by Ashe Barker
One of the park staff comes in with a bucket full of assorted fruits—apples, bananas, melon. She scatters these around the enclosure, and the visitors coo and gush over the cute antics of a lemur dinnertime. I watch for a while longer, wondering whether Dan intends to spend the entire day in here. We could do worse.
The mobile phone attached to his belt trills, and Dan reaches for the handset. A few curt syllables, then he turns to me. “There’s been a fight in the hyena enclosure. Two young males. I expect there’ll be some stitching up to be done. Do you want to wait here?”
He’s already starting to walk away from me, clearly in a hurry. I seize my opportunity. “No. If it’s okay with you, I’ll nip round to my mother’s while you do what has to be done.” I stand up, reaching for my bag and car keys. We drove down here in my Discovery. Well…Nathans, strictly speaking.
Dan is already unfastening the gate to exit the lemur section. “No problem. I’ll leave word at the main entrance so you can get back in again. Get me on my mobile when you’re back and I’ll tell you where to find me.” He waves and is already striding across the tarmac.
“Fine. I hope the hyena’s okay,” I call after him.
He waves again, but doesn’t turn back.
* * * *
Less than thirty minutes later I’m pulling up in front of the tiny little terrace house in Barrow, scene of so much as I was growing up. I shudder, reluctant to even get out of the Land Rover, let alone go into the house. I sit, watching the windows for several minutes. There’s no movement inside, but that means nothing. They could be watching television, eating, sleeping. It’s early afternoon, but my mother doesn’t keep regular hours exactly.
Eventually, I know I can put this off no longer. The sooner I get this meeting over with, the sooner I’ll have an idea what I’m up against. And the sooner I can get back to Dan. I’m not expecting my mother to just agree to let Lucy and Maisie come and live with me. Not that she takes her maternal role especially seriously, but there’s the Child Benefit to think of. And knowing her, she’ll want to bargain with me over it, make me pay her off in some way.
I’ll have what I want eventually, I’m certain of that. There’s no alternative, in fact. It just has to be. But how difficult will she make it for me? And can I prise her and my sisters apart without Dan and my new employers being any the wiser about my chequered background?
I hop out of the Discovery and march down the short front path. I knock on the door before I have chance to chicken out, and wait a moment for some rustle of movement from inside.
Nothing. I knock again. Still nothing, so I try the door. It’s locked.
Now this I didn’t expect. Even if my mother’s out, or in bed, whether working or otherwise, surely Lucy or Maisie would be about? It’s not as though my mother’s likely to take them out for the day. I stand back, stare up at the window, thinking. They could have gone shopping, I suppose. People do, on a Saturday afternoon.
I knock again, hard this time, and start to wonder if I should leave a note. I’m rummaging around in the bottom of my bag for any slip of paper I might use, when I remember the back door. My mother lives in the middle of the terrace so it’s a bit of a detour to get round to the back, but worth a try, surely. I check that the Land Rover is securely locked, then set off along the street.
My pace is brisk. I never much liked the back yards here when I was in residence. I definitely don’t trust them now. The back walls are high, over head height. There’s no telling who’s lurking or what they’re up to. Talk about designing in crime—whoever came up with the plans for these close-packed streets should be drummed out of the architects union or whatever they have. Or maybe it’s just me. I’m used to something better now, more spacious certainly—first with Freya at her fancy apartment, and now at Black Combe where the wide open spaces spread in every direction. This closed in, trapped feeling is alien to me these days, and I intend for it to stay that way.
I arrive at the back gate and try the latch. It opens, and I peer through into the tiny rear yard. There’s a large wheelie bin on its side. It should be tucked away nice and neat inside the outhouse, which used to be the outdoor toilet. The plumbing was long since removed by the landlord when internal facilities were installed, but the sturdy little stone built cubicle remains in place, testimony to an earlier age when sanitation was more basic.
Not that much more basic, though. My mother’s house is not exactly overflowing with mod cons. I pick my way around the up-turned bin to the back door. I don’t knock, just try the handle. This is locked too. I peer through the window into the tiny kitchen, but detect no sign of life. Or of recent occupation. No pots draining beside the sink, no half-drunk cup of coffee, no tea towel draped over the worktop.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think no one lived here. But I do know better. They must be around somewhere.
I make my way back round to the front, feeling more than a little relieved to see the Discovery still where I left it and not devoid of any important bits. Like wheels. My resolve to remove my younger sisters from this environment hardens. I’d begun to let myself forget how awful it is here.
I march back up the path and step across to look through the front room window. The net curtains are grimy, but I press my face close up against the glass to peer inside, my hand shielding my eyes from lateral light. The usual, familiar messy jumble meets my eyes—cushions askew, a newspaper tossed carelessly on the carpet. No evidence of a vacuum cleaner in a while. Maybe it’s broken. Again. This house is every bit as depressing as it ever was, and the memories no less vivid. The old churning starts in my gut again, that sense of everything being out of control, ungovernable. It’s a sense I’ve not experienced in a while, at least not so forcefully.
I’m so intent on pressing my nose up to the window I don’t hear the light tread behind me.
“Thought it was you. Hello, Summer.”
I whirl, to see my mother’s next-door neighbor leaning on the remnants of the gate post. The gate itself was nicked years ago, just before bonfire night one year. My mother never replaced it and never saw fit to keep the rest of her perimeter in decent order either. And the landlord couldn’t care less, as long as the rent came with reasonable regularity.
“Not seen you in a long time. Are you moving back in here then?”
Back?
“Mrs Kirk. Hello. No, I just called to see—everyone. But they seem to be out. Do you know when they’ll be home?”
“You tell me, love. Your mum won’t be back for a good while, from all accounts. Don’t know about the two little ’uns, though.”
I stare at her, uncomprehending. “What are you talking about? Do you know where they are?”
“Your mum’s locked up. About time too, if you ask me. Still, it was hard on those girls. They was took away by them social workers. Don’t know where they are. Oh, must be nearly six weeks ago now.” She makes no attempt to conceal the smug, gloating expression as she imparts her news. Why is it that some people seem to get such pleasure out of being the bearer of bad tidings?
What? I stagger backwards, lurching against the rough stones of the house wall. I’m staring at Mrs Kirk, shaking my head in disbelief. Six weeks. My family has been gone for six weeks and I never knew. Carted away by the police, by social workers. And I never had an inkling.
“Why? What did she do?”
“Your mum? Drugs, illegal immigrants. And the usual, I expect.”
The usual. That’d be soliciting then. Prostitution. Living off immoral earnings. Whatever permutation, it amounts to much the same thing. But what’s all this other stuff?
“Mrs Kirk, please tell me what you know. I’ve been working away. I haven’t been in touch with my family for a while.” Tears are pricking my eyes, my mouth is already quivering. Any second now I’m going to sink onto my mother’s doorstep and weep.
The neighbor’s ruddy face softens. As far as I recall, I never had any run-ins with her. Well, nothing serious anyway.
She has no reason to be hostile to me. This thought seems to penetrate her brain too, perhaps a little belatedly.
“Come inside then, pet. I’ll tell you what I know, what I saw. Would you like some tea?”
Half an hour later I climb back into the Discovery, my brain reeling. Mrs Kirk’s account is by no means complete, but she’s able to provide a decent framework. It seems my mother was arrested about six weeks ago, caught by the police driving a van with seven Eastern European refugees huddled in the back—all females, aged between fifteen and thirty-two, Mrs Kirk is convinced they were headed for the sex trade. I fear she may be right about that.
Christ, what has she sunk to, that amoral mother of mine?
The police searched the house and discovered several kilos of cocaine too, with a street value of over a hundred thousand pounds. I’m stunned. I never imagined any of this. I thought things were quite bad enough as they were, I should have known there was always some way it could be worse. My mother certainly found that way.
I’m reasonably certain drugs were never part of the set-up while I lived here or if they were, I had no clue at all. And I would have, surely. She made no serious attempt to shield me from her other activities. Why would she have hidden that? No, this, and the imported sex workers have to be a new development, a recent expansion of her business portfolio. Whatever, it sounds to have gone horribly wrong for her. According to Mrs Kirk, the police and social services arrived early one morning. Lucy and Maisie were still in bed, but the police pounded on the door until the whole street was awake. The two girls were taken away in the back of a social worker’s car, Mrs Kirk has no idea where they were placed.
I’m shocked, mortified even, that all this has happened I hadn’t a clue. But at least it sounds as though my sisters are safe. Somewhere. And first thing Monday morning, as soon as the County Council offices in Carlisle open, I’ll be on their doorstep wanting to know where.
The drive back to the animal park passes in a blur. I pull up in a far corner of the car park and turn off the engine. I sit for maybe twenty minutes, trying to process all that I’ve learned, turning over the ramifications of this in my head. It’s no good. I’m getting nowhere. And by now Dan will be wondering where I’ve got to. If there’s one thing I’m glad of in all this sorry mess, it’s that I went to Barrow alone today. There’s no need for Dan to ever know about what’s happened, the depths my mother has sunk to. I was always embarrassed by her, for as far back as I can remember.
Then came shame. I was ashamed of her and of myself for ever being drawn into her sordid way of life. I hated it, and for a while I hated her. I got past that—or I tried to. She’s my mother, and somewhere, somehow, I do love her. But I loathe what she is, what she does. And I loathe what I did ever so briefly. I’m determined to keep it buried—it was then, it was yesterday, in the past. It has no place in my shiny new life—it’s not part of my today.
I’ll have to come up with a cover story to explain my mother’s sudden absence, and the now immediate need for me to take my sisters into my home. This is not a risk-free strategy. I’ll need to coach Lucy and Maisie to maintain the façade too. Maisie will have no trouble with that. She’s good at secrets. Like me. Lucy’s the problem. She’s too open and honest for me to make a decent liar of her. Still, that’s not today’s challenge. Today’s pressing business is for me to get my head together enough to pass for normal as far as Dan’s concerned. I just have to get through Sunday, and head for Carlisle first thing Monday morning.
I sigh, lean my head back against the headrest and stare at the roof of the Discovery. Someone, I think it may have been Margaret, once said to be careful what you wish for. I wished for some way to remove my sisters from my mother’s care and influence. It seems I have it. But at what a price.
Mrs Kirk may not be the most reliable source of information. I only have her word for it that my mother has been charged with offenses connected with people trafficking or drugs. Still, it seems to be a fact that she’s been remanded in custody and my sisters have spent weeks in care, so we’re not talking speeding tickets here. Maybe the social worker dealing with my sisters can fill me in of the official version of all that, or at least point me in the direction of someone who can. It will all have to wait, though. There’s no point trying to contact anyone until Monday. My sisters are in safe hands as far as I know, no reason to suppose otherwise. Things are under control. It’s just me who isn’t, and it’s vital that I calm down before I face Dan.
I draw in several more long, deep breaths before I consider myself fit to run that particular gauntlet. I clamber from the Land Rover, lock it carefully, then make my way to the entrance turnstiles. There’s no queue, most visitors probably arrive during the morning to get their money’s worth, so I go straight to the little kiosk.
“I’m here to see Dan. Dan Riche, the vet?”
“Oh right. I saw that, there was a message…” The teenage girl behind the tiny little desk peers at me through glasses that could definitely benefit from a good clean, then leans down to rummage behind her somewhere. A few seconds later she comes up with a scrap of paper. She squints at me curiously. “Are you Summer Jones?”
I nod, not really listening, just keen for her to push the pedal or whatever and release the turnstile gate so I can get in. My brain’s still working furiously to process the whirling tangle of information, thoughts, impressions and emotions the last hour has unleashed, the last thing I need is a to make small talk with some bored adolescent.
I quash that uncharitable thought. She’s only doing her job, I suppose. She glances at me, then back at her scrap of paper. “Right, it says here you’re a friend of Dan’s. I’m to issue you with a permanent guest pass. Can I just take your details please?”
“Details?” This sounds difficult. What details?
“Name, contact details, date of birth.”
Right. Those details. Even in my present state, I can manage that. I reel off the required information and Miss Smudgy-Specs writes it down on a little card, which she shoves into a mini-laminator on a shelf behind her. Moments later she pushes my shiny guest pass across the counter. I’m reminded powerfully of the second time I met Dan. He engineered a guest pass for me that night too, to prevent the over-zealous security staff at the BDSM club from ejecting me from the premises. It seems he makes a habit of dealing with officialdom for me. Pity he can’t help with my more pressing issue.
“Enjoy your visit, Miss Jones.” The kiosk attendant is smiling brightly, and she gestures to me to push the gate. It opens under my touch, and I nod my thanks as I scurry through. Once on the other side I drag out my phone to text Dan.
I’m back. Just near front gate. Where are you?
I stroll down the main drive leading to the first enclosure. There are giraffes in there, tall and graceful, sharing their huge space with four solid-looking rhinos. The species’ seem to co-exist quite peacefully—a lesson to us all.
My phone pings and I glance at the screen.
Main building. Have you eaten?
No.
It’s getting on for mid-afternoon. I’ve not eaten since Dan shoved a bowl of Corn Flakes at me this morning. I realize I’m ravenous.
Meet me at the restaurant. Follow drive down to middle of park. Next to gift shop.
See you in a few mins.
I shove my phone in my bag and pick up the pace.
Dan’s waiting at the entrance to the restaurant. It’s an attractive place, a mix of decking with views over the giraffe and rhino enclosure and indoor seating. It’s chilly, so we opt for indoors. Dan leads the way to a corner table close to the large picture windows. We’re overlooking a field which is home to a troop of baboons. There are maybe twenty of them, assorted sizes, all piled on a huge rock and watching us through the glass. I’m not entirely sure who is the exhibit here.
“How’s the jackal?”
“Hyena. And he’s okay. He’ll need to be kept apart from the others until his stitches are out, bu
t he’ll be fine.”
“Does that happen a lot? Fights, I mean.”
He shakes his head. “No, not really. Bitches on heat cause most tension.” He grins. “Like with humans.”
I bristle. “I admit I’m easily aroused. But that doesn’t make me a bitch on heat.”
“Sorry, love. A vet joke. In poor taste. Forgive me.”
Now he has me. I expected some sort of mockery, maybe to be the butt of more teasing. His genuinely repentant expression was the last thing I thought I’d have to contend with. Did I overreact? My nerves are so frayed, I really wouldn’t know.
“Of course I forgive you. I love you. I’m just a bit touchy.”
“Okay. Is something wrong, Summer?”
“Why would you say that?” I pick up the menu and make heavy work of studying the choices, using the menu to shield my face from his gaze. So much for Lucy being a poor liar—I’m pretty crap myself. Dan is silent for several moments, but I can feel his eyes, watching the top of my head, the only part of me visible.
“The beef stew is good. Shall I order that for both of us?”
“I fancy a sandwich.” I continue to stare at the menu, seeing nothing.
“Since when, Summer? Put that down and look at me.”
“I’m just…”
“Now.” He has no need to raise his voice. It’s enough that he can just switch on that uncompromising Dom timbre that will have me melting into a puddle at his feet.
