by Sarah Flint
But now she didn’t care anymore. She was totally and utterly alone; without contact with anything other than insects. Her mouth was dry. Her body was weak. The person she loved the most lay dead and rotting beside her.
She wanted to die now. She was physically and mentally ready. There was nothing more for her to live for.
Chapter 6
‘Charlie, Charlie! It’s time for school.’
The same few words kept repeating themselves in Charlie’s head over and over again. She hated school. She needed to start making excuses.
She felt a hand resting on hers. It was gripping her fingers, squeezing gently. She squeezed the hand back and blinked carefully. Her mother was staring down at her with a concerned look on her face.
‘I can’t go to school today, Mum. My head is banging.’
Extricating her hand from her mother’s, she realized she was actually telling the truth this time. She felt far too rough today. Her head was pounding and she ached all over.
She opened her eyes again slowly, painfully. They felt stuck shut. Pain throbbed through her head and she winced. Slowly she let her eyes acclimatize to the bright light, concentrating on the shape in front of her that she recognized so well. Meg stood next to her, bent over, encouraging, smiling, her blonde hair flat and lifeless.
She tried to open her lips to speak and realized they were dry and didn’t want to move. As if reading her thoughts, her mother carefully drew a small, wet sponge across her mouth.
‘In case you’re wondering, you’re in hospital. You took quite a fall down a flight of stairs. You banged your head.’
‘So I don’t have to go to school today?’
‘No you don’t.’ Her mother was laughing now; laughing and crying. ‘But I knew it would get a reaction.’
Charlie smiled weakly. Her mother was totally right. She hated school. For a time, she’d hated everything and everyone. She’d refused to go each morning and had almost lost her way completely. Only her need for justice had saved her.
‘You had severe concussion, Charlie, and five stitches in a head wound.’ Meg wiped a tear away with her sleeve and was suddenly serious. ‘Thank God you’re all right.’
She paused and Charlie knew immediately what her mother was thinking. She could hear it in her struggle to find the right words. Not again!
‘You’ve been sedated for two days. They needed you to have plenty of bed rest, but even they weren’t expecting you to have this much.’
She was still confused. How could it be that long?
‘Do you remember what happened?’
She closed her eyes and felt herself immediately falling into space, her arms flailing, grabbing out, losing grip, tumbling forward.
A door opened in front of her and Hunter walked in.
‘I remember falling,’ she whispered hoarsely, her mouth still dry, opening her eyes to stop the vision.
‘More importantly. Do you remember why you fell?’ Hunter didn’t waste time.
‘I think we need to leave that question for a few hours until she’s back with us properly, don’t you?’ a nurse bustled in behind Hunter and was not going to be argued with.
He turned back to Charlie with an expression of irritation and stifled remorse. He wasn’t used to being told what to do.
‘Ok we’ll leave it for now.’
Her mother intervened to lighten the atmosphere. ‘Just glad you’re back with us.’
‘So are we all,’ Hunter agreed.
She smiled. That little phrase from him meant more to her than anything.
*
Keith Hubbard lay stretched out on the plain sheet, of the plain mattress, of the prison bed and laughed quietly to himself. The stupid bastards thought they knew how to deal with him, but they didn’t. They thought they were better than him, but they weren’t. He knew how to deal with them and he knew he would never be convicted.
Not in a million years.
Not when it was one word against the other. And the other just happened to be a mad bitch with concussion.
It was just a matter of waiting until his solicitor got him out, and she would. She was quality. He’d just have to wait for the next bail application to get sprung, on the basis that he had a young son tragically left without a mother or father now. Fatherhood would prove to be his saviour, he was sure.
He just had to wait, which was fine, even if it took a week or so. Waiting was just his thing. He was good at waiting and watching and biding his time. So fucking good it made him laugh out loud.
Chapter 7
‘I have to admit, Charlie, we’re going to struggle. Today’s a formality. He’ll almost certainly get bail and I’ll be surprised if the Crown Prosecution Service doesn’t withdraw the charge completely when it goes to committal in a week or so’s time. It’s your word against his and your initial statement to me at Hubbard’s house is going to be torn to shreds by the defence because of your head injury. Any forensic material found on your clothing from his boot will also be totally discredited due to the fact that you were thrown all over the carpet during the fall and any mud or dirt could just as easily have come from that. Even the full statement you made after coming to is likely to be deemed unreliable due to the concussion. We’ll have a job proving he did it.’
Hunter shook his head in frustration.
‘I wanted to say I’d seen him push you, but with my eyesight and both Hubbard and his son saying I was downstairs I’d have been done for perjury and that wouldn’t have helped your case at all. The boss warned me off.’
He pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and shoved one into the corner of his mouth.
‘The bastard! I heard him say “mind how you go”. If it does get to court, all the jury will think is that he was trying to warn you to go careful because he was worried you’d trip. Not that he was making a sarcastic comment as he booted you down the stairs.’
Charlie was curled up on the most comfortable sofa in the world, at the family home, with her legs wrapped in a warm fleece. The sofa had been there forever, huge, maroon and all encompassing, present in almost all of her best memories. Meg had refused to let her go back to her own flat, insisting she, Lucy and Beth would look after her the best. She felt sick and her head still ached but the pain-killers were keeping it at bay. She’d worn the doctor down, begging to be released, and had only been discharged on a promise to report straight back to A&E if there was any increase in pain or faintness. Seven to ten days of headaches, nausea and dizziness; bed rest, sofa rest, light exercise and then hopefully back to normal. Luckily Hunter was popping in regularly updating her on her case, and that of Julie and Richard Hubbard but she was still determined to get back as soon as possible. She had a job to do; even more so now she’d remembered exactly what had happened.
She heaved herself up and opened the door to the garden. Hunter lit up, blowing the smoke out in a fresh bout of rage.
‘It’s fucking bollocks! We can’t let the bastard get away with what he’s done.’ He drew on the cigarette again heavily, before throwing it down and grinding it into the stone slabs with his boot. He shook his head at Charlie. ‘And yes! I know I should stop smoking.’
‘I didn’t say a word.’
‘You don’t have to. I can see it in your face.’
She raised her hands as if in surrender. He was a great boss and a good man too, but she wished he would quit. He had pretty much stopped; but now and again, when he appeared the most stressed, he would pull a crumpled packet from his pocket and light up. It was the worst possible combination, but it was also the worst possible time to choose to make a comment. She had long since learned to button her lip. She might be young, but she was not stupid.
He was pacing now, back and forth on the patio, his footsteps scuffing a path through the thin layer of green mould that appeared as if by magic on the patio slabs every winter.
She knew all he wanted was to put the bad people away, whether that meant a little embellishment of what
he had actually seen or heard, or a little over-dramatization of events. These days the scales of justice were weighted too heavily against the victim. Guilty people were able to manipulate the system to obtain the verdicts they required. Sometimes the scales had to be reset with a little bit of creative thinking by law enforcement officers. She believed exactly the same as he did. She’d already seen enough in her short career to know that he was right and was well-respected for it. She worked the same way.
Her head was pounding again.
‘Well let’s just wait and see. We both know that the Magistrates won’t have the balls to keep him in custody. That’s a given. Let’s hope you’re wrong when it gets to the committal. Who knows?’
The words were empty. She knew he was right. Keith Hubbard would walk; and there was nothing, absolutely nothing, they could do.
*
Julie Hubbard blinked her eyes open and shut several times to push away the insect that was crawling across her lids. She was covered in bedding, thrown down by her captor on the last visit to keep her from freezing, but the insects still managed to burrow down to skin-level. She could feel them scraping against her, nipping and biting. She lay in her own filth, her clothing damp and putrid. The stench hit her nostrils again and she blew out through her nose to dispel the smell. Opening her mouth, she tried to breathe. The smell wasn’t so bad if she breathed through her mouth, but the cloth around her face hindered the air movement and made it harder to suck in enough oxygen. Her lungs and chest were so weak now that she could only manage a short time before having to use her nostrils again. Her lips were dry, with deep cracks from lack of moisture. The water from the tube had run out a long time ago.
The call of a wood pigeon rang out from somewhere outside her prison. It sounded close. She had long since given up the hope of having one last view of normality, of light, colours, nature, people, life. It wasn’t going to happen. She knew it now and it ceased to faze her. Her breathing was getting harder as her lungs gave up the fight, panting and gasping for air as her body attempted to move the weight of her ribcage. The sound was loud and welcome in the silence. Her head was going muzzy as her brain starved of oxygen. Everything was starving. Ryan and Richard ran across her eye-line, laughing and shouting in childish exuberance. Her eyes were drawn to Richard, the youngest, the most striking. He turned and smiled towards her and she smiled back and their eyes connected. She couldn’t turn away even if she’d wanted. She was looking directly into the darkness of his pupils, being pulled forward into their blackness, but she didn’t fight against it. She didn’t pull back. She let go and as she did so she knew she would never open her eyes again.
This time they would be united forever.
*
Keith Hubbard shoved his hands deep into his trouser pockets and grinned with satisfaction. Behind him the brickwork and glass of Camberwell Green Magistrates’ Court glinted in the sun-light. The sky was a brilliant blue in the background, though the air still held a slight nip of spring, and the court building cast shadows across the concrete concourse and road in front of it. Traffic nudged forward slowly at the approach to the nearby junction.
He turned at the sound of footsteps behind him and shook hands with the smartly dressed young woman who extended her hand towards him. She was quite a classy bitch, even though she too looked down on him, but then she was allowed to, she was Ms Annabel Leigh-Matthews, his solicitor, no less. He expected her to be better educated and better spoken, even though he still didn’t like it; particularly in a woman. But then he couldn’t object really, seeing as she’d just sprung him from prison with the promise she would get the charges dropped at the next hearing. And she would, he knew she would.
He watched her every step as she tottered away on her high black court shoes, struggling to juggle the bundles of paperwork as she dug into her shoulder bag for her car key. It was a classy car too, a sleek, red BMW 320i with a personalized number plate that he had already committed to memory. He knew where she worked. He knew her car. It wouldn’t be hard to find out where she lived.
He stayed silently observing her as she leaned over the boot, carefully placing the bundles down, unaware of his eyes scanning her every curve. Classy bird with a fit body. Nice.
He caught a glimpse of leg as she climbed into the car and didn’t stop surveying her until her car was out of sight.
Then, with a sigh, he turned and started to walk towards the train station. The Easter weekend stretched out in front of him, an extra two days to enjoy his pursuits. Before he went and removed Ryan from his grandparents he would go for a walk. It would be good to get away from the grey buildings of the inner city. He quickened his step at the thought. Yes it would be nice to breathe in the fresh, clean air of his favourite woods, so much nicer than being stuck in the stuffy enclosed space of a prison cell.
Chapter 8
The Imperial War Museum was directly en route to Lambeth HQ, not far from Waterloo and the South Bank. The huge brick-built structure containing memorabilia from wars throughout the ages was crowned with a verdigris-coloured domed roof, and its entrance fronted by six imposing pillars. It was situated in a small park area comprising a Tibetan peace garden and a small cafe. A recent wooden statue, almost like a totem pole, honed from the trunk of a fallen tree stood to the side of the entrance. Charlie had watched its weekly progress, intrigued at its transformation from little more than a stump, to a smooth, stunning sculpture.
It was only just past 7 a.m. but Hubbard’s committal was scheduled for the afternoon and she wanted to get back up to speed with what had been happening. She had done the least possible time that the doctors had ordered, and although her head was still sore, there was no lasting damage. Only a small scar remained to remind her how lucky she’d been. It could have been so much worse.
She needed to run. A week and a half sitting at home, eating Easter eggs and with barely any exercise had taken its toll. She felt sluggish and almost as stiff as the trusty trainers she had squeezed her feet into. She jogged over to the front of the building where she always stopped briefly to admire the two huge fifteen inch diameter gun barrels which marked the entrance to the museum.
She stood in front of the guns, staring into their black interiors for what seemed like ages, letting her mind flit between past and present. Every morning she made a point of standing in a quiet spot, in silence for two minutes, eyes closed, allowing her memories free rein. Each time she reopened her eyes, her memories had refuelled her motivation for justice. Beth and Lucy had caught her doing it a few times and teased her for it, but for Charlie it worked. Those memories kept her focussed.
When at last she opened her eyes she realized she wasn’t alone. Ben Jacobs was there.
He stood to one side, leaning on a pair of crutches, a money box labelled ‘Help for Heroes’ hung around his neck. He regularly sat, lost in his thoughts, collecting money outside the museum.
‘You’re early today,’ he waved towards her.
‘I could say the same about you.’
‘Couldn’t sleep.’
She knew better than to question him further. She’d taken him out to breakfast a couple of times in the last six months and listened to his story. Sometimes his recurring nightmares led him to the bottle. Sometimes the need for a new bottle brought him out early from his flat.
Unlike the soldiers who had lost limbs, the injuries Ben had suffered in the latest conflict were not obvious to onlookers. He had post-traumatic stress syndrome and the flashbacks, as vivid as the actual fighting, were repeated constantly in his head.
His body mirrored his mind. Sometimes his tall, lean frame would stand upright, shoulders back, dark hair neatly cut, chin and neck cleanly shaved, clothes fresh and smart, eyes alive and smiling, a lop-sided grin lighting up his handsome features. Other times he was stooped, unkempt and dirty; both frightened and frightening.
Today he looked more dishevelled than usual; his eyes dull through lack of sleep, a plaster cast on his right leg. A
can of Special Brew dangled from his hand.
Charlie reached into her pockets and scooped out a handful of loose change, slotting each coin carefully into his tin. He deserved way more than a few pennies. Usually she would make time to chat, but today, even though she felt guilty as hell she knew she had to get on.
She pointed to the crutches.
‘What have you been up to then?’ She already knew the answer.
He shrugged. ‘Too much of this.’ He held the can up, before putting it to his lips.
‘We’ll do breakfast again soon, Ben. I promise.’
‘I’ll hold you to that, Charlie.’
‘Don’t worry. It’s always my pleasure. Just got a big case to crack first.’
‘Well hurry up and crack it quickly. I’m hungry.’
She laughed. ‘I’ll do my best. Can’t have you wasting away.’
He waved as she jogged away. He was a lovely guy. It was such a pity to see him so troubled, but she made a point of never judging him. Who could ever know what he had experienced and was still experiencing now. She would be back as soon as she could.
By the time she’d reached the office both Charlie and her trainers were feeling more like normal, which was more than could be said for her entrance. Bet and Paul were straight on their feet, wrapping arms round her, genuinely pleased at her return. They had both kept in daily contact with her for the week and a half she’d been off.
Naz and Sabira hovered in the background, wanting to show their solidarity but not quite sure what to do. Sabira was an Asian lesbian, two features that didn’t sit well together in Indian culture. She helped Paul on the LGBT cases but also worked on the increasing number of faith/honour crimes. She was Paul’s opposite: quiet and unobtrusive, patient and tolerant, sensible clothes, sensible shoes, someone who was never going to set the world on fire.
