Cath Staincliffe - Split Second

She was calmer by the time they were through. Her anger had settled to a slow, smouldering burn deep in her belly rather than the roar and crackle of flames in her head. She asked to speak to DC Illingworth on her own.

‘I need to know what’s going on,’ she said, keeping her voice level. ‘No one’s telling me anything. I didn’t know those pictures would be in the paper. No one said Luke had been on the bus. I should be told these things, not have to read about it in the papers.’

She sensed a reserve creep into the police officer’s manner, a shutter coming down. ‘You have a family liaison officer?’

‘You tell me,’ said Louise. ‘I was given a name and number but I’ve never been able to reach them. They’ve not phoned me back.’

‘Has anybody been to the house?’

‘No. Look, I don’t need babysitting, but I shouldn’t be the last to know.’

‘I agree.’ The detective gave a thin smile. ‘Let me check this out. You don’t mind waiting?’

‘No.’ Waiting was her new way of life. Maybe she should have brought her patchwork with her.

She texted Ruby to tell her she was running late and to call at Angie’s if she needed anything.

After ten minutes, Illingworth bustled back in, all efficiency. ‘Right. I think there’s been some crossed wires at our end, probably the result of the holidays: officers on leave and so on. So, I’ve had a word with DI Brigg, the senior investigating officer, and he’s happy for me to be your designated point of contact. It makes sense, as we’ve met already. Any developments that we are able to make public, I’ll let you know. You understand there will be times when we are made aware of new evidence or information but need to keep it confidential.’

‘Okay.’ She could hardly argue otherwise.

‘Here’s my card, that’s my direct number.’

‘Thank you.’

‘And thanks for coming in today with Declan.’

‘Only way to get him here,’ Louise told her.

‘It really has been invaluable. Thank you, Louise.’ She smiled. Bright and friendly. Laying it on a bit thick, Louise thought. Anxious to smooth over the cock-up, get Louise onside. Stop her complaining. The police had a grubby history of failures in dealing with ethnicminority victims, a past they were eager to see dead and buried. Someone like Louise raising a fuss about her experience, given that Luke was a mixed-race victim, would be terrible PR for them. The possibility that she might need to do that, if things didn’t improve, if Illingworth didn’t keep her word, was there. A strategy. She’d go to the papers if she had to. They were all desperate to talk to her as it was. Them and the TV news crews clustered round the house. How does it feel, Mrs Murray? Louise, has Luke opened his eyes yet? What would you like to say to our viewers? Pushing their business cards through the letter box. Shouting about exclusives, and Hear the victim’s point of view. Yes, she’d do whatever she had to do to make sure Luke got the justice he deserved.

Emma

Leaving to come back to Manchester, she felt deflated. That after-the-party feeling even though the party had been crap. Arriving home, the flat was cold and she turned the heating on full. The fish were fine; she fed them and checked the temperature. She’d lost two in September to a fungal disease, and she still worried that the others might get sick. She’d nothing much in and she was starving again, so went to get a Chinese. It was good for takeaways where she was, but the Chinese was her favourite. She ate every last scrap, then she had some of the Christmas cake Mum had given her.

Mum texted her: Dad had got her cold. Good, thought Emma, and then felt horrible. She was a horrible person, that was the trouble, and sooner or later her new friends would find out and she’d be on her own again. Like she was meant to be.

She finished the cake and some mince pies, and a Yorkie bar. But it still wasn’t enough. She’d only ever told one person about it: the locum GP who she saw in the middle of A levels when she got an ear infection and needed antibiotics. Emma was exhausted by the endless revision for the exams, and by the other thing. She hadn’t planned to say anything; she’d expected to see Dr Henry, who treated all her family, but he’d been called away due to a bereavement and a young woman was covering his appointments: Dr Sulayman. The doctor was quite pretty but she had funny eyes, like a squint, and one eyelid lower than the other. Like she’d got stuck mid-wink. She spoke quietly, like Emma herself, and after she’d examined Emma’s ear and done the prescription, she turned back to her and asked, ‘And how are things with you generally?’

It was like snapping open a jack-in-the-box. Emma’s mind flooded with her miseries, and to her horror she began to cry, right there in the consulting room. Dr Sulayman was so nice. She gave her tissues and a cup of water and told her to take her time and tell her what was making her so unhappy.

Emma didn’t know how to answer her. ‘Everything’ was too vague. She shook her head.

‘Are there any problems at home?’

‘No,’ said Emma quickly. She couldn’t bear being disloyal. ‘But sometimes I can’t stop eating, even when I’m full.’ There, she had said it, and the doctor would hate her now. Greedy pig. Emma chewed her lip.

But Dr Sulayman said it was a very common problem and there were ways to deal with it, like following a healthy eating plan and trying to minimize stress. Counselling could help as well, especially in dealing with any underlying issues.

Emma could hear him jeer, his voice rattling away like a machine gun, ‘Oh, she’s psychotic now, is she? Just our luck, we really picked a winner there, eh? There was none of this in my day, people just got on with it.’

‘How long have you been binge-eating?’ The doctor said it normally, like it was a cold or flu. Something ordinary.

Emma considered. Since Year 10; she’d loved sugary things before that, and pies and chips. ‘A sweet tooth,’ her mum would say. ‘A fat pig, if she doesn’t watch it,’ her dad would add.

‘About three years,’ she said.

‘And would you say it’s getting worse?’

Emma nodded.

‘Do you ever make yourself sick?’

Emma almost denied it, but it was like the doctor already knew. She dipped her head. ‘But just this year.’

‘When you look in the mirror, you think you look overweight?’

‘I am.’

‘You’re doing A levels now?’

‘Yes.’

‘And that must be putting a lot of extra pressure on you. Have you applied to university?’

Emma shook her head.

‘Had enough of school?’

‘Yes.’ And he said she’d never get a place, not with the competition, and university was all well and good but half the graduates couldn’t get jobs, and why waste the time and money, even if you had the brains, which she was seriously lacking.

‘And my dad thinks it’s a bad idea.’ It felt like a rip, a tear in the picture of how things were supposed to be, and Emma wanted to take it back.

‘Why’s that?’

‘I’m not clever enough.’ Her stomach flipped. ‘You won’t tell anyone, will you, about the eating?’

‘No, complete confidentiality. And what does your mum think?’

‘Whatever he tells her to.’ Emma’s face was on fire. She shouldn’t be thinking this, talking like this. She felt terrible, but Dr Sulayman was so kind and not shocked or anything.

‘They don’t know about your eating disorder?’

‘No.’

‘You have any brothers or sisters?’

Emma shook her head.

‘Friends you could talk to?’

‘No.’ There were a couple of girls she hung round with at school, mainly because they were the leftovers, like she was, the losers, and you had to sit next to someone at school. None of their conversations ever got too personal.