by Gwyn GB
He didn’t once look either side to the rolling landscape of fields and woodlands. Greens and yellows turning to grays in the far distance, where the sky hung low to the ground. He didn’t see the herds of tail swinging cows, brown and cream, or the white specks of sheep grazing across the fields. Harrison knew his destination, and there was no stopping him. He didn’t hesitate until he’d reached PennyGate Hospice.
As he pulled into the car park, the sign for the hospice made him sneer. ‘Enabling living through kindness and respect’. While he fully respected the aims of the hospice, he doubted Freda Manning had been kind to anyone in her life. She certainly didn’t deserve respect. He hated the bitterness inside of him, the anger that chewed away at his insides every time he thought about the Mannings. For as long as he felt this way about them, he knew they would have control over him. He wanted to purge her from his insides. She was the cancer. A rotten, festering tumour that he needed to remove.
The brown brick building was innocuous, hiding the daily misery of loved ones having to say their goodbyes to those who could no longer manage the pain and fight of living. There was no pain or sadness in Harrison’s heart. It was cold and hard. His hands tightly fisted.
As he got off his bike, he felt the stiffness from the tension that held his body rigid. At any other time he would have stopped and tried to release that tension, brought his breathing under control and eased the fast shallow breaths which were inefficiently trying to oxygenate his body and did nothing to calm him. Today, though, he didn’t want to stop for anything.
Harrison strode across the car park towards the entrance with only one thought on his mind. To find Freda Manning.
The man had seen him arrive and got out of his car to intercept him. He had to run to catch up to him as he strode toward the entrance.
‘Harrison. Harrison.’
When he touched his elbow, Harrison swung round in surprise. The man almost ducked in an automatic reaction. Harrison’s eyes were dark and his face set hard and tight.
‘Jack!’
‘I didn’t want you going in there alone. It’s my fault you’re here, and I knew you wouldn’t wait,’ he said by way of explanation.
There was a moment’s pause between them as the shock of the sight of each other subsided.
‘Thanks to you, I had to miss my breakfast this morning and lose three hours’ precious sleep.’ Jack reverted to his default humourous way of dealing with anything stressful.
Harrison wasn’t sure whether he felt angry at Jack for being there, or relieved. For a while, he couldn’t say anything, just stared at his friend.
‘Look, why don’t we go and get a coffee and a mint tea first, before you go in there. We’ve both had long journeys, and you need to be in the right frame of mind before you see her. The last thing you’re going to want is to go in there all stressed. She’ll think she’s got to you. You don’t want that to be her last thought, do you?’
Harrison wasn’t sure what he wanted right now.
Walking away from Freda Manning, when he knew she lay helpless in a bed just a hundred metres away, was a hard choice, but Harrison allowed himself to be led by Jack. He followed him silently to his car and got in, fastening his seat belt like he was some kind of android automaton.
He’d played the scene out in his head a thousand times on the way down. Sometimes she’d told him all he wanted to know, eager to leave this world with some kind of forgiveness. Other times, she’d tricked him, and Desmond was waiting for him like Little Red Riding Hood’s wolf. Then there were the times he smothered her with a pillow, or turned her morphine right up or right down. None of the scenarios had included Jack.
‘Why are you here?’ Harrison finally said to him.
Jack had his eyes on the road, but quickly glanced over at him.
‘I think you know the answer.’
Harrison hadn’t always managed to control his temper when faced with injustice and for him personally, there was no greater injustice than his mother’s death being labelled as suicide and her killers being allowed to wander free. Of course, he knew why Jack was here. His mind was spinning. Jack would get in the way of what he might have been capable of. He knew Jack would play it by the book, that was his way. Methodical and thorough. Harrison was more bull in a china shop, and Jack was there to ensure he didn’t create mayhem. He couldn’t yet bring himself to thank him for being here. He wasn’t yet sure if he was grateful or not, but he knew he was right.
As he sat in the café with Jack, the dark, spinning mist in his head started to subside. He hadn’t even taken any notice of where they’d ended up, he’d just followed him and done as he’d suggested. While Harrison had sat silently at a table, surrounded by couples and groups of people chatting and gossiping, Jack had ordered him a mint tea, and got himself coffee and an all-day breakfast.
‘There are a few things we need to get out of today,’ Jack had begun, just half a potato waffle and some streaks of egg and ketchup left on his plate. He by-passed the emotional and focused on the practical. ‘First, we need to ask her about the Nunhead murder. We can mention the victim’s name now, then we can try to find out where Desmond is, and finally we obviously have to ask about your mother. If we say that we’ve got a witness who is prepared to testify that it wasn’t suicide, then she might want to protect Desmond. I’ve no idea how long left she has, but a prison sentence is certainly not going to be a deterrent for her. Let’s hope she’s not too high on morphine and actually knows what we’re talking about.’
Flash thoughts of kidnapping Freda and subjecting her to a range of humiliations and torture jumped into Harrison’s head. His rational self, the one which worked to uphold the law, moved quickly to smother his wishful thinking.
Jack finished off the waffle and looked across the table at him.
‘You OK?’
He was aware that he’d still barely said a word since Jack had arrived. While he was never the chattiest kind of person, even for him, this silence was unusual.
‘There has to be a motive behind this. Why suddenly come out into the open now?’
‘Maybe she had to in order to seek medical help. If she’s in pain, then it can make you do desperate things.’
‘Or more likely, they’re plotting something.’
‘You think this is a trap?’
‘I know there’s something. It’s in my head too, I just can’t see what it is.’ Harrison looked at Jack to see if he understood.
His friend was looking serious for once, and nodded slowly.
‘I don’t see how she can hurt you. Even if Desmond is here, they’re going to have to get through me as well.’
‘I’m not sure it’s that straightforward.’
Harrison had to admit that taking the time out allowed him to calm down a little and be in a stronger frame of mind. His friend was right. The last thing he wanted to do was walk in there and for Freda to think she was in control. By the time they returned to the hospice he was ready, and knowing Jack had his back gave him extra strength.
The woman at reception was full of sympathy and kind smiles. She was just the kind of person you needed to see when you first arrived at a hospice–unless you were going to see your mother’s murderer. Harrison found it hard to swallow the kindness which was offered to them. He wasn’t here to visit a loved one. He was here for a day of reckoning with a person who personified evil and had done her best to ruin his life. While they sat and waited, he closed his eyes to the posters which offered counselling and a shoulder to cry on, and instead took himself back to Arizona, their safe place, when he and his mother had escaped the Mannings. He focused his mind on the positive feelings those memories gave him, and he channeled his energy into keeping himself calm. It was hard, but Jack was right. He didn’t want her to think she’d won by dragging him here in a state of stress.
He wasn’t massively successful at the relaxation. When the door to reception opened and a nurse came in to show them the way to Mrs Manning’
s room, his stomach lurched so hard he thought he might be sick. As he got up to follow her, in his mind he was a little boy again, with his mother walking by his side, holding his hand.
The hospice had done its best to paint the walls with bright cheerful colours. Children’s pictures of rainbows and sunshine were strategically placed next to uplifting extracts from poems and psalms. They couldn’t help smother the smell of disinfectant and medical wipes, or the hush that was broken only by the sound of a bedside call bell buzzing somewhere down the corridor.
‘Mrs Manning is doing well,’ the nurse said to Harrison and Jack. ‘She has had no visitors, so I’m sure she’ll be pleased to see you. She’s in a shared ward with three other ladies. Once she gets closer to her time, we’ll move her into an individual room.’
Neither man replied, but the nurse was used to that. Family and friends were often overwhelmed when they made their first visit.
‘Here you go. Mrs Manning is in the second bed on the left by the window. I’ll check on you in about half an hour, make sure she’s not getting too tired.’
Harrison looked at Alice for the first time. A badge proclaimed her given name and carried the hospice logo of two hands, one helping the other. She had long, dark blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail and was probably in her late twenties. What Harrison had failed to see initially, was the convex nature of her belly, which from its shape and positioning, showed that new life was soon to be celebrated, amid the passing of others. He briefly wondered how she managed to keep a lid on her emotions, heightened by hormones, amid such sadness. Then he was back in the stress of the here and now. He realised Jack was waiting for him to walk forwards. So he took one step after another, towards the woman he’d last seen in Nunhead Cemetery just a couple of months ago.
Freda Manning’s screen was pulled around her bed so that you couldn’t see her until right up close. For someone who had created so much misery in his life, she looked small and insignificant, lying vulnerable and alone, attached to an intravenous tube which snaked its way down from a bag of clear fluid and into the large blue blood vessel on the back of her bony hand. Jack hung back behind the screen and Harrison stepped forward, coming to a halt at the end of the bed. Slowly, Freda Manning opened her eyes.
‘You’ve come,’ she said to him. Her voice was thin, throat dry, and her breathing short and shallow. ‘Here for some answers, are you? Or perhaps to say goodbye?’ She continued, a sparkle coming back into her eyes.
‘Where’s Desmond?’ Harrison asked.
Freda gave a half smile.
‘Pass me the water will you.’
Harrison hesitated. She stared straight back at him. He could see the sickness in her. She’d deteriorated since he’d seen her at Nunhead. Her skin had become like rice paper, and the darkness under her eyes showed the shadow of death creeping up on her. She’d lost weight too, her grey hair thinning and lank, just hung from her skull. He despised her. He could take her scrawny neck and squeeze the life out of her. Instead, he walked around the side of the bed to where a beaker of water with a straw was sitting and thrust it towards her.
She took it slowly and put the straw to her dry lips to drink, not taking her eyes off his face. He knew she was goading him.
‘Where’s Desmond?’ Harrison asked again.
Her mean mouth turned up at the corners.
‘We’ve said our goodbyes. He won’t be coming back here.’ She took another sip of water. ‘I bet you’d like to finish me off, wouldn’t you? Be my guest.’
For a few moments the pair of them stared at each other, a stand-off. Jack’s shuffling pulled Freda’s stare away from Harrison.
‘I see you’ve brought back-up.’ Freda gave a cursory glance towards Jack, who had moved to the bottom of the bed. ‘Come to arrest me, has he?’
‘We have an eyewitness who will testify that Isabel Lane could not have committed suicide in 2004. An investigation into her death is going to be re-opened.’ Jack didn’t know this for sure, but he said it with conviction.
Freda looked away from him and back to Harrison, studying his face.
‘Mrs Manning,’ Jack continued, ‘We would like to interview your husband in connection with the death of Isabel Lane, and also with the murder of Annette Ward at Nunhead in 1993. If you refuse to tell us his whereabouts then you can be charged with conspiracy to pervert the course of justice.’ Even as he said it, Harrison could hear the doubt in Jack’s voice. He knew that threat would be ineffective in these circumstances.
Freda Manning ignored him and instead gave a twisted half smile to Harrison with her dry lips.
‘So you still don’t remember, do you?’
His stomach lurched at her words. This was his biggest fear, that deep inside he had memories which he’d buried. Memories which he didn’t want to revisit or acknowledge. He tried hard not to let anything show on his face.
‘Go back to Nunhead. Look for a stone.’
Harrison knew exactly the place she meant and exactly what stone she was referring to. When he’d last gone back, he’d seen flashes of that night in 1993. Did he bury it because he’d liked Annette, and witnessing her death had been so traumatic for him as a child? Or was there some other reason Freda wanted him to remember?
Freda Manning started to cough. A rattling, wheezing cough of someone whose lungs were rotting. He knew her soul had rotted a long time before the cancer took hold. He watched impassively as her frail body heaved with each breath.
Freda waved Jack towards her.
‘Leave your card,’ she was just able to say in between coughs and gulping to get in enough air.
Jack looked at Harrison and walked to the bedside table, where he took a business card from his jacket pocket and placed it on the side.
Harrison didn’t move. He stared at Freda Manning, watching the woman he hated struggle to breathe. He knew Jack was getting a little anxious, and as Freda’s gasping for air became worse, he disappeared out of the room.
Freda clawed at the call button which sat by her side on the bed, her bony fingers trying to feel for the button as her mind became oxygen starved and her body failed her. He did nothing to help her. Just stood watching. Occasionally she stopped struggling long enough to glance quickly at him. A broken human who seemed incapable of doing any harm to anyone but herself.
As the nurses rushed in to help Freda, alerted by Jack, Harrison stepped away from her bedside and walked from the room. She looked harmless, but he knew she still hadn’t played her final hand. There was a defiance in her eyes that told him so. What he didn’t know was what her last card would deliver.
17
There were twelve missed calls on Harrison’s mobile when he got back to Durham, and a huge long email from Ryan. He stared at his phone, unable to deal with any of them. He felt exhausted. Harrison wasn’t somebody who slept in the day, unless he was ill, but he felt like a ton of feather mattresses had been dumped on top of him. He knew it wasn’t just the disturbed sleep and journey to and from Harrogate. The biggest toll had been the emotional one. Seeing Freda, the expectation of it all and then what was essentially a pointless journey, had ripped out his insides and wrung them out like a dishcloth. He knew this feeling, and he knew it could lead to self destruction. When he felt like this, he wanted to ditch the herbal teas and healthy living and head straight into the bar. He wanted to sit for the rest of the afternoon, drinking himself to oblivion. That way, he would be incapable of thinking about Freda Manning and what they’d done to his mother. He wouldn’t have to see her evil face and those dark eyes which bored into him, searching his soul for memories which he’d buried and wanted to forget.
Andrew McKendrick’s warning words came back to him. Maybe his old friend had been right, he should drop it. Should have dropped it. Harrison couldn’t help but feel that something had been set in motion by his visit. Something he might regret. He texted Andrew and told him Freda was in the hospice and he’d seen her. Seconds later, he received one back.
/> ‘Are you OK?’
‘Fine’
‘Let’s catch up again as soon as you can.’
Harrison said he’d call when he was back in London.
Jack had also been concerned when they’d parted company. Harrison had barely said a word to him, not because he was angry at him for being there, or for calling the nurses when Freda was coughing, but because Jack was out of place. He didn’t belong in the past with the Mannings; he hadn’t lived through Harrison’s experiences. He was like a ghost on the film reel. Out of context. Yet it had been him who Freda had reached out to. Why had she wanted his card? What was it that she had planned in her final days? He appreciated that Jack had gone there to help him, but now he’d ended up being a part of it. Whatever was set to be unleashed, he hoped it wouldn’t be aimed at Jack.
There was no way he could concentrate with his head the way it was, and he wasn’t about to let the Mannings win by walking into the nearest pub. He had to ground himself, get his control back before he could even consider being a useful part of the Durham investigation. Right now the Mannings had control of all his senses and that made him even more angry. He felt exhausted, but he also felt rage. The pent up fury of someone who didn’t have control over what was important to them.
Harrison had seen lots of people who felt like this in his career, particularly when he’d worked in the prisons. Sometimes it was those who had taken that rage out on another human being. Battering flesh and blood just to feel some kind of power. It was always fleeting, always unsatisfying, and they had to keep doing it over and over just to keep a lid on their anger, but never exhausting it. Then there were those who were the self-harmers, the ones who cut themselves or had eating disorders. Those who felt so out of control in their lives that the only thing they could have any control over–their body–became the object of their rage.
