Loose Tongues

by Chris Simms

  ‘I … what do you mean?’

  Beads of sweat glistened in his eyebrows. Drips were making their way down his face as he took in gulps of air. ‘Sit forward. Reach towards me.’

  The moment she extended her arms, he grasped a wrist. Pulling hard, he got her over his shoulder. Almost crying out, he began to stagger forward. By arching her head back, she could just make out a tall dark structure on the bleak skyline.

  Sean drove on for another few seconds. Farm buildings on his left. The monument was now to his immediate right. Surely, it was impossible to drive any closer? Up ahead, a footpath sign pointed to a thin trail leading across the heath land towards the stone tower. No white van. Where had he parked? Was there another way to the top? Perhaps on the far side of the hill? Bollocks. His foot hit the brakes with such force, he was thrown against the seatbelt. As he jumped out of the car, dogs began barking from beyond the farm’s privet hedge.

  Had he parked the van in their yard? He started down the gravel drive, dogs now going ballistic on the other side of a wire fence. He looked around desperately. A jeep of some description. A Mercedes estate and a battered old Ford. Back on the road, he assessed the footpath. Too narrow and uneven for a wheelchair. He must have missed an easier way to the top, but there was no time to try and find it. Half scrambling, half jogging, he started up the slope. The footpath was barely wide enough for a sheep. A steady breeze ruffled the hair on the back of his head. Crystal-clear sounds from the valley far below were being carried on the flowing air. A motorbike’s hacking coughs as it went rapidly through the gears. The bleating of a sheep. A train’s horn.

  From somewhere up ahead came the sad and tremulous sound of a curlew. He had to pause and get his breath. Glancing back, he could see the faint dim tower blocks of Manchester dotting the flat land that lay beyond the slopes. His position on the path meant he was now tucked in beneath the crest of the hill; only the monument’s pyramid-shaped tip showed above it. A last section of slope to scale.

  Would they even be up there?

  He cupped his hands to his mouth. ‘Mum! Mum!’

  Did he hear her voice? Or was it the wind mocking him?

  Ignoring the aching burn in his thighs, he set off once more.

  Janet felt him bending forwards then she was flung down on some stone steps. She was at the monument’s base. He fell back onto the grass, eyes shut, hands curled against his sternum, knife blade resting on his chest. He sucked desperately at the sky.

  Tentatively, she lifted herself onto an elbow. How had he carried her up that final stretch? Something terrifying had given him the strength. She looked around, knowing the same dark force would soon be turned on her. She estimated her legs had about fifty metres in them before they failed. A foot-dragging, shambling totter. Wind whipped her hair about. There was a grit stone outcrop off to her right. Large enough to hide behind, but he’d soon guess that’s where she was.

  Lying on the step beside her was a little wooden cross. It had been stamped with black letters. In remembrance. More had been blown into the grass beside him. Slightly further away was a semicircle of bright red. Poppies. She looked behind her: there were several more wreaths at the monument’s base. They formed a line directly beneath the green copper plates inscribed with the names of fallen soldiers.

  Each wreath had been weighed down by a single stone. Pushing a strand of hair from her eyes, she checked him. Still panting heavily, eyes shut. She shuffled backwards up the shallow steps and closed her fingers round the largest rock. About the same as a bag of sugar. Enough, if she brought it down hard enough, to cave the bastard’s skull in.

  Slowly, she got to her feet. Thought I couldn’t stand? Thought I couldn’t walk? Carefully placing her feet down, she edged onto the grass. His head was two metres away. She took a couple more steps then raised the rock up to shoulder height. As she focused on the bridge of his nose, something light and insubstantial brushed against her ankle. A split-second later, wind tumbled the wreath against his side and his eyes opened.

  Just below the crest of the hill, Sean heard a scream. Mum. He started pumping his knees in a desperate attempt at running. His feet slipped and he fell forwards. Hands grasping at tufts of wiry grass, he hauled himself forward. With every stumbling step, more of the monument came into view.

  She brought the rock down at his face as a scream escaped her. His head twisted and the rock smashed against his ear, flipping his glasses off. The rock sank into the long grass and his hand shot up. Fingers hooked into her hair, as his other hand locked on her upper thigh. She was pulled forwards, balance immediately lost. The pressure on her leg released, instantly replaced by fingers on her throat. She felt the ground slam into her back and next thing his face blotted out the sky, eyes boring into hers. The remains of his ear flapped against his jaw and spots of blood began to pepper her face. She flexed her fingers. No rock.

  ‘Whore!’

  He straightened his elbow, driving his weight down on her windpipe. She tried to struggle as a pulsating roar began to fill her ears. Her vision began to slowly redden and she felt her tongue being pushed out through her lips. His maniacal stare slid down her face and the knife appeared. She tried to retract her tongue. Couldn’t.

  He brought the knife closer to it, grinning.

  Sean saw a wide base of steps at the base of the blackened tower. They were on the grass beside it and he was kneeling over her. She was pinned to the ground by her throat and a knife was almost touching her mouth.

  He felt a guttural roar erupt from deep inside his chest. Miller’s chin lifted, whites of his eyes plain to see. The entire left side of his face was slick with blood. Now on flatter ground, Sean was able to charge forward, the sound pouring out of his mouth.

  Miller staggered to his feet, took a couple of unsteady steps back then turned and fled.

  Sean reached his mum, fell to his knees and pressed a palm to the side of her head. She was coughing and clawing at her throat, trying to remove an invisible band from the blotchy skin.

  ‘Are you OK? Can you breath?’

  Her voice was an unintelligible rasp. Tears squeezed from her eyes, as she started to nod.

  Dots of blood covered her face and chest. Hers or his? ‘Did he cut you? Are you bleeding?’

  Her head shook.

  Thank you, God. ‘Easy, Mum. Easy. You’re safe.’

  She coughed. Attempted to swallow. ‘Geh …’

  Sean looked up. Miller was now about a hundred metres away, a lone figure in a sea of moorland. ‘He’s gone, Mum.’

  A hand closed over his and she looked at him properly. ‘Get him,’ she whispered.

  ‘What?’

  Each word came out as a separate breath. ‘I. Will. Live. Get. Him.’

  He checked again. Miller was slowing, head turning from side to side. He felt his fingers being squeezed and he looked down.

  A fierce light was in her eyes. ‘Go!’

  FIFTY-SIX

  The grass formed a spongy layer and with each stride he felt like he was being lifted high into the air. He pictured the way wolves ran across the tundra in pursuit of prey. Effortless. The word formed a rhythm in his head, as he quickly closed on the older man.

  Miller looked like he was spent. Twice, he stumbled and fell, hands pushing against his bent knees as he got back up.

  ‘You’ve nowhere to go!’ Sean yelled.

  Miller’s head turned. His face was haggard. The collar of his courier’s uniform had come away. One sleeve was ripped. The jacket’s left side shone with blood. To his side, the land lifted a fraction. He made toward a cluster of grey rocks that showed through the grass.

  By the time Sean also reached the top of the modest rise, Miller had turned to face him, knife held by his side. The knife he would have used, Sean thought, to saw out my mother’s tongue. Sean spread his hands and smiled at the man through his rage. ‘What now?’

  Miller lifted the blade. ‘Stay back!’

  Sean kept walking, the smile
broad on his face.

  ‘I said get back!’

  Sean nodded. ‘You get one try. Maybe you slash my face. But then I’ll be on you.’ He lifted his thumbs. Wiggled them. ‘I’ll find a pressure point and the pain will make you pass out. You’ll come round in cuffs.’

  Miller retreated a step, and said in a wavering voice, ‘I mean it.’

  ‘So let’s see what happens, you sick fuck.’

  ‘I’ll jump! I will.’

  Sean slowed. Jump? He realized that the colour of the terrain behind Miller was a degree fainter. And it was peppered by rocks that had been shrunk with distance. There was a wrinkle in the land. A hidden fissure. The other man was on the edge of a drop, but how much of one, Sean couldn’t be sure.

  Keep going, part of him said. Let the bastard jump. Why not? Sean slowed to a stop, unsure what to do.

  Janet felt like the inside of her throat had been scrubbed with wire wool. Every intake of breath ignited a molten wave of pain. She lay still, trying to assess her other injuries. Left shoulder: a needling spike, but small in scale and already losing strength. Her right wrist: throbbing. Bent back, probably, when the rock had thudded into the grass. She switched her attention lower, aware of a hot feeling between her legs. Oh no, she thought. Please don’t let me have wet myself. She lifted a hand from the grass and tapped tentatively at the insides of her thighs. The material was hot and wet. Drenched. She became aware of an ache deep in her hip and when she lifted her fingers she saw they were dripping in blood. His knife, she realized with dismay. When he opened his eyes and grabbed me, the knife had been in his hand.

  As Miller looked off towards Manchester, Sean saw his ruined ear. The crimson swathe that coated his neck.

  ‘This,’ he announced, with a reverent look around, ‘this wonderful silence. I tried to make the world a better place.’

  The desolation in his voice caught Sean by surprise. He didn’t know what to say.

  ‘I tried.’ The man’s voice was barely audible.

  Sean dredged up the closing slides of a distant training course. Dealing with suicides. Don’t allow silence; silence let’s them think. ‘How?’

  A twitch played at the corner of Miller’s lips. ‘I had plans. Such plans.’

  ‘You did? What were they?’

  Miller shot him a look of contempt. Shit, thought Sean. I’ll have to do better than that. A pulsing throbbing sound intermingled with the breeze. Sometimes quicker. Sometimes slower. Sean spotted the far-off helicopter in the sky above the city. Dark insect in a roiling sky. He looked back at Miller. The man’s eyes had lost focus. He was slipping away. ‘We all want to make the world better, don’t we? The woman back there? She was in the police, once. Got injured while doing her job. Doing her bit to make the world better. Same as your granddad.’

  He saw Miller’s knife hand half drop. The comment had got through.

  ‘Is it his name on the monument back there? World War One?’

  No reply.

  ‘Where did he die? Somewhere in France, was it?’

  A succession of barks and Miller’s eyes shifted. There was the sound of voices, too. Sean glanced back to see a line of officers working their way up the slope. The noise of the helicopter came back stronger, engine whine now intertwined with the blades’ deeper thrum.

  ‘We all try to make the world better,’ Sean said. ‘People like us. Especially people like you: teachers. That’s all you were trying to do, wasn’t it?’

  The other man twisted his head to check behind him. Then he calmly placed the knife in the grass and inched backwards.

  Sean lifted both hands. ‘Mr Miller! You didn’t tell me about your grandfather. Tell me about—’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Sean was about to wave the apology away. But Miller wasn’t talking to him. He was talking to the sky. His granddad?

  ‘I’m so sorry to have failed you.’ The man’s eyes were still on the clouds as he let himself fall back.

  For a second, Sean stared at the spot where Miller had been standing. Cautiously, he approached the edge. The land was scarred by a deep cleft. Five metres down, Miller lay with closed eyes across a jumble of boulders. If it wasn’t for the dark red lines nosing their way across the stone behind his head, he could have been asleep.

  Sean turned and looked back to the monument. The first officers had already reached his mum. As he started walking, he wondered why they were standing around while she lay in the cold grass. Come on, at least sit her up. He narrowed his eyes. What the hell are they doing? Why is Mum’s head to the side? Is she looking at me? He began to form a wave. Someone moved and he saw another officer. This one was on his knees, leaning over her, fingers entwined as he pumped the heels of his hands against her chest. He remembered a patch of grass beside a trampoline and the wind filled with ice, as he began to jog. He was within shouting distance when one of the officers reached down and placed a hand on the kneeling one’s shoulder. No. No. No. The mouth of the officer who was standing began to move. Don’t say it. Do not tell him to stop. You mustn’t. The one on the ground lifted his hands from her chest. Then he sat back on his heels and bowed his head.

  EPILOGUE

  Three weeks later.

  As Sean turned his phone over and over in his hand, the sounds of the canteen dissolved to near silence. Each time the screen was uppermost his eyes slid across the name displayed there: Mum.

  What to do with the traces of her that remained?

  The bereavement counsellor had said decisions like that varied with each person. Some chose to delete, close down and cancel, even as they were dealing with the practicalities of the funeral. Others needed more time to process. A few could never let go.

  At least, he said to himself, I haven’t been tempted to call her number. He almost had in the first few days after she was gone. Hear her voice, even leave her a message as requested.

  The house was too big. Cold and silent, like a mausoleum. The knee-high power sockets, ramp at the front door, stair lift: all were unwelcome reminders. He’d started looking at flats. First in Fairfield then closer to the centre of town.

  A cup of coffee appeared on the table before him. Suddenly self-conscious, he slipped the phone into his pocket.

  ‘So,’ Magda announced, taking the seat opposite, ‘what do you think?’

  ‘I …’

  ‘Ransford said he’d give it his approval.’

  ‘It sounds—’

  ‘And, obviously, Inspector Troughton backs it, seeing as it was him—’

  ‘Magda.’ He found her nervousness strangely touching. ‘Can I get a word in edgeways here? I think it sounds great. And thank you.’

  ‘You do?’ She grinned. ‘That’s good news!’

  ‘Well.’ He hunched his shoulders up to his ears. ‘It’ll get me away from that cramped corner where I am now.’

  She spun a sachet of sugar in his direction. ‘Cheek like that …’

  He plucked it from a fold in his shirt. ‘I’m really chuffed, Magda. It means a lot you were happy when Troughton suggested it.’

  ‘We’ll work very well together. You’ll see.’

  They wandered up the corridor, drinks in hand. Coming through the doors to the incident room, Sean couldn’t help glance over to where DC Morris used to sit. He realized all the other desks were empty, too. Everyone was congregated at the top of the room.

  Sean sent an uncomfortable glance at Magda. Are we missing a briefing? A couple of detectives peeled off from the gathering, their smiles jarring sharply with the sadness in their eyes.

  In the gap they’d created, Mark Wheeler was visible. Sean was still registering the fact he was in a wheelchair when their eyes met. The other man’s half-smile fell away. The sudden change in his expression caused heads to turn in Sean’s direction. A few murmured words and people began to step aside, opening a channel between them.

  Sean was aware of Ransford, Troughton, Levine, everyone. All watching. No one had mentioned he was coming in,
Sean said to himself. He kept moving forwards. The dad was behind the wheelchair, also staring. Fuller alongside him. Christ, thought Sean. His shoes felt like they’d been chiselled from granite.

  He was now a couple of metres away.

  Mark’s mouth began to twist at one corner and Sean braced himself for a snarl to emerge. Abuse and accusations.

  The other man’s right hand was shaking as it lifted slowly from the wheelchair’s armrest. Sean realized it was this attempt at movement that was causing Mark to grimace. Immediately handing his drink to Magda, Sean dropped to a crouch and took the other man’s hand in his. The room looked on in silence as they shook.

  ‘Sorry about your mother,’ Mark said, labouring over each word.

  ‘Thanks. It’s good to see you looking so much better.’

  ‘Hardly—’

  ‘I heard they’ve got you spending a lot of time in the pool.’

  ‘Yeah. Treadmill next. In a few weeks, I’m hoping.’

  Sean could see how much weight had vanished from the other man’s frame. Angular shoulders beneath his T-shirt, bony knees jutting against his jeans. ‘I bet you’ll be on it sooner than that.’

  It was rumoured Mark wasn’t coming back, even though he was expected to regain most, if not all, of his movement. The decision to leave the police had been his.

  The corners of Mark’s mouth lifted. ‘Legs and arms are one thing.’ He broke their grip to wiggle his fingers. ‘Need to practise getting a baton to open.’

  The back garden, Sean thought. That’s what Mark had been trying to do when Cahill had dropped onto the trampoline.

  ‘You did your best there, mate,’ Mark added, renewing the handshake. ‘My fault, that.’

  The father stepped forward to place a hand on Sean’s shoulder. ‘Thanks.’

  Sean searched his mind for something to say. He glanced up to nod his appreciation to them both. Fuller was further back, eyes averted.

  ‘Right,’ Ransford said, breaking the silence. ‘We’re due up on the top floor, Mark.’