Something Hidden
Authors: Kerry Wilkinson
KERRY WILKINSON
SOMETHING
HIDDEN
PAN BOOKS
1
SIXTEEN MONTHS AGO
Owen glanced up as the bell above the door jangled its greeting.
Ding-a-ling-a-ling.
Nice. Very traditional. He liked that. None of this modern
nee-nar
nonsense that some of the shops had on the go when customers walked through the door. Newsagents were awful at it,
especially on a Sunday morning when hungover people popped in for a paper.
Wendy half-turned as she led the way into the shop, offering him that wonderful grin of hers. Her green eyes met his for a fraction of a second before she twisted back to look where she was
going.
Bloody hell, this was really happening.
Her slightly wavy black hair bounced across her shoulders as she offered a small giggle as if to indicate that she couldn’t quite believe what they were doing either. As she continued
inside, Owen wrestled the rain-swelled door back into place, standing directly underneath the heater and enjoying the gust of warm air that was battling the October squall.
They were too young to be doing this, weren’t they? That’s what everyone thought, even if they didn’t say it. He’d seen it on the faces of their old university friends
when the news was delivered. On the surface it was all smiles, congratulations, and ‘when’s the engagement party?’ Underneath, it was all ‘they’re only twenty-two, why
are they getting married?’ Either that, or ‘I’d marry her sharpish too if I was punching above my weight that much.’
Only Owen’s older brother possessed the guts to say what so many others were surely thinking, taking him aside in their old shared bedroom, nodding towards the stack of well-thumbed
FHM
s in the corner with that laddish smile of his, and asking if Owen was
really
going to spend the rest of his life sleeping only with Wendy. Or, in his own less-poetic terms,
‘but there’s so many women you haven’t shagged yet . . .’
Despite the heat, Owen shivered as he turned. He was nervous. The whole room was a U-shape of varnished wooden cabinets and glass display cases polished to within millimetres of their existence,
all surrounded by pristine green carpet. It was all very neat. Very professional. Very . . . not him. He’d never been into a jewellery shop before. Well, Argos, but that didn’t
count.
Wendy skipped her way across the floor and was bent over the cabinet directly across from the front door, peering towards the rows of items they probably couldn’t afford. Owen watched her
and broke into a smile of his own. Sod his stupid brother and those un-shagged women – Wendy was worth it. This was happening and, despite his worries over how much it would all cost, Owen
was happy.
On the other side of the counter, a man turned away from a workbench to greet them. He smiled thinly, wiping his hands on his stripy red and white apron, then pushed back the remnants of his
greying hair, before removing his glasses and allowing them to hang from the chain around his neck. On the bench behind him there were neat rows of tools next to something sparkling that he was
fixing.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked.
Wendy looked up from the display case, reaching backwards to take Owen’s hand. He could sense the excitement in her voice. ‘We got engaged last weekend and we’re looking for a
ring.’
The man’s grin widened, showing off a set of slightly crooked yellowing teeth. He was either full of the joy that comes when two people find their eternal soulmate, or he sensed a sale.
Owen knew which scenario he believed.
‘You’ve come to the right place,’ he said, focusing on Wendy. ‘This is my shop, Sampson’s, and you’ll always receive a personal service here. There’s
none of the staff merry-go-round you get in the chains, plus I can resize or reset anything on-site. Most of the other local places send their items out to be worked on externally but I always look
after my customers. You’ll also get the best prices. If there’s something you’ve seen elsewhere, I can work with you to recreate any design.’
Wendy giggled again, spinning to face Owen and telling him with a raised eyebrow that she’d made her mind up to buy from here. She always liked the local places and personal touch thing.
He was more of a ‘wherever’s cheapest’ kind of guy.
‘I’m Leyton, by the way,’ the shop owner added. ‘Leyton Sampson. Feel free to browse and ask anything you want.’
He stepped back, holding his arms out in pride to indicate the selection, before glancing sideways at the clock on the wall above him: 11.47. He was presumably eyeing a nice chunky sale before
midday.
Wendy removed her hand from Owen’s and pointed at the cabinet in front of her. ‘I’m not really sure what I’m looking for. We’ve not got loads of money but I
don’t want something big anyway . . .’
Sampson nodded knowingly. ‘Diamonds are my speciality. I’ve got personal contacts in Botswana. They mine things directly for this shop. I don’t have to deal with middlemen, so
you won’t find better prices anywhere. Do you mind if I ask how much you’re looking to spend . . . ?’
Botswana?
There was sales spiel and there was taking the piss – this really walked the line. Next, he’d be telling them about a gold-mining expedition to the mountains of
South America – or wherever it was gold came from. Owen had no idea.
Sampson tailed off, maintaining eye contact with Wendy, which was probably best considering Owen was staring at his shoes. This was the question he really didn’t want to hear. He hoped for
something ending in ‘hundred’, not ‘thousand’. It was his own fault: Wendy had been the sensible one, saying that the ring didn’t matter and it was all about the
commitment to each other; he’d been the one insisting that he could afford whatever she might want and that she should pick something she really liked.
Wendy pointed towards a ring on the end of the row, with a sparkling rock that was, thankfully, small. ‘I think I’d prefer something understated, like that one.’
Thank God.
Seven hundred quid: Owen could just about afford that. All those Saturday morning overtime shifts at the call centre were finally going to seem worth it. He hated that bloody job but it was a
means to this end. All those people telling him to piss off meant he could actually afford something his girlfriend . . . no, fiancée . . . wanted.
The truth was that Wendy knew what they could afford and, despite Owen’s bravado at the time of wanting to get the ‘right’ ring, she wasn’t interested in expensive things
anyway. She’d never gone for designer dresses or shoes, preferring something from the vintage shop on Oxford Road that was wedged between a run-down pub and a tanning place. They were both
practical, sensible people, knowing the engagement had to be a long one and that finding somewhere to live where they were happy was more important than blowing thousands on a lavish ceremony
they’d spend a decade paying for. Perhaps that would mean leaving Manchester? This was the city where they’d met at university but now they were in the real world and had to find proper
jobs.
Distressingly, they were actually adults.
Owen’s thoughts drifted as Sampson unlocked the cabinet and began banging on about ‘white gold’. Whatever, mate. You do your thing, keep it to around seven hundred, make Wendy
smile, and all’s right with the world.
Owen began peering around, taking in the row of trophies on the wall and trying to figure out what the shop smelled of. It reminded him of when he’d cleaned out the attic at his
parents’ house a few years ago: dusty and . . . old. This place must have been here for years.
He wondered what they should do after picking a ring. Go out to celebrate? In typical understated fashion, they could go to the pub on the corner close to their flat. It’d be showing
football via a dodgy satellite hook-up on a Saturday afternoon – a definite bonus – plus it was where he and Wendy first met, meaning he even had an excuse to suggest it. Of course, as
soon as they sat down to eat and the match came on, she’d realise his slightly ulterior motive but he would’ve just spent a small fortune on an engagement ring, so should be able to get
away with it.
Hmmm . . .
Oh, balls to the football. He was engaged and happy. They could go home and make their own entertainment.
As Owen grinned to himself, imagining exactly what entertainment they could come up with, there was a howling squeal of car tyres from the front of the shop. He turned in time to see the front
door being rammed inwards as the silhouette of a figure burst through, sending the overhead bell into tinkling overdrive.
Suddenly, the room was spinning. Another man slammed through the door, all dark jacket, jeans and balaclava. Then there was a third man, wearing the exact same get-up. Someone was shouting
– perhaps all three of them – but the words overlapped each other and Owen was left holding his arms out pathetically. He turned to Wendy but she was already on her knees, both hands on
the ground, not daring to look up. When had she dropped? Her head tilted slightly towards him, arms trembling as she crumpled into a ball.
‘Get down!’
Owen heard the man’s shout clearly this time but still his legs didn’t obey. What was his body doing? He peered up to see the double barrel of a sawn-off shotgun pointing in his
face, its owner bellowing a string of threats. He’d never seen a gun before, not a real one.
He heard the blow before he felt it and the next thing Owen knew, he was on his knees, a throbbing sensation burning through his head. One of the men had whacked him across the temple with the
butt of the gun. It was only glancing but left him seeing stars as his legs finally gave way and he slumped to the floor, pushing himself up against one of the cabinets.
The man was shouting again: ‘Look at the floor, not me.’
Owen blinked away the thudding in his head and tried to focus on Wendy, who was shuffling the short distance towards him. He risked a glance upwards but could see only three sets of heavy boots
stomping around the shop. Wendy clasped his hand, her freezing fingers wrapping around his. She was staring at the floor, her hair a mess, as she continued to shake.
Her voice was barely a whisper: ‘Okay?’
Owen squeezed her fingers to say yes, easing himself closer to the ground as the noise continued around them. This was the type of thing he’d seen on the news but had never really taken
in. There were always interviews with witnesses who were so stupid, they’d not seen anything happening right in front of them. Only now did Owen understand it was no wonder: they were too
busy trying to control their bowels.
The cabinet felt solid behind him and Owen could taste the harsh mustiness of the carpet. He released Wendy’s hand and tilted his head slightly so he could see what was going on. All three
men were now standing in front of the main counter he and Wendy had been at moments before. They were a similar height, five nine or ten, not fat, not thin, all dressed identically. One had a
sawn-off shotgun hanging by his side as nonchalantly as if it was a shopping bag, another was pointing his at Leyton Sampson.
‘Open it, then!’
There was a twang to his accent that Owen had missed initially. Something northern: not Mancunian, a bit harsher. It was hard to tell because he was shouting.
‘What are you doing?’ Wendy’s whisper was so soft that only Owen could’ve heard it. He could sense the anguish in her voice. ‘Don’t look
at
them.’
Owen returned his eyes to the carpet, taking another mouthful of the dust-caked bristles, before twisting his face the other way again so he could see what was going on. The top of the cabinet
was now open and one of the men was filling a Tesco carrier bag with the contents.
