Free Flesh and Blood by Simon Cheshire Page B

but my heart took a step back from her. The first of many.
    We brushed the subject aside and returned to our project. It took a while to finish, but we did it in the end. We got good marks for it, too.
    Meanwhile, in the run-up to half term, I never so much as caught sight of her grandfather or her mother. Messages were relayed to me that my original appointment at Caroline Greenhill’s surgery had been rearranged, twice. Still wary, I missed both of them. In the continued absence of any clue as to why the Greenhills were so keen to get me there, continuing to keep my distance seemed the bestpolicy. I missed both rescheduled appointments, but nothing happened. Dr Greenhill appeared to give up asking after that.
    I still hadn’t had so much as a glimpse of Emma’s dad, Byron Greenhill, either. Sometimes, that Renault people carrier would be in the drive of Bierce Priory, and sometimes another car, a red sports model that I assumed to be his. I heard he spent a lot of time working away, or abroad.
    There was nothing more in the papers about runaways or missing pets. The
Hadlington Courier
had a few slow-news weeks.
    It was what happened with Mum and Dad that cranked up my suspicions again. No – more than that. Mum and Dad were the tipping point.
    It was little things, at first. Dad stopped doing all the small DIY jobs around the house, and Mum stopped nagging him about them. The normal pattern of behaviour in our house was for Mum to identify something that needed doing, then she’d nag Dad to do it, then she’d nag him again, then he’d tell her to do it herself if it was so bloody important, then she’d say that she damn well would if she had the time, then he’d finally get it done. This fixed,unchanging pattern had been completely cast aside.
    It wasn’t anything to do with the fact that we had money now, that we could afford to have someone else do these things. They just left them undone, as if they neither of them could be bothered. A couple of the bannisters on the stairs had been knocked out of alignment when we moved in, when the removals people were lugging stuff upstairs. I asked Mum why they were left sticking out like that. She just shrugged and said, “Does it matter?”
    Dad started composing songs again, which was something he hadn’t done in years, not properly. At first, I was delighted, for him and for Mum. I hoped it might signify a whole new lease of life for him. It seemed that by finally having commercial success, he’d found a fresh creativity. But what he played us on one of his guitars was terrible, nothing like the material he’d done in the past. Overlong, dreary, almost tuneless. Mum clapped and laughed. I just smiled and nodded, wondering what on earth he was doing. At the same time, he stopped adding to his collection of so-called memorabilia, despite for the first time having more than enough cash to indulge his habit.
    On top of all that, Mum eased up on the work hours. Having her at home more was nice, but she also eased up on things like showering and putting petrol in the car. She was a good cook, much better than Dad, but her repertoire gradually shrank to three or four dishes, which she repeated day after day. When I tentatively asked her why, she seemed puzzled by the question, and told me if I didn’t like it then I knew where the kitchen was, you cheeky little sod.
    Both of them were changing. Slowly, subtly, but definitely. And not for the better.
    That slight oddity in their mood, the one I’d noticed before, was set in now. It was their normal state. I’m not sure if anyone who didn’t know them well, or at least fairly well, would have noticed much difference but to me, living with them, they’d become … the word that comes to mind is detached.
    Finally, one evening, the reason suddenly hit me, because of something specific I noticed.
    We were in the living room. I was reading and they were flopped on the (new) sofa, Mum ordering the groceries delivery on the