The Crime Tsar

by Nichola McAuliffe

  He handed her a piece of paper:

  Memo: Confidential. Re the appointment of next Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. It is felt that Thomas Shackleton QPM, LLB …

  Jenni looked at it but couldn’t read any more. Her face had rested on this during her ultimate humiliation. This was her payment. This was what she wanted. She should be triumphant. She should be as satisfied as the repellent Gnome scratching his balls on the bed. She smiled a ghost of a smile.

  ‘Thank you, Robbie. I’ll see myself out.’

  ‘Yes, Jenni. We must do it again some time, eh?’

  He winked at her. He waited until he heard the front door open before he phoned his wife.

  Waiting for her to answer he rubbed himself thoughtfully, considering the blood on his penis, and felt disgust. It was as much a part of the experience as the uncontrollable hunger that consumed him as soon as one of these ambitious women decided sex with him was a legitimate route to success.

  He felt disgust because he couldn’t control himself, not because of what he did. He had always excused himself because he screwed women who were willing. Women who asked for it. Who deserved it. No, his disgust was at his desire being greater than his rational self. For being out of control.

  He wife answered.

  ‘Yes, Lizie, I think I will come home tonight. I always sleep better in my own bed … yes, see you about eight or nine. Last night? Oh it was fine. The hostess is a bit tight-arsed but I managed to loosen her up. Yes… I’ve got some paperwork but, yes, let’s have a quiet night, and how about fish and chips, eh? Pretend we’re young and poor again, shall we? … I love you too, Lizie. But God only knows why you love me. Bye.’

  The phone call hadn’t stopped his train of thought. He remembered seeing a young woman walking ahead of him one day and the overwhelming urge he had for her. Long slim legs, skirt a little too tight, riding up a little at every step. Great arse. Round and high. Small waist. Confident. Too confident with her lap-top briefcase and telephone earpiece. He remembered the urge he’d had to grab a handful of her hair and force her to her knees. To see her lipsticked mouth encompassing him. To watch her choke and cry …

  Then, feeling him too close, she’d turned and said, ‘Hello, Daddy, what are you doing here?’

  He’d convinced himself all fathers had a moment when they saw their daughters as women and were disturbed at the desire they felt. To realise you were stirred by the sight of their breasts, the closeness of their bodies. But what MacIntyre had felt wasn’t fleeting. He had lingered over the thoughts of what he wanted to do to her. But, he’d consoled himself, he only did it to a certain sort of woman. There had been nowhere for him to hide when he realised his little girl was now exactly that sort of woman. He was now, when not in the grip of it, fearful of his appetite for the extreme.

  But he hadn’t been extreme with Jenni. Extreme had once cost him a great deal of money and almost his career but in those days the police had little patience with women who cried rape and certainly none with women who were pragmatic enough to take a couple of thousand pounds to keep quiet.

  He turned on the CD player and Beethoven engulfed him. Standing naked at the huge window he looked down on Bloomsbury, then further afield towards the river, St Paul’s and the flashing beacon of Canary Wharf in the distance.

  He longed for the comfort of the confessional but knew that would be self-indulgence. If he really wanted redemption it would be harder than three Hail Marys and a Glory Be.

  Tom Shackleton would never be overcome with desire, with the need for degradation and bestiality. But neither would he stand naked consumed with the beauty of great music, moved by the fragility of the London skyline. His was a soul on Prozac.

  Lucky man, thought MacIntyre.

  When Lucy got home it was dark. Gary had slept all day but he was no better; in fact she had sensed from the nurse’s attitude he was worse. She was still wearing her little silk dress, which hung like a rag now. She was exhausted and felt as if she hadn’t washed for a week. She was too tired to eat or go upstairs for a shower.

  The house was exactly as it had been when the ambulance arrived. No reason why it wouldn’t be but she felt as if there should be a difference. She was different but the evidence of Gary’s crisis was unchanged, still reproaching her neglect. She sat on the edge of his bed. The room felt cold. There was nothing so bleak as the deserted equipment of disability. The empty wheelchair, the ridiculous hoist, the cumbersome bed with its primitive press-button controls.

  Ten o’clock. Lucy decided to have a few hours’ sleep, then drive back to Kent. Take some clothes. Then she saw Jenni.

  She was standing staring out of the window towards Lucy. Lucy waved. There was no response. Maybe she was angry because Lucy hadn’t cleared up. Lucy reached for the phone. It was ringing, ringing but Jenni didn’t move. Jason answered.

  ‘Jason, I’m sorry to bother you. Can I speak to Jenni?’

  Jason sounded awkward, reluctant.

  ‘Um … yeah … I’ll see if I can find her.’

  It sounded as if he had put his hand over the mouthpiece. Lucy waited. He must be in his room. She sat watching Jenni.

  ‘Sorry, Lucy. She’s not about. Maybe she’s gone to bed. I… don’t disturb her when her door is closed.’

  ‘Thanks, Jason. Bye.’

  Jenni hadn’t moved.

  Jenni had been too busy after leaving MacIntyre’s to think. She didn’t want to think, to re-live what had happened. By six o’clock she thought she was all right, she’d go home and take off these clothes. She would never wear them again. She would have a bath, wash that filthy little man away. She got home and felt quite good, confident. Nobody would ever know about it. It was as if it had never happened and although it was a high price to pay it was worth it. That memo was worth it.

  She walked up the stairs to the bathroom almost happy. Unbuttoning her blouse as she went, she opened the bathroom door. She saw the lavatory bowl, the bidet, the shower, the mirror.

  The bath.

  Her hand was over her mouth but it couldn’t smother the sound that forced its way out of her. Never in her strictly controlled life had she sobbed uncontrollably but now she slumped against the bathroom wall and screeched. The noise she made was so foreign to her it seemed to be coming from someone else.

  She slid down the wall until she was a crumpled heap on the floor. She threw her head back trying to shake off the images that her mind was ruthlessly replaying. She banged her head. The pain seemed to help. She banged it again. And again. And again, against the cold tiles. The noise and the pain filled her head and blocked out the Gnome’s leering face and the searing smell of urine. Screaming now she started to rip her clothes away from her body. She stood and clawed her bloody knickers off.

  The sight of the dried browning stains made her freeze. This wasn’t a scene from a movie. Screaming and crying wouldn’t clean her. Now completely controlled she dropped the remains of bloody lace into the bath and walked naked into the bedroom. She started searching the drawers for matches. Her calm was being drowned in panic. She emptied the drawers on to the floor. Nothing. Jason’s room. There would be a lighter in Jason’s room. She slammed open his door. Bedside table. Nothing. Bookshelves. Nothing. Anger took the place of hysteria. Now she was talking, a stream of swearing and blame.

  Tom and Jason were as culpable as MacIntyre. She was the victim of male ego. Tom would do nothing for himself. It was left to her. As her righteous anger rose she turned it to violence. She ripped Jason’s room apart, smashing his sound system, ripping clothes and stamping on the keyboard of his computer. After throwing her son’s personal CD against the wardrobe she paused.

  There, in the middle of the floor, was a Zippo lighter. Jason’s pride and joy. He never took it out of the house it was so precious to him. On one side was a picture of Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca, a present from his father. Jason was always teasing him about ‘rounding up the usual suspects’. Jenni picked up the lighter a
nd ran back to the bathroom.

  The soiled knickers were lying with the stains hidden. She picked them up and flicked the lighter open. It had a good big flame, big enough to burn the ugly remains of her humiliation. The lace and silk caught quickly and flamed dramatically. She dropped them and watched the extravagantly expensive scrap of underwear writhe and curl in the heat. The flame died away leaving a black patch of sticky nothing.

  Jenni calmed down, tore off a strip of lavatory paper and picked up the remains in it. She dropped the lot into the pan and poured most of a bottle of bleach on top. Then she flushed. Little specks of black were regurgitated. She flushed again. She could still see black specks after the ninth flush. After the tenth, twelfth, twentieth, again and again … After the fiftieth flush she saw the water run clean.

  She was sure the water was clear.

  Peace. No daggers in her mind.

  Calm now she set the shower at its hottest and stood under it, her skin turning livid red as it was scalded. She scrubbed herself with a nail brush and raked her hair with her fingers, emptying a bottle of almond-scented shampoo over her head. The nail brush didn’t seem to be harsh enough. She reached across to the cabinet and took out a pumice stone. Rubbing her already red-raw skin with it she saw the fine hair and skin of her arms and legs being sloughed off. She reached round to her back, determined to scrape off the skin contaminated by the Gnome’s urine.

  While she was flaying herself Jason came upstairs. He’d had net practice after school and had come into the hall like a hungry Labrador, dropping his cricket bag where he stood. He dashed into the kitchen and made himself a doorstep sandwich of cheese and pickle, then bounded up the stairs to his room.

  He was expecting an e-mail from his virtual girlfriend. He saw his door was open from the stairs. Then he saw the room. For a second he thought there had been a burglary. Then he heard loud music from his mother’s room. Maybe the burglars were still here. He opened his wardrobe door, trying not to register what was destroyed, and took out his old cricket bat. Heart pounding he crept towards her bedroom, bat held ready for attack or defence.

  The room was undisturbed. The mirrored door of his mother’s bathroom was open and he could see her misty outline, naked, in the shower. The music was coming from her stereo, tuned to some unaccustomed station pumping out repetitive, trance-creating music. His mother was responsible for the trashing of his room; she’d come close many times before.

  On the floor by the bathroom door was his Zippo. The top had been ripped off. Its innards littered on the carpet. He picked up the pieces gently. Like his father he invested his affection in things rather than people; inanimate objects were less unpredictable. To hurt his precious things was to hurt Jason. He cradled the lighter in his hands and quietly left his mother’s bedroom, closing the door behind him.

  Then he sat in the ruins of his little world, unmoving until the phone rang and Lucy asked for Jenni. He had heard his mother moving about, going downstairs, but couldn’t face her. He didn’t want to speak to her. He wasn’t sure he ever wanted to see her again. He and his sisters had always made excuses for her odd outbursts but this, this he couldn’t forgive. He couldn’t take any more of her. He had been her punchbag and confidant all his life, sided with her against Shackleton, but now he saw he’d just been an extra, used as a weapon against the father he idolised.

  Jenni was staring sightlessly out of the window of the living room when Lucy tapped on the glass. As if called back from a great distance, she was startled. Lucy. What was Lucy doing there? She found she couldn’t move, she just stared at her. Lucy lifted her keys and mimed coming in. Jenni didn’t react. A minute later she heard Lucy open the door.

  ‘Jenni? … Jenni, are you all right?’

  There was no sign Jenni’d heard.

  ‘Have you come to clear up?’

  Jenni’s voice was formal, she kept her back to Lucy.

  The woman Lucy had never seen without make-up, whose hair was always picture perfect, was standing, shoeless, wearing a towelling dressing gown and her hair was matted, unbrushed after washing. Every now and then Jenni would take a handful, sniff it, then pull it rhythmically. After six pulls, reassured, she laid it back over her shoulder. Then a moment later she did it again.

  Lucy gently went behind her and took her elbows. Jenni didn’t resist so Lucy guided her to a chair. As if relieved of a great sorrow Jenni started to cry quietly.

  ‘Oh Lucy … Lucy.’

  Lucy squatted down in front of her.

  ‘What is it? Jenni? What’s the matter?’

  But there was no reply, just the sad, muted crying. Lucy put her arms round her and rocked her gently. Jenni didn’t resist.

  When her sobs subsided a little Lucy said, ‘Jenni, tell me what’s wrong. Please.’

  Jenni just hicupped a couple of times trying to control herself, then she pulled away.

  ‘Nothing. Really. Time of the month.’

  Lucy knew she was lying but didn’t press it.

  ‘Do you want a drink?’

  Jenni nodded, still finding it difficult to speak.

  Lucy poured her a large Scotch. Jenni hated Scotch but she drank it.

  ‘Sorry I didn’t come in today. It’s Gary. He’s in hospital.’

  She could see Jenni wasn’t listening. The Scotch worked quickly and Jenni’s rigid tension gave way to a floppy sleepiness. Lucy coaxed her to her feet and slowly guided her upstairs. In the bedroom Jenni sat docile on the edge of the bed while Lucy closed the curtains. Lucy tried to help her off with the dressing gown but Jenni clutched it round her and Lucy gave up. Even in her distant state Jenni knew she wanted nobody to see the teeth marks and love bites on her breasts and back. Lucy swung Jenni’s legs up on to the bed and pulled the satin cover up under her chin. Without her make-up Jenni looked young and vulnerable. She was whispering something; Lucy leaned close.

  ‘Sleeping pills. In the drawer.’

  Lucy was about to object then thought better of it. She got out the pills and went to the bathroom for some water. Soaking towels were thrown everywhere. She picked them up and dropped them into the bath. As she filled the glass with water she saw the mirror had been smashed with the heel of a Manolo Blahnik shoe that now lay, ruined, in the sink.

  When she returned Jenni was already asleep, frowning slightly and restless. Lucy put a pill and the water on the table, then, leaving a small light on, quietly left the room.

  As she closed the door Jason was coming out of his room carrying a bulging rucksack. Lucy thought he was crying. He was obviously in a hurry and didn’t want to talk.

  ‘Are you all right, Jason?’

  ‘I’m going to stay with a friend. I’ll leave a note for Dad.’

  And he clambered down the stairs, all big boots and student greatcoat. Lucy followed slowly and heard the front door slam. She wasn’t sure what she should do now. Jason’s note was on the hall floor, blown off the table in his haste to escape. She picked it up and put it back.

  The light switch needed a damp cloth run over it. There were finger marks on it. What to do? She supposed she could do the washing up and went into the kitchen. There was something comforting about loading the dishwasher and scouring the saucepans. The activity stopped the wheel of her thoughts of Gary and Tom, the ifs and if onlys. Insidious images of Gary dead and the possibilities beyond. She had almost finished when she heard the front door open discreetly.

  Tom.

  Her stomach did its usual flip. Why wouldn’t it stop doing that? This wasn’t the time for desire. It was gone midnight; she had wanted to get back to Gary as quickly as possible. But she’d have to tell Tom what had happened. She couldn’t just walk out. It would be rude. Wouldn’t it?

  ‘Jenni?’ Tom called apologetically. His voice was always apologetic towards his wife, anticipating his fault.

  ‘No, Tom, it’s me. In the kitchen.’

  Seeing her rubber gloves she whipped them off but dropped them in the sink. She watched them f
ill with greasy water and sink sadly through the tepid soup.

  ‘Oh blow,’ she said ineffectually.

  He came in looking tired and a long way from being lit up with pleasure at seeing her.

  ‘Lucy. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I was just finishing the clearing up and … I don’t think Jenni is too good. I’ve put her to bed.’

  He turned quickly.

  ‘I’d better go up.’

  Lucy felt a twinge of jealousy at his concern. No, concern was what she and Gary felt for each other. Tom Shackleton was simply anticipating a scene and was anxious to contain it.

  ‘She’s asleep. I think it’s better to let her rest. She seemed very upset.’

  ‘She’s always upset about something.’

  Lucy was surprised. He’d never let the mask slip in front of her before; whatever he’d said about his wife had always been expressed with regret, not bitterness.

  He went to the fridge and poured himself a beer, then, without asking her, he poured Lucy a large glass of white wine. She followed him into the living room. He sat on the sofa.

  ‘How’s Gary?’

  Lucy imagined throwing herself into his manly arms and sobbing out the events of the day while he stroked her hair and made the sorts of noises vets make to elderly dogs with bowel problems. She saw he was only asking out of politeness.

  ‘Oh, you know,’ she said.

  He barely nodded. Lucy pulled the curtains, not that anybody was likely to peep in and even if they did there would be nothing to see.

  ‘Jason went to stay with a friend. He left a note. Shall I get it?’

  Lucy was hovering awkwardly by the door.

  ‘No. Come and sit here.’

  He put his arm along the back of the sofa. Lucy sat down. If he wanted a kiss or more, would she want him to? She hadn’t cleaned her teeth since when? Before the dinner party. She probably had gum disease by now. And just how sure could you be of a twenty-four-hour deodorant? She sat on the edge of the cushion.

  ‘Oh … Lucy …’