After You Die (31 page)

‘Yeah, last week. She said to thank you. I forgot, sorry.’

The lavender-scented oil Anna used to ward off stretch marks, diligently applying it after every bath and shower, rubbing it into her skin in slow circles, as if part of its potency lay in her willing it to work. It was good for scars, she’d said, handing him the white-and-orange box one morning before work.

‘Good. I hope it helps her.’ She flipped the fish over in the pan. ‘I wish I’d thought of it sooner, though, you really need to use it as early as possible. For stretch marks anyway. Maybe it’s different for scarring.’

It wasn’t going to work because he hadn’t given it to Ferreira, couldn’t imagine handing it over with Anna’s best wishes and the implication that they’d discussed the matter and what a mess she must be in under her jeans. He didn’t want her to know how much Anna pitied her.

They ate to the muffled sound of Stefan’s diminishing temper, talked about finishing painting the nursery at the weekend and whether they should buy something nice for the boys so they wouldn’t feel neglected, Zigic trying to put work completely out of his mind but failing, because the day had finished on an unsatisfactory note and he knew they were up against Riggott’s ticking clock. Benjamin Lange’s arrest had assuaged him but it was only a stopgap and they needed something more promising tomorrow if he was going to keep the investigation in Hate Crimes.

Part of him knew it was a petty concern and he shouldn’t care about handing Dawn and Holly over to CID, but he liked to finish what he started.

After dinner they lay on the sofa, watching Anna’s latest boxed-set obsession, and he had to keep asking her what was going on because he never could keep his full attention on these things. Secretly he suspected her of skipping on ahead of him during the day.

Long after his bedtime Stefan came down and stood in front of the television to apologise for biting Amelia, hands tucked behind his back, one foot twisting against the carpet as he spoke.

‘Next time she does something like that you tell me and I’ll deal with it,’ Anna said. ‘You don’t bite anyone. Okay?’

‘Okay.’

Zigic lifted him into his lap and fell asleep with his chin on his head.

The pub seemed like a good idea until they were at a table. It was full of teenagers who didn’t look old enough to qualify for even a fake ID, and proper grown-ups trying to outdo them for noise level and stupidity. After their second round Wahlia suggested going back to his and Ferreira was on her feet immediately, draining the last of her rum as she headed for the doors.

He was renting a place that overlooked the park, six storeys of heavy-duty urban sophistication that was completely out of kilter with the surrounding terraced houses and way beyond Wahlia’s budget, but the flat was owned by one of his uncles, an investment purchase he’d rather have in safe hands at below market value than risk it being trashed by some undesirable professional with strange habits and a cavalier attitude towards the high-spec finish.

‘No,’ Ferreira said, as she walked in. ‘I’m still totally jealous. Not getting over it at all.’

Acres of open-plan polished walnut floor and pristine white walls, a large feature window at one end of the space and a glossy black kitchen at the other, complete with monolithic fridge and a swanky oven Wahlia had never turned on. It was sparsely furnished but what was there was good stuff, a huge brown leather sofa facing a flat-screen TV with Wahlia’s junk sitting on the floor in piles underneath it, a perspex coffee table that matched the dining table and chairs. A man’s idea of interior design, all clean, hard lines and minimal softening embellishments, but she could live with it.

‘There’s one on the floor below up for rent.’

‘Yeah, I saw it. Twelve hundred a month.’

‘You’re still looking then?’

‘I viewed a couple of places.’

‘And?’ He kicked his trainers off, onto the pile next to the door.

‘One possible.’

She followed him into the kitchen area and leaned against the counter as he took a beer and a bottle of rum out of the fridge, handed her a tumbler from one of the shiny cupboards and poured a stiff measure into it.

‘You’re definitely going then?’ he asked.

‘I think so.’

‘That doesn’t sound very definite.’

‘I’m going.’ She sipped the rum, washing away the reasons she could give him but wouldn’t. Knew he already understood how it had been, those months laid up at the pub, comforted and coddled beyond her tolerance, being treated like a child when she’d survived an act of violence she hoped none of them would ever have to go through but which they couldn’t see made her stronger. She couldn’t tell him about the tears and the arguments, her father telling her to quit her job, insisting nobody and nothing was important enough to risk her life for, or waking up to find her mother wiping her legs with holy water and praying for her scars to heal.

‘It feels like the right time.’

He nodded. ‘I need a quick shower. Get us cued up and order, will you? The menus are—’

‘I know.’ She opened the drawer near the sink, dozens of takeout leaflets in there. ‘Chinese?’

‘Yeah.’

She dialled the number and ordered their regulars, then took her drink over to the window, stood for a few minutes looking out across the park, thinking it was a nice enough view but not twelve-hundred-a-month’s worth. Not when you knew the things that had happened there, the grooming of vulnerable children, the rapes. It was a side effect of the job, seeing places tainted by the crimes that occurred around them, never being able to look at them with innocent eyes again.

The place she wanted had been a crime scene. Not the exact flat but another one in the building. She wouldn’t let it ruin the place for her, though, everything else about it was too perfect; the size and layout, its position right in the centre of the city, just off Cathedral Square. She imagined herself getting up early to run down along the river before work, buying cushions and pieces of art and fresh flowers from the stall on the square some Saturday morning.

It wouldn’t be like that. Obviously. She wasn’t undergoing a complete personality transplant. But she liked the sense of potential.

‘You were supposed to be getting us set up,’ Wahlia said.

‘I got distracted by the view.’

He finished drying his hair in the kitchen and threw the towel into the washing machine, came over to switch on the TV and the Xbox. GTA was still in there from last time they played. It was getting to be a regular thing and she couldn’t decide if it meant they were getting old or boring or both that they’d rather blast the hell of computer-generated people than go out pulling real ones.

She’d spent hundreds of hours playing on her brothers’ machine while she was convalescing, retreating into the kind of adolescence she’d been too studious to enjoy the first time around.

They played for an hour, raced high-performance sports cars and went to shoot up a bunch of rednecks who all reminded her of Christian Palmer, pausing for more drinks and cigarettes, and by the time the delivery guy arrived they were sitting on the floor, hyper with alcohol and adrenalin.

She paused the game while he went for the food, fetched him another beer and finally got around to taking off her Converse.

Her phone pinged as Wahlia was unpacking their order.

‘Work?’ he asked, sliding her chow mein across the table.

‘No.’

She opened the message from Aaron, remembering his stupid smile and gym-hard body and the sad look on his little face when she left him standing in the cafeteria.

A string of emojis she took to be an invitation for a drink.

She texted back, told him she was working late. Another time.

‘Who is it then?’ Wahlia asked, poking her in the ribs with his chopsticks.

‘Some guy.’ Her phone pinged again. She opened his message and laughed. ‘Jesus Christ.’

Wahlia grabbed her phone, eyes widening at the sight of Aaron’s stiff cock and waxed balls filling the screen.

‘Classy.’

‘Like you’ve never done it.’ She took her phone back, still smiling. ‘Actually, I think I need an early night, can you call me a cab?’

Wahlia choked on a mouthful of rice. ‘He’s got warts.’

‘No, he hasn’t.’

He reached over and flicked at the screen, expanding the shot. ‘Look, warts. Shit, I feel like I need to wash my hands and I’ve only touched a photo of it.’

‘And he seemed like such a nice, clean boy.’ She tossed her phone onto the table, ignored the next message that came through as she batted away Wahlia’s jokes.

The food was salty and sour, demanded more drinks to wash the taste away; she switched to beers and made Wahlia take a couple of rum chasers to even them up.

After that the game didn’t last long, shots went astray and cars crashed in spectacular fireballs and when Wahlia accidentally blew himself up with one of his own grenades she made him take a shot of rum as a punishment for the gross act of incompetence.

‘Let’s break for a bit,’ she said, putting down her controller. ‘You need to sober up if you’re going to do anyone serious damage.’

‘Coffee?’

‘No, you’re not that drunk.’

She curled up on the sofa, let her head drop onto the arm.

When she opened her eyes again there was a mug on the table in front of her and the television was playing some stupid action film from when Bruce Willis still had hair. No sign of Bobby. She reached for the cup and missed it and flinched when an explosion on screen sent a remembered wave of heat across the backs of her legs.

Not heat, not exactly, it was more localised than that, more distinct.

A tingling sensation.

She rolled over on the sofa, pressed her face against the back cushion and let the wooziness draw her down into another short sleep where the rednecks who looked like Christian Palmer never stopped coming and she never ran out of ammo, just calmly picked them off, one by one, letting their bodies pile up at her feet.

The tingling sensation broke through into her dream and brought her around with a start. Suddenly she was sitting upright, head spinning but she could deal with that, knew to just go with it. She couldn’t deal with the gnawing, spiky pain any more though. Not for another day, not an hour, not even a minute.

Bobby had turned off all the lights, except for the discreet spots sunk into the skirting boards in the hallway. They washed milkily across the floor, guiding her into the bathroom with the slick black tile walls and the big white tub, lights hidden behind mirrors and floating shelves full of however many products it took for him to look that good.

She couldn’t see what she wanted there though.

The medicine cabinet was full of aftershave and face creams, pills and balms and oils that scattered when she reached in with an unsteady hand. Most of the stuff landed in the sink and the things that hit the floor didn’t break. She found what she was looking for, a small plastic packet she held between her teeth while she unpeeled her jeans and climbed into the porcelain bathtub that was so deep she could hardly see over the edge once she was sitting down.

At the back of her right calf the tingling pain had shrunk to one intense spot and her fingers went to it, toying with the hard little something that was pushing its way up through her flesh, close to the surface now. Her thumb brushed over it, felt a wicked point that wasn’t there before. It was still moving, turning and cutting through her like it had on the way in. Only slower now and she was sure it hurt more.

She opened the plastic packet and unwrapped one of the razor blades. It looked dull under the subdued lighting but she knew it was sharp enough.

‘Come on,’ she whispered to herself.

It wasn’t the first piece of shrapnel she’d cut out of her legs and she knew there would be more yet. Couldn’t see them or feel them as obviously as this one, but she knew there were things in her body that didn’t belong.

Gritting her teeth she pulled the skin tight over the lump, seeing its shape more clearly, the colour of it: creamy white.

She took a deep breath and swiped the razor blade across the lump. The blood welled fast and the pain shot straight up her spine, hitting her like a punch to the back of the neck. She tried to suppress the shocked yelp but it came out anyway and seemed to echo forever in the black-tiled room.

Blood ran down her calf to her ankle and began to pool at her heel.

‘Mel, I think you should give me the razor blade, okay?’ Bobby was standing over her, staring at the seeping wound. ‘Please, before you hurt yourself.’

‘I need to get this out.’

She squeezed the hard little lump, working the tip up through the cut, wincing and swearing as it emerged. Bobby was swearing as well, the same two words over and over, but she barely registered his presence, concentrating on holding onto the blood-slick nugget as it popped out of her calf.

‘See.’ She held it out to him but he wasn’t looking at her hand.

‘What the fuck are you doing to yourself?’ He sat down on the edge of the bathtub and the expression on his face sobered her instantly, the sadness and disbelief. ‘You’re going to make it worse.’

‘I’m only doing what the doctor would do,’ she said.

‘Your doctor wouldn’t operate at three in the morning, drunk, in a bath with an unsterilised razor blade.’

‘I’ve had my tetanus.’ The wound was still bleeding. ‘Have you got some gauze or something?’

‘Hold on.’

He went out and returned a minute later with a first-aid kit, made her dry-swallow two painkillers and climbed into the bath with her. He knelt by her feet as he silently cleaned the blood off with an antiseptic wipe. The sting of it made her wince but she tried to hide it, didn’t want to make the situation any worse than it already was by showing how much pain she was in.

Wahlia wrapped sterile gauze around her calf and pinned it up, frowning when pink spots started to show through the pad.

‘That’s the best I can do. You might need a couple of stitches.’

‘It’ll be fine,’ Ferreira said, feeling very naked, sitting there in her knickers and shirt. Naked and ridiculous because their evening had started normally and ended like this. ‘Thanks, Bobby. And sorry, I shouldn’t have done this here.’