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SO SHALL YE REAP
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means,including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher
The moral right of the author has been asserted British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Revenge Ink Unit 13 Newby Road, Hazel Grove, Stockport Cheshire, SK7 5DA, UK www.revengeink.com ISBN 978-0-9565119-0-4
Copyright Š Matthew Reuben Jackson 2010 Typeset in Paris by Patrick Lederfain Printed in the EU
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SO SHALL YE REAP
MAT JACKSON
Revenge Ink
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To Mum and Dad, Lifelong learning and love
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She could hear someone approaching, and called for her mummy. Maybe it was mummy? There were new sounds too, someone screamed, another car stopped, voices, French, someone on the phone, things happening. Then there was a face at the buckled hole where the window had been. His face was smeared with blood, Tshirt soaked in it, but it was definitely him, for sure. Was she dreaming? A nightmare? How could this be? What was he doing here? It couldn’t be real. We were in France, weren’t we? “Uncle Dave?” Elizabeth whispered incredulously. He hadn’t seen her for two and a half years, since Simon and Jessica came up to stay that Christmas. And she’d grown up so much. So beautiful. “Lizzie, sweetheart!? Oh my God!” He reached in through the open window, releasing Lizzie’s belt and holding his arms open for her. He knew from the mangled wreckage that his wife’s brother Simon, and their younger child Daniel would have had no hope of survival, crushed in an instant. And through his tears he sobbed. “Oh, honey, come here, come to uncle Dave. Me and Aunty Sandra will love you so much, my little angel, so much! You will be happy with us…” and he hugged her tight, feeling the warmth of her soft body through the flimsy summer dress, her blonde ponytails tickling his face.
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1 DOVER
What really pissed him off was the woman’s attitude. Typical. Fockin’ typical. No help at all. “Yes, well, I’m sorry, sir,” she explained, eyeing the dishevelled lorry driver with distaste, “but if you wanted the cheaper rate,” emphasising the word as if she had already decided this was the only salient point in his argument, “you should have phoned 24 hours in advance, or used the Internet.” “I haven’t got the Inter-fockin’-net, ‘av I, love? And I only knew last thing yesterdi night that I was going, so how the fock could I fockin’ phone?” On the edge of losing control now, his eyes blazed and he could feel a small vein throb in his sweating temple. Maureen Banks had woken fifteen minutes late that morning. It didn’t take her long to realise that her husband had forgotten once again to reset the hot
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water that he had drained when he showered. She stalked downstairs for breakfast, the black cloud of her mood already settling heavy for the day. He had also managed to finish the dregs of the milk, obviously to spite her and the last two dry crusts languished in the rolltop aluminium bread-bin. By the time she set off on the twenty-minute drive to the P&O ticket office, she was suppressing the urge to be gratuitously violent towards someone. Anyone. And here, in all his splendour, the first customer of the interminable day presented himself: bloodshot bleary eyes, baggy with the fatigue of life, gawping out from the mess of graying, unbrushed hair topping off his crumpled open-neck blue polyester shirt, discoloured sweat rings at the armpits. Couldn’t he see the collar was frayed? She looked down at the papers on her desk and back up at her antagoniser, his stare now wild with the perceived injustice of his situation, stubbled, jowly cheeks adding a ridiculous air of irrelevance to his complaint. She mentally discarded the official handbook of Client Interaction (penned, she had always thought, by an anonymous group of faceless morons who had never had the early morning pleasures of this man and his ilk) and leant forward, checking behind her as she did for any sign of her superiors. “Look, I don’t make the rules, okay? I can’t change the system. That’s the price. Now, do you want the bloody ticket or not?”
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She put Dave in mind of his first teacher at primary school. Bossy bitch, she did that glasses-on-the-endof-the-nose thing as well and the old rage at her frequent humiliations of him boiled to the surface. Yeah, that was it, Mrs F. Riggs. Mrs F for Fockin’ Bitch Riggs. Smelt of… what was it? Dunno, some sort of chemical. He’d picked some up once in a cargo and it had nearly made him vomit. “Young David. Do you know the answer? No? Why not, I’ve just told the class. Come out here. Yes that’s right, stand and face the class. Now, you tell them how stupid you are. Louder! And you keep saying it until I tell you to stop!” But she didn’t say stop. It started with a nervous giggle. One of the girls at the back, Rachel – he liked her, she was pretty – giggled, then laughed out loud. The whole class joined in – uncontrollable, immature relief at not being today’s target. Anyone else would do. Laughing. Laughing. His first day at that school had stayed etched in his mind forever. He’d really liked the smiley Mrs Riggs he saw when mummy had dropped him off. The jarring realisation that he was abandoned there, isolated and alone set him off crying. But she just shouted. Shouted so loud that he was scared to talk to her again, too scared to tell her later that he needed the toilet. So he urinated where he sat, in his trousers, in that red plastic chair, the warm, nervous, acid smell
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alerting the little girl next to him. He remembered the look on her face, the fascinated revulsion, the way she stood. Moved away. Slow motion. Don’t say. Don’t notice. Please. Don’t say. No. Then the pointing, staring, laughing. Everyone turning. He couldn’t help it. He didn’t know what to do. Mrs F. Riggs, Mrs F. for Fockin’ Bitch Riggs moved in, hissing close in his ear, sibilant threats that froze his delicate little heart, words he didn’t even understand. “Dirty little pisser! I’ll cut it off if you do that in my class again, do you hear me!” The smiley lady mummy had left him with marched him to the front of the class and turned him by the shoulder to face his peers announcing to the enthralled, gleeful assembly, “Look what the New Boy has done!” Laughter. “What a baby! Go and get clean and do the rest of your day in your pants. And let that be a lesson to all of you!” He didn’t have the first idea what she meant but ran from the room drowning in shame, keen to be away from the invasive gaze of the class. He dabbed at his legs with some tissue and stood by the classroom door, waiting to be accepted. She took her time. He heard Mrs Smiley Riggs, Mrs F. for Fockin’ Bitch Riggs explaining to his mummy that they’d had to dry off his trousers a little after his accident, the poor darling. Even in his small mind, he knew there were two versions of this story. But he didn’t say.
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“Yeah, give us the fockin’ ticket!” he snarled. He slapped the cash down on the counter and snatched it from her hand, striding towards the exit. “Roll on six o’clock…” Maureen muttered with a shake of her head. She could hear the man mumbling, mumbling, “F for Fockin’ Bitch Riggs Basstad. You’ll pay for it one day. I’ll show the fockin’ lot of yer one day!” He hesitated by the sliding doors, turning slightly and shouted back into the room, “F for Fockin’ Bitch Riggs Basstad!” Then walked out.
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2 JESSICA
The dream was stronger this time. Clearer. She could even put a face to the man. She became aware of the woodpigeons cooing in the morning mist outside her bedroom window, a familiar haunting five-beat rhythm breaking through into her subconscious, forming words, “Please love me, my friend… please love me, my friend.” The first rays of strong summer sunlight beamed in through the glazed cart lodge windows, stirring Jessica from her restless sleep. She had kicked the duvet off in the muggy night and tossed and turned through the remaining hours, resenting Simon’s heavy breathing more and more. She knew he would wake in the morning having slumbered through the night, moaning how little ‘true’ sleep he got ‘with his back’. The complaint had started to grate on Jessica months ago, but last week
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she snapped. It all spilled out: how resentful it made her feel having to put up with his puffing and blowing all through the small hours, how hard it was for her to get any sleep. They hadn’t argued that way in ages – not since Elizabeth started school three and a half years ago. It acted as a pressure valve and afterwards Jessica felt guilty for days at the inconsequential tidbits she had harboured against Simon for so long. She spat them out in venomous rage during the fight, but as they left her lips, they hung limp in the air like impotent balloons, leaving her feeling silly and childish. And Simon, for the first time ever, decided to turn it to his advantage. Normally placid and laidback, he sank into a deep teenage sulk, eighteen years too late, from which he refused to emerge for three days. They had been married for ten years now, and Jessica knew what made him tick. It was the eventual threatened withdrawal of marital services that had put paid to the whole ridiculous episode. “Well, I just can’t feel close to you when you’re acting like this towards me – I have said I’m sorry, please let it go? I really want to make you feel good, but you make it impossible for me…” Simon recognised the last sentence for the veiled threat that it was. It meant spurned advances, cold ‘your-side-of-the-bed’ nights and he realised he had run the full course with this one. He broke surface with his lopsided, awkward half-smile and they
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cuddled. Jessica should have felt better, but something very deep inside was bothering her. The sunlight was now streaming in through the full length window-wall of the bedroom, and she knew that her last chance of sleep had evaporated. Seeing 5:30 on the clock – a full hour before the alarm was due to go off – she sighed and sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. She looked back across at Simon, a melancholy wave sweeping through her. He was still fit and looked after himself, but… They both slept naked and her eyes drifted over his body. Still has trouble with the Ol’ Morning Glory, she thought to herself. Unsurprised at the lack of emotion she felt, she crinkled her toes into the luxurious carpet and padded to the en-suite. Splashing her face with warm water, she looked at her reflection in the large smoked mirror, close up at her eyes, the faint trace of wrinkles at the corners starting to become more noticeable now. She reached up with her left hand and tip-tapped under her eyes with her index finger. Were they bags? Dammit, bags? Oh, boy, the beginning of the end! Mum had those and now I’m gonna end up looking just like her… No, must be the light. Always said we shouldn’t have downlighters in the bathroom, casting worrying shadows. She retreated from the mirror, triumphant in its honesty. Then moved in close again for the next battle.
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Eyebrows. Bloody things, grow faster the more you pluck them. Few… odd… stray… hairs... yup, got ‘em! That’ll do for today. She stood up straight and pushed her shoulders back, ruffled her dirty-blonde hair with the fingers of both hands for what Simon called that ‘Freshly Shagged Hair’ look and pulled her tummy in flat. Yeah, ok, not bad, she thought, maybe you do still have it! She folded her arms across her bust and tried to enlarge her cleavage. It made no discernable difference; she shrugged. Ah, well, big boobs, looks and a decent income, two outta three ain’t bad! She had an hour to herself before the mayhem began. Soon she would have to get Elizabeth ready for the school run, make Simon’s breakfast and, hardest of all, get Daniel up and ready. Until he was five, Daniel had been first awake every morning, tugging at the duvet for someone to go play Duplo with him or set up the Disney videos, but since he turned six four months ago he mysteriously hit his lazy teenage years. It was a daily trauma even to get him vertical, then only into sleep-walking mode for the next hour. He developed a built in word-counter that allowed him to respond to a call-to-action around the eighth request, frustrating any attempt to leave the house anywhere near on time. Jessica would not raise her voice to her children, preferring the longer-term drip-feed benefit of explanation to the instant knee-jerk response of
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heated shouting matches she had witnessed so many times before. She stepped into the open shower cubicle and turned the shower-head to full pulse cold, letting the invigorating spray spike her skin and cut a path through the mist of her early morning mind. He stood there large as life, his brown eyes smiling at her through the water. If she closed her eyes she could even smell that almost undetectable masculine aroma that was all his, hear the soft lilt in his voice as he leant towards her. She ran the soap over her body, down over her breasts and onto her stomach, deliberate in the slow smoothness of her action, seeing herself as if through someone else’s eyes, aware of the seductiveness of her movements. The sensuality of the moment trembling within her, tingling in her thighs, harsh soft spray tips studding her flesh, exciting, exaggerating. She felt his strong arms around her middle, yes, he was standing behind her now, it would have to be behind her, and she relaxed back, smiling, into his caress. Christ, why wouldn’t he get out of her head? *
After her shower, Jessica found she still had a clear half-hour before she needed to stir the house into
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action. She pulled on her towelling robe, slipped into her open-back slippers and went downstairs. Everything from the previous evening had been washed and stored, fresh to start a new day, just the way she liked it. She flicked on the kettle and dropped back into the kitchen sofa, picking up her halffinished ‘Hello’ magazine from the coffee table beside her. She came to an abrupt halt on page fifty, where she had stopped last night and with a pulse-racing rush, had to put the magazine down again. There was that photo again. It shocked her. It even hurt her a little. And yet, it was not someone she knew personally. She made herself look at it again, study it, and the more she looked, the more she understood why it bothered her so much. It was a typical non-descript paparazzi picture of Brad Pitt and the lips woman, sidling arm in arm into a nightclub somewhere, anywhere – he was wearing a black suit and V-neck T-shirt, his Hollywood hair in a state of precision dishevelment, a lopsided, oddly self-aware grin on his boyish face. It was the clothes, the suit. Damn. Friday evening, four nights ago, the whole office had decided to go to the wine bar in the basement of the adjacent building, a kind of survival celebration, another week endured unscathed. Jessica worked in Wentworth Street in London’s East End, and the area – for years a wholesale textile Indian sub-continent –
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had exploded up-market, providing a plethora of Western-palette Eastern restaurants, wine bars and focaccia bun merchants. Everyone who hadn’t bought property there cursed their shortsightedness at missing the potential of an underdeveloped area just one kilometre from the heart of the city. Everyone who had bought there thanked their lucky stars that the borough had rocketed in value for no reason they could see and acted like the new real-estate gurus at ever more frequent nouveau riche soirees: Well, the rapt assembly had better follow their lead in markets if they really want to stay ahead of the game now… This particular evening, with the obvious exception of Tom, the senior partner, no one had cried off. No ‘wives waiting at home’, no ‘must-be-up-early-in-themorning’. No excuses. All 28 people in the office had mumbled into the bar, shuffling through the door like they barely knew each other. The comfort zone of email and hidey-hole half-height partitioning was gone and their blunted social skills were now to be tested one on one in face-to-face combat with their colleagues. Time for alcohol. Jessica ordered her usual Cabernet Shiraz, the tart pepper of the Shiraz slicing blissfully through the workday gloom. She moved to the back of the bar and stood to face Donna. Typist. Receptionist. Numbskull. Fine company for a wine bar after a hard day’s work. “Hey.”
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“Oh, awrite babe!” Donna fired back. “I feel like I don’t know no one. Been here four weeks and all I get is little blokes leering at me bust and e-mails from people I don’t know, asking me to do stuff I dunno how to do.” She flapped at Jessica’s arm with her free hand, “Oh I don’t mean you, babe.” Jessica sipped her wine. “You’ve been great. It’s the others, ye know? Don’t seem too friendly, like I’m below ‘em or summat.” “It’s okay really,” Jessica said. “They’ll warm up after a while and then they’ll all want to be your best mate. I’ve heard some places can be really cliquey and political, but you won’t get that at Foster and Dawbs. I think it’s because the bosses are still part of it. Tom’ll step in if he hears there’s anything wrong and sort it out straightaway. I’ll have a little word, anyway. Put it right.” They chatted on for some time, the topics wandered in various directions, Donna was married and divorced “…all that by 26, I know, I can’t hardly believe it either, but he was a right pig…”, discussing best holidays, previous work, old boyfriends, “…and I like this bubbly, dunno what it is, but give me sweet and fizzy any day…” Jessica enjoyed the informality of the evening, the unwinding and the feeling of the chambré red easing the daily barricades from her mind. As Donna trundled on, Jessica became aware that someone was looking at her; a sensation, a feeling and she adjusted the focus of her gaze over Donna’s right shoulder.
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For a split-second time stood still, her partner evaporated, the music was silenced and replaced by the beat of her heart pounding in her ears. She was alone in this room full of people with the man whose eyes had just met hers, whose stare rested on her for a few fractions of a second longer than she expected and whose neat black suit and black V-neck T-shirt would stay imprinted on her mind for a long time to come. She thought she half-recognised his face, not someone she knew, but had seen him around once or twice before, maybe even in here. He was striking, would have to be for her to notice him, let alone remember him. Tall, classically handsome, but most of all he possessed a strange confidence, no beyond confidence, an aura. An aura about him, that was it. Few men had it, and those who thought they did were often the ones furthest from it. She sensed it in him, and found it fascinating, compelling. Addictive. He was with a group of three men, all strangers to her, his body facing their primitive, protective social circle, but his head and mind in a very different place. He had been aware of Jessica from the moment she stepped through the door. He had lost interest in the back-slapping, bawdy bonhomie of the group’s bar banter and followed her every move, mentally dialling down the ambient noise in the bar. He studied her as she ordered her wine, betting on a Cabernet Sauvignon, fascinated at her lack of concern with the
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busy waiter’s impatience; she insisted on tasting it before settling the bill. He studied her as she walked with confidence to the back of the bar. No defensive signals there, he thought. No hair tugs, no nervous fiddling. She didn’t hold the drink across her chest, but low to one side, open and inviting. She seemed unconcerned with what her mini-skirted friend was galloping on about, but paid polite attention. She looked smart, in dress and wit. Her black skirt suit over a white square neck lycra top was impeccable, shoes formal enough but heeled to accentuate her shapely, fit calves. And that hair. She looked up and caught his gaze and he felt himself drowning in her blue eyes, Christ, those eyes… Oh, Jasus, she’s coming straight at me…! She forced herself to turn away from him and focused on what Donna had been saying. Suddenly, it didn’t seem too important or even interesting. “Donna, hold that thought will you for a second, must visit the little girls’ room,” and she stepped away without waiting for an answer. She hadn’t planned it, but the toilets happened to be on the other side of the room, just past the group of men with whom Black Suit was involved. She walked deliberately towards him, holding his eyes with hers – a small bite of the bottom lip – and giggled inside as she registered the slight edge of concern taint his confident gaze. She allowed a flicker
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of a smile as she looked past him, murmured, “Excuse me”, and squeezed sideways right through the middle of his group of friends, facing him. “Oh Christ, that was outrageous,” she whispered once in the safety of the toilets. “Red wine courage, I never do things like that…” Then to her surprise found she was justifying it to herself, as well. How often is it that a handsome guy really checks you out like that? And Simon’s being such a prat with his sulking. And he really was a looker, that’s for sure. She rejoined Donna, managing to skirt unseen around the rear of Black Suit’s group. The music seemed louder, the bar busier and the atmosphere headier than when she left just a few minutes earlier. Donna seemed a little distracted and explained that she had just got a text from her new boyfriend who it seemed had been expecting her home after all. Without thinking, Jessica replied “Well it’s probably best that you make a move then…” The blatant barb was lost on Donna, who nodded in agreement. She snatched up her handbag and with a backwards glance, called bye and left. Jessica was alone, a little awkward and aware that she had been somewhat deserted. There was a light pressure on the top of her arm and she turned and saw Him standing over her. “Now that’ll be needing a little top up very shortly,” he said, a mild Irish accent playing around the edges of his soft, deep voice.
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The melt was instant. Chocolate schoolgirl. “Oh no, really I’m fine…” Jessica started, tailed off and found herself staring into the most magnetic brown eyes she’d ever seen. He had already relieved her of her wine glass and was pushing through the throng towards the bar. “It’s just a little company. I’ve been with Donna all evening and that didn’t mean anything. It’s just a little company…” The words were still echoing inside her head as he returned. He studied her as she tasted the wine, raising his own glass to her. He’d opted for a Cabernet Sauvignon, a good one. He had asked for a fresh glass, which meant he wasn’t over-confident. “Close,” she said, “I’m impressed! Last one was a Cab Shiraz.” “Ah! Spice of life lady, eh? Good choice. I should have guessed, knew it was Cabernet, and should have guessed the Shiraz. Damn, I’m slipping!” He laughed, and then checked himself almost theatrically. “Really rude of me,” he started, “it’s just that I couldn’t help noticing that you looked a little forlorn when your friend ran out like that.” Then, extending his hand, “James, Mr James McGhinty, Irish if you hadn’t already guessed,” he smiled a broad, perfectly white smile. Her heart leapt. Christ, those eyes! She reacted almost subconsciously, switching the wine glass to her left hand and reaching out with her right. He took her hand in his, smiling and shook it
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twice. As she was about to retract, he squeezed a little harder and shook it again, in control, more deliberate. He held her eyes with his own and she sensed rather than saw the slightest flicker, almost imperceptible… It wasn’t a jolt, a shock or anything quite as sudden – more like a wave starting at the fingertips of her right hand and sweeping up in a rush of intense emotion. The aura she had detected from afar seemed to envelop her, cocoon her in an invisible bubble. It was nothing and it was everything; his warmth, his smell, his voice, his eyes… “Well, James, Mr James McGhinty, I’m Jessica, Jessica Balans…” She paused for just an instant before continuing. The hesitation went unnoticed, but stayed with her as she played and replayed the scenario over and over in her head later. “My… name originates from Belgium, long story, won’t bore you”. She’d been a heartbeat from saying “My husband is Belgian…” But she’d held back, and in so doing had set foot on a road that could lead anywhere… or nowhere. But a path she had chosen, nonetheless. “Now, there’s a coincidence,” he replied and she saw his smile wane just a fraction. “Aha, and why might that be?” Jessica countered coquettishly. “It’s nothing,” he said with the smallest shake of the head, warning her off.
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And she should have left it there. But his hesitation intrigued her, made her more inquisitive than she should’ve been. “Aw, come on, let me guess. Trying to alert me, yeah? That’s your wife’s name, right?” she smiled. “Actually, you’re right, it was.” Jessica felt herself scrabbling to retract the word before it left her mouth, but it was too late… “Was?” she said. James half-smiled, then with a small nod of his head, “She died in a road traffic accident six years ago.” She mumbled something akin to an apology, feeling herself blush to the core as the sobering enormity of her crassness hit home. “Oh look, hey don’t worry!” A real smile now. “It’s been long enough for me to know that firstly it’s gonna come up, and secondly there’s no soft landing. But that’s it. It’s out there and done. Come on. So how about we turn the little spotlight around on you?” They talked on, and she gradually forgot the sinking sensation her faux-pas had induced. He was adroit at putting her back at ease and she felt the need to discover more about James. She drank in the singsong tones of his voice, and feasted on his eyes as they chatted on and on. He was a skilful conversationalist, wouldn’t talk about his work and always managed to give her back the floor. She found she was opening up
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to him, easily discussing things that had been locked away. She didn’t want the evening to end. The subject drifted round to her work. “Oh, there’s really not a lot interesting about me. I’m a junior partner in an accountancy firm just around the corner,” she stated. “Woah, junior partner, royalty eh!?” “Hmm, hardly. Lot of slog, little reward, I’m sure you know the scenario. And you?” Jessica prompted. “Not even as interesting as that,” James said, “accountancy too, but I’m not a junior partner. How long did it take you to get there?” “Oh, around six years I reckon, from when I first started with them. They say that’s the quickest ever, so I suppose I must be a quick worker. Erm, in the field of accountancy,” she added with a little smile. “Of course,” James said, leaning a fraction closer, his voice then dropping a little, “whatever else would you have meant.” Jessica sensed the slight air of tension spark between them – nothing more than a feeling, and she was enjoying the thrill of the situation. Her fatheaded, wined-up colleagues were too steeped by now to realise what was going on in their own heads, let alone outside them; too engrossed in their little huddles discussing whatever trivia it was they found so vital. They weren’t taking any notice of her at all, but if one of them had turned round and seen the black-suited, dark-eyed Irishman leaning just a little
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too close to the attractive blonde staring up into his eyes, they may have thought the two had known each other for more than just an hour. Because that’s how it felt. Very much how it felt. And that’s how it ended that evening. Sixty minutes after their first introduction, James rested his hand on Jessica’s arm and said, “Look it’s been really great bumping into you, I feel like I’ve known you ages already. But. Always a but isn’t there? But I’ve got a prior with my best mate round the corner and he’s getting married in two weeks. He’d never let me forget it if I blew him out now! Listen, just a thought, if you’re not busy Monday – maybe we could grab a bite?” To Jessica, enjoying a mildly warm-hearted flirt, the question bought her up sharply to the reality of who she was and what she was doing. “Oh I’m, er, not free. I’m sorry,” she fumbled and stopped, finding for the first time that she was unable to look James in the eye. “Ok, whatever,” he breezed, “maybe we’ll just bump into one another again, eh?” No, no, that’s not what I meant, she thought, but really wasn’t sure what she had meant. She wasn’t free, not Monday, not ever, she wasn’t free at all. But she knew she couldn’t finish the story. He leant forward slowly, gauging her reaction as he did, and Jessica made no move away. The smell of him, warm and masculine, the faintest hint of a
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stylish cologne she didn’t recognise, lingered as did the soft kiss he placed on her left cheek. “Seeya around,” he whispered, before turning and melting into the crowd. “Christ, Christ,” she cursed herself under her breath. She waved one or two goodnights to the few semi-sober suits still standing and left, up the stairs and into the balmy June evening. She attempted to smile it off, convince herself that it was only a little light flirting… that, of course, she could take or leave. Couldn’t she? She was happily married… she was married and not looking for anyone or anything, so there would be no problem. But he was still in her thoughts; and in her eyes when she closed them to see if she could make him disappear. His words, the lilt of his accent, echoed somewhere deep inside her, making her smile. Making her frown and shake her head. Autopilot kicked in and Jessica was soon seated on the 21:30 from Liverpool Street, London to Colchester, no stops. That’d make it 11ish when she got home, and she wondered, just idly wondered if Simon would still be up waiting for her. He’d ditched his sulk, so she supposed they’d chat about how things had gone at work today. How her whole office had gone out for once, how she’d had her favourite Cab Shiraz and unwound chatting with the new girl Donna. Who, by the way, he would like for the two
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main reasons the old boys ‘up top’ had given her the job. What a great laugh they’d had, and then she came home, how was his day? Her thoughts wandered back, her first few words with James. “My wife’s name was Jessica…” Christ, she thought, idiot. But he had been so kind and handled it so well, really like he hadn’t minded at all. “Monday, maybe we could grab a bite…?” God she would have loved to have just said yes and spent another evening with those soft brown eyes, that manly smell, that gentle Irish brogue… Christ. Oh, Christ.
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3 GRIMSHAW
The cramped cab of the Scania 18-wheeler stank. David Grimshaw slept loud, untidy and smelly. Most driving nights would finish with curry sauce and chips washed down with two cans of Guinness – it helped little but contributed a lot. The early morning sunlight hit the windscreen and half-illuminated the scruffy interior. At the same time, his alarm shrilled out and a large, flabby pallid hand crept from under the duvet in search of the snooze button. It failed. “Ah, fock,” he burbled through sleep-slimed, bubbling lips. “Fockin’, fockin’ focks.” Pause. “Fockin’ shoite it.” He heaved himself up onto one elbow, yawned, blinked and squinted his unfocusing eyes a few times. He broke wind violently.
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“Tuesdee fockin’ morning. I hate Tuesdee fockin’ mornin’ ,” he snarled, through gobs of spittle. He inhaled through his nose. “Bit fockin’ gamey.” He had driven down from Leicester the previous evening and parked his cab and trailer in an overnight lay-by just outside Dover, ready to catch the 6 am P&O sailing to Calais. He woke there now and eyed the open, empty landscape with suspicion, not another person in sight, ominous calm before the uproar of the day began. The silence exaggerated the isolation he often felt on these park-up mornings; not a soul seemed inclined to go in the direction he was headed. Very unusually, he had been booked for an empty run out to the South of France for a full load collection to return to base in Leicester. The client offered to pay full haulage both ways and needed someone local in the midlands he could rely on. “Well, it’s your money pal,” Dave had explained on the phone, “I can get someone down there to bring it up at half the price… Ok. I get the message, I’ll do it myself no problem.” The client had insisted and if he wanted to throw an extra thousand pounds at Dave for no good reason, he wasn’t going to argue too hard. He had someone who could mind the yard for a week, and business being the way it was at the moment, it would be a welcome break and a positive fillip for cash flow. The 420-horsepower, 12-cylinder diesel coughed twice and burst into life, choking the lay-by with
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white foggy fumes hanging heavy in the damp dawn air. Releasing the airbrakes, Dave pulled out onto the A2, signalling belatedly with a shrug, and ran the truck up to a steady lumber, heading for the port. There was only one destination on the road he had chosen and the juggernaut appeared to know its own way there now, sensing his direction, seeming to know its own fate. Dave looked out across the bleak landscape. The twin red eyes of the West Hougham radio mast reciprocated his lingering stare, the dusty orange glow of the approaching port hand-painting the horizon, bright against the fracturing slate-grey clouds. His mind wandered as he trundled through the sleeping town centre with its ludicrous parade of ramshackle cardboard cut-out hotels, chandlers and greasy-spoon cafes. Physically dwarfed by the white cliffs beyond, they seemed to know their place, huddled below the timeless might of this natural barrier, so much a symbol of resistance and victory. “More a fockin’ greetin’ point for the basstad immigrunts nowadays,” he snorted. “They must be well chuffed when they spot them white cliffs. ‘Ey, come in Adolf or fockin’ Saddam! Home n’ dry, and we’ll support ya ever more… Sign up, sign on and take me taxes for a good spend-up!” He wound the large power-assisted steering wheel to the right at the end of the main road, and pulled the vehicle to a halt across five parking bays in the
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ticket office car park. He collected his tickets, spitting venom at the useless bitch they’d put there just to annoy him and stalked back to the truck, impatient now to get on with his voyage. Gunning the engine to full revs, choking the area with heavy diesel smoke, he headed towards the row of illuminated ticket-checking booths with a laugh. He pulled across to the far right hand side of the truck lanes, purposefully lining himself up next to a car and caravan combination in the next row. From his high cab vantage point he could look right down into the vehicle adjacent. The car queue moved forward, taking its anonymous cargo with it. He jumped the truck forward twice, bumper to bumper with the 7.5 tonne curtain-sider in front of him. “Come on ye tosser, move it…” he whispered menacingly. The smaller truck in front moved off, and he shadowed it forward to the inch, almost pushing it up the queue. This time he managed to stop right opposite the car just as it inched ahead. He was sure there were two adults in the front and thought he could make out two girls in the back seat curled up under a blanket. “Sweeeet,” he murmured. “Just love the start of the summer holidays. Roads full of family caravaners.” He completed the ticket and security formalities (how stupid was that, “Are you carrying any
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contraband material?”, “Oh yes officer, I forgot, here’s this AK forty fockin’ seven and ten tonnes o’ bleedin’ semtex”) and with the skill of many road years, squeezed the truck into place on the bottom deck of the throbbing ferry. At least P&O got the cooked breakfast sorted, he thought. Used to be utter shoite, but now I’m quite looking for’erd to a good stoke-up. Plenty of beans and crispy, fatty bacon, great start to the day! He meandered up the steep metal stairs to the passenger decks and joined the back of the breakfast line. The ferry’s engines thundered for a few seconds and the vessel crabbed sideways from the dock. Dave glanced out of the window at the brightening morning sky – lazy morning clouds painted pastel pinks on the subtlest of blue backgrounds – and smiled. He had made this trip so many times now, knew the routes and timings so well that he had begun to feel at home onboard. Dorothy Warnes had worked all her life. Her rented flat in Dover, she shared with her only daughter, Patsy: 31, dull, single and ugly enough to stay so. It didn’t occur to her that it seemed so very little to show for a life devoted to her departed husband and lingering child. She appeared satisfied that her fag allowance saved her 30 quid a week and earned her another 20 selling on what she couldn’t
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smoke. She didn’t stop to ask herself what it was all for, why she had done it, where her life was going, what would she pass on. For her, the satisfaction was in spending her life sacrificing her own desires and preferences for those around her… Nowadays, she tried not to dwell on the loss that had torn her heart in two as she had nursed her dying husband through the final days of terminal cancer. How had she ever found the strength to live with the mind-numbing pain of seeing her second child give up his struggle for life at only three months old? They had tried for four years for little Stephen, and he was special. Her husband had already been diagnosed by this time and they knew between them that it was the end. Unspoken words, just two minds on the same track. They never said the C word to each other, she remembered, almost like it would invite the disease into the room, give it some increased potency. He survived long enough to watch his only son die. Life. The smoke-hewn lines in her sallow, powdered cheeks, ploughed deeper with the frets and fears of a single working mother, told a thousand tales of lonely nights and an endless horizon of monotonous days… “Mornin’ Dot!” Dave called, as he edged to the front of the line. He didn’t recognise her at all, but used her name badge to announce the superiority of his frequent traveller status to the other passengers.
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They never minded familiarity, her sort, and chances were she would play along with the charade just in case she ought to know him. Silly bitch… He’d get something out of this one, he’d put money on it. She looked simple enough. Easy job. No worries. “Oh hello, love,” she smiled. Bingo! “How’s you today?” Dot. Polite. “Ye know, up and down, in and out, but try not to moan,” he moaned. He considered calling her bluff by asking for ‘the usual’ when she gesticulated with her prongs over the crisped hash browns and quizzed him with a lift of her pencil-blackened eyebrows. But the fake bonhomie gave him a warm sense of belonging, and he felt no need to embarrass her. He selected his statutory six items, pushing the reluctant Dot for some extra beans, and chose one of the ubiquitous silver teapots from the hotplate. Last time he’d crossed, the staff left the hotplate on full by mistake and Dave took the skin off his thumb. The ensuing melee of dropped breakfast and cursing brought the supercilious supervisor scuttling over and a free all-you-can-eat seemed the only way to placate the enraged trucker. That time he recalled with clarity, he had sat opposite a family of four in the window section, the little dark-haired girl dropping some ketchup down
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her pink T-shirt. Even Dave had winced as the skinny shrill mother verbally assaulted the pretty little thing until tears ran down her cheeks. The swift vengeance of Fate had had an evil sense of humour that day and as the mother leant forward to push her weasel face closer to her daughter’s, she knocked over her own juice cup. “Blahdi ‘ell, now look what you’ve made me do!” she had shrieked, every head in the room turning to see what type of hircine creature could be capable of such a cacophony of cursing. Dave shook his head as he thought back over the incident. If he’d ever been a parent, he would have so cherished and loved his daughters. He knew he’d have girls, just felt it. Most o’ these basstads ain’t got a fockin’ clue, he thought, closer to the truth than he would ever know. I’d know how to treat ‘em right! He recalled the humiliated look on the girl’s face, her dark eyes wet with tears, flitting from person to person around the room as the mother continued her tirade. She had looked so helpless, so defenceless. At one point, she had even tried to counter with, “But how can it be my fault?” only to receive the tonguelashing reserved for the drill Sergeant’s foul mouth. Bitch! Dave thought, shaking his head. For a moment he had considered saying something to her. Her husband had been sitting there, his stubbled chipmunk cheeks stuffed with breakfast, nodding and
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stabbing the air with his fork to reinforce the lemonfaced venomous serpent’s abuse. Dave had looked back out of the window as the snake backed off, satisfied that her quarry had been annihilated, sniping off the odd tail-end shot to prolong the incident. Dave resented the fact that Sandra hadn’t given him any children. He resented it a lot. It wasn’t a physical problem; she planted herself firmly on the pill claiming that the timing wasn’t quite right, that she wasn’t quite ready for the parental lifestyle just yet. Her brother had kids by then, and he seemed to cope, even after an uprooting move down South. But that wasn’t enough to change her mind. He tried to be patient and thought he understood that she needed time to adjust to the pressures and commitments that being a mother would bring. But the relationship deteriorated with time and the chances of children grew dimmer by the month. Then after seven or eight years of marriage, as Sandra turned 35 and Dave 37, things changed drastically. Their ‘lovemaking’ ground to a halt, and she became more and more hostile towards him. He felt too confused to pursue the issue with her, too abandoned to fight his corner when she refused him out of hand with another simplistic answer. She fended him off time and again with arms-length responses. Everything was fine, there were no problems, not right now, not in the mood… Then it happened. Six months after the initial
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freeze, Sandra announced one morning before work that she would prefer separate beds from now on. They could stay married if he liked, but no more sex. If he liked. If he fockin’ liked, he’d show her if he fockin’ liked. The calm considered manner in which she delivered her conclusion, her conclusion, boiled him inside. He felt the blood rush to his cheeks, heard that detached noise in his ears. Yet he kept his calm. This was not going to be her hour, her victory, he would see to that. His time would come. But Dave had been devastated. Even after all this time, when he thought back, that ultimate rejection made his eyes prick, forcing him to pull his mind away to a different subject. Another rejection. She was no different from all the rest and he would teach them all a painful lesson someday. What had he done? Was there someone else? Not likely. He even wondered if she’d ‘gone lesbo’; she seemed pretty close to that Lesley bitch that was always hanging around, sneering at him about his waistline or lack of dress sense. “I’m a trucker, ye silly cow. We’re not all Kris Kristofferson,” he’d counter in mock humour. But it stung. He resented Lesley’s constant presence more and more, and came to despise her. She’d be there whenever he got back, perched on the pine kitchen barstool, one pallid chicken-skin leg crossed over at the knee, flapping her wooden Scholls in some sort of
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ludicrous, unheard rhythm. Smoking his duty-free cigarettes and knocking back tumblers of anything alcoholic from his cupboard. Her and Sandra laughing and cackling, taking the piss, pissed on his booze, pissing on his hard work, pissing him off more than they could know. Laughing at him. Laughing. Laughing. Still he couldn’t believe there was anything like that between them. Lesley was like a bloke for a start, and there’d be signs, he’d pick something up wouldn’t he? She was ugly as sin, and although he didn’t know how lesbos worked, surely they’d go for someone a bit tasty as well, wouldn’t they? Make-up, black stockings, all the works; like in his magazines? Maybe it was the sex. He did okay, he thought. She got where she needed to go. Well, sometimes anyway. He’d read once in Razzle that women don’t really even need to come like men do all the time, so it didn’t matter, did it? And the birds in there loved it a bit dirty, a bit rough. In the stories, they took on whole rugby clubs and loved every minute of it. So what the fockin’ ‘ek was her problem? Sure, his fantasies were a bit extreme towards the end, but she would have said rather than just close down, wouldn’t she? Anyway, he needed them and they’d seem to come out even if he tried to resist. Wasn’t his fault. It was fantasy after all, he wouldn’t do
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it in real life, it just made his head buzz when they talked about it. His thoughts churned deeper into some of the things he got her to talk about in bed, one in particular sweating its way to the top of the heap. A small smile tickled the corner of his lips, his eyes glazed and he absent-mindedly pressed his thumb into the zip of his jeans. A loud blast of the ferry’s klaxon cut through his thoughts. A young family sat in the booth next to him. Dad was in de rigueur chino Bermudas, trekker sandals and a fitted rib T-shirt, the cotton lycra clinging to the curve of his pectorals, the tight cuff short sleeves accentuating his worked-out bicep. “Yeah, okay mate. I used to be that shape once,” he lied to himself. The pretty young mum wore her highlighted blonde hair in a scruffy bob topping the simplicity of her white summer printed mini dress. Dave put her in her early thirties and groaned under his breath as she squeezed into her seat, the dress pulling tighter round her body, allowing him a glimpse of a tell-tale thong outline. She leant forward and stroked her son’s cheek with one finger, making an exaggerated pout and an inaudible comment to him, before retracting with a wink at her daughter. The girl smiled back a sweet set of milk teeth with one large gap, marking her out at that delightful six or seven-year-old stage. She was pretty and dark-haired and put him in mind of days
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gone by, the sparkling innocence of her eyes captivating him for a minute more than was comfortable. It was clearly holiday season, the girl’s choice of white cotton halter neck top and cherry-red hot pants showing off a beautiful dark tan and confirming all that was best about summer. That’s more like it, Dave thought and turned gradually, almost imperceptibly in his seat to face them.
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4 JAMES
One of the greatest privileges of junior partnership was that one could work with a degree more flexibility, fitting hours into a pattern that was a little more humane than the regular red-eye commuter haul. Jessica made a point of not arriving at the office before 10 if she could avoid it, slotting in the extra time over the week with a late Tuesday and Wednesday session. This avoided the 7 am standing crush on the morning train and allowed her to introduce some new local but important clients to the firm who could chat into the early evening after work in a less hurried atmosphere. Two of the companies liked the arrangement so much that they relocated their entire accountancy requirements to Foster and Dawbs, a lucrative contract and fine feather in the cap of the newly promoted Mrs Balans.
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This Tuesday evening, Carters’ two head consultants were due in at 5 pm for a drawn-out discussion on the merits of asset write-downs, usually an excuse to drain the better part of an expensive Scotch bottle. Jessica wasn’t relishing it. The day had been stifling and seemed longer than ever with her 5 am sunshine alarm call and Daniel’s regular early morning scenes. The gentle trill of the phone alerted her to an internal call. It was Donna. “Jessica, Carters just phoned and said they can’t make it. Something about stock deviation or something. But they said can they fit it in when you come back from your holiday?” Jessica puffed out her cheeks, “Sure, Donna, thanks. Didn’t fancy a late one tonight actually, anyway. Can you give them a call for me and tell them that two weeks today will be fine; we’ll make it a firm appointment.” She pushed back the leather chair from the desk and reclined it a little, thoughtful for a second, her hands together in subconscious prayer position, fingertips to her lips. You ought to reschedule, use your time. You want to get out of here, have a break! You should ask Donna to ring round and fill the space. You’re exhausted. Your holiday’s coming up, you should prepare for that.
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Your holiday’s coming up, you should fit in some extra work now. She closed her eyes and leant her head back into the headrest. Her mind had certainly been in a different place in the last few days. Before last week, her natural propensity to prioritise her work and, in effect, her career above all else would mean that these questions wouldn’t even have occurred to her. There was little if anything that would have interrupted her workflow; a space created was extra time crying out to be utilised efficiently for more work. More work. More work. But something had changed. She made the decision. Slipping her shoes on, she picked up her handbag and headed for the door. “Whatever I miss will have to wait for me,” she whispered under her breath as she turned the handle and stepped out into the reception area. “Donna, I’m off. I’ll be in a little earlier tomorrow, but there’s no appointments, so I’ll just catch up on paperwork. See you.” She stood and waited for the lift in the panelled hallway and as the doors slid open, she turned and headed for the stairwell behind her. It was only the third floor, and she had decided to attempt to get into better bikini shape. One or two walks a day wouldn’t hurt. Twice now since they had been married, they had been to Barbados, having honeymooned there and fallen in love with its easygoing, old world colonial
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charm. An old school friend of Simon’s, money broker, had spent his last Christmas bonus on a beachfront apartment in St James on the west coast, back in the heady bonus days. Evening ritual would find them lounging on the balcony, rum punch in hand, watching the children splashing in the safe, warm Caribbean below, strains of a distant steel band catching on the warm breeze. They would wonder if anything could be wrong in the world, when everything felt so perfect. If she thought hard enough, Jessica could still feel the prickly sensation of sun-kissed skin after a day’s sunbathing, the tingle in the downy blonde hairs on her forearms, the battery-charged glow of the children’s faces. Even Simon came alive; he waterskied, windsurfed, jet-skied and ran up and down the beach every sun up. And slept like a log. So France may be disappointing, she thought. Jessica loved France, but what was heaven after you had seen Utopia? Jonty was fine about the Barbados apartment, “Just pay the cleaners and use it as your own!”, but Simon hadn’t bothered to check the flights until two weeks ago and with the school holidays, every seat was booked. Anyway, the place in France looked superb, she tried to console herself: pretty, converted farm cottage, its own swimming pool in the garden and right on the edge of a little wood. It wasn’t solitary, but beautifully secluded. The charming typical French village was less
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than a kilometre away, with its boulangerie and patisserie for evening treats. It was owned by a politesounding gentleman with whom she spent a long time conversing after finding his advert on the ‘net. After all, Simon had had six months to arrange Barbados and his lackadaisical approach had managed to mess things up. So last Monday she woke in a very positive mood and decided to resolve the situation. And this Friday they would fly down to Bordeaux airport and head inland for Perigeux to discover their idyllic cottage by the copse. Simon was impressed, and suitably sheepish. The children flapped and screeched around the house when they saw the pictures online, “We’ve got our own pool – we’ve got our own pool!” And Jessica too was looking forward to it. Wasn’t she? She turned the cool metal doorknob to step out into the lobby and the wooden door swung open. Wasn’t she? She would be with Simon for a whole week, see Elizabeth and Daniel; you know, real quality time. She nodded slightly at George, the bearded security guard on the desk and he watched as she wandered in a daze across the reception area, an odd sort of smile on her face. Curious, his eyes followed Mrs Balans down the four metal-trimmed steps, then over the emblazoned coconut entrance mat to the heavy glass doors, where she stopped short. “You okay, Mrs B?” he called.
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