by Ruth Dugdall
I didn’t know whether to believe him.
‘Take it.’
I handed the torch to Monica so I was free to touch its cool flank. I took it in both hands, reassuringly solid, but I dared not touch the barrel.
‘She is Tokarev nine millimetre. Semi-automatic. You know why we come here?’
I looked stupidly at Monica for reassurance, but she was shining the torch away from her face, so I couldn’t see her expression. The man was still waiting for an answer.
‘So you can lend me the gun?’
‘We are here so you can learn!’ The Leopard was impatient with me. ‘This is not a toy, you understand? Now you see.’
Monica, as if waiting for his prompt, placed the torch on the floor and opened the rear door of the van. It was empty inside; the seats had been removed, but a grubby mattress was propped against the front seats. It had dark stains and holes where the springs coiled out. My heart lurched and my mouth felt dry. I wouldn’t get into the van, not for anything. I started to back away, but Monica’s arm around my waist stopped me. Her mouth was close to my ear.
‘Is angled to be backstop for bullet, Sammy.’
I had no idea what that meant, but realised she was telling me not to be scared.
The Leopard beckoned me to his side as he took something from his jacket. ‘This is clip. In here you have nine shots. You push it in like this.’
I took a step backwards, shocked. ‘I don’t need to know how it works.’ I pulled Monica towards me, urgently reminding her, ‘I told you, the gun’s just a prop. I don’t need to understand it.’
I felt her body caving slightly, her breathing slow and pained.
‘Oh Sammy. A real gun can never just be for show.’ She reached and stroked my jaw, soothing the spot where I’d been burned.
Leopard reacted to the last word like it stung him, and moved in, his face close to mine. ‘A show? You think this is some kind of theatre maybe? Not real?’
He held the gun steady, my hands still holding it, and slid the clip into the handle.
‘I don’t want to shoot it,’ I said, but my words sounded weak. ‘I don’t even want to load it.’
‘You put no clip in, how you think it will work as a threat, hey? Has to look like business. Besides this, you want to borrow my gun, you better know how it work. Is not a toy! You understand?’
I nodded, but my insides protested with a twist in the gut. I could never shoot anyone, no matter what they’d done.
‘Now this, you pull back’ – he indicated the top of the gun – ‘and she is ready.’
I just stared at it, his instructions drifting away. He took the gun from me and sighed dramatically.
‘Is very difficult to be . . .’ He paused, turned to Monica. ‘Presne?’
She looked at me sadly. ‘Accurate. He say it is difficult to be accurate.’
‘Yes.’ He continued: ‘So you practise. I show how.’
Pointing the Tokarev into the back of the van, he pulled the trigger and I jumped from my skin at the sharp crack in the air.
‘Shit.’ My ears rang.
He laughed. Monica did too. ‘Yes, is very loud. Now you.’
I took the gun, thinking it was heavier than just a minute before, and tried to point it, but my arms wobbled, and the tip of the gun moved alarmingly. The Leopard came up behind me, shadowing me and steadying my hands. ‘You pull back to get bullet from clip. Like so.’
I smelt his vinegary sweat, saw the sheen on his skin, and realised that he was nervous too. He was risking a lot, just for money. We shared the weight of the gun, and he said, ‘Now squeeze.’
I pulled the trigger, shooting the bullet into the open mouth of the van. My wrist jerked up, shoulders jarring, ears on dialling tone. I had no idea what I’d hit.
‘Is no good. You not hit anything this way. Again!’
I prepared the gun, talking through in my head what he had told me. Pulled back and steadied my stance, this time unaided. Again my wrist jerked and I jumped at the noise. The metal handle burned my hands.
‘You bad aim, little one,’ Monica said, the torchlight catching her concerned eyes.
I lifted the gun and fired again and again, hand burning and wrist aching all the way to my shoulder, my ears buzzing. I knew how to use the gun, but my aim was crap, and even though that shouldn’t matter given I had no intention of firing it, I felt like I’d failed.
‘She is no good,’ The Leopard said sadly.
Monica shrugged and took my hand, tugging me away.
‘You want to hurt someone, must do it up close and personal,’ he said.
I almost laughed at the hackneyed movie line, but he growled at me, and I felt myself stand taller.
‘I’ve told you, I’ve told you both, I don’t want to hurt anyone,’ I said, dropping Monica’s grip and reaching again for the gun.
No one believed me, not even myself.
CHAPTER 36
1 February
The shivering has set into my bones, and I can’t feel my feet they are so numb, but still they take me away from the hospital grounds, towards the sea path. I keep my head down in the drizzle. My sports bag over my shoulder already feels too heavy, but at least I think I’ve got away when I hear my name being called.
I turn to see Sian, running towards me in her white canvas nursing shoes.
‘Don’t try and stop me, Sian.’
She arrives next to me, panting. She hadn’t even stopped for a coat, and her navy uniform of trousers and tunic is getting spotted with rain.
‘Sam! Living at the unit is a condition of your hospital order. If you leave without permission, we’ll have to report it. It would be classed as absconding.’
Still I keep walking.
‘Sam, they meet in just a few hours! Where is it you think you’re going, anyway?’
‘Orwell Estate. The funeral is today.’
She looked disbelieving. ‘Ipswich? You think you’ll walk all that way without collapsing?’
I shrug. I just know that I need to be there.
‘Oh fuck.’ She looks over her shoulder, up towards the Bartlet, then back at me. Then she rummages in the pocket of her neat tunic and brings out a small coin purse, tipping a handful of pound coins into my palm.
‘You can get the bus from Hamilton Road. They’re every half hour.’
‘Thanks.’
It’s an inadequate word, given what she’s risking. Just these few coins are aiding and abetting. She hesitates, and looks again towards the unit, as if she too would like to escape.
‘You sure about this, Sam? You want to go to the funeral?’
‘Yes.’
Which isn’t true. Since Pearl died, I’m not sure of anything.
‘We could do this properly if you come back now. I’ll apply for day release through the correct channels.’
But even as she says it, her voice wavers. We both know it’s too late for that, that it would never be approved at such short notice.
I hitch my bag higher on to my shoulder, and turn left up Brook Lane, my back to the sea, heading towards town. Sian walks beside me, though she must be frozen.
In the bus shelter on Hamilton Road the rain starts to fall more heavily on the corrugated roof, and a slab of snow slides off, landing in a slushy heap on the pavement. Sian shivers, rubs her arms, and I wonder why she doesn’t just leave.
The metal seat is thin and hard against my body. I listen to the rain, watching the grey mess of old snow and rain mingle on the pavement.
‘You’re not going to change my mind, Sian. Not after what happened to Pearl.’
‘I understand why you’re leaving, how much you need to be at the funeral. I just hope the board do too. I’ll say I gave you permission. I’ll tell them you’ll be back this evening. You will, won’t you?’
The pain in her voice makes me look up, and I see tears are falling down her cheeks. She could lose her job for this. She looks cold and wet and sad, and for the first time I realise th
at Sian is angry and hurt, just like me.
‘You know what I did, don’t you, Sian? You know I’m to blame?’
Sian shakes her head, defeated. ‘I don’t know who is to blame for anything anymore. I’m so mad, Sam. With myself, with all the staff. With Pearl too. But I won’t let you down, I’ll make sure Clive explains everything. The board can decide to discharge you if we say you are well. I’m going to fight for you, Sam.’
She reaches for me, and what may have been intended as a hug becomes all business, assessing me as her hand circles my wrist. Without moving her hand, her fingers search for my pulse, which will be slow as usual, just as I know my blood pressure will be low without needing a machine to tell me so.
‘Be careful, Sam. Please look after yourself.’
Sian removes her hand as the bus approaches, sending icy water splashing up her pristine uniform. And then we hug, just once.
‘Please come back this evening. I give you permission to go home; I’ll take responsibility, but just for today.’
I get on the bus and pay for my ticket with Sian’s money, taking a seat near the back, lowering my head lest any of the other passengers recognise me. Sian stands in the rain, watching. As the bus pulls away she lifts a hand and waves goodbye.
I haven’t been on a bus in years, and the motion makes me feel sick; the air in the bus is musty and people are coughing, speaking into phones within the privacy of upturned collars, rummaging through purses with gloved hands. My bag is on my lap and I unzip it to check the Black Magic box is safe. It’s really me I want to check on; I’m not sure how safe I feel, but the unit wasn’t keeping me safe either. They failed Pearl, maybe failed me too. My recovery is now down to me.
I need to finally face what I did.
On Monday 27 June, the day of the press conference, I woke to find Mum standing over me. She placed her palm over my forehead.
‘You cried out in your sleep. And you feel hot.’
I pushed her away, struggling to sit up, rubbing my eyes and looking to the window where sunlight streamed in; another scorching day ahead.
She had a tray – on it, a bowl of cornflakes and juice – and placed it across my legs, disabling any bid for escape.
‘I brought you breakfast in bed.’
I considered the orange offering, but couldn’t eat it; my stomach was tight as a ball. I checked my neck, but my glands were fine; it wasn’t infection that was making me sick.
‘Me and your dad have been talking. We want you to stay home today; Penny will understand. You’re not well.’
‘I’m fine.’ Which wasn’t true, but there was no way I was missing the conference.
She paused, and I could see she was considering whatever she was about to suggest. ‘Why don’t you do something relaxing instead? Go for a walk or something?’
There was genuine effort behind Mum’s smile, as if she’d told herself she must appear calm for my sake, but the rift between us was wide and we both knew it.
‘Can’t. I’ve got something to do.’
‘Oh well.’ Her mouth turned downward, but then her shoulders lowered, and I saw she was relieved. ‘I need to go to the hospital. Make sure Jena is prepared for what’s about to happen. What is it you’re doing?’
A few feet away was my rucksack, and inside it was the gun, my best and only prop.
‘There are a few shots I need to take.’
I stirred the cornflakes, sodden with milk, but when I tried a small bite the cereal was claggy in my mouth. Irritated, Mum took my bowl from me, and dabbed my milky lips with her sleeve, then started to feed me, holding the spoon to my lips like she must have done when I was a toddler. Seduced by mothering, I ate more than I wanted, then pushed the tray from my lap, ready to get out of bed.
Her hand stopped me. Her fingers pressed into my upper arm, firmly but gently.
‘Sam, I want to say sorry. I know things have been hard for you, these past weeks.’
It was nine weeks, exactly, since the attack. How I’d changed since then.
I made a sound of agreement, but couldn’t meet her eyes.
‘It’ll be better between us, Sam. Once this is all over. Our family will be strong again.’
Because everything she did was driven by that wish, to keep her family together; I understand that now.
I peer out of the steamy bus window, my coat huddled around me. Familiar sights come into view: the Shepherd and Dog roadside pub that Dad took us to one Sunday for a carvery; the church with its fluorescent cross on St Augustus roundabout.
I leave the bus at Ipswich train station, and use the last of Sian’s money on a single ticket to Westerfield. Where you are.
It was still early when I rapped on the front door of 5 The Terraces, but the sun was already warm. It was going to be the hottest day of the year.
The front door opened, and Keri the puppy pushed her way out, sniffing up at me and nuzzling into my thigh with her bony head. Sonia grabbed her collar and pulled her off. Her lime-green petrol station uniform swamped her, and she wore only one shoe, an ugly orange-plastic, Croc-style sandal. Her face was mottled red, and she swayed slightly as if she’d already had a drink.
‘Where’s Rob?’ she asked, squinting a look behind me as if he might suddenly appear.
‘He’s not with me.’
She folded her arms and fixed me with an angry glare. ‘He won’t tell me what’s going on, but he was all hyper last time he was here. You better not be messing him around.’
‘I’m not, I promise.’ It would have been the news of his dad’s innocence that was affecting his mood, the possibility that the besmirched Campbell name was about to be polished to a shine. Not that I could tell Sonia this. Yet. ‘I need to talk to you. Alone.’
She kept one hand on Keri’s collar and reached behind her for the second shoe, whacking the puppy on the bum with it. The dog yelped, and cowered into the house. ‘Serves you right.’ She put the shoe on, leaning against the door frame for support.
‘What’s this about, Sam? My shift starts in five minutes.’
I’d pictured us in her front room, me in the armchair and her on the sofa. I’d imagined it all: pulling the Tokarev from my rucksack, the sight of the gun working like a charm, Sonia reluctantly but tearfully admitting she’d attacked Jena. I pictured forcing her to repeat her confession down the phone to Penny, the elation I’d feel. But Sonia made no move to let me into the house.
Just then the neighbour with the ginger cat came into sight, shuffling towards home, pulling her shopping trolley slowly down the pathway.
‘Morning, Frieda,’ Sonia called.
Frieda stopped, put a hand on the small of her back and said, ‘Hello, love. Too hot for June, isn’t it?’
Sonia looked up to the sky and blinked, as if she’d just noticed the white ball of sun directly overhead, bearing down on us.
‘Can we go inside?’ I said, jiggling from foot to foot.
‘I need to get to work.’
Her work, at the petrol station – that was just yards from where the alleyway came out, where Jena was attacked. Since 25 April she’d got away with it; she hadn’t aroused any suspicion. But Douglas had found a bloody raincoat behind the chip shop that they used to run together. The business she had lost when Douglas went to prison; to her twisted brain, it must have seemed that because of Jena she had lost everything. Douglas must have recognised the raincoat as hers, and got rid of it for her.
And here I was, Jena’s sister, turning up like a bad penny.
Sonia stepped outside, pulling the door closed behind her, only just missing Keri’s nose as she slammed it shut. Then she re-arranged her snot-coloured shirt, and slung her cracked patent bag over her thin wrist.
‘I need to go to work, or my pay’ll be docked. What is it, Sam?’
‘I want to bury the hatchet,’ I said. ‘I know that you were right. Jena lied about Douglas raping her.’
Sonia breathed, shallow and quick.
‘Really?
She’s finally admitted it?’
‘Yes, she has. She’s going to say it publicly, at a press conference, later today.’
Sonia looked into the distance, blinking from the sunlight or at a painful memory.
‘After all these years . . . That little slut waited until I’d lost everything to say the truth.’
‘My sister’s not a slut!’ I snapped, even though the image of her on the bed in Andy’s studio popped into my mind.
Sonia sneered. ‘Why else would she set up Douglas? She’d been fucking someone, and got caught. So rather than rat on her lover, she said my man raped her.’
I shook my head. ‘She was only thirteen.’
‘Old enough to have sex. Old enough to get pregnant.’
That idea, again. Mrs Read asking, What happened to the baby?
‘There was no baby. I don’t know why she lied about Douglas, but today she’s going to vindicate him. And he’s going to be there when she does.’
Sonia’s jaw dropped. ‘Eh? But he’s in Scotland.’
‘Not anymore. Nine weeks ago, Jena messaged him on Facebook, saying she wanted to meet, so he came back. He thought she was going to help him appeal his conviction, so he was hanging around the estate the night she was attacked. That’s why he was interviewed by the police, why he was remanded.’
‘Those bastards,’ Sonia said bitterly. ‘They’re not trying to blame that on him too?’
‘They were. But today, at the press conference, Jena is going clear his name. There will be reporters there, TV cameras too, and she’s going to say that he didn’t rape her when she was thirteen, and he didn’t attack her nine weeks ago. Everyone will know the truth.’
I saw a range of emotions cross her face.
‘After all these years . . . your sister is finally saying Douglas is innocent?’
‘Yes.’
I could see how very much she wanted to trust me, but just couldn’t allow herself. ‘You’re lying, just like your sister. You can’t help yourself.’
