by Rob Ashman
I pulled Jono further down into the ditch and checked my weaponry. I had enough to hold them off but not enough to go to war. The whoop, whoop got louder. My face burned with a hundred hot needles. I ran my fingers over my cheek and felt the shards of glass embedded in my skin, I could taste blood in my mouth.
The flat-beds were speeding towards us, I counted about ten or twelve insurgents. Then I heard the sound of 50-cal bullets tearing into what was left of the Land Rover, followed a split second later by the staccato bang as they left the muzzle. I had missed the heavy-duty machine gun attached to the roof of one of the trucks.
The place erupted in flying metal and rock. I held onto Jono and did what I could to protect him, a large patch of blood was growing in the sand.
The air was filled with a loud fizzing noise, followed by two thunderous explosions. I ducked my head down, convinced that this was the end. But as the sound echoed away, I looked up to see two scorched craters where the pickup trucks had been. The Apache Attack helicopter came into view, banking around the head of the valley. It remained in the air as the Chinook touched down. The Force Protection Unit spilled out of the gaping tail like the huge machine was vomiting them up. They fanned out securing the area.
I stood up and the MERT team reached us in seconds.
I did what I could to tell them what had happened but I was all over the place and kept falling over. The next ten minutes were foggy, it was as though my brain had shut down. The last thing I can remember was finding Jono’s leg and bringing it with me when I boarded the chopper. I knew it was his because the tourniquet was still in place, wound tight below his knee. At the time, it seemed that finding it was the most important thing in the world.
I laid it next to him as the medics pulled me away for treatment, then I passed out.
Chapter 10
Kray cruised around the sharp bend leading into Woodland View and took the third cul-de-sac on the left. At the far end she could see a dark blue Corsa sitting on the driveway of the house with the red door. She parked up and walked across the grass verge. The front door was ajar. She pushed a finger against it, lightly, and it cracked open.
‘Hello, anybody home? I’m Acting DCI Roz Kray, I want to ask you a few questions. Liz are you here?’ There was no response. Kray bobbed her head into the lounge but it was empty. She made her way up the stairs to the landing and found what she was looking for. On the door to the right was a sign, it read: Eve’s Room.
Kray softly knocked and eased the door open. The room was pink and bright, with unicorn and rainbow wallpaper. Toys and clothes were strewn over the floor. Against the wall, under the window, was a single bed with a quilt cover sporting even more unicorns. But Kray couldn’t see much of the quilt design because it was obscured by a mound of presents wrapped in Christmas paper piled up against the head board and the vacant figure of Liz Stapleton, sitting with her knees tucked up under her chin. Her glassy eyes stared right through Kray as she entered the room.
‘Liz, my name is Acting DCI Roz Kray.’
‘I heard you.’ Liz Stapleton pressed a child’s pyjama top to her face. She was around the same age as her husband, with dark brown hair that was cut into a bob and framed what was once a pretty face, but now one ravaged by sadness. ‘I can still smell her you know. After all this time, when I come in this room she’s still here. I can hear her playing and singing along to her Disney songs. I can see her dolls lined up as she plays school and pours water into plastic tea cups because it’s break time. It never goes away you know?’
‘How long has it been?’
‘Two months and two weeks, tomorrow. Hence all this …’ She nodded her head towards the pile of presents. ‘We couldn’t bring ourselves to do Christmas this year.’
‘It was your birthday,’ Kray said changing the subject.
‘Yes, a couple of days ago.’ She straightened out her legs, took a tissue from her sleeve and wiped her nose. She turned the pink pyjama top over and over in her hands. ‘Let’s just say, it wasn’t much fun.’
‘Did Jack call you, this morning?’
‘He went completely overboard with the flowers; one bunch delivered to work and another waiting for me when I got home. It was like he was trying to make up for me not having a gift from Eve. Like he was overcompensating. Fucking idiot.’
‘Liz, did Jack contact you?’
‘Why are men so shit at this stuff? I’m hurting just as much as him, yet he’s the one who collapses in a heap and can’t even make a cup of tea, then he flips into being Mr Angry and it’s like sharing a house with bloody Rambo. And the flowers are supposed to make all that okay? I don’t think so.’
Kray lightly tiptoed her way around the toys and sat on the floor with her back against the wardrobe. She might get her turn to talk, but not yet.
‘I persuaded him that going back to work would be good, you know to get a bit of routine back into his life. Then that judge has a total brain-fart and allows Cadwell to walk free, and it all kicks off again. Jack has a stand-up row with a pupil in the classroom and storms out. I don’t know what to do with him. I can’t take any more. I’m hanging on by a thread myself, taking one day at a time, and he thinks two bunches of flowers is going to make everything okay? Fucking idiot.’
‘Mrs Stapleton—’
‘I don’t feel anything anymore. I don’t get angry, don’t get sad. It’s as though someone hollowed out my insides. Jack hates you lot, and what he wouldn’t do to that judge is nobody’s business. Me? I just feel numb.’
‘Did your husband contact you this morning?’
‘Oh, erm, yes he did. He said you had come around asking questions about Cadwell. Where is Jack now?’
‘He’s down at the station helping us with our enquiries.’
‘What the hell has he done?’
‘He’s been answering questions, that’s all.’
‘What about?’
‘Where were you last night, Liz, around eleven-thirty?’
‘I was at Anabel’s house, she’s my sister. I’m staying there for a while until we get back on an even keel.’
‘Was there anyone else at the property who can vouch for you?’
‘Yes, I was with Anabel. We were watching some rubbish on TV. I’m not sleeping well so there’s no point going to bed. She stayed up to keep me company and we turned in about half past midnight.’
‘We will have to confirm that with your sister.’
Liz Stapleton simply shrugged her shoulders.
‘So what is this about? Why are you asking us questions about Cadwell?’
Kray paused, weighing up her options before answering. She allowed compassion to get the better of her. ‘James Cadwell was hit by a car last night and died of his injuries.’
Liz Stapleton bounded from the bed, her bottom lip trembling. She towered over Kray, her fists balled at her sides. ‘Jesus Christ, is there no fucking end to this?’
Kray stared up at her. ‘I need to—’
‘And you think we might have had something to do with it?’
‘We are following a number of lines of inquiry.’
Stapleton spun on her heels and returned to her place on the bed, picking up the pyjama top and tucking her knees under her chin. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know where that came from.’
‘It’s okay, I appreciate this is a shock.’
‘Well I can’t say I’m not pleased to hear that, but it doesn’t change things, it won’t bring Eve back. He took her from us and we have to live with that for the rest of our lives. What should have happened is that he went to prison for life – that’s what should have happened. Him being dead doesn’t give me closure. It will make me smile from time to time I’m sure, but I would rather think about him being in jail for what he did. When that judge allowed Cadwell to walk free from court he condemned us to an existence where we had no closure.’
‘He didn’t walk free, he got a ten-month sentence which was suspended for two years. He was out on strict licen
se.’ Kray looked up and into the face of Liz Stapleton. She regretted her comments immediately.
‘Oh please, save me the sob story about poor Jimmy Cadwell and how shit his life is under the threat of his suspended sentence. He ran down the steps of the court punching the air for all he was worth. He’s a career criminal who doesn’t give a flying fuck about your licensing conditions. You know he had a curfew right? So how come he fell out of the pubs at all hours of the day and night?’ Kray wanted the doors of the wardrobe behind her to open and swallow her up. ‘That judge destroyed our lives for a second time when he believed the bullshit that was being spouted off in court. Cadwell pleaded guilty to the lesser charge of causing death by dangerous driving, along with the fantasy-land tale of having to provide for his sick mother and he has the whole courtroom in tears. He was fucking texting when he mowed down our little girl. And her life is worth a twenty-eight month driving ban and he got to walk about … free as a bird. So please don’t give me the ‘suspended for two years’ speech. I’d swap places with him tomorrow, well maybe not now he’s dead.’
‘I’m sorry, Liz.’
‘It’s not your fault. It’s the judicial system we have in this country. We wanted to see justice done for little Eve - Cadwell being dead is not justice.’
‘Your husband has a different view.’
‘Yeah, he will have. When you’ve finished with him he’ll be straight to the pub to celebrate.’ She eased herself forward and got off the bed. ‘You got time for a cup of tea?’
She walked out leaving Kray sat on the floor.
Kray’s phone buzzed, it was Margaret Gill, ACC Quade’s PA. There was only one reason why she would call her today – they had made their decision.
Back in the car, Kray’s heart began to race. She had spent the last ten minutes making her apologies to Liz Stapleton and telling her she would have to take a rain check on the cup of tea.
Kray drove the short journey to the office, her mind running amok with ambition, the details of the Cadwell case could not compete. She parked up and forced herself to take the lift to the ACPO suite on the top floor. She didn’t want to be out of breath when she got there however much she wanted to sprint up the stairs. The lift seemed to take forever, Kray jigged on the spot like a child needing the toilet. Eventually the doors dinged open and she rushed out into the rarefied atmosphere of the top floor, filled with the smell of furniture polish and gilded seniority.
She made a beeline for Quade’s office. Margaret rose from her desk and stopped her.
‘Mary has someone in with her at the moment, Roz. I’m sure she won’t be long.’
Kray noticed the office door was shut and could hear the soft murmurings of voices coming from the other side. She glanced at the outlook diary on Margaret’s computer screen but it was too far away to read the name on the appointment.
Margaret closed down the window and began typing an email. Kray was trying to control her excitement.
The sound of laughter echoed from the other side of the door just as the handle was punched down and the door flew open. Bagley stood before her, looking like he’d just found a fifty-pound note in the pocket of an old suit.
‘Thank you, Mary, I will give you a call,’ he said over his shoulder.
‘Keep me posted,’ Quade replied, out of sight.
‘Hey, Roz,’ Bagley said blocking her path. ‘Good to see you.’ He held out his hand which she took in a limp apology for a handshake.
‘Hi, Dan.’
‘Look, I have to get back to Manchester otherwise I would suggest we catch up over a coffee.’
‘That’s a shame, maybe next time,’ Kray replied; her second lie of the day.
‘Roz, please come in and take a seat,’ Quade announced from inside the office.
‘Good to see you.’ Bagley slipped past and she could hear his heels clicking their way across the hardwood floor to the stairwell.
Kray stepped into the enormous office. Two drained coffee cups sat on coasters on the low table surrounded by comfortable chairs. Quade flopped her considerable bulk down behind her desk. She motioned for Kray to take the seat opposite.
‘Come in, Roz and close the door.’
Chapter 11
I drag the tin sheeting to one side and squeeze myself through the gap, tugging it back in place. The cold wraps around me and the sound of my footsteps echo against the blank walls. I flick on my head torch and a white cone of light cuts through the darkness. The chill seeps through my clothes, pricking at my skin. It’s an exhilarating feeling.
I scan the ground floor taking in the familiar surroundings, an obstacle course of broken pallets and makeshift work benches litter the floor along with rubble and breeze blocks. I move through the remnants of the bar to the reception area, a grand space with a vaulted ceiling. Or it would be if it weren’t for the long reception desk being reduced to matchwood and bare plaster walls. I skirt around the debris to the back and climb the service stairs. The noise of my boots hitting the concrete steps fills the stairwell.
At the top I push open the only door left in the place and enter onto a landing. Shards of light dance off the metal lift doors as I pass through into the main corridor. Up ahead it is pitch black, the smell of plaster board and dust hangs in the air. I walk through a large archway into a huge room – the penthouse suite.
I found this place nine months ago when I was roaming the streets trying to rid myself of the sound of small arms fire and chopper blades raging in my head.
The Lakeland Hotel, an imposing four-storey building on the promenade, still boldly advertises ‘Lifts To All Floors’ on a plaque on the front. It is in a prime location with parking for twenty cars, but the developer either ran out of money or lost interest because it hasn’t been touched for over a year. It is a perfect retreat; isolated, derelict and cold.
In the summer months I can watch the sun retreat behind the horizon through the broken metal shutters fitted to the panoramic windows - the Ferris wheel standing proud on the central pier silhouetted against the pink and orange glow. But the best part of all, when I was running down the street trying to find the helicopter for my extraction point, I noticed is was sand coloured. The same sun-baked orange as those houses in the village in Afghan. It drew me like a moth to a flame.
The penthouse suite is on two floors with a spiral staircase running down to what should have been the living space beneath. I sit with my back to the wall and watch the lights outside swing back and forth as the wind whips in off the Irish Sea. No wonder it is so cold, even in summertime.
I love this place, I feel safe here. There is no one for me to harm and no one to tell me everything will be all right when the dogs of war kick off in my head. I used to come here when life got tough with Julie.
Now I use it to reflect on life and to plan.
I joined the army when I was twenty-one years of age and by the time I was twenty-three my parents were dead, cancer took them both in the same year. I used to think they caught it off one another. But Mum died from having smoked since the age of ten and having lungs the consistency of barbecue coals. Dad developed bowel cancer, diagnosed just as Mum was breathing her last breaths.
‘Trust me to get it up the arse,’ he would say. My dad could never be accused of being liberal minded when it came to homosexuality.
When I came back from Afghan the second time, I was only back in body, not in mind. I was still eating hot sand in the northern valley of Helmand Province. For the first month I enjoyed the novelty of being home, pretending to Julie that I was okay and that things would work out. She even started talking about moving into a bigger place. You know the way women plan and us blokes simply nod, hoping it goes away. I suppose she thought looking to the future would take my mind off the present.
But I knew something was wrong. Julie knew something was wrong.
One morning, I remember shaving in the bathroom sink and noticing a crack running down the reflection of my face. Not as a result of the heali
ng scar on my cheek, this was a jagged fracture which started on the right of my forehead and finished to the left of my mouth. I wiped my hand across the glass – it was smooth.
I stared at my misting-reflection as my hand slid back and forth across the surface of the mirror and I realised, the crack was inside me.
My very being had a fracture running through it. To the left of the line was the man I once was, leading the life I once had; to the right was the man I am now with no life at all.
I fake it, every day I fake it.
I now live on the dead side of the fracture and pretend to the outside world that I still exist on the other.
My side of the line is hollow, devoid of meaning, devoid of feeling, devoid of content. Yet in my previous life I had been a good boyfriend, heading towards being a terrific husband with the potential to be an amazing dad. All of that was gone. Lost in a fog of flashbacks, night sweats and panic attacks. Even now, when I look at my cracked reflection, I cannot understand how others cannot see it. When I look in the mirror it is obvious, plain as day. The only one to see it was Julie - and she suffered the most.
Sometimes, when I’m at work, I can’t breathe. If one of my colleagues slams the filing cabinet too hard, I’m back there in an instant. Fighting for my life, fighting for survival, fighting for breath. And in that moment, sat in my air-conditioned office – I can’t breathe. I have to hurry from behind my desk and head for the gent’s toilet. I try to suck air in but my throat is closed, like it was when the truck turned over and sand ploughed into my mouth through the shattered window.
I lock myself in a cubicle with both hands on my knees. My chest burns, my head spins. I know if I stay like this for long enough my throat loosens up and oxygen penetrates deep into my lungs. Then with a massive gasp I will straighten up, trying to regain my composure.
As time went on the night terrors got worse. Vivid dreams of picking up dismembered limbs, watching Jono’s face mouth the words ‘save me’, my own face dissolving into a soup of melting flesh.
