Two chubby little girls bang on the kitchen window and stick their tongue out at me.
‘Your kids are cute.’
‘They aren’t ours. We couldn’t have kids. My fault.’
There it was again. Her blaming herself and making excuses for him. After a pause she steps back inside. ‘Who shall I say called?’
‘Is your husband a good man?’
Her face hardens but it’s to stop her from crying. She composes herself and then looks directly at me. ‘No, he is not.’
‘Then don’t tell him I’m coming.’
58
Justin
When she closes the door, I sprint up the driveway. Sure enough, I catch Tony trying to make it to the car unnoticed. Perhaps he’s being protective. There’s no time like the present, so I tell Tony to drive me to Albany Way. We accelerate past the house on the edge of the fields, where I used to live.
‘Stop!’ Tony slams on the brakes.
I give him a rueful look. ‘Sorry, I meant pull over.’ He checks the mirror and bumps up onto the kerb. ‘I’ll just be a minute. Stay here.’
The concreted area in front of the house is empty. The storage buildings on the left are closed up. There are no vehicles in sight. It feels unused. Curtains are pulled upstairs. I didn’t come here for nothing, so I walk over and look through the dirty window. The distinct lack of kitchen equipment confirms the place isn’t lived in. The lounge blinds are almost closed. Through the cracks, I observe a bare room. I release the breath I’m holding.
It’s been well over seventeen years since that day. Fleeting memories make themselves known as I circle the house. Unsurprisingly, they are mostly bad but not all dire. I can clearly see the boys arguing and Bill throwing a stone at a ducking Jordan; it missed and crashed through the dining-room window. The jutting paving slab, which knocked Justin off his bike and ripped his leg open, remains. I recall the look on Ted’s face as he came out of the door and saw me driving his tractor in the yard with excited lads hollering in the trailer behind.
At the back of the house, I shield my eyes and glare up the north field at the barn. I won’t go there today. A car crawling on an uneven surface attracts my hearing. When I poke my head around the building, it’s only Tony parking up. He doesn’t listen too well. Never mind. Justin is next.
* * *
Tony doesn’t offer me a weapon for the care home. I stride through the reception doors and smile at an immaculately dressed elderly lady next to a desk.
‘I’m here to visit Justin Jameson.’
‘Hello. I’m being picked up soon.’
‘Pardon?’
‘My husband’s arriving any minute now.’
A head rises from behind the desk. A young girl with an open face smiles. ‘Mavis likes to wait here for her husband, don’t you?’ Mavis beams back, then turns to the window, her eyes straining to see through the glass.
‘Have you been before?’ the receptionist asks.
‘No, I’ve not seen him for a long time. Someone told me he was here, and I said I’d visit.’
‘No problem. He rarely receives guests, so he’ll be pleased. Sign in here.’
I thought of a pseudonym beforehand. Dee Montgomery at your service. Maybe only the first six letters. I had a story prepared for my lack of ID but she doesn’t ask. She glances at my name.
‘Anne, please show Dee to the day room.’
An oriental lady with a stern handshake guides me though some double doors. She stops before another set.
‘Have you seen Justin recently?’
‘Not for many years. How is he?’
‘Physically, he is reasonably okay. He has a scar on his face and he can’t walk or go to the bathroom on his own. He doesn’t talk either, but some days he’ll feed himself. Takes him forever but if we chop it up, he’ll eat pretty much anything. A tube remains in for when he won’t.’
‘What does he do all day?’
‘I was here when he arrived. He does nothing. He lives in a daydream. He cries out at night sometimes but don’t we all? I couldn’t tell you if he’s happy, but he isn’t suffering. Are you ready?’
I follow her in and recognise him straight away. Maybe it’s a big wheelchair, but he looks tiny. He has a dopey look as he drools at the television. There are others in the room but they are ancient and fast asleep. Anne takes off the brake and pushes Justin next to an armchair in the corner.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘That’s very kind, but I can’t stay long.’
I receive an understanding smile, which makes me feel rotten. A gaping shirt reveals a tube protruding from his chest. The edge of a nappy rises out of loose trousers. This wasn’t what I expected. Pity and sadness remove any fears. I liked Justin. He was harmless and damn near invisible. I doubt he would have got involved without encouragement.
‘Justin, can you hear me?’
He looks into the distance in the same way as he did when he was staring at the television. The scar she barely mentioned is huge and his skull isn’t the right shape. There’s nothing I could do to him that hasn’t been done already. I take his hand.
‘Why did you do it, Justin? We were friends. It ruined my life. I had a child, Justin. It might have been yours.’
I detect pressure on my hand. Is it registering on some level? I keep talking.
‘The baby had a shock of blonde hair. The same colour as you and your brother. And that small kink you have on the top of both of your ears? She had that, too.’
Again, I receive a definite squeeze. Anne walks in and sees me holding his hand. ‘That’s it, Dee. Just talk to him.’
‘He squeezed my hand.’
‘It’s involuntary, I should think. He’ll find it reassuring and comforting though, so keep it up.’
I shift my chair around when she’s gone until we face each other.
‘Her name was Chloe. I had to give her away. She’d be nearly eighteen now.’
There is no change in expression at that news. There’s nothing else to say. His grip is loose and I remove my hand. Standing there, I struggle for words. He focuses through me.
‘Goodbye, Justin.’
Big fat teardrops form in both eyes and roll down his cheeks. That’s the best apology so far.
‘I forgive you.’
I turn and leave.
When I sign out, I catch the receptionist’s eye. Gesturing to the expectant Mavis who is quietly wringing her hands, I whisper, ‘Isn’t her husband here yet?’
She winks and murmurs back, ‘No, he’s been dead for thirty years.’
59
Football Match
We walk through town, past the courts, and then over the bridge. I spot an old barge moored up, which has been converted into a pub and restaurant. Maybe we can go there afterwards. I steal a peek at Irina and suspect that’s unlikely. She is hanging. It was a quiet Friday night and I don’t remember her drinking that much. However, fear cloaks her and she didn’t want to come.
The swarm of people reminds me of a mass movement at HMP Peterborough. There was a certain camaraderie as you walked with hundreds of your fellow inmates to your place of work. It’s the same here. Instead of prison tracksuits, there are matching shirts and scarves. I wish I’d bought both when I came in the week to buy our tickets.
As we approach the ground, I am transported back to the only other time here with Arthur. Martha and Arthur were responsible for many fond memories. Who knows where my life would have led if I’d stayed with them? I allow myself to scan the crowds to see if I can spot him. A smile sneaks on my face. Silly girl. He’d be in his seventies now.
I notice other women proudly wearing Peterborough United’s colours. Irina and I have jeans and boots on but still full slap. It’s my titanium shield and my disguise. I doubt anyone I know will be here, but I keep my shades on. It was bright enough out of the ground for that not to be weird but the roof blocks the sun in the stand. I’ll remove them at kick-off. Irina has fou
nd the biggest pair I’ve ever seen and has pulled the furry hood up on her parka. It’ll be like watching the game with a giant panda.
There are many different types of people here. Men in expensive outfits and women who could be famous mix with those in old and crumpled coats and trousers. There are all colours and creeds, and I am no one. Irina follows behind me, through the gates, like a child. We link arms as we go up the concrete gangway and my eyes widen at the vast green pitch. The music blares from speakers above and causes Irina to shrink away from it.
‘Come on, grumpy. Row H 26 and 27.’
For some reason, I’ve been paranoid I’d find someone sitting in our seats but they’re empty. The match is a local derby, and the place fills up fast. The cheer for the players when they arrive on the pitch is deafening. The opposition leads two-nil as half-time approaches. Who cares, it’s nice to see goals. I remember Arthur’s trick of buying drinks a few minutes before the whistle to avoid the queue.
Irina needs a magic elixir, not a coffee, to turn her afternoon around. While we wait for the game to restart, I ask her what’s been on my mind for a while.
‘Why do you drink so much?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You drink to get drunk. I watch guys doing it all the time but you’re the only woman I’ve seen.’
‘You noticed?’
‘Of course. Is it to do with your past?’
She takes her oversized shades off and stares at me through rheumy eyes.
‘It’s often the only way I can relax and forget things. It isn’t because of my daughter. I’m stressed and it relaxes me.’
‘What have you got to be anxious about? We’ve cushy jobs for good money. Accommodation thrown in. We don’t answer to anyone. And we have each other.’
Her eyes search mine.
‘It’s not just you who has problems. Life rains on us all, Katie.’
Her words shock me. Have I become self-centred and can’t see that everyone has struggles? Do I really know what’s going on in Irina’s head? She’s ready to say something when the speakers above blare and everyone rises to their feet.
‘Oh God, I’m dying,’ she says.
‘You what?!’
‘No, not that. My hangover’s killing me. How much longer does this fun last?’
‘If you’re not enjoying it, go home. I’ll catch you later. I don’t mind staying on my own.’
It’s a surprise when she pops her glasses back on, squeezes my hand, and shuffles past the clapping supporters and out of sight. The referee’s whistle distracts me, and I focus on the game.
* * *
The match ends in a two-all draw. I worried beforehand that the big crowd would unsettle me. It hasn’t. I’ll nip to the stadium shop afterwards and buy a scarf. The throng stream out of the ground. I don’t want to get involved in the crush as they feed into the tunnel, so I sit in my seat and people watch.
A familiar man walks by and averts his eyes as ours meet. I know him, and the way his shocked face turns around means he knows me. My brain whirrs. Should I worry? He sneaks a final look and then is gone out of sight. I curse as I replace my shades.
I’m the last to leave. All I think about is trying to identify that man. I bump through the turnstiles and decide the scarf can wait. I want to be at home. Filtering through the crowd with my head down, I glance up and he’s in front of me.
‘Katie? Is that really you?’
It can’t be. I peer at his wavy hair, his familiar blue eyes, and not least his lethargic grin. Tears stream down our faces. I cry because he was right. We would meet again. I step forward and hug Tommy.
60
Charters
What do you say after more than twenty years? Tommy solves the problem.
‘Shall we have a beer?’
‘Good idea,’ I reply. ‘How about that boat place?’
‘Charters? Okay, I haven’t been in there for ages.’
We don’t talk the short distance there as we walk with the remainder of the crowd through the traffic light system. We both smile at each other. The steps to the riverside are steep and slippery.
‘Careful,’ he says. ‘I’ve had a few nasties on these over the years. What do you want to drink?’
‘Any kind of cider will be fine.’
A ramp leads us onto the boat and we walk down some gloomy stairs. The place is heaving, as you’d expect on match day. Tommy is no stranger to a bar and navigates his way to the front. He’s grown into his looks. His clothes fit well but they have a hint of age about them. They certainly aren’t designer.
A couple get out of two seats around a small table. I quickly sit before they’re taken. I watch Tommy count change out when the barman gives him the price. He returns at a strange angle and I realise the floor isn’t level. There’s a good buzz in here though, and it smells as if beer has seeped into the wooden floorboards over many years. He puts a pint in front of me and the table violently rocks toward me. His glass goes on the other side and it bangs back. We laugh at the same time and we’re friends again.
After some general chat about the football, I ask him the obvious question.
‘What happened to you?’
He’s ready for me and I can tell everything will come out.
‘The couple I lived with adopted me in the end. They were lovely. Still are. I went to a good school, but I wasn’t as bright as their son had been. They never said I disappointed them, but it was always at the back of my mind. I’d missed so much schooling that I could never catch up. Further education was not an option.’
He takes a huge gulp with enthusiasm, and I note he’s no stranger to beer.
‘I got in with a wild crowd. Nothing too serious, but drink and drugs. My adoptive parents moved away to Lincoln. They asked me to come, and I did. They helped me find a job with British Gas. I just had no focus. HR sacked me for persistent lateness. That annoyed my father, and I left. Living with like-minded lads was a poor idea. I slipped back into my old ways.’
‘How are you doing now?
‘I won’t lie to you. Things were rough for a long time. Did you get the sense you don’t belong anywhere? I kept on moving around, taking jobs, losing them. Finally, I got my act together about five years ago. I went and saw my parents and told them everything. They were wary to begin with but then saw how serious I was. I moved back to Peterborough, away from bad influences and started again. There is always building work here. I’ve been doing it ever since.’
‘Sounds like you’re doing fine. Any children?’
Immediately, I can see he has a dilemma on his hands. There’s something he doesn’t want to tell me, or he is embarrassed by it. Tommy was always good at talking his way out of things. He stands up. I think he’s about to leave, but instead takes his coat off. He needn’t say anymore as I notice his arms. He has the same blue tattoos I did.
‘I was arrested for drink driving. Again. They sent me down to teach me a lesson. I did four months here in Peterborough’s nick.’
‘Is that where those tattoos came from?’
He idly looks at them and his eyes sharpen as he realises not everyone knows what prison markings look like. ‘No, I got these in Lincoln’s jail after being caught with stolen property. I did learn, eventually, and I’m squeaky clean now. I’ve been in the same two-bed flat for four years and had my job on the diggers for three.’
The only thing that means anything to me is that he’s being honest. He didn’t need to tell me any of that. I take a big sip of cider and slip off my own coat. Tommy admires the dragon on my arm.
‘As for kids,’ he adds. ‘I never wanted any. After all the bullshit we went through, I figured I didn’t want to bring any more children into this world. What’s your tale?’
Where do I start? How do I explain what happened, what became of me, and worst of all, what I did? I always trusted Tommy. He’s taken a chance by telling me the truth when he could have glossed over the past.
‘Same again
? You’ll need another drink for this.’
He will hear everything.
61
Attraction
His face displays the emotions you’d expect when you hear a history like mine. If indeed there has been one similar. Shock, anger, disgust, revulsion, and a touch of fear. Strangely, it’s the last emotion I find the worst to see.
I decide not to mention my recent visits to Simon and Justin. I update him from the day he left and finish at the football match. He accepts why I slipped my licence. He agreed they can be worse than the sentence itself. I tell him about the probation officer killing himself and bumping into Bill Ivy. I reveal my fears that Bill’s now a policeman and knew Tim Thorn. He understands my worries and the severity of the situation I’m in. I even explain I’ve got myself tangled up with criminals but I’m not involved.
He recovers fast. Kids from care do. There is little that would shock him or me to the core. Which is sad for both of us.
‘There’s not much chance of them finding you here. I’m unsure why I recognised you. You’re so different. Wasn’t your hair brown not blonde. The clothes and make-up…’
‘Yes?’
‘You look pretty, but, powerful I guess.’
‘Pretty?’
‘Bugger off. Do you fancy another drink?’
‘Very smooth.’ I’m enjoying his discomfort. There’s still that same spark, perhaps even a little more. Our stories make us quite a pair. ‘I’ve got work, unfortunately.’
‘What are you going to do about all that?’
‘I’ll keep you posted. I have a couple of tasks I need to see through.’
Shadows Of Regret Page 20