I hated going sick with stress. Even the simple act of uttering the words made me feel uncomfortable. There were too many who abused it, took time off at the slightest excuse. In my view, stress was just another word for skive.
Thing was, I had no choice and, in truth, I was stressed; one look in that hospital mirror had confirmed it. With the things that I had to do, I didn’t need the distraction of work.
Chief Superintendent Sinclair called me about an hour after I phoned in. He wasn’t surprised at my decision. Not every copper had to put up with his car and home being blown up by terrorists. He scrubbed my sick report, gave me three weeks compassionate leave and suggested, very firmly, that I allow SO13 to put my family into the witness-protection programme. I thanked him and promised to give it serious consideration.
I spent the first morning after the attack with the Yellow Pages, trying to find a builder. With the dry weather, they were all fully booked. After two hours of phone calls, I struck lucky and found one who had just had a major job cancelled at the last minute. They started the following day.
Over the next few days, Grahamslaw phoned me several times. He wasn’t impressed, calling me a belligerent fool. He agreed with Iain Sinclair that I should allow the police to place my family in a safe house.
By day, I pottered around making cups of tea for the builders and hoping they would be finished before Jenny saw the damage. I hired a car to replace the Citroen and bought a new mobile phone. At night, I slept in the spare bedroom.
The nightmares were back. Same scenario, repeated night after sweaty night. I was back at the scene of the ambush in Northern Ireland. I’d be lying on the ground, wounded and unable to move. A hooded terrorist, gun in hand, stood over me. I would watch, powerless to save myself as he pulled the trigger. Once again, I went through the nightly routine of placing a towel on the bed sheet to soak up the sweat.
The loss adjustor the insurance company sent round was sympathetic, if a little surprised. Insurance men weren’t used to dealing with bomb-damage claims. Still, he assured me that everything would be fine and they would settle up direct with the builder.
To my amazement, repairs to the house were complete inside a few days. The rendering was freshly painted and the door replaced. It looked better than new. The little Citroen had been taken away on a police low-loader to be forensically examined.
I delayed telling Jenny, although I knew I would have to in the end. The attack had been kept out of the press so far, but the locals knew about it, so it was only a question of time before everyone else would. As luck would have it, Jenny hadn’t been expecting to hear from me. If everything had gone to plan, Kevin and I should have been holed up in the Essex countryside with a terrorist to interrogate. With that in mind, I’d warned her not to anticipate any calls.
Eventually I phoned her at her mother’s. I was nervous as the receiver started to ring. Although I’d always got on quite well with Jenny’s parents, after her father had died her mother had tried to get more involved in our lives. It was understandable in the circumstances, especially after Becky was born. But there were times when I wondered just whose child Becky was. At times I would find myself resenting the intrusion and the constant advice. That had led to arguments, with Jenny stuck in the middle. Now my relationship with her mum was strained and the bruising to Jenny’s face could only have made things worse. I hoped, therefore, that my mother-in-law wouldn’t answer the phone. Jenny couldn’t tell her the real reason for her staying there, so her mother was bound to conclude the worst. It had to look like we had separated. I could expect the cold shoulder.
I was in luck, however. Jenny answered. It was wonderful to hear her voice. I think I told her I loved her more in those first five minutes than I had when we’d first fallen for each other. As we hadn’t spoken for some days, she had been worried. I did my best to apologise and then, as quickly as I dared, I steered the conversation onto Becky. The news was good. Our daughter was fine and seemed to be taking the upheaval in her stride. Jenny said she was missing her dad. That hurt. I missed her, too, missed having her tiny arms wrapped around my neck and her legs around my waist as I carried her to bed. I missed kissing her goodnight and then sneaking into her room to stare at her while she slept. Children are so peaceful when they sleep and Becky was the prettiest sleeper I had ever seen. But then she was mine, and that made her special.
I knew that I wasn’t going to be able to stall much longer, so I broke the news about the house. Jenny went quiet. I probed for some reaction.
‘Jen, are you OK? Say something,’ I said, as I tried to end the silence.
‘Like what, Bob? Like, I’m glad you’re OK, I’m sorry about the bomb-disposal man, like what, like what?’ She began to cry, the words turning to sobs.
I felt completely impotent. I wanted to hold her and reassure her, but what could I do on the end of a telephone line? Nothing. There was no choice, I would have to go and see her. I hung up before she could try to persuade me otherwise.
It was nearly midnight as I pulled into the drive. Jenny answered the door, her mother having gone to bed. We hugged, the embrace was warm and lingering, the kiss that followed passionate and reassuring. We were going to be OK. No matter what life threw at us.
The first thing Jenny did was take my hand and lead me up the stairs. There in the small bedroom lay Becky, fast asleep. She looked a picture. Her arms were wrapped around a tiny teddy bear. As I stood there in the half-light she stirred and then opened her eyes. It was one of those wonderful moments that will stay with me for all time. As she recognised me, she reached out. I sat down on the bed and held her hand. Jenny was standing behind me and as I glanced around I saw that she was crying again.
‘I’m sorry this all had to happen, Jenny,’ I whispered. ‘Sorry I never told you about my past and sorry that it’s all gone bent. I’m just so very, very sorry.’ A lump was forming in my throat that made the words hard to get out.
Jenny sat next to me on the bed. She put her arms around me. ‘Look at your daughter, Bob. Just look at her. She needs her dad. I need her dad. You can’t begin to imagine what it’s been like, sitting here worrying what is happening to you, fending off my mother’s accusations, trying to put on a brave face. If you want to quit now, I’ll understand. I know I said fight back. Now I’m not so sure. It’s easy for you, you’ve been trained for this. I’m not sure I can take it anymore.’
‘We need to talk,’ I said.
‘Not here. Let’s go for a drive.’
Becky fell asleep the moment I rested her hand on the sheet.
Jenny and I drove out into the countryside. I knew a quiet car park that overlooked Harrow on the Hill. Known locally as ‘Old Reading’, it was deserted. As we pulled in and parked, it reminded me of days when, as a teenager, I had brought girls to this very spot. That seemed like a previous life now.
Jenny had been quiet for the whole journey. I figured I would wait until we were parked up before we spoke. I needed to reassure her and I needed her counsel. In the event, we didn’t talk much. We kissed, cuddled and held hands. I did a lot of apologising; Jenny was very understanding. I was right about her mum – she had assumed we’d separated and Jenny had been unable to convince her otherwise. I described the damage to the cottage and how the builders had now fixed it. That was when emotions got the better of her again. She wanted to see the house. And she wanted to see it straight away. I pleaded with her to wait, I emphasised the danger. I had no hope, she’d made up her mind. I gave in.
As if matters couldn’t be any worse, there was a power cut when we arrived. I rootled around and found some candles and a small torch in a cupboard under the sink. The flickering candlelight gave the cottage an eerie, ghost-like quality that did nothing to help my attempts at reassurance.
But Jenny clearly wanted something other than reassurance. As I followed her around the cottage, I was talking about the way the cottage looked as good as new in the daylight, about Grahamslaw’s suspicions, about the disaster at Alma House and about the option we had to cut and run. It was only when we reached our bedroom and I put the candle down, and Jenny started to unbutton my shirt, that I realised she had other ideas. For a second, I resisted. She sensed my reluctance and held my face in her hands. She looked me straight in the eye.
‘I feel better now. Just being with you was what I needed. You’re going to win this battle, Bob Finlay. And before you do, I just want to remind you what you’re fighting for.’