"Go on then."
He slid a half-full packet of custard creams alongside her mug, and took a seat opposite her. She munched her way through two, and then finally admitted, "Yeah, you're right. They are a bit scared of him. But it's good that they've got an authority figure, isn't it?" She looked up at him, pleading for reassurance.
"Not that kind, it isn't. He's come out of prison with some really funny attitudes. He sounds like a BNP member now. All that far right boot-strap and national pride stuff. And his bonkers ideas about women."
"I didn't think the BNP existed anymore."
"I dunno. You don't hear about them. But all those other tin pot little groups of racists dressed up as concerned citizens. He's one of them, isn't he?"
Pearl sighed heavily. "He has been going to rallies and meetings, yes. And to be honest, Turner, they make a lot of sense in what they say. Some of it. You know, about working hard and being proud of being English. Why can't we fly our own flag?"
"You can. I honestly don't think anyone's ever been stopped for it."
"I've read about it."
"Mum. Not everything you read is true." He paused, and then added, bitterly, "Journalists are liars."
Pearl picked up another biscuit and studied her son carefully. He hung his head but he knew he couldn't bluff anything past his own mother. Still, he waited for the inevitable question.
"Everything all right between you and Emily, then?"
"Nope."
"Want to talk about it?"
"Nope."
"Going to keep it all to yourself until you get angrier and angrier and do something you regret?"
"Yup."
"Turner!"
"Oh mum, I'm sorry. It's all become just one more hassle, to be honest. Look. Let's get back to important stuff. Family stuff. He's bullying Elaine, too, isn't he?"
"I don't think so. I mean, he hasn't raised a hand to her. He wouldn't. She would not stand for that. And I believe what he says about respect."
"I don't think he needs to raise a hand to her. She scurries around him at his beck and call."
"He's got very fixed ideas on the role of women, that's all. And I think she likes the structure."
"No." Turner shook his head and the angry frustration that he'd carried with him from Emily's flat continued to build. "I don't think so. Something's wrong there."
"There's nothing you can do. She's an adult and she makes her own choices."
"She's not thinking right."
"You can't control everything."
"Why the hell not?" he blurted out, balling his hand into a tight fist. His mum shifted back in her chair and he suddenly noticed she didn't just look concerned; she looked scared. He forced his hand flat. "I'm sorry, mum."
"Oh Turner, don't you go doing anything stupid."
"I won't."
"Promise me."
"Do you want another cuppa?" He stood up forcefully and turned away.
* * * *
After he had walked his mum home, he stood on the corner of his street, uncertain. Energy coursed through him. It was late afternoon and he'd planned on still being with Emily right now. He felt ill at ease but wasn't quite sure what to do with himself.
I could go round to Riggers right now and squeeze his little throat.
Aww fuck. I don't want to go back to prison.
He forced his unwilling legs to carry him home, dragging himself woodenly along the road and back into his house. He'd saved so hard to buy the little terrace but now it felt like it was gripping him, strangling him. He prowled through the rooms, almost snarling.
Eventually he flopped down into the sofa and fired up a first-person shoot-em-up game. He dragged a four-pack of cider onto the coffee table and put his feet up on the edge. With the sound up high, and the curtains drawn, he proceeded to drink and shoot his way through three hours of noisy pixelated aggression.
The final can of cider made him feel slightly sick. It was too much sweetness. He staggered into the kitchen, and worked his way through a tub of tuna pasta that was lingering in the fridge, and then a shot of neat whiskey.
Fucking Riggers fucking bully fucking hell.
It wasn't right. He needed to speak to him. Try and make him see sense. There was a tiny part of Turner's mind that thought that he, himself, wasn't seeing sense right now, but it was easy to ignore after another blast of whiskey.
Dusk was falling and he walked through the darkening streets. He was pretty sure that no-one could tell he was drunk. He walked with rigid purpose, and it must have been the set of his jaw that had passers-by scurrying for cover and pressing into doorways as he steamed past them.
I shall be calm and cool and collected. I shall tell him I care very much for my sister and my nephews. I shall explain that his manner is wrong. All wrong. And that he is to leave immediately.
Okay, hang on, it's his house. I shall tell him to ask Elaine to leave.
She'll be upset but she'll understand in the end. It's saving her, really.
He left the rows of terraces behind and came to the new housing development. It was one of the North-West's brownfield sites, using European money to redevelop old industrial areas and make low-cost social housing available to the local workforce. The houses were small, boxy and simple, but they were all occupied - unlike the old terraces where dozens were up for sale. Some of the old streets had more vacant properties than inhabited ones.
Identical houses, identical cars, identical lives. Turner rambled along the pavement, scuffing his feet into the neatly clipped grass of each front lawn. They weren't allowed high hedges or fences between them, not out the front, and he stumbled along flowerbeds and driveways.
There it was. Their house. His house. Riggers. Turner came to a swaying halt and leaned on the blue wheelie bin that stood at the end of the neighbour's driveway. Riggers' own bins were neatly stowed away.
Turned looked at the house, searching for signs of life. But all of the windows were dark and nothing flickered in the front window to suggest they were watching television in a darkened room. He propelled himself forward, his tension rising, and hung on the bell for a good long minute.
Nothing. They were out.
Bastard. It was one more reason to hate Riggers, Turner decided. He hammered on the door, just in case they had somehow missed the bell.
Eventually he had to concede that they were definitely out.
Now what? He lurked in the porch for a few more minutes. Gradually, the realisation that he was looking highly suspicious began to penetrate his booze-soaked brain and he decided to move on.
He pulled out his phone as he walked away, thumbing his way through his contacts. It was Saturday night after all, and he was already well-stoked with alcohol. Surely he'd be able to hit up one of his mates and organise a session down a pub somewhere.
Alan - no, he was all loved up now and hadn't been seen for weeks. Charlie - maybe. Deano - yeah, he was always good for a laugh. Emily.
Emily.
Turner switched his phone off. His temporary good mood, caused by the fleeting idea of meeting his old friends, crashed down again.
He could stop by the off-licence and get more drink.
Oh fuck it. He drew his jacket tighter around his body and stumbled awkwardly home. He took one more slug of whiskey and collapsed on the sofa, still in his coat and boots, while the television showed him endless celebrity game shows and he fell asleep in a dark, crumpled heap.
Chapter Seven
Emily was at work early that Monday morning, and doing battle with the printer. She'd changed the ink cartridge, as it demanded. It had spat out about a ream of test pages, and was now sulking with an unidentified error code flashing on the blurred display.
Pah. After the weekend I've had, I can cope with anything. It's time to move on up, move on forward, move on to a better future.
I've read enough self-help books to know that if I can't do this on my own, and like myself for it, then I can't expect anyone else to com
e and rescue me.
Sisters are doing it for themselves, all right.
The printer was unimpressed with her internal cheerleading, however, and made an extraordinary grating noise. She hastily turned it off and rested her hand on the plastic cover. It seemed rather too warm.
"You bastard," she told it.
"Good morning to you, too."
Emily whipped around guiltily. Joel was standing in the lobby, wrapped in a stripy scarf and wearing an uncoordinated bobble hat. His face was pinched and pale from the biting cold of the early morning.
"It looks like you're dressed for the arctic."
"No heating in my flat. Just one of those gas heater things and I'm not going to buy another bottle until the autumn comes, now."
"Oh. Oh, I wasn't calling you a bastard, by the way. The printer has thrown a hissy."
"Turn it off, turn it on again?"
"I'm trying that." Emily felt uncomfortable under Joel's unsmiling stare, and she used the printer as an excuse to turn away. She felt the temperature of the plastic casing again. It was still hot, but she flicked the on switch again anyway. It whirred for a moment then grated to a threatening halt once more.
"That sounds bad," Joel remarked.
She turned around again and shrugged. "I'd hoped to get a heap of work done this morning. But it looks like I'll be sorting out a new printer instead."
Joel didn't reply. He stood fixed in the middle of the lobby, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, like a security guard at a gate. There was no-one else in the building yet, and it still had that eerie deserted feeling common to offices out of working hours.
Emily waved her hand at the piles of paperwork on her desk. "So, uh, yeah. I'll get on with it all. And you? Busy day planned?" His stance was unsettling her and she didn't like it. But you could hardly ask someone not to stand in the very place they worked.
"Quite busy." Again, that poised stillness. He seemed to be thinking about what to say, or how to say it. His face twitched.
He's really creeping me out now. "Do you want a cup of tea? I was about to make one." She could escape to the kitchen.
He raised one sparse eyebrow and directed his gaze to the steaming cup on her desk. Shit. A stupid girlie laugh burst from her throat. "Oh, ah, look at that! Totally forgot."
What else could she do? She dragged out the chair from the desk and sat down, fixing her attention on the computer screen. Until other businesses opened at nine, she couldn't do anything about the printer, so she decided to trawl through the emails and tidy up the inbox.
"So," Joel said, his voice cutting through her already fraying nerves. "Tell me more about that arsehole from the other night, then."
Oh, for fuck's sake. She tipped her head back and looked Joel in the eye, determined not to let him get to her. "Andy Riggers? You're right, he's an arsehole."
"You know him well."
"No, I don't."
"You never did explain how he knew you."
"It's not really your business, Joel. Look, I've got a ton of work to do and I need to get on with it." It was difficult to be harsh with him. She carried so much guilt from how she had let him down, years before, but he was different now. Less… vulnerable.
He didn't need her.
He'd needed her before, and she'd made things worse.
Emily swallowed, her mouth drying as she began to sense that the tables were turning. Now, she felt like the vulnerable one.
"It is my business." He still stood frozen as a statue. "It is my business after all that abuse I suffered from him. I'd like to know who he is, and what he's got to do with you. I'm concerned that someone who works for this charity - although just a temp worker - associates with someone like that. Isn't that a conflict of interest?"
"I do not associate with him. He knows my name. That's all."
"He knows more than that. He spoke about… Turner? Your boyfriend?"
Heart pounding, she said, thickly, "ex-boyfriend." Anyone with a shred of decency would pick up on the tone in her voice, and drop the subject.
But not Joel. He had the knife now and he was determined to twist it. "Oh, really? What a shame. But don't worry. I'm sure you'll move on quite quickly. People like you bounce back so well."
"Thanks."
At last, he moved, but it didn't break the tension. Instead, he walked over to her desk, and brought his hands out of his pockets. "Is that Riggers an ex-boyfriend as well?"
"No."
Emily glanced at her computer screen, and then back at Joel. "Okay. So I'll tell you the truth, shall I? Last year I met Turner when he'd just got out of prison. My brother set me up a meeting so I could write an article about opportunities for ex-offenders. As it happens, that article never worked out. Riggers is Turner's sister's boyfriend. And Riggers was Turner's partner in crime. Turner wanted to go straight, Riggers didn't. It ended up with a big robbery and Turner turned evidence against Riggers and they both went back to jail. Now they're both out. That's how I know them, and that's how he knows me, and that's why he's an arsehole."
Joel laughed, unexpectedly. Emily folded her arms and rocked back in her office chair. "It's the truth, Joel."
"Yeah, whatever. Another sap duped into spilling his guts for you journalist scum? I believe that bit, at any rate. As for the rest… you probably shagged him and left him, or something. Or he left you. Whatever."
Emily couldn't grasp it and she took a deep breath while she tried to think of a way to convince him. But Joel wasn't interested. He turned around smartly and strode away, an unfamiliarly confident swing to his stride.
Emily felt the sick frustration of being misunderstood. Her palms were sweaty. She wanted to run after him, shout at him, persuade him that this time, she was being totally honest. But what evidence did she have except Riggers' own testimonial?
It shouldn't bother her as much as it did and she rubbed at her eyes, sighing. So much for moving on and leaving it all behind. Unfinished business from her past was still coiling its tendrils around her ankles, tripping her up.
She hammered out a terse reply to an email enquiry, and deleted it before she pressed send. This was no use - she could hardly take it all out on the unsuspecting public.
I want to go around to Riggers' house and give him a piece of my mind. Just get it off my chest. Joel is turning into a nasty piece of work but that's no reason for Riggers to be able to hassle him. I know I should just leave it alone, but it rankles.
A wave of sadness came over her as she pictured Riggers' house. Not for Riggers, or even for Joel, but for the twins. Kyle and Liam, and Pearl, and even Elaine. She'd been a part of their lives for a year, now.
A tear prickled in the corner of her eye, startling her. Her gut wrenched as she realised how much she was going to miss them all. She hadn't just split up with Turner. She'd lose touch with the whole family. Damn it all! How did it fall apart so badly?
She'd been wrong. She had a lot of explaining and apologising to do. But maybe it was worth one more chance.
* * * *
Turner sprawled over the sofa in Riggers' house. He'd set up his laptop on the coffee table and had a large cup of tea next to it. Riggers and Elaine had left him well supplied with snacks and treats, in lieu of actual babysitting payment, and he was happy enough to help out, anyway. Upstairs, Kyle and Liam were whispering to one another but he knew it wouldn't be long before they were asleep.
He hadn't had that showdown with Riggers. He'd let the alcohol leave his system and take his frustration with it. So when Elaine asked him to babysit again, he was willing. Though he was partly glad that Riggers had already gone out when he turned up, prepped with his laptop, ready to work.
He'd worked hard all day on a new commission though, and now his brain felt like it was melting. His laptop showed the results of the day's work but he wasn't happy with the colour scheme. He stared at it from a distance, trying to force his brain to come up with a startling insight into colour theory.
Nothing.
/>
He finally let himself think the thought he'd been avoiding all day: I miss Emily.
He was still angry that she'd lied to him. He mostly felt let down that she hadn't trusted him. He wanted to help her, not judge her. Why couldn't she see that?
But then, of course, he'd never exactly been squeaky clean himself. Before his last prison sentence, hadn't he lied? Misled? Tried to protect her, and in doing so, excluded her?
He understood the impulse, that was for sure.
And she'd given him a chance. Hell, he'd been sent down for eight months, and she still gave him a chance.
And regardless of this and that and the other… he missed her.
Almost without being fully aware of what his hands were up to, he drew out his smartphone and stared idly at the dark screen, his thumb hovering over the power button. As if by mental force alone, it sprang into life, lighting up and buzzing, the sudden text message making him jump in childish alarm.
Fuck! He shook his head at himself and sighed.
His pulse quickened when he saw it was Emily. Did he really want to read it?
Man up.
It was short and to the point. Can we talk?
He tossed the phone from one hand to the other, thinking. No, he didn't want to speak with her over the phone. It wasn't enough. He wanted to see her, even if it was for the last time. And he didn't want to wait.
Impulsively, he texted her back, explaining he was babysitting, and inviting her over to Riggers' house. He sent her the address and the nearest bus stop name.
Her reply came back instantly. Okay.
The speed of her answer lifted his spirits. He would, at least, have the chance to be honest and to clear the air. Even if they still split up for good, he didn't want anything to fester and to linger.
Plus, he thought wryly as he looked again at the laptop, I can get her second opinion on this website design before she goes.
* * * *
Emily alighted the bus a few stops early. She knew where she was going, and she wanted to be able to walk a little to gather her thoughts. She wanted to see Turner again, but she also wanted to put off the moment. If they were going to split up, properly and definitely and for ever, she wanted to delay it.
Hidden Kiss (Love Is The Law 2) Page 10