CHARLY WAS ALONE again in her vast house. A week had passed since she and Shirley had had their day out together and Shirley had spoken at length about what had happened to her when she had left. Charly had mixed feelings about it all. She had never suffered from depression so didn’t think that she was in any position to assume she knew what her mum had gone through, but a little bit of her thought that Shirley’s love for her children should have transcended any thought – or lack of thought – for herself. Since their frank conversation, though, Charly had felt better about her mum being around. And she even found herself opening up to her slightly. But not too much. She didn’t want to get too close to her mum only to find that she had disappeared again.
Charly had had the usual stream of visitors during the week, all of whom seemed anxious to stare out of the window and wish themselves anywhere but sitting opposite the morose, grieving widow. She felt sorry for them. She didn’t want to be the person making people feel awkward; she wanted to be able to engage them in conversation and talk about something other than the obvious fact that Joel was gone and no one knew who was responsible.
But today Charly had awoken with a different feeling to the one which she had felt constantly since Joel died. Until today she had been utterly consumed by the blackness of her grief; of wondering how she was going to get by without Joel. Today, however, she was angry. She had entered the kitchen first thing that morning so full of rage that she had swiped the kettle from the work surface, forcing it crashing to the floor. She was angry at Joel for dying, she was angry at Joel for not saying goodbye and she was angry at Joel for how he had behaved with her: for never having the opportunity to right the constant wrongs in their relationship but instead being left with memories of being his punch bag rather than his partner. She was angry at the press camped outside her door every day, the public for their verdict of guilty by association that they seemed to have labelled her with and angry at whoever had taken Joel from her for putting her in this hideous predicament.
Charly wanted all of this to end. She wanted to be allowed a funeral so that she could stop living in limbo. And she wanted to know who had killed Joel and to see them tried and convicted. She couldn’t believe that the police seemed to be no nearer finding a killer. He was one of the most high-profile footballers in the country and yet no one had seen anything that might point towards a killer. She had thought on a number of occasions that Kim or even Jodie might have had something to do with it. But both had been ruled out and were being used only as witnesses. Her mind had raced through everyone she had ever met with Joel, anyone she thought she could point the finger at and say ‘You did it.’ But the person she kept coming back to was her father and she couldn’t even begin to think about the implications of such a thing. The police were doing their damnedest to find the person responsible. They didn’t need the pressure of the media bearing down on their investigation any more than Charly needed it bearing down on her time of grief. Carol, the liaison officer, had been great. She had listened and been patient with Charly and kept her as informed as possible, but Charly knew that she was just doing a job and that although she might care about what happened to Charly in the short term, it was still just her job and at the end of the day she went home to her family. Something Charly felt that she’d never again be able to think about having for herself.
Charly wished that her mind could settle on something else, even for a few moments, but it seemed unable. Even thinking about the most basic things, like what she should eat that day, in turn led her to think about what Joel would have eaten if he’d been here and then she was back thinking about what had happened.
‘Hello!’ a voice shouted from below. It was Terry. ‘I’ve got a visitor for you.’
Charly shut her eyes and took a deep breath to steady herself; she wasn’t in the mood for visitors today. ‘I don’t need any surprises. Who is it?’
‘It’s me, Charly. I just wanted to see you were alright.’ Charly’s eyes widened when she heard the familiar voice: Scott Crompton, her old boyfriend. She ran into the hall but seeing Scott, she stopped and smiled sheepishly.
Scott stepped towards her. ‘Our Markie said he’d seen you.’
‘Did he?’ she asked, worried as to what context Markie had given to their meeting.
‘Yes. Didn’t say much else though. That’s why I wanted to come and see you. Been wanting to come and see you for a while.’
Charly saw that Terry was trying to weigh up the situation to make sure that she was safe. ‘I’ll leave you two to it,’ he said, clearly realising that Scott did not pose a threat.
Charly smiled at him. ‘That’s fine, Terry. Thanks.’
Both Charly and Scott waited until Terry had left the house. Then they both spoke over one another asking how the other was. Charly smiled, embarrassed. ‘Sorry. You first.’
‘I’ve been dead worried about you. I know I’m probably a mug for being here but I still care about you and seeing all that shit in the papers, it eats me up, you know?’ Scott said, looking into her eyes. He’d allowed his usually cropped blond hair to grow out into a shaggy mop. Coupled with his newly acquired stubble, Charly thought it suited him – he looked more adult somehow.
Charly nodded slowly. She did know. She and Scott had been together for what felt like years. They stood in awkward silence for a moment, then Scott looked down at the carrier bag in his hand as if he’d just remembered something. ‘Oh, brought you something.’ He handed the bag to Charly. ‘You might not like stuff like that any more, but I just thought, you know . . .’
Charly opened the carrier bag and there was a Mulberry handbag sitting in the bottom of it. She looked up at Scott and smiled. Not because this was just what she’d always wanted – she already had a wardrobe full of designer handbags – but because Scott used to buy her designer accessories that he’d just so happened to be standing near when they’d made their way off the back of a lorry. ‘I can’t take this, Scott.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it will have cost you a fortune.’
‘Come on, you know me. Ways and means to these things.’
‘I know that these are a grand new and you’ll have paid a couple of hundred quid.’ She held the bag out for Scott to take back.
‘I thought it might cheer you up.’ Scott shrugged, looking like he was now out of ideas.
‘I don’t want you wasting your money,’ Charly said, looking at the floor. She felt a massive pang of guilt. When they had been together that was probably all it seemed she wanted from him. He’d bought her a pedigree dog that she had paraded around in a handbag for a time until the vet’s bills had become a problem and they’d had to give it back to the breeder. He’d kept her in fake J12 watches, designer shades and handbags and she had even convinced Scott to part with his hard-earned cash so that she could have a boob job, something she’d ended up changing her mind about once she started working with Leanne and realised that her own breasts were an asset not a problem. Poor Scott, Charly thought now. He’d put up with a lot. Only to be unceremoniously dumped for a footballer. And yet he was still here, with no apparent hard feelings.
‘There’s something you could give me,’ Charly said quietly. She was trying to weigh up if what she was about to request was appropriate. Scott looked at her hopefully. ‘A hug?’ she said quietly.
Scott stepped towards her and took her in his arms. And suddenly she felt closer to anyone than she had since Joel’s death. Although if she was completely honest with herself she felt closer to Scott than she had to anyone long before Joel’s death.
*
Scott ejected the DVD they had been watching and looked at Charly. ‘I’d better get off.’
‘Do you have to?’ she asked before she had time to check herself and not sound so needy.
‘I’m on nights this week, got to get back and changed.’ Scott worked in a factory and his shifts rotated every week.
Charly wanted to say something but was finding it hard to put the words in such a way that they would make sense. ‘I just wanted to say sorry for . . .’ She paused for a moment, thinking about everything that she was sorry for. ‘Everything,’ Charly said finally.
Scott shrugged. ‘It’s OK. We just weren’t meant to be,’ he said without meeting her eye.
Charly really needed to confide in someone about how she felt and Scott seemed like the perfect person, but she knew that it was wrong. Knew that Scott shouldn’t have to listen to anything she had to say about Joel. ‘I feel terrible at the minute. What do you think about everything that’s happened with Joel?’
Scott looked at the floor. He didn’t seem too comfortable with the question himself. He finally looked up, meeting Charly’s eye. ‘I can’t pretend I’m sorry about what happened to him, Charly, because I know how he was treating you.’
Charly suddenly felt angry again. ‘You know. Do you? How do you know? How does anyone know?’
‘People talk,’ Scott said simply.
‘What, you mean that lot at the factory read the papers, jump to conclusions and then spend all day gossiping.’
‘No, I mean that a friend of mine, his missus is a nurse at the hospital and she saw the state of you. I was going to call then but I didn’t. I knew that if we spoke and you said yourself that he’d laid a finger on you then I wouldn’t be responsible for my actions.’
‘Some nurse! That’s good of her. Thought that they were meant to keep that buttoned,’ Charly said, pointing at her mouth. ‘And anyway, what does she know? What went on between me and Joel went on between me and Joel. It’s nobody else’s business.’
‘OK. But if he was hurting you then you can’t blame people for being concerned.’
‘We hurt each other, alright?’ Charly snapped, wanting the conversation over and done with.
‘Did he or did he not put you in hospital?’
‘I don’t have to answer that.’
‘What a low-life piece of shit,’ Scott spat.
‘That’s my husband you’re talking about,’ Charly shouted.
‘Some husband. Knocking you around and thinking it’s alright?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘Sounds it to me.’ Scott was shaking his head in disbelief.
Something suddenly occurred to Charly. ‘Have you been questioned by the police?’
‘Yes.’ Scott put his hands to his face. ‘What you suggesting? You think I did it? Well, I didn’t, more’s the pity. That bastard got everything he deserved by the sounds of it.’
‘You can’t say that!’ Charly shouted. Getting out her anger felt strangely fulfilling. She had wanted to shout and scream at someone for a long time. At least with Scott she could be herself without having to tread on eggshells, even if she was insinuating that he was capable of murder.
‘I can and I have.’ Scott turned and headed for the door. ‘I’m going, Charly. I didn’t want an argument but you’re obviously not going to listen to anything I have to say.’
She let him go. He opened the hall door without looking back and slammed it forcefully behind him. She didn’t want to think that Scott could have had anything to do with Joel’s murder but she really couldn’t be sure. She wanted an ally in Scott, a friend for life. But she couldn’t have a nagging doubt about his innocence at the back of her mind and expect him to be her confidante. She heard a car screech off in the distance. Should she call the police? Charly walked back into the lounge and collapsed on the settee. No, she wouldn’t. If the police were going to find whoever was responsible for Joel’s death they didn’t need her help. And if Scott had had anything to do with it, she was fairly sure that he wouldn’t have had the nerve to show his face. But really Charly just didn’t know what to think about anyone or anything any more.
*
Swing was at the end of his tether. For too long now he’d been mugged around by Mac and Markie. He did everything that was asked of him and got little in return. He felt that he had no life; wherever he was he had to drop everything for Mac. Not any more. He was standing outside Markie’s office. He knew he’d be in there now. He was going in to straighten things out between them once and for all and if Markie wasn’t willing to listen he was going to make him listen. He’d spent long enough jumping when Markie said jump. When they’d been younger they’d been equals: a team. But since Mac had come along the last decade had seen Markie go all starry-eyed about business and forget who his friends were. Swing knew that he only had himself to blame for Markie cutting him off after he’d slept with Mandy. But it wasn’t something that just happened out of the blue. Swing had been fed up to the back teeth with the way he’d been marginalised by Markie. Today he was going to set the record straight.
It was 8pm and the light to the office was on. No one else would be there at this time, Swing had guessed – and he was right. When he opened the door to the office, Markie was sitting behind his paper-strewn desk, looking through the drawers. Markie looked up. When he saw it was Swing he looked back into his drawer and carried on his search. The only thing that gave away the fact that he was slightly rattled by the prospect of being in the presence of his old mate was the vein that twitched in his neck. Swing knew Markie better than he knew himself, and the pulsing vein was a dead giveaway.
‘Well?’ Swing said.
‘Why can you never find a fucking stapler when you need one?’
Swing looked at him. He felt like finding the stapler for him and driving some staples into Markie’s thick stubborn skull to make him see sense. He didn’t respond, he just dragged a chair across to Markie’s desk and sat opposite him, waiting for him to stop pretending to be distracted.
Markie looked at him witheringly. ‘Sit yourself down.’
‘I have, thanks,’ Swing said. He was fed up of cowering, being frightened of what could happen next because he was in Markie’s debt. They used to do everything together when they were kids. Swing had taken countless beatings for Markie and made sure that he’d dished countless out. And what for? To be treated like a leper when they were grown men? He didn’t think so.
‘What d’you want?’
‘To stop acting like kids. To get back into the action instead of having to do everything through Mac. What use is he anyway? Hiding away like a fucking kid.’
‘He’s got his reasons.’
‘I know his reasons inside out, don’t I? I’ve been doing his dirty work for him.’
‘His dirty work is your job.’
Swing shook his head. There was a lot he wanted to say but he didn’t think it would do any good. ‘Right,’ he said.
Markie stood up. ‘You don’t get any privileges any more. Not after what happened.’
‘Who are you, Markie?’ Swing asked angrily. ‘The fucking Godfather?’
‘I’m your boss.’
Swing couldn’t believe the words had just come out of his mouth. There had been a time when Markie knew better than to treat Swing like a mug. ‘Used to be my mate.’
‘Well, we know who fucked that, don’t we?’
Markie glared at Swing. Swing got to his feet, maintaining eye contact with Markie. ‘I’ll get off, then,’ he said. Both men knew this was a stand-off.
‘Yeah, make sure you do.’
Swing left the office and walked down the stairs. Once outside he found the nearest lamppost and punched it. His skin ripped and blood began to trickle down his hand. Swing didn’t feel it. He walked off in the direction of the gym. That was the last time Markie Crompton was going to make a fool of him.