Guns Of Brixton (82 page)

    was too
much and, as they slowly closed, the darkness enveloped him.

    Linda
was at the rendezvous half an hour early. Her old school was deserted because
of the holiday. The back of her truck was packed with suitcases. Mark had said
he would be travelling light, so she'd only left a little room for his bits.
She couldn't believe what she'd had to pack for Luke and Daisy. There wasn't
much of her own stuff, she figured she could shop when they'd arrived at their
new home. Inside her handbag were their passports and five thousand pounds in
cash, her credit cards and cheque book. She'd left a note on Sean's flat door
telling him she would be away for a while and that they'd be in touch soon.
There was no mention of Mark.

    Daisy
was strapped into the child seat, fast asleep with a little white sun hat down
low over her eyes. Luke was playing with some handheld video game and bouncing
about under the constraint of his seat belt. She parked in the shade of the
trees at the edge of the park where, all those years ago, Mark had waited for
her in the pouring rain, and wound down her window to let in some air. The
stereo played something from the 80s and she got out to smoke a cigarette away
from the children. Neither of them seemed to notice. The afternoon was still
and close and, away from the truck's climate control, she had to pull her
blouse away from her back to allow some air to reach her skin. Nothing was
moving in the suburban street, except for a big black crow that froze when it
saw Linda, then flapped its wings and took off, leaving her alone with her Silk
Cut. She walked up to the school gates and gazed up the drive, remembering…
remembering everything. The good and the bad times both.

    When the
appointed hour arrived, she scanned the street for Mark's car but, of course,
it didn't appear.

    She
stayed there for an hour, pacing the street and smoking, but there was still no
sign of him. 'Damn him,' she whispered to herself, as she added another
filtertip to the ones flattened in the gutter around her feet. 'Damn him to
hell.' She tried his mobile but it was switched off. She didn't leave a
message.

    As
the shadows started to lengthen and Luke complained that he wanted to go to the
toilet, she finally climbed back into the truck and switched on the engine.
'Are we going on holiday, Mummy?' the boy asked as she slowly drove away, still
hoping that Mark would miraculously appear and smile the smile she loved and
take her gently in his arms and promise her that everything was all right and
that they were together forever this time.

    'I
don't think so, darling,' Linda replied, as she tried to see through the tears
that filled her eyes. 'We'll go another day.'

    And
with that, she pointed the car in the direction of home.

    Mark
Timlin is the author of the Nick Sharman PI novels, which were filmed for ITV,
starring Clive Owen. In a former rock 'n' roll life, Timlin was a roadie for T
Rex and The Who, and he ran a small and quite seedy music venue in Clapham,
before turning to writing. His primary reason for picking up the pen was
because he knew he could do a better job than most crime writers of the time.
He wrote his first novel in 1988 and since then has written several dozen, in
various genres and under assorted names. Known as the 'bad boy of crime
fiction', Timlin has partly redeemed himself by becoming a major critical voice
through his regular crime fiction reviews in the
Independent on Sunday.