When I Wasn't Watching (10 page)

‘Yeah.'

‘It's got to have been done by someone local hasn't it? Shauna reckons it's someone our age, 'cos of the spelling mistakes and stuff.'

Ricky shrugged. He was pretty sure there were plenty of adults who couldn't spell. Or who thought that pretending they couldn't spell would conceal their identity.

‘Whoever it is should just mind their own business.' The ‘Justice for Jack Randall' community page had filled him with rage, though he wouldn't admit that to Mitzi. What the hell did anyone else know about the shit he had been through, him and his mum? And Ethan too, although he admitted that to himself grudgingly.

Mitzi looked surprised at his comment, eyes widening under the considerable weight of her false eyelashes.

‘But don't you think it's a good thing? That people want to help? I mean, this guy could do it again, murder another little kid, and wouldn't you feel bad if you hadn't done anything?'

Ricky sat up, pushing her roughly away from him.

‘And just what the fuck,' he said slowly, sounding chillingly grown-up to a now frightened Mitzi, ‘do you think I can do? If my mum, and the police, and all those
stupid
people with their
stupid
banners; if nobody listens to them, then what am
I
supposed to do?'

Mitzi had shrunk back and away from him, looking very small and young, and Ricky decided he didn't fancy her after all.

‘I'm going.' He stood up abruptly, shrugging his jacket on without looking at her.

‘Sorry,' Mitzi said in a small voice with a little tremor that he was certain she deliberately added for effect. ‘I didn't mean to upset you. I just meant, don't you want to know where the killer is? If it was my brother…'

‘But it isn't, is it?' He was shouting now, just wanting her to shut up. Why couldn't she just drop it? Didn't she understand that he didn't want any of this, didn't want the return of Jack's ghost hanging over him, tugging at him the way Jack himself used to tug at him when he was alive, his eyes so much like Lucy's, begging him to come and play.

If only he had agreed that day, had let him come in his room, then maybe Jack wouldn't have been out riding his trike by himself in the garden. Maybe. Ricky tried to push that thought away, along with the twisty feeling of guilt it brought with it, inching its way up into his gut. He focused on Mitzi, who was wide-eyed and breathing in little shaky breaths as though about to cry, even though her eyes, he noticed with a cynicism beyond his years, were dry.

‘I didn't mean to upset you,' she said again. Her bottom lip quivered, just a little, and whether her remorse was exaggerated or not Ricky began to feel pretty mean.

‘It's all right,' he said, even though it wasn't. He stood looking awkward while Mitzi gazed up at him with hope back in her eyes.

‘Are you going to sit back down then?'

He sat back down, deliberately a little further away. But Mitzi moved over to him and put a hand on his leg, near enough to his groin that he started to forget he had even been upset with her.

‘Can we kiss again? I liked kissing you.'

Ricky nodded and didn't stop her when she leaned over and pressed her gloss-coated lips against his own. As her tongue darted into his mouth, nervous but eager, Ricky began to feel much better.

Perhaps he would get to feel her up after all.

‘Aren't you Lucy Randall?' The woman pushing books across the counter to be stamped stopped and stared at Lucy with an undisguised curiosity.

‘Wyatt,' Lucy corrected automatically.

‘But you are that poor little boy's mother aren't you? The one that got killed?' The woman's voice was as loud as the lurid orange and purple scarf she was wearing. Lucy didn't answer, instead snatching the final book from the woman's hand and stamping it with more than a touch of aggression. She finished scanning and pushed the small pile back towards her without meeting her eyes, saying in a curt voice, ‘They will be due back on the twenty-fourth,' her tone implying that was the end of the conversation.

The woman however didn't move but continued to gape at Lucy as if she was a circus attraction.

‘It must have been awful for you, just awful. You should write a book you know.' As if one followed the other.

Lucy gave a tight smile. As ludicrous as this customer's suggestion sounded, Lucy had in fact been approached more than once in the months following Jack's death, to pen – or put her name to – an account of the tragic events surrounding her son's murder. Each approach had been firmly turned down, although Ethan had seemed to think it a good idea. ‘Write one yourself then,' she had snapped at him and she still thought he might have if an agent hadn't advised him it was the mother's story that the public wanted. It was more emotive, more tragic, the agent had told them. More lucrative, Lucy suspected.

‘It would be very popular you know,' the woman went on, ‘I for one would certainly read it.'

Lucy met the woman's eager, almost predatory gaze.

‘I've always thought,' she said in a calm tone just loud enough for the small queue gathering behind to hear, ‘that people who read that sort of thing are a little like vultures; feeding off other people's misery. Quite vulgar really,' she added, eyeing the woman's scarf pointedly. The customer gaped at her, then closed her mouth with a snap before gathering her books into a bag and walking off without another word. Lucy gave a sigh of relief, surprised to realise she had been holding her breath waiting for the woman's response.

The elderly man who moved into the space at the checking-out desk pushed a stack of science fiction novels forwards and winked at her amiably.

‘You get all sorts in here these days,' he said with a cheery compassion that made Lucy want to hug him. She smiled at him and he patted her hand before walking off with his books clutched to his chest. The rest of the queue became a blur of faces and then Lucy finished up for the day by tidying up the children's area, left in disarray as usual by the regular pre-school Sunday Storytelling group. Susan closed the computers down and came over, peering at Lucy with concern through her glasses.

‘You look pale.'

‘It's been a rough few days, Sue,' Lucy said, realising at Susan's words how tired she felt. She hadn't eaten all day either. Her stomach seemed to be continually filled with a feeling of creeping dread, leaving no room for food. Her emotions and moods were so up and down she had given up trying to track them.

‘Your date didn't go well then?' Susan was the only person Lucy had confided in regarding her ‘date' with Matt, and the mention of it made her blush.

‘Well, that's put some colour back in your cheeks. Spill,' Susan demanded, her eyes lighting up at the prospect of juicy details.

‘It was nice. We kissed. But I'm just not ready. We spoke and decided to stay in touch but I'm not sure…' She tailed off as Susan held up an excited hand.

‘Whoa. You kissed? Isn't he, like, ridiculously hot?'

Lucy grinned, finding it impossible to stay glum in the face of Susan's enthusiasm.

‘Yeah. He is. It was.'

‘So the problem is…?'

‘I started crying. He asked about Jack and it all kind of got too much.'

Susan sat back on the desk, eyeing her friend with an astute gaze. Lucy wasn't one much given to displays of emotion. She had been through so much; it would be awful if she started unravelling now. Personally Susan thought a good-looking police officer might be exactly what she needed.

‘I'm sure he understands Lucy, and maybe you needed a good cry. Now that it's out of the way, you can go out with him again.'

Lucy shook her head at her friend's pragmatism.

‘It's not that simple.'

‘And why not?'

Why not indeed! There was the fact that Jack's murder was always going to be between them, and then there was the fact that Lucy's original reason for dating him was to suss out what he knew of Prince's whereabouts. The reaction she had had to him – to his touch – had unnerved her. He had phoned her again the night before and been friendly but neutral, asking after her and Ricky. No offer for another date, which she had to admit had disappointed her.

Susan's words followed her home, but once she had got in and kicked off her shoes the despondency crept back in. Ricky was out, having left a note next to the half-eaten stew she had left in the pot for him that morning. It felt like her remaining son was slipping away from her too; even though she knew he needed more freedom now he was getting older, some days she looked at him and felt like she didn't know him at all.

She was staring at the wall, seeing nothing, when the phone rang and she instantly sprang to her feet.
Matt.

Except it wasn't.

‘Lucy Wyatt?' an unfamiliar female voice asked for her.

At least they got my name right this time
. ‘Yes, speaking,' she said without trying to hide her wariness.

‘I'm calling about your son.'

Instantly she was on alert.

‘Ricky? Is he okay?'

‘Your other son, Ms Wyatt.'

Lucy closed her eyes and counted to ten.

‘I'm not interested in making any further comments about my son,' she said, although her hand around the receiver was shaking. Why couldn't they just leave her alone?

‘I'm not a reporter.' The woman's voice was cloyingly sweet, a tone that was no doubt meant to be soothing but set Lucy's teeth on edge. ‘I'm a medium. I've had a message from your son's spirit. He wants me to pass it on to you.'

‘I'm not interested.' Lucy slammed down the phone, her stomach in knots and breathing shallow. She tried to breathe deeply, to swallow the rising anger, but her control snapped when the phone rang again, a shrill, insistent tone that suddenly seemed far too loud, hurting her head. She snatched up the receiver.

Why can't you people just leave me alone!' she screamed. There was a shocked silence.

‘Lucy?'

Matt.

‘Oh God, I'm so sorry, I had some crazy woman on the phone.'

‘You should change your number. Are you okay?'

His concern for her was almost tangible, and his low, undeniably masculine voice instantly took her rising anxiety down a notch. She all but collapsed into her chair, phone still at her ear.

‘I am now. It's so good to hear from you,' she said, emotion making her truthful.

‘I'm glad,' he said, genuine warmth in his voice. ‘I wanted to invite you over, if you can get away. For dinner. That's if you feel up to it.'

Lucy tried to suppress the fluttering pleasure that fizzed in her gut in spite of her attempts to dampen it. Taking her hesitation for apprehension, Matt added, ‘Just dinner; no strings. A bag of chips if you want. Or the pie and potatoes we talked about.'

Lucy laughed, surprising herself with the sound. It sounded light, carefree, as if she hadn't had the day – the week – from hell.

‘I'd love to. I'll have to be back for Ricky, but I'd love to.'

As Matt gave her his address and she quickly changed and retouched her make-up, Lucy wondered at the effect Matt was having on her. Not for the first time she wished they had met under different circumstances. That things were just different.

Before she left, she turned off her answering machine, worried that Ricky would come home to a cranky psychic claiming to have contacted Jack. It had been years now since Ricky had mentioned ‘seeing' Jack, and she was praying that this week's events wouldn't start it all up again.

In spite of his assurances to Lucy that this would be only a casual meal Matt couldn't resist the chance to show off his culinary skills, even if they did only extend to the one dish: that great British favourite, chicken tikka masala. He made it more or less from scratch and, he reflected as he took a taste from the spoon, it tasted just as good as anything a restaurant would serve.

The truth was, he was nervous. He had no desire to push Lucy into anything she wasn't ready for, especially given her current situation, yet some instinct was telling him to hang in there. That she might need him. There was something about Lucy that awakened his natural protective streak, even as he also had the urge to slowly peel the clothes from her body and then proceed to fuck her senseless. The contrast was disconcerting, to say the least.

His buzzer sounded just as he placed a packet of rice into his state-of-the-art microwave – his culinary skills extending to the masala sauce itself and no further – and Matt took a deep breath before opening the door.

‘Hey.'

‘Hey yourself.' Matt opened the door for her, admiring her slender figure in a fitted woollen dress, although he thought she looked as though she had lost a little weight even in the two days since he had last seen her.

Matt took her coat and after a moment's hesitation leaned down to kiss her cheek, letting his lips brush lightly over her skin, almost teasingly. He didn't think it was his imagination that she held her breath as he did so.

Lucy wanted him, he was sure of it, yet the need to tread carefully with her also made his own desire for her feel all the more urgent. Taking another deep breath and letting it out slowly he turned and hung up her coat.
Get a grip
, he told himself.
It's just a friendly meal
… although the sight of her hips swaying in front of him in her tight-fitting dress as she walked down the hall in front of him prompted a reaction that was distinctly more than just friendly. He smiled as he followed her into the kitchen.

‘Anyone would think you had been here before. Here, sit down.' He pulled out a chair from under the table, which he had briefly considered laying properly, flowers and all, before realising that wouldn't look at all casual.

‘I followed the smell of the food. Which, if I'm not very much mistaken, is curry?'