by Jessica Ames
“You have a list of shelters?” I ask.
She hands me a print out of telephone numbers and names. The top section of contact details are already crossed through. And I forget about Simon and about my neighbour because all my focus is on Hattie and getting her safe. Time is precious in these cases and we have to act fast. My own problems are left at the door because all that matters are the people in this shelter.
“We’ll find her somewhere safe,” I say, and I’m not sure if I’m trying to assure Holly or myself.
Chapter Four
“It’s far too cold to be outside,” Holly mutters, and she’s not wrong.
Why on earth she thought it would be a good idea to hold a charity market sale in January, I don’t know. We should have waited and done it in July—or better still, indoors. Instead, we’re both wrapped up in so many layers we can hardly move, and yet I’m still freezing. My breath puffs out in little clouds of steam and even the thick gloves I’m wearing are doing nothing to stop my fingers from aching.
“Just think of the money we’re going to make,” I return, even though my own excitement at fundraising is starting to wane as fast as the temperature is dropping.
“That is the only reason I’m not throwing the mother of all tantrums right now,” Holly grumbles, and I can’t help but laugh at her.
“It’s not that bad.”
“It’s not that good either. Next time I have the urge to try something quirky, just tell me no, will you?”
I smile as I duck my head because telling Holly no to anything is not possible.
Our fearless leader decided our first quarter charity event should be a post-Christmas sale—a January sale for bric-a-brac and whatever tat we all had lying around.
One of the local high schools, Hazelwood Academy, gave us the go ahead to use their playground to hold it and Holly managed to wangle help from the town council. This means when we arrived at the crack of dawn this morning we were greeted by all the stalls used just over a month ago to host Kingsley’s Christmas market. It had been fun when it was set up in town—all the little mock log cabin frontages of the stalls, the fairy lights and other décorations. It was a lot more exciting being on the other side of the stall and drinking mulled wine while making my way through a stack of mince pies. It’s not so fun standing in the bitterly cold air the whole day, particularly as it’s the last Saturday in January and this morning dawned with a chill in the air. It’s practically Arctic, in fact.
But I reassure Holly anyway because that is what friends do.
“It is different and people will love it because of that. That’s the main thing, Hol—getting people out here to buy our wares.”
I can’t help but glance down at the table of junk in front of us as I speak and I can’t stop from wincing as I take it all in. I’m sceptical we’re going to make any money at all. Not that I won’t give it a bloody good shot, but I can’t imagine anyone wanting this crap. There’s a lot of old paperbacks, painting equipment, some toys and stacks of material. June threw in an old Singer sewing machine, which I’m hoping we can flog for at least forty quid, but I don’t see us making more than a hundred pounds total—and that’s being ambitious.
Still, a hundred pounds is better than nothing, and every little bit helps.
Holly and the shelter’s staff try to host an event once a quarter and Holly uses the proceeds of what is made to buy new furniture or clothing or anything that is needed for the shelter’s residents. While Hope House gets most of its funding from Safe Shelter’s central office in Bedford, there are always things that are needed, so anything we can make above that goes a long way to help.
And while people in Kingsley may not have much themselves, they are generous with what they do have. We’ve had people bring stuff to the school for us to sell and many local businesses have come along today, donating their time and products to help us. Kingsley may be money poor, but it is definitely rich when it comes to compassion.
“Is that snow?” Holly demands, peering past the fake log cabin roof covering our stall to look up at the sky, which is a suspicious shade of dark grey. However, I don’t see any white flakes.
“Stop being dramatic.”
She sags while standing, something of a feat. It’s actually impressive.
“I’m all for raising money, but do we need to get pneumonia in the process? There is a whole building right there—one that has central heating.”
She’s not wrong; it is freezing. And Jackie, the school’s outreach officer (a title that sounds made up to me), is nowhere to be seen. This is not a good thing because she is also our contact at the school. I suspect she has keys to the building and could open up the canteen so the stall holders can at least get out of the elements for a short time.
I tug my bobble hat further down my head to cover the tips of my ears, which feel like they might break off if I touch them, and snuggle deeper into my coat, wishing it was thicker.
“We’ll warm up once we start getting busy,” I lie. I don’t think I’m ever going to be warm again.
She snorts, then mutters out of the blue, “What’s ‘Dim Tim’ doing?”
I follow her line of sight as she peers down the line of market stalls towards a gangly, awkward looking man who is standing talking to Miriam. She owns a bakery just off the high street and makes the most scrumptious cakes I’ve ever tasted. I swear I’ve put ten pounds on my bum alone from eating her baked goods. Miriam is also married and, from her body language, not remotely interested in anything Tim is saying.
“Who is ‘Dim Tim’?” I ask.
Holly rolls her eyes. “He’s a Council paper pusher; he’s also useless. He doesn’t do anything for the community, and I’m pretty sure he’s up to his neck in dirt. He’s supposed to be here to make sure everything runs smoothly, but he looks like he’s more interested in trying to get his leg over.”
“How can you tell that from here?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Because I can see the desperation. Maybe I should go and rescue Mim—take one for the whole of womankind.”
“Maybe,” I say, but my attention is snared by something else, something that makes my heart skip a beat and then pound painfully in my chest.
It’s the rumble of bikes, although this time it’s not one, but multiple. It’s loud, so loud I have to resist the urge to cover my ears as I twist in the direction of the noise.
At the far side of the playground, away from where all the stalls are set up, bike after bike pulls up in a line. It’s synchronised to perfection, each one an equal distance from the next, each one sliding in just as the one before it finds its space.
I watch mesmerised as at least ten motorcycles file in. Each rider remains on their bike as more join the line. Only once the last rider slots in at the end do they cut their engines at the same time. The resulting silence is as loud as the pipes.
“Oh, boy,” Holly mutters, and I can’t help but agree with her as I watch the men dismount. A few have passengers on the back of their rides, but most are solo. It’s a hell of a show; I’ve never seen anything like it, and normally I would have been in awe of it. However, that is not the feeling I’m having right now. Instead, my chest aches unpleasantly. I rub a gloved hand over my sternum, trying to displace the ache.
“What are they doing here?” I demand, my apprehension mounting.
What if my neighbour is with them? What if he decides to take me to task over what happened? It has been just over a week since the ‘incident’ and I haven’t seen him at the house—something that has been a relief. Until now. I’m thinking it may have been better to have our reunion in the quiet of the cul-de-sac, rather than at a public event.
“They’re here because the Club has a stall,” she tells me, as if it is irrelevant. It’s not.
I gawk at her. “They have a stall?” I’m aware my voice is pitched at least an octave higher than usual, but I don’t attempt to calm it.
“Yeah, Clara Thomas asked about it a f
ew weeks back. I thought I told you.”
I have no idea who Clara Thomas is, so it is unlikely Holly told me anything. This is also common with her. She is always so focused on the residents and running the shelter that often other things go out of her head. It’s usually small things, things that do not matter in the grand scheme of it. At least that had been the case until today. This blunder is fairly substantial.
Not that I feel threatened by my neighbour. If he was going to do anything, he surely would have acted before now, right?
“And you didn’t think to mention that they would be here?”
Her eyes come to me. “Why would I mention it?”
“Uh, maybe because of what I told you about my neighbour.”
Holly frowns. “Are you still worrying about that?”
She says it in a way that makes me think perhaps I’m being daft. However, she didn’t offend a member of a notorious motorcycle club—I did.
“I don’t know. Should I be still worrying about it?”
She places the small pile of books she has dug out of the last box on the sliver of table that’s left and scowls at me. “What you should be worrying about is whether we’re going to make any bloody money today. I don’t even know what half of this stuff is.”
She’s not wrong. There are a few items that look like you need a degree from Mensa to understand what they are. One, I think, is a juicer, but it doesn’t look like any juicer I’ve ever seen. That, however, is completely irrelevant right now.
“Hol, I really pissed him off,” I tell her as I scan the crowd of leather vests. The Lost Saxons insignia on the back looks fierce and I can’t help but swallow hard at seeing it repeated so many times.
“He’s still not going to do anything.” At the look I fire at her she sighs. “Sweetie, the man is not going to do anything because you insulted him.”
“I didn’t just insult him,” I say, “I think I hurt him.”
And I did; I’m certain of it. And the fact I did doesn’t sit right with me at all. Holly was right when she said I should just apologise to him.
“I don’t think Dean Lawler is the kind of man who gets hurt by words.”
She would be wrong about that; words have the capacity to hurt anyone—no matter how tough they may seem.
I finally pick out Dean among the crowd of bikers. He’s climbing off one of the motorcycles towards the centre of the line, his helmet clutched in one hand. A woman with dark hair is standing next to his bike, talking and gesticulating wildly. He nods along before he ruffles her hair, much like an older brother would. She smacks at him and squeals loud enough to draw attention from other people.
I swallow. Hard.
“Shit,” I mutter. “He’s here.”
“Who?”
“Father Christmas,” I snap. “Who do you think?”
“Dean Lawler?”
“Yeah. Dean Lawler.” I let out a frustrated breath because his presence is going to make the day awkward. Maybe I can hide under the table for the next six hours.
“Olivia, please stop worrying; it’ll be fine. He’s hardly going to storm over here and unleash hell in front of all these people, is he? And if he does, I’ll protect you.”
I glance around at the growing throng of people starting to mill around the stalls. She has a point. He’s probably not going to cause a huge scene, but I don’t want even a hint of weirdness. Not today.
“I don’t need protecting.” And I don’t. At least, I don’t think I do.
You are in control.
I wish Kath was here right now. I don’t know how she would dissect this situation but no doubt she would offer the perfect insight. Holly’s insight leaves a lot to be desired.
She sighs and I hear the frayed patience in her tone. “You need to stop worrying about Dean.”
“He’s pissed off with me, Hol. I should hide.”
She grabs the sleeve of my coat before I can take off. “Don’t be ridiculous. If you feel that upset about it then for God’s sake just talk to him. Explain. Face your problems rather than running away from them.”
I glare at her. “Don’t go all Zen on me now.”
“It’s not Zen if it’s common sense. You live across the street from him and will do for the unforeseeable future. You can’t ignore him forever.”
“I can try,” I counter, earning a scowl.
“Sweetie, he’s probably already forgotten it even happened. And if he hasn’t just do as I suggested: explain.”
“Explain what? And how?”
“Tell him the truth. That you would have had that reaction to any man, not just him—because you’re a woman living alone, a woman who has been hurt by a man before and he is a complete stranger. Being helpful doesn’t change that fact. Then tell him you’re sorry for offending him and that you didn’t mean anything by it, but that he should put himself in your shoes and ask himself if he was a slip of a girl like you if he’d let a strapping man into his house. And if that fails buy him a bottle of Jack and be done with it.”
I frown at her. “You have an interesting approach to conflict resolution, do you know that?”
She waves a hand. “I’m just full of surprises.”
And she is. Holly is an amazing woman. The things she does for the women who come through Hope House is nothing short of saintly. If it wasn’t for her, I would never have found a job, or a house. I would never have volunteered at the shelter. I would never have got my life back on track. She, alongside a ton of therapy sessions, gave me the support and the strength to find my way back to who I used to be.
For the next hour, I do as Holly suggested and forget about my Dean issue—and I most definitely don’t watch him out of the corner of my eye whenever I think Holly isn’t looking. I try to focus on the stall and selling. We’re busy enough that it is easy to do this as the playground fills with parents and local residents, all eager to get their hands on a bargain while supporting a good cause.
The Club has a small stall near to where the bikes are parked up and, according to Holly, the old ladies (wives and girlfriends of the bikers, she tells me) are selling mostly baked goods and other bits and pieces. Some of the men are giving motorcycle rides to the kids, taking them slowly up and down the slip of playground that is unoccupied by stalls. They’re causing a stir. Some people seem fascinated by their presence while others are wary. At least half a dozen women are hanging around the motorcycles, trying to catch male attention—although I’m not sure what kind of attention they’re hoping to get; these men look fierce, even from a distance.
“We need change,” Holly says as she dips into the petty cash box. “We’re low on pound coins and twenty pence pieces. There are bags of coins in the car. Can you get them, please?” She reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out the keys, handing them to me as she goes back to serving a lady with bright bubble gum pink hair. I’m sure she is with the Saxons because she’s wearing a leather vest like theirs but on the back it says ‘Property of Ghost’ rather than the Club name. Who Ghost is and why she is his property is beyond me, but she doesn’t seem fazed by wearing it so who am I to judge?
I take the keys from Holly, grateful to escape the stall and the woman linked to Dean’s world, and duck out from underneath our faux log cabin. If it’s possible, it’s even colder now than it was first thing this morning and I walk fast to keep warm. As I move away from the stalls, the din and noise of the crowds gets less and the peace is a welcome relief. We’ve actually sold a lot today. Proof that one man’s junk is apparently another man’s treasure.
As I round the corner of the building, I pick Holly’s Jeep out from the other parked vehicles. We left it on the school’s car park this morning, an area at the front of the building which is now completely deserted (although crammed full of stallholders’ cars.
I don’t know why but I feel edgy as I cross the tarmac, so I pick up my pace, moving faster. Over the years I’ve learnt to trust my instincts, so immediately I go on alert, my eyes scann
ing for the perceived danger. There is nothing though. I’m completely alone.
However, by the time I reach Holly’s car I’m nearly crawling out of my skin. Every sense in my body is on alert and I don’t understand why because I can’t see a single person around.
Hesitantly, and more than a little anxiously, I hit the central locking fob and open the passenger side door. The petty cash is in the glove box, so I have to lean my torso inside the vehicle to reach it.
As I open it and grab the bag of coins, movement behind me snares my attention, and my anxiety, which is now at critical levels, has me jerking backwards to pull my body out of the car.
Even though my senses are on overdrive, I don’t expect to see the man standing at the side of the car, so my heartbeat dances up a notch as I quickly straighten and prepare. He’s older than me, maybe in his mid to late thirties, and he’s carrying a little extra weight. He’s also familiar.
I let my eyes wander over his dark blonde hair and realise immediately where I know him from. He’s Hattie Monroe’s husband.
And there isn’t a soul around.
Crap.
Chapter Five
For a moment we both don’t move. I stand statue-still, transfixed, because although he hasn’t said a word or moved I know I’m up the creek without a boat—let alone without a paddle. I’m considering whether I can get back into the car before he can do…
What?
What will he do? Is he dangerous? I know he’s violent, but will he take that rage out on me now?
I have no idea what is running through his head as he takes me in. He does a full body sweep with his eyes, practically undressing me even though I’m clothed in multiple layers from head to foot.
Inside my gloves, my hands are no longer cold but clammy and I want to take them off, so I can wipe them on my jeans, but I don’t move. Like I’m being tracked by a wild predator, I remain still and wait for him to react.
“You work at Hope House.” It’s not a statement but an accusation, and not a pleasant one judging by his tone.