Our House(41)

‘Don’t bin it,’ he said, reading my thoughts. ‘What’s on there, I guarantee you’ll want to see.’

‘I have to go,’ I said, trying to edge past him.

He stepped aside. ‘Of course. Better get back to your kids. You never know what kind of scumbags might be lurking about the place.’


‘Fi’s Story’ > 01:25:19

When Alison phoned, she had little to report in her assessment of Bram’s mental health.

‘He was a bit quiet, but nothing weird. Oh, he did disappear for a while early on, but it was total chaos, dogs and kids all over the place, so he might have just lost us.’

I frowned. ‘Disappeared?’ Impossible not to flash back to the empty house, the open wine bottle, the steamed-up windows of the playhouse.

‘It wasn’t a big deal. Leo and Harry were with me the whole time.’

I raised my eyebrows and pictured Alison doing the same: there was not a father in Alder Rise who would refuse a woman’s offer to keep an eye on his charges while he checked his email or gamed or simply stared into space. Merle once said, ‘Why do men find it so easy to accept help and women so hard? We need to reverse that.’

We certainly did. ‘How long was he gone?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know. Twenty minutes, maybe? The puppies had finished and the Best Tricks were on. All collies, obviously. I started to think he must have gone home, but then he reappeared and bought all the kids churros, which was sweet of him.’

‘Probably nipped to the pub for a pint,’ I tutted. ‘Did he smell of booze? Oh, don’t answer that, it’s none of my business. I’m sorry, Al, I don’t mean to use you like a private detective.’

‘Use away. I enjoy it.’

‘How did Rocky get on? Was he in the Waggiest Tail again?’

‘Handsomest Hound. And I can’t believe I haven’t told you the news: he came third! It was the last category of the day and our new local celeb presented the rosette!’

‘Well done, Rocky. Congratulations!’

‘Seriously, it’s the most exciting thing to happen in this house all year,’ Alison said. ‘We’re having champagne tonight, maybe even marital relations.’

Forgetting Bram, I laughed out loud.

Oh, my old friend laughter, I miss you.


Bram, Word document

I waited until the boys were in bed before turning on the phone. Not a model I was used to, it was clearly several years’ old and, though fully charged, took an age to get through its welcome sequence and display the main screen.

There was a single text message waiting for me from a number I neither knew nor was in a position to give a name to, and it contained a link to a newspaper article:

Disqualified drivers face stiffer jail terms

Banned motorists who continue to drive and then injure or kill in a collision will now face far steeper punishment than in the past following years of campaigning by victims’ groups to close a legal loophole.

If a disqualified driver causes serious injury, he or she will now face four years in jail, whereas formerly they might only have been fined, while the sentence for causing a death has leapt from two years to ten.

‘Disqualified drivers should not be on our roads for good reason,’ the justice secretary said yesterday. ‘Those who choose to defy a ban imposed by a court and go on to destroy innocent lives must face serious consequences for the terrible impact of their actions.’





The thump of my heart filled my ribcage, my lungs tender as they struggled to inflate. Just as I finished reading, the picture arrived. It was a shot of my black Audi, my blurred head behind the windscreen. The number plate was not quite legible at maximum zoom but obviously decipherable enough on whatever device Wendy had used. With the benefit of enhancing software, police forensics would have no trouble identifying it, or the place it had been captured. What was not in dispute was when: the date and time were stamped on the image.

It was hardly surprising, now I was presented with it. Like the rest of the world, Wendy had had her phone in her hand, ready to capture something interesting. And what she had captured she had shared with Skullface.

Though common sense told me not to engage, just as I had not when she had texted, some survival mechanism – or was it suicidal urge? – prompted my fingers to work a response:

- Have you shown this to anyone else?

- Why would I do that? We’re mates, Bram.

- We’re not mates. I don’t even know your name.

- Thought you’d never ask. Mike.

- Mike what?





No reply.

- Well, Mike, you should assume she’s also got a picture of your Toyota. 2009 registration, was it?





That’ll rattle him, I thought, until his next text came:

- Since you mention it, the Toyota is no longer in my possession. Nicked by some joyrider.





Nausea began to surge through my gullet.

- When did that happen?

- Work it out, Bram.





Four years, I thought. And that was just the beginning – this bastard didn’t know the half of it.

But the police would certainly know.

Would Fi bring the boys to visit? Would she ever let them see me again?