breathing quickened. âThey didnât talk to you, did they?â
âWho? The counsellors?â
âNo,â she said quickly, âthe journalists.â
âThere was this woman standing at the school gates, tryinâ to get kids toââ
She turned to him, grabbed his shoulders. Her hands must hurt, he thought. She must be ignoring the pain. âWhat did she say? What did she say?â
Her fingers dug into him. âNothinâ â¦â
The fingers dug harder. âWhat â¦â
âNothinâ! There was a few of them. They wanted to know about the kid who died. Offered money, anâ that.â
âDid you take it?â
âNo â¦â
She looked at him, her eyes wide and wild, pleading with him. Desperate for him to be telling the truth. Deciding he was, she relaxed her grip. âGood. Never talk to them. Theyâre scum. All of them. Have nothinâ to do with them. Ever. You got that?â
He had that. It wasnât the first time she had said that to him. He nodded. She took her hands away, sat back.
âGood.â He watched her face contort as she struggled to find a smile. âRight. Well. Iâd better start thinking about the tea, hadnât I?â
Jack gave a small sigh of relief.
âWhat shall we have, eh? I havenât been able to cook, Iâve been out all day.â
A cloud passed over her face. Some troubling memory, Jack thought. Her brow furrowed, her lip trembled. Oh no, he thought. Here it comes. She looked at Jack. Dredged up a smile.
âYou donât want that,â she said, looking at him but seemingly speaking to herself. âI donât want that for you. Not you.â
Jack said nothing.
âAnyway,â she said, struggling for brightness, âwhat shall we have? Fish and chips? Pizza? Kebab? Your choice.â She reached for her purse.
âWhatever,â he said. âWhatever you like.â
Anne Marie nodded, handed him a note. At that moment, the front door opened. It was a lot noisier than Jackâs entrance, smacking loudly off the hall wall. A stumble, followed by an angry, guttural noise. Anne Marie and Jack stood up quickly, exchanged a glance. Scott Walker was singing about the old man being back again.
Rob entered. âWho the fuck left that bag in the hall? Almost broke me fuckinâ neck.â
He had been good-looking once but a life lived on the bottom had worn those looks away. Now he had a beer gut, a ponytail to compensate for what was thinning on top and was red-faced and angry at anything. Mainly himself. Black leather bike jacket, jeans, T-shirt and boots. He looked like an ageing, pensioned-off roadie who after years travelling wondered why he was stuck in one place. He looked like exactly what he was.
âS â sorry,â said Jack.
Rob looked at him, as if about to get angry, but the fight went out of him. Suddenly tired, he slumped down on the sofa. âWhereâs me dinner?â
âJack was just goinâ down to the chippie, werenât you, son?â A desperate edge was back in Anne Marieâs voice.
Rob grunted. Whether from satisfaction or displeasure, it was hard to tell.
Anne Marie sat down next to him. âWhat have you been doinâ today, then, love?â Jack noticed she used the same kind of bright, false voice she used with him.
âDown the bookies. The pub.â He shrugged. âYou know.â
âDid you win anythinâ?â
Another grunt. âNearly.â He appeared thoughtful for a few seconds. âWeâve got money, though. While youâre bringinâ that in we donât need worry.â
Anne Marie said nothing. Rob looked at her.
âWhat?â he said.
âI didnât say anythinâ.â
âNah, but you were thinkinâ it. What?â
âWell, this money wonât last forever. I just thinkââ
âThen youâll get some more,