The Power(62)

Jos says, ‘How do they even know that’s him?’

Margot waves at the thick file of documents. ‘Oh, I don’t know. They have their ways.’ This is the tricky part. Margot holds her breath. Will Jos buy it?

Jos looks at her, lets out one quick sob. ‘The Department of Defence is vetting you, isn’t it? Because you’re going to be a senator, and they want you on the Defence Committee, like you told me.’

Hook, line and sinker.

‘Yes, Jocelyn. That is why the FBI found this stuff. Because I have an important job, and I’m not going to apologize for that.’ She pauses. ‘I thought we were in this together, honey. And you need to know that this Ryan’s not what you think.’

‘He was just trying something out, probably. Those things are from three years ago! We all say stupid stuff online, OK? Just to get a reaction.’

Margot sighs. ‘I don’t know if we can be sure of that, honey.’

‘I’ll talk to him. He’s …’ Jos starts crying again, loud, long, deep sobs.

Margot scoots towards her on the couch. Puts a tentative arm around Jos’s shoulders.

Jos sinks into her, burying her face in Margot’s chest and crying and crying just like she did when she was a child.

‘There’ll be other boys, honey. There’ll be other, better boys.’

Jos lifts her face. ‘I thought we were supposed to be together.’

‘I know, sweetheart, because of your …’ Margot hesitates over the word: ‘because of your problem, you wanted someone who’d understand.’

She wishes they’d been able to find help for Jos. They’re still looking, but the older she gets, the more intractable the problem seems to be. Sometimes she has all the power she wants, and sometimes nothing.

Jos’s sobs slow to a trickle. Margot brings her a cup of tea, and they sit in silence for a while on the couch, Margot’s arm around Jos.

After a long while, Margot says, ‘I still think we can find some help for you. If we could find someone to help you … well, you’d just be able to like normal boys.’

Jos puts her cup down on the table slowly. She says, ‘Do you really think so?’

And Margot says, ‘I know it, honey. I know it. You can be just like all the other girls. I know we can fix it for you.’

This is what it means to be a good mother. Sometimes you can see what your kids need better than they can.





Roxy



‘Come home,’ says the message. ‘Ricky’s been hurt.’

She’s supposed to be going to Moldova, supposed to be training women in how to use the Glitter to fight. But she can’t, not with a message like that on her phone.

She’s stayed out of Ricky’s way mostly, since she got back from America. She’s got her own thing with the Glitter, and it’s making them good money. Roxy used to long to be invited into that house. Bernie’s given her a key now, she’s got a guest bedroom for when she’s not out at the Black Sea, but it’s not what she thought it’d be. Barbara, the mother of the three boys, hasn’t been right since Terry died. There’s a big photo of Terry on the mantelpiece with fresh flowers in front of it, changed every three days. Darrell’s still living there. He’s taking on the betting, because he’s got the brain for it. Ricky’s got his own place up in Canary Wharf.

Roxy thinks, when she reads that text, of the different firms that could have it in for them, and what ‘hurt’ means. If it’s war, they need her home for sure.

But it’s Barbara who’s waiting for her in the front garden when she gets there, smoking non-stop, lighting the next one from the embers of the last. Bernie’s not even home. So it’s not war, it’s something else.

Barbara says, ‘Ricky’s been hurt.’

Roxy says, knowing the answer, ‘Was it one of the other firms? That Romanian lot?’

Barbara shakes her head. She says, ‘They fucked him up for fun.’

Roxy says, ‘Dad knows people. You didn’t need to call me.’

Barbara’s hands are shaking. ‘No, it’s not for them. It’s a family thing.’

So Roxy knows exactly what kind of thing has happened to Ricky.

Ricky’s got the TV on, but the sound’s off. There’s a blanket over his knees and bandages under that; doctor’s been and gone, so there’s nothing to see, anyway.

Roxy’s got girls working for her who were held by blokes in Moldova. She saw what one of them had done to the three men who’d taken turns with her. Down there it was just burned flesh, fern patterns on the thighs, pink and brown and raw red and black. Like a Sunday roast. Ricky doesn’t seem that bad. He’ll probably be fine. This kind of thing heals. She’s heard that things can be difficult afterwards, though. It can be hard to get over.

She says, ‘Just tell me what happened.’

Ricky looks at her, and he’s grateful, and his gratitude is terrible. She wants to hug him, but she knows that’d just make it worse for him somehow. You can’t be the one that hurts and the one that comforts. She can’t give Ricky anything but justice.

He tells her what happened.

He was pissed, obviously. Out with some mates, dancing. He’s got a couple of girlfriends, Ricky, but he never minds finding someone new for the night, and the girls know not to bother him about it, that’s just how he is. Roxy’s the same these days; sometimes there’s a bloke and sometimes there isn’t, and it doesn’t matter much to her either way.