Page 96 of Her Last Walk Home

She made a coffee for herself after he strode out. Sipping the hot liquid, she considered the box. ‘I hope to Jesus nothing jumps out,’ she said, grimacing.

Magenta hated it when they fought, which was all the time. Her head ached and she scratched her spots.

‘It has to be chickenpox,’ the woman said. ‘That school is an incubation hub. Why do you always bring home germs? You’re useless. Like him.’

Magenta had to agree about him.

‘It’s like a pox on all your houses, as Jesus said,’ the woman continued.

Magenta wasn’t sure Jesus had said that, but whenshespoke you had to believe her. She was charismatic that way, while also being the cruellest person Magenta could imagine. Would she turn out like her? She supposed she would. She felt like twisting her heel on his head until he could no longer shout in protest. Yes, she supposed she was more likeherthan like him. Was that a good thing? Maybe.

She tried hard not to squirm like he had done. But the slap across the side of her head put paid to any bravado she could muster. A second slap sent her sprawling across the floor. An anger she rarely allowed to erupt burst through her body like aswirling froth and she could not stop the words spilling from her mouth.

‘I hate you, you bitch. You keep me here like those women he brings home to you. I hate both of you!’ She got up off the floor and fled before another slap arrived.

On her bed, she scratched the spots until they bled.

And then she felt better.

67

Setting down her mug, Lottie opened the box flaps warily and stood back. Just in case. When she was satisfied no living thing was in it, she leaned over and peered inside. At first glance it appeared to be full of leaflets and brochures. She wondered why the caretaker would have packed these up, seeing as most of Aneta’s possessions had been dumped.

She slowly extracted them one by one. Some were in a foreign language – Polish, she assumed – but one colourful brochure in English caught her eye. Cuan rehabilitation facility. Settling back on the chair, she wondered if she should pull on protective gloves. Might be best. She got a pair from her bag, then picked up the brochure again. The image painted was of a fun-filled, bright environment tohelp people regain their life. It didn’t marry up with her memory of her visit earlier.

Printed in the centre of the brochure was a compendium of photographs. Peering closely, she hoped to see someone she recognised, to give her a clue as to who had killed Aneta. She recognised two people, Irene Dunbar, and Gordon Collins, but the others didn’t mean anything to her. She closed the brochure and picked out another. This one was more familiar. Pine Grove housing development.

Why had Aneta got this brochure among her possessions? Didn’t young people browse everything online nowadays? But she didn’t know what Aneta had been like, so there was no point in mulling over those sort of questions.

Deciding to ask Boyd to help her go through the stuff, she groped around the table for her phone. She smelled burning. Smoke billowed from the oven. The chips. Shit.

Boyd arrived within half an hour. By then both she and Sean had fed themselves on salvaged chips, goujons and a tin of beans. She’d even cleared the sink and wiped down the counters.

‘Something’s burning,’ Boyd said as he came in through the back door.

‘Don’t start.’

‘Whatever.’

‘Jesus, you sound like Sean. How’s Grace?’

‘Had a row with her. Don’t ask. She’d try the patience of a saint.’

‘But you’re no saint, Mark Boyd, are you?’

He scanned his eyes around the room, and she knew he was checking they were alone. ‘Sean here?’

‘Yep.’

‘Pity.’

‘Why? Were you intending to ravish me in my own kitchen?’

He laughed. ‘I’d settle for a hug.’

‘Me too.’

She snuggled into his arms and relaxed. She could fall asleep like this, such was her exhaustion. Sensing his kiss on her ear, she pulled back. ‘Boyd, my hair is manky.’

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