My Bloody Valentine (Alastair Gunn) (5 page)

‘Cheers,’ she called after him as he descended the stairs. ‘I do appreciate you being here, Dad.’

‘Just
remember that this afternoon, when your mum arrives.’

Under normal circumstances, his words would have filled her with dread. What he didn’t know was that today, if things went to plan, by the time Christine Hawkins got anywhere near the house, her daughter wouldn’t be there.

Joking aside, her mother wasn’t so bad. On a good day they got on like matches and gunpowder; it was just that the results were equally explosive. Neither of them liked to admit it, but in truth they were quite alike. Both were intelligent, capable women to whom others naturally apportioned authority. They were also similarly dissatisfied with the human race, although Hawkins preferred to keep the wider public at arm’s length, reserving warmth for those closer to home, while her mother’s greatest affection was for people she hardly knew. And while the daughter typically did her grousing outside of the subject’s company, her mother’s immediates were regularly sprayed with disdain face to face; opposing views that had probably triggered mother and daughter’s respective careers. While Antonia was out arresting society’s unsavoury types, Christine’s job often involved patching up their prey. Perhaps the similarities between mother and younger daughter – none of which seemed to apply to Hawkins’ sibling, Siobhan – were what forced them apart like two magnets with the same pole. Siobhan had obediently fulfilled their mother’s every tedious aspiration, the job in social
care, the kids, the dull-as-dishwater husband. But a young Antonia had refused to conform. Instead, her career had taken off, the vocation which, after just six weeks without, she craved.

Yet somehow Hawkins had enjoyed the last twenty-four hours. It was the first extended period of time she’d spent with her father in years, but it had been surprisingly cathartic for them both. Since returning home, she’d been an honorary septuagenarian, piggybacking on her dad’s routines. They’d slipped back into the old father–daughter routine more easily than she’d been expecting. It was great to hear his stories again, even if they were a lot tamer thirty years on, while the occasional mischievous wink told Hawkins he still enjoyed her acidic wit. Even when it was directed at him or the woman he had married.

The previous evening, Mike had joined them for takeaway and matchstick poker. He’d been fantastic while she was in hospital and since her return home, although she wasn’t the sort to stoke his male ego by telling him so. Of course, Mike’s work commitments meant that Dad had been the one who was always there, but only Mike understood her compulsion for not letting jobs build. Where he found the energy to keep on top of everything astounded her.

Obviously, he had a surplus due to the enforced vacation their physical relationship was on, but her dad’s presence, not to mention snoring capable of dampening a Shakespearian romance, had precluded anything
more, although that wasn’t the reason Mike had spent the night on the sofa. The two of them had shared precious little intimacy since his return from Manchester just over two months ago, which was likely to remain the case for a while yet. Hawkins wasn’t physically up to anything remotely energetic, and that wasn’t even the worst of it.

Not only did she find it hard to sleep because of discomfort and nightmares, her spirit still sank whenever she dared to face a mirror unclothed. She simply wasn’t ready for anyone else, even Mike, to see the scars. Although she could probably get away with ignoring the situation for a while longer. At least till she was out of the chair.

She shuddered, then tried to reassure herself that today would mark another milestone in her emancipation from the attack that had scarred her body almost as badly as it had scarred her mind.

Eager for progress, she heaved herself off the bed and fought her way into a somewhat crooked but now almost upright position, surprised to find that, despite the lack of painkillers, her stomach and torso weren’t as painful as expected.

She’d fought to enforce it, but Mike and her dad had eventually accepted her desire to be as independent as possible. Perhaps the message that she wasn’t going to play the obedient recuperation game had reached her body, too. Encouraged, she edged towards the corner and retrieved the crutches, gingerly placing her weight
on them, ignoring muscles that protested against even this mild abuse. Several seconds of dogged endurance later, most of Hawkins’ weight was off her feet, but the burning sensation was already cascading through her upper body. She relented, placing the metal supports back in the corner.

Walking short distances unaided was possible, but also painfully slow. She creaked her way across the landing, hearing strains of Capital Gold from downstairs, pleased to discover that, for the first time since returning home, she reached the bathroom without having to pause halfway.

She closed the door, leaving it unlocked in case of emergency. Then she plugged the bath and cranked on the taps before inspecting her make-up-free appearance in the mirror, resisting the urge to strip and inspect the laceration marks. She brushed her teeth, watching the bath slowly fill, feeling a hint of unease. Today was a big deal.

Now six weeks old, her wounds would at last be watertight. The external sutures had been removed by a doctor a week ago, leaving only the internal binds, with butterfly stitches outside, just in case. But now she was allowed to soak and thereby dissolve those. Then she’d get her first proper look at the repair job carried out by the surgeons.

Fortunately, Hawkins had always done a reasonable job of looking after herself. Okay, so she enjoyed the occasional cigarette or bottle of wine, and chocolate
was a weakness, too, but none was indulged to extremes, and she countered their effects with regular running and healthyish food. She liked to think her size ten figure was due more to this effort than to random biological or metabolic good fortune. Stress was part of life, especially of her job, and she had yet to find any grey hairs. But she worried about the long-term effects of her scars because, as anyone approaching their thirty-sixth birthday would testify, things didn’t heal as fast as they once had.

Beside her, the bathwater was getting deep. Hawkins turned off the taps and positioned a towel within reach, in case she needed to call on her dad. There was no point embarrassing them both in the midst of an emergency. Then she slipped out of her pyjamas, glad that the mirror had steamed up, and grimaced her way over the edge to immerse herself in the hot liquid.

Forty minutes later, Hawkins drained the tepid water and showered. She carefully dried herself and manoeuvred back on to the bathmat, catching sight of her towel-covered reflection.

She turned to face the mirror, standing up as straight as possible, aware that her last line of defence had gone. Previously, stitches and dried blood had provided visual noise, behind which the scars could credibly have ranged between extremes. Obviously, she’d been able to view her stab wounds obliquely, once the stitches had dissolved or been picked away, in the bath. But
there was something scarier about confronting them from a distance, as others would. She took a deep breath and dropped the towel.

After a moment’s pleasantly surprised assessment, however, Hawkins edged forwards, risking closer inspection. Yes, every wound was obvious, but they all seemed to have knitted evenly, free from the potential puckering of which she’d been so afraid. The skin around each mark was pink rather than pale, too, which the doctors said was a good sign.

Her torso bore a strange pattern of eleven at-angle entry wounds, where the blade had been pushed in, retracted, turned, and then reinserted somewhere else. Fortunately, thanks to the same warped logic that precipitated his actions, her attacker hadn’t been trying to kill her directly. His aim had been exsanguination, a method of knifing around the vital organs to induce bloodletting, thereby allowing the victim time before their inevitable demise to rue whatever actions had led to their fate. It had been well on the way to working, too. Except she’d been found just in time.

Hawkins rewrapped herself in the towel and turned away. She shuffled back to the bedroom, confirming with her dad on the way that she had survived solo ablutions.

Difficulties in holding her arms above her head for long meant she needed help with the hairdryer, but at midday Hawkins stood, smartly dressed, at the top of
the stairs. She listened to the sounds of her father preparing lunch in the kitchen, planning the conversation they’d have as they ate. She needed the outcome to go her way, but she wasn’t looking forward to it.

Because she hated lying to her dad.

12

The sturdy door swung open and she was manhandled through it. For a second, the low winter sun filled the window in the rear wall, blinding her, but as she limped beyond its glare, Amanda Cain had to remind herself that she was still inside Holloway Prison.

In contrast to everywhere else inside the complex, the air in this room was perceptibly fresh, as if it had been filtered somehow. A large glass-topped desk dominated the centre of the floor; around it, several plush chairs. And, in the largest of them, directly behind the desk, Graham Fitch. The prison governor.

Fitch didn’t look up, choosing instead to complete whatever he was doing on the laptop in front of him. Intentional or otherwise, his action told Cain she was of minor import.

She stopped a few yards in front of the desk, watching as one of the female screws who had escorted her through the labyrinth of Holloway’s main building moved around beside her boss. Cain still didn’t recognize her, but the fact she took precedence over the more familiar guard, Jones, who remained near the door, meant she had probably come with the PM from his former post at Thameside, a few weeks ago.

Cain’s
gaze drifted to the window, not to the depressing grey and red buildings immediately below them but to the residential streets of Islington beyond: to the trees, and the gridlocked cars crawling along beside empty bus lanes.

To
freedom.

‘Dr Cain.’

Her eyes flicked back to the man behind the desk. The PM’s voice itself hadn’t startled her, but his use of her professional title had.

‘I read my officers’ intervention reports regarding your latest altercation.’ Fitch stood and moved around the desk in front of her, lifting her chin with a gentle hand. He assessed her swollen right eye. ‘That’s going to be a shiner.’

Cain nodded, uncertain whether he wanted a response. Her jaw throbbed, despite the lightness of his touch and the drugs administered by the infirmary shortly before her stumbling journey to this office.

Fitch wasn’t tall, so their eyes were almost level. The top of his head was bald, but he wore a neatly trimmed beard and moustache, too uniform in colour for a man in his fifties not to be dyed. Intelligent eyes studied her through the tinted lenses in his dark-framed glasses, but the facet most evident to Cain as he released her chin was how clean he smelled – somewhere between talcum powder and fresh linen.

He leaned claustrophobically close, peering at the butterfly stitches above her right eye, his odourless
breath skimming her lips. ‘I have to say, Dr Cain, I find your behaviour perplexing.

‘Apparently,’ he continued, retreating to perch casually against the desk, ‘you spend most of your time in solitude, disinterested in your fellow inmates, something I might anticipate from someone of your intelligence. Except that, according to your record, you’ve been involved in three fights in as many weeks, when the original disturbances had nothing to do with you.’

Cain regarded him, wordless.

‘Multiple injuries,’ he went on, ‘ranging from a fractured cheekbone and concussion to this morning’s stitched temple and cracked ribs. Do you see yourself as some kind of guardian angel?’

His brow fell when she didn’t reply. ‘I see. We have a trust deficit. Understandable, but I promise your insecurities are misplaced. Given more time to build a relationship, I think we’d get on.’ He left the desk and wandered over to stare out of the window.

Cain glanced at the unfamiliar screw, whose gaze was fixed on the far wall, so she took the opportunity to scan the space around her. It was then she realized what was bothering her. Despite its relative opulence, the office had the same sterility as the rest of the prison, even though Fitch would have unbounded latitude to make it his own. There were no photographs, no art, not even an executive toy, which jarred in an environment where the first thing
anybody
did was attempt to make the place feel just a bit like home. But her thoughts
were disturbed as Fitch, still facing the city, addressed her again. ‘You’re due to leave us this coming week, aren’t you?’

The lack of eye contact forced her to reply. ‘Yes.’

‘I’m glad.’ He turned back. ‘After all, part of my remit is to facilitate the reintegration of prisoners into society. What are you planning to do when you get out?’

She hesitated. ‘I’m not sure yet.’

‘Well, I hope you do.’ Fitch retook his seat, ‘I like to think that the skills of our more capable inmates are not wasted as a result of their detention, especially in cases such as your own. Your error was a costly one, but an error nonetheless.’

Cain swallowed discreetly, determined not to let this man see the tidal wave of emotion building in her gut as memories flared, vivid repercussions of the day she made that pivotal, deadly mistake.

‘Anyway’ – Fitch waved the one-sided conversation away as if they’d been discussing the weather – ‘whatever your reasons, I’m not prepared to have you leave us looking like we run some sort of human cockfighting ring. I could prolong your stay, of course, but I’m reliably informed that neither carrots nor sticks are particularly effective where you’re concerned.’

He sat forwards. ‘So you’ll spend your final few days here in solitary confinement.’

13

He was shoved. ‘Up, now.’

Bull’s eyes opened. His mouth tasted foul.

‘What?’ He looked around for whoever had woken him, but it was dark and he could hear movement everywhere. Quiet noises, though; nobody talked. The only light came through an open doorway at the far end of the room, black shapes moving back and forth across the patch of brightness.