Calling Mrs Christmas Page 17

  ‘Get the loo roll. Quickly.’

  Rozzer dashed to bring it over to Jim.

  ‘Make a pad and press it on the wounds.’

  With fumbling fingers, Rozzer unfurled a wodge of toilet paper from the roll and pressed it onto his friend’s slashes. From what Jim could see, Smudge had cut his wrists across the vein – thankfully, the most ineffectual way to try to kill yourself. If he’d cut down the length of the vein, they’d be in a lot more trouble. Despite the amount of blood, it didn’t look as if the cuts went deep.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Smudge whispered. ‘I didn’t want to be on my own.’

  ‘You’re not on your own, idiot,’ Rozzer said. ‘You’ve got me.’

  ‘You’re leaving me,’ Smudge wept. ‘I don’t think I can manage in here without you.’

  ‘Jim will look after you,’ Rozzer assured him softly. He dabbed at the blood and stroked his friend’s hair. ‘He’ll get you a place with me and everything will be great.’

  It made Jim’s heart break to listen to him. What had he done? They had such faith in him. He’d made himself out to be some sort of saviour who could fix their lives and now they’d come to depend on him. What if he let them down? What if he couldn’t get them a place together? What if Smudge was tipped out of here and onto the streets as he feared? Suppose Rozzer got on so well at Vincent’s that he suddenly felt he didn’t need his old cellmate? It happened. Prison was a funny place where unlikely relationships were formed.

  Two of the medical staff arrived seconds later, breathless and with a heavy medical bag and gurney in tow. Jim eased Rozzer out of the way, ‘Come on, lad. We need to get him down to Healthcare as fast as we can before he loses any more blood.’

  After some basic checks, the men in white coats lifted Smudge onto the trolley.

  ‘Will he be OK?’ Jim asked.

  ‘This time,’ one of the medics said and they rolled him away.

  Rozzer was crying now and Jim’s heart went out to him, but there was little he could do to comfort the lad.

  ‘I’ve got to lock you in,’ he said to Rozzer. ‘I need to follow them down to Healthcare, fill in a report. But I’ll come back and tell you how he is as soon as I can.’

  ‘Look after him, Jim,’ Rozzer said.

  The sad thing was that that was exactly what he was trying to do and it looked as if he had failed spectacularly.

  Chapter Thirty

  By the end of Jim’s shift, Smudge was settled in an in-patient bed in Healthcare and his wounds had been bandaged. Thankfully, despite losing some blood, he hadn’t needed a blood transfusion – otherwise that would have meant a trip to the local hospital handcuffed to an officer, which was always a humiliating experience.

  Now Smudge was enjoying a long, drug-induced sleep. He looked pale, paler than normal, and terrible. His hair was matted to his head with sweat, and blood was smeared on his face. Whoever had cleaned him up hadn’t done the best of jobs, but at least the lad was alive. The psychiatrist who’d looked at him had concluded that it hadn’t been a serious suicide attempt but a cry for help. Jim could probably have told her that. A suicide attempt wouldn’t delay Smudge’s release, but it made Jim even more fearful for the lad when the moment came. He just had to sort something out for him.

  The only thing he could hope for was that the governor would throw his weight behind getting Smudge a place with Rozzer. Part of him also felt sorry for Andrew, the stronger boy, who would feel the weight of responsibility for looking after his more vulnerable friend. He hoped that he didn’t tire of it. Jim would have to make sure that Smudge got all the support that was available to him.

  Jim sighed. Sometimes life could be very cruel. He patted Smudge’s hand, even though the lad was away with the fairies. ‘See you tomorrow, little buddy,’ he said under his breath. ‘Hopefully, everything will look better in the morning.’

  He checked his watch. Nearly time for him to sign off for the night, but there was one more thing he wanted to do. He left Healthcare and went back up to Starling and along the corridor to see Rozzer.

  The lad was sitting alone in his cell, staring blankly at a comic. He looked up expectantly when Jim unlocked the door. His eyes were red-rimmed from crying.

  ‘Is he all right?’ Rozzer asked, his face grey with concern.

  ‘Yes. He’s going to be fine. He’s been given a nice cocktail of drugs and probably won’t wake up until the morning.’

  A wave of relief washed over Rozzer’s features.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  The lad nodded. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Want to talk about it?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nah. Not now.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’ll leave you then,’ Jim said. ‘We’ll catch up tomorrow.’ He turned to go.

  ‘Jim,’ Rozzer said. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I wish I’d done more,’ Jim said. ‘I wish that I could have got you a flat together right away.’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ Rozzer said.

  ‘I didn’t realise that he was feeling so bad about it.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘We’ll watch out for him,’ Jim said. ‘Both of us.’

  He clapped the lad on his shoulder and then, more reluctantly than ever, locked the door behind him.

  Jim jumped into the car and gunned the engine. Never had he needed to get away from the unit more than he had tonight and yet never had he wanted to stay more. All he was looking forward to now was having a good scrub-down and sitting in front of the television for the rest of the night – preferably watching something fluffy and light. One of Cassie’s favourite chick flicks would work. Nothing involving blood, gore or death.

  He drove down the lanes, more slowly than normal, concentrating as he shifted through the gears, took the corners. Not surprisingly, he felt quite wobbly. Maybe he should have stayed five minutes longer at work, had a cup of tea with a couple of sugars in it, talked to someone about what had happened.

  A few more bends and he realised that he’d have to pull over. When he stopped, he noticed that his hands were shaking uncontrollably. Jim gripped the steering wheel to try to steady them. There was a tightness in his chest and he could hardly get his breath. He couldn’t get out of his head the picture of Smudge smeared in blood. What if Jim hadn’t got there when he had? What if Smudge had been successful, if his cry for help had gone too far? It didn’t bear thinking about. There were constant suicide attempts in the unit, but they hadn’t lost a lad in years. Jim certainly didn’t want it to happen on his watch and definitely not to Smudge.

  He sat there taking in deep gulps of air until the feeling had passed and the trembling had stopped. There was still a tight knot in his stomach, but he couldn’t sit here any longer. Cassie would be wondering where he was. So, as soon as he felt able, he set off again, concentrating on the road ahead, trying not to think about what might have been.

  He was on the home stretch, just travelling up the dual carriageway, well under the speed limit. The flat was in sight and relief flooded into his bones. Then he remembered. It was supposed to be their romantic dinner tonight. Oh God. Jim hit his forehead with his hand. With all that had gone on today, he’d completely forgotten. Cassie had said that they weren’t going to exchange presents, just cards, but he hadn’t even got her one of those. What a total idiot! There was no way he could go home without one. All she’d asked for was a small thing. How would it look if he couldn’t even deliver that?

  When he got to the roundabout at the top of their road, he turned the car full circle and headed back towards the Tesco Express, which was always open late. Hopefully, they’d have a decent selection of Christmas cards. Or, at the very least, any Christmas cards of any kind.

  Minutes later he pulled up outside and sprinted in. There was, praise the Lord and all that was holy, a rack of Christmas cards just inside the door. Jim grabbed the prettiest one that he could see. Should he add chocolates? They had some nice
ones ready gift-wrapped in classy gold paper. It had been done well. He knew about these things now. Cassie had said no presents. Would it look worse if he took her chocolates when she’d stuck to the plan and had bought him nothing? Best not to risk it.

  So he paid for the card, thankful that some divine spark of inspiration had made him remember. Even if it was at the last minute. He’d have hated to go home empty-handed. Then he would have been in deep, deep trouble.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  ‘It’s freezing out there,’ Jim says as he comes through the door, shivering with cold.

  Winter has really come on with a vengeance and I wonder if we’ll have a white Christmas this year. That would be so wonderful, but it will be the first time in ages if we do.

  ‘Good day?’ I ask.

  ‘Not the best,’ he admits as he throws down his bag and strips off his coat, his face grey and troubled.

  ‘Want to talk about it?’

  ‘Not right now,’ he says. ‘I need a shower, a very big glass of wine and a plate of whatever it is that smells so delicious in the oven. I might feel human again then.’

  ‘It’s some Spanish chicken dish that I can’t remember the name of,’ I confess. ‘But it tastes as good as it smells.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Jim says. ‘Then that will do for me.’

  ‘I’ve put the fire on in the living room and we can snuggle down later.’ He does look tired down to his bones.

  He looks at me suspiciously. ‘No Christmas cards to write? Presents to wrap?’

  I laugh. ‘No! Well, nothing that can’t wait for just one night. I’ve got stuff that I could be doing for Carter’ – Jim lets out a heartfelt groan, which I choose to ignore – ‘but I thought that it was time we had an evening off.’

  ‘I need a break tonight,’ he says with a deep sigh. ‘Believe me.’

  ‘Then you go and get changed and I’ll open the bottle.’

  ‘Music to my ears,’ Jim says and he disappears into the bedroom.

  So I do as I said I would. I open the bottle of red and pour us a couple of hearty glasses. I stir the casserole, which looks dark, rich and scrummy. Good comfort food for a bitterly cold night. I’ve also put patatas bravas in the oven and I give them a shake. They’re golden brown and crisp. Another five minutes and it should all be ready.

  It’s not long before Jim comes back, all freshly washed and changed. I hand him the glass of wine and he gulps it gratefully.

  I go to the oven and lift out the casserole. As I’m standing there, still in my oven gloves, Jim winds his arms around my waist and nuzzles into my neck.

  ‘Hey,’ I say, ‘what’s that for?’

  ‘Just wanted you to know that I love you.’ He’s saying the right words, but his voice is flat, empty.

  I swivel in his arms to face him. ‘Are you sure everything’s OK?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Everything’s fine.’

  Why do I get the impression that he’s not telling me something? But then Jim quite often keeps to himself the details of his working day. I think he likes to leave it all inside the unit if he can. I hope that’s all it is, rather than a problem between us. Despite him agreeing that I should go to Lapland, I can tell that, underneath, he’d rather I didn’t go.

  ‘Ready for me to dish out?’

  He nods, so I pop the casserole on the table and Jim lays out the warm plates. I fetch the potatoes. Jim refills his glass, knocks it back and tops it up again. Wow. He must have had a really bad day as he’s certainly hitting the Rioja hard. Can’t think that I’ve ever seen him do that before. Jim sits down and I take the chair opposite. This all looks lovely, romantic, but I can’t shake off a feeling of disquiet. Something’s not right and I can’t put my finger on it.

  I put some music on the iPod – nothing to do with Christmas for once. We eat dinner. The chicken is beautiful and falls off the bone.

  ‘Delicious,’ Jim says as he eats, but I can tell that he’s not quite here.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to talk?’

  ‘No.’ It’s a borderline snap. ‘This isn’t the right time. I just want some peace and quiet. I don’t want to think about the unit. I don’t want to think about anything. I want nothing more complicated than a few glasses of wine.’

  ‘Right.’ This isn’t boding well for our lovey-dovey evening. It’s rare to see Jim in a bad mood and it’s a long time since I’ve seen him so scratchy.

  I clear away the plates when we’ve finished. ‘Shall we exchange cards now while I wait for the sticky toffee pudding to finish?’

  ‘Mmm,’ Jim says, barely registering that I’ve cooked his favourite dessert.

  I sit back at the table and produce my red envelope. ‘Perhaps next year we’ll do something wonderful,’ I suggest.

  ‘Not if you’re going to carry on with this Christmas business,’ he says.

  I’m slightly thrown by this. ‘Don’t you want me to?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Of course. But you have to admit that it’s dominating our lives.’

  ‘That’s only because it’s taken me by surprise this year. I had no idea that it would be so successful. Next year I’ll be better prepared. I only hope that Carter will be a client again.’

  ‘Ah,’ Jim says. ‘Carter.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  I wonder if this is really about a bad day at work or if it’s all down to my trip to Lapland. Jim’s said that he’s happy for me to go, but I wonder if he is deep down. If the boot was on the other foot, would I be happy for him?

  ‘He’s a business client,’ I stress. ‘An important one.’

  ‘His name is every other word that comes out of your mouth, though,’ Jim says.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I’m just sick of hearing “Carter this, Carter that”.’

  I feel wounded. It’s not like Jim to be petty, but I can’t help but bite back. ‘All you talk about is your young criminals. Do I grumble about that? No. I’ve actually done my very best to help them out. I’ve really supported you over the last few weeks, Jim, and have got them both involved in my business. I’ve welcomed them into our home. I don’t hear you complaining then.’

  ‘They’ve done a great job.’

  ‘They have,’ I agree. ‘I really like them both. They’ve helped me out so much and I’m grateful for that. I can see why you want to help them. But I don’t complain that they’re more important to you than me. Can’t you see why I have to pander to Carter Randall? He has spent more money with Calling Mrs Christmas! than all my other clients put together.’

  Jim sighs in a disgruntled manner. ‘There are more important things than Christmas, Cassie.’

  ‘Because of him we’ll have the chance to pay off some of our debts, get our heads above water again.’

  ‘Well, bully for Carter,’ he snipes. ‘So he’s a big, fat cash cow who we must all revere.’

  We rarely argue, but I know this could escalate if I let it. I want Jim to be proud of what I’ve achieved, not try to belittle it. Christmas might not be important to him, but this business – however trivial – has given me life and hope again. It’s stopped me from fretting about where our next penny is coming from. It’s stopped me from feeling that we’re drowning in debt. It’s stopped me from sinking into depression between these four walls and I love it. For the first time in nearly a year, I feel like myself again. I have something to get up for every morning. I wish Jim could share that. Perhaps he’s happier when I’m sitting at home, trapped here in my own prison, totally dependent on him. Maybe he’s so used to locking people up that he’d really rather like me to be locked in here too. If I have my own life, it might be too much of a threat to him. Instead of saying all that, I bite it down.

  ‘Let’s not fight,’ I offer, but inside I still feel resentful. ‘We’re supposed to be having a romantic dinner.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Jim says, but he doesn’t sound sorry either.

  ‘Here.
’ I hand over my card and wait for him to open it. Perhaps this will soften his mood.

  On the front is a teddy, draped with tinsel and holding a heart. The verse reads: ‘I love you always, but especially at Christmas.’

  ‘That’s great,’ Jim says, but somehow his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. ‘Lovely.’

  His reaction is more muted than I hoped for. He hands over his own card.

  I rip open the envelope and pull out the card. It’s glittery with a picture of a festive cottage on the front, festooned with snow. Across the top of the card in foiled script it says, ‘Happy Christmas to you from across the miles.’