Cath Staincliffe - Crying Out Loud

‘No knife.’

‘Then you came out…’

‘Yeah, fast.’

‘Did you shut the door?’

‘Yeah, I think.’

It would make sense if he’d been running away; like Geoff Sinclair said, the impulse to hide the victim. ‘And then?’

‘Went for the bus-’

‘Whoa! Slow it down.’ He’d talked about being sick last time. And I expected him to have stronger sense memories after the shock of finding the body (or killing the man) than before. Adrenalin’s a powerful hormone; it increases the heart rate and blood flow and primes us to fight or flee. Heightened sensory perception would be part of that response.

‘You come out of the house. Close your eyes.’

‘I was freaking, like it’s some bad trip, I’m speeding, it’s not real. Like I’m gonna pass out.’

‘What else do you feel?’

‘Cold.’

‘Colder than in the house?’

‘Yeah,’ he said.

‘Can you see anyone, hear anything?’

‘No.’ Then he corrected himself, adding quickly: ‘Ticking.’

A clock? Inside his head. ‘What?’ I asked him.

‘The car,’ he said.

‘The car’s ticking?’

‘Like it’s cooling down.’ He frowned, looking as puzzled as I felt. ‘It was warm,’ he went on slowly. ‘I put my hand on it; I was gonna throw up. I put my hand on the bonnet.’

I couldn’t work out what this meant but it seemed out of place. Not wanting to interrupt his flow I motioned for him to continue.

‘Then I got to the gate and threw up. It was rank, man.’

‘Then?’

‘I go down the hill and sit in the bus shelter. I didn’t see anyone. Some cars pass by and the bus comes and I get back into town. Go and score.’

Why didn’t you report it if you really were innocent? I wondered still. If the incident had shaken him as badly as he said, wouldn’t he have been desperate to tell someone?

‘The smell,’ he said, ‘that was the worst, and the blood. After that I was really using a lot, anything I could get down my neck, trying to wipe it out. I was in a bad place, a really bad place.’ He began to rock as he talked, his arms wrapped tight about his stomach, another in the repertoire of his nervous tics but this spoke to me of a deeper trauma. ‘I got slung out of the flat I was staying. Chloe didn’t want to know. In the end, when the coppers picked me up and started going on about it, it just seemed easier to go along with it. Give them what they wanted and get rid. It could have happened like I told them. And they feed you in here, clothe you. That’s where I was at. But it’s not like that. Prison, it’s-’ He broke off. ‘I can’t do time.’ He echoed the words from our first meeting. ‘See that?’ Urgently he pulled up his sleeve, revealed an angry gash, crusted with scabs, maybe half a centimetre wide, six or seven long on his forearm. ‘Cut with a broken biro.’

‘Who did it?’

‘Me.’ He rolled down his sleeve. ‘That’s how it gets you, you know.’

‘But you’ve arranged to see the doctor?’

‘Yeah,’ he said dully, ‘takes for ever. What now?’ He nodded at my notes.

‘I need to think about what you’ve told me.’

His face blanched. ‘You still don’t believe me?’ He looked hurt.

‘I’ve got more to go on than before. But it’s not what I believe that matters; it’s whether there is anything here that might stand as fresh evidence as far as the lawyers are concerned. That’s what I need to work on.’

He didn’t say anything else. He leant forward at the table, laid his head on his arms. Shattered or sulking. I put my head out and called the prison officer to take him back to his cell.

Collecting my mobile and car keys, I stepped back through the security centre and out of the prison. The outer gate clanged shut behind me and I walked across the car park to my car beneath the wide, bleak sky.

‘How’s she been?’

‘Still asleep,’ said Diane.

Jamie was exactly where I’d left her. While on the table, the sofa and around the edge of the carpet were large, thick sheets of drawing paper covered in charcoal sketches of the baby.

‘Still life,’ I observed. ‘They’re great.’

‘Easy subject,’ Diane said. ‘Perfect artist’s model. Like the quiff.’ She referred to Jamie’s spike of dark hair.

Some of the drawings showed Jamie and the carry-seat, others were close-ups. One I particularly liked: a very simple head and shoulders sketch, three-quarter profile, caught her exact likeness. I asked Diane if I could have it.

‘To you, fifty quid,’ she joked. ‘Hang on.’ She grabbed a spray can, got the picture from the sofa and disappeared into the backyard. I sat down. I could hear her rattling the aerosol, then the sibilance of the spray. Jamie stirred, her face working, legs twitching.

Diane brought the drawing back; there was a smell like glue. ‘Fixative,’ she said, ‘to stop it smudging.’ She moved the sketches from the sofa and put them with my one on the table. ‘How was your meeting?’

Jamie opened her eyes and smacked her lips a couple of times. I reached down and stroked her cheek. ‘Not sure – need to think it through.’

Diane cocked her head, interested.

‘Remember the Charlie Carter murder? Man stabbed in his second home – in Thornsby.’

‘A builder?’ she checked.

‘Yeah, he did loft conversions. The man I’ve just been to see confessed to the crime: he was caught with Carter’s bank cards and the police could prove he was at the scene. But now he’s saying he’s innocent after all. And he’s looking for grounds to launch an appeal.’

‘So, what, you’re working for his defence lawyer?’ Diane knew more about my work than just about anyone, so she knew I often collect evidence and check statements for solicitors. Saves them the shoe leather.

‘No,’ I said, ‘not that simple.’ Jamie gave a little shriek and waved her fists about. ‘I was hired by the dead man’s lover who wants reassurance that the bloke behind bars should stay there.’

‘Never a dull moment,’ Diane smiled.

‘I’d better make tracks.’ I gestured at Jamie. ‘She’ll want feeding, then changing before long. Thanks for having her.’

I lifted the carry-seat and Jamie beamed at me. I caught sight of a crumb of something in her mouth and went to slip it out, running my finger along her gum. There was something hard, sharp. I peered closer, saw the translucent bluey bump, like a fragment of seashell. ‘Oh, wow, look.’ I turned to Diane. ‘Her first tooth!’

Diane was looking at me, not the baby. She shook her head.

‘What?’ I asked her.

She shrugged. ‘Don’t you think you’re getting a bit too involved?’

My face flushed with heat and I felt my pulse quicken. ‘No!’ I could hear how defensive I sounded. ‘It’s a milestone, that’s all. You wouldn’t understand.’

Diane regarded me steadily; it felt like a challenge.

I muttered something about having to go, and went.

Leaving the drawing behind.

I squabbled with the voices in my head all the way home and while I fed and changed Jamie. She was an engaging baby, pretty, reasonably settled given she’d been thrust into the care of strangers. What was I supposed to do? Keep her at arm’s length, deny her any warmth or affection because she’d only be here a few days?

By the time I got round to making my own lunch I was ravenous, and hadn’t resolved any of the edgy feelings that Diane’s comment had awoken.

While I stirred a couple of blocks of frozen spinach and some spring onions into boiling water, I sifted through my reactions – trying to unpick the reasons behind them.

It was fair to say having Jamie had made me think anew about my relationship with Ray. And her appearance in my life had made me a little broody but that was a fancy, like window shopping, rather than a powerful driving need. True, I felt quite close to the child but wouldn’t anyone who’d shared the isolation of broken nights and been the one she relied upon?