| |
It’s gone ten, but all the lights in the house are still on. I lock the Focus, steeling myself to lie for the second time tonight, albeit to someone I care about a hell of a lot more than a pimple-faced pot broker. And because I care about her, that makes these white lies, nothing more. Every copper resorts to them at some point, male and female. Call it self-preservation. Call it keeping the peace. Call it whatever you like as long as it makes life more bearable for everyone.
Rumpole greets me on the way in, short, stiff tail swinging, eyes arching up to mine as if they’ve pleaded for help and now at last help arrives. I lock the door behind me, drop my keys in the side drawer and crouch to get my face licked. His tongue is sandpaper over my stubble and reeks of meaty chunks in gravy, but the folds of his body are warm under my hands, and just for a minute I indulge him. He so rarely waits at the door any more, and I so rarely give him the attention I once did, that it’s hard to be sure which one of us needs this more, him or me.
‘Alright, boy,’ I say, close enough to his ear that it flickers. His reply is a low groan that rumbles deep in his chest.
There are voices coming from the TV in the sitting room, the authoritative tone of a newsreader throwing questions at someone who’s trying to get a word in edge ways, voice rising as they run out of patience. With the heaviness in my rib cage still threatening, I walk straight through to the kitchen where I flick on the lights and fill the kettle. I’m spooning coffee into the mug when I sense I’m no longer the only biped in the room.
‘Want one?’ I ask, even though I know she won’t. Nine o’clock is Ange’s deadline for drinks.
‘Food’s in the microwave,’ she says. Her voice is quiet, not sharp, which means she’s tired. Too tired for a fight, maybe.
I punch the door release on the microwave. Inside is a plastic container of cottage pie and peas. I close the door and set the timer to warm it up.
‘Thanks, love,’ I say, stirring the coffee as I take it to the breakfast bar. ‘Sorry I’m so late.’
She tugs her dressing gown tighter around her and pulls out a stool opposite. Her hair is damp where it lies resting over her shoulders, staining the blue satin with faint dark patches. She’s taken off her make up and her eyes are hard but weary, suggesting disappointment is still on the table.
I rub the back of my neck with one hand, then scorch my tongue and lips on the coffee too hot to drink yet.
‘You staying?’ she asks.
‘What?’
She points at me, gaze dropping to my chest, and I look down to see I’m still wearing my jacket. I slip it off and throw it over the stool next to me.
‘I’m really sorry about parents’ evening, Ange.’
‘Forget it,’ her mouth says, but her tone claims otherwise.
‘There was a domestic at end of shift. We had to arrest this woman for attacking her partner.’ I shake my head, my stomach groaning with emptiness as I think of the marks on Paula’s body, not an ounce of fat on her waist. ‘Christ, Ange, if you’d seen the state of her. What her husband had—’
‘So do you want to know?’
‘Want to know what?’
‘How he got on? Your son?’
The microwave drones behind me, the vibration worming its way through my gut, the numbing monotone dragging on my insides. I’m close to saying, why do you always do that? Why is he my son when you’re pissed off and never at any other times? Why am I not allowed to have a life outside of these four walls without feeling ashamed about it?
‘Course,’ I say, and the microwave ends, bleeping a warning through my skull three times.
‘Do you wanna get that first?’ she says, and nods over my shoulder.
Maybe I’ll say no. Maybe I’ll say when I’m ready. Maybe I’ll say thanks but I’ve made decisions all by myself today, I can manage this one now.
I get up, pull a plate from the cupboard and cutlery from the drawer, use a towel to take the hot container from the microwave and shake out its contents. Back at the counter, I stab at the food with the fork, looking up at her as I wait for it to cool.
‘Maths and English, he’s got covered,’ she says with a sigh, because now of course I’m dragging it out of her. ‘High expectations. A’s at least, but they think he should push for A*. Tech, IT, Welsh, all good, no problems.’
‘Sciences?’
‘Getting to that.’ She shifts to the side to cross one leg over the other. The dressing gown slips away from her thigh, bare below her nightdress, but she pulls it back over and tucks it in place so it won’t fall again. ‘Physics and Chemistry, with enough effort, he should get a B or higher. But Biology, he’s struggling. Failed the mock.’
‘Ah,’ I say, through a mouthful of hot potato and minced beef. ‘Who gives a shit about mocks?’
‘Well the teachers do, Steve.’ Green eyes tear a hole in mine, so I return my focus to the plate. ‘Anyway, she thinks with some work he could do much better in the actual.’
‘I’m sure he—’
‘History’s the problem.’
‘How so?’
‘He’s way behind on his coursework.’
‘Who’s the teacher?’ I ask, swallowing too fast, the hot food burning a trail down my throat that I can still feel even after a swig of coffee. The combination leaves behind an odd taste, as if I’ve been holding a clod of damp earth in my mouth.
‘Barker. What difference does that make?’
‘Could make all the difference. Maybe he’s a harsh marker, or a bit of a twat.’
When she doesn’t come back with a response, I glance up. She’s looking at me like I’ve walked into the wrong house.
‘What?’
‘She.’
‘Alright then, she.’
‘Miss Barker is not a twat, Steve.’
She says twat as if the word itself is filled with venom and she can’t express its distaste enough. I forget that for other people there are barriers in language. No-go words, words that enrage, words that offend, words that hurt. Because to me they’re just words, that’s all they are. Hear and speak them enough and they lose their power.
‘So what’s the plan?’ I ask, assuming she’s got one.
‘He works his arse off, that’s the plan.’
Arse. That word’s okay, then.
‘Fair enough.’
I scoop up the last of the cottage pie, scraping the fork over the plate to capture it all. Its energy is already bringing me to life a bit; I hadn’t realised how starving I was. But when I drop the fork and lean back to help the final mouthful go down, Ange’s glare informs me I’ve missed my cue again.
‘Well, it’s only History, right? I mean, the poor sod. If he’s doing alright in all the main ones.’
‘And what if he wants to do History at A-level or at uni?’
‘Does he?’ I ask, thinking if he did he’d have already been trying harder.
‘That’s not the point.’
‘Then what is?’
She huffs out an ironic, humourless laugh that distorts her face. It makes her eyes seem old and cynical.
‘The point is he’s not reaching his potential. Miss Barker thinks he’s more than capable of acing it if he wants to.’
‘There you go, then.’
She flips her hands on the counter top. The overhead in-ceiling spotlights catch the stone in the ring on her left hand, drawing my eye. ‘There you go, what, Steve?’
I get up from the stool and take the plate to the sink. There are no other dishes there, none on the drainer, everything has been cleaned and wiped and put away, and the chrome sink shines as if it’s been polished. Everything clean and ordered and in its place. Everything clean and ordered and barren. I turn and lean against the counter, folding my arms.
‘There you go, he doesn’t want to ace it. At least, he doesn’t want it enough.’
The glare she gives me is just as barren, and for a second I have the odd sensation that everything’s tilting. Me. Us. This room. This house. This life. It’s only the thought of sequins beneath my palm that brings me back, and that’s when I realise Ange is up off the stool and over by the door. Her dressing gown has parted but she doesn’t bother to close it this time. Beneath it, the black satin of her nightdress rests against the freckles on her tanned chest, her thighs, a satin I’ve run my hands over countless times, clenched tight in my fist more than once.
‘I’m worried about him, Steve. And you should be too.’
‘Because he’s flunking History?’
She touches the tip of her tongue to her teeth and shakes her head. ‘Were you even listening?’
‘Course.’
‘So skipping class is alright, is it?’
‘How many has he skipped?’
Her arms fold under her chest, drawing my eyes to her cleavage. But all I feel, if anything, is contempt; for the disapproval emanating from her, for the fact there’s nothing I say or do now that will be right, for this sodding merry-go-round we ride whenever I’ve let her down again.
‘One. He’s missed one,’ she says, in answer to my question, ‘but it’s not only that. His attitude lately. If you heard the way he talks to me sometimes. Well, if he even talks at all.’
‘He’s a teenager, Ange. He’s testing the boundaries. Give him space but hold firm to the rules.’
Her eyebrows go skyward and she nods. ‘Oh right. That simple? I never thought of that. So it’s okay if he’s drinking flagons of cider on street corners then, is it? Wandering the parks when he should be in school. That alright for an officer’s son, is it? Just give him some space and let him get on with it.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. He’s not doing that.’
‘And how would you know? Steve. How would you know?’
Because you’re never sodding here, I finish for her in my head. And that brief burst of energy of a moment ago slides away faster than my patience. I brush past her, with only enough interest left in this discussion to mutter, ‘I just would, Ange.’
Upstairs in the bedroom, I drop onto the mattress, kicking off my shoes and closing my eyes. I need a minute to think, a minute to breathe, a minute to empty the day from my body. But my head’s a barrage of images and faces and words, from Paula to Cranky to Ange to Tricia. To Anna.
Everyone wanted to bang her. Cranky’s unworthy bravado, his pathetic chuckle, her name in his ashtray mouth. Specially pervy old bastards. No offence.
I snap my eyes open and jump up from the bed. I go down the hall to the room at the end and listen at the door. There are no sounds coming from beyond it, no talking, no music, so I tap lightly. Tap again, louder. And when there’s still no response, I crack the door a few inches, peer around it.
The TV on the wall is on, some menu screen for a game casting a blue glow over the room that’s lit only by a lamp in the opposite corner. Dan’s lying on his back on his bed with one hand propped under his head, the other holding his phone up in front of him, earphones in. His eyes slide up to mine, but his face remains expressionless. I give a thumbs up.
‘You alright, fella?’
He sighs, lowers the phone and yanks one of the ear buds out, resuming the frozen stare.
‘Good report, I hear. Excellent, in fact. Sorry I wasn’t there, mate.’
He shrugs his shoulder. He’s not bothered. It probably worked out better for him. I remember what it’s like being a schoolkid with a copper for a dad. No one forgets, you might just as well have it branded across your forehead. And while all teenagers die of shame to have their dads turn up at the school, a copper’s teenager dies twice.
‘Just wanted to say well done. I know you’re trying your hardest.’
He drops his arm from his head and his gaze goes to the phone. ‘Not all good,’ he mutters.
I step inside the door. ‘Yeah, your mum said. Listen, so long as you’re doing your best. You can’t do more than that.’
His lips tug up into that irritating smirk he’s developed this last year, and he peers at me through narrow eyes. ‘S’not what Mum says.’
Yeah, well, I’m not your mum.
‘She just wants you to reach your potential, mate. Like we know you can. Keep all those options open and give yourself the best chances.’
He sighs and looks back to his phone, bored now that we’re not about to have some kind of shit-slinging father and son bonding moment.
‘Your mum wants the best for you, that’s all, Dan.’
The earbuds go in. The volume goes up.
My father would have given me a clout for that. Ripped the earphones out, told me to show some respect, told me to listen and buck my ideas up. But that wouldn’t be what Ange would want me to do, even if I felt like it. These days it’s all teenage mental health issues, and teenage suicide, and tip toe round your teenager lest you push him over that edge, lest you be paying for your parenting mistakes for the rest of your life.
I step out of the room, close the door, and go back down the hallway into the en-suite for a hot shower to drown my head under.
*
Tricia tells me someone new has joined the class. Her eyes are gleaming, nothing of the haunted look about them now, and her smile is ridiculous, like a child at its own birthday party. She hooks her arm through mine and tugs me into the hall, the smell of the Chinese takeaway replaced by the scent of her perfume. Or maybe it’s not hers.
We come to a stop in the middle of the room, and I’m still standing there trying to take in what I see, when I hear the door close behind me and know that Tricia has gone. There’s no one else here but me. And Anna.
She’s perched on the edge of a plastic chair by the window, hands folded one over the other on her lap, legs uncrossed and pressed together as if she’s arrived for an interview, or feels awkward in the dress she wears. She rises from the seat, the tassels on the dress slipping down to tap at her knees, yellow and orange sequins catching the low light from the bulb above so they shimmer. Like that, she’s not awkward at all. She wears the dress and those black heels as though they’re a part of her, and when she moves, it’s to come towards me with a boldness way beyond her years, her eyes fixed on mine, the same pale blue I remember.
I can’t stop looking. But I must at some point, because I don’t know how she ends up here, sequins under my hands, her shoulders just below mine, our hips inches apart, her body whole, complete, living, breathing. Cool fingers find the back of my neck, my head, drawing me closer so she can whisper in my ear – something soft, something so gentle that my chest seizes and I’m thinking, thank god, Anna, you can walk. You’re alive and you can walk.
‘Because of you,’ she says.
My eyes must have fallen closed, because when she brings her forehead to rest against mine, I peel them open again. Lips no longer pale, but full and glistening with a light sheen of pink lipstick, are parted enough that her breath lands on my skin. Breath that’s not strained and fast, but smooth and certain. Same as her eyes, vivid and alive, and silently telling me that what she’d wanted, she never could quite find, not in the way she deserved.
My fingers are on her cheek, reassuring her that I understand, that there’s more out there for her if she’s patient, and so much better if she stops looking in all the wrong places. There are decent people. Decent men. I know there are. I’m thinking this even as my hand reaches for her hair, and her lips come closer, and I’m thinking it as she kisses me, soft and deep, her mouth warm, her tongue sliding over mine. But sensing we’re not alone any more, my eyes flicker open, and with reluctance, I break away from her lips. Her hands are still in my hair, fingernails scraping down my neck, and in my ear she tells me not to stop, while over her shoulder stands Cranky, fists balled in the pockets of his black and white fleece, his hood up and his scarred features twisted into a shit-eating smirk that says, Told you everyone wanted to bang her. What a mug you are, Officer Fuller. No different to the rest of us.
*
The room’s still dark. I wake with my hand down my boxers and a sense of unconditional warmth and comfort that dissolves as quickly as the dream amid Ange’s soft snores beside me. I get up from the bed, easing the door closed to go down the hall to the bathroom. Standing at the toilet, one palm planted against the cold tiles, my eyes adjust to the light and my head adjusts to where it’s been and where it is now. I don’t know whether I want to relive the dream or banish it from my thoughts. The best I can do is tell myself this is what dreams do. They take what you’ve seen, heard, experienced, and they throw it all together into some misshapen ball that they mould like putty and chuck back at you. No consideration for logic or morals or decency or shame or anything. They mean nothing. All that dream analysis bullshit, that’s Ange’s thing, not mine. It’s just the mind messing with you.
I leave the bathroom and go downstairs to the kitchen, fill a glass with water from the tap, and sit at the breakfast bar. Ange has left her laptop out and I drag it over the counter, power it up. 3.38 the clock in the corner reads. I’ll need to be up in a couple of hours to do it all again, but this is how it goes when jumping between shifts. My body can’t tell whether it’s night or day, or which way up it is, half the time. Right now, and after the dream, it’s wide awake.
The water leaves a trail of ice down my throat, making me shiver when it passes through my chest. After tapping a few words into the search engine, I hit the first result that comes up, and I’m looking at a sunny picture of the exterior of Anna’s college. Without knowing what the title of her course was, I navigate to a foundation degree in veterinary nursing and start with that, clicking through several screens before I get to the faculty members page, the only information I really need.
Connected to the veterinary school, there are a grand total of five staff – three female and two male. But when Cranky said older guys, how old did he mean? Doctor Richard M. Cramer looks like he could be Anna’s grandad, or part of the furniture. White hair, creased features. Can’t see it somehow. I click on the other male, scan through his profile, but the more I stare at him, the more I’m certain.
Early to mid thirties. US born and raised. Neat brown mop. Chestnut eyes, a little sleepy. Broad smile, excellent teeth. Attractive, no doubt, to his female students who look up to him for guidance and I imagine receive heartfelt support in return. A man who likes to help in any way he can. A man who never gets angry, never gets moody, never says a bad word about anyone except in jest. A man who likes to make people happy, make the girls smile and feel good about themselves. A man who can’t say no. His yearbook-style profile picture says it all.
Not a Brad, but that didn’t mean anything. Not many Brads round these parts. Plenty over the Atlantic Ocean though. Enough to be a suitable nom de plume for an alien to this country, a lover who wishes to remain anonymous.
I commit his real name to memory, clear the search history, and go back to bed.
