I do have a little fantasy that Miriam is a contract killer, hired to kill Terry slowly with cream cheese and patisserie. Under the belief that the way to a man’s heart condition is through his stomach. From what I’ve just gathered by observation though, it wouldn’t necessarily be his assassination of choice. Now, I’m thinking he’d prefer being boinked to death by topless WAGs in a Jacuzzi on Antigua.
Maybe that’s why all the fast food killers have failed so far. Lack of proper target research. Perhaps if Scarecrow Dorothy ends up as a contract killer for real, she’d be the one I’d have to watch out for if she went for Terry. Because I don’t think catering is her preferred style. I think she’s the Going Out With A Bang type.
I go back down the stairs, via the integral shopping mall and food court, and head to Maternity in the far opposite wing. Now it gets more secure, and the doors are manned, but luckily for me, Drury is already waiting outside the ward with a Social Services visitor pass for me.
“I’ve just spoken to Mr. Harte, and he’s on his way down from the bus-stop now, with his eldest daughter LaCrystal, from his first relationship,” she tells me, as I loop the pass-card around my neck on its flat woven tape. “We can go in, catch a quick de-briefing handover.”
Mrs. Wong, the consultant on duty, introduces us to the tiny pink dot, under a white jersey hat and anti-scratch mittens, in a clear plastic crib.
“This is Baby Boy Harte,” she says, double-checking the paperwork and his hospital tag. He sneezes with the sound of a mouse hiccup, and stays asleep. “Don’t worry about that, he had steroids to advance his lung maturity on delivery, so he’s a bit hypersensitive. Would you like to hold him? He likes cuddles.”
I realise she’s talking to me, and I barely get time to nod before she scoops him up in the white flannel blanket and deposits him efficiently in the crook of my arm. He’s barely long enough to reach from my elbow to my wrist. His face is pale, pointed, pixie-like, with little goblin ears. Not the rounded chirpy contentment of a diaper commercial baby.
“No early indication of foetal alcohol brain damage, and he’s gaining weight, but we will be keeping a close eye on him in the future,” Mrs. Wong says, adjusting her glasses and smiling at him with proprietary indulgence. “His eyes are responsive to light, his hearing seems to be fine, all bodily functions currently working as expected. He’s not much of a bawler, so there may be delayed vocal skills and emotional development later on. Reflexes all good though, so he’ll run marathons. We’ll be watching.”
Barry Harte arrives, carrying a baby carrier, just as Baby Boy is tucked back up in the crib. He’s followed by his half-Afro-Caribbean, twenty-four year-old daughter LaCrystal, in a grey pinstriped sweater and bleach-distressed jeans, who I’ve never met. I’ve only met Barry once. His suspicions led him to turn up unannounced at Crypto one night checking up on Sandra. Unluckily for him, he picked one of the few nights she was genuinely working, and one of the few moments she was genuinely on the front door, not pulling in the toilets. He went away reassured, but totally deluded. I’m not sure whether peace of mind in a deluded world is better than insecurity in an honest one, but a lot of relationships seem to run on it.
Drury introduces me as the baby’s assigned Social Worker. He shows no sign of recollection, out of context.
“It’s only a courtesy,” she says. “Just so that there’s someone to advocate on his and your behalf regarding any legal matters you might want to raise in future - so you know who your first call is to. Lara is your intermediary between you, the baby and the red tape world on the other side of the fence.”
“What she means is, I’m not here to oversee your parenting, just someone to call for help with any of your and the baby’s rights and benefits,” I translate, improvising myself out of anything I’m not qualified for. “Although I’m sure you’ve all the experience parenting that you need. I’ll give you my - head office’s number later, to contact me with any questions.”
He nods dumbly.
“Is this carrier all right?” he asks Drury. “I mean, I was told there’s no baby seat in your police car.”
“Sure, we can strap that in the back,” she nods. “It’s the unmarked car today anyway. Lara will follow us and check you’ve everything you need, then we’ll leave you and the family in peace to get to know your new addition.”
“This is his prescription, his formula requirements, and his first out-patient’s appointment,” Mrs. Wong says, handing over a large brown envelope. “The Health Visitor will ring to make an appointment time for your first home visit. And don’t forget to register him, now he’s discharged they will be expecting you. As your wife’s married partner you are entitled to register him yourself in your name. If you have any medical concerns, bring him straight to A&E and he will be seen because he’s a special case.”
“Have you thought of a name?” Drury asks, making small-talk, as Baby Boy Harte and his blankets make the transition into the carrier.
“I like the name DeWayne,” says LaCrystal. “Or Juan, or Selim, or Pharrell, or Cantona. But Dad’s old-fashioned. If he’d chosen my name, I’d just be Sarah. My mum, Janealle - not Sandra - was more forward-thinking.”
“Yeah, you can keep those crazy Pop Idol names for your own kids, in the future,” Barry grunts, and looks down at the baby’s face. He lets out a sigh. Due to the baby’s foetal alcohol exposure, he doesn’t resemble anyone, possibly least of all Sandra. I don’t know whether this is a blessing or a pity, to her bereaved husband. “He looks like a mini Peter Pan. What do you think of Peter?”
“Peter’s a good name,” LaCrystal nods dubiously. “My old next door neighbour had a dog called Peter.”
“Peter Harte.” Barry reaches out for the first time, and tickles the baby’s tiny cheek with his fingertip, rewarded with a squeaky yawn. “My Grand-dad was called Peter. On my mum’s side…”
We all look at Peter Harte in silence for a few seconds, as the name sinks in. He does look like Peter Pan, I think. Kind of elfin, and otherworldly. Maybe it’s not just me who’s suggestible by stories and fairytales in real life.
No wonder Peter Pan never grew up, my psychosis chips in. He never knew his real mother. Maybe she liked a few large gins as well while she was pregnant, retarding his future emotional development.
Maybe somebody shot her, too.
Chapter 36: Encounters Of The Nth Kind
Edina Harte, aged nearly three, is pleased to see her new baby brother, although she insists on calling him ‘Peeder Wabbid.’ The elder three are old enough to be aware of their mother being dead, and variously display ambivalence on their white/red/slightly jaundiced faces. Until the eldest, Harmony Louise, is persuaded to hold him, and her tight little frown melts, when his tiny hand clamps around her forefinger.
“He’s so strong!” she says, startled. Peter’s eyes open roundly and stare, so dark blue they are nearly black.
“Can I give him some Wettuce?” Edina asks hopefully.
“No, Popsie, he won’t eat that for a long time yet, but you can help with his milk bottle later though,” says LaCrystal, pulling Edina up onto her lap alongside on the sofa. “Look at his eyes. What colour do you think they’ll be when he’s bigger?”
“Pink,” Edina announces, decisively, then equally confident, adds: “No - Lellow.”
Barry’s mother arrives home shortly after us, in her suburban Range Rover - a very young-looking, slim sixty-five in Goldmeister gym wear, her dyed black hair in a ponytail, with fingers covered in replica sovereigns and massive hoops for earrings, not unlike Terry’s Miriam. Typical older-woman, city-estate casual bling. She’s fully armed with bags of diapers and wipes, and immediately falls in love with the newcomer, exclaiming over his tiny stature.
“We’ve stuffed the under-stairs cupboard already,” Barry tells me wryly, opening it and displaying the baby-related loot packed in there. “Luckily, Sandra kept all Eddie’s baby stuff. She always wanted a boy, so all the girls wore boy’s stuff. We�
�ve got tons - although it might be a while before he fits into the smallest of it.”
“How are you doing financially?” I ask.
“Well, to be honest, it turned out Sandra had life insurance from before we met, which she took out when she was a psychiatric nurse. They’ve waived an extended investigation because of the baby and offered me a monthly payout scheme, rather than a lump sump. So based on that, I needn’t go back to work for another four years, if I wanted to be a full-time Dad until he starts pre-school.” Barry looks at me with an expression of ongoing disbelief in the whole situation. “I’ll be all right. I might call you if I need advice on stuff if he turns out to be special needs. I don’t know anything about education or entitlements for that sort of thing.”
“Sure,” I nod, and scribble one of head office’s free-phone public redirection enquiry lines onto a piece of paper. “Just ring this number and you can get any information you need from my head office, or make an appointment if you want me to come visit.”
I know Drury is sticking around to update Barry on whatever they’ve decided to disclose about investigation into Sandra’s death, so I say my goodbyes, and take a last look at Peter, who is taking to his older sisters very well.
“He done a wee,” Edina announces, as I say goodbye to her while she follows me to the front door.
“That’s good,” I smile at her.
“Do you know Mummy?” she asks.
I stop in the doorway, look down at her appealing face, and give her a nod.
“I did know Mummy, yes,” I tell her.
“Mummy’s always at the pub,” she says. “Daddy says she never comes home now.”
“I know.” I can’t think of anything else to say.
“Tell Mummy she’s naughty,” Edina tells me. “Daddy says so all the time.”
“Yes, I agree with Daddy,” I nod. “Very naughty. Bye bye, Sweetpea.”
Edina waves and runs back up the hallway as I close the door, chattering to herself aloud about going back to keep an eye on ‘My Peeder Wabbid.’ I walk down the path to my car behind Drury’s at the kerb, with my own mixed feelings.
Contact with victim’s families isn’t something I’ve had to do before. And I’ve had two different close encounters with that perspective today. It’s putting more questions in my head than my personality disorders have answers for.
Back in the driver’s seat, before I start the ignition, I take my phone out and think about it for two or three minutes before I’m brave enough to ring Connor. It goes to voicemail after six rings, so I disconnect, but before I can start the engine, he rings back.
“Hey, you,” he greets me. “Everything all right?”
“I guess so, yeah,” I say.
“You don’t sound very sure. Where are you?”
“Just leaving Barry Harte’s. Had to Social Worker escort Sandra’s baby back for head office. I just wondered if you were free later - I’m a bit confused for some reason.”
“I’m free now, just wrapping up a meeting with Environmental Health and Customs & Excise. Do you want to meet up?”
“If you’re not busy.”
“No, it’s fine. Finished here for now. I was going to head up to Scamways and do my shopping. That’s on the right route for your side of town, about five or six minutes from the Hartes’ house. I’ll meet you inside and we can grab a coffee.”
“Okay. I’ll see you there.”
“Be about ten minutes,” he says. “Drive carefully.”
“Yes, Dad,” I mutter, but not before I’ve already hung up.
It’s well before the rush hour, but already traffic is backed up at every junction, so it takes me slightly longer to get to the 24-hour Ash district Scamways than five minutes. As I filter off at the supermarket’s own roundabout, the car joining behind me from the adjacent junction flashes its lights, and I realise it’s Connor in the black Audi already caught up and arriving simultaneously. It’s the kind of serendipity or coincidence that would have my mum all nostalgic, and Miss Haversham shopping for a new wedding hat. Modern technology has done a good job of all but destroying romance, ever since the telephone was invented.
We park at the quieter end of the car-park, and get out.
“All right?” he greets me. He walks around the front of the car and gives me a kiss. “You sounded unhappy. What’s up?”
“I’m not sure,” I reply, reciprocating when he hugs me. “I feel as though I’ve been put in a spot I’m not qualified to deal with.”
“In what way?” he asks, putting his arm around my shoulders as we head for the main entrance.
“I’ve been on two visits today, Harte and Dyer,” I tell him. “Both following up after target practice. I don’t deal with Aftercare, it’s not my job. But usually, when they pull a surprise on me like that, I have something in my head I can quantify with it, like yesterday staking out the Scarecrow Dorothy girl, that was easy. A bit heavy-going, but I could identify what I was doing there, and why. Today - nothing. None of my experience gave me a role motivation or justification, if you know what I mean.”
“No empathy?” Connor suggests.
“Yeah, it feels like that. I can see what’s happened to them, but I don’t have any emotional identification with it. Even when I’m the cause of it. Like I’ve completely dissociated from myself working in another job role, as if another person I’ve never met did it. And if I can’t identify with the people and the situations, then I can’t analyse it, which means I’m not getting feedback for head office. It’s like I’m watching a soap opera, or a documentary about people I don’t relate to.”
“How do you feel about not being able to relate to the victims?”
“Like I’m not doing my job properly,” I answer. “Something should be there putting reasoning and value on the results as I see them. But I’m getting nothing. Like a machine could do my job.”
“Well, you could argue that the law is like a machine, which you’re a part of anyway,” he says. “Specifically, the law that says: Financial motivation is not a legal argument to take a life. Sandra was standing by to take out Jag Nut on a private contract still. It was moved up at short notice to take her out pre-emptively as soon as she had contact with Canem and his tropical disease collection, because rabies would have turned her into a red mist berserker, like the Animal Rights campaigners we’re locking up at the minute all over the place.”
“That bit I don’t have a problem with,” I agree. “When I take out a contract guy, I know why I’m doing it. But talking to families afterwards, where you would think sympathy and empathy are useful tools to carry, I haven’t got anything in my brain that meets the requirements. I can read more into the back of a guy’s head I’m about to put a hole in, than a whole group of family members dealing with the aftermath.”
We go into the café, and I don’t remember what Connor orders. The next thing I know, we’re sitting at the window table with a cafetière of coffee, and he pushes a piece of Black Forest Gateau in front of me. I consider the possibility that James and Ash have been talking to him about my happily psychotic daydreams, and whether it’s a test to see if I show signs of wanting to jump up and down on his car roof in my pyjamas.
“I’m guessing you haven’t eaten today yet,” he says, and is right. “I think you’re just dealing with a lack of experience on your part. Which would mean lack of pattern matching. None of your personality disorders see yourself in the same situation.”
“It’s not just the situation, it’s the whole family-couple-support-relationships thing,” I say, shaking my head, and selecting sweetener sachets for my coffee. “They have this kind of closed-circuit network going on. When I was working on the Dorothy/Alice case yesterday, I could easily identify with a girl on her own, having no support system in place, keeping herself going with a fantasy world. But I don’t understand symbiosis. I know it happens, I can interpret dysfunctional elements like co-dependency, but anything normal just leaves me blank. Like I’m forced
to watch it while suspended over a gaping hole. I’ve got no commentary or personal structure supporting what I’m observing. Like watching an alien civilization.”
“That’s because so far, relationships to you ARE an alien civilization,” he says steadily, stirring his own coffee. “You don’t recognise subtext, or chemistry in couples that indicates sexual bonding, or the bonding two parents get from raising a new generation together. You just see mass Media propaganda ideals, and the reality leaves you cold. Like that stuff I got you to read in the car the other day, about commercial and sit-com couple dynamics. They’re not reality, and the reason they’re light entertainment - or in other contexts, drama - is because they’re nothing like reality. But YOU don’t have a reality to measure anything by. Hence you don’t watch much of that sort on TV, and you don’t socialize with people in normal relationships.”
“Sums it up about right.” I sip my coffee and look out of the window. Shoppers drift to and fro, coming and going from the store, in a never-ending stream of needs and consumerism. “I mean, when you see a couple out shopping together, or you notice a couple in the street, what do you see? What do you identify?”
“Depends,” he shrugs. “They’re all different.”
“They’re all the same to me,” I remark. “I don’t notice anything, I don’t think anything, I don’t interpret anything. Unless I have a bit of inside knowledge, or I know one or the other personally, nothing pops up in my head that I recognise or identify. I’ve never lived with anyone, or gone shopping with anyone, or had any sort of genuinely interactive life with anyone, so I don’t have a picture in my head, or a feeling, or thought, or emotion, or memory of anything similar in reality. I don’t recognise anything about the situation at all. I don’t know what I’m missing to even miss it.”
Death & the City Book Two Page 30
