by Ben Cheetham
Jack nodded. He didn’t have the energy for unnecessary conversation.
“Bloody hell,” the constable murmured with a shake of his head. “Makes you wonder what the world’s coming to, doesn’t it?”
Yes, thought Jack. It makes you wonder.
The nurse returned. “She’s awake, but try to keep your visit brief. She had a bad night.”
Jack’s forehead wrinkled. “Nothing too serious I hope.”
“Dizziness. Vomiting. We’ve adjusted her medication, and that’s done the trick. But she’s worn out.”
Jack’s mind was suddenly full of an image of bloody bile surging from Vixen’s mouth. Strange how life kept throwing up – for want of a more apt description – these little coincidences. He sighed. Butterfly’s night had been bad, but her day would not be any better.
He entered her room. She looked at him with heavy-lidded eyes. “Hello again,” she said, smiling tiredly as he sat down at the bedside.
“How are you feeling?”
“They’ve got me on so much medication that I can’t feel much of anything at all. You look tired.”
“I had a long night.”
“That makes two of us.”
Jack stared into Butterfly’s eyes. He saw no artifice in them, only weariness and vulnerability.
“What is it, Jack?” she asked, seemingly sensing his reluctance to say what needed saying.
Dennis’s words echoed back to him, You wouldn’t think the child was better off with her if you knew who she really is. They spurred him to reply, “Dennis Smith is dead, along with everyone else at Hawkshead Manor. They committed suicide.”
Jack studied Butterfly’s reaction like a scientist looking through a microscope. Her lips hung apart. Her eyes drifted off as if searching for something that wasn’t there. After a long silence, she asked, “Why?”
“I can’t say for certain.”
“It’s because of me, isn’t it?”
“No–” began Jack.
“Yes,” Butterfly cut in, her eyes returning to his, glazed with self-loathing. “You found them because of me. They killed themselves because of me.”
Jack shook his head. “Dennis had been planning this for a long time.”
“How do you know?”
Jack told her about the death caps. “There were other things in the barns too. Stolen cars. A cannabis farm.”
Butterfly was silent for another space, her eyes shot through with a pain that had nothing to do with her injury. “What sort of person would get involved with a man like that?” she wondered. “Was I stupid or desperate? Am I a bad person?”
Jack resisted an urge to put his hand on hers. Whatever feelings he might have, he couldn’t let them colour his judgement.
“Did I know what Dennis planned to do?” she continued, speaking as much to herself as Jack. She echoed the questions on his mind. “Is that why I ran away? To save myself? Did I leave those children to die?”
“I don’t know. Did you?”
The look of wounded realisation that overtook Butterfly’s face at the question made Jack hate himself. “You don’t believe me, do you? You think I’m lying about my amnesia.”
“I’m just doing my job.”
“Just doing your job,” Butterfly said sadly. “I thought you were my friend. I thought...” She trailed off, lowering her eyes again. “I don’t know what I thought.”
“I am your friend,” Jack couldn’t stop himself from saying. “But this isn’t about me. Right now, it’s not even primarily about you.”
“Then who is it about?”
This was the moment Jack had been dreading. “Something else happened to you in those woods. Your attackers took something from you.”
“Something,” Butterfly echoed, her hands moving towards her belly. “What something?”
“You were pregnant.”
“Oh god,” Butterfly gasped. “They took my baby, didn’t they? I knew it. Somehow I knew it. Oh god, my baby...” Her eyes bulged as she desperately tried to sit up.
“I don’t think you should be moving around.” Jack put up his palms to emphasise his words.
Ignoring him, Butterfly raised herself halfway up. Propping herself on trembling arms, she demanded to know, “What have they done with my–” She fell silent and collapsed onto the mattress, her eyes rolling back in their sockets. Suddenly the machines she was hooked up to were emitting a chorus of rapid beeps and alarm sounds.
“Butterfly,” exclaimed Jack, patting her hand.
She didn’t respond. Her jaw hung slack. He couldn’t tell if she was breathing. “Nurse!” he shouted, reaching for the red emergency cord. Before he could pull it, the door swung open and several nurses and doctors hustled into the room.
“She passed out,” Jack told them.
He darted anxious glances at Butterfly as a nurse ushered him out of the door. A curtain was swished around Butterfly’s bed. The door clunked shut.
Jack paced the corridor, ears straining for clues as to what was happening. Minutes crawled by like hours. Finally, Doctor Medland emerged from the room and informed him, “She’s regained consciousness.”
“Oh thank god,” breathed Jack. “Can I see her?”
“Absolutely not. Another event like that could prove fatal. Did you say anything to her that could have brought on such a reaction?”
“I told her about the baby. She said she somehow already knew. Could her memory be returning?”
Doctor Medland frowned thoughtfully. “Possibly. Or she could simply have picked up on the fact that she has a postpartum belly and there’s a lot of swelling where we stitched a perineal tear.”
“Do me a favour, doctor. Tell her I believe her and I’m going to do everything in my power to find out what they’ve done.” Jack handed Doctor Medland his card. “Let me know when she’s up to seeing me.”
On the way out of the hospital, Jack phoned Paul and said, “She’s not lying. Either that or she’s the best actor I’ve ever met.”
“OK, Jack. Go home and get some rest.”
Jack hung up, his forehead pinching into sharp lines. He wasn’t thinking about the bitter history he shared with Paul. He was thinking about the way he’d felt when Doctor Medland told him Butterfly was conscious. It had gone beyond simple relief into something else. Something that told him he was in trouble.
Chapter 24
Jack spent a long time in the shower scrubbing off the scum of the night. But he couldn’t wash away the memory of the small, motionless bodies. Afterwards, he went downstairs to make himself a bacon sandwich. His throat tightened with nausea at the sizzle of frying flesh. He binned the bacon and settled for toast. He ate it in the car on the way to Naomi’s school. His throat grew tight again at the sight of children running around happily in the playground. Tears threatened to fill his eyes. He took a moment to compose himself before leaving the car.
Naomi’s smiling face was like a light shining in a dark place. He smiled back as she exclaimed, “Hi Dad.” Her expression turning serious, she treated him to a disapproving look. “Were you up all night?”
Jack nodded. “But I’m OK,” he said and he meant it – as long as Naomi was OK, he was OK.
They returned to the car hand in hand. On the way home they stopped off at a supermarket. After the surreal events of the night, the mundanity of shopping comforted Jack. The dead faces receded from his mind as he chatted to Naomi. They came rushing back, though, when he saw a pregnant woman. He halted abruptly, his gaze fixed on her belly. It wasn’t until the woman moved out of sight that he realised Naomi was talking to him.
“Dad. Dad.”
He dredged up an unconvincing smile. “Sorry, sweetheart, I was miles away.”
The rest of the way around the shop, he was uncomfortably aware of Naomi casting concerned glances at him.
Back at the house, he made spaghetti Bolognese. As they ate, Naomi rattled on about this and that. In the small silences between conversation, Butterfly’s face
kept rising into Jack’s mind. He wondered what it would be like to have her and the baby there with them. Could it work? Could they be a family? He shook his head at himself. It was crazy to entertain such thoughts. Even if Butterfly felt the same way as him, how could he risk letting her into Naomi’s life?
The remainder of the evening consisted of chores and Jack helping Naomi with her homework. By the time Naomi was in bed, Jack was almost asleep on his feet. Before heading to bed, he phoned Steve and asked, “How you doing?”
“Never better, mate,” Steve replied jauntily. There was a tell-tale slur in his voice and a babble of voices in the background.
“They let you out of hospital then.”
“They wanted to keep me in overnight, but fuck that. I needed a pint or two or three...” Steve trailed off into a drunken chuckle.
“Are you still in The Lakes?”
“No.” Steve’s forced jauntiness deserted him. “And I’m never going back up there again. I thought Manchester was full of nutters, but it’s got nothing on that place.”
“Are you in the office tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Post Incident Procedures and all that crap.”
“You’d better get some sleep then. You’re going to need a clear head.”
“OK, Dad. Don’t worry. You know me. Skull like a rhino.”
Jack made an unconvinced noise. Steve was an old school copper. He avoided talking about feelings like the plague. Better to bottle it all up. And if that didn’t work, nine or ten pints would do the job. “Yeah I know you, Steve. So I know you won’t take me up on this, but if you need to talk you know where I am.”
“Shit happens. People die. What else is there to say? Who knows? Maybe that mad bastard was right. Maybe it would be better if we burnt the whole place down and started again.”
“Say that when you’re sober and I’ll tell you to stop talking bollocks.”
Steve rediscovered his chuckle. “Talking bollocks is what I’m best at.” He added sincerely, “Thanks Jack.”
There was a lot in those two words and the silence that followed. Steve wasn’t simply grateful for the offer of an ear to bend. He was thanking Jack for putting his life on the line for him.
“Now bugger off and let me finish my pint,” Steve said with characteristic gruffness.
“Remember what I said. I want you home by eleven at the latest.”
Steve laughed at the half-jokey comment. “Yeah, yeah. Night, Dad.”
Jack got off the phone and, somewhat reluctantly, headed to bed. As exhausted as he was, he knew that when he closed his eyes he would see the dying and dead children again. Had Butterfly known what Dennis planned to do? Had she abandoned them to their fate? You wouldn’t think the child was better off with her if you knew who she really is. With those words seeming to reverberate in his ears, he fell into a troubled sleep.
Chapter 25
The first thing Jack thought about when he woke up was Butterfly. Was she OK? He had to know. He phoned the hospital. A nurse informed him that she’d a better night. There had been no repeats of yesterday’s ‘event’. “And how about her amnesia?” asked Jack.
“No change there as far as I’m aware.”
Jack thanked the nurse and got off the phone with a sigh. He’d hoped to wake up with a clearer head, an acceptance that his and Butterfly’s relationship could never be anything more than policeman and victim. But the yearning to see her had grown stronger. He could feel it like a physical ache in his chest.
After dropping off Naomi at school, Jack drove to headquarters with a heavy sense of what the day held in store. There was a mind-numbing expanse of post-incident reports and statements to wade through. He reflected that at least it would distract him from thinking about Butterfly.
As he parked outside the monument to progressive policing that was Greater Manchester Police HQ, Steve pulled up alongside him.
“Morning, Dad,” said Steve. The bags under his eyes betrayed that he’d got to bed a lot later than eleven o’clock. A gauze pad was taped over the wound on his neck.
“How’s your head?”
“Fine,” replied Steve, although the way he winced as someone slammed a car door nearby suggested otherwise.
Jack opened his mouth to say something else, but snapped it shut and did a double-take. “Where’s your moustache?”
“You remember that tattooist?”
“Viv?”
“Yeah. I met her for a drink last night.” Steve stroked the bare skin above his upper lip. “She shaved the old slug off while I was asleep.”
Jack smiled at Steve’s not-so-subtle disclosure that drinks had led to bed. “Asleep or passed out?”
Steve shrugged. “Do you think it makes me look younger?”
“Oh yeah definitely, you’ll be getting ID’d down the pub.”
Steve grinned, as comfortable with sarcasm as he was uncomfortable with sincerity. “I’ll tell you, that girl got me into positions I haven’t been in since I was a teenager. My cock feels like it’s been put through a–”
“OK, OK, I get the picture.”
Chuckling, Steve jerked his chin at HQ. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”
As they caught the lift to SCD’s floor, Jack glanced appraisingly at Steve. He didn’t buy the I’m alright Jack act. He knew Steve was hurting. He read it in the lines between the veteran inspector’s eyes and the tightness of his lips. He thought about the way Naomi looked at him when she was trying to work out what was going on in his head. He’d promised himself he would keep his job and family life separate, but maybe that wasn’t the way. Dennis Smith had kept the world away from his family. And look at how that had turned out. Perhaps it was better to let it all in. Teach her to deal with it. Jack exhaled heavily at the idea.
“Don’t worry, mate,” said Steve. “It’ll be over before you know it.”
Paul poked his head out of his office as the detectives passed by. He beckoned them inside. Jack could tell from the gleam in Paul’s eyes that he had something to tell them. Paul was mostly a closed book, but breaking a big case made him as excitable as a kid in a sweet shop. First, though, there was a dutiful show of concern to get out of the way.
“How are you both holding up?” asked Paul, seating himself behind his perpetually cluttered desk.
In reply, he received a simultaneous, “Fine, sir.”
“Glad to hear it. Terrible, terrible thing that happened up there.” Paul’s eyes strayed to a photo of his children. “Unimaginable. If you need to speak to someone. Myself. A counsellor...” He let the offer hang, his gaze moving between the two men. Neither said anything. With a nod, he got down to what he really wanted to talk about. “We’ve recovered fingerprints from the Audi in the barn.”
Paul handed Jack a mugshot of a man with slicked-back black hair and heavy stubble. Deep-set, unreadable eyes stared out of a broad face with a boxer’s squashed nose. Not the sort of bloke you’d want to stumble into down a dark alley. He looked to be in his mid-to-late-thirties.
“The prints belong to this...” Paul paused for the right description, “rather unsavoury character. His name’s Ryan Mahon.”
“Mahon,” echoed Steve, his brow creasing. “Why is that name familiar?”
“Ryan has a record as long as my arm. This is one serious guy. We’re talking the cream of Manchester’s scumbag crop. His first serious conviction came in 1998. He was convicted of Section 20 Assault and sentenced to two years in HMP Altcourse. Some guy was making eyes at Ryan’s girlfriend in a pub, so Ryan punched him and stamped on his head. Put him in a coma for a month.”
“Nice,” Steve commented wryly.
“When exactly was Ryan arrested?” asked Jack.
Paul consulted Ryan’s rap-sheet. “May 21st. Why?”
“I was thinking about the Ridley murders. They took place on the 30th of July that year, which rules Ryan out of the running for them.”
“But not Ryan’s younger brother Gavin,” said Paul, producing a mu
gshot of Gavin Mahon – crewcut hair a few shades lighter than his brother’s, narrower face, same deep-set deadpan eyes, but a faint devil-may-care smile on his lips.
“He looks about thirty-five.”
“Close. He’s thirty-four.”
“So he would have been what? Fourteen or fifteen in ’98. A bit young to be committing a triple murder.”
“Maybe he was a child prodigy,” Steve put in with a humourless little laugh.
“Neither of the brothers has a history of sexual assault,” said Paul. “Besides the Ridleys were killed a good seven or eight years before Dennis Smith moved into Hawkshead Manor. The two cases would appear to be unconnected.”