men. They come, and they go. There’s always somebody else.’
Fry put her fork down with a clatter, tired of pretending to eat. Even the small piece of roast duck felt like dust in her mouth, and she had to force herself to swallow.
‘So what then?’ she said. ‘What do you mean we haven’t talked? I’ve told you everything. And you say you’ve told me everything - at least, everything that matters.’
Fry regretted sounding so abrupt. She could hear the tone of her voice echoing in the corner of the restaurant - the tone she used when she was irritated by one of her colleagues at work, when Ben Cooper or Gavin Murfin had been particularly annoying.
Angie’s eyes clouded and she began to sit back in her chair as if withdrawing from contact with her sister, deliberately distancing herself from the moment. Diane leaned forward, reaching to touch her sister’s hand, to prevent her from pulling away too far.
‘Sis? What is it?’
But Angie was reluctant to speak now - afraid, perhaps, of people overhearing her, after all.
‘We haven’t talked about before,’ she said.
Fry felt a chill go through her. For a moment, it was as if someone had opened a freezer cabinet door just behind her, loosing an icy draught that penetrated her shirt and raised goose pimples on her skin.
‘Before?’ she said. But she knew what Angie meant.
‘What happened before I left home,’ Angie said. ‘What happened to me - and to you.’
Raymond Proctor opened the door to his office, and stopped. At first he thought one of the visitors from the caravan park had walked in of their own accord, taking liberties because he wasn’t there to deal with them. What a bloody cheek, he thought. Here’s some oik with a short
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haircut sitting at my desk, bold as brass, as if he owns the place.
‘What the hell -‘ he started to say.
Then his mouth hung open in mid-sentence as the figure at his desk turned, and he recognized the profile of a man he’d hoped never to see again.
‘Hello, Ray.’
Mansell Quinn’s face was wet. He’d come straight in from the rain, taking the trouble only to throw the hood of his waterproof back from his head. Water was running off him and gathering on the carpet around the chair he was sitting in. Proctor could sec the drips from Quinn’s sleeve landing on the polished mahogany of his desk.
‘Aren’t you going to say hello to an old friend?’ said Quinn.
‘Mansell ‘
‘Not going to ask how I am? Don’t you want to know what I’ve been doing with myself all these years?’
Quinn smiled. Proctor felt a cold shudder go down his spine.
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he said feebly.
‘Oh, and where should I be, Ray? Back inside?’
Proctor shut the door behind him nervously. He walked across the office and opened the inner door, which led into a short passage between the back door and the kitchen. He looked up and down the passage, listened for any noises, and closed the door again quietly.
He turned to find his visitor watching him with that same chilling smile.
‘Why don’t you make an effort, Ray?’ he said. ‘Why don’t you tell me that I haven’t changed much since you saw me last?’
‘You haven’t changed all that much,’ said Proctor.
‘Good. Because you’ve changed, Ray. I can see that you’re not the man you were fourteen years ago. I wonder why that is?’
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Proctor tried to speak, but found his mouth too dry. He went round his desk and fumbled in a bottom drawer. He produced half a bottle of malt whisky and a glass.
‘Hospitality at last,’ said Quinn. ‘I take it you can run to two glasses?’
‘Not without going to the kitchen.’
‘And you don’t want what’s-her-name …’
‘Connie.’
‘And you don’t want Connie to know you have a visitor? Pity. You looked as though you could have done with a drink.’
Proctor poured some whisky. His eyes met Quinn’s and tried to hold his stare. Finally, he passed the glass across the desk, splashing the liquid on to the mahogany in his haste to get rid of it.
‘You’ve got a bit nervy in your old age,’ said Quinn, running a finger through the spilled whisky, creating a pattern on the polished surface with an air of concentration, as if it were the most important thing in the world. Proctor watched him, keeping the open bottle still in his hand, trying to gather the courage to speak. He noticed that Quinn was chewing something, his jaw muscles clenching as he bit on it with his back teeth.
‘I don’t want you here,’ said Proctor. ‘It’s not right.’
Quinn stopped moving the amber drops of whisky and looked up. ‘Not right, Ray?’
‘It’s not fair. We’ve got children in the house, you know.’
‘Yes, I know. Not your children, though, Ray. They’re what’s-her-name’s children.’ ‘Connie’s. From a previous marriage. Two teenagers, Jason and Kelly.’
