Part Forty-Four
At first, Karen couldn't say what had woken her. She lay on her back, as still as a statue, all her senses immediately on red alert. John was lying on his side facing her, and she could hear his deep, regular breathing. But something had disturbed her slumber, something alien, something that certainly shouldn't have been there. It wasn't a sound, but a feeling, a sense that they were no longer alone in her flat. Reaching out for John's hand, she gave it a tentative squeeze. As John came to, he couldn't immediately understand why Karen had woken him, but when he took a breath to speak, she squeezed his hand again to tell him to keep quiet. When the overhead light snapped on, they were almost blinded until their eyes became accustomed to the brightness. As Karen stared at the figure in her bedroom doorway, she finally discovered what people meant by the phrase 'lost for words'. What on earth was Shell Dockley doing in her flat, in her bedroom? John on the other hand, not recognising Shell, simply lay there and stared at her.
"Shell," Karen said in aghast disbelief. "What on earth are you doing here?" "Sorry, Miss," Shell said, moving a little way into the room. "I didn't know you'd have company." "Company or not," Karen said dismissively. "I still want to know what you're doing here." "Just wanted to see you," Shell said a little belligerently. "Are you carrying anything I should be extra wary of?" Karen asked, not thinking for a moment that Shell would tell her, but using the question to buy her some thinking time. "Miss, this ain't like the time I broke into Bodybag's house," Shell assured her. "I just want to talk, that's all." "I believe you," Karen said unconvincingly. "Thousands wouldn't." Before Shell could reply, John tentatively cleared his throat. "Does somebody mind telling me what on earth is going on?" "John Deed," Karen said, gesturing to him. "Shell Dockley, current inmate of Ashmoor special psychiatric hospital, and I presume on the run." "Like they'd let me out with a free pardon," Shell said disgustedly. John's eyebrows had risen so high that they were barely visible beneath his hairline. "Any objections if I get out of bed?" Karen asked, gradually moving into a sitting position. "Because I'd really rather not have this conversation lying down." "Like I said," Shell assured her. "I ain't here to hurt anyone." "Well, I suppose that's nice to know," Karen replied, privately thinking that her tongue was entirely ignoring the signals from her still half dormant brain. John wasn't remotely sure as to what one did or didn't do in a situation such as this, so he stayed precisely where he was, waiting for a cue from Karen. But as Karen left the bed and moved to put some clothes on, Shell asked, "Can I use your bathroom?" "Why," Karen asked before she could think better of it. "Have you crutched a weapon that you might want at your disposal?" "No," Shell said belligerently. "I just want a piss." Not dignifying this with a response, Karen jerked her head in the direction of the bathroom.
Once Shell had momentarily left them, John also rose from the bed and swiftly pulled on his clothes. But as he took a breath to speak, Karen held up a hand. Trying to pull on a skirt and T-shirt with one hand, she reached for a pen and a notepad that were on the dressing-table, and frantically scribbled John the following instructions:
"I've got the upper hand, so I'll try to keep it. Don't say anything that might upset her. I need to make her relax before I've any hope of getting the cuffs on her."
Going into the lounge, and after switching on some more lights, Karen gestured to John to sit on the sofa. Silently retrieving her spare set of handcuffs from the sideboard drawer, she hid them in the pocket of her skirt. When Shell emerged, Karen said, "Do you want a cup of tea?" "Please," Shell replied gratefully, sinking into a chair at the lounge table and watching Karen move about in the kitchen. Spying Karen's cigarettes and lighter on the table in front of her, Shell took one and lit up. As Karen waited for the kettle to boil, she stood in the kitchen doorway, scrutinising every inch of perhaps the one woman she wouldn't have expected to see in her flat in a million years. "Shell," She said after a moment. "What is that you're wearing?" "It's a nurse's uniform," Shell told her almost proudly. "The dozy tart who came to give me my medication, thought I was going to be all nice and co-operative, I think that's what they call it, only she was the one who ended up getting the needle instead of me, stupid cow. So, I nicked her uniform, and she's tucked up in my bed dozing away in La La land. I look quite a bit like her, and her pass card was in her uniform pocket. It was a piece of piss to walk out of there." "You're getting more creative, I'll say that for you," Karen told her ruefully, unwilling to admit just how impressed she actually was. "Yeah," Shell said with a mirthless laugh. "Even Fenner would have been proud of that one." Then, looking over at John, she asked, "So, who's this then?" Karen took a breath to answer, but John got in before her. "I'm a high court judge," He told her, looking her straight in the eye, and clearly hoping to disconcert her. "Blimey," Shell said with a broad smile. "You're going up in the world, in't you, Miss." "So it would seem," Karen replied with a slight smile, thankful that John's statement hadn't rattled Shell in the way she'd thought it would. "The only Judge I ever had the pleasure of," Shell told John stonily "Told me I was evil personified. I ain't ever forgotten that." "What did you do?" John asked her, his curiosity outweighing his sense of caution. "For a judge to describe you in such a fashion." "Not something I'm especially proud of," Shell told him evasively. "Well, that's progress, I suppose," Karen said to no one in particular, returning to the kitchen to pour the tea. But as she moved to the table and put Shell's mug down in front of her, Shell caught at Karen's arm to hold her still, gazing awestruck at the dressing covering part of her left arm, together with the scars a little way above it. "Bleedin' 'ell," She said with widening eyes. "Since when did you start cutting?" "Since my son started thinking it was clever to kill himself," Karen told her quietly, the explanation slipping out of her treacherously unguarded mouth. To her astonishment, Shell's face softened. "Yeah, Denny told me about that. I'm sorry." "I thought she might," Karen replied, trying to sound unaffected by Shell's slight sense of propriety. "Fenner wouldn't recognise you if he saw that," Shell said thoughtfully, still looking at the scars on Karen's arm. "There's a lot that Fenner wouldn't recognise if he was still alive, and I'm not just talking about me." "Do you ever still dream about him?" Shell asked, as Karen leant against the sideboard and lit herself a cigarette. "I think we all do to some extent," Karen told her, wondering just where this had come from. "You, me, Helen, you name it." "Little Hicksy probably would if she was still alive. You never knew her, did you?" "No, she was before my time," Karen replied, taking a long drag and wondering just where this obscure little scenario was going.
"Shell, you didn't come here to talk about the past," She said eventually, hoping that John would take the hint and stay silent. "When your son died," Shell said carefully, realising that she was treading on very thin ice with this one. "Denny sent me a piece out of the newspaper about it. She thought I'd want to see it, seeing as it was about you. It reminded me that I had a son out there somewhere, growing up knowing sod all about me, not that there is much to know. So, I started not taking the pills they gave me, because I can't think when I'm all doped up. I wanted to get out, because I thought you might be able to help me see him again." There was a stunned, awful silence. Karen just stared at her, all her feelings of hurt and grief over Ross rising to the surface. She couldn't believe what Shell was asking of her. Here she was, a psychopathic murderer, currently incarcerated in a special psychiatric hospital, asking her, Karen, to help this woman obtain access to her defenseless son. This was the professional part of Karen, the part that screamed no, no, never in a million years! But then there was the quieter, perhaps more insidious part of her, the area of her mind that was making her feel all the instinctive call of a mother blindly searching in the barren wilderness for her lost child. Karen could feel that tug, that sharp pain in her heart that entirely understood the tiny fragment of real maternal instinct that did reside within this woman sitting at her table.
John quietly observed the mental struggle going on within Karen's brain, the flickering expressions that crossed her face saying everything. He could see the battle between the professional and the grieving mother, the tormented, raging effort it was taking for the professional responsibility to take over once more. "When did you last see him?" Karen asked, knowing this was a pretty pointless question, but badly needing to buy herself some time. "You know when I last saw him," Shell said almost bitterly. "On the night that bastard Hedges thought he'd get more than his money's worth. Even Fenner knew better than to come looking for a shag just after I'd had a baby." John winced. "Only Fenner decided to get his wanker of a mate off the hook instead, and made out I tried to smother my own baby. You know I didn't do that, don't you, Miss." "Yes," Karen said quietly without hesitation, never having doubted this for a moment. She didn't know why, except that she really couldn't believe that Shell would try to kill her own child. "What about the family he's living with? Haven't they ever written to you?" "No, the social reckon they've asked them to write to me, maybe send me some pictures, but they haven't. Guess they don't want to know their little boy's psycho mother." "Do you ever hear from Kayley and Dena?" Karen asked, referring to Shell's other two children. "No, not since I got them taken into care," Shell replied dejectedly. "I know they're better off where they are, but at least when they was living with my mum I used to get photos and letters sometimes. I would never forgive myself if she'd got her hands on Kayley and Dena an' all." "You still blame her for an awful lot, don't you," Karen said quietly, taking a little reprieve in having moved Shell away from the salient subject. "Too right," Shell said disgustedly. "She took away some of the best years of my life by turning me into this." Then, glancing over at John, she said, "You know something, Judge, you wouldn't have thought that our Governor Betts here had it in her to rip someone's head off, would you. But on the day she met my mum, I think my mum got off lightly with just a look." "Ripping people's heads off isn't usually part of the job description, Shell," Karen said with the faintest of smiles. "Yeah? You didn't see the look on your face," Shell told her with a smirk. "But I didn't come here to talk about my tart of a mother. Miss, I really need you to help me see my kid again."
Mentally giving herself a shake, Karen dove in head first, knowing that she would be lucky to escape with a concussion. "You know I can't do that, Shell," She said carefully, some inner sense of honesty forbidding her to lie. "Why?" Shell demanded, sounding hurt, emotionally wounded and belligerent all in one go. "Because I think we both know that it isn't going to happen," Karen told her quietly. "Not where you are now." "So help me get out of there," Shell pleaded with her. "Get them to send me back to Larkhall." "I might be Larkhall's governor," Karen said, desperately trying to keep her voice even. "But it doesn't give me a magic wand. Even if you were transferred back to Larkhall, which we both know is highly unlikely, social services would never let you anywhere near your son." "So that's it?" Shell asked miserably, sounding as though the very life had gone out of her. "Yes," Karen said, equally dejected, feeling a complete traitor for doing this, yet knowing that it had to be done. It wouldn't do Shell any good to be lied to, even if it might have made the immediate situation more palatable. "No," Shell said, getting to her feet just as the tears rose to her eyes. "That can't be it. You can't just say no and leave it at that. You don't understand, I've got to see him. My kids are the only decent thing that ever happened to me." "Yes, I do understand, believe me," Karen tried to calm her down, knowing that she really did feel Shell's maternal call. "You can't," Shell insisted vehemently. "If you did, you wouldn't be doing this." "Shell," Karen said, gradually moving towards her. "Don't you think I have those very same regrets every single day of my life? Because I can promise you that I most certainly do."
Standing in front of Shell now, Karen put her arms out to her, gently holding the taut, rigid body against her, allowing Shell to, just for a moment, think she was being comforted. Then, as fast as lightning, Karen turned Shell round, fished the handcuffs out of her skirt pocket, and had them snapped on Shell's wrists before she could blink. Shell struggled, trying to wrench herself out of Karen's grip, but Karen held fast to her hands, which were now tied, behind her back. "Let, me, go!" Shell hissed through gritted teeth. "Only if you calm down," Karen told her firmly. Seeing that Karen could use some help, John rose from the sofa to come to her assistance, but Karen waved him off. "Don't, John," She said, not wanting him to come within range of Shell's far too agile feet. "Though you might like to call the police," Karen added almost as an afterthought. As John moved to the phone and made the necessary call, Karen very gradually relinquished her hold on Shell's wrists, so that eventually she could turn to face Karen, the hurt and betrayal far too visible on her face. "Why did you have to do that?" She asked, sounding just like the lost child, whose parent had just committed the most heinous of all crimes. "I had to, Shell, you know I did," Karen told her quietly, eyeing her for the slightest movement. When John had replaced the receiver, informing them that the police were on their way, Karen said, "Right, now I think I'd better find out what you're carrying, don't you." "I ain't carrying anything to hurt anyone," Shell insisted. "Well, let's see, shall we," Karen said, clearly not believing her. But as she began to run her hands clinically over Shell's torso, giving her the usual once over that visitors received when entering Larkhall, Shell couldn't quite hold back the jibes. "Denny said you were into touching up girls as well as men these days," Receiving a glare of monumental proportions for her trouble, plus a twitch in Karen's right hand that showed the extreme restraint she was being forced to exert, in order not to give in and slap Shell's face for her. "Shut up," She said bitterly, her residual hurt over George rising to the surface with this remark. "Tut, tut," Shell mocked. "A prison governor just itching to slap a prisoner. What a bloody surprise." Reaching the uniform skirt, Karen dug her hands into the pockets, coming out with a pass card for the nurse in question, a folded tissue, and a page of newsprint of all things. Smoothing it out, Karen saw that it was the clipping of what had been put in the press at the time of Ross's suicide. "Is this what Denny sent you?" She asked, waving the paper in Shell's face. "So?" Shell demanded, unwilling to be remotely helpful at this stage. But what caught Karen's eye was a small section of rogue writing at one corner of the page. In small, almost unobtrusive letters were the precise details of her home address. "Who in god's name wrote this?" Karen asked in horror. "How the hell did you get your hands on my home address?" "I don't know," Shell told her, and Karen could see that she was speaking the truth. "It ain't Denny's writing, I know that much, and not even the Julies could get their hands on a PO's address, so it wasn't a con who wrote it." "I think I'll be keeping this," Karen said, slipping the paper into the drawer of the sideboard behind her. "And God help whoever it was when I find them." Karen then turned her attention to the small, blue handbag Shell had brought with her. "This yours?" She asked, picking it up from the table. "No, it belongs to the silly cow whose clothes I'm wearing." Rifling through it, Karen found a purse, some make up, a mobile phone, and thrusting her hand to the bottom, she emerged with a bunch of keys. "Don't tell me you actually drove here?" Karen said in complete astonishment. "How else was I supposed to get here?" Shell asked disgustedly. "Ashmoor's right out in the sticks, isn't it. I ain't driven since Amsterdam, but it's like shagging some witless bloke, you never forget how."
Just then, they heard the approach of a police siren, the familiar wail causing Shell to look this way and that, obviously searching for somewhere to run, somewhere to hide. "I wouldn't bother," Karen told her gently. "I can't believe you did this to me," Shell said, turning on Karen and looking both angry and hurt. "What possible choice did I have?" Karen asked her. "I couldn't just let you walk out of here as though nothing had happened." Shell was visibly crying when John let the police in, and Karen groaned when she saw who it was. "Oh, great, not you two," Karen said, eyeing DI Sullivan and his sidekick Greer with disdain. "Oh, good morning to you too, Miss Betts," Sullivan greeted her jovially. "I see you've got a lovely little escapee for me." "None of your usual bullshit, please, Sullivan, it's too early in the morning," Karen told him dismissively. "Well, well, well," Sullivan said, moving over to Shell and looking her up and down as Greer exchanged Karen's handcuffs for her own. "Michelle Dockley, wonders will never cease. I think we'd better be getting you back to your nice, warm, heavily sedated bed, don't you?" "No, you ain't sending me back there," Shell pleaded, the horror of being force fed medication again all too real for her. "Miss, please, can't you at least get them to take me back to Larkhall." "I don't think so, sweetheart," Sullivan said harshly, gesturing to Greer to take her downstairs. But before Shell gave into the Sergeant, she stopped beside Karen. "I'm sorry, Miss," She said, the tears now running down her cheeks. "I'm sorry too, Shell," Karen told her gently, really feeling as though she'd let her down. "And I promise, in a little while, I'll come and see you." "And Miss," Shell said, ignoring Greer's attempts to get her to move. "Don't keep cutting, because it don't get you nowhere, I should know that, and you don't want to end up like me, burning yourself with fag ends because it's easier than dealing with what's going on in here," She gestured to her forehead. "You ain't like me, you're worth more than that, even if you can't help me get my kids back."
When Shell and the police had gone, Karen moved immediately to the sideboard, and taking no heed of the fact that it was almost five in the morning, poured herself an enormous scotch. As she took a hefty swig, John moved over to her, and after taking the glass from her, he tried to put his arms round her, but Karen moved away. She couldn't bear anyone else's touch right at this moment, almost feeling as though she didn't deserve it. "You did the right thing, you know," John told her quietly, seeing the level of sheer torment in her face. "Did I?" Karen asked dejectedly. "I'm not so sure. I swear that was one of the worst things I have ever had to do, tell someone that they will probably never see their children again. I was her last hope. That's why she came to me, because she knew that I was the only one who would give her so much as the time of day, and what did I do, but shatter every shred of trust she once had in me." "Karen, you did your job," John told her gently but firmly. "You couldn't possibly do anything else." "Then what does that say for my job?" Karen asked disgustedly. "What does that really say for all the professionalism in the whole bloody world? I'll tell you what it says, absolutely nothing. John, right at this moment, I despise my job and everything it stands for, because in spite of the fact that I know precisely what Shell Dockley has always been and probably always will be capable of, I totally understand what she's going through. I'm not saying it's rational, because I know it isn't, but that's how I feel. I once tried so hard to get her to trust me, and it worked, because she told me things that she never told anyone else, not in her entire time in Larkhall, and I've just gone and betrayed it." Seeming to run out of steam, Karen sank down onto the sofa and lit a cigarette. Sitting down next to her, John said, "I was immensely proud of the way you handled her. I don't think I could have been so calm." "Well, I didn't just have my safety to worry about, did I," Karen said almost dismissively. "Shell would never have hurt me, but she could easily have hurt you. I am well acquainted with every little thing she's ever done, remember, and I also had the far too vivid memories of what she and Denny did, the time they escaped and broke into Sylvia's house. So believe me, staying calm, and lulling her into a false sense of security was the only option. Yes, I managed to keep you safe, which at the end of the day is what really matters, but that doesn't mean I can feel especially proud of it. I have a horrible feeling that Shell will eventually have the last word on this, and Shell's last words are always pretty deadly."