by M. A. Hunter
Tommy squeezes my neck between his giant thumb and fingers, driving me back against the wall; my chair is nowhere in sight. I’m too scared to cry, and the pain in my jaw is so intense that I genuinely think he means to break it. He releases his grip but follows it up with a balled fist into my nose, and as the tears do finally escape, I can’t see, because my hands shoot up to keep the rest of my face safe from his blows. I taste blood in the back of my throat as I struggle to breathe though the agony.
‘You should have taken the money and gone,’ I hear him snarl only inches from my ear, and it’s enough to make me recoil in terror.
He stomps away, but I remain curled away from where he was standing, my hands still shielding my eyes and nose. The warm liquid slicking through the gaps in my fingers must be a mix of blood and tears, but I don’t have the courage to look.
I’d hoped that telling him I’d phoned the police would be enough to make him scarper, but he’s called my bluff and now we’re at his mercy. Even if I screamed, there’s no guarantee anyone would hear it or come to our rescue.
‘Right, Mammy, now it’s your turn,’ I hear him groaning over near the door.
Prising my fingers apart slightly, I stare out through the bubble of tears, just about catching his shadow as he sits astride Morag. Keeping my blurred gaze on them, ever so slowly I lower my right hand, careful to keep my head and torso leaning at this awkward angle so as not to alert his peripheral vision. My handbag is to my left where it flew from the chair, and I slide my hand in, carefully feeling around until my fingers brush against my phone.
‘You never should have snatched my daughter from me,’ Tommy roars into Morag’s motionless face.
I slowly pull my hand out and jab my thumb against the fingerprint sensor. The screen brightens, but an error message says the print wasn’t recognised. A bloody mess clings to the pressure point, and I have to wipe it clean on the thigh of my jogging pants, and try again. This time it accepts the print and the home screen and apps appear.
‘Throw that over here if you don’t want me to come and get it myself.’
Tommy is staring at me, the long-barrelled handgun pointing in my direction. All I have to do is open the phone app and tap the 9 three times, but he is already clambering off Morag. I stab at the app with my thumb, realising this may be my final act in this cruel world, but I’ve only managed to press the 9 once before his hand connects with mine, and the phone flies from my grip. He follows this up with a backhand across my cheek, before driving his steel-capped boot into my side. A sharp pain erupts through my spine, as my shoulder crashes against the hard floor.
I can hear Tommy laughing above me, as he reaches for one of the kitchen chairs, presses it down over my chest, and plonks down on it. With my back pressed into the floor, and my arms pinned between the chair legs, I’m helpless to move.
‘Did nobody ever tell you it’s rude to stick your nose into other folk’s business? You should have stayed away from here, Jess. Can’t you see that this woman is poison?’
‘The apple didn’t fall far from the tree then,’ I reply with a grimace as the pain in my nose intensifies.
He turns the handgun between his fingers. ‘You know, I usually have people who take care of things like this for me, but do you know what? I’m going to enjoy getting my hands dirty for once.’
He stands and the pressure on my chest eases slightly, but my horror intensifies as I see him remove a large chef’s knife from the block on the work surface. His shadow falls across my face again, and he lifts and flings the kitchen chair off into the hallway, where it makes a loud crash as it smacks against what remains of the door.
I try to shuffle away from him, but my back is aching, and I only manage a few centimetres before he drops onto my abdomen, legs either side of my arms, squeezing them against my body, the blade’s point so close to my eyes that a sneeze would blind me. I can no longer see Morag, only his looming hulk over me.
‘You know, they say bleeding to death is one of the most horrific ways you can die,’ he taunts. ‘Knowing that the grains of sand are slipping through the hourglass, and that there is nothing you can do to stop the inevitability of death.’
An image of Grace flashes in front of my eyes. My precious angel, the one thing I did in this life that wasn’t a mistake. It’s the impetus I need to wrestle my left arm free of his pinning knee, and I manage to wrap my fingers around his wrist, just to buy myself a few extra seconds. He is so much stronger than me, and I’m not sure even both of my hands would be enough to keep his one from driving the blade into my face.
‘Please,’ I wheeze. ‘I have a daughter too. Don’t leave her without a mother.’
‘You should have thought about her before you tried to help that old bag over there. What is it with the mothers in here, putting strangers before their own flesh and blood? I offered you twenty grand to turn a blind eye. You could have been on your way home to your daughter right now. You chose this end. You chose to leave your daughter without a mother. Maybe it’s because deep down you know she’ll be better off without you. I know I was without mine. Made me the man I am today.’
There is a groan from somewhere behind him, and as he turns to check whether Morag is coming to, I manage to leverage my right arm out and grab his wrist with my other hand. He turns back to face me, his mouth curling into a grin. He knows I don’t have the strength to prevent him, and I see the mania in his eyes as he prepares to drive the blade towards my face.
Then suddenly my hands twist as some other force takes control, and as I blink away my tears, I see a bony, wrinkled hand coiled around mine, and then the blade is moving away from my face and into the neck of the now startled Tommy.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Before – Morag
Oh dear God, what have we done?
Tommy’s prone body slumps to the side, blood gushing from the hole in his neck, splashing over Jess.
This can’t be happening.
One minute we were trying to wrestle the kitchen knife from his grip, and then… I don’t know what happened. Did we slip? There was a jerk, and then the blade plunged into the soft skin of his neck.
Oh God, no, not like this.
He was going to stab Jess. She was struggling; she needed my help. My hands were on hers just to keep the blade from her face, but then… I don’t know what happened.
Please don’t let him die.
Tommy is on his side, his hands brushing against the handle, as his slowing mind tries to process what has happened. He’s trying to remove the knife, but that’s the worst thing he can do.
Scanning the nearest kitchen work surfaces, I grab the tea towel from the nearby radiator, ball it up, and press it against the wound, keeping the blade where it is. Tommy rolls onto his back, but it isn’t preventing the thick red liquid from escaping the wound where the knife is still embedded. Pushing the towel harder against the broken skin, I apply as much pressure as I can in an effort to stem the bleeding. If he doesn’t get help quickly, he won’t make it.
There’s been too much pain and torment.
Jess remains frozen to the spot, her eyes so white and wide as she silently watches me scramble to help the man who only seconds earlier was threatening both of our lives. She doesn’t understand that he’s no longer a threat. Tommy Chamberlain is a monster; a man who deserves to die a horrible, painful death. But that isn’t who I see before me now. It is my son whose skin is already taking on a deathly hue.
‘Jess,’ I scream to snap her out of the self-imposed trance. ‘You need to press here on the wound like I’m doing. We need to stop the blood flow, to give the paramedics the chance to get here.’ She doesn’t move. ‘Jess, please?’ I try again. ‘Push down on the towel as I’m doing.’
I reach for her hand to drag her over so she’s close enough to reach, when Tommy’s hand shoots up and grabs my wrist, forcing my hand to remain where it is. He coughs, and blood spits up onto his lips. His eyes are wet as he meets my gaze, and
in that briefest of moments, I see the eyes of the boy who used to pick bunches of daisies and dandelions for me from our garden; the little boy who would snuggle beside me as I read fairy tales and poems before bed; the boy who would cover his cheeks with soapy bubbles, pretending to shave them off like his dad.
Where did I go so wrong?
He’s trying to speak, and I lean closer, my ear millimetres from his lips as he tries again. I’m sure he says he’s sorry, but maybe that’s just what I want to hear.
The tea towel is already soaked through, and I can’t see anything else in easy reach I can replace it with. I temporarily release my grip on the tea towel, pull off my cardigan, and substitute it for the towel, but I already know it’s too late. Even if the paramedics were at our door, they’d need a miracle and a vat of transfused blood to save him. All I’m doing is prolonging his final seconds.
How did it come to this?
For so long I’ve wanted this monster out of our lives to protect Daisy, yet now that I’m presented with the moment, I can’t step up and take it. Maybe it’s the nurse in me fighting for the preservation of life; or maybe it’s because I know deep down that I’m as guilty as Tommy for where we’ve ended up.
I would give anything to take it all back and start again.
His face is so grey against the chestnut-coloured linoleum tiles. He can’t have long left; seconds at most. My heart is pounding so heavy in my chest.
Bending my head towards him once again, I whisper, ‘I’m sorry, my sweet boy,’ and kiss the top of his head.
When I straighten again, his eyes are fixed on mine. Then I realise they aren’t looking at me but beyond me; my son has slipped away.
Dearest God, please watch over my boy. Forgive him his sins.
Jess suddenly shuffles backwards across the floor, as if Tommy’s magnetic force is repelling her. Shock can affect people in different ways. It always brings out my practical side, and do we need that right now.
Releasing my grip on the sodden material and leaving Tommy where he is, I crawl around his feet, and press a hand against Jess’s cheek. She starts at the coldness of my touch.
‘You need to get out of here, Jess. None of this was your fault, but if you’re here when the police arrive, they’re going to want to question you.’
Her stare is still so wild, and although it is fixed on my face, I’m certain she hasn’t heard a single word of what I’ve just told her. Against my better judgement, I pull my hand from her face, and slap her cheek, leaving a bloody print. It’s enough to snap her attention back to the room.
‘I need to go and fetch Daisy from her secret hiding place,’ I say, glancing back out into the darkness beyond the patio door. ‘It is late, and she’s alone. I would bring you with me but the terrain is not wheelchair-friendly.’
A distant siren heightens my panic.
‘Jess, I need you to listen to me carefully. Get up, go home, and clean yourself up. I’ll make sure Daisy is safe with a neighbour before I call the police and report what’s happened here.’
My bloody handprint glistens on her cheek.
‘Did you hear me, Jess? I’ll keep your name out of this, but you can’t be here when the police arrive.’
The siren is growing closer. Is it possible one of the neighbours heard or saw Tommy kicking in the door and has reported the incident?
Jess’s wheelchair is on its side just inside the hallway where the carpet is now blotting the blood that has escaped from the kitchen floor
I know we don’t have long. I’ve no idea how I’m going to explain what happened, but right now that is the least of my worries. What if Daisy forgot where the secret hiding place was, and is out there wandering the streets?
I force myself upright, my son’s blood on my trousers a reminder of what has unfolded. Jess remains where she is, but I can’t hang around and comfort her. Daisy is my priority.
‘Jess,’ I shout again, and she shudders at the mention of her name. ‘For God’s sake, you need to get out of here. Now!’
She finally stirs to life, and nods, looking for her wheelchair. It’s just beyond Tommy’s head, and unfortunately she’s going to have to crawl alongside him to get to it, but there’s no other way.
‘Are you going to be okay?’ I ask, concerned about her growing paleness.
She nods. ‘I’m sorry, Morag. For your loss.’
I don’t acknowledge her apology, as I turn and burst out of the back door, the tears exploding from my own eyes.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Now
Mike didn’t like being made to wait; patience was not a virtue he cared for. The bulky man behind reception, who looked more like a bouncer on a nightclub door than a healthcare professional, had informed them there was no access to the secure ward without prior consent. Waving his warrant card and arguing didn’t make a difference. Eventually he’d settled for a conversation with the hospital administrator, who was apparently in a budget meeting and unavailable for the foreseeable future.
When Dr Savage eventually appeared, a white coat and stethoscope making her look more like a doctor than the jeans and hoodie last night, what patience Mike did possess was close to snapping. ‘I need to speak to Jess Donoghue immediately.’
Dr Savage nodded a welcome towards Polly, before taking Mike’s arm and moving him away from a group of suited individuals who appeared to be on a tour of the hospital.
‘I wish you’d phoned ahead,’ Dr Savage said evenly.
‘Why?’ Mike fired back. ‘Tell me you haven’t let her go already.’
‘Of course not,’ Dr Savage replied sharply. ‘I wouldn’t have done that without warning you first. No, Jess is here, but I don’t think she’s in any condition to be interviewed by the police. As I explained last night, the pills she has been taking are designed to stabilise chemical activity in her brain, and she hasn’t been taking them for several days, if not longer, and—’
‘Please, doc,’ Mike interrupted, pulling his most pitiful expression, hoping to appeal to her better nature, ‘I need to know what she witnessed last night. The whole investigation could hinge on her testimony.’
Dr Savage considered him for a moment. ‘I appreciate what you’re saying, detective, and in a few days, when we’ve managed to get her straight, she’ll be able to answer whatever questions you have, but until then, I’m sorry, there’s no knowing what could happen if you started pressing the wrong buttons.’
‘Five minutes,’ Mike interjected. ‘That’s all I want. It won’t be a formal interview, just me and her in a room. You can even be there too, so you can keep an eye on her well-being.’
‘I’m sorry, but that can’t happen.’
Mike could see he was getting nowhere, but he knew leaving the interview for a few days could mean Jess forgetting some detail, giving her more time to construct an alternative version of events; even feigning amnesia of everything that happened in that kitchen.
‘They both did it, you know,’ he said. ‘Jess and that other woman she confronted outside the police station last night. Both of their fingerprints were discovered on the handle. They were both there when the knife broke through the victim’s skin, severing the carotid artery and sending his brain into meltdown. Jess’s clothes were literally dripping with his blood. Do you realise you’re protecting a killer right now?’
Mike hated himself for stooping so low, but the thought of returning to the station empty-handed and dealing with the wrath of the Chief Super kept him clinging on to any hope.
Dr Savage glanced back to the security door and the rooms beyond it, before returning her gaze to Mike and Polly. ‘I will allow you to ask her five questions. You won’t be in the same room, for your own safety, but you can speak to her through an intercom system. I will be in the room with her, so I can monitor her reaction to those questions, and if I believe you are endangering her health in any way, I will terminate the interview immediately.’
Mike could have kissed her but kept it profess
ional with an assertive nod, as if there’d been no other possible outcome to the conversation. Dr Savage led them back to the security desk, before signing them both in as her guests, and asking the Rottweiler behind the desk to grant them both visitor passes.
The security door buzzed as it opened, and Dr Savage made sure it was pulled firmly shut before leading them down the long lime-green-painted corridor, past closed doors, each bearing the name of the patient trapped inside. Mike couldn’t get over how quiet the ward was, having expected to hear shouting and grumbles coming from the pained and suffering.
They finally arrived at a room with Jess Donoghue’s name on the door. ‘Let me go and explain to her what is going to happen,’ Dr Savage said, ‘and then the two of you can head through the next door along, which houses a viewing window into the room. You will be able to observe Jess and me in the room, but she won’t be able to see you.’
Mike looked along the wall and spotted a smaller brown door that looked like the entrance to a broom cupboard. Polly and Mike stepped through the door and flicked on the light. Through the large tinted window they could see Jess, her back to them, sitting by an easel and painting what looked like an accurate water-colour of a stream and fields beyond it. The room itself contained a bed secured to one of the walls, a pillow without a case and a duvet without a cover. In a corner of the ceiling a small red LED indicated that the room was under constant surveillance. A buzz in the room was followed by Dr Savage appearing through what looked like a secret portal in the wall. When it was closed, you’d be hard pushed to recognise it as a door at all.
