Chapter Thirteen
'Thanks for the ride, Josh. See you tomorrow.' Ian Randall clambered out of a red Mazda with a dented wing on the passenger side. He closed the door, stuck up a thumb, and the motor pulled away as Ian turned away. It was a harsh, clear blue afternoon in mid-December - the type that can make you ache to the bone, especially if black ice catches you unawares. Yet that wasn't why, just fifty or so steps from his front door, Ian dropped his sports bag and checked his denim jacket was buttoned up to his neck. He turned its collar up. Josh's rush to pick up his missus meant Ian hadn't had time to change out of the green and white uniform that seemed specifically designed to cut him out and down as a Toytown nobody. Whether or not that was a cynical fancy, Ian felt like someone else as soon as he pulled on the garb, and the 'new me' wasn't to his liking. He'd be buggered if he wanted a neighbour glancing out of a window and thinking he was proudly showing off his new station in life. What a price to pay for part-time hours working tills and stacking shelves! The phrase 'supermarket chain' had taken on a new and punitive meaning as far as Ian was concerned.
The drizzly Monday morning that he had started, Ian picked up on his fellow workers' low morale. A pear-shaped grandma with 'Jess' on her badge had shown him round because management had cancelled the official induction session until the middle of next week. Jess had a tight-lipped, suspicious nature - the sort that thought any new face threatened her job. She uneasily waddled two paces in front of Ian from the stores, up and down the aisles, to the tills, so that he was left to interpret everything he saw and heard without company spin. It's a job, he'd said to himself over and over again, trying to kid himself that it didn't matter that he had more to offer. It had always been the same.
When he and his silent, reluctant guide stood observing the tills, it became sickeningly apparent that someone somewhere was laughing and he was the butt of their joke. Ten of the fifteen tills were staffed and, at each one, a constant supply of people filled their bags before swiping plastic or handing over notes. The supermarket was a goldmine, and he was doomed to a pay-slip that confirmed he'd be skint as long as he worked at it. His interviewer had smilingly implied that he was expected to be grateful for the opportunity to get out of bed to realise the dreams of those who laughed the loudest; but how could any sane man or woman feel any such gratitude? The world was bent and mad, precisely as the books he'd borrowed from Johnny Jacks alleged it to be.
Equally as depressingly, among his fellow workers Ian only heard - whenever management wasn't around - the same old lame chatter about TV and sporting heroes and villains, and the same old hopeless boasting about superhuman drinking feats. Hadn't he once been full of it? An urge to scream profanities antagonistically gripped him - he had to take a walk to the staff toilets to burn it off. While he was unzipping, a skinny, pasty, spotty lad called Al from the bakery rushed in. A cubicle's door slammed behind him. The gross violence of retching corrupted the smell of disinfectant. Al, for one, had had a real wild night and he was suffering. Ian finished dribbling, shook it, zipped up, and lathered soap in his hands under the hot tap. For a second, he inspected his domed reflection in the big bubble in his right palm. And then he jabbed it with a finger and burst it. Having rinsed the soap away, he stuck his hands under the drier, which roared hot air over Al's final convulsions. The bog flushed. Yup, no doubt about it, Ian had had enough of that brand of escapism. It helped you to dig a hole in the muck and not a tunnel to… Is the world a trap? As if a man like him comes and goes as freely as a blind man who can't figure he's stuck in revolving doors between the ground floor and the street.
At the end of his third shift, Ian set out to find the union rep. Hurrying up and down the aisles of shoppers and brand names, he wondered whether he was simply on his way to exchanging delusions. Almost everybody who claimed to have an idea ended up promising miracles before turning out like a sparkless magician you'd be embarrassed to hire for a kids' party. There again, if a stuffed rabbit clumsily pulled from an old hat was the worse he could expect, then he'd be better off than he was conforming to a fantasy lifestyle that restricted him to a bit part, contrary to everything the advertisements and packaging seductively pledged. Life as we know it had been so commoditised you should be able to take it back and say, 'Look, this product isn't good enough. I want a replacement'.
Ian turned a corner of Coca-Cola crates stacked shoulder-high and, ah yes, stocky, cropped silvery hair, a boxer's flat nose. 'You Mick Greaves?'
'Depends who's asking.' The man's pale blue eyes didn't flicker from the loaves of Hovis his chunky, rough hands were quickly transferring from baskets on a pallet to the shelves. The sleeves of his green and white uniform were rolled up: on one arm, a blurry tattoo tiger bared its teeth; on the other arm, a faded love heart pierced by an arrow was dedicated, in a scroll, to Sarah and Mick. 'Trying to set up a lottery syndicate? You can call me anything you want as long as you count me out.'
'I'm interested in joining the union.'
'Now there's a thing.' Dropping a loaf back into a near empty basket, Mick slowly raised his head. Ian was surprised that their eyes were on a level when the muscular man drew to his full height. 'Half the workforce is willing to support each other,' he said, resting his left hand on the handle of the trolley under the pallet of loaves. 'The rest are too badly educated to know what standing together in a union has achieved for working people in the past. How does that grab you?'
'Maybe I can persuade a few to jump on board.' Ian felt a tad disappointed that he hadn't been treated to a blood and thunder speech that could only ever fail to live up to its glib promises. That's too much TV baloney for you, he silently conjectured. 'Do you need qualifications to work out you're being robbed?'
'You fancy you've the gift of the gab?'
'Who knows what I've the gift of?'
'You'll need something special to convince the worst of this lot that immigration isn't the root of all evil. Scared and simple people want simple answers and easier solutions. It's preferable if hitting it with a stick or a baseball bat puts it right. Don't get me wrong, plenty of the guys and gals have the right spirit and, now you've been warned you're fighting a barrage of tabloid headlines, I'll happily get you a form. For now, watch your back.' Mick grinned forcibly over Ian's shoulder. 'Ah, young Mr Cruickshank,' the union man said, impishly, 'I've missed your critical gaze, helpful as it is. I hope you haven't set a bad example by throwing a sickie.'
'And I hope, Mr Greaves, you're not going to stand about talking all day.'
Cruickshank was a forty-something beanpole who looked down on you from more than a physical height. Meet him at work and it became exceptionally difficult to imagine him in anything other than his unfashionably starchy white shirt and company tie, symbols of both his power and his impotency. Wherever Ian had worked he had encountered men like Cruickshank; they so unthinkingly, fervently stuck to the rules that they came to embody the book, surrendering their personality to an officious stereotype behind which lurked something you couldn't put your finger on and yet knew wasn't quite right. Such men were promoted once, maybe twice in their lives. They used their slightly elevated position to bludgeon everybody beneath them with their sense of personal injustice at never reaching the lucrative peaks. Cruickshank adjusted his tortoiseshell specs on the bridge of his nose and delivered, what Ian suspected, was his blunt, charmless slogan: 'Things need doing.'
'I'm aware of that, Mr Cruickshank. How could I ever forget? I'm also exercising one of my rights. Our new colleague wants to know about the, ahem, what do you call it?'
'The Dinosaurs' Smoky Room Club,' said Cruickshank, impatiently.
'Tut, dinosaurs are extinct and I'm very much alive. And don't you know smoking is banned in public places these days? You're not the one living in the past, are you?'
'Excuse me if I die of laughter.' The manager looked Ian over like an experienced undertaker estimating measurements for a coffin. 'And what are you supposed to be doin
g, Mr Randall?' Cruickshank triumphantly glanced at Mick. 'Perhaps we're heading for another round of written warnings.'
'As it happens,' Ian started before Mick could respond, 'it's time for me to go home. Pleased to meet you, Mr Cruickshank.'
'Don't be late tomorrow.' Cruickshank ignored Ian's outstretched hand and marched in the direction of the fruit and veg displays. 'Hey Diane! They're not on special offer!'
'I'm right in assuming you've got a short-term contract?' Mick's eyes followed Cruickshank's warpath. 'Then watch out for him. He doesn't seem to know much, but he's worked out that the world is run by those upstairs for the benefit of those upstairs. He'll kick your minimum wage ass as a way of kissing their butts.'
'Get me the form,' Ian replied, taking the first step towards the exit and home. 'I've more important things to care about than him. Catch you later.'
That some had implied - while vilifying wicked Liam, of course - that Alicia and Davie's ordeal had somehow helped them to grow up was as pointed as any lesson Ian or Cathy had ever received that much of what is said has the insightful clarity of a spilled bowl of alphabet spaghetti. One of Alicia's college lecturers had stood behind Cathy in the queue at the bank; he'd tapped on her shoulder and said hello, sorry to hear about those despicable shenanigans, 'But…' - his tone became softer, a whisper, and he leaned forward, searching Cathy's face through thick, round glasses, his hands in the pockets of his navy blazer - 'if Alicia's sudden progress continues, well, she's every chance of making a model student. How about that? Just goes to show that you never know.' He winked, annoyingly.
'I'm sure she'll be overjoyed to hear that.' Cathy ground her teeth, thankful that a cashier saved her temper from a further test by calling out:
'Next?'
The fear of upsetting Alicia had prevented Cathy lambasting Carol, one of her oldest friends, when she'd called over one evening. Carol had paid Alicia a glowing compliment for volunteering to do the dishes before concluding, 'Terrible things can make you think about what's important. And I can think of someone who needed to do some thinking.'
'And I can think of someone who shouldn't do any thinking at all,' piped up Davie, puckishly.
'You're not wrong there.' A dark smile swept across Cathy's lips and her eyes glittered like the hardest of diamonds.
'I was just saying,' said Carol. 'Maybe things are a little tense round here at the moment for visitors.'
'Yes. Perhaps I'd best show you to the door before someone says something they'll regret.'
Carol's bitchy attitude hadn't entirely surprised Cathy, though she was stunned when Grandma June jumped on the bandwagon bound for Idiotsville. 'I'm glad something's got that nonsense out of her head,' Grandma remarked on hearing Alicia hadn't uttered a word of complaint when the photo shoot for her portfolio was postponed until further notice. 'It's about time we returned to good old-fashioned values for the sexes.' The old lass's righteous vigour was such that Ian expected a proposal to send his daughter to a nunnery. 'We could do with bringing back…'
'Serfdom and slavery,' Granddad sarcastically butt in. 'The foundations of the good old days in all their misery, eh?'
'I'll go and get some drinks.' It had dawned on Cathy that much of Grandma's ire was aimed at her, and a family confrontation was precisely what wasn't needed.
'Who's he trying to fool?' Cathy replied one evening, after Ian related his brief conversation over the garden fence with the usually hot-tempered nit-picker who lived next door. Amongst other things, Mr James wanted it known that he believed the kids had done the community an inestimable favour by exposing the dangerous reprobate in its midst, and, when all's said and done, they'd bounced back better than ever, hadn't they? 'Alicia's like a little girl again. She won't go out on an evening, and she can't sleep with the light switched off. Have you noticed how Davie checks the doors are locked before he goes to bed?'
'And he makes sure I always know where he is by sending a text. The cantankerous goat is probably celebrating because Alicia doesn't play her music as loud and as often. I stopped Davie kicking a football against his fence ages back.'
'I often catch Alicia staring into space. Heaven knows what's going on in her mind, but it isn't anything to do with this maturity that people who should know better claim to have picked up on. And I preferred her as a jumped-up teenager - she was at least acting her age then. Don't get me wrong; it's great that the kids have stopped bickering and seem to have realised life's too short to spend it haranguing the people you love, but this goody-two shoes persona is a result of Alicia becoming scared of people, so much so, she daren't even risk offending us. That's why she's running round the house like a maid. I'm no less worried about that night's consequences than I was when we brought them home from the hospital.'
The kids had slumped into a sofa apiece, and their dad apprehensively told himself that fatigue was to be expected. He remained a touch groggy from Liam's punch though the doc had said he looked fine after shining a light into his eyes. Knowing Cathy would welcome a drop to numb the edge of the night's stress, Ian poured the remains of a bottle of red plonk into two glasses on the coffee table. As he tipped back his drink and tasted bitter, dry fruits, he observed that Alicia, who Cathy had quickly helped into her night clothes, looked unnaturally pale, tensely clinging to a cushion. At first, Ian likened her to a toddler with a comfort blanket and then, for some reason, it came to him that the cushion somehow represented reality to Alicia and she was terrified of losing her grip on it. Or was his sluggish, tired head tripping over itself? He'd certainly exhausted its vocabulary of heartfelt, consolatory words; what else was left to say? And what about Davie? At least he wasn't crazily babbling like he'd done at the hospital. Maybe it'd be an idea to get the kids talking now they were in the familiar, secure atmosphere of home. They'd get whatever they needed to off their chests and he and Cathy would pick up on any problems that needing dealing with. 'Liam should be thankful that Grandma hasn't got her hands on him,' Ian offered with artificial brightness, and instantly regretting his line of approach. Persevering nonetheless, he asked: 'What do you two think?'
Nothing they could or were willing to put words to.
'Granddad should be getting home very soon.' Ian pictured his pa speeding through the streets to return to his wife and let her know their grandkids were safe. The wind had dropped; the old fellow should have safely navigated the roads. 'All's well that ends well,' Ian started again, 'and we're all fighting fit to face another day. The first day of the rest of our lives.' Jesus, that cheap wine on top of the knock to his jaw made his head ache.
'And here's something to build up your strength,' added Cathy with similarly affected cheer, carrying a tray containing two small plates of sandwiches cut into triangles and two hot chocolates. 'It's nice and sweet, just how you like it. Take a plate, Davie, and then I can pass the tray to your sister.'
'I can't believe we let him terrorise us,' Davie repeated yet again, 'and it was a jug of water.' He put his plate on his lap, grabbed a beef paste sandwich and wolfed it down. Alicia took a plate and rested it on the sofa's arm. She nibbled at a sandwich's crust like a timid mouse wary of poisoned cheese. 'Come on, Alicia, we were starving in there.'
'Davie, leave your sister alone.' Cathy sat beside her daughter and protectively put her arm around her. 'She's shocked. And it's a good thing it was water.' Cathy's anger mounted. 'I can't believe you didn't contact me or your father as soon as you heard that little monster had abducted your sister.'
'I…' How could you answer that? 'He's not little he's a great brute.'
'I'll vouch for that.' Ian rubbed his jaw as Alicia whimpered into her hot chocolate.
'All the more reason for you to have warned someone else.'
'Best leave him be, too, Cathy.' Ian ruffled his son's mop of hair with one hand and then, with the other, passed Cathy her glass of plonk. 'Liam is the one in the wrong. They've both been through it.'
'And for tha
t reason I was wondering if you'd sleep on the sofa tonight. I'm sure they'll feel better to have you around.'
'I wouldn't want to be anywhere else. I'll have to phone Dan about Sherlock. My dog,' he explained, catching Cathy's puzzlement.
'Yay!' Davie exclaimed. 'Dad's staying!'
Alicia looked up with a wan smile. But a smile nonetheless.
Some sound of movement in the kitchen woke Ian. What's that pup up to? He rubbed his eyes, remembered where he was and why, and slipped from under the quilt. Yawning, he pulled on his jeans and sweatshirt, which he'd left neatly folded on the floor. Outside, day had broken; light crept into the room under the curtains. In silky pink pyjamas, her blond hair tied back, Cathy had started to put together a breakfast of bacon, poached eggs, hash browns, fried mushrooms and beans. Only Davie had really eaten when they'd returned way past midnight and the aroma and sizzle of bacon under the grill alerted Ian to his considerable hunger. 'I need that,' he said through another wide yawn.
'The way things are going we'll soon be lucky to get rations of toast for breakfast.'
'Want any help?' Ian pensively sucked his teeth. Opening the blinds, he peered over the rooftops into grey like a vast smudge. 'And we have to talk about all of that. Our drifting along, refusing to face up to things, hasn't helped anybody.'
'I've put spread on the bread. You can get out knives and forks and make coffee.' Cathy crouched to open the oven and turn over the hash browns. 'For the moment, I'm grateful it's Saturday. The kids have some time to get over what's happened before I phone work, college and school and stir up a few more rumours about our lives.'
'People will be sympathetic when they hear about it.'
'As long as they don't hear about it today. Silence sometimes beats sympathy hands down.'
'You know, I care less and less about what people think of me. The best policy is to switch off to loose talk.' Ian filled and switched on the electric kettle. Reaching for the coffee jar, he raised his brow as he read its slogan. Wake up and smell the coffee? Hadn't they experienced something far more pungent? And not just the incident with Liam.
Alicia tentatively followed her equally bleary-eyed brother down the stairs and into the kitchen. 'That mine?' Davie asked, looking at a plateful of stomach-rumbling grub on a tray while stretching.
'Good morning to you, too, and, well, Alicia only has one hash brown. I must say I'm pleased that you both seem to have had a good night's rest. How are you feeling?'
'Cool,' Davie shrugged. He picked up his breakfast tray, stepped round his pale sister and made his way to the seldom used dining-room.
'You can take it easy today, babe. How does that sound?' Cathy slid a poached egg onto the plate on her daughter's tray. 'Can you manage that?'
'I suppose.' Taking the tray, Alicia slouched in the direction her brother had taken.
'We can't expect her to be celebrating,' Cathy explained, acknowledging her husband's frown.
'I know that. What's the world coming to?'
'There have always been villains and ugliness. We've got to make sure our daughter and son don't get caught up again.'
'Easier said than done. At least Davie seems relatively unscathed.'
'Can you take the ketchup and knives and forks on your tray? And don't be so sure he isn't putting a brave face on it. Keep it light in there.'
Ian's jovial attempt to initiate conversation fell awkwardly flat, and the occasional chink of cutlery on a plate exacerbated the room's tension.
Alicia was the first to put down her knife and fork. 'She didn't have any tea yesterday,' Davie commented, pointing out what everybody knew when his sister just stared into her plateful. 'Don't worry about it, Alicia - Liam won't dare try it on again.'
'That's right, son,' agreed Ian, confidently.
'I'm sure of it, too, babe.'
Silence.
With her elbows on the table, her chin resting on her hands, Alicia dolefully waited for everyone to finish and then got up to clear the table.
'There's no need to do that, babe.'
Alicia continued as if she hadn't heard.
'I'll do it, love.'
'Alicia can do it if she likes. Keeping busy will keep her mind off that rotten business, which is,' Ian hastened to add with an excruciatingly forced smile, 'behind us.'
Around midday, two police officers knocked at the door to further their inquiries. A soft-spoken sergeant with a squint and a trim black beard asked the majority of the questions. His colleague - an athletic-looking brunette with rosy cheeks and big, sparkling green eyes - listened attentively, offering support whenever Alicia was overwhelmed. Though it was straightforward enough, the interview progressed slowly and Davie couldn't sit still. 'He thought I was making a fortune when I was actually producing a few copies for friends,' he said, too insistently and without being prompted. He nervously picked his nails at Alicia's outbreak of coughing. 'Sis, have you got something stuck in your throat?'
'I need a drink,' she said, nodding, reaching for her cup of sugary tea.
'He must have thought Alicia was selling out Wembley arena, too,' Davie elaborated, putting his hands between his knees. 'What a dummy.'
'The important thing is that you and your sister haven't come to any harm.' Ian gazed sternly at his son before putting his empty cup on the coffee table. 'And that we stick to the truth.'
'Davie was trying to sell copies of films he'd downloaded before I stopped him.' Cathy gave her husband a glance like a sharp poke. Her input caused her son to stare at the floor, his face the colour of a spanked bum. 'He wasn't brought up to break the law.'
'You're saying money was Liam's motive?'
The officers intently watched the family. They avoided eye contact.
'It looks that way,' Cathy said, eventually, looking up.
'And how much money was Davie making to attract Liam's attention?'
'Nothing,' Davie blurted. 'It was in his head like he thought Alicia was getting rich by singing in pubs.'
'And she was making what?' The sergeant's eyes searched Cathy's stony expression.
'More trouble than it was worth. She's quit singing.'
'We're dealing with some incompetent criminal, then.' The sergeant looked knowingly into his colleague's bright eyes. 'No change there with Mr Liam Briggs.'
'Have you pulled him in?'
'So far, Mr Randall, he's evaded us.'
And that's the way it had stayed. Over a fortnight had elapsed since Liam had last been seen, blindly stumbling - after Cathy had thrust her forked fingers into his eyes - down the rainy, windy street towards the castle ruins. According to Grandma, it was as if the ghosts said to haunt the ancient site had justly imprisoned him in the spirit world's dimension of its dank, mouldy dungeons. In spite of the danger Liam had put Alicia and Davie in, on a quiet evening that soothed the raw wounds of their tribulation, Ian and Cathy reflected, with almost as much compassion as malice, that the disturbed young man was more likely trapped in a far more earthy kind of purgatory. In other words, Liam was sleeping rough and scavenging on the streets of some unknown town or city. Yet rumours soon circulated that made them shun even remotely charitable thoughts. There was so much smoke concerning Liam's 'activities', not least of all those involving drugs, he'd clearly torched the bridge back to human decency. And wherever he was, he'd be up to anything but something good.
'Alicia is haunted by the idea that he's out for revenge,' Cathy informed her husband one night rain pattered against the window like fingers trying to feel their way in.
'What his family might do concerns me. There are some wild cards and loose cannons along with the more reasonable clan members.'
He didn't have to wait very long before one of the Briggs family's main men revealed his thoughts. The next day, Ian was alone with a book he couldn't focus on when he heard a vehicle with a throaty engine pulling over. Getting up from the sofa, he peered through a gap he made in the curtains. Sh
it. Big Dave Briggs - the hulking bricklayer-cum-bouncer - emerged from a blue transit and stood under the street lamp, squinting at the front door, checking he'd the right number. Fearing that his number was up if he opened up, Ian ignored the first light knocks, no, Big Dave, you won't catch me out like a pig in a straw house. The knocking grew a touch louder. And louder again. Until he got what he came for, Dave was going nowhere. With that in mind, wasn't it better to find out what he wanted before Cathy, the kids and Sherlock arrived home? On tenterhooks Ian went through to the hall, putting the door on the chain. Through a draughty crack, he lied, 'I'd drifted off on the sofa. How are you, Dave?'
'Better when I know your young uns are fine. And when you accept my apology. I know words aren't much, but they're all I can offer.'
'Yes, well…' Ian felt cowardly and stupid. Recalling Cathy's narrative about Big Dave's efforts to keep his troubled family together, Ian realised that his visitor hadn't come to knock anyone senseless, and that he had to be faced man to man. Removing the chain, Ian opened up. 'We'll talk in private. Come in.'
'I can't begin to think what was going through Liam's mind,' Dave said, contritely, stepping over the threshold. 'I knew he had it in him to do something appalling; what can you do? I tried to guide him, obviously very badly. How are your kids?'
'They're survivors, I think.'
'You don't know how glad I am to hear it.' Big Dave presented a huge mitt, callused and scarred from his work outdoors and on the doors. Out of his rugged, dark, clean-shaven face, Dave's soft brown eyes seemed to gleam with integrity. He looked nothing like bulldog Liam. What would warring with his family achieve? The worse case scenario had been avoided. Ian shook Dave's hand.
'Can I have a word with your wife and kids?'
'Cathy's taken Alicia and Davie to their grandparents.'
'Right, fine.' Dave actually looked relieved. 'Let them know Liam's in for it when…' He cleared his throat. 'He'll be arrested. It's out of my hands even if some of it's my fault. I've always told him that he had to go out and grab what he wanted because the world never gives lads like him a chance. He wasn't supposed to interpret my advice as a green light to anything goes as long as it falls short of murder. And I should have seen something coming. His attitude hardened when they messed about with his mother's money and she threw him out. Sleeping at our Eric's likely made everything worse - his bloody cousin's no role model. But I'll guarantee that Liam will cause your two no more problems if I'm anything to do with it.'
'That's…' What? No real assurance. 'No sign of him?'
'Not a word.'
'You must be concerned.'
'It's not the best position to be in.'
There wasn't much else they could say. Dave edged to the door. 'I'm getting in the way, so I best be going. The whole family's extremely sorry, and it's been good seeing you to let you know that.'
'Thanks for letting us know. It means a lot.'
Opening the curtains wide, Ian watched Dave's van motor down the street. His reason and emotions contrasted virulently, turbulently, and he seemed stretched out on some spiritual rack between heaven and hell. And then he comprehended you can sometimes choose to put either on earth, and his family had to try to put everything behind them. Or at least remember the future is before them.
Ian slotted his key in the front door's lock. Rather than turn it, he turned around, surveying the familiar red-brick facades of the terraced houses across the street. They reminded him of dusty grey, retired Mr and Mrs Peters; Alec and Janet Burroughs and their teenage lads who made a racket revving beat up field bikes; Derek and Lisa Bell, their son on a tour of duty, their daughter married with one on the way; the young, hard-faced couple with an untidy, squawking brood of three or four; Lee James the unemployed bricklayer and his missus, Pauline Jones, who worked part-time hours in the fish and chip shop. Regular lives on a regular street. Sherlock's yapping and scratching on the other side of the door that Ian knew best caused him to take a deep breath of the keen winter air, and turn again. No doubt about it, he'd come home.
He and his wife were far from a traditional couple all over again; perhaps they were more like brother and sister, but no, Ian checked himself, that wasn't it. Once you shed conventional roles, how do you say what you are let alone in relation to another? He and Cathy certainly weren't lovers, they were more than friends, and platonic embarrassingly reminded him of a statue not far from the holiday hotel in Greece where the entire family did nothing but squabble through a heat wave that surprised even the veteran hotel manager with its blazing ferocity. Two things were clear enough; life had forced him and Cathy to change since those days and, after their unwanted adventure searching the streets, they communicated on a new level. Why did it take disaster - or at least the threat of it - to bring people together?
It had seemed wise for Ian to stay around and sleep on the sofa until the kids settled and something like normality was restored. Cathy couldn't afford any more time off work and someone had to watch over Alicia and Davie for a few days until they felt ready to brave the world. The staff at college and school agreed to keep an eye on the kids and, as far as anyone could tell, things had gone reasonably well, all things considered, when they'd returned to the classroom. Alicia was somewhat withdrawn, Davie was a touch too loud, but there were no great scenes of distress to fuel the lurid stories that had inevitably gone round. As the days passed, and as a nervy equilibrium came to the house, Ian felt more and more like a guest who'd outstayed his welcome, even if he was free to do as he pleased in the place that belonged to him as much as anyone. Significantly, he missed Sherlock and worried about the effect his absence was having on the pup. 'I think I'll put together my few things and be on the way in an hour or so,' he said, early one evening after a tea of bangers and mash with onion gravy. 'I'll call Dan. He should be around to give me a lift. The roads are a bit icy, but he'll be happy to get Sherlock off his hands.'
'Go sit down in the room and hang fire.' Cathy wiped her soapy hands on the dangling half of the T-towel that Ian was using to dry the last plate. 'Let me make sure the kids are busy with their homework.'
'I don't like the sound of this,' Ian quipped. 'Any broken electrical appliances or cigarette burns in the carpet are nothing to do with me.'
'You know we've things to discuss,' Cathy replied briskly. 'And there's no time like the present. We can't avoid things forever.'
She stepped through to the hall to access the stairs. Ian stuffed the T-towel in the half-loaded washer and scratched his head.
'Straight to the point,' she said, sweeping into the room a few moments later, 'you need to move back in again.'
'You what?' For a second, Ian thought he'd concussed himself by falling off the sofa. 'Carry on as if nothing has happened? That's pushing it too far.'
'I didn't say that, and I wouldn't make such a suggestion without knowing something had changed.' Cathy sank to the sofa across the room so she wasn't towering over her seated husband. 'We need to think about what's most important.'
'And that is?'
'The kids need the pair of us around and not just because of this frightening episode with Liam. They're at a crucial stage in their education and development; they need stability.'
'Me moving back in isn't the best way to provide that.'
'Do you realise that, as parents, we've come close to messing everything up?'
'My point exactly. And who's to blame for that?'
'It isn't about the blame game. It's about avoiding further damage.'
Ian's laugh sounded edgy and hollow rather than conveyed the intended ridicule. His wife stared coolly at him.
'Getting back together would lead to more rows and more pain.' Ian rose to his feet. 'I can't do it, Cathy. I'd better phone a taxi so I can get out right now.' As he had on the night when Alicia and Davie went missing, Ian caught sight of their photos mounted on the wall. Memories of their progress from infants to teens plucked his heart strings. No,
wait: staying together for the kids? The classic, crazy mistake of millions of gloomy marriages! Wasn't he now in a position to… Do what? The truth - nothing - didn't hurt, but his next question had the power to tear him to pieces. Did he love Cathy? How did she feel about him? Reeling over to the window, he ripped the curtains wide, and stared out into the dark, icy evening. What did he expect to find out there? In here, once upon a time, hadn't the warmth and light of love filled his heart? Yet the grief caused by Cathy's betrayal with that fucking factory boss resurfaced. Anger surged through Ian. His blood boiling, he rocked on his heels. What did he want to say?
Long seconds passed.
'Everything will have to be different…' The words unconsciously came out, as if he had drifted into a dream that refused to die. Fuck. What had he said? He jolted awake. Could he go back on such big words? Easy. He could do anything. It was his life. His heart. Ian spun round to his wife who was stood with her arms crossed, an inscrutable yet tender expression on her beautiful face. Their eyes met, and Ian's simmering malevolence cooled. Someone was there. Who?
'How long have you been thinking about this?'
'I dismissed the idea the night we drove around searching for the kids. But it kept on coming back, making more and more sense. The time when they'll be young adults isn't far away. We'll have the option of selling the house and going our separate ways. In the meantime, we share responsibilities and financial problems. We need to work together because everything else is working against us.'
'Cathy, isn't this madness?'
'We've the craziest of jobs to complete. Once we get them through university…'
'You're planning on sending them to more debt?'
'It'll be their decision. What else is out there for them?'
A blind intimation of defeat came to Ian. He sensed that life wanted to crush Cathy, Alicia and Davie.
'I suppose you'd better call the kids and let them know.'
This will never work, Ian thought, as Cathy left the room, unless he learned to arrest the venom that pulsed through him whenever he considered Cathy's infidelity. And then he wondered if his wife needed to smother her emotions. Could they survive by suppressing their deepest thoughts and feelings? It was too late to go back. Cathy led Alicia and Davie into the room. 'I haven't seen whatever's missing,' Davie protested.
'Nothing's missing, cheeky,' Cathy replied. 'We've an announcement to make.'