by Shaun Hutson
‘I can’t stop long, Mum’ he said quickly.
‘I know, dear.’
Jesus, did she have to be so fucking understanding?
Talbot shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
‘Are you busy?’ she asked.
I’m always busy, Mum. But never mind me, how’s your leg?’
She rubbed gently at her thigh and shrugged.
‘They keep telling me I might have to have one of those frames if it gets any worse but I don’t fancy that’ she said, dismissively.
‘Can you manage with your stick?’
‘I’ve been managing for the last twenty years. I’ve been taking tablets for the last week or so, I’ve had a little pain from it.’
Talbot squeezed her hand more tightly.
‘I’m lucky,’ she said, smiling. ‘He could have broken more than just my leg.’
‘I thought he did, the bastard,’ snarled Talbot, his tone darkening. A long silence followed as they both sat, lost in their own thoughts.
‘Did you ever try to leave him?’ he asked at length. ‘Just run away, I mean.’
‘I thought about it, Jim. All I wanted to do was get away from him, especially when I found out what he’d been doing to you.’ Her voice trailed away into a whisper and she glanced at her son.
Talbot saw tears in her eyes.
‘I was terrified of him,’ she said, quietly. ‘You know that. If I’d tried to run he’d have killed me, probably killed both of us. Like I said, I was lucky he only broke my leg.’
‘Did you ever tell anyone what he did to you? Or to me?’
She shook her head.
‘I think everyone round about knew what he was like anyway, especially after he’d had a few drinks in him. They never knew what he did to you, though. I never let anyone know that.’
Talbot swallowed hard.
‘I wasn’t the only wife to get a beating, you know’ Dorothy continued. ‘There were plenty round our way in the same boat.’
‘Not all of them ended up in a hospital with a compound fracture of the right leg and a dislocated shoulder’ Talbot reminded her.
‘I was trying to protect you. I would have done anything to stop him hurting you. I tried the best I could. I’m sorry for what happened, Jim.’
‘It wasn’t your fault. It was that bastard.’
Talbot got to his feet and paced back and forth in front of her.
‘It’s just a pity he didn’t die sooner’ he snapped.
‘I know, but we managed, didn’t we?’ she said, softly.
Talbot stopped pacing, turned his gaze towards her.
There was an almost unearthly serenity about her.
‘When can I come home, Jim?’
He’d been dreading the words.
‘Mum, we’ve talked about this before’ Talbot told her, sitting down again. ‘If there was any way you could, don’t you think I’d have sorted it before now?’
‘I’ve been in here for six years now. I don’t want to die in here.’
‘You’re not going to die in here or anywhere else for that matter; stop talking like that. You’re not going anywhere, Mum.’
‘I don’t belong here, Jim. The other people are older than me.’
‘You’re seventy-one, Mum,’ he said, a small smile on his face.
‘But there’re people in here with Alzheimer’s or whatever it’s called, there are some who are dying. It’s turning into a hospice, not an old people’s home.
I want to be in my house, not here with strangers.’
‘I thought you liked it here.’
‘The staff are nice but it isn’t where I belong. I don’t need people to look after me.’
‘Yes you do, Mum. That’s why you’re here. Don’t you think that if there was any other way I’d have found it? This is the best I can do for you, Mum.
Christ knows, I feel bad enough about it.’
‘You shouldn’t, Jim.’
But I fucking do.
He could barely bring himself to look at her.
‘Just speak to the doctors, ask if I can come home,’ she persisted.
‘Mum …’ he began but then merely nodded.
He got to his feet and kissed her on the cheek.
‘I’ve got to go,’ he told her. ‘I’ll be back at the weekend, I’ll try and stay a bit longer.’
She held his hand, as if reluctant to let him go. ‘I’m very proud of you, you know. What you do, what you made of yourself.’
He kissed her on the other cheek.
‘Please speak to them,’ she whispered, tears in her eyes.
He nodded.
‘I love you, Jim,’ she called after him.
He turned and waved as he reached the doors leading him out of the garden.
Hidden from her view he stood in the corridor, sucking in huge breaths. He felt as if he was suffocating, as if the walls were crushing in on him.
‘Fuck it,’ he snarled under his breath, then walked up the corridor to the reception area.
To his left was another corridor and he walked briskly down it, scanning the nameplates on each door until he found the one he sought. He knocked and waited, finally invited to enter by a voice on the other side.
As Talbot entered the room, Dr Maurice Hodges rose.
He was a tall, slim man, five or six years older than Talbot, his hair greying at the temples, his forehead deeply lined.
‘I got your letter’ Talbot said.
‘Have you seen your mother today?’ the doctor enquired.
The DI nodded. ‘She looks fine. Does she know?’
‘Not yet,’ Hodges told him. ‘We thought it best to inform you first; besides, if we tell her it could cause an acceleration. The shock sometimes does.’
Talbot ran a hand through his hair and exhaled deeply. ‘So, Doctor,’ he said, looking at the physician unblinkingly. ‘When are you going to tell my mother she’s got cancer?’
Twenty-two
Shanine Connor woke suddenly, her heart slamming hard against her ribs, the breath catching in her throat.
Something was touching her face.
She sat up, barely suppressing a scream, her movement causing the fly which had been crawling across her cheek to take off.
It buzzed somnolently in the stale air, the sound it made amplified by the emptiness of the room.
Shanine shielded her eyes from the rays of sunlight pouring in through the windows.
For a long time she sat in the corner, legs drawn up before her, arms hugging them to her chest. She watched the motes of dust twisting and spinning back and forth in the sun’s rays, her heart gradually slowing from its frenzied beating.
Outside the building she could hear the sound of traffic and voices.
She didn’t know what the building was. She hadn’t known the previous night when she’d stumbled upon it, barely able to walk another step due to the bone-crushing weariness that overwhelmed her.
She had wandered up Regent Street from Piccadilly, glancing in shop windows on the way, looking up at the glittering lights and beyond into the night sky.
She’d kept to the main streets, pushing her way through the throngs of people, happier to be surrounded by others than to be walking dark streets alone.
She hated the night.
Feared it.
The presence of others went some small way to allaying that terror.
She’d stood across the street from Selfridge’s and gazed at the huge department store, watching as people passed through its main doors. Like a child mesmerised by the lights on a Christmas tree, she’d remained transfixed by the huge building for what had seemed like hours.
Behind her she had watched people coming and going from a Burger King and a couple of small restaurants. The smells were tantalising; she hadn’t eaten much since she left home and her stomach had rumbled unceasingly as she’d sat on a bench outside, the holdall beside her.
When she’d seen two young men leave the fast-food place and t
oss a hamburger carton into a nearby wastebin she couldn’t help herself.
She’d grabbed the container from amongst the other refuse almost before they’d turned away. There had been a half-eaten cheeseburger inside.
She’d eaten without thinking. The food was still warm, that was all that mattered. It stopped the pains in her stomach for an hour or so.
She’d walked up Duke Street and noticed several To Let signs outside some of the terraced properties leading into Manchester Square.
Maybe one would be empty.
Easy to gain access to?
She’d tried five doors before finally discovering one which was unlocked.
Shanine didn’t care who was to blame for this security fault. All she knew was she had somewhere to sleep. A roof over her head for at least one night.
She’d lain down on the dusty floor and fallen asleep almost immediately. There had been dust sheets in the room, half-empty paint pots. She had no idea when the decorators would return, but that hadn’t mattered. She’d pulled one of the grubby dust sheets over herself and slept.
If there had been nightmares, then she could no longer remember them as she sat motionless, gazing at the warming rays of the sun.
She glanced at her watch.
10.06 a.m.
Her stomach rumbled protestingly. A sound she was becoming used to.
She had to get something to eat. Something substantial.
Shanine crawled across to the holdall and pulled out a clean T-shirt. Balling up the one she removed, she used it to wipe her face and arms before stuffing
it into the bag. As she was donning her fresh T-shirt, she looked down at her thin body. The slight smell of body odour she knew would get worse. But, at the moment, food was her most pressing concern.
The sunlight glinted on the blade of the kitchen knife.
She had to get some food or some money. Both, preferably.
Shanine touched the cold steel.
She must eat. No matter what.
Shanine ran a hand through her hair and, hauling the holdall over her shoulder, got to her feet.
Twenty-three
The doorman of the Grosvenor House Hotel nodded almost imperceptibly at Talbot as the DI walked in, not even glancing at the uniformed attendant.
His eyes, and his mind, were elsewhere. He passed through into reception. One of the receptionists glanced across at him briefly, then returned her attention to the computer before her. Talbot could hear the printer chattering away as he passed.
A couple was checking in, the woman leaning against the counter looking around. Talbot noticed that she slipped her right foot in and out of her shoe as she waited.
Two men in their early fifties walked past him, heading for the lifts, both of them speaking in hushed, almost reverential tones, as if they were reluctant to disturb the stillness of the lobby.
Cigarette smoke accosted him as he entered the Gallery Bar. Although there were only half a dozen people in there, the stale air made it seem as if each of them was already half-way through their second packet of the night. The smoke seemed to refuse to disperse, gathering instead like some invisible cloud which enveloped him as he entered.
Christ, he wanted a cigarette!
A couple of heads turned as he walked in, slowing his pace, gazing around.
Searching.
He saw her sitting at the bar, just a glass for company.
As Talbot approached her, he noticed that she was fumbling in her leather clutch bag for something. He ran appraising eyes over her.
The long blonde hair, brushed gently over the shoulders of her charcoal grey jacket, which was fastened by two gold buttons. Beneath it she was wearing a white blouse and, as she crossed her legs, the black skirt she wore slid up an inch or two to reveal her shapely thighs. She looked down and brushed a piece of fluff from one of her black suede high heels.
Talbot sat on the stool beside her, aware that she still hadn’t seen him.
The barman, on the other hand, had and he ambled towards the policeman.
‘I’ll have a Jameson’s please,’ said the DI. He looked at her. ‘And whatever the lady’s having.’
Gina Bishop looked first at Talbot then pushed her glass towards the barman who moved off to refill it.
‘Talbot,’ she said, managing a small smile. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Looking for you,’ he told her.
She pulled a packet of Silk Cut from her handbag. He watched as she lit up, the flame of the lighter reflecting in her large brown eyes.
‘You still trying to give up?’ she said, pushing the packet towards him.
He nodded, reaching for a handful of peanuts from a bowl on the bar.
The barman returned and set down the drinks.
‘That’s a nice outfit,’ Talbot told her, allowing his gaze to travel up and down her shapely form.
‘It’s Louis Feraud,’ she told him, smugly.
‘A present?’
‘I bought it myself. From Harrods.’ She took a sip of her drink.
‘You must have had a good week last week.’
‘Every week’s a good week.’
He smiled and took a swig of whiskey, feeling it burn its way to his stomach.
‘How did you know I’d be here?’ she wanted to know.
‘I’ve already tried the Dorchester and the Hilton. This was the only one left.’
‘You’re not a detective for nothing, are you?’ she said, a hint of sarcasm in her voice.
‘I knew it had to be one of the three. You’ve been working this same beat since you were twenty. That’s when I first arrested you, remember?’
‘How could I forget?’ She sucked on her cigarette, then blew the smoke in the policeman’s direction. ‘Look, I’ve changed a lot in five years.’
‘Yeah, you’re more expensive now.’
‘But I’m worth it.’
‘Then how come business is slow tonight?’
‘I was going to ask you the same thing. What’s wrong, no one else to arrest?’
Talbot sat back on the bar stool, drink in hand, and looked at her.
‘What are you looking at?’ she demanded.
‘I bet that outfit cost more than I earned last month,’ he commented finally.
‘Probably,’ she said, amused. ‘We’re both the same, Talbot. We both get fucked, it’s just that I get paid more.’
He ran a finger over the sleeve of her jacket.
‘Louis who?’ he said, looking at the material.
‘Feraud,’ she said, indignantly. ‘I didn’t expect you to have heard of him.’
He nodded.
‘And whose designs were you wearing the first time I picked you up? Dorothy fucking Perkins, wasn’t it? You’ve come a long way, Gina.’
‘Look, Talbot, did you come in here to reminisce or is there a reason for all this?’
‘What do you think?’
She nodded, finishing her drink.
‘My place?’ she asked.
‘It’s closer, isn’t it?’ Talbot said, downing what was left in his glass. He left a five-pound note on the bar top, waited for his change and pocketed it.
‘Aren’t you going to leave him a tip?’ Gina said, picking up her bag. She pushed the portable phone inside.
‘For bringing two drinks?’ he said, incredulously.
‘You haven’t changed a bit, Talbot. You’re still a cheap bastard.’
He grinned crookedly at her and offered her his arm, which she took.
They left the bar together.
Twenty-four
He wasn’t afraid of death.
Why should he be?
At thirty-eight years of age, the Reverend Colin Patterson had already stood over enough burials and interments to know that those who went beyond went somewhere better. It was always the relatives his heart went out to. He hated to see suffering, and many times in the past ten years he had struggled to find the words to ease the suffering of those who had lo
st someone close. It was never easy. It wasn’t always possible. But he did his best. That was all God had ever asked, that he did his best.
He would do his best in the army too.
Patterson had thought long and hard about his decision to join the army as a chaplain but he felt that he could do more good there than here in this part of southeast London. He needed a challenge and, despite his family’s protests, he felt that challenge would come amongst fighting men, not amongst the parishioners he’d known and ministered to for the last decade.
His mother had mentioned Bosnia, Belfast and the Falklands, although he’d respectfully pointed out that particular conflict had been over since before his ordination. She had been unimpressed. It could happen again. If not there then some other godforsaken corner of the world.
Patterson had listened attentively to all her arguments, but his mind had been made up before he’d even mentioned it.
He paused beside one of the graves near by and straightened a metal vase which
had been blown over by the wind. As he straightened up he glanced at the headstone: in loving memory of a dear father and husband. Patterson smiled affectionately and continued his walk.
The cemetery gates were opened at nine and he’d already seen a number of people moving around the large necropolis which was Croydon Cemetery.
A number of them he knew by name, the others he was on nodding terms with.
The priest glanced at his watch.
He was due to conduct a burial at eleven.
Plenty of time.
There was a bench to his left, beneath a large oak tree which had already shed several dozen of its large leaves:
they lay like a yellow carpet over the graves beneath the tree.
A bird was singing higher up, its shrill calls wafting pleasingly on the gentle breeze.
Patterson made for the newer area of the cemetery where the more recent interments were sited. The path on which he walked sloped down gently, past a tap which was dripping water. He stopped and turned it off as he passed.
Lives were like drops of water, one of his teachers had told him shortly before his ordination: fragile, precious and so quickly gone.
Patterson wondered how many he would see go in his position as a chaplain, lives taken not by old age or disease but by violence. By explosions, by bullets. By war.
