Who Is She?

by Ben Cheetham

  “Thanks, Steve.”

  Jack hung-up before Steve could ask any awkward questions. Butterfly was looking at him expectantly. He told her the address. “Now what?” he asked. “Are you just going to leave us here?”

  “No. You’re coming with me. You and Laura.” Butterfly looked at Laura for the first time. She carefully peeled the tape off Laura’s mouth. “Hello Laura. Jack’s told me all about you. I would say it’s nice to meet you, but…” Her voice faded almost apologetically.

  “I get why you’re doing this,” Laura said in a dry-throated rasp, “but Jack has about twelve hours to get his foot sorted out. After that they won’t be able to reattach his toes.”

  “How long does it take to get to Guildford?”

  “About four hours,” said Jack.

  “Then there’s enough time.”

  “The sooner he gets into surgery the better the chance of success,” said Laura.

  Butterfly gave Jack a pained look. “I’m sorry, Jack. I wish I could take you to hospital.”

  “I wouldn’t go even if you offered. If I can’t persuade you not to do this, then I want to come with you.”

  The two of them stared at each other, their eyes mirrors of sadness and need.

  “I hate to interrupt this moment,” said Laura. Jack was glad to hear the sardonic edge to her voice. Even after what she’d just been through, her bone-dry sense of humour was intact. She glanced at Ryan who appeared to have lost his battle with unconsciousness. “But what about him? I can probably stop the bleeding, but even so he could die if we leave him here.”

  Butterfly looked darkly at Ryan. “We’ll dump him somewhere where he’ll be found. That’s the best he’s going to get and it’s a lot more than he deserves.”

  She cut the remaining zip-ties securing him to the chair, before turning to do the same for Laura. Grimacing, Laura rose unsteadily to her feet. Jack limped forwards to help her, but she raised a hand to stop him. “I’m fine, just a bit dizzy. The sneaky sod clobbered me from behind.”

  “How did he snatch you from under the noses of the officers watching you?”

  She cast him a sheepish glance. “I gave them the slip. Sorry Jack. I was sick of the sight of them.”

  Jack wasn’t surprised – Laura had been moaning about the officers for days. He was more relieved than annoyed by her recklessness. He’d been steeling himself to hear that Ryan had two more dots to add to the tally of victims inked on his forearm.

  Laura bent to check Ryan’s pulse. “He’s alive. Just about.” She unbuckled her belt, made a noose and pulled it tight around the thigh of Ryan’s injured leg. The bleeding from his foot slowed to a trickle. She checked his head. “There’s a big dent. You may well have fractured his skull.”

  “Excuse me if I’m not sympathetic,” said Butterfly. She glanced at Jack who was on his hands and knees examining a selection of severed toes.

  “I think these two are mine,” he said.

  “You don’t sound very certain,” said Laura.

  “They’re covered in blood.”

  “Take them all.”

  Jack gathered up the gory digits and put them in his pocket.

  “We need ice for them, but first…” Laura hooked her arms under Ryan’s knees. Jack stooped to get hold of his arms.

  “I’ll do it,” offered Butterfly.

  “It’s OK.”

  “What about your shoulder?”

  “My shoulder won't kill me. That bullet might kill you if you strain too much and it moves.”

  Teeth gritted against the pain, Jack lifted Ryan. The unconscious man hung as limp as a sack of spuds as they carried him to the Range Rover. With a grunt of effort, they heaved him into the boot. Jack furtively retrieved his iPhone from his trousers and slipped it into Ryan’s jacket pocket. If things went bad down in Guildford, someone would need to know where they were.

  “I’ll drive,” said Laura. “You two are in no fit state.”

  Butterfly accepted the offer with a weary nod. She looked as if she had nothing left in the tank – eyes like black holes, sunken cheeks. She clambered onto the backseat. Jack retrieved his shoes and gingerly got into the front passenger seat. He exhaled as he took the weight off his injured foot.

  Laura lifted a rust-mottled roller door and fading daylight slunk into the warehouse. Jack saw that they were in what appeared to be a car chop-shop. At far end of the building, a pair of semi-dismantled luxury cars were elevated on ramps. Tracy’s car had most likely been stripped down here too. Bumpers, alloys, wing-mirrors, windscreens and the like were stacked ready to be shipped out. Laura climbed behind the wheel, started the engine and accelerated out of the building.

  Chapter 38

  A pot-holed driveway led to a cobbled street flanked by sooty redbrick terraced houses and a graveyard. The sight of the gravestones seemed grimly appropriate. Jack wondered whether any of the Mahon brothers’ victims were double-buried in the graves. At the end of the street was a busy road lined with terraced houses and local businesses.

  “I think this is Moston,” said Laura.

  Jack switched on the in-built sat nav. She was right. They were only a mile away from North Manchester General.

  He inputted their destination and a tinny voice instructed them to turn left. They headed west through a hotchpotch of Victorian terraces, post-war semis and modern houses. Butterfly rested her head back, her eyelids heavy with fatigue. Grimacing, Jack tried to put on his shoes.

  “Leave them off,” said Laura. “Let the air get to the burns. How are you feeling?”

  “Like I’ve been tortured half-to-death,” said Jack. “Next daft question.”

  “Do you feel cold, sweaty, shaky, dizzy?”

  Jack displayed a trembling hand. “All of the above.”

  “You’re going into shock. Keep your breathing slow and steady. If you feel like you’re going to faint, put your head between your knees. Have a look in the glove compartment. There might be a first aid kit.”

  Jack flipped open the glove compartment. “No first-aid kit, but there is this.” He took out a wad of twenty-pound notes.

  Laura swerved off the road into the carpark of a McDonald’s. “What are you doing?” asked Butterfly, her eyes popping wide.

  “I told you, we need ice.” Laura headed for the drive-through.

  “Don’t do anything–”

  “Yeah, yeah, don’t worry, I won’t make any secret signals or anything like that.”

  Laura ordered bottled water, coffee, fries and burgers. “Can I get two cups of ice,” she said to the girl in the pay booth. “Oh and some extra sugars and cling-film if you’ve got any.”

  The girl obligingly handed over everything Laura asked for. As they pulled away from the booth, Laura thumbed towards the boot. “This might be a good place to drop off you know who.”

  “I’ve been thinking,” said Butterfly. “What if he warns Kavanagh?”

  “He’s in no fit state to warn anyone about anything.”

  “Just keep driving. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

  “If we don’t do this soon, we might as well not bother at all.”

  “If he dies, he dies.” Butterfly’s voice was devoid of emotion.

  “If he dies, it’s murder,” said Jack.

  Butterfly’s forehead furrowed as she mulled over his words. She nodded as if to say, I can live with that.

  “Wrap those toes in cling-film and put them in the ice,” said Laura.

  Jack fished the severed digits out of his pocket, wrapped them up and buried them in the ice. He placed the cups in the cup-holders.

  “Now pour water over your burns,” instructed Laura.

  Jack opened a bottle and did so. He groaned. “God, that feels good.”

  “Pour it over the rest of the cling-film too, make sure it’s clean. Now cover the burns with cling-film. Not too tight.”

  Jack gingerly did so. His foot was throbbing as if it was ready to explode. “I could really do with som
e painkillers.”

  “I’m sorry, Jack,” said Butterfly. “There’s no time to stop.”

  “You’re all heart,” muttered Laura.

  Butterfly jerked forwards as if Laura had slammed on the brakes. “My son’s out there!” Her voice was frightened and angry. “They could be hurting him!”

  “Calm down,” said Jack, looking at her worriedly. “Remember what Doctor Medland said. You need to avoid extreme emotions and sudden movements.”

  Butterfly flopped back against the seat, her breath coming in rapid little pants.

  “Breathe with me.” Jack drew in a slow breath. “That’s it. Good.”

  “Give her something to eat,” said Laura.

  Butterfly shook her head as Jack proffered a burger. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Eat it,” Laura said firmly. “You need to keep up your strength. For Charlie’s sake.”

  At that, Butterfly accepted the burger. “You need to eat too,” Laura said to Jack. “Start with the fries. And put all the sugars in your tea. You have to replace the salt you’ve sweated out and up your blood-sugar level.”

  Jack ate the fries and sipped the tea. The icy sensation in his stomach gradually thawed out and his trembling eased off. Laura kept glancing at him. “You’re looking better.”

  “I feel it, thanks.”

  “How about you?” Laura asked Butterfly. “How are you feeling?”

  “How am I feeling?” Butterfly murmured as if she didn’t fully understand the question. She touched the gauze pad on head. “I can feel it in there, you know. The bullet. It feels heavy. Sometimes it’s so heavy I can hardly keep my head upright.”

  “Well if you feel nauseous or your vison goes blurry or whatever, let me know straight away.”

  Butterfly gazed out the window. They were on the M60, working their way south through heavy traffic. “What does it matter how I feel?”

  “It matters to me,” said Jack.

  “Why? We’re not going to be together. Not after what I’ve done. Why would you want someone like me around Naomi?”

  “Naomi!” Jack and Laura exclaimed simultaneously.

  “Give me your phone,” Jack said to Butterfly.

  She handed it over and he dialled Naomi. A small, worried voice answered, “Hello? Who’s this?”

  Jack’s heart squeezed. “It’s me, sweetheart.”

  “Dad! Are you OK?”

  “I… I’m fine,” he said with a guilty stumble. Naomi always put others’ feelings before her own. That was another way in which she was different to her mum. “Where are you?”

  “I’m still at school. Mrs Wright wants to talk to you.”

  Mrs Wright came on the line, “Hello, Mr Anderson, we’ve been trying to contact you.”

  “I’m sorry, an emergency came up. I can’t come for Naomi. Nor can her aunt. I’ll give you the number of someone who should be able to pick her up.” Jack gave the teacher Steve’s number. Steve would know for sure that something serious was going down, but there was no one else Jack could turn to. Except perhaps Paul. Despite the recent shift in their relationship, Jack couldn’t stomach the thought of Naomi being looked after by a man who’d had an affair with her mum.

  Mrs Wright put Naomi back on the phone. “Don’t worry, sweetie, Steve will pick you up,” Jack told her.

  “Why can’t you?”

  “I’m on a job.”

  “But you’re off work.”

  Even the pain in Jack’s foot couldn’t stop him from smiling faintly. When would he learn that it was almost impossible to pull the wool over Naomi’s eyes? “I’ll tell you all about it later. Right now I’ve got to go. See you soon, sweetheart. I love you.”

  “Bye, Dad. I love you too.”

  Jack hung up with a sigh and gave the phone back to Butterfly.

  “I’m sorry for making you lie to her,” she said.

  Jack held up a hand as if to say, There’s no need. They drove on in silence. Every so often, Jack glanced at Butterfly in the rear-view mirror – partly to check she was OK, but mostly because he needed to see her face. His own face was riddled with uncertainty. Butterfly’s question swirled round his mind – Why would you want someone like me around Naomi? He kept coming back to the same simple answer: Because I love you. But was that enough? Did love justify the risk? And what about what Butterfly had done to Ryan? Did love justify that too?

  The phone rang. Butterfly showed the number on the screen to Jack. “It’s Steve,” he said. “Don’t answer it.”

  The ringing stopped. There was the buzz of a text message. Butterfly read aloud, “On my way to pick up Naomi. The DCI’s in a right old lather. Your girlfriend’s gone AWOL. Don’t suppose you know where she is.”

  Jack could almost hear the sarcasm in the message. He took the phone again and messaged Steve, ‘No idea.’

  There was the buzz of a reply: ‘Why do I find that hard to believe? I hope you’re not doing anything silly.’

  ‘Would I? Naomi likes pizza. Don’t know what time I’ll be round to pick her up. It’ll be late. Thanks for this.’

  ‘You’d better have a good explanation ready.’ responded Steve, refusing to be distracted. ‘And not just for me. The DCI’s kicking off because he can’t contact you. Don’t worry. I won’t give him this number.’

  Jack didn’t message him back. The explanation would have to wait. As he returned the phone to Butterfly, he told Laura what was going on.

  She arched an eyebrow as if she wasn’t sure whether she approved. “He’ll probably take Naomi down the pub. I’ll kick his arse if he does.”

  They were south of Manchester now, passing between flat fields on the M6. The traffic had eased off and they were speeding along in the fast-lane. Ryan hadn’t made a noise the entire time he’d been in the boot. The silence emanating from him was growing more ominous by the minute.

  “What about here?” Laura suggested when they passed a sign for ‘Crewe Sandbach Services’.

  “OK,” agreed Butterfly.

  Laura pulled onto the slip road and into a busy carpark. She headed for the trucker’s area and stopped alongside an HGV. They got out and warily opened the boot. Their caution was needless. Ryan was out cold. The boot exhaled an acrid stench. Ryan’s lips were ringed with vomit. Laura expertly cleared his mouth out and checked his breathing. “He’s alive,” she said, puffing her cheeks. “Frankly I’m amazed.”

  Butterfly made a hmpf as if unsure whether to be relieved or disappointed.

  Jack only felt relief. If Ryan lived, there was still a chance – not matter how slim – for Butterfly and him. But if he died…

  They lugged Ryan out of the boot and put him in the recovery position below the driver-side door of the HGV. Butterfly stared at him for a moment as if committing every detail of his face to memory. Then they got back into the Range Rover and sped away.

  Jack and Laura exchanged a furtive glance. He saw she was thinking the same as him. With Ryan out of the way, what was to stop them from refusing to go through with Butterfly’s plan?

  Seemingly reading their minds, Butterfly said, “I love you Jack. Honestly I do. I know we’ve only just met, Laura, but I like you a lot. But make no mistake, I will do whatever it takes to get Charlie back. Do you understand?”

  Jack looked into Butterfly’s eyes. His gaze fell to the Glock. Her finger was hooked through the trigger guard. He nodded.

  The traffic ebbed and flowed as they passed through the industrial outskirts of Birmingham and negotiated Spaghetti Junction’s concrete jungle of slip roads and flyovers. Then they were on the M40. It was a clear night. The moon dimly illuminated the rolling countryside of Warwickshire and Oxfordshire

  Butterfly was scouring the internet for anything she could find about Mark Kavanagh. There wasn’t much beyond what they already knew. She scrutinised the photos of Mark as if they might contain a clue as to Charlie’s whereabouts. She showed the photos to Jack. “What do you see when you look at him?”

  Like a h
awk studying its prey, Jack’s gaze moved over Mark perching on the sports car’s bonnet, Mark piloting the helicopter, Mark with his arm around the beautiful redhead. He noted how proprietorially Mark was holding the woman. As if she was a trophy he’d won. Throughout the photos, Mark’s smile never wavered. There was something fixed about it – not necessarily false, but not entirely convincing either. In the car and helicopter photos Mark’s hair was uniformly brown. In the other it was grey at the roots. Was he letting the grey grow out?