mattered. She revelled in the way it changed how she looked and felt – the sexless anonymity of the uniform allied to the security and strength it provided. It was like a disguise, but one which everyone recognized and appreciated. There was a small part of her that longed to be back there, but she was too ambitious and restless to have remained a PC for long.
Leaving nostalgia behind, she made herself a cup of tea and headed into the lounge. It was a large, spartan room. Not much in the way of pictures on the walls, no magazines left lying around. Neat and tidy, with everything in its place.
Helen selected a book and started to read. The bookshelves groaned with books. Books on criminal behaviour, serial offending, a history of Quantico – all of them well thumbed. She didn’t really do fiction – Helen didn’t believe in happy endings – but she did prize knowledge. As she thumbed through a favourite tome on criminal psychology, she lit a cigarette. She’d tried to quit many times but had always relented, so now she’d given up trying. She could endure the self-censure for the rush it still gave her. Everyone has a dirty habit or two, she told herself.
Suddenly Mark popped up into her head. Had her words had the desired effect or was he in the Unicorn right now, drowning his sorrows? His dirty habit could cost him his job or even his life – she profoundly hoped he could pull himself back from the brink. She didn’t want to lose him.
Helen tried to concentrate on her book, but she read the words without taking in their meaning and soon had to double-back to pick up the thread of the logic. She had never been good at being idle – it was one of the reasons she worked so hard. Helen drew harder on her cigarette – she could feel those familiar unpleasant feelings creeping up on her again. Stubbing out her cigarette, she dumped the book on the coffee table, grabbed her gym bag and ran down to her bike. Perhaps she would call in on the incident room en route to the gym – maybe something had turned up. Either way she would keep herself busy for a couple of hours and that way the darkness would not win.
19
I can’t remember when I first saw my father hit my mother. I don’t really remember things I see anyway. It’s sounds I remember most clearly. The sound of a fist on a face. Of a body crashing into the kitchen table. A skull hitting a wall. Whimpering. Shouting. The endless abuse.
You never become inured to it. But you come to expect it. And each time it happens you get a little bit angrier. And feel a little more helpless.
She never fought back. That’s what pissed me off. She just took it. Like she deserved it. Is that what she really thought? Whatever, if she wasn’t going to fight him, I was. The next time he started on her, I’d get involved.
I didn’t have to wait long. My dad’s best mate Johnno died from a heroin overdose and after the funeral my dad drank for thirty-six hours non-stop. When my mum tried to get him to stop, he head-butted her – broke her bloody nose. I wasn’t having that. So I kicked the stupid tosser in the balls.
He broke my arm, knocked my front teeth out and choked the life out of me with his belt. I really thought he was going to kill me.
A therapist once suggested that this was the root cause of my inability to form meaningful relationships with men. I just nodded, but really I wanted to spit in her eye.
20
Is it possible to die of fear? Peter hadn’t moved in hours.
‘Peter?’
Still nothing – hope sprang up in Ben’s heart. Perhaps his heart had given out, overwhelmed by theatrical self-pity. Yes, that’s what it was. And wouldn’t it be great. The perfect solution. Survival of the fittest.
Ben immediately felt black. Wishing someone dead. Pitiful to even think of it, given what he’d been through. And anyway even if he was dead, would it count? Would he be released? He hadn’t killed him after all.
Ben’s thoughts strayed back to his
Leaving nostalgia behind, she made herself a cup of tea and headed into the lounge. It was a large, spartan room. Not much in the way of pictures on the walls, no magazines left lying around. Neat and tidy, with everything in its place.
Helen selected a book and started to read. The bookshelves groaned with books. Books on criminal behaviour, serial offending, a history of Quantico – all of them well thumbed. She didn’t really do fiction – Helen didn’t believe in happy endings – but she did prize knowledge. As she thumbed through a favourite tome on criminal psychology, she lit a cigarette. She’d tried to quit many times but had always relented, so now she’d given up trying. She could endure the self-censure for the rush it still gave her. Everyone has a dirty habit or two, she told herself.
Suddenly Mark popped up into her head. Had her words had the desired effect or was he in the Unicorn right now, drowning his sorrows? His dirty habit could cost him his job or even his life – she profoundly hoped he could pull himself back from the brink. She didn’t want to lose him.
Helen tried to concentrate on her book, but she read the words without taking in their meaning and soon had to double-back to pick up the thread of the logic. She had never been good at being idle – it was one of the reasons she worked so hard. Helen drew harder on her cigarette – she could feel those familiar unpleasant feelings creeping up on her again. Stubbing out her cigarette, she dumped the book on the coffee table, grabbed her gym bag and ran down to her bike. Perhaps she would call in on the incident room en route to the gym – maybe something had turned up. Either way she would keep herself busy for a couple of hours and that way the darkness would not win.
19
I can’t remember when I first saw my father hit my mother. I don’t really remember things I see anyway. It’s sounds I remember most clearly. The sound of a fist on a face. Of a body crashing into the kitchen table. A skull hitting a wall. Whimpering. Shouting. The endless abuse.
You never become inured to it. But you come to expect it. And each time it happens you get a little bit angrier. And feel a little more helpless.
She never fought back. That’s what pissed me off. She just took it. Like she deserved it. Is that what she really thought? Whatever, if she wasn’t going to fight him, I was. The next time he started on her, I’d get involved.
I didn’t have to wait long. My dad’s best mate Johnno died from a heroin overdose and after the funeral my dad drank for thirty-six hours non-stop. When my mum tried to get him to stop, he head-butted her – broke her bloody nose. I wasn’t having that. So I kicked the stupid tosser in the balls.
He broke my arm, knocked my front teeth out and choked the life out of me with his belt. I really thought he was going to kill me.
A therapist once suggested that this was the root cause of my inability to form meaningful relationships with men. I just nodded, but really I wanted to spit in her eye.
20
Is it possible to die of fear? Peter hadn’t moved in hours.
‘Peter?’
Still nothing – hope sprang up in Ben’s heart. Perhaps his heart had given out, overwhelmed by theatrical self-pity. Yes, that’s what it was. And wouldn’t it be great. The perfect solution. Survival of the fittest.
Ben immediately felt black. Wishing someone dead. Pitiful to even think of it, given what he’d been through. And anyway even if he was dead, would it count? Would he be released? He hadn’t killed him after all.
Ben’s thoughts strayed back to his
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