Free Speak No Evil by Martyn Waites Page B

breathing quickened. ‘They didn’t talk to you, did they?’
    â€˜Who? The counsellors?’
    â€˜No,’ she said quickly, ‘the journalists.’
    â€˜There was this woman standing at the school gates, tryin’ to get kids to—’
    She turned to him, grabbed his shoulders. Her hands must hurt, he thought. She must be ignoring the pain. ‘What did she say? What did she say?’
    Her fingers dug into him. ‘Nothin’ …’
    The fingers dug harder. ‘What …’
    â€˜Nothin’! There was a few of them. They wanted to know about the kid who died. Offered money, an’ that.’
    â€˜Did you take it?’
    â€˜No …’
    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. ‘Good. Never talk to them. They’re scum. All of them. Have nothin’ to do with them. Ever. You got that?’
    He had that. It wasn’t the first time she had said that to him. He nodded. She took her hands away, sat back.
    â€˜Good.’ He watched her face contort as she struggled to find a smile. ‘Right. Well. I’d better start thinking about the tea, hadn’t I?’
    Jack gave a small sigh of relief.
    â€˜What shall we have, eh? I haven’t been able to cook, I’ve been out all day.’
    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.
    â€˜You don’t want that,’ she said, looking at him but seemingly speaking to herself. ‘I don’t want that for you. Not you.’
    Jack said nothing.
    â€˜Anyway,’ she said, struggling for brightness, ‘what shall we have? Fish and chips? Pizza? Kebab? Your choice.’ She reached for her purse.
    â€˜Whatever,’ he said. ‘Whatever you like.’
    Anne Marie nodded, handed him a note. At that moment, the front door opened. It was a lot noisier than Jack’s 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. ‘Who the fuck left that bag in the hall? Almost broke me fuckin’ neck.’
    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.
    â€˜S – sorry,’ 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. ‘Where’s me dinner?’
    â€˜Jack was just goin’ down to the chippie, weren’t you, son?’ A desperate edge was back in Anne Marie’s voice.
    Rob grunted. Whether from satisfaction or displeasure, it was hard to tell.
    Anne Marie sat down next to him. ‘What have you been doin’ today, then, love?’ Jack noticed she used the same kind of bright, false voice she used with him.
    â€˜Down the bookies. The pub.’ He shrugged. ‘You know.’
    â€˜Did you win anythin’?’
    Another grunt. ‘Nearly.’ He appeared thoughtful for a few seconds. ‘We’ve got money, though. While you’re bringin’ that in we don’t need worry.’
    Anne Marie said nothing. Rob looked at her.
    â€˜What?’ he said.
    â€˜I didn’t say anythin’.’
    â€˜Nah, but you were thinkin’ it. What?’
    â€˜Well, this money won’t last forever. I just think—’
    â€˜Then you’ll get some more,