by Jess Ryder
He’d had a difficult childhood, she understood and sympathised with that. He’d virtually been a father to Micky, who was still a great worry to him. It wasn’t surprising that he couldn’t take on any more responsibility. Not yet, anyway. So she carried on popping her contraceptive pill every night.
Micky had managed to keep himself out of prison, but he wasn’t in a great state. Now that he had a criminal record, it was hard for him to get work. He’d had a week’s trial at a petrol station, but when the takings didn’t balance, he was accused of dipping his hand in the till. There was no proof, but he was still let go. His brother had marched into the garage like a mum going up to the school and demanded to see the boss. It didn’t do any good; they said Micky was lucky they hadn’t called the police.
He was signing on and hanging out with the old crowd, several of whom had been inside; it was only a matter of time before they dragged him back into crime. Foxy tried to keep him busy – they joined a darts team and went to the football together. And he came over every Sunday for lunch. Micky was a nice enough kid, but he drank too much and swore in front of Abigail. He needed house-training, frankly.
‘Lunch is ready!’ Kay chirped, her fingers stinging with the hot plates as she carried them into the dining area. They had a through lounge with folding doors in the middle.
‘I’m sitting next to Mummy!’ Abigail bounded over to the table and scrambled onto the seat.
‘You’ll sit where I tell you to sit,’ Foxy growled, but he didn’t make her change.
Micky plonked his beer can on the tablecloth and sat down opposite Kay, stretching his long legs into her space. The two brothers were side by side, and as they ate, she noticed how alike they were, how similar their way of eating. They shovelled the food into their mouths at an alarming rate, as if expecting the plate to be whisked away at any moment. Her gaze rested on Micky. He was too skinny and had a few spots on his chin, but when he grew up, he’d be just as much of a catch as his brother. He caught her looking at him and their eyes met briefly.
‘Great grub, Kay,’ he said, winking. ‘Any more chicken going?’
‘I’ll see what I can find,’ she smiled. ‘Fancy a wing?’
‘I always a fancy a wing.’ He laughed coarsely, as if she’d just made a dirty joke.
Foxy usually had seconds, but her exchange with Micky seemed to have put him in a bad mood. He refused the dessert of tinned peaches and ice cream and left the table, sticking the telly on. An old black-and-white war film was playing – artillery fire and stirring orchestral music blared out. Micky pretended not to notice. Or maybe he did notice and played up to Kay to cause mischief. He made more remarks about her fantastic cooking and helped her clear the table.
Kay was cross with her husband for spoiling what had otherwise been a nice meal. When Micky offered to dry up, she let him. It made a nice change to have someone to chat to while she washed the dishes. He told a funny story about his mad old landlady and made her laugh. He wasn’t a bad kid, she thought; he’d just lost his way.
After they’d finished clearing up, she made a cup of tea and then Micky went home to his lodgings. Abigail was upstairs playing princesses by herself. The war film was still droning on; the music sounded very sentimental, which meant it must be nearing the end. Kay washed the cups and saucers and laid them on the draining board. She wanted to bring Foxy out of his sour mood but she didn’t know how.
‘Flaming Nora! What did you think you was doing?’ She turned around to see him standing in the doorway, as if she’d somehow conjured him from her thoughts.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she replied, feeling her legs starting to tremble. His face was like thunder and he was glaring at her from beneath his eyebrows.
‘You little slut. Virtually having it off with my brother while I’m in the next room – you disgust me.’
‘Don’t be silly. We were washing up, that’s all.’
‘You were leading him on all during lunch, winking and flirting, playing footsie under the table—’
‘I was not!’
‘You were, I saw you. Put me right off my food.’
He stepped forward and she backed away, only there was nowhere to go so she had to move sideways, clinging to the edge of the worktop.
‘Please, Foxy. I didn’t do anything wrong.’
‘You never, ever, ever flirt with my brother again.’
He put his hand round her throat and squeezed. She opened her mouth, but the scream was trapped inside.
Chapter Twelve
Stella
Now
‘We’re colluding in a very bad situation,’ says Jack. We’ve come down to the beach to discuss what we’re going to do about Lori. ‘This husband of hers very obviously shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near his kids,’ he continues. ‘Nor should she.’
‘I agree about him, but not her,’ I reply. ‘Lori’s not violent.’
‘Not that you know. You’re assuming she’s telling the truth about why the children have been taken away from her.’ He starts picking up stones and throwing them into the sea.
‘It’s only because she’s still with Darren.’ I lift my voice above the wind. ‘We need to convince her that ditching him completely is the only way to get her kids back. We have to wean her off him, like a drug.’
He raises his eyebrows at the word ‘we’. ‘That’s not our job; we’re not professionals. I certainly don’t know what I’m doing, and nor do you.’ He hurls a stone and watches it skim across the water.
‘Lori doesn’t trust professionals, but she trusts us.’
‘Leave me out of it, please.’ He crouches down on the pebbles, picking up a few and turning them over, assessing their suitability for flight.
‘But we – I – can help her, I know I can. I want to help her, Jack, it’s important to me.’
He stands up and releases another stone with a flick of his wrist. It bounces several times on the surface before plopping into the sea. I can’t skim stones to save my life, and Jack has never been able to teach me. I realise in that moment that he can’t understand other people’s problems unless he happens to share them. There’s no point in trying to bring him around to my point of view, I’m going to have to be assertive.
‘I know you’re not happy about it, but I’m going to let her stay for another week or so. Don’t worry, she’ll keep out of your way; you won’t even know she’s there.’
He looks out to sea, his eyes fixed on the wind farm, its white sails whirring in the distance. ‘Okay, Stella, do what you want, like you always do. Be a Good Samaritan, if you must. I still think there’s something fake about Lori, something about her story that doesn’t ring true. I can’t explain it, it’s just a feeling. You can ignore me if you like, but don’t expect me to pick up the pieces if it all goes wrong.’
‘There won’t be any pieces.’ I lean into him, kissing the small patch of beardless skin on his face. ‘Thanks. This means a lot to me.’
Lori is visibly moved when we tell her she can stay for a little while longer. She can see that Jack’s still unhappy about it, so she diplomatically makes herself scarce for the rest of the weekend, confining herself to her bedroom and only coming downstairs when she needs to make a drink or get something to eat.
We don’t talk about her, but the subject lingers in the air like a bad smell. By Sunday evening, I’m desperate for a break and suggest we go to Whitstable to see a film. There’s an arts centre there with a good programme of independent cinema. Jack’s a sucker for subtitles.
As he drives us there via the coast road, I’m reminded that this is my car, bought with my inheritance money. Jack has very little of his own – a few bits of furniture, some sound equipment, a couple of guitars, some boxes of books. Even though he has a good job, he’s not been able to build up any savings. That’s not because he’s extravagant; it’s just impossible if you’re paying rent in London. Now, at thirty-three, he’s living in an enormous house overlooking the sea, less
than an hour’s commute from the office. There’s no rent to pay, no mortgage to cover. We share the bills, he fills the car with petrol every so often, treats me to meals out and contributes towards the supermarket shop. He pays his way, but he’s not putting down roots. Nothing belongs to him legally; he has no stake in our life here. It’s not surprising that he feels vulnerable, but then so do I. There’s nothing to link us together. He could walk out of my life at any moment and barely leave a trace.
I stare out of the car window at the grey expanse of sea, my thoughts washing over the past sixteen months. If I’d met Jack before my parents died, I wonder what difference it would have made. He never met the old me – I’ve no idea whether he would have liked her, or even preferred her. I used to be shiny and brittle, covered in a hard, reflective surface that everybody bounced off. Always up for a good time, getting pissed and having a laugh. I wasn’t interested in serious relationships, declared I would put my career before any man. I was a journalist for a lifestyle magazine and lived off the freebies – meals in fancy restaurants, weekends away in expensive hotels, tickets for gigs, invites to gallery openings and nightclub launches. It was fun, fun, fun all the way, yet completely hollow.
Then Mum and Dad were killed in the hit-and-run and everything fell apart. There was a huge outpouring of grief in the village, tributes flowing in from colleagues at Social Services, not to mention cards and letters from previous foster kids – the success stories, that is, people who had grown up and gone on to lead happy lives thanks to my parents. But I couldn’t cope; not with the funeral or the memorial service, nor with my judgemental aunts and uncles, certainly not with the police investigation. Everything I’d been hiding from all these years was suddenly right in my face. I had so much baggage weighing me down, I could hardly move.
My friends who knew me from university or work were sympathetic and supportive at first, but they couldn’t understand why I had gone to pieces so completely. Of course it was a shocking tragedy to lose both parents in one go, but it was obvious my reaction was way over the top. Something else was going on, but I wouldn’t tell anyone.
I threw in my job at the magazine and sank into depression. My friends stopped calling and texting to see how I was, stopped inviting me out – they felt helpless and didn’t know what to do. Only Molly kept in touch, although I didn’t see her often because she lived in my home town and was very involved in her wedding plans.
It had never occurred to me that Mum and Dad would leave everything to me in their will. I nearly gave it all away to charity, but Molly helped me see that I could use the inheritance in a positive way. I could escape from London and live a much healthier life, physically and spiritually. I would have time to take stock, rethink my career and maybe do something more worthwhile. In time, and with a bit of luck, I would fall in love, settle down and start a family. Then I’d be happy.
I was cynical about it at first. I wasn’t sure I could transform, or that I was entitled to a second chance. But then I met Jack – on the Tube of all places. The train broke down between stations and we were stuck in the same carriage for two hours. We had to walk down the track through the filthy dark tunnel, and he held my hand all the way because I was scared. He invited me to go for a drink to recover and things moved quickly from there. He threw me the lifeline I needed. Changing my life was a daunting prospect, but if I could do it with somebody at my side, somebody who didn’t know about my past, I reckoned there was more hope of success.
‘I love you,’ I say, squeezing his thigh. ‘I’m really sorry about all this. I promise I won’t let Lori stay for much longer. Then we’ll get the house finished and everything will be all right.’
* * *
We get through the next week without too much problem. Jack leaves early for work each morning and Lori makes sure she’s in her room by the time he gets home. She eats at about six, then goes upstairs and watches videos on YouTube, or calls her mum or whomever – I don’t know what she does really, but the point is, she doesn’t disturb us. In the daytime, she grafts for Alan: fetching and carrying, holding bits of plasterboard while he screws them in place, sweeping up, washing down, filling old cement bags with rubble. She won’t put stuff in the skip, though, because that would involve going outside and stepping onto the driveway.
She hasn’t mentioned Darren, but I know she’s still scared of him. She behaves as if she knows he’s out there, lying in wait. But how can he be, when he doesn’t know where she is? Unless she told him, or told her mother, who was forced to reveal it. I should be able to ask her such questions, but it’s embarrassing; she’ll think I don’t trust her. And I do trust her; it’s just that sometimes what she says and what she does don’t quite add up.
It’s mid morning and I haven’t got much to do. I find myself staring out of the large bay window of our bedroom, thoughts revolving in my brain. I can’t see anyone watching the house. It would be possible, I suppose, to hide in the shelter on the other side of the road, next to the slope of grass and the benches where the old people sit. But it’s too cold to stay there for long. Then there are the beach huts, but they’re all boarded up for the winter. He’d have to break in, and surely somebody would notice. But then again, there’s hardly anyone on the beach at this time of year.
Now that the possibility’s in my head, I can’t let it go. I pull on my coat and scarf, pick up my bag and slip out of the house. As soon as I step outside, the icy wind slaps me across the cheeks. I cross the road and walk down the steps to the lower promenade, where a row of beach huts faces the sea. They are packed together tightly, as if huddling from the cold, their summery paintwork – duck-egg blue, primrose yellow, baby pink and mint green – at odds with the dull greys and browns of winter.
I walk along the row, inspecting the padlocks and boarded windows. There’s no sign of a break-in or anyone camping inside. No violent-looking man lurking in the shadows. Of course there isn’t. I was scaring myself for nothing.
The breeze is sharp, but I carry on along the promenade, pulling my scarf up to just beneath my nose. I don’t want to go back to the house yet. I’m sick of the noise and dust, the old seventies hits blaring out of Alan’s radio. When I reach the pier, I head inland to the high street, which runs parallel with the Esplanade, and dive into a charity shop for the local hospice.
I run my fingers through the rail of women’s clothing, looking for something in Lori’s size. She desperately needs more things to wear. I feel bad that I haven’t thought of it before. I quickly find a pink jumper that I know will suit her, then I see a patterned jersey top. I hold it up to the fluorescent strip lights, imagining the yellow and toffee-coloured swirly shapes hugging Lori’s squat, round body. It’s hard to choose for someone when you don’t know their style. Not that it matters too much when she’s still refusing to leave the house.
Why won’t she go out? The question still nags at me. She’s supposed to see her children once a fortnight, but she’s been staying with us for nearly three weeks now, which means she must have missed a visit. Surely it’s worth the risk of leaving the house to see her kids. I start flicking through a rail of jeans, trying to guess her size. Adding a pair of size 14s to my haul, I wander over to the till.
Perhaps Darren knows where the children are living and when Lori normally goes to see them. If so, that would definitely scare her off, but it seems such a shame that her kids are missing out. I remember that the foster kids my parents looked after often felt abandoned by their parents, not understanding that they’d been taken from them by force. I wish I could talk to Lori properly about it, but it feels awkward – too intrusive.
‘Excuse me? I said, do you need a bag?’ The assistant’s voice lurches me out of my ruminations.
‘Er, no, it’s okay, I’ve got one.’ I pull a crumpled plastic carrier out of my pocket.
When I arrive back at the house, I call out for Lori but she doesn’t answer. She probably can’t hear me above the noise of the building work. I take o
ff my coat and scarf, then climb the stairs, eager to give her my small present.
Alan is taking up the floorboards in one of the front bedrooms. He says they’re riddled with woodworm and all have to be replaced.
‘Seen Lori?’ I ask above the racket of some ancient pop song on the radio.
‘In one of the back rooms,’ he replies, putting down his claw hammer. ‘I sent her to do some stripping; she was getting under my feet in here.’
I go back onto the landing and listen for the sounds of her scraping the walls, but I can’t hear anything. No, that’s not true, there’s a faint sobbing coming from somewhere at the back of the house. I quickly walk down the dog-leg corridor and through a fire door, following the noise until I reach one of the smaller bedrooms.
She’s sitting on the floor, on her knees, head bowed, hugging herself and crying. A bucket of soapy water and the scraper sit at her side. I crouch next to her, putting my hands around her shoulders.
‘Lori? What’s the matter?’
‘Look,’ she whispers, her voice choked with tears. ‘Look at the wall.’
Chapter Thirteen
Stella
Now
I glance upwards at the half-stripped wall ahead of us and see several crude drawings made with coloured felt pen – thick, wobbly lines in black, red, green and blue.
My stomach sickens as I stare at the childishly drawn images – a series of cartoons featuring stick people, some big, some small, some wearing triangular skirts, with long hair flicked up at the ends. The men, who all have short hair sticking out of the top of their heads, are holding weapons, sticks or strange shapes that could be chairs or tables. One man is waving a large knife dripping with oversized drops of red blood.