Cold Shoulder

It was dark, the alley lit only by neon flashes from the main street; not a single bulb above the many exit doors leading into it remained intact. The boy was running. He wore a black bomber jacket, a bright yellow Superman stripe zigzagging down its back, shiny black elastic knee-length pants, and sneakers, flapping their tongues and trailing their laces.

‘Police officer — freeze.’

The boy continued to run.

‘Police officer — freeze.’

Half-way along the alley, the boy sidestepped a trash-can like a dancer. The flash of a pink neon light gave an eerie outline to his young body, and the Superman stripe appeared like a streak of lightning.

‘Police officer. Freeze!’

The boy turned, in his right hand the stiff, flat metal of a 9mm pistol, and Lieutenant Page unloaded six rounds from the long-barrelled .38. Bam-bam-bam-bam-bam-bam. The boy keeled over to his right, in a half spin, his head jerked back, his arms spread, his midriff folded, and he fell face forward. His long dark floppy hair spread over his gun arm, his body shuddering and jerking before he was still.

Lieutenant Page approached him, automatically reloading the .38. The hoarse voice of Sergeant William Rooney barked out to back off, to put the gun in the holster. Pushing past, his wide ass hid the body as he squatted down on his haunches.

‘Get back in the patrol car, Lieutenant.’

Page did as requested, snapping the shoulder holster closed. The car doors were open. A crowd of people, hearing the gunshots, had started to press forwards. Two uniformed officers barred the entrance to the alley.

Sergeant Rooney was sweating as he carefully wrapped the weapon before easing it away from the boy’s bloody fingers. He stared at the young dead face, and then walked slowly to the patrol car. Leaning inside, he displayed the weapon, cushioned in his snot-stained handkerchief. ‘This the weapon, Lieutenant?’

The 9mm pistol was a square, flat silver Sony Walkman. Inside was an old Guns ’N Roses tape. Axl Rose had been blasting out ‘Knock on heaven’s dooowarrr...’

Page turned away. Rooney’s fat face was too close, sniffing like an animal, because he knew, and he could smell it. ‘Get back to base — and fucking sober up.’

The locker room was empty, stinking of feet and stale sweat; the vodka was stashed under a tote-bag. Just feeling the coldness of the bottle gave Lieutenant Page’s jangling nerves instant relief. Page leaned on the sink, not even attempting to hide the bottle, drinking it like a man in a desert until it was empty. Suddenly the sink was slippery and the floor uneven, moving, shifting, and the long bench against the nearest wall was a good, safe, secure place to hide beneath.

Fifteen minutes later, Sergeant Rooney kicked open the door. ‘Lieutenant? You in here?’ His fat feet plodded down towards the washbasins. ‘Captain wants you in his office. Now!’

She was hunched against the wall beneath the bench, her skirt drawn up, one shoe on, one off, knee poking through laddered tights. Her head rested on one arm, the fine blonde hair hiding her face. The other arm was spread wide across the floor. Rooney tapped her upturned hand with the toe of his black crêpe-soled shoes. ‘Lieutenant!’

He bent down slowly, and yanked her hair roughly away from her face. She was unconscious, her lips slightly parted, her breathing deep and laboured. A beautiful face, the fine blonde eyelashes like a child’s, the wide flattish cheekbones, and perfect straight nose almost enhanced by her flushed pink cheeks. Out cold, Lieutenant Lorraine Page was still a class act.

Rooney stood up, then with his foot pushed her arm closer to her body. She moaned and curled up tighter. He wandered over to the washbasin, picked up the empty bottle, then returned to Captain Mallory’s office.

‘You find her?’

‘Yep! She’s out cold on the floor, bottle must have been in her locker.’

Rooney stood it on the Captain’s desk and just shrugged his shoulders. ‘She’s a lush, been coming down for a while. I reckoned she was in control, I’ve talked to her... She always had an excuse — you know, marital problems, et cetera, et cetera...’

Captain Mallory stared out of the window, then sighed. ‘Get her out of here, will you? Get her badge, her gun, and tell her to stay out of my sight.’

Lorraine didn’t even empty her locker: it was done for her, everything stuffed into the regulation tote-bag. The key was taken, her weapon and badge signed out. She was helped from the station, too drunk to comprehend what was happening. Rooney had gripped her by the elbow, pushing her roughly through the corridors. The zipper on her skirt was half undone, her slip showing, and if Rooney hadn’t held her tightly she would have fallen more than twice. He even banged her head, as if she were a prisoner, warning her to dip low to get into the rear of the car. She had laughed, and he had slammed the patrol car door so hard the vehicle rocked.

‘You think it’s funny? I hope you can sleep tonight, Lieutenant. Sleep as deeply as that kid you took out. Now get her the hell out of here...’

As the car drove out of the station yard, the mother of the dead boy, weeping hysterically, was being brought in. All she had been told was her son had been shot while escaping from a drug bust.

Two weeks later, Lieutenant Lorraine Page was officially out of the precinct. No disciplinary action was taken. She lost her pension, her career, but her forced resignation was quietly glossed over and it never reached the press. Tommy Lee Judd’s family never knew the name of the officer who shot their fourteen-year-old son six times. At the inquest it was stated that the boy had ignored three police warnings to stop. He had been charged with crack dealing two years previously but the statements from his probation officer that he had been clean for the past six months were glossed over. His death was recorded, and the record filed away. No one mentioned that he had had no weapon, and had been mistaken for another suspect — or that the officer who opened fire had subsequently been released from all duties and was no longer attached to the force.

In fact, Lieutenant Page might never have existed, and, as word passed, no one who had worked alongside her spoke to her again. She was given the cold shoulder. She had betrayed their badge, her rank and position: she had been drunk on duty, and a fourteen-year-old boy had died. They closed ranks — not to protect Lorraine, but to protect themselves.

Twelve years’ service, two commendations, and a service record that any officer, male or female, would have been proud of, was over. No one cared to find out what would become of ex-Lieutenant Lorraine Page.

After the shooting, when she had been unceremoniously dumped outside her apartment, she had stumbled inside and collapsed onto her bed. Mike, her husband, knew she was on night duty and had already dressed, fed their two daughters, and driven them to the school. Their babysitter, Rita, collected them and took them home where she checked the details of Lorraine’s duty times. According to the rota, she was due for two days’ leave. Rita would have stayed to make the girls their lunch, but little Julia, only six years old, was calling, ‘Mommy, Mommy,’ as four-year-old Sally began collecting her toys to play with her mother.

‘Is your mommy home?’ Rita asked, surprised.

‘Yes, in bed,’ piped Julia.

Rita tapped on the bedroom door and peeked into the room. Lorraine was lying face down, her head beneath a pillow. ‘Mrs Page? Is it okay if I shoot off now?’

Lorraine eased away the pillow. ‘Yeah, yeah, thanks, Rita.’

Julia climbed up on the bed. She had already delved into her toy box, bringing out puzzles and something that made a pinging sound that cut like a knife through Lorraine’s blistering headache.

‘Mommy, can we go to see the puppets?’

‘Mommy, I want pee-pee.’ Sally pulled at the duvet.

‘Mommy, can we go to see the puppets?’ Julia repeated, as Lorraine slowly sat up.

‘Mummy, I want pee-pee now.’

Lorraine had to hold onto the edge of the bedside table to stand upright. She took her younger daughter into the bathroom and helped her up onto the toilet. ‘I not got my panties down,’ the little girl howled.

After a good belt of vodka she found in the freezer, she was not so jumpy and strung out. Once she’d settled the girls in front of the TV, Lorraine had another few nips of vodka with three aspirin so she could bathe and clean herself up. By the time Mike returned from his office, the kitchen was in order, their bed remade and Lorraine, with her face made up, looked presentable. Wearing a long cotton wrap, she was checking the fridge for what she could cook for dinner when she heard the front door slam and Mike’s usual, ‘Hi, honey, I’m home.’ He dumped his briefcase and, smiling, came to stand behind her, slipping his arms around her and cupping her breasts in his hands.

‘We got time for a quick one before they come?’

Lorraine eased away from him. ‘Who?’

He returned to the table and picked up his briefcase. ‘Donny and Tina Patterson. I said we’d eat here and then go to the movie. Rita said she could babysit.’

She closed her eyes.

‘You haven’t forgotten, have you? I wrote it down, it’s on the board.’

‘Fine, yeah. Did you get groceries in?’

Mike pursed his lips. ‘You said you’d pick up dinner on the way back from work this morning.’

‘I’m sorry, I forgot, I’ll go get something now.’

‘Don’t bother,’ he snapped, and went into the bedroom. She followed.

‘It’s no bother, for chrissakes, it’ll take me two minutes. I’ll get dressed and —’

He began to loosen his tie. ‘Send out for something. There’s a list by the phone of takeouts, they’ll deliver.’

She rubbed her arm. ‘Anything you don’t make a list of, Mike?’

He glared. ‘Yeah, and you know what that is. I haven’t slept with you for a month — you want me to start putting that down? Like, when it suits you?’

She walked out, not wanting to get into an argument as the two little girls hurtled into the bedroom to fling themselves at Mike. He swung them round, tickled them on the king-sized bed to their delight. Then he showered and changed, bathed each girl, combed their hair and put them into their pyjamas. They were tucked up in bed, each with their own special toy, when he returned to the kitchen. Lorraine was sitting with a mug of black coffee.

‘You want to say goodnight to them?’

‘Sure.’ She got up and bumped into the edge of the table, and gave a little smile. As soon as she was out, he checked the freezer. One look at the bottle was enough.

‘Did you call for some takeouts?’

Lorraine was cuddling Sally. He repeated the question and she sighed. ‘Yeah, yeah, there’s some pizzas coming any minute.’

‘Pizzas?’ he said flatly. Donny Patterson was his superior in the law firm, so Mike had wanted something more special but he went to lay the dining table. He could hear Lorraine reading to the girls, who were giggling loudly — she was good at funny voices. He took out the best cut glasses and the best mats and even gave the cutlery a quick polish. Then he went into the kitchen and began to make a salad. He was neat and methodical as usual, carefully slicing each tomato, washing the lettuce and the celery.

‘You going to get dressed?’ he called out, one eye on the clock.

Lorraine was lying on their bed, eyes closed. He opened the wardrobe and began to choose a shirt, a pair of slacks. He took great pride in his clothes, which were expensive, stylish, proof of his new-found success. He was hoping to be made a partner in the firm, and knew it was on the cards.

‘What you working on?’ she asked, stretching her arms above her head and yawning.

‘It’s the Coleridge case. It looks like he’ll divorce his wife without too much aggravation, and it’s more than likely he’ll get custody of the children.’

‘Really?’ she said, without any interest, as she watched him holding up a shirt against himself.

‘Do you like this shirt?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What are you going to put on?’

She swung her legs over the side of the bed. She didn’t feel like seeing anyone, let alone going to a movie or having dinner with two self-important, wannabe-wealthy middle-class snobs. ‘Oh, maybe the Chanel or the Armani. I dunno, Mike, and I’ve got a headache.’

‘You want an aspirin?’

‘Nope, maybe I’ll take another shower.’

He held her close. ‘The Pattersons are important to me, sweetheart, okay?’

She kissed him and rested her head against his shoulder. ‘I’ll be a good girl, promise.’

He touched her cheek. It never ceased to amaze him that she could arouse such passion in him. He loved the way she looked, her tall slender body. ‘You okay? Did you have a bad night?’

She pressed her face into his neck. Did she have a bad night? The painful blurred memory physically hurt, and she moaned softly, a half sob which he took to be confirmation that she wanted him. He began to slide her robe off her perfect shoulders, kissing the side of her neck.

‘I better change.’ She stepped away from him.

‘What’s the matter, Lorraine?’

She sighed, shaking her head. ‘Nothing, Mike. I guess I’m just tired.’

He heard the shower running and slowly got dressed. As he reached for his cufflinks, he saw the photograph of Lorraine and her former partner, a dark, tousle-haired, moody-looking guy. Lorraine always referred to him as Lubrinski. Since his death, she had been different, unapproachable. Mike had tried unsuccessfully to get her to talk about it but she seemed loath even to hear Lubrinski’s name. Mike had not said a word when the silver-framed photograph appeared after the man had been shot. He had tried to persuade Lorraine to take a few weeks’ leave but she refused. Instead, he knew, she had asked for more overtime and specifically night duty.

Lubrinski’s laconic half-smile seemed to mock him yet he was sure there had been nothing between them. She had admired him, Mike knew that. He had seemed shy, hardly speaking on the few occasions Mike had met him.

Lorraine came out of the shower, wrapped in a towel with another round her wet hair. ‘You want some aspirin, sweetheart?’

‘Yeah, yeah, thanks.’

The hair-dryer felt leaden in her hands. All she wanted was to lie down and sleep. Mike handed her a glass of water and two aspirins. He kissed the top of her head; her hair fell in a soft pageboy style, flattering her heart-shaped face. ‘I’ll maybe get a partnership soon,’ he said, as he sat on the edge of the bed. ‘It’ll mean a lot more money and you not having to work.’

She slowly rubbed foundation cream over her cheeks, a small dop on her nose. ‘When will you know?’

‘Well, this Coleridge case is good for me. He’s an influential guy — he’s even said he’d recommend me to his friends.’

‘All getting divorces, are they?’ He laughed as, dipping the thick brush into the face powder, she dabbed it over her face. ‘I thought you wanted to specialize in criminal law.’

‘Yeah, I did — maybe I still do but it’s good to get a grounding in all aspects. Besides—’

‘Divorce pays better, doesn’t it?’

Mike’s expression was sharp. ‘Is that such a bad thing? Do you like this place?’

‘Yes, of course I do.’

‘Well, I’ll be making a lot more soon. Next we’ll have a house in Santa Monica, right on the beach.’

‘Oh, business is that good, is it?’

He laughed again. ‘It’ll take a few years but Donny seems to think I’ll go places. When I look around here, it’s hard to believe what we came from.’ He slipped his arms around her. ‘And I’ll never forget how I got it. If it wasn’t for you...’

She smiled, now brushing on a light blusher. Those days when he was studying day and night, when he worked at any odd job he could get, those days were a long, long time ago.

‘We’d have more time together as well.’

Lorraine put down the brush. ‘If I was at home with an apron on and a casserole in the oven?’

‘I doubt if you’d ever be that, sweetheart, but you know we should think about it and also, maybe, about a holiday. When will you know about your next vacation so I can work it out with Donny?’

She carefully outlined her lips, her pale blue eyes staring back at herself. ‘I’ll talk it over with Rooney.’

The doorbell rang and Mike charged out. It was the pizza delivery. She should get a move on. She heard him on the phone, confirming with Rita what time she was to come over. Mike the methodical! Upwardly mobile Mike was so different nowadays, she seemed to be losing him.

Lorraine stared at the blurred picture of Lubrinski. She touched his face with the tip of her forefinger. His face seemed to crease into a smile — but that was impossible, he’d never smile at her again. Lubrinski was dead; he had died in her arms. Sometimes she felt as if she was dead. Nothing seemed real any more; this apartment, all the new fangled equipment Mike filled it with, all the new furniture. Mike had organized the move down to the curtains. She’d liked their old place even if you did have to lug the strollers up and down three flights of stairs. She missed the neighbours. Sometimes Mike’s energy drained her and lately she was always tired. She never spoke to anyone in the building and didn’t even know who lived on her floor.

The doorbell rang again and she could hear Mike welcoming the guests. Still she sat, unable to muster enough energy to join them. She pulled out the bottle from the bottom drawer of the dressing table. Just a few nips, that’s all she needed.

Donny and Tina were chattering in the kitchen while Mike uncorked the wine. Tina Patterson looked as if she was heading out to a premiere rather than the local cinema. She kissed Lorraine on both cheeks and Donny gripped her tightly in a firm ‘trust me’ handshake. Mike ushered everyone into the dining area and proceeded to pour the wine. He was doing everything — seating his guests, bringing in big platters of pizza, apologizing for the informal dinner, explaining that Lorraine had only just got home from duty.

She sat sipping her wine. She couldn’t look at the pizza: its bright colours made her feel like vomiting. They discussed the Coleridge case. Donny constantly gripped Mike’s shoulder in another ‘trust me’ gesture that irritated Lorraine, just as she found Tina’s delicate hands with their red-painted nails annoying. They made clicking noises on the plate as she picked up a minuscule slice of pizza, popping it into her collagen-enhanced lips. ‘To look at you, Lorraine, you’d never know you were a cop, it’s just amazing.’

Lorraine forced a smile as Mike reached over and held her hand. ‘I’m so proud of my wife. You know, she’s been commended for bravery twice.’

He sprang up from the table, went to the side cabinet and returned with two framed photographs. Lorraine in uniform with President Reagan and in a group picture of the year’s most decorated officers. ‘Lorraine caught the killer of that little girl, you remember the one that was found in a drainpipe? The caretaker had done it, she was the one that caught him.’

Tina made the right noises, shaking her head and rolling her eyes — with admiration, Lorraine supposed. She drained her glass; she needed another drink. ‘I’ll put some coffee on,’ she said, leaving the table. She took out the vodka from the freezer and drank from the bottle. She had only just slipped it back when Tina appeared carrying the dirty dishes. ‘Men’s talk in there. Can I help?’

Lorraine laughed. She was feeling better, eased by the vodka and wine. Tina began to stack dishes in the dishwasher.

‘Do you get involved?’

‘Pardon?’

‘When you have to do these murder investigations, do you get involved?’

‘Yep.’ Lorraine was fixing the coffee percolator.

‘Does it affect you?’ Tina enquired, running her hand under the tap. ‘I always know when Donny’s on a tough case — he’s so moody. He works out at a gym to get rid of the anxiety, you know, but... that case of the little girl... That must have been terrible.’

Lorraine fetched a tray. ‘She was only six, her name was Laura Bradley. She’d been raped, tortured, and she had a face like a little angel. Yeah, it hurt me.’

Tina hunched her shoulders. Lorraine set the tray, placing each cup in its saucer with deliberate precision. ‘For a while afterwards, I got possessive about the girls, scared they’d be picked up. It never leaves you. You think it’ll go away but it never does.’

Tina had left the kitchen. Lorraine could hear her next door.

‘Okay, you guys, no more business, this is movie night. We’re just gonna enjoy ourselves.’

The movie programme had so many previews that Lorraine excused herself, saying she wanted to go to the ladies. She needed another drink. She reckoned if she just slipped out to the nearest bar and had a quick one, she’d be back before the film had started.

When she hadn’t returned half-way through the movie, Mike went to look for her. He called Rita to see if she had gone home; she hadn’t. Back in the cinema, he told the Pattersons that Lorraine sent her apologies but had felt ill, and rather than spoil their evening had gone home. It was after eleven when Mike got back. He checked Lorraine’s duty periods; as he’d known, she was on a two-day break but he called the station in case he’d got it wrong. He was put through to Bill Rooney.

After the call, Mike paced the apartment, sat in the kitchen, then in the living room flicking the TV from channel to channel, waiting. He checked the girls. He waited until he fell asleep on the sofa. He was woken by shrieking laughter. He got up and crossed to the window.

Lorraine was standing on the pavement outside, paying off a taxi. Two people were inside it. He watched her drop her purse and fall against the wall before she reeled into their building.

The front door was open as she walked from the elevator. She took a deep breath and, with a fixed smile, peered inside. Mike grasped her by the elbow and drew her into the kitchen. He kicked the door closed. ‘Where’ve you been?’

‘Oh, I hadda do something.’

‘What?’

‘Just interview somebody.’ She was trying to keep her voice from slurring; her eyes were unfocused. He pushed a cup of coffee towards her. ‘I’m tired.’

‘Drink it and sober up.’

She rested her head in her hands. Mike drew out a chair and sat opposite her. ‘I know, Lorraine.’

‘Know what?’

Mike told her he had spoken to Rooney. She sighed, looking away, and shrugged. He leaned over and gripped her hand. ‘I know about the shooting. Why didn’t you tell me?’

She tried to pull away her hand. He wouldn’t let go. ‘Why won’t you talk to me?’

She pushed him off and hunched up, clasped her hands together. He had to lean further forward to hear her. ‘There’s nothing to say, Mike.’

He got up and paced the kitchen. ‘What do you mean, nothing to say?’ He wanted to slap her. ‘You were drunk on duty and you’re telling me that you have nothing to say about that?’

She gave a soft laugh. ‘No complaints.’

He gripped her hair and drew her head back. ‘You killed a boy, Lorraine.’ She made no effort to release herself and he shoved her forwards, disgusted. ‘You shot him.’

She nodded.

It was impossible for Mike to know what she was thinking; her eyes were glazed, and she seemed to be half smiling.

‘You’re out, don’t you understand? You’re out of the force. They’ve kicked you out! Rooney told me they took your badge.’

She shrugged again. ‘Well, that’ll make you happy, I’ll get some nail extensions and some Carmen rollers and make myself into a Tina clone. That what you want, Mike? Is that what you want?’ Her face was ugly with rage. She had no shame — and worse, no remorse.

‘Go to bed, Lorraine.’

She stumbled against the doorframe, and fell face down on the bed. Mike didn’t bother to undress her. He was almost out of the room when she said something, muffled by the pillows. She was repeating it, over and over. ‘I don’t remember, I don’t remember, he’s dead, he’s dead.’

Mike never heard the plaintively whispered, ‘Don’t go.’ Instead, he sat in his study until dawn, compiling notes for his case.

The next morning, glass of whisky in her hand, Lorraine sat at the kitchen table. Nothing meant anything any more.

Mike joined her and sat opposite. She held up the glass. ‘Hair of the dog.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘You mean work?’ she asked.

‘No. Will you be on trial or what?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I blame Lubrinski. You’ve not been the same since you started working alongside him.’

‘Lubrinski’s dead, for chrissakes.’

Mike watched as she refilled her glass. Suddenly he sprang to his feet and yanked away the bottle. ‘That’s enough.’

She held out the glass like a dirty diaper. He snatched it. ‘It’s nine thirty in the morning. How long has this been going on?’

‘What going on, Mike?’

Holding the bottle, he almost felt in need of a drink himself.

‘I just wanted something to ease me up a bit. I’ve been kind of tense lately.’

He was speechless.

‘I don’t have a problem, Mike. It’s just... lately things have got to me.’

He felt as if someone had punched the air out of his lungs. Lorraine looked at her bare feet. ‘I feel all strung out and I can’t remember what happened the other night.’

He swallowed. ‘You killed a kid, Lorraine. They’ve taken your badge, you’re out, don’t you understand?’

‘Oh.’ She said it lightly, still staring at her feet.

‘I’m gonna talk to Rooney again. I don’t know if they’re pressing charges.’

‘Have you talked to Rooney, then?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ he snapped. ‘I told you last night. How the hell do you think I know about it? And what do you think Donny is gonna say about this if it gets into the press?’

‘Donny?’ she said, confused. ‘What’s he got to do with me?’

‘He’s got a lot to do with me. I’m in the middle of a big case right now. How do you think it’s gonna look if they find out my wife not only opened fire on a kid but was drunk on duty as well?’

She rubbed at her neck. ‘It’s none of their business.’

Mike closed his eyes. ‘No? You think the press won’t have a field day with this?’

She took out a cigarette, hands shaking. He watched as she tried to light it. She inhaled deeply. ‘You remember that day, Mike?’ He sighed. She looked at him, tilting her head to one side. ‘Best day of my life. You’d just qualified and... what happened, Mike? I feel like I don’t know you, like I’m drifting in some kind of sea. I hate what you’re becoming and I’ve gone along with it, never felt I could say anything to you but it’s all changing between us. You want success more than you want me.’

Mike poured himself two fingers in the tumbler she had used and drained it. It was as if someone was pulling the rug from beneath his feet. Suddenly everything he had been striving for was ragged at the edge. He sat down, cradling the glass in his hands. ‘Nothing has changed between you and me, nothing. I love you. I always have loved you. Okay, maybe I’ve had to put in more hours lately, but then so have you. You know I wanted you to give up work, you think I didn’t notice the strain you were under, but you’ll never talk to me.’

She knelt down at his feet and wrapped her arms around him. ‘I want things to be the way they were when we both had nothing.’

‘You had your career. It was me that had nothing,’ he said petulantly.

‘But you know why? I worked hard so we’d have a home and you’d have your chance.’

He kissed her forehead. ‘Maybe you haven’t noticed that I’m earning good money now — you haven’t needed to work for years and you’re missing the girls growing up.’ She leaned against him and he slipped his arm around her. ‘Whatever happens, we’ll come through this together.’

They went to bed and made love for the first time in ages. That evening, Lorraine began to prepare dinner, even putting candles on the table. Then it started, the panic. It swamped inside her, beginning, as always, with fast flashes of faces. Lubrinski, then Laura Bradley, and now the boy? A boy running with a yellow stripe down his sweater. All she could think of was to get just one drink; then the panic would stop and the pictures would blur into oblivion. She wouldn’t feel so uncomfortable, so trapped. Just one drink would do it and she’d be all right. She went on with the dinner, having just one more, then another and another.

Mike didn’t come home until after midnight. He saw that the table had been laid for some special occasion; the candlewax had melted over the cloth. In the kitchen he found two wine bottles and the Scotch bottle, all empty in the trashcan with the remains of dinner.

Lorraine was asleep, still in her dress. He didn’t wake her, not even to tell her that Donny had offered him a partnership. He pulled the quilt from beneath her and laid it gently over her. He went round the apartment and threw every liquor bottle he could find into the garbage chute. Not until he slid into bed next to her did he see that Lorraine was cradling the picture of Lubrinski in her arms. When he tried to take it from her she moaned and turned over. Maybe there had been a lot more to their partnership than he had realized.

Next morning, Lorraine was up early, cooking breakfast for the girls. Mike could hear her laughing and talking. By the time he went into the kitchen, they were ready for school.

‘I’ll drive them,’ she said. ‘You haven’t had breakfast yet!’

He snatched up his car keys. ‘I’ll drive them, okay?’

‘When will you be home?’

‘I’m in court today so I’ll be late.’ He walked out without kissing her goodbye, slamming the front door.

She was making the bed when he called. He’d booked her a doctor’s appointment.

‘You did what?’

‘Listen to me, sweetheart, he’s somebody you can talk to, friend of Donny’s—’

Lorraine interrupted, ‘I don’t need a god-damned shrink, especially not some asshole friend of Donny’s. There’s nothing wrong with me that a few days’ rest—’

Mike was adamant, not wanting to sound angry but unable not to. ‘Yes, you do, Lorraine, listen, don’t hang up—’

Her voice was icy, calm and controlled. ‘No, Mike, I don’t need anybody, I am not sick, okay? That’s final. I’ll see you tonight.’

Lorraine made no contact with the station. She checked the newspapers for articles on the case, but was afraid to read about herself. She was afraid, too, to be seen on the street and for the next few weeks she led a double life. When Mike left in the morning she did some housework and ordered in groceries. When Rita brought the girls home, she played with them, read to them and cooked dinner for Mike. He knew she was drinking but she denied it and he never saw her with a glass of alcohol in her hand. He had no idea that she spent her days sitting in front of the television with a bottle of vodka. She appeared sober, keeping herself at a sustained level, and every night he would look for empty bottles. Mike hid from himself that she was drinking consistently, partly because it meant less tension between them. He asked Rita to tell him if she ever saw Lorraine drinking, especially in front of the girls.

It was only a few weeks later that Rita called him. ‘You’d better come home, Mr Page. I don’t know where she is — she left the girls by themselves — anything could have happened.’

Mike drove like a madman back to the apartment. The children had been alone for most of the day. After Mike had calmed them, he asked Rita to stay with them, and went out in a blind fury to find his wife. After searching in vain for three hours, he called home. Rita was in tears: Lorraine was back, she was drunk, unable to stand upright. A cigarette in her hand, she apologized, telling him that she had had an important meeting. She seemed barely to hear him when he talked to her, and if he touched her she screamed abuse at him. Then, as if terrified of something or someone, she begged him to hold her tightly.

Next morning, shame-faced, she promised him he would never see her like that again. Never again would she touch a drop.

Mike coped as best he could. He instructed Rita never to leave Lorraine alone with the girls until he was at home. But the situation grew worse. Time and again he confronted her with empty bottles he found hidden around the apartment. She would swear she hadn’t had a drink and even accused Rita of planting the bottles.

Mike was at breaking point. He tried to understand Lorraine’s frame of mind by putting himself in her position — she had shot an innocent boy and had lost the job she had always been so proud of — but all he felt was shame and guilt, of which she showed none. She seemed more intent on blaming his success for her failure.

‘You spoiled it. You wanted us to move up and we were happy where we were.’ The continual goading made him feel she was pushing him physically to hurt her. ‘You were the housewife, but I was out on the streets. You were the mother, but I had to earn for both of us, out on the streets with my breasts still full of milk for my babies.’

No matter what he said she twisted it against him. If he had any guilt about those years when she had kept him and the children, it was soon dispersed by her venomous onslaughts. She exhausted him; night after night he would come home in dread to find her ready for a row. At other times, she would kneel at his feet and beg his forgiveness, pleading for him to carry her to bed. And yet she seemed incapable of tears.

In the end Mike went to Donny’s doctor friend. He needed to talk it over with someone. The doctor warned him that unless Lorraine sought help Mike would be dragged down with her. He encouraged him to leave her and thus force her into taking medical help. But Mike’s own guilt and his awareness of how much Lorraine had done for him, held him back. When his daughters became scared of their mother, though, Mike made one last attempt.

Lorraine finally agreed and he accompanied her, quiet and sober, to the doctor. She spent two hours with him, talking first with Mike present and then alone. After the appointment she had appeared almost triumphant, admonishing Mike for wasting money. There was, as she had said to him over and over again, nothing wrong with her.

Mike returned the following day and was told that Lorraine had insisted that she was perfectly all right and able to cope with no longer working. She had refused to give a blood test.

But the drinking carried on and the rift between them grew deeper. Lorraine adamantly refused to admit anything was wrong: she had her drinking under control. She was becoming sly; apparently sober, she continued to dress well but rarely left the apartment. Mike continued to find empty bottles hidden away.

Only six months after Lorraine had left the force, he filed for divorce. He refused to make her leave the apartment, and signed it over to her with the contents. She protested when he insisted on custody of the girls but otherwise seemed not to care. He gave her five thousand dollars and promised three thousand a month in alimony. She was strangely elated when he brought the papers for her signature, which made him suspect that she didn’t believe he would go through with it. But she signed with a flourish and smiled.

‘You do understand what you’ve signed, don’t you, Lorraine?’ Mike asked quietly.

‘Yes.’

He gripped her tightly. ‘I’m leaving and taking the girls but call me if you need me, and I’ll do whatever I can to help. You need help, Lorraine, all I want is for you to acknowledge it.’ He felt wretched. She helped him pack, kneeling to lock the suitcase. She was wearing a pale blue denim shirt and her feet were bare. Her hair shone as she bent over the cases. Mike wanted to hold her, to make love to her. This was madness.

The Pattersons came to help with the cases. The girls, clasping Tina’s hands, thought they were going on holiday. It had taken only the afternoon to get everything packed and out, such a short time after all the years they had been together.

‘Tina’s going to take the girls in their car. Do you want to say goodbye to them?’ Mike asked.

‘No. I don’t want to upset them.’ She heard her daughters asking if they were going to see their granny and why was Mommy staying behind? She heard Tina reassuring them that Mommy would be coming to see them. She heard Donny call out that everything was in the car. She heard Mike say he would be out in a few minutes. She heard Rita saying goodbye, her voice breaking as if she was crying.

Mike walked into the kitchen. Lorraine turned and held up the glass. ‘Just milk.’

He leaned on the table. ‘I don’t want to go, Lorraine.’

‘Doesn’t look that way to me.’

‘I love you.’

She tossed her hair away from her eyes. ‘I love you too, Mike.’

There seemed nothing left to say. He crossed to her, reached out and held her in his arms. She rested her head against his shoulder, the way she always used to. He could smell lemons, a clean, sweet smell of freshly washed hair, and he tilted up her face and kissed her. She had the most beautiful clear blue eyes he had ever seen. She seemed to look straight through him, yet her lips had a soft sweet smile.

‘Promise me you’ll get help?’

‘I’ll be okay. Don’t worry about me, Mike.’

Donny Patterson sat in the car. He watched Mike walk slowly down the path, looking as if he was crying.

‘You okay, partner?’

Mike got into the car and blew his nose. ‘I feel like such a prick. She doesn’t seem to understand what’s just happened.’

Donny put his arm round his friend. ‘Look, buddy, I been through this three times. It’s not easy, but, Jesus, now it’s over you’re gonna feel such relief. She’s got problems. You tried every way to help her, Mike.’

‘Maybe we’ll get back together,’ Mike said.

Donny gripped Mike’s knee. ‘Christ almighty. When are you gonna face facts? She’s a drank and she was dragging you down with her. If she won’t get help, you’re gonna have to forget her, act like she’s dead. Believe me, it’s the best way. Say to yourself she’s dead, be a hell of a lot easier.’

Mike nodded. His heart felt like lead. He closed his eyes. ‘I loved her,’ he said softly.

Lorraine sat on the sofa, flicking the TV from channel to channel. There was no need now to hide the half-bottle of vodka that lay beside her. She could do what she liked, she was on her own. She didn’t deserve anyone’s love or respect, she knew that. She was deeply ashamed that she didn’t have the guts to slit her wrists. Or was it because she didn’t deserve to die so easily? She was her own judge, her own jury. She had to be punished.

Lorraine finished the vodka and went in search of more. She looked around the bedroom, seeing the open wardrobe doors, the empty hangers where Mike’s clothes had hung, and backed out of the room. She discovered another bottle hidden in the kitchen and had drunk most of that before she wandered into the children’s room. She was humming tunelessly. She got into Sally’s tiny bed, holding the bottle to her chest. She could smell her daughter on the pillow; it was as if the little girl was kissing her face, she felt so close. She reached over to the other bed for Julia’s pillow and held it to her cheek. She snuggled down clasping the pillows. ‘My babies,’ she whispered, ‘my babies.’ She looked drunkenly at the wallpaper, with its pink and blue ribbons threaded round children’s nursery rhymes. ‘Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run...’

She could feel a lovely warm blanket begin slowly to cover her body, a soft pink baby blanket, like the one tucked round her when she was a little girl, like the one she had wrapped round the dead child’s body. She felt her chest tighten with panic, her body tense. She could hear him now. Lubrinski.

‘Eh, how ya doin’, Page?’

‘I’m doin’ okay, Lubrinski,’ she said aloud, startled to hear her own voice. ‘I’m doin’ fine, partner.’ She frowned. Who was screaming? Somebody was screaming, the terrifying sound going on and on and on, driving her nuts. She rolled out of bed and ran from the room. She tripped and fell to her knees until she was crawling on all fours into the bedroom. The screaming continued. She heaved herself up and caught sight of a figure reflected in the dressing-table mirror. She clapped her hands over her mouth, biting her fingers to stop the screams. She was the woman, it was her screaming. The terrible sweating panic swamped her.

It was Lubrinski’s smiling face that calmed her, looking up at her from the dressing table. She snatched up the photograph. ‘Help me, Lubrinski, for chrissakes help me.’

‘Sure, honey, take a shot of this, then what say you and me go and rip up the town? You wanna hit the bars?’

‘Yeah, why not, you son-of-a-bitch?’ Lorraine gave a tough, bitter laugh, and felt herself straightening out as the panic subsided and she was back in control.

That was the first night Lorraine went out to drink alone in one of the old downtown bars. She never knew who she ended up with, she didn’t give a damn, and they didn’t mind when she called them Lubrinski. A lot of Lubrinski lookalikes came and went, and there were many more drunken nights when she didn’t care if Lubrinski was with her or not. All she cared about was getting another drink to keep her away from the terrified woman who screamed.

The downward spiral began the night after Mike left her. It was a long road she travelled, searching for oblivion. It was frighteningly easy. People were real friendly in the bars but they used and stole from her. When the money had gone she sold the furniture, and then the apartment. It was good to have a big stash of money, never to worry where the next bottle came from, and still she kept running from the woman in blue whose terrible screams frightened her so much and dragged her down so far, She could take the fights, and the taunts of prostitutes and pimps. Hell, she had arrested many of them. They pushed her around and spiked her drinks but drunk, she didn’t care. Drunk, the screams were obliterated. Drunk, the men who pawed her meant nothing. Drunk, she could hide, feel some comfort in slobbering embraces, in strange rooms, in beds where the little rabbits didn’t creep into her mind and she didn’t hear the children singing, a high-pitched shrill voice that turned into a scream.

‘Run, rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run... RUN.’