A Thousand Cuts (14 page)

‘Walter, let go.’ Lucia wrenched her chair just as Walter removed his hand. She spun and hit her knee against her desk. She bit down on her cry just as it threatened to escape her mouth.

‘Walter. Get in here.’ It was Cole, watching from the door to his office.

Walter held up a finger.

‘Would you shoot me, Lulu? Just because we have our fun. Would you shoot me and say that I deserved it? That I provoked you?’

Lucia held her knee. She did not answer.

‘It’s the same thing, isn’t it? Answer me, Lulu. Would you shoot me?’

Ignoring the pain, she got to her feet. ‘No, Walter. I wouldn’t shoot you. That would be like admitting that you bothered me.’ She bumped shoulders with Walter as she passed him. ‘Besides,’ she said and she turned. ‘A bullet would be too quick. You wouldn’t feel it. No, Walter. I’d use something blunt.’

 

The car park was beneath the building, not quite underground but covered and hemmed in by thick concrete columns. The light was poor. The sun had not yet set, though it was dragging the day with it as it dipped towards the horizon. Lucia peered into her bag for her keys. She gave up and tried rummaging with her hand. She shook the bag, peered in again.

She was late heading home only because she had waited for Cole to leave first. After that she had waited for Walter. She had hoped Cole would tell her something, that Walter might let something slip. Neither one of them had obliged. Instead, she would have to read about it in the papers. She would hear it on the news. It was her case but she would hear what had been decided on the news.

Lucia’s Volkswagen was parked in the corner furthest from the stairwell, opposite a line of empty squad cars. She reached it before she had found her keys. The light on the wall was faulty: it buzzed and it fizzed and it flickered on and off. Lucia angled the bag towards it. She cursed, dropped on to the balls of her feet and tipped the contents of the bag on to the floor. She found the car keys immediately. She swore again, scooped up the keys and refilled her bag. With her hands pressing on her unbruised knee, she struggled upright.

Walter had hold of her throat before she realised he was there. The bag dropped and the keys dropped and he had her against the wall. She saw his face in the light and then his silhouette and then his face again and she was thinking, that’s twice now, that’s twice I didn’t hear him coming. She could smell him. She could smell his hair, like hotel pillows beneath their cases; his breath, sour and needing water. She could smell oranges. His fingers across her mouth, they smelt of oranges, as though he had been peeling one while he had been waiting.

‘Something blunt. That’s what you said, isn’t it? Something blunt.’ He hissed. As he hissed he spat, he sprayed.

Lucia struggled. She tried swinging an arm but found it pinned. She tried lifting a leg but could barely shift her foot. Walter was against her, his thighs trapping hers, his elbows across her shoulders, his weight keeping her down.

‘How’s this?’ he said and he was wriggling now, the hand on her throat slipping downwards. ‘How’s this for something blunt?’ He shoved her away and she fell, grazing the wall and rebounding from her car. She gagged. She tried to stand and turned her ankle. She tried again. She looked at Walter.

He had his flies open. He had his dick in his hand.

‘How’s this?’ he said again and he moved closer. His crotch was level with Lucia’s eyes. ‘Is this the sort of thing you had in mind?’

Lucia gagged again. She tried to shout but found herself croaking. ‘Get away from me. Get the fuck away from me.’ She raised one hand to her throat. She held out the other in front of her, fingers curled, nails at the ready.

Walter stopped inches from Lucia’s hand. ‘Don’t get overexcited, ’ he said. ‘That’s as close as I’m going to let you get. I just want to show you what you’re missing. What you’re missing and what you’re lacking.’

Lucia swiped but Walter was ready. ‘Whoa! Easy, tiger.’ He cackled. He inched forwards again. ‘Do you see, Lulu? Do you see what I’m telling you? What I’m showing you? You need one of these to do this job. You need two of these.’ He cupped it, thrust towards her with his hips.

Lucia cringed. She withdrew her hand.

‘That’s your problem. That’s why you’re in the mess you’re in.’ He tucked away the thing he was holding. He bent at the waist and zipped his fly. ‘Let me give you some advice, Lulu. Grow some balls. Lose the lip and grow some balls. Because having one and not the other is going to get you into trouble.’

‘Is that it?’ Lucia wheezed. She was still on the floor, still crouched at Walter’s feet. ‘Is that all there is?’

Walter grinned. He shrugged. ‘It may not look like much, darling. But it’s enough to stop me getting weepy about some immigrant kid-killing freak. And if you like—’ he reached for his fly again ‘—if you like I can show you just how big this pal of mine can get.’

‘Walter. Hey, Walter!’

Walter turned and Lucia turned. It sounded like Harry but Lucia could see only Walter and concrete and car.

‘Everything okay? You lost something?’

‘Just helping Lucia here find her keys. She dropped them. Didn’t you, sweetheart?’ He looked down at her. He held out his hand. Lucia knocked it away. She reached past and used the car to steady herself as she stood.

‘Lucia’s there?’ Harry was closer now, a few cars away. Lucia did not look at him but she nodded. She held out her keys. Got them, she tried to say but the words did not get past her throat.

‘Well, that’s me for the day. You remember what I said, Lulu. You remember what I showed you.’ Walter stepped out from behind the car. He nodded at Harry as he passed him, dropped a palm on to his shoulder. ‘Nighty night, ladies.’

Lucia fumbled with the door handle. She jabbed the key at the lock and scraped the paintwork. She tried again. Harry edged towards her.

‘Lucia? Is everything okay?’

Still Lucia did not look at him. She held up her palm. She coughed. ‘Everything’s fine, Harry.’ All she could manage was a whisper.

‘Are you sure? I mean, you don’t sound—’

‘It’s fine.’ The key found the lock and Lucia tugged at the door. ‘Goodnight, Harry.’

She slid inside.

She wanted just to sit but she did not let herself. She tripped the ignition and fastened her seat belt. She did not cry.

She put the car into reverse and released the handbrake. She turned in her seat and eased the vehicle backwards. She did not cry.

When she was clear she applied the brake and shoved the gear lever into first. She released the clutch and eased away. She did not cry.

Harry stood aside to let the car pass. He held up a hand but Lucia stared ahead. She passed the squad cars and slowed at the barrier and pulled out into the road. She did not cry.

Fifty yards on she pulled the Volkswagen to the kerb and killed the engine. She closed her eyes and gripped the wheel and allowed her head to slump against it. She coughed. She swallowed. She did not, would not cry.

And yet the tears came. In spite of herself, Lucia cried. And she cried.

What are these things always about, Inspector?
Samuel taught history, right? So let’s look at history. In all of history, what has been the common motivation in any act of lunacy, of depravity, of desperation? What more than anything else has driven people to steal, to lie, to cheat? To lose their minds sometimes. To kill.

Love, Inspector. Always love. Love of God, love of money, love of power, love of a woman. Of a man too but we’re women, we both know history is written by men so invariably it’s love of a woman. There’s hate of course but hate is just the flip-side of love. Hate is what happens when love turns rotten. Hate comes with betrayal.

I can’t say I knew him well but I know the signs. And I know Maggie. She’s one of my best friends, in or outside of school. And because she’s one of my best friends, I can say what I’m going to say without malice. That’s what friends are for, don’t you think? To praise you when you deserve it but to be honest about it when you don’t. To support you, to be faithful to you but not to lie, not to tell you that you’re right when you know that actually you’re wrong.

Maggie was wrong. What she did, what she’s done: it’s wrong. She should have told him. She shouldn’t have done it in the first place if you want my opinion but when she did she should have told him. She shouldn’t have left him to find out for himself. She shouldn’t have left him to find out how he did, when he did, in the way he did. But I suppose that was part of the plan. I’m not saying there was a plan, not a plan as such, because as much as she was fooling Samuel she was fooling herself. But underneath it all, there was a plan. Deep down, she knew what she wanted. Do you see?

You don’t. You’re lost. I’ve lost you. Where did I lose you?

No, no, no. Since then. Since they broke up.

You mean you don’t know? You didn’t hear? She didn’t tell you, did she? I can’t believe she didn’t tell you. Although I can of course. Of course I can.

I won’t start at the beginning because clearly you know the beginning. I’ll start at the end.

They broke up. Samuel and Maggie. You know this. She told you this. It was a long time coming, them breaking up. She probably told you that as well. Samuel had problems, you see. Clearly he had problems but well before all of this happened it was obvious that he wasn’t coping. Which, by the way, is why Maggie found herself attracted to him. She’s a motherly one, Maggie. I don’t know if she’s ever been with a man she couldn’t mother. They’re kids usually. Not literally of course, I don’t mean literally, but mentally, they’re children. They need protecting. They need looking after. Which shows you how caring Maggie is as a person. Which explains why she’s always so generous as a friend. It’s a strength of hers definitely but also a frailty.

So Samuel, he didn’t settle, he didn’t mix and he didn’t have any control over his students. I don’t know much about his private life but I think that’s partly because there was never very much to know. Maggie, it seemed to me, was his private life. She became his private life. Before she asked him out, Maggie was terrified that he would say no. I told her, no way. Don’t be ridiculous. I said, he’s besotted with you, you can tell. He used to watch her. I used to watch him watching her. Me, I would have found it creepy. Or maybe I wouldn’t have. Maybe I’m just saying that because of what he’s done. Either way, there was no possibility that he would have turned her down. The only reason he might have done would have been because he was shy, scared, afraid of being with a woman. And at one point it occurred to me that maybe he would say no, precisely for that reason, but it was too late to say anything to Maggie by then and anyway he didn’t.

You know all this. She asked him out and he said yes. They went together for a while, a few months, but Samuel had his problems and Maggie couldn’t help, that’s the gist of it. She tried and all the while she was trying she became more . . . more . . . what word should I use? I’m not sure she was in love with him. I hope for her sake that she wasn’t. But she was fond of him. More than that, she was attached to him. Attached like ... I don’t know, like an owner gets to their dog. No, that’s awful. What an awful analogy. Like a nurse, say. Like a nurse to a patient, like in
The English Patient
, you know, the film. All I’m trying to say is that even after they split up, Maggie was still involved. Emotionally. She had the sense to break it off with him because it was going nowhere, it was driving her insane, and as I said to her, she was wasting her life. So she broke up with him but not in the sense that really mattered.

This was oh gosh. February. March maybe. The end of February. But that, really, was just the beginning. It was the beginning of a whole other phase.

They broke up and Samuel said nothing. That’s what Maggie told me. Literally, he said nothing. Okay so maybe it wasn’t a shock but you still might expect a few words. If not of regret then of anger or desperation or misery perhaps, of despair. But Samuel curled up. You know, like spiders do, the way they wrap their legs around themselves whenever they feel threatened. Like that.

And Maggie, she’s convinced it’s because he didn’t care, that he never cared, when of course it’s exactly the opposite. Samuel just went on being Samuel, cold, withdrawn, solitary, but his behaviour was so exactly like it had been before that it was obviously just an act. It was obvious to me anyway. Maggie, though, she couldn’t see it. And it hurt her. You know how humans are seventy per cent water? Seventy per cent, sixty per cent. Something like that. Maggie is seventy per cent emotion. She cares easily - she can’t watch the news, she tells me, because it’s worse for her than watching
Casablanca
- and she hurts just as readily too. So Samuel, after they split up, he’s treating Maggie like she’s just another colleague, like she’s me or Matilda or Veronica, which means he’s basically in denial about her existence. And Maggie can’t stand it, I mean she hides it in front of him, she hides it very well considering, but she’s questioning herself, she’s questioning her self-worth, she’s questioning how she looks, the sound of her voice, the size of her hips, she became obsessed with the size of her hips. We have our little chats, you see. During lunch usually, if neither one of us is on duty. And for several weeks that’s all we spoke about: her; Samuel; Samuel and her. I didn’t mind. I suppose maybe it was a bit much sometimes. Once or twice I swapped days with George or Vicky just to give myself a break but on the whole I didn’t mind.

At first she blamed herself, like I say, then after a while she started to blame Samuel, which was progress, I thought, and closer to the truth of it, more to the point. He’s Asperger’s, she said. He must be. He can’t engage. He won’t commit to anything more emotionally demanding than a book. And I don’t suppose she’ll mind me telling you this but their sex life: it was stillborn. They did it once, she said, and she cried the whole of the next day. She didn’t come in to work. She stayed at home and stripped the bed and sat in the bath and ate Quality Street and in the evening she made herself throw up. I don’t know what Samuel did. Probably he just went on being Samuel. Probably he assumed it had gone okay. He was a man after all.