by TL Dyer
She gives me a hard glare, but somewhere beneath her clenched jaw and simmering fury I hope that some of what I say is getting through. Now that her fun’s over, though, she turns away and resumes directing her hatred at some fixed point on the other side of the room.
I move to leave. My fingers are on the door, my stomach’s knotted because I’m leaving with no case and no good result, and I’m all but ready to finish out this shift and bury my head under the duvet for as many hours as I can get, sleep or no sleep. But Charlotte stops me.
‘PC Neil Smith,’ she says behind me. ‘I’ll speak to PC Neil Smith. Only him.’
I draw in a slow breath, my eyes falling closed. And as I let that breath out, I know that if I turn back to look at her, I’ll do or say something I’ll regret. I push on through the door and out into the corridor to get away from her.
Chapter 35
The scorching hot coffee from the machine does little to make me feel better, but I sip at it anyway as I sit on a hard plastic chair outside the hospital room and attempt to examine what the problem is so I can put it behind me and do the job the way I’m supposed to. I’ve dealt with worse than Charlotte Stevens before. It’s a perk of being an officer to meet people from all walks of life, many of them not the kind you’d keep in your inner circle. But on this occasion I let her get to me. The things she said got under my skin, no matter that most of it was wrong. My dad was the kindest, most gentle and attentive father I could have wished for, and I was so close to telling her that. Except if I had, I’d have made it personal. And it isn’t personal. She isn’t attacking me, she doesn’t know me. What she’s doing is defending herself.
Perhaps it’s the other stuff that bothers me more, though. What she was implying. That I’d let someone hurt me. That I’d hand over control to another person in the same way I’ve seen done to others enough times that I thought by now I understood it. Yet somehow thinking of myself in that way is a different thing altogether. What I would attribute to those women as manipulation, a persistent and incremental breaking down of their persona, I see in myself only as a weakness. I see myself handing control to Darren Isaacs, and him taking it willingly in both hands.
*
I meet Smithy in the hospital foyer. He finally returned my calls around five thirty this morning, and after an awkward conversation, the likes of which I never want to have again, he agreed to come. Only because I pleaded with him, and only to make Charlotte see sense, nothing more. There’s no more he can do, he’s had his badge taken away from him. Being on bail awaiting trial will do that to an officer. He wants to be here about as much as I wanted to ask him, but there was no other way. At a time when everyone’s questioning Smithy’s integrity, Charlotte is the only one who won’t trust anyone else. I don’t know what that says about him, or even what it says about her, but I couldn’t just let her go. Much as every bone and tired cell in my body demanded, I couldn’t turn my back on her without doing everything I could first. Not when I know, beyond almost all doubt, that if I do, there’ll come a day when I’ll regret it. And I’ve had too many of those already.
Brushing off his concerned enquiries about my face, I accompany Smithy into Charlotte’s room, and immediately his rapport with her is obvious. Not a friendly one, far from that, but a mutual understanding. She’s less combative with him than she was with me, but even when she is heavy on the attitude he knows how to return it. And for that he receives her begrudging, unspoken respect. I can sense it in the air between them from where I stand at the window, my back to the room, watching through the half-closed blinds while the car park below fills with morning workers and visitors.
‘You could bring this to an end right now,’ Smithy says at her bedside. ‘But it can’t be me. You know it can’t be me.’
My stomach somersaults at his words. He could get in trouble for being here. I could get in more trouble for asking him. Five days ago I was driving him to his own station for questioning. Four days ago he pleaded not guilty and was released on bail pending trial. His head must be in pieces, and yet here he is. Not for his own sake, not even for mine. He’s here for the obstinate woman in the bed, the one who asked for his help and it was killing him to refuse. He knows as well as I do that this might be the only chance Charlotte has to end this cycle of violence she’s got herself caught up in.
‘Sacha is the best,’ he goes on, his voice only a fraction louder than the persistent hum of the air conditioning. ‘I trust her wholeheartedly. She won’t let you down, Charlotte, I swear. I wouldn’t be here doing this if I didn’t believe in her one hundred percent.’
My eyes drop closed. I want to believe with every part of me that he didn’t do what they’ve charged him with. But that I can’t, because that would make me naïve, hypocritical, his praise of me is discomforting, and undeserved.
‘This won’t end,’ a small voice says. And there it is. The crack in her façade. Her reaching out for help, her desperation to be reassured otherwise, that she can and will break free of this. Another officer might have said just that. But Smithy’s made an unspoken vow to be truthful with her and he doesn’t break it now.
‘You have to try. Because what’s the alternative?’
I hear the dejection in his voice, that he’s not able to promise her more than that. But if Charlotte knows him well enough, she’ll know that it comes from a good place.
‘What are you doing?’ he asks, and I turn to see Charlotte upright on the edge of the bed, the sheets thrown aside as she points to the wheelchair.
‘I need a cigarette.’
Smithy looks over at me and I shrug my shoulders, let my hands fall to my sides. Why the heck not? We’ve tried everything else, might as well try nicotine too.
When they’ve gone, Charlotte issuing instructions and Smithy rolling his eyes, I drop into the nearest chair and rest my head in my hands. It’s past six thirty in the morning. My shift finished half an hour ago. If Smithy can work his magic, I could be here at least another hour, more if I have to wait for specialist nurses to get here for the forensic medical examination. It’s a depressing thought. But more depressing is if Smithy doesn’t succeed, then all this will have been for nothing.
*
In the corridor outside the room, I smile and thank him for coming. It feels strained, but I don’t know what else to say. There’s an irony not lost on either of us that a man accused of assault and rape should be the one to persuade a victim of the same to confess all to the police. But that’s what he’s done. I only hope she won’t change her mind – another reason, amongst the many others, that I’m eager for him to get going. He’s equally keen to be gone.
‘She’s halfway there. I don’t think she’ll give you any problems,’ he says, zipping up his jacket and tugging the hood over his head. His eyes are dark and tired and somewhere off down the corridor scouting for trouble, though not the sort he can fix, more the type that might do him harm. ‘She’ll give you plenty of lip, though.’
‘No doubt.’
‘Give it right back. It’s the only thing shuts her up.’
‘Got it. And thank you again, Neil. I really…’
When I’m not certain how to finish, he shakes his head. He doesn’t look at me and his lips are thin, as if he’s stopping himself from saying something he either shouldn’t or otherwise doesn’t feel he should have to.
‘Another time,’ he says, and I watch as he marches with quick, broad strides along the linoleum before disappearing into a lift.
Back inside the room, Charlotte’s sitting on the edge of the mattress, the same place she’s been since Smithy brought her in from outside. In her hands, she holds the cigarette packet and spins it with her fingers, shoulders slouched, eyes on her lap. I sit in the same chair Smithy did earlier and for a while just wait. I want his words to be the ones echoing in her head, not mine. After a few minutes she raises her hand to swipe at the corner of her eye. And another moment after that she looks up at me, brown-eyed stare hard behind
a glaze of tears, cheeks reddened by more than the marks her attacker put there. This will be the hardest thing she’s ever had to do.
‘Lion,’ she says, half-whispered, half-spoken, the name dragged through her throat. For a second I’m unclear what she’s referring to, but she clarifies it for me. ‘Just tell the other officers Lion. They’ll know.
She agrees to be examined. Agrees to the swab but only if I stay in the room with her. She even lets me press my hand over hers as they do so. Tears cling to her eyes that she refuses to let fall, but I sense it’s less about the procedure, maybe not even about what he did to her, and more about what this means. The line that she’s crossed, that she won’t be able to back out of even if she were to switch stories tomorrow. Her injuries, along with the DNA that Forensics will get from the swab, are evidence enough for a charge with or without her testimony.
I bring her coffee and get as much information from her as I can before I explain that I’ll need to hand it over to my colleagues now to do the rest. But she already knows. She’s come this far before, she knows how it works. She knows too that a team has been aware of her boss, James Thomas Lionel, known as Lion to his band of employees and associates in the sex trade, for some years previously. They’ve already established what he does and what he’s capable of, but when those you harm fear for their own safety, it gives you the incredible advantage of always having their loyalty. Until now.
It’s another three hours until I finally get to leave the hospital to return to the station and book off, but before I do, I stand at the bottom of her bed where she lies exhausted by the events of last night and this morning and I tell her she’s the bravest person I’ve ever met. I can see she doesn’t believe me; she thinks they’re just words I use on all victims in situations like this, so I say it again and with more conviction.
Behind her lips she runs her tongue over her teeth and stares down at her hands where she picks at the worn scarlet varnish on her fingernails. She looks like a little girl who played dress-up with her mum’s things and found it wasn’t as much fun as she’d thought it would be. But when her eyes come up, I see someone else entirely. A woman who’s known and seen far more than I ever have.
‘The bravest person I’ve met,’ she says, deflecting my praise, ‘is PC Neil Smith.’
She doesn’t say why. But as I follow in my colleague’s earlier footsteps down the corridor to the lift that will take me out of here, I look at it from her point of view. To Charlotte there’s no question of Smithy’s innocence. How she’s so convinced, I don’t know, or perhaps she’s just naïve, wanting to believe that this hero of hers couldn’t possibly be anything like the other men in her life, the ones who don’t treat her with anywhere near the same respect that he’s shown her. But I’m not sure naivety can be applied here, given what she’s been through, the types of men she’s encountered in her brief career. And so if she’s not wearing rose-tinted glasses, and Smithy really has been wrongfully accused, then her commitment to his bravery is justified. More than that, I’d have to agree with her.
*
When I finally get in through the front door, it’s not far off midday. In another few hours I’ll have to be up to do it again, starting with picking up Jake from Dad’s to cook and eat dinner with him. It’s the one thing I make sure we do together when I’m at home, no matter how much or how little sleep I fit in. I check all the doors are locked and head straight upstairs to undress and get under the duvet, but I’ve barely pulled up the cover when my phone buzzes on the side table. Tutting, I reach out to snatch it up. It’s just Dad. He tells me Shirley’s cooking spaghetti meatballs tonight and there’ll be plenty for all of us if we want it. Meatballs are Jake’s favourite. And Dad’s suggestion not a coincidence. He must have seen me come home and knows I’m much later than I should be.
I think about Charlotte’s scathing words, spoken in anger and bitterness, and consider how she may have been reflecting on the men in her own life rather than those in mine. And as I text my reply, thanking him and telling him that’s an opportunity too good to miss, my tired eyes sting with tears at just how lucky I am. Dad, Shaun, my colleagues at work. I’ve never known what it’s like to live in fear of men. I’ve only known their care, imperfect or otherwise. My understanding of male violence and its prevalence was all but non-existent until I joined the police service. And until last night, in the kitchen of Ty Bryn, with Darren’s forearm pressing into my back like an iron bar, my understanding of how it might feel to be on the other end of it was wildly misguided.
Chapter 36
Shaun won’t look at me as we sit around the table to eat the meal Shirley’s cooked for us. He only speaks when he’s asked a question, even then keeping his answer brief, and there’s none of the teasing he’d usually engage in with Jake. As soon as he finishes his food, he’s up on his feet, thanking Shirley and taking his plate out to the kitchen. A moment after that, the back door closes behind him as he returns again to the garage. Dad and Shirley exchange a glance I pretend I haven’t seen, turning to Jake instead to ask him about his day. His chatter replaces the awkward atmosphere, and the simplicity of his life and thoughts put a smile on all our faces that I couldn’t be more grateful for.
When it’s time for me to leave again, I crouch to the floor where he can put his thin arms around my neck and I pull him close. I tell him to be good for Grampy and that I love him more than anything in the world. He giggles and wriggles in my hug, thinking I’m teasing with my affection, but what I really mean is he’s everything to me, and leaving him to go to work sometimes tears me in half.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow, sweetheart, alright?’
He stops giggling long enough to touch his fingers to the bruise on my face. ‘Does it hurt?’ he says, large blue eyes beneath dark lashes examining my injury with meticulous attention, his soft warm breath hitting my chin.
‘It did,’ I say. ‘But you’ve just made it better. I think you healed it.’
He considers this for a moment, then considers me, pink lips easing up into a smile. ‘Don’t be silly. It’s still there.’
‘I’m serious. But no, darling, it doesn’t hurt.’
‘Good,’ he says, resting his head on my shoulder with such gentleness I have to fight the tears that close my throat and blur my vision.
‘Pudding, Jakey,’ Dad calls down the hallway. ‘Nanna Shirley’s got your dish ready.’
The arms drop from my neck and Jake bolts past his grandfather, yelling about jam roly-poly and custard to anyone who’ll listen.
‘Oops. That worked a little better than I expected.’ Dad’s face is apologetic as I rise to my feet, but I’m just glad I’ve kept the tears at bay.
‘Thanks for the food. I’d best get going. I’ll be round in the morning, try to spend some time with him before I get my head down.’
‘You do what you have to do, love. He’s fine with us. If the weather’s nice, we’ll take him to the park. I’d rather you catch up on your sleep, you look exhausted.’
I turn towards the door, but Dad stops me with a question I’ve been hoping to avoid since I got here. ‘What’s going on between you and your brother?’
‘Nothing.’
‘He’s not been himself all day.’
‘You know what he’s like, he goes like this sometimes.’
‘Not any more he doesn’t. What did you want to see him about last night? Did you argue?’
‘Course not.’
‘If this is about Scotland—’
‘No, Dad. Look, I haven’t got time now, but I’ll speak to him when I get a chance, okay? I’m sure it’s probably nothing.’
I’m hoping to leave it at that, but Dad doesn’t look convinced. As he shouldn’t. I did argue with Shaun, and I did upset him, and it’s clearly still bothering him. But what he said bothers me too. And though I know his turning Craig away was done with good intentions, that doesn’t make it any easier for me to accept.
‘Actually, Dad, I wanted to sp
eak to you about something. I was going to do it when I was off, but it might as well be now so you can prepare.’
‘Prepare?’
‘Your offer to take Jake to Scotland in the summer holidays. I think it would be a good idea. I think he should go.’
Whatever concerns have been floating through Dad’s mind are forgotten. His hunched shoulders come down, eyes brighten, and a smile spreads across his lips.
‘We can discuss all the details another time. I have to go, Dad. It would be nice if you were the one to tell him, though. Maybe you can do that tonight. But I think he’ll jump at the chance. He’d go anywhere with you.’
Never one for being overly affectionate, it surprises me now that Dad takes a step towards me, places a hand on each of my arms and leans in to kiss me on the cheek. Taking that for agreement, I smile and leave before the situation gets any more uncomfortable. Or before he asks why I’ve changed my mind.
*
Later that night while I’m working the shift several text messages come through from Darren. I’m single-crewed again tonight, which means the only conversation I get during a break is the one I have with my phone, parked at the rear of a garage forecourt on the edge of town. Though as it turns out, silence would have been preferable.
The messages, three of them, each came through within thirty minutes, beginning at 10.30 this evening. The first tells me the good news is his nose isn’t broken following my headbutt. In the second he says he’s been researching hemophobia and how to treat it. And in the third he asks when he can see his son next.
The way he words the texts sounds odd, until I consider that it’s actually presented in the same way he’d speak it, rather than the shorthand most people use for texting. But then something else occurs to me, and when I read the messages again, it’s obvious. He’s carefully phrased them, each word chosen on purpose. Because read apart, and then as a collective, what they do is paint a picture. Of Darren as a caring, attentive man and father. Then of me, as a violent, negligent mother who’s been deliberately obtuse about letting her son see his dad.
