Christ, the fucking pain!
Penetration.
But you’d stopped crying after the first half a dozen times.
You’d learned to endure it, in silence.
No tears. No tears for thirty-two years.
Until now.
Talbot gripped his glass in one fist, squeezing more tightly. His body was racked by sobs.
He looked across at the photo on top of the television set.
‘Mum, I’m sorry,’ he whispered.
Too late for apologies.
She was dying.
Leaving you.
Alone with your pain.
He squeezed the glass more tightly, tears scalding his cheeks.
The glass shattered in his hand, lumps of crystal slicing into his palm, splitting the skin effortlessly. Blood spurted from the cuts, gushing from a particularly deep wound at the base of his thumb, dripping to the carpet, mingling with the whiskey.
Talbot turned his palm and stared at it, the burning sensation of the liquor in the wounds agonising.
He stared at the ravaged hand, pieces of glass sticking out of the torn flesh.
Blood was running down his arm.
Fuck it. Fuck it.
Who fucking cared?
He hurled what was left of the glass at the wall, watching as it exploded into hundreds of tiny beads of crystal, spraying all around the room like transparent shrapnel.
Frozen tears.
‘You fucker!’ he roared at the top of his voice, his head tilted backwards, then he slumped in the chair once again, his bleeding hand dangling uselessly at his side.
Pain. Rage. Guilt. Anger. Memories.
He didn’t know what had brought these tears, but as Talbot sat sobbing in the chair he wondered when they would stop.
Or even if they could.
Thirty-eight
When Cath walked back into the room she noticed her brother was holding something, gazing down at it.
As she sat down opposite him she saw that it was a small, pink teddy bear.
‘I found it the other day when I was tidying up’ Reed told her, still looking at the stuffed toy, seeing his own distorted reflection in its blank eyes. ‘It must have been the only thing of Becky’s that Ellen didn’t take when she left.’
Cath watched him silently for a moment as he ran a thumb over the bear, ruffling its smooth fur.
‘You still haven’t heard from her, then?’
He shook his head.
‘If she’s hurt Becky, her or that fucking arsehole she lives with,’ he rasped, still staring at the teddy. ‘If either of them has hurt Becky, I’ll fucking
kill them, I swear to Christ, I…’
Cath frowned, leaning forward in her seat.
‘Frank, what are you going on about?’ she said in bewilderment. ‘Why would Ellen want to hurt Becky? She loves her as much as you do.’
‘Then why the hell did she take her away from me?’ Reed snarled.
‘Just because she took her away doesn’t mean she’s going to hurt her, Frank.
What makes you think that?’
He dropped the teddy onto the sofa beside him and rubbed both hands over his face. ‘Shit, I’m sorry, Cath,’ he murmured. ‘There’s two kids at the school -
I’m worried about them. The boy in particular. I think he might have been . .
.’ Reed was struggling for the words. ‘Roughed up, knocked about or something.
It made me think of Becky.’
‘You think it’s the parents?’
‘It looks like someone’s given him a bloody good hiding.’
‘Could it be one of the other kids?’
‘I doubt it. I’d say it was the parents.’
‘If it is, Frank, it’s nothing to do with you, is it?’
‘It is if I think that child is being beaten.’
‘Come on, Frank, that’s a bit strong, isn’t it?’
‘You didn’t see him. He had bruises on him the size of your fist, and marks on his wrists too. Like weals.’
‘Maybe his mum or dad just got a bit carried away. Dad used to wallop us when we were little.’
‘A slap on the backside is a bit different to leaving bruises, Cath. Besides, this kid isn’t the only one. There’s a girl too, I saw her today. Same bruises, same marks.’
‘So, two sets of parents decide to get a bit heavy with their kids. That doesn’t mean Ellen’s going to start knocking Becky about, does it?’
Reed regarded her impassively.
‘Ellen wouldn’t, but what about Ward? I don’t know anything about that bastard,’ Reed spat.
‘Frank, why should he?’
Reed got to his feet and crossed the room to a small mahogany cabinet. He took out a bottle of Courvoisier and two glasses, pouring himself the larger measure.
He returned and handed the other glass to Cath.
‘You know, you’d better be careful, Frank,’ she advised. ‘You can’t go yelling abuse all over the place. It’s a dangerous word. The parents of those kids could sue you unless you can prove it. How would you feel if someone accused you of hurting Becky? What are their names, anyway?’
‘Annette Hilston and Paul O’Brian, they’re both about ten.’
‘O’Brian?’ Cath said, frowning.
Why did that ring a bell?
‘Paul’s sister died a few months ago. She was only a baby and-‘
Cath was already on her feet, heading across the room towards her briefcase.
Reed watched as she flipped it open and rummaged around inside.
‘Where was she buried?’ she asked.
Reed looked puzzled. ‘How on earth should I know?’ he said, watching in bewilderment as Cath sat down beside him, a set of photographs in her hand.
‘Do you think it might have been Croydon Cemetery?’ she asked.
‘It’s possible, the family moved from there after her death. What makes you think-‘
She handed him a photo.
It showed a broken headstone.
The name on it was Carla O’Brian.
‘Jesus’ murmured Reed. ‘And this was taken in Croydon Cemetery?’
She nodded and handed him the other pictures.
Reed flicked slowly through them, his forehead creased, a look of dismay on his face.
‘If it’s a coincidence, it’s millions to one’ she said. ‘Same name, same age,
same cemetery.’
‘That’s why I thought the boy was quiet in the beginning, I knew his sister had died …’ He let the sentence trail off. ‘Who the hell did this?’
