Suspended Retribution

by Rob Ashman

Jono was flown to Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Birmingham, thirty-six hours after being admitted to Camp Bastion. I never did get to speak with him. Corporal Rogers told me that they had to amputate his other leg above the knee because it was full of ball bearings from the blast.

  I stayed at Camp Bastion until my wounds had healed sufficiently for me to be posted back to my unit. Five guys that I had never met before welcomed me into their ranks like an old friend. They took the piss out of my face with its criss-cross of scars and said I made Freddy Krueger look like someone from the Nivea advert. It felt good to be back amongst the Brotherhood.

  The months passed and I relaxed back into my role with my new team, trying to blank out the terror that had gone before. The faces of Pat, Bootleg, Donk and Ryan haunted my dreams. Their disembodied heads came and went, emerging from a haze of memories only to sink back into the blackness. They never said a word, they would float around and stare at me, cracking the occasional smile and then be gone.

  Then life began to change. It started out as an irritant, a tiny blemish on my right cheek that constantly itched. It felt like a gnat bite that you might get while sitting in the garden on a warm summer’s evening. But is wasn’t.

  I tried every off-the-shelf remedy the supermarket at Camp Bastion had to offer but it seemed the more creams and potions I applied the worse it got. One morning I got up and it had developed into an angry red swelling beneath my skin. It was our rest day, so I made my way over the Med tent.

  ‘How long have you had this?’ said the male medic, pushing and prodding it with his gloved fingers.

  ‘A few months. I reckon I got bitten and it will won’t heal. It itches like a bastard and I can feel it throbbing when I lie down.’

  ‘It’s infected. I will give you a course of antibiotics and an antihistamine cream. If it doesn’t clear up in a week come back.’

  It didn’t take a week. Oh boy, the little fucker loved that antihistamine cream. I applied it in line with the instructions and popped my tabs like a good boy. The swelling got bigger and bigger, and angrier and angrier. The endless itching drove me to distraction and it reached the stage where I struggled to focus when we were out on parole.

  ‘Maybe it gets worse with the dust.’ One of my new team mates had chirped up following an explosive bout of swearing on my part. That seemed like a cracking diagnosis at the time – you have to love getting medical advice from non-medical people. So, one day I took the added precaution of covering it with a medical gauze while we were out searching for munitions. The bloody thing went into overdrive. By the time I got back the swelling was so bad I looked like one half of a fucking chip monk. It was hot to the touch and throbbed in time with my heartbeat.

  I went back to the Med tent and saw a different medic. We went through the same courteous discussion and I left with a stronger course of antibiotics and a stack of dressings to stick on the side of my face.

  Three days later I woke in the middle of the night to find my pillow covered in blood. I rushed to the bathroom and to my horror my cheek had split open like a water melon and was oozing both blood and puss. I rushed to the medics who admitted me into a room and set to work.

  The next day my cheek ruptured into a volcanic glob of exposed flesh. I freaked out. I saw a specialist who examined me for about fifteen minutes then declared, ‘You have leishmaniasis, a disease carried by sand flies that is sometimes called Baghdad Boil.’

  ‘Bagdad what?’ I answered not really taking in what he had said.

  ‘It’s commonly called Bagdad Boil.’

  ‘What the hell is that?’

  ‘You’ve been bitten by a female sand fly that has injected a parasite under your skin. The parasite evades the body’s natural defence mechanism by hiding away in white blood cells. There they multiply and eventually the cell wall ruptures, allowing more of the parasites to hide in more white blood cells, and so the cycle repeats itself. It is a progressive infection that results in the skin bursting, as it has done in your case.’

  ‘Christ! So can you give me some shit to clear it up?’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s not that easy.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘I will need to run tests to determine which strain of leishmania you have and depending on that we will prescribe a course of treatment. How long do you have left on this tour?’

  ‘About two months.’

  ‘The treatment can be traumatic, so I think it’s fair to say your tour is over.’

  And that was that. I had the first course of my treatment at Camp Bastion and was flown home to finish it off. That doctor wasn’t kidding – they gave me a cocktail of drugs that screwed up my liver, aggravated my pancreas and gave me so much joint pain I was literally immobile at times. Six months later I was medically discharged. Sent back into civvy street with a rancid hole in my face and a head full of nightmares.

  My cheek healed slowly. Julie was a rock, looking after my every need and caring for me while I got better. But as my physical health improved, my mental state declined. I gradually spiralled into a pit of depression. The nightmares returned with a vengeance, while panic attacks regularly punctuated my day. I began to drink heavily and the night terrors turned into day terrors.

  I was living on the edge. I felt dead inside, a hollowed-out husk of the man I used to be. Julie left and I was on my own.

  Then one day I did something that made me feel alive again.

  17

  ‘Fuck ’em,’ Kray said a little too loudly.

  ‘Come on, Roz you don’t mean that,’ replied Tavener.

  ‘Don’t I?’ He watched as she upended the wine bottle and drained the last of it into her glass. ‘I solved two of the highest profile murder cases the force has had to deal with in years, got bloody injured on both occasions and made a damned good job at the Acting DCI role. And they go and give the job to that Mancunian prick Bagley.’

  Tavener wasn’t listening, he didn’t have to, he’d heard the same speech five times already.

  She glugged at her drink and stared into space. Tavener motioned to the barman who began preparing another bottle. The place was starting to fill up with early evening revellers which was not good considering Kray’s lack of volume control. He glanced at his watch, it was just gone 7pm.

  ‘Roz, you need to take a step back, that’s all I’m saying. Don’t do anything rash.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like apply for a job as an office manager in a solicitors?’

  Kray flashed him a look. ‘How the hell—’

  ‘It boosts my confidence no end when you forget I’m a detective.’

  ‘Have you been following me?’

  ‘Didn’t have to. You left the job advert and the print off of the email confirming your interview on your desk. You had other things on your mind today so I put it into your top drawer to avoid prying eyes.’

  Kray paused. ‘I wondered how the damned thing had got there.’

  ‘How the hell did you end up applying for that?’

  ‘I saw it advertised in the window of a recruitment agency when I was walking to work this morning. I went in and applied. They invited me to come in for a chat this afternoon.’

  ‘You walked to work?’

  ‘Don’t ask.’

  ‘Christ, Roz you only found out about not getting the DCI role this morning.’

  ‘No I found out about it yesterday. And let’s just say I was feeling impulsive.’

  ‘Impulsive? More like reckless.’

  ‘It made me feel better.’

  Tavener paused then said, ‘how did it go?’

  ‘Oh, erm, it went fine.’ Which, given the conversation she had with the fourteen-year-old girl from HR – Amanda - was not her biggest lie of the day.

  Kray zoned out and replayed the interview in her head.

  ‘Where do you see yourself in three years time?’ Amanda had asked.

  Fucking dead the way my luck is going. Kray thought.

  ‘Well, Amanda,
I have a five-year plan,’ she had replied in her best office manager voice. ‘I need a change in career direction … blah … blah … blah.’ The lies tripped off her tongue like a cabinet minister voicing support for a colleague.

  ‘Tell me, how do you manage conflict?’ Amanda had been pulling out all the stops.

  I flash my warrant card and try not to punch them in the face.

  ‘I find it essential to understand the other person’s point of view. Only then can you … blah … blah … blah.’ Kray was on fire, spouting fluent management bollocks, Amanda was lapping it up.

  ‘What particular qualities will you bring to Willis and Broughton to compensate for your lack of experience?’

  Bloody hell, Amanda, that was below the belt. Well let me see, I have galloping OCD, an eating disorder and can drink enough wine to kill a medium sized horse.

  ‘I see my lack of experience as an advantage. In my current role … blah … blah … blah.’ This was proving way too easy.

  ‘And finally, Roz, do you have any hobbies?’ Amanda had finished strongly.

  I get shit-faced in the bath, if that counts.

  After forty-five minutes, Kray had walked out of there feeling like she had nailed it.

  She snapped her head back to reality and sipped at her wine, giving herself a well-deserved pat on the back. After all, she hadn’t put her foot in it once by being either genuine or truthful. She had to think positive, it had been a confidence boost if nothing else and it stuck two fingers up to Bagley and Mrs Blobby.

  ‘Is that why you suggested we meet up for a drink?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah, I thought I might be able to talk some sense into you.’

  ‘Do I have to remind you how far I outrank you?’

  ‘No, Roz, that’s plain for everyone to see. You do know this is not the answer, right?’

  Kray didn’t reply and once more lapsed into a one-thousand-yard stare. Eventually she said, ‘it was a weird experience.’

  ‘What was?’

  ‘Being interviewed by someone who’s life experiences consisted of cramming for exams, getting trolleyed in Ibiza and occasionally visiting the STI clinic.’

  ‘I’m curious, what reason did you give for wanting to leave the force?’

  ‘To get a better work life balance.’

  Tavener spat the last of his wine onto the table. ‘You only have work. There’s nothing to balance it with.’

  ‘Yeah, alright. But she doesn’t know that.’

  ‘That job isn’t for you, Roz. And it’s not like you to throw in the towel,’ he said mopping up the drops with a beer mat.

  ‘Yeah, well I can’t stay where I am, I know that.’

  ‘Bagley might not last.’

  ‘Oh come on, Duncan.’ Kray downed her wine as the new bottle arrived. ‘He’s so far up Mrs Blobby’s arse he’s had to move in his office furniture.’

  They both laughed out loud.

  ‘It sounds like you’re dead set on doing this,’ Tavener said cracking the top off the latest bottle.

  ‘Yes I am. My heart isn’t in it any more, it’s time to give someone else a chance.’

  ‘That’s what I thought you’d say, so … I got something for you. I figured you hadn’t seen it as you’ve been busy.’ He slid a piece of paper towards her and poured them both a drink.

  ‘What is it?’ She read the article. It was a job advert to head up the Criminal Justice Unit for Lancashire Police, a central department where they managed the criminal intelligence databases and file preparation teams.

  ‘There’s no drop in rank, so I presume your pay and rations would stay the same, it’s on your doorstep, and there’s no need to leave the force. The closing date for applications is the day after tomorrow.’

  Kray re-read the ad, churning the options over in her mind.

  ‘You trying to get rid of me?’ she asked.

  ‘You’re going to go anyway. At least this way I might get to see you from time to time in the canteen. I’m not sure how it stacks up against a job in the solicitors?’

  ‘It’s a tough call. The office job paid less than a third of what I’m on now, had less holiday entitlement, no health care provision and a minimal pension. So, I’m not sure …’

  Tavener held up his glass. ‘Here’s to getting rid of you.’

  She raised her glass and chinked it against his.

  ‘Thank you.’ She leaned over and planted a kiss on his cheek and immediately regretted it.

  18

  Kray was perched on the edge of Tavener’s desk sipping at the coffee that she hoped would blow away the cobwebs from the previous night. She had consumed far more wine than was wise to on a school night and had gone home in a taxi to conduct a one-woman assault on the bottles in her fridge.

  She had been on tenterhooks while getting ready for work, conscious that if she was to blow into a bag, she’d be catching buses for the foreseeable future - completely forgetting her car was still at the station. She left her house with the job advert for the role in CJU tucked away safely in her bag, ensuring there was no chance of leaving it on the desk this time.

  When she arrived at work the station was in full swing.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Tavener asked.

  ‘Oh, you know.’ She tilted her hand from side to side.

  ‘You must have drowned your problems last night?’

  ‘I gave it a good go but I’m afraid to say they are still there.’

  ‘You did that all right.’ Tavener leaned in close. ‘I think we had a lovely evening and if I’m not mistaken you thanked me with peck on the cheek.’

  ‘That’s quite enough of that, Detective Constable Tavener, I put it down to being tired and emotional at the time. Now did you get anywhere with the CCTV at the show homes?’ Kray asked trying to ignore the banging in her head and the fact that her underling was gently taking the piss out of her.

  ‘Not just the ones at the entrance. The developer had cameras everywhere to cover the site while the build was going on, they are still there. The footage is with the imaging team but from what I saw on the night Cadwell was killed, Jack Stapleton never left his house.’

  ‘What about the alibi for the wife?’

  ‘We got hold of the sister and she confirmed they were at home watching TV at the time. I reckon we can strike them off the list. Unless …’

  ‘Unless what?’

  ‘Unless they paid someone to kill Cadwell?’

  ‘They could have but they don’t look the types to do that.’

  ‘I agree. I’m compiling a list of Cadwell’s business associates who we will want to speak to.’

  ‘By business associates do you mean Blackpool’s best and brightest in the criminal underworld.’

  ‘Yeah, something like that.’ Tavener sniggered.

  Bagley stuck his head around the door.

  ‘Roz can I have a word?’

  Kray pushed herself away from the desk and found Bagley in her office. He was sat in her chair, rearranging the pens and pencils on the desk. Her OCD spiked into the red zone.

  ‘Come in and shut the door.’

  ‘What is it?’

  And will you stop fucking about with my things?

  ‘I don’t want you to back-pedal on the Stapletons. If I was in their position I would want Cadwell dead, they have a copper-bottomed motive.’

  Kray jolted herself to focus on what he was saying.

  ‘They do, but as I told you yesterday—’ Her hackles were on the rise.

  ‘Yes you did, but I’m not so sure. It would be great to kick off with a big win.’

  ‘Kick off with a big win? What does that mean?’

  ‘Well you know, with me being new in the post, it would be good for all of us if we could put this one to bed, pronto.’

  ‘Put it to bed pronto? We will conduct this investigation in line with our processes and procedures. I do know how to do this, you know?’

  ‘I know you do, Roz, but I want to be sure we
keep focused. I don’t want us to squander what is right in front of us just because we have fallen at the first hurdle. I don’t want us to drop the ball on this one.’

  Kray balled her fists at her sides and wondered if this was the right time. She decided it was.

  ‘Dan we may as well get our new working relationship off on the right foot. Number one: I have no intention of dropping the ball. Number two: I always work for the good of the department as a whole, not for any one individual, and number three: either I am going to run this case, or you are going to run the case, but we sure as hell aren’t both going to run it.’

  Bagley clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, shaking his head.

  ‘You’re right, Roz.’ He scattered the pens and rose from the chair. ‘We should get our relationship off on the right footing. I was hoping you would be open to working together but it doesn’t sound like you are. Now I’m a straight up and down kind of guy, what you see is what you get, so I want to make myself clear. If you can’t move on then it’s probably best if you move out. Think about it, Roz.’

  Bagley crossed the office, punched down the handle of the door and marched out.

  Kray was about to call after him, she hadn’t finished with her ‘getting their relationship off on the right foot’ speech, when her phone rang. Anything more she wanted to say to Bagley would have to wait and besides there was a desk in desperate need of tidying.

  * * *

  I slept like a baby last night. I am used to functioning on little sleep when the helicopters, small arms fire and explosions keep me awake, but when I sank into my pillow and closed my eyes I enjoyed the sleep of the dead. I’m feeling remarkably calm and level-headed this morning, very different to when I took care of Cadwell. Then I was wired, like I had drunk ten espressos laced with speed.

  I have the day off today, which is why last night fitted so well. It is time I am owed from working late and coming in on a couple of Saturday mornings to reduce the backlog in files. No one else fancied it, so I put my hand up. Having the time off is worth more to me than the overtime payment.

  I’m sat in a Greggs bakery, looking out of the window nursing a coffee, the clock on the wall tells me it’s ten to eleven. Today is Wednesday, the only day of the week she gets out of bed before noon. I look up the street to see her ambling in my direction, cigarette in one hand and an energy drink in the other. She passes in front of the shop and crosses the road, flicking the butt end towards the gutter as she goes. She is early for once.