He only got paid from the agency, and with the benefits taking time to transfer to him, he was struggling more than he ever had without the sole care of a child to consider. The sting of having to ask for help wasn’t nice either. He’d always been lucky enough to be in work before, well and able to provide for himself. Once more, he thought of Tina and silently cursed her for not being there. Judging by her social media update, she was doing just fine. Back in her old job, picking up her old pre-family life. Erasing it completely for the most part. Hard to believe they’d lived in the same place, but were strangers now. Bully for you, Tina. Hope you are enjoying yourself there, without a care in the world.
Of course, that was always the problem. She never wanted the whole domestic life, not really. She’d told him enough times. The problem with people was, they heard what they wanted to hear sometimes, no matter what’s actually said. It was up to him now, to move on too. Once the pit of what felt like battery acid stopped swirling in his stomach. He needed to let go, but the anger was all he had to fuel him right now. That, and sodding Peppa Pig.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he fumbled for it, desperate to answer it before it rang off. They often rang on withheld numbers from the employment agencies he was registered with, which wasn’t exactly helpful if you needed to call them back. Not that he could, given his lack of phone credit. The money he had left was in case of emergencies only, for ringing the school, the social workers.
‘Hello?’
***
Thirty minutes later, and he was pulling his van up outside Martha’s place. A light sheen of sweat sticking his clothing to his back, he squirmed in his seat and looked around at the park. He could see no signs of life, and other than the tatty car with all its baggage, nothing looked any different. Walking around the other side to the reception hut, he saw the broken door that Martha had called him about. Inspecting the hinges, he felt relieved that there was no sign of forced entry. The lock was intact, not smashed off. No tool marks. Whoever had come through the doors had a key.
Grateful that Orla was at nursery, he stepped over the threshold, noticing that the patio doors at the back were wide open. Other than the door, there wasn’t any damage. The place was empty, and he shook his head. The old manager really had stripped the place. Whoever was taking over had their work cut out. He was just heading back out of the door to inspect the car when he spotted movement out of the patio doors. He backed up against the wall and shimmied along as quickly and quietly as he could, listening for the footsteps getting closer and closer. There were no voices, no communication. Was it just one person? They didn’t seem to be in a rush.
He looked around him on the dusty floor for some sort of weapon, but other than dust bunnies and junk mail piles, he was out of luck. Someone was coming in, right now. He pushed himself flat against the wall, his whole body coiled behind the patio doors. The footsteps got closer and louder, and then a leg came through the door. WHAM!
Cillian wasted no time at all, springing on the intruder in a flying frog-like leap, just as a mature woman wearing a murderous expression and what looked like a butcher’s apron came running through the front doors whooping at the top of her lungs with a large cricket bat clasped in her raised arms.
‘Martha, run!’ Cillian shouted at the bat brandisher, his leap descending till he collided with the shape, knocking them both to the ground and hearing the person beneath him grunt loudly in pain. Martha ran all right, but not to the door. She sprinted over to the counter nearby, and bringing the wooden bat down hard on the surface, she screamed, ‘Eat dirt, pussbag! I’ve called the rozzers!’
‘Get off!’ a voice screamed, and Cillian and Martha both whirled around, looking for the source.
‘It’s me, down here! Can you get off me? Your knee is jammed in my ribs!’ A female voice. A rather startled female voice.
Cillian looked down and saw an irate brunette staring back up at him. A brunette with huge brown eyes, that were now glaring at him in shock. She was blinking rapidly, and he was just admiring how long her lashes were, when he realised she was trying with all her might to shove him off her.
‘Oh sh— sorry!’ He scrabbled to his feet, or tried to, but they were a tangle of clothes and limbs, and it took a second or two to get separated from each other. He caught a flash of pale midriff as her top rode up, and he shook away the distraction from his thoughts. Dark lashes, hot body. Nice one, Cill, first sniff of a woman in months and you slam her to the floor like a prop forward. Finally managing to stand, he held out his hand to her. Lying there on the floor, her hair windswept and clothes thick with dust, Cillian thought her the cutest burglar he had ever seen. She eyed him, but finally pursed her lips and put her hand in his.
‘We thought you were an intruder,’ he said by way of explanation, his Irish tones fuelling the echoes in the room. It also amplified her indignant huff back at him.
‘So you thought you’d crush me to death?’ The woman was rubbing her ribcage, and Cillian felt a pang of guilt. Maybe he had overreacted, but Martha had been so sure that there was trouble.
‘Who are you, anyway?’ Martha asked the woman now, bat still firmly
