Thursday, 31st October 2019
Sarah chased her peas around her plate with her fork, wondering if fish fingers and chips were more nutritious than the ready meals she had been eating all week. The air fryer was marginally better than the microwave – wasn’t it? She prodded the limp fish finger. To think, some poor creature gave up its life to end up like this.
‘Fancy it?’ she dangled the soggy offering before her ginger cat. His eyes narrowed in silent protest of her presence on the sofa. Most evenings, Sherlock preferred to watch Pointless re-runs on his own. ‘Alaska,’ Sarah blurted, as the quiz show host asked for US states ending with an ‘a’. She plopped her fish finger back onto her plate before rising to empty the remnants into the recycling caddy in the kitchen.
‘How about a nice juicy chicken leg?’ she shouted, her head in her fridge.
‘Don’t give him that, he’ll choke on it.’
Sarah’s lips thinned at the sound of David, her husband. He shouldn’t even be here. She told herself not to respond.
‘There you go, Sher, knock yourself out,’ she said, as the chicken landed with a bump on the living-room rug. She sensed her husband’s disapproval and she liked it. Sherlock’s tail gave a couple of thumps against the sofa cushion before he pounced on the chicken leg. The soft swish of the cat flap followed as he disappeared with it into the night. One day he’d find somewhere more deserving of his nobility and never come back.
Sarah glanced around her drab bungalow, wishing she had the energy to clean the place up. It wasn’t as if she’d been busy this last twelve months. Busy eating, maybe. The sofa made a scrunching noise when you sat on it, because of all the sweet wrappers shoved down the sides. Biscuit crumbs littered the creases of the cushions, and she dare not look behind it for fear of the cobwebs lurking there. There was a wine stain in the shape of Italy on her carpet, and the kitchen floor was only clean because she’d used Fairy liquid after she ran out of dishwashing tablets and suds had spilt onto the lino. At least she’d had the presence of mind to get her suit dry-cleaned for tomorrow. The sharp ring of her landline almost made her jump out of her skin. It was so seldom that anyone called that it took her a second to figure out what it was. Even the cold callers didn’t bother because she kept them on the line so long. She reckoned they had put her on a blacklist of some sort.
‘Hello?’ she said, into the heavy, old-fashioned handset.
‘It’s Gabby,’ a voice replied in a no-nonsense tone. Sarah straightened at the sound of her voice, her hand automatically going to her forehead and tugging on her fringe. It was a nervous tic that she was barely aware of anymore.
‘Oh … h … hello, Sarge,’ Sarah stuttered, wishing she’d been pre-warned about the call. Then she could have given herself a pep talk, worked out what she was going to say.
‘Just checking you’re still up for tomorrow, everything OK?’
‘Yes,’ Sarah said, still fiddling with her fringe. ‘Looking forward to it.’
‘Good. Don’t let me down.’
A dead ringtone followed before Sarah could reply.
‘Are you sure about this?’
Sarah glowered as her husband spoke. She should bill him for Botox because he had aged her horrendously – she felt a hell of a lot older than her forty years.
‘I mean … are you sure you’re ready?’ he continued. ‘Look what happened last time.’
‘That was down to you.’ Sarah ground her teeth as she broke her vow of silence. David knew how to push her buttons when it came to work. Heading back into the living room, she almost tripped over an empty pizza box. She really should clean this place up.
‘It’s long hours,’ David continued in a patronising tone. ‘You’ll get no thanks for it.’
‘I’m on restricted duties,’ Sarah snapped. ‘I won’t be doing much.’ It was a shitty way to resume her new role. But it did mean regular hours and not taking on more than she could handle until she was cleared. Her husband knew all of this, given his years of experience in the police. Such jobs were fine for the boys, not for the little missus at home. She sighed. Perhaps he was right.
‘The world’s a dangerous place,’ he continued, determined to drive his point home.
‘You think I don’t know that?’ Exasperated, Sarah threw her hands in the air. ‘I know what the world is, and I know what youare. You made this happen and now I’m paying the price. So, do me a favour and keep your bloody opinions to yourself.’
It was true. She’d lost the respect of her colleagues before she’d even begun. Marching down the hall, she walked into her bedroom and slammed the door. This was the one space in the house where David left her alone. Their marriage had long since broken down, but he still popped in on occasion to tell her what to do. Despite her best efforts, she let him. What was wrong with her?
The bed bounced as she sat, making a rusty ew-aw noise. Its springs were the old-fashioned sort, which groaned loudly when she turned in the night. Buying a new bed was also on her checklist of things to do. She slid open the top drawer of her bedside table and fetched a deep sigh. Picking up her ID card, she rubbed her thumb against the picture that had been taken when she was a recruit. She was the oldest person in her intake, and right now, she felt like the least confident. David was simply vocalising what had been in her head all along.
She pulled open the second drawer, her gaze falling on the glorious stash of tablets within. Enough to send a horse to meet his maker. Each small white tablet a promise she could hold in her hand. A promise that could make everything go away. Because if she couldn’t make things work on the outside world, there was no point in going on.
Libby kicked a stone as she walked down the old dirt track. If their parents could see them now; a group of Catholic schoolgirls sneaking out to the most out of bounds building in Upper Slayton. The invite had been exclusive. Only a few people from her school were ‘chosen’ to attend as they broke up for half-term. She turned over the stiff black card which had been placed in a small envelope and shoved inside her schoolbag. It read:
You are cordially invited to play
The Midnight Game
Blackhall Manor
31st October 2019
00.00
On the back of the card in a tiny font were the words ‘If you tell, you’ll go to hell’. Nobody had admitted to it yet, but they all guessed that Angelica was responsible. She was the most theatrical in the group, and this year she had upped her game. It certainly wasn’t twins Bethany and Isobel, who lacked the imagination and flair. Then there was Jahmelia, the youngest among them. She was even more frightened than Libby. The waxing crescent moon was a thumbnail in the sky as they crept down the jagged path.
‘So, which of you losers hasn’t had their first kiss yet?’ Angelica said, Tesco bag in one hand, cigarette in the other. Angelica was the first person in their group to smoke. She was also the first to French kiss. At fifteen, she was a year older than the others, because she’d had to repeat a school year. She had lots of older friends, which made it all the more surprising that she was spending Halloween with Libby and the gang.
‘It’s Jahmelia for sure,’ Bethany said, matching Angelica’s mocking tones. Libby rolled her eyes. Bethany was the biggest suck-up in the group. Her parents were what Libby’s would call ‘social climbers’, and they brown-nosed Angelica’s mum and dad every chance they got. But Angelica’s parents were bigots according to Libby’s parents.
Libby was meant to be sleeping in a tent down at the bottom of Jahmelia’s garden tonight. That was as scary as things were meant to get.
‘I like kissing my baby brother,’ Jahmelia said in a quiet voice, small plumes of white breath filling the freezing air around her. ‘He has soft cheeks, and he smells nice.’
Jahmelia was the youngest in the group, at barely thirteen years of age. Her intelligence had propelled her forward in class, but she had little in the way of street smarts.
‘“I like kissing my baby brother,”’ Angelica imitated Jahmelia’s voice in a high-pitched squeak. ‘That statement is wrong on somany levels.’
‘Leave her alone. ...
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