The child rolls across the floor, legs kicking and arms flailing. Her shrieks are deafening. My fellow customers cringe. The proprietors appear at the counter, obviously wondering just how far they can legally intervene. The strap of my handbag is hooked by one flailing, grubby paw and the bag is hurled across the tiles, scattering my belongings through the pool of liquid and shards of glass.
‘Harry, stay on the bloody phone or I’ll send Brittany back to you on the next plane!’
I leap to my feet and loom over the wretched child, who has settled into her Academy Award performance with practised ease. The mother is wringing her hands and bleating.
‘Shut up!’ I roar at the top of my lungs. Everybody freezes. The brat gapes at me, tonsils on display. I address the mother in my iciest voice, combined with my favourite death stare. ‘Madam, you will control your child. If you’re going to give in and give her another ice cream, which is what I suspect is your normal way of rewarding her for this type of behaviour, then go ahead. Failing that, get out. We do not need to listen to this appalling racket! Any more of this and I will have you arrested for disturbing the peace.’
She is so shocked that she doesn’t think to question my authority. In the ensuing silence, I stalk through the glass, scoop up my sticky belongings and stuff them into the soaked handbag. I dump it on my table and snatch a handful of serviettes from the dispenser and wipe it, focusing all the while on the pair, like a hawk on a clutch of chickens. A rustle of something which could be approval goes around the room. I can hear Harry’s voice squawking from my mobile.
The child’s red-faced mother gathers up her things and drags her sour-faced daughter off the premises, watching me out of the corner of her eyes like a fear-crazed horse. I glance around at the relieved faces in the cafe, nod acknowledgement, pick up my mobile and sit down. For once, I will be happy if this roomful of witnesses says they’ve ‘seen nothing.’
‘You were saying, Harry?’
‘What was all that yelling?’ he asks, momentarily diverted from the matter at hand.
‘A child having a tantrum in the cafe. Now, what am I supposed to tell Brittany? Don’t you care that you’re going to hurt her a great deal?’
‘Hurt her? You must be joking!’ he scoffs. ‘That’s impossible! No, you keep her there, Susan. If you won’t co-operate, I can make sure our final financial settlement is delayed.’
This is the man I loved enough to marry? The fun-loving hunk who clapped onto me at a pub fourteen years ago and wouldn’t be shaken off because he said he couldn’t live without me? I can’t give any quarter in this fight. Although Brit’s revving up for revenge on David and me, I can’t bear to see my child’s pain and disillusionment when she finds out about Harry’s rejection of her.
‘Just try it. Your behaviour is outrageous, Harry. You and Mary Jello have a lot to answer for. I’ve discovered how you two have been intercepting David’s letters and gifts for the girls. You stole his children. I’ll bet you would have prevented me receiving his maintenance as well if it had been possible!’
‘Not bloody likely, Susan. At least I didn’t pay for their music and ballet lessons and those endless school camps. Maguire did!’ he crows. If I could lay my hands on a knife or a gun and Harry was standing in front of me, I’d take him down right now. Two months ago this man almost caused me an emotional collapse. All right, Danny Grey’s death played the major part, but crying over Harry as well? Oh my God, what was I thinking?
‘Why should I be the one who has to tell her you don’t want her anymore? It’s your decision, not mine.’ I’ll be dealing with the aftermath.
Then Harry, true to form, laid it on the line. ‘They’re your girls, Susan, and if it wasn’t for Mary, those girls wouldn’t have had nor done half of what they’ve experienced.’
Harry was only too happy to enjoy the benefits my salary brought to our family over the years. ‘Harry, stop the guilt trip. I’ve always tried to take them to sport and parties and shopping, not to mention appointments, whenever I could. And it’s not as though I joined the police force after I met you!’
He is silent for a moment, while he gathers his arguments into one tight, nasty jibe. ‘If I’d known what I was getting into with you, Susan, I’d have found someone else with children. I used to think David was a fool to leave you, but now I understand why. You’re too much.’ With that, he hangs up.
I close my mobile and stare into space, exhaustion creeping over me like a fog. Now Brittany is superfluous to his requirements. David and I need to tackle this together. I fear the fallout from Harry’s rejection of my daughter is not only going to break her heart, but destroy her credibility. She’ll think she’s lost face with the three of us. I wonder if Marli can help with this. All around me, the lunch time crowd is arriving. I decide to go to the station and see if David is there.
Gorgeous Adam Winslow greets me at the front counter. ‘Mrs Prescott, how are you? Mum was going to ring you today. I think she wanted to ask if you are going to the funerals with her tomorrow.’ A social occasion?
‘I’ve been out all morning, Adam. I’ll ring her later. Is Da–DI Maguire in?’
‘I’ll find out, ma’am, if you’d like to take a seat?’
The reception area is bare, apart from the usual rogues gallery of ‘missing and wanted’, notices about licensing. A teenage girl is preparing to have her photo taken for what is obviously her first driver’s licence. She runs her fingers through her spiked hair, gives me a ‘What?’ look, grins and puts her cosmetic pouch into her shoulder bag.
Adam Winslow lifts the counter flap for me to go into the office. ‘He’s down the hall, last room on the right, Mrs Prescott,’ he says, and turns back to the girl at the counter, who eyes him like a python sizing up a succulent mouse. Her tongue flickers over her gleaming lips. Adam’s shoulders straighten as he moves behind the camera.
David pops out to greet me. My heart gives a giddy jolt; sexual energy sends delicious shards of excitement into my erogenous zones. My breasts tingle, warmth spreads in my nether regions. I can feel the blush starting around my waist. A sharp memory of his beautiful, tanned hands moving over my naked body causes me to almost forget why I’m here, but his brilliant blue eyes show no more than calm pleasure in my company. The teasing, laughing companion drinking cocoa in the kitchen at one o’clock this morning has vanished like Scotch mist.
He ushers me into the Incident Room, gives me a chair and offers me a drink, which I decline. He then tells me that Senior Constable John Glenwood is conscious, but unable to say who caused his accident. ‘He hasn’t remembered who he was going to see that night, but the doctors seem confident he’ll regain his memory soon. He’s not speaking properly, but he did manage to get across to us something about a green light.’ He looks puzzled.
There is something I should –‘Could he be talking about a laser beam? The perp had to make him swerve somehow.’
David’s eyes widen. ‘You know, that could well be it. You’re a genius, love!’ David has always given credit where it’s due. He leaps at the whiteboard; the pen squeaks as he writes the word beside John Glenwood’s name on the timeline and circles it. ‘We’re not letting it out that he’s out of the coma. We need to wait until he remembers something. If he does then we might set a trap. Whoever this bastard is, knows if Glenwood talks, he’s toast. The doctors believe he’ll remember faster if he’s not pushed. Young Smenton is showing signs of coming back to us as well, but he’s not awake yet. Did you get anything useful from Briony Feldman?’
As I recount my conversation with her, David takes notes and then pulls another whiteboard out from behind the current one. ‘Well, that may confirm the 1947 connection,’ he says, as he writes the date at the top of the board, then starts adding the players.
After we have had a run-through of the information on the white boards, he launches into their second interview with Penelope Harlow, finishing with an enthusiastic account of their visit to the sheep sheds. ‘You sho
uld have seen those sheep dressed in pjs, Susan. When this is all over I must arrange to take you and the girls out to the farm to see the operation. It’s really something!’
Could the perpetrators Edna was trying to tell me about still be alive? If so, it would certainly cause a scandal. The media would love it. Again something tugs in the recesses of my mind and then vanishes. I’m suddenly aware that David has pinned the note onto the board and is staring at me. I’ve been ‘wool-gathering. My tummy gurgles, breaking the silence.
‘Come on, I’ll take you to lunch! Where shall we go?’ He finds a piece of paper and writes something on it. ‘I’m leaving a note for Pete.’ He flings the pen down, grabs his leather jacket and picks up my bag.
‘Oh, Cafe 21 will do,’ I answer. This will be my opportunity to tell him about Harry’s call.
The young constables are agog as we walk through the station. David advises them of where we are going, then tucks my arm into his and marches me across the road to the cafe. We pause at the counter and order a salmon salad each, his with chips, and cold drinks. He opts for a table at the back of the room against the far wall where the down lights are few and far between. He glances around warily as we settle in our chairs. What’s he up to and who is he avoiding? Am I camouflage for something or someone? ‘Now tell me what’s bothering you, Susan? Something else has happened, so what is it?’
‘Harry rang this morning. It seems Brit has become an inconvenience.’
‘Just what did the prick say?’
As I recounted my argument with Harry, David’s expression darkened. ‘You mean he had the hide to demand you keep Brit here after dragging her away with him in the first place?’
‘That’s right,’ I replied, ‘and she’s going to be heartbroken now.’
‘Yeah, poor little devil and she’ll take it out on us.’
‘Well, she’s taking her angst out on us anyway, so what’s new?’
‘You know what he’s doing, don’t you, Susan? He’s a cuckoo in someone else’s nest again. I’ve a good mind to find out who the woman’s ex-husband is and warn him. When they get back here to Queensland, we’ll find out what’s going on. We must make sure Brit knows we want her and it’s no hardship to keep her with us,’ he promises, not altogether honestly. Our lunch arrives and we tuck in, discussing the case amicably, but not reaching any conclusion. We’ve finished eating, when a shadow falls over the table.
‘Well, isn’t this cosy, dearling? You knew I was going to the motel to wait for you. Are you going to introduce me?’ The tone of her voice could slice rocks in half.
Dearling? Good grief! She’s all blonde hair and cheekbones, intimidatingly beautiful and obviously furious. If looks could kill, I’d be splattered across the wall. Hurt and anger rip through me, but I’ve only myself to blame for allowing myself to be sucked back into David’s sexy charm.
‘No need, I’m leaving now.’ I get to my feet with what I hope is dignity and stalk out. Let him explain why he has committed himself to spending nights with his ex-wife and daughters.
CHAPTER 30
Being No-one
Senior Constable Glenwood
Friday: mid-morning.
A blob of grey mist grew into a patch of light, where the sun shone through the window and struck the wall. His gaze wandered across the navy curtains, paused at the red flowers marching along the hems, following the uppermost line of the chairs and trolley to the bed. Puzzled, he examined the contours of his body, solid under the coverlet. Where was he and why would he be in bed during the day? He glanced at the doorway, but no one was available to enlighten him. Something slid into his mind, but vanished before he could identify it.
A mighty wallop of pain hit, sucking him into a black vortex from which there was no escape. He moaned through clenched teeth, stiffened his legs and pressed his arms down hard onto the mattress. It was some time before his mind managed to focus again. The pain eased into dull throbbing.
‘Maybe I have the flu? It wouldn’t be surprising with this bloody headache.’ His head might fall off any second. He lifted his hand to the constriction above his eyes. A bandage. He fingered its rough contours, tracing the outline of his head, hesitating when he reached the bulge at the back, which extended over his right ear.
An accident? Had to be. How?
He closed his eyes and willed the pain to recede. He became aware of a regular electronic beeping coming from beside the bed. He opened his eyes again and tried to turn his head, but the pain screamed back. He must have made a sound, because a dark-haired woman bent over him. She leaned so closely, he could smell the chocolate she had been eating and see where her lipstick bled into the cracks of her mouth. Her floral perfume made him want to sneeze and sent his stomach roiling.
‘John! You’re awake!’
How observant. Full marks. Who the hell are you? And who’s John?
His limbs felt heavy and he needed to pee. He tried to hold it, becoming distressed when he realised he couldn’t. Humiliated, he waited for the warm, wet to pour over his bare legs. When nothing happened, he panicked and reached for his penis, but the movement caused a sharp jab to the back of his hand.
He moved his head gingerly to the side. Tubes ran from under the heavy bandage which turned his hand into a giant boxing glove, welded his palm to a board and led to a bottle on a stand above. Further down, another thick tube snaked from under the bedclothes and disappeared over the side of the bed.
Sensation crawled back into his body. I’ve got a catheter plugged into my dick and an IV in my arm. He couldn’t decide whether to cry tears of relief or pain. People flooded around his bed, a lad came and shone a light into his eyes.
‘How are you feeling?’ asked the nurses, as they poked and prodded his bandaged head. The dark-haired woman had disappeared.
Someone pressed a tube against his ear for a second, stood back and made a notation on a clipboard. The wide sleeve of the white cotton gown he wore was pushed back, and his arm threatened to explode, as a blood pressure cuff enthusiastically crushed his bicep in a python-grip. It held for endless seconds then eased, far too slowly.
‘How’s your head, John? Want something for it?’ asked a high school lad wearing a stethoscope around his neck.
‘Hm ... who ... are you?’
The ten year-old doctor frowned and leaned close enough for John to smell mint on his breath. ‘Jason Hardgreaves. You’ve known me since I was a kid. In fact, you booted me home when I played truant on several occasions. You can’t remember though, can you, John? Look straight ahead, that’s right.’
The light bobbed around in front of him hurting his eyes.
‘Who am I?’ he croaked, unable to remember Jason what’s-his-name, never mind his own identity.
‘You’re Senior Constable John Glenwood. You had an accident in your four-wheel drive and got a knock on your head.’
I’m a cop? Why can’t I remember? What happened for chrissakes? My car?
The doctor took the clipboard from the nurse, scribbled something and lowered his voice to a murmur. She nodded and walked swiftly away. He laid his hand on John’s arm. ‘You mustn’t worry. Everything will come back, especially if you don’t force yourself to remember. We’ll give you a dose for the pain and you can rest.’ He smiled and left the room.
‘We’ll? What’s this ‘we’? How many nurses does it take to give an injection? How many antelopes to change a light globe?’ John thought hazily. He must have heard that one somewhere.
His eyelids closed, only to flutter open when a voice screeched in his ear.
‘John? John? I was so worried!’ I don’t remember being John. I’m no-one.
The dark-haired woman leant over him again, pawing at his hands. He closed his eyes against the onslaught of her emotion. Someone asked her to leave him be, he needed to rest. A thought edged into his brain. He grasped it for a moment, but it slipped away again.
He opened his eye and saw a green kidney-shaped dish on the side cabinet
next to his pillow. He followed the efficient, gloved hands, as they fiddled with the tube running from an IV bag high above to the back of his hand, and injected liquid into the line.
‘Thank God,’ he muttered, closing his eyes. Shut out the world, you need to remember ... blessed darkness descended.
When he awoke, the patch of sunlight had darkened to a bruised thumbprint on the wall. He frowned and winced, as the pain returned. His stomach growled. Agitated movement alerted him to the dark-haired woman, ensconced in the chair nearby, knitting. Who’s for the guillotine?
He watched, terrified, as she thrust her work into a basket down by her chair, leapt to her feet and bustled over to him. ‘Darling! You’re awake. Oh John, I thought we’d lost you!’ she cried, her voice sliced through his head like a sabre. He tried to ‘shush’ her with a wave of his hand. She grasped it, crushing the IV line probe. He squeaked but, oblivious to his distress, her grip tightened.
A hoarse shout came from somewhere–himself. A uniformed police officer rushed into the room, looked wildly around, thrust his head into the bathroom and whirled back to face the bed, where a flood of medical staff gathered, checking drip lines and inspecting the catheter. John struggled to free his hand from the woman’s rapacious grasp, but her grip only got tighter. Tears flowed down his cheeks and he felt himself void. Finally he managed to gasp, ‘Let go, for fuck’s sake, let go! You’re hurting me, damn it!’
Everyone stopped still and looked at him. The woman dropped his hand and burst into tears.
‘John, I’m so sorry,’ she sobbed, and collapsed into the arms of a nurse, who led her out of the room. John could hear her wailing outside, begging to be let back in. No, no ... The doctor picked up his hand and gently unwound the bloodied bandage. The cannula had pierced the wall of his vein and deeply penetrated his flesh. He needed to call on every ounce of self-control he possessed not to scream. Amid a chorus of comforting words, they extracted the IV line, dressed his hand and administered more sedation and pain-killers.
The Celibate Mouse Page 21