by Susan Lewis
Angie went to the door, sick to her stomach, but managing to look them in the eye.
‘Mrs Watts?’ one of them asked. His voice was rough, but his manner wasn’t hostile, only enquiring.
She stood aside for them to come in. Part of her had expected Agi to be with them, checking to make sure everything went to plan, but there was no sign of him.
‘Can we see your ID please?’ Melvin asked, as they entered the sitting room.
Apparently unperturbed, both men complied, and at the same time introduced themselves. Nigel Hastings and Bruno Gesh. As they looked around, Hastings said, ‘You received notice to vacate the premises today, Mrs Watts, that includes your furniture …’
‘We don’t have anywhere to put it,’ Emma snapped at him.
Hastings glanced at his partner as Gesh put a hand on his arm and nodded towards the window.
Angie turned to see a small red van with gold lettering on its panels pulling up behind the 4×4. The locksmith, she realized, and suddenly she wished she’d allowed Emma to persuade her to leave without witnessing this.
Gesh said, ‘Mrs Watts, if you’re unable to move your furniture out today we’ll be forced to lock it inside the house, and it will be up to you to contact the landlord to arrange access and storage charges.’
Angie swallowed dryly. At least they weren’t going to try and dump it in the garden – she’d read somewhere that that could happen whether it was legal for them to do so or not – and she could only feel thankful that this man didn’t seem to realize that Agi and Roland Shalik would far rather that he did.
The next minutes passed in a blur that seemed timeless and surreal as the locksmith went about the task of making sure she couldn’t get into her beloved house again. Meanwhile Melvin escorted the bailiffs from room to room, monitoring their search for anyone who might be hiding in an attempt to stay put.
Emma slipped an arm round Angie’s shoulders and rested her head on hers. There were no words to make this any easier; all she could do was let Angie know she was there.
Angie opened the text and passed over her phone.
As she read it, Emma’s eyes widened in shock.
‘It came about an hour ago,’ Angie said. ‘I’ve no idea who sent it. I don’t even know whether to believe it, but God knows I want to.’
‘I think we should,’ Emma told her. ‘I mean, why would anyone say it if it wasn’t true?’
‘But why just sign themselves off as a friend? They’d surely know I’d want to be in touch to find out more.’
Having no answer for that, Emma simply gave the phone back and went to find out how things were progressing downstairs.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It was just after three thirty when the bailiffs finally encouraged everyone to leave the property – property? as though it had lost its identity – through the open front door. The new locks had been fitted and the locksmith had left. Angie was already wearing her coat, her bag was on her shoulder, so she forced herself to move one foot in front of the other, feeling as though the house itself was trying to pull her back inside.
When she reached the van it felt odd to see it looking as it always did; the houses around her and the green with its trees and stream hadn’t changed either. The ground was solid under her feet, the clouds above were holding on to the rain, the familiar sound of seagulls ripped and trilled through the air.
Life went on even as worlds fell apart.
She turned back and saw the bailiffs locking the front door and nailing something across the letter box.
‘You should go now,’ Melvin told her gently. ‘I’ll stay and make sure they leave the place intact.’
Taking the van keys, Emma eased Angie into the passenger seat and closed the door. After speaking with Melvin for a moment, she got into the driver’s side and started the engine. That was when Angie spotted Agi parked further down the street, watching through the shadow-dappled windscreen of his Toyota. Though a blind rage tried to seize her, a cold and powerful calm suppressed it. ‘Do you see him?’ she asked Emma as they drove towards him.
‘I do,’ Emma confirmed. ‘Ignore him.’
Angie wanted to, she really did, but there was nothing in her that would allow him the satisfaction of thinking that she’d left with her head down. So she stared at him, eyes cold, mouth curved in a smile that suggested she knew something he didn’t. Or she hoped that was how he’d interpret it. He’d find out soon enough that for the time being at least his boss had to store and take care of her furniture, so good luck selling the house while it was in its current state.
Ten minutes later Angie and Emma were at each end of the sofa in Emma’s sitting room, legs curled under them as they drank tea and watched raindrops meandering down the windowpane. The reality of being this side of the eviction process was still trying to establish itself; it had actually happened, the house was no longer Angie’s and never would be again.
To calm herself Angie kept focusing on the text about Liam. It was easier than trying to face the enormity of the situation. That was soon going to close around her like a folding umbrella; the words about Liam were like faint glints of sunlight on the darkest day.
She asked herself again and again who could have sent it, and why today? Was Liam really safe, or was it one of Grace’s Facebook friends making mischief?
She looked up as Emma’s phone rang.
Seeing a number she didn’t recognize Emma was about to ignore it when she remembered she’d given Melvin her number.
‘They’ve gone,’ he told her when she answered. ‘Someone else turned up after you’d driven away, I’m guessing he was the landlord or someone working for him, but he didn’t introduce himself.’
‘It was someone called Agi,’ Emma said, putting the call on speaker. ‘One of the landlord’s thugs. Did he speak to you?’
‘Only to ask who I was and what I was doing there. I told him I was a neighbour; I won’t go into what he said in return. It wasn’t helpful or particularly polite.’
Emma’s lip curled. ‘I’m sorry you had to meet him. I’m sorry you got dragged into this at all, but at the same time thank you …’
‘I didn’t get dragged in,’ he corrected her, ‘I volunteered, and I’m glad I was of some help. If you can text me your email address I’ll send you my contribution to the inventory photos.’
‘Of course. I’ll do it right away.’
After she’d rung off, Emma did as he’d asked and sat staring down at the phone saying nothing for a while, until she remarked idly, ‘He reminds me a bit of Matt Damon, does he you?’ When Angie didn’t answer she glanced up and seeing how lost and shattered her sister looked she moved over to hug her.
‘It’s funny, isn’t it,’ Emma said after a while, ‘how strangers can come out of nowhere and end up making all the difference.’
Angie understood what she was saying – their mother used to call such people angels sent by the Universe – and it was true Melvin had been kind today, more than kind, but as for making all the difference … Even the mysterious text hadn’t done that because she was homeless now, had no bathroom or kitchen to call her own, no back garden for the children to play in, or rooms for them to retreat to, or familiar place for them to chat as a family. The loss of 14 Willow Close was so enormous that she still couldn’t give it a proper perspective; couldn’t quite make herself accept that she’d never drive down that street again, or walk through that front door, or climb those stairs. When she pictured it, just the other side of the footbridge from where she was now, she could almost feel it waiting for her, expecting her to come back, to be its beating heart and living soul the way she always had.
She wasn’t going to allow herself to think of who might live there next, whether they’d cherish the place as dearly as she and Steve had, or change it in ways to suit their own tastes. It wouldn’t help to torment herself like that; she had no control over it, so for her own sake, and the children’s, she must try to force herself to let go.
‘Here they are,’ Emma said, as a car drew up outside and the children got out. ‘I’ll go and thank Rachel for bringing them.’
Happy not to see or speak to anyone apart from her family right now, Angie went through to the kitchen to take out the after-school snacks she’d bought specially for today. Cheesy Wotsits for the boys, a banana and date bar for Grace, and a bottle of cloudy lemonade for them to share. She and Emma would stick with tea, though they’d have no trouble seeing off an entire bottle of wine right now, and probably more, if they had some.
Alcohol wasn’t the answer. She must keep remembering that as the temptation grew stronger, and not let herself go near it while things were so bad. She’d seen too much evidence of what that slippery slope could lead to, and she was in a terrible enough place already.
‘Mum?’
She turned to find Grace and Zac at the door, pale-faced and watching her with a mix of hope and dread in their eyes. They knew it had happened, of course they did, they wouldn’t be here at Emma’s if it hadn’t, but she could see how desperately they wanted her to tell them that it had all been a dreadful mistake and everything was OK.
Opening her arms, she caught them to her, and pressed kisses to their hair as they hugged her back.
‘Was it terrible?’ Grace asked, searching her mother’s face with red-rimmed eyes.
Angie attempted a smile. ‘There was no fuss,’ she assured her. ‘They were quite polite, actually, and Melvin, the new neighbour, came in to lend some support.’
‘His twins are in my class,’ Zac told her.
Angie gazed lovingly down at him. ‘How was your day at school?’ she asked.
His lower lip trembled. ‘I couldn’t wait to get home,’ he confessed.
‘Nor me,’ Grace said. ‘It was hard to think about anything else.’
‘I kept wanting to cry,’ Zac admitted, ‘but I was afraid someone would see and tease me.’
‘I’d have whacked them if they did,’ Jack informed him, playing the older cousin as he came into the kitchen. His eyes lit up when he saw the snacks. ‘Are they for us?’ he asked excitedly.
‘For you all to share,’ Angie told him.
Harry came skidding through the door. ‘I’m starving,’ he cried, and seeing the Cheesy Wotsits he gave a whoop of joy.
Angie watched her nephews dive in, and tried nudging Zac to join them, but it seemed neither of her children was hungry today.
Taking out her phone, Angie showed Grace the text about Liam. ‘Do you think one of your friends might have sent it?’ she asked. ‘As some kind of joke?’
Grace was astonished and perplexed as she shook her head. ‘I don’t see why they would,’ she replied. ‘I mean, it’s not horrible or anything, and why send it to you, not to me, if it’s my posts they saw? How would they even know your number?’
It was a good question that no one had an answer for, so Angie put the phone away and hugged Grace to her.
‘I want to believe it,’ Grace whispered.
‘Me too,’ Angie whispered back, picturing her beautiful boy looking healthy and strong, a long way away from the gangs where they could never find him.
Dream on, Angie.
Later, as they set the table for supper, Grace said to her mother, ‘Are you sleeping here tonight?’
Aware of Emma listening, Angie was about to answer when Zac said, ‘Can I sleep with you? I don’t mind if it’s on the sofa.’
Angie quickly put on a smile as she turned to pass around the glasses. ‘I’ve arranged to stay at Brenda Crompton’s,’ she told them. ‘You know, the lady from the food bank.’
The children didn’t know Brenda, but Emma did, and since Brenda was the kind of person to help during a crisis it was likely Emma believed her. But Angie wasn’t the kind of person to ask such a favour when she knew how disruptive it could be to take in a homeless person, what a burden they could turn into, and she didn’t want Brenda to fear that from her. So her arrangements for tonight, and for all the nights that followed until she and the children were given a place together, were not what she was telling her family.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Later, after a supper of sausage and mash followed by a game of Monopoly – the irony of a property game in which she ended up with the ‘go straight to jail’ card twice wasn’t lost on Angie – she put on her best comforting smile as she prepared to say goodnight to the children. She was sure they couldn’t see how sick and anxious she was feeling inside, or how desperately she wanted to cling to them, but she knew that like her, they were thinking of their empty home all in darkness across the footbridge.
‘I’ll be here when you get up in the morning,’ she promised, hugging them hard, ‘and it’ll seem like I was always here.’
Zac was crying, and with a terrible wrench in her heart she saw that Grace’s eyes were full of tears too. They were afraid and confused, their world was in turmoil, and they had no idea what to expect from the days and weeks to come, what other shocks and traumatic upsets might be waiting for them. Still, at least they knew they were remaining with Auntie Em in the short term – that was familiar and safe – while their mother went to stay with a woman from the Salvation Army.
‘She’s a very nice lady,’ Emma assured them as Angie put on her coat. ‘She’s really kind and she’ll take good care of Mum, so don’t you go worrying yourselves now.’
‘But why can’t you stay here?’ Zac pleaded with Angie. ‘I don’t want you to go.’
‘I know,’ she murmured, ruffling his hair, ‘but we’ve been through this, sweetheart. We don’t want Auntie Em being forced out of her house for overcrowding, and if I’m here …’
‘But how will anyone know?’ he protested. ‘If we turn the lights off and pretend there’s no one at home then no one will see us.’
If it could only be so easy, Angie was thinking as she kissed him and looked over his head to Emma. There was every chance Amy Cutler was hiding behind her curtains right now watching Angie’s van, waiting for it to leave – and if it didn’t she’d be straight on the phone to Shalik.
Seeing the strain in Emma’s face, she felt a deepening guilt tighten her heart as she damned herself and Amy Cutler for bringing them to this.
‘Just take care of yourself,’ Emma murmured as they hugged goodnight at the door. ‘They’ll be fine with me, you know that.’
Of course Angie knew it, but she also knew that Emma was as worried as she was that Shalik might kick up about the children and threaten eviction. The house belonged to him and if he wanted Emma out she’d have to go.
As Angie drove away in torrential rain, waving to the children who were watching from the window, and blowing kisses in return for theirs, she felt the break in contact as she lost sight of the house as though it were a physical splintering in her heart.
She turned out of the Fairweather estate and headed for town. With each minute that passed her anxiety about the night ahead was growing to a pitch that made it difficult to focus on the road. She forced herself to breathe steadily, to count to ten, to think of Grace and Zac, Em and her nephews, her precious family who were safe tonight.
It was all that mattered; she only had to get through the next eight hours and in the morning she would see them again.
As she reached town, her small van passing under gleaming streetlights, one unassuming vehicle amongst many others, she headed for the seafront, certain it would be busy at this hour, in spite of the weather. She wasn’t wrong. It was Friday, so youngsters were out in numbers, swarming in and out of rowdy bars that lined the Promenade, mixing their cocktails, smoking, guffawing, the girls staggering on impossible heels and seeming not to notice the cold rain soaking into the gooseflesh of bare white thighs.
Circling at the end of the Promenade she passed the red-carpeted steps of the Royal Hotel where a uniformed doorman stood on duty, and joined the traffic crawling along the west bank of the grassy island that ran parallel to the shops and bars on the other side.
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Finding an empty parking spot almost opposite the Seafront Café, closed now, she turned off the engine and sat staring at the exquisite Victorian beach shelter a few feet away. With its dark red pillars, grey tiled roof and ornate filigree benches it offered scant protection from the elements, but emaciated and shivering human bodies were already scrunched down in sleeping bags for the night, or buried under cardboard, or wrapped in sheets of tinfoil. Later, Angie knew, it was possible they’d find themselves being urinated over, kicked, dragged out of their flimsy shells and mocked by drunken louts looking for sport, or maybe to impress a bunch of equally drunk girls.
She wasn’t planning to join the street sleepers; her only reason for choosing this spot was because she could stay for a while, blending in as if she were a mother come to drive a revelling teenager home.
Would she see Liam? What would she do if she did?
Thought you’d like to know Liam is safe.
Time ticked on, and as she grew colder and sadder, more desperate for her children and Steve, she saw more than any mother would ever want to see. Projectile vomiting over pavements and shopfronts; girls humped against walls or cars with a drink in one hand, brushing strands of hair from a bemused face with the other. She spotted dealers lurking on corners, saw how much business they were doing, and watched them melt like shadows into darkness each time blue flashing lights changed the tenor of the night.
Finally, around 2 a.m., lights began going off in the bars and clubs, slowly turning a kaleidoscopic façade of stately Victorian properties to a still and soundless terrace. Stragglers pitched in all directions, then zero-hour workers, exhausted and desperate for their beds, began trickling on to the street.
A transit van drew up outside one of the seamier clubs and a group of young girls in microscopic skirts and faux-fur jackets got in. Suddenly one of them broke free and started to run. A heavy man bolted after her, caught her by the hair and dragged her back to the van. No one emerged from a police car parked nearby though they must surely have seen it. Moments later it was as if the brief drama had never happened, and as Angie stared at the emptiness she felt certain the girls had been trafficked here and were now kept in virtual slavery. There was always someone, she thought bleakly, who was worse off, and God knew they were.