Chapter Eighteen
Time melts into a blur of miserable sleep.
Sam has come to know these as her dark days.
There have been a lot of them in her life.
Ever since she found her mother at the bottom of the stairs when she was nine years old, the dark days have hovered in the background.
They hit her again when her father died, ten years after her mother.
And more recently when DS Phil Lowry assaulted her and her godfather destroyed her fragile trust all over again.
She should get out of bed. She should take a pill and call someone, but she has no one to call.
Apart from Dr. Thomson, and she can’t face him.
Sam knows she’ll do none of the things she should do to feel better.
Things like showering, taking a walk, eating a healthy meal.
That’s possibly the worst thing about this, Sam thinks.
Knowing how to help yourself and being utterly incapable of fighting the overwhelming urge to do the exact opposite.
Sam pulls her duvet closer around her and curls into a ball.
She ignores the need to eat. She ignores Adam Taylor calling her name through the letterbox.
She ignores the hurt that Harry doesn’t even try to visit.
She lets the dark days roll into one another, until they become a week, then two.
The most she manages to do is empty a whole bag of kibble into a casserole dish and put new puppy pads down for the dog.
Toni barely leaves her side. The little scruff rests his head on her waist and it feels like someone who loves her is holding her.
When she cries, he whines and tries to lick her tears away.
When she drags herself to the toilet, he waits for her outside the door.
When she turns over in bed, he pushes his warm weight into her.
It’s black outside when the dark days ease into gray ones and Sam makes it to the kitchen for a slice of toast from a freezer loaf and a single tablet.
Fuck you, Prozac. The kitchen is in an unspeakable state and Toni watches as Sam puts on some kitchen gloves then cleans up the dirty pads and sprays bleach over the lino before mopping it down.
Once she’s sorted the kitchen, she crawls back upstairs, washes her hands and face, and climbs back into bed.
The next morning, when the birds start to sing outside, Toni barks and jumps around on the duvet.
“Sshhh,” Sam says, but he won’t stop. Eventually, she sits up and the barking ceases. She lies down again and it starts once more. She sits back up. “OK, OK, I’ll get up. But the sofa is the best I can do.”
They curl up on the sofa together and Sam uses her old laptop to order a pizza. It’ll be the first full meal she’s eaten in a fortnight and her stomach cramps in expectation.
As she waits for the takeaway, Sam flicks on the TV, ready for the familiar comfort of Only Fools and Horses.
Instead, she’s immediately hit with the headlines.
SHOULD SERIAL KILLER’S FAMILY BE GRANTED ANONYMITY?
scrolls across the screen. Sam switches channel.
DCI BLAKELAW ANNOUNCES RETIREMENT FOLLOWING RECENT TRIUMPHS.
There are photographs of Jack Mathers in handcuffs alongside grainy images of Andrei “Denver Brady” Albescu.
The only relief Sam can feel is that there are no pictures of Nadja or the children; they seem safe, at least for now.
A news presenter standing in front of New Scotland Yard’s famous rotating sign lets her know that Andrei Albescu has been charged with the murders of Melanie Davison and Betty Brown, plus arson and other offenses.
Words like “overwhelming evidence” and “expected to plead guilty” make Sam throw the TV remote at the wall.
She instantly regrets the decision, because she now can’t quickly turn off when the camera cuts to Harry’s face.
“Thank you, yes, this is indeed a great day, a great time, for the Metropolitan Police. Two killers behind bars. I cannot say much more, as we will be working hard to secure convictions of these men, which I’m convinced, in the face of significant circumstantial and forensic evidence, we will achieve.
The dedication of my team, my SIO Tina Edris and her colleagues, has been exemplary. That’s all, thank you.”
Sam curses, retrieves the remote and switches channel once again.
She watches as reporters livestream from around the country.
A camera pans to a large group gathered outside 10 Downing Street, then cuts to another at Albert Dock in Liverpool, before settling outside York Minster.
“Jesus Christ,” Sam says to Toni. “It’s everywhere. ”
A reporter asks a young woman with red lipstick why she’s protesting.
“The British public is sick and tired of dead women and girls. There are dead women everywhere. Dead in their homes. Dead in our parks. Husbands killing wives. Dads killing daughters. Strangers killing anyone. We’ve even got policemen killing and raping women.
We want it to stop.” The small crowd stands behind the camera and the woman turns to them, her fist pumping the sky as she shouts, “Make Britain safe for women! Make Britain safe for girls!” The chant gets picked up instantly and the camera zooms back out, the reporter handing back over to the studio.
Sam sighs and flicks over to Only Fools and Horses.