Slipknot

by Priscilla Masters

  Slipknot

  PRISCILLA MASTERS

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  INTRODUCTION

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BY PRISCILLA MASTERS

  COPYRIGHT

  INTRODUCTION

  The second in the Martha Gunn series, set in the medieval town of Shrewsbury, Slipknot explores the theme of mothers and sons being parted and the futility of young lives wasted. While Coroner Gunn’s son, Sam, is about to leave for the Liverpool Football Academy, Shelley Hughes’s son is being held in a Young Offenders’ Institute on a charge of attempted murder. And they are joined by the distant echoes of Wilfred Owen leaving his mother, Susan, to join the Great War effort. As Martha adjusts to life without Sam, her own career begins to haunt her when she becomes embroiled in the sad fate of young Callum Hughes.

  With grateful thanks to the Liverpool Football Academy and to Wilfred Owen – without whose genius this would have been a lesser book.

  PROLOGUE

  Tuesday 6th September, 3.55 p.m.

  If only he could reach the gate. He’d tried to slip across the schoolyard, running across the quadrangle, shoulders low, head down, staring at the ground as though this would render him invisible, zigzagging like a pursued hare but one of them had spotted him and alerted the others. Then they had all come streaming towards him, jeering and shouting, dropping their schoolbags to join in the chase. Five of them. While others watched, doing nothing. He put an extra spurt in, tried to outrun them but it was hopeless. His chest was tight and he couldn’t breathe. Then he knew he would be beaten. Again. They easily outflanked him. Screaming as they ran like Zulus or Indians or ‘the dreaded Hun’. Three on one side, two on the other, and he knew they would bring him down, kick him on the floor, lay into him. As they’d done before and before that and for as long as he’d been at this damned school.

  His chest tightened and he panted, pursued and terrified. Then a soft calm stole over him. He wasn’t a victim or a hunted animal but a human being who could fight back. Afterwards he might think that he hadn’t wanted it to happen, that he hadn’t wanted any of it to happen but he could never be quite sure that that was the truth. Ahead of him, tantalisingly, stood the half open gate. The promise of escape. A glimmer of hope, waiting for him. If he could only reach it, pass through to the other side, to the world outside the school, he would be safe.

  Until the next time.

  But they were gaining on him. He heard his own breath catching in hoarse, rasping pants, their jeers ringing in his ears, blocking out any other sound now apart from his own heart, pounding.

  They were almost upon him.

  Just as he reached his hand out, almost touched the gate, someone gripped his shoulder and yanked him back. He tried to shake it off and keep running but he knew it was useless. It was all useless. He was beaten.

  Two hands were on him now, one on each shoulder, spinning him round and he stared into the hated face.

  ‘Hey, Wilf. How’re you doing?’

  They always started like this, with a false friendship only meant to mock.

  ‘All right,’ he cast back. ‘I’m all right.’

  It was the wrong answer. The wrong answer because there was no right answer.

  They were all wrong.

  But he stopped running now, mumbling instead into the ground. ‘Leave me alone, will you?’

  Another of them had reached him now, Will Morris, who pushed his fist into his chest. ‘And why would we want to do that? You’re our sport, Wilf.’

  Even the name was meant to mock.

  Then, quite suddenly, almost without him being aware of it, the worm turned. His fright melted, sizzling, like ice in a fire. Red mist swirled in front of his eyes and he knew he had finally had enough. He swung his rucksack down from his back, fumbled in it, found the knife. Then, brandishing it in his hand, for once feeling powerful, he turned around and faced them, holding it, like Bernado in West Side Story, jabbing.

  Without fear.

  He gave them fair warning. ‘Because it’d be better for you.’

  But they still jeered, unimpressed by his fight-back.

  ‘D’you hear that? Wilf’s threatening me. Well. What about that then? Oh I’m frightened,’ DreadNought mocked. ‘I am so-o frightened. My heart is going boom bo de boom and my knees are knocking together. I am like jelly.’ He did a mock shivery shake and his gang all laughed.

  Callum searched the ring of faces, was vaguely aware in the background of open mouths, held breath.

  He felt powerful. He could do this. He had practised.

  He lunged.

  DreadNought moved back. ‘Get lost, you psycho.’

  His face was filled with derision.

  Callum knew then that DreadNought never would take any notice.

  So he lunged again.

  CHAPTER ONE

  5 p.m. the same day

  She was always on edge when he was late home from school.

  She kept wandering out of the kitchen, into the narrow hallway and back again, wiping her hands on a tea towel, pushing her sleeve up again and again to glance at her watch.

  5.05.

  She returned to the kitchen to check everything was ready to prepare the meal. Pasta, tuna, tomatoes. Then she scuttled back out into the hallway. She had heard a noise. A car door slamming. So it was that she saw the two dark uniforms, rippled by the glass. And heard their voices, ‘I’ll handle this, Roberts’.

  She froze.

  ‘I won’t need those, Mum.’

  Martha put the football boots back down on the floor.

  ‘They provide all that,’ he said gruffly. Maybe Sam had seen her scrubbing them and felt some tiny measure of guilt.

  ‘So you won’t want your…?’

  Again he shook his head and she put the sports shirts back in the almost empty drawer.

  ‘I can do it myself, you know,’ he said gently. ‘They expect you to be independent.’

  He stood up, gave her a hug around her waist. ‘They encourage it.’

  ‘I want to do it. Sam.’ She hesitated. There was so much she wanted to say: You’ll be all right. Don’t be lonely. Keep in touch. Ring, write, text or email, but please keep in touch. Don’t become a stranger. Don’t grow up too soon – or stay a little boy forever.

  But there comes a time when a mother’s duty is to let go, not to cling to her son.

  Motionless, behind the glass, Shelley Hughes knew that if she even breathed they would pick up on her movement. Even the shallowest breathing is perceptible to the hunter.

  She saw a reeded hand rise and knock. Too loud and aggressive to be anything but the police.

  So even before she opened the door she already knew that life would never be the same again.

  Their faces were hard and hostile. ‘Mrs Hughes? Callum Hughes’s mother?’

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  There were two of them, one gawky and angular, the other fatter, with big thighs and a double chin. He was the one who seemed to be in command.

  It was he who spoke, flashing an ID card at her. ‘We’re police officers. Can we come in?’
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  She stood back and they filed past her into the small, tidy sitting room.

  Where is Callum? Where is Callum? Where is my son? The refrain repeated through her mind, over and over again, blanking everything else out.

  ‘What is it?’ Fear iced her voice with aggression.

  Both the officers were standing, awkwardly, in the centre of the room, eyes flicking away from her face.

  ‘I’m afraid we’ve got some bad news.’

  For a moment she believed her son was dead.

  She sank down on the sofa, feeling the room slip away from her, only vaguely aware of the gawky copper bending over her.

  ‘He’s been involved in an incident. I’m sorry?’

  Her mind floated away to wonder, Why should he be sorry? He didn’t know Callum. Then she drifted back down to ask fuzzily, ‘Incident? Incident? What sort of incident? Is he hurt?’

  The gawky copper took pity on her. ‘No, Mrs Hughes. He’s not hurt.’

  Then, what have they done to him?

  She looked from one to the other, eventually finding the words to say coldly, ‘What sort of incident?’

  The two detectives exchanged glances. She knew that neither of them wanted to tell her.

  Again the burly one took command. ‘It appears, Mrs Hughes,’ he said carefully, ‘that he’s committed a serious assault.’

  The rough in her surfaced then. ‘Who says?’

  The gawky one took over, some sympathy gleaming in his dark eyes. ‘There are plenty of witnesses.’

  She retrieved a little dignity, straightened up. ‘To what exactly?’

  ‘He knifed someone.’

  ‘In self-defence?’

  ‘No one saw the other boy do anything.’

  No one ever did. It was part of the cleverness, almost as though they had been working up to this very moment.

  ‘Is Callum hurt?’

  Two – slow – shakes of the head, the action done with regret.

  ‘And the boy – the one he is – alleged to have assaulted?’

  ‘He’s in hospital with a punctured lung.’

  ‘Is he likely to die?’

  ‘We don’t think so.’

  ‘Can I see my son?’

  The burly one nodded, shifted his weight to the other foot. His trousers were tight around the fat thighs. He looked uncomfortable. ‘We’ll take you to him now, if you like. But it’d be a good idea if you packed a few clothes first, Mrs Hughes.’ His eyes slid away from hers. ‘He’s likely to remain in custody for a bit.’

  She went upstairs.

  What should she pack?

  Clothes, toothpaste, his Game Boy, shower gel and shampoo. Pyjamas? What would he be allowed? Chocolate? A monster bag of his favourite crisps? She didn’t know.

  Martha was surreptitiously studying her son. Sam, like Martin, was not hefty or tall, but lithe, slim and wiry which was why he had been picked. He was fast and cunning on his feet, able to swerve and dodge without losing his balance, at the same time watching where the other players were on the field. She had watched him and recognised this talent. And so had the scouts from the Liverpool Football Academy.

  She recalled the day they had spoken to her.

  ‘The boys love it there. They’re happy. It becomes their family. Better than a family. The other players are their brothers, the coaches like fathers.’

  ‘And their mothers?’

  The question had made the men uncomfortable. Had she strained she might have eavesdropped on their thoughts. As it was she saw the sentiment flash between them.

  How much does a growing lad need a mother?

  But instead of addressing the issue they ploughed on with their spiel. ‘It’s a great chance for your son, Mrs Gunn. Most lads would jump at the chance to go to Anfield. It’s a privilege. Be pleased for him, Mrs Gunn.’

  She was – but…

  ‘It’s the beginning of a career.’

  And she had wondered. The right career? Football? And felt forced to ask.

  ‘And if he doesn’t make the grade?’

  ‘If he doesn’t make Liverpool there’ll be plenty of other clubs where he can apply. We look after our prodigies, Mrs Gunn. They all do well. We wouldn’t have picked him otherwise.’

  What does a mother say to her son at a time like this?

  Be careful?

  Be patriotic?

  Make me proud of you?

  Stay out of danger?

  Stay alive?

  And the son?

  What does he say?

  Confess his apprehension or…

  Jauntily…

  ‘I am the British Army.’

  Shelley looked out of the windows of the police car. It was a dazzling September afternoon. The traffic looked hot. The roads looked hot. The people looked hot. The weather always did this, cheered up as soon as the children returned to school. It had been typically cool and wet right through August. She caught the eye of one or two of the curious neighbours and bent her head, ashamed.

  They drove her to the police station in Monkmoor and dropped her outside on the steps. The police inside were more polite than the general public. No one caught her eyes or showed undue interest. The two officers joined her and took her straight to an interview room.

  All the way there she had been steeling herself for the sight of her son in police custody. But as she entered the room she was struck by how familiar Callum looked. It was only as she drew nearer that she picked up on the detail. As they say: The devil is in the detail. Through the thin shirt of his school uniform he was quivering with fear. His face was white, his eyes scared. ‘Callum,’ she said.

  ‘Mum. I’m sorry.’

  She took in more detail. Her son was sitting at a shabby table in a shabby room. His school blazer was hung over the back of the chair, his schoolbag – a Quiksilver rucksack – dumped on the floor beside him.

  She wanted to put her arms around him, hug him, stroke the gelled hair and reassure him that everything would be all right. But she knew it wouldn’t.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ he said again. Later she would take some consolation from the fact that his eyes did not shrink from hers, that instead, they held honesty. That and relief that she was here.

  ‘Hello, Call.’ She spoke steadily, inviting his trust, the old myth, Dulce at Decorum Est. She put the suitcase in the corner, hoping he hadn’t noticed and if he had that he would not read the grim message that it signified.

  There was nothing sweet or honourable about this.

  She sat down opposite her son and managed a watery smile. ‘You’d better tell me what happened.’

  The bulky police officer cleared his throat with a harsh rasp. ‘Best we wait for the duty solicitor, Mrs Hughes. He won’t be long.’

  She swivelled her head so he would know that she understood what he was doing.

  And so the four of them faced each other across the table and waited silently.

  ‘You’re not worried about this, Sam, are you?’

  Martha had half turned and caught a look of fleeting apprehension on her son’s face.

  ‘’Course not,’ he said scornfully. ‘I can’t wait to go, Mum. You know that.’

  It was the last three words, heavy with bravado, that told her all.

  ‘Good,’ she said steadily. ‘And being away from home?’

  He rolled his eyes ceilingwards. ‘I’ll be glad to get away from this Abba den. Any more of this and I’ll go mental. Honestly, Mum, I’ll love it.’

  ‘Initially,’ she said cautiously, ‘it’ll only be for a year. You understand that. At the end of the year they’ll be able to decide one way or the other.’

  Again Sam shrugged. ‘If I’m good enough I’ll be in. If not it’s better I get on with other things. OK?’

  She nodded and carried on folding the sea of clothes. Vests, T-shirts, socks, pants, jackets, shirts, ties. Young Liverpool must never appear scruffily dressed but little gentlemen. Self-confidence and opportunity. She recalled the blu
rb in the numerous brochures she had been sent as the prospective parent.

  She smiled. And wasn’t it odd that the one group of items missing was sports strip. It would all be provided by The Club. Another buzz phrase.

  Finally, she managed to lock the suitcase and waited patiently downstairs, knowing that Sam would need some time to say goodbye to his twin sister. Martha sat on the bottom step, smiling. The twin sister, who appeared an entire pole apart from her brother. She, blonde, he darker; she, a party girl, he, a team player. He, wiry and strong, she, slim as a reed. And yet they were two albeit dissimilar peas from the very same pod.

  She could hear them upstairs. ‘Promise you’ll text me – every day.’ Sukey’s high pitched order.

  Sam’s gruff reply. ‘I might not have time, Sukes.’

  ‘You’d better. And Mum’s said we’ll come up and see some of your matches.’

  ‘No screaming then.’

  ‘Not even if you’re about to score the most wonderful goal?’

  ‘Most of all not then,’ Sam warned. ‘You’ll distract me.’

  Martha was startled. When had Sam’s voice turned quite so gruff? When had he begun to sound like an adult male?

  She wasn’t sure. Children do this. You watch them like a hawk, sure you will be the first to spot any change. And then, just at the point when you are distracted, they morph, straight into the next stage of their development. You turn your head and the chrysalis is shedding its wrapping; turn your head again and the wings are unfolding. She felt a strange, painful pull on her heart.

  The silence gave Shelley an opportunity to watch Callum and muse. Why? Even looking at him through a mother’s eyes she could see that Callum looked a loser. Thin and small for his age, a late-developer. Not smart or sporty but an asthma sufferer who had frequently had time off school. Her mouth twisted. Someone born to be picked on.

  If he’d had a dad. It was a familiar thought which she swiftly rejected. He was better off without him.

  The solicitor turned up forty minutes later. Scruffily suited, a bulging briefcase under his arm which he put on the floor. He took out a large notepad and placed it in front of him, on the desk.