Immediately, Callum’s arm shot out, grabbing at the sleeve of the policewoman who still flanked him. He didn’t know what he had been expecting, but not this. This wasn’t his mum. She didn’t even look human. This was an abomination.
Letting go his grip, he turned and ran to a nearby sink, vomiting hard into it. Once, twice, three times as the horror of what he’d just seen forced its way out. Afterwards, gripping the cold metal rim, he hung his head, trying to steady his breathing, to calm his thundering heart. Up until now it had seemed horrific but unreal. Now the full devastation of last night was making itself felt. And he knew in that moment, with piercing clarity, that his whole life had been reduced to ashes.
48
Blog post by firstpersonsingular.
Thursday, 10 December, 15.00
Have you ever burnt yourself? I mean properly. Like holding the palm of your hand over a flame and letting the fire eat your flesh. You should, it’s good.
I guess like me that you’ve probably been on suicide websites. I look at those things for hours. Always something interesting in the details and I just love the tone of those sites, don’t you? So sombre, so serious and so fucking DULL?!? Like it’s a training manual or textbook. This isn’t homework, friend, this is the final frontier. Not that I haven’t been tempted, but I wonder how many people would stop short if they just learnt to use their pain. Like I say, it’s good.
I first burnt myself when I was six. I stole my mother’s lighter, which made it all the sweeter. She thought I was trying to interfere with her smoking or just being a little shit, but I wanted something of hers to make its mark. Somehow it felt twice as good holding her lighter – with its stupid engraving – in my hand as I lowered my palm down, down, down on to the flame. I held it there, refusing to move. Exercising my power over it. Over my pain. Over my life.
A lot has happened since then. But the lesson I learnt stayed with me. There is so much that is random and cruel and pointless in life. So much shit to wade through, so many small indignities marching side by side with gross injustices. So much darkness that visits itself on you whether you want it to or not. But there are some things you can control. You can control you. You can control your feelings. And if you’re bright, you can control other people.
That is when you come out of yourself. When you become more than yourself. They thought you were worthless. You thought you were worthless. But then suddenly it all makes sense, you take control and for a brief tantalizing moment you know what it means to look God in the face.
49
It was time to call off the dogs. They had knocked on every door, canvassed every potential witness and passer-by within a mile radius of Denise Roberts’s house and had come up empty-handed. Charlie checked with Sarah Lucas that she was happy to move on, redeploying their manpower to the nearby high street in the hope of richer pickings, then called it in, galvanizing the uniformed sergeants into action. It had been a dispiriting few hours and Charlie wasn’t looking forward to telling Helen that their massive deployment of resources had yielded precisely nothing.
She was standing by the police cordon at the fire site. Last night and this morning there had been large crowds, but even these were starting to diminish now. This should have cheered Charlie – who needs these rubberneckers? – but in fact its effect was quite the opposite. Seemingly this terrible tragedy was worthy of a few hours’ attention, then the world moved on, seeking fresh entertainment. If only it was so easy for those left behind.
‘All right, girls, move along now. You’ve all got homes to go to.’
A small knot of teenage girls lingered by the police tape, chattering, shouting and occasionally taking snaps of the house. As Charlie called over to them, they turned, but made no move to leave. They went back to their chat, keeping a wary eye on the smartly dressed officer who seemed intent on intruding on their day. Watching them, Charlie felt a sudden spike of irritation and anger. This was somebody’s home, not a bloody shopping mall.
‘ Now, girls. It’s getting dark and there’s no reason for you to be hanging around here.’
Charlie had a sudden flash forward to what she would be like when Jessie was a teenager. Would Charlie have any credibility in her eyes as a successful career woman and authority figure? Or would having a policewoman for a mother be the ultimate disaster, a kind of social death that kept friends and boyfriends at a remove. Charlie was surprised to find that she was suddenly worried about this and chided herself for being foolish. There were bigger fish to fry right now.
‘Girls, I’m going to ask you for the last time to move on. I’m happy to drop you home in a police van, but I don’t think that would do you any favours, do you?’
Charlie was upon them now, raising her voice as she pointed them in the direction she wanted them to head in. There were a lot of cut-throughs and alleyways round here – even though there was safety in numbers, she would rather they made their way home along the high street.
‘She saw him,’ one of the girls replied tartly, her attitude to coppers shining through clearly.
‘Saw who?’
‘The guy what did this,’ the teenager answered, nodding towards the fire site.
‘Who saw him?’ Charlie asked, trying to keep the desperation from her voice.
‘Naomie,’ she said, pointing to another of her group. Naomie was mixed race, a little overweight and blushing to her roots. Blocking the others out, Charlie approached her.
‘Tell me what you saw, Naomie.’
The blushing girl seemed not to hear her, so Charlie pulled out her warrant card.
‘I’m DC Brooks. I’m working on this case and anything you can tell me would be very helpful.’
‘Tell her, girl. Tell the pig what you saw,’ the leader said, laughing.
In another situation, Charlie would have cautioned the little shit for that alone, but today she had to let it go.
‘Who did you see, Naomie?’ Charlie pressed. ‘I really don’t want to have to make this official, but I will if I have to. Please – tell me what you saw.’
Finally the gravity of the situation seemed to land home and the girl looked up. And as she did so, Charlie was surprised to see fear in her eyes.
‘I saw him.’
50
‘I know you’ve been over this with DC Brooks, but I’m going to need you to walk me through it again, ok?’
Helen looked across the table at Naomie Jackson, wondering if even at this late hour she might refuse to help them. According to Charlie, it had taken a lot of persuasion to get her to the police station at all. Now that she was here, ensconced in an interview suite with them, the nervous teenager seemed even less convinced of the wisdom of assisting them.
Naomie fiddled with her empty bottle of Sprite, spinning it round and round in her hands. To Helen’s eyes, she seemed a nice enough girl, but there was a massive hole where her self-esteem should have been. Her scruffy appearance, monosyllabic conversation and inability to look grown-ups in the eye were all testament to that. She was a follower, not a leader, and was no doubt cursing her mate for dumping her in it. But there was no time for mollycoddling – if Naomie had important information about the fires, Helen needed to have it.
‘We don’t want to cause you any trouble, Naomie. We won’t contact your mother if you don’t want us to. And DC Brooks will drop you anywhere you need to go when we’re done. She will be your point of contact from now on and any worries or concerns you have – about any of this – well, you can call her directly and she will be straight round to help. So please tell me what you saw.’