Lemonade and Lies (18 page)

“Somebody mugged you? The bastard.”

I thought so too. At least the bastard bit. Though technically speaking it had been the other way round.
I’d
mugged
him
. But that had just been luck. His – bad. Mine – good. Without it, I knew I wouldn’t be here. Talking to the taxi driver. But then everybody’s due a break sometime.

“We need the police,” he said. “And a hospital.”
Déjà vu
.

“But my purse. It’s still over there.” I nodded vaguely up the hill. I didn’t want to go back, not on my own. He might still be there. But it’s hard to be separated from your purse and I’d already lost my card once.

“We should wait for the cops.”

“What time is it?”

He checked his phone. “Half past twelve.”

“You sure?”

He nodded.

It didn’t seem possible. But when I ran a timeline in my head, I knew he was right. I remembered my own phone and even though it was the middle of the night and most normal, law abiding citizens would be well into their night’s quota of sleep, I took the phone from my pocket and punched in a number.
He
was law abiding. But he wasn’t your average citizen. Maybe he wasn’t asleep yet. Even if he was, maybe he wouldn’t mind me waking him up.

*

There wasn’t much of a wait at A and E. Not for me anyway, could be they didn’t want me bleeding all over their floor.

The young doctor hummed distractedly as he held up the x-rays of my hands. “Ah. Scaphoid Fracture of the wrist.”

“What! I’ve fractured something?”

“Oh.” He looked at me as if I’d suddenly appeared out of thin air. “No. Evidence of ossification. You’ve broken your wrist recently.”

“But it’s okay now, right?”

“Well, of course,” he said. “Unless you intend to keep up this sort of thing indefinitely,” he pointed at my cut hands, “you should have no long term effects. Bit of arthritis when you’re older - from the fracture. Take your chances there I’m afraid. But didn’t they tell you all this when you had your cast removed?” he asked impatiently, like he wanted to move on to something a bit more dramatic than the injuries I had on offer.

I laughed. I hadn’t had my cast removed the orthodox way. The Oslo Fjord had done the job for me. The guy stared at me like I was mentally deficient. He was judgemental (I thought!) for someone who spent his time patching people up in an emergency department. People in shock. You wouldn’t get much tea and sympathy from his direction. He made me feel like I was an inconvenience.

That was it. He left the nurse to get on with the messy bits. Cleaning up. Stitching. Bandaging. Only two larger lacerations on the side of both thumbs needed stitching. I figured I got off lightly.

Treliske had its usual ration of drunks according to the Emergency Nurse Practitioner who treated me once the doctor had given the all clear. She was better. Cheerful. Efficient. Compassionate. Clearly things that should be included on a nurse’s C.V. but at two o’clock in the morning having already listened to the ravings of several drunks and having to deal with bodily fluids that most of us would shrink from, she was heroic.

Both she and the taxi driver deserved halos. He’d driven me to Treliske, after first taking me to the spot where I figured I’d lost my purse. To the place where I half-expected to find a body spread-eagled on the pavement. But the footpath was empty (at least of bodies).

There was glass scattered along it, some sinister-looking dark patches that I didn’t want to dwell on, and a piece of wood from a picket fence hanging precariously over it. Oh, and a beer can that had been discarded. I hadn’t noticed that before. My purse was still in the plastic bag lying inside somebody’s front garden.

I thought about my mother and the lemonade she would have made from the night’s lemons. Yeah, fair enough. I got my purse back. And whoever the Neanderthal in the fancy boots was, he wouldn’t be going to Zumba anytime soon. But as for the rest of it? I was getting pissed off with hospital visits and people following me.

*

I was sitting in the medium-sized cupboard that passed for Detective Sergeant Trevor Allison’s office at Truro Police Station. It was located in one of those grey, utilitarian blocks where the architectural brief had been basic, if not flimsy.

The building’s interior design was random, its decoration no more imaginative than its stark exterior; the colour scheme included toilet green and an uninviting mushroom shade, although in some areas an adventurous hand had experimented with a violet colour, but it hadn’t been a success.

I felt a surge of sympathy for Detective Allison. I hadn’t known the man long, but he had a gloomy disposition, and working in such surroundings wouldn’t help. Right now he wasn’t in his office. He’d gone off to a briefing about last night’s reported incident opposite the train station that had (apparently) left an unnamed man with multiple stab wounds.

I’m not sure the police were convinced such a man existed. No one could find him. And surely he couldn’t be that hard to spot. He was built like a small mountain and by now must be limping badly. But the taxi driver had given a statement and they were forced to confront the evidence of my damaged hands. So it was obvious that
something
had happened. Still, I could see their problem.

Someone had scavenged a packet of Aspirin for me and someone else produced a mug of tepid tea that resembled weak, washing-up water and whose ratio of sugar to liquid must have been at least two to one. I drank it gratefully all the same. It tasted like nectar. And after I’d made my statement and the paperwork had been processed, i.e. shuffled from one in-tray to another, I’d fallen asleep in the chair. A fitful sleep full of weird dreams. The sort where you run on the spot and never get anywhere, and there’s a sinister figure dressed in black following you. I was glad of the rap on the door that pulled me out of it.

“Thank God, you’re safe.” It was Jamie. He’d finally made it. He must have left as soon as I phoned him from the train station last night. He was a star, but even so I didn’t make it easy for him. He’d left Maidens without telling me.

What I should have done, I suppose, was collapse into his arms like they do in all good Romcoms, show him how happy I was to see him, how grateful. But I don’t always go for the obvious and I was still traumatised.

“Safe?” I muttered. “Is that what I am?” I invested the words with neither malice nor sarcasm but more a resigned defeat. And immediately regretted them. For Jamie blanched.

How would I ever be safe? How would my kids, my parents? How could anyone? If the Viktors of this world wanted you, they’d get you.
Right
might not be on their side, but the odds were. They could strike anywhere and anytime, because they had the initiative and you could only react.

“Jesus, Jill. Give a man a break. I’ve been working flat out.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s scary.”

“I know. But you don’t have to worry anymore.”

“No? Who says so?”

“I do.” He winked. “You look like a mummy.”

“I am a mummy.”

“Funny!”

But of course he wasn’t talking about my family status. Only about my hands that were swathed dramatically in thick bandages. The nurse had got carried away. Or maybe she wanted to prove that you still got good value for your money on the NHS.

“I’ve had a word with D.S. Allison,” he said. “Filled him in on a bit of background and you’re free to go. There’ll be no charges.”

“Couldn’t find the body, eh?”

“You’ve got them confused.”

“I do that to people.”

Jamie’s expression became serious as if he was trying to get something straight in his head. “I’ve got to go away for a few days,” he said.

“No!”

“I’ve no choice. I’m going back up to London.”

“I’ll come with you.” He was my good luck charm, my magic talisman; a hedge against bad things happening.

“You can’t. You’ll be fine here; these guys’ll look out for you.” He nodded towards the door. “Viktor’s not here and he won’t be coming. You have my word on that.”

“How the hell can you be so sure?”

“Call it a powerful hunch.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’ll be sorted.”

“You said that once before.”

“Yeah? Well, I meant it. But from here on in it’s none of my business.” Jamie’s face hardened as he said it and I couldn’t understand why.

“They’ve not taken you off the case?” I couldn’t believe it. “But that’s stupid.”

“Stupid? Yeah, maybe,” he said. But his mind was somewhere else. And I watched him struggle with his inner demons. “Look, Jill. I don’t expect you to understand.”

“What? Try me. I’m not unintelligent.”

“I know that. You’re clever. You’re beautiful. You’re funny. You’re a great mother. You’re stubborn as hell. And I think I’m falling for you.”

I couldn’t speak. I hardly dared breathe in case somehow I’d made the words up. That they’d only been in my head.

But something wasn’t right, for he suddenly looked as if the sadness of the world had settled on him. And he struggled again with himself, the words reluctant to leave his mouth.

“Like I said. I don’t expect you to understand – but I’m leaving the force. I’m resigning.” He looked relieved now that he’d managed to get it out in the open.

“You’re what? But you can’t do that. Who’s going to nail that bastard Viktor?”

“Somebody will. It doesn’t have to be me. It won’t be me, Jill. I’m tired of it all!”

“For God’s sake, we’re all tired,” I said. “That’s no excuse.” And I could see his face fall, like I’d turned a knife in some invisible wound.

“You know the trouble with being a policeman?” His voice sounded weary and he didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ll tell you. You have to stay within the law. That’s the joke. And it’s on all of us. We have to work on the right side of the law and those bastards can break it as much as they like. You don’t think that wears you down?” It was a rhetorical question.

“You shit Jamie! How could you do that?” I couldn’t believe it. It was some sort of sick joke. But his face said it was true. “You know what the man’s done, how many lives he’s ruined with his filth. You can’t just hand over to someone else. He’s your responsibility,” I shouted.

He didn’t rise to my anger; instead his tone was quiet and conciliatory. “I’ve got a responsibility to myself as well – and I can’t do this anymore. I want a life.”

“Oh yeah? And what’ll you do with this life. You’re a policeman, it’s what you do!”

Jamie managed a small, cynical smile. “I’ve always fancied being a vet. I might try that.”

“Bollocks! You? A vet?”

“I don’t want to discuss it anymore.”

“I’m sure you don’t.” I was stunned. My hero had feet of clay. “I didn’t have you down as a quitter,” I said. I wanted my words to wound him. He’d given me joy with one hand, and taken it from me again with the other.

Jamie dropped his eyes to the floor. Couldn’t look me in the face. He should avoid mirrors as well. If I were in his shoes, I wouldn’t be able to look myself in the eye. Not if I’d sold out that cheaply. I felt a warm tear sting a passage down my face and walked out of the office before he could see that he’d made me cry. How could I have been so wrong about someone? How would I ever trust anyone again?

“Jillian. Come in.” The tone surprised me. It wasn’t frosty exactly, but distant, not like before and Emily Thomson had her let’s-get-down-to-business face on. She didn’t offer me a coffee, either. Maybe I’d picked the wrong day to visit.

“How’s tricks?” I asked.

“Tricks? You think that’s what we do here, Jillian? Perform tricks?” Her frown deepened.

“No.” I’d been trying to lighten the atmosphere. It hadn’t worked. “But I think we often perform miracles,” I said - and made an effort not to smile. To show her I was as serious as she was. That I really did think we were dedicated people. Nothing short of miracle workers – considering the time available and the spread of courses, the different curricula, and the amount of prep-time needed at home. Not to mention the way certain students put their efforts into avoiding work.

“Okay, let’s see where we are.” She looked down at a document on her desk.

“Fine.” I tried to sound enthusiastic. But I have to admit I had mixed feelings.

Walking through the busy hallways, mingling with students, I hadn’t felt the buzz I normally did. There was a sense of familiarity, but not the old excitement and stomach churning nervousness when you faced a group of seventeen year olds who would fall on you like a pack of wolves if you bored them to death instead of enthusing them.

I retreated into my head, remembering. Good memories mostly. The time I’d prepped a lesson on Milton (the poet, not the bleach). I’d worked hard on it, making it interactive and fun. Even so, I still worried that Paradise Lost might be a step too far for most of them. But instead of the groans that I’d expected, the intelligent and heated debate around the text left me on a real high.

“Jillian – are you all right?”

“Sorry?”

“You seem distracted. Is everything okay?”

Define okay, I thought, but didn’t say it. She wouldn’t understand. “Lots of things happening right now,” I said lamely and waved a hand vaguely in the air to demonstrate.

“Good God. What happened to your hand?”

“Hands,” I said and showed her the other one. “An accident.”
What else could I say? That I’d beaten a man over the head with a bottle of Merlot?

You know when you sense someone doesn’t believe you? Well this was like that. She only held the look for a second, but I instinctively knew what she thought. I suppose I couldn’t blame her, and maybe I’d have headed straight for the same conclusion if I’d been on the other side of her office desk. That the person in front of me was unstable. Was self-harming.

“That puts a different slant on things,” she said. And I detected relief in her voice, like she’d found the excuse she’d been looking for. “At the moment we’re getting by with one of the part-timers filling in for your classes. It’s not ideal. But she’s doing her best.”

“Oh.”

“I didn’t know what your status was.”

“My status? Isn’t my status that I have a contract?”

“I think you know very well that isn’t what I was alluding to.”

Alluding to? Bill would have loved her. Would have told her to find another less poncy word for it. But I got it. She was alluding to my current ability to teach.

“Never-the-less, the fact remains that I’m employed as an English and Communication teacher at this establishment.”
Never-the-less? Establishment?
Still, I guess being in Emily’s office brought out that sort of language in you.

“Let’s not get heated, Jillian. It’s obvious to me that having you back before some sort of period of convalescence would be a mistake. Would you like me to set up a meeting with Human Resources for you? See what support we can get you.”

“Do what you like,” I said and headed for the door.

“Maybe some sort of counselling is in order,” she said to the back of my head.

I didn’t hear the rest. And I guess I didn’t want to.

I hurried to the staff room hoping for a cup of coffee and a chance to review my feelings. But the coffee was tepid and stewed (a metaphor for my life). I laughed and poured the stuff down the sink in the corner. Another metaphor? My life going down the drain? That did it. I needed to step aside from the self-pity that was drowning me. To look on the bright side.

My mother was right; making lemonade was worth the effort. Take your lemons and squeeze as much lemonade from them as you can. So
what
if I wouldn’t see Jamie McDonald again? And I was alone in a house without my kids. I was still in one piece and despite the dramatic looking wadding on my hands they weren’t so painful anymore. I didn’t even know if I’d have a job in the new term. If I were in Emily’s shoes I’d have fired me on the spot. But even that might not be so bad. It would mean more time with the kids, and I could get on with my writing.

And the best bit? Christmas was on the way, a time I love. Plus the man from the gas company had been as good as his word. My central heating was now up to speed again. The only thing left to do was chase up my car.

I walked to the bus stop with an idiotic grin on my face and thought about the philosophical idea that optimism and positive thoughts make good things happen. Optimists are eight times more likely to succeed at anything they take a punt at than pessimists. I can’t remember where I read that. But right then it made sense.

*

“I tried to phone you, but your telephone’s out of order.”

“Disconnected,” I said. “I’ll give you my mobile number.”

“That’d be good.”

I wondered if he meant it. For Detective Allison’s face didn’t register much. He seemed to have one expression for everything. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t be good at his job, but he was very different from Jamie McDonald.

I tried to smoother the feeling of loss that just thinking about Jamie’s name gave me, and told myself to move on. Back to the present. Live in the now. That was the mature way to handle the passing of a relationship. Could what I’d shared with Jamie even be called a relationship?

He hadn’t been in touch. I hadn’t expected him to, not with the last shreds of self respect stripped from him and my abuse still ringing in his ears.

The policeman sipped his coffee and finished off the rest of the chocolate digestive, mopping up the crumbs with a finger. He struck me as a fastidious man but dour and lacking in imagination. But then maybe imagination wasn’t a quality you should look for in your policemen.

He returned the plate to the table in front of him and neatly placed the empty mug exactly in the centre of it. His hands were podgy. Unlike Jamie’s hands which were long and narrow, graceful - like those of a pianist and he knew exactly what to do with them to play a fine tune. Stop this! Concentrate. Get on with your life. Forget the man.

“Okay. Thanks for the coffee,” he said. “Anything you need - get in touch.” He passed across a mass-produced business card. Plain, no fancy embossed print. Austerity had hit most outfits in the public sector. “I promised D. I. McDonald I’d keep an eye out now that this Kabak bird is back on our soil so to speak. Not that the D.I. thinks he’ll come down here. Not to our manor. But then nothing is ever certain in life.”

“Viktor Kabak’s here?”

“No. Not here.”

“I mean back in the country.”

“Seems so.”

“And Jamie McDonald
knew
that?”

“He was aware of it, certainly. I presume that’s why he left for London.”

“No, it isn’t. He went back to . . .”

“What?” The sergeant leaned forward in his seat.

“Never mind.”

The bastard. The total and utter bastard. He’d told me not to worry and all the time he’d known that Viktor Kabak had left Norway. Men! All the bloody same.

“Right. Keep that with you.” The policeman tapped the card on the coffee table. I guess he thought I was going to dump it as soon as he was out the door. But I wasn’t stupid. With Kabak in the country and maybe still looking for whatever Bill had hidden from him, I might as well have a target pinned to my back.

And what about my kids? Were they also in danger? I thought back to the note, its dramatic wording. The implicit threat of violence towards my children. Now that the attack on me had failed, would Millie and Tom be next? I’d figured they would be safe as far away from me as possible, living with their grandparents. But now that Viktor was here would he trace them? My father had been convinced someone else was in the house that night – someone apart from Bill. Maybe Kabak already knew where the kids were. Shit! I picked up the phone.

It still hadn’t been reconnected. The phone company had assured me that today was the day we’d have lift-off and I would be able to make calls from my landline again. They’d lied, but they didn’t have the monopoly on that. People did it all the time.

I went for my mobile. Only eighty-one pence credit left, not enough. Where did the one pence come from? I fought back the growing sense of frustration. Went for my credit card to top-up. The process is supposed to be simple, but when you’re tightening up with panic it’s easy to miss the hash key and hit zero instead. I went back to the beginning again, forced a deep breath through my mouth, listened patiently to the recorded message and did everything it told me to. Slowly. Methodically. All the while trying to ignore the image of Kabak in my father’s house. Terrorising my children.