drove aimlessly, the occasional heaving sob doubling her over the steering wheel. The bleeding above her right eye had started again and the tissue box in the glove compartment was empty. Looking around, she realised she was driving through Belle Vue. The bright lights of a bingo hall were on her left and she turned into the car park, pulled up next to an empty coach and walked towards the entrance. A ripple of nudges went through a group of elderly women in the foyer and they stared at her through the plate-glass windows.
‘Can I use your toilets, please?’ she asked the red-coated man at the door.
He looked her up and down. A woman in her late thirties with messed-up hair and a bloodied face. ‘Are you a member?’
‘I’m sorry?’ she replied, taken aback by his callousness.
‘Have you got your membership card with you?’
She shut her eyes. ‘I just want to use your toilets.’
‘It’s members only.’
She opened her eyes, saw his look of undisguised distaste. Shame suddenly filled her and she turned away from him. There was a motel on the other side of the car park, its neon-lit sign advertising rooms for £39.95 a night. She set off across the tarmac, trying to keep some dignity in her step.
A low hedge separated the two properties and she squeezed through a gap into a dark and empty car park. Directly behind the building she was just able to make out the greyhound racing stadium, unlit floodlights looming in the dark. She pushed open the motel’s front door, immediately noticing an ashtray on the counter overflowing with butts. To her side was a rack for holding pamphlets. ‘Manchester’s Attractions’, said the card at the top, but the shelves below were empty.
She pinged the bell, then immediately placed her hand on the metal dome to stop its sharp echo. The office door opened slightly and a thin woman with lank brown hair slid through the gap. Her pale, narrow face emphasised her large brown eyes, which moved around like those of a frightened deer.
The woman who had just walked in off the car park was immediately reminded of a girl from her school. She’d come from a poor home and always wore second-hand uniforms and jumble-sale shoes. Her stick legs were never clad in tights, and during cold weather the skin almost went blue. The girl constantly suffered from a runny nose – colds in winter, hay fever in summer. As a result, a hanky was always pressed to her face and the playground joke was that her thinness resulted from her losing so much fluid through her nose.
She gestured towards the inner doors. ‘I just need to clean up. Can I use your toilets? Please?’
The receptionist’s eyes went to the doors behind her as if she was expecting more than just a lone woman. ‘Jesus, you need more than a sink.’ She stepped back into the office and almost immediately re-emerged with a green first-aid case. ‘Here. I don’t think this has ever been used before. I’m pretty sure it’s full.’
She put it down on the counter and unclipped the lid. Inside were bandages, plasters, safety pins, antiseptic cream and a pair of blunt scissors. ‘The toilets are just through those doors. Wash the blood off and we’ll get you patched up.’
‘Thank you.’
The hinge on the door into the toilets was stiff and the place smelled awful. She stood in front of the mirror and looked fearfully at her face. God. Her right eye was swollen half shut, dried blood caked her cheek and clotted her eyebrow. A fresh drip emerged from the split in her skin and caught in her eyelash.
She looked around for paper towels but the dispenser was empty. So were the toilet-roll holders in the first two cubicles. The last had a small stack of tissues piled on the cistern.
Five minutes later she stepped back into the reception, a tissue pressed to her eyebrow. ‘Seems it doesn’t want to stop.’
The receptionist frowned in sympathy. ‘Was it a john?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Your face? Was it...?’
Her mobile phone started to ring. Picking it out of her hand-bag, she saw her husband’s name on the screen. She turned it off and dropped it back. ‘Jeff. My husband.’ The admission brought tears to her eyes.
The receptionist’s face softened further. ‘Let me see your face, you poor love.’
‘Really, you don’t need to. I can do it myself.’
The receptionist peered at the cut. ‘These butterfly plasters might do it.’ She smeared antiseptic cream over the cut, then applied two of the plasters. ‘I’ve got some ice in the back. It will help with the swelling. You look like you could do with a cup of coffee as well. I’m Dawn, by the way.’
‘Fiona. Thank you so much for this,’ she replied.
The back office looked as dilapidated as the rest of the motel, but the chairs were soft and the coffee hot. She sat down, and her resolve to return to her car instantly crumbled. Reaching for her handbag, she took out a packet of cigarettes and held it out to Dawn.
‘Cheers,’ she said, sliding one out.
Fiona held a flame to it and then to her own, took a deep drag and sat back in the seat. Bustling around the room, Dawn wrapped some ice cubes in a bandage and passed it across. Fiona regarded her, thinking that her concern seemed to extend beyond mere sympathy. ‘This has happened to you as well, hasn’t it?’
Those eyes again. They moved with a look of perpetual alarm.
‘How could you tell?’ she asked.
Fiona was surprised at how quickly her crestfallen look had appeared. She guessed Dawn was used to people seeing through her fragile front to the vulnerable person beneath. ‘Your kindness. It’s the sort of thing one shows to a fellow...you know.’
‘Survivor. The word you’re looking for is “survivor”.’ But it didn’t ring true, coming from her lips. Dawn sat down.
‘I’ve suffered, yes. But in the past, not now. I’m with a good person now.’ The comment was more than emphatic: it was defiant.
‘I’m glad for you.’
‘And you? How long has he been doing this to you?’ Breaking eye contact, Fiona lowered the ice pack and re-adjusted the cubes inside. ‘On and off over the last few years.’
‘On and off? But more and more often?’
Fiona pressed the ice pack against her forehead and shut her eyes. More and more often? In truth, she couldn’t tell; her recent past had merged into one long nightmare. ‘He’s under a lot of pressure at work. He’s always so sorry afterwards.’
‘You mean, once he’s sober?’
Fiona opened her eyes, surprised at the accuracy of the guess.
Dawn leaned forward, anger in her voice. ‘They’re always sorry the next morning. But that doesn’t last for long. In fact, it lasts for less and less time. It’s a cycle, don’t you see? It’s a cycle that just gets faster and faster. You have to get out of it.’
Fiona closed her eyes again, but the tears had escaped down her cheeks. ‘You know that’s not so easy. We’ve been married almost twenty years. I haven’t anywhere else to go.’ She started getting ready to stand. ‘In fact, I should get home. He’ll be asleep now. It’ll be safe.’
‘He’s not coming back,’ Dawn said quietly.
&nb
sp; ‘Sorry?’ Fiona replied, half out of her seat.
‘The man you married. You’re hoping he’ll come back one day, aren’t you?’
Fiona pictured her husband of all those years ago. Slim, a full head of hair, the quantity surveyor eager to work his way up the construction company. She thought of him now. Overweight, balding, face ravaged by drink, the strength she’d once found so reassuring now used against her.
‘He’s gone,’ Dawn continued, laying a hand on her shoulder.
‘Don’t go back there tonight. Stay here – there are plenty of empty rooms.’
Fiona gave a hollow laugh. ‘I don’t have any money.’
‘Sod the money.’
‘I can’t have you risking your job because of me. What if your manager found out?’
Dawn smiled. ‘I’m the night manager. As long as you’re out before the day manager arrives at seven, there’s no problem.’
Fiona looked around the room uncertainly. ‘Who actually owns this place?’
‘Some business conglomerate down in London. I’ve never seen them. It was built for the Commonwealth Games last summer and it’s been dying on its arse ever since. Please don’t go back to him. You’d only be setting the whole process in motion again.’
Fiona sighed. ‘Staying the night here won’t achieve anything, other than to aggravate him further. I’ll have to face him at some point.’
‘Why? Have you left any children back there?’
Fiona gave an aggressive shake of her head. She couldn’t face that one, not now.
‘Then put a stop to it for ever. Leave him.’
Fiona stared at the floor. ‘Don’t think it hasn’t occurred to me. But leave him for where?’
‘Get a good night’s rest, and tomorrow I’ll put you in touch with some people. There are houses you can go to, places where you’ll be safe.’
‘You mean women’s refuges?’ Fiona said. ‘But they’re for . . .’
‘Battered women.’ Dawn completed the sentence for her.
‘Women from all walks of life, of all ages.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Women just like you.’
Dawn got to her feet and removed a bottle of brandy from a cupboard. The sight of it made Fiona’s stomach clench with longing. ‘You could do with a splash of this,’ said Dawn.