The Keeper

by Jessica Moor

  Oh and he’s got her in his arms and you can’t tell if he’s trying to hold her back from herself or steal her away and who cares, all looks the same to me.

  But what do you want? You can tell Jenny.

  She jumped.

  She was pushed.

  Who cares?

  The truth is whatever makes you come.

  Feels good, eh?

  52.

  Then

  Katie settles into the strained plastic of one of the cheap chairs, laid out in horseshoe formation in a small section of the church hall. You get to know the faces at these meetings. The artist in her fifties who’s decided she’s going to bring silk-screen printing to the at-risk youth of Widringham, whether they like it or not. The social workers, always seeming on the crest of the wave of their latest hangovers. The octogenarian widows who come to everything posted outside the church hall, who ask such long questions you wonder if they hope they might be allowed to never stop talking.

  ‘Hullo!’

  The room falls sharply to hush. A pink-cheeked bald man, perhaps in his fifties, steps into the centre of the horseshoe. Though he is in plain clothes, his bearing is PC Plod, with his arms folded on top of his gut. He grins round at the room and raises an eyebrow at the nearest pensioner.

  ‘Rowdy lot tonight, eh?’

  The old woman laughs dutifully. Katie wonders how long she’s been laughing dutifully for.

  The police officer smirks and the pink in his cheeks seems to deepen, like a berry being crushed. Clearly, this is his crowd.

  ‘Good to be out here tonight,’ he says. Hello, Wembley, Katie thinks.

  ‘Some familiar faces, some new, which is what we like.’ He chuckles, as though he thought he’d made a joke.

  ‘For those of you who don’t know me, my name’s Detective Sergeant Daniel Whitworth. For those of you who do know me, my name’s That bloody busybody detective.’

  He waits again. Katie laughs with the rest.

  ‘Now, the reason you’re here tonight is because you’ve heard about the Police and Crime Commissioner’s community-engagement priorities. Now, unfortunately I shall shortly have to dash off to take my lady wife away for our anniversary. Twenty-five years.’

  A smattering of applause, and he bows his head slightly.

  ‘Thanks very much. She’s a very tolerant lady. Anyway, I’m going to ramble on for a few minutes, but I’m going to leave the detail to the capable hands of my new DC.’

  He keeps talking for a little while. Katie is getting bored.

  Boredom is a new luxury, one she’s only started to become acquainted with since she developed the sense of space around her eyes, since the savage, raw skin of the burn on her fourth finger healed and became only a vague shininess. She runs her left thumb over that smooth place now, as is her habit.

  A single hand shoots up and, before the police officer can so much as nod, a skinny young man stands up.

  ‘Yes. I’d just like to say that I’ve read the funding allocations for this Police and Crime Commissioner’s priorities and I have some grave concerns’ – he glances down at what appears to be a set of cue cards – ‘about the gender bias of the PCC, which has clearly been directed behind the scenes by a radical feminist agenda.’

  The concerted attempt at polite interest on DS Whitworth’s face makes Katie want to giggle.

  ‘Those who have read the funding priorities will have noticed that page sixty-seven makes reference to a forty-thousand-pound budget for the provision of refuge accommodation for women fleeing domestic violence.’

  The man – boy, whatever he was – looked up from his cue cards. The dramatic pause that follows seems to suggest careful study of the timing of public speeches, but with none of whatever it was that brought humanity to language.

  ‘Women. So my question today, for the PCC and the wider community, is this: where are the men fleeing domestic violence in Widringham supposed to go?’

  ‘Er . . . Melissa?’ The police officer glances at a young woman sitting next to him with a fat file of papers in her lap.

  The woman blinks then anxiously clears her throat. ‘It’s based on a needs assessment,’ she says, opening her folder and flipping compulsively through it. ‘If you read the crime statistics on intimate-partner violence –’

  ‘We can all see for ourselves how profoundly politically biased these decisions are,’ the young man interrupts. Even his snort seems pre-planned. ‘And those in this community are well aware of the manipulation carried out by one Valerie Redwood.’

  One of the older women turns her head serenely.

  ‘Oh, Val,’ she begins, but the man carries on.

  This is why Val has always told Katie not to mention where she works at community events. Because of things like this. So she scrunches down in her chair. Waits for it to be over. Tries not to laugh at the idea of Val having shadowy control over anything.

  ‘Encouraging women to leave the men who love them, who need them. Manipulating the court system to deprive loving fathers of contact with their children. Criminalizing the actions of men acting on hard-wired instinct, fighting for their families. So today, I say to Valerie Redwood, and to all those radical feminists influencing the agenda . . .’ He’s waving his finger around as if he wishes it were a flick knife. ‘You have no compassion. No compassion. This is why male suicide is sky-high. This is why male mental health is plummeting. This is why feminism has moved beyond equality to mean dominance over and discrediting of men. Shame on you.’

  He sits down.

  ‘Thanks . . . for that,’ DS Whitworth says. He’s flushed and shiny and looks off balance, as if the bulk of his belly might tip him over any second. ‘We’ll . . . actually, we were intending to take questions at the end, but if we just circle back to the priorities for a minute . . .’

  And just like that, they’re back to normal. The man is still sitting in the front row, his hands folded in his lap, his breathing heavy.

  Even as she is staring intently at the back of his head, her body tensed to get out if need be, Katie’s mind starts to drift. To Noah, to the house that will be empty without him when she gets home that night.

  She met Noah on the apps. One of them. She can’t remember which one. She just decided that she wanted to meet men – any men, not necessarily the man – and the universe batted Noah over to her. She is surprised to find they have made a life together, but they have.

  Noah gives things a rhythm she can write herself on to, one he does little to interrupt. It is always the same: a bowl of overcooked pasta, a blob of own-brand pesto, a weakish cup of tea. Things that hold a kind of comfort, and comfort is what she needs after a long day with Val at her shoulder, or with an internalized version of Val in her head.

  Noah is sandy and lanky, with an unexpected pot-belly and light blue eyes. His body has none of the precision of Jamie’s.

  There was a vocabulary – a language she and Jamie shared, which all couples share – into which everything needed translating. The vocabulary of a thousand little unspoken understandings and inferences of what he said – or didn’t say. There’s an impulse in her to call that language intimacy, and perhaps it is. She has no such shared lexicon of tiny looks or gestures with Noah, only the lingua franca of what they both know love is supposed to be like. But she can fall asleep beside him, and that matters more.

  Noah is inexperienced at sex. The idea of humiliating her doesn’t seem to turn him on.

  * * *

  • • •

  ‘And without further ado, let me hand you over to our new detective constable – James Brookes!’

  A slim, wiry young man unfolds himself from the chair at the curve of the horseshoe where he’s been sitting, just out of Katie’s line of sight, and strides to where DS Whitworth is standing.

  The blueprint of him is so familiar it takes a beat to n
otice the lightning rattling through her.

  Her first thought, before she stops being able to think, is that of course it’s Jamie. That it could hardly have been otherwise.

  53.

  Now

  They went for a drink, he and Brookes.

  Brookes seemed elated. He cracked jokes with Whitworth, with the barman, with anyone within the radius of his grin. It was good, after his disdain for the goings-on in Widringham, to see him getting some kind of satisfaction out of the closing of the case. Whitworth had to admit it was good police work, and he was starting to like the younger man.

  Was he an arrogant sod? Yes, of course. But weren’t all the good coppers?

  ‘I’ll be letting DI Khan know about your contribution,’ Whitworth said. This was probably the best way, he was coming to realize. Give the younger generation some credit, let them get on with it, take a step back yourself. ‘Got to admit, you got the measure of this case straight away. Great instinct.’

  ‘Thanks, sir.’ Brookes was holding his gaze in a way that made it hard for Whitworth to look away. ‘And I don’t want to embarrass you or anything, but it’s great to have a boss like you. With all your experience.’ He took a long gulp of his pint. ‘I’ve learned a lot on this case.’

  ‘Not all good,’ Whitworth said softly, thinking of Peony Ward.

  ‘No,’ Brookes agreed, and his eyes clouded over. Clearly, he was thinking about the same thing.

  ‘Always more to learn,’ Whitworth said.

  They stood in silence at the bar for the first third of pint one and the beginning of pint two, staring into space. It was always like this at the end of an investigation into a death. A celebration of bleakness, or at least bleakness tidied away. A libation to the two women who were gone, and who’d helped their crime-solve statistics.

  ‘You saw her, you know,’ he said absently to Brookes. It had been playing on his mind, what had happened that final night.

  ‘What?’

  ‘At the community-engagement event. You know, when that bloke was making a scene. She was there. Trying to keep a low profile, I should imagine.’ He gave Brookes a little shove on the arm. Perhaps they’d broken the barrier into matiness now. ‘Come on, lad, it wasn’t such a big crowd. Don’t you remember her?’

  Brookes squinted for a second, then shrugged. ‘Oh, yeah. Vaguely.’

  ‘Notice anything funny about her?’

  Funny? What the hell did he mean by that? Anything that made her look like she might be about to kill herself?

  Brookes gave him the wide-eyed look, the palms-up gesture, the I-can’t-explain-the-world-away attitude that Whitworth directed to other people on what felt these days like a daily basis.

  ‘Nothing. She was just a normal girl.’ He twisted his lip slightly; his eyes went blank. ‘She was just a girl. And she died.’

  ‘Yeah. She said she’d been unhappy for a long time, right?’

  ‘Right.’ Brookes’s jaw tensed just a fraction. That humanity seeping through again. That ability would serve him well as a copper, as long as he used it properly.

  ‘Still beggars belief that Noah didn’t find that bloody note,’ Whitworth said. ‘But I suppose . . . we missed it too. When we searched her room.’

  ‘We did.’ Brookes cut him off a little curtly. It was only fractions of body language that showed his defensiveness – a furrowing of the brow, a little shift in posture. You saw those things if you were a detective. Brookes had searched that room, and he’d missed the note. Probably wasted them some man hours and money, but these things happened. It was a bad miss, but it happened to everyone early in their career.

  ‘I’m not blaming you,’ Whitworth said quietly. ‘I know it’s your first case like this. We all make mistakes.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Brookes seemed to relax a degree or two. ‘We do.’ His fingertips tapped distractedly at his glass. ‘It’s hard, though. To deal with that.’

  ‘You learn.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Brookes drained his pint glass and pushed away from the bar.

  ‘Can’t stay much longer, sir. Got a date.’

  ‘A date?’ Whitworth grinned, knowing this would be the time to rib the younger man about his love life. It was a welcome break in the tension. In times past, he would have skimmed over the feeling with a quick give her one from me, will you? But he kept his mouth shut. He was learning from his mistakes too.

  ‘Good for you,’ he said instead. ‘It’s easy to end up with no personal life at all when you’re in this job.’

  ‘Nah, sir, not me,’ Brookes said. ‘I’m good at keeping a balance, if I do say so myself.’

  * * *

  • • •

  They said their goodbyes at the bridge where Katie Bradley had killed herself.

  It was impossible to stand there for any length of time without teasing yourself with the idea of what it would be like to drown. That wasn’t the kind of thought Whitworth usually indulged in, but there was something about tonight. He said it, half to himself.

  ‘If she’d wanted to live, she could have swum to the bank, I reckon,’ Whitworth said. ‘I know that there’s shock and the cold and everything to account for, but I think we all have a strong instinct for self-preservation. It’s not a wide river. She could have made it. If that was what she decided she wanted.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Brookes said.

  ‘If she’d decided . . .’ But Whitworth didn’t finish the thought. What was the point?

  ‘Night, sir.’

  Brookes gave a sort of flourish and then, seemingly only a few seconds later, was receding into the darkness.

  Whitworth was feeling a little blurry, a little warm. The stone wall came up to just under his hips. He tilted his centre of gravity forward, just a little. Was that how she had done it?

  Did she jump? Take a run-up and propel herself into nothing? Did she lean in, as you do into a daydream, or the idea of love?

  * * *

  • • •

  He walked home. Wouldn’t do for a cop like him to get caught drink-driving and, besides, the night air felt good. Just cool enough.

  He opened the front door – he didn’t think it was too loud, but he knew Maureen would moan at him in the morning that he’d woken her up coming in. The television was on, and when Whitworth went over to switch it off he saw Jennifer asleep on the sofa, her hair fanned across the cushion, looking as clean and sweet as she’d been as a kid.

  He went to fetch the spare blanket from the chest and drew it over her. He bent down to kiss her on the cheek.

  ‘You love your old dad, really, don’t you?’ he said softly.

  She said nothing.

  54.

  Then

  Jamie looks almost the same, with an atomic density to him no memory could possibly convey. He isn’t wearing a police uniform, but his clothes have the same silhouette, somehow.

  He looks normal. Human. Kind. More than all that, he looks harmless.

  She looks at the door, but the door no longer means anything to her.

  She can only imagine the laughter around her if she tries to get up and run. Running from this man?

  He’s no clawed demon. He’s just a young man in a shirt and blazer from Marks and Spencer’s. She can feel the sympathy for him in the room.

  He’s nervous, speaking to all these people. She can tell, because she knows him. She still knows him.

  He talks.

  It could be for any length of time at all short of infinity; it doesn’t matter to Katie. His voice is like rain on a riverbed that has long dried out.

  She doesn’t know what he is talking about, because all that matters is that he is talking, again. And she is silent. Again.

  So there it is. Jamie followed her. Jamie found her. Jamie stalked her. Stalked every woman in that refuge so that she’d be caught in
the net.

  Through the sludge of fear, she feels some keen searchlight reawaken inside her. Something that asks, reaching deep into each word and phrase he utters, to dissect this man for the sake of the question, or the plea – why did I stay with him? What possible sense could it have made?

  She has told herself in the nights when she lay awake in the blue-cold light and laid one hand on the cooled sweat of Noah’s back that some migraine-like blindness must have come over her eyes then lifted again. Yes, something hormonal, even medical, or so ancient it can only be explained by a creation myth of what men and women really are.

  But now she isn’t sure. Jamie has always made it impossible to be sure about things. Those long rationalizations, composed to the ceiling in the hours without sleep, fade to white noise, and the only beat is the pulse of Jamie’s jaw opening and closing as he speaks to the room.

  She could get up and move. Run away again.

  Where would running take her?

  He’s just a man. She parses the lines of his body to see where the danger lives and finds only her own stupidity.

  He hasn’t looked at her yet. He seems to be making eye contact with everyone in the room except her.

  He is wrapping up. She can tell by his cadence, if not his words, which don’t matter at all. The words could have belonged to anyone, but what matters is that the voice belongs to him.

  Everyone is filtering away now. She lingers. God knows why. He doesn’t seem to have seen her. Does that mean she’s stopped existing?

  It’s just the two of them left in the hall. He’s packing away his papers. Then he pauses and looks up. Looks her in the eye.

  ‘Have a good night,’ he says.

  And the voice belongs to him.

  55.

  Now

  I’ll tell you what happened. But you’ve got to keep it safe, okay?