“You can only know what tenants are prepared to share with you. We’re a charitable trust, but we’re not social workers. In fact, that’s another call we need to make if you’re worried about the daughter. How did she look to you?”
“Okay, actually,” Mickey said absently, mind half on the Universal Credit forms he’d passed Benito. “I think there’s a father out there somewhere who makes sporadic maintenance payments, and Benito—the son—gives them money too. I don’t know how much or how regularly. We didn’t get into it.”
“What’s he like? Does he work?”
“Uber driver.”
“Full-time?”
Mickey pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know.”
“Okay, well, talk to him again. See if he can help his mother get some assistance from her GP. If not, speaking to social services is an option—”
“No. I’m not doing that.”
Silence. Then it was Isha’s turn to sigh. “All right. I hear you. Talk to the son on Monday and get back to me when you can. In the meantime, I’ll hold the account while we wait for UC. But . . . all of this hinges on the repayment plan. The council won’t give us an inch if the arrears aren’t being repaid.”
“I think the son will pay the three hundred pounds a month if we can swing it.”
“They’re going to ask for more.”
“They can’t have more. She’s been out of work for months when she should’ve been claiming UC. If they won’t let it go, that’s on me.”
“On us. Let me deal with the council. Something tells me you’ll get us in worse trouble if you speak to them right now.”
He was more right than he probably knew. Mickey said his goodbyes and ended the call. Then he collapsed on the couch again, spent but too wired to shut down. “Talk to the son on Monday . . .”
As if Mickey could wait that long.
Mickey: u hve a fob for powr Fitness
Benito stared at the message. It was six in the morning, twelve hours since Mickey had walked out of Barnfield Court, and he’d just about resigned himself to never seeing him again, at least not in the capacity he wanted to.
He was also parked outside the gym with the key fob in question literally in his hands.
What the hell was life right now?
Benito: Yeah. I do. Why?
Mickey: theres 1 in newport pagnell. meat me there?
Benito: Again . . . why?
Mickey: to talk
Benito: About?
Mickey didn’t answer straight away. Benito drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. His body was tired from the hour-long workout he’d just put in, but his brain had been full of Mickey even before the message had chimed in. Never once had he pictured this moment, though. He wants to meet.
It felt like a cruel trick.
Benito caved and sent another message.
Benito: When?
Mickey: 6 am 2morw
Damn. Twenty-four hours. Could he wait that long? Benito honestly wasn’t sure, but he sent his response all the same.
Benito: I’ll be there
Mickey went offline. Benito wondered if he’d just got up, or if he was on his way to bed. Before yesterday, he’d pegged Mickey for a night owl, not a suit who worked for the social.
He wasn’t wearing a suit, and the housing association has nothing to do with social services.
But still. The Mickey that Benito had concocted in his head had existed on the other side of the divide. On Benito’s side. They’d met twice and had even fewer real conversations, but the common ground had felt so real Benito hadn’t stopped to contemplate that it wasn’t. That his interpretation of Mickey had been just that—another fucking fantasy, and this time, it hadn’t come true.
Benito drove home via the supermarket and picked up a week’s worth of groceries for Rosetta and Gianna. Rosetta’s peasant-style cooking meant they didn’t need much, but he still felt sick when he thought of all the things they’d managed without all this time. He bought extra chocolate for Gianna and the expensive espresso beans Rosetta liked; then he steered the car towards Barnfield Court and tried to accept the cloud of doom that settled over him.
I hate this place.
The exterior door had been vandalised overnight. The glass was smashed and the lock nowhere to be seen.
Benito stepped over the mess and jogged upstairs. Praying Rosetta was still asleep, he let himself into the flat with the key Gianna had given him the night before.
Silence greeted him. Benito set the shopping bags down in the hall and tiptoed to Gianna’s room. Her door was open, and she was curled beneath the purple sheets he’d bought her a few months back, fast asleep with one hand on the orange cat and her cheek on her phone.
Under Sullivan’s watchful gaze, Benito crept closer and plucked the phone free. He set it on the chest of drawers with the chocolate and backed up, shutting her door behind him.
“What are you doing here?” Rosetta stepped out of the shadows, a robe clutched tight around her, face pale, eyes wide, a kitchen knife in her hand. “I thought you were a burglar.”
Benito rolled his eyes. “What would I be stealing? You don’t have jack shit in this place.”
“Your sister is here.”
“Yeah, well. Anyone kidnapped her, they’d soon bring her back.”
“I used to say that about you when you were little.”
“I know. That’s why I said it.” Benito pointed to the bags by the front door. “I brought you some stuff. Text me if you need anything else.”
“What did the man from the housing association say?”
“The man? Why are you pretending you don’t know his name? He’s been your contact at DOSHA for ages.”
“I’ve forgotten it.”
“It’s Mickey.”
“He doesn’t look like a Mickey.”
Benito shook his head. “Whatever. If you wanted to know, you’d have let Gianna open the door to me last night and tell you.”
“You’re not going to tell me?”
“There’s nothing to tell. I’m sorting it. You need to fill out some forms. Gianna has them on her iPad, or you can do the paper ones I gave her last night.”
Rosetta stepped forward. “Benito—”
“Don’t. I need to sleep. I’m too tired to fight you today.”
Benito drifted to the front door. For a moment, he imagined he heard Rosetta following him, but when he turned to say goodbye, she was gone.
10
Time crawled. Then it evaporated. Benito drove until dawn, counting the minutes. Then it was 5.30 in the morning and he was an hour away from where he needed to be.
Goddamnit.
He burned up the A5 as fast as he dared, keeping a sharp eye out for transport police and speed cameras the in-car sat nav didn’t flag. The roads were deserted, but even with his foot to the floor, it still took forty-five minutes to reach the unfamiliar gym.
The bargain membership he’d bought a few months back gave him access to every premises in the branded chain. He swiped through the barriers with his fob and scanned the ground floor of the warehouse-style building. Cardio machines were crammed into the open space, a couple occupied by diehard runners and cyclists who couldn’t face the damp gloom outside.