Who Is She?

by Ben Cheetham

  “That’s enough questions for now,” said the nurse. “Butterfly needs to rest.”

  “No,” said Butterfly, opening her eyes. “I need to know who those people are.”

  Jack told her about Dennis Smith and the peculiar world he’d created for himself at Hawkshead Manor. Butterfly listened with interest, but no recognition. Jack grew hesitant when it came to Tracy’s tragic story. DNA testing would prove whether Butterfly was Tracy. He didn’t want to needlessly upset her if she wasn’t Tracy, so he limited the information he gave to, “The young girl is someone we’re trying to track down. That photo was taken in 1998. So she’d be about your age now. It may well be that her case is unrelated to yours.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “We can talk about that another time if needs be.”

  “Can I see the photos again?”

  Jack held out his phone. Butterfly’s bloodshot gaze lingered on Dennis. “Phoenix... Dennis... Phoenix... Dennis...” she mumbled to herself, as if repetition would repair the connections that the bullet had damaged. She trailed off into frustrated silence.

  Jack rose to his feet. Butterfly looked at him with frightened eyes. “My mind is so empty.”

  Although she was talking about her memory, her hands moved towards her swollen stomach. Jack read a heart-wrenching plea in her eyes for him to stay. Even if the nurse had permitted him to do so, he knew it wouldn’t be a good idea. It would only encourage Butterfly to become more attached to him, and maybe vice versa. And he couldn’t see how that could lead to anything good.

  “Go back to sleep, Butterfly,” he said as softly as if he was soothing Naomi after a nightmare. “I’ll see you again soon.”

  Chapter 19

  Jack had nothing to say that was worth the risk of talking to Paul. On the way to his car, he texted him the news, or rather lack of it. ‘Have spoken to the vic. She has no memory of Gosforth, Dennis Smith or Tracy Ridley.’ Paul replied ‘OK. Court order being fast-tracked through. Should have it by tomorrow.’

  Jack thought about what the DNA test might reveal with mixed emotions. If Butterfly and Tracy were the same person, it would give her back her identity. But what was that identity? A woman haunted by her tragic past? A dropout waiting for the end of the world? Someone so lost and alone that they could be taken in by a charlatan like Dennis ‘Phoenix’ Smith? Perhaps it would be better if Butterfly remained unidentified. No past. No family. A clean slate.

  Naomi was waiting for Jack at the front door of Laura’s house with a big smile that washed away the mental grime of the day.

  Laura peered past him towards the car. “No Steve?”

  “He’s still in The Lakes.”

  “Oh.”

  Jack looked at his sister intently. Was that disappointment he detected in her voice? And why was there a smudge of fresh lipstick on her teeth? Oh god, she couldn’t possibly... He dismissed the idea before it was fully formed. Surely she had better taste than that...

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” asked Laura, sucking her glossy lips somewhat self-consciously.

  ... Or maybe she didn’t. “I’ll tell Steve you asked after him.”

  Laura frowned. “Don’t bother. I don’t want that sexist dinosaur getting any funny ideas.”

  Jack held in a laugh at the overly defensive response. He’d spent his adult life honing his ability to spot when people said one thing and meant another. So Laura had a thing for Steve. So what? As she’d said, Steve was a sexist dinosaur. She could have added selfish, chauvinist bigot to the list of negative character traits. Basically, he was everything she wasn’t. But who knew? Maybe that was a good thing. If nothing else, any relationship she and Steve had wouldn’t be lacking a spark. And what was the alternative? Loneliness? No one to confide in? No one to comfort you when your fears came calling? No one to love? Jack’s thoughts returned to Butterfly. The desire to laugh subsided.

  “I may have to go back up to The Lakes myself tomorrow.”

  “Well just call if you need me.”

  “Thanks, sis.”

  As Jack drove home, Naomi gave him the tale of her day. He tried to put Butterfly to the back of his mind. This was Naomi’s time. He’d made himself a promise not to let the job intrude on their relationship. But Butterfly’s face kept returning. Her eyes had cried out for someone to comfort her, someone to be at her side while she slept. No, not someone, he corrected himself. You.

  “Dad, you’re not listening to me, are you?” Naomi exclaimed.

  He blinked and glanced at her. “Sorry, sweetheart. It’s been a long day.”

  “You work too much.”

  At the concern in Naomi’s voice, Jack reached to squeeze her wrist. “Tell you what, I’ll book some time off. We can go on holiday.”

  “Yay! Where?”

  Jack smiled, delighted by her delight. “Wherever you like.”

  “I don’t know where I want to go.”

  “Then have a think about it. There’s no rush. I won’t be able to get time off while we’re in the middle of a difficult case.”

  Naomi’s porcelain-smooth forehead pulled into furrows. “I saw that lady on the news. The one who was shot. It made me feel sad.”

  “It makes me feel sad too.”

  “Why would someone do that?”

  Jack’s forehead mirrored Naomi’s as he replied, “That’s not something you need worry about.” Naomi had already been through so much in her short life. He couldn’t erase what had happened, but he could do his best to shield her from further evidence of life’s unforgiving nature. He was coming to realise that it was an impossible task though. Naomi seemed to have inherited the same sense of curiosity and adventure that had led him to the police force. He just hoped she hadn’t also inherited the sensitivity that had made life too much for her mother to bear.

  The sky was softening into twilight by the time they reached Chorlton. Jack went through Naomi’s bedtime routine – supper, bath, story. He kissed her cheek. “Night, sweetheart. I love you.”

  “I love you too, Dad.”

  As Jack left her bedroom, Naomi asked, “What’s life about, Dad?”

  He felt like frowning – the question was eerily reminiscent of the things Rebecca used to say – but managed a smile instead. “What do you think it’s about?”

  Naomi shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “I can tell you what it should be about for you – having fun, enjoying yourself, not worrying about what you see on the news. Now close your eyes, sweetie. It’s late and you’ve got school tomorrow.”

  Naomi did as she was told and Jack went downstairs. He took paracetamol for the ache behind his forehead. A glass of something strong would have achieved the same effect, but that wasn’t an option. He knew from experience where drinking to blot out pain – be it physical or emotional – led. His thoughts drifted over the months he’d spent mired in the oblivion of alcohol after Rebecca’s death. He’d been dry for nearly a year now, and he intended to keep it that way.

  What’s life about, Dad? The question nagged at him as he stretched out on the sofa. His gaze moved to a photo of Rebecca inconspicuously positioned on a shelf. It and the one on Naomi’s beside table were the only photos of her on display in the house. He’d boxed up the rest and stowed them in the loft. He didn’t want the house to be a shrine to her memory, but neither did he want to pretend she’d never existed. He wanted to be able to look at her, if only for a fleeting moment, without sadness, regret, guilt, anger and all the other painful emotions her face brought rushing back. For an instant, he could almost hear her yelling at him, Life is nothing but shit. It’s all just shit, shit, shit! He felt a panicky tightening in his abdomen. What if Naomi turned out to be like her mother? Then you’ll deal with it, he told himself sharply. But she’s not like Rebecca. She’s like you. She’s a survivor.

  His mobile phone’s ringtone interrupted his train of thought. ‘Steve’ flashed up on the screen. He put it to his ear. “What’s up?”
/>
  He expected to either get an earful about being bored of watching the manor house or a drunken account of the quality of the beer in Gosforth’s pubs. Instead, Steve said, “There’s something funny going on at the house.”

  “Funny as in ha-ha?”

  “Funny as in bloody odd. I can smell smoke and there’s an orange glow in the sky. I think they’ve lit a bonfire.”

  “They could be disposing of evidence.”

  “Or maybe they’re having their own little festival. It sounds like they’re banging drums in there. I’m tempted to go have a look-see.”

  Another disturbing possibility occurred to Jack as he thought about Dennis’s paintings – buildings in rubble, forests on fire, blood raining from the skies. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Is Sergeant Ramsden there?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Put him on.”

  Eric Ramsden’s deep Cumbrian voice came through the receiver. “Hello, Jack.”

  “Has anything like this happened before?”

  “Not to my knowledge, but I don’t often come over this way. There’s not much call for it.”

  “I think you should get more officers out there. Firemen too. Tell Steve I’m about to set off back to you. I’ll be there ASAP.” Jack got off the phone to Eric and got on it to Laura. “I’m really sorry, sis, but I’ve–”

  “I’m on my way,” she interjected purposefully. She sounded almost glad that he’d disturbed her evening. Friendship, security, a purpose in life. Those words came back to him. He felt a twinge of sadness for Laura. He always thought of her as thick-skinned, but her tone was a reminder that she had the same need to feel needed as anyone else.

  As he waited for Laura, Jack looked in on Naomi. She was fast asleep. What’s life about, Dad? He pushed the question away. He knew that if he allowed himself to dwell on it he wouldn’t be able to leave the house. All he’d be able to do was sit around fretting about things he had little or no control over. He padded downstairs and made himself a sandwich. It was going to be a long night.

  Chapter 20

  The hellish glow in the night sky was visible from miles away. A smoky smell tickled Jack’s nostrils. Something big was on fire.

  A police car was blocking the little stone bridge over the River Bleng. A few people were milling around, some in dressing-gowns and slippers. Displaying his ID to a grim-faced constable, Jack asked, “What’s the situation?”

  “The manor house is on fire and...” The constable faltered as the wail of a siren filled the air. Rapidly approaching blue and white flashing lights appeared at the top of Leagate Brow. The constable sprang into his car and reversed off the bridge, allowing an ambulance to race past.

  “Who’s in the ambulance?” Jack called to the constable.

  The constable pointed towards Leagate Brow as if to say, You’ll find the answer up there. An ominous feeling gathering in his stomach, Jack accelerated up the hill.

  He pulled in sharply, his wing-mirror scraping along a hedge, as another ambulance screamed by. Whatever was going on, there appeared to be more than one casualty. Several hundred metres up ahead, flames licked at the darkness through a billowing pall of smoke. He found his path blocked by another police car. Beyond it the lane was clogged with ambulances, fire engines and police vehicles. He got out, surveying a scene like something from a war zone. Paramedics were hauling bodies on stretchers. Firemen were directing arcs of water at a strip of blazing woodland. Police officers were dashing around, trying to make themselves heard above the hiss and crackle of burning branches, the revving of engines and the whump-whump of a helicopter circling overhead. Flames and flashing lights threw wild shadows across the chaotic scene.

  Jack’s gaze was drawn to a team of paramedics working on a small, unconscious figure. The child’s sooty limbs were flopped at awkward angles. The paramedics were inserting an airway adjunct. A short distance further on, paramedics were attending a woman who was spasming violently and frothing at the mouth. Nearby, two children lay heartbreakingly motionless in the back of an ambulance. Wrenching his eyes away from the bodies, Jack approached a cluster of police at the manor house gateposts. The gates had been cut off their hinges and moved aside. Steve was nowhere to be seen. The police were geared up with shields, helmets and batons, ready to go in hard. What the hell are they waiting for? wondered Jack.

  “Sergeant Ramsden,” he called out.

  A solidly built forty-something man with neat brown hair and a matching beard turned to him. “Detective Inspector Anderson?”

  Jack nodded. “What’s going on? Why haven’t you gone in?”

  Before the sergeant could reply, a shout went up for paramedics. A young boy came staggering between the gateposts, clutching his stomach, his face scrunched in agony. The boy doubled over suddenly, vomiting a toxic soup of bile marbled with thick veins of blood. As paramedics rushed to the boy’s aid, Eric Ramsden said, “We think they’ve taken some kind of poison.”

  “So why haven’t you put an end to this madness?”

  “Because they’ve got DI Platts.”

  Jack put his head back, mouthing, “Fuck.” He should have guessed. The stupid sod had ignored him.

  “Not long after speaking to you, DI Platts went into the manor house grounds. About twenty minutes after that, Dennis Smith contacted us through DI Platts’s radio, said they had Steve and would kill him if we entered the grounds.”

  “Did he say anything else?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ask to talk to Steve?”

  Eric nodded. “Mr Smith refused to let me.”

  “So you don’t know for sure if Steve’s still alive.”

  “No we don’t. We decided it was best to wait and see if Mr Smith made any demands. Then about...” Eric glanced at his wristwatch, “quarter-of-an-hour ago. Christ, has it only been fifteen minutes?” He shook his head as if doubting his eyes. “A child appeared at the gates in the same state as that one.” He pointed to the boy. “When more sick women and children started appearing, we decided to go in. But then we got a call from the helicopter. Four masked figures have come out of the house. One of them is a white male, naked with tied wrists.”

  “It has to be Steve. Maybe they want to talk.”

  “What could they want to talk about? Seems like they’re more interested in dying than talking.”

  As if on cue, Dennis’s voice crackled through Sergeant Ramsden’s radio. “I want to talk to the head pig.”

  Jack motioned for the sergeant to hand him the radio. There was a calmness to Dennis’s demand that made Jack feel like spitting obscenities into the radio. Instead, he replied with equal calm, “This is the head pig.” There was no irony in his voice. Dennis wanted to speak to a figure of authority, an enemy he could use to help him play out his fantasy. Jack wasn’t about to give him that satisfaction.

  There was a pause as if Dennis had been caught off guard by the response. Then he said, “Detective Anderson, is that you?”

  “It is, Dennis.”

  A rise of annoyance came into Dennis’s voice. “There’s no one here by that name. I’m Phoenix. I’ve lived a thousand lives. Out of the ashes I–”

  “You’re Dennis Smith,” broke in Jack. He didn’t want Dennis to get into his stride. He wanted to keep him on the back heel. It was a risky strategy, but no riskier than allowing Dennis to work himself into a self-righteous froth. “You’re a petty criminal and not a very successful one if your prison record’s anything to go by.”

  “I will rise!” Dennis shouted over Jack. “Purer. Wiser. Stronger. And you shall bear witness to my transformation. Come see. Come alone.”

  With that, the radio fell silent. Jack gave it back to Eric and turned his gaze towards the driveway.

  “You’re not thinking of doing as that madman says, are you?” asked the sergeant.

  “How many people have come out of there?”

  “Six children and two women.”

  “That means there are seven c
hildren and five women still in there. I don’t see that I have any other choice.”

  “We could all go in.”

  “They’ll kill Steve.”

  “Then we use snipers. An armed unit is on its way. They’ll know how to deal with this nutcase.”

  Jack shook his head. “That’s what Dennis expects us to do. He wants to be martyred. We kill him and we might as well give up any hope of getting those others out alive. Besides, this guy doesn’t want to hurt us. He just wants an audience to spout his message at.”

  “OK,” Eric said in a tone of reluctant assent. “Well what can we do to help?”