by Sam Hayes
‘With what happened to your student and Mary being ill,’ Nadine continues, ‘you need a break. And looking after two teenage tearaways is hardly what the doctor ordered, either.’
‘It’s not that easy, is it? Nadine, you know if you want to talk about the test results, I’m a good listener.’
‘Don’t change the subject,’ she chides.
‘Me change the subject?’ I stay calm. ‘You’re the one—’
‘How’s my big bro?’ Even though she says it with a grin forming, I know her question digs deep. I am giving up on her brother – probably going to have to fight him in court over the kids, the house, money – and Nadine wants answers. We love each other as much as any two friends could. We have known each other for ever, but she can’t help feeling the loss.
‘Did I tell you about David?’ Instantly I regret mentioning him. But she’s my friend. She knows I’ve been through so much with Murray – she sees people like him every day, with addictions making up the bulk of her work – so surely she understands a little of what I’ve been through? I look at the kids again. Beacons of light. They keep me strong.
‘David,’ she ponders. ‘I don’t think so.’
I have mentioned his name in passing twice already. I know she is humouring me even though her tone is weary. She curls her socked feet on to the pale sofa and, after only a moment’s thought, plucks a chocolate from a box sitting on the table beside her. She hands the box to me and I take a strawberry cream. ‘He’s a doctor and we’ve been out for dinner. I’m going over to his house on Thursday. He’s going to cook.’ I am talking with my mouth full, trying not to make any of it sound too serious. I couldn’t stand it if Nadine and I fell out over this.
‘Have you slept with him?’ Nadine sucks her chocolate slowly, eyeing me through fronds of loose hair. Whatever I say will get straight back to Murray.
‘Nadine!’ I feign shock and get a flash of pain as the pink strawberry filling settles on a tooth. ‘He’s very nice,’ I say. ‘But no, we haven’t slept together. I think one pub dinner is a little premature to be suggesting such things. He’s Mum’s GP, actually.’
‘Ah.’ Nadine curls her head in an arc of understanding. I don’t know if this revelation makes things better or worse.
‘He’s older than me.’ I want her to know that I’ve thought about this.
‘How much older?’
‘A little bit, but he looks good for it.’
‘Julia,’ she warns.
I’ve said enough. I know Nadine will tell Murray everything when he finds out I’ve been visiting.
‘Look, we just really hit it off.’ I trust Nadine to drip-feed what she sees fit. ‘I called the out-of-hours surgery number on Christmas Day when I found Mum poorly. David was there nearly every day afterwards checking up on her over the holiday period. It grew from there. He’s been good to me, Nadine. A really decent person.’ I wish I’d not said that. It implies that Murray never was.
‘That’s the medical profession for you,’ she jokes rather too sourly. ‘We’re all such darn fine folk.’ She stretches, and her pale arms poke from her baggy sweater. It’s her day off and she looks like she needs it.
I can’t leave allowing her to think this is a fad, that I’m fickle and have intentionally broken her brother’s heart.
‘Do you think it’s possible to feel such a deep emotional connection with someone that you wonder if you’ve known them all your life?’
‘Bloody hell, Jules. Talk about rebound.’ Nadine takes another chocolate. ‘Christ, he’s that amazing and you haven’t slept with him?’ She’s smiling now but not without a glint of loyalty. What can I expect? They are brother and sister.
There is a sudden chill as the front door opens and closes. Ed is home. Nadine already told me that he has been working twenty-four hours straight out of the last thirty. She greets her husband as he comes into the room, reaching her arms around his neck. I see a flash of Murray in her profile – the long neck, the square jaw, the slightly crooked angle of her nose as she kisses her husband. I busy myself with packing away the Lego.
We have to go, I tell Flora.
Even though I have known Ed for years and years, seeing him makes me think of Grace. I’m considering visiting her family, sending flowers, anything to help ease the shock of finding her. I almost feel party to the crime in some way. So far I’ve convinced myself they wouldn’t want to see me, that I represent every parent’s fear.
‘Hello, Ed,’ I say quietly when Nadine slides off him. Envy sears my heart. I recall Murray and me greeting each other in a similar way. Another day over; stories to tell; a familiar set of arms to fold into. ‘You look done in.’ It’s true. Exhaustion is pasted all over him and the lower half of his face is overcast with stubble.
‘I am,’ he admits, grimacing as Nadine digs her fingers into his shoulder muscles. He has sauce on his shirt.
‘Come on, Alex. Help Flora pack up the toys.’
My son scuffs the coloured blocks across the carpet towards the bucket. He’d rather listen to what Ed has to say about his work, although I fear it won’t be suitable for an eleven-year-old.
‘Are you going to catch whoever hurt that girl?’ Alex can’t resist asking what I daren’t. Leading the Grace Covatta investigation makes Uncle Ed, in Alex’s eyes, the coolest man in history. ‘Did you arrest anyone yet?’
Ed drops on to the sofa. Nadine pours him a Scotch and I glare at her. Then I glare at the drink, and finally I glare at Ed.
‘We’re working on it, mate.’ He swirls the whisky around in the glass ‘Forensics are gathering evidence and piecing it all together. The weather conditions at the time didn’t help.’
‘You mean the snow and wind we had?’ Alex snaps Lego apart and tosses it into the bucket, never once taking his wide eyes off his uncle. ‘Shall I go out into the field and see what I can find?’
Ed leans forward and grabs his nephew by the arm, hauling him on to the sofa beside him. A kind of rugby tackle crossed with a tickle fight ensues, and at the end of it, Ed looks a whole lot better.
‘Tell you what, mate,’ he says, glowing from either whisky or laughing. ‘I’ll make a date and get you down to the station one day after school. You can hang out with some of the team. What do you say?’
‘Yes, please. That would be cool.’
‘Alex, why don’t you go and track down Flora’s coat and those books she left lying around,’ I say. He does as he’s asked without grumbling. ‘He’s a good lad,’ I say to Ed. ‘I don’t want my family mixed up in all this.’
‘Look, I’ll be honest with you, Julia. You’re involved in this whether you like it or not. You found her. You’re her teacher.’ Ed stands. Again I feel guilty, as if without me none of this would have happened. ‘It’s wreaked havoc in the whole community. The pressure for us to make an arrest is enormous.’ He paces the living room, as if the answer is written on the wallpaper. ‘The public are calling the station, desperate for news, worried their own kids are at risk.’ He stops and stares out of the window. ‘I am concerned they are at risk.’
When he turns, Ed is a silhouette. Even without taking into consideration the broadcasting vans settled outside the police headquarters, the newspaper headlines or the local television news bulletins, I can see the strain written all over his face. At the very least, he needs to offer the public reassurance that strong leads are being followed. The plain fact is, he can’t.
‘Has Grace said anything yet? Can she give a description?’
He sighs. ‘She’s still suffering major trauma from the incident. She received several very severe blows to the head.’ He glances at the door. There’s no sign of Alex.
‘Was she . . .’ I can’t bring myself to say it.
‘I’m still waiting for results. Early indications from the doctors are that there was no sexual trauma. We’ll know more when she’s able to speak. Plus, the doctors are very concerned about her head injuries. They won’t let us at her.’
I hardly dare ask. ‘Who do you think did this?’ I’m shaking. I think back to my hospital visit, upset that I couldn’t do more for her.
Ed looks away, telling me he’s revealed too much already. ‘Let me do my job, Julia. When there’s any news, you’ll hear about it.’
‘I hope you make a breakthrough soon,’ I say. ‘For her parents’ sake, as much as hers.’
Flora climbs on to my lap at just the right moment. Nadine sees my hands shaking as I cradle my daughter.
‘Julia, are you OK?’ She squats beside me. For now, our differences about Murray fade away.
I nod. ‘No,’ I laugh. I bury my face in Flora’s hair and Alex comes back carrying the things I sent him for.
‘Julia, if you need help coping with this, I can arrange something.’ Nadine speaks earnestly, softly. She means someone to talk to, counselling. ‘With everything else going on in your life, you’re going to need all the support you can get.’
Unintentionally she makes me feel like a failure, incomplete, as if everything I’m involved with falls apart.
‘I’m not bothered about support for me,’ I say, wondering how Grace’s family will ever function again. ‘I just want Ed to find out who did this.’
‘Is this about Grace, Mum?’ Alex is all ears. I hold up a hand to silence him.
‘I just hope he doesn’t strike again.’ Ed stops when I glare at him. ‘Look, I haven’t slept in twenty-four hours and I’m back at the station this evening.When there’s news, I’ll let you know.’ He removes his jacket. He is plainclothes in the CID. His stomach pushes against the buttons of his shirt. ‘You get home and look after Mary. She needs you. And lock the doors.’ Ed kisses my cheek and goes upstairs. He wasn’t joking about security.
‘Nadine,’ I say, hefting Flora on to my hip. She is too big to carry but I do anyway. ‘Look after yourself, won’t you.’ We link eyes, each understanding the preciousness of life.
‘Go and date the lovely Dr David until you’re full and satisfied. Stuff your face with him,’ Nadine orders, although I know it hurts her to say this. Perhaps she’s hoping that I’ll rebound so fast off David, I’ll end up right back in her brother’s arms. Maybe I’m hoping that too.
‘I will,’ I promise as we leave, and as I watch her wave us off, I see her mouth, ‘Be careful.’
MURRAY
Alcatraz is sinking. The bilge pump isn’t working and the rot in the hull is worse than I thought. It only takes a hole the size of a nail for the water to enter my home. Half an hour each morning is needed to return it to the river, but today the pump spluttered and died.
It all sets me up for wanting a drink, but I ball my fists and pull on my overcoat. Instead of drinking, I tramp down to the boatyard to find out about getting Alcatraz fixed. Shame, I think, that the same can’t be done with my life.
‘Leave the keys with me,’ the yard owner says, agreeing to take a look at the damage before dusk. ‘I’ll get the pump going at the very least.’ He shakes his head, already familiar with my boat. ‘Not so sure about the rest of it, though.’
Satisfied that I won’t be spending the night underwater, I decide to drop in on Julia. It’s a spur-of-the-moment decision, partly to see the children, but I also want to find out how Mary is doing. Mostly, if I’m honest, it’s because I want to see Julia, to see how she is coping with everything, to stock up on another dose of my wife – even if it means spying on her through the window while I lurk outside in the dark. Besides, I want her to know that I still have a job; that I can still just call myself a lawyer. It’s not only smart doctors driving Range Rovers who are deserving of her respect.
I tramp across the fields in the frosty half-light, near to where Grace Covatta was found, and when I reach Northmire, to my disappointment I find that Julia’s car is gone.
Milo stands in the courtyard, lazily snapping at a chicken as it parades around his legs. He half-heartedly wags his tail as I stand outside the back door.
I go inside, using the spare key that I know is pushed under a pot of herbs. The kitchen is as I would expect. A stack of dishes sitting beside the deep sink, the remains of a fire, and the cats jigsawed together on the armchair so that it’s impossible to tell them apart.
‘Julia,’ I call, even though I know she’s not here. There is a certain ritual, a comfort even, in saying her name. Honey, I’m home.
In my head, she replies. She calls back to me with years of memories – mental snapshots of picnics, birthdays, sleepless nights with babies, first days at school, grazed knees, dirty laundry, fireside nights with a bottle of wine . . . It’s all there, on hold, in boxes, waiting to be unpacked.
‘Mary,’ I shout. It would be good to hear a mistaken reply, to be the one who got her talking again. Julia would thank me for that. But it seems, after looking around the house, that Mary is gone too.
It’s then that I know I’m being watched. Two pairs of eyes glint from behind the doorway that leads to the accommodation Mary reserves for her foster children.
‘Hello,’ I say with a smile. ‘What are you up to?’ Some of the kids Mary harbours are timid and unwilling to speak. Not these two. When they realise they’ve been spotted, they march right into the room, one dragging the other by the sleeve.
‘What are you doing in our house?’ The girl strides forward. Mary has obviously been doing a fine job if the girl already considers Northmire our house. She looks about seventeen, but beneath all the make-up and bravado I can see that she is a lot younger. There’s a twinkle in her eye, and her curled mouth, her skinny neck and her defiant expression suggest she’s up for trouble when it’s around. I can tell she’s had a tough life.
‘Looking for my wife, actually.’ The word rests on my tongue as if I only have a certain number of times left to say it. Technically, Julia and I are still married.
‘If you mean Julia, then they’ve gone off in the car,’ she continues, daring to come right up to me. She drags the boy by the arm. He is older and much bigger than the girl but I can see straight away that his thoughts are way behind hers.
‘Who is he, Baby?’ he finally asks. His words are as deliberate as the slow blinks forming in his eyes. His cheek twitches involuntarily. He smells sour and his clothes are stained.
‘Who are you, then?’ the girl demands. ‘You can’t just come barging in.’
‘Like I said, I’m looking for my wife, Julia. She’s the one taking care of you while Mary is sick—’
‘Yes, we know who Julia is.’ The girl rolls her eyes. ‘I could call the police, you know.’ Her posture is defensive and she uses the boy as part shield and part weapon, holding him out at arm’s length while verbally challenging me. This, I suspect, is how they’ve behaved all their lives.
‘My name is Murray,’ I tell them. I push the cats off the chair and sit in their warm patch. ‘What are your names, then?’ I know already, of course, from Julia, although we haven’t met formally.
Waiting for them to respond, I pick up yesterday’s local newspaper from the floor and briefly consider that the foster kids could be the cause of Mary’s mutism. They would be a hard pair to manage, I can see that much, but with Mary’s experience, it’s unlikely that she couldn’t cope. Over the years she’s had a lot worse than this. And that’s exactly what worries me about her current state. She is as strong as iron. Why has she crumpled?
‘I’m Gradin and this is Baby,’ the boy says.
‘My name’s Brenna,’ the girl says and then slaps Gradin’s head. ‘Don’t call me that, right?’
I smile and casually turn the pages of the newspaper, glancing at the columns, pretending to take no notice of the bickering pair. Then one story grabs my attention and I am only vaguely aware of the kids squabbling over food in the refrigerator.
Vicious Attack Leaves Teen in Coma.
I scan the short article. A small picture of Grace Covatta in her school uniform sits squarely beneath the words.
Injured local schoolgirl Grace Covatta remains in
a critical condition after the brutal attack twelve days ago, which left her hospital-bound and unable to talk or walk. Neurologists treating the teen have medically induced a coma – a controversial treatment according to some experts – in order for her brain to recover from its injuries.
‘Pressure and swelling in the skull can sometimes cause further damage if the brain isn’t rested and allowed time to heal. It was essential that we take action. The patient’s life was potentially at risk,’ said a hospital spokesman. He refused to comment further on her injuries.
Detective Inspector Ed Hallet made a short statement. ‘I have a team of experts working round the clock. I feel confident an arrest will soon be made.’
Grace Covatta is a pupil at Denby High School studying English, history and music A levels. Mrs Julia Marshall, a teacher at the school, discovered the victim early on 29 December.
I stare at the ceiling and imagine what Grace’s parents must be going through. I can’t. There would have been forms to sign – forms allowing the doctors to put their daughter into a sleep from which she may never wake. I think of the hundreds of nights I have watched Alex and Flora sleeping peacefully in their beds. These days, I am not there for them.
As darkness spreads across the countryside, I am suddenly filled with a worry for my family. An attacker is still stalking the area.
‘When is Julia back?’ I demand of Brenna. ‘Where have they all gone?’ I am out of the chair and standing close to her. She recoils even though I haven’t been drinking yet.
‘I dunno. To the hospital or to see a doctor or something. That man was with them.’ Brenna has a mouthful of cheese and isn’t particularly fazed by my outburst.
‘What man?’ I back off, not wanting to scare her. But I already know who she means. I know that David is with Julia and my children, and for some reason, while it should at least make me feel better about them being safe, it doesn’t. They should be with me.
