Tracey Shillito

Throwing Starfish

Prologue

They came to me, my aunt and my sister, separately, then together, to tell me that Belle was dying, diagnosed with cancer of the liver though she’d not drank for years. She’d changed, or so they said. I should make my peace – for my sake, not hers, they insisted. I told them there was no need, it was over. I was afraid of losing what I’d achieved, that the sight of her after all these years might undo me. Yet, I went. And while I was conscious of the need to protect myself, I knew I must go with good grace or not at all, as my grandmother used to say. There would be things we dare not mention, elephants would fill that overheated room, but I wouldn’t be the one to name them and I was as good as certain she wouldn’t either.

It was true that she was altered, but not enough to make me feel safe. There was some careful stepping around each other, something she wouldn’t have bothered with in the old days. One of the things I had always found hardest to bear was the false narrative Belle foisted upon me, where I was a wilful, selfish child, the cause of everything that happened. Standing by her hospital bed in the sterile, white-walled room I wondered if she still believed it.

She described her illness with an air of triumph, as if it vindicated her: the first symptoms, her doctor’s swift reaction, how they looked when they told her there was no hope. I let the words float. There was a pause, a silence. I watched while she heaved herself up on the pillow, groaning with the strain of it. She looked me directly in the eye for the first time. ‘Ann, there’s something I have to tell you.’

I had no intimation of what I was about to hear. She’s going to say she was wrong about me. She’s going to tell me it wasn’t my fault. She’s going to say she loved me really, all along she loved me. I could have thought all these things, or one of them, but I thought nothing.

A smiling nurse appeared, in squeaking shoes and said. ‘We need you for a few minutes, love, to do a couple of tests. We won’t be long.’

I stood. ‘I’ll go, I have to get back –’

‘No.’ she took a deep painful breath. ‘I need you to wait.’

That shook me. Belle could order you about no end and react with savage fury if you didn’t give what she demanded, but to ask for your company, she wouldn’t demean herself. More than anything, I wanted to leave. I didn’t know what she planned to tell me and I was afraid to allow myself to hear it. Yet inexplicably, I waited, sipping lukewarm tea in the windowless family room with the dog-eared bridal magazines, till the nurse stuck his head round the door and said, ‘We’ve finished with your mum now.’ I walked slowly back to the ward. Belle was asleep, snoring lightly. I took in her loose sallow skin, slack half-open lips, a glistening trail of drool from mouth to chin, and I felt for her as for any human being who is suffering with no hope of recovery, but I was gratified and comforted that my history would die with her.

It was dark when I hurried across the carpark, the tarmac was slick and oily with rain, making the blue and white lights of accident and emergency look almost welcoming. I sat for a moment in the car, visualising Dan at home, shelter and warmth; then I twisted the key, started the engine and drove.

Chapter One

Ann was waiting for a sign. It came on Tuesday morning, twenty-four hours before the police turned up. She had eaten breakfast and was on her way upstairs when she heard the clack and clatter of the letterbox. A shiver passed through her like chilled water coursing through her veins, a primordial instinct alerting her to something amiss moments before her brain registered that it was much too early for mail. She froze, listening for the sound of movement from where Dan was watching the morning news in the living room. Then she tiptoed down the stairs and crouched before the packet which lay in wait on the mosaic tiled floor. It was an A5 padded brown envelope, no stamp or postmark, just her name scribbled in large, uneven handwriting. She prodded it, feeling something small and hard, a shape she thought she recognised.

‘What was that?’ Dan stood in the doorway.

‘Just junk,’ she said, her voice sounding shrill. She raced upstairs before he could respond, holding the package out in two fingers like a hair she had found in her food. In the bedroom she dropped it on the side table then she sat on the bed. She had to resist an almost overwhelming urge to crawl back under the still-warm duvet. It was then she remembered that last night she had had a strange return of her recurring childhood dream. She had been in a field of corn so high it reached her chin and someone was calling something that sounded like, ‘ree-ann, ree-aan, and as in childhood, she had woken with tears dried on her face. She sighed and stood up to reach to the top of the wardrobe for her navy cabin-size suitcase. She unzipped the inside panel and pushed the package inside.

#

By eight-ten, Ann was sat in the waiting room trying to decide whether it was ominous or merely ironic that the message had come on the very day she was to have her first session with the therapist. She’d been tempted to cancel, but those who expected her to be here and believed that it was for her own good would ask questions, and she couldn’t come up with any explanation that would justify missing it apart from the truth, which wasn’t an option.

She had always been irritated by the cliché of the over-zealous television detective who is traumatised by an incident on the job, then insists on taking personal responsibility, as if the whole world revolves around him. Ordered into therapy he argues that he doesn’t need ‘a shrink’ – the very use of the word, an intentional signal of his antediluvian views on life in general and policing in particular. But the fact was, Ann didn’t need a shrink. It wasn’t that she didn’t have problems, one particularly huge problem in fact, but it wasn’t something that could be fixed by a counsellor. She was in this situation because of her manager. Beverley had got involved a few months earlier after Ann had informed her that she needed time off to do a video interview with the police. When she had explained why the interview was necessary, Beverley had simulated shock and sympathy then questioned whether Ann was emotionally fit for work. Ann said she certainly was. And she wasn't doing that other cliched detective thing either, where the guy’s so committed he can’t use up his holidays, let alone take a day’s sick leave, she was just mindful of the strictness of the council’s sickness policy. Beverley had insisted on a referral to occupational health and occupational health had put her on the list for counselling. When Ann tried to refuse she had found herself in the age-old mental health dilemma where the very act of refusing help is seen as evidence of your need of it. She backed down only because she was drawing attention to herself by protesting, and right now that was the one thing she couldn’t afford to do.

Mrs Foster led Ann into a room of pale lavender walls and gentle ambience. Apart from a cheerful wall-hanging, apparently created by a class of primary school children, there was nothing to distract; no knick-knacks, books or pictures, just a faint scent of herbal tea and a fan whirring discreetly in the background as if not wishing to draw attention to itself. Mrs Foster, who introduced herself as Gemma, was a tall solid woman with a broad pleasant face and a wide big-toothed smile. Ann paid careful attention while she explained the nature of confidentiality, then Mrs Foster asked if she minded her recording their sessions. Ann was dubious for obvious reasons, a recording was evidence, but it seemed churlish to refuse and anyway, she didn’t plan to give the woman anything worthwhile.

‘I understand what I have to do,’ she blurted out. ‘It’s not pleasant to go over it, but – well, I recognise that that is kind of the point. So I’m going to get all the unpleasantness out of the way, here in this space.’ She took a quick breath.

Mrs Foster assumed an expression of interested concern. ‘You think the point of this process is to leave the unpleasantness behind in this room.’ She didn’t quite make bunny ears around the word ‘unpleasantness’ but the intention was implicit.

Ann stared at her hands, clammy despite the fan. ‘I sound like I’m being avoidant.’ she said, to pre-empt her. Mrs Foster waved a hand as if to say she wasn’t assuming anything, though they both knew better. ‘You don’t need to ask if I’m taking it seriously, I’m not entirely. That would be letting it beat me.’ Her mouth was suddenly dry, she gazed at the water jug and the misty blue plastic glass on the table next to her, but she didn’t drink.

‘It sounds as if you’re saying that it’s important not to let yourself be a victim, so you treat your pain …’ she looked to the ceiling, searching for the word, ‘flippantly.’

‘I hold it at a distance.’

‘Mmm.’ She went to say something then seemed to change her mind. ‘So you help victims of abuse. A demanding job – emotionally and psychologically.’

‘I’m used to it. It’s okay when you are helping, it’s only stressful when the system fails.’

‘You have a husband and child, do you talk to them?’

‘My husband, a little. My daughter’s out of the country, a year travelling.’

‘You must miss her.’

‘I’m happy for her. I’m glad she’s able to do it.’

Mrs Foster waited, her pen tapping loosely against the pad.

‘Look, I’ll be honest with you, I'm sure you’ve heard it all in here, after all. The fact is, I don’t miss people. I don't know how it works. For me, someone is there and then they are not. When they return I’m happy to see them – overjoyed in Cassie’s case – but while they're away,’ she paused considering how to explain, ‘I don’t dwell on it. Perhaps you'll come to your own conclusions about why that is, but it's how I am.’

‘You love your daughter?’

‘Of course. And when she’s with me I actively love her, but when she’s not it's just a theoretical concept.’

Mrs Foster studied her, seeming at a loss for an answer. Perhaps she hadn't heard it all before.

‘It’s not like I haven't seen her, she came home for a month in March.’

‘That was when your mother died?’

‘When I found out that she had died, yes. But, that had nothing to do with –what I did later.’ Ann took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘She stopped being my mother a long time ago.’ She glanced at the clock wondering how long they had left.

‘So you had mixed feelings about your mother’s death.’

‘I didn’t have mixed feelings. I had no feelings.’

#

She was in the car for nine-fifteen, if she could make it to the office by ten she’d have an hour to get some work done before the managers meeting. She took the main road, longer but faster, wrenching her mind from the image of a brown padded envelope with her name scribbled in the unsteady hand of a child or a geriatric.

Emma was already at her desk. ‘How was the conference?’

Ann looked blank.

‘Yesterday?’

‘Oh yes, sorry. It was okay, child exploitation meetings never going to be much fun.’

Emma grimaced sympathetically. ‘Wasn’t even your job to go, was it?’

‘No. Cynthia was too busy.’

‘We’re all too busy. I’ve got to go to the safeguarding board audits this morning, that’s half a day wasted.’

They heard the bleep-bleep of someone activating the door code and Carol bustled in waving a weary hand. ‘I’m not staying, I’ve got a child in need meeting.’ She looked exhausted, her hair lifeless, her complexion the colour of putty. Ann registered it but it didn’t ring any bells until Emma spoke. ‘Carol, what are you doing here? How’s Dave?’ Ann remembered the call yesterday, Carol had cancelled her last visit because her husband was in hospital with breathing difficulties. She had meant to ring to check on her later, but as usual, it had just gone from her head. This job conditioned you to live in the present, it was all reacting, firefighting, never mind that they were described as early intervention, there was no money for early interventions anymore, the families that came to them were already broken.

‘How is he?’ Emma asked gently.

Carol started telling them how frightened she’d been, he was older than her, she worried about his health. Ann noticed a glistening of tears which she read as an indication that it would be inappropriate to return to her reports, a glance at Emma confirmed it. So they talked it through, the three of them, then the door went again, it was Luke with Jane close behind and it was all starting.

At ten o’clock Jess called from reception, ‘Hayley’s not coming in, it’s her dad again, and Jamila from mental health’s on the phone. Do you want me to tell her you’re not here?’

‘No. No point, she’ll only keep calling.’

She told Jamila that since she didn’t manage the assessment team she had no idea why they hadn’t yet seen her patient. Jamila responded with such blatant cordiality that Ann felt guilty for snapping, which was probably how it came about that she found herself doing something so stupid as agreeing to call the assessment team herself. She should have batted it back and let Jamila make the call, they both knew that. Since the latest round of cuts they were all required to act in ways that increased their team’s resources at the expense of other services, a game they’d been forced to learn and one Ann needed to get better at. Jamila was a master, but that was because the mental health practitioners had read the writing on the wall before anyone else had even realised there was a wall. They now had daily battles with all the organizations they used to cooperate with, encouraged by managers who didn’t look kindly on staff who couldn’t shift work onto other agencies. There were no winners in the game, you could only avoid losing, and the way you lost was to get left holding the baby. The baby Jamila had dropped in her arms was a relatively small one, but it was one she didn’t need.

She clicked on the database icon as she remembered that Hayley’s appointments would have to be cancelled. A message informed her that the password was incorrect. She re-entered it. Wrong. It counted her out for two minutes. She took a slurp of cold tea, feeling like her head was full of floss, then she checked CAPLOCK before trying again. A ten-minute count out. She put her head down on the desk and groaned.

‘What’s up?’ Emma appeared behind her.

‘I’ve got to leave in ten minutes, Hayley’s appointments need cancelling and I’m locked out of the database. And I still have to call the assessment team for Jamila. Honestly I can’t believe this is happening before the one meeting in the month that I cannot be late for.'

‘You never get to leave at the time you need to,’ Emma reminded her. ‘It’s not your fault, it’s just the way it is.’

She sighed wearily. ‘I always think I can make up time on the way.’

‘And that’s why you have to do the speed awareness course.’

‘Shit don’t remind me! I’ve still got to book it.’

Emma put out a hand. ‘Give me the case number I’ll call the assessment team.’

‘Have you got time?’

‘Just a tiny bit more than you.’

#

The meeting ran late then she was held up by an accident on the motorway so it was almost seven when she reversed into her own driveway. She loved the reassuring solidity of their Victorian terrace with its bay windows, mosaic floors and high-ceilinged rooms; it was a port in the storm that was the outside world, and the embodiment of a life she had never expected to have.

In the kitchen she opened the fridge and found a piece of lasagne, then carried it into the living room where Dan was sprawled on their fat leather settee flicking through TV channels. He looked at the plate in her hand. ‘Aren't you going to heat it up.’

‘Nah, I’ll eat it cold.’

‘You want me to do it?’

‘It’s fine, tastes good.’

He gestured towards the TV, ‘What do you fancy?’

‘I don’t mind.’ She grabbed a magazine and flicked through it, trying not to think about the package hidden upstairs.

Dan picked up the remote. ‘Louis Theroux? A documentary about Syria?’

‘We never watch anything direct anymore.’

It’s one of those changing world things.’

‘It’s hard to keep up, I know that makes me sound old, it’s something people say when they get old isn’t it?’

‘True though.’ He fell back into the settee. ‘Do young people keep up with the way everything changes so fast?’

‘I don’t suppose they even notice.’

‘You heard from Cassie?’

She smiled. ‘Just an email, she’s travelling to Vietnam, by bus by the sound of it, she didn’t have time to say much.’

‘She’s all right though?’

‘Oh yes, happy as Larry.’

He continued flicking through channels. ‘How about a Life on Earth? Something nice and neutral.’

‘Why not?’

He dropped the remote and settled himself next to her. ‘Look, there’s a sloth.’

She grinned. ‘You can’t beat a sloth for entertainment.’

‘Irony, eh?’

The male was pursuing a potential mate in an area where mates were few and far between. There was no doubt about the urgency of the mission not only for the amorous sloth but for the sloth population at large, but the sluggishness of its purposeful movement was hilarious. Dan, a natural worrier began to fret about extinction, reeling off names of animals that the world was about to lose.

‘Isn’t that just evolution? Species die out.’

‘But look how many we’re losing. You can’t get them back.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘That’s it – gone.

Ann shrugged. ‘Yes but – I mean, when it comes down to it – so what?’

This sentiment was so preposterous that for a moment he could barely conceive of a suitable response. ‘What about our grandchildren? These things won’t exist for them, they’ll never see a sloth!’

‘I’ve never seen a sloth.’

‘I know but –’ he laughed reluctantly,

‘And we haven’t got grandchildren.’

‘Bloody hell, you know what I mean.’

Her phone beeped, she glanced at it, then looked up when she felt him watching. ‘What?'

‘So? Did you go?’

‘Where?’

He threw her a look.

‘Of course I went.’

‘How was it?’

‘As you’d expect. Not worth talking about.’

‘Okay, I just wanted –’

‘I thought we weren't talking about it.’

On the TV, an iguana breaks out of its egg and crouches peeping out across the sand. The moment he moves there’s a snake onto him. He dashes off, but suddenly he’s surrounded by snakes, alerted by sand movement and coming from all directions. He scrambles up a high rock followed by the leading snake, then skitters down on the other side, but when he hits ground, the movement alerts others and snakes flood from the rocks where hordes have been lying in wait. The iguana is legging it across the sand and the snakes keep coming, then it’s as if he suddenly gets an idea, he freezes, the snakes falter – they don’t know where he is.

‘Wow.’ She looked at Dan. ‘Do you know what would happen right now if I was watching this at home when I was little?’ He turned to her with an expression of interest. She rarely talked about her childhood. ‘The bloody television meter would run out, no one would have a fifty-pence piece and we’d never know what happened to the poor little critter.’

Chapter Two

She rolled out of bed at seven the next morning and dressed quickly in the bathroom to avoid disturbing Dan. In the kitchen she chopped fruit for a smoothie and sipped it while she put a sandwich together for later. There was a soothing spattering of rain at the window and a woman on the radio was talking about predatory behaviour in birds. She was functioning on automatic pilot waiting for her brain to catch up after a restless night, so when the urgent tapping came at the back door she jumped in shock. It was too early for any innocent caller and it flashed through her mind that she should just hide and pretend she wasn’t in. She walked to the sink, twisted the tap and held her wrists under the cold water. When she turned she could see two dark figures through the glass. She knew what it was then, and she experienced that sense of shock that comes with seeing the police at your door and remembering how suddenly life can turn on a coin. When she opened the door she was surprised to find that one of the police officers was Brendan. He was in plainclothes, the woman was in uniform. ‘What a surprise, come in,’ Ann said, trying to suppress the shake in her voice.

‘Ay up,’ Brendan said in his broad Yorkshire. With his squat body, flattened nose and five o’clock shadow he presented as a stereotype: tough-down-to-earth-working-class-copper. ‘How are you?’ His smile was broad but his eyes were evasive.

‘I’m good thanks.’ She turned to the sink and ran a glass of cold water.

Brendan switched off the radio. ‘I’m sorry for turning up like this, but I wanted to catch you before you left, I didn’t want you hearing this from other sources.’

Other sources. How strange was the language of the police, seemingly designed to distance themselves from the messiness of the human situations they were embroiled in. She glanced to the ceiling, thinking of Dan, wishing she was with him safe and sound in their bed.

Brendan pointed to the kitchen table. ‘We should sit.’

The woman pulled out a chair but Ann didn’t sit, she put her hands on the back of the chair as if it was a walking frame.

He came straight to the point. ‘We found a body.’

She raised a hand and edged backwards, not taking her eyes off them as if they were strange dogs. ‘What are you telling me?’

Brendan came forward quickly. ‘It was him, Ann.’

‘How did – how –’ She looked from one to the other trying to read the answer in their faces. ‘He’s dead?’ For one insane moment she thought they were going to ask her to identify him, then she realised how ludicrous that would be.

‘You’re saying he was here? – In England? You told me he lived abroad now.’ Her voice sounded unnaturally loud.

‘I said he had been living abroad. But you were aware that he was here. It was the bail condition.’

‘I'm sorry, I … I can’t think straight.’ Brendan pulled out a chair and she sat quickly.

The woman stepped forward, wearing a stock concerned expression. ‘It’s natural that you’re confused.’

‘I’m not confused.’ She folded her arms across her chest, then thinking it looked defensive, dropped them by her side. ‘Would you like a coffee?’

‘Thank you, no. We just wanted to tell you before the local papers get hold of it.’

‘The papers!’ Ann stood up abruptly. ‘They won’t – they don’t know about me?’

‘No, no, of course not.’ He patted her arm.

‘Thank you, Brendan, it was kind of you to come.’

He turned back at the door, ignoring the swift warning look from his colleague, ‘You’ve got my number, ring me if you need.’

Ann closed the door then walked upstairs moving slowly. On the landing she stopped for a moment, forgetting why she was there. She went into the bathroom and sat on the edge of the bath thinking about the hidden package, then she stood up, took off all her clothes and got in the shower. When she got out she put on a different set of clothes. Dan was still sleeping.

#

At work she acted like nothing had happened. She was good at that, she often wondered why others made such a fuss about continuing their normal life in the face of sudden or persistent tragedy. She was making coffees when Jane came in waving a copy of the local paper. ‘Have you seen this? Aaron Davies won the young apprentice award.’

‘Who’d have thought it, eh?’ Ann glanced out the window. ‘Here she is now.’

Jane flapped the paper at Carol as she walked in the door, and Carol thrust up her hand, in a gesture of triumph. ‘I know. Good on him. I knew that lad had it in him.’

Ann was pleased for her. Everyone had warned her off, police said he wasn’t worth the effort, he’d never change, the anti-social behaviour team said he came from the wrong family, it just made Carol more determined. ‘You want coffee?’

‘Please.’

‘Jane?’

‘No thanks.’ She was flicking through the newspaper. ‘Have you seen this? Police found a body in Harley Square. Sounds suspicious.’

Carol sat at her computer. ‘Why?’

‘Because it says the police haven’t confirmed whether there are any suspicious circumstances, which always means there are.’

Luke raised his eyebrows. ‘Bit speculative.’

‘To be speculative is to be human. I’m sure some philosopher said so.’

Ann set her coffee cup down, her hands were shaking. She opened the fridge pretending to look for something.

Jess came in from receptions. ‘Hayley called. She’s got that job she went for.’

Ann couldn’t blame her, she was leaving for the same reason they all did, she was more surprised by those who stayed, but it was going to be a nightmare to share her caseload across already stretched staff.

Luke pushed back his keyboard. ‘That’s another man down.’ He stood up and stretched, man-style with his arms bent behind his head, chest thrust forward. ‘That’s it, I’m invoking Fast Food Friday.’

‘It's only Wednesday.’

‘Irrelevant and unnecessary. And exactly what I'd expect of you, Emma.’