by Eva Dolan
‘This is a delicate situation,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you can appreciate that.’
‘I was attacked and I want to press charges,’ Ella told him, relieved that she sounded firm even though inside every part of her was churning furiously. ‘It’s not a delicate situation, it’s a very simple one. You have ignored numerous incidents in the run-up to me being attacked today – don’t worry, though, I kept my own records – and you’ve failed to give me even the most basic protection I should be able to expect as a student here.
‘You, and the rest of the faculty, have failed to provide a safe studying environment. Your continued refusal to intervene in a campaign of bullying against me is not something I’m going to accept quietly.’
Gould’s gaze flicked away to the door as it opened and an immediate look of relief spread across his face. He stood quickly, smoothed his hand down over his tie and nodded to the woman who’d come in. She was tall and slim, with steel-grey hair cut into a soft bob and a weathered tan that suggested she wasn’t as comfortable in her severely tailored suit and heels as she would be in walking shoes and waterproofs.
‘Peggy, I’ll leave this to you now.’
She didn’t reply, only stood aside to allow him to bolt from the office. Then she turned to Ella and smiled, warmly, the skin around her eyes crinkling.
‘You’ve been in the wars, pet.’
‘It’s been a long and hard-fought campaign,’ Ella said, watching her carefully as the smile deepened and she shook her head. ‘Who are you?’
‘You can call me Peggy. No need for us to be formal.’
‘But who are you?’
She didn’t answer.
In the corner of the office the light was still buzzing and Ella tried to ignore it and focus on this woman. Peggy walked around Gould’s desk, stood with her hands thrust into the pockets of her suit jacket as she looked over his family photographs, then lifted the lid on a small glass jar containing jelly beans.
‘He ever offered you one of these?’ Peggy asked.
‘No.’
‘Not his favourite student?’ She picked the jar up and rattled it at Ella, who didn’t take one. ‘Don’t blame you. Bet these have been in here since he took the job.’
‘Do you know what happened to me?’ Ella asked impatiently. ‘That is why you’re here, isn’t it?’
‘I know.’ Peggy sat down in Gould’s cream leather chair, leaned back, perfectly relaxed. ‘And I know what you gave out back.’
‘I’ve got two broken ribs,’ she snapped.
‘And Mr Pearce lost a couple of teeth.’
‘His response was disproportionate,’ Ella said firmly. She knew what this was; bring another woman in, play on female solidarity, get her to back away from bringing charges. Like she was stupid. ‘Don’t you even care how it reflects on the force? What he’s done. Do you think that’s good PR?’
Peggy folded her arms on the desk. Ella noticed the discreet watch she wore, leather and gold with a few small stones around the bezel, the wedding ring and a band of platinum and diamonds on her middle finger. Everything expensive but unostentatious.
‘I don’t care about PR,’ she said. ‘I’m just a regular old copper.’
She took a sip of the tea Gould had brought in, pulled a face.
‘Bloody water down this way’s rank.’ She pushed the cup to the edge of the desk. ‘You had a decent cuppa since you been down here?’
This woman was going to talk about nothing until she was ready to get to the point, and Ella realised she had to let her do that. Whoever she was and whatever she was here for, she’d get to it eventually. She started going on about the hard water and the Victorian pipes and how she’d had a softener put in at home, spent a small fortune on the thing, but it still wasn’t like a proper cup of tea made with good Northumberland tap water.
‘So, why did you move down here, then?’ Ella asked.
‘Same reason you did, pet.’ Peggy smiled again, spread her hands wide. ‘It’s where the action is.’
‘I wasn’t looking for “action”,’ Ella said, so fiercely that the pain flared in her ribs again. ‘I wanted to help people. I thought that was why everyone joined up. But it’s not that, is it? Some of them are just thugs who want a uniform to hide behind.’
‘“Them”?’ Peggy asked. ‘Are you not one of us any more?’
‘I can’t be part of a force that allows this kind of bullying and violence to go on.’ She knew she was going to say it, but they’d got here faster than she expected and she felt tears welling as the future she’d always planned fell away around her. She willed down the emotion, told herself to be strong. ‘If Pearce’s done this to me – a fellow recruit – what the hell do you think he’s going to do once he’s serving? He’s an animal.’
Peggy nodded, leaned back in the chair, regarding Ella thoughtfully.
‘There are plenty like him, yes.’
‘Because you don’t stamp on them early.’
‘We need them,’ Peggy said. ‘That’s the simple truth. For every smart, conscientious officer like you, we need a couple of dozen unthinking idiots like Pearce.’
Ella let out a humourless laugh. ‘So you look the other way?’
‘Do you want to be the one stopping and searching lads with knives as long as your arm on the street at one in the morning?’ Peggy asked. ‘No, because you’re educated and it’d be a waste of your talents. But someone’s got to do the dirty work.’
‘He’s going to kill someone,’ Ella told her, thinking of the look in his eye as he loomed over her, his hand at her throat. ‘You all want me to suck it up and keep quiet. Gould has been blaming this on me for weeks. And I’m not having it any more! I will shout this from the rooftops if I have to, but I’m going to make sure nobody else has to tolerate this kind of aggression while they’re trying to train for the most important job anyone can do.’
‘Sounds like you don’t really want to leave us at all,’ Peggy said.
‘I don’t. But it’s the only way.’ Pressure swelled her chest, pushing against her damaged ribs, as she tried not to cry.
Without ceremony the life she’d committed herself to before she was even old enough to consider alternatives was being taken away from her. So quickly she could barely comprehend how it was happening.
At least you didn’t fail, Ella thought, and that scant comfort only made her feel the loss more acutely. She’d done everything right and yet here she was.
‘There are other options.’ Peggy got up and came out from behind Gould’s desk, perched on the edge. ‘We really don’t like to lose students with your grades and your potential.’
Ella felt her face harden. The sadness in her beginning to curdle into something altogether darker and angrier.
‘But I have to keep my mouth shut?’ she sneered.
‘Pearce is gone.’ Peggy put her hands up in a gesture of surrender. ‘Or he soon will be.’
‘You’ll let him quietly drop out of training, you mean?’
‘No, there’s going to be an investigation and he’ll be charged. Adam Pearce will never wear a police uniform.’ She cocked her head, smiled. ‘Well, not unless his next job’s stripping for hen parties.’
‘What about Gould?’ Ella asked. ‘He let it go on. There’s a culture of bullying being perpetuated because he allows it. He’s just as guilty.’
Peggy tucked her hands into her pockets. ‘Gould’s a first-rate teacher and he’s very well liked. He’s not going anywhere. Pick your battles, Ella.’
So, that was why Gould was so relieved to see her enter the office. Whoever this woman was, she clearly held sway high up in the management. She’d been brought in with the ultimate aim of keeping Gould employed, safeguarding his job and the pension he could only be a couple of years off claiming.
They would sacrifice Pearce. Naturally, there were hundreds more where he came from, but not that many Goulds.
Ella thought of how dismissive he’d been, treating her like a w
hiny brat running to the teacher because her toys had been stolen, rather than a grown adult in fear for her safety. Making her feel like she was inviting the aggression somehow, forcing her to monitor her behaviour and moderate it, to no avail. All rather than simply doing his job and disciplining Pearce.
Pearce was a piece of shit but Gould was his enabler. He saw Pearce as perfect officer material and that made him the dangerous one. The one she needed to expose.
But she couldn’t do that without appearing to give this Peggy-whoever-she-was the right reply. Once the investigation was open, Ella would point the finger at Gould, and if he kept his job then at least she would have shown what a complete and utter disgrace he was and her conscience would be clear.
‘Okay,’ Ella said. ‘I understand.’
‘Good girl.’
Peggy held out her hand. ‘Let’s get you up.’
Ella fought the urge to bat it away and took the help, held her breath as she was brought to her feet, seeing Peggy wince in sympathy with her.
‘Think I’d best drive you home,’ she said. ‘Don’t want you on the bus with those injuries. And we can talk about what you might want to do next on the way.’
They went out past the empty offices and the cleaners working in the corridors, down to the car park where Peggy led her to a black Audi sitting in a visitors’ bay, asking if she thought she could manage a little bit of dinner, line her stomach for the painkillers. Ella played along, said she thought she could, thank you, that’s very kind of you. Thinking how scared they must be to launch this kind of charm offensive and how pathetic it was that they believed she would buy it.
She was out.
She’d seen the force for what it really was, beyond the talk of transparency and cultural sensitivity and noble service. She’d been lied to, ever since she was a little girl admiring the crisp lines and shining buttons on her father’s dress uniform, thinking that one day she would have her own. For every good man like him there were two dozen Pearces, with the Goulds and Peggys defending them.
And she would not become one of them.
Molly
Now – 31st March
The journey back to London is a blur. Six hours lost to a fruitless search for memories I don’t have and certainties I desperately need. I keep replaying the conversation with Callum, looking for some hint I missed, some nuance that would let me believe he was lying. But I know he wasn’t.
I’ve been in such deep denial this last couple of weeks. I was convinced everything would turn out right. I backed off from Ella when I should have pressed her harder, because, I suppose, on some level I knew that pushing her would have brought us to a truth so terrible I wouldn’t be able to ignore it.
And, maybe, it was partly because I know how much of this is my own fault.
There was that moment, standing in 402, looking out across the city before I snatched the curtains shut, when I made a decision there was no going back from. I was drunk and stoned and yet I fervently believed it was the wisest course of action. A few more minutes’ breathing space and perhaps I’d have made the right decision instead of the easy one, told Ella to call the police, explain that she was only defending herself, promised I’d back her to the hilt.
She wouldn’t have done it, of course, because she knew what the most basic investigation would uncover and how quickly her claim it was an accident would be undermined.
But when she refused, I would have learned she was lying and I could have walked away. I wouldn’t have been entirely innocent, but innocent enough to keep from being a proven accessory after the fact.
Except . . . would I have walked out of there and left her to defend herself?
No.
In my heart I know I wouldn’t have.
I’ve always gone too far for the sake of my friends. It’s the curse of us without proper families to overinvest in people who don’t deserve it. We know we’ll be wrong many times, end up giving and giving to someone who only takes, but we think it’s worth it to find the one person in a hundred who turns out to be something more than family.
Carol was one of them. We crossed lines for each other, made sacrifices without being asked or thanked, without even pausing to consider the outcome. Because that’s what you do for the rare individual who feels like your sister/mother/daughter combined. Losing Carol is going to hurt more than losing Ella.
I’m starting to think I might actually hate Ella.
It’s been creeping up on me since I exposed that first, seemingly unimportant lie of hers, when she told me she’d never seen him before and I unearthed the photo of them together. Lying is a form of violence. It’s an act of contempt. She lied to me because she didn’t trust me with the truth and because she was so confident of my continued support that she had no fear of me abandoning her if I found out.
And I didn’t.
Not after that first lie, or the second or the third or however many she racked up before we got to the big one. Not an accident but murder.
A brutal murder. Because if what Callum said was right – if what the police told him during questioning is right – then Ella must have knocked that man down and sat astride his chest, her hands full of his hair as she repeatedly smashed his head into the tiled fireplace.
She’s dangerous.
I never saw that coming.
A normal person pushed to violence recoils after they’ve struck the first blow. They see themselves from the outside, rendered strange and ugly by the act, and they hate and fear what they’ve just done. They drop the weapon. They stumble away.
They don’t make sure to finish the job.
The train pulls into King’s Cross and I wait for the other passengers in the carriage to gather their things and leave before I get up, stretching the long journey out of my legs, flexing my numb toes.
Outside the same people are smoking under the canopy to avoid the rain or rushing towards the Tube trains they’ll probably miss or the long queue for taxis. I want to walk, I need to move again, but the rain forces me on to a bus that’s so busy I find myself standing.
By the time it empties enough for me to get a seat, we’re in Camden and I’m stepping off again into rain that is thinner now and more invasive, stinging my face and plastering my hair to my skull within a minute. Other people caught out by it rush past me, heads down, and I feel a moment of kinship with each and every one of them. We are life’s gamblers, too devil-may-care to pack an umbrella in our bags at the start of the day.
I thumb the buzzer at Ella’s shared house and the same boy opens up as last time I was there, still glued to his phone, and he lets me in without question.
Upstairs I knock on Ella’s door, softly at first, then harder when she doesn’t answer, and harder still, now shouting at her to let me in.
The door of the neighbouring flat opens and a girl looks at me with a flash of annoyance. She’s in her dressing gown, getting ready to go out, with her black hair teased into an elaborate rockabilly do but her make-up unfinished; only one false eyelash on, giving her a faintly menacing Clockwork Orange vibe.
‘She’s not there,’ the girl says. ‘It doesn’t matter how hard you knock.’
‘Are you a friend?’ I ask.
‘Yes. Who are you? Her mum?’
I lie. ‘Yes, she was supposed to meet me here.’
‘Oh.’ The girl’s annoyance gives way to discomfort, she bites her lip. ‘Look, I don’t want to get Ella in trouble or anything, but you should probably know, she’s been arrested.’
The hallway tips and turns around me and I reach for the wall to steady myself. The girl takes half a step towards me but doesn’t seem to know what to do next.
‘When was this?’ I manage to ask.
‘This morning. First thing. A whole load of them came and dragged her out.’ She presses her hand nervously to the back of her lacquered hair, a gesture from the wrong generation. ‘I mean, it’s probably nothing. You know what she’s like, always demonstrating against something.
It’s just what happens, isn’t it? The police pull people like her in all the time.’
I nod.
‘I’m sure she’s fine,’ she says quickly.
I must look terrified because the girl pats my arm and makes a consoling face rendered comic by her one big eye and her one small one. I feel a manic laugh rising up from my chest and swallow it down.
This is it. The police have finally come for her and there’s no way she’ll talk herself free. Because if they’ve taken this long to work it out they probably have a ton of evidence to back up their suspicions. She’s already linked with Quinn in the police database, I guess. She’s a known associate at least, a potential accessory to a crime he went down for and she didn’t, meaning even the slowest copper would see a ready-made motive.
Or am I giving them too much credit?
Maybe this is Carol’s doing. Has she gone back on her promise to wait until Monday?
The girl glances towards her flat, wanting to get on with her evening.
I thank her and walk away, shakily, make it halfway down the stairs before I begin to feel woozy. For a moment I sit on the striped runner, one hand curled around the barley-twist spindle, which has been repainted so many times it’s beginning to lose its form.
Where do I go now?
Home doesn’t feel safe, because what if Ella has talked, spilled everything and pleaded remorse? The police could be waiting for me already.
Then again, I have nowhere else to go and delaying the inevitable won’t change it.
I let myself out and hail a passing black cab. To hell with the expense. Arrest and charge will at least put an end to the tedious frugality I’ve been living with for the last few years. No need for savings when you’re banged up.
The driver is having his own crisis, talking in a hushed voice on his phone to someone I think might be his son, getting angrier as he reminds him how long it’s been since he visited his mother, how he promised he would make more effort.
As we head down Euston Road, I realise I should probably call Milton. Try to set up a meeting before I’m actually arrested. It’s always best to unburden yourself to your solicitor before the police get involved, formulate your plan in private. I’ve never trusted them not to be listening to what’s said in the interview rooms between solicitors and clients.
