Anger bubbled beneath the surface of his despair, fuelling his heightened emotions to an unprecedented level.
“I hate that man,” he hissed.
Thoughts of revenge tussled in his mind making him even more determined to find out what Jason was up to so he would be able to entrap him and propel his own career. He wanted to destroy him. Break his credibility and reputation so badly he would be kicked off the force. Frustration of being trapped at the hospital gnawed at him. He knew Katherine and the baby were the only things he should be concerned about yet his hate had built to such an extent he found it impossible to keep them at the forefront of his mind.
“I can’t afford another round of IVF. If she loses this baby…”
The door opened and Phil ceased talking to himself, sitting up and folding his arms as a middle aged man and woman sat facing him on the other side of the room. The woman was on edge and Phil discretely watched as the man, her husband, tried to offer her consolation. The man glanced over and gave Phil a half-hearted smile as he rubbed the woman’s back while she dabbed her eyes with a tissue and rocked on the edge of her seat.
“Son’s had a car crash,” he said, as if feeling the need to explain.
“I’m sorry,” Phil replied, trying to portray a sympathetic persona as he picked up a magazine from the table and pretended to look interested in an article about the latest celebrity marriage. The last thing he needed was conversation and he resented them invading the privacy of the waiting room.
A few minutes later the door opened again and the same doctor who had visited him entered the room and made his way over to the distraught couple. He crouched down, placing a hand on the woman’s knee as he talked in a soft tone for a few moments while she listened intently, dabbing her eyes between choppy breaths. When he had finished, he stood and directed the couple to the door, pointing and giving them directions to the ward where they would find their son. Once the couple had left, the doctor sat beside Phil.
“The surgery has gone well but she’s very weak. We’ve managed to stabilise her but she’ll be in intensive care for at least two days.”
“Can I see her?”
The doctor shook his head.
“I’m afraid not. She’s not conscious yet and we need to monitor her very carefully. My advice is go home, we’ll contact you if there’s any change.”
“The baby?” Phil asked, a slight hesitation to his voice.
The doctor shook his head.
“I’m sorry. It’s too early to say.”
Chapter Twenty Eight
Dark, billowing clouds formed in the winter sky as Phil left the hospital. Dazed, confused, unable to process the tirade of emotions rushing through him, he walked zombie-like to where he had left his car. He sat for a while with the keys in his hand, watching as the rain beat at the windscreen and the yellow and black parking ticket placed underneath the wiper. His mood matched the ominous and volatile weather. All he ever wanted was to be good at his job, look after his family and dispel his mother’s opinion of him being ‘the black sheep’. Now, the dice of life had once again rolled, sending him plummeting down the snake and back to square one. The injustice had been festering deep within his gut, twisting and growing in size with every failure. He opened the door and reached his arm round, grabbing the ticket in its plastic waterproof wrapper off the windscreen – a final insult to the injury.
“Are you testing me? Didn’t you forgive my transgressions?” he said out loud as he looked up at the dark grey sky.
Fury bubbled to the surface as he released the words and he revved the engine, reversed sharply and accelerated out of the carpark. He drove as if on autopilot, his mind not consciously knowing where he was heading until he found himself pulling into the carpark at work. His shift had started two hours ago and so far he hadn’t called to make his excuses and be officially signed off, and he predicted he would be summonsed into DCI Burns’ office the second he entered.
“Good of you to make an appearance,” Jason taunted as he tried to walk calmly over to his desk. “I was expecting your wife to call and check up on you.”
Jason carried on with his paperwork unaware the mention of Katherine had pushed Phil’s rage to the point of no return as he took two bold steps and lunged. Yanking Jason out of his chair by his neck, he thrust him across the room sending him into the wall outside DCI Burns’ office. The shock winded him and he rolled over onto his hands and knees, gasping for breath.
“You want to know why I haven’t been here?” Phil yelled, tears of uncontrollable rage filling his eyes.
He lunged a second time, this time swinging a kick into Jason’s stomach with such force it lifted him off the ground and sent him further across the office floor.
“Stop!” Jason gasped, clutching his middle as he staggered to get to his feet to defend himself from more blows.
The sight of him grovelling for mercy filled him with a sense of power. He had fantasised about doing this for so long his usual self-control was rendered useless as the pent up anger was exorcised a little with every punch, kick and pathetic plea. Cornering him, Phil clenched his fist tight and raised it above his head ready to strike down onto Jason’s desperate expression. Suddenly, two arms hooked underneath his shoulders preventing him from administering a tirade of punches. His feet left him and in a split second Phil hit the floor, the weight of two of his colleagues pinning him firmly down.
“What the hell’s going on?”
DCI Burns polished black shoes appeared at eye level on the carpet. Knowing there was no way to wriggle free, Phil relaxed his body and gave in to his restraint.
“Get him into my office.”
He felt himself being hoisted up from the floor and deposited onto the seat opposite Mick’s desk. He instructed the officers to leave and he slammed the door and closed the blinds on the shocked faces who were staring in from the office beyond.
“I should strip you of your badge. Assaulting a fellow officer, especially one of a higher rank is cause for instant dismissal.”
Phil glared up at him as he stood by his desk. The financial implications of losing his job didn’t register, only the injustice of being stopped so soon and not being able to do some real damage tainted his thoughts. Tears streamed down his face and he panted, wildly.
“So? Are you going to tell me what the hell that was about?” Mick ordered.
Phil lowered his head as he remembered the words Jason had said to trigger the attack. He muttered his explanation, telling Mick some sketchy details and how he’d been at the hospital most of the day. Shame weighed heavy on his shoulders. Not for the assault but for the way his explanation made him regress to his childhood. The interrogations and lectures his father would unleash while he sat, ashamedly on a chair in his office.
Mick calmed his tone as he listened to the explanation and Phil sensed the atmosphere relax. He wanted to tell him everything he had found out about Jason but it was too soon and the evidence had been safely locked away.
“I’m putting you on leave for a fortnight,” Mick said. “Providing you apologise to Jason and he accepts it, then I’ll put it down to stress. But when you come back, I want to see a better attitude towards DS Cook. Is that clear?”
Phil nodded. The prospect of having to apologise to Jason made him squirm but he knew it would have to be done if he was to continue in his role and carry on investigating.
“Go on, get yourself home and be with your family,” Mick said, and Phil sensed a lilt of understanding in his words.
He mumbled his thanks and headed out of the office with Mick close behind him in case of any more trouble. Someone had brought Jason a cold compress and he had it pressed to his face as he sat at his desk. Eyes watched as he made his way back to the lift and a stony silence descended over the office floor. Humiliation added to the already overwhelming feelings of injustice and Phil focused on the doors of the lift, not giving anyone even a glance.
“Why can’t they see what he’s li
ke?” he muttered to himself once the doors were closed. “It’s as if he’s put a spell on them all.”
He headed back to his car, making no attempt to shield himself from the relentless rain as it soaked his hair and trickled down the collar of his jacket. The prospect of returning to the hospital filled him with dread although he knew he really ought to be there. The doctor had said they would call if there was any change and so using this as justification, he decided to return home for a couple of hours to get freshened up.
The house had a hollow feel to it when he arrived. Blood-stained packaging from a surgical glove along with footprints in the pile of the stair carpet served to remind him of the crisis only hours earlier, a cold confirmation it hadn’t been a dream. He picked up the mail from the mat by the door and placed it, unopened on the kitchen table. Loan and banks statements were the last things he needed right now and he rolled his tongue against the dryness in his mouth. When was the last time he’d had a drink? He ran the kitchen tap and filled a glass with water to flush the bitter taste away, staring out at the small garden as he gulped it down. Daylight revealed the grave he had started to dig the previous night, triggering memories of Katherine and the level of upset she had experienced. His eyes burned as he closed them in an attempt to banish the images from his mind.
“What am I going to tell them when they ask?”
There were people, relatives he had to call. His mother, Katherine’s parents in Australia all had to be informed of the events and her current condition. Instead of the prospect of the calls providing him with a sense of support, he felt quite the opposite. Would his mother give him some much needed words of comfort, or would there be the usual undertone of failure and disappointment? He stood by the phone and imagined the conversation, then made his way back down the hall and up the stairs, stopping once he reached the entrance to their bedroom. Unable to bear the sight of the rusty coloured pool, he grabbed the corner of the sheet and swept it off the bed, rolling it up and throwing it out onto the landing. Metallic air bathed the room, making him feel nauseous and light-headed as he went to pick up the quilt which laid crumpled on the floor in the corner. He threw open a window, inhaling the damp from the rainy air to flush the odour from his nostrils.
“I can’t do this…”
He ran from the room and into the bathroom, falling to his knees as his stomach lurched and he retched into the toilet. His face flushed hot, his head spinning from the stress and devastation as he gasped for breath. Slumping to the floor, he leant against the tepid radiator listening to the water running through the toilet cistern yet still the smell of blood lingered. He stripped off his shirt, pulling down his jeans to reveal the reddish brown streaks dried down the bottom of his legs and he stepped into the shower and turned the jets on full blast. He scrubbed, lathering himself in the fragrant shower gel to purge himself of the horror. The water soothed his senses, as if baptising him and restoring his sanity. He allowed it to run over him for several minutes, visualising his troubles disappearing down the drain and trying to fill his mind with positive memories. Slowly, his composure returned. Stepping out onto the towelling mat, he rubbed himself hard with his towel to invigorate his weary muscles when the sound of the telephone filtered up from the living room. Thoughts of the hospital calling with an update shot into his mind and he ran naked out of the bathroom, wrapping a towel around his waist as he made his way down the stairs.
“Hello?”
“Hello Phil, it’s Father Michael. I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time?”
Phil let out a deep breath and ran his fingers through his dripping wet hair.
“No, no not at all Father,” he lied. “I was upstairs so had to run for the phone.”
There was a pause and Phil sensed Father Michael was struggling to find his words.
“How can I help you?” he prompted.
“Can you come over? I don’t want to discuss it over the phone,” he replied, and Phil heard a faint hiss in the background.
“Are you alright, Father? Only, you seem a bit tense.”
“Oh, I’m fine, I’m fine,” he replied. “I just have some information on that place you were asking about the other day. Can you come over?”
It sounded urgent and something about the way Father Michael spoke seemed off so Phil agreed without questioning him any further.
“I’ll be over in about half an hour if that’s okay?”
Father Michael hung up without saying goodbye and Phil took the phone from his ear and gave it a puzzled look.
“How strange.”
It had been the first time he had spoken with the priest on the phone and he wondered if he suffered from a lack of telephone skills. He sounded stressed, as if someone else was there beside him when he made the call.
“Maybe I’m reading too much into it,” he muttered to himself.
The water from his hair dripped and ran down his back, sending a shiver over him as he thought about what information Father Michael had that was so urgent.
Why didn’t he just tell me on the phone?
His instinct prodded him, urging him to get dressed and go over to the vicarage without delay and he shot back upstairs to finish getting dried and dressed.
Chapter Twenty Nine
The vicarage was in darkness when he arrived and pulled into the church carpark. The overbearing grey clouds had robbed the day of its brightness, the early evening winter sunsets leaching what remained. His analytical mind rose to the surface as he observed the windows on Father Michael’s house. Not even the faintest glimmer of light was evident, only the reflection of the rolling clouds on the black, shiny glass between the ivy clad stone walls. If it weren’t for the navy Volvo V70 parked at the front of the house, Phil would have assumed there was no one in.
Maybe he’s in his kitchen around the back?
Pea gravel crunched beneath his feet as he opened the small wrought iron gate and walked up the path to the front door. The relentless rain which had plagued the day had eventually stopped leaving the tinkling sound of water as it dripped down the guttering, window ledges and plants in the small neatly tendered garden. He paused, standing motionless at the arched oak door as he listened to the droplets of water and any sounds from within the house. The black iron lion held a ring in its mouth and he grabbed it and tapped it down a few times, taking a step back while he waited for Father Michael to answer the door. He peered through the small glass window above the knocker, its concave circles distorting against prying eyes but still revealing natural light from the kitchen window down the hallway. He knocked again, this time a little harder and a few large drops of rain splashed down from a passing cloud.
“Come on,” he whispered, rubbing his hands together to generate a little warmth.
He cupped his hands to the small window and peered into the house for a second time but there was no movement, no silhouette of Father Michael making his way to greet him. Annoyance at the prospect of travelling over when he should really be at the hospital niggled. He looked over toward the church for any indication he may be inside but the padlock on the church door said otherwise. Stepping out from the doorway, he leant over the border plants and looked through the window into the living room and found it empty. Something wasn’t right. Stepping back to the door he gave it one last knock and after waiting a few seconds he carefully tried the handle. The door was unlocked, adding to Phil’s uneasiness and he pushed it open very slightly and called inside.
“Hello? Father Michael, it’s Philip Harris. You wanted to see me.”
Not wanting to burst into the house uninvited, he hovered at the door not opening it any further as he waited for the priest to reply.
“Hello! Father Michael, are you there?”
When no answer came, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.
“Father Michael,” he gasped.
The crumpled outline of the priest lay at the foot of the stairs his eyes open as if staring into a void. Phil shot forward, landi
ng on his knees beside him but he knew instantly the priest was beyond help. The skin on his neck provided little camouflage for the uneven and irregular lumps and twists from the bones beneath its surface. He stretched out his hand and placed his fingers on the inside of his neck to check for a pulse as a matter of habit. He was still warm. Had he fallen, tripped on the hem of his cassock and tumbled down to the bottom? Phil’s heart started to pound and he leapt up, taking care not to move the priest. Maybe he had been pushed. An intense feeling of paranoia closed in on him as he recalled hearing a strange background noise when Father Michael had called. But who would want him dead? His detective brain kicked in and he picked up the phone on the polished oak table by the door and started to punch in the emergency number for the police and an ambulance. After a few seconds, he heard the ringtone.
“Hello, what service do you require?” a female voice answered.
“This is—“
He started to reply but a silence fell.
“Hello? Hello?”
He tapped the receiver. Maybe the bad weather had caused a break in the connection but he soon realised the line was dead. He placed the telephone down and stood in silence as he assessed what he was going to do. The place need to be cordoned off and a team of forensics set to work as soon as possible, and he needed to get back to the hospital. He needed a phone. He checked his mobile but there was no signal. The nearest house was about a hundred metres down the road from the church and so he decided to make his way there while there was still a little natural light.
“I’ll be back in a minute, Father,” he said, not wanting to leave without saying something to the body laying twisted at his feet.
He turned to face the door and took a step forward, reaching out for the handle then froze. A creak. He shot round, his eyes wide so they would see a panoramic view of the hallway, kitchen and stairs.
“Maybe it’s the house settling,” he told himself.
The Death of Me Page 18