by Gavin Smith
Thus she’d allowed the Murphys to precipitate a breakdown that she knew would have come sooner or later; a breakdown without torrential drama, more a loss of vital inhibition, the dam buckling rather than breaking. Months ticked by, months in which she’d contrasted her life of duty and loneliness with theirs of impulsive passion and violence, joy and misery. She knew her horizons had drawn in close, penning her into this space and time, pressing her fate up against the Murphys’. Her daily diet of tabloid news perfected her sense of social grievance against those who lived their lives free of duty or concern for others or the basic notions of decency that she took for granted – no, mandatory.
Then Sharon had recognised Dale Murphy on one of her visits and had retreated into the kitchen, anxious that he shouldn’t recognise her and associate her with Marjorie. In conversation, she’d carelessly named the client whose claim she was pursuing against Murphy. When Marjorie had disingenuously suggested that the client typified this country’s culture of sponging and suing, Sharon hadn’t been able to resist explaining precisely who her client was and what Murphy had done to him.
Marjorie had vaguely remembered news reports about the young arsonist, Firth. A quick internet search on Tony’s computer confirmed that Firth had been convicted for setting fire to a residential property only two years previously. Sharon had mentioned that Firth had only recently been released from prison. So, Murphy had made an enemy of a convicted arsonist who walked the streets of this city, able to act on his grievances at will.
If somebody tried to set fire to the Murphys’ home, and did it the way the anarchist websites recommended by spraying petrol all over the door, through the letterbox, along the carpet and up the stairs, then substantial damaged would be caused and fear would be instilled. They would be chastened, they would experience a fraction of the retribution they deserved and most importantly they would leave, perhaps permanently. The police would have an obvious suspect and, if Sharon’s griping could be believed, the evidence would be made to fit. Even if this stranger, Firth, were convicted, he’d probably done something to deserve it for which he’d yet to pay the price so that needn’t trouble her conscience.
“Your taxi will be here in a few minutes, Marjorie.” The maddening woman had returned, all bosomy and beaming. “You alright, my love? You’ve gone all pale and clammy.”
“I’m fine, Jean. Thank you for your concern.” If only she could see into my mind, she thought, and know what I’d done and what I’m capable of; that would wipe the smile off her silly, fat face. If we truly knew each other’s minds, there could be no small-talk, no friendly banter, no love or romance. “It’s just been a long day. I’ll be glad of a rest.”
“Shall I tell Anthony you’ll pop in later?”
“Yes, I promise I’ll return. Very soon. I may not be alone though; you know how it is.”
That woman is amazing, thought Jean as Marjorie stepped into the waiting taxi; a veritable, real-life saint.
Slowey parked the battered Focus outside Jeremy’s drop-in centre. Released from his rocking and grimacing bondage in the back-seat, Jeremy scurried back into the familiar safety of the building. Seeing him greeted by a staff-member, Sharon turned back to regard Harkness who stepped out of the passenger seat while Slowey kept the engine running.
“I don’t think we’ve got a choice,” he said, avoiding her eyes. “We’ll be civilised about it, but we’ve got to take her in.”
“No, Rob. You don’t have a choice. You’ve played it beautifully.”
Slowey blipped the throttle then immediately looked sheepish about it, holding up his hands in apology.
“I haven’t played you, Sharon, I genuinely did….”
“Just shut up,” she said, placing her hand firmly on his chest and using it to punctuate her words. “Just stop, Rob. I don’t know what to think. How can I? I want to cry. I want to puke. I want to punch your smug head in. You’re right, of course. You actually are just doing your job. But did it really have to be you and did it really have to be now? No, don’t answer. Just go.”
“We’ll speak again, soon.”
“I thought you might break my heart, but I didn’t know you’d make such a thorough job of it. No, wait!”
“What is it?”
“You told me something once. About your childhood. Well, remember who you are and what you did when you speak to her. Think about it. Please.”
Harkness swallowed his words and sank back into the passenger seat.
“Bloody hell, that was cryptic,” said Slowey, engaging first. “What an interesting life you lead.”
“Just drive. Don’t talk for a minute.”
The drop-in centre receded into the past, keeping whatever future Harkness might have found with Sharon. An explosive impulse flared and he punched the dashboard hard, shattering an air vent and finding the blood and pain he deserved.
“Easy, easy!” shouted Slowey. “I’ve signed for this bugger, an’ all.”
Harkness’s mobile blared and he flipped it open blindly, his eyes still unfocussed by rage.
“Speak!” he barked, then listened intently, frown tightening one notch after another. Then he found a mellower tone. “Right. Thanks. That’s brave of you.”
“You got your radio?” Harkness asked, slamming the phone shut.
“Always. Why?”
“A complication has arisen. That was Sharon. The care staff are perplexed. Marjorie turned up half an hour ago, knew nothing about Jeremy’s trip out with his sister and left looking unwell and refusing to speak to anyone.”
“Balls.”
“Sharon couldn’t get a reply from Marjorie’s home phone.”
“Doesn’t mean she’s not there,” said Slowey, slipping in the earpiece linked to the radio clipped to his belt. “What about the hospice?”
“It’s our best bet. I’ll call it in. Uniform might get there before us.”
“No need,” said Slowey, grinding into a higher gear and clasping a hand to his earpiece. “Someone’s just been dispatched there. Some sort of disturbance.”
“That was quick,” said the young, uniformed cop as Harkness approached the hospice’s foyer, the stench of burning brake-pads still in his nostrils. “I’ve just this second shouted up for the duty DS.”
“We aim to please,” said Harkness, dangling his warrant card for inspection. “Tell comms I’m here, would you? No need to turn this into a circus.”
“Will do. Want an update?”
Harkness surveyed the scene with foreboding. The recently built hospice, a sprawling single-story structure in red-brick with a tall roof, shady eaves and solar panels, occupied the south bank of the Witham. Despite the day’s warmth, the river funnelled a stiff easterly breeze their way, an intimation of autumn. Two police vehicles and an ambulance sat double-parked on one side of the compact car park. On the other side, the hospice’s residents had been gathered together in the open air by their anxious carers. Most occupied wheelchairs while some lay on trolley-beds. Some had intravenous drips or oxygen masks or both. All bore the pallor of living death. They resembled the pension-day queue for the ferry-boat across the Styx.
“Can you see Tony or Marjorie there?” he asked Slowey.
“You won’t do,” said the young cop. “They’re the only ones still inside.”
“Go on.”
“Well, my mate’s in there now. As far as I can make out, this elderly, confused woman, Marjorie something or other, has locked herself in with her husband, disconnected an oxygen cylinder and is threatening to light a match.”
“Any demands?” asked Slowey hopefully, keen to negotiate and finally impose order on this debacle.
“Well, no. That’s the odd thing. Just wants to be left alone.”
“Come on,” said Harkness, striding across the foyer.
“Room twenty-one,” shouted the young cop. “Don’t mention it.”
Silently counting off the room numbers, the two detectives hurried along a long corridor that
described two sides of a square around a meditation garden complete with Japanese maple trees, a wrought-iron heron and raked gravel. Every door stood open apart from Tony Jennings’ room.
“Marjorie, are you still there,” said the balding cop, knocking faintly.
Harkness beckoned him over with a finger raised to his lip and ushered him into another room.
“What’s going on, matey?” said Harkness
“I wish I knew,” said the cop, drawing a hand across a forehead slick with sweat. “Five minutes ago, she told me she was a trained nurse, that she’d got three big oxygen cylinders in there, that she’d closed the windows, opened up the valve and would light a match if anyone came in. That’s it. She hasn’t said a peep since then, but I can hear something, like a whisper, a bit of crying maybe.”
Harkness and Slowey exchanged a glance, a weary acknowledgement that this endgame might produce no victory, no resolution, just a failure to prevent a few more deaths.
“What’s the plan, Sarge?”
“You only call me that when you want me to carry the can.”
“You get paid more than me.”
“Both of you turn off your phones and radios right now,” said Harkness, shutting off his own phone. “Good. Right, if she’s managed to make the air in there oxygen-rich, we absolutely, positively do not want to flick a switch or do anything that might cause a spark. So here’s my thinking. Ken, you raid the nurse’s station or grab a member of staff and get the master key to this room. Then bring it back to me and take up station at that fire escape thirty feet away at the end of this corridor. What’s your name, mate?”
“Rory,” said the bald policeman, grappling with his radio with slippery fingers.
“Rory, grab your mate from outside. Get someone, anyone to keep everyone else out but bring your mate here. The two of you will go out through that fire door. One of you, the shortest one, will find a vantage point and take a very careful peek through that window from the outside. You might want to pace it out from the inside first to make sure you get the right room.
“The other one should stand on that corner so that Slowey here can see you from the fire door. Here’s what I’m thinking. If the guy at the window gets a glimpse of Marjorie without matches or a lighter, he gives the thumbs up and the next guy passes it along by line of sight. When I get that signal, I’ll go in and overpower her. Nobody should come near until I say it’s safe to do so. Clear?”
“Shouldn’t we wait for the hostage negotiator?” asked Rory.
“That had crossed my mind,” added Slowey.
“Rory, you asked for a DS and here I bloody well am. Let’s crack on, shall we?”
Rory shrugged and plodded away. Slowey stood his ground and glared, demanding a better answer.
“What if you fuck up? What if you kill them? And yourself? What if she’s got that door barricaded? Think about it. Everything you’ve touched on this enquiry had turned to effluent. I say this with enormous love and respect.”
“I’m the boss now, Slowey. And yes, it hasn’t been my finest hour. That’s why I’ve got to end it. Personally and quickly. Just me, to make sure it’s my fault and mine alone, whatever happens. That’s why the rest of you are going outside. Do you really think we’ve got time for the hostage negotiator to drive here from wherever the hell in the wolds or the fens they live, have a brew, fill in their risk assessment forms and think about talking to someone?”
“Well, when you put it like that.” Slowey clapped him on the arm and strode away.
Then Harkness knew he stood alone in this life. Only a few inches of plasterboard separated him from Tony and Marjorie Jennings, but as soon as Marjorie entered that room and locked the door behind her, she had determined to intertwine her fate with her husband’s, to join him in the limbo of dying, straddling this life and whatever followed. If his fatalism happened to be accurate, nothing anyone said could matter. If he hadn’t been bound by his job title to intervene, he’d have applauded her courage and stood aside.
“Marjorie,” he said, pressing his head to the door and knocking. Wood squeaked across linoleum, perhaps someone standing from a chair.
“Marjorie, it’s Sergeant Harkness from the police station. Ken Slowey’s boss. I know you and he have met but I’m afraid we haven’t had the pleasure. I’m not going to barge in or shout and stamp my feet. I need to have a chat with you. About Jeremy. About Sharon. How does that sound?”
“We just need to be left alone, officer,” proclaimed Marjorie. “We’re doing no harm to anyone.”
“No, you’re not,” he said, sitting on the floor and reclining against the door. “But one or two of those people in the car park look a bit poorly. You’re a nurse, aren’t you?”
Slowey crept past him, dropping a key into his open palm.
“You don’t know anything about me,” she said, with exaggerated care as if she were drunk or drugged. “Now, I’m trying to have a conversation with my husband and I’ve said what I’ll do if anyone disturbs us. I promise I shan’t be long.”
“Marjorie,” he said. Slowey had opened the fire exit door and was peering to his right, watching for a signal. Harkness slid the key into the door’s lock as he spoke. “I owe you an apology. It might take me a few minutes. Face to face would be better but I do need to say it before I go outside and explain things to my boss.”
“Say what you want, officer,” she said, drawling now, “but you’ll have to say it to that door.”
“I’ve read the logs of all your calls to the police. I know what Murphy was. I’ve met Jeremy. I know about Tony’s long fight. I know about Sharon, what she’s achieved and how proud you are. I know we should have helped you with your neighbours. I know we should have got to Murphy before we did. We could have stopped all this, but we didn’t and I can’t unwind the clock; but the world should know this wasn’t your fault. Don’t let them turn your story into just another crude headline. If you have to answer for anything, answer with your own voice and I’ll help you do it. I owe you that much.”
“Are you him?” she asked.
“Him?”
He stood quietly in response to an urgent gesture from Slowey and pressed his ear to the door, straining to hear Marjorie’s faltering voice.
“You…know…just look after....won’t understand.”
Slowey showed him a raised thumb and Harkness twisted the key, wrenched the handle down and flung the door aside to find that his prime suspect had claimed her final victim and eluded his crude justice forever.
The shrivelled figure buoyed up by white linen on a hydraulic bed must have been Tony. His wide open and unblinking eyes stared at the green lines on the ECG flowing straight and true.
Marjorie lay against a wall, eyelids flickering, a drained hypodermic dancing in the hollow of her clenching and unclenching hand. Thick white spittle ran from the sides of her mouth and her chest heaved out a sound like distant laughter.
“Get one of those paramedics in here, now!” he shouted as Slowey rushed through the door.
Needing to do the right thing and to be seen doing it, and conscious of the various feet pelting down the corridor towards him, he lay Marjorie flat on the floor, adjusted her sagging limbs, found only the fluttering echo of a heartbeat, scooped the sickly-sweet bile from her mouth, sealed his lips around hers in an appalling act of intimacy, blew in two breaths then began to compress her chest, pummelling at the delicate mesh of her rib cage. Within seconds, he was wholly absorbed by his task, drunk on the rapture of finally doing something simple and necessary and redemptive.
If he pumped harder, sweated, suffered and breathed a little of his own life into the woman, perhaps that clock would be unwound, perhaps they would all understand, Sharon, Ken, Hayley, maybe even Marjorie herself. Perhaps he could go back even further; thirty years or so.
Then he was driving away from the wolds and fens scoured by winter and death, pushing the RS hard along the A57, taking every slender overtaking opportunity for the
taste of life and the blaring outrage it yielded, drowning in the electronic tumult pouring from his speakers. Paperwork done, dice cast, consequences accepted, he wasted his leave allowance on mere absence from work, driving back to Manchester en route to anywhere else, with a passport and a couple of credit cards to hand just in case he passed an airport. The ties couldn’t be severed that easily but the scars could be cauterised and numbed.
In a northern cemetery where the population abided in the same terraced, back to back style they’d endured in life, Harkness visited the simple monument he’d seen only once before, thirty years earlier. That time he’d been compelled and couldn’t have read the inscription through his tear-smeared eyes, even if he’d dared to look.
Now he needed to look, for a thing had to be seen and remembered before it could ever be forgotten. So he made himself stare for as long as he needed to memorise its every chiselled, moss-stained featured. Then he made himself acknowledge that a child had died and he had caused that death and no amount of superstition or self-flagellation or fortune-cookie blather would ever alter that simple fact.
He said nothing for he had nothing to say and no-one to say it to. Instead, he took out his key ring, unclipped two different house keys, knelt and pushed them vertically into the sod until they disappeared from view. Then he turned and walked briskly away, a little older and a little taller.
