Me and Mr Jones

by Lucy Diamond

  ‘Police, please,’ she said, and gave her details. ‘My ex is trying to break into my flat and I’ve got two young children here.’

  ‘We’ve already had reports of a problem at that address, Miss – a car should be with you in less than a minute,’ the operator assured her.

  ‘Thank you,’ Izzy gulped. She held the girls close. They were both trembling. ‘I’ve got you,’ she whispered. ‘Everything’s going to be all right.’

  With one last deafening kick at the door, Gary suddenly stopped. A siren was wailing outside; he had heard the arrival of the police too. His footsteps clattered down the communal stairs and the front door slammed behind him. He was gone.

  Hazel and Willow sagged in Izzy’s arms and all three of them wept. ‘It’s all right, it’s all right, I’m sorry he scared you,’ Izzy soothed, choking on her own words. Then the smoke alarm began to screech. The cookies were burning.

  She barely slept that night, braced for Gary to come back and smash his way in. The police hadn’t been much help; just listened to the story and told her to phone again if he came back. It didn’t reassure her for a minute.

  The next day she was in two minds about them going out to school and work, but couldn’t bear the alternative of cowering in the flat all day. When they finally ventured out of the building, looking nervously in every direction, she noticed that the pots of daffodils and tulips outside the main door – the ones Mrs Murray had taken great pride in planting – had been kicked over and broken. Someone had trampled all over the bright new flowers, completely destroying them.

  Izzy gazed miserably up at Mrs Murray’s window. She wanted to run back upstairs and warn the old lady, apologize and promise to buy replacements, but there just wasn’t time before the school run, and then she would have to go straight on to work. The thought of her neighbour’s face when she saw the damage made her feel absolutely terrible. Gary wouldn’t be happy until he’d trashed everything for her here in Lyme, that was obvious.

  Thankfully there were no incidents on the way to school, despite Izzy’s fears, and she felt her heart slow a fraction once she’d seen the girls into the building. There at least they would be protected. She went to the reception desk just to be on the safe side, and waited until the knot of mums handing in late dinner-money payments and returning slips about next term’s cycling proficiency course had melted away.

  ‘Can I help you?’ asked Mrs Hastings, the terrifying, gimlet-eyed woman who ran the school’s administration like a colonel on a battlefield.

  ‘Yes, it’s um …’ Izzy glanced around warily. ‘I just want to let the school know that my daughters, Willow and Hazel Allerton, are only to be picked up by me, and me alone. Their father may try to …’ She felt sick; she couldn’t even say the words. ‘He might turn up,’ she managed eventually. She swallowed hard. ‘He’s not … very nice.’

  ‘I see,’ Mrs Hastings replied, jotting down the girls’ names. ‘Thank you for making me aware of this.’

  ‘Hopefully he won’t come to the school,’ Izzy went on. ‘But just to warn you: he might take a punt and try it on. And if he does …’ She swallowed again, remembering the ruined tulips wrenched from the earth, boot-marks branding their colourful petals. ‘If he does, I’m sorry for whatever happens.’ She clutched her hands together miserably, hating that she’d been forced into this conversation. It would be all round the staffroom, no doubt, that the Allerton girls had a violent thug of a father. Soon everyone would know the shame she felt.

  Mrs Hastings nodded. ‘It’s happened before, it’ll happen again,’ she said. ‘But while they’re in our care, they’ll be safe. You have my word on it.’

  Tired and vulnerable after her long sleepless night, Izzy had to turn abruptly before she did anything awful like cry. ‘Thanks,’ she said on her way out.

  No more tears, she vowed. She had the law on her side, she had Mrs Hastings on her side. She hoped it would be enough.

  At eleven o’clock that morning the call came. Mrs Hastings. ‘I’m sorry to ring you at work, Mrs Allerton, but I wanted to let you know that the person we were talking about earlier has just left the premises,’ she said crisply.

  Izzy felt her legs buckle. She wasn’t supposed to take calls during work time, but with her mobile now broken, she had given the school the tea shop’s number, just in case.

  ‘Excuse me,’ snapped Margaret, her boss, coming through with a tray of cream cakes.

  Izzy barely heard the reproach. ‘What happened?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, it was as you anticipated, to be honest,’ Mrs Hastings said. ‘He was aggressive, wanted to take the girls out of school, became very abusive … I threatened to telephone the police, but that didn’t make any difference. In the end, Mr Collingwood and Mr Liddell had to escort him from the building.’

  Oh God. The head teacher and the elderly caretaker, no less. Izzy’s face flamed. Why was Gary so hell-bent on wrecking everything?

  ‘I’m so s—’ she began shakily, but then, slamming through her consciousness, came a shout from the café. ‘Where is she? I know she works here. Where’s Izzy?’

  ‘Oh God,’ she whispered into the phone. ‘He’s here. I’ve got to go.’

  Blindly she stumbled into the seating area. The floor seemed to pitch dizzily before her. There was Gary, towering above a table of scared-looking old ladies, virtually spitting with rage. It was happening.

  ‘Do you mind, sir, you’re upsetting our customers,’ fumed Margaret, holding an empty tray in front of her like a shield. ‘Kindly lower your voice at once.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Margaret,’ Izzy said, stricken. It was like being in the most terrible dream; everything had an unreal, filmic quality to it. ‘I’m sorry, everyone,’ she heard herself say, high-pitched and frightened. ‘We’ll go outside and leave you in peace.’

  Margaret was muttering indignantly and there was a stream of hushed, nervy voices in her wake, but Izzy couldn’t register the content. All she could see was Gary in front of her, a raging force of nature. The rest of the café seemed to fall away as she walked mechanically towards him and they went outside.

  Her throat felt as if it was constricting as they stood there face-to-face at last. ‘Look,’ she said bravely. For some reason the old wisdom about not showing a wild dog that you were afraid came into her head, and she pulled her shoulders higher. ‘This is out of order. You can’t just turn up here and start creating – this is where I work, Gary. You’ve made a show of me in front of everyone now. What do you think my boss is going to say?’

  His eyes were deranged, and he didn’t seem able to hear her. ‘You’re coming with me,’ he said. ‘Get in the car, now.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m on a shift until two – I can’t just walk out and—’

  He grabbed her wrist so tightly she thought he was going to shatter her bones. ‘I said you’re coming with me,’ he repeated as she let out a cry of pain. ‘Now get in the car, before you make me angry.’

  People were staring at him – red-faced and shouting, pulling on Izzy’s arm. He glared back belligerently and not a single person held his gaze.

  Izzy was overwhelmed by panic. What should she do? Gary had never been so publicly aggressive to her before; in the past it had always happened behind closed doors. But now he didn’t seem to care who saw them. His possessive rage seemed to have smashed down all social boundaries; there was a madness about him. And now he’d caught up with her, he’d hunted her down. Help me, she thought, gazing around desperately for a potential rescuer. Somebody help me.

  ‘Now,’ he repeated, with devastating softness, pulling her towards his car and opening the passenger door. She could see it all unfolding like a horror film, flashing before her eyes – Gary forcing her to get the girls from the school, the long drive back up north like captured prisoners, all manner of violent punishments that might ensue …

  ‘No,’ she replied, struggling to free herself. She couldn’t bear that terrible future, which lay ahe
ad like a threat. She didn’t want to go back. ‘No, Gary. This is not how—’

  He wrenched her arm behind her and she screamed as pain roared along it. ‘Get in that car now,’ he hissed, shoving her inside. ‘We’re going home.’

  ‘Margaret, call the police!’ she shouted, seeing her boss hovering uncertainly outside the café, the empty tray still in her hands. ‘Please! Help me!’

  She fought him as hard as she could, but he was too strong, too determined. Before she knew what was happening, he had bundled her into the passenger seat and slammed the door. She fumbled to let herself out, hands shaking on the lock, her heart almost pounding through her ribcage, but Gary was already in the driver’s seat, revving the engine so hard it shrieked and speeding up the road.

  ‘Gary, please,’ she sobbed.

  ‘Shut up!’ he yelled, swinging his left arm out to hit her. He caught her full on the nose with a horrible crunching sound of cartilage, and she cried out with pain and the shock of blood on her face, warm and wet.

  The road swam in front of her eyes; she hardly dared watch. His driving had always been macho and selfish, never letting anyone pull out in front of him, but today he seemed more reckless than ever. He rammed his foot on the accelerator, and Izzy bounced against the door as they swerved around corners at top speed.

  They were heading for the school, she realized within moments, and she shut her eyes, summoning every bit of courage that she could find inside her. Please let me wake up now. Please let this be over.

  Then, as he screeched maniacally into a dangerous right turn, she screamed and shielded her head. A police car was coming towards them; the road was too narrow. ‘Gary, STOP!’

  Gary didn’t hesitate for a second. He drove straight into the other car, ramming the bonnet. There was the most deafening thud, a terrible metallic grinding and then everything went black.

  It’s over, was Izzy’s last bewildered thought. It’s over.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Alicia was surely in a dream. A wonderful, exciting dream where she had actually packed a bag in order to head off to Paris that very evening, all on her own, with a whole weekend of indulgence ahead. There was no way she was going to pinch herself; this was one dream she was in absolutely no hurry to wake up from. All week she’d felt fizzy and fluttery, and now it was Friday lunchtime and there were only two classes left before an amazing freedom opened up before her. Hooray!

  Every time she thought of her smart weekend bag (new!), filled with a carefully planned collection of outfits covering all eventualities and weather situations (a rather daring scarlet evening dress, for example, nestled alongside her pac-a-mac), a frisson – an actual frisson – of excitement shot through her. Now this was living!

  She was due to arrive in Paris that night at nine o’clock. Less than ten hours and she’d be there – she’d really be there, on French soil, in true life, as the children said. Her plan was to grab a taxi from the Gare du Nord to the hotel, change for dinner and then waft out in a cloud of perfume to see where she fancied eating. Perhaps somewhere serving good old-fashioned steak frites for the first night, the steak thick and bloody, the food washed down with a large glass of red wine. And then … well, who knew?

  She might venture to a bar and watch the world go by, sipping champagne and inventing stories about the passers-by to amuse herself. Perhaps she’d fall into conversation with some Parisians, who’d been wondering just who was that mysterious woman in the scarlet dress with the big smile? Come with us, she imagined the Parisians saying in beautifully accented English. We will show you Paris by night. Allons-y!

  Dreamily, she pictured herself whizzing around the darkened city on the back of a moped, like something from a film. Somehow she was much younger and more carefree in this fantasy, was laughing gaily and wasn’t wearing a safety helmet – none of which was likely to happen, but never mind. Daydreams were private.

  Of course, there was also the possibility that she’d decide to return to the hotel after dinner and run herself a bubble bath instead, but even that would be a treat. Lying back in the fluffy white bubbles, sipping wine, with all of Paris on the doorstep outside … bliss. It would certainly be a humongous step up from trying to bath at home, when she was always accompanied by the nagging guilt that she should be marking or ironing, and constantly being interrupted by one or more children banging on the door saying they needed her for something or other.

  The point was, when in Paris, it was up to her to call the shots – her weekend, to spend however she chose. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt that way.

  ‘Alicia?’ Beth Middleton, the school secretary, popped her head around the staffroom door, jerking her out of her reverie. ‘There’s a call for you. She said it was urgent.’

  Alicia blinked her daydreams away and followed Beth to the small crowded office space, where a receiver lay on the desk, amidst a kitten mug, fluffy framed photos of various pop stars and a bag of Haribo Tangfastics. ‘Hello?’ she said into the phone. ‘Alicia Jones here.’

  She heard a sob. ‘Oh, thank God. It’s me, I’m in hospital, one of the nurses helped me track you down.’

  One of the nurses? Hospital? Alicia lowered herself into Beth’s chair, feeling confused. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘It’s me, it’s Izzy.’ Another sob, and then the sound of a nose being blown. ‘Oh, Alicia, I’ve been in an accident and I really need a favour. Can you – would you—’

  ‘Goodness, Izzy, whatever’s happened?’ Alicia asked, shocked and alarmed as her friend broke down in a storm of weeping.

  ‘It was a car crash. Gary came back. He—’ Again the words were engulfed in a sob. ‘Listen, I need someone to pick up the girls for me. I’ve got no one else. Please can they stay at yours tonight?’

  Alicia was trying to take all of this in, her head reeling. An accident … hospital … little girls with nowhere else to go … Could they stay with her tonight?

  She hesitated, dismay sweeping through her. But tonight was supposed to be Paris: red wine and a scarlet dress, a moped, good wine, the city in all its night-time beauty.

  Her lip quivered as the dream slipped past like a train that wouldn’t stop, a mirage that was never actually real. ‘Of course,’ she said at last, stumbling over the words. ‘Of course I’ll pick up the girls, and it’s fine for them to stay, for as long as you need, we’ve got plenty of room.’ She swallowed, the enormity of what she’d just said sinking in by degrees. Goodbye, Paris. Au revoir. ‘But what happened to you?’ she managed to say, dragging herself back to Beth’s office. ‘Are you badly hurt? Should I bring them to visit you later on?’

  Goodbye, Paris, she thought again dully, as Izzy began pouring out the whole dreadful story, still racked with sobs. You would have been wonderful, I know. But it looks like I won’t be seeing you tonight now after all.

  The girls were quiet and wary when she collected them, Willow in particular. She looked sidelong at Alicia, sizing her up with serious grey eyes, and barely spoke the whole way home. ‘Mummy’s not very well,’ Alicia prattled cheerily, strapping them into the car. ‘So you’re having a sleepover with Matilda tonight – won’t that be fun?’

  ‘Where is Mummy?’ Hazel wanted to know.

  Alicia hesitated. ‘She’s … having a rest,’ she said carefully. ‘She said she’d phone you a bit later for a chat, okay?’

  ‘What about Daddy?’ Hazel asked. ‘He came to see us yesterday. He said we could have pizza.’

  Alicia saw in the rear-view mirror that Willow had elbowed her sharply. ‘Shut up,’ she hissed.

  ‘I … don’t know where Daddy is,’ Alicia said, trying her best to concentrate on the traffic. She shuddered, remembering the scant details Izzy had given her. The fear, the crash … the aftermath. Because Daddy, the bad penny, was dead, killed on impact apparently. Not that she was going to say as much to the girls on the Axminster Road.

  Back at the house, she busied herself getting out camp beds and spare pillows
. She decided to splash out on a takeaway for dinner, because she simply could not face cooking after everything else. Kiss goodbye to that steak frites, she thought ruefully, hunting through the menus. Matilda and the boys had been brought home by a neighbour, and she relaxed her usual rules about them watching the television and let them have brownies and squash in the living room, trying not to think about how many chocolatey crumbs would end up embedded in the sofa. Never mind. Such things didn’t seem so important now.

  Hugh came home early, looking alarmed to find the house full of children. In all the chaos she’d completely forgotten to tell him she wasn’t even going away any more.

  ‘What time are you off then?’ he asked, striding into the kitchen and loosening his tie.

  She didn’t reply immediately, feeling small and stupid and sad. ‘I’m not,’ she said. ‘I’ve had to cancel.’

  If there was one thing worse than the crushing disappointment she felt at not going to Paris, it was the expression on Hugh’s face as she said those words. He actually dared to smirk. Just a tiny smirk, only the very corners of his mouth, but she knew it was there. She could tell what he was thinking: that she’d bottled out at the last minute, that she couldn’t do it alone.

  ‘Izzy – my friend – has been injured in a car crash,’ she said, coldly furious. ‘Those are her girls playing on the Wii with Matilda. I said I’d look after them. Their father just died, not that they know any of this yet.’

  That wiped the smirk off his face. ‘God,’ he said, stricken. ‘Bloody hell.’ There was silence for a moment, then he cleared his throat. ‘Well, I’m sorry that you didn’t get to go,’ he added more apologetically.

  ‘Yeah,’ she muttered. There didn’t seem much else left to say. She waited for him to tell her: No, she should still go, he could cope perfectly well with two extra children in the house, she mustn’t miss her trip.