by Anna Legat
She was cleaning the wound with typical nurse-like efficiency. Imogen’s little body shook with occasional sobs, but those were ebbing away slowly as she saw a large plaster cover her grazed knee and make the blood disappear.
‘Look what you’ve done!’ Sammy lamented.
‘What have I done? She fell!’
‘Only because you made her run! And anyway, what are you doing here? It isn’t your day or anything.’ She shrugged her shoulders and chucked bloodied wipes into the rubbish bin.
‘I was waiting for you! I didn’t know where you were! What the fuck were you thinking disappearing like that?’
‘We didn’t disappear. Imogen went on holiday with her grandma, and I had to go and earn some money because, let’s face it, you won’t be paying the maintenance money, will you? I shouldn’t be deluding myself.’ She was glaring at him, hard and unforgiving.
‘What do you mean you went to earn some money? What exactly have you been doing?’ Luke knew from the start something was dodgy, and now he almost had proof. What was she getting up to? Was there another man involved?
‘None of your business, Luke. Go now!’
‘I want to make sure Imogen is okay.’
‘She’ll be OK as soon as you’re gone.’
His blood boiled. ‘You’re such a bitch, Sam!’
‘I told you not to use that language in front of my child!’
‘Your child!’
‘Imogen, go to your room. Daddy is losing his temper. Again.’ She spoke calmly, but there was venom in her voice.
Luke was shaking with anger. ‘I want to spend some time with her! She wasn’t here on Sunday. That was my day!’
Sammy took Imogen by the hand and helped her off the stool. She led her out of the kitchen. At the bottom of the stairs she told her to hobble carefully to her room, mummy would be there with her in a minute.
When Imogen was out of earshot, Sammy shoved her finger in Luke’s face. ‘Look here, you have no right to be here, issuing ultimatums,’ she hissed at him. ‘I can call the police and get you out in a shot, and you’ll never see Imogen again. And don’t you dare tell me about your day – you haven’t paid for it. Your money hasn’t come through. If it doesn’t come soon, you won’t be having any days. Are we clear?’
*
He was driving like a man possessed. It didn’t matter if the fucking tanker rolled off the road and took all the bloody traffic with it. Luke didn’t care a jot. He was beyond caring. Everybody was against him – the fucking bankers, that bloody bitch Sammy, the whole fucking world!
He put his foot down as soon as he got to the overtaking lane. His huge lorry was flying past a line of passenger cars, all stuck neatly in the left lane, shit scared of Luke and his wrath. His lorry could go as fast as he wanted it to go. No one would mess with him, not today.
And yet...
And yet, against every logic, somebody started overtaking him even though Luke was in the fast lane already and that forced the other car to drive against the oncoming traffic. Bloody idiot!
The car was fast. It took it a split second to swerve back into the lane in front of Luke’s lorry. It was a black Aston Martin, with its roof down, driven by a balding middle-aged man. Luke waved his fist at him and honked repeatedly. He tried sitting on the bastard’s backside, but the mad Aston Martin driver lifted his middle finger at him, put his foot down and left Luke to choke on the dust he’d left in his wake.
*
It was liberating! Trevor had not felt this invincible in ages. On reflection, he had never felt invincible in his life. Until now his life had been about scraping by, surviving, getting to the next milepost, keeping his head down, and just plodding on regardless. Now he was flying. Life in the fast lane was exhilarating. It was the only kind of life he would live from now on. Otherwise the damned thing wasn’t worth living.
The car sliced the air. It was a bullet. Encased inside it, Trevor was Lewis Hamilton, his body moulded into the seat, his head cool, champagne on ice. He was young and handsome. He was fast and furious.
Getting ahead of the pack was easy. All it took was a gentle, imperceptible touch and the car would be ejected into the stratosphere. Sad losers were honking and cursing, waving their fists, but Trevor was laughing.
He was laughing all the way home.
*
‘How much did we pay for it?’ Sandra had hatched out of the front door – hair wet, face sour, an untimely reminder of the world’s general decline. She inspected the car with the suspicion of a layman who knew nothing about the subject of automobiles. She pinched the leather on the arm of Trevor’s seat and cocked her head to peer stupidly at the gadgets on the dashboard. She opened the passenger door and plonked her bony arse on the seat next to Trevor. She wound up the window and made an attempt at bringing down the roof when Trevor turned off the engine.
There were three things Trevor didn’t like about her question: the how much, the we and the it. His earnings were paying for the car. Sandra had not earned a penny in the last fourteen years and therefore, by necessary implication, she wasn’t paying anything. Secondly, Trevor’s car wasn’t any old it – she was an exotic beast: beautiful and daring. She had more personality than Sandra could ever muster for herself. And finally, whatever the price it was worth every penny Trevor was paying. Casually, Trevor said, ‘It was eighty-two thousand to start with, but I negotiated them down to seventy-five. Plus, some pittance for the Skoda.’
She stared at him. It had to be shock. Her eyes bulged out of their sockets and though her mouth tried to form words, nothing came out of it for the first few seconds but a bizarre gurgling. Trevor should have offered her a drive around the block, but he couldn’t bring himself to let her stay inside for any longer than was absolutely necessary. ‘Shall we go?’ he asked.
He sprang out, quick and agile, and dashed to her side to open the door for her. She was still staring at him. It was becoming a little unnerving. He prompted her, ‘Shall we go? You aren’t planning on staying here for the rest of the evening? I know it’s an amazing car, but ’
She didn’t move. ‘Where did you get seventy-five thousand pounds?
‘We’ve discussed it, don’t you remember? I consolidated it with the mortgage – a very reasonable interest rate. I had it fixed for five years.’
‘We now have a seventy-five thousand pound mortgage on the house?’ She spoke very slowly, pronouncing each word with great difficulty as if she were in the first stages of a stroke.
Trevor really didn’t want her in the car, slurring her speech and dribbling all over the upholstery. He also didn’t want a scene. Shaun from next door was peering over the hedge, listening to every word they were saying. Trevor whispered, ‘This is not a conversation for here and now. Let’s go inside.’
‘Seventy-five thousand pounds!’ she shrieked. ‘Have you lost your mind!’
Shaun’s head disappeared behind the hedge, but no doubt he was still eavesdropping.
‘Do we need to advertise the state of our finances to the world?’ Trevor insisted in a whisper. ‘Come on, Sandra, we have discussed this! You agreed!’
‘I agreed?’ Her stupid staring was really unsettling.
‘We talked about –’
‘Trevor! This is a seventy-five thousand pound mortgage on our children’s house, for God’s sake!’
‘All in all, the mortgage now stands at eighty thousand. We still have the five thousand of the old mortgage to pay off.’ He didn’t know why he had felt inclined to say that. It had only spurred her on. She pushed him out of the way and stormed out of the car. For reasons of her own, she kicked the front tyre. Trevor could swear he heard Shaun snigger behind the hedge.
‘Calm yourself down, Sandra.’
‘Yes, yes, exactly that!’ she pushed her finger in his face. ‘That’s what you must do! There’s a cooling down period – seven days. You, Trevor Larkin, you bloody need to calm down. Take the bloody thing back. Get our money back. Now! Do it now!’
She kicked the tyre again. She shouldn’t have done that. It had set Trevor on edge. He grabbed her arm and pulled her away from his car. Her face levelled with his, she was panting and exhaling the stink of sardines on toast at him while she made the last attempt to lay down the law, ‘We’re taking it back! We’ll get you a sensible car if you really need one. Not this one! Not seventy-five thousand pounds out of the house. We worked all our lives for this house, and I’m not letting it go because you... you... Let go of my arm!’ She tried to free herself, but Trevor only squeezed harder. ‘What are you doing? Let go of my arm! You’re hurting me!’
Shaun’s head popped out again. ‘Are you all right, you two?’
Trevor turned his head and bared his teeth. ‘Just fuck off, Shaun, will you?’
*
Trevor didn’t mind sleeping on the sofa. In fact, he preferred it to the nauseating creature comforts of his marital bed upstairs. At least here he could think, and dream. He had a car and he had a girl. What else could a man wish for?
*
Sounds used to bother her. In the past Margaret would cringe at noise, any type of noise that didn’t originate from nature: loud music, TVs and radios up full blast in the neighbours’ unneighbourly households, adults talking around barbeques in summer gardens, children riding bikes down the sloping road by the house, screaming their heads off, the screeching brakes of lorries taking the windy turn around the belly of the cemetery. But tonight Margaret was longing to hear. She was lying in her bed, gazing at the shadows forming on the ceiling from the moonlight penetrating the nets and photocopying their lacy patterns. She was tired but could not sleep. Radiotherapy was an exhausting exercise for a woman her age, and it was expensive. Not the sessions – those were free with the NHS – but the cost of transport and of the nurse baby-sitting Victor while Margaret was on her day visits to the hospital.
Sammy was wonderful with Victor despite his old-man’s ogling and the improprieties pouring out of his mouth when least expected. And Victor took to Sammy like a duck to water. Sometimes Margaret would have the distinct impression that he resented her coming home and sending Sammy away. It had worked out well, but now the money was scarce. Their bank account was almost empty: the nurse, the taxis Margaret had to take to and from the hospital... She was too weak to get on a bus.
Never mind, yesterday was her last radiotherapy session. It was over. Their pensions would keep coming and Margaret would be able to hold it all together for a little bit longer.
She was listening, tuning into the sounds of the night. Victor used to be a snorer, and his snoring would vibrate through their nights together like the purring of a cat. But recently, it had stopped and now it was the silence that would keep Margaret awake. At some point, when she could take that silence no longer, she would creep to Victor’s bedside and put her ear close to his mouth to feel the air he breathed out brush her cheek and assure her everything would be fine. Like now.
*
He hadn’t bought any beers. He was in self-imposed detox. Luke had to get back on the straight and narrow. He had to stop losing his rag every time things didn’t go to plan. He had to stop acting like a fucking yo-yo, to and fro between 12B Sparrow Rise, his old home, his only home – and this hellhole. He couldn’t take Sammy disappearing every now and again, without explanation or any warning, but he had no choice. Whatever she was up to, he had to grind his teeth and bear it, or else he would lose Imogen. The mere thought of it would give him sleepless nights. He hated that and the more he hated it, the less sleep came his way. Of course he could drink himself to sleep. That always worked, but there was a price to pay. Once he had something to drink, just one paltry beer, he would need to have another. And another. And sooner rather than later he was bound to fall off the wagon. So he had decided to stop and what followed was that without a single drop of alcohol in his bloodstream Luke would not be able to sleep.
He was lying in his bloody ridiculous princess bed, thinking. He would get clean. This Sunday – his day or not, fuck it! – he’d go and pick up Imogen for a day out. Would take her to McDonald’s, drop in on Mum and Dad. He knew Mum was making a chocolate fudge cake, Imogen’s favourite.
*
She could tell Ben wasn’t asleep. His breathing was shallow and controlled. They had gone to bed two hours and – Emma glanced at the display screen of her digital alarm clock – and thirty-two minutes ago. Both were lying awake, saying no more to each other. They should be whispering excitedly and cuddling each other, really. After all, they had agreed – once again – to give it another go. Another IVF.
But they were lying in bed, wide awake, and silent. Feeling flat. Just talking about it was exhausting, but it had to be done. One more time. It would have to be their child or no child at all. She could not bear the idea of bringing up somebody else’s kid, something that Ben had been insinuating more and more frequently, more and more boldly. Where did that come from?
She had to agree. He had to agree. They were both emotionally spent, but a deal was a deal. Another go. She sighed, and immediately held her breath. He must have heard her because his breathing stopped for a bit and she could tell he was listening too.
*
Giacomo didn’t approve of smoking in bed, but this was exactly what he was doing right now. The lights were off and in the dark he could see the blistering end of his cigarette reddening with each inhalation and paling away straight after. He had the lights off because he didn’t want to witness his own desolate nakedness. He was alone in bed so he may as well smoke.
He could hear their voices, downstairs. Music was playing in the background. It wasn’t music that Giacomo was hearing, but the beat. The actual music was lost somewhere between the floorboards that separated him from his wife and that damned man.
There were occasional outbursts of laughter, Megan speaking loudly, her voice rich with excitement. Ryan spoke in a low tone – conspiratorial, Giacomo suspected, but perhaps he was a bit biased. He didn’t trust Ryan. He didn’t like him. He didn’t want him in his house anymore. So he had told him that first thing this morning, though not in as many words. He had asked when Ryan would be leaving, it had been over three weeks and it was meant to be just a couple of days...
It had surprised him when Ryan shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘Tomorrow morning. I've been here long enough.’
Giacomo hadn’t even tried to suggest he didn’t mean an immediate departure, just fair notice, a few more days was neither here nor there. He would have done that in the past out of politeness, but he had run out of politeness a while ago. He had nodded his head and said, ‘It was good to have you around. Megan enjoyed a bit of company...’
It would be a relief to see the back of Ryan Parks, Giacomo wouldn’t kid himself that it was otherwise, not for a minute. And Megan would get used to it. At first, she had looked a bit resentful, her cherub-like tiny dimples wiped out by the scowl on her face, but when Giacomo came back from work in the evening, she had been all smiles again. It hadn’t taken long to put Ryan out of her mind. Giacomo was truly relieved. It wasn’t as bad as he had thought.
Of course, he could let them chat into the night – it was Ryan’s last night in Giacomo’s house. Giacomo could afford to be generous for the last time. He couldn’t sleep, but that was a different matter. Their voices didn’t disturb him. In fact, he would be more disturbed if they went silent. God knows what two young people, a man and a woman, would get up to in silence in the middle of a night! Giacomo didn’t wish to speculate, so he sat in bed, smoking cigarette after cigarette, and listening to the steady flow of their voices.
Tomorrow morning Ryan Parks would be out and Giacomo would reclaim his house and his wife. She would be here with him every night, soft and dimply again. In the mornings, Giacomo would be free to wake her gently, his raging manhood ready to satisfy her wildest dreams. And they would groan and make noises like they used to in the past for there would no longer be someone in the bedroom next door.
Giacomo di
dn’t mind waiting. It wasn’t long now.
CASE CLOSED
Superintendent Scarfe insists on being super-efficient and drawing a line under this case as a matter of urgency. He has called Gillian into his office for no reason other than to self-congratulate himself on his original diagnosis, which her report seems to verify as true and correct. He needs a witness to his gloating. He places the folder with her report on his desk and pats it as if he were saying, Good doggie, well done for fetching the ball! His smug grin is self-explanatory. Gillian wonders if he has read the report, really read it. A good few questions remain unanswered, and without those answers the conclusions reached in the report amount to no more than mere speculations. Why did Margaret Adams drive into the offside of the BP petrol tanker? How is it possible that Emma Rydal did not see the petrol tanker coming right at her? And if she had seen it, why didn’t she try to avoid it? How do Ben Rydal and Trevor Larkin know each other? Does that acquaintance have any bearing on this case? Was there another driver involved? Did Giacomo Vitoli really see a man in the car overtaking his van or is he confused about what he saw?
‘As I thought,’ Scarface feels compelled to point out.
‘Sir, with respect, I am not satisfied, not fully satisfied,’ Gillian stammers. ‘I’d appreciate another twenty-four hours to speak to witnesses, tie up the loose ends.’
‘What witnesses? There aren’t any witnesses.’
‘Trevor Larkin for one. He’s disappeared, and that in itself is alarming. He seems to know Ben Rydal –’
‘How’s that relevant?’
‘It may be. I have a feeling it may be...’ She stops at that as she observes Scarfe’s body language – that of waving an insistent fly out of his peripheral vision. He doesn’t want to hear about her feelings. She tries another angle, ‘Then there’s Giacomo Vitoli. I must interview him properly. He spoke of a man –’