‘Today is the day I sort my life out.’
‘It is?’ Vince was listening for sounds from his father. He recognised the bass line from ‘The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance’ somewhere below.
‘I have to find out where I’m going to live.’
‘It’s not a good day to do that on. You should never be decisive on rainy days. It’s a chemical thing. You need sunshine and happy thoughts, you do.’
‘You’re cheerful this morning.’
‘I had a visitor last night. Of course I’m cheerful.’ Vince was quite genuinely pleased and surprised by himself. He rested his head on one palm, speaking from the throat in chalky early-morning tones, the sound raw in the room. ‘Well, bless you for that, anyway.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘Sort some stuff out. Loose ends. I’m going to see my good old uncle Ethan. My benefactor. See if he feels at all responsible for my wellbeing.’
‘Back to Darlington then?’
‘He’s here in Aycliffe. With that old woman of his. Somewhere near the boating lake, the address is. Will you give me directions?’
‘Yeah, course.’ Vince sat up and found he was in his T-shirt and nothing else. There were socks poking out of the pillows and clothes all over the floor. It had been one of those nights. ‘Look, I’ll come with you.’
Andy shook his head as if he’d already thought about this. ‘I’ve got to do this just by myself. It’s embarrassing.’
‘What can you possibly be embarrassed with me about?’
‘I mean, I’m sick of getting dependent on people. I want to sort my own life out now.’
‘Right.’ It had been on Vince’s mind to suggest they find somewhere together. That they think about moving in together. As he watched Andy haul himself up off the mattress he considered the glorious, erotic charge of such a thing. His stuff was ready and packed to go. He could imagine unloading all of his belongings in a shared space with Andy and it was a sexy thought. The promise of domestic ease. It was like opening out.
‘I never want to depend on anyone again,’ Andy was muttering.
For the sake of easiness and quickness Jane would take her morning bath with Peter. It made him seem more like a baby. This morning, though, she took her own briefly and alone, scalding herself lobster pink. Then she filled it again and put Peter and Vicki in together. They looked suspiciously at one another.
Vicki said she got a bath each Sunday night. Jane cut her protestations dead, shoved her in and took the dirty clothes downstairs with the rest of the linen. She jammed them all into the washing machine. Although other people’s dirt made her uneasy, her routines went on this morning regardless. When she brought in the milk she saw that there was already a police car parked outside Fran’s house.
Vicki watched her dry Peter first. She exhibited a frank interest and Peter was babbling to show off. Jane sat on the toilet lid while Peter went on about Baywatch, his favourite programme, where people were always in the bath, or was it the sea, and there might be sharks and they might get eaten.
‘My mam’s not coming back, is she?’ asked Vicki, rubbing a heavy sponge into her hair. Her hair was tangled in clumps, with a few wiry strands sticking stubbornly up. She had been washing it herself with soap.
‘She’ll be back before you know it.’
The question disturbed Jane. How was she supposed to cope with this? Just give her the usual day, packing Peter off to playschool, going off to town. She couldn’t do this sort of thing. All of a sudden her usual life seemed something unrecoverable and ideal.
‘I don’t mind about it. I know that she’s gone.’
‘She’ll be back.’ Jane was tugging hard at Peter’s T-shirt. It was trapped over his head and he was squealing. She could feel the nylon fabric shriek and glisten with static under her fingernails.
Vicki sighed and said, ‘She’s gone off with the Dog Man. She said she would.’
‘She what?’ Peter gave a louder shout and Jane slapped him to shut him up. His head came out of the T-shirt with a quivering lip and teary eyes. ‘What did your mam say?’
‘She said, one of these days. With the Dog Man.’
‘There’s no answer next door. Are you the neighbour that’s been helping?’
Detective Inspector Collins stood at Fran’s back door, rain sparking off her black waterproof jacket. Fran, who hadn’t slept a wink, let her into the kitchen. She was worried about Frank, left in charge of bathing the baby upstairs. The baby had been filthy, tattooed with dirt.
‘Nesta’s husband Tony should be in. Have a seat.’ At least the kids were out of the way. The two eldest had gone off to school with no problems this morning, taking Lyndsey to playschool on their way; little Jeff was upstairs supervising the baby’s bath. Leaving Fran to deal with the police.
Detective Inspector Collins took off her hat to reveal almost white hair, cut short like a schoolboy’s. She was about forty, angularly attractive with hard, intelligent eyes. Straight away Fran felt as if she was being sized up and judged.
Collins said, ‘He isn’t there now. I spent a full five minutes shouting through his letterbox.’
Fran rubbed her eyes, put the kettle on, and came to sit down. ‘He was going out last night to look for her himself.’
‘So he knows where she might have gone?’ The policewoman was looking annoyed. ‘Has he got some idea of her whereabouts that he hasn’t reported?’
‘No, he just went out to look by himself. Nowhere in particular.’
‘Ah.’
‘Tea?’
‘No, thank you. I managed to see through their windows.’ Fran could imagine what the officer had seen: lino in the living room, yellow newspaper and drinks cans; in the garden a mould-encrusted three-piece suite, parts of a rusting motorbike scattered; more on the kitchen floor. ‘As a neighbour, would you say that you thought the family had problems?’
Cagily
