Mud Pie

by Emma Lee Bole

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Hospital

  In hospital I lost track of time. Lying on a trolley in an alcove of A and E, a halfway house between a corridor and a room, I was gazing at the complex arrangement of curtains around me and trying not to think about Hugh. Frank sat in a plastic chair nearby. We’d been having a flinching, staccato conversation, every observation going ouch as we tried to work things out.

  “Fizzing and hissing,” I said. “That was the goose.”

  “And chicken legs. The house of Baba Yaga.”

  “I don’t know what Baba Yaga is.”

  “Old Russian story,” said Frank soberly. “I read it as a child. It gave me nightmares, too. She was a witch who lived in a house on chicken legs. As I remember, children were her favourite food.”

  “You had a more cultured childhood than me,” I said. After a while I added, “Becki once told him she was a witch. She said she was going to put a spell on him.”

  “And she did.”

  After that there seemed nothing more to say, until Grimshaw arrived.

  “Not stitched up yet?” He pulled up another plastic chair.

  “I’m all done,” I said. “Three cuts, twenty-one stitches. They put me through in record time.” The nurse on the desk had recognised Frank from the last time he’d brought KK in. Apparently she also knew Sue, now on orthopaedic, and had chatted gaily to Frank about soft furnishings as we waited for the doctor. I’d been grateful for the distraction. My shoulder was hurting like buggery by then, but my mouth and brain seemed to have gone numb.

  The wounds were bloody but shallow; nothing to worry about, the doctor assured me while she put my shoulder to sleep and stitched me up. She expected to see far worse later on tonight, she added, sighing as she checked her watch. By the time Grimshaw arrived, the anaesthetic was just thinking about wearing off.

  “Has the police surgeon been yet?” asked Grimshaw.

  “No,” said Frank. “She’s to stay lying down, and not be agitated.” This was a warning.

  “I don’t get agitated,” I said.

  “Is it painful?” inquired Grimshaw.

  “Not quite. They’re going to bring me some paracetamol.”

  “Nice of them. Are you up to talking?”

  “No,” said Frank.

  “Briefly,” cajoled Grimshaw. “AnneMarie’s already made a statement about the men who attacked you. If you can just give us an outline, we can fill in the details later.”

  I gave him the outline. It seemed hardly relevant: it wasn’t the struggle by the wheelie bins that set me shaking and my stomach churning, so that I had to reach for the kidney shaped bowl by the bed.

  “Steady,” said Frank, and held the bowl for me. Luckily I didn’t need it. Bad enough being prone on a trolley with my big feet sticking up under the blanket, without vomiting in front of Grimshaw as well.

  I didn’t want to talk about the next bit. But I knew he had to. So I steeled myself to ask, “What’s happening to Hugh?”

  Grimshaw carefully smoothed out the creases in his trousers. He took his time.

  “He’s effectively confessed to Becki’s murder; if you can call it a confession. They were waiting for the psychiatrist to arrive when I left.”

  “He was having flashbacks,” I said, “from a bad trip.”

  “Very bad.”

  “Only Hugh doesn’t do drugs,” said Frank.

  “He must have on at least one occasion,” said Grimshaw.

  I took a deep breath. “In his youth,” I said. “He had a cocaine habit, years ago. He had a rough time, but Charlotte helped him clean up his act. He’d been clean for, oh, five years – until his birthday party.”

  “But he says he wasn’t aware of taking anything at the party.”

  “It was in Tamara’s drink,” I said. “I’m sure of it. Tamara ordered a Hayley’s comet and Becki made it for her. But Tamara had annoyed her so she spiked it with something.”

  “How can you be sure of that?” demanded Grimshaw.

  “Because she told me she was putting in some extra ingredients. I thought she just meant fudge sauce and double cream. It looked revolting. But I think Becki put in a tab of LSD, and maybe something else too. Tamara didn’t like it and Hugh drank it.”

  Grimshaw looked thunderstruck. “LSD? How the hell do you know? Have you been withholding information from us?”

  I shook my head. “I only know Becki had some LSD because I found her purse some time later. It had two tabs in it and some other stuff. Diazepam and E.”

  “You should have told us about this! What did you do with it?”

  “Yeah, sorry. I flushed the stuff down the toilet.”

  “What the hell?”

  “Yes, all right, I know.”

  Frank stood up. “Don’t shout,” he said. “She’s not to be agitated. Just listen, will you?”

  “That’s wilful destruction of evidence,” said Grimshaw, “and where the hell did you find her purse anyway? It wasn’t in the club.”

  “Someone had borrowed it,” I said.

  “You?”

  I shrugged. I hadn’t been able to work out that part of my story while I lay on my trolley. A shrug would have to do, for now.

  It infuriated Grimshaw, though. “And did the purse go down the toilet too?”

  “I threw it in the wheelie-bin at the club. Might still be there, come to think of it.”

  “We’ll have to check. Christ almighty!”

  “I didn’t throw everything away, though,” I said. “There was a little packet of powder that I kept.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I didn’t know what it was. I thought it might be coke or ketamine, but I couldn’t tell. Whatever it was, Becki might have put it in Tamara’s drink as well. She was really pissed off with Tamara because Tamara had been snooty with her.”

  “Snooty? Is that all? asked Grimshaw, incredulous.

  “She wanted revenge. She didn’t like being put down,” I said. “And I think she was high herself that night. She wouldn’t have cared.”

  “Tox tests found amphetamines in her bloodstream,” he said grimly.

  “And Hugh drank Tamara’s drink? The whole lot?” asked Frank.

  “Pretty much. You saw him that night. He drank everything he was given.” And Hugh was susceptible to bad trips, I thought. It wasn’t the first one he’d suffered.

  “We’ll test your powder. And we’ll talk to Tamara,” said Grimshaw, through gritted teeth.

  Frank shook his head disbelievingly. “Can you really murder somebody on a bad trip? Hugh couldn’t truly have done it, could he? I mean, he might imagine he did, but surely...?”

  “Some drugs could make a raving maniac out of a judge,” said Grimshaw, “and they’d not remember a thing about it afterwards. I’ve seen someone who tried to cut his own arm off under the influence. He thought it was a snake. He nearly succeeded, as well.”

  I swallowed, remembering how Hugh had once accused Charlotte and me of poisoning him, spying on him, giving him the evil eye. The smashed lights and broken glasses in the sleek designer kitchen: the telephone flung through the window. . I’d had the horrible feeling Hugh might have thrown himself out, too, if we hadn’t been there.

  But Charlotte had saved him, pulled him back into the daylight. I thought he’d left the nightmares far behind. And now they’d crept back to pounce on him.

  “But to not remember anything about it?” persisted Frank.

  “Once all that alcohol kicked in, Hugh wouldn’t remember a thing,” I said. “Not until the fight and the blood triggered a major flashback. He already knew something was wrong, though. He looked so unhappy – tired and worried.”

  “That’s true,” said Frank, “but then everyone was worried. I thought it was just hitting him harder because it was his party.”

  “Me too. And because that’s the sort of guy he was. He cared. Charlotte thought he was depressed, but I should have realised it was more than that. He l
ooked the way he used to look in the coke days: I remember thinking I hadn’t seen him so wretched in years. I wonder how long he’d been having flashbacks?” I felt dreadful. “Oh, hell, that’s what he wanted me for.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think Hugh knew he’d taken something, and he wanted to talk to me about it. It was him who followed me up Brocklow that night. Probably wanted my advice. After all, I’m an expert on bloody drugs, aren’t I?” I said bitterly.

  Frank, still holding the kidney bowl, was looking stunned. So sheltered he was, I thought, until his steady gaze reminded me that he knew plenty about disaster if not drugs. “You’re an expert?”

  “By proxy. Hugh must have been going out of his mind. Oh, God, has anyone told Charlotte?”

  “An officer has gone round to the parents’ house.”

  “He’ll need Charlotte.”

  “We’ll find her,” said Grimshaw. He checked his watch. “I’ve got to go. We’ll take a full statement when you’re stronger. Where are you living at the moment?”

  “The Portakabin at Frank’s yard,” I said.

  “In your state? Is that wise?”

  “Well, maybe back on the Woolpack’s floor then.”

  Frank cleared his throat. “Uh, no, she’ll be at the house in Brocklow.”

  Grimshaw looked from me to Frank and back again, and shook his head. “I suppose I’ll find you at one or the other,” he said sceptically, and left.

  “Nan’s house?” I asked Frank. “Am I moving back, then?”

  “Aren’t you? It was Hugh who scared you out. No reason not to move back in now. And you can’t sleep on a camp bed with those stitches.”

  “Well, maybe for a bit.”

  “Only one thing,” said Frank. He put the bowl down on the floor at last. He looked embarrassed. I’d never seen Frank embarrassed before. “Any problem if I move back in as well?” I must have gawped, because he quickly added, “Second bedroom. I’ll clear it out.”

  “Well, it’s your house. Only won’t you and Sue want the big bedroom? The other’s not really a double.”

  “Not Sue. Just me.”

  “Just you?”

  He sighed. “Sue wasn’t happy about me getting arrested.”

  “But you didn’t do anything!”

  “That was the trouble. I didn’t protest my innocence loudly enough. She thought that meant I was guilty. It sort of set off an argument,” said Frank, “that started with trust and ended up about Dean.”

  “What about Dean?”

  “She said Dean had to go.”

  “Sue wants you to get rid of the motorbike?”

  “She wants me to get rid of the whole lot. Shed the memories. Put Dean behind me and move on. Which I can’t, and wouldn’t choose to if I could. So I’m going instead.”

  “Are you sure you’d want me sharing your house, though, Frank?”

  “It’s either you or KK, and he’s a big smelly bugger. I’d rather have you. KK can have the Portakabin.”

  “He’ll love that.”

  “He will. KK’s been looking remarkably relaxed of late,” said Frank thoughtfully. I felt my chest tighten as I wondered what he knew. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to share a house with Frank. It was too close. Frank would see right through me to my selfish, angry centre, if he didn’t already. I was scared he wouldn’t like what he saw.

  I was rescued from answering by the arrival of the police surgeon, which meant Frank had to retreat. She was a small, furry, vole-like lady who hummed under her breath while she posed me for her camera, saying “Good, good, that’s lovely, just one more,” as if I was a wedding.

  After that, Rhoda arrived to take us home. Home, for the moment, meant the Woolpack where she threw Arthur out of his snug and propped me up in it with cushions and a pint of Guinness.

  “Medicinal,” said Rhoda. “And you lot can keep out,” she ordered the group of players who had gathered at the bar. They were obedient and muted. Hugh’s guilt had put their capture of four small-time thugs into the shade.

  “I can’t believe it,” said Brendan heavily, “Of all people. Hugh wouldn’t hurt a fly. Didn’t even like tackling.”

  “And then he’d apologise,” said Frank.

  “I can’t believe he did it.”

  “It wasn’t Hugh that did it,” corrected Rhoda. “It was the drugs that made him do it, wasn’t it, Lannie?”

  “I guess,” I said. I felt very tired. My shoulder was hurting quite badly now, but I knew I shouldn’t take any more paracetamol. “Got any aspirin?”

  “I’ll find some,” said Brendan, going off to hunt behind the bar.

  “Poor Becki,” said Rhoda. “If she’d known what it would lead to. But it was all just a bit of fun with Becki.”

  “Some fun,” I said.

  “An escape,” said Frank. “A chance to be herself.”

  “I don’t suppose she meant any harm,” said Rhoda, “she just never thought of consequences. Even that time with Brendan, she never thought of consequences. Not at the time. She came round to apologise, you know.”

  “Did she? When?”

  “Not long before you arrived.” Rhoda gazed at the wall, seeing the past. “She meant well, but she put it badly. She pointed out to me just what a bitch I’d been. She was right, too, but she needn’t have been so abusive about it.”

  “Christ.”

  “Yes, typical Becki. I lost my temper, Brendan tried to throw her out and it all went pear-shaped. Then Arthur’s dog bit her and she gave him an earful too. But she meant well.”

  “A good-time girl,” I said bitterly. Just like Rhoda at that age… only totally different: reckless and profligate where Rhoda was shrewd and loyal.

  “She was,” agreed Rhoda. “She just didn’t think. Like when she wrote me that letter. You remember that? It gave me a terrible shock, that, getting a letter from the dead. I know you tried to persuade me it was meant for you, Lannie, but when I thought about it I knew it must have been from Becki.”

  “But it can’t have been! It was from…” I was about to protest about the Manchester postmark, when I remembered Becki’s airhead friend wittering on at the funeral. I never said goodbye because she was in Manchester office all that week…

  Oh, God, Becki, hot-tempered, impulsive Becki. I could just see her stabbing the brief message on a borrowed computer without stopping to think. Without understanding how ill Rhoda was: without admitting she’d done anything wrong in borrowing Rhoda’s husband.

  Yet trying, somehow, to put back all the pieces in their right places, not realising the long, long endgame that would follow from one selfish, careless move. Never learning that some choices were irrevocable, that the games she played were not games at all.

  “She thought she could do whatever she liked,” I said miserably.

  “Never grew up,” said Frank. “Never allowed to.”

  I knew he was thinking of her father. But the drugs do that. They don’t let you grow up. They keep you as heedless and demanding as a toddler, caught forever in the moment of the fix.

  “It taught me a lesson, though, that letter,” said Rhoda thoughtfully. “She was right in a way. I was making Brendan suffer just to get my own back. There was no need. Life’s too short.”

  Bob stuck his head around the door.

  “All right, Lannie?”

  “Out,” said Rhoda half-heartedly.

  “Two minutes,” said Bob, sidling in, more subdued than I’d ever seen him. KK and Stevo followed to offer commiserations, confirm the number and likely longevity of my stitches, and shake their heads over Hugh.

  “Poor bugger,” said Bob. “I can’t imagine how he must feel. I would have enjoyed the rumble if it hadn’t been for that.”

  “What happened to the four guys?”

  “Wheeled off in the wagon. The cops seemed to know a couple of them.”

  “Apparently we’ve got a full round of interviews coming up again,” said Stevo. “Club’s out of bou
nds.”

  “Poor old Niall,” I said.

  “Aye,” said KK flatly, “he’s steaming. Reckons getting one of his players convicted of murder will finally sound the club’s death knell.”

  “Nice to know he’s concerned,” said Frank.

  KK grimaced. “Always put himself at the centre of the universe. Too old to grow out of it now.”

  “Are you still living with Stevo?” I asked.

  “We’re an item,” said Stevo, putting his arm around KK. “He’s a wonderful cook.”

  “Frank’s portakabin,” said KK, “if the offer’s still open.” He looked at me.

  “Um, yes,” I said.

  “I’ll pay you a caretaking fee,” said Frank.

  “Bugger off.”

  “Time, gentlemen, please!” Rhoda was already shooing them away like a mother hen. As they trooped out, I caught at KK’s arm.

  “KK? How’s AnneMarie?”

  He paused. “Shaken. Not stirred. She’ll survive.”

  “She saved my life,” I said. “You can tell her that. I owe her. I hope Niall’s being nice to her. She needs help.”

  “A new husband would be a start,” said KK, “but she seems to have decided she’s stuck with the one she’s got. He’ll make sure she sees a doctor, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Yeah... Partly.” This wasn’t the right time to start describing our confrontation in the club, but KK said quietly,

  “I know. She’s had a hell of a time. He’s a great guy, my brother. Michelle thought so too. The daft thing is, he actually means well most of the time. He’s just so bloody self-centred he thinks whatever suits him must suit everyone.”

  “Even having affairs?”

  “Oh, he’d be devastated if AnneMarie left him. He’ll have a couple of weeks of guilty grovelling, but what happens next is up to her. I reckon she’ll stick with him regardless. But I’ll see she gets help.” KK hesitated, then put his hand on my head and bent down to give me a kiss. I saw Rhoda’s eyebrows shoot up as he went out.

  “Aye aye,” she said.

  “It’s not like that,” I said, though it plainly was, or had been. The trouble was, KK was very lustable after. Whereas Frank: well, I didn’t understand about Frank. I only knew that when he came in the room and looked at me, I felt like I’d just been tackled into touch.

  “Now then, have you contacted your family?” Rhoda was back into bustling mode. “Do you want me to ring anyone? Surely your parents ought to know you’ve been hurt?”

  “I expect Karl will hear about it. Nobody else needs to.”

  “But what about your mother and father?”

  I shook my head. “No. Not for twenty-one stitches.”

  I could see Rhoda looking at me oddly. “Nobody?”

  “The closest family I’ve got,” I said, “is Charlotte. Oh, Christ, poor Charlotte.” I felt my eyes fill up without warning. I’d not shed tears for Hugh, not yet, but the thought of Charlotte’s grief was unbearable. The brother she idolised. The apple of her father’s eye. I began to weep.

  “It’s just the shock,” said Rhoda’s voice. “Don’t worry. It’s all over now.”

  But it wasn’t. For Becki, it was all over. But for Hugh, and Charlotte, it was just beginning.