Shiftless, spineless — were those accusations fair? He’d tried so hard to be a better human being here, a man of integrity, dedication and commitment, and it seemed obvious to him that he was working every spare minute he had. Every day, he phoned the council and spoke, it seemed, to a different but identically intractable person. He was in constant communication with Tai Te Wera, who had no bright ideas about compliance but offered in return an endless supply of legal paperwork to read and sign. And he was pressing on with the plans for the space, orchestrating logistics and assuring the Caraccis that all was well, because — why not? Surely a solution to the compliance issues would be found? Bernard’s belief — trenchantly and forcefully restated in the Boat Shed — was that the only person who could undo this regulatory knot was Elaine. Kerry needed to suck up to Elaine was the gist of Bernard’s argument. Or find a way to turn the rest of the council against her.
Neither path glittered with golden promise to Kerry. If he sucked up to her, he’d have to keep at it for the rest of his natural life. The project would become hers and he her creature. But then he had no connections or influence with the council, and he’d never been good with conflict.
So to recap — he could confidently refute the accusation that he was shiftless, but the spineless charge? Perhaps not such a strong footing …
And getting weaker every minute he stayed in the car. He’d been outside the house of horror for nearly fifteen minutes now, which was unacceptable. Time to urinate or remove oneself from the latrine, to paraphrase and, indeed, bowdlerise, Jacko.
Kerry waded through grass, hoping not to stand on anything lethal, and knocked on the door. Stepped back a pace. But no sound came from inside — no snarling dogs, shotguns cocking, that sort of thing. No voices or footsteps, either.
He took a deep breath and knocked again, louder. Nothing. He peered cautiously through the front window but the interior was unlit and Kerry could glimpse only the sagging backs of two old armchairs and a side table on which sat a single saucer filled with cigarette butts. Either the house was empty or everyone inside was dead. Perhaps he should call Casey Marshall?
His other options were to shout out hello, see if that provoked a response. Or he could hack his way around the side through the shrubbery and rubbish and knock on the back door, if one existed.
But, frankly, this house gave him the creeps. And if anyone was inside, then answering the door was clearly the last thing they wanted to do. The first they wanted was for anyone knocking to go away.
Kerry went away, and felt worse for every mile he put between himself and young Reuben’s home. By the time he drove into Gabriel’s Bay, he felt so bad, he parked outside the police station — if an office with one desk, two chairs and a fern in a pot counted as a station — and went to see if Constable Marshall was in residence. Unusually, she was, so Kerry had no choice but to draw a picture that might not show his best side.
‘I’ve never visited before, so I don’t know if no response is typical,’ he said.
‘Depends.’ Casey obviously didn’t intend to elaborate.
‘Is — is Reuben OK?’ he asked.
She gave him an amused, assessing look, as if presuming, correctly as it happened, that his desire to hear the truth was minimal.
‘His family situation is less than ideal,’ she said. ‘But not to the point where he should be taken into care.’
‘Is there any way to communicate with his parents?’ Kerry said.
‘About what?’
‘Er, whether I could take him along with me when I go and talk to people about Littleville.’
‘Does Reuben want to come with you?’
She certainly had the knack for the pertinent question.
‘I don’t know,’ Kerry had to admit. ‘That’s why I went to the house — to ask. It was Sidney’s idea,’ he added, immediately cringing at how petty it sounded.
But Casey only nodded. ‘I can make some calls. Give me your mobile number and I’ll let you know how I get on.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, though he wasn’t entirely sure if he was being sincere.
Kerry returned to his car, rested his head back against the driver’s seat and closed his eyes. There were approximately one million and twenty-three items clamouring for attention on his mental agenda, and he had lost all ability to work out which ones he should tackle first.
To be honest, all he wanted to do was lie on Sidney’s sofa, head in her lap, while she stroked his hair and listened to his woes, but that was out of the question. For one, it was entirely wimpish and self-centered and he was disgusted enough by his behaviour this afternoon. Two, Sidney had woes of her own, both financial and emotional. Jacko going bush had left her short of a small but vital amount of income, Madison’s parents were still using her as an unpaid childminder, and last week, Aidan had been escorted home by Constable Marshall, who’d found him in the company of marrow boy, Wade. There had been no sign of incipient anti-social activity, no spray cans, lighters or crowbars, but Casey felt Wade’s aegis was one Aidan could happily forgo. She had spoken to both lads, and judging by Aidan’s grey, tear-stained face, used words of unambiguous quality. Sidney was mortified and appalled, but wouldn’t let Kerry comfort her. Wouldn’t let Kerry lend her money, even just to tide her over. Didn’t, truth be told, seem to want him around at all.
But did that mean he should do what she wanted? Or should he be fighting harder to break down her barriers, which, he could clearly see, were her first defence against fear and panic? Should he override her objections and gently but firmly compel her to let him in, let him help? Or would that simply make things worse?
Perhaps if they’d had more time together, they’d have had more of those deep, intimate conversations in which they revealed to each other all their vulnerabilities, regrets, hopes and dreams. He could finally tell her what had gone on for him, that morning of his wedding when all became clear and he’d resolved to transform, and she could release the last of the resentment she still held for her feckless ex. They’d made tentative forays into that emotional territory, but further progress had been cut short — by becoming frantically busy, in his case, and anxious and stressed in Sidney’s. The result being that they did not feel as if they truly knew each other, and without that solid foundation, trust was hard to build. Well, he trusted Sidney because he was a naturally trusting person, but she had … issues. Fair enough, he supposed, her last man had been a chancer of the first water. But could she not see that Kerry would stand by her? That he had only her best interests at heart?
He should call her, tell her that he had been to Reuben’s house and put steps in place with Casey to deliver on his promise. But he could almost hear Sidney’s response: why hadn’t he persisted at the house? Why hadn’t he made sure Reuben was OK? He’d been right there, on the spot, whereas Casey might not get around there for days and ya, ya, ya …
Kerry started the engine, put the Fielder in gear without due care and winced at the graunching sound. The radio, the one bright constant during his recent endless to-ing and fro-ing, was in the middle of ‘Hound Dog’. Mr Presley was advising the person of the title that he no longer considered him a friend due to an overestimation of his ability to catch rabbits. Kerry switched him off.
The Fielder’s clock said five-forty. Sidney would be busy getting tea ready for the kids. He would demonstrate his thoughtfulness by not disturbing her. It was too late to call the council, and he’d had no text from Tai, so he may as well head back to Woodhall, stopping on the way at the Four Square to get milk and bread even though — he’d made a point of checking — they didn’t need any. After Meredith had warned him that his job performance was sub-par, he’d vowed to pull his socks up. She hadn’t used the words ‘on borrowed time’ but that was his distinct impression. And now that Jonty was up and about more, Kerry’s job was at even greater risk. It still suited Meredith to have him there to help, but it might not be long before Jonty felt strong enough to call all the shots
, and then it would be ‘Sayonara, Kerry’ (or more likely ‘Raus, raus’, in Jonty’s case). Don’t let the door hit you where the good Lord split you, to adapt another of Jacko’s maxims.
He parked the car, and carried the shopping bag into the kitchen. Evening meals were outside his job description, though in the early days he had cooked a few to demonstrate his willingness to go above and beyond. An unexpected voice made him bang his head on the fridge door.
‘Restocking the mushroom soup?’
Jonty in the doorway. He had ditched the tartan pyjamas and dressing gown a while back, and now looked every inch the picture of a country gentleman, with the emphasis, Kerry thought privately, on the first syllable of the first word. But he needed this job, so politeness was the way.
‘Bread and milk.’
His smile was not returned.
‘I trust my wife docked your wages for your failure to fulfil your duties?’
No, but she’d given him a stern telling-off did not seem a suitable reply. No reply at all seemed better still.
‘What is the notice period of your contract?’ said Jonty. ‘For future reference.’
And that was it. The last straw, dressed up in tweed and moleskins. Kerry had nothing to lose, so why hold anything back?
‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’m here solely for Mrs Barton and we both know it. You don’t like me, and I’m certainly not fond of you. If you want me gone, be a man and do the deed. Don’t slither about spitting like some toothless snake.’
Jonty stared at him, cold-eyed, much like the aforementioned serpent.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘You’re dismissed.’
‘Right.’ Kerry resisted the urge to kick over a chair. ‘Fine. The notice period you expressed such interest in is a week. I will be gone in three days.’
‘What’s this?’
Meredith had entered.
‘I’ve fired him,’ said Jonty, unperturbed.
‘Why?’
‘He’s completely useless and an unnecessary drain on our finances.’
‘Do I not get a say?’ Meredith was bristling as much as someone with her cool demeanour could. ‘They are, after all, mostly my finances.’
Now Jonty’s composure began to slip. He hated being reminded of his dependency, despite it being predominantly of his own making.
‘If you insist on having help, then we will advertise for a replacement. A quality replacement.’
‘I dislike interviewing people,’ said Meredith.
‘So to avoid that, you’re prepared to tolerate rudeness, lax time-keeping and meals an Algerian prisoner would reject?’
‘That won’t happen again.’
‘No, it won’t,’ said Jonty. ‘Because he is dismissed.’
The phrase ‘and that’s my final word’ hung in the air like the miasma of Victorian nightsoil. But if Meredith intended to retort (for example with, ‘We’ll discuss this later when you’ve calmed down’), she was forestalled by the sound of the front door banging open, and a voice calling out ‘Hello?’ in a way that sounded more like a challenge than a greeting.
In the kitchen doorway appeared a young woman, chopped hair dyed black, every visible orifice pierced, a large upper arm tattoo of a woman wearing some kind of mediaeval gag. Her black singlet said The Slits, and her jeans (also black) must surely double as compression stockings. Her first impression distracted Kerry from noticing that she was exceptionally beautiful, and, when he did, he was so taken by surprise that his mind went completely blank.
Fortunately, Meredith said, ‘Sophie.’
‘Hello, Mother.’
Neither woman moved forward to embrace.
Sophie addressed her father. ‘Hey, Pops.’
Without waiting for a response, she turned her — God, stunning, get a grip — gaze on Kerry.
‘So you’re him,’ she said. ‘Not what I pictured.’
And she grinned in a way that sent all coherent thoughts rushing once more from Kerry’s mind like air escaping from a balloon, sound effects and all.
‘Sophie, what are you doing here?’
Kerry had retained just enough mental capacity to pick up that Meredith’s question was a tad lacking in maternal fondness.
‘I was invited.’
Sophie’s face may not be what Kerry had pictured either, but her expression was an exact match.
‘By him.’
She pointed at Kerry, and, as both Meredith and Jonty turned their accusing gaze in his direction, it was all he could do not to back into the corner. He wanted to protest that he’d invited her to lunch — lunch — at a date yet to be determined! He hadn’t thrown out some casual suggestion for her to drop in at any old time, unannounced.
‘You didn’t tell them, did you?’
Sophie’s met three sets of accusing eyes.
‘I, er—’
He’d meant to, he really had, but …
‘Not that I’d expect any warmer welcome than this.’ She was speaking to her parents now. ‘But if you’d been warned, you’d probably make some effort to fucking pretend you were glad to see me.’
‘I don’t see why,’ said her father. ‘You’re hardly thrilled to see us.’
‘I’m your daughter,’ she said. ‘Parents are supposed to be glad to see their children. If I was Nic, you’d be all over me like a fucking rash—’
Jonty raised his hand, and Sophie flinched.
‘Don’t you dare use your sister as an excuse for your own poor behaviour,’ said Jonty. And you’re hardly a child. You’re thirty years old, for God’s sake.’
‘Please.’ Meredith stepped forward, between them. ‘Can we—?’
But no, Sophie couldn’t.
‘See what I mean?’ she said to Kerry, then closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘Thirty years old. Thirty fucking years old …’
Her eyes flashed open. ‘I’m thirty-one, you old cunt!’
‘That’s enough!’ said Jonty, as Meredith said, ‘Please!’
But loudest of all was Kerry’s phone. He’d programmed the ring tone to be the opening chords of AC/DC’s ‘Back in Black’, and possibly had the volume set a little high.
He pulled it from his pocket. Sidney. Thank God. A reason to excuse himself from this pit of fire.
‘Sorry, sorry.’ He sidled past them all and jogged down to the entranceway, where he hit the green button.
‘Hello. Thank God. Did you psychically receive my cry for help?’
‘No.’ Sidney sounded tense. ‘No, I didn’t.’
‘OK, so, you’ll never believe—’
‘You need to shut up,’ said Sidney. ‘Shut up and listen.’
More than tense. Angry. He shut up.
‘I’ve just got off the phone with your mother. Mac gave her my number because she hasn’t heard from you for weeks.’
God, was something up with his mother? Or his father?
‘We had a great old chat,’ said Sidney.
Any relief that his parents were fine withered under the fury pulsing through the ether.
‘She told me all about why you left England.’
Kerry couldn’t work out why he was under attack. ‘I told you why.’
‘You mentioned it, yes,’ said Sidney. ‘But you made it sound like you were the one who’d been left at the altar!’
‘I did not! I told you what happened!’
But even as he protested, he sensed he was not on firm ground.
‘You did no such thing,’ said Sidney. ‘You danced around like you always do, and you did not correct me, even though you knew I’d got the wrong end of the stick.’
‘I didn’t know you didn’t know! You never said!’
‘Did you tell me you’d jilted your fiancée? Did you come out with those exact words?’
‘Well, I can’t be—’
‘What? Trusted?’ Sidney’s laugh was short and unamused. ‘No, you can’t. Sod off, Kerry. Don’t call me. Don’t come around. I don’t want to see you.’
&nbs
p; And she hung up.
The strength of Kerry’s reaction surprised him. He’d not been this close to tears since childhood. All he wanted to do was crawl off into a warm, dark space and call his mother. Whose fault, of course, all this was in the first place …
No. It was his fault and his alone. He’d had an inkling Sidney thought he was the jiltee, and he’d intended to put her straight, he really had. What stopped him was shame, which was neither pure nor simple. Since leaving home, he’d worked hard to create that new, improved Kerry-Francis Macfarlane, and he’d enjoyed the reaction his upgraded self had received. Reflected in Sidney’s eyes, he’d seen a man of substance and integrity, and he could not bring himself to shatter that mirror. Though, to be fair, he’d been giving it a few good hard knocks recently.
The thumping of blood in his ears meant he didn’t hear Sophie’s Doc Martens on the wooden floorboards until she was right beside him.
‘Great idea,’ she said. ‘Really great. You should be proud of yourself. And thanks for coming to my fucking launch — not.’
She didn’t wait for a response, yanked open the front door and slammed it shut.
Kerry stood there, feeling the phone cool in his hand. Then he walked back into the kitchen to formally accept his dismissal.
Chapter 34
Sidney
‘I’m going to have to sell the car,’ Sidney told Mac. ‘It’s either that or sell my soul to a loan shark. If I don’t — well, it’s not going to be a very merry Christmas.’
She tried to keep her tone light, but she knew Mac wasn’t fooled. Her hands had trembled when she’d accepted the cup of tea, and Mac had pushed the sugar bowl across the table, watched without comment as Sidney added four spoonfuls. That kindness coupled with the realisation she could drink tea with sugar without mentally calculating the cost put Sidney close to tears. Oh, who was she kidding? Everything put Sidney close to tears right now.
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