Free In the Dark by Mark Billingham Page A

‘Straight out of the freezer, thirty seconds in the microwave. Give one to Paul for his breakfast.’
    Helen grunted. It sounded a nice enough idea.
    â€˜Jenny took some last time she was over. She puts one in the kids’ lunchbox.’
    Of course she does, Helen thought.
    â€˜She was here last week, matter of fact. Did she say?’
    â€˜Having a good go, was she?’
    â€˜Sorry, love?’
    â€˜Slagging Paul off?’
    â€˜Why would she do that?’
    â€˜Doesn’t matter.’
    He looked confused, stared into his tea. ‘She knows how much I like the lad,’ he said. ‘I mean, maybe she’s same as me, thinks Paul should have married you by now, but I know that’s just me being an old fart who should mind his own business.’ He shook his head. ‘No, I don’t see any reason why she would do that, love.’
    â€˜She wouldn’t,’ Helen said. ‘Sorry. I was just . . .’
    Of course she wouldn’t. The tawdry private life of big sister and unstable other half was territory that had been firmly deemed off limits months before, and Jenny knew better than to overstep the mark. Helen had a temper that was quite bad enough, even before the hormones kicked in.
    â€˜She worries,’ her father said. ‘But I can’t see too much wrong with that.’
    Nor could Helen; not when she was being rational. She knew for the most part that Jenny was just doing what sisters always did - taking her side whatever the rights and wrongs might be. Sometimes, though, Jenny’s true feelings seemed clear enough: in a judgemental sigh at the end of a telephone call, or a look as she nodded sympathetically and carried on cooking her kids’ tea.
    Helen was a stupid slag who’d had it on a plate and then screwed up her life at the worst possible moment. Which was fair enough, and precisely what Helen thought herself.
    A bad temper, and a bad habit of pressing the self-destruct button.
    â€˜You all right, Hel?’
    She took a deep breath; could feel the sweat between her shoulders and the flush spreading across her chest. ‘Can we open a window? It’s baking in here.’
    â€˜Most of these buggers are painted shut,’ her father said. He stood up. ‘I’ll open a door.’
    Her father’s cat, a permanently moulting black and white tom, swaggered across from beneath the window. It showed Helen its arse and wandered away again.
    â€˜You and Paul had a ding-dong?’ He put a hand on the back of her chair as he walked past; held it up when she turned to look up accusingly. ‘I told you, Jenny didn’t say anything.’ He sat down and began to rearrange the books and magazines on the table next to him, even though they were already neatly lined up. ‘You’ve not really mentioned him for a while, that’s all, and I’ve hardly spoken to him.’
    â€˜He’s up to his eyeballs.’
    â€˜That’s not what I meant.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘If I call and he answers the phone, we normally have a bit of a natter. About the cricket or something on the TV. Now, he just passes the phone over to you, quick as he can. It’s . . . awkward.’
    â€˜He is really busy,’ Helen said. ‘I barely get the time of day out of him myself.’
    It had been an attempt at jokiness, but something in her face must have given her away. Her father nodded, as though he understood. ‘Wait until he sees the baby,’ he said. ‘Something happens to you when you see your own flesh and blood for the first time. Everything changes.’
    Helen was already hauling herself up. ‘Little bugger’s pressing on my bladder,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you make some more tea?’
    â€˜There’s some of that nice liquid soap you like by the sink . . .’
    In the bathroom, she pulled down the toilet seat and sat there for a few minutes. Waiting for the