Beyond Black: A Novel

suppose I could have laid charges. But I was brought up to be scared of a uniform. She remembered them shouting through the letter box: Mrs. Emmeline Cheetham? She thought, why didn’t my mum get one of her boyfriends to nail it shut? It isn’t as if we had any letters.

Just as Al had finished cleaning the kitchen and tidying away signs of Mart’s lunch, Colette came in with a handful of carrier bags and in a state of outrage. “I was putting the car away,” she said. “Somebody’s swiped our garden chairs! How did that happen? It must have been that man in the night. But how did he get in the garage? There’s no sign of forced entry!”

“You sound like Constable Delingbole,” Alison said.

“Been talking to Michelle, have you? I can tell you, I wish I’d been a bit more wide awake this morning. I should have rung the police as soon as I spotted him. I blame myself.”

“Yes, do,” Alison said, in such a commiserating tone that Colette didn’t notice.

“Oh well. I’ll claim it on the insurance. What have you had to eat while I’ve been out?”

“Just some cornflakes. And a bit of salad.”

“Really?” Colette swung open the fridge door. “Really and truly?” She frowned. “Where’s the rest of the chicken?”

“There wasn’t much left, I threw it out. And the bread.”

Colette looked knowing. “Oh yes?” She lifted the lid of the butter dish. Her eyes swept the worktops, looking for evidence: crumbs, or a slight smearing of the surface. She crossed the kitchen, wrenched open the dish-washer and peered inside; but Al had already washed the grill pan and dishes, and put everything back where it should be. “Fair enough,” she said grudgingly. “You know, maybe that bloke down at Bisley was right. If they can get into the garage, they could certainly get into the shed. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea. I won’t move anything in yet. Till we see. If there’s any recurrence, in the neighbourhood. Because I’ve laid out quite a lot. On forks, and so on.”

“Forks?” Alison said.

“Forks, spades. Hoes. Et cetera.”

“Oh. Right.”

Al thought, she’s in such a state of self-reproach that she’s forgotten to count the bacon rashers. Or even check the biscuit tin.

“Mart,” Al said, “do you hear voices? I mean, inside your head? What’s it like when you hear them?”

“My hands sweat,” Mart said. “And my eyes go small in my head.”

“What do they say?”

Mart looked at her cunningly. “They say, we want tea.”

“I don’t mean to intrude, but do you find the pills help?”

“Not really. They just make you thirsty.”

“You know you can’t stay here,” Al said.

“Could I just for tonight, missus?”

He calls me missus, she thought, when he wants to be extra-pitiful. “Don’t you have a blanket? I mean, I thought if you’d been sleeping rough you’d at least have a blanket, a sleeping bag. Look, I’ll sneak something out.”

“And a flask refill,” said Mart. “And a dinner, please.”

“I don’t see how I can do that.”

She felt ill already—she’d gone all day, on a bowl of cereal and a few biscuits. If she were to bring out her lo-fat turkey strips and vegetable rice to Mart, he would eat it in two swoops, and then she’d probably faint or something—plus, Colette would say, Al, why are you going into the garden with your Ready Meal?

“Suppose I give you some money,” she said. “The supermarket’s still open.”

“I’m barred.”

“Really? You could go to the garage shop.”

“Barred there too. And the off-licence, or else I could get crisps. They shout, Sod off, you filthy gyppo.”

“You’re not! A gyppo.”

“I tried to get a wash with the hose at the garage, but they chased me out. They said, you come round here again and we’ll run you over. They said I was disgusting the customers and taking their trade away. I blame Delingbole. I’m barred out of everywhere.”

Anger swarmed up from her empty belly. It was unexpected and unfamiliar, and it created a hot glow behind her ribs. “Here,” she said. “Take this, go down the kebab van, I’m sure they’ll serve anybody. Don’t set off the security lights when you come back.”

While Mart was away, and Colette was watching EastEnders, she crept out with a spare duvet and two pillows. She tossed them into the Balmoral, and sped back to the house. The microwave was pinging. She ate in the kitchen, standing once again. I am refused bread in my own house, she thought. I am refused a slice of bread.

For a day or two, Mart came and went by night. “If Colette sees you, you’re stuffed,” she said. “Unfortunately, I can’t predict her comings and goings, she’s a real fidget these days, always banging in and out. You’ll have to take your chances. Evan next door leaves at eight sharp. Don’t let him see you. Half-past nine, Michelle takes the kids to nursery. Keep your head down. Post comes at ten; keep out of the postman’s way. The middle of the day’s not too bad. By three o’clock it gets busy again.”

Mart began again, on the story of how PC Delingbole stamped on his watch.