‘It’s you. You’ve made me come out of my doldrums, brought me back to life. I'm feeling motivated.’ She kicked the skates against the side of the barrier.
He smirked. ‘My screwing you to the bed makes you want to live out a childhood dream?’
She clung to the barrier. ‘Don’t, Mark. You make it sound vulgar and degrading. You know it’s not like that for us.’ She admonished him with a matronly, disapproving look. He guessed she had practised it as police officer. Thankfully, it fractured into a smile. The reprimand was gone before he could retaliate with a flinch.
‘No. It's nothing like that.’ Whether she heard over the thump of the background music, he didn't know. She pushed away with wobbly legs and arms swinging unproductively.
Mark rested his elbows on the barrier and watched Julianna continue her precarious tour of the ice-rink. Since their first bedroom encounter on the night of the ball they had been meeting regularly, at least once a week. The commitment was loose, non-binding, and either of them could cancel at short notice. The lack of formality suited both of them, or so it seemed. For how long though? Julianna, after her failed marriage, possibly wanted the sex to have meaning, some cathartic outpouring that would heal her. Mark's need was different. Julianna was a tantalising distraction, and a rather beautiful one, too.
He'd spent the weekend in Manchester, staying with Tim and cousin Alfie. They had taken him to a football match – the highlight of the day. Then, with no enthusiasm, he wore the mantle of a dutiful son and visited his mother, who was still living in the same house where she had built a shrine of faded photographs, threadbare football scarves and albums of newspapers, as if her husband was dead and not imprisoned. She even kept his clothes in the bedroom wardrobe. Mark sat in the armchair – Bill's old throne – and announced he had found a new solicitor. Sophia had taken custody of the boxes of documents.
‘There's a new hunt for the witness,’ he had told Deidre, explaining his progress.
She had poured the tea in celebration. Warm shades of colour filled her snowy face, but she would never thaw for him. She never congratulated him on his efforts. Her own were pitiful – Deidre dictated and harangued, but never got her hands dirty with lawyers unless she had to. If he had any admiration for his mother, it was her devotion to Bill's cause. Mark genuinely believed she loved his father. It wasn't the same for Mark. He wasn't able to feel like he used to.
As for meeting Ellen in London, he left his sister out of the conversation. Until Ellen was willing to engage with Deidre, it would only antagonise his mother. The rift was obvious by her continuing lack of concern for her daughter.
He had tuned out the rest of the day. Nothing of significance happened. She had hugged him and he had caught the train home. Back at his flat, he had contacted Ellen and told her the boxes were gone, and that she was welcome to move in. She still hadn't replied to his text, which worried him a little. He should visit her and find out who Nicky was.
Julianna fell over again. Somebody helped her back up on to her feet. She waved at him and set off again. Her balance and coordination were improving – a quick learner, not surprising given her natural athleticism. He stared across the sea of bodies tumbling round the rink, weaving and sliding. Why not give it a go? Hardly anyone was good at it. He went to collect a pair of boots.
13
Mark
‘Mark?’ Ellen whispered.
Mark pressed the phone closer to his ear. He blinked at the illuminated display on the alarm clock – midnight. ‘What?’
‘Please, something is wrong. Really wrong. I can’t stop crying.’ She sobbed, uncontrollably, to illustrate the point.
He rolled out of bed; he had only just got into it. The bedroom light stabbed his eyes, one in particular throbbed unpleasantly. Why now? Why couldn’t he have one decent night’s sleep and not have to rely on pills.
‘Mark?’ Her voice was dulled by something. He could guess what.
He walked out of his bedroom. A glass of water might help. ‘Are you alone?’
Another pitiful sob. ‘Yes.’
‘So what's with the crying? Eh?’
He pictured her alone, tears streaking her face. She was diminutive in stature, like a small child. Only twenty years old. At her age he’d had the support of other students, a personal tutor and the pastoral care system of a large college. He had managed fine without it. Ellen was different though. Her fragility wasn't to do with a lack of motivation – she had left home and found a job without help – it was something else, some need to self-destruct when the pressure bore down on her. She was quite capable of crocodile tears, though. He balanced his sympathy accordingly.
She blew her nose. ‘I invited this guy to my room—’
‘Ellen!’ He spluttered on the water. ‘He hurt you?’ Why wonder she was upset, she had done a foolish thing, except Julianna had done the same thing with him: invited him in and taken him to her bed. But this was his little sister whom he babysat as a teenager while his parents went to the pub. Should he hasten over there… and… what exactly? Hold her hand. They never held hands or hugged.
‘No.’ She dropped the slurring. ‘Of course not.’
‘Was it Nicky?’
‘Nicky?’ she said with a vocal sneer. ‘He's not here. He's with his friend. That's why I called you,’ she said feebly. Nicky was her hand-holder. Mark was
