Notes: Unlike previous sections, this is all original material and can be read as a stand-alone ending to 155. While the story wraps so well on screen that elaboration isn't necessary, I thought since I'd got this far and churned out over 340KBs, I'd earned the right to spank my mental monkey a bit and dot a few 'I's and cross a few 'T's…
Spoilers: The events of 156 are reflected here.
Survival:
The Coda to
"One of Our Own"
by NorthernStar
Mickey put his key in the lock and let himself into his home. Silence and emptiness greeted him and shutting the door behind him brought him a small measure of relief mixed with finality.
That was it – his years at Sun Hill over with.
Mickey chucked his bag down just inside the door and dropped his jean jacket on top. The warmth he'd felt from his goodbyes with Jack had begun to fade, leaving only space where feeling ought to be.
He walked into the living area and slumping on the sofa, limbs aching even more now the tension was out of them. Mickey laid his head back and closed his eyes. He was tired, bone deep tired and there was so much…crap…roiled inside him that he had to bite his lip to hold it back.
He couldn't deal with the hurt right now – the crawling sense of ugliness and dirt that seemed to stain him right through to his innards. But there just wasn't an end to it. He couldn't stop being him, couldn't change what had happened.
He opened his eyes, swallowed convulsively to ease the tightness in his throat, a gut reaction to the bleakness of his thoughts. He had nothing now. No job, no pride…no…
No respect.
Mickey sat forward, put his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands.
God…
Drawing a breath, he gave into his defeat and got up, heading for the kitchen. Mickey opened the fridge, bent and grabbed the six-pack from the back. He yanked a can off the plastic, opened it and took a swig.
Then another. And another.
His stomach protested dully but he gulped more of the bitter liquid down.
He was going to get drunk. He might not be able to rid himself of the shame curling inside him, nor change what he was, what he hadn't been able to stop. But he didn't have to deal with himself tonight.
Mickey Webb could be elsewhere for a while.
"I…don't understand."
Jack got up from the sofa. He couldn't look Rachel in the eye. He sighed. "I'm sorry." The words seemed woefully inadequate.
"You're going to throw it all away? Everything we had?" Anger was fast overtaking her disbelief. "Over what? Mickey?"
There was no corresponding anger inside Jack. He could be honest. He owed her that much. "Partly."
"Jack, it won't change anything!" She came over to him. "He was still raped!"
"I know." Jack rubbed his forehead. "But that's not the only reason." He turned to look at her. "He's right. About us. He's been right all along, I just didn't listen."
She turned her back on him.
"I'm a copper, Rachel." He said, "and you're a-"
"Tart?" She spat the word. "You said it wouldn't make a difference. You promised."
"At the time I honestly thought it didn't. But it does." Jack sighed. "Maybe not to me, but to the people I work with."
"And that's more important than us?"
He looked down. "To some degree, maybe." He went to touch her. "I'm sorry."
"Don't touch me." She stepped away. "Just go…please."
He hovered a moment.
"Please?" She hissed, voice thick with unshed tears.
Jack sighed, and left the room, opened the door and went out.
At his car, he looked back once. But there was no regret in his heart.
Half way through his third can of beer, the doorbell rang. Mickey ignored it and drank some more, the alcohol hitting his empty stomach and buzzed round his system, bringing that easy heavy/light sensation of early intoxication.
The bell rang again.
Mickey swallowed the last of his beer, squeezed the can and chucked it on the coffee table with the others. The bell rang again, this time the sound lasted for about ten seconds as the button remained under the callers thumb.
Mickey ignored it and reached for another beer.
There was a rattle, like something was being pushed through the letterbox. "Mickey?" Smithy's voice, full of wary concern, echoed strangely through the open flap. "You all right, mate?"
Mickey sighed and took another mouthful before going to answer the door. Smithy stood on the doorstep, with Gary just behind him.
Mickey leaned against the wall, blocking the doorway. "What do you want, ay?"
"We…er, we've come for yer clothes." Smithy said. "The ones you woz wearin' when…" He trailed off.
"Forensic evidence, like." Gary added, shifting from one foot to the other, a bundle of nerves.
Mickey's throat tightened at the sudden well of embarrassment, felt the heat on his cheeks as humiliation crawled its way through every inch of his body. "Yeah." He left the door open and walked to the cupboard under the stairs. "In 'ere."
He reached in and pulled out a black bin bag, dumping it in front of them. Smithy nodded to Gary who began tugging open the knot at the top with gloved hands.
Smithy looked at Mickey. "You all right, mate?"
An ugly thought crept in, that now Smithy was concerned. Better late than never.
"The DCI says you put in fer a transfer."
"Yeah."
"Any idea where you're gonna go?"
Mickey shrugged, not looking at the sergeant or at Best, fumbling with the knot on the black bag. "Barton Street? Dunno."
Smithy's surprise was obvious. "Yeah…well…everyone'll be sorry to see yer go."
Mickey took another swallow of beer and tried not to sound bitter. "Yeah?"
Smithy frowned. "How many you had?"
"Not enough."
Gary finally undid the tie on the bag, fingers slipping on the thin plastic. Mickey choked as the odour hit him – sour blood and sweat and bodily fluids – and the smell of it was vivid, so very vivid, it was like being back there, with Delaney, twisting and crying and torn and shamed.
He turned abruptly; feeling every breath he dragged into his lungs like the air was made of lead, and stumbled into the living room. He closed his eyes, struggling against churning in his stomach.
"Mickey?" Smithy had followed him, concerned.
Mickey glanced back, keeping his eyes low, seeing only Smithy's feet. Covering himself, Mickey snagged a can from the table and held it out. "You?"
"Nah, not while I'm on duty, mate."
"You got the evidence bags?" Gary said as he came into the living room, the bin bag dangling from his hand.
"Yeah." Smithy held out the evidence bag.
Mickey's heart raced, trapped in the room. He couldn't leave. He couldn't watch this. He didn't want to see his clothes, didn't want anyone else to see them.
Gary pulled out Mickey's red "est. 1969" T shirt and placed them in the bag Smithy held open. It was crumpled and dirty and spotted with blood from the gash in Mickey's head but the sight of it was bearable. Next out was his black jeans, smelling so strongly of Delaney to Mickey that he took a trembling step backwards, swallowing convulsively to ease the tightness in his throat. His eyes darted between Smithy and Gary. Didn't they smell it?
As Gary dropped the jeans into the bag, Mickey's eyes caught on the dark patch where the fabric at the crotch had dried hard with blood and God knew what else. Mickey hid his face.
Gary continued to bag up Mickey's clothes. His black jacket came next, then his socks and shoes. The last thing out were the grey briefs he'd been wearing.
Gary gasped, going pale.
Mickey looked away, ashamed. The underwear was badly stained, hard and reddish brown with old blood.
Gary sealed the bag and held the label out for Mickey to sign. With a shaky hand, he took the pen and scribbled his signature to confirm the clothes inside were his.
Smithy's order was harsh. "Put 'em out in the car."
The sergeant's sharp order snapped Gary out of his horror and he quickly bagged the underwear.
"Sir." The young PC didn't even try to hide his relief at the dismissal, scuttling out of the house without another word.
"I'm sorry." Smithy said when Gary had gone. There was a depth of sincerity to his tone that Mickey couldn't recall hearing before.
Mickey's head lifted. "Not your fault." He drank some more, the increasing buzz from the alcohol dulling everything.
"Look, mate, I don't fink that's a good idea." Smithy gestured at the beer.
"Well I fink it's a great idea."
"Mickey…"
"Look, I've 'ad enough of your lectures, yeah?" He snapped. "You ain't my sarge anymore. And none of this would've 'appened if you 'adn't've gone shouting yer mouth off."
"I 'ad to tell the DCI. Someone woulda noticed somefing sooner or later. You were all over the place, Mickey."
"I wos 'andling it."
"No you weren't."
Mickey turned away. "Look you got wot you come for, yeah."
"Mickey…"
"I ain't gonna ask you again, all right?"
Smithy sighed and went to the door. He turned on the doorstep.
"Take care of yourself, yeah?"
Smithy returned to the area car and got in. Gary looked at him, a little ashamed of his reactions. "Sorry. About that, back there. Wasn't expecting that, that's all." He frowned even more. "All that blood…"
Smithy looked back at Mickey's front door. "Not me you should be apologising too." His tone was sharp. His anger had to go somewhere.
"Yeah…" Gary followed Smithy's gaze and stared at the house too. "He's half paralytic all ready."
The sarge looked round at Best. "Wouldn't you be?"
"Yeah…Yeah, think I would." The ever present frown deepened. "You think we ought to tell the DCI? About Mickey drinking and all that?"
Smithy shook his head. "Nah…I fink 'e just wants to be left alone."
"Yeah…guess he would."
Smithy started up the car and drove off.
Mickey woke up face down on the sofa, still dressed; an empty beer can between his limp fingers. He groaned as he pushed up into a sitting position, the movement causing his head to throb. He rubbed his eyes, and then swiped at the sticky mass of dried drool around him mouth.
The TV was still on, prattling about farmers and fields and badgers – and from the light streaming in the window he realised it was well past noon.
Mickey stumbled to his feet and made it to the kitchen despite the pressure inside his skull and the churning of his stomach. He filled the kettle, switched in on and scooped a load of coffee granules into a mug. Then he leaned on the surfaces and concentrated on standing up.
When the kettle boiled, he made himself the blackest coffee he could swallow. The bitterness made him retch, but he forced more down. He managed to get half way through the cup when his stomach rebelled and the liquid came straight back up.
He continued retching into the sink until his chest hurt. When it was finally over, Mickey slid down to sit on the floor.
"Ramani," Jack fell into step beside her. "Reg Hollis just brought in Craig Mayers. If you have a minute I need you to go down to custody-"
She stopped. "Actually, I was just going round to see Mickey. I assigned myself as his SOIT officer. I thought he might appreciate a familiar face." She told him. "And I was hoping to keep the number of officers who knew about the incident down to a minimum."
Jack smiled sadly. "Not much hope of that now."
Ramani nodded. Gossip had swept like wildfire around the station since the start of the shift. "There's some details I'd like to go over and since I can't see any problem with the CPS on this one, I'd like to discuss the possibility of his making a VPS."
Jack thought for a moment. "I'm not sure he'd agree."
"He's already been forced to make a major change in his career as a result of this and it barely been four days. I think that should impact on sentencing." But seeing the doubt lingering on the DCI's face, she paused. "Its just one of the options open to him, as is putting in a claim to CICA."
"I'll make sure he does that."
"There's also a number of organisations Mickey should be aware of." She paused. "Support groups, help lines and I'd like to take the opportunity to discuss counselling. Occupational Health has a NRMSAC counsellor on board. I think Mickey could benefit from her expertise."
Jack frowned. "You don't think it's too soon?"
"He needs help. Professional help." She stated. "The sooner he gets that, the better." Looking around, checking for listeners, Ramani took Jack to one side and lowered her voice. "He lost his mother recently and he was already under a great deal of stress. In itself, that is a lot to cope with. There's little doubt that will have a negative affect on his healing."
Jack felt a dead weight settle in his stomach. "Mickey wouldn't do anything stupid."
"I don't doubt that." Ramani half smiled. When she spoke again, her tone was softer, the sort of gentle voice she used with victims families – reassuring and supportive. Odd to hear it directed at him, but despite that, some of the rawness inside faded. "But the right sort of help can make all the difference. I don't think he has any other family members…"
"Not close family." Jack replied.
"All the more reason to take advantage of network of support available to him."
"He might need convincing."
She smiled. "That's my job."
He watched her leave. "Ramani?"
She stopped, turned.
"Tell…let Mickey know…" He trailed off awkwardly.
She smiled. "I will."
Mickey showered then climbed into bed, still damp and fell into a light sleep. He woke a few hours later, disoriented, heart racing, but didn't remember what he'd dreamt. Getting up, getting dressed took a great deal of effort. He didn't bother to shave or brush out his hair.
Afterwards, he forced himself to take his prescriptions and made a jam sandwich to line his stomach. The cloying sweetness of the filling turned his stomach and after a few bites, he threw the rest in the bin.
There was a knock on Jack's door and a second later, Eva came in.
"Guv, I just heard the news." She said. "About Mickey, I mean." She shook her head, frowning. "I can't believe it."
"No." He agreed.
"So, is 'e coming back? I mean, this is just compassionate leave, yeah?"
"No." Jack sighed and sat back in his chair. "He asked to be transferred."
"What, just like that?" She demanded. "Where to?"
"We don't know yet. He's got some family in Romford so maybe…"
"I doubt it. Stuff 'e's told me about his family." Eva paced a little. "I fink Mickey'd be better here, guv. I mean, 'e knows it wouldn't make a difference, what happened."
"Maybe." Jack looked down. She hadn't seen the tiredness in Mickey, the defeat, the…shame… Asking him to stay would have been selfish and cruel. "I think he thought it was the only avenue open to him. Fresh start."
"Yeah but…" Her shoulders slumped and she shook her head. "I'm gonna miss 'im."
Jack couldn't help smiling at the sentiment. He was going to be hearing that a lot over the next few days. "He was a good copper." He conceded.
"Yeah…" She sighed, still not believing it. "I just…I can't believe he never said goodbye."
"He just wanted to get out of here, Eva." Jack explained and felt a dull ache in his gut. "After we brought Delaney in, uniform all but broadcast everything he'd said to the nick…." He finished softly.
She sat down on the chair. "He didn't deserve this."
"No one does."
A moment passed and then Jack got up, hardening himself to his own feelings. "Come on. You might enjoy this." He said as he headed for the door. "I know I will."
Eva looked confused a moment then followed.
Delaney looked up as the door opened. His brief, a thin mousy man, frowned at this interruption and stood up to protest. Eva silenced him with a glare.
Jack strode in, feeling a knot of angry satisfaction settle in his stomach.
"Martin Delaney…" He began, "I'm arresting you for the rape of Michael Webb."
"What is this?" The brief demanded. "My client has already been charged with assault and-"
"Well now you can add rape, sexual assault and another count of assault, this time of a police officer, to the list." Jack told him.
Eva stared at the blond man hunched over the table. "You're looking at another 10 years right there."
The brief bristled. "I need to see the-"
Without taking his eyes from Delaney, Jack cut him off. "I'll make sure you get everything you need." His eyes narrowed. "No mistakes are going to be made on this one. I'll see to that."
It sounded very much like a threat.
Delaney looked up at the small crowd around his table. The smile he gave them was weak and false.
His gaze fixed on Jack. "Mickey got a backbone then?" Then he chuckled. "Never would have thought it, the way he squealed like a pig getting f-"
"You filthy-!" Jack lunged for him. Delaney scooted out of the chair but Eva got between them and held the DCI back.
"That's not gonna help Mickey, guv." She told him. "Let's just read him his rights and go."
Mickey was lying on the sofa picking at the welts around his wrists when the door bell rang. He ignored it and continued poking at the scabs, fascinated by the vividness of the now fully developed bruises, and remembered how the ropes had felt digging into his skin, the pain as he'd struggled… The feeling of being tied, helpless…
Bound…
Afraid.
There was tapping on the door, low but insistent thuds that jolted through him and he raised his head from the arm of the sofa. It felt a little like waking up.
Getting up, Mickey answered and found himself surprised to see Ramani on the doorstep. It hadn't really occurred to him, not consciously, but he was expecting Jack.
"Mickey, how are you?" She asked warmly. It sounded like the stupidest question she could ever ask.
But it didn't grate on his nerves like he might have expected. "Knackered." He answered and led the way into his house. "You want a coffee?"
"Tea if you've got it." She followed him into the kitchen and watched him fill the kettle. "I brought round some leaflets, organisations that might help."
"No fanks."
"They can understand what you're going through. Help you see a way though."
Mickey began pulling mugs from the cupboard, keeping his back to her. "Milk and sugar, yeah?"
"Yes to both." She regarded him, at least his lean back, tense and rigid. "There's a support group that meets every fortnight at the community centre on the Cockcroft. I know the man who runs it, Mark Fuller. He's-"
Mickey's hands paused in their tea making, sugar laden spoon hovering over the mugs. "One or two?"
"One. He's a very good counsellor." Ramani continued. "And it's a small group; I think there's about 7 or 8 members at the moment. You don't have to give your name; you don't even have to talk right away, if that's what you want."
A sodden teabag thudded into the bin, breaking her flow of words and the spoon rattled against the mug as Mickey stirred the tea.
"No." He said firmly, chucking the spoon into the sink next to the dirty cups already in there. The resulting clatter made her jump.
"Mark Fuller is very good at what he does. The groups had a lot of success with-"
"I don't give a toss what success 'e's had."
"Mickey, I know this must be very difficult for you right now but-"
"Wiv all due respect, sarge, you don't know anyfing. Not about me nor what 'appened." There was a nastiness to his tone she couldn't remember hearing before. "I don't want no bloody counselling and I certainly don't want to sit listenin' to a bunch of blokes moan about getting it up the arse." He slammed her tea down on the table, spilling some down his fingers. The burning felt strangely good.
"I know you find this hard to believe right now," she said calmly, "but talking about it does help."
"Yeah? Well it seems like I dun nufffing but talk about it since it 'appened. You, Smiffy, Jack…" The last name cracked out. "What, are you all sick or summick?"
"That's different, Mickey, and I think you know that. Smithy was genuinely worried about you, with good reason. And both the DCI and I had to interview you. The last thing any of us wanted was to violate your privacy any more than necessary. If we were over-zealous there, I apologise, but it's because we care about you."
Mickey looked down at the mug of tea he'd made himself, anger fading. He didn't seem to be able to concentrate on anything right now…not even emotion.
"I've brought you some information. It's mainly covering CPS and Sapphire policies. I know you think you know the procedures but I want you to read them any way. Everything you do know is from the standpoint of a police officer. It's amazing what you can miss when you're not the…"
His eyes flickered up. "The victim?"
"When it's just Met initiatives." She edited and reached into her bag. She pulled out a fat wad of leaflets and forms. "You can look at them in your own time. Maybe for just a few minutes, but don't just throw them away. Please."
Mickey spread the leaflets out, staring at the covers. Big letters declaring RAPE and SEXUAL ASSAULT accompanied by moody looking men, heads bowed away from the camera. He'd seen them a million times before. The posters plastered the walls of Sun Hill nick. But Ramini was right. It was different seeing them now as a victim, not as a copper passing them out, or parroting phrases from the bullet points.
He took a sip of tea, found it was cold. Had he been staring at the pamphlets that long? He looked up. Ramani was watching him.
She smiled. "I wondered if you'd thought about making a Victim Personal Statement?"
He looked down. "No." And swallowed, "hadn't thought. Maybe, I dunno."
"You don't have to make a decision now. Have a think about it. A lot of victims derive a great deal of comfort from having their concerns taken into account." Her fingers plucked at one of the papers in front of him. "I've also brought you Form MG19."
Mickey's eyes flickered to it. "What's the going rate for rape these days?" He asked bitterly.
"Mickey-"
His head came up. "How's the DCI?" He asked, cutting that line of conversation.
A small smile curved her lips. "He wanted me to let you know he's thinking of you."
They continued talking for a while, about work mostly, until the dull ache in his head turned into a roar as the painkillers wore off and he began to feel crowded and uncomfortable. He rubbed his eyes, tiredness burning. As if she knew he couldn't cope with more, Ramani got up and made her goodbyes. Before she left, she handed him her telephone number and told him to call if he needed to. He nodded but knew he wouldn't.
Left alone, Mickey took more medication and flopped on the sofa as the strong painkillers joined forces with his tiredness and sent in spiralling into sleep.
By the time Jack got home, it was nearly midnight. He poured himself a large scotch and swallowed a mouthful, feeling it burn all the way down. He sighed. In the space of 24 hours, he'd lost two of his best officers.
Despite the suspicions being bandied about, he wished Danny well, wherever he was. And as for Mickey…
Jack's eyes fell on the telephone, knowing he couldn't call this late, but wanting to anyway - needing to hear Mickey's voice so he'd know that the young man was OK, not about to do something stupid.
In the morning. He told himself and finished his drink.
It was dark when Mickey woke, gasping and crying, legs clumsy as he stumbled to his feet ready to run but he only tumbled off the sofa to thud painfully on the floor. He kicked out in anger, hitting the coffee table, kicked again to up-turn it, spilling magazines everywhere. His face was screwed up and it felt like sobbing but he was just too bloody angry to know for sure. Mickey hauled himself to his feet and began kicking everything with earnest, the sofa, the table, his CD cabinet – seeing the fragile disks fall out with every kick, heard them crack beneath his feet. But it didn't calm the anger, couldn't take away the image tossed up by his dreams.
And then the sob came out, breaking from his chest and he stopped, stood. Then collapsed on the sofa, missing the seat and sliding to sit on the floor. He put his face in his hands and wept.
He hadn't been alone in the warehouse in his nightmare. Jack had been there too, watching.
And he'd laughed…
He didn't really wake up next time. Mickey hadn't really been asleep, sitting with his forehead pressed against the arms resting on his drawn up knees amid the devastation of his living room. He'd dozed some, night hours ticking passed without his realising, for now there was light brightening the room.
Bring, bring…bring, bring…
On the fifth ring, the answering machine clicked as it picked up. His own chirpy voice echoed in his head reciting the familiar message, "hi, this is Mickey Webb…"
Then the tone sounded.
"Mickey, this is Jack. I was hoping to catch you before work." There was a sigh. "Call me when you're up."
Mickey glanced at the phone in the hallway, thinking about calling his friend back. He shuddered. No. He had nothing to say to Jack.
Why couldn't he be left alone?
Climbing to his feet, Mickey picked his way through the mess and headed for the shower. He stayed under the spray until the water ran cold. He'd long since run out of soap so he used toilet bleach instead. The caustic fluid reddened his skin, stinging like bloody murder in all his cuts. It stank too, fumes combining with the steam in the bathroom to irritate his nose.
But it didn't matter. At least he was clean.
Getting out, he dressed in the thickest fleece he had, chilled inside despite the warmth of his home. He swallowed his pills with scalding coffee and stared out the window for a while, watching the cars swish by.
It seemed so much easier to stay here, in the house, cocooned in himself, but he felt the tug inside him that always drove him to his mother's grave. He wanted her smile, her warmth… But that of course was impossible. She was lost to him now.
Visiting her grave brought him some measure of comfort and that was what made him pick up his keys and wallet and leave the house. His stomach ached dully, reminding him he hadn't eaten breakfast, but it was vague and oddly comforting, and easily ignored.
Jack's mobile rang and he quickly pulled the little phone from his pocket. His eyes caught on the LCD screen showing the caller's number.
It wasn't Mickey.
Damn.
He'd been waiting for the young man to call since he'd got into CID that morning, anxious to hear for himself that Mickey was OK. Away from the distraction of work, the young man had nothing but his own ordeal to think about. It frightened Jack more than he wanted to admit.
Jack had rung Mickey's house again at refs, but the only answer he'd received was the answer phone and his mobile was "unavailable."
Sighing, he answered the call.
Mickey sat down at the graveside and hugged his knees.
Jack had dialled Mickey's home phone number several times throughout the day, feeling the worry in his gut growing every time the answer phone picked up. Slamming the receiver down after his sixth attempt, Jack turned his attention to the report Ramani had filed after her visit with Mickey. He had already read through it a couple of times, but scanned his eyes over the words yet again, looking for something – anything- to tell him Mickey was doing OK.
When DS De Costa brought him a copy of the files, he'd asked her how Mickey was, but the only response he got was more or less what was written in front of him.
"He's not answering my calls." He had told her.
"I wouldn't worry unduly." Ramani had replied. "He was very tired. It's only been a few days; it's understandable he needs time to come to terms with everything that's happened." She had rested her elbow against her knee as she leaned in. "He's been through a terrible ordeal, one we can't even begin to comprehend. But the important thing is, he came forward."
His gut had twisted bitterly. "Oh yes, mustn't send out the wrong message, must we?"
But she hadn't reacted to his sarcasm. "Important for Mickey." She corrected. "Bottling this up wouldn't have helped him, not in the long run."
"And now?"
"Making a statement took a lot of courage. He'll need more support than either of us can provide for what's ahead."
"The trial?"
"Partly." Her expression softened. "There's a good chance he won't have to testify." She told him. "Delaney admitted to the rape in front of witnesses."
The unspoken worry at the back of his mind finally found an out. "But not on tape."
"Maybe not. But I don't doubt he'll be advised to plead guilty."
"And if he contests even part of Mickey's statement?" He already knew the answer, but he asked it anyway, needing to put voice to the concern.
"Then he may have to take the stand." Ramani said. Then she must have seen the ache he felt at that thought in his eyes because she leaned in even further. "He won't go through this alone. And he's a strong young man." She smiled, "even more so, to command such respect from you."
Jack returned her smile, faintly embarrassed. But his mind had caught on something she'd said – can't begin to comprehend…
He couldn't, but…
Jack put the report away and got up. He was going to leave work early for once. There was someone he needed to see.
The peace of the graveyard was shattered by a funeral, muffled sobbing breaking through the wall of Mickey's thoughts until he was forced to wish his mother goodbye and walk, hunched over, passed the crowds. A woman mourner looked his way, raising her eyes from the gaping hole in the ground to catch his. A tiny smile curved her lips.
It made him feel sick.
He got in his car and headed for home, stopping halfway at a garage for petrol and grabbed some sandwiches and a coke at the same time, more out of habit than anything else. He munched while he was driving, eating mechanically and it left him feeling uncomfortably full afterwards.
At his home, he stared at the broken CD's and mangled magazines, the sofa cushions scattered, coffee table up-ended for a long time before half-hearted tidying the mess away, chucking the unbroken and untorn things on the sofa and everything else in the bin. When he'd finished, he took more of his pills, grabbed the remote and flopped in front of the telly.
Jack trudged up the garden path and rang the doorbell. The person who answered smiled at him questioningly when they saw who it was, a better welcome than he was expecting if he was honest. That would probably change the moment he opened his mouth.
"I need to talk to you…"
The doorbell pulled him from the documentary he was only half watching. Getting up, Mickey went to the door and opened it.
The woman on his doorstep gave him a small, tired, almost unsure smile.
"Laura?"
Jack's wife smiled more confidently now. "Can I come in?"
Backing up, still shocked, he held open the door. "Yeah…sure. Um, tea, yeah?"
"That would be lovely."
He led her into the sitting room, finally throwing off the surprise at her visit. "If, er, if you looking for Jack, I ain't seen 'im. Not for a couple of days."
"No, I'm not looking for Jack." She said, sounding uncomfortable, "I…er…I saw him earlier as a matter of fact. He came round to see me."
Mickey's stomach clenched and he swallowed back the sudden tightness in his throat.
"Jack…jack told me what happened."
He looked down, horribly, horribly ashamed. He could feel her eyes on him, pitying him.
"I-I guess he thought I could understand what you're going through better than him." She continued. He didn't see her smile, but he heard it lacing her next words. "He really does care a lot about you."
Mickey couldn't resist looking up at that, seeing only honesty on her face.
Gingerly she stepped a little forward, hand reached out to touch his arm, hovering but never connecting. He understood the reluctance, knew all too well the crawling, shrinking sensation of contact; she wasn't strong enough for that yet.
Neither was he.
"I wish I could offer you some…comfort…like 'it'll get better' but I've heard that one a few too many times myself and it's not true." She told him. There was faint bitterness in her tone. "I'm not about to go lying to you."
He watched her through his lashes, head still bent.
She sighed, "oh I'm sure it does eventually." She looked away. "Hopefully. Just not now."
"I'm sorry." The words sounded so hollow but he meant them.
A little laugh escaped her, "oh love you've got nothing to be sorry for."
"Still…" But he trailed off, hunching in on himself.
She gestured towards the sofa. "May I?"
"Yeah, sorry." He jolted into movement, scooping up the magazines and rubbish on the sofa so she could sit. One fell from his nerveless fingers to clatter to the floor in a rustle of pages.
She studied Mickey as she took a seat, watching him shove the magazines on the nearest surface, dodging to give her a wide berth. "You're a lot like him." She told him.
Mickey froze. "Jack?"
She nodded. "When he was younger. I've noticed before." She smiled slightly. "I think he sees it too."
The anger slipped out before he could stop it. "Don't fink 'e likes wot he sees."
The smile turned rueful. "Probably not."
Mickey straightened up, bringing the uncomfortable topic to an end. He remembered he'd offered her tea. "Do you want a drink, yeah? Tea? Coffee?"
"Scotch if you've got it."
The request didn't surprise him as much as it ought. He nodded. "Yeah." He went to the cabinet and pulled out the bottle of pure malt he kept solely for his mother's use when she stayed. The memory slipped out without his realising. "Me mum liked her Scotch in the evenings." He told her and felt a dull ache as he thought of his mother.
"She passed away recently, didn't she?"
Softly. "Yeah." Mickey poured them both a large measure. "Hit and run."
"I remember Jack telling me. He was very worried about you." She took the glass he offered. "Thank you." And sighed. "He's worried now, Mickey. Don't be angry at him for confiding in me. He had you're best intentions at heart when he told me."
"I know." Mickey swallowed the whole contents of his glass down in one gulp. He thought fleetingly of the pills he taken, but didn't care.
A silence fell between them. Mickey played with his empty glass. Laura sipped at her drink slowly. After a while, Mickey sat on the other end of the sofa and stared into space.
Her voice broke the quiet, cracking badly on emotion. "It hurts, doesn't it?"
His reaction was immediate. Mickey screwed his face up against the tears that sprang up and threatened to spill humiliatingly down his cheeks, biting hard on his lower lip to hold them in, but they came anyway, tracking wetly across his skin to drip into his lap.
"Oh love…" She put down her drink and went to him, reaching out to pull him into her arms. The movement was awkward, almost jerky; touching no more comfortable for her as him right now, but doing it anyway. Needing to give into to the maternal instinct to nurture and protect just as much as Mickey needed that comfort and she realised with a pang that Jack was doing this as much for her as for the young man he'd been so worried over.
Sobs racked him and he leaned into her as the force of them robbed him of his strength. Her smell was different, sweeter than his mother's, classier in a way, but it didn't matter. Not really. She offered what he needed and he didn't have the strength anymore to refuse it.
Laura stroked the bent blond head of the young man almost lying in her arms. He'd fallen still and silent some time ago and although she couldn't see his face, she was pretty sure he was dozing. She smiled and her fingers tightened a little in Mickey's hair.
For the first time in ever so long, it felt…better.
Mickey woke up to the sound of the post dropping through the letterbox. He barely remembered getting to bed after Laura left. After he'd pulled himself, embarrassed, from her arms, they'd talked. And after a time, he found himself telling her what happened between him and Delaney. Unlike what he'd told Jack – the cold facts and timeline necessary in a statement – the halting story he stumbled and shivered his way through with Laura was more visceral. She'd listened and nodded and never once judged him.
Now though, in the light of day, he wondered if he should have told her all that. Who was he to add to her own distress?
But yet she'd asked. Taken the time to do this thing for him when God knows, he knew how difficult it was to think about, hear about…talk about...
He picked up the pile of mail and sorted through the envelopes – bill, bill, junk, bank statement and…
Mickey frowned at the last, recognising the standard issue envelope and opened it first, pulling out the contents. There was a wad of pages stapled together headed with the crest of the Metropolitan Police. His eyes scanned the papers, skipping the fillers to get to the meat.
Then he did something he hadn't done in days – Mickey chuckled, smile breaking his lips.
"MIT…" he whispered to himself.
End
For
the little girl I used to be,
the woman I'll never be because of her and also
for Jane –
I think of you often.
Glossary –
NRMSAC - National Register of Male Sexual Assault Counsellors
VPS – Victim personal statement
CICA – Criminal Injuries Compensation Authority
Form MG19 – application for compensation