Death Can’t Take a Joke. Anya Lipska
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her breath, straining to hear what might have woken her. Then she heard the fridge door slam, hard enough to clank the bottles in the door against each other. Ben.
She threw herself back down and, putting a pillow over her head, waited for her heartbeat to subside. Just as she was starting to drift off, she heard the ringtone of Ben’s mobile, muffled at first, like it was in his pocket, then getting louder as he retrieved it.
Fuck! Until now, having their own flats – hers at the wrong end of Canning Town, his in leafy Wanstead – meant that even though they spent most nights together, if she felt in need of a bit of space or a solid night’s sleep, she could always escape. It struck her that in ten days’ time, after they moved in together, that would no longer be an option.
Pulling on a dressing gown, she padded into the kitchen where she found Ben, bleary-eyed, a half-eaten kebab in front of him on the table, his mobile clamped to his ear. He looked up, and waved his free hand at the phone, his face telegraphing comic apology.
‘Yeah, I know,’ he said. ‘Great to see you, too. Remember what I said, alright? Yeah, mate, definitely.’
She checked the clock – it was 2.30 a.m.
Ben hung up. ‘Sorry, darlin’,’ he said, his words indistinct. ‘That was Jamie, checking I got home.’
‘Do you know what time it is?’
With the literalness of the very drunk, he squinted down at his phone. ‘Two thirty-three,’ he said.
‘Did it slip your mind that I’m on earlies this week?’ she asked. ‘I’ve got to get up in three hours’ time.’
‘I’ve gotta get up early tomorrow, too,’ said Ben, an aggrieved expression on his face.
Kershaw snapped. ‘And if you want to get shit-faced on a school night, that’s up to you! But you’ve got no right to come back here crashing around and waking me up!’
‘Fine! If you don’t want me here, I’ll go!’ Ben got to his feet, swaying. They stared at each other for a long and terrible moment.
‘Don’t be daft,’ she said finally. ‘I never said I wanted you to go.’
When the alarm started nagging her at half past five it was still dark outside, and properly chilly in the flat – she’d forgotten to reset the central heating timer. Kershaw hated being on early turn at this time of year – the cold she could tolerate, but the shortening of the days as autumn tumbled into winter stirred in her a near-primitive sense of dread.
She made a mug of tea and took it into the bedroom.
‘Ben?’ A muted groan came from under the duvet. ‘You said to wake you before I leave.’
Ben pulled the duvet from his face and blinked a few times. ‘Morning,’ he croaked. Manoeuvring himself to a sitting position, he pulled a penitent face. ‘I’m really sorry I woke you up last night. Twattish behaviour when you’re on earlies, I know.’
Kershaw smiled. It was one of the things she loved about Ben: when he was in the wrong about something, he apologised quickly and with real class. It was a quality she had never really mastered.
‘You’re forgiven,’ she said, handing him his tea.
‘Are we good?’ he asked, throwing her a look under his eyebrows.
‘Yeah, we’re good,’ she told him. ‘So, you never said, how was Jamie last night?’
‘Not good.’ A spasm of distress crossed his face. ‘He’s full of anger, still guilt-ridden for letting Hannah out of his sight – and drowning it all in beer and Jameson’s. He says she’s totally changed – despite the Downs she used to be a confident kid, always nagging him and Cath to let her do the things her friends were allowed to.’
Kershaw remembered that, agonisingly for Hannah’s parents, it had been one of her first trips out alone to buy her favourite Cherry Coke that had thrown her into the path of Anthony Stride. ‘I just can’t imagine what they’re going through, let alone her,’ she said.
‘Do you know the worst thing Jamie told me?’
She shook her head.
‘Apparently, Hannah used to be a real daddy’s girl, but since it happened, she hasn’t let him near her. When she wakes up in the night, Cath’s the only one she’ll let comfort her.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Kershaw. She took a swig of his tea.
‘I saw that … bastard in the street the other day,’ said Ben.
She looked at him, alarmed by the sudden and unfamiliar ferocity in his voice. ‘Really? You never mentioned it.’
‘Didn’t I?’ he shrugged. ‘When I think that he’s free to stroll around while Hannah’s too scared to leave the house, let alone go to school, or go out to play … It turns my stomach.’
‘Do you think the Ryans need some professional help, like family therapy?’
‘What they need is for that cunt Stride to step in front of a bus,’ he said.
She couldn’t remember hearing Ben use the c-word before: of the two of them she was by far the more prolific swearer. As her gaze scanned his face, she thought: Maybe it’s you who needs the therapist.
‘I know you got close to Jamie, to all of them,’ she said, choosing her words carefully. ‘I’d have done exactly the same, a case like that. But shouldn’t you be thinking about handing over to family liaison by now?’
‘What, now the case is dead in the water, it’s time to dump the family and move on?’
Ben’s voice sounded reasonable, but she saw that his top lip had thinned to a line – the only outward sign of anger he ever betrayed. Tread carefully, my girl, she heard her dad say.
‘No, of course not. It’s just … you know the score; if you go bush over a case like that’ – she shrugged – ‘you’re gonna be less focused on catching the next evil scumbag – the one we can put away.’
Rocking his head back against the wall, he exhaled air through pursed lips, reminding Kershaw of the escape valve on a pressure cooker.
‘I know, I know. You’re right,’ he said. ‘I’m not even sure seeing me does him any good – I’m only gonna remind him of what happened, aren’t I? I probably should back off a bit.’
‘I think that’s very sensible.’
He grinned, any trace of anger gone. ‘Before you report for duty, Constable, stick me on a couple of bits of toast, would you?’
Kershaw managed to smile back, but an undercurrent of disquiet tugged at her still. She had no problem dealing with conflict – to her, it was part and parcel of a relationship – but she got the feeling that Ben would sometimes simply pretend to roll over to avoid confrontation.
It came to her that maybe the misgivings she’d been having weren’t exactly to do with Ben being too nice, but with his apparent difficulty in being nasty. She was no psychotherapist, but she knew that would need to change when they lived together.
The wooden shutter gave a single mournful squeak as it was pulled back from the wire grille.
‘I present myself before the Holy Confession, for I have offended God,’ murmured Janusz.
‘Have I heard your confession before, my son?’ asked the priest.
Janusz peered through the grille for a beat, before realising that Father Pietruski was winding him up.
‘It’s been –’ a surreptitious count of his fingers ‘– a long time