by C. P. Wilson
It doesn’t erase the slashing, stabbing, gouging memories of the morning. It won’t alleviate the utter exhaustion and desolation she is currently weighed under. It can’t help her rediscover her trust in Dougie, or even brush off the comments she has read as nonsense as easily as she should be able to. But for now, cheap, acrid, fucking gorgeous cancer-stick will do just fine.
“See ye,” the kid juts his chin in her direction then strolls off, his rolling gait reminding Frankie of a sailor on dry land.
In her pocket, Frankie’s phone buzzes at her leg insistently. She ignores it. A conversation with John can wait for now.
Drawing deeply on the best cigarette she’s ever had, Frankie Malone scans a line of clouds at the edge of the horizon to the south of Edinburgh. The darkening sky, rather than threatening brings her comfort of a day almost over. Frankie smokes and thinks and begins to begin the process of trying to make sense of the day.
Interlude
James and Jenna. WhatsApp chat:
James:
How you doing, babez?
Jenna:
Yeah, fine thanks, hun.
James:
You heard anything else?
Jenna:
No. You?
James:
Nothing really. Dad brought me home from school, I’ve been for rugby training. Guy I train with reckons that everyone’s saying Mr Black’s been up to something.
Jenna:
I’ve seen it everywhere. It’s not true. We have to stick up for Mr Black.
James:
I have been. Commented on a thread a while ago telling a guy who called Mr B a paedo that there’s no way he’d ever be like that.
Jenna:
It’s mental. Why do people do this?
James:
Don’t know babez.
Jenna:
And Harry. I can’t get my head around that. Harry?
James:
Jardine’s always been a creep.
Jenna:
Hmm.
James:
Don’t defend him, Jenna. Not after this.
Jenna:
I’m not…
James:
Look, let’s not argue, especially not about him and especially not today.
Jenna:
Kay.
James:
Will I come over?
Jenna:
I’d like that, but Mum’s wanting to sit in and watch a movie. Think she wants to keep an eye on me.
James:
Aye, I suppose she would. How was your interview with the cops?
Jenna:
Was okay. They asked a lot about Harry, obvs, and about what happened in Mr Black’s class.
James:
Same here. You said what we decided though?
Jenna:
Yeah. I did.
James:
It IS true y’know.
Jenna:
He was definitely looking right at me. Right at me, James. I know he was.
James:
No, I told you, it’s just our memory of it. We all felt that way, like it was just us he was glaring at, but it wasn’t, Jen. It was all of us.
Jenna:
….
James:
That cop was a dick, eh?
Jenna:
Gilmour? He was fine. You think Mr Black will be ok?
James:
I dunno. Looked pretty bad.
Jenna:
Yeah. Look, I’ve got to go. Mum’s calling me down.
James:
Kay. Message me later?
Jenna:
Yep. Luv U.
James:
Luv u too babez.
Chapter Eighteen
Harry blinks languidly several times. Long-lasting, deliberate blinks that sooth the itch of dried eyes held open for far too long and allow his vision to soft-focus on the reality of the surrounding room.
Moving his gaze across the stark white stone walls, across the floor and ceiling, and up to settle on the little hatch near the top of the metal door, Harry Jardine allows two words to float up into his consciousness.
A cell.
A sardonic smile tugs at the corner of Harry Jardine’s lips.
Good. Where I belong.
The part of his brain that’s kept his current world from filtering into his awareness teases and grasps at his attention, tempting him back to the safety of the vacant place inside himself. With great effort Harry forces his mind to accept the real world and his place in it once again. Cognisance returns, slowly.
Swinging his eyes to his hands, Harry examines his fingertips. Immaculately clean they provide a focal point that he can use to draw himself fully back to total wakefulness. For no reason he can determine, he reaches his hands to his face and snuffs at the fingers. A sharp antiseptic smell, acrid but clean, burns his nostrils pleasantly.
Lowering his hands, Harry smooths them down along the surgical scrubs covering his chest and then his arms. The starchy-stiffness, the scratchy cleanliness of the fabric, stimulate sensations in nerve endings bringing his consciousness fully into the room.
A vivid and intense memory of stabbing Mr Black makes Harry’s eyes dart to his very clean hands. His subconscious whispers at him to come away from those memories. Harry ignores the inner voice. Standing, he allows his eyes to blur the room and immerses himself deliberately, coldly into a cacophony of mental images.
His own anger at reading her messages. The fear which had coursed through his heart. The comfort of the knife from his mother’s kitchen. The white-hot fury that had overlaid his senses, closing his fist around the blade’s handle as Mr Black tried to calm him. The flash of his hate-filled eyes and the moment they locked onto hers.
That was the exact instant he had driven the knife into Mr Black.
Not because he wanted to hurt his teacher, not because he felt hatred towards him, or because he had any fear of the man. Harry Jardine had simply needed his teacher out of his way to allow him to reach her.
Rising to his feet, Harry forces himself to revisit each unwelcome moment of the previous day. Blood splashes across his mind’s eye and Mr Black’s screams unwillingly overlay his falsely constructed memories, obliterating the fantasy world Harry has taken refuge in these last few hours.
Pain and anger and uncontrollable rage tumble through his thoughts. Regret and grief crumple Harry’s knees, bringing him to the cold stone of the cell’s floor.
On his knees, clean palms pressed to the rough floor, Harry leans back then hurls his head downward, slamming his forehead into the concrete. Harry Jardine replays his day, smashing face against stone with each fresh torrent of memories, until strong hands pull him back up off his knees and out of the cell.
Harry refuses to slip away into his numb retreat once again. A deep calm overcomes him. Suddenly a passenger in himself, he walks on shaky legs, a police officer supporting each of his arms, guiding him to the first aid room.
“Tell DI Stephens I want to talk to him now,” Harry snarls at the officer to his right.
The man’s eyes widen, lifting his eyebrows in surprise before narrowing into a doubtful expression.
“Aye, right, son. Maybe in the morning, eh?”
Chapter Nineteen
Lying on his right side, his wife’s knees spooned into the backs of his own, Gilmour ignores his better judgement and peels the lids of his left eye open to peer at the clock.
2:04 a.m.
Gilmour curses his bladder and slips from the warmth of his bed, palming his phone for light as he goes. Creeping to the en-suite, Gilmour pads on bare feet, stealing furtive glances at the bassinette sitting at the foot of their bed. The baby snores lightly, cute wee purrs that almost draw Gilmour over to the crib to moon over his infant daughter. Fearful of waking her, he continues to the bathroom, smiling to himself. He closes the door only part-way after him.
Deciding a sit-down pee will be quietest, Gilmour illuminates the home screen on his phone so t
hat he might use its light to guide his hands to the lid and his rear end to the seat.
With eyes closed, Gilmour keeps his flow gentle, fearful of disturbing little Poppy whose snores are barely audible, but drifting through the door. Gilmour strains his neck to peer through to his sleeping wife. She has rolled over in his absence and lies deeply asleep, facing the toilet. Gilmour regards her face whilst she sleeps. A wide smile spreads on his own face as a deluge of memories of their life together tumble by.
Together since their late teens, he and Mandy have endured much and loved each other freely and deeply in that time. Gilmour’s own childhood had left him both ill-prepared for and unwelcoming of married life. His mother had suffered daily violence and mental, emotional and every other kind of abuse at his father’s hands. Eventually she had freed herself and her son from the malevolent black hole Gavin Gilmour, his father. Gilmour’s younger self had learned well by then that marriage was not for him. To give another person that power, that permission, to break or hurt or betray you like that… Not this boy, he’d told himself.
And then came Mandy. For more than twenty years they had shared their lives, and now two wonderful kids.
Lewis Gilmour, mind flickering with wonderful memories of the unexpectedly happy marriage he shares with his best friend, leans forward from the toilet seat sending his phone crashing from his lap onto the hard tile floor.
Immediately the baby starts wailing.
A shake-wiggle, a quick wash of his hands, and Gilmour sprints to the crib, still hopeful that the offer of a dummy will calm Poppy back into a full sleep.
She spits the dummy out, obliterating his hopes for a return to peacefulness, and increases both the intensity and volume of her screaming.
Mandy sits up in bed. “I’ll get her,” she sighs, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.
Reaching in to lift his daughter, Gilmour turns with her in his arms to face his wife.
“No, love. You get some sleep. I’ll see to her. You need a full night.”
Mandy shakes her head. “You’ve got work tomorrow.”
Gilmour is already part-way out of the door from their bedroom, Poppy screaming loudly in his arms.
“Get some sleep, I’ll be fine,” he says over his shoulder, closing the door lightly behind.
Once out in the upstairs hall, Gilmour’s eyes dart to his sleeping son’s bedroom door, an instant before he dashes carefully downstairs with Poppy.
Gilmour pads into the kitchen, a finger in Poppy’s mouth pacifying her whilst he makes his way around the kitchen preparing a bottle. Whilst the milk heats, Gilmour changes his daughter’s nappy, tickling at her toes as he sings This Little Piggy in soft tones.
Poppy isn’t buying it; her expression remains thunderous, but she has stopped screaming at least. Finally, the milk ready, Gilmour carries her to the living room, clicking the electric fire on as he passes to take the chill from the room.
Settling into the armchair, Gilmour pops the teat of the bottle into Poppy’s eager mouth. She throws him a ‘what took you so long, arsehole’ expression then closes her eyes to enjoy her feed.
Gilmour smiles at her for several minutes, notices that she’s dropping off, and tickles her right foot a little to stimulate her to resume feeding. Her eyes open for a split second to deliver a murderous glance at her father before rolling back up and closing in milk drunkenness.
Gilmour smiles broadly down at his daughter in his arms. A moment later his phone vibrates. The screen banner tells him that it’s from Beth McCreadie. Despite the hour, Gilmour presses the thumb pad to open the message.
Been thinking about the interviews today and have a nagging itch about James and Jenna.
Gilmour smiles inwardly, an acknowledgment that McCreadie’s thoughts mirror his own. It’s clear that both teens were badly shaken by the attack, as would be expected. What is equally clear, though, is the very overt demonstration during his interview of James Beath’s deep-seeded dislike for Harry Jardine. Neither Gilmour nor McCreadie suspect any involvement by the two teens in Harry’s attack on the victim, but as far as Harry’s motives are concerned, they have open minds and some clear flags being flown by both Jenna Hopkins and James Beath.
Gilmour thumb-taps a reply.
Same here. Let’s look at bringing in both for further questioning in a few days. I’ll speak to Stephens about it tomorrow.
Almost immediately a reply pings through. Poppy startles a little at the muted buzz of Gilmour’s phone against his palm.
Sorry, didn’t expect a reply at this hour. Hope I didn’t wake you.
Gilmour smiles down at his daughter whose bottle has fallen from her lips. Poppy Gilmour now lies in a milk dream, her head back over her dad’s arm. Gilmour slips her dummy into her mouth and relaxes as she latches onto it, sucks three times and settles back to sleep.
Don’t worry, Beth. Poppy beat you to it. Going to try to put her back down. See you tomorrow.
Gilmour throws his phone to land on the sofa to his right and attempts a bum-shuffle forwards to rise from the seat with Poppy. Sensing the movement, Poppy snuggles close into her father’s chest, sucking a warning fiercely on the dummy.
Deciding to bide his time until she has fallen completely into a deep sleep, Gilmour settles back into the chair.
∞∞∞
“Lewis. Wake up love.”
Gilmour’ conscious mind slowly begins to filter in his wife’s voice. The smell of the coffee in her hand aids him in returning to wakefulness. Gilmour’s mind flits immediately to confirming that he has Poppy safely in his arms. Relaxing at the weight of her, and the movement of her breathing against him, Gilmour opens his eyes to find Mandy crouched beside his chair.
He whispers to her, “Shit. What time is it?”
Mandy smiles. “Seven-thirty.”
He has time for a shower before the short trip to work. Gilmour relaxes a little. “Didn’t mean to sleep here,” he says, nodding down at their daughter.
Mandy places his coffee on the floor to the right of his chair and signals for him to pass her the baby.
Despite the crick in his neck and the dead legs from sitting all night, Gilmour is sorry to break the embrace with his daughter.
Together they shift and slide her into her mother’s arms. Poppy Gilmour startles and suck-tugs on her dummy several times, but does not waken.
“You’re gonna be tired today,” Mandy warns him.
Gilmour stands, wincing at the pins and needles growing along his feet and legs.
“I’ll be fine. You needed a full night.”
Mandy smiles at her husband then kisses his cheek.
“Thanks, love. You still working that school assault today?”
Gilmour nods and kisses both of his girls, forehead for Poppy, lips for Mandy, and heads off to the shower, mind already busy with intent and plans for the day ahead.
Chapter Twenty
For perhaps the fifth time since speaking to her husband, Frankie paces the small ICU room replaying their conversation in her mind’s ear.
John had insisted that he understood that Frankie would want to be loyal to Dougie and had apologised for his earlier abruptness. He had, however, continued to press his wife to come home rather than stay overnight with Dougie.
Even if these rumours aren’t true…
They aren’t!
Okay, but that being the case, you still need to get some rest. Please just come home, love, and we can look at this fresh in the morning.
Frankie had wanted to go home. She really had. She so badly needed to be in her own home, with John, perhaps crying, perhaps railing at him for his earlier behaviour; but home. She was simply unable to do so. Something vital was snagged on a hook, tethered to Dougie, refusing to allow her to leave him alone to recover, to face the world, or perhaps, simply, to die.
I’ll call you in the morning. Love you.
Frankie had switch-flicked her phone onto aeroplane mode, cutting all signal to the device, im
mediately after the message swished to John.
Frankie paces the twenty steps from the door to the window, her eyes routinely moving over Dougie, the monitors and machines. Sometimes she peers out of the window, to view the mostly empty car park beneath. The ICU room, once so alien and frightening to her, has become far too familiar and has transformed from being an increasingly reassuring and familiar security to developing into a protracted irritant of predictable beeps, whirs and breathing noises to be endured. Frankie is sick of the electronics. She’s weary of the lights breaking into the few moments of fitful sleep she succeeds in snatching, sat upright in an oversized chair that she has discovered every lump in over far too many crawling hours.
Frankie is jaded to the bone by the constant stream of nurses and cleaners, and medical people generally. Checking obs, changing IV bags, recording data, completing charts and graphs. Her emotional endurance long since depleted, Frankie Malone is utterly spent; the day’s events, and the fallout from them, have wholly enervated her far beyond what she had considered her breaking point.
Most of all she is heart-sick of Dougie Black.
Frankie’s pacing ceases, and she comes to stand still next to Dougie. In the same pose he has been in since he first occupied the room, Dougie Black lies flat, his face to the ceiling, arms out of the covers by his side. The rest of his body is beneath a clean, white sheet. Almost silently he breathes: the sounds, each movement, once so comforting, grate on Frankie’s nerves.
Her eyes move to his hands. Dark thoughts creep to and envelop her and Frankie wonders if the hands of her friend have hurt a child. Perhaps more than one child. She stares at the wedding ring on his left hand. Worn, dented and loose on his finger, the simple object re-establishes her link to the Dougie Black she knows. A married man. A kind man; one who misses his wife. The reprieve doesn’t last.
