Bloodstream (10 page)

He spared the inside of his car his tuneless voice.

It was a straight run along the waterfront and past the Festival Gardens, through Otterspool. It was probably quicker going through the city, but Murphy preferred the route he was on, taking in the sights of the River Mersey at night, as the docks were left behind and became the promenade.

Murphy was pulling off Western Avenue and onto the road he’d grown up on within half an hour. The differences from his childhood were laid bare before him. Everything changing in a blink of an eye. The pub where his dad had used to drink was now a hotel, convenient for the airport. The small row of shops – where he had been sent by his parents with a quid for a loaf of bread and a pint of milk and told to keep the change more times than he could remember – were still there. Under new ownership, of course, but still hanging on. The chippy, which did the best savouries, but the worst fish, was now neighboured by a funeral director’s. Murphy imagined they did good business in Speke, given the average life expectancy.

Damwood Road, where Murphy had lived for the first twenty years of his life, was lined with homes set back from the road. The houses had massive back gardens, and the Venny was only up the road. Jess had lived five minutes’ walk away, off Damwood on Marton Green – her house one of a bunch which surrounded a patch of grass no one ever kept trim.

Murphy turned left before reaching his old home. Now forever tainted by the memory of what had happened there three years previously. His parents murdered in their own living room by a bitter, jealous man. A man who had torn not only Murphy apart, but almost his marriage to Sarah too.

He felt a pang of guilt as he remembered Sarah back then. Trying to make sense of what that man had done. A man she had once shared a bed, even a home, with, before Murphy had come along.

Now, on a quiet street round the corner from that house, Murphy sat in his car wondering if he was about to do something very stupid.

Murphy got out of the car, leaving it parked up on the kerb. Keying the lock he heard the familiar beep accompanied by a spray of lights. He walked up a short path and knocked on the glazed front door, remembering a time when it had been blue, splintered wood.

‘Hey, thanks for coming,’ Stacey Maguire said, moving aside so Murphy could get past her.

‘No problem,’ Murphy said, waiting for her to show him the way in. ‘Can’t stay long. Got to get back home and that.’

‘Course you have,’ Stacey replied. ‘Do you want a brew or anything?’

Murphy shook his head. ‘I’ve only come to let you know the latest.’

‘I can’t believe the case landed on you like that. What’s that word . . . serendipiddy?’

‘Close enough,’ Murphy said, sitting on a two-seater sofa that had seen better days. He noticed the threadbare carpet beneath his feet, and he was sure he recognised the wallpaper on the walls from the last time he’d visited, almost twenty years earlier. She’d taken the house over, her parents now living in a smaller place elsewhere in Speke. ‘I’ve got some bad news though.’

‘Oh no . . .’

Murphy realised his mistake as soon as the words were out of his mouth. ‘Shit, no, not that. We still haven’t found her, Stace. The guy who came in this morning, looks like he didn’t have anything to do with it.’

‘You scared the shit out of me then.’

Murphy held his hands up. ‘I’m crap at picking my words, remember?’

‘Of course I do. I remember everything from when we were kids. We all used to fancy you rotten, all the girls around here.’

‘Wish I’d known back then,’ Murphy replied, remembering his lack of luck with the opposite gender. ‘Might have been a happier teenager.’

‘All of us made it as clear as we could. Except Jess White, of course. How is she after . . . you know?’

Murphy paused, not wanting to say anything about Jess. ‘From what I hear, she’s doing okay.’

Stacey seemed to sense that it wasn’t ground he wanted to go over and left the subject. ‘What’s going on then?’

Murphy looked at the picture which took up a significant part of one wall. A large canvas photograph of Amy Maguire – the resemblance to Stacey at that age incredible – sitting beside her two younger brothers. ‘Did you hear about the murders earlier this morning?’

‘The ChloJoe thing? It’s all anyone is talking about. I’m telling you, if Amy’s face had been in the news this much, she would have been found by now. Shit sells, I suppose.’

‘Thing is, I’m on that case . . .’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake . . .’

‘So, they’ve sent Amy’s case back here, to Liverpool South. I’m sorry.’

Stacey paced alongside the old, varnish-stained mantelpiece. ‘You’ve got to do something, David. Can’t you tell them why you need to be looking into it?’

‘I definitely can’t do that,’ Murphy said, standing up. Suddenly wanting to be anywhere but there, in that house. ‘I will keep an eye on things, put as much pressure on them as possible, but for now, I can’t do anything about it.’

‘She could be your daughter. Think about that.’

Murphy stopped on the opposite side of the room. The reason he was there in the first place, sounding ridiculous when said out loud.

One drunken fumble and your whole life can change. In Murphy’s case, he hadn’t even known about it until recently.

‘We don’t know that for sure though, do we, Stacey? She
might
be mine. That’s what you said to me.’

‘I just want you to find her,’ Stacey said, tears springing to her eyes. ‘Please. She’s a good girl. Honest. Then, we can find out for sure.’

He looked at the picture again, looking for anything that reminded him of himself in Amy’s face. Could see only an eighteen-year-old Stacey, the girl from round the corner. Everything about the situation felt wrong. The way Stacey was acting towards him, the fact it had taken eighteen years for her to even tell him about Amy’s existence. The way she was suddenly so interested in him being in her life.

It wasn’t real. That’s what he knew. That’s what his head told him. Still, there was doubt. Enough to keep him there, for now.

‘I’ll do my best, Stace,’ Murphy said, walking to the doorway. ‘That’s all I can do.’

Murphy left, checking his phone on the way down the path back to his car. Swore when he saw the time. He quickened his pace, wanting to be away from the place he’d left behind.

Amy Maguire was alive. He was sure of it. She would be found and then the whole mess could be put behind him, putting a stop to his worries about missing out on a child’s life he hadn’t known existed until now. Still, Murphy knew what would happen now. Amy’s face would join a myriad of others. Lost loved ones, gone without a trace. If she didn’t turn up in the Mersey, or somewhere else, then Stacey Maguire would still be looking in years to come. Keith – the confessor from that morning – would be forgotten, just another man with mental health issues, who had claimed responsibility for something he hadn’t done.

It wouldn’t save her.

On his drive home, Murphy allowed himself to forget the victims of the day. The two from that morning, the eighteen-year-old girl who was still missing. He drove the faces of them out of his mind, attempting to clear it.

As he travelled back home through the streets of Liverpool it was as if the car were driving itself; the roads so familiar he barely acknowledged the journey. His home appeared in front of him as if by magic. Murphy listened to the radio for a few seconds more before another advert came on. He switched off the engine and got out of the latest attempt he’d made to bring some joy into his life. Barely a year old, a Citroën C5. Red, to match his favourite football team.

‘You still up?’

‘Living room,’ came the response.

Normality. That’s the effect a voice can have on a person.

‘You had your tea?’ Sarah said as Murphy walked into the living room, kissed her on the top of her head and sat down in his chair.

‘Had a sarnie earlier,’ Murphy replied, slipping off his shoes and moving them out of his way with one foot. ‘I’ll grab something in a bit.’

‘Kettle’s just boiled if you want a drink.’

‘No, I’m fine. Just want to sit for a bit.’

Murphy focused on the TV, smiling as Sarah switched from the news to his least favourite channel. The one she watched constantly, Comedy Channel or whatever. The
Friends
channel he called it. No matter what time of day, that damn programme always seemed to be on.

He became aware of her waiting for him to speak. Murphy’s smile fell little by little. He stared at the screen as canned laughter accompanied another unfunny line.

‘You’ve been watching the news then,’ he said, giving in earlier than he wanted to.

‘Only bits,’ Sarah replied, pulling on the bottom of her blonde hair, placing a few strands in her mouth. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Slow,’ Murphy said, turning away from the TV and meeting her gaze finally. She could still give him a jolt, warmth and love radiating from her in a simple glance.

‘Doesn’t it always at the beginning?’

‘Not always.’

‘Well,’ Sarah began, turning away from him and facing the TV again. ‘I’m sure you’ll sort it all out. That’s what you always do.’

Murphy averted his stare and focused on the side of her head, rather than her eyes. ‘Not always. We still haven’t caught a few people, you know. Still trying to track down who keeps nicking my bloody HobNobs in work. You offer them out one time—’

‘I get the point, you sarcastic git,’ Sarah said, turning back to him with a smile. ‘You need to eat. I’m knackered, though, so order in if you want something.’

‘I’ll have a look in a minute. Just want to sit for a bit. How was your day?’

Sarah rolled her eyes at him. ‘The usual. I’m basically a children’s entertainer. Trying to teach a class of five- and six-year-olds anything is more difficult than it sounded. I miss my year fives.’

‘You were the one who wanted a change. Only a few months left in the school year now anyway.’

‘Four months,’ Sarah said with a sigh. ‘Not sure the head would let me go back to the older ones anyway. There’s this kid in my class, cute little thing with glasses, who just wants to read. That’s all she wants to do. Her reading level is about three or four years ahead of everyone else’s. So bright, really clever. Uses the most incredible words for a five-year-old. And I’m supposed to stop her doing that and teach her the times tables and make her copy out stupid bloody royal family trees instead. It’s heartbreaking.’

Murphy smiled at Sarah, feeling the warmth exude from her as she spoke. ‘Maybe you care too much?’

‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’ Sarah replied, snorting as she spoke. ‘There’s a fair few of them I wouldn’t mind pitching into the bloody Mersey, I’ll tell you that. Even at that age you can tell which ones are going to be little bastards as they grow up. You can tell just by standing in the playground at home time and listening to the parents. And the names of some of them . . .’

‘Careful. You’re beginning to sound like that attention-seeking bint who’s always on
This Morning.
’

Murphy received a cushion flung at his head in response.

‘Sorry,’ he said, laughing as he picked up the cushion from beside him. ‘That was probably too far.’

‘Damn right it was,’ Sarah said, crossing her arms and frowning at him. ‘Anyway, those are my days. Corralling a bunch of kids together, with the help of a teaching assistant who I’m pretty sure doesn’t want to be there any longer. All the while making them do things they don’t want to do, because someone who probably hasn’t met a six-year-old in their life has decided what’s best to teach them.’

‘Could be worse,’ Murphy said, smirking. ‘Could be four-year-olds.’

Sarah grinned back at him, running a hand through her hair and pushing it back from her face. ‘Go and get something to eat. I don’t want to hear your stomach growling all night. There’ll be something in the fridge, I imagine, if you don’t want to order in.’

‘I’m sure I’ll find something,’ Murphy replied, standing up and banging the living-room door open.

‘You know, Sarah,’ he shouted back from the kitchen. ‘Used to be that the wife would have her husband’s tea ready on the table for him when he got home.’

Murphy opened the fridge, looked over its contents, shut the door. Did the same with the freezer and stood up to look through the cupboards instead. He was aware of Sarah standing in the doorway, but pretended to ignore her presence.

‘Used to be that the wife wouldn’t have anything else to do but tend to the house and kids. But we have no children and I have a full-time job. So you can sort yourself out, you cheeky get.’

Murphy grinned back at her and placed his hands in front of him as if in prayer and bowed to her.

‘We need to sort these cupboards out,’ Murphy said. ‘A tin of oxtail soup, a few tins of chopped tomatoes, and some mixed fruit.’ He took the latter out and held the browning can towards Sarah. ‘Think I won this in a raffle years ago.’

‘I saw Jess today . . .’

‘Yeah,’ Murphy continued, as if Sarah hadn’t spoken, ‘that one at that church thing you made me go to at Christmas. Never been back since, but you convinced me it was something that would become tradition. Us going to the church fair at Christmas time. Then lighting candles on Christmas Eve at midnight.’

‘Did you hear what I said?’

Murphy turned the tinned fruit over in his hand, walked over to the pedal bin in the corner of the kitchen and dropped it in. ‘This is ages past its sell by date.’

‘Two year anniversary is coming up . . .’

‘And let me guess . . . I’m not to show my face?’

‘Something like that. Although she is softening. She actually asked how you were this time.’

‘What did you tell her?’

‘The truth. That you’re still carrying it, but that you’ve managed to get better over time. That the nightmares seemed to have calmed down a lot now. That you haven’t forgotten what happened, but at least your life is in a better place.’

‘I still think it’s weird that she speaks to you and not me. I’ve known her for over twenty years.’