Bloodstream (19 page)

Peter looks at him. He can’t see this, but knows the boy’s eyes are on him.

‘Why can’t you save me?’

He raises his head, slowly, afraid of what he’ll see. This didn’t happen. Not in reality.

The man finishes, his white T-shirt now drenched in splashes of blood. He stands back and admires his creation.

And he begins to laugh, quietly at first. Then louder, a crescendo of laughter erupting from him. He whispers, his voice slurred.

‘You can’t save them.’

There is another noise, a banging sound.

Bang.

The man turns, the laughter subsides, changing to a sadistic grin.

Bang.

He looks down at the shotgun in his hand, and moves purposefully towards Murphy.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Murphy woke slowly, not like they do on TV or in movies. There wasn’t a sudden moment when he sat up in bed, breathing heavily. There was just a moment when he was asleep, then over a period of a few seconds, he realised he was awake. The images of his dream beginning to slip away, joining the long line of similar dreams which had preceded it.

‘You okay?’

Murphy turned to Sarah’s side of the bed, as he propped herself up on one elbow.

‘Did I wake you again?’

Sarah didn’t reply, swiping a hand over her eyes. ‘Don’t worry about it. Same dream?’

‘Yeah,’ Murphy said, whispering into the darkened room. ‘It’s been nearly two years, you’d think they’d go by now.’

‘You should go back to that CBT guy . . .’

‘I don’t think a dream is enough for that.’

‘They’re not as frequent as they used to be,’ Sarah said, sitting up in bed and turning on the light on her bedside table. ‘But they’re still coming.’

‘It’s a small price to pay. Considering what Jess has to go through. I could have done something . . .’

‘No, you couldn’t . . .’

‘You don’t know that,’ Murphy said, sitting up and swinging his legs over to the floor. ‘I watched her son die in front of me. And I couldn’t help him.’

Murphy heard Sarah shift across behind him. Felt her arms come around his bare shoulders and hold him. Breath on his back as she sat there, her naked skin against his.

He closed his eyes and remembered that night. A man who had called himself Alan Bimpson, determined to rid the street of what he thought was destroying them. Teenage boys, left dead in a farmhouse, before he took to the streets of Liverpool, exterminating everyone who got in his way.

Ending in an ordinary house in West Derby, with the death of the last teenage boy. Peter. Jess’s son.

Murphy’s godson.

‘Let’s go back to sleep,’ Sarah said into his shoulder. ‘You need your rest.’

Murphy allowed himself to be pulled back into bed. Sarah hooked her arm across his chest, her head snuggled into him.

The repeat of a scene which had replayed itself frequently over the first year following Peter’s death. Less common in the following year. Almost two years since that night. Murphy could barely believe the time had gone so quickly. How he had carried on, become almost better.

He looked down towards the top of Sarah’s head, her blonde hair looking grey as his eyes became more accustomed to the darkness. He leant down and kissed her crown.

She was the reason he carried on. It was all for her.

Sarah lay in the darkness, listening as her husband’s breathing slowed and became more rhythmic. The gentle snore as he became comfortable, falling asleep within a few minutes.

She stared at the ceiling, the room around her settling back down. She thought of David’s nightmare. She’d allowed herself to believe that he was finally coming to terms with what happened in that house almost two years earlier. It had been a while since she’d been awoken by his quickening breathing, the small noises and movements as he came back to consciousness. Dreaming horrific images.

She hadn’t been fully asleep anyway. She’d been only dozing, her eyes closed and time slipping by, but on the edge of wakefulness for the hours they had been lying there.

Sarah considered slipping out of bed and going downstairs, maybe having a sly cigarette from the stash she kept for emergencies. She didn’t really want to lie awake, waiting for the light to start coming through the curtains, sweeping the darkness away. Lie there with only her thoughts for company.

There was a letter next to the place where she kept her cigarettes, hidden behind the false panel at the bottom of the display unit in the back room. Up until a few weeks previously, it had hidden only smoking paraphernalia, a few old photos and poems she had written back in high school. Stuff that she didn’t want him to see, if at all possible, but nothing she kept hidden with any malice.

Now there was the letter with its return address of HMP Manchester. She knew her husband well enough to anticipate his reaction if he found it. The hurt and recriminations it would cause. Sarah unable to say why she had kept it, or what she was going to do with it.

The man who had killed her husband’s parents was currently serving a minimum of thirty years in HMP Manchester. A man Sarah knew only too well.

She continued to lie in bed, listening to David’s breathing become softer, the occasional snore emanating from his side of the bed.

Sarah already knew what she was going to do with the letter and its contents. She would burn it, one day when David wasn’t around.

But not before she’d used the invitation inside it.

Murphy pulled his car to a stop, checked he was within the parking bay then, realising he wasn’t, reversed out and drove back in again. His hands were shaking on the wheel a little, so he left them there for a few moments longer once he’d parked. The fog which had spread over town that morning was beginning to lift, leaving behind tendrils of mist in the air, which dissipated the longer you looked at them.

He hadn’t spoken to her in almost two years.

Murphy got out, walking away before stopping, turning back and pressing his fob to lock his car. The café was situated a few shops down from where he’d been able to get a parking space, but the short walk wasn’t far enough for him to gather his thoughts coherently.

What was he supposed to say?

Almost two years since a shared word between them. Over twenty years of non-stop conversations grinding to a halt after what had happened on a dark and bitter evening all that time ago.

He picked an empty table off to the side. Only a couple of other people were sitting in there at that time of morning – a few hours before the lunchtime rush would start. He asked for coffee and promised to look at the food menu when the waitress brought it over, but he wasn’t expecting his appetite to show up at any point.

Jess came into the café. She spotted him immediately but made no move to greet him. She called the waitress at the till over as she headed towards the table and sat down.

‘Hey,’ Murphy said, trying to make eye contact with her, but failing as she looked back towards the waitress. ‘Thanks for coming.’

‘Don’t thank me. Sarah asked me to come and meet, mentioned it was a work thing. That’s the only reason I’m here.’

Murphy opened up another sugar packet and emptied it into his half-empty cup. ‘Okay.’

‘I can’t stop for long. Got a lot on, you know.’

The waitress arrived, a tired smile on her face and a notepad in her hand. Jess ordered a cup of coffee and refused a menu.

‘I don’t know where to start . . .’

‘Then don’t,’ Jess replied, finally looking towards him before turning away again.

‘Look, you know I’m not good with this sort of situation.’

‘Situation?’

‘Whatever you want to call it. I’ve tried to get in contact before, but Sarah made it clear you weren’t interested in seeing me.’

Jess took a packet of sugar from the bowl between them and shook it a few times. ‘I’m still not. Not right now.’

‘It can’t go on like this forever, Jess. How long are you thinking about punishing me for?’

‘About as long as it takes for my son to magically reappear.’

Murphy dropped his head into his chest. ‘I tried everything to save him,’ he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

‘It wasn’t enough, though, was it? And you know it isn’t just about that. It was your case, David. You didn’t do things right. If you had been doing your fucking job properly, none of this would have happened.’

Murphy let the words sink in and fester. There was nothing new in what Jess was saying; everything she was throwing at him was just a repeat of things she’d said back then.

What hurt was the fact that even after so much time had passed, the words were still so easy to say.

‘I never meant for this to happen,’ Murphy said once he thought enough time had gone by. ‘You have to believe that. Peter was family to me.’

‘And we all know what happens to your family, don’t we?’

‘Really, Jess? You’re going after how my parents died now? Come on . . .’

‘I knew this was a mistake . . .’

Murphy held his hands palm up. ‘I’m sorry, really. We’re not here to talk about that.’

‘Fine,’ Jess said, accepting the cup of coffee from an eavesdropping waitress. ‘Were we talking loud enough for you, love?’

The waitress went the colour of LFC and scurried off without a word. Murphy allowed himself a small grin.

‘You’ve not lost your common touch.’

‘What can I say,’ Jess replied, stirring sugar into the cup. ‘I’m happy not to disappoint.’

‘Amy Maguire. I heard you were brought in for the guy who confessed?’

Jess banged her spoon against the rim of the cup a few times. Then a few more times.

‘Stop stalling, Jess. I know you can’t go into specifics. I just want to know if you’re the one getting him to recant?’

‘Keith Hudson’s confession was given at a time when he had many personal issues going on. He wanted attention, you gave it to him.’

‘I know he didn’t do it, Jess. I just want to know how he came to be in my station, my interview rooms, telling me he killed Amy.’

‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you any more than that. He doesn’t know anything.’

‘That’s not true,’ Murphy said, his grip tightening round his coffee mug. ‘He knew some details. Not enough for me to believe he killed her, but enough for me to believe he knows something.’

Jess shook her head and picked up her coffee with a steady hand. ‘You’ve been wrong plenty of times in the past, David. Not least in that case two years ago, when my eighteen-year-old son was shot and killed. You’ll forgive me if I don’t put much stock in your instincts.’

This was all it was ever going to be, Murphy thought. Going round in circles, always coming back to that one night.

‘It wasn’t all my fault, Jess. Sometimes, there’s just nothing we can do. Other people are still grieving, and as a division we have had to take that hit. But we tried, honestly we did. We’re human, we made mistakes and paid for them. Not as much as you and so many other families did, but we paid and still do.’

Jess banged her cup back onto the table. ‘You were there, David,’ she replied, her voice no longer loud, but a hiss. ‘I couldn’t give two shites about everyone else. You were in that house with that fucker and my son. You could have done something. You’ve been trained for those situations, for fuck’s sake. Why didn’t you save him? Tell me that. Why couldn’t you save my son?’

Murphy waited for tears that were never going to appear. Jess’s face had gone as red as the waitress’s had earlier, but there was no upset there. Only anger.

‘I tried.’

‘Well, you didn’t try hard enough. I’m going.’ Jess rose from her seat, throwing a five-pound note on the table. ‘Tell that nosy cow to keep the change.’

‘Wait,’ Murphy said, getting out of his seat. ‘I need to tell you something. This Amy Maguire thing . . . you know who her mother is?’

‘I’m not interested—’

‘Stacey Maguire. Remember from when we were kids? There’s something she told me,’ Murphy said, walking round the table towards Jess. He could feel the eyes and ears of the three other patrons in the café focused on the two of them. He dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘I don’t know if it’s true, but there was one night when we . . . you know . . .’

Jess shook her head, laid a hand on Murphy’s elbow and forced him back. ‘You’re a soft shite, but not an idiot.’

‘There is . . .’

‘And she is supposed to have got up the duff eighteen years ago and is only now getting in touch? It’s because her daughter has gone missing and she doesn’t know what to do. She’s using you, David.’ Jess lifted her bag onto her shoulder and began to turn away. ‘Stacey Maguire wouldn’t know the truth if it smacked her in the face. Don’t be stupid. You know why she’s doing this now.’

‘What if it is true, though? I’ve got to do something, haven’t I?’

‘Have you told Sarah?’

Murphy looked away and hesitated.

‘Fucking hell, David. You’re going to hurt that girl.’

‘If Amy is my daughter and I haven’t done everything I can, what do you think that’ll do to me, never mind Sarah?’

Jess looked Murphy in the eyes for the first time since arriving at the café. ‘Then maybe you’ll know what it’s like for me.’ She half turned, then faced him again. ‘You need to tell Sarah.’

‘I will . . . eventually.’

‘She doesn’t deserve this. None of this. Stop believing idiots from back when we were kids and sort yourself out. Tell Sarah. All she talks about is how good things are between you two now. Don’t fuck that up.’

Jess turned away fully this time and left the café. Murphy watched her go. He went back to his coffee, stirred more sugar into it and gulped it down.

Rossi was daring to dream. A normal bloke, with a good sense of humour and a tidy body. Not footballer or boxer fit, but tidy enough. He was no Alessandro Del Piero, but he would do nicely.

‘He’s fallen head over heels, Laura. I think this is “The One”.’