by Jessica Moor
‘Jamie takes care of me.’
Katie can feel herself dissolving.
‘Do you want to get away from him?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he’s going to kill me.’
‘Then that’s why you need to get away from him, my love.’
‘You can’t call the police.’
‘Why not, pet?’
‘Because it’s Jamie. He’d know. He’d find out.’
* * *
• • •
Someone calls a car.
Katie has no idea who it was, or who the driver is, or where they’re going. But it doesn’t matter. There’s a car, and the nurse is talking on the phone in a low, urgent voice.
‘No, the back exit, where the ambulances come. Yes, it’s sensitive. We need to get someone out discreetly.’
‘Don’t worry, sweetheart,’ she says. ‘How could he possibly find out? Look . . .’ The nurse zips her hooded sweatshirt higher up over her scrubs and gives an exhausted smile. ‘It’s the end of my shift. Why don’t I come with you and make sure you get sorted?’
Katie knows she ought to insist: no. God knows how long the woman has been working. But instead, she flops back on to the seat of the car and nods.
As they drive past the main gates of the hospital she can see Jamie’s car still sitting in the small bay outside the ward.
‘What if he’s not in the car?’ Katie says. ‘What if he’s somewhere else? What if he knows?’
‘How could he possibly know?’ the nurse says. ‘We’re the only two who know anything about it. Just you and me.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘We’re going to get you into another hospital a bit away from here. And we’re not going to use your real name, because we don’t want him checking up on you. What name shall we put you under?’
For a second, she thinks she sees her mother’s face in the harsh light of the street lamps.
She blinks. There’s nothing.
‘Katie Straw,’ she says.
43.
Now
‘Mrs Woods?’
‘Yes?’ Angie supposed that was still who she was.
‘I’m afraid I have some bad news about your husband, Charles.’
* * *
• • •
Angie put the phone down.
She took a breath.
There was something different about it, although she couldn’t quite say what.
Died in his sleep, they said on the phone. More than he deserved, Angie thought, but all she said was, ‘Oh,’ and then, ‘Thank you for letting me know.’
Angie passed the empty room where Lynne and Peony used to sleep. A cold seemed to emanate from the room, ramming hard against the stale heat hanging over the rest of the refuge.
Lynne was dead. There would be a funeral, the police had said, but not for a while.
The police were supposed to stop these things, but they were just people. One had reminded Angie of her brother, the other of her son.
Just men. What were they supposed to do?
Angie didn’t think she’d go to the funeral. She’d had enough. Lynne wouldn’t have minded. She didn’t like fuss.
Angie slid open the door to the garden and stepped outside. It was cool, probably too cold for her, yet she didn’t feel it. It was as if, for the first time in forty-nine years, she wasn’t imprisoned by what she felt in her body. Her nerve endings were free and, instead, she could hear – hear the sound of the rain in gentle collision with the salty, fresh-scented flowerbeds. She raised her eyes to the stars and understood for the first time why it was that people carved them into shapes and told stories about them.
‘Hi, Angie.’
Angie jumped. Her throat closed up and her knees gave a spasm, reminding her that she was too weak to flee.
There was a shape and the glowing tip of a cigarette over by the bench.
‘Hello, Val.’
There was a slight grunt as the other woman moved over, and Angie went to sit beside her. She could see back into the living room through the window. Nazia’s and Sonia’s faces were illuminated by the glow of the TV.
‘Bit of peace and quiet?’ Angie said, waving away the cigarette Val was offering her. In the dark, the shape shook its head.
‘A bit of a think. About Katie, mostly.’
‘Poor girl.’
‘The thing is, Angie.’ Val’s voice seemed perfectly steady, so steady Angie was sure it had to be masking something. ‘You get tough, doing this work. Too tough. And you forget sometimes . . . you have to be kind, too. It turns me into a cliché of a feminist, this job.’ She laughed. ‘But then again, what’s more of a cliché than men beating up women?’
‘You were kind to Katie.’
‘Not kind enough.’ Val flicked the butt of her cigarette away. Its sparks vaulted through the darkness of the garden, skittered and died on the damp paving stones. She lit another, the set line of her mouth lit for a moment by the flare of the lighter. ‘She didn’t have the training, Angie. She was good, she had instincts and she understood domestic violence. But you need the training, too. To hold it all together. To hold yourself together. I would have given it to her. But with what time? With what money?’
‘It wasn’t your fault, Val.’
‘Perhaps it wasn’t.’ The smoke slipping out of Val’s mouth was illuminated by the lights of the house, as if her soul were sliding out of her. ‘But someone ought to feel the guilt. It might as well be me.’
Then, after a long silence, Angie said, ‘So Jenny’s gone.’
‘Yes, she has.’
‘Will she be all right?’
Val laughed. It turned into a cough.
‘Jenny’s always all right, Angie. If I’d been through half her life, I’d be dead by now. She’s made of steel, that girl. Toughest woman I know. I do what I can for her, even though it’s not really in the rules.’ She shrugged. ‘Sod the rules.’
‘That’s good, then,’ Angie said. She was speaking so softly her voice dragged in her throat.
‘They want to close us down.’
‘Because of Katie?’
And Lynne, Angie thought, but she didn’t say it. It was too soon to think about Lynne. It would always be too soon.
‘Not because of Katie. Or Lynne. Although they’re useful excuses.’ Val tapped the ash off her cigarette. ‘No – they’ve never wanted us around. We make council budgets look untidy.’ She made a little breathy sucking sound. Paused. Blew out some smoke. ‘The only reason we exist is because the law doesn’t work. Nobody’s terribly keen on the idea that there are dangerous men walking around and no one’s doing anything about it. Like this bloke who’s been sending us threats online. We got another one this morning, by the way. It’s not Lynne’s husband sending them.’
Angie let it hang there in the air between them. Didn’t try to argue or say, as she so often wanted to say, Oh, I’m sure they don’t mean it like that. Instead, she said, ‘Well, is the refuge closing, then?’
Val gave a big, bell-like laugh. ‘Oh, Angie. If this refuge was run on goodwill from the authorities, we’d have shut down long ago. No.’ She sucked on her cigarette. ‘We’ll keep muddling on. Don’t you worry. I founded this place back in the eighties. It was a squat. Nobody gave us anything; we had to take it for ourselves. I’m still getting referrals, Angie.’
She took a drag.
‘Did you realize that? I got a call today. Woman’s only twenty-three, but she’s already had four kids. Fifth on the way. He’s kept her pregnant because he thinks that’ll stop her from trying to get away. They do that, you know.’
Angie said nothing.
‘Every day, a hundred and fifty women in this country are turned away from refuges. Two hundred children, too.’
Angie nodded.
‘I know I shouldn’t have to spout numbers. I don’t. Not at you. It’s just force of habit. But if I don’t take in this woman, then I’ve got to live with that.’
‘That’s a lot to live with.’
‘She’s going to try and come, this woman. She’s getting the train tomorrow. I sent her the money.’
‘Okay.’
‘It’s going to be busy with all those kids around.’
‘I don’t mind.’
Val looked at Angie and smiled.
‘We’ve got to keep going,’ Angie said.
‘That’s right,’ Val said. Her smile melted away and was replaced with something sterner. ‘We’ve got no choice. I don’t mind being a pain in the arse in this town, for as long as I need to be. They don’t have to like me.’
‘I always wanted Charlie to like me,’ Angie said, because it was the first time she’d ever thought of it. ‘Even when he was hitting me. I always thought, How can I get him to think I’m wonderful, like he used to?’
‘He never liked you, Angie.’
‘Well, I know that now. Took me a while, though.’
‘It often does.’
‘Well. Anyway.’ Angie took a deep, full, beautiful breath. Was this what breathing was always going to be like now? ‘I just had a phone call. He’s dead. Charlie, I mean. His heart went.’ Her voice sounded light, lighter than anything she’d ever felt before.
‘I would have killed him myself, you know,’ she continued. Her voice was so matter-of-fact. She’d never spoken like this before. ‘I know I would. And I feel guilty about that, but not as guilty as I should. I don’t mind that he’s dead, I really don’t. But I mind that he got to go so easily. I mind that a lot.’
Val reached over and patted Angie’s hand. ‘Are you all right?’
Angie laughed. ‘That seems like a funny sort of question to ask.’
‘Well, what are you?’ There was something in Val’s voice that reminded Angie of all the times she’d had to comfort her kids after a row. Are you all right, Mummy? Angie had a pet theory that every woman carried in her exactly the right amount of strength to summon up a smile and say, Yes, Mummy’s all right. No more, no less.
‘I’m something. And most of my life I’ve felt like nothing, so that’ll do me well enough.’
44.
Whitworth got into the station at ten the next morning after only a few hours’ sleep, and was already squared for a fight with anyone who might dare to challenge his lateness. He didn’t bother speaking to Jennifer in the car, so there was no row.
His phone buzzed again, ringing. Could it be Maureen again? Calling him? Did she want to talk?
But the name on the screen dashed the idea before he could work out whether he was feeling hope or despair at the idea of talking to his wife.
‘Sarge. Got an update.’ Melissa sounded pleased with herself; the phone line seemed to crackle with it. Whitworth realized he was leaning forward in his chair.
‘A lead?’
‘Oh . . . well . . . not exactly. It’s just . . . I thought you’d want to know that . . .’
‘What?’
‘Well, it’s come through from the Glasgow police that . . .’
‘What?’
‘It wasn’t Noah.’ She seemed to let it fall out in a blur. ‘Definitely not.’
Whitworth’s elbow jerked and he had to lunge to avoid spilling his coffee.
‘What?’
‘Noah’s out of the frame.’
‘How do we know?’
‘I didn’t . . . like, officially check the alibis. But I thought it was worth doing a ring around. Anyway. One of his mates got in trouble with the Glasgow police that night. Well, sounds like they all did. Anyway, we’ve got CCTV of Noah in the Stewart Street police station in Glasgow, smack in the middle of the time frame.’
‘Right.’
‘So there’s no way he could have got back.’
‘Right. Why didn’t he tell us that at the time, though?’
Stupid fucking boy.
Whitworth felt the annoyance twist inside him, but he wasn’t sure if it was directed towards Noah, for his incompetence, or himself, for almost falling for the ideological rantings of Val Redwood.
Of course Noah hadn’t killed Katie. He had loved her. That was obvious.
‘He was pretty pissed up. Sounds like he might not have remembered. Or not remembered what night it was. You know.’
‘I do.’
‘I just thought you’d want to know.’
‘I did want to know.’
‘Thanks, sir. Sorry it’s not . . . you know . . .’
‘All right.’
‘There’s still this Twitter troll.’
Twitter troll. For fuck’s sake.
Maybe this was how things were now. Maybe this was a modern kind of murder. Maybe he needed to take a step back. Maybe they now did live in a world where people killed each other over the internet, or else where people killed themselves over a few unkind words read on a screen.
It was so stupid it could just be true. It wasn’t as if anyone’s motives for murder had ever been very good.
‘Yep,’ Whitworth said. ‘Keep on it. On the . . . troll.’
‘Of course. Bye, sir.’
‘Bye.’
Whitworth touched the red phone symbol on the screen and flung the phone down on the table. He didn’t know if he was pleased or not. It meant they could stop leaning on the grieving boy, which seemed like a good thing. But then – and maybe it was just the atmosphere of the refuge seeping into him – he had been thinking that it might just have been the boyfriend.
Well, what did it matter now?
45.
Then
The new ward is just the same as the last one. Except that instead of sitting in the chair by the bed, Jamie occupies the shape of every hanging dressing gown, every orderly, every set of footsteps.
But – not these footsteps coming down the ward. They’re squeaky, heavy, comfortable.
A cosily spread-out, well-upholstered-looking blonde woman is making her way down the ward, bent over slightly with the weight of her enormous handbag. She sits down by Katie’s bed and, although she says everything in a whisper, her voice seems to fill the room with its bell-like warmth.
‘Hello, Katie.’
The woman looks as if she wants to touch her somehow, but eyes her various burns and bruises with a professionalized caution. She ends up just giving the bedspread a little compensatory squeeze.
‘My name’s Shellie.’
She looks as if she’s leaving space for a reply.
‘Are you another nurse?’
‘I’m not.’
Shellie is speaking very clearly, as if she’s used to talking to people who don’t speak English.
‘I’m what’s called an independent domestic violence advocate. Or an IDVA. That’s a bit less of a mouthful. I’m based here in the hospital.’
‘No, no.’
The air seems heavy, fuzzy.
‘Sorry. You must have been told the wrong thing. My boyfriend – he’s not violent.’
‘No?’ Shellie’s face creases. ‘I was told in your referral that you thought he might have committed arson.’
‘Well – no, I . . . He never hit me or anything.’ She blinks hard, opens her eyes as wide as she can. ‘I don’t think I qualify. I don’t want to waste your time.’
Shellie laughs, pours herself a glass of water from the jug on the bedside table.
‘You’d be very surprised if you heard how many of the ladies I work with say that to me.’
* * *
• • •
Katie calls him after she comes round from the surgery and finds herself alone.
Just once.
She has no idea why she does it. She can only explain it by saying that the world feels so drab. That the ward is too hot. That the bedsheets are scratchy and there’s sweat pooling in the creases of her skin and she wants to shake something off, even if she can’t explain what it is.
When he answers, he doesn’t let her speak at first.
He says he’s so glad she’s called. That he’s been worried sick about her, that all she needs to do is tell him where she is now and it will all be over. That they can forget about it. That they can move on. That they can get married.
‘I’ll find you,’ he says, and she doesn’t know which script these words fit into. ‘I swear, I’ll always find you.’
‘I know you will.’
‘I love you, Katie,’ he says, and his voice cracks like a whip. He’s crying.
He’s crying for her.
And she’s crying, too.
Because he’s the only person left who would cry for her.
‘I love you, too,’ she says, because how could she not?
Katie takes the phone away from her ear, slowly, painfully, with the last strength she has in her.
Then she leans over and drops her phone into the jug of water on her bedside table. She imagines Jamie’s voice choking, bubbling, then going quiet.
She goes back to sleep.
46.
Now
The phone on his desk was ringing. When he answered, there was little to understand on the other end through the mess of sobs, which in themselves should have given him the clue that the caller was Noah.
Whitworth managed to get the words out of him eventually.
Noah had found a note. A note from Katie.
Where was it?
Under a pile of stuff. Laundry. In the bedroom.
That chaotic jigsaw of a bedroom. So there it was.
* * *
• • •
Noah was sitting in the exact place where Whitworth had last seen him when they had searched the house, off to the side of the sofa, with his body leaning to accommodate a ghost.
