A Place of Safety. Helen Black
‘Lilly, you don’t overreact,’ said Jack. ‘You have excellent instincts, and if you think something is going down you need to tell someone.’
‘I will, well, I might. I need to think it through.’ Sam jumped into her arms, nearly knocking her off her feet. ‘Look, I have to go, Peter Shilton needs his tea.’
* * *
Welcome, members. Today’s discussion will feature regular contributor Nigel Purves.
Snow White helped herself to a Garibaldi and settled down. Nigel was always good value.
…I want to talk to you all about diversity and I want you to think about whether this is a good thing.
Snow White dunked her biscuit and smiled at her screen. Nigel was such an articulate man, able to make his point with a clarity and conviction that was sadly lacking in most politicians. And he knew how to work a suit and tie. The Des Lynam of the Far Right.
…On the face of it we might find difference a good thing—after all, who wants everything to be the same? Diversity makes life interesting, no?
But pause for a second and ask yourself what makes family so special.
Snow White reached for a ginger snap. Nigel was on top form.
Isn’t it the fact that everyone is cut from the same cloth? That you have things in common? That you are a homogenous group?
Nigel ran a hand through his hair, still thick with flecks of grey.
Whatever anyone tells you, it is perfectly natural for each of us to want to be with our own kind. Some might call that racist. I say it’s just common sense…
‘Mum, I’m starving.’
Bugger. Snow White shut down the podcast.
‘Is there anything to eat?’
The girls were home early. Nigel would have to wait.
‘I have scones,’ she said. ‘Or crumpets. You choose.’
‘I know a man who knows a man. He’ll get you what you need.’
Artan nods and hands the money to the Albanian.
He doesn’t ask any questions. Knows he wouldn’t get any answers. He’s thought about this and nothing else since he met with the solicitor.
These boys must pay.
‘You will be there, Mum?’
Lilly looked up from the washing-up bowl and smiled at her son. ‘Yes, Sam.’
He stuffed the last spoonful of porridge into his mouth and beamed. ‘Sometimes you get held up at work.’
‘I’ve already squared it with the office and marked myself out in the diary with a fat red pen.’
‘But stuff comes up on those big children cases,’ he said.
‘I’m not doing those any more, as well you know,’ she said. ‘And would I miss the semi-final?’
Placated, Sam collected together his kit bag and three bananas. ‘For energy,’ he said.
Unable to find a tea towel, Lilly wiped her hands down her jumper. Suds accumulated across her chest. She tried to rub the bubbles away with her elbow but only managed to smear them around. ‘Damn it.’
‘Why don’t you get a new dishwasher, Mum?’ asked Sam.
‘I will,’ she said, and grabbed her car keys. She pulled at the front door with both hands but it wouldn’t budge. A wet November had swollen the wood of both it and the frame. Superglue couldn’t have attached them more firmly. She braced her foot against the wall and heaved. The door opened about a foot and she ushered her son outside.
‘We need a lot of stuff doing to the house, don’t we?’ said Sam.
Lilly squeezed through the gap then braced herself again, this time with the heel of her boot against the stone of the cottage. She slammed with all her might. The door shuddered to a close, showering plaster from the roof of the porch.
‘One or two odd jobs,’ she said, and shook the masonry from her hair.
‘When I play for Liverpool I’ll be rich,’ he said. ‘But I suppose we need the money now.’
They threw their bags on the back seat and got into the Mini. ‘Don’t you worry, big man, these divorce cases pay well.’
‘You don’t like them though, do you, Mum?’
Her new car purred. ‘I like them well enough.’
‘What about all those children you used to help?’ he asked.
Lilly sighed. ‘Someone else will represent them.’
‘And you really don’t mind?’
Lilly smiled and set off down the lane.
When she dropped Sam at school, he turned to her again.
‘I’ll be there,’ she laughed. ‘And I have something for you.’ She handed him a small plastic bag and watched the joy on her son’s face as he unpacked a pair of brand new Nike goalie gloves.
* * *
The bench is hard and cold but Artan is prepared to wait all day. Anna leans against him, her cheek against his chest, her bony arm around his waist.
They watch for the telltale green blazers that separate the boys from Manor Park from the local kids.
‘Tell me if you see them,’ he says.
She nods slightly, her cheek grazing the zip of his jacket.
The air buzzes with lunchtime chatter. Two boys in hoodies spar in the road, pretending to land karate kicks. Their friends shout encouragement and shower them with sweets and crisps. When they spot the strangers on the bench and whisper to each other.
‘What you looking at?’ shouts one.
Artan doesn’t reply, but the look on his face sees the boys off.
He feels Anna’s body tense against his own.
‘What?’
‘There,’ she says, her gaze directed towards four boys in green.
‘Are you sure?’ he asks.
Anna nods. ‘The dark-haired one and the redhead.’
‘I thought you said there were three.’
‘I did,’ she says. ‘He is not there.’
They let the boys buy some drinks and follow them at a safe distance.
The boys lark about all the way back to school. The redhead is in charge. His voice is the loudest and he punches his friend on the arm just a little too hard. When the other cries out, he laughs in his face and calls him ‘gay’.
‘He reminds me of Gabi,’ says Anna.
‘Don’t ever say that name.’
Anna leans against him. ‘Sorry.’
He pushes her away and wraps his hand around the handle of the gun. Its feel is familiar, like an old friend.
Jack pounded forward, the rhythm of his feet beating in his head. One, two, three, four. It was relentless. Yet oddly comforting.
He’d taken up running six months ago, when the doc told him his blood pressure was borderline dangerous. He’d also been told to curb his drinking—but you could only do so