Someone Else's Skin (8 page)

‘Yes.’

Ed had spent the day in court, Noah remembered. No wonder he looked whipped.

‘Ayana helped Noah with the first aid,’ Marnie said. ‘She was a star. The others . . . seemed calm, at the time.’

‘I can imagine. So . . . where’re you up to with witness statements?’

‘The witness statements can wait a while. We wanted to make this place feel safe again first, before we asked too many questions.’

Ed nodded, looking relieved. ‘Thanks for that.’

‘Tell me about the set-up here,’ Marnie said. ‘Resources are stretched?’

‘Not just here.’ Ed propped himself on the edge of the desk, crossing his feet at the ankle. He was wearing odd socks, one brown, the other blue. ‘Right across the board. Funding cuts really hurt us. I hate to say it, but domestic violence victims are easy targets. They don’t complain and they don’t have the power to lobby. That makes them invisible.’

‘You said you hadn’t met Hope. She wasn’t in our database either. I’m wondering how she got a place here.’

‘She probably called the domestic violence helpline and got a referral that way. Is she local, do you know?’

‘Very local. From Finchley. Is that usual?’

‘Sometimes. Depends how anxious she was about her husband tracing her.’ Ed scratched his knee. ‘Did she say how that happened? The tracing, I mean.’

‘She called him.’

‘Ah.’ He didn’t look surprised, just sad. ‘It happens.’

‘The knife,’ Marnie said. ‘Simone and the others are calling it self-defence. I suppose that makes most sense to them.’

‘Knives . . . are scary.’

Marnie glanced at the wall calendar, then away. Ed was watching her with a tender vigilance that made Noah wonder how close they really were. He played Belloc’s statement back in his head, the careful space he had placed around the words:
Knives are scary.

‘Simone is more vocal than the others, convinced Leo got what he deserved, but it was self-defence. Panic.’ Marnie said it as if she was testing the theory for soundness.

‘Simone . . .’ Ed hesitated. ‘Has more reason than most to be scared of knives.’

Marnie quizzed him with a look, but he shook his head. ‘It’s not my story to tell, but . . . Go easy on her. Simone. She’s not as strong as she looks.’

‘She wants to see Hope,’ Noah said. ‘At the hospital.’

Ed looked surprised. ‘Simone said that?’

‘They’re close,’ Marnie said. ‘She’s been protective of Hope since we got here.’

‘And she’s ready to leave the refuge?’ Ed thumbed a streak of rain from his cheek. ‘D’you mind if I come with you?’

‘To the hospital? I was going to ask if you’d stay here . . .’

‘If that’s where you need me, but I’d like to speak with Simone first, if that’s okay.’

‘Of course. Hope’s sedated, in any case. I’m hoping they’ll have a bed for her over the weekend. She’s booked for a CT scan; from a couple of things Simone said, we should probably check for worse damage than they’ve found so far.’

Marnie straightened up, moving towards the door. ‘I know it’s getting late, and you’re tired. I don’t expect you to stay long.’

Ed said simply, ‘I’ll stay as long as I’m needed.’

‘Thanks. Noah . . . you should go home. There’s no need for all of us to be here.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Go have a social life. I’ll call you when there’s news.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I won’t be around tomorrow, unless something happens at the hospital.’

‘Okay.’ Tomorrow was Saturday; Noah hadn’t expected to see her. Unless, as she said, something happened at the hospital.

‘Plans for the weekend?’ Ed asked, after Noah had left the refuge.

Marnie went to the window, drawing back the corner of the heavy curtain. The sky had dried to scars and neon light; it never really got dark in London.

‘I’m visiting Stephen.’ She let the curtain fall back into place, turning to face Ed.

He ducked his head, fumbling for something in his pocket, conjuring the awkward ghost of his adolescence. ‘How’s that working out?’

‘Not great, if I’m honest.’ She kept her voice light. ‘If it were up to him, he wouldn’t see me. But his solicitor says it’ll look good, going forward.’

‘It’s a long drive.’ Ed’s hair was in his eyes. ‘If you want company . . .’

‘You don’t want to spend your weekend like that.’

‘True. I could watch
Buffy
reruns and try to beat my personal best for cramming Kettle Chips.’

She smiled at him. ‘All right, now I
have
to take you. Seven o’clock start, though.’

She thought this would put him off, but he nodded. ‘I’ll be ready.’

‘About Simone . . . I know you said you couldn’t tell me, but Lowell . . .’ The threatening letter was folded in her pocket. ‘Is he part of the story?’

He was surprised. ‘She told you?’

‘Hope told me. She said Lowell threatened Simone.’

Ed’s eyes clouded. ‘Recently?’

Marnie took the letter from her pocket and unfolded it, handing it across to Ed, who read the scrawled words in silence.

‘No date.’ He handed the letter back.

‘No date,’ she agreed. ‘Does it sound like Lowell to you?’

‘From what she told me? No. But I haven’t seen his writing.’

‘Where
is
Lowell?’ she asked. ‘In London?’

‘Yes. The last I heard . . . Yes.’

‘So if he’s traced Simone to the refuge . . . Do we need to move her?’

‘
If
he has.’ Ed paused. ‘She didn’t tell me about the letter.’

‘Should she have done? As a condition of her place in the refuge, or to keep you in the picture?’

‘No. No, there’s no requirement for that. Just . . . I thought she trusted me.’ He smiled a bit. ‘My ego. Sorry.’

He didn’t have any ego. Or if he did, she’d seen no evidence of it. ‘Speak with Simone. I’ll make sure someone’s here with the women over the weekend. At least we know the place is secure again.’ Her Friday night all sorted out. No space for second thoughts about tomorrow’s trip.

‘I’ll pick you up,’ she told Ed. ‘Tomorrow at seven.’

‘I’ll be ready.’

15

By 8 p.m., King’s Cross was shaping up to sleazy, on the safe side of its rush hour for sex, drugs and dodgy music. Outside, the club was a blaze of blue neon. Inside, it was packed with people, none of whom was Dan Noys.

Dan had texted to say he was running late. Noah ordered a shot of vodka, to get a head start on the night. He needed to forget about his day. The refuge, all those lives twisted out of shape by hate and fear. The mirror behind the bar gave back a slice of his face, faceted by glass. He swallowed the vodka and turned to look around the club.

Music thumped from a sound system, inviting couples to dance. Two men were circling with the rhythm, hands on each other’s hips. Away from the dance floor, other couples were drinking or chatting, groping or kissing. Noah started to relax; this was his version of daytime television: the definition of normal . . .

A warm hand touched his shoulder.

‘You’ve pulled . . .’ Dan kissed his neck.

Noah reached up, curling his palm to the shape of Dan’s face, holding him to the kiss until he was done conveying relief, gratitude and raw need.

‘Vodka?’ Dan poked at Noah’s empty glass. He was wearing his oldest jeans and a white T-shirt, with Red Chili climbing shoes. ‘We’re drinking tequila.’

They took the shots to a dark corner, where Dan leaned Noah up against a pillar and revived the kiss, urgently, as if his day had also been something he wanted to forget. He spent his week managing artists and their egos. Some nights he came home more knackered than Noah.

‘Thank fuck,’ Dan said hazily, ‘for Friday.’

He came up for air eventually, going to fetch another round from the bar. After which, there was licking salt off each other’s necks and sucking lime from each other’s lips, until Noah’s mouth started to buzz and sting.

‘You guys want something stronger?’

Noah glanced up, seeing a stranger. Plaid shirt, eyebrow ring, right hand in the back pocket of his jeans.

Noah shook his head. ‘Thanks.’

‘You sure?’ Plaid Shirt showed his palm, sweaty. Pills in a plastic bag.

Dan flashed a warning with his eyes. ‘We’re sure.’

Plaid strolled away.

‘Good job your boss wasn’t here to see that,’ Dan said.

Noah rolled his neck, sticky from the lime.

‘Reckon she’s out on the razz?’ Dan sucked the zest from his thumb. ‘DI Rome.’

Noah didn’t answer. He didn’t know how Marnie spent her Friday nights, or her weekends. None of his business.

‘Unless she’s
happily married
. . .’ Dan mused. ‘Maybe she’s got an ex. She looks the type. She’s a ball-breaker, DI Rome.’

‘I’m switching to Pepsi, you want one?’ Noah moved away in the direction of the bar, not wanting a conversation – the usual conversation – about work.

Dan thought the police was a crazy career choice, for anyone. ‘Debased’ was the word he used. Also corrupt, ill-founded and run ineptly by people with rotten agendas. All this, and then Noah being half-Jamaican, to top it off. Had he made any friends during training? No, but he hadn’t become a detective to make friends. He’d done it to make a difference. To people like Ayana Mirza, who’d fought to save Leo Proctor’s life even though he was a stranger and possibly a wife-beater, someone who didn’t deserve to be saved.

Across the room, Plaid Shirt was palming his pills off on another couple. Perhaps Noah should revise his definition of normal . . .

They’d made a difference, Noah and Ayana, to Leo Proctor’s chances of survival. But what about the women in the refuge, what about Ayana herself?

Had Noah made a difference to how safe she was in that place, with its new stain on the carpet and the hole in its roof? How safe did she feel, right this minute? While Noah was ordering Pepsi in a bar full of people for whom ‘stranger’ meant guilt-free sex, no strings attached . . .

How safe was Ayana Mirza and the strangers she was living with, at that rain-ruined refuge in Finchley?

16

The rain had left breath marks on the inside of the refuge windows. Simone stretched her arm between the curtains to place her palm on the glass. It was cold and hard, slippery. She spread her fingers flat to the wet, thinking how her hand must look from the street outside. A hand with no body attached, the curtains hiding the rest of her from view.

Was the car still there, watching?

She had seen it when the police took Hope away: a parked car with its wipers working, jerking rain from the windscreen.

Someone was out there, watching. There was always someone. Simone was scared for Hope. It wasn’t safe to leave here, not on your own. Not ever.

She drew her hand back through the curtains to study the spots of wet in her palm. She hadn’t washed yet. Hope’s blood had dried between her fingers. Unless it was Leo’s. She lifted her hand and sniffed at it. The rain had a metal smell, like buckets, or bullets. She touched the tip of her tongue to the skin between her fingers – just a touch, a taste – and knew it was Hope’s blood. It tasted too sweet to belong to a man. She turned away from the chill of the window, seeing the flat shape of the bed.

Hope’s room was nearly empty. Simone had wanted to be the first in here after they’d taken Hope to the hospital. To protect Hope’s space, her few possessions. Instead, the policeman had been first, searching with his eyes and his hands – for what? Another knife?

How did she get the knife, Simone?

She had told DS Jake that it was a test. That Leo didn’t think Hope would
dare
. . .

Leo had broken Hope into a thousand pieces, Simone knew. Hope had told her, not everything, but enough. Even if she had said nothing, Simone would have known. She had known the roof was leaking before the cracks came, and long before the rain tore a hole up there.

Broken things were like bad mirrors; they gave out a peculiar light, like . . . catching sight of your face in a pail of milk spoiled by a thunderstorm.

Simone had known that Hope was in pieces before they ever said a word to one another. In the dark, in this room, she had given her hands for Hope to hold. In silence, sitting together, listening to the silence. Hers and Hope’s.

Everyone else asked questions. Simone was sick of questions. With Hope, it was different. It was as if, a long time ago, she had dropped a pebble into a well and now – soon – she would hear it hit the water down there. Deep down, in the dark. But not yet. Not until the silence was done with them.

There was healing in the silence. To sit like that, with your hands in another’s, not speaking but
knowing
. . . Simone could feel herself mending. And Hope, too.

She had told this to the policeman, DS Jake. Told him how Leo hurt Hope. How, when you were broken, you mended in a different way.

She folded her hand into a fist, slowly, hiding the wet from the window in the creases of her palm.

You mend hard.

17

Five years ago

The court is stiflingly hot. Every half-hour, a slice of cold makes it through the primitive air-conditioning unit to snap at her ankles, before the heat eats it up.

Stephen sits in the dock with his head bowed, a yoke of shadow on his shoulders. His defence team has coached him in how to sit. ‘Keep your eyes down,’ they’ve told him. ‘Look sorry.’ It’s what Marnie would’ve told him, if she’d been responsible for his defence. She isn’t, of course. She’s here, in the words of the prosecutor, to see justice done. Whatever that means. She knew once, or thought she did.

They want her to give an impact statement, to stand up and tell this room of strangers how it feels, what he did. She’s refused, because what could she say?

‘The pain’s in my head today, above my left ear. It’s possible to put a knife there, if you hit hard enough. He put a knife into my mother’s head there. I don’t know why.’

If she took the stand that’s all she’d say: ‘I don’t know why. I want to know why.’