‘Mum says you cried last night when you were watching Sex and the City.’
‘I did,’ agrees Chris.
‘Well, don’t start there,’ says Donna.
Chris especially loves his Ford Focus now there are no empty crisp packets in the footwell. He even had it shampooed the other day. Was that being himself?
‘How is Jack Mason going to take it, do you reckon?’ asks Chris. ‘An assault rifle and a hundred grand is tough to talk your way out of.’
‘He’s a pro,’ says Donna. ‘He’ll be charming. It’ll be tougher for him if they find Bethany’s body.’
‘He’ll walk away,’ says Chris. ‘Don’t you think? Doesn’t matter if he owns the property; there’ll be no forensic evidence after all this time.’
‘I saw this Polish film where they dug up a body after thirty years or something, and a tattoo had imprinted itself on a leg bone,’ says Donna.
‘You’ve been to see a Polish film?’ Chris asks.
‘It’s left here,’ says Donna. They had given up on the sat nav some time ago. Jack Mason’s house was on a private road, leading off a private estate, leading off a small track, leading off a country road. Deliberately hard to find, especially in this pitch darkness. As they take wrong turn after wrong turn, Chris thinks it would be easier to approach by boat and climb the cliff face.
Also, Jack Mason would be able to see anyone approaching from a mile away. Has he seen the lights of the yellow Ford Focus yet? Is he waiting for them? Does he know what’s in store?
They finally reach a pair of iron gates. The gates remain firmly shut as they approach, so Chris leans out of his window and tries the intercom. He buzzes intermittently for thirty seconds or so, but there is no response. So perhaps Jack has seen them coming after all.
Old Chris would have got back in the car and driven the perimeter of the property wall, looking for a way in, tutting all the while. But new Chris, slim, athletic Chris, starts to climb the gates instead. This brings Donna out of the car. He feels the pleasing burn of his muscles as he climbs, the gratifying response of muscles doing what they’re told. He must look great, he thinks, just as he snags and rips his trousers on an iron spike. Donna climbs up after him, at twice the speed, unhooks him, and they both clamber over the top of the gates and down onto Jack Mason’s driveway. New security lights flick on with almost every step.
Chris’s trousers are ripped beyond repair, and Donna gets full sight of a pair of Homer Simpson boxer shorts.
‘Honestly,’ says Donna, as the seat of Chris’s trousers flaps in the wind. ‘This is a perfect example of you being yourself. Did my mum choose those boxer shorts?’
‘No, I forgot to take my washing out of the machine last night,’ says Chris. ‘These are my emergency boxers. Let’s just arrest Jack Mason, shall we?’
As Chris walks up the driveway, Donna stoops to tie a shoelace. He keeps walking, until he hears a click.
‘Donna, did you just take a photograph of my arse on your phone?’
‘Me? No,’ says Donna, putting her phone back into her pocket.
The house itself soon appears, a silhouette in the halogen security lights. It is huge. Chris has never seen a private house this big. The only time you ever saw a house like this it had a gift shop and a tea room.
The wind is whistling around Chris’s backside now. Perhaps Jack will have a sewing kit? Can you ask for a sewing kit when you’ve just arrested someone?
As they climb the stone front steps to Jack Mason’s front door, Chris makes sure he is a step behind Donna. As he reaches to press the baronial bell, he notices the door is ajar, light streaming through a small gap out into the night. He and Donna share a look.