‘I know that’ she murmured, in mock irritation.
Frank caught her foot and ran his fingers slowly over the instep, pausing to massage her toes gently.
She kept her foot there, pressed against his thigh as he began to knead her sole with his fingertips.
‘So’ he continued, glancing at her, holding her gaze ‘how come you never settled down?’
‘You’ve heard of Mr Right?’ she said. ‘I found too many Mr Wrongs.’
Reed chuckled, his finger tracing patterns between her toes, across the nails and joints, stroking, squeezing.
She watched as the smile on his face gradually faded.
‘Perhaps you were right not to get married,’ he offered, finally.
‘Have you heard from Ellen lately?’ she asked, sliding down slightly, pushing her foot further into his gentle, skilful hand.
‘We spoke on the phone about a week ago. ‘A sternness had crept into his tone.
‘Was it that bad?’
‘It’s getting worse, Cath. She’s getting worse. This bastard she ran off with, Ward or whatever the hell his name is, she’s obsessed with him.’
‘Is she in love with him?’ Cath asked quietly.
Reed didn’t answer.
Cath studied his profile, saw his eyes narrow slightly.
‘It isn’t love,’ he said, finally. ‘She doesn’t make a move without his bloody say-so. He controls her, like some fucking pet.’ Reed was breathing harshly now, unable to control the anger in his voice. ‘Every time I mention meeting her she says she’s got to ask Jonathan.’ He emphasised the name with disgust.
‘All I want to do is talk to her. Be alone with her for a few hours. I want her to tell me it’s over between us.’
‘And if she does?’
‘Then I have to accept it, don’t I?’ Reed snapped, reaching for his coffee.
Cath left her foot pressed against his thigh, pressing lightly against the material of his jeans.
‘When was the last time you saw Becky?’ she wanted to know.
‘A month ago. Ellen says she doesn’t want me to see her, she says it would be too upsetting for Becky.’
‘You’re her father, Frank, you’ve got a right to see her. You’ve got rights under the law. Ellen can’t keep Becky away from you.’
‘And what am I supposed to do? Kidnap her back?’
‘Go through the courts.’
‘Can you imagine what that would do to Becky? Christ knows, she’s been through enough already. She’s seven years old, Cath, and she’s seen her mother walk out on me, take her and move in with some guy she’s only been seeing for six months. Well, six months that I know about anyway.’
‘Are they still living at Ward’s place?’
He nodded.
‘I’ve been round there,’ Reed told her. ‘But either they won’t answer the door or they’re never there.’ He clenched his fists angrily. ‘Perhaps it’s a good thing. If
I got hold of that bastard I’d probably kill him. And Ellen.’
‘That wouldn’t do anybody any good, least of all Becky. Think about her.’
‘I do think about her’ Reed snarled. ‘Why the hell do you think I feel this way? My wife cleared off five months ago and took my daughter with her. Twelve years of marriage pissed away. Flushed down the fucking toilet, Cath. And for what? So she could be with some …’ He shook his head. ‘Jesus, I don’t even know what he does for a living. I don’t know where they’re getting their money. He could be a fucking pimp or a drug dealer for all I know.’
‘I’m sorry, Frank,’ Cath said, softly.
‘I want my daughter back,’ he said, angrily. ‘And it’s getting to the stage where I don’t care how I get her.’
They sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity, then Reed got to his feet.
‘I’d better be going.’
Cath rose with him.
‘Frank, if there’s anything I can do to help-‘ she began.
He cut her short. ‘What, like drive the getaway car when I snatch Becky?’
‘Don’t say that.’
She walked with him to the door of the flat, watching as he slipped on his jacket. He turned to face her.
‘I won’t lose Becky’ he said.
Cath embraced him, holding him close to her, feeling his warm breath against her cheek.
She kissed him lightly on the lips.
‘Sorry to spoil the evening’ he said, apologetically.
‘You didn’t. I understand how you must feel.’
‘No you don’t, Cath. I hope you never have to understand what it feels like.’
He kissed her again, his lips pressing a little harder against hers.
‘Call me tomorrow’ she said as he stepped out into the hallway. She watched him walk to the lift then closed the door, leaning against it.
‘Shit,’ she sighed, wearily.
Eighteen
The boy knew that the man was coming for him.
He came for him most nights.
Sometimes he stank of drink.
Then he would come with anger and there would be pain.
At other times he came with kindness and there would be little suffering. He would speak to him softly, reassure him, praise him. Sometimes even smile at him.
Tonight there were no smiles.
The boy heard the banging of the door as it was hurled open, rocking back on its hinges, and he saw the man silhouetted in the bedroom doorway.
The figure paused, swaying uncertainly, then lurched towards the boy, who drew the sheets more tightly around his neck, perhaps hoping they would form an impenetrable cocoon to protect him.
Above him the figure bent down, then gripped the sheets and tore them away, exposing the boy’s frail body.
And then the boy caught that smell.
The stink of alcohol, the acrid stench of sweat and another stronger odour. A musky, choking stench which seemed to grow stronger.
The boy wanted to scream.
He opened his mouth but no sound would escape; then when he felt the blow across his cheeks, first one then the other, he knew he must remain silent.
And he knew he must keep his mouth open.
God help me.
But then why should he help tonight? He turned his back every other time.
Somebody help me.
He wanted to scream.
He had to scream.
And finally, he did.
James Talbot sat bolt upright, eyes staring, dragged from the nightmare by invisible hands.
There was a bellow of pain and rage echoing in his ears.
His own bellow.
‘Jesus’ he gasped. ‘Jesus. Jesus.’
He smelled his own sweat.
‘Fuck’ he panted.
Talbot tried to swallow but it felt as if his throat had been filled with chalk.
‘I’m as mad as hell and I’m not going to take it any more…’
The voice shouted at him.
Talbot stared frantically around him.
‘Who …’ he began.
‘Let me hear you, I’m as mad as hell and I’m not going to take this any more …’
He looked at the television screen, saw the source of the voice.
Talbot jabbed the Off button on the remote.
Silence.
‘Fuck’ he whispered. ‘Fuck.’
He sat forward in his seat, leaning his elbows on his knees, and rubbing his forehead with his fingertips. Talbot kept his eyes closed tightly but the fragments of his dream floated into view, fractured images which only disappeared when he opened his eyes. He took several deep breaths, trying to slow the thunderous pounding of his heart, afraid it would burst.
He glanced across at the clock on the mantelpiece.
11.42 p.m.
He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep. Couldn’t remember.
Didn’t fucking care.
He got to his feet and wandered through into the kitchen where he spun the cold tap over the sink, scooping water into his sweating palms. He splashed his face with the cold water, then drank some from the gushing stream, forcing away the dryness in his throat. He gripped the edges of the sink for a moment, eyes closed again, water running down his face.