The Waiting Game (23 page)

Nathan’s stomach hurt. Trousers too tight, digging into the soft flesh. He shouldn’t have had that last bit of ice cream. Not on top of the chips. Mum’s special chips, made the way she used to in her old-style deep-fat fryer. She loved cooking for her special boy.

He had
The Evening Star
in front of him. Read the story again, the tingle of excitement quickly replacing the sense of failure he always felt when dinner ended. Carl’s face and that headline – did it for him each time he read it.

He stood up, a restless giddiness making it impossible to stay sitting down. At the very corners of his mind, there lurked some doubt. He pushed it away, refusing to think about that. What Carl had done was very wrong and when people did wrong
things, there were consequences. That was Carl’s problem, he’d never had to deal with the consequences before.

Not like Nathan. Consequences, confession, forgiveness. Nathan knew – forced himself to do it each week at confession – what consequences were. Knew that it wasn’t enough to say sorry. You had to mean it, too. And wasn’t that what he’d done? He’d confessed. Opened his heart to the Lord and begged forgiveness. And the Lord, in his merciful goodness, had granted that forgiveness.

All men are sinners.

Nathan knew that was true and accepted it, even though it was a difficult truth to live with. But that was infinitely better than living in ignorance the way a man like Carl did.

Of course, that didn’t mean he should be vindictive. He’d thought about this. Even considered going around to Carl’s house, offering the olive branch of friendship. Thought maybe if Carl saw that Nathan forgave him, it might help Carl forgive himself. But Carl wasn’t ready for that…

And if he really thought about it, Nathan didn’t think he was ready, either. Not yet. Needed a bit more time first. Time, prayer and patience. Rome wasn’t built in a day and Nathan couldn’t expect all those old feelings to disappear overnight.

In the sitting room, he switched the TV on, flicked through some channels, paused, briefly, at the menu for the adult channels.

‘Lord grant me the strength to do the right thing.’

He closed his eyes, repeating the words out loud, blocking the
images his foul body told him it needed, ignoring the tightness in his groin, the desperate longing that he tried so hard to control, but sometimes it got the better of him no matter what he did.

‘God my Father, merciful God, Almighty Father, be with me now. Guide me to do the right thing.’

It was this place. The house so cramped and claustrophobic. Every room full of the memory of his mother. All their happy times together. This distraction was his mind’s way of coping. Get away from the house and the images would disappear. It was no life, this. Coming home to an empty house, night after night after night.

He threw the remote down, grabbed the car keys and ran from the house. He didn’t know where he was going but right now, anywhere was better than here.

Monica wasn’t happy. Another row with Jim. Their last. She promised herself that. Enough was enough. She walked fast down the quiet street, mind racing back over the evening, giving herself over to the anger, letting it drive her, guide her, knowing the only way she’d be able to sleep tonight is if she acted on it.

He hadn’t even let her into the house. Stood in the doorway and acted like he didn’t want her there. Bastard.

She’d gone home but couldn’t settle, so she was out walking the streets, looking for action. Rage made her reckless. When the first car pulled up, she approached the driver, ready to get in
without giving it a second thought. It was only when she saw his face, something inside her recoiled and she drew back.

He didn’t like it. Started shouting at her, calling her a cunt and other words like that. She turned and looked at him, willing him to get out, ready for anything. But he must have seen the rage in her face and decided against it. He pulled away from the kerb and drove off.

Jim would pay for the way he’d treated her. Him and her father both. Two lowlife bastards who’d done their best to ruin the only little slivers of happiness she’d ever known.

Another car drove down the street, slowed as it approached and pulled up alongside her. A grey Lexus. The window rolled down and the driver leaned across, eyes running up and down her body. She looked at his hands, resting on the steering wheel, remembered what they’d done to her the last time.

‘You looking for something?’ he asked.

She walked towards him, smiling, climbed into the car and strapped herself in. As he drove away, she reached into her bag and ran her thumb along the sharp edge of the knife she’d brought with her.

Ellen woke with a start. She’d been dreaming, but the dream was gone by the time she opened her eyes. At first she thought one of the children must have woken her. She lay in bed, heart beating faster than it should do, listening for the pitter-patter of feet as
one of them went to the toilet or ran down the corridor to her bedroom.

Instead of that, she heard the creak of a door being slowly opened. The sitting-room door. It had creaked like that for the longest time. She’d kept meaning to ask her father to take a look at it.

She sat bolt upright, panic rising as she reached for her phone. Was midway through calling it in when she paused. First, she needed to be sure. She slipped out of bed, looked around for something she could use as a weapon. A pair of crutches in the wardrobe, left over from the time – six years ago – when Vinny had broken his foot. She found one crutch hidden behind clothes she no longer wore, pulled it out and decided it was better than nothing.

In the corridor she paused, listening for sounds of someone moving around down there. Couldn’t hear anything and was starting to think maybe she’d imagined it. Then she heard it again. The door creaking. And something else. A shuffling sound, like someone trying to move without being heard.

‘Who’s there?’

Her voice was too loud. Seemed to echo back at her. She swung around, checking both children’s rooms. They couldn’t wake up. If they did… In one hand she had the crutch. Her phone was in the other hand. She didn’t think twice this time, lifted it to her ear and dialled the station’s emergency line.

At the same time, she started moving, down the stairs and
into the hall, crutch held high, ready for the attack. Hall empty. She threw open the sitting-room door, pressed down on the light switch. Blinded by the sudden brightness, she faltered. Felt something behind her, turned, but it was too late. No one there.

The back door slammed shut.

She moved into the kitchen, phone still pressed to her ear, giving her name and warrant number to the duty sergeant. The kitchen was empty. Nothing left of the intruder except a vague, familiar smell that she recognised but couldn’t place.

She scanned the room, searching for any sign that he was still here, but found nothing. She checked the back door. It wasn’t locked and she was certain she’d locked it before going to bed. She always did. The key wasn’t in the door, either. When she looked for it, she saw it lying on the floor nearby.

As she locked the door, a sudden thought struck her. She swung around, scanning the kitchen, looking carefully at all the worktops. Only started breathing again when she was certain there was no cup of tea or flower anywhere to be seen.

Monica waited until after the rush hour before getting on the road. As a result, the drive to Whitstable passed quickly, despite the rain that had been falling ever since she woke up. Driving into the town at midday exactly, she caught the main news on the radio. The body of a man had been found in his car early this morning. She turned up the volume and listened.

‘The man has been identified as German banker Wilhelm Bretz. Mr Bretz’s body was discovered early this morning. He had been stabbed several times and a police spokesman said his body had been ‘mutilated’ although he refused to give any further details. Mr Bretz is survived by his wife, Hilde, and their two young children.’

Monica turned into her father’s road and switched the radio off. Wilhelm Bretz. Always good to put a name to a face.
Even a dead one.

Out of the car, she ran through the rain towards the house. She opened the front door, using the key she’d taken the last time she was here. Making sure not to wipe her feet on the mat, she stepped inside the house that had once been her home.

She thought she’d have the place to herself. Didn’t like it one bit when she heard someone moving around in the kitchen. She’d watched him leave ten minutes ago. Out for his daily constitutional, which always took exactly twenty-five minutes. More than enough time to get what she wanted and get the hell out of there. Except now it seemed someone else had got here first.

A little black dog ran into the hallway, tail wagging as it approached her feet and started sniffing her shoes. She took a step back, repulsed. For a moment she wondered if she’d somehow stepped inside the wrong house. The Adam she remembered would never tolerate a dog. Something smelly and dirty and
real
that might mess up the perfect order and cleanliness of his house? No way.

She lifted her foot, about to kick the beast, when someone screamed at her to stop. A small, skinny woman was standing at the kitchen door, screaming like some sort of witch.

‘Touch the dog and you’ll be sorry.’

‘Who the hell are you?’ Monica asked.

‘Shouldn’t I be asking you that?’ the woman said. ‘Except I already know the answer to that. Recognise you from the photos. Monica, isn’t it?’

‘And you are…?’

The answer was obvious, of course. The very fact of it made her rethink the image she had of her father as a pathetic loser. Not that this woman was anything special. Nondescript was about the kindest thing you could say about her. Apart from the nose, of course. A massive protrusion from a face that was otherwise excruciatingly ordinary.

‘Bel,’ the woman said, not moving or showing any sign of friendliness.

Bitch.

‘Adam’s girlfriend. Monica.’ The way she said Monica’s name, like it was something dirty. ‘I’ve heard all about you. Nothing good, in case you’re wondering. Adam’s not here. You’ll have to come back another time.’

‘I can wait,’ Monica said.

‘I don’t think so,’ Bel said. ‘How did you get in, anyway? We got the locks changed a while back. No way you could have a key.’

Monica smiled. ‘Unless Adam gave me one, of course.’

Bel frowned. ‘The spare? I’ve been looking for that. Bastard told me he’d lost it.’

Monica walked further into the hall, letting the front door glide gently closed. Bel stood her ground, even when Monica got right up close.

‘So he hasn’t told you?’ Monica said.

‘Told me what?’

She was several inches shorter than Monica and scrawny with it. But there was a hardness about her that made Monica think twice about starting anything physical. She never did that unless she was certain of the outcome.

‘About my little visits.’

Monica dangled the key under that honking great nose.

‘Daddy gave me this last week,’ she said. Not strictly true, but no need to share that with Bel. What sort of stupid name was that, anyway?

‘Gave it or you took it?’ Bel said. ‘We leave all the keys hanging on the rack over there,’ she nodded to the rack Monica had lifted the key from during her last visit. ‘Easy enough to take it without Adam noticing.’

‘His girlfriend.’ Monica let the word hang in the air between them. Hoping her face told Bel just what she thought of that set-up.

‘Yeah, that’s right. Been with him these past few years, if you must know. Not easy, either. But you’d know that. He can be a bit of a handful, your old man. Suppose that’s why you left?’

‘Something like that,’ Monica said. She stepped away from the smaller woman, bored now. ‘All right if I go upstairs?’

Bel ran across, stood at the bottom of the stairs, arms stretched out either side.

‘Don’t even think about it. I want you to leave. Now. Or else I call the police.’

‘Like they’ll care,’ Monica said. ‘This is my house.’

‘Not for much longer.’

That caught her short.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Me and your dad,’ Bel said. ‘We’re getting married. Tying the knot as soon as we sort out all the paperwork. Soon as we’re married, he’s going to sign everything over to me. And there’s not a single thing you can do about it.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

Bel shrugged. ‘Like I care. Now, out. Three seconds or I’m calling the pigs.’

Monica took a step closer, changed her mind.

‘Fuck you.’

She turned and left. Quickly, before she did something stupid.

Back at the car, Monica threw the bag onto the passenger seat and climbed in. It was the final betrayal. Her mother, Jim, Adam. She wasn’t having it. That house and everything in it belonged to her.

She wouldn’t let him do this.

She adjusted the rear-view mirror until it was positioned so she could see her face. Pupils dilated, cheeks flushed red, eyes glowing bright. She’d never looked as good as she looked right now.

Hate suited her.

‘You can’t cancel a session just like that.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Ellen said. ‘The situation’s unavoidable, I’m afraid.’

‘You rearranged Monday’s meeting to today,’ the woman on the other end of the phone said. ‘You need to keep the appointment. It’s one of Dr O’Keefe’s rules. Can’t you come in later? Dr O’Keefe has a free slot at midday.’

‘I don’t think that will be possible,’ Ellen said. ‘But I’ll book another session as soon as I can.’

‘Your next appointment will be next Monday as normal,’ the woman said. ‘If you miss that one, Dr O’Keefe may well refuse to continue with you.’

Resisting the urge to flick her middle finger at the phone, Ellen apologised – again – and ended the call. Cancelling one of
her counselling sessions made her feel like a naughty schoolgirl. Which was ridiculous. She was a grown woman, after all, and had every right to cancel a session if she didn’t feel like attending.

She hadn’t slept.

Her call had triggered a blue light response. Two cars roared down Annandale Road, sirens wailing, lights flashing. Both children woke and it took an age to settle them again. Four uniforms up and down the street and across gardens, torches scanning the area. The officer in charge, Paul Keane, was someone she knew from around the station. Decent enough bloke, but she could see the doubt creeping across his face when the uniforms reported back. No intruder sighted.

Fresh footprints on the soft ground at the back of the house indicated that maybe she hadn’t imagined the whole thing.

‘A burglar,’ Keane concluded. ‘You need to turn your intruder alarm on at nights, Ma’am.’

‘It doesn’t work,’ she’d replied. ‘Keeps going off for no reason.’

‘Get it fixed,’ Keane said. ‘In the meantime, count yourself lucky you woke up and caught the bastard before he stole anything.’

But there was something missing.

Last night, she’d checked all the obvious things: computers, TV, the jewellery she kept in the little safe in her bedroom. Who would think to check the fridge door? And who in their right mind would believe her?

She couldn’t work out where the line was between suspicion
and paranoia. The latest school newsletter had disappeared. Big deal. In a house with two young children, things went missing all the time. She’d asked Pat and Eilish this morning when she’d first noticed. They’d both denied taking it. Pat even tried to convince her the newsletter had been missing for days. Maybe he was right. Most likely he was. Which got her thinking, what if last night wasn’t the first time?

And when she started thinking like that, she knew she had to stop. Knew that going down that path wouldn’t lead her to a good place. So why did she keep trying to get there? Because her head was all messed up and the last thing – the very last thing in the world – that she wanted or needed was to have to sit and talk all this through with someone younger and infinitely wiser. Easier by far to cancel the appointment and live with the guilt instead.

She was sitting in her car outside the school, listening to the drumbeat of rain falling on the roof. Late getting the children ready this morning, now late for work. Guilt piled on guilt in the best Catholic tradition. Her mother would be so proud.

Foo Fighters on the iPod. Music blasting through the headphones, Dave Grohl’s voice, all that energy and intensity. Volume up high. The Pretender. I’m the enemy. The song dips in places, going slow and low, then Grohl cranks it up again – louder, faster – a rhythm beating through my body. And then it ends. I play it again from the beginning.

Half a roach on the ashtray by the bed. I light it up and let the music rip my head off as the skunk works its way through me.

Still buzzing. Haven’t slept yet. Headphones on, steady supply of blow and I’m flying, man. Bag over in the corner. Last night’s booty. Great word. I’m laughing now. Mind moved on from last night to Nicki Minaj. Go figure. Booty. That’s what did it.

Laughing so bad I have to sit up or I’ll get sick. Can’t breathe. Face wet with tears. Take another pull on the roach, anyway. Last thing I need but what the fuck. I deserve it. Pulled a blinder last night.

Running down the street, holding onto the bag like I’m carrying the crown fucking jewels. And before I know it, I’m down on the Trafalgar Road, walking west. And even at this time of night, there are people out and about, students walking in groups, drink making them loud. I pass a group of girls. The sort I normally try to avoid, scared of all that hair and confidence. This time, I look them straight in the eye and when one of them – blonde and tanned and fucking lovely – smiles, I grin right back at her. And for a moment, I feel like I’m really someone.

The mood’s with me the whole way home so I’m still hyped when I get inside. Have a few beers but that doesn’t do much to calm me down. I know what I need, but it’s late and doesn’t seem right, somehow. Plenty of time for that later.

So that’s how I’ve ended up like this. Mind drifting here, there, everywhere. Headphones on because that’s the only way I can block out the other sounds, the ones from my life before this.

I’m tired now. Coming down a bit. Eyes getting heavy. Not sure I
want to sleep but it’s coming at me like a juggernaut, rolling in and over, until I’ve disappeared altogether.

And when it comes, I can’t tell you if it’s a dream or a memory. All I know is that the music’s stopped. And the Meat is back. Ramming his brand of fucking shite around inside my head. I’m trying to shut him out but the only way I can do that is if I switch the iPod back on. But my arms won’t move. Body stuck to the bed, like a weight’s on top of me. Like I’m drowning.

I was six. I know that because it was three days after my sixth birthday. Wanted a party but the old bastard wouldn’t hear of it. Took the strap to me instead. Then three days later, he must have felt bad about that.

We were by the sea back then. Beach a ten-minute walk from the house. My mother didn’t want us to go. Six years old and I could sense her anxiety. I was too excited to care about that.

He held my hand the whole way there. I don’t think I’d ever felt so special. So grown up. Hot summer’s day. Waves of heat shimmering along the silver-grey stones on the beach. Water icy cold when we got over the stones onto the sandy bit. So quiet. No one else about. Like he was a king and this was our own private beach.

He’d brought a few cans. Course he had. I didn’t mind, though. He was in a good mood and I knew that was the beer working. Drink making him happy.

We had a net and were fishing for the little crabs that lived in amongst the rocks at the edge of the water. We could see a crab, a bit further out, too far for me to reach. He took my net, leaned out and
fell, crashing into the water with an almighty splash. The shock of it – his yell as he realised he’d lost his balance, the sudden splatter of cold water on my face. I couldn’t help it. Felt the laughter bubbling up and it burst out of me. The more I tried to stop, the more I laughed. He got up and when I realised he was okay, I laughed again, relief this time. Then I saw the expression on his face and knew that laughing was the very last thing I should have done.

Christ!

I want it to stop. Know what’s coming. I try again to move my arms but I know it’s pointless. I’m right back there now, he’s grabbed me by the neck and he’s dragging me into the water. I’m kicking and crying and screaming, water everywhere, splashing all around us. And he’s shoving me forward. Water fills my mouth, my lungs, can’t breathe, can’t scream for help. His hand on my neck, pushing me down. And I know. Right there and then I know. I’m going to die.