coughing and spluttering after yesterday’s fire.
‘I don’t know. You can keep in touch with me on the mobile, and I’ll be back soonest, okay?’
‘Not much is going to be happening for a while,’ said Brynn, wheezing then letting out a hacking cough. ‘If the insurance people come back with anything, I’ll let you know.’
‘You look after him,’ said Gracie to Angie.
‘Will do,’ said Angie.
She dropped an awkward kiss on to Brynn’s leathery cheek, registering his surprise at this small show of affection. Gracie Doyle , she thought, unable to help herself. The girl with a calculator where her heart should be. Wasn’t that what Brynn, what the whole world, thought? That she was cold? And maybe he was right; maybe she was . But perhaps right now, when everything was hitting the fan, that was a good thing to be.
She’d already thrown a few bits and pieces into a suitcase and a bag this morning, put them in the back of the car. Now, with Brynn primed, she drove off into the cold, leaden-skied morning down the M6. She picked up the M1 east of Birmingham, stopping briefly in the services to refuel. Four hours later, she was in London.
It was starting to snow. Maybe it would be a white Christmas after all. She snagged a parking space a long way from her mother’s door in the familiar Hackney street, bought a parking ticket, and went and knocked at the door of the plain Victorian house she’d grown up in. There was a small, red-berried wreath hanging on it. Mum had kept the house after the divorce, and Dad hadn’t objected. Gracie guessed he’d just been glad to be free, to start anew.
‘Who is it?’ asked a shaky female voice from the other side of the door, after she’d knocked on the damned thing for what felt like an age.
‘It’s Gracie,’ she called out.
‘ Gracie? ’ echoed the voice. ‘What the hell . . .?’
There was a noise of chains being unfastened, bolts being thrown back.
‘What, you had a crime explosion round here?’ asked Gracie as her mother swung the door open. ‘What’s with the—’
Gracie stopped speaking. Her mum was standing there. Her mother had always been a youthful dresser. She was pushing sixty now, but still she wore skinny jeans and a fashionable turquoise top. Her hair was cut close to her head and skilfully dyed a flattering ashy blonde, but her face looked pale and puffy. Her bloodshot brown eyes were darting and nervous. Her lips trembled. She looked like she’d had the stuffing kicked out of her.
‘Oh fuck,’ said Suze wearily. ‘Not you.’
‘Nice to see you too, Mummy dear,’ said Gracie, and pushed inside the hall with her case and bag.
‘I suppose Sandy phoned you.’
‘She did, that’s right. And the police called too. Said you’d notified them. Why didn’t you call me?’
Suze shrugged, as if it wasn’t worth dignifying Gracie’s comment with a reply. ‘I’m just surprised you actually bothered to turn up.’
Gracie turned a gimlet eye on her mother. ‘Yeah, well, I actually did,’ she said, refusing to rise to the challenge of a fight so soon. She was tired from the trip. She didn’t want arguments, she wanted tea, biscuits and answers – in that order. She went on through to the kitchen. So familiar, but all different – the units were new beech-effect, the worktops a shiny black granite.
Suze was busy refastening the defences at the front door. By the time she joined Gracie in the kitchen, Gracie had taken out the jiffy bag and decanted the hair inside it out on to the worktop.
‘Someone sent me this,’ she said, as her mother stopped dead in the doorway and let out a small cry.
‘Oh shit ,’ Suze moaned, putting her hands to her mouth.
‘George is in hospital,’ said Gracie. ‘So Sandy told me.’
Her mother nodded. ‘Yeah. He is.’
‘Did someone cut his hair? Does this look like George’s hair to you?’
Her mother was shaking her head. She went over to the worktop and lightly touched the hair,
‘I don’t know. You can keep in touch with me on the mobile, and I’ll be back soonest, okay?’
‘Not much is going to be happening for a while,’ said Brynn, wheezing then letting out a hacking cough. ‘If the insurance people come back with anything, I’ll let you know.’
‘You look after him,’ said Gracie to Angie.
‘Will do,’ said Angie.
She dropped an awkward kiss on to Brynn’s leathery cheek, registering his surprise at this small show of affection. Gracie Doyle , she thought, unable to help herself. The girl with a calculator where her heart should be. Wasn’t that what Brynn, what the whole world, thought? That she was cold? And maybe he was right; maybe she was . But perhaps right now, when everything was hitting the fan, that was a good thing to be.
She’d already thrown a few bits and pieces into a suitcase and a bag this morning, put them in the back of the car. Now, with Brynn primed, she drove off into the cold, leaden-skied morning down the M6. She picked up the M1 east of Birmingham, stopping briefly in the services to refuel. Four hours later, she was in London.
It was starting to snow. Maybe it would be a white Christmas after all. She snagged a parking space a long way from her mother’s door in the familiar Hackney street, bought a parking ticket, and went and knocked at the door of the plain Victorian house she’d grown up in. There was a small, red-berried wreath hanging on it. Mum had kept the house after the divorce, and Dad hadn’t objected. Gracie guessed he’d just been glad to be free, to start anew.
‘Who is it?’ asked a shaky female voice from the other side of the door, after she’d knocked on the damned thing for what felt like an age.
‘It’s Gracie,’ she called out.
‘ Gracie? ’ echoed the voice. ‘What the hell . . .?’
There was a noise of chains being unfastened, bolts being thrown back.
‘What, you had a crime explosion round here?’ asked Gracie as her mother swung the door open. ‘What’s with the—’
Gracie stopped speaking. Her mum was standing there. Her mother had always been a youthful dresser. She was pushing sixty now, but still she wore skinny jeans and a fashionable turquoise top. Her hair was cut close to her head and skilfully dyed a flattering ashy blonde, but her face looked pale and puffy. Her bloodshot brown eyes were darting and nervous. Her lips trembled. She looked like she’d had the stuffing kicked out of her.
‘Oh fuck,’ said Suze wearily. ‘Not you.’
‘Nice to see you too, Mummy dear,’ said Gracie, and pushed inside the hall with her case and bag.
‘I suppose Sandy phoned you.’
‘She did, that’s right. And the police called too. Said you’d notified them. Why didn’t you call me?’
Suze shrugged, as if it wasn’t worth dignifying Gracie’s comment with a reply. ‘I’m just surprised you actually bothered to turn up.’
Gracie turned a gimlet eye on her mother. ‘Yeah, well, I actually did,’ she said, refusing to rise to the challenge of a fight so soon. She was tired from the trip. She didn’t want arguments, she wanted tea, biscuits and answers – in that order. She went on through to the kitchen. So familiar, but all different – the units were new beech-effect, the worktops a shiny black granite.
Suze was busy refastening the defences at the front door. By the time she joined Gracie in the kitchen, Gracie had taken out the jiffy bag and decanted the hair inside it out on to the worktop.
‘Someone sent me this,’ she said, as her mother stopped dead in the doorway and let out a small cry.
‘Oh shit ,’ Suze moaned, putting her hands to her mouth.
‘George is in hospital,’ said Gracie. ‘So Sandy told me.’
Her mother nodded. ‘Yeah. He is.’
‘Did someone cut his hair? Does this look like George’s hair to you?’
Her mother was shaking her head. She went over to the worktop and lightly touched the hair,
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