by Tom Bale
The betrayal winded him. Dan raised a hand to wipe his eyes, not wanting to bear the scorn that would greet the appearance of tears. But a sudden burst of rage drew the hand into a fist, the movement into a punch.
It struck Robbie on the chin and sent him floundering, completely unprepared for it. Along with surprise, and anger, there was a hint of grudging admiration on his face. Then a cautious look round to see if anyone had noticed.
Dan did the same thing, realising how reckless it was, drawing attention to himself next to a car dented from a recent collision. But his heart was pounding and his fists remained clenched. If Robbie came at him now he thought it would probably end in murder: neither of them would back down.
But Robbie only rubbed his jaw and gave Dan a long, calculating look. ‘Don’t do something you’ll regret, eh? Go home. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.’
It was good advice, and despite every primitive instinct to have it out with Robbie there and then, Dan relaxed his hands, turned and got back into his car.
CHAPTER 8
Cate drove faster than was sensible on the journey home. With nine points on her licence, one more encounter with a speed camera and that would be it: a driving ban. Luckily, there were no fixed cameras on her route back into Brighton, and she barely considered the possibility of a speed trap. Too preoccupied.
She lived in a two-bedroom terraced house in Victoria Street, in the Montpelier district of Brighton. Parking was sometimes a pain, even with a resident’s permit, but tonight she was lucky. She slotted the Audi into a tight gap right outside her front door. Funny to think that she’d once dreaded parallel parking: now it didn’t faze her at all.
‘Skillage,’ she muttered, and laughed. She was blatantly trying to pump up her mood, but every train of thought led back to her brother, and what he’d put her through, and then on to contemplation of the ways in which he might be made to suffer.
For starters, he could decorate her back bedroom. Maybe tile the kitchen as well. And if he tried wriggling out of it, she would tell Mum everything. Not just the scam with O’Brien, but all the other stunts he’d pulled over the years. Like sleeping with his clients, and taking backhanders, and the company profits that had disappeared up his nose.
Cate realised she was gritting her teeth. She shoved the front door open with more force than was necessary and made a note that Robbie could give it another coat of paint.
She punched in the alarm code, shut and bolted the door, kicked off her shoes. Took out her phone, dropped her bag on the floor and then stood still for a second, closing her eyes while she took a deep, calming breath. She was home. The nightmare was over.
****
But it wasn’t, of course. Hank O’Brien had made that abundantly clear. And if he should discover Cate’s family connection to Compton Property Services – or report Cate’s part in the affair to her real employers – the consequences didn’t bear thinking about.
She checked her phone, but there were no messages. Nothing from Robbie, begging forgiveness. He was probably still in the pub, stringing the barmaid along and getting merrily rat-arsed ...
She sighed. She felt so weary, so drained, that the only sensible option now was to go to bed.
Very sensible, she thought, as she took a bottle of Pinot Grigio from the fridge and poured a generous measure into a wine glass the size of a fruit bowl. What finer proof of her self-discipline than that she didn’t tip the whole bottle in?
Then into the lounge. It wasn’t a large space, but it was her favourite room, her cocoon. There was one long sofa, an extendable dining table in light oak with four leather chairs, a bespoke set of matching oak shelves for her books and DVDs, and her main indulgence, a fuck-off forty-two-inch plasma TV, wall-mounted at the optimum height to enjoy movies and sport. Cate’s ideal Saturday involved a top Premiership game on Sky, then an evening of action movies: anything with Denzel Washington, Liam Neeson or Matt Damon – but never Jason Statham, and the jury was still out on Gerard Butler.
She reached the sofa, tucked her legs beneath her and lifted the glass to her lips. At precisely the moment that the wine made glorious contact with her taste buds, the doorbell rang.
****
Robbie? That was her first thought – she’d misjudged him, and he was here to apologise in person.
A gulp of wine, then she set the glass down on the floor and went to answer. There was a semi-opaque panel in the front door: all she could make out was a head in silhouette, probably male.
‘Who is it?’ she called, and had a sudden chilling thought that Hank O’Brien had found out where she lived.
‘It’s me.’
Not O’Brien, or Robbie, but somebody equally cocky.
Making sure to sound confused, Cate said, ‘Who?’
‘Me-ee.’ A single drawn-out note that started off grouchy, then softened, as if he’d spotted the danger that she would leave him standing on the path.
Cate sighed. She opened the door a fraction.
‘Hello, Martin.’
‘Come on,’ he said, irritated again.
‘Do you know what time it is?’
‘I came round earlier and you weren’t here. Are you going to let me in?’
‘What do you want?’
He sighed, jerking both arms in a helpless spasm. ‘I need to talk to you. Please.’
For the second time this evening Cate put the needs of an immature male before her own best interests, and opened the door wide. Martin gave a wince of a smile and stepped inside. He was a tall man, six foot three, with a noticeable stoop and a face that seemed destined not to age well. At thirty-four the angular features that she’d once so adored were beginning to thicken and sag; the flesh on his cheeks was puffy and sallow.
‘Have you put on weight?’
He grunted. ‘Stopped going to the gym. You look amazing. Better than ever.’
Moving swiftly on, she thought. ‘I take it this isn’t a social visit?’
‘Not really.’ He gazed at her for a few seconds, as though he’d lost the thread of some internal monologue. Then he dragged his hands across his face and said, ‘Christ, I’m knackered.’
‘Janine working you too hard, is she?’
Cate expected the wisecrack to earn a rebuke. Over the past eighteen months Martin had stated repeatedly that he saw no reason why they couldn’t all just get along – Martin and Cate and Janine, his ex-wife and his current squeeze, blissfully united in their devotion to one very special man.
As if.
Now, however, Martin did something very uncharacteristic. He blushed. Cate couldn’t recall the last time she’d seen him blush – certainly not when he’d told her he was leaving. Not even when she’d guessed it was Janine he had been shagging for months.
‘What?’ she asked, feeling like she was pulling the pin from a grenade.
Still nervous, Martin dipped his head. His hair was military short and jet black, but Cate thought she spotted one or two silver strands. Distracted by this discovery, she nearly missed his mumbled reply.
‘Janine’s pregnant.’
****
Cate blundered into the lounge. A shrill voice had started up in her head. The thoughts it expressed were hers, but the voice seemed to belong to someone else: the kind of harridan she’d sworn never to become.
What are you doing here? Why are you telling me this? Is it to rub salt into the wound, or is there another reason?
Martin trailed after her, stopping abruptly when she turned on him.
‘What do you want from me?’
‘No one else knows yet. I thought you should be first.’
Cate nodded, but this declaration had her stumped. In silence they stared at one another, a little too close together in the cosy room. Martin tried to sidle past and there was a high-pitched popping sound, followed by the crunch of broken glass.
‘Oh, bloody hell, Martin!’
‘Sorry. I didn’t see it.’
‘It was right there in f
ront of you.’
‘Yeah. On the floor. Who leaves a glass of wine on the floor?’
‘I didn’t ask you to come in here. God knows, after the night I’ve had—’
‘I said I’m sorry. I’ll get a cloth, shall I?’
‘No, I’ll do it. You pick up the glass.’
Martin hesitated in the act of kneeling. ‘Don’t suppose you have any gardening gloves handy?’
‘What?’
‘So I don’t cut myself.’ He gestured at the floor. ‘Well, come on. I’ll never hear the last of it if I get blood on the carpet.’
Sweet Jesus, it’s as if we’ve never broken up ...
The thought made Cate laugh out loud, which provoked a frown from Martin: he hated being teased. And to think she’d almost believed him capable of appreciating how much anguish his news had caused her.
She fetched some kitchen roll and the dustpan and brush. Martin had located the largest fragment of the wine glass and was methodically collecting the smaller pieces, stacking them in order of size as though they were parts of a puzzle that had to be assembled in a precise sequence.
He moved back to give her space, and as he watched her sponging wine from the carpet Cate experienced the weird telepathy that exists between couples – even those who are no longer a couple – and knew exactly what he would say next:
‘At least it wasn’t red wine.’
She didn’t dignify the comment with a response. Shifting position, a twinge of pain in her leg brought back the memory of Hank O’Brien shoving her to the floor. She tried to counteract the negative image with a better one: the moment she had punched him in the face.
****
Cate leaned forward, her head bent over, and dabbed at the carpet. Perhaps not the most effective way to clean up, but at least having her back to Martin made the conversation easier.
‘Congratulations, by the way.’
He snorted. ‘Thanks.’
‘I wasn’t being sarcastic.’
‘Oh.’
‘I take it you’re pleased?’
‘Delighted.’
‘Now who sounds sarcastic?’
‘No, I am. Honest.’ She heard a creak as he sat on the sofa. When he spoke again his tone was no longer defensive, but softly apologetic. ‘The thing is, I’ve done a lot of growing up lately. I think I’m ready to start a family now.’
Cate shut her eyes tightly, perhaps testing to see if there was a tear or two to be squeezed out, but nothing emerged.
‘That’s all good, then, isn’t it?’ she said.
No reply. Cate plucked an overlooked sliver of glass from beneath a dining chair and dropped it into the dustpan. Then she turned, shuffling round on her knees. Martin was gazing at her, his face slightly flushed, his mouth moving in silence as if he’d been robbed of the power of speech.
‘What’s wrong, Martin?’
‘I’m glad about becoming a father, really I am. I’m just ... I’m not sure if I’m having a kid with the right woman.’
He sat back with a sigh, as though grateful to have relieved himself of a mighty burden. For Cate, the only saving grace was that he didn’t seem to expect a response. She felt a torrent of emotions, welling up behind the dam of her poker face, and knew that, no matter what happened, that dam must not burst until Martin had gone.
CHAPTER 9
Dan was on autopilot for the drive home. It was a route he’d driven countless times, on the nights when Robbie wanted company and Dan either didn’t feel like drinking or couldn’t afford an expensive taxi ride.
Home was a three-bedroom semi in Hollingbury, a quiet district on the northern edge of Brighton, high up on the Downs. Following the death of his parents, their small house in the centre of town had been sold and the proceeds pooled with the resources of his aunt, Joan, who had purchased this house as a compromise: close enough for her to stay in touch with her friends in Woodingdean, where she had lived before, while allowing Dan to remain at his school in Surrenden Road.
The property came with a garage, but it tended not to be used because of the narrow shared driveway. Joan had sold her own car as soon as she became eligible for free bus travel.
Dan didn’t relish putting the Fiesta on the drive. The angle of the dropped kerb was too steep. Unless he got it just right the bumper would scrape noisily over the concrete and wake the whole neighbourhood.
He took his time, praying that his aunt wouldn’t come to the door. Inching over the kerb, he drew level with the house, then stopped. He had to turn the engine off because he needed his keys to unlock the garage. For good measure he switched the car’s lights off as well.
As the retractable garage door creaked on its elderly runners, he was vaguely aware of a car pulling up in the road behind him. A door opened and shut. Then a voice called out: ‘Hey!’
****
He turned, saw Louis walking unsteadily up the drive. Dan hurried from the garage, intercepting his brother as he drew level with the back of the Fiesta.
‘You putting the car away?’
‘Electrics are playing up.’ Dan indicated the night air, the hint of a candyfloss mist for which he was, at that moment, absurdly grateful. ‘Where have you been?’
Louis shrugged, turning to avoid interrogation. ‘Out.’
‘You have college tomorrow.’
‘Not till ten, on a Wednesday.’
‘Even so, Louis. You shouldn’t be getting drunk at your age.’
‘I’m seventeen. I can do what I want.’ He pouted, but there was little malice in his voice. Dan knew they were both uneasy about the father-son dynamic that seemed to encroach all too often nowadays – it was too stark a reminder of what they had lost.
Louis moved away, then wheeled back round, nearly tripping over his own feet. He grabbed the roof of the car for support. Now he was on the passenger side, leaning against the rear window.
‘Where you been tonight, anyway?’
Dan tried to look nonchalant while hurrying around the front of the car to block Louis’s path. Another couple of steps and he would see the damage.
‘Nowhere special. I was with Robbie.’
‘Pussy hunting, were you?’ Smirking, Louis slid drunkenly along the side of the car. ‘Legs won’t hold me up!’
‘You need to get indoors.’ Dan placed his hands on his brother’s shoulders and tried to ease him backwards. ‘Go to bed.’
‘You nag me too— Hey! Wassup? You look like shit.’
‘So do you.’ Dan could feel a bead of sweat running down his spine. ‘Now come on, before Joan sees you in this state.’
‘Get off me! I’m not a little kid.’
‘So you keep saying. Maybe it’s time you stopped acting like one.’
‘Piss off. Always bossing me around, like you’re so bloody superior.’
‘That’s bollocks, Louis, but I’m not going to argue with you.’ Dan had him backed up to the corner of the house. ‘Got your keys?’
‘Yeah, but—’
‘Then in you go. And keep the noise down.’ He propelled his brother away with enough force to cause Louis to stumble. Dan hated laying down the law, but any amount of bad feeling was preferable to having Louis dragged into this ...
Conspiracy, said a voice inside his head.
With his brother fumbling to unlock the front door, Dan got into the car. Starting it up, he over-revved and had a vision of hurtling into the garage, slamming the Fiesta against the rear wall.
That might not be such a bad thing: writing the car off would obscure the earlier damage. But the thought shocked him.
He was thinking like Robbie.
****
Hiding the car brought only temporary respite. Dan regarded it as a breathing space, an opportunity to think through his options before making a calm, careful decision.
Tomorrow. If it was already too late to expect a decent hearing from the authorities, then sleeping on it couldn’t make the situation any worse.
He locked the garage
and remembered there was a spare key in the house. He’d have to put it somewhere Louis or Joan couldn’t find it.
The front door had been left open. There was no sign of Louis, but his aunt was descending the stairs, wrapped in a thick pink dressing gown.
‘Your brother’s in a dreadful state. Did you bring him home?’
‘Someone dropped him off. I don’t know where he’s been.’
‘He’s in the bathroom, being ill. I’m just fetching the ibuprofen.’
‘Perhaps a bad head is what he needs.’
She gave a wistful sigh. ‘He just seems so young ...’
‘He always has,’ Dan said. And he always will.
Joan kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘Did I hear you putting the car in the garage?’
‘Yeah. The engine was cutting out.’
‘Oh, goodness. It’s one thing after another, isn’t it?’
He nodded, stepping back to let her go into the kitchen. He had hung his jacket on the peg when he remembered the bloodstained tissues. He retrieved them from his pocket, revolted by the crumpled, sticky feel of them in his hand.
With the bathroom upstairs occupied – he could hear Louis retching noisily – Dan went into the downstairs toilet and dropped them into the bowl. A pink tinge began to spread through the water and it came to him, the stark knowledge: This is the blood of a dead man.
He shut his eyes, fighting back nausea of his own. Then he scrubbed his hands clean while staring at the haunted soul in the mirror above the sink. Louis was right: he did look like shit. Bags under his eyes, just like his dad’s.
Joan had gone back to bed by the time he emerged. He climbed the stairs and knocked gently on the bathroom door.
‘All right?’ he whispered.
Louis replied, in a subdued tone: ‘Yeah. Are you?’
For a second Dan was gripped by an almost delirious need to confess. Call Joan and his brother on to the landing and tell them everything.
Then the moment passed, and he said, ‘Uh-huh. Night, Louis.’
