by David Mark
Shane becomes aware of a new sound: something irritating, just at the edge of his perception. He wonders if it’s the rain, coming down harder now, turning to snow, the way it did in January when the world turned white.
And then he hears his name.
“Mr Cadbury, this is the police, sir. Could you let us in, please – we really would like to talk to you…”
Shane is not used to being address as ‘Mr Cadbury’. He does not really care for the name. At school, people called him all manner of names, each inspired by some form of chocolate or confection. He has answered to Cocoa. To Shit-Kat. Fudge-Packer. Willy Wanka. He hopes his girlfriend has heard him being addressed with such respect and reverence. He doesn’t mind being her bit-of-rough but if they are to have a future together he will have to become a little more refined. He’s quite excited at the prospect. He’s always wanted a reason to improve himself. He doesn’t know very much about her yet, but he fancies she will object if he continues to wipe his arse on the shower curtain.
Another voice now. Low. Soothing – the sort of voice you might use to pacify an angry dog.
“Shane, my name is Aector. Hector, if it’s easier for you. It’s Scottish. Your friend Lewis said you were the chap to talk to about something really quite important. I don’t want to bother you but if you could just open the door for a moment I can get out of your hair.”
Shane considers it. On balance, he fancies it would be rude to turn down such a reasonable and politely made request. He is the sort of chap who might help somebody out. He is the sort of gentleman who would make room in his schedule so as not to inconvenience somebody unduly. And his voice had been nice. Soft. Sort of up-and-down, like a friendly giant in a fairy tale.
“Won’t be a moment, pet,” he shouts through to the bedroom. There’s no response. He smiles as he imagines her dozing, dead away – no doubt dreaming of the life they will make together and the things they will do when her batteries are fully recharged.
His bare feet squelch across soggy carpet. He takes a handful of his gown and wraps it around himself. Unlocks the door and pulls it inwards.
On the doorstep stands a tall, broad police officer. He has red hair, damp at the fringe and temples, and a neat beard. He’s wearing uniform. So are the two men who stand behind him, their hands to their noses and mouths, each taking shallow breaths and flinching as the haze of flies rise and settle, rise and settle – making the pile of rotting food and slippery bin-bags seem as though it may be alive.
“You’re a big man!” says Shane, looking up at the officer. He has brown eyes. Sad eyes, really, like a cartoon cow. “Are you strong? I bet you’re strong. There’s a man on World’s Strongest who looks a bit like you. He’s foreign. Are you foreign?”
“I’m Scottish,” says the man on the doorstep, gently. “Have you been to Scotland?”
Shane thinks hard about the answer, wanting to get it right. “I think so. We went ice skating, once. A day trip. When I was at BridgeView. It was nice. Tell me your name again.”
“It’s Aector, Shane. Aector McAvoy. You can say ‘Hector’ if it’s easier.”
Shane licks his lips. Tries it the proper way, with a little cough in the middle. He smiles, hugely, when he gets it right. “Aector,” he says, again, and sticks out a large, dirt-smeared hand. “I’m Shane.”
The big police officer takes Shane’s hand without hesitation. Shane feels the strength in his grip. He senses how much restraint he is using. How much work is going into not squeezing his grimy, fleshy paw. He appreciates it.
“Who are these two, Aector? The coppers behind you?” He peers past the big man’s shoulder, at the two constables. One has turned a funny colour: a weird marbling of grey-and-green, like moss on an old stone wall. The other is glaring at him, his eyes tiny pin-pricks, radiating a kind of bad energy that makes Shane think of the way roads shimmer with heat haze on a hot day. He doesn’t like them.
Aector is speaking again. Shane reminds himself it’s rude to ignore somebody when they are trying to be polite. Tunes himself in to the right frequency.
“…I’d love to see your place, Shane. Those stairs almost did me in and a sit-down would do me the world of good. We could even stick the kettle on, eh?”
Shane makes a show of considering it. He doesn’t have a kettle, as far as he can remember. But he does like the big police officer and wants to be liked in return. He wonders if his girlfriend will object to these unexpected guests. Hopes she won’t make a fuss about it. He’s heard that girlfriends can moan if their needs are overlooked. He wants to be a good boyfriend. Wants to get everything right.
“It will have to be quick,” concedes Shane. “I’ve got a lady-friend.” He gives a wink, two old friends, talking. “Proper looker. Goer, too. Got better things to be doing, if you know what I mean.”
The police officer gives a nod. Manages a little smile. Follows Shane into the flat.
“Sorry about the state of the place,” he begins. “I’ve been meaning to sort some stuff out but you just don’t get the chance, do you? Life’s a full-time job.”
Behind Aector, the policeman with the hard eyes is muttering. Coughing now. Raising his hand to his mouth and retching.
Aector ignores the man, who strikes Shane as unnecessarily rude. He gives Shane a kindly smile. “What’s your lady-friend’s name, Shane?” he asks, softly.
Shane hesitates, unsure if he wants to reveal too much. But the giddiness rises up and he finds himself talking, the way he had when Lewis popped by earlier and asked to meet the new lass he had bragged about over the phone.
“It’s Ella,” he whispers, quietly. “Goes nicely, doesn’t it? Shane and Ella.”
There is movement behind the big man. The copper with the hard eyes pushes forward, growling something unfathomable, but Aector puts out a hand and holds him fast, his arm like a fence-post.
“Is she here, Shane?” he asks, quietly.
Shane nods, eager to please. “Bedroom,” he says, motioning over his shoulder towards the closed door. Its whitewashed surface is covered in scribblings – graffiti, a multi-coloured diorama of obscene words and pictures, each made more grotesque by the childishness of the hand.
“Keep it down,” mutters Shane, as he opens the door, beckoning the police officers behind him. “Poor love’s exhausted…”
Shane stands aside and allows his new friend to squeeze past him, his big frame part-in and part-out of the room. Shane is close enough to feel him stiffen, as if an electrical charge had just surged through his body.
Shane looks past him, considering again the feast for the eyes that his lady-friend is serving up to the newcomers. He’s a lucky man. Luckiest man alive.
Aector’s voice, low, his breath hot, up close to his left ear.
“What have you done, Shane?”
Shane bristles. He doesn’t like the big man’s tone. “She’s mine,” he says, petulantly. “She was a gift.”
Sergeant Aector McAvoy looks back at the mess on the bed. Sees rags. Torn silk. Empurpled, ivory limbs, swollen as if drowned. And red. So much red…
His hands tremble as he reaches for his radio. He pauses, forcing himself to breathe. To take shallow breaths. To stay professional. To do what must be done.
He feels the reek of her climb inside him. Tiny particles of violated flesh and spilled blood flood his mouth and nose.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and the words come out in a rush. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Beside him, Shane Cadbury puts a blood-smeared hand on his blue sleeve. “It wasn’t me,” he says, moodily. “She was a present, I told you. Can you go now? Can you go…?”
McAvoy keeps the tremble from his voice as he speaks.
“Sir, this is Sergeant McAvoy. We’ve found her. Found Ella.”
Shane scowls: a toddler robbed of a favoured toy. “She’s mine,” he begins. “Can’t I keep her…?”
And then Police Constable Poyser draws his baton. Yells, all spit and rage. Come
s for Shane like a crazy man, swinging wildly, promising to kill him, to kill him properly, to put him down and keep him down and pound his bones to dust.
“No,” says Shane’s new friend, Aector, wrapping a big left arm around him and turning his back on the police officer. “No, you don’t get to have him…”
Shane listens, cosseted in the comfortable, warm embrace of the nice police officer.
Listens, as the blows fall like rain.
1
It’s Sunday, February 5 2012.
11.58 p.m.
The car park on the north bank of the Humber Bridge – the Christian side of the river.
Owen Lee, Press Association Hull and East Riding correspondent, gathered like a fist in the driver’s seat of a 1986 Vauxhall Cavalier: Elastoplast-brown. Not a classic. Not vintage. Just knackered, and old.
Me.
I’m not crying. I want to. I’d fucking love to. There’s a peach stone in my throat and cold grit in my eyes, but the tears won’t fall, so I just pull anguished faces and rub my face with my gloved hands.
The dark crescent beneath my right eye sings with pain as I jab my thumb into it. I do it again. And again.
The car radio gave up years ago, so I’m listening to the tinny sound of Johnny Cash on a portable CD player, circa 2001. I don’t want the violation of putting the earphones in my ears, so I’ve left the crappy square of plastic and wire on the front passenger seat, sitting on a mound of takeaway boxes and old newspapers, the cords dribbling over the edge of the seat – teaching the weeping willow how to cry.
I’m cold. The heater’s been broken for years. Normally would I sit and bitch about the East Yorkshire weather, but tonight the cold is almost reassuring. The goose pimples on my skin are a physical reminder of the unpleasantness of it all; the sheer intolerability of life improperly lived.
Not long now. Minutes, maybe. Then the rush of air and the smash of water and the absolute perfect nothingness.
I purse my lips and push another lungful of pain into the air. Each breath becomes a cloud, gathering as steam from a kettle, then disappearing into ribbons and nothingness.
I look at my watch. Seconds from midnight, just like the whole human race. I realise I’m not going to die on February 5. I won’t make it to the bridge in time. It’ll have to happen on February 6. The sixth day, of the second month, of 2012. Rain is forecast. Dark skies and high winds. Snow’s on the way. The trial is starting at Hull Crown. Ella Butterworth’s killer, Shane Cadbury, sticking to his not-guilty plea despite all the evidence to the contrary.
I try harder, desperate for meaning. It must matter. It must!
Three-and-a-half weeks since Jessica left me. Two-and-a-bit months since we flushed the clotted lumps of our child down the toilet in a mush of reds, of sodden tissue and swirling water. Couple of years since Kerry stuck a needle in her arm, and a dagger through Dad’s heart. Just over a year since the monster in Mam’s tit ate her up, pulled out her hair and wrapped her in a pine box that weighed less on my shoulders than the burden pressing against my chest.
Three months until my thirtieth birthday.
February 6.
Just a day.
The day I’m going to die.
*
I step out onto the tarmac and a sudden gust of frosty wind fills the car and blows my scarf up over my face. The wind is stirring the leaves and bullying the trees ringing the car park, muffling the roar and rush of the occasional car moving across the bridge overhead.
As I straighten myself up and adjust my clothes, the hunger in my gut reaches a tendril towards my throat, and I belch, sourly, my mouth filling with the taste of bile and bitterness. I’ve barely eaten in weeks, and sickness has become a constant. I vomit at thoughts I don’t like, at new situations and pressing engagements. It’s a nervous condition, so the doctors say. I’ve disassociated myself from my own body. My gut belongs to my head, and my head doesn’t belong to me. I wipe my mouth, and spit.
A few street lamps are still on, casting a sickly sodium glow over the dozens of empty parking spaces. I’m parked close to the woods, near the admin offices. Twelve hours ago the place would have been buzzing, despite the weather. The Humber Bridge Country Park. The eastern edge of Yorkshire. Kingston upon Hull. Hull. ’ull, to its friends, if it had any. A city hungover from the days when it was the world’s biggest fishing port, and metal trawlers would leave St Andrew’s Quay to travel to distant waters and return laden with a silver bounty that would feed the nation, and make fat men wealthier. All terraced streets and neighbourliness, kids in bare feet. Clouds from the smokehouses mingling with the damp and the fog, clinging to donkey jackets and headscarves and trickling into swampy lungs. Lads stinking of skate and haddock with a wedge of cash in their pockets. All long gone, now. Those times that brought wealth and loss. When lives were snuffed out by a wave and wives dreaded the sound of the chaplain’s feet on the cobbles. The houses remain, but the city is on its arse. Empty houses, smashed windows. Lorries belching fumes and children who can’t read. New office blocks standing empty and shopping streets boarded up or burning down. Yesterday’s generation pining for the days of the fishing industry the way a battered wife forgets her abuser’s sins and yearns for his return. A journalist’s paradise. A murder a month, and some of them fabulous. Schools at the arse-end of the league tables. Hospital bandaged in scaffolds and tarpaulin to try and stop any more roof tiles striking the patients who huddle in the doorway, sneaking a fag while supporting their frail bodies on the stand of an intravenous drip.
My city. Trapped in its grip, like a wasp held inside a shot glass, all broken limbs and tinfoil wings, buzzing and striking an invisible barrier, drowning in sticky syrup and fading breath.
Here, eight miles up the road, it’s a different world. The Country Park. Deep lakes, green with algae and punctured by fallen branches that poke through its surface like so many blades. Fifty-foot limestone cliffs, dirtied by moss. Well-groomed forests of ash and sycamore, parted like Brylcreem-ed hair with manmade paths and helpful rails. Jess and I used to walk miles in its cosy embrace, holding hands as we ambled between the trees. I can see it now, clear as what’s in front of me. See us laughing. Reciting baby names. Listing holiday destinations and favourite meals. Wrapped up in the bollocks of it all. Me, talking and planning and pretending and unburdening. Her, listening and nodding and pretending, and wishing I was normal and loving that I wasn’t; ever walking on the rice paper and eggshells of my temper.
My watch beeps suddenly as night turns into morning.
It is the day of my death.
I lock the car and drop the keys into the depths of my pocket, where they find a comfortable spot between my notebook, cigarettes and mobile phone. Johnny Cash is trapped inside the car, still warbling away on the passenger seat, sat proud on a mound of yellowing newsprint that carries my name.
I look up at the bridge, then turn my head to the right where the footpath that Jess and I used to take is shrouded in darkness. The woods have no shape. They are just a black mass – all whistling sounds and shaking branches, snapping twigs and falling leaves. They hold no danger for the damned. A man in pursuit of his own death doesn’t fear ambush.
Turn, and head towards the forest. Even as I duck beneath the dark, tangled branches I ask myself what I’m doing. I’ve played out this journey countless times. I’m supposed to be walking towards the footpath that runs along the bridge. I’m supposed to be smoking a cigarette and counting my steps and putting distance between myself and the shoals of sharp-toothed sadnesses that swim behind me. Instead I’m walking away from the water, ducking under branches, crunching over damp wood.
In moments the woods have swallowed me up. I can hear my boots rustling through the wet leaves and keep a hand on the rail as the footpath starts to descend. The forest is black and cold, and I can sense eyes upon me, hear the scrabbling claws of the creatures who live in the dark. I feel as though I am walking inside myself.
My footsteps ar
e becoming heavy, my coat starting to stoop my shoulders. Despite myself, I’m starting to feel nervous. My eyes are watering, forcing me to close them for longer and longer moments, inviting slumber, wrapping sleep around myself as a blanket against the cold.
I am lost now, lost in the darkness. I reach out my hand and feel the knobbled bark of a tree trunk. I suddenly realise my feet are wet, that water has soaked past the lip of my boots. I splash backwards, onto soft ground. My right boot slips and my knee hits the wet ground, hard. My teeth bang together and I mash the side of my tongue. I can taste blood. I spit on the forest floor, raising a gloved finger to my mouth. Even through the leather I can feel the wetness.
Now the tears flow. My throat coughs up a lump and I spit it on the forest floor as salt water runs down my cheeks.
I don’t sob. Instead I hold myself still, fists balled, teeth locked, as the tears pour down my face.
Crying for what I am, for what lives within me. For all I have failed to do.
My cheeks feel raw as the wind slices against the wetness and I wipe my face dry with the back of a glove. I screw up my eyes, peering again into the gloom. There are vague shapes, but nothing more. I take a tentative step and realise my boots are now on soft leaves, rather than the hardness of the path. I shuffle forward again and strike something firm. I curse and stop again. My grand gesture, my heroic death, is becoming farce. I need to find myself before I can kill myself. Muttering, I remove my glove and plunge my hand into the pocket of my coat, searching for a light. After foraging through the assorted crap, I grip the Zippo lighter that I’m usually too lazy to fill. I pull it free and spin the wheel. There is a tiny spark but the flame is swallowed by the wind. I curse and cup the lighter with my hand, trying to shield it from the gusts that seem to be growing stronger, whisking the detritus of the night. The flame catches hold but disappears again when I take my hand away. Third time lucky, I think, and then chastise myself for optimism.