Something Hidden (23 page)

‘Please don’t do that.’

‘I’m only trying to help. She’s very pretty, well apart from the nose but Reg says she used to play rugby when she was younger. I’m sure she’d like you, though. Why
wouldn’t she?’

Andrew let her continue for a few minutes until he couldn’t take it any longer, interrupting with: ‘Wasn’t it Reg who knew the person that redid your wiring in the first
place?’

Gem seemed annoyed at being cut off. She’d finished eating and rearranged her knife and fork on the plate so they were in line with each other.

‘What about it?’

‘I’d like to speak to the person who did it.’

‘Why?’

‘Because if he’s putting people in danger, someone should say something.’

She stood, picking up her plate and carrying it to the sink, keeping her back to him. ‘He’s just a young lad trying his best. Everyone makes mistakes.’

‘You can’t make mistakes when you’re doing a job like that, otherwise people get hurt. I’d still like a word. Who is he?’

Gem returned to the table, reaching across for Andrew’s well-scraped plate, not looking him in the eye. ‘Don’t you go worrying yourself.’

‘Kevin something – that’s what you told me last time.’

She put his plate in the sink and started to run the water.

‘I’ll wash up,’ Andrew said.

‘Oh no you won’t – you’re a guest. You go and sit in the living room. I think there’s some car racing on the telly.’

‘What’s Kevin’s last name?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘I could go and ask Reg.’

Gem spun around, hands covered in soapy water. ‘You’ll do no such thing, Andrew Hunter. It’s
my
flat and I’m telling you to leave things alone. I’m not as
incapable as you think – now go in the other room and sit down.’

‘I don’t think you’re incapable.’

She turned back to the sink, ignoring him.

Andrew peered down at Rory, who offered some doe-eyed sympathy, before plonking his head on the floor again. With little other option, Andrew traipsed through to the living room, where
Gem’s collection of tat seemed untouched. He flopped into the dog-scratched armchair and closed his eyes, knowing that hardly any of the weekend had gone as he’d wanted.

He felt Rory trot in and begin sniffing at his feet, before settling. In the kitchen, Gem was singing a Buddy Holly song out of tune. Andrew wondered what Keira was up to. He should probably
message her but the spectre of her father hung over them both.

As he opened his eyes, Andrew felt himself drawn to a small stack of papers next to a snow globe from Vienna, a place that Gem wouldn’t be able to pick out on a map. Andrew stood, glancing
through the gap into the kitchen to see his aunt starting to dry up, still in full voice. He crossed the room and started to sort through the pile. Gem wasn’t quite a hoarder but she
wasn’t far off. The pile had mail from months back: bills; catalogues; flyers from supermarkets and the Bargain Booze around the corner; a voting registration form; two postcards from Italy
and another from Spain; an invitation to the church coffee morning; more bills; a bank statement; and, finally, a handwritten invoice from the person who’d done a hatchet job on the
wiring.

The handwriting was abysmal, worse than Andrew’s, with the numbers and letters blending into one enormous, barely readable scrawl. After peeping into the kitchen again, Andrew used his
phone to take a photo of the bill and then arranged everything into roughly the way it had been. As he turned, Andrew noticed Rory staring at him accusingly from the floor.

He crouched and stroked the dog’s back. ‘You’re not going to tell on your Uncle Andrew, are you, pal?’

Rory turned around, burying his head underneath the seat. Andrew’s weekend had been such a write-off that even the dog had turned against him.

In the kitchen, Andrew apologised to his aunt for leaving early, saying that he had a few things to do for work before Monday. She fussed and protested, before letting him go with a hug, a kiss
on the cheek, and a reminder that Reg’s next-door neighbour’s former rugby-playing daughter with the dodgy nose was single if he changed his mind.

Outside, Andrew checked the photograph, just managing to piece together the information. Kevin Leonard had charged two hundred and fifty quid for the privilege of wrecking the electrics in
Gem’s house. Andrew had no idea where she’d found the money but it had been signed off as ‘cash – paid’.

He flicked through the dialled numbers in his phone until he found the one for the electrical company he’d paid to fix everything. After speaking to the person who’d put everything
back together, Andrew was seething. The man told him that Kevin’s botch-job was so bad, the flat was a ‘fire waiting to happen’. Technically, Kevin
had
rewired – but
he’d used cheap material and failed to earth it properly in the kitchen.

Andrew hung up, returning to the photograph until he’d deciphered the electrician’s address and checked it against the map on his phone. He strode around the housing block, wanting
to talk himself out of confronting the cowboy electrician, only to work himself up further.

He could still feel the twinge in his wrist from where Iwan had squeezed it; still feel the humiliation at being patted on the head; that emasculation as Keira’s father marched her into a
corner and told her exactly what he thought of her spending time with him.

The uselessness of not being able to stand up for himself.

By the time he was back at his car, Andrew could barely breathe properly. He wasn’t an angry person, didn’t pick fights, didn’t look for trouble, yet there were legions of
people who wanted to demean him. He might not be able to match Iwan physically, not to mention his former father-in-law. Even those kids on the roundabout close to Joe with the shoes’ flat
had taken the piss out of him. They were one thing, but this little shit, Kevin Leonard, couldn’t be allowed to keep putting people’s lives at risk, let alone charge them for the
privilege.

Andrew stormed away on foot, crossing through the nearby park and cutting into the adjoining housing blocks. He knew
exactly
where Kevin lived: on the scroatish estate that had exploded
into riots the previous year. By the time he reached Kevin’s street, Andrew was almost running. He weaved around the parked cars, checking both sides of the road until he found the right
number. He pounded on the door with his right fist, the noise echoing along the deserted street.

Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.

Low grey clouds hung over the street, threatening to rain but not quite managing it. The weather forecaster’s apocalyptic predictions of cold hadn’t come true; instead Manchester was
looking as it always did. A car grumbled to life on the next street over, the exhaust flaring loudly.

Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.

A man’s voice sounded from inside. ‘All right, all right.’

The door opened to reveal a weasel of a man: pinched nose; stubble; twitching eyes that settled on a spot above Andrew’s head. He was somewhere in his early twenties, wearing a Scooby-Doo
T-shirt. The house stank of cannabis, tobacco and stale pizza. Andrew didn’t exactly tower over him, but he was taller and brawnier.

‘Who are you?’ the man asked.

Andrew stepped forward until he was in the doorway. ‘You Kevin Leonard?’

‘Who’s asking?’

‘You rewired my aunt’s flat and did such a bad job, it could have caught fire.’

Kevin plucked a can of Stella from a table next to the door, taking a swig. ‘Piss off, did I.’

Andrew held up his phone. ‘I’ve got the receipt with your name and address. You charged her two hundred and fifty-quid and could’ve killed her.’

He stepped fully into the house, making Kevin stumble slightly. The smaller man edged backwards, still holding his beer can. ‘What about it?’

‘I want you to give her back the money. An apology would be nice, too.’

Kevin laughed. ‘Yeah, right, mate. You high?’

‘Are you sorry?’

‘For what? It’s not my fault she lives in a shit-heap. Old people deserve what they get anyway, sitting on all that money, getting in the way. If that place had caught fire,
I’d have been doing everyone a favour.’ A sneer appeared on Kevin’s face as he nodded at the door. ‘Now piss off.’

Andrew didn’t move, continuing to stare.

‘Wanna be the big man, do you?’ Kevin said, having another swig from the can.

‘Give her back the money.’

‘Want to make me?’

‘If I have to.’

‘What are you going to do about it?’

The words were out of Andrew’s mouth before he’d thought about them. ‘Go to trading standards.’

In the history of threats, it had to be the lamest.

For a moment, Kevin held Andrew’s gaze before he burst out laughing. ‘Christ, I thought you were going to try to beat me up. Trading standards?’

He had a point.

Kevin stepped forward, laughing in Andrew’s face. ‘You do that, pal. I’ll tell you what, I’ve got a Yellow Pages out the back, I’ll find you the number. You can use
my phone. How about I go round there and offer her some energy-saving light bulbs? Twenty quid a pop – special offer – she’ll lap them up. I know the sort that’ll buy
anything if you tell them they’re getting a deal.’

Andrew lunged forward in fury, shoving Kevin in the chest and sending the beer can tumbling to the floor. He might have been bigger, perhaps stronger, but Andrew was no fighter. Kevin weaved
sideways and cracked a punch into his jaw. The blow wasn’t hard but it caught Andrew by surprise, making his head snap to the side. He stumbled into the table, keeping his balance but unable
to avoid the second punch that thumped into his temple.

Kevin was dancing on the spot, giving an Ali shuffle as he whooped in delight; fists high, like a boxer. ‘Come on then.’

Neither of the blows had hurt anything other than Andrew’s pride. He threw himself forward but had no idea what he was doing. The other man dodged left, kicking out a leg and catching
Andrew painfully in the knee, cackling to himself.

‘I could do this all day. Come on.’

Andrew was embarrassed. What the hell was he doing?

‘Are you going to return my aunt’s money?’

‘No.’

It wasn’t even about the cash: it was the principle, the fact that good people shouldn’t be taken advantage of.

Andrew opened the front door again. ‘Fine – I’ll tell the police, trading standards, Citizens Advice, the safety council – anyone who’ll listen.’

Kevin was still bouncing from foot to foot, shadow-boxing with added sound effects, as if he was whacking a punchbag. ‘You do that.’

Andrew let himself out, hoping no one he knew had seen him, Kevin’s joyous laughter ringing in his ears as he hurried along the street. He was such a wimp.

Jenny was already at the office when Andrew arrived. She peered over her glasses at him, sipping a cup of tea as he hustled through the door, trying to escape the cold and
rain. ‘You look like you’ve been fighting,’ she said.

‘I’ve not.’

‘Well, you know what they say – you’re either a lover or a fighter, so if you’re not a fighter, that must mean . . .’

Andrew ignored her, heading for the already made steaming cup of tea on his desk. He’d filled himself full of painkillers but his head was still pounding. More than any physical pain, he
felt embarrassed. If he couldn’t defend his aunt against Kevin, or stand up for himself against Iwan or Keira’s father, then what was the point?

‘It feels like ages since I last saw you,’ Jenny added.

Andrew logged onto the computer system, waiting as it went through its usual process of thinking about whether it wanted to boot up.

‘How was your weekend?’ she persisted.

‘Okay. How was Gem?’

‘She was good – excited to get home. She told me about all the things she’s done in that flat, about her family and growing up. It was interesting. She wanted to cook me tea
but I ended up doing it for her and Rory.’

That was it – no explanation for why she’d appeared at Andrew’s flat, no hint of anything being inappropriate, because, in Jenny’s world, it was perfectly normal to turn
up at your boss’s house while he was away and spend a day with his aunt. Sometimes her quirkiness was endearing; too many times it was just strange.

Andrew didn’t get an opportunity to follow it up because she was already onto the next subject.

‘. . . after I got home on Saturday night, my boyfriend dropped by unannounced, wanting to stop for the weekend.’

His computer finally got its arse in gear and Andrew logged into his emails. Jenny had forwarded him links to a list of articles about Thomas Braithwaite.