Dead of Winter (4 page)

‘Like you were going to tell her … not.’

‘Precisely. I never told her – you don’t shop your mates – but, the thing is, even though I wouldn’t tell her anything, she insisted on describing to me what had happened to another girl the night before. She’d been experimenting, went off her head and ended up thinking she could fly. She couldn’t.’

Jenni was looking away, her cheeks bright red, eyes too bright.

‘That’s when it sunk in; I wasn’t indestructible. That could’ve been me. It was just luck that I was lying there eating rubbish chips and Angel Delight when this other girl was in intensive care on the floor above. It could so easily have been me.’

Nightingale had to stop. The power of memory constricted her throat. There was silence in the room broken only by the sounds of activity in the ward outside. The girl waited patiently while Nightingale poured herself some water.

‘What happened to her?’ Jenni asked eventually.

Nightingale coughed.

‘She was still in hospital when I left but afterwards … I don’t know. I meant to go back and see her but the whole thing shook me up. I ended up telling this policewoman my real name, why I kept running away, stuff like that. My parents came but before they saw me she spoke to them. I don’t know what she said but I’d never seen my dad so put in his place. He apologised to me, can you believe it? I thought I’d get the usual lecture but this time it was different. I never ran away again.’

‘And that’s why you’re a policewoman?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m not hurt. Not like that other girl. I’m going to be fine.’

‘I hope you are, Jenni.’ Nightingale reached out and touched the girl’s fingers where they clutched the blanket. ‘You seem smart,
strong, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t make a full recovery, but you were also incredibly lucky. No other girl was assaulted last night, I won’t pretend that for the sake of the story, but there are other girls in similar situations to you who are not OK. Don’t push your luck.

‘What I’m trying to say is that life on the streets comes with so many additional risks. If you’re lucky you can go on avoiding them but … well, I don’t want to scare you, but you put yourself in the way of so much potential harm out there.’

‘I don’t do drugs, not like you.’ Jenni was scornful.

‘Good; but I didn’t either. I only tried them once, when I was feeling low and everybody else was having fun. I felt on the outside and I wanted in. Don’t tell me you haven’t already experienced that.’

A shrug.

‘How long have you been living rough, anyway?’

‘A week.’ The words were out before Jenni realised they’d been spoken.

‘Do you want to tell me why?’

‘No.’

‘Fair enough, it’s none of my business.’ Jenni looked at her, surprised. ‘It’s not. I want you to be safe and well but that doesn’t entitle me to pry.’

‘Right. So you’re not going to insist I go home?’

‘I can’t tell you what to do but I can give you some advice if you’re interested.’

‘You might as well.’

Fourteen
, Nightingale thought, watching a few of the defences peel away.

‘If you choose not to go home the hospital will have no option but to call social services because you’re under sixteen.’

‘I am not!’

‘You are unless you can prove it. Sorry, I don’t make the rules. Just let me tell you the rest. They’ll put you in a council-run facility – and yes, you’ll probably run away from that within twenty-four
hours, though my advice is to take advantage of the bathroom while you’re there as it’s tough to keep clean on the streets.

‘Anyway, you run away; you stay clean of drugs – for a while; you keep clear of men – possibly for even longer. Then at some stage your luck will run out. Now the alternative, if you don’t want to go home …’

‘I can’t, I really can’t.’ Tears were suddenly dropping onto the blanket.

‘I understand that feeling, Jenni,’ Nightingale’s fingers tightened on her hand. ‘The alternative is for me to try and get you into one of the shelters. There are a couple right here in Harlden. They always have more demand than they can cope with but I know one of the organisers and I can try—’

‘Would you?’ It was a plea.

‘If you want me to. They’re strict, sometimes more than at home, but they’re fair. All they want is to give you time to sort yourself out.’

‘That’s all I need, a bit of time. I didn’t think I’d be sleeping rough, not in weather like this. My cousin said I could stay but, well, he wanted me to, like, well … it didn’t work out, that’s all, and I couldn’t go back.’

‘I’ll see if I can find you a place.’

Jenni’s expression started to relax for the first time. Nightingale looked at her seriously.

‘I need your help though, Jenni, not in return, or anything like that. The offer stands whatever you say next but I’m asking you, please, to help me. You didn’t just bang your head. You and I both know that; and the man who hurt you – yes he did, Jenni – that man is going to do it again to other girls unless you help me find him.

‘But I didn’t see anything!’ Jenni wailed. ‘It was dark; he hit me he just … hit me. I couldn’t see him.’ She started to cry loudly and a nurse bustled in.

‘Really, Detective, I think that’s enough.’

Nightingale ignored her but Jenni’s crying became hysterical.

‘Jenni, listen to me. I know this is really hard but you have to
be honest with yourself. You’re too strong a person to want to kid yourself about what happened for the rest of your life and the sooner you can bring yourself to talk the quicker you’ll start to recover.’

‘Detective! I must insist.’ Nightingale ignored her. ‘I’m going to call the doctor.’

‘Jenni, here’s my card. It’s got my personal number on it. Call me when you’re ready to talk or speak to the officer we’ll leave here; that will be just as good. Just do it, love, please, for the sake of the next girl.’

Big Mac was waiting outside, holding the registrar back with difficulty. He didn’t speak until they were alone in the lift.

‘That,’ he said finally, ‘was good. Even if you haven’t had the advanced training you avoided most of the mistakes and got her to identify with you; she definitely started to open up. The tears will help and as long as the hospital doesn’t sedate her there’s a good chance she’ll be ready to talk tomorrow. Well done.’

‘Thanks.’ Nightingale didn’t know what else to say.

‘That story, though. It was amazing. You almost had me believing you!’

‘But you saw through me, right?’

MacDonald nodded and Nightingale managed to keep a straight face.

Issie reached out an arm and fumbled for her alarm clock. She grasped it and managed a hard throw against the far wall. Its incessant beeping stopped as it hit but she knew it was only on snooze and that she had ten minutes to persuade her body to get out of bed. Monday morning; a whole week of college ahead and she felt like death. No, worse than death, she reasoned, because when you were dead you must lose all sense of feeling whereas her body was on fire with pains she couldn’t even describe.

It was self-inflicted, as her patient but exasperated friend Puff had told her yesterday. Old news to Issie but she hadn’t had the strength to argue. She didn’t need Puff to tell her she was drinking too much, of course she was; that was the whole point. And as for the drugs; well Puff had never actually confronted her outright, probably because she didn’t want to know as she would then be faced with the hard choice of informing the school counsellor or not. St Anne’s had zero tolerance for drugs and would not only expel any pupil who took them but also suspend those who covered up.

Poor Puff; she was so nice, so
decent
, it was better she didn’t know. Last night her friend had almost been in tears as she had confronted her.
‘Do you want to kill yourself?’
she had asked in
exasperation before leaving her room. Well, the simple answer was yes; she just didn’t have the guts to do it.

Her life was a living hell, one that she knew she was making worse, but so what? Who really cared what happened to her? Her mother was too wrapped up with her lousy second husband, a man old enough to be Issie’s grandfather. He was so different from her beloved dad. God, how she missed him.

Fat tears of misery rolled down Issie’s cheek and soaked into her pillow. When the alarm started again she struggled out of bed, swallowed a dose of Resolve and scrubbed her face and hair clean under the shower. It was how she started every day.

The morning passed in a blur. She was given two signatures for late coursework; another and it would mean a detention. The threat meant nothing to her but a detention would lose house points and that she did want to avoid. After her last class she went to one of the computer labs to catch up, which was where her other close friend Octavia found her.

‘Hi. Fancy stopping by my room later? I’ve got some chocolates.’

Issie’s stomach heaved.

‘Got to finish. I’ll be here ’til lights out.’

‘Boring.’ In one word Octavia managed to infer that study meant nothing to her.

Issie wasn’t fooled. Whatever she said, Octavia Henry cared like heck. Beneath the too-pretty, rebellious veneer, Issie recognised deep conventionalism and a burning desire to please her parents. Issie didn’t resent or despise these feelings; she envied them, which is why it had been interesting to see her own behaviour push Octavia out of her comfort zone as she had tried to keep up with her self-destruction. Unfortunately it had done nothing to dampen Issie’s misery and she no longer wanted to be the cause of Octavia’s problems. Let her find her own.

‘Look,’ she said, running fingers through spiky auburn hair that was growing back from the buzz cut she had given herself at the beginning of term, ‘let’s be honest; you want to get strong grades this term, don’t you?’

The alpha females stared at each other. Throughout their time at the college they had been rivals as well as close friends. Issie excelled in maths, English, sport and science; Octavia in Classics, languages and history. Only in art was it difficult to determine who might be better. Issie’s raw creative talent was truly unique but Octavia had a better mastery of technique that Issie had yet to match.

Octavia looked down at the essay Issie was working on.

‘You’re trying to be top of the year again?’

‘No,’ Issie sighed, ‘I’m not interested in winning.’

‘Yeah, right! Like I believe you.’

‘It’s not important any more. I don’t really care how I do.’

Octavia shook her head in disbelief.

‘If I didn’t know you hated men I’d say you were in love.’

Issie flushed.

‘You aren’t, are you?’ Octavia laughed as her friend looked away. ‘Who is he?’

‘Leave it, Octavia.’ Issie stared at the screen, ignoring her. ‘Just leave me alone.’

After a few minutes Octavia did just that but Issie’s concentration had gone. Her friend was so wrong. For reasons she would never reveal, Issie was terrified of sex but in her current frame of mind that made the idea of it all the more compelling. If she could force herself to give her body to a man it would be the ultimate act of self-destruction. She would finally prove to herself that she was worth nothing and maybe then killing herself would be easy.

‘All the more reason for you to accept that date next week,’ she muttered to herself. ‘He’ll be willing to do the honours.’

The idea was repellent. Issie tried to concentrate on Shakespeare’s poetry. The words pulsing on her computer screen seemed somehow appropriate:
‘Come away, come away Death, / And in sad cypress let me be laid.’
She rested her burning forehead against the cool of the screen and tried to think. Having sex wasn’t clever but it would be satisfyingly destructive. Thinking of him, a man almost old enough to be her father, stupid enough to think she could fancy
him and arrogant enough to believe she would give herself to him out of desire, made her shiver. All she needed to do was call him.

The first flakes of winter’s snow swirled in the wind beyond the window as she typed the quote she had finally selected to complete her essay:
‘Not a friend, not a friend greet / My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown.’
As she wrote she imagined a stand of Scots pine, their shade cool on even the hottest day, and her bones glowing white in green twilight. She smiled.

Steve was worried about Dan. The past few months he had been behaving weird, like he was only half there. Not that Dan had ever been fully ‘there’ but certain things used to interest him, like darts, drinking and sex. Now his interest in everything but sex had vanished.

Dan was only really focused when they went to visit Mum. While he was with her he was almost normal; talking to her, switching channels on the telly every time she asked, which was constantly. Dan never tired of jumping up to do as she wanted; adjusting the brightness, the volume, the channel again; opening the curtains, closing them, pulling them half-to so that the sun wasn’t on the screen.

Their visits made Steve’s skin crawl. When Mum was still at home they hadn’t noticed that she was crazy. She always had outbursts, more towards Dan than him it had to be said, but that had been their mum. In the care home he heard the assistants call her Batty Betty behind her back. Here they restrained her when she grew violent.

Steve had learnt early to keep a low profile, something Dan never did. No matter how angry or dangerous their mum became
Dan would try and reason with her, sometimes holding her arms tight to her body until the rage stopped; even putting her on top of the wardrobe once until she had calmed down. It was good for Steve because it meant that she couldn’t get to him but Dan always copped it later.

She would pretend to be normal, nice even, and persuade Dan to let her go – or lift her down, unlock the cupboard door – depending on what he had done to control her. Then she would turn on him. Not straight away, where was the fun in that? Sometimes it would be an hour, once it was a whole day, before she had her revenge but it was certain and he couldn’t understand why Dan never saw it coming. She used whatever was to hand: saucepan, rolling pin, ornament. She even put toilet cleaner in his tea but Dan had been so sick, and there were so many questions at the hospital, that she never did it again.

Social services had come round after his dad left because one of the neighbours tipped them off as to the goings-on at number 42. But she was smart, made sure Dan was hidden out of sight – away with friends she had said – and paraded Steve in front of them. Of course he never had a mark on him. His mother’s torture of him took the form of psychological intimidation until he grew old enough to work out what reactions satisfied her and learnt to produce them on cue.

But he was worried about Dan. At first when Mum became poorly Dan had started staying over at her house; he had virtually moved in by the time Steve persuaded him that they needed professional help. It was the hygiene that had finally got to Dan. Changing her incontinence pads, clearing up when she couldn’t – or wouldn’t – make it to the toilet in time. Steve was disgusted by her but he hid it well and limited his visits. He was a married man, after all.

When she went into care he thought Dan would move into number 42 and leave the caravan he called home but he said he couldn’t live in the house without his mum there. Dan’s caravan was cold and damp, even in summer, but it was where he had always
taken his women, those he paid for as well as those he didn’t. Not once had he had a woman under his mother’s roof and that didn’t look like changing now that she wasn’t there, even though the council had agreed they could keep the house until it was decided one way or another whether his mum would be sent home again.

Steve could have coped with Dan avoiding the house. What really worried him was that his brother had become secretive. He always used to boast about sex and he was a man of constant needs. If he couldn’t find a woman drunk enough to have him at the end of a night in the pub he would buy it on his way home and brag next day. That had stopped. Steve had tried talking but Dan shrugged him off, telling him he was worried about Mum and to give over for a while. Dan still had that after-sex look on his face sometimes in the mornings and Steve was certain that his sex life was continuing; the question was how and where?

Looking at him now without seeming to as his brother stood up to reopen the curtains he noticed scratches on Dan’s neck that hadn’t been there the day before. He had that telltale lazy look on his face. He hadn’t been in the pub, hadn’t persuaded Gloria or Ruby to give him one. Steve doubted he had been with a prossie because Dan hadn’t asked for a borrow and it was Monday; he was always skint after the weekend. As he sat down Dan caught him staring.

‘What?’

‘What what?’

‘What you staring at?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You are too …’

‘You what?’ their mother shouted, stirred from her half-sleep by the start of their quarrel.

Both boys froze.

‘What you two on about?’

‘Nothing, Mum,’ Dan said, moving to the side of her bed.

‘Don’t lie to me!’

She caught Dan a slap on his cheek that left an immediate red
mark. Very weak, the nurses called her but what did they know?

‘He was staring at me,’ Dan protested, not bothering to rub his cheek.

‘Pathetic!’ Spittle flew from her mouth onto her bedjacket. ‘Pathetic, that’s what you are; a miserable specimen of a man. My God, when I think of the pain you gave me when you was born. Wasn’t worth it, the neither of you were.’

She lay back on the pillows, exhausted by her outburst.

‘Have some tea, Mum. They brought it in a while back and it’ll be going cold.’

Dan lifted the cup to her lips and she took a long drink that brought a smile to his face. It vanished in the spray of brown, viscous liquid she spat at him, covering his shirt. Steve shut his eyes and shook his head. Dan should’ve known. He went to the paper towel dispenser by the side of the sink and pulled out a handful, half throwing them at his mother.

‘You’ve dripped some on your sheets. Better mop it up if you want to be clean; they won’t be changed today.’

His mother glared at him but did as she was told, her gestures so uncoordinated that Dan took the towels from her and finished the job, pausing to wipe his face before bundling the soggy mess up and throwing it away. He hadn’t offered one word of complaint.

‘More tea!’ she demanded and Dan made to lift the cup.

‘No.’ Steve quickly moved the cup away.

‘You what?’

‘Hey!’

Dan and his mother stared at him, one confused the other angry.

‘You don’t deserve it,’ he said calmly and enjoyed the flush of colour that ran into his mother’s face.

‘But, Steve, she’s thirsty, aren’t you, Mum?’

Dan looked upset but Steve carried the cup outside, laughing silently as he heard his mother’s screech of fury at being disobeyed by one of her sons. A carer came up to him.

‘Having another of her turns?’ she asked, her face showing her disapproval of their most ungrateful resident.

‘A fit of temper, that’s all.’ He didn’t want them chucking her out; that would be a nightmare.

There was another great cry and the carer frowned.

‘Maybe I should page a nurse to come and sedate her.’

‘Just give me a minute; it may not be necessary.’

Steve stepped back into his mother’s room and closed the door. On seeing him again she opened her mouth to scream but he forestalled her.

‘Wait. Before you decide to do that, think. They’ll come and sedate you, put you out. Is that what you want?’

She swore at him, a flow of expletives that bounced off a skin thickened to armour.

‘Your choice,’ he said, ‘but if they have to drug you too often they’ll decide you’re too much bother and lock you up in the loony bin. You’d hate that; with all those crazies around you.’

The shouting stopped and his mother looked confused.

‘Want to go home.’ She picked up Dan’s paw of a hand. ‘Take your poor old mum home, son,’ she said to him, tears in her eyes. ‘Let me die there in peace. Please?’

Dan lowered his head onto her hand where it gripped his.

‘Don’t talk about dying, Mum, not you. You can’t die. Course we’ll take you home, won’t we, Steve?’

Above Dan’s bowed head his mother beamed a smile of pure malice at Steve. His bowels churned but he managed to smile back as he said.

‘’Fraid not, Bruv. I signed the papers to admit her, if you remember, ’cos you were too upset. So it’ll take my signature to have her released and I’m not doing it.’

Dan let out a growl and was on him before he had a chance to defend himself. One hand grabbed his sweatshirt, twisting the fabric so that it choked him. The other slammed into the wall beside his head, close enough for Steve to think the punch was for real.

‘Sign the fucking papers, little brother, or I’ll kill you.’

‘No,’ Steve managed to gasp, too aware that if Mum ever left the home his life would be a constant hell.

‘I’ll beat you to a pulp,’ Dan said and raised his fist. Behind Dan’s back his mum chuckled.

‘Hear that? She’s loving this.’ Steve tried to swallow air. ‘You can’t look after her any more, mate, the council won’t let you.’ The pressure on his throat lessened and Steve took a painful breath. ‘Even if I asked them to send her back they wouldn’t agree. She’s too sick; you know she is.’

Dan dropped his fist and turned away. Steve had won the battle – for now. Behind them his mum realised she had lost and started her screaming. Steve picked up his coat and dragged his brother outside where a qualified nurse was talking to the carer.

‘She’s all yours,’ Steve said, pulling Dan away with difficulty.

It was dark outside with frost glinting on windscreens even though it was barely five o’clock. They walked in silence to their vehicles. Steve lit up and offered a fag to Dan who was always out of smokes on Monday. Dan shook his head.

‘Go on, take one. It’ll do you good.’

‘You cheeked our mum,’ Dan said by way of reply.

‘Put her in her place that’s all. She needed it.’

The pain in his jaw was nothing to that in his head as his skull hit the concrete. He blacked out briefly and saw stars when he opened his eyes. His face was on fire, his brain scrambled by the punch. He lay there, the cold penetrating his back as he tried to clear his head.

Dan carried on walking without a backward glance and reached his van. Steve rolled on his side and pulled his knees up to his chest but the movement set his head thumping. He barely noticed the van’s engine stutter to life, too preoccupied with his own pain, but when the headlights flashed onto main beam and Dan gunned the vehicle towards him Steve’s head came up sharply. The rusty grey van was bearing down on him fast, wheels sliding on the icy tarmac, the back slewing as Dan brought it back under control and put his foot down.

Steve managed to roll to one side into a space between two parked cars, headache forgotten. The van sped by him less than
a yard away and he had a brief glimpse of Dan’s white face and staring eyes.

‘You could’ve fucking killed me!’ he shouted into the exhaust fumes. ‘Bloody idiot!’

‘Are you all right?’

A lady in her seventies, in a thick tweed coat and woollen hat, was standing over him.

‘I have his registration number, you know, and I saw him drive at you after you’d fallen over. I would happily be a witness should you wish to call the police.’

That was the last thing Steve needed. After years of avoiding the attention of the law he didn’t want it to start now.

‘No, thanks, love, I’m OK.’

‘He really was driving most dangerously. I feel we should alert the police in case he does some damage. Maybe he had been drinking.’

‘He hadn’t. I know him, see, and he’s not a drinker. He was upset; been visiting his mum, like, and she’s not well. I don’t think he even saw me.’

‘Well, if you’re sure …’ the lady said, perhaps softened by the idea of a distraught son.

‘Really,’ Steve smiled at her. ‘No harm done.’

He walked back to his car slowly, deep in thought. He really was very worried about Dan.