‘Click click click click click…the indicator roared as DI Ian Carragher turned left out of New Scotland Yard. It didn’t really roar, that was an exaggeration, only lions roar, but Ian hated that noise. It was one of his pet hates. How stupid do you need to be to not realise that your indicator is on. He was never sure why it actually annoyed him but it did. When he was driving about if someone coming towards him had left their indicator on he would flash his lights and point vigorously whilst mouthing the words ‘you have left your indicator on, you have left your indicator on’ as his mind inadvertently finished the sentence with ‘you stupid fucking retard’. On the motorway if he saw someone doing it he would pull up alongside and point vigorously, like an Englishman on holiday in a shop who can barely speak his own language, never mind somebody else’s. Sometimes he would get a polite thank you or a thumb’s up. Other times he would just be ignored, which got him even more wound up. Somebody had once completely blanked him. He must have spent ten minutes trying to get him to turn it off. In the end he sped off swearing like an over excited teenager with tourettes. What he had really wanted to do was pull the idiot over, drag him out of the car, pull his arm off and wave it in front of the mans face shouting ‘TICK TICK TICK…do you realise you have even lost your arm you fucking Neanderthal’, before beating him to death with it then getting rid of the evidence (but not before turning his indicator off of course).
It was early, 5:50 a.m. They had borrowed an unmarked police car. It was a brand new VW Passat. Black, non-descript, standard interior, plastic everywhere. PC McGeorge was in the back. She was in plain clothes. He had told her to dress down, she had wondered whether jeans and a t shirt would be okay and Ian had mentioned the fact a bikini would be just fine with him, which of course had led to the usual five second icy stare from McGeorge and a brief shake of the head in admonishment of his error before she’d turned and wandered off. She was in the back seat handcuffed to Jane. Ian had a whole host of comments lined up as she pulled out the handcuffs but McGeorge just looked at him and said coldly ‘not a fucking word, just for once, don’t say it.’
Ian yawned, for about the twentieth time that morning. He had got up at 4 a.m. His wife was on nights so it was up to him to get himself up. Between the bedside alarm, his phone alarm and his watch alarm he had managed it. His zombie like state had continued up to this point. The cup holders below the CD radio player of the Passat held Ian’s starbucks Grande cappuccino. He had ordered an extra two shots of caffeine and shoved five sugars in it. The wooden stirrer had practically stood up in the drink. The twin stimulants of caffeine and glucose were just starting to hit his blood stream.
In the back Jane was sitting there, absent-mindedly staring out of the side window. Ian watched her in the rear view mirror. She never blinked, never turned her head to focus on something interesting she had seen. The world raced past her, nothing registering. She was sitting there in new jeans and a plain white t shirt. A blue cap with an NY motif on the front in white, pulled low over her eyes. She had pulled the ponytail of her shoulder length brown hair through the back of the cap. She looked tired. Worn out. Finished. She had refused to tell them the exact address, simply saying ‘head for Brighton, go down the M23 and I will tell you when to turn off’. There had been nothing else. They had tried but Jane knew as soon as she told them it would jeopardise her chances of actually being taken there.
The roads were reasonably empty. However the day had started cloudy. There was a storm in the air, as the clouds began to gather in the distance almost like a metaphor for the day’s troubles ahead. The radio was tuned to classic FM. The volume was on low, the violins, piano concerto’s and clarinet symposiums a distant melodic sound which could be heard but lacked the voluminous depth required to fully comprehend the composer’s mood.
McGeorge was making her way through a stack of magazines. Heat, Marie Claire, Okay, Hello. Ian hated those magazines, didn’t all men. But then at the same time how many men had actually read them. All of them in most likelihood. It was like a visual drug. What was Brad Pitt, Angelina Jolie, Puff Daddy or P Diddy or Duff Paddy or whatever the hell he was known as this month up to? To see George Clooney with yet another bevy of beauties in some idyllic location, sipping champagne at a top hotel or multi million dollar mansion meant hints of jealousy and envy came to the fore. I bet you he hires someone to turn off his car indicator light thought Ian with a smirk. Turning the pages and seeing Jessica Alba, Gisele Bundchen, Cameron Diaz et al looking hotter and hotter, wearing less and less. He had once idly picked up Hello magazine and seen Elle McPherson topless on a beach and nearly wept with joy…..he was almost moved to tears thinking about it now. ‘Ding Dong’ he whispered absent-mindedly to himself.
‘What?’ McGeorge looked up inquisitively.
‘Err, nothing, its okay. I was miles away there.’
‘Jane, how are you doing back there? Do you need anything’ Ian asked quickly trying to change the subject.
Jane looked up and shook her head as minimally as was humanly possible.
They had left London behind without incidents or traffic jams. The M25 was unrecognisable. There were only a few cars on it and Ian actually gunned the accelerator and hit a hundred MPH. The engine roared in response and the noise coming in from the slightly ajar windows increased significantly.
‘Oi, Ayrton…you wanna slow it down a bit.’ Scolded McGeorge.
‘Sorry, but look at it, it just had to be done.’
They carried on and joined up with the M23 heading South. They headed past Crawley and Gatwick airport. The planes were coming in and out very regularly. Ian looked up and wondered, as everybody probably does, where was it going? It was the wrong time of the year for the hillbilly express to Torremelinos or the chav’s flight to Kos. Full of girls in pink velour tracksuits and gold jewellery, lads in baseball caps, number one shaven heads, and tracksuits…already acting crass and rowdy as they emptied the bar of all available alcohol. Both sexes looking round the plane, eyeing one another up like two tribes. Trying to see who would be their first notch on the bed post after a night of tacky music and immense amounts of alcohol. The British on tour what a lovely advertisement for the country
As they got onto the A23 Jane looked up. ‘Head for Brighton’ She stated obtusely.
‘And whereabouts in Brighton are we headed then Jane??’
‘Who says we are headed anywhere near Brighton?’
‘Fair enough…’ Ian knew it was pointless. When they got there, they would get there.
They came over the hill and could see the sea. Ian hadn’t been near the sea in ages. The great metropolis of London had consumed his and his wife’s time. They had become sucked into the maelstrom of a capital city, which was full on twenty four hours a day, where the days merged into weeks, the weeks months, and then the months, years. They hadn’t had a holiday for three years. They had taken time off but never really done anything. It had always been quite subdued and they had never really taken long off anyway, preferring to take the available overtime at their respective places of work and just get on with what they felt comfortable with. It was only when he saw the sea that he knew he had to get away. The holiday he and his wife were planning now had to happen. It was time to get on with life, move on, enjoy life again.
As they got to the roundabout near the famous Brighton hotel ‘The Grand’, ‘Turn left’, Jane stated matter-of-factly. Head for Rottingdean. They drove slowly along the coast. The sky was a battleship grey, the sea matching the sky’s dowdy foreboding colours like a mirror. The sea was rough, white crests of colour were interspersed over the horizon as far as the eye could see. There were some ships out on the horizon, vast container ships laden with hundreds of containers from around the world, filled with everything that mankind could make, from toys to engineering equipment, furniture, clothing, electrical goods, the lot. Nearer to the shoreline Ian could see the fishermen heading back in from their expedition. Their nets neatly stacked at the back of the boat, seagulls
flying round and round like protective jets around an aircraft carrier. Just waiting for any morsel which would be thrown overboard and they could dive down and get. Their noisy squawking a plea to the fishermen to share their bounty could be heard even with the windows of the car closed. They continued on their journey, all three of them lost in their own thoughts as the minutes ticked by and they got ever nearer their final destination.
As they got to Rottingdean, they were then instructed by Jane to head past Rottingdean and on to Peacehaven.
As they entered Peacehaven Jane became more animated.
‘Here, you will need to park here.’ She stated emotionally vigorously pointing to the car park area which was obvious to the eye and more showed up the feelings that were stirring within Jane.
Ian saw a small car park. He looked a little confused. There were some houses to the left, that must be it he thought.
Ian turned off the engine. He asked McGeorge to wait in the car a minute. Ian got out, stretched and looked around.
They were now all out of the car. Jane was still handcuffed to McGeorge, a coat was draped between them and they stood close together so as to hide the prisoner’s shackles. Jane began walking. They headed across the road and walked down a small path to a row of four terraced houses. They were simple two up two down affairs. Red brick, old fashioned chimney stacks, large sash windows. The views out to sea were wonderful.
They stopped outside number four. Ian looked at Jane ‘So come on then clever clogs, how, do we get in? You don’t have a key?’
‘Look under the plant pot’ Jane motioned with her head. Sure enough under there was a key to the front door.
‘That’s not original, is it? Aren’t you frightened you might get broken into and robbed?’
‘Oh lets see shall we’ began Jane sarcastically, ‘I’ve been wandering around the country in a daze of unhappiness, despair, looking for redemption by killing people and extracting various body parts…so no, I AM NOT FUCKING BOTHERED!!’
Ian raised his eyebrows. It was a stupid question he reasoned. Anyway he shook his head and put the key in the lock. He turned it left, then right, he kicked the door, he barged the door with his shoulder, it never moved.
‘No no no, for Gods sake what are you doing?? You have to have a knack with it, let me try’ Jane stated.
Ian pondered this for a minute. He wanted closure and they were virtually there. ‘McGeorge, take the cuffs off. We are here now. The rest of the team will be here in fifteen minutes so we have no worries. Let’s just get in and get this sorted.’
‘But Ian you can’t do that, it’s risky.’
‘McGeorge just do it.’ Ian commanded interrupting her mid-flow.
McGeorge took the cuffs off. She and Ian both stood in the way of Jane. Without hesitation she grabbed the door and did this weird twisting key, pulling the door towards her thing. After even more jiggling (of the door, not Jane) it opened. The door creaked open in slow motion like in an old black and white horror movie. The house was still. There was no hallway; they were straight into the living room. They all walked in and closed the door behind them. Jane looked round affectionately. Ian and Lisa looked around in astonishment. The whole of the living room had photos of her and Nick up. There was a large one which had been blown up. It was of seven very happy people in a nightclub. It was obvious this was the night it happened. Ian recognised the clothes Nick was wearing. It was all in the report on Nick’s death. All seven of them had eyes as wide as saucers. Over the rest of the walls were standard photo sized pictures. There were hundreds of them. Various scenes and states of dress, on a beach, in a bar, in Paris, with friends, on Primrose Hill having a picnic. All sorts.
‘When I am here I just sit here and stare at them’ Jane said breaking the silence. ‘Sometimes I lose whole days just looking. The picture on the wall is the last night we were together…the night Nick died. Look how happy we all are. We had a great life. It was perfect. And then it all went so horribly wrong. I’ve lost everything, my job, my money, my friends, my health, my happiness, my Nick and now my life….’
The words hung in the air. Finally Ian walked through into the kitchen. He looked out into the tiny garden and saw everything. There was a small brass plaque surrounded by four small lights. The plaque simply said ‘My nick’ and surrounding it were four fresh mounds of earth…..Benjamin James Langans corneas, Mel Johnston’s heart, Saul Barraghan’s liver and David Holmes pancreas…or I suppose according to Jane, Nicks corneas, Nicks heart, Nicks liver, Nicks pancreas. Ian let out a sigh, shook his head and muttered under his breath ‘it’s over….’