The jump, p.12
The Jump, page 12
‘Fuck you.’
Ellie turned and nodded at the picture of Sam in his blazer. He seemed a lot younger in the photo, an innocent wee boy waiting for the world to happen to him.
‘Don’t you want to know about Sam?’
Something softened in Alison’s voice. ‘Tell me.’
‘He didn’t have any money so I bought him a drink.’
‘He’s only seventeen.’
Ellie nodded. ‘That’s old enough.’
‘Why won’t he come home?’ Alison’s voice wavered, real concern, her fists clenching at her side.
‘Why do you think?’
Alison rubbed at the back of her head. ‘I wish I knew.’
Her breathing was shaky and her body swayed.
Ellie suddenly felt sorry for her. ‘Maybe we should sit down.’
Alison nodded, moved backwards till her hand found the arm of the sofa, then lowered herself. It was the motion of a woman in trouble.
Ellie sat on the other sofa. ‘Look at me, Alison.’
Alison raised her head.
Ellie spoke. ‘What happened here?’
Alison’s eyes flitted round the room as if she might find the answers in a dusty corner.
‘You saw it on the news, you know what happened.’
‘I want you to tell me.’
‘What did Sam say?’
Ellie shook her head, stayed silent.
Alison took a deep breath. ‘Someone came into our home, that’s what happened, and they stabbed my husband and left him for dead.’
‘Were there any signs of a break-in?’
Alison pressed her lips tight and frowned. ‘No, but the front door was unlocked, they could have just walked in.’
‘And why would a stranger do that?’
‘How should I know? Jack is a police officer, maybe some maniac criminal had it in for him.’
‘And what about Sam?’
‘What about him?’
‘Why do you think he’s been missing for two days?’
Alison’s head went down. ‘I don’t know. He’s my little boy and I don’t know where he is.’ She was almost crying. ‘Maybe he saw something and got scared. I just want him to come home. Where’s he been since Monday?’
‘He told me he was sleeping rough.’
‘Whereabouts?’
Ellie shook her head. ‘He didn’t say.’
‘Does he have his phone? I’ve tried it a hundred times. Why doesn’t he answer? Why would he speak to you and not me?’
‘Maybe because I’m a stranger. Maybe there’s stuff at home he can’t face.’
Alison wiped at her eyes. ‘What do you mean?’
‘How’s Libby?’
Alison stared at her hands.
‘I came here yesterday to see her,’ Ellie said. ‘Did you realise that?’
Alison pulled a hand over her face, rubbed at her skin.
‘Sam asked me to check on her,’ Ellie continued. ‘Why would he do that?’
‘Because he cares about his little sister.’
Ellie looked round the room, at the doorway. ‘Maybe he thinks she’s in danger here.’
Alison stood up, her hands balled tight. ‘What are you getting at? Why would Libby be in danger?’
Ellie stayed in her seat. ‘You tell me.’
Alison took a step forward. ‘I think you’d better leave.’
‘Then you’re not going to hear from Sam again.’
Alison hesitated.
Ellie nodded at the sofa. ‘Sit down.’
Alison obliged.
Ellie played with the wedding ring on her finger.
‘Sam told me about something that happened here, in this house. Your home. Libby told me as well.’
Alison frowned. ‘When did you speak to Libby?’
Ellie ignored the question. ‘Do you know what I’m talking about?’
Alison shook her head.
‘Try harder,’ Ellie said.
‘I can’t,’ Alison said. Her hand gripped the arm of the sofa.
Ellie sighed and looked at the family photos on the mantelpiece. ‘I understand what it’s like, that feeling of the kids getting away from you. Trust me, I know. One day they’re toddlers following you from room to room, asking for snacks or needing their noses wiped. The next minute they’re monosyllabic zombies, locked away in their rooms, faces buried in their phones. Then the next moment they’re gone.’
She stopped, regained her composure.
‘But how could you not know?’ she said.
Alison shook her head but didn’t speak.
‘How could you not know?’ Ellie repeated.
Alison’s eyes were wet. ‘Know what?’ she whispered.
Ellie felt her heart in her chest, a trapped animal. ‘That your husband is abusing your daughter, right here under your roof.’
Alison’s eyes widened. ‘No.’
Ellie nodded. ‘Upstairs, in her bedroom.’
‘Don’t say that,’ Alison said.
‘He goes into her room and plays with her until he gets hard, then he makes her suck his cock.’
Alison shot out the sofa. ‘How dare you . . .’
Ellie cut her off. ‘He’s been doing it for years. When you’re out, when he’s alone in the house with her. How does that make you feel?’
‘Get out,’ Alison shouted. ‘Get out of my fucking house.’
‘Are you proud of your good policeman husband now?’
‘I said get out. Now.’
‘Standing by your man, that’s nice.’
‘He would never do anything like that,’ Alison said, voice shaky. ‘My Jack would never harm a hair on Libby’s head.’
‘Ask him.’
‘I don’t need to ask him, I know.’
‘Ask Libby,’ Ellie said.
‘You’re sick,’ Alison said. ‘That’s what this is. You’ve seen our story on the news, you’ve somehow found out about my kids, and you’ve come here and made all this up for attention. Get the hell out of my house, I’m calling the police.’
‘Just ask Libby.’
‘Get out.’
Alison came towards Ellie, reached for her arm but Ellie shrugged her off. She stood looking at Alison, staring at her.
‘Get out,’ Alison said again.
‘I’m going.’ Ellie walked out the room to the front door, opened it, Alison behind her.
Ellie turned before she took a step outside.
‘Open your eyes, Alison,’ she said. ‘Before it’s too late.’
25
She ran. She had no idea where she was going, just wanted to get away, feel her feet pounding on the concrete, her body moving away from Inchcolm Terrace and Alison, from confrontation, away from Sam and Libby and the mess she was involved in.
She ran so she didn’t have to think, her body took over, she had to concentrate on breathing, the molecules going in and out of her mouth, her bloodstream, her pulse pumping energy from her heart through her stomach to her legs. She ran to feel the rhythm of it, settled into the thud, thud of her heels on the ground. She was wearing the wrong shoes, casual trainers, and the wrong clothes, clinging to her as she began to work up a sweat, but she didn’t care, she just kept on.
Gradually she began to be aware of where she was. She’d gone in the opposite direction from it all, up the back roads of the Ferry, east towards Dalmeny, vaguely aware of the A90 somewhere behind the trees on her right, sweeping towards Edinburgh. She turned left and found herself on a farm lane, views of Dalgety Bay across the Forth, her legs aching and her arms still thrusting away, as if she knew what she was doing, where she was going.
She turned at the end of the track, passed some cottages and realised where she was, heading back into the Ferry from the east side, close to Dalmeny railway station. Her breath was short, a wheeze in her chest. She headed towards the train station. She’d waited on that platform hundreds of times for trains into the city, always looking the other way, over the bridge. In the last six months whenever she’d stood there, she imagined jumping on to the tracks, not suicide, not that way at least. She imagined leaping on to the gravel between the rusty rails and sprinting in the direction of the bridge, it wasn’t far, she could make it easily. She wondered if she could run all the way over the rail bridge before a train came and crushed her, or before railway security managed to stop her. She imagined the bridge from Iain Banks’ book, an entire civilisation living inside the legs and arms of the structure. Everyone in the Ferry knew that book, Iain had lived over the water in North Queensferry, he was one of their own.
She didn’t stop at the station now but pounded on, pulled towards the shoreline by the gravity of the sea, the power of the water that had taken Logan, her home calling her as she leapt down the steep stairs below the rail bridge, through the thick trees, coming out on Shore Road at the east end of the village by the legs of the rail bridge.
Without looking she ran across the road to the bridge leg, where she stopped and placed her shaking hands against the stonework. Her breath heaved and her lungs ached, her legs trembled as she used the bridge for support. Three tourists walked past, sauntering into the village, staring at her. She wasn’t dressed like a jogger, so why was she out of breath? What was she running from?
As she stood there, that comforting rumble of the train overhead, click-clack of wheels on rails, the rattle of people going places a hundred feet above her head.
If she’d run on to the bridge like she imagined, the train would be bearing down on her now. She wouldn’t even be halfway across. Maybe she would’ve just lain down and let it crush her. Maybe she would’ve jumped over the side, like her son. Maybe she would’ve stood tall, a character in a superhero movie, and the train would explode on impact. She would walk away unharmed, to save the planet from annihilation.
*
Back home and the water was calling her as she stood in the kitchen gazing out the window. She had a note from Ben in her hand, he’d gone out flyering again, somehow convinced after their boat trip yesterday that something was up with the new bridge.
She jogged upstairs, stripped and got changed into her wetsuit, stretching the material and pulling her limbs into it. There was a little more room than before from the weight she’d lost, the rubber rippling and bunching at her stomach and thighs.
She went out the back door, not bothering to lock it, pulling the cap over her head, pushing stray strands of hair under the silicon. She didn’t stop to think, just dived in, the best way to acclimatise, the body used to the cold within seconds. She began stroking straight away, stroke and push, stroke and kick. She was already tired from the run but she had to feel empty, wanted to keep going until there was nothing left inside her. Swim until you can’t see land.
She concentrated on her breathing again, in out, in out, angling her head to the side, then face in the water, up to the side, down, pushing the slick Forth behind her, overwhelmed by the grey swells, the waves making her adjust her stroke, constantly monitoring her body, checking her strength, her muscles talking to her.
Before she knew it she was two hundred yards out. She pictured a huge ocean liner or ferry bearing down on her, the sharp edge of the bow splurging the water aside as it thundered over her, pummelling her body, whipping in the force of the undertow, ripping her to shreds in the wake of the engines. She imagined Logan falling from the bridge directly on top of her, the two of them spiralling downwards with the force of it, held in each other’s embrace, tumbling to the silt and sediment of the bottom, sucked into the mud, unable to break free, kissing each other one last time before they let the ocean into their lungs.
She stopped and treaded water, taking in her surroundings. It felt so free to be out here, unshackled from earth for a moment. But then she began to think about Sam and Libby, Ben and Logan, Jack and Alison, all of them leaking in through the cracks. She started swimming back to shore, breath shortening, limbs stretching, muscles screaming. She concentrated on staying alive and moving, always moving forward.
She was a hundred yards out from shore, arms and legs burning, a good burn. She had slowed down but that was fine, she was still going forward, pushing the past behind her, pushing the waves behind her, pushing her life behind her one stroke at a time.
She spotted Ben standing on shore, cup of coffee in one hand, towel in the other. She couldn’t make out his face yet, too far away, as she pummelled through the water, the surface splash salty on her lips, the taste of it like sweat and fish and freedom.
Then she was only twenty yards out, able to put her feet down and wade the rest of the way. She stumbled on the pebbles underfoot, her legs jelly from the exertion, and wiped her eyes. She saw now that Ben was frowning. He held out the towel and stepped to the side, his head nodding back to the house, where two uniformed police officers were sitting at the kitchen table drinking tea.
26
‘This is not a formal interview, Mrs Napier, we just want a little chat.’
Ellie looked around. This wasn’t an interview room, didn’t look anything like she’d seen on television crime dramas, they were just sitting in the corner of a regular open-plan office, computer and paperwork on the desk, spreadsheets and forms pinned to a noticeboard, a couple of framed awards mounted on the wall.
They were at the back of the police station, so the view out the window was of someone’s garage and an overgrown lawn. Round the front of the station were the Forth and her house, where Ben was waiting.
She’d told him not to come. The police wanted to talk to her about her visit to the McKennas’ house, and Jack’s attempted murder. They seemed happy to talk at her kitchen table but she wanted them out, wanted to distance the whole thing from what was left of her family. So she told Ben not to come to the station. He’d mentioned getting a solicitor but the female officer said there was no need, it was strictly informal. And anyway, Ellie thought, they didn’t have a solicitor. Who has a criminal lawyer in real life?
She’d gone upstairs, dried off, changed into her clothes and walked with them to the station. Now she was sitting in this ordinary office, facing the two cops. She didn’t recognise either of them, she’d thought she might, from Logan’s suicide, or just from around town. She was surprised about that, it couldn’t be much of a police force in such a small station.
The female officer was about the same age as her, maybe a little younger, auburn hair pulled into a ponytail, sleek, well conditioned. Her nails had been done recently, she took care of her appearance. Ellie saw a wedding ring and wondered if she had kids. The male officer was younger, just a kid really, mid-twenties, confident, sharp haircut, smelling of cologne, expensive, chunky watch on his wrist.
‘Ellie.’ It was the woman officer, a sympathetic note in her voice. Were they going to do good cop, bad cop, did police really do that?
‘My name is PC Macdonald, this is PC Wood. Do you know why you’re here?’
‘No.’
‘Alison McKenna contacted us,’ Macdonald said. ‘You know who I mean?’
Ellie nodded.
‘She said you’ve been round to see her.’ Macdonald had a notepad and pen at the ready. Ellie noticed she’d already written Ellie’s name and the date at the top of the page and underlined it. ‘Have you visited her home?’
Ellie nodded again.
‘Why?’
Ellie rolled her wedding ring round her finger. She felt something like tears beginning to well up inside her, felt her stomach lurch, bile rise in her throat.
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know?’ This was the young guy, Wood, incredulous. He got a look from the woman. Ellie wondered about the power balance between these two. He would resent having a woman as his boss. They were the same rank but she was older, more experienced, in charge.
Ellie kept looking at her hands in her lap.
Macdonald stared at her. ‘Mrs McKenna says you made accusations about her husband, Police Sergeant Jack McKenna. Is that true?’
Ellie lifted her head and looked at the certificates on the wall.
‘Mrs Napier?’
Ellie shook her head, sniffed. ‘No, I never said anything about her husband.’
‘Do you know PS McKenna?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know Mrs McKenna?’
‘No.’
‘Then why go to her house?’ Macdonald flicked a page back in her notebook. ‘She says you’ve visited twice in the last two days, is that correct?’
‘Yes,’ Ellie said.
‘Why?’
‘I wanted to offer sympathy.’
‘Sympathy?’
Ellie rubbed at her palm with her thumb. ‘I know what it’s like to have trouble in the family.’
Macdonald cocked her head to the side. ‘Your son Logan.’
Ellie nodded.
‘But this is very different,’ Macdonald continued. ‘This was a violent assault, attempted murder. What’s it got to do with you?’
‘Nothing,’ Ellie said. ‘I just felt . . . I get confused. I’m on medication, you see. Since Logan.’
Wood leaned forward, he’d had enough. ‘Alison said you made accusations about her husband. A good cop.’
Ellie shook her head.
‘She also said you’d been in touch with her son, Sam. Is that true?’
Ellie shook her head again. ‘I made that up.’
‘Why would you do something like that?’
Ellie felt tears well up in her eyes. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know,’ Wood said. ‘This is ridiculous.’
‘Have you been in touch with Sam McKenna?’ Macdonald said, voice softer.
‘No.’ Ellie sniffled as she spoke. ‘I made it all up.’
‘Why?’
‘I saw in the news that he was missing,’ Ellie said, tears down her cheeks now. ‘I imagined what it must be like for him, alone out there somewhere, not wanting to go home.’
‘What do you know about the attack on Jack McKenna?’ Wood said.
Macdonald shot him a look.
‘Nothing,’ Ellie said.
‘Were you anywhere near Inchcolm Terrace two days ago?’
Ellie shook her head. She wondered about CCTV, Neighbourhood Watch, if there was evidence. She had been all over that place, if they could just find out. It was only a matter of time, surely, but the fact they were asking meant they didn’t have anything yet.
