felt her hand tighten around the gun. Her left leg was showing and most of her shoulders and breast. He stared down, taking in the view, couldn’t stop himself.
‘It’s okay. We were, well, you know, it’s been a while.’ Her eyes were all mischief, her face mock-innocent.
He looked back up and blushed. ‘Okay, thanks. I’m sorry.’
She grinned. ‘Everything’s fine. Thanks for your concern.’
He held up his hand in apology and turned away. Her grin turned off like a light.
She watched him go and then closed the door quietly. She leant back on the door and heaved a big sigh, her heart beating hard. She looked at her hand. The gun was trembling. That wouldn’t help.
She stayed like that for a few minutes, the water running down her body and gathering around her feet. Once she’d recomposed herself, she looked over to the window. Her rifle was in the bag. All she had to do was set it up and get the sights trained. And then wait.
The billow of the curtains as the wind blew through made her twitch. A laugh came from somewhere. She spun around. She told herself to stay calm. She knew she had to get this done right. The element of surprise would be lost this time. She had to fire the shot and get out within three minutes. That would give her enough time to get to the lift and get off at the second floor, then take the service stairs to the garage in the basement. She’d done the run many times, practice runs when she’d had the apartment to herself. No need to rush, just fire the shot, dismantle the rifle, and get out. Walk down the hall like she was going out for milk and leave.
She peeled herself off the door and walked back to the bedroom, her wet feet making footprints on the light carpet, lighting up her trail back to the bedroom.
She had work to do.
Johnny Nixon, tough defender, pride of the Manchester blues.
He wasn’t feeling good about himself. He looked around, twitchy, nervous.
He was on the corner of St Ann’s Square. The street was busy around him. There were people streaming in and out of Marks and Spencer just across the road, and in the square behind him bank workers and lawyers strolled around, peacock struts, enjoying the rush, the vibe, summer in the city.
His chest felt tight. He knew it was his own fault, but it was always his fault. He had a beautiful wife and three beautiful children. So why did he always stray when he got away from home? He knew he had a self-destruct button. It had plagued him throughout his career, from the over-the-top tackles – and there had been too many – to the fights in bars. He had always seemed like he was trying to wreck his career.
And now this. A one-night stand turned into an affair. It was sporadic, igniting itself every few weeks, but it had grown into a habit. He had tried to break it, but she had said it was her or the media. His wife would find out anyway, so why not get some happiness out of it?
He looked around, pretending to talk into his phone. It was what all footballers did. Talked into a phone, just to stop people from talking to them. But the phone was where his trouble had begun. Meet him or she goes public; text messages telling him what to do.
He’d had no choice. At least this way he might be able to talk her out of it.
He spun around, looking for her, hoping no one else had seen him. This wasn’t a time for photographs.
He heard a crack, and then it hit him in the head like a hammer blow.
As he went to the floor he saw faces. People on the street, twitching from the noise, eyes wide. Then he saw his children, smiling at him, laughing with him. His wife. The warm smell of her body. They rushed through his head as he saw the pavement get nearer, all the time getting darker.
The world had already turned black by the time his head hit the floor.
It was late afternoon before I arrived in Turners Fold.
I was surprised at how nothing had changed, like it had a different time-frame, existing in a bubble; like driving around a photograph album, sepia print, reminders of why I’d had to leave.
I entered the Fold the usual way. There were just two ways in, from the north and from the south. All the roads that headed for the hills either turned into tracks or turned back on themselves. Pre-war bay fronts were at the entrance to the town, and then came the terraces. But these weren’t the narrow two-storey strips found nearer to the centre of town, the old mill-workers terraces with doors right onto the street. These were much grander, three storeys high, with neat gardens at the front protected by low stone walls. They gave way eventually to shops, but they were tiny affairs, crammed into Victorian fronts with stone-edged door frames, the insides dark and uninviting.
There was grey as far as I could see, lines and lines of it, the severe stripes brightened only by the fake red of suburbia as new developments filled the gaps left behind by derelict industry. I dodged slow drivers and bolting dogs for half a mile and then passed my old high school. I gave a look left. I always did when I passed it, the sign by the entrance announcing what it was, the view over the town reminding me why I had to get away.
I saw a flash of the sports fields just behind. There was a football field, goals warped and irregular, and beyond that there was a cricket pitch, really just a rectangle of short grass protected by a rope, surrounded by benches framed against the rising hills. That would be a good place to get a picture, and so I made a mental note to call back early in the morning, when the light would be sharp blue. It was where the career of David Watts had started, where he had dominated the school league and ended up signing for Burnley before making the trip to the south. From then on it had been millionaire and superstar.
I shrugged off my school memories when I drove into the town triangle. I pulled over at Jake’s and stepped out of the car, feeling the Pennine breeze on my face for the first time since Christmas. The air felt clean, like it was coming in straight off the craggy tops, packed full with chill. It didn’t have that urban warmth of London, where the air was sodden with smoke and fumes. I’d forgotten what it was like, this clarity, this purity.
I looked up at Jake’s Store and smiled.
Jake’s had been there as long as there’d been Turners Fold, or at least that’s how it seemed. It had an old wooden frame around the front, painted blue, casting shadows over the windows, making it impossible to see in. The front had been painted many times, the wood now bending with age and the effects of the sun, when it came, so the paint had chipped and flaked and pointed jagged fingers.
As I walked towards it, I could hear the sound of a brush on the old tiled floor drifting out to the street, like it always did when trade slackened off.
I turned as I heard a car rumble over the cobbles running alongside the town hall. It was an old Mondeo, windows down, someone from my old school at the wheel. His arm rested lazily out of the window as he drove slowly along, tapping lightly to the beat of his radio. Robbie Williams swirled around the square and washed over me like cleanser, the simple pop anthem a change from the usual club-land thump that seemed to bang out of every bar in London. The music matched the slow crunch of the tyres as I watched them roll away.
I walked into Jake’s. The shop was dark and shaded, so it took my eyes a couple of seconds to adjust, and when they did I saw Jake by his broom, nodding his head and smiling.
‘Well, look who it is,’ he chuckled. ‘Jack Garrett. You tired of old London town?’
I grinned and held out my hand. Jake took it and gave it a gentle shake. His fingers felt old and brittle in mine. His skin was soft and cold, and I could feel the thinness of the skin. He looked bonier than I remembered, and he seemed to be stooping more than he used to. His skin just didn’t fit as tight these days.
‘I think London’s tired of me,’ I replied, laughing. ‘How are you, Jake?’
He