Cath Staincliffe - Bleed Like Me

But she could smell. The brackish odour of the canal and the mushroom scent of decay, mixed with the high acrid stink of shit. Her chest tightened. There was a thudding in her temples as she switched on her torch and climbed down the steps, one hand braced on the edge of the door. When she stepped into the cabin the boat rolled in the water, the timbers creaking and moaning. Rachel played the cone of light over the space, picked out bench seats with their torn and faded foam cushions furred with white mould, tattered curtains spotted with mildew, and then, on the floor, a tartan blanket and next to it two small forms, pale-faced and utterly still.

Oh, fuck. Something dark and cold crawled up her spine. The torch juddered in her hand. Her eyes hurt. The stench caught at the back of her throat and she retched but fought the reflex. She stepped closer and the boat lurched. Rachel almost fell, flinging her arms out for balance. She knelt down. The floor was wet, soaking through her trousers.

Struggling to breathe, she bent over the boys. Theo in his tiger pyjamas, the garments grubby, smeared with marks, was curled towards his brother. Harry lay flat on his back, one arm above his head, his legs splayed outwards. Shit had soaked through his all-in-one, staining the legs toffee brown. Tear tracks had dried leaving salty trails on his cheeks. The only movement came from the boat rocking on the cold water.

Rachel reached out a hand and touched Theo’s neck to see whether rigor mortis had set in. Knew that if it had the child’s body would feel dense, leaden, every muscle rigid as wood. And cool. She placed her fingers across his neck, below his ear. Felt the faintest residue of warmth there. So close! If they’d only searched here yesterday instead of the lake.

She felt her throat clench and tears burn behind her eyes. ‘Fuck it!’ she said aloud. Theo’s eyes fluttered open. ‘Daddy?’ he said huskily. Beside him Harry startled, his arms jolting as though something had bitten him, and began to wail, a thin, reedy, faltering sound that drilled into Rachel’s head.

She jerked back, gasping for air, frantically hitting keys on her phone, summoning help. The child’s cry filling her head and Theo’s plea scalding her heart. Daddy? Daddy? Daddy?

Janet was about to go in to interview Owen Cottam when Gill appeared, her eyes shining, fizzing with energy. ‘We’ve got the boys. Alive!’

‘Oh, God!’ Janet stared at her. ‘Where?’

‘A barge on the canal. Rachel found them.’

‘Alive?’ Janet checked. After all this time .

‘Dehydrated, hypothermic, dosed up with paracetamol but they should be fine. Taken to Manchester Children’s Hospital.’

Janet swallowed. ‘So now what? You don’t want me to interview yet?’

‘No. Give me an hour. I’m going to see the CPS to run through what we’ve already got. Wait till I’m back and we’ll discuss it then. Might let us go straight to charges.’

‘Be better to see if we can get a confession to the murders first,’ Janet said. Then she thought that if they did move on to questioning Cottam about the murders it might be hard for her to get away later. So she said, ‘Is it okay if I nip to the hospital now?’

‘No problem,’ Gill said.

Dorothy was sitting up in bed and looking almost normal.

‘The scan they did, well, apparently they found a growth on my uterus,’ she said.

Janet’s stomach contracted. ‘Oh, Mum.’

‘No, listen. They’re pretty sure it’s just a cyst but the womb’s enlarged so they think, at my age, it’s best to take the whole lot out.’

‘Hysterectomy?’

‘Yes. It’s a big op. Take me a few months to get back to normal.’

‘You’ll stay with us,’ Janet said.

‘If you’ll have me,’ her mum said.

‘Course we’ll have you. You got any better offers?’ Again that wash of relief, that she was sitting here joking with her mum instead of grieving.

‘Not yet, but I’ll let you know if I do,’ Dorothy said, a gleam of merriment in her eye.

When Janet got back to the station, she saw Rachel in her smoking spot, clutching a large coffee. Janet went over. ‘Hey, well done you. Amazing.’

Rachel looked peaky, her face drained of colour, her lips pale.

‘You’re a hero,’ Janet said. ‘Wait till word gets out.’

‘I don’t want to be a hero.’

‘Why not? Looks good on the old CV.’

Rachel looked away and released a trail of smoke. ‘I thought they were dead,’ she said flatly. She bit her lip, blinked.

Janet wasn’t sure what to say, what Rachel needed from her. ‘A shock?’ she ventured. It wasn’t like Rachel to get bound up in a case, to let it get to her like this. True for all of them, really. To do the work well you needed resilience, a way of detaching yourself so that you could concentrate on the facts of the investigation and not get damaged emotionally. Of course some cases were harder, poignant or downright sad, especially those involving kids, but Janet had never seen Rachel respond like this. If anything she demonstrated a lack of empathy verging on the autistic.

Janet felt a wave of concern for her friend. Something felt wrong. Had done for days. It would be simple to turn a blind eye, gloss it over, pretend all was well, but Janet wouldn’t let herself take the easy option.

‘What’s really going on?’ she said directly.

‘What d’you mean?’ Rachel scowled at her.

‘We’re supposed to be mates,’ Janet said. ‘Talk to me.’

‘What about?’ Rachel said scornfully. ‘There’s nothing to say.’ She dropped her cigarette, crushed it underfoot. Irritation flickered through Janet, and she was tempted to tell her to pick the tab end up and bin it. Have some consideration for once. But she resisted getting sidetracked.

‘Look, it’s not just this case or those little boys. I don’t know if it’s to do with Nick Savage or-’

‘Not that again,’ Rachel said.

‘You tell me,’ Janet said. ‘What’s the point of being mates if it’s a one-way street? If I’m the only one putting the effort in.’

‘You tell me,’ Rachel echoed. Her face set, mutinous.

Janet wanted to clout her, or hug her. Instead she said, ‘You shut me out. I know there’s something up and you won’t talk to me about it. Don’t you trust me? Do you think I’ll go running to Gill, telling tales?’

Rachel put her hand up to her head, clutched her ponytail, closed her eyes. ‘I’m fine,’ she said.

‘You’re not fine,’ Janet said crossly. ‘You’re a long way from fine. And I don’t know how to help because you won’t let me in.’ She felt close to tears. Bloody hormones. ‘Have you done something stupid, is that it?’

‘Oh, thanks!’

‘Well, I don’t know, do I? Unless you tell me, I’m imagining all sorts. It’s like dealing with a bloody teenager.’

‘Yeah, you’re imagining all sorts, and that’s all it is – your imagination. I’m not telling you anything because there’s nothing to tell.’

Whatever was going on, and Janet was even more convinced there was something going on, she could see that Rachel was not going to tell her. The friendship had boundaries, limits, set by Rachel, and Janet either put up with that or walked away. Rachel was proud and stubborn and Janet knew she would not bend. For all her flaws and fuck-ups, Rachel was too big a part of Janet’s life to lose. Janet resigned herself. Let the frustration leak away. Drew her coat tighter and closed her collar.

‘Have it your own way, then,’ she said.

Rachel raised her drink. Janet saw that her hand was shaking. ‘When did you last eat?’ she said.

Rachel didn’t answer, just shook her head with impatience. ‘Right,’ Janet said decisively. ‘When we’re done tonight, we’ll go out. Italian, yeah? Break from all this.’