LITMIR.BIZ

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was idling in the doorway, pint in hand, stepped out and blatantly flirted with her. Doris watched in horror as Gloria began to walk away but Frank grabbed her arm. Doris saw how difficult it was for the woman to shrug him off. She knew what Frank was like when he’d had a few pints inside him. He was a forceful, won’t-take-no-for-an-answer man. She contemplated walking in the opposite direction to do the shopping, but she couldn’t leave the woman like that.

      ‘Frank!’ she called out. He responded by letting the woman go and then strolled towards her, veering from side to side. She held her breath; she knew he was pissed and he wasn’t nice when he was drunk. But then, he wasn’t nice anyway.

      ‘What d’ya fucking think you’re doing, woman? You ain’t no fucking fishwife, so don’t act like one. No wife of mine shouts their ugly mouth off in the street.’

      She hurried away before he got really nasty. She didn’t want the boys to witness it – not that it would have made any difference to them. Each of them, like their father, didn’t have a generous soul. All three were like peas in a pod: obnoxious, rude, and unruly. After she’d been to the Co-op and collected her Green Shield stamp-book along with a loaf of bread and a bag of flour, she wandered back along the street towards the pub. But as she approached the building, she could see a couple of the locals gathered outside. A car was parked across the road. There he was: Arthur Regan. He almost towered over Frank. All she could hear was Frank hollering through stupid slurred speech. He was pathetic. Arthur, however, dressed impeccably in a black suit and with his hair neatly cut around his ears, said very little. With ease, he grabbed Frank around the throat with one hand and with the other he punched him square in the face, knocking him across the pavement and into the road. Two of the locals tried to pull Arthur back, but he flipped them aside like he was swatting flies.

      ‘You ever even look at my wife, and I’ll find you and put you through a mincer.’

      Towering over Frank, red-faced and irate, he snatched a pint of beer from one of the onlookers and poured it over Frank’s face. ‘Now, you little creep: keep well away from me and mine.’

      As he stepped over the man, Arthur suddenly looked over at Doris. Holding his hands up and with a resigned shrug, he mouthed ‘Sorry.’

      She could still picture him mouthing that word. She never did know if he was saying sorry for bashing her husband or apologizing for the life she was now living.

      * * *

      As they finally drove into the pretty, cobbled street, Doris gazed in wonder. The surroundings were as Mike had described – breathtaking. The row of cottages that nestled in among the stunning twelfth-century church gave the town its character, and the old-fashioned flowers – climbing roses and wisteria – which adorned the brick facades, enhanced the classic English feel of the place.

      This would be her first real holiday ever. Her heart was beating fast like an excited child’s. She could just relax and enjoy the fresh air and wander around and do whatever she wanted, instead of having to jump to her husband’s demands or listen to her grown-up children with their foul mouths and brash ways.

      Mike opened the boot and retrieved her suitcase. She watched him as he pushed the key in the lock and opened the door to allow her to go ahead. She gave him a smile that made her face come alive. It was then that he saw how pretty she’d once been, before being dragged down by her brood.

      The inside of the cottage was much larger than she’d imagined. She stepped from the hallway entrance into a rustic lounge. As she looked around in fascination, she admired the huge open fireplace built in traditional brick, noting with approval the beams on the ceiling and the walls. A sumptuous three-piece suite laden with thick cream fleeces looked inviting. Doris could see herself sitting there in the evening with a cup of tea and her feet up.

      Doris followed him to her bedroom, Mike carrying her suitcase. She went over to the window and had to stoop a little to properly view the cobbled street. She didn’t see Mike watching her from the doorway. He noticed how the sunlight was resting on her soft, rosy face. She seemed so much at peace. Sighing silently, he left her and headed downstairs.

      He grabbed a pen and paper from the kitchen worktop and quickly wrote down instructions for the cooker and the boiler. He pulled the keys from the drawer and placed them along with a wad of banknotes on the table. The last part of the note read: Enjoy your holiday, treat yourself, and I will see you in two weeks.

      Quietly, he left before she had time to thank him.

      * * *

      Before he reached the M20, he dialled Jackie’s number, expecting a different dial tone. He was surprised to hear the usual English one. The phone rang until it went over to voicemail. He tried again with the same result. His anger heightened.

      ‘Jackie, call me right away when you get this message!’

      He was annoyed she hadn’t picked up the phone, and even angrier that it left him with a worrying thought. He remembered Jackie having the hump, but, surely, she would have followed his instructions? He cursed aloud. ‘Fuck you, Jackie!’

      He should never have married Jackie, and if it weren’t for little Ricky, he would never have done so. Her cocky sneers and smart remarks riled him up, and now, by ignoring his calls, she was leaving him raging. He assumed she’d ignored him and gone to the hairdressers, or perhaps the tanning salon. At this very minute, she was probably rinsing the credit card on new clothes for Spain. He bit his lip.

      He could still see his little boy’s face before Jackie shoved him into the car; his eyes were almost begging Mike. He hated that look; it made him feel so guilty. He detested his wife’s lack of compassion. She was one of those women who was obsessed with the material trappings of life – the complete opposite to Zara. A sense of guilt momentarily clouded him. In his heart, he knew his relationship with Jackie had been on the rebound.

      Gripped by not knowing where his wife and son were, he wondered if the Harmans had followed them. His heart began to race, and he redialled the number. This time, it went straight over to voicemail. He figured she’d turned the damn phone off.

      By the time he reached home, it was almost dark. The men were still gathered in his lounge, all except for Eric, who had left shortly after Mike’s departure.

      Looking flustered, Mike asked Lou to call the airlines to check if all the planes to Alicante that day were full, because if they weren’t then his wife should definitely have been on one of them.

      Staffie noticed Mike was looking anxious. This was a rarity; the only time he’d seen him with vulnerability strapped to his shoulders was when Ricky once had the measles and had been taken to the hospital.

      ‘What’s going on, Mikey?’

      ‘Jackie’s phone has a British dial tone – she ain’t in Spain. What’s worrying me is the poxy Harmans. If they followed her and have taken my son …’ His face reddened as he clenched his hands behind his head.

      ‘Fuck me, mate, that’s a long shot. Think logically. Jackie may have missed the plane or fallen asleep in the hotel. But I don’t think the Harmans are clever enough to kidnap your wife and Ricky.’

      Mike took a deep breath. ‘But if they have … I swear to God, I will mutilate each and every one of them. Where’s Eric?’

      Staffie looked at Willie. ‘I dunno, mate. Eric said he’d things to do and left.’

      ‘Things to fucking do? Like what?’ shouted Mike, now almost apoplectic with rage.

      Willie shook his head. ‘He didn’t say, but I think he had the hump.’

      Mike was about to explode again when his phone rang. He looked at the number. It was Izzy. ‘Hello.’ He sounded abrupt.

      ‘Mike, I’m just letting you know you now have twenty-four hours to have the Harmans’ heads on sticks, or I will deal with them myself. The Irish firm aren’t happy that their goods didn’t arrive. I’ve had to pacify that situation on your behalf. So, twenty-four hours, and then you, my boy, will be working for

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