Five days earlier
I bring the car to a stop at the end of Connor’s road, in a small council estate at the fringes of town. The Warren Estate is Westhaven’s dirty secret, an area the tourists never see, and a far cry from the Georgian splendour to be found further down the valley. There are signs of deprivation here, of lives lived on the fringes, pay packet to pay packet. Graffiti, litter, St George’s flags hanging from windows. A gang of kids loitering on bikes. In the gutters, dozens of little silver nitrous oxide canisters, like spent bullet casings.
I eye the protestors at a distance. There are around fifteen in all, grouped on the pavement opposite the row of small, beige brick terraced houses. Some are just standing around, vaping and looking bored, but others are jeering and waving banners made from taped-together pieces of cardboard with hand-painted slogans on them. A little further on, a grey transit van is parked half on the pavement, the logo of the local news programme emblazoned on the rear doors. A camera has been set up on a tripod, ready to go should anything worth filming happen, and a woman in a sharp suit is leaning against the side of the van studying an iPad.
Marching straight past the press and protestors isn’t an option. If the reporter doesn’t recognise me, there’s a good chance at least some of the protestors will, and if I’m seen going into Connor’s, it could prompt all sorts of rumours and speculation. I proved him innocent of one murder – at least as far as the wider world is concerned. Perhaps they’ll think he’s asked me to do it again?
I turn the car around, drive back the way I came a few blocks and park up, then put the hood of my coat up and walk back until I reach a narrow cut-through between houses. I wind my way through the alleyways behind the streets of the Warren Estate, and discover that this part of town is just as charming now as it was when I was a kid.
The high brick walls and concrete-slab fences at the foot of each garden are covered in graffiti – not the artistic kind I’m used to seeing back home in Dalston, but crude messages in black spray paint. Suchabody is a slag, somebody else sucks cocks, and so on. And the graffiti isn’t the half of it. I count three abandoned mattresses, stained with God only knows what, slumped against the walls like hopeless drunks; two old fridges, one lying on its back, the other on its side, oozing brown liquid. Most disturbing of all, a blue holdall surrounded by a swarm of flies, with a dark patch of fur poking out between the teeth of its broken zipper. I cover my nose and hurry on until the chanting of the protestors grows loud, and I know I’ve reached the right place.
I stop to count the backs of the houses from one end of the street, to make sure I’ve got the right garden, then pull a filthy metal bin up to the high brick wall and, with some difficulty, clamber on top of it.
For as long as I can remember, the garden of number thirteen Milk Street has been full of junk. Useless off-cuts of timber, old car parts and broken bicycles. It was that way when I was a kid, and it was that way when I was last here, two years ago, when Connor was released. But what I find today when I peer over the wall, is a small, perfectly formed garden, with colourful plants and flowers of all kinds, and a trail of stepping stones embedded in a neat lawn that lead from the house’s back door to a small tool shed.
Either I’ve got the wrong house, or somebody has been very busy.
I count again. Definitely the right house.
With great effort, I hoist myself up on top of the wall, then swing my legs over to the other side and drop down onto the lawn, falling forwards and hitting the grass on all fours. I get to my feet, wipe the dirt off my hands, then walk over to the back door of the house. Putting a hand up to the glass to block out the reflections, I get a view of the kitchen leading into the hallway.
Perhaps I really have got the wrong house, I think, because what I see inside looks nothing like the kitchen I remember. Gone are the ancient appliances, stained yellow from years of nicotine. The sink, always piled high with dirty dishes, is empty, the taps gleaming. I’m pretty sure the rodent droppings I used to see on the kitchen work surfaces, like lost punctuation marks, will be gone too. Everything looks fresh and clean.
I rap my knuckles against the glass.
‘Connor,’ I whisper-shout, the way Freya does when she’s pretending to tell you a secret, but there’s no answer. I try again, not wanting to say his name too loudly, in case it attracts the attention of his neighbours. On my fourth attempt, the shape of a person leans into view in the hallway.
It’s Connor, all six feet four of him, dressed in jeans and a checked shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, showing off his muscular forearms. His dark hair has grown out, and by the looks of it, he’s a few pounds lighter than he was when I last saw him, but it’s definitely him.
I knock on the window again and hiss, ‘Con, it’s me!’
I get a glimpse of those piercing blue eyes of his, then he steps out of view for a moment before he reappears and rushes forward, closing the gap between us in four big steps. He unlocks the door and snatches it open in one swift movement, and before I know what’s happening, he pulls a cricket bat from behind him and swings.
The bat whips through the air, inches above my head, and smashes into the doorframe. I half duck, half stagger backwards, snag an ankle on the edge of a flagstone and go sprawling across the lawn.
Connor looms over me. ‘I’ve told you.’ He snarls. ‘Leave us alone!’
He pulls the cricket bat over his shoulder, getting ready for another swing, and by God, I’d forgotten how big he is, how powerful. The damage he could do …
‘Con, it’s me! It’s me!’ I say, trying to shield my head and pull back my hood at the same time. I close my eyes, brace for impact … But none comes. I feel the tension in the air slacken, look up and see Connor staring down at me.
‘Jess?’ He lowers the bat, reaches out a hand to help me up.
‘Bloody hell, Con!’ I say, as he hauls me to my feet. ‘You nearly took my head off.’
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I thought you were one of them.’ He jerks his head towards the front of the house, towards the sound of the protestors. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Oh, you know,’ I say, brushing the dirt off the back of my jeans. ‘I was just passing.’