Hold Your Tongue

by Deborah Masson

  ‘To stop feeling sorry for me. To come here and speak to me. Not sit there, every single time, staring at me like some rare exhibit. And to stop feeling sorry for yourself.’ She paused, gasping. ‘Be the woman I knew.’

  Eve tried to swallow; it was almost painful when she gulped. Fighting tears. Vulnerable. A place she didn’t go. ‘I don’t know how. You’re not the woman I knew.’

  How close they’d been. A team within a team. Two women determined to be as good as and respected as their male counterparts. They hadn’t failed.

  Sanders huffed into the tube, the chair buzzing closer to Eve. ‘Maybe I’m not the woman you knew, but you need to stop all the woe-is-me shit; it doesn’t do anything for you.’ Her voice softer this time. ‘I should kno—’ She stopped as Archie came into the room.

  ‘Everything OK?’ Archie looked between the two women, seemingly sensing the tension in the air. ‘What’s going on?’ He went straight to Sanders, standing in front of her chair as if he needed to guard her.

  Eve didn’t know what to say. Glad of Sanders’ voice when it came, soft and quiet, from behind her husband.

  ‘Darling, please. Everything’s fine. We’re talking. About things that need to be said. That should’ve been said.’

  Archie didn’t move, his glare pinning Eve to the spot.

  ‘Archie, please.’

  He stepped to the side, his frame relaxing a little. Eve looked at Sanders. Taking in all of her. Seeing Sanders for the first time in a long time. Surprised to see tears, scared to hear what she had to say next.

  Sanders tutted. ‘I want to hate you.’

  Eve reached for a tissue from her pocket and stood to dry her old colleague’s face. Archie blocked her before she could, snatching the tissue from her hand. He turned and bent over to dab at his wife’s cheeks. Eve sat, chastised.

  ‘I want you to hate me.’

  Sanders sighed, licking at dry lips. ‘All this time I’ve told myself you put me in this chair. I needed to do that. Archie wanted me to. I know that.’ Sanders glanced at Archie, whose whole body had tensed once again. ‘He kept telling me that although you weren’t the one who dealt the blow to my back, what you did that night was what failed to stop it.’

  ‘And he’s right.’ Eve didn’t want forgiveness. She didn’t think she could handle it.

  ‘I knew, Eve. I knew where you’d been that night, and I still picked you up.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have allowed you to.’

  ‘But you did.’ Her voice softer. Sanders glanced at Eve’s leg. ‘You didn’t exactly get off lightly yourself. I’m glad of that.’

  Eve looked to her lap. ‘You’re right to feel like that. To blame me. Archie too, and anyone else.’

  ‘I’m angry, Eve, fucking angry, but, if I’m being completely honest, it’s with myself more than you. Me and this useless body. It was easy to blame you – everyone else was doing it – but I didn’t want it to be as bad as it got.’

  Eve could only guess what Archie was thinking right then.

  ‘That bitch Jenkins didn’t help. Reporter scum. Half-truths and ruined lives. Stupid cow managed to get into the ward and classed five minutes with me, off my face, as an exclusive.’

  That front page was one of the few that Eve’s name hadn’t solely dominated at the time. The headline screaming about a long road ahead to recovery for Sanders.

  Sanders stopped speaking, panting with all the effort, the silence in the room deafening. Archie reached for the glass of water he’d fed to her earlier.

  ‘I’ll go get you some fresh water.’

  ‘No, Archie. I’m not finished.’

  Archie let his arm fall by his side, glass in hand. Struggling not to say something.

  ‘The thing is, I’m sick of this anger. I need to let it go, and to do that I need to forgive.’

  Archie’s face reddened, his fingers curling around the glass, tighter. ‘Nic—’

  Sanders sighed. ‘Archie, please. I need to. And I need you to.’

  Eve half expected the glass in Archie’s hand to come flying towards her. ‘Sanders, you don’t have—’

  Sanders shushed her, stared at her husband, her eyes glistening. Archie stood, staring at the floor, shaking his head. After a moment, he looked to his wife and held her gaze before nodding once.

  ‘Fine.’ He walked to the door, glass in hand – not once looking at Eve – and left the room.

  Sanders waited until the door had closed. ‘That’s as good as you’re going to get. He’s always had a problem with you.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say. I don’t deserve your forgiveness.’

  Sanders said nothing. The problem was it gave Eve no relief. It would make coming here easier, maybe, but there was no way forward for her when she couldn’t forgive herself.

  Eve wanted to know more about Archie. ‘Did he have a problem with me even before what happened?’

  Sanders tilted her chin: her way of nodding. ‘In that the nature of the job meant I spent all my time with you, it was all he heard about. Archie always had a problem with anyone taking my attention away from him.’

  ‘How’s he handling it all?’ She was at a loss for what else to say.

  Sanders swallowed. ‘With a smile.’ She closed her eyes, quiet for a minute. ‘I sometimes hear him crying at night.’

  Eve softened her voice. ‘Don’t you ever speak to him about it?’

  ‘I’ve tried. I even told him to leave. That he deserved a life away from all this.’

  ‘But what would you do?’

  ‘There are places. Ways and means.’ Sanders nibbled her bottom lip. ‘We have a nurse that comes in every day to help out as it is. She stays on a Thursday night and he gets out for a game of cards and a drink with the boys.’

  ‘At least it gives him some freedom.’ Eve regretted the words as soon as she’d said them, aware she was making Sanders’ life sound like a prison sentence, drawing attention to the fact she had no freedom herself. Because of Eve.

  ‘To be honest, in some weird way, I think he likes things as they are.’

  ‘What?’ It came out higher pitched than Eve intended.

  ‘I know. Go figure.’ It was Sanders’ turn to look towards the door. She lowered her voice. ‘Archie always treated me like some precious doll. I think my job sometimes made him feel less of a man, didn’t give him the chance to provide or look after me the way he wanted.’

  ‘But surely he’d never wish for what happened?’

  ‘God, no. But in a strange way, it’s given him back his masculinity. Made him feel needed. It lets him treat me like china and to feel, in his eyes anyway, he’s finally a better man.’

  Sanders’ sad smile tugged at Eve as she spoke. ‘It’s why I need you to do what I asked. Be you and let me be me. For those moments you’re here. See if I can let go of this hate. Truly stop blaming you. Because the rest of the time, here with him, I’m that rare exhibit.’

  ‘Sanders, you can’t live like—’

  The door opened, Archie holding the glass of water, a straw sticking out of it.

  ‘Thanks, Archie.’

  He fed Sanders again. Eve was sure she could hear in Sanders’ voice that she was thanking him for more than the water. He stayed silent, left the room again.

  Sanders sighed. ‘Anyway, where were we … Yeah, live like what? He’s happy. I can give him that. I’m not in some hospital or assisted housing. He cares for me. Am I in despair about it? No. Despair’s a bleak word.’

  ‘Do others come to visit? I know Cooper does.’

  ‘At first everyone did, even Hastings. But it fell off after a while. Life’s busy, it moves on.’ Sanders’ eyes watered. ‘Hastings, Cooper and you still visit regularly.’

  ‘What about Ferguson?’

  Sanders sighed. ‘I said everyone, but I’ve never seen Ferguson.’

  ‘What?’ Eve couldn’t believe it.

  ‘Don’t be too hard on him. You know he was one of the first responders that nigh
t. I can only imagine he’s been living with “what ifs” ever since. What if he’d got there earlier? What if he’d been the one to accompany me that night? I think it’s too hard for him to be here.’

  It was true, and something Eve had already known. But there’s no way he could’ve changed Eve accompanying Sanders that night. And no matter how many times he’d been told, he wasn’t to have known what was happening in that flat. But it didn’t change the fact that he hadn’t raised concerns about how long they’d been at the call; that he had waited for a neighbour to phone in. It was part of the reason she put up with Ferguson as much as she did. She knew about guilt. But too hard? With what Sanders had to endure? She realized she’d never asked what a day was like for Sanders. Too wrapped in her guilt, seeing Sanders exactly as she’d described, with no real thought for the before and after once she was done visiting. She asked her now, ashamed at the appreciation on Sanders’ face.

  ‘What can I tell you?’ Grateful to be on safe ground. ‘Up at seven a.m., and it’s straight into the morning routine. Archie gives me a bucketful of vitamins, then the nurse arrives and together they flex my legs and arms for at least an hour.’ Sanders took a deep breath.

  ‘Electrodes are then taped to my limbs, which stimulate my muscles for another hour while I try to eat breakfast. Then they wash, dress and lift me into my chair. My arms get strapped to the armrests, the ventilator pipe gets connected to my throat and hooked up, then the nurse leaves and I have the afternoon left to party.’

  Bleak. ‘Jesus, Sanders. You deserve more.’

  Sanders wrinkled her nose. ‘Do I wish this hadn’t happened? Absolutely. In my dreams, I’m never paralysed. It takes real effort, there in the silence when I wake, to drag myself into the reality that I can’t move my body below the neck, or even feel it. But it’s my reality, and one I’m living every day. Positive thinking and all that.’ She snorted. ‘Anyway, enough of all this self-pity crap. When were you thinking of telling me you’re back on the job?’

  Eve was taken aback by the sudden change of subject, grateful Sanders had made it easy for her – albeit after a good battering.

  ‘I’m back on the job. Your replacement hates me too, you’ll be glad to know. Oh, and it’s looking like our latest murderer is trying to send us a message.’

  Sanders whistled low. ‘You always were a bit of a bitch.’ She laughed – the first Eve had heard from her in too long. ‘First problem, she’ll get over it. Second problem, not easy. What do you say we use this head of mine and you lay the facts on the table? Do a bit of brainstorming, like the old days?’

  Eve nodded, her hazel eyes meeting blue. That she could do.

  Chapter 14

  Now

  Tea-tree soap nips his nostrils as he lathers it in his hands. The room’s in shadow, light flickering from the television up on the corner bracket: an old portable, the kitchen units even older. The place is cramped, not his style, but it’s true what they say: beggars can’t be choosers. Beads of sweat glisten on his top lip, the room too warm with the storage heating and cooker on.

  He feels for the hand towel, something on the evening news catching his attention, and dries his fingers one by one while he watches. A picture of Melanie. A run-down of the same old details.

  He expects more. More from the news reports he’s watched. They should be covering his story with a bit more flair, matching the scandal that the Aberdeen Enquirer and nationals have it down as. But he supposes they have to stick to the facts. Report on the lies he’s putting to bed, one by one. What was really going on with Melanie. The ugliness beneath the beauty.

  The reporter’s face up on the screen is deadpan. Is she scared beneath that face, wondering if there’ll be another? Wondering who’ll be next?

  He begins slicing red onions, keeps slicing until they’re all done. He mutes the telly, lights the gas ring on the cooker and lowers the frying pan to the flames, the full-fat butter sizzling within seconds. He has no need for volume. The reporter can tell him nothing. Only he knows who is next.

  He picks up the green chopping board and scrapes the onions into the pan with his hand, then puts the board into the washbasin. The red chopping board will be used for meat. Like always, he does things properly, has standards.

  He picks up a garlic clove, inserts it into the hand press and squeezes it over the frying onions, scraping the pulp off the metal with a knife, all without looking. His mind stays fixed on the task ahead. He glances over to the door, where his rucksack lies. It holds all the tools he will need. He’ll be seeing her soon.

  He smiles, thinking of what is ahead. The next chapter. When he’s ready. For now, he’ll eat. After all, he has to keep up his strength.

  Chapter 15

  Tuesday, 12 November

  Bruce Spencer stood in the doorway of the dance studio clutching an oversized bunch of keys in one gloved hand, a mobile phone clamped against his ear in the other. He tutted, steam rising from his mouth in the early-morning chill. ‘For fuck’s sake.’ He glowered at the phone screen, watching his call to Duncan being ignored for the third time before jabbing his thumb against the cancel button.

  The doorway stank of stale urine, commonplace with the studio being on the homeward stretch for drunks from the night before. Except that normally he didn’t have to smell it. Opening was Duncan’s job, and this was the second time in a fortnight he’d gone missing. Hadn’t come home. And Bruce Spencer didn’t like waking alone.

  He pocketed his mobile phone and started fumbling with the keys, trying to find the one for the main door. ‘Shit.’ His hands grappled for the keys as they slipped from his grasp, landing with a clatter and splash as they hit slush on the concrete step. He was going to kill Duncan. He crouched, the smell of piss stronger than ever, grimacing as his fingers brushed against the wet ground and lifted the keys.

  Where the hell was Duncan? It was a question that Bruce already knew the answer to. The first time his young lover hadn’t come home until the next morning after a night out, he’d made it easy for him – said he believed it was a party that had got out of hand. He hadn’t said anything about the bite mark clearly visible on the inside of Duncan’s rock-solid, bronzed thigh later that same day. Dancer’s limbs. Reminding Bruce of what he’d once been. Before old age had crept up and sucked the youth from him.

  He sighed, found the key he was after and pushed it into the lock, frowning when he didn’t hear the familiar click. The door was open. His heart lifted a little, already making excuses for his boyfriend. Bruce stepped into the pitch-black reception of the studio, no warmer than outside. He felt for the switch, wondering why Duncan would have the place in darkness. As the harsh orange bulbs overhead flickered into life, Bruce squinted and saw that everything was the same as he’d left it last night. Before Lexie had arrived – a dancer who regularly hired one of the smaller studios after hours, who knew to lock up and post the keys through the door.

  Maybe she’d forgotten to lock up and just shoved the keys through the letter box without thinking. Bruce turned in the doorway. No keys on the floor.

  ‘Duncan?’ Bruce called into the darkness of the hallway beyond reception, surprised by the slight tremor in his voice as he did. ‘Lexie?’

  He closed the main door against the draught and forced his feet to move along the hallway to the studio, stopping when he spotted the thin strip of light spilling out from beneath the studio door. Bruce craned his ear towards the door. Nothing. He lifted his hand to push open the swing door, tried to tell himself the shake in his arm was the cold temperature or old age. Bruce swallowed as he shoved at the wood and froze as the door swung inwards, revealing what waited for him in the studio.

  She looked like a pink flamingo in a lagoon of red. Bruce stood, seeing his reflection – the look of horror on his face – in the wall-to-wall mirrors, framed in the background of death. Lexie’s slender body, dressed in a leotard and tights, was draped over the barre, one leg stretched out along the dark, knotted wood. Both h
ands, their flesh bloated and purple, gripped the ankle, dainty fingertips resting on soft leather pumps. What looked like some kind of cord bound the wrists to the ankle, all three tied tightly to the barre. A perverse take on holding the stretch. Bruce covered his mouth, stepping backwards out of the room, reaching for his phone, wishing the call he had to make was as simple as trying to contact a missing lover.

  Eve couldn’t see the woman’s face. The forehead and chest rested on thigh and shin, brown hair on her head pulled into a thick neat bun. Her other leg, long and lean, hung, straight, towards the floor. A featherless elegant bird, standing on one leg. A leg that had a folded piece of paper sticking to it. Eve didn’t need to be told what it was.

  Blood pooled around the narrow mottled foot on the polished floorboards. And again, further along, where it had flowed from her mouth. The room smelled of copper, with an undertone of sweat-soaked wood. Obvious that the tongue was gone. She wanted to turn away but couldn’t, her mind trying to grasp if this could be happening, waiting for someone to tell her it wasn’t real, that she’d stepped on to some horror-movie set.

  SOCOs were crawling about the corpse like giant white maggots. MacLean was standing over in the corner, mumbling into a Dictaphone.

  ‘Jesus.’

  At the sound of DS Cooper’s voice Eve turned towards the main door and was met by her colleague’s slim, green-tinged face.

  ‘Where’s Mearns?’ Cooper looked away from the body.

  ‘Interviewing the studio owner. Ferguson’s in with her.’ She didn’t say that apart from telling Ferguson to go with Mearns, they still hadn’t said two words to one another. ‘Different start to the owner’s work shift.’

  ‘You can say that again.’

  MacLean pocketed his Dictaphone. Eve made her way over, momentarily shocked to realize that the reflection of a limping woman in the mirror was her.

  ‘You know what I’m going to ask.’