by SJI Holliday
‘I know what she did.’ Polly sits down on the sofa. She unzips her boots and lets them fall off her feet. ‘I’ve just been speaking to Brett. He . . . he heard it all.’
‘Heard it?’ Quinn sits down beside her, takes one of her hands and squeezes it.
‘He was hiding in the airing cupboard. He heard Mandy and Katie fighting, then he heard Mandy run down the stairs and back outside. He waited for a bit before he came out – he looked in on Katie and he knew—’
‘Fucksake. That poor kid!’
‘He left after that. Went and found Brooke and said he wanted to skive off for the morning. He didn’t tell her why and she didn’t ask. The two of them went up town on the bus and mooched about in the Waverley Market until lunchtime. Both of them ignoring the calls from friends, and from Mandy – assuming they were going to get into trouble for bunking off . . . they only came back because one of their friends texted them saying that something had happened to Katie.’
‘And Brett knew what had happened, and he kept it all in? He must’ve been terrified . . .’
‘I think he just blocked it out, somehow. He was focusing on other things – he knew he needed to get the insect board back from Pete – he still hasn’t, incidentally, but that doesn’t really matter now; he had that at the forefront of his mind, and it helped him to forget about Katie – to push it away. But eventually it had to come out. It didn’t take that long, really. I’ve seen things like this happen before. Sometimes it can take months, even years for a child to pull back that memory and deal with it.’
Quinn rubs a hand across his short hair. ‘I’m sure he was terrified of Mandy, too. If he worked out what had happened – even if he didn’t see it – he’d be scared of her finding out that he knew. Christ, no wonder Mandy was such a mess. I mean, I always knew she had this awful temper, but I never thought . . . She did things to me, you know.’
‘Me too,’ Polly whispers. ‘I can still remember that day at the swings.’
‘I remember seeing you after it. You were bright red. Beetroot. And trying so hard not to cry. Mandy was sneering. She never did tell me what happened . . .’
Polly takes a breath, blows it out hard. ‘I was on my own, just swinging. I was miles away – off somewhere in a little daydream in my head. Probably something to do with a boy, but I can’t remember who. Funny how little things disappear from your memory like that, isn’t it? Anyway, I felt an arm around my neck. The swing juddered to a stop. I tried to turn round, but I was trapped. Two arms. Then the swing twisted round and I was face to face with her. She laughed in my face. I thought she was going to spit on me, but she didn’t. She was popping gum in her mouth. I can still smell it. Strawberry Hubba Bubba. Then I was facing away from her again. Then I was looking at her again. She kept twisting. She laughed more when I begged her to stop. I felt the chains crushing my chest first, then my throat. I begged and begged. Please stop it, Mandy, I’ll give you anything you want. It just made her laugh more.’ She feels Quinn squeezing her hand again. ‘Then I couldn’t beg. I started to cough. I felt like my whole head was on fire. And still she kept twisting . . .’ Polly feels a tear run down her cheek. ‘I really thought I was going to die.’
Quinn is silent. His jaw is set and she can tell he is angry.
‘I asked her what happened. She said you fell off the swing . . .’
Polly makes a hmph sound and shakes her head. ‘There was a flash of something in her eyes, just before she let go. It wasn’t fear. It was . . . it was excitement. She let go and stepped away. The swing spun round fast until it was untwisted and I fell off into a heap underneath. I was gasping, choking. Holding at my throat . . . and you know what I said? I said “thank you” – like I was thanking her for not making it any worse, or something. I don’t know. She laughed then, and kicked me in the stomach. Then she bent down and said, “If you tell anyone about this, I’ll kick your head in, you stupid stuck-up bitch” – and then she walked away. I suppose that’s when you turned up.’
‘Aye. Fucksake. I’m so sorry, Polly. I had no idea . . . If I’d known she was that bad – that evil – I don’t think I’d have stayed with her. Christ, I’m as much of a mug as you – I was with her while she went and had three bairns to two different dads. Well, seeing her on and off. Some stretches were longer than others. I don’t think she actually cheated on me when we were properly together, but who knows.’
‘I suppose she’ll get the help she needs now, at least.’
‘Help? I hope she gets battered to a pulp in prison. They don’t tend to like people who kill their kids in there. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.’
Polly curls her feet up onto his lap and leans into the arm of the couch. ‘I don’t want to talk about any more violence, Quinn. There’s been far too much of that lately. Can you do me a favour?’
‘Anything . . .’
‘Go and get Drummer. I could do with some pet therapy right now.’
‘You’ll regret that when he starts licking your face and trying to sniff your fanny . . .’ He lifts her feet onto the couch and disappears through to the kitchen.
Polly closes her eyes, and smiles.
47
Louise
‘You can’t do this, you know. You can’t question him on his own like that. He’s not . . . Pete’s not like other boys. You lot know that. Isn’t he supposed to have an appropriate adult or something? Why didn’t anyone phone me? How come I had to hear about this from some sneering little bastard who decided to phone and tell me?’
‘What sneering little bastard was this, Mr Brotherstone? I hope you’re not implying that one of our officers—’
‘No. That’s what I just said, isn’t it? Where’s Gray? He knows Pete. He knows what I mean.’ He scratches at his arm, distractedly. The raised voices of earlier have faded away. He’s just a dad now, looking out for his son. Louise would feel sorry for Martin, if she hadn’t heard all about him. Heard what he was like. He wasn’t the best father, she knew that for a fact.
‘Detective Sergeant Gray is busy right now.’
‘Oh, Detective, is it? When did that happen? Going up in the world, is he? Bored of hanging about on the streets trying to pick up innocent people and accuse them of things they haven’t done, is he? Off to the town, detecting things now, is he?’
Louise holds in a sigh. He really is an odious man.
‘No, he’s here. He’s just finishing up in the other room. Look, why don’t you sit down? I’ll bring you a cup of tea. Pete is fine, I can assure you. He has Rob Bates looking after him. I’ve heard he’s very good . . .’ She’d asked PC Singh just after she’d come out of the interview room. He’d filled her in, briefly. Rob was the partner of Craig McNeill. A friend of Jo Barker. Sort of. He’d managed to get her a very lenient sentence, despite the enormity of her crimes. Mitigating circumstances. She ended up with five years. She’d already served nine months. Louise gave it another two before she was out on parole. She wondered why Rob hadn’t been involved with Marie Bloomfield’s case, seeing that Davie knew him. But maybe Marie hadn’t wanted that. Maybe Marie hadn’t wanted a lenient sentence. She wanted to ask Davie about that, but it was still too raw. Her sentence had only been a couple of months ago. Complicated, what with her brother and all.
‘Who was it that called you, Mr Brotherstone? Did you want to make a complaint?’
He waves her away. ‘A tea would be nice. Thank you. I’m sorry. It’s just that Pete . . . well, he’s been through a lot.’
Louise stares at him. ‘You know why he’s here? What he’s confessed to?’
Brotherstone scratches at his arm again. The skin is red, inflamed. Eczema or psoriasis. Louise doesn’t really understand the difference, but she knows both can flare up when someone is stressed. Brotherstone has good reason to be stressed.
‘He didn’t do it, you have to believe me . . . Look, people don’t really get Pete. Not like I do. He’s always been different. We had so many tests done when he was a kid, but the
y were all inconclusive. He had all these odd little quirks: behavioural issues, they called them. I know some people call him slow, or they think he’s autistic, but it’s not that. If it was that, I’d know how to deal with things. Well, I could try at least. With Pete – it’s always so difficult. I’m never really sure what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling. He takes some things so literally. And he can be quick to judge. He gets it wrong, though. A lot. His mind doesn’t reason things out properly. He thinks before he acts, then his mind seems to shut down. He’s done some stupid things, I know that, but he’s not bad. Not really.’ He pauses. Sighs. ‘Maybe they’d know what was wrong with him now, if we took him back in. If I did, I mean. My wife’s dead now. I don’t know if you know that, Detective . . .’
‘Jennings. DC Jennings. Call me Louise, please.’ She takes him by the elbow and guides him to the bank of chairs at the other end of the reception hall, away from the prying eyes and ears. She’d take him into another room, but there isn’t one free right now, and she hardly thinks he’d like to chat to her in a cell. Besides, that’d be taken too, in a minute. Once Pete was processed and sent through there. She sighs. Nothing is ever cut and dried, is it? She’d been set to condemn Pete, and his father, but after hearing what he’s said about his son, she’s not so sure any more. She realises that she feels sorry for him. For both of them. What a mess. ‘He’s confessed to pushing Hayley Marsh into the river, Mr Brotherstone. The girl is dead. Whether it was an accident or not is yet to be determined. But I can assure you, we’re looking after him. He’s safe here.’
Brotherstone looks at her, confusion in his eyes. ‘Hayley Marsh? But I thought . . . the Taylor girl . . . he wasn’t—’
‘No. No. We have someone else in custody for that, Mr Brotherstone. We’re still trying to get to the bottom of it all.’
Brotherstone leans forwards, drops his head into his hands. She lays a hand on his back, not sure if she should or not, but the man is distressed. Whatever he’s like as a father. Whatever his son has done.
‘Please,’ he says, ‘I can’t lose another child.’
Louise closes her eyes. It’s true, then. About Katie.
‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ she says. It sounds inadequate. It sounds like nothing. But right now, it’s all she has.
THURSDAY
48
Neil
He buys a packet of chocolate digestives, a couple of newspapers and a bottle of Coke from the small shop inside the entrance of the hospital. He was going with the usual grapes and flowers but, apart from them being useless and a bit clichéd, the shop didn’t sell either. He did ask about them, out of interest. Grapes were finished, apparently. And flowers not allowed on the wards. Besides, it might look a bit weird, him bringing a man flowers. He didn’t really know how these things worked.
He checks the ward details at the reception desk and is told that Mr Crisp is now out of ICU and recovering in a side-room off the general admissions ward, on the second floor, right at the back. Follow the lines, she’d said. Painted lines on the floor. Red, yellow, green, blue. He followed blue.
He hesitates outside the door, butterflies in his stomach now, thinking about it all. Wondering if he’s making a mistake. He’s about to turn round, dump the biscuits on the vacant nurses’ station that he passed on the way in. He reckoned they’d be pleased to come back from whatever it was they were doing – cleaning up sick, emptying bedpans, taking temperatures – to find a packet of biscuits waiting for them.
He can see the man through the slice of criss-crossed glass that’s built into the door. Why is it criss-crossed? Another of life’s mysteries. He’s about to leave when the man looks up, suddenly. Catches his eye. He smiles.
Neil takes a deep breath, inhaling that sickly sweet stench of disinfectant, cabbage and shit, and pushes the door open. No going back now.
‘Hello, Sir,’ he says. ‘I brought you these.’ He offers his wares but doesn’t see anywhere to put them. The pedestal next to the bed houses a water jug, a plastic tumbler. A glasses case. The swing-out table which is halfway across the bed still holds a tray with today’s lunch offering. Red crusting around a soup bowl; yellow crusting and crumbs on another suggest apple crumble and custard. His stomach roils. He’d forgotten about breakfast today.
‘Well, hello,’ the teacher says. ‘What a nice surprise. And please, it’s Lucas today, OK? Would you mind taking that tray off? Just lay it down near the door. Then I can see what goodies you’ve brought me.’ He sounds surprisingly chipper, despite half of his face being purple and yellow, his eye swollen half-shut. His voice is a bit croaky, though, and he’s struggling to sit up straighter, although he is trying his best. ‘Sorry,’ he says again. Neil can’t work out what it is he thinks he needs to apologise for. ‘Would you mind?’ He gestures towards a small plastic control box, which is attached to the bed by a white cable. ‘Don’t know how it ended up down there.’
Neil passes him the control, and Lucas clicks a couple of buttons until he has whirred himself into place, sitting upright. His sheet drops down his chest and Neil can see that he is heavily bandaged.
‘Cracked ribs,’ Lucas says. ‘Bugger to heal. The rest is just bruising. It’ll go away.’
Neil notices, seeing him in this state, just how young the man is. He’s not that much older than himself. Neil is nearly eighteen. This man is, what, twenty-five? He was Katie’s friend. Neil understands this now. She didn’t see him as a teacher, although perhaps she should’ve done.
‘Take a pew,’ Lucas says. He starts trying to open the biscuits, but he is struggling. His hands shake.
Neil sits down, takes the biscuits and opens them.
The other man smiles gratefully. A tear pops into the corner of his eye. ‘I was wondering if you were going to come in. I haven’t had many visitors, to be honest. I think people are . . . I don’t know. Maybe a bit embarrassed?’
‘Ashamed, more like,’ Neil mutters. ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Crisp. Lucas.’
Lucas shoots him a look. ‘You didn’t . . . you weren’t?’
Neil closes his eyes, lets out a long, slow sigh. ‘I was there. I’m not going to deny it. I got caught up in the whole . . . frenzy. Brooke—’
‘Ah yes. Brooke.’
‘I stood outside your house. I didn’t do anything to stop it.’
Lucas laughs and it turns into a coughing fit. He holds a hand up to Neil to signal that he’s OK. That it will pass.
Neil feels like the lowest of the low. Like a slug. Or something even worse than a slug, if there is such a thing on the earth that is more useless and disgusting than a slug. He is repulsed and revolted by himself. He wants to make things better. He’s not sure if this will help, but it’s a start.
‘What could you have done, Neil? You’d have ended up getting a kicking yourself. What would be the point in that? Besides, it’s my own stupid fault. I panicked, running off home from school on Monday. I should’ve gone straight to the police, told them I was scared. Told them I’d been stupid. I let Katie get too close, I know that now.’
Neil shakes his head. ‘No. You were her friend. There’s nothing wrong with that.’
Lucas sighs. ‘I was her teacher. I should have kept the lines drawn more clearly. But she was such a great girl, you know? I wanted so much for her. I wanted her to do well. I was so excited when she got the place at King’s.’ He pauses, and Neil sees a shadow fall across his face. His smile fades. ‘But I was scared too. Brooke was causing trouble. I should’ve gone to see Jon earlier . . .’
‘Brooke lives to cause trouble, Lucas. I know that better than most. I got sucked in by her too. I’m not proud of myself. Anyway, I’m not going to dwell on things. I just wanted to come and see you. See if there was anything you needed.’
‘I’m fine. Really. I’ll be home in a few days. Take a bit of time off work. I have a long queue of journalists who want to come and interview me – ask me how it felt to be targeted by vigilantes. Plus, the police aren’t
going to leave me alone. They want me to name names.’
‘Are you going to?’
He chuckles. ‘What am I? Mad?’
Neil smiles. He takes a couple of biscuits out of the packet, hands one to Lucas. Eats the other in two bites.
‘It’s good that you came in today, actually,’ Lucas says. ‘I wanted to give you something.’
‘Me? What?’
‘It’s in my wallet, inside my jeans. On the top shelf of that little pedestal cupboard thing. Can you take it out for me, please?’
Neil opens the cupboard and takes out the jeans. He finds the wallet in the back pocket. Hands it to Lucas.
‘No, open it. Inside. It’s in the back part, there’s a little popper button thing. Do you see?’
Neil fumbles with the wallet. Manages to open the popper. He pulls out a piece of folded cardboard. He hears her voice in his head: Just think, baby! Me and you… we can get a nice place with this, can’t we? Even in London . . . Five grand, baby! I can’t wait, I can’t bloody wait! I love you so much, Neil. We’re going to have a great fucking life, and we can forget this place, forget all of it . . .
A tear rolls down his cheek, splashes onto his hand. ‘Katie’s scratch card! But, how did . . .?’
‘She called me on Sunday. Asked me if I would look after it for her. That’s why I was at her house that day. I wasn’t keen. That’s a lot of money. I didn’t want to be responsible for it. But I realised she needed it to be kept somewhere safe, until she worked out what she was going to do. I told the police it was in a kitchen drawer. They think it burned in that pathetic attempt at a fire—’
‘And?’ He doesn’t even want to ask, but somehow he does. ‘What are you going to do with it now? No one else knows about it, you know. I didn’t tell anyone. I promised Katie. It was the one thing I promised and I swear I didn’t let her down.’