A Place Of Safety (26 page)

‘For what, exactly?’ Lilly’s tone was sharp. ‘The fact that you went to my son’s school with a gun? Or the fact that you’ve lied to me from the very first moment we met?’

Anna didn’t look up. ‘I’m sorry you are angry with me.’

Lilly sagged. Why was she being so judgemental? Couldn’t she at least try to be like Milo and Dr Kadir?

An inmate passed the window and leered in. ‘Go back to where you came from,’ she shouted, and spat at the window.

Lilly watched the saliva slip down the glass.

‘I’m trying to keep calm,’ Lilly took Anna’s hand, ‘but I really need some help here.’

‘I will do what I can.’

Lilly squeezed the girl’s fingers, half the size of her own. ‘Then tell me what happened. How you really came to this country’

Anna pulled back her fingers and pushed her hands between her thighs.

Lilly felt her irritation return. She tried to swallow it back down.

‘Anna?’

‘It is very difficult.’

Lilly took a deep breath. They’d played this game before: Anna reluctant to divulge details, Lilly putting it down to the trauma she’d suffered. But none of that had been true, had it?

‘I can’t help you unless you tell me,’ she said.

‘I know,’ said Anna, and stood to leave.

Lilly felt helpless. Had the girl given up?

She heard the clunk of iron in the lock and the door opened. Before her client could be swallowed into the darkness, she called after her.

‘Tell me your name.’ Lilly stretched out her hand. ‘At least tell me your name.’

‘Catalina.’

The horn sounds.

Luke has been waiting, his muscles flexed. He leaps towards the cloth and waves it above his head like a flag.

The Ukrainian laughs. ‘You funny boy.’

Luke grins and nods at the broom. ‘You sweep, I wipe.’

The man holds up his hands in mock surrender and bends down for the brush. He pushes the shells into piles, still tittering and shaking his head.

Luke drags the cloth along the black belt and removes the worst of the debris. He throws a prawn head onto the floor, the black beads of its eyes winking under the fluorescent lights.

‘You missed a bit,’ he says.

The Ukrainian picks it up and tosses it back onto the belt. It rolls towards the choppers.

‘You missed a bit.’ Luke flicks it with the edge of the cloth but it rolls further still. ‘Now look what you’ve made me do.’

‘You should stick to sweeping, my friend.’

‘Not a chance.’

Luke leans over to grab it. Too late he hears the siren and the belt rumbles into life. Almost in slow motion he sees the chopper fall hard onto his outstretched hand.

Lilly’s head was pounding. Not just the crown where the roots were still too tender to be touched, but her temples throbbed as well. The strain of the day coursed along with her blood.

She pulled the Mini up outside her cottage, killed the engine and laid her forehead against the steering wheel. Everything had gone shit-shaped. The case, the press, the attack on Rupes. Everything.

Lilly didn’t even have the energy to get out of the car.

The day had disappeared and shadows loomed around the porch. The bulb had popped in the outside light. Over a month ago and she still hadn’t fixed it. God, she really was useless.

At last, she hauled herself out of the car and lumbered towards the cottage. She fished into her bag for the door key, groping through old tissues. She pulled out three broken biros and sighed. Sam was always telling her to get a key ring. He’d even made one for her in DT A phallic design in yellow plastic.

‘A banana,’ she’d laughed.

Sam had fixed her with one of his looks. ‘It’s an “L”’.

Whatever it was, she wished she had the bloody thing now, rather than scrabbling in the back pockets of her briefcase where no human hand had been in years. She winced as her fingers came up against something soft.

She was so engrossed in her search she almost missed the figure darting across the road. Almost.

It was properly dark now, like only the countryside can be when autumn turns to winter. She craned her neck. ‘Is someone there?’

The figure seemed to be almost at her gate. It was so difficult to tell in the gloom. She rummaged frantically. Where was that key?

Could it be the press? They’d been well and truly warned to stay away by the judge but they were a slippery lot. Alexia Dee seemed to slither wherever she wanted to go.

Could it be the attackers from Harpenden? Could they have tracked down where she lived?

She felt panic rising in her throat. The figure was almost upon her. It was in outline but she could see it was definitely a man. He’d come to finish off the job.

She decided to run to the car. She could jump inside, lock the doors, and run the bastard over if she had to. With the key in her hand, she threw herself at the Mini. Aware that the man was almost upon her, she wrenched the door open and dived inside, knocking her knee hard and bumping her head on the roof.

‘Jesus,’ she screamed, as sickening pain attacked from all angles. She reached for the handle and pulled the door towards her.

It didn’t give.

Someone had hold of it.

The man had hold of it. His thick fingers gripped the top of the window.

Lilly looked around in terror for something to defend herself with. She had only the pens she was still holding so she lashed out with one with full force. The man gave a gratifying scream as she dragged the jagged plastic across his fingers.

She pulled back her hand, ready to go again. No one fucked with Lilly Valentine.

‘Mary Mother of God,’ screamed the man.

That’s right, thought Lilly, cry like a baby.

Then she stopped. Something in the voice was familiar. Very familiar.

Gingerly, she peeped around the car door, and there he was, clutching his hand to his mouth, sucking his knuckles.

‘Jack,’ she said.

‘Why in the name of God did you do that?’ he shouted.

Lilly burst into tears.

Jack poured the tea and placed a chipped mug in front of Lilly.

She gulped back a sob. ‘Sugar?’

‘Three,’ he nodded.

She blew over the rim, enjoying the steam against her lips. ‘I didn’t think you were allowed to come here,’ she said.

‘If I’d known you were going to try to kill me I’d not have bothered.’

‘I panicked.’

He wiggled his fingers. The flesh across his knuckles was ragged and bloody. ‘I’m in two minds as to whether to give you this,’ he said, and tossed a family-sized bar of Dairy Milk at her.

She ran her finger along the first two chunks and snapped the chocolate.

‘Mum,’ shouted Sam, and barged into the kitchen. ‘You left the door open!’

When he saw Jack at the table he stopped in mid-rant and smiled.

‘Long time no see, wee man,’ said Jack, and held up his hand for a high five.

Sam rolled his eyes in mock derision but he slapped it all the same.

‘She left it wide open,’ he told Jack. ‘Anyone could have walked in.’

‘The old woman’s had a pretty rough day,’ Jack replied. ‘And to be honest I was the last one in, so technically it’s my fault.’

Not easily appeased, Sam eyed Jack suspiciously. Lilly was not yet off the hook.

‘Hungry?’ Jack asked. ‘I was always starving when I walked in from school. My ma used to hide all the treats so me and my brother couldn’t wolf the lot before tea.’

Sam laughed. ‘Did you ever find them?’

‘Course we did. Sweets in the bread bin, biscuits in the washer.’

Jack reached over the table and grabbed the Dairy Milk. ‘I’d get some of this lot down you, before Charlie Bucket here scoffs the lot.’

Lilly watched Sam shovel four chunks into his mouth and felt relief. Jack was a life-saver.

‘Do you fancy a bacon sandwich, Jack?’ Sam asked through brown teeth.

‘I’m sure that would be grand, but your ma’s probably a bit knackered.’

Sam waved a dismissive hand. ‘Ask Anna. She makes them better than Mum anyway.’

Lilly felt her shoulders tense again.

‘She’s not here, love,’ she said.

Sam looked at his mother accusingly. Something in her tone had obviously alerted him to a problem.

‘What’s happened?’ he asked.

‘She’s had to go away for a bit,’ she said.

Sam stuck out his bottom lip. He looked every one of his nine years. ‘Did she kill someone else?’

Lilly’s mind did a somersault and landed flat on its arse.

‘Listen, wee man,’ said Jack, an arm around Sam’s shoulders. ‘What do you say we let the old woman make the food and you thrash me at Gran Turismo?’

Lilly was grateful as Jack led Sam out of the kitchen. She pulled some bacon out of the fridge and stuck it under the grill. Cheeky devil—no one made a bacon butty better than she did.

Jack popped his head around the door.

‘Everything all right?’ asked Lilly.

‘He decided I was fecking useless so he’s playing against himself.’

Lilly laughed. ‘You’re a saint, McNally.’

‘The Chief Super doesn’t think so.’

‘Tell him from me, there’s a special place in heaven for you,’ she said, ‘right next to Mahatma Gandhi.’

Jack wrinkled his nose. ‘Is there no room next to Marilyn Monroe?’

‘Sorry, love, fully booked.’

Lilly slipped the salty rashers between slices of soft white bread.

‘I’ll take it up to him,’ said Jack.

‘There’s still no room next to Marilyn.’

‘I’d settle for Diana Dors.’

She took his hand and he winced as her fingers brushed against the raw flesh of his knuckles. But he didn’t pull away.

Chapter Twenty

The throbbing is unbearable. Caz had encouraged him to drink half a bottle of Thunderbird last night.

‘Nothing hurts after you’ve necked this stuff.’

And it had worked. For a few hours, anyway. But now the pain was back with a vengeance: it felt as if Luke’s hand had grown to twice its size and the blood was squeezing itself through his veins.

He stuck the offending limb out of his sleeping bag and hoped the icy morning air would numb the pain. People say it doesn’t get properly cold anymore, with global warming and everything; well, they should try spending the night, all night, outside. And it’s nothing like the camping trip Luke did with the Duke of Edinburgh when they all had double-lined tents and those special sleeping bags from Millets.

But this morning he’s glad it’s freezing because his hand feels like it’s on fire.

When the chopper had first gone in he hadn’t felt the pain. Just a huge pressure bearing down. It was when the blades came back up, sucking his hand with them, that the burning started. A massive white heat from his fingertips to his wrist.

He can’t remember if he screamed but he supposes he must have done. He knows he was rooted to the spot, staring at his hand attached to the machine.

It was the Ukrainian who saved him from being chopped again. He’d leapt from the skip, prawn shells raining like pink confetti, and hit the emergency button.

An alarm had sounded and the cutters ground to a halt.

Luke simply stood there, open-mouthed, his arm shaking.

The Ukrainian shouted something Luke didn’t understand and the other men came over, shaking their heads and whispering. There wasn’t any blood, not then, and Luke noticed his hand was a ghostly white.

At last the foreman arrived. He was a thin man, with a thin moustache over a thin top lip. He had a permanently worried expression. He looked at the blade embedded in the top of Luke’s hand.

‘Jesus Christ.’

‘We need a doctor,’ said the Ukrainian. ‘You call a doctor, yes?’

The foreman took a step back in shock. His lips disappeared as if removed by some surgical process. ‘No doctors.’

The crowd of men murmured in dissent.

‘He needs help,’ said the Ukrainian.

‘Listen to me,’ said the foreman. ‘If I bring in anyone from outside, what do you think will happen?’ He ran his hands through his few strands of grey hair. ‘I’ll tell you what will happen,’ he said. ‘I’ll lose my job. Do you understand that? I’ve got kids, a mortgage…’

‘But this is not good.’

‘And what about you and all your friends here?’ The foreman waved an arm around the factory, full of illegal workers. ‘A doctor will have the immigration here as quick as a flash.’

‘I don’t know,’ said the Ukrainian, visibly wavering.

‘You’ll all be sent back to where you came from.’

The Ukrainian glanced at Luke’s hand. ‘He hurt very bad.’

‘No,’ the foreman shook his head, ‘not very bad.’

‘Not very bad,’ the Ukrainian repeated.

The foreman snapped back his head and spoke directly to Luke.

‘What about you, lad? Do you want me to get a doctor?’

Luke was terrified. If a doctor contacted the authorities surely they’d involve the police? Luke would be arrested, taken to prison. And what about Caz? Who’d look after Caz?

‘No doctor,’ he whispered.

‘Right then,’ said the foreman, and ran back to the office. For a moment Luke wondered if he intended just to leave him there, attached to the machine, but at last he scurried back, a first-aid kit in one hand, a bottle of Dettol in the other.

He turned to the Ukrainian. ‘When I pull, you pour this over. Understand?’

The Ukrainian nodded, his eyes round with fear.

Before Luke could ask any questions the foreman wrenched his hand from the blade and the wound was doused in disinfectant.

Luke couldn’t have described the agony that ran up his arm and through his body It knocked him off his feet. Literally. He lay on the floor, convulsing.

Above him, he could see the faces of the other workers, cringing, scowling or turning away. He could feel his hand being tightly wrapped but he daren’t even look.

‘There you are,’ said the foreman, and pulled Luke to his feet.

Luke plucked up the courage to check his hand. It was swathed in a bulky, uneven bandage, a red stain appearing through the gauze. The sight of it made him feel sick and his knees buckled. The foreman caught him.

‘You’re in shock, lad.’ He led Luke towards the office. ‘A cup of tea and you’ll be right as rain.’

As they climbed the metal gantry the foreman called to the men who were still muttering to one another.

‘Show’s over,’ he said. ‘Get back to work.’

Now Luke checks his watch. It’s 4 a.m. and he’s in agony. No way can he get back to sleep. Caz is beside him, her breathing even. He puts his head inches from her shoulder, close enough to feel her heat. It’s uncomfortable in this position but he likes to lie like this, next to Caz, almost touching. Anyway, he’s got to get up soon for work.

Lilly checked the clock. Four a.m. and she was wide awake. After Jack had left she’d fallen into sleep like a stone, but her eyes had shot open half an hour ago and she’d been worrying about Rupes ever since.

She padded down the hallway past Sam’s room. She could hear his even breathing.

‘The sleep of the righteous,’ her mother used to say.

She was right—only babies and the mentally unsound could rest so easy.

Other mothers would tell their kids they had to ‘grow up’. Not Lilly—she hoped her son remained in the bliss of childhood for as long as he could. A Peter Pan for the Xbox generation.

She opened the fridge. A large tub of ricotta winked at her seductively. She spooned it into a bowl, drizzled honey on top and took a fat, sweet mouthful. As she felt the cool blandness against her tongue, she phoned the hospital.

‘Rupinder Singh,’ she said. ‘How is she?’

‘There’s been no change,’ the nurse said. A mechanic, rehearsed reply.

‘Is that good?’ Lilly asked. ‘Does that mean she’s going to be okay?’

She heard the nurse’s muffled sigh. ‘It means there’s been no change.’

Lilly shivered. She’d hated hospitals ever since her mum died. During Lilly’s last year at university Elsa’s health had deteriorated. She’d had emphysema. Years of work in a sewing factory had filled her lungs with crap.

‘Feels like I’ve swallowed one of their bloody pairs of tights.’

As Lilly prepared for her finals, Elsa had been on Raven Wing at Leeds General, hooked to an oxygen mask. Lilly had sat by her bedside revising the
Police and Criminal Evidence Act.
When Elsa could no longer take solids they’d shared ice-lollies, taking it in turns to have a lick.

On the day of her graduation Lilly arrived on the ward in her cap and gown and the nurses had taken photos.

‘Will you be all right, Mam?’ asked Lilly, on her way out to catch the train.

‘Course,’ Elsa had said. ‘There’s plenty of folk in the cemetery wish they were as healthy as me.’

Back then Lilly had forced a smile; now, she allowed herself the luxury of a single tear, then swiped it with the back of her hand. She could hear her mother as clearly as if she were in the room. ‘Time on your hands, mind on yourself.’

Lilly smiled and pulled out a well-thumbed recipe book. Double chocolate brownies sounded just the ticket.

The lights come on at six. Every light in the whole prison.

The change from pitch black to bright white is disorientating.

A guard raps on the door with her stick then opens the cell with a clank of iron.

‘Name?’ she barks.

‘Anna Du…’ She stops herself. ‘Catalina Petrescu.’

‘Make your mind up,’ says the guard, and slams the door shut. The clang bounces off every wall.

There’s another bang as she performs the same routine in the cell next door. Then the next. Then the next.

‘D wing present and accounted for,’ the guard bellows, somewhere down the corridor.

What do they think? That someone might have escaped in the night?

Catalina doesn’t really care, she is still reeling from saying her name. She puts her finger to her lips as if the words might still be there, words she hasn’t used in an eternity.

‘Catalina Petrescu,’ she says again.

It sounds all wrong. That’s the name of another person. A girl who lived another life. A life left long ago.

She pulls on her uniform. A pair of brown dungarees and a sweatshirt. Ugly clothes that hang off her. At least they’re warm. Catalina hates to be cold.

The door opens again and another prisoner puts a tray on the table. She’s in the same clothes but has a red band around her arm, like the captain of a football team.

‘Thank you,’ says Catalina.

The woman only nods and the door is slammed again.

There are no plates on the tray but three compartments are moulded into the white plastic. One contains a slice of toast, slightly burned at the edges, another has baked beans. A carton of orange juice lays in the third beside a plastic knife and fork.

Catalina sits down to eat. The food looks bad, but she has been hungry too many times in her life to waste it. She bites into the toast and hopes Lilly has cooked Sam his bacon and eggs. She smiles at the thought of him. Such a gorgeous boy.

Maybe Lilly won’t have time. She’s always so busy, running from here to there, her hair standing on end.

This morning she’ll come to the prison. She’ll plonk her papers and folders onto the table and demand answers. She’s angry about all the lies. She wants the truth. But Catalina doesn’t want to tell the truth. She doesn’t even want to think about it. It hurts so much.

‘Catalina, Catalina.’

Mama shouts up the stairs from the kitchen. She’s drunk again.

‘Catalina, Catalina.’

The babies look at their big sister, eyes wide. Mama will want another bottle and that will mean nothing for them to eat today.

Elena starts to whimper.

‘Shush,’ says Catalina, ‘I’ll sort this out.’

But she knows she can’t. The last time she tried, Mama slapped her so hard the mark lasted two days. She looked like Fat Bobo in the post office who has a port-wine stain across one of his cheeks.

‘Catalina, Catalina.’

She can’t wait any longer. Mama is not a patient person. Not since Papa died. Catalina scurries into the kitchen. The empty bottle is upturned on the table.

‘Why do you always take so long?’ Mama slurs. ‘Are you deaf?’

‘I was putting on my shoes,’ Catalina lies.

Mama lurches to the cupboard and pulls out her purse. She empties the coins into Catalina’s outstretched palm.

‘Spend whatever’s left on food for the babies.’

Catalina can see there will hardly be enough for a loaf of bread. She pleads with her eyes. The babies are hungry.

‘What are you waiting for?’ Mama snarls, and Catalina runs out of the door without putting on her coat.

The wind is biting and she’s numb by the time she reaches the shop. Her feet are wet from the grey slush. She passes the shelves stacked with potatoes. When her father was alive, Mama made
bigos
every weekend. Catalina can taste the stew now, thick with cabbage and as much pork as they could afford.

At the counter, Mrs Cirescu smiles hello. If she feels sorry for Catalina she hides it well, always happy to take the cash.

‘Vodka?’ she asks.

Catalina nods and puts the coins down, praying there will be enough left over for a loaf.

On the way back she slips on an icy patch. Her shoes are worn bare and as smooth as glass, so she tumbles into a snow drift. Her heart bangs in her chest. Has she broken the bottle? Mama will kill her if the vodka is lost. She scrabbles towards it and brushes off the ice crystals. It’s fine, not a crack. The bread, however, has fallen out of its paper bag and is lying wet and dirty by the side of the road. Catalina stuffs it back in the bag. The babies will eat it all the same.

By the time she gets home, Catalina is breathing hard and soaked to the skin. Her teeth are chattering.

‘Mama,’ she calls. ‘I’m back.’ She takes off her sodden shoes and steps into the kitchen. She’ll leave the bottle and then peel off her clothes.

To her surprise, she finds another woman is sitting at the table, whispering to Mama. The neighbours used to come by all the time to swap stories and drink tea. But not now. Not since Papa died. It’s as if they’re afraid the bad luck will rub off.

This woman isn’t a neighbour. She’s a stranger, dressed in a thick wool coat and good boots. Her hair is dyed yellow like the women in Hollywood.

‘You must be Catalina,’ she says.

Catalina nods. The woman’s mouth is smiling but not her eyes.

‘She’s a quiet girl,’ says Mama. ‘Never smiles.’

‘Quiet is good,’ says the woman. She takes the vodka and pours it. Catalina notices she has only a finger for herself but she fills Mama’s glass to the top.

‘Kids today don’t understand the world,’ says Mama, her eyes rheumy. ‘They want too much.’

The woman sips her vodka. ‘I blame the television.’

Catalina can’t understand that. She has only ever seen the TV in her friend Rina’s house, and she’s never invited any more.

‘My mother had nine children under Ceausescu,’ says Mama. ‘And four were sent away.’

Catalina has heard the story many times. How the youngest of Mama’s brothers and sisters were taken from Granny and put in a state orphanage. She often wonders what happened to them, these unknown uncles and aunts.

‘We were poor.’ Mama stabs her chest with her thumb. ‘Most of the time we went hungry.’

The woman nods to the soggy bread disintegrating in Catalina’s hands. ‘You’re a lucky girl.’

‘You see I love my children.’ Mama begins to cry.

‘The woman pats her hand. Of course you do.’

‘It’s just been very hard since my husband was taken.’ Tears pour down Mama’s face and her mouth goes slack. ‘I ask God every night to help me,’ she says. ‘Why won’t he help me?’

The woman pours more vodka. ‘He has sent me.’