Another Night, Another Day (10 page)

‘It’s only I’m a bit sad, darling,’ she says, struggling to come up with an answer that won’t worry him.

‘Sad about Daddy?’

‘Yes.’ And Grandpa, she thinks, but keeps that to herself. ‘It’s been an especially sad day today.’

Luke frowns. ‘Shall I give you a cuddle?’

‘That would be nice.’ He nestles up to her on the sofa and strokes her hair with his small fingers. Soon the movement has lulled him into sleep. Karen carries him back upstairs to
his room, and pauses over his bed, listening to the regular sound of his breathing.

I’ve lost Simon, she thinks. I’m losing my father. I can’t lose Anna too.

Back in the living room, she picks up her mobile.

I’m so sorry. It was a crap day – just as you said it would be – but I should never have taken it out on you. I feel terrible. Forgive me, please. Love K x

And before she has time to worry about the wording, she presses
Send
.

* * *

‘The usual?’ asks the landlady.

Michael nods. ‘Please.’

He watches as Linda pulls a pint of Speckled Hen. He can scarcely wait while the bronze nectar creeps up the glass, but he knows better than to rush her. Michael adopted the place years ago
because of its decent spread of cask ales, and even though the Black Horse has been through several changes of ownership in that time, it remains one of the few local drinking establishments that
feel like a proper pub, with low ceilings and wooden floors, stained-glass panels and a dartboard, and lighting so dim it’s den-like no matter how bright it is outside.

Christ, I needed this, he thinks, and within moments he is placing his empty glass back on the countertop.

Linda raises an eyebrow. ‘Looks like you could do with another.’

‘Please.’

Along the bar is his neighbour, Ken. Ken is as much a fixture as the chalkboards and beermats, and is in his customary spot, his large backside spilling over the leather seat of a high stool. As
Linda pulls the refill, Michael feels Ken’s eyes upon him.

‘Can I get you one?’ he says automatically, before recollecting he can hardly afford his own.

‘Thanks, mate.’ Ken jerks his head at Linda, sufficient instruction for her to continue with a second pint of ale. ‘Tough day?’

Michael nods. ‘You could say that.’ As he hands over a twenty-pound note, he’s half inclined to offload onto the pair of them, but resists. Bad news travels fast, and it
won’t do his business any favours for his troubles to be made public. Although Ken and Linda are hardly high-flyers – as far as he’s aware, Ken’s career consists of very
sporadic odd-jobbing – he feels humiliated. If I were to admit how close I am to losing what I’ve spent a lifetime building up, I might not be able to hold it together, he thinks.
He’s just wondering if that’s why he can’t face confiding in Chrissie either, when the numbing effect of alcohol hits his brain. Thankful for the reprieve, he shifts the
conversation to a less traumatic subject – the previous weekend’s football.

He’s almost finished his second pint and Ken’s glass has been empty for several minutes when Linda returns to their end of the bar. ‘Another round, fellas?’

Ribbing Ken about Arsenal’s poor performance has not entirely silenced Michael’s inner demons, but they’re no longer screaming quite so loud – he wants another drink to
keep them at bay. He pauses for Ken to offer to buy him one, and when he doesn’t, says yes anyway. As he’d hoped, Ken gives a jerk of his head and Linda opens up two taps, handing over
both glasses. It’s only after she’s been standing there a while that it dawns on Michael that Ken is expecting him to pay.

The nerve!

Normally he’d relent and cough up – he doesn’t want to make Linda feel awkward – but Bob’s letter means the cash in his wallet is going to have to last a while.
Michael remains steadfast, yet Ken does nothing. He avoids Michael’s gaze and merely stares at the two pints of ale before them.

It’s like a scene from a spaghetti western, Michael thinks, with both of us holding out to see who will reach for his holster first.

Linda pointedly drums her nails on the counter and stares up at the ceiling. For a while longer Ken doesn’t move, until eventually he edges his right hand, very slowly, in the direction of
his hip. But he doesn’t slip his fingers inside his trouser pocket; instead he pats the outside, feeling for the contents. Then he repeats the gesture on the left side and, with a shrug of
his shoulders, turns to Michael and says, ‘Sorry mate, I’m a bit short . . . could you . . . ?’

At once the demons return, protesting louder than ever. Michael feels his face flush and fury rise in his chest. He reaches for his wallet, pulls out the £10 note Linda’s just given
him as change, and slams it on top of the bar next to Ken, making him flinch.

‘There you go,’ he says. ‘And while you’re at it, have this one too,’ and he plonks his pint down beside the other with such vehemence the beer sloshes over the
counter. Then he leaves the pub, muttering ‘tosser’ as he goes.

He hurries across the high street, barely checking for traffic, and sets a rapid pace up the hill to his bungalow. The cold air sobers him up, fast.

As he approaches Ken’s house – a tiny cottage with a well-kept front garden full of cutesy statues and pots of miniature daffs (all his wife Della’s work, Michael is sure)
– he’s half inclined to hurl a brick through one of the leaded windows. He pictures the metal buckling and smashed glass all over the living-room carpet with a burst of satisfaction,
and for a brief moment feels empowered: the first sense he’s had of being in control all day. If Ken were to come home to it he might suspect Michael, but he wouldn’t be sure. And, God,
it would be good for someone else to suffer today.

I’ve worked my arse off for decades, Michael thinks, and for what? – creditors biting at my heels like a pack of wolves.

Then he sees light coming through the gap between the curtains, and pictures Della sitting watching telly, just as Chrissie often does. As fast as the urge comes, it goes. He drops his hands,
thrusts them into his pockets, and continues his journey home.

That it pays to work hard was a value instilled into Michael by his dad; he’s tried to pass it on to his kids. But I’ve been hoodwinked, he thinks. In the last few years I’ve
put in more hours than ever, and look where it’s left me. Maybe if I’d cashed in a decade ago I’d still have options, but who the hell can I turn to now?

He feels caught in a game of chess where whatever move he makes next will put him in check. The thought that he might have to shut the shop, declare himself bankrupt and – at best –
take up odd-jobbing like Ken, is not something he can countenance at the moment. Then again, he’s not sure he can face Chrissie either. He simply wants to make everything go away. So instead
of carrying on up the close, he takes a sharp right and heads for the corner shop. It’s expensive and the selection is meagre, but needs must. Might help him sleep, too.

He has another flash of anger as he hands over the last of his cash. But once he’s made his purchase, gone back outside and unscrewed the top, he feels slightly better.

I’ll tell Chrissie tomorrow, he thinks, taking a swig.

And as he feels the warm liquid slip down his throat and hit the pit of his stomach, he closes his eyes in relief.

* * *

Abby falls onto the bed with exhaustion.

It’s as if Callum can pick up changes in the air. He’s been particularly hyper – it’s nearly midnight and she’s just got him to bed. Moreover, there’s still
no sign of Glenn. She’s had a cursory text message explaining he’s been caught at the office; he’s not even called to find out if she’s had any news from their agent about
their house.

She leans over, turns off the light and closes her eyes.

But a while later, she’s still lying there. Why on earth isn’t her husband home? She checks the clock. If he’s not back in the next few minutes, it means he’ll have
missed the last train . . . Briefly, Abby wonders if he’s having an affair, and her stomach lurches. But she can’t give headspace to that now – in less than five hours Callum will
be awake. Then it’ll be slam, bam, into the onslaught of the day, getting him dressed and breakfasted and off to school, going to the supermarket . . . And now she has to find a flat, fast,
or they’ll lose their buyers.

I
really
need to sleep, she thinks. I’ve got so much to do, and if I don’t sleep, I won’t be able to function.

She throws back the duvet, gets out of bed, pads to the bathroom and unlocks the cabinet. Right at the back, there’s a packet of temazepam Glenn managed to persuade a locum GP to prescribe
him when Callum was first diagnosed. The stress of that and his work had resulted in a period of insomnia. The packet is nearly full and though the pills are probably past their sell-by date, Abby
is beyond caring. She drops one, then two, then – what the hell? – three tablets into her palm.

* * *

Michael’s not aware of having drifted off, but he wakes with a jolt. His heart is thumping, his head pounding, his throat tight and parched. There’s flickering
light, talking . . . Eventually he works it out: it’s the television. He’s on the sofa.

He frowns, trying to piece together the night before. It’s no good, he doesn’t remember anything after he drank that whisky . . .

Then, with a shiver, he recalls the previous afternoon. The letter . . . His debts . . . The impact on his shop, his family . . . The repercussions hit him with hurricane force, and panic
explodes in his brain.

Gradually, as if moving through syrup, he manages to get himself along the corridor. His legs are so heavy he can barely lift them, but after what feels like an age, he opens the door to the
bedroom and leans, breathless and pouring with sweat, against the frame.

It’s a coronary, he thinks. ‘Chrissie . . . ?’ But it seems his heart is still pumping.

At once his wife is awake. She sits up swiftly and turns on the bedside lamp. ‘Oh love, what’s the matter?’

The light is dazzling; it’s one sensory input too many. Michael collapses and slides to the floor.

* * *

Karen is roused by a ringing. It’s the landline, yet it’s still dark outside. Her nerves jangle – no one would call at this time unless it was an emergency.
Then she remembers the text she sent to Anna – her friend must have picked it up before leaving for work and is now responding. Relieved, she grabs the receiver.

‘Hi!’

‘Karen?’ Before Shirley continues, Karen has an awful sense of what’s coming. ‘It’s your father. I’m at the hospital.’

It’s as if a hundred balls are being thrown at her at once. Karen reels; she can’t catch a single one. How can Dad be taken ill so fast? Which hospital is he in? Which ward?

All this as Shirley says, ‘They’re not sure he’s going to make it . . .’ in a small voice.

This can’t be happening, thinks Karen. Yet somehow she manages to articulate, ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ and barely has she put down the phone before she’s
galloping ahead, calculating what she should do about the children. Take them? In the circumstances it doesn’t seem right. There’s only one person she feels able to ask to babysit at
this hour. But . . . Oh Lord.

Karen reaches for her mobile, also on her bedside table. Ah, a text. Just the intro on screen is enough:

It’s OK, love. Please don’t feel bad – I was being insensitive.

It’s all she needs to know. She calls; within half an hour Anna is round. In hushed tones they agree to leave the children sleeping.

‘Feel free to use my bed to grab some more rest,’ says Karen, rushing out of the door.

She drives along the A27 as fast as her ancient Citroen will allow.

What if he’s dead by the time I get there, she thinks.

And she presses the accelerator to the floor, heedless of her own safety.

You can tell it’s a private clinic, thinks Michael, as he makes his way upstairs from the dining room. Look at these exotic flower arrangements – orange-tongued
birds of paradise, cream calla lilies, towers of green orchids. I wonder who has the contract? Must be worth a fortune.

On the landing wall is a series of watercolour paintings of the countryside around Lewes – the dramatic chalk cliffs of Seven Sisters, a panoramic vista from high on the South Downs,
rowing boats reflected in the water of the River Ouse. Michael supposes they’ve been chosen to convey peace and being at one with nature, but he still feels like he’s been through a
war.

He’s not slept properly in weeks, so he asks a woman vacuuming the hall carpet where he can get a coffee, and she directs him to a kitchen. He presses the button that says
Espresso
and is watching the cardboard cup fill with black liquid when there’s a whisper in his ear.

‘If you’re hoping for caffeine, I’d go downstairs.’

Michael turns to see a young man with a pierced eyebrow and a Mohican. ‘Sorry?’

‘The coffee in that machine is all caffeine-free.’

‘What, even the espresso?’

‘Yup. Promise you. Teabags too.’ The young man jerks his head towards the boxes of Earl Grey, English Breakfast and Peppermint. ‘You’re new, aren’t you? What
programme are you on?’

Michael can’t remember much of his arrival, let alone what he’s supposed to be doing day to day. ‘Sorry, mate, I’m not sure.’

The Mohican sniffs. ‘Well, you’d know if you were an addict, for sure. You’d be detoxing if you’ve just arrived, and that’s hell.’ He shudders. ‘Anyway,
downstairs in reception the stuff in the machine is different – us addicts aren’t allowed there.’

‘Er . . .’

‘Past the door with the coded lock, you must have seen that?’

Michael nods, though he’s seen no such thing.

‘Anyway, you want a blast of caffeine – that’s where you’ll find it.’

‘Thanks. I think I’ll give this coffee a miss then,’ says Michael, and chucks his espresso down the sink.

* * *

‘I need the loo,’ says Abby. ‘Do you have to accompany me there too?’

‘Afraid I do.’ The nurse winces, apologetic, but Abby doesn’t feel much sympathy. She doesn’t feel much at all. Vague anxiety, misty unhappiness, but mainly she’s
numb.