47

Callum Roberts stared straight ahead as he walked along the gloomy, forbidding corridor. He refused to look at the police officer – DS Sanderson – who kept pace with him. He knew that if he did so, she would start to work on him again, trying to dissuade him from doing this. This was hard enough as it was without her chipping away at him, eroding his determination and preying on his fears. And he knew that if he allowed himself to falter, then he wouldn’t take another step.

They had all urged him not to view his mother’s body. They had identified her from DNA and dental records, so there was no need for him to be here in this sterile, lifeless place. Callum had seen police mortuaries on TV crime shows but he now realized how fake those versions were. The real deal was washed out, soulless and just … dead.

Sanderson seemed to have given up trying to talk him down now and walked mutely beside him. Which was fine by him. He had been irritated by her presence at first, but as they approached the doors to the body storage area, he was suddenly glad to have her with him. He had no idea how he would react once he was in there.

Why was he here? Did he really believe that it wasn’t his mum in there? The DNA tests had proved it was her and yet he still had to see. He couldn’t logically say why, but he did.

They had euphemistically hinted at the state of his mother’s body, then when he’d refused to play ball, the gloves had come off and they’d described in concise but graphic detail what remained of his mother. Even so he’d refused to be put off. He knew instinctively that refusing to see her now would be the grossest betrayal of all.

Why had he been such an idiot? So ungrateful? So hostile? Sure his mum had messed up plenty of times and was a doormat, with terrible taste in men. But she had raised him single-handedly when other lesser women might have abandoned him to his fate, fobbing him off on a relative or putting him into care. And in the early years they had got on well. She was a relaxed parent, happy to have a laugh and a joke. And she doted on him, often going without so that he could go on school trips, have birthday parties, even the odd holiday. He had never missed having a dad, which had to mean something, didn’t it? She even came with him when he got his first tattoo, advising him on where to have it and what to go for. She looked after him afterwards, making sure that the tattoo didn’t get infected, giving him hot Ribena and powdered paracetamol to dull the pain in his throbbing arm. She wasn’t the best of mums, but she was very far from being the worst.

‘This is Jim Grieves. He’s our Senior Pathologist.’

Callum suddenly found himself shaking hands with yet another stranger. He never shook hands – who the fuck did? – and yet he seemed to have been doing nothing else for the past few hours. Shaking hands with medics, police officers, fire investigators and now the pathologist who’d been prodding and probing his mother’s body.

‘I’m very sorry for your loss,’ the man was saying. He was a big guy with a gruff manner but kind eyes. Callum couldn’t think of what to say in reply, so nodded briefly. He wasn’t here to chat.

They walked on to the body storage area. ‘Body storage area’ – how the hell had he ended up here? It was a nightmare, a living bloody nightmare. The man was talking again, but he couldn’t hear a single word, his conversation drowned out by the clamouring panic within him. Suddenly he wanted to be anywhere but here. He wanted to turn and run, run, run …

‘Are you ready?’ the pathologist said, sounding like he was repeating the question for a second time. Callum snapped out of it, nodding and smiling at his interrogator. Why had he smiled? What was there to smile about?

They were standing by a long metal table – he knew they called them ‘slabs’ but couldn’t bear to think of them like that. With one last look at him, the pathologist leant forward and lifted the sheet.

Immediately, Callum’s arm shot out, grabbing at the sleeve of the policewoman who still flanked him. He didn’t know what he had been expecting, but not this. This wasn’t his mum. She didn’t even look human. This was an abomination.

Letting go his grip, he turned and ran to a nearby sink, vomiting hard into it. Once, twice, three times as the horror of what he’d just seen forced its way out. Afterwards, gripping the cold metal rim, he hung his head, trying to steady his breathing, to calm his thundering heart. Up until now it had seemed horrific but unreal. Now the full devastation of last night was making itself felt. And he knew in that moment, with piercing clarity, that his whole life had been reduced to ashes.

48

Blog post by firstpersonsingular.

Thursday, 10 December, 15.00

Have you ever burnt yourself? I mean properly. Like holding the palm of your hand over a flame and letting the fire eat your flesh. You should, it’s good.

I guess like me that you’ve probably been on suicide websites. I look at those things for hours. Always something interesting in the details and I just love the tone of those sites, don’t you? So sombre, so serious and so fucking DULL?!? Like it’s a training manual or textbook. This isn’t homework, friend, this is the final frontier. Not that I haven’t been tempted, but I wonder how many people would stop short if they just learnt to use their pain. Like I say, it’s good.

I first burnt myself when I was six. I stole my mother’s lighter, which made it all the sweeter. She thought I was trying to interfere with her smoking or just being a little shit, but I wanted something of hers to make its mark. Somehow it felt twice as good holding her lighter – with its stupid engraving – in my hand as I lowered my palm down, down, down on to the flame. I held it there, refusing to move. Exercising my power over it. Over my pain. Over my life.

A lot has happened since then. But the lesson I learnt stayed with me. There is so much that is random and cruel and pointless in life. So much shit to wade through, so many small indignities marching side by side with gross injustices. So much darkness that visits itself on you whether you want it to or not. But there are some things you can control. You can control you. You can control your feelings. And if you’re bright, you can control other people.

That is when you come out of yourself. When you become more than yourself. They thought you were worthless. You thought you were worthless. But then suddenly it all makes sense, you take control and for a brief tantalizing moment you know what it means to look God in the face.

49

It was time to call off the dogs. They had knocked on every door, canvassed every potential witness and passer-by within a mile radius of Denise Roberts’s house and had come up empty-handed. Charlie checked with Sarah Lucas that she was happy to move on, redeploying their manpower to the nearby high street in the hope of richer pickings, then called it in, galvanizing the uniformed sergeants into action. It had been a dispiriting few hours and Charlie wasn’t looking forward to telling Helen that their massive deployment of resources had yielded precisely nothing.

She was standing by the police cordon at the fire site. Last night and this morning there had been large crowds, but even these were starting to diminish now. This should have cheered Charlie – who needs these rubberneckers? – but in fact its effect was quite the opposite. Seemingly this terrible tragedy was worthy of a few hours’ attention, then the world moved on, seeking fresh entertainment. If only it was so easy for those left behind.