Heartland (35 page)

At school the kids from the half-term playscheme were watching the football. They'd fixed a projector screen up in the hall. She sat for a while with a few girls at a side table who were doing a jigsaw rather than watch the game.
She watched the boys in front of the screen, eight years old some of them, with their little England shirts on, drumming the tables, punching the air, leaping from their seats as the match went back and forth. She'd thought she might see Robert, remembered he'd said he'd got the day off to watch the match with his dad, which made her smile. She would have to tell him. She realized she wanted to tell him before Zubair did. More complications. She'd finally done the right thing with going to see him, though. The first right thing for a long time. She would tell Robert. She would talk to Matt, they would see how things went. She ended up not doing the work she'd intended, sat with the girls piecing a jigsaw together, watched the boys shout and whoop and slide across the floor when David Beckham scored.

Jim pulled some mints from his pocket, handed them to Tom as they walked along.
It was an old joke from the days when they'd squeeze an extra pint or two in after a game.

I ay had chance to say to yer properly, mate, how much I appreciated yer help, with that bit o canvassing an that.

Yer doh atta say nothing. It was nothing.

No, I was glad of it. Yer know it wor nothing. I ay had chance to say what with all this business with Michael an all. Kath's tode yer abaht all that?

Tom nodded.

I dunno what to do with him, said I'd tek him for a game o pitch an putt tomorra, try an have a talk to him. What dyer reckon?

Sahnds as good an idea as any.

I day think things ud turn out like this.

Often things doh. Iss better to learn that, maybe.

They walked along sucking their mints.

Tell yer the truth, I'm thinking o packing it all in, Tom, the council and that. I've had me day, maybe. This is me last term for sure.

Tom didn't say anything until they were right by the shop.

Whatever yer think, mate. It ull be all right. Whatever happens, we'll all be all right. We'll all still be here.

He reached out and patted Jim's back as they walked in step. Jim did the same to him, neither of them looking at each other, just turning to walk up the salon steps, jangling the bell noisily as they went in through the door.

She'd pulled out of the school gates to turn onto Dudley Road
and head for the motorway island when she saw Robert. She'd swung the wheel and turned the car in the direction he was walking before she'd really thought about it. She drove past him and sounded the horn and waved, pulled onto the taxi forecourt.

Do you want a lift?

I'm not going far, onny to the flats.

It doesn't matter, get in. I wanted to see you before I left.

She leaned across and opened the passenger door.

You off to London?

They'd talked about it the other day over coffee. She'd mentioned emailing Matt and he'd nodded, not said anything. She could tell he was maybe a bit hurt and glad he hadn't pushed her to talk about it.

Yeah, just going now, she said. I've just been into school. Everyone seems happy with the football.

Yeah, it was great.

Have you got a couple of minutes?

What do you mean? Now?

Yeah, I need to tell you something.

They drove along Cinderheath Lane. The day was suddenly busy again, people at the shops, kids on bikes, a van unloading at the butcher's. They slowed behind the bus outside William Perry Primary, their old school.

She'd got an email back from Miss Johnson, Julia
Johnson. She'd retired recently, was living in France, had been delighted to hear from her, was happy she was getting so much from teaching, as it had given her so much, she wrote. Jasmine had been judicious in what she'd written. Miss Johnson remembered a few other names from their class. Adnan's, of course.

She didn't take the turning for the flats, carried on along the main road, pulling out around a jeep parked half across the kerb and the road in front of the houses near the little shops. A woman and her son were unloading boxes, walking back and forth to the front door of a house with broken windows.

Kelvin, Rob said, pressing the flat of his hand to the window.

Who's that? asked Jasmine.

Oh, one of the boys you'll be working with soon. Rob grinned.

One of the many, Jasmine said.

Yeah, they've been away. I don't know where.

Rob pressed his hand up to the car window as Kelvin and his mother passed from view. She followed his gaze, realized Kelvin's mother was Janice Moses, who'd punched her all those years ago.

It's about Adnan, Robert, she said.

They pulled into the car parks by the new cinema; she realized she couldn't drive and talk. She told him everything, the whole thing, about Matt as well, more than she'd said to Zubair. A couple of times, he interrupted.

You've seen Zubair? You've told Zubair this?

Yes, she said. Yes. I had to really, didn't I?

Yes, he said. Of course.

His eyes were glassy, he looked as if he wasn't taking it all in; he'd probably been drinking during the football, probably needed a drink now.

It's a lot to take in, she said.

He nodded. They looked out of the window across the car park towards the cinema, busy now for half-term. They could've been anywhere, the flat car park and rectangular, plastic-looking buildings.

I'm sorry, Robert, she said. For want of anything else to say. She thought she would cry again. There'd been enough tears by now.

What you sorry for? he said kindly. It sounded like his voice might break. They held each other for a little while, uncomfortably across the front seats of the car. Eventually she pulled away.

How about now? he said.

What do you mean?

How do you feel now?

She shrugged. Day at a time, I suppose. I'm much better than I was. I'll be OK.

He shook his head. She thought he might cry now, that the glassiness wasn't just the drink.

I always knew, he said. I always knew there'd be some story to it. He smiled instead, shook his head with incredulity, at the whole world it seemed. After a while he went to open the door and said, You better get going.

I'll drop you back.

No, I can walk back from here, he said. He leaned across and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

I hope everything goes OK in London, with Matt and everything.

Thanks, she said. I'll tell you about it next week.

Rob stood in the empty parking space watching Jasmine drive away.
He was making a habit of this. He wished he hadn't had so much to drink, he couldn't feel anything. He couldn't feel anything yet. This was what Zubair had said he wanted to talk to him about. He wondered whether to phone him now, thought he'd wait, it could wait for now.

It was more of a walk than he thought. The place wasn't designed for pedestrians and it was a hike across the car parks and then down a side road with no pavement, worried for a moment that he was somehow lost. He couldn't think straight, couldn't think of anything. His mind was empty.

He'd be a bit late but that was OK, in the circumstances. He'd just act normally when he got to Stacey's. How else could he act? He'd told her about the Woodies gang. Then he'd told her that the money had come from school, that there'd been insurance taken out for this kind of thing, the value of the bike had been refunded. He could see she only half-believed him. It was the last of some money he'd put away in the Building Society when he was still being paid for football. He asked if there was there an afternoon someone could have Gemma; they could go and look at bikes at Merry Hill, see if they could choose one to surprise Andre. They could get something to eat afterwards, get a taxi back. She looked like she needed a break. He was surprised when she looked so pleased.

He finally emerged at the top of Cinderheath Lane, the top of the hill before it dropped into the dip. He could see the estate spread out, and the view opened across the old works and the shops, the church and the mosque, other estates much like this one, across canals and the motorway, fields, half-buildings and last factory chimneys. His head was full again now. He thought of his family down at the salon, probably finishing off some cream cakes and laughing about the penalty, worrying about Michael. He thought about Zubair in his office and whether he should ring him now. About Jasmine, Glenn, Lee, the kids at school, Adnan the ghost, Yusuf Khan, all of them, with the realization, both painful and comforting, that all things which go away might one day return.

Many thanks to Alan Mahar, Luke Brown, Emma Hargrave – and all involved with Tindal Street Press – particularly for their encouragement and patience regarding this book. On the subject of encouragement and patience there are several people who have shown me this in the last few years – you know who you are – thank you. Much of
Heartland
was written in Brighton: thanks to Nic Johnston for making this possible. Thanks also to my parents, Keith and Linda, brother Chris, and, of course, my wife Isabel.