by P. R. Black
‘What was the name of your supervisor?’ the ward sister asked, as Becky was taken down to room sixteen. ‘A couple of the girls in here studied at Brackley College. You should say hello.’
‘Fotheringham,’ Becky replied, over her shoulder. ‘That was his name. Bit of a lech. Good nurse, though. You know how it is.’
The ward sister did.
He was guarded, of course. The policeman was young, but seemingly hewn from a mountainside, with a chin that would have struck sparks against metal. He checked her credentials for a long time, then double-checked it against the visitors’ list, but said absolutely nothing to her before nodding her inside.
In the room, he was braced at an angle, a ventilator and heart rate monitor keeping a steady beat by the bedside.
He noticed her, right away. She saw it in his eyes.
‘Don’t get up,’ Becky said, pulling up a chair.
He inclined his head, almost gracefully. There were still staples in his jaw, and his eyelid was closed up tight, as if it had been welded shut. Ugly yellow bruises signposted where surgery had taken place.
Becky tested the springiness of his pale blue mattress with her hand. ‘Well, that looks comfortable. I wouldn’t mind getting some of that in my house. Maybe you could move in with me? Wouldn’t that be something?’
He said nothing, sniffing slightly.
‘I won’t take up too much of your time. Just to let you know that I’m around, and, if I need to, I can just slip into your room, any time of day or night. You don’t even need to be awake. Just think of it. Your eyes open up – you can still open both your eyes, right? – and there I’ll be. Like your own guardian angel.’
Becky watched his chest rise and fall in time with the ventilator.
‘I’m glad I’ve had the chance to speak to you. I dunno how doped up they’re keeping you. Not too much, I imagine, with all that nerve damage. But I know you’ll want to thank me for keeping you alive. I always wanted you alive, you know. No one believed me when I told them, but it’s true. This is the best of all possible worlds. And you’re only alive because people were kind. Those people we nearly crashed into, when we went into the lake. They acted so quickly to get help. The air ambulance was there in minutes. You might have just slipped away. Wouldn’t that have been a fucking tragedy?
‘But now, I get to watch you… existing. Any time I like. I can even check on your progress remotely. That guy I was with… the one you might remember from the forest? Bernard? He’s going to keep an especially close eye on you. It’s almost like he bears a grudge or something.’
No response. Just the rise and fall of his chest, deep and regular controlled breathing.
‘The slightest change in your condition, and I’ll drop everything to come here. But let’s hope there are no emergencies, and you live the rest of your life in peace and quiet, right here. They’re taking good care of you, I see. Arse wiped, pits washed… even a shave, I see. How the other half lives! Your every need catered for. Well, not every need, obviously.’
His heart rate had begun to climb. A new colour kicked in on the monitor, moving from green to yellow.
‘In a way it’s a shame your neck had to break. I had wanted to disable you, but not quite so severely as that. Knee ligaments split, maybe the loss of an arm or two, something like that. But paralysed… What a drag! And I’ll never hear you speak again, either. Pity. Maybe you could get one of those blinking systems in place with the nurses? I hear they can train people to do that. It’ll take a good while, but then, spare time’s not exactly your biggest problem, is it?’
She got up and drew nearer. The eyes followed her.
‘Don’t be alarmed. I’m not here to snuff you. I brought you something. It’ll remind you of the good times, and maybe bring you some comfort. You take care, Dr Fullerton. I’ve got an appointment with a family member now. You rest easy. You’ll need your strength, for the long, long years ahead. I wish you good fortune and a long life. I really do.’
She placed the mask over his head, gently, almost tenderly. She glared into the glassy black eyes until the heart monitor pinged into the red, triggering an alarm.
The other nurses burst in, joined by the policeman. There was no mask on Fullerton’s head by then, of course.
‘I’m not sure what happened,’ Becky said, backing off to allow the others to take over. ‘I think he saw me and it upset him.’
‘We’ve got him,’ the ward sister said. ‘It’s happened before. I need you to get Dr Penrose – he’s on the ward.’
Becky nodded, and slipped out the door.
70
Jack Tullington’s head parted the roses. His hat snagged on them, tilting at a weird angle before he snatched it off his head, swearing.
Becky smiled from her doorway, folding her arms. ‘How did you know I was a flowers girl?’
‘I didn’t. In fact, I thought you were the polar opposite of a flowers girl. It just seemed like the most uninspired way to make an abject apology.’
‘Mission accomplished.’ Becky took the bouquet from his hands. ‘Though you’ve nothing to apologise for. Angus coughed. To everything. He said you’d nothing to do with it. Hey, there’s some brotherly love, at least.’
‘Yeah. At least.’
‘Take your hat off, Jack, for goodness’ sake. You’re like an undertaker out there.’
‘I wanted to see how you’re doing, truth be told,’ Jack said, once they were sat down.
‘I’m fine.’ Becky winced as she sat down. ‘I did my back in kicking some clown in the head, mind you. Started playing up days after I did it. Is this what happens to men when they get over 40, Jack? With your beer bellies and all?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Jack said, gazing into the middle distance, until she laughed, properly.
‘Thanks for coming to the memorial.’
‘Least I could do,’ he said, quietly.
‘How about Cecilia? I didn’t see her there.’
‘You know what? Cecilia’s had enough. She sold up and went to New Zealand. Clara still being alive, and knowing what she’d done… Cecilia just turned the cards in. She’s got a friend out there. Someone she writes to, would you believe. Gone to see out her days on the other side of the world. I’m not sure I blame her, either.’
‘No. Jesus.’ He scratched his chin. ‘Incidentally… Job’s waiting for you, whenever you want to come back to it. Though I wouldn’t grudge you a shot at publishing a book in your own way. We didn’t sign a contract, after all.’
‘We didn’t, but we had an agreement. That’s good enough for me, Jack. Joint byline, though. Me and Rosie Banning.’
He nodded. ‘Always the goody two shoes of the family, weren’t you? Speaking of which…’
‘Oh, her.’ Becky brightened up. ‘We’ve started corresponding.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘Nope.’ Becky crossed to a kitchen drawer and pulled out some loose handwritten sheets. ‘I can’t see her yet, Jack. Maybe I never will. Maybe, in my head, she’s better off dead. She’s been in touch, though, a lot. I’ve written back, too. It’s been lovely. You’d think nothing had happened. It’s her. She is in there, somewhere.’
He glanced at one letter, shaking his head. ‘Cookery shows? High teas? Is this some kind of sisterly code language?’
‘Nope. It seems she’s a killer in the kitchen. So to speak. She runs a class. The other girls in her block must be delighted. If this decade has taught us anything, it’s that you can’t underestimate the social clout of good baking.’
‘After she gets sentenced, she might look back on those times with fondness, I guess.’ Jack’s grin faltered when he saw that Becky’s face was stricken. ‘Sorry. It’s fucked up. Everything is fucked up. What else can I say?’
‘Not a lot.’
‘So what’s next for you?’
‘A tattoo, I’m thinking. A long one.’ She indicated her back, just to the right of her spine. ‘Been considering it for a while. I w
as thinking a big snake, or a dragon, but that seems trite.’
‘How about a really long, thin butterfly?’
Becky snorted. ‘Actually, I was thinking “Harley Davidson”, in big 1970s bubble lettering, angled to the right.’ She drained the last of her coffee. ‘I’ll be back at my desk in a couple of weeks, Jack. Maybe make it three. In the meantime, the police don’t need me, and I’m going to take off somewhere hot, and try not to think for a little while.’
‘Not a bad idea. Not going alone, I hope?’
‘I’m not sure who I’ll take,’ Becky said.
There were other letters in the drawer besides Clara’s, in a different hand, written in French. Ones she had not wanted Jack Tullington to see.
Then the buzzer sounded. Becky answered the intercom.
Aaron Stilwell’s face filled the video screen. He grinned, mock-earnest, and winked. Becky buzzed the door, and let him in.
‘You’ve got company, I see,’ Jack said, replacing his hat. ‘I’ll head off, kiddo. Hey – that your boyfriend? He looks pale.’
‘No, not a boyfriend. Not really.’
‘Oh.’ Jack stood up straight. ‘One of those sorts of set-ups, is it?’
‘One of what sort of set-ups?’
‘Spot of shopping? Long lunches? Tiny little dogs? Incredibly mean-spirited comments and gossip?’
‘Ah. No. How quaint of you. No, he’s not one of those, as you put it. At least, I don’t think so.’
‘Just a mate, then?’
‘Something like that. Maybe a bit more.’
‘Like what?’
She smiled. ‘Family.’
*
Forever
‘Oof, I can feel that on my solar panel,’ Becky’s father said.
‘You should have worn a sun hat,’ her mother replied. ‘Like everyone else.’
‘Ah, the Red Spot of Jupiter’s a good look, anyway.’ Becky’s father patted the top of his head. He worried too much; a little more scalp was showing through the top of his head, but not too much. It was more of a 50p than a chimp’s arse.
They were on their way to the lake. The cloud had burned away, now, and the breeze had stilled. It was more like high summer than spring, and their father was uncomfortable in the rising heat. But it still seemed like a perfect day to Becky. The heat haze blurring grass where the ground ran high lent the day a blissful air of unreality. Oneiric, she knew, was the word.
‘I should have brought my drawing paper,’ she said. ‘I want to sketch this.’
‘Or, you could simply take a picture,’ Clara simpered. ‘Like normal people.’
The setting was perfect, the lake – more of a glorified pond, really – smooth and untroubled. The boat, though, was less impressive.
‘Will we all fit on that?’ their mother asked, glancing at the rowing boat. The paint had flaked off in patches, looking more like battle scars rather than normal wear and tear, the old wood showing through like knuckles on a clenched fist.
Howie was delighted by the craft, though, as was his father.
‘Make ’em walk the plank!’ the boy yelled, tearing towards the boat.
‘To the sharks!’ answered his father.
Once they were inside and steadied, they criss-crossed the lake. The water was lazy in the slow heat and pocked with thousands of insects, barely rising to a ripple with each slap of the paddles.
They sang high and loud, for the first crossing. ‘Row, row, row your boat…’
Even Clara joined in, out of the side of her mouth, though she rolled her eyes at their father’s astonishingly good natural tenor.
By the second crossing they were tired and sweaty, and brought the boat back to the jetty through unsteady navigation by Becky.
Howie helped to tie the rope, and after a picnic, their father took them deeper into the forest.
‘There’s a stone circle round here,’ their father said. ‘From thousands of years ago.’
‘Did cavemen make it?’ Howie asked.
‘Kind of.’
‘It’s a place where they held sacrifices,’ Clara said. ‘They kill little boys out here.’
‘Yes,’ Becky said, ‘and mouthy older sisters, too. They tie them up, then they put gags in their mouth to stop them speaking. Then they take a knife…’
‘Becky…’ her mother said, frowning over the tops of her sunglasses.
‘Do they?’ Howie asked. ‘Cool!’
They found it soon enough. As their mother and father sat in the shade, the children chased each other round the stones. Howie leapt on top of one of the flattened slabs, declaring himself king. The girls fought to prise him off, tickling him when they finally did so.
Their laughter rose high and sweet into the air, rich with the promise of the summer to come; in the shade, their parents drew closer and smiled, their mother leaning into their father’s shoulder. He kissed the top of her head, and held her tight, and they watched their children play. Together, they might have been the only people in the world.
Acknowledgements
Special thanks to Hannah and the team at Aria for giving me a chance, to Vicky for spreading the word, and to Sue for the last-gasp goal-line clearances. Also thanks to anyone who put up with the typing and gave me advice in the writing of this book, including Marty. There are loads of writing buddies who have been brilliant to me over the years, including Liz, Brendan, Hereward and many more – too many to list in fact!
And most of all, thanks always to my wife Claire for all her help and support.
About P.R. Black
Author and journalist P.R. Black lives in Yorkshire, although he was born and brought up in Glasgow.
When he's not driving his wife and two children to distraction with all the typing, he enjoys hillwalking, fresh air and the natural world, and can often be found asking the way to the nearest pub in the Lake District.
His short stories have been published in several books including the Daily Telegraph's Ghost Stories and the Northern Crime One anthology. His Glasgow detective, Inspector Lomond, is appearing in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine.
He took the runner-up spot in the 2014 Bloody Scotland crime-writing competition with “Ghostie Men”. His work has also been performed on stage in London by Liars’ League.
He has also been shortlisted for the Red Cross International Prize, the William Hazlitt essay prize and the Bridport Prize.
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