‘I’m a good listener.’ She tilted her head. ‘If you wanted to chat.’
There was nothing I’d like more. ‘But you’re on your way out. I don’t want to stop you if you’ve stuff to do.’
She checked her watch. ‘Do you want to come in?’ She tilted her head back up the path she’d walked down.
Did I want to go inside Farah’s house? No-brainer. ‘Err, yeah. Sure.’ I tried to play it cool. I had to, otherwise I’d be jumping up and down and whooping like an idiot.
She led the way, unlocked the door and let me in. It was a large old house with a high-ceilinged hallway and a floor like a chessboard. ‘Nice house,’ I said, remembering one of the romance novel heroes had got brownie points for this.
‘Thanks. My parents are decorating it bit by bit. Tea? Coffee? Lemonade?’
‘Lemonade please.’ I followed her through to the kitchen. ‘Are your parents not home?’ I wanted to be prepared for any encounters. Get my thoughts ordered in case they suddenly appeared.
‘No, Mum’s shoe shopping with my brother. For him not her, so they’ll be hours. He hates it. Dad has some seminar… I think. Not sure. It’s a work thing anyway. I was going to the library to revise. If I stay here alone I’ll just watch TV and eat crisps.’
‘Sounds idyllic.’
‘Idyllic?’ She smiled at me. ‘Is that your idea of heaven, Tom Harris. TV and crisps?’ She was teasing me but it was gentle and friendly.
‘Pretty much. Add in some Coke and it’s perfect.’ Her eyebrows shot up. What had I said? Shiiiiit. ‘Cola. I mean cola not cocaine. Bloody hell. Sorry.’
She started to laugh and I joined in. ‘You’re funny.’
Not intentionally. She took a large glass out of a cupboard. The kitchen was all modern and fitted with shiny granite worktops and it was super clean and tidy. ‘Ice?’ she asked.
‘Yeah. Please.’
She went to a large American-style fridge, pressed a button and ice clattered into the glass. This was a seriously nice place. I wished I’d not said that already. She poured the drinks and passed me mine. ‘Thanks. Look, you might not believe me but I was going to the library too,’ I said.
‘Why wouldn’t I believe you?’
Because I probably look like a stalker, I thought. Outwardly though, I shrugged. ‘Because it’s a bit of a coincidence. But it is true. I had a row with my dad and I can’t go home yet.’
‘You want to talk about it?’
‘Not really…’ She was still looking at me. ‘He accused me of being the mugger.’
‘No way!’
‘I know. Right?’ It was nice to see her disbelief at the injustice of Dad’s accusation.
‘I read about that in the paper. I think whoever it is they’re targeting pensioners coming out of the post office because it’s likely they’ve been to get cash out.’
It was a good theory. ‘You know Maggie had her bag snatched?’ I knew Farah wouldn’t know this and relished being the one to tell her. Her reaction was exactly what I was hoping for.
‘No way! That’s awful. When was this?’
‘A few weeks ago. I heard her shout and I…’ What did I do exactly?
‘You were there?’ She was enthralled. It was great.
‘Yeah. I ran to help her but I got punched in the face and he made off with her bag.’ At least my account was factually correct even if a little misleading.
Farah’s hands shot to her face as she gasped. ‘Tom. You could have been seriously hurt.’
I shrugged my shoulder and sipped my lemonade. It was the cloudy sort with a real lemon tang. No cheap stuff here. ‘I wish I could have caught him, that’s all.’ Who was I kidding? Anyone could beat the crap out of me. Maggie did.
‘Was Maggie okay?’
‘Yeah. She was fine. She’s tough.’ We sipped our drinks and I marvelled at the looks she was giving me. I could tell she was impressed. This was awesome.
‘When do you think you’ll be able to go home?’ she asked.
‘Not for ages yet. We both need to calm down. But I should be revising.’
‘Excellent!’ She clapped her hands together. ‘We can revise here together. It’ll save us going to the library and getting wet.’
‘Yeah. Okay.’ My day just got a whole lot better.
*
I had the best time. We revised a bit. We chatted. Well, mainly Farah chatted and I listened, which was bliss because her voice is like discovering music for the first time. She made us ham and pineapple pizza for tea and served it with garlic bread, coleslaw and salad. Salad! Like a proper meal. Then we tested each other on our history and I did okay. She has some cool ways of remembering stuff. She even made me a couple of revision cards to bring home. They’re in my pocket. I think I’ll treasure them forever.
I took a breath before I unlocked my front door. The plan was to scoot straight upstairs and hope Dad was asleep somewhere but as I opened the door the smell hit me. Not the manky smell like before. This was sharp and pungent and made me gag – it was vomit. What happened next was a bit of a blur. I ran into the living room and there was Dad. He was lying on his back bubbling sick out of his mouth. He was unconscious and his face was a grey blue colour. I knew what was happening. I’d read about it – he was choking on his own vomit. Gross and fatal.
I dropped to my knees and with a few shoves turned him onto his side. I whacked his back to try to clear the blockage but nothing happened. I tried not to look as I stuck my finger in his mouth in an attempt to clear his airway – like I’d seen Maggie do with the newborn lamb. Nothing.
‘Shit! Dad!’ I shouted at him, partly in fear and desperation.
I gave him a mighty thump on the back and he vomited. Proper rocket blast chuck-up. It was disgusting and it was everywhere. But he started to cough and gasp for breath. He was alive.
22
MAGGIE
Maggie did her last check on the sheep and the new lambs were all feeding well. Two more ewes had produced two more lambs midmorning and both births had gone smoothly, which she was grateful for. She had three female lambs, which she’d keep and add to her flock but that would probably be as many as she’d be able to manage. She was still tired from the weekend and was planning on turning in shortly. Generally she tried to stay up until eleven o’clock. If she went to bed any earlier she usually woke up in the early hours and couldn’t get back to sleep. It was a curse of being older, some afternoons she would be beyond tired but two in the morning she’d be bright as a button.
At this time of year she made sure she stayed up later because she liked to do a last check on the sheep and lambs before she turned in. Although she doubted she had any more who were pregnant. It was getting too late for any more lambs now. Colin was clearly a dud. No wonder the farmer who owned him wasn’t in a rush to have him back. Useless article.
Maggie checked she was all locked up and took the keys out of the door so that if she died in the night Savage would be able to get in without breaking a window. She’d always assumed it would be Savage who would find her; he was the only person who had a key. But they weren’t in any sort of regular contact so it could be anybody. She wondered how long it would be before anyone missed her. How long after that before someone could be bothered to go all the way out to Furrow’s Cross to check? She reckoned about a month by which time all the animals would likely have died of dehydration. For that reason she tried hard not to dwell on it. She was actually in fine fettle. It wasn’t like she was planning on turning up her toes anytime soon it was simply one of the odd things you considered when you spent too much time on your own.
She made herself a half-cup of tea – any more and she’d be up half the night pacing back and forth to the loo – and she treated herself to a digestive biscuit. She decided she’d read a bit more of her book and had just sat down when the phone rang. He didn’t say much. She could tell he was crying, poor lad. He gave her his address and within a few minutes she was in a taxi.
She’d o
nly got sketchy details from Tom. But from what she could make out his father had been taken ill and Tom had thought he was dead. Maggie’s heart went out to Tom. She had grown incredibly fond of him. Losing someone you love was a terrible thing but to have lost a parent at such a young age cut a wound so deep it rarely healed.
Maggie could remember the last time she’d been driven in a car. It was in the funeral car to her husband’s funeral almost ten years ago. She remembered thinking that a hearse was most likely the poshest car most people would ever ride in and yet they’d not get any enjoyment out of it. The time before that she’d got a black cab across London when they’d gone to the theatre sometime in the 1990s. Now Maggie was more of a bus person. She liked the train but had no call to go further afield anymore. But she definitely wasn’t a car person, she thought as she sat on the back seat of the cab. She always thought sitting in the back of a car on her own reminded her of how Hitler was chauffeured about – she wasn’t sure why.
The taxi pulled up outside an ordinary terrace and she paid the driver. The small garden was part wobbly paving and part overgrown shrubbery. There was one light on at the front of the house and everything looked decidedly normal. Was this the right place? Why was there no ambulance? Maybe she was too late.
She walked up the path and the front door opened. A wretched-looking Tom was standing before her. He was wearing one of the tops she’d found for him and it was soaked in vomit. His eyes were red and puffy and he held his head low. He didn’t speak, merely sniffed a bit.
‘Did you call an ambulance like I said?’ she asked, stepping inside and closing the door.
Tom shook his head. ‘Dad said not to.’
If he was talking that was a good sign. Tom pointed into the living room and Maggie took a look. A man in his forties was sitting in a puddle of sick and leaning against a stained sofa with his head tilted back, eyes closed and breathing steady. The stench of whisky and vomit dominated the small room. The empty bottles and heavily fingered glass told their own tale.
She looked back at an ashen-faced Tom who appeared as if Death himself had cast its shadow over him. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked, trying to peek under his fringe. He nodded. ‘What’s your dad’s name?’
‘Paul.’
‘Right, Tom. You go and get yourself showered and changed and I’ll sort things out here.’ She took off her coat and hung it over the newel post and watched Tom trudge upstairs. She took a deep breath. She’d dealt with worse.
‘Paul? Can you hear me, Paul?’ Tom’s dad made an inaudible groan. He was sound asleep. That was fine, it would be easier to work around him. She was surprised Tom had managed to get a coherent sentence out of the man to be able to indicate he didn’t want an ambulance called but she didn’t doubt Tom’s honesty.
Maggie relocated a pile of dishes in the kitchen to free up the washing-up bowl and set about clearing up the worst of the mess in the living room. She was cross at Paul for putting Tom through this but deep down she was also pleased to be able to help Tom. She took the covers off two cushions and slung them in the washing machine along with a random sock she found. She cleaned and tidied around the man and he barely moved, even despite the vigorous carpet scrubbing she did right next to him.
In her opinion Paul should be checked over by a paramedic but he was a grown man and she wasn’t going to interfere. If he’d said he didn’t want them called then that was his decision, however foolish. Her main concern was Tom and she wasn’t sure on where social services would stand if they’d walked in with her earlier. The last thing she wanted was for Tom to get whisked into care. That wasn’t a fate he deserved.
Maggie worked around Paul, who now appeared to be sleeping quite peacefully. It looked like the danger had passed. Given the state the carpet had been in she doubted there was anything else to come up. She moved behind the sofa and her foot hit something that made a tell-tale clinking noise. Underneath the sofa she found a stash of bottles – mostly empty and one full bottle of whisky. She hoicked them all out.
Maggie went on a brief treasure hunt checking the most unlikely places in search of alcohol where she unearthed two more almost-empty bottles and two half-full ones. She ferried them all to the kitchen and began pouring their contents down the sink. The bottles made a pleasant chink sound each time she popped them in the recycling box.
‘Hey!’ said the slurred voice behind her. ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘I’m Maggie. I’m a friend of Tom’s.’ She turned and smiled at Paul who blinked very slowly back, confusion distorting his features as he swayed in the doorway. It was good that he was on his feet.
‘What?’ He seemed to focus in on the contents of the last bottle being tipped into the sink. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘I’m doing you a favour,’ said Maggie, rinsing the bottle out and adding it to the others.
Paul’s eyes followed the bottle. When they alighted on the pile of empty whisky bottles in the crate he brought his hands up to his face. ‘No!’ He staggered across the kitchen holding onto the worktop for support. ‘No, no, no…’ he repeated his voice full of sorrow.
Tom appeared at the door. His hair wet and his face pale. ‘You okay, Dad?’
‘No! This. This woman,’ spat Paul, jabbing a finger near to Maggie’s face. She stepped back, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on him.
‘That’s Maggie. I rang her.’
‘Why?’ Paul looked genuinely confused.
Tom shook his head. ‘Because… I didn’t know what to do and you were…’ His voice was choked up with emotion. Maggie wanted to wrap him in her arms and block out all his pain. No child should ever have to see a parent in the state Paul was in. Her blood started to boil on Tom’s behalf.
‘She! She…’ Paul did more jabbing movements in Maggie’s direction. ‘Has tipped away my… MY… whisky!’ He twisted around to face Maggie. She stood her ground. ‘That’s theft, that is!’ His voice was getting louder and he was swaying dangerously.
‘The last thing an alcoholic needs is a house full of alcohol,’ said Maggie calmly, wiping her hands on a tea towel of dubious cleanliness – she’d wash them again when she got home.
‘A what?’ Paul uttered a strangled laugh. ‘How dare you! You barge in here and you… hey… What are you doing?’
Maggie had moved to the fridge and she was taking out cans of lager. ‘I told you. I’m helping you by getting rid of the alcohol. As long as it’s here you’ll drink it. And you can’t get in that state again.’ She glanced briefly at Tom, his brow furrowed, his eyes focused on his father.
Paul made a lunge for a can but Maggie was too quick for him and spun around with the last lager, opened it in a flourish and tipped its contents away. Paul pulled at his hair and made a noise somewhere between a growl and a groan. He swayed a little until his eyes settled on a tall cupboard. He made his way over to it, opened it and rummaged behind the ironing board that was stored there, swearing when it toppled.
‘Dad. What are you doing?’ Tom was looking embarrassed, his eyes darting between his father and Maggie.
‘None of your business,’ barked Paul. Maggie had to bite her lip to stop herself giving the man a piece of her mind. She didn’t want to embarrass Tom further.
‘If you’re looking for the two half-bottles of whisky, I found those first so they’ve gone down the drain with the rest,’ said Maggie, matter-of-factly. ‘Would you like a coffee or, better still, some water? Maybe wait until you’ve sobered up before you have a shower.’
‘Why you…’ Paul swung around, his clenched fist heading with force for Maggie’s face.
‘Maggie!’ yelled Tom, his tone desperate. The sound rang in her ears.
23
TOM
I screamed at him. If he’d landed that punch he could have killed her. In a flash I had an image of me rolling up Maggie’s body in a carpet. I dived forward but I was too late. It all happened too fast. As the punch came in, Maggie darted to one side and a lightni
ng fast kick to the back of Dad’s shin had him twisting in mid-air and he landed hard on the kitchen floor. He crumpled into a ball muttering swear words.
I dashed to Maggie’s side. ‘Maggie, are you all right?’ I asked, as we both surveyed my father.
‘I’m absolutely fine.’ She held up her palms as if to prove it.
‘I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Maggie.’ I couldn’t stop shaking my head. What the hell was happening? Nothing made sense tonight. My dad wasn’t an alcoholic; he didn’t go around hitting old ladies. Temper rushed through me and I clenched my fists. I wanted to lash out. To kick, to punch and break something. To hurt Dad how he’d hurt me. I knew inflicting physical pain wouldn’t even come close but it would temporarily relieve my anger. I hated myself for even considering it.
I had to get out of there or I was going to do something I would always regret. I legged it out of the kitchen. I went to grab my jacket but Maggie’s was on top of it and I had to wrestle it free. I yanked at the front door, tears blurring my vision and infuriating me further. I felt her hand land firmly on my shoulder.
‘Tom.’ Her voice was gentle. ‘Please take a moment to stop and think.’
I froze. My pulse was racing. ‘I’ve got to get away from him,’ I said without turning around.
‘Think about you and your future. Don’t you have exams coming up?’
I took a deep breath and nodded. ‘But I can’t stay here with him.’ My head dropped to my chest as my fury tailed off.
Maggie let go of my shoulder and I turned around. ‘What’s the alternative?’ she asked.
‘I dunno.’ I had nobody else.
Maggie’s expression changed from one of grave concern to unease. She took a deep breath. ‘I suppose you could stay with me. Give him a chance to sober up and you to calm down. Do you think that would be all right with your dad?’
‘Like he cares.’ I looked back into the kitchen. Dad was still on the floor and had nodded off to sleep. He was a mess and I couldn’t bear to see it.
The Library Page 14