The Damselfly

by SJI Holliday

  ‘I slept with Brooke,’ he says. He whispers it. He whispers it because he needs to say it out loud, but he is so ashamed. He is so fucking annoyed with himself. He’d bumped into her as he was leaving Katie’s house on Sunday. She was halfway along the road. She was like a younger version of Katie, a certain smile they both shared. She wasn’t as sexy though, her tits weren’t as good and she wore too much make-up, and basically, she was a fucking bitch. But he was horny, and she was there . . . and she was smiling at him, in that way that she did. That way that she did to all the boys. But the thing was, it worked. It worked, and she loved it. She was jangling a bunch of keys, swaying them in front of him like she was trying to hypnotise him – and she was hypnotising him. He was angry and he was so fucking horny, and he followed her to the lock-ups around the corner . . .

  ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’ Polly says. She is back in her seat now, back round her side of the desk. There is disappointment in her voice, and Neil doesn’t blame her. Brooke is underage, for a start. Only just, but let’s not even go there. Anyway, it’s not as if he was her first. Fuck no. The dirty wee slag’s seen more cocks than a rugby boys’ stag party in Prague.

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ he says. ‘It was a mistake. A stupid mistake.’

  It’d been freezing in the lock-up. There was electricity, for the lights, but no heating. ‘Is this yours?’ he’d said. There was a couch in there, blankets. A shit stereo in the corner. ‘Comes with the house,’ she said. ‘Mum gave me the key. She doesn’t need it. Said I could do what I wanted with it.’ She’d unzipped her jacket, smiled. Peeled off her top. He was mesmerised, watching the goosebumps skittering over her pale skin. She’d put on a lamp. Walked towards him, untucked his T-shirt from his jeans. Run a hand across his belly. That was all it had taken.

  He felt so ashamed. Disgusted with himself. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ he says. ‘It was a mistake. A stupid mistake.’ The tears are running down his cheeks. ‘I don’t want to tell you about any of it because I am a fucking dick, and it should never have happened. I should never have let it happen. And this is the thing I’m going to remember for the rest of my fucking life. So no, I don’t want to tell you about it. I want to lock it away, forget all about it.

  ‘But there is something else. Something I need to tell the police because I am fucking terrified this is all about that, and if it’s all about that, then it’s my fault too. It is my fault that she’s fucking dead!’

  ‘Neil, please,’ Polly says, ‘you need to calm down. Do you want me to get Jon in here?’

  ‘Poole? No, Jesus fuck! Listen . . . there was some money. Katie won money on a scratch card. We were going to use it to help with a flat in London, start us off. I wanted to blow a bit of it but she said no – that’s what the stupid argument was about, that and . . .’ He pauses, remembering himself trying to force her to suck his cock. ‘Nothing. It was about that. It was five grand. I said we could spend a couple of hundred, have a bit of fun. But she said no . . .’

  ‘Does anyone else know about this?’ Polly says.

  Neil swallows. ‘I don’t think so. I don’t know. Problem is, I don’t know where it is. The scratch card, I mean. Do you think the police have got it?’ He pauses, glances at the police officer in the corner of the room. Her face is expressionless, giving nothing away. ‘Maybe someone else found it,’ he continues. ‘I’m just, I don’t know. I think Brett might snoop about her room sometimes. She said stuff had gone missing before. Brooke too. I can’t believe I touched that girl, honestly I can’t. Fuck.’ He leans back in his seat.

  ‘So Katie had five thousand pounds? Did she have the cash, or did she still have the scratch card?’

  He sighs. ‘She told me she still had the card. We were supposed to cash it together, but now . . . now that this has happened. I don’t know. If Brooke . . . or Brett—’

  ‘Don’t worry, Neil,’ the policewoman says. ‘You might need to pop down to the station about this, though. It changes things, I think. Gives us a motive to investigate. As far as I’m aware, there’s been nothing concrete on this, as yet . . .’

  Polly turns round to say something to the policewoman, but their voices are low and he tunes them out.

  Neil closes his eyes. Wishes he never had to open them ever again. ‘Is it OK if I go now? I need to clear my head a bit.’

  The policewoman nods. ‘Sure. I’ll let DC Jennings and DS Gray know that you’ll be on your way in to see them, shall I?’

  ‘Now?’

  Polly glances at the policewoman, who shrugs slightly. ‘Not right now, Neil. Go for a walk first. Clear your head, like you said. But go in before you go home, will you? They’re going to want to hear more about this.’

  ‘Right,’ he says. ‘Fine.’

  He leaves them to it. Walks out into the corridor. He lets out a long, slow sigh. Balls his fists. It’s best that he told them about Brooke, isn’t it? The scratch card, too. He’s no idea what either of those things might have to do with what happened, but who is he to judge? He’s not a detective. Plus, he has no idea what happened. Someone does, though. He didn’t say anything to them about his suspicions. Why should he? Just more rumour and that didn’t help Mr Crisp, did it?

  He’s just about to open the front door and walk out when he spots her coming through the gate. Fuck that. He’s not speaking to her. Not now. He turns and heads down the corridor towards the side-entrance, hoping she hasn’t seen him.

  36

  Polly

  Polly suggests to Karen Zucarro that they take a break. Pop along to the staff room for a coffee and a snack maybe. It’s been an intense morning. Polly hasn’t even had time to process what’s happened to Lucas.

  ‘Any word from the hospital?’

  Karen looks up from her phone. ‘Not yet. Louise said she’d let me know as soon as he was awake. She’s been there all morning. She says she’s not leaving until he wakes up.’

  ‘But . . . she can’t do that, can she? It could be hours. Days. He might never—’ She stops. She doesn’t want to say it.

  Karen puts her phone on the table and brings her chair closer to Polly. ‘Try not to worry. He’s in good hands. They induced the coma to protect his brain, which means there’s a good chance he’ll be OK. Louise will text me as soon as there’s any news. Come on, you’re right. Let’s get out of here for a bit. A coffee in the staff room sounds perfect.’

  Polly puts her bag into her desk drawer and locks it. She wishes she hadn’t said coffee. She’d love a coffee. Surely one wouldn’t do any harm. As far as her mum had told her, pregnant ladies in the Eighties didn’t particularly adhere to the rules and she’d turned out OK. She opens the door, just as it gets pushed from the other side. She jumps back slightly, startled.

  ‘Oops, sorry, Miss. Didn’t know you were hiding behind there. Mind if I come in for that chat now?’

  Something about Brooke unnerves her. Polly wasn’t prepared for this. She’d expected to have to coerce her into coming back into the office after yesterday’s showdown with Detective Jennings. Polly had been furious at the time, but thinking about it overnight she’d realised the other woman was right. Brooke needed time to get her story straight in her head. Whether she was directly involved or not, she knew something. Turning up unannounced like this. Volunteering to talk . . . it didn’t sit right. She either knew something or she was enjoying playing this little game, whatever it was. Polly was pretty sure it was the latter.

  ‘Come in, Brooke,’ Polly says.

  Behind her in the corridor is PC Evans. She pops her head around the door, talks to Zucarro. ‘Want to swap over?’

  Karen is already standing, ready to leave. ‘I guess that coffee will have to wait, Polly,’ she says. ‘Unless you want me to bring you something?’

  Polly thinks about the cupboard in the staff room that is filled with various goodies, mainly things that people have brought in – biscuits, crisps. Sometimes boxes of Mr Kipling’s. But there are often some conf
iscated goods in there, too. When Polly was a pupil, she’d always suspected that the teachers ate the contraband that they lifted during classes, but she hadn’t really believed it was true until she’d seen it for herself. She’d asked Jon about it when they’d sat in there after her interview, and he’d told her where it came from. ‘If you take half a Kit Kat away from them because they’ve been eating in class, they rarely ask for it back later.’ She’d laughed at the very idea, but then she’d seen the packets of Nik Naks in a basket and her mouth had watered at the thought.

  ‘Maybe just some chocolate, if that’s OK?’ she says. ‘We can make some tea here.’ Again, she thinks. More bloody tea.

  ‘I’ll have some chocolate, if there’s any going,’ Brooke says. ‘Mrs Cohen still owes me a Bounty from last week.’ She grins.

  Polly holds in a sigh. Bloody girl seems to have read her mind. She pushes the box of biscuits across the table. ‘I think there are a few chocolate ones left. Your brother’s eaten most of them.’

  Brooke reaches into the box, but at the mention of her brother she pauses, just for a moment, before taking a handful of bourbons.

  Polly glances around at Sarah Evans, nods. Sarah switches on her voice recorder and lays it on the desk so that Brooke can see it. Brooke glances at it, then looks away. There is a hint of a smirk on her lips and Polly feels a brief surge of anger.

  ‘Brooke . . . have you heard what happened to Mr Crisp?’

  Brooke shoves a biscuit in her mouth. Rolls her eyes. ‘I heard he had an accident,’ she says. ‘Walked into a door.’ Smirk.

  ‘OK, so clearly you know what happened. We both know he didn’t walk into a door . . .’

  ‘He was always a bit clumsy, old Packety.’

  ‘He was attacked by a mob after an arrangement on Facebook. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?’

  Brooke is wide-eyed. ‘Me? As if. What kind of mentalist do you think I am?’

  Jesus, this girl is good. She looks Polly straight in the eye as she says this – a blatant lie. She might not have been behind it, but there’s no doubt she knew about it. Polly wonders if she’s the kind of person who would study tells – make sure to do the opposite of what was expected. People who are bad liars tend to look away, fidget when they speak. Hesitate. Brooke looked her in the eye and didn’t hesitate for a second. It was too well rehearsed. She turns, raising her eyebrows at Evans, who gives her a tiny nod in return that says, Don’t worry, I’m watching this too.

  ‘Do you like Mr Crisp, Brooke?’

  Brooke snorts. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? He’s all right, I s’pose. For a teacher—’

  ‘What about not as a teacher – as a friend, maybe?’

  Brooke folds her arms. ‘Boring. Move on.’ She looks away.

  Polly suppresses a sigh. This girl is challenging, that’s for sure. She decides to change tack, hoping she might reveal something while attempting to blame someone else. Polly has a feeling that this is how Brooke operates.

  ‘Where’s Hayley, Brooke?’

  ‘How the f . . . hell should I know? She was Katie’s friend, not mine.’

  ‘That’s not what I’ve heard. What I’ve heard is that you’ve been spending a lot of time with Hayley, ganging up on Katie. Spreading rumours about her.’

  Brooke’s eyes flash with anger. Her carefully controlled mask slips, just for a moment. ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘So you don’t know where Hayley is?’

  ‘No, I don’t. But if you want me to guess, she’s probably away being shagged or battered by that lunatic she’s going out with. She thinks it’s cool, you know. She shows off the bruises. She thinks it makes her look hard, but it makes her look stupid. She needs to get one of the other lads to batter the shit out of the creep. Teach him a lesson.’

  ‘Like they taught Mr Crisp a lesson?’

  ‘I told you. I had nothing to do with that.’ She looks away.

  ‘Brooke, did you send letters to Mr Crisp? Did you pretend they were from Katie?’

  Brooke laughs, but it’s a hollow sound. She squirms in her seat, and Polly wonders if she might have broken her at last. The girl lets out a long, slow sigh. ‘This is so boring, Miss. You should ask Hayley about these letters, though. Sounds like her sort of thing. Why would I bother?’

  ‘Were you jealous of your sister?’

  ‘Jealous? You’re having a laugh.’ She moves in her seat again. Won’t meet Polly’s eye.

  ‘I think you were jealous of your sister’s relationship—’

  ‘So it is true, then? I heard him say it the other day, but to be honest I’d thought they actually were just friends . . .’

  ‘Hang on – you heard him say it where? Say what?’

  ‘In here, talking to you. I was outside. He said they had a relationship.’ She makes air quotes around the word with her fingers.

  ‘You didn’t stick around to hear the rest, then? The part where he explained that he was helping her with stuff for uni, and that they were friends . . . and that someone had been sending letters, trying to cause trouble.’

  ‘No . . .’

  ‘No, you just took what you wanted and went off to set up that Facebook group. You wanted to cause trouble, am I right? You couldn’t have cared less about your sister, could you? Trying to say this was all for her – that getting revenge on Lucas was for her – that’s rubbish, isn’t it, Brooke? You did this because you’re a nasty little girl who was jealous of her prettier, cleverer sister. You did this because—’

  Sarah lays a hand on her arm and she stops talking. She’d been so carried away she hadn’t even noticed the change in Brooke.

  She was crying. Hard. Rocking back and forth in the chair.

  ‘Brooke . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss,’ she manages through sobs. ‘I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean any of it. It was just meant to be a laugh. I . . . I miss her. I really do. I can’t even believe it’s happened. I can’t . . . I think I’m going to be sick—’

  Polly makes it around to the other side of the desk with the waste paper bin just in time. She pulls the girl’s hair back from her face as she vomits into the bucket. Rubs a hand gently on her back. She lifts her head, gestures at the voice recorder. Sarah turns it off.

  Polly feels sick herself now. Not just because of the acrid stench of the vomit splashing into the bucket, but sick at herself for getting so angry, for pushing the girl so far. But, in some ways, she’s glad. Brooke has finally grasped the enormity of the situation. She’s accepted that her sister is dead. It’s not a game.

  It’s Hayley that Polly is concerned about now – she doesn’t know if the comment that Brooke made about her boyfriend hitting her was true or not, but she is worried that no one seems to have seen Hayley for the last few days . . . And no one seems to care where she might be.

  37

  Louise

  ‘Are you sure it’s OK for us to talk to him now?’ Louise asks the nurse.

  She’s been sitting outside ICU for several hours now, after the initial call to say that Lucas had woken up. She and Davie had rushed to the hospital only to find that he wasn’t ready for visitors yet. So she’d sat there, patiently. Waited with the uniformed officer who was placed outside for protection. Lucas had been given a room at the far end of the corridor, one that couldn’t be accessed without getting through the secure doors and past the nurses’ station, but they weren’t taking any chances. He’d taken one hell of a beating, and if Louise had been a betting woman she’d have given low odds on the man waking up at all. Davie had left her to it after an hour, gone off somewhere with Malkie.

  She texts him now:

  Want me to go in without you?

  He replies straight away.

  Yes.

  Louise hates hospitals. Well, most people do. But for her they bring back memories of her time spent in and out of them when her little brother was sick. Years of doctor’s appointments and blood tests, seeing him hooked up to machines and d
rips, losing his hair, looking so frail it was amazing that he could actually hold himself upright. Incredible to think of that now, if you were to see him. A picture of health, a keen sportsman. With two little children that Louise spoiled rotten whenever she could, being the doting auntie that she was.

  The nurse left her to it. ‘Don’t be too long, he’s very weak still.’

  Louise pushed open the door. The smell inside caught the back of her throat, just for a moment. That chemical shitty smell that seems to seep into your pores. The nurse has tipped the bed up at the top, just enough so that he’s no longer lying flat out, so he can see what’s going on. Should he open his eyes? She can hear his breathing, a weak rasp. His skin is grey, his complexion waxy. He has small bruises on his hand where the cannula has been inserted. His face is still puffy, one eye swollen shut. But other than that he doesn’t look too bad. The rest of the damage is hidden under the covers.

  ‘Hello again, Lucas,’ she says. She sits down on the chair next to him, turns it in to face him. ‘It’s DC Jennings. We spoke before—’

  ‘I remember,’ he says. ‘You like custard creams and you don’t take sugar in your tea.’

  ‘Ha. Well, to be honest, I’ve been having a few sugars the last couple of days. It’s been—’

  ‘Stressful? Tell me about it.’ There is a hint of a smile, despite everything.

  ‘I’m not going to ask how you’re feeling . . .’

  ‘The mess that is currently my face is only superficial. Or so they say. I haven’t looked, but I can feel it. Three cracked ribs, a punctured lung. My left arm is broken in two places. The right one is OK. They did their homework, I suppose.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m left-handed. I guess they reckon kiddie-fiddlers can only fiddle with their primary hand.’

  Louise swallows. ‘We should’ve taken you somewhere, Lucas. I’m sorry. It just happened so quickly.’

  ‘I know it did. You aren’t to blame. If anyone is, it’s me. I should’ve told you everything when you came to see me, then maybe you might’ve suggested I get away for a bit. I tried to bury my head in the sand. Hoped it’d be OK. I didn’t count on the baying mob . . .’