Текст книги "The Jump"

Автор книги: Doug Johnstone

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

7

She let herself in the back door and went through the rooms, checking Ben wasn’t there. She hadn’t come directly back to the house, instead ducking left off Hopetoun Road on to Shore Road, then cutting down to the beach, avoiding the police station two minutes away from the front of her house.

The house was silent. She listened for sirens from the cop shop. Nothing. You hardly heard them here, the Ferry wasn’t exactly a hotbed of crime. No sound from upstairs either. She went up and stopped outside the door to Logan’s room. Rested her fingers against the chunky wooden letters that spelled out his name. She ran her hand from the L to the O and slowly onwards, stopping with her fingers pressed against the N. The sign had been on Logan’s door for ten years, and he’d moaned about it being childish when he hit his teens, but he never took it down and neither did she.

There was a rough splinter of wood at the end of the N, it had been like that for as long as Ellie could remember. She deliberately snagged her thumb on it, feeling the skelf push against her skin. She remembered for the hundredth time that day that her son was dead, that she would never see him again, then she breathed and pushed the door open.

Sam was still asleep, blanket pulled over him. Ellie sat on the edge of the bed and ran her hands through his hair, brushing against his ear.

He moaned in his sleep.

She moved up the bed, still stroking his hairline along his forehead, behind his ear, letting her hand linger on the nape of his neck for a moment, before starting again. She breathed in through her nose, caught the smell of Lynx and urine and something underneath, his unique scent.

He was coming round. She didn’t want to disturb him, but she had a stronger urge to hear him speak, to hear his voice and reassure him. He looked like he was having a good dream, and she wondered how that was possible. She tried to remember when she’d last had a good dream.

His eyes fluttered open and he looked at her, confused.

‘Shhh,’ she said. ‘You’re safe.’

She saw it on his face as he began to recognise where he was and who he was with, as he remembered what had happened. The confusion turning to distress, panic.

She was still stroking his head, but he pushed her hand away and tried to sit up.

‘It’s OK,’ she said. Her hand lay limp on the bedclothes where it had landed. She looked at it as if it wasn’t part of her.

Sam seemed more together than he’d been earlier, more aware of his situation. He went into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out his phone. Checked for messages with a trembling hand, then pushed call and held it to his ear.

Ellie could hear it from where she sat. She prayed for it to go to voicemail. Five rings, then it did. Sam hung up without leaving a message.

‘Who are you trying to get hold of?’ she said.

He shook his head, trying to drive the sleep away.

‘Is it your little sister?’ Ellie said, thinking about the coats and shoes in the hallway earlier.

He stared at her. ‘How do you know I have a little sister?’

She tried to put her hand on his, but he slipped away from her touch.

‘I just want to make sure you’re OK,’ she said.

‘How do you know about Libby?’

‘Libby, that’s a lovely name. How old is she?’

‘I asked you a question.’ He shuffled back against the headboard. ‘Who are you?’

‘You know who I am,’ Ellie said. ‘Do you remember being on the bridge earlier?’

‘Of course.’

‘I found you. Brought you back here to get you sorted out.’

He glanced at his phone then rubbed his face. ‘How do you know about my sister?’

She looked at him, held his gaze. ‘I’ve been to your house.’

‘What?’ He seemed younger than his age suddenly, had the scared look of a toddler in trouble.

‘I was worried. You fell asleep. I wanted to get in contact with your parents, let them know you were safe.’

He rubbed at his fist with his other hand. ‘And?’

She shook her head. ‘I didn’t. At least . . .’

‘What?’

She took his hand. ‘Why don’t you tell me what happened at home?’

He pulled away from her and sat up, swinging his legs off the bed in a tangle of blanket. ‘I need to speak to my sister.’

She put a hand on his thigh, felt his muscle through the material of her son’s jeans. ‘Wait, I can help. Tell me what happened and I’ll help you find Libby.’

He looked at her hand on his leg. ‘I can’t.’

She stood up, positioning herself between him and the door, arms folded across her chest. Not that it would do any good if he wanted to leave.

‘Let me tell you what I found,’ she said. ‘I went to your house, 23 Inchcolm Terrace. There was no answer but the door was unlocked, so I went in. I found a man in the kitchen with a knife in him. I think that man is your dad. He was still alive. I heard your mum come in the front door and I ran out back. A few minutes later I heard an ambulance arrive, then I came home.’

He looked down at his lap and played with the zip on his hoodie. Ellie thought about the bloody T-shirt underneath.

‘Now your turn,’ Ellie said.

‘Do you think he’s still alive now?’ Sam said, his head staying down.

‘I don’t know. I think so. He opened his eyes when I was there.’

‘He saw you?’

Ellie nodded. ‘But I don’t know how aware he was of anything around him.’

Sam sat in silence.

‘Is he your dad?’ Ellie said.

A nod.

‘Who attacked him?’

Sam rubbed his hands.

‘Was it you?’ Ellie said.

Sam closed his eyes, pinched at the bridge of his nose.

‘I saw blood on your T-shirt.’

He nodded again.

‘Was it an accident?’

Sam raised his head and looked at her. ‘No.’

Ellie thought for a moment. Sam looked at his phone.

‘Is this to do with Libby?’ Ellie said.

He picked up his phone and tried to call her again. Still no answer. He nodded as he threw the phone on to the bed.

‘Were you protecting her?’ Ellie said.

Sam hesitated. ‘I was trying to.’

Just then the front door opened downstairs. Ben was home. Sam tensed up at the sound and Ellie put her hands out to placate him.

‘It’s just my husband,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t know you’re here, doesn’t know anything about this.’

A voice from downstairs. ‘Ellie?’

Ellie walked across the room, placed her hand on the door handle. ‘Stay in here, it’s safe. I’ll go and speak to him. I won’t tell him about you.’ She looked at the floor. ‘Don’t walk about or we’ll hear you downstairs.’

She opened the door, looking at Sam. ‘OK?’

‘OK.’

8

Ben spoke as she entered the kitchen.

‘Something’s happened.’

He’d already flipped open the laptop on the table and was typing in their password.

Logan1.

Ellie’s hands had typed that password into countless computers and online accounts over the years, she could hit the sequence of keys every time at speed without thinking or looking. A muscle memory, completely subconscious. If she slowed down to think about it, it felt clumsy and awkward, and she would get it wrong. Like glimpsing something in the corner of your eye that disappeared if you tried to look at it directly.

Ben fired up Twitter. He was much more internet savvy than she was, all that time in obscure conspiracy chatrooms and the like. Ellie thought about Logan’s Facebook page, felt a familiar itch to check in and see if anyone had posted anything. Then she thought about Sam upstairs. When she got a moment she would look him up on Facebook, his sister too, find out all about his life, family, friends, whatever it was that had brought him to her. She looked at the ceiling. How many inches away were his feet? The ceiling was covered in grease and cooking stains, cobwebs strung across the corners. Who ever cleaned their kitchen ceiling?

Ben was typing away. Ellie didn’t do Twitter, didn’t understand the appeal. Just lots of celebrities showing off, and angry, lonely people shouting into the void. Every second news story these days was about people being abusive on Twitter, misogyny, racism, all the bitter bile of humanity in one handy place.

‘What’s happened?’ she said.

‘There’s police everywhere,’ Ben said.

She looked over his shoulder.

He typed in: ‘Why are there police all over South Queensferry?’

Then he searched #queensferry #police.

He turned to her. ‘I was flyering up The Loan when three cop cars went bombing past, sirens and lights on. By the time I got to Kirkliston Road one of them was parked across Viewforth Place blocking the street. I spoke to the officer but he wouldn’t tell me anything, just that there was an incident and they’d cordoned off the area. So I went round the back way, but Loch Place and Lovers Lane were blocked too. That means about ten streets are closed. That’s some incident.’

He didn’t wait for a reaction from her, but turned back to the laptop, his conspiracy brain kicking in. Before the jump, Ben had not exactly been a passive acceptor of authority, but since Logan died he didn’t trust anything that anyone in power told him. Watching the news, he provided a running commentary on the lies they were being told and why it was exactly what they wanted you to think, how big corporations or government or the police were covering up dark secrets, misdirecting public attention, treating us like idiots. Ellie had some sympathy for the point of view but he’d gone too deep. You had to trust someone or something at some point, didn’t you, or else how do you go about living in a society? Of course, how you went about living was a question she hadn’t yet found her own answer to.

Ben pointed at the screen. ‘Look at this.’

He scrolled down through the feed. A handful of people had posted.

WTF I cannae get to my fkn house, cops have closed roads. #viewforthroad #queensferry

Some shit going down in Inchcolm Terrace, crawling with polis. #queensferry

#queensferry Counted 6 cop cars, a van and amblnc in Inchcholm Terr, number 25?

Holy fukk!!! Guys in they white forensic suits in garden of 23 Inchcolm Terrace #queensferry #CSIshit

Two filth at door just asked if I’d seen anything!! Fuck! #queensferry

‘What do you think?’ Ben said.

‘I have no idea,’ Ellie said.

Ben clicked Refresh again and again. One or two new posts appeared but no new info. Ellie thought about the people in white suits going over the garden, the house, the kitchen. Her fingerprints on the doorbell, the front door handle and the glass of the patio. She tried to remember if she’d touched anything else. What about the neighbours, had anyone seen her walking down the street earlier, going up the path, opening the front door? Or running out the back and over the fence? Had they seen Sam or Libby running from the house earlier? Was there CCTV around there, or neighbourhood watch? She thought of the footage of Logan on the bridge. She thought about being up there this morning with Sam, there would be footage of that too. We are always being watched.

The Twitter feed began to fill up with news flashes. Local STV and BBC services were reporting an incident, but they were an hour behind the action, as always. Then Ellie read something that made her fists tighten.

My m8’s dad is a cop, says another cop’s been stabbed in his house on Inchcolm T!! At hospital now, could die. #copkiller #queensferry

Cop killer. This was instantly picked up by other tweeters, the network going at it.

Polis stabbed at home in #queensferry. His kids missing apparently. Revenge by a crim?! Cop into dodgy shit? Domestic? Shitting hell.

The speed of it all terrified her.

Ben was on Refresh.

Refresh, refresh, refresh.

More opinions, more facts, more bullshit and nonsense, teeming into the ether like an airborne virus it was impossible to escape.

She turned away from the laptop and went to the window, looked out at the Forth. The sea was a constant. Changing all the time, yes, but somehow also reliable. It took her son and it would take others too. If sea levels rose, this house would be one of the first to go, submerged beneath all that implacable calm. She pictured water pouring in through the doors and windows of her home, imagined being swept up in it, the taste of salt on her lips as she swallowed it down. Maybe a handful of molecules from Logan’s ashes slipping down her throat.

The sea had almost taken Sam this morning but Ellie had stopped it, she challenged the water and won. She was scratching at her most recent tattoo. She pushed her sleeve up and looked at the patch of red skin. Maybe it would never heal, maybe it would stay raw and bloody forever.

‘What do you think?’ Ben said.

She clenched her teeth and turned away from the bridges.

‘About what?’ she said.

He pointed at the laptop. ‘All this.’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t think anything.’

She heard something, a movement upstairs maybe. She went over to the kettle and switched it on to cover the noise, glanced up at the ceiling once Ben had turned back to the screen.

The air filled with the hiss and rumble of water boiling. She went over to the washing machine. The load from earlier had finished, Sam’s jeans and pants inside. She could see them bunched in the bottom of the half-empty drum. She wondered about forensics and evidence. She found herself reaching over to push the door button on the washing machine, force of habit, not wanting to leave the sodden clothes in there to go mouldy. She pulled her hand away from the button and turned.

She should go to the police station round the corner and give Sam up, that was the right thing to do. Then again. She tried to work out the different paths the future could take, depending on what she did right now. The multiverse theory. But there were too many variables, too many potential futures, she couldn’t get her head round it. She just needed everything to settle down, needed time and space to think it all through, then she could be sure about making the correct decision.

Meantime she had to keep it a secret, even from Ben. Before Logan died she could never have imagined keeping secrets from her husband, they were such a tight unit, best friends as much as lovers. Their relationship didn’t feel like either of those things now. She didn’t want to keep this a secret from him but the truth was that it would be easy. Their lines of communication had been eroded so much it made her want to weep right here in her kitchen, in the house they shared. But mostly, right now, she wanted him out the house so that she could deal with everything at her own pace.

Ben shook his head. ‘Mental.’ Refresh, refresh. ‘Doesn’t look as if there’s much new info coming out.’ He straightened up.

‘Why did you come back?’ Ellie said.

‘What?’

She pointed at the laptop. ‘Couldn’t you have checked all that on your phone?’

‘I needed to get more of these.’ He pointed at the pile of flyers on the far corner of the table. ‘I ran out quicker than I thought. Still got a fair bit of leafleting to do.’

The kettle had boiled.

‘Don’t you want to stay for a cuppa?’

He looked at her. ‘I can’t believe you’re not more interested in this thing up at Inchcolm Terrace.’

She shook her head. ‘We don’t know any of the facts. I prefer to wait until I know what’s happened before I get outraged about anything.’

‘But someone’s been stabbed, ten minutes up the road,’ he said. ‘A cop, that’s crazy.’

She slung a green teabag into a mug, poured in the water, felt the steam swirl around her face.

‘Maybe,’ she said.

‘Don’t you want to know what happened, the details?’

She shook her head as she dipped the teabag in and out of the mug. ‘Dwelling on the details doesn’t make any difference to the truth, does it?’

She felt him looking at her as she kept her head down. It made her uneasy, and she couldn’t believe that being watched by her husband, the man who was supposed to be the love of her life, made her feel like that.

‘You’re talking about Logan now,’ Ben said.

She sighed as she carried the teabag to the bin, her other hand under the spoon to stop drips on the tiles.

‘I’m always talking about Logan, Ben. Everything is always about Logan, you know that. You know what it’s like. It’s always there, in every single word that comes out of our mouths.’

He came towards her and she felt the muscles in her neck and back tighten as he stroked her arm. His hand was right where the new tattoo was. She wondered if that was deliberate, if he was trying to hurt her. No, just an accident, his touch was meant to be supportive. He was rubbing at the ink under the surface of her skin, and she felt like she deserved the discomfort. She flinched but didn’t move away.

‘I know what you mean,’ he said. ‘It’s just . . .’

He squeezed her shoulder, more pain under her clothes, then he placed his lips against her temple, kept them there for a second. For a moment his bulk was reassuring, the smell of him, and she felt a remnant of the gravitational pull that used to draw her to him.

He pushed himself away, checked Twitter one last time then closed the laptop. Picked up the flyers from the table and put them in his bag.

‘I’d better get going,’ he said.

She stirred her tea. ‘OK.’

He hesitated a moment, silence between them, then left.

9

Sam stood at Logan’s window staring at the road bridge. Ellie watched him. He hadn’t turned when she opened the door, as if he was transfixed by the view. She imagined Logan standing on the same spot, gazing out to sea. Was that all it was, proximity? Had Logan killed himself because he saw that damn bridge every day when he opened his curtains? Maybe he wasn’t any more depressed or angry or suicidal than any other teenager, it’s just that he had the idea implanted in his head by that metal-and-concrete monstrosity looming over his life. There were increased suicide rates near high buildings and bridges. Many more suicides in countries where guns were easily available. And there were clusters, Ben was correct, but Ellie knew in her heart that was just down to human nature. Not exactly peer pressure, kids weren’t egging each other on to do it. It’s just that once you saw it was possible, a viable alternative to living, that really opened your eyes. She knew that from her own experience. Since Logan, she’d thought about following him into the water every day. The truth was she didn’t have the nerve.

Sam turned. He had tears in his eyes. ‘I can’t believe we were up there. It seems like a dream or something. A nightmare. This whole thing is a nightmare.’

Ellie went over to him. ‘I know.’

She looked at the stubble on his chin. He was definitely older than Logan, whose facial hair had been wispy fluff. Sam’s was more like Ben’s, but many years away from going grey.

Sam wiped at his nose with his sleeve and she wanted to tell him to use a tissue. All those years of motherhood ingrained in her now, impossible to shake off. Not that she wanted to shake it off, once she was no longer a mother, she was nothing.

She put an arm round him but he pulled away. Already she longed for the closeness they’d had earlier, when she’d helped him back to the house. That was real mothering, like looking after a toddler whose every need is your responsibility. She craved that burden on her shoulders.

He had his phone out his pocket.

‘I need to find Libby,’ he said.

‘I’ll help you,’ Ellie said. ‘But you can’t go out looking for her just now. The police are everywhere.’

He stared at her, doubtful. She needed to be an authority, needed to control this situation before it got away from her, like everything else.

‘And you can’t stay here either,’ she said. ‘Ben will be back soon.’

He glanced out the window. ‘Maybe I should go to the police.’

She reached out and touched his chin, moved his head until he was facing her.

‘No,’ she said, her voice steady. ‘You want to protect your sister, don’t you?’

He nodded.

‘Think about it,’ Ellie said. ‘What you did was attempted murder. You’re old enough to go to prison, then who would look after Libby?’

He was shaking with sobs. She stroked his face.

‘Shhh, it’s fine, I keep telling you I’ll take care of everything.’

His breathing calmed and he nodded.

She had the urge to say ‘good boy’, as if he was a three-year-old who’d eaten his broccoli, but she held back. Her hand was still on his cheek, wet now with tears. She took it away and sucked at her finger, the saltiness that had been part of his body until a moment ago now inside her, part of her.

‘The first thing you need to do is get out of that T-shirt and hoodie,’ she said.

He frowned.

‘The blood?’

A look of realisation on his face. Had he really forgotten he was walking around with his father’s blood on his clothes?

She began undoing the zip on his hoodie but he put his hand on hers.

‘It’s only on the T-shirt.’

Ellie shook her head. ‘It could’ve transferred. Better take both off to be sure.’

She turned to Logan’s drawers. Opened the top one, full of the stuff he preferred to wear. She thought about what had been biggest on him, oversized, so that it might fit Sam better. There was a baggy red Superdry top, but red was stupid, too easily spotted and remembered, better to have something dark and anonymous. No brand names or logos either. There was no chance of that though, not in a teenage boy’s wardrobe. The best she could find was a black Adidas hoodie, the three white stripes small on the chest. She pulled a T-shirt out of the drawer, a plain green thing that Logan had got from French Connection, way overpriced, she remembered, the stitching flimsy along the seams.

When she turned round Sam was naked from the waist up, holding his T-shirt and hoodie scrunched up in his fists. Good muscle definition, flat stomach, hairless chest. Definitely a couple of years older than Logan, closer to being a man.

She handed him the clean clothes and took the bloody ones from him. Watched as he pulled the clothes on then checked his phone again.

He was now dressed entirely in Logan’s clothes. Ellie closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them and sighed. She looked down at the stained bundle in her hand. This was bad, all of it, but she was still in control. That’s what she told herself, she was still in control of this situation.