Life Ruins

by Danuta Kot

  The man to her left was moving as if he was uncomfortable, and his stick fell across her feet with a clatter. ‘Sorry,’ he said, leaning forward trying to reach it.

  She picked it up for him, glancing sideways at him as she did. The stick made her expect someone old, but he was young with untidy, curly hair. He had a look of the streets about him – his clothes were rumpled and his thin face was unshaven. She could smell cigarettes – he must have had one before he came in. She wished she’d thought of that.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. He shifted in his seat again as if he was in pain. ‘Do you know how long they keep you waiting here?’

  ‘No idea.’

  He shifted again and muttered, ‘Shit.’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yeah. I just . . . bad back. These seats don’t help.’

  A door next to the reception desk opened and a man stuck his head out. ‘Jared Godwin?’

  ‘Yeah. That’s me.’ The man heaved himself to his feet, leaning on his stick, and limped his way towards the door. He looked more like someone who had been hit by a train than someone with a bad back. He glanced back at Becca with a grin. ‘Wish me a comfortable chair.’

  It was twenty minutes before Becca was called through. She spent the time telling herself it was fine, she was fine. She felt a sharp pain in her finger. When she looked at it, she saw she had bitten the nail so far down it was bleeding.

  A young police officer took her into a small room and pointed to a chair by a table. It was the same kind of plastic stacking chair that had been in the waiting room. Becca thought about the man with the bad back – so much for his wish. She perched on the edge of the indicated seat, feeling its hard plastic biting into her thighs. The door clicked shut behind her, and she stiffened.

  ‘I’m Ryan,’ the man said. ‘Detective Constable Ryan Lovell, if you want the whole thing. And you’re Rebecca Armitage? Shall I call you Rebecca? Or would you rather be Miss Armitage?’ He said it with mock seriousness and grinned at her. He was coming on to her – just a bit. It was a pity he was a pig because he was quite fit.

  ‘Becca.’ Her stepfather called her Rebecca.

  ‘Becca. Thank you for coming down. You know there was an incident last night . . .’

  ‘Yes. Can I see a picture? I might . . .’

  ‘You might know her? Let’s talk a bit, tell me about what happened.’

  Becca looked at him in frustration. If he’d just show her a photo, then she could say, ‘Yes, that’s Paige’ or ‘Never seen her’, and go. She didn’t want to talk. She sat up straight. There were things she wanted to know before any ‘talk’. ‘How is she?’

  ‘I don’t know as of this morning. She was pretty poorly last night.’

  He had a ring binder in front of him. He pushed it across to her. ‘OK, Becca, I’m going to show you some photographs. I just want you to tell me if you’ve seen any of these kids at the drop-in.’

  All her defences came back. It didn’t make sense. They were after something. ‘Why don’t you just show me her picture?’

  ‘I can’t do that, Becca. If you’d look at these and let me—’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The doctors say she’s too ill for photographs. It would help a lot if you’d look at these.’

  Too ill. Becca knew the kinds of threats men made. Acid? Beaten so badly they couldn’t photograph her face – or get a photograph they could show to people?

  She made a non-committal noise. He took it for assent, and put a slim book down in front of her. He was about to open the first page when Becca put her hand on the cover. ‘What colour is her hair? The girl who . . .?’

  ‘Dark.’

  Becca noted the hesitation. Paige’s hair was fair, but blood might . . .

  ‘What does it look like? Is it long?’

  ‘I don’t know, Becca. They don’t tell me stuff like that. Could you just . . .’

  She wasn’t falling for any of that ‘you and me, we’re just the people no one tells anything to’ bullshit. Exactly how stupid did he think she was? Becca eyed him narrowly as he turned the pages, still not certain what she was going to do. She didn’t recognise any of the faces in the photographs. ‘I don’t know any of these.’

  ‘Any of them been to the drop-in?’

  ‘I haven’t been there long, but I’ve never seen them.’

  ‘Thanks, Becca. OK, one more thing. You reported an incident at the drop-in last night. Can you go over that again for me?’

  ‘You mean – about the car? It wasn’t at the drop-in. It was on the way home.’

  ‘OK. Tell me what happened.’

  After a second of hesitation, she told him about Paige, about walking back together, and Paige’s sudden request to come back to Becca’s. She didn’t tell him about Paige’s offer to party – that wasn’t any of his business. She told him about meeting Liam, and about the car pulling up next to them. ‘I didn’t know what she was going to do. And then . . .’

  He nodded. ‘Can you remember – did it seem like she knew these men?’

  Becca thought back. At the time, it had seemed like the usual creeps, but . . . had one of them said something to Paige? She wasn’t sure. ‘Not really. I don’t think so. But she said something about going to a party.’

  ‘Did you get a look at them?’

  ‘Not really.’ She showed him the image on her phone.

  ‘Can I get a copy of this?’ He took her phone away, and she fidgeted nervously until he brought it back.

  ‘OK, Becca. Thank you. You’ve been very helpful. If you think of anything else, call this number. If I’m not around, someone else will be who knows about the case.’

  She didn’t see how she’d been helpful. All she’d said was, ‘I don’t know, I don’t know.’ He gave her a card with the police logo on. Becca took it gingerly and slipped it into her pocket. He showed her out into the now empty waiting room.

  Chapter 22

  On the street outside the police station, Becca fished her cigarettes out of her pocket and lit one. It was a damp, grey day. The wind was carrying the bite of real winter cold. She zipped her jacket up to her chin and wondered about getting a sandwich before she went back. Except she didn’t have any money. She’d be out of ciggies after she finished this packet as well.

  The interview hadn’t helped. If anything, she was even more worried now. All she had was questions. Had she done the right thing, talking to them? What had happened? Too ill for photographs . . . what was that supposed to mean?

  As she approached the corner, she saw the man from the waiting room. He was leaning against the wall. As she got closer, she saw his face was tense and his eyes were closed. They opened as she approached. He nodded in recognition and gave her what was probably meant to be a smile. He looked awful. His face was grey.

  ‘Hi . . .’ It wasn’t her business, but he looked properly ill. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I will be. I get these . . . spasms in my back. Shit!’ He clenched his teeth. ‘Left my fucking— Sorry – left my painkillers. In the car.’

  Becca was sick of owing people. She wanted someone to owe her. ‘Is it far?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ll be fine in a minute. I can— Oh, Jesus!’ His head fell forwards and he seemed to stop breathing. Despite the cold, he was sweating.

  ‘You should have stayed at home.’ Becca could remember his obvious discomfort in the waiting room, and his comment about the chairs.

  He attempted a grin. ‘I’ll remember that.’

  So much for trying to help. ‘OK. Fine.’

  ‘They’d probably be dragging me in in handcuffs right now if I hadn’t turned up.’

  Becca’s phone rang before she could reply. She checked the screen. It was the drop-in. They must be wondering where she was. Maybe more people had turned up than they expected. ‘Yeah, hi,’ she said, still watching the man who was leaning against the wall.

  It was Hannah. ‘Becca, you left something behind the counter – in case I’m no
t here when you get back, I’ve given it to Neil.’

  ‘Oh. OK.’ What had she left? It didn’t matter. ‘I’m nearly done.’

  ‘No need to rush. It’s like the grave here.’

  The grave. That was Bridlington. Still, no one seemed to be expecting her back too soon. She looked at the man, who still seemed to be pinned to the wall. ‘I’ll walk you to your car if you want. Where is it?’

  ‘Yeah. That’d help. It’s just on the main road. Thanks,’ he added, like an afterthought.

  His car was parked on the street just around the corner but it took a bit of time to get there because he moved so slowly, using her shoulder for support as well as his stick. They made difficult, hobbling progress, hindered by people who pushed carelessly past them. ‘Watch out!’ Becca snapped at a youth who caught her companion with his backpack.

  ‘Fuck off, bitch.’

  ‘You fuck off, dickhead,’ Becca snarled back.

  ‘Look, don’t get into a punch-up outside the nick, not on my account,’ the man said. Becca’s gaze swivelled sideways, but she couldn’t catch his expression. ‘It’s just along there,’ he went on. ‘In that car park across from the butcher’s.’

  His car was a dark-blue Volvo estate that looked as battered as its owner. He propped himself up with one arm on the roof and looked at her with interest. ‘Thanks. I’m Jared, by the way.’

  ‘It’s OK. I mean – no trouble. I’m Becca.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Becca.’ He looked better, as if the walk had loosened him up a bit, but he still held himself with the wariness of someone who was expecting the pain to return at any moment. ‘I can probably manage from here . . .’ His teeth snapped shut and he held himself rigid against the car, the colour draining out of his face. ‘Fuck’s sake . . . Jesus . . .’

  After a couple of minutes, he relaxed. ‘Sorry. I’m OK now.’

  ‘Yeah, right, you look OK. How did you . . .? I mean . . . hurt yourself. You must have . . .’

  ‘Extreme yoga. It’s a bitch. I’ll take a couple of pills, give it ten minutes and I’ll be fine to drive.’

  OK, that was her warned off. ‘Where are they? Your pills?’ She took the keys off him, unlocked the car and rummaged in the front pocket where he’d indicated. She found a box marked ‘Tramadol, 50mg’. Just for a second, she thought about slipping a sheet into her pocket – she’d heard you could get between one and two pounds a pill, which would keep her going for a day or two.

  But the box was empty.

  She showed it to him, and he swore between clenched teeth.

  ‘You shouldn’t leave them in your car – someone might lift them.’

  He shook his head. ‘They’re not worth much. Could have made a fortune when I was on Fentanyl, but the doctors stopped playing.’ He was standing with his arms propped against the car, looking at her across the roof. ‘They’ll be back at the caravan. I’ll have to—’

  She had to ask. ‘They gave you Fentanyl? For a bad back?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’m very persuasive.’

  That was the second time he’d cut her off by making fun of her. She lifted her chin. ‘OK. I get it. I’ll be off then.’

  ‘Don’t go. I’m sorry. I make jokes about it because . . . you know.’

  She did know. You didn’t talk about the things that hurt you.

  ‘I had a bad fall. Year ago now. I smashed myself up. I’m OK – more or less. I just – last night – I thought I was a bit better than I really am and got myself into trouble. I’ll be all right.’

  He didn’t look all right. He didn’t look much better than he had outside the police station. ‘You can’t drive like that. I’ll take you.’

  ‘Thanks, but I don’t want to leave my car here.’

  ‘No, I meant I’ll take you in your car.’ He looked doubtful. He’d probably say no, and she probably shouldn’t do it anyway – it would be against the ‘rules’ somehow – but fuck that. Everyone had been pushing her around – today she was going to do what she wanted.

  The man – Jared – was assessing her offer. ‘In my car? It’s a bit tricky. The steering can be a bitch. Heavy, you know?’

  She’d learned to drive in Leeds, borrowing friends’ cars and forking out for a couple of lessons right at the end so she could take her test in an official vehicle. A car was a car, right? ‘I’ll be OK.’

  ‘I’m out near Flamborough Head. How will you get back?’

  ‘Bus. It’ll drop me off in town.’ She had no idea about the buses, but it would work out. Probably.

  ‘The buses will be shit out there. You can’t—’

  ‘Course I can. You can’t drive, can you?’

  She saw his mouth tighten, then he relaxed and shrugged. ‘No. I was OK when I left. Getting here just about finished me. OK. Thanks. But don’t worry about the bus. I’ll be fine once I’ve taken those pills. I’ll drive you back. Deal?’

  ‘Deal.’ Becca helped him into the car, then got in herself, checking the unfamiliar display, feeling her confidence wobble a bit. It was huge compared to her Micra.

  It’s just a car, she told herself. She could drive it.

  She wasn’t so sure about that by the time she’d wrestled it out of the car park – the first time she turned the wheel, the car just kept moving straight on. ‘A few more scrapes aren’t going to hurt it,’ Jared said consolingly. ‘You need to turn the wheel hard.’

  ‘I’m doing that.’ Stupid car.

  She hauled the wheel round and lurched onto the main road. The engine howled. Jared shifted in his seat but didn’t say anything. They jerked along in first gear as she wrestled with the clutch, then she managed to change up, and change up again.

  After a few hundred yards of kangaroo hops and stop-start progress, she began to get the hang of it. She put her foot down cautiously, raising a finger to the car behind her that had sounded its horn when she’d stalled and stopped abruptly in the middle of the road.

  The car gathered speed smoothly. She felt her confidence return. It might be old and battered, but she could feel the power of the engine. As they reached the edge of town, the road opened up in front of her.

  This was OK.

  This was better than OK. She was starting to enjoy herself.

  By the time they were through Sewerby, she was ruling the road, pulling away effortlessly from a van that tried to tailgate her, watching the speedometer going up – sixty, sixty-five, seventy. She had to have a car like this. She had to.

  Then the understanding came out of the blue.

  A caravan site. He lived on a caravan site on the way to Flamborough and he’d been in to talk to the police.

  Paige – the girl, maybe not Paige – had been found in the road near a caravan site.

  He knew something about last night.

  The car jerked and stalled as her foot slipped off the clutch. There was a horrible grinding noise as it skidded to a halt, ending up almost across the road. The van that had been chasing her veered round with a squeal of tyres, the horn sounding and the driver’s hand gesticulating.

  Becca sat there, holding the wheel, her heart hammering.

  Jared cleared his throat. ‘OK, the eejit was too close, but maybe next time just let him get past?’

  ‘What do you know about last night? Why were the police talking to you?’

  He stared at her blankly. ‘What?’

  ‘The girl. Who was attacked. What do you know?’

  He shook his head, still looking confused. ‘Fuck all, just about. Why?’

  ‘Because . . .’ She struggled with her words. Because it might be my fault? ‘I might know her.’

  ‘Know her? She’s a friend of yours?’

  ‘Not a friend. I’m not even sure – it might be someone I know. A bit.’

  A horn sounded and he looked behind him. ‘Do you think this is the best place to have this conversation?’

  ‘OK, OK.’ Becca struggled with the ignition and the clutch, clumsy because she was flustered, and the
car lurched into forward motion. Another car swerved past them. ‘If you don’t know anything, why were you there?’

  ‘I think we’d better not talk while you’re driving.’

  ‘I’m doing you a favour,’ Becca snapped.

  ‘Right. I really need to be wrapped round a lamp post or rear-ended. I quite like my car as it is, thanks. Look, just pay attention. Either drive or ask me questions. Don’t do both. How long have you been driving?’

  ‘A few weeks,’ Becca admitted.

  He groaned. ‘Then definitely pay attention, OK? We can talk at the site.’

  Becca drove on in silence. After a few minutes, she put her foot down again and speeded up, waiting for his objections, but he didn’t say anything. They crossed the railway line, then the road narrowed to a country lane running between flat fields with sparse hedges and stunted trees. They passed a gateway, and then Jared said, ‘Next turning. The road’s a bit rough’, and she was hauling the car round a left turn – she’d got the hang of the steering now – skidding just a bit on the loose gravel and bumping along what was little more than a farm track. She couldn’t help grinning at her success as she switched off the ignition and pulled on the hand brake. Then she opened the car door and got a proper look at her surroundings, turning to Jared in surprise. ‘I thought caravan sites were, you know, a bit more classy.’

  ‘Yeah. Some are. This one isn’t. But it’s cheap.’

  Becca looked round the bleak field. When she was very young, too young to have any proper recall of it, she must have been on holiday to a caravan park. From somewhere, she had a memory of bright colours and caravans all shiny and white, with little fences and gardens and stuff. And smooth, green grass and neat paths with lines of little white stones, and everywhere, the smell of the sea.

  Here, the vans were just lined up any old how, as if someone had dumped them on the cliff to just . . . fall apart. They looked battered; the paint chipped, the windows cracked and dirty. Who’d come here for a holiday? The ground was muddy and there was rubbish strewn around that looked as though it had been there since last summer – empty cans, trays from takeaways trampled into the ground. A plastic bag was tangled in a nearby tree and flapped in the breeze. The rain was starting again, drumming on the caravans and spattering up from the ground.