Текст книги "The Surrogate"

Автор книги: Tania Carver

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

30

Marina stood at the window, glass of sparkling apple juice in hand, wishing it was something stronger. In front of her was a path, and beyond that the River Colne moved slowly past. Her house, a painted brick cottage with clematis climbing round the porch, was on the front at Wivenhoe, a quaint old fishing village now colonised primarily by academics working at the nearby university. The whole village had a relaxed, cultured ambience. A homely, safe place. But, putting the glass to her lips, Marina was feeling neither of those things.

Tony was cooking a late dinner. Nothing special, pasta arrabiata. It should have been Marina’s turn but he had taken one look at her as she entered and, handing her a glass of juice and kissing her forehead, declared he would do it. She had made a half-hearted attempt to refuse.

‘No,’ he had said, fussing around her, his reading glasses still perched on the end of his nose, ‘my last seminar finished at five, and since then I’ve done nothing but read and drink wine, so . . .’ He sat her down in an armchair as if she was an invalid and handed her a newspaper, then, pleased with himself for being so solicitous, retreated into the kitchen. She had smiled at him, accepted it. He was good to her, she told herself.

She had looked round the living room of their cottage, filled as it was with books, interesting one-off pieces of furniture, subdued lighting, unexpected pictures, plants and wall hangings. They had done that to show visitors and themselves that they were interesting people leading a full, rich life. The opposite of the house she had grown up in. But crossing to the window and looking out at the slow-moving, sluggish, dark river, Marina felt as if it all belonged to someone else and not her.

Music wafted from the kitchen – some chilled Brazilian beats Tony had picked up somewhere – along with delicious cooking odours that any other night would have had her stomach rumbling in anticipation. But not tonight. She took a sip of her drink, grimaced, disappointed in herself that she had expected something that wasn’t there.

She saw Claire Fielding’s dead body. Julie Simpson’s too. The other two women. Phil had been right about the murder scene. It felt like they shouldn’t have been there. Like life had passed on.

Phil. She had planned what she was going to say to him the next time she saw him. Several times. But as the weeks had passed and life had ground on without him, she had resigned herself to never seeing him again. And perhaps, she had thought, that was for the best. She was back with Tony, pregnant, with a fledgling private practice. Her life had moved on. Or at least back. Back into her safety zone.

But here they were, together again. And she hadn’t been able to say anything to him. Because every time she thought of him, she saw Martin Fletcher’s face. The locked door. She felt the cold fear bubble and boil inside her once more, and then she thought of Phil. And it all rendered her speechless.

She hadn’t realised how much of a rut she had fallen into before the police called her in on the Gemma Hardy case. Routine had turned to drudgery without her noticing. Her safe job, her pension. And Tony, her safe man.

But then she hadn’t wanted an exciting man. Before she met Tony she had been attracted to the kinds of men who reminded her of her father. She knew it was wrong, not to mention unhealthy, but nevertheless she kept going back, kept seeking them out. Until one day she had looked in the mirror and seriously questioned what she was doing. And found that she couldn’t do it any more.

Tony had been there. A good man, solid, dependable. Thoughtful, pleasant, companionable. Old enough to be her father, but his diametric opposite in every other respect. He didn’t thrill her or excite her, but he made her feel comfortable. Safe. He was kind to her. And those, she told herself, were admirable qualities. He asked her out, she accepted. And that was that. He wanted her to move in with him, out of her town-centre flat, into his cottage in Wivenhoe. She had done so. And felt comfortable. Content. Or so she thought.

By the time of the Gemma Hardy case she was ready for a new challenge. And she got one. It taxed her, stretched her. Being forced to turn something she only dealt with theoretically into a practical application, with a young woman’s life potentially at stake, terrified her. But it also pushed her, confronted her. And when she helped provide the team with a positive result, it gave her a thrill teaching never had. Never could.

Not only that, but she met Phil.

She knew as soon as she saw him. There was something about him, an immediate connection. At first she tried to deny it, claim it was a symptom of the case she was working on, confusing adrenalin and lust for something stronger and more profound, but the more time she spent with him, talked to him, the more she became convinced she was right and they connected on a much deeper level. A soul deep level. She recognised something in him. Something she had never encountered in anyone else in quite the same way. Something she had only ever seen in herself. She knew that if there was a man who could understand her – totally – it was him.

So when he asked her out, she couldn’t say no. Despite having Tony. She slept with Phil. Repeatedly. And surprised herself: rather than feeling guilty about betraying Tony, she began to feel increasingly that her future lay with Phil.

And then came Martin Fletcher.

The Gemma Hardy case was finished. Martin Fletcher had been caught, the team had celebrated. Marina included. Her first foray into police work had been a resounding success. She had put her name forward for more. Everything was looking good for her.

She had gone back to university after the case had concluded, and was in her office one evening, straightening out some of the paperwork that had accrued in her absence. She was meeting Phil later, happy to work until that time. He had arranged to pick her up from her office, said he wanted to see where she worked. She was pleased about that, looking forward to showing the place off to him. No qualms about being seen on campus with another man, because she had decided to tell Tony it was all over. Consequently, her mobile was switched off in case he phoned her.

There was a knock on the door. Hesitant at first, then more self-assured. She shouted for the person to come in. He did. As she looked up, her heart seemed to stop. Her pen fell from her grasp. Martin Fletcher was standing in her office.

‘What . . . what d’you want?’

He gazed around, as if searching for the answer to the question on the shelves of her office. Then looked directly at her.

‘You,’ he said. ‘You.’

Marina was terrified. She glanced to the door, calculated the distance, the obstacles in her way. Fletcher must have had the same idea. He turned, and before she could even rise from her chair, he had locked it and put his back against it.

‘Don’t scream,’ he said, menace in his voice. ‘Don’t.’

She swallowed. It felt like there was a stone in her throat. ‘There’s someone . . . someone coming here in a minute. Very soon.’

‘No there’s not. They’ve all gone home.’

‘Yes, yes there is.’ She was breathing so hard, her heart felt like it was going to burst. ‘Phil . . . Phil Brennan. Detective Inspector. He’s meeting me here.’

A wave of fear passed across Fletcher’s features at the mention of the police. Despite being terrified, Marina was thinking like a psychologist. He’s scared of the police but not of me. He’s angry but can’t take it out on them, so I’m the target. The thought was less than comforting.

‘What are you doing out?’ she asked. ‘I thought you were on remand.’

He smiled then. It was eerie, like he was listening to a joke told by a ghost on a distant radio. ‘They let me go. On bail. Technicality.’ Then the anger returned. ‘You.You ruined my life.’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Yes you did.’ He was starting to get angry now. He moved away from the door, started coming towards her. ‘You took away my life. Turned Gemma against me.You did that.’

Marina looked round for a weapon, something she could use. Could see nothing. Phil, she thought, hurry up . . .

She had to keep him talking, try to reason with him. ‘No, Martin, you’re wrong. I didn’t ruin your life.’

‘Yes you did!’

She flinched at his anger. Forced herself to keep calm. Breathed deeply. ‘No. No I didn’t. And Gemma was never your girlfriend. That was Louisa, Gemma’s flatmate.’

‘No . . .’ He put his hands to his head, started hitting his temples. ‘No, no . . .’

‘Yes she was, Martin. Louisa was your girlfriend. Not Gemma.’

‘No, no . . .’

‘Gemma was her friend. But not your girlfriend. Let it go, Martin, you’ve got to let it go . . .’

His next words were inaudible, just a shriek of pain as he kept hitting himself, eyes tight shut, seemingly trying to knock her words out of his head.

Marina looked round once again for a weapon, anything. There was no time to turn her mobile on. She saw the phone on the table. If she could get to that, quickly make a call . . .

She looked at Martin Fletcher, eyes closed, still hitting himself, then back to the phone. She could do it. Just reach out, grab it . . .

As her hand wrapped round the receiver, he opened his eyes and, with a scream, lunged forward. She tried to punch in the numbers but he was on her, his hand over hers, pulling the receiver from her, wrenching the phone from the wall, flinging it on the floor.

‘Bitch! You’re going to pay . . .’

She made a lunge for the door, knowing that she probably wouldn’t reach it. She was right. He was on her straight away, pulling her back by her hair. She put her hands up to her head, tried to prise his fingers away, but to no avail. He flung her to the floor. She felt hair being pulled out by the roots, thought parts of her scalp could have gone too.

She landed hard and curled up into a ball, instinctively trying to protect herself while she got her breath back. She knew blows were coming and closed her eyes, placed her hands over her head and face.

‘Please, don’t hurt me . . . don’t hurt me . . .’

He knelt on her, his weight pushing her down, making it hard for her to catch her breath, clamped a hand roughly over her mouth. ‘Shut up. Don’t say anything. Don’t scream, don’t . . . just don’t . . .’

She kept her eyes screwed tightly shut. Said the same words over and over again like a prayer, a mantra: Phil will be here soon, Phil will be here soon . . .

Then the slapping started. More startling than painful. She felt him attacking her around her face. She quickly moved her hands to ward off the stinging blows.

‘Bitch . . . bitch . . .’

He was using the words to build himself up. The slaps were getting harder, more forceful. Then she felt a punch to her chest. She grunted. That hurt. Then another one. Then another.

She had to do something, try to stop him before he lost control completely.

She opened her eyes, squinting at the expected blow. She looked up, saw Fletcher, his face twisted ugly with anger and hatred, his eyes almost closed. She glanced to the side. Saw the phone lying there. That would have to do.

She could move her left arm; he didn’t have any weight on that. Good. She snaked it out, groped for the phone. Found it. Flinching from the slaps and punches, she gripped it, hefted it in her hand and brought her arm round as fast and as hard as she could.

The phone connected with the side of Martin Fletcher’s head.

Not trusting to luck, she did it again.

He opened his eyes, looked at her. The anger had gone, replaced by shock. She didn’t have time to think about his reaction now; she just had to capitalise on it. So for a third time, roaring as she did so, she hefted the phone, putting all her strength behind it, feeling it crunch once more against the side of his head.

Martin Fletcher sat back, stunned. Marina used his confusion to wriggle her body free of his. She dashed to the door, tried to undo the lock, but her hands were shaking so much she couldn’t get a grip on it. Instead she started banging.

‘Help! Help me! Somebody help me! Help!’

‘No . . . don’t . . . don’t do that . . . please . . .’ Martin Fletcher’s voice was small and fragile. He stayed where he was on the floor, rubbing his head where the phone had connected, from where blood was beginning to trickle.

Marina ignored him, kept shouting.

‘No, please don’t . . .’

His anger was completely gone now; just that tremulous, fearful voice in its place. She turned to him, the psychologist in her ascendant once more.

‘Your power’s gone, Martin. I’m not scared of you any more . . .’

He shuffled away from her, squashed himself into the corner of the room. Covered his head with his hands.

Then came the sound of banging on the door.

‘Phil!’ Marina shouted. ‘I’m in here!’

There was more than one voice, muffled by the heavy wood. Marina took strength from the voices, managed to turn the lock. The door opened. There were two overseas students standing there, along with a maintenance worker. But no Phil.

She turned back to Martin Fletcher. He had stood up and was trying to get out of the window.

She rushed forward but he shouted, stopping her.

‘Stay back or I’ll jump!’

She stayed where she was. ‘Come on, Martin, don’t be stupid. You’ll break your neck if you jump from here. Kill yourself.’

‘I shouldn’t have come here . . .’ Martin Fletcher was crying. ‘It’s my fault. All my fault. I shouldn’t have come here . . .’

‘It’s not that bad, Martin, come on. Let’s talk about it . . .’ She tried to edge closer to him.

He moved further out on to the ledge. ‘I said stay back!’

Marina stayed where she was.

‘There’s nothing for me. Not now. Just prison, with the nonces and the paedos . . .’

‘Martin . . .’

‘Tell Gemma, tell Gemma . . . I loved her . . .’

‘Martin, no!’

But her words fell on empty air. He had jumped.

‘Be about another five minutes.’

Tony’s words called Marina back to the present. She gave a grunted reply, took another drink.

And that had been that. Martin Fletcher had jumped, killing himself in the process. And Phil hadn’t been there to help her. To save her. He had tried to contact her afterwards, when he had heard what happened. But she wouldn’t take his calls. She also discovered that he had tried to contact her when her phone was switched off. He’d wanted to tell her that at best he would be late, and at worst he wouldn’t be able to make it. There had been a murder and he had been called out to attend.

That didn’t make it better. None of it made it better. She had needed him to be there for her and he had failed. That was all there was to it.

She couldn’t help feeling like that. It was the Italian in her, and she couldn’t escape her ancestry. If a man said he would be there, he would be there. No question, no argument. And if he didn’t, if he let her down, then she had every right to be mad at him.

For over a week she awoke screaming during the night, Martin Fletcher’s face the final thing she would see before waking. Tony had been there for her every time. Safe, dependable Tony. A good man who looked after her when she needed it.

But she couldn’t face the university again. Not after what had happened. So she had left and set up on her own.

Then she discovered she was pregnant. Tony was fine about it. Happy, even. She might have thought that the pram in the hall meant the death of romance, but Tony had never been the most romantic of people to begin with. It didn’t even mean the death of his personal freedom, because he never went anywhere.

He was the one who insisted she drank only soft drinks. He had even talked about redecorating the upstairs study for the baby, suggested colour schemes, murals. He had gone so far as to pick up a Mothercare catalogue and ask her opinion of baby buggies. He was enjoying her new pregnancy and she wished she could join him. As it was it just scared her, sometimes even depressed her.

She did see Phil once more. He was waiting for her when she came out of work on one of her final days at the university. She saw him loitering behind a pillar and immediately turned the other way. He chased after her.

‘Please, Marina, please . . .’

She hurried away from him.

‘Please . . .’

She just kept walking, didn’t even acknowledge him. Eventually he realised that his words were having no impact and that she wasn’t going to slow down. He stopped, let her walk away. Out of his life.

She turned another corner, found herself in part of the campus that was almost deserted. She flattened herself against the rough concrete wall and cried her heart out.

Eventually she returned home. Tony had been watching Question Time on TV. She had walked past him, straight up the stairs, and gone to bed. And that was the end of Phil.

Until Ben Fenwick’s call.

She looked out of the window once more.

‘I’m dishing up,’ Tony called from the kitchen.

Marina called back that that would be fine. She looked again at the slow-moving river. She thought of the dead women, the missing baby. And Phil. She tried to keep him out of her mind, but there he was. His eyes staring into hers.

‘Have I got time for a shower?’ she said.

‘Well it’s ready now . . .’ Tony came into the living room, glanced at her. Saw how tired and careworn she looked. Smiled. ‘Go on. Get your shower. I’ll keep it warm.’

She managed to return the smile, then made her way up the stairs.

Trying to ignore the conflicting emotions running through her.

Her arm across her stomach all the time.

31

H e held the hen down forcibly on the square block of wood. Its eyes were wide and staring. Its beak was open but it was too terrified to make any sound. It couldn’t call for help or raise an alarm. It just lay there, a heavy hand, callused, rough and dirty, not allowing it to move.

Cross-hatched with blade indentations, the wood was ingrained and stained from dried blood and matter that had seeped into it through years of use.

The hen looked up, made one last attempt to escape and then gave up, mutely accepting its fate. The blade of the axe arced through the cold morning air. Landed with a thud in the wood, slicing through bone, feathers, flesh and skin. Blood spurted upwards and outwards, a gory ejaculation. The hen’s head lay there, staring sightlessly upwards. Its body twitched and jerked like a carnival sideshow geek, held firmly in place by the hand until its gyrations and spasms came to a halt.

He wiped his hands down the sides of his long overcoat. Left long streaks of blood and gore, dark against the dark material. Glistening. Soon the marks would sink into the fabric. Join the other old stains that made up the texture of the coat.

He straightened up, looked round.The house was on the edge of the river, just up from the muddy sands. The river moved slowly towards the sea, flat and oily in the weak early-morning light.The surrounding area was flat and bleak, the marshland stretching to the sands, away to the river, the sea. The trees bare and spindly, late autumn naked, like bone sculptures painted with dried, dark blood.

He put the axe down, closed his eyes.Things were different this morning. Because Hester was no longer a mother.

She had lain awake most of the night, staring at the baby. She found it fascinating. Its little chest moving up and down. Its fingers clasping and unclasping, grasping at invisible creatures. Angels or demons, Hester thought. Its face contorting, mouth twisting and chewing. It was like a little creature from a Disney cartoon. Not a real, dying baby, just a pretend special effect.

Gradually it weakened until it could move no more. Its breathing became so shallow it eventually stopped. Its face and hands stopped twisting. Still fascinated, Hester put her head on one side, leaned in close, tried to hear the last trail of air leave its body. Its final sigh. She missed it. But it changed nothing. The baby was dead.

It lay in the cot, still and lifeless. Like it needed its batteries replacing. Hester poked it, prodded it. It didn’t move. She prodded again, harder this time. It still didn’t move. She leaned in closer, used both hands this time. It rocked slightly but returned to its original position when she took her hands away.

So that was that. The baby was gone. Hester was no longer a mother.

She felt something then, an ache inside, like something had been taken from her and could never be replaced. That feeling sparked another one. An older but similar feeling of something being taken from her body. Cut from her. She had tried not to remember it, fought against it returning to mind. Failed. She had tried to keep it from her head for years because when it arrived it was so painful she couldn’t cope and it spun her into a deep depression that could last for days, weeks even. She would just mope around the house, get no work done, make no food, just cry for what she had lost. And there was no cure. She had to ride it out.

She fought against it again. Pushed her hands between her legs, clamped down hard with her thighs.

‘No . . . no . . . Don’t come back, it’s fine. It’s going to be fine . . .’

Rocking backwards and forwards in the bed while she did it.

It was no good. The memory, long suppressed, was already there. Once again she could feel the guilt lance through her, the hurt and humiliation. Crawling naked along the floor, blood and other bodily secretions oozing from her, those cruel, hateful words still ringing in her ears. And all that pain, working through her body, pounding in her head. More than one person could stand. Certainly more than the person she used to be could stand.

Once again she remembered how that hurt and humiliation had driven her to the kitchen. Told her to open the drawer. In her mind’s eye she could barely see what she was doing, tears had been streaming so hard down her face.

‘Stop it . . . stop it . . .’ Rocking in the bed, curled up in a foetal ball, hands still pushed firmly between her thighs. But sparked by the dead child lying next to her, those long-suppressed memories just kept coming. They wouldn’t stop.

‘Oh God . . . no . . .’

She was seeing her own hand once again open the drawer, reach for the knife . . .

‘No . . .’

She clamped down harder, screwed her eyes tight shut.

‘Make it stop . . . no . . . I don’t want to . . .’

Take the knife, place it against her skin . . . Feel how cold and sharp the blade was against the soft flesh of her lower stomach. Push – tentatively at first – to see what it felt like, to see if it was a pain she could stand . . .

No words now, just muffled, inarticulate sobs.

But what was one more kind of pain against the rest that were swirling around inside her? She pushed, harder again. Felt blood trickle down her skin from underneath the path of the blade. It tickled, felt like it was nothing at all. She couldn’t call it pain. Not really. Not compared to the rest of her.

She felt once again her hand grasping herself between the legs, pulling out the skin and gristle, stretching it out . . .

More sobs, more rocking, more shaking.

Pulling, stretching as far as it would go . . . willing this to be an end, hoping and praying that the pain would stop when she had done it . . .

Just get it over with . . .

And then, with the realisation that whatever she did couldn’t be worse than what she was at present, she took the knife in her other hand and brought the blade swiftly down.

It didn’t go as planned. It was harder than she had imagined, tougher to cut through. But she managed, sawing backwards and forwards. The pain was so much more intense than she had thought it would be. And the blood, so much blood . . .

She felt she might black out. But she didn’t, she couldn’t. Looking down, she saw the job half finished, that hateful piece of gristle hanging off her body, bloodied and mangled. With a surge of rage she plunged the blade in once again and, in a fresh bout of arterial spray, resumed cutting.

And then, eventually, it was off.

She held it in her hand, that offending piece of flesh now looking so small and harmless. Shrivelled and lifeless.

Hester had smiled then, out of relief or respite from the pain she couldn’t remember. But she knew she had smiled.

Before she collapsed.