Something Hidden (16 page)

‘Who is it?’

‘Gem. She’s going to go on at me about not eating properly. If you answer and tell her I’m busy, she’ll forget why she called.’

‘I think she’s lovely. If I answer, I’ll tell her you’re avoiding her calls.’

‘Fine.’

Andrew answered with an optimistic-sounding ‘hello’.

Gem’s tone was frazzled, out of breath. ‘Andrew?’

‘What’s wrong?’

She stammered, sniffing and coughing. Crying. ‘I don’t know . . . please come.’

Andrew blazed through the decidedly red-looking traffic light, ignoring the beeps of annoyance from behind and bumping over a road hump, sending the back of the vehicle
catapulting into the air.

‘Andy . . .’

Jenny never called him that, only Andrew. It was his name, after all. Why did people always want to shorten things? They were both two syllables, how much time were people saving? Salespeople
wanted to do it all the time: ‘Can I call you Andy?’ No, you sodding well can’t. Can I call you ‘dickhead’?

‘What?’ he replied.

‘You’re driving like an idiot.’

‘You didn’t hear her on the phone.’

‘If you get pulled over by the police, or smash into a wall, you’re not going to be any use then, are you?’

Andrew ignored her, pressing harder on the accelerator and shooting inside a red Peugeot that was taking too long to turn right.

‘Andy.’

‘Shut up, Jenny.’

Her tone remained utterly calm. ‘Don’t talk to me like that.’

‘I’m the boss, okay? You work for me. If I want to tell you to shut up, I can.’

‘That doesn’t mean you’re not driving like a prick.’

‘You can get out.’

The traffic lights ahead had been on green for too long. Andrew was nudging fifty but leant harder on the pedal, taking them close to sixty and flying across the junction.

‘Did you see that pedestrian about to step out?’ Jenny said.

‘I had the green light – they should be waiting.’

‘You know that’s not what it’s like around here. People cross where they want.’

‘Their fault then.’

‘So if you hit them at sixty in a thirty, it’s their fault because they didn’t wait for the light?’

Andrew didn’t reply, easing off as the cars ahead stalled into a queue of red brake lights. What was it with the bloody traffic in this city? Every day, jams stretched from one side to the
other, yet nobody ever did anything. He checked his rear-view mirror and then slammed on the brakes, skidding right but turning left.

‘There’s a school on this street,’ Jenny said, remaining annoyingly calm.

‘I know! Just shut up.’

‘You should be slowing—’

‘Shut up!’

Cars were parked on both sides of the road, leaving a gap in the centre wide enough for only one vehicle. Andrew sped towards it, noticing too late that there was already a car coming towards
him.

Beeeeeeeep!

He hammered the horn, flapping his hand in an effort to make the other driver reverse. It was a young woman, Jenny’s age, in a little black Micra. The other driver slammed on her brakes,
eyes wide in surprise and fear as Andrew continued towards her. After a moment of hesitating, she put it in reverse and shot backwards without looking. Andrew slowed but kept driving forwards until
he was past her. He indicated and then turned right, across the front of a horn-honking white van.

‘Twat,’ Andrew muttered under his breath.

‘Are you talking about yourself?’

Andrew stamped on the brake, bringing the car to a skidding halt in the centre of the lane.

‘Out,’ he said, turning to Jenny.

‘I’m not moving.’

‘You work for me and I’m telling you to get out.’

She stared back at him, defiant but not angry. ‘What are you going to do? Drag me out? Try it.’

He glared at her for a few moments, until turning back to the road and setting off again. He took the next corner at a speed that was almost sensible, before accelerating towards the main road
– hoping to be in front of the queuing traffic.

‘You didn’t hear her voice,’ he whispered.

‘No, but I can hear yours. You’re scared, which is fine. She’s your aunt and you want to look after her – but there’s a sensible way to do things and this
isn’t it. If you want to look after her, you’ve got to look after yourself.’

‘Says you! You were tied to a tree in the woods with a knife in front of you and didn’t flinch. Just now, you egged on some wannabe gangster kid who had a blade. You’re not
scared of anything.’

There was a short, pregnant pause and then: ‘I’m not you.’

Andrew almost stamped on the brake. Jenny’s simple sentence sent another chill whispering along his back. She was only saying what was true – of course she wasn’t him –
but the haunted way in which she spoke made it sound as if they weren’t even from the same species.

Andrew just about held it together, slowing as he reached the junction with the main road, quickly checking right and then slewing around the bend.

‘It’s a thirty,’ Jenny said.

Although he didn’t reply, Andrew dropped his speed so that he was only doing forty. They didn’t have far to go and the journey continued in silence until Andrew reached his
aunt’s estate. He parked next to a chassis propped up by piles of bricks, and threw himself out of the car, ignoring the jolts in his back and setting off with something close to a sprint. By
his standards, anyway.

Andrew took the concrete stairs two at a time, almost toppling over the barrier at the top as he slid onto the balcony. Gem’s house looked fine from the outside: no smoke damage, no fire,
no broken windows. Those had been his first fears.

He tried the front door handle, expecting it to be open.

Bang, bang, bang.

Andrew rapped on the door and squinted through the glass next to it. All he could see through the net curtain was darkness and the vague outlines of his aunt’s tat in the windowsill.

‘Come on, come on,’ he muttered.

He spun with surprise as something brushed his arm: Jenny. She smiled gently at him. No dimple.

A squeaky sad-sounding voice came from the inside as the bolts were slowly unlocked. ‘All right, all right . . .’

Moments later, the door creaked open. Gem was wearing an apron with brown handprints on the front. Rory was mooching around her feet, staring doe-eyed up at Andrew, wondering what all the fuss
was about. Behind her, everything was dark.

‘Oh, Andrew,’ she said with a relieved sigh, before turning to Jenny. ‘It’s nice to see you again, dear.’

‘What’s wrong?’ Andrew asked, failing to keep his voice level.

‘I didn’t mean to worry you.’

‘You didn’t.’

She turned towards the flat. ‘I’d just put a Yorkshire pud in the oven and everything cut out.’ She held her hand up, showing a vicious-looking red whip mark across the webbing
between her right thumb and index finger.

Andrew held her wrist gently, rotating it. ‘How did you do that?’

‘I plugged in the kettle and there was this snapping sound, like a giant Coco Pop.’

‘Wasn’t someone supposed to be coming to fix things?’

‘He was round yesterday – lovely young man. He complimented my teapots.’

‘If he did a proper job, you wouldn’t be getting burn marks from an electrical socket. We need to get you to casualty.’

Gem snatched her hand back. ‘It’s fine – don’t fuss. It looks worse than it is. I only called because I can’t get the lights back on. I tried the fuse box but it
wouldn’t stay on.’

Rory toddled onto the balcony, sniffing Andrew’s feet and then moving towards Jenny. She crouched and played with his ears, which made him roll onto his back.

‘Oooh, he likes you,’ Gem said. ‘He doesn’t do that for anyone, not even Uncle Andrew.’

Jenny stroked the pug’s belly, looking up at Andrew. ‘I’ll wait here.’

Andrew moved past his aunt into the flat. Aside from the light seeping through the open door, the hall was an ocean of darkness, long, grim shadows puncturing the corners and combining in the
middle. He used his phone to offer a pathetically dim light as he headed into the cupboard containing the fuse box.

Gem had called him because she didn’t know who else to contact – but he didn’t know what he was doing either. Andrew stopped to sniff the air, wondering if there might be gas.
Was that right? He’d seen it on television but had no idea. There should be some sort of post-graduate course in all this stuff – an MA or MSc in adulthood. It’d show people how
to change a fuse, plumb in a washing machine, alter a light fitting – the sort of stuff that dads knew how to do. Andrew didn’t have a clue about any of it. Forget studying the history
of European art, how do you bleed a radiator?

There were half-a-dozen switches, with five of them in the ‘on’ position but the one marked ‘master’ was off. Andrew waited with his thumb hovering over it. Could it
electrocute him? Did plastic carry electricity? He dabbed it with his thumb quickly, once, twice, three times. No shock. Surely a good thing? Andrew eased the switch back into the ‘on’
position, only for it to immediately snap off again.

Anything other than flicking a switch was definitely beyond his limited skills. From the evidence, it didn’t look as if the bloke Gem had got in to check everything over knew much more
than he did.

Andrew moved into the kitchen, where Gem had laid the table for one. It was a sad sight to see the single knife and fork, sitting next to an open can of orangeade – the cheap kind sold by
the local Londis for 10p.

What was wrong with him? He almost hadn’t answered his aunt’s call and here she was, preparing to eat lunch by herself. To really pour salt into the wound, Rory’s empty bowl
sat on the floor next to her seat.

Andrew returned to the front door, where Jenny was sitting cross-legged against the railing, stroking Rory’s belly. Gem was in full flow: ‘. . . so I called “house” and
the entire room groaned. Janet couldn’t believe it – she’s been going for thirty-odd years and has never won the Christmas pot. Even Reg had a bit of a strop on. I gave him a
little wink to rub it in, then took my card up to the front. When they confirmed I had the numbers, all hell broke loose . . .’

She turned back, noticing Andrew. ‘Hello, love. Did you fix it?’

Andrew shook his head. ‘You and Rory can come and stay at my flat tonight. There’s loads of room.’

‘I don’t want to be a burden, lovey. Plus you live in that giant tower thing. My knees can’t take all of those stairs . . .’

‘There are lifts. It’s Rory I might have to smuggle in – we’re not supposed to have pets but I’ll figure it out.’

‘No, no, I like being here. I didn’t want to call – you know what it’s like to phone a mobile. It’s like ten pounds a minute or something stupid. It was poor Rory.
He likes his food warmed up but the cooker wasn’t working. He’s a sensitive little soul and I couldn’t bear the thought of him not eating. I tried getting him a different flavour
of his food last month but he had two sniffs and walked away. He was so upset that he didn’t sit with me to watch
The One Show
. You know what he’s like.’

‘The cooker works at mine and I’ve got some steaks in the fridge. Rory can eat like a king for a night – you too.’

At the sound of his name, Rory rolled back onto his front, tongue flopping onto the floor. Steaks, you say?

‘Oh, darling, I couldn’t do—’

‘You’re coming. This isn’t a discussion. Go inside and pack a bag. I’ll find someone who can come out and rewire the place properly. You can stay with me for as long as
it takes – longer if you want.’

Gem opened her mouth to protest but closed it again as she realised Andrew wasn’t messing around. ‘All right, dear, but I have a very particular routine. Rory likes to eat at half
past five when I have my tea. Then we’ll watch the local news, then
The One Show
. Then it’s
Emmerdale
,
Corrie
,
East-Enders
. Rory’s normally asleep by
then, but—’

‘The telly’s yours, Gem. Actually the flat’s yours.’

She smiled. ‘You’re such a sweetie – I’ve always known it, even when I was wiping your bottom. I knew then you’d grow up to be something special.’

Gem squished Andrew’s cheek and then headed into the flat, carrying his phone to provide some light. Rory sniffed Andrew’s feet, tilted his head apologetically towards Jenny, and
then tottered after Gem, making it clear where his allegiance lay.

Andrew took a breath and turned to lean on the balcony, facing the mucky green where the mixture of rain and overnight temperature drops had created a mini skating rink in the centre. Someone
had left an upturned shopping trolley on top. Jenny was at his side, their elbows touching. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I’m a prick.’

‘Yes you are.’

‘I’m sor—’

‘Just stop,’ Jenny snapped. ‘I don’t need apologies. At least you got us here without crashing. Your aunt’s fine, Rory’s okay – it’ll all work
out.’

There was a lump in Andrew’s throat and he angled his face away from Jenny in case she tried to look at him. ‘I’m worried about you.’

‘
You’re
worried about
me
?’

He stepped back to the front door and closed it slightly, then returned to the railing, lowering his voice. ‘Why aren’t you scared of things, Jen? It’s the normal way to
be.’

‘Depends on how you define normal.’

‘Being scared is normal.’

She shook her head. ‘I’m just me.’

‘But you shouldn’t be marching into battles for me and picking fights with people wielding knives.’

‘Is that because you’re a bloke and you think you should be looking after me?’

Andrew stuttered and stumbled over a reply. ‘No . . . I don’t know . . . I just . . . I worry that you’re going to do something really stupid one day because you don’t
even realise you’re in danger.’

‘Pfft.’

‘And stop doing that. That doesn’t make it okay.’

Jenny turned back to face the flat. ‘I don’t want to talk about it. I know who I am.’ She sounded firm and decisive. End of conversation.

Andrew wanted to argue but what could he say? He was already in the wrong for driving like an idiot and telling her to get out. They’d both done stupid things in the past hour.