Made To Be Broken (6 page)

2015

The day she came into the house to tell them was a day of sunshine and warmth.

It was wrong. A contradiction. There was no way the sun should have been shining, the flowers showing their faces upwards in joy or birds singing. The sky should have clouded over in the darkest cloud cover seen. As black as night and as thick as Beijing smog.

Connie was washing the dishes and he was at the dining table, the two of them making small talk. Connie was chattering about Beryl Kingston down the road who had just had her second hip replacement, a cup circling in her hands, soap suds exploding out of the inner cup as she cleaned, paying little attention. Isaac himself paid even less attention to Mrs Kingston’s medical issues, instead choosing to alternate between reading the sport’s pages and listening to his wife’s soft lilting tones rather than the actual words.

Then it happened.

Emma walked in. It was a Wednesday afternoon. She wasn’t expected. She should have been at work, at the chemist. But she walked in looking pallid and drawn. Her lips thin and as pale as her face. Her eyes blinking rapidly, her breath quick. Connie turned to see who the visitor was and as soon as she saw Em the cup that was still circling in her hands slipped. It bounced once on the edge of the sink, the handle splitting off before it dropped hard on the tiled floor, smashing in the otherwise now silent kitchen. Connie ignored the mess that was at her feet and in seconds crossed the space between herself and her only child, taking her up in her arms. At once Em broke down. Her handbag dropped to the floor, her arms circling her mother’s waist as great heaving sobs wracked her body. Connie’s arms had, like a reflex, wrapped themselves tightly around her daughter and dropped her face into her hair, one hand gently circling her back to let her know she was there and supported. There were no words uttered, yet the kitchen was filled with a sound that tore open Isaac’s soul. He faltered as he stood. She was his beautiful child, but now an adult crumbling in front of his eyes in her mother’s arms and he felt impotent. Helpless, his daughter breaking before his very eyes and he didn’t understand why. He knew not what he could offer. Knew not what he could do.

He knew he would do anything.

2015

They say the world stops spinning or time stands still when grief this profound hits you. Yet if his world did, stop spinning or stand still, then Em would have no future and he couldn’t recognise a world where she didn’t have a future. It just didn’t exist for him. She had the whole world at her feet so it had to be spinning, it had to keep going. She had plans. She wanted to finish university and train to be a barrister. And Em, Em bless her, he knew, she also wanted the family. Husband and 2.4 kids. She wanted the white picket fence, though she’d only ever seen those in American movies, she was a romantic at heart and thought she could have it all, if she worked hard enough. And she
had
been working hard enough.

They had been worried about her of late. She had looked peaky on recent visits but they put it down to studying hard, partying hard and working a part-time job in a chemist on top of that. They’d told her to take things easier. To get some rest. He’d bet his money Connie had told her to get a check-up at the doctors, although he would never have considered it. He knew students burned the candle at both ends. Though how he knew that was through watching movies and documentaries and none too flattering news items, as he’d never been inside a university until the day they started ‘shopping around’ for Em. He’d barely got through school but had managed to get an apprenticeship in one of the local factories in Stapleford. He’d put many good years into it. Times were hard on the businesses in the town and many closed. He’d watched and held his breath as factory after factory closed their doors but they’d been lucky and held on. He’d wanted a better life for Em and she’d gone off and started it. They visited three universities before she settled on Sheffield. It wasn’t too close, but neither was it too far away that she couldn’t come home and visit or get her washing done should she need to. They’d bought her an old run-around Fiesta to take with her so she could make the journey home when she needed to. Though they missed her, they received weekly email updates from her including photographs where she had any of interest to include. Or as he assumed, if there were any she was okay with her parents seeing. Law was a tough subject, so he knew she would be spending a sensible amount of time studying and not just drinking in the students’ bar.

Until now.

Finlay watched the brick houses pass. The shops. The takeaways and restaurants. All that made up his hometown of Beeston, with nothing but a barely perceptible interest as Imagine Dragons thumped a beat out into his ears. His slender fingers, nails bitten to the quick, tapping along in time on his rucksack on his lap. The seat beside him empty as it often was. People were nervous when it came to sitting next to him. Snap judgements were made in that split second it took to choose a seat on a bus, even that early time in a morning when they were heading into work and space was tight. They saw a lanky white youth with earrings you could actually see through, bigger than his earlobes and a piercing through his eyebrow and made a decision to not sit next to him. He always laughed to himself. It gave him room to himself and it made his mum howl. She thought they were ‘uneducated judgmental pricks’ – her words. And he loved her for it. She loved to rub his head and try for a cuddle as often as she could, even if it was in front of his mates, much to his embarrassment.

The thing was, he was nothing like the person others perceived him to be. And he knew what that was. He was actually the boy who would help his mum around the house. Do his nan’s garden on a weekend when it needed it and the boy who pined over April Lacey in class 10C, though he wouldn’t have the guts to tell her.

His thoughts of April were interrupted as he felt a weight drop down at the side of him. He turned from his view out the window to look at his brave companion and saw the reason he had company was that the bus had filled up while he had been caught up in his own thoughts. His companion was sitting as close to the edge of the seat as they possibly could without falling off the end. A man in a pair of old grey trousers, which matched his hair and a navy bomber style jacket. No accounting for taste.

Finlay started to feel hot. He leaned his head onto the cold glass to get some relief and closed his eyes. Time slipped by. His eyes snapped open as his chest tightened hard. He pulled his fists up quickly and gasped. As he opened his mouth, he vomited. He couldn’t stop and he was trapped in his window seat. His chest was being squeezed, his insides being torn apart. His body was betraying him. The pain across his chest and the feeling that he was being shredded from inside confused him. He had never felt so bad. He hoped someone could see and would assist. Through the music still ongoing in his ears he could hear shouting and feel movement. He pulled on his earphones and tried to ask for help but could hear someone yelling at him. Calling him a druggie? He needed help.
Someone, help
. Pain clenched its grip around his chest again and in its fury Finlay jerked forward, banging his head hard on the metal bar of the seat in front. The pain stopped as the world passing by suddenly went black.

His position in the seat could suggest he couldn’t be arsed; head at rest on the bar in front, his hands in his lap. If it wasn’t for the vile-smelling puddle of puke on his lap covering his hands and trailing down over his black skinny jean-clad knees, onto the rucksack that was partway to the floor between them, you would never have known. Most people would probably have ignored him and left him here for heavens knew how long. Male youths asleep or in distress on public transport wasn’t uncommon and they didn’t engender support or sympathy. This boy however had made his death loud and ungainly, which made it difficult for his fellow passengers to ignore and in turn made it difficult for the driver to not call it in. So here we were, Aaron and me, stood side by side in the narrow walkway of the bus, looking down at the boy on the bus. A sad, early start to Friday morning.

All the passengers who were still around when we got there and hadn’t rushed off to work before police arrival were now off the bus and had been herded into a local coffee shop by Martin so he could contain them. He needed to obtain details and accounts of what they saw, regardless of which level of the bus they were on. The boy was on the top deck and even lower deck passengers were needed, as they might have seen him getting on or seen someone else that we needed to talk to.

If it wasn’t for the gang shooting in Bestwood last night, another team would have been drafted in to deal with this, but as our only current job – Lianne Beers – wasn’t yet identified as a homicide, we were told in no uncertain terms that this one was ours as well. Budget cuts were eating away at staffing and that meant we all had to take on more to provide the same service – or not the same service but a better service, because that’s what the government was promising, while at the same time it cut millions from public services.

A couple of uniforms were helping Martin keep the unhappy witnesses in one place and the gawking non-witnesses in another – which was further away from the bus and from us.

‘So suicide, accident or murder?’ I asked Aaron.

‘I don’t think we can tell just from looking at him, can you?’

I looked from the boy, to Aaron. ‘No, I suppose not.’ And at that moment, Jack made a timely appearance.

‘Well, if it isn’t my favourite Detective Inspector and Detective Sergeant. How the jolly well are you today? Made any headway with our digoxin toxicity job yet?’ he asked as he dropped his medical briefcase to the floor of the bus, making, I imagine, anyone downstairs think the ceiling was about to cave in.

‘Hey, Jack.’ I smiled. Aaron nodded and moved up the bus slightly to allow Jack better access to the boy, his Tyvek suit rustling as he moved. ‘Slow going on Beers so far, but we’ll let you know if anything significant comes up. Today we seem to have another odd one. No obvious external signs of trauma, and witnesses said it was pretty sudden, so I thought we’d better bring you down to the scene to have a look in situ.’

Jack pulled on his blue medical gloves, hitched his white paper trousers up at his knees, providing a flash of his striped orange and pink socks, and crouched down in the walkway to the side of the boy and peered up at him from his lower vantage point without touching anything.

‘He’s got a nasty bruise to his forehead, but from how he’s resting. I imagine that will be corroborative with witness statements of him bashing his head against this bar he’s up against.’

I looked out the window. To my side, I could see a woman waving her arms around wildly at Martin, her face turning a shade of puce I hadn’t seen on a live person before. Martin stood stock still, his hands resting low and relaxed on his belt buckle with his pocket book and pen in his hands. I tuned back to Jack who was talking about vomit colouring and smell. I looked at Aaron who was paying rapt attention. I could rely on him to catch me up.

‘So,’ Jack said, rubbing his knees as he unfurled himself from his crouched position, ‘we’ll transfer the young man to the QMC and see what is going on. I must say, Hannah; I don’t like the look of this. I do not like it at all.’

I paid for a tea and thanked the owner of the coffee shop for allowing us to commandeer his space. He nodded continually as he spoke, enthusiastic about helping out the police, especially when it involved a death. Yet again I envisaged a tall story that someone could go home and tell their family. But if that’s what it took for people to help us, then that’s what it took. Many more people were a lot less willing to help out and would rather spit in our faces than give us the time of day.

I placed my drink on the table and seated myself next to the man who was already there nursing a hot chocolate.

‘Thank you so much for talking to us. For stopping and giving us your time.’

He looked up. Strong lines etched on his face deepened as he smiled at me. ‘My pleasure, young lady.’

I smiled back at him. ‘I’m always happy to be called young.’

‘Ah, you’re a babe in arms, girl. It’s when you get to my age, you know what real age is and you wish you could do it all again. It disappears so fast.’ He sighed. ‘Just look at that youngster today. Not a chance to live his life before it’s gone. Make sure you enjoy yours, won’t you?’

I put my hand on top of his, where it was resting on top of the table. His skin felt thin, papery to the touch. I feared I could tear it if I wasn’t gentle enough. ‘I certainly will, Mr Cleaver.’ Martin had told me his name before I came over to see him. He was eighty-two years old and looked every day of it. I hoped he’d lived it, that the lines and tiredness had been hard earned. I took my hand away.

‘What can you tell me about this morning?’

His eyes held a deep sadness. ‘I can’t tell you anything I’m afraid. I was sitting on the lower deck, I’m too old to get up those winding stairs, you see. But I see the young lad every day. Same bus every morning, without fail. I hear people tut as he gets on. I know why, the way he looks, but he’s young. He can do what he wants while he’s young.’ He paused and looked hard at me. ‘They tut at you when you’re old as well, you know.’

‘I’m so sorry to hear that.’ And I was. Why were people so frustrated with our elderly? Did they not expect to age? And had they forgotten what it was like to be young? Both ends of our lifespan seemed to annoy the average person living life in between.

‘He’d not been up there long when I heard a commotion. I have my hearing aid in and it’s bloody good. There were people shouting. I heard the word
druggie
. I knew they’d be shouting at him. I like to people watch and at this time of day there really aren’t any druggies getting on the bus. I felt for him but I couldn’t do anything because I can’t get up those stairs. And then someone screamed. And all hell broke loose.’

He stopped speaking then. Looked down into his hot chocolate. I waited for him in case he had anything else to add.

‘Then the bus driver tutted.’ Mr Cleaver shook his head slow, his eyes holding a deep sadness. ‘He tutted and all the while the boy was up there needing his help, dying.’ He looked at me, white ringed pensioner eyes taking me in. ‘And who knew if someone had done something, if he could have survived.’