Vik Mulholland slipped his arm from underneath Fran’s neck, slowly and carefully so as not to disturb her. She shivered slightly in her sleep, murmured something he could not make out, then turned over, long dark hair spilling on to her bare shoulder. He pulled the duvet up to cover her, wondering how the hell she kept warm in this ice house. Easing himself up the bed, he rested his head on the wall behind him, missing the big leather headboard of his bed at home. He pulled the pillow from underneath him and placed it behind his head – he wasn’t convinced this wall wasn’t damp – and let his eyes adjust to the intermittent light that filtered through the thread-bare curtains, from the security lights in the back court he presumed; they would be flicking on and off with the movements of foxes, rats and God knew what else that lived out there.
Vik yawned, a yawn of tiredness and contentment. Sleep seemed to be an elusive friend these days. But to sleep was to lose some of the enchantment of the witching hours.
It was pain that kept Fran awake. He had noticed the little segmented box of capsules and tablets beside her bed – one to sleep, and four to control the pain that attacked her face with such ferocity that she would cry out with no warning, abruptly flinching as though she had been slapped. Tonight, he had held her as her face contorted and silent tears poured down her cheeks. Later, in answer to his questions, she had said it was like a red hot poker being thrust into your eye. And twisting. He imagined he understood. But for now she was asleep and at peace. And he was at peace, if not asleep. He had a big day tomorrow; he knew he had broken the back of the tampering case, and he was going to revel in his moment. DCI Quinn would be impressed, then a quiet word about his application for promotion would follow. He smiled to himself, imagining he heard a baby cry, a quiet mewling. The door opened slightly and Yoko the cat walked in, regarding him haughtily, and meowed before walking out again in distaste. Mulholland stuck two fingers up at it. Yes, he had the bed, he had the warm spot beside Fran, and the cat could bugger off.
Mulholland stretched. Looking round the room, he had a sense of impermanence, as if she were just passing through. Her bedroom looked like a room in one of the cheap hotels in the West End where they rent by the hour, just a bed, a carpet, a chest of drawers and small wardrobe. He thought about other girlfriends he had known, and all that female stuff they had lying about. Fran had none of that. He made a mental list of things to buy her for Christmas. They were going to spend their first Christmas together, he was determined.
Eve was listening to the birds singing. It was a clear sunny evening, not warm, but the early spring light was spectacular. She heard the call of a collared dove in the tree above her and looked round for its mate – it would not be far away. She opened the car door and put her camera on the roof, thinking about the light and the fall of the shadow, looking at the silhouette of branches on the pale sky, wondering if she could line up a good picture. She lifted her camera, standing between the door and the body of the car, one foot on the running board, steadying her elbows on the roof, as she adjusted the focus. She waited until the collared dove turned its head and…
Eve woke in a sweat. She always woke up just before the impact, yet somehow the memory ran on. She could see herself turning at the noise of the car engine, too close. A shattered windscreen beyond it, and behind that – the face. The bit in between – the impact itself – was mercifully blank, but she would always remember that face, the mouth open in horror like a gaping fish, before the car was slammed into reverse and roared away, leaving her for dead. Yeah, she would remember that drunken bastard’s face for ever.
Eve Calloway stared into the darkness. Being powerless was not for her; she had tried it once and it had left a bitter taste. Being the fat kid at school, having the shit kicked out of her, her lunch money stolen. And Lynne never ever standing up for her. So she’d learned to stand on her own two feet – she smiled at the irony.
Of course, the experts on spinal paralysis could all walk perfectly well. They were very good at telling her how to look after her skin, her feet and her bladder. At telling her to test bath water with her hand, not her feet. Never to sit close to the fire, as she’d smell her flesh burning before she would feel it. And this is what gangrene smells like… if you smell that, phone. But the worst thing for Eve was being ignored. She could just about put up with spending her life staring into people’s groins. In fact, when talking to Douglas Munro she liked to remind him that that was exactly what she was doing. If you considered the domino effect of causality, it was his bloody fault she was in the chair. That was good enough for her. And it wound up her bloody sister.
She decided to lie on the floor of the bedroom. The red figures on the clock glowed 11.55 p.m.
She was quite content, lying in the dark, watching the minutes flash past, listening to somebody park badly, kerbing the wheel, and to the hypnotic click of the central heating. She sighed in the silence, enjoying the wait. At least she wasn’t lying under a pile of rubble in Pakistan for the third freezing night running, and she wasn’t some wee kid who had been abducted. She was warm and comfortable, and the bits that weren’t comfortable were numb.
She opened her eyes, allowing herself a little shuffle for comfort. Lynne had ignored her phone calls. So, she must be made to feel guilty. Which meant Eve had to stay awake and be shouting for help when Lynne came in. Lynne would call on the gold-digger for help, as Eve was way too heavy for Lynne to lift on her own. A whole tin of Jaffa cakes… Eve sniggered to herself. She couldn’t feel her left buttock but sensed that the floor was pressing into it, right where her ulcer had been. It had taken seven months of some graduate from the Eva Braun School of Nursing poking at her arse to get that healed, the skin coming off in layers with the plasters. It was still as thin as parchment, and puckered at the healthy edges as if pulled far too tight in the middle. She could imagine it opening up again like the San Andreas Fault. She began to sing ‘These Boots Are Made For Walkin’’. Or not, as the case may be. The clock had just flashed 12.15 when she heard the Audi pull up, bloody Céline Dion on the car stereo. The engine was turned off. It was 12.27 when she heard the snick of the gate, then the click of Lynne’s kitten heels on the pavement, a little conversation, then the rattle of the door, open, shut, the bolt ramming home. Eve started to roll around, contorting her body into the most uncomfortable-looking position she could manage, and then, only then, did she start shouting for help.