Who Is She?

by Ben Cheetham

  Ignoring him, Butterfly demanded again, “Where’s my son?” Her voice was hard and tremulous.

  “What son? I don’t know what–”

  “Bullshit!” exploded Butterfly. “I’m going to ask one last time and if you don’t answer me I’ll start putting bullets in you.”

  “No,” said Jack, half-rising.

  Butterfly turned the gun on him. “Don’t move, Jack.” She motioned at the stool. Spreading his hands, Jack sat back down. The gun returned to Mark. “Where is my son?”

  Mark’s eyes darted from her to Jack.

  “Don’t look at him,” said Butterfly. “He won't help you.”

  Mark looked at her narrowly. There was fear in his eyes, but not the kind of paralysing fear you would expect from someone staring down the barrel of a gun. It was more the calculating wariness of a fox. “You won't shoot me in front of a copper.”

  “Won't I?” Butterfly pulled a McDonald’s cup from inside her sweatshirt. She slid it across the work surface towards Mark. “Look in that.”

  As if the cup might explode in his face, Mark hesitantly peeled off its plastic lid. His face grew pale under its tan when he saw what was floating in the cup.

  “Those belonged to Ryan Mahon,” Butterfly told him. “Now they belong to me.”

  Mark’s tongue darted nervously between his lips. His eyes were full of that other kind of fear now. Sweat filmed his upper lip. “I… I’ll give you money. However much you want. One million, two–”

  “One more word and I swear…” Butterfly let the threat hang between them.

  “I’d do as she says,” put in Jack. “She made Ryan Mahon piss himself and I’m guessing he’s a lot tougher than you.”

  Mark’s lizard-like tongue flickered out again. Suddenly his shoulders slumped and he seemed to shrink several centimetres. “I knew this was coming,” he said to Butterfly, his voice as heavy as his features. “Ever since I saw on the news what those morons did to you. They told me you’d agreed to the sale.”

  “Yeah well I changed my mind,” said Butterfly. “Take me to my son. Slowly,” she warned as Mark started towards the hallway.

  “Go back to the car,” Jack told Laura.

  With a nod, she turned to hurry towards the front door. Mark ascended a broad staircase. Jack came next, then Butterfly. The gun was visibly shaking in her hand. Her complexion would have made milk seem colourful. She stopped halfway up, clutching the bannister. She shook her head when Jack made as if to hold her up. “I’m OK,” she said hoarsely, motioning with the gun for him to continue. Her hand remained affixed to the bannister as they completed the climb. The landing was a large rectangular area furnished with deep armchairs arranged to take in the view from glass doors leading onto the balcony.

  Mark approached one of six interior doors. “Suzanne.” His voice was as soft as a summer breeze. He sounded like a different man.

  “Has he gone?” asked a muffled female voice – the voice from the intercom.

  “Open the door, darling.”

  There was the click of a key turning. The door swung inwards. A pair of almond-shaped eyes peered out anxiously from between curtains of auburn hair. Suzanne sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of Jack and Butterfly. Her eyes returned to Mark, hurt and bewildered.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I had no choice.” He reached for her hand, but she pushed him away.

  “They shouldn’t be up here,” Suzanne said in a hushed voice as if afraid of waking someone. “Tell them to leave.”

  “They know everything, Suzanne.” Mark glanced at Butterfly. “This is her.”

  “Her,” Suzanne echoed in a way that made it clear she knew who Butterfly was. Her perfectly made-up features trembled. Tears threatened to ruin her mascara. “Tell them to leave,” she repeated hollowly.

  Jack couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy. The desperation in Suzanne’s voice made him wonder whether it was her not Mark who had fertility problems.

  “Move out of the way,” Butterfly demanded, unable to contain herself any longer. There wasn’t the faintest trace of sympathy in her voice.

  Mark took hold of his wife’s shoulders. She tried to shrug him off, but he firmly guided her to one side. Butterfly strode past them, her footfalls deadened by a thick sheepskin rug. The room’s pastel blue walls were stencilled with fluffy clouds. In one corner there was an armchair. In another there was a baby changing table. Soft light glowed from a cloud shaped lamp. On the walls hung several conspicuously large photos of Suzanne apparently in various stages of pregnancy. Had she previously got pregnant and miscarried? wondered Jack. The air was subtly perfumed by talc, nappy cream and something else, something that Jack recognised from when Naomi was a baby – the intoxicatingly sweet milky scent of a newborn.

  In the darkest part of the room a white wicker Moses Basket rested on a rocking-stand. The basket’s hood was drawn up, shadowing a tiny form swaddled in a blue blanket.

  Butterfly stopped as if she’d walked smack into a glass wall. The trembling of her hands was so severe that Jack found himself worrying whether the Glock might go off accidentally. Butterfly frowned at the gun as if the same thought had occurred to her. Turning to Jack with an almost ashamed look in her eyes, she held out the gun to him handle first. He gladly took it, glancing at Mark to make sure the handover didn’t give him any funny ideas. Mark was staring at the floor as if a heavy hand was pressing on the back of his head.

  Slowly, ever so slowly, Butterfly padded closer to the basket.

  “Don’t,” pleaded Suzanne. “You’ll wake Lucas.”

  Butterfly flashed her a razor-sharp glance. “His name’s Charlie.” Her eyes softened as she peered into the basket. A tiny sob escaped her throat. She tentatively reached out, but drew her hand back as if realising Suzanne was right. She turned and gestured towards the landing. “Out.”

  Suzanne’s eyes never left the basket as Mark pulled her from the nursery. Jack followed, taking care not to get close enough for Mark to snatch for the gun. Butterfly stepped out of the room too, gently closing the door.

  “Where’s a phone?” asked Jack.

  Mark pointed to a cordless handset on a sideboard. “Are you sure there’s no arrangement we can come to?”

  Butterfly scowled. “You think money can buy anything. Well it can’t.”

  He looked at her imploringly. “Don’t you think I know that? We paid for the best doctors. Had every fertility treatment available. But none of it made any difference.” His eyes swept over his surrounds. “All this means nothing to me. I’d give the lot away for a child of my own.”

  A conflicted frown replaced Butterfly’s scowl. “So why not adopt?”

  “A child of my own,” repeated Mark.

  Jack suddenly understood. The photos in the nursery were fakes. Suzanne had pretended to be pregnant. Coming up with false birth documents wouldn’t be a problem for someone with Mark’s money and contacts. Butterfly nodded as if she too understood. “Vanity,” she muttered, contempt curling her lips.

  “No,” put in Suzanne, shaking her head hard. “Mark did this for me. I was adopted and everyone knew it. Shall I tell you what the children at school used to sing?” She put on a spiteful, childish voice. “‘Your real mum’s a prozzie, your real mum’s a prozzie.’” Tears choked off her words. Mark took her hand and she managed to continue, “I didn’t want that for Lucas.”

  “Charlie,” corrected Butterfly, her tone swaying between anger and something closer to sympathy.

  “We’re so sorry,” said Mark.

  “Sorry isn’t going to cut it,” said Jack. “People are dead.”

  Mark hung his head again as Jack dialled. Paul picked up straight away. “This is DCI Paul Gunn.” He sounded stressed.

  “Hello Paul.”

  “Jack! I’ve been trying to call your for hours. Where are you?”

  “Guildford.”

  “Guildford? What the hell are you doing there?”

  “I’m with But
terfly. We’ve found the baby.”

  “What? How–”

  “I’ll explain later.” Jack told Paul the address, adding, “Have Guildford Police send someone over here. And send an ambulance too.”

  “Is someone hurt?”

  “Yeah, me.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “Let’s just say I’m going to need extra time off work.”

  “OK, Jack, I’ll get on it. Hang tight.”

  Jack got off the phone and said, “Let’s wait downstairs.”

  “Hang on,” said Butterfly, turning to re-enter the nursery. She reappeared carrying the Moses Basket as if it was made of glass. Jack glimpsed wispy red hair, soft round cheeks, a button nose and rosebud lips. The baby stirred in the brighter light, but didn’t wake up.

  They went down to the kitchen. Even carrying the extra weight, Butterfly didn’t need the bannister. She seemed to have found a new well of strength. She put the basket on the central island. Charlie stirred again. His eyelids drifted open revealing bleary blue eyes. He let out a mewl like a hungry kitten.

  “He always wakes around this time for a feed,” said Suzanne. Springing into action, she fetched formula milk, a bib and bottle from a cupboard. She prepared a bottle of warm milk, then started towards the basket. Butterfly blocked her way. A spasm of anger pulled at Suzanne’s features. “He’s hungry.” She said it like an accusation.

  Butterfly took hold of the bottle. Suzanne didn’t let go of it. The women eyeballed each other, competing in a silent tug-o-war.

  “Give it to her, Suzanne,” said Mark. It was a plea not a demand.

  She blinked, but kept held of the bottle.

  “For Christ’s sake, Suzanne,” snapped Mark. “You’re not his mother. She is. Now let go!”

  Suzanne’s hand flinched away from the bottle. She looked on with a strange mixture of hope and fear as Butterfly awkwardly scooped Charlie up in her arms. Charlie’s mewling grew more distressed as his head lolled backwards.

  Suzanne moved towards him again, but this time Jack blocked her path. “Support his head,” he instructed Butterfly, his mind flashing back to the countless hours he’d spent bottle-feeding Naomi. For months after giving birth, postnatal depression had rendered Rebecca barely able to feed herself, never mind Naomi. She’d seemed to make a full recovery, but that had been the first real warning sign of what lay ahead.

  Butterfly adjusted Charlie’s position so that he was nestled in the crook of her arm, cushioning him against her breasts. She slid the teat into Charlie’s mouth. As Charlie eagerly sucked on it, Jack reached to raise the angle of the bottle, explaining, “You don’t want him swallowing air.”

  Charlie contentedly settled down to his milk. Butterfly glanced at Jack with a kind of wonder as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was doing. The sight was too much for Suzanne. She collapsed to the floor, sobbing. Mark stooped to console her. She shrugged him off, clutching her stomach as if she’d drunk acid.

  Distressed by the noise, Charlie spat out the teat and gave a warbling wail. “Shh,” soothed Butterfly, moving into the hallway. He took the teat back into his mouth, closing his eyes. When the bottle was empty, Butterfly rested him against her shoulder, patting his back and kissing his head. “That’s right. Go to sleep,” she murmured as the faint sound of sirens came from outside. “Mummy’s here. Mummy will always be here.”

  Chapter 40

  “Jack... Jack.”

  For the second time in the space of a fortnight, Jack felt himself surfacing from a general anaesthetic. A nurse smiled down at him. “How are you feeling? Any pain?”

  “No,” Jack said woozily. He felt as if he was floating on a bed of warm air. “How did it go?”

  “The consultant will be in to see you shortly. He’ll discuss the operation with you. There’s someone else here to see you.”

  The nurse left the room. Jack expected Laura or Steve to take her place, but Paul approached the bed. Jack realised with astonishment that he was glad to see his oldest colleague. They’d been through so much together over the years – good and bad. As much as Jack hated what Paul and Rebecca had done, he couldn’t deny that there was no one – besides perhaps Laura – who knew him better. It came to him suddenly that the shift in his feelings had nothing to do with the passage of time, his capacity for forgiveness or even simple common sense. It had everything to do with one thing, and one thing only – Butterfly.

  Paul surveyed Jack’s foot, which was elevated in a sling and heavily bandaged. “Bloody hell, Jack.”

  “Is that all you’ve got to say?”

  “What do you want me to say? Good job?” Paul looked at Jack with the sort of exasperation a teacher might reserve for a gifted but unruly pupil. “What in god’s name were you thinking?”

  “I love her,” Jack replied simply.

  Paul heaved a sigh, repeating, “Bloody hell, Jack.”

  “Stop sounding like a broken record and get me a glass of water.”

  Paul poured water from a jug into a plastic cup and gave it to Jack. He seated himself at the bedside. “Tracy and the–”

  “Butterfly,” broke in Jack. “Her name’s Butterfly.”

  “Well whatever you want to call her, she and the baby are fine. So is Laura. Mark and Suzanne Kavanagh are cooperating.”

  “What about Ryan?”

  “He’s conscious.”

  “Are we charging Butterfly?”

  Paul spread his hands. “With what? Ryan won’t talk to us. Laura says she didn’t see anything.”

  Jack’s eyebrows lifted. Laura was usually scrupulous about telling the truth. Why had she lied for Butterfly?

  “What about you, Jack? Do you know how Ryan lost his toes?”

  Jack shook his head. “When Ryan cut off my toes, I passed out.” He didn’t elaborate. He needed to talk to Laura and Butterfly, make sure their stories were in sync.

  Paul nodded as if that was the answer he’d expected.

  “Where are Butterfly and my sister?”

  “Laura’s around here somewhere. She only left your side to get a coffee. Butterfly’s here too with the baby. He’s perfectly healthy. The Kavanaghs looked after him like… well like he was their own. They’re keeping him under observation as a precaution. And there’s also the matter of establishing maternity. There’s no real doubt who his mother is. You only have to look at him to see that. But you know how it is.”

  Jack nodded. Proper procedure had to be observed.

  Paul looked at Jack for a moment, then gave another shake of his head. “You’re a pain in the arse, Jack. You always have been.” He sighed. “But I can’t imagine where we’d be without you on the team.”

  “I’m not the only pain in the arse around here,” said Jack, cocking an eyebrow at Paul.

  “Yeah well maybe that’s why we’ve always got on so well.”

  Even as Jack smiled at the sarcastic comment, he was drifting back off into dreamless medicated sleep. Some time later, he had no sense of how long, a murmur of voices broke into his consciousness. He opened his eyes and saw Laura talking to a bespectacled middle-aged man. Noticing that Jack was awake, she smiled at him and said, “Welcome back.” There was a strained edge in her voice. As if she’d just received some bad news, but was putting on a brave face.

  “Hello, Jack,” said the bespectacled man, extending a hand. “I’m Doctor Will Byers.”

  Jack shook the doctor’s hand. “So tell me about the operation.”

  “It didn’t go well, I’m afraid. We were unable to reattach your toes. The tissue damage was too severe.”

  “Oh. Well thanks for trying.” Jack’s indifference wasn’t a pretence. If someone had asked him to give up two toes in return for Butterfly’s baby, he would have gladly agreed. Toes he could live without, but she would have been lost without Charlie.

  Doctor Byers spoke about recovery times and the prospect of skin graft surgery once the burns had healed. When he left, Laura said, “Well you don’t seem too
upset. I’m not sure I’d be so calm if I were you.”

  “I’m just glad everyone’s alive.” Jack looked at his sister remorsefully. “I’m sorry you got caught up in this, Laura.”

  “There’s no need to be sorry.” She crooked up one side of her mouth. “My life’s been about as much fun as a rainy day in Blackpool recently. I was ready for some excitement.”

  Jack squeezed Laura’s hand. “There’s something I need to ask you.”

  “You want to know why I lied to Paul.”