Hidden Kiss (Love Is The Law 2) (13 page)

It was his mum. He rose to his feet as she came into the
kitchen. "Hi, mum."

"Hello love! I thought I could do with some fresh air
and a bit of exercise so I went for a walk to the shops and I thought, well,
I'll pop in and see my favourite son on the way home."

"I'm your
only
son."

"And my favourite!" Pearl smiled widely. As the chemo
drained from her system she was getting brighter and brighter with each passing
day. "I'm not disturbing you, am I? Oh, you're having lunch. Excellent.
I'll stop for a brew, then."

"Sure." He had to smile. Even if he had been
working, he would have stopped to chat to her. He'd come so close to losing her
that he wasn't going to take her presence for granted ever again.

 "Working hard, love?" She peered at the lines of
code on his laptop screen as he filled the kettle at the sink.

"Yeah, it's a website for a bloke that's starting a
landscaping business."

"It doesn't look like a website."

"No, it's what makes the website work. Look." He
set the kettle on and then reached over to the laptop, toggling a button so
that the code disappeared and a rudimentary website popped up.

"There's no pictures. You've got to sort that out,
Turner. I might be an old fuddy duddy but I know that websites need pictures,
you know."

"I know, mum, I haven't got to that bit yet."

"Hmm. Well, it's all very clever. So, well done,
you."

"Thanks." He smiled. She was making him feel
better without even trying. "Mum, can I ask you about Kyle and Liam?"

Pearl leaned back in the kitchen chair and pursed her lips.
"Go on."

"What's happening at school? Especially with Kyle? Are
they kicking off bad, or what?"

"Yeah, they have been. I think…"

"What?"

Pearl seemed unwilling to speak and she spent a few moments
huffing, and adjusting her cardigan. Finally she said, "Well, I think
things have been quite unsettled for them. First they were living with me, and
then I was ill a lot, and then you were here, and then gone, and then Andy came
back on the scene and of course he's their dad." She paused for breath.
"And then another change, with them moving in together and trying to be a
proper family again."

Turner poured the boiling water onto the teabags and began
to mash them in the mugs. "Mum, Riggers - sorry, Andy - he's a bully. I'll
tell you that straight out. I didn't like the way he spoke to Kyle and worse
than that, I didn't like the way Kyle reacted to him."

"He did what he was told."

"Yeah." Turner dumped the teabags in a soggy mess
on the drainer. "Not because he was acting out of respect. He did what he
was told because he was scared, mum. Did you not see that?"

"No."

Turner mixed milk and sugar into the mugs and pushed one in
front of his mum. "Biscuits?" he offered.

"Go on then."

He slid a half-full packet of custard creams alongside her
mug, and took a seat opposite her. She munched her way through two, and then
finally admitted, "Yeah, you're right. They are a bit scared of him. But
it's good that they've got an authority figure, isn't it?" She looked up
at him, pleading for reassurance.

"Not that kind, it isn't. He's come out of prison with
some really funny attitudes. He sounds like a BNP member now. All that far
right boot-strap and national pride stuff. And his bonkers ideas about women."

"I didn't think the BNP existed anymore."

"I dunno. You don't hear about them. But all those
other tin pot little groups of racists dressed up as concerned citizens. He's
one of them, isn't he?"

Pearl sighed heavily. "He has been going to rallies and
meetings, yes. And to be honest, Turner, they make a lot of sense in what they
say. Some of it. You know, about working hard and being proud of being English.
Why can't we fly our own flag?"

"You can. I honestly don't think anyone's ever been
stopped for it."

"I've read about it."

"Mum. Not everything you read is true." He paused,
and then added, bitterly, "Journalists are liars."

Pearl picked up another biscuit and studied her son
carefully. He hung his head but he knew he couldn't bluff anything past his own
mother. Still, he waited for the inevitable question.

"Everything all right between you and Emily,
then?"

"Nope."

"Want to talk about it?"

"Nope."

"Going to keep it all to yourself until you get angrier
and angrier and do something you regret?"

"Yup."

"Turner!"

"Oh mum, I'm sorry. It's all become just one more
hassle, to be honest. Look. Let's get back to important stuff. Family stuff.
He's bullying Elaine, too, isn't he?"

"I don't think so. I mean, he hasn't raised a hand to
her. He wouldn't. She would not stand for that. And I believe what he says
about respect."

"I don't think he needs to raise a hand to her. She
scurries around him at his beck and call."

"He's got very fixed ideas on the role of women, that's
all. And I think she likes the structure."

"No." Turner shook his head and the angry
frustration that he'd carried with him from Emily's flat continued to build.
"I don't think so. Something's wrong there."

"There's nothing you can do. She's an adult and she
makes her own choices."

"She's not thinking right."

"You can't control everything."

"Why the hell not?" he blurted out, balling his
hand into a tight fist. His mum shifted back in her chair and he suddenly
noticed she didn't just look concerned; she looked scared. He forced his hand
flat. "I'm sorry, mum."

"Oh Turner, don't you go doing anything stupid."

"I won't."

"Promise me."

"Do you want another cuppa?" He stood up
forcefully and turned away.

* * * *

After he had walked his mum home, he stood on the corner of
his street, uncertain. Energy coursed through him. It was late afternoon and
he'd planned on still being with Emily right now. He felt ill at ease but
wasn't quite sure what to do with himself.

I could go round to Riggers right now and squeeze his
little throat.

Aww fuck. I don't want to go back to prison.

He forced his unwilling legs to carry him home, dragging
himself woodenly along the road and back into his house. He'd saved so hard to
buy the little terrace but now it felt like it was gripping him, strangling
him. He prowled through the rooms, almost snarling.

Eventually he flopped down into the sofa and fired up a
first-person shoot-em-up game. He dragged a four-pack of cider onto the coffee
table and put his feet up on the edge. With the sound up high, and the curtains
drawn, he proceeded to drink and shoot his way through three hours of noisy
pixelated aggression.

The final can of cider made him feel slightly sick. It was
too much sweetness. He staggered into the kitchen, and worked his way through a
tub of tuna pasta that was lingering in the fridge, and then a shot of neat
whiskey.

Fucking Riggers fucking bully fucking hell.

It wasn't right. He needed to speak to him. Try and make him
see sense. There was a tiny part of Turner's mind that thought that he,
himself, wasn't seeing sense right now, but it was easy to ignore after another
blast of whiskey.

Dusk was falling and he walked through the darkening
streets. He was pretty sure that no-one could tell he was drunk. He walked with
rigid purpose, and it must have been the set of his jaw that had passers-by
scurrying for cover and pressing into doorways as he steamed past them.

I shall be calm and cool and collected. I shall tell him
I care very much for my sister and my nephews. I shall explain that his manner
is wrong. All wrong. And that he is to leave immediately.

Okay, hang on, it's his house. I shall tell him to ask
Elaine to leave.

She'll be upset but she'll understand in the end. It's saving
her, really.

He left the rows of terraces behind and came to the new
housing development. It was one of the North-West's brownfield sites, using
European money to redevelop old industrial areas and make low-cost social
housing available to the local workforce. The houses were small, boxy and
simple, but they were all occupied - unlike the old terraces where dozens were
up for sale. Some of the old streets had more vacant properties than inhabited
ones.

Identical houses, identical cars, identical lives. Turner
rambled along the pavement, scuffing his feet into the neatly clipped grass of
each front lawn. They weren't allowed high hedges or fences between them, not
out the front, and he stumbled along flowerbeds and driveways.

There it was. Their house. His house. Riggers.
Turner
came to a swaying halt and leaned on the blue wheelie bin that stood at the end
of the neighbour's driveway. Riggers' own bins were neatly stowed away.

Turned looked at the house, searching for signs of life. But
all of the windows were dark and nothing flickered in the front window to
suggest they were watching television in a darkened room. He propelled himself
forward, his tension rising, and hung on the bell for a good long minute.

Nothing. They were out.

Bastard. It was one more reason to hate Riggers,
Turner decided. He hammered on the door, just in case they had somehow missed
the bell.

Eventually he had to concede that they were definitely out.

Now what? He lurked in the porch for a few more minutes.
Gradually, the realisation that he was looking highly suspicious began to
penetrate his booze-soaked brain and he decided to move on.

He pulled out his phone as he walked away, thumbing his way
through his contacts. It was Saturday night after all, and he was already
well-stoked with alcohol. Surely he'd be able to hit up one of his mates and
organise a session down a pub somewhere.

Alan - no, he was all loved up now and hadn't been seen
for weeks. Charlie - maybe. Deano - yeah, he was always good for a laugh.
Emily.

Emily.

Turner switched his phone off. His temporary good mood,
caused by the fleeting idea of meeting his old friends, crashed down again.

He could stop by the off-licence and get more drink.

Oh fuck it.
He drew his jacket tighter around his
body and stumbled awkwardly home. He took one more slug of whiskey and
collapsed on the sofa, still in his coat and boots, while the television showed
him endless celebrity game shows and he fell asleep in a dark, crumpled heap.

Emily was at work early that Monday morning, and doing
battle with the printer. She'd changed the ink cartridge, as it demanded. It
had spat out about a ream of test pages, and was now sulking with an
unidentified error code flashing on the blurred display.

Pah. After the weekend I've had, I can cope with
anything. It's time to move on up, move on forward, move on to a better future.

I've read enough self-help books to know that if I can't
do this on my own, and like myself for it, then I can't expect anyone else to
come and rescue me.

Sisters are doing it for themselves, all right.

The printer was unimpressed with her internal cheerleading,
however, and made an extraordinary grating noise. She hastily turned it off and
rested her hand on the plastic cover. It seemed rather too warm.

"You bastard," she told it.

"Good morning to you, too."

Emily whipped around guiltily. Joel was standing in the
lobby, wrapped in a stripy scarf and wearing an uncoordinated bobble hat. His
face was pinched and pale from the biting cold of the early morning.

"It looks like you're dressed for the arctic."

"No heating in my flat. Just one of those gas heater
things and I'm not going to buy another bottle until the autumn comes,
now."

"Oh. Oh, I wasn't calling you a bastard, by the way.
The printer has thrown a hissy."

"Turn it off, turn it on again?"

"I'm trying that." Emily felt uncomfortable under
Joel's unsmiling stare, and she used the printer as an excuse to turn away. She
felt the temperature of the plastic casing again. It was still hot, but she
flicked the on switch again anyway. It whirred for a moment then grated to a
threatening halt once more.

"That sounds bad," Joel remarked.

She turned around again and shrugged. "I'd hoped to get
a heap of work done this morning. But it looks like I'll be sorting out a new
printer instead."

Joel didn't reply. He stood fixed in the middle of the
lobby, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, like a security guard at a gate.
There was no-one else in the building yet, and it still had that eerie deserted
feeling common to offices out of working hours.

Emily waved her hand at the piles of paperwork on her desk.
"So, uh, yeah. I'll get on with it all. And you? Busy day planned?"
His stance was unsettling her and she didn't like it. But you could hardly ask
someone not to stand in the very place they worked.

"Quite busy." Again, that poised stillness. He
seemed to be thinking about what to say, or how to say it. His face twitched.

He's really creeping me out now.
"Do you want a
cup of tea? I was about to make one." She could escape to the kitchen.

He raised one sparse eyebrow and directed his gaze to the
steaming cup on her desk. Shit. A stupid girlie laugh burst from her throat.
"Oh, ah, look at that! Totally forgot."

What else could she do? She dragged out the chair from the
desk and sat down, fixing her attention on the computer screen. Until other
businesses opened at nine, she couldn't do anything about the printer, so she
decided to trawl through the emails and tidy up the inbox.

"So," Joel said, his voice cutting through her
already fraying nerves. "Tell me more about that arsehole from the other
night, then."