by Danuta Kot
And then . . . wait and see what Kay said? There wasn’t much Kay could do. The days and weeks ahead stretched out in front of her – no job, no money, no home.
She didn’t need to think about that right now.
She paid her bill and left the café. There was no protection from the wind on the harbour wall. It cut through her clothes, spun her hair into a tangle and made her eyes water. She struggled against it up to the main road and headed back towards her flat. A taxi went past. She remembered the night before, the night Paige had got into a similar car – and found her gaze moving round warily, checking the street behind her, in front, for another cruising vehicle, but all she could see was empty streets. Bridlington – the dull town, the dump she’d talked to Kay about – suddenly felt edgy and dangerous, like . . . like a loaf of bread spiked with razor blades.
She didn’t go along the back alley to her flat – she used the entrance through the shop. The landlord had made it clear he didn’t want her doing this, but screw him. The shop was busy, and no one seemed to notice.
The door of the landing bathroom was open, and someone had used it and not flushed. Becca ignored it – let the next person from the shop who needed to pee deal with that. She let herself into the room, dumped her coat on the bed and slumped into the chair.
Then she started crying. It was like she had held it in since this morning – no, since the night before when Paige had got in the car – and once she started, she couldn’t stop.
It had all been working out. First there had been college, there had been friends like Ashley, there had been her tutors telling her she was doing well – and she had done well, she’d worked, she hadn’t screwed up . . .
And then she had.
Just a photograph taken by a friend – and it was all gone.
And now, the drop-in. It had been a nothing job in a going-nowhere place – but she’d been doing well at it. The kids liked her, they talked to her – look at Paige, Paige had trusted her. And where had that got her? She’d let Paige down, and now Bexgirl had followed her here – no, not Bexgirl. A photograph. It was just a photograph. She hadn’t done anything wrong, but no one would believe her. No one would even listen.
She sat up and rubbed her hands across her face. Her nose was running so she wiped it on her sleeve. What was she doing, sitting here like a crybaby? Since when did that get you anywhere? She went to the small sink and splashed water on her face. This was all a waste of time. She had more important things to worry about.
The first thing she needed to do was find a job. Her breath was still catching in her throat, and her eyes kept filling but she ignored her tears and got out her phone. An internet search didn’t show much for jobs in Bridlington, just dead-end, nothing stuff. There were a couple of minimum-wage supermarket jobs. They were only part-time – sixteen hours a week – but they wanted people working early, late and weekends, so no chance of topping up her wage with pub work. She did some adding up. Her flat was one of the cheapest she could find at £70 a week. The supermarket job paid £90 – there might be a bit of overtime, but she wouldn’t be able to rely on it. She’d have twenty pounds left for everything – food, heat, travel, clothes . . .
Shit.
Anger was starting to take over now and anger was better than tears. She’d find a sodding job and she’d manage to live and she’d stick around too so there was someone here who cared about Paige, and fuck the lot of them.
Her phone rang. She saw Jared’s name on the display and almost didn’t answer it after the way he’d brushed her off before, but she was running out of options. She picked it up.
‘Yeah?’ She knew she didn’t sound friendly and she didn’t intend to.
Chapter 30
It was easy enough for Jared to find somewhere to stay near Kettleness. He gave up the idea of a B & B. A local farmer was happy to offer camping space with access to some basic facilities. Sleeping in a tent wasn’t ideal for his back, but he was short of money and over the years he’d collected some decent equipment. He’d manage.
The good news was his back was improving. He’d pushed it, got himself into a bad state, almost like it had been at the beginning, but now it was . . . not better, but OK. He was on the mend and soon he’d be able to put the legacy of the fall behind him and get back to . . .
It didn’t matter now. He could think about that later.
The bad news was he was close to broke. Previously, he’d kept himself going with casual work – people were always wanting someone who could climb in construction work. It paid well, and he lived cheaply. Since his accident, that income stream was closed to him, at least for now, and his savings were just about gone. Apart from that, there was his website, and he’d been neglecting that for a while. These past few months he hadn’t had much to post, unless people wanted directions to his hospital bed.
And there was the money his mother kept putting in his account. He wasn’t touching that.
So he needed to start earning. Soon.
He popped a couple of pills and started sorting out his tent. By six, everything was set up, then he went and had a cold shower – necessity rather than choice; the facilities on offer didn’t run to hot water – in the outhouse the farmer had directed him to. He was frozen when he came out, but his small heater turned the tent into a warm refuge, so by the time he was dressed and ready to head down into Whitby, he told himself he was feeling pretty good.
There was an internet café on Flowergate. He ordered pie and chips and settled down at a table that looked out onto the narrow street. He was setting up his laptop when his phone pinged with a message. He opened it, half his attention on his laptop, which was slowly booting up.
An image filled his screen. He looked at it in blank surprise. It was a picture of Becca, sitting on a bed. She was naked. She was holding an outsize vibrator and looking straight into the camera. But instead of the fake sexy pout women in images like this usually had, she was laughing – something, presumably the ludicrous sex toy, had really struck her as funny. Her free hand was upturned in a kind of ‘What the fuck?’ gesture.
She looked . . . amazing.
He felt his jaw drop. His first reaction after his initial surprise was a kind of wordless Holy shit! but then his rational brain kicked in. Why would Becca send him this?
His phone pinged, pinged again and again. Six more texts, all from the same number. Why would she . . .? Was it a way of saying: look what you’re missing out on if you don’t call me?
He couldn’t imagine the girl he’d met – the one who’d almost got into a fight on his account on the front steps of the nick, and who’d made a good attempt at killing them both trying to drive an unfamiliar car – sending sex pictures as a kind of hidden message to someone she barely knew.
He thought about it for a few minutes, then moved to touch ‘call’ on the screen. That was when he realised the pictures had been sent from a withheld number. What the fuck was going on? He went to his contacts list and checked – yes, Becca’s name was there.
He wanted some answers.
The phone rang for so long he thought she wasn’t going to reply, then suddenly she was there. ‘Yeah?’
It wasn’t the most welcoming response. ‘I thought you were going to call me,’ he reminded her mildly.
‘Yeah, well . . .’
She’d obviously changed her mind again. Fair enough, and that made the texted images even more unlikely. ‘I’m in Whitby. I’ve got a place to camp a bit further north. You know, where I said.’
‘Kettlewhatsit?’
‘Kettleness. There’s old mines and railway tunnels and things. It’s interesting.’ It sounded lame and it was lame, but it seemed to grab her attention.
‘Old mines? Like in the cliffs?’
‘Yeah, kind of.’
‘Can you show me? Are there pictures?’
Pictures. ‘There’s loads. Look, before we talk about this, did you just text me?
‘No.’
�
�I got some pictures. Just now. I thought they might be from you.’
‘I didn’t send any pictures. Shit, I . . .’
‘They weren’t from you?’
‘No. They weren’t.’ The silence lengthened, then she said, ‘What were they? Were they . . . kind of . . . sex . . . pictures?’
‘I only opened one. Yeah, it was . . . you know, photos.’
‘But . . . just a sex picture?’
Odd use of just. ‘I only opened one. It was you . . .’ He floundered. ‘Look, it was a good picture, you were laughing like it was a bit of fun, it wasn’t . . .’ It wasn’t sleazy, it wasn’t fake, he wanted to say. It was like a picture she might send to her boyfriend. Was that it? Had some slimeball posted private photographs on the internet?
‘You’d better know. I used to do camming, OK? I had a good site. But I don’t do it anymore. And I don’t send pictures like that. To anyone. OK?’
‘OK. Becca, it’s not my business. You don’t have to explain. I just wondered – why would someone send it to me? How would they even know . . .?’ Because Greaseball saw them together? So how would Greaseball know who Becca was? Then he remembered Greaseball standing outside the caravan as Jared left, his phone jammed to his ear. Greaseball may not know, but someone did.
‘It’s me they’re after, not you. You don’t have to worry.’
Why did she have to be so touchy? ‘That’s not what I meant. I meant – why is someone after you like this?’
‘I got doxed. I made a stupid mistake and they sent pictures to people I knew. And . . . there was one picture – it wasn’t anything, but . . . You deleted the others?’
He selected the unopened texts and pressed the delete key. ‘They’re gone. I didn’t look at them.’
There was the same long silence. When she spoke again, her voice wobbled, just for a second, then she was back to normal. ‘They sent them to work. I lost my job.’
‘When?’
‘Just now. Today.’
‘For those pictures?’
‘There was one – I bet it’s in the ones you deleted. You probably wouldn’t be calling me if you’d seen it.’
He wondered what it was. Dogs? Donkeys? ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’
‘Yeah. OK. You’ll see it and you’ll only think bad things about me.’
‘Look, Becca, you can tell me if you want to, that’s up to you, but those pictures are gone. If any more arrive, I’m not looking at them unless you say I can. OK?’
‘OK.’ She sounded subdued. He listened to the story of the friend’s sister, the movie, the pizza and the ice cream, and the picture at the end, Becca and a little girl – on a cam-girl’s bed.
Shit.
‘So what happened?’
‘They put it with the other pictures and sent it to my friends. And my course tutor. I thought it was all done with but now they’ve sent them to my boss at the drop-in.’
‘And they sacked you? For that?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What a load of . . .’ He was about to cut the epithet, then remembered that Becca wasn’t exactly into censorship. ‘ . . . bullshit. Stupid cunts. Did you explain?’
‘What’s the point?’
There probably wasn’t any point. ‘You can come up to Kettleness now, can’t you?’
‘I . . . look, those pictures . . . they don’t mean we can . . .’
‘No strings,’ he said quickly.
‘Yeah. OK. I want to see those mines you were saying about.’ The phone went dead.
This was getting fucked up. He thought about the girl in the caravan site the night before and his weird experience in the tunnel. And now these messages, out of the blue. He was glad to be out of Bridlington, but it looked as though Bridlington might be following him up here.
Chapter 31
Kay sat in front of the fire with Milo in her lap, watching the grey day turn into grey twilight. She’d been trying to read, but her attention kept drifting. At this time of year, the sun barely rose at all. It felt like forever before the long days would be here and she could walk along the cliff path in the evening light watching the setting sun glint off the sea.
She heard the ping from her laptop that told her she had mail, but she couldn’t be bothered to go and check. Milo was restless. He jumped down from her lap and started wandering round the room, growling at the window, then sniffing round the door and growling again. ‘Stop it, Milo.’ A spooked dog. That was all she needed. Milo looked up and gave her a vague wag, then applied his nose to the front door again, the growl deep in his throat.
She was in a fair way to a self-pitying wallow. Making a conscious effort, she turned her thoughts to the day before when she’d met Shaun Turner for coffee.
He’d been there waiting when she arrived. She didn’t remember him, but he’d clearly remembered her, standing up to greet her with a broad smile. He was a big man, tall and heavyset, with fair hair that was fading to grey. She was glad she’d made a bit of an effort with her own appearance. She’d put her hair up, clicking her tongue over the way she’d let the grey streak through it. Hairdresser. Soon. And she’d worn smart trousers rather than the usual jeans. And, OK, the green shirt that she’d bought in the summer sales.
She’d enjoyed herself. Her plan had been a cup of coffee; find out what, if anything more, Shaun knew about the Flamborough attack, then she’d be off to get her shopping done. Instead, she found herself accepting his suggestion that they might as well have lunch given the time, and lingering over a final cup of coffee before they went their separate ways.
He’d brought up Flamborough himself without her asking, giving her the latest news about the girl’s condition – ‘I know you’re worried’ – telling her the police were working on the theory the girl might be an illegal immigrant. ‘Might have fallen foul of traffickers,’ he’d added, with a grimace.
They’d talked about living alone after so many years of living with someone else, they’d talked about the cliff edge of retirement, they’d talked about the pros and cons of living on the east coast. And he’d managed to stop himself finishing too many of her sentences when he saw her frown the first time he did it.
He’d mentioned the drop-in as well. ‘All that’s left of our initiative, sad to say. Do you know it?’
‘Yes. I—’
‘Of course you do. You keep your finger on the pulse more than I do.’
‘Well, it’s more that someone I know, a friend of mine, works there.’ He didn’t pursue it, and she was glad. She didn’t want to discuss Becca with him – it was all too easy to misunderstand Becca, especially if you were looking at her life with a policeman’s eye.
The rest of their time had been marked by a pleasantly light-hearted flirtation that left her feeling a bit frivolous, in a mood for fun. As they’d parted, he’d said, ‘Would you like to do this again? Maybe dinner next time?’
Her youth had been marked by seriousness and responsibility. Maybe it was time to misspend her old age, or some of it. So she found herself saying yes, and they agreed to keep in touch.
Her reverie was interrupted by Milo leaping up and barking furiously, knocking a stool over as he raced to the door and threw himself at it. Kay jumped. ‘Milo!’ she said, but he paid no attention, jumping and barking for all he was worth.
‘All right, all right.’ She looked out of the window. A car – a rather battered old Micra – was pulled up outside her gate. Milo’s barking intensified.
‘Shut up, Milo,’ Kay said, more for form’s sake than because she expected him to obey. A young woman with fair, reddish hair got out of the car and studied the phone she was holding. Then she hitched the backpack she was carrying up onto her shoulders with a gesture Kay recognised.
Becca.
But a very different Becca from the one she’d last seen. That Becca had multi-coloured hair, dramatic make-up, a nose jewel and a pierced eyebrow. Kay didn’t even want to speculate about where else she might have piercings.
&
nbsp; This Becca had let her hair return to its natural colour, the piercings were gone and she wore no make-up.
Kay hadn’t seen Becca for eight months, not since they’d met in Leeds before Becca started college. This unexpected visit didn’t bode well. What had brought her up here, an hour’s drive from Bridlington? And on a weekday, when she should be at work. She grabbed Milo’s collar and opened the door just as Becca approached it. ‘Becca! What are you doing here?’
Becca looked offended. ‘I’ve come to see you. What’s wrong with that? Shut up, Milo.’
‘I’m surprised, that’s all. Is something wrong?’ Milo had stopped barking, but he was circling Becca, frantically sniffing at her shoes and legs, gathering all the information he could.
‘Why should something be wrong? Can’t I visit without something being wrong?’
Kay sighed. It was too easy to get off on the wrong foot with Becca. ‘It’s good to see you, Becca love.’
She held out her arms, and after a brief hesitation, Becca let Kay hug her, then hugged her back. ‘I’m freezing.’
‘Come in. Go through there. There’s a fire. Get warm and I’ll make us a brew. Then we can catch up.’ Becca went into the front room, followed by the attentive Milo.
In the kitchen, filling the kettle, getting out cups, looking in the cupboard for some cake, Kay’s mind was working overtime. She didn’t believe Becca’s reassurances for a moment – she knew Becca of old, and she could see the telltale signs of distress. But there was no point in pushing – Becca would just clam up all the more.
She put everything on a tray, carried it through to the front room and put it on a table in front of the fire. Becca was curled up in the big chair, her arms round Milo, who was in her lap. She looked small and lost.
Kay poured the tea. ‘Cake?’ she said.
‘Chocolate cake? Did you make it?’ Becca perked up and took the proffered plate. ‘I’m starving,’ she added with her mouth full.
Kay sat back in her chair and watched as Becca ate the slice of cake hungrily. She was reminded of the skinny, dirty thirteen-year-old who had first come to her and Matt after several fostering attempts failed because of her violent, destructive rages.