Pop Goes the Weasel Read Free Page B

but she forced herself to relax, letting her body drift to the bottom. Better to try and disentangle herself calmly than kick herself into an even bigger mess. Forcing her head down, she dug through the offending weeds, tugging hard. Then she stopped. And screamed – her last ounce of breath escaping fromher mouth. It wasn’t weeds holding her under. It was a human hand.
    Gasping, Charlie sat bolt upright in bed. She cast around her wildly, trying to process the weird disjunction between the weeds she’d been swallowed by and the homely bedroom she now found herself in. She ran her hands over her body, convinced her pyjamas should be wringing wet, but she was bone dry, except for a sheen of sweat on her brow. As her breathing began to slow she realized it was just a nightmare, just a stupid bloody nightmare.
    Forcing herself to keep calm, she turned to look at Steve. He’d always been a heavy sleeper and she was pleased to see him snoring softly beside her. Slipping quietly out of her side of the bed, she picked up her dressing gown and tiptoed out of the room.
    Crossing the landing, she headed for the stairs. She hurried past the door to the second bedroom, then scolded herself for doing so. When they’d first learned they were expecting, Steve and Charlie had discussed the changes they’d make to that room – replacing the double bed with a cot and nursing chair, covering the white walls with cheery yellow wallpaper, putting thick rugs on the hardwood floor – but of course all that excitement had come to nothing.
    Their baby had died inside Charlie during her incarceration with Mark. By the time they got her to the hospital, she already knew, but had still hoped that thedoctors would confound her worst fears. They hadn’t. Steve had cried when she’d told him. The first time Charlie had ever seen him cry, though not the last. There were times in the intervening months when Charlie thought she was on top of things, that she could somehow process the awfulness of it all, but then she would find herself hesitating to go into the second bedroom, scared to see the imprint of the nursery they had imagined together, and then she knew that the wounds were still raw.
    She headed downstairs to the kitchen and flipped the kettle on. Recently she’d been dreaming a lot. As her return to work had drawn closer, her anxiety had found its release in nightmares. She had kept these to herself, keen not to give Steve further ammunition.
    ‘Couldn’t sleep?’
    Steve had snuck into the kitchen and was looking at her. Charlie shook her head.
    ‘Nervous?’
    ‘What do you think?’ Charlie replied, trying to keep her tone light.
    ‘Come here.’
    He opened his arms and she gratefully snuggled inside.
    ‘We’ll take it a day at a time,’ he continued, ‘I know you’re going to be great, that you’re going to get there … but if you ever feel it’s too much, or it’s not the right thing, then we can think again. No one will think any the less of you. Right?’
    Charlie nodded. She was so grateful for his support, forhis ability to
forgive
her, but his determination to get her to leave her job riled her. She understood why he hated the police force now, hated her job, hated the awful people out there in the world, and many times she’d thought about heeding his advice and just walking away. But then what? A lifetime spent knowing she’d been beaten. Forced out. Broken. The fact that Helen Grace had returned to work a month after Marianne’s death only poured fuel on the fire.
    So Charlie had dug in, insisting she would return to work when her sick leave was up. Hampshire Police had been generous to her, had given her every ounce of support they could, and now it was her turn to give something back.
    Breaking away, she made them both coffees – there was no point going back to bed now. The boiling water fell into the mugs erratically, splashing over the sides. Irritated, Charlie stared at the kettle accusingly, but it