‘Yeah.’
‘So, if you’re nice to me, maybe I’ll give you money.’
Ziggy had winked at him, grinning a yellow-toothed grin.
A few nights later, he had woken up to a strange noise. A weird moaning, groaning sound. He sat up. Ziggy stood over him, hands in his trousers, rubbing them viciously up and down.
‘What are you doing?’
Ziggy had grinned. ‘Suck me off. I’ll give you a tenner.’
‘What?’
Ziggy moved closer, shoving his trousers down, bringing out his erect penis, surrounded by curly ginger hairs.
‘C’mon, man. Just a quick suck.’
‘No.’
Ziggy’s face had changed. ‘Do it, you little shit.’
Blood roared in his ears. Red suffused his vision, blinding him. He rose up and shoved Ziggy away. Stoned, Ziggy stumbled and fell backwards, crashing to the ground.
‘Shit, man!’
He had looked around. Bits of rubble and broken bricks were strewn all over the place in the falling-down asylum. He grabbed a bit of brick, raised it and brought it down on Ziggy’s head. Again, and again, till Ziggy stopped moving.
He stepped back. The rage had receded, but he could still see red. All over the ground, the brick and Ziggy’s matted dreadlocks.
He could hear her voice:
What have you done?
‘He wanted me to suck him,’ he said dully. ‘I’m sorry.’
You can’t stay here. You have to leave. Tonight.
‘What about him?’
He had looked at Ziggy. His head was all mushy and strangely lopsided, but he was breathing, faintly.
You can’t leave him like that.
He shook his head. ‘I can’t go to the police …’
No. I said you can’t leave him like that. He could identify you.
Ziggy had groaned; one blue eye stared helplessly through the blood.
He understood. She always knew what to do.
He had stepped towards Ziggy and raised the brick.
The crows caw. He closes his eyes. He is not that boy any more. Nor is he the substance-addicted young man who spent most of his twenties in and out of prison for various petty crimes – drugs, assault, theft. He’s changed. They all told him so. The counsellors. The parole board. But it’s not enough. He needs to hear it from her.
She wrote to him, after she left the first time. That was how he knew where to look for her. But Nottingham is a big city. And when he finally found her again, the anger took hold, he did the really bad thing and messed it all up.
She only came to visit him in prison once. His letters were returned unopened. He doesn’t blame her. She had her reasons. And he has forgiven her.
Now she just has to do the same. And then they can be together again. Like before.
He’ll show her.
This is how much I love you.
EIGHTEEN
Flo walks downstairs as I’m putting away the last of the shopping. Straightaway, I notice that she seems tense.
‘Hey. How’s it going?’
‘Okay.’
‘What have you been up to?’
‘Took a walk to the shop.’
‘Anything interesting to report?’
‘Nope.’ She scrapes a chair across the floor and sits down without meeting my eyes. ‘How did your errand go?’ she asks.
‘All right.’
‘Anything interesting to report?’
I pause with a bag of peas in my hand, thinking about Joy’s mother, the photograph in my pocket and my encounter with Mike Sudduth. I shake my head. ‘Nope.’ I shove the peas in the freezer. ‘After lunch I thought we could maybe take a look at the cellar for your darkroom. But it needs clearing out. Apparently, there’s a lot of junk down there.’
‘Oh. Right.’
Not quite the enthusiastic reaction I was hoping for.
‘I thought you wanted a new darkroom?’
‘I do. But I was planning to go and take some more photos after lunch. Wrigley says there’s this –’
My head snaps around. ‘Whoah, rewind. Who’s Wrigley?’
She looks down, fiddling with the zip on her hoodie. ‘Someone I met yesterday.’
‘You didn’t mention meeting anyone yesterday.’
‘I forgot.’
‘Right. Well, I’m going to need a little more information.’
‘He’s just a boy, okay?’
No, it was not okay. But I couldn’t say that. And it wasn’t as if I didn’t want Flo to have friends who were boys. Boy. Friend. I would just rather they stayed separate nouns for as long as possible.
‘So, Wrigley – that’s an odd name?’
‘It’s his surname. His first name is Lucas.’
‘Okay. And how did you meet him?’
‘I met him in the graveyard. He draws pictures. He’s really good.’
‘He draws pictures of graves. Nice.’
‘I take photos of them.’
‘Obviously a match made in heaven, then.’
‘Mu-um.’ She rolls her eyes so hard I’m surprised smoke doesn’t come out of her ears. ‘It’s not like that. Okay?’
‘Okay,’ I say, not believing her for a second. ‘So, what did Wrigley say?’
She hesitates.
‘This place?’ I prompt.
‘Yeah –’ Another hesitation. ‘These really pretty woods.’
‘Right.’
She scowls at me. ‘Don’t say it like that.’
‘What?’
‘You know.’
‘Look, I’m not sure I want you wandering around the woods with a boy you barely know.’
‘So, you’d rather I went on my own?’
‘No.’
‘But you don’t want me going with a friend who knows the area.’
Oh, she’s good, my daughter. I don’t want her going at all. But she’s fifteen. She needs her freedom. She also needs friends here. And forbidding her is only going to make her want to do it more.
I sigh, heavily. ‘Fine. You can go –’
‘Thanks, Mum.’
‘But … be careful. Take your phone. In case you fall down a ditch or something.’
‘Or get attacked by a mad cow?’
‘That too.’ I eye her suspiciously. ‘And I want to meet this Wrigley.’
‘Oh God. Mum.’
‘That’s the deal.’
‘I’ve only just met him.’
‘Doesn’t have to be right now, but I want to know who my daughter is seeing.’
‘I’m not … oh, for God’s sake, fine.’
‘Good.’
‘Great.’
‘And you’re not making this up to get out of helping me clean the cellar?’
‘Would I lie to you?’
‘You’re fifteen. So, yes.’
‘Like you never lie?’
‘Of course I don’t. I’m a vicar.’
She shakes her head, but I see a hint of a smile. ‘Vicar or not – you are so going to hell.’
‘You have no idea. Now, what d’you want for lunch?’
I stand at Flo’s bedroom window and watch her amble up through the graveyard at the rear of the cottage, all skinny legs and attitude, camera slung around her neck. My stomach tightens into a hard knot. She’s hiding something from me. But then, I can hardly berate my daughter for keeping secrets.