Daddy's Girls

by Sarah Flint

  ‘It’s a brand-new development. The houses are all different, some larger, some smaller. They’ve just come on the market and will no doubt be snapped up quickly,’ Dennis was saying. He pulled away, heading out of London towards the provinces. ‘They’re not far from here.’

  The journey was short, but with the rush hour now in full flow and the light fading, it took longer than expected. Maryanne had plenty of time to read the description and her anticipation was growing. The house was a mid-terrace, set in a quiet street with plenty of off-road parking. It was within easy walking distance of the shops and had a mainline station nearby, providing trains straight into the heart of London. When she felt able to return to work, it would be perfect. In fact, everything about it sounded perfect.

  ‘Here we are.’ Dennis was slowing down now.

  Maryanne closed the file and looked up, immediately liking what she saw. The road into which they were turning was tucked away from view behind an old church. A high metal gate lay open at its entrance.

  ‘It’ll be kept closed, when more of the properties are sold. The developers are leaving it open for viewings at the moment,’ Dennis commented, as if reading her mind.

  He drove forward into the cul-de-sac, indicating points of interest, but Maryanne was hardly listening. Opening up in front of her was a small, private close with houses on either side, clean and inviting. New houses with stunning frontages and little work necessary, homes in which children could be raised and where they could ride bicycles and play safely in the street. They were the types of property in which to grow old.

  ‘They’re beautiful. Can we take a look?’

  The estate agent stopped at the end of the drive, positioned his trilby carefully on his head and pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket. ‘Of course we can,’ he said, gathering his things together.

  Maryanne jumped out of the car, choosing in her head which house would suit her best. The street lights flickered on as she stood waiting for Dennis to join her and she noticed the wind was picking up, whipping the new green leaves into a frenzy on the boughs of the old oak trees at the entrance.

  ‘Some are already occupied,’ she commented. ‘There’s someone in that one. I just saw movement. Have some of them been sold already?’

  Dennis frowned and followed her gaze, wandering over to the entrance of one displaying a light and squinting at a small legal notice taped to the front door.

  ‘Damn it, squatters have moved in,’ he mumbled half to himself. ‘I’d better take you round one of the others.’ He placed a hand on her back and guided her towards a smaller house on the opposite side, unlocking the door and ushering her inside. ‘But don’t worry,’ he smiled reassuringly as they entered, ‘it won’t take long to get them removed.’

  The house was silent but for the first time Maryanne didn’t mind, relaxing in its aura of tranquillity. Any unease from the proximity of the squatters was soon forgotten as Dennis took her on a full tour, showing her round each room, pointing out each feature. In the main bedroom, she paused, staring out at the view. Directly in front of her stood the opposite row of houses, with the old stone church to her left. The bell tower rose up in the foreground, partially obscuring her view of the London skyline, but she could still see many of the capital’s most iconic buildings. The sun was moving slowly down the sky and clouds spread out across the horizon, cloaking the tops of the skyscrapers in Canary Wharf.

  ‘I love London in the evening. It looks so majestic,’ she said simply.

  Dennis came across the room and stood behind her. ‘It certainly does,’ he agreed.

  They stood silently together looking out as the wind whistled around the window frame and guttering.

  ‘It’s beautiful, and I would love to have this one. It feels like home already and the view is stunning. I could stay like this for hours.’

  ‘I could too,’ Dennis acknowledged, checking his watch again. ‘Unfortunately, though, time is pressing on and I need to lock up and get going.’

  Maryanne looked down at her watch, shocked to see it was nearly 6.30 p.m. Danielle would have dinner ready and the kids would be waiting for their favourite auntie to read their bedtime stories. She dragged herself away from the room, reluctant to tear her eyes away from the panorama, and followed Dennis down the stairs, waiting for him in the street while he secured the house. He seemed to be having trouble, sorting out the correct keys, but she didn’t mind. She could stay there forever.

  There were voices coming from the house occupied by squatters, the sound of laughter, not intimidating, but out of place in the serenity of the empty street. She turned towards the building staring up at it, just as the window above the front door opened and a man’s face materialised. His sudden appearance made her jump.

  At the same time, she heard a noise from behind and, spinning round, saw Dennis’s trilby hat flying through the air and the estate agent clutching his head as a gust of wind flipped his hairpiece backwards, leaving it hanging at a jaunty angle on the collar of his jacket. His expression was one of horror and his cheeks flushed a brilliant crimson.

  Maybe it was the shock of seeing the man’s face at the window moments earlier that made her overreact, but Maryanne started to giggle, before throwing her head back, unable to prevent the laughter escaping from her lips at the sight of the poor estate agent. She clamped her hand over her mouth, desperate to avoid any further embarrassment being heaped on him, but whatever she tried, she couldn’t stop, as she watched him chasing the hat along the pavement, whilst trying to keep his hairpiece in place.

  After a minute or so, he returned, having retrieved his hat, and regained his composure. He unlocked the car door on her side first and held it open, steadying her with a hand on her back as she climbed in, magnanimous enough to laugh with her. Whilst he prepared to drive, Maryanne glanced up and saw the same shaven-headed, bearded man staring out from the window in their direction, his hands against the glass. The man looked familiar, but she couldn’t place from where she knew him. She thought she heard the man shout, but the wind took the sound from her and she couldn’t hear the words.

  She shrugged away a small ripple of disquiet. Nothing and nobody was going to dull her enthusiasm for the property. Anyway, the squatters would be evicted by the time any purchase was completed, just as the estate agent promised.

  As Dennis pulled away, she turned one last time to look back at the house she was already hoping to call her own. It had been a strange visit – enlightening, optimistic, embarrassing, vaguely disturbing – but one that she knew she would make again.

  *

  Thomas ran after the car as it disappeared down the driveway, but it was already round the bend in the road. It was Catherine, his Catherine; she had returned to him.

  But now she was leaving him again, driven away by a man he didn’t know. A stranger who had been close to her, touching her, making her laugh, stealing her from him.

  As he sprinted, he allowed the memory to run and rerun in slow motion, through his mind. How he’d been lying asleep in his room when he was woken by the noise of a car, the sound of male and female voices talking nearby. How his curiosity had got the better of him and he’d gone to the window to check it wasn’t police. How he’d recognised Catherine immediately. She looked smart and elegant, with her blonde hair tied up and twisted into a loose knot at the nape of her neck.

  He’d longed to run straight out, but the presence of the man had stopped him in his tracks. He was suave and well-dressed, with a trilby hat and clipboard. He had watched, frozen to the spot, as they had appeared at the bedroom window in the house opposite, the man standing directly behind her, no doubt breathing words of desire into her ear. The man made her laugh, he opened the car door for her, he placed his hand easily on the small of her back, he treated her like a lady.

  The sight and sound of Catherine was captivating. The way her slender neck was exposed and her face creased with joy as she threw her head back. He couldn’t take his eyes off her ev
ery move, watching as she laughed, with her voice, with her eyes, with every part of her body, just as she had so long ago, when they’d first fallen in love.

  For a moment, when their eyes had met through the window, he’d thought there was a connection, a union of minds, harmony, but just as quickly as the idea had come, so it dissipated into the air, snatched from him as the man whisked her away.

  The vehicle was disappearing from view now. In desperation, he called out her name, repeating it again and again as he dropped to the ground, his head in his hands, his heart racing with the exertion of the sprint.

  He sank down further onto the cold concrete, lying prone, his eyes turned upwards as the tail lights retreated into the night.

  ‘Catherine,’ he whispered out loud, the wind taking his words away in a single breath. ‘Catherine,’ he said again, this time louder. ‘Please come back.’

  *

  The air in the house was still when Thomas returned, only the sounds of muffled conversation and the blare of a TV pulsing through the thin walls from Jason’s disturbed the silence. He roamed from room to room searching for Emma, but she was not there. She must have gone next door to join the group, while he had slept.

  The lights were all on, highlighting their lack of furnishings. Apart from a mattress each and a sofa with sagging springs rescued from a skip earlier in the day, they had few items to bring comfort. Even the bin bags of clothing and boxes of assorted belongings had failed to make any impact on the empty spaces. Something had to be done.

  Slamming out from his house, he moved across the few steps to Jason’s squat and banged on his door. Ebony’s face appeared at the glass panel to its side and within moments the door was flung open and he saw Emma, leaning against a wall, chatting and laughing with Ivory.

  They beckoned him in, and he followed them through into the smoggy, airless atmosphere of Jason’s lounge. The room resembled a jumble sale, filled with a discordant collection of mismatched chairs and sofas, but at least it had furniture. They had clearly been busy.

  Silver was spread across a sofa, her long naked legs wrapped possessively round Rocky. She beckoned Thomas across, uncurling her hand slowly and gesturing with a talon-like fingernail for him to take a seat, but he ignored her request. He had to speak to Jason.

  The patio door was open and he could see his dealer, concluding a liaison with a pale-skinned man of almost skeletal appearance. Striding out to join them, he watched as the man took possession of several wraps in return for a small bundle of credit cards. Jason liked to be helpful. If his clients didn’t have cash, then a few hooky cards would do very nicely.

  He paused, waiting for the man to leave before turning towards his dealer.

  ‘Jason, I need to earn some more cash. Now!’ Thomas bit his lip, moving from one foot to the other impatiently. ‘I have to get my place ready. I need to bring my plans forward.’ He knew better than to say for whom, but his intention was clear. As were Catherine’s. Why else had she come? She clearly liked the street, but their house wasn’t a proper home. It was unfinished. Unfurnished. ‘Can you help?’ He scratched at his scalp ferociously, the thought of the stranger’s hands on Catherine driving him to distraction. ‘Please, Jason.’

  ‘Christ, Tommy, chill out. I think I can help, as it happens.’ He shouted for Rocky to join them. ‘Rocky’s just started a bit of a business, selling on motors,’ he explained while they waited. ‘I think he’s getting one in tomorrow. If you can give it the once-over and smarten it up ready to be sold, I’m sure he’ll give you a decent cut.’

  Rocky appeared through the haze.

  ‘Tommy here wants to help you out with your new business.’ They exchanged glances. ‘He needs a bit of cash in hand to do up his new gaff.’

  Rocky stretched, slapping him hard on the back. ‘Guess you’re in then, my man. I’ll call for you tomorrow.’

  Arrangements finalised, the three of them stepped back into the smoky lounge.

  Within a few minutes, Thomas’s head was buzzing with the effects of a rock of crack, taken on tick, in lieu of a few quid of tomorrow’s earnings. He sank deep into an armchair, his body twitching in anticipation of his imminent reunion with Catherine, listening to Emma laughing with Ebony and Ivory. She was a good girl. He loved the way she had taken everything in her stride in the last few days – the girls, Jason, the new house… him. Only the thought of Josef irked him, but Emma had seemingly coped with that too. Listening to her laughter, it suddenly dawned on him that she might be doing all this because she loved him. That he might actually love her too. She was fast becoming what Catherine had always claimed she should be. His girl. Daddy’s girl.

  The memory of Catherine’s wish made him feel suddenly protective. Emma was tipsy tonight, but he knew it would only be a matter of time before she succumbed to the temptation of drugs – and he couldn’t let that happen.

  Looking around the room, he noticed most of the cans of booze appeared scrunched up and empty on to the floor. If the lure of drugs was to be averted, he would need to keep plenty of beer on tap.

  ‘I’m going for some more beers at the offie. Anyone want to come with me?’

  Ivory stood up shakily, lurching towards him and taking him by the arm. Together they shambled out into the freshness of the night, each holding the other steady as the wind buffeted them about. It was dark, and the houses opposite looked gloomy and solemn, all except the one that Catherine had graced. That seemed brighter, a warmer blend of grey, the glass in the windows reflecting the light from the nearby street lamp more readily than the others in the row. Or was it his imagination?

  As they rounded the bend in the road, he was almost blinded by the headlights of an oncoming vehicle. A police car stopped next to them and they were joined on the pavement by two uniformed police officers, one male and one female. The two officers were young, inexperienced, by the looks of them, the female only a few years older than Ivory. The policewoman started the conversation, the male standing back and letting her do all the talking, but Ivory was having none of it. These two coppers needed to be sent packing, and she, for one, wasn’t going to play their games. She was on a roll. Yes, they were living in one of the houses, but they had squatters’ rights and there was not a fucking thing the cops could do.

  He listened as Ivory started quoting the law, his mind clearing with her every squeal, instinctively knowing they shouldn’t antagonise the cops. They had to keep them sweet. He concentrated hard.

  The policewoman was giving as good as she got, explaining that they would be searched, giving made-up reasons, however facile and uneconomical with the truth that they were.

  She went through Ivory’s bag and clothing, delving deep into each pocket, looking for anything to give them the upper hand.

  ‘Name,’ she said, obviously disappointed at finding nothing.

  ‘Tara Fielding, 27th July 1998, female, white, known, not wanted,’ Ivory said, patting her hand over her mouth and feigning boredom. ‘Got previous for a bit of loitering, a bit of shoplifting and some credit card stuff. That’s all.’

  Thomas wanted to laugh. He’d never heard her called that before. Tara? The name sounded posh – and so strange coming from her lips. The female cop was checking her details now, confirming Ivory’s assertions.

  ‘And what’s your name?’ she turned to him abruptly.

  He raised his eyebrows, caught out by her sudden change of tack, concentrating on his new details. ‘Tommy Warrington. I’ve got my passport with me, if you want to see it.’ He indicated his jacket pocket.

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Have you now? Going on holiday, are we? I’d better have a look then.’ She reached in, pulling the shiny new passport out and pointing her torch at it, checking his photo against the printed image.

  ‘Date of birth?’ she demanded, barely looking towards him.

  He reeled out his new date of birth and she repeated it into her radio, waiting for the result of her enquiry.

  ‘Have you ever bee
n in trouble with the police?’ she asked, pre-empting the result.

  ‘No, never,’ he lied. ‘Unless you count a couple of speeding tickets?’ He grinned towards her, trying to lighten the mood.

  ‘No trace,’ came the voice over the radio.

  She frowned. ‘Are you sure?’ She spoke back into the radio, repeating his details, her eyes trained on his face, not letting him out of her sight.

  ‘I’m sure,’ he butted in, his hands beginning to shake. Perspiration was prickling on his forehead and the small of his back.

  ‘Still, no trace,’ the voice of the woman at control came again.

  ‘All received.’

  The policewoman pursed her lips and looked across at her colleague, as if waiting for him to decide whether anything further needed to be done – or if indeed there was anything more they could do. He was clearly the more senior of the two.

  Thomas waited, rooted to the spot, as the pause lengthened uncomfortably, then the policeman turned away, motioning her to follow.

  ‘Thanks for your time,’ she said, her expression giving away the fact that she was not in the least grateful.

  He watched as they climbed into the police car, turned it round and moved away towards the main road, before letting out a whoop of relief.

  His new persona had worked. The cops had no idea of his true identity. There was no stopping him now.

  *

  PC Lisa Goddard turned towards her colleague as they drove away from Mitcham town centre.

  ‘That was never his real name,’ she said. ‘There’s no way he didn’t have a criminal record. Did you see his eyes? He was high as a kite. He couldn’t even look me in the face. There isn’t a crackhead out there who hasn’t come to notice with us at some time in their life.’

  Her colleague nodded in agreement.

  ‘And did you see the way he was so quick to tell us about his passport,’ she continued. ‘Who carries a passport round with them all the time anyway?’

  ‘Someone who doesn’t want us to do too much digging.’ Her colleague was pulling into the yard at Mitcham police station. Their shift would soon be over, but they’d be back for late turn the following afternoon.