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Chapter Four
“You don’t have to pretend you’re in love with me and all that crap, you know,” Do
“Sorry,” Mower said, pulling up his zip viciously. Do
She pulled a blue silk nightdress over her head to conceal breasts that were begi
“What is it about you?” she asked. “I’ve been watching you, you know. This weren’t just summat that came up on me today. I’ve watched you wi‘t’kids and seen you come alive wi‘them. And then when you come back to t’bloody adults you switch off, dead as summat that fell off back of a bin lorry. What’s that all about?”
“It’s a long story,” Mower said uneasily, getting up again to pull a sweatshirt over his head and moving out onto the balcony of the fourth floor flat where an icy blast from the Pe
“And a story you’re not going to tell some slag you just picked up on a night out slumming on t’Heights?”
Mower reached out and pulled her closer.
“Don’t do that to yourself, Do
“So why won’t you tell me about her? I know there’s someone else. I can see it in your eyes when you get into bed. It’s not me you really want. Dumped you, did she?”
Mower shuddered slightly as the wind threw a flurry of needle sharp sleet in their faces.
“It wasn’t like that,” he said, turning and urging Do
“So you dumped her and now you’re regretting it?”
“She …” Mower hesitated. “You don’t need to worry about her. She died.”
“Oh, Jesus, I’m sorry,” Do
“You don’t need to be sorry for me. It’s over now,” he said.
“Aye, but it’s never over, is it?” Do
Mower glanced at his watch. Emma was Do
“She’ll be home soon, won’t she? I’d better go.”
Do
“Just let me get my coat on, it’s coming down like stair-rods out there,” she said. “I’ll walk down with you. I don’t like her coming up them stairs on her own. You never know who’s about.” Do
“Will I do?” she asked with an attempt at coquettishness as she came back into the living room.
“You’ll do fine,” Mower said, kissing her gently on the lips and opening the front door of the flat for her. They made their way along the rain-swept walkway to the concrete stairs which led to ground level.
“You wait there,” Mower said. “I’ll watch her safely up.”
“I’ll be back over t’road at seven,” Do
Mower glanced back.
“I didn’t mean owt,” Do
“Right,” Mower said, with what he hoped was the right degree of enthusiasm. He set off down the stairs without looking back and by the time he had reached the ground floor a small fair child in school uniform had made her way into the hallway where the single lift boasted an out-of-order sign.
“Your mum’s at the top, Emma,” he said quietly, but the child gave him a frightened look and hurried up the stairs, her school bag banging against her bare legs painfully as she ran. Mower stood at the bottom for a moment looking up until he heard Do
Laura Ackroyd stood on the top step of the Carib Club trying to keep out of the rain and watched the group of Asian boys on the other side of the road with some anxiety. They were a perfect example of what the police used to call loitering with intent, she thought, as one of the teenagers kicked a soft drink can across the road in her direction and fell back against the opposite wall laughing hysterically. She knocked for the third time on the club door and was just about to turn away when she heard the sound of movement inside. Eventually with much shooting of bolts and turning of keys in locks, the door inched open a crack and a voice demanded to know who she was and what she wanted.
“I had an appointment to see Darryl Redmond,” Laura said, pushing her Press card into the gap in the door and straggles of damp red hair out of her eyes.
“Safe,” the voice said and eased the door back sufficiently for her to enter before slamming it shut again.
The interior of the club was gloomy, lit only by the emergency lights over the exits and a faint glow which filtered out from an open door on the opposite side of the cavernous room. Laura had never visited the place before. The Carib was an addition to the Bradfield scene since her own student days at the university when she had gone clubbing with the best. These days an exhausted evening with Michael Thackeray slumped in front of the television and an occasional meal out made up the sum total of her social life. Middle age, she thought, must be creeping up, and she did not much like the prospect.