When she reached her apartment, she remembered she had no food in. She’d been used to that at the old flat in Edendale, of course, but somehow she’d imagined it would be different in Wilford, as if the apartment would resupply itself. It had every other modern convenience, so why was the fridge always empty? Something wrong there, surely.
Fry sighed. So it was a takeaway. Domino’s Pizza or Oriental Express? They were both near the Tesco store at Compton Acres. It was a Monday, so the Oriental Express would be open. Tomorrow, the choice would be more limited. After a second’s hesitation, she dialled and ordered a Yuk Sung Chicken with mini vegetarian spring rolls.
While she waited, she performed some exercises to wind down from the day. She became absorbed in what she was doing and stopped in surprise when the buzzer sounded.
‘That was quick,’ she said. ‘They must be quiet tonight.’
She grabbed a couple of notes, left the apartment, and went downstairs to the outside door to collect the takeaway. She never knew what to say to the delivery people, so when she opened the door, she began: ‘Thank you. That was—’
And then she stopped.
‘Oh, were you expecting someone else, Sis?’ said her visitor. ‘Anyone nice?’
‘Angie?’
Fry gritted her teeth. Why did her sister always do this, arrive for a visit when she was least expecting her? It was almost as if Angie was trying to catch her out.
‘No one,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone. Particularly not you.’
Angie smiled. ‘Are you going to invite me in, then? If I’m not intruding?’
‘I suppose so.’
Fry took a step out of the door and looked round the parking area in front of the apartment block. No sign of any unfamiliar vehicles. Angie had a mysterious boyfriend who Fry had never managed to meet. But if he’d dropped Angie off, he’d made a very quick exit.
Angie was already on her way upstairs. She knew her way to the apartment, because she’d been here before, staying for a few days after another unexpected visit. Fry realised her sister wasn’t carrying anything but a small shoulder bag. No change of clothes, nothing for an overnight stay. So it would only be a quick visit. And there were no bottles, teats, wet wipes, or packs of nappies either.
‘Where’s — er...?’
‘Where’s what?’ said Angie. ‘Who?’
‘The baby. Zack.’
‘I know what my baby’s name is. Sonny is looking after him.’
‘Really?’
Fry had formed an image in her mind of Angie’s boyfriend. He drove a Renault hatchback and was involved in some kind of business that brought him to Nottingham occasionally. She was sure it was dodgy, probably illegal. She deliberately hadn’t asked. And looking after a baby for the day didn’t suit her mental image.
‘Actually,’ said Angie, ‘it will be Manjusha who’s looking after him.’
‘Manjusha?’
‘Sonny’s mother.’
Angie had dropped into an armchair in the sitting room and kicked off her shoes.
‘Wait a minute,’ said Fry. ‘Who’s Sonny? I thought your boyfriend was called Craig something?’
‘Oh, him,’ said Angie with a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘He’s old news.’
‘But isn’t he the father, of er...?’
‘Zack? Maybe. But he wasn’t much of a dad. Never showed any interest. I couldn’t have left Zack with him for the day, let alone his mother. She’s a drunken old slag.’
Angie eyed the gin bottle on the table. It was half-full, or half-empty, depending on your point of view. There was a glass next to it, but only one. Fry took the opportunity to slide the yellow box out of sight under her jacket on a chair.
‘Now, Sonny is a different matter,’ said Angie. ‘He’s very good with Zack.’
‘So how long will he last? Or are you planning to move on to someone else soon?’
Angie yawned. ‘No, he can stay for a bit.’
‘Is his name actually Sonny? It makes him sound like a boxer.’
That made her sister laugh. ‘He’s nothing like a boxer. Well, if you must know, his name is Sunil Kumar. Everyone calls him Sonny. Though I’ve always thought it ought to be Sunny, with a “u”. He’s quite a laugh.’
Angie had managed to control the weight she’d put on after the pregnancy and was starting to recover her old angular body shape. Her face had changed, though. That was probably permanent. Fry realised it must be the approach of middle age. Angie had started having children relatively late, as many women did now.
Then Fry checked herself. ‘Started having children’? That raised the possibility there were going to be more little versions of Zack. She wondered what those would be called. Zane, Zappa, Ziggy, Zeus?
‘I’m glad you’re happy,’ said Fry.
‘Thanks, Sis. I suppose you want to know all about him.’
‘Only if you want to tell me.’
‘Is there any chance of a cup of tea?’
‘Of course.’
The door buzzed again. Before Fry could move, Angie had jumped to her feet and run to the window to peer out.
‘Oriental Express,’ she said. ‘That’s great. It looks as though I’m just in time for supper.’
Shane Curtis scrambled awkwardly through the opening and clung for a second to a beam before dropping on to a bale of straw.
This barn had been disused for years. The old man who owned the farm had used it for overwintering his suckler herd. But there were no signs left of the cattle now, except a layer of trampled straw and a whiff of dung from the breeze-block stalls. A much bigger, steel-framed barn stood a few yards away, stacked to the roof with huge bales of straw.
Shane settled into a dark corner where he couldn’t be seen from the doorway. He found a dry patch and squatted on a pile of empty feed sacks. The place must be crawling with insects, but they didn’t bother him. They couldn’t do him any real harm. Only humans did that.
A trickle of moonlight crept through the gaps in the corrugated roof, and a movement of air stirred a vast spider’s web strung between the beams. There was no sound, except for that persistent coughing. Cough, cough, cough, like a coal miner with emphysema.
Shane tugged a can of lager from the pocket of his coat, popped the tab and took a long swig. He fumbled in another pocket and found his tin. A couple of feeble-looking joints lay inside. It wasn’t the best stuff, but it was all he had. His usual dealer had got himself nicked a couple of weeks back, the idiot. Someone else would take over his customers, but for now Shane had to rely on some blokes who came out from Mansfield and went round the pubs. It was expensive too, but they charged what the market would take. Pure capitalism.
He lit one of the joints and lay back in his corner, smiling to himself. This was his idea of the way to live. Away from all those drunks and junkies and the stupid women who got themselves pregnant at the drop of a hat. There was only one thing missing.
Cough, cough, cough. Out there in the darkness, somewhere between the barn and the house.
Shane laughed at the sound. Things like that out in the darkness didn’t scare him either. He’d been in juvenile detention for eighteen months after twocking a few cars and pinching a bit of stuff from the shops in the market square. Werrington Juvenile Centre. That was pretty bad. But it hadn’t scared him. Not at all. He was as tough as any of those kids in there, and he could prove it if he had to.
He sat up suddenly, clutching the joint. The coughing had stopped. Instead, he heard a soft thud of hooves on the muddy ground. Something or someone was coming this way. Those sheep had heard it before he did and they were leaving in a hurry. It was time to be ready.
Then Shane sniffed. He could smell something more than mouldy straw or the whiff of cows. What was it? It took a few moments for him to identify the smell. Then he had a memory of the party at his uncle’s back in July. Out in their big garden on a warm summer evening. Burgers and cold beer. Uncle Rick himself presiding over the barbecue with his apron and tongs.