M. Arlidge - Pop Goes the Weasel

This story just kept getting better and better.

‘She’s asleep. You can’t see her.’

Steve was a bad liar, but Helen didn’t contradict him. There was real fury in his eyes and Helen was careful not to provoke him.

‘It’s important I talk to her, so can you ask her to call me the minute she wakes up?’

‘You don’t let up, do you?’ Steve replied, half laughing in his bitterness.

‘I have a job to do, Steve. I’m not trying to rile you or disturb Charlie, but I have a job to do and I won’t let personal friendships get in the way.’

‘Friendships? That’s a fucking joke. I don’t think you’re capable of friendships.’

‘I didn’t come here to argue with you…’

‘You don’t care about anyone but yourself, do you? As long as you get what you wa-’

‘ENOUGH.’

They both turned to see Charlie approaching. She hadn’t been in bed, merely eavesdropping from the living room, as Helen had suspected all along. Anger flashed across Steve’s face momentarily, embarrassed to be revealed as a liar, then he recovered himself, hurrying to Charlie. But she was staring past her boyfriend to Helen.

‘You’d better come in.’

‘Think, Charlie. Is there anything else you remember? Her face? Her smell? Her expression?’

‘No, I’ve told you.’

‘Did she say anything when she bumped into you? Did you hear an accent of any kind?’

Charlie closed her eyes, unwillingly casting her mind back to that moment.

‘No. She just kind of grunted.’

‘Grunted?’

‘Yup, I’d winded her so…’

Charlie petered out, feeling Helen’s irritation and disappointment. The Polish prostitute who’d got the wrong room and disturbed the attack spoke broken English and was deeply suspicious of the police. Her description of the killer was basic, hence the pressure Helen was now piling on Charlie to conjure a rabbit from the hat. Some half-remembered detail could give them the break they so desperately needed.

‘Ok, let’s leave it for now. You’re obviously tired,’ Helen said, rising. ‘Perhaps things will be clearer tomorrow after you’ve had some sleep.’

She was halfway to the door when Charlie said:

‘Here.’

Helen turned to see Charlie holding out her warrant card.

‘You were right.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I can’t do this. I thought I could but I can’t.’

‘Charlie, there’s no need to rush into this -’

‘Someone died in my arms today,’ Charlie shouted, her voice shaking even as she said it. ‘He died right in front of me, I had to wash his blood off my face, out of my hair. I had to wash his blood out of…’

She collapsed into sobs, huge breath-robbing sobs. Refusing to look at Helen, she planted her face in her hands. Her warrant card lay on the coffee table where she’d dropped it.

So this was it. All Helen had to do was pick it up. Charlie would be paid off and that would be that. Helen had got what she wanted.

But Helen knew immediately that she wouldn’t pick it up. She had wanted rid of Charlie, but now, on the cusp of victory, Helen felt ashamed of her selfishness and cowardice. What right did she have to drive Charlie out, to consign her to a wilderness of bitterness and regret? She was supposed to help people. To save them, not damn them.

‘I’m sorry, Charlie.’

Charlie’s sobbing paused momentarily, before continuing in a lower key. Helen seated herself next to Charlie.

‘I’ve been a bitch. And I’m sorry. It’s… it’s my weakness, not yours… I still have Marianne on my skin, in my blood. I can’t shake her. Or Mark. Or you. Or that day. I’ve been screaming and shouting, running away, hoping that I can rub out the memories if I push everything and everyone away. I wanted to push you away. Which was cruel and selfish. I’m really sorry, Charlie.’

Charlie looked up, her eyelashes wet with tears.

‘I knew what you were feeling, but I didn’t help you. I kicked you when you were down and that’s unforgivable. But I’d like you to forgive me if you can. It was never about you.’

Helen paused a moment before continuing:

‘If you want to walk away, start a family, do normal things, then I won’t stand in your way. I’ll make sure you get whatever you need to start over. But if you change your mind, I want you back… I need you back.’

Charlie’s crying had ceased now, but she still refused to look up.

‘We’re hunting a serial killer, Charlie. I haven’t said that out loud yet, because I didn’t want it to be true. Didn’t believe it could happen again. But it is and now I… I can’t stop her.’

Helen’s voice wavered momentarily, before she recovered her composure. When she next spoke her voice was firm, but quiet.

‘I can’t stop her.’

Helen left shortly afterwards, having said too much, yet still not enough. She had failed to be a good leader, copper or friend. Was it too late to pull something from the wreckage? She had lost Mark, she would be a fool to lose Charlie too. But maybe it was too little, too late. Perhaps it was now her destiny to face this killer alone. It wasn’t a fight she thought she could win, but she would fight it nevertheless.

Why hadn’t she hidden it from her? Surely it was her job to suck up all the shit that the world threw at her and keep her safe from the storm. Instead, because Alison had been busy playing with Sally, she hadn’t heard the letterbox rattle, hadn’t heard the paper hitting the mat. So it had fallen to Jessica to pick it up.

‘A Tart with Your Heart’. Jessica dropped the paper as if it were on fire and fled upstairs. She felt light-headed as she reached the landing, the sudden awfulness of it all ramming its way down her throat again. She started to retch, then choke. Stumbling to the bathroom, she could feel the vomit rising. Crashing through the door, she threw up in the bath, her stomach heaving again and again. Finally, it was over, but all her strength had leeched from her and she curled up in a ball on the bath mat and put her head in her hands.

She wanted to die. It was just too awful. She had already given up hating Christopher for his betrayal and his stupidity and now she just missed him, wanting him back fiercely. That was the easy bit – it was the other stuff that she couldn’t shake. The violence of his death, the fact that they couldn’t bury him yet, the fact that his heart… his poor heart… was in an evidence bag somewhere…

Jessica heaved again, but there was nothing left to give, and she remained where she was, beached on the floor.

Why was the world so cruel? She had expected anger and incomprehension from her family – and boy, had she got that – but everybody else? The police had advised her not to look at emails or Twitter but how can you live your life like that? She wished now that she’d heeded their advice. Within minutes of the story breaking, the trolls had started their work. Emailing her directly, posting on forums, filling the world with their hate. Christopher deserved to be killed. Jessica was a frigid bitch who’d driven her man to his death. Christopher was an AIDS-ridden pervert who would burn in hell. Their daughter had syphilis and would go blind.

The police had told her that they were there for her, that they would protect her, but who were they kidding? There was no pity left in the world, no goodness. There were just vultures picking over the entrails, feeding on sadness and pain.