Page 8 of Worse Than Murder (DCI Matilda Darke Thriller #13)

I t doesn’t take long for Philip Meagan to fall asleep. He works long hours in the restaurant and, by the time he falls into bed, he reads a couple of chapters of a Tom Wood, then reaches for the bookmark, turns over, and is snoring within seconds.

On the other side of the bed, Sally Meagan stays awake much longer.

She’s on her feet all day, too, sorting out the restaurant, mingling with customers, organising staff, and talking with suppliers, but when it comes to going straight to sleep, her mind is too switched on to allow her to simply close her eyes and drift away.

She’s sitting up, thin blanket pushed down, and looks at how many pages she has left of the latest Lynda La Plante.

She’s pretty sure she will finish it tonight.

She snuggles down and begins reading. It isn’t long before she’s interrupted.

It’s only a faint sound at first, but as it grows in its intensity, Sally can hear Matilda along the hallway struggling to muffle her cries.

This happens most nights. Sally has no idea if Matilda is sitting up in bed, wide awake, crying for her dead family, or if she is crying in her sleep as her nightmares go over everything in minute detail.

Sally never tells her the following morning that she’s heard her cry.

She knows that Matilda will open up when she is ready.

She wishes there was something she could do for her.

All she can think of is popping into her bedroom and offering a placatory hug.

That won’t change the fact that evil has taken over Matilda’s life.

There are times when the raw emotions need to be allowed to play out.

Once you hit rock bottom, that’s when you need a good friend to help you back up. This is one of those times.

* * *

‘I fucking hate you.’

I wake up with a start. My sister’s words are always in my head. Every now and then, they’re screamed at me and hit me like a freight train.

I struggle to sit up in the tangle of the cotton sheet. I’m dripping with perspiration and my pillow is wet with tears. Another nightmare. A repeat of the same horror I’ve been dreaming about for weeks. My family is dead. It’s my fault. I may as well have butchered them with a knife.

I kick myself out of the sheet and place my bare feet on the carpet.

It takes effort for me to lift myself off the bed and leave the room.

I’m thirsty and hot. I’m hungry, too. Thank goodness I’m living above a restaurant where there are so many well-prepared goodies for me to gorge on for a midnight snack.

I push open the door to the kitchen. The cool tiled floor is heaven to my burning feet.

There’s already a small light on above the central island.

Sitting there is thirteen-year-old Carl Meagan wearing a T-shirt and pyjama bottoms, sipping water from a glass.

He looks up at me with heavy, tired eyes.

‘Can’t you sleep either?’ I ask him.

He shakes his head. ‘Too hot.’

‘Same.’

‘You do know you can’t lie to me, don’t you, Mat?’

I’ve got my head in the fridge, but I turn to look at him.

There’s a strong connection between the two of us, considering he’s thirteen and I’m fort…

a bit older. We’ve both been through so much torment.

Often, we can spend hours in each other’s company, not say a single word, yet we’ll know what each other is thinking and feeling.

I know I shouldn’t have burdened a teenager, but Carl is the only person I’ve opened up to about the events in Sheffield. On one of our walks with the dogs, we found a quiet spot by the lake, and I said one thing and, before you know it, it’s all coming out and I can’t stop.

In the fridge, I find a large piece of raspberry and almond frangipane tart.

I grab two forks from the drawer and go over to sit beside Carl.

I hadn’t spotted the two golden Labradors at his feet.

I should have known they would have followed him from his bedroom.

They’re his shadow. They never leave his side.

‘I keep having the same dream,’ I say, tossing him a fork.

‘I run into my mum’s house. She’s dead. They’re all dead, but they’re talking to me, blaming me for killing them.

’ I pause while I put a forkful of tart in my mouth.

I chew, but I find it hurts to swallow with the emotional lump stuck in my throat.

‘They say some dark, horrible, hurtful things. And I agree with every single word they say.’

‘You’re blaming yourself.’

‘Wouldn’t you?’

He chews and swallows. ‘Yes. But I’d know, deep down, that it wasn’t my fault.’

I look up at him.

‘You are not responsible for other people’s actions.’

‘I’m a detective. It’s my job to catch killers.’

‘Yes. But if you don’t catch them and they go on to kill others, is that really your fault?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I couldn’t catch them.’

‘What about the other members of your team? Christian and Sian. Do they blame themselves? Do the DCs and the PCs who do the house-to-house inquiries? Does your boss? Does every single member of South Yorkshire Police blame themselves?’

‘I…’

‘No, they don’t,’ Carl answers for me. ‘The reason why they don’t is because they’re trying their hardest to catch the person responsible. And if they don’t, they know there are many reasons why they didn’t catch him this time. But they will. Eventually.’

‘He killed my family,’ I say, struggling to speak through the pent-up tears.

‘I know. This one is personal. It’s going to feel hard.

But you’ve worked on serial killer cases before.

They’ve killed others during the investigations while you’ve tried to catch them.

You weren’t responsible for those deaths and you’re not responsible for the deaths of your mum and your nephews. ’

‘I wish I could believe that.’

‘You will. But not for a while.’

I take a big piece of tart and chew it slowly while I think.

I look over at Carl. He’s below average height for his age, not even five foot tall, yet.

His hair has lightened in the strong summer sun, but he seems relaxed in his home surroundings.

There’s still a pain in his eyes from time to time.

He’ll be sitting on the sofa, squashed between two dogs, watching a film, but you can see that he’s somewhere else.

I want to ask him where– back in his old house in Sheffield, watching his grandmother get killed?

Trapped in the van the kidnappers had bundled him into?

In a lonely bedroom in Sweden with a strange couple talking a language he can’t understand?

He’s never spoken of what happened there.

He’s always said they looked after him. But how much is he suppressing?

‘When did you get to be so wise?’ I ask him.

‘I wouldn’t recommend it, obviously, but don’t let anyone tell you getting kidnapped and sold to a childless couple doesn’t make you grow up,’ he says with a hint of a smile.

‘You’ve missed out on a large part of your childhood.’

He shrugs. ‘But look at what’s happened in its place?

Mum and Dad only have one restaurant now.

They were building up an empire. I hardly saw them.

It took me getting kidnapped for them to realise what was important.

Do you think I would have gone on camping holidays with Dad if we were still living in Sheffield and I’d never been taken?

I don’t. I’m glad of the mum and dad I have right now. ’

That’s given me something to think about. My head sinks to my chest. It sometimes feels too heavy to hold up.

‘I can’t take anything positive from this,’ I tell him.

‘Of course, you can’t. It’s just happened.

Everything is still hurting. You’ll never get over what happened to your mum and your nephews.

I still picture my gran in the living room, all that blood, but you learn to live with what you’ve got left.

You can learn from what happened and adapt.

It’s what Mum and Dad did. They sold all the restaurants and moved here. ’

‘Maybe I should resign from the police force,’ I say to myself more than to Carl.

‘Would that make you happy?’

‘I don’t think anything will make me happy ever again.’

‘Drama queen,’ Carl says with a smile. ‘Do you know what makes me happy right now?’

‘What?’

‘Three things. Right now, at this moment, three things are making me happy. My two dogs, and this really nice tart.’

‘It is a very good tart.’

‘You don’t need to think about what’s going to make you happy in five years’ time, in ten years’ time.

It’s wishing your life away. Just think about right now and the next five minutes.

Right now, on this stool, talking to you with my dogs and this great pudding, I’m happy.

I’ll be happy when I go back to bed as I’ll have my dogs with me. You build from that.’

‘Bloody hell, Carl, you should give TED talks.’

‘Would I get paid?’ he asks, his eyes wide with anticipation.

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Oh. I won’t bother, then.’ He jumps down from the island. ‘I’m going back to bed. School in the morning.’

‘Goodnight, Carl.’

‘Goodnight,’ he says over his shoulder as he and the dogs leave the room.

I think about what Carl’s said. He’s right. I know he’s right. But it’s not easy. Everything is too raw. I look down at what’s left of the almond tart on the plate. I can’t put what remains back in the fridge. I may as well finish it off and apologise to Philip in the morning.

So, what’s making me happy right now? Right at this very moment in time, what is making me happy? Nothing springs to mind.

‘I’m devoid of happiness,’ I say out loud.

‘No, you’re not. You just think you are,’ Carl calls out.

‘I thought you were going back to bed?’ I shout back.

‘I am now. Goodnight.’

I have to smile to myself at that. I really am enjoying my time here with the Meagans. That’s what’s making me happy right now– their company.

‘Thank you, Carl,’ I say quietly to myself.