The Nightmare Place by Steve Mosby Read Free Book Online Page B

passed through my life, John was a confidant who needed no protection from the harshness of what I did.
    I finished with the chewing-out that Chris and I had received from Drake after the briefing.
    ‘Results, results, results.’ I made a yapping motion with my hand. ‘You can imagine. From the way he talked to us, you’d think we hadn’t been working flat out on this for weeks.’
    John chuckled. ‘I remember Drake. Always a pipsqueak.’
    ‘He’d have thrown us off this ages ago if he thought it would make a difference. Deep down he knows nobody else is going to cover it any better. It’s crap.’ I shook my head. ‘It’s a load of crap.’
    ‘It’s politics, Zoe. It’s role-playing.’
    ‘Yeah, maybe. I’ve never been too good at that. Oh – and I got burgled, too.’
    John leaned forward, suddenly serious. ‘I’m so sorry.’
    ‘Oh, don’t be. I just wish I’d got downstairs in time. Saw them, though. Drew MacKenzie. Do you remember him?’
    He frowned, his forehead ridging with creases, attempting to attach the name to a face and a thread of memories. After a moment, he shook his head.
    ‘Sylvie’s little brother,’ I said. ‘You must remember Sylvie.’
    I couldn’t help the hint of desperation in my voice. The must wasn’t so much a statement of fact as of hope. I was relieved when, after another few seconds of frowning, a light seemed to go on behind his eyes, and he nodded.
    ‘Oh yes, of course. Sylvie MacKenzie. I remember her. Friend of yours, wasn’t she?’
    I grimaced. Not one I particularly wanted to think about.
    ‘Once.’
    John sighed. ‘You try your best, but sometimes it isn’t enough.’
    ‘You can’t help everyone.’
    He nodded, but it pained him, I knew, when one of his kids turned out bad. One of the hardest things about old age had been giving up the outreach activity he’d continued in his retirement. For a while, he’d served on various community groups and volunteered at drop-in centres, and still gone out on cold, dark evenings to speak to the children on the street corners. Freed from his uniform, he had probably been even more effective, but throughout his career he’d always concentrated on helping people in the community around him.
    I knew I wasn’t the only child he’d rescued. As dramatic as that might sound, it was the truth. Without him, my life would have been very different. I doubt I would ever have escaped the gravitational pull of the place I was born into, the trajectory that was set for me.
    But of course, that was another thing I’d never admit to him. It’s not just old men who are proud.
    ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Well, we’ll pick him up.’
    ‘It’s a shame, but it’s necessary. If not your home, it would be someone else’s, wouldn’t it?’
    ‘Yeah. How about that coffee?’
    He hesitated. ‘That would be nice. But …’
    ‘Don’t worry.’ I stood up. ‘You wait here; I’ll only be a second. It’s not like I don’t know where everything is.’
    Out in the hallway, I noticed the smell again. I liked it even less now, but rather than investigating, I went through to the kitchen. The sink was full – days old, by the look of the water – and the worktops were a mess: crumbs, greasy smears of butter, crusted sauces and a flat archipelago of old coffee stains. A teaspoon was stuck to the counter near the kettle. Looking around, I realised I’d be doing some cleaning before I left, regardless of John’s protestations. This must have been the source of his reluctance to let me make the coffee. Embarrassment.
    It made me feel a sudden burst of love for him. Not a duty of care, as such, but a kind of privilege. Hand over hand , he’d always told me, about his ventures into the community. The government won’t do it. So we help each other. We keep pulling each other up . So he had, and – for him at least – so would I.
    For now, though, I found two clean cups and a teaspoon, put fresh water in the kettle, and clicked it on