The Affectionate Player - Part1 (Editing Chapters 32-34)

The Affectionate Player - Part2

PROLOGUE

He has broken me.

I am neither awake nor asleep as my eyes gaze intensely at the grubby grey ceiling that once was white. The blue PVC mattress which has been my resting place for hours offers little comfort and once more a draft creeps beneath the coarse, beige blanket chilling me.

Their faces continue to haunt me as my mind places me in the heart of our kitchen last night where I await Max's return, anxious for news that Monty has been found. But as my lover enters, I see only defeat in his expression, confirming that he has indeed arrived home from Portsmouth without our son. DI Brooks and the officers in his wake.

As was mentioned by Dr Bell, the swelling on my brain seems to be subsiding along with the cloudiness surrounding my memories and the physical pain inflicted upon me so viciously by Jonny King. I cannot say the same for my heart. It aches far beyond any pain I have ever felt or could have imagined.

Remarkably though, I can now recall the joy surrounding my daughter's birth and the love affair that Max and I rebelled against to no avail. I remember Fortrose and my summer in Santorini, and thank God, Caitlin's wedding. She was so beautiful and happy. I envy how straight-forward her life must be. Yes, I have a recollection of many things that I had been unable to remember just days before and those memories have been my only solace.

Why have they not interviewed me? Why have they delayed?

I know these answers because they have tormented me all night. They think I'm a monster; some kind of evil, nefarious woman who would harm a child. It's bad enough the police suspect me but my own lover? He thinks me capable of such wickedness? I stifle the sob attempting to escape. Don't cry, Gracie. Don't let him make you cry, again.

Over and over the questions taunt me but while I know he has told me otherwise on many occasions, the only rational answer flashes in neon lights before my eyes. He doesn't love you, Gracie. He never truly did.

The flickering of the florescent light above me disrupts my bleak contemplation suggesting it is morning but I refuse to be disturbed by the glow. Rolling unto my front, I bury my head in the rough blanket and close my eyes to block out its brightness; it helps a little to drown out the sound of a trolley screeching across the concrete floor in the corridor.

"Breakfast!" a female shouts from beyond the cell. I hear muffled voices next door discussing the menu and nausea promptly grips, causing my stomach to hurl at the thought of food. Who would want to eat in this vile place closed up with the rancid smell of urine and God knows what else in that stainless steel excuse for a toilet?

Repulsed, I gag at the memory, recalling its unwelcome presence as they locked me in here last night.

"Breakfast!" She yells again, like I'm incapable of hearing her.

Slowly, I drag my aching body upright all the while being watched by the morning shift.

"Stay seated, Grace." I wretch once more as she clangs her keys against the heavy door. Approaching with caution no doubt to inspect my condition she bends to address me but I am no longer capable of suppressing the bile in my gut vomiting what liquid has remained all over her shoes and my custody rags.

"For God's sake!" I know she's displeased and lowering my eyes to the mess, I see and feel that I am soaked through. An idea pops boldly into my brain.

"I'm ill. I need to see a doctor."

"Calm down, love. It's only a bit of sick."

"I said I need a doctor!" I spit with venom this time. "I've suffered a serious head injury, my breasts are throbbing, I've just vomited and I feel faint. Do you want to be responsible for neglecting a vulnerable nursing mother? I could be dying in here for all you know!"

Morning shift looks on awkwardly and I can tell she's uncertain as her eyes quickly search for the CCTV. She must be new and while I know it's unfitting for one professional woman to take advantage of another, I refuse to spend one more night in this shit hole. I muster from somewhere deep within the strength to win her over.

"I'm sorry about your boots, I'll clean them but right now I just need you to contact Dr Bell."

"Who's Dr Bell?" she asks, with unease.

"She's the neurologist I saw on Saturday morning at Wellington Hospital. Please check my notes; I really have suffered a blow to the head and right now, I feel extremely sick. I have an appointment with her on Friday to assess the swelling on my brain. Please," I beg, hopefully. "Will you speak with the custody sergeant? Maybe they will let me see her today."

"I err... I'll see what I can do. I'll fetch you some clean clothes."

"Thank you. And a wash would be great if you can manage it," I urge, charmingly, "and maybe something I can discard my baby milk into?"

Morning shift reluctantly smiles, registering my discomfort. "I know the feeling," she whispers, addressing me along with her own breasts, and I thank the Lord above for the return-to-work mother standing before me.

****************

I'm exhausted emotionally and physically having slept very little for a second night. Bloody mattress! You'd think they'd at least put a sheet on it, but of course not. Why would they? It's not the Ritz. No. It most definitely is not the Ritz.

And I am yet to be questioned. Why the hell is this taking so long? Is this protocol?

Feeling seriously pissed off, I pace the cell for yet another half mile. I had hoped to be out yesterday, to be free and rid of the confinement of this miserable place. I'm so desperate to see my baby girl even if my breasts are in denial now producing little to no milk. And I have such a need to know if there has been any news of Monty but morning shift appears not to have pulled it off and in any case she didn't appear again. Clearly no one gives a shit if I'm ill or not. Or dead or alive. Did he? Did Max fucking Jacob give a shit? I seethe.

The shock of his betrayal I seem to have offloaded though I really don't know how. Perhaps it's because I'm more shaken to have been arrested or perhaps it's the adrenaline from the forty five fights we've had in my head since Monday night, and while I haven't read them myself, once others see the headlines I doubt anyone will ever trust my judgement again. Or forget what happened.

What I need now is a long soak in a deep, hot bath to relax my aching body and free myself from the stench of his treachery. I crave my own bed and its' clean cotton sheets but where that will be going forward is anyone's guess. How can I continue to live with him after this? The thought is depressing because I can't; not now that I know he doesn't love me.

The anger inside me continues to fester and I will let it because it's the only thing so far that has kept me from weeping. I won't cry. I will not cry!

My life and career are in pieces, scattered at my feet and it's all his fault.

No. It is not only his fault; it's my own. I loved him. And because I loved him I invited him to do this to me believing he loved me.

Yes. Max Jacob has broken me and I hate him for it.