Chapter 25 #2
I don’t know what the sound is that makes me raise my head at last. Something is scraping and scratching, sounds like it’s in the walls, and then there’s a soft thump and out of the corner of my eye I see a small movement.
Something is lying on the thick carpet by the door. I wipe my eyes and squint at it.
It’s a key. It’s the key. It’s the key I boasted out loud to Chloe was in the door on my side. I let out one more sob and scrabble over there on hands and knees, fumbling it back into the keyhole, weeping and shaking, jabbing and poking, trying to force it back where it belongs.
But she has—they have—done something, plugged the keyhole up with something. It sticks to the end of the key and comes through in long strings that scorch my nostrils with the stench and make my fingertips stick to the key and then to the floor.
I can hear Chloe laugh and thump on the door, and I know she shouts more jeering words at me, but I can’t hear her over my own weeping.
I’m still trying to get the key into the glued-up hole, jabbing and twisting, ripping my skin and beginning to despair when I hear Chloe’s footsteps race away. She must be thundering down the stairs but it comes to me through the soundproofed door like the patter of little mice feet.
And I’m sure I know what’s happened to make her go.
She didn’t know I’d called the police, did she?
I scurry back over to the window and press myself hard up against the hole I made.
David is gone, and I can see—I’m sure I can see, almost convinced I’m not imagining—a faint blue cast coming and going rhythmically on the dark trees at the end of the back garden.
I don’t hesitate. I take my stupid little floral hammer and break the biggest pane of glass, tapping out all the shards at the edges just like I did at the nursing home, then I back through the hole, gripping onto the windowsill under my arms, feeling my legs dangle into terrifying emptiness until I find the tiniest toehold in the mortar between two blocks of stone.
For what feels like ten minutes but must be mere seconds, I crouch there, hugging the windowsill, pressed against the wall like a limpet. John flashes in my mind, standing under the tree, jeering at me, and I start to whimper. I am finished. I can’t do this. I’ve got no courage left.
My plan might have worked if I’d got the chance to carry it out.
But I can’t. I’m done. I’ve come this far, survived this long, hiding my body and my mind from what they couldn’t bear, living in my stories, willing my brain not to break, brave enough to recognise love when it came, strong enough to keep going when I lost it. But I’m finished.
“Sorry, Peggy,” I whisper.
Then I gasp. Peggy! I take a deep breath and tell myself that if Peggy could do what she did, I can do this. This window isn’t so very high; maids don’t get soaring ceilings. The worst that will happen is a broken ankle. I have to try.
I shift first one hand and then the other, chickening out when I feel the weight of my dangling body.
If I was a weightlifter maybe I could do this slowly, in complete control, but I know, as soon as I stop gripping with the whole length of my arms, I’m going to slither down the wall and hit the ground. I just need to do it, and maybe pray.
“Peggy,” I say, and let go.
It takes me a good couple of seconds of sprawling on the wet grass before I can believe that I haven’t smashed any bit of myself. I roll onto my side, clamber to my feet, and totter towards the back door.
I burst into the kitchen to find the four of them sitting cosily round the table, Chloe and David, wearing worried faces, side-by-side like the couple they are and two police—a man and a woman—calm and steady, like they’ve seen it all before.
“Lindsay, sweetheart!” Chloe says, jumping up and coming towards me.
I put my arm straight out with my hand up to stop her from touching me.
She turns to the police and gives a helpless gesture, as if to say that this is what she’s been telling them: I’m crazy.
“Where did you spring from then?” says David, smiling at me. “I thought you were holed up for the night.”
“I got out the window,” I said.
“You jumped out of an upstairs—?” Chloe tries to say, all fake concern.
I turn to address the coppers as if she doesn’t exist. “Has someone gone to Lord’s Yard?” I say. “There are six bodies buried there.”
“Lindsay, darling,” says Chloe. “You’re soaking wet. How long have you been out in the garden? We thought you were in your little safe room.”
The male copper stands up. “All right, hen,” he says to Chloe. “All right. We’re going to take care of all that for you. Lindsay, is it? Well, don’t you worry about a thing, Lindsay. Everything’s going to be okay.”
“I don’t know what they’ve told you,” I say, “but you need to check every word of it. This is my house, and I don’t want them in it. Please get rid of them and then I’d really appreciate it if you put someone on the gate overnight till I can find somewhere else to go.”
“We’ve found you somewhere, Lindsay love,” says the woman copper. She’s younger than her colleague and less world weary. She looks embarrassed, but not for herself. For me. It’s pity I can see in her eyes. “You’ll be safe and comfortable there till we can get you the help you need.”
“It’s my house!” I say, louder and not quite so in control of my voice suddenly.
“Now, now,” says the man, “you must know that’s not true. It’s Dr. March’s house, isn’t it? He was born here. And maybe you can come back when you’re feeling better but we’ll have to see.”
“There are six bodies buried in the back of Lord’s Yard in Menstrie,” I say. “Six elderly people, murdered by these two who’ve fooled you here tonight. And John Lord, and Farmer George and Nicotine Ned—that’s not their names—but you need to believe me.”
“We do believe you,” says the woman. She’s been on a course, I think. She’s learned not to argue with deluded people. “And we want to hear all about it. So why don’t you come with us?”
“Where?” I ask. If it’s a hospital, they’ll phone John. But, it only right now occurs to me, if I’m headed to a jail cell, it’ll be a lawyer.
Chloe turns sharply to look at David and he gives his head a tiny warning shake.
“There!” I say. “Did you see that?”
“We can help you not see whatever it is you can see that’s upsetting you,” the woman says. “Come with us.”
“And don’t worry,” the sergeant says. “You’re not under arrest, Lindsay.”
No, I think. But I will be.
Because it’s just occurred to me exactly who I need to speak to and how I’m going to make it happen too.
I go quietly, keeping up just enough resistance and distress to stop Chloe and David from getting suspicious.
I let the two coppers lead me squelching through the hall and out the front door.
I let them help me into the back of the panda, the woman even laying a gentle hand on my head, although I’ve not got cuffs on and I could do it without assistance.
David and Chloe stand together on the step, all concerned and united.
I sit quietly on the back seat, soaking it, breathing in the stink of booze and puke from their usual customers and the fug of fried food and old coffee from the coppers themselves, until they get me to the emergency parking space at Forth Valley.
Then, when I step out, before I’ve even finished moving, I punch the sergeant in the throat as hard as I can.
He must be trained in self-defence, surely, but maybe because it’s so unexpected he doesn’t get a hand up to stop the blow.
He swears and bends over, coughing. His colleague hasn’t a clue what to do.
She moves a hand towards her belt as if to get her handcuffs, but she’s still dithering when the sergeant straightens up again.
There’s fury in his eyes, a rage born of wounded pride as much as physical pain.
It doesn’t help that a couple of drunks standing smoking at the A&E doorway give me a cheer and a shout of encouragement.
Well, it doesn’t help him and his ego, but I’m hoping it helps me. I’m hoping I’ve read him right. I certainly don’t want to hit the girl. Apart from anything else, now that they’re on their guard, she’d no doubt hit me back a lot harder.
But all’s well. I’ve got the sergeant taped.
“Aye right, have it your own way,” he says in a hard voice, spiriting a set of handcuffs into being and clicking them smoothly onto my wrists before I can move.
“A night in the tank it is. Lindsay Lord, I am arresting you for unlawful entry of private property, verbal assault, physical assault, assaulting a police officer . . .”
“Lindsay Hale,” I say. “And now I get my phone call. Thank you.”
He smirks at me, which I don’t understand, but he says nothing.
First I get an overnight stay in jail. The sergeant I hit and the guy who books me in seem to think, quite sincerely, that I must be upset about this development, but as far as I’m concerned I’m safer here in this concrete box than anywhere else I can think of.
John and Shelley could probably have talked me out of a psychiatric ward and then God knows what would have become of me.
I’m safe, but not comfortable. There’s a stink worse than the squad car—of cheap bleach and disinfectant over a base note of drains and damp—and the paint on the concrete is shiny and comfortless.
It’s blinding white too, and the light is kept on all night, bouncing off the floor, walls, bunk shelf, desk shelf, stool shelf, and ceiling, until my head aches from it.
The only relief is to pull the thin blanket over my face, breathing in the soap powder until my nostrils start to sting, and think about Peggy drinking Bunny’s tea (I hope he doesn’t make her Lapsang), standing in Bunny’s shower (I hope she doesn’t feel faint again), or lying in Bunny’s bath (I hope they’re not too prudish to do the sensible thing and let him help her).
I’m pretty sure they’re not. They’re made of stern stuff, both of them.
Then I turn my thoughts away and try to come up with a detailed plan.
There’s not a hope of sleeping, between my wet clothes, the concrete, the light, the smells, and the endless shouts and bangs from elsewhere in the lock-ups, but I don’t care.
I’m glad. I need all night to work out how I’m going to swing this in the morning. My brilliant idea. My long shot.