The Edge of Sanity (13 page)

She nodded, looking uncertain.

‘So …’ Charlie shrugged, inhaling deeply and holding it awhile ‘ … you’ve had other boyfriends, then, yeah?’

‘Loads,’ she said.

Taking another tout, Charlie nodded and turned towards her. His eyes searching hers briefly, he slid a hand slowly up her thigh, then locked his mouth over hers and exhaled.

****

Mary massaged the bump on her forehead. She couldn’t believe she’d actually fancied the sicko. It had obviously been a case of mistaken identity. She’d mistaken Charlie for a human being.

She took another sip of her J2O, debating whether to ring the station back. She’d been scared when she’d first rung, of what he might do. Scared also that what he had done might somehow have been her fault.

She’d been watching him from where she was seated, well back from the bar. God, he was a smooth-talker, Dr Jekyll charming the birds from the trees, then dishing out drugs before he turns into Mr Hyde. It made her skin crawl. Give a guy good looks and he gets away with murder.

Charlie Roberts was a bastard. She should ring the station back. What he’d done to her might not get the scum locked up, but his being in possession of drugs and an illegal firearm might persuade the police to pay him a little visit, haul him in and scare him as much as he had her.

She’d tried to put it behind her and get on with her life. She’d run herself a hot bath when she got home, scrubbed herself down to her hair follicles, then took pity on the mangy mongrel with its sticky-out ribs and gave her a nice warm bath, too, which was when she noticed the sores on its scrawny little body and rung the police.

Cigarette burns, the vet had said. The bloke hadn’t just got a screw loose, he was a mental case. If he could do what he’d done to her … If he could actually stub fags … no, spliff-ends, out on a helpless animal … Well, he had no conscience, that was for sure. He’d do it again, and worse, possibly, to someone else.

That someone else more than likely being the schoolgirl he was currently trying to spoon-feed drugs to. The animal. She should have reported him.

Chapter Eight

Daniel had to get out, fast. He hadn’t had an attack like that since he was a kid.

He shivered in the humid night air. Forget it. Don’t go there, he told himself. He’d drawn a veil over that part of his life long ago. So why was it creeping back to haunt him now? He knew though, deep down. He didn’t need counsellors to spell it out for him.

He’d sworn to protect his kids the second they were born. To make sure their memories were good ones, no nightmares to wake them screaming in the night, only to find they weren’t dreaming. And he’d failed. Failed in his fundamental obligation as a father. Failed to keep his kids safe from harm.

What he was feeling now was self-loathing. The same way he’d felt when he was young. Jo had given him back his self-respect. His children had given him the determination to build on it. To go forwards, to not look back. How the hell was he supposed to explain all that to Jo?

He walked through the town centre and paused at the bridge, distractedly watching the swans glide ghostlike on the river. Should he go back to the nightclub, he wondered, checking his watch. No. It would be closed soon, and Kayla wasn’t there.

She was okay, staying with a friend, Daniel tried to reassure himself, though he couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t—okay, or with a friend.

He turned, head down, hands in pockets, and walked straight into some girl making her way back home, her jacket pulled tight about her, despite the high summer heat, and scared half-to-death by the look on her face. Daniel felt his gut twist. What kind of world was it, he wondered, that women were afraid to walk out on their own late at night? ‘Sorry,’ he called after her, which only hastened her pace.

Daniel sighed, supposing his loitering on a dimly lit street would have given her cause for concern.

****

Mary glanced warily over her shoulder. It was definitely him, the bloke from the nightclub earlier. She’d had him down as a nutter, out of his skull on drugs, until he’d banged into the loo. Out of his mind with worry, she’d realised then, searching hopelessly for his daughter. Shame, she thought now. Poor bloke must be … Oh.

She stopped in her tracks. Could the baby Charlie had his filthy claws into have been her? Should she go after him, alert him to the possibility? Go back to the police station? They’d actually been quite receptive. Didn’t treat her like the Virgin Mary, but they’d got a file on dirty Charlie as fat as the desk sergeant’s belly. They were even going to send a couple of officers around to check out the pigsty Charlie called a flat.

No, she decided, watching the stranger walk into the distance. It might be coincidence. And he might well be a nutter, sky-high on H or something. She’d ring the station though, on her mobile. Just in case.

****

Jo woke from a fitful sleep. She grappled for the clock and squinted at it. Damn. Only
one
hour had passed by? Couldn’t God have been merciful and let it be morning? She sighed, massaged the aching small of her back, and then trailed around the bed, unbuttoning shirt and jeans as she went. She ran a hand over Dan’s empty pillow, wishing dearly that time could go backwards.

She’d talk to him tomorrow, she decided, once she’d spoken to Kayla. Talk to him properly this time, no alcohol-fuelled arguments. Alcohol-fuelled on her side, that was. Dan rarely drank. He was a good man at the core. If only …

She
would
give him a chance. And she would hold on to her determination not to reach for the wine, if it killed her. Which tonight, Jo felt it well might. And if Daniel couldn’t; for some reason wouldn’t open up … She’d cross that bridge when she got there.

Meanwhile, ‘Shower,’ she ordered herself. She wasn’t about to slip into her pyjamas and curl up under the duvet. Hadn’t got any flipping pyjamas anyway. They were all in the wash. A shower would freshen her up a bit though, un-fuddle her brain.

She pulled open the wardrobe, automatically reached for one of Dan’s shirts, stopped short, and then reached for it anyway. Jo liked the smell of him. It was reassuring. Always had been, crisp clean cotton suffused with aftershave and essence of man; essence of Daniel. And she needed all the reassurance she could get right now.

She kicked off her jeans, bra and pants, a Lejaby twin set, peach-laced and pretty. Daniel had selected it, as always with impeccable taste. Oh, Lord, what were they doing to each other? Tears welled in her eyes. No. She swiped one from her cheek. She’d indulged enough of those. She needed to concentrate on the here and now. Get through the moment.

And then work at getting back to where they were, somehow.

Jo allowed the hot water to cascade for a full three minutes before soaping herself luxuriantly all over, remembering, as she did, how Daniel had so often insisted on lending her a hand. Her mouth curved into a smile. He was a good lover. She trailed a lathered hand over her stomach. Not over-confident at first, but that was endearing in a man so good looking. And he’d learned fast. There was nothing they wouldn’t do now. Instinctively moving together as one.

Nothing they hadn’t done, she corrected herself.

Oh, Daniel. Her tummy dipped and her heart clenched. She ached for him, physically, emotionally. She wanted so much to hear his voice. To touch him. Smell him. She wanted him here. Wanted to slide her hands over him, soap his broad shoulders, to trail them down over his chest, his taut stomach.

Feel his body up close to hers.

His lips soft on her neck, hungry on her breasts, gently teasing, nipping, biting. His tongue grazing exquisitely slowly over her stomach, between her legs, exploring, probing, unhurried and unashamed. She wanted him to hoist her urgently from her feet, her back cold against the tiles, and her not caring. To feel him plunging deep inside her. She wanted her man. How it used to be, together. Hands touching. Eyes locking. Making love to each other. Seeing and knowing each other. Talking to each other.

Not the way it was now.

Sighing heavily, Jo dolloped shampoo on her head, and suddenly found herself smiling. She’d forgotten the climax to that particular steamy sex session. The earth had moved, literally. Dan had wanted a Victorian bathroom, with an authentic cast-iron bath, the sort that crashes nicely through rotten floorboard. Jo had got a bruised bottom for her efforts and poor Dan had dislocated his shoulder.

Oh, dear. Jo pressed a hand over her mouth. She shouldn’t be laughing. It wasn’t funny. Nothing was funny. But laugh she did, until she cried.

****

Typical, Charlie thought, holding the girl’s head over the edge of the bath and running the shower full-force. She’d only gone and passed out on him, after puking in Steve’s car. Steve was well annoyed. Called him a prat. Charlie let it pass. He’d be pretty annoyed as well if it were his car.

What the hell had happened, Charlie was blowed if he knew. Okay, so she’d smoked a little dope. That wasn’t going to kill her, was it? Blimey, he hoped she
didn’t
snuff it. Charlie had the good grace to panic, for precisely two seconds. Nah. Must have been the wine. She’d downed a fair few of those. His stuff was guaranteed okay. He’d smoked it himself and he was buzzing. So had she, before she freaked out. She’d been mellowing out nicely, even on the upside to euphoric when he’d asked her to dance. Rattling on like a train, she was, until Charlie mentioned the absence of a father in his life and his loveless lush of a mother. Got ‘em eating out his hand that did, usually. If he’d known he was about to hit a raw nerve, he’d have steered well clear. She’d only started bleating on about
her
father, who’d buggered off and left her, apparently.

‘They’re getting divorced,’ she’d sniffed, like it was some big deal.

‘That’s rough.’ He’d tried to sympathise. ‘Got someone else, has he?’ he’d asked, in all innocence. And she’d burst into tears, blarting all over the place about cars crashing, dead sisters, her mum blaming her dad …

Well, that
was
a big deal, Charlie supposed. He was pretty sure he’d be inclined to scarper if he were responsible for that little lot.

‘Well, that worked,’ he muttered, as she flopped onto the bathroom floor. She was full out of it. And, quite frankly, it turned him off. Charlie liked them compliant, but not unconscious.

Blinding idea it was of that blonde bint, Hannah’s. ‘Put her under the shower,’ she had said. Yeah, right. While Blondie faffed about, getting under his feet, and he ended up soaking them all to the skin. Now she sat out there snivelling because he’d told her to piss off out of the way.

And Steve was about as useful as a fart in a spacesuit.

‘Come on, wake up, will you?’ Charlie grabbed Kayla’s shoulders and gave her a good shake.

No response.

‘Shit!’ He stood and gave her a prod with his foot.
Now
what was he supposed to do with her? Should’ve left her in the club, like he’d wanted to. But soppy Steve wouldn’t play ball.

Charlie squatted next to her, wiped his mouth with his forearm, hesitated, and then slapped her face. Thank Christ for that, he thought as she stirred. Now what? He’d have to get her into the bed. She’d have to sleep it off a bit before he stuck her in a taxi and pointed her towards home. The silly bints had better have enough money between them for the fare though. No way was
he
forking out.

Charlie stuffed a towel under Kayla’s head and crossed the hall to the kitchen, where Blondie sat at the table with a face like a spanner, and Steve stomped about like an expectant father.

‘What’s her problem?’ he asked Steve.

‘
You’re
her problem.’ Steve ground to a halt and turned on him. ‘What’d you have to go and do that for?’

‘Do what?’ Charlie feigned innocence. ‘She asked for some dope. I gave her some. Can I help it if she’s pissed?’

Blondie glared at him. ‘She’s not pissed! You shouldn’t have done it. And
you
shouldn’t have let him!’ She turned to Steve, and burst into a fresh bout of tears.

Steve walked across to drape an awkward arm about her shoulders. ‘She’ll be all right,’ he said gruffly.

‘But she might not!’ Hannah sobbed wretchedly. ‘She might die.’

‘Aw, for Christ’s sake, give it a rest.’ Charlie sighed. ‘You’re givin’ me a headache.’ He massaged the knot in his neck. ‘Now go clean her up. She’s come round.’

Hannah blinked at him, disbelieving.

‘Go!’ Charlie barked.

Steve looked Charlie up and down, disgust written all over his face. ‘
You
, mate,’ he uttered, as Hannah leapt up and skidded out of the door, ‘are a complete prat.’

Charlie didn’t take too kindly to that. Twice Steve had called him a prat tonight. Getting a bit big for his boots, Steve was. ‘Oh, yeah, and why’s that, then? Charlie eyed him levelly. ‘Seems to me the only prat around here is the one gooey-eyed over a little girly.’

He gave Steve a contemptuous look back, grabbed a bottle of lager from the working surface, and prised the top off with his teeth.

‘I ain’t gooey-eyed,’ Steve said, a bright spot appearing on each cheek. ‘I was just going to—’

‘Shag her,’ Charlie finished dryly. ‘So I’m a prat for wanting to have a go with the other one?’

‘Yes!’ Steve faced him angrily. ‘And giving her drugs makes you prize prat of the year!’

‘Giving her drugs?’ Charlie choked and wiped a dribble of lager from his chin. ‘That’s what we
do
, mate. What d’y’think
you’ve
been giving the punters all night? Smarties?’

‘Not to kids.’ Steve said, a pious look all over his stupid face.

Charlie laughed wryly. ‘Kids are our clientele, Steve, me old mate. Or hadn’t you noticed?’

Steve frowned. ‘Not unless they’re over age.’

‘Yeah, right.’ Charlie smirked, as he watched the bluster blow out of Steve’s sails. ‘Get real, Steve. Kids are our market, and she was up for it. I told her to put her money back in her pocket is all. We both knew where we were at, and don’t tell me we didn’t.’