‘Are you ok, Sonya? You’re very pale.’
‘I’m not hungry, sorry.’ I push the plate away. ‘Didn’t sleep very well… Not great when I don’t sleep.’ Trying to minimise the chaotic, jangled emotions that are spilling about.
‘Would you like me to go now, give you your space?’
‘Might be a good idea. Feeling a little overwhelmed.’ The most honesty I’ve managed in years.
‘I’ll just finish my coffee and eggs, then I’ll be on my way.’
My breathing slows down, the tightness in my chest loosens. He eats and drinks at a leisurely pace.
‘Ok so, I’ll head off. See you soon. Thanks for a lovely evening.’ He kisses me gently on both cheeks.
I’m grateful I don’t have to force him to leave, as I had to many times with Howard, particularly on those Sundays when he decided he wanted to hang out with me all day. Sometimes I actively had to push him out the front door. ‘Fuck off, Howard,’ I’d say. ‘Psycho,’ he’d fling at me. Then, after he’d leave, I’d spend the day feeling bereft.
‘You’re miles away, Sonya.’
‘Sorry. Tired is all.’
‘Chat later. Sleep well so.’
He walks jauntily down the garden path, lifting his hand in greeting to someone on the opposite side of the street. When I pull back the slats on the blind, I see that it’s Mrs O’Malley. Good, let her think I’m a woman capable of being loved, or a gigantic slut – don’t care which, as long as it makes her back off.
‘Thank God he’s gone, Marmie!’ I change the bedclothes, open the window, fill a hot water bottle, creep back into bed, place the bottle at my lower back, Marmie on my chest. My body closes down, a series of internal doors shutting, locking. I reach down and place a protective hand on my crotch. I’m disgusted by what my body allowed. It’s not even a religious thing, or a moral thing; I don’t know what kind of a thing.
When I wake five hours later my mind is less frantic. I check my phone: four messages from David. Thank you, hope you’re ok, call me when you wake, that was amazing you are amazing. We’re ok, aren’t we? It’s as if I’ve just released a needy, sex-starved Jack right out of his box.
I get up, eat some dry cornflakes by the handful, wrap Marmie in the pouch and walk to the park. The wind is skittish, the sky a mottled feast of blues and whites. Where is Tommy today? Is he out under this same sky? Is he searching for Mr Sunshine, pretending to wipe away the clouds? I watch a seagull swoop on to the pond and scavenge the ducks’ bread. A man claps at the air: ‘Shooo.’ Silly man, can’t he see the seagull needs to eat too? The colour of ice cream, Yaya! I wonder if my body will allow me to continue to stand.
33
Forty-eight hours have passed, and no word from my father. Of course. Time to take matters into my own hands. Drive to the ‘decent sort’ from golf’s house, solicitor Whatshisface. I memorised his address that night I looked him up, straight after Lara let the word slip.
It’s a twenty-minute drive under cover of early-evening darkness. The house materialises like something out of a fairy tale, all fake Gothic turrets, stucco, soft pink. A pink candyfloss house, Yaya! A fountain, two BMWs, a dog pen, a kennel. Heat blasts my body, my skin hot and blotchy, as if torched. I’m surprised to find the electric gates open, but park outside, just in case. My hoodie is pulled high over my ears, despite the fact I might combust with the revving of my internal engine. ‘Herbie,’ I whisper, ‘Herbie, my man?’ I think I hear whimpers; he’d be a shit guard dog, in spite of his size; he’s a big softie, anyone could tell that. Anyone who cared to look closely.
A mixture of anticipation and dread drives my steps across the shiny black tarmac driveway, flanked by fake grass verges. This preposterous house is grotesque in its affectations. I’m standing outside the pen, there it is, the cage I dreamed of, and there he is, his face pressed to the wall.
‘Herbie?’ He lifts his head, an ear twitches, then he falls back into his tightly curled position, back to the world. ‘Herbie, it’s me, it’s really me.’ How am I going to get him out of here? There’s a padlock. What kind of people padlock a guard dog into a cage? Then I realise he’s probably only ever let out when they go out. What sort of people—？
I sprint back to the car, open the boot and find the secateurs I bought on a whim in a garden-centre sale last year, when I’d had a fantasy about doing something ‘normal’， like pruning my wild rose bushes. They’re still in the bag I bought them in, along with the gardening gloves that I slip on. A delicious thrill shivers through me. Now I’m the character I was never cast as: the badass criminal.