Reunions

Hiding Behind The Couch Season Seven

Reunions

by

Debbie McGowan

Beaten Track

www.beatentrackpublishing.com

Reunions

First published 2017 by Beaten Track Publishing

Copyright © 2017–2025 Debbie McGowan

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Paperback: 978 1 78645 012 8

eBook: 978 1 78645 013 5

Beaten Track Publishing,

Burscough, Lancashire.

www.beatentrackpublishing.com

About this Book

When greed, fear and obsession rule the senses, danger is never more than a heartbeat away.

A night of celebration affords the perfect opportunity for an unlikely band of criminals to make their move, but as details emerge, it soon becomes clear the crime is far more sophisticated than the police first thought.

And that’s only the beginning.

* * * * *

Reunions is Season Seven in the Hiding Behind The Couch series.

This instalment follows chronologically from Two By Two (Season Six) and Those Jeffries Boys. It continues in Reverberations.

* * * * *

WARNING: this story touches on themes of suicide ideation, sudden infant death, cancer, dementia, drug dependency and dissociative PTSD. These are not graphically or gratuitously depicted, but may, nonetheless, cause distress to some readers.

For the lads from the estate:

Thank you for looking after my girls

and seeing them safely through to adulthood.

Behave yourselves.

(Yeah, right!) ;)

Pain or love or danger makes you real again…

Jack Kerouac

Prologue: Cascades

Friday, 21st December

7:30 p.m.

Tonight was the night. It had to be, when all the people who could stop them were living it up at their high school reunion—limos, tuxes and posh frocks, sharing their successes, enjoying one another’s company. He envied them for that. Not in the vengeful way Dale did. More, he wished he felt part of something, if only for a short time. Was that why he’d agreed to do this? To be ‘a part of something’? No. It was about money, pure and simple.

With the headlights off, the van looked like it was parked, and he lay low across the front seats, out of sight, waiting for Dale to give the go-ahead. The evening was dark and chilly, and the roads were an endless night sky under stark white lights on tall black poles that shot from the concrete at regular intervals around the perimeter of the mall’s service entrance. In the daytime, it was a hive of activity, with deliveries and the coming and going of staff. With the day’s trade done, it was a lifeless space of angles, curves, slopes and road markings, zigzags and box junctions and gleaming-white stripes. Steam chuffed from a butt end of aluminium tubing high up in the dull brick expanse of the mall’s back wall. An insect fluttered around one of the lights, a shuttle returning to a squadron of tiny hovering spaceships in coordinated observation of Planet Earth.

He should have been at the reunion ball. Right now, he should have been standing at the bar with the other men, laughing at terrible jokes and complaining about not being ready for Christmas—anything other than lying low in a dark van, waiting for the text message that signified the betrayal of his promise to go straight—to say no next time Dale asked him.

The seat belt clip was digging sharply into his hip, and he shifted sideways, shoving his icy hands under his thighs. When that failed to warm them, he cupped them and blew into his palms. I wonder how long this is going to take. I could still make it. Even if they were done in time, he probably wouldn’t bother. His suit was ancient, and he only had enough money for a pint, but if nothing else, it would be an alibi.

A glow bloomed on the curved downward slope from the car park, and he raised his head to peer over the dashboard. The glow separated into two beams that became brighter as a big dark car rounded the last bend of the slow spiral, the reflections of the streetlamps flittering over the paintwork like the twinkling fairy lights on the tree in their living room.

It was only a small artificial tree, four feet in height, with ornaments the kids had made, and the tinsel and battery-operated lights came from the pound shop. The angel they had made together with tinfoil, glitter and sparkly pens. One of her arms was twice the length of the other, and her halo was more often than not on the carpet instead of her head, but her wings were magnificent. It was amazing what he could do with a length of coat-hanger wire and a square of old net curtain. His mum had shown him how to do that.

No presents under the tree yet, though. But there was still time. If all else failed, if this job didn’t pay off, if he got caught…

He rubbed hard at his face and whispered over and again, Why am I doing this? Why am I doing this? Because it was a job. That was the only reason. It was a job, and it meant he’d have some money for the kids’ presents. No way was Santa missing their house again this year.

The car cruised past, and he lifted on his elbow, watching in the rear-view mirror, the indicator flash and then the tail lights smearing red as the car turned out onto the road. His phone buzzed against his chest. Finally…

OK mate how are you? What you up to for xmas? Anything?

That was it: the go-ahead. He replied as they’d agreed.

Nothing mate. Fancy a pint sometime?

With a quick glance around to make sure the coast was still clear, he sat up, started the van and moved off slowly, staying in second gear as he passed the spiralling slope and then veered left and left again, to the service bay. Dale was standing at the doors, beckoning with a black-gloved hand. He took the van in and stopped. Dale climbed in beside him.

We haven’t got long, he said, banging the door shut. Thirty minutes, tops. There’s a bloody backup generator.

Is there?

We should’ve thought of that. Dale continued, as if he hadn’t heard, and smiled to himself, looking smug. Lucky we’ve got a decoy.

He drove diagonally across the open concrete space, to the access point for the car park. Which floor again? He knew, but his nerves were getting the better of him.

Fourth, Dale said and took another breath as if he was going to add to that, but didn’t.

Cutting through the deserted ground level of the car park, he tried to take the turns without the tyres squealing, remembering his dad’s stories about the joyrides he and Dale had taken in their younger days, when they were innocent and record-free. Back then, it was about having a laugh, the thrill of being chased and not getting caught. Then it became a fast way of making money—always the promise of lots of money, but where was it? They’d never seen any of it, and Dale wasn’t exactly living it up.

His dad hadn’t been the same since prison. He drank and smoked too much, ate junk, and he’d put on so much weight they wouldn’t do his back surgery. He was housebound, yet he didn’t seem to care. Just drank, smoked, watched sport on TV, ate, slept, every day the same as the one before.

Reverse in next to that pillar. Dale pointed at a dark space beneath an overhang.

It was a narrow space to reverse into, and the pillar was too close to his door. If he needed to escape in a hurry, he’d be screwed.

Dale stayed in the van for a few minutes, his gaze darting around the deserted fourth level. Stay here, all right? That was all he said before he climbed out, leaving the passenger door open, and silently strode across to the entrance to the esplanade, his tap-tap on the metal shutter echoing into the void. Dale was a big man—around six foot tall and hefty. He strutted with his chest puffed, acting like a tough muscle man, but most of it was blubber. Not that it made him any less scary, any less like a person who should be obeyed. The shutter lifted, and Dale crouched to pass under it. The shutter closed again.

Time passed. It felt like an hour, but the clock on his phone told him Dale’s text arrived only eleven minutes ago. He leaned back and thought about Christmas presents, what he was going to buy the kids when Dale gave him his share. So many of the things he wanted to get them—the stuff they’d seen on TV and asked if Santa was listening—were beyond what this job would pay. They weren’t greedy. They just didn’t understand the value of money yet.

He remembered being that way himself, telling his mum he wanted every single thing that came up in the adverts, and his mum repeatedly telling him, Money doesn’t grow on trees, you know. If she’d still been around, she’d have been laughing at him now, going through the same thing. What goes around comes around, she’d say, and one day, his kids would be sitting where he was. Not literally, he hoped. This was not the life he wanted for them. Cash-in-hand labouring jobs to top up crappy benefits that no-one could live off, driving for Dale Holborn and whoever he was working for, Christmas on credit or no Christmas at all.

His hands had gone numb; the van’s heater was on the blink, and he’d left his gloves in his overalls. Pulling his sleeves down over his fingers, he rubbed vigorously through the fabric, stopping only to blow hot breath down the cuffs. And he needed a piss. Not a lot he could do about that.

How much longer? He checked his phone again: Dale’s text was now twenty-one minutes old. He’d said they needed to be in and out in thirty, so another nine minutes, max. If they’d made it in at all. It was hit and miss with Dale, but this time, he was working with someone else. Dale always referred to him as ‘NX’, and he seemed to know what he was doing.

NX had got hold of the plans for the mall, which showed the locations of all the security cameras and the alarm circuitry. He knew when the security guards would be least likely to notice anything going on with the CCTV. He’d even staged ‘false’ alarms every night for the past week so they’d think there was a malfunction in the system, and it had worked because the company that fitted it had been out twice already.

As if he’d thought it into happening, the security alarm began to wail, piercing the cold, still air of the vast concrete box that was the fourth level of the car park, growing louder and more painful as it bounced off the man-made stone walls, until the entire space was filled with the noise. He shut the passenger door and stuck his fingers in his ears, staring hard at the corrugated steel shutter on the other side of the car park, urging it to rise. The shrill of the alarm was driving him out of his mind.

Keeping one ear blocked, he started the van and switched hands to put it in gear and drop the handbrake, slowly edging out of the space, his eyes trained on the shutter as he inched towards it.

Time must be up by now. He released the steering wheel for a few seconds to tug his phone from his pocket, glanced down at the screen—thirty minutes exactly—and then dropped his phone at the sudden jolt forward as his nearside wing clipped a pillar. The shutter started to rise, and a dark form squeezed under it: Dale. He rolled onto his front, squat-thrust to his feet, and ran to the van, throwing the door open.

Go! Go!

The door slammed as he took off, no longer worrying about the squeal of tyres as he swerved around corners way too fast in his desperation to escape from the car park that had never before seemed so enormous and impossible to navigate. From Dale’s frantic tone, it was clear they were being pursued, and worse still, Dale was empty-handed.

Where’s the merch? he asked.

NX has got it. We had to split. He’s meeting us at the tower block.

The tower block isn’t there anymore.

Fuck’s sake. Where the tower block used to be, idiot.

He stayed quiet after that, slowing only as much as was necessary to keep control of the old van on the corners. The bearings were knackered and he had no insurance—like it mattered with what they were doing—but Dale said the clutch had gone on his.

Relieved to see the spiral exit slope directly ahead, he sped up and emerged from the concrete labyrinth, locking hard right and swirling down, down, to the road below.

Shit. Dale, look!

Two security guards stepped out of a car parked across the van’s exit route.

Ram it! Dale ordered.

I can’t! The guards were standing between it and them.

Just fucking ram it!

He shook his head. No time to think about the consequences, he swerved left. The front offside wing of the van slammed into the car, shunting it through almost ninety degrees. Metal screeched along the ground in front of them.

Don’t fucking stop! Dale growled.

With a quick glimpse in the rear-view mirror at the guards, who were both standing and seemed OK, he put his foot down and got away from there as quickly as his loyal old van would let him.

Episode One: Ball

Clutch

Friday, 21st December

2:30–6 p.m.

From his position beneath the bonnet of the Astra he was working on, Lee ‘Jono’ Johnson heard someone turn too fast into the forecourt and slam on the brakes. Above the whirr of the compressor, the clang of tools and the tinny singular speaker piping the local radio station into the workshop, resounded a loud crunch of gears.

Ouch. That was going to be a new clutch at the very least—and a new gearbox if they didn’t watch it. Lee turned his attention back to the fuel pump, awaiting the disruption. He’d recognised the van, the lurching walk, the red baseball cap.

Alright, Jono?

Dale. Without looking, Lee greeted the man standing a few yards behind him. How’s it going?

Not bad. Listen…

Lee glanced Dale’s way to indicate he was listening and tried to ignore the threatening grin and the key ring Dale was swirling on his finger like he was armed with nunchuks and waiting for an excuse to strike.

I need the clutch sorting on the van. If I come back at five—

I doubt the part will get here before tomorrow morning.

I need it doing today, mate. I’m working tonight.

Lee eased out from under the bonnet and turned, looking past Dale Holborn to the van outside. OK. Leave it with me, and I’ll see what I can do. If it’s not done by five-thirty, I’ll loan you the courtesy car.

"I need my van tonight, mate. You know what I mean? He clapped Lee firmly on the shoulder and walked away, still swinging the key on his finger. Lee followed him to the door and watched him stride across the forecourt to the road. Dale reached the kerb and turned back. Oh, yeah. You’ll need this." He lobbed the key in Lee’s direction.

Lee snatched the key out of the air and swore under his breath. He hadn’t seen Dale Holborn in two years, and the last time hadn’t been on friendly terms. Dale used to brag that he was one of the men who had made their estate what it was, or what it had been—a crime hotspot where people were too afraid to leave their homes at night. Needless to say, he was unimpressed by the efforts of the residents’ association, which, with investment from Campion Community Trust, had turned the housing estate around.

It had taken almost ten years and a great deal of campaigning, but the improvements were there for all to see and enjoy: full street lighting, resurfacing, speed control measures on every road, kids’ play areas, and new apartments for the few who had stubbornly remained in the condemned tower block, which had finally been demolished. Lee, along with others who had grown up there and formed the residents’ association, watched the demolition from afar. It had been an emotional experience. Explosives were loaded on several different floors, concentrated at the base and the midpoint on the seventh floor—Lee’s home for the first twenty years of his life, where his mum had died.

At the moment of detonation, with the belt of dust and debris around the waist of the tower block, for Lee, time had frozen. Mum was a junkie—he’d been born one too and had to be weaned off the drug in his first few weeks of life. Although he was sure they weren’t his, he had very clear memories of the pain, the hunger, the brightness of the lights in his incubator. But in that moment, just before the fourteen-storey tower block was razed to the ground, Lee’s mind had filled with happy thoughts, times when his mum wasn’t so sick, and of the people who had cared for him, giving him the good start she could not, like Iris Morley. Indeed, five seconds later, when the tower block was no more and Lee realised he was sobbing, it was Iris who hauled him in and hugged him. She’d been sniffling a bit herself, which made him feel less of a wimp. If it was enough to make Iris Morley cry, then it was more than enough for everyone else. She was a tough old bird.

Lee’s thoughts returned to the present, and he went back inside to get on with his work. It was a pity Iris had never come into contact with Dale Holborn. She’d have had him on the straight and narrow years ago.

Gemma poked her head out of the office. Who was that?

Dale.

Dale…Holborn?

He nodded.

Gemma’s eyes widened in horror and then narrowed in suspicion. What did he want?

The clutch doing on his van.

Lee…

Yeah, I know. But what am I supposed to do?

Gemma sighed; it was a mix of exasperation and hopelessness. You could have said no. She knew he couldn’t. You’ve got four MOTs booked in this afternoon.

Lee laughed defeatedly. He’d been here before, many times, back in the days of handwritten MOTs. No more ‘Jono will sort it’ whenever the police were doling out producers. He was above board now, one hundred percent legit, and the only ones who still called him Jono were the lads who’d known him on the estate.

He walked over to Gemma and looped his arms around her shoulders, taking care to ensure his oily gloved hands stayed clear of her sweater. She peered up at him, and he kissed her forehead, keeping his lips pressed to his wife’s soft skin and taking comfort from the familiarity of her scent, the feel of her within his embrace, her mildly angry glare.

Don’t let him drag you into anything, she pleaded. Not again.

I won’t, he promised. Gemma closed her eyes and exhaled slowly through her nose. OK? he prompted. She nodded and he released her. Aren’t you supposed to be at the hairdresser’s?

In half an hour. I’ll make you a cuppa before I go.

It’s all right. I’ll get one of the lads to do it.

"I’ll do it. I need to finish transferring next week’s bookings onto the computer before I go, anyway." She stepped back inside the office, and Lee’s heart sank. Gemma and the girls were his life, and he was potentially risking their safety as well as his own. She was right. He should have said no to Dale.

Gem…

Yeah? She turned towards him with a frown, which quickly became a smile of reassurance.

Sorry, he said. It wasn’t enough, but it was all he had.

She shrugged. Like you said, what choice did you have? And it’s not like he asked you to drive this time, hey? Just a new clutch.

Lee nodded. Yeah. Just a new clutch. He could only hope.

***

By quarter past five, Dale’s van was done, but there was no sign of its owner. Lee reversed it out of the workshop and parked it next to the recovery truck, chuckling at the mental image of chauffeuring Gem to her reunion in the truck. She wasn’t happy about him being on call tonight, but it meant he’d get Christmas off, which mattered more. Even though the girls were old enough to do their own thing, they still went through the preparations for Santa’s visit and got up early on Christmas morning to see what he’d left. Lee hoped they wouldn’t be disappointed with this year’s offerings.

Assuming the number was the right one—and only partly caring that it might not be—he sent Dale a text message to let him know his van was ready. Nor did he know if Dale had another key, so he took it with him, intending to drop it off later on his way to the reunion. But first: a shower and a shave. He locked up the garage, chucked Dale’s van key in the glove box and joined the commuters and Christmas shoppers for the stop-start journey home.

Take Three

Friday, 21st December

6–6:45 p.m.

I feel like a penguin.

From their location on the sofa, Josh and Libby both slowly turned and stared at the sight that greeted them.

George shuffled uncomfortably from foot to foot. Seriously. Do I have to wear this? I look stupid.

Other than shifting their eyes sideways to each other, his husband and foster daughter remained solemn, motionless and silent. George tugged at the sleeves of his dinner jacket and mumbled unintelligibly into his shirt front. For someone who lived in jeans and T-shirts and only wore a shirt—of the woolly variety—when the weather turned colder, a shirt and tie would have been bad enough. But the whole tux, cummerbund and bow tie get-up really wasn’t George at all.

Libby set down her game controller and approached him, grinning, her gaze fixed on his neck, where the satin bow tie hung like a sedated bat. George took a breath in and held it, preparing to be accosted for tie-tying and shirt-tucking and demands that he go polish his shoes, but at the last second, Libby diverted and darted from the room. George frowned.

What are you up to? he called after her. She didn’t reply. When he turned back, Josh was standing in front of him. What’s she up to?

No idea. Josh picked up the two ends of dangling satin and began fashioning them into a bow. You don’t look stupid, he said.

I just feel so… George wriggled his shoulders and scowled.

You don’t look so…

George huffed and scowled some more.

Josh squinted in concentration, his cool fingers grazing George’s chin as he manipulated the fabric with surprising deftness, tweaked, twisted, tucked, and gave the bow tie a final tug.

There you go. Very…dapper. George’s scowl was unyielding, and it made Josh laugh. That’s how you described me the last time we did this.

Yeah, I remember. Kind of. The memory of the night of the fake reunion Rob Simpson-Stone had thrown was etched into George’s mind, some parts more deeply than others. Like, for instance, when all hell had broken loose in the limo, and George had foolishly tried to neutralise Jess and Adele’s argument. Josh had taken George’s hand and kept hold of it. Anything else that happened during that journey had been lost to the sensation.

George’s scowl broke.

We’re together, he whispered as the butterflies took off, like they did every time it consciously registered. It made him a little breathless.

Yes, we are. Josh pressed his palm to George’s chest, closing his eyes to focus on the steadily thudding heartbeat. Not racing this time, or it hadn’t been…

George put his arms around Josh, pulled him close and kissed him, all woes about his attire lost to the realisation that they would, at last, have the sixth-form ball they should’ve had twenty-two years ago. It’s gonna be a good night, he murmured against Josh’s lips, reluctant to break the contact and ruin the magic of the moment.

You know, you’ve got a room upstairs for that, Libby said, edging past them.

It made them both smile, and their teeth clashed together.

Sleeping too, Joshua, she added, casting him a very stern look.

Josh withdrew from George’s embrace. You’re getting far too bossy, young— He stopped talking and frowned in puzzlement. What are you doing?

Buttonholes.

We’re not going to a wedding, Lib, George said.

I’m just following orders.

Hmm. That’s what Eichmann said, Josh grumbled as Libby advanced on him.

It’s only a silk flower, she admonished. George chuckled. You’re next.

Ah, man.

Libby rolled her eyes. When she’d finished with Josh, she affixed George’s flower to his lapel and stood back to check them both over. She nodded in satisfaction. Perfect.

Whose orders? Josh asked.

Shaunna’s. She inflected the name as if it should not be news to him, but he had no idea what she was talking about. In memory of Jess.

Erm, that’s… Josh was lost for words. He glanced down at the silk daisy, with its delicate white petals fading to a pale-pink edge. It was beautiful and a lovely gesture, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to wear something that would serve as a constant reminder of Jess’s absence and what she had done. Until now, he’d been excited about the reunion; staying focused on helping Eleanor organise it had kept his spirits up when they were at their lowest, waiting for their application to adopt Libby to be processed. Jenny Mackenzie—Libby’s social worker—had assured them it would go through smoothly; her biological parents were dead, her brother was receiving long-term psychiatric treatment, and her grandmother—a retired senior social worker herself—fully approved of the adoption.

Nevertheless, it had been a profoundly stressful few months, and it would be a huge relief to finally receive the adoption certificate. The process was well underway, but as they’d known when it began, their mental health conditions were causing considerable delays, and the adoption agency’s medical advisor surpassed even Josh on the obstreperous scale. Jenny kept up her reassurance that it was ‘just a formality’, and Josh was clinging to that.

Other than George’s appointment with the consultant neurologist next week, nothing was going to happen this side of the New Year, and Jenny was right. It didn’t matter whether Libby was officially their foster daughter or adopted daughter. The three of them became a family the second she entered their lives. How strange it was to think that a year ago, they had not even known of her existence, yet they were about to celebrate their second Christmas together, and this time, Libby was here to stay.

Josh’s thoughts had taken over, and when he switched back to the present, Libby and George were watching him with matching expressions. Knowing expressions. He attempted a smile. It’s nearly Christmas.

That’s what you were thinking about, is it? George asked doubtfully.

I was…partly. Josh put his arms around Libby and dropped a kiss in her hair. And you.

She tilted her head back and studied him at close range. You’re going to have a brilliant night, she said. He nodded.

Yes, we are. We’re also going to be late if we don’t get you to your gran’s.

It’s OK. I’ll get the bus.

Not a chance. Josh walked away before she could protest further, collected his phone and his keys, and waited by the front door. Come on, Sandison-Morleys.

Libby and George looked at each other and then back at Josh.

Seriously, people. Get moving. Josh opened the door and ushered them through it.

It’s only six o’clock, George complained pointlessly. His husband and daughter were as bad as each other when it came to arriving ‘on time’ anywhere, which meant arriving at least fifteen minutes early, preferably even earlier than that.

From the village where they lived to Campion House, where George’s mum and her friend Pauline lived, was a fifteen-minute drive, and they arrived as the two women were sitting down to eat.

I’m not stopping, George said in response to his mother’s disgruntlement. Libby went over and kissed her on the cheek.

Alright, love?

Yep. You? Libby asked.

Aye, not so bad.

See you all tomorrow, George said. He shut the door behind him and took the stairs back down rather than call the lift from whichever floor it was on. It wasn’t the speediest of contraptions, and Josh would already be watching the dashboard clock like a taxi driver on a wait meter. George made it back to the car and immediately spotted Josh’s troubled frown. You OK?

Josh nodded. Yes, I think so. I’m a bit… He started the car and moved off, still unable to articulate what he was feeling.

Are you upset? George asked. He didn’t need to explain that he was asking about the daisy buttonholes.

Not really. It’s more I don’t understand. Why didn’t Shaunna say anything? In fact, she can’t have mentioned it to anyone because if she’d told Adele, I’d have heard about it, and if she’d told Kris, you’d have heard about it. I wonder if Sean knows. I bet he does.

He isn’t gonna say anything, though, is he?

No. Is it petty that it annoys me?

Which? Sean knowing? Or potentially knowing. Because we don’t know that he knows, do we? We’re only—

Yes, Josh interrupted before George got carried away.

If you mean because he was your friend first… George weighed up his response against their ‘no secrets, no lies’ pact and sighed. Yeah, it’s petty.

I’m not jealous of his and Shaunna’s friendship.

No, I know.

But this…sharing thing they do. Josh screwed up his nose and shook his head in moderate disgust. I don’t like it.

George laughed. Because it means there’s something you don’t know.

Precisely. But then, maybe she hasn’t told anyone. She and Jess were very close at the end.

I guess she’s discussed it with Andy.

"I suppose so. All I’m saying is a warning would’ve been nice. I don’t mind wearing a daisy for Jess. Actually, that’s a lie. I do mind. It’s going to nag at me all night. Poor dead Jess… Screw dead Jess. Not in a necrophiliac sense… George cleared his throat, and Josh realised his words were in poor taste. Sorry. I don’t want to think about her. It’s meant to be a celebration. He leaned a little closer to George and said knowingly, It’s the Catholic thing, you know."

Here we go…

They do like to milk the misery.

See, if it was Ellie, I’d probably agree with you. But Shaunna’s not like that.

Josh was doubtful, but for the time being, he let it go. He was well versed in milking misery himself, although feeling put out was not a valid justification for his night being ruined by something that was no doubt well intended, even if it was a bit on the morbid side. At the next red light, he made a silent vow not to let Jess’s death get him down. He reached across and took hold of George’s hand. I’m excited we’re doing the limousine again.

George looked at their hands and smiled. Me too.

A horn tooted behind them, and Josh grunted. All right, I’m moving. Honestly, some people have no patience. He disengaged the handbrake and was all set to move off when he realised the traffic lights were still on red. He looked in his rear-view mirror, ready to give the horn-tooter his best evil glare. Oh! It’s Lee.

The Second Level

Friday, 21st December

6–7:30 p.m.

The drive from his garage usually took ten minutes. Tonight, it was going on for forty minutes before Lee pulled up outside the house. Gemma was at the living room window, with her arms folded, and scowled at him all the way up the path.

Sorry. He said it quickly as he opened the front door. She was not so easily appeased. Traffic’s bad, babe. She huffed loudly. He smiled and shrugged. There was nothing he could have done to get home earlier, and she knew that. Is the bathroom free? he asked.

She nodded and rolled her eyes. Coffee?

Please. He set off up the stairs.

Your shirt’s on the back of the door, she called.

Thanks.

He went straight to the bathroom and set the shower running. He’d planned on doing an in-and-out job, but Dale’s clutch had been a bugger to fit, and the pounding water was the perfect antidote to all the aches and pains of the day. If he was honest, he’d rather have spent the evening sprawled on the couch watching whatever happened to be on the telly. He’d gone to a different high school to Gemma, although he did know a few of her classmates, either because they’d lived on the estate—Iris’s son, George, for instance—or through the garage—Iris’s son-in-law, Josh.

Lee had known George and Josh individually before they became a couple—not really surprising in a small town like theirs. Josh, he had known for only a few years, but Lee and George went a long way back. The year Lee turned sixteen, his mum overdosed herself to unconsciousness twice, instantly putting an end to his plans to get a job and move out. Everyone thought he was mad, deciding to stay at home, and they told him so. Everyone except Iris, who said, The things we have to do, eh, love?

From that point on, Lee had an open invitation to go up to Iris and George’s flat anytime. He found a mechanics apprenticeship, which involved working six days a week, including his day at college. On Sunday mornings, he cleaned the flat and made dinner for him and his mum. After dinner, he went up to Iris and George; it was usually bedtime before he returned home, and for those few hours, he forgot about everything, watched TV, drank copious cups of tea, and usually ended up nodding off on the sofa. If not that, then…

Even now, even on his own in the shower, thinking about it made Lee blush. The first time it happened, he and George had been having a heated discussion about football. George had left the room to make the tea, but their conversation continued with one in each room, until Iris had told Lee, Either go with him or shut the fuck up. So he’d followed George into the kitchen, and they’d continued their discussion, well, more an argument, over whether Graham Taylor would be a better England manager than Bobby Robson.

Lee couldn’t recall much else of what was said, because he’d kissed George. Why, he couldn’t say. But the kissing became touching, became rubbing against each other, and then it was over. It had been too awkward for words, and had it been a one-off, they likely would never have looked each other in the eye again. But it wasn’t, and when Iris caught on to it, Lee expected to lose his balls. She didn’t even pass comment.

After George left for university, Lee still went to sit with Iris. She was more a mum to him than his own had ever been. When he started seeing Gemma, he’d taken her to meet Iris, seeking her approval. And when his mum died, Iris had helped him with the funeral arrangements. Through all of that, not once did she mention what he and George had together, and he was grateful. He’d never told Gemma, and not because he wanted to keep it a secret. He loved Gem, worshipped her. There was nobody else for him but her, but she got jealous easily. She’d interrogated him about his ex-girlfriends, and if she thought he’d noticed a woman walk past, it was all-out war until he convinced her he wasn’t looking.

If she knew about him and George, she would see it as doubling the competition. After all, if he’d been with one bloke, he’d be interested in others. But what had happened with George had been a product of what was happening in their lives at that time. They’d needed company and to be close to another person. They’d found it with each other. It had opened Lee’s mind and changed his views on homosexuality, but it hadn’t shaken his conviction that he was heterosexual, although in the longer term, he had conceded that George was right. Robson was the better England manager, despite England getting knocked out in the semifinal. At least under Robson they’d qualified, but Lee and George lost touch long before Taylor’s shoddy performance.

When they finally made contact again, George promptly claimed bragging rights. It was a running joke, perfect for those moments when either of them felt the weight of their past pressing in on their thoughts. They were all grown-ups, and he and George had talked it through when Iris and the other tower block residents relocated to Campion House.

Are you done in there yet? Gemma called through the bathroom door, her tone overly carefree.

Lee quickly turned off the shower. Just having a shave, he said and opened the door, assuming she needed to use the loo. She glowered at him. What? he asked defensively.

You’ve been in here nearly half an hour.

I have not!

You have.

He was astounded by that, and he must have looked it, as her expression changed from angry scowl to concerned frown.

Are you all right?

Yeah. He nodded and smiled to confirm it.

I know you’re worried about not knowing anyone tonight…

Really, I’m OK, Gem.

If you say so.

She didn’t believe him. There again, she did have a knack for knowing something was bothering him before he knew it himself, so maybe she had a point.

I’ll be ready in ten, he said, already squirting shaving gel onto his palm.

Your coffee’s in the bedroom. Probably cold by now.

She left him to shave in peace, for which he was glad. The only shaving audience that didn’t have him shredding his face was Abi or Carly, and only because they’d spent so much time watching him do it when they were little…and asking him if they’d need to shave when they grew up. He smiled at the memory. They were good girls—he liked to remind himself of that from time to time now they were teenagers. Some days, it was tough being the adult, remembering they didn’t really hate him for not getting them the ludicrously expensive Christmas presents they’d asked for, and their lives weren’t actually over simply because they were on an earlier curfew.

He finished shaving without incident and went back to the bedroom, slurped at the cup of lukewarm coffee and grimaced. He was thirsty, though, so he guzzled down the rest and shook off the shudder. Next: underwear.

The thought barely formed—hope there are no calls tonight—before his work mobile started ringing. Balls. He answered it. Johnson’s Rescue and Recovery.

Hi, this is Security at Cascades shopping centre. Someone’s stuck on the second level—can’t get their car started. It looks like they’ve filled up with diesel instead of petrol.

Ah, right. Lee bit back any comment on the caller’s diagnostics. Last week, when he’d watched the mall’s security guards give chase to a shoplifter, it had occurred to him they could’ve locked the doors to stop the thief bolting. But he wouldn’t tell them, or anyone else, how to do their job, and he’d rather they didn’t tell him how to do his, especially as they were usually wrong. I can be there in about…twenty minutes, traffic permitting. Gem was going to kill him.

You’ve been to us before, haven’t you?

Yep.

So you know to come through the service area?

I do.

Good stuff. See you in a bit. The security guard ended the call, and Lee eyed his tux, hanging on the back of the door, along with his newly pressed shirt. If the breakdown was due to the wrong fuel, he’d be towing the car to the garage. No wheel changes or other messy jobs. Deciding he’d take the chance, he dressed for the reunion, found a clean pair of overalls and put them on over his tux. He picked up his shoes and phone and went downstairs to break the news.

Gemma took one look at him and turned her back.

Sorry, babe. I’ll be as quick as I can.

Whatever, she snapped and remained with her back turned. For half a second, Lee contemplated giving her a quick hug and a kiss, but it would probably be the wrong thing to do. Not doing it would probably be the wrong thing to do too. He was better just getting on with the job.

Do you want me to book you a taxi? he offered.

I’ll do it myself.

OK. I’ll see you at the hotel, he called on his way out of the door, delaying in case she responded, which she didn’t. He trudged to the recovery truck, checked he had the tow bar in the back, and set off for the shopping mall.

The roads were quieter than they’d been earlier, with most of the traffic heading away from the town centre, and he only got stuck at one set of red lights—funnily enough, behind George and Josh. He tooted the horn and gave them a wave. The lights changed, and off they went.

He easily made it to the mall within his estimated twenty minutes, although it was already coming up on seven o’clock. He drove around to the service entrance, where the security guard must have been keeping a lookout for his arrival because the doors opened as he approached. He took the truck in and slowly followed the maze around concrete pillars, looking for the ramp up to the next level. It wasn’t signposted, and he drove past it. He stopped, reversed and went up, then up again, to the second level, where there was just the one car—a ten-year-old Peugeot—parked at the far end.

Bollocks.

It was Dale’s car, he was sure of it, or at least, it had been Dale’s car at some point, but Lee thought he’d got rid of it. Maybe he had, and it was pure coincidence that after not seeing Dale Holborn for two years, he’d brought his van in on the same day as the car had broken down on its present owner. More likely, the car still belonged to Dale and he’d decided to use it for whatever job he’d been talking about earlier, in which case, he was ‘working’ at the mall. This was absolutely the last thing Lee needed tonight. Or ever.

He didn’t have to get much closer to see there was no-one in the car. He stopped side on and in front of it but remained in the truck. After a minute of looking around the car park for any signs of life, he switched off the engine and took out his clipboard, browsing the records of previous jobs for no reason other than it was something to do while he waited for the car’s owner—hopefully not Dale—to return. He scanned a few sheets, checked the time again—coming up on twenty-five past seven—and concluded he’d waited long enough. The car’s owner had obviously left it there for the night and not told security, or security hadn’t told him.

He started the engine again and was about to move off when a woman appeared, seemingly from nowhere, waving and smiling. Lee sighed and wound down the window. She’d dyed her hair red, but he recognised her as soon as she was close enough for him to see her face. Stacey Melling, Dale’s ex. That might explain why she was driving Dale’s old motor.

I’m so glad you’re here at last, she said. Lee raised an eyebrow. I’ve got a boot full of shopping, and— she flapped her hand in the direction of the car —I’ve no idea what’s wrong with it.

Lee switched off the engine again and got out, following Stacey to the driver’s side of the Peugeot. Is it turning over at all? he asked.

It was, but I think I ran the battery down. She smiled again, this time in apology, Lee thought, but he was still suspicious.

All right, let’s have a look. He climbed in behind the wheel, and Stacey passed her keys to him. Not even a click when he turned the ignition, he popped the bonnet and got out again. One look at the battery told him all he needed to know. Has someone already had a look, love?

No. Why?

Your battery’s disconnected.

Oh! That’s…strange.

The bonnet was blocking Lee’s view, so he couldn’t see her, but she didn’t sound in the least surprised. There was something fishy about this whole situation. Dale’s ex driving his car, the fact he’d said he had a job tonight…being called out for no reason. But Lee went along with it to expedite his departure. He reconnected the cables, grabbed a spanner from the truck, and tightened them. Try it now, he said.

She did, and the engine turned over right away, the sound instantly drowned out by other cars revving hard on their way up the ramp, tyres squealing as they circled the second level, closer, closer…

Lee dropped the bonnet as the two police cars pulled up in front of the recovery truck. So much for expediting his departure.

Take Two

Friday, 21st December

6:45–7 p.m.

The traffic to Iris and Pauline’s place hadn’t been too bad, but in the time it had taken, highways maintenance had coned off one side of the main road between the town and village. Five minutes of sitting at a temporary traffic light that remained stubbornly red and Josh was contemplating sneaking through anyway.

More cars passed from the opposite direction.

For crying out loud. This is beyond ridiculous.