by Agatha Frost
“What time is it?”
“Just after eight.”
“Leave me alone.” Claire rolled over, burying her face in her pillow. “The factory isn’t open this week.”
“It’s not about the factory.”
“Then where’s the fire?”
“The police are here.”
“What?” Claire sat up, so violently that she scared Domino and Sid away from their spots curled up at the bottom of the bed. “Why?”
“They’re here to see you.”
“Why?”
“They wouldn’t tell me,” she said, fiddling with her diamond earrings. “Oh, Claire! What have you done?”
“I thought the cameras were fake.”
“Cameras?” Her lips pursed. “What cameras?”
Claire rubbed her eyes, hoping she was about to wake up from a horrible dream. Sid meowed as he stalked his empty food bowl, letting her know she was very much awake.
“I broke into the factory yesterday,” she said, reluctantly climbing out of bed, still half asleep. “Well, technically, there was no breaking in. We climbed through a broken window.”
“We?” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Who is ‘we’? If you tell me your father—”
“Damon.” Claire quickly changed out of her pyjama bottoms and into a pair of tight-fitting thick black leggings. “Do you think Dad could climb through a window with his foot?” She pulled a longline blouse from her messy drawers. “Turn around.”
“Claire, I’ve seen you naked a thousand times.”
“And all of them before I was old enough to have any say in it.” Claire pulled the blouse the right way out, ignoring the million creases. “Turn around.”
With a huff and puff, Janet turned, fiddling with her wristwatch. As Claire pulled on a comfy bra under her pyjama top, she wondered how her mother always looked so put together so early in the morning. Did she go to sleep every night fully dressed, hair blow-dried, and make-up lightly applied in case she had to wake up for a fire? Claire couldn’t imagine having the energy.
“Right, I’m done.” Claire ran a brush through her mousy bob and grabbed her glasses from the bedside table. “Is it DI Ramsbottom?”
Janet shook her head. “An ordinary PC. Michael something or other. Looks young.”
“That’s a good sign. They’d have sent someone more senior if I was in bad trouble.”
“Why in heavens did you break into the factory?”
“To get evidence.”
“Is that why Damon was on my laptop yesterday?”
“Nothing to hide, I hope?”
Claire’s teasing was met with an even tighter pursing of the lips.
“No,” she said. “I was just wondering, that’s all. He’s not exactly who I’d imagine being the father of my grandchildren, but he’s a man, so that’s a start.”
“Damon is my friend.”
“I’m only saying, it would be nice—”
“Nice if I popped out a few grandkids to show off at your Women’s Institute meetings?” Claire ran a roll-on under in her armpits through the loose armholes. “Even when there’s a police officer downstairs, you don’t switch off, do you?”
“I’m only saying.” Janet picked a piece of lint off Claire’s shoulder. “You’re not gay, are you, dear?”
“What?”
“Gay,” she repeated. “Like Marley and Eugene.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“There’s nothing wrong with it,” she said, her voice feigning all the casualness she could muster. “Not these days.”
“And if I was?”
“Then I’d be able to explain you to my friends. You know I’m the—”
“Only one without grandchildren.” Claire assessed herself in the mirror; she looked as thrown together as she felt. “Yes, I know. You remind me almost hourly.”
“Glenda’s daughter, the one who lost all that weight at the new slimming club, she’s a … Oh, what’s the politically correct term these days? I can’t keep up.”
“A lesbian?”
“Yes,” she said, pausing to gulp, “a lesbian.” She joined Claire in the mirror and gave her choice of outfit a scathing glare hidden behind a polite smile. “She’s adopted. You can do all sorts these days. If you are a … lesbian, then I suppose—”
“Mother.” Claire rested both hands on Janet’s shoulders. “I don’t know how to break it to you, but I’m not a lesbian.”
“Then what’s the issue?”
“Who says there’s an issue.”
“You’re not getting any—”
“Younger, I know.” Claire quickly fed the cats; she’d come back to clean the litter tray later if the PC hadn’t carted her off in handcuffs. “Another fact you constantly remind me of. Believe it or not, Mother, there might be more to life than getting married and having children.”
“Like what?”
“Following a dream.”
“You don’t have a dream, Claire.” Janet jumped back when both cats ran past her to their food bowls. “What was it all your school reports said? ‘Must try harder.’”
Claire didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She knew her mother meant no harm, but even though her voice was as soft and well-spoken as ever, her lack of filter made for abrasive listening after such a rude awakening.
“Mother.” Claire rested her hands on Janet’s shoulders again. “I love you very much.”
“And I love you too, Claire.”
“I love you,” Claire continued, “but please, put a sock in it, yeah? There’s a copper downstairs, and he might be about to arrest me. The last things I want to think about are my weight, lack of a husband, or the expiry date on my reproductive organs. If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather get this over with.”
“I’m only saying, Claire.”
“I know.” She patted her mother softly on the cheek. “And I know deep down it’s because you care.”
“Of course I care,” she said, lips pursed again, “but at the end of the day, I just want what’s best for—”
Claire rested a finger against her mother’s lips.
“You can lecture me as much as you want later, I promise.” Claire kissed her on the cheek. “Is Dad still in bed?”
“Hospital for a routine check-up scan.”
“Okay.” Claire reached for the door handle, her heart pounding in her chest. “I’m sure I’ll be fine on my own. If I need a lawyer, we can call Uncle Richard.”
“Hmmm.” She picked more lint off Claire’s blouse. “And, dear, if they’re going to arrest you, don’t put up a fight. The last thing we need is you making a scene in front of the neighbours.”
Claire found the uniformed police constable in the sitting room, dunking one of the laid-out chocolate digestive biscuits into his cup of tea. He looked far too young to be qualified to do anything more strenuous than delivering papers, but that could be her warped view of everyone younger than her since she’d entered her thirties. Somewhere along the way, she’d stopped being able to tell the difference between eighteen-year-olds and twenty-four-year-olds.
“Claire Harris?” he muttered through his mouthful of mushy biscuit, half-standing to greet her. “PC Matthew Cameron.”
“Nice to meet you,” she lied, perching on the sofa, nervous in her own home.
“Harris,” he repeated, a smile pricking the corners of his lips. “No relationship to DI Alan Harris, by any chance?”
“Father.”
“Really?” His smile grew. “Never got to work with the fella, but all the boys at the station speak so highly of him. If he’s around, I’d love to pick his brains about—”
“He’s not,” she cut in, her nerves growing. “What’s this about?”
“Right.” PC Cameron dusted the crumbs off his hands and pulled his small pad from his pocket. “We’ve had a report of theft from a Mister Graham Hawkins, who I understand is your boss?”
“He is,” she confirmed. “Listen, I’ll ad
mit to it. I took the camera, but it’s only to try and help Belinda.”
“Belinda?”
“The woman your boss has plastered all over the news,” she said. “Everyone thinks she killed her husband and his mistress, but I don’t, and the camera could prove that. We’d have proved it by now, but the files are encrypted and Damon—”
“Damon?” he cut in, not writing a word of it down.
“Damon Gilbert,” she said, sinking further into the chair. “We work together. He’s working on the files to try and crack them, but—”
“Mrs Harris.”
“Miss,” her mother called from the hallway.
“Miss Harris,” he corrected, blushing. “I’m not quite following.”
“You’re not?”
“I’m not.”
A penny dropped deep in Claire’s mind; it was her turn to blush. She fidgeted in her seat, wondering if she’d just landed herself in more trouble than needed.
“I haven’t had my morning coffee yet,” she said, attempting to laugh it off. “May I ask why you’re here?”
“Your boss, Graham Hawkins,” he started, reading aloud from his pad, “alleges that you stole equipment from your place of work. A thermometer, scales, jugs, stirrers, that sort of thing. Candle-making stuff, he said.”
“Oh.”
“Does this ring a bell?”
“It does.” Claire tried to hold in her sigh of relief. “Yes, I’ll admit to taking those things. They’re upstairs now if you want to see them. But I didn’t steal them. Not really. They’re what the development team uses to mix up new small batches, and they were being thrown out to make way for new things, so I took them.”
“Did you ask permission first?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Then she was recycling them!” Claire’s mother barged in. “I don’t know what kind of operation you’re running here, but you’re not going to lock my daughter up and throw away the key over some recycled bits of junk! My brother is a lawyer, you know. It’ll only take one phone call and he’ll be straight here on the first train from Manchester! What did you say your name was?”
“PC Mathew Cameron.”
“Let me see your badge.” Janet clicked her fingers and held out her hands. “I know my daughter’s rights.”
“Mum—”
“No, Claire!” Janet held up a hand. “We might have left the EU, but we still have laws! This isn’t Guantanamo Bay!”
PC Cameron smiled at Claire as he pulled out his badge.
“Mrs Harris?” he said, looking at Claire’s mother. “I’m not arresting your daughter.”
“You’re not?” She scanned the badge and passed it back.
“No.” He tucked his badge away. “We don’t make a habit of arresting people for taking jugs and thermometers from their place of work, but we are obliged to follow up all reports.” He turned to Claire. “Today, you’ll be let off with a caution for petty theft. It won’t show up on a criminal record, but it will be kept in the police’s internal database. I’d suggest perhaps returning the items and seeing if you can sort things out with your boss.” He paused, inhaling deeply. “And he told me to tell you that you have been fired.”
“Fired?” Claire echoed, the word jamming in her throat.
“Fired?” Janet shrieked. “She’s wasted seventeen years of her life there, and he’s firing her over this?”
“I’m just the messenger,” he said, standing and taking another biscuit. “Thank you for the tea, Mrs Harris. I’ll show myself out.”
The young PC walked out, leaving behind the aftermath of his bombshell. Claire sank deeper into the sofa as the reality of the situation hit her all at once. Graham would never have called the police if she hadn’t rejected his kiss; she felt it deep in her bones.
“We’ll fight this,” Janet insisted, taking the armchair the officer had been sat in. “I’ll call Uncle Richard. He’ll know what to do. We’ll sue!”
But Claire didn’t have the energy to respond. She left the living room, slid her feet into her shoes, and set off into the unknown.
Ever the glutton for punishment, Claire found herself back at the empty shop. The ‘TO LET’ sign still jutted from the old stone, not that it mattered. The young PC had just dropped an atomic bomb on the last shred of hope she had of her dream ever coming true.
‘Must try harder,’ her mother had quoted. Had the teachers been right for all those years? Claire always knew she had the capability to do well at school, but for whatever reason, she never put in more than the minimum effort. She wasn’t a rebel. Growing up with a DI for a father made it impossible not to respect authority, but she’d never seen the point of school. Her five years at high school had felt like a series of memory games, each new thing forgotten almost as quickly as it had been learned. At the end of it all, she walked out with a sheet of paper littered with Cs in all the subjects that mattered, a B in art, and a D in French. She had yet to find a use for Pythagoras’ theorem, had never encountered a French person who didn’t also speak English, and had never tried to replicate another artist’s work for analysis.
But if she had tried harder, would she be further along? Sally had tried. They’d bunked off P.E. together, but Sally revised her backside off for the exams. She went to college, and university, and became a top estate agent. She had a house, husband, and kids: the full package.
What did Claire have?
A shattered dream and a disappointed mother.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Ryan said, appearing behind her in the reflection of the mirror. “Lusting after Jane’s iced buns?”
“What?”
“The tearoom,” he said, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his baggy gym shorts. “I still can’t believe Jane actually retired. I thought she’d be there until the end of time. You were right. Things do change around here after all.”
“I suppose they do.”
“You okay, mate?” He ducked to meet her eyes. “You look like you’ve heard some really bad news.”
“I have.” She attempted to muster a smile, but it didn’t come. “I’ve just been fired.”
“Oh.” His pale cheeks flooded red; she always used to love how quickly and easily he blushed. “Sorry, I was messing around.”
“It’s not your fault.” She took one last look at the shop before turning away. “I got myself into this mess.”
“How about that coffee?” he suggested, hooking his thumb over his shoulder back to the gym. “I don’t start work till half-past, and I still haven’t tried that little vegan café.”
Claire glanced at her watch.
“I think I need something stronger,” she said, already setting off to The Hesketh Arms.
The Hesketh Arms opened at eight every morning for the breakfast rush and started serving alcohol from nine. Luckily for Claire, it was five past nine and the majority of the early morning breakfast rush were already on their way out when they arrived. By the time they settled in a quiet corner with two pints of the Hesketh Homebrew, the pub was almost empty.
“Still tastes the same,” Ryan said after a sip. “Remember how we’d get my mum to sneak us the homebrew because we weren’t old enough to get served?”
“She’d bring it in a Tupperware box, and we’d share a pint between us.”
“How old must we have been?”
“Fifteen?”
“Fifteen.” Ryan sucked the air through his teeth. “Where have those twenty years gone?”
Into your abs, Claire thought.
“Do you think you’ll find another job?” he asked after a brief silence. “It was never easy around here. I’m lucky I got my personal trainer qualification a few years ago, or I’d have been on the scrapheap with you. Sorry.”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”
“Living in the moment, eh?”
“It only happened this morning.”
“Oh.” Ryan gulped down more of this pint.
“I’m sorry. This is a bit awkward, isn’t it?”
Claire hadn’t wanted to admit it to herself, but it was, and she knew she was the one making it awkward. She could barely bring herself to look at him. When she looked away, the voice was the one she remembered, but the face and body belonged to another man entirely. Was she mourning the chubby, round-faced version of Ryan she’d been madly in love with as that teenage girl sharing sips of lager from a plastic tub?
“Sorry,” Claire said after a calming sip of beer. “Tell me everything.”
“Everything?”
“Everything.” She nodded. “Why are you back here? What happened?”
“It’s a long story.”
“It’s a long pint.” Claire glanced at the clock on the wall. “And you have twenty minutes before you need to get to work.”
Ryan looked down, a smile spreading across his face.
“What?” Claire prompted.
“Nothing,” he replied. “I just missed this. You and me. We might be older and wiser, but this feels the same, doesn’t it?”
Claire thought about it for a moment. “Yeah, I suppose it does. Although, speak for yourself. I’m no wiser. Still fumbling through life, trying to figure things out.”
“Aren’t we all?” Ryan sighed. “I never thought I’d be back here living out of a B&B, about to get divorced, looking after two kids on my own. Starting again at thirty-five certainly wasn’t in the life plan, but Maya had other ideas.”
Claire’s stomach knotted. There it was: the name she had spent seventeen years trying to forget; the name that had broken her heart.
“What happened?” she managed to ask.
“She ran off with the only friend I made while I was living in Spain,” he started, his eyes glazing over. “It wasn’t easy leaving Northash to start a new life in a new country. I don’t know why I thought it would be. Not many people leave their home to risk it all with someone they’d met on a lad’s holiday. Looking back, I don’t think I would have if Mum hadn’t just died.”
Claire’s stomach knotted again, but for a different reason. Paula, Ryan’s mother, came into her thoughts often. Even if she hadn’t been friends with Ryan, Paula would have been her favourite neighbour in the cul-de-sac. The cancer had been so aggressive, it had taken her before anyone could wrap their heads around the idea that she was dying.
