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As his survival instinct kicked in he turned to run. He couldn’t take on this many. He’d be a fool to try. ‘Liam,’ he shouted, more panicked than angry now.
He reached the van, tore open the door, but it was too late. A flying brick hit his back, sending him sprawling into the dust.
He tried to scramble up.
A crippling blow to the backs of his knees buckled his legs under him.
‘Liam,’ he cried raggedly as he hit the ground.
A steel toe-capped boot slammed into his head.
He rolled on to his back, dazed, blood in his eyes. He could make out the faces gathered over him in a blur, laughing, as blind to his humanity as to their own.
He crossed his arms over his head to protect it. He tried in the chaos to spot Liam, to beg him to put a stop to this.
Time, reality, slipped to another dimension as his hearing faded and vicious blows continued pummelling his body. He thought of his other children, Grace and Zac, as more blood swilled around his eyes and his teeth were crunched from their roots.
He thought of his wife, his beautiful wife whom he loved with all his heart.
The thudding of boots and weapons grew worse, more frenzied, unstoppable; pain exploded through his body with a thousand jagged edges as bloodied vomit choked from his mouth. Darkness loomed, shrank away then tried to swallow him again. Dimly he heard screaming, a distant siren, and somewhere inside the mayhem he was murmuring his son’s name, ‘Liam, Liam,’ until he could murmur no more.
CHAPTER ONE (#u9d520ee3-d24a-57b6-97ef-407f5777c447)
‘Come along in, no need to be shy.’ Angie’s smile was encouraging and jolly, and reflected all the natural kindness in her big, soft heart. She was a petite woman in her early forties with a fiery mop of disorderly curls, sky-blue eyes, a naturally pink mouth and freckles all over her creamy round cheeks. It was impossible to look at her without seeing sunshine and colour and all sorts of good things, even on the greyest of days.
Everyone loved Angie, and she loved them right back. Or most of them anyway; there were always exceptions.
Today’s newcomer was Mark Fields, a wiry man in his late twenties with buckets of attitude (she’d been warned) and not much hair. He was apparently showing his timid side now, since his demeanour was quite guarded, and the little flecks of paper blotting up the shaving nicks in his cheeks made him seem vulnerable, or clumsy, probably both. In Angie’s view it was easy to love beautiful people who washed regularly, ate healthily and lived under proper roofs with smart windows and secure front doors. It took an extra effort to empathize with those on the other side of the divide.
‘Everyone!’ she announced to the room at large. It was a big square kitchen that boasted a series of old-fashioned melamine units, a five-ring gas stove, a tall steamy casement window currently speckled with raindrops and old paint, and a grungy sitting area off to one side with a monster TV and a four-bar gas fire. For all its shabbiness and lack of feminine touch it was actually very cosy, she’d always thought. ‘This is Mark,’ she said, indicating the man she’d brought in with her, ‘he’s going to be taking over Austin’s place here at Hill Lodge. Can we have a lovely welcome for him, please?’
The three men seated at a central Formica table, two in their twenties, the other past sixty, rose to their feet, stainless steel chair legs scraping over the lino floor. Their card game had been abandoned as soon as Angie had entered, for she was always the most welcome of visitors, notwithstanding that she was the only one. The eldest resident, Hamish, was showing the kind of smile that was rare for a man in his position, in that it was almost white with no missing teeth. He reached for Mark’s scarred and bony hand, eager to welcome the stranger and get him off on the right foot. Hamish was the unofficial head of house, partly due to age, but mostly because of his avuncular manner and the fact that his chronic lung condition had earned him permanent residency.
His greeting, along with that of the two younger residents, Lennie and Alexei, both in their late twenties, was everything Angie could have hoped for, and indeed what she’d expected. This little family of misfits was nothing if not generous of spirit (when they weren’t fighting for the remote control or whose turn it was in the bathroom), and she couldn’t have felt prouder of them today if she were their mum. Given her age, she accepted that her maternal feelings were slightly off-kilter, but everything about this place was out of whack one way or another, so she wasn’t going to waste any time worrying about the tenderness she felt for people who didn’t get much of it elsewhere.
Hamish plonked the new housemate down at the table, asking if he played poker, and offering him a pile of the ring pulls they used for currency.
Lennie said, ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’ Lennie had recently been taken on as an apprentice to a car mechanic and had been so thrilled by this that he’d hardly stopped grinning for a week. He’d tried to give Angie credit for finding him the job, his first in over five years with the best part of them spent on the streets, but she was having none of it. He’d gone through the proper channels at the jobcentre and won it on his own merits. And that, she’d told him, was how he was going to keep it.
Alexei, whose pugnacious face and lispy stammer were touchingly at odds with each other, had recently found employment too. He’d been taken on by John Lewis as a delivery driver, and he was so proud of being selected by such an upmarket store that Angie had to laugh at the little touch of snobbery from someone who’d not so long ago been sleeping in a bus shelter most nights of the week.
Fingers crossed he’d make a success of it, and never forget to take the medication intended to control his psychotic episodes. Thank God for the individuals and companies who gave second chances to those who were trying to turn their lives around. This little family all bore the scars of misfortune, whether drug addiction, alcohol abuse, homelessness, redundancy, marriage break-up, mental burnout, or prison, but they wouldn’t have been at Hill Lodge if they hadn’t already undergone a period of rehabilitation. Even so, they were at risk of falling back into old habits, as many did if they felt unable to cope with life or their new responsibilities, or became scared of people too ready to judge them harshly.
The fifth resident of Hill Lodge was young Craig, a slender, almost skeletal lad of twenty-three, with a riot of inky dark curls that tumbled around his beautiful face in a way that, in another existence, might have made him a male model, or even the pop star he longed to be. He was standing in front of the large kitchen fireplace – empty apart from an overflowing waste-paper basket and a well-worn trainer – watching proceedings with curious, hazel eyes. Angie smiled to beckon him forward. His gaze remained on the newcomer, studying him with frank intensity. It was hard for Angie to look at him without feeling an extra wave of affection, or a tug back into her past that was never welcome.
Cups of tea were soon being handed around, no sugar for Angie, two for everyone else, no biscuits – who half-inched the last digestives? Alexei, you toerag – when Craig finally stepped forward and went to stand in front of Mark. His expression was solemn, his stance stiff and awkward as he looked the older man up and down.
Clearly thrown by this scrutiny, Mark glanced at Angie, but before she could make the introduction Craig said, abruptly, ‘You are welcome here.’
Mark blinked and the others grinned.
Craig’s eyes remained on Mark as he rose hesitantly to his feet, holding out a hand to shake. ‘Thanks mate,’ he mumbled.
Craig took a step back and watched in alarm as one of Mark’s shaving papers floated like a petal down to the table.
‘Don’t take offence,’ Hamish advised. ‘It’s just his way. Isn’t it, Craig?’
Seeming not to hear, Craig turned around and reached for the guitar propped against the fireplace. After a few introductory chords that filled the kitchen with reasonably tuned sound he began to sing, ‘Welcome to Wherever You Are’.
‘Bon Jovi,’ Lennie mouthed to Angie, in case she didn’t recognize the number. Craig’s renditions didn’t always bear close resemblance to the originals; nevertheless, it was astonishing and touching the way he could come up with a song for most occasions.
When he finished, mid-chorus, mid-word even, he put the guitar down, bowed to his applauding audience and took the cuppa Lennie had poured for him. ‘I’m getting together with some people later,’ he informed everyone. ‘We’re going to form a band and make some videos.’
Angie glanced at Hamish, whose expression was saying, I’ve no idea if it’s real or imagined, but I’ll plump for the latter.
Craig said, ‘One of them reckons he can get us some gigs at a pub on Moorside.’
It would be good to know that Craig was making friends provided she could be certain they were genuine, and not out to steal his guitar, or rough him up just for the fun of it.
Finishing her tea, Angie picked up her bag and rose to her feet. ‘OK, I have to be going, guys, but tell me first, Alexei, are you remembering to take your medication?’ He’d told her himself that he’d served four years for grievous bodily harm, and she’d been warned that he’d present a danger to society, and to himself, if he forgot, or decided to stop taking his drugs.
‘Definitely,’ he assured her, tapping a finger to his forehead in an odd sort of salute.
Hamish nodded confirmation, letting her know that he was keeping a close eye on it.
Hamish was a hero in the way he looked out for the residents as if they really were his family, watching them come and go, succeed and fail, struggle with everything from computers to cravings to job searches and even personal hygiene, always ready to lend a hand. She knew he was ex-forces and had served in the first Iraq war, but it was a time of his life he never wanted to discuss, although he had once admitted that he’d come back in a terrible state and had been turfed out by his wife. These days he’d probably be diagnosed as suffering with PTSD, she realized, although it still wasn’t certain how much help he’d receive. He was as gently spoken and courteous as he was smartly turned out – always in a collar and tie when he left the house, frayed though it might be, shoes shining and trousers neatly pressed. And he was so grateful to have been made a permanent resident that he not only took care of this house and its small garden, but also the one next door that Angie’s sister, Emma, managed for their organisation Bridging the Gap.
It was Angie and Emma’s job to help the residents progress from all the difficulties they’d fought to overcome on the streets, in prison, in various shelters or rehab centres, back into a society where they could function as worthy and hard-working individuals.
As usual a barrage of questions followed her to the door as she left, mixed in with some teasing, and the merry tune of her mobile ringing. Seeing it was a resident from Hope House, presumably unable to get hold of Emma, she let it go to messages. She needed to get a move on now or a parking warden would start salivating over her little van like he’d just found a tasty sandwich still in its wrapper, and didn’t want be late for her afternoon stint at the food bank.
As she closed the front door behind her, satisfied that all was well inside for now, she started along the front path and with each step she felt herself becoming aware of her thoughts moving ahead of her across the street, and over the rooftops to a terraced house on the avenue behind. It was where she and Steve had lived when they’d first come to Kesterly, almost fourteen years ago, in a cramped and draughty second-floor flat that Steve, with his wonderful enthusiasm and decorator’s skills, had transformed into a warm and welcoming home.
She could hear Liam, aged five, calling out for his dad to come and read him a story. ‘Daddy! Giraffe, monkey, pelly,’ and minutes later Steve would be rolling up laughing at his favourite Roald Dahl story. Liam always chose it because of how much it made his daddy laugh, and Angie would stand outside the door listening, loving them with all her heart and wishing Liam was able to read it himself.
‘He’ll get there,’ Steve’s mother always assured them, ‘he’s just a late learner, that’s all. You wait, before you know it he’ll be streets ahead of everyone else and you won’t be able to keep up with him.’
Due to her role as a teaching assistant at the local school, Angie was able to monitor his progress, and it definitely wasn’t happening at the same rate as other kids his age. On the other hand he was always so happy and eager to try new things, and even when he was teased or left out of a game he never seemed to get upset. He’d just laugh along with the others, not caring that he was the butt of the joke, and if anyone ever appeared sad he’d quickly invite them home to play trains or do some colouring with him and his dad.
‘He’s a special boy,’ Hari Shalik, Steve’s boss, would often say, ruffling Liam’s hair and smiling down at the small upturned face in a grandfatherly way.
‘Can I come and work for you when I’m grown up?’ Liam would sometimes ask.
Hari’s chuckle rang with notes of surprise and delight. ‘Of course, if it’s what you still want when the time comes, but you might have other ideas by then.’
‘He’s going to fly to the moon, aren’t you, Liam?’ Steve would prompt.
Liam’s nod was earnest and slow until he broke into a grin and wrapped his arms around his daddy’s legs. ‘Only if you come with me,’ he whispered.
‘Well, I wouldn’t let you go on your own.’
‘Can we take Mummy?’
‘I think we should.’
To Hari Liam said, ‘Mummy’s going to have a baby.’
Hari’s golden-brown eyes widened with interest. ‘So you’ll have a brother or a sister? Will you take them to the moon as well?’
Liam thought about it. ‘They might be too small, so they’ll have to stay with Granny Watts until we come back.’
‘Good idea, and don’t forget to let me know when you’re going so I can come and give you a good send-off.’
Recalling that conversation now as she drove away from Hill Lodge, Angie was smiling at how precious and pure those memories were, like long hot summer days before autumn came to shadow the sunlight, and rain began falling like tears from gathering clouds.
CHAPTER TWO (#u9d520ee3-d24a-57b6-97ef-407f5777c447)
Emma was Angie’s younger sister by a year and several months. She was also plumper and louder, happily divorced and a hard-working mother of two small boys. She had a similar abundance of fiery red hair to Angie’s, and the same arresting blue eyes that changed shade according to her mood.
The two of them had taken over at Bridging the Gap about a year ago after Angie had lost her job as a teaching assistant (cuts to the education budget), and Emma had no longer been required as a receptionist at a local dentist’s after it was absorbed into the Kesterly Health Centre. It was pure luck that the husband-and-wife team who’d been running Bridging the Gap since its inception had decided to retire at that time, and Ivan, the parish manager of St Mary’s, the local church, had decided to give the sisters a chance.
‘Why not?’ he’d agreed, in the slow, doleful tones that had unnerved Angie and Emma at first. ‘You’ve excellent references, the pair of you, and we could do with some younger and livelier input around here. Yes, you’ll suit us very well, and I hope we’ll suit you too. Just make sure there’s no dossing in the church, or anywhere else on the site.’
‘Don’t worry, we promise to go home at night,’ Emma had assured him with mock sincerity.
Ivan blinked, taking a moment to understand, but he didn’t seem to find it funny. ‘I was referring to the men you’ll be taking care of,’ he explained. ‘Or, more accurately, to their associates from the streets. There are shelters for them to go to at night and this church isn’t one of them. Nor are the residences we are fortunate to have use of.’
Both of Bridging the Gap’s properties belonged to an octogenarian recluse, Carlene Masters, who had apparently handed the rundown Victorian villas to St Mary’s to use as the vicar and parish committee saw fit while she went to live in Spain. All she required in return was a small rental income. Angie and Emma had never met her, but they did know that she’d waived the rent for two months during the introduction of universal credit. Since housing allowances were what paid the rent and contributed to BtG’s running costs, the change of system could have proved disastrous for the organization and residents alike when payments had dried up for weeks on end.
Now, as Angie went to update the whiteboard that dominated one wall of the shed-like office she and Emma worked from, she spotted a couple of parish outreach workers crossing the small courtyard outside and gave them a wave. From the large plastic sacks the two women were carrying it was clear they were on their way to the storeroom next door, where charity-shop rejects were kept before being sent to those in need overseas. They were the only people Angie and Emma ever saw at this end of the rambling church complex, apart from Ivan who occasionally dropped by to make sure everything was running as it should.
Their little enclave was tucked in behind the church hall and sheltered by a magnificent copper beech tree, and contained only their bunker of an office with its en suite loo, tiny kitchenette and semi-efficient heating, and the adjacent storeroom. Their window looked out over the courtyard where a sealed-up wishing-well served as a bird table and a high, thorny hedge separated them from the main road beyond. To get to the church they had to follow a stone pathway through a wilderness of old fruit trees and long-forgotten shrubs to connect up with the car park next to St Mary’s offices, where the vicar’s wife and parish manager carried out God’s admin work.
The rectory was the other side of the centuries-old church, looking out over a sprawl of suburban rooftops that ended way off in the distance where the sea could be glimpsed sparkling away like a feast of temptation on crystal clear days. The old graveyard meandered gently down the south-facing hillside for at least a quarter of a mile to the busy residential street below. This was where Hill Lodge and Hope House were situated, in amongst a number of similar formerly grand villas, most of which had now been converted to flats. Angie and Emma never took the route through the tombstones and neglected shrines; no one did, it was too creepy and far too overgrown. Whoever needed burying these days was ferried to the newer, more desirable cemetery in the nearby semi-rural suburb of Morton Leigh.
‘So what’s your new bloke like?’ Emma asked as Angie added Mark Fields’s name to the Hill Lodge section of the whiteboard.
Raising her eyebrows as a fierce gust of wind whistled around their red-tiled roof Angie said, ‘He seems OK. Early days though. If he doesn’t settle in, Hamish will be sure to let us know.’
‘What’s his story?’
Spotting the outreach ladies leaving, heads down as they battled the wind, Angie said, ‘Apparently he broke up with his wife after he was laid off work, and ended up with nowhere to stay when she got the house. Booze played a part in it somewhere, but Shawn, who referred him from the rehab clinic, says he’s been a regular at AA for over six months and is ready to start again.’
‘No history of violence?’
‘Not that I’m aware of.’
Emma looked both dubious and cautious. ‘He knows he’ll be out on his ear if he starts drinking again?’ she pressed.
‘He does, but let’s assume that he won’t. Did Douglas get hold of you?’
‘Douglas from Hope House? Yes, he did. Apparently he’s lost weight so his belt’s too big and his trousers are falling down. He wants to know how to make a new hole.’
Angie’s eyes danced with amusement. ‘So what did you tell him?’ she asked, able to gauge from Emma’s expression that some sort of irreverence was afoot.
‘I said that if he took himself to Timpson’s in town someone there would be able to help him. He, of course, wanted to do it himself with a hammer and nail, but I reminded him that the last time he’d had those objects in his hands someone had ended up attached to the wall.’
Angie had to laugh. It wasn’t funny really, but the way Emma told it made it sound like a comedy sketch rather than a crime that had ended with his victim in hospital and him behind bars. ‘Do you think the belt story was real?’ she probed.
‘No idea, but it might be worth asking Hamish to pop in later to make sure there’s no live art hanging over the fireplace.’
Choking on another laugh, Angie checked her mobile as it rang. Seeing it was Tamsin, a support worker from the main homeless shelter in town, she clicked on. ‘Hi Tams,’ she said, returning to her desk, ‘If you’ve got any referrals I’m afraid we’re all booked up at the moment.’
‘I wish it were so simple,’ Tamsin responded with a sigh. ‘I’m hoping you or Emma could collect my kids from school when you go for your own.’
Angie said, ‘It’s OK, I’ll take them back to mine.’
‘You’re an angel.’
‘So they keep telling me. What I say is, you just haven’t met my demons yet.’ The instant the words were out she wanted to take them back, return them to the dark and awful place they’d come from, but it was too late. They’d already spilled along the connection, doing their damnedest, and as she looked at her sister she could imagine only too well what both Emma and Tamsin were thinking. Oh, but we have, Angie, we know what you did to your own son, but we won’t talk about it, and we won’t mention what happened to his father either.
CHAPTER THREE (#u9d520ee3-d24a-57b6-97ef-407f5777c447)
‘I hope you’re not peeping,’ Steve warned, glancing at Angie who was next to him in the car, hands over her eyes, as instructed. ‘Or you,’ he added, checking six-year-old Liam in the rear-view mirror.
‘Can’t see anything,’ Liam promised.
Satisfied they weren’t cheating, Steve signalled to turn into a cul-de-sac of twenty mock-Tudor new builds, each with leaded windows and its own small plot of land, front and back. He drew up outside number fourteen, just behind a skip and a few plaster-caked wheelbarrows – though the work was at an end the clearing up was still under way.
Opposite the smart detached residences with their red brick façades and artfully placed wooden beams was a freshly laid green with a stony brook babbling along on the far side sheltered by a couple of magnificent weeping willows and an ironwork footbridge that linked this street to the next.
‘Can we look yet?’ Liam urged from the back. His auburn curls were still damp from a quick swim in the sea and his round cheeks were flushed with excitement. Liam loved surprises, especially when they were a secret from his mother as well.
Steve grinned as Angie parted her fingers, pretending to take a peek. ‘OK, you can look now,’ he announced.
As Angie lowered her hands she gazed around the street of brand spanking new houses, not quite understanding.
‘Oh Dad! There’s a bridge,’ Liam exclaimed in awe, and as though his father had just given him the best thing ever he leapt out of the back to go and investigate.
As they watched him, Angie said, ‘Are we on the Fairweather estate?’
‘We are,’ Steve confirmed.
‘And you,’ she continued to guess, ‘worked on these houses so you’ve brought us to see them before their new owners move in?’
‘Kind of,’ he smiled, and getting out of the compact Peugeot they’d bought for her a couple of years back, he came round to open her door.
‘Dad! Dad! Look at me,’ Liam cried from the bridge, and making certain Steve was watching he raced across it and back again, looking so pleased with himself that Steve wanted to go and swing him up so high he’d scream with delight. He still wasn’t learning as quickly as other children, but it didn’t make him stupid, it was simply that his progress was happening at a different speed. In every other way he was an adorable, playful, and happy young boy who wanted no more than to be everyone’s friend.
