Not What They Were Expecting (21 page)

She was grateful, at least, that she’d tidied a bit ahead of Suzanne’s arrival.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you at your home,’ he said, sitting down on the sofa by the front window.

‘How did you…’ Rebecca stopped herself from asking how he found it. She didn’t want to engage him at all. The fact that he’d swanned in and got himself comfy without even asking was annoying enough. How was she to get rid of him now?

That was the point, she supposed.

She gave him what she hoped was a hard stare. He seemed oblivious. She noticed his skin was the same coffee colour that the people in Baileys adverts have at Christmas, to match the colour of the drink. She’d always felt that was somehow a bit racist. She forced her mind, which was trying to escape the reality of what was going on, back to the present. What the hell was she doing with a tabloid journalist in her house?

‘I’m sorry but you can’t stay,’ she decided. ‘I have to get to work, and I have nothing to say to you.’

‘Of course. I won’t keep you long,’ he said, making no attempt to move.

‘I’d like you to leave now please.’

‘But you just invited me in,’ he said with an exasperated shake of the head and a private smile, as if she was being the unreasonable one.

That he still made no effort to get up made Rebecca feel even more powerless. And the reality that she was alone in her home with a man she knew nothing about and who didn’t seem to care that she wanted him to leave, made her forehead prickle with sweat.

She saw he was looking at the scan of Bompalomp, tucked in the corner of another picture frame.

‘It must be difficult for you. Is this your first?’ he asked, indicating the photo.

Her fists clenched and anger started to displace her fear.

‘How do you know that’s even mine? It could belong to someone else in the family, or a friend. If you’re just going to make assumptions I don’t even know why you bothered coming here.’

‘Is it?’ he asked. ‘It’s someone else’s photo?’

‘No. But the point is… I want you to leave my house now.’

‘I can see you’re very upset about your dad’s situation,’ he said, finally beginning to rise to his feet.

‘I’ve told you I have nothing to say to you on that subject. It’s none of my business.’

‘But you’re a key witness aren’t you? Or are you cutting yourself off now?’

‘That’s not what I said.’

‘So you’re fully behind him at this difficult time.’

Rebecca didn’t respond. She couldn’t believe how he was trying to trap her. Then something he said clicked in her head.

‘Who did you say you work for?’

‘I’m writing a piece for the
Standard
. I wanted to—’

‘You’re employed by the
Standard
?’

He shifted uncomfortably, and leaned back onto the armrest of the sofa. For the first time he seemed to be weighing up what he was saying.

‘I’ve featured in the paper for several yea—’

‘Have they commissioned this piece?’ she cut in.

‘No.’

‘Then I’d like you to leave. And I don’t want you to come back. And I don’t think your chances of working for the paper again would be helped if I had to phone them and tell them you were passing yourself off as one of their representatives.’

The journalist smiled at her and she did her best to smile sarcastically back at him, anticipating the imminent patronising answer.

‘Staff jobs these days…it’s not really like how you might see it on TV. You have to do the work and bring the stories to them. They don’t really need to send anyone out to do them. Saves money I guess in this day and age. Y’know, the internet.
Metro
…’

‘It must be very difficult for you, but I’m sorry I can’t help.’

‘Your dad seemed keen enough to talk. I thought press coverage was what you wanted. I’ve seen the local freebie. That mural at the station is quite something. Your mother-in-law?’

The more he kept her talking the harder she found it to stay angry. It was just…maddening. If he’d got angry back, or at least reacted somehow, she’d have been fine. She could have maintained her indignation and not had to stop and think about what she was saying. It was like phoning up to complain about a delivery that hasn’t shown up and the person in the call centre is blandly apologetic but then can do fuck-all about fixing it. Being angry at them just makes you feel stupid. Pointless and playing into what they want you to do, be unreasonable, so they can put you on the backfoot.

‘Like you said, you’ve seen the stories, yes she’s my mother-in-law.’

‘So I just assumed everyone would be pleased to help…’

‘My father’s dealing with this himself. If you need anything I think you should go to him.’

‘I’ve spoken to Howard,’ he said, as if surprised she didn’t know. ‘We did an interview. He’s very proud of you and that younger brother of yours off on his gap year. He reckons you would have been made partner this year if you hadn’t decided on the baby thing. Is that right?’

‘I think maybe that was a bit of parental exaggeration. And I don’t think it’s rel—’

‘He was a little cagey on the other charges. That was the only thing he didn’t want to talk about. A long time ago, I suppose. In Manchester. And Edinburgh? More mix-ups I think he said. And a long time ago, of course.’

She looked at him hard, her eyes darting across his face, trying to find some sign that he was bluffing, going over his words in case there was something she had misunderstood. She found nothing.

‘It must be good to have a family that’s so understanding.’

She couldn’t speak. She could barely breathe. Not looking at him, she walked out of the room and to the front door and opened it. There was no sign of movement from the living room.

‘Go,’ she said, struggling to keep a tremor out of the single syllable.

He finally came out to the hall.

‘You know, in a strange way, getting all this stuff out in the open in the public can make things better, although it might not feel like it now. And it might help others in a similar situation.’

All she could do was stare at the wall and hold open the door.

‘I’ve left my card.’

She slammed the door behind him, and listened to his steps as he headed onto the street. She went to the window to make sure he’d really gone.

She was too upset to cry. She couldn’t stop pacing across the carpet, panic shutting down any thoughts or response to the news, her brain looping back to the end of their conversation.

He’s done it before. The bastard’s done it before.

She dropped onto the sofa, face down into a pillow, the card belonging to
Vincent Clarke, Journalist
on the arm, just on the edge of her vision. She finally broke down.

Chapter 27

James’s first thought was there was something wrong with Bompalomp. He’d come back to his desk from getting a coffee and saw the missed call from home, but no voice message or text saying ‘all well’, or that Suzanne was mad and she was back at work. That had set him on edge. He’d phoned back and the landline had been answered instantly, but there was a long pause before he heard a small, distant hello from his wife.

‘I got your call. Everything all right, darling?’

She didn’t say anything, but from the sound of her breathing on the line James could visualise Rebecca’s face: the way she’d bite on her bottom lip, and every muscle in her face would stiffen as she tried to control tears.

His nail pressed deep into the foam of his mouse-mat as he asked, ‘Is it the baby?’

Still there was nothing.

Angry and scared he asked again.

‘It’s not the baby,’ she snapped back.

There was a pause and when she spoke again it was quieter.

‘It’s Dad.’

James was relieved and irritated all at once. If it was just Howard making an arse of himself again on his stupid campaign, this could be managed easily enough. He was so frequently coming up with bold statements and stupid schemes that to James it had become a wearying part of everyday life. It almost seemed normal. He sometimes wished Rebecca could see it the same way…

‘What’s he done now? He’s not been calling in to LBC again has he?’

‘This isn’t the first.’

‘What?’

‘This isn’t a first offence. He’s done it before.’

‘He’s…what? He’s told you this? How do you know, what did he say?’

‘I haven’t spoken to him. A journalist was here. At our house, James. When Suzanne was around. He said something about the other times. Up north.’

‘What the fuck was a journalist doing at our house? Was it your dad who sent him round ’cos I’ll have words.’

‘You’re not listening! He’s done it before…’

‘Other arrests?’

‘I suppose. I didn’t ask. I just threw him out of the house.’

‘Good for you, darling,’ he said softly, ‘well done.’

‘I don’t know what it means,’ said Rebecca through tears.

I’ve got a fairly good idea of what it means, thought James.

‘Look, who was this journalist anyway? What paper was he with? Do we know if he’s even telling the truth? He could just be fishing…’

‘He’s a freelancer. Said he was writing for the
Standard
.’

‘There you go, then. He was probably just trying his luck. Seeing what your reaction would be?’

She didn’t answer, neither of them really convinced by James’s positive interpretation of events.

‘Are you OK? Do you need me to come home?’

‘I’ve got to go to work anyway.’

‘If that’s what’s best for you. Don’t get yourself too stressed.’

‘You’re beginning to sound like Suzanne.’

He could hear the first signs of a smile in her voice, and felt another surge of protectiveness towards her.

‘Listen, what’s the name of this guy? I’ll go and speak to Dad after work, see what he might know or can find out about him. And then I’ll call him myself. I’m not having him upset my wife like this.’

‘Don’t, James…’

‘He can’t just get away with doorstepping people like this. It’s not on.’

‘Please, don’t. It’ll only make things worse. And anyway I was able to get that message across on my own, thank you.’

James remembered it wasn’t always the smartest to get too macho and male with his wife.

‘Did you give him one of your looks?’

‘I spoke to him in a tone I usually reserve for council officials dilly-dallying on planning applications.’

‘Oof. He’ll be too scared to show his face again,’ he said. ‘Are you all right, really?’

‘A bit shaken up. Like you say, he was probably just chancing his arm. Everything was fine on the check-up.’

James wasn’t convinced.

‘Really, I can come home if you like.’

‘I’m fine, honestly.’

They said goodbye, and James promised to bring emergency treat supplies home, along with a takeaway, after he finished at his parents. Despite his worry, he was privately a bit relieved he didn’t have to go home. He could just imagine it would have sparked a huge amount of form-filling, and explaining to Robert the boss, and the dole, why there was an unauthorised absence. It’d probably set him back weeks. And when he got there, there wouldn’t have been anything he could actually do that would help anyway.

But bloody hell. It looked like Howard really had done it. That was a complication he didn’t really need now.

By lugging around his paperwork and squatting at the desk of anyone who called in sick each day, or ‘hot-desking’ as they liked to call it, James had been able to get a proper log-in for the computer system and get online. Spurred on by the crappy work he was doing, he had finally started doing some proper applications. But the results had not been good. The first time he got a knockback for a job that was frankly a lot less prestigious than the one he’d lost, he was surprised, but fine with it. He figured maybe he looked over-qualified. The second time it happened he began to worry. He’d been concerned about background checks, he hadn’t worried that he wouldn’t be able to even get an interview. More bad news had come in when a speculative email he’d sent to a local accountancy had come back with a ‘we’ll keep you on file’ response.

He was never going to get anything.

He wasn’t sure what to do, how to deal with the situation.

In a rush of panic he could see everything going on in his life crashing together. Big fights between the Winfields he’d be stuck in the middle of. The potential for this story to really hit big in the papers, probably worsening his chances of getting a job. Rebecca just becoming this emotional mess with a new baby in a house that was nowhere near ready and baby-proofed for its arrival. A baby that would probably spend all its time screaming and crying and they’d have no idea what to do with it. Their money running out, and all the debts to pay crashing in.

He remembered some of his own childhood’s changes of town or country, which had happened suddenly and unexpectedly to him. He realised maybe that was his parents doing a flit when the rent got behind or when they’d borrowed too much, putting them back on the road in the camper van. It felt like it was happening again, and all because of Howard.

His face flushed as every problem chased the last around his head, with every thought sparking another worry, like a council tax bill that needed paying, or that the car needed a service. Or that he used to be able to keep on top of this stuff and do a difficult job and now, when it was really needed, he was turning into his parents.

He was reaching a point where he thought he was just going to have to stand up and make a bolt out of the office just to clear his head when an internal message came in.

I was right. He made Escape From New York before The Thing. You were wrong.

It was Gemma. When he’d been grabbing his coffee they’d continued a long-running argument about horror movies, and today the subject had turned to John Carpenter movies. He knew she was right about the movie chronology, two minutes after he’d disagreed with her, but he wasn’t one to back down just because he was wrong. Especially not to a woman like Gemma. Apart from her annoying habit of calling him ‘Monty’ after his Pythonesque wardrobe mix-up on the first day in the office, she was a bit of a lifesaver around the office. Her attitude helped him act like his being there wasn’t such a big deal.