Cut To The Bone (37 page)

"Excuse me. Sorry to trouble you, but this stupid gizmo has gone on the blink. Do you happen to have the time?"

Rita felt her heart somersault. Not because she was alone with a stranger who'd so abruptly interrupted her, but that Kayleigh's drawing had come alive, with those same slightly hooded brown eyes. The dilated pupils.

However, there were no black-framed glasses, and unlike Pete Brown, he was well-spoken. Thirdly, what little hair was visible, suggested a darker brown than she recalled. If only she could flip the cap off his head. If only...

He leant closer to see her watch for himself. "I've a train to catch at three,” he explained. “Last one to Darlington today."

“Where from?"

"New Street."

"You'll be fine. It's only 2:28 now."

"Cheers, you." And with that he bounded away still swinging his arms with a fierce excess of energy.

*

He headed into a busy shopping street, pausing to buy gum from a kiosk and not waiting for his change. Rita drew closer, feeling safer being one of many swarming around the big stores whose window displays shouted SALE NOW ON!

The blue baseball hat bobbed to the end of the busy thoroughfare and stopped at another booth selling watches. He replaced the one on his wrist which he threw into a nearby bin. There was no time for her to retrieve it as he was already half way up the ramp leading to the station's concourse. Once inside, he made no move to buy a ticket, so she assumed he'd either got a return, bought one online, or was a fare dodger. If she queued to buy one for herself, she might lose him. Without a thought as to her car or the fact that Darlington was way up north, she decided to take a risk.

Suddenly, the loudspeaker announced the next departure for Coventry and London was from platform 3 in five minutes. To her utter surprise, the lad went that same way. If he was going to London, then why tell her Darlington? If it was Coventry...

No…

She joined the crush of travellers bowling along to where a four- carriage train was already waiting with its doors open. If her quarry chose the First Class carriage, she’d just have to stump up. Instead, Baseball Cap entered the half-filled non-smoker, but then whipped round to face her before plunging into a seat with its back to the cab.

Those eyes again. That same menacing challenge. She ducked down and settled herself next to a large woman unwrapping a tuna sandwich.

At 3:09 after a nasal announcement apologising for the delay, the now crowded train pulled away from the station and nudged its way through the city’s eastern suburbs past Solihull and Balsall Common. The tuna smell made her queasy, so did the full realisation of what she was doing. But she had no choice. Jez was still egging her on.

All at once, the dividing carriage door slid open and some official stepped forwards. "Tickets please."

Another nightmare had arrived. With grim inevitability, having checked everyone else, he drew nearer. Rita got her cash ready and the best excuse she could muster. "My Mum's just died. I've not been thinking straight. Sorry." she whispered, making her eyes water.

"Eighteen-thirty."

Having given her change from a twenty pound note, he moved on, and Rita slumped against the seat in relief. The last thing she needed was extra attention.

"You was lucky," munched her companion, ejecting tuna flakes into Rita's lap.

"Me bro got done for fifty quid the other day."

Rita gave her a weary smile and, as the train gathered pace, she made a superhuman effort to stay awake. After all, if she shut her eyes for a second, her quarry could slip into another carriage or the W.C. and then what? She mustn't think of the kids, or her car already over its time limit and a likely target for vandals. If Baseball Cap had a ticket to Coventry after all, he could be local.

And local was too close to home. She must find out where he lived then contact Tim Fraser yet again.

*

At Coventry’s station, Rita sprinted to catch up with her target. At the ticket barrier he suddenly halted, fumbling in his tracksuit pockets, causing a queue behind him.

"Take a proper look, now, chum." A burly ticket officer insisted. "Then we can all go home."

The traveller glared at those trying to pass him and muttered obscenities to himself while removing his gloves. It was then she noticed the watch he’d bought. It was all black.

"Name?" said the man trying to quell the impatient crowd.

"Kevin Cookson."

"Cough up, now Kevin, eh? There's a good lad. Fifty quid. For all the trouble you've caused."

"Ye fuckin' bastard! Yerall the fuckin' bleedin' same. Arse wipes."

Rita's was back in Wort Passage as if it was yesterday.

Pete Brown
…

"Watch your language, young man."

"Boil yer fuckin' `ead.'

With that, he vaulted over the barrier with inches to spare, and charged towards the exit punching the air with a clenched fist. Clearly no-one thought he was worth the chase - except Rita. He ran on into the gloomy bus station just as a North Barton bus was pulling in. Jogged impatiently behind a group of pensioners getting their passes ready.

"Downside," he muttered to the driver and, having paid with a heap of small change, swayed his way to the back seat.

Dammit.

She'd planned to sit behind him. Now he'd have to pass her in the aisle to get off.

Did he actually live in Downside? she wondered. Or was maybe seeing a friend? Either way, he’d be too close to Wort Passage.     

"Downside as well," she whispered to the driver, angling herself at the windscreen. She then found a seat, still feeling like a feckless mother, when her mobile rang from inside her bag. Kayleigh. She dreaded what might come next.

"Mum, where are you?" 

"I'm on my way.'

"When'II you be back?"

A ripple of panic.

"I'll ring later. Stay indoors. Promise?”

“We will.”

“Is Freddie OK'?"

"He wants a tin of baked beans to himself..."

"Let him. Be good."

She gave a weak smile to her neighbour.

"Kids, eh?" The other woman opined, as Rita switched off her phone. With the trickiest part of her mission still to come, Tim Fraser hadn’t yet replied to her first call.

*

The bus stopped at the end of Holly Road where a young lad was wheeling his bike out of number 74's gateway. She pressed her nose to the glass for a closer look. But what was the point? That nice house wasn't hers any more.

As the bus lurched towards its stop, someone nudged her arm. Baseball Cap, easing his way to the front. She turned away, for he'd surely recognise her if their eyes met a second time.

The driver manoeuvred into the bay by Downside Road. “Any more chicken pluckers?" he quipped once the lout had alighted.

"Yes. Me." Rita reached the front as the engine was revving. Soon her super-fit quarry would become part of the creeping dusk.

Give this up. Now... said an inner voice, but not while that same blue cap bobbed so tantalisingly in front of her.

He took a left into Mullion Road, until veering off towards a children's playground where he leapt on the one undamaged swing. Back and fore he strained his body higher and higher into the darkening sky as he let out what Rita could only assume was a cry of victory.

*

Suddenly leaping free, he landed on all fours on the synthetic asphalt, before haring back to Mullion Road. Rita left her hiding place to follow until he finally jogged through a gateless gap in front of number 315b, and let himself in the front door.

This had to be the scruffiest dump in Downside with tatty curtains drawn behind its windows. Weeds and litter a-plenty. A smashed street light. Hardly what she'd expected.

But it was where Pete Brown lived.

50

Guilt and elation accompanied Rita back to Wort Passage, and in record time she’d rustled up compensatory burgers and chips for the kids. And because they’d been good, they could eat by the TV. Neither noticed her car was missing, and for that she was grateful. But she’d have to organise its retrieval soon.

She then phoned Tim Fraser with an update, soon wishing she hadn’t.

"You could’ve got done for leaving two kids alone like that,” he said, completely ignoring what she’d said about Pete Brown. “Are you crazy?"

"And you could have got back to me. I’ve been through Hell today."

"Join the club."

"Is that all you can say when I hand you news like that on a plate?"

Silence.

Was this the same bloke she'd come to rely on? she asked herself. The first man since Frank to show any signs of caring for her and what was left of her family?

"The MPA say they need my pad for some new recruit," he said finally. "Great, eh? And since my unofficial foray to the Midlands, the knives have been out. Nicely sharpened."

"Please don't talk about knives like that."

Another pause. Was it possible he was crying?

"Sorry. I just didn't think. Christ, Rita, I'm not much good for you, am I?"

"You could have responded about Carla Kennedy saying Louis Perelman had been adopted and was mentally ill. That’s so important."

“Look, lots of kids that age become strangers. Please show me a normal teenager.”

"And on his twelfth birthday, was given a camera with a zoom lens for close-ups."

"What kid doesn't have a camera of some sort?"

There was nothing she could say, and Fraser soon filled the next loaded silence with more of his own grievance. "I've just heard I’m to be out of this flat by the end of the month, and guess what?  Following pimps and streetwalkers around."

But try as she might to empathise, all she could see were that determined youth's distinctive eyes. His violent movements. His anger.

"What'll you do for a place to live?' she asked automatically.

"Join the cardboard box brigade, I expect. Can't expect you lot to share that with me now. Just as I was getting a handle on Molloy.”

Her kids were chucking stuff about. They'd missed her and been worried. Now was their turn for attention.

"I've got to go," she told him. "Isn't there someone you could stay with? Share for a while maybe?"

Fraser's snort of derision caught her by surprise, and she rang off, bruised by his uncharacteristic indifference, but also puzzled he'd not mentioned any woman, friend or family of his own he might fall back on.

"By the way, Mum," Kayleigh interrupted her thoughts. Her cheeks bright pink, and her hair, where Freddie had pulled it, a tangled mess. “This was on the doormat when I got back from school," she said. "Sorry, you should have had it straight away.”

On her empty plate lay a blue envelope addressed to MRS R MARTIN.

E & P MoIloy.

‘Why Worry.’

6, Frond Crescent.

Scrub End.

Coventry.

8/1/2014

KEEP YOURSELF, YOUR LOVER AND YOUR NO-GOOD KIDS AWAY FROM US. OR ELSE.

My God
…

For apart from the content, there was something vaguely familiar about the writing style…

"What's up, Mum?" Kayleigh said.     

"No more Sunday School from now on, unless you want to go somewhere else. That’s it."

"The Molloys, innit?"

“Yes.”

Her daughter shrugged. "Sunday's better than Saturday for riding, anyhow. It's quieter up by the woods." She then turned to Rita. "Will Dad get me a pony one day?"

"You never know."

Since Frank had left, she’d never felt so vulnerable. The Molloys were closing in and where would that lead? No way must the kids see that letter. Or Tim Fraser, she decided, folding it before slipping it inside her blouse. It would only divert him away from what she'd just discovered in Birmingham. Also, despite the threat, it wasn’t her main worry. Instead, a fear that amongst the stink of dead chickens and the mean streets of Downside, lurked a far worse threat to her precious family.

51

Thursday 16th January.

Rita had spent most of that drizzly Wednesday night, re-living the day's events, worrying about everything, including how her kids’ teachers might find out she'd left them on their own. Meanwhile, her car was still stranded in Birmingham, probably disembowelled by now.

While she called into Briar Bank Police station on her way into work next day, smarting at Tim Fraser's lack of reaction to her finding Pete Brown, he was in Clandon Road, Marylebone, dragging out his suitcase from under the bed. The lounge bookshelves now bare of his eclectic collection of hardbacks.

Her calls had come at a bad time. She'd broken every common sense rule in the book and here he was, with enough crap on his plate to last the year. Never mind his impending meeting with Parrot who could be a clever, ruthless slaughterer.