by Michael Wood
When the initial shock had worn off, and Jonathan emerged from his trance, the junior doctor at the Northern General Hospital let him leave the emergency room. He immediately went in search of Stephen.
At first the receptionist was unwilling to tell Jonathan about Stephen’s condition or even which department he was in. It was only when Jonathan told her he was the closest person to a next of kin he had outside of the Republic of Ireland that she relented.
The impact of the car resulted in a broken left leg, but it was hitting the tarmac with such force that had caused his greatest trauma: a subdural haematoma. The impact created tears in the bridging veins that crossed the subdural space in his head. An increase of intracranial pressure was squeezing his brain and urgently needed to be released. By the time Jonathan had located Stephen’s whereabouts, he was already in the operating theatre.
There was nothing for him to do now but wait. He found an uncomfortable plastic chair close to the theatre and settled in. It was happening again. Someone had tried to get close to him and now their life was in danger.
Matilda was driving through the dark streets of Sheffield, her mind going over the conversation with Dr Warminster. It was strange that, although she didn’t want to go and she found her therapist to be patronizing, she did have good ideas; the reciting of British Prime Ministers definitely helped with her anxiety and panic attacks. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to let more people into her social life. She had a sort-of relationship with Sian out of work; surely it wouldn’t be the end of the world to meet Aaron Connolly or even Rory Fleming out of working hours? Well, maybe not Rory.
She was waiting at a red traffic light when her phone lit up with a text message from DS Sian Mills. Matilda read the message while putting the car into first gear as soon as the amber light shone. STEPHEN EGAN IN NGH. HIT&RUN. DOESNT LOOK GOOD. At the next available opportunity Matilda performed an illegal U-turn and headed for the Northern General Hospital.
Matilda flashed her warrant card and demanded information from the same receptionist that Jonathan had had difficulty with. Within seconds she was storming down a corridor, and stopped dead in her tracks when she saw the lonely sight of a despondent Jonathan Harkness sitting on the edge of a seat, gazing out into a world of his own.
‘Jonathan.’
At first he didn’t look up. She could guess the thoughts racing through his mind: the murder of his parents, the lifeless body of his Aunt Clara, the battered form of his estranged brother, and now the image of his boss, Stephen Egan. This was not a fragile young man living on his nerves; this was a broken young man.
Matilda called his name again and this time he looked up. His face seemed paler, if that was possible, his eyes wide and hollow: utter terror was etched on his face.
‘What happened?’
His voice was barely above a whisper. ‘A car came out of nowhere.’
‘Are you hurt?’ She pulled a chair up next to him and sat down.
‘No. I was walking in the opposite direction. We’d just said goodbye and I was going home. It was the noise that made me turn back. The sound he made when he hit the ground.’
‘Did you get a good look at the car?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you get the registration number?’
Jonathan was on his knees looking down at the man who had declared his love for him. For a brief second, for the first time in his life, he had known happiness, and now it had been snatched away from him. Something caught his eye and he looked up. The bright red of the reversing lights caused him to squint. A few seconds later and the car started moving, heading straight for Jonathan.The fight or flight tendency did not enter his head. He was trying to make sense of what had just happened. He looked down at Stephen, who was still unconscious. He didn’t have the strength to pull him out of the way and he didn’t have the time either; the car was gaining momentum.He had two options; run and allow the car to run over Stephen again, finishing him off, or stay and become a victim of the hit-and-run too. In the space of a blink of an eye he made up his mind. Running away was not an option. He held Stephen’s cold hand firmly in his and closed his eyes tight, waiting for the impact.The wheels crunched over loose stones as it reversed. Ten seconds went by, then twenty. Jonathan could smell the exhaust fumes and feel the heat coming from the car. It was almost upon him. Eventually he opened his eyes. The car had stopped in front of him, less than a yard away. He was staring straight at the number plate: YS08 DPT.
‘Jonathan,’ Matilda repeated his name, ‘I know you’ve been through a lot tonight but I need to ask you these questions now while the events are still fresh in your mind so we have a chance to catch the person who did this. Did you see the registration number?’
‘No I didn’t. It happened too quickly. One minute he was standing there just walking away and the next he was…I told him this would happen.’
‘What?’
‘I told him that if anyone tries to get close then this would happen. People don’t last very long when they know me; my parents, my Aunt Clara, my brother, and now Stephen. I’m jinxed.’
‘That is ridiculous. You’re not jinxed. It’s just one of those things.’
‘No. One of those things happens just the one time. My entire family has been killed. All of this does not happen to just one person.’ He looked up at Matilda with wet eyes.
‘Look, Jonathan, there is nothing I can say to make you feel better and I’m not going to even try to placate you, but you mustn’t dwell on everything. You’ve been through hell I understand that, but you can’t stop that from living your life. You can’t live in the past.’
Jonathan was silent for more than a minute. He sniffled a few times then looked up. ‘Are you saying that to me or yourself?’
‘Sorry?’ she asked, taken aback.
‘I’ve read up on what happened to you. I know you went through some personal crisis while you were investigating the Carl Meagan case. That’s why you blame yourself for it going wrong. Your mind wasn’t one hundred per cent on the case. I bet you feel as jinxed as I do right now.’
‘But I’m getting on with my life. I’m back at work. I have friends around me. I’m getting there. It’s a slow process, but it’s something we have to do.’
‘Do you drive?’
‘I’m sorry?’ She was shocked by the sudden change of subject. She sat back in her chair, distancing herself from Jonathan.
‘Do you drive?’
‘Yes I do.’
‘Did you pass on the first attempt?’
‘No. Third actually,’ she replied with a frown, wondering where this was leading.
‘What caused you to fail on the previous two occasions?’
She smiled at the memory. ‘Reversing around a corner always stymied me.’
‘What would you have done if you’d never mastered it? Would you have continued learning to drive, taking test after test after test?’
‘Probably not. I would have given up if I’m honest. I’m not a very patient person.’
‘There you go then. I’ve tried living. I’ve tried life and I can’t do it. That’s why I don’t allow people to get close.’
‘Why did you allow Stephen in?’
‘He told me he loved me.’ Jonathan smiled at the memory. ‘Nobody has ever said that to me before. It felt…nice. I believed him too. He actually made me feel happy.’ He paused. ‘And I think I made him happy too.’
‘So there’s still life out there for you.’
‘No. Look at what happened. The first hint of happiness and it’s snatched away.’
‘You can’t give up, Jonathan.’
‘Why not?’
She had no answer for him. ‘You just can’t,’ she said quietly, not believing it herself.
A harassed-looking doctor came through the doors. She had a sheen of sweat on her forehead. She gave a weak smile and asked Jonathan if he was the next of kin. He told her Stephen’s family was in Ireland and he was the closest to a relative he
had. The doctor didn’t seem convinced and was reluctant to continue until Matilda pulled rank and flashed her warrant card.
‘Mr Egan suffered a subdural haematoma. We had to perform a craniotomy to release a build-up of blood and control the bleeding. Unfortunately the bleeding was too heavy and the site of the tear was difficult to find. He lost a lot of blood before we could locate the trauma site. Mr Egan developed a brain oedema, which is when the brain swells up due to the trauma. I’m afraid there was nothing we could do for him.’
‘So what does that all mean?’ Jonathan asked.
Matilda placed her hand on his arm and turned him towards her. ‘Jonathan, Stephen died.’
Chapter 30
Jonathan had lost all sense of time. If asked, he would have difficulty recalling what day it was. He declined Matilda’s offer to drive him home saying that he wanted to walk, to clear his head and think things through. He had been walking for half an hour before he stopped in his tracks and looked around him. It was dark and he had no idea where he was.
As he walked the streets of Sheffield, Jonathan’s mind went over everything in his past; that was one of his problems, he was never able to relax, his mind was always ticking over, remembering mindless conversations and bus journeys, people he met during his working day he’d never see again. Why did they all occupy a space in his head?
His mind went to his Aunt Clara, the one person in his life he had loved and trusted. Her death was sudden and a shock, just like Stephen’s had been. She was a wonderful woman, strong, determined, funny and full of love and kindness.
At first, Clara tried to engage Jonathan in interaction with the neighbourhood children. She invited them round to her large house and played games, but Jonathan was reluctant and eventually the other children stopped visiting. In the end, she left Jonathan to his own devices. He spent the majority of his childhood in his room reading Dickens. The only way to expel the horrifying memories of life in Sheffield and to silence the seemingly endless screams in his head was to immerse himself in Victorian fiction.
Eighteen months after arriving in Newcastle, Jonathan eventually spoke. It was a Sunday evening in mid-June and, not surprisingly, summer had yet to arrive in the north-east. Heavy rain was falling and a strong wind battered tree branches against the living-room window. The television was turned up louder than usual to block out the sound of the intense weather.
‘Can you turn the volume down please?’ Jonathan asked.
Did Jonathan just speak? Surely not. It was probably the television, or maybe she had fallen into a light sleep and had dreamt it. She looked over at Jonathan, who, in his usual armchair, was reading her battered paperback copy of Bleak House.
‘Did you just say something?’
‘I just wondered if you could turn the volume down a bit.’ His voice was quiet and fragile, not much louder than a whisper. ‘It’s a bit loud.’
‘You’re talking. My God, you’re actually talking,’ Clara said, sitting up from her slouched position and quickly muting the television.
Jonathan smiled. The look on his aunt’s face; wide eyes and beaming grin, was infectious.
Clara jumped up, grabbed Jonathan into a tight embrace and held him against her breast. ‘My darling boy, you’re actually talking,’ her voice quivered and tears began to fall.
After that evening, Jonathan began talking like a regular teenager and they would spend their time together talking about the family. Clara would tell stories about her long-dead husband and his experience as a fire fighter. She’d tell him about her brother, his father, and what the two of them were like as children. She became more animated; she had someone to share her life with. She never pressed him on what happened in the house. Not once did she initiate the conversation. She waited for Jonathan to broach the subject; but it would be another six years before he brought it up again.
As Jonathan grew older, he became more awkward – with himself, society, and life in general. He often joked that he was born one hundred years too late and yearned for a lifestyle not so dependent on modern technology. He refused to invest in a mobile phone and, although he was computer literate, he never wanted one in his home.
He was relaxed around Clara and joined her on weekends away to her static caravan in Whitley Bay, but apart from that, human relationships eluded and baffled him. From Jonathan’s point of view, he could function perfectly well alone. Following the horror of what he had witnessed in Sheffield he thought it unfair to inflict his dark, depressive personality on another individual. Providing things stayed how they were he would be fine in his own self-induced cocoon.
Things didn’t stay the same. Four days after her sixtieth birthday, Clara died peacefully in her sleep from a massive heart attack. It was not a surprise. Where her brother Stefan was trim and athletic, Clara was obese. Her diet comprised fried foods, packets of crisps, and bars of chocolate. She spooned sugar in her tea and coffee by the tablespoon and smoked forty cigarettes a day.
Jonathan had lost the only person in his life he had loved. There was nobody else left. He had been hurt for the final time. He was truly alone.
Clara had left everything she owned to Jonathan in her will, hoping he would continue to live in the stable environment she had created for him. However, after a short period of mourning, Jonathan sold Clara’s house in Blaydon-on-Tyne, and the static caravan, and found himself heading back to Sheffield. To him, Newcastle belonged to Clara and that life was now gone forever. Sheffield was calling him home.
Jonathan was standing in the middle of a generic street with semi-detached houses on both sides of the road. He could be anywhere in the country. The pavements were dotted with leafless trees. Most of the families had one, two and sometimes three cars; all fighting for a parking space. In the dead of night with all occupants at home, traffic was restricted to single file only.
Most of the houses’ downstairs lights were off with just a few of the upstairs ones lit; people reading before going to sleep presumably. Jonathan envied their lives; coming home from work, sitting down to eat a meal with the family, talking through the events of the day, watching a few hours of television before retiring to bed to recharge. The next morning they would wake up and begin another day in their mundane lives. Mundane they may be, but in these large Victorian houses, at least they had someone to live them with.
It had been Jonathan’s choice to live a solitary lifestyle. What he had told Matilda was true; he remained alone so he couldn’t ruin anyone else’s life. What was he going to have to do to make sure people stayed away? Was he going to have to move?
He turned a corner onto yet another street, which could be in any city throughout the country. Ahead was a brightly-lit corner shop he recognized. He had been here before. He knew where he was and he wasn’t far from home.
Home. His lonely flat in a concrete block of eight apartments. Apparently, home was where the heart is, but what if you had no heart? What if your heart was so cold and damaged that it didn’t know a place of comfort? He didn’t consider his flat to be his home; it was somewhere to close himself off from the rest of the world. He didn’t feel comfortable there, just safe.
As he headed for home a car pulled up just ahead of him. Jonathan should have been more alert of strange cars after what had just happened, but he continued walking in his own little world.
‘Jonathan Harkness.’ The driver had stepped out of the car and was now standing in the middle of the pavement.
Jonathan turned. The stranger was tall and solidly built. He was wearing dark clothing and his face was hidden by the shadow of a nearby tree. Usually, when confronted with the unknown, Jonathan would be a mass of fear, but the events of the past few days had dulled his emotions. If this man was to be his killer then so be it; just please let it be quick and as pain-free as possible.
‘Are you Jonathan Harkness?’
‘Yes,’ he replied with confidence as if in a stance of defiance. His last stand.
The stranger reached int
o his inside coat pocket slowly. What was in there, a gun, a knife? He pulled out his warrant card and held it aloft.
‘I’m DCI Ben Hales, South Yorkshire Police. Jonathan Harkness, I’m arresting you for the murder of your brother, Matthew Harkness. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?’
Chapter 31
Acting DCI Ben Hales was doing everything wrong. He was about to conduct an interview alone and he had told the custody sergeant to look the other way while he led Jonathan Harkness to interview room two. Should anything go wrong, Ben promised to take the blame. For the benefit of the station’s CCTV cameras, the custody sergeant went to the toilet giving Ben the opportunity to escort his prisoner unseen.
Hales left Jonathan in the interview room for over an hour. He was watching him for the majority of the time from the observation room next door; Jonathan would say more with his body language than in actual conversation. Hales knew this type of criminal; he’d clam up during questioning, but left alone, his unconscious mind would give him away.
Jonathan was unaware he was being watched. At the height of his anxiety, when the urge to release tension was at its most prevalent, he rolled up the sleeve on his shirt and bit down hard on his arm. Ben Hales winced at the sight.
Jonathan’s right arm was covered in healed bite marks. The sudden pain caused his mind to concentrate on what was causing it. A rush of adrenaline shot through his entire body and as he slowly exhaled, he began to relax. Hales could only compare it to a drug addict taking their next hit; the immediate effects were the same. Jonathan visibly relaxed.
The detective entered the interview room with a folder in his hands. He informed Jonathan that his interview was going to be recorded and videoed and once again read him his rights.
‘I’ve been very busy over the past couple of days,’ Hales said sitting back in his chair. ‘And I’m not the only one am I?’
