by Sarah Mason
After an ecstatic reception from Joe down at the paper, who is absolutely elated we have such a thrilling finale to the last couple of weeks of the diary, I make my weary way home and, once there, flop straight down on the sofa. Lizzie comes out from the kitchen.
“Well? What happened? Did you catch him?”
“Her.”
“What?”
“Her. We caught her. The Fox is a woman.”
“Really? Blimey. Aren’t you happy? I mean, surely this will guarantee the diary’s success! You should be delirious!”
“Yeah,” I mutter. What the hell is wrong with me? Lizzie’s right—I should be punching the air with victory salutes by now but instead I feel strangely empty. I go through to my bedroom, where I drop on my bed and, instead of lying awake pondering today’s events, fall immediately asleep and stay like that all the way through to morning.
I awake with a start and stare panic-stricken around me. My racing heart gradually slows as I recognize my surroundings. Let’s face it, my scene changes are so quick nowadays that my poor body doesn’t know where it will be waking up next. I slowly sit up and glance at the clock—it’s still early. Someone has kindly undressed me. I am lying underneath the duvet in my bra and knickers. I clutch my aching head and wander through to the kitchen to make some tea. Grasping a very welcome cup of Tetley’s finest (the tea bags, not the ale), I go back to my bedroom and sit down at the dressing table to survey the damage. I peer at the stranger in the mirror. Do you think it would be too rude for me to suggest to her that she should get every pot of moisturizer she owns and slap it on? As I reach across to pick a pot, I notice a note. I smile. It’s from Ben.
Came round as promised to find you out for the count. Don’t worry, understand from Lizzie you had eventful night. Will hold you to the back-scrubbing though.
Love, B.
PS Nice knickers
I promise myself I will make it up to him and slap some moisturizer on my poor, ill-treated skin. It acts as though it has been living in the Gobi desert and sucks up the moisture. After a shower, I shrug myself into a pair of hipster trousers and locate the flip-flop for my injured foot under the bed. I shudder to myself; I have no wish to know where the desperate hospital staff found that and wonder fleetingly whether I should be disinfecting it. Oh well, it’s a little late now. I pull on a red polo neck and tie my hair back. Feeling marginally fresher, I gather my things, leave a note for Lizzie and clamber into Tristan. We initially perform a series of bunny hops down the road as I struggle to dislodge my flip-flop which has got stuck underneath one of the pedals.
I find Dave-the-not-quite-so-grumpy-desk-sergeant at his usual post. He looks up as I flash my ID at him and smiles. “Congratulations! I hear you and your detective made an arrest yesterday.”
“Gosh, thanks!” I say in surprise, and he buzzes me through the security door.
I find I can walk surprisingly well on my injured foot. All the swelling seems to have gone down now, but it’s still pretty bruised. I walk fairly normally up to the second floor and just as I am plugging in my laptop, James strides in to clapping and congratulations from the rest of the department, an honor always displayed to an arresting officer. He looks better than yesterday.
“Morning!” he says. “How are you feeling?”
“Better; did you get some sleep?”
“Yeah, I went straight to bed when I got in.”
“When are we visiting the lock-up?”
“Christine’s solicitor said he would arrive at nine. We’ll wait for him and then all go down together.”
We have a cup of coffee while we wait and talk about the events of the last couple of days. A phone call alerts us to the fact that Christine’s solicitor has arrived and together we make our way down to the car pool. James pulls our Vauxhall around to the front of the building and I call Vince and tell him to meet us at the lock-up and give him the address. We watch as Matt, our usual uniformed officer, brings out the handcuffed Christine and guides her inside a patrol car. Another uniformed officer and a gentleman who I presume is her solicitor get into the car also.
Our little convoy sets off across town. As James and I chat idly about nothing in particular and laugh about silly things, I can feel the tension of the last few days melting away from him. I realize he must have been under a huge amount of pressure from the Chief to solve this case and I’m really happy, not just for him but in a selfish way for the diary as well.
After about twenty minutes of traveling out toward the Avonmouth side of Bristol, which is toward the Bristol Channel, we pull into a narrow alleyway which is lined on either side with garages. Never having had any particular need to be out this way before, I am surprised at how rural our position is. Lush green pastures, dotted with hamlets and speckled with lonely houses, lie before us at the other end of the alleyway. We sluggishly bump our way along until, about halfway down, we grind to a halt in front of one particular garage.
We all get out and slowly assemble in front of it.
“This it?” James asks Christine. She nods sullenly. He takes out a huge bunch of keys from his pocket.
“This is a set of keys we found at your house; do you recognize them?” She nods again.
“Do you want to tell me which one fits the garage?” She shrugs, so James steps forward and starts trying them one by one in the huge padlock on the door. We all fidget restlessly. A chill wind whistles down this alleyway, probably straight off the Bristol Channel by the feel of it, and I nestle my neck down into my polo neck and shiver.
“Why can’t we just break in?” I whisper to Matt who is standing next to me.
“If it’s not the property of the person who has been charged with the crime then the police department has to pay for it. She hired it and we’re short on funds,” he whispers back. The solicitor glares at us. After about ten minutes of trying all the keys, of which there must be about fifty, James turns back to Christine. He has a very familiar, impatient look on his face. I try to transfer the thought “Tell him. Tell him now, before he loses his temper” to Christine.
“Christine, you are supposed to be cooperating with us. Please could you tell me which is the correct key?” She glances over to her solicitor who nods slightly at her. She turns back to James. “It’s that one,” she says, helpfully nodding toward the entire key ring.
“Which one? This one?”
“No. That one.” She gesticulates with her head.
“Which one?” His voice is sharp. I have pushed past James Sabine’s temper threshold enough times to know exactly where it is. We’ve just reached it. “Matt, uncuff her,” he snaps. Matt hesitates for a millisecond and then steps forward and swiftly undoes her cuffs. Christine moves as if to look at the keys but then, with one seamless action, barges through the gap between her hapless solicitor (who is going to have trouble explaining this in court) and Matt. She belts down the alleyway, the opposite way to which we came in, toward the fields and pastures. James has the quickest reaction. “Oh shit,” he says and hares after her. Matt and the other officer follow, leaving me and the extremely unfit solicitor to bring up the rear.
I ignore the pain in my foot as I run along the alleyway, for once not hampered by tight skirts or high heels. As I reach the end of it, I realize the chill breeze must indeed be coming directly off the Bristol Channel as the lush pastures before us run down to the unmistakable glint of silver water. I spot Vince’s souped-up lilac Beetle bumping toward us from the right. In fact, Christine must have nearly passed him before she veered off to her left and into the fields.
“Come on!” I yell at Vince. All credit to him, he leaps out and, after having secured a small camera which must have been sitting on the passenger seat ready for an emergency such as this, pelts after the figures. We all reach the second fence at about the same time; Vince and I, benefiting from everyone’s experiences at the first one, manage to gain some valuable seconds. As I run up, I notice the second fence is much higher than the first. It’s
too high to jump over. James must have had exactly the same thought as me because, while still running hard, he makes a powerful leap directly on top of the barbed wire fence in order to bring it down.
It’s my last memory of that day. A loud crack rips through the air. Alien sounds and sensations assault my mind and body. A sharp pain expands in my head and after that there is only darkness.
twenty-two
Voices drift in and out of my consciousness. I hazily open my eyes to find several other pairs staring straight back at me. I hastily close mine again and hope the other eyes will go away. I wait a few seconds and slightly open my left one to check the situation. Nope, they’re all still there. I don’t really want to rouse myself yet, everything feels like such an effort, but the thought of all those people scrutinizing me is too much. I look slowly from face to face. Mother, Dad and James. James? JAMES? What the hell is he doing in my bedroom? I sit bolt upright and gather the covers to my chin, my heart racing in my ears.
“Holly, it’s all right. It’s OK,” says my mother as though she is trying to soothe a frightened horse. She’s going to start stroking my nose any minute.
I look frantically around and realize that I’m not in my bedroom at all. “Where am I?”
“In the hospital, darling. You’ve had a bit of a knock on the head.”
“What time is it? How long have I been asleep?”
My father looks at his watch. “It’s about nine in the morning. You’ve been out for about twenty-three hours.”
Upon being told that I’ve been asleep for twenty-three hours, I frown and surreptitiously sneak a hand to the top of my head to smooth down my hair. I always look my absolute worst on waking. No one, no one looks more horrendous than I. I rub my eyes and then run a finger underneath them in a bid to remove the mascara that I know will be lodged there. While I subconsciously run through my beauty routine, or rather my not-feeling-quite-so-ugly routine on one hand, my other hand has a quick float about underneath the covers and confirms my worst suspicions. I am absolutely stark naked apart from one of those very flimsy hospital paper gowns which I am fairly sure doesn’t meet around the back. Hang on, what am I doing? WHAT DO I THINK I AM DOING? I have just had a brush with death and I am fussing about what I look like. I am absolutely sure the appearance police will let you off this once, Holly. Absolutely sure. I cast an apprehensive, frowning look at James. He smiles at me. Just how much has he seen?
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
“OK,” I say doubtfully, because to be honest I am a little doubtful about that. I try to cast my memory back and hazy images start to come through. We were chasing someone. I was keeping a very safe distance from James, not wanting a repeat performance of my black eye. Then we came to a fence. James went up and over it, and as he did so I remember a loud crack and then darkness. Complete blackness.
“What happened?” I say. James looks a little sheepish.
“It was an accident.”
“What was?”
“Do you remember chasing Christine?” I nod. “Well, we had to get over a barbed wire fence, so I jumped on top of it, thinking my weight would push it down. Unfortunately, the farmer must have nailed it to a dead tree nearby, and as my weight pulled down the fence, the tree just snapped. And, er, landed on your head . . . It was quite a large tree, but luckily relatively light . . . On account of it being dead . . .” he trails off.
There is a long pause as I absorb this information.
“Did you catch her? Christine?”
“Er, yeah. Matt caught up with her. I stayed with you. I thought I’d killed you.”
“I was trying to keep at least three meters between us because of the black eye scenario. And you said I was the apocalypse. That’s twice that you’ve injured me now,” I say lightly. He grins and I catch myself thinking that that must be what Fleur fell for. His smile. That grin must be fatal when deployed properly.
“Oh well, better luck next time, eh?”
James casts a hesitant glance over at my parents. I had forgotten they were there and they are looking fairly concerned. They must think he’s some sort of maniac.
“We’re just kidding; when did you get here?” I say to them.
“Last night. When James called us, we came as quickly as we could,” my father says.
My mother interrupts. “We came quicker than that. I ran around the house throwing anything I could get my hands on into a suitcase, despite which your father has a complete lack of underwear and Morgan has no dog biscuits.” I look over at my father, alarmed by his underwear situation.
“I’ve had to go commando, darling.” James smothers a smile. My father picks up some ridiculous phrases from my brothers and I simply do not wish to know how that one came up in conversation. “We were all here last night but they wouldn’t let us see you. We waited for ages until they told us you were fine and that there was no point in staying.”
“Where is Morgan?” I ask.
“Sitting in the car, probably chewing the gear stick as we speak. He’s hungry.”
James says, “I think I’ll just get one of the nurses and tell them you’re awake.”
My mother watches him walk out.
“THAT is your detective?” she whispers theatrically, her eyebrows racing up and down like demented caterpillars. Her nostrils flare slightly. She can smell drama at fifty paces. Twenty, if she’s standing downwind.
“He’s not my detective.”
“I thought he didn’t like you?”
“Well, we’re getting on a bit better than we used to.”
“You certainly are. He telephoned us last night in a terrible state. Poor love, he’s been really worried, beetling all over the place for you.” OK, hang on. How come I’m the one in the gown and the bed and we’re talking about poor old James? Poor old James, the assaulter of innocent reporters.
“Well, he was probably worried he’d killed or at least maimed me,” I hiss vehemently. “Didn’t want a lawsuit hanging over him on his honeymoon. He’s getting married in a week’s time.”
“I know,” she says in a gossipy voice, oblivious of my tone. “Imagine Miles’ little girl getting someone like that. Well, well. A small world, isn’t it?”
I frown. “What do you mean? Someone like that?”
“Well, it’s just that they are so different, darling. But they say opposites attract, don’t they? He’s been charming; quite, quite charming. Took us to our hotel last night and then brought us down here to the hospital and still receiving police calls on his mobile all the while. How he has found the time to worry about us I just do not know.”
“Probably trying to stop you suing him,” I say in my Eeyore voice, crossing my arms and huffing down into my pillows.
“The way you described him I thought he was going to be a monster. Mind you, what you’ve written about him this last week or so, the whole village has been . . .”
I interrupt hastily. “So, have you told anyone else I’m here? Lizzie? Ben?” Not that I want people to worry, you understand, but a potentially dramatic situation such as this shouldn’t be wasted.
“Well, I called Lizzie last night, but I’m afraid I didn’t know how to get hold of Ben so I asked Lizzie to contact him. I’ll call her in a sec and tell her you’re awake.”
James walks back in carrying three cups on a tray.
“The nurse is sending the doctor down to have a look at you. A cup of coffee, Sorrel? Patrick?”
Sorrel and Patrick? SORREL AND PATRICK? My word, someone has got his feet firmly under the table. I haven’t heard them called that for absolutely years. In my small circle of friends they’re known as Mr. and Mrs. C, and their friends all “darling” each other to death. I had almost forgotten those were their names.
“Thank you, James. How sweet of you.”
My mother sits herself down in one of the chairs and gets out a packet of cigarettes.
“Did you get me a coffee?” I ask James a little pathetically.
James frowns. “No. The doctor’s coming to see you in a minute. I don’t think you should be drinking coffee.” Oh no, silly old moi. I eye my mother’s cigarette packet. No coffee, because the caffeine would be bad for you, as opposed to being suffocated by someone else’s smoke fumes.
“Do you think I can smoke in here, darlings?” asks my mother to the general ensemble. James shrugs and looks up. “Can’t see any detectors.” What has happened to the pedantic, sarcastic detective? Not to mention law-abiding?
“No, I don’t bloody think you can smoke in here,” I bluster.
“Oh, don’t be so stuffy, darling. Honestly, we poor smokers are in the minority now. We’re pushed out to the very fringes of society. Not welcome anywhere.” She lights up and pats the chair next to her. “So, James, come and tell me all about how you managed to meet Miles’ little girl. I was absolutely amazed when Holly told me that you were the groom. Have you met Miles? A frightful old fart, isn’t he?”
Oh fine. That’s just fine. Don’t mind me. I’ve just regained consciousness, that’s all. Nothing at all to concern yourselves with. I’ll just lie here and wait until you finish your little chat.
And so it is in this convivial ambience that Dr. Kirkpatrick finds us a quarter of an hour later. One slightly smoky room, one sulky patient, one charming police officer (who, I might add, is being so bloody charming my mother will probably think I’ve been making the stories up about him) and two laughing parents. I perk up a little when he enters the room because (a) it is Dr. Kirkpatrick and he’s gorgeous and (b) the attention is back on me, albeit for a brief and probably short-lived while. That is, of course, if the three musketeers over there can break off from their fascinating conversation. Hats off to James Sabine, as my family’s ability to talk about nothing for hours on end is legendary. And it takes someone of a fairly deep character to understand and keep up with the superficiality. My mother starts to frantically spray perfume lest her smoking is detected.
