A Song for the Dying

22

Babs slammed her elbow into the stained-glass panel, turning it into a multi-coloured spider’s web of cracks. One more and it burst inward with a bang, shards clattering down on the floor. Then she jammed her whole arm through the hole, face flat against the door as she fiddled with the locks. ‘Bing!’

The thing swung open and we tumbled inside.

All of us except for Alice. ‘Don’t we need a police officer and a warrant and-’

‘Watch the front!’

Inside, the hallway dog-legged around to the right. The lounge door was open, the sounds of some sort of kids’ programme on the TV blaring out its cheesy cheeriness. ‘… oooh, that is a spooky looking haunted house, isn’t it? But don’t worry, we can sing the “Bravery Song”!’ No one there — just two couches, a coffee table and a large sheepskin rug in front of an electric fire. Video camera on a tripod beside the television.

I pointed down the hall. ‘You take the door on the left, I’ll get the right.’

‘When things seem dark and scary, there’s no need to be afraid…’

Babs squared her shoulders and stomped down the corridor, hauled her door open as I hobbled to the next one. She stuck her head inside. ‘Boxroom: clear.’

‘Just think of lots of lovely things, like crisps and lemonade…’

Mine opened on a small bathroom that reeked of ammonia. A towel hung over the side of the salmon-pink bath, stained with brown streaks. A couple of small plastic bottles lay in the corner along with a box of hair dye. ‘Clear.’

‘Airing cupboard: clear.’

The last door opened on the kitchen: fitted units, pink fake-marble work surface, peach tiles on the floor. The back door hung open. The window above the sink looked out over a rain-soaked garden caught in the glow of a security light…

‘And you can sing the “Bravery Song”, whenever you get a fright…’

Virginia Cunningham was clambering up onto a set of plastic garden furniture arranged against the back fence. Her red towelling dressing gown flapped out behind her, showing off a pair of pale legs, massive spotty pants, and a pregnant bulge. Had to be at least seven months gone.

‘And, before you know it, everything will be all right!’

‘Babs! Back garden.’

Babs pushed past me, stomped across the kitchen. ‘Come back here!’

‘So forget the ghosts and goblins — no they can’t scare us today…’

‘And go easy. No violence.’

‘Cos we can sing the “Bravery Song”, and make them go away…’

Cunningham got one pasty leg hooked over the fence before Babs grabbed a double handful of dressing gown and pulled. Cunningham wobbled, then threw her arms back — the dressing gown slipped right off and Babs ended up on her arse in the wet grass.

‘The “Bravery Song”, the “Bravery Song”, sing it and you’ll feel big and strong…’

I limped out onto the top step as Cunningham pulled herself up the fence, now wearing nothing but mismatched underwear. ‘Seriously? You’re doing a runner in your bra and pants? Think it’s going to take long to catch you?’

She froze. ‘I didn’t do anything.’

Babs scrambled to her feet, reached out, and grabbed the strap at the back of the industrial grey bra. ‘Slip out of that. Go on, I dare you.’

Cunningham shut her eyes. Rain plastered her hair to her head. ‘Shite…’

She stood in the kitchen, dripping onto the peach tiles, clutching the dressing gown shut over her pregnant belly. ‘Can I at least get some clothes on?’

I leaned back against the fridge freezer. ‘Soon as you tell us where you were last night.’

Pink flushed her cheeks, hot against her pale fleshy face. ‘I was at home. Here. All night. Didn’t go out.’

‘And you can prove that, can you? Got a witness?’

Alice cleared her throat. ‘What do the Offender Management Unit think about you being pregnant?’

Cunningham just stared at her. ‘I want some clothes. And I need a pee. This is against my human rights.’

‘Right.’ The fridge freezer was covered in kid’s drawings. I pulled one free of its Blu-Tack. A happy stick-man family, grinning beneath a smiley yellow sun. ‘Home alone. No witness. No alibi.’

She raised her chin, taking the swell of skin underneath with it. ‘Didn’t think I needed one. Want me to pee on the kitchen floor? That what gets you off? Pregnant women peeing?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake. Fine. Go: pee.’ I pointed at the hallway. ‘Babs, stand outside the door and make sure she doesn’t try anything.’ Well, it wasn’t as if she’d be able to wiggle out the bathroom window.

Cunningham waddled off with Babs in tow.

As soon as the toilet door clunked shut, Alice pulled a face. ‘I’m very uncomfortable with the thought of her having a child, I mean what if it’s a boy, do they think she won’t sexually abuse it just because it’s hers, because most abuse happens within the family and I really don’t think the child’s going to be safe, well, unless it’s a girl, and even then… Where are you going?’

‘Living room.’

‘Oh. Can I come too?’

The kids’ show was still playing — a pair of idiots in fluorescent dungarees dancing with a third idiot dressed as Jacob Marley, chains rattling as he went. ‘Oh, I used to be quite scary, but I’d much rather be nice. Because having friends and having fun-’

I dumped the kid’s drawing on the coffee table, picked up the remote and jabbed pause — the trio froze, mid-song.

The tripod by the TV had a small camcorder mounted on it, the kind with the little screen that swivelled out of the side. It was pointing at the sheepskin rug in front of the electric fire.

The sound of a flushing toilet filtered down the corridor, followed by a clunk — that’d be the bathroom door — then another clunk. Bedroom.

Probably hadn’t even washed her hands.

Alice stood by the door, looking back over her shoulder, both arms wrapped around herself. ‘Do you think we should have a word with her social worker and the monitoring team, only she really shouldn’t be-’

‘I think they probably already know she’s dodgy.’ I moved around behind the camera and tilted the screen up a bit. Pressed the power button.

‘Virginia Cunningham. It’s a bit ironic, isn’t it, given her track record: the cunning virgin?’

Maybe not so cunning after all. The screen lit up blue, with a row of icons along the bottom: rewind, play, forwards, record. I pressed play and the screen filled with the sheepskin rug and fire, obviously shot from here.

‘Ash? Don’t you think it’s ironic?’

Cunningham waddled into shot, dressed in a matching set of black bra and pants, the blue veins on her legs visible through her pale skin, bellybutton popped to an outie. She lowered herself to the rug in three awkward grunting steps, clearly having trouble with her pregnant bulge. Then she pouted at the camera and started rubbing herself, licking her lips, peeling off her bra.

I hit rewind and she jumped to her feet, lurched backwards out of shot.

Singing came from somewhere down the hall outside. Not a great voice, but not awful either. ‘When things seem dark and scary, there’s no need to be afraid. Just think of lots of lovely things, like crisps and lemonade… ’ That would be Cunningham − somehow Babs didn’t seem like the kind who’d need to sing the ‘Bravery Song’.

‘And you can sing the “Bravery Song”, whenever you get a fright. And, before you know it, everything will be all right…’

Someone else reversed onto the screen — a small boy, blond, wearing nothing but a vest. Red welts on his bare arms and legs. Couldn’t have been much more than four or five. I jabbed the pause button and there he was, staring at the camera with wide blue eyes, tears on his cheeks, snot glistening on his top lip.

‘So forget the ghosts and goblins — no they can’t scare us today…’

I set it rewinding again. Cunningham backed into shot, naked except for two black leather gloves.

‘Cos we can sing the Bravery Song, and make them go away…’

And then she was… I switched the thing off. Stepped away from the camera.

‘Ash? Are you all right? You’ve gone all red.’

‘The “Bravery Song”, the “Bravery Song”, sing it and you’ll feel big and strong…’

I turned away, stared at the closed blinds. ‘Get her. Get the rancid bitch in here. Now.’

‘And you can sing it all night long, till good things come along.’

The plasterboard rattled as I slammed my palm against it. ‘And tell her to SHUT THE FUCK UP!’

Silence.

Alice shuffled her little red shoes, then hurried out. There was some muffled conversation in the hallway, then Babs’s voice boomed out. ‘All right, that’s enough. Get your bloody clothes on already!’

Two minutes later, Alice was back with Cunningham. Babs brought up the rear, blocking the doorway.

Cunningham had changed the dressing gown for a maternity dress: dark blue, with little red flowers. A pair of greying trainers. White cardigan. She lowered herself into the couch, flexing her hands into fists, then out again, as if she was trying to work out a cramp. ‘I didn’t do anything.’

I grabbed the camcorder, complete with tripod and thrust it under her nose. ‘YOU WANT TO REPHRASE THAT?’

She flinched back, pushing herself into the upholstery. ‘You didn’t show me a search warrant. You can’t use that as evidence.’ A smile. ‘I know my rights. I want a lawyer.’

‘Oh, I know what you want…’ I put the camera back by the TV. ‘Who is it: neighbour’s child? Bet it is. Some nice trusting family that doesn’t know you like to fiddle with little boys. What do you think they’ll do when I show them that film? Think they’ll invite you round for drinks and nibbles?’

‘I know my rights.’

I smiled down at her. Took some doing, but I got one on my face. Let it sit there, cooling. ‘You seem to be confusing us with police officers. We don’t have to give a toss about evidentiary procedure, because we’re not bound by it.’ I leaned in close. ‘You see my friend in the doorway? She’s got a shotgun in the boot of her car. How much fun do you think she’ll have taking your kneecaps off with it?’

‘You’re not the police?’ Cunningham tore her eyes away from mine for a moment to glance back at Babs. ‘You can’t touch me. I’m preg-’

‘Actually,’ Babs rolled her shoulders, flexed her fists, ‘don’t think I’ll bother wasting shells. Use that crowbar instead. Can make a lot of mess with a crowbar.’

‘I don’t believe you.’ Her chin came up. ‘You’re trying to scare me and you’re failing.’ A chainsaw grin. ‘I’m pregnant. You really going to kneecap a pregnant woman? Nah. Didn’t think so. Now get the hell out of my house.’

Alice settled onto the other end of the couch. Knitted her fingers together in her lap. ‘Virginia, you’re right. They won’t hurt you. How can they? But you see, we’re after a very bad person who’s cutting women open and stitching things inside them. And we think you might know who he is. Wouldn’t it be nice to be on the inside for a change?’

‘I want you out of my house.’

Alice glanced up at me. ‘Ash, when was the call?’

A quick check on the email from Sabir. ‘Last Wednesday — five days ago. Half four in the afternoon. Call lasted for fifteen minutes.’

Cunningham crossed her arms beneath her swollen breasts. ‘Get out, or I’ll scream.’

‘Virginia, it’s not your fault society doesn’t understand your love, is it? You love those boys and they love you, don’t they? But the man who’s out there isn’t a nice man. What’s happening is his fault. We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him. He made us look at you.’

‘I…’ She shut her mouth. Pulled one shoulder up almost to her ear. ‘I didn’t do anything.’

‘I know you didn’t, Virginia, but we need you to be a hero and help us catch him. You want to be a hero, don’t you? Have people look up to you for a change? They’ve got it all twisted in their heads, haven’t they? Think you’re a monster, when that’s not you at all. Wouldn’t it be nice to show them? Nothing bad will happen to you, I promise.’

‘I…’ A sigh. Then she looked up, into the corner of the room, as if the answer was written there. ‘They don’t know me. Not the real me.’

‘So, someone called you last Wednesday at half-past four. Was it someone you knew?’

‘I… I don’t remember. Got a lot of calls last week. Setting things up for the birth, you know? Want to make sure everything’s OK.’

‘Think back to last Wednesday — half-past four: what were you doing then?’

This time her eyes flickered to the camera on its tripod. ‘I was … baking a cake. Chocolate. Everyone likes chocolate.’

‘Was that when the phone rang, Virginia?’

A frown. ‘Someone wanting me to fill out a survey? You know, one of those, “On a scale of one to five, how would you rate your assigned midwife?” kind of things. Goes on and on and on?’

Alice put a hand on Cunningham’s knee. ‘Was there anything else? Anyone else call?’

She shook her head. ‘No, it was just a stupid survey, I know cos I was in the middle of … baking that cake.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Said, didn’t I?’

‘OK. I believe you.’ Alice patted the knee. Then looked up at me. ‘That’s it.’

‘Virginia Cunningham I’m arresting you under Scots Common Law for the taking and possession of indecent images of children and at least one case of Sexual Assault on a Young Child by Penetration, as defined in the Sexual Offences, Scotland, Act 2009.’

She turned and glared at Alice. ‘You said nothing would happen. I trusted you!’ Then howched and spat — a gobbet of frothy phlegm that spattered against Alice’s cheek. ‘Bitch!’

‘All right, Mrs Cunningham.’ Babs stepped forwards, grabbed her by the shoulders and hauled her up from the sofa. Turned to me. ‘You want her in the car?’

‘Get off me!’ Eyes wide, spittle frothing at the side of her mouth. ‘I’m doing you for assault, you can’t-’

‘Oh, shut up. It’s called reasonable force.’ I pulled out my phone. ‘Put her in the kitchen: if we remove her from the premises it’s abduction. Want this all above board.’

‘I want my bloody lawyer!’

‘Sure you do.’ Babs swung her around and steered her out through the lounge door. Pulled it shut behind them.

A box of Kleenex sat on the coffee table, beside a pile of scribbled colouring books. I pulled a couple of tissues out and handed them to Alice. ‘You all right?’

She wiped at her cheek, face contorted into a grimace. ‘I think Virginia was telling the truth about the phone call. Obviously the cake business was a lie.’ The tissue got crumpled and for a moment it looked as if Alice was going to throw it to the floor. Then she pulled out one of the Investigation Kit evidence bags and dropped it in there instead. ‘Never know when you might need a DNA sample.’

I stuck my hand out and helped her up from the couch. ‘So who conducts midwifery surveys from a public call box in the middle of nowhere…?’

Alice stared at me. ‘What?’

I poked Control’s number into the phone.

‘Oldcastle Division, how can-’

‘I want the Offender Management Unit: McKevitt or Nenova, don’t care which.’

Alice frowned at me.

‘One second… Putting you through.’

‘Come on.’ I hobbled out of the lounge and into the hall, making for the kitchen as Vivaldi’s Four Seasons crackled out of the phone’s earpiece.

Babs stood by the fridge, arms folded across her chest while Cunningham slumped at a tiny breakfast bar. Pot of yoghurt on the worktop in front of her.

I loomed over her. ‘Who’s been looking after you at CHI?’

She bared her teeth. ‘Think you’re clever, don’t you? Well you’re not. You’re stupid and you’ll be sorry.’

‘I’m already bloody sorry, now answer the question: who’s your midwife?’

‘It’s all your fault. That’s what I’ll tell them. All — your — fault.’

‘Fine.’ I stepped back and stood up straight. ‘I’ll get it from the hospital. You can go rot in prison for the rest of your life.’

A hard-edged female voice hacked its way out of the phone. ‘Nenova.’

‘I’ve got one of your clients here with a camcorder full of homemade kiddie porn.’

A small pause, then a groan. ‘Who is it this time?’

Cunningham glowered up at me. ‘What’s it worth?’

‘Doesn’t bother me if you don’t want to do yourself any favours.’

‘Favours? Hello?’

‘Not you: Virginia Cunningham.’

‘God’s sake, we only visited her three days ago!’

‘Then you know the way here: get your arse in a car.’

A scrunching noise, and the voice was muffled just enough to take some of the harshness off. ‘Billy? We’re going out.… No, sodding Virginia Cunningham…’

The star of the show held my gaze for a couple of breaths. Then looked away. Jabbed her spoon in the yoghurt. ‘My midwife’s Jessica someone. McNab, or McDougal? Something like that. Kind of mousey, but she’s got these lovely eyes…’ A smile. ‘I knew a wee boy with eyes like that, once. Just the brightest blue.’

Mousey with blue eyes. ‘Not McNab: McFee. Jessica McFee?’

A shrug. Then the smile got sharper. ‘Just remember: it’s all your fault.’

Not this time.