Luke Adams Boxset 1

by Dawson, H A

  She turned to face him. ‘Is she always this fussy?’

  ‘Yes. She doesn’t get to see people often. She likes the company.’ He placed the coffees onto coasters and slumped onto the armchair, his legs apart, his arms spread. ‘How are you coping in that massive house?’

  ‘Okay. I’m going to be staying on a bit longer. Tyler’s decided to stay with Darren for a while.’

  ‘How do you feel about that?’

  ‘Gutted, if I’m honest. I know I should be happy for him, but . . . well, I miss him.’

  ‘How long is it going to be for?’

  Averting her gaze, she fiddled with a button on her blouse. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I know how you feel. More than anything you want them to be happy, but at the same time there’s this gnawing selfish ache inside.’ He caught her eye. ‘It must be even worse for you. At least I know what Andrea is like.’

  ‘That’s just it. I don’t know anything about Darren. Do you think I should have said no?’

  ‘Tyler’s old enough to make his own mind up about things. Is he a sensible lad?’

  ‘I would say so. He’s matured a lot during these last few months. I hardly recognise him at times, but, having said that, he is only sixteen and still a child.’

  ‘They can be wise at that age.’

  ‘That may be so, but it doesn’t stop me from worrying. When I was with Darren years ago, he had loose morals . . . didn’t give a toss about anyone but himself. I hope he’s changed.’

  ‘It’s been a while so he should have. I think you just have to trust Tyler. If there’s a problem, you have to believe he will come good and turn to you.’

  She smiled. He was saying the right thing, and her perpetual ache lifted. She would always be Tyler’s mother. He was a sensible young man and he loved her. She should not worry.

  He leaned back into the chair. ‘It’s nice to see you again, Leanne. I thought I’d messed up.’

  ‘Me too. I’m sorry I rushed off from Teresa’s. I . . . Geoff-’

  ‘Geoff can be annoying. Take no notice.’

  ‘Teresa told me he realised he had overstepped the mark. She said it was his idea to go out for a meal.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Really?’

  ‘Apparently so.’

  ‘He’s not known to backtrack.’

  ‘Do you think he’s up to something?’

  ‘No, I doubt it. Teresa would see through that.’

  ‘She doesn’t think it’s a good idea to search for Mum,’ she said, her voice weakening, ‘I have a feeling she knows more than she’s letting on.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so. If she did, I’m sure she’d tell you.’

  ‘I hope so. I’m just a bit on edge at the moment . . . probably a bit stressed and maybe even paranoid.’

  ‘Understandable given what you’ve been through. Who did you say that woman in the village was?’

  ‘Queenie. Do you know her?’

  ‘No, I’ve not seen her before.’

  ‘She didn’t have a high opinion of Janet. She said she was strict and not a nice woman to be around.’

  ‘She didn’t seem like that to me,’ he said.

  ‘No, me neither, but I suppose people change.’

  For a moment, both were silent, and then Steven stood up and joined her on the sofa, sitting a breath away and wiping all thoughts of Queenie from her mind. His hand rested on the fabric next to her thigh. He was staring, analysing. She could not look and feared the intimacy.

  Her pulse was racing and hands were trembling, and without thinking, she dropped her hand to his. He took it in his palm. It was firm and warm. She was safe, part of something again, and looked into his eyes, pools of blue, deep and reassuring.

  Their lips met. He swept his hand across her back. Her body tingled, hypersensitive, her pleasure domes receptive and wanting more; yet, she dared not move, fearing an inability to control herself, and remained statuesque, soaking up his touch.

  He pulled away, gazed at her with adoration and smiled. She smiled back.

  A deepening niggle enveloped her and she reached for her mug and squeezed out the last sip of cold coffee. It should be Phillip holding her in his arms. It should be him comforting her. It should be him walking into the future by her side.

  Recollections of his premature death crashed into her, dissolving all feeling for Steven. Upon learning of the accident, she had crumpled to the floor, still clutching the telephone in her hand. She could remember experiencing a feeling of utter emptiness, and it had crushed her of life, removing all desire to live. The voice had been faint in the earpiece, the condolences meaningless. She had been static, unable to function, unable to be hysterical. Phillip had gone, died in a tragic accident, crashing into a rock face. He had gone forever.

  ‘I . . . I can’t do this,’ she whimpered, turning to Steven. ‘I’m sorry.’

  He waited, sorrow not quite hidden behind his impassive expression.

  She moved to the edge of the sofa, searching for calmness, searching for the right words to explain her behaviour. She looked at him, her words inappropriate. She looked away.

  A book on a nearby bookcase caught her eye. It was a book on microlighting. Ignited by further panic, she leapt to her feet.

  ‘I should go.’

  ‘You don’t have to. I do understand.’

  As though magnetised, she reached to the book. Yet she was not quite able to touch it, not quite able to explain herself. Plaintively, she looked to Steven then started to the door.

  He escorted her outside. His words, his offer of friendship, floated in the air.

  Her eyes misted with tears, and her inability to love again squeezing her of breath.

  Chapter 16

  The door slammed shut, echoing in Queenie’s ears as she advanced to the kitchen. Her anxieties were rising, her blood fizzing, and her mind swirling and incoherent. Needing a barricade, a subtle opt-out from her ponderings, she cracked open a can of lager, lit a cigarette, and sat at the kitchen table.

  The refreshing liquid descended her throat, soothing both mentally and physically. It was a familiar place, an instant albeit temporary solution, and it dampened down her agitations and eased her tremors. Her life was a mess, her woes never ending and preventing her from moving forward, and she longed for an end.

  A couple of weeks previous her son, Kyle, had pushed her aside. All she had wanted to do was to spend time with her young granddaughter and offer advice, but he had not been receptive to her suggestions and had told her to leave. His final words and the piercing screams from his stuck-up girlfriend reverberated through her ears. She called her an interfering bitch, snatched the baby from her arms, and criticised her efforts with Kyle, reminding her of the faults as a mother.

  It was lies. Granted, Kyle's had not had the best childhood but it had not been her fault. His father abandoned her, she had been evicted from her flat, and she had no income. Then there was the incident when she drank too much and Kyle had wandered out of the house. He had come to no harm, so why was everyone in such a panic? Why had everyone made her feel sick to the stomach?

  Her network of support had been lacking. She had no family to turn to, and her friends claimed to be too busy, their own lives taking priority. She had no choice but to take the occasional chance, but never, not ever, would she have deliberately put her child in danger.

  Kyle and his stuck-up girlfriend should have been more appreciative of her offer of assistance; they did not have a clue as to how lucky they were. It was their first child, and Queenie could see they were struggling. They had no idea about feeding routines and sleeping patterns, and no idea when to let her play and when she should rest. Then there was the discipline; rushing to a crying child so instantaneously was asking for trouble in the long term. Why couldn’t they see that? They were pig-headed and ungrateful. She would have loved to be in their position; she had had no one willing to help her. No one at all.

  She reached into her po
cket for her phone and checked for messages, hoping for an apology. The screen was blank and her heart sank, and Kyle’s vindictive words tightened its stranglehold. Part of her wanted to withdraw some of her comments and behaviour and offer a silent show of support to the new parents; another part of her reminded her that she had spoken and acted out of love and that she had no need to do so. She had been trying to help and had not wanted them to suffer. She had no other motive.

  Puffs of smoke extended towards the ceiling in rings. Was it too much to ask to be loved in return, just occasionally? Was she such a horrible person? She had been marked from day one, and the punishment, the life she had been given was slowly, insidiously erasing all hope. Her mind drifted back to Leanne.

  She was in so many ways the spitting image of Janet. She was well educated, had a high moral standing, and a tidy, almost too perfect, appearance. She could hear Janet in her voice - the pronunciation of certain words and the shrill edge depicting her irritation – yet she was not nearly as assertive, and Queenie wondered how the two could ever get on.

  As soon as the thought entered her head, she realised the answer. Leanne was the perfect granddaughter, the good girl, the second chance, and no doubt obedient and hardworking. She was nothing like Karen. There never could be a relationship there.

  Janet had carved Leanne into shape, and in doing so had severed any link to Karen. She would have told her of her friend’s atrocious behaviour; she would have lied unashamedly; she would have painted the most heinous image.

  Karen was better off out of it. She was not the evil person depicted. She was misunderstood, a soft-centre in a hard shell and she had been driven away.

  Footsteps sounded. Queenie looked through the doorway and up the staircase and saw a fleeting glimpse of red hair moving towards her.

  The chair scraped on the floor and Rusty sat down.

  ‘I’ve just been speaking to Leanne,’ Queenie said.

  ‘What does she know?’

  ‘Not a lot. I reckon she thought highly of Janet.’

  ‘What did you tell her?’

  ‘Nothing. How could I?’

  ‘Maybe you should.’

  ‘It’s not the time, and anyhow, I reckon Janet’s brainwashed her. She has the same attitude and stinks of money.’

  Rusty gazed vacantly.

  ‘It’s been thirty years,’ she continued, ‘it’s too late to make amends. If you think anything else you’re bloody naïve.’

  She withdrew a cigarette from the packet and leaned across to Queenie to light it. Smoke filled the room, forming in a hanging cloud above their heads.

  ‘It brought it all back,’ Queenie said, ‘how that woman treated us all. She had it coming, the bloody hypocrite.’

  ‘But she didn’t suffer in the end, did she? Not really.’

  The remnants in the lager slipped down Queenie’s throat, and for a moment, as she held the cool object in her hand images of the house, its massive structure and exquisite furniture, caused her envy to grow.

  ‘It’s not changed, still as beautiful.’

  ‘The house?’

  She nodded. ‘I went last week. Leanne saw me.’ She dropped the empty can into a bin by the side of the table and removed a bottle of brandy and two glasses from the cupboard. ‘She’s gotten friendly with Teresa. I just saw them in the village.’

  ‘You’re kidding!’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She’ll say something for sure.’

  She held a determined gaze. ‘Then why hasn’t she already? She has her motives too, remember?’

  ‘I can hardly forget.’

  ‘I don’t like it. She’s up to something. We should keep them apart.’

  ‘What you thinking?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She paused, pensive. ‘We should go see Leanne again, find out what’s going on.’

  ‘I’m not sure . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll do it.’

  ‘I’m still not sure it’s a good idea. Maybe we should keep our heads down.’

  Queenie flung her an irritated stare, and then swept back the brandy. ‘Unless . . .’

  ‘Go on.’

  She rotated the glass between her fingers. ‘She’s been seeing a bloke called Steven George. Any idea who he is?’

  ‘I can find out.’

  She grinned. ‘Good. Now, about Teresa.’

  ‘We should make sure she keeps her mouth shut.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly.’

  Queenie carried the bottle and glass into the next room and sank into a chair. She should be happy having a sense of purpose and something to distract her from her troubles with her son. Yet she still reached into her pocket for her phone and gazed at the blank screen. Her ponderings were dark and she relived each moment of sorrow, from those in the distant past to the ones experienced recently. Everyone hated her, but more than that, she hated herself.

  Her baby granddaughter had been a turning point. It had turned into another missed opportunity.

  Thank goodness for the bottle.

  Chapter 17

  A delicate clunking sound echoed through Luke’s ears as he watched Susie knock her glass against her plate. Her face was pleasing - unblemished and with a healthy pink glow - and her hair rested in a neat bob on her shoulders. He followed the curve of her chin and looked down to her neckline, tracing the freckles and the slight discolouration. She smelled delicious, just as she had when his hands had explored her form.

  It had been a swift encounter, and he sensed, as was the case for him, that the joining fulfilled only lustful needs. Yet, the moment stayed with him. He visualised her naked body; her beautiful rounded breasts bobbing as she swayed, her slender hips making perfect handles, and her firm legs, long, soft and supple.

  His body tingled and his chest tightened, the thoughts thrilling. She caught his eye. Hurriedly, he shut his mouth, stopping his gawping and averted his eyes.

  ‘Did you see that programme on wife-swapping last night?’ she asked.

  He shook his head, his expression blank.

  ‘Would you ever be up for that?’

  His irritations rose. Did he have to answer such a question? ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Me neither. I reckon they slept together, don’t you?’

  He remained impassive.

  ‘Did you see the woman with the big red hair? She couldn’t have been more obvious with that mini skirt and plunging lace top.’

  Susie gave her full analysis, describing personality traits, contestant integration, and appearances, and even though her voice was animated, he struggled to remain attentive. After what seemed like an age, she paused for breath.

  ‘I don’t find reality shows appealing,’ he said.

  ‘Then you’re missing out. It’s fascinating watching what people get up to behind closed doors.’

  ‘Live and let live, I say.’

  ‘You should try it. It’s hilarious viewing. Some of the people are so desperate to get noticed that they would do anything.’

  ‘Just for fifteen minutes of fame?’

  She seemed to be scrutinising him, looking beyond his eyes searching for his thoughts.

  ‘I can think of better ways,’ he continued.

  ‘I hear you’re quite famous around these parts.’

  ‘It’s not the same. I’m just doing a job.’

  ‘Even so, it must have its perks.’

  ‘I can’t think of any.’

  ‘You must have been invited to places, met famous people.’

  He leaned back into his chair. ‘Not that I recall.’

  ‘You’ve been on the television.’

  ‘I only met the presenters. They’re just normal people . . . like you and me.’

  Susie was gazing out of the window, looking towards the shoppers and office workers sauntering by. She was easily impressed and not at all like Imogen . . . or was she?

  Imogen cared about her appearance and she chattered about meaningless reality shows, but somehow
it was different. For some reason he found her behaviour appealing rather than repelling. It showed her zest for life and displayed her innocence, a beautiful asset. It also made her seem more feminine; it was a wonderful contrast to her quick wit and sharp personality. The same behaviour made Susie appear dull.

  ‘I’m going to have to get back to work,’ he said, ‘Imogen will be wondering where I am.’

  ‘It’s fantastic that she’s moving in with Mark, don’t you think?’

  ‘It’s not for me to comment.’

  ‘They are great together. It’s been a long time coming.’

  ‘I’m not sure they are that well suited.’

  When Susie’s head jerked, he regretted his comment and his shame surfaced.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ she urged.

  ‘It’s just a feeling.’

  He made a swift decision to leave and weaved around the tables progressing to the exit. Imogen was not as bubbly with Mark as she was with him; there wasn’t the teasing or the lively banter. Something was missing and their relationship seemed strained. However, voicing his opinion would be unproductive and he bit back his words. He only wanted her to be happy and had no reason to wish her ill.

  They stepped into the brisk autumn air, sauntering back through the town centre towards their respective workplaces when a plaintive cry caught their attention. A child had slipped into the fountain and lay face down in the water. He raced towards them, elbowing past distracted pedestrians, and reached over the edge for the youngster. The toddler was soaking and his face red and contorted.

  He handed the child to a frantic woman.

  ‘What the hell were you doing?’ she screamed at the boy.

  The woman gripped her son’s shoulders, searching for his explanation. It did nothing to ease the child’s fears, and his small body convulsed with sobs.

  ‘You should get him inside, keep him warm,’ Luke said, ‘I have an office just around the corner-’

  ‘No, thanks. I have somewhere to go.’

  ‘Are you sure? It’s no trouble.’

  ‘Yes, and thank you.’

  The woman checked the boy’s state and continued to reprimand him.