Bloody Mary

by Ricki Thomas

  Harold’s jaw dropped, unable to work out how to deal with the news, his first reaction, suppressed, was to smile. Mouth glibly opening and closing as he tried to uncover the correct words to use, Taylor drew strength and surveyed Sophie. “What happened to your daughter, Mr Waller?”

  Harold shook his head slowly, unable to answer with his suspicions heightened, and Kanhai continued the questioning. “Obviously you don’t want to leave your daughter’s side at this time, however, she is Mr Delaney’s next of kin. Do you know the contact details of any relations Mr Delaney has, even just their names will do?”

  Over Kanhai’s shoulder, Harold’s view through the glass to the corridor outside was clear, and noticing Steve coming towards the door was a relief. Until Steve saw his father with the two officers, turned, and hastened away. Desperately controlling the expression on his face, Harold Waller suddenly realised who’d attacked his son-in-law. “Yes, of course, I can give you the names and a general area for his parents. We’re not personally in touch, but I know whereabouts they live.”

  Kanhai smiled, positioning his pad and pen ready for the details. “Oh, er, by the way.” The policeman gave Harold his full attention once more. “I don’t suppose you have any idea who would have attacked Darren, do you?”

  “Not yet.”

  Harold breathed deeply and relaxed, before furnishing the constables with what he could remember of Maureen and Bob’s details.

  As Kanhai and Taylor stood up to leave, Taylor took Harold to one side. “Do me a favour, Mr Waller. Can you please let me know when Sophie wakes up. She’s a friend of a friend, and I just want to know that she’s okay.”

  After the policemen had gone, Harold fought his tiredness to keep his eyes on the door, waiting hopefully for Steve to return. Presently his son’s face appeared, tentatively checking the coast was clear, and Harold was relieved that Beryl had fallen asleep again, because he wanted to protect her from the truth he knew. Steve came into the room shiftily, almost tiptoeing, and joined his father, sitting beside him in the chair Taylor had evacuated. “What did the police want, Dad?”

  Harold shook his head. Every bone in his body wanted to congratulate and thank Steve for defending his sister, but, on the other hand, he’d always maintained that disputes should be settled without violence. He could think of nothing that wouldn’t sound hypocritical. “They don’t suspect you, son.”

  Steve’s jaw dropped. “How did you know it was me?” It was a hushed growl, issued from a concerned face. He let his eyes wander to his sister, still serene in her comatose state. “He did this, Dad, you know as well as I do that he did. But this time it’s not just her, it’s her baby too. He deserved it. He deserved more.”

  “Maybe so, but you don’t deserve to be put in prison for assault for protecting your sister, and that’s what will happen if the truth ever gets out. So let it go. I won’t say a word, don’t you dare say anything to your mother, and we’ll pretend this never happened. I can’t imagine Sophie will stay with him after this. If it was down to him, which, I hasten to add, we don’t know for certain, then the police will discover that. So hopefully this will be the end of the matter. Clear?”

  The police had taken a while to trace Bob and Maureen Delaney from the scant details received from Harold Waller, so it was morning before they finished the drive to Derby to see their son. They were relieved when they saw him sitting up in bed eating toast. His face was blackened and swollen, a few minor cuts, and his head was bandaged, but he seemed in good form, smiling as they paced hurriedly towards him. Bob was stunned. “Bloody hell, son, you don’t do things by halves, do you!”

  Darren put his toast back on the plate, half eaten, and took his mother’s outstretched hand. “It hurts, Mam, it bloody hurts.”

  Gently stroking his forehead, his cheek, smoothing the covers, straightening the water jug. “I’m sure it does, baby, I’m sure it does. Have they given you painkillers?” She suddenly yelled across the ward. “Nurse! My son needs morphine, he’s in tremendous pain. Nurse!”

  “Mam! Stop shouting, everyone’s looking.” Darren indicated the soft armchair beside the bed, while Bob drew up another. Maureen sat on the edge of the seat, leaning over the bed as she made sure the sheets were perfectly arranged.

  “Baby, who did this to you? The police say they don’t know, which is ridiculous, I say, they get paid to do nothing. They should have him behind bars by now. What we pay taxes for, I just don’t know.”

  “Mam, it’s only just happened and nobody saw anything. I’m sure they’re doing their best.” Darren winced, not really in pain but enjoying the motherly sympathy curling around him.

  It came from the blue. “Move to Mallorca with us, Darren.” Bob stared at his wife, nonplussed. “You can’t stay in a country where things like this happen, that’s why we’re moving abroad, the crime, the violence. Just think of it, baby, sun every day, you’ve got a good trade, you’ll find work, we’ve still got the profits from the sale of your flat in our investment account, we’d double it so you could buy a nice place, help you out in any way you needed. What do you say, baby?”

  Darren laughed as hard as his swollen mouth would allow, Bob’s eyes were still widened from the suggestion that had come out of the blue. “Mam! I can’t just give up everything here, not just like that.”

  “Yes you could, of course you could, we’d help you in any way, with the documents, moving, money, we’d help. Wouldn’t we, Bob?”

  Bob felt as if his head was spinning, he was used to Maureen and her determination to organise everybody, every thing, but he hadn’t seen this one coming, so he just nodded, forcing a smile, whilst considering how welcome a glass or two of La Motte Shiraz would be at this moment.

  Maureen’s jaw tensed, thin lips pursing. “We would even let your wife come if that was what you wanted.” The words were strained, through clenched teeth. She glanced about. “Hold on a minute, talking of that woman, where is she? She should be at your bedside right now. How dare she not be here when you need her, baby. What is that woman like!”

  Darren held her hand, interlinking his fingers with hers, her perfect pink manicure offsetting the ochre nicotine stains on his hands. “She’s here, Mam, she just went upstairs for a bit.”

  Maureen tutted her disgust. “I should give her a piece of my mind!”

  Bob had no dislike for his daughter-in-law of two years, she was pretty enough, seemed as if she’d make a good mother one day if she’d just lose the silly job and concentrate on her man instead, but he knew that, right now, it was time to diffuse the situation. “So, Daz, what do you think of your mam’s suggestion then?”

  Darren thought for a minute, nodding, a light smile. “You know, I think it would be good. It’d be good to be near you guys, and I definitely like the idea of all year sunshine. You reckon I’d be able to find work, Dad?”

  “Of course, of course. Carpentry, woodwork, you’d get plenty of work out there, and, like your mam says, we’d help you with everything. Run it by Sophie when you see her. It’s about time she stopped that career lark and gave us a grandchild, I mean, after all, there won’t be much call for an English solicitor in Mallorca, will there, so she’d have to just look after you and a few kids instead.”

  Maureen’s back straightened, hands neatly placed in the centre of her lap, and she smiled sweetly, mission accomplished. So she’d have to put up with that woman, but at least she’d have her favourite son and his babies nearby.

  Harold stood abruptly, sucking air into his lungs, gasping, and he reached over, patting Beryl’s shoulder. “Darling, wake up, wake up!” Beryl stirred, then sat bolt upright as she remembered where she was. “She’s awake! Sophie’s awake! Nurse! Nurse!” Fumbling, he reached for the assistance button and pressed a few times, overexcited.

  Sophie’s eyes were wide, deep brown puddles in the centre of the scared whiteness, framed by long, dark lashes that defied the goldenness of her long curls. Her weak hands rose to her throat, breathing ra
spy and laboured, trying to tug lamely at the ventilator. A split second later a nurse at the door, seeing the recently comatose patient, shouted out for assistance. Running over, she pushed Harold aside. “Please move back.” Taking Sophie’s hand, her manner was calm and reassuring. “Sophie. Hello Sophie. Calm down, love, I know it’s awkward to breathe, just let the machine do it for you until the doctor comes, just relax, love, it’s okay.”

  The gossip had swamped the nurses’ stations, the canteen, the sneaked cigarette breaks: the story of the tragic couple who had both ended up in hospital on the same night for completely different reasons. It was easily approved to give them a room together, that was the least they could do, poor loves! The porter wheeled Darren’s bed into the small room, pleasing him immensely to have his own space away from the coughing and spluttering, wheezing and grunting, of the patients on the previous ward.

  At the same time, Sophie was with the consultant being discharged from intensive care. The ventilating cannula had been removed from her mouth, leaving her throat sore and grazed, her voice husky, and the only drip still attached was helping to rehydrate her. Harold and Beryl, his arm tenderly wrapped over her shoulder, waited nearby, their joint emotions a mixture of pride, relief, and gratitude. “So, Sophie, we’re going to send you to a ward now, and you’ll be referred from there to the X-ray department just to check that the ribs we suspect are broken won’t cause any further problems.”

  Sophie nodded, her parents beamed at her warmly, Beryl clasping the hand that lay on her shoulder. As the consultant moved on to the next patient, the nurse who’d been standing aside moved forward, plumping the pillows and smoothing the covers. “We’ve got a treat for you too! Just you wait until you see who’s waiting for you.” The smile instantly left Harold’s face – he’d not told either of the women in his life about the attack on Darren – when he realised the horror Sophie was about to face. He excused himself, feeling inside his trouser pockets for the phone number Taylor had scribbled down for him.

  It was a difficult phone call to make, after all, he only had suspicions that Darren had been lying about finding Sophie at the bottom of the stairs, he didn’t know for certain the so called accident had been an attack. He blustered through, trying to explain to Taylor without incriminating a man who may possibly be innocent, and the result came across as gibberish. The only sense Taylor could really glean from the call was that Mrs Delaney was awake and going to be fine. If he’d realised she was being moved to a room with her husband, he would have called the hospital and halted the transfer immediately.

  It was too late, regardless. When Harold returned to the room Sophie was gone, her bed replaced with a fresh one ready for the next seriously ill patient. He dragged his hands through his hair, before hunting for someone who could tell him which ward his wife and daughter had been moved to.

  The doors burst open and a porter’s back bumped through, dragging a bed into the room with him. Darren’s heart sank, he’d been enjoying having a room to himself, and anyway, how were they going to fit another bed in, the room wasn’t big enough. As the bed was wheeled closer than the standard distance to his own and he saw Sophie, a wide smile stretched across his face, crinkling the bruising and stretching the cuts. Following, Beryl recoiled in horror, a large gasp audible, and her hand went to her heart.

  She only stayed until Harold found them, unable to stay in the room with the man she detested, and anxious for the details of Darren’s admission that her husband appeared to somehow know about. Harold reluctantly left his daughter and took Beryl back to Littleover.

  When PC Taylor arrived, his lunch break being the only time he could spare, he was eager for Sophie to open up and admit that her injuries had been inflicted by her husband as Harold had suggested, rather than the unexplained fall down the stairs. But his heart sank when he saw the contrived scene of seemingly loving husband and wife through the glass of the doors. How could he interview her now? She’d never admit to anything with Darren Delaney in the room. There was no point him being there, so he left without stopping.

  Sophie pushed the food around her plate, neither hungry, nor happy, although Darren devoured his greedily, wishing there was more. She’d been happy to see him in an odd way: she loved him, had done for the past four years, and marrying him twenty-three months before had been the most wonderful and exciting day of her life. But she was scared of him now, terrified of what he was capable of.

  He’d hit her before, in fact she’d pretty much gotten used to it, but it had only been a swipe here, a shove there, a bit of wrestling. The night before had reached a new level, one she’d never anticipated, and one she never wanted to repeat. If only he would admit he drank too much, he was beautiful on the rare occasions he was completely sober. She’d have to try and talk to him somehow. Especially now the baby was on the way. Or so she thought: nobody had mentioned the miscarriage to her.

  Darren leant towards her, turning the television down until it was too hushed to hear clearly. “You know when your house sells, Soph, you know we were planning to move somewhere smaller, cheaper?” She nodded, still not able to bring herself to make eye contact with the abuser she loved so dearly. “How do you fancy moving to Mallorca?”

  And the contact was made. His smiling eyes snakelike and yellow, creased laughter lines crawling from the corners. Hers, a horrified chocolate brown, mouth ajar, words halted.

  Either not noticing her reticence, or just not caring, Darren proceeded to gush all the offers his mother had made earlier in the day, his mind already clearly decided, and her anguish grew. The newly timid demeanour she found herself locked inside no longer had any idea how to say no.

  Beryl had been at my flat four a total of three hours, and she’d managed to get everything she wanted off her chest, leaving her more cheerful than when she had arrived. By cutting dead my emotions, building brick walls between my heart and my head, her story was now just that: a story. Not a girl in hospital having suffered domestic violence, but a girl in hospital who I was going to befriend for my own benefit. Not a mother who was distraught at her child’s injuries, but a woman who stole the man I’d wanted thirty years before. Not a son who’d defended his sister, but a man I could now bribe and manipulate.

  Beryl had called Harry on her mobile to ask him to collect her, and I watched out of the window after her departure to see if I could catch a glimpse of him, but, being on the fourth floor, all I could see was the roof of their car.

  My revenge for him could wait, I had other, more pressing, things for now, and it was about time I got some sleep so I could be up bright and early tomorrow. Now the fun was really about to begin.

  Chapter 5

  Lucky for Some?

  It had been four days since Sophie’s accident, and since Darren was viciously attacked. Due to the distance between their home and the hospital, Maureen and Bob hadn’t been back to visit their son, but they’d kept in contact with their mobile phones. It had been playing on Maureen’s mind that her son’s attacker hadn’t been caught, and she wasn’t the type of person to let things go. For the fourth time she dialled the number of Leicestershire Constabulary Darren had given to her, attempting to locate the officers who were supposed to be detecting the beast who had attacked her son, and this time she couldn’t be bothered to be polite any more, the whole debacle was becoming tiresome.

  After stubbornly refusing to accept any excuses, Maureen was finally put through to an officer. PC Kenhai listened to her angry rant for a short while, not being able to get a word in edgeways, and began to wonder if the woman ever needed to breathe. “It’s three days since my Darren was beaten up, and I still haven’t heard anything. Why haven’t you found out who did it yet and put them behind bars?”

  At last there was a break in the verbal spillage, and Kenhai pacified her diplomatically. He’d not so much forgotten the event, but had other, more pressing, tasks to take care of. However, her call brought Darren Delaney back to the forefront of his mind. By chance
his sergeant had paired him with PC Taylor again, which pleased him because they got on well together, with similar senses of humour, similar morals, and similar policing techniques. As they were strolling to the patrol car, Kenhai mentioned Maureen’s call, and Taylor stopped walking abruptly. “What’s up?”

  Taylor shook his head, unsure whether to voice his thoughts or not. He forced himself to display a blank face, to open the car. He slipped into the passenger seat, and the bemused Kenhai chugged the engine to life, driving slowly out of the car park.

  Taylor was unusually quiet as they drove at a placid speed through the villages, through the streets, the countryside, he couldn’t remove Sophie Delaney’s battered face and body from his mind. He knew he was falling for her in a way he’d never experienced before, but he had to admit she was pig-headed, and, if truth be known, stupid for defending a man who treated her so badly. But his inner turmoil also debated that there was no proof Darren had ever laid a finger on his wife, nothing had ever been said. Eventually he decided that he had to do something, one way or the other, and it was something he couldn’t do alone unless it was out of hours.