Death Duty By Clare Littleford

"I don't know what he hit me with.  Something hard, that's all,
something hard against the back of my head and then lights out, I hit
the floor."

When she's attacked and knocked unconscious, Nottingham social worker
Jo Elliott assumes she was merely unlucky: in the wrong place at the
wrong time; the random victim of an opportune mugging.  But gradually
the doubts set in.  A half-glimpsed face watching her in the
supermarket; an attempted break-in at night.  As the days pass, Jo
begins to suspect she was deliberately targeted.  Although she caught
only the briefest glimpse, she cant help feeling she's seen her
attacker somewhere before.  And he said something before he hit her:
she just cant quite remember what it was.

As she begins to piece the clues together, Jo becomes more and more
convinced that what appeared to be a random attack might have some
connection with a case she was involved in eight years earlier.  A case
involving a problem family called the Metcalfes.  A case that went
horribly, terribly wrong .. .

Death Duty is the second compelling novel of psychological suspense by
young Nottingham-based writer Clare Littleford -a writer to watch.

By the same author Beholden

Death Duty

Clare Littleford

SIMON & SCHUSTER

LONDON- SYDNEY- NEW YORK- TOKYO- SINGAPORE- TORONTO

First published in Great Britain by

Moon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2004

A Viacom company

Copyright Clare Littleford, 2004

This book is copyright under the Berne Convention

No reproduction without permission.

All rights reserved.

and ,8

13579 10 8642

Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

Africa House

64-78 Kingsway

London we2B 6AH

www.simonsays.co.uk

Simon & Schuster Australia Sydney

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British
Library

ISBN 0-7432-2146-X

Typeset by Palimpsest Bonk P

VI

HB

orCrlatharn Ltd, Chatham

SL1OOO17O6181 3 Askews

AF 17.99

To Brian and Kath

Acknowledgements

Many thanks to Luigi Bonomi, Kate Lyall Grant, Helen Jayne Price,
Stephan Collishaw, Taymar Ingram.

One

I didn't know what he hit me with.  Something hard, that's all, something
hard against the back of my head and then lights out, I hit the floor.
I felt myself hit the floor, felt the ridged cord carpet stinging my
hands, and my cheekbone hitting the ridges, and the sharp rebound of my
head.  It was dark, as if I'd gone blind in that instant, but I knew he
was still standing over me, I knew he was still hitting me, even though
I couldn't feel it.

I opened my eyes.  A thin, angular face leaning over me, young, Asian,
wearing dark lipstick.  He was gone she leaned over me and I smelled
her perfume, flowery, sweet.  I realized that I was screaming; I tried
to stop, tried to suck in breath, but the air caught in my throat and I
couldn't get it into my lungs and it hurt from the effort and I had to
be able to breathe, I needed air.

"It's okay," the woman said.  "Shh, shh, it's okay."

She was holding a roll of kitchen towel against my head, and there was
blood spattered on her lilac blouse.  I was lying on the floor in her
shop,

in the narrow aisle between the shelves, and there was my blood on her
blouse.  I tried to stand, tried to apologize, but I couldn't get
beyond sitting up, and she was holding me down, one hand anchoring my
shoulder, repeating, "Shh, it's okay."

My skirt was rucked up over my knees.  There was a big hole in my
tights, and slight grazes on my knees, and one of my shoes was lying
near the door, just out of my reach.

The woman bending over me said, "What happened?"

I tried to think back, but then I couldn't breathe, the air caught in
my throat again, and I couldn't swallow it down.  "He hit me," I
managed to say, and then I was so surprised by my words that I didn't
know what else to say.

There were other people in the shop.  An older Asian man with a heavy
moustache coming round from behind the counter, a young black woman in
a yellow sweatshirt framed in the open doorway with the sunlight so
bright behind her.  The woman kneeling over me said, "We've called an
ambulance."

"No, no," I said, and tried to stand up again, but I seemed to be
attached magnetically to the floor.  "I'll be fine.  I've got to get
back to work, they're expecting me back."

The black woman in the doorway brought me my shoe and said, "Where do
you work?"

A dark hole in my mind where the automatic knowledge should have been.
I panicked for a moment, then remembered.  "Social Services.  Round the
corner."

She had knelt down to help me put the shoe back on.  "I'll go and tell
them.  What's your name?"

"Jo," I said.  "Joanne Elliott."

She left.  I should have said thank you, but I didn't think of it in
time.  I should have told her to tell them not to worry, I'd be fine
once I'd managed to stand up, once my head had stopped bleeding.  But
as soon as I thought that, I could feel the pounding in my head,
pulsing deep inside, and I was thirsty, my mouth seemed to be swelling
with dryness, and it was cold sitting there on the floor, so very cold.
I closed my eyes.

Someone was speaking to me.  For a moment I thought it was him,
repeating the same words again, but I opened my eyes and there was
Colin leaning over me, sweet Colin, such a nice guy, and he put his arm
around me, and I understood that the ambulance was coming, I shouldn't
worry, everything was going to be fine.  And Colin had come out of the
office without his jacket, and he must have been cold just in his
shirtsleeves, and he was smiling at me then.  I wondered whether maybe
I'd asked aloud if he was cold, but I couldn't tell.

Two

I was in a small room with the door open.  The room was lined with
shelves stacked with bandages and sterile dressings in paper packets. I
wondered if they'd put me in a store room by mistake, but Colin was
still there and he was smiling although the smile wasn't so strong now.
I tried to tell him to go but he just shook his head and said no, and I
must have told him again how sweet and kind he was because he looked
away and seemed embarrassed by something.

And then Alex was there, and Colin made his excuses and left, and I
couldn't believe that the office had phoned Alex, I couldn't believe
that someone had thought that was a good idea, but there he was.  Alex
standing over me while I sat back on that bed like an invalid, an
imbecile, and he was so tall standing over me with a frown that hid his
black eyes in shadow.

"How are you?"  he asked.

"Fine," I said.  "Well, I've got a headache."

"Surely an understatement," he said, and gave a softened-down,
sick-person-nearby version of his laugh, and unfurled himself into the
chair next to the bed.

"You didn't have to come," I said.

"I couldn't leave you alone."

"Colin was here."

He ignored that.  "Anyway, of course I was going to come."

"Well, thank you," I said, because I didn't want to appear
ungrateful.

We waited.  When the doctor arrived he was young, thin, tired-looking.
I wondered how long he'd been on duty, when he last had a meal or some
sleep or a cigarette break.  I needed a cigarette.  I needed a glass of
water, too, but I didn't like to ask, and anyway, the triage nurse had
told me not to eat or drink anything, just in case.

I sat up and allowed the doctor to shine a torch in my eyes, and told
him no, no blurred vision, no dizziness, no numbness, I wasn't tired
really, I just had a thumping headache, I'd only been out cold for a
few seconds tops, and when could I go?

The doctor gave a patient smile a patient smile for a smiling patient
and said, "We need to do an X-ray, just to be sure there's no serious
injury.  And you need a couple of stitches on that cut."

I wanted to say that it wasn't necessary, but I was aware of Alex next
to me, so I said nothing.

When the doctor had gone, Alex said, "Are you going to tell me what
happened?"

"You know what happened.  I was mugged.  He took my purse."

"Yes, but what actually happened?"

"You mean blow by blow?"  I said, and he started to say yes, then
frowned at me.  I forced a smile, but it didn't feel convincing.
"Later," I said.  I was feeling tired, now that the initial shock was
starting to wear off, and the last thing I wanted to do was go through
the entire experience again just to satisfy Alex's curiosity.

Alex said, "But it wasn't a client, was it?"

"No, nothing like that."

He nodded, as if that made it better, as if it was better to be knocked
unconscious by a complete stranger than by someone who thought they had
a reason for attacking me.  I didn't find that comforting, and I would
have said as much, but I wasn't sure why I had given such a definite
reply.  After all, I didn't know who my attacker was how did I know why
he had picked on me?

I wanted a cigarette more than ever now.  I was about to ask Alex
whether he thought there was time to nip outside before the nurse came
to stitch the cut on my head, but as I opened my mouth to speak two
policemen in uniform came into the room.

"Joanne Elliott?"  one of them asked.

"Yes," I said.

The policemen approached the bed.

"I understand you want to report an incident?"

It was the younger of the two PCs who spoke, using a tone that
suggested he'd been on a training course on how to speak to victims of
crime.  He looked young enough to be a schoolboy wearing the uniform
for a dare.

I hesitated, and Alex said quickly, "She was mugged.  At lunchtime.  He
took her purse."

The young PC glanced at Alex then looked back at me, as if waiting for
me to confirm.  I didn't want to speak I didn't know what to say.  I
didn't want to say anything, but they were waiting.  I said, "He came
up from behind.  I heard him say something."  I put my hand up to my
head, as if touching my head was going to clear my thoughts, but I
couldn't remember, I didn't know what he'd said to me.  "I tried to
walk away I went into a shop, I thought I'd be safe, but then he hit me
across the back of the head and took my purse."

The young PC said, "Can you remember what he looked like?"

I wanted to.  I imagined myself giving a clear, concise, detailed
description, and them producing knowing grins and heading off to arrest
a familiar face, up to his usual tricks.  I tried to form a picture of
him in my mind, locate the details of that face.  I had a misty
impression of dark hair, pale skin, and the way he had twisted his
whole face up as he spoke to me.  What had he said?  He had spoken to
me; I had heard his words, through the pumping of my heart and the
rush, the roar of the moment.  What was it?  I saw the disappointment
on the PC's face -he must have thought a smart, professional woman like
myself would have made a good witness.

Eventually, the PC took pity on me and said, "We can do this tomorrow
if you'd prefer."

"Yes," I said, breathing freely at last.  "That would be better.  I'm
sorry, I just cant think '

He cut off my apologies.  "Don't worry.  He'll be long gone by now,
anyway.  We'll send someone round in the morning."

I nodded, and then they were gone.

Alex looked at me with a strange, almost disappointed expression, but
didn't say anything.  I turned away from him I didn't want to confirm
that I knew what he was thinking.  And why should I have all of the
answers right away?  Alex might think he knew it all, Alex might think
he was a cool-headed professional who could handle anything, but that
didn't mean I had to be the same as him.  I couldn't avoid his gaze for
ever.  I didn't want to.  I wanted to explain, but I didn't know what
there was to explain.  I wanted to make Alex see, get him to understand
how determined the attacker had been, get him to understand the
expression on the boy's man's -face.  Even as I thought about that
determination, his concentration, I had the strangest feeling that I
could have prevented it, if I had only come up with the right words at
the time.  I could remember him coming up beside me I could remember
that I didn't see him come, I was just suddenly aware of his presence
at my elbow as I walked along the street.  And then I could picture his
face, and his anorak with the rip in the sleeve, showing the white
stuffing under the black outer material, and his blue tracksuit
bottoms, dirty around the knees.  I saw his dark eyes, and his dark
hair brushed forwards over the top of his forehead, the traces of acne
around his mouth, his slightly crooked front teeth.  The anorak was too
big for him and the sleeves hung down over his hands, I could remember
that.  He had tried to speak to me, but I had kept walking, towards the
shop doorway.  What had he been trying to say?  But I couldn't answer,
I didn't know.

Three

Alex ex drove me home.  I sat in the passenger seat, resting the side
of my head against the window.  The glass was cool to my skin, and I
felt the throb of the engine vibrating as he moved through the gears.

I looked out.  Night was falling; the street lights cast an orange glow
that glinted off chrome and glass.  Most of the traffic was heading in
the opposite direction, out of Nottingham, and I imagined us turning
and following, leaving the city behind.  I didn't want to be surrounded
by all the red brick, by the tall terraced houses sagging against their
age, and all the warehouses and factories, and the boarded and
shuttered shops.  I could see youths hanging around on street corners,
smoking and drinking, laughing to each other, and any one of them could
have attacked me.  I wanted to be a long way away, somewhere where
Nottingham was a distant memory, somewhere green and wild with a great
expanse of sky.

But I didn't say anything, and Alex kept driving.  Soon, we were
turning into my road, and parking outside my house, and I was tired, so
very tired.  I let Alex take my arm and walk me up the front path.  I
leaned against the wall while he searched for his key.  My keys were in
my handbag in my desk drawer at work, and I nearly joked that it was
lucky I hadn't taken his set back when he moved out, but I said nothing
instead.

The house was cold.  I flicked on the lights in the front room, drew
the curtains and then lit the gas fire.  Alex shrugged off his coat and
sat down on the sofa.

I said, "You don't have to stay, you know."

"Someone's got to," he said.  "They wouldn't have let you come home
alone.  Anyway, I don't mind."

I looked at him, trying to judge whether he really meant that, but he
had bent down to unlace his shoes and I couldn't see his face.  I said,
"I'll make up the spare bed for you."

"No," Alex said.  "Leave it.  I'm supposed to be looking after you.
I'll do it later."

He pulled off his shoes, then examined a hole in the toe of one of his
socks.  I lit myself a cigarette and sat back as the nicotine rush from
half a day without a smoke flooded into my brain.  It made me feel
slightly nauseous, but I persevered.

Alex had taken his mobile phone from his pocket and was pressing his
way through the menu.  The sound of the beeps cut right into the centre
of my brain.  He said, "I've got to make a phone call."

He looked at me pointedly, so I said, "I'll put the kettle on," and
went into the kitchen.  As I filled the kettle from the tap, I looked
down through the dining room and the archway into the front room and
saw him huddled over his mobile, talking.  He had half-turned away from
me and I couldn't hear what was being said, but I assumed he was
phoning Simon to say he wouldn't be back that night.

I made a couple of mugs of coffee and carried them through into the
front room.  Alex put his mobile away and smiled at me as he took the
mug from me.  "How do you feel now?"  he asked.

"Okay," I said.  "Headache."  I had a couple of paracetamol in my hand
and I broke them in half and swallowed them quickly with my coffee.  I
lit myself another cigarette.  "I hope you didn't have to rearrange
anything to stay here."

"Oh, just some friends," he said.  "It's okay, I can see them another
time."

I forced a smile.  I wanted to ask which friends -there was a time when
I would have had automatic knowledge of his social calendar.  It was
strange to think of him with a life I knew nothing about.  I was very
aware that I didn't have any plans for that night, there was nobody
worrying about me and Alex knew that, Alex was acting as stand-in, Alex
was taking his responsibilities seriously even when they were no longer
his, Alex was being so bloody kind to me.

We sat drinking our coffee.  I stubbed out my cigarette in the ashtray.
I thought about asking him about work, or whether he liked lodging with
Simon, or about what he'd been up to, but my head still hurt and I
couldn't bring myself to form a sentence.

Finally, he said, "I'll fetch your stuff from the office tomorrow."

I wanted to say that it was fine, he'd done enough; instead, I closed
my eyes and said, "Thanks."  I felt very sleepy but I could sense his
presence even with my eyes closed.

After a minute or two he said, "How come you couldn't tell the police
more?"

I opened my eyes.  He was slumped on the sofa with his arms stretched
back over his head and his socked feet crossed.  "I just cant
remember," I said.

"Really?"  He looked doubtful.  "The doctor said '

"I know, I know.  My head hurts.  I'm tired.  I don't want to think
about it right now."

"Well, you've got to at some point."

"But not now," I said.

"But you have to tell the police."

"I know," I said, and couldn't keep the irritation out of my voice.
"Don't you think I know that?"

He raised his eyebrows.  "There's no need to get like that about it."

He sounded hurt, but I thought he might be putting that on.  I sighed.
"I just got knocked unconscious in the street in broad daylight how
d'you expect me to be about it?"

"But it's over now," he said.  "I mean, c'mon, statistically you're
unlikely to get mugged twice, so you don't have to worry about that any
more, eh?  It's all out of the way."

He was searching out eye contact, searching out a smile.  I fought back
the tears that had been threatening and forced myself to laugh.  "So
I'm statistically mugger-proof now, then?"

He nodded and grinned.  "Exactly," he said.

I knew he wanted me to continue smiling, to show him that I was my
usual self, but I felt slightly sick from the effort.  I wanted him to
be quiet, to leave me alone, but I realized he had no intentions of
doing that.  I didn't trust myself to speak.

He said, "C'mon, smile.  At least you've got a week off work out of
it."

"Huh," I said.  I put my hand up to my head and touched the sore patch
around the stitches on my scalp.  "I'd rather be at work."

"You would," he said, shaking his head slightly as though I'd said
something he disapproved of.  I wasn't sure if he was still joking or
not.  Then he said, "You've got to tell me about it at some point."

I wanted to demand why, but my head hurt too much; the sound of his
voice hurt.  I said, "Not now.  Maybe I just want to forget about
it?"

"But you cant," he said.  "You've got to tell the police."

I just shrugged.

"But this bloke could do the same to someone else.  Or worse."

I stood up.  "I'm going to have a bath."

He didn't say anything for a moment, but when I had reached the door,
he said, "Well, don't drown yourself."

I just flashed him a grin and went into the hall.  As I climbed the
stairs I heard the TV come on, and snatches of programmes as he flicked
through the channels.  I wasn't sure what he expected me to say, why he
thought I should be able to tell him exactly what had happened.  I
realized that I didn't want him here at all.

I went into the bathroom, closed the door and started to run the bath.
It felt strange to finally be alone.  I stood there, fingers on the
buttons of my blouse, and after a moment I went back and bolted the
bathroom door.  I took my clothes off slowly.  There was a small amount
of blood on the collar of my blouse, dried onto the fibres.  I looked
down at myself, at the grazes on my legs and the bruise on my hip that
I hadn't felt until now, and finally I looked at my face in the mirror.
My hair was dishevelled, but I had expected that; it was matted with
blood at the back.  There was a brown streak of blood on my forehead
that Alex hadn't mentioned, and my eyes were reddened and the rest of
my skin was very pale.  I watched myself in the mirror, this woman who
looked as if she'd been through an ordeal, and I felt that I should
cry, I should show some sort of emotion, but I couldn't, I couldn't
bring myself to react that way.

I shut off the bathwater and climbed in.  I cupped my hands and started
to wash my knees, rinsing off the grime I had picked up from the shop
floor, washing away the little flecks of blood in the grazes.  Lying
back, I felt the edge of the bath pressing against the stitches in my
scalp.  I touched them and the pressure of my fingertips stung in the
cut, and I felt the bruise that had swollen around it, hardened by the
skull underneath.  Then I ran my fingers through the rest of my hair,
and felt the softness of the other bruises.  Touching them hurt but I
had to do it.  Four in total.  Did that mean he had hit me four times?
Did I hit my head on a shelf or on the floor as I went down?  I
remembered the feel of the cord carpet against my face and the rebound
of my head, but I couldn't remember any more.

And that frightened me, more than when he had appeared beside me, more
than when I had realized that something was about to happen, more than
the blow that had knocked me down, and the X-ray, and the stitches, and
the police asking questions.  I hadn't seen it coming.  He had stood
over me, hitting me, and I hadn't known, there was nothing I could do
to protect myself.  Whatever Alex said about statistics, whatever I
knew about the likelihood of being attacked or robbed, it made no
difference; it had happened, and what was there to stop it happening
again?  And what if he hadn't stopped, what if he'd had a knife, what
if he'd decided he was going to kill me?

I wanted to think that my scream had chased him off, but I didn't know;
I had the horrible feeling that I had only started to scream later,
after' he had gone, when the shopkeeper was already bending over me,
when I was already safe.

I closed my eyes and held my breath and dipped my head back until I was
under the surface of the bathwater.  I pinched my nose between thumb
and forefinger and let the water rush right over my face, and I felt
myself floating free, weightless under the water, deafened.  The water
was warm but my skin felt cold against it.  I imagined coming up out of
the water, remembered that feeling of return as I came back from the
darkness; the return of sound and sensation.  The floor had been cold
against my skin, too.  I should have been safe; in a street, in a shop,
in the middle of the day.  Nothing should have happened, and if I
hadn't been safe then ... I imagined someone bending over me, and it
was him I saw, my attacker, reaching his hands down towards me in the
bathwater.

I sat up quickly, too quickly, swallowing water, slopping water over
the side of the bath, opening my eyes, but there was nobody there.  I
was alone, and I had locked the bathroom door.  I heard muffled voices
and canned laughter from the TV downstairs.

I could picture the youth's face, the way he had looked at me, with a
slight smile that I had thought meant he knew me.  He had smiled at me,
and I had smiled back, trying to place his face, trying to remember
where he knew me from, where I knew him from.  And then it had
happened, but I couldn't remember his words, just that slow certainty
saturating me, and trying to think, trying to see how I could get away,
and stepping towards the shop doorway.  I could remember pushing open
the door, and then I was falling, before I even felt the blow I was
falling, and I didn't see the floor, I didn't see myself hit the
floor.

Four

woke early and lay trying to doze for a long time.  Outside, I could
hear the traffic building up on Sherwood Rise, heading into the city
centre.  I didn't want to acknowledge that it was morning, but my brain
was too alert to allow me to sleep again.  My head ached and the cut on
my scalp felt sore and swollen; I didn't want to sit up and feel the
full effect of the pain.  I heard Alex get up and go to the bathroom,
and then the toilet flush and his footsteps going lightly down the
stairs.  I didn't want to face him just then, so I lay where I was
until I could no longer deny being awake, then I put on my dressing
gown and went down to the front room.

The TV was tuned to the breakfast news and Alex was sitting on the sofa
eating toast, with a mug of tea on the carpet by his feet.  He was
already dressed; even his tie was in place.

"Sleep well?"  he asked, glancing up at me.  I nodded.  "How are you
feeling?"

"Fine," I said.  "It's a bit sore round the stitches, but no major
damage."

"Oh, you'll be right as rain in no time," he said.

I just smiled and didn't say anything.  He looked at me for a moment,
then sipped his tea and looked back at the TV screen.  I stifled
another yawn and tried to think about what I was going to do today, but
I had no ideas.  All those times I had wished I could just take a day
off and do nothing the situation would have been funny if it wasn't for
the dull pain in my head.

"When are the police coming round?"  he asked.

"Not sure," I said.  "Later."

I had wanted to forget about their visit until it happened, but now
that he had mentioned it I knew the thought would stay with me.  I had
dreamed about the attack, I remembered that now the familiarity of that
feeling, that slight edge of sickness, and seeing the attacker's face
close to mine.  I had dreamed that he had pushed his face into mine,
that I had felt the damp warmth of his breath, and looked into those
eyes, and felt the pressure of his hand against my skin.  But that
hadn't happened, I was certain of that.  I had hardly seen his face at
all, and the impact of the first blow had been so hard, so sudden.  I
wanted to tell Alex, to explain that feeling of familiarity, to tell
him that maybe I had recognized the attacker, but I wasn't sure.  I
didn't know if that was just the immediacy of the dream, and I didn't
want to fix the idea in my mind by vocalizing it, not when I could have
been wrong.

Alex had started to lace up his shoes.  He said, "I'll pop into your
office later, pick up your stuff."

Then he hesitated, and added, "Why don't you come round tonight?  About
seven?  I'll cook.  You need a day off, yeah?"

"Thanks," I said, surprised by his thoughtfulness and then ashamed of
my surprise.

"You'll be okay?"  he said.  "To drive round, I mean?"

"Oh yes," I said, because I didn't see why I wouldn't be.  I was glad I
hadn't taken the car to work the previous day I couldn't imagine going
to pick it up, past the place where he had, past that shop.

Alex had stood up and was pulling on his jacket.  I got to my feet,
feeling slightly dizzy, but Alex didn't notice that anything was wrong.
I saw him to the front door and then shut it and stood listening to his
car start and pull away up the street.  When the sound of his engine
faded I went back into the front room and turned the TV off. The house
was very quiet.  I had intended to have a bath before getting dressed,
but I didn't want to any more.

When I was dressed and had brushed my teeth, I phoned work.  My
supervisor, Douglas, wasn't in, so I had to talk to Colin.  He was a
gush of questions, about how I was and whether the police had caught my
attacker.  "You'll be back in no time," Colin said.  "Nothing'll keep
Jo Elliott away from her caseload, eh?"

I gave a tentative laugh.  Behind him in the office I could hear the
usual noise of conversations and phones ringing.  "I'll let you get
back to it," I said.  "Tell Douglas I'll send my sick note in."

I looked back at him.  He had short dark hair and chocolate-brown eyes;
like Alex, I thought.  He wore heavy boots that laced right up his
ankles and disappeared under his trouser legs.  He had taken his
notebook out of his pocket and was leafing through the pages.  PC
Andrews suddenly seemed to feel that she was needed at his side and sat
down next to him on the sofa.

I said, "Yes.  I was mugged."

"And where was this?"

So I ran through the details once more, a condensed version because I
was starting to get the hang of this.  Young man appears, threatens me,
I try to get away, he bashes me on the head and takes my purse, I wake
up with a sore head.  Even as I told them the story I felt how
ridiculous all of this fuss was, how little anybody could do to prevent
this sort of thing.  I told them that he'd hit me in broad daylight, in
a busy street, in the doorway to a busy shop, and I'd done nothing to
provoke him.  But as I said those words, I thought again of the dream
I'd had.  Maybe I had seen him somewhere before?  I opened my mouth to
suggest it, looking towards PC Andrews as if she was going to offer me
some kind of sympathy, or encouragement.  But PC Andrews looked
slightly bored, almost impatiently so.  Alex would have been angry with
me if he had known I wasn't telling the police everything.  I could
imagine him, telling me I had a responsibility towards the attacker's
next victims but I didn't know what I could say that would make any
sense.  I couldn't imagine PC Andrews regaining her interest in my
story if I told her that he had said something I hadn't heard, or
looked at me as if he recognized me.  And how could I be sure, when I
had barely even caught a glimpse of his face?

PC Short said, "So, you were on your lunch break.  Where do you
work?"

"Social Services," I said.  "I'm a social worker."

He gave a low little laugh.  "You're as popular as we are, then.  On
the streets, I mean.  You're sure it wasn't a client having a pop?"

"Yes," I said.  But he had tried to speak to me, I was fairly sure of
that if I had only heard what he was saying to me, if I could only
piece it together, then I would know.  What if it had been a client?
Maybe there was something I could have done to prevent it?  I kept my
voice even and said, "I'm pretty sure, anyway.  I didn't get that good
a look at him."

PC Andrews was looking around the room again, and I tried to see what
she could possibly find so interesting in a plain old through-lounge
with a few books on shelves and green plants in pots on the varnished
floorboards and a couple of Kandinsky prints in clip-frames on the
walls.  I fought down the irritation, and the urge to tell her to stop,
but I recognized the kind of look she was giving the place, the kind of
assessment.  It was what I did on a first home visit; deconstructing
the home environment, trying to work out what the choice of ornaments
or the lack of them meant, trying to figure out something about the
character of the household from the kinds of objects and furniture and
wallpaper they chose.  I followed the policewoman's gaze and wondered
what she made of me, and whether she would like the same assessment to
be done in her own front room.

PC Short said, "We'd like you to come down to the station tomorrow and
look through our photos, see if this chap's known to us.  We'll pick
you up.  You can make a proper statement then, too."

"Okay," I said, but I felt a little weak, a little dizzy at the
thought.  I walked the police back to the front door and once they had
gone I shut it and leaned against it and tried to get my breath back. I
didn't want to go to the police station.  I didn't want to get in a
police car.  What if he saw me in the back of the car and decided he
was going to come after me and shut me up?  He had my purse, there had
to be something with my address in that purse, and he could come back,
he could come and find me.  I imagined a knock at the door, opening the
door, seeing his face pressed against the crack, grinning at me, the
way he had grinned at me in the street, and a little chain wouldn't
keep him out, he could force his way in and there wouldn't be anyone to
stop him, and screaming wouldn't scare him away, not if he was
determined.

Five

By the time I was due to drive over to Alex and Simon's place, I was
starting to think that agreeing to go hadn't been such a good idea.  It
was dark outside.  The street looked empty from the front window, but
there were plenty of places where a person could stand unseen, if they
really wanted to.  An empty street meant nobody to rescue me and there
were such terrible stories in the newspapers and on the TV mobile phone
thefts at knife point people taken to cash points with a gun in their
back, car-jackings.  People attacked as they unlocked their cars, or as
they waited at traffic lights, or blocked-in when they pulled up to
park.  And there were the other crimes, too, the ones I didn't want to
contemplate, because I could imagine the hand over my mouth, the press
of someone's body against mine, the sound of their breath and its moist
warmth against my ear.

I stood there by the front window for a long time, my shoes and coat
on.  The house was quiet behind me, and there wasn't much traffic on
the main road.  A stereo played pop hits somewhere nearby; the music
was softened by distance, a lazy background sound.

I had thought about not going to Alex and Simon's at all.  I could make
an excuse; they would accept that.  I could tell them I had a headache,
that I was tired.  I could sit in front of the TV instead I had a
bottle of wine, and something to smoke.  I could relax; it would be
nice just to relax.

But something rebelled against that idea.  If I started lying about it,
if I hid behind a headache, didn't that say that the attacker had won?
I could imagine what Alex and Simon would say if they guessed the
truth.  Alex would make some joke about being surprised that anything
could scare me; Simon would tell me that I shouldn't let the boggers
win, I should stand up to them, show them that I wasn't afraid.  I
could imagine their disappointment, and how that would make me feel,
and how angry I would be with them for making me feel that way.  Why
should I be brave about it?  Why shouldn't I allow myself to hide, just
for a while?

But I didn't want to feel angry with them.  There was only one person I
felt angry with that face, so close to mine.  And why should he win,
anyway?  I was stronger than that; I had to be stronger than that.

So, eventually, I opened the front door and stood there on the step,
getting a better look at the street.  It wasn't far to my car, and
there was nobody around,

and I had done this a thousand times before without even thinking about
it.

I went quickly to my car and put my key in the lock.  The street was
still clear.  I turned the key and the click of the lock sounded
unnaturally loud.  I looked around again, but there were no shadows
stepping towards me, taking the form of people, stretching their hands
out.  I got into the driver's seat, locked my door, fastened my
seatbelt.  I started the engine and the vibrations set against the
sickness in my stomach.  I needed air but I wasn't going to open a
window, not when somebody could reach their hand through.

I drove too quickly to Simon and Alex's place.  I had expected
something to happen on the journey it seemed impossible that I could
pass along the narrow streets, so close to all the people, all the
lives, and come out unscathed.  Even if it was just the police pulling
me over for speeding, I felt that something was bound to happen but
nothing did.  I parked outside the house and sat taking deep breaths
for a long moment before I looked up and down the street.  Dusk
deepened the shadows in the cul-de-sac.  Further up, outside one of the
big Victorian houses sub-divided into bed sits I could see a group of
young men sitting on the front wall, drinking from cans.  I avoided
looking at them as I locked the car and hurried to Simon and Alex's
front door.  By the time Simon opened the door, the shadows seemed to
have lengthened, drawing closer to me, bringing the cold night in.

I followed Simon down the narrow hall, squeezing past the bikes stored
there, and out into the kitchen-diner at the back of the house.  Alex
was standing at the cooker, stirring something that smelled like curry.
Simon and I sat at the table against the opposite wall, and I felt how
hot I was, how sweaty, and how humid the kitchen was even with the back
door open.

Alex turned from the cooker and said, "You like your curries hot, don't
you, Jo?"

"Yeah, sure," I said, then saw Simon's expression and added, "But not
too hot, I like to feel my tongue afterwards."

Simon giggled as if I'd said something genuinely funny.  He had a
spliff resting, half-smoked, in the ashtray and picked it up and re-lit
it.

"How'd the thing go with the police?"  Alex asked.

"Fine.  They want me to look at mug-shots tomorrow."

Alex turned and looked at me, as if he'd picked up something from my
tone, but he said, "Well, at least they're taking it seriously."

I just smiled.  Simon handed me the spliff and I took a couple of
drags.  Simon said, "How's the head?"

"Okay," I said.

"You've not been feeling dizzy?"  Alex asked.  "Or unusually tired? The
doctor said '

"I know," I said.  "No, I'm fine, honestly."

"And you'll call if you need anything?"

"Yes.  Stop fussing, will you?"

Alex turned back to the cooker, but I could tell he wasn't irritated.

I said to Simon, "How's work?"

He rolled his eyes and took the end of the spliff back as I offered it
to him.  He didn't ask Alex if he wanted it, but nipped the roach
between thumb and forefinger and sucked in carefully.  Then he said,
"The union's all over the place with this Chantelle Wade thing.  All
the full-timers are getting pulled into it."

"So, you're working on it, too, then?"

"Working on it?  The union've practically dumped it on me, being the
only full-timer in the region who used to work for Social Services.
Talk about stress."

Alex laughed.  "End of the union being a cushy little number for you,
then?"

"Yeah, yeah," Simon said, squashing the end of the spliff into the
ashtray.  "Very funny.  It's not exactly been a barrel of laughs since
the kid died, I'll say that much."

"Nor's Social Services," I said.  "You should hear the rumours.
Everyone's convinced they're going to drop the workers in it to save
the department.  It's not like we can be with the clients twenty-four
hours a day in case something happens."  I hesitated, but went on,
"Unless it's true that they screwed up big time?"

Simon smiled.  "You know I cant talk about it, Jo.  It's
confidential."

"I know, I know," I said.  I could see that Alex was listening
carefully now, and that probably meant that he'd asked, too, and got
nowhere.  "It's just the whole department's so jumpy about it.  Not to
mention the clients."

"Oh, tell me about it," Alex said.  "All I get is bloody clients making
comments."  He turned to face us, holding out the wooden spoon to
emphasize his point.  "You should hear them, Simon, it's a nightmare."
He screwed up his face and imitated a whiny voice.  '"You lot don't
know nothing.  You lot get things wrong all the time.  You lot let that
little girl die."  The spoon bobbed in his hand as he spoke.  "You can
understand it, really, the way everyone's going on about the
investigation, but it's still a complete nightmare."

"Everyone always blames the social workers," I said.

"I know, I know, but I still cant talk about it."  Then Simon relented
a little.  "It's not as cut-and-dried as the media'll have you believe.
That's all I can say."

I would have pushed for more, but Simon had clamped his jaw firmly
shut.  I was trying to think of a way to change the subject when Alex
announced that the curry was ready.  I watched him slopping some
sticky-looking rice onto three plates.

"Oh, c'mon," Simon said.  "Cheer up, you two, for Christ's sake."

I forced a smile onto my lips.  Alex was spooning curry out over the
rice and didn't reply.

Simon went to the fridge and returned with three bottles of lager, then
opened one with a flourish.  "For you, madam," he said, presenting the
bottle to me label-first.  "A fine vintage, madam, from the Asda
victuallers of the Alsace region."  He poured a little into a glass.

I laughed, then took a sip and swilled it around in my mouth before
swallowing.  "Mmm," I said.  "A fine body, a cheeky little nose.  I
sense hops and fruit and autumn leaves on bonfires, a heady
concoction."

Simon giggled and Alex said, "Heady's right, the way he pours the
stuff.  Froth all over the table if you don't watch him."

Simon pretended to be indignant, but then Alex put the plates of curry
in front of each of us and sat down, so we all shut up to eat.  Alex
hadn't overdone the curry paste this time but the cauliflower had
almost dissolved into the sauce.

When we'd eaten and the dishes were stacked up in the sink, we went
into the front room.  Simon rolled another spliff and I saw Alex's
not-on-a-weeknight frown, but he didn't say anything.  Simon and I
shared the spliff while Alex played CDs on Simon's stereo.  I could
tell by the way he held his shoulders hunched that he was angry with us
for smoking, but I didn't really care.  I was sliding into the warm,
drowsy feeling of being half-stoned, and my face was starting to ache
from the effort of smiling; I knew that another spliff would take away
my powers of speech altogether.

Eventually, Simon announced that he was going to the pub to meet some
union buddies.  I made another attempt to get him to tell us about the
Chantelle Wade enquiry, but he just laughed that off and started to
lace up his boots.  Alex changed the CD again, this time for some
Velvet Underground, and I closed my eyes and felt myself sinking back
into the music.  I heard the click of the front door as Simon left the
house, and I allowed myself to drift.

Alex said, "The Chantelle Wade case seems like a mess."

I opened my eyes.  He was sitting in the armchair, one leg crossed over
the other, very upright.  His voice sounded far away.  It felt like a
long time before I answered, but then I heard myself say, "The media's
got hold of it.  That'll screw anything up."

He gave a little grunt.  "I'm glad I wasn't involved."

"Me too," I said, and, after a pause, "I think everyone feels that
way."

I was having to concentrate very hard on each word as I spoke.  I lit
myself a straight cigarette and that cleared the fog a little.  Alex
was talking again, rattling on about stress levels in his office and
how everyone in the department was on edge, waiting for the next
accusation about missed procedures and neglect of duty.  Journalists
sniffing around buying people drinks, clients making waspish comments,
that whole atmosphere of bad news about to come out.  I forced back a
yawn.

"Am I boring you?"  He sounded hurt.

I jerked awake again.  "Course not."

"Just you're stoned," he said.  "Christ, I try to have a conversation
with you and you're wasted."

"I'm not wasted."

"This is important," he went on.  "They're looking for any excuse, you
know."

I had to laugh at that.  "I don't think the journalists are looking for
a great expose on dope-smoking social workers, do you?"

"Not them," Alex said.  "Management."

He was looking gloomy.  I said, "Oh, get real.  I'm off work this week,
remember?"  He didn't respond to that, and I was irritated to find that
he'd punctured my feeling of well-being.  "Anyway, the last couple of
days have been a nightmare.  I think I'm entitled."

"It doesn't solve anything," he said.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," I said.  "Spare me the drugs education speech,
will you?  I'm not one of your clients.  You're drinking beer, and
what's the difference?"

He frowned, but didn't respond.  I could tell he was building up to
saying something else and I couldn't face one of his meandering
arguments, trying to score points, trying to make an issue out of
nothing at all.  After a pause, he said, "It's probably just as well
you've got some time off."

That pricked me.  "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," he said, sounding irritated.  "Just that everyone's on edge.
Stressed out."

I wanted to demand if he meant that I couldn't handle it, but I knew
what he'd say to that.  Taking things to heart well, why shouldn't I?
He might think of himself as perfect, never putting a foot wrong, all
'professional distance', but what did that prove?  Sure, people could
get support from him, maybe even some advice, but actually rely on him?
No way.  It would be like asking the book of guidelines for a hug.

So I let out a long breath and said, "We're not at work now.  Let's not
talk about it, eh?"

He nodded, but I could see he was still brooding.  And that was his
great example of professional distance, of not taking things to heart?
I could feel that the argument was still in the air and I didn't want
my mood to be ruined any further, so I forced myself out of the chair
and onto my feet.

"I'm going home," I said.  He looked at me in surprise.  "Thanks for
the curry, but I'm really tired."

He said, "Don't go because of that.  I don't care if you smoke a
spliff, honestly, why would I?  And we don't have to talk about work.
We can have a nice evening still, cant we?"

"It's not because of that," I said.  "My head's aching.  I really just
want an early night."

He considered that.  "Fair enough.  The stuff I got from your office is
in the hall."

I collected everything together and thanked him and he saw me to the
door.  Then he said, "You will be okay to drive, won't you?"

"Of course," I said.  I felt bright and alert again.  I gave him a
quick peck on the cheek and, to my surprise, he put his arms around me
and squeezed me into a hug.

"Take care," he said.

I nodded and smiled and went to my car.  He stood in the doorway,
watching me.  I wasn't sure what he had to be concerned about, and I
tried to remind myself that it was really rather sweet.

Six

PC Short came alone to fetch me the following morning.  I didn't ask
what had happened to PC Andrews and he didn't volunteer the
information, just smiled at me as if he felt I needed my confidence
boosting.  His car was parked next to the kerb.  The street was very
quiet, as it usually was inner city pretending to be suburbia.  PC
Short opened the back door of the police car and I climbed inside.

I watched the policeman walk slowly around to the driver's side, his
footsteps muffled.  The inside of the car smelled slightly of warm
plastic and potpourri air freshener.  PC Short got into the driver's
seat, started the engine and then put his seatbelt on.  I looked at the
back of his head; he must have had a haircut recently, because I could
see the slightly paler skin like a rim around his hairline where it had
been shaved into the nape of his neck.  I thought about my attacker,
about striking a stranger on the back of the head, about feeling the
impact and seeing someone stumble and fall.  He had screwed his face up
into an ugly expression when he confronted me,

and I couldn't imagine what he had been thinking, or how he had been
feeling, or how he could have done something like that.

And he was out there somewhere, and I was in this car, surrounded by
metal and glass, visible to everyone.  I took a deep breath; I wanted
to get out of the car, get out and run back to my house, shut myself in
with the door deadlocked and the curtains drawn, where nobody would be
able to see me or talk to me or get at me.

PC Short turned in his seat and said, "Are you okay?"

For a moment, I thought that he must have been possessed of a sixth
sense, an intuition, but I realized it was just a routine enquiry.  I
forced myself to nod, and he turned back and we moved off up the
street.

I was hardly breathing as we came out onto Sherwood Rise.  There were
people on the pavements; women pushing push chairs and dragging small
children along, pensioners walking slowly up the hill, and small
clusters of students.  I closed my eyes and forced myself to draw air
into my lungs.  He wasn't out there, he wouldn't be, I knew it, but
still I didn't want to look.  PC Short must have glanced at me in the
rear-view mirror, because he said, "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yes," I said.  "Just a slight headache."

"Have you taken anything for it?"

"Yes," I said, even though I hadn't since first thing, because I wanted
him to stop talking.  He seemed to take the hint; at any rate, he
didn't speak again until we were pulling into a yard at the side of the
police station.

He said, "I'll have to let you out," as he parked the car up hard
against the hand brake then slammed the driver's door and ambled round
to let me out of the back.  I climbed out and followed him into the
police station.  We passed through a reception area with a handful of
people waiting, their expressions fixed with the kind of boredom I
associated with the dole office or the doctor's surgery.  Through a
security door and down a tiled corridor, me trotting after PC Short and
wishing I could stop, sit down, catch my breath.

"We'll take your statement after you've seen the photo books," he said.
We swept up some tiled stairs with fake mahogany banisters.  Plastic
ivy dripped down the stairwell from ceramic pots on the landing and
there were prints in wooden frames screwed to the walls, but it didn't
feel welcoming.

I followed PC Short down a narrow corridor and into a small room.  My
first impression was that it was a store room; every available space on
the walls was filled with shelves of lever-arch folders and bound
reports, below which were melamine units sagging under the weight of
stacks of paper and more reports.  There was a table at the centre of
the room; the kind of veneer-topped metal-legged table that reminded me
of school.  I sat down on the grey plastic chair PC Short indicated.

He fetched a heavy lever-arch folder from one of the shelves and set it
down in front of me.  "Have a good look through," he said.  "Take your
time.  Would you like a coffee?"

"Yes, please," I said, more so he would leave me, so I wouldn't have to
feel the concern through his gaze as he waited for me to find the right
face in the book.

He went over to the far end of the room, behind me, out of my line of
sight.  I took a deep breath and looked down at the first page of
photos.  There were twelve to a page, playing-card size images, youths
looking straight into the camera.  Twelve pairs of eyes.  I think I had
expected my attacker to be looking up at me from the centre of the
first page, maybe even laughing, looking up at me with a challenge that
I would recognize was aimed straight at me.  But the first page were
all strangers, some looking back at me with bewilderment, as if they
couldn't understand how they had ended up in this situation.  Kids.  I
turned over to the next page.  There were lines and lines of the
images.

PC Short returned to the table and placed a plastic cup of coffee down
for me.  "Sugar?"  he asked.

"No, thanks," I said, and turned over to the next page.

"It's not real milk, I'm afraid," he said.  "It's only that powdered
stuff.  Coffeemate."

There was something in his tone that made me glance up at him.  He had
run his hand through his hair and now a small clump was sticking out at
an odd angle near the crown of his head.  It gave him an oddly boyish
look, and I realized with a shock that he was about my age, and had a
nice face the kind of bland, inoffensive face that was rarely remarked
upon, the nose and mouth an average size, the chin tapered to an
average angle.  The only remarkable thing about his face was the fluid
brown of his eyes.  He ran his hand over his hair again, smoothed down
the offending clump and smiled slightly.  I realized that I must have
been looking at him a moment too long, so I took a sip of the coffee
and said quickly, "It's fine, thanks."

"Any luck so far?"  he asked.

"No."

"Well, take your time."  But there was a slight hint of disappointment,
a drop in the enthusiasm in his tone.

I turned another page.  The thickness of the book daunted me.  And they
were mostly so very young, too barely out of school, bad skin, ragged
haircuts, their flesh taut over their cheekbones where they'd grown too
fast for their metabolisms to keep up, or flabby where the puppy fat
still lingered.  They were the sorts of kids I had to deal with at
work, and as I progressed through the folder a few faces made me stop
the ghost of a similarity in the turn of the lips or the way the eyes
looked at me.  Each time I stopped, I tried to refocus the image in my
mind, wanting to define the features I was searching for, but those
features blurred and smoothed even as I searched my memory for them. It
could have been any one of a dozen or none of them.  But that sense of
familiarity I had had I found myself wondering whether I did know him,
whether he was a client I had forgotten.  The thought sat uneasily in
my mind as I closed the folder.

"Didn't spot him, then?"  PC Short asked.

"No," I said.

He sighed.  "Well, it was worth a shot.  Shall we go and sort out your
statement?"

We went back down the stairs and into a small interview room with a
hexagonal table at its centre.  As he readied himself with forms, I
wondered whether I should tell him what I was thinking.  It would be
crazy not to but what could I say?  I didn't know who my attacker was
what kind of a social worker was I if I couldn't remember one of my own
clients?  And I could be wrong he had taken my purse, so maybe it was
just a robbery after all?  I didn't want the police to go trampling
through my case files on a wild-goose chase.

"Ready?"  PC Short asked.

I nodded, putting those thoughts out of my head.

Seven

When I got home from the police station, I couldn't relax.  I tried
sitting down with a mug of tea and a cigarette, but even the nicotine
couldn't block out the pages and pages of faces in that folder, and the
fact that my attacker hadn't been among them.  I watched daytime TV for
a short while, but I couldn't be bothered with quiz shows and the
schools programmes were covering basic maths, so I switched the TV off
and fetched my filofax from the bag Alex had collected from the office
for me.

I hadn't missed anything important so far that week, but there was a
case conference to prepare for and a couple of reports to write and
case files to update.  I made a list of the outstanding work, but my
head started to throb and I couldn't bring myself to complete any of
the tasks.  I lit another cigarette.

My attacker's face.  I had been so sure I would recognize him, but I
hadn't.  The police didn't know who he was, and neither did I, and what
if he was never caught?  I wanted to forget about him, but my head hurt
and he was still out there somewhere.  I

had a clear idea of the shape of his nose, the contour of his chin, the
peculiarly pale hue to his skin, but it was possible that my memory was
just playing tricks, filling in the gaps, and the face I saw in my
dreams wasn't the right face at all.  He was still out there in the
streets; I could imagine him pacing the pavements, walking around
knowing what he had done to me, and that he had got away with it.  I
didn't want to know whether he was still angry, whether he was hoping
to see me again so he could do something more to me.  I tried to remind
myself that it had just been a mugging, nothing more than street
robbery it happened every day, it wasn't even significant.  But still,
there was that stab of doubt, that moment when I had thought I
recognized him, and what if I was right?

But there was nothing I could do about it.  I lit another cigarette and
realized I had only just put one out, but I smoked on anyway.  I
couldn't allow this one little incident to affect my life.  I had a
job, I had responsibility for other people's lives, people were relying
on me.

I decided to phone work.  I had my diary open at that week's
appointments and the list of tasks set next to it.  I phoned my
supervisor.

Douglas came on the line very quickly, said, "How're you feeling,
Jo?"

"Fine," I said.  "I just wanted to check my workload was being
covered."

"You're off sick.  Don't worry about it."

"I have to worry about it," I said.  "I'm the one who'll have to pick
up the pieces when I come back."

"You're not going to be off for that long," he said.  "Their worlds
won't collapse in the next week, will they?"  But he allowed me to read
out the appointments I had that needed to be kept, and I knew by the
way he hummed and hawed that most of them would be cancelled anyway. "I
cant get anyone out to Mrs.  Adams this afternoon," he said.  "Too
short notice.  We're snowed under."  Before I could object that Mrs.
Adams would worry, he continued, "She's too dependent on you, anyway.
Shouldn't even be an active case by rights."

I tried to argue with him, but he was adamant and my head was pounding
too hard to form a coherent case, so I gave up.  I rang off and took
three paracetamol with some water.  I could imagine what was going on
in the office; talk always turned to the Chantelle Wade enquiry these
days, and the tension would rise throughout the office like a communal
palpitation at the mention of that name.  The bogey case, the nightmare
we all wanted to avoid, the scenario that sat in the back of our minds
every time we made a judgement call, or skipped an appointment, or
rushed writing up the case notes.  I thought about all the appointments
Douglas would be cancelling, and Katie Adams waiting in her house, her
whole day, her whole week a build-up to my visit.  It was too easy to
let things slide or lose a client's confidence or miss the signs of
trouble.  Douglas never seemed to understand that, and nobody else
would point this out and volunteer to cover my caseload for me, not
when they had so many cases of their own.

My headache was fading under the influence of the paracetamol, so I
took a pad of paper and began to make notes about each of the clients I
was due to see that week.  Douglas would probably be irritated by my
presumption, but I could imagine that whoever had to actually deal with
my clients would be grateful for the insights.  I started to make a few
notes about Katie Adams, but stopped after a couple of lines.  Douglas
wasn't going to send anyone round to see her, I knew that and even if
he did, I could imagine her reaction to a stranger on her doorstep.  I
thought about Douglas's words that she was too dependent on me, and I
pictured Katie Adams with a stranger, faltering, stammering as she
tried to make herself understood.  What was wrong with her wanting to
see me?  What was wrong with her feeling that she could rely on me, and
that trust, that bond we'd built up?  I thought of some of my other
clients; their hostility, their refusal to listen, the way they always
held back, as if it was inconceivable that they could actually trust
me.  Why should I give up seeing the client who was always friendly,
always grateful, always so pleased that I was there?  Other people
-Douglas, Alex, even Colin might think she was a waste of my time, but
I didn't.  And what if I did stop seeing her, and something happened,
and the accusations started to fly incompetence, neglect of duty,
ignoring the warning signs what then?

I could imagine how Douglas would react if he found out that I had
decided to visit her, but he didn't need to know.  She was my
responsibility.  I put the other notes into an envelope and addressed
it to Douglas, then loaded the envelope and my filofax into my bag.

It was a bright, sunny day, a false start at spring.  The street was
quiet when I went out to the car; even the sound of traffic seemed
muted.  It seemed impossible that I had been afraid of being seen by my
attacker, and I deliberately put the thought out of my mind as I
started the car up.

Katie Adams lived a couple of miles away, just off Canning Circus, a
narrow section of streets hemmed in by the traffic along the Alfreton
Road, the edge of the cemetery and the steep hill leading up to Forest
Road and the recreation ground where Goose Fair was held each October.
The area consisted mainly of big Victorian houses sub-divided into bed
sits with scatterings of red-brick seventies semis, but there were new
buildings pushing their way in; student halls of residence with stolen
traffic cones and empty beer bottles in the windows, and newly built
city living apartments with security doors and high fences. Katie lived
in one of the box-like Housing Association semis.  When I pulled up
outside her house and went to her front door, I could hear the
television playing and one of her children crying.

I knocked and waited.  I made out the shape of Katie Adams approaching
through the nets that covered the wired glass panels in the door, and
then I heard bolts being pulled back and the key turning in the lock.
Finally the door opened and I was assaulted by that sickly sour smell
of warm milk and babies.

"I phoned you," Katie said.  "They said you were off sick."

"I was," I said.

I followed her through into the living room.  Her mousy hair hung like
limp twine, straggling over thin shoulders as she hunched herself into
the nightdress of a T-shirt she was wearing.  She sat on the sofa and
wrapped her thin arms around her knees, knotting her fingers together
and fixing her large blue eyes on a point somewhere just over my
shoulder.

I sat down in my usual armchair and said, "So, how are things this
week?"

Jack, her three-year-old, was sitting on the floor watching the
Tweenies on TV.  The baby was in the carry-cot on the sofa next to
Katie.  "Okay," she said, and huddled herself further, as if she was
cold.

"Did the health visitor come?"

She nodded, then turned to fuss over the baby, adjusting its clothing,
as if I'd reminded her of what she needed to do.

"And everything's okay with your husband?"

"Yes," she said quietly, and for a moment managed to make eye contact
with me, then looked away again.  A slight flush had come into her
cheeks.  "He's away working," she said.  "Down south.  Three days."

"And you're okay while he's gone?"

"Yes."  I thought she was going to say more, but she stopped herself.

I forced my gentlest smile onto my face, preparing to probe for the
answer I wanted to hear, but Jack had been distracted from the Tweenies
by a group of boys cycling past the window, calling to each other.  He
leaned against the low windowsill to look out at them.  Katie Adams was
out of her chair and pulling him away from the window faster than I'd
seen her move before.  "Should call the police on them, I should," she
said, watching the boys circle lazily in the street.  "Bleddy monsters.
Should be at school."

I thought she was about to rap on the window and draw attention to
herself, so I got up and went to her side and said quickly, "Are they
the lads who've been causing you trouble?"

The boys were still circling on their bikes, laughing about something.
There were five of them, all about twelve or thirteen years old.  I
watched one skinny dark-haired lad saying something to the others,
balancing on the bike even as he used his hands to gesticulate.  I
couldn't hear what he was saying, but there was something familiar
about the way he moved.

"They throw things at my window," Katie was saying.  "They threw
fireworks at Bonfire Night, I know it was them.  Could've hurt someone,
that could've.  Last time Gary was back he chased them, but it didn't
do no good.  Get the truant officers round, I reckon.  It's all that
Metcalfe kid's fault, he's always behind it."

It was the longest speech I'd heard from her in recent weeks.  I
started to say that responding in anger would probably make them do it
even more, but the name she mentioned had jarred in my memory.  I said,
"Did you say Metcalfe?"

"Little monsters," Katie said.  "They think I don't know it's them, but
I know who they are."  I thought she hadn't heard my question, but then
she said, "Yeah, Metcalfe, that Mrs.  Metcalfe, she's as bad, out all
hours with all kinds, it's no wonder her kids've turned out bad.  I
told her to her face what Danny's been up to, but she don't care.  Told
me to do something I wouldn't repeat in company."

I watched the skinny dark-haired boy in the street.  He had been facing
away from me but now turned, and as he turned I caught a glimpse of a
familiar face, an older face, one I'd seen close up.  But it was gone
in an instant; he was just a kid, a young lad, and I wasn't sure if my
eyes had been deceived by the light, or Katie Adams's words, or whether
I was looking too hard for something where it didn't exist.  But
"Metcalfe'?  I said, "Is Danny Metcalfe the dark-haired kid with the
denim jacket?"

"Yeah," she said.  "That woman's the problem, you mark my words.  Get
someone to see what she's up to."

I wasn't really listening to her I'd heard these theories before but
asked, "Does she live in this street, then?"

"Number five.  Been there a coupla years.  You going to sort her out,
then?"

I forced myself to smile, but I felt slightly sick.

"Leave it with me," I said.  "Don't you say anything, okay?"

"Oh, sure," she said.  I wasn't sure if I'd imagined the malicious
glint in her eye, but I said nothing.  Katie Adams wouldn't do anything
anyway she was like a child, really, an overgrown kid with a baby and a
toddler for toys.

As I said goodbye to her at the door, I knew I wasn't thinking about
the right things.  I should have been contemplating the strain she had
been under, and the way the boys on the bikes had been tormenting her.
I should have been worrying that her husband was a useless lump who
never lifted a finger to help her but was quick to raise his hand to
her, and yet, going down the path to my car, it was the Metcalfe boy I
was thinking about.  That name

that glimpse of a face when he had turned on his bike.  I wasn't sure
why it all seemed so familiar to me, but seeing the boy on the bike and
hearing that name had flashed an image into my mind a skinny
dark-haired boy, a sneering sort of a grin, that face

had that been him?  I tried to recall the face -it had been, what,
seven, eight years ago?  I tried mentally to age the face, a young man
rather than a boy, approaching me in the street, but I couldn't be
sure.

The boys were still circling on their bikes.  I walked over to them.
"Shouldn't you be at school?"  I asked.

They looked at one another, and then the boy I recognized, the Metcalfe
boy, said, "It's teacher training today, in tit  The others all
laughed, as though this was the height of wit.  He caught me looking at
him and glared back at me.

"I know you," I said.  "You're Danny Metcalfe, aren't you?"

He looked slightly surprised, then regained his composure and said,
"So?"

I kept my tone light.  "How's your mother?"  He didn't respond to that,
so I took a gamble on my memory and said, "And your brother?"

He didn't reply to either question, but just looked at me.  I wondered
whether he had been expecting me to ask, but I knew I was probably
wrong after all, I could barely remember if he had a brother, and a
passing likeness to the images that played through my mind was nothing
to rely on.

He said, "You're always round at her house," indicating Katie Adams's
with a contemptuous jerk of his head.  "I've seen you," he added, as if
I was going to deny it.

One of the others circled closer on his bike, standing on his pedals as
he looked at me.  "You a head-doctor then?"  he demanded.  "Cos she's a
nutter.  She's always raving on at people."

"That's enough," I said, seeing Katie Adams's net curtains move, but I
knew I wouldn't have any impact on the boys.

They were all giggling to each other again now, apart from Danny
Metcalfe, who looked at me with a frown.  He said, "My mum says you're
a social worker."

This was not going as I had planned.  I said, "And does your mum always
gossip about other people's visitors?"

"She just knows," he said.  A sudden seriousness had come over his
expression.  The others hadn't heard our brief conversation, and now he
turned his bike to face up the street and said loudly, "C'mon, let's go
to mine."

As they prepared to move off, I said, "I know who you are.  You should
think again before causing trouble around here."

Danny Metcalfe was holding one finger up to me in a salute as he cycled
away, and the others laughed as they followed him.  I glanced over
towards Katie Adams's house and saw her net curtain drop back into
place.  I went to my car and got in.

I did a slow three-point turn to avoid hitting any of the boys, who
made no attempt to get out of the way, and drove back towards Canning
Circus.  As I passed number five, I glanced over.  A house just like
the one Katie Adams had.  The grass on the strip of front lawn needed
cutting, and the windows looked dirty, but that didn't prove anything.
I headed back up Alfreton Road and onto Radford Road, still thinking.
That name was so familiar, and it had brought a sharp image into mind.
If it was a Metcalfe who had attacked me .. . but how could I be sure?
I had only a vague idea of what my attacker had looked like and it was
clutching at straws to think I could spot a family resemblance in the
boy on the bike.  I remembered the family, they had definitely been one
of my cases, but I couldn't remember any details

surely anything that could cause a long-standing grudge would be
difficult to forget?  Unless it hadn't been a grudge at all unless it
was a straightforward mugging, and I just happened to be in the wrong
place at the wrong time.  The police didn't seem to think there was
anything more to it but then, I hadn't voiced my suspicions, so why
would they?

I was coming up towards Asda, and on impulse I pulled off the road and
into the car park.  I had a sudden desire for pizza and wine, plenty of
wine, to take my mind off the events of today.  I found a parking space
and then cut the engine.

It was starting to get dark, and I sat there for a moment, looking out
at the lines of parked cars, strangely uniform with the dusk and the
yellow street lights washing out the colours.  There were a few people
wandering through the car park people popping in on their way home from
work, schoolkids in varying degrees of uniform (so much for teacher
training day, I thought), and a gang of youths with hoods pulled down
over their faces, the way the kids thought was cool, walking with a
slouch and playing at being gangsters.  Some of them could even be
gangsters, for all I knew.  The local news was full of it shoot-outs,
armed robberies, drugs raids, gang warfare but I'd never believed
things were really that bad.  I lived in the inner city; I had thought
I understood what was going on.  I had thought that not being involved
in that world was enough to keep me safe, but now I wasn't so sure.  I
watched the gang of youths meander across the car park.  A few days
ago, I wouldn't have given them a second thought, but so much had
changed.  I felt a little dizzy.  My attacker was about their age; he
probably dressed that way, too, and how would I ever spot him if I
couldn't see his face?

I forced myself to slow my breathing.  I concentrated on sucking cool
air down into my lungs.  My hands were shaking slightly and I gripped
the steering wheel hard.  He wouldn't be here, I knew that; I was half
a mile from my office so why would he be here?  And even if he was it
was so unlikely, but even if he was he wouldn't approach me.  He was
more likely to avoid me, in case I identified him.

So I took a deep breath and got out of the car and shouldered my
handbag.  Now that I was out of the car I could hear the traffic, and
engines starting up elsewhere in the car park, and the tinny sound of
trolleys being stacked and pushed together.

It was stupid to be so nervous.  I had nothing to fear.  I went towards
the supermarket entrance.  But I could imagine him coming up beside me,
appearing at my elbow the way he had the other day, demanding that I
stop, that I stop walking and turn and face him and talk to him about
whatever his problem was, whatever he had been so angry about.

But he hadn't been angry at me, I reminded myself.  He was a mugger,
that was all; he had just wanted to take my money and get away as fast
as he could.  Even if he was a Metcalfe, that didn't mean there was
anything personal about it.

I went through the revolving door and into the supermarket, into the
bright lights, past the displays of special offers, past the pharmacy
counter and the cigarette and lottery ticket kiosk.  There, I was
handed a basket by an elderly man with a "Can I Help You?"  badge on
his overalls who should have been at home with his feet in slippers and
a pipe in his mouth.

I moved numbly through the aisles in a daze of artificial light. Tinned
music muttered over the loudspeakers, distorted by the vast space,
sometimes muffled behind the hum of the refrigerators and the regular
pulse-beat of goods being scanned through the checkouts.  I had
expected the familiar, ordered calm to reassure me, but it didn't seem
to be working.  Looking around at the shelves, at row upon row of jars
and tins and packets, dizzying in their uniformity, I didn't feel
reassured.  I watched the people gliding past as they filled their
trolleys, and the workers scurrying to re-stock the shelves, and I
realized that none of them knew that the world outside had changed.  I
was dizzy with the revelation the world had changed, but I was the only
one who had noticed that it wasn't safe and secure and familiar any
more.

I stopped still, stood there in the centre of the aisle, watching the
people stream past me.  I felt slightly sick.  I wanted fresh air, not
the controlled chill of the store.  I wanted to feel sunlight on my
face instead of the cold glare of fluorescence.  I tried to think what
I had come in for, hoping that would numb the pain swelling inside my
skull.

In front of the wine, I gazed at all the different bottles.  I had to
make a choice but the thought caught my breath inside my chest.  I
closed my eyes, steadied myself and opened them again.  I saw a couple
of Chilean reds on special and put them into my basket.  As I walked
back towards the entrance I wanted to laugh.

The old man was still handing out baskets.  There was a queue at the
kiosk buying lottery tickets.  Beyond the kiosk and the revolving doors
it had grown very dark outside.  I was surprised at how much time had
passed, and then a face caught my eye, a face pressed against the great
expanse of glass frontage, looking into the store with a surprised
expression, looking in from the outside, looking at me.  My eyes
connected with his, just for an instant, and my heart started to pound.
I moved towards him, towards the glass, and he seemed to hesitate, and
then I knew he was going to walk away.  It seemed so absurd, that he
could attack me and then simply walk away.  It seemed absurd that he
was right there, on the other side of that glass, and what could I
do?

I started to run.  I ran past the old man handing out baskets, past the
queue at the lottery kiosk, out through the revolving door, out into
the cold air under the covered walkway that fringed the building.  I
stood there, looking around, looking for him, but I couldn't see him. I
went to where he had been standing, looked in at the brightly lit
interior, looked around at the cars lined up in the car park.

looked at the people walking across the car park.  He wasn't there.

And then I felt a hand on my arm, and I tried to jerk free of the grip.
I remembered him appearing at my elbow, trying to talk to me, and I
tried to pull away, but the hand gripped me harder.  I turned, ready to
face him, ready to challenge him, but it was a security guard.  It took
me a moment to realize that he was reaching for my other hand, and that
I was still holding the basket containing the two bottles of wine.  I
tried to speak, wanting to explain, but I couldn't find any words and
the security guard guided me back into the store.

In the manager's office, I sat on a plastic chair while the security
guard wrote something down on a clipboard and the manager looked at me.
The security guard was a big man squeezed into a blue ribbed jumper
with 'security' stitched in gold thread on the epaulettes.  The manager
was younger than me, thin, with his hair gelled into a fashionable
style at odds with his corporate green polyester suit.

I said again that I hadn't meant to walk out without paying.  The
basket and the wine sat on his desk, on top of a pile of papers, the
irrefutable evidence there for me to contemplate.  I said, "I told you,
ask PC Short, he'll tell you."  I had the impression that my story was
having no impact on the manager.  "For Christ's sake, the wine's on
special offer.  Why would I choose a special offer if

I was going to nick it?  I'd have gone for something decent if I wasn't
intending to pay."

The manager wrinkled up his mouth a little and glanced at the security
guard.  I realized I probably hadn't helped my case much.  The radio on
the security guard's belt gave a little cough of static, as if in
comment.  The guard looked at the radio then said, "Police are here."

The manager gave a slow nod and the security guard went out.  The
manager rocked gently backwards and forwards in his chair, steepling
his fingers and touching his lips to his fingertips.  It was a small
office, windowless, with bits of paper tacked to every available space
on the wall, and when the security guard returned, the sudden breeze
set all the papers flapping.

I had been feeling very distant, as if this scene didn't connect to my
life, but when I turned in my seat I saw that, whatever I had thought,
the manager had been listening to me, because PC Short was standing
there.

"Hello, Jo," PC Short said, and I wondered when we had become familiar
enough for him to use my first name, or whether this was what happened
when a victim became a perpetrator.

"Hi," I said, trying not to look too embarrassed.

PC Short pulled up a chair, sat down and looked at me.  "So, what's
been going on?"

The manager opened his mouth to speak, but PC Short glanced at him that
was enough to close his mouth.  I wondered how PC Short had learned to
throw a look like that, whether it was part of police training, whether
the technique could be adapted to social work.

I said, "I saw my attacker.  The mugger.  He was looking at me through
the window.  I followed him out but he'd gone by the time I got
there."

"Okay, don't worry."  PC Short sighed and looked at the manager.  "Can
I have a word with you outside, sir?"

I was left there while they went outside.  The security guard was still
standing behind me I had the feeling that he would have jumped on top
of me and pinned me to the ground if I had so much as stood up, so I
stayed where I was, staring at the multi-dotted year planner and the
stock rotation procedures and the health and safety notices on the
wall.

After a couple of minutes, the manager led PC Short back into the room.
PC Short said, "Come on, Jo, I'll drive you home."

The manager didn't look at me.  The security guard seemed to deflate at
the news that I wasn't going to be prosecuted.  I stumbled out of the
office and followed PC Short out through the revolving doors to where
the police car was parked in the taxi rank.

I felt that I had to say something, offer an explanation, show him that
I wasn't losing my grip.  I blurted out, "I don't know what happened.
It doesn't make any sense."

"Don't worry about it," he said.

He was guiding me towards the police car.  I said, "I've got my car
here."

He held open the back door of the car.  "Come back for it another
time," he said.  "You look all-in."

I wanted to explain that I was just confused, I had been thrown off
balance, that was all.  I wanted him to understand that everything had
changed all the rules, the way things were meant to be; was it any
wonder I was confused?  But I didn't know how to make him understand
me, so I just got into the back of the car.  When he got into the
driver's seat and started the engine, I managed to say, "Thank you."

He just shrugged.  "No problem.  But I think you should stay at home
for a few days, don't you?  Get a bit of kip, relax a little."

I nodded.  I needed cigarettes, I remembered, I was almost out.  And
I'd left the wine behind, although I couldn't have brought myself to
drink it after the humiliation it had caused.

PC Short said, "So, you saw your attacker?"

"Yes," I said, but I was less sure now.  "At least, I think I did."

I could tell that he was smiling even though I could only see the side
of his face from where I was sitting.  "It happens all the time," he
said.  "People thinking they see a perpetrator.  Something to do with
the shock of it all, and nerves, I expect."

I wanted to protest that it wasn't like that, I wasn't being controlled
by these events, but I couldn't bring myself to speak.  He didn't seem
to be aware that I was different to most victims.  I was a
professional,

I was used to having distance, I was used to stopping these sorts of
things from affecting me.

PC Short said, "It'll probably take a while to get over it, but that's
normal, too.  You can get help from Victim Support if you feel you need
it."

That stung me.  "I'll be fine, thanks," I said.

We drove in silence the rest of the way until he parked outside my
house.  I was looking in my handbag for my house keys as he came round
to let me out of the car, and I realized I still had the envelope of
case notes in my bag.  I pulled it out as PC Short opened the back
door.  I had been going to say thank you, but instead I heard myself
say, "Oh, I meant to post this."

He glanced at it.  "I'll do that for you, don't you worry about it."

"Thanks," I said, and gave it to him as I got out.

He looked at the address.  "What is it, your resignation?"

"No," I said, and I was about to explain when I realized he was
joking:

He just smiled at my confusion.  "Now, don't go doing anything stupid
again, will you?  Stay at home."

"Okay," I said, and made myself smile for him.  "Thanks."

I went up to the front door and unlocked it.  He watched me until I
closed the door.  Then I heard his engine start and the car pull away
from the kerb.  As I stood in the hall, I realized that I hadn't told
him about my suspicion that my attacker was a Metcalfe, and he hadn't
said anything about catching him.  But it had been a long afternoon, so
I tried to put it out of my mind.

Eight

slept badly that night.  I woke frequently to the sound of rain against
the bedroom window, and cars in the street, and the wind skittling
stones and rubbish along the tarmac.  Once, in the early hours, I heard
someone shouting I lay there, eyes wide in the dark, tensed, listening,
until I heard the drunken stagger in the half-remembered lyrics of a
chart song and I knew there was nothing to worry about.

At four a.m. I rolled myself a spliff and smoked it in bed.  The
bedroom filled with the fumes and the back of my throat burned, but the
dull ache in my head faded away and I relaxed enough to sleep.

I didn't wake again until after ten the next morning.  I wouldn't even
have woken then if someone hadn't been ringing my doorbell.  I pulled
on my dressing gown and went downstairs.  I entertained a brief notion
that it might be PC Short being gentlemanly, calling round to check I
was okay, but it wasn't him at the door.  It was the thin young Asian
woman from the shop.

She gave me an apologetic smile and I realized that

I still had the chain across, so I said, "Hang on," and closed the
door, unchained it and opened it again.  I had half-expected her to
have disappeared, but she was still there, smiling.

"I'm sorry," she said.  "I didn't mean to wake you."

"No, it's fine, I was just dozing.  Come in," I said.  "Please, come
in."

I led her through into the front room.  She sat down on the edge of the
sofa.  She was carrying a plain white plastic bag, the top rolled down
and clutched in her hands.  I couldn't see what was inside.  She
offered it to me, saying, "We found this."

I took the bag and opened it.  My purse, fat and heavy with cards and
coins.  I took the purse out of the bag and looked inside credit cards,
library ticket, my Social Services ID card, forty-something quid in
cash.  I looked at her, surprised.

"It was under the shelves," she said.  "It must have fallen there when
you fell.  We only opened it to check whose it was.  It's got your
address inside, that's how I knew where to come."

"Wow," I said, because I didn't know what else to say.  The full
significance of this had not yet permeated into my thoughts.  "Well,
thank you, thanks for bringing it round."  I glanced at her, and then I
realized how much I owed her, I remembered how kind she had been to me,
what a comfort it had been to find her bending over me.  I said, "Would
you like a cup of tea or something?"

"If it's no bother."

"No, not at all," I said, and headed off to the kitchen to put the
kettle on.  While I waited for it to boil I went back to her and added,
"I wanted to thank you, anyway, for being so nice to me, looking after
me like that."

She just smiled.  I felt slightly embarrassed.  It was difficult to
know what to say to her, how to express what had happened to me, and
how much I did owe her.  I thought it would sound silly if I told
her.

I said, "I don't know your name."

"Davinder," she replied.  I was about to introduce myself, but she
stopped me.  "I know yours, of course, from your purse."  I just
nodded, and we fell silent.  Then she said, "How is your head now?"

"Oh, not so bad.  I had a couple of stitches but it's fine now."

I went into the kitchen and made the tea, and then we sat at the table.
I wasn't sure what to say to her.  I had so much to ask about what
she'd seen, and what exactly had happened.

She seemed to know what I was thinking, because she said, "The police
came round, asking us what we saw."

I sipped my drink.  "And what did you say?"

"We didn't see anything."  She seemed slightly defensive about it.  She
flushed again and said, "I'm not sure if they believed us, but why
would we lie about it?"

"I'm sure they do believe you.  Anyway, it all happened so quickly."

"That's right," she said.  "One minute there was

nothing happening, the next you were lying on the floor.  I mean, how
could we have seen?"

"Precisely," I said.  "You were busy working.  Why would you have been
looking at the street?"

She inclined her head in agreement, but it wasn't a very definite
movement.  Then she said, "Telling the police stuff makes it all so so
final, you know what I mean?"

I thought of the things I hadn't mentioned, that moment of recognition.
"Oh yes," I said.  "It's hard to be vague with them, but sometimes
things are vague."

"Exactly," she said, then hesitated and smiled at me.

"What is it?"  I asked.

She sighed, as if she was wrestling with whether she should say this at
all.  I tried to urge her on with my expression, and she smiled again.
"Well, I don't know if it was anything at all, it was probably nothing,
but I did hear someone, just before you were well, just before.  I was
in the store room at the back.  There's a barred window, high up, opens
onto the alley next to the shop.  I heard someone.  Sounded like he was
talking to himself.  Youngish lad, sounded like.  Local accent.  He was
saying the same thing over and over, like he was building up to
something."  She looked embarrassed again.  "I ignored him.  People
like that, it's best not to take any notice of them, you know what I
mean?"

"Yes," I said.  "I know.  What was he saying?"

"Sounded like "she's going to apologize".  That was all.  Just "she's
going to apologise", over and over.  It didn't make any sense."

But she was looking at me with the same curious expression, as if she
was hoping I could give her an explanation.  I wondered how long she
had been thinking about all of this, trying to work it out.  "No," I
said.  "It doesn't."  I was slightly disappointed.  I had hoped that
she might have caught a glimpse of the young man, been able to fill in
some more of the details, because I wasn't sure any more.  But 'she's
going to apologize'?  He had been saying something to me something I
hadn't been able to make much sense of was that it?  But what did I
have to apologize for?  What had I done to him?

Davinder said, "The police described it as a robbery.  Did he actually
take anything?"

I opened my mouth to say yes, but then I realized that he hadn't, I had
dropped my purse, she had brought it back to me with nothing missing.
So I said, "No.  I thought he had my purse.  I wasn't carrying anything
else."

She nodded, but didn't comment.  I wondered whether I should tell the
police, whether PC Short would need to know would they downgrade the
incident if they knew that nothing had actually been taken?  I could
imagine PC Short explaining it to me, explaining that they couldn't do
a lot and had little chance of catching him and had so little manpower.
And my attacker would be left to roam the streets, he would be able to
approach me any time he wanted to, and there would be nothing much I
could do about it.  I remembered the Metcalfe family, suddenly, but I
still couldn't make any sense of it.

Davinder said, "Well, I'd better get back to the shop."

She had stood up and was rearranging her clothing.  I wondered how long
I had been silent.  I said, "Thank you so much.  For bringing the purse
round.  And for helping the other day."

She shrugged that away and went out into the hall.  I thanked her again
as she went into the front garden and I watched her walk down to the
gate.  She glanced back at me with another embarrassed smile, and I
nodded at her and shut the door.

I felt almost weak as I found my way back onto the sofa.  I sat down
and looked through my purse, but everything seemed to be there.  My
head was aching with the effort of thinking this through.  If he hadn't
taken my purse, then had it been a robbery at all?  Had he been
intending to steal but couldn't take the purse after I fell, or had he
only ever intended to hit me?  I thought again about how familiar his
face had seemed to me, how like a Metcalfe, and that he had spoken to
me why couldn't I remember what he had said?  When I thought back and
tried to reassemble his words, I had the sensation of being underwater,
of hearing the words from a great distance, and I couldn't make out his
meaning.  But if Davinder was right, if he had been demanding an
apology from me, then what did it mean?

Focusing my mind, I tried to think back, trawl up any detail I could
remember about the Metcalfes from all those years ago.  I had a vague
impression of a thin woman crying, sitting on a sofa with one hand
hiding her face from me, crying and trying hard not to.  But what had I
ever done that I needed to apologize for?  My head was still fuzzy from
sleep and I couldn't think.  There was nobody I could ask.

A shiver ran through me.  Maybe this was the ghost of caseloads past
come back to haunt me?  Or maybe it was the department he wanted an
apology from, not me at all?  Maybe he had seen me coming out of the
office and had decided I was as good a target as anyone else?  I wasn't
sure which scenario was more unsettling.

The TV was showing repeats of some medical drama, and I allowed it to
numb my brain while I thought about PC Short's reactions the evening
before.  He hadn't asked me any questions really, and that was nice, I
hadn't wanted to talk about it, but now I had the feeling that maybe I
should have done.  He probably thought I was just seeing things, he
probably didn't believe I had actually seen my attacker.  And I wasn't
one hundred per cent sure myself it could have been someone else,
someone who just looked a little like him, someone waiting for their
family to come out through the checkouts.  I couldn't lose my
detachment; I had to remain focused.  It probably all amounted to
nothing anyway.

I thought of all the times I'd talked to women about the issues they
faced, about the action they had to take to improve their lives, all
the times they had looked up at me with those big scared eyes and told
me they couldn't, they just couldn't do what I suggested.  I'd acted
all sympathetic, told them I understood, it must be hard, they should
take their time, but inside I'd hardened against them, I'd dismissed
them as flakes, the victims who deserved everything they got if they
weren't prepared to stand up or, at the very least, walk away.  And
what was I doing now?  One minor little incident and I was all over the
place.

Being in the house for so long was starting to get to me; I'd develop
cabin fever if I wasn't careful.  I needed to build up the courage to
walk to Asda and fetch the car back.  It wasn't that far to walk twenty
minutes tops but if I had been right, if I had seen him at Asda, wasn't
it possible, even likely, that I would see him again?  Sure, it was now
broad daylight, but that hadn't stopped him from attacking me on
Tuesday, that hadn't offered me any protection.

I would have left the car where it was for another day, but I suspected
that Alex might call in on his way home from work, and he was certain
to notice that my car was missing and ask where it was.  I didn't want
to have to explain what had happened at the supermarket Alex would
probably just laugh, but I knew he'd be thinking I was losing my
grip.

Burying myself deep inside my coat, I headed out to walk to the car
park.  The wind gusted around me, playing with the litter on the
pavements, tugging at my coat, and I folded my arms to hug the material
to me even though I wasn't cold.  The route to

Asda cut through the housing estate and into the narrower terraced
streets of Forest Fields; the real inner city, unlike the
almost-suburban tree-lined streets around my house.  I walked quickly
along Berridge Road, past Victorian terraces with ugly tiled doorways
opening directly onto the pavements, past streets where neatly kept
houses were crowded in on all sides by the dishevelled facades of
giro-drop addresses and damp student digs.  Places I had lived in when
I first moved into the city; places that had made me feel adventurous,
and brave, for calling the inner city my home.  I had laughed at other
people's concerns Nottingham was not that dangerous, the inner city was
not that alien if you understood the place and played by its rules.

And what had happened to me?  I realized that I was walking very fast,
almost running.  I realized that it didn't seem friendly any more, but
I wasn't sure whether the safety had been the illusion or whether it
was the fear pumping through my veins that had no place.

Alex had always talked of' getting out' swapping the inner city for a
nicer area, with trees in the front gardens and room for decking out
the back, with Neighbourhood Watch and off-street parking.  I had
laughed at that whole semi-detached thing; I had laughed and told him
he was kidding himself, we were inner city people, we needed to be
right in the heart of things.  So close to the city's pulse that I now
heard it hammering in my ears.

I forced myself to stop.  My legs ached from the strides I had been
taking.  I was a little out of breath.  Unfit, I told myself, too many
cigarettes; and I forced myself to laugh.  I was outside the first of
the said shops; I heard my laugh, high, unnatural, but the mannequins
in the window looked impassively at me from painted eyes in painted
faces.  I sniffed the air, hoping for the spicy sweet scent I sometimes
caught, but it smelled damp, fetid, like bricks after hard rain.  All
the energy had seeped from my body; my limbs felt heavy, but I had to
press on.  Past the grocers' stores and Halal butchers, past the shop
with slabs of pink and green and yellow sweets in the window.  I picked
up my pace as I came past the last of the shops and plunged back into
bedsitland.  There were more boarded-up windows than the last time I
had walked this way, and scatterings of drunks of various ages camped
out on low walls with plastic bottles of cider.  In a side street, next
to a car with its stereo pulsing, two young men argued loudly, using
their arms to exaggerate their points.

I looked directly ahead, not acknowledging anyone, and finally I
reached my car.  I got in and locked all the doors.  I lay my arms
across the steering wheel and pressed my forehead into my wrists.  With
my eyes closed, the thumping in my head grew louder, and I had to wait
for my strength to return before I could fit the key into the ignition
and start for home.

Nine

My week off had stretched itself out to elastic proportions, but
finally it was time to return to work.  I woke with a fuzzy head from
the sleeping pill I'd taken but coaxed myself alert in the shower.  By
the time I got past all of the roadworks and reached the office, most
people were already in.  I negotiated a couple of enquiries about my
head and went straight to my desk.  It was exactly as I'd left it a
long week before my action book with the list of ticks only going
halfway down the page, the bundle of opened mail still waiting to be
dealt with, the most recent case file still stacked on top of my
reference books with its curling buff corners accusing me for not
having locked it away in the filing cabinets.  True, the hoard of biros
in my top drawer had gone missing, and there was a hefty wedge of mail
on top of my in-tray, but otherwise, time could have stopped in a
bubble around my desk the moment I last left it.  I nicked through the
pile of mail but none of the envelopes looked particularly urgent or
even interesting, so I didn't open any of it.

The others in the office were all doing the usual Monday morning
things, yawning their way through the work they'd abandoned on Friday
afternoon.  They chatted to each other and down telephones and the low
hum of their voices was familiar, almost a comfort.  The whole scene
was familiar; even the slightly dry smell of dusty air was familiar,
and yet, everything seemed slightly different, that odd sense of
unreality, as if the world had shifted slightly on its axis.  I wasn't
sure if it was me or them who was off-kilter.  I waited for the feeling
to pass.

From my desk, I could turn my head and look across the office to the
window with the broken Venetian blinds sagging against one side of
their strings, out at the grey sky.  I could see a corner of the
street; a flash of traffic passing through the angle between the window
frame and the edge of the next building.  Occasionally, I saw people
walking through the gap, striding along towards their business or
dawdling the morning away.  I knew I should get on with my work but I
couldn't find the energy to get started.

Finally, when I had failed to prioritize any of my workload, I took the
file that had been lying on my desk for a week and went down the
corridor to the tiny room that held the filing cabinets.  There was
nobody else in the room.  Somebody had Blu-Tacked new notices to the
walls reminding us to update case notes regularly, and file things
carefully and remember to lock the cabinets after use.  Part of the
response to the Chantelle Wade enquiry, I supposed.

I put the file I had brought with me back into its correct slot and
relocked the cabinet.  I glanced towards the door but I didn't expect
anyone to venture into the file room this early on a Monday, so I took
a deep breath and opened up the drawer labelled "M'.  I ran my fingers
through the folders until I found the Metcalfe file.  I knew it was
wrong to do this they weren't my case, after all, and a slight
resemblance I might have seen in the younger brother was hardly a solid
basis for suspicion.

Kneeling on the carpet, I was about to open the file when Douglas came
in.  He was wearing his usual frown, designed to remind us that all the
blame for our mistakes would fall onto him before he let it cascade
down to us.  He said, "Ah, Jo, here you are," in the kind of tone that
suggested I should have been at my desk just waiting for him to drop
by.  "I need to see you, my office, as soon as you're done."

"Right," I said.

He hesitated there for a moment, then seemed to decide.  "How is your
head now?"

"Fine," I said.  "Slight headache, that's all."

He gave a stiff nod and hesitated a moment longer before saying, "Okay,
well, we'll talk in a few minutes, then."

"Okay," I said, still kneeling there.

He turned and went out, letting the file-room door slam heavily against
its fire hinges.  I looked down at the file.  It was thick, with recent
additions initialled by CF Colin Fuller.  Maybe Colin would be able to
help me?  But he would probably be angry if he found me looking through
one of his case files, and I didn't want to make him angry.  I took the
file back to my desk and put it in my in-tray, under the pile of
unopened mail.  It looked innocuous there, even ordinary.

I collected my filofax and went down the corridor to Douglas's office.
I knocked, heard him call, "Come in," and pushed the door open.  He was
on the phone, sitting in his swivel chair with his legs stretched out,
tapping a Biro against the desktop as he listened to someone on the
other end of the line.

"I'm telling you, Phil, the Laming recommendations were being
implemented at the time," he said.

He glanced at me; I realized he was talking about the Chantelle Wade
enquiry, so I averted my gaze, sat down in the low chair he kept
positioned in front of his desk and pretended to be engrossed in my
filofax.

"They were following current practice," he said into the receiver. "But
we'll talk about this later.  All I'm saying is, you cant expect these
changes to happen overnight.  It's not obstructing change, it's being
human."

I flicked through a few pages of notes, frowning as if concentrating on
reading.

He laughed loudly, his power-laugh, his I'm-in-control laugh. "Exactly.
 I'll speak to you soon."

As he replaced the receiver, I looked up.  Coming into his office
always made me think of school.

I'd been scared of him when I was still green and passionate.  It
seemed like a very long time ago.

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention whatever you just overheard to
anyone," he said.

I inclined my head as if it would never have occurred to me.

"Good.  So, how's the head?"

He seemed to have forgotten that we had already done that bit.  I said,
"Oh, fine, really.  A bit of a headache still, but nothing too
serious."

"Good, good," he said absently.  He was fishing around on his desk and
produced a flimsy stack of notes.  "Updates on your cases from last
week," he said, and passed me the papers.

I nodded.  "Did everything get covered?"

"Well, we prioritized a bit," he said.  "There's notes on there, and
you can ask the others in a minute."

I waited, because he obviously had something else to say.

He seemed to be finding it hard to put into words.  Finally, he said,
"Did you go and visit Mrs.  Adams last week?"

"Yes," I said.  "I told you, she needed '

"But I told you not to.  You were signed off sick, you shouldn't have
been visiting anyone.  She shouldn't even be a current case."

"She needs our support," I said.

"She should be NFA'd.  The kids aren't in any danger, are they?"

"No, but '

"So it's a No Further Action, isn't it?"

I took a deep breath.  "Under section seventeen '

"I know all about section seventeen," he snapped.  "Don't try quoting
the Children Act at me, Jo.  It's section forty-seven that concerns me.
Our priority is with children in need of protection, you know that."

I kept my breath steady.  "They are children in need," I said.  "We can
prevent things getting to that stage by supporting the family now."

He brushed that aside with a flick of his hand.  "You're not supporting
them, you're making the situation worse."

"Not really," I started to say.

"You're supposed to be making sure she can cope, not taking on her
responsibilities for her.  How's she going to learn if you do
everything for her?  It'll cause problems for you, and that means it'll
cause problems for the whole department."

"You're overstating the case," I said.  "I just popped in to check on
her."

"She doesn't need that level of intervention.  She'll use you, just
like she always does.  You know her history.  She'll use you and play
the department just to get what she wants."

"No," I said.  "I know how she works.  She doesn't get away with
anything with me.  And she just needs to feel there's someone she can
turn to if she gets stuck, that's all.  She's lonely, in that house on
her own."

"She's just playing you for sympathy.  I've talked to you about this
before, you have to stick to the guidelines if '

"I do stick to the guidelines," I said.  "Sometimes you have to use
discretion, that's all."

"Discretion doesn't mean doing whatever you feel like.  Whatever you
may think, you don't always know best."  I opened my mouth to speak,
but he cut me off.  "You'll end up having problems if you don't listen
to what you're told, and we don't want to go through that again, do
we?"  I wanted to protest that I was experienced, I didn't need my hand
held, but he wasn't going to let me speak just yet.  "We've talked
about this before, haven't we?  About getting too involved?  You just
need to step back a little, stop getting so personally bound up in
things, then maybe you'll see you're doing Katie Adams no favours."

"I cant just abandon her," I said.

"Her problem is dependency."

"No," I said.  "Her problem is she's stuck on her own and cant cope,
and the people who should be looking out for her don't give a damn
about her, and her bloody neighbours are scaring the life out of
her."

He let out another sigh and looked at me as if I had just proved his
case.  "You have to get some distance," he said.  "I want you to see
her less often."

It was clear that any objection would just make his case stronger.  I
said, "I've already told her I'll see her this week."

"So, see her and explain the situation.  I'm saying this for your own
good, Jo.  You need to be sure you've followed procedure.  You don't
want to lay yourself open, do you?"

He was talking about the Chantelle Wade enquiry, I realized.  I'd heard
that he was friends with two of the social workers who were being
blamed for her death.  Even the thought of their situation made me
shudder.  I gave Douglas a jaunty smile and said, "I have been
following procedure.  And writing up my notes.  And filing everything
properly."

I had hoped he would see the joke and smile back, but he didn't.  "I
know," he said.  "You're very thorough.  But you've got to step back.
You cant allow this woman to rely on you.  You're not her friend."

"I know that."

"Of course you do.  But does she?"  He sighed again, kneading his
forehead briefly with one hand.  "Some people," he said, 'some clients,
they can be like vultures, or vampires.  Most are okay, but some of
them, they suck the blood out of you.  You have to protect yourself He
looked tired, and I knew his mind was back with Chantelle Wade.  I
wanted to ask him how the enquiry was going, but I held back.  He said,
"Oh, go on, get back to work.  But listen to me, okay?"

"Sure," I said, and gave him my most encouraging smile before leaving
him to whatever he was doing.

I wanted to start reading the Metcalfe file straight away, but when I
went back into the main office there were two police officers standing
in the room, and I recognized them immediately as PC Short and PC
Andrews.

"Hi," I said, surprised to see them.

PC Andrews gave a friendly sort of smile, but PC Short seemed as
surprised as I was to be meeting again.  He said, "I'd forgotten this
was your office.  How are you?"

"Fine," I said.  I was wondering why they were here, but it clearly
wasn't to see me.  "Are you waiting for someone?"

"Colin Fuller.  Someone's fetching him."

I wanted to ask whether he had got any further with my case.  I wanted
to tell him about having my purse returned to me as well, but before I
could say anything more, Colin had appeared in the doorway and they
smiled at me and moved towards him.  I heard the low rumble of their
voices as they went up the corridor towards the interview rooms, but I
couldn't make out their words.

I sat at my desk for a moment, trying to figure out whether this could
be connected.  It seemed like quite a coincidence that they were here
to see Colin, when he was the one in charge of the Metcalfe case.  But
I knew there was probably no connection Colin probably dealt with a
dozen cases that might need the involvement of the police.  But still,
it occurred to me that I had to be careful, and I didn't dare open the
Metcalfe file while the police were in the building.

When I saw them leave, however, I was deep into a frustrating phone
call to a client's GP, and after that I needed a cigarette before I
tackled anything else.  I went out into the little yard at the back of
the office and found Colin already there, halfway down a cigarette.  He
greeted me with a weary smile.

"Looks like you've had a fun morning," I said.

He looked confused for a moment, then said, "Oh,

the police?  It's nothing really.  Checking up on one of my families.
Couldn't tell them much, of course."

I wanted to ask which family, but I knew that was going too far.
Instead, I said, "PC Short's the one looking for my attacker."

"I know, he told me.  Nice guy, Dave Short.  Dealt with him before."

I pretended to be interested in the burning end of my cigarette. "Yeah?
 Any cases I know?"

He gave a slight laugh.  "Why're you so interested in Dave Short? Taken
a shine to him, have you?"

I laughed, too.  "Course not.  Just seem to bump into him everywhere I
go these days, that's all."  Colin was grinding out his cigarette on
the ground, preparing to go back inside, so I said quickly, "You're
dealing with the Metcalfes, aren't you?"

He stopped mid-step towards the door.  "Yeah, they're one of mine.
Why?"

"They're neighbours of one of my cases," and I told him briefly about
Katie Adams.

"And young Danny's been giving her hassle?"

"Not just him," I said.  "All his friends as well, by the looks of
it."

"I haven't been to see them for a while," he said.  "Behind on my
Statutories, you know how it is.  God, that's all I need.  I suppose
I'll have to find time to go round there now."

He was suddenly looking tired.  Monday morning and too much already.  I
said lightly, "It's not that big a deal, just leave it.  Going round'll
only cause trouble for my case, anyway."  He raised his eyebrows
slightly but didn't comment.  "There's another brother, isn't there?" I
asked, and he was still thinking about what I'd told him, so he just
nodded.

"Sean," he said.  "He's a bogger, that one, but he's away at the
moment.  Glen Parva."

"Yeah?  What'd he do?"  He looked at me sharply, and I knew I'd strayed
too far into his case.  "Not that it matters," I said, and it didn't,
because if he was locked away in a Young Offenders' Institution, he
couldn't have attacked me.  I flicked the end of my cigarette away and
flashed Colin a smile to show that I wasn't really interested.  "Better
get back to it," I said.

When I returned to my desk, I sat there looking at the unopened
Metcalfe file for a long time.  I had convinced myself that I was right
about recognizing my attacker, about it being Sean Metcalfe, but now
that I knew it couldn't have been him I wasn't sure what to do.  All
the certainty I had felt was evaporating.  If it wasn't Sean, then my
attacker was still out there, and I didn't know who he was, or why he
had chosen me.  I didn't want to think that it had just been random it
seemed so arbitrary, so meaningless.  But if it had been random what
then?  Did that mean it could happen again?  Did that mean I would
never be safe, never feel safe, as I waited for it to happen again?  I
didn't know how I should act, what I could do to stop it.

But then, almost suddenly, I felt calm.  I was a strong person, after
all; I wasn't like my clients, jumping at every knock at the door the
pensioners seeing muggers at every turn, the women hiding in refuges,

the school-phobic kids seeking comfort from the TV set.  They might
allow something like this to scare them, but I wasn't like that.  I
thought of the young man, the boy, appearing at my elbow, and I was
ashamed of my reaction to him.  He was nothing more than a boy and I
had allowed myself to be scared by him, hurtbyhim.
Ithoughtaboutthepolice, about PC Short being so kind and mentioning
Victim Support and talking as if it was normal to start seeing things,
to be paranoid, to think of nothing but the attack and its consequences
and whether it was going to happen again.  I didn't want it to be that
way.

So I took the Metcalfe file back to the file room without opening it,
and then I sat at my desk and prioritized my workload and started on
the list of actions.  I was stronger than PC Short thought I was; more
in control than Douglas thought I was.  By the end of the day I had
made a satisfying dent in my backlog and had even started to write up
some case notes.  I was back, on top of things, in charge of things,
and I didn't have to think about the attack at all.

And as the week passed, I thought about it less and less.  I was back
in the rhythm of the job, back in the team, and there wasn't time for
thoughts, for memories to intrude.  I had a job to do; clients to see,
a backlog to clear, and that was all that mattered.  Besides, I was
strong.  By the time Friday finally crawled into view, I only thought
about the attack at all when I started to get a headache and the cut on
my scalp began to throb.

Ten

t was Alex's birthday that Saturday.  He and Simon had been planning
the party for weeks, casually dropping invitations into every
conversation, checking and re-checking that key people would be there.
Alex had told me that they wanted it to be 'like the old times'.  I
knew what he meant by that hell, he'd told me often enough before he
finally moved out that he missed having fun.

I did briefly consider not going to the party.  I had a slight headache
and there was some decent TV on for once, but whether or not Alex would
appreciate my presence, he would certainly notice my absence.  Far
better to go along with it and besides, it had been a long, hard week
at work; I probably deserved to let my hair down a little.

I smoked a spliff while I got ready, and I was already feeling warmly
half-stoned as I walked to Alex's house with a bottle of wine in my
jacket pocket.  It did occur to me that only a week before I would have
been terrified to step outside the door once it was dark, seeing
muggers and attackers in every shadow, but it was proof of mind over
matter, of logic over emotion, that I felt fine now as I strolled
towards the party.

I had timed my arrival to perfection Colin and a couple of people from
Alex's office, Selima and Milton, were just pulling up in a taxi, so I
went in with them and avoided the embarrassment of arriving alone at a
party at my ex's house.

The place was already crowded.  The stereo in the front room had been
turned up loud and people were dancing to a pop compilation that would
never have been allowed into Simon's or Alex's music collections.  We
went down the hall into the kitchen-diner, where Simon and a couple of
other lads were gathered around the Playstation, attempting to get a
Lara Croft clone through a cave system with the help of a cheat one of
them had got off the Internet.  Colin poured out the drinks into
plastic cups and we insinuated ourselves into a space near the back
door.

"Wonder where the birthday boy is," Selima said.

"Hiding."  Milton laughed, and proceeded to tell a convoluted story
about locking Alex out of the main office until he stopped being so
cheerful.

"He's been driving us crazy all week," Selima said.  "Everyone else is
stressed to fuck about the Chantelle Wade thing, and he's wandering
around like the cat that got the cream."

"Why?"  I asked.  "What's got into him?"

They were all grinning I wasn't sure if I had imagined the awkwardness,
or the stiff way those grins gripped their faces.  Milton nudged my arm
and said, "Maybe it's turning thirty-five, eh?  Dementia must be
getting to the old git."

We all laughed at that.  I dismissed whatever suspicions had started
forming in my brain I was imagining things, that was all.  I looked
around for Alex but there was still no sign of him.  Simon and his
mates were talking loudly about whether to use a super-booster
power-pack to get across a chasm.  Colin, Selima and Milton had started
on the usual Chantelle Wade conversation, so I made my excuses and
headed upstairs to see if Alex was there.  I had the present I'd bought
him in my jacket pocket a CD he'd been going on about.

There was a circle of people in Alex's bedroom, sitting on the floor
smoking dope, the room lit only by a larva lamp that looked new.  Alex
was among the group and smiled at me as I came in.  I recognized most
of the people as Simon's friends shop stewards from Housing and from
the City Treasurer's whom I'd got to know through various functions and
benefit gigs that Simon had dragged us along to in the past.  They made
space for me, and I sat down cross-legged and took the joint I was
offered.  It turned out to be some pretty powerful skunk, so I took a
couple of drags and passed it on and sat there in a blue haze for a few
minutes, leaning back against my hands, waiting for my brain to settle
down again.

When I felt able to listen to the conversation, one of the guys from
Housing was telling a story about a client whose flat had been raided
by the police.  "When he got home from the station after six hours of
questioning," the Housing guy said, 'he found more police waiting for
him, because CID hadn't bothered to secure his door after kicking it
in, and some bogger had got in and cleaned the place out.  I mean, they
took everything, furniture, clothes, the lot.  They even took the
bleeding radiators, only, being burglars, they didn't bother to drain
them first, so the whole flat got flooded out with filthy black water,
and he'd only just had new carpets laid."  The Housing guy gave an
appalled sort of laugh.  "This poor lad, he comes into the office to
report what's happened, and this policeman's come with him, and the lad
looks like he's been through hell, and every ten seconds this
policeman's apologizing to the lad, and I can see him getting whiter
and whiter as he tries to hold himself together."  He shook his head,
laughing, but not really finding it funny.  "The worst bit was, he
wasn't even the guy that CID were after.  They bashed the wrong door
down, it was the place upstairs that they meant to raid."

I found myself laughing the same half-appalled laugh, and glanced over
at Alex to see his reaction.  He was laughing too, but he didn't seem
to be concentrating on the story.  He was sitting next to a blonde
woman encased in black Lycra, and as I watched he leaned in towards her
and said something into her ear.  Her face creased in concentration as
she listened, and when he had finished she turned to look at him,
touched him lightly on the arm, and said something that made him
laugh.

Someone else was telling another story now, but I found I couldn't
concentrate on what was being said.  The blonde woman in black Lycra
was holding out her hands and looking at them, talking as she did so,
turning her hands and inclining her head towards Alex.  I watched Alex
take hold of one of her hands and examine it, then he leaned in towards
her again and said something, and she laughed and pulled her hands away
and looked around the room.  I turned away quickly, but not before I
saw the frown that flashed onto her face.

The spliff had reached me again so I took a couple more drags and
passed it on, trying to look unconcerned.  It didn't matter, anyway
Alex was a grown man, he could do what he wanted, he didn't have to ask
my permission before he flirted with someone else.

Someone had come into the room.  I looked up and realized it was Colin
and made space for him next to me.  He sat down.  "Thought I'd come and
see what you were up to," he said.  "They're still talking about
fucking Chantelle Wade down there."

"Oh Christ," I said.  "Don't they ever shut up about that?  We're not
at work now.  They should give it a rest."

"Yeah, but you know how stressed everyone is."

He had brought two small bottles of lager with him.  He passed one to
me, then took a sip from his.

I nodded thanks, then said, "But this is a party, not a staff
meeting."

"True.  But not everyone's as self-contained as you, you know."

I glanced at him, trying to figure out what he meant by that, but I
didn't really want to pursue it.  Instead, I said, "Who's the blonde
Lycra woman?"

He followed my nod and looked across at the woman.  Alex was talking to
her, coolly, as if they were just friends.

"I've seen her around," Colin said.  "Works in Policy, Chief Exec's
Department.  Must be a friend of Simon's."

I looked back at her.  It didn't seem to be Simon who was fascinated by
her company.  I tried to put it out of my mind, but I couldn't help
watching her.  Her Lycra top was tight over her flat stomach and tiny
breasts.  She was so thin that I could see her hip bones outlined
beneath the Lycra, and the material hung loose around her knees and
ankles.  She was wearing flip-flop style sandals with a cartoonish
yellow flower sewn onto the grip between her toes, and her toenails
were painted a lurid red to match her lipstick.

"That's a fake tan, too," I said.  "Out of a bottle."

"You think?"  Colin looked over, as if he doubted me.

"She likes herself a bit, doesn't she?"  I said.

She had stretched out her legs and was leaning back on her arms,
twisting herself to listen to Alex, her whole body arched ready for his
next joke.  Colin gave a half-shrug and said, "She seems all right to
me.  I want some air.  Come outside with me."

I was happy where I was, watching the floor show but Colin persuaded me
to follow him downstairs and out through the kitchen to the little
garden out back.  We sat down on the low wall that divided the concrete
yard from the scrap of lawn.

"D'you think she has to spray that Lycra on?"  I asked.

He said, "Why the interest?"

"Just curious."  I took two cigarettes from my packet and passed one to
Colin along with my lighter.  "Just wondering what Alex sees that makes
his tongue hang out, that's all."

I had expected Colin to make some sort of joke about me being jealous,
but he just said, "Shut up about fucking Louise, would you?"

I said, "Oooh," and nudged him.  "Who's feeling sore, eh?"

He just shook his head, not rising to it.

I said, "So, her name's Louise, is it?  Thought you'd only seen her
around?"

"Yeah, well."  He seemed uncomfortable.  "Alex introduced me."

Something clicked.  "Wait a minute, are you saying '

"I'm not saying anything," Colin said.  He sounded angry.  "Christ, Jo,
cant you ever leave anything alone?"

"Sorry."  We smoked in silence for a moment, but I couldn't stop myself
from asking, "But Alex and her, they're an item, right?"

"How the hell would I know?"

"Okay, okay," I said.  "Sorry."

Colin relented.  "No, I'm sorry, I'm just stressed, you know?"

"Sure."  I waited for him to say more but he didn't, so I said,
"Anything I can do?"

He glanced at me.  "We've been friends for a long time he started.

He didn't get any further.  Alex had come out into the yard.  He was
alone.  He said, "Jo, can I talk to you?"

I looked at Colin, who threw up his hands and stood.  "I'll see you
later," he said, and slumped off back into the house.

Alex took his place on the wall.  "What's up with him?"

"Don't know," I said.  "Who's this Louise, then?"

I had tried to keep my tone light, but a crack had crept into my voice.
Alex frowned a little.  "I wanted to talk to you about that.  I wanted
to tell you before you met her but well, I wasn't expecting to see you
tonight.  I thought you know, your head I didn't think you'd come."

"You didn't want me here?"

"Oh, I don't mean that."  He was stumbling over his words.  "Just well,
I haven't seen you all week, you've been like a hermit.  If I'd thought
I'm sorry, I should've thought."

I looked down at the end of my cigarette.  I smoked a little but I
couldn't taste anything.  I said, "You should've told me you're seeing
someone else.  Christ, everyone's been tiptoeing around me.  They must
think I'm an idiot."

"No, no," Alex said.  "I'm the idiot."

I felt a lump rising in my throat.  I felt slightly sick.  "Why didn't
you call me?"

"You never called me either," he said.

"Oh, right.  Tit for tat, is it?"

He rubbed his hand through his hair and squinted at me.  His eyes
looked darker than ever in the gloom.  "You're right.  I should've
called.  I'm a bastard.  I should've told you before you came here
tonight."

"Yes," I said.

"But."  He hesitated before starting again.  "I knew what you'd be
like."

"How d'you mean?"

"This.  Fractious.  Irritated.  I hate it when you're like this."

"That's it," I said.  "Turn it around, it's all my fault really."

"No," he said.  "No.  But you're not always that easy to talk to."

"I'm fine to talk to."

"There you go again, you see?"

I didn't see.  "It's just you twisting everything, as usual."  He was
about to reply but I added quickly, "Oh, just go back to the Lycra
maiden.  You deserve her.  She seems very available."

That angered him, but I was in no mood to back down.  Alex said, "You
keep those sorts of comments to yourself."

"Well," I said.  "Just look at her.  It's plain as '

He grabbed my arm, hard; his grip twisted my flesh, pressed against my
wrist.  I gave a little cry and tried to pull away.  He said, "You can
be a bitch sometimes."

I didn't respond.  I didn't think I could trust myself to speak.  The
sudden violence in his voice, the swiftness of his actions, the
strength in his grip.  I felt bile rising in my throat, felt the sudden
sharp pounding of my heartbeat.  He was so much stronger than me I was
weak, there was no power in my body.  I could barely breathe.  He
looked down at his hand gripped around my arm, then released me.  He
seemed to be about to speak, but then he stood up and went back into
the house, slamming the kitchen door shut behind him.  I was submerged
in sudden darkness.  I closed my eyes, put my hand over my face.  I
didn't want to cry but I could feel myself shaking.

"Are you okay?"

It was Colin, standing in front of me.  I hadn't heard him come back
out.  I looked up at him and nodded.

"Disagreement?"  he asked.  "Alex just stormed up to his room like he
was going to kill somebody."

I forced myself to smile but didn't trust myself to speak.  Colin came
and sat next to me.  He had a full beer in his hand and offered it to
me.  I took a sip but didn't want any more than that, so I gave the
bottle back to him.

He said, "You want to talk about it?"

"No."  My voice was stronger now.  "It's nothing.  Ex shit, you
know."

"Sure," he said.  After a moment he added, "You want me to go?"

"No."

I sensed rather than saw him nod in the darkness, and then lift the
bottle to his lips again.  From the house, I heard laughter, and then
the music changed.  Two-tone ska.  Simon was at the stereo controls, I
guessed.

Colin said, "So," and then stopped.  He brightened his tone.  "Did I
tell you I'm going to Barcelona for the weekend?"

"No," I said, and then, because he was making an effort, "When?"

"Next month."  And he rattled on about Gaudi and tap as bars and
Catalonia during the Spanish Civil War.  Then he started talking about
work, about one of his clients, a heroin user whose flat was being
taken over by his drug-dealing neighbours, and how difficult it was to
help when the client wouldn't face up to his problems.  I thought about
Katie Adams and the neighbours she put up with, and all the other
clients who would have been fine if they didn't have their neighbours,
if they didn't live on such shitty little estates.  So much going on,
so much going wrong, and how were we ever supposed to solve any of it?
It weighed against me.  I found I

couldn't respond to Colin, I couldn't give him the reassurance he was
looking for, because maybe there wasn't any point to it?

Colin said, "You know, I've got this client who just upped and went one
day.  Didn't take anything with him, not even a change of clothes or a
toothbrush.  Left a note stuck to the fridge for his girlfriend to
find.  Know what the note said?  "Everything I own belongs to you."
That was it.  Nothing else.  No saying he loved her, or didn't love
her, or was sorry, or anything like that."  He let out a long sigh, as
if he was thinking about this.  I waited, and he continued in a level
tone, "I thought he'd topped himself when I read that.  I think she
did, too.  Sat back and waited for someone to find his body.  But he
didn't top himself.  He's just one of those people who decide to
disappear.  It's kind of a romantic notion, just leaving everything
behind and starting again from scratch."

"Yeah," I said.  "Except we know it doesn't turn out like that."

He glanced at me, quickly, but it was too dark to read his expression.
"Yeah."  His voice held no emotion.  "We know it doesn't work.  We know
they're just throwing away their life and they won't end up free,
they'll end up alone and depressed and skint in a shitty bed sit in
Blackpool."

Something almost angry had crept into his tone.  I said, "Why
Blackpool?"

"Well, why not?"  he said.  "It's got to be somewhere.  He chose
Blackpool."

I tried to think about that.

He said, "Anyway, the point is, people forget that you cant ever really
run away.  Everywhere's the same place and you're always the same
person.  Just the way it is.  Everything follows you, wherever you go.
There's never any escape from it."

He raised the bottle to his lips again and took a drink.  I watched his
movements, his outline in the darkness.  He seemed to be a long way
away from me; I was tempted to reach out and touch him, but he suddenly
gave a laugh and looked at me and said, "You know, I'm glad he ran
away.  One more off my client list, eh?  Maybe I should encourage all
my clients to do the same?  The department's always looking for savings
getting rid of a few service users should do the trick."

I thought about it for a moment.  "Nah," I said.  "It'd never work.
Other authorities would catch on and do the same.  You'd only end up
with a load of clients who had run away from someone else's area."

Colin laughed, a strangely high-pitched laugh.  "A client exchange
programme, eh?"  Then he paused.  "But why would anyone run away to
Nottingham?"

The humour had drained from his voice.  I wanted to see his expression,
to figure out what he was thinking, but it was too dark.  I said, "You
said it yourself.  Everywhere's the same place.  Makes no difference
where you end up."

He didn't respond for a few moments, then said, "Sometimes I wonder why
we bother."

"I think we all wonder that sometimes.  I think you have to, to stay
sane."

"Yeah," he said.  "I know.  We're all just trying to do what's right.
But what if we're having no effect at all?  What if things just keep
repeating themselves?"

"You don't really believe that, do you?"  I asked.  He didn't reply.
"You're just having a bad week, or a bad month, or something.  It
happens."

"So, tell me I'm wrong."

His voice sounded oddly strangled.  I said, "You're wrong."

"You don't mean that."

"Maybe not," I said.  "But you have to carry on."  Again, he didn't
respond.  I said, "But you have to just get on with it, don't you?"

"Yeah," he said finally.  "It just seems like we're stuck on repeat,
you know what I mean?  The same stuff over and over.  Get up, go to
work, get stressed, come home, go to bed.  I came into this job to try
to change things, but it doesn't work.  Nothing ever changes.  You cant
change the big stuff, and changing the small stuff is pretty fucking
meaningless.  Forget it."  He gave a laugh; a short, disappointed
sound.  "But that's the thing, isn't it?  Get on with it or get out,
that's all there is."

We sat in silence.  I wanted to say something, to comfort him, to snap
him out of these thoughts, but I didn't know what to say.

He sighed.  "Oh, just ignore me.  I'm pissed.  A hard week, you know
how it is."

"We all have those," I said.  I thought of Douglas suddenly; sitting in
his office, making things sound so easy.  "You cant take it to
heart."

"Sure, sure."  Colin drained the last of the beer from the bottle, then
tapped me lightly on the knee.  "I need another beer," he said.  He
sounded more cheerful.  "D'you want one?"

"Okay," I said.

He stood up.  "Funny thing, though.  All my clients seem to be running
away right now.  A proper little epidemic.  Remember the Metcalfe kid?
The one in Glen Parva?  Turns out he isn't there after all.
Absconded."

"Absconded?  How?"

"Dunno," he said.  "Just legged it one day.  They never told me how.
Probably embarrassed, eh?  Took 'em long enough to tell me that they'd
lost him and I've got contact with the family, so I don't suppose
they're going to broadcast how he did it."

I said slowly, stupidly, "So where is he now?"

Colin just laughed.  "Well, if they knew that '

"But when did he run away?"

"A month or so ago.  I don't know exactly.  Where are you going?"

I had stumbled to my feet and was heading towards the house.  "I have
to go," I said.  I felt a little sick, a little numb.  I thought about
Colin's words the pointlessness of it all, and the week I'd spent so
deep in work that I'd barely come up for air, and all the time he had
been out there and I hadn't known.  I wondered whether I should phone
PC Short, tell him what I knew, but I was suddenly unsteady on my feet,
and I wasn't sure if it was the drink or the skunk or the news that
made me feel that way.  I had a sudden image of Sean Metcalfe, the
young Sean, the boy I'd known years ago, giggling as I tried to talk to
him, not listening to the things I was trying to say.

I pushed open the kitchen door and was hit by the noise of the party:
music, and people talking, and laughter.  The air was warm.  Colin made
to follow me but I said, "I'm okay, I'm fine.  I'll see you later."

He followed me into the house anyway.  Everyone was dancing to The
Specials in the front room, but Alex wasn't there.  I found Simon by
the stereo and yelled into his ear, "I'm going.  Where's Alex?"

He said, "Leave it.  Talk to him tomorrow."  I turned to go and look
for Alex, but Simon grabbed my arm.  "Seriously.  Don't argue with him
twice."

I was about to reply that I didn't plan to argue with Alex, but I saw
how intent Simon's expression was, so I shrugged and said, "I'll come
round tomorrow."

Simon nodded.  "But make it late," he said, and grinned.

I was glad of the grin as I started to walk back to my house.  I didn't
like to think that Alex and I had argued.  I always hated it when we
argued, that bitter taste in the mouth and the resentment and waiting
for the other person to back down just enough so that making up again
wasn't a humiliation.  I didn't want to think about Alex with Louise,
unwrapping all that Lycra, peeling away the layers to get at the skin,
the person under the fake tan.

I walked more quickly.  My footsteps seemed louder in the darkness and
I could hear the thump of my heart.  The street was deserted and the
street lights cast only a small amount of light; there were shadows
everywhere, shadows that could all be the shape of men, shadows that
could all conceal an attacker.  I thought about Sean Metcalfe being
free, wandering through the dark streets.  I thought about the things
that Colin had been saying; that desperate edge, that disappointment. I
felt as though we were standing on the edge of something black,
something miserable, and the tide was sucking at our feet, and I only
had to slip and I would be washed away.  I wanted to stop walking but I
had the feeling that if I stopped I would never start again.  There was
so much that could happen so many places a person could hide.  I
considered going back to the party, but when I turned the street behind
looked darker and more sinister than the street ahead, and I was almost
halfway home now, and would Alex even want me there if I did go back? I
knew it was crazy to be scared I hadn't been afraid when walking to the
party earlier, and whoever had hit me had been just as likely to be
waiting for me then.  Hell, I didn't even know for sure that it was
Sean Metcalfe who had attacked me and even if it was, there was no
reason to think he would be after me again.

I picked up more speed, felt the soles of my feet beating the pavement
through my shoes.  My breathing was too loud; I couldn't hear any other
noises,

I couldn't hear the sound of someone approaching me.  I kept looking
around me, but I was alone.

But I hadn't seen him before.  I hadn't realized he was approaching me.
I remembered him arriving at my elbow, speaking to me, and turning to
look into his face, and that feeling that I knew him.  I tried to
concentrate on that face, on the details of that face, and the more I
thought, the more certain I became.  Sean Metcalfe.  Yes, a skinny
lanky lad who played football in the street with his mates while I sat
in his front room talking to his mother.  She chain-smoked hand-rolled
cigarettes so thin they were barely more than paper.  She would squash
the butt-end of one rollie flat in the ashtray and then start work on
the next, her thumbs working the tobacco into a thread on the paper and
tucking the end in, her tongue quickly licking the gummed edge.  I had
been telling her that Sean was in trouble, that he'd been skipping
school, hanging around the city centre, shoplifting.  She had listened
with a frown, leaning forward, and I could tell that the moment I
stopped talking she would be in with a defence of her son, so I kept
talking, I kept going, trying to wear down her hostility.

And what had she said when I had finished talking?  "You don't know
what it's like," she'd said, with a little laugh.  She wasn't going to
take this from me, not when I knew nothing about it, she'd brought her
kids up to be good kids and she wasn't going to let me interfere, not
when I didn't have a clue what life was really like.  Who did I think I
was, coming round her house telling her how to bring up her kids?  What
the hell did I know about it, anyway; did I know what it was like to
live round there, did I even have kids of my own?  People get labelled,
that's what she'd said.  I'd tried to say that I hadn't come with any
preconceptions, and she'd laughed a derisive sort of laugh and said,
"Yeah, but I know what your sort are like, looking down your noses,
thinking you're so much better than us."  I'd gone away feeling very
depressed, because how could I help?

But that was a long time ago.  Things had changed I'd changed.  I
didn't let it get to me, not now.  Get on with it or get out, that was
the thing.  And the fact that it was so long ago didn't help with why
Sean would hit me.  Could it just have been a random thing him passing
as I came out of the office, recognizing me, remembering or imagining
some slight, some reason why I was significant, acting on the impulse
created in that moment?  Had he been high on something?  Did it make
any difference?  He had still hit me.

At last, I turned along my street and hurried towards my house.  I was
cold; my hands were getting numb.  I clasped my keys tight in my hand,
imagining striking out at someone, using a key as a small blade,
jamming it into someone's flesh.  My head was hurting and I felt
slightly sick.  I reached my house and walked up to the front door,
body tensed for someone hiding nearby, someone waiting to rush me and
bundle me into the house as I opened the front door.  I turned the key
in the lock, and then

I heard a sound behind me a sort of rustling sound in the bushes that
filled next-door's front garden.  I looked over but I couldn't see
anything in the shadows.  It was probably nothing, I told myself; the
wind, or a cat.  But as soon as I was in the house, I bolted the front
door and went to the front-room window without turning on the light.  I
don't know what I had expected to see him, standing on the pavement
looking at me, I suppose.  But all I saw was the empty street.

I turned on the light and sat down.  I had just got spooked;, that was
all.  Then I heard another sound a can being kicked in the street, or
something like that: a metallic sound, and then silence.  I went to the
window again, but there was still nobody out there.  I went into the
kitchen to check that the back door was locked.  Beyond the kitchen
windows, the garden was a mass of dark shadows.  I put on the kitchen
light, quickly, to dispel the shadows, but the darkness outside became
a wall that I couldn't see through.  I went back into the front room. I
wanted to go upstairs, but the rest of the house, was very dark and
empty, and I didn't want to face that darkness.

There were more sounds from the street: a stone skittering across the
tarmac, someone whistling.  I listened for footsteps but heard none.  I
wanted to go to the window again but I was afraid that the street would
be empty still, and would that mean that someone was hiding?  I didn't
want to think about that, but the thought grew insistent.

Somebody hiding, and they had watched me come into the house alone,
they knew I was on my own.

I went over to the phone.  It seemed over-dramatic to dial 999, so I
found the switchboard number for Radford Road police station in the
phone book and rang that.  Eventually, a man answered with a slightly
sleepy voice.  I asked for PC Short, more out of hope than any
realistic chance he would be there at nearly one a.m. on a Saturday
night.

"He's not on duty until tomorrow afternoon," the man said.

"Oh, okay."  I hesitated, not sure what to say next.

The man took pity on me.  "Can anyone else help?"

"I don't know," I said.  "I think there might be someone outside my
house, hiding.  Watching me."

"You think there's a prowler?"

"Maybe," I said.  He didn't sound very concerned, and I found myself
explaining that I had been assaulted two weeks ago, and PC Short knew
all about it, and I thought it might be the same man outside my
house.

My story didn't seem to impress him very much.  I remembered what PC
Short had said at the supermarket that people often thought they saw
their attackers, it was common.  I was probably wrong -there was
probably nobody out there anyway.

The man on the phone said, "I could see if a car can come by, later on,
if you want."  It sounded like a half-hearted offer that he was hoping
I would reject.

"They are very busy this time of night.  It might be a while."

I sighed.  "No," I said.  "Don't worry.  I was probably imagining
things.  Spooked by the dark.  Sorry to have bothered you."

"I'll tell PC Short you phoned," he said.

I wasn't sure that I wanted him to do that, but I let it go.  After I
had hung up, I stood where I was, listening for sounds from the street,
but all I could hear was the occasional car on the main road.  I
switched on the landing light and went quickly upstairs.  When I had
got into bed, I lay there for a long time with my eyes open, listening,
dreading anything that could be someone breaking into my house, but I
didn't hear anything.

Eleven

PC Short came round to see me the next day.  He had PC Andrews in tow
and had obviously filled her in on the events at the supermarket,
because as he talked to me about the previous night she had an almost
dismissive expression on her face, as if she pitied me for being so
weak.

PC Short sat on the sofa, forward in the seat so that his knees rose
almost to his chin.  He looked uncomfortably tall, sitting like that,
but the expression on his face was attentive, as if he was trying to
compensate for PC Andrews's attitude.  I told him about getting my
purse back, and about Sean Metcalfe being on the loose, and he listened
politely and made a couple of notes in his notebook.  Then he said,
"But you didn't actually see anyone around here last night?"

"No," I said.

"And there's been nothing to suggest this man knows your address?"

"No."

"I take it you're not in the phone book?"

"That's right."

PC Andrews gave a sudden, derisive snort.  We both looked across at
her.  She was standing by the front window, leaning against the wall as
if prepared for a quick getaway.  She seemed as surprised as us at how
loud her reaction had been; she coloured slightly.  "Well, there's
really nothing to go on, then, is there?"

She had directed the force of her comment at PC Short.  I said, "But
I've told you who I think attacked me."

"But there doesn't seem to be a reason for it," she said, finally
looking at me.  "Or do you expect your clients to be so dissatisfied
that they come after you years later?"

PC Short was frowning at PC Andrews, but it didn't seem to have any
impact on her.  I wasn't sure where her hostility was coming from.  I
remembered Colin at the party; his comments about never making a
difference, about patterns repeating themselves.  I said, "You really
expect me to remember the details of every case eight years later?"

"Well, if you're right, then this Sean Metcalfe obviously does."

PC Short looked at me then, as if he expected me to have an answer for
that.  I ran a hand up to the stitches on my head, where the skin was
still sore.  "Okay, okay," I said.  "I can remember some of it.  Both
the Metcalfe boys were taken into care.  Fostering.  But it was someone
else in charge of their case by then, not me."  I could see that PC

Andrews wanted to ask why but I couldn't face a long discussion about
departmental reorganization, not when I had a headache coming on. "They
were only fostered for three months," I said.  "Just temporarily, while
their mother sorted some things out.  She'd recently been widowed.  She
was depressed, couldn't cope.  You know the sort of story."  I had been
going to add that they were on the At Risk for a while, when the father
was around, but I suddenly couldn't see the point.  "It was a long time
ago," I finished.

"Yes," PC Andrews said.  "But these things, they get emotions stirred
up, don't they?  Especially right now."

She was talking about Chantelle Wade.  I said, "It wasn't like that.
There wasn't any bad feeling.  It was all very straightforward.  That's
why it doesn't make much sense.  But I know I'm sure I'm right about
Sean Metcalfe."

I thought PC Andrews was going to say something more, but PC Short
closed his notebook and said, "Well, there doesn't seem to have been
anything disturbed outside."

I nodded, not looking at either of them.

PC Short went on, "But keep your eyes open.  If you do see anything,
give us a ring at the station."

I wasn't sure if he was just saying that out of politeness.  PC Andrews
had already opened the living-room door.  I said, "Okay."

PC Short followed PC Andrews out into the hall, and I went with them.
At the front door, as PC

Andrews strode off down the path, PC Short turned to me and said,
"Look, don't worry.  It was probably nothing, you know."

I nodded, trying to look more confident than I felt.

"If I get a chance I'll pop back this evening, check you're okay."

He had dropped his voice slightly, but there was no danger of PC
Andrews overhearing as she was already at the car, unlocking the
driver's door.  "Thanks," I said, and he smiled, and followed PC
Andrews to the car.

I waited until they had gone then looked up and down the empty street
before shutting the door.  My head was really starting to pound now my
heart was pumping hard, probably from the unpleasantness of PC Andrews.
I didn't want to think any more about the reasons for her hostility;
the unfairness pricked at me, but I knew it was pointless to react. The
silence of the house weighed down on me -however cheerfully reassuring
PC Short had been, I knew I was listening out for any noise that could
be an intruder, or someone hiding outside, looking in through my
windows.  I wouldn't be able to settle to anything else, not while
there was the chance that he would be back; but what would I do if he
did come back?  I could imagine the front door rattling as he tried to
force it open, or the sound of glass breaking and cold air sweeping
into the house.  Even if I got to the phone the police would never get
to me in time PC Andrews would dawdle, not believing me; PC Short would
think it was just the shock of the attack.

I gathered up my jacket and went out to the car.  I didn't know where I
was going; I just knew I had to get away from the house.  So I drove,
and smoked, and played cassettes, and the car filled with cigarette
smoke but I wasn't going to open a window, not now, not yet.  I drove
out towards the suburbs and then back through the inner city, looping
around the city centre, powering the car up hills and across junctions.
He would have trouble watching me now, following me now.  I could feel
the weight lifting, and my mood improving.  I rolled down the window,
just a little, and felt fresh air on my face.

And then I thought about the argument with Alex.  Another of those
stupid disagreements.  It had been a silly situation; there was alcohol
involved, and things were said that weren't meant I was sure he would
be thinking the same thing.  I cut down a side street and started to
work my way towards Alex and Simon's house.  They would be pleased to
see me they always were and we would drink tea and listen to CDs and
chat and laugh together, just like the old times.

Their front-room curtains were still drawn, but it was after three in
the afternoon, so I knew they couldn't still be in bed.  Simon opened
the door, looking the worse for wear, dressed in a dirty white "I
stayed up for Portillo' T-shirt left over from the 1997 election and a
pair of old tracksuit trousers that were a little too tight to be
decent.

"You're still not dressed?"  I said.  "Or do you dare go outside
wearing those things?"

He looked down at himself but just shrugged.  He led me into the front
room, rubbing his hand over his face, and said, "Give us a break.  I
only had a few hours' sleep."

I started to open the curtains in the front room, but he winced and
held his hand up against the sunlight, so I closed them again.  He had
flopped down onto the sofa and now offered me a cigarette from a packet
that looked as if it had been slept on.  I took one and nodded
thanks.

"Alex is still in bed, I think," he said.  "Haven't seen him since last
night.  Locked himself in his room early on, the lightweight.  Rest of
us stayed up playing games till four a.m."  He shook his head and
laughed.  I wasn't sure if he'd forgotten about my argument with Alex,
or if he was just avoiding the topic.  I decided not to mention it.

"It was a good party," I said.

"Yeah.  What time did you leave?"

"Just after midnight.  I was knackered."  And then, without even
meaning to, or realizing that I was doing it, I found myself telling
him about Sean Metcalfe, and thinking he was outside the house, and
getting freaked out, and phoning the police.

He listened carefully, his eyes on mine, and when I had finished he
said, "Christ, you should've said.  You should've stayed here.  Or got
a taxi.  Christ, I'd've walked you home if I'd known, or Alex
would've."

I waved that away.  "Don't be daft, it was just me getting spooked.
Besides, I don't think Alex would have been too happy."

He was about to say something else, but we both heard feet coming down
the stairs, and Alex came into the front room.  He was wearing boxer
shorts and a T-shirt, and looked as if he had just woken up.

I laughed at him and said, "You look a picture."

He scowled with hangover eyes and helped himself to one of Simon's
cigarettes before slouching down on the sofa next to Simon.  He didn't
light the cigarette.  "What brings you round?"

"Can't I come and see my friends?"

He just shrugged.  He wasn't looking at me properly.  Simon opened his
mouth and I could tell that he was about to repeat the things I had
told him, so I shook my head.  Simon closed his mouth again, frowning.
Alex was too bleary-eyed to notice.

I said, "I wanted to check you were okay, anyway."

"Why?"  Alex finally looked directly at me.  "Everything's fine," he
said, but I could hear the resentment in his tone.

I said, "Oh, c'mon, don't be like that."

"Like what?"  Then he reached down, took a second cigarette from
Simon's packet and stood up.  "I'm going back to bed," he said.  "I'll
see you soon, Jo."

"Sure," I said.  I wanted him to say it was okay, to say we were okay,
but the significance of the two cigarettes he held had not escaped me.
I didn't say anything more, and Alex went back upstairs.

Simon and I looked at one another.  Simon said, "And there I was
calling him a lightweight, the sly dog."

"You had no idea she was here?"

"No," Simon said.  "Not at all."

It made me laugh, thinking about it, the way he had gone scampering
back up the stairs with those unlit cigarettes.  He must have had a
shock, finding me sitting in the front room.  I stood up and said, "I'd
better go."

Simon nodded and followed me to the door.  "Are you going to be okay?
You don't want anyone to come back with you?"

"No, I'm fine," I said.  I almost asked him not to tell Alex what I'd
told him, but I couldn't think of a reason why Alex shouldn't know, so
I just smiled and went out to the car.  I glanced up at the bedroom
windows, but the curtains were pulled tightly across and there was no
way to be sure that Louise was up there with him.

Twelve

As dusk began to fall, I went round the house checking all the windows
and closing the curtains.  My bedroom at the front of the house gave a
clear view of the street, the rows of red-brick houses stretching away
up to the slight hill, curving towards the brow until they were hidden
behind trees and hedges and parked cars.  From the spare bedroom at the
rear of the house, I could see the untidy backs of the houses on the
next street kitchen and bathroom extensions in mismatched brick,
jutting out into lawned gardens and concrete yards.  Netted windows
reflected the last of the sunlight back in flashes that burned my eyes,
the surface of the glass silvery like mirrors a moment later.  Behind
one window, yellow electric light threw a shadow theatre onto the
curtains as people moved around the unseen room.

I lay my forehead against the window pane and watched my breath fog the
glass.  I had looked at that view perhaps hundreds of times, but I
wasn't sure I had ever really seen it before.  All of those other
people, all of those lives, and I didn't know anything about them.  I
wanted to feel reassured, to know somehow that their lives were
straightforward, and ordinary, and safe.  I put my palm flat against
the glass, feeling its cool smoothness, and it made me shiver,
suddenly.  All those lives out there that I couldn't touch; being
isolated, having that cushion of air, of space, of brick and glass
around me had been a comfort, once.  I would come home from work and
close the door and the world and all its problems would be locked on
the other side until morning.

The kitchens of the two houses directly behind mine were lit up, the
blinds open.  I watched a young couple drying dishes, dipping their
heads towards each other as they laughed at an unheard joke.  Next to
them, just beyond the thin division of the adjoining wall, a teenaged
girl made drinks, almost dancing, mouthing the words to a song as she
stirred a teaspoon in a mug.  I wondered whether each household was
aware of the other; whether the couple washing up could hear the song
as the girl sang along.  I couldn't hear anything from my own
neighbours; they could have been standing a few feet from me, beyond my
wall, surveying the same scene.

I closed the curtains, quickly.  I wanted to convince myself that I was
alone; I wanted to feel a long way from strangers on the other side of
the bricks, but when I closed the curtains my ears picked up the
distant thrum of traffic snaking through the streets.

I went downstairs again, tried to distract myself with the TV, but
there was nothing much to watch.  I opened a bottle of wine and let the
Antiques Roadshow play out in front of my eyes, but I was thinking
about the previous night, and how scared I had felt.  I thought about
Alex, spending the night with Louise.  I had spent the night alone and
afraid, listening out for every little sound, and he had spent the
night with her.  It didn't really matter what he did after all, we'd
told each other often enough that we wanted the other person to find
someone else and be happy.  But I kept seeing the way Louise had leaned
in towards Alex, and the jut of her body, her thin hips.  All that
black Lycra; those blood-red toenails.  I could imagine them in bed,
the way he would hold her, and the things he would say to her.  I
wanted him to be happy but really, how happy could he be with that?

I nicked through the channels with the remote control, hoping for
something to occupy my mind.  Switching between a half-hearted sitcom
and re-runs of Fawlty Towers, I heard a car pull up outside.  I tensed,
hearing the driver's door open and then crunch shut, and someone
walking up the path outside my door; and then the doorbell rang.  I
went to the front window and peered out, hoping not to be seen by
whoever was there.  It was a man dressed in blue jeans and a beige
anorak.  The light spilling out from the front room attracted his
attention and he turned towards me, and I realized it was PC Short.  I
hadn't recognized him out of uniform.  He smiled at me, and I smiled
back and went to the front door.

He was apologizing almost before I had the door fully open.  "I came
round earlier but you weren't in," he said, 'and it's on my way home so
I thought I'd drop by.  You don't mind, do you?"

"No, no," I said, and led him back into the front room.  I switched the
TV off and turned to face him.  He looked very different out of uniform
kinder, less severe.  "Please, sit down," I said.

He chose the armchair, sitting forward on the edge of the seat.  "I
just wanted to check you were okay.  You seemed frightened earlier."

I forced myself to smile.  "I was just a little freaked, I think.  But
thanks for coming round."

"There's no sign of anyone hanging about, then?"

"No."

He didn't seem to know what to say next.  I didn't want him to go just
yet it was nice to see someone else, to feel that I wasn't so
completely alone.  I said, "Have they found Sean Metcalfe?"

"Not yet," he said.  "He's keeping his head down, I suppose."

I nodded.

"These lads never stay on the run for long.  Haven't got the no use
most of them."

I nodded again.  He wasn't making any signs of leaving.  The bottle of
wine and my glass, half-full, were on the floor next to the sofa, and I
realized he had been looking at them.  I heard myself say, "Would you
like a drink?  Some wine?"

If he was surprised at the offer he didn't say so.  "I shouldn't
really," he said, but I could tell that he was wavering.

"Why?  You're not on duty now, are you?"

"True," he said, and seemed to decide.  "Yes, okay, that would be
nice."

I went to the kitchen to fetch another glass.  When I came back he had
unzipped his anorak and was peeling it off.  I poured out a glass of
wine and handed it to him.  "Don't worry," I said.  "I did pay for this
bottle."

He laughed politely at my weak joke, and I felt myself flush.  I
remembered Alex with Louise, and Colin teasing me that I had taken a
shine to PC Short.  To Dave Short.  It wasn't that I was interested in
him, I knew that although he was much better looking than I had
realized now he was dressed in civvies.  But he seemed so kind, so
thoughtful he had come round after his shift had ended, after all.  I
thought about all the clients I knew who longed for someone to visit
just to break up the tedium of their lives, and the excited way they
offered tea and cakes and sometimes alcohol, and once, a long time ago
and never repeated, a toke on a spliff sitting in the ashtray.

PC Short Dave said, "This is a nice house.  How long have you lived
here?"

"Five years.  Bought it with my partner at the time.  He's gone, but
I've kept the house."

He didn't make any comment about that, but was looking around the room,
eyeing up the proportions with a little smile on his face.  "I'm
looking to buy," he said.  "Haven't found anything yet."

"Where are you looking?"

"Not really decided."  He took a sip of his wine.  "Don't want to live
in the city, not when I work here, but a PC's salary doesn't go very
far anywhere else."

I had had two glasses of wine already, or I wouldn't have risked the
question, but I said, "You're looking on your own, then?"

He looked at me, and I noticed just how dark his eyes were that
reflective, liquid brown that looked almost black in certain lights.
Like Alex's eyes.  He was saying, "I've been sharing with some
colleagues, but I'm sick of their sweaty socks all over the front
room."  He allowed himself a small laugh at that.  "Nice enough place,
up in Beeston.  I'd like to stay round there, but being so close to the
university bumps up the house prices too much.  Too many landlords
cashing in.  And spoilt middle-class students being bought houses by
Mummy and Daddy."

I hadn't expected a policeman to say something like that.  It pleased
me.  I remembered Colin saying Dave Short was a nice guy, and caught
myself wondering whether a social worker and a police officer were at
all compatible.  I put the thought out of my mind he was just having a
glass of wine, that was all.  So I said, "Did you always want to be a
policeman?"

"When I was a kid?"  He smiled, and creases appeared at the corners of
his mouth.  "No, I wanted to be a long-distance lorry driver.  I always
wanted to park my lorry outside the house, and the one next door, and
the one next to that.  Did you always want to be a social worker?"

"No way."  I couldn't imagine any child thinking of social work as a
future career.  I said, "I wanted to be an air hostess, until I was
eleven.  Then I wanted to be a teacher, but the long hours put me off.
Did some voluntary work at a children's home, organizing games and that
sort of stuff.  That swung it."

"So you're in it for the good of the kiddies and the improvement of
society as a whole, then?  You're one of those woolly liberal,
politically correct do-gooders the tabloids love to blame for all the
ills of modern Britain?"

He had spoken in a light, mocking tone, and I laughed and matched my
tone to his and said, "Well, I didn't choose it for the paperwork, or
the high status of the job."

He laughed, too.  "Ditto with policing."

"You're just out to catch the bad guys and make the world safe for
law-abiding citizens," I said.  "Or do you see yourself as an agent of
the ruling classes defending the God-given Capitalist right to own
property?"

He was about to respond, mouth open and twisted into a smile, when the
sound of a car alarm pierced the air.  His smile died.  "That's my
car," he said, and we both rushed to the front door.

The street seemed to be deserted.  He switched off the car alarm with
the remote control on his key ring and said, "Stay here."

I stayed.  He went into the street.  His car was parked nose to nose
with mine, so close they were almost touching.  He went round to the
driver's door on his car; I saw him bend down to examine something.
Then he stood upright and looked both ways along the street.

"Hey!"  he shouted.  "Stop!"

He ran up the street and I saw a dark shape, a shadow, running ahead of
him.  In a moment they were both out of sight.  I could still hear
their footsteps, and then that sound also died.  The air had a chill to
it.  The street was empty.  I folded my arms and hugged them to my
chest, waiting for Dave to return.  A minute passed.  I was standing
with the door wide open, standing halfway between the house and the
street, then I stepped back towards my house, away from the darkness.
Anything could be happening I didn't want to think what, I just wanted
Dave to return.

Finally, he ambled back up the road, and examined his car and mine
again before coming back into the house.  I closed the door behind him
and followed him into the front room.

"There was someone there," he said.  "They ran off.  Might've just been
some kid, I couldn't tell.  Little bastard scratched my paintwork with
a key or something.  Yours is fine."

I nodded, unable to speak, and went and sat on the sofa.  I didn't want
to show how much the incident had scared me, but I couldn't find my
voice to say anything dismissive.  I realized I still had my arms
folded across my chest, but I was so cold, I didn't want to move at
all.  Dave was still standing, and he must have understood how I was
feeling, because he came and sat on the sofa next to me, saying gently,
"Hey, it's all right, it's okay."

He had put his arm across my shoulders to comfort me, and I felt myself
turn in towards him and allow him to put his other arm around me too. I
knew I shouldn't be doing this, I knew I should be strong and sit back
and move away from him, but there was so much comfort in the warm,
solid presence of his body.  I felt myself getting close to tears, and
it took an effort of will to break from his hug and reach for my
cigarettes and light one with shaking hands.

He moved slightly away from me on the sofa, but didn't return to the
armchair.  I took a deep draw on the cigarette, wiped the back of my
hand over my eyelids and swallowed down the tears.  "Sorry," I said.
"Sorry."

"That's okay," he said, his voice still quiet and gentle.  "You've had
a scare, that's all."

The tears returned to my eyes.  I wiped again, and sniffed them back,
and took another draw on the cigarette.  I wanted to ask him whether he
thought it might have been my attacker out there, whether it had been
Sean Metcalfe, but I didn't trust my voice.  I wasn't sure how Dave
would respond to the question anyway; I didn't want him to dismiss it.
Scratching a car that was the sort of thing Sean would do, he was
always up to stuff like that, before.  Hadn't he broken several windows
at his school?  I wasn't sure enough to mention it.

Dave sat back in the sofa.  More distance between us.  I twisted to
face him.  He said, "Before you ask, I don't know if that was the
person you think's been hanging around.  Chances are it was just a kid
being a prat.  They're like that round here, eh?"  He was looking for a
smile from me so I gave him my bravest.  "Anyway," he said, 'there's no
reason to think they'll come back.  And even if they do, they won't do
anything."

I just nodded.

"Have some more wine.  You look like you need it."

I picked up my glass and took a gulp and then looked at him, but he
didn't seem to think I was being pathetic.  I felt a little steadier,
so I said, "Should we report that to someone?"

"Like who?"

I felt a little silly saying, "The police?"

"They couldn't do anything," he said.  "Not worth my while getting the
insurance involved, it'll only bugger my no-claims.  Anyway, whoever it
was'll be long gone by now."

He wasn't looking at me as he spoke.  He seemed to suddenly feel
awkward, so close to me on the sofa, because he went back to the
armchair, sat down and took a sip from his wine.  Then he finally
looked at me, and he was smiling again, a sympathetic,

professional sort of smile.  He said, "Do you want me to check round
the back of the house, just to put your mind at rest?"

"Okay."

He stood up.  "Well, lead on."

I took him through to the kitchen and unbolted and unlocked the back
door.  He stepped out into the darkness; the light threw my reflection
back at me in the kitchen window, and through that, I saw the shape of
him as he walked along the narrow path on the other side of the glass.
I remembered seeing that face looking at me through the supermarket
window, the surprise in the expression, but when Dave turned to look
into the kitchen he just smiled.

He came back in, re-locked and re-bolted the door, then said, "Nothing
at all out there.  Are you going to be okay on your own?"

"Oh yes," I said, all bluster.

"Do you want me to check your windows, too?"

I thought about that, imagined me guiding him around my house, into the
bathroom and the spare room and finally my bedroom.  "It's okay," I
said.  "I checked them all earlier."

He nodded.  I had the feeling that he didn't quite know what to do
next.  After a moment, he said, "I suppose I'd better get off.  Are you
sure you'll be okay?"

"Yes, fine," I said.  I didn't want him to go, but I wasn't quite sure
why.

He put his anorak back on and I followed him to the front door.  At the
door, he said, "If you have any problems, give the station a ring,
they'll send someone out."

I nodded.  He had adopted his professional tone again.  I wondered
suddenly how he saw me he seemed so nice, but maybe that was all an
act?  Maybe he saw me the same way I saw my clients, and he was just
being very polite?  I shut the thought out.

"I'll drop by tomorrow evening," he said, and added, off-hand, 'if you
like."

"Yes," I said.  "That'd be good."

Then he was gone.  I closed and locked the front door and went back to
the sofa.  I wasn't sure why he had offered to come back was it just
that he wanted to reassure me?  I wasn't sure why I had said yes,
either, but I knew it was a bad idea to think too much about that.

I poured the remainder of the wine into my glass and turned the
television on again, but I didn't really watch whatever programme was
playing.

Thirteen

The slight edge of hangover curling the fringes of my brain wasn't the
only thing that made it difficult to concentrate on my work.  The
office was noisy; the strip lights were flickering; my eyes hurt as I
read and re-read the file in front of me.  I hadn't seen anybody
hanging around outside my house when I left for work, and there had
been nothing untoward around the office, but I couldn't escape the
feeling that Sean Metcalfe was close by and was aware of my movements.
It was silly really I had no good reason to think he would be watching
or that he was even interested in me, but I couldn't put him out of my
mind.

There was a case conference to prepare for, but I knew even as I
started to plan my report that I wasn't thinking clearly.  It seemed so
absurd, to think that I was supposed to predict outcomes, to foresee
what was going to happen in someone else's life, and all the time I
didn't even know what was happening in mine.  I sat with my elbows on
the desk, head resting on my hand, not looking at the others in the
office.

They all knew what to do I felt rising panic, that same fear I'd had
when I first started in the job; that fear of acting in case I made a
wrong choice, that fear of doing nothing in case that was even more
disastrous.  I tried taking deep breaths.  I tried thinking slowly,
step by step, but it didn't help.  I thought about giving up, about
asking someone else what they would do, but I could imagine how they
would look at me, what they would think.  I didn't want anyone to think
I was losing it.

I knew I couldn't carry on like this.  I needed to know what was going
on, and why, and whether I was just paranoid.  I packed away the case
notes and signed myself out of the office.  The cool air in the street
helped; I realized I had barely been breathing and the sudden rush of
oxygen made me dizzy for a moment.  My heartbeat steadied.

I drove down to the street where the Metcalfes lived and parked up near
the Adams' house.  Katie Adams wasn't in; the front curtains were drawn
and when I lifted the letterbox flap I saw that the baby buggy was gone
from its usual place in the hall.  There was a smear of something
sticky across the front window.  I stepped onto the patch of grass in
front of the house and looked closer.  Someone had been throwing eggs
at the window; the yellowish gluey mess had dragged down the glass,
encrusted with little bits of shell, and dried hard.

Smoking a cigarette, I stood by my car and tried to think.  I had come
all this way I wasn't even sure why, because Katie Adams wouldn't be
able to tell me much.  I looked across at the Metcalfe house.  Colin
would hate me for talking to one of his clients, but I knew I couldn't
leave the situation as it was.  Mrs.  Metcalfe Carla must be able to do
something, to tell me something.  And I had a duty to help Katie Adams;
it wasn't as if it was unreasonable for me to talk to Carla Metcalfe.

There was no visible sign of life at number five, and even as I rang
the doorbell I was hoping there would be no reply.  Curtains over the
glass panels in the door prevented me from seeing if there was anyone
on the other side, but eventually I heard the key turning in the lock
and the front door opened.

Carla Metcalfe.  She had aged considerably in the eight years since I
had last seen her, and could have passed for ten years older than the
mid-forties I knew her to be.  She was thin, almost gaunt, her face
creased and lined into a permanent frown, but her taut stance suggested
that strength still ran through her limbs.

I said, "Mrs.  Metcalfe, I'm Jo '

"I know who you are," she said.  "I'm hardly going to forget you, am
I?"  There was no move to open the door more fully.  "What do you
want?"

"I wondered whether we could have a chat."

She didn't change her expression or her stance.

"About Danny," I said.

"What about him?"

Her tone wasn't exactly aggressive; there was the usual wariness, but
no obvious hostility.  I hadn't expected to be welcomed.  I said, "I'd
rather not stand on the doorstep talking.  Can I come in?"

She stood back from the door and signalled for me to go past, but it
was a gesture of resignation rather than invitation.

"Thank you," I said, and went through to the front room.  The house was
a mirror-image of the Adams' house, and it was a little disconcerting
to see the reverse positioning of the identical fireplace, but all
comparison stopped there.  Katie Adams favoured wallpaper with small
flowered patterns and brown velour furniture with tassled fringes,
while Carla Metcalfe's front room was brightly decorated in citrus;
orange paint on the lower half of the wall and yellow on the top half,
with a green border dotted with yellow and orange cartoon daisies
covering the switch between colours.  The sofa and two armchairs were
old-fashioned, high-backed seats covered with green throws.  There was
a recently applied look to the brightness of the paint.

"Nice room," I said.  "Nice and cheerful."

That elicited a nod of acknowledgement, but her lips didn't form
anything I could interpret as the start of a smile.  I sat down in an
armchair and she sat on the edge of the sofa, legs apart, elbows on her
knees, as if prepared to spring to her feet if provoked.

"So," she said, 'did Katie Adams send you, then?"

"No, not at all.  But she has told me what's been going on."

She gave a short laugh.  "Yeah, I bet."

I tried a neutral-friendly smile, but she wasn't going to be drawn that
easily.  I said, "Why don't you tell me your side?"

There was something close to contempt in her expression.  "Why should I
tell you anything?"

"I'm just trying to help," I said.

Her expression didn't change.  I had the feeling that she was angry,
that there was a rage burning inside her.  She hadn't been like that
before, I was sure I couldn't remember her being so fierce that it
seemed to shine out from her.  I was tempted to ask what was wrong,
what had happened, what I could do to help, but I was scared to find
out I didn't want her to release all of that anger onto me.

I said, "I'm trying to resolve the situation.  There's obviously a
problem with Danny and some of the other kids.  I just want to stop
things getting out of hand."

I wanted to appeal to her get her to see that she was strong, I was
strong, but Katie Adams was not.  I wanted her to realize that Katie
Adams needed protecting, needed people to look out for her.  But
Carla's expression still didn't change.  I could see her son in the
line of her jaw, in the way she held herself.  I could picture Sean
next to me in the street; did she know what had happened, and what was
going to happen?  I wanted to ask if she knew where Sean was, if she
knew what he'd been up to, but I knew I couldn't.

"I'm just trying to help," I repeated.

"Help who?"  she said.  "You lot are no help to anyone.  I've seen it
all before, remember?"

That was a challenge.  I forced the neutral smile to remain on my lips.
"Look, whatever happened in the past, I'm sure we can agree that '

"Agree?"  she said.  "Agree?  I don't have to agree with anything you
say."

I sighed.  "But surely you can see that this situation '

"That woman's been making our lives hell," she said.  "Ask anyone.  But
I don't suppose you care what we say, do you?  You're all the same.
Danny's a good kid if you lot would only give him a chance."

"I'm not saying it's all down to Danny," I said.

But she wasn't listening.  "That Katie Adams is the problem.  She's not
right in the head.  It's her causing all the trouble."

"I'm not saying it's Danny's fault," I said.

"Good, 'cos it's not."

I waited a moment before speaking, hoping that the silence would calm
her.  I wasn't sure how to handle the situation Christ, she wasn't even
my client.  Colin would be furious if he found out about this
conversation, but I knew I had to press on, had to get her to
understand what I was trying to say.  And she had always been hard
work; before, I had put it down to the stress she had been under the
sudden death of her husband, the boys playing her up, Sean skipping
school and being brought home in a police car.  She had seemed on the
edge back then, blaming me, blaming my lack of experience,

and I had taken it all because it wasn't her fault, she was in a bad
situation, she was grieving, and everyone has the right to lose it
sometimes.  I wondered whether she was always like this, whether the
anger was always bubbling so close to the surface, or was it Sean's
return that had caused this reaction?  I was seized again by the desire
to ask after Sean.

Instead, I said, "I think we need to find a way to calm the situation
down.  If the lads didn't react to Katie Adams, or try to stir her up
'

"They don't '

"I'm not blaming them," I continued smoothly, and to my surprise she
didn't try to interrupt me again.  "But if we could get one side to
stop reacting, maybe it would all blow over?"

"Tell that to her.  And that bloke of hers.  But I don't suppose they
mentioned what he's been up to."  I started to say that I wasn't
interested, but she cut me off.  "He grabbed one of Danny's mates.  Had
him by the throat.  Told him he'd sort him out properly."

Her hand had run to her own throat, as if she could feel the pressure
there.  I remembered the bruises I'd seen on her face, the marks on her
arms that she'd dismissed as accidents.  I said, "There's been
unpleasantness on both sides."

"Maybe," she said, hand still at her throat.  Then she leaned forward,
looked at me and added, "But it isn't right, is it?  An adult, I mean,
threatening a twelve-year-old kid.  That isn't right."

She seemed to expect a reply; she seemed to want to gauge my reaction.
I said, "No, of course not."

"They're just kids," she said.  "Nobody should treat 'em like that.  I
don't care what you say."

I said, "I'll be having a word with them, too."

She sat back.  She seemed slightly disappointed with my reply.  I had
expected her to seize the opportunity to end the conversation, but she
made no move to do so.  She seemed to be waiting I wondered again
whether she knew what Sean had been up to, whether she had been
expecting me to ask about him.

I said, "I'll let you get on."

She followed me to the front door, that expectant frown still scoring
her face.  At the door, I said, "Thanks for your time."  And then, as I
was about to go, before I could stop myself, I heard myself ask, "How's
Sean these days?"

The frown disappeared.  "Why the fuck do you care?"

I was taken aback.  "Excuse me?"

"You've got some nerve," she said.  "After all this time you want to
know about him?  Never cared before, did you?"

"I don't know what you mean," I said, and I didn't.  My pulse hammered.
"If you think I've done something wrong, at least tell me."

But she had clammed up, as if she had said too much already.

"What's going on?"  I asked, but she was closing the door on me.  I put
out my hand to stop her.  "Carla?"

She had put her weight behind the door and it slammed shut.  I stood
there, looking at the door, but I knew there was no point ringing the
bell, she wouldn't open up to me again.

Fourteen

As soon as I got home from work, I shut the curtains, switched on the
TV and camped out on the sofa with the small box that I kept my stash
in.  I built myself a medium-strength spliff and watched The Bill while
the smoke knocked the edges off the day.  I had moved onto re-runs of
Friends and was considering rolling another spliff when I heard a car
pulling up outside my house.  I thought it might be Dave Short come to
check up on me again, so I shoved the cling-filmed chunk of hash and my
Rizlas into the lacquered box, put it back on the bookcase and was
ineffectually fanning the air with my hands when the doorbell rang.

I opened the door.  Alex.  He came past me and into the front room; I
followed him in, and before he had even peeled off his coat he said,
"Why didn't you tell me?  Why'd I have to hear it from Simon?"

"What?"  I asked.

"You know what.  Someone hanging round here on Saturday night."

"Oh, that."  It seemed like a century ago to me now.  I just laughed
and said, "Like you'd've wanted to know.  Forgotten your little
performance on Saturday night, have you?"

He said, "Don't be ridiculous."  Then, "Have you been smoking dope?"
Before I could reply, he went on, "I can smell it.  And you're stoned.
Look at you."

I walked past him and slumped into the sofa.  "Sorry, Dad."

He was about to respond to that, but then he changed his mind.  He sat
down in the armchair and rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. I
waited for whatever argument he was going to start next.  But he said,
"Can't we forget about Saturday?  We were both overwrought. Let's
forget it happened, eh?"

I shrugged.  "Whatever."

I knew that wasn't the response he wanted, but I wasn't in the mood to
be magnanimous.  He took a deep breath and made an effort to calm
himself, then said, "You should've called me.  I'd have come round.  I
don't like the idea of you being frightened on your own."

It would have been a lousy trick to tell him that he had frightened me
on Saturday too, grabbing my arm and then storming off.  The spliff had
dulled my brain so I lit a cigarette and then offered him the packet,
but he declined.  I blew out a lungful of smoke, waiting for the
nicotine to kick in.  I said, "You were busy.  It was your party.  I
didn't think you'd appreciate being called away."

He screwed up his face at that.

"Anyway, I'm not even sure there really was anyone there."

"Yes, but all the same '

"It's okay," I said.  "The police've been pretty helpful."

His expression suggested I'd missed the point entirely.  "It's not
okay," he said.  "You shouldn't be alone."

"I'm a big girl.  I can look after myself."

"But the attack was only a couple of weeks ago.  It'd be natural if you
felt '

"I'm fine," I said, and there was more edge to my voice than I
intended.

"But that's why you came round yesterday, isn't it?  Because you were
scared?"

"No," I said.  "Not really.  I wasn't scared.  I justI just needed
company, that's all."  I could tell he didn't believe me, and although
part of me was glad that he was so concerned, I didn't want to feel
like a charity case.  I said, "Christ, I wish Simon hadn't told you
now."

"I'm glad he did."

I didn't want to talk about it any more.  I had been looking forward to
a quiet night, just me and a few spliffs in front of the TV, and the
warmth that would wrap me up and insulate me.  My head was aching
again.  Alex was showing no signs of leaving.  I reminded myself that
his concern was sweet, really, however he chose to express it.  He
looked as though he didn't know what to do next, and I couldn't leave
things like that, however big a part of me enjoyed seeing him suffer. I
gave in to the hospitality urge and offered him a cup of coffee; he
followed me into the kitchen to watch me wait for the kettle to boil.

While I was spooning coffee granules into a couple of mugs I said, "So,
tell me about this Louise, then."

If he realized my casual tone was deliberate, he didn't comment. "She's
nice," he said.  "She makes me laugh."

"Are you seeing her again?"

"Maybe."  But it was defensive, so I took that to mean yes.

"I'm glad," I said, and I did mean it, I did want him to be happy.

He gave an embarrassed smile, then said quickly, "Simon said something
about you knowing who mugged you."

"Possibly."

We took our coffees back into the front room and resumed our previous
seats.  "It wasn't a mugging," I said.  He raised his eyebrows, and I
added, "At least, I don't think so."

So I told him all about it, about my purse being returned to me and
about Sean Metcalfe absconding and how I was certain almost that it was
him.  But I left out the stuff at the supermarket.  I didn't want him
to think I was losing the plot.

"And Dave Short's your knight in shining armour?"

"Oh, it's not like that," I said, and laughed.

We drank our drinks in silence for a moment.  I

had a horrible feeling that Alex was contemplating Dave Short, and part
of me wanted to convince him that it really was nothing like that, but
I couldn't help remembering Alex leaning in towards Louise at the
party.  There was some small justice in him thinking there was
something but I didn't want him to misunderstand, not really.

"What I don't understand," Alex said, 'is why this Sean would want to
attack you?"

"I was his case worker eight years ago."

"Yes, but he's had others since.  Why go for you?  Why not Colin
Fuller, for one?"

"He was taken into care eight years ago," I said.  "Both the boys were.
Foster care for three months."

"But that's still not a reason."

"No," I said, and then I ran out of things to add to the speculation.

Alex said, "Even if he blames you, which would be ridiculous, they were
only in care for three months.  And why wait this long?"  I didn't
reply, but he was still musing and didn't seem to notice.  "They didn't
report any any abuse while they were fostered?"

"Not as far as I know."

"That wouldn't make sense anyway," Alex said.  "He'd blame the foster
carer, wouldn't he?"

I just shrugged.  The pounding in my head was developing into a full
headache.  I wanted the second spliff I had promised myself; the
effects of the first had been replaced by sore eyes and tiredness.
"Don't keep going over it," I said.  "Best to just forget it."

"Forget it?  He attacked you, Jo.  He could've really hurt you, or even
killed '

"Yes, yes," I said.  "Be quiet, please."

He was stopped more by my tone than by my words and said nothing else.
After a minute of listening to him drinking his coffee, I relented.
"Sorry.  I didn't mean that.  I'm tired.  It's been a long day."

"S'okay," he said.  "You've a right to be stressed.  Christ, you're
stressed at the best of times."

"That's not fair I started to say.

"I don't mean any criticism.  That's just the way you are."

He was getting dangerously close to the subjects we'd had all those
endless conversations arguments about before he moved out.  I caught
his eye, wanting him to understand that I had no intention of
continuing those discussions.

He said, "I just wish you'd called me on Saturday night."

"I couldn't have," I said.

"If you'd told me '

"You'd really have told Louise you were coming round to mine?"  I cut
him off before he could respond to that.  "You didn't have to do that.
I was fine.  And anyway, what would she have thought?"

"She'd have been fine," he said.  His voice was low.

"That's not the point, anyway," I said.  "We agreed to go our separate
ways.  I can handle this.  It was nothing, really, I was just a little
freaked.  My own fault for walking home alone."

He looked at me as though trying to work out whether I really meant it.
I steadied my gaze and looked back at him.  After a moment, he looked
away and gave a little laugh.  "Well, in future, don't hesitate."

"Okay," I said.  "Thanks."

He took another sip of his coffee, the frown setting into a grim
expression around his eyes.  I waited for him to express whatever he
was thinking, but I wasn't expecting it when he said, "Do you want me
to stay around tonight?  I could go home and get some clean clothes and
come back, if you want."

I wasn't sure if I had imagined the slight reluctance in his tone.  I
wondered whether he had planned to see Louise again tonight, whether
things really were progressing that fast between them, whether she
really would have understood if he had said he was spending the night
at his ex-partner's house.  I said, "No, it's fine, honestly."

He was about to say something else, but there were footsteps coming up
the path, and then the doorbell rang.  It had to be Dave Short I looked
at Alex, not sure how he would take it, although there was nothing I
could do but face it out.

So I said, "Oh, that's probably PC Short.  He said he might pop round.
Check things are okay."

Alex raised his eyebrows but didn't say anything.  I went to the front
door, leaving him in the armchair.  It was Dave Short, out of uniform
again, offering me a bottle of wine.

"To replace what we drank last night," he said, with a smile.

"Oh," I said, not sure how to react.  Then I remembered my manners and
took the bottle and said, "Thank you.  Come in, come in."

He followed me through into the front room, where Alex had to twist in
the armchair to see us both as we entered, and I said, "Alex, this is
PC Short.  And this is Alex, a friend of mine.  Dropped in to check how
I was."

I gave a nervous sort of laugh.  Alex and Dave looked at each other.  I
retreated into the kitchen to put the bottle of wine out of sight.  As
I came back, Dave was saying, "That's right, you know Kelly Andrews."

"Yes, known her a long time," Alex said.  He smiled up at me.  "We've
met before, Jo.  I've worked with PC Andrews."

"Oh," I said.  "Good."

Dave was still standing near the door.

I said, "Come and sit down."

Dave hesitated.

Alex said, with the kind of mischievous grin I'd been hoping to avoid,
"I've got to get off, anyway.  I'll give you a ring, Jo."

"Okay," I said, probably a little too quickly for decorum.  I saw him
to the front door.

At the door, Alex gave a low laugh.  "I'm not the only one with romance
in the air, eh?"

I hit him lightly on the arm and shoved him outside.  I could still
hear him laughing when I closed the door on him.  I took a deep breath
and went back into the front room.

Dave Short was over by the stereo, looking through my CD collection.
"You've got some good stuff here," he said.

Tut something on, if you like."

He turned and smiled at me, and I wondered whether that had seemed
over-friendly.  But then, he was the one who had turned up with a
bottle of wine.  That could hardly be considered a one hundred per cent
professional act.  He didn't pass any comment, though, selecting an old
Chili Peppers album and kneeling down to figure out how to work the
stereo.

When the music had started, he turned to me.  "I love this album," he
said.  "I take it you haven't had any strangers hanging around,
then?"

"No, only Alex."

He didn't pass comment, but didn't laugh either.

"He's my ex," I said, and then wondered whether I should have said even
that much about him.

"Fair enough."

I felt awkward suddenly.  "Would you like some wine?"  I asked.  "As
it's yours anyway?"

"I wouldn't say no."

I went into the kitchen and fetched the wine, a corkscrew and two
glasses.  When I came back, he was settled in the chair Alex had
vacated, his coat folded over the arm, listening to the music with a
smile of appreciation.  I opened the wine and poured out two glasses,
then gave him one and sat down on the sofa.

"There's been a sighting of Sean Metcalfe," he said.

"Really?  Where?"

"Not far from his mother's place.  Down near the Arboretum.  So he's
definitely in the city."

I nodded, wondering whether he meant that they were taking me more
seriously than before.  Was I no longer an unreliable and emotional
victim imagining my attacker everywhere I went?  And if so, did that
mean there was more to Dave's visit than a quick check-up with social
overtones?  I wondered whether I should tell him that I had been to see
Carla Metcalfe today, but I couldn't see the relevance.

I said, "But he got away?"

"Yes.  But don't worry, we'll catch up with him.  These kids, they
never stay on the run for long.  Mostly we catch 'em having a cup of
tea at their mother's or their girlfriend's it's home they miss."

I nodded.  I didn't know what to say I felt that I should be asking
questions, pushing the investigation somehow, but I couldn't summon up
the energy.  Dave didn't seem concerned that Sean was on the loose
still, and I knew it was unlikely anything would happen he probably
hadn't even planned the first attack, it had probably just been a
chance encounter, hell, he probably regretted it as much as I did.  He
would be in even more trouble when he was finally caught, and I had no
doubt that he would be caught.  I could see why he was still running,
and it had nothing to do with me.  I even felt a little sorry for him,
because they wouldn't be lenient when they did catch him, and, whatever
he had done, I could picture clearly the boy I had known all those
years before, a skinny little kid with a resentful frown, never meaning
it but always, clumsily, in trouble for something, and looking as
though he couldn't understand how any of it had happened.

Dave said, "You seem very thoughtful."

I shook the thoughts away, forced a smile and said, "No, no, not at
all.  Just thinking about work, that's all."

"Ah," he said.

I was tempted to explain what I had been thinking about, but decided
not to, in case he tried to persuade me that Sean deserved to be
punished, that Sean wasn't the innocent little kid I remembered.  I
could imagine the sort of speech I might get from a policeman reserve
your sympathy for the victim, there're enough bad lads out on the
streets without one more roaming free, you social workers are making
our job harder, you don't know what it's like trying to stop your poor
little misunderstood youths from bashing old ladies for their pension
books, or peddling drugs to kiddies, or bottling each other in town on
a Saturday night.  I didn't want to hear anything like that, and
particularly not from Dave Short.  I didn't think he was the type to
say those sorts of things, but I didn't want to risk finding out.

We sat in silence for a couple of minutes, both sipping our wine.  I
wondered whether he was starting to feel uncomfortable at having come
round, at having created a situation that was more social than
professional, but when I looked across at him he was listening to the
music and seemed relaxed.

I had to break the silence, so I told him that the track playing was
one of my favourites, even though it wasn't, and he smiled and said it
was one of his favourites too, but I didn't believe him.  We chatted
about music for a while, and he told me that he had played electric
guitar, badly, in a band when he was younger.  I couldn't imagine him
doing that he seemed too clean-cut to ever have aspired to the rock 'n'
roll lifestyle.

He just laughed.  "It's the job that forces me to shave."

"You don't seem much like a policeman," I said.

"Why?  What did you expect, that I'd come into a room and bend at the
knees and say "evening all"?  We're not from another planet, you
know."

"I know, but usually policemen are so ... I don't know.  Conformist."

"You mean stupid?"

I smiled.  "Well, I wouldn't have put it quite like that."

"It's okay," he said.  "I know all the things people say.  Dull-witted
plods.  Corrupt thugs.  Spend more time eating bacon cobs and telling
dodgy jokes than catching criminals.  Some of it's true.  There're some
real idiots on the force, but there are in every job, aren't there?
That's just the way it goes."

I wanted to say that policing was different that it attracted people
who liked having authority, that it brought out the intolerance in a
person, that it represented so many negative things so how could anyone
with a social conscience ever join?  But I

thought he would probably take offence at that, and besides, I had no
evidence that he did have a social conscience, he might just have a
polite visiting manner.  Instead, I said, "Yeah, there're a few idiots
in Social Services, that's for sure.  Usually the ones who get
promoted."

"Isn't that always the way?"

"Absolutely."  And I poured us both another glass of wine.  The
conversation had made me think of Douglas suddenly, and his
instructions to leave Katie Adams alone, to stop her becoming dependent
on me.  It seemed unfair that someone who had never even met Katie
Adams could decide something so important.  She needed me.  There was
always time to squeeze in an extra visit.

I wondered whether Dave's bosses knew he was visiting me.  It seemed
unlikely, somehow and what would they say if they found out?  Would he
be in trouble?  I didn't see how; I was a victim, not a suspect, and
all we had done was drink some wine and talk.  There wasn't anything
wrong with that, was there?  And then I caught myself wondering whether
he would be forbidden from anything more than a drink, whether he would
be risking everything if he decided to take things further between us.
But I dismissed the thought quickly whatever jokes Alex made, I was not
interested in Dave Short, I just liked his company, that was all.

And as we talked I realized that I really did enjoy his company.  We
talked about nothing and listened to more CDs and let the evening ebb
away around us.  Since Alex and I had split up, I had found myself
alone more and more, and it was nice to be able to relax and chat and
just enjoy someone's company.  I thought about Alex with Louise and
wondered what sort of conversation he got from her was she really the
way she seemed at the party, so self-assured and confident?  I knew
that was what Alex was looking for Alex wanted to feel a little
glamorous, like he was in with the right crowd, where all the action
was, at the hub of the social circle, and that probably meant that she
was better suited to him than I was.  But would he be enough for her? I
had the feeling that she wouldn't understand him, all his little
hang-ups and neuroses, the ones that I understood so well.  She would
eventually reject him, and what would he do then?  Find his way back to
me, hide away with me to lick his wounds until he felt able to risk it
all over again?  It pleased me, in a way, that he would always return
but I didn't want to be forever linked to him, I didn't want an anchor
holding me to my past.

Dave was telling me some half-funny anecdotes from his childhood, and I
nodded and laughed in all the right places and tried to respond as well
as I could.  The wine on top of the spliff was having a bad effect on
me.  I had to focus hard to follow what Dave was saying, and to pick up
the signals for when to laugh, but Dave didn't seem to notice.  He was
good-looking in a rather ordinary sort of way, but when he smiled it
added a strange twist to his face, added character to the
well-proportioned features, as though there was something more behind
that kind facade, something that might even be worth finding.  I
wondered whether he was my opportunity for something new, something
different; my Dave to Alex's Louise.  I tried to imagine it, to build
him into my picture, but my head was spinning slightly.

Dave finally said it was time for him to go, and turned down another
glass of wine because he was driving, then started to put on his coat.
All it would take was an invitation for him to stay the night, but as I
walked him to the front door I knew I couldn't ask, I couldn't bring
myself to utter those words, because once spoken they couldn't be taken
back.  I didn't think I could live with the embarrassment of his
rejecting me.  And he would reject me as I opened the front door and
the opportunity to ask drained away, I was certain that he would reject
me.

"Well," he said.  "You seem to be pretty safe now."

I just nodded, hoping that he would offer to call round the following
night.

He said, "Give us a ring at the station if anything comes up."

"I will," I said, but it was all so formal, so impossible to ever
follow up on.  I added, quickly, before I could stop myself, "I've
enjoyed talking to you."

His eyes met mine, but there was no moment of passion, no melting into
an embrace, no sudden move to kiss.  He said, "I've enjoyed it, too."

And did I imagine the moment's hesitation, the moment where it seemed
that he was going to say something else, something more?  I didn't
know, didn't want to know.  After he had gone, I went back to the sofa,
poured the rest of the wine into my glass and sat with my legs pulled
in tight and my arms wrapped around myself, and outside the street was
very quiet, there didn't seem to be anyone else around.

Fifteen

had hoped that work would be the usual grind through familiar routines,
allowing me to recover from my hangover in peace, but as soon as people
started to gather for the fortnightly staff meeting I knew it wasn't
going to be like that.  I was surprised to see a couple of workers from
Referrals and Admissions sidle into our office, and it seemed that most
of the long-term team were hanging around.  There was a tension in the
air, too; a palpable sense of expectation.  I tried to think what this
could mean, but my thoughts were muffled by the slight ache behind my
eyes.

Colin came in, late as usual, and slumped down next to me.  He looked
tired, too.  I said, "What's with all the people?"

He seemed surprised.  "You haven't heard?  They're saying Douglas wants
to discuss Chantelle Wade."

His expression brightened at the thought.  I wanted to groan didn't we
already discuss the enquiry enough?  I forced myself to smile, even
though I knew it meant the office would be alive with rumour and
analysis for the rest of the day hell, the rest of the week, the way
the others loved to tease out every nuance of meaning from the smallest
detail.

Douglas got the meeting started, droning through the new referrals and
the lists of unallocated cases.  I kept my head down, and none of the
cases came my way I counted myself lucky for once.  There was a time
when I would have volunteered rather than see a case remain
unallocated, but a sense of lethargy was creeping through me.  I
thought of the things Colin had said in Alex's garden at the party, and
maybe he had been right?  Maybe there wasn't any point to any of this?
I glanced across at Colin; he was doodling patterns in the notebook
resting on his knee, the thin line of black ink winding and wriggling
across the page.

Douglas was talking now about the new objectives under the Quality
Protects initiative, and how to tie policy in with the recommendations
of the Laming Report, and the importance of multi-agency approaches,
and making operational sense of new procedures.  I stifled a yawn and
tried to look interested.  The room was getting warm with the heat of
all the people sitting so close together.  I shifted in my seat to try
to wake myself up.  My thoughts were drifting; I found myself wondering
whether Dave Short would visit me again.

Colin made a sudden movement beside me and gave a grunt; I jerked my
head up and realized that one of the women from the Referrals and
Admissions team was saying, "What about the Wade case?  We want to know
what's going on."

There was a murmur of assent from around the room.

"I was coming to that," Douglas said.  He sounded a little irritated.
"There's not much to say, though.  We need to focus on the job in hand,
people, not on what might be being said at the enquiry."

"But we know what's being said."  It was the same woman again. "They've
been trawling for anything they can throw at the workers. They're
saying it's down to the individuals.  How are we supposed to do our job
with that hanging over us?"

The murmurs of assent grew louder.  I sat more upright, looking around,
and for the first time I noticed how strained everyone else looked, how
tired and pale and grim-faced.

Douglas put down the papers he had been referring to and looked slowly
around the room.  He seemed to be thinking.  "Okay," he said.  "Let's
put paid to a few rumours, then.  I know everyone thinks the enquiry's
looking for scapegoats but that really isn't the way it's going.  There
were some mistakes made.  Those have to be analysed, however painful it
is, so that we learn from the experience."

"That's not what's happening, though, is it?"  The same woman again.

Colin said loudly, "You know they're just trying to get someone to take
the fall.  We all know what went wrong, the department's too bloody
disorganized and understaffed, that's the real problem."

I had expected Douglas to respond angrily to that, but people were
agreeing.  The talk grew louder and he surveyed us all with a frown.
For a moment, I couldn't make out what anyone was saying over the
confusion of all the voices.  I glanced at Colin and his expression was
reddening, as though he was about to lose control.  I put out a hand
and touched him lightly on the arm; he flinched away from my touch, but
looked across at me and forced a thin, terse smile onto his lips.

Douglas waited for the noise to die down.  "We don't know what the
enquiry's going to say," he said.  "The report will probably take weeks
to come through.  What we have to do is ensure that we stick to the
Laming guidelines '

"We do," Colin said, and although he hadn't spoken loudly, the force he
had put behind the words carried, stopping Douglas.

Douglas hesitated.  "Okay.  Look, maybe we need to remind ourselves of
the facts here.  Chantelle Wade died, don't forget that.  None of us
ever wants that to happen again.  Mistakes were made by the officers
concerned."  He raised his voice above the protests that were bubbling
up.  "Mistakes were made," he repeated.  "A voluntary arrangement was
made and it didn't protect the child.  The Child Protection Plan
failed.  We have to ask why.  We'd be neglecting our duty if we didn't
ask why."

"We know why," someone said.  "It's because we're all stressed.  We're
all overworked.  There aren't enough of us.  Maybe if people weren't
having to rush from crisis to crisis they'd make better decisions?"

"Maybe if we worked with the families more we wouldn't get to the stage
where the kids are in danger," I said.  But I had spoken quietly, and
only Colin heard me.  The rest of the room was still protesting at
Douglas's words.

I had a clear view of Douglas from my seat.  He was looking
uncomfortable now, pressing his fingertips into his forehead as if
trying to push a headache away.  I remembered the things I had heard
him say on the phone, the day I came back from sick leave he had been
protecting the workers then.  I wasn't sure what was going on now.  I
had the uncomfortable feeling that he had shifted his position, and if
that was true, then maybe they were going to dump the blame for the
things that went wrong on the individual caseworkers?  I felt a little
sick I didn't want to think about it.

Douglas said, "We have to just do the best we can.  Now, I really don't
see what we will gain from discussing this any further."

His tone was firm.  He waited for the grumbling to subside, then
continued to talk about the importance of information-sharing for
effective multi-agency practice.  I felt the stupor of the warm room
start to envelop me once more.

By the time the meeting dragged to its conclusion, I needed some fresh
air to bring me back from the brink of sleep.  Colin and I stumbled
through the crowd and out into the yard for a smoke.  I could see that
Colin was still angry.

"Don't let it get to you," I said.

He gave a little smile at that.  I knew what Alex would have said: fine
advice coming from me.  But Colin was never that blunt when he spoke to
me.  He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes then looked up at
the grey sky.

"It's just shit," he said.  "Anyone could have made that mistake.  How
many times have you trusted what a client tells you?  You have to
sometimes.  They were just unlucky that the mother was lying as much as
the father."

I didn't respond, concentrating on lighting a cigarette.  I didn't
think Colin would appreciate my thoughts because I wouldn't have made
that mistake.  Don't trust anything they say, that was the rule I had
always worked by.  Evidence-based knowledge was how I phrased it to
Douglas, but it came down to the same thing; don't just take their word
for it.  I had sympathy for the workers, of course I did -nobody likes
to see a colleague under pressure but it was their mistake, and it had
cost Chantelle Wade her life.

Colin blew out a long puff of smoke.  "And now they're trawling, you
know that?  Going back through all their other cases to see if there's
any other fuck-ups they can sling at them."

I nodded.

"Can you imagine that?"  he asked.  "People trawling through all your
past cases, looking for every mistake you've ever made?"

I nodded again.  I didn't really want to think about it.  What would
people have made of how I handled the Metcalfe case all those years
ago?  Carla Metcalfe obviously thought I'd done something wrong.  I
realized I should probably tell Colin that I had been round to see
Carla, but I hesitated.  I wasn't sure what there was to tell.

He said, "I'd hate that.  I hate anyone sticking their nose into one of
my cases without me asking them to.  It's just unprofessional.  It's
like saying I cant do the job myself.  I really hate that."  He looked
at me, and for a moment I thought he was going to say I had already
done just that, and demand to know what I was playing at, but he just
sucked angrily on his cigarette and said, "You know what I mean?"

"Yes.  It's an invasion.  I'm the same."  I felt a little bad saying
that, but he was so angry, so wound up.  I'd never seen him like this.
I thought again about our conversation at the party and I was about to
ask him whether he was okay, whether there was anything I could do to
help, when he flung his cigarette butt at the ground.  He was about to
go indoors again.  I said, "Have another smoke, Colin.  You need the
break, you look so stressed."

He glanced at his watch.  "Can't," he said.  "Got to get up to the
Bulwell office.  One of my cases has moved onto Alex's patch.  Need to
hand it over."

"Alex won't mind five minutes."

"No, but I'm already late, and it'll take twenty minutes to get there
with all the roadworks."

"Well, say hi to Alex for me," I said, and watched him stomp back into
the building.  The door swung shut behind him.  As the air calmed and
settled around me, I felt the tension lift from me, releasing my
shoulders from the awkward hunch I'd adopted without even noticing. The
headache returned with a fury.  I wasn't sure if it had ever gone, or
if Colin's anger had merely drowned it out for a short period.  I stood
there, watching his cigarette butt burn itself out on the concrete.

I finished my cigarette and went slowly back to my desk.  As I had
predicted, people were still gathered in clusters discussing the
morning's meeting and the latest rumours about the enquiry.  Douglas
was nowhere to be seen; hiding with a mound of paperwork in his office,
I supposed.  I slipped into my seat without being asked my opinion of
the latest developments and tried to concentrate on the reports I had
to write.  I still felt uneasy that I hadn't mentioned visiting Carla
Metcalfe to Colin, but I told myself that he was very unlikely to find
out, and even if he did, I wasn't interfering in his case, I was
working on one of my own.

However much I tried to focus on my work, I found my thoughts drifting.
It wasn't just the Chantelle Wade enquiry even the office appetite for
gossip wasn't satisfied by the events of the staff meeting for very
long.  Every time I thought about my clients, about the difficulties
they faced and how to support them, I was dogged by the echoes of the
Metcalfe case.  The children had been fine like Katie Adams's children,
they hadn't been in danger, not after the father's death.  But I
couldn't help feeling that safety wasn't the only issue.  Chantelle

Wade had died, yes the thought of that, the thought of a tiny little
girl, a doll of a child, killed by her own parents, was enough to stop
anyone's thoughts.  But Sean Metcalfe I had tried to support his
family, I had done everything I could, and he had still ended up in
Glen Parva, his life had still been ruined.

But I hardened my mind against that thought.  Douglas was right, Alex
was right.  I couldn't allow myself to take on other people's
responsibilities.  However bitter, however angry Carla Metcalfe was,
the way Sean had turned out was not down to my actions.

I gritted my teeth.  I shut the thoughts out.  I had a job to do, and
worrying about all the kids I dealt with, dwelling on their futures and
the problems that were yet to assail them, would only prevent me from
taking the action that was required now.

I gathered all my faculties, all my mental energies, and started to
write my reports.  Get on with it or get out, Colin had said.  He was
right.  And the work stretched on; the cases kept coming.  There
weren't enough hours in the day, in the week, to put things right, but
I knew I had to do whatever I could to get through it.

Sixteen

When I dragged myself into work on Thursday morning, there was a
message from Katie Adams on my voice mail time-stamped nine p.m. She
sounded distressed and was demanding to see me.  I knew I should call
her back and explain that she couldn't rely on me every time there was
a little problem, and tell her that my line manager felt she was able
to cope on her own, but it seemed likely that her call had something to
do with the Metcalfes and I wasn't going to ignore that.

I stopped off at Colin's desk.  He was struggling with some paperwork
and seemed relieved to be distracted from it.  I told him about the
phone call from Katie Adams and invited him along to deal with the
Metcalfes' end, as they were his case.

He said, "I thought Douglas wanted you to back off from that
situation?"

"He does," I said.  "But I think it needs us.  It's a developing
situation.  We can be pro-active."

"It's just a neighbour dispute.  Leave it to the Housing Association to
deal with.  Refer them to the Mediation Service, if you like, but don't
involve us."

"We're already involved," I said.  "They're our cases."

He was trying hard to ignore me now, making a show of looking through
the pile of papers stacked in his in-tray.

"Oh, c'mon, Colin.  If this gets out of hand they'll start pressing
charges, and before you know it we'll have Anti-Social Behaviour Orders
to deal with."

"Might get 'em moved out of my area," he said, and I knew he was
weakening.  I made eyes at him and tried to jolly him along.  "Aw,
look, Jo, cant you see I'm snowed under?"

"Be even worse if they get ASBOs," I said.

"Can't you do this without me?"

"If you like," I said.  "But Carla Metcalfe doesn't like me."

He sighed, and sat looking at his paperwork, then made a decision.
"Okay," he said.  "Come on, then."

After the things he had said at the party and his behaviour at the
staff meeting on Tuesday, I had expected him to be quiet, a little
down, even, as I drove us to the house.  He looked tired, but he seemed
almost jovial.  I said, "How are things, anyway?  We haven't spoken
properly since Alex's party."

He laughed.  I couldn't tell whether it was forced.  "Oh, that," he
said.  "I was just pissed.  Stressed.  Pissed and pissed off, you know?
It was nothing."  I was going to push for more, but he said quickly,
"Anyway, where did you dash off to in such a hurry?"

Now, my laugh was forced; I wasn't sure it was as convincing as his.
"Same as you," I said.  "Too much booze.  I just needed to get away."

"Away from Alex," he said.  It wasn't a question.  But he must have
realized that I didn't want to go into it, because he rattled off into
an anecdote about getting his central heating fixed, and we had pulled
up outside the Adams' house before either of us could raise the subject
again.

Katie Adams had obviously been waiting for me, and didn't seem
concerned or even surprised that I had brought someone else along.
Colin and I sat beside each other on her sofa while she paced the room,
the manic Katie I hadn't seen for a while, greasy hair and odd socks,
not making eye contact, not stopping talking to catch her breath or
allow us to speak.  She rattled on about people shouting abuse and kids
throwing things at her window, and all the time she was winding a
strand of her hair around her finger, winding and winding.  I knew
Colin wouldn't have much patience with her, not while she was in this
state, but he helped me try to calm her down and talk her out of the
pitch she was working her way towards.

She rounded on me when I asked her to explain slowly.  "I've had enough
of talking.  I've been talking till I'm blue in the face and it hasn't
done a blind bit of good.  I've seen the politicians on TV, talking
about getting rid of nuisance neighbours.  Should be evicting the
Metcalfes, that's what you should be doing."

"That wouldn't be a solution, would it?"  I said.  "That would just
mean someone else would have to deal with them.  It's best all round if
we try to resolve the situation."

"But it's getting worse," she said, and her voice had taken on the
whine I had hoped she would avoid.  "Since the older lad's back it's
been loads worse.  He winds them up, I'm telling you."

"You've seen Sean?"  I asked.

"Yeah.  He stirs them all up."

I looked at Colin but he frowned at me, so I said nothing more about
Sean.  We let Katie Adams talk until she had burned herself out, and I
gave her my mobile phone number for if things got out of hand.  Colin
made a half-hearted attempt to suggest mediation, but Katie wasn't
going for it and neither of us wanted to push too hard.

"You haven't seen what they've done," she said.  "You've got to see."

We followed her through the kitchen and out into the back garden, half
of it a concrete yard with a rotary dryer full of baby clothes, the
other half a square of untidy lawn.  Katie stood by the kitchen window
and pointed at the wall.  There were words sprayed in red paint on the
brickwork.  It was hard to make out what the words read, partly because
the writing was a foot-high scrawl, partly because there hadn't been
much paint left in the spray can.  I stood back and tried to make them
out.  Psycho bitchy I finally determined.

Colin said, "When did this happen?"

"Last night.  About nine o'clock.  I heard a noise and came out the
back but they were already over the fence by then."

We talked to her some more, promising to have a word with Carla
Metcalfe and asking her again to consider mediation.  She didn't seem
very impressed, but agreed to think about it.  Colin and I left by the
side gate and went back into the street.

"Well," I said as we walked to the Metcalfe house.  "Sean Metcalfe,
eh?"

"Better not mention that to Carla," Colin said.  "Don't want to warn
him off."

I stood slightly behind Colin as he rang the doorbell.  When Carla
Metcalfe opened the door she stood with arms folded, looking from Colin
to me and back again.

"So," she said.  "What's that woman been saying this time?"

"Can we come in?"  Colin asked.

"No.  She cant, anyway, not after the way she talked to me on
Monday."

Colin looked at me, frowning.  I realized I should have told him about
our little chat.  I said, "I'm sorry if I upset you."

"Whatever," she said.  "You're not coming in."

Colin said, "How about just me, then?"

"That's okay, I suppose.  Long as you don't talk to me the way she
did."

Colin looked at me again.  I shrugged to show it didn't bother me.
"I'll wait for you," I said.

Colin went into the house and I slouched back to the car.  I leaned
against the bonnet and lit myself a cigarette.  I looked up at the
windows of the house but I didn't see anything; of course, I hadn't
really expected to see Sean looking out of one of the windows at me.  I
was just grinding out my cigarette on the pavement when three boys on
bikes cycled past.  Danny was one of them; he pulled up short at the
sight of me.

"What you doing outside my house?"

"Waiting for a friend," I said.  "He's talking to your mum."

Danny looked a little worried at that.  His friends were calling to him
from further along the street but he waved them away.  "What's he
talking to my mum about?"

"What d'you think?"

He looked a little confused, then said, "Don't care anyway."  But he
made no attempt to cycle away.

I said, "Shouldn't you be at school?"

"No."

He still didn't move.  I said, "Seen much of your brother lately?"

His eyes widened a little.  "No," he said, but this time the question
was enough to make him decide to leave.  I watched him pedal away after
his friends.

I lit another cigarette, thinking.  It was clear that Sean Metcalfe was
hanging around, protected by his mother and brother.  Danny I didn't
blame -he was too young to know any better.  But Carla Metcalfe she
should know better, she had to realize that hiding out was no solution
for Sean.

How long did they think he would be able to hide for?  I found it
difficult to imagine someone hiding their son like that, actually
breaking the law to help him when she must know that he would
eventually be caught, and things would be much worse for everyone.  I
wondered again whether she knew that he had attacked me.  And how did
she really feel about it all, about all of the trouble Sean must have
caused her before he was sent to Glen Parva, and the trouble he was in
now?  I could imagine the things Carla would be saying to Colin the
usual stuff, making the usual digs that we didn't know what we were
doing.  It wasn't only the Chantelle Wade enquiry being on the news
every night Carla had always been that way, had always tried to say
that we were wrong.  I tried to put the thoughts out of my mind she
wasn't my case, after all, and Colin could handle her.  I had empathy,
sympathy even, for Katie Adams, but I was glad that Carla wasn't my
problem.

I smoked several more cigarettes before Colin finally came out of the
house.  He didn't say anything until we were back in the car and I was
pulling out onto Forest Road.

Then he said, "You should have told me you talked to her."

"Yes," I said.  "Sorry."

"Made me look stupid," he said.

"I know."  We had reached the traffic lights at the junction with
Alfreton Road, and I drew to a stop in the queue of traffic.  "What did
she say?"

"Oh, a great deal.  About you sticking your oar in, and her rights, and
harassment, and making a complaint.  You've made it all worse."

"Right," I said, and eased us out across the junction.

"Is that all you can say?"

I glanced across at him.  He was hunched in his seat, kneading his
fingers in his lap.  "She's a very hostile woman," I said.

"Is it any wonder?"

That surprised me.  "What do you mean?"

"She told me you used to be their caseworker.  I should've known that
from the files.  Don't know why I forgot.  I don't know the ins and
outs of it, and I don't particularly want to, but it sounds like you
two had quite a falling-out.  She's still angry."

"That was eight years ago," I started to say.

"And then you go in all heavy-handed demanding to know about Sean.  How
was she supposed to react?  Honestly, you worry me sometimes, charging
at these cases like like a bull in a china shop.  She might've been
willing to help if you hadn't been like that."  Then he threw open his
hands and looked at me.  "Oh, what's the point, eh?  You won't listen
to me.  You never do."

"That's not fair," I said.  "I'm just trying to do the best for Katie
Adams, that's all."  He didn't respond.  I pulled the car over into a
side road and parked, then twisted to face him.  "So, tell me what she
said, then."

He seemed a little surprised that we had stopped,

but said, "You're too hard on her.  She's not in an easy situation."

"Nor's Katie Adams."

"Yeah, of course.  But she's worried about Danny.  You can understand
that, cant you?"  He sighed.  "Look, she's doing her best, but her
relationship with Sean broke down when he was the same age that Danny
is now.  She's anxious.  She doesn't want Danny going off the rails
like Sean did, and all these accusations aren't helping."

"They're not just accusations," I said.  "You saw the state Katie Adams
was in."

"Yeah, I did, and you cant tell me Danny's responsible for that."  He
hesitated, then said, "You're concerned about your client and that's
fair enough, but I've got to think about mine.  Carla blames herself
for the way Sean turned out.  It's not so difficult to give her some
support now, is it?"

"She said she blames herself?"

He looked irritated now.  "Well, no, she didn't say it.  But it's
obvious, surely?  And you're making things ten times harder for her,
steaming in making accusations '

"I didn't," I said.  "I was just trying to chat.  A friendly chat,
that's all."

"So what's the obsession with Sean Metcalfe, then?"

"I'm not obsessed," I said.  "All I did was ask after him.  What's
wrong with that?"

"When you know he absconded from Glen Parva?  Do me a favour."  He
drummed his fingers on his knee for a moment.  "Alex said something
when I saw him on Tuesday.  Told me you think you were attacked by an
ex-client.  He didn't tell me the name.  It wasn't Sean Metcalfe, was
it?"

"It might have been," I said.  "I don't know for sure."

"And what do the police say?"

"Just that he's been spotted in Nottingham, so it might have been
him."

He shook his head.  "Oh, Jo, Jo," he said, as though he despaired, as
though I was a child who wouldn't listen to him.  "You need to be so
careful.  You're getting caught up personally.  It's a minefield.  You
know better than that, surely?"  I didn't reply, so he added, "What
does Douglas say?"

"Nothing."

"You mean you haven't told him?  Christ, Jo, you should tell him, just
to cover your own back."

"Don't worry," I said.  "It's all under control."  He didn't respond to
that; I knew he wasn't convinced.  I started the engine again and
turned the car around.  "We've got to get back to work," I said.

He didn't speak again until we were almost back at the office, when he
suddenly said, "I met him, you know."

He wasn't looking at me.  I said, "Who?  Sean?"

"Yeah.  Had to write up a report for the court."

"What's he like?"

He gave a little laugh.  "Oh, your usual dirty-minded, unhygienic
teenaged lad.  Snotty.  Arrogant.  Yeah, definitely arrogant."

"What did he go down for?"

"Theft.  And assault, I think.  Jumped some kid in a park, something
like that.  Probably after their mobile phone, that's the usual, isn't
it?  Not his first offence."

I nodded, trying to fit this into the picture I was starting to build
up.  We were approaching the office but I slowed down to give him time
to say more.

He obliged.  "There was something I couldn't quite put my finger on
with him.  Something about his attitude.  Like he was expecting
something.  It was nasty, whatever it was.  Maybe it wasn't arrogance?
No, it was more like he just didn't care about what anyone else
thought.  Or he didn't even recognize that other people thought at all.
Very odd."

"What, like he wasn't all there?"

"No, not exactly.  He didn't seem slow on the uptake at all.  The
opposite, actually.  He just I don't know.  Didn't care, I suppose."

We had reached the office car park, and Colin fell silent as I pulled
into a parking space.  When we got out of the car, however, he looked
at me across the car roof and said, "You've got to talk to Douglas
about all of this."

"Don't worry," I said, and then, to appease him, "I will.  Just leave
it to me."

He nodded, apparently satisfied, as if telling Douglas was going to
resolve this whole situation.  I felt far less confident about that,
but I didn't think Colin would understand.

Seventeen

I dropped in to see Alex and Simon on my way home from work.  Colin had
unsettled me with his insistence that I was stepping into dangerous
territory, and as I drove to their house I played back the events of
the morning in my mind.  I couldn't see why people would think I was
doing anything wrong all I was doing was offering the kind of support
that it was my job to provide, and I had been in sensitive situations
before.  Douglas might think that I couldn't keep my professional
distance, but I couldn't leave Katie Adams to face the situation on her
own, and I'd taken Colin with me, so it wasn't like I was storming in
without thinking.

Simon was out at a union meeting, but Alex was in.  He looked tired.  I
had vaguely wanted to talk to him about my situation, ask him why he'd
talked to Colin about me, but he looked too exhausted to deal with
someone else's stress on top of his own.  A problem shared is a problem
two people have, and all of that.  So we sat in his front room with
music playing Pogues, followed by the old favourites, Carter USM and we
chatted about this and that.  He didn't mention Louise and I didn't
ask.  I didn't know how to ask without it sounding like I minded.

Alex had glanced at his watch a couple of times, and eventually I said,
"Have you got to be somewhere?  Do you want me to go?"

"No," he said.  "No, it's fine.  Someone's coming round, but it's
okay."

"Who?  Louise?"

He looked at me then, and I wondered whether he thought I was jealous,
or whether he thought I would find the situation awkward.  He said,
"Yes.  But stay and meet her, if you like, she'll be here any time."

I wasn't sure that I did want to meet her -my head was already aching
from everything that had happened at work but I thought he might read
something into it if I didn't.  So I smiled and agreed, secretly hoping
that she would be far too late, or would phone and cancel, anything,
because I couldn't imagine sitting in his front room and being polite
to her.

But about ten minutes later she arrived.  I saw her through the front
window, getting out of a nice car, a ne wish Mondeo, dressed in a
grey-blue trouser suit that showed off how sickeningly slim she was.
Alex went to meet her at the front door and must have told her quickly
that I was there, because she came into the front room with a smile
already fixed on her face, extending her hand.  I stood up and shook
hands, and as our skin touched I found myself thinking how assured she
was, how confident.  I felt suddenly clumsy.  Her hands were icy cold,
the fingers thin, as if they were brittle, but I tried not to read
anything into that.

"Alex has told me so much about you," she said, and I wanted to laugh,
because I had never heard anyone actually say that, it seemed such an
unlikely thing to say.  And had he really told her so much about me?
What had he said?  Had it been the usual lovers' conversation, about
the break-up with the last partners, comparing notes, seeing who had
been most hard-done-by, seeing who could get the biggest laugh?  I
didn't know what else Alex would be able to tell her about me what else
was there?

I said, "Nice to finally meet you."

She settled herself into the armchair, knees together, perfect posture,
took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one with a slim gold lighter.
Then she offered me a cigarette as an afterthought, but I declined.

"So," I said, 'you're in the Chief Exec's department?"

"Yes."  She blew a small amount of smoke from the corner of her mouth,
holding the cigarette as though it was an expensive accessory, as
though she had a cigarette holder.  "Deal with the voluntary sector,
mostly.  SRB and European funding, all that, you know?"

"Oh right," I said, with just the slightest veneer of interest, because
I had only a vague idea what she was talking about.  But that was
enough to push her onwards, and before Alex had returned with her cup
of coffee, she was explaining to me about the different phases of SRB
and how the funding was allocated and all the monitoring and planning
and consulting she did.

Alex sat down on the sofa next to me, but his attention was aimed at
Louise.  I sipped my coffee and watched him ask coy questions about her
day, and listened to her answers, all the political intrigue between
people I hadn't met in departments whose roles I didn't understand.  If
Alex didn't understand either he didn't say so, but listened with a
slight smile of amazement or amusement on his face, as though he had
never heard anything so interesting in all his life.

Then Louise must have decided that she needed to share out some of the
conversation, because she leaned towards me and said, "So, Jo, you're a
social worker too, are you?"

"Yes," I said.  Alex had turned to look at me now, as though he was
also interested in my reply.  I decided I had to elaborate, to keep
both of them happy.  "Dealing with families, mostly.  Long-term cases,
supporting them so they don't end up in crisis."

"Like Alex does?"

"Yeah, but in a different part of the city."

"It must be difficult," she said.  "I couldn't do a job like that."

"It's not that bad."  I was annoyed by her assumption the usual
assumption of the terminally arrogant that a job had to be extreme if
they couldn't imagine doing it themselves.  I knew she wanted me to
trot out the old cliche about it being rewarding, but I couldn't bring
myself to do that.  It always seemed like such a lie to me what was the
reward?  Helping someone yes, but what about all those others?  Did
helping one person really counterbalance all the others?  Sometimes,
the sheer numbers overwhelmed me it was best not to think about it.  I
checked that the smile was still clenching my face and thought about
Katie Adams and the graffiti on her wall.  Had that been Danny?  It was
possible.  I doubted if Colin had even mentioned it to Carla Metcalfe
he was too busy finding out why she didn't like me.  But even if he had
asked, she would have covered for him; after all, that was what she was
doing for Sean.

Or and the thought hit me only at that moment maybe it hadn't been
Danny at all?  Maybe Sean had sprayed graffiti on Katie Adams's wall? I
wasn't sure why he would do that, unless it was to help his brother,
but I was seized with the certainty that it had been Sean.  Hadn't the
letters been sprayed quite high on the wall, and didn't that make it
more likely that someone taller, someone older, had done it?  After
all, if Sean was willing to knock me unconscious in the street, he had
to be willing to spray-paint abusive words on a wall.

Alex and Louise were discussing what they planned to do that night go
into town, see a film, maybe go for a drink and I felt that my time in
their company had run out.  I wanted to be alone, anyway; I needed to
think through this new revelation about Sean,

about the possibilities of the situation.  So I drained my mug and
gathered my things.

They both looked up at me, and Alex said, "Are you going, then?"  but
there was no real disappointment in his tone.

"Yes," I said.  "Got to get back.  Have a nice evening."

They said goodbye, but Alex didn't get up off the sofa so I left them
where they were and went out of the house.  Once I was in my car and
starting up the engine, I thought about that, and it irritated me, that
he hadn't even shown that little courtesy, but I tried to ignore it. We
were close, after all what were a few formalities between close
friends, between ex-lovers?  But I could feel a sour sort of mood
rising through me as I contemplated the fact that he was going out,
that he was going to have a good time that night, and what did I
have?

I drove.  I didn't really want to go home just yet, so I circled the
streets for a while, trying to calm down.  I found myself driving up
towards the Adams' house, and although I didn't want to see either
Katie or Carla Metcalfe, I did start looking for a group of boys on
bikes, for Danny.  I wasn't sure what I would have done if I had found
him asked him again about his brother?  It seemed so ludicrous to
suppose that I would have found out any information, but I felt that I
had to do something, it wasn't right to just go home and forget about
the things Sean had been up to.

When I did finally get home, it was dark, and the house felt cold.  I
put the TV on and looked in the freezer for something to eat, but there
was nothing that I fancied.  I considered going out to get some food,
but I couldn't face it, I was too tired.  So I flopped down in front of
the TV and tried to get interested, but there was nothing to watch.

After a while, I decided to phone Dave Short.  I had the feeling that
if I could only explain things to him, if I could only explain how Sean
Metcalfe was involved in everything that was going on, then he would be
able to do something, he would be able to resolve the situation.

The man on the police switchboard put me through to an extension that
rang for a long time before anyone answered.  It was a woman who
eventually picked up, and when I asked for PC Short she said, "He's not
here right now.  Can I tell him who called?"

"Jo Elliott," I said.

"Oh."  The woman's voice seemed a little cooler.  "This is PC Andrews.
Is there anything I can do?"

I thought about trying to explain it to her, but I couldn't imagine her
understanding any of it.  "Not really.  I just wanted to know how
things were progressing."

"We haven't got any news."  There was annoyance in her tone, and I
wondered whether that was how she treated everyone, whether she viewed
every victim as a nuisance, or whether I had been singled out for
special treatment for something I had done or said.

"Okay," I said, because I didn't want to prolong the conversation any
further.  "Can you just tell him that I phoned?"

She said she would, and I hung up.  I wasn't sure what I had expectedj
but I felt oddly deflated after that.

Eighteen

woke in the middle of the night, jerked awake by the certainty that
there was something wrong.  I lay there for a while, tense, listening,
but all I could hear was the clock ticking through its mechanism, and
the occasional car on the main road, and the soft hum of the central
heating.  My heart was thumping.  I wasn't sure what had woken me, but
I knew I had been dreaming, about dark streets and people looming out
of shadows and the certainty, the absolute conviction, that someone was
reaching out to grab me.

After a while, when I knew I wasn't going to get back to sleep, I sat
up.  I could make out the bedroom in the dark now, but even so, I
hesitated before I switched on the bedside lamp.  I don't know what I
had expected to see someone standing over the bed, perhaps, a man with
a knife or something to bludgeon me with, arms raised ready to strike.
The more I strained my ears to hear the rest of the house, the more
certain I became that I could hear something, someone, moving
stealthily through

the darkened rooms, coming slowly up the stairs, balancing his weight,
creeping up.

I swung my feet over the side of the bed and put them flat on the
carpet.  For a moment, I had a flash of fear that something was going
to grab my ankles from under the bed, that a man or a monster was
lurking there, the old childhood fear.  I forced myself to stand up,
stepped away from the bed, wrapped my dressing gown around me.

There was a sudden noise from downstairs, a sort of scraping noise, as
if someone was trying to force a window, or break the lock on a door.
It lasted only a moment, and then there was silence again.  I imagined
whoever it was.  I imagined Sean Metcalfe crouching in the dark under a
window or at the back door, screwdriver in hand, listening as tensely
as I was, listening for signs that I had heard him.  I tried not to
think what would happen if he got into the house, if he came through
the house with that screwdriver in his hand.

I got myself out of the bedroom and onto the landing, where I switched
on the lights.  The flare of light blinded me for a moment, but the
shadows shrank back and there was nobody there.  I edged my way down
the stairs, listening for more sounds, but heard nothing.  I wondered
whether I had imagined that noise, that scraping noise, but the sound
was so distinct in my mind I didn't see how I could have imagined
something in that detail.

In the hall, I switched on the next light and checked that the front
door was still securely bolted.

It took me a few moments to gather enough courage to go into the
through-lounge and flick on those lights, but nobody was there, and the
windows were still tightly shut.  Everything seemed to be the way I had
left it.

That just left the kitchen.  I tried not to think about the way the
darkness of the garden became a wall when the lights were switched on.
I tried not to think about how flimsy that back door was, and how none
of the neighbours could see what was happening in my back garden, even
supposing they had also heard the noise.  The lights from the
through-lounge cast reflections against the glass a ghost of myself,
almost translucent, looking back.

I switched on the kitchen light.  I already knew there was nobody there
I knew there was nobody anywhere but still it scared me, that final
moment, that final moment when someone could have been hiding, waiting
for me.  The light flickered a little then brightened the room.
Nothing.

But that noise.  I was sure I had heard something.  And what had woken
me up?

As I went back into the through-lounge, my feet crunched against
something sharp, and I jerked my foot back and looked down.  There was
a wineglass on the carpet, broken into fragments.  I felt a sharp pain
in my foot, and saw blood welling up between my toes.  I pulled out a
chair, sat down and turned my foot over to look at the sole.  There was
a small piece of glass caught between two of my toes.  I pulled it out,
carefully so it didn't splinter.  The cut stung.  It was only a small
cut, a clean slice, but the blood was bright as it expanded across my
skin so much blood from such a small wound.  I balanced my weight on my
heel, toes pointing upwards, and fetched a roll of kitchen towel.  I
held a piece against the cut and watched my blood colour the paper. The
woman in the shop, Davinder, had used kitchen towel against the cut on
my head.  That reminded me; I looked across at the window, but there
was no face peering in.

And then I wondered how the glass had broken.  I had put it on the
table before going to bed, and it had been fine when I went upstairs, I
was certain of it.  So what had made it fall?  Had someone been
creeping through my house?  Had I really heard someone getting inside?
And what would have happened if I hadn't woken up?

It was suddenly very cold in the house.  I tried not to think about the
sorts of headlines that would have appeared in the paper the next day
the sorts of stories I had read; women tied up and robbed and raped and
murdered, women beaten in their own homes, women attacked and left for
dead.  And who would come to find me?  I was alone the full extent of
my isolation struck me.

I hobbled over to the phone, stood looking at the moulded plastic, the
flimsy wire that represented my link to the rest of the world.  I
wondered who I should ring, what I should say.  I realized that I
wanted someone to rescue me; someone to take control, to push back the
unknown, to puncture this isolation.  Someone who could make the world
safe and predictable again.  I could phone the police it was their job
to keep me safe but I didn't think they would understand, I didn't
think they would know what it would take to make this feeling go away.
And anyway, they would only tell me I had imagined it, nobody was
breaking in, they would send a patrol car past when they had time but
they were so busy, too busy.  And what if they told Dave Short?  They
were bound to tell him, and PC Andrews would say I had phoned earlier,
and what would he think, what would he read into that?  Even if he came
round, all he would say was that nobody had broken in, and the glass
had probably just fallen from the table, and victims do get paranoid,
they do start imagining things, and did I want help from Victim
Support?  But I wasn't a victim, not like that; I didn't want strangers
telling me I needed to rebuild my confidence.  I was strong, I should
be able to cope; and yet, all it had taken was one minor incident to
make me realize that I wasn't quite strong enough.

I lowered myself into the armchair with my cut foot raised off the
floor and phoned Alex's house.  I had to let it ring for a long time
before anyone answered, and when they did, they sounded sleepy, and
irritated.

"Alex?"  I asked.

"Yeah," he said, and then seemed to wake himself up.  "That Jo?  What's
the matter?"

I told him about the noises I had heard, and the broken glass, and
cutting my foot.  He listened patiently, and then he said, "But
nobody's got into the house?"

"I don't know," I said.  "Maybe they have maybe they're hiding, waiting
for me upstairs?"

He was silent for a moment, and I wondered whether he was thinking
about that, about coming round and finding me murdered, and how he
would deal with that, how he would feel.  I could imagine him telling
people, "Yeah, she was my ex, my closest friend, she got killed by a
burglar, she phoned me, she was terrified, but by the time I got there
it was already too late."  I imagined the kind of sympathy he would get
for that tragic story, the women who would want to comfort him, would
want to help him deal with such a traumatic experience by talking, and
cuddling, and maybe more.

Alex said, "Have you been drinking?"

"No!"

"You're not stoned?  Or speeding?"

"No," I said.  "No, of course not.5 Because how could he think such
things, and how guilty would he feel later for having said those words,
for having doubted me?  I said, "Alex, I'm scared," and there was a
crack in my voice that even he must have heard.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry.  There're no windows open, are there?  Nothing
like that?"

"Not that I can see," I said, and then the cold overtook me in a sudden
shudder, and I knew I was close to crying.  I didn't want to cry right
now.

"Have you called the police?"

"And say what?  They won't come, I called them the other night,
remember?"

There was another long silence.  I imagined that now, right now, was
when the thought process about my murder was kicking in, when he would
feel its real effect.  He said, "What do you want me to do?"  but there
was reluctance in his tone.

"I don't know," I said, because, after all, he was the one who had
berated me for not calling after his party, when I had been so freaked
out then, and what was different now?

"Christ, it's ten past three, Jo."

"I know," I said.  "I'm sorry.  I'm scared."

"Okay."  He sighed.  "Okay, I'll come round.  I'll be there soon, hold
on."

I was still saying thank you as he hung up.  The house felt cold and
empty around me as soon as I had finished talking to him.  I examined
the cut on my foot, but it was more so I didn't have to look at the
house, at the big empty spaces around me that could be filled with
attackers, with people emerging from hiding places, with people who had
only one aim, one motivation.  On cue, the cut on my head started to
ache, and when I flexed my foot the cut between my toes gave a sharp
twinge and started to bleed again.

I tried to take a deep breath.  I thought about Alex on his way to
rescue me.  I thought about him reaching the house, finding the door
open, seeing me lying there.  I tried to breathe, tried not to think
about someone being in the house, hearing them approach me, turning,
seeing them standing over me.

Alex would get here.  Alex would be here soon.  But what if he was too
late?

Ten or fifteen minutes passed.  I was wide awake, wired, alert to every
sound, to every creak of the house or hiss of the central heating, to
every distant car that could be Alex arriving, to every sound in the
street that could be a prowler but was more likely a cat.  I would
begin to settle, begin to feel less frightened, begin to regret phoning
Alex and dragging him out of his bed, and then another noise would
come, something it took a moment to identify, and in that moment the
fear flooded back through me, and I was glad that Alex was coming, I
was glad he would arrive soon, soon enough to rescue me.

I was cold, but I didn't want to get up to put the fire on.  I wanted a
cigarette, but they were in my handbag on its hook in the hall.  I
wanted a drink, anything, to take my mind off whatever might happen,
all the possibilities, the things that had happened to other women at
other times; had they all felt like this?

Finally, I heard Alex's car draw up outside, and his door slam, and
then he was coming up the garden path.  I hobbled to the front door,
putting my weight on the heel of the cut foot, and reached out to
unbolt the door.  But then it occurred to me that maybe someone would
be waiting for this moment maybe they would overpower Alex, attack

us both, maybe kill us both, and what would happen then?

I forced those thoughts out of my mind, opened the door to allow Alex
in and locked and bolted the door after him.

"Are you okay?"  he said.  "You look freaked."

"I am freaked," I said.  "I'm sure someone's out there, I'm sure
they're after me, they're trying to get in the house, and if you hadn't
come maybe they would have got in and nobody would have been here and
what would I have done then, I'm only short, I'm not strong enough to
fight '

"Stop," he cried.  "Stop, stop."  And he caught my wrists in his hands
and stopped me flailing about as I spoke.  "Nothing's going to happen,
is it?  I'm here now, it's okay.  You've just got freaked, that's
all."

"I know," I said, and I wanted to explain how I would have been found
the next day, when I didn't show up for work.  They would have phoned
and got no reply; they would have said I was sleeping in, or had
forgotten to tell them about a case visit, and later someone would say
it was odd that I hadn't phoned, it was odd that I hadn't been in.  And
someone would try phoning again, and after a while someone would say
they should come to my house to check everything was okay, because what
if I was ill in bed, or had fallen down the stairs and broken my leg
and couldn't get to the phone, someone ought to check.  I could imagine
them Colin, perhaps -coming up to my front door, finding it slightly
ajar, pushing it open, calling my name as they came into the hall.  I
could imagine him walking into the front room and finding me on the
floor, my head bashed in, a bloody mess of skull and brains.  Or
upstairs, in bed, with signs of a struggle, the bedclothes kicked and
wrapped around my feet, a ligature made from a bra or tights taken from
the floor by the killer.  Or in the bathroom, feet seen first as he
came into the room, stab wounds, a gaping wound in my stomach, and
pools of blood coagulating on the lino.

"Calm down," Alex said.  "Everything's fine, okay?"  He was guiding me
into the front room, his hands against my elbows, a guiding figure
behind me, and lowered me onto the sofa.  He sat down next to me. "Take
deep breaths," he said.  "You'll feel better."

I took deep breaths, but they caught against the knot of fear rising in
my throat.

"I'll get you some water," he said.  "Stay there."

I watched him go to the kitchen and heard the tap run.  He came back
offering the glass of water in front of him.  I took it and drank a
long sip.

He said, "Do you want me to check round the house for you?"

I had a sudden flash of memory of Dave Short saying the same thing.  I
forced the memory back.  "Would you mind?"

"Course not."

He went to the front window, pulled back the curtains and put his
weight against the glass.  It didn't budge.  I followed him to the back
window and he did the same.  I leaned in the kitchen doorway, sipping
my water as he checked the kitchen window and then unlocked the back
door, opened it and examined the lock.

"Someone's had a go at this," he said.

The nausea rose up through me again.  I went over to him, looked at
where he indicated.  There were scrape marks along the paintwork,
running under the metal handle, and the metal was twisted as if someone
had inserted a screwdriver as a lever to prise the lock apart.

"Can't tell if it's recent," he said.  "But anyway, the door was
locked, so they didn't get in, did they?"

"No," I said.  He sounded pleased that nobody had got in, as if that
proved that I was actually safe, but that seemed a little presumptuous
to me after all, if someone had tried to get in, that wasn't a lot
better than someone succeeding.  I remembered the broken glass on the
carpet.  If someone hadn't got in, how could that be explained?

Alex re-locked and re-bolted the back door and then went through to the
hall.  He opened the front door and examined the lock there, but shut
the door and rammed the bolt home without saying anything.  I followed
him up the stairs.  In the bathroom, he rattled the window and nodded
approval.  In the spare room, he did the same thing.  He hesitated
before going into my bedroom I wasn't sure why.  But then he went in,
and the bedside light was still on, and he went to the window and
opened the curtains and looked out quickly at the street before
checking the window panes.

He turned and smiled at me.  "You see?  It's all okay.  There's nothing
wrong."

"There was the scrape on the back door," I said.

"Yes, but that could have been done at any time."

His expression didn't betray his thoughts.  I was seized by the need to
have him understand to see some sort of concern, some sort of fear in
his expression.  I said, "What about the broken wineglass?"

"Chances are it just fell."

I knew he was probably right, but it didn't help.  A part of me wanted
him to be wrong wanted something more to happen, just so he would know
how I felt.  I wanted him to feel the same way, even as I was comforted
by his certainty of my safety.

He must have seen that I was still rattled, because he said, "Hey,
hey," and wrapped his arms around me.  I lay my head against his chest,
and felt the warmth of his body and the regularity of his breath.
"Don't worry about it, Jo.  We all get spooked occasionally, and you're
here on your own, and you're still shaken by the attack, it's no wonder
you get scared sometimes.  It's nothing to be ashamed of.  It's
perfectly natural."

I could feel that I was close to tears, and tried to hold the tears
back.  It felt good to be so close to him, to feel his warmth.  I
thought about Louise had he left her in his bed to come and play the
knight in shining armour for me?  Would he have done the same, would he
have rushed through the night to offer comfort if it had been Louise
who had phoned him?  But Louise wouldn't have phoned, I knew that she
would probably think even less of me if she knew that I had phoned
Alex.  She would have been strong enough to cope, she would have known
what to do and what to say to the police to get them to take her
seriously.

Alex gave me a squeeze and then released me.  "You should go back to
bed.  You need some sleep before work."

I said, "What are you going to do?"

For a moment, I thought he was going to say he would drive back home,
and if he had said that I would have known that she was waiting for
him, she was keeping the bed warm until he got back.  Part of me wanted
him to go I wanted him to think that I was as strong as she was, that I
could cope with this situation but I didn't want to be alone, and I
didn't want to find out that he thought I had nothing to be afraid
of.

He said, "I'll sleep in the spare room, if that's okay."

"Yes," I said.  "Yes, of course."

"Okay.  Get into bed, then."

I felt like a little kid again, like a little kid being tucked in by my
father.  I took off my dressing gown and climbed under the bed covers,
and he leaned over me and smoothed the covers down, and I looked up at
him and smiled.  He smiled back, but I couldn't tell if it was because
he felt the analogy, too.

Then he said, "Well, nighty-night."

"Nighty-night," I replied, still grinning.

He walked round the bed and switched off the bedside lamp, then went
out onto the landing and pulled the bedroom door shut behind him.  I
lay there in the warm darkness, and I could still feel the weight of
his hand against the covers; I didn't want to move in case I lost that
sensation of weight, that sensation of being anchored down.  I could
hear him creeping around the house, but the sounds of movement didn't
scare me any more.

Nineteen

I didn't sleep properly for the rest of the night, and at half past six
I gave up the pretence and got up.  I had intended to look through my
filofax and plan the day at work, but I couldn't face thinking about
anything that might remind me of Sean Metcalfe and the situation that
seemed to be unravelling around me.  Instead, I made some toast and a
mug of tea and sat in front of the breakfast news.

Alex joined me shortly after seven.  He looked tired and his clothes
were crumpled as if he'd slept in them, but the first thing he said
was, "How are you?"

"Fine."  I forced a yawn.  "Didn't sleep well."  I felt awkward now, in
broad daylight my fears of the night before had shrunk back and I could
see just how far out of proportion I had blown everything.  I said,
"Listen, I'm sorry about last night.  I shouldn't have called you."

"It's okay, you did the right thing."  But there wasn't much enthusiasm
in his tone.

"Were you with Louise?"

He flushed.  "Yes.  I don't think she understood.  I'll have to do some
fast explaining."

I nodded, digesting that.  He had left Louise to come to my rescue.  He
had risked annoying Louise to help me out.  I wasn't sure whether I
should feel triumphant or guilty.  I said, "Well, tell her about the
scrape on the back door, that might convince her."

He shrugged.  "She thought you should've called the police."  Then he
hesitated before asking, "Why didn't you?"

"I told you," I said.  "They wouldn't've come.  They didn't come the
other night."

"But if you'd said '

I wasn't in the mood for this.  "Believe me, they wouldn't come.
Anyway, you said before that I should've phoned you."

"I know, I know."

I realized that he regretted saying that; he was thinking he had
trapped himself into being on standby for any future emergency.  I
didn't want him to feel that way the last thing I wanted was for anyone
to feel obliged to help me.  But I remembered how I felt the night
before; how weak I had been, how much I had needed his anyone's
strength.  I hated myself for that weakness, but I didn't know what I
could do about it.

He said, "Why didn't you contact Dave Short?"

There was still the trace of bitterness in his voice.  I wanted to say
I couldn't have done at three o'clock in the morning, but I had after
all disturbed Alex, so I said, "I didn't think he'd be on duty."

"He didn't look very on-duty last time I came round here.  Or are
bottles of wine part of victim support procedures these days?"

I tried not to be stung by that.  "There was nothing to it," I said.
"We were just talking."

He didn't dispute that, but I could tell that he didn't really believe
me.  I wondered what he was thinking that I had been trying to make him
jealous?  That I had pulled a policeman and now felt embarrassed about
asking the police for help?  That I was playing some kind of convoluted
game that would result in him losing Louise?

He got up suddenly.  "Right, well, I'd better get home."

"What, now?"  I said, surprised.

"Yup.  Grab a shower before work."

Grab Louise more like, I thought, but I kept that to myself.  He didn't
bother asking if I was going to be okay, but I was relieved that he
didn't - I had already had enough of feeling weak.

After he had gone, I went into the kitchen and examined the back door.
In daylight, the damage looked less pronounced and I couldn't tell how
recent it was.  There were burglaries all the time in my area it could
have happened at any time, it was hardly a sign that my fears of the
night before had been well-founded.  After all, I didn't often go into
the back garden in the winter, and even when I did, I couldn't remember
ever examining the lock.

I didn't really want to think about any of it, and staying in the house
only made matters worse, so I

gathered my things together and headed off to the office early.  I was
the first one there, apart from Douglas, who was sitting in his office
with the door open, working through an intimidating pile of paperwork.
I put my head round his door to say good morning and announce that I
was there, and I was about to return to my desk when he called me into
the office and came over and shut the door.

"We haven't had a chance to talk recently," he said.  "Sit down for a
few minutes, tell me how things are going."

He sounded unusually friendly, and as I sat down I wondered what had
been said to him, and whether Colin had decided to take the Adams
matter into his own hands.  But I gave a half-friendly,
half-professional smile, and we chatted a little about workloads and
backlogs and the continuing impact of the Chantelle Wade enquiry.

Finally, when I guessed he thought there had been enough casual chat,
he said, "And how's the head now?"

"Oh, fine.  Hardly notice it any more.  Should be completely healed
soon."

He nodded.  "And how are you finding it, going out on the streets?  I
know other people have found that difficult after violent incidents."

I wondered whether I should tell him about the nightmares I'd been
having, and the sickness I felt, but I wasn't sure that I wanted to
discuss these things with him, not when he already thought I lacked
professional distance.  So I said, "I was a bit shaky at first, and I
haven't been sleeping particularly well, but it's getting better, and
I'm sure it'll pass soon."

"That's the spirit."  But he held my gaze for slightly longer than was
necessary.  "Have the police found out who it was yet?"

If Colin had spoken to him, Douglas wasn't giving anything away.  I
said, "No, nothing definite.  They're still looking into it."

"It's Dave Short who's dealing with it, isn't it?"  I nodded, and he
continued, "A nice guy, Dave Short.  Dealt with some of our more
difficult cases.  A little more understanding than some of his
colleagues."  He allowed himself a small smile at that, but didn't
elaborate.  Then he said, "I hear you've been getting on well with
him."

"What do you mean?"

He laughed, but it seemed like a calculated sort of laugh.  "You know
what the department's like.  Everyone knows everyone else's business.
The police are just as bad.  People cant help themselves, can they?"

I summoned coolness into my tone.  "Well, there's nothing for them to
talk about.  He's a nice guy, like you said, but there's nothing more
to it."

Douglas backed away, holding up his hands in mock surprise.  "I didn't
say there was," he said, but he still had a playful expression on his
face.  "Just what I heard, that's all."

My brain seemed to be working too slowly.  "Who did you hear this
from?"

"Who?  Oh, I don't know."  The smile was fading from his lips now.  "I
didn't think you'd be so touchy or I wouldn't have mentioned it."

"It must have been from Alex," I said.  "Or from someone in his
office."  I was aware that Douglas was watching me now, with a little
frown on his face, but I had to figure this out.  If Alex had said
something and it got back to Dave Short ... I remembered PC Andrews's
coolness on the phone.  If Dave Short thought..  . but who would tell
him, and who would believe anything Alex said about me?  And yet, the
rumour had got back to Douglas.

Douglas said, "I didn't think you'd take it this way."

"Yeah?  What way did you think I'd take it?"  I regretted the words as
soon as I had said them, but there was no way to take them back.  I
rubbed my hand over my face and softened my tone and said, "I'm sorry,
I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

"You're just stressed," Douglas said, and his voice was kinder.

I didn't look at him.  I wanted to tell him about the Metcalfes, and
about Katie Adams, but I wasn't sure how he would take it.

Douglas went on, "Maybe you're not coping as well as we thought, eh?
Maybe you need help with your caseload, take off some of the pressure
until you're back on form?"

Everyone would love that, I thought me ducking out of my
responsibilities, piling the work on them.  "I'm not the only one who's
stressed," I said.

"Yes, but if you're not coping '

"I'm coping just fine," I said.

"There's no shame in asking for help," Douglas said.  "We're all a team
here.  People help out when they're needed, that's the way it works." I
tried to smile, but I was thinking that people would be far from happy
to help me out when everyone was in the same situation.  I didn't need
help.  I was about to say so when Douglas continued, "There's no shame
in needing a hand now and then."  He was leaning back in his chair,
looking at me with an expression I guessed was meant to be sympathetic.
"Everyone needs a little support from time to time.  It's only
natural."

I wasn't in the mood for platitudes.  "I can cope just as well as
anyone else can.  I just didn't sleep too well last night, that's
all."

"It's very easy to let things get on top of you," Douglas said.  "It's
happened to you before, after all."

"Oh, great," I said.  "Drag up ancient history, why don't you?  That
was years ago.  I can cope perfectly well now, thank you very much."

"I know, I know."  He was trying to be soothing with his voice, but it
sounded forced.  I was suddenly glad that I hadn't told him more about
what was happening with the Metcalfes and the Adams.

I gathered my faculties.  "I wouldn't want to put any more pressure on
the team, not at the moment.  I didn't sleep too well last night, but
once I've had some coffee and woken up it'll be fine.  I came in early
this morning to get my head around some cases, and once I've done that
it'll all be okay.  You just caught me off guard, talking about PC
Short like that.  I didn't realize anything so innocent could start a
rumour, but now that you've told me, you can spread the word that it
isn't true, cant you?"

I had spoken in a very calm, reasoning voice, and it must have had the
right effect, because he sat back in his seat with a little smile and
said, "Good.  I'm glad to hear it.  It's good to know I can rely on
you, Jo.  I should really let you get on with your work."

If he didn't really believe me, he gave no outward sign of it.  I
decided to take his words at face value.  I got up and went to the
door.  When I had my hand on the handle, he said, "I'm glad we had this
little chat."

Forcing a smile, I went out, pulling the door shut carefully behind me.
I went back to my desk.  The work was piled up in my in-tray, and there
were more folders in my desk drawer, and there were all the files in my
briefcase, and I had to finish reports and start on the next batch of
visits, and there were a couple of case conferences coming up that I
hadn't prepared for.  I put my head in my hands and pretended to be
looking at the file that was open on my desk.  Gradually, the office
started to fill up, and I could hear everyone talking and the jokes
starting and the phones ringing, but I sat there for a long time,
looking down at the paperwork, nodding and smiling at people as they
said good morning, nodding and smiling as if everything was okay, but
it wasn't, it wasn't.  The paperwork was just going to multiply,

and it didn't matter how long I sat here, how many times I reorganized
and re prioritized how many files I took home and how many weekends I
spent on the stuff, I was never going to get through all the work.  And
out there, in the streets, the whole world was clammering for
attention, waiting for us to solve their problems for them, and what
could I do, how could I help, when I couldn't even sort my own life
out?

I knew that I had to get out of the office.  I was supposed to be in
all morning, catching up on paperwork, but there were so many other
people there, there was so much to be done and I didn't want to touch
any of it.  I wanted to get out into the wide open air, away from all
the sour traffic fumes and the noise and all the cramped spaces.  I
wanted to see a clear blue sky and breathe air so clean it didn't taste
of anything, so clean it felt icy cold in my lungs.

Shoving my filofax into my bag, I wrote on the white board that I was
off to see a client who I knew would not blow my cover by phoning the
office while I was out.  Nobody seemed to notice me leave.  It was a
dull, overcast sort of a day, and the vague plan I'd had to go driving
out into the countryside didn't seem like such a good idea once I was
in my car, negotiating the traffic.  Besides, although I'd skived off
work for a couple of hours on previous occasions, leaving the city
boundaries felt a little too much like pushing my luck.

So I drove slowly through the city centre and looped back round and out
towards the northern outskirts.  I was thinking as I drove, replaying
the conversation with Douglas, trying to work out what exactly he had
meant, how concerned he was about what was going on, how much was being
said in the rumour about me and Dave Short.  Alex was the only one who
could possibly have said anything about Dave, and as I contemplated
that, my anger grew.  He had no right to even comment on my social
life, let alone start rumours.

So I turned abruptly and headed towards his office, on the edge of the
city.  It was market day in Bulwell and the traffic was moving at a
slow crawl over the railway bridge and round past the Market Square,
but eventually I pulled into the car park at the side of his office.

Selima was just showing a client out as I entered the reception area. I
hadn't seen her since Alex's party; I couldn't remember if she had
still been there when Alex and I had argued.  She seemed surprised to
see me, and I wondered how much of my life Alex had discussed with her,
what sort of impression she had of my situation.  She said, "If you're
after Alex, he isn't in.  Phoned in sick this morning."

"Oh," I said, and then covered up my surprise.  I didn't want even more
gossip to be spread about me.  "Oh, well, never mind, I'm sure I'll
speak to him soon anyway."

Selima didn't say anything to that, but adopted a sympathetic sort of
expression as I escaped the office and went back to my car.  Alex had
obviously decided he needed a day off.  I could imagine it Louise had
probably phoned in sick, too; they were probably spending the day in
bed and sod all the things they should have been doing.  I considered
going round to his house, demanding to know what he had said about me
and Dave Short, but I knew that would be a bad idea.  Louise had
probably already got her claws into him about my phoning in the early
hours the last thing I should do was make that situation worse.

I sat there in the driver's seat in the car park for a long time,
trying to work out what I should do next.  My eyes ached from lack of
sleep; I would have loved to go home and sleep, or get horrendously
drunk, or stoned anything that would wipe out the way I was feeling.
But I had to go back to work eventually, and I already felt too out of
my head to deal with that.

I thought about my house, about Sean Metcalfe creeping around, peering
through windows, testing locks and hinges.  I wanted to know what was
going on; I felt I was entitled to know.  Was he tormenting me just for
the fun of it?  Did he have some master plan?  Or was this just
paranoia, just the aftershock of violent crime?

Putting the car in gear, I headed back towards the office.  I was too
strong to be beaten, I realized that.  I thought about the Sean I had
known years before; the skinny, foul-mouthed boy kicking out at the
world while his mother whined and cried in the background.  I was
stronger than that.

And it wasn't right that he was being allowed to affect my life.  It
wasn't right that he could do this to me and not have to face the
consequences of his actions.  Indignation fury surged through me at the
thought that he was acting with impunity, and I was helpless to stop
him.

I was driving down Radford Road, and as I reached the police station a
sudden impulse made me pull off the road and stop in the car park.  I
sat steadying my breath for a moment, trying to think but why shouldn't
I demand to know what the police were doing to protect me?  They had a
duty, and I had every right to demand answers from them.

There were a few people waiting in the reception area of the police
station, slumped in chairs with arms folded as if they had been there
for a long time.  I went to the policeman behind the counter and asked
if I could speak to PC Short.

"I'll check if he's in," he said as he picked up a phone and punched in
a number.  I looked around at the people already waiting, at their dull
lack of interest, as if they had used up any curiosity they might once
have had.

"What's your name?"  the policeman asked.  I gave it, and he repeated
it down the phone with no trace of having recognized the name.  Maybe
the rumours hadn't reached here yet, I thought.

"Take a seat," the policeman said.  "He'll be down in a minute."

I took a seat between a teenaged lad in dirty jeans and an even dirtier
denim jacket and an old man wrapped up in a ratty brown overcoat that
smelled of cigarettes and urine and cheap white cider.  Up on the wall,
a clock ticked.  I shifted in my seat.  Behind the smell of the old man
was that institutional smell of polish and cheap furniture that always
made me think of waiting rooms, and interviews, and clients crying.

I wondered what I could say to Dave when he appeared.  I wanted him to
be pleased to see me, in a professional way pleased that I was there
but not reading anything into it.  I wanted to find out that he had
been thinking about me, with slight concern but not worry, with a
certain fondness but nothing indicating interest.  And he had spent
time in my house we had listened to music, and drunk wine, and we had
laughed at each other's jokes -why shouldn't we enjoy each other's
company, why did it have to be complicated by anything else?

The security door opened.  Dave gave me a professional sort of smile
and said, "Jo, come through."

I followed him through the security door and down a narrow corridor,
then into an interview room.  There was a table in the centre of the
room, and four chairs.  The window was a slit of frosted glass high up
in the wall.  The room smelled faintly of sweat.

Dave had pushed the door shut behind him and now he looked at me and
said, "What can I do for you, Jo?"

There was little sign of friendliness.  I found myself stumbling over
my words.  "I just wanted to know if you were any further forward," I
said.

"Not really."  He didn't seem concerned by the lack of progress. "We'll
pick Sean Metcalfe up eventually."

I nodded, not sure what to say next.  I wasn't sure what I had wanted
him to say.

He said, "Has something happened?"

"Yes.  Well, I think so."  And I explained about hearing noises in the
night, and the damage to the back door lock, but I didn't mention the
broken glass, or that I had called Alex round.

He listened, but I wasn't convinced that he was giving my account the
attention I felt it warranted.  I wanted to shout at him, demand to
know why they weren't scouring the streets for Sean Metcalfe, how it
was that a nineteen-year-old lad could evade them for so long, how they
expected me to feel when they weren't offering me the protection I felt
I deserved.  I was a taxpayer, after all they should be taking this
more seriously.

Dave said, "You probably scared off whoever it was when you came
downstairs.  There's not much we can do about it.  I mean, you didn't
see anyone, and nothing actually happened."

"But it could've been Sean.  He might still be after me."

"Is there anything that leads you to believe that might be the case?"

He wasn't making proper eye contact with me, I noticed.  I wondered
whether the rumours had got back to him, whether he thought I was
playing games.  I wanted to tell him that I wasn't, that there was
nothing for him to feel awkward about, but I didn't know how I could
phrase that.

I said, "He hit me isn't that enough?"  I could see that he was about
to say something about unplanned attacks, and how it was unlikely to be
anything more than that, so I added quickly, "There's just too much
stuff.  I mean, the damage to your car, and now someone trying to break
into my house.  How can you say it isn't connected?"

"But it probably isn't," he said.  Then, more kindly, "I think you're
getting overwrought, Jo.  You need to find a way to relax.  Have you
talked to the Victim Support people?"

I was tired of him mentioning them.  "I don't need that sort of help. I
need you to find Sean Metcalfe.  How difficult can it be?"

"We don't even know if he's still in Nottingham," he said.  "We've had
intelligence that he's left the city."

"One of my clients has seen him."

"In the last couple of days?"  It didn't sound like a real question.
"I'm sorry, Jo, but we cant spare all our resources to chase a teenage
boy who probably isn't even in the city."

I stared at him.  "But he attacked me."

"You're not certain it's him, though, are you?"  He gave a little sigh,
as if he was tired of explaining this to me.  "We do have other
priorities."

I could feel the energy seeping out of me.  I couldn't believe I had
ever enjoyed this man's company he wasn't concerned about me, and
probably never had been.  He didn't have a clue what I was going
through.  I had been a fool to think otherwise.  I said, "Look, fine,
if that's all you've got to say, I might as well go."

I started towards the door.  He said, "Jo, don't be like that."

"How do you expect me to be?  I'm telling you this is happening, and
you're telling me it's not a big enough priority.  How am I supposed to
react?"

I pulled open the door and headed back towards the entrance area.  He
followed behind me I heard him call my name, but I didn't want to stop,
I could feel tears swelling in my throat and filling my eyes and I
didn't want him to see that, I didn't want anyone to see that I was
scared.  At the security door, I tried to work out how to open it but
couldn't see the release catch.

He arrived at my elbow and put his hand over the release button on the
wall.  "Calm down," he said.  "I never said it wasn't a big enough
priority."

I knew the moment I turned he would see the tears in my eyes, and that
would only confirm his opinion that I wasn't coping, and needed help. I
wanted to shout at him that I didn't need help, it wasn't my problem,
it wasn't down to how I felt, it was down to Sean Metcalfe still being
out there, terrifying me, and their not doing anything about it.  I
glanced across at his hand, cupped over the release catch.

I steadied my voice and said, "Let me go, will you?  I've got to get
back to work."

He said, "Jo but didn't continue the sentence.  Then he let out a long
sigh and pressed the release button.  I heard the lock click open, and
pushed my way out into the reception area.  At the street I glanced
back, but he had already retreated behind the door.

Twenty

Even after I had bolted my front door I didn't feel that warm, safe,
homecoming feeling.  The house enclosed me, solid brick walls on either
side, but there were windows front and back, and doors, and the locks
were so flimsy, and glass could be broken, and whatever Dave said I was
certain that Sean Metcalfe was out there somewhere, watching, waiting
for his opportunity.

I stood at the front window.  The street appeared to be empty, but how
could I be sure?  It was still light outside but the colours were
fading to a blue tint as evening drew in.  When it was dark I wouldn't
be able to see the street; I wouldn't be able to tell who was in the
shadows.

I pulled the curtains shut; at least he wouldn't be able to watch me
move around the house.  Then I went round closing all the other
curtains, pulling down the blinds in the bathroom and the kitchen,
double-checking that the latches were secure.  The house was very
quiet, holding its breath, but I didn't want to play music in case I
covered up the sound of someone breaking in.

It was going to be a long weekend.  There was no way I would sleep, not
while I was waiting for whatever was going to happen.

So I uncorked a bottle of wine and sat with the TV on, volume turned
down low, and I smoked and drank and waited.  The wine was heavy and
sour in my mouth, but I drank on towards oblivion, because what else
was there, what other comfort was there?

I was three-quarters of the way down the first bottle and halfway
through my first packet of cigarettes when I heard a car pull up
outside, and the car door opening and then clumping shut, and footsteps
coming up the path towards my door.  I waited.  The doorbell rang.  I
considered hiding, pretending I was out until they went away, but they
rang the bell again, and then the letterbox flap was lifted and I heard
Dave's voice calling my name, calling, "Jo?  Are you in there?"

I got up and went to the front door.  Before I could change my mind, I
drew back the bolts, turned the latch and opened the door.

He was out of uniform again.  I stood looking at him.  He said, "Are
you going to let me in?"

I just shrugged, but stepped back from the door.  I was slightly drunk
already.  He followed me into the front room, took in the wineglass on
the floor, and the full ashtray, and the amount of wine left in the
bottle.  He said, "I take it you're feeling stressed?"

"I'm trying to get out of my skull," I said.  "I want to forget about
everything."

He allowed himself a short laugh.  "And me coming round isn't going to
help that, is it?"

I just shrugged again, slumped down onto the sofa and lit another
cigarette.

He sat down in the armchair.  "Why did you storm off like that?"

"I didn't storm off," I said.  "I was just frustrated."

"Well, what did you expect from us?"

Us.  That bit into me.  I wanted to say that I didn't expect anything
from them in the plural, I had just wanted some reassurance and that
wasn't a group activity.  Instead, I said, "I don't want to talk about
it."

He considered that.  "Moping around the house isn't going to help, is
it?"

"What's it to you?"

I had expected him to take offence at that.  I think I had wanted him
to take offence.  But he didn't.  He said, "I could do with a pint.
Come to the pub with me."

"Which pub?"

"I don't know.  Any pub.  The closest pub.  Get yourself out of this
house."

I wanted to refuse.  I wanted to still be angry, but I couldn't find
the energy.  So I agreed, and we headed off onto Sherwood Rise, the
Star Inn, which was a bad choice really but better than the other
options around.  The place was half full; a few students had crept in
among the old men who made up most of the regulars.  Dave sent me to
sit down at a table by the window and came back from the bar with two
pints of lager.

"Right," he said, when he was settled.  "Are you going to tell me why
you think Sean Metcalfe has it in for you?"

I was surprised.  "I don't know why."

"But you're pretty convinced he's after you.  You must have some
idea."

"No," I said.  "Not really."

"Not really?"

"Not at all, then," I said.  I took a long sip of my pint.  Trying to
think had made me very and coldly sober.

He leaned back in his seat, seeming to consider something.  Then he
said, "I asked Carla Metcalfe about it."

"You did what?"  I took another gulp of beer.  "When?"

"This afternoon.  I went round to see her, after you stormed out.  She
had no idea Sean was being accused of attacking you."

"So she says," I said.  "He must've told her what he'd done."

He just shrugged.  "Well, she wasn't going to admit to me that she'd
seen him, was she?  But she did say she'd seen you.  Told me all about
your little visit, you and Colin Fuller.  I don't get it, Jo," he said,
and now he was looking at me, puzzled, as if he really couldn't figure
it out.  "If you think her son's after you, why go round to her
house?"

"I had to," I said.  "For my client."

"You could've got Colin Fuller to go alone.  You didn't have to go
yourself."  He was watching me closely now, and I wondered what he
thought he was going to find out.  But then he changed tack, abruptly.
"Carla told me about what happened eight years ago."

I was feeling slightly dizzy, and I remembered that I hadn't had
anything to eat.  I took another sip of beer and tried to concentrate
on what Dave was saying.  "What about eight years ago?"

"She said you were cracking up.  She said you looked like you were on
the edge, about to have a breakdown the way she tells it, and when she
asked for someone else to take over the case, you flipped out and told
her she was causing trouble."  He hesitated.  "The way she tells it,
you got nasty with her."

"No, no," I said.  "It wasn't like that.  I was stressed, yeah, that's
true, but I never said anything to her.  She wanted someone else to
take over because she thought I was too young.  Inexperienced.  She was
always saying I didn't know what I was doing, but she was just being
difficult.  Didn't want to admit that her husband was abusive.  Kept
telling me everything was fine.  I believed her at first.  She can be
very persuasive."  I stopped, took another mouthful of beer.  Dave was
waiting for me to say more.  "Eventually I realized she was covering up
for him, and that's when she kicked up a storm.  If I'd known he was
going to drop dead a couple of weeks later I'd never have said
anything.  You know how people get the second someone's dead they go
from being a selfish bastard to one miracle short of sainthood.  That's
why my line manager assigned someone else to the case; the department
didn't want to be accused of insensitivity to a bereaved woman's
wishes."

"That's not how she tells it."

"Well, it wouldn't be, would it?  She's bound to twist it all so she
comes out looking wonderful."

"She told me you grabbed Sean and pushed him against the wall."

That did make me laugh.  "An eleven-year-old kid?  I don't think so."

Dave didn't say anything.

"Oh, c'mon.  You know what these cases are like.  She had to blame
someone for the situation.  Much easier to blame me than face the real
problem."

"That's true," he said.  I let him consider for a moment, then he
added, "She's a bitter woman.  Wants to blame someone for how Sean's
turned out.  It's understandable.  Sad, but understandable."

"Sean going off the rails is not my fault," I said.

"No, I know.  But she thinks Sean changed when he went into care.
Thinks that's what stopped her being able to control him.  I can
understand why she wants to blame you."

I wanted to point out that Sean had been a problem before then, that
was why we had got involved in the first place, but I suddenly couldn't
see the point.  These things never came down to being any one person's
fault life would be a lot easier if they did.

Dave leaned in across the table, as if afraid that someone was going to
overhear us, and said, "She might try to cause trouble for you, if you
keep pushing this."

I met his gaze, trying to work out what he was saying.  It seemed so
ridiculous, it was just too stupid to be true, and he seemed to think I
had no idea what he thought.  I said, "How's she going to cause trouble
for me?  There's no truth to what she says.  I'd've lost my job if that
was true.  She's the one with the son who attacked me.  The son who's
absconded from Glen Parva Christ, what sort of trouble could she cause
for me?"

He looked down at his pint glass as if he was thinking seriously about
it, but there was a little smile on his face.

"You don't believe her, do you?"

He looked up at me then, ran his hand over his face, took a long sip of
his drink.  Then he said, "Not really, no.  But it would explain why he
attacked you.  How else would you explain it?"

"Random," I said.  "Just a random thing.  He was walking past and saw
me and acted on impulse."

"But if that's the case, why would he still be after you?"

That did throw me.  The truth was, I didn't know why any of this was
happening, I just knew that it was.  I remembered suddenly that
Davinder had told me that someone had been outside her shop that day,
saying 'apologize'; someone had been demanding an apology.  Had that
been Sean?  And if so, what could he possibly want me to apologize
for?

I said, "I don't know why he's after me, just that he is."  Dave was
going to keep talking about this all night, I could see that, and I was
fed up with it already.  "Can we change the subject?"

He shrugged and took another sip from his pint.

I said, "It's the weekend.  I want to forget about work.  I want to
forget about everything."

"Well, you're going the right way about it."

I couldn't tell whether he was disapproving or joking, but I decided to
take that as a joke.  I had finished my pint, so I said, "Do you want
another?"

He nodded, and drained his glass quickly.  He looked tired, too, I
realized he was probably as relieved it was the weekend as I was.  I
went to the bar and ordered the drinks and some crisps, because I knew
I had to try to soak up some of this alcohol somehow or I'd end up
making a fool of myself.  I was surprised to find that I cared what
Dave thought of me.  That reminded me of the rumour Douglas had
mentioned that morning, and when I took the drinks back over and sat
down and opened the crisps, I said, "My line manager told me there's a
rumour flying around about us."

"About us?"  He seemed surprised.

"Yeah.  My ex must have said something, and then the Chinese Whispers
you know how these things are."

He was frowning.  "What does this rumour say?"

"I don't know.  That we're friendly, I suppose."

He gave a short laugh, and I wondered what he found so funny.  Then he
said, "Kelly Andrews said something, too.  It's daft, though; I mean,
there's nothing for people to talk about."

"No," I said.  I had a sudden, reckless urge to suggest we give them
something to talk about, but I swallowed that down.

Dave went on, "I really hate that.  People just assume that any time a
man and woman talk to each other it means there's something going on.
Why cant people just keep their dirty little thoughts to themselves?"

I was surprised at the strength of feeling in his voice.  I took
another sip of my pint and tried to work out if it meant anything, but
my head was too light.

Dave said, "They make everything sound so bloody sordid, don't they?"

He had looked up at me suddenly, and his eyes caught the light; a
reflective, liquid brown.  I felt cold.  "I know what you mean," I
said, but I couldn't summon much feeling into my voice.

He gave another short laugh, then seemed to have made a decision. "Come
on," he said.  "Drink up.  Let's go somewhere else.  Somewhere more
lively than this."

He indicated the whole room with a contemptuous jerk of his head.  I
looked around.  Most of the students had gone and now the pub was
occupied by a few old men, huddled over their pints, and friends of the
staff leaning against the bar with listless boredom.  I drank my drink
as quickly as I could, but the beer didn't go down easily, not on top
of all the wine I'd had, and he had to wait for me, adjusting his coat
collar, looking at me with a frown.

Outside, I said, "Where are we going?"

"I don't know.  Anywhere."  He was looking around him, as if the answer
would present itself to him.  "This is your area.  You suggest
somewhere."

I thought about it.  There was the Frog, but Colin Fuller drank in
there, and besides, I didn't like it much.  Or the Lion, but Simon and
Alex liked that pub.  "Horse and Groom?"  I suggested.

"Near the police station?  I don't think so.  How about the Lion,
that's all right?"

I hesitated, but he was looking impatient.  Friday night Simon would be
off in town with his union mates, and Alex was probably tucked up in
bed with Louise.  I tried to calculate the odds of Alex and Louise
fancying a pint after all their exercise, but my head was spinning so
much that I couldn't think straight, and besides, I couldn't think of
anywhere else.  So I agreed, and he set off at such a fast pace down
Northgate that I had to almost run to keep up with him.  He had forced
his hands into his jacket pockets and was walking with a purpose,
almost an anger, it seemed.

"Slow down," I said.  "I've only got little legs."

He stopped and waited for me, and seemed to realize how unreasonable he
was being, because he forced a smile onto his face and said in a tone
that was intended to be light, "It's all that wine, girl, not the
length of your legs."

I allowed myself to laugh at that.  He linked his arm through mine, in
a totally casual kind of a way, as if he was just helping me to walk
although I wasn't anywhere near that drunk.  At the pub, he held the
door open for me, and I led him inside.

The place was crowded the noise and heat of so many people thickened
the air.  There was a band playing a feeble cover version of "Don't
Look Back in Anger' at the far end of the room.  We found a table in
the furthest, darkest corner, tucked away near the fireplace with a
coal fire burning in the grate, and I sat there while he went to the
bar.  The walk in the cold air seemed to have cleared my head a little,
and as I warmed with the heat of the fire, I watched Dave and wondered
how on earth I'd ended up coming in here with him.  I was seized with a
sudden panic was this a date?  Was he seeing this as a date?  Was he
going to walk me home at the end of the night and then try to kiss me
on the doorstep or worse, would he expect me to walk home alone?  He
had his car outside my house but he wouldn't be able to drive, not by
then, even now he probably wouldn't want to risk it.  What was he
planning?  I wanted to ask him, but I didn't know how to phrase it, and
I wasn't entirely sure what I wanted the answer to be.

And then I realized that he was talking to someone at the bar, and I
recognized Alex.  Louise was beside him.  I watched Dave and Alex talk,
their heads bowing towards each other, and then Dave indicated where I
was sitting, and Alex and Louise were nodding, and the place was so
crowded, of course they were going to join us, where else would they
sit?

Dave brought our drinks over and settled himself next to me.  "I just
bumped into Alex and his girlfriend.  They're coming to join us."

His tone didn't betray whether he was pleased or annoyed.  I said, "I
didn't realize they'd be here."

He shrugged and took a sip of his pint.  "How could you know what they
were planning?"  Then he glanced at me.  "Oh, you're not still thinking
about that stupid rumour, are you?  Honestly, people can think what
they like, we know there's nothing to it."  He hesitated slightly, then
said with a laugh, "Even if there was, so what?"

Before I could react to that, Louise arrived at our table.  She was
wearing a heavy fake-fleece jacket, and as she shook that off I saw
that she was clad in her usual Lycra trousers, but with a strappy
little maroon silk camisole top that underlined the fact that she
wasn't wearing a bra, she didn't need to, she was perfectly pert
without one.  I fixed a pleasant smile on my face.  She reflected the
same smile back and sat down on a stool across the table from Dave.

"So," she said.  "How are you, Jo?  Recovered from your scare last
night, I hope?"

"Thanks to Alex.  It was very good of you to let him leave like
that."

She held my gaze for a moment.  "Well, it's understandable that you'd
get worried, being on your own."

Before I could reply, or Dave could intervene with the comment I could
see he was preparing, Alex came to the table, set down his and Louise's
drinks and sat on a stool opposite me.  He looked around the table at
all of us and said, "Well, cheers, then."

We all said cheers, and I took a long sip from my pint and tried not to
look at Louise, or Dave.  Which left me with Alex to look at.  He
looked well something to do with the kind of day he'd had, I assumed. I
said, "I went to see you at your office this morning, but they said you
were sick."

He just grinned.  "Took the day off.  I needed to go back to bed, after
last night."

Dave was frowning at me, and I remembered that I hadn't told him that
Alex had come round when I had heard the attempted break-in.  But he
seemed to have worked it out for himself and didn't look too pleased. I
reminded myself that it really wasn't anything to do with him.

The same thought seemed to occur to Dave, because he swallowed his
expression, turned to Louise and started to talk to her.  I heard him
asking about her job, and she launched into some sort of convoluted
explanation of what her department did.  Dave was pretending to be
interested, and Louise was so bloody self-obsessed she actually
believed him.

Alex said to me, "Why'd you come to see me, then?"

I gave a little laugh.  "Because Douglas told me there was a rumour
about me and a certain policeman getting too friendly, and I wanted to
ask you about it.  I wanted to convince you there was nothing to make a
rumour out of."

He looked surprised.  "I didn't think there was," he said, but then he
was glancing over towards Dave, who had leaned his head in slightly to
hear what Louise was saying over the noise of the band.  "I didn't
start any rumours," he said.

"Well, someone in your office did."

He frowned, then said, "Oh, I know what it must've been.  I was talking
to Jill you know Jill she was asking after you, about the attack, and I
said you were fine and had a friendly policeman paying house calls to
check you were okay.  That was all.  I was just messing around, I
didn't think she'd take that seriously."

I didn't quite believe him, but I couldn't be bothered to challenge
him.  The band had just started a rendition of "Run to You' that made
Bryan Adams sound soulful, so I shrugged and smiled as if it didn't
matter and waited for the music to stop bruising my eardrums.  The band
seemed to have a policy of playing so loud that the audience had no
choice but to listen.  The conversation died drowned out as I sipped my
pint slowly, trying to work out what the hell we had to say to each
other anyway.  But that was churlish, I knew I had to make an effort to
get on with Louise, just for Alex's sake.

The evening wore on.  The band calmed down a little but seemed
determined to play until the last moment of drinking-up time, and my
head had started a dull thumping that echoed the drummer's efforts.
Louise had been regaling us with anecdotes the kind of anecdotes that
sounded so polished I wondered whether she rehearsed them in the mirror
for maximum effect.  Alex had an admiring expression on his face, his
mouth open ready to laugh as he listened to her stories.  Dave was
looking interested, but at one point I caught him yawning.  When he saw
that I had seen, he grinned at me and squeezed my hand under the table.
It was an innocent sort of squeeze, but when he released my hand I
could still feel the pressure he had put against it, and the warmth of
his skin.

The drink was having a serious effect on me, and I got to my feet and
staggered off towards the toilets.  It was brightly lit in there, and
the music was muffled, but the thump in my head had grown heavier.  I
sat in the cubicle, trying to rub the effects out of my eyes, but I was
drunk and there was nothing I could do about that.  I thought that
splashing some water on my face might help, but when I left the cubicle
I found Louise in front of the mirror, applying more lipstick as if
that really had been her aim in following me.

She turned to face me.  "All right?"  she said, but she didn't sound
particularly friendly.

"Fine."  I stood next to her to wash my hands.

She said, "What is your problem, Jo?"

There was such aggression in her tone that I turned, surprised.  "I
haven't got a problem," I said.

"Yes, you have.  You've been giving me filthy looks all night."  Before
I could deny it, she added, "Alex is with me now, so don't think you
can weasel your way around him.  He's not going to come running every
time you claim to need him."

I had to laugh at that.  "He was happy enough last night," I said.

"Yeah," she sneered, 'but who'd he come back to, eh?"

There was an unpleasant tilt to the way she held her head.  I said,
"You can have him, anyway.  I'm not interested."

"Now you've got your little policeman friend, you mean?"

"That is none of your business," I said.

I felt the anger rising up through me, and I knew I wouldn't be able to
control it, so I pushed past her to get out into the pub again.  I must
have pushed more roughly than I intended, though, because she fell back
against the sink with a thump.  I heard her say, "Bitch," as the door
swung shut behind me.

I took deep breaths as I headed back to my seat.  Alex and Dave were
laughing about something, and when I sat down Alex said, "Why do women
do that, Jo?"

"Do what?"  I asked.

"Go to the loo in pairs."

They were giggling about that, but I wasn't in the mood to humour them.
I wondered if Alex had any idea what Louise was really like.  I wanted
to tell him, but he was smitten and I knew he wouldn't believe me.

I said to Dave, "I want to go home."

Dave looked at me with surprise.  "Okay, we'll go after this one."

We all had most of a pint left.  I took a sip from mine, trying to
steady my thoughts, but the room was starting to spin a little and I
needed air.  Louise returned to the table and sat down, glancing at me
but making no comment.  I gritted my teeth and waited for Dave to be
ready to leave.  He was talking about football with Alex; they were
both Forest fans, and were deep into nostalgia about standing on the
terraces in the days before all-seater stadiums, and the classiness of
the team under Cloughie, and the never-forgotten spell as European
champions.  I avoided eye contact with any of them.

Finally, Dave was ready to go, and I put on my coat and stood waiting
while they talked about the prospects for next season and whether the
club's finances made a return to the glory days impossible.  Louise was
sipping her drink, not looking at anyone.  I wondered whether she was
going to tell Alex about me pushing her, but I decided she probably
wouldn't she couldn't be sure that Alex would side with her yet.

Outside, the air had become damp and I huddled myself into my jacket as
we walked.  The cold air helped I felt more sober, more in control.

Dave said, "How come you wanted to go in such a hurry?"

"I'd just had enough," I said.

"Of Louise?"

I looked at him in surprise, wondering whether he had seen through her
when Alex couldn't, wondering whether he really was that observant.

He said, "I could see the way you were looking at her.  Christ, if
looks could kill."

"It wasn't like that," I protested, but I was worried, because if it
had been that obvious then Alex probably would have noticed as well,
and that would have fitted right in with her game plan.  I said, "Oh, I
cant help it.  She's just such a bitch."

"She seemed okay to me," Dave said.

"Well, she's a bitch," I said.  "Take it from me."

We walked in silence for a while.  It started to rain, a light sort of
drizzle that soaked through my jacket, but I couldn't be bothered to
hurry.

Dave tried again.  "Alex is a nice guy."

"Yeah," I said.

"Why did you break up?  You're obviously still friends."

"It just didn't work," I said.  "Happens, doesn't it?"

He shrugged.  His tone had been very casual, but I could tell that he
was thinking hard, and I wondered whether he had come to the same
conclusion as Louise, that I wanted Alex back.  I wasn't sure how I
could explain what was really going on.  I wasn't even sure that I
wanted to after all, it wasn't really any of Dave's business.

I said, "We wanted different things, you know?  He's still my best
friend, but nothing more."

"But how long will that last?"

"What do you mean?"

He sighed.  "If you cant handle him being with someone else, how are
you ever going to stay friends with him?  And how are you going to move
on, find someone else yourself?"

I thought about that.  I wasn't sure what he was implying, whether he
was implying anything at all.  Finally, I said, "I didn't think there
was a problem.  I don't like Louise, I wouldn't like her even if she
wasn't with Alex, it's got nothing to do with Alex."

He didn't respond to that.

We had reached my front door and I unlocked it and went inside.  He
followed me into the living room.

"I should go," he said.

I wanted to tell him not to.  I wanted to ask him to stay, but I didn't
know how.  Instead, I turned to face him and said, "Surely you've drunk
too much to drive?"

"Probably.  I could get the bus.  Pick up my car tomorrow."

I waited for him to make his decision.

"Will you be all right on your own?"  he asked.  "I wouldn't want you
to go phoning Alex in the middle of the night."

He was trying to make light of it.  I gave a little laugh and said, "I
wouldn't dare.  I don't think Louise would be impressed."

He smiled at that.  I met his gaze; those dark eyes, liquid eyes.  I
felt I should say something, do something, but I didn't know what.  I
was suddenly aware of how close we were; I could feel the heat of his
body, hear each of his careful breaths.  My own breathing hammered like
a pulse.  He leaned forward, and his lips touched mine.  I closed my
eyes.  I felt his hand, light against my arm, and the pressure of his
lips against mine.  I couldn't breathe, didn't want to breathe.  Then I
thought suddenly of Alex, and how his lips had felt against mine, and
his mouth touching Louise's mouth, and his arms holding her the way
Dave now held me.  Before I even realized I had done it, I broke free
of Dave, stepped back a little.

He said, "What's wrong?"

His voice had an urgency to it.  I didn't want to look at him, because
I didn't want to see the flushed expression I imagined from his tone. I
put my hands over my face, over my eyes.

"What is it?"  he asked, more gently.

He was a nice man, a good man, a kind man.  I was being unfair.  I was
being unreasonable.  I took my hands away from my face and looked up
into his concern.  "I'm sorry," I said.  "I didn't mean that."

"Didn't mean what?  The kiss?  Or breaking it off?"

I wasn't sure I could answer.  I felt a little breathless.  I sat down
on the sofa, hunched up, and lit myself a cigarette.  I offered the
packet to Dave but he just shook his head.  He was waiting for a reply.
I said, "I do like you, Dave."

"I like you, too," he replied.  "But there's a "but", isn't there?"

"No," I said, too quickly, unconvincingly.  "Not at all, you caught me
off guard, that's all."

He let out a long breath.  "I'd better go."

"No," I said.  "Don't.  I didn't mean '

"It doesn't matter," he said.  Then, "It's late."

"You don't have to go just yet.  Stay for a little while."

He looked defeated.  "What would the point be?"  Then he relented a
little.  "I like you, Jo, but I don't want to get used."

"Used?"  I said.  "I wouldn't use you.  I'd never use anyone."

He didn't refute that, just gave a little shrug as if it was irrelevant
anyway.  He was about to leave I had the chilling feeling that if I let
him walk out now he would never come back.  I tried to find the right
words, tried to think what I could say that would persuade him to stay,
but my mind seemed frozen, I couldn't think.

He said, "I'll see you around."

I followed him to the front door.  "You don't have to go."

He had his hand on the lock, ready to turn the mechanism.  He said,
"Take care, eh?"

I didn't know what to say to that.  I didn't know what to say to any of
this.  I wanted to blurt out that I was sorry, that I wanted him to
stay, that this was all a silly misunderstanding, anything that might
stop him from leaving me.  But I just said, "Yeah, you too."

He stepped out into the front garden and walked slowly down the path. I
wanted to call after him, tell him that I was scared of being on my
own, but I knew that would be the wrong thing to say.  So I watched him
walk away up the road, and he didn't look back, he just walked with
shoulders hunched and his hands in his pockets, as though he had a lot
on his mind.

Twenty-one

woke with a bad head just before lunchtime and sat in front of re-runs
of The A-Team with a pile of Marrite on toast and a large glass of Diet
Coke.  Hangover food.  My stomach was uneasy with the alcohol of the
night before, and when I moved too quickly I felt sharp pains in my
head.  I sat still.

I had checked on Dave Short's car when I got up, but he had already
been back to collect it.  I wondered whether he had knocked on my door
to say hello, or whether he had deliberately come early in the hope
that I would still be asleep.  I had been very drunk.  I was only now
becoming aware of just how drunk I had been.  He must have had such a
bad impression of me.  And I could remember Louise in the pub toilets.
I remembered knocking against her, so hard, I realised now, and the
hissed "Bitch!"  she had called after me.  Had she deserved the way I
had treated her?  I couldn't remember, but no doubt she would already
have started convincing Alex that I was unbalanced, or still in love
with him, or a nasty piece of work.

By mid-afternoon, I was starting to feel better.  I had a long bath and
felt more normal after that.  I decided to go for a walk, to get some
more cigarettes and to clear my head with some fresh air.

There was a boy on a bicycle circling in the road.  He stopped circling
when he saw me, and I realised that it was Danny Metcalfe.  I crossed
the road to where he was and said, "Hello, there."

"Hi," he said, but he didn't look directly at me.

"What're you doing round here?"  I asked.

"Just out for a ride."  He leaned forward against his handlebars and
looked over at my house.  "Is that where you live?"

There wasn't much point denying it, so I said, "Yes."  I waited, hoping
that he would offer an explanation for being in my street, a mile and a
half, maybe further, from his house, but he just leaned there and said
nothing.

I said, "Have you seen your brother lately?"

His eyes widened for an instant, and then he shook his head.  "Not for
months."  I didn't believe him.

The street was quiet, empty.  There was no sign of anyone hanging
around; I doubted that Danny would still be here if Sean was nearby.  I
said, "Well, see you, then," and started to walk away.

He scooted himself along beside me with his feet on the pavement.
"Where are you going?"

"Just to the shop."  I was confident that he would follow me and he
did.  He was chewing gum or something similar, smacking his lips as he
chewed.  I said, "So, what's the story with Mrs.  Adams?"

He screwed up his face.  "She's a witch.  She tells lies about us.  She
just don't like kids."

"She gets scared easily," I said.  "Think about it, she's stuck in that
house with those two small kids, and she gets things thrown at her
windows and people shouting rude things at her and stuff spray-painted
on her walls."

"That wasn't me," Danny said quickly.

"Who was it, then?  Was it Sean?"

His eyes widened again, but he just said, "Why would Sean do that?
Anyway, I don't know where Sean is."

We crossed over Northgate and went past the garage to the corner shop.
He took up position outside the door, and I realised he would still be
waiting when I came out.  I had the feeling that there was a purpose to
his visit, but I couldn't understand what it could be.  I was aware of
him watching me as I pushed open the shop door; I stepped into the
gloomy interior, and remembered the feel of the blow on the back of my
head, and falling, and everything going black.  I stopped, stood there,
aware of Danny's presence in the bright sunlight behind me, and the
sudden disorientating gloom in front of me.  For a moment, I couldn't
remember what I had come for, and the shop seemed to be laid out wrong,
and it should have been Davinder watching me from behind the counter. I
forced myself to smile at the shopkeeper.  I was shaking a little.  I
took a deep breath and stepped forward and let the door clatter shut
behind me, between me and Danny.  I picked up a bottle of Diet Coke and
ordered my cigarettes, and when I went back out with the bottle under
my arm Danny was still waiting for me.

He rolled himself along beside me, sitting on the bike's saddle but
scuffing his shoes on the tarmac.  He said, "Do you like it round
here?"

I looked at him in surprise.  He was chewing away, and his expression
didn't tell me anything.  "It's okay.  Yeah, I suppose I do.  What
d'you think?"

He looked around him, as if he hadn't bothered to properly see the
place before, and then he shrugged and said, "It's okay."

"You prefer where you live?"

He gave no sign that he recognised that my area was nicer than his, but
said instead, "I've got my mates there."

"Fair enough."

We crossed over Northgate and headed back up the hill.  Past the Star
Inn, and I thought of Dave Short again with a crushing flash of
embarrassment what must he think of me now?  And Alex.  I would have to
do something to try to limit any damage that Louise might have
caused.

Danny didn't say anything until we were almost back at my front door.
Then he said, "Mum says you're causing trouble for us."

I had been putting my key in the lock, but I stopped and turned.  A
dark frown cast shadows over his face.  I said, "That isn't what's
happening.  Nobody's in any trouble.  We're trying to stop things
getting to that point."

He was still frowning.  I had the feeling that he was struggling to
understand something.

I said, "Do you want to come in?  Have a glass of Coke or something?"

I knew I shouldn't have said it Douglas would have had a fit but there
was always the chance, however slim, that Danny would listen to me when
his mother and his brother and his friends weren't around to influence
him.  I felt a surge of confidence that I could sort out Katie Adams's
situation, if I could only get Danny to understand.  And Sean, too.  If
I found out something about Sean's whereabouts at the same time, that
would be a bonus.  Danny hesitated for a moment but then shrugged and
agreed, and I helped him lift his bike over the doorstep and lean it
against the banisters at the bottom of the stairs.

We went through the living room and into the kitchen, where I poured
out two glasses of Coke and handed him one.  "Let's go and sit down," I
said, and he followed me back to the front room and sat down.  He was
looking around him, a critical sort of expression on his face, but
didn't say anything.  I said, "I'm not trying to cause trouble for your
family, Danny."  I wondered suddenly whether he knew that Sean had
attacked me, whether Sean had told him would Sean have been laughing
about it?  Was that why Danny was here?  But I cleared that thought
from my mind and said, "Your mum doesn't seem to like me much."

He shrugged, but I couldn't tell whether he disagreed or just didn't
care.

I said, "All I want to do is help."

He didn't believe that, I realised, but I didn't know what I could say
to convince him.  Then he said, "She reckons it's your fault Sean
turned out like he did."

"She said that?  How does she work that out?"

"I dunno.  Says he was okay till we got put in care."

"Do you remember being in care?"

"Course I do.  Sean goes on like it was terrible but it wasn't that
bad.  They had satellite telly and took us bowling.  It was okay." Then
he looked embarrassed, as if he'd admitted something he hadn't planned
to tell me.  He hardened his voice.  "Mum says you're why we ended up
in care.  Mum says you were really nasty about it."

"That isn't true.  Your mum wasn't coping, that's all.  She needed a
bit of time to herself to get everything sorted.  And she's been fine
ever since, hasn't she?"  He didn't answer, still brooding.  I said,
"Is that what Sean says, too?"

He got up out of his seat and went over to the mantelpiece to look at
the ornaments.  He picked up a vase Alex and I had brought back from
Greece one year, turned it over and then put it back.  "Sean don't know
what he's talking about," Danny said.  He was looking up at the print
in a clip-frame above the fire.  "Who painted that?"  he asked.

"Kandinsky," I said.

"Yeah?  Who's he?  Some other kid?"

I stopped myself from laughing.  "No," I said.  "Famous artist."

"Never heard of him."

There wasn't much I could say to that.  I watched him do another
circuit of the room, thinking about getting him to tell me what was
going on.  "What does Sean say, then?"  I asked.

"Sean says Social Services fucked us over.  He's started saying he
remembers being hit and stuff, when we were in care, but I don't
remember nothing like that, and he's only saying stuff like that since
he since recently."

I allowed myself a little smile at what he had nearly given away.  "He
never mentioned it before?"

"No."

I was relieved about that if all the allegations Carla Metcalfe was
making were based on recent conversations with Sean, there was nothing
for me to worry about.  Not that there was anyway, I reminded myself.

Danny sat back down again.  I said, "Why are you here, Danny?"

"What d'you mean?  You asked me in."

"No, I mean why did you come to my street?"

He rolled his eyes.  "I toldja.  I was just cycling around."

"You didn't come with Sean?"  He laughed at that, but he looked
slightly worried.  "Did you follow Sean?"  I asked.  It was getting
clearer to me.  "Sean doesn't know you're here, does he?  He doesn't
know you followed him?  When was it, Thursday night?"

"No," he said, but he couldn't look at me.  Then he got up.  "I got to
go now."

I followed him out to the hall and watched him struggle to wheel his
bike back out through the front door.  I leaned against the door jamb
with my arms folded, and he wheeled his bike down to the pavement then
threw one leg over and heaved himself onto the seat.  The bike was a
little too big for him probably a hand-me-down from Sean, I thought,
and the irony of that made me smile.

I said, "Danny, if you ever want to talk to someone you can always come
back here."  He frowned at that, but I added quickly, "I don't mean
about anything or or anyone in particular.  I mean about anything at
all."

He considered that for a moment, then said, "See ya," and launched
himself off the pavement and onto the road.  I watched him picking up
speed, standing on his pedals to gain momentum.  Then I looked the
other way up the street, but I couldn't see anyone watching the
house.

I returned to my sofa and the gradual recovery from the excesses of the
previous night, but as my hangover wore off, the sense that Danny's
visit could not have been a coincidence increased.  I found it
difficult to see what Sean could have achieved by sending Danny to see
me; but Danny himself had seemed unsure why he was in my street.  I
wanted to believe that Danny had no idea what Sean was up to maybe he
had simply followed Sean to my house on a previous occasion.  Maybe he
was just the innocent little brother but it was possible that he was in
with Sean, that he was acting out a role just to help his brother, and
I had let him into my house, and what if that had told him something?
What if Danny had spotted a way for Sean to get in, and was telling
Sean about it even now as I sat on the sofa?  I had to do something I
couldn't just wait for nightfall to see what happened.

I wanted to talk to Dave Short, explain this new development, get him
to act, but there was no way I felt I could ring him after being so
drunk the night before.  And that kiss I couldn't phone him, no matter
what.  So I considered calling on Alex; he was usually good for
logical, rational thinking, but the thought of seeing Louise again and
the things she might have said to him in the meantime was too much.  I
wanted to face the Metcalfes; engineer a big showdown that would force
them to explain what was going on, but I knew that I couldn't do
that.

And that left Katie Adams.  The idea seized me -she knew Danny, would
happily tell me everything she knew or thought she knew about him.  I
could sift the information, locate the truth within the things she said
I knew her well enough for that.  I could imagine myself in her front
room, listening as she gave away more than she would ever realise,
listening as she told me that one fact that would unlock whatever was
going on.  I didn't allow myself to think too long about it.  I had to
act, I had to do something to bring the situation to a head, whatever
Douglas would have said about it.  After all, it was my life that Sean
Metcalfe was disrupting.

So I drove over to the Adams' house.  There was no sign of Danny or any
of his friends when I reached their street, which was a relief.  I
parked and locked my car, and Katie Adams had opened her front door to
me before I had even started up her path.

She said, "How did you know to come?  Did they phone you?"

"Who?"  I asked.

She was leading the way into the front room, and I could see that she
was agitated.  She turned towards me, then away again, as if she
couldn't decide.  "The police," she said.

"Why have you called the police?"  She wasn't listening to me, so I
took her gently by the shoulders and guided her into a chair.  I
crouched down beside her.  "Tell me slowly."

"He smashed my kitchen window," she said, signalling towards the back
of the house with a wave of her hand.  "Put the whole thing in.  I was
in here with the babies, I mean, what if Jack'd been in there?  Glass
everywhere.  My kids could've got hurt."

She was going red in the face; I was worried that she would
hyperventilate.  I took her hand in mine, rubbed it slowly with my
other hand.  Her eyes were wide, but her breathing calmed a little.
"Now," I said, 'who smashed the window?"

"The Metcalfe kid, who else?"

"You mean Danny?"  She nodded, but I wasn't sure if she was really
listening.  She pulled free of my grip and scrabbled over the crowded
surface of the coffee table, strewn with children's toys and a
colouring book and crayons, to pull a tissue out of a box.  I repeated,
"You're sure it was Danny?"

"Yes," she said, her words muffled by the tissue clamped over her face.
She blew her nose, then added, "Course it was, I mean, who else would
it be?"

The quiver had returned to her voice; I had to head off her tears.  I
said, "Listen to me, eh?  It's okay, it's okay."  Then, "What time was
this?"

"A coupla hours ago.  I called the police but nobody's been yet.
Typical, isn't it?  Never here when you need 'em.  What they gonna do
about it, eh?  I'll tell you they'll do sod all, because they never
do."

I looked at my watch.  I had seen Danny three hours ago did that mean
he'd come straight back from talking to me and smashed her window?  It
didn't seem very likely to me, but then, I hardly knew the kid, for all
I knew he was as uncontrollable as his brother.  I said, "Did you see
Danny?"

She wasn't listening to me, sniffing into her tissue.

I repeated, "Did you actually see him?"

She shook her head.  "Not really.  Not clearly, but I know it's him."

I sighed and sat back on my heels.  I wasn't convinced that she
actually had seen Danny I wasn't at all convinced that Danny had broken
her window.  I said, "Sit there.  I'll make you some tea, eh?"

She nodded, and I went into the kitchen.  The window pane was
completely smashed, with only a few jagged pieces of glass still held
in the frame.  There were shards all over the sink and the work
surface, spilling onto the floor.  I stepped across carefully, filled
the kettle from the tap and switched it on.  On the floor, there was
half a brick, slightly muddy.  I left it where it was.  I unlocked the
back door and went out into the garden, but there was nothing to see.
The graffiti that had been there the other day had been washed off.

I went back into the kitchen and carefully re-locked the door.  I made
a mug of tea and carried it back through to her.  She took it without a
word, and I sat down in the opposite armchair.

"Where are the kids?"  I asked.

"Gary's taken them over the park.  Should be back soon."

It seemed to me that he shouldn't have left her alone after something
like this, but it wasn't my place to comment.  Instead, I said, "Do you
want me to help you clean up?"

"The police said to leave it till they've been," she said, and there
was fear in her voice, as if I had been suggesting something illegal.

"Okay."  I sat there for a moment while she tried to dry her eyes and
gather herself together.  I wasn't sure what to say, now that I was
here.  My plan to have some sort of logical discussion with her had
been knocked off course by the latest developments.

Finally, she screwed up the tissue in her hand,

threw it onto the table, then looked at me.  "If the police didn't call
you, why are you here?"  "I just wanted to see how things were."  She
looked doubtful.  "On a Saturday?  Why?"  "I just wanted to make sure
things were okay."  If she didn't believe me, she didn't say so, but we
were interrupted then by a key in the front door lock as Gary brought
Jack and the baby back from the park.  Katie got to her feet and rushed
into the hallway to help him bring the push chair over the step.  Jack
came tearing into the front room, still in his coat and mittens, and
stopped when he saw me sitting there.

"Hello, Jack," I said.

He hesitated for a moment, then went to the table and shook off his
gloves, threaded on elastic through his sleeves.  He picked up a crayon
and started colouring.  I heard Katie Adams say something quietly in
the hall, and then a man's voice saying, "About time and all."

They came into the front room.  Gary led the way with Katie just
behind, holding the baby to her chest.  Gary was small and lean with a
mess of brown hair over a weathered face.  His jeans were splashed with
paint and streaks of dirt; work clothes.  Blue tattoos of
indistinguishable design were scattered on his tanned forearms, folded
across his chest.

I stood up and held out my hand.  "Nice to finally meet you."

He regarded me with suspicion for a moment, then shook my hand.  The
skin on his palm was rough and hardened.  He stretched himself out over
the nearest armchair and said, "What brings you here?"

Katie Adams had retreated to the kitchen.  I heard the kettle being
filled from the tap.  I said, "I wanted to check how things were. Seems
there's been more problems.  I can come back another time if you'd
prefer."

He shrugged.  "No skin off my nose what you do."  He glanced towards
the kitchen, leaned forward and said, "But you've been stirring it,
haven't you, talking to that Metcalfe woman?"

"I wasn't stirring it.  I was trying to stop the problems.  Make life
easier for everyone round here."

He looked at me as if I was stupid.  "You cant stop people like them,"
he said.  "Nowt but scum, that's them.  They need a proper sorting
out."

I said, "Now, that's not '

"Oh, don't fret, I wouldn't do nowt."

He had taken a tin from his pocket and started to roll himself a
cigarette.  I watched him for a moment, trying to work out what I was
going to do or say next.  Katie Adams came in and gave Gary a mug of
tea, then perched herself on the arm of his chair and looked at me.

Gary said, "So, what're you going to do about it?"

This wasn't the right time, I could see that.  Gary was not as
receptive as I had hoped he would be.  I wanted him to go away again
take the kids back out, go to the pub, anything because I knew how to
handle Katie Adams, I knew how to get her to agree with me.  I said,
"We need to get people communicating.  Sort out whatever the problem is
and start again, with none of the bad feeling that's been going around
recently."

Gary just laughed.  "That won't do no good.  Ask anyone round here,
they'll tell you.  Everyone knows what's been going on."

"That's right," Katie put in, then flushed and fell silent.

Gary put the rollie between his lips and lit it, watching me as he did
so.  He seemed to be waiting for me to respond.  I had hoped we could
keep the situation quiet, but that clearly wasn't going to be the case.
I wondered whether all the neighbours were getting involved, whether
this feud was escalating to involve the whole street, or the whole
neighbourhood.  It didn't bode well for Danny, especially as Katie
Adams was sure it was Danny who had smashed her window.

"Need to give that kid a good scare," Gary said.  "Make him think he'll
end up like his brother, that's what'll stop him."

"That's a little over the top," I murmured.

"Over the top?  You're joking.  That little bastard's put our window
in, but you don't seem to care about that."

"I do care I started to say, but he cut me off.

"You don't get it.  I know what you bloody social workers are like.
Fucking do-gooders.  You haven't got a clue.  You let that kid run wild
and never mind what it means for the rest of us.  You're supposed to
protect people, aren't you?"  Katie Adams looked like she wanted to say
something, but didn't.  I wanted to tell her it was okay, I understood
how she felt, but Gary was still talking.  "You just let people get
away with it.  You're all too soft."  He picked up his lighter to
re-light the rollie between his fingers, and then signalled towards me
with it, as if he'd thought of something else.  "You let the police
deal with it, they know how to handle a kid like that.  Or just leave
it to us.  Wouldn't've got away with that sort of stuff when I was a
kid, I can tell you."

I thought he was going to drift off into some rant about beat bobbies
giving cuffs on the ear, or that getting a good beating had never done
him any harm.  I couldn't bear to hear such things, not from a face
like his, lit up with anger.  I wondered where Danny was now, whether I
should try to get his side of the story, but I knew I had to back
off.

I said, "I'm not here to take sides or say what should be done.  I'm
here to offer support.  If the police find evidence that Danny Metcalfe
broke your window, I'm sure they'll act."

"If?"  Gary said, outraged.  "What d'you mean, "if"?  Nobody else
would've done it, would they?"

I held up my hands to indicate that I didn't want to get pulled any
further into this dispute.  I had already got more involved than I
should have done.  My hangover had returned with a fury.  I said,
"Look, I've got to go now.  Tell the police exactly what you saw, and
I'm sure they'll do what they can for you.  But please, don't do
anything about this yourself, you'll only make the situation worse."
Katie Adams nodded, but I wasn't convinced that Gary was listening to
me.  "This is up to the police now."

Gary let out a sigh, of frustration or anger I couldn't tell, but Katie
Adams got up and said in a low voice, "Don't worry, we won't do
anything, we'll talk to the police when they get here."

I nodded and allowed her to take me to the front door.  I heard Gary
turn on the TV.  At the door, I said to her, "Please, tell the police
exactly what you saw.  It might not have been Danny you saw.  It'll
only make things worse if they accuse him and it wasn't him."

She frowned.  "I'm pretty sure," she said, but she did sound a little
doubtful.

I could imagine the way Gary was going to work on her before the police
arrived.  "Just picture what you saw and describe that.  Let the police
work out who it actually was."

"Okay," she said, but I wasn't sure that she grasped the significance
of what I was saying.

I left her there and went back to my car.  There was no sign of Danny
or any of his friends in the street, to my relief, although I did want
to see Danny.  I wanted to ask him if he had been involved, to see his
reaction for myself, and to judge whether he was telling the truth. But
I knew it would just make the situation worse, so I got into my car.

I couldn't face going home just yet.  I felt a little depressed I
wasn't sure if it was an effect of the drink from the night before, or
whether the situation at the Adams' house had dampened my spirits.  I
drove round to Simon and Alex's house.  I was nervous about going
there, in case Louise was hanging around, but I had to go somewhere, I
didn't want to be alone.  I wanted to tell them all the details of the
case, but I knew I couldn't really do that, it wasn't right to break
confidentiality.

Alex answered the door.  He didn't seem very pleased to see me, but
opened the door wider and allowed me to go through to the front room. I
said, "Is Louise here?"

"No."  He looked tired.  "She had to go and meet some mates.  What
d'you want, Jo?"

"That's a fine way to greet a friend," I said, trying to be jocular
about it.

He sighed.  "I'm not really in the mood.  Why'd you have to be so nasty
to Louise last night?"

"Why?  What's she said?"

"She didn't have to say anything.  I know you, Jo.  You can be a bitch
when you want to."

"That's not fair."  It hurt me that he thought that, that he had used
the word Louise had used.  "I was a little drunk last night.  If I came
across as though I didn't like her, I didn't mean it.  I'm just
stressed at the moment."

"Yeah, yeah."  He fetched his cigarettes from the side table and lit
himself one, but didn't offer me one.  Then he sat down slowly,
wearily.  "You're always stressed," he said.  "It's no excuse."

"I was attacked a couple of weeks ago.  Don't you think I've got the
right to be freaked out by that?"

He waved that away.  "That was ages ago.  Get over it."

"Get over it?"  I couldn't believe what he was saying.  "Get over it?
I've had fucking Sean Metcalfe trying to break into my house, and you
tell me to get over it?"

"You don't know if anyone tried to break in," he said.  "Christ, people
get burgled all the time.  Doesn't mean there's someone out to get
you."

"It's not just that," I said.  "There's been other stuff."

I wanted him to ask what stuff, to push for more details.  If he
pushed, I knew I would tell him everything, and then he would have to
help, he would have to say something.

But he just shook his head.  "Don't be so fucking paranoid, Jo.  Get a
grip."

"I'm not paranoid," I said.

"You are," he said, with a kind of authority, a firmness that reminded
me of all the times we had nearly had the final, explosive,
friendship-ending argument when we lived together.  "The whole world
doesn't revolve around you, Jo.  You're not the centre of everyone's
thoughts.  And there isn't some great conspiracy against you."

"I never said there was," I said.

"So what's all this crap about some client being out to get you, then?"
Before I could answer, he shook his head again and said, "You're not
right in the head.  You need professional help.  The way you behave is
unacceptable."

"No.  I was drunk, that's all."

"That's no excuse," he said.  "You drink too much.  You need to sort
yourself out."

"This isn't about me having a few drinks, it's about someone being out
to get me."

"No," he said.  "It's about you refusing to see what your problem
is."

"No I started, but then I stopped, because what could I say to that?
That I could handle it?  There was no way to counter him he had me
trapped by all those denials we'd been trained to discount.  So I said,
"You're not listening to me."  And, louder, "Why won't you listen?"

"I don't have to listen to this."  He stood up, looked down at me. "Who
do you think you are, coming round here, shouting at me like this? I
don't owe you anything, and I don't appreciate the way you're
behaving."

I stood up, too, nearly a foot shorter than him but ready to bridge
that gap if I had to.  "I'm telling you," I said.  "Sean Metcalfe's
been hanging round my house, and I don't know what he's planning to do,
and his brother's causing trouble for one of my clients, and
everything's getting out of hand, and I don't know what to do about
it."

He looked at me for a long moment, but there was a coldness in those
dark eyes, there was a harshness I'd never seen before.  He said, "I
don't give a shit.  Go and tell someone who cares.  Go and tell your
policeman friend, if he hasn't blown you out already.  Go and tell
Douglas, unless you've done your usual trick of ignoring what he says
until it's too late."

"That's not fair."  I heard the wail in my voice, but he just turned
away from me.  He strode over to the door, threw it open, went into the
hall.  I followed; he was opening the front door now.  I said, "Don't
do this, Alex.  I need you."

He turned to look at me then, and for a moment I thought that had done
it, that had won him back, but he just let out a tut ting noise and
opened the door a little wider.  "I don't need you," he said.  "Get
some professional help.  Get yourself sorted out.  But don't come round
here unless you're willing to be civil, and you're ready to apologize
to Louise."

I wanted to laugh in his face.  I wanted to tell him that that would
never happen, but the hardness growing inside me seemed fit to choke
me, and I couldn't say anything.  As I left the house, he slammed the
door behind me, loud enough to attract his neighbours' attention.  I
stood in his front garden and stuck my finger up at the door, but I
knew he wasn't watching, I knew he wasn't paying me any attention.

I stormed down to my car and sat in the driver's seat.  I felt the
tears welling up in my eyes frustration, anger, I didn't know what.  I
had to get out of there, I had to get away, back to my house.  Lock the
door, shut myself in, do something anything to get completely out of my
skull and forget that today had ever happened.

Twenty-two

I didn't want to go to work on Monday.  I had slept badly, jerked awake
by every noise from the street, and when the alarm went off I didn't
want to get out of bed, or get dressed, or collect my stuff together,
or drive out into the rush-hour traffic.  But I had to, and I did it on
auto-pilot, eyes still bleary, head pounding.  I hadn't dared look at
my face in the mirror, I'd just brushed my hair and rubbed my face with
the flannel and scrubbed the taste out of my mouth with toothpaste.  I
felt like shit, but I probably deserved it.  I had spent Sunday in a
stupor, hoping that Alex would phone or call round, or that Dave Short
would, or wondering whether I should phone them.  I wanted to hear
Alex's voice I wanted to hear him laugh, and tease me about something,
and be friendly, the way he used to be.  Or Dave he could have found a
pretence to phone or call round; he could at least have shown some
concern for me.  But nobody called.

At the office, I tried to bury myself in paperwork at my desk, hoping
to sleepwalk through the day,

but Douglas came to me almost before the day had begun to tell me that
he wanted to see me and Colin Fuller at eleven o'clock.  It had to be
about the Metcalfes; I could imagine the sorts of stories Carla
Metcalfe would have been spreading after her little chat with Dave
Short on Friday.

I knew I should do something to prepare for the meeting go over my case
notes or talk to Colin, anything.  I did find the energy to go and look
for Colin; I saw him across the other side of the office and called his
name, but he couldn't have heard me, because by the time I got to the
corridor there was no sign of him.  I even went and checked in the
yard, to see if he was having an early cigarette, but there was nobody
out there.  And my head was pounding so much, and my vision swam when I
moved, so I retreated back to my desk.  All I was capable of doing was
drinking fizzy pop and stuffing my face with chocolate, in the hope
that the caffeine and sugar rush would carry me through.

I took a couple of paracetamol with a large swig of orange Tango before
heading into Douglas's office at eleven o'clock.  Colin was already
there, hanging his jacket over the back of the chair as if he'd just
come in from the street.  I sat down in the other chair set out in
front of Douglas's desk and forced myself to smile at both of them.
Douglas gave me a sympathetic sort of smile in return, but Colin seemed
embarrassed and avoided meeting my gaze.

Without preamble, Douglas said, "Jo, I've received complaints about how
you're dealing with the Metcalfe and Adams situation."

I nodded my head slowly.  "Who from?  Carla Metcalfe?"

"Yes.  And from Gary Adams."

Both sides.  I suppressed a giggle.  They were finally agreeing on
something.

Douglas went on, "Perhaps you'd like to tell us what your recent
involvement has been?"

I took a deep breath and told them, in a low tone, about what had
happened when I visited the Adams on Saturday.  But I left out having
seen Danny earlier that day it didn't seem wise to admit that I had
allowed him into my house.

I waited for Douglas to ask why Gary Adams had felt it necessary to
complain after my visit, but he didn't.  Instead, he said, "Colin tells
me there was an incident on Sunday night.  Last night.  Do you know
anything about that?"

"No."  I glanced at Colin.  He had crossed one leg over his knee and
was doodling on a pad he was resting against his thigh, deliberately
not looking at me.  I wondered what else he had let slip during the
secret meeting they had obviously already had.

Douglas said, "The police were involved.  We don't know the details,
but Gary Adams was arrested.  Cautioned for Breach of the Peace."

This seemed to be a cue for Colin, because he did finally look at me,
quickly, his cheeks flushing up.  "Carla Metcalfe's distraught," he
said.  "She told me she thinks you wound him up.  Put him up to it."

"Oh, that's just great."  I slumped back into my chair.  "Just what I
need."

"Carla doesn't like you," Colin said, as though that wasn't already
obvious.  "I told Douglas about her refusing to speak to you when we
went there last week."  He kept his tone flat, as if that would stop my
noticing that he had spoken to Douglas behind my back.  I wanted to ask
why he had felt the need to say so much to Douglas when I wasn't even
there to put my side, but he continued, "She phoned me on Friday, said
she wasn't happy about you being involved."  He glanced across at me,
all apology now.  "I was going to talk to you about it but I didn't get
a chance on Friday."

They were both looking at me.  "Did she say why?"  My voice came out
slightly strangled, and I coughed to clear my throat, and then added,
"I mean, was there a reason?"

"She said she didn't think you were impartial."

He had spoken with that same flat tone, and I realized that he was
holding something back, she had said more than that.  I remembered Dave
Short saying she had accused me of threatening her and Sean eight years
ago.  Dave Short had spoken to her on Friday had that been before or
after she had decided to phone Colin?  I rubbed my hand over my face,
feeling the headache returning.  It was difficult to breathe in the
stifling heat of the office, but they were waiting for me to speak, so
I cleared my throat again and said, "These disputes are like that,
aren't they?"

"That's why we shouldn't get so involved," Douglas said.  "Leave it to
the Housing Association, or get the Mediation Service in."

I didn't look at Colin.  I didn't want to know whether he had expressed
this opinion to Douglas already or whether Douglas considered this a
basic principle.

Douglas let out a long sigh.  "Look, Jo, we have two complaints against
you now.  We have to investigate them.  It's probably best if you don't
have any contact with the Metcalfe or Adams families until we've dealt
with these.  You understand, I'm sure.  Colin can handle anything that
comes up."

I had to laugh at that.  "You're joking," I said.  "You cant just
bounce me off a case I've spent so much time on.  I've built up a
relationship with Katie Adams.  She trusts me.  It'll take weeks, maybe
months, for anyone else to get in that position.  You don't understand
what she's like."

I was looking from one to the other as I spoke.  Colin was looking down
with concentration at the notes he'd made in among the doodles on his
pad.  Douglas did look at me, but with a slightly condescending smile,
as though he needed to explain something simple to me.  "Jo, I know we
say we shouldn't pander to this sort of thing, but we don't want to
make the situation any worse now, do we?"  I opened my mouth to object,
but the expression on Douglas's face stopped the words.  He went on,
"Colin, you may as well go.  I'm sure you've got plenty to be getting
on with."

Colin gathered his things and stood up quickly.  I avoided eye contact
with either of them.  Colin was in such a rush to get out of the office
that I realized he knew Douglas wanted to berate me in private.  He
brushed against me as he passed me, but there was no supportive squeeze
from his hand.  I felt cold inside.

Once Colin had gone, Douglas moved his chair slightly towards me, as if
that would make this easier, and said, "I don't understand why you went
round there on Saturday."

I wanted to defend myself there had to be something I could say to
defend myself.  I wanted to say that Colin was selling me out, that
Douglas and Colin were playing right into the Metcalfes' hands, that
Sean Metcalfe was behind all of this.  But I bit those words back a
sour taste and said, "I haven't done anything wrong.  They're just
using me to score points."

Douglas nodded, as if he agreed that this was probably the case, but
then said, "It would have been better if you hadn't gone.  You
certainly shouldn't have gone there when you weren't even supposed to
be working, and you should have come to see me first, anyway.  I warned
you about this."  He hesitated, then continued, "We talked about you
getting too involved, didn't we?  We seem to have this same
conversation over and over."

"I'm just trying to do my job," I said.

He ignored that.  "Carla Metcalfe has complained to her Councillor," he
said.  "He's fuming about it.

You know what it's like when the department gets complaints from
Councillors.  I've had the Director's office on the phone to me half
the morning."

The headache started a fresh attack on the inside of my skull.  I
lowered my head into my hand and tried surreptitiously to massage the
pain away.  I wanted to be back in bed, curled up with the duvet over
my head, and all of this a million miles away.  But Douglas was waiting
for me to say something, so I let out a long breath and said, "Carla
Metcalfe just wants to cause trouble.  She's just a troublemaker.  You
know what it's like they think if they cause a fuss they'll get what
they want."

He said, "What I don't understand is why she feels the need to stir?  I
mean, you're not even dealing with her case.  Why's she so angry with
you?"

"It's because of her son," I said.  I was about to explain about Sean
Metcalfe being the one who attacked me, but Douglas held up his hand to
stop me saying more.

"There's going to have to be an investigation," he said.  "Whatever
Danny Metcalfe's been up to, we'll get to the bottom of it."

I wanted to explain that it wasn't Danny I had been thinking about, it
was Sean, but I suddenly didn't have the energy.  I forced myself to
give the smile he was looking for, and pretended to be reassured by his
words.  I felt slightly sick.  Colin wasn't going to stand by me, he'd
made that much clear already, and if he didn't then why would Douglas?
I'd slogged my guts out for the department but they wouldn't do
anything to jeopardize their precious reputation, not after Chantelle
Wade and all the stuff in the papers.

Douglas said, "You've allowed yourself to get too drawn into this,
haven't you?"

"No.  Not really.  I've just been doing my job."

"But you've allowed yourself to become embroiled.  You've lost your
professional distance.  Come on, Jo, you cant pretend you've got
everything right, can you?"

I wanted to laugh.  I wanted to ask him just how many people he'd been
out to see recently.  I wanted to ask what he would do if someone
phoned him up and asked for help tell them to wait for their next
appointment?  Tell them it would damage his professional distance if he
got embroiled?  But I didn't say any of that.

Douglas went on, "Colin's worried about you."

I bit back a derisive, "Oh yeah?"  and said instead, "There's no
need."

Douglas said, "He's not the only one.  You don't seem to be coping very
well at the moment.  You seem to be under pressure."

"We're all under pressure," I said.  "Goes with the territory."

"Yes, but and then he hesitated, as if trying to work out how best to
phrase this.  He softened his tone.  "If there's anything we can do to
help.  I mean, I'm sure other people in the office would be willing to
help you out.  If you need a few days off, I'm sure you've got some
in-lieu owing to you."

"I'm fine," I said, but he took no notice.

"We don't like to see one of the team under the weather."

I didn't say anything.  I was remembering the brush of Colin's hand as
he left the office how much concern had there been there?  He was like
everyone else so scared of a scandal he'd rather cover his own back
than help me out when I most needed it.

"There's no shame in admitting you need help, Jo.  You must realize
that from last time.  We don't want this to make you ill.  Much better
to ask for help now than end up unable to cope at all, wouldn't you
say?"

"Last time was a one-off," I said.  "I was new to the job back then.
You remember what things were like.  This has nothing to do with
then."

He was looking at me with a soft smile that suggested he didn't believe
me.  I knew I shouldn't blame him for that after all, the Metcalfes had
caused problems for me back then, too.  But it made me angry I wanted
to remind him that back then he had told me not to worry, it wouldn't
affect my career, nobody would remember that I hadn't been coping, not
once I found my feet, not once I knew what I was doing and had some
experience under my belt.  I wanted to remind him about that, but I
knew I couldn't.  I said, "Everyone feels stress now and then.  But I'm
fine.  There's no need to be concerned."

"Well," Douglas said, "I do have to look at the things Carla Metcalfe's
been saying, you know.  She's made some accusations about when you
looked after their case eight years ago.  I know she's only trying to
stir things up, you've told me that already, but it's quite a
coincidence, isn't it?  The same family?"

"She's just looking for things she can manipulate," I said.  "Oh, come
on, you cant possibly think there's any truth in the things she's
saying?"

"Of course not," he said, but it wasn't convincing.

"It's ridiculous," I tried again.  "The whole thing."

"Of course," Douglas said.

"Colin must have told you that."

"Of course," Douglas said again.  The same flat tone.  Then he said,
"You're in the union, aren't you?"

"Yes," I said, surprised.

"Talk to your union rep.  You need to talk to him before this goes any
further.  Now, I suggest you go back to your desk and write some
reports or something.  You look dreadful.  You're in no state to be
talking to clients."

I nodded and stood up.

When I got to the door, he said, "Jo," and I turned and looked at him.
"Make sure you get plenty of sleep tonight.  And don't go drinking. You
don't function well with a hangover."

Normally, I would have laughed at that, but he wasn't smiling and it
didn't feel funny.  So I just nodded and pulled his office door shut
behind me.  I went to my desk, found my cigarettes and headed out into
the little yard at the back of the office.

Colin was already there.  He looked embarrassed when he saw me.  "Are
you okay?"  he asked, but I had the feeling it was because he felt he
had to ask.

"Oh, just great," I replied, and he grimaced at my tone.  I lit my
cigarette and smoked it hard, but there didn't seem to be enough
nicotine, or tar, or whatever, in the cigarette to give me any kind of
lift.

"Was Douglas okay about things?"

What 'things', I wanted to ask, but I knew I shouldn't be angry with
Colin, it wasn't his fault.  I'd put myself in this situation, after
all; Douglas was right about that much.  And Colin Colin was just
trying to protect himself, and who could blame hiQfc really?  I was the
one in a mess, and it didn't matter that all of this came back to Sean
Metcalfe; I was the one who should have been following the book, and
keeping a professional distance, and realizing what the game was.  But
Sean Metcalfe Sean fucking Metcalfe he was the one who had attacked me,
he was the one who had done something wrong, and I was the one in
trouble for it.  I remembered him coming up to me in the street, that
twisted face, the sudden violence.  I imagined myself striking out
first; my fist making contact with his jaw, the snap back of his head,
the jarring impact to my knuckles and hand and wrist as I drove him
backwards.  I could imagine the blood, a burst of blood as his lip
punctured, and the cry he would have made as he fell, his hands coming
up to protect himself as I watched him fall back.  I was in trouble
anyway now, so what difference would it have made?

Colin was waiting for an answer.  I said, "He told me to talk to my
union rep."

"Oh."

I rounded on him.  "Is that all you can say?  I'm in the shit and
that's all you've got to say about it?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know, do I?"  I turned away from him, hunching myself up,
because I was so angry; I felt so much anger, and my head was pounding,
and why had I got so drunk this weekend, why did things have to work
out this way, now, when I wasn't in any fit state to cope with it?  I
threw my cigarette down and ground it against the concrete with my
heel.

Colin said, "This isn't my fault."

"I didn't say it was," I said, through gritted teeth, with my back
still to him.  No, if it was anyone's fault it was Sean Metcalfe's.  I
balled my hands into fists.

Colin said, "I wish I'd found you on Friday, told you what Carla
Metcalfe was saying."

That made me laugh, because I'd already known what she was saying, Dave
Short had told me, and had it made the blindest bit of difference to
me?  No, I'd blundered in there, thinking I could sort things out, and
I'd just landed myself even further in the mire.  I said, "It wouldn't
have mattered."

"It might've."

I turned to face him, hoping for sympathy, but the expression on his
face stopped me.  He had told Douglas all these things but he hadn't
even bothered to find me.  He could have phoned me he had always
claimed to be my friend, but what kind of friend wouldn't have warned
me?  He didn't care that I was in trouble.  He was protecting himself
and now he wanted me to say that it was okay.  And it wasn't okay.  I
wasn't going to absolve him of his guilt.  Why should I?  If he had
spoken to me warned me it might have changed things.  I might have
listened more to Dave, I might have realized what was happening.  I
felt a sudden, recWess certainty that Colin could have saved me if he
had wanted to, so why should I forgive him?

I said, "Why didn't you talk to me on Friday, then, if it seems so
vital now?"

He looked stung.  "I did try," he said.  "I couldn't find you."

"I was here.  Most of the afternoon I was at my desk.  You cant've
tried very hard, can you?"

"I tried.  Don't put this on me."

"Why not?  You should've said something to me instead of going running
to Douglas."

He shook his head and threw his cigarette to the ground as he moved
towards the door.  "I don't have to listen to this," he said.  "I
warned you about getting too involved, I said you were getting sucked
into their dispute, but you didn't listen to me, did you?  You think
you know so much more than me.  You think you're the only one who knows
how to do the job.  Go on, admit it, that's right, isn't it?"

"No," I said.  "No, it wasn't like that."

I saw him stepping back towards the door; his fingers closed around the
door handle, and he was half turning as he spoke.  I couldn't hear his
words any more.  He was turning away from me and in a moment he would
be gone.  It was all his fault but he was walking away, like Sean
Metcalfe, like everyone else.  I wanted him to stop, to face me, but he
wasn't listening to me.  I saw his face in profile and all I could feel
was a rush of something, anger, hatred, I didn't know.  I couldn't
breathe.  I saw my hands fly out towards him, felt the rough cloth of
his jacket, felt myself pull against him.  I saw his stagger of
surprise as he twisted towards me, as he fell, his shoulder against the
doorframe.  His hand gripped mine on his arm; I felt the pressure of my
hand on his jacket sleeve, and his hand pushing against my grip.  I
remembered Sean Metcalfe at my elbow; his presence against my arm, and
the contact of his fist against my head.  My hearing seemed to have
faded out; for a moment I heard nothing, then, as my grip broke and I
fell back against the fence, there was the roar of sound again. Traffic
on the main road, Colin yelling, me yelling.  I struck the fence with a
jerk, and I closed my eyes, and I remembered the feel of that first
blow against the back of my head.  I felt my fists making contact with
something solid; I felt the impact all through my hand and along my
arm.  I could feel the energy packed up into my arm as I struck out
again; energy running out along the muscles and through my wrist and
out through my fist and knuckles and into Colin's face.

Colin.  I opened my eyes, dropped my hands.  He was standing in front
of me, clutching one hand over his mouth.  My knuckles hurt.  "Oh, oh
God, Colin, I'm sorry."  I put out my hands to comfort him, to rub out
the fact that I had punched him, to somehow take it back, but he backed
away from me, still clutching his face.

I said, "Colin, I didn't mean that, I'm sorry."

He finally took his hand away.  His lip was swelling up fast.  He
opened his mouth to speak but didn't seem to know what to say.  There
was blood gathering around his top teeth; dark red blood bubbling onto
his lips.  He looked at me, tried to speak again, changed his mind.
Then he turned and went into the building, quickly, and I had to run to
follow him.

"Colin," I cried as I followed him along the corridor.  "Colin, I'm
sorry, I didn't mean that."

He didn't turn to look at me, but hurried on towards the toilets.  I
considered grabbing his arm, forcing him to stop and talk to me, but I
didn't really know what else to say.  I said again, "Colin, I'm so
sorry."

As we were approaching Douglas's door, it opened, and Douglas stepped
into the corridor.  He blocked Colin's path and I stopped behind
them.

"What's all the racket?"  Douglas demanded.

Colin had his hand cupped over his mouth.  When he glanced back at me,
I saw blood spilling onto his chin.  But he said, "Nothing."

"What happened to your lip?"  Then Douglas looked from Colin to me.  He
seemed to be working it out for himself.  He said, "Jo, wait in my
office."

I squeezed past Colin and Douglas and went into

Douglas's office.  Douglas pulled the door shut and I heard the low
murmur of his voice, then Colin's voice, but I couldn't make out the
words.  I went over to Douglas's desk.  There was a pad of paper on it,
and I saw my name written along the top.  I glanced at the door, then
turned the pad towards me.  He must have been making notes during a
phone call, because there were random words written at odd angles
across the paper, some of the words decorated with doodles and
underlinings, as though he'd been colouring while talking.  I saw
'unprofessional' and 'threatening' and "PC Dave Short' and "Danny'
crossed out and replaced with "Sean'.  I turned the pad back to how it
had been before and sank down into a chair.  I felt weak.  My head
pounded.

Finally, Douglas came back into the office and shut the door carefully
behind him.  He sat down in the chair next to me and said, "Did you
just hit Colin?"

"I didn't mean to," I said.  "I don't know what happened."

He looked at me for a long moment, then looked away and said, "Go home,
Jo.  Pack up your stuff and go home."

"Home?"  I said stupidly.

"Yes."  He rubbed his hand over his face, and went over to sit behind
his desk.  "We cant have members of staff hitting other staff.  It's
just not done.  It's not professional.  Go home and cool off."

I stood up slowly.

Then he said, "No, actually, Jo.  Go home and stay there.  You're
suspended."

"Suspended?"  I said, as though I was incapable of anything apart from
repeating the last words he had said.  "You cant just suspend me."

"I can," he said.  "Go home.  I'll make sure your union rep contacts
you there."

I felt that I should say something, anything, to avoid this happening,
but even as I tried to think of something to say, I realized that it
didn't really matter anyway.  The Metcalfes might have had it in for
me, but I had managed to wreck my career all by myself.  I wanted to
laugh, but I didn't think Douglas would get the joke.

As I went to the door, Douglas said, "You know this means you cant go
near the Adams family?"

"Yes," I said.

"Or the Metcalfes?"

"I understand," I said.

He nodded, and that was that.  I went to my desk and collected my
handbag.  I emptied the files out of my briefcase and dumped them in my
in-tray.  I opened my drawers and took out everything I might need
while I was at home.  I was aware that everyone was watching me.  All
business had come to a standstill.  I could see Colin at the far end of
the office, sitting on a desk with the First Aid kit open next to him
as someone dabbed his lip with a lint pad.  I deliberately didn't look
in his direction.  Nobody spoke the entire time I was there the only
noise I could hear was the banging of the items in my drawer as I
collected the things I wanted.  Then I hoisted my handbag onto my
shoulder, picked up my briefcase and swept out of the office and into
the car park.

I didn't look back or even hesitate until I had pulled out of the car
park and was heading up Alfreton Road.  Only when I was out of sight of
the office did I pull into a side road and sit there for a moment.  I
put my head down against the steering wheel and felt the cold plastic
against my forehead, and I wanted to scream out loud but my throat was
already tight with tears.

Twenty-three

bought a large bottle of rum on the way home, but by the time I got
back I realized that I didn't want to drink it.  I put it on the side
in the kitchen, went upstairs and ran myself a hot bath.  I lay in the
water for a long time, trying to wash away the day, but I knew it was a
futile effort.  By the time I was dressed again, in jeans and a
sweater, the familiar feeling of nausea had returned to my stomach.  I
wandered around the house, trying to decide what to do.  Cool off,
Douglas had said.  I felt very cool, very calm, but when I went into
the kitchen the bottle of rum beckoned me again.  I ignored it, went
through to the front room, switched on the TV.

Then I rolled myself a large spliff and smoked it while I rolled the
next one.  Take the edge off the day.  I was considering sparking up
the second spliff when the doorbell rang.

I wasn't sure who I hoped would be on the other side of the door, but I
certainly wasn't expecting Danny Metcalfe.  He didn't have his bike
with him this time, and stood hunched up, half leaning against the door
frame.

"What are you doing here?"  I must have sounded less friendly than I
intended, because he jerked away from the door and looked at me with
surprise.  His face was red; it took me a moment to register that he
had a bruise developing under his left eye.

I said, more gently, "What happened to you?"

He gave a miserable kind of shrug and simply stood there, waiting for a
reaction from me.  I couldn't leave him standing there on the doorstep.
I knew Douglas would go mad, but there was nothing I could do but stand
aside and let Danny into the house.  He came in, hesitantly at first,
but then carried on through into the front room.  He slumped down onto
the sofa and huddled his arms around himself, not looking at me.

I sat down in the armchair, leaned forward, said, "Danny, what's
happened?"  He didn't reply.  I wanted to ask him who had hit him, but
I knew he wouldn't tell me, not yet, so instead I said, "Would you like
a drink?  Some Coke?"

"Yeah," he said.

I went into the kitchen and poured out two glasses of Coke.  When I
returned to the living room, he was still sitting in the same position.
I held out a glass but he made no move to take it, so I put it on the
floor by his feet.

I sat down and waited.

Eventually, he said, "You've been smoking."

He glanced at me then, and there was a little smile on his face.  I
said, "Well5 you know how it is."

"Can I have a cigarette?"

I was about to say no, he was too young, but that playful smile was
still there, so I offered him my packet and said, "I won't tell if you
don't."

He took a cigarette, lit it and smoked it.  He seemed to be thinking
about something.  He wasn't as huddled any more.

I said, "How's your brother these days?"

He shrugged.  He leaned back and blew cigarette smoke up towards the
ceiling.

I waited.

He stubbed out the cigarette and drank some of his Coke.  Then he
looked at me, as if he was expecting questions and was ready now.  I
said, "Who gave you the black eye?"

His hand ran up to it, fingers touching the edges where the swelling
yellowed into a bruise.  "Who d'you think?"  There was something in his
tone -anger, bitterness perhaps.  I didn't supply an answer, so then he
said, "They think they can do what they like.  They think they can get
away with anything 'cos nobody believes me.  Fucking think they own the
street."

"Who?"  I asked.

His expression told me I was stupid for not knowing.  "Gary fucking
Adams," he said.

"Gary Adams hit you?"

I had been careful not to sound as though I didn't believe him, but he
still gave me the same resentful look.  "He said I'd get worse if I
caused any more trouble, but I haven't done nothing.  I cant stop other
people doing stuff, can I?"  I didn't say anything, but it didn't seem
to matter.  A whine had come into his voice and he put a hand up to
cover his eyes, but I didn't think he was crying.  He said, "Everyone
always blames me.  It's not fair."

I wanted to retort that life wasn't fair, that he had done things in
the past so what did he expect?  But he had drawn his knees up towards
his chest, and if he wasn't crying yet he wasn't far off.  He looked so
small; a boy, a child sitting there.  I thought of Gary Adams, a grown
man; I imagined him grabbing hold of Danny, towering over him, having
to reach down to hit him.  My knuckle still ached slightly from its
contact with Colin.  I couldn't imagine ever being angry enough to hit
a child.

I said, "You should tell the police."

He didn't reply, rubbing his fists into his eyes.

I said, "The police would sort Gary Adams out.  More than just a
caution this time."  Then I thought of Katie Adams, alone with those
kids, and how it would be for her, and what Danny's friends would shout
at her.  "It's not right, him hitting you," I said.

He pulled his hands away from his face.  "But you're not gonna tell
them, are you?"

"Why?  Don't you want me to?"

"It'd make it worse."  He looked uncomfortable.  "Don't want them
involved."

There was no more explanation coming.  I considered explaining that I
had a duty to report these things, it was part of my job; but then, I
wasn't even working at the moment.  And how could I explain Danny being
at my house?

I said, "But you cant just let him get away with it."

"He won't," Danny said.  "He'll get his."

There was nothing nasty in his tone; it was a statement of fact.  I
said, "You don't want to make things worse, do you?"

"But he deserves it," he said.  "They all do."

But there was a slight waver, a slight hesitation in his voice.  He
wasn't looking at me again.  I said, "What do they deserve?"  He just
shrugged, so I said, "Danny?"

"I don't know.  Jesus Christ, stop asking so many questions, will
you?"

"But you sounded like you knew."

"No," he said.  "No, I don't."

"So what did you mean?"

He got to his feet, faced me.  "How the fuck am I supposed to know?"  I
stood up, too, and he looked at me, then drew in breath and forced
himself to smile.  "It's just natural justice, isn't it?"  he said.
"What goes around comes around."

It was a strange thing to hear him say, and he didn't seem entirely
comfortable with the words himself.  I had the feeling he was imitating
someone else, putting on a performance for me.  I sat down again,
looked at him standing there, his fists clenched as though it was an
effort to appear relaxed.

"Danny, sit down, won't you?"

He was almost glowing with resentment.

I said, "I don't know why you told me this stuff if you don't want me
to do anything about it."

He still stood there, but I could see he was relaxing.

I said, "Why did you come here?"

He blinked twice, as if snapping out of the act.  Then he sat down
again, said, "But you're not going to say anything, are you?"

I wanted to laugh, because what could I say?  That Danny Metcalfe
believed in natural justice?  That Gary Adams had hit Danny when Danny
would only deny it?  That I had invited Danny into my house?  I said,
"Tell me why you came here."

He just shrugged.

I considered pressing on, asking about Sean, but I didn't think he
would tell me anything.

He was preparing to leave.  I said, "You're not going, are you?"

He nodded.  I was about to ask him if he was sure he would be okay, if
he was sure he didn't want me to phone anyone, when he said, "You're
not going to say anything to anyone."

It wasn't a question.  I said, "Why not?"

"Because there's nothing to tell."  Then he smiled.  I had the strange
sensation that he was imitating someone else again, a threat implicit
in each of his words, each of his movements.  I thought of Sean;

my throat tightened.  Then he said, "Besides, about the dope smoking, I
won't tell if you don't."

Before I could react to that, he had started towards the front door.  I
followed him, caught his arm as he went to open the door.  "You cant
threaten me," I said.

He twisted to release his arm but I gripped it tighter.  He was looking
up at me and for a brief moment I thought he was afraid.  He pulled his
arm free and said, "It wasn't a threat," and the whine was back in his
voice.

I said, "You should watch what you say, then."

I hadn't intended that as a threat, but he seemed to take it that way.
He opened the door and ran outside.

"Danny!"  I called, but he only stopped to undo the latch on my gate.
"Danny, come back here."

He ran out into the street and across to the opposite pavement, where
he stopped to look back at me.  I stepped out onto the path, but I
didn't have my shoes on and the concrete was rough under my feet.

I called out, "Danny, I didn't mean that.  Come back, please."

He hesitated for a moment, but then started to run again.  I stood and
watched him until he was out of sight at the junction with the main
road.  I stood there a while longer, but he didn't reappear.

Back in the front room, I sat for a long time trying to decide what to
do.  I should tell somebody what""" Danny had said, and what Gary Adams
had done.

But who could I tell?  Colin certainly wouldn't want to hear from me,
and Douglas would be angry, and who else was there?  Besides, I could
imagine what they would say if Danny refused to press charges then
nothing could be done, and a vague notion of 'natural justice' didn't
amount to any kind of useful information.  All I would end up doing was
making my own situation worse.

So I smoked the second spliff that had been waiting for me, and rolled
a third.  I sat there and let the haze engulf me, until I was barely
awake.  The TV played out before my eyes but I had no idea what I was
watching.

Later, the phone started to ring.  The rumour-mill grinding on,
spreading the news through the department my situation must have
reached Alex's ears by now.  I let the phone ring on and allowed myself
to sink further towards sleep.

Twenty-four

Morning came too quickly, another dreary day.  I woke with aching
knuckles.  I could remember the impact of my fist against Colin's face,
but it felt a lifetime ago.  I lay on my back, massaging the hard bone
of my knuckle and the soft flesh around it, feeling the ache, thinking
about Colin falling and Gary Adams hitting Danny.  Gary Adams with
knuckles bruised against a child's face.  And Sean -did his hands ache
after he attacked me?  Did he wake the next morning to pain that
reminded him of what he'd done?

It took me a long time to get up.  My throat was sore with the sticky
aftertaste of all the spliff I'd smoked.  I sat on the sofa drinking
tea in front of daytime TV an American chat show discussing kids who
were out of control, in which the kids slouched and grinned and played
up to the camera while the audience shouted abuse.  I imagined Gary
Adams watching the show, smacking his knee with his hand and giving
approval while his kids watched and his wife said nothing.  I imagined
Carla Metcalfe as one of the tattooed mothers on the show, at the end
of her tether.  I imagined Douglas and Colin in the office, and all the
other people at their desks, making their phone calls, writing their
reports, and all the time it was having no impact, it was making no
difference.  The TV audience's bleeped-out insults chiselled further
into my skull.  The whole department would be talking about me by now,
examining and re-evaluating everything I'd ever said and done.  The
Chantelle Wade enquiry would be old news, positively pedestrian in
comparison to this scandal.

I switched off the TV and rattled around the house, waiting for someone
to phone me up, waiting for someone to come knocking at my door, but
nobody did.  They had already decided they knew what they thought.

But I had to talk to someone, I had to find out what was going on.  By
six o'clock I was going stir-crazy, coming down with cabin fever.  Alex
and Simon would be back from work soon; they would know what was being
said, and what I could say or do to save my skin.  Alex knew me so
well, Simon was a union rep they would listen to my side, understand
why this had happened, surely they would?  I had the feeling that if I
didn't get to them soon, if I wasn't there to put my side of the story,
I wouldn't ever be able to correct it, I wouldn't ever be able to
convince anyone of what had really happened.  I could imagine Alex
listening with his usual frown of concentration, and Simon maybe
cracking the odd joke, and everyone realizing that I had been in a
difficult position, I had acted the way anyone would have acted, I had
nothing to worry about.

I made sure my mobile phone was charged and put it in my handbag, then
collected my jacket and headed out to the car.  All the way over to
Alex's house, I ran through what I would say in my head.  They would
understand they were my friends, Alex knew me better than anyone, Simon
was always representing people who'd got themselves into trouble at
work, it went with the territory.  I felt almost calm as I headed up
the path to their front door.

Louise answered the door.  I pushed in past her.  She said, "Uh, Jo,
he's not here,"

"Yes, he is.  I know he is.  You wouldn't be here on your own, would
you?"

She recoiled slightly at my tone but followed me into the front room,
and then into the kitchen-diner.  I headed back into the hall, but she
tried to block my path to the stairs.  I couldn't believe that she was
being so blatant, that she thought she had this much control.

"I told you, he doesn't want to see you," she said.  She had her hand
on the banister, blocking my way.

"He will."

She wasn't going to move.  I looked up the stairs, willing him to
appear at the top, willing him to see what she was doing, what she was
really like.

"Just leave it," she said.  "I'll get him to call you."

But I knew she wouldn't pass on any message.  I tried to push past her,
but she stood firm.  "I want to speak to him now," I said.  She
couldn't stop me -he was my friend, he was still my closest friend, and
I knew he would want to see me.  "It's important," I said, but I knew
she wasn't going to move.

Louise sighed, then leaned in towards me.  "When are you going to get
it into your thick skull that he doesn't want to talk to you?  When are
you going to learn?  He's not interested, he's with me now.  He doesn't
want to talk to you."

"No," I said.  "You've got it all wrong.  I don't want Alex, you're
welcome to him, but he's my friend, and I want to talk to him.  You
cant stop him from talking to me, you cant stop us being friends."

And then there he was, at the top of the stairs, wearing jeans and
buttoning up a shirt, his feet still bare, his hair damp as if he'd
just got out of the shower.  I wanted to run to him, get him between me
and Louise, so that he could see what she was like, that she was
twisting everything, so he could see that I was his friend, not her.
But I just stood there, and I could feel the tears on my cheeks.

As he came down the stairs, he laid a hand on Louise's shoulder.  She
looked up at him.  He said, "It's okay."  She let out a loud huff of
frustration, pushed past me and went into the kitchen-diner.  Alex
watched her go, then signalled that we should go into the front room.

I led the way, and as soon as he had come into the room behind me and
shut the door I turned and said, "You see what she's like, Alex?"

He looked a little taken aback, but he just went and settled himself in
one of the armchairs and said, "I hear you're in trouble?"

The calmness of his tone knocked me off course for a moment, but then I
remembered what I had come to say.  "It wasn't my fault.  Everything
kind of got out of hand.  It's all gone crazy."  I could feel the tears
starting up again, and I tried to fight them back, because I had to be
able to explain this, I had to convince him that I had behaved the way
anyone would have, and that none of this was my fault.

He looked at me for a moment, then turned to a packet of cigarettes on
the table.  He removed two, lit both and handed me one.  I was still
standing, still full of the energy of the moment, but I took a deep
drag of the cigarette and said, "Douglas suspended me."

"Why?"  But he didn't seem very surprised, and I realized that he
already knew, he was just being nice, giving me time to put my side of
the story.  That irritated me.  He had already made up his mind, he had
already held some sort of kangaroo court in my absence and declared me
guilty Christ, he'd probably talked to Louise about it, got her
opinion.

I said, "I lost it for a moment.  I'm stressed, Alex.  I'm not coping
very well.  It's not my fault, it's this -it's since the attack.  I
cant seem to think straight."

He looked at me, as if waiting for more of a reason, as if he'd already
heard and rejected this explanation.

I said, "I didn't mean for things to go this far.  don't know what I'm
supposed to do."

A moment of silence, a moment I'd hoped he would fill with reassurance,
or sympathy, or advice.  His expression didn't change.

"It's not my fault, honestly.  It's things have just got out of
hand."

"What things?"  he asked.

He didn't sound sympathetic.  I wanted to convince him but I didn't
know how, I didn't know what explanation would satisfy him.  I said,
"The Metcalfes.  This case.  I know how it looks, but," and I took a
deep breath, "Sean Metcalfe's the one who attacked me.  His mother's
got it in for me.  They're spreading lies about me, Alex, they're
trying to cause trouble for me, but I don't know why."

"The Metcalfes didn't hit Colin, though, did they?"

"No," I said.  "But it's all part of the same thing, don't you see?"

He frowned.  "I doubt Colin sees it that way."

"No, but it's all linked," I said.  "Carla Metcalfe's hiding Sean.
That's where the trouble's coming from."

He said, "So, tell the police, then."

"I cant.  I mean, I have, but they won't listen to me."

"Is it any wonder?"  He was looking up at me as I strode around the
room, but his face was partly in shadow as the cigarette smoke rose in
front of him and I couldn't make out his expression.  He said, "Look at
yourself, Jo.  You're a mess, you're fried.  You need to calm down.
Sober up."

That stung me.  "I am sober.  And calm."  I wanted to add that it was
only Louise's presence that had stopped me being calm beforehand.  "I'm
very calm, I'm ultra calm.  I'm trying to tell you what's going on."

"I know what's going on," he said.  "You're getting obsessed with this
thing.  You're blowing it up out of all proportion.  You're taking it
out on the wrong people, too.  And now you've got yourself suspended
from work, and I cant say I'm surprised, the way you've been lately."

"No, that's part of all of this," I started to say.

He cut me off.  "You need to worry about yourself before you start
fighting other people's battles for them, Jo."

"But that isn't what this is all about."

He didn't seem to be listening to me.  "You're alienating everyone," he
said.  "People at work, everyone.  Even Colin's saying you've lost the
plot, and he usually leads the Jo Elliott fan club."  He sounded
bitter, and I wondered where that was coming from, but I didn't have
time to think too much about it.  "Even Colin says you went too far
this time."

"It's not like that," I said.  "I haven't done anything wrong."

He just laughed, but there was no kindness in the laugh, none of the
affection I'd been hoping for.  He said, "Done nothing wrong?  You're
lucky Colin isn't pressing charges."

I opened my mouth to respond to that, but didn't know what to say.  I'd
been so sure Alex would understand I'd been so sure he would take my
side, or at the very least listen to me, but he was no better than
anyone else.  I wanted to shout at him, shout that he was being led
astray, that Louise was poisoning his mind against me, that the
gossipers in the department were warping his thinking, that he
shouldn't listen to what everyone else was saying.  But I found I
didn't have the energy to speak.

I sat down in the armchair, and Alex leaned across to me, took my hands
in his and squeezed them.  When he spoke, his voice was very gentle.
"Look, Jo, you've got issues you need to sort out.  You need to get
some distance, deal with this rationally.  You're not making sense at
the moment."

I wanted to tell him that he had to listen, he had to really hear what
I was saying to him.  But my mouth was dry.

He said, "We've known each other for a long time.  I used to think I
knew you really well, but just recently I cant figure you out at all."
Then he stopped, and withdrew his hands from mine.  "I don't think I
want to figure you out, not at the moment, not the way you're behaving.
I hoped we'd always be friends, but it doesn't seem to be working out
that way."  He hesitated again.  I wanted to meet his gaze, but he
wouldn't even look at me.  He said, "I'm with Lou now.  I'm happy.  I
haven't got the emotional energy to deal with all your shit.  I don't
want to deal with it, not any more."

"But you're my friend I started to say.

"I cant cope with it," he went on.  "It's too much."

I suddenly saw.  "This is Louise, isn't it?  She's got it in for me,
Alex.  I don't know why.  I've never done anything to her '

He cut me off.  "This isn't about Louise.  Stop blaming other people.
Face up to yourself."

His voice sounded slightly strangled.  I said, "Help me to do that.
Please, Alex, I need '

"No."  He let out a long breath.  "I cant.  I haven't got the emotional
energy."

That phrase again.  I tried to think what I could say, how I could win
him round, but there was a distance in the way he looked at me; a
coldness.  I didn't know what to do.  I didn't know where to turn to
next.  I got up, in a kind of daze, and walked out of the room and back
to the front door.  Alex followed me I heard him ask me where I was
going, and what I was going to do, but I didn't answer him.  I went
back to my car and got in and drove.  I didn't know where I was going I
didn't even really care that much I just drove.

I was up towards the edge of the city, almost at the motorway, heading
out towards Derbyshire, when my mobile phone rang.  I would have
ignored it but I thought it might be Alex.  I wanted it to be Alex
-apologizing, telling me he had thought again, telling me he knew I
needed him and would I come back and it could just be the two of us,
he'd tell Louise to go, and we could really talk, like we used to.

But it wasn't Alex on the phone.  It was Katie Adams, and as soon as I
heard her voice, the tremble" in her voice, I wanted to break the
connection and switch the phone off.  Then I heard her crying, and I
knew I couldn't hang up on her, not just like that, so I pulled over to
the side of the road, cut my engine and said, "What's wrong?"

She was crying so much it was hard to make out what she was saying.  I
could hear noise in the background: a heavy engine idling, people
shouting, as though she was standing in a busy street.  She was into a
torrent of a tale; I had to listen hard to make anything out.

Finally, I said, "Slow down, slow down.  Did you say your house is on
fire?"  I couldn't understand what she was saying; she wasn't giving
herself time to breathe.  So I said, "Okay, don't worry, I'll be there
in a few minutes."

Driving over there, I started to decipher her words.  Someone had set
her house alight I couldn't work out what she had been saying about her
kids.  And was that heavy vehicle behind her a fire engine?  I wasn't
sure.  I didn't know if she was in the right frame of mind to have
dialled 999.  I pulled over to the side of the road again and rang the
emergency services, but when I gave the address, the woman on the other
end of the line told me that the fire brigade were already there.

It was too much to think this was a coincidence.  I remembered Danny's
comments about natural justice, about Gary Adams 'getting his'.  And
did that mean I could have prevented this?  Did that mean that this was
something else that was my fault?

As I pulled off Alfreton Road and headed towards their street, there
were crowds of people out on the dark pavements; kids drawn in from all
the neighbouring streets, attracted by the fire engines, clusters of
women with their arms folded, a group of young men clutching cans of
Special Brew.  I parked my car at the top of the street and walked down
towards the fire engine outside the Adams' house.  There was still some
smoke drifting out through the front window, through a blackened hole
in the glass.  I could taste the sour edge and my eyes began to smart.
And then Katie Adams was there, throwing herself into my arms, her face
streaked with grime and tears, coughing and sobbing into my chest.  I
gave her the briefest of hugs and then eased her away from me, eased
her snotty face away from my clothes.

I said, "How are the kids?"  and she dissolved into another fit of
sobs.  Before I could read anything into that, I saw Gary Adams
standing on the pavement nearby, holding the baby, Jack at his side.  I
guided Katie back over to him.  He just nodded in acknowledgement.

"What happened?"  I asked him.

"What d'you think happened?  He chucked a fucking petrol bomb through
the window, didn't he?"

"Who?"  I asked.

"Who d'you think?"  Before I could reply to that, he continued, "Hope
they catch the bleeding bogger an' all.  Needs locking up, he does.
Could've killed them all."

Katie Adams let out a wail at that, and Gary put out one arm to comfort
her, still hugging the baby to his chest.  Jack clung to his father's
legs and started to cry too.

I looked back at the house.  One of the firefighters was inside,
examining the buckled window frame, while a couple of others talked to
him through the hole in the glass.  A tapering black scorch mark ran up
the brickwork and licked the glass in the window above.

"Have you got somewhere to stay tonight?"  I asked.

"Yeah," Gary said.  "Cousin up at Strelley."

I nodded, relieved I wouldn't have wanted to sort their accommodation
out when I shouldn't even have been there at all.  I left them to it
and went over to the fire engine.  I showed the nearest firefighter my
Social Services ID card, asked who was in charge and was directed to a
firefighter rolling up one of the hoses.  He was still wearing his
heavy fire suit and boots, but he had taken his helmet off.  I
introduced myself and asked him if he knew what had happened.

"Looks like a petrol bomb.  We'll know once the investigators have
been."

I wanted to ask more, but I wasn't sure that a Social Services ID was
going to get me very far, and besides, I had just seen the police, over
at the far side of the house talking to neighbours.  I watched them for
a moment, but PC Short and PC Andrews weren't among them, so I felt
safe enough to go over and speak to them.

There was aCID man there, standing looking at the mess as if he could
find some answer in the ruins.  I showed my ID card and said, with a
kind of professional disinterest, "I'm the Adams' caseworker.  So, do
we know what happened?"

He shrugged.  "Firebomb, by the sounds of it."

"But you don't know who?"

He was annoyed by that, I could see.  "Give us a chance.  We only just
got here."  Then, as if aware that he sounded rude, or remembering some
policy to cooperate with other agencies, he said, "Have you got any
ideas?  The family got any enemies?"

I was about to give a brief run down on the history of the case when
another police car arrived on the scene, and the detective turned to
greet the officers getting out of the vehicle.  I turned, too, and came
face to face with Dave Short and PC Andrews.

Dave said, "Jo.  What are you doing here?"

"Katie Adams called me."  I waited for him to point out that I was
suspended and shouldn't be having any contact.  I was sure someone
would have told him by now.

But he didn't say that, he just frowned.  "She tell you anything about
what happened?"

"Nothing definite," I said.  I was oddly reluctant to point out that we
probably all knew who was behind this.

He brought the subject up anyway.  "You think it was the Metcalfe kid,
I suppose?"

I wasn't sure which kid he meant, but I didn't want to get pulled into
a discussion so I just shruggecT".  "Could be.  How would I know?"

The detective looked from Dave to me and said, "If you know anything,
you should tell us."

Dave wasn't going to help me out, I could see that, so I said, "Ask PC
Short, he knows as much as I do."  And I turned and walked away, back
to where Katie and Gary Adams were watching.  As I glanced back, I saw
that Dave was talking to the detective.  I could imagine the sorts of
things he would be saying.

When I reached Katie Adams, she said, "Did you tell them who did it?
Did you tell them it was Danny?"

I said, "But do you know it was him?"

"Of course it was him," Gary started to say.  "All the stuff that's
been going on."

I was tempted to ask whether he meant it was revenge for the black eye
he'd given Danny, but I stopped myself.  My head was aching.  "But did
you actually see him?"

"I don't need to have seen," Katie Adams replied.  "Just look at my
house, that's proof enough, isn't it?  Who else would do it?"

I said carefully, "I'm just saying that you have to be sure.  This is
so serious, you have to be absolutely sure."

"We are," Gary said, and it was more a snarl than a statement.  "We
know it was him.  He'll get what he deserves, you watch."

I started to say that retaliation wouldn't solve anything, it would
only make matters worse, but Katie was crying again.  Gary put his arm
around her, hugged her head to his chest and the bundle of baby, and
glared at me.

I got the hint.  I stepped away from them.  My head was spinning a
little, from the smoke or the strain, I couldn't tell.  I wanted to
tell someone that this wasn't Danny, Danny wouldn't do this; but then,
Danny had that edge too, that nasty streak, and how could I be sure?
Danny was the one who disliked Katie Adams so much; Danny was the one
with the black eye..  There was no reason for Sean to be behind this,
not when he was already in so much trouble, not when he was already
supposed to be in hiding.

I was still trying to work it all out when Dave Short and the detective
came over to me.  The detective said, "I think we need a chat, Miss
Elliott."

There wasn't much I could say to get out of it, so I agreed.  We went
over to the low wall at the far end of the street, away from listening
neighbours, and I sat down on the wall while the detective stood facing
me and Dave Short hung around somewhere behind him.  I took out a
cigarette, lit it and then forced a smile onto my face.  "So," I said,
'fire away.  What d'you want to ask?"

The detective was in his forties, I guessed, but had the creased face
of an older man.  He was wearing a brown polyester suit that was
slightly too tight for him, and his hand kept running to his waistline
as if he could smooth away a slight beer gut if he tried often enough.
"So," he said, "PC Short has filled in on the background.  Neighbour
dispute, eh?"

"Yes," I said.  He waited, but I didn't know what else he wanted me to
say.

Finally, he continued.  "You're er, close with the Adams family, that's
right, isn't it?"

"I'm their caseworker," I said.

He ignored that.  "You take a lot of interest in them?"

"I have to," I said.  "It's my job."

"Quite," he said, and smoothed his hand over his stomach once again.
"But you're, er involved?"

I wasn't sure where this was going, but I didn't like it.  "How d'you
mean?"

"There was an incident over the weekend," he said.  "The Metcalfes were
threatened.  Carla and Danny.  By Gary Adams.  Carla Metcalfe seemed to
think you'd put him up to it."

"Oh, that's ridiculous," I said.

"Quite," he agreed, but he wasn't making eye contact with me.  "Now
Gary Adams claims the firebomb was the work of Danny Metcalfe."

I just nodded.

"What do you think?"  he asked.

"I don't know," I said carefully.  "I mean, Danny's a little wild but
he's only twelve.  A petrol bomb I mean, it seems unlikely."

"Petrol bombs are very easy to make," the detective said.  Then he
smiled brightly, but not with his eyes.  "It's just a bottle and a rag,
isn't it?  Find instructions on the Internet easily enough.  Could find
out how to build an atom bomb if you knew where to look.  And kids
these days, they know how to, don't they?"

"I suppose," I said.  "But still '

"Unless," he continued, 'you have any better ideas?"

I opened my mouth to mention Sean Metcalfe, but there was something in
his expression that didn't seem right, that got me worried.  So I said,
"I really don't know.  You're the detective."

He didn't show any offence at that.  "You know the Metcalfes,
though?"

"Yes," I said.

"And it's fair to say you're not on good terms with Carla Metcalfe?"

"I don't see what that's got to do with anything," I said.  He was
frowning, so I added, "I'm a social worker.  We're not always popular
people."

"But you've taken a lot of interest in the Adams family, haven't you?
And their dispute with the Metcalfes?"

"So?"

"That dispute in particular, isn't that right?"

I threw down the butt of my cigarette and ground it under my heel. "I'm
a social worker," I said.  "It's my job to take an interest."

He gave a thin sort of a smile.  "But you've been suspended," he said.
"After Gary Adams and Carla Metcalfe both complained about you."

"And?"

"Well, I know I'd be pissed off if people got me suspended."

That made me laugh.  "Don't be ridiculous," I said.  "I'm a
professional.  I don't take these thing?"  personally."

He gave an apologetic laugh, as if he, too, thought his comment had
been ridiculous.  "So why the interest?  Why are you here now?"

"Katie Adams phoned me.  She was distressed."  "There must be other
workers available?"  "Not any who know her like I do," I said.  "Look,
is there a point to all these questions?  I don't see how this could
possibly be relevant."

The thin-lipped smile again, showing slightly yellow teeth.  "Just
background," he said.  "Helps to build up a picture."  Then he glanced
over to where Dave Short was talking to Gary and Katie Adams.  "That'll
be all for now," he said.  "Why don't you go home?"  It wasn't a
suggestion.  I wanted to refuse, but I couldn't see what that would
achieve.  I got up and walked back towards my car while the detective
crossed over to Dave Short.  I walked quickly along the opposite
pavement before anyone else could collar me.  When I reached my car, a
couple of Danny's friends were circling on their bikes, but they didn't
say anything to me.  I called them over and they circled a little
closer, eyeing me with suspicion.  I said, "Do either of you know where
Danny is?"  "No," they replied, and then they cycled off.  I wasn't
sure that I believed them, but it didn't make any difference.  I hadn't
expected them to tell me anyway.  So, deciding there was no point
wasting my time looking for him, I headed home.

Twenty-five

knew something was up as soon as I opened the front door.  The house
felt wrong, almost in definably the familiarity disturbed.  I could
hear the TV playing, so quietly I could have mistaken it for
next-door's.  I pushed open the living-room door.  Nobody was there,
but I could smell recent cigarettes.  I switched off the TV and stood
listening, but I couldn't hear any sounds.

I advanced further into the room.  There was a glass of Coke half-drunk
on the dining table, and a denim jacket hung on the back of the chair.
I stepped towards the table.  A pair of trainers, old and grubby, on
the carpet.  They were a child's size, a boy's size.

I called out, "Danny?  Are you here?"

No reply.  I went through to the kitchen.  Someone had smashed the pane
of glass in the back door; there were shards of glass all over the
lino, broken as if someone had stepped on them to get into the house. I
felt strangely calm.  ~'

I went back through the living room and into the hall.  At the bottom
of the stairs I called, "Danny?"  again, but there was still no reply.
I wondered whether I should phone someone the police, or the office, or
Carla Metcalfe but I didn't know what I would say, or how I would
explain that he was here.  The silence chilled me.  I went slowly up
the stairs, because what if he wasn't alone, what if he'd brought Sean
with him, into my house?  I gripped the banister hard as I went up,
listening for the sound of someone else's presence, someone waiting for
me, crouching at the top of the stairs.

I went into my bedroom first, but it didn't look as if anything had
been disturbed in there.  In the second bedroom, he had closed the
curtains and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.
The duvet was heaped up, moulded around his shape, and I thought
suddenly of Alex in this room.  I switched on the light, prepared to
remonstrate, prepared to demand that he leave, but he only gave a
slight moan and barely moved at all.  I pulled the duvet away from his
face peaceful, sleeping, a small boy sleeping but there was a smell
rising from him, unpleasantly sweet.  I pulled the duvet off him
completely he shifted and curled in protest but didn't wake.  He was
fully dressed; his sweatshirt had risen up his back, exposing pale skin
and the trace of his spine underneath.  He was hugging my bottle of
rum, the lid off, the contents soaking out across the mattress.  I
pulled back as I recognized the sour smell mixed with the sweetness,
and saw his wet clothes, the wet jeans bunched up around his groin.

I couldn't tell how much of the rum had spilled out onto the bed, but
he had obviously managed to drink a fair amount of it.

I picked up the bottle and stood it on the floor next to the bed.  I
didn't really want to wake him; I didn't want to have to deal with this
but I didn't know what else I could do.  So I shook him, gently, and he
tried to shrug me off.  I hooked my arms under his and tried to lift
him; he was heavier than I expected and struggled against me, eyes
closed.  Then he threw his hands over his face, but whether it was to
protect himself or to block out the light I wasn't sure.  I manoeuvred
him into the bathroom and managed to turn on the shower.  He struggled
slightly as I undressed him, protesting as I reached his underpants.  I
left those on; I didn't know what else to do.  I put his clothes in a
pile on the floor and helped him to get into the bath, and while he
leaned against the tiles I used the shower attachment to rinse him off.
Hose him down.  He was starting to wake up, starting to cry.  When I
got him out of the bath and began to towel him dry he struggled against
me a little, but I could see that he was almost asleep again.  I rubbed
him more roughly, wanting him to wake up, wanting him to understand
what he had made me do; he tried to push away but I persisted, and I
saw his skin turning pink under the effort.  I didn't want to stop; I
kept rubbing, wanting him to feel this, wanting him to remember this.

He started to cry again, but still didn't opWl his eyes fully or look
at me.  And I felt bad and stopped what I was doing; I wrapped the
towel around him more gently, and tried not to look at the raw patches
on his skin where I'd rubbed.  He leaned against me, snivelling; a
snivelling little boy with my arms around him.  So I guided him through
to my bedroom, half-walking, half-stumbling, and I helped him into my
bed and wrapped the duvet around him.  I stood looking at him, so small
curled up in my bed, his face pale except where the bruise under his
eye was slightly green with a yellow edge.  He seemed to be asleep
again before I had even left the room.

I collected up his clothes and the bed covers from the other room and
went downstairs.  I emptied out the pockets of his jeans there was
nothing much in there, just a few sweet wrappers, a couple of pounds in
small change and a scrap of paper with what looked like a mobile phone
number written on it.  I put these things on the kitchen work surface
and loaded everything else into the washing machine.  With luck, I
would be able to get his things dry enough to wear by morning.

Once that was done, I sat down on the sofa.  Danny had left his
cigarettes there, so I took one out of the packet and lit it.  I wasn't
sure what I should do.  I couldn't imagine who I could phone, or what I
could say; how could I explain his being here, passed out in my bed
after drinking my rum?  Whatever I said, Douglas would say it was an
issue, would take it as yet another sign of my un professionalism  Alex
was right about one thing; I had to worry about myself first, get some
distance from this whole situation.  Besides, Danny had come to me, and
that was because he trusted me.  How could I betray that trust?

So I left him where he was and didn't phone anyone.  I fetched a
sleeping bag from the cupboard under the stairs and made up a bed on
the sofa for myself.  I wasn't tired, though; I uncorked a bottle of
red wine and sat drinking in front of the television until gone
midnight, listening out for sounds from upstairs, although I heard
nothing.  I put his clothes out on the radiator to dry and lay down,
not convinced I would be able to sleep.

I did sleep, though.  I slept and dreamed about a dark house, and a
broken window, and the smell of smoke, and flames engulfing me.  I
dreamed about faces looming out at me from the darkness, through the
smoke, and hands against my face, and someone standing over me.

I woke with a jolt.  A shadow across my face.  I sat up quickly, gave a
little cry, saw him standing there, saw Sean in his features.

He laughed.

I rubbed my eyes open.  Danny was standing there.  He had wrapped a
towel under his armpits and around his chest to cover his whole body,
and was holding it up with his fist.

"Christ," I said.  "You gave me a fright."

He laughed again.  "Who'd you think I was, eh?  Jack the Ripper?"  ~"

I sat up awkwardly.  The sleeping bag had twisted around my legs during
the night and I had to kick myself free of it.  "Never mind that," I
said.  "What are you doing here?  Nearly had the fright of my life when
I got in last night."

He ignored that.  The usual resentful scowl had returned to his face.
"What've you done with my clothes?"

"On the radiator," I said, signalling with my hand.  I unzipped the
sleeping bag, stiff from having slept awkwardly, and lit myself an
early morning cigarette.  The clock on the video said just after seven.
Danny stomped past me with his clothes in his hand and went upstairs
again without another word.

But when he came back downstairs a few minutes later, dressed in his
clean clothes, he had obviously decided that he needed to behave
himself.  He sat in the armchair and looked at me and then said, "How
come you didn't phone the police?"

"Doesn't mean I'm not going to.  You seemed to need some sleep before
any of that."

He considered that, frowning, but didn't say anything.  If he
remembered anything about the shower I'd given him, he showed no signs
of it.

I said, "Why did you come here, anyway?"

He just shrugged and looked at me as though I had asked the least
intelligent question I could have thought of.  I wanted to ask him
about the fire at the Adams' house, but I suspected that he would have
been even less tolerant of that question.  He got up out of the
armchair and collected his packet of cigarettes from the mantelpiece
where I'd put them,

took one out and lit it, looking at me with a challenge in his eye as
if he was testing my reaction.  But I had only just put my own
cigarette out, so I didn't really see what I could say.

He was walking around the room while he smoked, looking at all my
things, the way he had the first time he had come to my house.  I
forced a yawn.  "What do you want, Danny?"

He was thinking, I could see it in his eyes.  He went back to the
armchair and sat down, drawing his socked feet under him.  "Why didn't
you call the police?"  he asked.

"I told you," I said.  "I thought you needed sleep."

"Well, I've slept now.  You gonna call them?"

"Do you want me to?"

"You're the one who doesn't want to," he said.

I couldn't read his tone.  "What do you mean by that?"  I asked.

He gave a little smile.  "Did they tell you about the fire?"

"At Mrs.  Adams's house?  Yes.  It was lucky nobody got hurt, it could
have been really dangerous."  I hesitated, but I had to ask.  "Did you
start that?"

"No," he said, but quickly.  "Course not.  Is that what they think?"

"I don't know."  I didn't want to tell him that they had asked me what
I knew, that they'd been so strange towards me.  I thought he would
probably laugh.  I said, "Do you know who started it?"

"That'd be telling, eh?"  ~

I was starting to get impatient.  "This isn't a joke,

Danny.  It's very serious.  Was it you?"  Watching his expression.  "Or
was it Sean?"  His eyes widened for a moment but he hid his expression
quickly.  "It was, wasn't it?  Do you know where Sean is?"

"No," he said, with relief.

"But you've seen him?"

He was calculating as he looked at me and I thought he was going to
find a way not to tell me, but then he said, "Yeah, I saw him, but he's
gone now.  They'll never catch him."

"Where's he gone?"  He just shrugged, but there was something.  I
thought I was starting to be able to read his expressions, and there
was something.  "But you can find out?"  I asked.  Then I realized.
"You've got his mobile phone number, haven't you?"

He looked at me with alarm and his hands ran to his empty pockets.

"It's in the kitchen," I said.

He went into the kitchen, and I heard him scooping up the coins.  Then
he was back, a little more shyly.  "About the window," he said.  "In
the door."

"Yes?"

"I didn't know where else to go.  And you did say I could come back.
I'll pay for it, I swear."  He anticipated my derisive, "How?"  and
said, "I can get the money, no problem."

"What, from Sean?  He's on the run, he won't have money to replace my
glass."

"It'll be okay," he said.  "We're gonna be together, he told me.
Everything'll be great, he's got it all worked out, a place and
everything."

"He told you that?"  I had been about to laugh, but I saw Danny's
expression and he suddenly seemed so young, such a kid.  I said,
"Danny, you cant go on the run with Sean.  They'd catch up with you
eventually, and then what'd happen?"

He shrugged.

I changed tack.  "Tell me about the fire.  Was that what you meant when
you said about natural justice?"

His hand ran to the bruise on his face, but he just shook his head and
said, "Think what you like.  I never started the fire."

"I don't think you did," I said.  "I think it was Sean."

He didn't respond to that.

I said, "People think it was you."

"So?"

"Don't you want to tell them it wasn't?"

He turned and looked at me then, and I realized that he didn't want to
because suspicion would fall on his brother.  I said, "You cant protect
Sean from the things he does, you know.  He's old enough to make his
own decisions, and old enough to take the consequences."

He didn't say anything to that.

"What goes around comes around," I went on.  "That's got to apply to
Sean too, hasn't it?  All the things he's done?"

His whole body seemed to sag at that.  He sat down in the armchair, bit
on his fingernail.  Then he saidT" "He's not so bad, not really."

I wondered whether I should tell Danny that Sean had attacked me,
knocked me unconscious.  I wondered whether Danny would even care I
realized that I didn't want to know.  Instead, I said, "Sean's in
trouble and there's not much you can do about that."

He sighed.  He was twisting the hem of his sweatshirt round in his
fingers, twisting and twisting the material, a frown on his face.  Then
he said, "I'm not like Sean.  I know people think I am.  I know what
people say about me, but I don't want to end up like him."

"Why do you keep getting into trouble, then?"  I asked.  "All this
stuff with Mrs.  Adams you've been involved with that, haven't you?"

"I don't mean to," he said.  I thought he was going to start making
excuses, and maybe he would have, but his hand had run to the bruise
around his eye again and that seemed to have an effect on his mood.
"Sometimes stuff happens," he said.  "Everything gets out of hand, you
know what I mean?"

I felt I should say something about taking responsibility for your own
actions, or thinking before acting, but I couldn't bring myself to say
those words.  I didn't know what else to say, so I just nodded.

He said, "Sometimes one little thing happens and everything goes crazy.
Seems like you should be able to undo stuff, but it doesn't work that
way, does it?"

"No," I said.

"Like Sean.  He doesn't think, he just does stuff, and then he ends up
in a huge mess, and he just leaves it for other people to sort out.  I
don't want to be like that."

"That's a very mature attitude," I said.

He looked at me quickly, as if I'd disappointed him somehow.  After a
moment, he said, "I'm not stupid, you know."

"I know that," I said.  "I can tell."

That seemed to please him.  "Don't get me wrong, I mean, he's my big
brother, you know?  He looks after me, protects me.  But I don't want
to be like him, I wouldn't ever do what he's done, I mean, I'd never He
stopped himself suddenly.

I ignored whatever he had almost said.  "So what do you want to do?"  I
asked.

"Dunno.  Get away.  Live somewhere nice.  Have lots of money."

"Go to college?"

He looked at me as though I was stupid.  "No way.  Boring.  Leave
school as soon as I can."

"And do what?"

He just shrugged.  I knew I should ask him what he was planning to do
now, but I thought I would get the same response.  I knew I should try
to persuade him to go home again, maybe even tell someone what had
happened and where Sean was, but I was reluctant to broach the
subject.

He said suddenly, "Haven't you got to go to work?"

"No," I said.  "Not for a few days.  Do you want something to eat?"

He followed me through into the kitchen.  I put some toast in the
toaster and he fetched the margarine from the fridge while I put the
kettle on.  I was just forming my next question when someone rang the
doorbell.  I glanced at Danny, then went through the living room and
out into the hall.  I opened the door.  PC Short and PC Andrews.

"Sorry to call so early," Dave said.

"That's okay," I said.  I wasn't sure what to do next.  They wanted to
come in, I could see by the way they had angled themselves at the door,
and I knew it would seem odd if I didn't let them in.  But if they
found Danny here what would people think?

"Can we come in?"  Dave asked.

"It's not very convenient," I said.

"We won't be long."  He was trying to look past me.  I realized I had
no choice, so I opened the door wider and led the way through into the
front room.

Danny had closed the kitchen door and was out of sight.  The sleeping
bag was still on the sofa, and the two of them looked at it then at me.
I smiled and said, "I was watching telly till late."  I moved the
sleeping bag onto the floor, looking around surreptitiously to see if
there was anything else that would give away Danny's presence, but I
couldn't see anything.  I sat down quickly.  "What can I do for you?"

Dave Short said, "We're looking for Danny Metcalfe.  He didn't go home
last night."

"Oh," I said, and then I couldn't resist adding, "So you've lost both
Metcalfe boys, have you?  Their mother must be so pleased."

Dave scowled at me and looked around the room, and I wondered whether
he could spot any differences since the last time he was here, whether
he suspected that Danny was hiding behind the kitchen door.

PC Andrews said, "Come on, Jo.  Don't be hostile."

"That's not hostile," I said.  "I can do hostile if you want, but that
wasn't hostile.  Anyway, what am I supposed to do?  According to
everyone it seems like all this is my fault."

"Nobody thinks that."  But Dave's tone was cool and he didn't look
directly at me.  "We know you've been suspended from work.  We've been
told all about it.  I'm sure that'll get sorted out.  We're not
interested in that, we're just looking for Danny."

"Why, so you can accuse him of starting that fire?  I don't believe it
was him."

Dave shrugged.  "Maybe it wasn't.  We won't know until we speak to
him."

PC Andrews said, "Do you know where he is?"

"No."  I wondered whether they could tell that I was lying.  I wasn't
even sure why I was lying.

"Have you seen him since yesterday?"

"No," I said.

Dave was wandering around the room.  He walked through to the back area
and I stood up, unable to stay seated as he got closer to the kitchen.
I could imagine Danny, crouched in there, trying to make himself small
and invisible.

Dave's hand had run to the handle on the kitchen door.  He was looking
closely at me, and so was PC Andrews, and I wondered what they were
thinking, what they thought they could see in my face.

PC Andrews said, "Do you know anything about the fire yesterday?"

"No," I said, still looking at Dave.  "I was asked about it yesterday.
I don't know."

"What about Danny or Sean?"

"I've told you," I said.  "I don't know where they are."

PC Andrews looked at Dave Short, and Dave stepped towards me, gave a
pleasant sort of a smile and said softly, "We're only here to help, Jo.
I'd hate for you to get even more mixed up in all of this."

He seemed to actually think that talking to me that way might have some
sort of an effect.  He hadn't grasped that I had moved beyond all of
that.  I smiled a sweet smile and said, "That's very kind of you, Dave,
but there's really nothing for you to worry about."

He held my gaze for a moment.  "Why do I feel as if you're hiding
something?"

"Hiding something?"  I forced myself to laugh.  "Like what?  I mean,
d'you think I've got the Metcalfe boys tucked away upstairs?"

Dave frowned.  "No," he said.  "Of course not."

They headed back towards the front of the house.  I allowed myself to
breathe again.  When we got to the front door, Dave turned and smiled
at me and said, "I'm not fooled, you know."

"Fooled?"  I said, as innocently as I could.

"I know he's around here somewhere.  I just don't understand why you'd
be protecting a kid when you think his brother attacked you.  It
doesn't make any sense."

"I'm not protecting anyone," I said.  "I'm hardly in a position to do
that these days, am I?"

They looked at each other, but seemed to have nothing further to say. I
opened the front door.  Then PC Andrews said, "Listen, Jo, if you do
see them, please call us.  It'll only make things worse for everyone
the longer this goes on."

I didn't think they believed I would contact them, but I played along
anyway.  "Sure, sure," I said, and gave them an encouraging smile as
they headed down the path.

When they had gone, I lit myself another cigarette.  I was surprised to
find that I was shaking.  I'd never lied to the police before; I wasn't
sure why I had now, but there was no way back.  I couldn't see how I
could extricate myself from this situation.

I went to the kitchen, but Danny wasn't there; he must have slipped out
of the back door.  I had lied to the police, and now I really didn't
know where Danny was.  I wanted to laugh but I thought I might end up
crying instead.  Douglas had told me I needed distance; Alex had said
the same thing.  At that moment, it did feel that I needed distance as
much distance as I could put between myself and Nottingham.  I smoked
the cigarette right down to the filter while I waited for Danny to
return, trying to figure out what I should do next.

Twenty-six

was on the phone to my union rep when Danny returned.  I was standing
cradling the receiver against my shoulder while I folded clothes and
put them in my holdall.  My union rep had phoned up to explain the
definition of Gross Misconduct to me.  Every so often I said, "Uh-huh,"
or "Right," just so she wouldn't feel that she was wasting her
breath.

Danny came strolling into the house through the back door and sat down
on the sofa.  He was crunching his way through the contents of a tube
of Smarties.  When I finally extracted myself from the conversation
with the union rep and hung up, he said, "What you doing?"

He was indicating the holdall.  "Packing," I said.  "Thought a few days
away would do me good."

He frowned, but gave no other response to that news.  Then he said,
"You're suspended from work?"

"Yes," I said, wondering how much more of the conversation with Dave
Short he'd overheard before clearing out of the kitchen.  "Where have
you been?"

"Around."  He pushed some more Smarties into his mouth, then said,
"Police'll be back soon.  With a search warrant."

I was surprised.  "You think so?"

"Yeah."  But he didn't expand on that.  I wondered whether he really
did know, or whether he was just trying to show off.

But I picked up the lacquered box with my stash inside it and put that
in the holdall, just in case.  I put the clothes on top of the box,
then zipped the bag up.  In my handbag, I had an envelope containing my
bank books and cheque books and the credit card I reserved for
household emergencies.  I had about four grand in savings, the cheque
books were pretty new, and if I hammered the credit card creatively I
could get hold of a fair amount of cash.  Surely that was enough to
keep me going, for a while at least?

I made myself a strong mug of coffee and sat in the armchair drinking
it.  Danny had turned on the TV and was channel hopping with the remote
control, crunching his sweets noisily and glancing over at me, as if
waiting for me to comment.  I knew I should phone someone and tell them
that he was here, but I couldn't bring myself to do that.  He would be
okay he would go back to his mum's house once I had left.

I had expected to feel some sort of emotion at the prospect of just
clearing off, even if I was saying it was only for a few days.  But I
felt nothing, except a sort of numb sickness in the lower regions of my
stomach; a sensation I didn't want to find spreading through the rest
of my body.  I remembered Colin's story about the client who ran away,
and I thought of all my clients who had done the same the women who
escaped their husbands, with or without their kids; the teenagers
showing off that they didn't want to be like their parents; the
depressives who escaped into drink, or drugs, or some grand-gestured
attempt at suicide.  I didn't think I could do that.  But escape.  I
could imagine escaping, just turning my back on everyone and
everything, getting into the car and driving away into the horizon.

I drained the last of my coffee and stood up.  "Right," I said.  "I'm
getting out of here.  Time for you to go home, Danny."

He feigned reluctance.  "Can't I come with you?"

"No," I said.  "You've got to go home."

"But if I go back they'll start asking about the fire, and I know they
won't believe me, and I'll get in trouble for something I never did."

"You just have to explain," I said.  "Tell the truth.  The police'll
listen to you if you tell them about Sean."

He ignored that.  "Gary Adams'll be after me again," he said, touching
the bruise on his face and adopting a pitiful expression.  "He'll kill
me if he catches me."

I was pulling on my denim jacket.  I rolled my eyes at him and said,
"Don't be so melodramatic, Danny.  You just have to face this.  It'll
be fine."

His expression changed; irritation, anger, I wasn't sure.  I hoped he
wasn't going to have a tantrum, or start crying.  He said, "Well, I'm
not going back home.  If I cant come with you, I'll phone Sean.  He
said I can go with him."

I looked at him, trying to judge whether he was serious, but I couldn't
tell.  He had his jaw clenched shut, a frown darkening his face.  And
how did I know whether he would really do it?  He was just a kid, after
all, a kid who wanted to get away from his normal life for a while, a
kid who was too stupid to realize what he was saying.  If he did find
Sean, if they did head off together, they wouldn't last five minutes, I
was certain of that.  They'd be picked up in a shopping centre for
loitering with intent, or on a city street for aggressive begging, or
for breaking into a car or a shop or a house.

So I sat down and thought for a moment and said, "Danny, running away
isn't an answer, you know.  You have to sort these things out otherwise
it'll all get worse for you.  As for Sean I had been about to say that
going off with Sean would make them both fugitives, but I realised that
that was a bad choice of words.  Instead, I said, "Being with Sean
wouldn't be much fun, you know.  It might seem like a big adventure to
you now, but running away with Sean would just make everything
worse."

He was silent for a moment, and I thought maybe I'd got through to him.
Then he said, "But you're running away, aren't you?  What's the
difference?"

I rubbed my hand over my eyes and took a deep breath.  "I'm not running
away," I said.  "I'm just golffg away for a few days.  A break.  A
holiday."

"Yeah, right," he said.  "That's what you call it when you've got money
for a hotel.  Still the same thing, isn't it?"

"No," I said.  "Not at all."  I knew there was no point arguing about
it, though, so I continued, "You need to go home, Danny.  Your mum must
be worried sick."

He shrugged; I wasn't sure if he meant that she wouldn't be worried or
that he didn't care if she was.

I said, "If you go with Sean you'll be in danger.  The streets aren't
very nice, you know."

"So let me come with you."

"No."  I picked up my holdall and went to the front door.

He followed me.  "Don't you want to know why Sean's got it in for
you?"

I turned and looked at him.  He had a smile on his face.  I wondered
again whether he knew that Sean had hit me whether he knew how little
it had taken for Sean to hurt me.  But I kept my expression blank and
said, "Grow up, Danny."

He followed me out onto the front path and watched me deadlock the
front door.  I was surprised that it didn't seem to concern him, being
locked out of my house, until I remembered the broken glass in the back
door.

He said, "How d'you think I knew where you lived?"

I ignored him and went down to the car.  He followed me.  I put my
holdall in the boot.  I wanted him to stop talking to me, to leave me
alone; I didn't want him to say any more about his brother.

He said, "Sean said he was going to sort you out."

I stopped with my key in the driver's door.  I wanted to ask when Sean
had said that; before or after he attacked me?  Instead, I said, "This
won't work.  You're not coming with me."

Danny shrugged, fake-casual.  "But if I was you I'd be curious about
why he's been watching the house.  I mean, what if he wanted to
firebomb another place?  Doesn't that scare you?"

"No," I said, and made myself laugh.  "Don't be ridiculous, Danny. Just
go home.  Back to your mum and be grateful that I'm not going to report
you for breaking into my house."

"Report me?  Hah!  After all the things I could say about you?"

He was cocky now, confident.  I gritted my teeth.  "What makes you
think I'd be worried about anything you could say?"

He smiled, showing yellowish teeth.  "I know you smoke ganja," he said.
"I know where your stash is."

I unlocked the driver's door and got in.  But the central locking had
released the other doors, and before I realized what he was doing he
had opened up the passenger door and was sitting next to me.  "Get
out," I said, with as much authority, as much coldness as I could
gather.  mr

"If I went back, I'd get to talk to that PC Short,

wouldn't I?  Wonder what he'd do if I told him you'd lied to him?"

I softened my tone.  "This isn't going to work, Danny.  You cant make
me take you with me."

He leaned back in the seat, crossed his arms over his chest, looked at
me.  But he didn't seem comfortable; he was playing out a role again,
imitating his brother.  Then he said, "What would they all say if they
knew you took my clothes off and put me in the shower?"

I felt a chill run through me, but tried not to show it.  "For Christ's
sake, Danny.  Don't be ridiculous.  Now get out of my car
immediately."

"But what would they say?"  he insisted.  "They wouldn't like it, would
they?  You're not supposed to do stuff like that.  Anything could have
happened."

"Nobody would believe you."

"Yes, they would," he said.  "They told us at school.  Anything like
that, they take it dead seriously."

"Don't be stupid."

He just laughed.  "My mate at school got a teacher sacked by saying he
touched him, you know, down there."

I didn't believe him but how would people react?  I could imagine
Douglas saying they had to be seen to investigate, there was nothing he
could do.  I said, "They'd know you were lying.  Now get out of the
car."

He pretended to be surprised at my anger.  "But I wouldn't be with you
for long," he said.  "All you'd have to do is take me to Sean.  You
could even drop me off nearby, if you wanted.  I wouldn't tell anyone,
honest I wouldn't."

It was a ridiculous suggestion as if I could do anything of the sort. I
could imagine Douglas's reaction if he found out.  And Alex's.  And
Colin's.  And Dave's.  I leaned forward and rested my arms and head on
the steering wheel.  I just wanted Danny to leave me alone I wanted
everyone to leave me alone was that really so much to ask?

I said, "I cant take you to Sean."

"Why not?  Nobody would know."

I thought about Colin betraying me, and Alex and Dave refusing to
listen, and Douglas telling me I needed to sort things out.  I spent my
whole life worrying about people like them, worrying about what they
thought, and they had all betrayed me.  What difference did it make?
Danny was asking me for help.  I'd lost everything by trying to stick
to the rules maybe I should take control?  I could imagine it me and
Danny finding Sean, talking him round, setting things straight.

I heard myself say, "Where is Sean?"

"Skegness."

"That's a long way," I said.  "I hadn't planned on going to the east
coast."

"Well, that's where he is."  Danny waited a moment, then said, "Oh,
come on.  Please."

And if I brought Sean back, got him to admit what had been going on,
would people believe me then?  They would have to understand the
position I'd be in, the trouble that Sean had stirred up.  Would it
still be Gross Misconduct if I brought Sean back?  I could imagine
Douglas saying that he understood, and Colin laughing and telling me to
forget about the punch, and Alex telling me he'd been upset, he hadn't
meant any of it.  I raised my head from the steering wheel and said,
before I could change my mind, "Okay, okay, I'll take you there."

Danny did his seatbelt up quickly, as if afraid I would change my mind
part way there and push him out.  I started the engine without another
word.

We headed out along Gregory Boulevard and up the Mansfield Road, out
through the northern edge of the city.  Danny was very quiet as we
drove, looking out of the window; I wasn't sure whether he was deep in
thought or was trying to avoid reminding me of his presence.

We passed the estates that ring the city, and then we were out between
brown fields.  I saw how dark the sky was, how cold the air was
growing.  It was not the time to be heading towards the coast the
weather forecast had predicted high winds, rain, a drop in
temperature.

Danny glanced across at me a couple of times as the city receded into
the distance.  I ignored him.  Then he said, "I wouldn't have said any
of that stuff, you know.  I wouldn't have dropped you in it."

He sounded boyish again.  There was pleading in his tone; he was
waiting for me to tell him it was okay.  I gripped the steering wheel
hard.  I wasn't sure if I had actually believed he would say those
things but I knew it was possible, and those things would have finished
me.  I forced myself to look across at him and smile and say, "I know.
It's okay."

He watched me for a few more minutes, as if afraid that my expression
would change to anger.  But I wasn't angry, not now that we had left
the city.  The black sky rolled in before us, weighed down by impending
rain, but I could see a hazy sort of horizon across the flat fields,
and that was something.  Back in the city we were hemmed in by red
brick, by a skyline of factories and warehouses and high-rise blocks
until there was no sky to see.  It all seemed so very far away.  I
could imagine just keeping going, never coming back; nobody would miss
me.  I could keep on driving until I merged with the grey blur of the
horizon, until I was just another part of the smudged and hazy
distance.  They would miss Danny, that was true; people would look for
him, would put out reports and print posters with his picture to paste
up at railway stations.  But what was he really leaving behind?  I was
rescuing him, that was all; saving him from the bleak future that his
brother had mapped out for him.  And if by saving him I could save
myself well, Sean owed me that much after everything that had happened.
I felt strangely confident for the first time in a long time, I felt in
control.

Danny said, "Can I put the radio on?"

"Sure," I said, and he leaned down and tuned it in to Radio One.  We
drove on with a soundtrack of something I didn't recognize, garage or
techno or something.  He hummed along and beat out the bass rhythm on
his knees and looked out of the window, and I just kept driving.

The rain started as we reached Newark, and we negotiated our way
through the town with the windscreen wipers battling against the
deluge.  We got onto the A46 towards Lincoln and drove through the
spray of lorries, and I remembered all those holidays I'd had as a kid,
all those wet August days sitting in traffic jams waiting for a glimpse
of the rusty North Sea below an iron sky.

"Do you go to Skeggie a lot?"  I asked Danny.

He nodded.  "Mum's sister's got a caravan at Ingoldmells."

"And that's where we're going?"

"Yeah."  Then he hesitated, and said, "But you won't tell anyone, will
you?"

"No, not if you don't want me to."  We drove in silence for a bit, and
then I said, "Does Sean know we're coming?"

He hesitated again.  "I told him I would."

I nodded.  I had half expected Danny to repeat that I didn't need to
take him all the way, but he didn't say that.  I tried to imagine just
dropping Danny off, and I knew that Danny was right; I did want to know
what had been going on, and why.  I wasn't sure how Sean would take my
arrival, but now that it was going to happen, I realized it didn't
really matter.  He had wanted me to apologize for something he believed
I had done I might not be offering an apology, but bringing his brother
to him had to be worth something.  And even if he was angry, he
wouldn't hit me again, not with Danny there, not as long as Danny
didn't want that.

But how close were they?  Did Danny know everything Sean had done?  Did
Danny know that Sean had hit me?  I didn't want to ask.  I kept quiet,
and kept driving.

When we came into Lincoln, it stopped raining.  The growing distance
from Nottingham was helping me to think more clearly, and I parked the
car near the railway station.

Danny said, "Why have we stopped?"

"I need to get some money.  Anyway, I'm hungry.  Aren't you?"

He scrambled out of the car after me and walked with me into the
shopping area.  It was not very busy, and the sun shone weakly on pools
of water from the recent rain.  Danny waited outside while I went into
the Building Society and withdrew some cash.  I had already decided
that I wouldn't withdraw all of it, not just yet I didn't want to alert
the Building Society to anything odd.  But while I was standing in the
queue waiting, it occurred to me that there was nothing wrong with me
withdrawing all my savings, there was nothing to stop me closing all my
accounts if I wanted to.  It was my money, my life.  The further I got
from Nottingham, the less important everything seemed.  So what if the
department had suspended me?  I didn't want to go back to work anyway,
and it wasn't a crime to walk out on a job, there was nothing that said
I ifad to stay.

So I told the cashier that I wanted to withdraw everything except just
enough to leave the account open.  I had expected her to be surprised,
or to pass comment on what I was going to do with four thousand pounds
in cash, but she didn't say a word, just handed over the form for me to
sign and then counted the money out onto the counter.  She bundled it
up into five-hundred-pound wads, held together with elastic bands, and
gave me an envelope to put the money in.  I stood at the counter
holding that envelope, looking at the boredom on the cashier's face,
and it struck me that all my life I had been working, and saving, and
worrying about money, and in the end it came down to an envelope of
cash and a scale of economy that didn't even raise the interest of the
person handing me the money.  I tucked the envelope into my handbag and
walked out of there feeling almost deflated.

Danny wanted to go to McDonalds for lunch, so I took him.  We sat in
the window of the restaurant looking out at the people milling through
the streets.  I ate my burger and fries, but they tasted like cardboard
to me.  I watched Danny eating and wondered yet again what I thought I
was doing.  There was no magical fix, I knew that.  I was running away,
and it wouldn't solve anything.  I just had to hope that facing Sean
would have an effect, because I couldn't imagine going back to the
situation I had left behind.

Twenty-seven

We reached Skegness in mid-afternoon and I drove through the town
centre to the junction where the clock tower surveyed the promenade.
The fish restaurants and shops selling rock and tourist souvenirs were
open but there weren't many customers.  Across the road, beyond the
shuttered se afront kiosks, the sky was a dirty grey mass of rolling
clouds, imitating the swell and froth of the sea.

"Looks cold for swimming," I said, but Danny didn't laugh.  He had
burrowed down into the seat and drawn his knees up to almost touch his
chin, and he looked around him with a gaze that showed no surprise or
excitement or disappointment.

I turned north.  The road followed the line of the coast for about half
a mile; the amusement arcades were open, soaking up the small number of
visitors, but the Pleasure Beach and the crazy-golf courses were
closed.  A few half-hearted raindrops fell from that heavy sky then
gave up again.

Danny gave me directions in a flattened tone.  He was looking directly
ahead the whole time.  I had no idea what he was thinking.  I wanted to
ask him; I wanted him to tell me without my asking.  I wanted to
reassure him that everything would work out fine, but I didn't know
what he was expecting to happen.

The road turned away from the coast.  The amusement arcades were
replaced by guest houses and blocks of holiday flats, then, gradually,
large mock-Tudor houses that hadn't become hotels, followed by ordinary
housing estates and streets of bungalows with tiny gardens.  I had
expected some nod towards open countryside, but instead the straggles
of housing on the edge of town were interspersed with caravan parks and
sales yards.  We passed Butlin's and Fantasy Island and turned along
Sea Lane towards Ingoldmells village.  The road was fringed with
corrugated buildings hiding behind neon signs: more amusement arcades,
takeaways, pubs, discount clothing stores.  Further up, there were more
bungalows, and the driveways between the bungalows gave access to the
caravan parks behind.

Danny directed me down to the end of the road.  I caught a glimpse of
brown water before the view was blocked.  A moment later, he said,
"Turn off just ahead."

I obeyed.  Sunny Bay Holiday Park.  We drove past the bungalow that
functioned as an office, now closed up, and followed a waterlogged
gravel road along a winding route past rows of static caravans planted
on the grass.

"There," Danny said, and pointed to a caravan parked on a scrap of hard
standing towards the back of the site.  Someone had built a narrow
wooden decking along the side of the caravan but the wood didn't look
as if it had been treated recently, and there was green mould lapping
around the edges of the caravan's roof.

I guided the car across and parked next to the wooden decking.  The
caravan's curtains were drawn; there was no sign of anyone watching our
approach.

"You're sure he's here?"  I asked.

Danny just nodded and got out of the car.  I followed him across to the
steps and up onto the decking.  He seemed a little nervous.  He knocked
lightly on the caravan door, looking round at me as if to check that I
was still there.  I listened but couldn't hear any movement inside.
Danny turned the door handle and pulled the door open.  I followed him
in.

It was gloomy inside the caravan, but the curtains were only thin and
allowed enough light in to see the interior.  It was larger than it
seemed from the outside.  We were standing in a lounge area that
occupied the caravan's nose.  Cushioned benches faced each other across
a melamine table that was attached to the wall below the large front
window.  There was a small portable TV on the table, switched off.  A
kitchen area took up space in the centre of the caravan, and a narrow
corridor led from there into the shadows of the other rooms.

"Sean?"  Danny called, but he kept his voice low.  "Sean, are you
here?"

A noise from down the corridor.  I turned someone coming straight at
me, fast.  I threw myself out of the way, banged heavily into the
table, let out a cry that I stifled immediately.  And there was Sean,
standing in front of the door, as if afraid we would try to escape,
looking at me and Danny, looking at us with an expression that I
couldn't didn't want to interpret.  That face the face I had pictured
for so long, but slightly different, unaltered by my memory.  A thin
sharp face with sickly pale skin, pinkened around the corners of his
mouth by acne, and eyes so dark they reflected.

Sean said, "What's she doing here?"

Danny was behind me, wedged in against the seat as if it could protect
him.  He said, "She gave me a lift."

"You told her where I was?"

"It wasn't like that," Danny said.  There was a little pleading in his
tone.  "How else was I supposed to get here?"

"You could've blagged the train, like I did."

Sean was as tense as Danny, watching me, body primed as if I was going
to attack, or run.  I said, "I won't tell anyone where you are."

He laughed, a sharp burst of laughter.  "Too fucking right you
won't."

There was a feverishness to his movements, to the way he spoke.  Danny
hadn't moved from his position; I realized I'd been relying on him
knowing what to say.  I remembered my plan to persuade Sean to come
back with us and explain what had been happening.  I felt slightly sick
at the thought, but there had to be a way I would find a way, I just
needed time.  I tried to steady my breath, steady my thoughts.

But Sean was thinking, too.  He said, "Sit down, both of you."  It was
a command, not an invitation.

Danny and I sat down, facing each other across the table.  I didn't
look at Sean directly, but angled myself so that I could see him
clearly from the corner of my eye.  Danny sat stiffly upright, looking
at Sean with wide eyes.  Sean was still standing.  He opened his mouth
slightly, as if about to speak, but ran the tip of his tongue quickly
over his lips and then turned away from us for a moment.  Danny lowered
his gaze to the table top.  I waited.  The way Sean was huddled, I had
the impression that he was struggling with how to react, and what to do
next.

Suddenly, Sean laughed to himself, then turned back to face us.  He was
making an effort to seem relaxed.  "Sorry, you threw me there.  Didn't
mean to seem rude.  I wasn't expecting visitors."  Then he added
quickly, "I mean, I was expecting you, Danny, just not so soon, you
know?  I thought you'd take your time getting here, eh, kiddo?"

Danny didn't react; I couldn't tell if he believed Sean.

"Now then," Sean said, all smiles.  "Cuppa tea, anyone?  Jo?"

He was playing the role of the host; I expected his next question to be
about the journey a polite discussion of A-roads and roadworks and
traffic.  But it was a better reaction than we could have got; it was
probably a better reaction than we deserved, arriving unannounced.  I
needed time; he was giving us time, so I forced myself into the role of
guest and said, "That would be lovely, thanks."

"Danny?  I've got some orange."

Danny shook his head.  Unlike his brother, he didn't look relaxed.  I
wondered what sort of welcome he had really been expecting.

Sean went over to the little galley kitchen and filled an aluminium
kettle from the tap.  He turned on the gas and lit it with a match; I
heard the whoomph of flame and the kettle spat for a moment, then all I
could hear was the hiss of burning gas.  I realized that I couldn't
hear any traffic outside, or any sounds at all apart from the
occasional seagull crying in the air.

"It's very quiet here," I said.

Sean glanced at me, a grimace of a smile.  "Yeah," he said.  "Hardly
anyone comes here this time of year.  We shouldn't be disturbed."

I wanted to be appalled at that thought.  I felt I should be.  After
all, I was here with an absconder, a fugitive; he was the man who had
attacked me and fire bombed the Adams' house.  I looked at his back as
he stood waiting for the kettle to boil.  He was skinny, lanky; he
didn't look as if he had any strength at all, but I had felt the power
in his arms, in his body, I had felt that strength.

And what was I doing here, sitting in a caravan with the man who had
attacked me, waiting for a cup of tea when we were so far from help?
And if anything did happen what could I do to prevent it?

I was suddenly aware of how gloomy it was in the caravan.  The blue
flame on the hob seemed to deepen the shadows elsewhere.  I said, "Can
we open the curtains?  It's very dark in here."

I thought Sean would probably say no, he didn't want people to see that
the caravan was occupied, but when he turned again, Danny was already
opening the nearest curtains.  Sean forced a smile and said, "Yeah, why
not, eh?  Open the windows, too, let some fresh air in."

Danny grinned at me, suddenly, as if we had passed some sort of
watershed and he was now iree to relax.  I grinned back.  I didn't
understand whatever Danny had recognized, and I didn't know how to feel
about my uncertainty.  I concentrated on opening the curtains and
winding the mechanisms that released the windows from their catches.
Danny had opened the curtains on the big window that ran the width of
the caravan's nose.  I saw a couple of rows of caravans beyond and then
a concrete wall; I had the impression that the sea was on the other
side of the wall.

Danny said, "Can I go down to the beach?"

He was looking out of the window and I wasn't sure which of us he was
addressing.  I glanced at Sean and caught him looking at me, as if he
wasn't sure either.  Something in his expression held my attention and
I felt a slight chill as our eyes locked.

I said, "It looks like it's about to chuck it down."

"No, go on."  Sean still held my gaze.  "Just don't be too long." Danny
scrambled out from his seat.  Sean said, "And don't go near the water,
eh?"

Danny went out, slamming the door shut behind him.  I broke Sean's gaze
to watch him running towards the concrete wall.  He disappeared from
view behind a caravan, and then his head bobbed past on the other side
of the wall.

"He's a crap swimmer," Sean said.  "Always has been."

I looked back at Sean, but he had turned away to place tea bags in two
mugs on the draining board.  He wrapped a tea towel around the kettle's
handle and poured out the water, turning off the gas with his other
hand.

"Do you take sugar?"  he asked.

"No thanks."

"That's good, 'cos I haven't got any."  And he laughed too hard at his
own joke.

I looked back towards the sea wall but Danny was out of sight.  I
forced myself to take a slow deep breath, concentrating on that grey
sky and the contours of the clouds rolling in from the sea.  Sean was
placing a mug of tea in front of me, and as I turned my movement
brought me close to him; too close.  I was aware of his solid presence;
I could smell the sudden scent of his sweat, and feel the heat rising
from his body.  I jerked back, away from him,

but he was so big above me, I had to fight to hide the jolt of fear.

He didn't seem to notice, just slouched down into the seat opposite me.
I had no choice but to look at him.  His expression was wary but not
hostile, not as far as I could tell.  I tried to remind myself that he
was the one on the run, he was the one who didn't want to be found.  I
was in a strong position he didn't know all the things that had
happened to me, and that nobody would be looking for me.  I could
persuade him to come back with me I just had to work at it.  I just
needed time to think.  It had seemed so easy, coming here with Danny at
my side.  I had thought .. . what had I thought?  That Danny's presence
would be enough to make Sean realize?  It seemed so ridiculous now.  I
looked into Sean's face, hoping I would see whatever I was looking for,
but I couldn't read his expression.  He was a good-looking sort of kid,
I realized; he seemed younger than I remembered, looked younger than
the nineteen years his file listed.  If he found himself some clean
clothes he was the sort that girls would find attractive, in that
listless teenaged way, and older women would like the expression in his
dark eyes.  I had always been a sucker for boys with dark eyes.

I thought he was going to ask me what I was doing here, and I wasn't
sure how I could answer that.  It had seemed logical, driving over
here; as if everything had been leading to me confronting Sean.  But
now that I was here, sitting drinking tea with the seagulls in the
background, I wasn't sure what I had expected to achieve, what
questions I had expected to find answers to.

Sean sat back in his seat and looked out of the window towards the sea
wall.  I wondered whether he was thinking the same as me; wondering
what would happen next.  But all he said was, "Danny's always loved it
here.  I did, too, when I was a kid.  So much space, you know?"

I nodded.

He went on, "I can understand why he wanted to come.  Bet he thinks
this is a holiday, eh?"

He glanced at me this time, as if he really did want to know the
answer.  As if he thought I could explain.  I thought about Danny
slumped in my car as we drove through Skegness.  "I don't know," I
said.

He said, "I don't think he gets it."

I had to say, "But you invited him."

"Yeah, but and he stopped himself.  A more guarded expression was
creeping onto his face.  "Why are you here, anyway?"

He sounded almost angry.  I said, "Danny asked me to drive him here."

"But you didn't have to say yes.  Most people wouldn't have."

"It was better than leaving him to hitch-hike," I said.  I wanted to
add that Sean should have thought about this, he should have realized
what Danny was like, but I didn't say any more.

"You could've just given him the train fare," Sean said.

There was a sulk in his voice now, as if he was blaming me for this, as
if he was blaming me for spoiling his fun.  I wanted to remind him that
he was the one who had told Danny to come, it was hardly my fault if
Danny took him seriously.  I was tempted to explain that I was trying
to help Danny give him the chance to break free, to turn out
differently but I realized that Sean wouldn't understand.

He seemed to be waiting for me to speak.  I wondered what he was
expecting me to say; that I had really come to see him?  That I wanted
him to explain why he had attacked me?  Now I was here, the question
seemed absurd.  All that time in Nottingham, I had allowed myself to
believe that there was some reason, some logic, to his attack on me,
but what if there hadn't been?  What if he didn't have any good reason
for it?  There was a little knot of nausea expanding in my stomach; I
had been through so much, and come all this way, and what if there
really wasn't anything behind it all?  He didn't seem to have thought
through what he would do if Danny came and joined him -was it so hard
to believe that he hadn't thought about anything very much when he
attacked me?  I had wanted there to be a reason of course I had; nobody
would want to feel that something so momentous, something with such a
big impact, had been random, meaningless, motiveless.  But I looked at
Sean, looked at him as he struggled to think, and the whole incident
suddenly seemed so small, so squalid, almost nothing at all.

He said, "I know why you're here."

"I've told you why.  I brought Danny."

He shook his head.  "No, I know why you're really here."

I made myself laugh.  "Oh yes?"

"Yeah," he said.  His eyes had narrowed slightly, and there was a
slight shift, an increased tension in the way he held himself.  I
waited, feeling my heartbeat.  I think I had expected him to mention
the attack; to offer an explanation or to threaten me with more I
wasn't sure which.  But after a moment he simply gave a little smile
and said, "Bet you've told the police where I am, haven't you?  Bet
they're on their way right now, eh?"

There was menace in his tone.  I wished I had told someone where I was
going I wished I had been able to speak to Alex, or Colin, or even Dave
Short, but I knew that none of them would have listened to me.  I was
on my own.  The thought chilled me.  Nobody would come looking for me.
I didn't want to think about what would happen if Sean ever realised
that.

So I said, carefully, "I haven't told them where you are, but they know
where I am.  They'll come and look for me here, in the end."

He hesitated, then said, "Liar."  Before I could work out whether he
meant I was lying about telling them where he was or about them coming
to find me, he said, "Anyway, it don't matter.  They'll never catch
me."

"Everyone gets caught in the end."

"Not everyone," he said.  "Not me.  I'm too clever, aren't I?"

I didn't respond to that.  I didn't trust myself to say anything he
would accept.  He had put one foot on the cushion next to him and was
playing with a small hole in the knee of his tracksuit trousers.  There
was a smile lurking around his lips.  "Me and Danny," he said, 'we're
gonna be all right.  Gonna be smart, the two of us together. Invincible
team.  Never gonna get caught.  You'll see."

That didn't seem worthy of a response.  I looked out of the window,
allowed him to see that I was bored, that he wasn't impressing me with
all his talk.  I wondered whether he was scared of being caught, of
being taken back to Glen Parva.  I wondered whether Danny had thought
about that; whether Danny had considered the reality, and the
situations they would end up in, and how it would be when they finally
were caught.  Sean might be capable of blocking it all out, but I
didn't think it would take Danny long to realize the truth.

Sean was looking at me.  When he was sure he had my attention he said,
"What do you think about me?"

I was surprised.  "Think about you?"  I said.  I wasn't sure how I
could respond to that.  That he was a child, an arrogant little boy in
a young man's body, thinking only about himself, putting his brother in
danger for no good reason?  That he acted without thinking about the
people he affected, or the likely results of his actions?  I remembered
Danny telling me that he didn't want to end up like Sean.  I realized
that I had to take Danny back to Nottingham, no matter what happened. I
couldn't leave him here with Sean.  I realized I should never have
brought him.  I let out a sigh and said, "Sean, why on earth would I
think about you at all?"

I thought he might take offence at that, but he just giggled and said,
"You know why," and pushed his fingers further into the hole in the
knee of his trousers.  "You think about me, I think about you.  It's
all the same."

"No," I said, and then stopped, because what was the point?  He
wouldn't believe me anyway.  I needed air.  I needed to get out of that
caravan, away from him.  I realized I had been wrong about him.  I
already knew all I needed to know there was nothing he could tell me,
nothing that would be worth listening to.  I would fetch Danny and we
would go back to Nottingham together, and maybe people wouldn't even
question where Danny had been or how he had got there.  Sean could stay
in hiding if he wanted to I didn't have the energy to care.

I got up and said, "I'm going for a walk.  I need some air."

He didn't change his expression, and didn't move until I had already
opened the caravan door and was stepping onto the decking.  Then he was
there, right behind me; he clutched my arm and pushed himself up close
to me and said, "Not without me."

I pulled free of his grip.  "Suit yourself."  I shifted my handbag onto
my shoulder and strode towards the concrete wall where Danny had
disappeared, then climbed some metal steps that led over the wall and
onto the path at the top of the sea de fences  Sean kept a couple of
paces behind me.  I followed the path round to a slipway giving access
to the beach.  The wind was picking up and had a wet, icy edge to it; I
wasn't sure if it was rain or seawater.  Sean followed me.  I walked
round the edge of the beach in the shelter of the sea de fences  The
concrete had been cast into a crescent shape so that when I sat down I
had a solid crest of concrete wave breaking at my back and over my
head.  I opened my handbag and took out my cigarettes.  Sean sat down
next to me; I offered him a cigarette, more out of politeness than any
desire to please him.  Sean took it and turned his head away to light
it.

I watched Danny while I smoked.  He was at the water's edge, a long way
off, but I could make out that he was digging a stick into the sand and
then jumping back as the sea surged in around it.  After a moment in
which Sean and I sat in silence, both smoking, Danny saw us and waved.
We waved back.  He stood where he was, looking at the stick and the
sea, as if trying to decide, then he started to walk towards us,
swinging the stick in his hand.

Sean said, "What're you going to do?"

"Go back to Nottingham," I said.  "Take Danny home."

"But what about me?"

"You do what you like," I said.  "I don't care."

"But the police'll find out where I am.  You'll tell them."

He sounded worried, scared even.  I said, "I won't tell them, but
they'll find you soon enough anyway.  You cant hide for ever."

Sean gave no sign that he had heard me.  Danny was approaching and
stopped a few paces away.  He was flushed red by the wind.  Sean raised
his voice.  "I was asking little miss social worker here what she's
going to do next.  She says she's taking you back to Nottingham."

Danny said, "But she cant.  She said she was bringing me to you. That's
what she said."

"Can't trust social workers."  There was mocking in Sean's tone.
"Haven't you figured that out yet, eh, kiddo?"

Danny said nothing, digging the stick into the sand.

Sean continued, "She says she won't tell the police where I am, but I
don't believe her.  I bet she's told them already.  I bet they're
already on their way.  The police'll take me and the social workers'll
get you."

Danny said, "They wouldn't believe her.  They're trying to sack her.
And she lied to the police already, this morning.  I heard her."

"That's not true," I said quickly, and stood up, but Danny backed away
from me.  "Danny, you know we've got to go back, don't you?"

Danny was looking around, as if contemplating running away from me.
"I'm not going back," he said.  Then, accusing, "You said you weren't
going back.  That's why you took all that money out, isn't it?"

"I was wrong," I said, and stepped towards him.

Danny turned and ran towards the slipway off the beach.  I called out,
"Danny, wait," but he didn't.  Before I could run after him, Sean
blocked my path.  I tried to get past him but he pushed me, hard; I
felt a tangle of his feet around mine.  I staggered and fell; Sean was
above me, kicking out at me to keep me down.  I was about to get up,
but then I saw him standing over me and I knew he would hit me
properly, he had no problem with hitting me properly.  I flung my hands
over my head to protect myself.  I thought he was going to kick me
again, but he didn't, and then I heard him laugh, softly.  I stayed
where I was for a moment longer, then I sat up.  The sand was wet and
coated my jeans and one sleeve of my jacket.  I felt bruised around my
elbow and hip.  Sean was approaching Danny, who had stopped at the edge
of the slipway and was looking back at me with surprise.

I thought, he doesn't want to be like Sean.  That gave me some
satisfaction.  I got to my feet and started to brush sand off my jeans
and jacket, but the sand was wet and scraped the skin on my palms.  I
gave up and walked towards Danny and Sean.  Sean was standing over
Danny; I wondered what he had been saying, how nasty he had been to
Danny.  Danny was talking but I couldn't hear his words.

When I reached them, Sean turned to me, smiling.  "Let's go back to the
caravan, shall we?"  he said, and took hold of my arm, loosely.  "We
need to talk."

Danny stayed where he was.  He started to dig the stick into the sand.
I thought about breaking free of Sean's grip it wasn't tight but I
could still feel the impact of his body against mine, and the grit and
damp on my clothes, and my hands stung where I had fallen against the
sand.  I wanted to get away -I could get away, I realized; I could get
to my car and drive away and call the police and they would come and
pick Sean up.  The whole situation could be over within minutes.

When we had crossed the sea de fences and descended the steps back into
the caravan park, Sean's grip around my arm tightened and he turned,
quickly, and pushed me back against the concrete wall.  His weight
pressed against me; I felt the solid wall behind me.  It took me a
moment to understand what he wanted, and in that moment the nausea rose
up through me again.  Then he jerked away from me and I realized he had
my bag gripped in his fist.

"Give that back," I said, stupidly, but he wasn't listening.  He turned
to walk away.  I felt a rage of helplessness, and I remembered hitting
Colin, I remembered that I had hurt Colin.  I reached out, took hold of
Sean's arm, the top of his arm.  The muscles hardened under his jacket.
He swung round, swung his other hand towards my head.  I let go of
him.

"Don't you fucking touch me," he said.

He still had my bag.  His fists were tight.  His whole body was tight.
I wanted to reach out again, challenge him again, but I couldn't stop
myself thinking about his fist against the back of my head, and a
shiver took hold of me, and all that bravery washed right out of me. He
was watching me; something close to contempt came into his expression
and he strode away, back towards the caravan.

I stood there, trying to breathe slowly, trying to calm my thoughts and
my pulse.  I looked around, hoping to see someone, anyone, who could
help me, but all I saw were rows and rows of caravans, as far as the
horizon, all of them empty.  I considered walking to Sea Lane and
finding a phone, but he had my handbag, he had all my money and my car
keys and my mobile phone.  I could imagine him watching me through the
caravan window; if he saw me heading off the site he would leave.  He
would take my money and my car.  He would collect Danny and they would
disappear.

So I took a deep breath and started to walk back to the caravan.  I was
making a show of looking relaxed, but every step shook right through
me, a violent trembling that betrayed me.  I climbed the steps onto the
decking and went into the caravan.  He was sitting at the table looking
inside the envelope of money, fingering the stack of banknotes.  He had
placed a large kitchen knife on the table beside him, blade pointing
towards me as I came through the door.  I stood there, looking at the
knife, at the sharp blade, the clean metal surface and the teeth of the
serrated edge.

He said, "Sit down.  Take your jacket off."

I did, opposite him, trying to seem confident.  He shoved my handbag
across at me.  I looked inside but my car keys, mobile phone and purse
were gone.

He said, "So, been lying to the police, have we?  Been suspended from
work, eh?  Cashed in all your savings?  You've kept this very quiet."

"It's nothing," I said.  "It makes no difference."

"Not what Danny says.  Not what Danny says at all."

"He's a kid," I said.  "He doesn't understand."

Sean just laughed.  The knife wobbled on the table top, tap-tapping in
agreement.  "Here's the situation.  You're going to be a good little
social worker and keep your trap shut.  We're going to stay here, all
three of us, until I figure out a plan.  And you're going to keep Danny
happy.  As far as he's concerned, this is just a weird little holiday
for everyone, right?"

I should have laughed at that, refused, shown him how ridiculous this
was, but there was that knife on the table top, and he seemed so sure
of himself, and I couldn't find the right words.  I cleared my throat,
said, "You're joking."

"No, I'm not."  He sat back, smiled.  "You should be scared of me," he
said.  "You know what I'm capable of."

I forced myself to laugh.  "I'm not scared of you," I said, but I knew
there was a wobble in my voice.  "You're just a kid.  Why should I do
anything you say?"

"I was a kid," he said.  "I'm a grown man now.

A big man."  His hand had run out to touch the handle on the knife.
"You might've been able to ignore me when I was a kid, but you cant
now.  I'm in control.  You have to listen to me.  You have to do what I
say."

"I don't."  I stood up.  "I'm leaving right now.  Give me my car
keys."

"No."

I realized that he was still afraid of me however confident he seemed,
however strong, he was still afraid that I would finish him.  I felt
myself smile and fought the smile back.  If he was afraid then there
was still a chance that I could talk him round.

I said, "Sean, you know this is never going to work.  You cant hide for
ever.  Come back with me.  Help Danny out."

He said, "You have to listen to me now.  Nothing you say counts any
more.  I'm in control of this situation."

"No, you're not," I said.  "This situation's controlling you."  But I
could see that he didn't understand.  "This won't work," I said.

The keys were on the seat next to him.  I reached across, tried to take
them from him; he swung his arm towards me and I felt a hot slash of
pain.  I looked down and saw blood, a deep line of blood across my
forearm.  I expected him to be as surprised as I was, but he had the
knife in his hand and was pointing it at me.

"I told you.  I warned you.  That was your fault."

I looked back at my arm.  The blade had cut through my shirtsleeve, a
quick tear in the fabric.  I rolled my sleeve back and saw the red
streak underneath.  It wasn't a deep cut, but it started to hurt as I
examined it, filling with blood.

I said, "I cant believe you just did that."

"I warned you," he said again.  "You made me do that."  Then he stood
up, blade still pointing at me.  "Sit down."

I did as I was told, seeing that blade so close to me.  I closed my
eyes for a moment, feeling a little sick.

"You asked for that," he said, but he sounded less certain.  He was
looking at my arm, at the blood spreading out from the cut, deep-red
globules of blood.  The knife wavered in his hand.

I said, "There's no need to use that knife.  I'm not going to do
anything."

"I didn't mean to do that."  He sounded a little frightened.  A boy
pretending to be a man.

I felt a knot of anger inside me and fought it back.  I took a deep
breath.  "It's okay," I said.

I didn't think he was going to use the knife again.  He was gripping it
hard, fingers going white from the pressure he was exerting.  I watched
him; the concentration in his expression, his lips pressed too tight
over his clenched jaw, the slight hunch to his shoulders.  The blood on
my arm started to run, dark ribbons of blood spreading out across my
pale flesh.  He said, "Sit still."  He went over to one of the kitchen
cupboards and returned with a plastic box, which he put on the table
and opened.  A First Aid kit.

"Keep your sleeve out of the way," he said.

I did.  I felt a little numb.  The blood was thickening on my skin.  I
found it hard to believe that it was my blood I could see, that he had
actually cut me.  He took hold of my arm with one hand; I jerked away
at the harshness of his grip.

"Hold still," he said.

I did.  He was standing over me, frowning as he looked at the cut.  He
wiped the blood away with a disinfectant pad.  The wound shrank back to
little more than a scratch, then started to fill with blood again.  He
had my blood on his fingers, orange smears across his fingertips; he
left smudges on my arm where he touched me.

"Hold this," he said, and put the fingers of my other hand over a lint
pad he had placed on top of the cut.  I obeyed, feeling the wound
stinging under the slight pressure.  He unwrapped a bandage and started
to wind it around my arm, moving my fingers to hold the bandage in
place on each loop.  He tucked the end of the bandage under and said,
"There.  That'll hold."

He sat down, opposite me, placing the knife carefully on the table top.
It was still close enough for him to grab, but I felt oddly confident
that he wouldn't pick it up again.  I looked at the bandage on my arm.
"Thanks," I said, and then realized how ridiculous that was.  I
hardened my tone.  "You have to give me my car keys."

"No," he said.  Then, "Christ, don't you get it?  Leave if you want to,
I won't stop you, but don't expect me or Danny or your car to still be
here by the time the police arrive."

I should have been tempted by that.  I wanted to leave every part of me
ached to walk away -but I had come here to help Danny.  I remembered my
plan to persuade Sean to return with us and it seemed ludicrous now.  I
could imagine what would happen if I left Danny and Sean alone with my
car and my money a great adventure for them, and what kid wouldn't love
it?  I thought about Danny telling me that he didn't want to end up
like Sean, and I realized that if I left him here he wouldn't have a
chance of turning out any other way.

So I said, "You cant really think it's a good idea to take Danny with
you?"

"It's his choice."  There was a slight sulk in his voice.  "I'm not
gonna tell him he cant come with me."

"Even when it'll get him in trouble?  You cant want him to end up like
you, can you?"

His head jerked up at that.  "Not my fault if he does," he said.
"Anyway, I'm not that bad."

"You're wanted for arson.  I'd say that was pretty bad, wouldn't
you?"

"It wasn't like that," he said.

"It was a petrol bomb," I said.  "What did you expect it to be like?"

"It wasn't like that," he repeated.  The sulk in his voice had grown.
"I made sure they were okay.  Nobody got hurt.  They were asking for
it."

"There were kids in that house," I said.  "How did you know it would be
okay?  Anything could have happened."

"But it didn't, did it?  I made sure.  Anyway, you've seen what that
Gary Adams did to Danny.  A grown man hitting a kid.  I couldn't just
let that go, could I?"

I wanted to push him further, make him understand what he had done,
what could have happened, but I didn't think he would listen.  And the
knife was still close to his hand, and the cut on my arm was throbbing.
I wanted to shake him, make him see the effect he had on other people,
but I knew I couldn't.  He didn't seem to care he didn't seem to even
realize what he had been doing.  I wanted to despise him for the way he
treated other people, the way he had treated me, but I discovered that
I couldn't hate him.  He wasn't even worth that much thought.  The only
person I should be thinking about was Danny, and getting him to come
back to Nottingham with me.

I looked out towards the sea and saw that Danny was coming back to the
caravan.  Sean looked out of the window, too, then said, "Remember,
you're keeping your mouth shut."

I realized that he wasn't sure what I was going to do.  He was
frightened.  It gave me hope he wasn't sure how Danny would react,
whether Danny would stand by him.  I said, "I'm going to take Danny
back to Nottingham."

"No.  Danny can stay with me as long as he likes."

"But what if he wants to come back with me?"

"He won't."  Sean gave a little laugh.  "Why would he go back?  Nothing
there for him."

I was about to say that there was nothing for him if he stayed with
Sean either, but it didn't seem wise.  I watched Danny approaching the
van.  He had his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched; I had the
impression that it was only the rain now coming down that had brought
him back.

Sean said, "So you're going to do like I said?"

I looked at him.  He had picked up the knife again, was playing with
it, as if he had forgotten the threat it had posed.  "For now," I said.
He just nodded.

Twenty-eight

We went out for supper, Sean's largesse coming from the envelope
containing my savings.  Fish, chips and mushy peas at a plastic table
in the window of a take away on Sea Lane.  I ate slowly; all I could
taste was grease, coating the inside of my mouth.  Danny stabbed his
food with his plastic fork, not speaking, not looking at either of us.
Sean was the only one who ate with any appetite, picking up chunks of
fish and stuffing them into his mouth, feeding in soggy chips, his lips
not quite closed as he chewed, eating as if it was a race to finish
first.  His fingers were shiny with grease, coated in the stuff.  As I
watched him rub his hands on a paper napkin, I remembered the feel of
his hands against the cut on my arm, and seeing my blood on his
fingers.  Danny hadn't asked what had happened but I knew he had
spotted the bandage.  I wanted to explain tell him that this was what
his brother was really like, this was why I wanted him to come back
with me.  But I didn't say any of that.

I had been thinking about what I could do once we left the caravan.
Whispering to someone to please call the police, or scribbling a note
on the paper napkin tucked under my polystyrene tray of chips.  I knew
I could just leave walk up Sea Lane, use one of the phone boxes or walk
into an arcade or a cafe, or catch the bus into Skegness and present
myself at the police station.  But actually doing that even if I didn't
know that Sean and Danny would be gone before the police arrived, I
couldn't imagine explaining the situation to anyone.  There was no
explanation that could justify bringing Danny to Ingoldmells.  I wanted
to leave, walk away from it all, but when I looked at Danny and the
frown that was like a scar across his face, I knew I couldn't leave
without him.

It was dark as we walked back to the caravan and the air had thinned
out.  I was cold.  Danny was huddled into his jacket, walking slightly
ahead of me and Sean, kicking the pavement as he went.  Sean gave no
sign of feeling the drop in temperature.  He walked close to me; I
could hear him breathing.

When we got back to the caravan, Danny switched on the portable TV and
fiddled around with the aerial until he got a decent picture.  Sean
filled the kettle to make tea.  I sat down opposite Danny, who had
angled himself to see the TV screen more clearly.

The local news was just finishing, leading into the weather forecast.
Storms, rain, wind.  I shivered at the thought.  "Not the right weather
for the beach, eh?"

Danny glanced across at me but didn't comment or even smile.  I didn't
turn to see Sean's reaction.

I said, "Funny to think of everyone in Nottingham, going about their
daily business."  Danny gave a grunt that I took to be agreement.  Sean
was preparing the tea; I heard the fridge door open.  I said, "What do
you think your friends'll be doing right now, then, Danny?"

He shrugged.  "They'll just be hanging around, I guess."

"Cycling around, eh?"  I said.  "They seem like good mates.  You known
them a long time?"

He was half-watching the programme that had just started vets doing
unpleasant things to small animals but broke his gaze away and said,
"Since always, I suppose."

I gave him a moment to think about that.  Sean was fishing out the tea
bags with a spoon.  I said, "Don't you miss them?  Don't you want to
see them again?"

Sean slammed a mug of tea down in front of me, slopping tea onto the
table.  "We agreed we weren't going to talk about this."

"I was only asking him about his mates.  What's wrong with that?  I was
only wondering whether he was going to miss them.  And what about your
mum, Danny?  Aren't you going to miss her?"

Danny was looking at the screen again, trying to pretend he was
engrossed, but I could tell from the slight frown he was trying to
control that I was having an effect.

"I said shut it," Sean said.

"But I was only asking '

He grabbed my arm, half-pulled me up to standing.  "Get off," I said,
but he didn't let go.

"I need to talk to you," he said.

"So talk," I said, breaking free of his grip and sitting down again.

"Not here.  In the bedroom."

Danny frowned and reached over to turn the TV volume up.  I realized I
wouldn't gain anything by arguing with Sean in front of him, so I stood
up.  I felt oddly confident that I could face Sean alone.  He followed
me down the narrow hallway to the room at the end.  It was a small
bedroom, almost filled by a double bed with a violently flowered
bedspread.  The curtains were drawn.

Sean turned on a lamp.  "Sit down."

He sounded angry.  I sat on the bed, trying to keep my expression
relaxed.  The mattress had lost its shape and gave way beneath me to an
unnerving depth.  At the other end of the caravan, Danny must have
changed TV channels; I heard the sounds of an American cop show
screeching tyres and sirens and snatches of dialogue.  Sean was still
standing.  The dim lighting left most of his upper body in shadow; I
couldn't make out his expression, but I could see that he had the knife
in his hand again.

I said, "You're not going to use that knife."

He gave a little laugh.  "I might."  Then he sat on the bed next to me;
I felt the mattress subside under his weight.  He was very close to me.
"You don't know what I'm going to do."

I forced myself to look at him but I still couldn't read his
expression.  My breath felt very tight in my chest.  "But Danny's only
in the next room," I said.

He didn't reply for a moment, then said, "I know what you're trying to
do.  Danny isn't going to suddenly change his mind about being here
just because you mention his friends."

"I only want to show him what this means," I said.  "He's a kid.  He
doesn't understand."

"He understands more than you think."  He gave another little laugh.
"But that's typical, in tit  You thinking you know best?"

My mouth was very dry.  "Oh, c'mon, you know this is no good for
him."

"Like you care."  But before I could protest that I did care, that I
was concerned, he continued, "I want to know what you're up to.  Why
you're here."

"You know why," I said.  "I brought Danny.  He asked me '

"No," he said.  "That's not the real reason.  You're up to something.
You bring him here and now you want to take him away again?  It don't
make sense.  You're after something."

"I just want what's best for Danny."

He jumped to his feet, a sudden thrust of movement.  I could see his
expression now; the glint of anger, of passion.  "You don't care about
Danny,"

he said.  "You don't care about anyone except yourself."

My heart had started to pound.  I tried to steady myself, but he had
that knife.  I wanted to tell him that he was the one being selfish,
but I could feel the cut on my arm throbbing under the bandage, and how
did I know what he was capable of?  I said softly, "I do care about
Danny.  That's why I want to take him back with me."

"Oh, change the record," he said.  "Danny's not going anywhere with
you."  He strode over to the window, stood there for a moment with his
back to me.  I could see the back of his neck as he looked down at the
knife in his hand.  I could strike him there, a sharp blow on the pale
patch of skin below his hairline, where the nape of his neck dipped. My
breath caught in my throat.  I couldn't move.  Then he turned and came
back to me, stood in front of me, the knife between us.  "Danny doesn't
want you here.  Why don't you just go?  Why do you always hang around
where you're not wanted?"

I was about to respond that I didn't, but he had turned his back on me
again.  He kicked out at the caravan walk I heard the dull thump of his
shoe against the fibreglass.  He kicked it again, harder, as if he
wanted to cause some damage.  I remembered the things Colin had said
about him, when we were sitting in the car together, and I felt an ache
of nostalgia for that moment; two friends sharing things, two friends
who were so close, and Sean had cost me all of that.  Colin had said he
thought

Sean didn't care about anything, but that couldn't be it.  He was
reckless, yes, but he seemed to know what he wanted to happen next.

Sean turned back to face me.  He was a little calmer after that
outburst of energy.  He said, "There's so much I wanted to say to you."
He gave a nervous giggle.  "I've been thinking about it a lot.  What I
was going to say, I mean."  He hesitated, as if expecting me to
comment.  "Oh, c'mon," he urged.  "You must have some reaction to that.
Don't you want to know what I've been planning to say?"

I gave a slow, exaggerated shrug.  "You'll tell me if you want to."

He let out a loud breath of frustration.  "You've got no idea," he
said.  "I've been looking after you and you act like there's nothing He
stopped himself, grinned.  "All the time I was in Glen Parva, I was
thinking about you.  About all the stuff you've done to me."

His voice had a dangerous edge to it, a wild edge.  I remembered Colin
trying to describe Sean's attitude, trying to pin down with words
something that was so so animalistic.  I was very aware of Sean's
movements, of the energy running through his body, of heat and
strength.  I said, "I've done nothing to you '

He cut me off.  "You don't realize what I've done for you," he said.
"You don't seem to realize just how vulnerable a woman on her own
is."

I wanted to tell him not to be so ridiculous, but I couldn't speak.

He said, "Remember that night you woke up hearing noises?  When you got
your wimpy bloke to come running round?  Remember that?"

"That was you," I said, and a chill went through me.

"No.  You should be thanking me.  It's a dangerous neighbourhood round
your way.  I was protecting you."

"Protecting me?"  I said, and then stopped, because I had been about to
demand what kind of protection had led him to attack me, and I didn't
want to hear his excuses.

"I sorted him out.  Stupid little tosser would've been there all night,
messing around with that lock.  A crowbar in the doorframe, that
would've got him in quicker.  That's what I'd've done.  He didn't have
a clue."  He laughed and jerked the knife into the air.  "I sorted him
out."

I tried to take a breath but the air seemed so thin.  I didn't know
what to say.

He said, "You really thought that wimp of a bloke was going to protect
you?  Pathetic.  You need someone like me.  Someone who'll sort out
thieving little bastards.  Someone who'll look after you."

I heard myself say, "Why?"

He was standing a little too close to me.  Then he leaned over me, and
I wanted to back away but there was nowhere to go, and his legs pressed
against my knees, and I would have to fight to get free of him.  I
stayed still, held my breath.

He said, "All the time I was locked up, I was thinking about you.  Had
a lot of time to think, I did.  You know what I was thinking?"

I shook my head, but he wasn't expecting an answer.

"I was thinking about when my dad died and my mum went to pieces, and
how you was there.  You was always there.  Never left us alone."  He
giggled.  "You know, I even convinced myself that it was your fault my
dad died."

I forced myself to laugh, too.  "That's ridiculous."

"Yeah," he said.  "That's what I thought.  But then, he was on his way
to meet you when he died."

I felt a cold chill.  "That's right," I said.  "But he never
arrived."

"That cafe on Denman Street, wasn't it?"

"Yes," I said.  I didn't like the expression on his face, the knowing
smile.  "I waited for three-quarters of an hour, but he never came.  I
saw the ambulance up the road, but I didn't know it was for him."

"No," Sean said.  "Why would you?"

I waited for him to make his point.  I had no idea what he was trying
to say but he snapped the smile off his face and said, "Yeah, so I'm
sat behind my door, thinking about you and my dad, and then I get out,
and I find you're already a mess.  You're nothing special.  I've seen
you, out of your face half the time, stumbling around, fawning all over
blokes that aren't interested.  Fucking pathetic.  I've seen you, so
fucking scared of being alone, hiding away in your house like a few
locks are going to protect you."

He held out the knife so that the tip of the blade touched the collar
of my shirt.  I forced myself to sit completely still.  I held his
gaze; those dark eyes that showed none of the emotion coming through in
his voice.  After a moment he looked away, then lowered the knife.
"Relax," he said.  "I only want to talk."

"So talk," I said, although it was the last thing I wanted.  "You don't
need a knife to get me to listen."

Sean didn't speak for a moment.  I could still hear the TV in the other
room.  I wondered whether Danny had turned the volume up to drown us
out; whether he could hear what was being said.

"You don't listen," Sean said.  "Maybe things would be different if you
did?"

I frowned but said nothing, waiting for him to explain.

"I mean, look at the Adams family.  Fucking appropriate name, that, eh?
They just try to cause trouble for us, and there's you, not even
bothering to listen to our side, just going along with everything they
say.  Never believe us, do you?"

"I don't take sides," I said, but he wasn't listening.

"You've always had it in for me," he said.  "Right from back then.  But
I was only a kid, you know?  It wasn't right, what you did."

I let out a breath.  "What did I do?"

"You know," he said.  "You know what you did."

He turned away from me abruptly.  I had the feeling he'd been building
up to this for a long time I could picture him in Glen Parva, looking
out through a barred window, planning his revenge.  Because that was
what this was the culmination of a plan he'd been thinking about for so
long that now the moment had arrived he didn't know how to finish it
off.

I said, "Look, Sean, this isn't getting us anywhere."

He didn't seem to have heard me.  "Everything's your fault."

"My fault?"  I said.  "I didn't send you to Glen Parva, did I?  Christ,
I haven't had anything to do with you for eight years, how can it be my
fault?"

"You don't get it," he said.  "You haven't been listening.  You told us
everything was going to be fine, and then my dad got killed and nothing
was fine ever again."

I said, "Oh, please.  Your dad dying had nothing to do with me.  His
death was an accident, a hit-and-run if you're going to blame anyone,
blame the driver.  I'm sorry he died, but '

"You're not sorry," he said.  "Suited you just fine.  You wanted Mum to
kick him out anyway."

"That's not true."  But I didn't sound convincing to my own ears.  And
it had solved the problem but I hadn't wanted the man dead, of course I
hadn't.

"He was coming to meet you when it happened," Sean said.  "He'd never
even have been there if it wasn't for you."

"It was just a terrible accident, Sean."

He still had his back to me.  "That's what it's always like with you,
eh?  It's never your fault.  Always going on about how you know best,
and when it all fucked up you just said it wasn't your fault."

I didn't respond.

"And you never even admit it, do you?  Never even fucking apologize, do
you?"

He had swung round to face me.  He was winding himself up to act, I
could see that; winding himself up, and the knife was in his hand.  I
said, "I don't know what you're talking about, really I don't '

But he cut me off.  "You just cant stand to see other people happy, can
you?  You've got to come in and stuff it up for them just to make
yourself feel better.  Just because your own life is so fucking
pathetic.  They'd have been fine if you hadn't come along."

"That's not true."  I had a sudden memory of Carla Metcalfe, sitting
forward on her sofa with her elbows on her knees, hands over her face,
telling me that she couldn't cope, telling me that she wanted to be
away from the boys' father, and how could I help and what could she do
and was it ever going to be okay?  Her whole body had shaken as she
talked; she looked wretched.  I said, "Your mum was scared."

"No, that's not true.  You made all that stuff up.  Our dad was the
best.  He was always good to us, but you just wanted to stuff
everything up for us."

"It wasn't like that," I said.  "Your mum asked for my help.  That's
why I was meeting him, to talk about things and work out what to do to
make things better."

"That's not true.  You're lying."

"No."  I kept my voice calm, tried to seek out eye contact.  "Don't you
remember, Sean?  Your mum was so unhappy.  Can't you remember that?"

He did make eye contact then.  I held his gaze, but I knew I was only
stalling him, delaying his next accusation.  I could see myself
reflected in his eyes -a distorted self in the curve of his iris and I
jerked my gaze away from him.

"Yeah, that's right," he said.  "Twist it all.  It wasn't like that.
Scared now though, aren't you?  Used to think you were so fucking
clever, but you're scared of me now.  You cant get away with those lies
any more.  I'm not a little kid any more.  I'm a grown man.  I'm a
strong man.  I can do you over.  I will if I want to, you cant stop
me."

I tried to seek out eye contact again, but he wouldn't look directly at
me.  His jaw was tense; his whole body was tense.  I realized with a
chill that this was hatred; that he hated me with a passion I couldn't
imagine feeling.  I felt almost dead next to the extremity of his
emotion.

He said, "You get off on all this stuff, don't you?  You just love
stirring it up.  Gives you a kick to interfere with people's lives,
doesn't it?"

"No, of course not."

"You do."  He sounded almost amused.  "This is how you get your kicks,
isn't it?  Getting wrapped up in other people's lives?  Your own life's
so miserable you have to use other people's."

He sat down next to me, grabbed my arm with his left hand, pushed his
body up close to mine.  I felt a sharp pain along the cut on my arm but
said nothing.  He had the knife in his other hand.  "I know why you're
here," he said, and he had dropped his voice slightly, as if he didn't
want Danny to hear this bit.  The knife came closer to my body; I found
myself watching it, watching its slightest movements, as he gripped my
arm harder and said, "You want me, don't you?  That's why you're here.
Don't try to deny it, I've seen the way you look at me.  You want me to
do things to you.  That's right, isn't it?"

I had to struggle to find any voice.  The knife was almost touching my
shirt, almost touching my breast.  "No, that's not it.  Of course not.
I just want to help.  Really, Sean, I'm just here to help."

"Don't deny it," he said.  I looked into his eyes.  He had cruel eyes I
couldn't believe I hadn't noticed it before.  He moved the knife up; I
felt its blade touch the skin on my neck, under my chin.  I jerked
without meaning to; I thought I could feel how sharp the blade was even
with that gentle contact.  He laughed, a quiet, low laugh.  "Don't deny
it," he repeated.

I knew I had to speak.  I spoke very carefully, calmly.  "Sean, I'm not
interested in you.  Nothing would make me interested in you.  I'm only
here because I'm worried about Danny."

"Danny?"  He let out a long breath, and then he pushed me away and was
up on his feet, standing over me, holding the knife out.  "You're
fucking obsessed with Danny.  What are you, some sort of pervert?  You
like little boys, is that it?  Maybe

I should go and talk to Danny, eh?  See what you've been getting up to
with my kid brother, eh?"

"That's not it," I said.  "Honestly."

I didn't know whether he believed me.  I thought about him, outside my
house, watching the things I had been doing, watching the people come
and go from my house.  Then he said, "I'd fucking kill you if anything
happened to Danny."

I held his gaze.  The anger seemed to be subsiding a little.  I said,
"I only want to help.  Like I've said all along.  I just want to see
Danny safe, that's all."

"You don't care about safe," he said.  "You shove kids off to live with
strangers.  What's safe about that?"

I didn't speak.  I felt raw, drained.  I wanted his words to run out; I
wanted him to shut up.  He lowered the knife to his side and went over
to the window again.  This time he parted the curtains and looked out.
I was aware of the sound of the TV once again, and then the bedroom
door opened and Danny stood on the threshold of the room, looking from
me to Sean and back again.

He said, "Sean, there's a film starting."

"Okay."  He seemed a little deflated.  "I'll be along in a minute."

Danny nodded and left the room, leaving the door ajar.  I looked at
Sean.  He said, "Danny never heard none of that.  He knows better than
to listen."  I thought he was going to say more, return to the things
he had been saying before, but his shoulders had dropped a little.  I
wasn't sure whether he was trying to convince me or himself about what
Danny had overheard.  Either way, his anger seemed to have
dissipated.

I said, "I'd appreciate it if you'd put that knife away."

He looked at me, then down at the knife.  "Whatever," he said.  Then he
added, "You sleep in here tonight.  Me and Danny'll take the fold-down
in the living room."

"Fine," I said.

He went back up the hallway to the other room.  I went to the bedroom
door.  I heard the sound of a muffled conversation but I couldn't make
out the words.  I closed the door but there was no lock.  I looked
around for something to move in front of it but every item of furniture
was screwed to the walls so I jammed a couple of towels under the door
in the hope that that would at least slow down anyone coming in.

Then I sat down on the bed again.  My head was thumping; my chest hurt.
A sickening trembling took hold of my body.  I lowered my face into my
hands and tried to think, but all I could feel was the nausea rising up
through me.  I could see him standing over me still, as if his presence
hadn't yet left the room.  I didn't know if he would have used the
knife I didn't know how far he would have gone, and that thought stayed
with me.

I sat without moving for a long time perhaps an hour, perhaps longer.
Occasionally, I heard voices from further down the caravan; once, I
thought I

heard a car coming across the caravan park and I looked out of the
window into the darkness, hoping to see people, but there was nothing
but that black void of night.  I couldn't even see any stars.  I was
overwhelmed by the thought that nobody knew where I was, and nobody
would be looking for me.

I went to the bedroom door and opened it a crack.  I could see a little
way into the living room at the other end of the caravan.  The table
and benches had been converted into a bed; I heard murmured
conversation, and then Sean came into view, dressed only in boxer
shorts, smoking a cigarette.  I shut the door again.  I wasn't sure if
he had seen me.

My holdall with clean clothes was still in the boot of my car.  I took
off my shoes and socks but got into bed wearing everything else; I
didn't want to strip down any further.  I lay under the duvet, sinking
into the middle of the mattress, but although I was tired I knew sleep
would be a long time coming.  I thought again about my holdall; there
was the little box of gear inside it, and a spliff would have knocked
me right out, but there was nothing I could do about that.  I turned
off the lamp and lay there in the darkness, willing myself to sleep,
but my mind would not rest.  I couldn't fix my thoughts clearly; I
couldn't see how this situation was going to be resolved.

At some point, I heard movement at the other end of the caravan.  I lay
completely still, trying to listen for more, trying to work out if the
sounds were drawing closer to the bedroom, but I couldn't tell.

I heard the flare of a match and smelled cigarette smoke.  Then I heard
slight creaks as Sean it had to be Sean moved around in the hallway.  I
wondered whether he was having the same problems as me finding sleep. I
expected him to push open the bedroom door, to at least check whether I
was awake, but he didn't.  When I finally drifted into sleep, it was
with the impression of him on the other side of that door, waiting for
sleep to overtake him.

Twenty-nine

When I woke, Sean was standing in the doorway, watching me.  I wasn't
sure if his arrival had woken me, or if he had been standing there for
a while, watching me sleep I didn't want to know.  I drew the bed
covers up to my chin and frowned at him, but he made no move to
leave.

"Where's Danny?"  I asked.

"Out.  Sent him to buy a paper."  He approached the bed and I gripped
the covers tighter.  He said, "I wanted to check you remembered what we
agreed yesterday."

"Which bit?"

"The bit about keeping your mouth shut."

There was a decisive edge to his voice; he must have come up with a
plan during the night, but I didn't bother asking what it was.  My own
plan seemed so inadequate he was never going to agree to come back with
me.  Part of me had been expecting to wake to find both of them gone,
along with my car and all of my money.  I knew I should be relieved
that they were still here, that I still had a chance; I couldn't
imagine what I would have done if they had left me.

Sean said, "Let's give Danny a really nice day, eh?"

"Why?"  I asked.  "Do you think it's going to be the last one?"

His face screwed up.  "Oh, don't start that again.  You never fucking
shut up, do you?  You're going to keep your trap shut all day today,
that's all you need to know."

"I just don't want Danny to end up in trouble," I said.  "You can
understand that, cant you?"

"You brought him here," Sean said.  "If he wants to stay with me that's
his choice."

"You cant stop him coming back with me."  But the words struck me as
absurd even as I said them, because he obviously could.

He didn't point that out, just said, "I don't have to stop him.  He
don't want to go with you.  Now get up.  We're going in a bit."

He left me alone.  I sat up and straightened my clothes as best as I
could, but they had that warm, stale feeling from having been slept in.
When I went through to the other room, Danny had returned and Sean was
sitting at the table reading the front page story in the Mirror.  He
put the paper down and said, "Let's go, then.  I'll drive."

Danny didn't comment on the fact that Sean had my keys and was driving
my car.  Danny didn't comment about anything, just got into the back of
the car and sat there leaning forward between the two front seats,
elbows wedged, resting his chin on his hands.

In Skegness, we played the arcade games for a couple of hours; me with
a plastic cup of two-pence pieces, working the Penny Falls, while Sean
and Danny blasted aliens and drove fast cars round pixel lated racing
circuits.  I got bored quickly.  I leaned against a fruit machine to
watch them; two dark figures in a gloomy room, huddled side by side in
front of a bright screen that cast bluish light across their faces and
hands.  Sean and Danny were laughing as they played, elbowing each
other, hammering the buttons.  They wouldn't have noticed if I had left
them to it.

I remembered the brief plan I'd thought about in the night whisper to
someone, get them to call the police, stand by while they took Sean
away.  I could imagine it happening: darkly-clad figures swarming
through the arcade, surrounding the boys as they giggled and jostled at
the game controls, and Danny's distress as they took hold of Sean, and
Sean turning to stare at me as they handcuffed him.  I could imagine
the look on Sean's face; that absolute hatred.  He had said I would
betray him -but Danny didn't think I would.  I could imagine the police
taking Sean outside to a waiting car, and Danny standing there on the
pavement, trying to stop them, pleading with them, maybe even crying.
They would ignore him, and what could I do about that?  Danny trusted
me.  I didn't want him to turn against me; he was a good kid, a nice
kid.  He would see sense, if I kept talking to him.

They abandoned the video games and moved over to play Air Hockey,
sliding the plastic puck backwards and forwards across the
air-cushioned table, laughing at each near-goal, cheering when they
scored.  I went over to watch; Danny didn't react to my presence, but
the scowl returned to Sean's face.

"Let's have a go," I said.

The air supply to the table cut out.  Sean flung the puck at me and
said, "Go on then."  He seemed angry at my intervention, but I didn't
let that worry me.  Danny was crouching down at the side of the table,
feeding in coins to start the game again, and didn't seem to notice
Sean's change of mood.  When the game started up, I knocked the puck
down towards Danny and he slammed it back, sending it bouncing off the
sides of the table.  The game was fast.  Danny played with a frown of
concentration that soon changed into a smile at how feeble my returns
were.  When he scored his first goal he gave a whoop and laughed and
looked at me.  I laughed, too.  I knocked the puck back to him and he
hit it back and scored again.  Sean was hanging back, watching us; I
was aware of him standing there, a rigid expression on his face.  I
tried to ignore him, tried to concentrate on the game, but I could
sense the hostility coming off him.

When the air cut out and Danny was celebrating his victory, Sean came
closer and said, "Right, let's really thrash her, eh?"

Danny stood back as Sean put some more coins into the machine.  He took
off his jacket and stood there in his T-shirt.  He meant business.  We
faced each other across the length of the table.  He had a nasty smile
on his face as he held my gaze for a moment before launching the puck
with a vicious hit.  I knocked the puck back and it skidded past his
hand and into his goal.

"One nil."  I couldn't keep the glee from my voice.

Danny laughed.  "Go, Jo."

Sean glared at Danny but Danny didn't notice.  He sent the puck down
the table again and I knocked it back; it went backwards and forwards
for a while, a click-click as we knocked it along the table.  Sean's
face screwed up in concentration; I realized that he was determined to
beat me, that he wanted to humiliate me.  I fixed a relaxed smile onto
my face and made a show of how easy it was to play.  Danny stood beside
the table, laughing and commenting at each near-goal.  I scored again.
Sean roared and whacked the puck with all the strength he could find.
It flew down the table but rebounded harmlessly off the end wall.

I made myself laugh and said, "You'll have to do better than that,
Sean."

Danny was hopping from foot to foot, clapping his hands together,
laughing as he watched the puck.  Sean's expression darkened; he
punched out at the puck as it reached him and it flew up from the
surface of the table and bounced off onto the carpet.

"Oh, good one," I said.

His hands curled into fists; I could see the tension in his upper arms.
I fetched the puck and knocked it down to him; he knocked it back with
such ferocity that I had to lift my hands off the table and step back.
The puck hit the end of the table and bounced into the slot of goal,
then bounced out again.

"Hah!"  Sean said.  "Take that!"

Danny stopped laughing.

I knocked the puck to Sean and he sent it back with the same force, and
again I pulled my hands out of the way, and again he scored.  Sean
said, "Oh, and see the master play!  He's unstoppable.  He's thrashing
the opposition."

"In your dreams," I said, and hit the puck at him but didn't score.

The puck came at me again, bouncing up against the end of the table.  I
had to jump away to avoid being hit.  Sean laughed, an angry laugh.  He
didn't seem to notice that Danny wasn't cheering any more but was
standing watching, a frown growing across his face as he looked at
Sean.

Sean scored again.  My hand hurt from contact with the puck.  Sean
said, "And there's no stopping him now.  What a game from the young
Nottingham player.  He's tearing the opposition apart.  He's
pulverizing her.  He's smashing her completely.  And what a
humiliation, how will she ever live this down?"

I looked over to see Danny's reaction.  He was huddling into himself,
watching Sean but saying nothing.  I forced myself to relax, to keep a
smile on my face as if I was enjoying the game.  Sean didn't seem to be
aware of Danny's reaction.  When the time ran out and the jets of air
on the table cut off, he went straight to Danny, hand up for a
high-five.  Danny just gave a weak smile, still huddled.

"What's up with you?"  Sean demanded.  "Didn't you see that?  That was
class, that was.  I pulverized her."

"Yeah, I saw," Danny said, and looked at me.

I seized the opportunity.  "Let's get something to eat," I said, and
linked my arm with Danny's.  "What d'you want?"

He wanted burger and chips.  We crossed the coastal road towards the
Pleasure Beach and went to a cafe at the back of one of the arcades.
The woman behind the counter took our order then slouched over to the
fryers to refry some chips.  We found a table near the back of the
cafe, away from the arcade where a handful of old people were feeding
their pensions into the fruit machines.

Sean was sulking a little, one foot up on the bench beside him, playing
with his shoelaces with one hand.  He wouldn't look at either me or
Danny.  I ignored him, listening to Danny tell me about a trip to
Skeggie in the past, and how going on the rides after a cheeseburger
had nearly made him throw up.

"Well, no rides after this, then," I said.

Sean said, "They're all closed, anyway."

Danny frowned.  I said, "What would you like to do next, then,
Danny?"

"Buy a gun," Danny said.  "Kyle's got one.  It shoots pellets.  It's
cool."

"Who's Kyle?"  I asked.

"I met him on the beach."

Sean said, "What did you tell him about us?"

Danny seemed surprised by the ferocity of Sean's tone, and hesitated
before saying, "Nothing."

"You did, didn't you?  You were fucking stupid enough to tell him who
we are."

"I didn't," Danny said.  "Honest, Sean, I never."

I thought Sean was going to say more, but the woman was bringing our
tray of burgers and chips to the table and he just shut his mouth and
looked away, arms folded across his chest.  I thanked the woman and she
gave me the sort of conspiratorial look that said she had teenaged boys
herself and could see what was going on.  I smiled back at her,
wondering what she thought that I was their mother?  Did I really look
that old?  I shared out the food.  The burgers were burned around the
edges and the bread rolls were a little stale, but nobody commented on
that.  Nobody said anything at all as we ate.

When Danny had finished, he looked at Sean.  "Can I have some money for
the machines?"

Sean sighed, but reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of
coins.  Danny cupped his hands and Sean dropped the money in.  "Don't
spend it all at once," he said.

Danny smiled, back to his old self again, and headed off to explore the
games.

I said, "You were a bit harsh on him before."

"You can shut up," he replied.  "Playing up to him.  I know what you're
doing.  Makes me sick."

"You said to make sure he enjoys himself.  I'm only doing like you
asked."

He dismissed that with a wave of his hand.  He lit himself a cigarette
but didn't offer me one.  "Pretending like you care about his holidays
in Skeggie," he said.  "You don't give a shit."

"Of course I do," I said.

He didn't seem to have heard me.  "We used to come here with Mum and
Dad, but he don't remember that.  He hasn't got a clue."  He sounded
resentful.

I said, "It's hardly Danny's fault if he cant remember, is it?"

"No," he said.  "It's yours."

"Oh, not this again."  I let out a long sigh.  "I don't know why you
keep saying this.  What happened then has nothing to do with me."
Before he could launch into another diatribe about how everything was
my fault, I added, "Frankly, I'm not interested in your paranoid little
fantasies.  I'm just worried about Danny, that's all."

"Yeah, yeah," he said.  I thought he was going to say more than that
get back into the discussion we'd started in the caravan but he just
spat out a derisive sort of laugh and looked away, across the arcade to
where Danny bashed the controls on a machine.  We sat in silence for a
while, then Sean said, "You lot are never going to give him a
chance."

I wanted to tell him that it wasn't true, but I knew he wouldn't
listen.

He said, "You're all the same.  Coppers, magistrates, everyone.  You
think it's all so easy, like stuff'll just work out if you keep your
head down, but it ent true, is it?  You keep your head down, you just
get walked all over."

"That's a very negative view," I said.

"Yeah, but it's true, though."

I wasn't sure if he wanted me to disagree, or even to agree, but I
didn't want to get into any meaningless discussions.  I wanted to shake
him, tell him things were never that bad, there were always choices,
but I couldn't summon the energy.  I was tired; my head was pounding, a
hangover without the booze.  I kept watching Danny, not wanting to meet
Sean's gaze.

Sean said, "Dad used to bring us to this arcade.  I'd forgotten.  Used
to give us a couple of quid's worth of two pees each and money for
ice-cream and leave us here half the afternoon.  Dunno where he went
-the pub or the bookie's, I suppose.  Danny was only about four.  Mum
used to go mad about it."

I nodded, but didn't comment.

"But Dad was a laugh," he said defiantly, as if I'd criticized him. "He
always had a joke and he always had time for us.  All that other stuff,
it's just exaggeration."

Again, I didn't speak.  He didn't seem to notice, though, just kept
watching Danny.  "He was always buying us stuff, too.  One time he
bought me a glider,

just one of them little polystyrene things where you have to slot the
wings through the body.  I loved that glider but it broke, one of the
wing tips snapped off.  Dad fixed it with Sellotape, but then one wing
was heavier than the other so he had to put Sellotape on the other wing
to balance it out, and then on the tail fin to stop it nose-diving, and
then on the nose to keep it level."  He laughed softly to himself.  "In
the end, there was more Sellotape than polystyrene.  He should've just
bought me another one, they were dead cheap things really."

He glanced across at me then, an anxious glance, as if he wanted me to
be as amused by this memory as he was.  I smiled, nodded my head to
show I appreciated the story.

His expression darkened.  "Oh, what's the point?"  he said.  "Mum never
mentions him and Danny don't even remember him."

He wanted me to respond, I could see that.  I was surprised by how
desperate he seemed.  I said, "People cope with bereavement in
different ways.  Just because your mum doesn't mention him doesn't mean
she's forgotten all about him."

He spat out a laugh.  "Like you even care.  Bet you were relieved when
he died.  One less thing for you to worry about."

"That's not true I started, but then I couldn't be bothered to
continue.  I had been about to trot out a few platitudes, but I
realized there was no point.  He wanted me to make everything right; he
wanted me to fix something that nobody could mend.  He wanted me to
take the blame for something that was none of my doing, and I would
never do that.  I thought about the number of cases I'd dealt with over
the years.  There was no reason why I should have any answers, any
explanations there was no reason for me to fill up my memory with the
details and intricacies of other people's lives.  Christ, I had enough
trouble just dealing with my own; I had no intention of taking on
responsibility for whatever had happened to Sean.  He was the one who
insisted that this was my responsibility, but he was just a kid, so why
was I paying him any attention?  He was just a selfish little boy who
liked to hit out at the big wide world for the wrongs he thought had
been done to him, and why should I play along?  As I watched Danny on
the machines, so involved in what he was doing, I could feel Sean's
gaze on my face but I didn't look at him.  I just hoped he couldn't
read my thoughts in my expression.

Danny had finished his game and stood for a moment considering whether
to put another coin in and have another go.  Then he slumped his
shoulders and came back to us and sat down.

I said, "What d'you want to do now?"

He shrugged.

Sean said, "Let's go for a walk along the sea-front."

Danny seemed about as enthusiastic as me at the prospect of spending
time outside.  But we all dutifully went out onto the promenade and
stood by the low sea wall, feeling the chill of rain in the wind. Danny
stood close to me, hands deep in his pockets, jaw set firm, gazing out
to the cold mass of the sea.  The beach was deserted; an exposed strip
of sand that had taken on the consistency of mud where the water lay in
pools.  I wondered what Danny was thinking; whether he regretted being
here yet.

Sean said, "I guess it's too cold for the donkeys to be out, eh?"
Neither Danny nor I answered him.  He walked away, further along the
promenade towards the huddle of closed-up kiosks near the entrance to
the beach.  Danny and I trailed along behind him.  Sean forced
cheerfulness into his voice and said, "Remember when Mum and Dad used
to bring us to see the donkeys, Danny?  You used to love it.  You
always had a favourite.  Lightning, I think it was called.  You always
wanted to ride on Lightning, even if we had to wait 'cos someone else
was on that animal.  Remember that?  Dad used to pretend you were a
cowboy."

"I don't remember," Danny said.  He sounded sullen, shivering into the
collar of his jacket.

Sean stopped and looked at him, but didn't say any more.  I could see
that he was disappointed.  Danny just looked miserable.

I said, "How about we go and see about that pellet gun, then, Danny?"

Danny smiled, but Sean glared at me.  I counted that as a success.

Thirty

The gun was a cheap plastic toy on sale in one of the tourist shops
near the clock tower.  Beyond the racks of T-shirts and baskets of
flip-flops and sunglasses, there were shelves of novelties decorated
with badly drawn cartoons and explicit jokes, and, on the floor,
shallow boxes of toys in blister packs with most of the information in
Japanese or Korean.  I couldn't tell which.  We were the only
customers; the salesperson loitered near us, as if afraid we would
leave without buying anything.

Back at the caravan, Sean and Danny sat with heads close together,
examining the pellets that had been included in the blister pack.  I
held the toy gun in my hands.  It was light and fairly crudely made
from moulded plastic pieces shaded various tones of grey and black.
Close up, it looked plastic, but I held it away from me and squinted at
it, and in the gloom of the caravan and with my eyes slightly out of
focus, it could almost pass for real.  I said, "This'd look real from a
distance."  "Don't be daft."  But Danny was grinning.

Sean laughed, "Anyone can see it's a toy."

Danny's expression dropped.  He looked up at Sean, so close to him, but
Sean didn't notice.  I said, "Not from a distance, though."

"Only from so far away that you couldn't even see it, you mean."

Danny let out a little cry of protest and pulled away from Sean.  He
came over to me and stood there, looking at the toy gun in my hands.
Sean glared at me, as if this was my fault; I met his look and felt our
gazes lock.  I could imagine the gun having a different weight, a
different feel cold, heavy, metallic.  I could imagine raising the gun,
holding it steady with both hands, feeling the resistance of the
trigger against my fingers as I squeezed it.  I could imagine the kick
the gun would give as it fired, and Sean flung backwards by the force
of the shot.  I could imagine him falling.  I felt slightly sick.  I
broke eye contact with Sean; with those black eyes.  He was the one who
fantasized about violence, who spent his days thinking about hurting
someone.  I could never hurt anyone.  As I turned away, half closing my
eyes, I felt Danny take the gun out of my hands.  I took a deep breath,
forcing the air into my lungs it was just a toy, after all.

When I turned back, Danny was examining the gun at the table, trying to
fit the pellets into the clip.  Sean was watching Danny; when he saw
that I had turned, he grinned, reached over and grabbed the gun from
Danny.

"Give that back!"  Danny cried.

Sean laughed and stood up, holding the gun out of reach.  He looked
across at me, as if he expected me to join in.

"Oh, let him have it," I said.

Sean laughed again, but didn't give Danny the toy.  Danny wasn't
laughing he reached up, trying to get to the gun, but Sean twisted and
held it higher.  Danny pulled at Sean's arm, then, as Sean laughed and
pushed him away, he drew back his foot and kicked Sean, hard, just
below the knee.  Sean let out a yell and dropped his hands to his leg;
Danny scooped the gun out of Sean's grip and headed out of the
caravan.

"Little bastard," Sean snarled, clutching his leg.

I looked out of the front window.  Danny had hesitated halfway to the
sea wall, looking back at the caravan, but then he must have seen Sean
straightening again, because he ran, head down, for the beach.

I said, "You deserved that.  You were upsetting him."

"Didn't give him the right to kick me, though, did it?"  Sean sat down
on the seat and pulled his trouser leg up to reveal a red mark on his
shin.  "Stupid kid shouldn't take things so seriously.  I was only
messing with him."

I just shrugged.

He rolled down his trouser leg again and looked out of the window, but
there was no sign of Danny.  "Shit," he said.  "Better go after him."
Then he looked at me.  "You're coming, too."

There didn't seem much point arguing, so I went with him to the sea
wall and then climbed onto the path at the top of the sea de fences
Danny was further along the path, a small shape at that distance,
running towards three figures almost at the far end of the bay.  One of
the figures was smaller than the other two; Danny's new friend Kyle, I
assumed.

"Christ," Sean said.  "What's he gonna say to them?"

We walked along the path towards the other people.  It wasn't even four
o'clock yet, but the sky was darkening with more rain and the
temperature had dropped.  The wind had picked up and I huddled down
into my jacket but I still felt cold.  I wanted to be back in the
caravan, but as I watched Danny approaching the other group of people
it occurred to me that I might be close, very close, to being able to
persuade him to come back to Nottingham with me.  Sean must have been
thinking something similar, because he took hold of my arm and said,
"Just remember, we're on holiday, nothing more."

"Okay," I replied, but it was so cold, and there had to be a storm
coming, and who in their right mind came on holiday to the Lincolnshire
coast in March?

The other people came into focus as we drew a little closer.  A black
couple in dark clothes, wrapped up against the wind.  Danny looked back
at us as we approached and said something to the boy, and they both
headed down a set of steel steps leading from the sea de fences to the
beach below.

The couple leaned against the steel rail that topped the sea de fences
watching Danny and Kyle.  We approached them.

Sean said, "Seems you've met my brother."

He wore an odd sort of smile; an attempt at friendliness that looked
slightly overdone, a little too much.  The couple turned in unison to
face us.  The woman was a little taller and older than me; the man, a
lot of both.

Sean held out his hand to them.  "I'm Sean," he said.  "This is Jo."

They responded politely, holding out their hands to each of us in turn.
Sonia and Derek, up from Nottingham for a few days out of the city.

"Same here," Sean said, and they gave no indication that Danny might
have told them otherwise.

"Nice weather for it," I said, and everyone smiled a politely amused
smile.

We stood watching the boys on the beach.  They were play-fighting,
kicking the sand at each other.  The wind was picking up and the sand
caught in the air, twists of dust spraying back over the boys.  I could
hear their laughter.

"Getting cold," Sean said.  "Looks like rain coming."

"They're forecasting a storm," Sonia said.  "Just our luck, eh?  A few
days away and it blows a storm.  Still, that's what you get this time
of year."

"Yeah."  Sean gave a false, forced laugh.  "We're a right load of mugs,
standing around like this."

I wasn't sure how it had happened certainly, Sean didn't seem that
charming to me but Sonia was warning to him.  She had half-turned
herself towards him and was reflecting his smile back at him.  I didn't
want to watch the unfolding spectacle, so I leaned my arms against the
railing and looked out across the sand to the boys playing.  They were
near the water's edge now; Danny had tried to kick water at Kyle, as he
had done with the sand, but he just soaked his leg and got a faceful of
spray.  Kyle's wild laugh carried on the wind.

Derek had come to lean next to me while Sean kept chatting to Sonia. He
said, "So, what brings you here, then?"

I looked at him with a little surprise.  "How do you mean?"

"A nice lady like you, here with two teenage boys."

I met his eyes.  Dark-brown eyes, a slight yellow hue to the whites.  I
wasn't sure what he was asking me I wasn't sure how I could respond.
But before I could say anything, Sean was by my side, flinging one arm
over my shoulder and laughing as though he did this all the time, as
though I often let him touch me.  I flinched away from him.  I covered
my reaction quickly, but I could feel that Derek's gaze was still upon
me, and I wondered what Danny had said, what he had revealed to them
without even realizing it.  I forced myself to smile, feeling the
tension in the arm that was looped around my neck.

Sonia said, "It's too cold to be hanging around here.  Why don't you
come back to our van for a drink?  Warm ourselves up a little, eh?"

"Oh, I don't know," Sean started to say.

"No, please do," Derek said.  I avoided his gaze.  "Please, we'd like
it."

Sean had un looped his arm from around my shoulder and now looked to
me. I realized he didn't know how to say no without rudeness.  I said,
"We wouldn't want to put you to any trouble."

"No trouble."  Sonia beamed at me.

I looked at Sean and shrugged, and he looked at Derek and then said,
"Yeah, why not, eh?  Can't do any harm."

But he gripped my arm hard as we walked up the path.  Derek and Sonia
were busy attracting the boys' attention and didn't seem to notice, but
I knew what Sean was saying in that twisting grip on my flesh.  I
didn't wouldn't look at him.  I didn't want to give him any extra
confidence, or let him believe that I had any interest in keeping the
truth from Derek and Sonia.  In reality, I was hoping that Derek and
Sonia would realize that something was wrong and would call the police.
I was tired.  Nottingham seemed so far away now; all the problems there
seemed so far away that I found it difficult to see what I was gaining
by protecting Sean.  Danny was my only concern.  I was hoping that
Derek and Sonia might turn out to be our saviours.

They were in the next holiday park along from Sunny Bay.  The caravans
on this site were larger and newer; some had gardens planted next to
them, trimmed with small white fences.  There were more people about,
too; cars parked next to the vans and lights burning behind curtained
windows.  The inside of their caravan was more like a flat, with proper
furniture that wasn't screwed to the walls and a kitchen with
full-sized appliances.  We drank hot chocolate and listened to Sonia
telling us how long they had owned the caravan (three years) and how
often they came (most weekends in the summer) and how Kyle loved the
freedom of the site and the beach and how safe everything seemed. While
she talked, Derek watched us, and I couldn't work out what he was
thinking.

"It's so difficult these days," Sonia was saying.  "There's so much
traffic, and you never know who's around, drug dealers and paedophiles
everywhere, and there's so much crime.  All those kids who get robbed
of their phones.  It's terrible."

"Yeah, I know."  Sean took another biscuit, his expression so
concerned.  "I worry for Danny, really I do."

I looked at Sean, expecting to see some small sign that he felt awkward
saying these things, that he felt some sense of responsibility, or
guilt, or something, but his expression appeared to be genuine.  And he
did care about Danny, I knew that; but Christ, Sean was one of the
people Sonia was worried about, and how could he sit there coolly and
pretend it was nothing to do with him?

"You do hear such terrible things," Sonia said, and rattled on into a
story about a neighbour's son being pushed off his bike by a gang who
cycled away on the bike, laughing.

!

"Kids these days," Derek said.  "No respect for anything."

I could sense Sean stiffen at that; I wondered whether Derek had
intended to create that effect, and whether I was the only one who had
noticed.  I expected Derek to go on, to say something about how things
used to be different, how kids these days didn't know how lucky they
were, that they needed sorting out, needed discipline.  But he only
said, "Kyle's a good kid.  Danny seems like a good kid.  But what are
they going to do when they get older?  You see it all the time."

Sean had a frown on his face; I thought he was going to say something,
but Sonia said sharply, "Those boys won't be trouble."

"No," Derek said.  "No, of course they won't."

"That's right," Sonia said.  "They'll do well, eh,

Jo?"

She leaned in towards me; the conspiracy of women.  I wondered again
what Danny had said, who they thought I was, but I just forced a smile
onto my lips and sipped my drink.

"Danny'll be fine," Sean said.  There was an edge to his voice, as if
he expected one of us to disagree.  "He's got his head screwed on
right."

"Yes," Sonia said, and lapsed into silence.

I looked at Derek, sitting so upright on the sofa, his expression
neutral.  I couldn't tell what he was thinking.  I felt suddenly that I
didn't know what anyone was thinking.  Then Derek stood up and said,
"It's going to rain.  I'll fetch the boys."

Sonia looked a little surprised but said nothing.  Outside, the skies
had darkened further, the same brown clouds that had greeted our
arrival the previous day.  I watched Derek through the window, striding
away from the van, head bent, protecting himself from the weather. Sean
was watching him, too.  We saw Danny and Kyle returning, meeting Derek,
and then they started to walk back to the caravan.  Derek was talking
to Danny and Danny was listening with a frown; it was impossible to
tell anything from his expression.

Sonia said, "Why don't you let Danny stay for his tea?  Kyle doesn't
get to see many kids his own age when we're here.  Do them both good, I
bet."

Sean said, "Oh, no, that's okay."

I ignored Sean's glare.  "That's very kind of you."

"But we were going out tonight," Sean said.  "Remember?"

The last word was said with force.  I just smiled as the caravan door
opened and the boys were followed in by Derek.

"I just invited Danny to stay for dinner," Sonia said.

Derek gave a brisk nod of his head.  "Good idea."

"But we're going out, aren't we, Danny?"  Sean said.

Danny just shrugged.  "Can't I stay?"

Sonia said, "We could have him back at yours by seven."

Sean was out manoeuvred  He looked at me, but I wasn't going to help.
My heart was thumping.  So

Sean gave in.  "Okay, okay, but don't be late back, eh, Danny?"

Danny nodded.  Sean looked at Derek; I saw their eyes lock, and that
chilled me.  For a moment, I considered blurting out what was going on,
throwing myself on Derek's mercy, hoping he would wrestle Sean to the
ground, something.  But I looked at Danny and Kyle, an excited pair
giggling away, and I knew that I couldn't do it, not just then, not
with them watching.

Sean and I got up and headed to the caravan door.  As Derek stepped
aside to let us pass, he suddenly said, "Oh, have you read a paper
today, Sean?"

"No," Sean said.  "Didn't have a chance this morning.  Why?"

Something changed in Derek's expression I wasn't sure what, something
in the eyes perhaps.  He said, "I just wanted to know the football
scores, that's all."

Sean hesitated for a moment, looking directly at Derek.  I wondered
whether he had seen the same thing as me.  Then he made himself smile
and said, "No, sorry mate, cant help you there."

And then we were out into the cold air, with the wind blowing hard
against us and rain spattering down.  We walked quickly, sheltering our
heads, and didn't speak until we reached the caravan.  My thoughts were
in turmoil.  I wasn't sure what had just happened, but I had the
feeling it carried great significance.

When we were back in the caravan, Sean said, "He's onto us."

My pulse hammered.  "What makes you think that?"

"It's obvious, in tit  He glanced at me with contempt.  "All that
effort to get Danny away from us.  They're calling the police right
now, I bet."

"You're paranoid," I said, as lightly as I could.  "You're just seeing
stuff that isn't there."  But even as I said those words, I could
imagine police cars driving slowly through the caravan park, and
officers getting into position outside, and Derek and Sonia comforting
Danny, telling him his ordeal was over, telling him he could go home.

Sean had found the paper Danny had bought that morning.  He laid it out
on the table and started to turn the pages, his finger marking a trail
down the page as he scanned the headlines.  On page five, he stopped.
"There," he said.  "Paranoid, am I?"

The headline read "Police Fear Kidnap of Boy and Social Worker'.  I
read the article over Sean's shoulder, feeling cold.

Police in Nottingham are growing increasingly concerned about the
whereabouts of a twelve-year-old boy and a social worker.  The boy, who
has not been named, and 33-year-old social worker Joanne Elliott
disappeared some time yesterday, it has been revealed.  Police say
there were signs of a break-in at Elliott's home in the New Basford
area of the city, raising fears that the disappearance of the two may
be linked and that they may have been taken against their will.  A
police spokesman said, "It's too early to speculate at this stage, but
we are concerned that something untoward may have occurred.  We urge
anyone who thinks they may have information relating to the whereabouts
of these two persons to come forward."  Ms Elliott's car, a blue
Renault Megane, is also believed to be missing.  Police refused to
comment on speculation linking the missing pair to Sean Metcalfe, 19,
who absconded from Glen Parva Young Offenders' Institution last
month.

I didn't say anything for a moment.  I felt a little sick.  But I
wanted to laugh, too they thought Sean had kidnapped us.  All this time
I had thought I was in so much trouble; I had thought people would be
thinking I had lost the plot completely, and here they were, convinced
that Sean had kidnapped me.  There might still be a way out of this
mess I just had to think of it, that was all.  My head thumped -I
couldn't seem to think straight, but I knew I had to start quickly or
Sean would do the thinking and take my car.

I said, "You really think Derek's read this?"

"Yeah," he said.  "He'll be calling the police right now."

"What are you going to do?"

He closed the paper.  "Don't know.  Get out of here, I suppose."

I realized his dilemma should he wait for Danny or go without him?
Should he leave me here to reveal everything I knew?  I had to stall
him.  "Maybe Derek doesn't know," I said.  "Maybe we convinced him?
There's no reason why he would guess.  He might not even have read the
article.  They call me Joanne in the paper but he knows me as Jo. Danny
isn't even named in the article.  Why would he suspect?"

Sean didn't say anything.

I said, "Derek wouldn't really think Danny was kidnapped, would he?  I
mean, surely it's obvious?  After all, he's been running around the
beach on his own."

I realized I was talking too much while Sean wasn't talking at all.  I
stopped, waiting for him to speak.  I was hoping that he would decide
to leave Danny here; that he would just take my car and go and leave us
behind.  I didn't know how I could explain to the police that I had
stayed here with him, but I knew that I just wanted it to be over.

He said, "I cant believe this."  He flung the newspaper away, onto the
floor.  "This is all your fault.  Never would've happened if you hadn't
shown up."

"That's not fair," I started to say.

"You're always interfering," he said.  "Christ, you make everything
worse."  He turned to face me then, and I saw how angry he was.  "I
should've kicked you out yesterday.  Christ, I should've sent you and
Danny packing.  See what you've done?  Fucking idiots."

I said, "We haven't done anything."

He stepped towards me without meaning to, I moved away from him and
found my back against the wall.  "You brought Danny here," he said.
"The police are after you, not me."

"You invited Danny."  But he wasn't listening to me.

Td've been okay if it wasn't for you showing up," he said.  "Why
couldn't you leave us alone?  Why are you so obsessed with Danny?  It's
not normal.  You've wrecked everything."

"I just want to help," I said.

"You never do help.  You just fuck everything up.  You're not
interested in helping me, you just want Danny.  What is your problem?
You cant get a man so you got to make do with a little boy, is that it?
 Fucking freak.  Fucking pathetic'

He swung his fist towards me as he spoke; I flinched away, but he
didn't hit me, just struck the fibreglass wall next to my head.  Then
he turned away from me, strode across the caravan and back again.  He
raised his finger, pointed it at me.  "I told you," he said.  "Danny
don't want to go with you.  What d'you think, that he don't know what I
know about you?  That he don't know that everything's your fault?  That
he don't know about me giving you a battering before?  He knows
everything.  Thinks it's fucking hilarious."

"That's not true," I said.

"Yeah?  How d'you think he knew where your house was?  "Cos I told him,
that's how."

"You're lying," I said.  "He followed you one day,

that's all.  He doesn't know anything about the day you attacked me.
He'd have told me."

"You reckon?"  Sean laughed.  "You think he's so fucking wonderful. You
haven't got a clue.  Got you wrapped round his little finger, eh?"

He was close to me again, crowding in on me.  I needed air; I needed to
get some space.  I pushed past him and went over to the table, then sat
down.  He stayed where he was, looking at me, smiling.  I looked away.
I didn't believe him.  I thought he was just trying to cause trouble,
to stir things up.  But then, what if he was right?  I thought about
Danny in my street, breaking into my house, persuading me to bring him
to Skegness.  He hadn't persuaded me, I realized; he'd blackmailed me.
He'd threatened me.  Maybe he hadn't been as physical as Sean -but
then, he didn't have the physical strength that Sean had.

I said, "So what?  So he got me to bring him here.  Are you trying to
tell me this was all some plan to get me here?"

He screwed up his face.  "Christ, you don't half like yourself, do you?
I never wanted you here.  I dunno why Danny brought you, but I never
wanted him to.  Stupid kid.  He'll get me caught if I hang around
here."

His expression brightened slightly.  I realized he had made his
decision.  I wondered whether Derek and Sonia had called the police
yet.  Sean moved around the caravan, putting things into a small
rucksack my mobile phone, my wallet, my money,

my car keys.  I tried to think, tried to work out how I could delay him
until the police arrived.

Behind Sean was the caravan door.  It was slightly ajar; I could see
the dark night beyond.  Every so often, Sean glanced back at it,
looking out, as if he expected to see the police.  The forecast storm
was approaching; the wind was rattling across the caravan park and rain
started to drum on the caravan roof.  I wasn't sure Sean would be able
to hear a car approaching.

I said, "So, if this isn't about me, why were you watching my house?"

"What does it matter?  I got you back, anyway.  Your life's screwed up
just like mine is.  No more than you deserve."

He opened the kitchen drawer and took out the knife.  For a moment I
thought he was going to threaten me with it again; he saw my expression
and laughed softly, then wrapped the knife in a tea towel and pushed it
into the rucksack.  "Like I said," he said, 'you're so far up yourself
you're completely paranoid."

He looked around at the open door again, then started searching more
drawers but I didn't know what for.  I was watching the darkness
outside, waiting for the arrival of headlights or maybe even the
flashing blue lights that would signal the end of this situation.  I
saw a sudden movement out there a dark shape appearing on the
decking.

I said, "You're leaving without Danny, aren't you?"

Sean laughed.  "Gotta go," he said.  "I cant hang around here chatting,
can I?"

The shape on the decking hesitated.  I said, "But you told Danny he
could go with you."

"I never meant it, though, did I?  Stupid kid.  He'd be a fucking
liability."

"You mean you lied to him?"

"I didn't know he'd be stupid enough to take me seriously, did I?"

The door flew open.  Danny.  He was soaked with rain, his hair
plastered down against his head.  Sean turned to face him.  I saw him
step back, surprised, and then Danny threw himself at him.  Sean fell
back, off balance, but quickly recovered; he grabbed out at Danny's
hands, gripping them in his fists as he struggled to stop Danny hitting
him.

I heard Danny shout, "Bastard!"

Sean threw his arms around Danny, pinning him, holding him tight. Danny
struggled.  "Calm down, calm down," Sean was saying.

Danny broke free of Sean's grip and faced him, faced both of us.  "You
lied to me."  He was crying, but it was anger I saw.  "I came to tell
you," he said.  "They've called the police.  I came to protect you. You
said I could come with you."

"Jesus, you didn't really think you could, did you?"

"But you said '

"That was before."

Danny stopped, open-mouthed.  I thought I could see his brain working I
thought I could see realization in his expression.  He screwed his face
up into a snarl.  "You're just the same as everyone else.  I thought
you was different.  You said we could be together."

"I didn't know things would turn out like this."  Sean's voice was
surprisingly calm.  I had expected him to be as angry as Danny. "Danny,
you've got to be realistic.  There's no point getting mad about
this."

"I'm sick of being realistic," Danny said.  "I done like you told me
and now you're bailing on me.  I don't want to go back."

I thought he was going to start crying again.  His posture had slumped;
he looked crumpled.  I remembered the kid who had come to my house, the
boy who had asked for my help I could help him, I knew that, even if
his brother had abandoned him.  I said, "Danny, you have to come back
home with me.  We can sort all of this out, but you've got to come
home."

He rounded on me.  "I'm not going nowhere with you," he said.  "Fucking
freak, you are.  You really think I'd want to go with you?  I'm going
with Sean."

He was so angry.  I looked at him, looked at the expression on his
face.  I wanted to see the boy I had tried to help but all I could see
was that expression, and it reminded me so much of Sean.  I looked from
one brother to the other, and really, what was the difference between
them?  I had risked everything for Danny, I had thrown everything away
to help him, and he was no different to Sean.  He was just as selfish,
just as unpleasant.  He said he didn't want to end up like Sean, but he
already was like Sean.  I felt so stupid I had believed him.  He had
fooled me, and I had thrown everything away to help someone who didn't
deserve it.  I thought of Katie Adams, and her children crying outside
their damaged house, and all the things these boys had put her through.
Katie Adams was the one I should have been helping she was the one who
needed me, and appreciated me, and deserved my help.  So I said, "Go
on, then.  Go with Sean.  You deserve each other.  You're as bad as
each other, anyway."

If I had expected that to have any kind of impact on Danny, I was
mistaken.  He just laughed, a high, hysterical laugh.

Sean said, "Danny, you've got to go with her."

"No Danny started.

"Mum'll be missing you," Sean said.  "And all your mates, eh?  Don't
you want to see them?"

"No.  You promised.  They don't give a stuff, nobody does.  That's what
you said, in tit Sean?  Nobody gives a stuff except us.  Just us two
together, that's what you said."

Sean looked away from him, then over at me, as if he was appealing for
me to say something more.  I hardened my expression, folded my arms,
tried to show him that I didn't see what this had to do with me.  Danny
watched Sean, narrowing his eyes.  Then he said, "I don't need either
of you."  And he flung something at Sean; Sean threw up his hands to
ward off the object as Danny headed for the door again.

Sean looked round at me I registered that he had the toy gun in his
hands, then he dumped it onto the table, called out, "Danny!"  and
followed him out.

I only hesitated for a moment before I followed the two of them out
into the storm.

Thirty-one

Outside, it was dark.  Rain carried on the wind soaked me.  I heard
them running, their feet pounding across towards the sea wall.  I
followed.  There was a small amount of sulphurous light from the street
lights strung along the se afront path, and I saw Danny climbing the
metal steps over the sea wall.  Sean was ahead of me.  I followed both
of them over the steps and out onto the path.  I ran towards the
slipway onto the beach; Sonia and Derek were there, standing still, as
if they didn't know what to do.  Sonia called out to me as I passed,
asking what was happening, but I didn't stop to explain.  When I
reached the bottom of the slipway, both Sean and Danny had disappeared
into the darkness.

I stepped out onto the sand and walked straight ahead.  I could hear
the suck and crash of the waves somewhere to my left, and the wind
battering against the sea de fences and rattling down into the caravan
parks.  The rain was soaking through my clothes and I was cold, a deep
cold that penetrated right into me, but I didn't turn back.  I couldn't
see anything at first,

but gradually, I started to make out the lines of white breakers as the
waves crashed onto the sand.  Then I saw two dark shapes, contours of
people rather than full figures, standing further along the beach.  I
walked towards them but they didn't show any signs of having heard or
seen my approach.  Their voices were raised, loud enough to be heard
over the sound of the sea.

Sean was saying, "You cant come with me, you've got to understand
that."

Danny didn't reply.

"I'll come back.  I'll see you again.  I won't forget about you, I
promise."

"You promised before," Danny said.  "You lied to me."

"I know.  I was stupid.  I'm sorry.  But it'll all be fine now."

"No," Danny said.  "It won't be.  You'll get arrested and they'll send
you away again and everything'll be worse than before."

I drew closer, but they still hadn't heard or seen me.

"It'll be okay," Sean said.  "Jo'll make sure it's okay."

"No, she won't," Danny said.  "She don't care.  She's just like
everyone else."

I reached them and came alongside Sean.  He jerked as he realized I was
there; both of them seemed surprised.  I said, "Danny, I just want
what's best.3

"No, you don't," Danny said.  Shouted.  He backed away from us, towards
the black mass of the sea.  "You're just out for yourself, like
everyone else."

"That's not true," I said.  "I brought you here, didn't I?  And now
it's time to go back."

"No," he shouted.  "I don't want to."

Both Sean and I moved towards him.  He moved further away, into the
surf.  He looked down at the water surging around his feet, then
laughed and kicked water towards us.  It was swelling over his shoes,
over the bottoms of his jeans.

"Come on," I said.  "This is stupid.  You're getting soaked."

He looked down at the water again, then over his shoulder at the white
glow of the breakers.  He stepped further into the sea as Sean and I
approached.  My feet were at the edge of the surf now; I felt the sand
shifting as each wave sucked around the shape of my shoes.  The wind
was picking up and the rain came down more heavily.  The night had
darkened the string of street lights on the coastal path flickered
through the rain, suddenly so far away.  Danny started to laugh as the
rain came down; he held out his arms, lifted his face up to the sky to
feel the rain pelting down onto his skin, then backed further into the
water, backing out of sight and into the darkness.

Sean waded into the water, towards Danny's laughter.  I stepped further
into the sea, feeling the surf foam and crash around my calves and
thighs.  It was a struggle to stay upright against the suck of the tide
and the growing storm.

"Danny," I called.  "Danny, come back, this is getting dangerous."

The water came up around my legs, and the next wave crashed around my
waist, so cold it sucked the breath out of me.  I stumbled as I was
caught by the swell of the breaker.  I tried to keep my balance, the
water breaking around me, my clothes filling with water and chilling
me.  I could only just see them ahead of me, but I heard Danny shriek
and laugh at the thrill of the night sea, an uncontrolled sound, and I
was scared, so scared, with the icy cold of the water gripping me and
the suck of the tide so strong and the wind and the rain in my face, my
hair, my clothes.  I heard splashing, and Danny wasn't laughing any
more, and I couldn't see or hear either of them in the darkness.  I
waded out further, the water breaking around my chest and lifting my
feet from the sand.  Sean was reaching out, trying to grab at Danny,
but Danny backed further away.  I wanted to call them back I wanted to
call Sean back, tell him that we were only forcing Danny into deeper
water, we had to go back to the shore and let him come in, back to
where it was safe.  But I couldn't find my voice -I couldn't form the
words, and even though I knew what we needed to do, I was still wading
out towards them.  I could hardly hear anything over the shrill wind
and the roar of the breakers.  My hands were icy and stiff as I reached
out to grab Sean's arm he tried to push me away, but I hung on, and my
weight on his arm pulled him down, and he stumbled in the water.

"Get away," he said.  "Leave us."

"No."

I wanted to say that we needed to get back to shore, that we had to get
Danny into shallower water, but he broke free of my grip.  I felt the
contact of his fist in my face; a cold, hard fist driving into my eye,
and I fell back towards the dark water.  I grabbed out at anything I
could find, grabbed out to stop myself falling, and I felt Sean fall
with me.  I was under the water suddenly, churned in the breakers,
thrown head forwards towards the sea floor.  I felt my face scrape the
bottom, the gritty sand ripping at my cheek.  My throat filled with
salty water, and I struggled to get back upright, but I couldn't get my
head above the water.  More waves crashed over me I was turned and
twisted I felt my head crack once, and then my arm twist heavily under
me, and then finally I broke the surface, retching out seawater,
gasping and coughing for air.  My heart hammered; my head felt as if it
had split open.  I was disorientated everything was so black, so dark,
I couldn't see and then I found my feet on the sea bottom and managed
to stand and look around.

I couldn't see Sean but I saw Danny, a few metres away; I saw a flash
of his white face, the sudden fright in his expression as the shock of
the cold started to numb his body.  I struck out towards him,
half-swimming.  I grabbed him in my arms, but even as I did so a
breaker hit us, and I lost my footing, and I felt him going down under
me, under the water, caught in the suck.  I felt him struggling against
me, struggling to get his head above the water again.  He kicked out,
and I remembered the feel of Sean's fist, and being spun around in the
water, and falling as he hit me in the street, and the feel of the
knife cutting my arm.  I felt Danny writhing between my arms as I
clutched him, and I held him tighter, and I remembered all the things
he had said, all the things he had done.  I had risked everything for
him and he didn't even trust me I had risked so much to save him and he
was just like Sean, there was no difference between them.  I felt my
hands against his body, I felt his movements, and then my fingers
closed around his neck, and even as I gripped him harder he kept
struggling.  I was trying to help him and all he ever did was fight
against me.  I had tried so hard for him and for Sean, and all they
ever did was hurt me in return.  I could feel him under the water, the
kick of his body, his struggle for breath, but I kept holding him
there, I kept hold of him.

I heard my voice, over and over, the same thing.  "I can help you.
Don't worry.  Trust me.  I can help you."

I felt my grip, so tight.

I felt the water heaving around me, the swell of each wave lifting me
as the tide surged on.

And then I felt Sean, grabbing my arms, pulling my arms away.  He was
shouting something at me but I couldn't hear him all I could hear was
the wind and the sea and the storm.  He struck out at me, knocked me
away; I wanted to reach him, strike him back, show him what it felt
like, show him what he had done to me and what I could do to him.  I
got myself upright again and waded towards him, but he wasn't looking
at me.  He was struggling to pull Danny in towards the shore.  I went
to him, started to help him, and he didn't push me away.  Danny was
heavy, his clothes heavy with water.  I couldn't see his face Sean was
cradling him, lifting him into his arms as we reached the sand.

On the beach, I saw torchlight.  People ran towards us.  Sonia and
Derek.  They pulled Danny from Sean's arms, pulled him down onto the
sand.  He didn't seem to be breathing.  Derek was on his knees, ripping
open Danny's clothes, starting mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.  I saw
Sonia's shocked face, and the frantic activity around Danny as he lay
there.  I was struggling for breath myself.  I waited for Danny to
cough, splutter, retch out seawater and come back to life, the way they
always did, the way it was on TV, the way it had to be.  Sonia was on
her mobile phone, calling for an ambulance, shouting the instructions,
and the wind and the sea were so noisy, and then Sean was there, in
front of me, and he looked more angry than I had ever seen him, than I
had ever seen anyone.  He was shouting at me, I knew that, but I
couldn't hear him, I couldn't understand what he was saying.

And then Sean pulled back his fist and hit me, a blow to the chin, and
I fell back, I fell onto the sand, and for a moment I gagged for
breath, gagged against the salt in my throat.  But I had to get up I
forced myself to get up, to face him.  I could feel the impact of the
punch, I could feel the sting of the long scrape down my face where the
gritty sand had torn my flesh, I could feel the salt in the cut on my
arm, the itching of the remnants of the wound on the back of my head,
the salt eating into the flesh where the stitches had been.  I
remembered the feeling of falling into darkness, hitting my face on the
shop floor, the other blows that had followed.  I got back onto my feet
and launched myself at Sean, and felt my fists, hard-clenched, driving
against his face.  I felt the contact of flesh with flesh, bone with
bone, and pain ran through my knuckles but I hit him again, and he
fought back, he hit me back, and there was nothing real apart from the
feel of each blow, my fists against him, his fists against me.

Then I hit the ground.  My knees hit the gritty sand, and I felt the
sting of the sand and I opened my eyes and there was Danny, I could see
him.  I was down on my knees and I could see Danny, so pale, his body
jerking as they tried to force the life back into him.  I knew I should
be helping, I knew there had to be something I could do to help, but I
couldn't see what.

I got to my feet again.  Somewhere far off I could hear sirens, and I
looked at Sean, and he had heard the sirens, too.  Before I could call
out to him, before I could do anything to stop him, before I could tell
him that his brother was more important, he was running away across the
beach, back towards the caravan site.

"Sean!"  I shouted.  "Sean, come back!"  But he didn't turn, just kept
on running, working his legs hard to get up the beach, across the sand
and through the wind and the rain.  "Sean!"  I shouted.  "Sean, wait!"
But he didn't wait.

I looked at Danny, lying there on the ground, and all the activity
around him; I heard the sirens drawing closer, and I knew I couldn't
stay around, I didn't want to know what I already suspected.  So I
started running, too, up the beach, after Sean, my feet pounding
against the loose sand, dragged down by the weight of my wet clothes.

I could hardly breathe as I reached the sea de fences  I could see Sean
running across the caravan park, and as I climbed the steps over the
wall and onto the site, I saw him go into the caravan.  I stopped to
gather breath, to get some air into my lungs, and then he was out
again, with his rucksack, running towards my car.

I ran again, towards the car, towards Sean.  He started the engine; the
car's headlights lit up the area suddenly, and I had to shield my eyes,
but I kept on running.  He was backing away from the caravan, preparing
for a three-point turn to face the gravel track.  He was really leaving
I hadn't expected him to actually go, not without Danny, not without
me.  I ran onto the gravel track, in front of the car.  I could see him
through the windscreen, gripping the steering wheel.  I saw the
concentration in his expression, and then he revved the engine, and he
drove straight at me.

I stood there, stood up straight.  The car accelerated towards me.  I
realized that he thought I was going to get out of the way, but I knew
that the time had come to finally make a stand.  I wasn't going to
move, not for him, not for anybody.  I spread out my arms to block his
path, waiting for him to slow down, to stop, to yell at me, anything. I
saw again the image of Danny lying there on the sand, and I closed my
eyes.  I thought about their father, knocked down and killed on his way
to meet me.  I thought about Alex telling me that he couldn't be my
friend any more, and Dave Short walking out of my house that night, and
the feel of my fist against Colin's face.  I thought about Katie Adams
crying into my blouse as the fire brigade dampened down her house, and
Danny telling me that he didn't want to be like Sean, and Sean's face,
his expression as he told me that he would kill me if anything happened
to Danny.  I kept my eyes closed.  I didn't want to feel any of this
any more.

The car hit me.  I felt the sharp crunch of metal against flesh and
bone, my knees crumpled, and I was flung into the air.  I felt myself
tumbling through the air.  I felt as if I was floating, as if this was
never going to end.  Everything was silent.  There was cold air all
around me.  Then I hit the bonnet of the car with my shoulder, and my
head smacked hard against the windscreen.  I could feel metal crumpling
under the impact.  I could feel the heat of the engine.  I could feel
everything.

Thirty-two

The first thing I became aware of was the pain in my knees.  It started
as an ache that cracked open the darkness; as I identified the
sensation as pain, it expanded into a deep throb burning on the peak of
each pulse beat.  Then my head started to hurt; the sharp, stinging
pain of cuts to the scalp alongside a tightness inside the skull.  I
took a long breath, felt the movement of my chest through every part of
my body.  I know I let out a moan; I heard the sound but it seemed
disconnected from me.  I opened my eyes, slowly.  I tried to focus my
eyesight but everything was blurred colours smudged together, spots of
light so bright that I had to squeeze my eyes shut and moan again.

"You're awake."

The voice seemed to come from a long way away.  I wasn't sure if it was
a question or a statement.  I wasn't sure whose voice it was.  I opened
my eyes again and the blurring began to clear.  I recognized the
caravan ceiling above me the brownish hue, the slightly curved edges. I
realized I was lying on my back on the bed, on the impossibly soft
mattress, on top of the covers, still fully dressed.  My clothes were
stiff with salt and slightly damp under my body; my skin felt chilled
where it rested on damp cloth.

I turned my head.  Sean was sitting on the floor next to the bed, his
back against the caravan wall, head just below the level of the window.
The curtains were drawn but I could see light through them.  Daytime.
Sean watched me.  He was holding the knife in his hands, playing with
it, as if its shape gave him some comfort.

I tried my voice, cleared my throat, tried again.  "What's going on?" I
asked.

He gave a feverish sort of laugh.  "What's going on?"  he repeated, as
though the question was absurd.  His voice was very soft.  "The police
are here.  They're outside.  They've been out there all night.  They
want me to release you."  That laugh again.  "They think I've got you
hostage."

"Why do they think that?"

"They think I kidnapped you from your house.  Like the papers said."

I could see that he was finding it difficult to take that seriously.  I
said, "Did you tell them what really happened?"

"What's the point?  They wouldn't believe me.  Anyway, this way I get
time to think."

I tried to think about that, but my head hurt too much.  I experimented
with moving my legs; they hurt, but not as much as I had expected.  My
left arm wouldn't move; I thought of the car hitting me,

that jolt of impact, and being flung into the air, and the slam against
the bonnet and windscreen.

He said, "They've got an ambulance outside.  Different to the one that
came for Danny."

I wanted to ask how Danny was, but I didn't want to hear the answer I
feared.  I could imagine Sean sitting here all night, seeing the
activity outside, all alone and nothing to do but think about things. I
said, "Sean, you've got to go out there.  Give yourself up."

"Give myself up?"  He gave a little laugh.  "You actually think He
stopped himself, hesitated, then said, "Not until I'm ready.  I told
you, I need time."

Before I could say any more before I had thought what more I could say
I heard a mobile phone ringing somewhere in the other room.  Sean
looked at me, then went down to the other end of the caravan.  I lay
there, feeling the throb of my wounds, looking up at that brown
ceiling.  I didn't know what to do I knew I had to do something, but I
didn't know what.  My brain felt a little numb, a little frozen -I
wasn't sure I was capable of planning, of thinking straight.

I heard Sean answer the phone, then listen.  He came back into the
bedroom and handed me the phone.  He was still carrying the knife.

"The police," he said.  "Dave Short.  He wants to talk to you."

I felt my heart give a jolt, felt the rush of my pulse.  I took the
phone from Sean and held it to my ear.  I was thinking about Dave
driving all the way out from Nottingham; about the Lincolnshire police
phoning him and asking, and Dave thinking about it, Dave deciding he
needed to be here, Dave being so concerned.  I put the phone to my ear
and said, "Dave?"

"Jo?"

That familiar voice, deep and calm.  I wanted to smile.  I could
imagine him out there, huddled over a phone or would it be more hi-tech
than that, would there be a group of them listening in on headphones? I
wondered whether they had planted microphones around the caravan to
listen to me and Sean talk, or if they had a trained negotiator and
armed officers on standby, just in case.  I couldn't help shivering.

"How are you?"  Dave asked.

"Okay," I said.  "I'm hurt, though."

"Did Sean hurt you?"

"He didn't mean to," I said, eyes fixed on Sean.

I felt that I had to find words that would unravel the situation there
had to be something I could say.  I almost blurted out that this wasn't
what it seemed, that I wasn't a hostage, not really, but I didn't say
that after all, I didn't know what Sean was thinking.  I didn't know
how I could explain my being here, not without time to think.  I didn't
know how sympathetic Dave would be if he knew the truth, but before I
could think of another way to explain, Sean had taken the phone away
from me again.  "That's enough," he said to me, and then, down the
phone, "See?  She's fine, I told you."

I heard a mumble of voices but couldn't make out what was being said.
Sean turned his back on me and paced the room again, the phone to his
ear.  Then he said, "No, you listen to me."  There was force in his
voice, determination; I realized that he did have a plan, he did know
what he was going to do.  "I want a car," he said.  "You bring me a
car, I drive off, you get Jo.  That's the deal."

He cut the call off, put the phone in his pocket and rubbed his face in
his hands.  He was sweating, I could see that now a sheen of sweat
across his face.  He seemed to be playing out a role; a role that he'd
seen in too many movies, too many action thrillers with desperate men
holed up in a bank with ski-masks and semi-automatics.

I said, "They'd pull you over the second you left here."

"Shut up."  Then he rubbed his hands over his face again, paced around
a little more and said, "Not if I take you with me."

"You cant do that."

"Why not?  I'd let you out as soon as we were clear.  You'd be fine."

"It wouldn't work," I said.  "They'd find you."

"What do you care, anyway?"

"You need to give yourself up," I said.  "Tell them now.  Tell them
you're going to go outside.  That's all you've got to do."

He came over to me, leaned in over me.  I felt his weight against the
bed, the mattress giving under his hands.  He was gripping the knife,
the blade flat against the bed covers, so close to my body

- I wanted to turn away from him, turn my head away from his face, but
I didn't dare move.  He was so close that I could see the dried salt on
his face, crusted around the spots near his mouth, and the yellow of
his teeth.

"You never shut up, do you?"  he said.  His teeth were almost clenched
even as he spoke.  "You're always the fucking same.  Just shut the fuck
up while I think."

Then he was away from me again, pacing the room.  He had squeezed his
hands into fists, elbows bent, his fingers gripping the knife.

"I told you," he said, "I told you I'd fucking kill you if anything
happened to Danny."

He seemed to be deliberately winding himself up, building up the energy
to act.  I wanted to demand what his intentions were, but I didn't know
whether I could trust my voice.  My mouth was dry.  I tried to move,
tried to roll myself onto my front if I could get to the window, if I
could only get there but the pain swam up from my stomach to the back
of my throat and I had to squeeze my eyes shut to stop the dizziness
from making me vomit.  I thought of all those people I read about in
the papers, people who crawled from car wrecks with broken legs, people
who chose to jump from tall buildings when flames licked up behind
them, people who cut off their own hands when they got trapped in
machinery.  I didn't feel that brave.  I couldn't move, however much I
told myself I needed to.

"What happened to Danny was not my fault," I said.

He stopped, mid-stride.  "How can you say that?  How the fuck can you
say that?  I saw!  I was right there!"

"I was trying to save him," I said.  I remembered the coldness of the
water, the texture of his wet clothes between my fingers, the water
expanding the fibres, the weight of his clothes.  I had touched his
jeans the stiffness of the heavy cloth, and the lighter material of his
T-shirt, material that floated out as I held him.  He had been heavy in
the water I had thought he would float, I had thought he would be
weightless but he was so heavy, struggling against me.  I could
remember the sound of the waves crashing around us, and seeing the
white foam bursting over us, and the tug of the back surge that had
pulled me off my feet.  I said, "You said yourself he's a weak swimmer.
You said that yourself."

"I know what you did," he said.  "Don't deny it.  You weren't dragging
him up, you were holding him under.  You think I'm blind?  You think
I'm stupid?"

He had his back to me, but I could see that he was tense, almost
hunched over.  I said, "Why would I hurt him?  I was trying to save
him."  I remembered how cold the water had been, so cold I could hardly
breathe.  I had felt Danny against me; I had felt the solidity of his
weight, and his skin against my skin.  I said, "He was scared.  It was
dark.  He was struggling.  I tried, you have to believe that."  My
words didn't seem to have any effect.  "Sean, why would I ever hurt
Danny?  You know I'd never hurt him, don't you?  You know I was trying
to help him, don't you?  I wouldn't ever hurt Danny I couldn't.  You
know that, don't you?"

He didn't reply right away.  I wasn't sure if he believed me, but his
shoulders had slumped slightly.  He went over to the window, pulled
back the curtains a little.  I caught a glimpse of cloudy sky, then he
dropped the curtain and turned to face me again.  "That's what I want
to know."  There was a small crack in his voice.  "What's Danny ever
done to you?  What've any of us ever done to you?"  He gave a low
laugh, but it had a desperate edge to it.  "I'm the one you should want
to hurt," he said.  "This is between you and me.  Danny should never
have got dragged into this."

"But he did get dragged in," I said.  Sean looked defeated.  "Come on,
Sean, you need to end this.  Stop things getting completely out of
hand."

"They're already out of hand," he said.  "Danny's dead."  And then I
saw the fury coming back a flicker that came alight in his eyes and
rushed across his expression.  "But you don't care, do you?  Look at
you.  The only person you care about is yourself."

"That's not true I started to say.

"It's your fault Danny's dead.  You killed him."

He was holding himself very still, very taut.  I said, "Why does there
have to be someone to blame?  It was an accident.  A tragic accident.
It wasn't anyone's fault."

"You always say that," he said.  "Danny was a tragic accident, but you
killed him.  My dad was a tragic accident, but it wasn't, was it?
Someone knocked him down and left him to die.  That wasn't an accident,
was it?"

"Come on," I said, gently.  "This isn't helping."

He had turned his back on me.  For a moment, I thought he might have
been crying; his hand had gone up to shield his eyes.  But then he
turned again and I could see his anger.  "Tell me the truth," he said.
"Did you have something to do with my dad's death?"

I was surprised.  "No," I said.  "No, of course not.  I was waiting for
him in the cafe."

He came closer and I saw that, despite the anger, there were tears in
his eyes.  "Tell me about it," he said.

"Why?  I told you, I wasn't there."

"Tell me anyway," he said.  "I want to know."

I didn't know what to say, but I could see that he was serious.  I
tried to think back but it was so long ago, and what was there to
remember?  I said, "I don't know.  It was dark.  Late on a winter
afternoon.  Raining.  I got to the cafe I cant remember what time.  I
had a drink and waited.  I waited forty-five minutes.  When he didn't
show I drove home."

"You said you saw the ambulance?"

"Yes, I did.  Pulling out of the side road by the cafe.  I was turning
left.  I looked to the right to check it was clear and saw an ambulance
and a police car.  I saw them loading a stretcher.  That's all."

He frowned, as if disappointed.

Before he could say anything more, I said, "Did they ever charge
anyone?"

"No.  Fucking animals.  They just left him there to die.  Didn't even
stop to see if he was okay."  Then he gave a short, bitter laugh. "When
I was in Glen Parva, doing all that thinking, I did wonder if you were
the driver."

His eyes had flicked up to look at mine, as if searching for a
reaction.  "Me?"  I said, and made myself laugh.  "Don't be daft."

"Yeah," he said, narrowing his eyes slightly.  "It was daft, wasn't it?
But then again, everything does come back to you.  It's your fault that
all of this started."

"You started all of this by attacking me in the street."

He dismissed that with a flick of the hand.  "That was nothing. Christ,
I hardly touched you."

"You knocked me out," I said.  "I needed stitches.  Anyway, I don't
just mean the head wound."

He had an ugly sneer on his face.  I thought he was going to laugh,
maybe tell me I'd been feeble, I'd asked for it, I'd been too easy to
scare, but he didn't.  I remembered how scared I had been; tormented by
the feeling that someone was out there, someone was after me, and the
conviction that something nasty was going to happen.  But I was the one
who had come out here I had brought Danny and now Danny was But I
hadn't intended any of this to happen.  All I had wanted was to face
Sean, to get him to explain, to justify, make him understand the
enormity of what he had done to me.  It occurred to me that we were
both after the same thing; we were locked together by the same
question.  And I had no answer for him I had no idea why he blamed me
for everything that had happened to him.

He said, "You still don't get it, do you?  After all this, you still
don't see what I mean.  I'm not just talking about Danny, I'm talking
about everything.  Everything that's gone wrong comes right back to
you."  He gave a little laugh.  "You're supposed to help, you know?
That's meant to be your job.  But no, you just cruise in and wreck
everything.  Wrecked my whole family.  My dad died, my mum thought she
wasn't worth shit, and then you took me and Danny away.  Some help that
was."

"It wasn't like that.  It's a hard job sometimes."

"It's not about the job," he said.  "It's about you.  You fuck things
up for people.  You just cant help yourself.  You think you're the only
fucking social worker I've ever met?  They're not all like you. Some of
them even act like human beings, but not you.  You say you'd never hurt
Danny, but you hurt me, didn't you, when I was only his age? Remember
that, eh?  Remember punching me?  I had a black eye for weeks."

"That's not true," I started to say, but he wasn't listening.  He was
prowling the room again, banging the handle of the knife against the
palm of his other hand.  I felt cold I didn't know what he was building
up to.

I said, "We have to end this, Sean.  This is getting us nowhere.  You
need to tell the police you're coming out.  We can talk all of this
through after that, when we've got plenty of time, when we can think
properly."

He laughed, that same feverish laugh I'd heard when I first woke up.
"That's all you lot ever want to do, isn't it?  Talk doesn't change
nothing, though, does it?  You know it that's why you hit me when I was
a kid.  Couldn't get me to listen so you fucking punched me.  And I was
such a stupid kid I thought I'd be the one in trouble for making you do
it."

"It wasn't like that," I said.  I had been about to explain explain
that I had been trying to do the right thing, that things would have
worked out fine if his mother hadn't made such a fuss, if he had only
listened to me instead of fighting me but why should I explain to him?
He didn't deserve explanations, not when he would only use them as
excuses for his own behaviour.  Maybe I had lost control, but that was
a long time ago and why should I suffer for that now, all these years
later?  I was young then, I hadn't known as much as I knew now.  So I
said, "That isn't true, Sean.  Social workers don't go round hitting
people, you know that.  It just it just doesn't happen."

He let out a loud, derisive laugh "Hah!"

I said, "I'd never do that.  I'm not a violent person.  I've never hurt
anyone."

He was approaching the bed again; my voice died away until it was
barely audible.  He sat down on the edge; I felt the mattress give
under his weight.

He held out the knife, as if admiring its sheen, and then he leaned in
and touched me, gently, on the throat with the flat of the blade.  I
felt the pointed end pressing into my skin.  I held very still, not
even breathing.  I moved just my eyes to look at him as he pushed his
face closer to mine and said, "Scared?"

I found enough voice to whisper, "No."

"You should be," he said, and pulled away from me slightly.  He held
the knife up for me to see; that sharp blade between our faces.  "You
don't know what I'm capable of."

I wanted to say something; I wanted to find the words that would break
the tension, but I didn't know what to say.  He actually believed that
I had damaged his life he didn't seem to realize that I had been
helping him.  I had only ever wanted to help.  I had never expected him
to thank me -even back then, when he was just an arrogant little boy,
even then I had known that he wasn't the type to ever thank me.  But
still, it angered me that he wouldn't listen; even now, when he was
most in need of my help, he still wouldn't listen.  It was so so
self-destructive.  It didn't matter what I said to him; he was never
going to acknowledge that I had tried to help.  And he seemed so
certain of the things he said that I wondered whether he was
delusional, if he had ever been tested for a mental illness.

I said, "What are you hoping to achieve with this, Sean?"

"Achieve?"  He seemed a little thrown.  "I don't know.  A fucking
apology would be a start."

"Fine," I said.  "I apologize.  I'm sorry.  Now tell the police you're
giving yourself up."

He brought the knife closer to my face.  I saw the slight nicks in the
serrated edge, a small blemish on the metal.  His hand was shaking
slightly.  "You don't mean that," he said.

"I do," I said.  "Honestly."

He was looking into my eyes; his eyes moving over mine as if he was
searching for something there.  "You're lying," he said.  "I know you
are."

It didn't matter what I said; I realized that now.  He was never going
to accept that I knew what was best for him, he was never going to
accept the simplest truth of this situation.  I tried again.  "I'm very
sorry that you think I've harmed you."

"I don't think he said.  I saw confusion, frustration, I don't know, in
his eyes.  He grabbed me: a fistful of shirt collar.  The knife dropped
from his hand.  I cried out, but it was more out of surprise fear than
pain.  He said, "You're never going to admit to nothing, are you?"

I tried to tear his hands away from my clothing.  My left shoulder
burned; my fingers wouldn't grip.  He twisted my shirt collar, twisted
it against my skin.  I could feel the cloth tightening around my neck,
pressing into my throat.  I was struggling; he climbed onto the bed,
climbed on top of me, and I felt his weight pushing me down into the
mattress.  I tried to kick him away but the sudden movement sent pain
through my legs, and I sucked in all the air I could, but I couldn't
breathe, he was stopping me breathe.  I could feel the pressure in the
flesh of my face, and the press of his fingers in my neck, and I needed
air I couldn't see my vision was black with panic.  I could feel myself
going under.  I could feel that I was losing, and he was holding so
tight, squeezing, and I writhed under his weight.

He released me, suddenly.  I fell back into the depths of the mattress.
My throat was still constricted; I tried to cough, tried to suck air
down, and my lungs burned.  Then, finally, I could breathe, and the
water cleared from my eyes, and I saw Sean standing over me, his hands
stretched towards me as if he didn't know what to do.

"I didn't mean that," he said, and he sounded scared.

I coughed again, put one hand to the sore skin around my neck.  I
didn't think I could have spoken even if I had wanted to.

"I wouldn't hurt you," he said.  "I'd never hurt you."

I would have laughed at that if I hadn't felt so sick.  But there was
something pleading in his tone, as if he desperately wanted me to
agree.  I closed my eyes.  My fingers felt cool against my neck; I
could feel my pulse against my fingertips.

The phone in his pocket started to ring.  I heard him answer it, and a
muffled voice, then he said, "No, she's fine.  Nothing's happened."

He was approaching me.  I opened my eyes and saw that he was holding
the phone towards me, close to my mouth.  He said, "Tell them you're
okay."

"I'm okay," I said, and I was surprised by the strength of my voice.  I
wanted to say more tell them that he had nearly strangled me, anything
-but I didn't even have a chance to hear a voice in response, Dave's
voice, before Sean took the phone back.

Sean put the phone to his ear and said, "Are you listening?  I've got
something important to say."  His voice was calm, but he didn't sound
reasonable.  "I've told you what I want," he said.  "I tell you, I'll
fucking kill her if I don't get what I want.  I mean it.  I've got a
gun."

"No," I cried.  "Sean, no, don't tell them that, don't say that," but
he ignored me.  He cut the call off and put the phone back in his
pocket.  I said, "Sean, why did you tell them that?"

"Shut up."  He reached down and picked something up off the floor, but
I couldn't see what.

"But if they think you've got a gun '

He was coming at me.  I didn't know why I threw my arm out to push him
away but it didn't stop him.  He climbed onto the bed, knees sinking
into the mattress, and then he was astride me, his weight against my
belly.  He had something dark -dark material in his hand, and he laid
the other hand against my forehead; a cold, sweaty hand.  He pushed my
head backwards; even as I protested he stuffed something into my mouth.
I didn't know what it was a cloth, a sock, something that tasted musty
and dry.  I tried to gag against it, spit it out, but he was forcing it
in, his hand flat against my lips.

Then the cloth was near the back of my throat, and I thought he was
going to suffocate me, and I couldn't breathe, I was going to pass out,
but I couldn't get free of him.

He kept his hand pressed against my mouth; I felt the pressure against
my teeth, felt the flesh of my lips crushed against my teeth.  His
other hand pushed underneath my shoulder blades, and he turned me over,
quickly, so that I was lying face down.  His weight in the small of my
back pushed me down into the mattress.  He wrapped something around my
mouth and tied it behind my head.  He forced my arms behind my back my
left shoulder crunched and I tried to cry out but my tongue was
trapped, my mouth was full, I could feel the tightness in my throat.  I
felt him tying my wrists together behind my back, and then he got off
the bed and stood up.  Before I could do anything kick out, or
struggle, or something he had grabbed my ankles, and I felt him
wrapping the bedding around my feet until I couldn't move them. Finally
he stepped away from the bed, into my line of view, and he was
smiling.

He said, "I told you to shut up.  Now you'll have to, won't you?  And
I'll have a chance to think.  They won't come bursting in now they
think I've got a gun, will they?"

I didn't want to look at him any more, so I closed my eyes.  I didn't
want to open them again until this was all over.  I heard him walk
away, down towards the other end of the caravan.  I tried to
concentrate on the sounds I could hear from outside.  There was a car
engine, idling somewhere, and the distant murmur of voices, too far
away to distinguish.  I thought about Dave Short, crouched out there,
talking to his colleagues.  I wondered whether he was worrying about me
whether he was wishing he had done more to help me.

I felt the pressure on my wrists where Sean had tied me up.  I flexed
my hands, felt them move against the material he had used to bind me. I
twisted my hands, tried to squeeze my thumb into my palm, tried to make
my hand thin enough to slide out under the knots.  The material scraped
my skin, burning a little, but it had stretched I had felt it
stretch.

Sean came back into the bedroom and I felt the mattress dip as he sat
down on the edge of the bed, somewhere near my knees.  I opened my
eyes.  He was holding the knife in one hand and, in the other, Danny's
toy gun, the stupid plastic pellet gun he had made such a joke of.

"You know," he said.  "You're probably right about this gun.  It
probably does look real from a distance.  What d'you reckon?"

I wanted to tell him not to do it.  I could imagine them outside,
discussing whether he really did have a gun.  Did they have an Armed
Response Unit there?  I didn't want to think what they were predicting
would happen next.  I made a half-hearted attempt to speak through the
gag but it was no good.  Sean smiled.  "Yeah, I agree," he said as he
got up and went to the window.  He stood there for a moment,

looking at the gun, then pulled back the curtain and waved the gun
quickly across their line of view.  He dropped the curtain back into
place and came back to me.

The phone started to ring.  He took it from his pocket and answered it.
He raised his voice.  "Of course it's fucking real," he said.  "You
want me to shoot her just to prove it?"

I tried to moan, wriggle, struggle, anything that might be heard by
them and interpreted.  The material around my wrists loosened a little
more, but I couldn't pull myself free, not with him so close to me.  I
wanted to send thought-vibes down the phone get Dave to think about
this, because where would Sean get a real gun from?  Dave couldn't
possibly think he was that well connected Dave couldn't possibly think
he would go that far.

"And get us some food," Sean said.  "Fish and chips or something. We're
starved in here."

He didn't look at me when he said that.  I remembered the role I had
thought he was playing earlier; the lone movie hero, outnumbered,
outgunned.  I wanted to tell him not to be so stupid I wanted to tell
him that this wasn't a game, but there was nothing I could do.

He cancelled the connection and put the phone back in his pocket. "That
should do it," he said.  "Reckon they'll fall for that?  Yeah, I think
so, too.  The food was a nice touch.  People always ask for food, don't
they?"  He laughed again, sat down next to me, clapped his hand against
his knee.  "So, here

we are, eh?  Alone at last.  Who'd've thought I'd end up with you tied
up in my bed, eh?"

He obviously found that funny.  I didn't react.  The bindings on my
wrists felt looser, but I didn't move.

He said, "Well, this is good.  I can say anything I like and you won't
answer me back.  That makes a change, 'cos you've got a big mouth.
Anyone ever tell you that, Joanne Elliott?  You should shut your mouth
and listen sometimes.  Put a sock in it."  He giggled at his own joke.
"Well, got no choice now, have you?  Got no fucking choice."

He was silent for a moment.  I tried to seek out eye contact, hoping I
could get some sympathy, some sort of connection from him, but he
didn't look at my face.  Instead, he put the knife down on the
mattress, near my head, and reached one hand out, touching the gag
around my mouth.  I thought he was just checking it was still secure,
but then he said, "Did I hurt you before?  I never meant to."  His
voice was surprisingly gentle.  "All this," he said, very quietly, 'all
this, it's just a show, in tit  I mean, if I really wanted to hurt you
I'd have done it already, wouldn't I?  You were unconscious on that bed
for most of the night.  I could've done it then if I was going to."

I wondered again whether the police could hear him, whether microphones
were picking up his words.  Surely they would know by now what was
really going on here know that the gun wasn't real?  Sean had said as
much himself- but I couldn't remember what he had actually said, I
couldn't work out how the police would have interpreted it, and they
did seem to be taking Sean's threats seriously.  But whatever was going
to happen to Sean wasn't my problem I had to force myself to remember
that.

Sean went on, "I don't know why I'm so worried about you, anyway."
There was a little anger in his voice now; he pulled away from me,
hardened his tone.  "I'm the one in the shit.  Don't matter what I say
to them, you'll still come out okay."

But that wasn't true, I realized.  I thought of Danny with a jolt of
nausea.  If they ever knew what had really happened if they found out
I'd chosen to bring him here myself what would happen to me?

Sean said, "Christ, I'd've been long gone if you hadn't got in the way.
If I hadn't stopped to check you were okay.  I must be mad.  I
should've cleared off when I had the chance."

And if he had if he had disappeared and never been found, I would have
been in the clear.  If they never heard his version of events, they
would think I was the victim.  Which I was anyway, of course, but they
wouldn't understand that, not the way things stood.

He said, "But I know why I stayed."

His hand was still resting lightly against my cheek.  He had a slight
smile on his lips but it couldn't disguise the frown around his eyes.
He said, "Everything comes back to you, don't it?  Everything just fell
apart because of you."

He hesitated, then ran his finger along the shape of my chin.  I held
still, feeling the tingle of his light touch.  I wasn't sure whether to
feel sick or scared.  He went on, "I reckon there's some people whose
lives just get all tangled in with each other.  Know what I mean?
You're right in there, all tangled up with why things are the way they
are.  We're linked, you and me.  Karma, in tit

He seemed to expect an answer.  There was nothing I could do, so I
showed no reaction.

He said, "You know about karma, right?  What goes around comes around?
I used to think it was a load of crap, but you know, maybe it isn't?
Maybe everything gets balanced out in the end.  What d'you say to
that?"

Again, I couldn't answer.  I wasn't sure what I could have said if I
had been able to speak.  He edged a little further up the bed, towards
my head, and moved his hand across my face to stroke my hair, smoothing
it where it fell across my forehead.  I felt the soft warmth of his
touch.  I could see the knife lying on the mattress close by, but he
didn't pick it up.

He let out a long breath, then took his hand away.  "Shame this has to
come to an end, eh?  I could get used to this.  But you know what they
say, all good things and all that."  He laughed, a high, unnatural
sound, and looked down at me, right into my eyes.  "All these years,"
he said, 'and it comes to this.  A flea-blown caravan in Skeggie with
the police waiting outside.  Who'd've thought it?"

I looked up at him.  I wanted to know why he thought that this was the
end, but the possible answer scared me.  I was surprised to see tears
collecting in his eyes; the lids of his eyes reddening and liquid
swimming over his dark irises until I could see myself reflected there,
distorted but reflected.  I remembered the boy he had been; the boy who
had needed my help so badly that he hadn't known how to handle it when
I offered it to him.

He said, "I don't want things to end like this."  He gave a little
laugh, a bitter, angry sound, rubbed his sleeve over his eyes, and
laughed again.  "You can make this right," he said.  "I know you can.
You can explain it all to them.  Explain why you came here.  Why you
brought Danny."

I lay very still, barely even breathing.  I wanted to tell him that
things couldn't be undone, that he had already made his choice.  I
wanted to tell him that there was nothing to be gained in sacrificing
myself for him.

"You can tell them about when I was a kid," he said.  "Tell them what
really happened."

He didn't seem to realize that it wouldn't make any difference, not for
him.  I had acted in his best interests; the way things had worked out
was his fault, not mine.  I wanted to tell him that the world wasn't as
unforgiving as he seemed to think, but I knew he wouldn't believe that.
I wasn't even sure that I believed it.  And did he really think that I
could undo all the years?  There was nothing I could say and I didn't
want to, anyway.  I had tried to help him, but I couldn't take
responsibility for his actions.  If I let him go out there if I let him
tell people his version of the truth, they would never understand.  He
would twist it, distort it, and it wouldn't help him but then they
would never believe me, and where would that leave me?  He couldn't end
up much worse off than he was already, but me I could lose everything,
and what would happen to me then?

He said, "Tell me what to do.  Tell me how to get out of this.  I don't
know how to get out."

There was no way out, not for him or for me.  If he told them about
Danny, I would be out of a job at the very least career over, and what
else did I have?

He was reaching over me.  I had a moment of panic, not knowing what he
was doing, and then I felt him untie the gag and remove it.  He pulled
the cloth out of my mouth, and my mouth was so dry and empty and sore;
I gasped in air.

He said, "Tell me how to end this.  I don't care any more, I'll even go
back to Glen Parva, I don't care.  I don't want things to be like
this."

I tried to speak, but my tongue felt oddly out of my control, as if it
had swollen.  I tried to swallow.

He said, "If I tell them what happened to Danny, they'll have to listen
to me.  That's what I have to do, isn't it?  Go out there and explain
everything.  That'll make it okay, won't it?"

He was looking at me as if he expected me to agree; as if he thought I
would approve.  There was a desperate edge to his words, though I
realized that he didn't believe them any more than I did.  He wanted me
to save him, to tell him how to get out of this, but I couldn't give
him any glib assurances there was nothing I could say.  I felt cold.

He said, "Tell me what really happened with my dad."

"I told you already," I said.  "I never even met him."

"No," he said.  "I mean the truth."  I raised my gaze to meet his.  He
said, "You cant carry a secret like that around for ever.  Those things
eat you up.  You should tell me everything.  You'll feel better, I
promise."

I forced myself to laugh.  "There's nothing to tell."

"Yes, there is."  His voice was quiet, level, with an almost dreamlike
quality to it.  Like he was hypnotized; or like I was.  He said, "I
figured out why you punched me when I was a kid.  It wasn't my fault.
It wasn't even your fault, not really.  I mean, you were in pieces I'm
surprised nobody else spotted it.  But I never made the connection, so
why would anyone else?  You were in that state because of what you did
to my dad, weren't you?"

"No," I whispered, barely audible.  But he was making me think about
that night again; about the heavy rain, so heavy it washed down the
windscreen and overwhelmed the wipers, and about the way the street
lights flared and danced in the distortion, and about leaning forward
over the wheel, trying to see the road.  "I went to the cafe but he
never came," I said.

He said, "It was you.  I know it was you.  It's written all over your
face.  You were losing it before he died, I know that, but I've had
time to think about it since.  You were stressed out before, but you
were a wreck afterwards."

I wanted to stop him saying those things.  My hands pulled at the
bindings around my wrists, but I couldn't get free.  "I don't want to
think about back then.  I was sick, I couldn't cope, but it has nothing
to do with your dad."

"Tell me what happened the day he died."

"Nothing," I said, but I couldn't stop myself remembering.  I couldn't
stop myself remembering pulling into the car park, getting out of the
car, sheltering under my umbrella as I locked the door.  I hadn't heard
him approach me over the hiss of the rain falling; it had given me a
jolt when he said my name.  I stretched out my hand in greeting but he
just stood there, hands wedged into his jacket pockets, rain streaming
down over his woolly hat and onto his face, running off his nose, off
his chin.  He didn't seem to notice the rain.  Before I had thought
what to say, he started to talk.  Those cold eyes looking at me; hard
eyes, a hard expression, a mean little man.  He was telling me that I
had no right to interfere, that I was causing trouble, that he wouldn't
let me destroy his family.  I tried to say that I just wanted to talk,
that I was looking for a way to resolve the situation, that I didn't
want to destroy his family, but he had his fists clenched at his sides
and I could see that he wasn't listening.

I said now, "Sean, your father was a very unpleasant man, but I didn't
kill him."

"How the fuck do you know what he was like?  You said you never met
him."

"Okay," I said.  "Okay, so I did meet him.  In the car park.  But I
didn't kill him."

Sean frowned, trying to think that through.

I said, "I thought you were going to end this now?  Go out there and
tell them everything you think you know about me?  Well, go on, then.
Tell them what you think happened to Danny."

"No," he said.  "No, I want to know about my dad.  I want to know why
you killed him."

"I didn't," I said.  "Don't be absurd."

"But if you saw him in the car park, why wait for him in the cafe?  It
doesn't make sense."

The coffee had been too milky, too weak, I remembered that much.
Sitting there chain-smoking; I drank three cups of coffee before I felt
even slightly calm.  "Your dad wound me up," I said.  "The things he
said he was poison, Sean.  He really shook me up.  I went there to calm
down."

"After you knocked him down."

"No," I said.  "I left him in the car park."

I had seen him stop at the car park entrance.  He was wet through, the
rain pounding down on him, but he had stopped and turned and leered
back at me.  The car park was edged by a knee-high trim, a
single-barred metal fence running around the tarmac square he could
have stepped over it, but he was waiting for me to exit first.  In his
expression, I saw all the contempt, all the mistrust and loathing that
made me hate my job, that made me hate the people I worked with and the
estates I visited.  I started the engine but as I eased out towards the
exit I was filled with a bright burn of anger that made me grip the
wheel hard, clench my jaw.  He was laughing at me I couldn't stand to
see the laughter twisting his cruel face.  I felt the emotions like a
surge of energy through my whole body.  He was laughing, and there was
nothing I could do about it, and in that moment I felt the car move
forwards, and I jammed my foot down on the accelerator.

I had only caught him with a slight blow.  A tap, nothing more.  I
swung the wheel, slid on the slick tarmac, headed out onto the road.  I
twisted my body to look behind me and saw him lying as a dark huddle on
the pavement.  A slight blow and he had been thrown clear of the car
park, right over that little fence.

I said, "I didn't kill him," because I couldn't have done, not that
easily, not when I hadn't meant to.

Sean said, "Didn't anyone see the damage to your car?"

"There wasn't any," I said.  I had been surprised by that.  Not a
broken headlight, not even a dent or a scratch.  Then I realized what I
had said.  I realized that I was in the caravan still, that Sean was
there, that he had heard my words.

I said, "There wasn't any damage because it wasn't me," but I knew it
was already too late.

Sean let out a long breath.  I couldn't read his expression.  I didn't
want to.  He said, "You have to tell people."

"No.  There's nothing to tell."

"Then I'll tell them," he said.  "I'll tell them that you left him
there to die.  You mowed him down and left him to die like an animal,
like a fucking animal."

And he would do it.  There was no point appealing to him, no point
telling him that it wouldn't change anything.  I couldn't let him go
out there and tell them what he thought he knew.  His father Danny.. ..
He could destroy everything, and I couldn't let him do that.  I twisted
my hands, working them against the loosening material, but he didn't
notice.

"I went back for you," he said.  "I brought you in here, checked you
were okay, when I could have got away.  I did that for you, but you
left my dad to die in the street.  How could you do that?  How could
you live with that?"

He was starting to move away from me; I had to act.  I pulled my hands
free of their binding, forced myself to move, forced myself to grab the
knife off the mattress with both hands.  A spasm of pain ran down my
arm from my damaged shoulder; nerve-endings tingled and numbed, but I
couldn't stop now.  He realized what I was doing, turned back, reached
his hands out towards the knife.  My fingers closed around the handle a
moment before his hands closed over mine.  I tried to pull the knife
away from him.

"No," he said.  "I don't want to hurt you."

But he already had hurt me.  I remembered the car hitting me;
remembered Sean striking me across the back of the head, and that long
plunge down into unconsciousness.  I thought about Dave outside, and
Alex with Louise, and Colin's hand over his face after I had hit him. I
couldn't allow Sean to destroy what was left of my life he couldn't get
away with hurting me.  I held onto the knife; he was trying to break my
grip, twisting my fingers, but I held on.  He was so strong, so much
stronger than me, but I couldn't let him win.  My shoulder burned; I
could feel every bruise, every cut across my body, and the strain of
muscles, and the oxygen in my lungs, and the blood in my veins.  He was
strong, but I had strength, too.  His knees dug into the mattress; he
was above me, trying to get the knife away from me, and I couldn't
allow that.  I pushed the knife up towards him and the tip of the blade
wavered close to his body, snagging on his loose T-shirt.

"Don't do this," he said, "I don't want to hurt you," but I knew he was
lying, I knew because he'd hurt me before, and now he could destroy
me.

He tried again to jerk the knife out of my grip, and I felt the heat of
the blade against my fingers, slicing into my soft flesh.  I saw my
blood on my hands, bright red smears, and I pictured his flesh cut
through, and streaks of blood on his pale skin.  The pain sharpened; he
was forcing the blade into the palm of my hand, trying to make me drop
the knife.  I jerked away from him but didn't release my grip, because
I couldn't relax my fingers; I needed to feel their pressure against
the smooth knife handle.

He was leaning over me, closer to me, closer to the knife, and I felt
it press against his chest.  I felt the resistance of his flesh, the
solidity pushing against the tip of the blade.  He was fighting me but
I was stronger; I realized that I had always been stronger.  I plunged
the knife up, up to where I thought his heart was.  The blade punched
through his clothing, through his skin, into the firm mass of his body.
I didn't hear him cry out; I couldn't hear anything over my own breath,
and the roar of blood inside my head, and the volume of my own voice.
It took all my strength, everything I had to force that blade in.

My eyes were closed I didn't want to see anything.  But I stabbed him
again, and a third time I couldn't stop myself repeating the action.  I
could feel something hitting me; heavy drops of hot liquid, and then a
gush that splashed onto my chest, my neck, my face.  Sean's hands
scrabbled against me, fingers finding my eyes, my mouth; I tasted his
blood, tasted it as his fingers forced my lips open.

I thought I heard him trying to suck in breath, but I couldn't be sure.
Then he seemed to slump; I sensed him falling before the blunt end of
the knife handle hit me hard on the breastbone, and his weight pushed
me down into the mattress, expelling the air from my lungs.  I tried to
breathe but he was so heavy, his weight engulfing me, and the knife
handle had me pinned, its blade sinking deeper into his flesh.  I
needed air I couldn't breathe.  I opened my eyes and saw a haze of red,
and I couldn't tell if it was blood or if I was suffocating, and I
could feel pools of liquid, pools of his blood on me, soaking through
my clothes and onto my skin, running out to the edges of my body,
streaming down my sides and collecting against the mattress.  I wanted
to scream but I couldn't even breathe.  I wanted to move but I was
pinned down by his weight, by the knife handle connecting his chest to
mine.

I closed my eyes again.  I could feel my heart thumping beneath the
knife handle, and the pull of my lungs as I sucked precious air down.
Every muscle, every tendon, every joint burned with the effort of
breathing.  I could feel every part of my body anchored by his weight,
and his head lolled against my neck.  I could taste the bitter metallic
flavour of his blood in my mouth.  I wanted to move.  I needed to move
but I was trapped.

I kept my eyes closed even when there were people around me.  I didn't
open my eyes when the weight was lifted off me, or when I heard Dave
speaking to me, softly, or when they helped me to sit up and wrapped a
blanket around my shoulders.  Dave held me tight as he talked to me,
held me so tight that I felt as if our bodies were merging, our
molecules combining, and I didn't want him to ever let me go.  He was
telling me that I was safe now, Sean couldn't hurt me now, and it
hadn't been my fault, I had only been defending myself, and he was
right, he was right.  I let Dave hold me tight, let him say that he
wasn't going to leave me, and I needed to hear those words, I needed
those words to block everything else out.  I was thinking about being
unconscious, about that dizzying fall towards the shop floor and the
comfort, the warmth of the darkness that had greeted me.  Sean could
have done anything he wanted while I was lying there, just as he could
have during the night, when he had put me on the bed and waited with me
while the police gathered outside.  He could have done anything, but he
didn't.  I could feel the impact of the knife handle on my breastbone,
long after he had gone.  I couldn't feel anything apart from the heat
of the bruise that was growing there.

Thirty-three

Dave followed me into the through-lounge and put the cardboard box he
was carrying down on the carpet.  I set mine down next to his and we
both straightened up.  It was a warm day, the start of summer, and
there was a gloss of sweat on his face.  I laughed and reached up to
kiss him quickly on the lips.

"You look hot," I said.

He grinned and moved in closer to me, his hands running to my waist.
"Not as hot as you," he said.

I laughed again and pushed him away.  "Come on.  We've got to get your
stuff upstairs before people start arriving."

"We've got ages yet," he said, but turned to go back outside.  "This
should be the last trip."

I followed him back into the street.  The air was thick with the summer
heat.  I could hear the tinny sound of distant stereos, and car
engines, and I could taste exhaust fumes in the air.  The sky was
cloudless; perfect barbecue weather.  Dave had his car boot open and
started loading items into my arms I pretended to stagger under the
weight and he laughed and said, "Nearly done."

"We deserve a nice cold beer after this," I said.

I took the armful of items into my house our house and dropped them
onto the sofa.  I could see Dave through the window, trying to lock the
boot without dropping the things clutched under his other arm.  I could
have gone back to help him, but I stood there at the window and watched
him instead.  Until that moment, I had never quite been sure that
things were going to work out between us.  At first, I thought he was
only staying around me out of guilt.  I had thought that about Alex,
and Colin, and all our other friends, too.  But as time went by, I
realized that I was the one feeling the guilt; and I was the one person
who didn't deserve to feel any.  Dave had made me see that.

I went into the kitchen and fetched two small bottles of beer from the
fridge.  I opened them both and took them back into the through-lounge
just as Dave put down the last of his stuff.  I handed him one of the
bottles and held mine up.  He touched his bottle against mine and
smiled.

"Welcome to our house," I said.

"Thank you," he said, and took a sip of beer.

I sipped mine too.  The chilled liquid made me shiver after the
stickiness of the day.  Dave took another swig from the bottle, then
put it on the mantelpiece and started to collect together the items I'd
dropped onto the sofa.

"Here, let me."

"No, no," he said.  "You must be tired.  They'll be here soon.  Go and
get ready, I'll deal with this."

Taking the bottle of beer upstairs with me, I went into the bathroom. I
closed the door, put my beer down on the windowsill and took my T-shirt
off.  I leaned over the bath and washed my hair with the shower
attachment, working the suds into my roots.  The water ran warm across
my neck as I rinsed the suds out.  Then I wrapped a towel around my
head and ran myself a hot bath, dropping in some of the aroma therapy
oils that people from the office had bought for me while I was signed
off work.  The scent was slightly sickly, too sweet, but when I got
into the bath and lay back and closed my eyes, the steam and the oils
did have a strangely soothing effect.

I lay there for a long time, feeling my skin soften and wrinkle.  When
the water started to cool, I opened my eyes and looked down at my body.
I still had stiffness in my shoulder and knees sometimes, and it had
taken a long time for most of the cuts and bruises to fade from my
skin.  I looked at my hand, at the soft pad of flesh below my thumb.
There was a scar there, a zigzag of hard white tissue that I could feel
when I ran my fingers over it.  Defence wounds, the doctors had said
I'd been trying to stop Sean stabbing me, of course I had cuts on my
hands.  Sometimes, Dave would catch me looking at the scar, or running
my fingers over it, and he would take my hand and raise it to his lips.
A sign of my bravery, Dave called it, as he kissed the snake of ridged
tissue; gentle lips touching the only mark left by the experience.

Wrapping a towel around me, I went back into the bedroom.  The bed was
still unmade; I smoothed the duvet before opening my wardrobe and
laying out the outfit I'd decided to wear for the barbecue.  Dave had
told me not to worry about it it was just our friends, after all but I
wanted to make an effort, now that the marks from my injuries had
finally faded.  I felt that this was a new beginning; the start of my
new life, and Dave was always going to be there with me.

The bedroom door was closed and I could hear Dave coming up and down
the stairs, putting his things in the spare room to sort out later.  I
suddenly wanted him to come into the bedroom, to find me still wrapped
in my towel and start to unwrap me; I wanted him to be unable to
resist, to be overwhelmed.  I imagined that, and people arriving,
people coming upstairs to look for us and realizing

- I imagined Alex's expression if he burst in on us.  I nearly called
out to Dave but I felt slightly sleepy from the hot bath and the oils,
and before I summoned the energy I heard him going down the stairs
again.

I dried myself slowly and got dressed, pausing to take sips from my
beer.  Now that the barbecue was approaching, I felt nervous.  I wasn't
sure why

after all, I'd seen all of my friends at various times since, and even
before I was out of hospital Alex and Dave had explained to them what
had happened.  I was still in hospital when the inquests were held, and
the media had been all over the story for a couple of weeks, trying to
get into the ward to interview me, wanting to hear about the kidnap
from the victim herself.  They paid a lot of money to Gary Adams for
his account of the neighbours from hell, and several papers ran photos
of Katie Adams with her children huddled around her, next to a small
photo of the Metcalfe house, boarded up.  I didn't read everything that
was printed; I just wanted to get back to work and put it all behind
me.

I heard Dave calling me from downstairs.  I went to the bedroom door
and opened it a little.  "What?"

"Colin's here.  And Alex and Louise."

"I'll be right down," I said.

I went back to the mirror and brushed my hair through, looking at my
reflection.  Soon everyone would be downstairs, and even if we had
officially called it Dave's moving-in party, everyone knew what this
really was.  I wondered whether maybe I should make a speech, try to
explain, but I knew they would never understand.  Even people like Alex
and Colin even they wouldn't understand, and I knew I would never be
able to articulate it.  But it was like Colin had said, in that
previous life, sitting in Alex's back yard with a beer in our hands.
You had to get on with it or get out, and I had no intention of getting
out.

Even after everything had happened, even when the nightmares were still
making me wake, covered in sweat that felt like his blood, shaking and
struggling for breath; even then, I knew I couldn't give in.  One wrong
word, one slip and I could undo everything I had achieved, and I was
still needed Sean's desperate appeals for my help showed me that.  I
had given that family a great gift a chance at a new life, free of the
violent husband, the vindictive father.  I had given them what they
needed, but they didn't recognize what was good for them.  Sean hadn't
realized and it was my fault that I hadn't managed to save him.  I
hadn't even saved Danny, but their sacrifice did have meaning, I could
see that now.  I hadn't saved them, but they had saved me.  I had been
hurtling down the same self-destructive path that I'd been trying to
pull Sean back from, but they had saved me from that.  I didn't have to
deny things to myself any more I knew that I was needed, that there
were more people who needed my help.  People who weren't able to make
decisions on their own.  I saw it so often; every time I went into one
of their mean little houses, and sat on their second-hand furniture
drinking cheap tea, and talked to their snotty, scrawny children, and
heard all their whining excuses.  They needed me to take charge, just
as Sean had needed me, just as Danny had.  They needed me to find
solutions to their problems, however hard those solutions turned out to
be.  I wasn't going to hide from my responsibilities.  Other people
Alex, Colin might hold back, might allow a situation to drift, but I
wasn't one to give in so easily, not when I knew what needed to be
done, not when I had already come so close to losing everything.

When I woke with nightmares, Dave woke, too, and held me tight,
moulding his body around mine as I waited for my breathing to calm.  He
would brush my hair with his hand, and snuggle in closer, and then I
would listen to his breathing as he drifted back to sleep.

Dave told me it would all take time, I had to allow myself time.

It had taken me a while to get used to the way people spoke when they
were around me the hushed, level tones, as if any loud noise, any kind
of emotion might trigger off bad memories, might be too much to cope
with.  And people didn't complain in my presence any more even when I
could see that something was tearing at their insides, even when they
could barely keep their anger or frustration or upset in check, if I
asked how they were they just put on a brave sort of smile and said,
"Oh well, mustn't grumble."  I had the feeling that they were
embarrassed that their suffering, their problems were never going to be
big enough to match the things I'd been through.  I wanted to tell them
that it was ridiculous, that this wasn't a competition to find out who
had suffered the most.  But then, I knew they wouldn't understand that.
They would just think I was being even braver, and that would make them
feel even worse, but what was brave about it?

"It's how you're coping with it," Dave had told me when I tried to talk
to him about it.  "You seem so together about it all.  So strong."

I had laughed and said, "What, did they expect me to go to pieces?"

He hadn't replied immediately, and I realized that was exactly what
people had expected they had all thought I wouldn't cope.  I said,
"I've changed."

"I know you have," Dave said.  "You're so much stronger now."

I rubbed my hair with the towel, thinking about that.  It wasn't
strength; I knew that now.  None of this was about being strong, or
being able to cope.  It was about being hard, about not being affected,
about not letting anything get in the way when I knew I was doing the
right thing.  It was about courage, yes; the courage to push on, no
matter what the obstacles.

I ran the brush through my hair one last time, straightened my dress
and opened the bedroom door.  I could hear voices and laughter from
downstairs.  A CD started playing "Sunny Afternoon' by The Kinks, one
of my favourites.  I wondered whether Dave had chosen that track
especially; a way to call me downstairs.  I stood at the top of the
stairs and listened to the song right to the end, and I could hear my
friends having a good time, waiting for me to join them.

Born in Bedford in 1973, Clare Littleford worked in the housing
department at Nottingham City Council before taking an MA in Writing at
Nottingham Trent University.  Still based in Nottingham, she now works
in community development in the voluntary sector.

Clare's first novel, Beholden, was published by Simon & Schuster in
2003.

Visit www.clarelittleford.net