‘You’ll live,’ announces Trisha as she unplugs the stethoscope from her ears and peels the Velcro band from Cheryl Black’s mottled pink arm. She’s wearing a two-sizes-too-small dark pink flannel dressing gown, streaked with brown food stains. She couldn’t roll her sleeves up to have her blood pressure taken so she slipped her arm out instead, exposing her right breast, creased and sagging like a punctured party balloon. She’s watching him, a sly smile on her face, to see if he’s noticed, but he doesn’t give her the satisfaction and his eyes stay trained on Trisha. He’s a professional after all.
This is the third time they’ve been called to Cheryl’s house on the Tarka Estate in Bidecombe. Trisha can’t stand the woman. She’s spent the drive from Barnston to Bidecombe moaning about her.
‘She’s a time waster, Si.’
‘Dispatch said she was having a heart attack.’
‘No, she’s not. There’s nothing wrong with that woman other than she’s lonely. No medicine can fix that.’
That doesn’t stop Cheryl from trying. She’s taking pills for everything: her circulation, her anxiety, her depression, her diabetes. Everything. All washed down daily with a litre bottle of vodka.
Trisha’s announcement disappoints Cheryl. She was hoping for something more serious. She’s enjoying the drama of it all. A lot of them do. Sirens, blue lights, paramedics running into her house. It makes her day.
‘So why did I collapse?’
‘You fainted. There’s any number of reasons. Dehydration, low blood pressure, too much alcohol. Diabetes. You need to make an appointment with the GP and get yourself checked out,’ says Trisha.
‘I thought I was a goner,’ she says, pulling her dressing gown together and finally covering up her right breast.
‘You’re not going anywhere, but alcohol, pills and fags don’t mix, Cheryl. You’ve got to take better care of yourself.’
But then no one would take any notice of her, would they? If it weren’t for the paramedics, the police and social services, no one would know she existed. In her head, they’re her friends and family.
Cheryl is getting tired of being lectured by Trisha and he can’t blame her. Trisha is fat and smokes twenty a day. Hardly a role model.
‘Actually, I’ve given up the fags. I use them things now.’ She nods at a vape on the mantelpiece. ‘And I have to take pills for my nerves. Those little bastards next door make my life a misery.’
Trisha isn’t interested. She’s already packing their equipment away. He kneels in front of Cheryl. She parts her knees by just a fraction, but it’s enough to tug her dressing gown apart at the waist. She isn’t wearing any underwear, but he pretends not to notice.
‘What have they done now, Cheryl?’
‘Kicking a ball against my front door all hours of the day and night.’
‘That must be terrible.’
He tries to sound like he cares; it seems to work.
‘It is, Simon. Does my head in. I swear I’ve had enough.’
Trisha tuts and looks at her watch, but he ignores her.
‘Have you rung the police?’
‘Yeah, but they’re not interested. I don’t know how much more I can take.’
‘You must be very frightened.’
She nods, her bloodshot eyes glistening with tears. Trisha rolls her eyes and bends down to whisper in his ear.
‘Si, come on, we need to get going.’
Cheryl chokes back a sob.
‘I’m scared witless.’
‘Is there somewhere else you can go? Or someone that can come and look after you?’
‘No, me and my sister don’t talk any more. There’s no one.’
‘OK, I’ll speak to the neighbourhood police officer. Ask him to drop in. Maybe have a word with your neighbours.’
She takes his hand. It’s dry and scaly and he tries not to flinch.
‘Will you? You’re a good man, Mr Pascoe. If only the world had more people like you.’
He smiles.
‘All part of the service.’
Trisha laughs.
‘Believe me, one Simon Pascoe in this world is quite enough.’
* * *
It turns out the Commissioner’s car hasn’t been trashed at all, but someone has scrawled ‘twat’ in the dust on the bonnet. By the time I finish examining it, I have some sympathy with this observation.
The Commissioner greets me with a rant about my perceived lateness and how I’ve compounded his humiliation as his neighbours have now all seen the obscenity writ large on the bonnet of his classic E-type Jag. This then tips into apoplexy when I tell him the ‘perp’ wore gloves and forensically there is nothing I can do. He’s still spitting about the breakdown of society and how national service would ‘sort the lot of them out’ when I drive away.
I continue to work through my ‘list’ for the day – mostly break-ins that have come in overnight, but I’m still seething about my run-in with Holt and Lowe and their decision to charge Chris Banstead with Janie’s murder. Maybe they’re right. Banstead had form for hitting Janie. Maybe this time, he just took it too far. It’s the most likely explanation, but the existence of that shoeprint bothers me. Someone else was there that night. Maybe they’re not involved in Janie’s murder, but what if they are? It’s irrelevant now, of course, because Holt has got rid of it and hunches don’t cut it in modern policing. The only thing I can do is make sure I’m as far away as possible when the shit hits the fan at warp speed. Besides, I’ve got my own problem to deal with: Sean.
My shift over, I’m parked outside Megan’s school. The thought that he is working just metres away from Megan makes me nauseous and nervous. That I could still fear him sickens me, but I can’t ignore him, hoping he’ll just go away. Sean is not the type to just go away.
It’s late afternoon and most of the children have left apart from a few stragglers. I quickly find Sean, standing by some scaffolding clinging to the side of the gym hall. It’s hard to miss him. He’s built like the proverbial shithouse, but it’s more than that. He always had the power to demand my full attention, throwing backgrounds into a blur, reducing sounds to low murmurs, like I couldn’t allow myself to be distracted, not for a second, from the main event: him. I know now that this is what fear looks like.
He’s shorter than I remember. And older, of course, but the years of working outdoors haven’t been kind to him, introducing deep leathery lines to his once smooth laddish looks. I imagine that niggles. Looks were always important to Sean, who topped up muscles cultivated on a building site with long hours in the gym.
He sees me and speaks first, which annoys me. Already he’s vying for the upper hand.
‘Hi, Ally, good to see you. What’s it been? Eight years? You haven’t changed a bit.’
Charm oozes from every pore. He’s a million miles away from the man who grabbed my throat because I hadn’t made him a packed lunch and squeezed it so hard that I passed out. So much so that I could almost be persuaded it never happened. Almost.
‘You can’t be here. This is Megan’s school.’
His wistful smile turns my stomach. ‘I know. I saw her yesterday. God, she’s grown. A proper young lady now, but it was really good to see her. I said hello, but she blanked me.’ He laughs and raises his eyebrows. ‘Typical teenager, eh?’
‘She blanked you because she’s terrified of you.’
His frown is genuine. Jesus, he doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong.
‘That’s crap. I loved her as my own. If she’s got a problem with me, it’s down to you and all the lies you’ve told her.’
‘Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because she watched you smash her mother’s head against the kitchen table.’
Sean rolls his eyes like it’s a trivial detail.
‘Christ, Ally. Have you come all this way just to rake over stuff that happened between us years ago? I’m a different bloke now. I’ve married again. Got three kids of my own. I’ve moved on. Maybe you should too.’
He’s twisting my words, like he always did, but he’s right about one thing. I’m not here to talk about the past.
‘Megan doesn’t want you here. I’m asking you to leave for her sake, not mine.’
He looks me up and down. I shrink under his gaze, suddenly exposed and self-conscious. The smile returns, but this time it’s different; it’s mocking, designed to undermine me.
‘You always were at your sexiest when you were serious. Maybe we could discuss this over a drink. I’m about to knock off.’
Christ.
‘Please, Sean. Leave us in peace…’ I pause because I don’t want to say what I’m about to say but I have to. ‘Please, I’m begging you.’
He folds his thick arms and casts an eye around as if he’s seriously thinking about it, but he isn’t because I’ve been here before, pleading with him not to shout at me, not to shove me and not to hit me.
‘No. I’m not going anywhere.’
‘In that case, I’m going to see the headteacher right now and get you removed from the school.’
He laughs.
‘And tell them what?’
‘That you’re my abusive ex-husband and that Megan witnessed you assaulting me and that your presence here is upsetting her.’
‘And what proof do you have of all this?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, for a start, there’s no police report. Nothing to say I ever hit you.’ He mockingly places his forefinger to the corner of his mouth and looks upwards as if he’s trying to recall some fact. His face lights up. ‘Ah yes, I remember now, I divorced you on the grounds of your unreasonable behaviour. From where I’m standing, this looks like a bitter ex-wife trying to cause trouble so I’m staying until the job is finished and there’s not a thing you can do about it.’
He’s won and he knows it.
‘Fuck you, Sean.’
It’s pathetic, but it’s all I have left. He steps towards me, but I don’t flinch. Is he going to hit me? Public scenes were never his schtick. Maybe he’s changed, but so have I and I’m not moving.
The amusement in his eyes hardens into hatred.
‘No, Ally, fuck you.’
A glob of warm spit lands on my cheek and slides down towards my chin. Still, I stand my ground, sealing my revulsion behind a defiant stare, but it’s a pointless victory because I’ve lost the war.
He turns away. The only thing left in my arsenal is to close my eyes and not give him the satisfaction of me watching him swagger back into the school hall.
Opening my eyes, Sean has gone, allowing my surroundings to come back into focus; someone is watching me. I turn round and Megan is standing a few metres away. She’s seen the whole thing – just like she did all those years ago, but it’s not fear in her eyes, it’s disappointment and anger.
‘I tried.’ A meaningless phrase that’s more a gasp than anything.
‘You promised. You always let me down.’