The Perfect 10. Louise Kean
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a minute, letting out a brief snort of laughter.
The radio lazes into a stream of static, and the officer turns round to face Cagney as the car sits at a pedestrian crossing, allowing an elderly couple with a black Lab to idle across like they own the road.
‘I don’t know what they’re putting in the coffee in Kew, but the girl didn’t want to come down the station either. She wanted to go to the gym! The pair of you have probably saved that kid’s life today, and we’ve nearly had to cuff you both to get you to make a report!’ The policeman laughs again, but Cagney looks at him with disdain. The officer turns back to the wheel, shaking his head, and muttering, loudly enough for Cagney to hear, ‘Rude bastard.’
Cagney concentrates on the view, appalled.
She wanted to go to the gym? She saves a boy’s life, and she wants to go and lift weights?
‘What was that?’ The officer partially turns his head towards Cagney in the back of the panda car.
Cagney repeats himself, loudly.
‘The world’s gone to hell.’
I fidget outside of the police station, waiting for a taxi to arrive. I said they shouldn’t waste a squad car on dropping me back home; I don’t pay taxes for them to ferry me around. In truth I didn’t enjoy the experience of sitting behind the thick smeared glass in the back seat. It reflected me badly. I’m going to go to the gym, but it’s not as if exercise is the only thing I can think about, especially after this morning’s incident. I just need to clear my head. They kept calling it ‘an incident’ in the station. There was an ‘incident report’, and it makes it sound less threatening if I think of it that way. I just need to run it out of my thoughts. I don’t want to go home and sit around and dwell on what could have been.
I was in the station for a couple of hours. It was quiet, not frenetic the way it is on the television. I didn’t see gruesome pictures hanging on the walls of dismembered prostitutes. A couple of people came and went, I had another cup of coffee, eventually, and the policemen seemed to crack a lot of jokes, appearing to enjoy their crime fighting.
It took an hour for the medical. It was all conducted in a small green room with a neon strip light, behind a battered white screen on wheels, on a tired old hospital bed that looked like it was playing host to the biggest germ party ever thrown. I was rigid with discomfort for the entire examination, afraid that I’d catch something itchy from the foam in the bed, embarrassed at the skin crêpes around my stomach when they made me lift up my top. And then, of course, I kept crying. They said it was shock – a young policewoman with stern hair and thick eyebrows held my hand a couple of times and called me brave, which made me cry even more. I’m not great with compliments, any kind. My hand would involuntarily dart up to shield my eyes, as the tears started to swell anew, but she kept yanking it down, to test my blood pressure, or witness my shame – I’m not sure which.
The result of one dirty fist to my head, and one badminton-trainer kick to my stomach is nothing more than some nasty bruising. I was surprised. I felt sure something must have been broken or ruptured, a vein popped or a bone cracked. At the time of being kicked, being punched, the pain had been obscene. It wasn’t just the force of the blows, it was the shock.
I tried my best not to forget anything. I told them about the smell in the alleyway, which seems to have smeared itself permanently on my skin like Satan’s own brand of moisturiser, but I don’t think they wrote that down. They said that the assault charges against me will actually be vital in prosecuting the Stranger, as ‘kidnapping’ for such a short period of time could be hard to prove. It seems so odd to me that the man’s intention was clear – to take the child – and yet now they have to prove it to people that weren’t even there, and the events of the morning will be painted differently by his lawyer in court. He may be able to plead temporary insanity or something similar. I told them that I thought he was scared by himself, not insane, but they didn’t write that down either. The policeman said they’d be in contact, with the details of what happens next. There is, of course, the prospect of a trial, as well as some kind of trauma counselling that I can go for, as the victim of a violent crime. When they said this I explained that he hadn’t used a gun, and they looked at me strangely again. They gave me their phone number and said I could call them if I remembered anything else, and that the counsellor would be in touch shortly, so I said fair enough, as nonchalantly as I could muster.
I didn’t tell them that I already have a therapist. It feels indulgent. I started seeing him about eight months ago, when I first realised that I might need to talk as well as run. I like to discuss abstract theories, and he likes to make me find some relevance to them in my life. Given a heavier case load, I don’t think he’d still be seeing me, but I pay my money and he listens. I find it interesting, although I’ve learnt that he doesn’t deal in answers. He doesn’t think we are talking about the right things. He thinks I am avoiding my own issues, that I need to focus on the real. He nudges me in the same direction every week, and I dodge it. But as I say, I pay my money …
I already know that I don’t want to talk about the incident, relive it or even think about it. Even with only a few hours’ hindsight it seems strangely unimportant, because I did it, I suppose. I can’t say that to my therapist; he’ll have a field day. But to retell it will make it terrifying, will give me nightmares that I am sure won’t creep up on my dreams unless I am forced to rehash it all. It almost never happened, and in fact it was over in a matter of minutes, and hopefully Dougal is young enough not to be scarred and scared for life. I have come out of it with nothing more than a black eye and a bruised midriff.
I jump up and down on the spot a few times, then lean against a railing, and check my watch. Taxi drivers always claim to be no more than ten minutes away. They are liars. The only time a taxi will ever arrive on time, or early for that matter, is on an evening when you are going out and you haven’t decided which shoes to wear. In these instances they will be tooting their horn angrily outside of your flat before you’ve even hung up the phone to taxi control.
I hear a lung-disturbing cough behind me. I turn round and shield my eyes from the sun, and make out a figure standing rigidly about fifteen feet away under an old Judas tree. I recognise him as the man who chased the Stranger this morning. He is close enough to lean against the tree trunk, but he doesn’t. He is wearing a thick, black roll-neck jumper, and black trousers – doesn’t anybody listen to the weather forecasts except me? It must be thirty degrees, and it’s not even midday yet. His arms are folded in front of him.
He is tall, over six feet. I approximate that he is late thirties, but it’s hard to tell because his face is scrunched up, squinting at the sun, so that his expression makes him seem older than he actually is. He could be thirty, or fifty, but the negativity pinching at his eyes suggests he is one hundred. He is still very red in the face, and I’m not sure if it is the heat or the run that has caused it. He looks like a man who has had the life knocked out of him, who has just lost a custody battle to a promiscuous and alcoholic wife, or finally had his sentence quashed after fifteen years in jail for a pub bombing he did not commit. I wonder what could make a man look so drained. Maybe the Stranger attacked him, and there was some kind of fight …
His face is broad and pale, and he could do with stepping out from that shade and into the sun for a while. His hair is dark and short but slightly bushy on top – he must have to tame it every morning – and I can tell he finds this irritating. I’m sure he hates his hair. It is peppered with grey around his temples, and he has distinguishable sideburns, also dusted with grey. His features are strong but cold, his eyes are deep-set and his nose is positively Roman. He reminds me, standing there staring off into the distance, of those old sepia photographs of ageing Hollywood leading men you see in documentaries, who were a harshly flawed attractive that seems inexplicable these days. He looks like a closed book that wants to stay closed, and the dust is already starting to settle on his hair. It is hard to see what is muscle and what is fat beneath his black jumper, but I only realise that I am staring when his eyes dart upwards and catch mine. Our gazes lock for a frame – not even a second – but it is enough for my cheeks to flush pink with humiliation. I spin round, and walk two paces forwards to check