by C. L. Taylor
He takes off again, his heart pounding in his chest and his lungs aching as he runs across the walkway and up the stairs to his office. He walks the last couple of steps, dragging himself up with the handrail with one hand and swiping the sweat from his brow with the other. He pauses at the top step and sighs. Standing with his back to the locked CCTV room door with his arms crossed over his chest and a smug look on his face is another security guard. Liam Dunford, Gareth’s subordinate and a little sneak of a man.
‘Been for a run?’ Liam asks, struggling to hide his delight; Gareth Filer, head honcho and chief bollocker has abandoned his desk and broken a fundamental rule of security.
‘Don’t even go there,’ Gareth says. ‘There was an emergency.’
Liam cocks his head. ‘Oh yeah? I didn’t hear anything on the radio.’
‘That’s because it was nothing to do with you.’
‘I thought emergencies went out to all staff.’
‘Well this one didn’t.’
‘What was it? This emergency that required you to break protocol and leave the CCTV gallery?’ Liam unfolds his arms and rests a palm on the wall. Everything about his body language says: I am a sneaky little shit.
‘Like I told you.’ Irritation burns like indigestion in Gareth’s chest, but he tries to ignore it. If he bites, Liam has won and Liam is not going to win. ‘It’s none of your business.’
‘Fine.’ He shrugs. ‘I’ll ask Mark Whiting then. I’ve been meaning to chat to him for a while.’
Mark Whiting is the Meads’ general manager, and Gareth’s boss. He’s only been in post for a year and Gareth can’t stand the bloke. He’s been cost-cutting left, right and centre and doesn’t give a shit if that means they’re understaffed or risking potential health and safety nightmares. In the last year alone he’s sacked three cleaners, two security guards and a caretaker. He’s made it very clear that he thinks his predecessor made a mistake by promoting Gareth and that his salary isn’t justified. If Whiting had his way there wouldn’t be a supervisor role at all and all guards would report to him.
‘About what?’ Gareth asks.
‘A pay rise.’ The slight bend in Liam’s raised right eyebrow conveys his demand as clearly as if he’d said it aloud: give me cash or I’ll tell the manager of the shopping centre that you just committed a sackable offence.
‘Why aren’t you on the shop floor?’ Gareth counters. Liam’s had two warnings. One more for deserting his post without permission would seal his fate.
‘I’m on my break.’ There’s the smirk again. ‘So I thought I’d come and get my holiday form signed.’ He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper.
‘Fine.’ On shaking legs, Gareth ascends the last step and approaches the door to his office. The two men lock eyes and Gareth’s throat dries up. He’s seen this before, in David Attenborough documentaries: the young buck rearing up, challenging the older herd leader when he’s old and tired. If he asks Liam to move then he’s showing his weakness. But if he shoves him out of the way then he’s lost his job.
They face off, Gareth staring up at the taller, leaner man for what feels like an age but can only be a couple of seconds, before finally Liam steps to the side, gesturing for him to pass with a wide sweep of his hand. Gritting his teeth, Gareth keys in the code and opens the door. He turns and reaches out a hand for Liam’s holiday form then, without inviting him in, rests it against the wall and scribbles his signature on the bottom.
‘I’ll enter it into the system.’
‘And the pay rise?’
‘What pay rise?’
Liam’s smile reappears. ‘Five hundred quid should help me forget what I saw. I’ll give you until tomorrow to work out the details. See you then …’ He pauses. ‘Boss.’
The first mouthful of the burger is the best, it always is. Every stress, every worry and every niggling thought disappears as Gareth closes his eyes and chews. Gareth knows he’ll hate himself later but, right now, he doesn’t care. It’s his favourite part of the day and the anticipation begins to build a good hour before he finishes his shift. It’s just him, two McDonald’s Veggie Deluxe burgers, a large fries and a vanilla milkshake. He doesn’t even put the radio on in the car because he wants nothing, nothing, to detract from the glorious moment he opens the paper bag, unwraps his burger and takes the first bite. As he chews, eyes closed, he doesn’t think about his mum and whether she’s burning the house down. He doesn’t think about the bored-sounding copper he spoke to that morning about his missing dad. He doesn’t think about the texts he received from his mum’s two carers – Sally and Yvonne – saying they don’t know anything about a postcard. He doesn’t think about the man who may or may not have been his dad. And he certainly doesn’t think about Liam Dunford, the slimy little snake.
He takes another bite, and another, barely chewing in his desperation to get the burger into his stomach as quickly as he can so he can start on the second one. He likes it, the sensation of his stomach growing fuller and fuller, of it straining to contain all the food. It makes him feel settled and content, safe and warm. But with every mouthful of the second burger Gareth hates himself a little bit more. Not just for shovelling empty, dirty calories he doesn’t need into his mouth or because he should have pushed that copper to transfer him to someone who could actually help, but because the situation he’s found himself in with Liam is his own bloody fault. Not once in twenty-five years working in security has he jeopardised the safety of the shoppers. Not once.
What an absolute loser.
And now he’s being blackmailed by a snot of a man who doesn’t deserve the epaulettes on his shirt.
Goddamnit.
Gareth shoves the half-eaten burger back into the brown paper bag, crumples it, and tosses it into the passenger seat footwell. Then he slumps over the steering wheel with his head in his hands. His dad was right. He is a disappointment. And the worst thing is the person he’s let down the most is himself.
Pull yourself together, Gareth tells himself as he pushes open the garden gate and walks up the pathway to his front door. For Mum if no one else. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Kath peering around her front door, frantically waving her hand. Normally he loves their chats – there’s something infectious about her friendly, easy-going manner – but he’s not in the mood for a conversation today and he tries to ignore her, hoping that if he doesn’t make eye contact she’ll simply go away. But Kath calls out his name, forcing him to acknowledge her.
‘Sorry to bother you.’ She opens the door wider, revealing a pink and white unicorn onesie, the horned hood hanging over her face. Coupled with the grime music that’s being played at full volume somewhere in the house, it feels to Gareth as though he’s just stepped into a surreal urban play. Kath clocks his raised eyebrows and offers him a wide grin. ‘Nice, isn’t it? Primark. I’ll get you one the next time I pop in if you want.’
‘No thanks.’ Gareth glances towards his own house. The curtains are closed but he can see the light of the television flickering through a tiny gap. ‘What can I do you for, Kath?’
‘It’s your mum,’ she starts, then, reacting to the look of panic on his face, quickly adds, ‘she’s fine. I was just wondering if it was her birthday, that’s all.’
Kath’s always been fond of Joan but, since she lost her own mother, she actively asks after his mum and often pops round in the day if she can.
Gareth mentally flicks through the significant dates in his memory – there aren’t many – and shakes his head. ‘No. It’s not until 11th November. Why do you ask?’
‘She had some lovely flowers delivered today and I …’ Kath does an embarrassed little jig with her shoulders ‘… I wondered what they were for.’
Kath’s a beautician who works from home doing things to women’s eyelashes and brows; Gareth isn’t quite sure what. It’s not unusual for him to return from work to find one of her customers parked up outside his house, but he rarely grumbles. It’s wor
th the inconvenience of having to park around the corner knowing that Kath’s available to pop in and check up on his mum if he gives her a ring.
‘I gave her a knock,’ Kath adds, ‘to ask if it was her birthday – I’d have nipped to Marks for a cake and a card if it was – but she wasn’t sure. She—’ She breaks off to shout up the stairs. ‘Georgia! Turn that racket down. I can’t hear myself think.’
There’s no answer and no pause in the relentless thump, thump, thump of the music. Kath takes a deep breath as though readying herself for a full volume shout. Instead she sighs, steps out of the house and pulls the door shut behind her.
‘Sorry about that, Gareth. Normally I’d be straight up there but she’s having a tough time of it at school at the moment. What was I saying?’
‘That Mum didn’t know if it was her birthday or not.’
Kath frowns, or at least Gareth thinks she does because there’s no movement or creasing of any sort on her forehead, but there’s a studied look in her eyes as she gazes past him towards the closed curtains of his living room. ‘She’s getting worse, isn’t she?’
‘Yeah.’ His gaze drops to his shoes. Her next appointment with the consultant is in two weeks’ time and he’s already dreading it. He’s not sure he’ll be able to cope with her reaction if the consultant insists on moving her into a home.
‘Well you know I’m always here,’ Kath says. ‘If you need me to pop in, or take her somewhere in the car, you just say the word. Okay?’
Gareth looks at her, standing on her doorstep in her bare feet in her ridiculously fluffy outfit and, for the first time all day, he smiles.
‘Thank you,’ he says as he takes his door key out of his pocket. ‘Thanks, Kath, that means a lot.’
Gareth sniffs the air as he opens the front door, then sags with relief. Whatever his mum has done today she hasn’t burnt anything to a cinder. His note – DANGER! DO NOT COOK, MUM! – taped above the cooker must have done the job. He slips off his shoes and hangs up his jacket then pokes his head around the living room door. His mum is sitting, as usual, in her favourite armchair directly in front of the TV.
‘Gerbera,’ she says, in answer to the quiz show host’s question, then clenches her fist in delight as the correct answer – her answer – turns green at the bottom of the screen.
‘Hello, love.’ She turns to look at Gareth. ‘How was work?’
‘Yeah good.’ He bends to kiss her on the cheek. ‘How was your …’ He turns his head, the bright yellows and oranges of a floral arrangement on the bookshelf catching his eye. ‘Kath said someone sent you flowers.’
‘Did they?’ His mum turns to look. ‘Oh, aren’t they pretty. Yellow roses are my favourite. Who are they from, Gareth?’
He crosses the room, guts churning, and not just because of all the junk food he ate. He can’t remember the last time someone sent his mum flowers. He’s given her plenty – for Mother’s Day and her birthday at least – but he can’t remember her ever being given any by someone else, not since his dad disappeared. He plucks at the white envelope that’s been stapled to the edge of the wrapping and opens it.
Could they be from his dad, he wonders as he carefully eases out the small card. First a postcard, then flowers, is he paving the way for his return? No, Gareth tells himself. They’re not from his dad. His dad’s dead. He’s never coming home.
‘Oh for God’s sake!’ His shout is so loud that his mum lets out a little cry of distress.
‘Sorry, sorry.’ He rushes to her side and presses a hand to her shoulder. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m sorry. I’ll get you a cup of tea.’
He rushes out of the room before she can reply. The flowers aren’t from his dad at all. They’re from William Mackesy, thanking his mum for her kind donation to the church.
Chapter 15
Alice
‘Tonight?’ Emily looks aghast. ‘You agreed that you’d go out with him tonight?’
‘Yes, Emily, I did.’ Alice looks at her daughter in the mirror as she applies red lipstick. ‘He asked me out at lunchtime and we’re going out for dinner. There’s plenty of food in the fridge. You’re not going to starve.’
Her daughter perches on the edge of her bed. ‘It’s not that, and I’m not bothered about being home on my own. You just … you’re playing it all wrong, Mum. He’s going to think you’re desperate.’
‘How is saying yes to dinner desperate?’
‘Because you agreed to go tonight. You should have told him you have plans.’
‘But I haven’t.’
‘He doesn’t need to know that.’
‘So I should have lied? Great way to start a relationship.’
‘Oh my God, Mum!’ Emily’s exasperation fills the room. ‘It’s a first date. You’re not going to marry the guy. Relationship!’ She shakes her head. ‘God, you are so out of touch.’
‘But I like him and I want to go out for dinner with him. Besides, I’m too old to play games.’
‘It’s not games, you just want to look like you have a full and active life. Men don’t respect you if you drop everything to see them.’
‘And that’s what you do with Adam is it?’
Emily stiffens. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Alice turns to look at her daughter. ‘Sweetheart, I know you’re trying to help me out, and I appreciate that, but your own relationship isn’t exactly healthy.’
‘My relationship’s fine.’
‘Is it? Because from where I’m sitting you seem really unhappy.’ She gestures at the glass of wine in her daughter’s hand. ‘I can’t remember the last time you didn’t come home and have a drink.’
‘It’s just a glass of wine.’
‘A glass?’
‘One glass. Two glasses. I’m not an alcoholic, Mum, if that’s what you’re implying.’
‘I’m not implying anything, love.’ She gets up from the dressing table stool and crosses the room. ‘But it’s not normal, the screaming rows you and Adam have.’
Emily shuffles away from her as she sits down on the bed; the soft curves of her face have hardened. She says something under her breath that Alice doesn’t catch.
‘Sorry, what was that?’
‘I said, I’m not a doormat. Just because you shut up and put up with Dad’s shit it doesn’t mean I have to do the same. If Adam’s out of order, I tell him. That’s why we row, because, unlike you, I’m not afraid to speak up.’
The ferocity of her daughter’s accusation hits Alice in the chest like a cannonball and she recoils, one hand pressed between her breasts. Is that what her daughter really thinks of her? That she’s a doormat? That Peter cheated on her because she didn’t speak up? She stares at Emily, her gaze flicking from her hard blue eyes to the tight line of her lips. She did everything in her power to give her daughter a happy, stable upbringing. She worked a part-time job so they could walk to school together every morning and back home at a quarter past three. She gave up her own little pleasures – weekly nights out with the girls, good quality make-up and getting her hair dyed professionally – to ensure that Emily could have violin lessons, go to ballet and learn how to swim. She read her a story every night, cooked her fresh food and told her she loved her and was proud of her at every available opportunity. She did everything she could to win at parenting but it wasn’t enough, she’s still failed.
‘Mum,’ Emily says as Alice stands, smooths out the creases in her skirt and walks out of the bedroom. ‘Mum, I’m sorry. Mum! Say something. I’m sorry, Mum.’
Simon smiles and raises a hand in greeting as Alice crosses the busy Indian restaurant.
‘Sorry,’ she says as she draws close enough for him to hear her through the babble of conversation and the clatter of pots and pans drifting through from the kitchen. ‘I couldn’t find a parking space.’
She had meant to order a taxi so she could drink but after her argument with Emily she grabbed her coat, bag and car keys and walked straight out of the house. Hot,
angry tears pricked at her eyes as she started the engine of her ten-year-old Golf. There was no way she was going to turn up to her date with smudged eye make-up and a red nose so she pushed the conversation to the back of her mind and instead ran through everything she had to do at work the next day.
‘No worries at all,’ Simon says, half-rising from his seat as she pulls back her chair. ‘I’m just glad that you’re here.’
As he looks at her, his eyes as warm and welcoming as his smile, Alice feels her shoulders relax, just the tiniest bit. And as she sits down at the table and reaches for the menu a voice in the back of her head says, Oh fuck off, Emily. What do you know?
‘So,’ she says, looking at him over the menu, ‘what was that all about earlier?’
Simon frowns.
‘The woman,’ Alice clarifies. ‘In Costa.’
‘Oh.’ He sits back in his chair and runs a hand through his hair. ‘Dunno. Mistaken identity, I guess.’
‘Really? She seemed pretty sure that she knew you.’
‘Well I didn’t know her.’ He laughs tightly. ‘What can I say? I must have one of those faces.’
‘You looked freaked out.’
‘Wouldn’t you if someone leapt out at you?’
Alice studies his face. She barely knows the man, but she can’t shake the feeling there’s something he’s not telling her. There’s an undercurrent of unease beneath his denial but she’s not going to push it. Maybe he feels embarrassed for jumping the way he did, or for the fact he shepherded her out of Costa at speed. He didn’t say a word to her as they left the coffee shop. He just raised a hand and said, ‘I’ll text you about dinner.’ And then he was off. He didn’t look back until he reached the escalator, but then his gaze rested on the door to Costa and not on her.
‘So,’ Simon says. ‘Have you decided what you’re having yet?’
‘Lamb bhuna I think.’
‘Good choice. You know my dad once had an accident eating a curry?’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. He slipped into a korma.’