Made To Be Broken (2 page)

Ross Leavy sat at his desk, staring at the blinking cursor as though it would hold the answer. It was the day from hell, going to the inquest, dredging it all up again, but having it pulled out into the open, pored over and studied like a specimen, didn’t feel right. It had unsettled him – and now he was back here in front of a screen again.

He hated this part of the job with a passion. The endless amount of sitting about and typing. Typing for the sake of fucking typing half the time. The phrase dotting i’s and crossing t’s annoyed the hell out of him. He wanted to police. Catch the bad guys. Not sit on his arse and do nothing. The red tape was bureaucracy gone mad. Court cases were nothing but a game to the playing barristers and everyone else was just a pawn waiting to see if they could make it to the other side or if they would be taken off the board. He was sick of it. The cursor blinked some more. Ross looked back. At the night he picked up that job. The night he became the OIC, Officer In Case, for a Category C murder.

He’d walked up to the small two-up two-down semi on The Markhams, in Ollerton. Martin by his side. One patrol car parked on the road. An old-timer cop stood on the pavement waiting to update them and a cop he recognised as a probationer because of his collar number, stood at the doorway looking green under the sodium street lights that had only just come on. His back ramrod straight and his fists clenched tightly at his sides. His whole body; tense and rigid. His throat swallowing hard. This must have been his first murder. Maybe even his first dead body.

Steve Lynde, the old timer, approached them. ‘Husband and wife, no kids. Wife is on the kitchen floor; bloodied stomach and chest with a couple of wounds visible. Husband was still stood over her with the knife in his hand when we turned up. Just stood there. Looking down at her.’ He rubbed his wide forehead. ‘Strangest thing.’ He looked at Martin, the older of the two detectives. ‘He stayed looking down for a few seconds while we shouted at him to put the knife down, then handed us the knife and continued looking at her. We called for another car and arrested him. He didn’t say a word. Just kept looking at her. He’s down at the Bridewell custody suite now. Newark custody block is closed. Apparently they have a lack of custody sergeants so it’s down to the city. Better for you guys I suppose. It’s a bit of trek up here for you. Get a nose bleed on the way up did you?’ It was the usual joke when you went further north in the county. It seemed Lynde just didn’t want to stop talking.

Martin thanked him. Always polite. Ross blanked him.

Her knees were bent underneath her where she fell, blood congealed in her hair from an open wound on her temple. It glistened, reflecting in the two strip lights overhead. Her head close to the set of drawers, each with its own square metal handle. Below her head were a couple of darkening red patches on shredded clothing and blood around her pooling on black and white kitchen tiles.

Ross stared at the screen, thinking about that night. All that blood. The knife wounds.

The cursor blinked back at him.

Ross walked out of the house. He needed to wait for the CSIs to do their stuff. The woman’s blood red blinding him as he walked. She had a familiarity about her. Her colouring. Her build. Ross suddenly felt unsteady and he knocked into the hallway table, which was covered in mail, leaflets for county days out, a pen pot. Blinded by the blood.

He knew where the familiarity came from.

Martin pulled him by his elbow as he exited the door. ‘What the hell, Ross?’

Ross blinked.

‘No Tyvek suit?’ he clarified.

‘Shit. Sorry Martin. I didn’t touch anything. It’s just as Lynde said. Looks straightforward. Wait for the CSIs, interview the guy at the Bridewell and go from there.’

Martin didn’t answer. He waited a beat. The air cool and darkness starting to fall. Lights being switched on down the street as people settled in for a night in front of the TV. Life.

‘I know.’ Ross ran his hand through his already tousled hair. ‘Mate. I know. I wasn’t thinking. I’m distracted. You know that.’

‘Talk to me is all. We’re all feeling it. But we still have to do the job. Bottling it up won’t help her, you or anyone else we deal with. I’m here.’ Another look. ‘Okay?’

‘Yeah. Okay. The scene is intact. CSIs will show that. I’ll do better. I’d appreciate if the boss isn’t made aware.’

Bill’s restaurant on Queen’s Street used to be a bank; it had high ceilings and was just beautiful. One of my favourite places to eat and I needed something substantial inside me after the day I’d had.

We sat on the mezzanine, the table between us, our silence speaking volumes. Telling more than our words would ever say. I sipped on the wine I’d ordered and observed him over the top of my glass. Ethan hadn’t changed. He was looking after himself. He was obviously still using the gym, his clothes fitted well and he took care of himself in a relaxed,
I’m-not-really-trying
kind of way. He smiled.

‘What?’

‘You think I can’t see you because you’re drinking?’

‘Okay.’ I put my drink down.

‘How are you? I was surprised to hear from you.’

‘You did text me.’

‘I texted you many times. And called you. It never stopped you from ignoring them. Why now, Hannah?’

I looked around the restaurant. A couple of women opposite us were leaning over the table peering into a mobile phone and laughing at whatever it was they were seeing. An easy evening out for them.

I sighed. ‘It was a tough day. You texted me. I thought you might want to eat.’ And at that point the waitress arrived with our meals. I leaned away from the table and let her place our food down before speaking again. ‘Was I wrong to call you?’

‘I text you because I care. I cared back then, Han.’ He rubbed his hands over his face and silence enveloped us again. I looked down at my plate. The food looked good. Grilled seabass fillets, avocado and caper salsa with pan-fried potato rösti. I picked up my fork and started picking at it.

I let the silence lay while I ate, until he asked again, ‘So?’

‘What?’

‘How are you?’

‘I’m tired, Ethan. I’m tired of everyone looking for someone to blame when I know where it lies.’

‘Where’s that?’ His fork went up to his mouth.

‘Squarely with me.’

‘And that’s why we imploded.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Look at yourself, Han; you can’t take the blame for everything. The world doesn’t revolve around you. Other people were involved back then, they took actions and their actions have consequences.’

‘Yes, my inactions had consequences as well.’

‘For fuck’s sake.’ His voice raised and a couple of heads turned our way. He put his fork down and lowered his voice. ‘You need to look in the mirror and take some responsibility for yourself, Hannah, regardless of what others are doing. You will be so much happier if you can live your own life before you try and mend everyone else’s.’

‘But—’

‘No buts, mend yourself. Before you destroy yourself.’ He looked me in the eyes and smiled, a smile I knew so well. He was making me angry but at the same time I wanted to talk some more, to figure this out with him.

‘So what now?’ I asked.

‘That’s up to you.’

‘My place? We can talk about it. I can tell you how far wide of the mark you are.’

A strange look crossed his face. My stomach twisted.

‘Hannah, it’s been six months. I want to see you happy. To heal and move forward … but what did you think I’d been doing in that time?’

Lianne steadied herself against the kitchen worktop, the feeling of unsteadiness taking her off guard. She didn’t need this today. She had to take Megan to dance practice and that useless ex-husband of hers wouldn’t lift a finger to help. Since the divorce he had become even more of a bastard than before. His parental duties came below work, drinking, and the golf course. Megan handled it well for a six-year-old. She was a calm and patient child. 

Nausea swept over her again and the motion of the solid kitchen floor buoyed again. Her fingers whitened as she held her grip. Where was Megan? She tried to recall. She didn’t want her daughter to see her this way. Recent moments filtered through her mind. Snapshots. Bags of shopping. That was this morning. She looked at the clock. But it was nearly 12.30 in the afternoon. What had happened? Where was Megan?

‘Meg?’ Her voice didn’t sound right. It was weak and slurred. What had happened? She looked down at herself, palms pushing on the edge of the worktop, arms outstretched, elbows locked.

Faded blue jeans and grey T-shirt, just as she remembered dressing in this morning. Flat-heeled ballerina style pumps scuffed around the toes. Her right elbow unlocked, her arm sagged and she slipped sideways. Her body slammed down hard onto the counter top, fingers scratching at the shiny laminate in an attempt to regain her balance. She felt the rolled edge of the worktop dig hard into her ribs and she yelped, trying to keep the sound low as it escaped. She didn’t yet know where Megan was and she didn’t want to scare her. As she rested on the worktop, a wave of nausea hit, she had no choice but to fall to her knees, lean forward and retch hard. With her palms open either side of her on the cool floor, back arched, a low moan escaped as the yellow contents of her stomach, watery and sour, flooded on to the white gloss tiles. Her hair hanging down the sides of her face caught up some of the splatter and the stench clung to the insides of her nose. She heaved again, her face contorting in pain, each spasm of her body bringing her face unbearably close to the floor. Lianne didn’t understand what was happening.

She knew she had been unconscious where she fell. She could feel sticky wet fluid under her cheek, chest and hands. She moved a couple of fingers and disturbing the rank yellow stomach contents, felt a heady rush as the acidity hit her brain. She pushed at her eyelids, but they didn’t seem to be working. She had no idea how long she had been on the floor. It was still light, but the days were long now so daylight gave little indication. She felt weak. There was no fight in her.

Suddenly she stopped worrying about the situation as her body went into convulsions. Her arms and legs thrashed out independently and her right ankle slammed hard into the leg of the breakfast bar chair, bringing it down on top of her as her body heaved back and forth. The chrome back of the chair landed on Lianne’s head, causing her face to smash into the tiles, bright red blood from her nose and mouth and cuts on her face mingling in with the yellow of the vomit. The chair bounced wildly, her leg hooked through the spindle that crossed between two of its legs. With each convulsion the chair came down on the backs of her legs, lower back and head. Bruising and swelling appeared rapidly. Lianne stayed in this freakishly odd dance on the floor for several minutes before it ebbed away; the energy of her body slipping from her and leaving her helpless and broken. Only ten minutes later, she slipped into a coma.

2000

‘Stay in bed, Daddy,’ she’d said in her soft lilting four-year-old voice as she jumped up and down on her toes at the side of him, tugging at Connie’s hand as she did so. Connie was smiling, her eyes shining brightly at her daughter.

‘It looks like I have to get up,’ she said, ‘and you have to stay where you are,’ she winked at him.

‘Come on, Mummy!’ Emma tugged harder on Connie’s hand.

‘Okay. Okay.’ Connie pushed the bedclothes to the side, got out of bed and walked out of the bedroom with Emma leading the way, leaving Isaac in bed with a feeling of warmth, love and total contentment. He lay back on the pillows and let out a deep sigh relaxing in the early June morning sunlight that was filtering through the curtains. He wasn’t sure how long he’d lain there before he heard Emma’s voice again, this time behind the door, whispering.

‘I can carry it, Mummy. I’m a big girl now.’ Connie murmured something and then Emma again, ‘I can!’

The door was pushed open a little bit further and Emma very slowly and very carefully made her way into the bedroom with a tray in her hands, balanced on which was a plate of toast, a glass of orange, a card and a box in wrapping paper. Isaac pushed himself up in the bed until he was sat upright and could see her properly. Her steps were slow and tentative but her smile was as bright as a lighthouse shining to ships in the night. Eventually she made it to the bed and Isaac took the tray from her.

‘Happy Father’s Day, Daddy.’ She couldn’t stop beaming and it was contagious, Connie stood behind her glowing and he could feel his heart bursting with pride as his face mirrored hers. He put the tray on his bedside table, then scooped her up onto the bed where she wrapped her short arms around his neck.

‘Thank you, sweetie. This looks delicious.’

She pulled away from him and put on her most serious face. ‘Daddy you haven’t opened your card or present yet.’

He looked at her seriousness and tried to straighten his own face a little to match. ‘No, you’re right I haven’t. I’ll do that right now.’ He picked up the gift-wrapped box and looked at Connie who was now on the edge of the bed watching them both, a gentle smile on her face. How he adored this woman.

Emma was bouncing up and down on her knees with excitement. He took the wrapping paper off, opened the box and pulled out the mug – W
orld’s Best
Dad
.
‘Oh honey, this is just brilliant. My own mug to drink my coffee from. Thank you.’ He gave another hug as she bounced with excitement.

‘Now your card, Daddy.’

He put the mug on the bedside table and opened the card. Now he could see why she was so excited. He looked at Connie who was smiling widely then at Em, who could barely contain herself. Inside the card, for the very first time in her own handwriting, Em had written –
love from Emma X
.