"That I should think for myself?"
The way she arches her body back aptly indicates that I've put her on the back foot. I didn't mean to do that. Or did I? "Don't be a prick about it," she says, smiling. "I know you're perfectly capable of thinking for yourself, Marcus. You know as well as I do what an awkward, pretentious little shit you can be. I just mean exactly what I said. Don't assume that Richard is right about absolutely everything..."
I grimace. I just don't want to admit she is right. Richard is the one lifeline I hold on to for dear life. If I doubt Richard then I doubt everything, and where does that leave me? I nod my head to show I've taken what she said on board. There is no commitment to do anything about it, though. My wandering eyes locate Emma, right in the middle of the multitude of bowling lanes. Emma hasn't changed much; she has just grown up. She has always been a fantastic bundle of energy. Emma stands with her hands on her hips as she follows the ball's slow but definite descent down the aisle. My baby girl is frozen stiff waiting to see what happens, like she is playing musical statues. Even I feel some angst from the comfort of my chair as the ball trickles closer to the skittles, or whatever it is they call them these days. I sigh with relief as the ball clatters against the skittles and each and every one of them disappears. Emma bends at the knees and jumps, pumping her fist in the air.
Jenny catches me watching Emma, and she smiles. "Sometimes it takes it out of you without you even realising, you know?" she says. "You look exhausted, sweetheart. You need a break from it all. Take a holiday. You could even head back to..."
I give her a startled look. I know where she means. We just don't speak about it, even though it is always there, consuming us both.
"Maybe you're right," I say. I decide against listing the endless list of reasons why she might be wrong, too.
Glancing at Jenny, I notice her wide eyes. Wasn't she the one who suggested it? Clearly, she wasn't expecting me to agree with her. She is shocked I didn't put up a fight, show resistance. Jenny knows how long it has been since I've been there. She knows that normally it just isn't an option. She knows that it is the absolute last resort. Similarly, she must realise now just how bad things are, that they must be much worse than even she feared.
Looking up, my eyes automatically wander. My ability to focus has abandoned me. Distraction. It is a fundamental technique I use with Richard. Only, now I suspect my use is unhealthy. I use it as a method to avoid the awful reality of life.
I blink, startled. Was that...? Here? No, it couldn't be. Not with my family around. My little girl. How would he know? I rise to my feet, but my hands remain fixed to the table. I close my eyes for a moment, regain my chain of thoughts.
Jenny tugs at my tee-shirt. "Darling, I think you definitely need that break. Don't you?"
I return to my seat. In the background, I hear the clatter of skittles and the familiar sound of Emma celebrating another strike.
DAY SIXTEEN 16TH JUNE 1988
Her eyes fix on nothing in particular, just stare absent-mindedly at the beer-stained carpet, marvel at the multitude of rips and tears on the flimsy fabric. A pair of black shoes appear in her line of sight. Her eyes rise to the legs. They are lean and long. The jeans are blue and fashionable. Shifting over to allow the strong frame to sit down next to her, blood rises to her cheeks, to her chest.
"Hello, Princess," he says. “What's your name?”
Marie Davies turns to the man and notices that he is young, dark and attractive. She hasn't seen him before. She would have remembered. She wonders what he wants with her, whether his intentions are innocent. She doesn't say anything. She doesn't need to. He isn't speaking to her. Marie glances to her right, just about catches her friend, Donna, pouting her painted lips and giggling like she is high on drugs. She looks at the wide shoulders that separate her from her friend. Her first impression was misjudged. He was like all the others. Just who did these young men aspire to be? Who did they look up to? A splash of beer runs from his chest to his soft, round belly. There is another - as yet unidentified - stain just below the crotch of his jeans. Marie observes that the guy is not the catch she thought he might be. Quite a relief, seeing as he hadn't actually noticed her. And yet she can't quite brush away the undercurrent of jealousy. Not for this man. Just for the attention, to feel wanted, to not feel invisible. Marie knows this is the cue that she'll be ignored for the next twenty minutes or so, maybe for the rest of the night, whichever happens to come first.
It has been like this all night. The sofa has been a conveyor belt for randy young men with just one thing on their mind. One leaves and another takes his place. And, to think, Marie didn't even want to come out. She'd
