Lucy pulled up outside Daisy’s small two-up, two-down, unprepossessing house. ‘Where are we?’ Simon asked.
‘This is where Daisy and Millie live.’
‘What are we doing here?’
‘Well, that’s up to you.’
Simon looked at the front door and wondered if it would ever open to him if he knocked. He’d like to see Millie. No, he longed to see her. He understood that the biology meant she wasn’t his, but she was. With his heart and soul, he’d thought of her every day. He’d thought of both of them. That’s why Daisy asking for a divorce was such a blow.
‘Your license conditions don’t ban you from visiting them, do they?’ Lucy challenged.
‘No.’
‘I’ll pick you up later in the day. You have to check in with your probation officer at 4 p.m. right?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’ He felt like a school boy.
‘Or do you want to get a tube?’ Simon coloured. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t. Lucy reached for her handbag and opened her purse. She handed him twenty pounds. ‘Here, you can pay me back when you get a job.’ He didn’t want to take the money, but the alternative was Lucy driving all the way back across London to pick him up. He didn’t have any choice. He took the note. ‘Good luck.’
He watched her drive off. He wished he still smoked. This would be the moment to have a fag. Or a drink. A drink would really help right about now. He looked at the twenty quid and then pushed it into his back pocket. Sighed. He stood outside and stared up at the windows. The curtains were still drawn. Was it too early to knock? It was half past nine on a Saturday morning. When he’d last lived at home, Millie would have been up for three hours by now, but there was no sign of life throbbing from the little house. He couldn’t hear the TV blaring out cartoons, or breakfast pots being clanked together, he couldn’t smell bacon sizzling under the grill. He put his ear to the door. He couldn’t hear them chatter, or the radio playing songs. The place was still. Dead.
He reasoned that they must be out or maybe still sleeping. He thought that option was the most likely because Daisy would never leave the house without opening the curtains. Had things changed so much? Could it be that Daisy no longer cared about things like what the neighbours thought? Or was it that Millie was no longer an excitable child, but a pre-teen who liked to lie-in? Did that happen at nine years old? He didn’t know, and he was abashed that he didn’t know. He wanted to know. He wondered what it looked like inside their house, their life. He’d missed so much, and suddenly it became unbearable to think he’d miss so much as a moment more. He decided to go around the back, perhaps the curtains would be open there and he could sneak a peek. As he walked down the side alley, around to the back of the house, he thought to himself that they ought to have a gate on this thin path. One that locked. Now he’d been in prison, he knew what the world was, who inhabited it. Daisy and Millie clearly weren’t overly focused on security and in a way that was lovely, still he’d suggest a gate. A lock.
The back door was wide open, swinging on its hinges. The rain was falling into the kitchen. He knew at once that something was wrong because he still couldn’t hear anything other than silence. This was not a door that had been flung open to allow the smell of burning toast to escape. It was a wet, cool morning; this door wasn’t open to let in a refreshing breeze. He rushed inside. Two, three big strides and he was through the empty kitchen and in to the sitting room. What was he looking at? He didn’t understand. Furniture was upended, a suitcase was open, and clothes were strewn all over the room, ornaments were broken, smashed to pieces and there was blood. Blood on the wall. On the door and floor. His own blood slowed. His body was seized with a dry, tight dread.
‘Daisy! Millie!’