by Kate Simants
Wren walks with Radclyffe for nearly an hour in the early-evening drizzle. When he pulls back to inspect a piss stain outside the florist’s, she takes his hint and goes in, emerging minutes later with a flamboyant armful of dahlias. Not even Suzy can stay grumpy in the face of dahlias.
Then, on a roll, she buys the least repellent-looking alcohol-free wine she can find at the offy, and catches Suzy’s favourite deli minutes before it closes. She picks out olives, cheese, pastrami, some fancy little crackers. Sex food. Food for feeding a little of to your lover in bed, just enough to build the reserves back up before…
Well.
Before hauling one’s arse out from under the covers to put the next disc of the boxset in the player, if she is entirely honest.
Radclyffe’s tail slaps damply against her thigh as they head home, and at the second pass, things are better. Suzy has finished making the chutney and is reading, lying on her side on the living-room sofa, her belly buttressed by a V-shaped cushion that appeared a few weeks previously. Wren produces the dahlias with a flourish, and Suzy laughs.
‘I don’t deserve five seconds of you, you know,’ she says, inelegantly hauling herself upright. In the time it takes Wren to lay the flowers on the low wooden table, Radclyffe has beaten her to the warm spot beside her.
‘Yes, I love you, I do I do I do,’ Suzy tells him in her pouty dog-voice, accepting a lick on the cheek before shoving him gently to the floor. She wipes her face with the heel of her hand and smiles up at Wren. ‘But I love your mamma even more.’
Wren sits, and Suzy puts her head on her shoulder. She even smells different these days: there’s an earthiness, something animal. Her body has become a foreign environment, glinting with magic or hostility with a change of the light. It is somewhere Wren has no access to. But it is temporary, of course. That’s what everyone says.
‘They’re taking me to the pub tomorrow after the day tour,’ Suzy says glumly.
Wren had forgotten it’s her last shift before she goes on maternity leave. ‘But that’ll be fun, won’t it?’
‘No.’ She groans and glowers at her belly. ‘I can’t even get pissed, thanks to you,’ she says with mock accusation at the baby, who responds with a kick that Wren can see through the stretch of Suzy’s sweatshirt.
They both laugh. Shifting closer, Suzy says, ‘Really though, I’m sorry I’ve been grumpy.’
‘It’s OK.’ Wren pats her leg, then gets up and goes out for the plates. The TV is on by the time she gets back. She sets the food out and puts a bit of everything on each plate. Radclyffe’s tail thumps on the rug, but he’s a good boy and he stays where he is, eyebrows seesawing with the effort of not eating.
Suzy says, ‘It’s not OK, though, is it? Doesn’t even count as mood swings if you’re mardy all the time. I had a new PC in tears yesterday. Know what I said to her?’
‘Nope.’ Wren takes an olive.
‘I said, if she wanted a job cuddling bunnies, she should have got a job at the cuddly bunny farm. In front of the whole team. Poor bitch.’
Wren snorts, spits the stone into her hand. ‘She going tomorrow?’
‘I fucking doubt it. Probably spending the evening sticking pins in a little fat doll with shitty hair and chevrons on the shoulders.’
‘Your hair’s not shitty.’
‘Oh, but I am fat?’
‘You’re just… beautifully…’
‘If you say blooming I swear to God I’ll flay you bloody.’
Wren smiles. ‘I’m sure she’ll forgive you,’ she tries, but Suzy just makes a pff sound and snaps a cracker. Wren can’t help thinking: six months ago, you wouldn’t have given two shits what a baby constable thought.
There is a pause. ‘Come,’ Suzy says, a little whine curling at the edge of her voice. ‘To the thing, the… send-off. Will you?’
‘Can’t. Work.’
‘Shit.’ Suzy reaches for the remote, switches off the TV and faces her. ‘Shittety shit. God, I’m so selfish, I forgot. The new offender. How did it go?’
Wren makes a vague grimace. ‘Fine,’ she says. It would have sufficed for anyone else. Not Suzy.
‘Fine.’ A pause. ‘Huh.’
‘Yeah. Nothing out of the ordinary.’
Suzy’s eyes narrow further and Wren laughs, aiming for breezy. She peels off a slice of charcuterie, folds it and pops it in her mouth. But Suzy isn’t distracted.
‘You know, just starting the visits. Doing the school where the victim worked tomorrow.’
‘Are we talking about the same case?’ Suzy asks. ‘Young guy, aggravated burglary?’
‘That’s it, yeah,’ Wren says. Another sheet of pastrami, because Suzy’s not going to be eating it.
‘With the teacher.’
‘Guidance counsellor.’
‘Right.’ Suzy puts her plate down. ‘So, this offender. Do I know him? He got a name?’
‘Ashworth. But you know how it goes. I’m not really supposed to talk about it.’ Technically, the confidentiality clause goes for both of them, but it’s an edict that has never stopped them gossiping about their cases before. Wren can practically hear the thin ice cracking.
‘Right. Loose lips sink ships.’ Suzy initiates a game of eye-contact chicken that Wren knows she is going to lose.
The simple thing, of course, would be to just tell her. That the case involves the girl who went missing, three years ago, the one Wren had got so upset about. But she knows exactly where that conversation would lead and she just does not want to go there. Because the fact is, even as their rock-solid unit of two is swelling inextricably to accommodate three, she’s finding more and more space between them. And it’s not Suzy’s fault. It’s just that since their focus has shifted onto becoming a family, all Wren can see are their differences. Suzy is someone whose family adores her, someone for whom even the word family has an entirely different meaning.
And alongside that, she knows that Suzy is never going understand how, with a past like her own, Wren couldn’t just let Paige’s disappearance be forgotten.
To Wren, that’s not just a difference between them, it’s more like a gulf, a widening chasm. And it’s just not an option to start talking about it now, when they’re so close to becoming parents together. So she doesn’t mention Paige’s name. Instead, she clears up the plates, and tries not to notice Suzy’s worried gaze following her from the room. Because although Wren’s whip-smart girl has become temporarily forgetful, and tearful, and moody as hell, the one part of her that the tornado of hormones has left one hundred per cent intact is her perceptiveness. It is what makes her a brilliant cop. She can smell avoidance at a range of miles.
Long term, the black shadow that trails behind Wren is going to have to be thrown into the light. She’s always known it. But that’s OK. Right now, she’s got a job to do – for Paige, and for herself.
She doesn’t need long term.
7
Before
Luke crumples up the brown paper bag with the rest of the cold chips in it and pushes it away. Across the restaurant there’s a dad staring at his phone, ignoring the two little lads with him. They’re dicking about, sticking chips in straws and blowing them at each other and falling about laughing. Then the dad – hard bastard – looks up, straight at Luke, who drops the grin that had crept up on him. Luke looks away but he can feel the eyes still on him, driving into him like he’s a fucking paedo or something. Twat – he didn’t mean anything by it, was only because of the kids. Reminded him of him and Rob, how they must’ve been little boys once.
Rob comes back from the gents. He’s drying his hands on his trousers – he’s always done it, says it’s because Luke was scared of driers when he was a kid. Sitting down, Rob turns round to see what Luke’s trying to avoid looking at and clocks the dad, who’s started hissing at the youngest one. The boy’s saying he’s sorry and has started to cry, leaning his head on the washed-out reverse of a life-size Ronald McDonald sticker on the window. The older one’s sta
ring at his feet. They want to go home, anyone can see it. Home to their mum.
Rob turns back. ‘It’s like they have dad exams.’
‘What?’
‘Like you have to prove you can be as big a wanker as possible before you’re allowed kids.’
Luke snorts, but it’s not funny is it? The kid’s bawling now, and the dad’s pointing his fat finger in the poor little fucker’s face. Rob leans over and gets in Luke’s eyeline.
‘Take it easy, mate,’ he tells him, and Luke realises that his hands are in fists. He shrugs.
As they get up and walk to the door Luke can hear the dad saying, ‘—them to think you’re a little fucking poof? Do you? Stop fucking crying.’ Then, rounding on Luke, ‘Fuck you looking at?’
Luke’s heart is a tight balloon in his chest taking up all the breathing space and the twat’s standing up now and he’s massive.
The older kid’s going, ‘Dad, don’t, Dad, please.’
And Rob’s coming back, pulling at Luke’s jacket, going, ‘Luke? Luke. Lukey. Come on,’ and to the other guy he says, ‘Sorry, take no notice. Sorry.’
And they’re on the pavement then, running, and Rob’s pulling him along – ‘Let’s get the fuck out of here, seriously’ – and Luke looks back and the kids are staring at him. The little one’s red eyes are wide. Scared shitless of his own dad and he’ll have to get in the car with him in a minute and then what.
Luke has made it worse. Fuck.
There’s a gap in the hedge round by the drive-through bit. Rob ducks in first, holding some of the brambles up out of the way for Luke but bungling it so they both get scratched to fuck anyway.
The overgrown sprawl of hedge thins out and they’re on gravel, then a cracked-up path, edged with concrete posts at intervals, the wire fence long gone.
Rob’s laughing, saying, ‘What were you going to say to him?’
Luke ignores him. They’re in the trading estate bit now, heading for the park. Breathing hard, Luke slows down.
Rob zips up his jacket. ‘Do yours. It’s cold.’
‘I’m not a fucking baby.’
‘All right, Jesus. I’m only saying.’
They walk in silence until they’re nearly at the field.
‘What was that about, then? Back there?’
Luke shrugs.
‘Mate, you’ve got to let stuff go, you know?’
‘No. I don’t.’
‘You don’t have to take on everyone else’s shit.’
‘Whatever.’
‘It’s not like you haven’t got enough—’
‘I said whatever.’
‘—shit of your own, I was going to say.’
Rob sighs, reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a pack of Lamberts and lights one. Luke gives him a sideways look, and Rob rolls his eyes.
‘What? Don’t you fucking start. Had enough earache from…’
But he doesn’t finish it. Doesn’t need to.
It’s like a spell, talking about their mum. You say her name accidentally and everything changes. He tries not to think about her. Concentrates on the sounds – their feet crunching stones against fractured concrete as they walk. The smell of Rob’s fag. All he wants to do is shake the picture of his mum from his mind, but the effort of not-thinking makes it gain traction. Her alone in that room with the window looking onto the corridor and the nurses’ station, the blind on the outside so she can’t close it, so she doesn’t
so she doesn’t
so they can watch her.
Luke pulls out the button that he keeps in his pocket. She wanted to sew it back on for him last time he saw her. They wouldn’t let her have a needle so she went off and came back with glue, and it was funny, at the time, because it was so stupid. What damage could she possibly do with a needle, she’d asked him, rolling her sunken eyes. He’d made himself smile back, even though he could think of plenty of things. But he didn’t tell her any of them.
He picks the very last ridge of glue off with his thumbnail. He turns the button over in his hand. Then he lobs it as far as it’ll go.
Rob says, ‘Want to talk about her?’
‘No.’
Rob pulls on the cigarette a few times, eyeing him as they walk. ‘And are you talking to—’
‘No,’ Luke says, cutting him off because if there’s one thing he wants to do less than talk about his mum, it’s talk about Mr Yardley, the counsellor who comes to school on a Tuesday lunchtime to try to make him talk about his mum. And Luke’s fine with talking to him in general, but he’s not saying a fucking word about that. Yardley’s all right, he doesn’t push it, and he doesn’t give him any bullshit cliché stuff about how it’ll all be all right in the end. But the fact of it is, Luke’s already said both the things he’s going to say.
She got sectioned.
My life went to shit.
That’s all there is.
Rob flicks the fag away, tucks his hands in his armpits, and leaves it.
They reach the field, and Rob finds a football in the hedge. He’s dribbling it back, shouting, happy. Luke runs at his brother and makes a play for the ball but Rob turns and boots it off towards the goal frame. He chases after it and he’s so fast; Luke’s forgotten how fast his brother is, he’s like a racehorse. Rob pulls his jacket off after a bit and he’s been working out because his shoulders have rounded out like watermelons where they used to be just bony corners like Luke’s. Luke has to try to catch him, but he hasn’t played in months and they’ve only kicked it around the goal for a bit before he’s had enough.
He stands there bent over for a while, his hands on his knees, getting his breath back. When Luke looks up, Rob’s leaning against the goalpost, his head tilted. Watching him.
‘So are you not going to ask?’ Rob says.
‘Ask what?’
Rob folds his arms. ‘I said, on the phone. Had some news for you?’
‘Right.’ Luke squints up at him. ‘Go on, then.’
‘About the guardianship. About you coming to live with me.’
‘What about it?’ Luke flexes his hands in his pockets. It’s going to be bad news. The next thing out of Luke’s mouth is going to have to be thanks for trying.
‘I talked to your social worker. We went through all the forms and everything. She’s doing the assessment and she reckons it’ll be all right.’
Luke presses his eyes shut until they feel all right again, dry, and when he opens them Rob’s swinging his bag off his back and unzipping it.
‘You’ve got to fill these in,’ he says, taking out some sheets of paper. They’re crumpled at the bottom and Rob tries to smooth them out before he hands them over to Luke. ‘We’ve both got to go to this family court thing and then I get to be your guardian. Until Mum gets better. And we’ll get our own money for your food and clothes and all that, direct payments.’
Luke’s bouncing on his heels. He can’t help it. Rob’s birthday, just over a month away. Thirty-four days. He thinks of his room at the home, what it looked like when he arrived and how fucking amazing it’ll be to pack everything up into his bags again and get the fuck out of there. Rob’s place is proper tiny, he’ll be kipping on the floor probably, but Luke doesn’t care. There’ll be no more sanctions and no more waiting all morning for Fat Jake to finish his wank before he can use the shower and no more those are angry feelings you’ve got, Luke and looks like you’re getting pretty frustrated there, Luke, and no more—
Paige.
No more Paige.
He stops bouncing.
‘I can’t.’
The smile slides off Rob’s face like it had been stuck on with Vaseline. ‘The fuck you talking about, you can’t? You telling me you want to stay in Beech fucking View?’
Luke doesn’t answer. Rob stares at him a bit, and then he starts nodding.
‘That girl. Whatshername.’
Luke keeps his mouth shut. He knows Rob knows her name. He’s seen him looking at her when he visits. There’s a reas
on they’re out here, and not in there, and that look Rob’s got, that’s the reason.
‘Seriously, that girl?’ Rob says, and a cloud goes across his face that makes Luke look away. ‘Is that what we’re talking about here? You can’t leave cos you’ve got a hard-on?’
‘It’s not like that, all right?’
‘No? Tell me what it is like then. Tell me why I wasted all that fucking time trying to help you.’
‘I can’t—’ Luke starts, and then he takes a deep breath. ‘I can’t leave her behind. Something bad’s happening with her.’
‘Bad like what?’
Luke shrugs. He can’t say about the car she got into without admitting he was spying on her, and he definitely can’t say about the bite mark or the johnnies. Even the jewellery she was wearing a few days ago – if he told Rob about that, what would he say? Presents don’t mean she’s being pimped out. Johnnies just mean she’s a slut. He knows something is wrong, but Rob’s not going to see it.
‘Bad like what, for fuck’s sake? What do you mean?’
Luke doesn’t let his gaze drop but he can’t make himself explain.
‘Nah, mate,’ Rob says, shaking his head. He makes it so he’s looking down at Luke, chin out, and Luke sees the thing about his brother that he doesn’t like to see. ‘Nah. You’ve got to be fucking careful what you’re saying here, little man. You need to keep your head down and your nose out, right?’
‘Just forget it,’ Luke says. His face is burning, and there’s tears coming out of him now because he doesn’t want Rob being pissed off at him but he can’t make him understand. He wants to go and live with him, he really fucking does, but Paige has got no one else.
Rob’s face changes and their dad disappears and he says, ‘All right, Luke, mate, come on. I’m just saying.’