If It Bleeds

by Bernie Crosthwaite

  The dog was so close his hot meaty breath was in my nostrils. I half-twisted and shouted, “Stay!” Some long-forgotten response triggered in his tiny brain. He dropped to the ground, his huge tongue lolling out of one side of his mouth, his whole body throbbing with longing. I found the keys and had slammed the car door shut on him before he realised he’d been had and leapt for me.

  “Dream on, sunshine,” I mouthed through the window. As I started the engine I heard the sound of unclipped claws scraping the paintwork.

  Thirteen

  There were no spaces left in the staff car park. I eventually found a gap the width of a wide-screen TV, about half a mile away from the Evening Post building. I manoeuvred into it, then checked my face in the mirror. The skin down the centre of my nose was missing, my lip was cut and already swelling up. These two fresh wounds made a nice matching set with the graze on my chin and the scratch marks down my cheeks. I dabbed at my face with a tissue, then slumped back in my seat. I’d spent most of the day chasing shadows when I was supposed to be at work, and I had absolutely nothing to show for it, apart from bloody hands, bruised limbs and a set of tribal scars. Oh, and a couple of blurred pictures of the ceiling at the police station and DI Laverack’s rear end. Tony was going to be ecstatic.

  When I got out of the car I saw that Sabre had scored vertical lines through Daniel’s beautifully painted shark’s mouth.

  “Shit.”

  A black cloud followed me through the streets. I’d never felt so defeated and worthless in my life. Why was I doing this? Matt was right — I was getting obsessed and my obsession was costing me, big time. It simply wasn’t worth it. Somehow I had to tell Daniel I was giving up this madness. Lara was dead and we all had to move on. Life was like that, it was just that Daniel was too young and inexperienced to understand it yet.

  When I reached the Post building I mounted the stairs to the first floor with legs that felt as if they were filled with sand. I was halfway down the newsroom when Tony burst out of his office.

  “Jude!”

  I turned to see him chasing after me, head lowered like an angry rhino. Perhaps Matt really had told Tony I fancied him. Idiot.

  “Where have you been? Matt was back from the press conference ages ago, and your bloody mobile’s switched off.”

  “Really?” I said innocently, reaching for my phone and clucking when I saw no light.

  “And look at the state of you.” His sweeping gaze took in my damaged face and blood-stained clothes. “For god’s sake, have your rampant sex romps with your sado-masochistic boyfriend in your own time, not mine!”

  “Did you really say rampant sex romps?”

  “You’re in deep shit.”

  “Anyone would think you were the editor of a tabloid red-top. Perhaps you should be.”

  “And who do you think you are, the bloody Scarlet Pimpernel? We seek you here, we seek you there, but we can never bloody find you!”

  “Some say I’m more like the Mona Lisa.”

  “Bollocks.” He broke into a hacking cough. “Either you’re part of this team, Jude, or you’re out. This murder is a big story and I need everyone fully on board. No one is going to cock it up. No one!”

  Apart from the soft hum and whirr of the computers the newsroom had gone eerily silent.

  I kept my voice down, but there was no way I could mask my anger. “Is that really all you care about, your front-page story? For a moment out there, Tony, I thought you had a heart, that you actually cared that my son’s girlfriend was dead, that Daniel was seriously ill, that we’re going through the worst crisis of our lives. But I can see I was wrong.”

  “That’s it. I’ve had enough,” he croaked. “My office. Now.”

  I snapped my arm out straight and mouthed to his retreating back, “Ja, mein fuhrer!”

  I was aware of the reporters watching me walk the walk of shame. Nick, the one who’d come up with the doggy story, looked anxious, probably thinking it could be him next. I caught Matt’s eye. He tipped his head back slightly with the back of his hand as if to say chin up. I nodded, and holding my head high, entered Tony’s lair.

  He was swivelling back and forth on his chair. When he spoke his voice was like gravel poured from a truck.

  “I left a good job in London to come to this shit-hole.”

  “Do you mind? This is my town and I think it’s a great place to live. If you don’t like it, there’s nothing to stop you leaving.”

  “Yes, there is.” His face softened for a moment as he glanced at the photo of the smiling red-haired woman on his desk. “Anyway, that’s not the point. This may be a great place to live, but it’s a crap place to sell newspapers, seeing as nothing much happens round here.”

  “Until now.”

  “Exactly. Look, Jude, I know you’re personally involved, but that’s no excuse for your behaviour. It’s downright unprofessional.”

  “That’s unfair. For the last couple of days I’ve had some problems, agreed, but for heaven’s sake, I’ve given years of service to this paper —”

  “I’ve warned you, Jude, and you’ve taken no notice.”

  “Are you sacking me?”

  He gazed at me stonily.

  “Why?” I asked, brimming with anger.

  Looking down, he began to count the reasons on his thick fingers. “Persistent lateness, doing private work in company time, using the photographic department as your personal art gallery —”

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  “Disobedience. I told you not to go to the press conference at the police station and you totally ignored me. Did you get any pictures?”

  “Sort of…”

  “See what I mean? And this comes after the Adam Keele fiasco where you got no pictures whatsoever.”

  “There were reasons for that.”

  “I don’t accept excuses. Not when your attitude to the job has become inexcusable. And of course, the piece de resistance, when you really surpassed yourself by stealing that photo from Mrs Ramsey.”

  “She got her own back,” I said, fingering my scratches.

  “What?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  He glared at me, then went through the list of my crimes again. “Lateness, low work rate, lack of pictures, immoral behaviour, poor standard of appearance, lack of co-operation with editorial staff, theft. Need I go on?”

  I leaned across his desk. “You needn’t bother to sack me, Tony. I resign.”

  *

  Photographic was empty. I moved my overflowing tray of job tickets along to Buzz’s station, with a note to tell him to farm them out among him and the rest of the team. Tony and I had agreed, probably the first time we had ever seen eye to eye, that my resignation should take effect immediately. I binned everything that was useless or out of date. Anything of value I put in a small pile on the workbench. There wasn’t much to show for the twelve years I’d worked here, crawling my way up from photographic assistant to head of department — just a folder of recent cuttings, some letters from grateful readers and a cracked Photographers Do It in the Dark mug.

  Then I remembered the enlargements Harrison had done. I wasn’t going to leave them here. Pearls before swine. Anyway, if I did abandon them, Tony would only tear them down as soon as I’d gone. Harrison had attached them crudely to the wall with blu-tack. Flakes of white paint came away with the photo of traffic in snow, which seemed eerily appropriate. I was more careful with the shot of the industrial cranes, my personal favourite. Large envelopes were always in short supply, so I found some bubble wrap in a cupboard to protect the pictures from the weather.

  But surely there’d been three. What was the last one? It took me a while to recall it. Of course. The picture of the River Raven, apparently for sale. I searched the walls but I couldn’t spot it. I couldn’t even find a gap where it had once hung. Harrison must have re-organised the display and moved my picture, but where?

  Raymond shuffled into the room, a sickly look
on his face which I thought was probably sympathy. Word travels at the speed of light in a newspaper office.

  He spread his arms in a gesture of hopelessness, making his large wobbly stomach stick out.

  “Don’t say it,” I warned him.

  “But Judith, if anyone goes it should be me, not you. Let’s face it, I’m finished, washed up, pretty much excess baggage round here.”

  “You didn’t steal a photograph.”

  “And I don’t believe you did either.”

  “Just leave it, OK? I’m going, end of story.”

  The air seemed to oscillate when Buzz steamed in.

  “What’s all this about? Jude, you can’t be going. No way. It’s all just a filthy rumour.” He waited a split second for my response. “Isn’t it?”

  “Leave her be, Buzz,” Raymond muttered.

  “I can give her a hug, can’t I?”

  It was a perfunctory squeeze, and not entirely sincere. I knew that Buzz would be in Tony’s office the moment I left, staking his claim as the new Chief Photographer.

  My colleagues — no, my ex-colleagues, I reminded myself — began filing pics from the day’s jobs into the system in unnatural silence. They stole quick glances at me as I stuffed my things into a plastic bag. I covered the two prints in bubble wrap and secured them with sellotape. I glanced around the cramped cheerless room that had been my working home for so long. That was it. All over. Time to surrender my cameras.

  “OK, guys. I’m off.”

  I didn’t wait for a reply. I was too choked.

  Charmaine, the news editor, was waiting by the lift. She looked embarrassed.

  “Jude…”

  “Don’t say anything.”

  “Couldn’t you at least work out your notice?”

  “No way. Like I told Tony, if I’m going, I might as well go now. Seeing as our relationship is at absolute zero, I can’t stay on any longer.”

  “I think it’s a shame. We’re going to miss you.”

  That nearly broke through my numbness. “I told you not to say anything,” I said shakily.

  She hugged me warmly. Her skin smelt of fresh soap and light flowery perfume. She smelled young and hopeful. She drew back and looked at me sadly. What odour did I give off? Sweat and melted snow and despair.

  The lift arrived.

  “Going down?” asked Charmaine.

  “No. I have to go upstairs to HR.”

  “See you, then.”

  “Probably not,” I whispered as the lift doors closed. I waited until the lift returned, then rode up to the fourth floor. I gave in my swipe card and my press badge. The worst part was handing over my photographic equipment. It seemed horribly final, the physical manifestation of the fact that I no longer worked for the Ravenbridge Evening Post. I signed various forms and got out of there as quickly as I could.

  Matt was standing outside HR. He looked at the plastic bag I was carrying. “What’s going on?”

  “I am. To new and better things.”

  “It’s true, then?” He sounded incredulous. “You really have been sacked?”

  “Of course not.”

  He scraped a hand through his hair. “Thank god.”

  “I resigned.”

  He crumpled slightly as if I’d punched him in the solar plexus. “All because of that bloody photograph?”

  “That was mentioned, but it’s not why I quit.”

  “But this is all my fault!”

  “Stop it, Matt. This is nothing to do with you. It’s between me and Tony. In the end, the gulf between us was too wide. And not forgetting the fact that I did totally mess up and deserved to be fired. I just got my retaliation in first.”

  “And jumped before you were pushed?”

  “Yep.”

  “Christ, Jude, this is awful.”

  I reached out and touched his face. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine,” I lied.

  “What are you going to do? Are you going to join another paper?”

  “Maybe.” Once Daniel went to college in September there was nothing to keep me in Ravenbridge, was there? “In the meantime I’m sure I’ll get plenty of freelance work.”

  Suddenly I was overcome with weariness. I staggered a little. Matt held my shoulders to steady me.

  “It’s all right, I’m not drunk.”

  “I wouldn’t blame you if you were.”

  “It’s just that… ever since Lara’s body was found, my world has sort of… lurched. It’s hard to keep my balance.” Now it had tilted another few degrees. Soon all horizontals would be vertical and I’d slide off into oblivion, like a mountaineer plunging over a crevasse.

  Matt drew me closer.

  “Honestly, I’m all right.” But I had to admit his chest was comforting. I laid my head there for a moment. He buried his mouth in my hair.

  “Jude, you’re really special to me.”

  “That’s very sweet of you, Matt, but…”

  He wasn’t listening. He lifted my face and kissed me, flicking my lips very gently.

  We heard the whirr of the lift arriving. He let me drift a little apart from him. The doors opened on an empty space. He pulled me inside. I pressed the button marked G for Ground. The metal cube began to plummet, leaving my stomach just a fraction behind.

  Matt’s aftershave was very strong in the confined space — citrus and spice. Tendrils of hair curled over his brow and ears. His tie was at half-mast over a dark shirt. I grabbed the tie and pulled him towards me, running my tongue up his neck to his ear lobe.

  We had reached the ground floor. The doors parted. No one waiting. I stabbed another button. Five. Top floor. The doors shut quickly.

  I pulled Matt’s shirt open and stroked his smooth warm skin. Then his hands were in my hair and on my shoulders, pushing my jacket off and tugging at the buttons of my shirt. I reached for his waist — belt, buckle, zip — undone in seconds.

  The lift swished to a halt. The door opened on a man hurrying away from us along the corridor, carrying a briefcase. I punched a button at random. The doors snapped shut.

  “Going down,” I whispered.

  Matt groaned with pleasure, thrashing against the sides of the lift. After a while he pulled me upright. He unhooked my bra in one swift movement. My breasts spilled into his hands. He crouched to lick my nipples, flooding my veins with honey, a sensation intensified by the downward swoop of the lift. The doors opened on the quiet corridors of the third floor. Matt pressed five.

  Together we pushed our trousers and pants around our knees. Then came the delicious moment when he slid into me, pounding my buttocks against the metal wall, and I was going up, up, higher than I’d ever been before until there was no more blood in my veins only sweet sticky syrup.

  Fifth floor. The doors opened on an empty corridor. The man with the briefcase had disappeared. We looked at each other and giggled hysterically. I felt blindly for the control panel but my hand never reached it. Matt plunged faster and deeper. My breath came in short gasps. I felt every muscle tauten like a spring until I thought I was going to snap in two. Waves of sweetness broke over me, getting bigger, until one huge wave swept me into deep black water and then back on to land where I juddered like a landed fish. Matt gave a low moan, and a split second later he was swept away too, and then crashed in a heap beside me. Our landing place felt like soft warm sand at first, then quickly turned to a stony beach. But we were too shattered to move and ease our cramped limbs.

  I heard voices. I stretched out a trembling hand and banged a button, any button. The doors closed. We struggled up and helped each other back to decency.

  I kissed his damp cheek. “That was the stupidest, most reckless thing I’ve ever done in my life.” I licked a pearl of sweat from his chin. “And the most exciting.”

  Matt held my face in his hands. “Did I ever tell you that you’re amazing?”

  “Once or twice. But I don’t mind hearing it again. And again. And again.” I stroked the deflating bulge in his trousers.
>
  Matt whimpered, “Jude… I’m really going to miss you.”

  Fourteen

  The door of St Bridget’s was heavy but glided open without a sound. It was one of those modern Catholic churches, built in the 1960s, very tall and brightly lit, with long thin stained-glass windows and a huge spiky crown of thorns suspended over the altar.

  Despite Chief Superintendent Rollins’ plea for privacy, I had run a gauntlet of photographers outside the church. Now that I no longer worked for the press I had been tempted to shout at them till they backed off in shame — if they knew the meaning of the word. But I restrained myself. It would have been undignified.

  The place was packed, though you wouldn’t know it from the strangulated murmur that passed for hymn singing. In the dour stone-built Methodist chapel of my childhood the singing had been so loud the rafters rattled. Not that I did much of it. I stopped believing in God at the age of thirteen when my grandmother had a stroke and became a gibbering rag doll. If God could let that happen he was intolerably cruel. But that was a contradiction in terms, therefore there was no God. Simple. At work I had always tried to palm off holy jobs to Buzz or Harrison or one of the others. I felt nervous going into churches, especially when a service was in progress. It brought back all that childish terror of hell and damnation.

  I stayed at the back, hovering around the baptismal font, in case the Ramseys spotted me. I could see them in the front row, Patricia Ramsey standing to attention, in contrast to her husband whose head and shoulders were bent over in a curve, the aura of sorrow still surrounding him. In the same row I spotted Stan’s rotund figure and beside him his small neat wife, Carol, a warm, cheerful woman who I’d liked from the first time we met. I couldn’t say the same about her sister, however sorry for her I felt.

  The singing ended and the congregation, prompted by a gesture from Father Thomas, sat down on the plain wooden benches with a soft concerted thud. All eyes followed the figure in the white robe with a purple cross running the length and width of it, as he slowly made his way to the lectern. He looked as if he was in his early thirties, which struck me as surprisingly young for a parish priest. No doubt he’d been fast-tracked due to a worldwide shortage of men willing to give up sex for their whole lives. He gripped the sides of the lectern, pausing theatrically before he began to speak, ensuring that we hung on every word, delivered in a soft Irish accent.