Had they not had that stupid row, he would have been at her side, where he should have been, when the fire brigade arrived.
The property below theirs was also nothing more than a shell. The building would probably be knocked down she’d been informed, and the council was still assessing whether the neighbouring building could be saved or whether both should go. It wasn’t a decision the council would likely rush, particularly given the extensive costs involved. They were just as likely to sell the freehold to a developer. It didn’t matter either way to Megan; there was no way she’d set foot in whatever rose from the ashes.
‘Megan? Is that you?’
Megan turned and saw a woman in high heels toddling towards her.
‘It is you! I thought it was!’ the woman said, her grey roots showing beneath the straw-like locks.
‘Uh, hi,’ Megan replied, unable to keep the uncertainty from her voice. ‘How are you?’
The woman was wearing too much lipstick for her age, and the low cut top was showing off far too much of her cleavage. Her face looked familiar, but Megan couldn’t quite place why.
‘How you been keeping?’ the woman continued, as she removed one of her shoes, oblivious to the confused frown dominating Megan’s face. She instinctively rested a hand on one of the wheelchair’s handles as she teetered on the remaining heel, before returning the shoe and straightening up.
Given that Megan still couldn’t place who the woman was, it didn’t seem fair to tell the truth and explain the heartbreak and trauma suffered since she’d caused the flat to burn down.
‘How are you?’ Megan asked instead.
‘Same old, same old,’ the woman beamed back, showing the lipstick had caught one of her front teeth too. ‘I’m still in the Eastleigh branch, but they’ve moved me into Personnel now. There’s a lot of rules and regulations we’re supposed to follow, but it sure beats dealing with customer complaints. What about you? You still on checkouts?’
The penny finally dropped. It had to have been at least three years since Janice had worked in the same supermarket as Megan. Back then, Janice had been check-out supervisor, a friendly woman, but far too disorganised to run an area as demanding as that. The last Megan had heard, Janice had been moved to a smaller store where the demand wasn’t as great.
‘I’m signed off at the moment,’ Megan admitted, looking away.
‘Oh yeah? What for?’
Megan stared at her for a long time. How was it possible for someone to be so blind to the burns on her hands and the fact she was now sitting in a wheelchair?
‘Stress,’ Megan eventually replied as the easiest option.
‘Oh yeah, I know how you feel,’ Janice chortled. ‘With the kids, my husband working late and balancing it with work, I know just how you feel.’
She didn’t, but Megan didn’t see the point in attempting to make that any more abundantly clear.
‘Hey, you should come to the bingo with us tonight,’ Janice suggested, her face looking as excited as someone who had just discovered the cure to cancer. ‘We go every Tuesday,’ she continued, winking, ‘have a few G&Ts, win some money. It’s a right giggle. You’d love it!’
Megan knew she wouldn’t. ‘That’s kind of you to offer, but I have plans for tonight already.’
‘You still shagging that strapping guy? The mechanic. What was his name? Rick? Randy? I’m sure it was something beginning with R,’ she added, biting down on one her plastic nails as she racked her memory.
‘It was Rob,’ Megan confirmed quietly. ‘We’re not...’ she began to say, before correcting herself. ‘I’m seeing him tonight as it goes.’
‘Oh, that’s a shame, for us I mean. Maybe next week? Let me give you my number,’ she reached into her overly large handbag, and wrestled around inside until she located what she was looking for, handing the card over. ‘Sorry, it’s stained with coffee, but it has both my mobile numbers on it. You can usually reach me on either.’
Megan couldn’t think of any reason someone would need two mobile phones; hers hadn’t rung in weeks. But she pocketed the card graciously, before making her excuses, and waited for Janice to hop into the white soft top sports car parked down the road and drive away, before turning to take one final look at the blackened mess.
She should have died in that fire too.
It was time to fix fate’s mistake.
SEVEN
The large office of the Major Investigation Team was relatively quiet with just a couple of the team working at their desks. The rest were probably out trying to secure what little evidence of McGregor’s activities remained from the hull of what had been his address. At least nobody would witness Jake’s walk of shame as he carried the few personal items he’d dared to bring into work.
He reached for the silver photo frame, his proud smile reflecting in the glass as his eyes fell on the image of the girl in the picture. Gabby: aged five and dressed in a pink tutu as she coveted the runners-up rosette she’d been awarded after her first dance show. She was his little twinkle toes, and they had still yet to figure out where her dancing talent had come from. Certainly not from Jake, and he doubted Gabby’s mother had ever donned a pair of ballet shoes. But Gabby had natural talent; the dance instructor had told them that many times, and having watched her perform in half a dozen shows since, he couldn’t disagree.
He lowered the frame into the cardboard box, as the shame of his actions gripped him. He then reached for the spare tie he always kept in the drawer for emergencies, lowering it into the box along with his favourite pen, and the mug declaring him the “World’s Best Dad” – a gift from Gabby last father’s Day. She’d told him she’d personally picked it out, and he believed her, as he doubted Gabby’s mother would have selected it.
What was he going to tell Gabby? She would be cross if she found out he’d been reckless enough to lose his job, and her mother would have a field day with it. If he had any chance of winning the custody battle, his indiscretion needed to remain a secret for as long as possible.
‘Can I have a word before you head off, boyo?’ a voice from the valleys said quietly over his shoulder.
Turning, Jake nodded at the DCI. ‘Your office?’
DCI Fred Toshack – Tosh to the team – pulled a chair over to the desk. ‘Here will do. Those guys down the end of the office won’t hear.’
Jake flopped into his own chair, ready for another reprimand.
Toshack ran a hand through his white-as-snow full head of hair, before smoothing the white moustache covering his top lip. ‘I thought you should know Annie’s still in intensive care, but the doctors are confident she should make a full recovery -’
‘I’d like to see her,’ Jake interrupted.
But the DCI shook his head. ‘You need to stay away, at least until this thing blows over.’
Tosh knew about the suspension. Hardly surprising, but Jake’s cheeks still flushed. ‘I’m sorry, Tosh. I fucked it all up.’
‘Well, I’m not going to lie to you, Jake, you have left us with a sticky wicket, but we’ll still nail that son of a bitch. I promise you that much. And I’m sure when she’s recovered, Annie will be the first one to thank you for what you did. Your actions – preventing him kicking her more, and stemming the blood with your tie – you probably saved her life. Courage like that doesn’t go unnoticed in my book. Okay?’
Jake nodded, unable to look the DCI in the eye, but grateful for the modicum of understanding.
‘That’s some right hook you’ve got mind you,’ Tosh continued, smoothing the moustache again. ‘You ever thought about training for the ring?’
Prior to today, Jake couldn’t recall ever throwing a fist in anger, maybe as an errant schoolboy or fighting with his brother, but certainly not since he’d grown out of puberty. And he’d certainly never contemplated learning to box
‘You cracked one of his teeth,’ Tosh chuckled. ‘I wish I’d been there to see it. Of course officially I would have restrained you and stopped you invit
ing a shit storm down, but boy it would have been great to see the shock on his face as you connected.’
There was actually a glint of pride in the older man’s eyes as he spoke, not that Jake shared the sentiment.
‘I shouldn’t have let him get to me,’ Jake said. ‘I knew he was trying to get a rise out of me, but I let him do it. I deserve whatever punishment’s coming my way.’
Tosh wagged a finger of warning inches from Jake’s face. ‘Don’t go giving up on me, boyo. You need to forgive yourself and then focus on making reparations to that little girl of yours. You hear me? She doesn’t need you feeling sorry for yourself. You screwed up, but the best thing you can do – for her and yourself – is to move on.’
‘Will you apologise to the rest of the team for me? I don’t think I could bare their disappointed faces.’
‘I’m sure any one of the others would have reacted in the same way as you given the circumstances. I’m not condoning what you did, but I do understand why you did it.’
‘They’re going to sack me, Tosh.’
‘Don’t go jumping the gun. These things are never black and white. Mark my words. I’ll see if there’s anything I can do. You have fifteen years of unblemished service under your belt. That has to count for something.’
Jake appreciated the DCI’s support, even if he was backing the wrong horse.
‘Whatever happens,’ Tosh added, resting a hand on Jake’s leg and squeezing his knee, ‘I will be putting you forward for a commendation for what you did for Annie. Maybe it’ll be enough to save your neck.’
Tosh stood, returning the chair to the desk he’d taken it from, leaving Jake alone with just his thoughts and hurt pride. The team members at the end of the office had disappeared, and Jake was grateful for that.
But as he stood and lifted the box from the desk, shutting off the monitor as he went, he wasn’t expecting to see DS Ian Waverley eyeballing him.
‘I hope you’re pleased with yourself,’ Waverley sneered, looking down his nose at Jake.
Jake sighed in frustration, but was determined not to engage with the man who seemed to have a permanent stick up his bum. He looked away, brushing past Waverley as he went.
‘Mind you don’t accidentally knock anyone else out on your way home,’ Waverley scoffed.
Jake dropped the box on the nearest desk and turned back to face him. ‘You want to take a pop at me? Is that it?’
Waverley, a good six inches shorter than Jake and at least ten years older, took a cautious step backwards. ‘That’s your answer to everything, isn’t it? Violence.’
Jake remained where he was, grinding his teeth in an effort to stop his mouth moving before he’d had chance to consider his words. ‘I know better than anyone that what I did was stupid. I don’t need a pencil-neck like you telling me.’
Waverley straightened his tie, brushing a crumb from the lapel of his perfectly-tailored pinstripe blazer. ‘Detectives like you are a dying and unwanted breed: still believing that brawn and instinct is the key to good policing. It’s no wonder that Annie went haring off after McGregor when he bolted. With a role model like you, what else was she going to do?’
‘I tried to call her back,’ Jake protested. ‘I only went after her out of fear for her safety. Fear, which I might add, was justified given what happened to her.’
‘Oh yeah, I bet you’re so proud. All you had to do was arrest the suspect, but what’s the outcome from today? One officer fighting for her life in intensive care, a suspect who will sue the department and walk before we can charge him, and a condemned row of houses. Am I missing anything?’
Jake squared up to him, but kept his hands by his sides.
‘That’s enough from you two,’ Tosh’s voice bellowed from his enclosure. ‘Jake, go home! And Waverley? Go and find another tiger to poke, will you?’
Jake gave Waverley a final glare, before turning and collecting his box, and heading for the door. For the first time in months he was leaving the office before six p.m., but he wished more than anything else that the exit wasn’t enforced.
EIGHT
The battery-powered tea light candle flickered as Megan rested it on the shelf in the windowless bathroom in her ground floor studio flat. With the three she’d left on the toilet siphon, and the two she’d balanced precariously on top of the medicine cabinet, the room glowed enough for her to be able to move around. But it left enough intense shadow that she wouldn’t have to see what she was going to do.
She’d remained at Rob’s grave for almost an hour, updating him on the monotony of her daily routine. She’d told him about the block of flats the council had placed her in following the incident. They’d had to find somewhere for her on the ground floor, or in a block with a regularly-serviced elevator. Thankfully this place had recently been “vacated”; the council worker’s choice of phrase, not hers.
But Megan knew what that meant. If they said the flat had “become available” that meant the previous occupant had been moved to a new residence. But when it had been “vacated”, they basically meant the previous occupant had died and would no longer be needing it.
Megan didn’t want to ponder whether he or she had died while in the flat, but liked to hope that the previous occupant had passed peacefully in hospital. Megan wasn’t particularly superstitious, but only because she didn’t really want to understand the world of ghouls, trapped souls and tortured spirits. As much as she would welcome Rob returning to her in a ghost-like form as Patrick Swayze had in the film, she didn’t want to think about the millions of other translucent spirits that would also lurk; watching over everything we did.
She shuddered at the thought, pulling the thin gown tighter over her shoulders, and catching glimpse of her face in the medicine cabinet which had been lowered so she could comb her thick black hair while seated. She couldn’t complain about the lengths the council had gone to, to accommodate her after the fire had demolished her home. They’d even arranged for a national charity to supply a range of new clothes and bare essentials so she could continue to live; not that she considered this living. She was surviving, and only just.
Dinner had been a tuna and cucumber sandwich – all they’d had left at the local corner shop – and a large chocolate bar for energy; it’s not like she had to worry about her ever-widening figure, not where she was going. She’d also bought a bottle of wine, hoping the Dutch courage would help her make it through the night. She’d never been much of a drinker, not like Rob. He’d been able to drink pint after pint of lager, cider or whatever else was thrust into his hand. On special occasions she would have a small gin, heavily watered down with tonic, or even a spritzer, but she just didn’t enjoy the culture of getting drunk, not that she didn’t long for the escape it could bring.
Lowering her hand, she lifted the bottle of wine from the linoleum floor, which creaked under the weight of her body in the chair. The cap scraped and sheered as she unfastened it and put the bottle to her lips, taking a large swig. She instantly regretted it, grimacing at the tartness of the pear and citrus notes stung her cheeks. Lowering the bottle she stared at the label. It hadn’t been an expensive selection, but the woman behind the counter had recommended it as her favourite tipple. But how could people drink this stuff so easily and regularly.
Replacing the cap, she rested the bottle on the edge of the walk-in bath, and opened the side, positioning the wheelchair so she could hoist herself into the round plastic vat, and close the door. Once in, she slid off the gown, throwing it back onto the cushion in the wheelchair, and then adjusted the taps until they reached a warm temperature. Lowering the plug, the bath began to slowly fill, as she lowered the seat slightly and waited for the water to lap against the top of her legs, where she still had some minor sensation.
She hadn’t bothered with bubble bath, as she wasn’t planning on spending too much time in there. The splashing water filled the silence in the flat. She’d meant to put on the radio, so the neighbours wouldn’t be able to he
ar any cries of pain – if there were any – but as she sat and watched the taps flowing she realised she’d forgotten to turn it on. The bath was only a third full, so she could easily empty it, go to the kitchen and switch on the radio, before returning and starting again, but she simply couldn’t be bothered.
She hadn’t looked over at the paring knife since she’d placed it on the edge of the bath. She hadn’t been sure what would be the most effective way of breaking the skin over the veins near her wrists, but this knife had always been good at cutting through potatoes and carrots, so she hoped it would be up to the task.
She could now feel the water gently lapping against her over-hanging belly and shut off the tap. Her hands trembled as she reached across and took hold of the knife, the plastic handle cool to the touch. She quickly dropped it back down, and lifted the bottle of wine, taking a second long swig and grimacing once again. She should have bought some lemonade to dilute the liquid somewhat, but that was another thing she’d forgotten to do. Was this fate’s way of telling her not to go through with it? For suicide to be successful, did it require better planning?
‘If you can hear me, Rob, I need you now. Please be my strength.’
She closed her eyes shut and tried to visualise his ghost-like presence merging into hers as Swayze had done in the film. She wanted to feel him possess her just one more time, and be her courage. Keeping her eyes closed, and breathing slowly, she pictured him holding her arm, lifting it and moving her hand to the blade’s handle. His touch was warm, as it always had been, and his skin rough after years of battling eczema. But she could feel it, and as her fingers playfully touched the handle once more she was certain he was there with her, and didn’t dare open her eyelids and spoil the sensation.
Déjà Vu Page 4
