by Simon Lelic
‘The pills she took. Jessica. You made her take them?’
All at once I can picture it: my little sister cowering before my father in precisely the way I’m cowering now. Being offered the same choice I’m being offered. And Jessica, sweet Jessica, making it.
‘But … why? She was never a threat to you. She was eleven.’
For the first time I see a flash of my father’s disfigurement. ‘Because you ran,’ he says. ‘Because you left and no one was allowed to leave.’
I can feel my breath becoming jagged, the pressure that’s building in my lungs.
‘What did you say to her? Who was it you threatened? Not Mum. She would have known it was too late to do anything to stop you hurting Mum.’
‘Who do you think?’ My father gives me time to catch up. Me. He threatened me. He told Jessica he’d come after me and that when he found me he’d be sure to make me pay.
My hand tightens on the knife handle. I can feel the ache building in my knuckles.
‘She cared about you, Maggie. In a way you never cared about her.’
I lunge before I even know I’m doing it. I’m being reckless, risking everything. But at the moment all I want to do is draw blood. I drive the knife forward like a lance, aiming squarely for my father’s sternum. But I’d settle for anywhere: his throat, his gut, his groin. I’ll slice him up piece by piece if I have to.
But I’m too slow. As I move my father sidesteps and his fist hammers into my stomach. My legs give way as though they’ve been punctured and the kitchen knife spills from my hand. It clatters off somewhere I can’t see it, into the void beneath the bed.
My father, standing over me, is flexing his knuckles. ‘I’m not going to lie to you. I’m glad you did that. It’s just a shame we have to stop there. Although …’ His hand closes around my windpipe and slowly, steadily, he begins to squeeze. ‘… I am tempted, you know. So. Very. Tempted.’ He grips a little harder on each word – but then releases me before I begin to bruise. ‘But we wouldn’t want you damaged when the police arrive.’
He lets me drop, leaving me coughing on all fours. The pain is blooming in my stomach and there’s water building in my eyes. I can see the knife now – it’s within my reach – but my father is already beside the door.
In the distance, finally, comes the sound of sirens.
‘That’s my cue, I fear,’ my father says. He shrugs his suit jacket straighter. ‘It seems I’ve got a few phone calls to make and you … Well. You need to catch up on your sleep.’
‘Wait.’ The tears are softening my vision and my fingers are flailing for the knife.
‘Sorry, Maggie. Got to run. Remember though that I can always come back – assuming you decide to stick around. And next time, I promise you, I’ll make sure we get to spend more time together.’
‘Wait!’
I sense rather than see my father halt. My left hand closes on what it’s groping for and with my right I wipe the water from my eyes. The sirens are distant but closing.
My father catches sight of what I’m holding. I’m watching his expression as I move, waiting for understanding to finally dawn. Because he was right to be so confident before: in a fight I never had a chance. That’s why stabbing him – killing him – wasn’t ever what I intended.
‘Oh Maggie,’ he says. ‘Oh Maggie you clever girl, what have you done?’
When my hand slips from the knife, my first thought is that using it wasn’t as difficult as I assumed it would be. I feel elated, initially, until I notice the blood. It flows quickly, determinedly. It stains my sweatshirt, my trousers, even the floor, and that’s when my elation turns to fear. It’s gone wrong, I realize. This thing I’ve planned for so carefully: it has all gone drastically, horribly wrong.
Jack
I’m in a room I’ve never seen before. Not a cell, not someone’s office. It’s nothing fancy – painted walls, nylon carpet tiles, a wooden table and some chairs with padded seats – but it’s the kind of room I imagine they take visitors to usually, not prisoners. And maybe I’m reading too much into it, but there’s no way my being here can be a good sign.
Forty-five minutes I’ve been waiting. One day, nine hours and forty-five minutes, actually, if you count from the moment I was first informed. I say informed. The truth is that they’ve barely told me anything. Syd’s been hurt is all I know. Badly. So badly that when I spoke to the governor (you see, Mum? Turns out I got to meet the governor after all) he couldn’t even tell me whether she was going to be OK. She’s in hospital, and the staff there are doing all they can. And in the meantime the only thing I can do is fixate on what little I’ve been told.
Forty-nine minutes.
I’ve been staring at the clock on the wall so much I know the second hand gives a little jerk each time it passes the number seven. It’s like the walls in my cell. I could recite every piece of graffiti, pinpoint every boot mark, paint drip and scrape. It’s funny how the little things are all your brain is able to process when you’re stuck waiting for news about something big.
Fifty-two min–
The door opens and I spin. I’m expecting … I don’t know. The governor again, maybe. The guard who brought me here, perhaps. Anyone really, other than the person who walks in.
‘Hello, Jack. I’m sorry to have kept you.’
If it were anyone else I would already be asking for news about Syd. At the sight of Inspector Leigh, however, my limbs, my tongue, my brain: every part of me locks.
‘How are you, Jack?’ she asks me.
I blink and I find myself freed. ‘What are you doing here?’
The inspector closes the door behind her. She crosses the room and stops four carpet tiles away from me. ‘Shall we sit?’ she says, gesturing to the table.
‘Is Syd OK?’ I respond without moving. ‘Is there any news?’
‘Jack, please. I really think it would be better if you sit down.’
Oh God, I’m thinking. Oh please God no.
‘Just tell me! Can’t you?’
‘I will, Jack. I promise: I’ll tell you everything you want to know.’ The inspector takes a chair on the window side and gestures again to the seat across from her.
I move reluctantly and lower myself into it. I perch on the edge, my palms clammy against my thighs.
Inspector Leigh exhales deeply before she speaks again.
‘They told you Syd was hurt,’ she says. ‘Did they tell you how?’
Frantically I shake my head. ‘They said there’d been an “incident”, that’s all. That everyone was still trying to get to the bottom of what had happened. Literally, that’s all I know.’
The inspector nods, as though rather than information that’s worse than useless this is actually a reasonable summary.
‘Syd was attacked, Jack. Stabbed. That’s the way it’s looking right now.’
‘Stabbed? Jesus Christ!’ All at once I’ve got so many questions there’s a blockage and none can get out. ‘But is she … I mean, will she …’
‘I’m not going to lie to you,’ the inspector says, and I feel a vacuum begin to form in my stomach. ‘She’s been very badly hurt. She lost a lot of blood and … well, for a while it was touch and go.’
‘For a while?’ I echo. ‘You mean …’
‘I mean she’s stable,’ the inspector says. ‘The doctors tell me that she’s stable.’
‘Oh thank Christ.’ I let my head come down on to the table. It barely touches before I’m lifting it up again. ‘So she’s … I mean, stable’s good. Right? Stable means she’s getting better?’
‘She’s not out of danger,’ says Inspector Leigh. ‘All it really means is that she’s not getting any worse. But the doctors I spoke to … they’re optimistic.’
I cover my open mouth with my hand. I want to smile, but I’m scared to.
‘I need to see her,’ I say. ‘When can I see her?’
‘Soon enough,’ the inspector answers.
‘What? Really? When?’
‘Today, hopefully. Just as soon as your release paperwork has been processed.’
The inspector’s watching for my reaction.
‘I’m being released? As in …’
‘As in all charges dropped,’ says Inspector Leigh.
‘But that’s …’ I shake my head. That’s impossible. Isn’t it? Genuinely, I’m in shock – to the extent I don’t actually believe it. ‘Is this a trick?’
‘No trick, Jack. It seems your story wasn’t quite as far-fetched as I first assumed.’
‘You mean … Syd’s father. He was the one who attacked her?’
‘So it would seem.’
‘And have you caught him? Has he been arrested?’
‘He has.’
Shit, I’m thinking. Just … shit. It’s as close as I can get to putting what I’m feeling into words. ‘Where is he? I mean … what happened? I mean … you’ve told me what happened. What I mean is, how?’
‘Ms Baker … Syd. She reported a break-in, told the operator she’d heard someone in the house. When the response team reached the address in question – your address, Jack – they apprehended a man trying to flee the scene. They found your girlfriend upstairs in one of the bedrooms. Wounded. Fatally, they tell me they thought at first.’
‘Fatally?’
‘I told you, Jack. Syd was very seriously hurt.’
‘But you said she’s OK? Right? You said before she’s going to be OK?’
‘I said she was stable. Right now that’s the best I can offer you. But even for me to be able to say that means Syd’s been incredibly lucky. In fact, if you had to choose where to get a knife wound in your abdomen, you’d struggle to pinpoint a safer spot.’
I expel a breath: shocked, relieved, I don’t know. I only vaguely register the inspector’s tone, the fact she’s watching me now more closely than ever.
‘So Syd’s father … he confessed? Is that why I’m being released?’
The inspector repositions herself so she’s leaning against her chair back. ‘At the moment he’s not saying anything. Mainly, I think, because there’s not a lot he can say. But the CPS are all over him. No one over there seems to be in any doubt. The knife he used on Syd tallies with the wounds inflicted on Sean Payne. And forensics did a sweep at the place Syd’s father was staying. Her mother’s flat. They found blood traces on the sole of one of his shoes that on initial examination correspond with Mr Payne’s. We’re still waiting to confirm the DNA results, but no one’s expecting any surprises. Also, his ex-wife retracted the alibi she gave him. Said she’d only offered it in the first place because she’d been coerced.’
It takes a moment for it all to sink in. ‘So that’s … I mean, that’s everything. Right? You’ve basically got him, regardless of whatever story he eventually comes up with.’
‘Basically. Yeah. We’ve got him.’
I puff my cheeks, focus on breathing. After a second or two I get to my feet.
‘So what are we waiting for?’ I say. ‘Let’s go. Can we? To the hospital, I mean.’
‘Slow down, Jack. I told you: we need to wait for the paperwork to come through.’
And I don’t know if it’s just the way she’s looking at me when she says it, or the echo of some of the phrases she used before, but all of a sudden I get a whiff of bullshit. I mean, we just need to wait for the paperwork to come through. I’ve used that very line myself, when I was being badgered by a particularly impatient client, or harassed by an overzealous landlord. It’s a stalling tactic, basically. Not even a particularly veiled one.
‘This “paperwork”,’ I say, pronouncing the quotation marks. ‘How long is it going to take?’
‘We’re just waiting for a final signature.’
‘One signature? So why don’t you just …’ I stop myself. ‘Whose signature?’
‘Well. Mine.’
It’s all I can do when she answers to stand and stare.
The inspector links her hands together in her lap. ‘Please, Jack. Sit back down. I just want to have a little chat with you, that’s all. Give me … half an hour. Maximum. By that time your solicitor should have arrived and we can get you on your way to visit Syd.’
There’s no way I can sit. ‘My solicitor knows what’s going on? He knows I’m supposed to be released?’
‘I believe someone’s telephoned him, yes.’
Translation: my solicitor’s being stalled as well. Even in the circumstances, I have to laugh.
‘We can wait for him, of course. If you prefer. It’s your right to refuse to speak to me at all. But personally, I was hoping we could take this time to talk. Off the record – which means anything we discuss will remain strictly between us.’
Somehow I doubt that. But the message she’s giving me is clear: the sooner I agree to what she’s asking, the sooner I’ll get to see Syd.
‘The charges against me. They’re being dropped no matter what?’
‘No matter what,’ Inspector Leigh repeats. ‘You have my word. Nothing we talk about here will alter that.’
‘And you’ll take me to see Syd? Today. That’s for definite?’
The inspector gives a single nod.
I don’t know why I’m even contemplating trusting her. But two days Syd’s been lying in that hospital bed. And the fact that I haven’t been to see her … I mean, I realize the circumstances are somewhat different, but she must feel the way I did after she failed to come and visit me.
‘Thirty minutes. To talk about what?’
‘To talk about the truth, Jack. About what you and I think really happened.’
At first I don’t offer a response. I’m thinking again about the phrases the inspector used earlier. So it would seem, she said. That’s the way it’s looking right now. As though even as she was recounting her version of events to me, Inspector Leigh didn’t actually believe a word.
‘You know what happened,’ I say. ‘You’re the one who’s just been telling me.’
Inspector Leigh studies me for a moment, then appears to come to a decision.
‘Before we get into this, Jack, I just want to make clear: I never believed you murdered Sean Payne. And I don’t believe you’ve been involved in anything else that’s been going on either.’
‘Anything else that’s been going on? What are you talking about? And if you didn’t think I was guilty, why the bloody hell did you arrest me in the first place?’
‘I didn’t. Remember? For a long time I didn’t, even though we found your driver’s licence at the scene. Because of that, actually. It was as you said: it just seemed too obviously like a plant. But you wouldn’t believe the grief I got for fighting your corner.’
‘Is this the point I’m supposed to say thank you?’
‘Of course not. I’m just trying to explain, that’s all. Even if I hadn’t witnessed your reaction when I came in here – when I told you what happened to Syd – I would never have believed you were part of this. That’s all I’m trying to make clear.’
‘But part of what?’
Inspector Leigh leans forward in her seat. The only time she takes her eyes off me is when she blinks.
‘Part of Syd’s plan, Jack. Part of her scheme to frame her father for Sean Payne’s murder.’
I don’t respond. And then, for a second time, I splutter out a laugh. Neither reaction appears to take the inspector by surprise.
‘Let’s go back to what you told me,’ she says, reclining. ‘You and Syd. The events you recounted in your … statement, let’s call it. Everything you told us: it checks out. We even found that cat you buried in your back garden.’
‘You dug up the cat? When? Why?’
‘And we found Evan Cohen, too. The estate agent? And you were right. He was up to his eyeballs in debt, some of which he managed to pay off recently with a large chunk of cash. Turns out he’s built up another juicy pile of debit slips in the time since then, but that’s a whole different story. The point is, he confessed to all the things you accused
him of. He accepted money from Syd’s father. He engineered it so you and Syd got the house.’
‘So we told you the truth. Right? That’s what you seem to be saying.’
‘That’s not what I’m saying, Jack. I said your story – everything in your statement, that is – checks out. But it’s from the point your statement ends that the evidence becomes thinner.’
‘Thinner?’
To Inspector Leigh it must appear as though she’s losing me. ‘Let me spell it out for you, Jack. I believe Syd’s father was trying to hurt you both in the way you claimed. The house, what happened to you at work, all the things that came between you and Syd. I believe he was responsible and for what it’s worth I think the man’s a scumbag who should never have been released on parole.’
‘But?’ I prompt.
‘But,’ the inspector concedes, ‘I don’t believe he murdered Sean Payne. That scene Syd described when she went to her mother’s house, when she saw her father standing there in the hallway? I believe that’s the point your girlfriend took over. Took control, if you prefer.’
There’s a pause as Inspector Leigh allows me to take this in.
‘You’re saying … what are you saying? Are you saying that Syd … that she was the one who … that she committed murder, for Christ’s sake?’
Inspector Leigh doesn’t try to sweeten it. ‘That’s right, Jack. That’s exactly what I’m saying. And afterwards – and after she’d acted to make sure you were well out of the way – she lured her father to the house so she could make it look like he tried to kill her. Using the very knife she used on Sean Payne.’
Again she watches closely for my reaction. Seventeen stab wounds, I’m thinking. So much anger. So much hurt.
I say: ‘First off, a, that’s bloody ridiculous. And b, what possible reason could you have for suspecting Syd? You just told me you believed us about everything her father’s been doing, and you heard all the things he used to do to Syd when she was young. If you accept he was capable of all that, then why is it suddenly so hard to believe that he’s capable of murder?’
‘I didn’t say he wasn’t capable, Jack. What I’m saying is that Syd got there first. And that’s the beauty of her plan, that it fits in so neatly with all the rest of it. Syd felt trapped. Terrified. Her father’s back and he intends to hurt her, so she needs a way of turning the tables. Of entrapping him. And let’s not forget Elsie. In Syd’s mind Elsie was in as much danger as she was and this way she got to save Elsie too. Because that’s how Syd would have seen it, Jack. Like as much as for her she was doing it for Elsie. It’s all there in her statement. Maybe not in quite so many words, but her motive, her rationalization: it’s all right there.’
