Dying for Christmas (24 page)

I’ve spent the time since I regained consciousness pretending to be more ill than I am in order to ward off the moment where I’ll be formally questioned by the police. No one is telling me anything. Instead I lie here obsessing about what happened and her role in it all.

Her
.

Natalie.

Of him, I try not to think at all.

My parents have been here the whole time. My mum has done a lot of crying. My brothers drift in and out, operating a shift system. There are conversations in muffled voices that I’m not supposed to hear. At one point James clearly says, ‘That twisted piece of shit,’ and my mum hushes him. Jonathan covers my hand with his, which is strange because we’re not touchy-feely in our family and it feels all wrong.

I am weak and emptied out and my stomach hurts. Hospital staff bustle around, lifting parts of me up, moving me on to my side. I allow myself to be arranged and rearranged like a prized ornament. I want this part never to be over because I don’t want to face what I know is coming next.

‘What’s going through your head?’ asks my mother again, her chair pulled right up to the hospital bed, her head bent towards mine as if she could absorb its contents by osmosis.

Even if I could speak, I wouldn’t be able to tell her.

Safer to focus on her.

Don’t Trust Natalie.

I should get a T-shirt made.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

I’m in the bathroom in the hospital. I have a private room with its own ensuite. The door is wide enough for a wheelchair and there are plastic handles everywhere and a button to press marked
Alarm
. I’m examining the contents of the toilet and am tempted to press that button. Because the thing that’s just come out of my body is blue.

‘Don’t you be worrying about that at
all
,’ says the Irish nurse with the moon face and nose so snub that in profile it’s completely hidden by the round of her cheek. ‘It’s that stuff they’ve given you to counteract the poison. Prussian blue, it’s called. It has that effect on some.’

The police arrive. They ask me questions gently – ‘a preliminary chat’ is how they phrase it – and I tell them exactly what’s in the account I wrote down in Dominic’s sketchbook. I don’t deviate. They’re very polite when they are here – two men and a woman. One of the men stands against the wall because there aren’t enough chairs. The Irish nurse offers to bring him one but he says no, he’s been sitting all day and his leg muscles will seize up if he’s not careful.

The older police guy, the one in charge, explains that they’ve been to the apartment and seen what was in there – the kennel, the whip, the shackles. The blood. They all make shocked faces and shake their heads. They know about my injuries – the septic tattoo, the welts from the whip, the bruising around ankles and wrists from the metal cuffs. And of course, the cumulative effects of exposure to thallium poison. I was lucky, the main guy says. Considering how many days it had been building in my system, my symptoms have been mercifully mild. They’ve inspected all the presents, and the paintbrushes and the chess set and the candle.

The woman sits slightly behind him and nods when required. She has a brown bob and a long fringe beneath which her grey eyes gaze at me intently as if she is studying me for a test. She was introduced as Detective Constable Kim Something. I recall my parents talking about someone called Kim and realize this must be her.

It’s the first day I’ve been compos mentis enough for my parents to have a proper conversation with me, but they’ve been cagey about what’s been going on. ‘The police will fill you in,’ my mother keeps saying. My mum has never had any dealings with the authorities. I think she is worried about what she is and isn’t allowed to say.

‘Am I being charged with anything?’ I ask the main police guy – what was his name, Robinson? And then, because I can’t put it off any longer, I add, ‘Am I being charged with murder?’

The main guy looks surprised. He has a broad red face that sits squarely on his shoulders and matching red-rimmed eyes that widen at my question. ‘Dominic Lacey isn’t dead,’ he says. ‘He’s in a critical condition in a different hospital but he’s still alive.’

When I lean over the side of the bed to vomit, I expect they believe it’s from relief.

* * *

She’s not what Kim was expecting. Less ethereal. The fact of her physical presence is rammed home by the drip in her arm, the sluicing of fluids, the stream of yellow vomit that comes out at the end when they tell her about Dominic Lacey.

She’s terrified of him. Kim can see that straight away. She spent two years attached to the Domestic Violence Unit early on in her career and she recognizes the signs. And yet there is something here that is not fitting together. Something Jessica is not saying. Kim is sure of it.

‘Doesn’t bear thinking about, does it,’ says Martin, as they make their way back out into the pale winter sunshine as washed out as if a painter had spilled water across the sky. ‘What he put that girl through.’

‘Allegedly,’ she corrects him.

Martin looks at her in surprise, at the pointedness of her tone.

‘There’s still so much that doesn’t make sense,’ Kim says. ‘Like how did she manage, in the state she was in, to stay up all night writing that detailed account?’

Martin is dismissive. ‘People draw on superhuman sources of strength when they really think they’re about to die. It’s the survival reflex. Adrenalin. Whatever you want to call it.’

‘That’s another thing. How
did
she survive? Nearly two weeks of daily exposure to thallium. That doctor we spoke to was amazed she’s recovered so quickly and with seemingly so few long-term effects.’

Paul Robertson shrugs. ‘Poisoning people isn’t an exact science.’ He allows himself a small smile. ‘That’s why it’s gone out of fashion.’

‘Yes, so why would he choose that way then, sir? Why not use a method he knows will do the job?’

Martin jumps in before the Super can reply. ‘There’s no point second-guessing this guy. He’s a psycho. You know what was in that flat. You’ve read the file about his first wife and son, about what he was like as a kid. Did you read the deposition from that teacher? She was terrified of him, and he was only eleven, twelve years old. People like that don’t think the same as you and me. It’s all about game-playing.’

‘Whatever the case, the CPS will obviously be considering the evidence very carefully – against both of them.’ Robertson is looking thoughtful. ‘Whatever the provocation, Jessica Gold committed a very serious assault on Dominic Lacey. We’re not talking a single defence wound here, there were three separate stab wounds on his body – neck, throat and chest. That’s going to take some explaining. We’ll be interviewing her formally at the station as soon as she’s out of the hospital.’

‘Yeah, but you have to say the circumstances are pretty mitigating, wouldn’t you agree, sir? If CPS do charge her, it’ll be for something minor. No?’

Afterwards Kim wonders whether the usually taciturn Martin was being so opinionated because Robertson just happens to be the one whose recommendation will count with the promotions board. Maybe she should stop being so contrary and throw herself behind Jessica Gold as Martin seems to be doing. Lacey is clearly a deeply warped individual, a sociopath if not a psychopath, with a trail of destruction in his wake, a danger to women. Jessica Gold is a normal, unremarkable young woman – or at least she was until Christmas Eve – who had the misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Except that Kim doesn’t believe Jessica is either normal or unremarkable.

And she knows she’s hiding something.

Chapter Thirty

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: what the fuck

What the fuck. WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: re: what the fuck

I’ve been worried about you. I knew you wouldn’t be able to get in touch straight away, but still … (BTW, there’s no chance they could be logging this, is there? Hope you’re being careful.) Are you OK? Did we work out the doses properly? I know you’re upset about what happened, but you have to see it was the only way. If I hadn’t done what I did, it would have been his word against yours. It still might be if he recovers but I don’t think there’s much chance of that, do you? Can you believe the fucker survived that? I always said he wasn’t human. You’ve done brilliantly. I’m so impressed. Now all you have to do is stick to the story and everything will be fine. Trust me.

Nx

PS: Remember to delete this as soon as you’ve read it.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: re: re: what the fuck

Trust you? Really? Do you have any idea what I’ve just been through? I spent twelve days locked up with that psycho. You of all people know what that means. Funny how it slipped your mind to mention the dog kennel when you were persuading me into this. A fucking dog kennel! And what about the whip, and the handcuffs? How did I ever agree to the tattoo? Every time I catch sight of it I feel physically sick. You took advantage. That’s the bottom line. I was practically at death’s door and you took advantage. And now I’ve got to go to the station for a formal interview. Can you even begin to imagine how terrifying that is? We’ve had to hire a solicitor – some guy my dad shared a house with at uni. Great reunion phone call, that was – ‘Yes, my sons are doing very well, thank you. Three grandchildren, and a daughter who might be up for murder.’ Why did you come back? Which bit about sticking to the plan did you not understand?

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: re: re: re: what the fuck

They won’t charge you. Look at the papers. You’re a hero. Have you seen all the innuendo about me and crazy Cesca? Legally they’re not allowed to go into details, but the media have basically hung, drawn and quartered him already. Everyone knows he’s a scumbag. If it ever went to court (which it won’t), there’d be queues of women to testify that he’s a sick fuck who gets his kicks out of hurting people. All you have to do is sit tight. Everything you did was in self-defence. The press love you. You’re the Christmas Kidnap Miracle Girl. Remember why you had to do it – think of the tape. Think of your gorgeous little niece, Grace. And as for why I did what I did, wait until the heat is off a bit, and I’ll explain it all. Until then I think we’d better hold off contact for a bit. Don’t worry. Dominic was hit by the Karma Bus, that’s all.

Nx

PS: Delete? Remember?

* * *

I log out of my email and delete the history. It’s second nature to me now even though the laptop is a new one. I am almost too angry to breathe. Sometimes I’m so scared of what I’ve done, I feel my insides shrivelling up like newspaper in the blaze of my own fear. What if Dominic recovers and claims I’ve made it all up, and it was all consensual? What if they believe him? I could go to prison for years. I’d be older than my parents by the time I came out. The thought makes me clammy and I struggle to get myself under control, putting a hand on my belly and forcing myself to take deep regular breaths.

It still feels weird to be back at my parents’ house, in the room that used to be James’s but is now a generic spare room with a black and beige duvet cover that matches the curtains and a framed Degas ballerina print on the wall. I think Travis was relieved when my parents insisted on me coming back to theirs to recuperate. It puts off the moment when we have to talk about the things we don’t want to talk about.

My family treat me like I am made from ancient parchment that will crumble to dust if touched or exposed to light. My father hovers in the doorway and tries to be jolly. My mum brings endless cups of tea and leaves them on the bedside table where they mostly grow cold until they are taken away again. Sometimes there’s a little plate with a couple of gingernuts and custard creams laid out like jewels. I think they’ve agreed a list of safe subjects to talk to me about. Sport, my nephews and niece, the flooding in the South-West. There’s a telly in here and every now and again they come up to see if I’ve watched the same show as them so we can discuss it. There’s a pile of books next to my bed for when I get my concentration back.

We don’t talk about the cluster of reporters camped out in front of the house.

We don’t talk about Dominic Lacey or about what happened in that apartment.

We don’t mention the lingering red marks around my wrists or the tattoo on my hip.

I’m glad of their tact because I’m struggling with what’s real and what’s not. I’m struggling with the story Natalie and I so carefully concocted, and she so completely derailed at the end. I think they all believe me so far. Why wouldn’t they when the evidence is staring them in the face? Dominic’s apartment was packed with props to support his own particular brand of sadism. He’d call it consensual, if he were able to speak, but who’d believe that anyone would willingly allow themselves to be chained and manacled, whipped till they bled? Branded even? Besides, there’s all that history: the harassment of Cesca that led to her death and Sam’s, the unexplained disappearance of his second wife, bits of whom turn up all over his flat.