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“I thought he’d been with you. I got mad. We fought and I...I stabbed him.”
There was a collective gasp in the room.
“Baz! No, no, you idiot. Is he dead? Is Terry dead?” she shrieked.
“She could be there, Mel, don’t you see? She could have been in the house, hiding from me....”
The horror wasn’t worth describing. A bleeding man alone in the house with a teenage girl, who might also have been in her mother’s bed. I clutched the whimpering Joshua tight to me.
Gibson spun the man around, and there they were—tiny flecks of blood on his T-shirt—the splatter marks. I looked away, blanking out the redness.
My bodyguard asked Mel for her home address and dialled the police. She alerted them to a potentially fatal stabbing with a juvenile likely on the premises.
“They’re already there?” Gibson kept her hand tight around the cuffs, not letting the man move an inch. “I see.”
Mel let out a small cry.
“She rang for help,” continued Gibson. “Is she okay? Good. She’s not eighteen; she’s lying. She’s sixteen. Because her mum is right here with me, and I have the attacker, her stepdad. He’s here, too.”
Gibson gave the address of the church hall. Soon the place would be crawling with police.
“Laetitia is all right, but I’m afraid Terry is dead. She found him and called the ambulance. She’d hidden in the cupboard under the stairs when her stepfather came home.” Gibson relayed the facts to a dazed and stupefied Mel.
Several mums wanted to leave. Gibson, in her capacity of ex-police officer, told them not to. We were all witnesses to his confession, and the police would need our names and addresses.
Whispered conversation returned to the hall. We perched on our seats with nothing to do but wait for the police.
I could not leave, so I did the next best thing. I made teas and coffees. Raiding the kitchen, with Joshua perched on my hip, I turned the urn back on and laid out a fresh batch of mugs. Somebody joined me, and together we served. A few took up our offer, and it passed the time.
The delay seemed eternal. Mel crouched opposite Baz, tears streaming down her face.
The young mother in the seat next to me turned towards Gibson. “Who are you, anyway?”
“I’m a friend of Gemma’s.” Gibson stock answer when we were trying to be discreet.
I watched from the kitchen hatch as Gibson phoned Johnson, her immediate superior in Jason’s hierarchy of security officers, requesting he send another car to collect me. Jason was out of contact, something to do with a government conference about taxation. I vaguely remembered him telling me weeks ago about meeting with an advisory committee.
Finally, the police came. There was much confusion as they tried to piece together the two events separated by time and place and determine who was who in the church hall.
“Laetitia?” Mel kept asking.
I gave my name and address, and the police officer tapped his pen on the notepad—my address wasn’t that far away, but it was a distinctive location, an exclusive one, and he eyed me up and down as if I was lying.
Johnson arrived and the police inspector shouted “Dave” across the room. Handshakes and more explanations ensued, and I heard them talk about me, but neither of them talked to me, leaving me looking aimless and inept. I lost interest in their conversations. The uniformed officers bundled Baz away. The church caretaker turned up, scratching his head at the sight of police on the premises and wanting to know when he could lock up.
“Take me home, Johnson.”
“Of course, ma’am,” Johnson murmured.
He took Joshua off me. My arm ached from carrying him, and my fractious son needed a nap.
I took one last look around at the church hall, I knew I wouldn’t be back there again. My attempt at normality had been doomed. Perhaps because there was no such thing as a normal existence. I had been kidding myself that I emulated anything typical or ordinary. Life was frantic, unpredictable, and idiosyncratic wh
atever the level of income or prestige. The thought depressed me and I refused to accept it: banality and ordinariness had to exist somewhere for me, whether I wanted it or not.
Clara asked what kept me. I gave her a brief run through of the afternoon’s events. She whisked Joshua out of my arms. “Have a bath or something, Gemma,” she suggested.
It sounded a good idea, so I soaked for ages in a fragrant bath of bubbles.
