There it was – out and on the table.
‘How long?’
‘Two months. Three maybe.’
‘Every night?’
Mark shrugged. He couldn’t actually bring himself to say ‘Yes’, though it was obvious that that was the answer. It was clear now – to Helen as well as Mark – that he was well on his way to alcoholism. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass wall behind Helen. In his mind’s eye he was still the handsome guy of a year ago – tall, rangy with thick curls – but he was in a deep pit now and it showed. His skin was lifeless, his eyes dull. An unshaven, shambolic mess.
‘I don’t think I can do this any more.’
It just came out. He hadn’t meant to say it. He hadn’t wanted to say it. But he really needed to talk to someone. Helen had always been fair with him. He owed it to her to be honest.
‘I don’t think it’s fair to you or the team to drag this out…’
Helen regarded him. For the first time today, Mark noticed a softening in her expression.
‘I know how you feel, Mark, and if you want some time off, that’s fine. But you are not quitting on me.’
There was a steely determination in her voice.
‘You’re too good to throw it all away. You’re the best DS I’ve ever worked with.’
Mark didn’t know what to say. He had been expecting derision, but her tone was kind and her offer of help seemed genuine. It was true that they had been through a lot together – solving the Paget Street murders last year had been the highpoint of Mark’s career – and a close professional bond had grown between them over time. In many ways her kindness was worse than a bollocking.
‘I want to help you, Mark,’ she continued. ‘But you’re going to have to work with me here. We are in the middle of a murder enquiry, so when I say I want you somewhere at 9.30 a.m., you’d bloody better be. If you can’t do that – or don’t want to – then I will get you transferred or suspended. Do you understand?’
Mark nodded.
‘No more vodka breakfasts,’ Helen continued. ‘No more lunchtime trips to the pub. No more lies. If you trust me, I’ll help you and we can get through this, but I need you to trust me. Do you trust me?’
Mark raised his eyes to meet hers.
‘Of course I do.’
‘Good, then let’s get on with it. Team briefing in five minutes.’
And with that she resumed her work. Mark left her office, wrong-footed but relieved. Helen Grace never failed to surprise him.
18
Biking home to her city centre flat, Helen replayed the conversation with Mark in her head. Had she been too hard? Too soft? Was she repeating mistakes she’d made before? She was still chewing on it when she shut her front door behind her. Slipping the chain on, she headed straight for the shower. She’d been up for forty-eight hours straight and she needed to feel clean again.
She faced forwards, the water pummelling her neck and breasts, before she turned round. The steaming hot water struck her back and immediately pain coursed through her body. It was agony at first, but slowly the stinging subsided and Helen once more felt calm.
Towelling herself down, she walked back into the bedroom. Now dry, she dropped the towel to the floor and looked at herself in the full-length mirror. She was an attractive sight naked, but few had seen her like this. Cautious of intimacy and wary of the inevitable questions, her encounters had mostly been casual and short-lived. Not that the men had cared – by and large they had seemed extremely pleased to find a woman who would go to bed with them and didn’t hang around afterwards.
Opening her wardrobe, Helen eschewed the rows of jeans and shirts in favour of sweat pants and top – she was due at a BoxCombat class later and there seemed little point in changing twice. She paused briefly to take in the police uniforms, neatly preserved in pristine suit bags, that she used to wear when she was on the beat. Those days had been the making of her. The first day she tied her hair back, strapped on the stab vest and hit the streets was one of the happiest of her life. For the first time ever she felt she belonged. That she 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.