by Susan Lewis
“We might have to postpone longer than that,” she replied, and after alerting him to what was happening, she added, “If it does turn out to be Maria’s son, and I don’t think she’s making this up, I’m going to try and get Gould to assign me to the case as Marcy’s victim support officer.”
“To replace the one they already have?”
“That’s right. She’s so overworked they’ve hardly seen her anyway. I can organize my schedule to give them more time. As soon as you’re free tonight give me a call, and if you’re able to come to the house that would be great. There could be a lot to talk about.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
So, it was my old lady who ended up turning me in. I was pretty hacked off when I finally found out, although I knew why she’d done it. She’d got it into her head that I’d be safer in one of Her Majesty’s houses than at home with her where she kept hiding behind the curtains and working herself into a state every time someone came near the house. She was convinced the bosses had a hit out on me.
So, the SWAT team turns up, all tooled up and kitted out like they’re about to take down Osama bin Laden, and what am I doing? Me, I’m inside bingeing on Line of Duty.
Ironic that, don’t you think?
I didn’t even know they were there until someone kicked the door in and started shouting like a maniac. Surreal or what, when I was in the middle of watching the same scene, but scared the s*** out of me when I got that this was really happening.
I was shoved facedown on the carpet, hands wrenched up behind me, knee in the back, punch in the head. That’s right, one of them snuck a pop and it made me see stars. Some Sherlock in a suit read me my rights, so I knew it was about the arson, and off we went.
To be honest, after all the tension and waiting and wondering, it was almost a relief when they stuffed me in the back of a car and drove off. I couldn’t wave goodbye to the audience who’d gathered because I was cuffed, but I looked at them good and hard, letting them know to stay away from my ma. I wished someone would cart her off to the whacky shack, she’d have been safer there.
So, they had me, fair and square. I wasn’t planning on making out they’d got the wrong bloke, DNA would prove I was there, but when I realized I was up on a charge of attempted murder as well as arson, well, I couldn’t cop for that too. I didn’t know you was there, if I had I wouldn’t have done it, so nothing intentional about it. It was an accident. A bad one, I admit, and one I really wish hadn’t happened, but that’s what it was.
I needed a brief to help sort it out, but people like me get what we’re given and the ambulance chaser who bobbed up for me had me down as guilty even before he came through the door. I had a proper struggle with him—it’s no fun dealing with a***holes and he was one of the biggest.
I’m remanded in custody and soon after, surprise, surprise, I get a visit from BJ warning me to keep my mouth shut about the PC who’d wanted it done. I told him I wasn’t planning on blabbing, but it might be in everyone’s interest if someone made the attempted murder rap go away.
No one did. I just got a reminder that my old lady had no protection now so it would be in her best interests if I acted wise. My answer was to say I understood loud and clear, but no way was I going to plead guilty to something I didn’t do.
OK, I did do it, but like I said, it was an accident and I want that understood by a jury so I don’t get sent down for the rest of my natural. Of course, that’s likely to happen anyway, because the max for arson and criminal damage is also life. I’d just rather not have two running one after the other and if the judge is of a mind to do that he can.
So, I made it clear to the dickhead who was representing me that I’d cop for arson and criminal damage to save a trial on the understanding he got rid of the attempted murder and maybe worked out a lesser sentence.
He said he’d get back to me and all these weeks later I still don’t know where we stand on it, but I’ve heard nothing to say the charge has gone away. I guess someone’ll tell me before my big day in court, but that’s not going to be anytime soon, because it never is. Six months waiting turns into nine, turns into a year and you’re given so many excuses, scheduling, sickness, change of judge, that you end up not listening anymore.
My ma visits as often as she can and brings me stuff that’s allowed—no way am I getting her to smuggle in the kind of currency that would help me a lot in here. Drugs, cigs, blades . . . I can take care of myself, just about, but I know I’m being watched so one wrong move . . .
The last time she came she brought chocolate—it’s useful—and the news that you’re due to go home from hospital. When she leaves I return to my cell and think about that. I know your house is back up together because my ma’s read all about it on the Gazette website, so I guess that’s where you’ll be going. I wonder what it’ll be like for you after what happened, if it’ll feel weird or scary, if you’re nervous about it, how strange it’ll feel being in the big bad world again after so much time in hospital.
I picture the house and the times I saw you coming and going, not a conventional grandma, younger and kind of fit I suppose for someone your age. I remember you reminded me of that actress who played Nanny McPhee, not when she was in the film, but in real life. Emma something-or-other, Thompson, I think.
Then I realize you probably don’t look very much like her now and I feel as gutted about that as I have about anything else that’s happened so far.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Marcy was in the passenger seat of Claudia’s car, both hands—one manicured, the other mutilated—resting on the medical pack she’d been given before leaving the hospital. There was so much advice on what should or shouldn’t be done in so many different situations—all of which she’d been talked through in careful detail during the past week—that she knew she’d never remember it all.
Apparently she needn’t worry because Claudia had it all written down.
Marcy hadn’t wanted to leave her hospital bed, had felt afraid of being parted from Ruth and Rohan and the rest of the team who’d taken care of her so tirelessly and tenderly for the past months. They’d become her family, the people she trusted, who explained and cajoled, teased and scolded, helped in every way, and knew when to leave her alone. They didn’t make her feel different, an object of pity, a freak, which was how it was going to be outside the ward.
She’d become especially attached to Angus, the psychologist, who’d been preparing her for today, and all the days to come. In her raspy voice she’d called him a bully, which had made him laugh with delight. She’d answered all his questions, though, and had apparently passed most of his tests. Last week she’d told him that she probably wouldn’t have been able to face things if it weren’t for his counseling. She didn’t actually know if that was true, but he’d seemed pleased to hear it, and she could see nothing wrong in making someone feel good about the kindness they showed.
She glanced down at her left hand, free of its splint for now (to be worn at night), and felt, as she often did at the sight of it, sickened, appalled by the fact that it belonged to her. She wanted to flick her wrist and make it disappear. It was horrible, purplish and hideously scarred, with misshapen fingers that could no longer function as useful extremities. It was as though looking at it, hating it, caused an intense prickling to flare up like red-hot pins, and she grasped the sorry appendage with her other hand to try and stifle the pain.
The ravaged side of her face felt as it always did, raw and stretched tight like a drum, and she knew only too well how it looked: the grafted skin was still fiery red, her left nostril was tugged and flattened toward her cheek, and her left eye with its new lid and surrounding puckers looked as though it belonged to a pig. She never voiced that to anyone—Rohan and his team had performed miracles in many ways so she wouldn’t have wanted to upset and insult them. They’d even transplanted tiny hair follicles from the back of her neck to help restore her eyelashes and eyebrow, but there was no sign of anything
yet.
“Everything takes time,” Rohan had told her the day after that particular op, “but you’re doing very well, better than expected, so there’s no reason to think you won’t wear mascara on that eye again.” His smile was infectious, while hers was so taut on one side that only the other side lifted, giving her, she thought, a drunken, even piratical look. Or probably something far more grotesque.
“And your hair,” he’d pointed out with so much pride it could have been his own, “is growing back so fast and full I think you’re going to look even younger than before you came in.”
There was no chance of that, but he was right about how well it was coming through, quite gray unsurprisingly, but thick and even glossy, and perhaps she could agree with Jasmine that it was kind of funky. Not long enough yet to help mask any of the scars, but nothing was ever really going to do that.
“Are you OK?” Claudia asked, casting her a concerned glance as they began the ascent to Westleigh Heights.
“Yes,” Marcy said softly. This was the fourth time Claudia had asked since they’d left the hospital, and Marcy suspected she’d ask again before they got to the house. She didn’t mind, she understood that her daughter was nervous.
“Would you like me to pull over for a moment to give you a bit more time?” Claudia offered.
Marcy shook her head. It was going to take a lot more than time to make her feel ready to do this, so she’d decided simply to reassure Claudia when required, and actually in that distant place where her mind seemed to exist these days it was feeling like the right thing to do. She didn’t want to make life any more difficult for her than it already was, especially not after how frightened she’d been following the fire, and how hard she’d worked to make the house ready for the big return.
Marcy wanted to say that she was looking forward to seeing what Claudia and the others had done to the place, but in spite of being able to speak more clearly now she still found it hard to summon many words. They seemed stuck somewhere deep inside her, cowering in a closed room along with her emotions, afraid to come out. She didn’t have a complete understanding of anything yet, but she knew that it was as if the essence of her had been burned away in the fire, and there were no allografts or autografts to fix that. Only therapy, and she would continue with that, as promised.
“Almost there,” Claudia said, trying for cheerful, but only managing anxious.
Marcy looked out at the trees, dense hedgerows, and high gates they were passing, the occasional dog walker and jogger, the recycling bins, mailboxes, and house names. She thought of the many times she’d driven up and down this road herself, feeling glad they’d found somewhere in this leafy area not far from town and close to the moor. She’d been certain it was safe, or as safe as anywhere ever was; she’d believed they were going to be happy in their new home.
She tried not to think about the arsonist who’d done this to her, the youth who’d been arrested and was denying the charge of attempted murder. Although no connection had yet been established between him and her son-in-law, she, like Claudia, was certain one existed. However, her counselor was right when he’d told her that it would do no good to dwell on the anger and hatred she felt toward them both. It wouldn’t alter anything, would only slow her recovery and fill her mind with unnecessary negativity.
“From what I hear,” he’d said, “you were Mrs. Joie de Vivre before you came into my life, a loving mother who’d never let anything or anyone get her down, so that’s who we’re calling on now. I know she’s still in there, along with the world’s best nana, so let’s keep working on waking her up.” He laughed delightedly. “That makes me sound like Prince Charming, doesn’t it? Bet you never thought he’d arrive as a gay.”
She would see Angus again, and the rest of the team when she went for her regular check-ups, clinics, and possibly more skin grafts during the coming weeks, months, and even years.
There was no end to this.
They were at the top of the hill now and soon passing Haylesbury Enclave where the new houses were complete and occupied but not visible from the road. Much as their own wasn’t visible either. Marcy could feel her right fingernails digging into her ravaged hand and made herself stop. It was going to be all right. They’d caught the person who’d committed the crime, he wasn’t going to be hiding among the trees or behind bushes waiting for her to return, he was locked away and hopefully he would never come out again.
She knew Jasmine was waiting for them to arrive, had probably been preparing the place for hours, and as they turned into the drive she saw the banner straightaway. Welcome Home, Nana. It was strung across the front of the tower, as colorful and cheering as Jasmine could make it.
Marcy felt strangely betrayed as she realized the house looked the same as it always had, as if a fire had never been near it.
If only her own damage had been so easy to repair.
Don’t think like that.
Starting again she saw the house as it really was, friendly, hospitable, proud to be a home, although it was different because the front door was painted a deep burgundy red and it had been black before. There was a pair of bay trees on either side of it, and a new transom window above with rainbow colors in the glass.
She gazed around the garden, still a tangled mess of shrubs and brambles, but there were flowers now springing up through the weeds: bird’s-foot trefoil, wood anemones, buttercups, corn cockle, columbine, thrift. There were hydrangeas and roses, snapdragons and sunflowers, evidence that someone had once planted the beds and probably nurtured them. And with so much valerian and verbena they should have plenty of butterflies and bees over the rest of the summer.
She was feeling nervous again and slightly nauseous. She didn’t want to see anyone, would have liked simply to go to her room and close the door, but when Jasmine had asked if she could invite a few of their friends to welcome her home she’d agreed. It had to be gone through, and there was nothing to be gained from putting it off.
Their cars were outside on the patchy lawn, but she knew already who was inside: Andee and Graeme, Leanne and Tom, Wilkie and Abby, Richie, Dan, and Henry. Her heart tightened with dread as she thought of Henry. She’d almost asked Jasmine not to invite him, but it would have hurt him terribly if she had, and it was time for him to see what she was like now. She wouldn’t blame him if he began making excuses not to see her again after today. It would hurt, of course, devastate her probably, but she was expecting it and as with everything else, she would find a way to deal with it.
By the time they stepped out of the car into the fragrant early summer air the front door had opened and Jasmine was coming to greet them. As they embraced Marcy glanced worriedly toward the house, wondering who was watching.
Jasmine said, “Everyone’s on the deck at the back. It’s such a lovely day we thought it would be nice to sit outside, and there’s a new canopy to shade us from the sun.”
Avoid direct sunlight, just one of the many instructions she’d been given to help ease her into the changed life she was about to begin. Two new beginnings in nearly as many years, the first so much easier than this.
She allowed Claudia to take her arm and they followed Jasmine in through the front door. To Marcy’s relief she wasn’t assailed by a terrifying flashback of trying to beat out the flames, or stilled by a horror of going any farther. She felt instead as though she was seeing an old friend for the first time in a while, and while it had changed in some ways, it was the same in others. Another large table had been found, the oak beams across the ceiling had been replaced and limed, and the pale flagstone floor was maybe a shade lighter, it was hard to tell. There were new mismatched chairs, although these hadn’t yet been painted an assortment of colors the way the others had, and the walls were yellow, not purple. The kitchen units were identical to those that had been lost, made and fitted by the same craftsmen, Claudia had told her. The patchwork sofas were no more, but the new ones were just as inviting with their lively blue stripes, mint-gre
en dots, and plumped-up cushions. There were no drapes yet, but Claudia had told her that she was no longer sure there should be.
It was the drapes that Marcy had tried to save. If she hadn’t. . . .
Hearing voices outside, she glanced at the open French doors, noting that they too were the same as their predecessors, and as someone laughed her insides turned inside out.
“You don’t have to do this,” Claudia whispered. “It’s probably too soon . . .”
It was, but Marcy needed to prove to herself that she really did have the courage for it.
The instant their friends realized the guest of honor had arrived they got to their feet to welcome her, and as she forced one of her tortured smiles into its hideous shape she felt tears burning her eyes. She hated that they were seeing her like this, felt ashamed and mortifyingly self-conscious, but at the same time she was grateful to them for caring enough to be here, and for everything they’d done to support Claudia and Jasmine. She wanted to tell them that, but the words wouldn’t come.
“My dear,” Wilkie murmured, coming forward with hands outstretched and nothing but affection and tenderness filling her eyes, “welcome home.”
The others followed, embracing her with equal warmth, telling her how lovely it was to see her and showing nothing of the shock they must surely be feeling.
“Great hair,” Leanne told her with a playful smile.
“Come and sit down,” Tom insisted, holding out a chair.
“We’re told you’re allowed one glass,” Andee said, as Graeme uncorked a bottle of Moët.
Marcy nodded. Yes, Rohan had said that, but no more, it didn’t go well with the gabapentin she was taking to relieve the itching.
When her eyes finally found Henry’s he was still standing beside the table, his gaze fixed on her as though she were an apparition (or a freak), and she noticed the tears on his cheeks.
Please don’t tell me you’re sorry, she wanted to say. I understand it’s even worse than you thought. You probably wouldn’t recognize me if you saw me in the street.
