How the other half fucking live.
Sid strode to the far end towards a figure dressed in beige calf-length cargo pants and a black polo shirt. Jackson squinted to see better. The man they approached was about thirty, with long black hair and a frosting of stubble.
Sid extended a hand. The slighter man grasped it and shook.
“Sid Mondon, sir, and this here is the man for the job, Jackson Hiscock.” Sid turned to wave a hand at Jackson.
“Randall Whiteling. Good of you to come.” He released Sid’s podgy hand and tilted his head to study Jackson.
Jackson stepped forward. “Nice to meet you, mate.”
“It’s Randall.” He held out his hand, a faint smile lifting one corner of his mouth.
Their host indicated two sofas positioned around an oak coffee table laden with cupcakes on a three-tiered stand. A circle of crystal tumblers enclosed a large glass jug of some iced drink or other.
“If you’d like to take a seat, we’ll get down to business,” Randall said.
Sid bustled along and plonked himself on a sofa with all the finesse of a clumsy ape. Air puffed out of the furniture from his weight, and he waved, making it clear he wanted Jackson to sit on the adjacent settee next to Randall.
“So.” Sid lurched forward to grab a pink-topped cupcake. “May I?”
“Help yourself,” Randall said. “Would you like a cake, Hiscock?”
“Uh, no, thank you, but I wouldn’t mind a drink.” Jackson swallowed tightly.
“I don’t stand on ceremony here,” Randall said. “Pour it yourself.”
Sid stuffed half a cupcake into his slack mouth. Jackson lifted the jug and poured three glasses.
“What do you think of me, Hiscock?” Randall asked.
Eh? “Not my place to say.” Jackson cleared his throat. “I’m just here to make sure you don’t get killed tonight. My opinion of you means fuck all.”
“Jackson Hiscock!” Sid blurted, a spray of cake crumbs shooting across Jackson’s vision and landing on the table. He hauled himself up so he perched on the sofa edge. “I do apologise for my employee, sir, I really do.” He gave Jackson a murderous glare. “He doesn’t know how to behave with folks such as yourself.” Sid kicked Jackson’s foot.
Randall laughed—hard. “Oh, thank the fucking Lord, I’ve been sent a normal babysitter. Someone who doesn’t give a bloody shit who I am.”
Chapter Three
Nellie thought about her life up to now. When had it gone wrong? Why had it turned out this way with her childhood friend, Matilda, getting everything she’d always wanted, Nellie ending up with nothing?
Colin. It was when Colin left.
It wasn’t fair, was it, to have such high hopes for the future then have things happen a completely different way. Every girl was supposed to fall in love and get married. Every girl was supposed to have babies. At least that was how she’d been brought up to expect things. Yet it hadn’t worked for her—and it rankled something chronic.
She’d grown up with Colin, attending the village school and secretly hoping that one day they’d be together. She’d taken it as a given, because he’d told her when they were six that she’d be his missus. Except he’d been offered a live-in job at the big house, and his visits back to the village had become more and more infrequent. Then he’d joined the army, had gone off to fight in some war or other, and when he’d come home he’d gone straight to his old post in the house. Time had worn on, and she’d realised he didn’t want to get hitched to her after all. She supposed he’d met someone else.
Of course, she was too old to meet anyone now—and let’s face it, who’d want me?—and the time for having babies was well past. A shame, that, because she thought she’d have made a fine mother. She’d had enough practice, bringing up her brother. But there was no point in bleating on about what had gone on in previous years. She knew that, yet she still did it. Every day.
And him there, her brother, staring into space as though he watched a private film. Probably one of those filthy ones she’d found in his room. That had been such a disgusting day. He’d been at the market on one of his rare outings, ordering the weekly produce—not that they’d needed it, and it always went to waste these days. She’d been cleaning the place from top to bottom in the hopes it might make her feel better, and while in his room she’d nudged his old video recorder with the side of the vacuum cleaner, and a tape had slid out.
If she hadn’t seen the label, everything would have been fine. She’d have popped the tape back in and continued in ignorant bliss.
GIRLS LOVE DONKEY COCKS—that was what had been written on it.
Well, she’d been so shocked, she’d failed to stop a sock being sucked up the vacuum hose. If the hoover hadn’t protested and shouted a sharp barking sound, she’d have stared at that label forever.
She’d switched the hoover off then put the video in, turned the telly on—Lord knew why—and wondered what she’d do if the film was what the wording implied. Sitting on the end of the bed, she’d reached forward to press PLAY and waited. At first, a series of fluttering lines had come up on the screen, as though the tape had been watched over and over. Then a furry leg appeared, a donkey brayed, and a woman’s face shot into view. One of those filthy women who did it for money.
What she’d witnessed after that would always be branded in her mind. It was something she wished she could forget. She’d even thought about visiting one of those hypnotherapist hippies on the outskirts of
