CHAPTER 87
The news filtered back over the next few days, largely via Paul.

“She hurts, Debbie, but she’s still with us. She’ll be ready for visitors tomorrow, doctor says”

We were all in the back dining room, except for Kim, Gemma and Alicia, and I saw several of the girls sit up, Charlie and Tiff whispering to each other. I knew exactly what it would be, of course, and over the next week we operated a rotating watch over Paula. By ‘watch’, it seemed to consist largely of watching her eat a large number of Gemma’s best treats. And by ‘rotating’. It was mostly Charlie and Tiff that were involved. A few nights after our first visit to the hospital, I had a different sort of visit, as once more a nondescript figure in raincoat and baseball cap was at my back door.

“That copper of yours, Sis. Not Welby. The woman. How sound is she?”

“Diane? Very, love. You want me to pass a message?”

“No. We’ll do that. We know her habits. Watch the news”

Gone, once more, the red light at the back of her bicycle flickering in the rain, and a week or two later Rosie’s reason for that advice became clear, as three brutally-beaten men were found dumped in Bute Park near the castle, and I understood why my sister had warned me off from the clubhouse. No audit trail for coppers to follow, nothing that might link the House to the men, women, or both who had served warning on a moped rider, a kiddy with a gun and what turned out to be Paula’s former owner. That explained Rosie’s secrecy, but it did little to explain why she seemed to be a little off with me. There was obviously something else going on.

I had no sympathy for the three shits that had been so neatly delivered in time for Christmas, and for once my thoughts turned to Don Hamilton without a shudder hitting my body, as the image in question was one of him floating face-down in a northern river. Paul gave me a few hard looks after that report came out, but he never asked, never pushed, and I suspect the hardest thing for him was actually resisting the urge to cheer the news out loud. We had our own quiet House celebration, one of smug satisfaction, and waited for Paula to heal.

I wasn’t exactly surprised when my girls decided that Christmas wouldn’t involve hitting the pubs, and so we arranged our own, private, evening, with a few additions to the crowd as Gemma and Kim brought their boys, Alicia her father, and, after a chance comment in the Olive, Ruth joined us. I really missed having Cathy and Nell there, but they were off with their men’s families; my compensation lay in having all the other students home. I was physically pushed out of the kitchen, though, as three other women made it their own for the day, but as the bulk of the cooking was actually carried out in Ruth’s commercial oven, I couldn’t actually stake a valid territorial claim.

Paula had been released from hospital at last, but to my immense gratification, her own Christmas was spent with Paul as guests of Diane’s family, as she told me in that odd space between Christmas and New Year, with a soppy smile on her face, and a slightly over-attentive man hovering at her side.

“No, love! Still drinking the last one! Deb, what on Earth am I going to do with him?”

I shrugged.

“Marry him, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but that would mean having to put up with his record collection!”

Paul snorted.

“What about your bloody record collection?”

Paula rounded on him, with a hint of a snap to her voice.

“Haven’t exactly got one, have I?”

He grinned at her.

“Future collection, love! Debbie, she’s all highbrow, classical stuff!”

Paula gave her best attempt ever at a Charlie-sniff.

“And? Better than bloody Elvis and Jerry Lee Lewis!”

“Those were my Dad’s records”

“You still play them, though. And what exactly is wrong with Debussy?”

The little hint of unpleasantness slipped away, and I understood her reaction, for the life she had been thrown down into had hardly been one suitable for building a set of personal possessions of any kind, never mind a record collection. I had a flashback to Nell’s comments about the number of cassettes she had managed to keep, and then another ambush memory, of discovering Pink Floyd in a Canterbury record shop with Mam…

Find your smile, Debbie Petrie Wells; find it for two people whose own lives have just turned upward.

New Year itself was a non-starter for me, as we were still barred from the Clubhouse, and so while the older girls all headed off to a party at Kim’s place, I settled the younger ones down in the House with some munchies and fizzy drinks, while I made a token visit to Marlene’s place. I suspect that Paula’s shooting may have damaged the fragile self-confidence some of the girls were just starting to discover in themselves, and once again I had a flashback, in a general sense.

Rain on a small, safe tent, or on the roof of an old Commer van, a nest around me, others there to chase away the night terrors and the bogeymen, to keep the outside out and the love in. The House was a refuge, had been one from Kim’s arrival, just like the family bed had been for three of us on the road. We had a new year ahead of us, and there would be time to recover from the shock of the shooting.

It was odd how my own emotions were leaping around at the time. I was worried sick about Rosie, and while I had suffered at Paula’s near-death, I was grinning as I watched the two of them dance around each other. I was utterly lonely on seeing that as well, and then feeling absolutely free at Cooper’s downfall. Odd, but not puzzling, for I could see a cause behind each mood swing, and some of those reasons were extremely welcome. I ended up leaving the House on the evening of December thirty-first and grabbing a bus into town, where I made my token show at Marlene’s. She saw me enter alone, having had no problems from door staff who all knew me well, and for once there was no snark, no bitchy put-down, as she stepped out from behind the bar for a whispered chat.

“Not your normal New Year’s, love. Problems?”

“Not really. Place we would normally go to is not open this year, so some of the girls are at a student party, and the younger ones at home. Just thought it would be nice to show my face”

“Droopy one, Deb. Find a happy one, or stay off the hard stuff; it would just make it worse. I heard about the presents that were left by the castle, and Mrs Community Copper will be along later, so do your best, or go home”

I looked at her, perhaps a little harshly, and she slumped, just a touch.

“Sorry, Debbie. Didn’t come out right. What I meant was that if your mood is wrong, being at a party will just make it worse, so if you feel you can’t cope, I’ll sort you a cab back to your safe place. Not telling you to smile or piss off, as I am really glad to see you. Now DO piss off, to the bar, so that Marlene can get back to being a bitch. Your other copper mates are in the usual place”

Her depths had ceased to surprise me years ago, but that was one of the few times I ever saw her vulnerability. I hugged her, careful not to smear any of her extravagant make-up, and headed for the ‘Elaine Powell’, where I grabbed a pint of cooking bitter and started a bit of mingling. All of Di’s team seemed to be there, and I did my best to follow Marlene’s advice, keeping my grin going as I bounced round the room, leaving the booze alone after that first and only pint. So much joy was evident in their group, and it wasn’t just Jon and Rhys who were wrapped round each other. I did my best, I grinned and laughed, then got myself back home in time to make sure my youngsters were safely steered through the Big Ben bongs and into warm beds. No tent, no Commer, but still a nest for us all.

Kim was around a few days into the new year, walking round from Ruth’s with a look on her face that terrified the other girls. What was worse was that she walked straight into the house, past the girls, and up to one of the remaining empty beds, shutting the door behind her. Clara rang me on my mobile, as I was about to start locking up the trailer after a drop at a Tesco’s in Carmarthen, and she was in such a state that I almost missed securing one of the side cables. I hurried the lorry back to Bert’s yard, doing my best to keep the speed sanely legal, and once I was there and everything was signed off, my return trip home on the bike was only barely sane and certainly not completely legal. I found Clara and Maria camped outside the bedroom door, tears in their own eyes as they struggled to work out what had happened to their solid supporting woman, so I sent them downstairs to make some chocolate. I didn’t really feel like drinking it, but perhaps the aroma might do Kim some good. I tapped on the door once they were gone.

“Kim?”

No answer; I tried the door, and it was unlocked, so I pushed it slowly open to find the girl curled up on the lower bunk, staring at the wall. I turned her towards me, no resistance coming from her, and sat down on the bed to hold her, seeing eyes raw from weeping so long it seemed she had run out of tears.

“What is it, love? Is it Phil? Your Dad?”

She swallowed a couple of times, then managed to get a few words out.

“Not Phil. Not spoken to him yet. Rosie stopped by the café”

“Oh?”

“No patch. On a pushbike”

“Yeah. Been here a couple of times like that, she has. Think I… I think it’s all tied in with Paula’s shooting”

She shook her head, staring through me and out beyond the House. Her voice was utterly devoid of life and tone.

“Shooting, yeah”

She got one more word out before the tears were back, and it was a body-blow.

“Oily…”