Life Ruins

by Danuta Kot

  Everything had moved at high speed from the moment they saw the fire, and now, for the first time, he had a chance to think, with the dawning realisation that once again, he’d got it wrong, wrong, wrong. The night before, a car had driven Becca off the road, and it was sheer luck they hadn’t been able to finish the job, or so it seemed to Jared. They’d even talked about it, for fuck’s sake:

  That car – did it follow you from Brid?

  It wasn’t until I got off that hill . . . One minute the road was empty, next minute . . .

  He rested his head against the steering wheel. Now he knew exactly how much of a fuck-up he’d made. He hadn’t just forgotten that GBH knew him and his car, he’d forgotten what Becca had told him. Told him as clear as daylight.

  The car had followed her from here, from this house.

  Jesus Christ. Shit for brains.

  He’d thought he was being so clever, thought he knew all about keeping out of the way. Instead, he’d let her walk right back into it. He had to warn her. Now.

  He pulled out his phone and called her number.

  Something rang in the back seat behind him.

  Oh, Jesus. He reached over and hauled up Becca’s backpack. Inside, he found not just her phone but her purse as well. She’d gone off with no money and he had no means of contacting her.

  He forced himself to focus through the brain-fuzz. It was up to him. He had to find out where the ambulance had gone. Then . . . it all fell apart inside his head. He could feel the pain starting up again in his back, and the nausea churning in his stomach. You could talk about pill-heads and all that shit, but right now, he needed something, just so he could function. Just to make him . . .

  Yeah, that would really work. He’d made all these fuck-ups while he was out of it on the fucking pills. He couldn’t do that again. It wasn’t his life he was trashing – it could be Becca’s. OK. Now.

  Think.

  He had to find out where she had gone, and then he could get himself over there.

  He got out of the car and walked across the field to where the small cottage stood slightly back from the road. There was just one fire engine left and no one in sight.

  ‘Hey. You.’

  The voice came from behind him. He spun round, his heart jumping, but it was just one of the firemen, who was crouched down by something on the ground. Jared went across. ‘Listen, mate, where did they go? The ambulance?’

  ‘I’m not sure if it’s Scarborough or York tonight. You can call—’

  ‘York?’ That was fucking miles. It’d take the ambulance – what? – an hour to get there? More.

  ‘Might be Scarborough. Are you family?’

  Jared thought quickly, then nodded. It was the way to get information. ‘Yeah. I’m, you know, with the daughter.’

  ‘Well, don’t worry. They’d have sent the helicopter if they thought she wouldn’t make it. Look, there’s this dog – he needs looking after.’

  The little dog was a sorry puddle of white hair on the ground, panting and whimpering. ‘We gave him some oxygen,’ the fireman said, ‘but he needs a vet. Otherwise I’ll have to take him to the shelter.’

  ‘I don’t have . . .’ Jared wanted to get straight off in pursuit of the ambulance, but he forced himself to calm down. Whichever hospital it was, Becca would be safe there. She’d stay with this Kay woman, because as far as Jared could tell, Kay was the closest thing she had to family. The ambulance would either be just arriving in Scarborough now, or still on the road if they were going to York. He was dead on his feet. If he tried driving across the moors in this state, he’d fall asleep behind the wheel.

  What he needed to do was wait and let the hospital do the admin, then call and find out which hospital they’d gone to. Once he was through to the right department, he could get a message to Becca saying he was on his way. With a bit of luck, she’d sit tight.

  In the meantime . . . He knelt down and touched the dog. It was shivering and its fur felt damp. He checked the name tag on the collar: Milo. He patted the damp fur tentatively. ‘Milo. Poor old lad. How you doing, mate?’ The tail twitched in a feeble wag. OK, he could do something about this. He checked his watch – it was getting on for one – and looked up at the other man. ‘Is there a twenty-four-hour vet?’

  There was one down in Whitby, the man said, and gave him directions. Jared scooped the little animal up and walked back to the car, feeling the warmth of the surprisingly solid body against him. He put Milo on the passenger seat, then drove carefully down the hill towards the harbour where the vet was located.

  Despite the late hour, the surgery was busy, but they whisked Milo through quickly. He was on the treatment table with an oxygen mask held over his muzzle with the same speed at which they took the details of Jared’s credit card.

  Jared sent up a silent prayer that this friend of Becca’s – or should he call her Becca’s mum? It sounded like a complicated relationship – could afford all of this, because he certainly couldn’t. His savings were just about gone.

  The dog staggered to his feet and tried to jump off the vet’s table. ‘Good sign,’ the vet said cheerfully. ‘He’s had a bad shock and he’s inhaled some smoke – the problem here is we don’t know what was in it. Smoke can be toxic, even in small quantities, depending on what was burning. I want to do some bloods and keep him here overnight for observation. Is that OK?’

  Jared nodded, wondering what they’d do if his credit card refused payment. ‘I’ll call back in the morning, then.’

  When he got outside, he found a light drizzle was falling. Here he was, in the middle of Whitby. It was after midnight, it was raining, his credit card was now maxed out and he was so tired he was starting to fall asleep on his feet.

  He knew a trick or two about staying awake. A cup of strong coffee, really strong coffee, followed by a ten-minute catnap would keep him going a few more hours. He’d feel like a zombie tomorrow, but he could deal with that then.

  So where to get coffee? The streets were empty, the shops and restaurants closed. There might be a café open somewhere, but he had no idea where and he didn’t want to linger, a solitary walker on the empty streets.

  The cottage. There would be coffee there. He could use his camping stove to heat up some water, make a hell-brew and get himself sorted. Wearily, he got back into the car and set off up the hill. His eyes started closing as he headed out of the town. The car drifted across the road and he jerked himself awake.

  Come on! Fuck’s sake!

  As he pulled in on a narrow lane by a field, he drifted off and woke suddenly, slumped in the front seat of his car, from a dream of driving along some endless road, looking for a turning he knew was there, haunted by the urgency of his hunt. Find it, find it, find it . . .

  Christ, how long had he been asleep? But it was OK. A quick check of his watch told him he’d only dropped off for a few minutes, but next time . . . He needed that coffee, now. He retrieved his small camping stove from the boot and, torch in hand, he walked towards to the cottage. In the darkness, it looked intact. There was no evidence of fire damage until he got closer and saw the frame pulled out of the upstairs window and the boarded-up door – the firefighters had probably broken that down to get in. The smell of smoke hung heavily in the air, not the celebratory smoke of Guy Fawkes bonfires and summer barbecues, but the sour smell of pollutants and burned chemicals. Jared thought about the small, shivering dog and wondered how he was faring.

  The back door was locked. There was a small garage to one side, but it was just a lean-to without a door into the house. The downstairs windows had old sash-cord frames; upstairs they looked like metal-framed windows with small panes, caked shut with layer upon layer of old paint – no way out if the window wouldn’t open.

  But sash windows – he knew those well and followed the path round the house trying each one as he went. Sure enough, he found one that wasn’t locked, presumably because it, too, was painted shut. A few minutes’ work with his pocket knife sol
ved that problem. He eased the window up and climbed over the sill.

  He was in a small living room. It was cluttered but neat, a chair pulled up in front of a stove, a table with an open wine bottle, almost full, and a glass. The surfaces – deep windowsills, another table, a dresser – were almost covered with ornaments and framed photographs. Jared noted one of Becca on the table by the stove.

  He crossed the small room and opened the door tentatively. The sour smell of smoke hit him full in the face, making him gag. He pulled his scarf up round his mouth and nose and stepped through.

  It was like a different place. The fire was evident everywhere. Water lay in dirty pools on the floor. The walls were black with a dark, oily film. The stairs, steep and narrow, led up into darkness.

  Another door opened into a kitchen that looked more or less intact in the light of Jared’s torch. There was a jar of Nescafé on the worktop. The water was probably turned off, but there’d be enough in the pipes for a brew.

  He set up his stove and heated water in a small pan, then tipped a load of coffee granules into a mug. Not waiting for the water to boil, he poured it on top and gave it a good stir. He added sugar for good measure, then drank the lot down. It was disgusting, but with luck, it would do the trick.

  Using his torch to light his way, he went back through to the undamaged living room where only the smell of burning remained. He went across to the window and let the light from his torch play over it. There were framed photographs on the sill next to a small white vase. One was of Becca again. She looked about twelve, thirteen, and was standing with a tall, thin man – glasses, bit of a wonk – who was smiling vaguely at the camera. Becca was scowling fiercely.

  The next photo was of the same man standing with another girl – this one looked a bit older – dark curls framing a face that was peaky and shadowed around the eyes.

  Hang on. He picked it up.

  There was something . . .

  And he saw the face, the face in the photograph, but this time it was flying out of the darkness towards him. Let me in! They’re coming! And there were bruises starting around her eyes and her mouth was bleeding . . .

  Oh shit.

  Oh fucking hell.

  His repertoire of obscenities failed him. No wonder they were after Becca. And an accidental fire? Not fucking likely. They were after this Kay woman as well.

  He stopped. He’d heard a sound – his imagination? No. There it was again. Someone was outside the cottage. He hurriedly put the photograph back down but fumbled it and it fell with a clatter.

  Fuck!

  Adrenaline flooded through him. He snapped off his torch and the darkness closed around him. After a few seconds, his eyes began adjusting. It was still hard to see, but he could just make out the outline of the window he’d used to get in. Moving carefully, he crossed the room, pausing at each step to avoid tripping or knocking something else over. His hands touched the sill. He felt for the window and eased it up gently, knowing how easily these windows could slip and jam.

  When it was wide enough he slid across, ducked under the window and dropped down onto the path.

  The weather was changing for the worse. The wind caught him as he straightened up and tried to get his bearings, making him stagger back against the wall. Sleet spattered across his face.

  At least it would mask any sounds he was making as he left the house. For a moment he wondered if what he’d heard had been the sound of the wind gusting in from the sea. But as he stood there, he saw a circle of torchlight moving back and forth across the ground. There was something in the stealthy movement that told him to get out. Fast.

  He moved quickly towards the gate, then, keeping himself in the shadow of the wall, he headed back towards the car.

  That was when Becca’s phone, stuck in his pocket, started ringing.

  Chapter 44

  Becca hated hospitals. They were full of people telling you what to do and asking the same questions over and over again. ‘I don’t know,’ she told the doctor – the third doctor who’d talked to her – when he asked her if Kay was allergic to anything. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘And you’re . . .?’

  ‘I’m her daughter.’ She said this defiantly, but it was true. If she was anyone’s daughter, she was Kay’s. ‘Can I see her?’

  They’d been doing things and they wouldn’t let her in earlier, but this time the doctor nodded and led her through A & E, an area that was a maze of curtained-off spaces with a door at the far end that said ‘Resus’.

  And there was Kay, on a bed in a cubicle. Becca felt cold. Kay looked so small – and old. Her face was pale with an angry red weal on one side. Her hair was frizzled at the ends from the heat – had she come so close to burning? Her eyes were closed, but when Becca came to the side of the bed, she opened them and her lips moved.

  ‘What?’ Becca leaned over, struggling with this image of Kay as the one who needed help, Kay who always knew what to do, and now . . .

  ‘Becca . . .’ Kay’s voice wasn’t even a whisper – it was more like a breath.

  ‘Yeah. It’s me. I’m . . . we saw the fire.’

  Kay’s hand closed on her wrist. ‘Milo . . .’ She had to say it twice before Becca could understand.

  ‘Milo? He’s . . .’ She had no idea about Milo. ‘He’s OK. They’re looking after him.’

  Kay’s hand squeezed her wrist and her eyes closed.

  What happened? Becca wanted to say. What should I do? I need you to tell me what to do, but Kay, her source of wisdom over the years, was silent.

  ‘We’re taking her up to the ward now.’ A nurse was standing behind her, and two men began to move the bed, pushing it away from the wall.

  ‘What’s wrong with her? Why can’t she talk?’ Kay’s pallor and her laboured speech frightened Becca. She could remember Matt’s progressive weakness as the cancer took hold.

  ‘The smoke’s hurt her throat, so it’s really sore. It sounds worse than it is.’

  ‘So why can’t she go home?’

  The nurse smiled at her reassuringly. ‘She’ll be fine, your mum. We just want to keep an eye on her. Smoke can be nasty stuff.’

  ‘But she’s burned.’

  ‘Not badly. Those will heal quickly.’

  ‘Can I come up with her?’

  ‘Course you can. Just see her settled on the ward, then she’ll need to sleep.’

  Becca followed the porters through a maze of corridors and then up in a lift. They tried to talk to her, making jokes about mums getting into trouble, and how you had to look after them, until Becca’s monosyllabic responses silenced them.

  She wasn’t in a mood for making jokes about what had happened. It was still there, right in front of her, the sight of Kay’s cottage ablaze and the realisation that Kay was inside and might . . . Jared had stopped her from driving across and getting in the way of the people who were getting Kay out. She’d been mad at him then. She’d said things she shouldn’t have said. He might not want anything more to do with her and he’d be right. He’d been helping her, and she’d just . . .

  She should contact him at least, let him know what was happening. As she followed the porters through a door and into a bay that contained three other beds, she reached into her bag for her phone.

  It wasn’t there. Nor, she realised after some frantic rummaging, was her purse.

  They were in her backpack, where she’d put them for safekeeping.

  In Jared’s car.

  She felt a moment of blind panic. She was stuck here miles away from her stuff with no phone to contact anyone and no money.

  A nurse came over to Becca. ‘Do you want to see your mum before you go? She needs to get some sleep now.’

  OK, that was clear enough. Say goodnight and piss off.

  But where. And how? Get to wherever Jared might be? She had no idea where he was and she couldn’t contact him – she didn’t know his number. A taxi? Yeah, right. Like she had – what? – sixty, seventy quid even i
f she had her purse. A quick trawl through her pockets produced a fiver and a bit of change – money she’d shoved in her pocket at the pub.

  She was stuck.

  And where would Jared be? She needed her stuff, they’d been travelling together – they hadn’t really talked about what they were going to do next. He might not be in Whitby. He might have got fed up with all the trouble and gone back to Kettlewhatsit. Or just gone. Why would he stick around?

  Hang on. He had her phone. She followed the exit signs until she reached a foyer area and sure enough, there was a public phone. She took her fistful of change and keyed in her own number. Just as she thought it wasn’t going to work, Jared answered it.

  ‘Yeah?’ He sounded cautious.

  ‘It’s me, Becca. Listen, I haven’t got much cash. I’m in York. Where are you?’ She had to feed another precious coin into the phone.

  ‘Whitby. Listen, Becca—’

  ‘Kay’s OK. I think. I’m going to—’

  He interrupted her. ‘Becca. Listen. I can’t talk now. I need to get out of here. There’s things happening.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Just . . . we’ve got to go to the police. I think I know who the girl is from the caravan site. I’ll drive across to York and pick you up.’

  ‘I was going to hitch.’ She’d only just thought of that. It was the last thing she wanted to do, but she didn’t want him feeling he had to look after her, do things for her. She could take care of herself.

  ‘Yeah. And I’ll go and tap dance in that tunnel while I’m waiting for you. Got any other bright ideas?’ He sounded really angry.

  ‘Look, I can—’ You’re not the boss of me! Paige’s childish gibe echoed in her head.

  ‘Look after yourself? Of course you can. Listen, there’s something going on at your friend’s house. Your mum’s house. We need to go to the police. I’ll pick you up in an hour, OK? I . . . oh shit. Oh, shit . . .’