The Philosophy of Disgrace

by Ann Troup

  Rachel was bundled uncomfortably into Charlie’s van, wrapped in a blanket, given a hot water bottle and a thermos full of soup. (Diana was a great believer in chicken soup as a salve for the soul). She was tired and confused, her mind flicking between shock over Frances’s arrest, grief for Stella and the unutterable truth of her existence for the past twenty years. In reality she didn’t want to think about any of it, she just wanted to shut her mind down completely. Now she had been told that she would be staying with Charlie and Amy while the police completed their enquiries. There was no escape from any of it. She would have cried, but all capacity to weep had escaped her a long time ago. All of the reactions she should have been having just seemed to have gathered themselves into a big knot of misery which choked out everything else, except one question, why?

  Her childhood had been full of acrimony and dysfunction, a poverty of spirit that had sapped everything. But to tell a lie of such vitriolic magnitude, to have so much hatred of something, to find the will to invent such a monstrous perjury was inconceivable to her. Whatever had happened to her family, whatever demon seemed bent on destruction had achieved its aims. Frances had killed a man, Stella had committed suicide in the worst possible way, and it had ruined Rachel’s life irretrievably. All because Valerie Porter had been disappointed with her lot in life? Hard to believe. Rachel could only conclude that something much more malign was at work in their lives. It occurred to her that Stella must have thought the same thing. That maybe burning down the house was her solution to end it. Though everyone kept telling her that it might not be Stella who had set light to the house, that it might not be her charred remains that had been found, Rachel was certain, who else could it be? Everyone else that had been touched by the malevolent force that seemed rule their lives was accounted for. Amy and Charlie were with her, Frances was in a cell somewhere, and Valerie, Roy and Patsy were all dead. Only Delia remained, a kind- hearted old lady who had done her best.

  Over the years, Rachel had lost count of the times that she had relived those moments in Delia’s kitchen when she had been told of Valerie’s visit, told of what had been said. The pivotal moment, when everything had toppled the wrong way.

  Charlie glanced across at her, ‘Are you OK?’ he asked, knowing what a ridiculous question it was, but not knowing what else to say. Everything he said, everything he did just seemed to diminish her even more. All he got in response was a weary nod. He didn’t know what else he expected from her. Part of him felt that if anything else happened she would just disappear before his eyes, fade out in a blink, finally consumed by it all. Maybe, when this nightmare was over, she could pick up the pieces and move on. She had Amy now, she had him too, but somehow he felt that she didn’t really want him. Bizarrely that fact still hurt, after all these years of living with it. Even in light of the truth, she would think that too much damage had been done. The worst part was that she would be able to walk out of his life even more effectively this time round. Once everything had been resolved, there would be no reason for her to stay.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Angela offered Ratcliffe the last slice of pizza. They had picked it up on the way back to her place, because she sure as hell wasn’t going to cook at this time of night, besides, Ratcliffe had brought a bag with him, full of personal belongings. If she cooked for him, he might feel he could just slip his feet under the table.

  He had made himself at home already, had loosened his tie, kicked off his shoes, helped himself to a beer and lay on her sofa. All while she got plates and napkins.

  ‘Cheers’ he said, grabbing the limp slice of food and cramming it into his mouth. A slice of pepperoni slid off and plopped onto his shirt, leaving a bright greasy stain. Ratcliffe just peeled it off and ate it, rubbing the stain further in with his fingers. ‘It’ll come out in the wash.’ He said.

  Angela hoped he didn’t think it was coming out in her wash. She drew the line at that. Might as well grab the bull by the horns. ‘So what’s up with you and Maria?’

  Ratcliffe chewed his last mouthful and washed it down with a swig of beer. ‘Had enough, can’t stand the sight of each other. So, time to call it a day.’

  ‘How did she take it?’

  ‘Dunno, she wasn’t there. It’s her book group tonight. I left her a note.’

  ‘Nice, I’m sure she’ll appreciate that after all these years. So what are you going to do now?’

  ‘Dunno, get a divorce I suppose, move on.’ He said, taking another swig of beer and reaching for the TV remote.

  ‘I meant where are you going to live?’

  ‘I thought I was staying here.’ He was flicking through the sports channels, she couldn’t believe it. She only had the sports pack because you couldn’t get the films without it, but she would be buggered if he was going to dominate the TV too.

  She stood up and switched the TV off. ‘Hang on a minute, you asked if you could stay for a few nights, a few nights, like one or two, maybe three at a stretch. I don’t want a lodger. You’re going to have to sort something else out. Besides I don’t want Maria or anybody else thinking you left her for me.’

  ‘Nobody’s going to think that are they? I’m old enough to be your father.’

  ‘Well, whatever. But you can’t stay here, not for longer than a night or two anyway.’

  He looked a little put out, had he honestly expected her to put him up indefinitely because he had left his wife on a whim. ‘Don’t you think you’d better talk to Maria at least, see if you can work things out?’

  He sat up, finished his beer and set the bottle on the table, then stared at it as if it held all the answers. ‘Do you know I can’t remember the last time we talked about anything? I don’t think we’ve had a proper conversation in years. We don’t even sleep in the same room anymore, she’s in the spare.’

  This was heading towards too much information for Angela. ‘Ok, I get it. It’s not working. But you’ve got to get it sorted properly, find a flat or something, then get yourself a decent solicitor, otherwise she’ll take you to the cleaners.’ He didn’t seem to realise that it wasn’t as simple as just walking out the door. From what she knew about Mrs Ratcliffe he would have a right old battle on his hands. ‘Anyway, speaking of marital discord, I can’t see Peter Haines standing by his wife can you?’ Talking about work seemed much safer ground.

  ‘No, indeed. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was packing his bags and calling the estate agent as we speak.’

  ‘You think the case is tight against Frances then?’

  ‘Pretty good, we need Rachel’s testimony, and some loose ends need tying up, but I think we’ll get a conviction out of it.’

  ‘So, did she talk at all?’ Angela still felt a mite resentful that she hadn’t been in on the interview,

  Ratcliffe rubbed his eyes. It had been a long day. ‘Not much, just said that she knew it was Roy because of the ring.’

  ‘What ring?’

  ‘She said he had a ring, one of those chunky things with a stone. A ruby apparently. Said it was on his finger when she saw the hand, and it was how she knew it was him when the box was opened.’

  ‘I don’t remember anything about a ring,’

  ‘Exactly, no one does. There was no ring. In which case the only conclusion we can draw is that she knew who it was because she put him there. That and the fact that he had a handful of her hair.’

  ‘What about the earring?’

  ‘Said she’d never seen it before, then Latimer advised her to shut up. It won’t go in her favour.’

  ‘So what do we need from Rachel?’

  ‘History. What Frances’ relationship with Baxter was like, can she identify the earring. We need motive, and she’s the only one who can give us that. Bit late for Stella.’

  ‘We ballsed up a bit there didn’t we?’ Angela said, still feeling a pang of guilt about what Stella had done to herself.

  ‘Probably, our asses are covered though. We did everything by the book. Wish we’d had her
testimony though, mind you she was so off her trolley I don’t suppose it would have stood up.’ He said with a casual shrug.

  What a callous shit he could be, Angela thought, mildly shocked at his attitude. They should never have let Stella go like that, and she told him so.

  ‘Look, we knew she was unstable, we referred her on, the Police surgeon arranged a follow up psych consult. What else could we do, we couldn’t hold her any longer. We deal with crime Angela, the law. Simple as that. We’re not social workers, and we’re not moral guardians, we’re the police, and that’s what we do, we police.’

  ‘So people like Stella are just collateral damage?’ She was angry with him, for so many reasons.

  ‘Yeah, Watson. That’s about it.’ He stood up, picked up his beer bottle, and the empty pizza box and strode into her state of the art kitchen, ‘where the fuck have they hidden the bin in this place.’ He yelled.

  Angela stomped out after him and opened a door in a bank of cupboards, let out an irritable sigh and stood back.

  Ratcliffe rammed the box and the bottle in the bin and slammed the door.

  Impatiently, Angela opened it, took out the box and put it in the cardboard bin, took the bottle and put it in the glass bin, then slammed the door.

  They stood there, staring at each other, each one refusing to back down. Ratcliffe took a step forward, grabbed the back of her head, and kissed her.

  Angela was surprised to find herself kissing him back.

  ‘Not bad for a man old enough to be my dad.’ She said afterwards, kicking the duvet off her legs, she was hot.

  ‘I’m forty two.’ He yawned, ‘so I would have had to start early. What are you, twenty nine, thirty?’

  She was thirty-one. Had just started checking for grey hairs and lines round her eyes each morning. Ratcliffe already had a few, a smattering of silver around the temples, and laugh lines around his eyes. Plus the deep groove above the bridge of his nose where he frowned too much, mostly because of work. It must really grit his shit to have a younger, less experienced woman telling him what to do. ‘So what really went wrong with you and Maria?’

  He closed his eyes and lay back on the pillows. ‘I don’t know really, just drifted I suppose. Strange to realise after fifteen years of marriage that you don’t even like each other anymore. On her part I think it was the job she started hating first, as for me, I just stopped caring that she wasn’t there when I got home. In fact, it used to piss me off if she was. Crap really.’

  ‘But why now?’

  ‘Stella Baxter, she made me think, about how life can be wasted so easily. And for the record, I’m absolutely gutted about what happened to her. But I can’t change it, and to be honest after listening to how crappy her life was, I don’t really blame her. But I can put her sister away, and it’s all I can do.’

  Not such a heartless bastard after all then. ‘About this’ she said, biting her lip, ‘what just happened. What now?’

  He took a breath and rolled out of the bed, and started to pull his trousers on. ‘I need a pee.’

  She could hear him, lumbering across the landing into the bathroom. Alone in the bed, she pulled her knees up, covered herself with the duvet and felt stupid. She had just slept with her boss, and she didn’t really know how it had come about. What was she supposed to do now, make him go downstairs and sleep on the sofa as planned?

  He stuck his head round the door, ‘Alright if I make a cuppa?’

  She nodded. ‘Sure, help yourself.’

  ‘Want one?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  After he had gone downstairs and she could hear him clattering about in the kitchen, she got up, pulled on her dressing gown and followed him. He’d spilled sugar all over the worktop, she watched as he tried to wipe it up, getting more of it on the floor than in the cloth. ‘Give it here,’ she said.

  He handed the cloth over, suddenly looking ridiculously humble in just his trousers, damp sugar crystals glittering on his legs. ‘Sorry Ange, I’m a bit of a mess at the moment. I shouldn’t have taken the piss.’

  She bent down to wipe up the spilled sugar. ‘You didn’t, I wouldn’t have let you. I’m not sure where it leaves us though. Put it this way, you’re still only staying until you’re sorted. You’ve only been here a night and you’ve already trashed the place. As for the other, it happens, we’ll live.’

  ‘So am I back on the sofa then?’

  She stood up and rinsed the cloth in the sink, wrung it out and folded it neatly on the draining board. ‘Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, besides, I put the sleeping bag in the wash. It’s not dry yet.’

  Ratcliffe smiled and reached out for her, enfolding her in his arms, and dropped an affectionate kiss on her head.

  ‘One thing though, mention this in the office and I’ll kill you.’

  ‘Mention it? By tomorrow lunch time I’ll have an incident room set up and the walls covered in ten by eight glossy photographs. I haven’t had sex in two years; I’m going to hang the bloody flags out!’ He laughed.

  But as he lay there that night, Angela curled up against him, it wasn’t her face he thought of as he drifted into sleep. It was Rachel Porter’s.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Delia Jones wasn’t happy, she wasn’t happy at all. She had just put the phone down after a call from Amy, and had been informed that Charlie was on his way back, and he had Rachel with him. It wasn’t what she had anticipated, and it could mean only one thing. Trouble. It had been hard work, keeping Charlie away from her all these years, protecting Amy. Protecting Rachel for that matter. Delia had a bad feeling that things were about to start unravelling. The news that Frances had been arrested was a bit of a shock, she hadn’t anticipated that, expecting that Stella would be firmly in the frame for what had happened to Roy. Just went to prove what happened when a shoddy job was done. Still, there wasn’t much else she could do about it now. It had been a long day, she was tired, and she was getting too old for all this. Whatever was going to happen next would have to wait until tomorrow. Besides, she had visitors; she needed to turn down the beds in the spare room.

  Rachel slept pretty much all the way back, only waking when Charlie turned the van into the road where he lived and pulled up on the drive.

  It was twilight, and the house was in shadow. Not that she would have recognised it any way, the house had been bought long after she left. It looked nice, a family home. ‘I don’t know if this is a good idea.’ She said to Charlie as he opened her door ready to help her out.

  ‘What do you propose as an alternative? You’re in no fit state to go to a hotel, and you don’t have anyone else you can stay with.’ He said, shouldering her weight as she clambered from the van. He could see that her leg was hurting her. ‘Come on, we can argue about it inside.’

  Her leg was agony, it felt as if it was on fire. Two and a half hours of complete immobility had rendered it almost useless and she struggled to chance letting it take her weight. Inside, Charlie led her to the sofa, and lowered her down. ‘I think we should take a look at that, when did you last change the dressing?’

  She hadn’t. In fact, she didn’t even know how bad it was, there hadn’t been a chance to look.

  ‘Christ Rachel, are you absolutely determined to kill yourself through self-neglect?’ he snapped. ‘Take your trousers off, let me see.’

  She hesitated for a moment, then saw the look on his face. She had almost forgotten that things had changed, that she didn’t have to be wary of him anymore. She undid her trousers and slowly peeled them down, revealing a large dressing, soaked through with watery blood and pus from the wound. ‘Stay there, put your leg up. I’ll be back in a minute.

  Rachel hauled her leg onto the sofa, it was stiff and painful, she could feel the stitches pulling with every move. The whole rigmarole made her wince with pain, not to mention how stupid she felt lying there in just her knickers.

  Charlie came back in with a towel, a bowl of warm water and a first aid kit.


  ‘Always prepared. Were you ever in the scouts?’ She said in a feeble attempt to bring some humour into the situation, as he gently fed the towel underneath her.

  ‘I’m always prepared where you are concerned. In fact, I’m half-tempted to arrange for an ambulance to be on standby. Brace yourself, this is going to hurt.’ The dressing was welded to her skin. He soaked it and pulled it away millimetre by millimetre, wincing for her, though she didn’t make a sound.

  Underneath the dressing, the skin was red and hot, swelling around the stitches, and oozing an unpleasant yellow-green gunge. He grimaced as he began to clean it, wondering how the hell she had managed to give herself a six inch, jagged gash that had obviously gone deep. After he had cleaned and dressed her leg, he took her hand, and re dressed that. Though the cut there wasn’t nearly so bad. ‘Better?’ he asked when he’d finished.

  ‘Yes thanks.’ She said, starting to sit up.

  ‘Whoa! Where do you think you’re going? You stay right there, and don’t put any more strain on that leg, or those stitches are going to burst. The scar is going to be bad enough as it is.’

  Rachel didn’t care about the scar. ‘Can you at least give me a blanket then? I’m feeling a bit exposed, and Amy might walk in any minute.’

  ‘Fair point.’ Charlie said. He kept a patchwork quilt behind the sofa, for those nights he slept there, when he didn’t want to spend a night in bed alone. He shook it out and spread it over her. ‘Where are the meds they gave you at the hospital?’

  ‘In my bag.’

  He rifled through, finding the antibiotic she hadn’t bothered to take, he shook the box accusingly in her face. ‘Take two, now.’

  Dutifully she swallowed the pills, and took the anticonvulsants that he had also retrieved from her bag.

  He had pulled out the single change of clothes she had taken to Diana’s. ‘Not planning to stay anywhere long then?’ He said, holding up a worn T-shirt, and a faded pair of combat trousers. ‘With all that money, you could at least buy yourself some new clothes.’ He could have sworn she had that T-shirt when Amy was born.