by Casey, Jane
I had a fair idea of what Mr Blue Shirt intended to do to me, and I could see from the way the tendons were standing out in his neck that a simple ‘no’ wasn’t going to be enough. I stamped on his instep. He staggered back a pace or two, breathing heavily.
‘Bitch.’
‘Leave me alone. It’s not worth your while.’
‘Shut up.’ He came towards me again and I punched him in the neck, thinking of Dr Early. It was true, most women didn’t punch. Men didn’t expect it. This man, his reactions dulled by alcohol, had not expected it in the slightest. He coughed, holding on to his throat, and I worried for a second that I’d fractured his larynx, imagining the 999 call, the ambulance crew, the hospital, the response officers’ questions, the possibility that he might actually die, and what an enormous fuck-up that would be. Then he squared his shoulders and came back at me, and this time he slapped me hard enough to make my ears ring. My lower lip stung and I tasted blood.
‘I didn’t want to have to do this but now I don’t have a choice.’ I took my warrant card out of my bag.
Mr Blue Shirt saw it, read it, read it again and faltered. ‘What the—’
‘Don’t make me arrest you,’ I hissed. ‘Believe me, I’d like to, but I’m part of a much bigger operation, and I’m not going to fuck it up so I can spend four hours processing your arrest.’
He backed away, out of the cubicle. I followed him, keeping within a couple of feet of him. It gave me a certain amount of satisfaction to turn the tables on him.
‘A bigger operation?’ He had walked backwards all the way to the sinks and now he was edging along them, towards the door.
‘Drugs and vice.’ I nodded to the pocket of his shirt which was transparent with sweat. ‘I’d dump those pills for starters. Unless you want to find out what it’s like to be locked up with a load of drug-dealers.’
He swallowed, hard, sobering up. ‘Can I go?’
‘I wish you would.’
For a big guy, Mr Blue Shirt moved fast. He turned, colliding with a man who was coming in and there was something inevitable about the new arrival being there, something that made it impossible for me to be even slightly surprised, even though he was the last person who should have been there. Derwent’s eyes fell on me looking dishevelled, my cheek flaring red where the man had hit me. His reaction was instant. He dropped his shoulder and rammed it into Mr Blue Shirt’s chest, pinning him back against the sinks at an awkward angle, with enough force to make Mr Blue Shirt grunt in pain. He braced a forearm high on Mr Blue Shirt’s chest and grabbed his right arm, pushing it back against the mirror. Elegant, economical, a masterclass in controlling a difficult prisoner.
‘No!’ I said. ‘Let him go.’
Derwent turned his head far enough that I could see his profile but not far enough to lose sight of the man he was holding down. ‘Sure?’
‘Sure.’
With obvious reluctance he stepped back, away from Mr Blue Shirt, who fell away from the sinks and by the greatest good luck staggered in the direction of the door. This time, he made it all the way out.
Derwent straightened his suit jacket and smoothed his hair. He scanned the bathroom for cameras, then pointed at the bathroom attendant.
‘You saw nothing.’
‘Nothing.’ A note changed hands, disappearing at the speed of light. Then Derwent turned to me. He walked over, reached into my cleavage and tweaked a crumpled cloakroom ticket out of my bra.
‘How did you—’
‘No questions now. Go and get your stuff. Meet me outside in two minutes. Go.’
He spun me round and pushed me towards the door and I went, ducking past a very drunk man who was unzipping his flies before he’d even made it across the threshold, who leered approval at me as I hurried out. I saw a couple of bouncers walking down the hallway towards me and looked down so my hair fell in front of my face, looked anywhere but at them, trying to disappear. At the cloakroom I charmed and coaxed and bullied my way to the front of the queue. I got my coat and my other bag, clutching them to me instead of stopping to put them on properly. I kept my head down as I ran up the stairs, hurrying past the door staff, hoping to be ignored.
The car engine was already running when I slid into the passenger seat. I looked across at Derwent, who spared a second to glare back before he moved off.
I racked my brains for something to say. In the end, only one thing seemed appropriate. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘If you aren’t,’ he said evenly, ‘you will be.’
Chapter 17
MY FLAT WAS cold and dark, comfortless. I flicked on some lights, threw my bag and coat on the sofa and shook off my heels, leaving them capsized in a corner. Derwent stood in the middle of the living room, watching me. I moved around without looking at him, putting on the heating, filling a glass with water, drinking it in one long swallow. He hadn’t spoken to me in the car. He hadn’t asked where I wanted to go. He’d taken me home, and without a single word made it very clear that he wasn’t just dropping me off, that there was a conversation we had to have. And I was tired all the way to my soul. It was easier to let him in, to let him shout at me if that was what he wanted to do, than to put it off for another day.
But I was damned if I was going to listen to a lecture while I was wearing a dress that put me at a positive disadvantage.
‘I’m going to change.’
He nodded.
‘Help yourself to a drink. Or make a cup of tea.’
Another nod. He looked tired, I thought, at a low ebb after the high tide of controlled violence and efficiency that had got me out of the club, to the safety of my home.
Comparative safety.
If I’d been given a straight choice between Mr Blue Shirt and Derwent, I wasn’t totally sure which one I’d have chosen.
It took me five minutes to change into a sweatshirt and tracksuit bottoms, to tie back my hair and wipe off the make-up that had smudged around my eyes. That was life, pulling off one personality and putting on another. Dressing to play a part, whether it was the confident police detective or the wayward clubber looking for trouble and finding it. The person in the mirror looked back at me, pale and thin, bare-faced, honest, or something like it. I went back out to the living room, as composed as Anne Boleyn walking to the executioner’s axe, expecting more or less the same outcome.
Derwent was standing where I’d left him. He looked me up and down. ‘That’s better.’
‘I thought so,’ I agreed, stifling a yawn. ‘I hadn’t realised how late it is. You must be tired.’
The shadows were blue-black under his eyes. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Did you want anything? A drink?’
‘No.’
I ignored him, pulling out a bottle of whisky and two glasses.
‘Food?’
‘No.’ His mouth twitched. ‘Not that you have any food here anyway.’
‘There’s something.’ I sounded vague and knew it. ‘Toast. I’m sure there’s some bread in the freezer.’
‘That’s okay.’ In the same conversational tone, he said, ‘What were you doing?’
‘What do you mean?’ I spun the lid off the bottle and poured a generous slug of the golden brown liquid into each glass. The clear, peaty smell filled my head and I blinked.
‘Back there in the club. What were you trying to do?’
‘Just having a good time,’ I said lightly, and it was like seeing a crack spread and splinter across a dam wall before it collapsed.
‘For fuck’s sake, Kerrigan, what the fucking fuck did you think you were doing? What the hell were you trying to achieve?’ He was white with anger, his eyes bright, and I’d made him shout at me for the first time in a long time. ‘It’s obvious you don’t have any sense but I can’t believe you don’t have any pride. Is that really what it’s come to? Shagging a coked-up estate agent in a nightclub toilet?’
‘He was on pills, not coke, and I wasn’t shagging him. He thought I was an easy target but I made
him think again.’
‘How did you manage that?’
‘I threatened to arrest him.’
He laughed, and it wasn’t because he admired my technique. ‘Fucking marvellous.’
‘Obviously I wouldn’t have done it. That was a last resort.’
‘What would you have done if I hadn’t turned up?’
‘Exactly what I did. He was leaving when you arrived. I didn’t need you to get involved.’
Derwent shook his head, his expression pained. ‘That’s not what I saw.’
‘You saw a chance to be a hero and that was the last thing you thought.’
‘And you wanted to be what? A victim?’ He leaned on the counter. ‘Listen, darling, I can follow you around for the rest of for ever and beat up guys like that when they won’t listen to you, and I’d probably enjoy it, but that’s not the point. What were you doing there? What’s going on?’
I moved to switch the television on, selecting a channel that wasn’t tuned in and played white noise. I turned it up, filling the room with a dull hiss. Then I turned back to him.
‘Chris Swain.’
It took him a second. ‘That fucking lizard who was hassling you?’
‘Stalking me,’ I said.
‘I thought he’d gone away.’
‘Nope. Quite the opposite.’ I pulled open a drawer in the kitchen and took out a folded sheet of paper. I sent it skimming across the counter and Derwent pinned it down, then opened it out.
‘What’s this?’
‘It’s a list of places I went last week. People I spoke to. Things I bought. I get one every week.’
‘Here?’
I nodded. ‘Hand-delivered.’
He pointed at the TV. ‘And the sound effects are because you think he’s bugged this place.’
‘I’m sure he has. I just don’t know how.’
He looked appalled, stepping back with his hands up so he didn’t contaminate the paper in front of him. ‘What are you doing about it? Why haven’t you reported it? Why isn’t this letter in an evidence bag?’
‘Because he’s already under investigation for hosting child pornography on his website and if he gets arrested I’d be the entertainment. You know what it’s like. You don’t want to be the story if you’re a police officer.’
He nodded. ‘People start questioning your judgement.’
‘Even if it’s not your fault that some creep decided to target you.’ I sounded bitter because I was: for years now Swain had been shadowing me and he still hadn’t lost interest. Quite the opposite. The longer it went on the more he enjoyed it. ‘You know he’d get five years at the most for stalking me. And in the meantime, no one is going to make it a priority. Some overworked detective will turn up and take a statement. They’ll take the letters away. They’ll tell me to note every incident of harassment. And if he kills me, they’ll use it all to build the case against him. But I’ll still be dead. If he doesn’t kill me, it’ll be all over the papers and my reputation will be in tatters. No one will ever take me seriously again. Either way, I lose.’
Derwent frowned. ‘So what, you’re fitting in as much stupidity as you can before the bitter end? It’s an original bucket list, I’ll give you that. Most people just want to travel and spend time with family.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Obviously not. I’m not going to waste my time by going the official route. I’ve been waiting for them to find him for years and they’ve done nothing. I’m tired of letting him make the running. I’m tired of waiting for him to attack me. I’ve met him, remember, and he didn’t scare me. What scares me is the idea of him. He’s made himself into my nightmare and I’m not going to let him control me any more. I’m trying to draw him out of the shadows so I can deal with him once and for all. I want to scare him into leaving me alone.’
‘You’re setting a trap.’
‘Now you’re getting it.’
‘And you’re the bait.’
‘If you want to put it that way.’
‘No other way to put it, is there?’ He shook his head. ‘I wondered about the social media updates.’
‘So that’s how you found me.’
‘You made it easy for me.’
‘That was the idea,’ I said. ‘But it wasn’t meant for you. How did you know I was putting personal information on the internet?’
‘I had a look at your internet history the last time I was here.’
‘Damn it. I knew it.’ I scowled at him. ‘You had no reason to do that.’
‘Just natural curiosity. I wasn’t keeping tabs on you, though. I promise. Until tonight.’
I folded my arms. ‘I’m so sure.’
‘It’s true.’ A grin lit up his face for a second. ‘You made me look. I knew you were up to no good when I saw you leaving the pub.’
‘I thought you were too busy with your new lady friend to notice me.’
‘I—’ He broke off to shake his head. ‘I noticed. It’s not every day you see a colleague come down with a bad case of the sluts.’
‘What a shitty thing to say,’ I protested.
‘Deny it.’
I couldn’t. ‘Well, it was deliberate. I’m telling Swain where to find me and when. I’m making myself vulnerable. At least, that’s what I want him to think.’
‘And you haven’t told anyone. You haven’t asked for help from anyone. Even if you’re deliberately putting yourself in harm’s way, that doesn’t mean you’re not in danger.’
‘I can handle it by myself.’
‘Like you were handling the meathead in the club.’
‘He wasn’t a problem.’
Derwent pointed at me. ‘You were fucking lucky.’ His voice was very slightly rougher than usual, wind on water.
‘Or I can handle myself.’
‘Yeah, you’re hard as nails.’
I shoved his glass towards him, lifted mine and tipped it back in one go, which was sheer bravado and really fucking stupid. It hit me like a ball of fire, surging into my stomach, destroying me from the inside. My stomach turned itself inside out, twisted itself into a knot, and I wasn’t going to get away with it, not this time. I spun round and ran, a hand clamped over my mouth. I didn’t let go until I’d slid to my knees on the bathroom floor and stuck my head into the white porcelain bowl, smelling whisky on my breath and a ghost of bleach and the metallic odour of shame before everything I’d had to drink flew back up into my mouth and splashed into the limpid water below.
I’d been sick often enough lately to know there was no point in rushing things. I stayed in the bathroom, one hand to my head, the other draped across the loo seat, waiting with my eyes closed until the stomach cramps eased, until I’d stopped bringing up anything at all except saliva, until I started to feel more normal. There was a tinge of euphoria to the aftermath, a giddiness I never got used to. I got to my feet and rinsed out my mouth in the sink, splashing the water onto my face and neck. As soon as I buried my face in a towel I wanted, quite passionately, to stay in it for ever. To sleep, standing up if necessary. To opt out of any further conversation.
He was standing outside the bathroom when I opened the door, leaning against the wall, his hands in his pockets. The smile was gone. He looked drawn, and angry.
‘Maeve.’
Derwent never called me by my first name except in the direst emergencies; when he thought he was dying, or that I was.
‘Don’t,’ I said. ‘It’s not what you’re thinking.’
‘Oh, right. Then I’ll stop worrying about you.’
‘You don’t need to worry.’
He looked down the hallway, away from me. ‘Someone has to. You can’t pretend there’s nothing going on. You can’t pretend you don’t need to face up to reality.’ He looked back at me, hurt. ‘I knew you were being irresponsible but I didn’t know just how bad things were. Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘There was nothing to tell. I—’
‘You need to grow up, Kerrigan. Fast. And don’t try t
o lie to me. I know what’s going on.’
‘Do you?’ I folded my arms.
‘It’s obvious. You look like shit. You’ve stopped drinking caffeine and alcohol. You were drinking tonic water at the pub tonight and pretending it was gin. Everything we see and everything we do makes you feel sick. You’re taking risks because you want to hurt yourself, so it’s not technically your fault if everything goes wrong.’
I tilted my head to one side. ‘If what goes wrong?’
‘What are you? Two months along?’
I couldn’t help it. I laughed.
‘Does Rob know? Is it even his?’
I shook my head, still laughing, knowing it was hysteria as much as amusement. Derwent walked away, into the sitting room, wounded but dignified in a way that I wasn’t.
Time to be serious.
I followed him.
‘Sit down,’ I said.
‘No, I—’
‘Sit.’ I walked towards him. ‘You don’t get to come to my home and shout at me when you know nothing about what I was doing or why. Sit down and shut up, and I’ll tell you. I owe you that much.’
‘But—’
‘Not one word.’ I pointed at the sofa and eventually, like a dog, he went and sat down.
‘I’m not pregnant.’
‘But—’
‘No. It’s my turn to speak. I’m not pregnant.’ I picked up my bag and emptied the contents out on the floor, kneeling beside it so I could look for the foil blister strip. I found it and waved it at him. ‘See this? Omeprazole.’
He frowned. ‘I don’t—’
‘I have a stomach ulcer. This is my medicine. Twice a day, every day. Side effects include nausea and dizziness, unfortunately for me.’
The frown deepened.
‘Think about it,’ I said. ‘It makes sense. I can’t stand to drink tea or coffee or alcohol because they irritate my stomach. I hadn’t been feeling great for a while – stomach pains, indigestion, the usual – but I started throwing up a few weeks ago. I had a ton of time off last month for doctors’ appointments. Liv can tell you.’
