Bloodstream (45 page)

Jemma went on, talking about her experience in the year she’d been locked away. How she’d felt during that time, the long road she’d had to travel to get to the point she was at now. Then, she went round the room, listening to others talk about their own experiences.

An hour later, she gave them all a break and walked down the steps to the outside of the building. Breathed in fresh air, like it was her first time, then lit up a cigarette.

‘I don’t know. I save your life and now you’re smoking?’

Jemma shielded her eyes with one hand, saw the figure at the end of the gravel path and smiled. ‘That’s the thing about getting a second chance. You get to make your own stupid decisions.’

She walked towards the bulking figure of David Murphy and stopped in front of him. ‘Besides, I’m down to five a day now.’

‘You can do whatever you like, Jemma, that’s the beauty of life. How are you?’

‘Getting there. Still having the dreams, but they’re not as frequent as they used to be. I’ve stopped seeing things that aren’t there, all that sort of thing.’

‘I’m glad you’re doing this.’

‘You come to see the new place? Only, I’ve got people in there at the moment . . .’

‘That can wait,’ Murphy replied, looking over at the building past her shoulder. ‘I’ve come about something else.’

‘The girl . . .’

‘Amy Maguire.’

‘I read about that. Granted it wasn’t quite as long as me, but a few weeks is plenty.’

Jemma looked away as Murphy scuffed at a piece of gravel.

‘She needs to talk to someone. I think it would be best if it was someone she could relate to.’

Jemma breathed in, turning her gaze back to Murphy. ‘You still have my number?’

‘Of course.’

‘You give it to her. Tell her I’m ready when she is.’

It had been two weeks since Murphy and Sarah had been sitting in those chairs in their dining room. Facing each other, as secrets and lies they had kept from each other were forced out of them. At first, they had just been happy to be alive. Glad to be with each other and have another chance.

Then came relief, as they both realised how strong they were. That even the secrets they’d held from each other hadn’t damaged their relationship even a little.

Murphy felt safe. Comfortable. Ready. He drummed his fingers on his knee, sitting in his chair in the living room of a house now up for sale. It would never feel the same again, not after what had happened. The decision to move was the easiest one they’d made.

What to do after that had been a more difficult decision. One that Murphy had been avoiding for a long time, but now he was starting to feel differently.

It was time.

His knee bobbed up and down of its own accord, Murphy chewed on the corner of his lip, waiting for blood to burst out if he bit too hard.

‘She’s here.’

Murphy didn’t know what to do. Whether to stand, or stay in his seat. In the end, he settled for perching on the edge.

‘Hey, Sarah,’ Jess’s voice drifted in from the hallway. ‘How are you?’

‘Can’t complain. He’s through there. I’m going in the other room to get on with some packing.’

The living-room door opened a little more. Murphy waited a second before turning.

‘Hi,’ Murphy said, wishing he’d thought of something better to say. ‘You coming in?’

‘I suppose,’ Jess replied, unbuttoning her coat, hesitating, then leaving it on. ‘I’m only here because she made me feel guilty. If something had happened that night . . .’

‘I know.’

‘So, you still off work?’

Murphy waited for Jess to sit down on the couch opposite, then sat back in his chair. ‘Going back in tomorrow. Two weeks was enough.’

‘Everything cleared?’

‘Just about. The investigation will continue, but given what he’d already done that week, I think they just want it over. They’re not going to do anything about the injuries he sustained during arrest. Not that there was much anyway. Laura Rossi is fine, although her fella is facing an investigation at the hospital. They want to know why the disappearance of the drugs wasn’t looked into properly. He’ll get a slap on the wrist and that’ll be it. Hopefully.’

‘The girl . . .’

‘Stacey lied.’

Jess lowered her head, nodding slowly into her chest. ‘I knew it was rubbish. She was always making up stuff. Even when we were younger.’

‘I never believed her anyway.’

Murphy picked at a bit of fluff on the arm of his chair, rolling it into a ball between his fingers.

Jess filled the silence. ‘Did you find out why he killed those people?’

‘He’s refusing to talk in interview. His solicitor is almost as terrier-like as you are.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ Jess said, a smile forming which almost reached her eyes. ‘Do you have enough?’

‘Yeah, pretty much. We know what he’s said to Amy. He’d spoken about someone he called “Number One”. Met her back at school, stalked her, was warned off. We’ve looked into it and found out who she was. There’s a possibility he had something to do with the death of that girl’s boyfriend at the time, but we’re not sure. The mixture of rejection and seeing what those who rejected him put up with. He could never work out why they didn’t want him. We think he tried to get with the first female victim – Jane – and when she turned him down, he became obsessed with her. Once he found out her partner’s secret, well . . . something sent him over the edge. He came back to Liverpool when his dad died. His mum was found dead when he was only a baby. Suicide, with a suspicion on the father. He had a very warped view of women and relationships. Power and control. The usual.’

Jess nodded, silence growing around them as the real reason she was there began to fill the room.

‘When I look at you, I see him. That’s why.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Murphy said, not letting his gaze slip from hers. ‘I wish I’d done a million things differently that night. That week.’

‘I know you’re not to blame. Not really. It just makes it easier if the one person who was in that room, who is still alive, was to blame. That’s all.’

‘I miss you, Jess. Twenty years. I can’t walk away from that.’

‘Every time I see you, I’m reminded of that night. I go back to those feelings. When that evil bastard was killing people in the street. When my son, who was just with his friends, out having a laugh, ran into his path.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

Jess sniffed, wiped at her face and shook her head. ‘There’s nothing you can do. It’s just the way things are.’

‘I tried to save him . . .’

‘I know you did.’

Murphy didn’t speak for a while, the ticking of the clock on the wall breaking the silence.

‘I see you and I get all those feelings back. I see you and I see Peter. My son, killed before his life had begun.’

Murphy closed his eyes, seeing the moment instantly.

‘But, maybe I need that reminder. Maybe I need to see those things. To know that my boy didn’t die alone. That his uncle David was right there with him. Trying to save him.’

Murphy opened his eyes and looked across at Jess. What he saw gave him something.

It gave him hope.

The words may start with one person in a darkened room, but getting them into
your
hands requires a whole number of people. These are just a few of them.

Firstly, Eva Dolan, Nick Quantrill, Steve Mosby, Craig Robertson, and Pete Sortwell. You’re all fine and excellent people, I am incredibly lucky to know you.

Mel Sherratt and Mark Edwards, for your continued support and inspiration.

Sarah Hughes, Linda Moore, Liz Barnsley, Keith Nixon, Paul D. Brazill, and Jan Russell, for all the support on and offline.

Jo Dickinson, my incredible editor, who has improved this book immeasurably. Emma Capron, Louise Davies, Elizabeth Preston, and all the rest of the Simon & Schuster team – I am beyond pleased to be starting this journey with you all.

My agent Phil Patterson – your continued determination and ambition in the face of personal adversity is astounding. You’re a good man. A very good man. Also to Sandra Sawicka and Luke Speed, for being ace agents in foreign rights and TV.

My parents, my grandparents. My siblings and in-laws. Uncles, aunts, cousins, next-door neighbours, etc. There’s a whole bunch of Vestes and Woodlands, and Kirkhams and Hales, and Robertsons and Smiths, who all contribute to me being who I am, and buying the books in great quantities. Never stop.

Special thanks to Andrea Robertson, for all her medical advice. All mistakes are my own and intentional. Honest.

Thank you to Uncle John ‘Murphy’ Kirkham and Gina Kirkham.

Finally, my wife, Emma Veste, and daughters Abigail and Megan. Abs and Migs – fist bump, balalalala. Thank you for being two of the best and brightest daughters a dad could ever hope for. Emma – not many people know how much work goes into being a writer’s partner. Thank you for taking on that burden.
Ti amo, bella.
Thank you for everything you do and everything you are.