I hadn’t seen or heard from Danny since the night of the fire. Three days and twenty-one hours. But who was counting? The weight I’d carried around all my life had suddenly been lifted. I felt free. No more Team Glass. Except, old habits died hard. Whenever my mobile rang, I half expected it to be him, on with sentimental stories from the past and bullshit apologies to bring me back into the fold. It seemed he’d got the message his routine wasn’t going to work and cut ties with me. I wasn’t sorry.
Physically, Mandy was well. The marks on her face and neck were still visible but make-up would disguise them. Emotionally, the assault had affected her confidence. Her daughter was due to visit and she’d arranged to meet Amy the next day off the Manchester train.
She’d brought Eric Clapton’s ‘461 Ocean Boulevard’ – arguably his best album – and we were on the couch, drinking wine and listening, when she said, ‘Do you think she really wants to visit me?’
‘Of course, you’re her mother.’
‘I mean, what has her father told her?’
‘Doesn’t matter what he’s told her. Nothing bad or she wouldn’t be coming.’
Mandy’s insecurity was threatening to break her.
‘You can’t be sure of that. And if she knew the truth, what would she think?’
I moved closer and drew her to me. ‘Listen, your little girl is coming to see you. She’ll want what all kids want – her mum to tell her she loves her. All you have to do is have a great time together and forget everything else.’
‘You think I’m worrying about nothing?’
‘Absolutely.’
She relaxed in my arms and was quiet. After a while she said, ‘I’d like you two to be friends. It would mean a lot to me. Are you all right with that?’
I smiled down at the fading yellow around her eye. ‘If she’s half as nice as her mum, I’d love to.’
Later, I dropped Mandy at her place. Before she got out of the car, she kissed me.
‘Thanks, Luke.’
‘For what?’
‘If you don’t know, I can’t tell you.’
I wasn’t in a hurry and drove slowly, turning over what I’d agreed to in my head. The last child in my life had been Rebecca, Cheryl’s daughter. From nowhere, sadness washed through me. I gripped the steering wheel until it passed.
As soon as I opened the door, I sensed something wasn’t right. The lounge was like a picture puzzle where tiny things had changed and the challenge was to spot the differences. In the first twenty seconds I scanned the lounge and saw nothing. In the next twenty, I noticed four: the cushions on the couch had been rearranged – not much, just straightened a bit; the Clapton CD cover had gone from the floor to beside the television; the empty wine bottle was in the bin under the sink and the glasses had been rinsed and were on the draining board. Just small things Mandy might have done, but I didn’t think she had.
The next change wasn’t open to doubt. My passport was on the mantelpiece above the fire. I was certain I hadn’t put it there.
Someone had been here, rummaged through my personal stuff and left it where I was certain to see it.
some people have long memories
The ‘some people’ in this case was Rollie Anderson. Had to be. He’d survived and was hiding, regrouping and waiting for a chance to strike back.
I checked the rest of the flat. The message wasn’t subtle. He was showing me he could come into my life at any time and there was nothing I could do about it. From behind the curtain I watched the street and across to the windows at the other side. They’d made their move when I’d left to run Mandy home. It was possible they were still there. But not likely.
The point had been made.
I put the Clapton CD on again, poured a much-needed glass of whisky and stuck the gun my brother had insisted on giving me down the side of the couch. The phone went off like a cannon in the quiet. I let it ring, enjoying a feeling of control doomed not to last.
I held it to my ear.
No disguised voice threatening terrible things this time. Only steady breathing like before and a silence that went on forever. Every fibre of me wanted to shout meaningless threats and demand answers I wasn’t going to get. Instead, I fought back with psychology of my own and kept quiet. My hands were clammy, my heart beating fast in my chest. After a while, the mystery caller rang off.
I drank the whisky without tasting it, recharged the glass and forced myself to sip.
I turned the lights out and sat in the dark, with the glass, the bottle and the Beretta next to me. After a while the alcohol worked its magic and I was able to think. Anderson was toying with me. Fucking with my head: Danny had been right – some people had long memories. I’d been right, too. It was happening. I wasn’t suffering from jailhouse paranoia after all. Not the consolation it might have been.
They wouldn’t be content with phone calls and uninvited visits for long.