by Liz Mistry
His mother had insisted the entire family come for a week. Her pretence was that she needed to get away to recuperate, although they’d all known that her main objective was to force a truce between Gus and his sister. Had it come six months earlier both siblings would have refused. However, Corrine McGuire had nearly died just a few months ago and neither Gus, nor Katie could refuse her anything. Of course, his mum was well aware of that and had, without shame, played on it.
It hadn’t been so bad. After the initial awkwardness of seeing Katie and Gabriella together as a couple, things had eased. In fact, his current relationship with his ex-wife was less fraught than when they’d been married and as the week progressed they settled into some sort of normality. His reward was seeing the lines on his mother’s face fade and hearing her laugh again. The attack had burst her bubble, although she seemed to be beginning to mend now. He could tell his dad was pleased, too. His gruff laugh was frequent and he looked less drawn. All in all, this family foray had been a roaring success.
Mo and his family had driven over from Bradford for the day, which had been spent crabbing, eating fish and chips and scoffing ice cream. Mo and Naila had a room in the hotel at the top and the girls were spending the night at The Smugglers with Gus and his family. A full house, what with five children, three dogs and five adults.
At last, Gus turned to Mo. ‘Okay, big man, spit it out. What’s up?’
Mo stretched up and, shoving his fingers into Gus’ dreadlocks, pushed his head, like he used to do when they were kids. Gus shook his hand away. ‘Come on, stop trying to distract me. Just spit it out.’
Mo exhaled. ‘That obvious, is it?’
‘It is to me, mind you, I’ve known you since we were kids.’
Mo pulled his coat a bit tighter round him and tucked his chin beneath the neckline. ‘It’s Zarqa.’
Gus waited. Mo would tell him more in his own time, however, he hoped to hell Zarqa wasn’t in any trouble. She was Mo’s eldest and was very intelligent. She was heading for A-stars in her GCSEs.
‘She’s asking questions.’
Not quite sure where Mo was going with this, Gus cast a sideways glance at his friend. Mo was gnawing at his lip; a habit left over from their childhood. Okay, it must be bad. ‘About…?’
Mo shuffled his feet, ‘Me and Naila.’
‘Ah. What have you told her?’
‘Nothing yet. We don’t know what to say. How much to tell her? She’s still just a kid. It might be too much for her to take in.’ He sighed and took a bite of the chicken leg he’d brought from the house. ‘What do you reckon, Gus?’
Gus had little experience of kids other than Mo’s, and only ever as an honorary ‘uncle’. He’d never had to consider making decisions for them. ‘Mmm, don’t know, to be honest, Mo. What does Naila say?’
Mo snorted. ‘She thinks we should talk it through with her.’ He made air quotes with his fingers. ‘Be “transparent”.’
Gus smothered a smile. It was clear that Naila and Mo disagreed on the subject. No way was he going to side with Mo against his wife. Hell, no! He knew how ferocious she could be. He sympathised with his mate, though. It was hard being dad to five girls, and this hurdle was never going to go away. Deep down, he suspected Naila’s approach was the best way forwards, yet he couldn’t say that to Mo. No, he’d leave them to sort this out on their own. ‘I think you and Naila need to decide this together, Mo.’ He punched his friend on the arm, ‘It’s not the end of the world, you know? Zarqa’s a good girl. She’ll understand.’
Mo picked at his cuticles, looking unconvinced. ‘I’m not so sure, Gus. I’m not so sure.’
Sunday
2
10:30 Cottingley
‘Fuckin’ hell, Jake, what’re we gonna do?’
Standing in the middle of his smallish bedroom, Jake shrugged, head down, hands thrust deep into his pockets. He kicked the wooden bed leg repeatedly. With a scowl, he delivered a final kick and flung himself onto the chair in front of his desk where his computer flashed a rolling programme of photos of him and his mates doing stupid stuff. He didn’t know what to do, but didn’t want to admit it to Matty. Truth was, he was bricking it.
‘How the fuck should I know?’ He grimaced, grabbed a half-full bottle of Lucozade from the computer table and glugged. ‘Fuckin’ headache. Wait till I catch the bastard that spiked our drinks.’
Matty pulled a crumpled packet of Ibuprofen from his pocket and handed it to Jake, who popped two pills and downed them with another slug of Lucozade.
‘Cheers.’
He threw the packet back to Matty, who was sprawled on Jake’s bed, eyes bugged out of his head, bloodshot and swollen. Even under the angry pus-filled mountainous terrain that was his face his pallor was evident. With a sudden movement, Matty jerked upright and grabbed a plastic bucket from the floor. He barfed and the sweaty male hormonal stink was overpowered by the sweet sickly stench of regurgitated alcohol, coke and stomach acid.
Jake slapped one hand over his nose, jumped to his feet and with the other flung open the window. ‘Fuck’s sake, Matt! Empty that fuckin’ thing before my mum comes up and gives us shit.’
Looking even paler than before, Matty, trailing a sicky smell in his wake, walked across the landing with the bucket and deposited its contents down the loo. Seconds later he was back. With a serious face, he sat down and repeated his earlier question. ‘What are we gonna do, Jake?’
Jake shook his head. He was still thinking things through and nothing was making sense yet.
‘What about Si? Where the hell is he?’ Matty perched on the edge of Jake’s bed, his fingernails worrying an angry pus bulb on his chin. ‘You don’t think…?’ He hesitated and glanced at Jake.
Jake frowned at him. ‘What the fuck! You don’t think he did it, do you?’
Matty shrugged and blotted his burst spot with the edge of his sleeve. ‘Nah, course not. It’s just well… who did do it?’
Crossing one leg over the other, Jake cursed. ‘God, coulda been anybody Matt. We didn’t know half the idiots who were there. Don’t even know who she was, do we?’
Matty kicked off his Vans and sat back with his legs dangling over the side of the bed and began work on another spot. ‘He still not answering your texts?’
‘Naw and it goes to voicemail when I ring.’
‘I’m gonna text Tayyub, see if he’s seen him.’
Jake snorted, ‘That retard! He won’t have seen Si. Too busy with that stupid fuckin’ camera of his.’
‘Aw, shut the fuck up, Jake. Tayyub’s alright. Just a bit weird that’s all.’
‘Hmmph. If you say so. Go ahead, text him.’
Matty: WUU2?
Tayyub: Working
Matty: You alright mate?
Tayyub: Yes
Matty: You seen Si?
Tayyub: No
Matty: Sure?
Tayyub: Yes.
Matty: Safe, in a bit
Tayyub: Yes goodbye. I will see you later
Jake leaned over Matty’s shoulder. ‘See what I mean? The fucker don’t even talk right.’
Matty raised an eyebrow and smirked. ‘Nah you’re right he don’t talk right. Not like us, all posh ’n’ that.’
‘Tosser!’
Matty sat up. ‘You worried ’bout Si?’
With a glance at his friend Jake said, ‘Yeah, you?’
Matty snuffled and wiped his mucky sleeve across his eyes. ‘Yeah.’
‘Don’t start fuckin’ crying. Just stay cool, right.’
Matty wiped his arm over his eyes again.
3
12:30 Manningham
Tracey knocked on the bedroom door. When there was no reply, she pushed it open and in the light from the hallway made her way across the carpet, avoiding the tangle of wires and connections hooked up to the complex computer system that took up an entire wall.
‘Tayyub?’
From the single bed in the corner Tracey heard a low keening sound. Oh no
, what’s happened now? She took a deep breath, marched over to the bed and sat down on the edge. Placing her hand on the foetal shaped lump that rocked to and fro, she patted, slow and rhythmic until the rocking stopped and the keening abated. Leaning over, she switched on the bedside light before speaking in a matter of fact voice, her face displaying none of the anxiety she felt. ‘Come on Tayyub, sit up and tell me what’s got you in this state.’
She waited for a few seconds. No response. ‘Oh Tay, come on, what’s up?’
The teenage lad at last sat up on the bed, eyes wide and red rimmed. His slender frame all edges and elbows. He pulled a pair of ear plugs from his ears and sniffed.
Tracey shook her head and standing up she took his hand and pulled him to his feet. ‘Bloody hell, Tayyub, you stink. First thing for you is a shower. Then I’ll make us a cup of tea and you can tell me all about it.’
Tayyub lifted his arms one at a time and smelled his armpits. With a lopsided grin, he looked at Tracey. ‘Sorry, Sis.’ He wrapped his long arms round her petite frame pulling her to him in a cuddle that dwarfed her. Tracey savoured these moments of contact. It had taken years for Tayyub to respond in that way; and to do it voluntarily was a recent thing. He was high-functioning autistic and the human touches, the eye contact, the responding to her gentle humour were difficult for him. Struggling, she escaped with a laugh and waved him off to the bathroom.
Waiting for him downstairs, she wondered what had upset him so much. It had been ages since he’d taken to his room, rocking and keening like that.
4
21:36 Cottingley
Jane Proctor didn’t know what had possessed them. Pulling into the woods had been a complete act of madness. In some ways, the perfect end to their long weekend break. It was even less typical of James than it was of her. He’d always been the more prudish, so when he’d driven off the road and cut the lights, tingling anticipation made her pelvis contract.
Like teenagers, they’d dragged off garments, manoeuvred limbs and giggled over the obtrusive gear stick. Last time they’d done this, it was in her Fiesta nearly twenty years ago. Today, even though the car was bigger, there seemed to be less room and their shagging was a peremptory tribute to their old life… the one before Simon… before they got all boring and predictable. Ah well, at their age she was surprised they’d managed to manoeuvre, never mind complete the act. It had been fun, though short-lived. Who’d have thought James still had it in him?
Leaning back, knickers discarded in the depths of the foot well, Jane laughed. ‘We should really share a joint now… just for old times’ sake.’
James, still red in the face from his exertions, grinned. ‘The most I’d manage these days would be a vape.’
Squeezing his arm, she grinned. ‘We’ve still got it, haven’t we?’
Eyes crinkling in that way she loved, James beamed, knocking ten years off his age as he shuffled back into his trousers. ‘With bloody bells on!’ He started the engine and reversed out of the snicket, still grinning.
Minutes later, driving into their quiet street, Jane leaned forward in her seat laughing. Their house stood like a beacon at the bottom of the cul-de-sac with every light on. ‘Simon has either forgotten to turn every electrical item off at night or he’s decided to illuminate the entire neighbourhood, so we don’t get lost.’
James pulled into their drive, yanked the handbrake on and grimaced. ‘Bloody boy! Bet the only thing he managed to switch off over the entire weekend was the fridge freezer. I warned you that this long weekend away wasn’t a good idea. He may be sixteen, however, he’s got all the maturity of a coked-up chicken.’
Jane punched him on the arm. ‘What do you know about the maturity of chickens, coked-up or not? We’ve had a glorious weekend.’
He leaned over to kiss her. ‘Yeah, we had a wonderful time and an extra few quid on the old electricity bill is a small price to pay for your undivided attention for four days.’
Grinning, Jane straightened her skirt. Her time away with James had been fantastic. Just enough to re-charge their batteries before autumn set in. They’d been so busy over the past few months and this time away had allowed them to reconnect as a couple rather than as business partners or parents. Thoughts of long walks along cold beaches faded as she opened the car door and she hoped her tone didn’t betray her reluctance to get back to reality. ‘Come on then, grab a bag and let’s survey the damage.’
Overnight bag in hand, she paused to savour the view of Heaton Woods lit by the rest of the city. Lister Mills towered behind; a tall tribute to Bradford’s textile history. Straight ahead was Saltaire village, rows of sandstone terraced houses, each one cleaned to within an inch of its life, were testament to Sir Titus Salt’s benevolence in the area. To the left was Cottingley, with Bingley further afield. It was this panoramic view that had compelled them to buy this house when Simon arrived. A home on a hill for their new family in a quiet cul-de-sac. James came over to her and swung his arm round her shoulder. They stood together: two tall silhouettes against Bradford’s backdrop.
She shivered and James pulled her tightly to him, whispering, ‘That’s what comes of leaving your knickers off.’
She punched him on the arm, ‘Couldn’t find them, could I? God knows where you threw them.’ Linking arms, they walked towards the front door.
James blew out a puff of air that steamed in front of his face, ‘Look at that, it’s going to be a frosty night. Hope he’s had the heating on.’
Jane tried to turn her key in the lock. ‘Silly bugger hasn’t even locked the door. Hmph, you can’t trust him with–’
As she spoke, James pushed the door open. Her final words drifted away and her heart thudded in her chest. She struggled to make sense of the scene before her.
James brushed past, his breath a series of grating gasps. ‘What the bloody hell has gone on here?’
Eyes wide and uncomprehending, Jane shook her head, speechless for a second, then, ‘I’ll bloody kill him!’ Chest tight, she stepped into the hallway and yelled, ‘Simon, get down here right now!’ When there was no reply, she turned in a circle surveying the damage.
The small table at the bottom of the stairs where they all had, at one time or another, sat for lengthy phone conversations, lay smashed to bits, the phone lying broken amidst its ruins. The wallpaper was spattered with a brown sticky substance. Flung carelessly on the floor was the framed photo of the three of them at Harry Potter World. She lifted it up and turned it over only to find the glass was broken and the photo inside damaged. Stifling a sob, her eyes moved along the hallway. The kitchen door hung off its hinge and the glass panes were smashed. Beyond the door, broken crockery and furniture were scattered. God only knew the state her living room was in. She gagged as the acrid stench of vomit assaulted her nostrils. Vomit, stale booze and sweat. She retched again and a rush of foul liquid sprung into her mouth. She was going to be sick. Closing her eyes, she swallowed it down and breathed in through her mouth.
Her lips tightened and a tingle spread from the top of her nose back to her eyes. Blinking away the tears, she turned to James and as their eyes met, the tension she’d left behind on holiday surged into her shoulders. James moved to her side and took her hand, his grip strong and reassuring. Simon had promised no parties and, like fools, they’d believed him. He’d been so damn convincing. He hadn’t even had the courtesy to clean up after himself. That’s what really pissed her off. This was his mess and like the irresponsible teenager he was, he was either hiding at Matty or Jake’s, hoping it would all blow over, or he was upstairs, sleeping it off. Oh, she could murder him!
‘Simon!’ Her voice reverberated round the hallway. there was only silence.
Jane took a step forward and gripped the bannister. ‘Bet he’s up there, drunk as a skunk.’
Placing a hand on her shoulder, James halted her. ‘Maybe I should go, love. I think it’d be better for me to deal with this.’
Exhaling a long breath, she gave a curt
nod. James was right. She’d lose it big-time and that would just set Simon off on one of his moods. It was so frustrating. They’d been through so much and things were looking rosy for them… now this. James was the calm one. The pragmatist. It was best if he made first contact with their son. ‘Okay, you go. Just don’t be soft on him. He’ll be cleaning this mess up and paying for the damage.’
‘Hell, yeah. This is his mess. He’ll damn well fix it… when he’s sober, okay?’ James’ smile was cheerless, ‘Remember that party you had at your folks’ house when you were seventeen? The whole neighbourhood could hear it and yet your parents never said a word.’
Her shoulders relaxed and her lips tugged up in a reluctant grin. James always knew exactly how to make her put things into perspective, ‘Okay, okay, I get what you’re saying. There wasn’t this mess at my party, was there? Bloody teenagers, huh?’
‘Wait here, I’ll check upstairs.’
Swallowing hard, she agreed with him. One last tight hand squeeze and he was off up the stairs yelling, ‘Simon’, in the voice he reserved for mega misdemeanours.
Regardless of the sticky surface, Jane, legs like jelly, lowered herself onto the stairs. James banged through the upstairs rooms, yelling for Simon as he went. Spent, she rested her head in her hands and sobbed. By the sounds of it Simon wasn’t upstairs which meant he was cowering away at his mates’ houses. Not a smart move. He’d be better to ‘fess up’ and deal with the backlash now than allow her temper to fester.
Hearing James behind her on the stairs, she looked up. The brief moment of hope that flared in her eyes disappeared when she saw his face. His skin looked grey and in the last few minutes he had aged. She jumped to her feet, arms outstretched, ‘What is it? What’s wrong? Is Simon hurt?’