Highbridge (7 page)

‘You'd have found some young nun to look after your needs. Locked in a conspiracy of guilt and silence. But great sex every Saturday night.'

Matt rolled on to his back again and grinned. ‘Sunday afternoon more like. State of grace after eleven o'clock Mass.'

‘See. You've got the mind for it,' Luke replied, as he scanned the street outside the chippy. Just for something to do. Until he came to rest on the AMG Mercedes SL500 they'd seen arrive in the early hours. ‘What do you reckon that's doing round here?'

Matt immediately rolled back to his own scope. ‘Courier?' he suggested. ‘But defo someone else up to something they shouldn't be. Won't get one of those on the Mobility Allowance. No wheelchair access.'

Luke panned back to the chippy, just as Fatchops came from the back with another man, both just visible in the blue light from the bug zapper. They hovered in the doorway. ‘Door.'

‘Looks family.' Luke was watching Fatchops unlock the shop door and then go into the now almost obligatory male gripped wrist and body hug parting. He then relocked the door and went back through the shop as his visitor headed down the street, head bowed in the typical religious pose of a serial texter. Towards the Mercedes. Opening it and starting up without fumbling for keys.

‘Keyless entry and quick getaway. Invented for the bad guys those things,' Matt said, as he watched the car speed away. ‘What d'you reckon? Asian or East African?'

‘Does it matter?'

‘Nah. That's the beauty of globalisation. No one cares who kills who.'

Sean tapped the code into the garden centre alarm system, then stood back to let Glynnis enter. She was always there before him. Often there after him. He watched her wander off towards the café, pulling her coat tighter against the cold. Within half an hour she would have the café open and ready to start serving the first breakfast of the day. His. One of the perks of owning the place was every day having a Full Welsh, as Glynnis insisted it be called, as he skimmed through the news headlines on his iPad before going through the previous day's takings, or sorted out any changes to the coming day's work patterns. Today it was the switch from Halloween to Christmas and he'd been pondering on where best to place the Singing Santa Gnomes.

He knew they'd be a winner because Sandra hated them. She'd almost kicked the sample over the fence when it started singing ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas' as she arrived home from her tennis lesson. Fortunately she was better at tennis than football so she'd sliced her shot, and Santa had only gone into the box hedging. Still singing. A testament to its build quality. He'd wondered about putting that on the display sign, ‘Will Keep Singing If Kicked', but decided he'd probably end up with too many warranty claims.

As he settled in to the corner table he used as his early morning office, Glynnis arrived with the Welsh. Fried egg, two Red Dragon sausages, bacon, beans, fried tomato, Welsh black pudding, one piece of brown toast, to show willing, a glass of orange juice and a pot of tea. ‘Where do you think I should put the Santa Gnomes, Glynnis?'

‘Anywhere except in here.' She went back towards the kitchen with a just perceptible shake of her head. Then stopped. ‘But I'll have the nodding polar bears.'

‘I was going to put them in the entrance as a come-on.'

‘That's daft. If they're at the door they've already come. You need to get them in here and spend some money. My mark-up's better than out there.' She straightened a chair, went a few more steps and stopped again. ‘You doing that Santa Shed thing again this year?'

‘You mean the Grotto?'

Another slight shake of the head. ‘Well, if you are doing it, you should put a Christmas garden outside. It could be where he grows sprouts and cranberry and has free-range turkeys. All the Christmas food. Like where he has his allotment.' She turned and left with a parting shot over her shoulder. ‘Everyone knows it's a shed.'

Sean watched her go. Late forties, single. Not unattractive even though she never seemed to be bothered about her appearance. She always looked like she ran her fingers through her hair every morning and seemed to have only seven different outfits. All a combination of black trousers with black tops. It was as though she was in a constant state of mourning. She lived alone. No family. And didn't appear to have any other life except work. Sean suspected there had been some tragedy in her past and had tried several times over the years to tease it out of her, but she never responded, always changing the subject. He'd long since stopped being surprised by her. The only thing that still amazed him was why she was like she was. She was the best employee he had, yet she couldn't read or write.

He assumed that was why she didn't mix. It was an avoidance strategy. The less she mixed with people, the less chance of being forced into a situation where she would be found out. She didn't speak much, but whenever she did it meant something. Like the Santa Shed. She was right. And the garden idea was great. He switched to email and sent a note to himself.
REMEMBER SANTA SHED + GARDEN + TURKEYS.
He then turned back to dissecting the black pudding. He'd put the Singing Santas near the tools. Like the old Big Mouth Billy Bass singing fish, it'll be the guys who will go for the laughs.

Joey looked at his phone again. Nothing. Radio silence, he thought. He hoped. He raised his mug to drain the coffee, but nearly dropped it as a pair of arms came round his waist. Jesu. It was Natasha.

‘You OK?'

He turned and put his arms round her, went to kiss her but she turned away. ‘You stink of coffee.'

‘You're not usually up.'

‘You're not usually so preoccupied. What's wrong?'

‘Nothing. Everything's fine.' He pulled away. Immediately confirming that it wasn't. ‘Want a tea?'

‘Rather have an answer.'

He could already see the corner he was being boxed towards. ‘Just missed our weekly catch-up last night because, you know, Tanya and her counselling session.'

She looked at him, now with his back to her, in only boxers and T-shirt, his strong legs and shaped back still trim enough to suit the fitted tee. He'd always been sensitive about sex with the kids in the house, but she could see the tension in his shoulders. ‘It's something else, Joe.'

It was. She saw the shoulders drop.

‘It's not. Everything's fine,' he lied. But she was silent. Still. Waiting. He was already in the corner. He tried a feint. ‘Well, if it's anything. It's about Benno.'

‘Benno? Why? What's wrong with him?'

He sensed the slight gap he could spin through. ‘I can't remember leaving his envelope.' Joey raised his phone. ‘Been trying to get in touch.'

It seemed to work. Benno was the guy he worked with down in London. ‘You shouldn't be doing that, Joe,' she said as she headed for the toaster. ‘If the tax catch up with him you'll get it too.'

Joey shook his head. ‘It's a gift. On top of what he gets off the job. I'm just helping out a mate because he watches my back down there. But I must be getting old to forget leaving his envelope.'

‘Or too tired.' She smiled, turning back for the expected riposte and defence of his hunter-gatherer virility, but instead caught the pensive look on his face. ‘What?'

The look was quickly replaced with one of attempted reassurance. ‘Nothing.'

‘C'mon Nolan. How long we been together?' She broadened her grin as she pulled him towards her, hooking a leg behind his. ‘You still in a state over last night?'

Another opening. ‘Well … Mother Teresa and her gang do tend to dampen the mood.' He nodded at the yellow roses as the toaster donged to tell them it was ejecting the toast. It always made Joey smile.

‘You sure it was just that? And not the money again?'

Another of their recurring topics. Was travelling to London worth the money? It was good. Daft, even. Even after paying out for the train and digs, he was still pulling in three times what he could locally. Provided he didn't get sucked into the card school and avoided the traditional and so-called swift one on the way back after work or any other overheads. He couldn't believe how so many of them just blew what they were earning. Might as well stay at home on the crap jobs and go home to the missus every night. He looked across at Natasha. She was wearing the red silk dressing gown and matching strappy nightie he had bought for Valentine's Night. As she buttered the toast every movement accentuated her shape. ‘Nobody butters the toast like you, do you know that?'

‘No one else wears this sort of thing to butter toast, I know that?'

He knew it was a weekend gesture as her preferred choice was passion-killing winceyette floral pyjamas. Perhaps that was it. The others didn't have a missus like his so they enjoyed living the life down there. Or perhaps they did and it was him who was being daft. ‘I couldn't make the sort of money I do now up here. Not enough oligarchs or sheiks trying to outdo each other. The bloke we're doing this house for, well knocking all three into one.' Joey shook his head. ‘The stuff he has installed then ripped out when he goes somewhere and sees something he likes better. He's changed the M&E spec three times. Ivantmoreofich we call him. Now he's discovered he's the only one in the street not to have a three-floor basement. So he's got them digging out another floor. They're insane.'

‘They're running away. They don't like their own country so they spend most of their time flying round the world looking for something better. It's not about money, Joe. It never is.' She offered the toast and squeezed his hand as she said it. And the big brown eyes said everything else. We made the decision.

‘I know. But, well, I just need a bit more time. Get finished on this job and we'll have enough to last about six months, I reckon.'

She leaned up and kissed him. ‘You sure? Is it the right decision?' I hate you being away, but …'

‘You like Friday nights too?' The impish grin was back on his face.

‘We can still have all that. But we agreed for you to do it until you had at least a year's worth of work.'

‘Stop.' He put his arm round her shoulders as he leaned against the granite worktop next to her. ‘It's the right decision. I'm coming back. I don't want to miss the kids growing up just so we can have a self-loading singing toaster.'

He didn't have to mention that it was also a result of the recent scare over Tanya with a knife and that he would never be able to cope if something did actually happen to her when he was away. He knew what it was like to be the brother. Had seen how it chewed up Luke as the husband. No matter what sort of world-weary faces they had put on over Janey. What would it be like as the father? Instead of mentioning this, he simply tightened his squeeze on Natasha's shoulders.

She grinned and pushed her body more into his. ‘It does match the food mixer, though.'

‘It does. And it makes us smile.'

‘Especially if we can still have our Friday nights.'

She pulled herself round, into his chest, never appreciating that her hair nearly suffocated him every time she did this. But he thought it would be a nice way to go.

‘We've got a couple of hours before you have to go and get the boys.'

‘What about the girls?'

‘They won't surface until at least the shops open.' She reached up and kissed him quickly. ‘But brush your teeth first.'

She turned and headed out the door, he ditched the coffee down the sink then turned to follow but saw her quickly return with a frustrated grin on her face as Tanya came hurrying into the kitchen, still in a hooded jersey sleep shirt, and across to the dog basket. ‘Move, Roscoe.'

Joey looked at Natasha, who was now trying to suppress a giggle, then back at Tanya. ‘What are you doing?'

‘Becky's phone.' She waved it as she went across to switch the kettle on while flicking through the phone and apparently deleting text messages.

‘Should you be doing that?' asked Joey.

‘Should you two be walking round in your undies with the house full of my friends?'

It was a more pertinent point. Joey turned to Natasha, now really struggling to contain herself. She grabbed his arm and dragged him to the door as Tanya curled her lip and threw a parting shot. ‘And remember. There's only a stud and plaster wall between you and us.'

Out in the hall Joey turned to Natasha. What now? She just giggled again and dragged him upstairs, towards the spare room. At the far end of the landing. No, Joey thought, life is not all about money.

‘It just takes one.' It was Matt, breaking open a fruit breakfast bar from the Vestey Army Ration Pack they had brought with them. ‘One bad apple. The whole barrel's toast. Toasted apples, I suppose. Do you want the porridge?'

Luke took another sweep along the street. All quiet. He glanced at his watch. It would be another half-hour before the van that dropped off the spuds and stuff. Every day. 10.30, give or take a minute or so. They had been eyeballing Fatchops for three weeks now. Clocking his lifestyle POLO. His timings. His habits. And he had them. Most people do and they don't even know it. How they get up in the morning. Which ball or breast they scratch first. Which curtain they open first. Whether it's tea or coffee. Whether they get dressed and eat, or eat and dress. Whether they pick up a newspaper before breakfast, or on their way out. Once you have it clocked it's just a question of waiting for all the other stuff to fall into place. Whether the postman, milkman or paper lad delivers on time. Is early or late. Too early and they might knock the routine. Too late and they discover the body and it all kicks off too early. He rolled to face Matt.

‘Yep. Creature of habit. We all are. Even your toasted apples. Clock their habits. And here we are. Same brekkie every morning.'