right? Straight away. Meantime, Iâll go and have a word with him. Okay?â
Emma smiled uncertainly, nodded thanks and ushered the children away.
After spending time in various hostels and a spell sleeping rough, Pitcher, with the help of the local housing association, had found a place to rent in Sneinton. A one-room flat with a sink and small cooker in one corner and a shared bathroom and toilet on the floor below. Whitemore sat on the single chair and Pitcher sat on the sagging bed.
âI know why youâre here,â Pitcher said. âItâs about Emma. What I said.â
âYou frightened her.â
âI know. I lost me temper, thatâs all.â He shook his head. âBeing there, her anâ the kids, a family, you know? Anâ then her chuckinâ me out. You wouldnât understand. Why would you? But I felt like shit. A piece of shit. Anâ I meant it. What I said. Not the kids, not harminâ them. I wouldnât do that. But topping myself â¦â He looked at Whitemore despairingly. âItâs what Iâll do. I swear it. I will.â
âDonât talk like that,â Whitemore said.
âWhy the hell not?â
Whitemore leaned towards him and lowered his voice. âItâs hard, I know. And I do understand. Really, I do. But you have to keep going. Move on. Look â here â youâve got this place, right? A flat of your own. Itâs a start. A new start. Look at it like that.â
He went across to Pitcher and rested a hand on his shoulder, not knowing how convincing his half-truths and platitudes had been.
âBen Leonard, you talked to him before. Iâll see if I canât get him to see you again. It might help sort a few things out. Okay? But in the meantime, whatever you do, youâre to keep away from Emma. Right, Darren? Emma and the children.â Whitemore tightened his grip on Pitcherâs shoulder before stepping clear. âKeep right away.â
It was a little over a week later the call came through, waking Whitemore from his sleep. The voice was brisk, professional, a triage nurse at the Queenâs Medical Centre, accident and emergency. âWeâve a young woman here, Emma Laurie, sheâs quite badly injured. Some kind of altercation with a partner? She insisted that I contact you, I hope thatâs all right. Apparently sheâs worried about the children. Three of them?â
âAre they there with her?â
âNo. At home, apparently.â
âOn their own?â
âI donât know. I donât think so. Maybe a neighbour? Iâm afraid sheâs not making a lot of sense.â
Whitemore dropped the phone and finished pulling on his clothes.
*
The house was silent: the blood slightly tacky to the touch. One more room to go. The bathroom door was bolted from the inside and Whitemore shouldered it free. Darren Pitcher was sitting on the toilet seat, head slumped forward, one arm trailing over the bath, the other dangling towards the floor. Long, vertical cuts ran down the insides of both arms, almost from elbow to wrist, slicing through the horizontal scars from where he had harmed himself before. Blood had pooled along the bottom of the bath and around his feet. A Stanley knife rested on the bathâs edge alongside an oval of pale green soap.
Whitemore crouched down. There was a pulse, still beating faintly, at the side of Pitcherâs neck.
âDarren? Can you hear me?â
With an effort, Pitcher raised his head. âSee, I did it. I said I would.â A ghost of a smile lingered in his eyes.
âThe children,â Whitemore said. âWhere are they?â
Pitcherâs voice was a sour whisper in his face. âThe shed. Out back. I didnât want them to see this.â
As Pitcherâs head slumped forward, Whitemore dialled the emergency number on his mobile phone.
Downstairs he switched on the kitchen light; there was a