Page 14 of Worse Than Murder
It doesn’t take long for Philip Meagan to fall asleep. He works long hours in the restaurant and, by the time he falls into bed, he reads a couple of chapters of a Tom Wood, then reaches for the bookmark, turns over, and is snoring within seconds.
On the other side of the bed, Sally Meagan stays awake much longer. She’s on her feet all day, too, sorting out the restaurant, mingling with customers, organising staff, and talking with suppliers, but when it comes to going straight to sleep, her mind is too switched on to allow her to simply close her eyes and drift away. She’s sitting up, thin blanket pushed down, and looks at how many pages she has left of the latest Lynda La Plante. She’s pretty sure she will finish it tonight. She snuggles down and begins reading. It isn’t long before she’s interrupted.
It’s only a faint sound at first, but as it grows in its intensity, Sally can hear Matilda along the hallway struggling to muffle her cries. This happens most nights. Sally has no idea if Matilda is sitting up in bed, wide awake, crying for her dead family, or if she is crying in her sleep as her nightmares go over everything in minute detail.
Sally never tells her the following morning that she’s heard her cry. She knows that Matilda will open up when she is ready. She wishes there was something she could do for her. All she can think of is popping into her bedroom and offering a placatory hug. That won’t change the fact that evil has taken over Matilda’s life. There are times when the raw emotions need to be allowed to play out. Once you hit rock bottom, that’s when you need a good friend to help you back up. This is one of those times.
* * *
‘I fucking hate you.’
I wake up with a start. My sister’s words are always in my head. Every now and then, they’re screamed at me and hit me like a freight train.
I struggle to sit up in the tangle of the cotton sheet. I’m dripping with perspiration and my pillow is wet with tears. Another nightmare. A repeat of the same horror I’ve been dreaming about for weeks. My family is dead. It’s my fault. I may as well have butchered them with a knife.
I kick myself out of the sheet and place my bare feet on the carpet. It takes effort for me to lift myself off the bed and leave the room. I’m thirsty and hot. I’m hungry, too. Thank goodness I’m living above a restaurant where there are so many well-prepared goodies for me to gorge on for a midnight snack.
I push open the door to the kitchen. The cool tiled floor is heaven to my burning feet. There’s already a small light on above the central island. Sitting there is thirteen-year-old Carl Meagan wearing a T-shirt and pyjama bottoms, sipping water from a glass. He looks up at me with heavy, tired eyes.
‘Can’t you sleep either?’ I ask him.
He shakes his head. ‘Too hot.’
‘Same.’
‘You do know you can’t lie to me, don’t you, Mat?’
I’ve got my head in the fridge, but I turn to look at him. There’s a strong connection between the two of us, considering he’s thirteen and I’m fort… a bit older. We’ve both been through so much torment. Often, we can spend hours in each other’s company, not say a single word, yet we’ll know what each other is thinking and feeling.
I know I shouldn’t have burdened a teenager, but Carl is the only person I’ve opened up to about the events in Sheffield. On one of our walks with the dogs, we found a quiet spot by the lake, and I said one thing and, before you know it, it’s all coming out and I can’t stop.
In the fridge, I find a large piece of raspberry and almond frangipane tart. I grab two forks from the drawer and go over to sit beside Carl. I hadn’t spotted the two golden Labradors at his feet. I should have known they would have followed him from his bedroom. They’re his shadow. They never leave his side.
‘I keep having the same dream,’ I say, tossing him a fork. ‘I run into my mum’s house. She’s dead. They’re all dead, but they’re talking to me, blaming me for killing them.’ I pause while I put a forkful of tart in my mouth. I chew, but I find it hurts to swallow with the emotional lump stuck in my throat. ‘They say some dark, horrible, hurtful things. And I agree with every single word they say.’
‘You’re blaming yourself.’
‘Wouldn’t you?’
He chews and swallows. ‘Yes. But I’d know, deep down, that it wasn’t my fault.’
I look up at him.
‘You are not responsible for other people’s actions.’
‘I’m a detective. It’s my job to catch killers.’
‘Yes. But if you don’t catch them and they go on to kill others, is that really your fault?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I couldn’t catch them.’
‘What about the other members of your team? Christian and Sian. Do they blame themselves? Do the DCs and the PCs who do the house-to-house inquiries? Does your boss? Does every single member of South Yorkshire Police blame themselves?’
‘I…’
