LITMIR.BIZ

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her.

      The taxi driver finally pulled up at the front of the house, by an old gate overgrown with brambles. He shouted over the noise of the rain against the windscreen. ‘Here okay?’

      The front door of her dad’s house was covered in chipped green paint, edged with moss. The sight of it made Bex want to be sick. The old garden gate was rusting, and the paving slabs were cracked, dandelions thrusting through.

      The driver jumped out of the car and darted round to open her door. She sat a moment. ‘All right, love?’ he said, a hint of nervousness in his voice, maybe wondering if she was going to sit there and refuse to move, rain hammering the roof of the car above her. He moved away, popped the boot open, took out her case and dumped it on the ground.

      She dragged herself out and grabbed her case.

      ‘Do you need a hand?’ the driver said, already climbing back into the car.

      ‘No.’ She shoved a twenty at him. ‘Keep the change, and—’

      The driver pocketed the cash and accelerated away as if he had wolves at his tail.

      Bex took a deep breath, then dragged her suitcase through the rusty gate and up the overgrown path. The rain and wind were so strong it was as if she was at sea, being thrown around by waves. She banged her fist on the door, but it had a dead feel, as if nobody had opened it for years. There was no bell. She kicked the base of the door, feeling her tears hot under the freezing rain. What kind of dad would do this? Not pick her up from the station, not even be at the door to welcome her.

      She hauled the suitcase back to the lane and dragged it onto a path that led to the rear of the house. The weight of it felt monstrous and she had a fleeting memory of packing it, folding summer clothes and imagining herself spending mellow, warm days with her family. She swallowed a sob.

      She’d expected to see a back door that she could knock on. It hadn’t occurred to her that anyone would be outside. But there were people in the back yard, visible through the drenching, buffeting rain. Three of them, encased in huge yellow waterproofs, pulling things around. They were piling up sandbags, trying to stop the torrent of water flowing off the rocks and heading for the house.

      One of the people turned towards her. Kirsty, her older sister, her face half-hidden by a huge hood. Bex opened her mouth to shout a greeting, but Kirsty turned away again and carried on shifting sandbags. Had she not seen Bex? She’d stared right at her. Bex felt a flush of humiliation. Had her sister deliberately ignored her?

      Bex couldn’t make herself call out. Instead she stood in the yard, invisible, rain bouncing off her stupid city coat, her case deposited in the river which gushed towards the house, her shoes engulfed in pig-shitty water, and let the tears flow.

8

      Meg – Present day

      Monday

      I returned from creating a salad – or rather, pouring a bag of salad into a bowl – and found Hannah in my living room watching a cop drama on TV. Hamlet was sprawled over her lap, kneading exuberantly. I handed her a glass of wine and plonked myself on the sofa. My mind kept replaying the conversation with Tony Nightingale, but I tried to put Violet from my thoughts and focus instead on my evening with Hannah.

      Hannah shifted Hamlet’s paws. ‘Good job I’m low on nerve-endings around there, Hamlet. Yay for spina bifida.’

      ‘Oh God, shall I move him?’ I could never tell how serious Hannah was being when she said things like that.

      ‘He’s fine. But do you need help with the food? Thai green curry. Home-made. I’m impressed.’

      ‘I never said it was made in this home. I got it from the garden centre last week and stuck it in the freezer. I’ve no time to cook, not with a high-profile missing person case which I can’t afford to cock up.’

      ‘Oh wow, you mean that girl? The sexy sausage girl? Are you on that? I’m honoured you’re even here.’

      Violet’s face flashed into my mind. A girl of contradictions. A girl who was starting to wriggle under my skin. ‘I nearly cancelled. Whatever you do, don’t let me get hammered – I have to be up super-early tomorrow.’

      ‘What’s happened to her? Missing from an abattoir? That’s seriously disturbing. Is it animal rights people? They hate her guts. I had a look at some of her videos. Strange girl. Why would you do that? I suppose she gets money from adverts.’ Hannah was having a conversation all on her own. I wondered if I could avoid answering.

      ‘So, what do you think’s happened to her?’ Hannah said.

      Obviously not. ‘No idea, yet.’

      ‘Is it the animal rights people? The ones in the hideous meat suits? I mean, I might have said those little barbecue-dances she does are a hanging offence, but …’

      I gave her a stern look.

      ‘Okay, I get the message.’ Hannah nodded towards the TV. ‘Have you seen this new American one? I couldn’t help noticing that the female detective is always beautifully made-up and conducts her investigations in a pencil skirt and high heels.’

      ‘Oh, we all do that,’ I said.

      Hannah snorted. ‘If you wore shoes like those, they’d have had to surgically remove a stiletto from Craig’s head by now.’

      ‘We’re getting along better these days. I think it’s all a cover for deep-seated insecurity.’ Although when I pictured Craig with a shoe wedged into his smug, bull-doggy face, the image lingered enticingly.

      ‘Isn’t it always?’ Hannah said. ‘Doesn’t make it any easier to deal with.’

      On the TV, the detective chased and apprehended a criminal, still in her heels. ‘I think they must give her superpowers. Maybe I do need a pair.’ I made a Wonder Woman noise. ‘Stiletto Woman! She can run really fast without separating her legs at the thigh!’

      ‘How much have you had to drink?’ Hannah said. ‘I thought you weren’t supposed to get hammered.’

      ‘Ah, you know. It doesn’t count if you drink it while cooking. Or defrosting.’

      ‘So, been on any hot dates recently?’

      ‘No, Hannah. Seriously. I don’t need this in my life. I read this dating blog the other day and you wouldn’t believe the stories. You’re lucky if the guys you meet have just the one wife and a few of their own teeth.’

      ‘Yeah, I’ve got to admit, numbers of wives and children does seem subject to rounding errors.’

      ‘The stuff in this blog was mad. Necrophiliacs, people with walls of knives. All that.’

      ‘Sounds like the software engineers at work,’ Hannah said. ‘Have you noticed if someone fricassees and eats their lover’s body parts, the cook is always in IT? And talking of bad dates, one guy greeted me by saying, You’re quite pretty for someone in a wheelchair.’

      ‘Oh Christ, really?’

      ‘I can’t be arsed with trying to meet someone at the moment either. I wonder if looking for men online is more fun than actually meeting them.’

      ‘Much like house-hunting online, as opposed to turning up and seeing the desperation in the eyes of the poor bastards who’ve spent three hours cleaning away all residue of their sticky children and moulting dogs, and then you realise within two seconds of stepping into the house that it’s not for you, but you have to go through the whole sad rigmarole of traipsing round saying, “That’s nice,” in every room.’

      ‘House-hunting going well then, Meg?’

      ‘I’ll get there.’ My eyes drifted to the damp corner of my living room. I was fond of my rented place, despite its undoubted problems.

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