Fragile Cord (2 page)

He shook his head. Words were
not his strong point; he’d joined the force at a time when all he
had to do was sign his name to get taken on. He’d never found the
vocabulary to express how his daughter made him feel, the sheer
bloody enormity of it. ‘She’ll be the death of me.’ Was all he
muttered, grinning, as though that prospect was preferable to the
endless other ways of leaving this world behind.

In many ways, he supposed, hope
was relative. How you saw it depended on where you were standing at
any given moment, and for this new father, emotionally wired over
the birth of his son, the world, right now, in the car park of Hope
Hospital’s Maternity Ward, was full of it.

When Coupland
pulled into the hospital car park for the second time less than
twelve hours later he found the spaces near maternity were taken,
that he’d have to make do instead with the empty bay near the
Sexual Health Department, always the last to be taken as no one
wanted to advertise their visit to the clap clinic. It was funny
how even in the blistering heat – the temperature in the shade was
an uncharacteristic twenty- eight degrees, only there wasn’t much
shade – anyone entering that
particular
ward kept their baseball caps jammed firmly over their faces. It
was a ward where eye contact was never made, where the patients
were known only as numbers, and appointments were not always
necessary. He’d been out with a clap nurse once, or genito-urinary
medicine to give it its Sunday name. Didn’t last long. Always felt
like he was undergoing an examination every time he got undressed.
And the stories she told were enough to turn him
celibate.

Coupland made his way to the
High Dependency Unit where Ricky Wilson had been moved following
surgery. He’d not regained consciousness. His wife, Melanie, who’d
stayed by his side through the night now sat on a foam backed
settee in the relatives’ room surrounded by a multitude of brothers
and their wives, whether hers or her husband’s Coupland couldn’t be
sure. She was still wearing yesterday’s clothes, blood had caked
onto the lines around her knuckles and along her hairline where
she’d leaned in close to Ricky, keep him going while they’d waited
for the paramedics to arrive. Her blouse and the knees of her
trousers were ruddy brown, where the contents of her husband’s
stomach had spilled out onto her.

All eyes were upon Coupland as
he entered the room; there was a collective hush as the family
strained to hear what the stranger in a suit had to say.

‘His mam’s in with him now.’
Melanie volunteered, as though she felt the need to explain why
she’d moved from her husband’s side, away from the tubes and wires
that were keeping him alive, the constant beeping of machinery that
signified he wasn’t out of the woods yet.

The congregation separated like
the parting of the Red Sea to make a path for Coupland to approach
her, he held out his warrant card as he did so. A whisper went
around the room, passing on he was a copper.

‘You got the bastard who did it
yet?’ A faceless voice shot out at him, and he shook his head
slowly, looking for the voice’s owner without success, settling his
gaze on Wilson’s wife. Mid forties, a head turner on better days,
he thought. Eyes, large and expressive; lips just the right side of
full. Today she looked haggard, eyes hollowed from crying, lips
pursed into a worried line.

‘It’s early days yet, Melanie,’
Coupland stated encouragingly, ‘but it’s essential I get a
statement from you as quickly as possible.’ He paused before
adding: ‘We’ll need to complete an e-fit of the attackers for
circulation and that works best when your memory’s fresh.’

With every word he uttered
Melanie seemed to sink further and further into her chair until
Coupland found himself talking to the top of her head. There were
clots of Ricky’s blood in her scalp; matted along her parting. Two
women sat either side of her – sisters-in-law, it turned out - both
called Margaret. They’d been propping her up, holding onto an arm
each to stop her from collapsing while their men paced the room,
wild-eyed and dangerous, making threats against the animals who’d
done this to one of their own.

The Margarets stared at Coupland
as he spoke, gently letting go of Melanie at the same time,
exchanging their physical support for vigorous nodding and rubbing
of her arms, mindful not to touch the splashes of blood.

‘He’s right
Mel,’ said the prettier Margaret,
call me
Mags
, ‘they need your help to catch
‘em.’

The other Margaret - who preferred her
Sunday name – was a plain, older woman in her mid-fifties. She
bounced her head in agreement as she rose to her feet, patting
Melanie on the shoulder like an obedient dog. ‘I’ll go and fetch
you some clean clothes love, you’ll feel better once you’ve tidied
yourself up a little.’

Melanie hiccupped capitulation
and moved her head in a jerking movement that Coupland took to be a
yes. Margaret’s shoulders lifted a little before she slipped out of
the room, relieved at the prospect of a short respite from the
desperate family gathering.

Without the physical support of
her sisters-in-law Melanie seemed to jacknife in on herself, her
skeleton reduced to marrowless bone. Her head bent forward as
though searching for something by her feet. She spoke into the
space between them:

‘We’ve been
together since we were seventeen.’ She informed him. ‘Never had a
night apart.’ Her accent was harsh, old Salford, over emphasising
the ‘a’s so that it sounded as though they’d never had a
night
apaaart
…..Coupland nodded, sat down in the now vacant seat beside
her, fishing around in the breast pocket of his shirt for his note
book and pen.

‘If you could start from the
beginning, Melanie,’ he coaxed, ‘from the point where you’d noticed
your bag had gone missing….’

When Coupland
left the hospital two hours later, Wilson still hadn’t come round.
He’d looked in on him lying
unconscious, a
ventilator tube in his mouth, the black concertina bag inflating
and deflating beside him. A drip was attached through a cannula to
the back of his hand. He looked lifeless, as though he’d already
left them.

Wilson’s
brothers continued to pace the Relatives’ room and swear as though
performing a religious chant, a ritual capable of warding off evil.
Every so often they’d lose it completely and slam their fists onto
the coffee table, spilling coffee cups and startling Melanie from
her bedside vigil, everyone hoping silently that the frayed tempers
would disturb Ricky, rouse him from his coma so he could tell them
all to
shut the fuck up
.

The medical staff were growing
increasingly concerned. The doctors, having done as much as they
could, gave the family as wide a berth as they could while everyone
held their breath. There was nothing more anyone could do now but
wait.

The sun shone brightly overhead
as Coupland located his car, passing the subdued Sexual Health
patients smoking outside as they waited for the number they’d been
allocated - a cloakroom ticket drawn from a recycled tissue box -
to be called. Each stood several feet apart, stealing furtive
glances at the person closest to them whilst trying to look
nonchalant, as though waiting for a friend. Just then the automatic
doors to the clinic opened spewing out a middle-aged man who stared
at the ground all the way to the sheltered bus stop. Coupland
looked away, fighting the temptation to compound his guilt by
gawping.

Coupland’s shirt clung to his
back like a second skin. He pulled at his clothes, undoing another
shirt button in response to the unrelenting heat. He’d kept his
jacket on while he’d interviewed Melanie out of respect, but now,
free of the restrictions of his own sense of protocol he shrugged
it off, rolling-up his shirtsleeves before climbing into his
car.

Just then a
woman passed by, holding the hand of a small boy. The woman was
flushed, the overhead sun an increasing irritation compounding her
discomfort; the boy complained of being thirsty. Pulling
impatiently on her son’s hand the woman cajoled him with the
promise of his favourite juice but could he
just walk a little faster?
The
exchange reminded Coupland of his own childhood, how it seemed to
consist of a series of promises and deals: sweets if you eat your
greens, stickers following
a trip to the
dentist, a present from Santa if he was a good boy. Life was a
series of reasonable barters, something to strive for, but
achievable and seemingly fair.

Maybe it was the job that had
made him a cynic, but he couldn’t help feeling sorry for the boy,
his mother teaching him one set of rules, the school of hard knocks
eventually teaching him another. He thought of Ricky Wilson’s
children keeping a vigil by their father’s bed. They’d discovered
the hard way that life wasn’t perfect.

That fairness doesn’t come into
it.

Ever.

The woman stood with an expression of
open incredulity at the scene of destruction before her. The room
had been ransacked, every drawer upturned, the contents strewn
across the floor in a mindless, haphazard way. Piles of clothes lay
crumpled, trodden underfoot amid the debris that represented their
lives.

‘I’m sorry mummy.’

Detective Constable Alex Moreton looked
long and hard at the seven-year-old boy in front of her and not for
the first time wondered how such a perfect little person could
create so much devastation.

Ben was small for his age, his mop of
unruly hair and fragile features usually protected him from much of
his mother’s wrath, but on this occasion he was not to be so
lucky.

‘For pity’s sake Ben,’ she bawled at
him, exasperated, ‘look at the state of your room! I want it tidy
before you leave for school this morning.’

She could but live in hope.

Padding back to the bedroom she walked
round to Carl’s side of the bed, shaking him awake.

‘C’mon love, I need you up keeping an
eye on His Nibs while I go for a shower. I want to go in
early.’

Six foot five
with a head of dark curls – Carl was an adult version of Ben.
Correction, an adult-
sized
version of Ben – she still wasn’t convinced about
his maturity. With strong broad shoulders and a boyish grin he had
a way of looking at her that exasperated yet excited her at the
same time – on most days anyway. She looked at his sleep-filled
features doubting he’d even heard her. It was alright for him, she
thought resentfully, he worked from home, didn’t have to contend
with the rush-hour traffic to get to the other side of town. He
worked for himself as a freelance web designer, didn’t have to show
willing like she did every morning, making sure she was in early
and one of the last to leave, just to show she was committed. His
days were relaxed and flexible, so he got to spend more time with
Ben too - another sore point. Her job paid the bills though and
Christ knows they needed the money, and she did enjoy her work –
most of the time anyway.

‘Mmmm…’ bleary eyed and hair tousled
Carl looked up at her, laughing at her serious frown, a whiff of
sour morning breath rose up to greet her and she tried not to
wrinkle her nose.

‘Come back to bed…..’ he said sleepily,
‘we could do that thing we keep talking about but never have time
for anymore….can you still remember what to do?’

A smile played on his lips as he lifted
a hand to her breast, his thumb circling her nipple through the
fabric of her dressing gown. Tempting though it was to climb back
into bed his timing was way off beam. Right now she had something
more important on her mind than a roll under the duvet. After
recently sitting her sergeant’s exams she was waiting on
tenterhooks for the result.

She’d been studying for the exams when
she and Carl had got back together, hell-bent on proving herself in
the force. Everything had seemed so simple at the time: promotion
would mean respect; the extra money would come in handy too. The
direction her career was heading had been clear-cut. Her job, even
the cases she dealt with had a commonality that comforted her – she
caught bad guys and put them away - end of. Or at least that’s how
she explained it to Ben when he asked her what she did every day.
He loved that she was a police lady, as he called her, and he loved
to listen to her stories from work, none of which remotely
resembled the truth, but lying to protect loved ones was a skill
every cop had to learn early on in their career – it went with the
territory.

Stepping into the bathroom she checked
her appearance in the mirror. Foundation would conceal the circles
under her eyes but nothing would hide the hardness that had settled
around her mouth, the cynicism that looked back, shaking its head
at her. There was no escaping it, the job had aged her. Not so much
in a physical sense, she still worked out at the gym three times a
week: lifting weights to keep her muscles toned and pounding the
treadmill to improve her stamina. It was more her state of mind
that had changed. The skewed way she now looked at the world. It
had taken its toll, staring into the darkest corners of the human
soul every day, detesting what stared back.

Showered and dressed in a sharp
new suit she’d bought during the mid-season sale she kept her
make-up to a minimum, her one concession to extravagance was a red
designer lipstick she’d bought in Kendals last Christmas which she
wore every day to justify the price. With a final glance in the
mirror she walked through to the kitchen where Carl was overseeing
Ben, making sure he didn’t put too much sugar on his Weetabix, Coco
puffs resigned to the back of the cereal cupboard as babyish. ‘Can
we watch cartoons?’ Ben asked hopefully, looking up at his father
first, then turning to his mother.