Penny Sinclair tried to phone her father, but got straight to voicemail. Despite Angela’s lecture, she did feel guilty. His drinking was bad, always had been, but lately it was shit bad. He hinted of problems, of issues, but when she pushed, he clammed up, tight as a drum, and drank more. And now, with his partner murdered, the whole episode splashed across every front page, she couldn’t begin to fathom the pressure he was under.
But he was an alcoholic. Perhaps worse – he was an alcoholic in denial. It wouldn’t matter what she said or did. Her father found consolation from only one source – a gin bottle. Or indeed any bottle. This thought eased Penny’s conscience, but not by much.
It was mid-afternoon, and the shop was quiet. Her shift finished at six. There were only two of them working. Herself and an older woman, who took breaks every hour to have a sly puff in the backyard beside the rubbish bins. Penny didn’t mind. She found the work almost therapeutic after the slog of law exams.
She worked the till, inventoried the stock, cleaned the fridges, scoured the ovens. The place was a general grocery shop, selling over-the-counter hot and cold food, pastries, tea, coffee. Penny would work here during the summer, earning enough to pay rent and electric and food. Plus a little more for beer money.
The evening was planned. Back to halls of residence when her shift finished. Shower, change, get ready. Angela would come round for eight. They might open some chilled white wine. Talk. Then the pub, to meet more friends for nine. The university pubs would be quiet, term all but finished. They would venture into the town centre. Maybe a pub crawl. Maybe a club. Angela would stay the night. Penny was looking forward to it.
She finished work. Another girl came in to replace her. She meandered back, a distance of just over a mile, still in her work uniform. It was early evening, and warm. The university buildings looked solemn and sad in the long shadows. Gone, the bustle and energy of young people, cutting about like a million fish in a shifting current. The place seemed hollow and empty, the air tinged with melancholy.
She tried her father again. Straight to voice message. She almost phoned her mother. She spoke to her once a week. The conversations were usually one-sided – her mother did the talking, Penny did the listening. Her mother had found a new partner, a new life. Everything was wonderful and happy. Penny had been demoted to a peripheral. Up until then, she’d flitted between her parents during holidays. The divorce had been tangled and bitter. She was fed up with both of them. She had her own life to live.
But it didn’t stop her from worrying. For her father. Something was wrong. He drank like a man who wanted to die. He spoke like a man who was scared.
She got back to the halls. The building was almost empty. She too would be moving out in a couple of days, to a new flat. Her room was on the top floor. There was no lift. The stairs were wide, the steps grey concrete, the walls white peeling plaster. She got to her corridor. Long and drab, the walls the same white plaster, doors on either side, running the entire length. Fifty rooms, twenty-five on each side. Illuminated by harsh strip lights. She got to her room. Number 125.
She rummaged for her key, unlocked the door, entered. She tossed her holdall on the bed, went to the small en suite, switched the shower on. She tried her father again. Answer machine. Fuck it, she thought. He was doubtless on a bender. She tossed her phone on the bed beside her holdall, started to strip, wondering what she should wear, her mind on the night ahead.