Hold My Hand

by M. J. Ford

  Her phone rang. Ben.

  ‘Hi there,’ he said, as she answered. ‘Wondered what you were up to?’

  ‘Nothing much,’ she said.

  ‘Snap,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to ring the bell – I’m outside.’

  She sat up straighter, pulled aside the curtain a touch. It was only her car in the drive.

  ‘Car’s in the garage. Cylinder’s just gone again. I cabbed it over.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I thought you could do with some moral support,’ he said. ‘Tough day, right?’

  ‘Ben, I …’

  ‘One drink, Jo. Come on. I’m getting drenched, by the way. No brolly.’

  She found she didn’t quite have the energy to fight. Not tonight, so she climbed off the sofa, padded to the front door, and there he was with a bottle of red wine in his hand, hair plastered to his head.

  ‘One drink,’ she said, and stepped aside so he could enter. As he did, the ghost of his aftershave followed. ‘We’ve got to be quiet,’ she added. ‘Will’s asleep.’

  ‘Roger,’ said Ben. ‘Let me go and get dry.’

  He handed her the bottle, and set off towards the downstairs cloakroom.

  Jo wandered through to the kitchen, where the rain was pattering on the glass roof. A strong wind was blowing the branches of the trees above. Ben emerged a minute later, hair sticking up and in just his jeans and Berlin Marathon T-shirt. They’d run it together, four years before. He took the bottle he’d brought, unscrewed the lid and poured it down the plughole.

  ‘Er … what are you doing?’

  ‘That was just my ticket in here,’ he said, grinning. ‘I know for a fact your brother’s got something much better.’

  Jo laughed and slid a bottle of Tasmanian Pinot Noir from her brother’s wine rack and gave it to Ben while she fetched some glasses. He pulled the cork deftly.

  ‘Seriously, though,’ he said, as he poured for both of them. ‘We’re both writing up reports on the last twenty-four hours. I thought it might make sense to talk it through. Make sure there are no, y’know, discrepancies.’

  ‘You don’t have to do that,’ she said. ‘Just tell it like it happened, and I’ll do the same. I’m a big girl.’

  ‘I know that,’ said Ben. ‘I just don’t want you to get any more heat than you have to. You did the right thing. You showed initiative. Christ, if more detectives did the same thing, instead of chasing their tails, and filling in risk assessments …’ He waved a hand. ‘Oh, don’t get me started! It’ll be a long night if you do.’

  She caught his glance as he said it, embarrassed but inviting at the same time. Despite herself, despite everything, she felt a stir down the inside of her thighs. Don’t be an idiot, Josephine Masters. You’ve not even had a drink yet.

  The moment passed.

  ‘What do you make of the Thames Valley lot then?’ he said, pushing a glass towards her. She sat opposite, on the other side of the island.

  ‘They’re okay.’

  ‘Even Stratton? I thought Bridges had a rod up his arse, but that guy’s something else.’

  Jo sipped and smiled, and the alcohol reached its soothing fingers down her neck and across her chest. ‘I guess you don’t get to DCI by bending the rules.’

  ‘Carrick seems a nice bloke,’ said Ben. ‘You think he’s gay?’

  ‘No way. I saw a picture of his family.’

  ‘Really? I was ninety-five per cent sure.’

  ‘Your gaydar was always a bit ropey though. You thought Paul was checking you out when you first met.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Ben, raising his glass, before taking a swig and licking his lips. ‘To Paul, a heterosexual, and his remarkable cellar.’

  ‘To Paul,’ said Jo. It was very good wine. ‘He needs something to spend his fortune on,’ she added.

  Ben looked around. ‘Yeah, he’s doing all right. Hey, you remember the plonk we used to drink? Three bottles for a tenner, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I think I’ve blocked it out,’ said Jo. ‘I remember the hangovers were something else.’ She pointed at his T-shirt. ‘I can’t believe you’re still wearing that. Talk about faded glories. Bet you couldn’t run a five-K now.’

  Ben smiled. ‘Steady on – I’m not that bad!’

  She’d finished her glass already. Ben leant across to refill, but she put her hand over the top. ‘I’d better not.’

  He remained in place, the bottle extended. ‘May as well finish the thing. It’s stolen property – we have to destroy the evidence and I’m not pouring this one down the sink.’

  Jo took her hand away and he poured.

  They talked on, about Berlin, about a disastrous cycling trip to the Pyrenees, about his parents’ surprisingly loud sex life one Christmas. Jo saw what he was doing, whether it was deliberate or not, but she let the conversation take her along like a lazy river. After days of work, of keeping herself buttoned-up, of secrets and half-lies – just to sit with someone she didn’t have to hide from was such a release. An unburdening.

  An hour passed. They finished the bottle, and this time she didn’t even protest as he opened another.

  ‘Hey, what about Ferman?’ said Ben. ‘They don’t make ’em like that any more, huh?’

  ‘I like him,’ said Jo, then feeling the need to explain herself, added, ‘Carrick said he’d lost a daughter.’

  As soon as she’d said it, she wondered why that was the detail she’d picked. Ben sat back in his chair, looking down.

  They lapsed into silence, and several conversations drifted through the ether, waiting to be spoken into existence. Any joviality had been sucked out of the room. All roads led mentally back to the same place, to those horrible moments after the sonographer left them alone, her stomach still slippery with the lubricating gel.

  ‘Paul said you were getting help,’ said Jo at last.

  Ben put down his glass, looked at her, and nodded. ‘It’s early days, but they make a lot of sense. Christ, you think I’m bad, some of the other guys who come along …’

  ‘I’m glad,’ said Jo.

  Ben sipped his drink again. ‘Wish I’d done it a long time ago, to be honest.’

  Jo cocked her head. Don’t we all.

  She turned her back on him, slid from the stool and headed under the panes of the orangery to the patio doors. The room felt claustrophobic, but the blackness of the windows only reflected it back at her. She turned the heavy handle and slid back the doors, letting in a gust of cool air. The rain was falling still, but in light sheets, peppering the leaves on the garden plants.

  Ben, she saw in the glass, had stood from his stool as well. ‘Jo, I know I fucked up. Fucked everything up. But I’m sorry.’

  ‘I know. You’ve said it. A hundred times.’

  ‘And this time I mean it. I mean … I always meant it. What I mean is, I guess I understand it now. I’ve … I’ve learned a lot about myself in the last few months. More than I thought possible, and more than I ever knew was even there, if that makes any sense. God, I can’t even get my words out …’

  Jo turned to him. He was standing with his hands pressed against his cheeks, as if the very act of massaging his jaw could somehow coax his mouth to shape the phrases that came tumbling out.

  She went to him. Couldn’t help herself. Put her arms on his. He wasn’t crying, but he looked so deep in despair she pulled him closer. Felt his head rest on hers.

  ‘Ben, it’s all right,’ she said.

  ‘… That person,’ he said. ‘I don’t even recognise him now. That selfish, arrogant … loser. If I could go back, and if I could grab him by the shoulders and shake some fucking sense into him—’

  ‘You can’t,’ she said. ‘We can’t.’

  She felt a tremor through his body. He hugged her back, and his head lifted a fraction.

  ‘Can’t we?’ he said.

  She tipped her head up. She knew it was the booze, but she hadn’t felt so close to anyone in so long. She was s
o tired of struggling. Of fighting work, and her landlord, of duty and expectation, and just the grind of her bloody life. Ben’s lips came down to meet hers. And the warmth in her loins was one of anticipation. Because it would be easy. So, so easy. The bed was just upstairs.

  She pulled away.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘We can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I’m drunk,’ she said. ‘And so are you. We both need to move on.’

  He looked at her, desperately. ‘I’m trying,’ he said. ‘I’m trying, but I can’t stop thinking about you, about how good it was, and about how that person I was then made everything bad.’

  He reached for her and she took another step. ‘Ben, it’s over,’ she told him.

  ‘It can’t be,’ he said.

  And even then, she still wanted him. ‘Ben, don’t.’

  He showed no sign of hearing what she was saying. His eyes were manic.

  ‘I’m different,’ he said. ‘I’m not that person now.’

  ‘I’m different,’ she replied, shrugging his hand off.

  He looked put out, and didn’t reach for her again. ‘You can’t just stop loving someone, even if they do something terrible.’

  She thought, for a brief moment, about Stephen Carruthers, and poor Sally’s obstinate denials about what her husband had done to their son. Perhaps Ben was right. Perhaps, in the part of her heart she couldn’t control, she did still love him in some desperate way.

  But that didn’t mean she had to be with him.

  ‘I want you to leave,’ she said.

  And there it was, as his face hardened – the gaze of wretchedness gone as quickly as a mask whipped away – the old Ben.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not until you hear me out.’

  ‘There’s nothing else to say,’ she replied. ‘This is my house, and you have to leave.’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s your brother’s house and you’re going to listen to me. You owe me that.’

  She snapped, and pushed him in the chest. ‘I owe you?’ she said. ‘I owe you nothing.’

  He tried to block her way, and his face wore a look she’d seen before, but only in the interview room. The lips open a fraction, the eyes impatient, distant and cold. Not getting his way. Not understanding how that could be. And it only made her angrier. He hadn’t changed. He couldn’t. Any more than he could turn back time and make a different bet or choose a different stock to trade.

  For the first time in the conversation she felt physically vulnerable. Ready to fight.

  ‘Get out of my way,’ she said.

  He didn’t move. This time when she shoved him again, he caught her arm and spun her around, encircling her with his reach and pressing her body tight to his.

  ‘That’s assault,’ he said in her ear.

  ‘Oh, grow up,’ she said, and lifting a foot, raked her instep down his shin. He let go at once, with a howl, and she marched towards the kitchen door.

  ‘Don’t!’ he said. ‘Come back!’

  Jo was about to swear, when she saw William at the bottom of the stairs in his pyjamas. God, he must have heard us.

  ‘Billy-O!’ she said. ‘What are you doing up?’

  ‘The clown’s outside,’ he said.

  Ben came to Jo’s side, and she moved away. ‘I can handle this,’ she said coldly. ‘You can go.’

  ‘What’s the matter, buddy?’ said Ben, ruffling Will’s hair.

  ‘I said, I can handle it!’ She’d raised her voice, and instantly regretted it.

  ‘He’s outside,’ said Will. ‘He’s watching me.’

  ‘He has night terrors,’ said Jo, impatiently. ‘Come on, I’ll tuck you in.’ She picked Will up, and glared at Ben over his shoulder. ‘Uncle Ben will go and make sure the clown’s gone, okay? And then he’s got to go home.’

  Will mumbled something. His breath was warm on her cheek.

  As she carried him upstairs, she wondered if he could feel her heart thumping against his chest. She didn’t know what she’d do if Ben was still there when she came back down. Phone the police?

  In Will’s room, she carried him across to the window where the curtains were slightly ajar. She looked out.

  ‘See – no one there.’

  Will unfolded his face from the nape of her neck and stared out too.

  Jo closed the curtains, her arms aching already, and carried her nephew across to his bed.

  ‘Sleep tight, captain,’ she said, pulling the duvet up again.

  ‘Can you stay?’ he asked. His eyes were glittering silver in the semi-darkness.

  She touched his cheek. ‘Of course,’ she said. Actually, staying upstairs suited her just fine. Give Ben time to cool down too. Let him make the right decision.

  William rolled over, so he was facing away, tugging the blanket tighter around himself, and she continued to stroke his hair. She wondered, absently, how the clown stuff had percolated through to such a young mind. He must have heard Em talking, or maybe Paul and Amelia.

  As her anger seeped away, Jo tried to think calmly about what was next. Ben would be contrite, as always, but what had happened downstairs was simply unacceptable. He had to realise that. They couldn’t work together any more. Even being in neighbouring forces felt a bit too close for comfort.

  Downstairs, the smash of a glass. Will sat bolt upright, wide awake.

  ‘Auntie Jo?’

  Jo left her hand on his head. ‘It’s nothing. Stay here.’

  She stood up.

  ‘No, I want to—’

  ‘Stay here, Will,’ she said sternly.

  She crossed the room quickly, paused at the door. ‘Ben?’

  No answer.

  If he’d lost his temper and broken something …

  But that wasn’t Ben. Or at least not the Ben she knew.

  ‘Ben, are you down there?’

  ‘Auntie Jo?’ said Will, still sitting up.

  ‘Shh, captain,’ said Jo, extending a hand. Her phone was downstairs, still in her handbag. Maybe there was one in her brother’s bedroom, two doors up.

  The lights across the landing went off suddenly, and William sucked in a gasp.

  ‘You’re scaring Will, Ben!’

  ‘It’s not Ben,’ said Will, his voice almost a theatrical whisper. ‘It’s the clown.’

  ‘Don’t move,’ said Jo, more harshly than she intended. ‘You stay in your bed, and you don’t move an inch.’

  She darted across the landing and shoved the master bedroom door open, fingers reaching for the light switch. She found it, and saw the phone beside the dresser. She forced herself to dial calmly, entering Ben’s number from memory. He could only just have left.

  It rang, every tone dragging out for seconds, and on the third she realised she could hear the corresponding jingle downstairs. He was still in the house.

  ‘Ben!’ she shouted. ‘This isn’t funny!’

  She hung up, and dialled 999 instead.

  ‘What’s the nature of—’

  Will screamed, not once, but in a series of fear-fuelled wails unlike anything she’d ever heard outside a horror movie. It paralysed her, shooting electricity from her neck down to her knees, and she dropped the phone. On legs that barely worked she ran to the door and saw half a figure, just some wraith of skin and bone, disappearing into William’s doorway.

  ‘Leave him alone!’ she shouted and her own voice was odd, alien, throaty. Everything felt too slow, and she was aware of a pungent, foul odour, like sour milk or overripe cheese. And as she ran into William’s room, fighting the impossible weight of her limbs, she saw his pale shape right there. An arm, thin, the fingers long, whipped across from her right, and though she felt nothing, it felt like everything suddenly switched off. She was on the ground, and she couldn’t move. That made no sense at all.

  Will was screaming and crying and begging, ‘No!’ and saying, ‘Auntie Jo! Auntie Jo!’

  She managed to roll onto her back, but she couldn’t lift her arms, or her
head, and her feet felt untethered, like useless flippers on the end of her legs. The cries of her nephew became muffled, and more distant, and she realised he had left the room. Her mind screamed at her body to Move, just fucking move! and then the switch flicked on again and she could. She found herself on her knees. Reaching for the wall, she clambered to her feet and the room spun. She couldn’t help but retch as her stomach revolted like the worst sort of seasickness. She puked across the carpet, then staggered through the door. There were two sets of stairs, one next to the other, and she picked the wrong one, smashing into the balustrade. Feeling with her hands, she made it onto the steps and descended, slipping several times to the bottom. The front door was wide open. That smell!

  ‘Will?’ she called, and pain shot through her jaw. It felt massive, unwieldy, and there was blood in her mouth.

  She wheeled around and stumbled through to the kitchen, the double vision phasing in and out in time with her pulse. She had to grab at the door frame to steady herself. As she did, her eyesight sharpened. There was red wine on the floor, and up the wall, deep red, and half the tulip of a glass rested in the centre. At the end of the island, the stool on which she’d hooked her bag lay on its side, and more wine was pooling around the leather strap.

  Only it wasn’t wine. It was thick, and too copious, and she could smell something else, seeping across the room on the summer evening breeze. That rich iron tang of the butcher’s block on a Saturday morning, when she and her dad had gone to get the meat for Sunday’s roast in the Covered Market.

  She edged into the room until she could see Ben’s shoes, then the rest of him, slumped against the other side of the island. His shirt along the left side of his body was saturated red, and the top of a wine bottle hung from a tear across his throat. And though she moved right into his line of sight, right into the open glare of his eyes, he didn’t see her at all.

  Chapter 23

  The next ten minutes were confusion and chaos, and when she thought back to the events later, Jo struggled to recall the order in which things had happened. Certainly, she checked Ben’s pulse, ascertaining that there wasn’t one, but she couldn’t say for sure whether she went out of the house first, calling for William, or if she called the police straight away.