The New Neighbours

  More and more boxes thudded into the back of the van, and then Bel saw him; a policeman alone on foot appeared on the corner of Bells Yard and looked down towards them. Scott was manhandling a large cardboard crate into the van and Bel, turning sharply, hissed “Scott! Police!”

  He glanced up and with a quick nod slammed the doors of the van shut, closed the shop service door, sauntered round to the passenger side and climbed in.

  The policeman, meantime, had turned into the yard and was walking unhurriedly towards them.

  “Drive!” Scott hissed, “and whatever happens, don’t stop!”

  Bel slammed the van into gear and it leapt forward. The policeman held up a hand, but she ignored him and kept going, so that he had to jump out of the way. He lost his footing and fell clattering against some dustbins. At the end of the alley, she had to wait for two cars to pass and should have waited for a third, but Scott craning out of the window saw the policeman back on his feet and running after them, and shouted “Go! Go!” so Bel went, forcing herself in behind the second car and causing the third to ride up on to the pavement to avoid her, his hand blaring the horn.

  “Shit!” breathed Scott. “Keep going, he’s using his fucking radio. Just drive.”

  Bel did as she was told, following the two cars ahead as they wound their way round the cathedral. As they approached the one-way system, the Saturday traffic was still moving sluggishly and they heard the wail of a siren.

  “Shit!” Scott’s voice rose. “Right! Turn right!” and immediately Bel wrenched the wheel round, into another narrow street.

  “I’m going the wrong way!” she shrieked. “It’s a one-way street.”

  “Keep going!” yelled Scott.

  There was a car coming towards them, the driver flashing his lights furiously to warn them they were in a one-way street. Bel flashed back and adrenaline took over as she accelerated towards him. Realising she wasn’t going to stop, the driver, pale-faced and swearing, yanked his wheel over and mounted the pavement, giving Bel just enough space to squeak past him. She reached the end of the street and turned out into the traffic. There was no real gap and more angry horns blared as drivers hit their brakes to let her in.

  “Left-hand lane,” snapped Scott, and then they heard the siren again.

  “Police car’s coming up behind us,” Bel shouted.

  “Stay cool!” ordered Scott. “Change lanes.”

  Bel veered across the traffic and raced across the lights, just turning amber against her. The police car was now in hot pursuit, headlights flashing, blue light flashing, siren wailing. It jumped the red light and continued close on her tail. With her hand on the horn, Bel swerved in and out of the traffic.”

  “Right!” shouted Scott. “Turn right!”

  Bel swung round a traffic island and accelerated down a side street. There were cars parked on either side, narrowing it to one lane wide where it had a right-angled bend to the right. Bel had to slow to negotiate the bend and in the mirror she saw the police car turn in behind her.

  “Sharp right into the lane,” yelled Scott. She only just saw the opening in time, another alley serving high street shops, but curving sharply, so that the moment they were into it, they were invisible from the street behind.

  “Slow down,” said Scott, and Bel eased to a walking pace. They heard the siren note change as the police car sped past the end of the alley.

  Scott got out of the van, and pulling a pair of number plates from under the seat, quickly changed them for the plates on the van. Those he buried in a skip outside one of the service entrances. From the glove compartment, he stuck a huge snowboarding sticker across one of the back doors and then went round to the driver’s side and opened the door. He jerked his head. “Shove over,” and as she did so, he took Bel’s place at the wheel. From under the dashboard, he produced a pair of fluffy pink dice which he hung from the mirror. Then he looked across at Bel and grinned. “Cool, huh?” he drawled and then added, “Let your ’air loose.” Without a word, Bel pulled the scrunchy from her hair and, shaking her head, let her hair fall over her shoulders. Scott nodded his approval and, turning the van round, they emerged cautiously on to the street. There was no sign of the police car. Scott eased his way into the traffic and then cut across to the Belmouth Road. From there it was two minutes’ drive before they were lost in the maze of a housing estate, and within five they were in a little yard outside a row of three lock-up garages. The yard was empty, and there was no sign of anyone taking the remotest interest in them. Scott backed the van up to the door and between them they quickly unloaded the boxes. As the last box was safely stowed, he pulled the garage door down and locked it carefully.

  Suddenly Bel found she was shaking, her knees wouldn’t hold her and she slumped against the van.

  “Stay cool, Bel,” Scott said, “and get in.”

  Bel pulled herself into the van and Scott drove to the dunes outside Belmouth. Then, hidden in a hollow surrounded by buckthorn and maram grass, he pulled her into his arms and began to kiss her. Her response was instant and passionate.

  “Get in the back,” Scott said huskily, and together they clambered over into the back. The he kissed her again and Bel knew that this time it was It. He held her against him and for the first time she could feel him erect and strong, pressing against her, needing her. There was no time for condoms, raspberry-flavoured, studded or otherwise. After the excitement of the chase, the excitement of each other was demanding, consuming, entirely uncontrollable. They pulled at each other’s clothes, their mutual need leading to an aggressive, almost violent coupling. As Scott pumped inside her, Bel thought, “This is it. I’ve done it.” She knew a moment of pain and then a small flowering of pleasure, before, with one final gasping groan, Scott collapsed over her, panting. She lay there, half-smothered by the weight of him, and thought, Now I really am his woman.

  After a few moments Scott heaved himself up on to one elbow and said, “You was great, Bel, really great.” But she didn’t know if he meant the escape or the sex, and she didn’t dare ask. She wanted to try the sex bit again, more slowly this time, but when she reached up to touch his face, Scott moved away and said, “Better get sorted, Bel,” and began to pull his clothes on. She did the same, but her disappointment was somewhat lifted when he said, “We’ll go back to my place.”

  He had never taken her there before, had always refused to tell exactly where he lived, so it cheered her to realise she must have passed some sort of test; that after today and her reaction to their morning’s work she had been elevated to a new level of trust.

  She tested it by asking, “What was in the boxes, Scott?”

  “Computer stuff,” he replied casually.

  “But how did you know it would be there?”

  “Mate of mine works there. They always have a delivery on a Saturday morning, see, but they’re too busy usually to do more than stack it downstairs. He give me a key.”

  “But won’t they suspect him?”

  “Why should they? He’ll have been working hard in the shop all morning. I told him I’d come at twelve, see, and he could make sure he was seen all the time, serving customers, nothing to do with a hit on the storeroom.”

  “But they’ll know you had a key,” Bel pointed out anxiously.

  Scott shrugged. “I was supposed to give the lock a bash before we left,” he admitted, “but we left in a bit of a hurry. Still, they can’t prove nothing.”

  They climbed over into the front of the van and Scott said, “We’ll get a pizza.”

  “Anyway, the police have got the wrong number plates,” Bel said as they backed out of the dunes on to the road.

  “Yeah, took them off a scraped Bedford. Always useful. I’ll go back and collect them later.

  They pulled up at a Pizza Hut on the seafront and got a take-away. All of a sudden, Bel found she was ravenously hungry.

  “Let’s eat it here,” she said, so they sat looking out over the sea and stuffed themselves wi
th a large pizza each. Bel still felt on a high. What a day! She’d taken part in a robbery, driven the getaway car in a high-speed chase, lost the pursuing police car and lost her virginity at last. She glanced at Scott, still munching the last mouthful of his pizza and put a hand on his thigh. He grinned at her.

  “You’re some girl, Bel,” he said, and Bel felt a stab of pleasure shaft through her.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get back.”

  They drove sedately back into Belcaster, the pink fluffy dice dancing in the windscreen, the snowboarder careering across the back door.

  Halfway along the Friars End Road, Scott turned into a side road and was just turning into a cul-de-sac when, with an exclamation of “Shit!” he jerked the wheel back and drove straight on. Bel looked into the little street and saw a police car parked outside one of the houses.

  “Get out,” Scott ordered sharply, and as she turned to stare at him he shouted, “Out! For fuck’s sake get out and go home.”

  “But…” began Bel.

  Scott leant across her and opened the door. “Out, Bel.”

  “Will I see you?” Bel asked, not yet moving.

  “Yeah, some time. Don’t know when. Get out, Bel!” He gave her a push and she slid out of the van. As the door closed, he accelerated away and disappeared round the corner. Bel stood for a moment, staring after him and then turned slowly and walked back to the Friars End Road to find a bus. As she passed the cul-de-sac, Elmbank Close, she glanced down it to where the police car stood. Was it the one that had chased them earlier? She hadn’t a clue, but even as she was wondering, she saw two policemen emerge from a house with a green front door, a young man hustled between them. Her heart almost stopped; even at this distance he was incredibly like Scott, same height, same build, same cast of features. What the hell is going on she thought? Then, anxious not to appear conspicuous, she hurried on to find her bus. Scott would explain it all next time she saw him.

  But he hadn’t, because she’d never seen him again. The days had stretched into weeks, and then months and there had been no sight of him. Everywhere she went, Annabel’s eyes scanned the streets for the familiar van, searched the crowds of shoppers for his familiar figure. Several times, she even made her way to Elmbank Close, to the house with the green front door, but there was no answer to her ring and no sign of either Scott or his van. As time went by, she slid into a dull recognition that she wasn’t going to see him, and she began to live with the ache of her loneliness.

  The storm caused by the school work for her exams, or rather the lack of it, washed over her leaving her unmoved, a rock battered by a rising tide and still unchanged at that tide’s retreat. To please her parents, Dad had been drawn in to reinforce what Mum and the school were saying, she did begin to give her attention to her studies, after all, she no longer had Scott to give it to.

  When she had at length discovered she was pregnant, Annabel had been stunned. It had never crossed her mind. Her periods were so irregular anyway that several extra weeks without one had rung no alarm bells, nor even raised a query. It was only after she noticed that the smell of cigarette smoke and the smell, or even the sight of an onion made her feel sick, that she began to count the weeks and realised that she must be expecting a baby.

  She made one more effort to find Scott. She went to Elmbank Close and rang the bell beside the green front door. This time somebody answered, a small tired looking woman who replied in answer to Annabel’s question, “Scott Manders? Yeah, he used to live here. Gone now.”

  “Do you know where?” asked Annabel. “Did he leave a forwarding address?

  The woman gave a cracked laugh. “Doesn’t need to, ducky,” she said. “Care of ’er Majesty, ’e is.” Then seeing Annabel’s puzzled look, added, “In prison. ’E’s inside. Picked up by the fuzz, ’im an’ ’is brother.” Annabel nodded and managed to whisper, “I see, well, thanks anyway,” and she hurried away to consider what she’d just learned.

  With the woman’s words repeating themselves in her ears, Annabel sat in a cafe in the Friars End Road, drinking coffee and considering her options. Scott must have been arrested for the computer job, but he obviously hadn’t told the police about her. The young man she’d seen being arrested was clearly his brother. She wondered how they had got on to Scott, where he was in prison and how long he would be there. Why hadn’t he got a message to her somehow? But he hadn’t, or he hadn’t bothered and she was on her own now.

  She was definitely pregnant, she’d bought a pregnancy home-testing kit and it had shown two positive blue lines. She was determined to keep the baby, it would prove the reality of her few weeks as Scott’s woman. She had never been in favour of abortion in the abstract, and now it was definitely a practical option she still wasn’t in favour. She’d cope somehow. Mum would help her cope—when she knew.

  Now she does know, Annabel reflected, her thoughts returning to the present as she sat beside her mother on the bed, but still I shan’t tell her about Scott. Of course, Chantal would guess who the father was, Annabel realised, and must be silenced. Probably easy enough to do that, given how she had reacted to the sight of Oliver Hooper at the barbecue, still it had to be done and fast.

  “Mum,” she said breaking into the heavy silence, “will you let me tell Dad and Chantal? I’d rather tell them myself.”

  Angela nodded. “Of course if you want to, but you must do it in the next few days so we can make some decisions.

  “I’ll ring Dad tomorrow,” promised Annabel, “and I’ll tell Chantal.”

  Later, downstairs, Angela poured herself a very large scotch and sitting curled up in her favourite armchair, considered what must be done. Annabel had promised to tell Ian, but as soon as he knew, they would have to get together and make some collective decisions. Annabel having a baby wasn’t something she, Angela, wanted to cope with on her own. She sighed and took a long pull at her drink. She hadn’t seen Ian since that awful week at half-term in the summer, when it all came out how little work Annabel had been doing, that her project was non-existent, that there was no way she would even achieve a pass unless she got her act together fast. In the light of this evening’s revelations, it was clear why Annabel had let her work lapse, and now the chance of her being able to take her A-levels next July seemed even more remote. How could she look after a baby properly and study for exams? She wouldn’t be able to take the baby to school, and there was no one at home to leave it with.

  If only I didn’t have to work full-time to make ends meet, she thought wearily. Maybe we could trace the father… but it doesn’t sound as if he could contribute much, a student or something by the sound of him. One night’s fun and off on his merry way. Angela knew the familiar taste of bitterness at the fickleness of men. Well, first things first. Tomorrow Annabel must get an appointment with Dr Fran and have a thorough check-up. Tomorrow the whole pattern of their lives would begin to change yet again and all due, yet again, Angela thought to simple lust. Tomorrow was indeed another day, and it was going to start early, that was for sure.

  It was far easier than Chantal thought it would be She simply told her mother that she’d been asked round to the student house for coffee and with a light-hearted promise given “not to be late”, she had closed the front door behind her.

  Knowing Angela was still safely upstairs in the kitchen at the back of the house and couldn’t see her from the window, Chantal made no pretence of crossing over to The Madhouse, but headed straight for the Dartmouth Road and into town to the Flying Dutchman. Dean had said they’d be there from around eight. It wasn’t quite eight yet and Chantal was suddenly nervous. She realised she didn’t want to go alone into the pub, where she would recognise no one, where she might have to wait by herself until they came—if they came. She walked more slowly, delaying her arrival in Francis Lane. Supposing they didn’t come? Supposing they’d changed their plans? They wouldn’t think to tell her. Only Dean knew she might be coming, and even to him it hadn’t been definite.
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  By the time Chantal actually stood outside the Flying Dutchman, she was a mass of indecision. She didn’t want to be first, that she considered would be well embarrassing, and she didn’t, she realised, hastily moving onwards, want to be found loitering outside plucking up courage to go in, that would be worse! A flashing green sign caught her eye. Almost opposite the Flying Dutchman was a café. It was not much more than a snack bar, but the flashing green light announced “Sandwiches all day”, and glancing in through the window Chantal could see a few, small, Formica-topped tables, some of which were occupied. There was an empty one in the window. At once she went in, bought herself a coke and carried it to the table. From there, she could keep her eye on the arrivals at the pub opposite without much chance that she herself would be noticed. She was glad she had, because no one she knew arrived at the pub until after twenty past eight. She had finished her second coke and was on the point of having to order a third, when she saw the tall figure of Mad Richmond’s boyfriend, Dan, turn into Francis Lane and head for the door of the public bar. Chantal felt hot relief flood through her at avoiding a disaster. She had only been into pubs with her parents or more recently with her dad and Desirée for pub suppers. She would have gone into the lounge bar and been waiting in the wrong place.

  Probably, thought Chantal as she left the café, the others were there already and Dan had come from somewhere else.

  It doesn’t really matter if they’re not, she thought, Dan knows who I am and he’s a really fit bloke.

  She paused for a moment outside the door and then, with a deep breath, pushed it open and walked in.

  The bar was noisy and crowded with students. It was brightly lit, but hazy with smoke. The pool table at one end was busy, and the two or three tables with chairs and the bench seat round the window, were all full. For a horrifying moment, Chantal could see no one she knew, then she saw Dan. He was standing at the bar, with a girl, not Mad Richmond, perched on a bar stool at his elbow, and behind the bar was the student with the pony tail, the one called Ben. Only Ben looked up as she paused on the threshold, but he didn’t seem to recognise her, as his smile was the sort he might have for any new customer.