Cath Staincliffe - Crying Out Loud

‘You think she’s right?’ he demanded, his temper rising.

‘Not about the baby. But I understand why she’s taking this tack. You need some advice – legal advice,’ I said.

‘What’s the point? It’s all stacked in her favour. You see it all the time, don’t you? Fathers for justice, whatever – and those guys were married.’

‘So you do nothing? Roll over and let her decide? You say you want to be part of Oscar’s life, so fight for it.’

Ray sighed and put his hand to his head.

‘I know some lawyers,’ I pointed out, ‘I can ask around.’ Relief was seeping through me now I knew the facts of the situation. Ray and Laura had not played out the great romantic reunion. She didn’t want him. Did he still want me?

‘Did you see him – Oscar?’

‘Yep.’ He stood swiftly, overcome by emotion. I rose, too, wanting to console him, wanting him to comfort me. He cleared his throat. ‘I’m going up, I’m knackered.’ He turned away. ‘Night.’

My eyes pricked, my stomach contracted. I needed his touch. Physical confirmation that things were still good between us. I stewed on this for quarter of an hour and then went to his room. He might not want sex, that was fine: just to lie together would be enough. I went in and crossed to his bed. He was fast asleep. I’d like to say I looked on him with fond sympathy and left him to rest but in truth I stalked out of there aflame with fury, and before I gave in to the impulse to smash something over his pretty black curls.

Monday morning Ray stayed in bed with a temperature and aches and pains. After I’d taken the kids to school I dialled Abi Dobson.

‘Tell me you’re not busy,’ I said.

‘Your friend not back?’ she asked.

‘No, they want to keep her in a bit longer,’ I lied, feeling heat in my face.

‘Well, I’m not busy. Give me ten minutes.’

‘You’re a lifesaver,’ I said.

‘It’s great for me,’ she replied, ‘some extra cash.’

‘I’ll bring her round to yours,’ I said. ‘I’ve some calls to make there and then I need to go to the supermarket. Not sure how long I’ll need.’

‘It doesn’t matter, I’ve nothing else on today.’

I caught Monica Meehan, Damien’s lawyer, on the phone before she left for court. When I’d explained why I wanted to see her, she hummed and hawed over her diary, finally squeezing me in early on Friday morning. She also cautioned me that there would be a long way to go before anyone could start talking about quashing the conviction. And the possibility of reopening the investigation would be up to the CPS.

I rang Libby. ‘How are you bearing up?’

‘OK,’ she replied. ‘Apart from some jerk from the tabloids who had fun shouting through the letter box.’

‘When was this?’

‘Yesterday. He gave up after a few hours.’ The sarcastic edge disappeared from her voice as she added: ‘He said the police will want to interview me again. Just the thought of that-’

‘They have no evidence against you,’ I reminded her. ‘They hadn’t back then and they still don’t. You were close to Charlie and you found him. That’s why they had to consider you.’

‘I know. It was horrible, though. It’s so frightening to be in that situation, I don’t think people have any idea. It’s really scary.’ There was a tremor in her voice. I couldn’t help but think of Damien and how he’d chosen to lie, to sentence himself to time behind bars rather than endure the interrogation.

‘He was just trying to get a reaction from you – something to quote in the paper,’ I said.

‘Bloody hyenas,’ she complained.

‘Have they been back?’ I checked.

‘No. But I’m lying low for now. So, is there any news?’

‘Things aren’t going to move quickly,’ I told her and outlined what I was doing.

‘Should I do anything?’ she asked. ‘Write to the police and demand they reopen the investigation or whatever?’

‘Good idea. The more pressure there is coming at them the more likely they’ll have to be seen to be doing something. Address it to the chief constable.’

‘Right. I’ll do that.’

‘But don’t get your hopes up,’ I warned her.

‘You’re saying all I might end up with is that they charged the wrong man.’

‘I hope it’s more than that but these things can take years. And there’s a limit to what I can do. The ball needs to be back in the police’s court. They have jurisdiction. They have the authority.’

After I’d sorted my mail and email messages, I locked the office and went upstairs. Abi and Jamie were in the living room. Jamie was dozing and Abi was watching TV.

‘I’m off to the supermarket now,’ I said, ‘then I might try and do a bit more work if that’s OK.’

‘Cool.’

‘Do you want anything bringing?’

Abi grinned. ‘Ice cream – chocolate fudge.’

‘You got it.’

As I opened the car door, there was a blur of movement beside me. A flapping of material. Black wings obscuring my vision. Hands grabbed my wrists, forced them behind my back, gripping them both in one large fist, strong as a vice. Acid rose in my throat and my heart thumped with fear.

‘Get in,’ a voice hissed, hot breath in my ear.

I resisted, digging my heels into the ground, locking my knees, but the man held on to my wrists and used his other hand to push my head down and shove me forward. I sprawled across the front seats, bruising my chin on the handbrake. My feet were still outside the car and I kept kicking out, hoping to connect with his shin or kneecap. He leant in after me and yanked my hands up; pain tore across my shoulders.

‘Get in,’ he repeated. Kicking at my shoes, pushing my legs out of the way with his foot, thrusting me up against the passenger door. He followed me inside the car and slammed the door shut.

I tried to kick out but there was no room for manoeuvre. My knees were in the footwell, legs bent, my feet crushed against the gearstick. He belted me across the head with his free hand. The blow rang in my temples, sickening. Then he pressed my head down against the far edge of the passenger seat. He was very strong. The hard plastic moulding of the door bit into the right side of my jaw.

‘You’ve been looking for me.’ A gravelly voice, a Geordie lilt. ‘You’ve been harassing my mother.’

Nick Dryden. ‘No.’ I fought to sound calm, my voice was muffled, distorted as my mouth was pushed out of shape, pressed against the fabric weave of the seat. ‘I just wanted to contact you.’

‘Who for?’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Who are yous working for?’

I wasn’t going to tell him. It seemed like a peculiar question, anyway. ‘Talk,’ he demanded. ‘Who are yous working for?’

‘It’s about Charlie Carter,’ I managed. It was hard to talk with the weight on my head.

‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ he said brutally. ‘The bloke ’as did it topped hisself?’ Any charm Dryden might have had was definitely switched off.

‘He didn’t do it,’ I said thickly.

‘So…?’ He barked a laugh as though he’d just got a joke. Then again. ‘So that’s what this is about?’

I thought about raising a foot, trying to hit the horn, draw attention and get help, but I would have to swing round and raise my knee from the floor to get any leverage. Impossible. If he relaxed his grip on my wrists, I could fling the passenger door open and scramble out on to the pavement. But while he held me so tight, I couldn’t do anything. I do self-defence classes but we’d never learnt any moves that I could use in this particular situation.

‘You think I’m mixed up in that? You stupid little bitch.’

At least he didn’t come in the Dobsons’ house, I thought. The image of him menacing Jamie or Abi threatened to unseat me. Tears scorched my eyes. I squeezed them back, focused on my rage at the man, my anger.