Steve didn't argue. He got in, started the van and drove off towards Medworth. Mackenzie sat silently beside him, head bowed, his breathing low and guttural.
The youngster put his foot down. He would be pleased to get home.
Debbie Lambert turned the big master key in the door of the library and smiled at the three women behind her.
'Another day, another dollar,' she grinned.
The women said their goodnights on the steps of the library then went their separate ways into the chill night. Although it was only six-fifteen, frost was already beginning to speckle the roads and pavements. It would be black ice by ten that night.
Debbie shivered and walked around the side of the building to the car park. She was struggling under the weight of a large plastic carrier bag she held. It was jammed full of ledgers. Reluctantly she had, as expected, been forced to take some work home with her.
After dumping the carrier on the passenger seat she slid behind the wheel and started the engine of the Mini. It spluttered a little then burst into life and she guided the car out into the street in the direction of home.
The journey didn't take her long. Their house stood on a small private estate about ten minutes from the centre of town, in a street with only six houses on each side of the road. As she turned into the street she could see lights blazing from the living room windows of their house. She parked her Mini behind Lambert's Capri and walked around to the back door.
The smell of cooking met her as she entered the kitchen, and she sniffed appreciatively. Lambert, dressed in a plastic apron with a bra and knickers drawn on it, was standing by the cooker stirring the contents of a large saucepan.
Debbie took one look at him and began laughing.
'I bet this never happens to Robert Carrier,' he said, grinning.
She crossed the kitchen and kissed him, peering into the saucepan.
'What is it?' she asked.
'What is it?' he mimicked her. 'It's stew, woman, what does it look like?'
She nipped the end of his nose and retreated into the living room. There, she dumped her carrier bag full of ledgers on the coffee table and called to Lambert that she was going to change her clothes. He shouted something about slaving over a hot stove and she laughed as she bounded up the stairs.
His mood had changed, she thought with relief. But that had been the problem since the accident. His temper and character seemed to fluctuate wildly. One minute he was happy, the next he was plunged back into the abyss of self-reproach and guilt. Debbie removed her clothes and left them in an untidy heap on the end of. the bed. She fumbled in the drawer for a t-shirt, stood before the mirror, unhooked her bra and threw it to one side before pulling on the t-shirt.
Her nipples strained darkly against the white material. She slid into a pair of faded jeans, patched so many times she'd lost count, and padded, barefoot, downstairs.
Lambert was ladling out the stew when she walked into the dining room.
They ate slowly, at a leisurely pace, chatting about this and that, feeling the tensions of the day slowly drain away.
He poured her another glass of wine and sat down again, gazing across the table at her as she drank.
'I'm going back to work at the end of the week,' he said quietly.
She paused, her glass midway to her lips and asked why.
'Because I can't sit around like this any longer.'
'You know what the doctor said.'
'Oh, sod the doctor. He doesn't know what it's like. Sitting here every day and night thinking about that bloody accident. I need to go back. I need something to occupy my mind.'
'You said yourself that there was nothing doing.'
'I know,' he took a sip of his wine, 'but at least I wouldn't be shut up here in the house all the time.'
'Just give it a little longer, Tom,' she asked.
'It's been a fortnight now,' he said, his voice growing to a volume which he didn't intend. He looked down at the patterned table cloth and then across to her again. 'I don't think I'll ever be able to face it, so I might as well just keep running.' He drained his glass and poured himself another.
'And what happens when you can't run anymore?' she wanted to know.
He had no answer.
Ray Mackenzie stood on the pavement outside his house as the van drove away and rubbed his eyes. Christ, the bloody headache was getting worse and now his eyes were starting to throb. He felt as if he hadn't slept for a week. He looked up into the dark sky and inhaled deeply. As he walked, the medallion bumped against his thigh, secure in his trouser pocket.
There was a small tricycle lying outside the back door and he bumped his shin against it as he rounded the corner. Snarling, he lashed out at it, sending the tiny object hurtling across the yard.
Inside, June Mackenzie sighed. It looked like one of those nights. She had been expecting him for the last hour and a half. He'd probably been down the pub for a couple of pints. Well, she'd give him a piece of her mind when he came in. Half past seven. What sort of time did he call this? It was the same every day, wondering if he'd be home straight from work or down the bloody pub with his mates. She had put up with it for the ten years they had been married but she sometimes wondered how much more she could stand. If not for Michelle, now nearly five, she would have left him long ago. At thirty-four, she felt that life was somehow passing her by. Even if he'd offer to take her out once in a while that would be something. But no, same routine every night. He came home, stinking of booze. Had his dinner, went back down the pub until nine then flopped in front of the TV for the rest of the evening. Christ, what a way to live a life. His idea of a great night out was sitting and watching a darts match down the local. He'd asked her to come with him occasionally but there was no one to look after Michelle and, besides, she didn't fancy sitting with a bunch of boozy men all night, cracking jokes about their wives' frigidity.
June shook her head. There must be more to life than this?
She had thought about trying to get a flat for herself and Michelle but the waiting list was four years long and, with the child just starting school she didn't want to move too far away. Besides, her own measly wage could never support them. She worked part time as a cleaner in a car showroom but there had been talk of cut-backs and she was beginning to wonder how much longer they would keep her on. Ray didn't earn a lot. Just enough to pay the rent and the H.P. They had everything on H.P. If he ever lost his job and the payments couldn't be met, half the house would be repossessed. She shuddered at the thought.
The back door flew open and Mackenzie staggered in.
'Who left that fucking thing outside the door?' he shouted, rubbing his bruised shin.
'Do you have to shout?' she demanded, 'do you want the whole street to hear you?'
He walked off into the living room, grunting at Michelle who was playing on the rug in front of the gas fire.
'Your dinner is ready,' called June, 'and has been for the last hour.'
He ignored her and stormed upstairs, his heavy boots crashing heavily across the landing. She knew that he must have gone into their bedroom. She shook her head angrily.
'What's the matter with Daddy?' asked Michelle.
Mackenzie moved about the bedroom without turning on the lights. His headache had grown steadily worse and he found that bright fight aggravated it. Despite the blackness in the room, broken only by the dull glow of the street lamp outside, he moved with assurance. Sitting on one corner of the bed, he pulled the medallion from his pocket and studied it. He guessed by its weight that it must be solid, a good pound and a half. He tried to guess at the value but the persistent buzzing pain which throbbed behind his eyes and in his temples made rational thought impossible. He sighed, disturbed at the intensity of the pain. It felt as if someone were driving red hot nails into his scalp. He stood up, shakily and crossed to a drawer where he pulled out his wife's jewel box. It was wooden, the top carved ornately, making it look more valuable than it actually was. He flipped it open, emptying its meagre contents onto the floor. Then, carefully, he laid the medallion inside. It seemed to wink mockingly at him and, for a moment, a wave of icy air enveloped him. He shut the box lid and -it passed. He hid the small box beneath his pillow and walked out of the bedroom.