Strangers (ARC)
Page 9
doesn’t acknowledge the gesture. He’s too busy scanning the
shop for any sign of his dad. Maybe he’s popped into one of
the other shops on the first floor? He turns sharply then grunts as a shoulder connects with his chest. It’s the red-haired shop manager from yesterday, the one who was running hell for
leather across the ground floor.
‘Sorry,’ he says automatically, looking down at her. Her cheeks are flushed and there’s a light sheen of sweat on her forehead and above her top lip. ‘I wasn’t looking where I was going.’
‘No, I’m sorry.’ She flashes him a smile. ‘I think I barged into you. I’m late back from lunch!’
There’s a brief moment of awkwardness as they both step in
the same direction to allow the other to pass, then Gareth holds out an arm. ‘After you.’
The woman gives him a quick nod and steps into the store.
Gareth glances at his watch. He’s been away from the control
desk for six minutes. His radio, attached to his belt, hasn’t
crackled once but that’s doesn’t mean there haven’t been any
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issues. He hasn’t got time to search the other shops for his dad.
He needs to get back to the CCTV room before anyone realises
he’s been away.
He takes off again, his heart pounding in his chest and his
lungs aching as he runs across the walkway and up the stairs
to his office. He walks the last couple of steps, dragging himself up with the handrail with one hand and swiping the sweat from
his brow with the other. He pauses at the top step and sighs.
Standing with his back to the locked CCTV room door with
his arms crossed over his chest and a smug look on his face is another security guard. Liam Dunford, Gareth’s subordinate and a little sneak of a man.
‘Been for a run?’ Liam asks, struggling to hide his delight;
Gareth Filer, head honcho and chief bollocker has abandoned
his desk and broken a fundamental rule of security.
‘Don’t even go there,’ Gareth says. ‘There was an emergency.’
Liam cocks his head. ‘Oh yeah? I didn’t hear anything on the
radio.’
‘That’s because it was nothing to do with you.’
‘I thought emergencies went out to all staff.’
‘Well this one didn’t.’
‘What was it? This emergency that required you to break
protocol and leave the CCTV gallery?’ Liam unfolds his arms
and rests a palm on the wall. Everything about his body language says: I am a sneaky little shit.
‘Like I told you.’ Irritation burns like indigestion in Gareth’s chest, but he tries to ignore it. If he bites, Liam has won and Liam is not going to win. ‘It’s none of your business.’
‘Fine.’ He shrugs. ‘I’ll ask Mark Whiting then. I’ve been
meaning to chat to him for a while.’
Mark Whiting is the Meads’ general manager, and Gareth’s
boss. He’s only been in post for a year and Gareth can’t stand the bloke. He’s been cost-cutting left, right and centre and doesn’t 78
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give a shit if that means they’re understaffed or risking potential health and safety nightmares. In the last year alone he’s sacked three cleaners, two security guards and a caretaker. He’s made it very clear that he thinks his predecessor made a mistake by promoting Gareth and that his salary isn’t justified. If Whiting had his way there wouldn’t be a supervisor role at all and all guards would report to him.
‘About what?’ Gareth asks.
‘A pay rise.’ The slight bend in Liam’s raised right eyebrow
conveys his demand as clearly as if he’d said it aloud: give me cash or I’ll tell the manager of the shopping centre that you just committed a sackable offence.
‘Why aren’t you on the shop floor?’ Gareth counters. Liam’s
had two warnings. One more for deserting his post without
permission would seal his fate.
‘I’m on my break.’ There’s the smirk again. ‘So I thought I’d
come and get my holiday form signed.’ He reaches into his
pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper.
‘Fine.’ On shaking legs, Gareth ascends the last step and
approaches the door to his office. The two men lock eyes and
Gareth’s throat dries up. He’s seen this before, in David
Attenborough documentaries: the young buck rearing up, chal-
lenging the older herd leader when he’s old and tired. If he asks Liam to move then he’s showing his weakness. But if he shoves
him out of the way then he’s lost his job.
They face off, Gareth staring up at the taller, leaner man for what feels like an age but can only be a couple of seconds,
before finally Liam steps to the side, gesturing for him to pass with a wide sweep of his hand. Gritting his teeth, Gareth keys in the code and opens the door. He turns and reaches out a
hand for Liam’s holiday form then, without inviting him in, rests it against the wall and scribbles his signature on the bottom.
‘I’ll enter it into the system.’
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‘And the pay rise?’
‘What pay rise?’
Liam’s smile reappears. ‘Five hundred quid should help me
forgot what I saw. I’ll give you until tomorrow to work out the details. See you then . . .’ He pauses. ‘Boss.’
The first mouthful of the burger is the best, it always is. Every stress, every worry and every niggling thought disappears as
Gareth closes his eyes and chews. Gareth knows he’ll hate himself later but, right now, he doesn’t care. It’s his favourite part of the day and the anticipation begins to build a good hour before he finishes his shift. It’s just him, two McDonald’s Veggie Deluxe burgers, a large fries and a vanilla milkshake. He doesn’t even put the radio on in the car because he wants nothing, nothing, to detract from the glorious moment he opens the paper bag,
unwraps his burger and takes the first bite. As he chews, eyes closed, he doesn’t think about his mum and whether she’s burning the house down. He doesn’t think about the bored-sounding
copper he spoke to that morning about his missing dad. He
doesn’t think about the texts he received from his mum’s two
carers – Sally and Yvonne – saying they don’t know anything
about a postcard. He doesn’t think about the man who may or
may not have been his dad. And he certainly doesn’t think about Liam Dunford, the slimy little snake.
He takes another bite, and another, barely chewing in his
desperation to get the burger into his stomach as quickly as he can so he can start on the second one. He likes it, the sensation of his stomach growing fuller and fuller, of it straining to contain all the food. It makes him feel settled and content, safe and
warm. But with every mouthful of the second burger Gareth
hates himself a little bit more. Not just for shovelling empty, dirty calories he doesn’t need into his mouth or because he
should have pushed that copper to transfer him to someone who
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could actually help, but because the situation he’s found himself in with Liam is his own bloody fault. Not once in twenty-five
years working in security has he jeopardised t
he safety of the shoppers. Not once.
What an absolute loser.
And now he’s being blackmailed by a snot of a man who
doesn’t deserve the epaulettes on his shirt.
Goddamnit.
Gareth shoves the half-eaten burger back into the brown paper
bag, crumples it, and tosses it into the passenger seat footwell.
Then he slumps over the steering wheel with his head in his
hands. His dad was right. He is a disappointment. And the worst thing is the person he’s let down the most is himself.
Pull yourself together, Gareth tells himself as he pushes open the garden gate and walks up the pathway to his front door.
For Mum if no one else. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Kath peering around her front door, frantically waving her
hand. Normally he loves their chats – there’s something infec-
tious about her friendly, easy-going manner – but he’s not in
the mood for a conversation today and he tries to ignore her,
hoping that if he doesn’t make eye contact she’ll simply go
away. But Kath calls out his name, forcing him to acknowledge
her.
‘Sorry to bother you.’ She opens the door wider, revealing
a pink and white unicorn onesie, the horned hood hanging
over her face. Coupled with the grime music that’s being played at full volume somewhere in the house, it feels to Gareth as
though he’s just stepped into a surreal urban play. Kath clocks his raised eyebrows and offers him a wide grin. ‘Nice, isn’t
it? Primark. I’ll get you one the next time I pop in if you
want.’
‘No thanks.’ Gareth glances towards his own house. The
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curtains are closed but he can see the light of the television flickering through a tiny gap. ‘What can I do you for, Kath?’
‘It’s your mum,’ she starts, then, reacting to the look of panic on his face, quickly adds, ‘she’s fine. I was just wondering if it was her birthday, that’s all.’
Kath’s always been fond of Joan but, since she lost her own
mother, she actively asks after his mum and often pops round
in the day if she can.
Gareth mentally flicks through the significant dates in his
memory – there aren’t many – and shakes his head. ‘No. It’s not until 11th November. Why do you ask?’
‘She had some lovely flowers delivered today and I . . .’ Kath does an embarrassed little jig with her shoulders ‘ . . .I wondered what they were for.’
Kath’s a beautician who works from home doing things to
women’s eyelashes and brows; Gareth isn’t quite sure what. It’s not unusual for him to return from work to find one of her
customers parked up outside his house, but he rarely grumbles.
It’s worth the inconvenience of having to park around the corner knowing that Kath’s available to pop in and check up on his
mum if he gives her a ring.
‘I gave her a knock,’ Kath adds, ‘to ask if it was her birthday
– I’d have nipped to Marks for a cake and a card if it was – but she wasn’t sure. She—’ She breaks off to shout up the stairs.
‘Georgia! Turn that racket down. I can’t hear myself think.’
There’s no answer and no pause in the relentless thump,
thump, thump of the music. Kath takes a deep breath as though
readying herself for a full volume shout. Instead she sighs, steps out of the house and pulls the door shut behind her.
‘Sorry about that, Gareth. Normally I’d be straight up there
but she’s having a tough time of it at school at the moment.
What was I saying?’
‘That Mum didn’t know if it was her birthday or not.’
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Kath frowns, or at least Gareth thinks she does because there’s no movement or creasing of any sort on her forehead, but
there’s a studied look in her eyes as she gazes past him towards the closed curtains of his living room. ‘She’s getting worse, isn’t she?’
‘Yeah.’ His gaze drops to his shoes. Her next appointment
with the consultant is in two weeks’ time and he’s already
dreading it. He’s not sure he’ll be able to cope with her reaction if the consultant insists on moving her into a home.
‘Well you know I’m always here,’ Kath says. ‘If you need me
to pop in, or take her somewhere in the car, you just say the
word. Okay?’
Gareth looks at her, standing on her doorstep in her bare feet in her ridiculously fluffy outfit and, for the first time all day, he smiles.
‘Thank you,’ he says as he takes his door key out of his
pocket. ‘Thanks, Kath, that means a lot.’
Gareth sniffs the air as he opens the front door, then sags with relief. Whatever his mum has done today she hasn’t burnt
anything to a cinder. His note – DANGER! DO NOT COOK,
MUM! – taped above the cooker must have done the job. He
slips off his shoes and hangs up his jacket then pokes his head around the living room door. His mum is sitting, as usual, in
her favourite armchair directly in front of the TV.
‘Gerbera,’ she says, in answer to the quiz show host’s question, then clenches her fist in delight as the correct answer – her answer – turns green at the bottom of the screen.
‘Hello, love.’ She turns to look at Gareth. ‘How was work?’
‘Yeah good.’ He bends to kiss her on the cheek. ‘How was
your . . .’ He turns his head, the bright yellows and oranges of a floral arrangement on the bookshelf catching his eye. ‘Kath
said someone sent you flowers.’
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‘Did they?’ His mum turns to look. ‘Oh, aren’t they pretty.
Yellow roses are my favourite. Who are they from, Gareth?’
He crosses the room, guts churning, and not just because of
all the junk food he ate. He can’t remember the last time someone sent his mum flowers. He’s given her plenty – for Mother’s Day and her birthday at least – but he can’t remember her ever being given any by someone else, not since his dad disappeared. He
plucks at the white envelope that’s been stapled to the edge of the wrapping and opens it.
Could they be from his dad, he wonders as he carefully eases
out the small card. First a postcard, then flowers, is he paving the way for his return? No, Gareth tells himself. They’re not
from his dad. His dad’s dead. He’s never coming home.
‘Oh for God’s sake!’ His shout is so loud that his mum lets
out a little cry of distress.
‘Sorry, sorry.’ He rushes to her side and presses a hand to her shoulder. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m sorry. I’ll get you a cup of tea.’
He rushes out of the room before she can reply. The flowers
aren’t from his dad at all. They’re from William Mackesy,
thanking his mum for her kind donation to the church.
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Chapter 15
Alice
‘Tonight?’ Emily looks aghast. ‘You agreed that you’d go out
with him tonight?’
‘Yes, Emily, I did.’ Alice looks at her daughter in the mirror as she applies red lipstick. ‘He asked me out at lunchtime and
we’re going out for dinner. There’s plenty of food in the fridge.
You’re not going to starve.’
Her daughter perches on the edge of her bed. ‘It’s not that,
and I’m not bothered about being home on my own. You just . . .
you’re playing it all wrong, Mum. He’s going to think you’re
desperate.’
‘How is saying yes to dinner desperate?’
‘Because you agreed to go tonight. You should have told him
you have plans.’
‘But I haven’t.’
‘He doesn’t need to know that.’
‘So I should have lied? Great way to start a relationship.’
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‘Oh my God, Mum!’ Emily’s exasperation fills the room. ‘It’s
a first date. You’re not going to marry the guy. Relationship!’
She shakes her head. ‘God, you are so out of touch.’
‘But I like him and I want to go out for dinner with him.
Besides, I’m too old to play games.’
‘It’s not games, you just want to look like you have a full and active life. Men don’t respect you if you drop everything to see them.’
‘And that’s what you do with Adam is it?’
Emily stiffens. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Alice turns to look at her daughter. ‘Sweetheart, I know you’re trying to help me out, and I appreciate that, but your own
relationship isn’t exactly healthy.’
‘My relationship’s fine.’
‘Is it? Because from where I’m sitting you seem really unhappy.’
She gestures at the glass of wine in her daughter’s hand. ‘I can’t remember the last time you didn’t come home and have a drink.’
‘It’s just a glass of wine.’
‘ A glass?’
‘One glass. Two glasses. I’m not an alcoholic, Mum, if that’s
what you’re implying.’
‘I’m not implying anything, love.’ She gets up from the dressing table stool and crosses the room. ‘But it’s not normal, the
screaming rows you and Adam have.’
Emily shuffles away from her as she sits down on the bed;
the soft curves of her face have hardened. She says something
under her breath that Alice doesn’t catch.
‘Sorry, what was that?’
‘I said, I’m not a doormat. Just because you shut up and put