But you can do better. You don’t have to go the same way.’
He had meant working hard at school and stuff, but it was too late for that and, anyway, it was all bollocks. How would reading help her now?
Leanne’s sister had had to get the morning-after pill. Krystal would ask Leanne about the pill and go and get it. She could not have Obbo’s baby. The thought of it made her retch.
She thought fleetingly of Kay, and then discarded her: as bad as the police, to tell a social worker that Obbo walked in and out of their house, raping people. She would take Robbie for sure, if she knew that.
A clear lucid voice in Krystal’s head was speaking to Mr Fairbrother, who was the only adult who had ever talked to her the way she needed, unlike Mrs Wall, so well-intentioned and so blinkered, and Nana Cath, refusing to hear the whole truth.
Her one sure refuge, the little house in Hope Street, was already being gobbled up by squabbling relatives…
She scurried around a corner underneath a street lamp, looking over her shoulder in case he was watching her, following.
And then the answer came to her, as though Mr Fairbrother had shown her the way.
If she got knocked up by Fats Wall, she would be able to get her own place from the council. She would be able to take Robbie to live with her and the baby if Terri used again. And Obbo would never enter her house, not ever. There would be bolts and chains and locks on the door, and her house would be clean, always clean, like Nana Cath’s house.
Half running along the dark street, Krystal’s sobs slowed and subsided.
The Walls would probably give her money. They were like that. She could imagine Tessa’s plain, concerned face, bending over a cot. Krystal would have their grandchild.
She would lose Fats in getting pregnant; they always went, once you were expecting; she had watched it happen nearly every time in the Fields. But perhaps he would be interested; he was so strange. It did not much matter to her either way. Her interest in him, except as the essential component in her plan, had dwindled to almost nothing. What she wanted was the baby: the baby was more than a means to an end. She liked babies; she had always loved Robbie. She would keep the two of them safe, together; she would be like a better, kinder, younger Nana Cath to her family.
Anne-Marie might come and visit, once she was away from Terri. Their children would be cousins. A very vivid image of herself and Anne-Marie came to Krystal; they were standing at the school gates of St Thomas’s in Pagford, waving off two little girls in pale blue dresses and ankle socks.
The lights were on in Nikki’s house, as they always were. Krystal broke into a run.
Part Four
Lunacy
5.11 At common law, idiots are subject to a permanent legal incapacity to vote, but persons of unsound mind may vote during lucid intervals.
I
Samantha Mollison had now bought herself all three of the DVDs released by Libby’s favourite boy band. She kept them hidden in her socks and tights drawer, beside her diaphragm. She had her story ready, if Miles spotted them: they were a gift for Libby. Sometimes at work, where business was slower than ever, she searched the internet for pictures of Jake. It was during one of these trawling sessions – Jake in a suit but with no shirt, Jake in jeans and a white vest – that she discovered that the band was playing at Wembley in a fortnight’s time.
She had a friend from university who lived in West Ealing. She could stay over, sell it to Libby as a treat, a chance to spend time together. With more genuine excitement than she had felt in a long time, Samantha managed to buy two very expensive tickets for the concert. When she let herself into the house that evening, she glowed with a delicious secret, almost as though she were coming home from a date.
Miles was already in the kitchen, still in his work suit, with the phone in his hand. He stared at her as she entered, and his expression was strange, difficult to read.
‘What?’ said Samantha, a little defensively.
‘I can’t get hold of Dad,’ said Miles. ‘His bloody phone’s engaged. There’s been another post.’
And when Samantha looked nonplussed, he said with a trace of impatience, ‘Barry Fairbrother’s Ghost! Another message! On the council website!’
‘Oh,’ said Samantha, unwinding her scarf. ‘Right.’
‘Yeah, I met Betty Rossiter just now, coming up the street; she was full of it. I’ve checked the message board, but I can’t see it. Mum must’ve taken it down already – well, I bloody hope she has, she’ll be in the firing line if Bends-Your-Ear goes to a lawyer.’
‘About Parminder Jawanda, was it?’ asked Samantha, her tone deliberately casual. She did not ask what the accusation had been, first, because she was determined not to be a nosy, gossiping old bag like Shirley and Maureen, and secondly, because she thought she already knew: that Parminder had caused the death of old Cath Weedon. After a moment or two, she asked, sounding vaguely amused, ‘Did you say your mother might be in the firing line?’
‘Well, she’s the site administrator, so she’s liable if she doesn’t get rid of defamatory or potentially defamatory statements. I’m not sure she and Dad understand how serious this could be.’
‘You could defend your mother, she’d like that.’
But Miles had not heard; he was pressing redial and scowling, because his father’s mobile was still engaged.
‘This is getting serious,’ he said.
‘You were all quite happy when it was Simon Price who was getting attacked. Why’s this any different?’
‘If it’s a campaign against anyone on the council, or standing for council…’
Samantha turned away to hide her grin. His concern was not about Shirley after all.
‘But why would anyone write stuff about you?’ she asked innocently. ‘You haven’t got any guilty secrets.’
‘What about that letter?’
‘What letter?’
‘For God’s – Mum and Dad said there was a letter, an anonymous letter about me! Saying I wasn’t fit to fill Barry Fairbrother’s shoes!’
Samantha opened the freezer and stared at the unappetizing contents, aware that Miles could no longer see her expression with the door open.
