Donor, The by Helen FitzGerald Read Free Book Online Page B

earlier.
    ‘I’m going to go home now,’ he said, wiping his eyes, holding his testicles and struggling into his clothes.
    ‘Ah, that was fantastic,’ she said as Will finally managed his shoes. ‘I needed that. Call me later, yeah?’
    ‘Sure. When I get back from Manchester.’

11
     
     
    ‘Your daughter was supposed to visit me,’ Heath said from his side of the crescent-shaped chair.
    Heath had put on weight since Will last saw him. The anger in his jaw was puffy. He oozed a stench of airless sweat, socks and spunk. Fat, stinky and incarcerated , he still scared the living daylights out of Will, who held one hand in the other to try and contain the trembling. They’d never spoken without Cynthia present and Will realised an uncomfortable lynchpin was better than none at all. These were her men, her two men, sitting opposite each other, eyeing each other: one with begging terror, the other with violent disdain.
    ‘She’s not well,’ Will said. Did he stammer? He hoped not. Did it matter if Heath knew how frightened he was? Did it matter that Will seemed infantile, tiny and feeble in comparison to this brute? Perhaps not, but it annoyed Will no end that Heath Jones still held all the power despite his prison-issue polo shirt.
    ‘So?’
    ‘It’s both the girls, Cynthia’s girls.’ (How long since he’d said her name out loud? The hot sound of it travelled through his veins.)
    ‘Like I said, So ?’
    ‘So I want to find my wife.’
    ‘Wife!’ Heath paused for a dramatic gangster-style laugh then spoke with a snigger. ‘Do you still take hours to cum? She hated that.’
    ‘Where is she?’ Will’s hands had separated and were now visibly shaking as they rested on top of his notebook and pen.
    He was red. He knew he was red. Inside the red was Cynthia’s voice saying, ‘Get off me, will you? Can you not tell I’ve finished?’
    ‘What’s it worth to you?’ Heath moved closer. His breath smelt of pus.
    Will suggested one hundred pounds.
    ‘Actually, no thanks, mate,’ Heath said, sliding down his chair, getting comfortable. ‘I’m more than happy to do an old friend a favour.’
    Will hesitated. Heath’s fixed smile unnerved him. ‘Well, thank you,’ he managed, after a long pause.
    ‘No problems.’ Heath leant forward, scribbled something on Will’s notebook, and stood up.
    Oh no, Will thought, he wants to shake hands. Is there any way I can get out of shaking hands?
    There wasn’t. Will tried very hard to remain expressionless as Heath sealed the deal. This was not possible.It hurt, a lot, and Will’s eyes narrowed with pain before filling with liquid.
    Heath turned to leave. He was almost out the door when he stopped and said, ‘Tell me when you’ve found her, eh?’
    As Heath disappeared into the bosom of the prison, Will inhaled deeply. He wasn’t sure, but he wondered if he’d forsaken breathing for several minutes beforehand .
    Half an hour later, Will left Strangeways having achieved two things:
    He had Cynthia’s last known address – a year ago, she had lived in a flat in Finsbury Park, London.
    And he owed Heath Jones a favour.
    *
     
    It was dark by the time Will found the street. He had to park two hundred metres from the address, which was a large Victorian terraced house near the tube station . At the front door, he knocked three times and waited.
    The door had once contained a rectangle of glass. This had been boarded over with unpainted MDF. The doormat was frayed and filthy. Will stared at it, trying to remain calm. Would he see her any second? Would she be as enthralling as she was back then? How would it make him feel? Suddenly, a piece of paper appeared on top of the mat. Someone inside had posted a note underneath the door. He picked it up.
    ‘Put the money through the bay window at the front,’ the note said.
    What? Will read it again, knocked again. Nothing happened. He walked out into the front garden (a strip of concrete, really, three feet long). One