by Shaun Hutson
He’d been wrong.
Instead, the world swam before him and he had to steady himself against the furniture every time he stood up. But, as for oblivion, it was probably another six or seven glasses away.
He sat on the floor in the hallway, the phone by his feet, the receiver pressed to his ear as he dialled.
He could hear the ringing tone.
His head was spinning and he closed his eyes for a second, but that only made things worse.
The phone was still ringing at the other end.
Reed reached for his glass and took a sip of the last drop of liquor he’d been able to find in the house.
He hated the taste of Bacardi but it was all he’d been able to find.
It should do the job.
The phone was picked up at the other end.
‘Hello.’
Reed recognised the voice.
‘I want to speak to Ellen’ he slurred, then belched, tasting a bitter mixture of alcohol and bile in his throat.
‘I don’t think she wants to speak to you,’ Jonathan Ward told him.
Reed closed his eyes for a second.
‘Look, let me speak to her,’ he said, trying to remain calm.
Silence at the other end.
He heard muted voices briefly then Ellen’s voice.
‘You’ve got a bloody nerve,’ she said, angrily.
‘Just hear me out. About what happened the other day at your work: I’m sorry I caused a scene but-‘
‘I could have lost my job because of you.’
‘And I could lose my daughter because of you'
‘Just leave me alone.’
‘Don’t hang up, Ellen,’ he pleaded.
Silence.
‘Ellen?’
‘I’m still here. Make it quick.’
‘Why did you make Becky say those things about me? Do you hate me that much?’
‘I didn’t make her say them.’
‘I would never hurt her, you know that.’
‘Why did you call?’
‘Don’t go ahead with this. Don’t take it to court. Think about Becky.’
‘Why didn’t you think about her? Before you did what you did to her.’
‘I didn’t touch her’ he snarled, desperation now colouring his tone. ‘You know I didn’t. You planned this whole thing, didn’t you? You and him.’
‘You’re drunk, Frank, now leave us alone.’
‘I want to speak to Becky.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, it’s after eleven. Besides she’s got nothing to say to you.’
‘She’d tell me what you made her say. Why you made her say I’d touched her.’
‘Goodnight, Frank. Don’t call again.’
‘Don’t do this, Ellen’ he rasped.
‘If you call again I’ll tell the police you’ve been harassing us’ she snapped.
‘Just let me talk to her, please.’
‘It’s over, Frank. You won’t see her again.’
‘Please’ he shouted.
It took him a second to realise that he was listening to the monotonous drone of a dial tone.
‘Fucking cunt!’ he screamed at the receiver, slamming it down onto the cradle.
Frank Reed wept.
‘It’s stalled on me, Phil. I don’t know what the hell to do next. Where to go.’
Catherine Reed stared at the array of daily newspapers laid out on the carpet before her and she sighed wearily, leaning back against the sofa where Phillip Cross was lying, one hand gently massaging her shoulder.
She was wearing just a long shirt, unbuttoned to the second fastening, her long slender legs curled beneath her.
Cross was wearing T-shirt and jeans.
The jeans were unbuttoned at the waist, the T-shirt, bearing the legend same shit different day, was untidily tucked into them.
‘What about the rest?’ Cross enquired, nodding towards the other papers.
‘They’ve all got their angles’ she told him. ‘The ones who are bothering to carry stories anyway.’ Cath ran a hand through her long dark hair. ‘I sometimes wonder if we’re the only paper taking this child abuse thing seriously.’ She picked up one of the papers, another tabloid. ‘Two columns on page four. That’s it in the Mirror. The Sport ran a double-page centre spread with colour pictures of women dressed as witches, but now nothing.’
‘What do you expect? You know how they work. No tits, no story,’ Cross shrugged, still gently kneading the flesh of her shoulder.
‘Three columns in the Sun, one in Today and the broadsheets haven’t even touched it.’
‘Passing fad,’ offered Cross.
‘Jesus, Phil, we’re talking about sexual abuse of at least nine children, a possible paedophile ring, parents suspected of molesting their own kids and, to top it all, the probability there’s a ritual element to the whole thing, and still nobody gives a toss. They’d rather read how much Princess Diana spends on a sodding manicure.’
They sat in silence for a moment, just the sound of the TV in the background, the volume lowered so it was barely audible.
‘So, what do you do now?’ Cross asked.
‘No one’s talking any more,’ she told him, reaching back to touch his hand.
‘Not the police, not the Social Services, and certainly not the families. It’s like it’s all over. Pushed into some drawer out of sight. This is a bigger case than Cleveland or Nottingham, and no one wants to know.’
He continued massaging her as she went on. ‘One paper ran something about the video nasties that were found in a few of the houses. But they hardly mentioned the abuse. They were more concerned that the kids might have been watching violent movies. Instead of investigating the whole case they concentrated on the video angle. Some self-righteous MP stands up and calls for a ban on all 18 certificate videos. Jesus Christ, don’t they get it?’
‘You’re talking about politicians, Cath, they don’t live in the real world.
Any of them.’
‘What do you think?’ she asked, turning to face him.
‘About politicians? They’re all a bunch of hypocritical, arse-licking, vote-catching, back-stabbing-‘
She smiled and pressed her finger to his lips.
‘About this story?’ she corrected him, removing her finger.
‘I think there’s something going on, but don’t ask me what. Kids abused, cats nailed to church doors, graves dug up, dawn raids. It makes no sense to me, Cath. I’m just a humble photographer.’
‘But what do you believe?’
He could only shrug.
‘Do you believe my story?’ she asked. ‘Do you believe that the abuse could be ritualistic?’
‘Cath, I…’
‘I need to know, Phil.’
‘I think it’s possible’ he said, quietly, stroking her hair. ‘Why is my
opinion so important?’
‘It just is.’
She kissed him lightly on the lips.
‘What are the police doing about the case?’ he asked, sliding one hand inside her shirt, cupping one breast.
She made no move to resist.
‘They start interviewing the parents of the children tomorrow’ Cath told him, sighing as she felt his thumb brush across her nipple, the fleshy bud stiffening and rising.
‘All you can do is wait, Cath’ he told her, quietly, his hand still gently squeezing her breast.
She bent forward and kissed him hard on the lips, his mouth opening to welcome her probing tongue, his hand squeezing her breast.
She climbed onto the sofa with him, grinding her pubic mound against the bulge she could feel in his jeans, helping him to free his erection.
As he felt her hand grip his shaft he grunted with pleasure, fingers undoing her shirt, tongue snaking forward to flick her swollen nipples. With his free hand he traced a pattern across the inside of first one of her spread thighs then the other, feeling her shiver at his touch.
As she moved forward he felt the slippery
softness of her cleft brush against the tip of his penis.
Cath sighed, wanting him inside her.
She glanced to one side, at the papers spread out across the carpet.
Then, as she felt the first glorious sensations between her legs, felt his stiffness slide into her, she turned her head away.
The phone was ringing when Talbot walked in. He glanced at his watch. 11.27
p.m.
Who the fuck was calling now? He snatched up the receiver. ‘Hello.’
‘Mr Talbot, this is Maurice Hodges’ said the voice at the other end.
The DI felt the colour drain from his cheeks.
Hodges sounded almost apologetic. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you at this time, but it is important’ he said. ‘It’s your mother. It’s bad news.’
Seventy-nine
That smell.
Hospitals always had that smell. Talbot didn’t know what it was but it always made him feel sick.
If he’d been in the mood he would probably have found that particular irony amusing.
As it was he had other things on his mind.
He had no idea how long it had taken him to drive to St Ann’s hospital in Harringay. The journey had been a blur, as if he’d been travelling through some drug-induced trance, not really seeing or hearing properly. He drove instinctively, amazed he hadn’t killed anyone, such had been his haste to reach this place.
This place that smelled so strong it made him feel sick.
The room in which he sat was about twelve feet square.
It reminded him of a cell but for the leaflets on the wall.
Multiple sclerosis.
Rabies.
Cancer.
Always fucking cancer.
That particular leaflet was pinned just above the red and white sign which proclaimed: no smoking.
Talbot felt more like a cigarette than he’d ever done in his life.
A nurse had brought him a cup of tea when he’d first arrived.
That same cup now stood untouched and cold on the table before him.
The room was lit by a small table lamp fitted with a forty-watt bulb. It was barely adequate and the room was filled with long shadows. Thick and black, they seemed to move of their own accord.
The door of the room opened and two men entered, one of whom Talbot recognised as Dr Hodges from Litton Vale. The other man was also, he assumed, a doctor, his features pinched, his hair swept back so severely it looked as though his scalp had been stretched.
But, for all that, he had sad eyes. Great saucer-like orbs which homed in on Talbot like searchlights on a fleeing man.
‘How is she?’ the DI asked, rising to his feet.
The man with sad eyes kept him fixed in that watery gaze.
‘I won’t lie to you’ he said softly. ‘I’ll be surprised if she lasts the night. I’m very sorry.’
Talbot stood motionless. ‘What was it?’ he said, looking at Hodges.
‘A massive heart attack,’ the doctor told him. ‘One of the night staff called me: I live close to Litton Vale, I don’t know if you know. I drove there, I called the ambulance immediately, then I called you.’
‘Can I see her?’ Talbot asked.
‘She’s in a coma,’ the sad-eyed man told him.
‘I didn’t ask you that. I asked if I could see her,’ the DI persisted.
‘I’d advise against it, Mr Talbot-‘
‘I don’t want your advice, I want to see my mother.’
The sad-eyed doctor glanced at Hodges then back at Talbot. ‘She’s in ICU. I can show you-‘
‘I’ll find it,’ said Talbot, pushing past him.
As he stepped out of the room he saw several signs on the blue-painted hospital wall.
One pointed the way to Intensive Care.
Talbot stalked off down the corridor and jabbed the lift call button, waiting as the car bumped to a halt before him.
As the doors slid open he saw an old man in a dressing gown inside, who shot him a questioning look. The man was using a frame to walk and even that didn’t seem to be of much help.
Talbot wondered what he was doing up and about at such a late hour.
The policeman stepped into the lift, watched by the old man, pressed the required button and the doors slid shut.
He leaned against the rear wall as the lift rose to its appointed floor.
The smell here seemed even stronger, but Talbot ignored it and headed towards the nurses’ station, his footsteps echoing through the stillness.
The nurse who looked up at him was in her early twenties.
‘I’m looking for Dorothy Talbot,’ he said. ‘I’m her son.’
The nurse stared at him, pity filling her eyes, then she rose.
Talbot followed her along a short corridor towards a room, the door of which she pushed open, ushering Talbot inside.
‘Oh Christ!’ he whispered.
The only sound in the room was the steady blip of an oscilloscope.
‘You can’t stay long’ the nurse said, apologetically, stepping aside as Talbot moved closer to the bed where his mother lay.
There was a plastic chair close to the bed and he pulled it over, seating himself beside her, gazing into her face.
Her skin was the colour of old newspaper, her eyes sunken so deep into her face she looked skeletal.
The nurse paused a moment then stepped out of the room.
Talbot sat gazing at his mother, at the tubes running from both arms to drips near by. At the catheter, half full of dark liquid.
‘Mum,’ he said, softly, reaching for her hand.
It was so cold.
Her skin felt waxen to his touch.
And so cold.
He could see her chest rising and falling almost imperceptibly but he couldn’t hear her breathing.
All that was covering her was a sheet, and that was only pulled up as far as her waist. Talbot muttered something under his breath and noticed a blanket carefully folded on the bottom of the bed. He unrolled it then pulled both it
and the sheet up to his mother’s chest.
Carefully he tucked one of her hands beneath the covers, gripping it gently.
‘Don’t die.’
She looked so frail, so drained of life. So different from the last time he’d seen her.
Well, at least you won’t have to worry about bringing her home, will you ? You bastard.
He squeezed her hand more tightly, as if the action might rouse her from the coma.
Heart attack.
Jesus Christ, wasn’t fucking cancer enough?
Talbot noticed that there was a small wooden cross hanging above the bed.
He eyed it malevolently.
She didn’t deserve to suffer. Her least of all.
Allowing his mother’s hand to slip from his grip, he got to his feet and plucked the cross from the wall placing it on the bedside table.
‘Satisfied now?’ he said, his words directed at empty air.
At a God he didn’t believe in.
He reached for her hand again.
So cold.
‘You sleep, Mum,’ he whispered, barely realising there were tears rolling down his cheeks. The oscilloscope continued its slow rhythm.
Everything else was silent.
The nurse came to the door, peeked through the glass panel and saw Talbot sitting holding his mother’s hand.
She hesitated a moment, then walked quietly away.
Eighty
The note had been on the pillow beside her when she’d woken that morning.
Cath had rolled over sleepily, slapping a hand in the general direction of the alarm clock, expecting also to feel the warmth of Phillip Cross’s body but the photographer wasn’t there.
She’d found the note moments later, sliding across her large bed and shutting off the alarm, glancing down to see the scribbled note: ‘Some of us have to work for a living. See you later. Love Phil.’
Cath remembered dimly that he’d said so
mething to her the night before about having an assignment in Paddington early that morning.
Very early.
She glanced across at the alarm.
7.30 a.m.
Then she looked back at the note.
Love Phil.
Love?
Now, as she parked her Fiat in the car park at the back of the Express building, she looked down at the note once again. At first she wondered why she’d even kept it with her, stuffing it into the back pocket of her jeans.
She glanced at it and smiled.
Love?
Perhaps he did love her.
Perhaps she loved him.
Cath folded the note and slid it into the pocket again, picking up her briefcase from the back seat.
She usually entered by the door at the rear of the building. A security guard was posted there too, but he didn’t ask to see her pass as she approached him.
She smiled broadly at him and mentioned the previous night’s football results.
The security man smiled back and called something to her about Liverpool in a broad scouse accent.
She waved dismissively at him as she got into the lift. When she reached her floor, she stepped out and was enveloped by sound: raised voices, chattering keyboards, electronic printers, even the clacking of a typewriter. Some of the older journalists on the paper still typed their copy before transferring it
to their word processors. Cath wondered if they saw it as a last desperate attempt to cling onto a now archaic way of working. One of the sports writers completed all his features on an old Elite machine.
The office was open plan, desks separated from each other only by movable partitions. They didn’t offer much privacy and it sometimes made taking phone calls difficult, but Cath enjoyed the organised chaos of the newsroom. She had done ever since she joined the paper.
A number of her colleagues nodded greetings at her as she headed towards her desk. Others were either out of the office or engrossed in their own work.
She spotted the young lad who was in the office on work experience struggling with a cardboard tray filled with coffee cups from the vending machine.
Cath smiled. It seemed to be all the poor little sod did. Fetch coffee. By the time his week was up he’d probably have learned more about being a waiter than a journalist. He passed from desk to desk distributing beverages.
