Revenge?
Jackdaw44: What for?
ICE9: Did you cheat on her?
Jackdaw44: [confused face}
ICE9: That’s a yes then.
Jackdaw44: I was drunk.
ICE9: Dick.
Jackdaw44: That’s Mr Big Dick to you.
ICE9: Not according to Liv.
Jackdaw44: Fuck off. (Not sorry.)
‘I’m not sure this is a good idea,’ Mum says as I turn the key in the lock. ‘I don’t feel right leaving you here alone. Not after what happened. He was decent though, wasn’t he, that policeman? In the end. I knew he wouldn’t fine us, not when we told him about Billy. You saw the look on his face when he told us he had a son of about the same age. Kind of him to say he’d keep an eye out and help spread the word.’
She follows me into the kitchen, hovering in the middle of the room as I drop my handbag onto a chair and open the fridge.
‘Are you okay?’ Mum asks. ‘I know you feel embarrassed about what happened on the train but you mustn’t let it get to you. Imagine if it had been Billy and you hadn’t gone after him. You’d never have forgiven yourself.’
‘I thought I’d do a casserole for tea,’ I say. ‘I know it’s the summer but everyone likes a sausage casserole, don’t they? I drop two onions, five carrots and two packs of sausages onto the counter. ‘Twelve sausages – that’ll be enough, won’t it, although God only knows Jake could probably finish off the lot himself.’
‘Claire, talk to me, sweetheart. You haven’t said a word since we left the station.’
I take a knife from the block on the counter. ‘The onions haven’t had long enough in the fridge to chill the juices. I always cry if they’re too fresh.’
‘Claire.’
‘I’m going to need swimming goggles. I think Billy’s got some in his room. I’ll just go up and—’
‘CLAIRE!’
Mum slips around me, blocking my exit from the kitchen.
‘Claire, sit down.’
‘I can’t. I need to put the dinner on. I need to—’
‘Claire, please. Please sit down, love.’ She gazes up at me, pain etched into her soft, lined skin. ‘Talk to me.’
‘I can’t. If I do I’ll cry.’
‘And?’ Mum rubs her hand up and down my upper arm.
‘And I don’t know if I’ll ever stop.’
‘Oh, sweetheart.’
‘I thought I’d found Billy,’ I say as she wraps me in her arms and I slump against her. ‘I thought the nightmare was over. But it’s not. It just carries on.
She squeezes me tightly. ‘We’ll find him, Claire. We’ll bring him back home.’
Mum left an hour ago. She was going to stay until Mark or one of the kids got back but then Dad rang to say that his car battery had died and he was stuck at B&Q and could she collect him. She told him to get a taxi and they’d sort out the car later but I insisted she go to his rescue. I reassured her that I could go over to Liz’s if I was feeling wobbly. She left, begrudgingly, and gave me an extra-long squeeze at the door.
My phone bleeps. It’s a text message from Mark.
Are you still at your mum’s? How are you feeling? I’m going to try and get home a bit earlier than normal. Text me if you feel unwell.
I text back.
Just got home. I went to the train station to hand out some fliers.
My phone bleeps almost immediately.
With your mum?
Yes.
Who’s with you now?
No one. I’m fine though.
Don’t go anywhere. Jake or Kira should be back soon and I’m on my way.
There’s no need to hurry, I type back. The last thing we need is for him to put his foot down and end up having an accident. Honestly. I’ll be fine.
I met Mark in a nightclub in town. I was eighteen, he was nineteen and he crossed the dance floor to talk to me, shoulders back, all South Bristol swagger with an attitude to match. He told me he was going to become a policeman. ‘I’ve passed the competency tests, the fitness test and the medical. I’ve just got the second interview to go and I’m in.’
For months, joining the police was all he could talk about. He’d turn up the radio whenever there was talk of an assault outside a nightclub or a drugs bust out in a disused barn in the countryside. He read true-crime book after true-crime book, piling them up on his bedside table like badges of honour. And then he had his second interview and I didn’t hear from him for a week. My calls went unanswered. When I went to Halfords where he’d been working while he completed the application process he took one look at me, then turned on his heel and headed straight for the nearest staff-only door.
I thought it was me. I thought that now he was a big-shot policeman he didn’t want anything more to do with me. He was going places whilst I was a receptionist at the Holiday Inn. He’d probably met some fit, ambitious policewoman during celebration drinks and didn’t have the guts to tell me we were over. I went to his house. Twice. The lights were on both times and I could see the TV flickering through the thin curtains but Mark didn’t come to the door, even when I kept my finger glued to the doorbell and screamed at him through the letterbox.
The truth came out three weeks later when I ran into one of his mates in a pub in town.
‘Mark not with you?’ I said, two large glasses of wine and the encouragement of a friend giving me the nerve to approach him. ‘Teetotal now he’s a copper, is he?’
‘Mark’s not a copper.’ He raised his hand and waved at a group of lads over by the bar.
‘What?’ I grabbed his arm as he turned to go. ‘What did you say?’
‘He didn’t get in, did he? He wouldn’t say why, secretive little bastard. I reckon it’s because his uncles have done time. Anyway, Mark’s at home sulking.’ He shrugged me off. ‘Why don’t you go and give him a blow job? Cheer him up a bit.’
I swore at him under my breath as he made his way through the crowded bar but relief flooded through me. Mark hadn’t dumped me for someone else. He was hiding and licking his wounds. All the plans he’d made, all the hopes he had. Gone. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him but I was angry too. How dare he cut off all contact with me just because he’d failed to get into the police? I deserved more than that.
Two weeks later I found a note on the doormat when I got home from work.
I’ve been a twat and I’m sorry. Meet me for a drink so I can explain. Please.
I didn’t reply. Six weeks he’d kept me hanging. Let’s see how he liked it.
I told Mum to tell Mark I was out if he rang, which he did – the next day. He didn’t leave a message.
Ignoring his calls was torture. I nearly caved in several times but I ripped up the letters I’d spent for ever composing before I could send them. Then he turned up at my door.