anxious not to disturb anyone, Jack parked the car a short way up from Number 20, the house where he was born.
Switching off both engine and lights, he sat there, his mind in chaos. ‘What in God’s name am I doing here?’ He glanced at the clock on the dashboard; it was almost 2 a.m. ‘I must be crazy.’
He sat there for a few minutes, his attention straying from the house he knew, to the house where Thomas had lived. All was still.
He brought his gaze to the house where Libby had lived; his best friend – the one he trusted above all others. Sadness flowed through him. Libby Harrow had been the one true mainstay in his young life. Leaving her behind had been, and would always remain, his biggest regret.
That first month in London, he’d many times picked up a postcard, ready to write to her. But for some reason, he never did. Maybe she was too close to his past. Yet he needed her to know how he’d worked hard to build a new life for himself, and how he had gone to college and got the ‘A’ Levels he badly needed to forge a career.
Looking at the house where she’d lived, Jack imagin ed her running down the path in her school skirt and white blouse, her hair tamed into auburn pigtails hanging down her shoulders, and her voice, calling to him: ‘Hurry up, Jack! Or we’ll miss the school bus and have to walk again!’
The memory caught his heart. ‘Dearest Libby,’ he said. A wealth of love trembled in his voice.
Thomas could not sleep. He was concerned about what Libby told him earlier, about the stranger. Even now, it played on his mind.
Having just woken from a shallow sleep, he instinctively went to the window and looked out. At first he didn’t see the big Lexus parked some distance away, out of reach of the street-lamps. Then, as he turned away, a figure got out of the car.
‘Who the devil’s that?’ he muttered to himself. The man’s build was much the same as the description Libby had given him, but it was dark, and the shadows hid his face. Whoever the man was, there could be no mistaking his interest in Eileen and Libby’s house, because Thomas could see that he was staring right at it.
Thomas’ first instinct was to go out there and confront the stranger. Grabbing his trousers and shirt from the back of the chair where he had left them earlier, he hastily dressed. ‘I’ll have you, yer bugger!’ he grumbled, as he kept the figure in his sights. ‘You’ll tell me what yer after, or I’ll have the coppers on yer, an’ no mistake!’
Suddenly the man climbed back into the car and within moments it was on the move. ‘Dammit!’ Thomas blamed himself, ‘I wonder if he saw me watching him.’
As the car passed underneath his window, its back end was illuminated by the nearby street-lamp. ‘Got yer!’ Pressing his face closer to the window, Thomas narrowed his old eyes to see all the better as he hurriedly scribbled the car’s number onto the wallpaper with a biro. ‘Damn and bugger it!’ He’d missed that last number. Was it an eight? Or it could have been a six. Never mind – he had most of the number-plate. That should be enough for him to keep a wary eye out.
Grumbling and moaning, he went down to the kitchen, where he sat at the table, drumming his fingers on the table-top. ‘I don’t like this business . . . not one little bit!’
A short time later, Thomas went back to bed, but he was too unsettled to sleep. All manner of questions ran through his mind, along with other things. Things long gone, but not forgotten. Bad things that troubled the mind.
Thomas didn’t see himself as a bad man. He was a man of good character. An honourable man, who cared deeply for those around him. Especially the two lovely women next door. Apart from himself, they had no one. For their sake, he hoped the stranger’s appearance in their lives was just a coincidence, instead of a sign that the past was beginning to rear its ugly head.
For reasons of his own, that was something Thomas had always feared. Yet a part of him knew it was inevitable that one day this secret would be out, sadly some secrets could not be hidden away for ever.
For a time, he stood by the window, murmuring to himself. ‘You were wrong to think it would all be forgotten,’ he bowed his head in shame. ‘There’s an old saying, Thomas, and you would do well to remember it.’ He said it now, clear and strong: ‘Be sure, yer sins will allus come back to haunt yer!’
He was not a man who read the Bible. But he knew more than enough about sinners repenting.
THE NEXT MORNING, Jack was dog-tired, having had less than four hours’ sleep. The images of midnight still clung to him. Even now, when he was wide awake and getting ready for work, doing ordinary things – everyday, wide-awake things – like trying to fasten his tie, like brushing his teeth and combing his wayward hair. Even while he was planning the day ahead, praying that the event tomorrow would run like clockwork, he could not shut out the image of those eyes. The expression in them as they looked at him; the sadness . . . the way the moonlight made them sparkle. And the unholy smell.
Afraid that he was going mad, he turned the radio on full blast. The soft piano music pacified his shredded nerves. It smothered the rising panic inside him.
Calmer now, he looked in the mirror and managed to tie the perfect knot in his tie. He examined himself with a critical eye: smart, dark-blue suit; crisp, white shirt beneath. All in all, he now looked like a man about to do business.
He didn’t want to be seen as less than smart in his new position. As Thomas had told him once, ‘First impressions are most important.’ In fact, Jack recalled the very day he’d said that.
He was on his way to school. It was a hot July Friday towards the end of term, and it was the turn of his class to take assembly. Jack had stuffed his tie in his pocket as usual, the minute he was out of the house.
As he walked past, Thomas was at the gate. He asked Jack what he was up to at school that day, and Jack told him they were having a special assembly. ‘There’s a council-man coming to talk to us,’ he explained. ‘He means to ask us why we need a new gymnasium.’ He told Thomas, ‘I can’t stand assemblies.’
Thomas asked where his tie was, and Jack pulled it out of his pocket to show him. Thomas was persuasive but firm. ‘Put it back on, lad. You might not like the idea of listening to some bloke spouting off, but there’s no need to look like a scruff, now is there, eh? Think about it, lad. Have a bit of self-respect.’
That was when he told Jack, ‘Remember: first impressions are the most important.’ It was sound advice, which Jack had never forgotten.
Looking at himself in the mirror, he was satisfied that Thomas would approve. He felt ready to face the world. ‘Right!’ Willing himself not to think about other things, he trained his mind on the all-important test ahead of him.
Jack’s right-hand woman, Susan Wilson, had proved herself to be as reliable as ever. Six of the company’s more experienced salesmen were all geared up and ready for instructions; the ultra-efficient Susan had supplied them each with an information pack and a pen and notepad, in case they needed to make notes during Jack’s welcoming speech as manager.
Jack’s speech was planned for 8 a.m., when everyone involved in the big day tomorrow should be gathered in the main showrooms. After the speech, there would be a question-and-answer session, when every little detail would be gone over for the Saturday event.
Later in the day, a top representative of the company and his aide were due to arrive from Head Office. On Jack’s instructions, Susan had booked two rooms at the five-star Chadwick Hotel. The two men planned to stay overnight, in preparation for attending the Saturday event, at which Curtis Warren himself would oversee the launch of his company’s latest venture.
Susan