by Rob Ashman
The Lakeland Hotel, an imposing four-storey building on the promenade, still boldly advertises ‘Lifts To All Floors’ on a plaque on the front. It is in a prime location with parking for twenty cars, but the developer either ran out of money or lost interest because it hasn’t been touched for over a year. It is a perfect retreat; isolated, derelict and cold.
In the summer months I can watch the sun retreat behind the horizon through the broken metal shutters fitted to the panoramic windows - the Ferris wheel standing proud on the central pier silhouetted against the pink and orange glow. But the best part of all, when I was running down the street trying to find the helicopter for my extraction point, I noticed is was sand coloured. The same sun-baked orange as those houses in the village in Afghan. It drew me like a moth to a flame.
The penthouse suite is on two floors with a spiral staircase running down to what should have been the living space beneath. I sit with my back to the wall and watch the lights outside swing back and forth as the wind whips in off the Irish Sea. No wonder it is so cold, even in summertime.
I love this place, I feel safe here. There is no one for me to harm and no one to tell me everything will be all right when the dogs of war kick off in my head. I used to come here when life got tough with Julie.
Now I use it to reflect on life and to plan.
I joined the army when I was twenty-one years of age and by the time I was twenty-three my parents were dead, cancer took them both in the same year. I used to think they caught it off one another. But Mum died from having smoked since the age of ten and having lungs the consistency of barbecue coals. Dad developed bowel cancer, diagnosed just as Mum was breathing her last breaths.
‘Trust me to get it up the arse,’ he would say. My dad could never be accused of being liberal minded when it came to homosexuality.
When I came back from Afghan the second time, I was only back in body, not in mind. I was still eating hot sand in the northern valley of Helmand Province. For the first month I enjoyed the novelty of being home, pretending to Julie that I was okay and that things would work out. She even started talking about moving into a bigger place. You know the way women plan and us blokes simply nod, hoping it goes away. I suppose she thought looking to the future would take my mind off the present.
But I knew something was wrong. Julie knew something was wrong.
One morning, I remember shaving in the bathroom sink and noticing a crack running down the reflection of my face. Not as a result of the healing scar on my cheek, this was a jagged fracture which started on the right of my forehead and finished to the left of my mouth. I wiped my hand across the glass – it was smooth.
I stared at my misting-reflection as my hand slid back and forth across the surface of the mirror and I realised, the crack was inside me.
My very being had a fracture running through it. To the left of the line was the man I once was, leading the life I once had; to the right was the man I am now with no life at all.
I fake it, every day I fake it.
I now live on the dead side of the fracture and pretend to the outside world that I still exist on the other.
My side of the line is hollow, devoid of meaning, devoid of feeling, devoid of content. Yet in my previous life I had been a good boyfriend, heading towards being a terrific husband with the potential to be an amazing dad. All of that was gone. Lost in a fog of flashbacks, night sweats and panic attacks. Even now, when I look at my cracked reflection, I cannot understand how others cannot see it. When I look in the mirror it is obvious, plain as day. The only one to see it was Julie - and she suffered the most.
Sometimes, when I’m at work, I can’t breathe. If one of my colleagues slams the filing cabinet too hard, I’m back there in an instant. Fighting for my life, fighting for survival, fighting for breath. And in that moment, sat in my air-conditioned office – I can’t breathe. I have to hurry from behind my desk and head for the gent’s toilet. I try to suck air in but my throat is closed, like it was when the truck turned over and sand ploughed into my mouth through the shattered window.
I lock myself in a cubicle with both hands on my knees. My chest burns, my head spins. I know if I stay like this for long enough my throat loosens up and oxygen penetrates deep into my lungs. Then with a massive gasp I will straighten up, trying to regain my composure.
As time went on the night terrors got worse. Vivid dreams of picking up dismembered limbs, watching Jono’s face mouth the words ‘save me’, my own face dissolving into a soup of melting flesh.
Julie was amazing, taking it all in her stride. When I woke in a bath of my own sweat, she would change the sheets while I took a shower, and we were back in the land of nod in no time. What was not so easy for her to overcome was the bruises.
What started out as a kick here, or an elbow there, soon gave way to all out fist fights with faceless assailants, each one intent on cutting me up while I slept. Julie took the brunt.
At first she would try to calm me down, talking to me with soft tones, engulfing me in gentle hugs, but as time went on that became too dangerous. My flailing arms and legs striking out at my attackers, dealt her some heavy blows. Eventually, when I was gripped in my private war, she would leap out of bed and stand against the far wall. My arms and hands were a mess of cuts and abrasions as they slammed into the headboard and side tables, but at least she was out of harm’s way.
Then, following a 3am admittance to A&E and a terrifying interview with a police inspector who took ages to be convinced this was not a case of domestic violence, Julie could take no more. I moved into the spare room and we removed all the furniture, save for the bed. When I look back I think that signalled the end. She forced me into counselling but I pissed around, unable to take it seriously, because taking it seriously meant admitting I had a problem. Separate rooms quickly led to separate lives.
The therapy was run by people who had no fucking idea what I was going through. They thought they did, which made it worse. Their scripted declarations and progression plans drove me crazy. The final straw came when Julie took a call from the lead counsellor asking why I had not showed up to the session that day. Which was unfortunate, because earlier I had spent twenty minutes telling her how enlightening the session had been.
She didn’t shout, she didn’t lose her temper, she just packed a bag and left.
‘I will be at my mum’s. Call if it’s urgent, if it’s not urgent don’t call,’ she had said, lifting her car keys off the hook in the hallway. ‘I will be back in a few days for the rest of my stuff.’ And with that she was gone and a piece of me was kind of relieved. I no longer had to feel guilty for dragging her through my living hell. Now I only had myself to damage.
One by one my friends went the same way. I didn’t cover them in bruises but I hurt them enough that they didn’t want to stick around. Eventually only two people remained, which was tragically reduced to one. I regret that every day, but it’s easier that way.
I get to my feet, retrieve a folder that is tucked into the waistband of my khaki trousers and walk over to the opposite wall. I run the torchlight over the collage of pictures and documents pinned to the plasterwork. I pick up a marker pen and draw a big fat X across the face of Jimmy Cadwell, he looks much better that way.
I will deliver justice, Jono.
From the file I take three more and pin them in their place. The face of a young boy stares back at me – a young boy with an above average interest in sex for a child of his age. The boy that contributed to his own abuse. Next to it is a mug shot of a person who is described as being below average intelligence.
The details are straightforward: A twenty-three-year-old adult had sex with a twelve-year-old child. On four separate occasions. Bang to rights child abuse, you might think. A mandatory term of fifteen years with no chance of parole until after ten.
But this open and shut case had three fatal flaws running through it. Three factors which I spotted right from the start as I trawled through the case f
iles early one morning. The presiding judge was Bernard Preston who has an admirable track record of being an incompetent liberal dick - more interested in courting favour amongst the great and the good rather than dispensing justice. The Defence Lawyer was Christine Chance who is either incredibly lucky, incredibly good or is blackmailing every court judge on our circuit – or a mixture of all three. And thirdly the defendant was a woman.
Fuckwit Preston handed down a six-month jail sentence, suspended for two years. If it had been a man they would have thrown away the key.
I clench my fists and imagine what her face will look like when we meet. But she will have to wait, a pair of beady eyes are competing for my attention; his narrow face and sunken features compelling me to look.
I switch off my head torch, walk over to the front wall and look through the gaps in the shutters. I can see the vast wood and metal structure stretching out into the sea, with the massive circle perched on top. Even out of season, when the party lights are switched off, the dark silhouette cast against the horizon is the best view in the world.
I turn my head to where a spiral staircase is cut into the floor. Above the gap hangs a heavy rope secured to a ceiling joist with an eye bolt, it has a noose dangling at the end. The slip knot has thirteen turns of the rope. It hangs as a constant reminder that I can end things at any point.
But not today. I check my watch … time to go fishing.
12
It was the day I was attacked by a killer and never felt a thing.
My consciousness bobbed just below the surface. I knew I was somewhere special because for the first time in months I couldn’t taste sand in my mouth. I opened my eyes to see a solid white roof above and felt cool air wafting across my face. The fluorescent fittings set into the ceiling blurred in and out of focus. It felt like I was floating.
Where the hell am I?
I looked down at the blue and white sheets covering my body, the bedding was crisp and smelled of washing powder. Two IV lines hung from empty bags, each one suspended from a metal stand. It was difficult to tell if the needle stuck in the back of my hand had punctured a vein as my skin was a patchwork of bruises and abrasions. A wave of nausea washed over me. I ached like a bastard.
A woman with dark hair pulled back into a ponytail appeared next to me, wearing a blue plastic apron and combats. She had a nice smile and the tag on her sleeve read Cpl Jane Rogers.
‘How do you feel?’ Her Yorkshire accent made me feel at home.
‘I’m not sure. I think everything hurts.’
‘Do you know where you are?’
I shook my head.
‘You’re in Role 3 hospital, you came in with lacerations to your face, a bullet wound to your shoulder and minor burns to the backs of your legs. Oh, and concussion caused by being shot in the head. Your helmet saved you, we kept your stuff, you might want that as a souvenir.’ She continued to check her clipboard.
Her words seemed to bounce off several satellites before they landed in my brain. Then, piece by piece, it all came flooding back.
‘Shit!’ I said and tried to get up.
‘Wow there, you need to take your time.’
‘How is? When did we? What about …’ The words spilled from my mouth.
‘The MERT team brought you in four hours ago. You’ve been out since you arrived.’
My mind raced. ‘What about the others?’ I blurted out, a split second before my brain processed the memory that they were all gone.
No wait, what about Jono?
‘Captain Ellis Johnston, I came in with him. How is he?’
‘He’s still in theatre.’
‘But is he … will he be okay?’ I tried to lever myself up on my elbow.
‘Until he comes out we won’t know. Do you have any acute pain?’
I ran my hand over the padded gauze dressing covering the left-hand side of my face and the turban-like bandage wrapped around my head. ‘No, I’m not in pain, I just feel like I’ve been run over by a truck.’
She busied herself, replacing the pouches. I sat up, taking in my surroundings. I could have been in a hospital anywhere in the UK but with better facilities. Rows of beds lined the walls, two of them were occupied. Staff wandered about administering to the patients and filling in medical details onto large white boards.
‘Have you been here long?’ I asked.
‘Three months, I’m just coming to the end of my deployment.’
‘This is my second tour.’
‘I’ve lost count. I’m a senior trauma nurse in a Manchester Hospital, joined the Reserves nine years ago and here I am. I hate it when I go back.’ She finished changing over the bags and adjusted the flow, the drips started to dispense their industrial strength medication. ‘In a few hours, if you continue to improve, we will transfer you to the recuperation area.’
‘Can you let me know when Captain Johnston gets out of theatre?’
‘Sure. Now get some rest.’
I didn’t need to be told twice and slid myself down in the bed. I drifted off into a dreamless sleep.
I woke with a jolt. My brain was on some kind of time delay and I went through the where the fuck am I? routine again. I sat up, the bags connected to my arm were empty. Corporal Rogers came over.
‘Had a good sleep?’
My brain clicked back into my surroundings.
‘Yeah I went out like a light.’ I shook my head to clear the cobwebs and felt much better. ‘Any news on Jono?’
‘He’s out of surgery and recovering in ICU.’ She paused. ‘He’s still in poor shape.’
‘But he’s alive?’
‘Yes he is.’ She scribbled onto a clipboard as I looked around. The two original guys I had seen previously had been replaced by four new soldiers, each one hooked up to a variety of machines. She followed my gaze. ‘They go out on patrol in the morning so we tend to get busy later in the day.’
Despite my wounds, I was the fittest bloke in the place.
‘Do you feel well enough to be moved?’ she asked.
‘Yup,’ I said pulling the sheets to the side. Rogers held onto me and I swung my feet over the side and onto the floor.
‘How does that feel?’ she asked removing the cannula from my arm and pushing the drips to one side.
‘Pretty good. But my head still feels like its stuffed with cotton wool.’
‘It’s the pain killers. You will have to be careful when they start to wear off.’
I took a few tentative steps. ‘I feel okay.’
A man came in, barking instructions that I didn’t understand, it was full of numbers and abbreviations. The look on Rogers’ face told me life was about to get a whole lot busier. She ushered me through a set of doors and down a corridor to another part of the building. I was in a smaller room containing four empty beds. I rolled into the one nearest the door.
‘I gotta go,’ Rogers said making sure I was comfortable. ‘I will look in on you later. Your stuff is in the bag.’ She hurried out and the door swung shut behind her.
I glanced over the side of the bed to see a plastic bag containing my combats, boots and helmet. I opened it up and fished out my helmet, a black dent on the right-hand side stood out against the camouflage cover and the interior padding was deformed.
‘Saved my life,’ I muttered under my breath. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of the paprika-red scarf poking from beneath the folds of my jacket. I rummaged in the bag and pulled it free. It shimmered against the fluorescent light. I remembered picking it up in the first house and stuffing it into my tunic.
Why the hell did I pick this up?
I stuffed it into the helmet and tossed it on top of the bag. My eyes were heavy and I felt dog-tired all of a sudden. I pulled the sheets up to my chest and drifted away again in a drug-induced slumber.
The tiny killer freed herself from the confines of the scarf. The past six hours had been a traumatic ride but somehow she had survived. She flicked her wings and launched h
erself into the unusually cool air. The trials of the journey had made her hungry and she didn’t have to travel far to find a feast.
Exposed flesh and warm blood.
13
Kray banged the door shut with such force the panes of glass rattled in their frames. She kicked her shoes off against the wall and tossed her bag into the corner of the hallway, then threw her coat at the hooks on the wall, it landed in a crumpled heap on the floor.
She stepped over the coat and headed straight for the kitchen, yanking a half full bottle of wine out of the fridge and picking a glass off the draining board. The wine chugged into the glass while she was pacing around the lounge. The first glass didn’t touch the sides. Kray filled it again.
‘Fuck!’ she yelled at the top of her voice. ‘Fuck!’ The second glass of wine went the way of the first and she stomped back to the fridge, pulling a full bottle from the rack. The top twisted off and a third of the bottle made it into the glass.
‘I don’t believe it.’
The chat with Quade had not gone well. To be precise, it had been a disaster. Kray had sat there speechless while ACC Quade had explained how well Kray had done in the assessment centre and how she had done herself and the force proud. But there was a sting in the tail, ‘on this occasion you have been unsuccessful’ Quade had chirped. After that Kray hadn’t paid much attention to the rest.
She did, however, tune in when Quade had said, ‘I think given the circumstances it is only fair to let you know we will be appointing DI Dan Bagley to the role. I’m sure you will treat this with the utmost confidentiality until we make a formal announcement. You and he will make a formidable team’.
Kray couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
She continued to march in circles in the lounge, bottle in one hand, rapidly emptying glass in the other. ‘Dan fucking Bagley!’ she shouted, slopping wine onto the carpet. ‘That snivelling little shit.’ She poured wine down her throat like she was putting out a fire in her belly – which in essence she was.
