Parallel Life

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘And if they catch you?’

  He scarcely heard her. The fact was that he felt as if he might be losing his grip altogether. If the gun reached the police, if Annie spoke up, he was done for. He would go to jail for something he had not done. It would be a long sentence, far longer than the punishment for housebreaking and burglary. If he got the gun back, he could be relatively safe. If he got caught trying to get the gun, Annie and the rest might well breathe a sigh of relief and leave him to serve the shorter sentence for the burglary of Weaver’s Warp. But, with him captured and removed, they would still have the weapon. After he had done his time, he would continue in this mess.

  The police were looking for him – or so the coven of witches had said. Already a hunted man, he needed to ensure that any prison time would be kept to a minimum. He was sick of all this turning in his mind all the time, felt as if his brain would burst if something didn’t happen soon.

  The old woman had ordered him to keep her family out of it. She was the one with all the power. If that gun showed its barrel, he would drag Lisa through the mud, would try to make her an accomplice, at least, in the alarm crimes. But Birmingham? He could not think past Birmingham. And Lisa Compton-Milne was respected: Chamber of Commerce, Association of Bolton Traders, all that kind of stuff. Who would take his word against hers? He’d been in trouble off and on all his life, so . . .

  ‘Jimmy?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ll leave that window a bit open if I can. After he’s gone to New Zealand, like. Because I’ve heard the girl talking to her mam about the prof working in the night. He’s like Maggie Thatcher – needs no sleep.’

  ‘Aye, and she brought the country to its knees, didn’t she? Businesses closing, folk losing their houses just so she could try and keep the bloody pound clean.’ Sal was staring at him. ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘Are you in a bad mood?’

  Was he in a bad mood? Where had Sal been for the last few weeks? He was always in a bad mood.

  ‘I liked Mrs Thatcher,’ Sal said. ‘She was the best man in England at the time. We’ll not see the likes of her in a hurry.’

  Jimmy made no reply. He had seen her double only too recently. The name was Mrs Hermione Compton-Milne . . .

  Sister Mary Magdalene began yet another decade of rosary. Mathilda was breathing on her own. This had happened before on several occasions, but this time she was having no trouble at all. Machines measured, clicked and beeped, all recording that the patient was maintaining a decent level of oxygen and a good heart rhythm.

  Although she considered herself fully prepared for further developments, Magda almost fell off her chair when the finger moved. It was happening. The good Lord had answered all the prayers, and the princess in the tower was showing signs of mobility. Magda pressed a bell. After a minute or so, Mother Benedict put in an appearance. ‘Yes?’ she asked, breathless after dashing up the stairs.

  ‘She moved the index finger of the right hand.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Magda nodded. ‘Praise God,’ she mumbled.

  Mother Benedict did not quite share in Magda’s joy. This had been a coma of great length and, when Mathilda had been a child, waking had meant sedation because of the fits. Many times, the sedation had been reduced and the patient had breathed unaided, but she always reverted to type: fitting, failing to breathe, coming very close to death.

  ‘She’s going to be all right, isn’t she, Mother?’ Magda asked.

  Mother Benedict had no idea. This young girl had never walked, never spoken, had not responded to any stimulus. Could she hear the music that was played for her each day? Did she listen when someone read aloud to her? ‘I don’t know, Magda. Before you joined the order, we hoped on many occasions that she was going to recover. But there has to be something wrong with her wiring, or she would have woken properly a long time ago.’

  ‘Where there’s life, there’s hope. Is that not right, Mother?’

  The head of the convent agreed with a nod of her head. ‘But we have all questioned our consciences on this matter, have we not?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘As Catholics, we are bred to believe in life at any price. But I have looked at this injured child of ours and I have wondered. What sort of life is this? Should we be keeping her alive with machinery? Would it not have been kinder to let her go when her breathing deteriorated?’

  ‘Then you question the very core of our faith, Mother. And yes, I have done the same. There – see? The finger moved again.’

  ‘Yes, I saw. But I won’t contact her visitor. There is no point in raising hopes needlessly. It’s far too cruel.’ Mother leaned over the bed and kissed the pale forehead on its paler pillow. There was something so unbearably sad about Mathilda. She lingered somewhere between life and death, never truly living, never completely escaping the bonds of human flesh. ‘Let me know if anything further develops, Magda.’

  ‘Of course, Mother.’

  The finger did not move again during Magda’s shift. There was no flicker of an eyelid, no motion at all save for the steady movement of the girl’s ribcage as she took in and expelled air. If she could do that, if she could move a finger and remember to breathe, surely there must be a chance of recovery?

  The nun continued to count her beads until relief arrived and she was free to return to her depleted convent. She went reluctantly because she wanted to be there when Mathilda woke, wanted to share the adventure. Would she understand words, would she recognize Vivaldi, Beethoven, Chopin?

  Magda descended the stairs, finding herself wondering what would become of Mathilda when all the sisters were gone. There were no novices, no postulants, no young women willing to dedicate their lives to the service of man in the name of God. The world was changing, depreciating; mankind became more selfish with each passing year.

  But there were carrots to peel, paying guests to feed. Worries had to be postponed for now. Yet Mary Magdalene’s unease plagued her for the rest of the day. She would not be satisfied until she saw Mathilda again.

  Annie was exhausted.

  She had just got the twins bedded down, had acted as referee in a row about a computer game, and was ready to settle down with her jewellery books. Working with precious stones and metals was delicious. She loved the feel of gold and silver, the sight of a good, well-cut diamond with its deep, rich heart. Wearing a suit at work was great, too. In her previous job, it had been a sweaty nylon overall; even a bucketful of Chanel Number Five could never have eradicated the stench of cooking fat and vinegar. Now, all dressed up and somewhere to go, she was pleased when a customer asked a question, delighted when she was able to answer sensibly, but did not mind if she had to refer to Lisa or Simon.

  She grinned. Simon was a card. During tea breaks, he would regale her with tales of Canal Street in Manchester, the wonderful restaurants, the outrageous karaoke, the gays’ molls who came along just for the fun of it all. ‘Come and be my moll,’ he would beg repeatedly. ‘I can show a girl a good time, sweet. And my Derek would love you.’ Except that Simon didn’t say ‘love’. He allowed the word to reach out far beyond its natural life, so that it became ‘lo-o-o-ove. He was a scream.

  Annie grabbed her mug of Nescafé and placed it on a side table at the end of the sofa. Tonight, she intended to find out why a red sapphire was not a ruby, since both stones were basically corundum. She flicked through a few pages, went back to the index, sighed when World War Three broke out again upstairs. ‘If you two don’t shut up, there’ll be no spending money come Friday,’ she yelled from the bottom of the stairs.

  Someone giggled, but silence ensued.

  Annie turned to find herself staring into the familiar eyes of her departed husband. Except, he looked different. There was a wildness about him, a desperation that made her feel almost sorry for him. Almost, but not quite. ‘What do you want?’ she asked. ‘You’re supposed to stay away, because you upset Lisa something shocking with all your lies and you
r stealing. She thought you were going to give her the world, and all you gave her was trouble.’

  He bared his teeth in a nasty, mirthless grin. ‘Then she should have kept herself to herself, eh? She’s a married woman, just as much to blame as I was.’

  She led him away from the stairs because she did not want Billy and Craig to find out that their dad was here. They needed precious little excuse to spend more time downstairs, and she had taken her fill of their messing about for one night. ‘Get in there and keep your voice down,’ she whispered.

  In the living room, he settled into his usual chair. ‘Anything to eat?’ he asked.

  Annie laughed, though the sound was muted and hollow. ‘It takes me all my time to feed the three kids. No. The chippy’s open – go and get something.’

  He looked her up and down. ‘So. You’ve gone from dishing out mushy peas to flogging diamonds and pearls. How did you manage that? After all, you and madam should be sworn enemies.’

  ‘Don’t talk so wet,’ she answered. ‘You’re not worth fighting over. We got on right from day one, me and Lisa—’

  ‘Once you’d taken her hair off your hands and scraped her skin from under your fingernails.’ He leaned forward. ‘I want to come home when this is all sorted out,’ he pleaded.

  Annie’s eyebrows shot upward. ‘You what? You’re going to jail, Jimmy Nuttall. All those houses burgled after you fitted the alarms – you’re history, mate. Now go before I call the cops myself.’

  He bared his teeth again. ‘You won’t do that, Annie. You don’t want to be the one who put the kids’ dad away, do you? Oh and by the way – go near the phone and I’ll break your bloody neck.’

  A short silence followed the threat. It was his eyes that betrayed him. They couldn’t keep still. He blinked a lot, while his gaze darted about like a wasp in a fury at the end of summer. She suddenly realized that she was frightened. If he didn’t hurt her now, he could get her any time he chose. Worse than that, he could get her children. There was little point in reasoning with him. He was clearly past the point of sensible discussion. To her untrained eye, he looked as if he might be on the verge of lunacy. ‘Why are you here?’ she asked eventually. ‘I thought you were long gone.’

  He made no reply.

  ‘Jimmy?’

  ‘What?’ He jumped, was startled as if he had been woken from deep sleep.

  ‘I asked why you came here.’

  He shrugged, but his shoulders remained rigid and tense. ‘To get some more clothes and to ask you about that gun.’

  Only the ticking of an old clock filled the next few seconds.

  ‘Well?’ he said.

  ‘I haven’t got it.’

  ‘Then who has?’ He stood up, crossed the room and grabbed her hair, lifting her out of her seat. ‘Tell me,’ he snarled.

  She refused to scream. The lads would be down faster than sugar off a shiny shovel if she yelled. The pain was intense. She could feel strands of hair ripping out at the roots. ‘Let me go,’ she sobbed.

  But Jimmy was in a world of his own, a place where reason did not dwell, where fear roamed like a large, black bear in the dead of night. It was fear that made him angry, made him hit her with the flat of his hand, then with his fist. He was beating her, his mother, Lisa and that old double-barrelled woman who probably had the gun. He was lashing out at Sal, too, because she was a lazy slob and she had taken his money for furniture and—

  He stopped as suddenly as he had started. Where the hell had that come from? The idea had been to ask about the gun, to get some clothes, to plead and beg for help. Annie was his place of safety, his wife, mother to his kids. ‘Oh, God,’ he groaned. He had taken a chance by coming here, but he had blown that chance by losing his rag.

  She dropped to the floor like a stone. But there was no blood in a stone, was there? The beige rug was stained, and a dark pool pouring from her head was spreading. ‘Annie? Annie, love?’

  She moaned, then lay very still.

  Jimmy stood over her, felt the pain in his right hand, knew that he had hurt her badly. ‘I didn’t mean it,’ he said, tears choking the words as they emerged. What must he do now? He needed an ambulance, but he would be arrested. The children might come down in the morning and find their mother dead on the floor. She could be dead already. He knelt, took her wrist, found a pulse.

  He had no idea where to start. People died from head injuries; he could have killed her – or worse. She might be brain damaged. If he went to jail and Annie went crazy, what would happen to Billy and Craig and Daisy? He swallowed hard. A cloth. He needed a cloth to wipe her head so that he might see the extent of the damage he had done. But would he see? If there were injuries inside her head . . .

  Minutes ticked by, each beat of time marking his lack of courage, his inability to make a decision, every second emphasizing the cowardice that prevented him from picking up the phone. Not the house phone. No, he wouldn’t call from here because a 999 call was always traceable. He would definitely go down for this. Unless she died or woke up too puddled to remember, he would be imprisoned for this attack. Why the hell had he lost control so suddenly? It was living with Sal, he decided. Living with Sal and not being able to find the Birmingham gun. But this was his wife . . .

  Overcome more by self-pity than by sorrow for Annie, he wept for a while. She still wasn’t moving. The bleeding had slowed. He couldn’t leave her here, dared not move her, didn’t know where to take her. She was so still. Were it not for the blood, she might have been asleep, lips slightly parted, breathing even. That was a good sign, surely? He had to go, had to abandon her.

  Jimmy left the house, closing the door quietly behind him. He jumped into the van, found that his legs were shaking so badly that he kangaroo-ed his way up the road. Phone box. He needed to find a phone. When he eventually called for an ambulance, he used a scarf in case he left prints, because the cops would be round this place like flies once the call had been traced. He spoke through the scarf, gave the address, said he had heard screaming and banging, thought someone had been attacked.

  The operator asked for his name. ‘Just a neighbour,’ he replied. ‘I don’t want to get involved.’ The second part was true, anyway. He couldn’t afford to be associated with what had happened tonight. She would tell them. Once she woke, she would grass on him. Annie must not die, must not be brain damaged. But he would be punished – it was only a matter of time.

  He drove very quickly away from the phone box, taking a chance by breaking speed limits. ‘Get away,’ he kept muttering under his breath. ‘Get as far as you can and as quick as you can.’

  Back at Sal’s, he remained outside for a while. He could hear the television through the walls. She was watching Challenge TV, he decided, probably reruns of Family Fortunes. He had lost his family tonight, and he’d never had much of a fortune. No matter what happened from now, he was on his own. Except for Sal.

  The phone woke Lisa at just before three in the morning.

  She groaned, peeled off her eye-mask and grabbed the offending item from its cradle. ‘Hello?’

  It was the police. Mrs Anne Nuttall was in hospital after being discovered injured in her home. They had found Lisa’s number in her address book. ‘She came round long enough to tell the nurses not to phone her mother yet. Seems her mother’s got angina, so we have to let the old lady sleep till morning. Mrs Nuttall kept telling the hospital staff to phone you, madam. The children are in the house with two constables.’

  By now, Lisa was bolt upright and wide-eyed.

  ‘She wants you to take the children, Mrs Compton-Milne. We don’t know where their father is, so they should really go into care for the time being. You are Mrs Nuttall’s employer?’

  ‘Yes.’ Lisa swallowed. She was hopeless with children. She’d been hopeless even with her own. But that didn’t matter, not now, as this was clearly an emergency. ‘How’s Annie? What happened to her?’

  The policeman sighed heavily. ‘She’s been beaten about the
face.’

  Lisa, brought to her full senses by the shocking news, was suddenly furious. Annie? Poor little Annie who loved jewellery, worked damned hard and would help just about anyone if she could? ‘Is she very ill?’

  ‘Sorry, but you’d have to ask the hospital. As far as we know, she’s still in theatre.’

  Lisa leapt from her bed and pulled on a pair of jeans. She dragged off the nightdress over her head, found a sweater and rushed to the door. Keys. Car keys, house keys. She ran back, grabbed what she needed and dashed down the stairs. It had to be him. Should she phone the hospital now? No, no, Annie wanted her to get to the twins and Daisy, so that was exactly what she would do.

  Lisa remembered nothing about the journey. When she reached Annie’s terraced cottage, she was greeted by two members of the force, one male, one female. She was led through the narrow hall into the rear kitchen, since the living room was cordoned off as the scene of the crime. Two ashen-faced boys sat at the table. The little girl was asleep on a small, two-seater sofa. ‘God,’ breathed Lisa. She looked over her shoulder and saw white-suited SOCOs padding about, shoes covered in fabric.

  ‘Will Mam die?’ asked the nearest boy.

  Lisa gave him a weak smile. ‘I shouldn’t think so. I need her back at the shop as soon as possible, so she’d better buck up. Can they go upstairs for clothes and toys?’ she asked the policewoman.

  The woman constable nodded. ‘I’ll go with them. You stay with the little girl.’

  Lisa, near to tears, sat at the kitchen table. This was very much Annie’s house: vibrant curtains, children’s paintings framed on the walls, coloured fairy lights surrounding the fireplace. In a glass-fronted cupboard, Annie’s collection of dishes was displayed, a wonderful mixture of reds, oranges, greens and blues. She was a treasure, and she was in an operating theatre.

  Oh, God. Jimmy had done this. It had to be him. The male constable came in and asked quietly, ‘Have you any idea who did this to her, Mrs Compton-Milne?’