Fiona

by D Attrill

  “Front right? Yes, she’s clean here but we've still only caught it the moment before the collision. It appears to have stayed safely on.”

  “Nice.” Garstone switched off the laptop in jubilation.

  “I think someone owes Will a drink.” Leyton chimed in again.

  “Aye, you get yourselves down, I’ll get them in. We’ve a busy day in front, by the looks of things.”

  “Tha celebrating that we’ve cocked up on the Corsa’s reg these last two day?” said Armitage, sounding very confused.

  ”No - celebrating that it’s Saturday afternoon and we’re effing done.”

  (iii)

  Becky reached the upper realms of the Firth Park mist and turned right onto Primula Drive. It was a place she wished she’d seen the last of for the day... and indeed it would have been, were it not for her old friend Joanne Leyton’s ‘wisdom’.

  She tried to walk slowly as possible, aiming to make number ‘28’ appear slower. She treasured these precious seconds, to put the earlier part of the day behind her. Counting each door as she passed it, was still highly unnerving. It was another door down to her destination. She felt like a condemned criminal being led to her execution.

  Number 36,….only five to go… No 34.….. It would be coming into view anytime now - the fog was far less than apt to hide that grimy white door from her sight any longer. 14... point of no return now…if that woman was standing outside, there was no way of hiding…. 12.….

  “Oh my god, here go...”

  Wait, Becky thought. 14-12?

  “Christ, I’ve walked right past it.”

  She recounted her tracks, taking in the old chapel across the road as a landmark; little else could direct her in the deteriorating gloom.

  “Hey,” came a voice from ahead. A small, dark-haired face peeped over a gate “Didnae get lost did ye?” Fiona beckoned her back in the right direction.

  It appeared that she had let bygones be bygones once again.

  Becky still took her time to walk. She remembered the two worst potholes were outside 22 and 24. The last three were small enough to hop-scotch over, as she got to the steps of Fiona’s.

  As she got closer she saw Fiona had left the door slightly open. She allowed one last deep breath as she strode up and in through that dreaded void once again.

  Fiona’s kitchen appeared to be brimming with activity. The radio was blaring away and the microwave humming its heat on to what looked like a tub of spaghetti shapes while steam belched from the kettle. Fiona had disappeared.

  “Hello?” Becky thought it might be a peace offering she’d prepared. “You around?”

  “In here, lovey!” came a voice from the other room which summoned Becky to follow its direction.

  “Hiya,” Becky smiled back as she stepped into the lounge.

  “You ok?” asked Fiona. She sat on the sofa with Izzy on her lap as ‘Look North’ blared away in the corner.

  “Yes, fine….er, listen do you want a coffee making? Just so to save you finding somewhere to put him.”

  “Yeah sure, cheers. Usual, aye? Milk and a couple o’ wee sugars.”

  “Sure…”

  Her speech staggered to a halt. She noticed Fiona had undone her shirt buttons, whilst sitting her little bundle of joy on her lap. An eighteen month - old boy being breast fed? In all her babysitting life, the sight she saw now could hardly be right.

  “What?” Fiona was staring back. She seemed to have noticed her gaze. “Something up, eh? You got a problem with this?”

  “No….. I j….” Becky was still bringing herself to believe it.

  “Dinnae lie to me.” Fiona erupted.

  She stopped a second, looking at Becky waiting.

  “Go away. Get right away.. get intae the kitchen! Nae watch me, never! You do the coffee, stay in there! I’ll come and get it myself!”

  Becky backed away, frozen with disbelief. She retreated into the kitchen and ran the kettle, before reaching up for the sugar. A sudden bang from Fiona slamming the lounge door made her lose hold. The packet tumbled down to the floor and fell open leaving the kitchen looking like it had been hit by a snowstorm.

  “My god...” Becky hunted round for a dustpan.

  “What you done now?” Fiona came crashing in. She shoved Becky aside. On looking at the mess, she snatched the packet from Becky and slung it across the room.

  “You’ve the cheek to come showing your face again, now you try trashing my house. You’re a fucking liberty-taking bitch, that’s what you are. I should go ring that friend Jo of yours, see if she can come take ye away... an’ if she tries anything, I’m gonna kill her too…..hey… ”

  Becky was out of here - she’d heard, and had, enough. She flew out of the door, faster than on her earlier exit.

  She cleared the front gate before her Doc Marten-clad feet could touch the ground. Dodging the potholes didn’t concern her.

  Becky had reached the end of Primula Drive and turned right before she knew anything about it.

  She recognised the brilliant white glow of the bus shelter roof, fifty feet or so ahead of her.

  A roaring pair of headlights suddenly loomed towards her through the mist.

  . Three elderly-looking shapes had stood up to greet it.

  “Wait!” she slightly hastened her pace as the arrived double-decker opened its doors.

  “Wait...please...”

  She gasped through her sobs, staggering faster. The three other passengers had already stepped aboard.

  She flailed both arms but the fog appeared equally deep for the driver. As the Flat St Interchange service set off into the forbidding gloom again Becky collapsed in inescapable despair.

  Slumped in a heap at the bottom of the shelter, she no longer cared if someone's hand came forth and carried her to the end of the world.

  She was still confused, amidst her frustration and fright. It was her job on the line, and she could hardly afford to lose this chance so soon, but along with it, she couldn't work with someone that insecure, one second longer. Becky looked down along the street, as far as, she could make out, which was around two car-lengths at most. This road would lead her the furthest away, if she still could heave herself to walk it. Once she was away into the night, Once she was away into the mist, she’d never see the junction into the Flower Estate again, and hope neither that headcase at 28 Primula Drive.

  “...that headcase at 28 Primula Drive.”

  She found her own words going round in circles; her delirium was starting to drive them out loud.

  Becky forced herself back to her senses. Sucking in the soothing outdoor air for a moment, she then steadied herself up, holding onto the side of the shelter.

  A sudden yank of her right arm made her nearly let go, especially once she noticed whose face was straight opposite hers.

  “There you are...” went Fiona.

  Relentless rage in her eyes only moments before appeared to have become invisible.

  “Keep the fuck away from me!” Becky warned her. She didn’t buy it for a second. “Touch me and I’ll kill... l...l....leave me alone...go away… please!”

  “Shh...it’s ok.” Fiona was hurrying to hug her. “I’m sorry, I really am. So, so sorry.”

  “If you are, why do you keep on… why do you keep threatening me for nothing?”

  “I shouldnae have taken it out on you so. I know why you spilt the sugar.” Fiona now sounded like she was starting to break, herself“I gottae say, I had such a shitty awful time o’ things, just lately, that’s it.”

  “Did something happen then? Is that how it is? Something so ‘shit awful’ you had to take it out on me?”

  “It’s ma fella.” Fiona replied, sullenly “You remember his brother wis had by a car?”

  “Yes, yes you did.”

  “They wis cops, those two, One of them had come to his house, chased him out. Tried drivin’ him over in a quad bike, I wis also telt.”

  “Tears were drizzling down her own cheek.<
br />
  “Christ, that’s shocking... I mean, what had he done?”

  He hasnae, except he’s already up the court this Wednesday coming.”

  Although her speech was breaking, Fiona continued forth. “They’d came tae his place as probably trying to make it worse for him, I bet ye.”

  “Why would they do that for?”

  “Cops these days, they got a grudge a mile high. It’s like, if they no’ like someone they’ve already dealt with before, they try plyin’ for a sentence several times worse than he would have been getting.”

  “Gosh, why would they do this for?”

  “Simply that they’re cold wee bastards, lovey - no better than the people they put a…way.”

  She asked to be excused, collapsing in furious sobs against the shelter seat. Becky waited until she’d composed enough then tried to continue.

  “Without disrespect... why did you move down here?”

  “Can I show you something on my mobile, a wee minute?” Fiona asked, trembling with emotion.

  “Y...y...yeah, where is it?”

  Dipping her hands in her own jacket, Fiona then felt in her own left pocket. Her jeans were obviously a size too tight - she took several seconds to wiggle her handset loose. It suddenly shot out and dropped on the pavement, just missing a puddle. Becky bent quickly to rescue it. “I don't think it was hurt.” she joked.

  “Here,” Fiona held out her hand.

  Becky let her have it back.

  Fiona spent half a minute choosing icons. She eventually at whatever she'd managed to get up, and gave it to Becky again.

  The photograph she was looking at showed a shoddily desecrated dark red door, the front of a house, obviously. Abhorrent graffiti went across from either side to the other - a lot of it took the surrounding wall as well. Most of the wording covered the topic of traitor and grass. The word ‘slapag’ grabbed her attention though.

  “What's that?”

  “Just a word in Gaelic. Hasnae got a very nice meaning.”

  “Matches the people that did it though. When did it happen?”

  “About five months ago. This was what I took for showin' the police. All this because I had a fall out with a friend; all over something that wisnae important.

  “Jesus.” Becky could see the dog excrement along the handle. She could also see the darkened blackness of her own neighbour’s door. Manchester... ten years ago. She'd been sitting during her gap year, when that adjoining block in Trafford Park was petrol bombed. It had been a through the letterbox job, evidently planned. Two panes were found to have been put through at the bottom of the block she herself was working in, one day afterwards so she'd known who was likely to be next in the queue. Following the swift exit of her then employer, she also moved on, back to Cambridgeshire and safety.

  “You see now? Fiona took the phone gently away then looked at her, lost and solemn. “It's a bonnie wee city from the outside, on the inside of the mouth it's a whole different set of teeth, vicious, sharp, sod-all mercy. I somehae hoped Sheffield wouldn't chew and try spit me out the same.”

  “It actually turned out just as much a war zone. You remember I telt you about bulletproof vests?” She nearly began laughing.

  “Yes, I can imagine. Not a great place to bring up an eighteen month old child.”

  “Yeah, isnae helping.” Fiona paused. She seemed to be remembering something with guilt. “I actually gone one worse here, wid you believe; I even left the wee chitter alone in the house.”

  Fiona was looking back towards the junction. Now smiling fully again, she gestured a hand.

  “D’you think we oughtae go back, an’ make sure he’s behaving himself?”

  “Suppose we must.”

  Becky finally stood up, patted gently on the back by Fiona.

  They headed back to Primula Drive again side by side. Having taken in these disturbing tales, she felt like she'd been suddenly drained of the dread that had sent her out here.

  As strange as it made her feel, Fiona’s behaviour had become fully believable. Becky slowly read it in her: that terrifying photo, real tears and a tone of voice that turned duly emotional as she’d described each event.

  Despite things having been ultimately solved, Becky still had one hurdle left... the task Leyton had set.

  With the coast looking calmer, it had to be now or never.

  Fi...ona.” she began. She was still unsure whether this would not reactivate her uglier side, right away. “I may have some nerve asking you a favour...”

  “O’ course you havnae.” Fiona replied, hospitably “Whit is it you want?”

  “Well it’s my friend Jo. She had me promise I’d try and invite her along after a couple of days...”

  “Say no more about it. Tell you what, we get inside the house again, you get on tae her right aaway.”

  Stage one of the action plan had succeeded, just as all hopes appeared banjaxed; if truth be told, Becky had actually managed to bypass it.

  Once they were back in the warmth of Fiona’s, she placed her coat on the chair and set the kettle going again, then raided her bag for her mobile.

  She hoped that her last squeeze of call juice had survived.

  Chapter 7

  (i)

  Garstone finally found his way out of McGanlons and back to his flat at ten to eleven-ish. He felt his own shame having followed him home as well - he’d been the only person in the whole of Sheffield who could stand around six hours in a West St bar without touching a drop of alcohol and still be staggering about like a washed up sailor at the end of the night. As a result, Leyton had allowed him to sleep Sunday off instead of slaving away for the man.

  The door light had gone out in the alleyway, resulting in a rough assault on his own jacket for the key. After playing another half-minute’s blind man’s buff for the hole, he heard the satisfactory sound of the mechanism. He took the key back out and threw it to the floor inside before he had chance to drop it, then once inside, pressed the door hard behind him. He wondered if that light thing had been a prank played on him by Armitage or Thompson for abandoning the merriment too soon.

  “Nice to be home,” he lied to himself.

  Turning on the kitchen light showed up the death trap he’d left the place in, yesterday. An unfinished ‘Compatibility’ board game lay on the table, most of its cards spilt overboard. Two mouldy Pimms servings, at either side, were stinking the place out. He took the glasses and slammed their content down the sink, then sought something fresher. Opening the fridge door, a half bottle of White Grape ‘Schloer’ was waiting for the taking. He made use of a recently opened carrot salad and some remaining Ragu, then having stirred them together, added seven new potatoes to complete his late night supper.

  Garstone worked his wandering body onto the nearest chair, not caring about the angle he had to his TV screen. Having got ‘BBC1’ up, he scoured the I-Player list, until he satisfied for last Saturday’s ‘Mock The Week’ repeat, just starting on ‘2’.

  While Dara O’Brien was busy introducing the guests, he lifted his case up onto the seat.

  He sifted through the filed documents for the last two days’ excitement, only to find the best of the last two years still behind it.

  “There’s my morning off, sorted.”

  He studied the deluge of documents and triplicates, showing their age with fade. Setting the older stuff further away, he placed all latest paperwork straight in front then attacked his food.

  Dire weather warnings scrolled across the bottom of the screen, although he wasn’t too disheartened once he saw it applied to late next day. As the quiz show scrolled through its end credits, he shut off and focused on the sheets.

  He was confident he had collated everything to aid their enquiries into the week ahead. A crucial piece of the puzzle had been put in place, now that the reg plate debacle was straightened out.

  Tom Payden was potentially accountable for both the first two incidents; Pinning Paula Radcombe's murder onto h
im remained a shaky tree to climb at. It would take finding him at last to find out the truth; so far, there was only the threatening text sent to his Gary that they could safely stick below his mug.

  Moving the sheets about, he sensed something biting at his brain. Why hadn’t the girl been with him in the scrapyard? Just like HOW THE HELL had he known to visit that particular one...not to mention their assistant supervisor's limp.

  Probably contrived all the way; he also wondered why Leyton had taken such little notice, compared to what she usually did.

  He decided it best to scribble these points down, and circle them for the morning. The little, important details a detective forgot overnight, sometimes defied belief.

  Snatching a blue sheet from his ‘old’ stash, he saw it was a copy of a document dated fourteen months ago. It had a familiar signature on the end.

  “‘Inspector J.M. Stoppard. South Tyneside Constabulary’ What the hell’s this still doing here?”

  Reading it for old time’s sake, Garstone had started to forget the glowing report given on his transfer, a year back.

  “‘…displays a persistently iron-willed determination to do as he understands required, and seeks, above all to succeed in his department. I therefore recommend this officer’s promotion to Detective Sergeant, upon transfer to Sheffield.’ And here, fourteen months down the line, I’m still waiting.”

  He read back on the testimonials from his old superiors, and also one from Leyton's Sheffield predecessor, DI Mulligan. Something was seriously screwed up about this, even though such a story wasn't unfamiliar. He'd heard of D.S. Rodbeck, a guy at Sheffield's City Bank H.Q. who was in the same boat, but worse - over thirty years on the job and still no further up the rungs himself. Thought turned to Leroy Armitage as well; despite his friend's on-off incompetence, he was dedicated enough to deserve leaping the next step up. Pestering Garstone right now were those three words, ‘dead end job’; a group of devils, digging tridents into his mind.

  A chorus of ringing stopped him. It wasn’t alarm bells in his head this time, more a buzzing electrical sound. On sitting up, he discovered the TV's standby flashing, but that was silent. His cordless headphone was the culprit.. ‘Missed call’ indicators sounded at him like mad, as he grabbed the receiver. He pressed for the last message.