But he still remembered, would never forget her. The way her skin had glowed in the moonlight, the tears on her cheeks as she had begged him to stop and the feel of her as she’d wrapped around him. She had begged before the end, her eyes pleading with him to stop hurting her and to let her die. There was definitely no way she had survived.
He had slid the knife into her stomach, carefully paying attention as her eyes had widened. Not surprise, just painful acceptance.
He had stood over her as she bled into the soil surrounding her body, watching as the blood mingled into the soil like a battlefield of old. He saw the horror on her face as he had whispered those words. The words he always whispered.
‘I've been watching you.’
Frowning now, he made the decision to check. It wouldn’t do for someone to be out there who could identify him.
30th May, 1210 hours – Sunderland Outreach Centre
‘Gill, go and ask Brian to phone the police. He’s in his office. James is on one.’ Stanley Hubbard’s was softly spoken, but there was an undertone of frustration. ‘That kid’s gonna be the death of me.’
Nodding, Gill made her way down the corridor, leaving Stan to head back into the games room where James was pulling at a large picture that was still just about bolted to the wall. Chairs were upturned, and the few youths remaining in the room had congregated in a corner to watch the action.
‘Connor, Liam and Titch, head out to the tuck shop. Now, please.’ The three boys groaned but left the room. All the kids at the centre had a lot of respect for Stan. He’d been there for all of them when Scott Anderson, their friend, had been murdered. Stan was trained in counselling, and though the kids had a tough-guy exterior, Scott’s death had hit them all hard. Stan had been at the centre now for a several years, on and off, his contract casual initially. He had been offered a permanent position when the funding had become available a few months before. And he was good at dealing with the kids.
A few weeks previously, James’s mum had passed away from a drug overdose, and the child was beside himself. To his fourteen year old mind, everyone he cared for ended up leaving him. So why should he behave?
‘James, I want you to listen to me. Brian is on the phone to the police. We can’t tolerate this kind of behaviour. I want to help you, but you need to stop destroying things and listen.’
James paused from tugging at the picture frame, and half turned his head. His eyes were wild, and they made Stan think of a fox caught in a trap. This kid needed to vent, he needed something to pull him from his grief and into reality. An idea started to form, one he would need to speak with Brian about, but he already suspected Brian would agree. The centre was all about improving life for the kids, and the more ways they had to do that the better.
‘Listen, when you’re done at the station, I want you to come back here. I’m going to set something up that’ll help you get some of this anger out. Will you do that, James? Will you come back here?’
The boy finally stopped pulling at the picture, glanced round at Stan with sorrow mixing with the anger in his eyes, and nodded slowly. His energy spent for the time being, he righted one of the chairs, and sat down, looking at the floor.
Stan pulled a chair up beside James. It was one of those occasions where words were not needed.
30th May, 1310 hours - Sunderland Outreach Centre
Ben pulled up outside the centre, applied the handbrake and made her way inside.
‘Excuse me, I'm looking for a Gill Thompson?’
She directed her question at a young lad, loitering by the wall at the entrance. His gaze narrowed as he looked at her. ‘You're 5-O right? Your pal just took Speedy away. What're you doing here?’
His hostility made Ben pause, ‘I'm not 5-O - I work in forensics. I'm just here to take some photos, love, that's all. Nothing exciting. If you don't know where Gill is, I can ask someone inside.’
‘Forensics? That's like the CSI shit off the telly, right?’
At her nod, he continued, ‘So you've seen like dead bodies and shit? Is it true what they say? That they stink and still make noises when they're dead?’
Seeing genuine interest hidden beneath his prickly exterior, Ben nodded again. ‘Some smell, some don't. But yes, they can make noises when they're dead. It's caused by a build-up of gas.’
He smiled at her, his dimples giving him the appearance of a cheeky kid, not the thug he had first portrayed. ‘They fart? That's what you mean right.’ His grin widened, obviously tickled by the thought of dead bodies farting.
With a little guarded respect in his eyes, he flicked his head towards the door. ‘Gill's probably in her office. Second door on the left as you go in.’
‘Thanks,’ replied Ben as she made her way inside.
Entering the room, her eyes widened a little. Gills office was not what Ben expected. There was no one inside for a start, but she couldn't move without looking around first. There were posters on the wall promoting positivity and life changes. Her gaze settled on one in particular, it was an oversized print of the poem 'Don't Quit'. That poem had seen her through a lot of tough times, its lyrics providing her with a push whenever Aoife wasn’t around. The desk was strewn with fluffy pens, bright coloured sticky note pads, and a bright pink stapler. Ben didn't think she had ever seen such an abundance of colour in one room.
She jumped as Gill bustled in past her.
‘Rory said he'd directed you to my office, I'm Gill. You must be the crime scene investigator? Rob mentioned you would be popping by. If you'd like to follow me, I'll show you the damage.’
Following her lead, Ben ended up in what looked like a classroom. A somewhat dishevelled and broken classroom - two windows were smashed, furniture lay on its side, and one of the pictures on the wall hung lop-sided.
‘He's a good kid really. Speedy ... sorry, I mean James. He lost his mum recently. He started acting out and ended up here. Stan, one of my colleagues, has been trying to get through to him, but it’s slow going. Brian, the boss, has to play by the book so we had to phone the police when he kicked off. We aren't pressing charges though, but hopefully a few hours in the cells will help James see he can't act out here.’
‘You do a lot of good here. I've read a few articles in the Echo. How long have you worked here?’
‘I've been here about two years now. It's nice to make a difference, you know?’
‘Yeah I know what you mean,’ Ben thought for a moment before adding, ‘I help run an online support group for women who have been raped. We use a lot of the positivity stuff from your office to help women cope, helping them realise that what happened isn't their fault. It’s not easy at times: we have to refer a lot to other agencies, but we make a difference. It helps.’
Obviously surprised, Ben saw Gill's expression soften. ‘Sounds like a tough thing to do. I council troubled teens which is tough, but I can only imagine what that would be like. The kids here, some things in their pasts and presents can’t be changed. But we’re here to help them in any way we can. It can be hard when they don't want to accept the help you offer. But it's all personal choice. I get the feeling you don't tell many people about the support group?’
Ben shook her head, ‘In conversation, no, but sometimes I meet people who might need to know the group exists – and I thought you’d probably understand. Is this the only damage that needs photographing?’
‘Yeah just the one room.’
Hearing Stan shout for her from down the corridor, Gill added, ‘I'll leave you to it. Give me a wave when you're done. I'll be in the craft room at the end of the corridor.’
30th May, 1640 hours – Sunderland Outreach Centre
PC Rob Winters watched James scowl in his direction as his police car pulled up outside the centre. Rob had let him stew in a cell for a couple of hours on request of Brian, and given the kid a stern talking to about destruction of property.
Curious as to why Brian had wanted James dropping back off at the centre, Rob followed the
youth inside.
‘Brian, Stan,’ he greeted as he found them in the exercise room. His eyes widened as he noticed the boxing ring now being erected in the centre of the room.
Stan was matter-of-fact in his explanation. ‘Had this going spare in the store room at the gym I part own. Figured the lads could use some training, help them get rid of some of that pent up energy.’
‘You’re gonna teach them to box?’ asked Rob.
‘Not me personally. Ricardo, one of the fellas from the gym has agreed though. Boxing’s great, teaches discipline and keeps the body active. Seems like the lads are looking forward to it. They’ll be allocated ring time when they’ve done what work needs doing.’
‘Ah, an incentive for them to work. I like it. As the local beat officer here, I wouldn’t mind being involved somehow if there’s anything I can do? My jobs all about being involved in the local community. I boxed my way through college. I’ll be a tad rusty, but am happy to help if you can use me.’
Stan smiled. ‘I’m sure we can find you something to do.’
‘Great, keep me updated on what’s happening, and I’ll work something around my shifts. I’d love to help on police time, but I can’t see the sergeant going for that.’
Stan grinned back, ‘Nope, guess not. I’ll drop you an email though, Rob. Thanks.’
1st June, 1720 hours - Newstead Residential Home, Sunderland
John was pissed off.
It had taken him almost an hour to travel a fifteen minute journey - all because some stupid woman had seen fit to break down and block the road. He felt his blood boil; women should know their place. They should know to check their cars, or at the very least ask their men to check them.
His wife had always known. He’d taught her. Right from the start she had known to have his tea ready at 5 p.m. on the dot, known to get the car serviced every six months and tell him if anything was wrong and she’d known if she didn't tell him, then there would be trouble. Hitting her didn't make him feel like a man. He’d never had a problem feeling like a man, he knew his place.
Always had.
Way above the position of any mere woman. But hitting her had helped teach her that she was so far below him she could taste dirt quite comfortably. He made sure their son, Matthew never saw though. He didn’t want his son seeing all the things he’d experienced as a child. As right as it was to show a woman her place, he would teach his own son the right way – slowly and patiently – not by hammering the point home with every whore passing through the house.
When Eve had told him she was pregnant, he’d seen the fear in her eyes, the belief that he would hurt her for getting pregnant. She couldn’t have been more wrong. For the nine months she carried their son, he never laid a hand on her. He would never hurt his own child, the one person to whom he could pass along everything his father had taught him. He would never let anything happen to a child of his.
He was a better father than his own had been.
John had been removed from his father’s care at eight years old, placed into what would become the first of many foster homes.
He’d thrown himself into studying, finding an early infinity for computers and using them as an escape for the constant abuse and hatred in the children’s homes. Focussing on the computing, he had built his resume and now worked as a mobile nerd, attending and fixing people’s home computers daily, as well as those brought into the store.
But he’d never forgotten the lessons his father had taught him in those early years.
John’s mother had left when he was four: disappearing into the night without a word, leaving him behind. His father had moved straight on - bringing in different women until he found one that stayed past the next morning. A woman who knew her place, directly beneath his dad. Social services had done their best to keep him away, restrict his contact. But he had resisted, running away often and finally returning when he turned sixteen.
John frowned to himself. That's when it had all changed. He’d arrived at the house and walked in, expecting some kind of reunion. Instead he had found his father dead in his tatty old armchair, an empty bottle of whiskey at his side. He’d spent his teens imaging some kind of reunion where he would be welcomed back into the fold with open arms, and in one visit his dreams had been squashed. John had been devastated, and somewhat relieved all at the same time. He’d never had any illusions regarding his father, but he was family. As soon as the funeral was over he had started searching, looking for someone to fill the void.
It hadn't taken long for him to meet Eve.
Releasing the tension in his frown, his cheeks relaxed as his wrinkles subsided. It was time to play nice. Nobody could know the anger simmering beneath like a volcano sleeping softly.
Nobody except Eve.
And there wasn't a whole lot she could do about it.
He waited until the nurse left them alone, him sitting by his wife's bedside. Clicking the bedroom door shut, he smiled widely as her eyes flashed through fear to acceptance. The zip of his trousers sounded as loudly as the crack of a gun in the small room. He held the smile in place as he pulled her head down towards him, feeling her gag as he thrust in and out.
It never took him long to finish, the fear of someone walking in a constant worry to him, but she was his wife. And in this home or not, she would perform her wifely duties.
She couldn't tell anyone. Wouldn't have even if she could. She knew her place.
Chapter Five
1st June, 1910 hours - Police Gymnasium, Sunderland HQ
Jacob grimaced as he kept a steady pace on the treadmill. His hands kept him steady on the handles and finally, he felt himself falter as the throbbing in his leg increased.
He turned the machine off, gingerly stepping down and testing the strength as he reached for his stick. His leg was burning; the fall had definitely set him back. It had been six months since his last surgery, when the surgeon had advised him that this was ‘as good as it would get.’ The four hour operation had tightened the muscles around the tissue and tendon damage, ultimately giving him more support. But he still needed the stick, always would.
His back had healed, the shrapnel left behind melding to muscle and becoming part of him.
But not his leg.
He remembered TJ at his side at the hospital, holding his arm as he struggled out of the wheelchair for the first time after being flown back from Afghanistan. She’d been by his side, supporting his weight as he had walked the required number of steps before collapsing at the end.
The first surgery had helped give him back the ability to bend and straighten his leg, though at that point they figured the chair was a permanent addition to his life. The second was designed to strengthen his tendons but he had overdone the physiotherapy, over stretching as his body tried its best to heal. Dogged determination had seen him through the next two surgeries.
Jacob paused by the full length mirror, normally used by people sparring or completing their self-defence and take down courses. The gym was empty apart from him. Everyone else either progressing onto their shift or home after.
Slowly, he lowered the waist of his track suit bottoms, past his shorts to his knees and turned, the back of his leg now visible over his shoulder. His mouth straightened as he took in the first long ragged scar. It was ugly, winding up his leg like a snake. Some of his muscle mass had been removed, either by the original shrapnel shards or by the subsequent surgeries, leaving his leg deformed and looking more like the twisted trunk of a tree. Secondary and tertiary scarring marred the surrounding areas and for a moment he almost felt sick.
It was so much a part of him that he rarely looked at it any more, hating it with all his heart. It wasn't a war wound. It wasn't a survivor wound. It was only proof that he had survived when half of his team hadn't.
Proof he’d led them into a situation that had ended with three of them dying.
Proof that he shouldn’t be alive today.
The medal they had given him on hi
s return sat at the bottom of a drawer hidden in the dark. He was no damn hero. He didn't deserve any medals.
What he did deserve though was the pain. It forced him to remember. Not a day passed when he didn't feel guilty for being there. TJ had helped turn that guilt into something else. Though even she knew it was still there, lingering beneath the surface. She had pushed him into digital forensics, knowing that whilst his hands were suited to war, his brain was suited to a more technical path.
And he’d done a lot of good, he knew that. Through examining computers, laptops and phones, he’d been responsible for bringing down murderers and paedophiles alike, but knowing it just helped stop the guilt from taking over. It didn’t make it go away.
He sighed as he pulled the waistband back up. It was how it was.
He didn't have to like it. But he was damn sure he would learn to accept it.
One day.
Focussing on his own eyes in the mirror, he slowed his breathing, seeing past his exterior like the therapist had taught him to. He allowed himself to see his vulnerability, his humanity.
It was OK to feel guilty. It was OK to still hurt. It was normal to feel the things he was feeling.
Calmer now, he pulled his phone from his pocket and hit the speed dial.
‘Hey sis, it's me. Long day - you wanna meet for Mexican? My treat?’
1st June, 2000 hours – Desperado’s Restaurant, Sunderland City Centre
‘So what’s been so tough about today?’ TJ asked, reaching for nacho’s just placed down by the waitress.
‘I dunno. I’m probably just over analysing things.’
Jacob’s eyes were troubled as he looked over at his sister.
Identical eyes met his gaze, grey with small flecks of green. They both had their mum’s eyes, and stood out because of them. TJ was younger than him, only by a couple of years, but still. She’d always been the responsible one though. When their parents had been killed, several years before he had joined the army, TJ had stepped up. Only sixteen at the time, she had managed to fit cleaning house, and cooking tea into her daily routine around college. He had kept the garden tidy, and done all the DIY. They had pulled each other through the grief.
I've Been Watching You: a stunning crime thriller from The North East Police Series Page 4
