by Jane Bidder
Carefully, very carefully, Simon tore up the letter in small strips; each one measuring roughly the same size. He then opened a kitchen drawer in which he had been storing supermarket bags since his return. Each one was neatly folded into small pasta-like shapes. Undoing one, he dropped the pieces of letter inside before tying it with a knot and placing it in the kitchen bin.
‘Keep painting,’ Caroline-Jane had said on that final day of his paperchase. ‘When life gets too much, bury yourself in your canvas.’
She’d made him feel like a professional! At school, he’d loved messing about with paints but art in the sixth form hadn’t been an option for the Oxbridge set. Yet at leavers’ prize-giving, Simon – despite his clutch of trophies for Latin and History – had envied the tall, gangly boy with long thin fingers who had received the art award and was on his way to St Martins.
Prison had helped him realise a forgotten dream. But now the letter from the prison authorities made him ashamed.
‘You’re being too hard on yourself,’ Joanna’s voice was soothing. ‘ No one’s in, right now. Spencer’s out, doing goodness knows what, and Claire is teaching. Ben is having phone text sex with Poppy in his bedroom so what’s to stop you? ’
She was right. Delving into his jacket pocket, Simon pulled out the paint set he’d found at the charity shop. It was almost new! Inside, were all the colours he wanted: cerulean blue and geranium pink and olive green. There was even a sketching pad with two brushes …
‘Wow, man, that’s really good!’
Simon looked up with a start, realising it was already dusk outside. When he’d begun, it had been precisely four minutes past four. Time passes when you’re painting, Caroline-Jane used to say.
‘Real good!’
Spencer’s breath smelt of beer and fags. ‘What’s your painting about, man? I mean, it’s good, like I said, but I don’t really get it.’
Simon glanced at the swirl of colours he’d produced without thinking. ‘I don’t really know, to be honest. It’s as though something just guided my hand.’ He took in Spencer’s maroon suit with trousers that were too big. ‘You’re looking smart.’
The boy shrugged. ‘Just felt like it. Got it off a mate. Thought it might come in handy for a job interview if one came up.’
So he really had turned over a new leaf.
‘Listen, man. I’m just going out for a bit again.’ He flicked Simon’s shoulder playfully like he used to do Inside but somehow it didn’t seem so right now. ‘If anyone comes looking for me, can you say you haven’t seen me?’
Simon’s heart sank. ‘Spencer, I can’t do that. Besides, you’ve got a curfew, remember. You can’t go out now.’
The boy was shifting from one foot to the other. ‘I’ve got to, man. I’ll explain later. OK?’
When Claire came back half an hour later, her face tightened when she saw him still clearing up his paints. ‘What’s for dinner?’ she asked, without commenting on his canvas.
With a jolt, he remembered that he’d promised to cook. ‘I’m sorry. I forgot …’
‘Too busy doing other things, I see.’ She cast another look at the blur of pink and green. ‘It will have to be pasta again. You’d better tell your friend that dinner will be ready in twenty minutes.’
Her bossy tone was really getting up his nose. Couldn’t she understand that when the urge took you, you simply had to paint? ‘He’s gone out,’ he said shortly.
‘Doesn’t he have an ankle bracelet, like you?’
All right, rub it in.
Claire began chopping onions. ‘Just so long as he doesn’t get us into trouble. Otherwise, he leaves. OK?’
The following morning, Spencer still hadn’t returned. Should he call the police? Claire glanced at the empty space on the sofa and declared she was going to be late again tonight.
Simon didn’t even dignify that with a reply.
Besides, he was having a day off himself. His probation officer had given him special permission to visit his daughter in London. Even better, she didn’t know. He couldn’t wait to see the surprise on Lydia’s face. He already knew she didn’t have lectures on a Thursday so he planned to take her out to lunch. Nothing fancy because he only had twenty quid in his pocket from the money Claire had given him. Just somewhere where they could sit and chat like a real father and daughter. Simon’s heart swelled with pride at the thought as he carefully placed Lydia’s address in his jacket pocket.
Two hours later, he was still looking. I live in Hampstead, she had told him, but this postcode was more Kilburn. There were loads of greengrocers selling vegetables he’d never heard of. There was a fair smattering of electrical shops too with faded SALE stickers in the window.
Last week, he knew from the news, that a bomb had been found near here. Thank heavens it hadn’t gone off. Some splinter Islamic group had claimed responsibility and Simon was aware that a couple of people walking past were giving him suspicious looks. Maybe it was the beard. Or perhaps it was because Joanna wouldn’t stop nattering.
‘Please be quiet!’ he called out in exasperation and a woman coming towards him crossed to the other side.
Picking his way through the vegetable peelings littering the pavement, he found himself coming up to a huge high concrete block of flats which had boarded-up windows. Surely his daughter didn’t live in a place like this? She’d be better off in halls, like he had been. Simon’s mind flickered back to Oxford, his beautiful high-ceilinged room and the dining room echoing with academia and lavender wax.
But, yes, here it was. Simon checked the writing on the slip of paper and the scrawled sign outside the flats. The third floor. Might as well wait for the lift.
‘Don’t work, mate!’ called out a girl, her voice echoing across the concrete. She was wearing a very short black skirt over pink leggings and, somewhat incongruously, a red flower in her hair as though on holiday. ‘You have to walk.’
He followed her up the stairs, trying not to look straight ahead. Didn’t she realise how much leg she was showing?
‘You stalking me, darling?’
She turned round, a half-smile on her face, and he could see now that she was older than he’d thought. ‘ʼCos if you are, I’m full up today. Might fit you in tomorrow, though!’
Simon felt a hot surge of embarrassment sweep over him. So she was that kind of woman! ‘Actually,’ he spluttered. ‘I’m looking for someone.’
‘Yeah?’ She had stopped now on the third floor, standing, her legs provocatively apart. ‘They all say that. Who are you looking for then?’
‘Lydia,’ he spluttered. ‘Lydia Mitchell.’
He’d expected her to say that he didn’t know anyone by that name and then he could just go home because clearly there’d been a mistake. His daughter wouldn’t live in a place like this. But this girl in the pink skirt and black leggings was pointing to a paint-chipped door. ‘Lydia lives there. But don’t disturb her. She’s working.’
He felt relieved. ‘Probably got an essay to finish.’
‘Essay?’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘Client, more like.’ Then she looked him up and down. ‘You from the police or summat?’
‘Actually,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m Lydia’s father.’
The girl’s voice hardened. ‘No you ain’t. She doesn’t have one. What do you want with her?’ Her voice rose. ‘’Cos if you’re trying to hurt her like the last one did, I’ll call the police myself.’
Like the last one did? Simon began to shake the door handle, rattling it violently. Whoever was in there might be accosting his daughter. He had to get her out.
‘Shut up,’ someone shouted from the upstairs landing. ‘I’m trying to get some kip here.’
Then the door opened. It was Lydia but not as he had seen her before. This Lydia had bright red lipstick and heavy black mascara. She was wearing a dressing gown revealing a flash of bare leg.
‘Dad?’ Her face froze. ‘What are you doing here?’
As she spoke, a much older man ca
me out, nodded at Simon, and walked quickly down the stairs. ‘I’ve left something in the toilet,’ he called up.
Simon felt sick. He must be referring to the money.
‘You’d better come in,’ said Lydia quietly, ushering him in through the door.
He looked around it, a nauseous feeling in his stomach. On one side was a sink, heaped high with plates of noodles and baked beans. On the floor, by the sofa, was a mattress where the sheets lay rumpled, reeking of sex.
Lydia scooped them up, threw them in the corner and put on the kettle. ‘Coffee?’ she asked, as though none of this had happened.
‘I thought you were doing a degree.’
‘I am.’ She measured a spoonful of granules into a mug. ‘But it’s expensive so I have to fund myself.’
‘But this …’ He waved his hand around, unable to say the word ‘prostitution’.
‘Lots of students do it.’ She set the mug down by him and together they perched on the edge of the mattress.
Her matter-of-factness shocked him. ‘It’s not safe!’
‘It is if you use precautions.’
He stood up again. ‘Why don’t you come back and live with us?’
She smiled and for a second, he could see her mother all those years ago. ‘That’s really sweet, but it’s not practical. You’ve got a wife and a stepson to look after.’
‘But you’re my daughter!’
‘Listen.’ She spoke as though he was the child. ‘I’ve managed all these years without you. It’s good to have met you, Dad, but I don’t need you to tell me what I can and can’t do. I’ve had to be resilient because of what has happened to me and you’ve got to be the same now. I know it was tough inside prison – I’ve got friends there myself – but you’re out now. If you don’t act more responsibly towards Claire and Ben, you might lose them. Get it?’
More responsibly? What did she mean?
‘This charity shop stuff. You need to bring back money. It’s been tough for Claire and I don’t want to see her ending up like Mum without a man. Get it?’
He thought about it all the way home on the train. Lydia had promised to come round for dinner the following week. In the meantime, he would try and get a proper job even though the prospect of being turned down at interviews terrified him.
That shortness of breath feeling was coming back too. Distract yourself, Spencer always said. So he picked up a newspaper that someone had left behind. There was a photofit of one of the men who was thought to be involved in the bombing. Simon took a second look. It vaguely reminded him of someone. But who …
By the time he got off at the station, he’d decided to take Lydia’s advice. He needed to listen to Claire more instead of seeing her constant criticism as nagging.
Then he stopped. Standing on his doorstep was Charlie! Bloody hell. The bloke had his arms around Claire. He was trying to kiss her.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’
They both turned towards him. Claire’s face was rigid with shock. ‘It’s not what you think,’ she began.
‘Yes it is.’ Charlie faced him full on, his chest puffed out as though he was a peacock protecting his hen. ‘I’ve been trying to persuade Claire to leave you and come back with me. She’s told me all about you, Simon. You’ve gone crazy with your obsession for painting and your need to make everything tidy. You don’t deserve her.’
Simon turned towards his wife. ‘Is this true?’
She was crying. ‘Yes and no. I’m …”
He cut in, taking in the bags that were already packed by the door. ‘You’re going now?’
She nodded. Only then did he see that Ben and Slasher were already in the car. Flinching, he felt her cheek on his. ‘I’ll call you,’ she whispered. ‘All right?’
Inside, the house was horribly quiet. No one was there. Not even Spencer. Simon moved towards the understairs cupboard where he’d hidden his painting set. Slowly, one by one, he undid the top of each tube of paint and squirted the contents down the sink, taking care to clean the stainless steel afterwards. Then he sat down and ripped up each sheet of sugar paper until the bin was full.
It was then that the doorbell rang. They were back! He flew to the door, taking in the orange and black figure looming up at him.
‘Simon Mills?’
He nodded.
‘We’re looking for a Spencer King. We have reason to believe he is staying here.’
‘Not any more. He was but …’
‘Mind if we search your place, sir? We have a warrant.’
Silently, he nodded. Another man in an orange and black jacket swarmed in, together with a dog not unlike Slasher in appearance.
‘What are you looking for?’
Even as he spoke, he knew the answer.
‘Substances, sir. Can you tell me where Mr King slept?’
He pointed to the sofa, watching as they searched it. Nothing. And then he remembered.
‘I was in prison with the man.’
The officer nodded. ‘I know, sir.’
‘He told me some things. After he had taken … taken stuff, he would sometimes hide it in the washing machine.’
‘Can you show me where yours is, sir?’
They swarmed towards it. There was nothing in the drum but the dog was sitting, perfectly alert.
‘What about the filter?’ suggested Simon. He got down on his knees to unscrew it. Instantly, a gush of water came out. The officer put his hand in, grimaced and then pulled something out.
It was a small white package.
The officer’s eyes narrowed. ‘Any idea where we might find this old friend of yours?’
Oh my God. It was coming to him now. Not where they might find Spencer. But to the terrorist’s face in the paper …
Chapter Fifty-three
She hadn’t intended to leave him. Not really. But something that Martha had said, kept haunting her. ‘ Not all wives stick with their men when they come out. Sometimes you have to go.’
She’d gone on to say other things too; about people changing, both on the In and Out. In fact, Martha said all the things that Claire had been thinking for so long but been unable to tell anyone else.
Then Charlie had phoned to make arrangements for picking up Ben. He was in London, he said, so it wouldn’t take much of a detour to pick him up and take him down to Devon for the weekend.
‘Alex has told me about your guest,’ he said in that tight angry way she remembered so well. ‘I’m not having my wife and son in the same house as an armed robber!’ She’d felt a pang at the way he still referred to her as his ‘wife’. In one way it was quite reassuring …
When he’d arrived to pick up Ben, she’d been ready to tell him that although she was grateful for his support, she owed it to Simon to stay. ‘He’s not well, mentally.’
‘So get him to a doctor.’ He touched her arm briefly. ‘Look, why not come with us now, just for the weekend. I’ll book you into a hotel if you like.’
The prospect of two days without Simon’s irrational behaviour was tempting. ‘All right,’ she said, gratefully. ‘Thank you.’
And that was when he had bent down and kissed her cheek. It was just a swift action; almost one between friends. But he had chosen the very moment that Simon had walked up the road and seen them.
Her husband would think she’d gone for good. He’d panic. Do something stupid. Claire looked out of the car window as they headed for the motorway. ‘Please drop me off,’ she heard herself say sharply.
‘Mum!’ Ben’s voice came from the back. ‘I want you to stay.’
Charlie nodded as though to say ‘See?’
‘Don’t go to a hotel,’ he added quietly.’ Ben needs you close. You can have my room. I’ll sleep on the sofa.’
Claire hadn’t thought she’d get any rest but she fell into a deep slumber. When she woke in Charlie’s bed, she reached for her phone. No messages. Was Simon all right?
Martha had warned her about the guilt.
; R U OK? she texted. No reply. Maybe if she had a shower, something would come through. Making her way into Charlie’s en suite, she looked around curiously for signs of a girlfriend. A feminine bottle of shower cream, perhaps, or maybe a woman’s shaver.
But there was nothing. Nor was there a message on the mobile when she came out.
Simon was probably cross with her – just as she would have been if he’d caught her kissing another woman on their doorstep. It wasn’t like that, she wanted to say. Please. Give me a chance to explain.
‘Are you decent? Charlie was knocking on her door. Quickly, she slipped into her jeans before opening it. She watched him take in her appearance: damp hair, just a bare trace of make-up on her face.
‘Just wanted to check you’ve got everything you need.’
‘Actually, I could do with a hair drier.’
‘Sorry.’ He grinned. ‘This is a bachelor flat.’
Over breakfast (delicious croissants from the bakers round the corner apparently), Charlie casually suggested a trip on the boat. Ben, who’d got up surprisingly early, beamed. ‘Can we bring Poppy?’
Claire glanced at Charlie with a ‘what-do-you-think?’ look. ‘No harm in asking her, provided her father’s happy.’
‘Dad, she’s seventeen!’
‘Exactly,’ said Charlie almost happily. ‘And your mother and I can both remember what that was like. Can’t we, Claire?’
He continued to make little references like that all through the weekend. Chance remarks about how they had done this and that and what it had been like when Ben was little. It brought home the fact that they were a real family. When Charlie gently reprimanded Ben for something (‘watch that rope, son’), it didn’t seem out of order because Charlie was his father. Unlike Simon.
Step-families were so complicated, but add another ingredient like prison and they became virtually impossible, thought Claire.
As for Poppy, she had really blossomed since she’d last seen her in London. Such a lovely girl, with a gorgeous tumble of blonde curls, and green eyes that stared right at you. No wonder Ben was besotted. Perhaps she looked like her mother, Claire pondered. Yet she’d noticed that whenever the subject of mothers came up, Poppy neatly skirted round it.
