Four Minutes To Save A Life

by Anna Stuart

Genres: General Fiction; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

A feel-good read about a delivery driver who connects with lonely strangers and tries to cheer them up.

Everyone would spare a moment of kindness for a stranger when they were in trouble... wouldn't they?

Supermarket delivery driver Charlie enjoys his new job, because he doesn't have to spend too long with people, who, he's found, are nothing but trouble. But when he's assigned the Hope Row street, he realises there are a lot of lonely people out there - and for some, he's their only interaction.

The supermarket boss tells Charlie he's a driver, not a social worker - but Charlie's tough exterior begins to soften, and he can't help show a little kindness to the Hope Row residents, helping them find their place in the world once more.

But will his helping hand make everything worse?

An uplifting novel about community, friends and finding your way. Perfect for fans of Jenny Colgan, Ruth Hogan and Carole Matthews.

Release date: February 20, 2020

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 352

Sample

‘More,’ Charlie muttered. ‘It needs more.’

He shoved the last few items on to the bonfire, pushing them so deep into the flames that his hands burned with them. Good. If he was brave enough, he’d step right into the heart of it and let the heat scorch all his skin off so he could grow a new one. A better one. If he was brave enough.

But then, if you asked his parents, he’d always been useless.

Charlie grabbed a fork and stabbed at those bits of his belongings threatening to catch the breeze and escape the fire. It had to go, all of it. He couldn’t change his past but he could burn it away, scrape it clear, wipe the board – all those metaphors and more besides.

The binding of a book caught the flames and the pages, suddenly released, went fleeing up into the air. Charlie watched them go then took the last item out of his pocket. The burgundy leather shone in the light of the fire and slowly he opened it up and looked down at the picture – a goon of a young man, curly-haired, ruddy-cheeked, clean-shaven. What a twat!

Charlie thrust the passport into the heart of the fire. It was consumed instantly but he stared at the spot where it had landed until his eyeballs felt like red-hot coals. It was gone. He was gone. He’d once read a quote from George Sand: ‘We cannot tear out a single page of our life, but we can throw the whole book in the fire.’ That’s what he’d finally done and now all that was left was to stand here until the flames were spent and he could rise up like a phoenix from the ashes.

‘Phoenix!’ Charlie scoffed into the spark-lit night.

He was no phoenix. A phoenix was a bold, beautiful, bright-plumaged bird and he was just a run-of-the-mill idiot going to seed before he hit thirty and with enough mistakes under his sagging belt to last a lifetime. He really should just step into the flames with everything else and be done with it but, no, he still wasn’t brave enough.

His parents had been right.

It was time to take a different path. Once the bonfire was burned out, he would start again, not as a phoenix but perhaps as a sparrow – a little dull, a little ordinary but, pray God, harmless.

Charlie pushed his bike up to the railings and peered through. His heart was hammering against his chest and he was glad of his shapeless corporate fleece to keep his nerves hidden. He was working in the ‘yard’ now. It would be a place of muscles and banter and cruel practical jokes, or so his family had told him.

‘You’ll be one of the lads, Charlie,’ his brother had roared.

He’d found it hilarious. They all had. Remembering, Charlie almost turned away but a voice stopped him.

‘Mornin’. You the new bloke?’ He blinked. Striding towards him was a petite girl in a purple fleece like his own but teamed with shimmering leggings. Her chunky plait swung to her waist in a rainbow of colours as she tipped her head curiously to one side. ‘Charlie, is it?’

‘Oh. Sorry, yes. Charlie, that’s me.’

‘You coming in then?’

‘Er, sure. Course.’

Charlie gripped the handlebars of his bike and forced himself through the big steel gates towards the girl, hoping she’d blame the slight shake in its frame on its obvious age and not Charlie’s pounding veins. She didn’t even seem to notice.

‘I’m Bri.’ She stuck out a hand. ‘Welcome to Turner’s Super Supermarkets!’

‘Charlie,’ he said. ‘Oh, but you know that.’

‘Sure do. Sean’s been giving us the management speak – we’re to be welcoming and helpful and all that. So here I am welcoming you.’ She spread her hands wide. ‘Let me show you where to go.’

With that she grabbed his bike from him and set off at a sharp pace across the yard. Charlie rushed to follow, sneaking looks around as he went. Some twenty purple Turner’s delivery vans were lined up in front of the vast warehouse like carthorses waiting patiently to be loaded. An army of people, also in corporate purple, were wheeling baskets out, supervised by a slim, white-haired man with a large clipboard who raised a hand to Bri as they passed. She waved cheerily back.

‘Mornin’, Jack. Lovely day for it.’

Charlie glanced to the sky – resolutely grey with a light drizzle forming on the chill air.

Jack laughed. ‘Ever the optimist, Bri. This the new lad?’

‘Charlie, yeah.’

‘Hey, Charlie!’

Charlie waved a tentative hand.

‘Hey, er, Jack.’

‘Welcome to Turner’s.’

Charlie’s heartbeat slowed a little. He could do this. They were just normal people, not the gang of thugs so fondly conjured up for him by his nearest and supposedly dearest. His family were all set for him to fail – to prove as useless at this as he had been at everything else.

‘At least he can’t do any harm delivering bananas,’ his sister had crowed when he’d told them his plan, sneering at him as if he were still a teenager and not a man approaching his thirtieth birthday. But, then, that’s how his family had always treated him – the little one, the afterthought, the joke. This time, however, although Annabel had meant it with calculated malice, Charlie had held on to her words as a core truth. He didn’t want to harm anyone ever again.

‘Charlie? You OK?’

Bri had parked his bike and was peering at him in concern. Charlie noticed a luminous tattoo winding down her slim neck.

‘That’s a beautiful dragon.’

Her fingers went to it and she flushed.

‘Thanks. It’s new. It marks … Oh, never mind me. Here comes Sean. Look sharp!’

She gave him a quick dig in the ribs and he felt himself snap to attention as the team leader came striding over, smoothing his gelled-down hair and proudly brandishing a clipboard.

‘Charles Sparrow?’

‘Charlie,’ Charlie muttered. He’d never been a Charles, however hard his parents had tried.

‘Charlie, right. I remember. Got your training manual, Charlie?’ Charlie lifted it out of his bike basket and Sean beamed. ‘Good, good. You’ll be wanting to refer to that regularly, I’m sure.’ Behind him, Charlie thought he heard Bri snort. Sean glared at her. ‘Don’t you have a van to check, Briony?’

‘They’ve not been assigned yet, Sean.’

‘Ah. No. True. I have the papers here.’

Sean tapped the clipboard, holding it close to his chest as if it contained state secrets.

‘How exciting,’ Bri said mildly.

Charlie looked to the ground, trying not to smile, but the next thing he knew Sean was tugging officiously at his fleece.

‘So, Charlie, let’s have a look at you then. Hmm. Bit tight but you’ll soon trim down on this job.’

Charlie bit his lip. He knew he’d put on weight. He despised the roll of flesh that sat around his middle these days but he also loved the fact that no one looked at a podgy man in a fleece. The same went for his beard. It was a bit itchy and sometimes he didn’t recognise himself in the mirror but that suited him down to the ground.

‘Name badge,’ Sean was saying, jabbing at it. ‘Very good. Very important is the name badge.’

Charlie drew himself up a little.

‘So they said on the course, Sean. Gives the customer the personal touch.’

He pictured the pompous woman who’d told him that, pointing proudly to her own nondescript monosyllable: Sue.

‘Quite right, Charlie. Very good. Now, what’s the most important thing to remember on your first run?’

Sean looked expectantly at him and, despite being twenty-nine years old, Charlie felt instantly as if he were at school again.

‘The customer is always right?’ he tried.

Sean tipped his head to one side.

‘That is important, Charlie, but it’s not what I meant.’

Charlie racked his brains.

‘Be polite and respectful?’

‘Again, Charlie, a good point but …’

Bri groaned and Charlie looked across.

‘I think Sean is referring less to the way you treat our customers than to how fast you do it,’ she said.

‘Oh, of course!’ This Charlie did remember. He’d been stunned by it. And not in a good way. ‘We have four minutes per house.’

‘That’s it, Charlie boy! Four minutes.’ Sean stroked the words around his mouth as if they were a particularly delicious sweet. ‘Four minutes is the gold standard. Any less and the customer feels rushed, any more and you’re robbing someone else of a premium service. Remember that. Some of our softer drivers …’ he paused to look pointedly at Bri, ‘… are unable to tear themselves away efficiently.’

‘Because some of our “softer drivers” don’t like to hassle shaky old ladies into an early grave, or stop them from telling us about their grandsons’ hundred-metre swimming badges. We’re the only person some of our customers see the whole day long, Sean, the whole bloody week even.’

Sean gave a slow shake of his head. ‘I appreciate your sentiment, Briony, truly I do but …’ he jabbed his clipboard at her, his voice hardening, ‘we are not social services. If you want to play nursemaid, then take your bleeding heart off to the NHS. If you want to drive for Turner’s, speed up. End of.’

Charlie felt Bri bristle at his side so her words, when she finally found them, surprised him. ‘I will. Sorry, Sean.’

Sean bounced a little on the toes of his impractical brogues. ‘Good. Now then, Team West, where’s Ryan?’

He moved away and Charlie edged closer to Bri.

‘Team West?’ he asked in a low voice.

‘Cos we do the west of the town. Brilliant, isn’t it? He’s genius, Sean.’

‘You were very nice to him then.’

‘Have to be, don’t I? I need this job. I got people relying on me.’

‘That’s nice. Who …?’

But now Sean had found the third member of ‘Team West’ and was coming back over, a lanky, thin-faced man swaggering at the boss’s side.

‘Charlie,’ Sean said, ‘this is Ryan.’

Charlie held out his hand but Ryan just gave him a sharp nod.

‘Morning, Charlie. Hope you’re up to speed training-wise.’ Charlie tapped half-heartedly at the manual and Ryan gave a snide laugh. ‘Oh, that thing’s all well and good but it’s out on the road that you’ll really learn your stuff.’

He made it sound like an American coming-of-age movie. Charlie glanced to the line of purple vans, each one emblazoned with a gigantic fruit. They didn’t look quite the vehicles in which to capture the zeitgeist of a generation but he chose not to say so.

‘Ryan Sharp is one of our most experienced drivers,’ Sean told him. ‘If you need to know anything, ask Ryan.’

Ryan puffed out his scrawny chest.

‘Two years on the road,’ he said proudly, then added, ‘Don’t you worry, Sean, I’ll keep my beady eye on him.’

Instantly, Charlie heard his family laughing again and felt an all-too-familiar panic rising. This wasn’t his world. What on earth was he doing here? His hands felt clammy against the cheap plastic cover of the training manual and he caught a smell of ash on the air. He looked frantically around but it was nothing more than exhaust fumes as the first of the vans – presumably Teams East, North and South – headed out of the yard.

‘Right,’ Sean was saying, ‘your runs, team. We’ve reallocated with the new staff pattern but, as you know, Turner’s are unique in working to keep the same driver on the same run for that personal touch.’

‘Personal touch!’ Bri scoffed.

Sean glared at her.

‘Therefore, Briony, you have the Sharman Street area again.’

‘Course I do,’ Bri said wearily, taking the sheet. ‘Rough end,’ she told Charlie. ‘It’s Sean’s subtle way of pointing out where I belong.’

‘Nonsense, Briony. It’s all allocated by the computer, as well you know. Ryan, you’ve got Chestnut Hill and the Green.’

‘The posh bit,’ Bri said to Charlie.

‘Yummy mummies,’ Ryan confirmed gleefully as he accepted his list. ‘At least half of them live in yoga gear. Lovely.’

Bri groaned.

‘And Charlie, you’ve got between the station and the marketplace along Hope Street. Here.’ He thrust the list at Charlie, who took it and peered at the endless run of names. The number of deliveries was huge. ‘That’s the morning run,’ Sean said. ‘Back here for one p.m. to reload.’

Charlie’s eyes widened. Hope Street ran all the way through town so he supposed a lot of people must live on it, but you’d have to be Santa Claus to get through this lot on time.

‘Told you you’d soon trim up, Charlie boy. Can you cope?’

‘Course,’ Charlie said automatically, still scanning, and that’s when he saw it.

That name.

The bustling yard froze around him instantly. The name on the sheet was the only thing that mattered. He’d recognise it anywhere. It had haunted his sleep for too many months to ever forget. He looked to the sky for some sign of divine retribution, then remembered he didn’t believe in God. But still, what were the odds? Turner’s must cover a huge number of houses and somehow he’d landed this one.

‘You OK, Charlie?’ he heard Bri ask. ‘You’ve gone a bit white.’

He forced his eyes off the page. ‘I’m fine. Sorry. Just, er, a name I recognise.’

‘Really?’

Ryan was at his side instantly, leaning over to see. Charlie longed to press the list to his chest but didn’t dare in case somehow that name disappeared. So this was why he was here – not divine retribution but maybe some sort of karma at play.

‘Greg Sutton!’ Ryan exclaimed suddenly and now Charlie did snatch the sheet away.

‘Who’s Greg Sutton?’ Bri asked.

Ryan rolled his eyes.

‘He’s famous, Bri. Candy Drew has been tweeting about him non-stop for the last week.’

‘Candy who?’

‘Candy Drew. Lead singer of the Mardy Cows. Rear of the year.’

‘Not for me, thank you very much. I like my asses real, not stuffed with bloody silicon.’

‘How pious of you. But, actually, Candy’s ass is neither here nor there. Point is, she’s got a disabled sister and this guy – Greg Sutton – is disabled too and he writes a blog about travelling.’

‘Travelling?’

‘Yep. Don’t let disability disable your life – that’s his slogan. Candy thinks he’s inspirational and he is too. See.’

Ryan tapped at his phone and held out a striking photo of a very good-looking young man – all sharp jawline and designer stubble.

‘Very inspirational,’ Bri said. ‘Fancy him do you, Ryan?’

‘No!’ Ryan snatched his phone back. ‘Course I don’t. We’re not all batting for the wrong side thank you very much, Bri.’

‘Wrong side, Ryan? I hope you don’t say that to the customers. Turner’s drivers show respect for people of all colours, creeds and sexual orientations, don’t they, Sean? It’s in the manual.’

Ryan coloured furiously.

‘I know that. I’m not homophobic. I’m not anything phobic. I fancy a girl in a wheelchair, that’s how not phobic I am.’

Bri glanced at Charlie, who wasn’t sure whether to laugh or be sick. Maybe it was both. His head was starting to spin and he took a couple of steps back and looked down at the sheet in his hand. The name pulsed out at him, as if it were shouting for his attention. This was why he was here; this was his purpose. He wasn’t sure how yet but it had to be his chance to make amends, to redeem himself. Not fully – that wasn’t possible – but maybe he could reach out and …

The thought dried up in his head. Reach out? Make amends? Now who was talking crap? He could never make up for what he’d done but, even so, he felt a fierce need to at least try.

‘Right,’ he said as decisively as he could. ‘Which one’s my van?’

Sean turned to point but Ryan stepped between them. ‘Hang on a minute. Why does new boy get Hope Street, Sean?’

Sean looked back, confused. ‘The computer does the allocations, Ryan.’

‘But we can swap, right?’ Ryan planted his feet a little wider. ‘I can take Hope Street instead. It’s very long, very busy – better for an experienced driver, right? Right, Sean?’

He reached for Charlie’s sheet; Charlie held on to it.

‘It’s my round, Ryan. Look, it says so on the top and we have to keep the same rounds for – what was it, Sean? – the personal touch?’

‘But we’re reallocating anyway, so we can change. Right, Sean? Please?’

Sean swallowed and glanced at his clipboard but after only a moment’s consultation he looked up again.

‘Charlie’s right, I’m afraid, Ryan.’

‘What?’

‘It’s the computer, you see.’

‘Screw the computer.’

‘Ryan! Swearing is a sackable offence.’ Ryan stared at Sean, aghast, but Sean just clutched his clipboard to him like a shield and said tightly, ‘Best get going, team.’

Still Ryan was glaring and Bri grabbed Charlie’s arms and hustled him off towards the vans.

‘Good Lord, Charlie,’ she hissed, ‘that was amazing. Sean usually bends over backwards for bloody Ryan so I’ve got no idea how you did that. But I tell you what, I like it!’

Charlie swallowed.

‘Ryan didn’t,’ he said, glancing over his shoulder.

The other driver pointed two fingers to his eyes and then towards Charlie. That guy really was stuck in B-movies. Charlie just hoped they weren’t horror ones. His first day at work, his first bloody minutes, and already he’d made an enemy. What an idiot!

But then he looked down at the list and saw the name again, still shouting out at him, and he blocked Ryan from his thoughts. Jumping into his van, he revved the engine as assertively as he wished he felt. Next stop, Hope Street.

Number 95 Hope Street:

Onions

Garlic

Ginger

Coriander

Mint

Pomegranate

Okra

Green chillies

Amchur powder

Spaghetti hoops x2

Weetabix

Milk

Vikram Varma added cardamom to his raan musallam, stirred gently and tasted it. A touch more salt perhaps? He reached for the pot, sprinkled a good pinch in and stirred again. Better. Once the mint and pomegranate arrived it would be perfect. And the dhal was good too. It could sit while he made the bhindi masala. Dhal was better with a few hours to sit.

‘Just like me,’ Nika had always said, settling down into the sofa as if she were a part of it.

She’d always been so good at settling down; so much better than Vik. He looked to the lounge door as if she might, even now, be sitting in there, but it was resolutely shut and quite right too. That damn room was best avoided these days.

Gripping his wooden spoon tighter, he stirred the curry again just as the doorbell shouted out. Grumpily, Vik laid the spoon down and shuffled the length of the kitchen to answer.

‘Delivery?’

The man on the doorstep was young, about his son’s age, Vik thought instantly, though his squishy tummy and scruffy beard gave him none of Sai’s suavity. His feet were shuffling nervously against the tarmac of the drive and Vik stood hastily back to let him in.

‘Where do you want it, sir?’

‘Could you take it up there? It’s a bit of a squeeze, sorry.’

They both looked at the thin passageway down the side of the dining area. The table was too big for the room really, but Nika had insisted they needed it.

‘The family that eats together, stays together,’ she’d always said.

How right she’d been.

‘No problem,’ the driver said and lifted the baskets high to slide his portly frame past.

Vik followed awkwardly, realising too late that all the surfaces were covered with ingredients.

‘Could you just put the baskets on the floor?’ he asked. ‘I’m cooking.’

‘So I see,’ the lad said. ‘Someone’s in for a treat.’

Vik looked to the stove where his pots were bubbling like something in a magician’s den. ‘Er, yes. Hopefully.’

‘Hopefully?’

‘Well, you never know how they’ll turn out, do you? It’s not, you know, an exact science.’

Vik heard his own words with a groan. He sounded old. Old and confused. Which he wasn’t. Definitely not. Sweat prickled on his temples and he lifted the hem of his apron to dab at it, before noticing the bold red and orange fabric and feeling ridiculous. What must this young man think of him?

‘My wife’s,’ he said, dropping the fabric. ‘She is – was – a little rounder than me.’

The driver’s blue eyes clouded instantly. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’

‘I miss her every day,’ Vik said, like some terrible cliché. ‘Sorry. That’s what everyone says, isn’t it?’

‘Doesn’t make it any less true.’ The lad set the baskets of shopping on the floor and looked to his paperwork. ‘You’ve just got one substitution, Mr Varma.’

Vik jumped at the formal address. ‘It’s Vik,’ he said quickly.

‘Vik, right.’

‘Short for Vikram but no one calls me that since …’ He swallowed the self-pity. ‘And you are?’

‘Er …’ The lad fumbled for his name badge, almost as if he had to check it himself. ‘I’m Charlie. Charlie Sparrow.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Charlie Sparrow. So, what’s missing?’

Charlie squinted at the paper.

‘It says here that there was no okra so they’ve sent mangetout instead.’

‘Mangetout?’ Vik stared at the little pack of greens in disbelief. ‘How am I meant to make bhindi masala with mangetout?’

Charlie coughed awkwardly. ‘I don’t know. Sorry.’

‘It’s my son’s favourite.’

‘Is that who you’re cooking for? That’s nice. And I’m sure he won’t mind. It looks as if you have all sorts of delicious things on the go.’ He gestured to the stove but Vik couldn’t take his eyes off the mangetout. ‘I can take them back, sir.’

‘Vik.’

‘Sorry. Vik.’

‘I got sick of people calling me “sir” at work,’ Vik explained. ‘I vowed when I retired that I wouldn’t be “sir” ever again. Nika, that’s my wife, well, was my wife, said I shouldn’t worry. It showed respect, she said, but to me it just felt blank. Do you know what I mean, Charlie?’

Charlie nodded.

‘The mangetout?’ he asked, shaking them a little and Vik realised with a jolt that he was holding him up.

‘They’re fine,’ he said, taking them from him and shoving them onto the side.

He was getting overexcited at the company, that was the problem. He truly was a cliché, but days went by sometimes when he spoke to no one save Rickets, his wizened tortoise. He could talk to Sai, should talk to Sai, but his son was so busy he didn’t like to bother him. There were Fridays of course, Family Fridays, but these days they felt few and far between.

Stop jabbering, Nika would say if she was here. He could almost hear her.

Vik bit back grief and set himself to unloading his groceries. He wanted to tell this quiet young man that he hated being ‘sir’ because he hated the man work had turned him into. He wanted to tell him that he hated how far he’d let it permeate his life, how much of a bloody ‘sir’ he’d turned into.

Nika had wanted him to retire at sixty-five but he’d got all wound up in final salary pensions and what that meant for their ‘twilight years’. He’d actually called them that, but Nika hadn’t been having any of it. ‘We’re comfortable enough, Vikram,’ she’d insisted and she’d been so right, but it had been hard to know what ‘enough’ was. It had been hard to know when to stop. So he’d done one more year and then another and, in the end, he’d only been retired two years when …

Bloody waste.

Vik glanced to the lounge door, as if he could see through the crack into the past that had once been beyond. She’d sit in there for hours, his Nika, with magazines, or sewing, or a silly sitcom. He’d hear her chuckling away as he went about his business and know that all was well with the world. She used to apologise to him for being lazy but he’d seen the stillness as a gift. These days he sat a lot but he wasn’t still, not as Nika had been. And there was no chuckling wife in that room any more; far from it. He went quickly to the door and slammed it shut. Charlie winced.

‘Sorry,’ Vik said. ‘I, er, felt a draught. From the lounge.’ He pointed vaguely to the door. ‘I don’t go in there much. It’s … cold.’

‘Right.’

Charlie stood a moment, a box of cereal in his hand, and then put it on the table. It caught on the packet of mangetout and tumbled to the floor.

‘Sorry. Oh God, I’m sorry.’ They both bent to retrieve it and almost banged heads. ‘Sorry,’ Charlie said again.

‘Not your fault,’ Vik told him firmly. ‘I’m holding you up. But I’ve got everything now, thank you. Better get on. Lots to do.’

He picked up the wooden spoon and waved it towards the bubbling pots in what he hoped was a purposeful way. Charlie slotted the baskets together and lifted them easily into his arms.

‘OK. Bye then. I hope you have a great meal tonight, Vik. Your son’s very lucky.’

‘If he …’ Vik stopped, took a quick breath and went on, ‘if he brings his family I’ll need it all.’

‘Lots of them, are there?’

‘Not really. Just his wife and daughter, but that little Aleesha …’

He paused, thinking of his granddaughter. She was three now and a bundle of energy, from her dark curls to her never-still feet. She chattered non-stop, a revelation to Vik after having only a son, and she seemed to radiate love. Whenever he saw her, which hadn’t been nearly often enough recently, Vik was left feeling in equal parts exhausted and energised.

‘She’s great,’ he finished, feeling as if he’d let her down with such a lukewarm phrase, but Charlie was edging towards the door anyway.

Stop jabbering, Vikram.

‘Good job you’ve got plenty of space then.’

‘You think so?’ Vik looked around, startled. Sai always said how cramped the house was.

‘I do. Well, enjoy your meal. I hope your family like it.’

‘Me too. It can be … hard. It’s not the same without Nika, you see. Sai and I, we … Anyway. The family that eats together stays together, right?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Oh?’

‘I’m quite a bit younger than my brother and sister so I usually ate before everyone else. I hadn’t “got the conversation” for the dinner table.’

Charlie’s face twisted and Vik sought frantically for something comforting to say, but before he could find it the lad had offered him a funny little wave goodbye and gone. He slowly closed the door and leaned back on it for a moment, catching his breath. Charlie seemed nice and friendly. A little guarded, perhaps, but who wouldn’t be with Vik gabbling on at him?

Stop jabbering!

Nika’s voice would have been sharp but softened by her smile. Her lovely smile. Vik closed his eyes. She’d smiled at him that last, beautiful night just over a year ago. Then she’d fallen asleep smiling and so had he. But, come the morning, only one of them had woken up.

Vik’s eyes flew open again and he marched over and slammed the packet of cereal into the cupboard. He lived on cereal these days. Cereal and spaghetti hoops. Except on Fridays. Fridays were curry day, family day, and somehow he had to keep it that way. Somehow he and Sai had to keep it that way. If he came, of course.

Vik picked up his spoon and stirred the spiced onions hard and fast. Of course he’d come. He’d been busy last week, that’s all. He was a very busy man. He was at a very busy point in life. But this week, surely, he’d be here?

‘Keep cooking, Vikram,’ Nika had always said. ‘Everyone gets hungry so just keep cooking and he’ll come.’

Closing the cupboard door more gently, Vik returned to the stove. Carefully he stirred the bhindi base then looked at the mangetout. Mangetout for okra? Who at Turner’s Supermarkets made those decisions? Despite himself, he smiled. Nika would have sent him out to comb every shop until he found okra but Nika wasn’t here now and Vik wasn’t going out. Vik rarely went out. No, mangetout masala it would be and if Sai didn’t like it, he didn’t have to eat it.

With a last glance to the closed lounge door, Vik picked up the little greens and tumbled them into the spice mix.

Keep cooking, Vikram. Keep cooking and he’ll come.

Number 112 Hope Street:

Value wholemeal bread

Baked beans, 4 cans

Value ready salted crisps, 6-pack

Bacon bits

Pasta

Value pasta sauce

Lamb mince

Rice

Lemons, 3

Vodka, 1ltr

Tonic, 2x 1ltr

Paracetamol x2

‘OK there?’

Ruth Madison, once Clarke (still Clarke officially, but so what), tipped her head on one side as she addressed the food processor. It didn’t answer. They never did. Not unless she’d really hit the vodka. She reached for her glass without taking her eyes off the machine and took a quiet sip, just to steady herself.

‘Now then,’ she told it kindly, ‘let’s see if we can get you working.’ Replacing the glass on the side, she flicked the switch and the food processor leaped obligingly into life. Ruth clapped her hands, then glanced around self-consciously in case she’d been seen, before remembering that no one ever saw her any more. And a good job too. ‘Well done,’ she told the machine.

She turned it off and. . .