Checkmate (6 page)

It was another one of those nights. A still, lonely night where, however much I might beckon, sleep was a stranger. So here I was again, sitting in the purple grape-skin dark, staring out at the night sky with nothing to do but count my thoughts. It was a cloudless night and very mild for the end of September. I sat by my window, perfectly still, watching the stars multiply, watching the leaves of the small, newly-planted horse chestnut tree a few metres down the road sway to their own music. All my past regrets started skirting round each other in my head, the way they always did when I couldn't sleep. Memories that grabbed hold and made me flinch and wouldn't let me go. How I wished for someone to turn to, to talk to. Someone to hold me through all my doubts and fears.

'Mummy

My head whipped round. I hadn't even heard Rose enter my room.

'Yes, treasure?'

'I had a nightmare.'

Rose stood just inside my doorway, her hand still on the door handle. My eyes were accustomed to the dark so I could make out more than her outline. Her pyjama trousers were twisted around her waist, her hair wisped up in odd angles at the front and her eyes were round and bright like full moons, but anxious. An anxiety that was only partly caused by her bad dream.

'Come here,' I beckoned, keeping my voice low and soft.

The last thing I wanted was to wake Meggie. We'd been through this so many times before. Whenever there was something wrong with my baby, Meggie insisted on sorting it out . . . to save me the bother. Sometimes we argued about it, most of the time we didn't. What would I do without Meggie? Rose walked over to me. I kept my hands at my sides.

'Want to sit on my lap?' I asked.

Rose nodded.

'Up you get then.'

Rose clambered onto my lap and put her arms around my neck. My hands fluttered like cautious birds, one to land on Rose's back, the other on her thigh. I silently inhaled. I never grew tired of the smell of Rose
–
especially that early-morning or late-night smell that was so clean and childlike.

'So what was your nightmare about?' I whispered.

'You promise you won't get mad?'

'Why would I get mad, Rose?' I frowned. 'It's not your fault you had a nightmare.'

'I know but . . . I dreamed that

'Go on.'

'I dreamed that Tobey turned into a wolf and came through my window to gobble me up.'

'It was just a silly dream, Rosie. Mind you, dreaming of Tobey is enough to give anyone nightmares,' I teased.

'But Mum, it wasn't just a bad dream . . .'

'What d'you mean?'

'If I tell you a secret about Tobey, d'you promise not to tell anyone else?' Rose said seriously.

My insides went warily still. 'I promise.'

'Well . . . when it's a full moon, Tobey changes into a werewolf,' said Rose.

I fought down the impulse to burst out laughing. I didn't know what I'd been expecting, but that certainly wasn't it. 'Er, I don't think so, darling. There're no such things as werewolves.'

'There are too. Tobey told me this afternoon. He said when it's a full moon, he changes into a werewolf and then he doesn't know what he's doing. He said his mum locks him in the cupboard under the stairs every time there's a full moon and keeps him there the whole night and won't let him out till morning and she stuffs cushions into the gap under the door so that when he howls no one can hear him and—'

'Whoa! Slow down before your lungs implode!'

'What does implode mean?'

'To collapse inwards instead of being blown outwards which is what explode means,' I explained impatiently. 'So Tobey told you all this, did he?'

Rose nodded. 'And he said he sometimes manages to get out of the cupboard and out of the house and so if it's a full moon, I should keep my windows closed and my door locked and he said—'

'I don't want to hear what else he said. What I do want is to wring his scrawny little neck for him,' I told her.

'Why? It's not his fault he's a werewolf,' Rose said, reproach in her voice.

'Callie Rose, the boy was winding you up
–
again. Werewolves don't exist. And even if Tobey was a werewolf, which he isn't, he wouldn't get past me. I'd dropkick him down the garden path.'

Rosie giggled, which is just what I'd wanted her to do
–
but I was only half joking about dropkicking Tobey bloody Durbridge out the house. Tobey was almost eight months older than Rose but about ten years older in world-weariness. He'd regaled Rose with his nonsense stories ever since he was old enough to open his mouth and Rose swallowed his foolishness almost every time.

'Rose, I will never,
ever
let anything bad happen to you. D'you understand?' I told her, my hold on her back as light as a sigh.

'Yes, Mum.' And for the first time since she'd come into my room, Rose smiled, then yawned.

'You really must stop believing everything Tobey or any other boy tells you.'

'Yes, Mum,' Rose yawned again.

'They all tell lies, darling.'

'Yes, Mum.'

'Promise me you'll stop believing everything Tobey or any other male tells you.'

Rose's voice was so sleepily faint, I had to bend my head and strain to hear it.

'I promise, Mummy. I promise.'

'OK then. I'll put you back in your bed.'

'Can I stay here with you?' Rose asked quickly, her eyes now open.

I sighed. 'OK then. But we both need to get some sleep – OK?'

'OK.'

I smiled. 'And Rose, werewolves really don't exist. I'm not lying to you.'

'I know, Mummy,' Rose half yawned. 'You never lie to me.'

The stillness inside was back with a vengeance.

Lies by omission. Right lies for the wrong reasons. Wrong lies for the best of intentions. Lies that refused to lay down and die. Lies too old for young ears, but when did those scales balance out?

'Callie Rose, I . . .'

Rose was already asleep. What was I going to say? Did it matter anyway? Rose Hadley . . . Even my baby's name was a lie. Not what I'd promised myself, or the world – or Callum. Layer upon layer of lies. But I had to pick my moment. And this wasn't it. The full moon now bathed Rose's face in its silvery wash. She was so beautiful, her eyes closed, her long lashes sweeping down her cheeks. I stood up, carefully lifting Rose as I did so, her arms around my neck. I struggled to pull back the duvet with one hand, my forearm still supporting Rose as best I could, before placing her in the bed. I kissed her cheek and stroked her hair. I toyed with the idea of getting into bed and going to sleep myself. I could do it – I was now tired enough to be sleepy. But I headed back to the chair by the window and sat down.

Paying my penance.

'Anything else, Mrs McGregor?'

I took another quick glance around the shop, 'willing any items I might've missed to spring off the shelves and hover in mid-air to jog my memory.

'I don't think so, Mr Aswad,' I replied after my quick scan. 'Anyway, I don't think I could manage anything else.'

I struggled to hold up the various carrier bags in both hands to show him.

'Last-minute Crossmas shopping?'

'Last, first and every minute in between at the moment,' I sighed. 'I'm shattered.'

'I know what you mean.' Mr Aswad nodded. 'I did all my Crossmas shopping last weekend. Two hours on the bus it took me to get home. Two hours!'

I frowned. 'What happened to your car?'

Mr Aswad shook his head sadly. 'I sold it, Mrs McGregor.'

Now that surprised me. Every time I came into his shop, Mr Aswad blathered on and on about his precious WMW. I didn't even know what WMW stood for, although the nickname for the car amongst us noughts was 'white man's wheels'. Any nought with money always bought a WMW. I had to admit the car did look good – if you were into that sort of thing, which I wasn't
–
and definitely deserved its luxury status, along with the healthy price tag to match.

'How come you sold it?' I couldn't help asking. Mr Aswad would rather sell his shop than his car and that was no lie.

'I had to, Mrs McGregor. Not a week went past without the police stopping me and asking me to prove the car was mine. In the end it just wasn't worth it. I'm waiting for delivery of my new car but they told me I won't get it till after Crossmas.'

'What car are you getting?'

Mr Aswad told me the make of a nothing-special, ten-a-penny car which from his expression obviously wasn't his cup of tea at all.

Mr Aswad leaned over the counter towards me and lowered his voice even though we were the only two in his shop. 'I was telling one of my regular Cross customers why I decided to sell my WMW and d'you know what she said to me?'

I shook my head.

'She told me the police don't do that sort of thing.' Mr Aswad straightened with righteous indignation. 'I'm telling her what happened to me practically every other day and she still refused to believe it. "The police don't do that sort of thing"! I ask you!'

The door opened, followed by the electronic chime which alerted Mr Aswad that he had a customer if he was out the back.

I turned my head. A young Cross man wearing jeans, a fleecy jacket, rimless glasses and a single earring came into the shop and marched straight up to the counter.

'A packet of cigarettes.'

'Which brand?' Mr Aswad asked.

'Don't care,' the man said.

Mr Aswad turned and picked up the closest to hand. He told the man the price. We both watched as the man dug the money out of his jacket pocket and counted out the exact amount. The man dropped the money onto Mr Aswad's hand rather than placing it there. That was another of Mr Aswad's bugbears – Crosses who couldn't bear to touch his hand when they handed over their money, so instead they dropped it anywhere from a couple of centimetres up, to the length of half a ruler. I really didn't have time to hang around and hear the shopkeeper complain about that as well, so I decided to use the Cross's presence to make my escape.

'Nice talking to you, Mr Aswad,' I said, heading for the door.

'You too, Mrs McGregor. Mind how you go.'

His cigarettes in his hand, the Cross man scooted past me to get out of the shop first. I was obviously not going fast enough to suit him. As I stepped out of the shop, I shivered, pulling my long, woollen coat even more tightly around me, the carrier bags in my hand, bumping into my body as I did so. The winter wind bit at me, making my bones ache. In spite of my coat, gloves and hat, I was freezing. It was already getting dark and the wind was trying to freeze my lips together. Being cold always put me in a bad mood. Did the weather match my mood? Or did my mood match the weather? Well, at least I had Jude's
Crossmas presents now. That was something after all this walking about. Another year, another plain shirt, another patterned jumper. Not that I ever saw him wearing any of my presents.

I really don't know what happened next. One moment I started to walk off, minding my own business and the next moment my legs went out from under me and I went down on my backside, then flat on my back. Mr Aswad was straight out of his shop and at my side in an instant. The next thing I knew, I was surrounded by people, all trying to help me back up onto my feet and asking the same ludicrous question. 'Are you all right? Are you all right?'

Of course I wasn't all right. I'd just embarrassed myself on the high street. Plus my backside was sore. A middle-aged Cross picked up my shopping bag and chased after my potatoes which were rolling about on the icy pavement. He packed them in my bag before handing it back to me.

'Thank you,' I mumbled, too embarrassed to look him in the eye. 'It's very kind of you.'

'Mrs McGregor, are you sure you're OK?' asked Mr Aswad. 'You took quite a tumble there.'

'I'm fine, Mr Aswad,' I told him, adding under my breath, 'My arse broke the fall.'

'Really, Mrs McGregor!' smiled Mr Aswad as he shook his head. 'And you a God-fearing woman at that!'

I stared at him. 'Bat ears!'

The crowd around me began to disappear when they saw I was now upright and mobile. Thank goodness.

'Would you like to sit down for a while?' Mr Aswad offered. 'I could make you a cup of tea.'

'No thanks. I just want to get home and have a nice hot bath,' I said.

I headed off before he could argue. Halfway up the street, I turned round to see Mr Aswad sprinkling liberal amounts of salt on the icy pavement outside his shop.

Much too little, far too late, I thought with annoyance.

I carried on home, rubbing at my upper thigh. No doubt an impressive bruise was forming already.