Cath Staincliffe - Bleed Like Me

‘Funerals next week,’ Janet said.

Rachel’s heart stopped. She felt her skin chill. How the fuck had Janet found out?

‘Gill’d like us to be there, Thursday, but if you can’t face it…’

The Cottams! The Cottams’ funerals! ‘No, it’s fine.’ Rachel drank some wine quickly, felt her head swim. ‘Course. Show respect,’ she said. ‘How are the kids, your kids, Elise and Taisie?’ Rachel went on, thinking change the bleeding subject .

Janet looked at her, a smile in her eyes, but a question mark too. Of course it came out clumsy and Rachel wasn’t in the habit of asking after them, but it always worked with Alison when Rachel wanted to escape scrutiny.

‘They’re great,’ Janet said. ‘Elise has righteousness down to a fine art and is practising her martyrdom skills and Taisie’s up every other night with bad dreams and in lurve by day – a sight to behold.’

Their main meals arrived and they began to eat. Rachel’s thoughts kept circling back to Cottam. ‘He’ll get life, right?’ she said to Janet, not even needing to name him. ‘But he won’t do life, will he? He’ll find a way to kill himself.’

‘And there’s me thinking this was a nice bit of socializing away from work,’ Janet said.

Rachel let her complain, hung on for her answer.

‘Yes – probably, eventually,’ Janet said. ‘We’ve done our bit. And we did good, you did good. Front pages, bet you.’

Rachel closed her eyes. She had already seen the copy the press office was sending out. Along with photos of her.

‘What d’you reckon?’ Janet said. ‘Super-cop? That’s always a popular one. Or, erm… Avenging Angel? Rachel to the Rescue?’

‘Shut up,’ Rachel said, a laugh undermining her very real irritation.

‘If you can’t stand the heat,’ Janet said.

Rachel pointed her fork at her. ‘You’re the one having hot flushes.’

‘Touché!’ said Janet and picked up her glass, touching it to Rachel’s. ‘To us,’ she said.

Rachel joined her, ‘To us,’ and downed her drink.

‘What are you doing here?’ Gill said. She had been called down to the front desk to find Sammy sitting there.

He swung his head, as though he was casting about for an explanation, then said, ‘Dad said to tell you in person.’

Oh, God, no . Gill’s mind Rolodexed through the possibilities: pregnancy, drugs, self-harm, expulsion.

Sammy had his hands stuffed into his pockets, his shoulders up to his ears, riddled with embarrassment. He looked about and she was aware that they could be overheard, that the reception area was perhaps not the best place for potentially devastating news.

‘Come on, come with me.’ She took him along to one of the small interview rooms, changed the sign on the door to occupied and followed him in. She sat down. Sammy loitered by the door. ‘What is it?’ she said, sounding much calmer than she felt. HIV? Oh, God. Or hepatitis? He didn’t speak.

‘Sammy?’ Her stomach flipped over.

His face flooded with colour and she saw tears start in his eyes

Oh, bloody hell.

‘I want to come home,’ he said, sounding half his age. ‘I don’t want to stay at Dad’s any more. I want to come home.’

Gill was stunned, waited in case there was more he had to say, in case there was a bombshell. ‘That’s it?’

‘Yes,’ he said, and sniffed.

‘Is it because of the row you had?’

‘No,’ Sammy said.

‘Because you’ll do chores at mine same as you did before. More, probably.’

‘I don’t care about that. I just… I missed you,’ he said awkwardly.

Now she was going to cry, which was ridiculous. ‘Right.’ She swallowed hard, looked at the ceiling tiles, the recessed lights. ‘Fine, okay, and you’ve spoken to Dad?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right, and you’ve got your key?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Well, I won’t be home until,’ she glanced at the clock on the wall, ‘well, another couple of hours.’

‘I need to pack my stuff,’ Sammy said.

‘Okay,’ Gill nodded. ‘You go do that and I’ll pick you up on my way back. Yes?’

‘Okay.’

She stood up. ‘Come here,’ she said, opening her arms, and he trudged forward, and she hugged him tight and he snuffled a bit. ‘Good,’ she said, ‘’Cos I missed you too, you know. Apart from the sweaty feet. And the wet towels.’

‘Mum!’ His protest was half-hearted.

‘Go on. I’ll see you later.’

He loped off and Gill pinched the top of her nose and blinked and blew out breaths until she was fit to be seen in public again.

Cottam was pleading guilty and once he was up for sentencing everyone expected he’d be given a full-term life sentence. The story, with its power to fascinate, remained in the papers and they all knew there would be another flurry of articles once sentence was passed. And with them, fresh demands for Rachel to give interviews: radio, women’s magazines, chat shows. She’d made it as plain as she could to Lisa that she would have to be dragged kicking and screaming and would rather Taser her tits than do any more PR. There was a difference between a news story in the midst of an investigation where the public were being encouraged to help the police and the sort of celebrity merry-go-round people wanted to stick her on.

Fortunately, Gill backed her up on that, especially when Rachel said she couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t end up speaking her mind.

Rachel was at home. She had spent the night before bagging up her dad’s stuff, ready to chuck. He’d an envelope containing half a dozen photographs, pictures of her and Alison and Dom as kids. None of her mum. The corners of the prints were curled and the images scratched with marks, spills or something on some. Alison could have them. Nothing else was worth keeping. Clothes not fit for anything but landfill, faded, full of tears and stains and round holes from cigarette burns. A plastic case with a comb and a toothbrush and an unopened bar of soap; small and cheap, like the packs they give out in the hostels. A tin of athlete’s foot powder. Letters from the DWP about his benefits.

A life in three bin bags.

Rachel looked through the clutch of press cuttings: herself, three and four years ago. She tore them in half, then in half again, put them in an ashtray and took it outside. Set her lighter to it, watched the newsprint flare and shrivel and turn to flakes of ash. A gust of wind snatched at the remnants and blew them to dust. Swirling up and round.

Rachel fetched the bin bags out and stuffed them in the wheelie bin.

Then she rang Alison. The scabs on her hands had gone, leaving shiny, pink skin that still itched. She ran her nails over the heel of one thumb while she waited for a reply.

‘Yes?’ Alison sounding flustered, strained.

‘I’m not coming,’ Rachel said.

‘What? Are you meeting us there?’ Alison said.

‘No. I’m not coming at all.’ Rachel watched the boughs on the big tree by the road bend and sway. The leaves were dead now, crisp, red and brown. They rattled in the wind.

‘What d’you mean?’ Alison said. ‘You can’t not come. Dom’s here, the car’s on its way.’

‘It’s all paid for,’ Rachel said, ‘it’s all sorted. It can happen whether I’m there or not. And I’m not.’

‘Bloody hell, Rachel,’ Alison said, ‘this is the only chance you get to say goodbye. And when all’s said and done, this is your father we’re talking about. Your father.’

‘Yeah, I know,’ Rachel said, and hung up.

The phone went as she went back inside. Janet calling . ‘Hi. Have you left yet?’

‘Just about to. Why?’ Rachel said.