by Fiona Gibson
22
Jane sat beside Hannah at a fake wood desk in an interview room at the police station. On the chair beside her, Hannah was hunched with her hands flopped on to her knees. The windowless room smelt faintly of armpit. It was slightly less grim than the detention room where Hannah had been waiting when Jane had arrived, flustered and breathless, at the station. More than anything, she’d yearned to rewind to the point just before Hannah went into that damn shop. Why couldn’t you manipulate time like that?
“So,” she said flatly, “why did you do it?”
“I don’t know.” Hannah voice was tiny, virtually lost in the room.
“Is this anything to do with Zoë? Do you feel you have to keep up with her, have as much stuff as she—”
“No!” Hannah protested. She rubbed a fist into an eye.
“Not copying her, are you? Does she shoplift? She’s always wearing new clothes, God knows how her mother—”
“Veronica buys her stuff. She gets whatever she wants.”
“Lucky Zoë,” Jane snapped.
Tears were rolling down Hannah’s cheeks. “Mum, it was just…stupid. I wasn’t thinking.” Max had said much the same thing after the night with that woman; he hadn’t been thinking. Just a little mistake, he’d said.
“Jesus, Han, you’ll have a criminal record, you know that? Are you trying to ruin your life?”
“Of course not!”
“Who were those things for?” Jane demanded.
“Me,” Hannah whispered.
“What—a lighter? Started smoking now, have you?” Jane didn’t care about making a spectacle of herself; things could hardly get any worse.
Han shook her head. “That was for…a friend.”
“What friend?”
“Just…a friend.”
Jane rubbed her hands across her own face, cutting Hannah from her line of vision. This wouldn’t have happened if she’d been out shopping with her instead of holing herself up in the studio. Did Hannah feel neglected? Perhaps she and Max were too mean with her. Look at the clothes and makeup Zoë managed to acquire. What you had or didn’t have really mattered to girls of Hannah’s age. Their home was a mess; Hannah was probably ashamed of it. Jane visualized Veronica’s pristine hallway, and Max taking off his shoes obediently to slip into one of the cages.
Hannah’s eyes had acquired a vivid pink tinge. Her hands looked pale and fragile on her lap. Maybe, Jane thought, it had been a mistake. She’d genuinely forgotten to pay. She wasn’t a thief—not someone who should have been brought to the station in a police van. She’d been photographed and fingerprinted. She’d been treated like someone who robbed old ladies or mugged joggers in parks. She was on record, on police computers: Hannah Deakin the criminal.
An inspector with cropped graying hair and a vein-covered nose entered the room. He cleared his throat and sat in the vacant chair across the table. “Now, Hannah,” he said, “because you admitted your offence and haven’t offended before, I’m going to issue a reprimand. That’s a formal verbal warning. Your file will be sent to the youth offending team.”
He sounded as if he was recovering from a cold. Hannah’s eyes gleamed with fear; Jane put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, as if she were a little girl again. “What’s the youth offending team?” she asked.
“They’re part of social services and set up voluntary programs to help with offending behavior. But in this instance,” he added, “I’ll mark Hannah’s report as no further action.”
Jane nodded, feeling sick in this horrible room with its stained beige walls and the man’s coffee breath. “So is this the end of it?” she asked.
“Yes,” the inspector said, “this time.” He studied Hannah across the desk. He’s just a man, Jane told herself; just an ordinary man doing his job. “Before you go,” he added, “I want you to be quite clear that shoplifting is a serous offence. If you’re caught again you could be placed in a young offenders’ institute. Do you understand that, Hannah?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Can we leave now?” Jane asked.
The inspector nodded. “You’re free to go.”
Jane stood up and gripped Hannah’s hand. For once, she didn’t pull it away.
“Well,” came the voice just outside the police station, “look at you two with your long faces!” Donna, Amy’s mother, had ground to a halt in front of them. She dumped a shopping bag at her feet and narrowed her eyes at Hannah. Amy lurked awkwardly behind her.
“Hello, Donna,” said Jane.
“Last-minute Christmas shopping?” Donna asked, widening her eyes.
“Just a few bits and pieces,” Jane replied.
“Hi, Han,” said Amy. “How’s Zoë these days?”
“She’s fine,” Hannah murmured.
Donna faked a smile. “Mind you, I don’t blame you for looking pissed off. Nightmare, isn’t it? So busy at this time of year. A load of commercial nonsense. I’ll be glad when it’s all over.”
Jane nodded. “Me, too.”
“Anyway, we’d better get on. We’ve still got crackers and stuffing to buy. Enjoy your Christmas—if you don’t mind me saying, Jane, you look worn-out. Make sure you have a rest over the holiday.”
Jane forced a smile. “Yes, I will.”
As they parted she heard Donna muttering, “God, Amy, did you see the state of Hannah’s face?”
23
Max couldn’t believe his daughter was a thief. He just couldn’t take it in. When Jane had phoned, a ridiculous part of him had clung on to the hope that she was joking. Then Jane had blurted it all out—about the woman whom Hannah had seen trying on earrings really being store security. How this woman had stopped her in the street and led her back through the shop to a little back room.
He couldn’t understand why she’d done it. Had she desperately wanted those things—a lighter, for God’s sake—or stolen them just for the thrill?
“Max, honey?” Veronica cut into his thoughts. He’d been painting the skirting board in her study, trying to calm his racing thoughts while she tapped on her keyboard. Although it still involved painting, Max was grateful for a change of scene from his own house.
“Hmm?” he said.
“Come here, have a look. There’s a stunning ski collection and it’s all thirty per cent off.” Max had surmised that the January sales were more enticing than Christmas to Veronica. While Christmas Day had been okay—Hannah had joined him, Veronica and her kids after lunch—there’d been something missing. It hadn’t helped, of course, that he’d had to give Hannah a stern talking to about shoplifting. On Christmas Day, of all days. Not that there was ever a good time to deal with stuff like that.
Max rested the brush on the paint can and peered at the screen over Veronica’s shoulder. Salopettes, jackets and something called a combi set—did she really think he’d be kitting himself out in proper skiing gear? “I thought I’d wear my jeans,” he said.
Veronica chuckled. “You are joking, Max. Jeans aren’t suitable for snow. You’ll get soaked and freezing. What you need is—”
“Listen.” Max rested a hand on her arm. “I’m not buying new stuff. The holiday’s costing enough, okay? My head’s full of the shop at the moment. If premises come up I want to put in an offer without worrying about—”
“It’s only clothes, Max. Buying a cute little beanie hat will hardly bankrupt you.”
“I don’t want a cute little beanie hat!”
With a dismissive shake of her head, she clicked onto a page depicting ‘base layers’—they looked like long johns to Max—and something called ‘buffs.’ Loosely resembling balaclavas, they were pattered with snowflakes and psychedelic swirls. Max knew, with absolute certainty, that he didn’t require a buff.
“Well,” Veronica teased him, “you can be an old scruff-monkey on the slopes. I’m treating myself to a few bits and bobs. What d’you think of these jackets, honey—shall I go for the lilac or baby blue?”
Max blinked at the images of skiers whipping down slopes. He’d felt warm and cosy, quietly painting in the corner. Now his entire body had chilled. “You choose,” he said dully.
Veronica tore her eyes away from the screen and frowned at him. “You are silly, Max. These are real bargains. Kit yourself out and you’ll actually be saving money.”
He looked at her, expecting to detect a glimmer of irony. Her smile was pure, uncomplicated. Perhaps, he reasoned, uncomplicated was what he needed at this stage of his life. Someone who didn’t rate his daughter’s shoplifting spree as particularly significant, because there were more crucial matters to consider—like base layers.
Was he really making such a sacrifice by agreeing to go on this holiday when, clearly, it mattered so much to Veronica? “Maybe,” he said, peering at her PC, “I’ll order those socks with the spandex bit at the instep.”
The smile illuminated her face. “Pervert,” she whispered back.
24
“You’re going where?” Zoë spluttered.
“Scotland,” Hannah said. “At least, some island in Scotland. Some teeny little place no one’s heard of.”
“Bloody hell.” Zoë was struggling through a tray of Prêt à Manger sushi, which Hannah suspected she’d chosen for effect and not because she particularly relished raw fish. “Half term as well,” Zoë added. “Waste of a school holiday, getting dragged off to the middle of nowhere. What is there to do?”
Hannah shrugged. “Nothing much, according to Mum. The house where we’re staying looks really posh. Apart from that it’s just sheep and mountains and stuff.”
“Ugh,” Zoë said, shuddering. “You could’ve stayed with me, if I wasn’t being farmed out to God knows who while Mum and your dad go skiing. Don’t know why me and Dyl can’t stay at home by ourselves. It’s not like we’re kids….”
“Where are you going to stay?” Hannah asked.
Zoë peeled off the fish and popped a lump of sticky rice into her mouth. “Not sure yet. Mum’s desperately ringing round her friends but no one’s that keen to have me.” She giggled.
“Where’s Dylan going?”
“Oh, he’ll be fine. He’s staying with one of his mates. They can sit up all night drawing their horrible weirdo comic strips.”
“I didn’t know he did that,” Hannah said.
“He tries.” Zoë licked her fingers and shut the lid of her sushi box.
“Don’t you mind not going skiing?”
“I’m used to it. Mum’s never taken me. Anyway, I wouldn’t want to get between the loved-up couple.”
The chocolate brownie felt like sawdust in Hannah’s throat. She hadn’t told Zoë about being caught shoplifting; she’d have felt idiotic, as if she’d somehow let her down by failing to follow her instructions properly. She hadn’t even told Ollie during their snogging sessions at his flat on Monday evenings. They didn’t seem to talk as much as they used to. Kissing or talking: it seemed there wasn’t room for both.
“I can’t believe you’re going,” Zoë declared suddenly, “without kicking up a fuss. You’re fifteen, for God’s sake. She’s treating you like a baby.”
Hannah scrunched the cellophane wrapper from her brownie. Although three weeks had passed since police station day, which she could hardly bring herself to think about, she was in no position to be difficult. In acquiring a reprimand she’d kissed goodbye to any bargaining power. “Actually,” she murmured, “it might be a laugh.”
“What, being stuck on a miserable island with no shops?”
“There’ll be some shops.”
“Yeah,” Zoë sniggered, “like a Gap and Zara? What do they wear up there anyway?”
“Same as us, I suppose,” Hannah said.
“I thought they wore kilts.”
“That’s just for special occasions, idiot.” God, Zoë really knew nothing. Although Hannah was hardly a seasoned traveler, she’d been all over Britain with her mum or dad to various holiday cottages. She doubted if Zoë even knew where Scotland was.
“Tell you what,” Zoë announced. “I could come, too. Then it’d be fun.”
Hannah sniggered. The idea was ridiculous: Zoë plonked on an island God knows how many hundred miles from her hairdresser, and Jane agreeing to take her in the first place. “You’re mad,” she said.
“How long are you going for?”
“Five days I think.”
“That’s not so bad. Mum wouldn’t have to stress out trying to find some place to dump me.” There was a catch in Zoë’s voice, and her eyes gleamed. She does mind, Hannah thought, as Zoë pretended to fiddle with the strap of her shoe. She hates being left behind when her mum goes away. She thinks nobody cares. “I’m not sure Mum would go for it,” she murmured.
“Why not? Doesn’t she like me?”
“Yes but—”
“I’ll keep you company. Mum’ll pay part of the petrol and food and my share of staying in that posh house. It’ll be great, Han. Go on—ask her if I can come. Tell her I’m about to be abandoned by my uncaring mother and have nowhere to go. Say I’m practically homeless.” Zoë managed a hollow laugh.
Hannah wanted to fling her arms around her and pull her close. She couldn’t help admiring Zoë’s knack of twisting the facts so the maddest thing—stealing a plastic doll’s head, spending half term on some bleak, remote island—seemed like absolutely the right thing to do. Hannah looked at the face that still looked sunny and golden, even in January. She had to admit, the prospect of Zoë tagging along made the trip seem a little less awful.
“She’ll let me come, won’t she?” Zoë asked, pushing the glass door open. “We’ll be stuck on an island with sod all to do. It’s not as if we can get into any trouble.”
25
“Are we nearly there yet?”
Jane gripped the steering wheel and tried to shut off her ears. Zoë had fired this question several times and they’d only just passed the turnoff for Hemel Hempstead. Weren’t kids meant to grow out of asking such brain-jarring questions at around seven years old?
Hannah, who was installed beside Zoë in the backseat, was on charming form. Her urgent requirement for the loo had coincided with their joining the M1, so they’d already had to make a service station stop.
“So, are we?” Zoë asked.
“A few hours to go yet,” Jane said.
“How many miles?”
“Hundreds. Thousands. It’ll take us weeks.”
Zoë groaned. This wasn’t the deal, thought Jane: this perpetual whining when they’d been on the road for an hour and a half. Had Zoë forgotten her impassioned speech when she’d begged to come? Please, Jane, Mum’s going to France and I’ve got nowhere to go. I’ll be no trouble at all.
Nancy, with arms firmly folded in the passenger seat, was crunching a licorice ball. It cracked noisily; Jane feared for her mother’s teeth. Nancy’s contribution to motoring pleasure had been the paper bag of boiled sweets, a flask of watery coffee and a package of ham sandwiches tightly wrapped in wrinkled foil. “Find out if there’s space for me at that Hope House,” she’d demanded.
“You’re not interested in stained glass,” Jane had protested. “You don’t even call it stained glass. You call it my window business.”
Nancy had chuckled and said, “It’s the dry stone walling I’m keen on. It’s a skill I’ve always wanted to learn.” Jane had pointed out that there was little call for dry stone walling in Muswell Hill, but Nancy had insisted, adding that she’d take care of the cooking, which was done on a rota system at Hope House. So here they were: Jane, Hannah, Zoë and Nancy. Only four people, yet the car felt stiflingly overcrowded.
“Why’s it all talking on the radio?” Zoë asked.
“It’s a play,” Nancy snapped. “Just listen to it and enjoy it.”
Jane glimpsed Zoë’s morose expression in the rearview mirror. Nancy had already assumed the role of Radio Boss and had twiddled the ancient dial, muttering to herself, finally settling on Radio 4. The play
wasn’t convincing. The actors sounded as if they were desperate to fling down their scripts and be normal. “This is boring,” Zoë declared. “Can’t you put on a CD?”
“No,” Jane snapped.
“Our car doesn’t have a CD player,” Hannah retorted. “There was a tape player but it chewed up Mum’s tape and broke.”
“Oh,” Zoë said flatly. “When are we stopping?”
“I was hoping to get past Manchester,” Jane said, trying to keep her voice level, “then we’ll have lunch.”
Zoë slumped into silence, clearly finding Manchester’s location as mysterious and unfathomable as planet Neptune. Several minutes passed. Nancy offered around licorice balls, but no one wanted any. Hannah was staring through the window at the lifeless sky.
Jane reminded herself that they weren’t undertaking this journey for the hell of it—not just to make everyone miserable and have to endure Nancy’s endless crunching—but because she’d meet Archie Snail, and learn from him, which would change her entire approach to her work. Nancy would throw herself into her course, and the girls…well, they could do whatever the heck they wanted. They could grumble from dawn to dusk and Jane couldn’t give a flying fig.
It was dark by the time they reached the concrete block of a hotel that squatted bleakly at the side of the motorway. They’d already had one vile service station meal, and now they’d be faced with another. In the restaurant Jane eyed the sausages that lay like coiled snakes. Nancy, who had filled up on her own sandwiches, retorted, “The speed you drive, Jane, it’ll take us six months to get there. I’m sure we could have done the journey in a day.”
“I’ve been driving for nine hours,” Jane muttered. As they sat at the table she studied the map. Such a rugged coastline. Islands like pastry crumbs fallen off the edge of a pie. It hardly seemed possible that people actually lived on them.
