But by Degrees

by Kit Eyre

  Jude’s shoes rasped against the opening and she was gone. I opened my mouth to call for Tony then I heard a pop followed by a groan and another pop. Before I understood what was happening, the stones around my leg were thumping onto my thigh and I blacked out again.

  Chapter 33

  July 2011

  Throughout the taxi ride and the palaver of booking the hire car, I managed to evade Jude’s questioning looks. What had gone on between me and Gemma at Oak House was actually nothing to do with her; it didn’t mean what she thought it meant. I’d done the right thing by Gem finally, what Harriet had been telling me to do last night and this morning. But it wasn’t a love letter to Jude, no matter what she reckoned. The last few days didn’t erase the last two years and craving the pressure of her lips on mine didn’t eliminate everything she’d put me through. I’d have to be an idiot to go back there.

  It was a two hour drive from Scarborough down to Lincoln. We’d picked up sandwiches for lunch on the way out of town and I watched Jude juggle a salmon wrap with the steering wheel as we careered down winding roads towards Beverley. With the radio on for company, I could pretend she wasn’t even there, listening to the banter of Steve Wright and watching the scenery whizz by. It was only when we’d finished our lunch and drained our coffee cups that I felt her curiosity bubbling to the surface.

  ‘Don’t,’ I warned when she cleared her throat.

  Her gravelly chuckle reverberated through the car. ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t ask me questions, don’t talk to me.’

  ‘But you’re talking to me,’ she pointed out.

  I growled and crossed my arms. ‘Jude, I mean it.’

  ‘Still talking,’ she said.

  This time, I kept quiet and she took her foot off the accelerator to slow us down to 40mph. The car behind blared its horn and promptly overtook us. In its place, a Mini trundled along happily in our wake, letting Jude dictate the pace. I shifted in my seat, determined not to break my silence, until I calculated how long it’d take to get to Lincoln at this rate and weighed that up against listening to her.

  ‘Okay, talk,’ I said abruptly.

  We picked up speed again, leaving the Mini floundering in the rear view mirror. Jude concentrated on the road for a few minutes, tapping along on the steering wheel to The Kinks. When the song faded, she glanced sideways.

  ‘You and Gemma – what’s going on?’

  I hesitated and knotted my hands together on my lap. ‘I was being selfish with her.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Jude questioned.

  ‘Well, I was going along with what she thought she wanted, like I always do.’

  Jude snorted. ‘You can’t write us away with that, however much you’d like to.’

  ‘Whatever,’ I muttered.

  I expected her to prod further, but she didn’t. Her next comment was that we’d need money for the Humber Bridge and asking whether I’d got any change. The switch of pace put me on the back foot so I just stuttered out a reply and rifled through my wallet for the cash.

  Once we were through the toll, the wind began whipping against the car and the bridge stretched out in front of us. The river heaved below, a murky grey belt that matched the suspension cables spinning along beside us. It was like being slung straight into the sky and I wound the window down, sucking in gulps of tangy salt water. Jude eased off the accelerator again and we practically cruised to the end of the carriageway. I almost felt the thud as we reached dry land.

  All my thoughts of Lincoln were of cathedrals and spindly streets.

  I’d been there once for the Christmas Market with my parents years ago, getting drunk on mulled wine and ending up with a pair of antlers and a Rudolph nose that my mum immortalised on video. It wasn’t long after me and Gemma called it quits, so she threatened to show the film to my next girlfriend instead of baby pictures. I’d forgotten all about it until the cathedral loomed in the distance and I sneaked a look at Jude’s pinched lips.

  The postcode Radison had left us didn’t take us anywhere near the cathedral, instead steering us onto a council estate and, beyond that, onto a scene that was eerily familiar. This time, I openly glanced towards Jude.

  ‘This remind you of anything?’ I queried.

  She nodded silently.

  Few, if any, of the buildings were occupied. Some had metal plates embedded in the window frames, others just had gaping holes where the glass should be. The roads were puckered with potholes that snagged on the tyres and the verges were teeming with nettles. The resemblance to our old estate in Leeds was stark, especially given some of the racist graffiti scrawled over the crumbling garden walls.

  Jude drew to a halt outside number seventeen and switched off the engine. Although its upper windows were yawning holes with tattered curtains blowing in the breeze, the ground floor was secured with metal panels. All except the front door – that was buckled in the bottom corner. Like the door at Oak House, it could be prised away with a bit of effort.

  ‘He’s here,’ I muttered.

  ‘Danni, look at it. No one could live here. No one’d want to.’

  I let out a soft snigger. ‘I would.’

  ‘Why?’ she questioned, catching at my hand. ‘You think you deserve to?’

  Her fingers were hot around mine. I clenched hard for a moment then wrenched myself free and reached for the door handle. Her forehead creased before she did the same.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘No what?’

  ‘You stay here.’

  ‘No chance,’ she replied, crossing her arms. ‘You’re not going in there alone.’

  ‘Oh, don’t start pulling the protective card,’ I said with a growl.

  ‘I tried to pull it last time, if you remember. I’m not letting you –’

  ‘Letting me? Who says you’ve got a choice?’

  She rubbed her scar then rounded on me again, eyes flashing. ‘I do.’

  ‘Well, tough.’

  ‘Sweetheart –’

  ‘Don’t you dare.’

  ‘I love you,’ she said.

  I blinked and twisted away, forcing the door open with clammy hands. As I kicked it shut, I almost expected her to leap out of the car, but she didn’t. Her gaze was fixed on me, though; my skin prickled as I limped up the broken path to number seventeen with my stick trailing through weeds and scraps of old newspaper. The metal pane over the door came away without a shriek and I ducked inside, grateful to be shrouded in shadows that reeked of sweat and cream crackers.

  Chapter 34

  April 2010

  At first, there were sounds.

  They were so distant that I couldn’t grasp onto them, even if I wanted to. So I let them drift past instead, bobbing around like Coke cans in a puddle, until they were drowned out by the lightning bolts zigzagging around my body. Every flare brought a wave of noise with it, the echoes lingering once it’d rippled into the distance. Finally, the bursts became shorter and the waves ebbed away.

  ‘Danielle? Danielle, can you hear me? Open your eyes.’

  I tried, but they were glued shut. The voice faded and the waves began licking at my toes again. Once they receded, my eyes seemed to pop open of their own accord underneath a searing beam of white light.

  When my head lolled sideways, the stinging in my eyelids eased a bit. It took me a while to make out that a lumpy brown blur was my mum asleep in an armchair, hair glossed with grease and a hand swaying loose over her lap.

  ‘She’s been here for weeks.’

  The words seemed to come from nowhere. I strained my neck in the opposite direction and found Gemma rising out of a plastic seat. She settled on the edge of the bed, sandwiching my hand between hers.

  ‘Don’t try and talk, okay? You’ve had a rough time and you need to take it easy.’

  I moved my lips, but nothing came out and Gemma shook her head.

  ‘What did I just say? Don’t make me wake your mum up.’

  My eyes were drooping again.
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  ‘Give in to it. You need your rest.’

  Next time, I jolted out of a nightmare straight into my mum’s arms.

  ‘Shush, darling, it’s okay.’

  I struggled for a few seconds and clawed at the air, until her smooth voice soothed me back onto my pillow. She reached for a pitcher of water and poured a small glass, shooting me a stern look when I tried to sit up. I let her dribble water into my mouth and felt it slide along my tongue. More spilled down my chin than made it down my throat, but I could at least croak out a few words when I tried.

  ‘What happened?’

  Mum’s hand rested on my forehead. ‘Don’t worry about that. Now, your father’s on his way down. He had to go home to look after the shop, but he’s jumped on the first train. He shouldn’t be long. Mind you, that depends on British Rail, doesn’t it?’

  ‘But what . . .’ I strained my mind until it latched onto a voice, crisp and angry. The rest of it thundered down onto me and I lurched forward again. ‘The bomb – Jude – Harriet – what –’

  ‘Danni,’ Mum cut in, eyes brimming with tears, ‘stop for me, darling. Please. Wait till your dad arrives. Get some more sleep and I’ll stay here.’

  My head wanted to argue, but my throat couldn’t manage any more. When she began stroking my hair, I let my eyelids sink again, listening to her murmurs as I drifted off.

  ‘There we go.’

  I blinked away the fog and smiled. ‘Dad.’

  ‘About time you woke up,’ he said, clasping my hand in his. I could feel the calluses from his woodwork chafing against my skin. ‘I’ve come a long way, you know. Do you want some water, love?’

  We went through the rigmarole of splashing water into my mouth. He was more delicate than Mum, wiping my chin with his shirt sleeve then rolling it up to his elbow. By the time he perched beside me on the bed, I was ready to talk.

  ‘What happened?’

  He rubbed my shoulder. ‘What do you remember?’

  ‘The bomb . . . I was outside in a . . . It felt like a hole.’

  ‘You were buried by the second blast, covered in bricks and all sorts. It took them hours to get to you.’

  I ran my tongue over my lips. ‘There was another?’

  ‘They thought so for a while, but it turned out a petrol tank had gone up. Brought the whole building down on you.’

  ‘And Jude – what – is she okay?’

  ‘Easy, love. She pulled through, don’t you worry about that.’

  My body had arched from the bed. Now it crumpled back down and left a peculiar ache in my leg. For the first time, I glanced along the sheets to where my feet were sticking up and recalled that agonising pain just after Jude had been pulled free. Dad followed my gaze and stood up, scratching his stubble.

  ‘I drew the short straw,’ he explained after a moment. ‘Or I volunteered for it. That’s why I asked your mum and Gemma to keep quiet till I got back. You shouldn’t hear it from anyone else.’

  ‘Hear what? Is it Jude?’

  He let out a growl that made me flinch. ‘Forget about her for a minute. Let me get this out. There’s been a lot going on since you’ve been unconscious. It’s been five weeks, love.’

  I stared at him. ‘How long?’

  ‘Just listen for me. Your mum and I woke up to all of this on the breakfast news. They thought it might be another 7/7 at first, except it didn’t make sense because no one should’ve been in the building at that time. We were frantic, trying to get hold of you, then the phone rang and it was the police asking us to come down here. We didn’t know what was going on, all we knew was that you weren’t dead.’

  ‘Gill,’ I whispered.

  He patted my hand. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Who else?’ I managed to ask.

  ‘Matt Draper –’

  ‘No . . .’

  ‘It was –’

  ‘No,’ I repeated, dragging my hand away. ‘He was fine. I saw him.’

  Dad clenched his jaw, taking a turn around the room. ‘He was caught up in the second blast, I’m sorry. Two deaths – it was lucky it wasn’t in double figures. I know it doesn’t help. I know you were close to both of them.’

  ‘How?’ I winced at my rasping voice.

  ‘Harriet told us. She hurt her back badly, but she’s on the mend. They discharged her last week. You’re one of the last in here. Now, listen,’ he went on before I could press him, ‘I’ve got more I need to tell you. Let me get it out, I need to.’

  I nodded and let him gather my hand up again.

  ‘When you were shipped here, they had to operate to save your left leg. It’s what they call a crush injury. The longer you’re underneath a pile of rubble like that, the worse it is. We were fortunate it didn’t kill you, but there were . . .’

  ‘Were what?’ I questioned in a whisper.

  ‘The doctor’ll explain it properly. It’s something to do with your muscles and the way they were damaged after the explosion. Now, love, it’s not the end of the world –’

  ‘What isn’t?’

  He rubbed his cheek with his free hand. ‘You might have to walk with a stick.’

  I swallowed, tasting blood on my tongue. Dad retrieved the beaker from the side table and dribbled more water into my mouth, his nails scraping against my nose. Then he slumped into the armchair and dangled his arms over his knees.

  ‘There’s more, love.’

  My throat was thick; I couldn’t speak.

  After a minute gazing at his boots, he continued, ‘The way it was put, with this Conrad character, you were a hero. Most of the people you sent out had got clear enough, escaped with minor injuries. Linda had a broken collarbone, for instance, but she was one of the first to give a statement. Harriet came round and insisted on doing it from her hospital bed dosed up on morphine. She felt responsibility for you and what had happened, you see. She wanted to set the record straight.

  ‘The trouble was, other people weren’t spinning the same story. Caroline Smythe and Michael Hogarth for a start. This Conrad had gone to ground; the police couldn’t string a sentence together about what had gone on. Then one of the tabloids published a letter, allegedly from Conrad. They hadn’t wanted to lose a scoop so they’d run it without police approval. Well, it was a pack of . . .’

  He trailed off, jabbing his fingertips together. Finally, he raised his chin and I saw the flush spreading over his face and into his neck. With an attempt at a smile that came out more like a scowl, he reached over and squeezed my arm.

  ‘It said you knew what you were doing,’ he murmured. ‘He said you weren’t a victim, that you were an accomplice instead.’

  Chapter 35

  July 2011

  As soon as the metal panel eased closed, the stench folded around me.

  From the dim light filtering through a grill at the end of the corridor, I could see that the crisp whiff of crackers I’d identified was coming from a packet dumped beside the rotten skirting board. I nudged it with my stick then balked when it nudged back. There was a rustle and a long nose bobbed out, whiskers glistening with crumbs.

  ‘If I feed them, they leave me be.’

  I jumped and twisted around. A silhouette was protruding from a doorway off to the right, tall and skeletal. Even though I’d never seen him before, the voice scraped through me, sending a shudder down my spine. The rat squealed and scuttled off into the shadows.

  ‘Come through,’ Radison said.

  The outline turned and shuffled away. I hesitated then tucked my spare hand around my nose before limping after him. He’d left the door ajar, with a faint orange light glowing beyond it that turned out to be a Calor Gas heater wedged in the corner of the room. Apart from that, the place was gloomy. A few lumps of furniture were clustered around the heater, including a camp bed that sagged in the middle when Radison sat down.

  For someone who’d caused so much damage, he was an unremarkable man. Balding, in his early fifties maybe, belt wound around his waist twice to hold his
baggy trousers up. The retired clown image was at odds with the sharp glint in his eyes as he kicked out his legs and peered at me.

  ‘What took you so long?’ he asked.

  I gripped my stick until my fingers tingled. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Always pictured ending up somewhere warm, going back home maybe.’

  ‘Scarborough. Not very warm.’

  He gestured to the tufts of paint hanging from the far wall. ‘Those had icicles on in the winter. I stuck plastic bags over them.’

  ‘You could’ve just moved,’ I pointed out.

  ‘I was waiting for you,’ he barked.

  My body stiffened. Whatever he looked like now, he’d still killed two people and he’d still stuck a knife in Lenora’s face. I was trapped in a dingy room with him, rats scratching under the floorboards and Jude waiting outside in the car. If he turned on me, I’d be powerless again, just like that day. I straightened up and squared my shoulders.

  ‘I know about your mother. Doesn’t excuse what you did.’

  He sniffed, picking at a scab on his wrist. ‘People needed to hear.’

  ‘Yeah, well, they didn’t, did they? All you did was kill innocent people and do a runner. That makes you a coward in my book.’

  ‘It wasn’t supposed to kill them.’

  ‘It was a bomb,’ I argued.

  ‘A way of drawing attention, that’s all. You’ll know – when you’re shouting and nobody’s listening, it drives you mad. You do daft things.’

  I struck my stick between two floorboards, gouging a hole in the splinters. ‘It’s not a spur of the moment thing, planting a bomb. It means to hurt people. You were after Knight; we know why –’

  ‘Who’s ‘we’?’ he cut in. ‘You’ve not forgiven Jude Hogarth, have you?’

  ‘I’ve been investigating with Harriet,’ I replied.

  He sniggered. ‘So where is she then? Hiding in the car park?’

  ‘You’d spoken to her on the phone, hadn’t you? That’s why you were so angry with her. Something to do with your mum?’