Borderlands

Chapter Six

Tuesday, 24th December

It was late afternoon and the sky was the colour and texture of slate. The moon was beginning to shine from behind a thick bank of cloud that threatened snow, and the air was cold and dry.

Three cars left Lifford station on the way to Castlefinn where, Moore had reliably informed me, McKelvey was staying with some cousins who were camped in a picnic area. I knew the place he mentioned. Learning from the problems encountered in Strabane, Donegal County Council had placed height-restriction bars across the entrance to all public areas – lay-bys, car parks and so on – to stop the travellers from using them. The group that had taken over the area outside of Castlefinn had arrived in the middle of the night in early August and had spent several hours dismantling the restriction bars. They then moved into the area en masse, before re- erecting the bars, thus apparently materializing in the picnic spot like a ship in a bottle.

The area was not ideal for picking up McKelvey. While there were only two entrance/exit points, it backed onto an area of woodland and fields. If McKelvey made a run for it we would have difficulty catching him. We had decided that Holmes, Williams, Harvey and I would approach the caravans from behind, waiting in the trees in case McKelvey came that way. Costello himself, who knew the family, would knock on the caravan door and ask to see McKelvey in the hope that he might come peaceably Several uniforms would accompany him, while two cars blocked the exits.

We stopped about a quarter of a mile short of the campsite and my team got out of the cars and began to pick through the bramble hedges that lined the road into the field beyond. By following the perimeter, we would eventually come up behind the site. The field was sodden from the autumn rains and it had now frozen into thick brown ridges like waves, over which we tripped and stumbled. We had misjudged how long it would take to reach the camp and Costello radioed several times, impatient to get moving. Just as we reached the treeline directly behind the caravan, the snow began. Great fat flakes at first, drifting lightly around us, like eiderdown. Then the snow grew thicker and fell with greater speed, gathering on the branches of the trees and settling on our backs and shoulders. Holmes began to stamp his feet and blow into his hands for heat. Williams shuddered involuntarily and Harvey offered her his jacket. Momentarily, she looked offended, then smiled and took it. I couldn't tell whether Harvey was blushing at her smile or from the cold, but I was left to wonder how consistently Williams practised her feminist beliefs.

A buzz of static on the radio, and Costello announced that he was moving in. I drew my baton and saw the others follow suit. Holmes flicked open the catch on the slip for his pepper spray, and I wondered what he expected from a seventeen-year-old traveller boy. The snow fell increasingly heavily, the pattern of the falling flakes became almost hypnotic, and I realized that I was not paying attention to what was happening. I heard a thud as Costello knocked on the door. Then voices. Almost immediately, the curtains across the back window of the caravan, which was in darkness, were pushed back and the window opened. A small figure began to climb out, one thin leg first squeezed through, then another. Finally, the figure dropped silently to the ground and approached the trees between Holmes and Harvey. As the figure moved into the trees, Harvey flicked on his torch, momentarily lighting the startled face and the shock of black hair. Then the figure ran, with Harvey and Holmes crashing after him. I heard Williams shout and assumed that she, too, was after the boy.

I was about to shout to them to tell them it wasn't the right person, when I saw a second figure climb through the window and make for the trees. This time there could be no mistake. Even in the darkness, the luminescence given off by the snow forming at our feet was enough to reveal the almost white blond hair and pale marble skin. Whitey crept along the undergrowth on his belly, seemingly impervious to the brambles and the snow. When he felt he was safe, he stood and began to pick up speed.

He was about fifteen feet from me, moving quietly towards the fields. I can only assume that he did not hear me approach behind him over the din of the shouting and crashing of Williams and Harvey and the growing chorus of raised voices from the picnic area, where I guessed Costello was being lectured on police discrimination.

Eventually, I pushed out of the trees completely and, sticking to the perimeter of the field, was able to catch up with Whitey just as he emerged into the moonlight. I placed my hand solidly on his shoulder, my baton in the other hand, and began to speak.

I recall exactly what happened next, viewing it as if in slow motion. Whitey turned his head and I saw in his eyes a mixture of fear and aggression at being cornered. Then he grabbed my hand and clamped his teeth on it. I felt his teeth cut through my flesh, until eventually they connected, jarringly, with the bone of my hand. I could taste blood in my mouth. He shook his head as a terrier might with a toy, before releasing my hand. I screamed. Then something inside me snapped, audibly almost, and I felt a surge of adrenaline rush through my system. Without thinking, I turned and swung my right fist into McKelvey's face. I felt the cartilage of his nose shatter beneath my fist, felt the hard crunch as my knuckles connected with his cheekbone and his teeth, and saw his head snap back as blood and spittle spurted from his mouth.

He fell to the ground, legs splayed, and I lifted my foot and stamped down with my heel on his crotch. McKelvey doubled up, his face contorted with hatred and embarrassment, and I noticed a stain widen on his trousers as his bladder emptied. He looked at the mess he had made on himself, touched the wetness with his fingertips as though he could not believe his own eyes, and then held the moist fingers towards me. "I'll fuckin' kill ya," he spat, scrambling to his feet as he cupped his genitals in his hands.

I almost chased after him again, until I felt a hand close on my arm and I spun to face Williams, my fist raised. I saw a momentary flash of fear, or something deeper, flit across her face, and I lowered my fist in shame, stammering my apologies. I watched as my colleagues crashed through the undergrowth in pursuit of the boy.

Then the pain in my hand sharpened as the adrenaline dissipated; I doubled over with shock and pain and vomited into the snow, bile mixing with my blood, which appeared as black as oil under the moonlight. I felt momentary relief before a searing pain gripped my insides and I vomited again, retching over and over until I felt Williams's hand on my shoulder. I spat the sour taste out of my mouth, wiping away the thick strands of saliva with clean snow. Williams was busy wrapping her scarf around my hand and calling for help. Then, in the distance, I saw Whitey McKelvey being shoved towards me, Jason Holmes towering behind him with one hand clamped tightly on McKelvey's neck and the other holding his handcuffed wrists behind his back. When McKelvey stumbled and slid in the slush and snow, Holmes simply pulled on the cuffs, snapping the boy's arms back sharply, so he had to fight to regain his footing quickly or risk dislocating a shoulder.

When he got abreast of me, he pushed McKelvey onto the ground then placed his boot on the back of the boy's neck, pushing his face into the snow and mud. "Are you all right, sir?" he asked. Red spots flickered and flitted before my eyes and everything went dark.

I came to a moment later and, for a second, could not remember where I was or why these people were staring at me through a snowstorm. Gradually my mind began to work again and I tried to stand. Williams helped me to my feet, while Holmes lifted McKelvey and again began pushing him towards the cars. I saw Harvey to my left, leading the black-haired boy, who was also in cuffs. I noticed a cut on his cheek and the beginning of a bruise, livid and purple, flowering below his eye.

"What happened to him?" I asked, nodding over at Harvey and the boy.

"He ran into a baton," Williams said. "Lucky I stayed here with you. Where would you men be without women, eh?" She put her arm around me and pressed her head against mine, and in that brief moment of warmth I could only ask myself the same question.

"I'm sorry I… you know… raised my hand to you," I managed to say as she helped me towards the flickering blue lights cutting through the branches of the trees around us. She patted my shoulder lightly in what I took to be a sign of forgiveness. "I shouldn't have hit him, either," I added.

"No one needs to know, sir," she said. "These things happen, eh?"

I nodded, grateful for the opportunity to forget that my shame at hitting the boy had been equalled by the satisfaction I had felt in doing so.

Three uniforms kept the irate group of travellers at bay as the two boys were placed in separate cars and taken back to Lifford. I wanted to go with McKelvey, but Costello wouldn't allow it, telling me I was to get to the doctor's surgery before anything else. Holmes and Williams took McKelvey, but promised not to begin the interview without me.

The snow was falling so fast that the windscreen wipers of the car would not clear it. It had lain dry on the car bonnet like powdered sugar and now blew back onto the windscreen as we drove.

The doctor gave me a tetanus shot and stitched and bandaged up my hand, showing me first where the skin and ligaments could be pulled back to reveal the yellow-white bone beneath. Again, the bile rose in my throat and I had to swallow it back to stop myself being sick. As he gave me a bottle of painkillers, he broached a subject I had not wanted to consider.

"I've taken a blood sample for testing, you know," he said, looking me in the eye. I nodded and did not speak. "HIV, hepatitis, that kind of thing; I'll get the results for you quick as I can. There's a three month incubation period with HIV, though; might have to get that done again in the spring. It's unlikely, Inspector, but all the same – better be safe than sorry, eh?"

"Safe…" I said, unable to articulate the thoughts which darkened my mind.

Now I sat in the patrol car as we carefully wound our way down the snow-covered streets of Lifford and slid to a halt outside the station, nausea continuing to gnaw at my stomach while I tried to reassure myself that McKelvey was too young to have diseases such as those the doctor had mentioned, yet acutely aware that his age, perhaps, made it all the more likely.

When I got into the station, several people whose faces I hardly recognized enquired after my health and some patted my back or shook my uninjured hand. The doctor had elevated my arm in a sling – for comfort, he said, but it had the effect of drawing attention to the injury.

I was shuffling up to the interview room when Costello appeared, two steaming cups of coffee in his hands. He offered me one.

"How's the hand?" he said, motioning towards my arm with his own cup.

"Fine. I'm on a painkiller trip. I'll tell you, I can understand the attraction of drugs."

Costello laughed, thinking I was joking. "Feeling up to talking to our latest visitor? We held back, just for you."

McKelvey was in our holding cell, sitting on the edge of the lightweight metal bench which was suspended from the ceiling with thick wires. He was wearing black jeans, which were moulded to his legs and groin, and a pair of Nike trainers. On top he had been wearing only a white T-shirt when we picked him up, but someone in the station had given him a blanket which he had wrapped around himself. His hair looked bleached blond, almost white at the tips, like an albino, and despite its length, his ears stuck out almost at right angles to the side of his head. One of the earlobes had a nick taken out of it; the other was pierced with three gold studs. His face was thin and narrow, his eyes wide and blue, his cheekbones high, all of which, combined with his skin-tight trousers, gave him a feminine appearance. One of his eyes was badly bruised, the lid almost shut, and the knocks he had received had affected his nose, for he spoke with a harsh, nasal twang.

Harvey cuffed McKelvey and led him up to the interview room where we had set a table and enough chairs for McKelvey and the murder team. When McKelvey was brought in and sat down he slouched automatically and reached over to lift one of the cigarettes from the pack I had left in front of me. I put the packet in my pocket after taking one myself. If necessary, we could offer him one later in barter for information.

Costello introduced all present for the benefit of the twin tape recorders which were running beside us. Costello then asked McKelvey, for the second time, to confirm that he had waived his right to a solicitor. McKelvey laughed and said something unintelligible which we took to be agreement.

"Liam. Do you understand why you are here today?" Costello asked as a gentle opener.

"Aye. CSA. Can't take knickers off a bare arse, know what I mean."

We looked at each other, trying to make some sense of what he had said. Eventually Williams said, "What? Could you… could you explain that for us, Liam?"

"CSA. But you should be thanking me. Them sluts were sluts till I got them up the duff. They don't realize that, but they're slags and nobody respects them, see? Then I get them up the duff. They get respect then, wit' their sprogs. All claiming benefits anyhow. I get them slags respect. An' a good seeing to," he said, winking at Williams, "know what I mean, like."

"Jesus," Williams said disgustedly, "it would take more than drugs, son." Costello shot her a warning glance.

"Liam, did you know Angela Cashell?" Costello asked.

"Fuck's sake, course I do. Haven't I jus' tol’ you. She was a slapper – no one'd go near her. I got her respect."

"You got her respect," Holmes interrupted incredulously. "How exactly did you do that?"

"I'm not talking to you," McKelvey snapped, literally spitting. Costello announced that the interview was suspended for a break and called us outside, leaving Harvey in the interview room with the boy.

"What in God's name is going on in there?" he asked as we came out.

"He thinks he's been lifted for not paying child support," Williams explained. "The CSA in the North."

"He also seems to believe that by leaving girls pregnant, he's doing them a favour by removing the stigma of being a 'slag' and replacing it with the honour of being a single mother to a litter of little Whitey McKelveys," I said.

"And he seems to think that Angela Cashell was pregnant, too."

"Was she?" Holmes asked with concern. "You know, that would be a double murder."

"No. If she was pregnant, the autopsy would have shown it. The question is why did he think she was pregnant?" I said.

"Unless she told him she was," continued Costello. "But why would you want that piece of shit to think he was father to your baby. Especially if there was no baby?"

"Perhaps she wanted to keep him," suggested Williams. "Maybe she thought he was going to dump her, so she said she was pregnant in the hope that he'd stick around. Or maybe she thought she was.

At that age, it's difficult to rely on the time of the month. If you're a week or two late, you convince yourself you've been caught."

"Do you?" I asked, smiling.

"Oh yes," Williams said. "And it doesn't stop when you're past being a teenager."

"Maybe she wanted money. Tells him she's pregnant and needs money for the baby," I suggested.

"Or for an abortion," Williams agreed.

"Maybe McKelvey thought she was pregnant and killed her to avoid having to pay anything," Holmes suggested.

"No," Williams said. "You heard him in there. He doesn't give a shit how many babies he has, he has no intention of paying for them anyway. Why would one more be any different?"

"Shit," I said, as a growing realisation dawned. "That scuppers one theory."

"What?" Holmes asked.

"Well, we know that McKelvey did a runner when he saw Johnny Cashell looking for him after Angela died. We'd assumed that that was a sign of guilt for her death. But what if it wasn't?"

"You mean, what if he thought Johnny was after him for getting his daughter pregnant?" Holmes said.

"Exactly," I said.

Costello nodded towards Holmes and Williams. "Look, I'd like you two to sit out of this one," he said. "We'll try him first," he said to me, "with you leading. If we don't get anywhere, we'll swap. Okay?"

I could tell that both were annoyed about being left out of the interview. As the two of them headed into the room beside us, where they could watch and listen unseen, I asked Costello why in particular he had excluded Williams, who had been getting on fine.

"Don't want to have a lady have to listen to that kind of chat. No place for a girl like Caroline," he said, his tone serious, his face set. I wondered whether to point out that comments like that would have him before an industrial tribunal for sexist behaviour.

In the end I said nothing, but followed him into the room, taking time to nod in the direction of the two-way mirror, through which I knew Williams and Holmes would be watching.

We sat down and I took out a cigarette and lit it. I could see Whitey's gaze following the smoke and he licked at his lips and fidgeted in his seat.

"So, you knew Angela Cashell?" I asked and he confirmed that he did. "What about her father?"

"Bloody lunatic," he said.

"Why?"

"Psycho bastard tried to burn me fuckin' home down. Should be liftin' him, not the likes of me."

"Why did he come after you Liam? Why'd you think he tried to-"

"'Cause she were up the duff," he stated, folding his thin arms across his chest.

"What? Because you got her pregnant?"

"Aye, why else?"

"Not because he thought you'd killed her?" I asked, as casually as possible.

"Aye, right." He laughed. "Me kill her. What would I kill her for? Wasn't she givin' me me hole?"

"You're a born romantic, Liam," I said, earning a glance from Costello.

"What about drugs, Liam?" Costello asked.

"What about them?" he said, grinning inanely. "Yes, please," he laughed, looking from Costello to me and back to see if we shared his estimation of his sense of humour. Neither of us spoke. "Oh, sorry, sir, I forgot. I'd never do that." He spluttered a laugh again, spittle bubbling on his lips.

"No drugs, then Liam. Not for you?"

"I don't do drugs. I'm telling you; I don't need them."

"Not even something to get you in the mood, you and Angela maybe. Before… you know?"

He giggled strangely. "I don't need nothing, me. You might at your age, but not me."

"What about Angela? Was she taking drugs?"

"I don't know. Ask her. Give us a fag, mister."

Costello thumped the table with such force it made me jump, whatever the effect on McKelvey. "We can't ask her – she's dead. So watch your mouth, son."

For a moment McKelvey looked slightly stupefied, but quickly regained his bonhomie. He behaved as though this whole thing was a big joke – three friends having a laugh. "Aye, good one. What? Have you got me in for murder, like? Aye, right."

"Actually, we do Liam. So I'd start answering some questions if I were you, son, starting with where you were on Friday night." Costello leaned forwards on the table as he spoke, his size formidable in such a small room.

McKelvey was silent a moment, his face aghast. Then he shouted, "Piss off! You're not pinning nothing on me. I want me lawyer." He leaned to look around us at the mirror behind us. "Oi, you in there. Get me a lawyer. I want me lawyer."

"Listen, Liam. It's very simple, son," I said. "We have a number of questions which we would like you to answer. If you help us, and answer them fully and honestly, we'll have you home this evening. If not, you're in here over Christmas until the court opens on the twenty-seventh. Help us and we'll see you right."

McKelvey said nothing. He folded his arms sullenly and slouched further in his seat, staring at some indistinct point on the scarred surface of the table. I hoped we had deflected his attention away from his request for a lawyer – it would only complicate things. "Where were you on Friday night last?" I asked, taking his silence as a sign of reluctant acceptance.

"Don't remember," he said, without looking up.

"Try!" Costello said.

"I was in Letterkenny. With me cousins."

"Where?"

"About."

"Where about?" I asked.

"Everywhere! I don't know, do I? I had a few drinks in me," he spat.

"When did you last see Angela Cashell?"

"Last Tuesday, I think."

"Are you sure?"

"Aye, of course I'm sure."

"So you remember what you did last Tuesday, but not Friday?" Costello queried.

"I got off, didn't I? 'Course I remember it."

"You didn't see her, say, on Thursday night?"

"Are you deaf?" He leaned towards the tape recorders and raised his voice for comic effect. "I haven't seen her since Tuesday. Do you understand?" This final phrase he said as a deaf person might. Then he laughed forcibly, any real bravado having long since abandoned him.

"So, if I told you we have video footage of you and Angela Cashell on Thursday night together in Strabane, you'd say I was lying would you?"

"Aye. I didn't see her on Thursday, alright?"

"Okay, okay, Liam, whatever you say." I looked to Costello, signalling that I was done for now.

"Tell me, Liam, I have to ask. Angela Cashell was a good-looking girl. Whatever attracted her to you?"

"Animal fucking magnetism, isn't it?" he said, not missing a beat, his teeth exposed in a grin.

"But seriously," Costello said, not breaking his stride either, "what attracted her? Drugs? Money? What?"

"I gave her things nobody else could," McKelvey said, almost offended that his charms were not immediately apparent.

"What? Scabies?" I asked and thought I heard a snort from behind the mirror, where Williams and Holmes were still watching. I immediately regretted the comment, but Whitely spoke before I could apologize.

"Aye, babies," he said, though I was unsure whether he actually misheard me or just chose to ignore what I had said.

"There must have been something else," Costello said. "Were you paying her?"

"No!" McKelvey replied, beginning to redden. "She needed money sometimes. That's the way she is. I gave her it if she was stuck. Said her da was a bleeding tightwad."

"Did she ask you for money when she said she was pregnant, Liam?" Costello asked with conspiratorial warmth.

"Aye. Said she needed two hundred quid to take care of it, know what I mean? Couldn't ask her da."

"What did you tell her?"

"Told her it wasn't my problem."

There was a pause while Costello seemed to consider something, biting at the inside of his cheek. Finally he asked, "Would you have taken care of her and the baby?" The relevance of this question was lost on me.

"Not my problem. She got a shag. What more does she want?" He folded his arms on his chest and nodded once, with arrogance, as if to emphasize his position. "Know what I mean?"

Costello shook his head sadly, and I realized the question had been personal: a vain attempt to see if there was even a shred of decency in Whitey McKelvey.

"Liam," I said, redirecting the interview, "I want to go over some stuff, because I think you've not been totally honest with me. So I'm going to ask you once more. Were you giving Angela Cashell drugs?"

"I said no already."

"Were you buying her drugs or giving her money for drugs?"

"I gave her money for stuff. I don't know what she spent it on."

"What about the ring, Liam? Did you give her the ring?"

"What ring?"

"Gold ring, greeny-blue stone in the middle with diamonds around it. You know the one. You lifted it in Letterkenny a month ago. Tried to sell it in Stranorlar. Refreshing your memory now, Liam?"

"That. I sold it," he said, refusing to look at me, staring instead at the mirror behind me. "Some bitch bought it off me in a disco."

"Who?"

"Don't know."

"Where?"

"Don't know," he said, smiling.

Costello stood up, suddenly. "This interview is concluded at 7.55 p.m. on Wednesday 24th December." Then he turned off the tapes and called into the intercom beside the machines. "Would someone come in and take this piece of shit to the cells?" He added softly and a little sadly, "Then hose this place out…" Finally, he turned to McKelvey and said, "You disgust me, you… fucking animal," as if he could think of nothing worse to say. His shoulders slumped, as though he realized that Whitey McKelvey, of all people, had somehow inveigled him into revealing a side to his character that he would rather not have acknowledged, and he left the room.

"You shot yourself in the foot with this one, buddy." McKelvey said nothing, but gave me the finger. Then, when Harvey came over to take him down to the cells, I too left the room and joined Costello and Williams and Holmes next door.

"Well?" I said.

"Not much, is there?" Williams said. Then she smiled, "I liked the scabies line though."

"It was a cheap shot," I said.

"It's him," Holmes said. "He's a liar through and through. We know he was with her on Thursday night; sure we have it on tape. If he's lying about that, he's lying about the whole lot." He snorted with derision. "I say we charge him now."

"No," Costello said. "We've seventy-two hours. Hold him over Christmas. We'll start again on Boxing Day. If we need to, we can charge him then. Let the wee shite stew for a few days without his turkey and ham. Agreed?" We all shrugged assent. "The only problem now is who'll do tonight?"

It's difficult on any night, never mind Christmas Eve, to get volunteers to man a station in a village the size of ours. Generally, one of us takes a mobile and the station is locked up for the night. McKelvey had screwed that up. Someone needed to be in the station while he was being held.

"I'll do a session before midnight," I said. "Debbie will divorce me if I do the whole night. Anyway, Penny is singing solo at midnight Mass tonight and I can't miss it or she'll divorce me, too."

"I'm out," Williams said. "I have to play Santa all alone."

"I'll do the nightshift," Holmes piped up. "I have no one waiting for me; I don't mind. Everyone else has someone to go home to.

"Aren't you going home for Christmas?" Williams said, and I realized that I didn't even know where "home" was for him.

"No. My mother died years ago. My father is in care but he's so far gone I could stand right beside him and he wouldn't even know I was there. So that's me. Little orphan Jason."

Williams looked taken aback by his sincerity. "Come to mine for dinner tomorrow. It'll just be me and Peter… and the cat." She seemed to have blurted the offer out without thinking, and instantly blushed.

"Thanks, Caroline," he said. "I might."

The two of them looked at each other momentarily, before turning back to me and Costello to dispel the awkwardness which we all felt.

"Fine, Jason. If you're happy enough to do it, that's great," Costello said. "We'll get Harvey to hold the fort until… eight?"

I nodded my agreement – if I did 8.00 to 11.30 p.m., I'd still be in time for Mass.

"Benedict, you take the mobile just in case." He began to walk away, then called over his shoulder, "And a happy Christmas to you all!"

As he turned to walk away, I saw Williams mouth "Benedict?" to Holmes, who shrugged.

"Only to Elvis," I said, with a wink, realizing that they hadn't known my full Christian name.

"I heard that," Costello shouted, from his office.

By the time I got home it was almost seven o'clock. Debbie was getting Penny changed into her Christmas clothes, which she had been given early as a special treat for singing at midnight Mass. I watched as the two of them fixed one another's hair and giggled about girlie things. Shane and I did the manly thing by sitting in front of the TV and not speaking. But then, he was only ten months old.

Around five to eight, I got ready to go to the station. I left the house with Debbie's warning ringing in my ears: "If you miss Penny's solo, the door will be locked when you get home. Sleep with Frank."

I made it to the station in five minutes or so, the traffic was so light. Harvey opened the front door, yawning. "What's up?" I asked.

"Nothing, sir," he said. "Quiet as a mouse in there. I took him tea and a sandwich about an hour ago." "Fair enough, John. Best get home, eh?" "Going to see my sister, sir. Christmas presents and that." "Have a good evening. Happy Christmas, John. Thanks for your help today."

"My pleasure, sir," he said, shrugging on his Garda overcoat. "Merry Christmas."

I checked on McKelvey a few minutes later: he was sleeping on his side, his breath wheezing slightly, presumably a result of the blows he had received during his arrest. I lifted the empty cup and plate which he'd left at the side of his bed. He muttered quietly in his sleep and shifted onto his back.

I sat in the station until 11.30 p.m. reading three-day-old newspapers. When Holmes arrived, I packed up and headed to Mass, not bothering to check on McKelvey, who was getting a better night's sleep than the rest of us.

I sat in the church and listened to my daughter sing 'O Holy Night', her voice cracking a little on the top notes. I looked at Debbie to see tears well in her eyes as she watched our little girl stand at the lectern and hold the attention of all the people in the church. I was aware of a sensation deep in my mind, an awareness of what the doctor had said about hepatitis or HIV. I would have to ensure that I did nothing which might endanger my family. Debbie would sometimes use my razor to shave her legs. What if I nicked myself and she used it? What if Penny or Shane picked up something from my cutlery – or if I kissed them goodnight? Something in my breast felt raw and exposed as my daughter's voice rose above the choir's in the final chorus, and I wished to be a child again myself, to be held in my mother's arms and told that everything would be alright.

As if instinctively sensing my need, Debbie took my hand without looking and squeezed it tenderly. Her thumb ran across the back of my hand, caressing the knuckles, and I felt her tense when she rubbed the gauze dressing where McKelvey had bitten me. Instinctively, afraid that some blood may have soaked through with which she might come into contact, I pulled my hand away. She looked down at my hand and then at my face. Smiling a little bewilderedly, she took my hand again in both of hers. Her openness and generosity made me grateful all over again that she had ever married me. This thought would come back to haunt me later that evening, as I almost threw away such a precious gift.