No Going Back by Casey Kelleher (black male authors TXT) 📗

her feet. She absently rocked back and forth in her nursing chair, staring at the beautifully dressed cot and thinking about all the exciting times she had ahead of herself as a new mum.

It wasn’t as fancy and posh as some of the nurseries in the mother and baby magazines that she spent her days poring over. But she’d tried her very best, filling it with bargains that she’d bought from sellers on Facebook, and upcycled second-hand furniture she’d managed to source from charity shops. Only the best for her baby.

And once the baby was here and she knew what she was having, she would finish the room accordingly. A splash of pink or blue. And secretly she hoped it would be a girl. A little daughter would be the dream. She’d have her best friend for life then. Someone to talk to and laugh with.

Because most days all she had was the television set for the company. Still, the TV was better than nothing to help her whittle away the boredom. Making her way back into the lounge, she slumped back down onto the sofa and turned the TV on, pushing the piles of new mother and baby magazines and her jumbled mass of abandoned knitting projects onto the floor. It turned out she didn’t really have the patience for knitting.

She caressed her bump absently as she flicked through the channels, until the E-fit image of a man’s face filling the screen on the local news bulletin almost made her drop the remote control.

‘What the hell?’

Frantically, Imelda pressed the volume button so she could hear what the young female police officer now on screen was saying.

‘A young pregnant woman, local to the Wandsworth area, was attacked late last night. The attacker is thought to be in his mid- to late-thirties, roughly five foot eight, slim frame and was wearing a black tracksuit with a navy jacket over the top. The hood has a bright pink or neon orange lining.’

Imelda could feel her pulse quickening as she read the police officer’s name at the bottom of the screen.

‘Detective Constable Lucy Murphy, Wandsworth CID.’

She watched in horror as she saw the cameraman zoom in on the common just outside her flat. The crime they were talking about happened right here, practically on her doorstep.

‘I would urge anyone who thinks that they might recognise the man in the E-fit to contact us as a matter of urgency. As you can imagine, this was a very traumatic ordeal for the victim and we are determined to find the person responsible and bring them to justice.’

‘Is it true that you’ve linked this attack to the murder of Liza Fitzgerald, also pregnant, who was killed over at Richmond Park last week? Do you think you’re looking for a serial killer?’ One of the journalists at the front of the room called out.

Imelda’s chest was tight now. The walls were closing in. She held her breath as the camera zoomed in to the female officer’s face, as Imelda and the room awaited the police officer’s answer.

‘As yet, that’s not something that we can confirm. We are carrying out a full investigation and right now our priority is finding the person in the E-fit image.’

‘Is it true that this victim on Wandsworth Common lost her baby?’ another journalist asked.

Imelda felt her heart thump erratically inside her chest, her stomach consumed with a sinking feeling of dread.

‘The shock of the attack did bring on early labour, but the victim has given birth to a healthy baby boy. I can confirm that mother and baby are doing well under the circumstances.’

As the press conference ended and the news presenter moved on to the next subject, Imelda got up and started pacing the floor, one protective hand still on her bump, filled with a bubbling anxiety as she eyed the phone. In two minds if she should make the call.

Because she’d seen him. The man from the E-fit photo. She was certain of it. And the chances were he’d seen her too.

18

‘We’ve got a fucking problem,’ Sam Boland said, the second his brother Russ walked back into the flat, having gone to pick up some money they were owed from one of their regular borrowers.

‘I had Ashley Cooke on the phone earlier. He’s saying that his missus was attacked last night. It looks as if Jay-Jay got too heavy-handed with her. The stupid fucker had a knife on him too, apparently! That wasn’t what we agreed, Russ.’ Having stewed on the conversation waiting for his brother’s return home, Sam was seething now. ‘What the fuck is he playing at?’

‘What? Jay-Jay? Are you sure? Our guy on the inside vouched for him, didn’t he?’ Recognising his brother’s rage slowly building, Russ recalled the exact words of the prison guard that they had on their payroll. ‘Made out that he was a hard bastard. That he could handle himself when he needed to. But he said that he mainly kept his head down. He wasn’t any trouble, that he kept himself to himself.’

‘Well, he left out the bit about the man being a fucking knife-wielding lunatic then, didn’t he?!’ Sam spat. Furious now at what Ashley had told him. Because if Ashley was already holding them accountable, it wouldn’t be long until the police would too. And this wasn’t how Sam liked to work. In his game, discretion was everything.

‘He said that the police think Jay-Jay murdered another woman too? Last week. I looked it up. Some pregnant bird over in Richmond park was stabbed. We can’t be involved with all this. We’re going to have to deal with him.’

‘What do you want to do?’ Russ said, taking a deep breath as he accepted there wasn’t going to be any reasoning with Sam on this. And if what Ashley had said was true, and Jay-Jay did attack Shelby Cooke, then there was nothing that Russ could say or do to help him. The man had fucked this up on his own.

‘We