Simon was already standing at the bar, gathering in some menus. He was a tall, dark-haired man with a forceful personality and a direct manner. Martha had often reflected that he had completely dominated his wife. She smiled. Even on such a warm night he was immaculately dressed in a dark suit and sombre, striped tie. He almost always looked as though he belonged in a boardroom. He greeted her with a kiss on the cheek, put his hands on her shoulders and took a long, good look at her before nodding his approval. It seemed he liked the white, beaded skirt and top she had chosen to wear. ‘You know, Martha,’ he said, handing her a menu and ordering a gin and tonic without asking, ‘one thing I like about you is that you’re never late.’
‘Not to my favourite restaurant, Simon,’ she said. ‘You might not have waited. You might have started without me.’
‘No chance,’ he said, passing over the tumbler of gin. ‘Now how much tonic?’
‘Drown it,’ she said. ‘I’m thirsty.’
He waited until they had ordered their food before launching into conversation. ‘So tell me about Sam,’ he prompted.
‘You know Sam,’ she said. ‘He’s texted me to say they’re sending me some forms to sign.’ She grimaced. ‘It’s probably some horrible disclaimer in case he injures himself.’
‘Ouch,’ he said, wincing, ‘but – you know, Martha, I was thinking as I drove here. I can’t say I
do
know Sam – at least not that well. When Evie and I came calling the children were already in bed. I hardly ever met him. And since Martin’s died you’ve always left the children with some
au pair
or other. I haven’t seen him for – it must be five years. So no. I don’t know Sam.’
‘He’s football mad,’ she said – almost apologetically. ‘I don’t know where it’s come from. Martin wasn’t ever like that, was he?’
It was one of the things she valued about Simon’s friendship. She could talk to him about Martin – find out about the life her husband had had both before he met her and after, when they were apart. Simon knew things about his friend that she would never know. And this was one of them.
‘Actually.’ Simon frowned, ‘he did play for the varsity team once or twice. In fact he was quite good. Martha.’ He put his hand on her arm. ‘Do you still miss him very much?’
‘Not as much as I did,’ she said, almost regretfully. ‘I think I’m starting to move on. In fact I know I am. You know, Simon, how I wouldn’t change the décor in the study because it reminded me so much of him? The last thing Evie did before she got ill was to help me plan the great redecoration.’
Simon smiled. ‘That was Evie,’ he said.
‘You must miss her.’
‘I must, mustn’t I?’
It was an odd answer.
And it made Martha think. Although Simon had been Martin’s best friend Martin had never quite trusted him. They had shared a flat for years but Martin had puzzled that his flat-mate always seemed to have money – too much money – considering he came from a very deprived family. Simon’s father had vanished when he had been a baby and his mother had struggled to raise him and his sister. If Martin had been alive to follow his friend’s rise to super-wealth he would have been even more suspicious.
Even more than ten years ago when Martin had still been alive they had felt the poor relations against Simon’s ostentatious wealth: the huge house, run by a Philippine couple, the swimming pool and gym block, the daughters at an expensive boarding school, the Rolls Royce and 4X4s, the exotic holidays. After a visit she and Martin would spend most of their journeys home totting up how much the lifestyle cost and how a financial advisor in a modest Shropshire town had built up so much wealth.
They had never found an answer. Evelyn herself had never referred to it and it would have been crass to mention it. Martha had always imagined that one day, her friend would confide in her. But before that day had arrived cancer had claimed her and the secret had gone with her to the grave.
Simon had a very strong personality. He could be opinionated and more than once Martha had locked horns with him. In fact while Martin had been alive Martha had never been quite sure whether she really liked him or not. His charisma was
obvious and at times overwhelming but she had seen it switched on and off at will; you could always be guaranteed a lively evening in his company but behind the jokes there had been something ice-cold about him – something inhibiting. But since Martin’s death and particularly since his own wife had died Simon Pendlebury appeared to have changed. Perhaps being alone was mellowing him or possibly having achieved so much in his life he was, at last, learning to relax. Towards her he had become warm, sometimes frank and more honest than she would have thought possible. They were characteristics she would never have attributed to him.
So, Simon Pendlebury intrigued her which, in turn, enlivened her so she enjoyed his company.
Maybe one day he would share his secret with her. One day. But how many people have some dark secret buried deep inside their lives and never share it with anyone?
They were summoned to their table and their food arrived.
The two prison warders marched him along the galley and stopped in front of Cell 101. To Callum it seemed deliberate – the association with Room 101. Orwell’s Room 101 where people confront their worst fears: spiders, confinement, the dark, heights.
He had a worse fear: that DreadNought would be inside the cell, that he would be locked up for ten hours a night in the same small room as the person he feared most in the world.
Reason told him that DreadNought was in hospital – put there by his trusty, sharpened blade.
But there were other DreadNoughts in the world. Other thugs
and psychopaths, sadists and monsters. And where better to find them than in Room 101 of the Young Offenders’ Institute?
Pembroke unlocked the door. In a panic Callum backed against Stevie Matthews but it was Walton Pembroke who shoved him away. ‘Watch it.’
Callum was standing in front of a six feet tall, tattooed, shaven-headed bruiser who glared at him.
He tried to escape. ‘No way,’ he said. ‘No way. Don’t—’
Pembroke shoved him inside. ‘Meet Tyrone Smith,’ he said. ‘Stoke Heath’s answer to Mary Poppins. And this ‘ere’s Callum Hughes,’ he said to Smith. ‘on remand. Attempted murder so be careful, won’t ya? You and ‘im are going to share this luxurious pad for a little while so look after ‘im as though he was your brother. Understand?’
Callum tried to escape but Stevie Matthews blocked his way. ‘Nervous little bastard, aren’t you,’ she said lightly. ‘Now get in.’
‘I can’t go in there,’ Callum appealed. ‘No way,’ he said.
‘Well you shouldn’t have knocked your mate up then, should you?’
‘He wasn’t my mate.’
‘Well – whatever.’ Walton Pembroke was losing interest. These first-timers were a nuisance. Namby pamby, wanting their mothers, en suite bathrooms, spoilt brats – most of them. That or so tough you could sharpen a knife on their balls. Streetwise from the age of two. In some ways he’d rather have them like that. At least they took their time on the chin. Not whingeing. He put the suitcase on the floor and moved out of the way.
Time to lock the door.
He flipped open the spyhole. ‘Have fun.’
‘Go on, have a dessert.’
Martha shook her head. ‘I couldn’t possibly. I’ve no room.’
‘Well – if you don’t mind, I will. I simply can’t resist sticky toffee pudding.’
Martha almost expected him to say it reminded him of boarding school. But of course he couldn’t say that, could he? Because he had never been to boarding school, had he? In fact if she recalled correctly what Martin had told her, Simon Pendlebury had gone to school in Bentilee – one of the more deprived areas of Stoke-on-Trent.
She looked across the table at him.
‘What are you smiling at, Martha?’
She decided to risk it. ‘You,’ she said.
‘Why?’ Even now there was an edge to his voice which made it rasp.
‘Because,’ she said, ‘you are an enigma.’
Callum backed up against the wall and faced his cell mate. Tall, meaty, some foreign blood in him. He was swarthy with big, black eyes which glittered when he eyed him up.
‘I’m Tyrone,’ he said. ‘The screws should have warned you about me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because. That’s why. It’s not a good idea to mess with me. I lose my rag, see? I don’t like people watchin’ me. Nor touchin’ me. Understand? And I don’t respond too kindly to interference. Understand?’
Callum nodded. Tyrone lifted his head and smiled and Callum felt a moment of pure terror.
Panicked, he looked around the room. It was small. Too
small for them to avoid each other. He retrieved his suitcase and looked up. One of the screws was still watching him through the spyhole, laughing, as though this was a live comedy show. He wanted to beg. He wanted to shout and scream for his mother – even his father, if he’d had any idea who he was. But he didn’t. He clamped his mouth shut and closed his eyes.
He heard the spyhole being slid shut, the rattle of keys in locks, the sounds echoing round in his head.
You’re losing it, Call, he whispered to himself. Losing it. Losing it
.
Tyrone had a podgy, sweating face, large, meaty hands.
‘D’ya really kill someone?’
Callum shook his head.
‘Botherin’ you, was he?’
Callum nodded.
‘Do yah wish you ’ad of killed him?’
‘Don’t know,’ he said and felt curiously cold. ‘What are you in for?’
‘Mind your own…’ The meaty fists clenched. Callum closed his eyes, braced himself for the blow – which never came. He would soon learn that Tyrone was unpredictable.
‘Burglary,’ he said. ‘Bastard was in his house all the time. Pretendin’ he was out. I knocked ‘im about a couple of times.’
‘Was he badly hurt?’
Tyrone nodded deliberately and slowly. ‘Oh yeah,’ he said. ‘He was.’
He glanced across at Callum’s bag. ‘Got any weapons with you?’
Callum shook his head. ‘I got some fags though.’
Tyrone jumped to his feet and put his hands around Callum’s throat. ‘What ya tryin’ to do? Kill me slowly?’ He put his chin into Callum’s face. ‘You wouldn’t mess with me, would you?’
‘No.’
Simon had wolfed down his dessert and they were drinking coffee served with
petit fours
when he returned to the subject of Sam.
‘I don’t think he’s missed me or home life at all,’ Martha said. ‘And I don’t know whether I’m pleased he’s finding his independence or a bit hurt that he doesn’t appear to be missing me. He texted me to say it was ‘ace’ and that’s about it. As long as he has his beloved football. His only regret is that Michael Owen isn’t around any more. And his only fear is that Gerrard will move on. It’s taken over his world, Simon. To be honest, in a way, I feel a bit of a failure.’
He smiled at her. ‘But you wouldn’t want him
mother-bound
, would you, Martha?’
‘No, but…’
‘And Sukey?’
‘She’s happy too. I only hope Agnetha doesn’t leave before her Abba craze burns itself out.’
‘And so back to you?’ he asked finally.
‘Oh – I’m OK, Simon.’
He scrutinised her. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Just OK. But still missing that spark, I think.’
‘Maybe,’ she admitted. ‘Maybe.’ Then she smiled. ‘Although sometimes I find it in the most unexpected places.’
‘That sounds intriguing.’ He waited for her to enlarge but she didn’t. She had no intention of leaking her secret alter
persona, Martha Rees, Private Sleuth. That was her secret and hers alone. Instead she asked about his daughters.
‘Armenia’s gone to university,’ he said, ‘to study accountancy.’
She smiled. ‘I hope she’s as successful as her father at it.’ She raised her glass and met his eyes. Simon returned with one of his inscrutable smiles and she knew he too would give nothing away. So they both had their secrets.
She took a full mouthful of the coffee, leaving it in her mouth and relishing the bitterness before swallowing it. ‘I love this place,’ she said, looking around.
They both took time out to scan the panelled walls hung with oil portraits of long dead nobility, waxed oak tables, flickering candles. It was luxurious.
Callum welcomed the darkness. He couldn’t bear Tyrone to read and despise his fear. He felt tears welling up and sniffed. Immediately Tyrone’s hand reached down from the top bunk and fastened round his throat. ‘Snivellin’ for your mummy, are you?’
‘No.’
‘You are.’ The hand tightened. ‘Shut up or I’ll give you somethin’ to whinge about. Understand? I thump people what bawl.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Right then. Now give a bloke some peace.’
Shelley was staring out of the window, into the dark night, not caring if anyone was looking in. She had a glass of cheap white wine in her hand and a cigarette in the other although she had given up smoking when she had been expecting
Callum. Neither the wine nor the cigarette was consoling her. From the second of Callum’s birth she had always been there for him. Apart from school they had never been parted. And now when he needed her most she could do nothing.
‘Martha,’ Simon Pendlebury’s eyes were locked into hers. ‘Have you considered marrying again?’
She shook her head. ‘And you?’
‘Not yet. It’s early days. But I shall.’
She gave him one of her warm smiles. ‘Anyone in mind?’
‘Not just yet but…’ He looked past her out into the restaurant. ‘I don’t want to stay on my own. That place is too big. Did Evie ever tell you we were thinking of moving?’
This was news to her. ‘No.’
‘We’d spotted an ancient black and white house a few miles out of Shrewsbury. It’s a sixteenth-century manor house. I approached the owners and made them an offer.’ Simon Pendlebury gave a mischievous, boyish smile. It made him look very young – almost vulnerable. But not quite.
‘An offer he couldn’t refuse and he accepted. When Evie was diagnosed I got in touch with him. He said I could still have the place any time over the next year. I have to admit, Martha. I’m tempted.’
‘I bet.’
‘What about you?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m far too comfortable in the White House. I shan’t move.’