Haverscroft by S. A. Harris

Author:S. A. Harris
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Salt Publishing Limited
Published: 2019-05-08T13:19:46+00:00

Chapter 18

Wednesday, 27th October

‘It’s number eight you’re wanting?’

The man, the cab driver, stares at me huddled into my coat in the rear of the taxi. His gaze falls to my hands, the shredded mess of paper towel in my lap grabbed from the ladies’ toilet in A&E. I’m better now, the diazepam quietening it all down, the tension, in my shoulders, neck and jaw, melted away. He looks out through the front passenger window. Low cottages huddle close together along a street no more than a car’s width. A light has come on behind a front door, it opens, a woman in a dressing gown hurries towards us, the driver looks back at me expectantly.

The taxi door opens.

‘There you are, love. I’ve been that worried.’

I get out of the taxi, rummage through coat pockets, my jeans, find a note, some coins, pass them across to the outstretched palm, look into the man’s face. I’ve no idea how much I owe him, but it must be okay, he’s nodding, a farewell wave. Shirley has her arm about my shoulders guiding me. We head towards the brightly lit threshold.

‘Come into the kitchen. I’ve just made a brew. I couldn’t sleep a wink for worrying.’

Her voice is hushed, a hurried whisper as she pushes the front door closed, takes my elbow, tugs me along a short hall into a tiny, low-ceilinged kitchen. Her voice is soft and undulating, the words like a warm bath, wash over me. She pulls out a chair. I sit, watch her getting mugs, milk, sugar.

‘Where’s Sophie?’ I ask.

Shirley glances at me, continues to pour tea, one mug, then the next.

‘Asleep, upstairs. She’s alright.’

She puts a mug on the table in front of me. A pile of Sophie’s drawings are anchored beneath an iPad.

‘I’ve tried to keep her busy, poor little thing.’

‘Has she said anything, about what happened?’

‘Not much, but I didn’t like to press her. Something’s not right though.’ We stare across the table at one another. ‘I thought it might be better if she chats to you, when she’s ready. Your husband called. They had a chat and she was a bit better after that.’

‘You’ve spoken to Mark?’

‘Haven’t you, love?’

I shake my head, words gather in my brain, I try to slow them down, put them into order. Shirley’s hand is warm on mine. I take a breath.

‘I left messages, but I couldn’t get hold of him. My phone’s flat now.’

‘Well, he knows what’s happened. He spoke with Sophie and says he’ll be here.’ Shirley looks at the clock on the wall, a cockerel, its legs swing back and forth. ‘He should arrive later this morning.’

It’s 1:13am. I’ve lost track of time, it flowed by as I waited in A&E, a side ward, waited and waited for news.

‘George boarded up the French windows temporary for tonight. He’s back in the morning. He’ll re-glaze them for you then.’

Shirley looks towards the kitchen door, a stair-tread squeaks, feet pitter patter along the hall.

‘I’m not surprised she’s awake, poor little soul.

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