Her Turn to Cry

by Chris Curran

  When she’d finished Inspector Flynn said, ‘Please sign if this is a true record of your statement.’ As she was reading through the pages he said, ‘The problem is that all this happened a long time ago and from what you’ve told us no one seemed to think there was anything suspicious at the time. There are no investigations to reopen and I’m afraid I’d need to have some pretty solid evidence to start one.’

  She scribbled her signature and looked up at him. ‘And the threats to me and the attack on Marcus aren’t good enough?’

  ‘If we can find this Bill you’ve accused and are able to link him to the assault on Mr Blake we’ll put those charges to him, of course.’

  ‘What about Sid Sergeant?’

  ‘The advances he made to you were obviously unpleasant, but we have only your word to go on and you weren’t actually hurt were you? And you say there are no witnesses. So I doubt we’d get anywhere with that.’

  It was hopeless; just as she’d told Marcus it would be. She stood. ‘Can I go? I need to be home in case Mrs Blake calls with news from the hospital.’

  ‘Of course. Thank you for your help. It’s been very interesting. I’ll have a closer look at your statement and see if there is anything we can move on but, as I say, it’s all a long time ago. We may have to talk to you again, but if you wait there a minute I’ll get someone to drive you.’ And he smiled that sweet useless smile again.

  ***

  When Joycie arrived home in the police car, the elderly next door neighbours came out to talk to her. They had overheard the sound of Marcus’s attack and became alarmed in the silence that followed. Marcus’s parents had left a spare key with them so the old man let himself in when his knocks brought no response.

  Joycie didn’t really know them, but found herself sitting on their lumpy sofa with a cup of sweetened tea as they explained that they discovered Marcus unconscious in his darkroom and called the emergency services and his parents. ‘I’m sorry we didn’t know how to contact you, my dear,’ the old lady said. She gave a little shiver. ‘And to be honest we were so shocked we weren’t thinking straight. You don’t imagine something like that happening around here.’

  The old man took his wife’s plump hand. ‘We were so upset. We’ve known Marcus since he was a boy.’ He looked at her from under bushy white eyebrows. ‘You haven’t been into that room have you?’

  When Joycie shook her head he said, ‘Well don’t go now. Just keep the door closed and leave it.’

  His wife smiled at her. ‘And don’t even think of trying to clear up. I’ll send my cleaning lady over to sort it out for you.’

  Of course as soon as she could get away she went straight to the darkroom. She stood in the doorway, her hand pressed against her mouth, relying on the light from the hall to show Marcus’s chair tipped on its side, the floor littered with photographs and negatives and the overturned bottles on the worktop. It was when she saw the dark stain on the floor that she flinched back and slammed the door shut.

  She spent the rest of the evening downstairs staring at the silent phone until she decided she should try to sleep. She let Fatty come with her; couldn’t bear to be alone in the bedroom. And when Fatty jumped up next to her she didn’t push her down. After one thump of her tail Fatty fell asleep. Joycie could only lie dead tired but wide awake.

  Would Marcus’s parents actually call if they heard anything? Wasn’t it likely that good news or – please God, no – bad news would drive everything else from their minds? And she wasn’t even sure that Mrs Blake would want her to know.

  She swung her feet to the floor. Couldn’t lie still any longer. Fatty let out a little growl of protest, but stayed where she was. Dragging on her candlewick dressing gown, Joycie headed downstairs. She’d ring the hospital herself and make them tell her how he was. But she stood, her arms clutched round her, looking at the phone. What if it was bad? Could she bear to know?

  She grabbed the directory and looked up St Thomas’s Hospital, her trembling hands tearing the thin paper of one of the pages. She copied the number onto the telephone pad, heart beating so hard it was difficult to breathe, and dialled. But when she heard ringing on the other end she dropped the phone back onto its cradle. Hot tears flooded her eyes.

  How long she stood there she couldn’t tell, but eventually she found herself in the kitchen. As she waited for the milk to boil for coffee her eyes were fixed on the lurid curtains with their ugly patterns of onions and tomatoes. They made the kitchen seem so much smaller and airless, but she didn’t dare to open them.

  When she saw she’d got out two cups, as always, a sob rose from somewhere deep inside. It hurt with a pain as real as any she’d ever felt, and she pressed her hand to her chest where something seemed to be rupturing. The misery she’d been feeling all these hours felt more like terror now.

  A sound from the garden, and the flare of a different kind of fear. She went towards the stairs to call Fatty down, but all was quiet. She had imagined it. She opened a cupboard and stopped. A definite noise now – something rattling – very close by. She spun around, staring at the back door handle.

  The rattle was coming from there as someone tried to open it.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The back door was locked; she’d checked it enough times yesterday to be certain of that. But the rattling continued and there was no bolt at the bottom. Whoever was there must know she was here because of the light. She reached behind her. All the knives were in a drawer, way out of reach, but she was able to grab the handle of the milk pan. The milk was boiling hot. Her heart beat a heavy thump, thump, thump in her ears.

  The door opened – Bill – as dapper as always. His face the same shiny mask. She pressed back against the sink gripping the pan handle tight.

  He closed the door carefully, all the time holding her stare. One hand was behind him and Joycie heard that rattling again. He was relocking the door. Trapping her.

  ‘We need to talk.’

  His voice was as soft as ever. It was a voice that always made Joycie want to scream and run away, but today she had to be strong. She set her jaw, fighting the urge to speak because if she did she was likely to cry.

  ‘How’s Marcus doing?’ It was almost a whisper.

  ‘Have you killed him, you mean?’ Her voice didn’t quaver, thank God, although her knees felt like water.

  ‘I hope not, Orchid love, I really do hope not.’

  A surge of anger. ‘So you hurt him more than you intended, did you?’

  He moved towards the sitting room and she lifted the pan behind her back. Now Joycie, now.

  But then: ‘I shouldn’t do anything silly,’ he said, turning back with a shake of his head and gesturing for her to go into the sitting room ahead of him.

  Don’t cry. She shook her hair over her face so he wouldn’t see the tears of rage and frustration. She wanted to hurt him, to beat some kind of reaction onto that perfectly shaven face. Instead she followed him and when he sat on the sofa, feet in their shiny shoes stretched out in front, she crouched on the armchair opposite.

  He gave a deep sigh, rubbing his chin and shaking his head at the same time. ‘Marcus shouldn’t have been here. The plan was to plant the stuff, let the police know where to find it and Bob’s your uncle.’

  ‘But Marcus was in the darkroom.’

  ‘I could have handled him without too much bother, without doing him any real damage, but I had a young lad with me and, well, your boy put up a fight. Got my lad riled.’

  ‘So none of it was your fault?’ She hated her voice for quivering.

  He wasn’t even looking at her now, but smiling up at the stairs and a tousled Fatty plodding her way down. ‘How’s my girl,’ he said, holding out one hand. Fatty ran up to lick him and let herself be stroked. Her expression was half ecstatic, half embarrassed.

  Still stroking her, Bill said, ‘Don’t blame the dog. She got to know me when we had her for those few hours. Couldn’t defend her master because we’d already shut
her in the kitchen.’

  ‘So it was you who put her in the garden with food and water?’ His nod brought a surge of hatred. ‘You took care of the dog, but left Marcus to die.’

  Another of those headshakes. ‘That was different. And we alerted the coppers.’

  ‘So they would find the drugs. Am I meant to thank you?’

  A tight smile, looking at Fatty as he stroked her head and she leaned against his knee. Then silence. Joycie let it go on as long as she could bear, but the words forced themselves out.

  ‘So what now?’

  Bill carried on stroking. Finally he leaned away and rubbed his palms together very slowly. After one longing look at him Fatty lay by his feet and closed her eyes. Joycie bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from speaking. Watching Bill’s hands as he slid them back and forth, back and forth. He was looking at them too until one finger shot out to point at Joycie and she found herself forced to meet his pale eyes.

  ‘Whatever happens to Marcus is out of our hands now,’ he said, ‘but there’s still the drugs. And you two are going to get it in the neck for them unless I help you out.’

  ‘And you can do that?’

  ‘Of course. All you’ve got to do is stop all this rubbish about Sid Sergeant. Concentrate on looking after your boyfriend and leave me to sort the cops.’

  Nothing mattered any more but Marcus. ‘All right.’ She sank back into the armchair.

  When he stood Fatty raised her head and he rubbed her back with the tip of his gleaming shoe. ‘I knew you’d see sense in the end. Just a shame it took so long.’ He held out his hand.

  She stood to face him. Wanting to shout at him to get out and leave her alone. Instead she took the cold, smooth hand.

  ‘Believe it or not,’ he said, ‘I’ve got fond of you and I’d hate to see you hurt.’

  She pulled her hand away. Something about that touch had filled her with so much rage she was no longer scared. ‘I’ve been hurt already, Bill.’ She used his name deliberately and for the first time felt in control. ‘Hurt so much that I’ll never get over it. Hurt by the man you’re helping. And I’m not the only one.’ He rubbed his jaw as if checking for stubble on his shiny cheek. She went on. ‘Sid Sergeant tried to rape me when I was fourteen. Did you know that? And I think he raped my friend so she had to have the backstreet abortion that killed her. He may have murdered another girl in Hastings, and I’m sure he was behind my mother’s death and probably my dad’s too.’ She couldn’t stop the tears now. Damn, damn it.

  His face was grim. ‘There’s bad people in the world, love. And they’re the ones with the power.’

  ‘Only because people like you help them.’

  He nodded and shrugged, glancing back at Fatty, who ambled over to lean against him again.

  Joycie gave a little laugh that was half sob. ‘But you don’t need to worry. There was never any way I could stop him. He’ll go on hurting girls and using you or someone like you to help him get away with it. Now, would you please go and leave me alone so I can call the hospital.’

  He headed for the kitchen and she followed him. When he opened the back door he handed her the key. ‘You’d better have this. We got it copied.’

  She didn’t want to ask him, but couldn’t stop herself: ‘How did you do that?’

  ‘You thought you were being so careful, with the dog and all that, but you should lock the door even when you’re in.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Not every time and just once is enough. It only takes a second to get an impression of a key.’

  That day she had been upstairs with Fatty and came down to find the back door open. The cigarette smell. She folded her arms tight over her chest, squeezing the key so tightly it hurt her fingers.

  He turned away. ‘There’s just that one duplicate, as far as I know, but you should get some bolts too and maybe change the locks.’ When he’d opened the door he paused and seemed about to say something more, but shook his head instead, and she watched until he disappeared into the dark at the end of the garden.

  ***

  No phone call came from Marcus’s parents and, despite her pleas, the hospital wouldn’t tell her anything, but by 8 a.m. Joycie couldn’t wait around any longer. She got ready and walked Fatty, filling the time before visiting hours started. When 10 a.m. finally arrived Joycie took a taxi to the hospital, determined to get in to see him. She had dressed inconspicuously in black slacks and flat pumps with a plain blue blouse, no make-up, and her hair tied back. It looked like news of the attack had got out – there was a little group of men with cameras on the road outside – but no one seemed to notice her.

  She didn’t try to ask where Marcus was this time, just waited on a bench in a corner of the foyer until Mr and Mrs Blake walked through the doors. She held a magazine in front of her face until they passed, then followed them.

  He was in a private room, and when his parents went in she headed back to the foyer to wait until they left. They were in there for the full hour and a half while she paced up and down, flipping through the magazine and watching the visitors, doctors, and nurses passing through the various doors or up and down the stairs. Eventually Mr and Mrs Blake walked out and she went back to Marcus’s room.

  At the door she almost turned away. This wasn’t Marcus. The person in the bed was dark-skinned, his face very plump. But, with a jolt that had her clutching at the end of the bed frame to keep standing, she realized his face was so bruised and swollen it was unrecognizable. His head was bandaged and so were his hands, lying absolutely still on the covers, but the name on the chart was Marcus Blake all right.

  ‘Oh, baby, I’m so sorry.’

  She sat on the hard wooden chair by the bed and began to talk to him, hardly knowing what she said. Telling him she was here and he would be better soon. She said Fatty was missing him, wanting him home again. All that mattered was that he should get better. ‘Come back to me please, my darling, I love you so much,’ she said as the tears that had been hurting her chest and throat forced their way out.

  After that all she could do was to sit and stroke a small area of his forearm: the only part of him that was not bruised, bandaged, or hidden under the bedcovers.

  The door opened and a young nurse in her neat striped dress and starched apron and cap stopped and stared, her face and neck mottling bright pink. She was carrying an enamel kidney bowl, which must have held something metal or glass because it rattled as her hand shook.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Miss, Miss Orchid, is it? I think it’s only family allowed to visit.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I just had to see him for a minute. Please don’t tell.’

  The girl giggled. ‘I won’t if you won’t, but sister will be here soon so you should …’

  Joycie stood. ‘I’ll go.’ The last thing she wanted was get the nurse into trouble, but she had to ask. ‘Do you know how he is?’

  ‘No change. I’m really sorry, but that’s all the doctors are saying.’

  ***

  The shock began to set in when she was in the taxi. Surely that hadn’t been Marcus so still and swollen back there. She thought of him running through the park with Fatty. Laughing when a shoot was going well. Stomping about, changing lenses and shouting at her to wake up and make an effort, when things weren’t working. And holding her, kissing her. His lips, oh his poor torn lips. It looked like they’d knocked out some of his teeth and his familiar smile flashed into her mind, white and whole again, bringing the tears choking up from deep inside.

  She was aware of the taxi driver looking at her in his mirror, but she couldn’t stop crying. At the house she shoved some money at him. ‘Sorry, sorry, keep the change.’ Ran up the steps; scrabbling to open the front door and cursing as she dropped her keys and had to try again.

  She went straight upstairs to lie on the bed, clutching the pillow and sobbing until she was exhausted, while Fatty paced beside her, letting out little yelps of distress.

  When she’d cried herself
dry she lay staring at the ceiling with swollen eyes until Fatty’s yelps turned into whines and she had to force herself downstairs to open the back door and drag a can of dog food from the cupboard. There was nothing she could do now but wait for the phone call from Marcus’s parents. The call she longed for – and dreaded.

  Fatty wolfed down her food and was soon up on the sofa, her head on Joycie’s lap. As Joycie stroked her she saw the newspaper on the mat by the door. She must have stumbled over it as she came in. There was a photo of Marcus in one corner of the front page. Photographer in coma after attack. The story was brief, talking about a break-in at his luxury Chelsea home and that he was famous for his partnership with top model, Orchid. No mention of drugs, at least.

  The phoned shrilled through the silence. Please God, please God. ‘Hello.’ Don’t say it, please don’t say it.

  A man’s voice, but not Mr Blake, and for more than a moment she couldn’t make out what he was saying. ‘… wondered if you have any news of Marcus, Orchid, darling. Or anything to say about what’s happened. You live there with him, don’t you?’

  She couldn’t speak, couldn’t think – finally hearing her own voice. ‘Who is this? What do you want?’

  ‘Daily Express, love. It’s a difficult time for you I know, but our readers would love to hear how the poor chap is getting on.’

  She replaced the phone very slowly in its cradle, hardly able to keep standing.

  The next two days passed in a daze. The phone rang several times. More newspapers wanting her story, but she had to answer in case it was the Blakes. When Marcus’s dad did call he just said there was no change and still only family visitors allowed.

  She managed to sneak in again and see him the next morning, sitting holding his hand for ten minutes, hardly able to speak to him through her tears because she was certain he looked even worse than he had done on the first day. But the next time Mr Blake called he told her, ‘They’ve had to move Marcus’s room because reporters have been trying to get to him.’