by Mel Sherratt
He glanced down at his hand again, the warmth radiating through the dressing. What the fuck was he going to be left with after this operation? Shit, if he lost his finger he wouldn’t be able to look at his hand ever again. And it was his right hand – he wouldn’t even be able to sign his name.
More importantly, as he lay in the still of the ward, he couldn’t help thinking about how vulnerable he was without two hands to put up a fight. He could count on the fingers of his good hand just how many people might want to get their revenge, especially after he’d started to work with Scott Johnstone. He’d found himself in more than one sticky situation over the past few months. Luckily, he’d got away with everything so far, but why the hell had he thought he could run with the big names?
One thing was certain. No matter what state he left the hospital in, Sam would need to watch his back for the foreseeable future.
Chapter Six
Visiting hours were around the clock on the emergency ward, so after spending most of the evening at the hospital with Sam, Donna had been thankful to finally get home for the night. The recent bout of hot weather had meant tempers had risen along with the heat, and a spate of late-night barbecues had resulted in many drunken arguments, but the cul-de-sac was fairly quiet as she locked up her car.
Once in the house, she made toast and coffee and then sunk down on the settee. What a day. During the last couple of hours, Sam had really tried her patience with his moaning and groaning, but she’d kept her thoughts to herself. He was clearly in a lot of pain and the last thing he would want to hear was his mum saying it was all his own fault.
She’d just finished the toast when her phone rang. Reaching for it quickly, the caller display showed ‘unknown number.’ She worried that it could be the hospital, or something wrong with her mum, Mary.
‘Hello?’
‘Hey, it’s me, Owen.’
‘Oh, hi.’ The relief Donna felt was immense. ‘I didn’t recognise your number.’
‘I’m on my landline. I just wanted to see how you were – and how things were with your son. It’s Sam, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ Donna was pleased that he’d remembered Sam’s name. ‘He’s in a bad way but he’s going to be fine. It will take a miracle for them to sort his hand out to look anywhere near decent but the surgeons seem fairly confident that he won’t lose his finger.’
‘That’s good.’ A pause. ‘I also wanted to say thank you for thinking of me when you were in such turmoil with your family.’
What do you mean?’
‘I could tell by your text message that you were disappointed that we couldn’t meet.’
‘Could you?’ Donna giggled.
He laughed. ‘You won’t get rid of me that easily.’
Donna liked the sound of that. She checked her watch to see it was nearly half past eleven. ‘You certainly left it late to ring me,’ she said, trying to stifle a yawn.
‘On the contrary, I think it shows how much you’ve been on my mind.’
‘Oh, please. You’ve only just met me.’
‘I know. I can’t explain it either.’
Despite being exhausted, the sound of Owen’s voice soothed her. She felt her skin flush at how his words made her feel.
‘How are you?’ she asked.
‘I’m busy.’
Donna smiled. ‘I take it you’re at home now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which is?’
‘Not far from you.’
‘You mean on the Mitchell Estate?’
‘Yes, in Percival Crescent.’
Percival Crescent was at the top of the estate and one of the better streets. Donna remembered a boy she’d had a crush on at school living there. At the time he’d gone out with her best friend, Shaunna, and had broken her heart.
‘That’s not far from me,’ she said. ‘Have you lived there long?’
‘Do you always ask so many questions?’
‘I usually have someone answering back, so I guess I’m used to trying to get in the last word.’ She yawned again.
‘I should go.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. When will I be able to see you?’
‘Soon, I hope.’
They said goodnight, and Donna disconnected the phone. She grinned. How lovely that Owen was thinking of her, despite the time of the call. Her mind flipped back to Saturday night, recalling how his short-sleeved shirt had given her a glimpse of his tanned, muscly arms, how well he fitted his tailored trousers, how she had to look up to catch his smile. Later, the fingers of his large hands had interlocked with her smaller ones. His eyes had smiled as he’d laughed along with her – at what, she couldn’t recall. But she clearly remembered them sitting close together on a settee in the club, Owen throwing back his head as he laughed at something she had said.
She really couldn’t believe her luck when she had met him. There had been fifteen women in total at the hen party. They’d gone around town for a few drinks but then as the night wore on, someone had suggested a club. That was when Donna had really felt her age. All the young women with their toned legs and firm breasts, dressed to kill in mini-skirts and high heels.
But, feeling quite tipsy by then, she’d got on the dance floor with the rest of the women. She’d been there for a few songs when one of the men behind her had lost his balance after flinging himself around. He fell backwards into them, catching her across the side of the neck with his hand. Her natural instinct had been to turn around and Owen, who had been with the group, had apologised for his friend. He’d led her away from the dance floor, offering to buy her a drink to compensate. They’d stayed together for the rest of the evening.
Her phone beeped and a text message came in.
I can’t sleep thinking of you.
She sighed wistfully as she stared at the screen. When he’d asked to see her again, Donna hadn’t really hesitated, despite what she had told Sarah earlier. She just hadn’t wanted to tell anyone that she had arranged to meet Owen again in case he stood her up. Even now, two days after meeting him for the first time, it seemed wrong that someone as good-looking as him would be after someone like her. Seven years wasn’t too much of an age gap – not an age gap at all if she swapped their ages around. But still, Donna knew he could do a lot better than her.
She thought back to the men she’d dated. Okay, there had been a few before Joe had come along but none that had been long lasting except her marriage – and that had turned out to be a disaster, except for the kids.
She and Joe had grown apart quickly, yet his infidelity had rocked her to the core. And despite the years since, she’d never quite been able to trust anyone else enough for them not to feel stifled, often becoming jealous and keeping her men on a tight leash. She didn’t have physical scars but she did deal with the mental ones on a regular basis. Joe Harvey might have swept a young Donna Adams off her feet but he had definitely been the wrong person for her.
So could Owen be her Mr Right, after all these years? She hoped she’d have the time to find out soon.
Lewis peered at his watch, trying to focus on its face. He pulled it in closer, but could only see one hand: it looked like it was nearing midnight.
The Butcher’s Arms was the only pub on the estate that was still open. There had been the White Lion until a few years ago but it had been boarded up for a couple of years and then burned to the ground when someone set it alight. If Lewis remembered rightly, the youth responsible hadn’t survived the fire he’d started.
The pub had been made over since he’d come out of the army but it still couldn’t hide its grubbiness. Deep red carpet already had signs of wear and tear, stains and cigarette burns. The curtains were red too, thick velvet that reminded him of a pub from Life on Mars that he’d been recently watching on catch-up TV. Why hadn’t they thought to make it over into something modern rather than keep it in the tired and traditional state that it was in now? If the brewery had thought about it, they would perh
aps have had more of a steadier clientele. But then again, maybe that was indicative of the estate – nothing would ever make it a nice place to live, so what was the point in trying?
He left the pub, groaning as he pushed on the door. Mum would be on the warpath if he didn’t get home soon. The fresh air hit him and he swayed slightly, struggling to stand up. He couldn’t remember how long he’d been in the bar, or how much he’d had to drink, but it hadn’t worked to dampen his anger. Even before he’d walked a few minutes, he struggled to recall the name of the bloke he’d been talking to that evening. Had it been Peter, Patrick, Paddy? He didn’t really care though.
‘Stupid nosy bastards,’ he muttered under his breath, crossing over Davy Road. What was it with people on the estate? Twice he’d had a go at someone for saying too much, pushing things that little bit too far. Everyone wanted to talk to the returning soldier, hear his tales of blood and death. Had he killed anyone? What was it like? Didn’t they realise he didn’t want to talk about it? Lewis wanted to forget it.
But, even so, he didn’t know what else to talk about. What could he contribute? How much his wife hated him and how much his son didn’t want to be with him anymore? No one wanted to hear that. It was too much like normal life.
Normal life, he sniggered, tripping over a raised flagstone on the pavement. He didn’t know what that was anymore. Was it waking up every night, covered in sweat, praying that the nightmare wasn’t real? Was it waking up in a single bed back at his mum’s house, his wife and child asleep somewhere else? Was it being unable to hold down a job for longer than a few months at a time? Well, yeah, he supposed that last one could be classed as normal for some.
He staggered down the pavement, from left to right, right to left. The night was quiet, and most of the houses either side of the road were in darkness, except for the odd light on here and there. He almost lost his footing again, causing him to stagger to the left and bump into the side of a parked car. Cursing loudly as the wing mirror dug into his hip, he pulled up his foot and kicked at it. When it hung by a wire, he pulled it until it came away. His breath coming in fits and starts, he slammed it to the floor, stamping his heel on it, relishing the crunching sound it made underneath the soles of his boots.
‘Hey, what are you doing?’
Lewis turned around in a circle but he couldn’t see anyone.
‘You can’t just damage other people’s property like that.’
He looked again for whoever had spoken. Finally, in the shadows, he spotted someone on the doorstep of the house he stood in front of. ‘Go back inside and mind your own business, you nosy cow,’ he told her.
‘I beg your pardon!’
‘You people, you’re all the same.’ Lewis pointed at her, swaying as he stepped forward. ‘Wind your neck in and bugger off back inside.’
‘You can’t speak to me like that.’
‘Kicking this is much better than taking it out on a person.’
‘I’ve a good mind to report you in the morning for—’
‘Yeah, yeah, you do that.’ Lewis brushed aside the comment with his hand and walked away. Silly bitch – what did she know?
He continued in the direction of Graham Street, hoping that his mum wasn’t waiting up for him again. She’d done that the last few times, greeting him with folded arms and a firm stare, before giving him a telling off the next morning. It was worse than being with Amy. She’d given him the stare too. Well, he wasn’t a child anymore. No one told him what to do now that he had come out of the army. So screw his mum – and screw Amy.
When he arrived home, music was blasting out from a house several doors away. Every window at the front of the property was open, a number of youths on the front lawn chatting loudly. Lewis resisted the urge to go over and punch someone’s lights out: for once he knew he was too drunk to fight. Instead, he pushed open the garden gate, negotiated the last few steps, and finally managed to get his key in the lock of the front door.
He went straight upstairs and sat on the edge of his bed, dropping his boots noisily onto the carpet. Muttering obscenities to himself, he flopped to his side and collapsed, fully clothed. Maybe sleep would come to him now that he had alcohol in his system. Shut him down for a few hours so that he could get some rest. Not that he would feel rested after the sleep of a drunk, but anything beat sitting on the edge of the bed watching the sun rising every morning.
The room began to spin, taking him back to a time when he was in a helicopter with the rest of his regiment, going out on a mission. The noise of the blades, the beating of his heart as adrenaline coursed through him, praying that they would all return. The crunch of their boots as they walked for miles, eyes everywhere, finger on the trigger awaiting any eventuality. The blood pouring from the bullet wound in Nathan’s neck …
Not even alcohol could block out those kind of bad memories.
Chapter Seven
At ten o’clock the next morning, Josie Mellor walked up the pathway of seventeen, Graham Street. It was the second time in as many weeks that she had visited this property. She knocked on the door and glanced around as she waited for it to be answered, fitting into her old role as easily as if she’d never been away from it.
For the past three years, Josie had been on a secondment at The Workshop, an enterprise centre on the estate. She’d been in charge of overseeing it when it was refurbished, and then had been based there working on a domestic violence initiative, funded by the government. Although The Workshop was surviving, now that her funding had dried up, she’d soon be returning to her original role as housing officer, so had started taking over a few cases in preparation.
She knew she’d miss being based at The Workshop but, on days like these when the sun was in the sky and the weather was glorious, Josie was glad she could work outside. Being out on the patch was never easy but at least she had regulars who she could keep an eye on once more. Good and bad ones - like Margaret Sidworth with her untidy garden next door at number nineteen.
In contrast, the garden of number seventeen was tidy, the driveway cleared of weeds and general rubbish. Parked on it was a bottle-green Land Rover, gleaming in the reflection of the mid-morning sun. Flowers were dotted around a dug-over border around the edge of a small patch of freshly mown grass. A hanging basket next to the door sprouted multi-coloured lobelias, almost tumbling down to a small wrought iron bench in front of the living room window.
Josie knew from experience how much you could tell about someone from the state of his or her garden. Not necessarily from the house, if paint was peeling from a door or if someone had a broken window or was in need of new windows altogether. In her mind, there was a world of difference between untidiness and poor maintenance.
She glanced over the fence at next door again. The garden she was in made the adjoining property’s stand out for its lack of maintenance. She tutted: the weeds in number nineteen’s garden were higher than the small patch of grass left in the middle, the hedges were overgrown too. The weather had been wonderful for three weeks now, there was no excuse. But then again, Margaret, who lived there with her teenage son and daughter, would find sunning on the doorstep far more important than tending to the grass.
As she waited, she wrote down details to pass on to the environmental enforcement officer when she was next in the office. He’d need to visit to get Margaret to take action.
A woman opened the door behind her. Laura Prophett’s greying blonde hair had been tied back from her face, making her look more youthful than her actual age of early fifties, but her puffy eyes and faint smile betrayed her worry. Despite that, she was dressed in colourful summer clothes.
‘Hi, Mrs Prophett,’ Josie smiled. ‘Might I have a quick word?’
She was shown into a living room that was as tidy and respectable as the garden. The wall that housed the chimney was covered with wallpaper of large black flowers on a white background, the remaining walls painted white. The three piece was black leather, a three-seater settee and
two armchairs, dented where bottoms had settled over the years.
Josie sat down when invited, pushing her hair out of the way behind her ears. She’d long ago swapped her glasses for contact lenses, showing off deep blue eyes below a thick, blunt fringe. Her friend, Livvy, had given her a well-needed makeover a few years ago and, despite trends coming and going, she’d kept her hair shoulder length because it suited her so much.
‘You’ve come about Lewis, haven’t you?’ asked Laura.
When Josie nodded, Laura’s shoulders sagged.
‘I’ve been trying to get him out of bed for the past hour. But whatever he’s done, he won’t come down to face the music.’ There were tears in her eyes. ‘I’ve tried to be patient too, but he just goes up like a bottle of pop if I suggest anything he doesn’t like. Then the next minute, it’s ‘’I’m sorry, Mum. It’s just taking me time to adjust.’’ It’s like living with Jekyll and Hyde. I dread seeing him in the mornings now. It puts me on edge for the rest of the day and I don’t want it when I’m off to work.’ She glanced away sheepishly. ‘Sorry, mouth overload.’
Josie knew that Laura worked at Poplar Court, a sheltered housing block for dementia sufferers. Patience was a virtue for her role as a housing officer but so much more was needed when it came to working with the elderly. Sometimes Josie would hold back her annoyance if she knew someone was trying to get one over her, using age as an excuse. But most of the time, she dealt with genuine cases of hardship and people unable to cope.
‘Are you aware of what I’ve come to see you about?’ she asked now, hoping to move things along.
‘He hasn’t hurt anyone, has he?’ Laura sat upright.
Josie shook her head. ‘There was a spot of trouble last night. It’s the damage he’s caused to a car that’s my main concern. We think he kicked off someone’s wing mirror and smashed it while it was on the floor. The description I was given from the complainant matches Lewis so I though I’d check it out before the complainant went to the police.’