A Thousand Cuts (23 page)

This is over. Right now.

Here, give me that thing.

How do you stop this?

Where the hell’s the damn but—

 

I’m sorry about my husband, Inspector.

Don’t worry. He wouldn’t like me talking to you but he won’t be back now, not till later. He’ll come home when he gets hungry. My mum used to say, men are like dogs. They bark and sometimes they even bite but as long as you keep em fed they’ll never stray far from home.

You mustn’t think bad of him. He’s upset, that’s all. He gets angry - that’s what he does when he’s hurting inside. Sometimes I think it’s the only way he has of expressing himself. I mean, he’s passionate, that’s his problem. He’s a passionate man. And he misses his son. It’s not right, is it, that a parent should outlive their child? I heard someone say that once, on the news I think it was, or
Corrie
maybe, and it stuck in my mind but I never thought it would . . . I mean, that we would . . . that . . .

Don’t mind me. I’m okay. I’m not even crying. Look. See?

I’ll tell you something I haven’t told anyone else: I haven’t cried. Not once. Not since Donnie died. I don’t know why. I mean, it hurts, don’t get me wrong. And I know they’ll come. The tears. It was like this when my dad died. I was only seven but I remember. I remember not crying and trying to cry and worrying what everyone thought of me, that they thought I didn’t love my dad, that they blamed me somehow for him dying. Then I worried that I was to blame, that he’d be alive if I’d of loved him more.

It was only after the funeral. Maybe two or three weeks after. I was shopping with my mum and we got home and Mum opened the door and she had all these bags and what would normally of happened was, Dad would of come out of the kitchen or the garden or from upstairs or wherever and he would of taken the bags from my mum and carried them through for her and all the time he would of been moaning about how heavy they were, about how much my mum must of spent. But he didn’t come. Mum opened the door and it was just the empty house waiting. And she was puffing and struggling with the bags and it suddenly struck me as the saddest thing in the world. That my dad wasn’t there to carry the bags. I cried then. I cried and I couldn’t stop. My mum just held me. She left the shopping on the doorstep, with the peas defrosting and the butter melting, and she held me.

So it will be like that I expect. Except, well, Mum’s not here now. And Donnie’s not here now. And even when Barry’s here, he’s not always exactly in the moment, if you know what I mean. But I’ll be all right. I’ll manage.

I’m getting sidetracked. I don’t mean to keep you. All I wanted to say was, what Barry said, he wasn’t wrong. About Donnie. A lot of people said things that nobody could ever prove. And Gideon was definitely a bad influence. There’s no question about that. It’s just . . . I mean, the truth is . . .

The truth is, it wasn’t easy for Donnie. His dad has certain expectations, certain rules. And Barry, I mean, he’s not always around, like I said. He works and he has his friends and a man only has so much time, doesn’t he? Particularly some men. Certain types of men. I mean, nappies, bedtime stories, football in the park. It’s just not them. Do you know what I’m trying to say? So it wasn’t easy for Donnie.

Because I work too, you see. I’m out most of the day. And we never had a brother for Donnie. We never gave him a sister. I would of liked to of done. I would of loved to of had a little girl, even two little girls, two little sisters for Donnie to protect. But Barry wasn’t keen. So we didn’t. Which means Donnie was on his own most of the time. Which isn’t always good for a boy, is it? Boys, they need occupying, even the bright ones. Especially the bright ones. And Donnie was bright, just like Barry said. Although do you know what I think? I think he was ashamed of it. That’s what I think. He was ashamed of being so bright. So he hid it. Either he hid it or if he let it show he let it show in ways that . . . Well. In ways that oughtn’t to be encouraged.

Because that was the other problem with us not being around. A boy needs discipline, doesn’t he? Not that Barry didn’t give him discipline. But discipline, it’s not just the bad stuff, is it? It’s not just the shouting and, well, the rest of it. It’s also the other things. Things like . . . I don’t know. Like guidance, I suppose. Guidance is the word. I would try sometimes but it should come from the father, really, shouldn’t it? I’m not saying it’s Barry’s fault. It’s my fault, I know it’s my fault. Because I remember what Barry was like when Donnie was younger, when we were having trouble with the schools and we had to move him, three times we had to move him, and I remember how Barry reacted. So since then, and because everything seemed to be all right at school, I didn’t always tell Barry things. You know, like if Donnie had done something he shouldn’t of. Because I was scared how Barry would react. And I thought, so long as he’s settled at school, that’s better than it was before.

I don’t really know what I’m trying to say. It’s complicated, that’s all. I suppose all it is really is that Donnie had his problems. What Barry said, he wasn’t wrong, but there were other things too. There was another side to things. And like I say, it’s not Barry’s fault and it’s not Donnie’s fault and if it’s anyone’s fault it’s mine. It’s just, I can’t help wishing that I’d had a little help. Just sometimes, from someone. Because it’s hard, being a parent. I mean, I had Barry. I wasn’t all alone like some people. So maybe it’s just me but I have to be honest and say that I found it really hard. And now, after what’s happened, well. This is about as hard as it gets.

The envelope was on her keyboard,
wedged between two lines of keys so that it announced itself as soon as Lucia’s desk came into view.

Her first thought was of the headmaster; that the envelope heralded some official censure. The envelope, though, did not look official. It was windowless, plain white, with her first name only printed in oversize capitals. And whereas formal correspondence was usually confined to a taut paragraph or two on a single sheet of A4, the envelope on Lucia’s desk bulged.

Lucia looked about her. No one was paying her any notice. Walter was at his desk, leant back on his chair, his feet raised as usual and his keyboard on his lap. Charlie was on the phone, Harry was frowning at his computer screen and Rob was clutching a mug of coffee in one hand and excavating a nostril with the other.

Lucia dropped into her seat and let her bag slide from her shoulder. Her monitor blocked her view of the rest of the office but she leant sideways to check again whether anyone was watching. Nobody had moved. Lucia turned her attention back to the envelope. She picked it up.

It squished, like a Jiffy bag. The seal was taped shut, as though the gum had not proved strong enough, and Lucia noticed with distaste that there was a wiry black hair trapped at one end under the Sellotape. She turned the envelope over and looked again at the writing on the front. It said LUCIA - nothing more, not an underline or even a full stop.

She shouldn’t open it. She knew she shouldn’t open it. But there was an inevitability to events now. She shouldn’t open it but until she did her day was at a standstill. Probably Walter or one of the others had left the envelope and their lives too were in abeyance now until the trap they had set was sprung. The sooner Lucia opened the envelope, the sooner they would laugh and the sooner Lucia could tut, roll her eyes, throw the contents into the bin and get back to pretending that this sort of thing was beneath her, that it did not bother her, that in no way did it make her feel small or vulnerable.

Or perhaps she was being paranoid. Perhaps the envelope contained something of hers that she had lost or forgotten or lent to someone and it was simply being returned. What that thing might be she could not think but that did not in itself rule out the possibility. She would open the envelope and catch sight of what was inside and remember instantly what, why, when and who. It would be such a trivial thing that she would cast it, envelope and all, into her bottom drawer. Then she would spend the rest of the morning trying to ignore the voice in her head that mocked her insecurity, her cowardice, her pervading sense of relief.

Lucia worked her finger under the seal. She wrenched the envelope open. As she did so its contents burst outwards and Lucia knew in that instant that she should have trusted her initial instinct and left the envelope alone.

Hair. The envelope was stuffed with hair. Short, black and coiled, like the single strand that had almost escaped. It fell in clumps on to Lucia’s desk, her keyboard, her lap. It clung to her fingers. As Lucia recoiled, the envelope dropped and the last of its contents spilled out on to the carpet and vanished against the charcoal gloom.

‘We all chipped in.’

Lucia held her fingers splayed in front of her. She blew, almost spat, at the hair that still coated them. She looked up.

‘Me, Rob and Charlie. We didn’t ask Harry because we didn’t think he could grow any yet. Bless him.’

Lucia glanced over at Harry. At the sound of his name he raised his head.

‘You know what it is, don’t you?’

Walter had shifted so that he was leaning with both elbows on the filing cabinet that stood next to Lucia’s desk. Rob and Charlie were on their feet now and carrying their grins closer.

‘Lulu. Are you listening? I said, you know what it is, don’t you?’

Lucia shook her head: not an answer, rather an expression of her incredulity.

‘Like I said, we all chipped in.’ Walter was leering now, playing to his audience. ‘We just thought that, with everything that’s happened, you were probably missing him. You know: your pal. Bumfluff.’

Rob and Charlie sniggered. Lucia looked again at her hands, at her desk, at the envelope on the floor. She opened her mouth. She shut it. She looked at Walter but Walter was silent now. He was grinning. He was waiting.

‘You better be joking,’ Lucia said at last. ‘You better be fucking joking.’

Rob and Charlie laughed. They tapped palms.

‘Don’t you like it?’ Walter said, feigning offence. ‘I was sure you’d like it.’

Lucia could feel the curdled expression on her face. She swallowed, shut her eyes, tried to force herself to look less disgusted, less disgusting. As though they had been moulded from rubber, her features rebounded and settled into the same position: her brow creased, her nostrils flared, her teeth bared and her lips pulled taut.

‘Hey, guys. What’s going on?’ Harry had moved to Charlie’s side. He was smiling but warily.

Lucia looked at him but it was Walter who answered. ‘Nothing for you to worry about, Harry my lad. We were just giving Lulu here a gift we prepared for her. She doesn’t seem very grateful.’

Again Rob and Charlie guffawed.

‘Gift? What kind of gift? Hey, Lucia. Is everything okay?’

Lucia heard Harry’s words but could not think how to respond. She looked from Harry to the envelope on the floor and back to Harry. Harry edged forwards. He followed Lucia’s gaze.

‘What is it? What’s wrong? Christ, Lucia, what’s that? What is that?’

Lucia did not answer. She looked at Walter.

Harry turned. ‘Walter? Jesus. What the hell is wrong with you?’

Walter laughed. ‘Easy, Harry. It’s just a little joke. Just some harmless fun.’

‘Fun? This—’ Harry gestured to the envelope, to Lucia ‘—this is your idea of fun?’ He took a step towards Walter. Walter’s expression hardened.

‘Careful now, Harry. Don’t start making trouble for yourself. ’

‘Harry,’ said Lucia. ‘Harry, please. It doesn’t matter.’

‘Lucia—’

‘Please,’ she said again. ‘Please.’

Harry shook his head. He glared at Walter.

‘That’s a good lad, Harry. You listen to Lulu here. Mummy knows best.’

‘Walter—’ Lucia began but a holler from across the room cut her off.

‘Is she in yet? Lucia!’

Cole was at his door, one hand on either side of the frame and leaning out into the office proper. ‘Where the fuck have you been? Get in here!’

‘Guv, I—’

‘Now, dammit.’ Cole turned away and disappeared behind the partition. With a glance at Harry, Lucia started towards the chief inspector’s office. Walter, though, was blocking her path. She was about to tell him to move, to get out of her way, to shove him aside if it came to that but in the end there was no need. Walter took half a pace back and, with a dip of the head and a sweeping gesture with one arm, ceded the ground to Lucia. She noticed him wink at Charlie as she passed.

At the threshold to Cole’s office, Lucia hesitated. She turned and saw the others still watching her. She stepped inside and shut the door behind her.

‘Guv,’ she said. Cole was facing the window, one hand on his hip, the other massaging the well-shined skin of his forehead. ‘You wanted me, Guv.’

‘Come in. Sit down.’

Lucia did not want to sit. She moved towards the only chair on her side of the desk and stood behind it. She gripped the cool metal frame and realised that her palms were sweaty. She let go of the chair and wiped her hands on her trouser legs.

‘You’re on suspension, Lucia. You’re out. Collect what you need and go home.’

Lucia was silent. Gently, she nodded. Cole still had his back to her and rather than looking at him she looked at his desk. There was a tube of Colgate, she noticed, by the telephone. There were piles of paper and foolscap folders, and over these and what little surface of the desk was visible, there were fluorescent pink Post-it notes dotted like acne. Some were blank but most had on them a short note, invariably bracketed between question marks. Lucia found herself wondering what would happen to conviction rates in north-east London were the Post-it notes suddenly to become unstuck. Or perhaps more cases would come to court rather than growing stale in an atmosphere of indecision.

‘That’s it, Lucia. You know why. You don’t need me to tell you why.’ Cole turned to face her. He had not shaved, Lucia noticed. Either he had been running late that morning or he had been nervous about bringing a razor to the skin under his nose and around his lips, blotched as it still was with cold sores.