Bones in the Nest (2 page)

The telly’s on in the corner of the lounge. There’s a programme on about that spaceman. Years ago. First man on the moon. Chloe doesn’t like the look of the other girls hogging the soft seats. She doesn’t want to sit on the hard plastic chair with the wonky leg, so she stands for a while just inside the door. Nobody looks round. Eventually she goes back upstairs and lies down on her bed. There’s no need to put the light on; the orange street light floods the thin cotton curtain. She can see the pattern of a stain. It’s like the outline of an arm with a knobbly elbow. She narrows her eyes and it changes to a bird’s-eye view of a cliff edge and a beach, the ins and outs of coves marked in orangey brown. The woman’s voice on the spaceman programme is still with her.

‘There were no challenges left. He’d flown higher and further than anyone had ever flown.’

The woman speaking was his wife. The second one. She was obviously prettier and younger than the first. The
spacewife said it wasn’t true that he was a recluse, just that he was a media recluse. Chloe smiles. She can relate to that, except he had a whole ranch to hide in, while she’s only got these four yellow walls and a curtain between her and them. She wonders how long it will be before they find her. There’s always someone who needs the money, who’s willing to sell a story to a tabloid. The spaceman threw himself deeper into work. He went into the world of business. That sounds like a nice world, not open and empty like the moon, but a busy world, a world you could hide in; a whole planet of computers and desks and photocopiers. She closes her eyes and sees star-fighters flying at lightning speed through a landscape of filing cabinets. It’s too hot in the room; she can’t settle. She gets up to open the window. The hinge is fixed so that it only creates a five-centimetre gap, but it’s better than nothing. She notices a car waiting on the kerb, engine running.

‘He was true to himself. He was the man that you saw. That was him,’ the spacewife said.

What you see is what you get.
She closes the curtain again and gets back into bed.
That’s me too
, she thinks, and turns on her side, pulling the quilt over her. She’d like to sleep now, it’s been a long day, but someone is ringing the doorbell below. A man shouts into the intercom:

‘You’ve got to talk to me!’

There’s a silence and she hears the front door open. They shouldn’t let a man in here, not at this time of night. She gets up and peers through a small gap where the curtains don’t quite meet, not wanting to draw attention to herself. The man hasn’t gone inside, he’s standing on
the path and the young woman who welcomed her this morning is standing close to him. Chloe can’t hear what they’re saying, but the woman is trying to calm the man. It looks like she knows him; they stand close but they don’t touch. There is no violence between them and the man is pleading with his hands. Chloe is relieved that it’s an officer he wants to speak to, not one of the women. Then she corrects herself. The Asian girl on duty isn’t an officer, she’s something else; Chloe can’t remember the word. There will be new words, new jobs now she’s on the outside. The ‘us’ and ‘them’ will have different labels. The young man is Asian too. He wears a suit, but his shirt is hanging out of his trousers and his tie loose around his open collar. Chloe thinks he must be the staff woman’s boyfriend. Link worker. That’s it. She’s Chloe’s link worker. She gets back into bed, thinking about links in a chain, links in a fence, the missing link.

The door closes and for a few moments there’s quiet. Then someone’s kicking the door from the outside, kicking it so hard Chloe can feel it coming up through the building, vibrating through her thin, spongy mattress. The front door opens again and another voice, male this time, clearly threatens that the police will be called. Chloe gets up and shuts the window. As she gets back into bed, she reaches for the radio she got this morning on the market. It plugs into the mains, so she can have it on all night.

Under the quilt a DJ’s voice joins her. He introduces a guy called Jimmy Page and together they tell a story about Jimmy Page’s mystery guitar. The DJ and Jimmy must know the story, but the DJ’s asking questions to make sure Jimmy
doesn’t miss bits out. She listens carefully to see if Jimmy sounds like he means what he’s saying, or whether he’s just going through the motions. It’s a special skill when someone’s asking you about stuff you’ve said a thousand times before. She’s an expert in it. Panels and boards and psychologists and governors. She’s been over the same things again and again with them.

The guitar is in the house when Jimmy Page is growing up. It doesn’t belong to anyone and he doesn’t know how it got there. He sees someone playing a Lonnie Donegan tune at school, and he wants to be able to do that. He goes home to get the guitar and the rest …

She doesn’t hear the rest. She wakes up later and there’s a woman talking. The music is different. She switches the radio off and puts it on the floor, carefully. Behind her closed eyes, Jimmy Page and the spaceman dance together, silhouetted against a huge Hollywood moon.

Chloe wakes in a light-filled room. For a moment, she thinks she must have taken an extra tablet. She can’t focus, can’t snap out of the heavy, sweat-damp sleep of messy dreams. The sun is pouring through the glass, cooking up the air. She remembers closing the window to keep the noise out, but now it smells of the trapped odour of all the other women who have slept here before her. She pushes the quilt off and peels her damp T-shirt away from her belly, flapping it to cool her skin. The display on her phone reads ten-twenty. Confused, it takes a moment to sink in that this is ten-twenty in the morning; she’s slept for eleven hours. She leans over and reaches for the bottle of water she filled from the tap last
night. It’s blood heat, but she swills it around her mouth and swallows it anyway.

Finally she swings her legs round and sits up, dizzy for a moment. She takes the can of Icy Mist body spray from the top of the bedside locker and sprays a long burst, coughing as the droplets drift back towards her and sting her throat. She bought it yesterday in Boots. On her way to the till, she browsed the lipstick testers, inhaling the greasy sweetness that took her right back to her childhood, watching her mum get ready for work.
Don’t touch me! You’ll mess up my face.
She left the lipsticks on their stand and paid one ninety-nine for the own-brand body spray.

She moves on shaky legs to the window and opens it again, letting a puff of warm air into the room. A bus is pulling up outside. There’s something she has to remember. Her link worker mentioned it yesterday. A trip out, did she want to come? A trip into the city centre, on the bus, or they could walk, it would depend on the weather. Meet at ten-thirty. She looks at her watch. Ten twenty-eight. Shit. She drops the curtain and pulls off the T-shirt, sprays her body all over and grovels in her bag for a clean pair of knickers. No time for socks. She pulls her canvas pumps over sticky feet. In two minutes she’ll be ready.

The girl in the office is wearing a pale pink dress over black leggings. Her shoes are tiny sandals, covered in pink sequins, as if she’s going to a party, not on a sightseeing trip. She tells Chloe that she’s waiting for a couple more and then they’ll set off, and she might as well sit in the garden until they’re ready, since it’s so hot. Chloe wishes she’d made more effort to remember the girl’s name. She
can’t ask her now. It will make her sound stupid.

The garden at Meredith House is more like a yard, surrounded by an old brick wall. Someone’s filled a few pots with busy Lizzies and begonias. Chloe would have chosen something textured, like gazanias, whose petals she would like to press against her cheek to feel their softness. The back door of Meredith House opens and she senses someone watching her. She’s not going to turn around; she’s got stuff to look at. This is her time and her space. Let them cram in their sweaty TV room with the curtains closed, watching daytime chat shows, if they want to, but they should leave her alone.

‘You Chloe?’

She nods.

‘Not deaf then. Thought you might be.’

She turns then, thinking this woman is trying to wind her up, but she sees someone smiling through grey, broken teeth. The woman has a scar pulling her cheek up to the corner of one eye. Despite the damage, Chloe sees softness in her face. Maybe the smile is genuine. She does her best to return it.

‘I’m Emma,’ the other woman says. ‘Taheera said you were coming on the trip into town. I think it’s just the two of us. The others can’t be bothered.’

Taheera. She’ll try not to forget it again. Taheera. It sounds good, smooth and pretty like a stone on the beach. Emma heads back into the building and Chloe follows. It’s too hot to walk, so they take the bus. A low single-decker carries them through streets of semi-detached houses and out on to a straighter road, before it dumps them opposite a dirty concrete building, with a Job Centre wedged in one corner.

When she heard she was coming to York on release, Chloe wasn’t bothered either way. All she wanted was to go where nobody knew her. People told her it was a beautiful city, the sort of place you’d go on holiday, but that didn’t help. The only holiday she remembers was a trip with her mum to Skegness, sitting on a donkey with a melted ice cream dripping down her arm, not daring to lick it in case letting go of the reins made the donkey gallop away.

‘There’s the Job Centre, Chloe,’ Taheera’s voice interrupts her thoughts. ‘You’ve got your appointment tomorrow, so you’ll know the way now, won’t you?’

Chloe’s not sure she’ll remember anything. She took no note of street names or how many corners they turned. She just watched the people, the colours and shapes of them, the sheer variety of people. It shouldn’t have been so sudden, her release, but her jail was closing and although the parole board asked the same questions they’d asked every year, this time she got them right. Now she’s out, with a room in a bail hostel and Taheera as her link worker. It could be worse, she thinks, and lets herself smile.

‘Good,’ Taheera nods briskly. ‘You’ll be fine. Right, let’s go sightseeing.’

As they wait to cross the road by the bus stop, Chloe watches a group of tourists, cameras slung round their necks, hunting for something to capture, but there’s not much to see on this street. Minicabs and buses go past, looking like minicabs and buses. To Chloe the world looks the same as it always has done, as if ten years were a day, or an hour. A woman lifts her camera and Chloe turns her face away.

‘Come on!’ Emma takes hold of her arm.

They cross the road and pass the Job Centre. Immediately the streets become narrower and prettier. She dodges a school party, pressing its way along the pavement, and steps into the road. There are fewer cars now and the buildings begin to push in on them. Taheera rushes ahead, cutting between the clumps of people. Chloe and Emma nearly lose her.

‘There!’

Taheera has rounded the end of a high wall. In front of them is an enormous old building. Chloe can’t take it in. She steps back to get a better view.

‘York Minster,’ Taheera says. ‘If you fancy it, we could go up the tower. You can see for miles.’

Chloe looks up. There’s a figure, standing on the very top of the tower, like a statue on the battlements. He raises an arm and waves. She blinks hard and he’s gone.

‘Are there people up there?’ Chloe says.

‘I should think so,’ Taheera says. ‘There’s a tour every half hour. Shall we?’

‘I’ll give it a go,’ Emma shrugs, laughing, as if she’s not sure she’ll make it. ‘I’ll try anything once.’

Chloe shakes her head, rooted to the spot, trying to understand what she’s seen.

‘You coming?’ Emma says.

The other two women are walking across the open space that surrounds the building. Taheera looks back, inviting, shaking out her straight black hair. Chloe looks up and sees someone falling from the tower, long hair streaming out behind. It can’t be. She looks again and there’s nothing. Taheera and Emma are walking away from her. She can’t
stay here alone, so she forces herself to step forward, longing for the claustrophobia of the shopping street.

As they get closer to the building, Chloe thinks she might be sick, but she doesn’t tell them that. They climb a wide flight of steps.

‘I’ll sit here, by the wall of the church,’ she says, pressing her back into the warm stone and sliding down until she’s cross-legged.

‘They call it a minster, actually,’ Emma says. ‘Are you not coming in?’

Taheera glances at her watch and looks out across the open space as if she’s expecting someone. A young man is working his way round a tour group towards them. He’s taller and slimmer than the man who was shouting outside Meredith House last night.

He stops a few feet away and flicks a glance to Emma and Chloe, as if he’s waiting for an introduction.

‘Hey! You made it,’ Taheera tucks a long strand of hair behind her ear. It makes her look instantly younger.

‘Yes, I made it,’ the young man says.

‘Hiya! I’m Emma, pleased to meet you.’

Emma holds out her hand to shake his and Chloe thinks she sounds a bit forward, a bit desperate. Taheera doesn’t introduce him, just suggests they go inside. That suits Chloe, the fewer people she has to talk to the better.

‘I’ll stay here,’ she says, ‘I’ve got a bit of a headache.’

‘Are you sure?’ Taheera looks concerned.

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘You’ll stay right here, on the steps?’ Taheera says. ‘I don’t want you wandering around getting lost.’

‘I won’t budge. Promise.’

Chloe watches them go in, Emma leading the way. As the young man passes, Chloe catches a glimpse below the hem of his jeans. He’s wearing an electronic tag round his ankle. His hand reaches for Taheera’s and together they disappear inside the Minster.

After a run of night shifts, Sean slept until mid-afternoon. He’d got two nights off and was hoping to get into town before the estate agents’ shop closed. He pulled the little square of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it.
Fabulous studio apartment to let in sought-after square, a few minutes’ walk from Doncaster centre.
He dialled the number. Getting a place of his own had been on his mind for a while, but it had to be the right place, at the right time. When he had everything sorted, he would tell his nan. A woman answered the phone and invited him to come in right now, if he was in the area. She’d be happy to take his details and set up some viewings, including the flat he’d got his eye on, and there were others that might appeal. He thanked her and said he’d be there shortly.

The afternoon was beginning to cool as he rode his moped up the hill through the Chasebridge estate. He usually tried to avoid this route, but today he stopped near the top of the slope, beside the playground. It looked as if someone had lit
a bonfire at the foot of the slide. A patch of asphalt had sunk into a hollow, its edges curled up, like burnt bacon. There was something about the girl in Maureen’s newspaper that was pulling him back to where he’d sat on the swing, a witness to something he didn’t understand at the time. He never told his dad what he’d seen that day. Jack Denton’s moods had taught Sean to be wary of starting conversations for fear of them spiralling into arguments. Not long afterwards, one final row has driven him out of his father’s home for good, down the hill to the quieter streets of The Groves and his nan’s house. Gradually the story of the murder had faded from his consciousness.

He switched the engine into neutral and rested his foot on the kerb, trying to recall what he’d seen. While he was staring into the middle distance, he spotted an old man, shuffling along the pavement towards the entrance to Eagle Mount One, a white plastic bag dangling from one hand. It knocked against the side of the man’s leg as he limped slowly along the pavement. Sean put the moped into gear and followed the road around the top of the playground. He watched the man put the bag down and fumble in his pocket for something, his free hand clenched awkwardly as he steadied his balance. Sean gripped the brake and came to a standstill.

‘All right, Dad.’

Sean was struck by the fact that his father had shrunk since he last saw him. Folds of dry, bristled skin met round his mouth and his skin had a yellow tinge. A slow smile revealed more gaps than teeth. Jack Denton wasn’t even sixty, and Sean had mistaken him for an old pensioner.

‘Sean, lad! You coming in for a cuppa?’

There was still plenty of time to get to the estate agents’ before they closed. Jack had been a bugger all his life, but he was still his dad. It wouldn’t hurt to spend five minutes with him. As he followed his father up to the first floor flat, Sean told himself that Jack couldn’t hurt him now. That was all a long time ago.

In Jack’s hallway it looked like someone had tried to decorate. One wall was painted a muddy orange, which petered out before it reached the ceiling, and a new vacuum cleaner stood in the doorway of the lounge. It would take more than a vacuum cleaner, Sean thought, to find the pattern in that carpet; it was dark with grease.

‘Nice colour paint.’

‘That was Eileen’s idea. Terracotta she says. Not finished yet. Needs someone with a stepladder to do that last bit.’

Jack headed for the kitchen.

‘Who’s Eileen?’ Sean said.

His dad coughed and it caught in his throat so he couldn’t answer for a moment.

‘Lady friend. She stays over, keeps the place in shape.’

The kitchen was grubby and strewn with dirty plates, but someone had put a bunch of artificial flowers in a vase on the table.

‘Good. That’s good.’

Jack bent stiffly to put a carton of milk in the fridge and Sean noticed there wasn’t much else in there. No food, but also a curious absence of beer cans, both in the fridge and on the side, and not a bottle of whisky in sight.

‘Dad,’ Sean asked carefully, ‘have you packed in drinking?’

His father stood up straight and turned to face him.

‘Doctor’s orders, son. My body can’t take it. I’ve been off four weeks and counting. They’ve even got me going to AA meetings.’

‘That’s great.’

‘Aye, well, it was that or die and I’m not ready yet. Are you going to put that kettle on?’

Sean filled the kettle and considered this new information carefully while Jack shuffled off into the lounge; Sean heard him lighting a cigarette.

‘Eileen’s gone to her sister’s,’ Jack called through to Sean. ‘Bit of fresh air, you know.’

‘Right,’ Sean said.

Any air would seem fresh compared to this flat. She must have been gone a few days and Jack wasn’t keeping up her good work. Sean found a couple of clean mugs in a cupboard and made two cups of tea.

‘Here you go.’

In the lounge, Jack was staring into space, the ash building up on the tip of his cigarette. He looked momentarily startled to see Sean standing there. He focused and reached for the mug.

‘What are you going to eat for your tea?’ Sean sat down next to him, carefully checking the settee for anything that might stick to his jeans. ‘Was Eileen doing your cooking?’

Jack shrugged. ‘Not that hungry.’

‘But you’ve got to eat. Do you want me to ring for a pizza before I go?’

‘Don’t be bloody daft,’ Jack snapped. ‘They don’t deliver in the blocks any more. Haven’t done for ages. Where have you been?’

Sean felt like telling him exactly where he’d been. He’d kept his head down and got himself a good job.

‘I didn’t know.’

‘Too many delivery boys getting robbed. Drugs mind, you can get them any time, delivered to the door. Not my thing, but there you go.’

‘Dad, be careful what you’re telling me.’

‘You still a frigging copper? You want to give that up, get a proper job.’ Jack Denton started to sing. ‘Maggie Thatcher’s boot boys, Maggie Thatcher’s boot boys, tra-laa la la, tra-laa la la!’

He cackled himself into a coughing fit and Sean was saved from having to justify himself by his phone vibrating in his pocket. He got up and went through to the kitchen.

‘Hello?’

‘PC Denton?’

Sean didn’t recognise the voice.

‘Yes.’

‘This is Wendy Gore from Professional Standards. We’re looking into a complaint that’s been filed.’

‘Right.’

‘Can you come in for a meeting tomorrow, first thing, with myself and your divisional inspector? Nine o’clock.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

It wasn’t a question; it was a command. He looked through the half open door into the lounge. His father drank from the mug, missed his mouth and wiped his face on his sleeve. Wendy Gore ended the call.

‘I’ll nip out and get you some chips, if you like,’ Sean said.

The estate agents’ would be closing soon, but the studio
apartment could wait, at least until after his meeting in the morning.

Jack winced. ‘I have to be careful what I eat. Can’t handle most things, if I’m honest. Bit of white bread. Or the fish out of the middle of the batter. Everything else, you know, just goes straight through. Chips are no good.’

Sean didn’t think he was putting on the self-pity. He really was ill.

‘What does the doctor say?’

‘They do tests. I have some pills, but my liver’s had it. It’s only a matter of time, then I’m finished. There, that’ll put a smile on your soft face!’

‘Don’t be daft.’

But was it daft? Hadn’t he wished him dead every time he’d run out of the flat to Maureen’s or hidden in the woods around the quarry? His mum had died from a brain haemorrhage when he was ten, and for years he’d held onto the idea that Jack Denton was in some way responsible. His temper was horrible in those days, but looking at him now, it was hard to believe he could hurt a fly.

‘Why don’t I go out and get you a can of soup, eh? Could you manage chicken? And a bit of toast?’

Jack’s faced creased in a smile.

‘You’ve got such a look of your mam,’ he said, ‘standing there. Get us mushroom, will you? I prefer mushroom.’

Sean suppressed a shiver and headed for the front door.

On the way back from the shop, Sean saw a group of men coming out of Eagle Mount Two, heading for Eagle Mount One. By the time he got to the entrance hallway, they were
going up in the lift. Sean took the stairs and was at Jack’s door in time to see a man in a white T-shirt shoving a leaflet through the letter box. He bent down and called through the slot.

‘Jack! Will we be seeing you at the meeting?’

‘Is it my dad you’re after?’ Sean said.

The man stood up and looked at him.

‘Your dad? I didn’t realise he had a son.’

Sean let it go.

‘Just seeing if he’s coming to the meeting,’ the man continued, fixing Sean with surprisingly blue eyes.

‘AA?’ Sean said.

‘You what?’

‘Is it an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting?’

Sean wondered whether he’d breached a code of confidentiality as the man frowned and the muscles in his neck tightened. He was a little over six foot, early thirties at a guess, with a tattoo on his neck that read:
Made in England.
Sean instinctively took a step back.

‘No, mate, it’s the CUC.’

He thrust a leaflet at Sean. The title was in large black letters:
Clean Up Chasebridge – Public Meeting. Thursday June 2nd 6.30 p.m.

‘It’s at the community centre. Getting everyone involved in improving the estate.’

‘Right,’ Sean said.

‘I haven’t seen you before, have I?’

The other man didn’t appear to be in a hurry to go, although the rest of his group could be heard clattering up the concrete stairs to the next floor. Sean shrugged and shook his head.

‘I’ve been living … away.’

He wasn’t sure why he said it like that, but something told him that he needed to be cautious.

‘Working?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Right,’ the man smiled and the eyes lit up. ‘Give my regards to Jack. Tell him Terry was asking after him.’

Sean let himself in with Jack’s key. He took the shopping into the kitchen. As he passed the lounge he could see Jack fast asleep on the settee. He stood at the kitchen window and looked out across the dual carriageway to the rough edge of the fields and the woods beyond. Tomorrow’s meeting with Wendy Gore filled him with dread. The little boy inside him wished he could run away and hide in the woods until it was all over.

‘Is that you, Terry?’

Sean jumped at his father’s voice.

‘It’s Sean, Dad.’

He put his head round the door of the lounge where Jack was trying to sit up straight on the settee, wincing at some nameless pain nagging at his insides.

‘There was a feller here called Terry,’ Sean said. ‘He left this.’

‘Right, right.’

Jack was blinking, trying to read the writing on the leaflet Sean was showing him.

‘You might be able to help him,’ Jack said.

‘With this clean up campaign?’

‘No, your inside knowledge,’ Jack tapped his swollen nose. ‘You might be some use after all, being a copper.’

‘What are you on about? Anyway,’ he said, to himself as much as to his dad, ‘after tomorrow I might not even be a copper.’

He wasn’t sure how much damage Saleem’s accusation could do him and although he knew Gav would stand by him, what if the lad really had hurt himself, got brain damage or something, and was pinning it all on Sean?

‘What did you get for my tea?’

Jack’s mind flicked from one thing to another at random, but Sean was happy he was thinking of food. He went back into the kitchen and warmed up some mushroom soup while the toast cooked.

‘I’ll have to be getting back home.’ Sean settled a warped tray on his dad’s knees and handed him the spoon.

‘Home?’

‘To Nan’s. She still fusses over me.’

‘Oh, aye. Will I see you tomorrow? You could take me to this.’ Jack waved the spoon at the leaflet, spraying it with soup.

‘Aye, why not. I’ll come over later in the day and give you a hand cleaning up.’ Sean said. ‘We’ll give Eileen a surprise when she comes back from her sister’s. See you, Dad.’

As Sean was letting himself out of the flat, Jack called after him.

‘Terry wants to find who killed his brother.’

‘You what?’

‘He wants to find who did it.’

Sean went back into the living room.

‘He needs to go through the proper channels then. Look,
Dad, if it’s easier for you, you don’t have to tell anyone I’m a police officer.’

‘No, good plan!’ Jack wheezed a bitter laugh, ‘I never do!’

Sean wasn’t sure how well this Terry knew his dad, but it sounded like Jack didn’t even admit to having a son, never mind one in the police force.